love! I am here. moon comes forth. gray on the steep.

Why delayest thou thy coming?
The flood is bright in the vale.
I see him not on the brow.

before him, with tidings of his near approach.
alone!

Lo! the calm The rocks are His dogs come not Here I must sit

Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love and my brother? Speak to me, O my friends! To Colma they give no reply. Speak to me; I am alone! My soul is tormented with fears! Ah, they are dead! Their swords are red from the fight. O my brother, my brother, why hast thou slain my Salgar? why, O Salgar, hast thou slain my brother? Dear were ye both to me! What shall I say in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill among thousands! he was terrible in fight. Speak to me: hear my voice; hear me, sons of my love. They are silent, silent forever! Cold, cold are their breasts of clay! O, from the rock on the hill; from the top of the windy steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead! speak, I will not be afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall I find the departed? No feeble voice is on the gale; no answer half-drowned in the storm!

I sit in my grief! I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead! Close it not till Colma come. My life flies away like a dream; why should I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my friends, by the sounding rock. When night comes on the hill; when the loud winds arise; my ghost shall stand in the blast, and mourn the death of my friends. The hunter shall hear from his booth. He shall fear but love my voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my friends; pleasant were her friends to Colma!

Such was thy song, Minona, softly blushing daughter of Torman. Our tears descended for Colma, and our souls were sad! Ullin came with his harp: he gave the song of Alpin. The voice of Alpin was pleasant; the soul of Ryno was a beam of fire! But they rested in the narrow house; their voice had ceased in Selma. Ullin had returned, one day, from the chase, before the heroes fell. He heard their strife on the hill; their song was soft but sad! They mourned the fall of Morar, first of mortal men! His soul was like the soul of Fingal; his sword like the sword of Oscar. But he fell, and his father mourned; his sister's eyes were full of tears. Minona's eyes were full of tears, the sister of car-borne Morar. She retired from the song of Ullin, like the moon in the west, when she foresees the shower, and hides her fair head in a cloud. I touched the harp with Ullin; the song of mourning rose!

Ryno. The wind and the rain are past; calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven. Over the green hills flies the inconstant sun. Red through the stony vale comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream! but more sweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song. Why alone on the silent hill? Why complainest thou, as a blast in the wood, as a wave on the lonely shore?

Alpin. My tears, O Ryno, are for the dead; my voice for those that have passed away. Tall thou art on the hill; fair among the sons of the vale. But thou shalt fall like Morar; the mourner shall sit on the tomb. The hills shall know thee no more; thy bow shall lie in thy hall, unstrung! Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the desert; terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm. Thy sword in battle, as lightning in the field. Thy voice was a stream after rain; like thunder on distant hills. Many fell by thy arm; they were consumed in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy brow! Thy face was like the sun after rain; like the moon in the silence of night; calm as the breast of the lake when the loud wind is laid.

Narrow is thy dwelling now! dark the place of thine abode! With three steps I compass thy grave, O thou who wast so great before. Four stones, with their heads of moss, are the only memorial of thee. A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass which whistles in the wind, mark to the hunter's eye the grave of the mighty Morar. Morar, thou art low indeed. Thou hast no mother to mourn thee; no maid with her tears of love. Dead is she that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.

Who on his staff is this? who is this whose head is white with age? whose eyes are red with tears? who quakes at every step? It is thy father, O Morar! the father of no son but thee. He heard of thy fame in war; he heard of foes dispersed. He heard of Morar's renown; why did he not hear of his wound? Weep, thou father of Morar, weep, but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead; low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice; no more awake at thy call. When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake? Farewell, thou bravest of men! thou conqueror in the field! but the field shall see thee no more; nor the dark wood be lightened with the splendor of thy steel. Thou hast left no son. The song shall preserve thy name. Future times shall hear of thee; they shall hear of the fallen Morar!

THOMAS CHATTERTON. 1752-1770. (Manual, p. 362.) 244. RESIGNATION.

O God, whose thunder shakes the sky,
Whose eye this atom globe surveys;

To thee, my only rock, I fly,

Thy mercy in thy justice praise.

O, teach me in the trying hour,

When anguish swells the dewy tear,
To still my sorrows, own thy power,

Thy goodness love, thy justice fear.

If in this bosom aught but thee,
Encroaching sought a boundless sway,
Omniscience could the danger see,
And Mercy look the cause away.

Then why, my soul, dost thou complain,
Why drooping seek the dark recess?
Shake off the melancholy chain,

For God created all to bless.

But, ah! my breast is human still;
The rising sigh, the falling tear,
My languid vitals' feeble rill,

The sickness of my soul declare.

But yet, with fortitude resigned,

I'll thank th' inflicter of the blow,
Forbid the sigh, compose my mind,
Nor let the gush of misery flow.

The gloomy mantle of the night,

Which on my sinking spirit steals,
Will vanish at the morning light,

Which God, my East, my Sun, reveals.

GEORGE CRABBE. 1754-1832. (Manual, p. 364.)

FROM "THE Borough."

245. THE DYING SAILOR.

Yes! there are real mourners. I have seen
A fair, sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene;
Attention (through the day) her duties claimed,
And to be useful as resigned she aimed:
Neatly she dressed, nor vainly seemed t' expect
Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect;
But, when her wearied parents sunk to sleep,
She sought her place to meditate and weep:
Then to her mind was all the past displayed,
That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid:
For then she thought on one regretted youth,
Her tender trust, and his unquestioned truth;

In every place she wandered, where they'd been,
And sadly-sacred held the parting scene,
Where last for sea he took his leave that place
With double interest would she nightly trace;
For long the courtship was, and he would say,
Each time he sailed, "This once, and then the day:
Yet prudence tarried; but, when last he went,
He drew from pitying love a full consent.

Happy he sailed, and great the care she took,
That he should softly sleep, and smartly look;
White was his better linen, and his check
Was made more trim than any on the deck;
And every comfort men at sea can know,
Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow:
For he to Greenland sailed, and much she told,
How he should guard against the climate's cold,
Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd withstood,
Nor could she trace the fever in his blood:
His messmates smiled at flushings on his cheek,
And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak;
For now he found the danger, felt the pain,
With grievous symptoms he could not explain;
Hope was awakened, as for home he sailed,
But quickly sank, and never more prevailed.

He called his friend, and prefaced with a sigh
A lover message
"Thomas, I must die:
Would I could see my Sally, and could rest
My throbbing temples on her faithful breast,

And gazing, go!

And say, till death I wore it for her sake;

Yes! I must die-blow on, sweet breeze, blow on!
Give me one look, before my life be gone,

O! give me that, and let me not despair,

One last fond look and now repeat the prayer."

-

He had his wish, had more; I will not paint
The lovers' meeting: she beheld him faint, -
With tender fears, she took a nearer view,
Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;
He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said,
"Yes! I must die;" and hope forever fled.

Still long she nursed him; tender thoughts, meantime, Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime.

To her he came to die, and every day

She took some portion of the dread away:

With him she prayed, to him his Bible read,

1

Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head;
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer;
Apart, she sighed; alone, she shed the tear;
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.

One day he lighter seemed, and they forgot
The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;
They spoke with cheerfulness, and seemed to think,
Yet said not so- "Perhaps he will not sink;"
A sudden brightness in his look appeared,
A sudden vigor in his voice was heard;
She had been reading in the book of prayer,
And led him forth, and placed him in his chair;
Lively he seemed, and spoke of all he knew,
The friendly many, and the favorite few;
Nor one that day did he to mind recall,

But she has treasured, and she loves them all;
When in her way she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people—death has made them dear.
He named his friend, but then his hand she prest,
And fondly whispered, "Thou must go to rest!"
"I go," he said; but, as he spoke, she found
His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound!
Then gazed affrightened; but she caught a last,
A dying look of love, and all was past!

She placed a decent stone his grave above,
Neatly engraved - an offering of her love;
For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed,
Awake alike to duty and the dead;

She would have grieved, had friends presumed to spare
The least assistance - 'twas her proper care.

Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,

Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;
But, if observer pass, will take her round,

And careless seem, for she would not be found;
Then go again, and thus her hour employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy.

Forbear, sweet maid! nor be by fancy led,
To hold mysterious converse with the dead;
For sure at length thy thoughts, thy spirit's pain,
In this sad conflict, will disturb thy brain;

All have their tasks and trials; thine are hard,
But short the time, and glorious the reward;

Thy patient spirit to thy duties give,
Regard the dead, but, to the living, live.