Now join with sable Sympathy, With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds, Who heaves with thee her simple sigh, Whose breast for every bosom bleeds; And call thy sylvan female choir, To mourn a Swain for ever gone, Who once could glow with equal fire, But bends not now before thy throne. 7. Ye genial Nymphs, whose ready tears [iii] On all occasions swiftly flow; Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears, With fancied flames and phrenzy glow Say, will you mourn my absent name, Apostate from your gentle train? An infant Bard, at least, may claim From you a sympathetic strain. 8. Adieu, fond race! a long adieu! The hour of fate is hovering nigh; E'en now the gulf appears in view, Where unlamented you must lie: [iv] Oblivion's blackening lake is seen, Convuls'd by gales you cannot weather, Where you, and eke your gentle queen, Alas! must perish altogether. [Footnote 1: It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the companion of Orestes, and a partner in one of those friendships which, with those of Achilles and Patroclus, Nisus and Euryalus, Damon and Pythias, have been handed down to posterity as remarkable instances of attachments, which in all probability never existed beyond the imagination of the poet, or the page of an historian, or modern novelist.] [Footnote i: 'Where every girl--.' ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote ii: 'But quit at once thy realms of air Thy mingling--.' ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote iii: 'Auspicious bards--.' ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote iv: 'Where you are doomed in death to lie.' ['MS. Newstead'.]] THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. [1] AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S "OSSIAN". [2] Dear are the days of youth! Age dwells on their remembrance through the mist of time. In the twilight he recalls the sunny hours of morn. He lifts his spear with trembling hand. "Not thus feebly did I raise the steel before my fathers!" Past is the race of heroes! But their fame rises on the harp; their souls ride on the wings of the wind; they hear the sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of clouds. Such is Calmar. The grey stone marks his narrow house. He looks down from eddying tempests: he rolls his form in the whirlwind, and hovers on the blast of the mountain. In Morven dwelt the Chief; a beam of war to Fingal. His steps in the field were marked in blood. Lochlin's sons had fled before his angry spear; [i] but mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his yellow locks: they streamed like the meteor of the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul: his thoughts were given to friendship,--to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes! Equal were their swords in battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla:--gentle alone to Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona.