HOURS OF IDLENESS.

fame to the ear of Fingal . He strikes his shield:his sons throng around; the people pour along theheath. Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian stalks iu histrms. Oscar shakes the spear. The eagle wingof Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is the clangof death 1 many are the widows of Lochliul Mor-ven prevails in its strength.

Morn glimmers on the hills: no living foe is seen;hut the sleepers are many; grim they lie on Erin.The breeze of ocean lifts their locks: yet they dohot awake. The hawks scream above their prey.

Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of achief? Bright as the gold of the stranger, theymingle with the dark hair of his friend. ’TisCalmar: he.lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs isone stream of blood. Fierce is the look of thegloomy Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is stillft flame. It glares in death unclosed. His handis grasped in Calmar’s; but Calmar lives! he lives,though low. “ Rise,” said the king, “ rise, son ofMora: ’tis mine to heal the wounds of heroes.Oa-lmar may yet bound on the hills of Morven."

” Never more shall Calmar chase the deer ofMorven with Orla,” said the hero. “What werethe chaso to me alone? Who should 6hare thespoils of battle with Calmar? Orla is at rest?Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet soft to me as thedew of mom. It glared on others in lightning: tome a silver beam of night. Bear my sword to bluo-e yed Mora; let it hang in my empty hall. It isJ°t pure from blood: but it could not save Orla.Lay me with my friend. liaise tho song when Iam dark!”

They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four graystones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar.When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on theblue -wave. The winds gave our barks to Morven:—the bards raised the song.

“ What form rises on the roar of clouds ? Whosedark ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests?His voice rolls on the thunder. ’Tis Orla, thebrown chief of Oithona. He was unmatched inwar. Peace to thy soul, Orla; thy fame will notperish. Nor thine, Calmar! Lovely wast thou,son of blue-eyed Mora; but not harmless was thysword. It hangs in thy cave. The ghosts ofLoehlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise,Calmar! It dwells on the voice of the mighty.Thy name, shakes on the echoes of Morven. Thenraise thy fair locks, son of Mora. Spread them onthe arch of the rainbow; and smile tnrotign xne^ears of the stor m ,”*

TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ.

Ail ego contuhrim jucundo sanvs amico. —HORACE.

Dear Long, in this sequester’d sceno,

While all around in slumber lie,

Tho joyoufl days which ours have beenCome rolling fresh on Fancy’s eye;

Thus if amidst the gathering storm.

While clouds the darken’d noon deform,

Yon heaven assumes a varied glow,

I hail the sky’s celestial how,

Which spreads the sign of future peace,And bids the war of tempests cease.

Ah!. though the present brings but pain,

I think those days may come again;

Or if, in melancholy mood,

Some lurking envious fear intrude,

To check my bosom’s fondest thought,And interrupt tho golden dream,

I crush the fiend with malice fraught.

And still indulge my wonted theme.Although we ne’er again can trace,

In Granta’s vale, the pedant’s lore;

Nor through tho groves of Ida chasoOur raptured visions as beforo;

Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion.And Manhood claims his stern dominion.Age will not every hope destroy,

But yield some hours of sober joy.

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wingWill shed around some dew of spring;

But if his scythe must sweep the flowersWhich bloom among the fairy bowers,Where smiling youth delights to dwell,And hearts with early rapture swell;

If frowning Age, with cold control,Confines the current of tho soul,

Congeals the tear of Pity’s eye,

Or checks the sympathetic sigh.

Or hears unmoved misfortune’s groan.And bids me feel for self alone;

Oh, may my bosom never learnTo soothe its wonted heodless flow;Still, still despise the censor stern,

But ne’er forget another's woe.

Yes, as you knew me in the daysO’er which Remembrance yet delays,

Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild.

And even in ago at heart a child.

Though now on airy visions born?,

To you my soul is still tho same.

Oft has it been my fate to mourn,

And all my former joys are tame.

But, hence 1 ye hours of sable hue!

Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o\rBy every bliss my childhood know,

I’ll think upon your shade no move.Thus, when the whirlwind’s rage ia pnst,And caves their sullen roar inclose,

We heed no more the wintry blast,

When lull’d by zephyr to repose.

Full often has my infant MuseAttuned to love her languid lyre;

But now without a theme to choose,

The strains in stolen sighs expire,lily youthful nymphs, alas! aro flown:

E-is a wife, and C--a mother,

And Carolina sighs alone,

And Mary’s given to another;

And Cora’s eyo, which roll’d on me.

Can now no more my love recall:

In truth, dear Long, ’twas time to flee •For Cora's eye will shine on all.

And though the sun, with genial rays,His beam alike to all displays,

I fear Laing’s late edition has completely overthrown every hope that Macpherson's Ossian mightprove the translation of a series of poems completo in themselves; but while the imposture is dis-covered, the merit of the work remains undisputed, though not without faults—particularly, in some?. art 3, turgid and bombastic diction. The present humble imitation will be pardoned by the admirers oftue original as an attempt, however inferior, which evinces an attachment to their favourite author