Ye woods, along whose windings wild Where Melancholy strays forlorn, What time the wan moon's yellow horn "To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms Ne'er drew Ambition's eye, 'Scaped a tumultuous world's alarms, To your retreats I fly. Deep in your most sequestered bower Where Solitude, mild, modest power, "How shall I woo thee, matchless fair? Thy heavenly smile how win? Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care, And stills the storm within. O wilt thou to thy favourite grove Thine ardent votary bring, And bless his hours, and bid them move Serene, on silent wing? "Oft let Remembrance soothe his mind With dreams of former days, When in the lap of Peace reclined He framed his infant lays; When Fancy roved at large, nor Care Nor cold Distrust alarmed, Nor Envy, with malignant glare, His simple youth had harmed. "But if some pilgrim through the glade Thy hallowed bowers explore, O guard from harm his hoary head, And listen to his lore; For he of joys divine shall tell, That wean from earthly woe, And triumph o'er the mighty spell That chains his heart below. "For me, no more the path invites Ambition loves to tread; No more I climb those toilsome heights, By guileful Hope misled; Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more For present pleasure soon is o'er, James Macpherson. Born 1738. Died 1796. THE translator or imitator of Ossian, was born at Kingussie, in Invernessshire, and was intended for the Church. After leaving college, he was tutor in the family of Mr Graham of Balgowan. In 1760 he published "Fragments of Ancient Highland Poetry," which were so well received, that a subscription was made to enable him to collect additional pieces. As the result of his journey, he published in 1762 “Fingal, an Ancient Epic Poem, by Ossian the Son of Fingal, a Gaelic Chief of the Third Century." In 1763 he published "Temora," another epic poem. The sale of these was extraordinary. Many doubted their antiquity, and Dr Johnson openly treated them as impostures. The current of opinion now seems to be in favour of the idea that Macpherson found a good many traditionary stories and some manuscripts, and wove out of them, in a connected form, what he gave out as the translation from Ossian. Macpherson himself was impenetrable to the attacks made on him; and as he kept his own counsel, there is little likelihood that any more light will be obtained as to the true authorship. In any case, they speak highly for the talent of a man, who could write that which the brightest intellects of the age pronounced the highest poetry. Ossian has been translated into many languages; and it is said that a bad Italian translation formed Napoleon's favourite reading. Macpherson obtained some good appointments, and was elected member of Parliament for Camelford. He also amassed considerable wealth, which he employed in purchasing the property of Raitts, in his native parish. He died on 17th February 1796. OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN. I FEEL the sun, O Malvina! leave me to my rest. Perhaps they may come to my dreams; I think I hear a feeble voice! The beam of heaven delights to shine on the grave of Carthon: I feel it warm around. O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave; but thou thyself movest alone. Who can be a companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again; the moon herself is lost in heaven, but thou art for ever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with tempests, when thunder rolls and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou lookest in vain, for he beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art perhaps like me for a season; thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds careless of the voice of the morning. Exult, then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth! Age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of the moon when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills: the blast of the north is on the plain; the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey. FINGAL'S HALL. His friends sit around the king, on mist! They hear the songs of Ullin: he strikes the half-viewless harp. He raises the feeble voice. The lesser heroes, with a thousand meteors, light the airy hall. Malvina rises in the midst; a blush is on her cheek. She beholds the unknown faces of her fathers. She turns aside her humid eyes. "Art thou come so soon?" said Fingal, "daughter of generous Toscar. Sadness dwells in the halls of Lutha. My aged son is sad! I hear the breeze of Cona, that was wont to lift thy heavy locks. It comes to the hall, but thou art not there. Its voice is mournful among the arms of thy fathers! Go, with thy rustling wing, O breeze! sigh on Malvina's tomb. It rises yonder beneath the rock, at the blue stream of Lutha. The maids are departed to their place. Thou alone, O breeze, mournest there!" ADDRESS TO THE MOON. DAUGHTER of heaven, fair art thou! the silence of thy face is pleasant! Thou comest forth in loveliness. The stars attend thy blue course in the east. The clouds rejoice in thy presence, O moon! they brighten their dark-brown sides. Who is like thee in heaven, light of the silent night? The stars are ashamed in thy presence. They turn away their sparkling eyes. Whither dost thou retire from thy course, when the darkness of thy countenance grows? hast thou thy hall, like Ossian? dwellest thou in the shadow of grief? have thy sisters fallen from heaven? are they who rejoiced with thee, at night, no more? Yes, they have fallen, fair light! and thou dost often retire to mourn. But thou thyself shalt fail, one night, and leave thy blue path in heaven. The stars will then lift their heads: they, who were ashamed in thy presence, will rejoice. Thou art now clothed with thy brightness. Look from thy gates in the sky. Burst the cloud, O wind! that the daughter of night may look forth! that the shaggy mountains may brighten, and the ocean roll its white waves in light. FROM THE SONGS OF SELMA. STAR of descending night! fair is thy light in the west! Thou liftest thy unshorn head from thy cloud: thy steps are stately on thy hill. What dost thou behold in the plain? The stormy winds are laid. The murmur of the torrent comes from afar. Roaring waves climb the distant rock. The flies of evening are on their feeble wings; the hum of their course is on the field. What dost thou behold, fair light? But thou dost smile and depart. The waves come with joy around thee: they bathe thy lovely hair. Farewell, thou silent beam! Let the light of Ossian's soul arise! And it does arise in its strength! I behold my departed friends. Their gathering is on Lora, as in the days of other years. Fingal comes like a watery column of mist; his heroes are around. And see the bards of song, gray-haired Ullin! stately Ryno! Alpin, with the tuneful voice! the soft complaint of Minona! How are ye changed, my friends, since the days of Selma's feast! when we contended, like gales of spring, as they fly along the hill, and bend by turns the feebly whistling grass. Minona came forth in her beauty, with downcast look and tearful eye. Her hair flew slowly on the blast, that rushed unfrequent from the hill. The souls of the heroes were sad when she raised the tuneful voice. Often had they seen the grave of Salgar, the dark dwelling of white-bosomed Colma. Colma left alone on the hill, with all her voice of song! Salgar promised to come; but the night descended around. Hear the voice of Colma, when she sat alone on the hill! Colma. It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is heard in the mountain. The torrent pours down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of winds! Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night, arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love rests from the chase alone! his bow near him, unstrung: his dogs panting around him. But here I must sit alone, by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar aloud I hear not the voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar? why the chief of the hill his promise? Here is the rock, and here the tree! here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah! whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly from my father; with thee from my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes: we are not foes, O Salgar! Mrs Thrale or Piozzi. { Born 1740. Died 1822. HESTER LYNCH SALISBURY, daughter of a gentleman of Carnarvonshire, was born in 1740. She was early distinguished by her beauty and accomplishments, and in 1763 married Mr Thrale, afterwards member of parliament for Southwark. On his death she retired to Bath, where she afterwards married Piozzi, an Italian, with whom she went abroad; they resided some time in Florence. She afterwards published a volume of poems, "The Florence Miscellany." She is only known now by her little tale "The Three Warnings." She died at Clifton 1822. THE THREE WARNINGS. THE tree of deepest root is found That love of life increased with years When sports went round, and all were gay, |