When at Bute's feet poor Freedom lies, And doomed a victim for the sins When stewards pass a boot account, For your redemption draweth nigh. When scrutineers, for private ends, When George shall condescend to hear When time shall bring your wish about 75 80 85 90 95 100 105 No future contract to fulfil; Your tenants holding at your will; Raise up your heads! your right demand! Then is your time to strike the blow, JAMES MACPHERSON CARTHON: A POEM A TALE of the times of old! the deeds of days of other years! The murmur of thy streams, O Lora! brings back the memory of the past. The sound of thy woods, Garmallar, is lovely in mine ear. Dost thou not be- 5 hold, Malvina, a rock with its head of heath? Three aged pines bend from its face; green is the narrow plain at its feet; there the flower of the mountain grows, and shakes its white head in the breeze. The thistle is there alone, shedding its aged beard. Two stones, half 10 sunk in the ground, shew their heads of moss. The deer of the mountain avoids the place, for he beholds a dim ghost standing there. The mighty lie, O Malvina! in the narrow plain of the rock. A tale of the times of old! the deeds of days of 15 other years! Who comes from the land of strangers, with his thousands around him? the sunbeam pours its bright stream before him; his hair meets the wind of his hills. His face is settled from war. He is calm as the evening 20 beam that looks, from the cloud of the west, on Cona's silent vale. Who is it but Comhal's son [Fingal], the king of mighty deeds! He beholds his hills with joy, he bids a thousand voices rise. "Ye have fled over 25 your fields, ye sons of the distant land! The king of the world sits in his hall, and hears of his people's flight. He lifts his red eye of pride; he takes his father's sword. Ye have fled over your fields, sons of the distant land!" 30 Such were the words of the bards, when they came to Selma's halls. A thousand lights from the stranger's land arose, in the midst of the people. The feast is spread around; the night passed in joy. "Where is the noble Clessámmor ?" said the fair-haired Fingal. "Where 35 is the brother of Moina, in the hour of my joy? Sullen and dark he passes his days in the vale of echoing Lora: but, behold he comes from the hill, like a steed in his strength, who finds his companions in the breeze; and tosses his bright mane in the wind. Blest is the soul 40 of Clessámmor, why so long from Selma?" "Returns the chief," said Clessámmor, "in the midst of his fame? Such was the renown of Comhal in the battles of his youth. Often did we pass over Carun to the land of the strangers: our swords returned, not 45 unstained with blood: nor did the kings of the world rejoice. Why do I remember the times of our war? My hair is mixed with grey. My hand forgets to bend the bow: I lift a lighter spear. O that my joy would return, as when I first beheld the maid; the white bosomed daughter of strangers, Moina, with the dark 50 blue eyes!" "Tell," said the mighty Fingal, "the tale of thy youthful days. Sorrow, like a cloud on the sun, shades the soul of Clessámmor. Mournful are thy thoughts, alone on the banks of the roaring Lora. Let us hear the sorrow 55 of thy youth, and the darkness of thy days!" "It was in the days of peace," replied the great Clessámmor, "I came in my bounding ship, to Balclutha's walls of towers. The winds had roared behind my sails, and Clutha's streams received my dark-60 bosomed ship. Three days I remained in Reuthámir's halls, and saw his daughter, that beam of light. The joy of the shell went round, and the aged hero gave the fair. Her breasts were like foam on the wave, and her eyes like stars of light: her hair was dark as 65 the raven's wing: her soul was generous and mild. My love for Moina was great: my heart poured forth in joy. "The son of a stranger came; a chief who loved the white-bosomed Moina. His words were mighty in 70 the hall; he often unsheathed his sword. Where, said he, is the mighty Comhal, the restless wanderer of the heath? Comes he, with his host, to Balclutha, since Clessámmor is so bold? My soul, I replied, O warrior! burns in a light of its own. I stand without fear in 75 the midst of thousands, though the valiant are distant far. Stranger! thy words are mighty, for Clessámmor |