POSTHUMOUS POEMS.

FINGAL'S CAVE.

NOT Aladdin magian
Ever such a work began;

Not the wizard of the Dee
Ever such a dream could see;

Not St. John, in Patmos' isle,
In the passion of his toil,

When he saw the churches seven,
Golden aisled, built up in heaven,
Gazed at such a rugged wonder !—
As I stood its roofing under,
Lo! I saw one sleeping there,
On the marble cold and bare;
While the surges washed his feet,
And his garments white did beat,
Drenched about the sombre rocks;
On his neck his well-grown locks,
Lifted dry above the main,
Were upon the curl again.

"What is this? and what art thou ?” Whispered I, and touch'd his brow;

What art thou? and what is this?"
Whispered I, and strove to kiss
The spirit's hand, to wake his eyes;
Up he started in a trice:

"I am Lycidas," said he,

66

"Fam❜d in fun'ral minstrelsy!

This was architectur'd thus
By the great Oceanus !—
Here his mighty waters play
Hollow organs all the day;
Here, by turns, his dolphins all,
Finny palmers, great and small,
Come to pay devotion due,-
Each a mouth of pearls must strew!
Many a mortal of these days
Dares to pass our sacred ways;
Dares to touch, audaciously,
This cathedral of the sea!
I have been the pontiff-priest,
Where the waters never rest,
Where a fledgy sea-bird choir
Soars for ever! Holy fire
I have hid from mortal man;
Proteus is my Sacristan!

But the dulled eye of mortal
Hath passed beyond the rocky portal;
So for ever will I leave

Such a taint, and soon unweave
All the magic of the place."

So saying, with a Spirit's glance
He dived!

ΤΟ

WHAT can I do to drive away

Remembrance from my eyes? for they have

seen,

Aye, an hour ago, my brilliant Queen!

Touch has a memory.

O say, love, say,

What can I do to kill it and be free

In my old liberty?

When every fair one that I saw was fair,
Enough to catch me in but half a snare,
Not keep me there:

When, howe'er poor or particolour'd things,
My muse had wings,

And ever ready was to take her course
Whither I bent her force,

Unintellectual, yet divine to me ;—

Divine, I say!—What sea-bird o'er the sea
Is a philosopher the while he goes

Winging along where the great water throes?

How shall I do

To get anew

Those moulted feathers, and so mount once

more

Above, above

The reach of fluttering Love,

And make him cower lowly while I soar?
Shall I gulp wine? No, that is vulgarism,
A heresy and schism,

Foisted into the canon law of love ;

No, wine is only sweet to happy men ;
More dismal cares

Seize on me unawares,―

Where shall I learn to get my peace again?
To banish thoughts of that most hateful land,
Dungeoner of my friends, that wicked strand
Where they were wreck'd and live a wrecked
life:

That monstrous region, whose dull rivers pour,
Ever from their sordid urns unto the shore,
Unown'd of any weedy-haired gods;

Whose winds, all zephyrless, hold scourging rods, Iced in the great lakes, to afflict mankind; Whose rank-grown forests, frosted, black, and

blind,

Would fright a Dryad; whose harsh herbaged meads

Make lean and lank the starv'd ox while he feeds; There bad flowers have no scent, birds no sweet

song,

And great unerring Nature once seems wrong.

O, for some sunny spell

To dissipate the shadows of this hell!