But every realm fhall equal bleffings find,
And man enjoy the birthright of his kind.

Verfification of two of the Highland Fragments, lately published.

Fragment I. By a Gentleman of Scotland.

ARK Autumn now affumes its fading reign;

DThe blue grey mit creeps flowly o'er the bill;

Dark rolls the river thro' the narrow plain,

And from the uplands burfts the new fwol'n rill.
On yonder heath there stands a lonely tree,

And there, O Connal! thy fad grave is found;
And still its falling leaves it ftrews on thee,

Still by the whirlwind borne in eddies round,
Here oft, as twilight grey, or purple dawn,
As o'er the heath the mufing hunter hies,
The fheeted ghoft ftalks o'er the dewy lawn,

Or haunts the dreary grave where Connal lies.
Thy race, O Connal! who fhall ftrive to trace ?
Or who through ages past thy fires can tell?
As the tall oak torn from its native place

They grew, they flourish'd, and in thee they fell.
Mournful thy wars, O Fingal! 'Midft the flain
Where groan'd the dying welt'ring in their gore,
Where Connal fell! the terror of the plain!

There fell the mighty to arise no more!
Thy arm, a tempeft from the bellowing main;
Thy fword, a meteor in the evening sky;
Thy height, a rock that overlook'd the plain;
A glowing furnace was thy wrathful eye:
Loud as a ftorm, thy voice confounding all;
Dire as thy fword, and eager to destroy;
Beneath thine arm the mighty warriors fall,
As falls the thistle by the playful boy.
As low'ring thunder o'er the mid-day skies,
Dargo the bold, Dargo the mighty, came:
Dark was his brow; two hollow caves his eyes,
Bright rofe their clashing fwords with fparkling flame.
Crimora-Rinval's beauteous daughter, near

Her much lov'd Connal-Could she stay behind ?
A bow her shoulder grac'd, her hand a fpear,
And loofe her waving locks flow'd in the wind.
At Dargo's breast the fatal fhaft fhe drew;

Swift from her arm the mortal weapon flies:
Alas! the erring dart her Connal flew !

Alas, he bleeds! alas, her Connal dies!

So falls a rock torn from the fhaggy hill;
So falls an oak, the glory of the plain.
What fhall fhe do? what griefs her bosom fill!
"By me is Connal, hapless Connal, flain !”
All day fhe wanders by fome nameless stream;
Connal, my love! Connal, my friend! he cries;
At night, thy pathlefs vale, by Cynthia's beam:
For grief the lovely mufing mourner dies.
The loveliest pair cold earth doth here inclose
That ever slept within her clay-cold womb;
Alone they reft in undisturb'd repose,

The green grafs rankling o'er their narrow tomb.
I, mufing in the melancholy fhade,

(The rank weed rustling to the whiftling wind) Still mourn th' ill-fated youth, and hapless maid, And fill their mem'ry rushes on my mind.

Birmingham, June 30, 1760.

Fragment II. intituled RYNO and ALPIN. By another Hand.

H

RY NO.

'Ufh'd are the winds, and past the driving fhow'r,

And calm and filent is the noon-tide hour;

ear!

The loofe light clouds are parted in the skies,
O'er the green hills th' inconftant funfhine flies;
Red thro' the ftony vale with rapid tide,
The ftream defcends by mountain fprings fupply'd;
How sweet, Oftream, thy murmurs to my
Yet fweeter far the tuneful voice I hear;
'Tis Alpin's voice, the mafter of the fong,
He mourns the dead, to him the dead belong;
Some heart-felt forrow bends his hoary head,
And fills his fwimming eye fuffus'd with red:
Why tried, O mafter of the fong, thy skill
Alone fequefter'd on the filent hill?

Why like the blast that makes the woods complain ?
Or wave that beats the lonely fhore, thy ftrain ?

The hills no more fhall hear thy jocund cry,
And in thy hall thy bow unftrung shall lie.
Swift wert thou, Morar, as the bounding roe,
As fiery meteors dreadful to the foe.

Like winter's rage was thine, in storms reveal'd,
Thy fword in fight like light'ning in the field;
Thy voice like torrents fwell'd with hasty rains,
Or thunder rolling o'er the diftant plains:
Unnumber'd heroes has thy arm o'erturn'd,
In smoke-they vanish'd when thy anger burn'd.
Thy brow how peaceful when the war was o'er,
Like the first funfhine when it rains no more;
Calm as the moon amidst the filent sky,
Calm as the lake when hufh'd the tempefts lie.
How narrow now thy dark abode is found!
Now with three steps thy grave I compafs round;
Great as thou wert, four ftones with mofs o'ergrown,
Thy fole memorial, leave thee half unknown.
The lonely tree, where scarce a leaf we find,
The long rank grafs that whiftles in the wind,
These, and these only, guide the hunter's eye
To find where Morar's mould'ring reliques lie.
How low is Morar fall'n! alas! how low!
No tears maternal o'er his afhes flow;

No tender maid, to whom his heart he gave,
Sheds love's foft forrows o'er his humble grave;
Cold are the knees his infant weight that bore,
And Morglan's lovely daughter is no more.

But who low bending o'er his ftaff appears,
Oppress'd at once with forrow and with
years ?
A few white hairs are o'er his temple spread,
His fteps are feeble, and his eyes are red;
Thy fire, O Morar, is the fage I see,
Thy fire,

alas! the fire of none but thee:
He heard thy martial fame, fupreme in fight,
Of daring foes he heard difpers'd in flight;
Of Morar's fame he heard, why heard he not
The wound, the hero's death was Morar's lot
O! fire of Morar, ftill thy fon deplore,
Weep on for ever, but he hears no more:
Deep are the flumbers of the filent dead,
And low their pillow in the duft is fpread.
No more thy voice he hears with filial joy,
Thy call no more his flumbers can destroy :

When, in the grove, ah! when shall morning break,
The chearful morn, that bids the flumb'rer wake!
Farewel, O! first of men, untaught to yield,

Unrival'd victor in the hoftile field;

The hoftile field thy voice no more alarms,
Nor the dark foreft lightens with thy arms,
To no fond fon defcends thy treasur'd fame,
Yet fhall the fong preferve thy living name,
The fhining record ev'ry age fhall fee,
And TIME's laft fault'ring accents tell of thee.

Extract from the first of two Burlesque Odes, lately published.

II. 1.

Perch'd on the dubious height, She loves to ride)
Upon a weather-cock, aftride.
Each blaft that blows, around she goes,
While nodding o'er her creft,

Emblem of her magic pow'r,
The light Cameleon ftands confeft,
Changing its hues a thousand times an hour.
And in a vest is she array'd,
Of many a dancing moon-beam made,
Nor zonelefs is her waift:

But fair and beautiful I ween,

As the ceftus-cinctur'd queen

Is with the Rainbow's fhadowy girdle brac❜d.

High blood and youth his lufty veins infpire.

From Tottipontimoy He came,
Who knows not, Tottipontimoy, thy name?
The bloody-fhoulder'd Arab was his Sire,
His White-nofe. He on fam'd Doncaftra's plains
Refign'd his fated breath:

In vain for life the ftruggling courfer ftrains.
Ah! who can run the race with death?
The tyrant's speed, or man or steed,
Strives all in vain to fly.

He leads the chace, he wins the race,
We stumble, fall, and die.
II. 3.

Third from White-nofe fprings
Pegafus with eagle wings

Light o'er the plain, as dancing cork,
With many a bound he beats the ground,
While all the Turf with acclamation rings.
He won Northampton, Lincoln, Oxford, York;
He too Newmarket won.

There Granta's fon,

Seiz'd on the Steed;

And thence him led (fo fate decreed)
To where old Cam, renown'd in poet's fong,
With his dark and inky waves

Either bank, in filence laves,

Winding flow his fluggish ftreams along.

III. I.

What stripling neat, of visage sweet,
In trimmelt guife array'd,

Firft the neighing fteed affay'd
His hand a taper switch adorns, his heel
Sparkles effulgent with elaftic fleel:
The whiles he wins his whiffling way,
Prancing, ambling, round and round,
By hill, and dale, and mead, and greenfwerd gay :
'Till fated with the pleafing ride,

From lofty Steed difmounting,

He lies along, enwrapt in confcious pride,
By gurgling rill, or crystal fountain.

III. 2.

Lo! next, a bard, fecure of praife,

His felf complacent countenance difplays,

*The author is either mistaken in this place, or has elfe indulged himfelf in a very unwarrantable poetical licence. White-nofe was not the fire, but a fon of Godolphin Arabian. See my Calendar.

HEBER.