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To mighty deeds let each his arm extend,
Nor dread the darts his buckler


To distance let him not project the spear,
But manage hand to hand the work of war;
Shield closed to shield, advance th' imbattled line,
Crest reach to crest, and casque to helmet join ;
When, breast to breast, are stretched the ranks of war,
Hew them with swords, or break them with the spear.
Ye, whom no heavy panoplies inclose,
Discharge, at distance, stones against the foes,
And hurl with martial force the missive spear ;
But near the phalanx, shun the closer war.




How graceful lies the brave man on the plain,
Covered with wounds, and for his country slain!
But ah! expelled from home, how mean! how low!
Through foreign realms to lead a life of woe!
Strolling with parents sunk in wieldless years,
A helpless wife, and infants drowned in tears !
Condemned to want and shame, him all shall hate,
And drive the wand'rer from the closing gate.
His form he shall disgrace, his race, his blood,
By ills unnamed and infamy pursued.
Nor only is the dastard lost to fame,
But, what is worse, to all the sense of shame.

But let us fight for Sparta while we may,
Nor spare a life which soon must pass away.




Collect your bands, ye warriors, closely fight;
Forget your fear; forget inglorious flight.
Let glory every martial bosom fill,
Nor value lite when foes remain to kill.
Leave not the hoary vet’rans numbed with age,
Where burns the combat, and the thickest rage :
What shame! an aged warrior prone should lie,
Transfixed with wounds, when younger men are by ;
His beard transformed, his wrinkled temples gray,
And breathe, in dust, his dauntless soul away?
Who can his hands behold, with shameless eyes,
Cov’ring his naked carcase as he lies,
Decent in death ?-- But all things youth become,
Whom nature covers with her fairest bloom ;
Graceiul, in life, to men and women's eyes;
Graceful, in death, when on the field he lies.
Then, once ed, let every warrior grow
Firm to the earth, and low'r upon the foe.







On beds of tender myrtles laid,
Or melelot, supinely spread,
I'll quaff the bowl; and, neatly dressed,
Young Cupid shall direct the teast.
Come! fill the bumper to the brim,
And heave away this load of time.
This little wheel of vital day
Shall shortly roll itself away ;
And when we to the dust return,
How small our portion in the urn!
Why should you then anoint my stone ?
Or earth with rich libations drown?
No: rather let my sleeky hair
The fragrant oil and chaplet wear,
While yet I live; with all her charms
Call too my fair-one to my arms;
And Love, before from hence I go,
To mingle with the shades below;
Here let me dissipate my care,
And leave my grief in upper air.

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By night, on purple carpets spread,
When Bacchus hovered in my head;
In dreams I seemed to stretch the race
With virgins of the fairest face;
While taunting youths at distance stood,
As fair as of immortal blood;
And ridiculed me for the fair,
But seemed to wish themselves were there.
Unheeding I pursue my bliss,
And try to snatch one balmy kiss,
When, all at once, the vision Aled,
And left me hapless on the bed :
The promised bliss hung in my brain;
I turned, and wished to sleep again.




Twice has the winter vexed the main,
And twice the summer parched the plain,
Since, absent from his Delia's

Remote the hapless poet sighs,
And sees the joyless seasons roll,
Far from the charmer of his soul.

In vain, to shroud thee from my eyes,
Or billows roll, or mountains rise,
When diving in the secret shade,
I see, in thought, my charming maid
In all the light of beauty move',
As when she warmed my heart to love :


» When diving in the secret shade,

I see, in thought, my charming maid

In all the light of beauty move.) Of Evirallin were my thoughts when in all the light of beauty she came." Vol. i. p. 125. But the whole series of unappropriated poems, in Black lock's Collection, is evidently the composition of the same author; and that author is undoubtedly Macpherson. The Cave alone had too much merit not to have been claimed, had it been written by any other than the father of Ossian. The very next poems, after this series in Blacklock's Collection, ADELA, and Morna, were printed anonymously, as if by the same author; but in

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