Classic Poem

Still'd is the tempest's blust'ring roar;
Hoarse dash the billows of the sea;—
But who on Kilda's dismal shore
Cries—“Have I burnt my Harp for thee!”

'Tis Col , wild raving to the gale,
That howls o'er heath, and blasted lea;
Still as he eyes the lessening sail,
Cries—“Have I burnt my Harp for thee!”—

Bright was thy fame in Bara's isle,
Sweet bard! where many a rival sung;
Oft hadst thou waked the tear and smile,
As soft thy Harp melodious rung:

Oft hadst thou touched the female heart,
(To love, I ween! and pity true)
Till M ORA came to hear thy art;—
M ORA , with eye of softening blue.

The maid he prized above the throng,
That pressed to hear his raptured strain;—
The maid, who melted at the song,
But trifled with a lover's pain:

Long had he borne the treacherous smile,
That cherished hope, and left despair;
The promised bliss, which female guile
As oft dispersed in empty air;

Till shunned by every constant maid;
Condemned by friends; by kindred prest;
Deceitful thus, in smiles arrayed,
M ORA the sorrowing youth addressed:

“Too long, O Col ! in plaintive moan
Thou'st strung thy Harp to strains divine;—
Add but two strings of varied tone,
This heart, this yielding heart, is thine.”

Two strings the youth, with anxious care,
Half doubtful, to his Harp applies;
And oft, in vain, he turns each air,
And oft each varying note he tries.

At length (unrivalled in his art!)
With new-born sounds the valley rings;—
Col claims his M ORA'S promised heart,
As deep he strikes the varied strings!

Three moons, three honied moons, are past
Since Col , enraptured, laughed at care;
And oft the tuneful Harp he blest,
That won a nymph so good and fair:

Till, mindful of those tender ties
That fashion's sons would blush to name,
With softened voice, and melting sighs,
He thus accosts his peerless dame:

“Three months, dear partner of my bliss!
Three fleeting months have shed their charms,
Since first I snatched the bridal kiss,
And clasped perfection to my arms:

“Yet happiness, however true,
Must fade, if selfish and confined;—
Your friends now claim affections due;
The kindred transports of the mind!

“Each parent mourns our cold delay;
They think of M ORA with a tear:
The gale invites—at early day
To Cana's sea-beat shore we steer.”

The morn blushed fair; mild blew the gale;
The lark to heaven light warbling springs;
Col smiles with love, spreads quick the sail,
And sweeps with ravished heart the strings!

But ah! how short the transient gleams,
That light with joy the human breast!—
The tempest raves, and wildly screams
Each frighted sea-fowl to her nest.

High rage the billows of the deep,
That lately rolled serenely mild,
And dashed near Kilda's awful steep;
Col clasps his love with horror wild.

For cold's the form o'er which he hung
With raptured eye the morn before;
And mute and tuneless is the tongue,
That charmed so late on Bara's shore;

And pale and lifeless is the cheek,
That glowed so late with rosy hue;
The eyes that melting joys could speak,
Is closed!—the eye of soft'ning blue.

Hard with the furious surge he strove,
His love and fav'rite Harp to save;
Till deep in Crona's sea-worn cove,
He bears them safe from storm and wave.

But cove, nor love's assiduous care,
Could ebbing life's warm tide restore!—
Pale, wet, and speechless lay the fair
On Kilda's bleak and stormy shore.

Oft, oft her breathless lips of clay
With frantic cries he fondly prest;
And, while a senseless corpse she lay,
He strained her madly to his breast.

But who can paint with pencil true
The scene, when sighs first struggling stole
(Which thus by magic love he drew)
Deep lab'ring from her fluttering soul?

“She breathes!—she lives!” the minstrel cried,
“Life has not fled this beauteous form!
Protecting heaven, some aid provide!
Shield—shield my trembler from the storm!

“No roof its friendly smoke displays!
No storm-scaped faggot, turf, nor tree—
No shrub to yield one kindly blaze,
And warm my love to life and me!

“Dark grows the night!—and cold and sharp
Beat wind, and hail, and drenching rain!
Nought else remains—I'll burn my Harp!”
He cries, and breaks his Harp in twain.

“For thee, O M ORA ! oft it rung,
To guard thee from each rival's art;
And now, though broken and unstrung,
It guards from death thy constant heart.”

Bright flamed the fragments as he spoke;
One parting sigh his Harp he gave:
The storm-drenched faggots blaze through smoke,
And snatch his M ORA from the grave.