Classic Poem

Now yellow leaves in winnow'd ruins mourn
Their vanish'd bloom, and Winter's dire return;
Now the grey mists, on hill and mountain hoar,
Proclaim the genial pride of Summer o'er;
The rocking whirlwind whistles o'er the heath,
Dark rolls the river thro' the plain beneath;
High on the summit of yon lofty hill,
Where ambient clouds ætherial sweets distil,
That lonely tree denotes the turfy grave,
Of youthful Connal, mighty, virtuous, brave!
There Autumn's spoils, in rustling heaps, adorn
The sacred spot that holds his timeless urn;
There, when drear Midnight holds her solemn reign,
And spreads her sable mantle o'er the plain,
Glide airy forms, as bright as Cynthia's beam,
That with soft lustre dances on the stream,
Splendid, tho' wan, reflecting rays they dart,
Amaze the eye, while they astone the heart.

O! Connal, warrior, mighty was thy race,
Who can the glories of thy lineage trace!
Yes, noble Connal's number'd with the dead,
No more shall trophies crown his valiant head:
Far was their clanging armour heard around,
While mangled heroes strew'd the gore-drench'd ground,
And frighted Echo, in her vaulted cave,
Redoubled heard, and told the blows they gave.
Dire were the wars of Fingal's glorious line,
For there did Connal life and pow'r resign;
Connal, whose arm was mighty as a storm,
Bright as his glitt'ring sword his striking form;
Erect his tow'ring mien as yon tall rock,
Whose thymy border feeds my wand'ring flock;
His darting eyes the native fire confest,
That glow'd with honest ardour in his breast:
Loud was his voice when heard in war's alarms,
And conqu'ring heroes bow'd to Connal's arms;
Each warrior's sword to his became a toy,
They fell like thistles by the playful boy.

The mighty Dargo, black as clouds that low'r,
With brow impatient waits the destin'd hour;
His rolling eye-balls horrid fury glare,
And scowling aspect bids for war prepare;
Advanc'd with hasty strides, resolv'd to try
Young Connal's might, and conqu'ror live or die.
Fierce was their combat, dire the clang of steel,
While each, by turns, the biting falchion feel;
Fate silent view'd, the conquest doubtful grew,
When near the Chiefs the fair Crimora drew,
Great Rinval's daughter, beauteous as the morn,
Clad in gay arms, such arms as youths adorn:
Her curling tresses, flowing loose behind,
Were toss'd in sweet disorder by the wind;
Sharp-pointed arrows her left arm embrace,
While a tough bow her beauteous fingers grace:
In this disguise she views her much-lov'd youth,
For bound to Connal was her plighted truth;
His life she fear'd; then quick an arrow drew,
Which pierc'd unerring, yet in error slew;
For, hapless maid! in Connal's faithful breast,
Behold, the whizzing arrow stands confess'd.
Like a fall'n oak, extended on the plain,
He thund'ring fell, and crush'd the mighty slain;
Or like a rifted rock, by tempests torn,
Strewing the plain which once it did adorn.

The sad Crimora, pale, transfix'd with grief,
Astonish'd stands, nor dares attempt relief;
While bath'd in purple streams he gasping lies,
Fault'ring attempts her name, then groans and dies;
Her Connal dies, can fair Crimora live?
What joy can life, without her Connal, give?
Each tedious night, and each returning day,
Her Connal's name re-echo'd in her lay;
O! Death, she cries, is Connal then no more?
Unite us, tyrant, on some happier shore:
Death heard, admir'd, and feiz'd the lovely maid,
And now with Connal's are her ashes laid;
There Earth enfolds the truest, brightest pair,
The valiant hero, and the virtuous fair;
The tufted grass with livelier verdure grows,
And there the earliest, sweetest Violet blows;
While I, extended in this pensive shade,
Of mournful Yew and drooping Cypress made,
Hear rustling winds in plaintive murmurs tell,
How Connal conquer'd, and how Connal fell:
While aching mem'ry still the pair pursues,
That conscious plain my mellow'd grief renews;
Nor age, nor time, these traces can destroy,
For Woe writes deeper characters than Joy:
There peace-encircled may their ashes lie,
Nor Connal's fame, nor bright Crimora's, die.