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The tender guidance of a father's care.
Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply
The love which glistens in a father's eye?
For this can wealth or title's sound atone,
Made, by a parent's early loss, my own?
What brother springs a brother's love to
seek?

What sister's gentle kiss has prest my cheek?

For me how dull the vacant moments rise, To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties! Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream Fraternal smiles collected round me seem; While still the visions to my heart are prest,

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The voice of love will murmur in my rest:

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To me what is title ? the phantom of power;

To me what is fashion? - I seek but renown.

Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul, I still am unpractised to varnish the truth:

Then why should I live in a hateful control?

Why waste upon folly the days of my youth?

1806.

THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA

AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN

[Byron states that the story of this Imitation, though considerably varied in the catastrophe, is taken from "Nisus and Euryalus."' Like Goethe and others of the period, Byron was an admirer of Ossian, although he was early acquainted with the true nature of these rhapsodies.]

DEAR are the days of youth! Age dwells on their remembrance through the mist of time. In the twilight he recalls the sunny hours of morn. He lifts his spear with trembling hand. Not thus feebly did I raise the steel before my fathers!' Past is the race of heroes! But their fame rises on the harp; their souls ride on the wings of the wind; they hear the sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of clouds! Such is Calmar. The gray stone marks his narrow house. He looks down from eddying tempests: he rolls his form in the whirlwind, and hovers on the blast of the mountain.

In Morven dwelt the chief, a beam of war to Fingal. His steps in the field were marked in blood. Lochlin's sons had fled before his angry spear: but mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his yellow locks: they streamed like the meteor of the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul: his thoughts were given to friendship, to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes! Equal were their swords in battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla: -gentle alone to Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona.

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From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the

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