The New York Packet

POET'S CORNER.

THE LAMENTATIONS OF ALPIN.

Ryno.

By the wind and beating rain are past away,
And mild and tranquil is the noon of day;
The sun, with potent rays, the cloud divides,
And o'er the verdant hill instant glides;
The hill-stream murmuring down in tuneful strains,
Along the lonely valley loud complains.
O! stream, thy tuneful murmurs soothe my ear,
Yet equal not the matchless strains I hear;
'Tis Alpin's voice melodious fills the gales,
He mourns the dead along the sounding vales,
His head he bows with age, tho' once on high,
And red with weeping is his tearful eye.
Thou son of song sublime, why thus alone,
Along the silent grove dost vent thy moan?
As hollow winds are heard in mournful strain
Along the bending forest to complain,
Or as the broken billows murmuring roar,
Rebounding on the solitary shore?

ALPIN.

I mourn, O! Ryno, the departed brave
The great inhabitant of yonder grave;
And thou, tho' stately size, and youthful grace
Declare thee first of all thy comely race,
Yet thou, with Morar shalt recline thy head,
And streams of sorrow round thy grave be shed.
Thy swiftness Morar, passed the mountain roe,
Bright as a meteor did thine armour glow,
Thy sword in fight shed lightning on thy foes,
When like December's storm thine anger rose;
Thy voice like sounding torrents awed the crowd,
Like distant thunder o'er the mountains loud!
But when returned from war, how calm thy mien
Thy peaceful brow how tranquil and serene!
As after rain the sun's mild radiance bright,
Or placid moon in silent shades of night;
Calm as the lake when raging billows sleep,
Nor gentle breezes curl the shining deep.
Now dark and narrow is thy dwelling there,
Four mossy stones, thy sole memorial are;
An ancient tree whose wonted foliage fails,
And grass that whistles in the sighing gales,
Mark to the weary wandering hunter's eyes,
The mansion where the mighty Morar lies!
Deep is his sleep whose mortal life is fled,
And low the pillow of the valiant dead!
No more the human voice shall charm his ear,
No more he joys the waking call to hear,
In his dark dwelling when will morning break,
To bid the silent slumberer awake!
Thy aged sire, disconsolate, alone.
Weeps o'er the grave of thee his only son!
None else remain of all thy kindred dear,
Nor on that thou to pay the filial tear;
Yet shall the grateful song prolong thy fame,
And future ages learn thy mighty name.