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"When all the fury of the fight

With wrath redoubled rag'd; When man to man, with giant-might,

For all that's dear engag'd;

When all was thunder, smoke, and fire;

When from their native rocks the frighted springs retire;

"Twas then, through streams of smoke and blood,

Achates mounts the city-wall:

Though wounded, like a god he stood,

And at his feet the foes submissive fall.

"Brave are the Goths, and fierce in fight,

Yet these he gave to rout and flight;

Proud when they were of victory,



He rushed on like a storm; dispersed and weak they fly. 125

Thus, from the Grampians old,

A torrent, deep and strong,

Down rushes on the fold,

And sweeps the shepherd and the flock along.

"When, through an aged wood,

The thunder roars amain,

His paths with oaks are strewed,
And ruin marks the plain:

So many a German field can tell,


How in his path the mighty heroes fell.


66 When, with their numerous dogs, the swains

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"So the old lion, brave Achates, fought,

And miracles of prowess wrought;


With a few piquets bore the force

Of eighty thousand, stopped their course,

Till off his friends had marched, and all was well.

Even he himself could ne'er do more,

Fate had no greater deed in store


When all his host was safe, the godlike hero fell."

Thus as he spoke, each hoary sire

Fights o'er again his ancient wars;

Each youth burns with a hero's fire,
And triumphs in his future scars;
O'er bloody fields each thinks he rides,
The thunder of the battle guides

(Beneath his lifted arm, struck pale,
The foes for mercy cry) ;
And hears applauding legions hail
Him with the shouts of victory.






THE weary sailor calls for ease,
When winds turmoil the angry seas,
And not a moon or star to guide
His dreary course along the tide;
When half the sky in showers descends,
And wind the gilded streamer rends;
Blessed he, within the hut, he cries,
Now bends in rest his peaceful eyes;


This and the following pieces from BLACKLOCK's Collection, (Vol. I. pp. 117-143.) form a series of fifteen poems hitherto unappropriated, but which I have no hesitation to ascribe to Macpherson, His Verses on the Death of Marshal Keith, were inserted evidently by himself, but without his name, at the end of the volume, which was published in October 1760, when he was desirous to conceal the circumstance of his being a poet. For the same reason his unpublished verses were inserted anonymously in the same Collection; but they are sufficiently authenticated by the recurrence of the same images and expressions in his other productions. In the second volume, published after he had left the country, his name was prefixed without scruple to such pieces of his as were collected from the Scots Magazine.

2 And not a moon or star to guide.] "No star with green trembling beam, no moon looks from the skies." Six Bards, vol. ii. p. 417.

Or hears the tempest idly rave;

No av'rice tempts him to the wave.


Turn to the noisy camp your eye,

There care corrodes, and starts the sigh.
Shew me the man among them all,

Who drove o'er Minden's plains the Gaul;
When Broglio's ranks at distance rise,
And cannon murmur through the skies;
But would forego the breath of fame,
And live at ease without a name.

'Tis not the sash, the gown, the robe,
These gilded baits that catch the mob;
Or tides of flatt'rers at the door,
Can paint with bliss the passing hour;
Or half the cares within controul,
And calm the tumults of the soul.
Nor can the dome or lofty wall,
Or guards that crowd the tyrant's hall,
With all their instruments of wars,
Exclude the dark, invading cares :
Around the bed of state they fly,
And dash the guilty cup of joy 3.





More happy he! whose guiltless mind

Is to his native fields confined;

Blessed with his state; and craves no more

Than heaven allowed his sires before:

Around the bed of state they fly,

And dash the guilty cup of joy.] To authenticate the poem,

all that is said upon Care in the preceding or subsequent paragraphs is taken from the description of Care in MACPHERSON's Hunter, II. 92-115.

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Unseen, but felt, oft in the halls of state

He sits, and tinges all the pompous treat ¿

And oft he hovers round the downy bed,
Thund'ring despair around the statesman's head.

See Death, 90.

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Go, then; forsake your calm retreat,
Cringe at the portals of the great;
Attend the gaudy venal train,
Throw virtue off, to raise your gain;
Or spread your canvas to the gale;
Or court the muses in the vale;
If still in sorrow you repine,
Fly for relief to whores and wine.

In vain you fly from inbred woe:
Care climbs the vessel's painted prow:
Care haunts the palace of the great,
And hovers round the dark retreat:
Care clouds the fair one's lovely face,

And floats within the sparkling glass.




In vain we fly destructive Care,

The monster in our breasts we bear.] And again, ver. 55.

In vain you fly from inbred woe,

Care climbs the vessel's painted prow, &c.

From the Hunter, II. 98.

In vain you fly from Care,

Sharp stings the gnawing monster every where:
To shun him sailors vainly billows cleave,
He sits incumbent on each sable wave.
In vain through rugged earth incessant roam,
Man is his prey, and every where his home.

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