Does the wind touch thee, O HARP? Or is it some passing Ghost? Is is thy hand, Spirit of the departed _Scrutiny_? Bring me the harp, pride of CHATHAM! Snow is on thy bosom, Maid of the modest eye! A song shall rise! Every soul shall depart at the sound!!! The wither'd thistle shall crown my head!!! I behold thee, O King! I behold thee sitting on mist!!! Thy form is like a watery cloud, Singing in the deep like an oyster!!!! Thy face is like the beams of the setting moon! Thy eyes are of two decaying flames! Thy nose is like the spear of ROLLO!!! Thy ears are like three bossy shields!!! Strangers shall rejoice at thy chin! The ghosts of dead Tories shall hear me In their airy hall! The wither'd thistle shall crown my head! Bring me the Harp, Son of CHATHAM! But thou, O King! give me the Laurel!
[Though the following _Ossianade_ does not immediately come under the description of a _Probationary Ode_, yet as it appertains to the nomination of the _Laureat_, we class it under the same head. We must at the same time compliment Mr. _Macpherson_ for his spirited address to Lord Salisbury on the subject. The following is a copy of his letter:]
I take the liberty to address myself immediately to your Lordship, in vindication of my poetical character, which, I am informed, is most illiberally attacked by the Foreign Gentleman, whom your Lordship has thought proper to select as an assessor on the present scrutiny for the office of Poet Laureat to his Majesty. Signor Delpini is certainly below my notice--but I understand his objections to my _Probationary Ode_ are two;--first, its conciseness; and next, its being in _prose_. For the present, I shall wave all discussion of these frivolous remarks; begging leave, however, to solicit your Lordship's protection to the following _Supplemental Ode_, which, I hope, both from its _quantity_ and its _style_, will most effectually do away the paltry, insidious attack of an uninformed reviler, who is equally ignorant of British Poetry and of British Language.
I have the honour to be, My Lord, Your Lordship's most obedient, and faithful servant, J. MACPHERSON.
Hark! 'Tis the dismal sound that echoes on thy roofs, O _Cornwall_; Hail! double-face sage! Thou worthy son of the chair-borne _Fletcher_! The Great Council is met to fix the seats of the chosen Chief; their voices resound in the gloomy hall of Rufus, like the roaring winds of the cavern--Loud were the cries for _Rays_, but thy voice, O _Foxan_, rendered the walls like the torrent that gusheth from the Mountain-side. _Cornwall_ leaped from his throne and screamed--the friends of _Gwelfo_ hung their heads--How were the mighty fallen! Lift up thy face, _Dundasso_, like the brazen shield of thy chieftain! Thou art bold to confront disgrace, and shame is unknown to thy brow--but tender is the youth of thy leader; who droopeth his head like a faded lily--leave not _Pitto_ in the day of defeat, when the Chiefs of the Counties fly from him like the herd from the galled Deer.--The friends of _Pitto_ are fled. He is alone--he layeth himself down in despair, and sleep knitteth up his brow.--Soft were his dreams on the green bench--Lo! the spirit of _Jenky_ arose, pale as the mist of the morn--twisted was his long lank form--his eyes winked as he whispered to the child in the cradle. Rise, he sayeth--arise bright babe of the dark closet! the shadow of the Throne shall cover thee, like wings of a hen, sweet chicken of the Back-stair brood! Heed not the Thanes of the Counties; they have fled from thee, like Cackling Geese from the hard-bitten Fox: but will they not rally and return to the charge? Let the host of the King be numbered; they are as the sands of the barren shore.--There Is _Powno_, who followeth his mighty leader, and chaceth the stall-fed stag all day on the dusty road.--There is _Howard_, great in arms, with the beaming star on his spreading breast.--Red is the scarf that waves over his ample shoulders--Gigantic are his strides on the terrace, in pursuit of the Royal footsteps of lofty _Georgio_.