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For oft, too oft, forgetful of his God,

Poor earthly man betrays his native clod.

Her name is Zeala—through the world she flies,
Love in her looks, and ardour in her eyes;
Nor can the iciest mortal well withstand
The glowing touch of her enchanting hand.
Yet, neither stiff nor stern, she gently bends
Her willing votaries to her purposed ends.
Martyrs she makes, but martyrs meek and mild,
Who ne'er revile, although they be reviled.
In virtue's cause a vigour she inspires,
But never kindles persecution's fires.

Once on a time, as this celestial maid,
In quest of converts, through Tholosa strayed;
There in a convent, horrible to tell!

A lecherous friar compressed her in his cell.
From this commixtion a dire demon came,
And Zealotismus is that demon's name.
Rapid his growth, for his half-heavenly birth
Gave him advantage o'er the sons of earth.
Fostered by popes and kings, behold him rise
In a short space to an enormous size!
His fame by strolling priests is blazed abroad;
And men mistake him for a demi-god.
Whole nations eagerly embrace his laws;
But chief, Iberia's sons support his cause.
There temples, there to him were altars reared;
With human blood those altars were besmeared:
Religion sanctioned the devouring flame,

And infants trembled at this Moloch's name.

Thus erst; but now he sees his power decline.

No bloody trophies more bedeck his shrine;
No fiery San Benitos more adorn

The Moor or Jew, condemned to public scorn.
Yet, yet a week of years, the world shall see
His throne o'erturned, and fair Iberia free.

Yet still on Tajo's banks he holds his court, Thither the zealots of the West resort; A hooded band, th' emissaries of Rome, Support his empire, and surround his dome.

In the first porch of this stupendous place Stands Persecution, with an iron face. In his right hand a scorpion scourge he bears, Betinged with human blood and human tears; And in his left he grasps a band of fire Ready to light the dread funereal pyre. Cut deep in stone above the monster's head, ΕΙΔΕ ΚΑΙ ΦΟΒΟΥ clearly may be read. In the remotest part of this abode

Is the apartment of the grisly god.

There Phoebus never shows his cheerful face;
Tapers of yellow wax supply his place,
Such as at dismal dirges are displayed
To half-illuminate the half-damned dead.
High on a throne of rough and rusty steel
Sedately sits the spurious son of Zeal.

Dame Superstition, his beloved bride,
Sits, like another Thais, by his side.
Pale is her visage, peevish is her mien,
For she is often troubled with the spleen.
Her weeds are black, but with a copious store
Of gaudy trinkets they are tinselled o'er—

Beads from Loretto, Agnus Dei's from Rome,
And christened relics from a catacomb;
Crosses and medals with indulgence fraught,
And images that miracles have wrought.
Like that which lately, at Ancona, drew
Just adoration from the Turk and Jew.

Behind his throne, to catch his dire commands, His armour-bearer, Fanatismus, stands.

Screws, racks, and pulleys, sulphur, pitch, and tar, With other implements of holy war,

Lie piled around him, all in order fair,

As in the Tower our guns and pistols are.

ADDRESS BEFORE THE FIGHT.

"Servants of the Lord!

Deans, doctors, priests, and levites, hear my word-
His castle must be stormed, himself extruded:
Such is my will." He said, and so concluded.

Mute for a while his myrmidons remain:
What priest in storming castles would be fain?
Besides, small hopes of sure success they saw :
They had no cannon, save the canon-law;
Nor battering-engine, save the hand and head :
That was not iron, and this was not lead,
And well they knew that gates of solid oak
Are not by common engines to be broke.
Perplexed they stand; yet how refuse to fight,
Under a bishop, for the church's right?
They bow assent, yet in their looks appear
Some outward symptoms of an inward fear.

The Prelate saw the cause, and smiling said,
"Our plan of war at dinner shall be laid.
An empty stomach lacks its usual power:
Retire, reflect, and come again at four.

A turtle waits you, and a haunch of doe-
That comes from Liverpool, and this from Stowe-
With store of wine; I hope you will not spare it;
For I have just laid in a pipe of claret."

As when the sun with his impressive ray
Dispels the fogs of a November day,

The sullen skies their wonted face assume,
And seem but brighter from the previous gloom;
So now the Bishop's powerful words replace
Joy in each heart, and blood in every face.
They thank his Lordship with a joint accord,
And pledge themselves to join the festal board.

JAMES MACPHERSON.

1738-1796.

Ossian Macpherson, as he was called, after a literary habit of his time, was the son of a farmer, was born at Kingussie in the ancient Highland district of Badenoch, and was educated for the kirk at the universities of Aberdeen and Edinburgh. While he was still a youth, several poetical compositions from his pen appeared in the Scots Magazine, and at the age of twenty he published an epic in six cantos, entitled "The Highlander.' Among his other efforts the most conspicuous was an ode on the arrival of the Earl Marischal in Scotland. His introduction to general notice, however, was effected, not in the character of author, but of translator. While travelling as tutor to Mr. Graham the younger of Balgowan, in the summer of 1759, he met, on the bowling-green at Moffat, the Rev. John Home, author of "Douglas." In his possession at the time he had some transcripts of Gaelic poetry which he had taken down from the recitation of old people in his native district. These remains excited at once the interest and the admiration of Home, and, obtaining translations of a few of them from Macpherson, he sent them to Dr. Hugh Blair, Professor of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres at Edinburgh University. Blair at once pressed Macpherson for translations of the remaining pieces in his possession, a request with which, after some demur, the young tutor complied; and as a result Blair published at Edinburgh, in 1760, a small volume, entitled Fragments of Ancient Poetry collected in the Highlands of Scotland, and translated from the Gaelic or Erse language. This small volume excited an immediate and intense interest in the northern capital, and presently Macpherson was commissioned to make a tour through the Highlands for the purpose of collecting and preserving further remains of Gaelic poetry. His enterprise enlisted the interest of many Highland gentlemen, chiefs, and sennachies, who gave him ancient MSS. in their possession. Mr. Gallie, afterwards minister in Badenoch, and Mr. Macpherson of Strathmashie, gave him their assistance in the interpretation of obsolete words. And in 1762, having removed to London, Macpherson published, under the patronage of Lord Bute, two volumes of literal prose translations, entitled

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