Nov., 81.AGAIN back in Camden. As I cross the Delaware in long trips to-night, between 9 and 11, the scene overhead is a peculiar oneswift sheets of flitting vapor-gauze, followd by dense clouds throwing an inky pall on everything. Then a spell of that transparent steel-gray black sky I have noticed under similar circumstances, on which the moon would beam for a few moments with calm lustre, throwing down a broad dazzle of highway on the waters; then the mists careering again. All silently, yet driven as if by the furies they sweep along, sometimes quite thin, sometimes thickera real Ossianic nightamid the whirl, absent or dead friends, the old, the past, somehow tenderly suggestedwhile the Gael-strains chant themselves from the mists[Be thy soul blest, O Carril! in the midst of thy eddying winds. O that thou wouldst come to my hall when I am alone by night! And thou dost come, my friend. I hear often thy light hand on my harp, when it hangs on the distant wall, and the feeble sound touches my ear. Why dost thou not speak to me in my grief, and tell me when I shall behold my friends? But thou passest away in thy murmuring blast; the wind whistles through the gray hairs of Ossian.]
But most of all, those changes of moon and sheets of hurrying vapor and black clouds, with the sense of rapid action in weird silence, recall the far-back Erse belief that such above were the preparations for receiving the wraiths of just-slain warriors[We sat that night in Selma, round the strength of the shell. The wind was abroad in the oaks. The spirit of the mountain roard. The blast came rustling through the hall, and gently touchd my harp. The sound was mournful and low, like the song of the tomb. Fingal heard it the first. The crowded sighs of his bosom rose. Some of my heroes are low, said the gray-haird king of Morven. I hear the sound of death on the harp. Ossian, touch the trembling string. Bid the sorrow rise, that their spirits may fly with joy to Morvens woody hills. I touchd the harp before the king; the sound was mournful and low. Bend forward from your clouds, I said, ghosts of my fathers! bend. Lay by the red terror of your course. Receive the falling chief; whether he comes from a distant land, or rises from the rolling sea. Let his robe of mist be near; his spear that is formd of a cloud. Place a half-extinguishd meteor by his side, in the form of a heros sword. And oh! let his countenance be lovely, that his friends may delight in his presence. Bend from your clouds, I said, ghosts of my fathers, bend. Such was my song in Selma, to the lightly trembling harp.]
How or why I know not, just at the moment, but I too muse and think of my best friends in their distant homesof William OConnor, of Maurice Bucke, of John Burroughs, and of Mrs. Gilchristfriends of my soulstanchest friends of my other soul, my poems.