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These might the boldest sylph appal,

When gleaming with meridian blaze ; Thy beauty must enrapture all ;

But who can dare thine ardent gaze ? 'Tis said that Berenice's hair

In stars adorns the vault of heaven; But they would ne'er permit thee there,

Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven. For did those eyes as planets roll,

Thy sister-lights would scarce appear : E'en suns, which systems now control,

Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.

TO WOMAN. WOMAN! experience might have told me, That all must love thee who behold thee; Surely experience might have taught Thy firmest promises are naught; But, placed in all thy charms before me, All I forget, but to adore thee. O Memory! thou choicest blessing When joined with hope, when still possessing ; But how much cursed by every lover When hope is fled, and passion's over ! Woman, that fair and fond deceiver, How prompt are striplings to believe her! How throbs the pulse when first we view The eye that rolls in glossy blue, Or sparkles black, or mildly throws A beam from under hazel brows! How quick we credit every oath, And hear her plight the willing troth! Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye, When lo! she changes in a day. This record will for ever stand, Woman! thy vows are traced in sand."*

This faint resemblance of thy charms,

Though strong as mortal art could give,
My constant heart of fear disarms,

Revives my hopes, and bids me live. Here I can trace the locks of gold,

Which round thy snowy forehead wave, The cheeks which sprung from beauty's

mould, The lips which made me beauty's slave. Here I can trace--ah, no! that eye,

Whose azure floats in liquid fire, Must all the painter's art defy,

And bid him from the task retire. Here I behold its beauteous hue ;

But where's the beam so sweetly straying, Which gave a lustre to its blue,

Like Luna o'er the ocean playing? Sweet copy ! far more dear to me,

Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, Than all the living forms could be,

Save her who placed thee next my heart. She placed it, sad, with needless fear,

Lest time might shake my wavering soul, Unconscious that her image there

Held every sense in fast control. Through hours, through years, through time

'twill cheer ; My hope in gloomy moments raise; In life's last conflict 'twill

appear, And meet my fond expiring gaze.

TO M. S. G. When I dream that you love me, you'll surely

forgive : Extend not your anger to sleep ; For in visions alone your affection can live

I rise, and it leaves me to weep. Then, Morpheus ! envelope my faculties fast,

Shed o'er me your languor benign; Should the dream of to-night but resemble the

last, What rapture celestial is mine! They tell us that slumber, the sister of death,

Mortality's emblem is given : To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,

If this be a foretaste of heaven ! Ah! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft

brow, Nor deem me too happy in this ; If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now,

Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may

smile, Oh! think not my penance deficient ! When dreams of your presence my slumbers

To awake will be torture sufficient.

LESBIA! since far from you I've ranged,

Our souls with fond affection glow not;
You say 'tis I, not you, have changed,

I'd tell you why--but yet I know not. Your polish'd brow no cares have crost;

And, Lesbia! we are not much older Since, trembling, first my heart I lost,

Or told my love, with hope grown bolder. Sixteen was then our utmost age,

Two years have lingering pass'd away, love! And now new thoughts our minds engage,

At least I feel disposed to stray, love! "Tis I that am alone to blame,

I that am guilty of love's treason ; Since your sweet breast is still the same,

Caprice must be my only reason. I do not, love ! suspect your truth,

With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not Warm was the passion of my youth,

One trace of dark deceit it leaves not. No, no, my flame was not pretended;

For, oh! I loved you most sincerely : And--though our dream at last is ended

My bosom still esteems you dearly. No more we meet in yonder bowers;

Absence has made me prone to roving! But older, firmer hearts than ours

Have found monotony in loving. Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd,

New beauties still are daily brightning; Your eye for conquest beams prepared,

The forge of love's resistless lightning.

* This line is almost a literal translation from

a a Spanish proverb.

Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed, Oh! mark you yon pair: in the sunshine of Many will throng to sigh like ine, love !

youth More constant they may prove, indeed ;

Love twined round their childhood his flowers Fonder, alas! they ne'er can be, love!

as they grew;
They flourish awhile in the season of truth,

Till chill'd by the winter of love's last adieu! LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY,

Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal its way WHO HAD BEEN ALARMED BY A BULLET FIRED

Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in BY THE AUTHOR WHILE DISCHARGING HIS


Yet why do I ask ?- to distraction a prey, Doubtless, sweet girl! the hissing lead, Thy reason has perish'd with love's last adieu! Wafting destruction o'er thy charms,

Oh! who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind? And hurtling o'er thy lovely head,

From cities to caves of the forest he flew : Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms.

There, raving, he howls his complaint to the Surely some envious demon's force,

wind; Vex'd to behold such beauty here,

The mountains reverberate love's last adieu! Impell'd the bullet's viewless course, Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy Diverted from its first career.

chains Yes! in that nearly fatal hour

Once passion's tumultuous blandishments The ball obey'd some hell-born guide ;

knew, But Heaven, with interposing power, Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins In pity turn'd the death aside.

He ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu! Yet, as perchance one trembling tear How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in Upon that thrilling bosom fell ;

steel! Which I, th' unconscious cause of fear, His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are Extracted from its glistening cell:

few, Say, what dire penance can atone

Who laughs at the pang which he never can feel, For such an outrage done to thee?

And dreads not the anguish of love's last

adieu ! Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne,

What punishment wilt thou decree? Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast; Might I perform the judge's part,

No more with love's former devotion we sue: The sentence I should scarce deplore ;

He spreads his young wing, he retires with the

blast; It only would restore a heart Which but belong'd to thee before.

The shroud of affection is love's last adieu ! The least atonement I can make

In this life of probation for rapture divine,
Is to become no longer free;

Astrea declares that some penance is due; Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake,

From him who has worshipp'd at love's gentle Thou shalt be all in all to me.


The atonement is ample in love's last adieu ! But thou, perhaps, may'st now reject Such expiation of my guilt:

Who kneels to the god, on his altar of light Come, then, some other mode elect;

Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew; Let it be death, or what thou wilt. Ilis myrtle, an emblem of purest delight; Choose then, relentless! and I swear

His cypress the garland of love's last adieu !
Nought shalt thy dread decree prevent ;
Yet hold-one little word forbear!

Let it be aught but banishment.

In law an infant, and in years a boy,
In mind a slave to every vicious joy;

From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd

In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend; 'Αει, δ' αει με φευγει.-ANACREON. Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child ;

Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild ; The roses of love glad the garden of life,

Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool : Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pesti

Old in the world, though scarcely broke froa lent dew,

school; Till time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife,

Damætas ran through all the maze of sin, Or prunes them for ever, in love's last adieu!

And found the goal when others just begin ; In vain with endearments we soothe the sad Even still conflicting passions shake his soul, heart,

And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl: In vain do we vow for an age to be true : But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain, The chance of an hour may command us to part, And what was once his bliss appears his bane.

Or death disunite us in love's last adieu !
Still Hope, breathing peace through the grief-

swollen breast,

MARION ! why that pensive brow? Will whisper, “Our meeting we yet may What disgust to life hast thou ? With this dream of deceit half our sorrow's

Change that discontented air ;

Frowns become not one so fair. represt,

'Tis not love disturbs thy rest, Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu ! Love's a stranger to thy breast :

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He in dimpling smiles appears,

In leafless shades to sue for pardon, Or mourns in sweetly timid tears,

Only because the scene's a garden? Or bends the languid eyelid down,

For gardens seem, by one consent, But shuns the cold, forbidding frown.

Since Shakspeare set the precedent, Then resume thy former fire,

Since Juliet first declared her passion, Some will love, and all admire ;

To form the place of assignation. While that icy aspect chills us,

Oh! would some modern muse inspire, Nought but cool indifference thrills us.

And seat her by a sea-coal fire ; Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile, Or had the bard at Christmas written, Smile at least, or seem to smile.

And laid the scene of love in Britain, Eyes like thine were never meant

He surely, in commiseration, To hide their orbs in dark restraint :

Had changed the place of declaration. Spite of all thou fain wouldst say,

In Italy I've no objection : Still in truant beams they play.

Warm nights are proper for reflection ; Thy lips—but here my modest Muse

But here our climate is so rigid, Her impulse chaste must needs refuse:

That love itself is rather frigid; She blushes, curt'sies, frowns-in short, she Think on our chilly situation, Dreads lest the subject should transport me; And curb this rage for imitation ; And flying off in search of reason,

Then let us meet, as oft we've done, Brings prudence back in proper season.

Beneath the influence of the sun; All I shall therefore say (whate'er

Or, if at midnight I must meet you, I think, is neither here nor there).

Within your mansion let me greet you: Is, that such lips, of looks endearing,

There we can love for hours together, Were form’d for better things than sneering: Much better, in such snowy weather, Of soothing compliments divested,

Than placed in all th’ Arcadian groves Advice at least's disinterested ;

That ever witnessed rural loves; Such is my artless song to thee,

Then, if my passion fail to please From all the flow of flattery free ;

Next night I'll be content to freeze ; Counsel like mine is like a brother's,

No more I'll give a loose to laughter,
My heart is given to some others,

But curse my fate for ever after.
That is to say, unskill'd to cozen,
It shares itself among a dozen.
Marion, adieu l oh, pr’ythee slight not

This warning, though it may delight not;

And, lest my precepts be displeasing
To those who think remonstrance teasing,

How sweetly shines through azure skies,
At once I'll tell thee our opinion

The lamp of heaven on Lora's shore ; Concerning woman's soft dominion :

Where Alva's hoary turrets rise, Howe'er we gaze with admiration

And hear the din of arms no more ! On eyes of blue or lips carnation,

But often has yon rolling moon Howe'er the flowing locks attract us,

On Alva's casques of silver play'd; Howe'er those beauties may distract us, And view'd at midnight's silent noon, Still fickle, we are prone to rove,

Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd : These cannot fix our souls to love :

And on the crimson'd rocks beneath, It is not too severe a stricture

Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow, To say they form a pretty picture ;

Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death,
But wouldst thou see the secret chain

She saw the gasping warrior low;
Which binds us in your humble train,
To hail
you queens of all creation,

While many an eye which ne'er again
Know, in a word, 'tis ANIMATION.

Could mark the rising orb of day,
Turn'd feebly from the gory plain,

Beheld in death her fading ray.

Once to those eyes the lamp of Love,

They blest her dear propitious light; HAIR BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND APPOINT

But now she glimmer'd from above, ED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER TO MEET HIM IN

A sad, funereal torch of night. THE GARDEN.

Faded is Alva's noble race, These locks, which fondly thus entwine,

And grey her towers are seen afar ; In firmer chains our hearts confine,

No more her heroes urge the chase,
Than all th' unmeaning protestations

Or roll the crimson tide of war.
Which swell with nonsense love orations.
Our love is fix'd, I think we've proved it,

But who was last of Alva's clan?
Nor time, nor place, nor art have moved it; Why grows the moss on Alva's stone ?
Then wherefore should we sigh and whine,

Her towers resound no steps of man,
With groundless jealousy repine,

They echo to the gale alone.
With silly whims and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic?

* The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by
Why should you weep like Lydia Languish, the story of “Jeronyme and Lorenzo,” in the
And fret with self-created anguish ; first volume of Schiller's Armenian; or, The
Or doom the lover you have chosen, Ghost-Seer. It also bears some resemblance to
On winter nights to sigh half-frozen; a scene in the third act of Macbeth.

And when that gale is fierce and high,

A sound is heard in yonder hall : It rises hoarsely through the sky,

And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall. Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs,

It shakes the shield of Oscar brave; But there no more his banners rise,

No more his plumes of sable wave. Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth,

When Angus hail'd his eldest born ; The vassals round their chieftain's hearth

Crowd to applaud the happy morn. They feast upon the mountain deer,

The pibroch raised its piercing note To gladden more their highland cheer,

The strains in martial numbers float: And they who heard the war-notes wild,

Hoped that one day the pibroch's strain Should play before the hero's child

While he should lead the tartan train. Another year is quickly past,

And Angus hails another son; His natal day is like the last,

Nor soon the jocund feast was done.
Taught by their sire to bend the bow,

On Alva's dusky hills of wind,
The boys in childhood chased the roe,

And left their hounds in speed behind.
But ere their years of youth are o'er,

They mingle in the ranks of war; They lightly wheel the bright claymore,

And send the whistling arrow far. Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair,

Wildly it stream'd along the gale ; But Allan's locks were bright and fair,

And pensive seem d his cheek, and pale. But Oscar own'd a hero's soul,

His dark eye shone through beams of truth; Allan had early learn'd control,

And smooth his words had been from youth. Both, both were brave : the Saxon spear

Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel; And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear,

But Oscar's bosom knew to feel ;
While Allan's soul belied his form,

Unworthy with such charms to dwell :
Keen as the lightning of the storm,
On soes his deadly

vengeance fell. From high Southannon's distant tower

Arrived a young and noble dame ; With Kenneth's lands to form her dower,

Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came ; And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride,

And Angus on his Oscar smiled ; It soothed the father's feudal pride

Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child. Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note!

Hark to the swelling nuptial song ! In joyous strains the voices float,

And still the choral peal prolong. See how the heroes' blood-red plumes

Assembled wave in Alva's hall! Each youth his varied plaid assumes,

Attending on their chieftain's call.

It is not war their aid demands,

The pibroch plays the song of peace; To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands,

Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. But where is Oscar ? sure 'tis late :

Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame? While thronging

guests and ladies wait, Nor Oscar nor his brother came. At length young Allan join'd the bride :

“Why comes not Oscar?" Angus said: “Is he not here?” the youth replied ;

“With me he roved not o'er the glade. “Perchance, forgetful of the day,

"Tis his to chase the bounding roe; Or ocean's waves prolong his stay:

Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow. “Oh, no!” the anguish'd sire rejoin'd,

Nor chase nor wave my boy delay; Would he to Mora seem unkind?

Would aught to her impede his way? “Oh, search, ye chiefs ! oh, search around!

Allan, with these through Alva fly; Till Oscar, till my son is found,

Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply." All is confusion-through the vale

The name of Oscar hoarsely rings: It rises on the murmuring gale,

Till night expands her dusky wings. It breaks the stillness of the night,

But echoes through her shades in vain ; It sounds through morning's misty light,

But Oscar comes not o'er the plain. Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief

For Oscar search'd each mountain cave! Then hope is lost; in boundless grief,

His locks in grey torn ringlets wave. Oscar, my son !-thou God of heaven

Restore the prop of sinking age! Or if that hope no more is given,

Yield his assassin to my rage : “Yes, on some desert rocky shore

My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie ; Then grant, thou God! I ask no more,

With him his frantic sire may die ! “Yet he may live-away, despair !

Be calm, my soul! he yet may live ; T' arraign my fate, my voice forbear!

O God! my impious prayer forgive. “What, if he live for me no more,

I sink forgotten in the dust, The hope of Alva's age is o'er;

Alas I can pangs like these be just?" Thus did the hapless parent mourn,

Till Time, which soothes severest woc, Had bade serenity return,

And made the tear-drop cease to flow. For still some latent hope survived

That Oscar might once more appear: His hope now droop'd and now revived,

Till Time had told a tedious year. Days roll'd along; the orb of light

Again had run his destined race; No Oscar bless'd his father's sight,

And sorrow left a fainter trace,

For youthful Allan still remain’d,

And now his father's only joy:
And Mora's heart was quickly gain’d,

For beauty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy,
She thought that Oscar low was laid,

And Allan's face was wondrous fair:
If Oscar lived, some other maid

Had claim'd his faithless bosom's care,
And Angus said, if one year more

In fruitless hope was pass'd away,
His fondest scruples should be o'er,

And he would name their nuptial day. Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last

Arrived the dearly destined morn ; The year of anxious trembling past,

What smiles the lover's cheeks adorn! Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note!

Hark to the swelling nuptial song !
In joyous strains the voices fioat,

And still the choral peal prolong.
Again the clan, in festive crowd,

Throng through the gate of Alva's hall
The sounds of mirth re-echo loud,

And all their former joy recall.
But who is he, whose darken'd brow

Glooms in the midst of general mirth ?
Before his eyes' far fiercer glow

The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth.
Dark is the robe which wraps his form,

And tall his plume of gory red ;
His voice is like the rising storm,

But light and trackless is his tread.
'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round,

The bridegroom's health is deeply quaff’d;
With shouts the vaulted roofs resound,

And all combine to hail the draught.
Sudden the stranger chief arose,

And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd;
And Angus' cheek with wonder glows,

And Mora's tender bosom blush'd.
Old man!” he cried, “this pledge is done ;

Thou saw'st 'twas duly drunk by me:
It hail'd the nuptials of thy son:

Now will I claim a pledge from thee.
“While all around is mirth and joy,

To bless thy Allan's happy lot,
Say, hadst thou ne'er another boy?

Say, why should Oscar be forgot?”
“Alas !” the hapless sire replied,

The big tear starting as he spoke,
“When Oscar left my hall, or died,

This aged heart was almost broke.
“ Thrice has the earth revolved her course

Since Oscar's form has bless'd my sight;
And Allan is my last resource,
Since martial Oscar's death or flight.”

“'Tis well,” replied the stranger stern,
And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye;
“Thy Oscar's fate I fain would learn :

Perhaps the hero did not die.
Perchance, if those whom most he loved

Would call, thy Oscar might return;
Perchance the chief has only roved ;

For him thy beltane yet may burn.* * Beltane Tree, a Highland festival on the first of May, held near fires lighted for the occasion.

“Fill high the bowl the table round,

We will not claim the pledge by stealth ; With wine let every cup be crown'd;

Pledge me departed Oscar's health." “With all my soul,” old Angus said,

And fill’d his goblet to the brim ; “Here's to my boy! alive or dead,

I ne'er shall find a son like him.' “Bravely, old man, this health has sped;

But why does Allan trembling stand?
Come, drink remembrance of the dead,

And raise thy cup with firmer hand."
The crimson glow of Allan's face
Was turn’d

at once to ghastly hue: The drops of death each other chase

Adown in agonizing dew.
Thrice did he raise the goblet high,

And thrice his lips refused to taste;
For thrice he caught the stranger's eye

On his with deadly fury placed. And is it thus a brother hails

A brother's fond remembrance here; If thus affection's strength prevails,

What might we not expect from fear ?" Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl,

“Would Oscar now could share our mirth!” Internal fear appall'd his soul ;

He said, and dash'd the cup to earth. “'Tis he! I hear my murderer's voice!”

Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming form ; “A murderer's voice !” the roof replies,

And deeply swells the bursting storm.
The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink,

The stranger's gone--amidst the crew
A form was seen in tartan green,
And tall the shade terrific

grew. His waist was bound with a broad belt round,

His plume of sable stream'd on high; But his breast was bare, with the red wounds

there, And fixed was th glare of his glassy eye. And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild,

On Angus bending low the knee; And thrice he frown'd on a chief on the ground,

Whom shivering crowds with horror see. The bolts loud roll from pole to pole,

The thunders through the welkin ring; And the gleaming form, through the mist of

the storm, Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing. Cold was the feast, the revel ceased.

Who lies upon the stony floor? Oblivion press'd old Angus' breast,

At length his life-pulse throbs once more. Away! away ! let the leech essay To pour the light on Allan's eyes :" His sand is done-his race is run ;

Oh! never more shall Allan rise ! But Oscar's breast is cold as clay,

His locks are listed by the gale: And Allan's barbed arrow lay

With him in dark Glentanar's vale. And whence the dreadful stranger came,

Or who, no mortal wight can tell; But no one doubts the forın of Name,

For Alva's sons knew Oscar well.

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