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What passion can dwell in the heart of a child?

But, still, I perceive an emotion the same As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild:

How prompt are striplings to believe her! | Yet, it could not be Love, for I knew not
How throbs the pulse, when first we view
the name;
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.”

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!

One image, alone, on my bosom imprest,
I loved my bleak regions,nor panted for new;
And few were my wants, for my wishes
were blest,

And pure were my thoughts, for my soul
was with you.

I arose with the dawn; with my dog a
my guide,
From mountain to mountain I bounded
along,

I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide,
And heard at a distance the Highlander's
song:

At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose.
No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to
my view,
And warm to the skies my devotions arose,
For the first of my prayers was a blessing
on you.

They tell us, that slumber, the sister of I left my bleak home, and my visions are

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 beguile,

To awake will be torture sufficient.

SONG.

WHEN I roved, a young Highlander, o'er the dark heath,

And climb'd thy steep summit, oh! Morven of Snow,

To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath,

Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below,

Untutor❜d by science, a stranger to fear, And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew,

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When I see some dark hill point its crest
to the sky,

I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Col-
bleen;
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking
eye,

I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude
scene;
When, haply, some light waving locks I
behold,

That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue,
I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold.
The locks that were sacred to beauty and
you.

Yet the day may arrive, when the mount-
ains, once more,
Shall rise to my sight, in their mantles of

snow:

No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear,
Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred But while these soar above me, unchanged

in you?

as before,

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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 controul.

Thro' hours, thro' years, thro' time, 'twill
cheer;
My hope, in gloomy moments, raise;
In life's last conflict 'twill appear,
And meet my fond expiring gaze.

DAMÆTAS.

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;
Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child,
Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild;
Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool,
Old in the world, tho' scarcely broke from
school;

Damætas ran through all the maze of sin,
And found the goal, when others just begin;
Even still conflicting passions shake his soul,
And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's

bowl:

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MARION! Why that pensive brow? What disgust to life hast thou? Change that discontented air; Frowns become not one so fair. 'Tis not love disturbs thy rest, Love's a stranger to thy breast; He in dimpling smiles appears, Or mourns in sweetly timid tears; Or bends the languid eyelid down, But shuns the cold forbidding frown. Then resume thy former fire, Some will love, and all admire; While that icy aspect chills us, Nought but cool indifference thrills us. Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile, Smile, at least, or seem to smile; Eyes like thine were never meant To hide their orbs, in dark restraint; Spite of all, thou fain wouldst say, Still in truant beams they play. Thy lips, but here my modest Muse Her impulse chaste must needs refuse. She blushes, curtsies, frowns,-in short she Dreads, lest the subject should transport me, And flying off, in search of reason, Brings prudence back in proper season. All I shall therefore say (whate'er I think is neither here nor there), Is that such lips, of looks endearing, Were form'd for better things, than sneering. Of soothing compliments divested, Advice at least's disinterested; Such is my artless song to thee, From all the flow of flattery free; Counsel, like mine, is as a brother's, My heart is given to some others; That is to say, unskill'd to cozen, It shares itself amongst a dozen. Marion! adieu! oh! prithee slight not This warning, though it may delight not; And, lest my precepts be displeasing

To those who think remonstrance teazing,
At once I'll tell thee our opinion,
Concerning woman's soft dominion:
Howe'er we gaze with admiration,
On eyes of blue, or lips carnation;
Howe'er the flowing locks attract us,
Howe'er those beauties may distract us;
Still fickle, we are prone to rove,
These cannot fix our souls to love;
It is not too severe a stricture,
To say they form a pretty picture.
But wouldst thou see the secret chain,
Which binds us in your humble train,
To hail you queens of all creation,
Know, in a word, 'tis ANIMATION.

OSCAR OF ALVA.

A TALE.

How sweetly shines, through azure skies, The lamp of Heaven on Lora's shore; Where Alva's hoary turrets rise,

And hear the din of arms no more.

But often has yon rolling moon

On Alva's casques of silver play'd, And view'd, at midnight's silent noon, Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd.

And, on the crimson'd rocks beneath, Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow, Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death,

She saw the gasping warrior low.

While many an eye, which ne'er again 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: But, now, she glimmer'd from above, A sad funereal torch of night.

Faded is Alva's noble race,

And gray her towers are seen afar; No more her heroes urge the chase, Or roll the crimson tide of war.

But, who was last of Alva's clan?

Why grows the moss on Alva's stone? Her towers resound no steps of man,

They echo to the gale alone.

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.

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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 wield the bright claymore,
And send the whistling arrow far.

Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair,
Wildly it streamed along the gale;

r 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 controul,

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 foes his deadly vengeance fell.

From high Southannon's distant tower
Arrived a young and noble dame;
With Kenneth's land 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.

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"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 gray 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.

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