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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.

1 . Beltane Tree, a Highland festival on the first of May, held nour for "lighted for the occasion.

With wine let every cup be crown'd;

But Oscar's breast is cold as clay,
Pledge me departed Oscar's health.”

His locks are lifted by the gale;

And Allan's barbed arrow lay “With all my soul,” old Angus said,

With him in dark Glentanar's vale.
And fill'd his goblet to the brim;
“ Here's to my boy! alive or dead,

And whence the dreadful stranger came,
I ne'er shall find a son like him.”

Or who, no mortal wight can tell;

But no one doubts the form of flame, “ Bravely, old man, this health has sped;

Eor Alva's sons knew Oscar well.
But why does Allan trembling stand ?
Come, drink remembrance of the dead,

Ambition nerved young Allan's hand,
And raise thy cup with firmer hand.”

Exulting demons wing'd his dart;

While Envy waved her burning brand,
The crimson glow of Allan's face

And pour'd her venom round his heart.
Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue ;
The drops of death each other chase

Swift is the shaft of Allan's bow:
Adown in agonizing dew.

Whose streaming life-blood stains his side ?

Dark Oscar's sable crest is low,
Thrice did he raise the goblet high,

The dart has drunk his vital tide.
And thrice his lips refused to taste;
For thrice he caught the stranger's eye

And Mora's eye could Allan move,
On his with deadly fury placed.

She bade his wounded pride rebel:

Alas! that eyes which beamed with love, “ And is it thus a brother hails

Should urge the soul to deeds of hell!
A brother's fond remembrance here?
If thus affection's strength prevails,

Lo! seest thou not a lonely tomb,
What might we not expect from fear?”.

Which rises o'er a warrior dead?

It glimmers through the twilight gloom; Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl,

Oh! that is Allan's nuptial bed.
“Would Oscar now could share our mirth!”
Internal fear appall'd his soul;

Far, distant far, the noble grave
He said, and dash'd the cup to earth.

Which held his clan's great ashes stood;

And o'er his corse no banners wave, “ 'Tis he! I hear my murderer's voice!”

For they were stain'd with kindred blood. Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming form ; " A murderer's voice!” the roof replies,

What minstrel gray, what hoary bard,
And deeply swells the bursting storm.

Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise ?

The song is glory's chief reward, The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink,

But who can strike a murderer's praise ? The stranger's gone,-amidst the crew A form was seen in tartan green,

Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand, And tall the shade terrific grew.

No minstrel dare the theme awake;

Guilt would benumb his palsied hand, His waist was bound with a broad belt round,

His harp in shuddering chords would break. His plume of sable stream'd on high; But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there, No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse, And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye.

Shall sound his glories high in air ;

A dying father's bitter curse,
And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild,

A brother's death groan echoes there.
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 thurders 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.

In looking over my papers to select a few additional poems for this second edition, I found the following lines, which I had totally forgotten, composed in the summer of 1805, a short time previous to my departure from Hazron. They were addressed to a young schoolfellow of high rank, who had been my frequent companion in some rambles through the neighboring country; however, he never saw the lines, and most probably never will. As, on a re-perusal, I found them not worse than some other pieces in the collection, have now published them, for the first time, after a slight revision.

" 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 !

DORSET! whose early steps with mine have stray'd,
Exploring every path of Ida's glade,
Whom still affection taught me to defend,
And made me less a tyrant than a friend;

• Old Angus press'd the earth with his breast. First Edition,

Though the harsh custom of our youthful band Turn to the annals of a former day,
Bade thee obey, and gave me to command ;* Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires display.
Thee on whose head a few short years will shower One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth,
The gifts of riches and the pride of power ;

And call’d, proud boast! the British drama forth. * E'en now a name illustrious is thine own,

Another view, not less renown'd for wit; Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the throne. Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit; Yet Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul

Bold in the field, and favor'd by the Nine; To shun fair science, or evade control;

In every splendid part ordain'd to shine; Though passive tutors, f fearful to dispraise Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng, The titled child, whose future breath may raise, The pride of princes, and the boast of song.t View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,

Such were thy fathers; thus preserve their name: And wink at faults they tremble to chastise. Not heir to titles only, but to fame.

The hours draw nigh, a few brief days will close, When youthful parasites, who bend the knee To me, this little scene of joys and woes; To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee,

Each knell of Time now warns me to resign And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn Shades where Hope, Peace and Friendship all were Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn,

mine: When these declare, “ that pomp alone should wait Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, On one by birth predestined to be great;

And gild their pinions as the moments flew; That books were only meant for drudging fools, Peace, that reflection never frown'd away, That gallant spirits scorn the common rules," By dreams of ill to cloud some future day; Believe them not, they point the path to shame, Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell; And seek to blast the honors of thy name.

Alas! they love not long who love so well.
Turn to the few in Ida's early throng,

To these adieu ! nor let me linger o’er
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong; Scenes hail'd as exiles hail their native shore,
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth,

Receding slowly through the dark-blue deep,
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep.
Ask thine own heart; 'twill bid thee, boy, forbear;
For well I know that virtue fingers there.

Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part

Of sad remembrance in so young a heart; Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day,

The coming morrow from thy youthful mind But now new scenes invite me far away ;

Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind. Yes I have mark'd within that generous mind And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year, A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind.

Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphero Ah! though myself by nature haughty, wild,

Since the same senate, nay the same debate Whom indescretion hail'd her favorite child; May one day claim our suffrage for the state, Though every error stamps me for her own,

We hence may meet, and pass each other by And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone;

With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. Though my proud heart no precept now can tame,

For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, I love the virtues which I cannot claim.

A stranger to thyself, thy weal or wo,

With thee no more again I hope to trace 'Tis not enough, with other sons of power,

The recollection of our early race: To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour:

No more, as once, in social hours rejoice, To swell some peerage page in feeble pride,

Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice. With long-drawn names that grace no page beside ; Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught Then share with titled crowds the common lot To veil those feelings which perchance it ought, In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot;

If these—but let me cease the lengthen'd strain-
While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead, Oh! if these wishes are not breathed in vain,
Except the dull, cold stone that hides thy head, The guardian seraph who directs thy fate,
The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll, Will leave thee glorious as he found thee great.
That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll,
Where lords, unhonor'd, in the tomb may find
One spot, to leave a worthless name behind :
There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN

of That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults,
A race with old armorial lists o’erspread,
In records destined never to be read.

ANIMULA! vagula, blandula,
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,

Hospes, comesque, corporis, Exalted more among the good and wise,

Quæ nunc abibis in loca ? A glorious and a long career pursue,

Pallidula, rigida, nudula, As first in rank, the first in talent too:

Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos, Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;

• Thomas Sackville, Lord Backhurst, created Earl of Dorset, by James Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son.

the First, was one of the earliest and brightest ornaments to the poetry of his

country, and the first who produced a regular drama.--Anderson's British * At every public school the junior boys are completely subservient to the Poets. upper forms till they attain a seat in the higher classes. From this state of † Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset, esteemed the most accomplised man probation, very properly, no rank is exempt; but after a certain period they of his day, was alike distinguished in the voluptuous court of Charles II, and command in turn those who succeed.

the gloomy one of William III. He behaved with great gallantry in the sea † Allow me to disclaim any personal allusions, even the most distant; I fight with the Dutch in 1665, on the day previous to which he composed file merely mention generally what is too often the weakness of preceptors. celebrated song. His character has been drawn in the highest colors by | See the same line in Lara, stanza 11.

Dryden, Pope, Prior, and Congreve.--Anderson's British Poels.


TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. Au! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite,

"LUCTUS DE MORTE PASSERIS" Friend and associate of this clay! To what unknown region borne,

YE Cupids, droop each little head, Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight?

Nor let your wings with joy be spread; No more with wonted humor gay,

My Lesbia's favorite bird is dead,
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.

Whom dearer than her eyes she loved
For he was gentle, and so true,
Obedient to her call he flew,
No fear, no wild alarm he knew,

But lightly o'er her bosom moved:

And softly fluttering here and there,

He never sought to clear the air,

But chirupp'd oft, and, free from care, EQUAL to Jove that youth must be

Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. Greater than Jove he seems to me

Now having passed the gloomy bourne Who, free from jealousy's alarms,

From whence he never can return,
Securely views thy matchless charms.

His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn,
That cheek which ever dimpling glows,

Who sighs, alas ! but sighs in vain.
That mouth from whence such music flows,
To him, alike, are always known,

Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave !
Reserved for him, and him alone.
Ah! Lesbia! though 'tis death to me,

Whose jaws eternal victims crave,
I cannot choose but look on thee;

From whom no earthly power can save

For thou hast ta’en the bird away:
But, at the sight, my senses fly:

From thee my Lesbia's eyes o’erflow,
I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die;

Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow; Whilst trembling with a thousand fears,

Thou art the cause of all her wo,
Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres,

Receptacle of life's decay.
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,
My limbs deny their slight support,
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread,
With deadly languor droops my head,
My ears with tingling echoes ring,
And life itself is on the wing;

My eyes refuse the cheering light,
Their orbs are veil'd in starless night:

Such pangs my nature sinks beneath,
And feels a temporary death.

Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire:
Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss;

Nor then my soul should sated be;
TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIR Still would I kiss and cling to thee:

Naught should my kiss from thine dissever,

Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever;

E'en though the numbers did exceed

The yellow harvest's countless seed.
He who sublime in epic numbers roll’d,

To part would be a vain endeavor:
And he who struck the softer lyre of love,

Could I desist ?-ah! never-never.
By Death's* unequal hand alike controll’d,

Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!


ODE 3, LIB. 3 “ Sulpicia ad Cerinthum."-Lib. Quart,

The man of firm and noble soul CRUEL Cerinthus! does the fell disease

No factious clamors can control; Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please? No threat’ning tyrant's darkling brow Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain,

Can swerve him from his just intent; That I might live for love and you again;

Gales the warring waves which plough, But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate:

| By Auster on the billows spent, By death alone I can avoid your hate.

To curb the Adriatic main, • The hand of Death is said to be unjust or unequal, as Virgil was con

Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain. riderably older than Tibullus at his decease. • From the private volure,

• Only printed in the private rolame.

Ay, and the red right arm of Jove,
Hurtling his lightnings from above,
With all his terrors then unfurl'd,

He would unmoved, unawed behold.
The flames of an expiring world,

Again in crashing chaos rollid, In vast promiscuous ruin hurled, Might light his glorious funeral pile: Still dauntless, midst the wreck of earth he'd smile


No prowling robber lingers here,
A wandering baby who can fear?"
I heard his seeming artless tale,
I heard his sighs upon the gale:
My breast was never pity's foe,
Rut felt for all the baby's wo.
I drew the bar, and by the light
Young Love, the infant, met my sight,
His bow across his shoulders fiung,
And thence his fatal quiver hung,
(Ah! little did I think the dart
Would rankle soon within my heart.)
With care I tend my weary guest,
His little fingers chill my breast;
His glossy curls, his azure wing,
Which droop with nightly showers, I wring:
His shivering limbs the embers warm;
And now reviving from the storm,
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow,
Than swift he seized his slender bow:
“I fain would know, my gentle host,"
He cried, “if this its strength has lost;
I fear, relax'd with midnight dews,
The strings their former aid refuse.”'
With poison tipt, his arrow flies,
Deep in my tortured heart it lies ;
Then loud the joyous urchin laugh’d:-
“My bow can still impel the shaft:
"Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it;
Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?”


I WISH to tune my quivering lyre
To deeds of fame and notes of fire;
To echo, from its rising swell,
How heroes fought and nations fell,
When Atreus' sons advanced to war,
Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar;
But still, to martial strains unknown,
My lyre recurs to love alone.
Fired with the hope of future fame,
I seek some nobler hero's name:
The dying chords are strung anew,
To war, to war, my harp is due:
With glowing strings, the epic strain
To Jove's great son I raise again;
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds,
All, all in vain; my wayward lyre
Wakes silver notes of soft desire.
Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms!
Adieu the clang of war's alarms !
To other deeds my soul is strung,
And sweeter notes shall now be sung;
My harp shall all its powers reveal,
To tell the tale my heart must feel;
Love, love alone, my lyre shall claim,
In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.



GREAT Jove, to whose almighty throne

Both gods and mortals homage pay, Ne'er may my soul thy power disown,

Thy dread behest ne'er disobey. Oft shall the sacred victim fall In sea-girt ocean's mossy hall; My voice shall raise no impious strain 'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main.


How different now thy joyless fate,

Since first Hesione thy bride,
When placed aloft in godlike state,

The blushing beauty by thy side,
Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled,
And mirthful strains the hours beguiled,

The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd.

Harrow, Dec. 1, 1904.

'Twas now the hour when Night had driven
Her car half round yon sable heaven;
Bootes, only, seem'd to roll
His arctic charge around the pole;
While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,
Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep:
At this lone hour, the Paphian boy,
Descending from the realms of joy,
Quick to my gate directs his course,
And knocks with all his little force.
My visions fled, alarm'd I rose,
“What stranger breaks my blest repose ?"
“ Alas!” replies the wily child,
In faltering accents sweetly mild,
“A hapless infant here I roam,
Far from my dear maternal home.
Oh! shield me from the wintry blast!
The nightly storm is pouring fast.



Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood,
Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood;
Well skill'd in fight the quivering lance to wield,
Tor pour his arrows through th'embattled field

• First published in Houn of Idlenen. + First pnnted in Houn of Idlenou.

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