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'Oh! mihi præteritos referat si Jupiter annos.'

VIRGIL. YE scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection

Embitters the present, compared with the past: Where science first dawn'd on the powers of reflection,

And friendships were form'd, too romantic to last;

Where fancy yet joys to trace the resemblance

Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied, How welcome to me your ne'er-fading reinembrance,

Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied!

Again I revisit the hills where we sported,

The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought;

The school where, loud warn'd by the bell, we resorted,

To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught.

Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd,
As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay;
Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I
wander'd,

To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray.

I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded,

Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown; While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded,

I fancied that Mossop himself was outshone.*

Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep imprecation,
By my daughters of kingdom and reason deprived;
Till, fired by loud plaudits and self-adulation,
I regarded myself as a Garrick revived.

Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you!
Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast;
Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you:
Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest.

To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me,
While fate shall the shades of the future unroll!
Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me,
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul.

But if, through the course of the years which await me,
Some new scene of pleasure should open to view,

Mossop, a contemporary of Garrick, famous for his performance of Zanga,

TO M

OH! did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright but mild affection shine,
Though they might kindle less desire,

Love, more than mortal, would be thine.

For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair;

That fatal glance forbids esteem.

When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,
So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear'd that, too divine for earth,

The skies might claim thee for their own:

Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk

Within those once celestial eyes.

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!

Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.'
SHAKSPEARE,

12

Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye, When lo! she changes in a day. This record will for ever stand,

She placed it, sad. with needless fear,

'Woman! thy vows are traced in sand.'*

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ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE. 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 formis could be,

Save her who placed thee next my heart.

*This line is almost a literal translation from a Spanish proverb.

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

Held every sense in fast control.

Through hours, through years. through time 'twil cheer;

My hope in gloomy moments raise;

In life's last conflict 'twill appear,
And meet my fond expiring gaze.

TO LESBIA.

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 bright'ning; Your eye for conquest beams prepared,

The forge of love's resistless lightning. Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed, Many will throng to sigh like me, love! More constant they may prove, indeed; Fonder, alas! they ne'er can be, love!

LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY, WHO HAD BEEN ALARMED BY A BULLET FIRED BY THE AUTHOR WHILE DISCHARGING HIS PISTOLS IN A GARDEN.

DOUBTLESS, sweet girl! the hissing lead,
Wafting destruction o'er thy charms,
And hurtling o'er thy lovely head,
Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms,

Surely some envious demon's force, Vex'd to behold such beauty here, Impell'd the bullet's viewless course, Diverted from its first career.

Yes! in that nearly fatal hour

The ball obey'd some hell-born guide; But Heaven, with interposing power, In pity turn'd the death aside.

Yet, as perchance one trembling tear
Upon that thrilling bosom fell;
Which I, th' unconscious cause of fear,
Extracted from its glistening cell:

Say, what dire penance can atone
For such an outrage done to thee?
Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne,
What punishment wilt thou decree?
Might I perform the judge's part,
The sentence I should scarce deplore;
It only would restore a heart
Which but belong'd to thee before.

The least atonement I can make
Is to become no longer free ;
Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake,
Thou shalt be all in all to me,

But thou, perhaps, may'st now reject
Such expiation of my guilt:
Come, then, some other mode elect:
Let it be death, or what thou wilt.

Choose then, relentless! and I swear
Nought shall thy dread decree prevent;
Yet hold-one little word forbear!
Let it be aught but banishment.

LOVE'S LAST ADIEU.

'Αει, δ' άει με φευγει.-ANACREON.

THE roses of love glad the garden of life,
Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilent
dew,

Till time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife,
Or prunes them for ever, in love's last adieu.

In vain with endearments we soothe the sad heart,
In vain do we vow for an age to be true;
The chance of an hour may command us to part,
Or death disunite us in love's last adieu !

Still Hope, breathing peace through the grief-swollen breast,

Will whisper, 'Our meeting we yet may renew :' With this dream of deceit half our sorrow's represt, Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu!

Oh! mark you yon pair: in the sunshine of youth Love twined round their childhood his flowers as they grew;

They flourish awhile in the season of truth,

Ti chill'd by the winter of love's last adieu!

Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear stea its way Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue Yet why do I ask?-to distraction a prey,

Thy reason has perish'd with love's last adieu!

Oh! who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind?
From cities to caves of the forest he flew :
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind;
The mountains reverberate love's last adieu !

Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy chains
Once passion's tumultuous blandishments knew,
Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins;
He ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu!

How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in steel! His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few, Who laughs at the pang which he never can feel, And dreads not the anguish of love's last adieu !

Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast;

No more with love's former devotion we sue: He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast; The shroud of affection is love's last adieu!

In this life of probation for rapture divine,

Astrea declares that some penance is due;
From him who has worshipp'd at love's gentle shrine,
The atonement is ample in love's last adieu !

Who kneels to the god, on his altar of light
Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew;
His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight;
His cypress the garland of love's last adieu!

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, though 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;
But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain,
And what was once his bliss appears his bane.

TO MARION.

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,

In law, every person is an infant who has not attained the age of twenty-one,

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, curt'sies, 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 sueering:
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 like a brother's,
My heart is given to some others;
That is to say, unskill'd to cozen,
It shares itself among a dozen.
Marion, adieu ! oh, pr'ythee slight not
This warning, though it may delight not;
And, lest my precepts be displeasing
To those who think remonstrance teasing,
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.

TO A LADY,

WHO PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF
HAIR BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND APPOINTED
A NIGHT IN DECEMBER TO MEET HIM IN THE
GARDEN.

THESE locks, which fondly thus entwine,
In firmer chains our hearts confine,
Than all th' unmeaning protestations
Which swell with nonsense love orations.
Our love is fix'd, I think we've proved it,
Nor time, nor place, nor art have moved it;
Then wherefore should we sigh and whine,
With groundless jealousy repine,

With silly whims and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic?
Why should you weep like Lydia Languish,
And fret with self-created anguish;

Or doom the lover you have chosen,
On winter nights to sigh half-frozen;
In leafless shades to sue for pardon,
Only because the scene's a garden?
For gardens seem, by one consent,
Since Shakspeare set the precedent,
Since Juliet first declared her passion,
To form the place of assignation.
Oh! would some modern muse inspire,
And seat her by a sea-coal fire;
Or had the bard at Christmas written,
And laid the scene of love in Britain,
He surely, in commiseration,
Had changed the place of declaration.
In Italy I've no objection:
Warm nights are proper for reflection;
But here our climate is so rigid,
That love itself is rather frigid:
Think on our chilly situation,
And curb this rage for imitation;
Then let us meet, as oft we've done,
Beneath the influence of the sun;
Or, if at midnight I must meet you,
Within your mansion let me greet you:
There we can love for hours together,
Much better, in such snowy weather,
Than placed in all th' Arcadian groves
That ever witnessed rural loves;
Then, if my passion fail to please,
Next night I'll be content to freeze;
No more I'll give a loose to laughter,
But curse my fate for ever after.

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.

The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of Jeronyme and Lorenzo,' in the first volume of Schiller's Armenian; or, The Ghost-Seer. It also bears some resemblance to a scene in the third act of Macbeth.

T

And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear, But Oscar's bosom knew to feel;

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 grey 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.

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 mors.

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;

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 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 cail.

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.

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