Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires: No more, like Cleofas, I fly: No more thy theme my muse inspires: The reader's tired, and so am I. I will say, while with rapture the thought shall clase me, 'Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew I' 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, 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, Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you! To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me, But if, through the course of the years which await me, Mossop, a contemporary of Garrick, famous for his performance of Zanga, TO M OH! did those eyes, instead of fire, Love, more than mortal, would be thine. For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, That fatal glance forbids esteem. When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth, The skies might claim thee for their own: Therefore, to guard her dearest work, 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, O Memory! thou choicest blessing Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, 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.'* 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, Here I can trace-ah, no! that eye, 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, TO LESBIA. LESBIA! since far from you I've ranged, I'd tell you why-but yet I know not. Your polish'd brow no cares have crost; Two years have lingering pass'd away, 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; One trace of dark deceit it leaves not. No more we meet in yonder bowers; 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, 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 Say, what dire penance can atone The least atonement I can make But thou, perhaps, may'st now reject Choose then, relentless! and I swear LOVE'S LAST ADIEU. 'Αει, δ' άει με φευγει.-ANACREON. THE roses of love glad the garden of life, Till time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife, In vain with endearments we soothe the sad heart, 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? Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy chains 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; Who kneels to the god, on his altar of light DAMÆTAS. IN law an infant, and in years a boy,* 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; TO MARION. MARION! why that pensive brow? In law, every person is an infant who has not attained the age of twenty-one, Or bends the languid eyelid down, Were form'd for better things than sneering: TO A LADY, WHO PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF THESE locks, which fondly thus entwine, With silly whims and fancies frantic, Or doom the lover you have chosen, OSCAR OF ALVA.* How sweetly shines through azure skies, 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. And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear, But Oscar's bosom knew to feel; Once to those eyes the lamp of Love, 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, 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, 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, Nor soon the joçund feast was done.. Taught by their sire to bend the bow, But ere their years of youth are o'er, Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair, 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, And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride, See how the heroes' blood-red plumes 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! 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, |