WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGHLANDER. Yet the day may arrive when the mountains once WHEN I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath, And climbed thy steep summit, O Morven, of snow,* To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below,t Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear, And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear; Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred in you? Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name, As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild: I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new; you. I arose with the dawn; with my dog as my guide, 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, more Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow : No home in the forest shall shelter my head,— TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR. OH! yes, I will own we were dear to each other; The love which you felt was the love of a brother, But friendship can vary her gentle dominion; No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my No more with affection shall memory blending, And warm to the skies my devotions arose, For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you. Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you. I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold, The locks that were sacred to beauty and you. Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire. Gormal of snow' is an expression frequently to be found in Ossian. This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been accustomed to the mountains. It is by no means uncommon, on attaining the top of Ben-e-vis. Ben-y-bourd, etc., to perceive, between the summit and the valley, clouds pouring down rain, and occasionally accompanied by lightning, while the spectator literally looks down upon the storm, perfectly secure from its effects. Breasting the lofty surge.'-SHAKSPEARE. The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar Lodge, and falls into the sea at New Aberdeen. Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of the Highlands, not far from the ruins of Dee Castle. The wonted delights of our childhood retrace: When pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending, And what would be justice appears a disgrace. However, dear George, for I still must esteem you; The few whom I love I can never upbraid : I The chance which is lost may in future redeem you, will not complain, and though chill'd is affection, My bosom is calm d by the simple reflection, That both may be wrong, and that both should You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence. You knew, but away with the vain retrospection! TO THE EARL OF CLARE. The bliss which winged those rosy hours The recollection seems alone Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain, My pensive memory lingers o'er As when one parent spring supplies Two streams which from one fountain rise, How soon, diverging from their source, Our vital streams of weal or woe, Now swift or slow, now black or clear, Our souls, my friend! which once supplied 'Tis mine to waste on love my time, Or vent my reveries in rhyme, Without the aid of reason; Poor Little! sweet, melodious bard !* And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, Thy soothing lays may still be read, Still I must yield those worthies merit, Bad rhymes, and those who write them; Little was a nom de plume of Tom Moore's. And though myself may be the next By criticism to be vext, I really will not fight them. Perhaps they would do quite as well Now, Clare, I must return to you; Accept, then, my concession. My muse admires digression. I think I said 'twould be your fate May regal smiles attend you! And should a noble monarch reign, You will not seek his smiles in vain, If worth can recommend you. Yet since in danger courts abound, From snares may saints preserve you; And grant your love or friendship ne'er From any claim a kindred care, But those who best deserve you! Not for a moment may you stray From truth's secure, unerring way! May no delights decoy! O'er roses may your footsteps move, Your smiles be ever smiles of love, Your tears be tears of joy! Oh! if you wish that happiness Be still as you were wont to be, And though some trifling share of praise, To me were doubly dear, LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN Alluding to a hostile meeting between Moore and Jeffrey at Chalk Farm. Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill. Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still, And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, 'Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!' To know some humble grave, some narrow cell, When fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast, Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here; Oft have I thought, 'twould soothe my dying hour,- Deplored by those in early days allied, Light be the turf of thy tomb! May its verdure like emeralds be. There should not be the shadow of gloom In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see; For why should we mourn for the blest? WHEN WE TWO PARTED. WHEN we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow It felt like the warning They name thee before me, In secret we met In silence I grieve, That my heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee?With silence and tears. TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. FEW years have pass'd since thou and I Were firmest friends, at least in name, And childhood's gay sincerity Preserved our feelings long the same. But now, like me, too well thou know'st And such the change the heart displays, If so, it never shall be mine To mourn the loss of such a heart, The fault was Nature's fault, not thine, Which made thee fickle as thou art. As rolls the ocean's changing tide, Not so in Man's maturer years, We learn at length our faults to blend; Can we then scape from folly free? No; for myself, so dark my fate But thou, with spirit frail and light, Alas! whenever folly calls Where parasites and princes meet (For cherish'd first in royal halls, The welcome vices kindly greet), E'en now thou'rt nightly seen to add There dost thou glide from fair to fair, That taint the flowers they scarcely taste. But say, what nymph will prize the flame Which seems, as marshy vapours move, To flit along from dame to dame, An ignis-fatuus gleam of love? What friend for thee, howe'er inclined, Will deign to own a kindred care? Who will debase his manly mind, For friendship every fool may share? In time forbear; amidst the throng No more so base a thing be seen; No more so idly pass along; Be something, anything, but-mean. LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL. START not-nor deem my spirit fled; I lived, I loved, I quaff'd like thee: The worm hath fouler lips than thine. Better to hold the sparkling grape, Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood: And circle in the goblet's shape The drink of gods, than reptile's food. Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone, Quaff while thou canst: another race, WELL! THOU ART HAPPY. WELL! thou art happy, and I feel That I should thus be happy too; For still my heart regards thy weal Warmly, as it was wont to do. Thy husband's blest-and 'twill impart Some pangs to view his happier lot: But let them pass-Oh! how my heart Would hate him if he loved thee not! When late I saw thy favourite child, I thought my jealous heart would break; But when the unconscious infant smiled, I kiss'd it for its mother's sake. I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs Mary, adieu ! I must away: My heart would soon again be thine. I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride, Had quench'd at length my boyish flame; Nor knew till seated by thy side, My heart in all,-save hope,-the same. Yet was I calm: I knew the time My breast would thrill before thy look; But now to tremble were a crimeWe met, and not a nerve was shook. I saw thee gaze upon my face, Yet meet with no confusion there; One only feeling couldst thou trace; The sullen calmness of despair. Away! away! my early dream Remembrance never must awake: Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream? My foolish heart, be still, or break. INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth, Not what he was, but what he should have been: Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. TO A LADY, ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR QUITTING WHEN Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, |