When I see some dark hill point its crest to the For the present, we part-I will hope not for ever, sky, For time and regret will restore you at last; To forget our dissension we both should endeavor, I ask no atonement but days like the past. Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal 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 that 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, His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight; DAMETAS. IN law an infant,† and in years a boy, From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd; In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend; Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school; "Tis not love disturbs thy rest, Brings prudence back in proper season. I think, is neither here, nor there) Is, that such lips, of looks endearing, Were form'd for better things than sneering: TO MARION. MARION! why that pensive brow? What disgust to life hast thou? Change that discontented air: Frowns become not one so fair. • The Goddess of Justice. 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. • This poem was published for the first time in Hours of Idleness. ↑ The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of "Jeronymo fla law every person is an infant who has not attained the age of twenty- and Lorenzo," in the first volume of the "Armenian, or Ghost-Seer." A also bears some resemblance to a scene in the third act of "Macbeth." 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 rocks beneath, Which scroll 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, 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, 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 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, • While. First edition, when. ↑ Mark. First edition, view. 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; And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear, But Oscar's bosom knew to feel; While Allan's soul belied his form, From high Southannon's distant tower And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride, 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 call. 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 not he 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? 1 |