But, placed in all thy charms before me, O Memory! thou choicest blessing 'Woman! thy vows are traced in sand.'* TO M. S. G. WHEN I dream that you love me, you'll surely They tell us that slumber, the sister of death, To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE. THIS faint resemblance of thy charms, Revives thy 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. This line is almost a literal translation from a Spanish proverb. 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 forms could be, Save her who placed thee next my heart She placed it, sad, with needless fear, Lest time might shake my wavering soul, Unconscious that her image there Held every sense in fast control. Through hours, through years, through time 'twill cheer; My hope in gloomy moments raise; TO LESBIA. LESBIA! since far from you I've ranged, I'd tell you why-but yet I know not. 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; I do not, love! suspect your truth, One trace of dark deceit it leaves not. No, no, my flame was not pretended; LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY, WHO HAD BEEN ALARMED BY A BULLET With this dream of deceit half our sorrow's represt, Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu ! FIRED BY THE AUTHOR WHILE DISCHARG-Oh! mark you yon pair: in the sunshine of ING 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. Δει, δ' άει με φεύγει.-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 griefswollen breast, youth [as they grew; Love twined round their childhood his flowers They flourish awhile in the season of truth, Till chill'd by the winter of love's last adieu ! 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? 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 [knew ; Once passion's tumultuous blandishments 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! [few, His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are 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,* Damætas ran through all the maze of sin, And found the goal when others just begin : [renew :' In law, every person is an infant who has not attained the Will whisper, 'Our meeting we yet may age of twenty-one. TO A LADY, Even still conflicting passions shake his soul, TO MARION. MARION! why that pensive brow? I think, is neither here nor there) Were form'd for better things than sneering: HAIR BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND AP- THESE locks, which fondly thus entwine, Or had the bard at Christmas written, To form the place of assignation."] In the above little piece the author has been accused by some candid readers of introducing the name of a lady from whom he was some hundred miles distant at the time this was written; and poor Juliet, who has slept so long in the tomb of all the Capulets," has been converted, with a trifling alteration of her name, into an English damsel walking in a garden of their own creation, during the month of December, in a village where the author never passed a winter. Such has been the candour of some ingenious critics. He would advise these liberal commentators on taste and arbiters of decorum to read Shakspeare. +But curse my fate for ever after.'] Having heard that a very severe and indelicate censure had been passed on the above poem, I beg leave to reply in a quotation from an admired work, 'Carr's Stranger in France:'-'As we were contemplating a painting on a large scale, in which, among other figures, is the uncovered whole length of warrior, a prudish-looking lady, who seemed to have touched the age of OSCAR OF ALVA.* A TALE. How sweetly shines through azure skies And hear the din of arms no more! On Alva's casques of silver play'd; And grey her towers are seen afar; Why grows the moss on Alva's stone? And when that gale is fierce and high, No more his plumes of sable wave. When Angus hail'd his eldest born; The strains in martial numbers float: While he should lead the tartan train. Another year is quickly past, And Angus hails another son; desperation, after having attentively surveyed it through her glass, observed to her party, that there was a great deal of indecorum in that picture. Madame S. shrewdly whispered in my ear" that the indecorum was in the remark." " 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. His natal day is like the last, Nor soon the jocund feast was done, On Alva's dusky hills of wind, They mingle in the ranks of war; Wildly it stream'd along the gale; 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, Unworthy with such charms to dwell: On foes his deadly vengeance fell. Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child. 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? At length young Allan join'd the bride; 'With me he roved not o'er the glade. 'Oh, no!' the anguish'd sire rejoin'd, Would aught to her impede his way? Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply.' 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, But echoes through her shades in vain ; His locks in grey torn ringlets wave. Yield his assassin to my rage. My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie; Be calm, my soul! he yet may live; Alas! can pangs like these be just?' And made the tear-drop cease to flow. That Oscar might once more appear: And sorrow left a fainter trace. And now his father's only joy: And Allan's face was wondrous fair: In fruitless hope was pass'd away, And he would name their nuptial day. Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth. But light and trackless is his tread. And all combine to hail the draught. Sudden the stranger-chief arose, And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd; And Angus' cheek with wonder glows, And Mora's tender bosom blush'd. 'Old man!' he cried, this pledge is done; Thou saw'st 'twas duly drank by me: It hail'd the nuptials of thy son: Now will I claim a pledge from thee. 'While all around is mirth and joy, To bless thy Allan's happy lot, The big tear starting as he spoke, 'When Oscar left my hall, or died, This aged heart was almost broke. 'Thrice has the earth revolved her course Since Oscar's form has bless'd my sight; And Allan is my last resource, Since martial Oscar's death or flight.' 'Tis well,' replied the stranger stern, And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye; 'Thy Oscar's fate I fain would learn: Perhaps the hero did not die. 'Perchance, if those whom most he loved Would call, thy Oscar might return; Perchance the chief has only roved; For him thy beltane yet may burn.* Fill high the bowl the table round, We will not claim the pledge by stealth; With wine let every cup be crown'd; Pledge me departed Oscar's health.' Beltane Tree, a Highland festival on the first of May, held near fires lighted for the occasion. |