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! Allan, with these through Alva fly,

Till Oscar, till my son is found,

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,

Thus did the hapless parent mourn,

Till Time, who soothes severest woe, Had bade serenity return,

And made the tear-drop cease to flow. For still some latent hope survived,

Thát Oscar might once more appear; His hope now droop'd, and now revived, Till Time had told a tedious year.

Days roll'd along, the orb of light

Again had run his destined race; No Oscar bless'd his father's sight, And sorrow left a fainter trace. For youthful Allan still remain'd,

And, now, his father's only joy: And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd,

For beauty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy.

She thought that Oscar low was laid, And Allan's face was wondrous fair; If Oscar lived, some other maid

Had claim'd his faithless bosom's care.

And Angus said, if one year more
In fruitless hope was pass'd away,
His fondest scruple should be o'er,
And he would name their nuptial day.

:

Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last,
Arrived the dearly destined morn;
The year of anxious trembling past,
What smiles the lover's cheeks adorn!
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.

Again the clan, in festive crowd,

Throng through the gate of Alva's hall, The sounds of mirth re-echo loud,

And all their former joy recall.

But who is he, whose darken'd brow
Glooms in the midst of general mirth?
Before his eye's far fiercer glow

The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth.
Dark is the robe which wraps his form,

And tall his plume of gory red; His voice is like the rising storm,

But light and trackless is his tread.

"T is noon of night, the pledge goes round,
The bridegroom's health is deeply quaft;
With shouts the vaulted roofs resound,
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 't was duly drunk 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; Say, had'st thou ne'er another boy? Say why should Oscar be forgot?" "Alas!" the hapless sire replied,

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 blest my sight; And Allan is my last resource, Since martial Oscar's death or flight." ""T is 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 retuTMa ?

Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower
The gift of riches, and the pride of power;
Even now a name illustrious is thine own,
Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the throne.
Yet, D-r-t, let not this seduce thy soul,
To shun fair science, or evade control;
Though passive tutors,' fearful to dispraise
The titled child, whose future breath may raise,
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise.
When youthful parasites, who bend the knee
To wealth, their golden idul,--not to thee!
And, even in simple boyhood's opening dawn,
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn:
When these declare, "that pomp alone should wait
On one by birth predestined to be great;
That books were only meant for drudging fools;
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;"
Believe them not,-they point the path to shame,
And seek to blast the honours of thy name:
Turn to the few, in Ida's early throng,
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong;
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth,
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth,
Ask thine own heart! 't will bid thee, boy, forbear,
For well I know that virtue lingers there.
Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day,
But now new scenes invite me far away;
Yes! I have mark'd, within that generous mind,
A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind:
Ah! though myself by nature haughty, wild,
Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child,
Though every error stamps me for her own,
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone;
Though my proud heart no precept now can tame,
I love the virtues which I cannot claim.
"T is not enough, with other Sons of power,
To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour,
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride,
With long-drawn names, that grace no page beside ;
Then share with titled crowds the common lot,
In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot;
While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead,
Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head,
The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll,
That well- emblazon'd, but neglected scroll,
Where Lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb
One spot to leave a worthless name behind;-
There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults
That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults
A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread,
In records destined never to be read.
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,
Exalted more among the good and wise;
A glorious and a long career pursue,
As first in rank, the first in talent too;
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun,
Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son.

may

find

Turn to the annals of a former day,
Bright are the deeds thine earlier Sires display;
One, though a Courtier, lived a man of worth,
And call'd, proud boast! the British Drama forth. '
Another view! not less renown'd for Wit,
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit;
Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine,
In every splendid part ordain'd to shine;
Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng,
The pride of princes, and the boast of song.2
Such were thy Fathers; thus preserve their name,
Not heir to titles only, but to Fame.

The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close,
To me, this little scene of joys and woes;
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign

Shades, where Hope, Peace, and Friendship, all were

mine;

Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue,
And gild their pinions, as the moments flew ;
Peace, that reflection never frown'd away,
By dreams of ill, to cloud some future day;
Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell-
Alas! they love not long, who love so well.
To these adieu! nor let me linger o'er
Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore,
Receding slowly through the dark blue deep,
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep.

D--r--t! farewell! I will not ask one part
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind
Will

sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.
And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year,
Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere,
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,
May one day claim our suffrage for the state,
We hence may meet, and pass each other by
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye.
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe,
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe;
With thee no more again I hope to trace
The recollection of our early race;
No more, as once, in social hours, rejoice,
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice.
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught

To veil those feelings, which, perchance, it ought;
If these,--but let me cease the lengthen❜d strain,
Oh! if these wishes are not breathed in vain,
The Guardian Seraph, who directs thy fate,
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great

1 "Thomas S-k-lle, Lord B-k-st, created Earl of D- by James the First, was one of the earliest and brightest ornaments to the poetry of his country, and the first who produced a regular drama."-Anderson's British Poets.

2 Charles S-k-lle, Earl of D-, esteemed the most accomplished man of his day, was alike distinguished in the voluptuous court of Charles II. and the gloomy one of Wi· liam III. He behaved with great gallantry in the sea-fight with the Dutch, in 1665, on the day previous to which he composed his celebrated song. His character has been drawn in the highest colours by Dryden, Pope, Prior, and Congreve. Vide Anderson's British Poets.

Translations and Imitations.

ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL, WHEN

DYING.

ANIMULA! vagula, blandula,
Hospes, comesque, corporis,
Quæ nunc abibis in loca?
Pallidula, rigida, nudula,
Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos.

TRANSLATION.

AH! gentle, fleeting, wavering Sprite, Friend and associate of this clay!

To what unknown region borne, Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? No more, with wonted humour gay, But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.

TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.

"AD LESBIAM."

EQUAL to Jove that youth must be,
Greater than Jove he seems to me,
Who, free from Jealousy's alarms,
Securely views thy matchless charms;
Thai cheek, which ever dimpling glows,
That mouth from whence such music flows,
To him, alike, are always known,
Reserved for him, and him alone.
Ah! Lesbia! though 't is death to me,
I cannot choose but look on thee;
But, at the sight, my senses fly;
I needs must gaze, but gazing die;
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears,
Parch'd to the throat, my tongue adheres,
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,
My limbs deny their slight support;
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread,

With deadly languor droops my head,
My ears with tingling echoes ring,
And life itself is on the wing;
My eyes refuse the cheering light,
Their orbs are veil'd in starless night:
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath,
And feels a temporary death.

TRANSLATION FROM CATULȚA

LUCTUS DE MORTE PASSER:“

YE Cupids, droop each little head,
Nor let your wings with joy be spread;
My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead,
Whom dearer than her eyes she loved;
For he was gentle, and so true,
Obedient to her call he flew,

No fear, no wild alarm he knew,
But lightly o'er her bosom moved:
And softly fluttering here and there,
He never sought to cleave the air
;
But chirrup'd oft, and, free from care,

Tuned to her ear his grateful strain.
Now having pass'd the gloomy bourn,
From whence he never can return,
His death, and Lesbia's grief, I mourn,

Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain. Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave! Whose jaws eternal victims crave, From whom no earthly power can save, For thou hast ta'en the bird away: From thee, my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow, Thou art the cause of all her woe, Receptacle of life's decay,

IMITATED FROM CATULLUS.

TO ELLEN.

OH! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire;
Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss;
Nor then my soul should sated be,
Still would I kiss and cling to thee:
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever
Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever;
E'en though the number did exceed
The yellow harvest's countless seed;
To part would be a vain endeavour,
Could I desist?-ah! never-never.

TRANSLATION

OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS.

BY DOMITIUS MARSUs.

HE who, sublime, in Epic numbers roll'd, And he who struck the softer lyre of love, By Death's unequal hand1 alike control'd, Fit comrades in Elysian regions move.

1 The nand of Death is said to be unjust, or unequal, as Virgi) was considerably older than Ti ›ullus, at his decease.