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Oh! search, ye chiefs ! oh! search around: Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last,
Arrived the dearly destined morn;
The year of anxious trembling past, Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply."
What smiles the lover's cheeks adorn' All is confusion-through the vale
Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! The name of Oscar hoarsely rings,
Hark to the swelling nuptial song! It rises on the murm'ring gale,
In joyous strains the voices float, Till night expands her dusky wings;
And still the choral peal prolong. It breaks the stillness of the night,
Again the clan, in festive crowd, But echoes through her shades in vain :
Throng through the gate of Alva's hall It sounds through morning's misty light,
The songs of mirth reëcho loud, But Oscar comes not o'er the plain.
And all their former joy recall. Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief But who is he, whose darken'd brow For Oscar search'd each mountain cave:
Glooms in the midst of general mirth? Then hope is lost; in boundless grief
Before his eye's far fiercer glow His locks in gray-torn ringlets wave.
The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth. “Oscar! my son !-thou God of Heav'n
Dark is the robe which wraps his form, Restore the prop of sinking age !
And tall his plume of gory red ; Or if that hope no more is given,
His voice is like the rising storm, Yield his assassin to my rage.
But light and trackless is his tread. “Yes, on some desert rocky shore
'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round, My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie;
The bridegroom's health is deeply quaff"d; Then grant, thou God! I ask no more,
With shouts the vaulted roofs resound, With him his frantic sire may die!
And all combine to hail the draught.
With wine let every cup be crown'd;
But Oscar's breast is cold as clay,
His locks are lifted by the gale;
And Allan's barbed arrow lay “With all my soul," old Angus said,
With him in dark Glentanar's vale. And fill'd his goblet to the brim; “Here's to my boy! alive or dead,
And whence the dreadful stranger came, I ne'er shall find a son like him."
Or who, no mortal wight can tell;
But no one doubts the form of Aame, “Bravely, old man, this health has sped;
Eor Alva's sons knew Oscar well.
Ambition nerved young Allan's hand,
Exulting demons wing'd his dart;
While Envy waved her burning brand, The crimson glow of Allan's face
And pour'd her venom round his heart.
Swift is the shaft of Allan's bow:
Whose streaming life-blood stains bis side 1
Dark Oscar's sable crest is low,
The dart has drunk his vital tide.
And Mora's eye could Allan move,
She bade his wounded pride rebel :
Alas! that eyes which beamed with love, “ And is it thus a brother hails
Should urge the soul to deeds of hell !
Lo! seest thou not a lonely tomb,
Which rises o'er a warrior dead ?
It glimmers through the twilight gloom; Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl,
Oh! that is Allan's nuptial bed.
Far, distant far, the noble grave
Which held his clan's great ashes stood;
And o'er his corse no banners wave, "' 'Tis he! I hear my murderer's voice!”
For they were stain'd with kindred blood. Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming form; "A murderer's voice!" the roof replies,
What minstrel gray, what hoary bard,
Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise ?
The song is glory's chief reward, The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink,
But who can strike a murderer's praise ? The stranger's gone,-amidst the crew A form was seen in tartan green,
Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand, And tall the shade terrific grew.
No minstrel dare the theme awake;
Guilt would benumb his palsied hand, His waist was bound with a broad belt round,
His harp in shuddering chords would break. His plume of sable stream'd on high ; But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there, No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse, And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye.
Shall sound his glories high in air ;
A dying father's bitter curse,
A brother's death groan echoes there.
Whom shivering crowds with horror see.
The thunders through the welkin ring,
In looking over my papers to select a few additional poerns for this recond Cold was the feast, the revel ceased :
edition, I found the following lives, which I had totally forgotten, compared Who lies upon the stony floor?
in the summer of 1805, a short time previous to my departure from Heston Oblivion preşs'd old Angus' breast, *
They were addressed to a young schoolfollow of high raak, who had been
my frequent companion in some ramblea through the neighboring country i At length his life-pulse throbs once more. however, he never saw the lines, and most probably never will. Ac, an
re-perunal, I found them not worse than some other pieces in the collection, “ Away, away ! let the leech essay
have now published them, for the first time, after a slight revision. To pour the light on Allan's eyes ;" His sand is done,-his race is run;
DORSET! whose early steps with mine have stray'da Oh! never more shall Allan rise!
Exploring every path of Ida's glade,
Whom still affection taught me to defend, • Old Angus presa'd the earth with his breast. First Edition And made me less a tyrant than a friend;
Trough the harsh custom of our youthful band Turn to the annals of a former day,
Another view, not less renown'd for wit;
Bold in the field, and favor,d by the Nine; To shun fair science, or evade control;
In every splendid part ordain'd to shine; Though passive tutors,t fearful to dispraise Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng. The titled child, whose future breath may raise, The pride of princes, and the boast of song.t View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,
Such were thy fathers; thus preserve their name: And wink at faults they tremble to chastise. Not heir to titles only, but to fame.
The hours draw nigh, a few brief days will close, When youthful parasites, who bend the knee To me, this little scene of joys and woes; To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee,
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn Shades where Hope, Peace and Friendship all were Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn,
mine: When these declare, “that pomp alone should wait Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, On one by birth predestined to be great;
And gild their pinions as the moments flew;
To these adieu ! nor let me linger o'er
Receding slowly hrough the dark-blue deep,
Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart; Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day,
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind But now new scenes invite me far away;
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind. Yes I have mark'd within that generous mind
And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year, A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind.
Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphero
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye.
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or wo,
With thee no more again I hope to trace 'Tis not enough, with other sona nf power,
The recollection of our early race: To gleam the
lambent meteor of an hour : No more, as once, in social hours rejoice, To swell some peerage page in feeble pride, Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice. With long-drawn names that grace no page beside ; Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught Then share with titled crowds the common lot To veil those feelings which perchance it ought, In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot;
If these—but let me cease the lengthen'd strainWhile nought divides thee from the vulgar dead, Oh! if these wishes are not breathed in vain, Except the dull, cold stone that hides thy head, The guardian seraph who directs thy fate, The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll, Will leave thee glorious as he found thee great. That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll, Where lords, unhonor'd, in the tomb may find One spot, to leave a worthless name behind : There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults
ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN † That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults,
ANIMULA! vagula, blandula,
Hospes, comesque, corporis, Exalted more among the good and wise,
Quæ nunc abibis in loca? A glorious and a long career pursue,
Pallidula, rigida, nudula, As first in rank, the first in talent too:
Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos, Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;
• Thomas Sackville, Lord Backburst, created Earl of Dorset, by James Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son.
the First, was one of the earliest and brightest ornamente to the poetry of hla
country, and the first who produced a regular drama.-Anderson's Britiek * At every public school the fonior boys are completely subservient to the Ports. epper forms till they attain a seat in the higher classes. From this state of | Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset, esteemed the most accomplised man pretation, very properly, no rank is exempt; but after a certain period they of his day, was ulike distinguished in the voluptuous court of Charles II. and Borian in turn those who succeed.
the gloomy one of William III. He behaved with great gallantry in the sea Allow ine to disclaim any personal alluslons, even the most distant ; 1 fight with the Dutch in 1665, on the day previous to which he composed how merely mention generally what is too often the weakness of preceptors. celebrated song. His character has been drawn in the highest colors by 1 Se: the same line in Larn, stanza 11.
Dryden, Pope, Prior, and Congreve.--Anderson's British Poels.
TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.
"LUCTUS DE VORTE PASSERIS
Aa! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite,
To what unknown region borne,
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.
Ye Cupids, droop each little head,
Whom dearer than her eyes she loved
But lightly o'er her bosom moved :
TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.
And softly fluttering here and there,
Tuned to her ear his grateful strain.
Who sighs, alas ! but sighs in vain.
EQUAL to Jove that youth must be-
Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave!
For thou hast ta'en the bird away:
Receptacle of life's decay.
IMITATED FROM CATULLUS.
TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIR
GIL AND TIBULLUS.
OH! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
BY DOMITIUS MARSUS.
He who sublime in epic numbers roll'd,
And he who struck the softer lyre of love, By Death's* unequal hand alike controllid,
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!
TRANSLATION FROM HORACE. IMITATION OF TIBULLUS."
ODE 3, LIB. 3 "Sulpicia ad Cerinthum."-Lib. Quart.
THE man of firm and noble soul CRUEL Cerinthus! does the fell disease
No factious clamors can control; Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please ? No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow Alas ! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain,
Can swerve him from his just intent; That I might live for love and you again;
Gales the warring waves which plough, But now I scarcely shall bevail my fate:
By Auster on the billows spent, By death alone I can avoid your hate.
To curb the Adriatic main, • The hand of Death is said to be unjus or unequal, a Virgil wa con
Would awe his fix'd determined mind in Fair. Aderably older than Tibullus at his decease, • Frun the private volur.
• Only printed la the private volume.
Ay, and the red right arm of Jove,
No prowling robber lingers here, Hurtling his lightnings from above,
A wandering baby who can fear ?”. With all his terrors then unfurld,
I heard his seeming artless tale, He would unmoved, unawed behold.
I heard his sighs upon the gale: The flames of an expiring world,
My breast was never pity's foe, Again in crashing chaos rollid,
Rut felt for all the baby's wo. In vast promiscuous ruin hurled,
I drew the bar, and by the light Might light his glorious funeral pile:
Young Love, the infant, met my sight,
And thence his fatal quiver hung,
With care I tend my weary guest,
His glossy curls, his azure wing,
Which droop with nightly showers, I wring:
His shivering limbs the embers warm; I wish to tune my quivering lyre
And now reviving from the storm, To deeds of fame and notes of fire;
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow, To echo, from its rising swell,
Than swift he seized his slender bow: How heroes fought and nations fell,
“I fain would know, my gentle host," When Atreus' sons advanced to war,
He cried, “if this its strength has lost; Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar;
I fear, relax'd with midnight dews, But still, to martial strains unknown,
The strings their former aid refuse." My lyre recurs to love alone.
With poison tipt, his arrow fies, Fired with the hope of future fame,
Deep in my tortured heart it lies ; I seek some nobler hero's name:
Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd :The dying chords are strung anew,
“My bow can still impel the shaft: To war, to war, my harp is due:
'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it; With glowing strings, the epic strain
Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?" To Jove's great son I raise again; Alcides and his glorious deeds, Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds, All, all in vain; my wayward lyre Wakes silver notes of soft desire.
FRAGMENTS OF SCHOOL EXERCISES. Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms! Adieu the clang of war’s alarms !
FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF ÆSCHYLUR. To other deeds my soul is strung, And sweeter notes shall now be sung;
GREAT Jove, to whose almighty throne My harp shall all its powers reveal,
Both gods and mortals homage pay, To tell the tale my heart must feel;
Ne'er may my soul thy power disown, Love, love alone, my lyre shall claim,
Thy dread behest ne'er disobey.
Oft shall the sacred victim fall
My voice shall raise no impious strain
'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main. ODE III.T
How different now thy joyless fate,
Since first Hesione thy bride, 'Twas now the hour when Night had driven
When placed aloft in godlike state, Her car half round yon sable heaven;
The blushing beauty by thy side, Bootes, only, seem'd to roll
Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, His arctic charge around the pole;
And mirthful strains the hours beguiled, While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,
The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep:
Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentleau At this lone hour, the Paphian boy,
frown'd. Descending from the realms of joy,
Harrow, Dec. 1, 1804. Quick to my gate directs his course, And knocks with all his little force. My visions fled, alarm'd I rose,“What stranger breaks my blest repose ?" “ Alas!" replies the wily child,
THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALU& In faltering accents sweetly mild, "A hapless infant here I roam,
A PARAPHRASE FROM THE ÆXEID, LIB. IL Far from my dear maternal home. Oh! shield me from the wintry blast!
Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood, The nightly storm is pouring fast.
Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood; • First published in Houn of Idientes
Well skill'd in fight the quivering lance to wield, Fint printed in Houn of Idledu..
Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field: