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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 !


Ix law an infant 1, and in years a boy,
In mind a slave to every vicious joy;

From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd;

In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend;

Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child;
Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild;

Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool;

Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school;
Damætas ran through all the maze of sin,
And found the goal when others just begin:
Even still conflicting passions shake his soul,
And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl;
But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain,
And what was once his bliss appears his bane. 2

All I shall therefore say (whate'er

I think, is neither here nor there)

Is, that such lips, of looks endearing,

Were form'd for better things than sucering:
Of smoothing compliments divested,
Advice at least 's disinterested;
Such is my artless song to thee,
From all the flow of flattery free;
Counsel like mine is like a brother's
My heart is given to some others;
That is to say, unskill'd to cozen,
It shares itself among a dozen.
Marion, adieu ! oh, pr'ythee slight not
This warning, though it may delight not;
And, lest my precepts be displeasing
To those who think remonstrance teasing,
At once I'll tell thee our opinion
Concerning woman's soft dominiou :
Howe'er we gaze with admiration
On eyes of blue or lips carnation,
Howe'er the flowing locks attract us,
Howe'er those beauties may distract us,
Still fickle, we are prone to rove,
These cannot fix our souls to love:
It is not too severe a stricture
To say they form a pretty picture;
But wouldst thou see the secret chain
Which binds us in your humble train,
To hail you queens of all creation,
Know, in a word, 't is ANIMATION.


MARION! why that pensive brow?
What disgust to life hast thou?
Change that discontented air;
Frowns become not one so fair.
'Tis not love disturbs thy rest,
Love's a stranger to thy breast;
He in dimpling smiles appears,
Or mourns in sweetly timid tears,
Or bends the languid eyelid down,
But shuns the cold forbidding frown.
Then resume thy former fire,
Some will love, and all admire ;
While that icy aspect chills us,
Nought but cool indifference thrills us.
Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile,
Smile at least, or seem to smile.
Eyes like thine were never meant

To hide their orbs in dark restraint;

Spite of all thou fain wouldst say,

Still in truant beams they play.

Thy lips but here my modest Muse

in short she

Her impulse chaste must needs refuse:
She blushes, curt'sies, frowns
Dreads lest the subject should transport me ;
And flying off in search of reason,
Brings prudence back in proper season.

1 In law every person is an infant who has not attained the age of twenty-one.

["When I went up to Trinity, in 1805, at the age of seventeen and a half, I was miserable and untoward to a degree. I was wretched at leaving Harrow-wretched at going to Cambridge instead of Oxford- wretched from some private domestic circumstances of different kinds; and, consequently, about as unsocial as a wolf taken from the troop." Diary. Mr. Moore adds, "The sort of life which young Byron led at this period, between the dissipations of London and of Cambridge, without a home to welcome, or even the roof of a single relative to receive him, was but little calculated




THESE locks, which fondly thus entwine,
In firmer chains our hearts confine,
Than all th' unmeaning protestations
Which swell with nonsense love orations.
Our love is fix'd, I think we 've proved it,
Nor time, nor place, nor art have moved it;
Then wherefore should we sigh and whine,
With groundless jealousy repine,

With silly whims and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic?

Why should you weep like Lydia Languish,

And fret with self-created anguish

Or doom the lover you have chosen,
On winter nights to sigh half frozen;
In leafless shades to sue for pardon,
Only because the scene's a garden?
For gardens seem, by one consent,
Since Shakspeare set the precedent,
Since Juliet first declared her passion
To form the place of assignation. +

to render him satisfied either with himself or the world. Unrestricted as he was by deference to any will but his own, even the pleasures to which he was naturally most inclined prematurely palled upon him, for want of those best zests of all enjoyment- rarity and restraint."]

3 [See antè, p. 387. note.]

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

Oh! would some modern muse inspire,
And seat her by a sea-coal fire;

Or had the bard at Christmas written,
And laid the scene of love in Britain,
He surely, in commiseration,
Had changed the place of declaration.
In Italy I've no objection;

Warm nights are proper for reflection;
But here our climate is so rigid,
That love itself is rather frigid:
Think on our chilly situation,
And curb this rage for imitation;
Then let us meet, as oft we've done,
Beneath the influence of the sun;
Or, if at midnight I must meet you,
Within your mansion let me greet you:
There we can love for hours together,
Much better, in such snowy weather,
Than placed in all th' Arcadian groves
That ever witness'd rural loves;
Then, if my passion fail to please,
Next night I'll be content to freeze;
No more I'll give a loose to laughter,
But curse my fate for ever after. 1



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.

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'd rocks beneath, Which scowl 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,
They blest her dear propitious light;
But now she glimmer'd rom above,
A sad, funereal torch of night.

Faded is Alva's noble race,

And gray her towers are seen afar;

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. We would advise these liberal commentators on taste and arbiters of decorum to read Shakspeare.

Having heard that a very severe and indelicate censure has 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 a warrior, a prudish-looking lady, who seemed to have touched the age of desperation, after having attentively surveyed it through her glass, observed to her party, that

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there was a great deal of indecorum in that picture. Madame S. shrewdly whispered in my ear, that the indecorum was in the remark.'"

2 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."

3 [Lord Byron falls into a very common error, that of mistaking pibroch, which means a particular sort of tune, for the instrument on which it is played, the bagpipe. Almost every foreign tourist. Nodier. for example, does the same. The reader will find this little slip noticed in the article from the Edinburgh Review appended to these pages.]

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: Keen as the lightning of the storm,

On foes his deadly vengeance fell.

From high Southannon's distant tower Arrived a young and noble dame ; With Kenneth's lands to form her dower, Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came;

And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride,
And Angus on his Oscar smiled:
It soothed the father's feudal pride
Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child.

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 't is 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 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;

It breaks the stillness of the night,
But echoes through her shades in vain,
It sounds through morning's misty light,
But Oscar comes not o'er the plain.

Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief
For Oscar search'd each mountain cave;
Then hope is lost; in boundless grief,
His locks in gray-torn ringlets wave.

"Oscar! my son!-1

thou God of Heav'n Restore the prop of sinking age! Or if that hope no more is given, Yield his assassin to my rage.

"Yes, on some desert rocky shore

My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie; Then grant, thou God! I ask no more, With him his frantic sire may die!

"Yet he may live,-away, despair! Be calm, my soul! he yet may live; T'arraign my fate, my voice forbear! O God! my impious prayer forgive. "What, if he live for me no more,

I sink forgotten in the dust, The hope of Alva's age is o'er;

Alas! can pangs like these be just ?"

Thus did the hapless parent mourn,

Till Time, which soothes severest woc, Had bade serenity return,

And made the tear-drop cease to flow.

For still some latent hope survived

That 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 scruples 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 lovers' 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.

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