What passion can dwell in the heart of a child? But, still, I perceive an emotion the same As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild: How prompt are striplings to believe her! | Yet, it could not be Love, for I knew not TO M. S. G. WHEN I dream that you love me, you'll Extend not your anger to sleep; What rapture celestial is mine! One image, alone, on my bosom imprest, And pure were my thoughts, for my soul I arose with the dawn; with my dog a I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide, At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose. They tell us, that slumber, the sister of I left my bleak home, and my visions are death, Mortality's emblem is given; To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, Ah! frown not, sweet Lady, unbend your Nor deem me too happy in this; Though in visions, sweet Lady, perhaps, Oh! think not my penance deficient; When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile, To awake will be torture sufficient. SONG. WHEN I roved, a young Highlander, o'er the dark heath, And climb'd thy steep summit, oh! Morven of Snow, To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below, Untutor❜d by science, a stranger to fear, And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, When I see some dark hill point its crest I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Col- I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, Yet the day may arrive, when the mount- snow: No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear, in you? as before, THIS faint resemblance of thy charms, 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. 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, Thro' hours, thro' years, thro' time, 'twill DAMÆTAS. In law an infant, and in years a boy, In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend; Damætas ran through all the maze of sin, bowl: 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 Her impulse chaste must needs refuse. She blushes, curtsies, frowns,-in short she Dreads, lest the subject should transport me, And flying off, in search of reason, Brings prudence back in proper season. 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 sneering. Of soothing 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 as a brother's, My heart is given to some others; That is to say, unskill'd to cozen, It shares itself amongst a dozen. Marion! adieu! oh! prithee slight not This warning, though it may delight not; And, lest my precepts be displeasing To those who think remonstrance teazing, 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. 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 from above, A sad funereal torch of night. 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, Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth, The pibroch raised its piercing note, 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, But, ere their years of youth are o'er, They lightly wield the bright claymore, Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair, r 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 controul, And smooth his words had been from Both, both were brave; the Saxon spear 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 And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride, Hark! to the pibroch's pleasing note, "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! All is confusion,-through the vale, 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; "Oscar! my Son!-Thou God of Heaven! 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. |