Obrazy na stronie

If, yet, thy gentle spirit hover nigh
The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie,
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart,
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art.
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep,
But living statues there are seen to weep;
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb,
Aftliction's self deplores thy youthful doom.
What though thy sire lament his failing line,
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine!
Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer,
Yel, other offspring soothe his anguish here:
But who with me shall hold thy former place?
Thine image, what new friendship can efface?
Ali, none ! a father's tears will cease to flow,
Time will assuage an infant brother's woe;
To all, save one,

is consolation kuown, While solitary Friendship sighs alone.


A FRAGMENT. Waen, to their airy hall, my Fathers' voice Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice; When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride, Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side ; Oh! may my shade behold no sculptured urns, To mark the spot where earth to earth returns: No leogthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone; My epitaph shall be my name alone : If that with honour fail to crown my clay, Oh! may no other fame my

That, only that, shall single out the spot, * By that remember'd, or with that forgot.


As he bends o'er the wave,

Which may soon be liis grave,
The green sparkles bright with a Tear.

The soldier braves death,

For a fanciful wreath,
In Glory's romantic career;

But le raises the foe,

When in battle laid low,
And bathes every wound with a Tear.

If, with high-bounding pride,

He return to his bride,
Renouncing the gore-criinson'd spear,

All his toils are repaid,

When embracing the maidFrom her eyelid he kisses the Tear.

Sweet scene of my youth,

Seat of Friendship and Truth,
Where love chased each fast-fleeting year,

Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd,

For a last look I turn'd, But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear.

Though my vows I can pour,

To my Mary no more,
My Mary, to Love once so dear;

In the shade of her bower,

I remember the hour,
She rewarded those vows with a Tear.

By another possest;

May she live ever blest, ller name still my heart must revere;

With a sigli I resign,

What I once thought was mine, And forgive her deceit with a Tcar.

Ye friends of my heart,

Ere from you I depart,
This liope to my breast is most near,

If again we shall meet,

In this rural retreat,
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.

When my soul wings her flight,

To the regions of night,
And my corse shall recline on its bier,

As ye pass by the tomb,


ashes consume, Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.

May no marble bestow

The splendour of woe,
Which the children of vanity rear;

No fiction of fame

Shail blazon my name,
All I ask, all I wish, is a Tear.


deeds repay;

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When Friendship or Love

Our sympathies move; When Truth in a glance should appear;

The lips may beguile,

With a dimple or smile,
But the test of affection is a Tear.

Too oft is a smile

But the hypocrite's wile, To mask detestation or fear;

Give me the soft sigh,

Whilst the soul-telling eye
Is dimin d, for a time, with a Tear.

Mild Charity's glow,

To us mortals below,
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;

Compassion will melt,

Where this virtue is felt,
And its dew is diffused in a Tear.

The man doom'd to sail,

With the blast of the gale, Through billows Atlantic to steer;


Delivered previous to the performance of « The Wheel

of Fortuneat a private theatre.
Since the refinement of this polishid age
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage;
Since taste has now expunged licentious wil,
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ;

Yet let not canker'd calumny assail,
Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.
Fox, o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep,
Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep,
For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan,
While friends and foes alike his talents own;
Fox shall in Britain's future anuals shine,
Nor even to Port the patriot's palm resign,
Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask,
For Pitt, and Pirt alone, has dared to ask.

Since, now, to please with purer scenes we seek,
Sor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;
Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim,

and meet indulgence though she find not fame. 1 Sull, not for her alone we wish respect,

Others appear more conscious of defect;

To-night no veteran Roscii you behold,
Ilo all the arts of scenic action old;

No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here,
NO SIDDONS draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night, you throng to witness the debut
Of embryo actors, to the drama new.
flere, then, our almost untledged wings we try;
Clip not our pinions ere the birds can lly;
Failing in this our first attempt to soar,
Drooping, alas ! we fall to rise no more.
Not one poor trembler, only, fear betrays,
Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise,
But all our Dramatis Personæ wait,
la fond suspense, this crisis of their fate.
Ns vedal views our progress cau retard,
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward;
For these, each Hero all his power displays,

Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze; · Surely the last will some projection find

Sobe to the softer sex can prove unkind;
Whilst Youth and Beauty form the female shield,
The sternest Censor to the fair must yield.
Pet should our feeble efforts nought avail,
Shoald, aftes all, our best endeavours fail,
Sull, let some mercy in your bosoms live,
And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive.


With the Poems of Camoens. Tajs votive pledge of fond esteem,

Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou'lt prize ; It sings of Love's enchanting dream,

A theme we never can despise. Who blames it but the envious fool,

The old and disappointed maid ? Or pupil of the prudish school,

In single sorrow doom'd to fade. Then read, dear girl, with feeling read,

For thou wilt ne'er be one of those;
To thee in vaiu I shall not plead,

In pity for the Poet's woes.
He was, in sooth, a genuine bard;

His was no faint fictitious flame;
Like his, may love be thy reward,

But not thy hapless fate the same.

ON THE DEATH OF MR FOX. The following illiberal Impromptu appeared in a

Morning Paper.
Ota pation's foes lament on Fox's death,
Bat bless ibe hour whien Pirt resigo'd his breath;
These feeliogs wide, let Sense and Truth unclue,
We give the palm where Justice points it due.
To which the Author of these Pieces sent the following

OR! factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth
Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth;
What, though our « nation's foes » lament the fate,
With generous feeling, of the good and great;
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name
Of bin, whose meed exists in endless fame?
When Pitt expired, in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscured liis dying hour,
Pite ber dewy wings before him spread,
For boble spirits war nol « with the dead.»
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiein gave,
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave;
He sank, an Atlas, bending 'neath the weight
Of caras o'erwhelming our conficting state;
Whea, lo! a Hercules, in Fox, appear'd,
Who, for a time, the ruin'd fabric rear'd.
He, too, is fallen, who Britain's loss supplied;
With him our fast reviving hopes have died:
Not one great people only raise his urn,
All Europe's far extended regions mourn.
* These feelings wide, let Sepse and Truth unclue,
To give the palm where Justice points it due ;»

TO M* **.
OR! did those eyes, instead of fire,

With bright but mild affectiou shine;
Though they might kindle less desire,

Love more than mortal would be thine. For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,

Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair,

That fatal glance forbids esteem.
When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,

So much perfection in thee shone,
She feard that, 100 divine for carth,

The skies might claim thee for their own. Therefore, to guard her dearest work,

Lest angels might dispute the prize, She bade a secret lightning lurk Within those once celestial

cyes. These might the boldest sylph appal,

When gleaming with meridian blaze; Thy beauty must enrapture all,

But who can dare thinc ardent gaze! "T is said, that Berenice's bair

In stars adorn the vault of heaven; But they would ne'er permit the there,

Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven. For, did those eyes as planets roll,

Thy sister lights would scarce appear; Een suns, which systems now control, Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.


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Untutord by science, a stranger to fear,

And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew,
Woman! experience might have told me,

No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear, That all must love thee who behold thee,

Need I say, my sweet Mary, 't was centred in you?
Surely, experience might have taught,

Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name;
Thy firmest promises are pought;
But, placed in all thy charms before me,

What passion can dwell in the heart of a child ?
All I forget, but to adore thee.

But, still, i perceive an emotion the same Ob Memory! thou choicest blessing,

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild: When join'd with hope, when still possessing ;

Oue image alone op my bosom impress'd, But how much cursed by every lover,

I loved my bleak regions, nor pauled for new; When hope is fled, and passion 's over.

And few were my wants, for my wishes were blest,
Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,

And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you.
How prompt are striplings to believe her! I arose with the dawn; with my dog as my guide,
How throbs the pulse, when first we view

From mountain to mountain I bounded along,
eye that rolls in glossy blue,

I breasted" the billows of Dee'sa rushing ride, Or sparkles black, or mildly throws

And heard at a distance the Highlander's song: A beam from under hazel brows!

At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose, How quick we credit every oath,

No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view, And hear her plight the willing troth!

And warm to the skies my devotions arose,
Fondly we hope 't will last for aye,

For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.
When lo! she changes in a day.
This record will for ever stand,

I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone, « Woman! thy vows are traced in sand.»

The mountains are vanislid, my youth is no more;
As the last of my race, I must wither alone,

And delight but in days I have witness'd before.

Ah! splendour has raised but embitler'd my lot,
TO M. S. G.

More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew;
Wuen I dream that you love me, you 'll surely forgive; Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not foryol,
Extend not your anger to sleep,

Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you. For in visions alone your affection can live;

When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky, I rise, and it leaves me to weep.

I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen; 3 Then, Morpheus! envelop my faculties fast,

When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye, Shed o'er me your languor benign;

I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene; Should the dream of 10-night but resemble the last, Wheo, laply, some light-waving locks I behold, What rapture celestial is mine!

That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue,

I think on tbe long tlowing ringlets of gold,
They tell us, that slumber, the sister of death,

The locks that were sacred to beauty and you.
Mortality's emblem is given;
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,

Yet the day may arrive, when the mountains once more
If this be a foretaste of heaven!

Shall rise to my sight, in their mantles of snow:

But while these soar above me, unchanged as before, Ah! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your

soft brow, Nor deem me too happy in this;

Will Mary be there to receive me? ah, no!

Adicu! then, ye bills, where my childhood was bred, If I sin in my dream, I alone for it now,

Thou sweet-flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu !
Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss.

No home in the forest shall shelter my head;
Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smile, Ah! Mary, what home could be mine, but with you?

Oh! think not my penance deficient;
When dreams of your presence my

slumbers beguile, To awake will be torture sufficient.

TO * *

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On! yes, I will own we were dear to each other,

The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are

When I roved, a young Highlander, o'er the dark lieath, The love which you felt was the love of a brother,
And climb'd thy steep summit, oh! Morven of Suow,"

Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you.
To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath,
Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below,3 But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion,

The attachment of years in a moment expires;
· The last line is almost a literal translation from a Spanish Like Love too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion,
* Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire: Gormal of Snow»

But glows not, like Love, with unqucnchable fires. is an expression frequently to be found in Ossian. 3 This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been ac

I. Breasting the lofty surge.»-SHAKSPEARE. castomed to the mountains: it is by no means uncommon on attaining the top of Ben e vis, Ben y bourd, etc., to perceive, between the

: The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar Lodge, and summit and the valley, clouds pouring down rain, and occasionally, falls into the sea at New Aberdeen. accompanied by lightning, while the spectator literally looks down 3 Colbleen in a mountain near the verge of the Highlands, not far on the storm, perfectly secure from its effects.

from the ruins of Dee Castle.

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Full oft have we wandered through Ida together,
And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow;

In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather! In law an infant,' and in years a boy,

But winter's rude tempests are gathering now. In mind a slave to every vicious joy,
No more with Affection shall Memory blending

From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd,
The wonted delights of our childhood retrace;

In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend ;
When Pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending,

Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child,
And what would be Justice appears a disgrace.

Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild;

Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool, However, dear S--, for I still must esteem you, Old in the world, tho' scarcely broke from school: The few whom I love I can never upbraid,

Damætas ran through all the maze of sin, The chance, which has lost, may in future redeem you, And found the goal, when others just begin; Repentance will cancel the vow you have made.

Even still contlicting passions shake his soul, I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection,

And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl; With me no corroding resentment shall live; But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain, My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection,

And, what was once his bliss, appears his bane.
That both may be wrong, and that both should

You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence,

If danger demanded, were wholly your own;

Marion! why that pensive brow?
You knew me unalter'd, by years or by distance,

What disgust to life hast thou ?
Devoted to love and to friendship alone.

Change that discontented air;
You knew,- but away with the vain retrospection !

Frowns become not one so fair.
The bond of affection no longer endures;

'T is not love disturbs thy rest, Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection, Love 's a stranger to thy breast; And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours.

He in dimpling smiles appears; For the present we part, I will hope not for

Or mourns in sweetly timid tears; ever,

Or bends the languid eyelid down, ; For time and regret will restore you at last ;

But shuns the cold forbidding frown.
To forget our disseusion we both should endeavour;

Then resume thy former fire,
I ask no atonement, but days like the past.

Some will love, and all admire;

While that icy aspect chills us,

Nought but cold indifference thrills us.

Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile,
On receiving her picture.

Smile, at least, or seem to smile;
Tuis faint resemblance of thy charms,

Eyes like thine were never meant
Though strong as mortal art could give,

To hide their orbs, in dark restraint ;
Ms constant heart of fear disarms,

Spite of all, thou fain wouldst say,
Revives my hopes, and bids me live.

Still in truant beams they play.
Here, I can trace the locks of gold,

Thy lips, --but here my modest Muse
Which round thy snowy forehead wave;

Her impulse chaste must needs refuse.
The cheeks, which sprung from Beauty's mould,

She blushes, curtsies, frowns,-in short she

Dreads, lest the subject should transport me; The lips, which made me Beauty's slave.

And tlying off, in search of reason, Here, I can trace---ah no! that


Brings prudence back in proper season.
Whose azure floats in liquid fire,

All shall therefore say (whate'er
Yust all the painter's art defy,

I think is neither here nor there),
And bid him from the task retire.

Is that such lips, of looks endearing,
Here I behold its beauteous hue,

Were form'd for better things than sneering; But where's the beam so sweetly straying?

Of soothing compliments divested,
Which gave a lustre to its blue,

Advice at least 's disinterested ;
Like Lana o'er the ocean playing.

Such is my artless song to thee,

From all the flow of tlattery free;
Sweet copy! far more dear to me,

Counsel, like mine, is as a brother's,
Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,

My heart is given to some others;
Than all the living forms could bc,

That is to say, unskill'd to cozen,
Save her who placed thee next my heart.

It shares itself amongst a dozen.
She placed it, sad, with needless fear,

Marion, adieu! oh! prithee slight not
Lest time might shake my wavering soul,

This warning, though it may delight not;
Cnconscious, that her image, there,

And, lest my precepts be displeasing
Held every sense in fast controul.

To those who think remonstrance teazing,

At once I'll tell thee our opinion,
Thro' hours, thro' years, thro' time, 't will cheer;
My hope, in gloomy moments, raise;

Concerning woman's soft dominion : la life's last conflict 't will appear,

" In law, every person is an infant who has uot attained the age And meet my fond expiring gaze.

of twenty-one.

Howe'er we gaze with admiration
On eyes of blue, or lips carnation;
Howe'er the tlowing locks attract us,
Howe'er those beauties


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.



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 glimmerd from above,

A sad funereal torch of night. Faded is Alva's noble race,

And grey her towers are seen afar; No more her heroes urge the clase,

Or roll the crimson tide of war. But who was last of Alva's clan?

Why grows the moss on Alva's stove?
Her towers resound no steps man,

They ccho to the gale alone.
And, when that gale is fierce and high,

A sound is heard in yonder hall,
It rises hoarsely through the sky,

And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall. Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs,

It shakes the shield of Oscar brave; But there no more his banners rise,

No more his plumes of sable wave. Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth,

When Angus haild his eldest born; The vassals round their chieftain's hearth,

Crowd to applaud the happy morn.

They feast

upon the mountain deer, The Pibroch raised its piercing note; To gladden more their Highland cheer,

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,

Ou Alva's dusky hills of wind,
The boys in childhood chased the roe,

And left their hounds in speed behind.
But, ere their years of youth are o'er,

They mingle in the ranks of war; They lightly wield the bright claymore,

And send the whistling arrow far. Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair,

Wildly it stream'd along the gale ; But Allan's locks were bright and fair,

And pensive seemd his cheek, and pale. But Oscar own'd a bero's soul,

His dark eye shone through beams of truth; Allau had early learn'd controul,

And smooth his words had been from youth. Both, both were brave; the Saxon spear,

Was sbiver'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 Kennelli'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 seudal pride,

Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child. Hark! to the Pibroch's pleasing nole,

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


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 tlame? While thronging guests and ladies wait,

Nor Oscar nor his brother came.


• The catastrophe of this tale was sufgested by the story of « Jeronymo and Lorenzo, in the birst volume of The Armenian, or Ghost-Seer.. It also bears some resemblance to a scene in the third act of • Macbeth,

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