Then, if my passion fail to please, OSCAR OF ALVA.† A TALE. How sweetly shines through azure skies And hear the din of arms no more. But often has yon rolling moon On Alva's casques of silver play'd; She saw the gasping warrior low; Once to those eyes the lamp of Love, Faded is Alva's noble race, And gray her towers are seen afar; But who was last of Alva's clan? And when that gale is fierce and high, It rises hoarsely through the sky, And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall. • 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 there was a great deal of indecorum in that picture. Madame S. shrewdly whispered in my ear that the indecorum was in the remark." 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." Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs, No more his plumes of sable wave. The pibroch raised its piercing note: While he should lead the tartan train. Another year is quickly past, And Angus hails another son; Nor soon the jocund feast was done. Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair, Wildly it stream'd along the gale; But Oscar own'd a hero's soul, His dark eye shone through beams of truth; Allan had early learn'd control, And smooth his words had been from youth. Both, both were brave: the Saxon spear And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear, While Allan's soul belied his form, From high Southannon's distant tower And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride, Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note! See how the heroes' blood-red plumes The pibroch plays the song of peace; Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame? While thronging guests and ladies wait, Nor Oscar nor his brother came. 66 At length young Allan join'd the bride: "Oh, no!" the anguish'd sire rejoin'd, 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 Till night expands her dusky wings; It breaks the stillness or the night, But echoes through her shades in vain, Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief D "Oscar! my son !-thou God of heav'n, "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; Tarraign 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 woe, 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, But who is he, whose darken'd brow The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth. Dark is the robe which wraps his form, But light and trackless is his tread. "Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round, Sudden the stranger-chief arose, And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd; "Old man!" he cried, "this pledge is done; It hail'd the nuptials of thy son: Now will I claim a pledge from thee. "While all around is mirth and joy, "Alas!" the helpless 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 And Allan is my last resource, Since martial Oscar's death or flight." """Tis well," replied the stranger stern, "Perchance, if those whom most he loved Perchance the chief has only roved; For him thy beltane yet may burn.* • Beltane Tree, a Highland festival on the first of May, held near fires lighted for the occasion. |