You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence,
If danger demanded, were wholly your own;
You knew me unalter'd by years or by distance,
Devoted to love and to friendship alone.
You knew,--but away with the vain retrospection!
The bond of affection no longer endures:
Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection,
And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours.
For the present we part--I will hope not for ever,
For time and regret will restore you at last;
To forget our dissensions we both should endeavour-
I ask no atonement but days like the past.
ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE.
This faint resemblance of thy charms,
Though strong as mortal art could give,
My constant heart of fear disarms,
Revives my hopes, and bids me live.
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,
Unconscious that her image there
Held every sense in fast control.
Through hours, through years, through time, 'twill cheer;
My hope in gloomy moments raise:
In life's last conflict 'twill appear,
And meet my fond expiring gaze.'
In law an infant,* 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 wasonce his bliss appears his bane.
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 :
In law, every person is an infant who has not attained the age of twenty-one.
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, courtesies, 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 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 dominion :—
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, 'tis 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 bless'd her dear propitious light;
But now she glimmer'd 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 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.
The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of 'Jeronymo and
Lorenzo,' in the first volume of the Armenian, or Ghost-Seer.'
some resemblance to a scene in the third act of Macbeth.'
And, when that gale is fierce and high,
A sound is heard in youder 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 hail'd 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,
On Alva's dusky hills of wind
The boys in childhood chas'd 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 wheel 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 seem'd his cheek, and pale.
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