TO WOMAN.

WOMAN! experience might have told me,
That all must love thee who behold thee,
Surely, experience might have taught,
Thy firmest promises are nought;
But, placed in all thy charms before me,
All I forget, but to adore thee.

Oh! Memory! thou choicest blessing;
When join'd with hope, when still possessing;
But how much cursed by every lover,
When hope is fled, and passion 's over.
Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,
How prompt are striplings to believe her!
How throbs the pulse, when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue,
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows!
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope 't will last for aye,
When, lo! she changes in a day.
This record will for ever stand,

« Woman! thy vows are traced in sand.» 1

TO M. S. G.

WHEN I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive,
Extend not your anger to sleep;

For in visions alone, your affection can live;
I rise, and it leaves me to weep.

Then, Morpheus! envelope my faculties fast,
Shed o'er me your languor benign;

Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last;
What rapture celestial is mine!

They tell us, that slumber, the sister of death,
Mortality's emblem is given;

To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,
If this be a foretaste of heaven!

Ah! frown not, sweet Lady, unbend your soft brow,
Nor deem me too happy in this;

If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now,
Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss.

Though in visions, sweet Lady, perhaps, you may smile,
Oh! think not my penance deficient;
When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile,
To awake will be torture sufficient.

Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear,

And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear,

Need I say, my sweet Mary, 't was centred in you? Yet, it could not be Love, for I knew not the name; 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: One image, alone, on my bosom imprest,

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new; And few were my wants, for my wishes were blest, And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with

I arose with the dawn; with my dog as my guide,
From mountain to mountain I bounded along,

I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide,
And heard at a distance the Highlander's song:

you.

At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose,
No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view,
And warm to the skies my devotions arose,

For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.

I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone,
The mountains are vanish'd, 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 embitter'd my lot,

More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew;
Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not forgot,
Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you.
When I see some dark hill points its crest to the sky,
I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen; 3
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye,
I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene;
When, haply, some light waving locks I behold,
That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue,

I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold,
The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you.

Yet the day may arrive, when the mountains, once more,
Shall rise to my sight, in their mantles of snow:
But while these soar above me, unchanged as before,
Will Mary be there to receive me? ali, no!
Adieu! then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred,
Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu!
No home in the forest shall shelter my head;
Ah! Mary, what home could be mine, but with you?

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, 3

The last line is almost a literal translation from a Spanish proverb.

Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire: Gormal of Snow,. Is an expression frequently to be found in Ossian.

This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been accustomed to the mountaing: it is by no means uncommon on attarging the top of Ben e vis. Ben y bourd, etc. to perceive, between the sammit and the valley clouds pouring down rain, and, occasional'v, accompanied by lightning, while the spectator literally looks down on the storm, perfectly secure from its effects.

ΤΟ

On! yes, I will own we were dear to each other,
The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are

true;

The love which you felt was the love of a brother, Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you.

But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion,

The attachment of years in a moment expires; Like Love too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion, But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires.

Breasting the lofty surge.SANSPRAKE.

The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar Lodge, and falls into the sea at New Aberdeen.

3 Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of the Highlands, not far from the ruins of Dee Castle.

Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together,
And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow;
In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather!
Eat winter's rude tempests are gathering now.
No more with Affection shall Memory blending

The wonted delights of our childhood retrace; When Pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending, And what would be Justice appears a disgrace.

¦ Bowever, dear S——, for I still must esteem you,
The fow whom I love I can never upbraid,
The chance, which has lost, may in future redeem you,
Repentance will cancel the vow you have made.

I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection,
With me no corroding resentment shall live;
My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection,

That both may be wrong, and that both should
forgive.

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 dissention we both should endeavour;
I ask no atonement, but days like the past.

TO MARY.

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 hips, 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,

Eat where's the beam so sweetly straying?

Which give 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,
Tensions that her image, there,
Heid every sense in fast controul.

To hours, thro' years, thro' time, 't will cheer;

My hope, in gloomy moments, raise;

la af last conflict it will appear,

And meet my fond expiring gaze.

DAMETAS.

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, tho' 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.

TO MARION.

MARION! why that pensive brow?
What disgust to life hast thou?
Change that discontented air;
Frowns become not one so fair.
"T is 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,
At once I'll tell thee our opinion,
Concerning woman's soft dominion:

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

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 would'st 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.

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 tlow, 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 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 They echo to the gale alone. And, when that gale is fierce and high, A sound is heard in yonder hall,

man,

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.

1 The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of «Jeronymo and Lotento, in the first volume of. The Armentas, or 1 Ghost-Seer it also bears some resemblance to a scene in the third act of Macbeth..

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 Pibrock'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,
Ilis 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 chased the roe,

And left their bounds in speed behind.
But, e'er 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 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 youth. 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,

Ou 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 quests 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 be 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, Bat Oscar comes not o'er the plain. Three days, three sleepless nights, the chief For O-car search'd each mountain cave; Then hope is lost in boundless grief,

His locks in grey torn ringlets wave.
Oscar! my Son!-Thou God of heaven!
Restore the prop of sinking age;

Or if that hope no more is given,
Yield his assassin to my rage.

寫

Yes, on some desert rocky shore,

My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie;

Theu, grant, thou God! I ask no more, With him his frantic sire may die. «Yet, he may live-away despair;

Be cam, my soul! he yet may live ;
Tarrigu 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?»
Thas dul the hapless parent mourn,

Til Time, who soothes severest woe, Had Lade 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, Tall Time had old 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 inore

In fruitless hope was pass'd away,
His fondest scruple 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 lover's 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 recal.

But who is he, whose darken'd brow
Glooms in the midst of general mirth?
Before his eye's far fiercer glow

The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth.
Dark is the robe which wraps his form,
And tall his plume of gory red;

His voice is like the rising storm,
But light and trackless is his tread.

Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round,
The bridegroom's health is deeply quaft;
With shouts the vaulted roofs resound,

And all combine to hail the draught.

Sudden the stranger chief arose,

And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd; Aud Angus cheek with wonder glows, And Mora's tender bosom blush'd.

« Old man!» he cried, «< this pledge is done, Thou saw'st 't was duly drunk by me, It hail'd the nuptials of thy son;

Now will I claim a pledge from thee.

« While all around is mirth and joy,
To bless thy Allan's happy lot;
Say, had'st thou ne'er another boy?
Say, why should Oscar be forgot?»
«Alas!» the hapless 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, Since Oscar's form has blest my sight; And Allan is my last resource,

Siuce martial Oscar's death or flight.»

«T is well,» replied the stranger stern,
And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye;
Thy Oscar's fate I fain would learn;
Perhaps the hero did not die.

<< Perchance if those whom most he loved, Would call, thy Oscar might return;

Perchance the chief has only roved, For him thy Beltane yet may burn. «Fill high the bowl, the table round,

We will not claim the pledge by stealth,
With wine let every cup be crown'd,

Pledge me departed Oscar's health.

« With all my soul,» old Angus said,
And fill'd his goblet to the brim;
« Here's to my boy! alive or dead,

I ne'er shall find a son like him.»

« Bravely, old man, this health has sped,
But why does Allan trembling stand?
Come, drink remembrance of the dead,
And raise thy cup with firmer hand.>>
The crimson glow of Allan's face

Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue;
The drops of death cach other chase,
Adown in agonizing dew.

Thrice did he raise the goblet high,

And thrice his lips refused to taste;
For thrice he caught the stranger's eye,
On his with deadly fury placed.
«And is it thus a brother hails

A brother's fond remembrance here?
If thus affection's strength prevails,

What might we not expect from fear?>>
Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl;

« Would Oscar now could share our mirth !»

Internal fear appall'd his soul,

He said, and dash'd the cup to earth.
<< "T is he! I hear my murderer's voice,>>
Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming Form;
« A murderer's voice!» the roof replies,
And deeply swells the bursting storm.
The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink,

The stranger's gone, amidst the crew
A Form was seen, in tartan green,
And tall the shade terrific grew.

His waist was bound with a broad belt round,
His plume of sable stream'd on high;

But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there,
And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye.

And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild,
On Angus, bending low the knee;

And thrice he frown'd on a Chief on the ground,
Whom shivering crowds with horror see.

The bolts loud roll, from pole to pole,

The thunders through the welkin ring;

And the gleaming Form, through the mist of the storm,
Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing.

Cold was the feast, the revel ceased;
Who lies upon the stony floor!

Oblivion prest old Angus' breast,

At length his life-pulse throbs once more.

« Away, away, let the leech essay,

To pour the light on Allan's eyes;»
Ilis sand is done,-his race is run,

Oh! never more shall Allan rise! Peltane-Tree-A Highland festival, on the 1st of May, held ocar tires lighted for the occasion.

But Oscar's breast is cold as clav,
His locks are lifted by the gale,
And Allan's barbed arrow lay,

With him in dark Glentanar's vale.
And whence the dreadful stranger came,
Or who, no mortal wight can tell;
But no one doubts the Form of Flame,
For Alva's sons knew Oscar well.
Ambition nerved young Allan's hand,

Exulting demons wing'd his dart,
While Envy waved her burning brand,
And pour'd her venom round his heart.
Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow:

Whose streaming life-blood stains his side? Dark Oscar's sable crest is low,

The dart has drunk his vital tide.

And Mora's eye could Allan move,

She bade his wounded pride rebel :
Alas! that eyes, which beam'd with love,
Should the soul to deeds of Hell.
urge
Lo! see'st thou not a lonely tomb,
Which rises o'er a warrior dead'
It glimmers through the twilight gloom;
Oh! that is Alian's nuptial bed.
Far, distant far, the noble grave,

Which held his clan's great ashes, stood;
And o'er his corse no banners wave,

For they were stain'd with kindred blood. What minstrel grey, what hoary bard, Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise ? The is glory's chief reward, song But who can strike a murderer's praise? Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand, No minstrel dare the theme awake; Guilt would benumb his palsied hand,

His harp in shuddering chords would break. No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse, Shall sound his glories high in air, A dying father's bitter curse,

A brother's death-groan echoes there.

TO THE DUKE OF D.

la looking over my papers, to select a few additional Poems for th's
second edition, I found the following lines, which I had totally
forgotten, composed in the Summer of 1805, a short time previous
to my departure from H They were addressed to a young
school-fellow of high rank, who had been my frequent companion
in some rambles through the neighbouring country; however be
never saw the lines, and most probably never will. As, on
perusa, I found them not worse than some other pieces in the
collection, I have now published them, for the first time, after a
slight revision.

D-R-T! whose early steps with mine have stray'd,
Exploring every path of Ida's glade,

Whom, still, affection taught me to defend,
And made me less a tyrant than a friend;
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band
Bade thee obey, and gave me to command'

a re

At every public school, the junior boys are completely subservient to the upper forms, till they attain a seat in the bigher classes From this state of probation, very properly, no rank is exempt; but after a certain period, they command, in turn, those who succeed.