Howe'er we gaze with admiration 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. Once, to those eyes the lamp of Love, 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? And, when that gale is fierce and high, 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. The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of Jeronymo and Lorenzo, in the first volume of The Armenian, or Ghost-Seer. It also bears some resemblance to a scene in the third act of Macbeth.. They feast upon the mountain deer, Hoped that, one day, the Pibroch's strain And Angus hails another son; Nor soon the jocund feast was done. And left their hounds in speed behind. Wildly it stream'd along the gale; 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, On foes his deadly vengeance fell. From high Southannon's distant tower And still the choral peal prolong. 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 througing guests 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; Would aught to her impede his way? Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply.»> 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; Then hope is lost in boundless grief, His locks in grey torn ringlets wave. «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, Alas! can pangs like these be just?»> Till Time, who 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, Had claim'd his faithless bosom's care. Arrived the dearly destined morn; What smiles the lover's cheeks adorn! Throng through the gate of Alva's hall; But who is he, whose darken'd brow The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth. "T is 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; And 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, « 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, Since 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, We will not claim the pledge by stealth, << Bravely, old man, this health has sped, Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue; Thrice did he raise the goblet high, And thrice his lips refused to taste; « And is it thus a brother hails A brother's fond remembrance here? What might we not expect from fear?» Would Oscar now could share our mirth!» He said, and dash'd the cup to earth. The stranger's gone, amidst the crew But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there, 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, The bolts loud roll, from pole to pole, The thunders through the welkin ring; And the gleaming Form, through the mist of the storm, Cold was the feast, the revel ceased; Oblivion prest old Angus' breast, At length his life-pulse throbs once more. «Away, away, let the leech essay Το pour the light on Allan's eyes;» Oh! never more shall Allan rise! Beltane-Tree-A Highland festival, on the 1st of May, held near fires lighted for the occasion. But Oscar's breast is cold as clay, With him in dark Glentanar's vale. 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 urge the soul to deeds of Hell. Lo! see'st thou not a lonely tomb, Which rises o'er a warrior dead! Which held his clan's great ashes, stood; For they were stain'd with kindred blood. What minstrel grey, what hoary bard, Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise? The song is glory's chief reward, 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. In looking over my papers, to select a few additional Poems for the second edition, I found the following lines, which I had totally for,,otten, 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 leen my frequent companion in some rambles through the neighbouring country; however be never saw the lines, and most probably never will. As, on a reperusal. I found them not worse than some other pieces in the collection, I bave now published them, for the first time, after a sli,,ht revision. D-R-T! whose early steps with mine have stray'd, Whom, still, affection taught me to defend, And made me less a tyrant than a friend; At every public school, the junior Loys are completely subservient to the upper forms, till they attain a seat in the higher classes. From this state of prol ation, very properly, no rank is exempt; but after a certain period, they command, in turn, those who succeed. Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower That books were only meant for drudging fools; Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, Tis not enough, with other Sons of power, • Allow me to disclaim any personal allusions, even the most distant: I merely mention, generally, what is too often the weakness of preceptors. Turn to the annals of a former day,— The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close, Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, No more, as once, in social hours, rejoice, To veil those feelings which, perchance, it ought; Thomas S-k-lle, Lord B-k-st, created Earl of D- by James the First, was one of the carliest and brightest ornaments to the poetry of his country, and the first who produced a regular drama.-ANDERSON's British Poets. Charles S-k-lle, Earl of D-, esteemed the most accomplished man of his day, was alike distinguished in the voluptuous court of Charles II, and the gloomy one of William III. He behaved with great gallantry in the sea-fight with the Dutch, in 1665, on the day previous to which he composed his celebrated song. His character has been drawn in the highest colours, by Dryden, Pope, Prior, and Congreve. Vide ANDERSON's British Poets TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS. ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL, WHEN DYING. ANIMULA! vagula, blandula, Hospes, comesque, corporis, Quæ nunc abibis in loca? Pallidula, rigida, nudula, Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos. TRANSLATION. Au! gentle, fleeting, wavering Sprite, Friend and associate of this clay! To what unknown region borne, Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? No more, with wonted humour gay, But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. " LUCTUS DE MORTE PASSERIS.» YE Cupids, droop each little head, Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain. For thou hast ta'en the bird away: From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow, Thou art the cause of all her woe, Receptacle of life's decay. IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. « AD LESBIAM." EQUAL to Jove that youth must be, I needs must gaze, but gazing die; TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS. BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. HE who, sublime, in Epic numbers roll'd, The hand of Death is said to be unjust, or unequal, as Virgil was considerably older than Tibullus at his decease. |