Oh! search, ye chiefs ! oh! search around: Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last,
Allan, with these through Alva fly;

Arrived the dearly destined morn;
Till Oscar, till my son is found,

The year of anxious trembling past, Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply."

What smiles the lover's cheeks adorn' All is confusion-through the vale

Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! The name of Oscar hoarsely rings,

Hark to the swelling nuptial song! It rises on the murm'ring gale,

In joyous strains the voices float, Till night expands her dusky wings;

And still the choral peal prolong. It breaks the stillness of the night,

Again the clan, in festive crowd, But echoes through her shades in vain :

Throng through the gate of Alva's hall It sounds through morning's misty light,

The songs of mirth reëcho loud, But Oscar comes not o'er the plain.

And all their former joy recall. Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief But who is he, whose darken'd brow For Oscar search'd each mountain cave:

Glooms in the midst of general mirth? Then hope is lost; in boundless grief

Before his eye's far fiercer glow His locks in gray-torn ringlets wave.

The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth. “Oscar! my son !-thou God of Heav'n

Dark is the robe which wraps his form, Restore the prop of sinking age !

And tall his plume of gory red ; Or if that hope no more is given,

His voice is like the rising storm, Yield his assassin to my rage.

But light and trackless is his tread. “Yes, on some desert rocky shore

'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round, My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie;

The bridegroom's health is deeply quaff"d; Then grant, thou God! I ask no more,

With shouts the vaulted roofs resound, With him his frantic sire may die!

And all combine to hail the draught.

With wine let every cup be crown'd;

But Oscar's breast is cold as clay,
Pledge me departed Oscar's health."

His locks are lifted by the gale;

And Allan's barbed arrow lay “With all my soul," old Angus said,

With him in dark Glentanar's vale. And fill'd his goblet to the brim; “Here's to my boy! alive or dead,

And whence the dreadful stranger came, I ne'er shall find a son like him."

Or who, no mortal wight can tell;

But no one doubts the form of Aame, “Bravely, old man, this health has sped;

Eor Alva's sons knew Oscar well.
But why does Allan trembling stand?
Come, drink remembrance of the dead,

Ambition nerved young Allan's hand,
And raise thy cup with firmer hand.”

Exulting demons wing'd his dart;

While Envy waved her burning brand, The crimson glow of Allan's face

And pour'd her venom round his heart.
Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue;
The drops of death each other chase

Swift is the shaft of Allan's bow:
Adown in agonizing dew.

Whose streaming life-blood stains bis side 1

Dark Oscar's sable crest is low,
Thrice did he raise the goblet high,

The dart has drunk his vital tide.
And thrice his lips refused to taste ;
For thrice he caught the stranger's eye

And Mora's eye could Allan move,
On his with deadly fury placed.

She bade his wounded pride rebel :

Alas! that eyes which beamed with love, “ And is it thus a brother hails

Should urge the soul to deeds of hell !
A brother's fond remembrance here?
I thus affection's strength prevails,

Lo! seest thou not a lonely tomb,
What might we not expect from fear?”

Which rises o'er a warrior dead ?

It glimmers through the twilight gloom; Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl,

Oh! that is Allan's nuptial bed.
“ Would Oscar now could share our mirth!"
Internal fear appall'd his soul;

Far, distant far, the noble grave
He said, and dash'd the cup to earth.

Which held his clan's great ashes stood;

And o'er his corse no banners wave, "' 'Tis he! I hear my murderer's voice!”

For they were stain'd with kindred blood. Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming form; "A murderer's voice!" the roof replies,

What minstrel gray, what hoary bard,
And deeply swells the bursting storm.

Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise ?

The song is glory's chief reward, The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink,

But who can strike a murderer's praise ? The stranger's gone,-amidst the crew A form was seen in tartan green,

Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand, And tall the shade terrific grew.

No minstrel dare the theme awake;

Guilt would benumb his palsied hand, His waist was bound with a broad belt round,

His harp in shuddering chords would break. His plume of sable stream'd on high ; But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there, No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse, And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye.

Shall sound his glories high in air ;

A dying father's bitter curse,
And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild,

A brother's death groan echoes there.
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 TO THE DUKE OF DORSET.
Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing.

In looking over my papers to select a few additional poerns for this recond Cold was the feast, the revel ceased :

edition, I found the following lives, which I had totally forgotten, compared Who lies upon the stony floor?

in the summer of 1805, a short time previous to my departure from Heston Oblivion preşs'd old Angus' breast, *

They were addressed to a young schoolfollow of high raak, who had been

my frequent companion in some ramblea through the neighboring country i At length his life-pulse throbs once more. however, he never saw the lines, and most probably never will. Ac, an

re-perunal, I found them not worse than some other pieces in the collection, “ Away, away ! let the leech essay

have now published them, for the first time, after a slight revision. To pour the light on Allan's eyes ;" His sand is done,-his race is run;

DORSET! whose early steps with mine have stray'da Oh! never more shall Allan rise!

Exploring every path of Ida's glade,

Whom still affection taught me to defend, • Old Angus presa'd the earth with his breast. First Edition And made me less a tyrant than a friend;

Taough the harsh custom of our youthful band Turn to the annals of a former day,
Bade thee obey, and gave me to command ;* Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires display.
Thee on whose head a few short years will shower One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth,
The gifts of riches and the pride of power ; And callid, proud boast ! the British drama forth
E'en now a name illustrious is thine own,

Another view, not less renown'd for wit;
Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the throne. Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit;
Yet Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul

Bold in the field, and favor'd by the Nine;
To shun fair science, or evade control ;

In every splendid part ordain'd to shine;
Though passive tutors,† fearful to dispraise Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng.
The titled child, whose future breath may raise, The pride of princes, and the boast of song.t
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,

Such were thy fathers; thus preserve their name :
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise. Not heir to titles only, but to fame.

The hours draw nigh, a few brief days will close,
When youthful parasites, who bend the knee To me, this little scene of joys and woes;
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee,

Each knell of Time now warns me to resign
And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn Shades where Hope, Peace and Friendship all were
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn,

mine:
When these declare, “that pomp alone should wait Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue,
On one by birth predestined to be great;

And gild their pinions as the moments flew;
That books were only meant for drudging fools, Peace, that reflection never frown'd away,
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules," By dreams of ill to cloud some future day;
Believe them not, -they point the path to shame, Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell;
And seek to blast the honors of thy name. Alas! they love not long who love so well
Turn to the few in Ida's early throng,

To these adieu ! nor let me linger o'er
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong; Scenes hail'd as exiles hail their native shore,
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth,

Receding slowly:hrough the dark-blue deep,
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep.
Ask thine own heart; 'twill bid thee, boy, forbear;
For well I know that virtue lingers there.

Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part

Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;
Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day,

The coming morrow from thy youthful mind
But now new scenes invite me far away;

Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind. Yes I have mark'd within that generous mind

And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year, A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind. Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphero Ah! though myself by nature haughty, wild, Since the same senate, nay the same debate Whom indescretion hail'd her favorite child; May one day claim our suffrage for the state, Though every error stamps me for her own, We hence may meet, and pass each other by And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone;

With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. Though my proud heart no precept now can tame,

For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, I love the virtues which I cannot claim.

A stranger to thyself, thy weal or wo,

With thee no more again I hope to trace 'Tis not enough, with other sons of power,

The recollection of our early race: To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour: No more, as once, in social hours rejoice, To swell some peerage page in feeble pride, Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice. With long-drawn names that grace no page beside ; Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught Then share with titled crowds the common lot- To veil those feelings which perchance it ought, In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot;

If these—but let me cease the lengthen'd strainWhile nought divides thee from the vulgar dead, Oh! if these wishes are not breathed in vain, Except the dull, cold stone that hides thy head, The guardian seraph who directs thy fate, The mouldering scutcheon, or the herald's roll, Will leave thee glorious as he found thee great. That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll, Where lords, unhonor'd, in the tomb may find One spot, to leave a worthless name behind : There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults

ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN † That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults,

DYING.
A race with old armorial lists o'erspread,
In records destined never to be read.

ANIMULA! vagula, blandula,
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,

Hospes, comesque, corporis, Exalted more among the good and wise,

Quæ nunc abibis in loca? A glorious and a long career pursue,

Pallidula, rigida, nudula, As first in rank, the first in talent too:

Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos, Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;

3

And softly fluttering here and there,
He never sought to clear the air,
But chirupp'd oft, and, free from care,

Tuned to her ear his grateful strain.
Now having passed the gloomy bourno
From whence he never can return,
His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn,

Who sighs, alas ! but sighs in vain.

EQUAL to Jove that youth must be-
Greater than Jove he seems to me
Who, free from jealousy's alarms,
Securely views thy matchless charms.
That cheek which ever dimpling glows,
That mouth from whence such music flows,
To him, alike, are always known,
Reserved for him, and him alone.
Ah! Lesbia! though 'tis death to me,
I cannot choose but look on thee;
But, at the sight, my senses fly:
I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die;
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears,
Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres,
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,
My limbs deny their slight support,
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread,
With deadly languor droops my head,
My ears with tingling echoes ring,
And life itself is on the wing;
My eyes refuse the cheering light,
Their orbs are veil'd in starless night:
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath,
And feels a temporary death.

TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIR

GIL AND TIBULLUS.

Ox! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire:
Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss ;
Nor then my soul should sated be;
Still would I kiss and cling to thee:
Naught should my kiss from thine disserer,
Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever;
E'en though the numbers did exceed
The yellow harvest's countless seed.
To part would be a vain endeavor :
Could I desist ?-ah! never-never.

BY DOMITIUS MARSUS.

He who sublime in epic numbers roll'a,

And he who struck the softer lyre of love, By Death's* unequal hand alike controllid,

Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!

TRANSLATION FROM HORACE.
IMITATION OF TIBULLUS.

ODE 3, LIB. 3
“Sulpicia ad Cerinthum."-Lib. Quarla

THE man of firm and noble soul CRUEL Cerinthus ! does the fell disease

No factious clamors can control; Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please ? No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow Alas ! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain,

Can swerve him from his just intent; That I might live for love and you again;

Gales the warring waves which plough, But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate:

By Auster on the billows spent, By death alone I can avoid your hate.

To curb the Adriatic 'main, • The hand of Death is muid to be unjus or unoqual, as Virgil wn con

Would awe his fix'd determined mind in Fair. derably older than Tibullus at his decease. • Freen the private volume.

• Oaly printed in the private volume.

Ay, and the red right arm of Jove,

No prowling robber lingers here, Hurtling his lightnings from above,

A wandering baby who can fear ?”. With all his terrors then unfurld,

I heard his seeming artless tale, He would unmoved, unawed behold.

I heard his sighs upon the gale: The flames of an expiring world,

My breast was never pity's foe, Again in crashing chaos rollid,

Rut felt for all the baby's wo. In vast promiscuous ruin hurled,

I drew the bar, and by the light Might light his glorious funeral pile:

Young Love, the infant, met my sight,
Still dauntless, midst the wreck of earth he'd smile His bow across his shoulders flung,

And thence his fatal quiver hung,
(Ah ! little did I think the dart
Would rankle soon within my heart.)

With care I tend my weary guest,
TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON. His little fingers chill my breast;

His glossy curls, his azure wing,
TO HIS LYRE.

Which droop with nightly showers, I wring:

His shivering limbs the embers warm; I wish to tune my quivering lyre

And now reviving from the storm, To deeds of fame and notes of fire;

Scarce had he felt his wonted glow, To echo, from its rising swell,

Than swift he seized his slender bow: How heroes fought and nations fell,

“I fain would know, my gentle host," When Atreus' sons advanced to war,

He cried, “if this its strength has lost; Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar;

I fear, relax'd with midnight dews, But still, to martial strains unknown,

The strings their former aid refuse." My lyre recurs to love alone.

With poison tipt, his arrow fies, Fired with the hope of future fame,

Deep in my tortured heart it lies ; I seek some nobler hero's name:

Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd :The dying chords are strung anew,

“My bow can still impel the shaft: To war, to war, my harp is due:

'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it; With glowing strings, the epic strain

Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?" To Jove's great son I raise again; Alcides and his glorious deeds, Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds, All, all in vain; my wayward lyre Wakes silver notes of soft desire.

FRAGMENTS OF SCHOOL EXERCISES. Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms! Adieu the clang of war’s alarms !

FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF ÆSCHYLUR. To other deeds my soul is strung, And sweeter notes shall now be sung;

GREAT Jove, to whose almighty throne My harp shall all its powers reveal,

Both gods and mortals homage pay, To tell the tale my heart must feel;

Ne'er may my soul thy power disown, Love, love alone, my lyre shall claim,

Thy dread behest ne'er disobey.
In songs of bliss and sighs of fame.

Oft shall the sacred victim fall
In sea-girt ocean's mossy hall;

My voice shall raise no impious strain

'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main. ODE III.T

How different now thy joyless fate,

Since first Hesione thy bride, 'Twas now the hour when Night had driven

When placed aloft in godlike state, Her car half round yon sable heaven;

The blushing beauty by thy side, Bootes, only, seem'd to roll

Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, His arctic charge around the pole;

And mirthful strains the hours beguiled, While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,

The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep:

Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentleau At this lone hour, the Paphian boy,

frown'd. Descending from the realms of joy,

Harrow, Dec. 1, 1804. Quick to my gate directs his course, And knocks with all his little force. My visions fled, alarm'd I rose,“What stranger breaks my blest repose ?" “ Alas!" replies the wily child,

THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALU& In faltering accents sweetly mild, "A hapless infant here I roam,

A PARAPHRASE FROM THE ÆXEID, LIB. IL Far from my dear maternal home. Oh! shield me from the wintry blast!

Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood, The nightly storm is pouring fast.

Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood; • First published in Houn of Idientes

Well skill'd in fight the quivering lance to wield, Fint printed in Houn of Idledu..

Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field: