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Roused by the sneer, he rais'd the bowl; "Would Oscar now could share our mirth!"

Internal fear appall'd his soul,

He said, and dash'd the cup to earth.

** Tis 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;" His sand is done, his race is run, Oh! never more shall Allan rise!

But Oscar's breast is cold as clay,
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.

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! seest thou not a lonely tomb,

Which rises o'er a warrior dead!
It glimmers through the twilight gloom;
Oh! that is Allan'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 gray, 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 DORSET.

In looking over my papers, to select a few additional Poems for the 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 Harrow. 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, he 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 have now published them, for the first time, after a slight revision.

DORSET! 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 Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower

The gift of riches, and the pride of power; Even now a name illustrious is thine own, Renown'd in rank,not far beneath the throne. Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul, To shun fair science, or evade control; Though passive tutors, fearful to dispraise

Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow:
Whose streaming life-blood stains his The titled child, whose future breath may

side?

Dark Oscar's sable crest is low,

raise,

The dart has drunk his vital tide.

View ducal errors with indulgent eyes, And wink at faults they tremble to chastiso.

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To wealth, their golden idol,--not to thee! And,even in simple boyhood's opening dawn, Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn: When these declare, "that pomp alone should wait

On one by birth predestined to be great; That books were only meant for drudging fools,

That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;" Believe them not, they point the path to shame,

And seek to blast the honours of thy name: Turn to the few, in Ida's early throng, Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong;

Or, if amidst the comrades of thy youth, None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, Ask thine own heart! 'twill bid thee, boy, forbear,

For well I know that virtue lingers there.

Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day,

But now new scenes invite me far away; Yes! I have mark'd, within that generous mind,

A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind; Ah! though myself by nature haughty,wild, Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child;

Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun, Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son. Turn to the annals of a former day, Bright are the deeds thine earlier Sires display;

One, though a Courtier,lived a man of worth, And call'd, proud boast! the British Drama forth.

Another view! not less renown'd for Wit Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit; Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine, In every splendid part ordain'd to shine; Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng,

The pride of Princes, and the boast of Song. Such were thy Fathers, thus preserve their

name,

Not heir to titles only, but to Fame. The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close,

To me, this little scene of joys and woes; Each knell of Time now warns me to resign Shades, where Hope, Peace and Friendship, all were mine;

Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, And gild their pinions, as the moments flew; Peace, that reflection never frown'd away, By dreams of ill, to cloud some future day; Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell,

Alas! they love not long, who love so well. To these adieu! nor let me linger o'er Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore, Though every error stamps me for her own, Receding slowly through the dark blue deep, And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone; | Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. Though my proud heart no precept now can tame,

I love the virtues which I cannot claim. 'Tis not enough, with other Sons of power, To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour, To swell some peerage-page in feeble pride, With long-drawn names, that grace no page beside;

Then share with titled crowds the common lot,

In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot; While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead,

Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head,

The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the Herald's roll,

That well-emblazon'd, but neglected scroll, Where Lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find

One spot to leave a worthless name behind; -
There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults
That veil their dust, their follies, and
their faults;

A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread,
In records destined never to be read.
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,
Exalted more among the good and wise;
A glorious and a long career pursue,
As first in Rank, the first in Talent too;

DORSET! farewell! I will not ask one part Of sad remenbrance in so young a heart; The coming morrow from thy youthful mind, Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.

And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year, Since chance has thrown us in the selfsame sphere,

Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,
May one day claim our suffrage for the state,
We hence may meet, and pass each other by
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye.
For me, in future, neither friend or foe,
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe;
With thee no more again I hope to trace
The recollection of our early race;
No more, as once, in social hours, rejoice,
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known
voice.

Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught
To veil those feelings, which perchance,
it ought;

If these, but let me cease the lengthen'd strain,

Oh! if these wishes are not breathed in vain, The Guardian Seraph, who directs thy fate. Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great.

TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS.

ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL, TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.

WHEN DYING.

ANIMULA! vagula, blandula, Hospes comesque corporis,. Quæ nunc abibis in loca? Pallidula, rigida, nudula, Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos.

AH! 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.

AD LESBIAM.

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.

LUCTUS DE MORTE PASSERIS.

YE Cupids, droop each little head,
Nor let your wings with joy be spread;
My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead,

Whom dearer than her eyes she loved;
For he was gentle, and so true,
Obedient to her call he flew,
No fear, no wild alarm he knew,

But lightly o'er her bosom moved: And softly fluttering here and there, He never sought to cleave the air; But chirrup'd oft, and free from care,

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

Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain. Oh! curst be thon, devouring grave! Whose jaws eternal victims crave, From whom no earthly power can save, 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.

TO ELLEN.

On! 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:
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever,
Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever;
E'en though the number did exceed
The yellow harvest's countless seed;
To part would be a vain endeavour,
Could I desist?-ah! never-never,

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Or Tyrlan Cadmus roved afar;
But, still, to martial strains unknown,
My lyre recurs to love alone.
Fired with the hope of future fame,
I seek some nobler hero's name;
The dying chords are strung anew,
To war, to war my harp is due;
With glowing strings the epic strain
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.
Adieu! ye chiefs renown'd in arms!
Adieu! the clang of war's alarms.
To other deeds my soul is strung,
And sweeter notes shall now be sung;
My harp shall all its powers reveal,
To tell the tale my heart must feel;
Love, love alone, my lyre shall claim,
In songs of bliss, and sighs of flame.

ODE III.

'Twas now the hour, when Night had driven Her car half round yon sable heaven; Bootes, only, seem'd to roll

His Arctic charge around the Pole;
While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,
Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep;
At this lone hour the Paphian boy,
Descending from the realms of joy,
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,
In faultering accents, sweetly mild;
"A hapless infant here I roam,
Far from my dear maternal home;
Oh! shield me from the wintery blast,
The mighty storm is pouring fast;
No prowling robber lingers here;
A wandering baby, who can fear?"
I heard his seeming artless tale,
I heard his sighs upon the gale;
My breast was never pity's foe,
But felt for all the baby's woe;
I drew the bar, and by the light,
Young Love, the infant, met my sight;
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,
His little fingers chill my breast;
His glossy curls, his azure wing,
Which droop with nightly showers, I wring;
His shivering limbs the embers warm,
And now, reviving from the storm,
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow,
Than swift he seized his slender bow:
"I fain would know, my gentle host,"

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A PARAPHRASE FROM THE ENEID, LIB. 9.

Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood, Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood; Well skill'd in fight, the quivering lance to wield,

Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field;

From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave,
And sought a foreign home, a distant grave;
To watch the movements of the Daunian
host,

With him, Euryalus sustains the post:
No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy,
And beardless bloom yet graced the gallant
boy;

Though few the seasons of his youthful life.
As yet a novice in the martial strife.
'Twas his, with beauty valour's gift to share,
A soul heroic, as his form was fair;
These burn with one pure flame of generous
love,

In peace, in war, united still they move; Friendship and glory form their joint reward. And now combined they hold the nightly

guard.

“What God!” exclaim'd the first, "instils this fire?

Or, in itself a God, what great desire?
My labouring soul, with anxious thought
opprest,

Abhors this station of inglorious rest:
The love of fame with this can ill accord,
Be't mine to seek for glory with my sword.
Seest thou yon camp, with torches twink-
ling dim,

Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy limb?

Where confidence and ease the watch disdain, And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign? Then hear my thought :-In deep and sullen grief,

Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief;

Now could the gifts and promised prize be thine

The deed,the danger,and the fame be mine); Were this decreed;- beneath yon rising mound,

Methinks,an easy path perchance were found,
Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' walls,
And lead Æneas from Evander's halls.”
With equal ardour fired, and warlike joy,
His glowing friend address'd the Dardan boy:
These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thou dare
alone?

Must all the fame, the peril be thine own?
And I by thee despised, and left afar,
As one unfit to share the toils of war?
Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught,
Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought;
Not thus, when Ilion fell, by heavenly hate,
I track'd Æneas through the walls of fate;
Thou knowst my deeds, my breast devoid
of fear,

Or wealth redeem from foes my captive corse:
Or, if my destiny these last deny,
If in the spoiler's power my ashes lie,
Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb,
To mark thy love, and signalize my doom.
Why should thy doating wretched mother
weep

Her only boy, reclined in endless sleep?
Who, for thy sake, the tempest's fury dared,
Who,for thy sake, war's deadly peril shared;
Who braved what woman never braved
before,

And left her native for the Latian shore." “In vain you damp the ardour of my soul," Replied Euryalus, "it scorns control; Hence, let us haste," their brotherguards arose,

Roused by their call, nor court again repose; The pair,buoy'd up on Hope's exulting wing, Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king.

Now, o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran, And lull'd alike the cares of brute and man; Save where the Dardan leaders nightly hold Alternate converse, and their plans unfold; On one great point the council are agreed, An instant message to their prince decreed; Each lean'd upon the lance he well could wield,

And poised, with easy arm,his ancient shield; When Nisus and his friend their leave request To offer something to their high behest. With anxious tremors, yet unawed by fear, The faithful pair before the throne appear; Iulus greets them; at his kind command, The elder first address'd the hoary band.

"With patience," thus Hyrtacides began, "Attend, nor judge from youth, our humble plan;

And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear;
Here is a soul with hope immortal burns
And life, ignoble life, for Glory spurns; Where yonder beacons, half-expiring, beam,
Fame, fame is cheaply earn'd by fleeting Our slumbering foes of future conquest

breath,

dream,

The price of honour is the sleep of death." | Nor heed that we a secret path have traced,
Then Nisus "Calm thy bosom's fond alarms, Between the ocean and the portal placed:
Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms; | Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke,
More dear thy worth and valour than my own,
I swear by him who fills Olympus' throne!
So may I triumph, as I speak the truth,
And clasp again the comrade of my youth.
But should I fall, and he who dares advance Where Pallas' walls, at distance, meet the
Through hostile legions must abide by

chance; If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow, Should lay the friend who ever loved thee low;

Live thou, such beauties I would fain pre

serve,

Thy budding years a lengthened term deserve;

When humbled in the dust, let some one be, Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me; Whose manly arm may snatch me back by force,

Whose shade securely our design will cloak. If you, ye Chiefs, and Fortune will allow, We'll bend our course to yonder mountain's brow;

sight,

Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by night;

Then shall Æneas in his pride return, While hostile matrons raise their offsprings'

urn,

And Latian spoils, and purpled heaps of dead, Shall mark the havoc of our hero's tread ; Such is our purpose, not unknown the way, Where yonder torrent's devious waters stray: Oft have we seen, when hunting by the

stream,

The distant spires above the valleys gleam."

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