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I do not, love ! suspect your truth,
With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not;
Warm was the passion of my youth,
No, no, my flame was not pretended;
For, oh 1 I loved you most sincerely; And — though our dream at last is ended —
My bosom still esteems you dearly.
No more we meet In yonder bowers;
Absence has made me prone to roving; But older, firmer hearts than ours
Have found monotony in loving.
Tour cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd,
Your eye for conquest beams prepared,
Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed.
More constant they may prove, indeed;
LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.
[As the author was discharging his pistols In a garden, two ladles ]iassing near the spot were alarmed by the sound of a bullet hissing near them; to one of w hom the following stanzas were addressed the next morning.]1
Doubtless, sweet girl! the hissing lead,
And hurtling 2 o'er thy lovely head.
Surely some envious demon's force,
Impell'd the bullet's viewless course,
Yes! in that nearly fatal hour
The ball obey'd some hell-born guide;
But Heaven, with interposing power.
Yet, as perchance one trembling tear
Upon that thrilling bosom fell;
Extracted from its glistening cell:
Say, what dire penance can atone
Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne,
Might I perform the judge's part.
The sentence I should scarce deplore;
It only would restore a heart
Which but belong'd to thee before.
The least atonement I can make
Is to become no longer free;
Thou shalt be all in all to me.
1 [The occurrence took place nt Southwell, and the beautiful lady to whom the lines were addressed was Miss Houcon.]
But thou, perhaps, may'st now reject
Such expiation of my guilt: Come then, some other mode elect;
Let it be death, or what thou wilt.
Choose then, relentless ! and I swear
Yet hold — one little word forbe«r!
LOVE'S LAST ADIEU.
Ail 2' /M $VjyU. — ANAC8EON.
The roses of love glad the garden of life,
Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilent dew,
Till time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife.
In vain with endearments we soothe the sad heart,
The chance of an hour may command us to part.
Still Hope, breathing peace through the grief-swollen breast,
Will whisper, "Our meeting we yet may renew With this dream of deceit half our sorrow's represt. Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu:
Oh ! mark you yon pair: in the sunshine of youth Love twined round their childhood his flow'rs as they grew;
They flourish awhile in the season of truth,
Sweet lady ! why thus doth a tear steal its way
Yet why do I ask ? —to distraction a prey,
Thy reason has perish'd with love's last adieu!
Oh 1 who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind?
From cities to caves of tic forest he flew: There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind;
The mountains reverberate love's last adieu!
Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy chains
Despair now Inflames the dark tide of his veins;
How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in steel:
Who laughs at the pang which he never can feel.
Youth flies, life decays, even hope Is o'ercast;
No more with love's former devotion we sue: He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast;
The shroud of affection is love's last adieu!
• This word is used by Cray, in his poem to the Fatal Sisters:—
"Iron sleet of arrowy shower
In this life of probation for rapture divine,
From him who has worshipp'd at love's gentle shrine,
Who kneels to the god, on his altar of light
Ills myrtle, an emblem of purest delight;
Is law an infantand in years a boy,
In mind a slave to every vicious joy;
From every sense of shame and virtue wcan'J;
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;
Bamafas 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.
Mario*! why that pensive brow?
] In law every person is an infant who has not attained the age of twenty-one.
1 [" When I wentup to Trinity, In 1805, at the age of seventeen and a halt, T>M miserable and untoward to a degree. I was wretched at leaving Harrow — wretched at going to Cambridge instead of Oxford — wretched from some private domestic circumstances of different kinds; and, consequently, ahout as unsocial as a wolf taken from tho troop." — Diary. Mr. Moore adds," The sort of life which young Byron led at this period, between the dissipations of London and of Cambridge, without a home to welcome, or even the roof oi a single relative to receive him, was but little calculated
Oh! would some modem muse inspire,
OSCAR OF ALVA. =
How sweetly shines through azure skies,
Where Alva's hoary turrets rise,
But often has yon rolling moon
And view'd, at midnight's silent noon.
And on the crlmson'd rocks beneath,
Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death,
While many an eye which ne'er again
Turn'd feebly from the gory plain,
Once to those eyes the lamp of Love,
But now she glimmer'd from above,
Faded is Alva's noble race,
And gray her towers arc seen afar;
alteration of her name, into an English damsel, walking in a garden of their own creation, during the month of December, In a village where the author never passed a winter. Such has been the candour of some Ingenious critics. We would advise these liberal commentators on taste and arbiters of decorum to read Shaktpcare.
1 Having heard that a very severe and Indelicate censure has been passed on the above poem, 1 beg leave to reply in a quotation from an admired work, " Carr's Stranger in France." — " As we were contemplating a painting on a Urge scale. In which, among other figures, is the uncovered whole length of a warrior, a prudish-looking lady, who seemed to have touched the age or desperation, after having attentively surveyed it through her glass, observed to her party, that
No more her heroes urge the chase,
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.
And when that gale is fierce and high,
A sound is heard In yonder hall; It rises hoarsely through the sky,
And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall.
Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs.
But there no more his banners rise,
Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth,
The vassals round their chieftain's hearth
They feast upon the mountain deer,
To gladden more their highland cheer,
And they who heard the war-notes wild
Should play before the hero's child
Another year is quickly past.
And Angus halls 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,
And left their hounds in speed behind.
But ere their years of youth are o'er,
They lightly wheel the bright claymore.
Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair.
But Allan's locks were bright and fair,
But Oscar own'd a hero's soul.
His dark eye shone through beams of truth; Allan had early learo'd control.
And smooth his words had been from youth.
there was a great deal of indecorum in that picture. S. shrewdly whispered in my ear,' that the indecorum was In the remark.'"
* The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of " Jeronyme and Lorenio," in the first volume of Schiller's " Armenian, or the Ghost-Seer." It also bears some
resemblance to a scene in the third act of'
9 [Lord Byron falls Into a very common error, that of mistaking pibroch, which means a particular sort of tune, for rite instrument on which It Is played, the bagpipe. Almost rrrrr foreign tourist, Nodlcr. for example, does the same- The reader will find this little slip noticed in the article from the Edinburgh Review appended to these pages.]
Both, both were brave: the Saxon spear
And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear,
While Allan's soul belied his form,
Keen as the lightning of the storm,
From high Southannon's distant tower
With Kenneth's lands to form her dower,
And Oscar clalm'd the beauteous bride,
It soothed the father's feudal pride
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
Each youth his varied plaid assumes,
It is not war their aid demands,
To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands,
But where is Oscar? sure't is late:
While thronging guests and ladies wait,
At length young Allan join'd the bride:
"Is he not here?" the youth replied;
"Perchance, forgetful of the day,
Or ocean's waves prolong his stay;
"Oh, no!" the anguish'd sire rejoin'd,
Would he to Mora seem unkind?
"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
It rises on the murmuring gale,
It breaks the stillness of the nlgft,
It sounds through morning's misty light,
But who Is he, whose darken'd brow
Glooms in the midst of general mirth?
The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth.
Dark is the robe which wraps his form,
And tall his plume of gory red;
T is noon of night, the pledge goes round,
The bridegroom's health is deeply quaff'd;
Sudden the stranger-chief arose,
And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd;
"Old man !" he cried, "this pledge is done;
Thou saw'st't was duly drunk by me:
Now will I claim a pledge from thee.
"While all around is mirth and joy,
To bless thy Allan's happy lot,
Say, why should Oscar be forgot?"
"Alas!" the hapless sire replied,
*' When Oscar left my hall, or died,
"Thrice has the earth revolved her course
And Allan is my last resource,
Since martial Oscar's death or flight."
""T is well," replied the stranger stern,
"Thy Oscar's fate I fain would learn;
"Perchance, if those whom most he loved
Perchance the chief has only roved;
"Fill high the bowl the table round,
With wine let every cup be crown'd;
«' With all my soul," old Angus said,
"Here's to my boy 1 alive or dead,
"Bravely, old man, this health has sped;
But why does Allan trembling stand?
And raise thy cup with firmer hand."
1 Beltane Tree, a Highland festival on the first of May, held near fires lighted for the occasion. [Utai-tain means
The crimson glow of Allan's face
The drops of death each other chase
Thrice did he raise the goblet high,
For thrice he caught the stranger's eye
"And is it thus a brother hails
A brother's fond remembrance here?
If thus affection's strength prevails,
Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl,
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 furm. "A murderer's voice !" the roof replies,
And deeply swells the bursting storm.
The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink.
A form was seen in tartan green.
His waist was bound with a broad belt round,
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,
Whom shivering crowds with horror see.
The bolts loud roll, from pole to pole,
And the gleaming form, through the mist of the storm.
Cold was the feast, the revel ceased,
Who lies upon the stony floor? Oblivion press'd old Angus' breast,
At length his life-pulse throbs once more.
"Away, away: let the leech essay
His sand is done,—his race is run;
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.
But no oA doubts the form of flame.
the fire of Baal, and the name still origin of this Celtic superstition.]