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 murm'ring 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, 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 gray-torn ringlets wave.

"Oscar! my son!-thou God of Heav'n Restore the prop of sinking age!

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

"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; Taraign 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? "

Thus did the hapless parent mourn,

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,
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 more
In fruitless hope was pass'd away,
His fondest scruples 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 songs of mirth reecho loud,
And all their former joy recall.

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 quaff'd; 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 'twas duly drank 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 bless'd my sight; And Allan is my last resource,

Since martial Oscar's death or flight."

""Tis 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 he most 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;

• Beltane Tree, a Highland festival on the first of May, held near t lighted for the occasion.

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 each 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.

""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 nole,

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 press'd 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!

• Old Angus press'd the earth with his breast. First Edition.

In looking over my papers to select a few additional poems for this 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 Hasrat They were addressed to a young schoolfellow of high rank, who had been my frequent companion in some rambles through the neighboring country; however, he never saw the lines, and most probably never will. As, on re-perusal, I found them not worse than some other pieces in the collection, 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 gifts of riches and the pride of power;
E'en 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
The titled child, whose future breath may raise,
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise.

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 indescretion hail'd her favorite child;
Though every error stamps me for her own,
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone;
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, unhonor'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:
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;
Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son.

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

Turn to the annals of a former day,

429

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 favor'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.t
Such were thy fathers; thus preserve their name:
Not heir to titles only, but to fame.

The hours draw 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,
Receding slowly through the dark-blue deep,
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep.
Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part
Of sad remembrance 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 self-same sphero
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 nor foe,
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or wo,
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.

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,

• Thomas Sackville, Lord Backhurst, created Earl of Dorset, by James the First, was one of the earliest and brightest ornaments to the poetry of his country, and the first who produced a regular drama.-Anderson's British Poets.

↑ Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset, esteemed the most accomplised 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

See the same line in Lara, stanza 11.

celebrated song. His character has been drawn in the highest colors by Dryden, Pope, Prior, and Congreve.-Anderson's British Poets.

TRANSLATION.

AH! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, Friend and associate of this clay !

To what unknown region borne, Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? No more with wonted humor 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.

TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS.

BY DOMITIUS MARSUS.

He who sublime in epic numbers roll'd,

And he who struck the softer lyre of love, By Death's unequal hand alike controll'd, Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!

YE Cupids, droop each little head,
Nor let your wings with joy be spread;
My Lesbia's favorite 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 clear the air,
But chirupp'd oft, and, free from care,

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

Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain.

Oh! curst be thou, 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 wo, Receptacle of life's decay.

IMITATED FROM CATULLUS.

TO ELLEN.

OH! 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 dissever,
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.

siderably older than Tibullus at his decease.

• From the private volurse.

• Only printed in the private volume.