Think on our chilly, situation, TO MARION. MARION! why that pensive brow? What disgust to life hast thou? Change that discontented air; Frowns become not one so fair. 'Tis not love disturbs thy rest, Love's a stranger to thy breast; He in dimpling smiles appears, Or mourns in sweetly timid tears, Or bends the languid eyelid down, But shuns the cold forbidding frown. Then resume thy former fire, Some will love, and all admire; While that icy aspect chills us, Nought but cool indifference thrills us. Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile? Smile at least, or seem to smile. Eyes like thine were never meant To hide their orbs in dark restraint; Spite of all thou fain wouldst say, Still in truant beams they play. Thy lips but here my modest Muse Her impulse chaste must needs refuse: She blushes, curtsies, frowns,-in short she Dreads lest the subject should transport me; And, flying off in search of reason, Brings prudence back in proper season. All I shall therefore say (whate'er I think, is neither here nor there) Is, that such lips, of looks endearing, Were form'd for better things than sneering. Of soothing compliments divested, Advice at least's disinterested: Such is my artless song to thee, From all the flow of flattery free. Counsel like mine is as a brother's, My heart is given to some others; (1) Having heard that a very severe and indelicate censure has been passed on the above poem, I beg leave to reply in a quotation from an admired work, Carr's Stranger in France. As we were contemplating a painting on a large 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 of desperation, after having attentively surveyed it through her glass, observed to her party, that there was a great deal of indecorum in that picture. Madame S. shrevdly whispered in my ear, that the indecorum was in the remark.'" (2, in law every person is an infant who has not attained the age of twenty-one. (3) "When I went up to Trinity, in 1905, at the age of seventeen and a half, I was miserable and untoward to a degree. I was wretched at leaving Harrow-wretched at going That is to say, unskill'd to cozen, DAMÆTAS. In law an infant (2), and in years a boy, In mind a slave to every vicious joy; From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd; Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child; OSCAR OF ALVA. (4) A TALE. How sweetly shines, through azure skies, 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; to Cambridge instead of Oxford-wretched from some private domestic circumstances of different kinds; and, consequently, about as unsocial as a wolf taken from the 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 of a single relative to receive him, was but little calculated to render him satisfied either with himself or the world. Unrestricted as he was by deference to any will but his own, even the pleasures to which he was naturally most inclined prematurely palled upon him, for want of those best zests of all enjoyment-rarity and restraint." L. E. (4) The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of Jeronymo and Lorenzo," 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 Macbeth. While many an eye, which ne'er again Could mark the rising orb of day, Gnce to those eyes the lamp of Love, A sad, funereal torch of night. 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? Her towers resound no steps of man, They echo to the gale alone. 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. They feast upon the mountain deer, The pibroch raised its piercing note; (1) To gladden more their Highland cheer, The strains in martial numbers float: And they who heard the war-notes wild Hoped that one day the pibroch's strain Should play before the hero's child, While he should lead the tartan train. Another year is quickly past, And Angus hails another son; Nor soon the jocund feast was don?. But ere their years of youth are o'er, They mingle in the ranks of war; Wildly it stream'd along the gale; But Oscar own'd a hero's soul, His dark eye shone through beams of truth; Allan had early learn'd control, And smooth his words had been from youth. (1) Lord Byron falls into a very common error, that of mistaking pibroch, which means a particular sort of tune, for the instrument on which it is played, the bagpipe. Almost Both, both were brave; the Saxon spear But Oscar's bosom knew to feel; While Allan's soul belied his form, Unworthy with such charms to dwell: 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 flaine? At length young Allan join'd the bride: "With me he roved not o'er the glade: "Perchance, forgetful of the day, 'T is his to chase he bounding roe; Or ocean's waves prolong his stay; Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow." "Oh, no!" the anguish'd sire rejom'd, "Nor chase, nor wave, my boy delay; Would he to Mora seem unkind? Would aught to her impede his way? "Oh, search, ye chiefs! oh, search around! 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. every foreign tourist, Nodier, for example, does the same. The reader will find this little slip noticed in the article from the Edinburgh Review appended.-L. E. 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, The thunders through the welkin ring, [storm, At length his life-pulse throbs once more. "Away! away! let the leech essay To pour the light on Allan's eyes:" His locks are lifted by the gale; 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. 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: Which rises o'er a warrior dead? Which held his clan's great ashes stood; What minstrel grey, what hoary bard, Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise? The song is glory's chief reward, Shall sound his glories high in air: A brother's death-groan, echoes there. THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALUS. NISUS, the guardian of the portal, stood, And sought a foreign home, a distant grave. "What god," exclaim'd the first, "instils this fire? Or, in itself a god, what great desire? My labouring soul, with anxious thought oppress'd, 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? Am 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 walks of fate: Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid of fear, And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear. Here is a soul with hope immortal burns, And life, ignoble life, for glory spurns. Fame, fame is cheaply earn'd by fleeting breath: Then Nisus,-" Calm thy bosom's fond alarms: If in the spoiler's power my ashes lie, Now o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran, "With patience" (thus Hyrtacides began) "Attend, nor judge from youth our humble plan. Where yonder beacons half-expiring beam, Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream, Nor heed that we a secret path have traced, Between the ocean and the portal placed. Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke, 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, Where Pallas' walls at distance meet the sight, Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by night: Then shall Æneas in his pride return, While hostile matrons raise their offspring's urn; And Latian spoils and purpled heaps of dead Shall mark the havoc of our hero's tread. Sich 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." Mature in years, for scber wisdom famed, Moved by the speech, Alethes here exclaim'd"Ye parent gods! who rule the fate of Troy, Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy; When minds like these in striplings thus ye raise, Yours is the godlike act, be yours the praise; In gallant youth, my fainting hopes revive, And Ilion's wonted glories still survive." Then in his warm embrace the boys he press'd, And, quivering, strain'd them to his aged breast; With tears the burning cheek of each bedew'd, And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd: "What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize Can we bestow, which you may not despise? Our deities the first best boon have givenInternal virtues are the gift of Heaven. What poor rewards can bless your deeds on earth Doubtless await such young exalted worth. Eneas and Ascanius shall combine To yield applause far, far surpassing mine." Nay more, twelve slaves, and twice six captive dames, To him Euryalus:-"No day shall shame |