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In law an infant, and in years a boy,
In mind a slave to every vicious joy,
From every sense of shame and virtue

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, tho' scarcely broke from

Damætas 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


But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain,

And, what was once his bliss', appears his bane.


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;
That is to say, unskill'd to cozen,
It shares itself amongst a dozen.
Marion! adieu! oh! prithee slight not
This warning, though it may delight not;
And, lest my precepts be displeasing

To those who think remonstrance teazing,
At once I'll tell thee our opinion,
Concerning woman's soft dominion:
Howe'er we gaze with admiration,
On eyes of blue, or lips carnation;
Howe'er the flowing locks attract us,
Howe'er those beauties may distract us;
Still fickle, we are prone to rove,
These cannot fix our souls to love;
It is not too severe a stricture,
To say they form a pretty picture.
But wouldst thou see the secret chain,
Which binds us in your humble train,
To hail you queens of all creation,
Know, in a word, 'tis ANIMATION.



How sweetly shines, through azure skies, The lamp of Heaven on Lora's shore ; Where Alva's hoary turrets rise,

And hear the din of arms no more.

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.

While many an eye, which ne'er again Could mark the rising orb of day, Turn'd feebly from the gory plain,

Beheld in death her fading ray.

Once, to those eyes the lamp of Love,
They blest her dear propitious light:
But, now, she glimmer'd from above,
A sad funereal torch of night.

Faded is Alva's noble race,

And gray 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,
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,
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, 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, 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,
The boys in childhood chased the roe,
And left their hounds in speed behind.

But, ere their years of youth are o'er,

They mingle in the ranks of war; They lightly wield the bright claymore, And send the whistling arrow far.

Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair,

Wildly it streamed along the gale; But Allan's locks were bright and fair, And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale.

But Oscar own'd a hero's soul,

His dark eye shone through beams of truth; Allan had early learn'd controul,

And smooth his words had been from youth.

Both, both were brave: the Saxon spear
Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel;
And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear,
But Oscar's bosom knew to feel.

While Allan's soul belied his form, Unworthy with such charms to dwell; Keen as the lightning of the storm,

On foes his deadly vengeance fell.

From high Southannon's distant tower
Arrived a young and noble dame;
With Kenneth's land to form her dower,
Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came:

And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride,
And Angus on his Oscar smiled;
It soothed the father's feudal pride,
Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child.

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 Assembled wave in Alva's hall; Each youth his varied plaid assumes, Attending on their chieftain's call.

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 'tis late:

Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame? While thronging guests and ladies wait, Nor Oscar nor his brother came.

At length young Allan join'd the bride: "Why comes not Oscar?" Angus said; "Is he not here?" the Youth replied, "With me he roved not o'er the glade.

Perchance, forgetful of the day,

'Tis his to chase the bounding roe; Or Ocean's waves prolong his stay, Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow."

"Oh! no!" the anguish'd Sire rejoin'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!
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 murmuring 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 Heaven!
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: T'arraign my fate, my voice forbear; O God! my impious prayer forgive.

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

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

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.

Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow:

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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

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


Bade thee obey, and gave me to command
Thee, on whose head a few short years will

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

Whose streaming life-blood stains his The titled child, whose future breath may


Dark Oscar's sable crest is low,


The dart has drunk his vital tide.

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

When youthful parasites, who bend the


Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun, Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son. To wealth, their golden idol,-not to thee! Turn to the annals of a former day, And,even in simple boyhood's opening dawn, | Bright are the deeds thine earlier Sires 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


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;

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 tàme,

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;


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


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, 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 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

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