DAMÆTAS. In law an infant, and in years a boy, In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend; Damætas ran through all the maze of sin, bowl: But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain, And, what was once his bliss', appears his bane. TO MARION. MARION! why that pensive brow? To those who think remonstrance teazing, OSCAR OF ALVA. A TALE. 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, 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? They echo to the gale alone. And, when that gale is fierce and high, Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs, ! Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth, 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, 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 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 And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride, Hark! to the pibroch's pleasing note, 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! All is confusion,-through the vale, 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; "Oscar! my Son!-Thou God of Heaven! 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. Roused by the sneer, he rais'd 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 Form; “A murderer's voice!" the roof replies, And deeply swells the bursting storm. The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink, And tall the shade terrific grew. His waist was bound with a broad belt round, And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye. And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild, 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; “Away, away, let the leech essay, To pour the light on Allan's eyes;" But Oscar's breast is cold as clay, With him in dark Glentanar's vale. And whence the dreadful stranger came, Ambition nerved young Allan's hand, Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow: 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, band Bade thee obey, and gave me to command The gift of riches, and the pride of power; 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, When youthful parasites, who bend the knee 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 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; 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;- A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread, 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, 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, |