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Think on our chilly situation,
And curb the rage for imitation;
Then let us meet, as oft we've done,
Beneath the influence of the sun;
Or, if at midnight I must meet you,
Within your mansion let me greet you:
There we can love for hours together,
Much better, in such snowy weather,
Than placed in all th' Arcadian groves
That ever witness'd rural loves;
Then, if my passion fail to please,
Next night I'll be content to freeze;
No more I'll give a loose to laughter,
But curse my fate for ever after*.

* 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," chapter 16.-" As we were contemplating a painting on a large scale, in which, among other figures, is the uncovered whole length of a warrior, a prudishlooking 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. shrewdly whispered in my ear, that the indecorum was in the remark."

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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;

*This poem was published for the first time in Hours of Idleness. -ED.

* The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of "Jeronymo and Lorenzo," in the first volume of the " Armenian, or GhostSeer." 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, 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.

* While. First edition, when.-ED.
+ Mark. First edition, view.-ED.


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 wheel the bright claymore,
And send the whistling arrow far.


Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair,
Wildly it stream'd 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 control,

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;

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