Oh! would some modern muse inspire,
And seat ber by a sea-coal fire;

Or had the bard at Christmas written,
And laid the scene of love in Britain,
He surely, in commiseration,
Had changed the place of declaration.
In Italy I've no objection;

Warm nights are proper for refection;
But here our climate is so rigid,
That love itself is rather frigid:
Think on our chilly situation,
And curb this 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. 1

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,
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;

alteration of her name, into an English damsel, walking in a garden of their own creation, during the month of December, in a village where the author never passed a winter. Such has been the candour of some ingenious critics. We would advise these liberal commentators on taste and arbiters of decorum to read Shakspeare.

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

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: 3 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.

there was a great deal of indecorum in that picture. Madame S. shrewdly whispered in my ear, that the indecorum was in the remark.'

The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of Jeronyme 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."

3 [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 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 to these pages.]

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 lands 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 't is 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;
Tul 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,
T

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; T' arraign 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, which 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 lovers' 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 sounds of mirth re-echo loud,
And all their former joy recall.

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; Alas! that eyes which beam'd with love Should urge the soul to deeds of hell.

Lo! seest thou not a lonely tomb

Which rises o'er a warrior dead?

It glimmers through the twilight gloom; Oh! that is Allan's nuptial bed.

Far, distant far, the noble grave

Which held his clan's great ashes stood; And o'er his corse no banners wave,

For they were stain'd with kindred blood.

What minstrel gray, what hoary bard,

Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise ? The song is glory's chief reward,

But who can strike a murderer's praise?

Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand,
No minstrel dare the theme awake;
Guilt would benumb his palsied hand,
His harp in shuddering chords would break.

No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse,
Shall sound his glories high in air:
A dying father's bitter curse,
A brother's death-groan echoes there.

THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALUS, ▲ PARAPHRASE FROM THE ÆNEID, LIB. IX.

Kiss, the guardian of the portal, stood,
Lager to gild his arms with hostile blood;
Well skill'd in 6ght the quivering lance to wield,
¦ Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field :
From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave,
And sought a foreign home, a distant grave.
To watch the movements of the Daunian host,
With hem Euryalus sustains the post;
No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy,
And beardless bloom yet graced the gallant boy;
Though few the seasons of his youthful life,
As yet a novice in the martial strife,
Twas his, with beauty, valour's gifts to share-
Awal beruic, as his form was fair:

These burn with one pure flame of generous love;
le prace, in war, united still they move;
Friendship and glory form their joint reward;
And now combined they hold their nightly guard.

• What god." exclaim'd the first, "instils this fire? Or, in itsif a god, what great desire?

My labouring soul, with anxious thought oppress'd, Abbors this station of inglorious rest;

The love of fame with this can ill accord,
Be 't mine to seek for glory with my sword.
Seest thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dim,
Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy limb?
Where confidence and ease the watch disdain,
And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign?
Then hear my thought: In deep and sullen grief
Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief:
Now could the gifts and promised prize be thine
(The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine),
Were this decreed, beneath yon rising mound,
Methinks, an easy path perchance were found;
Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' walls,
And lead Æneas from Evander's halls."

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: The price of honour is the sleep of death."

Then Nisus," Calm thy bosom's fond alarms,
Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms.
More dear thy worth and valour than my own,
I swear by him who fills Olympus' throne!
So may I triumph, as I speak the truth,
And clasp again the comrade of my youth!
But should I fall,-and he who dares advance
Through hostile legions must abide by chance, —
If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow,
Should lay the friend who ever loved thee low,
Live thou, such beauties I would fain preserve,
Thy budding years a lengthen'd term deserve.
When humbled in the dust, let some one be,
Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me;
Whose manly arm may snatch me back by force,
Or wealth redeem from foes my captive corse;
Or, if my destiny these last deny,

If in the spoiler's power my ashes lie,
Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb,
To mark thy love, and signalize my doom.
Why should thy doting wretched mother weep
Her only boy, reclined in endless sleep?
Who, for thy sake, the tempest's fury dared,
Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril shared ;
Who braved what woman never braved before,
And left her native for the Latian shore."
"In vain you damp the ardour of my soul,"
Replied Euryalus; "it scorns control!
Hence, let us haste!"—their brother guards arose,
Roused by their call, nor court again repose;
The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exulting wing,
Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king.

Now o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran, And lull'd alike the cares of brute and man;

Save where the Dardan leaders nightly hold
Alternate converse, and their plans unfold.
On one great point the council are agreed,
An instant message to their prince decreed;
Each lean'd upon the lance he well could wield,
And poised with easy arm his ancient shield;
When Nisus and his friend their leave request
To offer something to their high behest.
With anxious tremors, yet unawed by fear,
The faithful pair before the throne appear:
Iulus greets them; at his kind command,
The elder first address'd the hoary band.

"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, Scen o'er the glade, when not obscured by night. Then shall Eneas 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. Such 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 sober 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." Iulus then :-" By all the powers above! By those Penates who my country love! By hoa Vesta's sacred fane, I swear, My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair! Restore my father to my grateful sight, And all my sorrows yield to one delight. Nisus! two silver goblets are thine own, Saved from Arisba's stately domes o'erthrown ! My sire secured them on that fatal day, Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey: Two massy tripods, also, shall be thine; Two talents polish'd from the glittering mine; An ancient cup, which Tyrian Dido gave, While yet our vessels press'd the Punic wave:

But when the hostile chiefs at length bow down,
When great Æneas wears Hesperia's crown,
The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed
Which Turnus guides with more than mortal speed,
Are thine; no envious lot shall then be cast,

I pledge my word, irrevocably past:

Nay more, twelve slaves, and twice six captive dames,
To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames,
And all the realms which now the Latins sway
The labours of to-night shall well repay.
But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years
Are near my own, whose worth my heart reveres,
Henceforth affection, sweetly thus begun,
Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one;
Without thy aid, no glory shall be mine;
Without thy dear advice, no great design;
Alike through life esteem'd, thou godlike boy,
In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy."

To him Euryalus:-"No day shall shame
The rising glories which from this I claim.
Fortune may favour, or the skies may frown,
But valour, spite of fate, obtains renown.
Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart,
One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart:
My mother, sprung from Priam's royal line,
Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine,
Nor Troy nor king Acestes' realms restrain
Her feeble age from dangers of the main;
Alone she came, all selfish fears above,
A bright example of maternal love.
Unknown the secret enterprise I brave,
Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave;
From this alone no fond adieus I seek,

No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek;
By gloomy night and thy right hand I vow
Her parting tears would shake my purpose now:
Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain,
In thee her much loved child may live again;
Her dying hours with pious conduct bless,
Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress:
So dear a hope must all my soul inflame,
To rise in glory, or to fall in fame."
Struck with a filial care so deeply felt,
In tears at once the Trojan warriors melt:
Faster than all, Iulus' eyes o'erflow;
Such love was his, and such had been his woe.
"All thou hast ask'd, receive," the prince replied;
"Nor this alone, but many a gift beside.
To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim,
Creusa's style but wanting to the dame.
Fortune an adverse wayward course may run,
But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son.
Now, by my life!-my sire's most sacred oath-
To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth,
All the rewards which once to thee were vow'd,
If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be bestow'd."
Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to view
A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew;
Lycaon's utmost skill had graced the steel,
For friends to envy and for foes to feel:
A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil,
Slain 'midst the forest, in the hunter's toil,
Mnestheus to guard the elder youth bestows,
And old Alethes' casque defends his brows.