PROMETHEUS.

TITAN! to whose immortal eyes
The sufferings of mortality,
Seen in their sad reality,

Were not as things that gods despise,
What was thy pity's recompense?
A silent suffering, and intense;

The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
All that the proud can feel of pain,
The agony they do not show,
The suffocating sense of woe,

Which speaks but in its loneliness, And then is jealous lest the sky Should have a listener, nor will sigh Until his voice is echoless.

Thy godlike crime was to be kind,
To render with thy precepts less
The sum of human wretchedness,
And strengthen Man with his own mind;
But baffled as thou wert from high,
Still in thy patient energy,
In the endurance, and repulse

Of thine impenetrable Spirit,

Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse,
A mighty lesson we inherit :
Thou art a symbol and a sign

To mortals of their fate and force;
Like thee Man is in part divine,

A troubled stream from a pure source;
And Man in portions can foresee
His own funereal destiny;
His wretchedness, and his resistance,
And his sad unallied existence :
To which his Spirit may oppose
Itself-and equal to all woes,

And a firm will, and a deep sense
Which even in torture can descry

Its own concentred recompense, Triumphant where it dares defy, And making Death a Victory!

A FRAGMENT.

COULD I remount the river of my years,
To the first fountain of our smiles and tears,
I would not trace again the stream of hours
Between their outworn banks of wither'd flowers,
But bid it flow as now-until it glides
Into the number of the nameless tides.

*

What is this Death ?-a quiet of the heart? The whole of that of which we are a part? For life is but a vision-what I see

Of all that lives alone is life to me;
And being so-the absent are the dead,
Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread
A dreary shroud around us, and invest
With sad remembrances our hours of rest.

The absent are the dead-for they are cold,
And ne'er can be what once we did behold;
And they are changed, and cheerless,-or if yet
The unforgotten do not all forget,
Since thus divided-equal must it be
If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea;
It may be both-but one day end it must,
In the dark union of insensate dust.

The under-earth inhabitants-are they But mingled millions decomposed to clay? The ashes of a thousand ages spread Wherever man has trodden or shall tread? Or do they in their silent cities dwell Each in his incommunicative cell? Or have they their own language? and a sense Of breathless being?-darken'd and intense As midnight in her solitude?-O Earth! Where are the past?-and wherefore had they The dead are thy inheritors-and we [birth? But bubbles on thy surface; and the key Of thy profundity is in the grave, The ebon portal of thy peopled cave, Where I would walk in spirit, and behold Our elements resolved to things untold, And fathon-hidden wonders, and explore The essence of great bosoms now no more.

'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 grey 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.
'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.
But who is he, whose darken'd brow
Glooms in the midst of general mirth?
Before his eyes' far fiercer glow

The blue flames cardle o'er the hearth.
Dark is the robe which wraps his form,
And tall his plume of gory red;
His voice is like the rising storm,

But light and trackless is his tread.
"Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round,
The bridegroom's health is deeply quaff'd ;
With shouts the vaulted roofs resound,

And all combine to hail the draught. Sudden the stranger-chief arose,

And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd; And Angus' cheek with wonder glows,

And Mora's tender bosom blush'd. 'Old man!' he cried, this pledge is done; Thou saw'st 'twas duly drank by me : It hail'd the nuptials of thy son: Now will I claim a pledge from thee. 'While all around is mirth and joy,

To bless thy Allan's happy lot,
Say, hadst thou ne'er another boy?
Say, why should Oscar be forgot?'
'Alas! the hapless sire replied,

The big tear starting as he spoke, 'When Oscar left my hall, or died,

This aged heart was almost broke. 'Thrice has the earth revolved her course Since Oscar's form has bless'd my sight; And Allan is my last resource,

Since martial Oscar's death or flight.' 'Tis well,' replied the stranger stern, And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye; 'Thy Oscar's fate I fain would learn: Perhaps the hero did not die. 'Perchance, if those whom most he loved Would call, thy Oscar might return; Perchance the chief has only roved; For him thy beltane yet may burn.* 'Fill high the bowl the table round, We will not claim the pledge by stealth; With wine let every cup be crown'd; Pledge me departed Oscar's health.'

Beltane Tree, a Highland festival on the first of May, held near fires lighted for the occasion.

With all my soul,' old Angus said, And fill'd his goblet to the brim: 'Here's to my boy! alive or dead,

I ne'er shall find a son like him.'

'Bravely, old man, this health has sped;
But why does Allan trembling stand?
Come, drink remembrance of the dead,
And raise thy cup with firmer hand.'
The crimson glow of Allan's face

Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue:
The drops of death each other chase
Adown in agonizing dew.

Thrice did he raise the goblet high,

And thrice his lips refused to taste;
For thrice he caught the stranger's eye
On his with deadly fury placed.
And is it thus a brother hails

A brother's fond remembrance here;
If thus affection's strength prevails,

What might we not expect from fear?' 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,
His plume of sable stream'd on high; [there,
But his breast was bare, with the red wounds
.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 ground,
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 press'd 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;
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 grey, 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 hailow'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.

A PARAPHRASE FROM THE ÆNEID, LIB. IX.
NISUS, the guardian of the portal, stood,
Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood;
Well skill'd in fight 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 him 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-
A soul heroic, as his form was fair:
These burn with one pure flame of generous love;
In peace, in war, united still they move;
Friendship and glory form their joint reward;
And now combined they hold their nightly guard.