THE RESOLVE. WALTER SCOTT.

IN IMITATION OF AN OLD ENGLISH POEM. 1809.

My wayward fate I needs must plain,
Though bootless be the theme;
I loved, and was beloved again,
Yet all was but a dream:
For, as her love was quickly got,
So it was quickly gone;

No more I'll bask in flame so hot,

But coldly dwell alone.

Not maid more bright than maid was e'er

My fancy shall beguile,

By flattering word, or feigned tear,

By gesture, look, or smile:

No more I'll call the shaft fair shot,
Till it has fairly flown,

Nor scorch me at a flame so hot;-
I'll rather freeze alone.

Each ambush'd Cupid I'll defy,
In cheek, or chin, or brow,
And deem the glance of woman's eye
As weak as woman's vow:
I'll lightly hold the lady's heart,
That is but lightly won;

I'll steel my breast to beauty's art,
And learn to live alone.

The flaunting torch soon blazes out,
The diamond's ray abides,

The flame its glory hurls about,

The gem its lustre hides;

Such gem I fondly deem'd was mine,

And glow'd a diamond stone;

But, since each eye may see it shine,
I'll darkling dwell alone.

No waking dream shall tinge my thought
With dyes so bright and vain,

No silken net, so slightly wrought,

Shall tangle me again :

No more I'll pay so dear for wit,

I'll live upon mine own;

Nor shall wild passion trouble it,--
I'll rather dwell alone.

And thus I'll hush my heart to rest,—
"Thy loving labour's lost;
Thou shalt no more be wildly blest,

To be so strangely crost:
The widow'd turtles mateless die,
The phoenix is but one;

They seek no loves-no more will I—
I'll rather dwell alone."

ELEGY.-Original.

WITH what delight, 'mid yonder shades serene,
I hear the thrilling minstrelsy of heaven!
To me how soothing is yon kindred scene!
To me how balmy this cool breath of even!

In former years,

'mid these same shades remote,
At the same hour, and self-same season sweet,
Oft have I thus the peaceful woodlands sought,
To muse, sequestered, in the calm retreat.

Then boundless charms, bright as the youthful year,
In swift succession ever-varying rose;
While Hope's enchanting form was ever near,
To soothe my light and transitory woes.—

O youthful joys, how swiftly do ye pass,
And like the morning cloud ye fade away;
Or like the dew-drops, trembling on the grass,
That fly the glances of advancing day!

I seek not now yon kindred shades serene,

To meet those pleasures that illum'd the past; Fled is the pleasing, gay, delusive scene;

Those dreams, alas! were too, too sweet to last.

I wander mournful through the well-known shade;
The weak line drops unfinished from my tongue :-
But, still, I love the splendours here display'd,
And yet enjoy the woodlark's evening song.

Perchance, when at the high behest of Heaven,
My soul is called to unknown realms afar,
Death may draw near, like the deep shades of EVEN,
And meet me, thus, beneath her dewy star.

Then, be it mine, to sink unseen, alone,

Without one friend to heave the pitying sigh,
In some dark grove, deserted and unknown,
While the loved woodlark sings a requiem nigh.

VERSES

Written at the Island of Sagur, in the Mouth of the Ganges, where human victims were exposed by the superstitious Hindus.-JOHN LEYDEN.

FROM THE ENGLISH MINSTRELSY.

ON sea-girt Sagur's desert isle,
Mantled with thickets dark and dun,
May never moon or star light smile,

Nor ever beam the summer sun:

Strange deeds of blood have there been done,

In mercy ne'er to be forgiven;

Deeds the far-seeing eye of heaven
Veiled his radiant orb to shun.

To glut the shark and crocodile
A mother brought her infant here,
She saw its tender playful smile,
She shed not one maternal tear;
She threw it on a watery bier;
With grinding teeth sea monsters tore
The smiling infant which she bore,-
She shrunk not once its cries to hear.

Ah mark that victim wildly drest,
His streaming beard is hoar and gray,
Around him floats a crimson vest,

Red flowers his matted locks array:
Heard you these brazen timbrels bray?
His heart-blood on the lotus-flower,
They offer to the evil-power,

And, offering, turn their eyes away.

Dark goddess of the iron-mace,

Flesh tearer! quaffing life-blood warm,

The terrors of thine awful face

* Dark Goddess, Kali.

The pulse of mortal hearts alarm.
Grim power! if human woes can charm,
Look to the horrors of the flood,
Where crimsoned Gunga shines in blood,
And man-devouring monsters swarm.
Skull-chaplet wearer! whom the blood
Of man delights a thousand years,
Than whom no face, by land or flood,
More stern and pitiless appears,
Thine is the cup of human tears!
For pomp of human sacrifice
Cannot the cruel blood suffice

Of tigers, which thine island rears?

Not all blue Ganges' mountain flood,
That rolls so proudly round thy fane,
Shall cleanse the tinge of human blood,
Nor wash dark Sagur's impious stain.
The sailor, journeying on the main,
Shall view from far the dreary isle,
And curse the ruins of the pile
Where mercy ever sued in vain,

[The following lively Verses were written in imitation of Swift's Verses to Love, addressed to Vanessa, and were, we have heard, actually transmitted from Ireland as a genuine production of the Dean of St Patrick. We do not understand that his northern Editor was imposed on by the joke.]

OH! haste, Discretion, tardy maid!
For once in time afford thy aid.
I know, when stormy Passion's flown,
How well thou fill'st his vacant throne;
I know that few so soon discover
A safe retreat when danger's over;
And thou hast oft been heard to swear,
That" all were well hadst thou been there."
But now, while love inflames my mind,
When passions, life, and Chloe's kind,

E'en now would I thy aid implore,
I, who ne'er troubled thee before.
When Chloe owns she dreams of bliss,
And proves it by a ling'ring kiss,
Do thou, like ancient maid bedight,
Take post in window opposite.

But should the curtain's favouring shade
Veil from keen eyes the trembling maid,
Then, while I burn with fierce desire,
Oh! send in John to slake the fire.
And should the bolt, or readier key,
Place us from rude intrusion free,
Then, Goddess, fill her watchful ears
With sounds of footsteps on the stairs.
So may I pass the eventful hour,
And grateful own thy favouring power;
But if such aid thou wilt deny,
Grant me at least the power to fly.

N*******! along thy flowery side,
The 'birks' again in wonted pride
Load the light gale at evening hour
With odours of balsamic power.
The cuckoo shy, in groves remote,
Repeats aloud his mirthful note;
On high, that purple light of even,
That marks the angelic night in heaven,*
Along the northern hill is seen

More beauteous through the wild wood green.
Alas! though summer smiles again,
I trace my sylvan rounds in vain;
And vainly search each lov'd retreat
The joys of former years to meet.

Yet still, the perfumed woods among,
When comes the time of even song,
Unnumber'd forms aërial float,
Called by the woodlark's liquid note;

* See Paradise Lost.

1