STANZAS TO A LADY,
WITH THE POEMS OF CAMOENS.
This votive pledge of fond esteem,
Perhaps, dear girl! from me thou'lt prize;
It sings of Love's enchanting dream-
A theme we never can despise.
Who blames it but the envious fool,
The old and disappointed maid-
Or pupil of the prudish school,
In single sorrow doom'd to fade?
Then read, dear girl!—with feeling read
For thou wilt ne'er be one of those;
To thee, in vain, I shall not plead
In pity for the Poet's woes.
He was, in sooth, a genuine bard;
His was no faint fictitious flame:
Like his, may love be thy reward;
But not thy hapless fate the same!
Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright, but mild, affection shine;
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love more than mortal would be thine.
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair;
That fatal glance forbids esteem.
When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,
So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear'd that, too divine for earth,
The skies might claim thee for their own ;—
Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk
Within those once-celestial eyes.
These might the boldest sylph appal,
When gleaming with meridian blaze; Thy beauty must enrapture all,
But who can dare thine ardent gaze?
'Tis said that Berenice's hair
In stars adorns the vault of heaven;
But they would ne'er permit thee there,
Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven.
For, did those eyes as planets roll,
Thy sister lights would scarce appear;
Even suns, which systems now control,
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.
Woman! experience might have told me
That all must love thee who behold thee;
Surely experience might have taught
Thy firmest promises are nought;
But, placed in all thy charms before me,
All I forget but to adore thee.
Oh, Memory! thou choicest blessing,
When join'd with hope, when still possessing;
But how much cursed by every lover
When hope is fled, and passion's over!
Woman! that fair and fond deceiver,
How prompt are striplings to believe her!
How throbs the pulse when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue;
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows!
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye,
When, lo! she changes in a day.
This record will for ever stand
'Woman, thy vows are traced in sand.'
* The last line is almost a literal translation from a Spanish proverb.
When I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive;
Extend not your anger to sleep;
For in visions alone your affection can live
I rise, and it leaves me to weep.
Then, Morpheus! envelop my faculties fast,
Shed o'er me your languor benign!
Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last,
What rapture celestial is mine!
They tell us that Slumber, the sister of Death,
Mortality's emblem is given;
To Fate how I long to resign my frail breath,
If this be a foretaste of Heaven!
Ah! frown not, sweet lady! unbend your soft brow,
Nor deem me too happy in this;
If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now,
Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss.
Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smile,
Oh! think not my penance deficient ;
When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile,
To awake will be torture sufficient.
When I rov'd, a young Highlander, o'er the dark heath,
And climb'd thy steep summit, oh! Morven of snow ;*
To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath,
Or the mist of the tempest that gather❜d below;†
Untutor❜d by science, a stranger to fear,
And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew,
No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear
Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred in yon?
*Morven; a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire: Gormal of snow' is an expression frequently to be found in Ossian.
+ This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been accustomed to the mountains; it is by no means uncommon, on attaining the top of Ben-e-vis, Ben-ybourd, &c. to perceive, between the summit and the valley, clouds pouring down rain, and occasionally accompanied by lightning; while the spectator literally looks down upon the storm, perfectly secure from its effects.
Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name;
What passion can dwell in the heart of a child?
But still I perceived an emotion the same
As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild:
One image alone on my bosom impress'd-
I lov'd my bleak regions, nor panted for new:
And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd;
And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you.
I arose with the dawn, with my dog as my guide;
From mountain to mountain I bounded along;
I breasted the billows of Dee'st rushing tide,
And heard at a distance the Highlander's song.
At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose,
No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view;
And warm to the skies my devotions arose,
For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.
I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone;
The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no more:
As the last of iny race I must wither alone,
And delight but in days I have witnessed before.
Ah! splendour has raised, but imbitter'd, my lot!
More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew:
Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not forgot;
Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you.
When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky,
I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen ;+
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye,
I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene :
When, haply, some light-waving locks I behold,
That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue,
I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold-
The locks that were sacred to beauty and you.
Breasting the lofty mountain.'-SHAKSPEARE.
The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar Lodge, and falls into the sea at New Aberdeen.
Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of the Highlands, not far from the ruins of Dee Castle.
Yet the day may arrive when the mountains once more
Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow:
But, while these soar above me, unchanged as before,
Will Mary be there to receive me? Ah, no!
Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred!
Thou sweet-flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu!
No home in the forest shall shelter my head;
Ah! Mary, what home could be mine but with you?'
Oh! yes, I will own, we were dear to each other;
The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true;
The love which you felt was the love of a brother,
Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you.
But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion-
The attachment of years in a moment expires;
Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion,
But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires.
Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together,
And bless'd were the scenes of our youth, I allow:
In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather!
But winter's rude tempests are gathering now.
No more with affection shall memory blending.
The wonted delights of our childhood retrace:
When pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending,
And what would be justice appears a disgrace.
However, dear S——, (for I still must esteem you-
The few whom I love I can never upbraid)
The chance which has lost may in future redeem you
Repentance will cancel the vow you have made.
I will not complain; and, though chill'd is affection,
With me no corroding resentment shall live:
My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection
That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive.
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