Young Arthur :: :: University of Virginia Library

If your eyes are attractive, and mine they arrest,
No censure is yours, but shall censure be mine?
If, a moment, soft flutterings ruffle my breast,
Shall a weak indiscretion be construed design?
On your cheeks, and your lips, if all gaze with delight,
And mine eyes, wand'ring there, soft expression reveal;
No blame can be yours, that you're blooming and bright,
But shall I be condemn'd because fated to feel?

That you're bright, and your're blooming, I see, and admire;
That I am susceptive, you see, and you smile;
But shall fancy's warm glow be accounted love's fire?
And shall you boast a triumph you gain'd but by guile?

I gaz'd; it was thoughtless—no hope could be mine—
One sedate look of modest reproof had been kind;
Had made me the scarcely-form'd feeling resign,
And my homage transfer from your face to your mind.

Your eyes oft met mine, but they look'd no reproof;
Their beams, trifling fair, were e'en softer than mild;
Some charm—what, I know not—kept reason aloof;
'Twas an indirect feeling, nor tranquil, nor wild;
I was caught for the moment; you triumph'd your time—
I censure not—let your own reason declare
If feeling entrapp'd is condemn'd as a crime,
How shall honour decide on the wish to ensnare?

I was caught for the moment, you triumph'd too soon;
A little more art had confirm'd your decree;
I was caught, and I flutter'd—when—thanks for the boon!
You smil'd with derision,—I sprung and was free;
I'm free! and your triumph now vainly pursue;
My fancy, not feeling, was caught—I respire—
Now your beams losetheir splendour, your roses their hue;
And I pity what, weakly, I thought to admire.

The turf was with daisies o'erstrew'd
Where, near to the closing of day,
A youth, in a petulant mood,
His tablets inscribed with a lay:
The lines I have sung he had trac'd with a sigh;
And, while love he disclaim'd, to the exquisite eye
Of sport fav'ring fancy, Love, laughing, stood by.

The turf was with daisies o'erstrew'd;
The daisy, meek modesty's flow'r,
Which Burns (scarcely rivall'd tho' rude)
Sung sweetly when “crush'd 'mang the stoure.”
O, Burns, to Old Scotia thou gav'st a green wreath,
Which fame to posterity, proud, shall bequeath;
And its nerv'd leaves shall flourish, defying decay,
When the flowers of trim fancy “are a' wede away.”

The youth thus for love all forlorn
He lay, tho' affecting to smile,
Bewailing the insolent scorn
Of the maid, who for sport could beguile;
Oh! Woman, whose face speaks perpetual youth,
Whose bosom seems form'd as a shrine for chaste truth,
Ah! why should they call thee coquette, and speak sooth?

But diamonds may specks have and flaws,
And the rose have a blight at the core;
Then pity the sex for this cause,
Man taught 'em deceit long before.
Poor youth! cease to languish, and idly complain,
For grief brings the vigour of life to the wane,
And, had'st thou thy wish, all thy prize might be pain.

“If thy speech be sooth.”—Shakspeare.

THE YOUTH'S HISTORY.

Young Allan he was of a noble race,
For a noble knight his sire;
Young Allan had all of true manly grace,
Honour seem'd stamp'd in his form and his face;
And his bosom contain'd its fire;
Now, his form was neglected, his face was wan,
And his bosom heav'd heavy; for peace was gone.

He claim to a noble line could lay,
And his sire was a noble knight;
Few could a prospect like his display:
But clouds will shadow the brightest day;
And hope has many a blight:

And now young Allan, at winter-fall,
No shelter could find in his father's hall;
There all was wassel, now all is woe,
And for old Sir Allan the bell must go.

The bell must go,
And the hearse move slow,
And deep the grave be made!
For, on the bier,
With a sigh and a tear,
A noble knight they've laid;
And now to the tomb, for aye and for all,
They've carried him forth from his father's hall.

The old knight dead,
To lay his head
No roof young Allan found;
'Twas his father's wrong;
For thus the song
Of old Sir Allan went round.

THE SONG.

1

He'd armour bright,
And his steed was white,
And his plume he proudly bore:
While scarlet and green
Were his housings seen,
And pages he'd a score.
That knight was the first at bow'r and ball,
And the minstrel sung in his father's hall.

2

His store was great,
His heart elate,
And all a welcome found;
There wit beguil'd
While beauty smil'd,
And it seem'd enchanted ground;
For pleasure o'er temperance threw the pall,
And revelry reign'd in his father's hall.

3

Day yields to night,
And wealth takes flight;
And flatterers with it fly;
That knight all spent;
And discontent
Soon lour'd in his downcast eye;
He look'd for honey and found but gall—
And the green grass grew in his father's hall.

Cross'd in his fortune, and cross'd in his love,
Young Allan he wandered to glen and to grove;
His grief, unobserv'd, to the winds to impart—
For there is a pride in the noble heart,
That, tho' with sorrow it heave and ache,
Before to another its moan 'twill make,
The burthen 'twill bear till it sicken and break.
A bright-eyed boy, with cheeks of rosy red,
His curling locks hung clustering 'round his head;
Just at that age when from th' enquiring eyes
Intelligence first darts, and hope supplies

An eager ken, which, thro' their lustre shot,
Impression makes by parents ne'er forgot.
Just at this age was Allan, when his Sire,
Victim of folly, died; with him expire
His hopes, his sole support; his prospects all;
They, with his Sire, in one sad ruin fall.
Overwhelm'd with debt; his lands all sold, save few
Which mortgag'd stood; the mansion mortgag'd too;
Too deeply mortgag'd all, for many a year
Of rigid, starv'd, economy to clear.
Allan no guardian had; his father died
Sudden, intestate: struck by wounded pride,
And hollow friendship's bitter, biting, blast;
And Allan's fate, which ev'ry hour o'ercast,
Poison'd his withering hope, and stung him to the last.
Allan no guardian had; no friend, yes—one—
Friend to the father, father to the son;
The poor old steward, in that mansion, who
“From youth to age in reverend service grew.”
Small were his savings; he for wealth ne'er strove,
Serving far less for lucre than for love.
Small were his savings, for though small his gain,
Still would he spare for poverty and pain;

Small were his savings, yet the sage had spar'd,
And Allan's wants were now his sole regard:
For lands and mansion to new owners fall,
And Allan's driven from his father's hall!
Lender and law the small remains divide
Of folly's pageant sacrifice to pride;
Thistle and cockle o'er the land wav'd all,
And grew the green grass in his father's hall.
This Allan saw, e'er man's estate he knew,
This Allan saw, and shudder'd at the view,
At once a lesson, and a loss he saw,
How pride and folly desolation draw;
The loss he felt; the lesson seem'd in vain,
For nought to Allan but his hopes remain.
The land and mansion to new owners fall,
And Allan's driven from his father's hall;
Yet wept not Allan; but the tear he dried
Of poor old Simon, hobbling by his side;
His reverend locks with speechless grief who shook,
And oft he turn'd to take a last, last, look
Of that old mansion, where his youth was spent,
And grew to age with comfort and content;
Of that old mansion where he nurs'd the boy,
Heir to his master, but no heir to joy;

Of that old mansion where, at life's last gasp,
He felt his honour'd master's icy grasp;
Heard the choak'd voice.—“O, Simon, all, all's o'er,
My boy! O save my boy!”—he spoke no more;
His eyes the rest,—“I'll guard him,” Simon cried—
The Knight look'd gratitude, and groan'd, and died!
The lands and mansion to the lender fall,
And Allan's driven from his father's hall.
To find a shelter from their home they go,
Their tongues were silent, and their steps were slow;
And though by many a gorgeous gate they pass'd
No porter hail'd them, and each gate was fast;
Yet at each cottage the swift-lifted latch
Seem'd to invite them 'neath the grateful thatch;
While the glad terrier, prancing 'round their feet,
Kind welcome bark'd, in ecstacy to meet
The good old man, and generous boy, who there
So oft had call'd to sooth the 'plaint of care;
Yet on they went, in virtuous hope secure,
With man's best praise, the blessing of the poor.
Two days they went; for food and sleep alone
Resting; their slumbers short, their meal soon done;

Two days they went, then reach'd a fertile spot,
Where, by a shade embower'd, arose a cot
Of decent structure; there an ancient dame
Illum'd life's evening with a pious flame:
Old Simon's sister, fix'd within the place
By him, and, with him, last of all their race!
Last of their race; and soon themselves shall fall—
So when some grove, fair, flourishing, and tall,
Yields its fell'd honours to the woodman's hand,
Two aged elms, alone remaining, stand;
The woodman stops—sun-setting stays the blow;
Sun-rise returns him, and the elms lie low:
Clear'd is the ground, the thoughtful woodman sighs,
No Scion left, no future grove shall rise!
The cot they enter with a grateful tear,
And Simon's looks to Heaven pray'd “peace be here!”
“Margaret,” he cried, and pointed to the youth;
A sigh declar'd his fondness and his truth:
“Margaret,” he cried, “this honour'd charge receive,
The only legacy my Lord could give;
For fifty years, in honourable state,
His sire and grandsire's generous bread I ate;

This Scion now of all the stock remains;
Clear is my conscience, for but few my gains;
Yet something sav'd my gratitude shall prove;
All Allan's legacy Old Simon's love.”
Here Allan dwelt 'till manhood's dawn took place;
Sigh'd for, in vain, by many a rustic grace:
Old Simon's savings, with a small supply
From many a secret hand, could want defy;
Old Simon's skill, for he'd a leech's lore,
Could simples cull, and con Culpepper o'er;
And little fees, for simple service paid,
With Allan's earnings, add their welcome aid:
With Allan's earnings; for the youth knew well
The pencil's magic, and the Muse's spell.
His draughts from Nature many a parlour grac'd;
But mean the tribute traffic pays to taste;
Small were his gains, but grateful as they grew;
His mind was humble, and his wants were few.
Thus frugal plenty bless'd the cottage board,
And Simon bless'd the Donor, and ador'd;
In Allan found, from gratitude and love,
All that a father and a friend could prove.
Beyond the cot, with sculpture proud adorn'd,
A mansion stood, and stood as though it scorn'd,

Scorn'd, like its owner, every humble roof;
From cot and cotter, each stood far aloof;
An high born knight there kept an awful state;
Fear'd, but not lov'd; and heedless he of hate;
His fortune splendid, his enjoyments spare;
One lovely child his only bliss or care;
High in her spirit; Edith was her name,
For beauty caroll'd by admiring fame;
Her form commanding; symmetry and grace
Compos'd the 'witching contour of her face;
Two lovely arches, with majestic rise,
Confirm'd the magic of her radiant eyes:
Those eyes—ye fair, what flatteries have ye heard
Of your bright eyes, by ardent love preferr'd?
That they beam'd heavenly, and resistless shone?
Did you believe? judge Edith's by your own—
Her skin the softness of fair morning's sky,
And freshness, pictur'd, with its blushing dye;
Her lips—near those the dimples' 'witching play
Seem'd as if loves for ever in them lay
To guard those lips from every soft appeal,
From every kiss but what themselves should steal.
Her locks were auburn, and her neck appear'd
Beauty's own column, by the Graces rear'd;

Her mien the grandeur of the Graces wore,
Yet, with a softened majesty she bore
Her maiden step—Her father's wealth she knew;
Valued her birth, and priz'd her beauty too;
Coquette from praise, and of her conquests vain;
Her pride was homage, and a captive's pain:
On Allan, artless Allan, had she thrown
Her magic spell, and made the youth her own;
Her magic spell—as Highland witches “throw
The glamer o'er him” whom they work sweet woe;
So Celtic mermaids 'witching spells pour forth,
As sings the modern Minstrel of the North ;
(The Syrens these, who shall for ages last,
Sung by the bard who their sweet strains surpass'd .)
Her magic spell? and could the haughty fair
Spread for a peasant youth an artful snare?

Ah, no—his birth from Simon's tale she knew,
Nor his a form with apathy to view;
And Simon's triumph at his manly grace,
Proud of his charge, and mindful of his race,
Gave him the dressing of a fairer lot,
Which spoke him no true tenant of a cot;
Mode was consulted, and, his habit on,
Taste and not tissue spoke Sir Allan's son.
The maid, too, oft had seen him in her way,
And dreams recall'd the visions of the day;
And though her hand full many a knight had woo'd,
Full many a youth, with many a charm endued,
None had attach'd her—had young Allan then?
Alas! she knew not; but felt restless when
Allan appear'd not; as was still his way,
While in the garden 'twas her care to stray,
Oft as he pass'd by Edith's proud abode;
And that seem'd ever to be in his road;
For ever and anon, no matter where
Allan must go, he found the track lay there:
Still, as he pass'd the garden, she was nigh,
And ever blushing as she caught his eye;
Their eyes would meet, to gaze each scarcely dar'd,
A transient look,—both instantly on guard;

Allan was caught, yet scarce his danger knew,
Fear'd to persist, yet fated to pursue;
Till one chance moment all his passion prov'd,
He felt, and yet dissembled, that he lov'd.

When the Highland witches, or rather gypsies, bewitch any person, and irresistably attach their affections to themselves, they are said “to throw, or cast the glamer over them,” or in other words to fascinate, spell-bind, or bewitch them. Glamour. Allan Ramsay.

Walter Scott, the popular author of the Border Minstrelsy, The Lay of the Last Minstrel, The Lady of the Lake, Marmion, Lord of the isles, &c. &c. &c.

Homer.

A spot there was, nor wood nor grove, but where
Tall spreading trees were scattered here and there;
Within that spot a simple fountain flow'd,
And, near, the vestige of a ruin stood;
Among those trees the nightingale would stay
And cheat with Love's lament the night away:
There, on a night, when gentle moon beams play'd
On the small fountain, and illum'd the shade;
While the tall trees with soothing whispers mov'd,
And Philomel lamented that she lov'd;
While the fount's stream that in the moon beam play'd
With dancing stars the spot resplendent made;
A spot where fabled Dryad, or the Faun,
Had frisk'd by moon beam, nor forsook at dawn;
Had Faunus' piping, or the Dryad's play
Grac'd other region than the poet's lay;
Close by that ruin Allan sat, and spied
A graceful figure near the covert glide;

It seem'd a gentle Genie of the night,
Moving all-graceful, and array'd in light;
He sat o'ershaded by an ivy tall,
Which 'twin'd its tendrils 'round the mouldering wall:
Oft had he view'd it with the poet's eye,
These lines had trac'd, and these his mind supply.

THE RUIN AND THE IVY.

A mouldering ruin seem'd sullen to stand,
Like the spirit of Greatness oppress'd by the band
Of tyranny; scorning the arrogant hand,
But too feeble to stay its rude fall;
The portal, thro' which noble guests had flock'd fast,
Now, open, admits but the boor and the blast;
And nothing remains to the present of past
But the ivy that clings 'round the wall.

O, many the strain there has echoed around,
And many the feet that have danc'd to the sound;
Now the owl and the bat are sole visitors found
Where the Brave and the Fair grac'd the ball;

For ruin came there; and the Fair, and the Gay,
All fled, as, when sun sets, flit shadows away;
And nothing that pictures of friendship will stay
But the ivy that clings 'round the wall.

It grew when the Gallant with gaiety came,
When the castle tow'rd high; far resounded its fame;
Now nothing is left but its sear and its shame,
For its form scarce can mem'ry recall:
But, by all though forsaken, in ruin still proud,
It moulders in silence, its wrongs speak aloud;
Yet friendship still cheers it, despiting the croud,
In the ivy that clings 'round the wall.

Seeing, not seen, young Allan view'd the sprite,
Oft veil'd by falling shadows from his sight,
And oft emerging from the partial shade,
Its graceful form in perfect view display'd;
He thought 'twas Edith; doubt his mind imprest;
And hope and fear, alternate, rul'd his breast.
As on the beach some longing maiden stands,
Watching the moment when her sailor lands;
To where the ocean, blending with the sky,
Bounds the fix'd sight, she casts a wishful eye;

A sail appears, in that he may be borne,
Hope views the bark, and whispers love's return;
Comes it, or not? for heaving billows roll,
Check all presuming, and fond hope control;
And, as the towering wave the vessel hides
Or shows it floating as the swell subsides,
Her spirits mount or sink; now end her fears,
Broad spreads the sail, and all the hull appears;
Slow comes the vessel, but the bark she knows,
Her lover comes, and with him love's repose.
So Edith came—so Allan felt—for now
Hope whisper'd, “Allan, what a scene
To breathe the lover's gentle vow!”—
He sigh'd, not sorrow could that sighing mean—
Edith ne'er saw him; passing on her way,
A root branch tripp'd her, and she prostrate lay;
She scream'd—upstarting, eager Allan flew,
And, trembling, rais'd her; and he press'd her too:
She blush'd, she frown'd—she thank'd him for his zeal;
But he had press'd her, and her eyes reveal
All that could give him penitence and pain,
The glance of anger fierce, and cold disdain.
Ah! why?—Birth's pride, and Beauty's haughty pow'r,
The scene so lonely, and the moonlight hour,

His tender pressure thrilling to her heart,
Impell'd 'rous'd prudence to the tyrant's part.
Excuse he stammer'd; with the port of scorn,
Sudden, she fled; for the least stay had torn
The veil from artifice, and, in the grove,
Had pride's coquetry been unmask'd by love.
Pensive, piqued Allan to the cot returned;
Pensive went Edith—lov'd—yet love she spurn'd.
The peasant Allan? (tho' his birth was proud)
While peers, imploring, to her beauty bow'd?
The peasant Allan?—by fierce conflicts torn
Restless her night; love hail'd no happy morn,
Pride was triumphant, and the issue scorn.
With equal conflict pass'd sad Allan's night;
He hop'd, yet hail'd not, the returning light;
Fix'd to convince her, should he cross her way,
He, too, had pride; could scorn for scorn repay;
And yet to meet her and contempt to prove!—
He would—he would not—yet his footsteps move
To Edith's garden first—so vacillating's Love!
The morning came; instinctively he went,
Tim'rous his step, uncertain his intent;
At length, assur'd, (her fav'rite walk he knew)
He caught her eye; she smil'd—derision too!
A laugh succeeded, and the fair withdrew.