Oscar of Alva

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.…