840 ( o COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF THOMAS CAMPBELL, WITH A MEMOIR OF HIS LIFE. A NEW,DIED TI T"I. t. BO ST ON: PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY. NEW YORK: J. C. DERBY. 1855. CONTENTS. PAGE. SKETCH OP TuIE LIFE OF CAMPBELL,. 7 THE PLEASURES OF HOPE......... 33 Part I.............. 34 Part II.,............. 56. GERTRUDE OF WYOMNG,....... 73 Part I................ 75 Part.,............... 85 Part HII.,.............. 94 THEODRIC: A DOMESTIC TALE,... 107 TRANSLATIONS: - Fragment, from the Greek of Alcman, 126 Song of Hybrias, the Cretan........ 126 Martial Elegy, from the Greek of Tyrtaeus,... 127 Specimens of Translation from Medea,..... 128 Speech of the Chorus, in the same Tragedy,.. 129 O'Connor's Child; or, "The Flower of Love lies bleeding,".............. 134 Lochiel's Warning............ 143 # Battle of the Baltic,........... 146, Ye Mariners of England,....... 149 E- Hohenlinden,............. 150 Glenara.................1 52 Exile of Erin,............. 153 Lord Ullin's Daughter,......... 154 Ode to the Memory of Burns....... 157 Lines, written on visiting a Scene in Argyleshire,. 160 The Soldier's Dream,......... 161 4 CONTENTS. PAGE. To the Rainbow,............. 162 The Last Man,........... 164 A Dream............. 167 Valedictory Stanzas, to J. P. Kemble, Esq.,... 169 Lines, written for the Highland Society,.... 172 Stanzas, to the Memory of tht Spanish Patriots,. 174 Song of the Greeks,........... 175 Ode to Winter,............. 177 Lines, spoken by Mrs. Bartley, at Drury-Lane Theatre, after the Death of the Princess Charlotte, in 1817, 179 Lines, on the Grave of a Suicide,...... 181 Reullura...... 182 The Turkish Lady.......... 188 The Brave Roland,.......... 189 < The Spectre Boat,.......... 191 Song - "Oh, how hard it is to find,". 192 -The Lover to his Mistress, ou her Birth-day,... 193 Adelgitha................ 194 Lines, on receiving a Seal with the Campbell Crest,. 194 The Dirge of Wallace,........... 196 Chaucer and Windsor.......... 198 Gilderoy,..............198 Stanzas, on the threatened Invasion, 1803,.... 20 The Ritter Bann............ 201 Song- " Men of England,"......... 207 Song - "Drink ye to her that each loves best,".. 208 The Harper,.............. 209 The Wounded Hussar,........ 210 Love and Madness,........... 211 Hallowed Ground........... 213 Song — " Withdraw not yet those lips and fingers,". 216 Caroline - Part I.,............ 217 Caroline - Part 11.-To the Evening Star,. 219 The Beech Tree's Petition,.... 220 Field Flowers............. 221 Stanzas, to Painting......... 222 CONTENTS 5 PAGE. Lines, inscribed on a Monument, erected to the Memory of Admiral Sir G. Campbell, K. C. B., by his Widow, 225 Song, to the Evening Star........... 226 Stanzas, on the Battle of Navarino,..... 227 The Maid's Remonstrance.......... 228 Absence,............... 229 Lines, on revisiting a Scottish River,...... 230 The " Name Unknown "-In imitation of Klopstock, 231 Lines, on the Camp Hill, near Hastings,..... 232 Farewell to Love,............ 233 Lines, on Poland,............. 235 Margaret and Dora,......... 239 A Thought suggested by the New Year,..... 240 Song —"H ow delicious is the winning,"... 241 The Power of Russia........... 242 Lines, on leaving a Scene in Bavaria...... 245 The Death-Boat of Heligoland,........ 250 Song - "When Love came first to Earth, the Spring," 252 Song - "Earl March looked on his dying child,".. 252 Song — "When Napoleon was flying,".... 253 Lines, to Julia M-, sent with a Copy of the Author's Poems,........... 254 Drinking Song of Munich,...... ~ 255 Lines, on the Departure of Emigrants for New South Wales................. 256 Lines, on revisiting Cathcart,........ 259 The Cherubs,.......; ~ ~. 260 Senex's Soliloquy on his Youthful Idol,..... 263 To Sir Francis Burdett, on his Speech in Parliament, respecting the Foreign Policy of Great Britain, 1832, 264 Ode to the Germans,........... 266 Lines, on a Picture of a Girl in the Attitude of Prayer, 267 Lines, on the View from St. Leonard's,.....269 The Dead Eagle,........... 273 Song —" To Love in my heart, I exclaimed, t'otler morning,"...........276 H 1l 1 6 CONTENTS. PAGo. Lines, written in a Blank-Leaf of La Perouse's Voyages............... 277 The Pilgrim of Glencoe,.......... 280 The Child and Hind.......... 295 Napoleon and the British Sailor........ 300 The Jilted Nymph,......... 303 Benlomond,......... 304 The Parrot,.............. 305 On getting Home the Portrait of a Female Child, Six Years old.............. 306 Song of the Colonists departing for New Zealand,.. 308 Moonlight,.........309 Cora Linn, or the Falls of the Clyde,..... 311 Lines, suggested by the Statue of Arnold Von Winkelreid,................ 312 Song of our Queen......... 314 Lines, on my new Child-Sweetheart,...... 314 To the United States of North America,... 316 The Launch of a First-Rate,... 316 Epistle from Algiers, to Horace Smith,..... 317 To a Young Lady, who asked me to write something original for her Album,......... 320 Fragment of an Oratorio, from the Book of Job,. 320 No res,............ 323 SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF CAMPBELL. THE following spirited, and evidently truthful, account of the Life of Thomas Campbell, appeared in Fraser's Magazine for November, 1844. I wISH to write about Thomas Campbell in the spirit of impartial friendship: I cannot say that I knew him long, or that I knew him intimately. I have stood, when a boy, between his knees; he has advised me in my literary efforts, and lent me books. I have met him in mixed societies —have supped with him in many of his very many lodgings-have drunk punch of his own brewing from his silver bowl - have mingled much with those who knew and understood him, and have been at all times a diligent inquirer, and, I trust, recorder of much that came within my immediate knowledge about him. But let me not raise expectation too highly. Mr. Campbell was not a communicative man; he knew much, but was seldom in the mood to tell what he knew. IIe preferred a- smart saying, or a seasoned or seasonable story; he trifled in his table-talk, and you might sound him about his contemporaries to very little purpose. Lead thle conversation as &b LLIFE O)r CAMPBELL. you lil;ed, Campbell was sure to direct it in a different way. He had no'arrow-flights of thought.' You could seldom awaken a recollection of the dead witlhin him; the mention of no eminent contemporary's name called forth a sigh, or an anecdote, or a kind expression. He did not love the past- he lived for to-day and for to-morrow, and fed on the pleasures of hope, not the pleasures of memory. Spence, Boswell, Hazlitt, or Henry Nelson Coleridge, had made very little of his conversation; old Aubrey, or the author of Polly Peacham's jests, had made much more, but the portrait in their hands had only been true to the baser mqments of his mind; we had lost the poet of IIope and Hohenlinden in the coarse sketches of anecdote and narrative which they told and drew so truly. Thomas Campbell was born in Glasgow, on the 27th of July, 1777, the tenth and youngest child of his parents. IIis father was a merchant in that city, and in his sixtyseventh year when the poet (the son of his second marriage) was born. He died, as I have heard Campbell say, at the great age of ninety-two. His mother's maiden name was Mary Campbell. Mr. Campbell was entered a student of the High School at Glasgow, on the 10th of October, 1785. How long he remained there no one has told us. In his thirteenth year he carried off a bursary from a competitor twice his age, and took a prize for a translation of "The Clouds" of Aristophanes, pronounced unique among college exercises.'Iwo other poems of this period were "The Choice of Paris," and "The Dirge of Wallace." When Galt, in 1833, drew up his autobiography, he inserted a short account of Campbell. "Campbell," says Galt, " began his poetical career by an Ossianic poem, which his'schoolfellows published by subscription, at two-pence apiece;' my old schoolfellow, Dr. Colin Campbell, was a subscriber. The first edition of'The Pleasures of Iope' was also by subscription, to which I was a subscriber."' When this was s'4 wn to Campbell, LIFE OF CAMP-BELL. by Mr. Macrone, just before the publication of the book, the poet's bitterness knew no bounds. "He's a dirty blackguard, sir," said Campbell; "and, sir, if Mr. Gait were in good health, I would challenge him; I feel disposed to do so now, the blackguard." "W Vhat's to be done? " said Macrone; " the book is printed off, but I will cancel it, if you like." Here the heading of the chapter, "A Two-penny Effusion," attracted Campbell's attention, and his thin, restless lips quivered with rage. "Look here, sir," said Campbell, "look what the dirty blackguard's done here! " and he pointed to the words, "A Two-penny Effusion." Two cancels were then promised, and the soothed and irritated poet wrote with his own hand the following short account of his early efforts:"Campbell began his poetical career by an Ossianic poem, which was published by his schoolfellows when he was only thirteen. At fifteen he wrote a poem on the Queen of France, which was published in the Glasgow Courier. At eighteen, he printed his Elegy called' Love and Madness;' and at twenty-one, before the finishing of his twenty-second year,' The Pleasures of Hope.'" Before Campbell had recovered his usual serenity of mind, and before the ink in his pen was well dry, who should enter the shop of Messrs. Cochrane and Macrone, but the poor offending author, Mr. Galt. The autobiographer was on his way home from the Athenaeum, and the poet of " Hope " on his way to the Literary Union. They all but met. Campbell avoided an interview, and made his exit from the shop by a side door. When the story was told to Galt, he enjoyed it heartily. " Campbell," said Gait, " may write what he likes, for I have no wish to offend a poet I admire; but I still adhere to the' twopenny effusion' as a true story." On quitting the Glasgow University, Mr. Campbell accepted the situation of a tutor in a family settled in Argyleshire. -Iere he composed a copy of verses, printed among his poems on the roofless abode of that sept of the K _____________________ 10 LIFE OF CAMIPBELL. Clan Campbell from which he sprung. The Li:es in question are barren of promise-they flow freely, and abound in pretty similitudes; but there is more of the trim garden breeze in their composition, than the fine bracing air of Argyleshire. He did not remain long in the humble situation of a tutor, but made his way to Edinburgh in the winter of 1798. WVhat his expectations were in Edinburgh, no one has told us. He came with part of a poem in his pocket, and acquiring the friendship of Dr. Robert Anderson, and the esteem of Dugald Stewart, he made bold to lay his poem and his expectations before them. The poem in question was the first rough draft of " Pleasures of Hope." Stewart nodded approbation, and Anderson was all rapture and suggestion. The poet listened, altered, and enlarged - lopped, pruned, and amended, till the poem grew much as we now see it. The first fourteen lines were the last that were written. We have this curious piece of literary information from a lady who knew Campbell well, esteemed him truly, and was herself esteemed by him in return. Anderson always urged the want of a good beginning, and when the poem was on its way to the printer, again pressed the necessity of starting with a picture complete in itself. Campbell all along admitted the justice of the criticism, but never could please himself with what he did. The last remark of Dr. Anderson's roused the full swing of his genius within lhim, and he returned the next day to the delighted doctor, with that fine comparison between the beauty of remote objects in a landscape, and those ideal scenes of happiness which imaginative minds promise to themselves with all the certainty of hope fulfilled. Anderson was more than pleased, and the new comparison was maaec tthe operning of the new poem. "At sulrner eve, when Teaven's ethereal bow Sp;ans with bright arcti the glittering hills bl;clw, -Why to yon motu!itain urnz the musing eye, WViiose sunbright surnmit nig'es,.sih nta sky? LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 11 Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near?'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue. Thus, with delight we linger to survey The promised joys of life's unmeasured way; Thus from afar, each dim-discover'd scene More pleasing seems than all the past hath been; And every form that Fancy can repair From dark oblivion, glows divinely there." There is a kind of inexpressible pleasure in the very task of copying the Claude-like scenery and repose of lines so lovely. With Anderson's last imprimatur upon it, the poem was sent to press. The doctr was looked upon at this time as a whole Willis's Coffee-house in himself; he moved in the best Edinburgh circles, and his judgment was considered infallible. He talked, wherever he went, of his young friend, and took delight, it is said, in contrasting the classical air of Campbell's verses with what he was pleased to call the clever, homespun poetry of Burns. Nor was the volume allowed to want any of the recommendations which art could then lend it. Graham, a clever artist —the preceptor of Sir David Wilkie, Sir William Allan, and John Burnet - was called in, to design a series of illustrations to accompany the poem, so that when "The Pleasures of Hope" appeared in Mlay, 1799, it had every kind of attendant bladder to give it a balloonwaft into public favor. All Edinburgh was alive to its reception, and warm and hearty was its welcome. No Scotch poet, excepting Falconer, had produced a poem with the same structure of versification before. There was no Sir Walter Scott in those days; the poet of "Marmnion" and the " Lay" was only known as -a modest and not indifferent translator from the German: Burns was in his grave, and Scotland was without a poet. Campbell became the Lion of Edinburgh. "The last time I saw you," said an elderly lady to the 12 LIFE OF CABIPBELL. poet one day, within our hearing, "was in Edinburgh, you were then swaggering about with a Suwarrow jacket." "Yes," said Campbell, " I was then a contemptible puppy." "But that was thirty years ago, and more," remarked the lady. " Whist, whist," said Campbell, with an admonitory finger, "it is unfair to reveal both our puppyism and our years." If the poet's friends were wise in giving the note of preparation to the public for the reception of a new poem, they were just as unwise in allowing Campbell to part with the copyright of his poems to Mundell, the bookseller, for the small sum of twenty guineas. Yet twenty guineas was a good deal to embark in the purchase of a poem by an untried poet: 6ld when we reflect that Mundell had other risks to run-that paper and print, and above all the cost of engravings, were defrayed by him - we may safely say, that he hazarded enough in giving Brhat he gave for that rare prize in the lottery of literature, a remunerating poem. We have no complaint to make against the publisher. Mundell behaved admirably well, if what we have heard is true, that the poet had fifty pounds of Mundell's free gift for every after edition of his poem. Our wonder is, that Dr. Anderson and Dugald Stewart allowed the poet to part with the copyright of a poem of which they spoke so highly, and prophesied its success, as we have seen, so truly. I have never had the good fortune to fall in with the first edition of the "Pleasures of Hope," but learn from the magazines of the day, that several smaller poems, " The Wounded Hussar," "The Harper," &c., were appended to it. The price of the volume was six shillings, and the dedication to Dr. Anderson, is dated " Edinburgh, April 13, 1799." I have often heard it said, and in Campbell's lifetime, that there was a very different copy of the " Pleasures of Hope," in MS., in the hands of Dr. Anderson's family and I once heard the questior. put to Campbell, who replied LIFE OF C &MPBELL. with a smile, " Oh dear, no; nothing of the kind." The alterations which the poem. underwent by Anderson's advice, may have given rise to. a belief that the poem was at first very unlike what we 1now see it. It was said of Campbell, th it by the time "His hundred of gray hairs Told six-and-forty years," he was unwilling to remember the early attentions of Dr. Anderson. He certainly cancelled or withdrew the dedication of his poem to Dr. Anderson, and this is the only act of seeming unkindness to Dr. Anderson's memory which we have heard adduced against him. But no great stress is to be laid on this little act of seeming forgetfulness. HIe withdrew, in after-life, the dedication of "Lochiel" to Alison, whose "Essay on Taste," and early friendship for Campbell, justified the honor; and omitted or -withdrew the printed dedication of " Gertrude of Wyoming," to the late Lord Holland. As soon as his poems had put money in his pocket, an early predilection for the German language, and a thirst for seeing some of the continental universities, induced him to visit Germany. He set sail for Hamburgh, where, struck with the sight of the many Irish exiles in that city, he strung his harp anew, and sung that touching song, " The Exile of Ering" which will endear his name to the heart of every honest Irishman. On his road from Munich to Linz, he witnessed from the walls of a convent the bloody field of Hohenlilden, (Dec. 3, 1800,) and saw the triumphant Frenc. cavalry, under Moreau, enter the nearest town, wiping their bloody swords on their horses' manes, But he saw, while abroad, something more than "the red artillery" of war; he passed a day wVith Klopstock, and acquired the friendship of the Schlegels. He was away altogether about thirteen months, when he 2 14 L LIFE OF CAMPBELL. returned to Edinburgh, to make arrangements with Mlun. dell about the publication, in London, of a quarto edition of his poems. Mundell granted at once a permission which he could not well refuse, and Campbell started for London by way of Glasgow and Liverpool. At Liverpool he stayed a week mwith the able and generous Dr. Currie, to whom lie was introduced by Dugald Stewart. Currie gave him letters of introduction to Mackintosh and Scarlett. " The bearer of this," Dr. Currie writes to Scarlett, "is a young poet of some celebrity, Mr. Campbell, the author of'The Pleasures of Hope.' IHe was introduced to me by Mr. Stewart, of Edinburgh, and has been some days in my house. I have found him, as might be expected, a young man of uncommon acquirements and learning, of unusual quickness of apprehension, and great sensibility. "lie is going to London with the view of superintending an edition of his poems, for his otwn benefit, by the permission of the booksellers to whom the copyright was sold before the work was printed; and wvho, having profited in an extraordinary degree by the transaction, have now given him the permission above-mentioned, on condition that the edition shall be of a kind that shall not interfere with their editions. HIe is to give a quarto edition, with some embellishments, price a guinea; the printing by IBensley. You must lay out a fee with him; and if you can do him any little service you will oblige me and serve a man of genius." Currie's letter is dated 26th February, 1802, so that we may date Campbell's arrival in London (there was aio railway then) on or about the first of March. "When Campbell came first to London," said Tom Iill, to the collector of these imperfect "Ana," "he carried a letter of introduction to Mr. Perry, of the Morning Chronicle. IIe was then a poor literary adventurer, unfitted with an aim. Perry was so much pleased with him that he offered him a situation on his paper, which Campbell thankfully accepted. But what could Campbell do? lie LIFE OF CAMPIBELL. 15 could not report, and he was not up to the art of writino leaders. At last it was agreed that he should receive two guineas a week, and now and then contribute a piece of poetry to the corner of the paper. He did write, certainly,' said Hlill, "but in his worst vein. WVe know what newspaper poetry is, but some of Campbell's contributions were below newspaper poetry- many pieces were not inserted, and such as were inserted he was too wise to print among his collected poems." Tom Hill's means of information were first-rate; he was, moreover, the intimate friend of Perry, and Campbell's neighbor for many years at Sydenham. The quarto edition of his poems, which Campbell was allowed to print for his own profit, was the seventh. This was in 1803. The fourth edition, corrected and enlarged, was printed in Glasgow in 1800. His own edition is a fine specimen of Bensley's printing; but the engravings are of the poorest description of art. In 1803, and before the publication of his subscription quarto, he printed, anonymously, at Edinburgh, and at the press of the Ballantynes, his "Lochiel" and " Hohenlinden." The title is simply " Poems," and the dedication is addressed to Alison. "John Leyden," says Sir Walter Scott, "introduced to me Tom Campbell. They afterwards quarrelled. When I repeated'Hohenlinden' to Leyden, he said,'Dash it, man, tell the fellow I hate him, but, dash him, he has written the finest verses that have been published these fifty years.' I did mine errand as faithfully as one of HIomer's messengers, and had for answer,' Tell Leyden that I detest him; but I know the value of his critical approbation.'" Scott knew "Hohenlinden," by heart; and when Sir Walter dined at Murray's in 1800, he repeated at the table, as WVilkie tells us, Campbell's poem of " Lochiel." VWhat Campbell's profits or expectations were at this time, I have never heard. When a poet is in difficulties, he is sure, said William Gifford, to get married. This was 16 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. Campbell's case, for I find in the Scotch papers, and among the marriages of the year 1803, the following entry: "11 th Oct., at St. Margaret's Church, Westminster, Thomas Campbell, Esq., author of'The Pleasures of Hope,' to Miss Matilda Sinclair, daughter of R. Sinclair, Esq., of Park Street." The fruit of this marriage, the most prudent the poet could have taken at that time, was a son, born at Edinburgh on the first of July, 1804, Thomas Telford Campbell, a helpless imbecile, still alive. If there was any one point in Campbell's character more amiable than another, it was his affection for his son. They were much together; and, before his imbecility became confirmed, it was a touching sight to see the poet's fine eyes wander with affection to where his son was seated, and, at any stray remark he might make that intimated a returning intellect, to see how his eyes would brighten with delight, and foretell the pleasures of a father's hope. In the volume of Johnson's Scots Musical Museum for 1803, there is a song of Campbell's, addressed to his wife, when Matilda Sinclair. It is in no edition of his poems that I have seen, and can make no great claim for preservation, beyond any little biographical importance which it may bear. "' O cherub Content, at thy moss-covered shrine I would all the gay hopes of my bosom resign; I would part with ambition thy votary to be, And breathe not a vow but to friendship and thee. "But thy presence appears from my pursuit to fly, Like the gold-colored cloud on the verge of the sky. No lustre tht t hangs on the green willow tree Is so short as the smile of thy favor to me. " In the pulse of my heart I have nourished a care That forbids me thy sweet inspiration to share; The noon of my youth slow departing I see; But its years as they pass bring no tidings of thee LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 17 " cherub Content, at thy moss-covered shrine I would offer my vows, if Mlatilda were mine; Could I cal_ her my own, whom enraptured I see, I would breathe not a vowt but to friendship and thee " This is poor poetry, after the passionate love-songs of Burns, in the earlier volumes of the same publication. On the 28th of October, 1806, Campbell had a pension granted to him from the Crown, payable out of the Scotch Excise, of one hundred and eighty-four pounds a year. It was Fox's intention to have bestowed this pension upon Campbell, but that great statesman died on the 13th of the preceding month. His successors, however, saw his wishes carried into execution, and the poet enjoyed his pension to the day of his death, a period of nearly eight and thirty years. HIe now took up his residence in the small hamlet of Sydenham. Here he compiled his "Annals of Great Britain, from the Accession of George III. to the Peace of Amiens " —forty years of eventful history, compiled without much accuracy of information, or any great elegance of style. This was a mere piece of joun:eyman's work, done to turn a penny. Few have heard of it, fewer seen it, and still fewer read it. The most intelligent bookseller in London was, a week ago, unaware of its existence. Some small accession of fortune about this time, and the glorious certainty of a pension, enabled him to think seriously of a new poem, to outstrip his former efforts, and add another stature to his poetic height. As soon as it was known that the celebrated author of "The Pleasures of IIope" was employed upon a new poem, and a poem of length, expectation was on tiptoe for its appearance. The information first got wind in the dra-wing-room of IHolland House. Then the subject was named —then a bit of the story told by Lord Hollai d, and a verse or two quoted by Lady HIolland; so that the poem had every 2* 2" i i~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~________________ J8 LIFE OF CAMPBELL, advertisement which rank, fashion, reputation, and the poet's own standing, could lend it. The story was liked — then the metre was named and approved —then a portion shown; so that the poet had his coterie of fashion and wtit before the public knew even the title of the poem they were trained up to receive with the acclnmation it deserved. Nor was public expectation disappointed, when it became generally known that the poet had gone to the banks of the Susquehanna for his poem - had chosen the desolation of Wyoming for his story, and the Spenserian stanza for his form of verse. The poet, however, was still timidly fearful, though he had the imprimatur of Holland House in favor of his poem. I was told by Tom Hill that Campbell sent the first printed copy of his poem to Mr. Jeffrey, (now Lord Jeffrey.) The critic's reply was favorable. "Mrs. Campbell told me," added Hill, "that, till he had received Jeffrey's approbation, her husband was suffering, to use his own expression,' the horrors of the damned.' " A Whig poet was safe in those days, when in the hands of a Whig critic. He had more to fear from the critical acumen of a Tory writer; but only one number of the Quarterly Review had then appeared. If Gifford had dissected "little Miss Gertrude," he might have stopped the sale, for a time, of a new edition; but no critical ferocity could have kept down " Gertrude of Wyoming" for more than one season. But Gifford was prepossessed in favor of Campbell; he liked his versification and his. classical correctness; so the poem was intrusted to a friendly hand - one prepossessed, like Gifford, in his favor - the greatest writer and the most generous critic of his age - Sir Walter Scott. No poet ever dreaded criticism more than Campbell. "Coleridlge has attacked'The Pleasures of Hope,' and all other pleasures whatsoever," writes Lord Byron; "Mr. Rogers was present, and heard himself indirectly rowed by the lecturer. Campbell will be desperately annoyed. r -___ LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 19 I never saw a man (and of him I have seen very little) so sensitive. What a happy temperament! I am sorry for it; - what can he fear from criticism? " His next great work was the " Specimens of the British Poets," in seven octavo volumes, published in 1819. This was one of Mr. Murray's publications, and one of his oun suggesting. Iis agreement with Campbell was for ~500), but when the work was completed, he added ~500 more, and books to the value of ~200, borrowed for the publication. Such fits of munificence were not uncommon with John Murray; he had many dealings, and dealt fairly, straight-forwardly, beyond the bounds of common liberality. We wish we could say the same of Campbell in this transaction. No second edition of the "Specimens" was called for before 1841; and when Mr. Murray, in that year, determined on printing the whole seven volumes in one handsome volume, he applied to Campbell to revise his own work, and made him at the same time a handsome offer for the labor of revision. Campbell declined the offer, and set his face at first against the publication. What was to be done? There was a demand for a new edition, and it had been a piece of literary madness on Mr. Murray's part if he had sent the book to press with all its imperfections on its head - not the imperfections, be it understood, of taste and criticism, but of biographical and bibliographical information. Good taste can never change-it is true at all times; but facts, received as such, for want of better information, may be set aside by any dull factmonger who will take the pains to examine a parish register, a bookseller's cata&pgue, or a will in Dc)~tor's Commons. Mr. Peter Cunningham, at the eleventh hour, was called in by Mr. Murray to superintend the reprint, and correct the common errors of fact throughout the seven vollunes. Various inaccuracies were removed; some silently, for it had been burdening the book with useless matter to have retained them in the text and pointed them out in a 20 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. note; while others, that entangled a thought or gave weight, were allowed to stand, but not without notes to stop the perpetuity of the error. A quiver of rage played upon the lips of the poet when he was informed that any one had dared to revise his labors: but when he saw what was done, and knew the friendly hand that had gone with so much patient care through the whole work, he expressed his unfeigned pleasure, and, as we have heard, thanked Mr. Cunningham for his useful services.'The Essay is a charming piece of prose, fresh at the fiftieth reading, and the little prefatory notices abound in delightful criticism, not subtle and far-fetched, but characteristically true to the genius of the poet. He is more alive to beauties than defects, and has distinguished his criticism by a wider sympathy with poetry, in all its branches, than you will find in any other book of English criticism. Johnson takes delight in stripping more than one leaf from every laurel - he laughs at Gray — Collins he commends coldly, - and he even dares to abuse Milton. Dryden and Pope, the idols of Dr. Johnson's criticism, are the false gods of Southey's: —'Holy at Rome -here Antichrist." Campbell has none of this school of criticism; he loves poetry for its own sweet sake, and is no exclusionist. The great fault of Campbell is, that he does not give the best specimens of his authors; but such pieces as Ellis and Headley had not given. Of Sir Philip Sydney, he says, " Mir. Ellis has exhausted the best specimens of his poetry. I have only offered a few short ones." No one will go to a book of specimens for specimens of a poet in his second-best manner, or his third-rate mood. We want the cream of a poet, not the skimmed-milk of his genius. A long extract from Theodric would not represent MIr. Campbell's manner in the fiery Hope, or the more gentle Gertrude. Specimens are intended for two classes of peo LIFE OF CAMIPBELL. 21 pie, - one who cannot afford to buy, and the second who do not care to possess, the British Poets in one hundred and fifty odd volumes. The poor want the best, and the other class of purchasers want surely not the worst. In the year 1820, Mr. Campbell entered upon the editorship of the New Monthly Magazine, which he conducted, we are told, "with a spirit and a resource worthy of his reputation, and of the then palmy estate of periodical lite. rature." WVe doubt this. He drew his salary regularly, it is true, but contributed little of his own of any merit. The whole labor, and too much of the responsibility, rested on the shoulders of the assistant. The poet's name carried its full value; the Magazine took root and flourished, and the pay per sheet was handsome. Hie soon drew a good brigade of writers around him; and placing implicit confidence in what they did, and what they could do, he made his editorship a snug sinecure situation. " Tom Campbell," said Sir Walter Scott, " had much in his power. A man at the head of a Magazine may do much for young men; but Campbell did nothing, - more from indolence, I fancy, than disinclination or a bad heart." A series of articles appeared in the'New Monthly Magazine, when Campbell was its editor, entitled "Boswell Redivivus," a catch-penny name, given by Isazlitt to a collection of Northcote's conversations and sayings, uttered, as was urged, by Northcote, in all the confidence of friendship. An ill-natured saying or two brought the painter into trouble, and Northcote wrote to Campbell, complaining of their appearance, in a letter in which he calls Hazlitt a wretch who had betrayed him. Campbell's answer is a striking illustration of the system he pursued in editi ng the New Monthly. "I am afflicted beyond measure," says the poet, "at finding my own inattention to have been the means of wounding the feelings of a venerable man of genius. Dictate the form and manner of my attempting to atone for having unconsciously injured you, if I can make any 22 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. atonement. The infernal IIazlitt shall never more be permitted to write for the New Monthly. I mean not to palliate my own want of watchfulness over the Magazine, which has occasioned such a paper being admitted. I only tell you the honest truth, that a crisis in my affairs, which is never likely to occur again, fatally tempted me this last month to trust the revision of some part of the number to the care and delicacy of another person; that person, like myself, has slept over his charge." This want of watchfulness was, we fear, a monthly failing, not, as is here set forth, a rare occurrence. The success of "Gertrude" induced him, in 1824, to put forth another poem, a dramatic tale, entitled "Theodric." A silence of fifteen years put expectation upon tiptoe; but when " Theodric" appeared, it was much in the condition of Jonson's "Silent Woman," -there was no one to say plaudite to it. The wits at IIolland house disowned the bantling; the Quarterly called it " an unworthy publication," and friend joined foe in the language of condemnation. Yet Campbell had much to encounter: he had to outstrip his former efforts, and fight a battle with the public against expectation and the applause awarded' to his former poetry. There is a conscious feeling throughout the poem that the poet is fighting an unequal battle; he stands up, but his play is feeble, he distrusts himself, and is only tolerated from a recollection of his bygone powers. "I often wonder," says Sir Walter Scott, "how Tom Campbell, with so much real genius, has not maintained a greater figure in the public eye than he has done of late." Scott is writing in 1826. " The magazine seems to have paralyzed him. The author not only of' The Pleasures of Hope,' but of'Hohenlinden,''Lochiel,' etc., should have been at the very top of the tree. Somehow he wants maudacity, fears the public, and, what is worse, fears the shadow of his own reputation." -a * "What a pity't is," said Sir Walter to Washington Irvinl, "that Camp LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 23 bell does not write more and oftener, and give full sweep to his genius! He has wings that would bear him to the skies, and he does, now and then, spread them grandly, but folds them up again, and resumes his perch, as if he was afraid to launch away. The fact is, Campbell is in a manner a bugbcar to himself; the brightness of his early success is a detriment to all his further efforts. He is afraid of the shadow that his own fame casts before him." In 1827 he was elected lord-rector of his own mother university at Glasgow. He was elected by the free and unanimous choice of the students, and was justly proud of his election. "It was a deep snow," wvrites Allan Cunningham, "when we reached the college-green; the students were drawn up in parties, pelting one another, the poet ran into the ranks, threw several snowballs with unerring aim, then summoning the scholars around him in the hall, delivered a speech replete with philosophy and eloquence. It is needless to say how this was welcomed." When his year of servitude had expired, he was unanimously reelected, the students presenting him at the same time with a handsome silver punch-bowl, described by the poet in his will as one of the great jewels of his property. On the 9th of May, 1828, he lost his wife. This was a severe blow to him. She was a clever woman, and had that influence over him which a wife should always have who is a proper helpmate to her husband. I have heard him say, and with mvch emotion, "No one can imagine how much I was indebted to that woman for the comforts of life." In 1829 and 1830, he quarrelled with Colburn, threw up the editorship of the New Monthly Magazine, and lending his name to another publisher, started a magazine called The Metropolitan. A life of Sir Thomas Lawrence, in two octavo volumes, was advertised, with Campbell's name to it, about the same time. The Life was soon abandoned, an I the new magazine, after a time, transferred to Saunders 24 LIFE OF CAMIPBELL. and Otley, with two editors instead one, Tom Campbell and his friend Tom Moore. The after history of the magazine is well known- the two poets retired, and Marryat, with his "Peter Simple," gave it a swing of reputation which it had not before. The sorrows of Poland, and the ebullitions of bad verse, occupied much of Campbell's time when editor of The Metropolitan. He lived in the PYlish Chambers, and all his talk was Poland. Czartoryski and Niemciewitz were names everlastingly on his lips. A tale of a distressed Pole was his greeting when you met, and an alms or subscription the chorus of his song. Bosw-ell was not more duft about Corsica than Campbell about Poland. Poor Tom Campbell, he exhausted all his sympathy on the Poles, and spent all his invectives upon Rlussia. Yet he did good- he was the means of assisting many brave but unfortunate men, whilst his ravings against Russia pass5el unheeded by, like the clamorous outcries for liberty of Akenside and Thomson. In 1834, he published, in two octavo volumes, the " Life of Mrs. Siddons." Our great actress had constituted Campbell her biographer, and Campbell has told me, more than once, that he considered the work a kind of sacred duty. No man ever went to his task more grudgingly than Campbell; and no man of even average abilities ever produced a worse biography than Campbell's so called ",Life of Mrs. Siddons." The Quarterly called it "an abuse of biography," and its writer " the worst theatrical historian we have ever read." Some of his expressions are turgid and nonsensical almost beyond belief. Of Mrs. PIitchard he says, that she "electrified the house with disappointment." Upon,which the Quarterly remarks, "This, we suppose, is what the philosophers call negative electricity." Since Mr. Campbell's death, Mr. Dyce has addressed a letter to the editor of the ITiterary Gazette, disclaiming any partnership in the composition of what he calls "that LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 25 unfortunate book." There was a rumor very rife, when the book appeared, that Mr. Dyce had had a main-finger in the pie; but the gross inaccuracies of the work gave the best answer to the rumor. Mr. Dyce's accuracy deserves to be proverbial, and no one could suspect that he could have had a hand in any thing like " a very large portion" of the unfortunate performance. However, in disclaiming the share assigned, he lets us a little behind the scenes on this occasion. We see Mrs. Siddons in Tom Campbell's tiring-room. " Soon after Campbell had received the materials which Mrs. Siddons had bequeathed to him for her biography, he wrote to me on the subject; informing me, that, as he had a very slight acquaintance with stage-history, he dreaded the undertaking, and offering me, if I would become his coadjutor, one half of the sum which E. Wilson was to pay him for the work. I refused the money, but promised him all the assistance in my power. He next forwarded to me his papers, consisting chiefly of Mrs. Siddons's memoranda for her life, and a great mass of letters which she had written, at various intervals, to her intimate friend Mrs. Fitz-Hughes. Having carefully gone over the whole, I returned them with sundry illustrations; and subsequently, from time to time, I sent him other notes which I thought might suit his purpose. As, on one occasion, he had spoken slightingly of the letters to Mrs. Fitz-Hughes, (calling them'very dull,' and saying that'the mind of Mrs. Siddons moved in them like an elephant,') and was evidently inclined not to print them, I strongly urged him by no means to omit them, since they appeared to me, though a little pompous in style, extremely characteristic of the writer. "While he was engaged on the biography, a report reached him that Mrs. Jameson was about to publish Memoirs of Mrs. Siddons, and that Miss Siddons (now Mrs. Combe) had furnished her with many anecdotes. At this he was excessively angry; and showed me a letter 3 2(6 LIFE OF C A MP BELL. vwhich he had written to Miss Siddons, indignantly complaining that she should patronize Mrs. Jameson's work, when she must be aware that he had been specially ap pointed her mother's biographer. As the letter in question was perhaps the most extraordinary ever addressed by a gentleman to a lady, I entreated him to throw it into the fire; but he positively refused. Whether it was eventually sent or not, I never learned: if it was, Mrs. Combe can not have forgotten it. He had afterwards some communication with Mlrs. Jameson, in consequence of which she abandoned her design." I have heard Campbell say, that a little girl of eleven would write better letters of their kind than any half dozen addressed by Mrs. Siddons to Mrs. Fitz-Hughes. The poet was introduced to the actress by Charles Moore, the brother of Sir John Moore. With the money which the publication of a bad book brought him, Mr. Campbell set off for Algiers. He told on his return more stories than Tom Coryatt, and began a sTries of papers upon his travels for his old magazine, the New Monthly. These papers have since been collected into two volumes, entitled, " Letters from the South." IHis subsequent publications were a " Life of Shakspeare," a poem called "The Pilgrim of Glencoc," the very dregs and sediment of his dotage; "The Life and Times of Petrarch," concocted from Archdeacon Coxe's papers, (a sorry performance;) and "Frederick the Great and his Court and Times," a publication far below any thing which Smollett's necessities compelled hiin to put his nanle to, and only to be equalled by the last exigencies of Ellkanah Settle. In 1837, he published his poems, in one handsome octavo volume, with numerous vignettes, engraved on *Literary Gazette, 22dl June, 1844. Mr. Dyec's letter is dated the 18th, three days after Campbell's death. After tell years of possessing his soul in peace -he might have waited a little longer. LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 2 steel, from designs by Turner; but Campbell had no innate love for art, and his illustrated volume, when compared with the companion volume of Mr. Rogers, is but a distant imitation. Mr. Rogers, it is true, had a bank at his back, and Campbell had little more than Telford's legacy of ~500 to draw upon; but this will not account for the difference, which we are to attribute altogether to an imperfect understanding of the beauties and resources of art. When Mr. Campbell accepted the editorship of the New Monthly Magazine, he forsook his favorite Syttnham, and leased the house No. 10 Upper Seymour-street, West. It was in this house that Mrs. Campbell died. His next remove was to Middle Scotland Yard. Here he gave a large evening party, and then grew tired of his house. Milton's biographers pursue their favorite poet through all his garden-houses and tenements in London: I am afraid it would be no easy task to follow Campbell through the long catalogue of his London lodgings, for the last fifteen years of his life. I recollect him lodging at No 42 Eatonstreet; in Stockbridge-terrace, Pimlico; in Sussex Chambers, Duke-street, St. James; at 18 Old Cavendish-street; in York Chambers, St. James-street; and at 61 Lincoln'sInn-Fields. In November, 1840, he again set up house, for the sake of a young niece, to whom he has bequeathed the whole of his little property. The house he chose was No. 8 Victoria-square, and here he made his will. The last time I saw Mr. Campbell was in Regent-street, on the 26th of September, 1843. He was dressed in a light blue tail-coat, with gilt buttons, an umbrella tucked under his arm, his boots and trousers all dust and dirt, a perfect picture of mental and bodily imbecility. I never saw a look in the street more estranged and vacant; not the vacancy of the man described by Dr. Young, " whose thougllhts awere not of this world," but the listless gaze of onze o'he had ceased to think at all. I could not help (e.@ttr'-sting to miyself the poet's present with his past apK _ -,. _..,__...., 28 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. pearance, as described by Byron in his Journal. " Campbell looks well, seems pleased, and dressed to sprucery. A blue coat becomes him, so does his new wig. He really looks as if Apollo had sent him a birth-day suit, or a wedding garment, and was witty and lively." This was in 1813, in Holland House. He has drawn a picture of him. self in the streets of Edinburgh, when the "Pleasures of Hope " was a new poem; " I have repeated these lines so often," he says, "on the North Bridge, that the whole fraternity of coachmen know me by tongue as I pass. To be sure, to a mind in sober, serious, street-walking humor, it must bear an appearance of lunacy, when one stamps with the hurried pace, and fervent shake of the head, which strong, pithy poetry excites."* Mr. Campbell died at Boulogne, on the 15th of June, 1844, and on the 3d of July was buried at Poet's Corner, about one foot above the ground, and over against the monument to Shakspeare. I have heard that he had a wish to be buried in the Abbey - a wish which he expressed about a year before he died, at a time when a deputation of the Glasgow Cemetery Company waited on the poor enfeebled poet to beg the favor of his body for their new cemetery. Who will say that Campbell lived unhonored in his native city? Mr. Campbell was in stature small but well made. His eyes were very fine, and just sueh eyes as Lawrence took delight in painting, when he drew that fine picture of the poet which will preserve his looks to the latest posterity. His lips were thin, and on a constant twitter; - thin lips are bad in marble, and Chantrey refused to do his bust because his lips would never look well. He was bald, I have heard him say, when only twenty-four, and since that age had almost always worn a wig. There was a sprucery about almost every thing he did. lie would rule pencil lines to write on, and complete a * Lockhart's Life of Scott, i. 342. LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 29 MS. more in the manner of Davies of Hereford than Tom Campbell. IHis wigs, in his palmy days, were true to the last curl of studious perfection. HIe told a story with a great deal of humor, and had much wit and art in setting off an anecdote that in other telling had gone for nothing. The story of the mercantile traveller from Glasgow was one of his very best, and his proposing Napoleon's health at a meeting of authors because he had murdered a bookseller, (Palm,) was rich in the extreme. Campbell was very fond of forming clubs - he started a poets' club at his own table at Sydenham, when Crabbe, Moore, and Rogers were of the party. " We talked of forming a poets' club," writes Campbell, "and even set about electing the members, not by ballot, but viva voce. The scheme failed, I scarcely know how; but this I know, that, a week or so afterwards, I met with Perry, of the Morning Chronicle, who asked me how our poets' club was going on. I said,'I don't know- we have some difficulty in giving it a name; we thought of calling ourselves The Bees.'' Ah,' said Perry,'that's a little different from the common report, for they say you are to be called The Wasps.' I was so stung with this waspish report, that I thought no more of the Poets' Club." Whatever merit is due to the foundation of the London University, I believe belongs by right to Campbell: he was the founder, moreover, of the Literary Union, an illregulated club which expired in the spring of the present season, "Unwilling to outlive the good that did it," like the Ipswich of Wolsey, as described by Shakspeare. It is well known that Campbell's own favorite poem or all his composition was his " Gertrude." "I never like to see my name before' The Pleasures of IIope;' why, I can not tell you, unless it was that, when young, I was always greeted among my friends as' Mr. Campbell, author 3* 30 LIFE OF CAMPBELL of The Pleasures of Hope.'' Good morning to you, Mr. Campbell, author of The Pleasures of Hope.' When I got married, I was married as the author of' The Pleasures of Hope;' and when I became a father, my son was the son of the author of' The Pleasures of Hope.' " A kind of grim smile, ill-subdued, we are afraid, stole over our features, when, standing beside the poet's grave, we read the inscription on his coffin: — "THOMAS CAMPBELL, LL. D., AUTHOR OF' THE PLEASURES OF HOPE,' DIED JUNE 15, 1844, AGED 67." The poet's dislike occurred to our memory - there was no getting the better of the thought. There is a vigor and swing of versification in "The Pleasures of Hope" unlike any other of Campbell's compositions, the " Lochiel" excepted: yet it carries with it, as Sir Walter Scott justly observes, many marks of juvenile composition. The " Lochiel" has all the faults and all the defects of his former effort; and, as if aware of a want, he sat down, when busy with " Gertrude of Wyoming," to amend the poem. The last four lines originally ran, - 1" Shall victor exult or in death be laid low, With his back to the field and his feet to the foe! And leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame." A noble passage nobly conceived; but hear how it runs as appended to the first edition of "Gertrude of Wyoming:"" Shall victor exult in the battle's acclaim, Or look to yon Heaven from the death-bed of fame." The poet restored the original reading on the recommend LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 31 ation of Sir Walter Scott: he had succeeded in squeezing the whole spirit from out the passage. I remember remarking to Campbell, that there was a couplet in his " Pleasures of Hope," which I felt an indescribable pleasure in repeating aloud, and filling my ears with the music which it made: - "And waft, across the wave's tumultuous roar, The wolf's long howl from Oonalaskai's shore." "Yes," he said, " I tell you where I got it - I found it in a poem called'The Sentimental Sailor,' published about the time of Sterne's'Sentimental Journey.'" I have never been able to meet with this poem. Campbell deserves a good biography and a good monument. His own works want no recommendations, but his friends may do much to perpetuate the memory of the man. Surely his letters deserve collection, and his correspondence should not be suffered to perish from neglect. There is a subscription on foot to erect a monument to his memory in Poets' Corner. This is as it should be - but let it be something good. We have more than enough of bad and indifferent in the Abbey already. PLEASURES OF IIOPE. PART L ANALYSIS -PART I. THE poem opens with a comparison between tIe beauty of remote objects in a landscape, and those ideal scenes of felicity which the imagination delights to contemplate - the influence of anticipation upon the other passions is next delineated - an allusion is made to the wellknown fiction in Pagan tradition, that, when all the guardian deities of mankind abandoned the world, Hope alone was left behind -the conso. lations of this passion in situations of danger and distress -the seaman on his watch - the soldier marching into battle - allusion to the interesting adventures of Byron. The inspiration of Hope, as it actuates the efforts of genius, whether in the department of science or of taste - domestic felicity how inti. mately connected with views of future happiness - picture of a mother watching her infant when asleep - pictures of the prisoner, the maniac, and the wanderer. From the consolations of individual misery a transition is made to prospects of political improvement in the future state. of society -the wide field that is yet open for the progress of humanizing arts among uncivilized nations —from these views of amelioration of society, and the extension of liberty and truth over despotic and barbarous countries, by a melancholy contrast of ideas, we are Ild to reflect upon the hard fate of a brave people recently conspicuous in their struggles for inde. pendence - description of the capture of Warsawv, of the last contest of the oppressors and the oppressed, and the massacre of the Polish.patriots at the bridge of Prague - apostrophe to the self-interested enemies of human improvement - the wrongs of Africa - the barba rous policy of Europeans in India - prophecy in the Hindoo mythology of the expected descent of the Deity to redress the miseries of their race, and to take vengeance on the violators of justice and mercy. 1..-~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ THE PLEASURES OF HOPE. PART I. AT summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky? Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near?1'is distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure Be. Thus, with delight, we linger to survey The promised joys of life's unmeasured way; Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene More pleasing seems than all the past hath been, And every form, that Fancy can repair From dark oblivion, glows divinely there. WVhat potent spirit guides the raptured eye To pierce the shades of dim futurity? Can Wisdom lend, with all her heavenly power, The pledge of Joy's anticipated hour? Ah, no! she darkly sees the fate of man - Her dim horizon bounded to a span; Or, if she hold an image to the view,'Tis Nature pictured too severely true. 36 CAMPBELL' S POEMS. With thee, sweet HoPE! resides the heavenly light, That pours remotest rapture on the sight: Thine is the charm of life's bewildered way, That calls each slumbering passion into play. Waked by thy touch, I see the sister barnl, On tiptoe, watching, start at thy command, And fly where'er thy mandate bids them steer, To Pleasure's path, or Glory's bright career. Primeval HOPE, the Ainian Muses say, WVhen Man and Nature mourned their first decay; When every form of death, and every wo, Shot from malignant stars to earth below; When Murder bared her arm, and rampant War Yoked the red dragons of her iron car; WVhen Peace and Mercy, banished from the plain, Sprung on the viewless winds to Heaven again; A1, all forsook the friendless, guilty mind, - But HoPE, the charmer, lingered still behind. Thus, while Elijah's burning wheels prepare From Carmel's heights to sweep the fields of air, The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, Dropped on the world - a sacred gift to man. Auspicious HOPE! in thy sweet garden grow Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every wo; Won by their sweets, in Nature's languid hour, The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower; There, as the wild bee murmurs on the wing, What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring! What viewless forms th'.Eolian organ play, And sweep the furrowed lines of anxious thought away. Angel of life! thy glittering wings explore Earth's loneliest bounds, and Ocean's wildest shore. CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 37 Lo! to the wintry winds the pilot yields His bark careering o'er unfathomed fields; Now on Atlantic waves he rides afar, Where Andes, giant of the western star, With meteor-standard to the winds unfurled, Looks from his throne of clouds o'er half the world! Now far he sweeps, where scarce a summer smiles On Behring's rocks, or Greenland's naked isles: Cold on his midnight watch the breezes blow, From wastes that slumber in eternal snow; And waft, across the wave's tumultuous roar, The wolf's long howl from Oonalaska's shore. Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm, Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form! Rocks, waves, and winds, the shattered bark delay; Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away. But HoPE can here her moonlight vigils keep, And sing to charm the spirit of the deep: Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole, Her visions warm the watchman's pensive soul; His native hills that rise in happier climes, The grot that heard his song of other times, His cottage home, his bark of slender sail, His glassy lake, and broomwood-blossomed vale, Rush on his thought; he sweeps before the wind, Treads the loved shore he sighed to leave behind; Meets at each step a friend's familiar fabe, And flies at last to Helen's long embrace; WVipes from her cheek the rapture-speaking tear And clasps, with many a sigh, his children dear! While, long neglected, but at length caressed, H His faithful dog salutes the smiling guest, Points to the master's eyes (where'er they roam) His wistful face, and whines a welcome home. 4 38 CAMPBELL' S POEMS. Friend of the brave! in peril's darkest hour, Intrepid Virtue looks to thee for power; To thee the heart its trembling homage yields, On stormy floods, and carnage-covered fields, When front to front the bannered hosts combine, Halt ere they close, and form the dreadful line. When all is still on Death's devoted soil, The march-worn soldier mingles for the toil! As rings his glittering tube, he lifts on high The dauntless brow, and spirit-speaking eye, Hails in his heart the triumph yet to come, And hears thy stormy music in the drum! And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore The hardy Byron to his native shore — In horrid climes, where Chiloe's tempests sweep Tumultuous murmurs o'er the troubled deep,'Twas his to mourn Misfortune's rudest shock, Scourged by the winds, and cradled on the rock, To wake each joyless morn and search again The famished haunts of solitary men; Whose race, unyielding as their native storm, Know not a trace of Nature but the form; Yet, at thy call, the hardy tar pursued, Pale, but intrepid, sad, but unsubdued, Pierced the deep woods, and hailing from afar The moon's pale planet and the northern star, Paused at each dreary cry, unheard before, Hymenas in the wild, and mermaids on the sh(re; Till, led by thee o'er many a cliff sublime, He found a warmer world, a milder clime, A home to rest, a shelter to defend, Peace and repose, a Briton and a friend! Congenial HOPEr! thy passion-kindling power, How bright, how strong, in youth's untroubled hour; CAMPBELL S POEMS. 39 On yon proud height, with Genius hand in hand, I see thee light, and wave thy golden wand. "Go, child of Heaven! (thy w-inged words proclaim)'Tis thine to search the boundless fields of fame! Lo! Newton, priest of nature, shines afar, Scans the wide world, and numbers every star! Wilt thou, with him, mysterious rites apply, And watch the shrine with wonder-beamning eye; Yes, thou shalt mark, with magic art profound, The speed of light, the circling march of sound; With Franklin grasp the lightning's fiery wing, Or yield the lyre of Heaven another string. "The Swedish sage admires, in yonder bowers, His winged insects, and his rosy flowers; Calls from their woodland haunts the savage train, WVith sounding horn, and counts them on the plain — So once, at Heaven's command, the wanderers came To Eden's shade, and heard their various name. "Far from the world, in yon sequestered clime, Slow pass the sons of Wisdom, more sublime; Calm as the fields of Heaven, his sapient eye The loved Athenian lifts to realms on high, Admiring Plato, on his spotless page Stamps the bright dictates of the Father sage:'Shall Nature bound to Earth's diurnal span The fire of God, th' immortal soul of man>?' 4" rurn, child of Heaven, thy rapture-lightened eye To WVisdom's walks, the sacred Nine are nigh: Hark! from bright spires that gild the Delphian height, From streams that wander in eternal light, Ranged on their hill, I-TIarnonia's daughters swell The mingling tones of horn, and harp, and shell; IL ___________-~~~... 40 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. Deep from his vaults the Loxian murmurs flow, And Pythia's awful organ peals below. "Beloved of Heaven! the smiling Muse shall shed Her moonlight halo on thy beauteous head; Shall swell thy heart to rapture unconfined, And breathe a holy madness o'er thy mind. I see thee roam her guardian power beneath, And talk with spirits on the midnight heath; Inquire of guilty wanderers whence they came, And ask each blood-stained form his earthly name; Then weave in rapid verse the deeds they tell, And read the trembling world the tales of hell. "When Venus, throned in clouds of rosy hue, Flings from her golden urn the vesper dew, And bids fond man her glimmering noon employ, Sacred to love, and walks of tender joy; A milder mood the goddess shall recall, And soft as dew thy tones of music fall; While Beauty's deeply-pictured smiles impart A pang more dear than pleasure to the heart — Warm as thy sighs shall flow the Lesbian strain, And plead in Beauty's ear, nor plead in vain. " Or wilt thou Orphean hymns more sacred deem, And steep thy song in Mercy's mellow stream; To pensive drops the radiant eye beguile — For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile;On Nature's throbbing anguish pour relief, And teach impassioned souls the joy of grief? " Yes; to thy tongure shall seraph words be given, And power on earth to plead the cause of Heaven The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, That never mused on sorrow but its own, I; -- - - CAMPBELL S POEM S. 41 Unlocks a generous store at thy command, Like Horeb's rocks beneath the prophet's hand. The living lumber of his kindred earth, Charmed into soul, receives a second birth, Feels thy dread power another heart afford, Whose passion-touched harmonious strings accord True as the circling spheres to Nature's plan; And man, the brother, lives the friend of man. "Bright as the pillar rose at Heaven's command, When Israel marched along the desert land, Blazed through the night on lonely wilds afar, And told the path,- a never-setting star: So, heavenly Genius, in thy course divine, HOPE is thy star, her light it ever thine, Propitious power! when rankling cares anioy The sacred home of Hymenean joy; When doomed to Poverty's sequestered dell, The wedded pair of love and virtue dwell. Unpitied by the world, unknown to fame, Their woes, their Wishes, and their hearts the same; Oh, there, prophetic HoPE! thy smile bestow, And chase the pangs that worth should never know; There, as the parent deals his scanty store To friendless babes, and weeps to give no more, Tell, that his manly race shall yet assuage Their father's wrongs, and shield his latter age. What though for him no Hybla sweets distil, Nor bloomy vines wave purple on the hill; Tell, that when silent years have passed away, That when his eye grows dim, his tresses gray, These busy hands a lovelier cot shall build, And deck with fairer flowers his little field, And call from Heaven propitious dews to breathe Arcadian beauty on the barren heath; 4* 4.2 CAMPBELL'S POEM S. Tell, that while Love's spontaneous smile endears The days of peace, the Sabbath of his years, Health shall prolong to many a festive hour The social pleasures of his humble bower. Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps, Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps; She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, Smiles on her slumbering child with lpensive eyes, And weaves a song of melancholy joy - "Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy; No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine; No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine; Bright as his manly sire the son shall be In form and soul; but, ah! more blest than he I Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love at last, Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past - With maty a smile my solitude repay, And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away. "And say, when summoned from the world and the, I lay my head beneath the willow tree, Wilt thou, sweet mourner! at my stone appear, And soothe my parted spirit lingering near? Oh, wilt thou come at evening hour to shed The tears of memory o'er my narrow bed; With aching temples on thy hand reclined, Muse on the last farewell I leave behind, Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low, And think on all my love, and all my wo?" So speaks affection, ere the infant eye Can look regard, or brighten in reply; But when the cherub lip hath learnt to claim A mother's ear by that endearing name; Soon as the playful innocent can prove A tear of pity, or a smile of love, t AIMPBELL'S POEMS. 43 Or cons his murmuring task beneath her care, Or lisps with holy look his evening prayer, Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear The mournful ballad warbled in his ear; How fondly looks admiring HOPE the while, At every artless tear, and every smile! How glows the joyous parent to descry A guileless bosom, true to sympathy! Where is the troubled heart consigned to share Tumultuous toils, or solitary care, Unblest by visionary thoughts that stray To count the joys of Fortune's better day? Lo, nature, life, and liberty relume The dim-eyed tenant of the dungeon gloom, A long-lost friend, or hapless child restored, Smiles at his blazing hearth and social board; Warm from his heart the tears of rapture flow, And virtue triumphs o'er remembered wo. Chide not his peace, proud Reason! nor destroy The shadowy forms of uncreated joy, That urge the lingering tide of life, and pour Spontaneous slumber on his midnight hour. Hark! the wild maniac sings, to chide the gale That wafts so slow her lover's distant sail; She, sad spectatress, on the wintry shore, Watched the rude surge his shroudless corse that bore, Knew the pale form, and, shrieking in amaze, Clasped her cold hands, and fixed her maddening gaze: Poor widowed wretch!'twas there she wept in vain, Till Memory fled her agonizing brain;But mercy gave, to charm the sense of wo, Ideal peace, that truth could ne'er bestow; Warm on her heart the joys of Fancy beam, And aimless HOPE delights her darkest dream. 44 CAMPBELL'S POEMS Oft when yon moon has climbed the midnight sky, And the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry, Piled on the steep, her blazing fagots burn To hail the bark that never can return; And still she waits, but scarce forbears to weep That constant love can linger on the deep. And, mark the wretch, whose wanderings never knew The world's regard, that soothes, though half untrue; Whose erring heart the lash of sorrow bore, But found not pity when it erred no more. Yon friendless man, at whose dejected eye Th' unfeeling proud one looks —and passes by, Condemned on Penury's barren path to roam, Scorned by the world, and left without a home — Even he, at evening, should he chance to stray Down by the hamlet's hawthorn-scented way, Where, round the cot's romantic glade, are seen The blossomed bean-field, and the sloping green, Leans o'er its humble gate, and thinks the while — Oh! that for me some home like this would smile, Some hamlet shade, to yield my sickly form Health in the breeze, and shelter in the,storm! There should my hand no stinted boon assign To wretched hearts with sorrow such as mine! That generous wish can soothe unpitied care, And HoPpE half mingles with the poor man's prayer, HOPE! when I mourn, with sympathizing mind, The wrongs of fate, the woes of human kind, Thy blissful omens bid my spirit see The boundless fields of rapture yet to be; I watch the wheels of Nature's mazy plan, And learn the future by the past of man. Come, bright Improvement! on the car of Time, And rule the spacious world from clime to clime; CAM1itPBELL'S POE M S. 45 Thy handmaid arts shall every wild explore, Trace every wave, and culture every shore. On Erie's banks, where tigers steal along, And the dread Indian chants a dismal song, Where human fiends on midnight errands walk, And bathe in brains the murderous tomahawk, There shall the flocks on thymy pasture stray, And shepherds dance at Summer's opening day: Each wandering genius of the lonely glen Shall start to view the glittering haunts of men, And silent watch, on woodland heights around, The village curfew as it tolls profound. In Libyan groves, where damned rites are done, That bathe the rocks in blood, and veil the sun, Truth shall arrest the murderous arm profane, Wild Obi flies - the veil is rent in twain. Where barbarous hordes on Scythian mountains roam, Truth, Mercy, Freedom, yet shall find a home; ~Where'er degraded Nature bleeds and pines, From Guinea's coast to Sibir's dreary mines, Truth shall pervade th' unfathomed darkness there, And light the dreadful features of despair - Hark! the stern captive spurns his heavy load, And asks the image back that Heaven bestowed! Fierce in his eye the fire of valor burns, And, as the slave departs, the man returns. Oh! sacred Truth-! thy triumph ceased a while, And HOPE, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet born; Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, Presaging wrath to Poland - and to man! K__ - __.__._ _.... 46 CAICAMPBELL S POEMS Varsaw's last champion from her height surveyed, Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid; Oh, Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save! Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? Yet, *hough destruction sweep those lovely plains, Rise, fellow men! our country yet remains! By that dread name, we wave the sword on high! And swear for her to live - with her to die! He said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed His trusty warriors few, but undismayed; Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, Revenge, or death,- the watchword and reply; Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm! In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few! From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew; Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime; Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her wo! Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career; HoPr, for a season, bade the world farewell, And Freedom shrieked -as KosIiusco fell! The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there, Tumultuous AMurder shook the midnight airOn Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below;.The storm prevails, the rampart yields away, Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay! Hark! as the smouldering piles with thunder fal, A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call! CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 47 Earth shook -red meteors flashed along the sky, And conscious Nature shuddered at the cry! Oh! righteous Heaven; ere Freedom found a grave, Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save? Where was thine arm, O Vengeance! where thy rod. That smote the foes of Zion and of God; That crushed proud Ammon, when his iron car Was yoked in wrath, and thundered from afar? Where was the storm that slumbered till the host Of blood-stained Pharaoh left their trembling coast; Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, And heaved an ocean on their march below? Departed spirits of the mighty dead! Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled! Friends of the world! restore your swords to man, Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van! Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, And make her arm puissant as your own! Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return The patriot TELL —the BRUCE OF BANNOCKBURN! Yes! thy proud lords, unpitied land! shall see That man hath yet a soul - and dare be free! A little while, along thy saddening plains, The -starless night of Desolation reigns; Truth shall restore the light by Nature given, And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven, Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurled, Her name, her nature, withered from the world! Ye that the rising morn invidious mark, And hate the light - because your deeds are dark; Ye that expanding truth invidious view, And think, or wish, the song of HOPE untrue; 48 CAMPBELL S POEMS. Perhaps your little hands presume to span The march of Genius and the powers of man; Perhaps ye watch, at Pride's unhallowed shrine, Her victims, newly slain, and thus divine:"Here shall thy triumph, Genius, cease, and here Truth, Science, Virtue, close your short career." Tyrants! in vain ye trace the wizard ring; In vain ye limit Mind's unwearied spring: What! can ye lull the winged winds asleep, Arrest the rolling world, or chain the deep? No! - the wild wave contemns your sceptred hand - It rolled not back when Canute gave command! Man! can thy doom no brighter soul allow? Still must thou live a blot on Nature's brow? Shall War's polluted banner ne'er be furled? Shall crimes and tyrants cease but with the world? What! are thy triumphs, sacred Truth, belied?'Why then hath Plato lived, or Sidney died? Ye fond adorers of departed fame, Who warm at Scipio's worth, or Tully's name! Ye that, in fancied vision, can admire The sword of Brutus, and the Theban lyre! Rapt in historic ardor, who adore Each classic haunt, and well-remembered shore. Where Valor tuned, amidst her chosen throng, The Thracian trumpet and the Spartan song; Or, wandering thence, behold the later charms Of England's glory, and Helvetia's arms! See Roman fire in Hampden's bosom swell, And fate and freedom in the shaft of Tell! Say, ye fond zealots to the worth of yore, IIath Valor left the world - to live no more No more shall Brutus bid a tyrant die, And sternly smile with vengeance in his eye? CAMPBELL S POEMS. 49 Hlampden no more, when slffering Freedom calls, Encounter Fate, and triumph as he falls? Nor Tell disclose, through peril and alarm, The might that slumbers in a peasant's arm? Yes! in that generous cause, forever strong, The patriot's virtue and the poet's song, Still, as the tide of ages rolls away, Shall charm the world, unconscious of decay! Yes! there are hearts, prophetic HOPE may trust, That slumber yet in uncreated dust, Ordained to fire th' adoring sons of earth, With every charm of wisdom and of worth; Ordained to light, with intellectual day, The mazy wheels of nature as they play, Or, warm with Fancy's energy, to glow, And rival all but Shakspeare's name below. And say, supernal Powers! who deeply scan Heaven's dark decrees, unfathomed yet by man, When shall the world call down, to cleanse her shame, That embryo spirit, yet without a name,That friend of Nature, whose avenging hands Shall burst the Libyan's adamantine bands? Who, sternly marking on his native soil The blood, the tears, the anguish, and the toil, Shall bid each righteous heart exult, to see Peace to the slave, and vengeance on the free! Yet, yet, degraded men! th' expected day That breaks your bitter cup, is far away; Trade, wealth, and fashion, ask you still to bleed, And holy men give Scripture for the deed; Scourged and debased, no Briton stoops to save - A wretch, a coward? yes, because a slave 5 50 C AIPB ELL'S POE MS. Eternal Nature! when thy giant hand Had heaved the floods, and fixed the trembling land; When life sprang startling at thy plastic call, Endless her forms, and man the lord of all! Say, was that lordly form inspired by thee, To wear eternal chains and bow the knee? Was man ordained the slave of man to toil, Yoked with the brutes, and fettered to the soil; Weighed in a tyrant's balance with his gold? No!-N- ature stamped us in a heavenly mould! She bade no wretch his thankless labor urge, Nor, trembling, take the pittance and the scourge; No homeless Libyan, on the stormy deep, To call upon his country's name, and weep! Lo! once in triumph, on his boundless plain, The quivered chief of Congo loved to reign; With fires proportioned to his native sky, Strength in his arm, and lightning in his eye; Scoured with wild feet his sun-illumined zone, The spear, the lion, and the woods, his own! Or led the combat, bold without a plan, An artless savage, but a fearless man! The plunderer came! -alas! no glory smiles For Congo's chief, on yonder Indian isles; Forever fall'n! - no son of Nature now, With Freedom chartered on his manly brow! Faint, bleeding, bound, he weeps the night away, And when the sea-wind wafts the dewless day, Starts, with a bursting heart, for evermore To curse the sun that lights their guilty shore! The shrill horn blew; at that alarum knell Hiis guardian angel took a last farewell! That funeral dirge to darkness hath resigned The fiery grandeur of a generous mind! CAMPBELL S POEMS. 5] Poor fettered man! I hear thee whispering low Unhallowed vows to Guilt, the child of WVo! Friendless thy heart; and canst thou harbor there A wish but death - a passion but despair? The widowed Indian, when her lord expires, Mounts the dread pile, and braves the funeral fires! So falls the heart at Thraldom's bitter sigh! So Virtue dies, the spouse of Liberty! But not to Libya's barren climes alone, To Chili, or the wild Siberian zone, Belong the wretched heart and haggard eye, Degraded worth, and poor misfortune's sigh! Ye orient realms, where Ganges' waters run! Prolific fields! dominions of the sun! How long your tribes have trembled and obeyed? How long was Timour's iron sceptre swayed, WVhose marshalled hosts, the lions of the plain, From Scythia's northern mountains to the main, Raged o'er your plundered shrines and altars bare, WVith blazing torch and gory cimeter, - Stunned with the cries of death each gentle gale, And bathed in blood the verdure of the vale! Yct could no pangs the immortal spirit tame, WVLen Brama's children perished for his name, The martyr smiled beneath avenging power, And braved the tyrant in his torturing hour! When Europe sought your subject realms to gain, And stretched her giant sceptre o'er the main, Taught her proud barks the winding way to shape, And braved the stormy Spirit of the Cape; Children of Brama! then was Mercy nigh To wash the stain of blood's eternal dye? Did Peace descend, to triumph and to save, tWhen freeborn Britons crossed the. Indian wave? 52 CAMP BELL S POEMS. Ah, no! - to more than Rome's ambition true, The Nurse of Freedom gave it not to you! -She the bold route of Europe's guilt began, And, in the march of nations, led the van i Rich in the gems of India's gaudy zone, And plunder piled from kingdoms not their own, Degenerate trade! thy minions could despise The heart-born anguish of a thousand cries; Could lock, with impious hands, their teeming store, While famished nations died along the shore: Could mock the groans of fellow-men, and bear The curse of kingdoms peoplea c wth despair; Could stamp disgrace on man's polluted name, And barter, with their gold, eternal shame! But hark! as bowed to earth the Bramin kneels, From heavenly climes propitious thunder peals! Of India's fate her guardian spirits tell, Prophetic murmurs breathing on the shell, And solemn sounds that awe the listening mind, Roll on the azure paths of every wind. "Foes of mankind! (her guardian spirits say,) Revolving ages bring the bitter day, When heaven's unerring arm shall fall on you, And blood for blood these Indian plains bedew; Nine times have Brama's wheels of lightning hurled His awful presence o'er the alarmed world; Nine times hath Guilt, through all his giant frame, Convulsive trembled, as the Mighty came; Nine times hath suffering Mercy spared in vainBut Heaven shall burst her starry gates again! He comes! dread Brama shakes the sunless sky With murmuring wrath, and thunders from on high, Heaven's fiery horse, beneath his warrior form, Paws the light clouds, and gallops on the storm! CAiMPBELL' S POEMS. 53 Wide waves his flickering sword; his bright arms glow Like summer suns, and light the world below! Earth, and her trembling isles in Ocean's bed, Are shook; and Nature rocks beneath his tread! "To pour redress on India's injured realm, The oppressor to dethrone, the proud to whelm; To chase destruction from her plundered shore With arts and arms that triumphed once before, The. tenth Avatar comes! at Heaven's command Shall Seriswattee wave her hallowed wand! And Camdeo bright, and Ganesa sublime, Shall bless with joy their own propitious clime! — Come, Heavenly Powers! primeval peace restore! Love -- Merey - Wisdom - rule for evermore!" 5* 113 PLEASURES OF HOL)PE. PART I. TIIE PLEASURES OF HOPE. PART II. IN joyous youth, what soul hath never known Thought, feeling, taste, harmoneous to its own? Who hath not paused while Beauty's pensive eye Asked from his heart the homage of a sigh? Who hath not owned, with rapture-smitten frame, The power of grace, the magic of a name? There be, perhaps, who barren hearts avow, Cold as the rocks on Torneo's hoary bli l There be, whose loveless wisdom never failed, In self-adoring pride securely mailed -- But, triumph not, ye peace-enamored few Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you! For you no fancy consecrates the scene Where rapture uttered vows, and wept between;'Tis yours, unmoved, to sever and to meet; No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet! WVho that would ask a heart to dulness wed, The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead? No; the wild bliss of Nature needs alloy, And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy! And say, without our hopes, without our fears, Without the home that plighted love endears, __ __ __ __ 58 CAMPBELL'S POEMIS. Without the smile from partial beauty won, Oh! what were man?- a world without a sun. Till Hymen brought his love-delighted hour, There dwelt no joy in Eden's rosy bower! In vain the viewless seraph lingering there, At starry midnight charmed the silent air; In vain the wild-bird carolled on the steep, To hail the sun, slow Wheeling from the deep; In vain, to soothe the solitary shade, Ae/rial notes in mingling measure played; The summer wind that shook the spangled tree, The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee; — Still slowly passed the melancholy day, And still the stranger wist not where to stray. The world was sad! -the garden was a wild! And man, the hermit, sighed- till woman smiled! True, the sad power to generous hearts may bring Delirious anguish on his fiery wing; Barred from delight by Fate's untimely hand, By wealthless lot, or pitiless command; Or doomed to gaze on beauties that adorn The smile of triumph or the frown of scorn; While Memory watches o'er the sad review Of joys that faded like the morning dew; Peace may depart- and life and nature seem A barren path, a wildness, and a dream! But can the noble mind forever brood, The willing victim of a weary mood, On heartless cares that squander life away, And cloud young Genius brightening into day?Shame to the coward thought that e'er betrayed The noon of manhood to a myrtle shade!If HOPE's creative spirit can not raise One trophy sacred to thy future days, CAMPBELL S POEMS. 59 Scorn the dull crowd that haunt the gloomy shrine, Of hopeless love to murmur and repine! But, should a sigh of milder mood express Thy heart-warm wishes, true to happiness, Should Heaven's fair harbinger delight to pour Her blissful visions on thy pensive hour, No tear to blot thy memory's.pictured page, No fears but such as fancy can assuage; Though thy wild heart some hapless hour may miss The peaceful tenor of unvaried bliss, (For love pursues an ever-devious race, True to the winding lineaments of grace;) Yet still may HOPE her talisman employ To snatch from Heaven anticipated joy, And all her kindred energies impart That burn the brightest in the purest heart. When first the Rhodian's mimic art arrayed The queen of Beauty in her Cyprian shade, The happy master mingled on his piece Each look that charmed him in the fair of Greece. To faultless Nature true, he stole a grace From every finer form and sweeter face; And as he sojourned on the.Egean isles, Wooed all their love, and treasured all their smiles; Then glowed the tints, pure, precious, and refined, And mortal charms seemed heavenly when combined! Love on the picture smiled! Expression poured Her mingling spirit there - and Greece adored! So thy fair hand, enamored Fancy! gleans The treasured pictures of a thonsand scenes; Thy pencil traces on the lover's thought Some cottage-home, from towns and toil remote, Where love and lore may claim alternate hours, With Peace embosomed in Idalian bowers! 60 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. Remote from busy Life's bewildered way, O'er all his heart shall Taste and Bcauty sway! Free on the sunny slope or winding shore, WVith hermit steps to wander and adore! There shall he love, when genial morn appears, Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears, To watch the brightening roses of the sky, And muse on Nature with a poet's eye!And when the sun's last splendor lights the deep, The woods and waves, and murmuring winds asleep, When fairy harps the Hesperian planet hail, And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale, IHis path shall be where streamy mountains swell Their shadowy grandeur o'er the narrow dell, Where mouldering piles and forests intervene, Mingling with darker tints the living green; No circling hills his ravished eye to bound, Heaven, Earth, and Ocean, blazing all around. The moon is up- the watch-tower dimly burns - And down the vale his sober step returns; But pauses oft, as winding rocks convey The still sweet fall of music far away; And oft he lingers from his home awhile To watch the dying notes!-and start, and smile! Let winter come! let p lar spirits sweep The darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep! Though boundless snows the withered heath deform, And the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm, Yet shall the smile of social love repay, With mental light, the melancholy day! And, when its short and sullen noon is o'er, The ice-chained waters slumbering on the shore, How blight the fagots in his little hall Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wallI CAMPBELL'S POEMS 61 How blest he names, in Love's familiar' tone, The kind, fair friend, by nature marked his own; And, in the waveless mirror of his mind, Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind, Since when her empire o'er his heart began! Since first he called her his before the holy man! Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome, And light the wintry paradise of home; And let the half-uncurtained window hail Some way-worn man benighted in the vale! Now, while the moaning night-wind rages high, As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled sky, While fiery hosts in Heaven's wide circle play, And bathe in lurid light the milky-way, Safe from the storm, the meteor, and the shower, Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn hour-. With pathos shall command, -with wit beguile, A generous tear of anguish, or a smile - Thy woes, Arion! and thy simple tale, O'er all the heart shall triumph and prevail! *Charmed as they read the verse too sadly true, How gallant Albert, and his weary crew, Heaved all their guns, their foundering bark to save, And toiled - and shrieked - and perished on the wave Yes, at the dead of night, by Lonna's steep, The seaman's cry was heard along the deep; There on his funeral waters, dark and wild, The dying father blessed his darling child! Oh! MIercy, shield her innocence, he cried, Spent on the prayer his bursting heart, and died! Or they will learn how generous worth sublimes The robber Moor, and pleads for all his crimes Hot\ poor Amelia kissed, with many a tear, His hand, blood-stained, but ever, ever dear! 6 6i2 CA1MPBELL S POEMS Hung on the tortured bosom of her lord, And wept and prayed perdition from his sword I Nor sought in vain! at that heart-piercing cry The strings of Nature cracked with agony! He, with delirious laugh, the dagger hurled, And burst the ties that bound him to the world! Turn from his dying words, that smite with steel The shuddering thoughts, or wind them on the wheel — Turn to the gentler melodies that suit Thalia's harp, or Pan's Arcadian lute; Or, down the stream of Truth's historic page,. From clime to clime descend, from age to age! Yet there, perhaps, may darker scenes obtrude Than Fancy fashions in her wildest mood; There shall he pause with horrent brow, to rate What millions died- that Caesar might be great! Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore, Marched by their Charles to Dnieper's swampy shore Faint in his wounds and shivering in the blast, The Swedish soldier sunk - and groaned his last! File after file the stormy showers benumb, Freeze every standard-sheet, and hush the drum! Horseman and horse confessed the bitter pang, And arms and warriors fell with hollow clang! Yet, ere he sunk in Nature's last repose, Ere life's warm torrent to the fountain froze, The dying man to Sweden turned his eye, Thought of his home, and closed it with a sigh! Imperial Pride looked sullen on his plight, And Charles beheld- nor shuddered at the sight! Above, below, in Ocean, Earth, and Sky, Thy fairy worlds, Imagination, lie, And HoPE attends, companion of the way, Thy dream by night, thy visions of the day! CAhMPBELL S POEMS. 63 In yonder pensile orb, and every sphere That gems the starry girdle of the year; In those unmeAsured words, she bids thee tell. Pure from their God, created millions dwell, Whose names and natures, unrevealed below, We yet shall learn, and wonder as we know; For, as Iona's saint, a giant form, Throned on her towers, conversing with the storm. (When o'er each lounic alter, weed-entwiied, The vesper clock tolls mournful to the wind,) Counts every wave-worn isle, and mountain hoar, From Kilda to the green Ierne's shore; So, when thy pure and renovated mind This perishable dust hath left behind, Thy seraph eye shall count the starry train, Like distant isles embosomed in the main; Rapt to the shrine where motion first began, And light and life in mingling torrent ran; From whence each bright rotundity was hurled, The throne of God, -the centre of the world! Oh! vainly wise, the moral Muse hath sung That suasive HoPE hath but a Syren tongue! True; she may sport with life's untutored day, Nor heed the solace of its last decay, The guileless heart her happy mansion spurn, And part, like Ajut - never to return! But, yet, methinks, when Wisdom shall assuage The grief and passions of our greener age, Though dull the close of life, and far away Each flower that hailed the dawning of the day: Yet o'er her lovely hopes, that once were dear, The time-taught spirit, pensive, not severe, With milder griefs her aged eye shall fill, And weep their falsehood, though she loves them still! 6(4 CAMPBELL S POJtMS. Thus, with forgiving tears, and reconciled, The king of Judah mourned his rebel child! Musing on days, when yet the guiltless bby Smiled on his sire, and filled his heart with joy My Absalom! the voice of Nature cried, Oh! that for thee thy father could have died! For bloody was the deed, and rashly done, That slew my Absalom! - my son! - my son! Unfading HOPE! when life's last embers burn, When soul to soul, and dust to dust return! Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour! Oh! then, thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power! What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye!. Bright to the soul thy seraph hands eonvey The morning dream of life's eternal dayThen, then, the triumph and the trance begin, And all the phcenix spirit burns within! Oh! deep-enchanting prelude to repose, The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes! Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh, It is a dread and awful thing to die! Mysterious worlds, untravelled by the sun! Where Time's far wandering tide has never runt, From your unfathomed shades, and viewless spheres, A warning comes, unheard by other ears.'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud, Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud! WVhile Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust, The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust: And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod The roaring waves, and called upon his God, With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss, And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss! CAMPBELL S POEMS. 65 Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb; Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll Cimmerian darkness o'er the parting soul! Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of Dismay, Chased on his night-steed by the star of day! The strife is o'er- the pangs of Nature close, And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes. Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze, The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze, On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky, Float the sweet tones of star-born melody; Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale, When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still Watched on the holy towers of Zion hill! Soul of the just! companion of the dead! Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled? Back to its heavenly source thy being goes, Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose; Doomed on his airy path awhile to burn, And doomed, like thee, to travel, and return.Hark! from the world's exploding centre driven, With sounds that shook the firmament of Heaven, Careers the fiery giant, fast and far, On bickering wheels,' and adamantine car; From planet whirled to planet more remote, He visits realms beyond the reach of thought; But, wheeling homeward, when his course is run, Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun! So hath the traveller of earth unfurled Her trembling wings, emerging from the world; And o'er the path by mortal never trod, Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God! 6* 66 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. Oh! lives there, Heaven! beneath thy dread expanse, One hopeless, dark idolater of Chance Content to feed, with pleasures unrefined, The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind; Who, mouldering earthward,'reft of every trust, In joyless union wedded to the dust, Could all his parting energy dismiss, And call this barren world sufficient bliss?There live, alas! of heaven-directed mien, Of cultured soul, and sapient eye serene, Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of a day, Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay, Frail as the leaf in Autumn's yellow bower, Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower; A friendless slave, a child without a sire, Whose mortal life, and momentary fire, Light to the grave his chance-created form, As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm; And, when the gun's tremendous flash is o'er, To night and silence sink for evermore! - Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim, Lights of the world, and demi-gods of Fame? Is this your triumph- this your proud applause, Children of Truth, and champions of her cause? For this hath Science searched, on weary wing, By shore and sea-each mute and living thing! Launched with Iberia's pilot from the steep, To worlds unknown and isles beyond the deep? Or round the cope her living chariot driven, And wheeled in triumph through the signs of Heaven. Oh! star-eyed Science, hast thou wandered there, To waft us home the message of despair? Then bind the palm, thy sage's brow to suit, Of blasted leaf, and death-distilling fruit! Ah me! the laurelled wreath that Murder rears, Blood-nursed, and watered by the widow's tears, CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 67 Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread, As waves the night-shade round the skeptic head. WVhat is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain? I smile on death, if Heaven-ward HOPE remain: But, if the warring winds of Nature's strife Be all the faithless charter of my life, If Chance awakened, inexorable power, This frail and feverish being of an hour; Doomed o'er the world's precarious scene to sweep, Swift as the tempest travels on the daep, To know Delight but by her parting smile, And toil, and wish, and weep a little while; Then melt, ye elements, that formed in vain This troubled pulse, and visionary brain! Fade, ye wild flowers, memorials of my doom, And sink, ye stars, that light me to the tomb! Truth, ever lovely, - since the world began, The foe of tyrants, and the friend of man, — How can thy words from balmy slumber start Reposing Virtue, pillowed on the heart! Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder rolled, And that were true which Nature never told, Let Wisdom smile not on her conquered field; No rapture dawns, no treasure is revealed! Oh! let her read, nor loudly, nor elate, The doom that bars us from a better fate; But, sad as angels for the good man's sin, Weep to record, and blush to give it in! And well may Doubt, the mother of Dismay, Pause at her martyr's tomb, and read the lay. Down by the wilds of yon deserted vale, It darkly hints a melancholy tale! There, as the homeless madman sits alone, In hollow winds he hears a spirit moan! And there, they say, a wizard ogie crowds, When the IMoon lights her watch-tower in the clouds. 68 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. Poor lost Alonzo! Fate's neglected child! AMild be the doom of Heaven- as thou wert mild! For oh! thy heart in holy mould was cast, And all thy deeds were blameless, but the last. Poor lost Alonzo! still I seem to hear The clod that struck thy hollow-sounding bier! Whcn Friendship paid, in speechless sorrow drowned, Thy midnight rites, but not on hallowed ground! Cease, every joy, to. glimmer on my mind, But leave -oh! leave the light of HoPE behind! What though my winged hours of bliss have been, Like angel-visits, few and far between, Her musing mood shall every pang appease, And charm —when pleasures lose the power to please I Yes; let each rapture, dear to Nature, flee: Close not the light of Fortune's stormy seaMirth, Music, Friendship, Love's propitious smile, Chase every care, and charm a little while, Ecstatic throbs the fluttering heart employ, And all her strings are harmonized to joy!But why so short is Love's delighted hour? WVhy fades the dew on Beauty's sweetest flower? WVhy can no hymned charm of music heal The sleepless woes impassioned spirits feel? Can Fancy's fairy hands no veil create, To hide the sad realities of fate?No! not the quaint remark, the sapient rule, Nor all the pride of Wisdom's worldly school, Ilave power to soothe, unaided and alone, The heart that vibrates to a feeling tone! When stepdame Nature every bliss recalls, Fleet as the meteor o'er the desert falls; WVhen,'reft of all, yon widowed sire appears A lonely hermit in the vale of years;.. —. -- CAMIPBELL S POEMS. C)9 Say, can the world one joyous thought bestow To Friendship weeping at the couch of WVo? No! but a brighter soothes the last adieu, - Solds of impassioned mould, she speaks to you! WTeep not, she says, at Nature's transient pain, Congenial spirits part to meet again! WVhat plaintive sobs thy filial spirit drew, What sorrow choked thy long and last adieu! Daughter of Conrad? when he heard his knell, And bade his country and his child farewell! Doomed the long isles of Sydney-cove to see, The martyr of his crimes, but true to thee? Thrice the sad father tore thee from his heart, And thrice returned, to bless thee, and to part; Thrice from his trembling lips he murmured low The plaint that owned unutterable wo; Till Faith, prevailing o'er his sullen doom, As bursts the morn on night's unfathomed gloom, Lured his dim eye to deathless hopes sublime, Beyond the realms of Nature and of Time! "And weep not thus," he cried, "young Ellenore, My bosom bleeds, but soon shall bleed no more! Short shall this half-extinguished spirit burn, And soon these limbs to kindred dust return! But not, my child, with life's precarious fire, The immortal ties of Nature shall expire; These shall resist the triumph of decay, WVhen time is o'er, and worlds have passed away! Cold in the dust this perished heart may lie, But that which warmed it once shall never die! That spark unburied in its mortal frame, With living light, eternal, and the same, Shall beam on Joy's interminable years,'Tnveiled by darkness - unassuaged by tears! 70 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. "Yet, on the barren shore and stormy deep, One tedious watch is Conrad doomed to weep; But when I gain the home without a friend, And press the uneasy couch where none attend, This last embrace, still cherished in my heart, Shall calm the struggling spirit ere it part! Thy darling form shall seem to hover nigh, And hush the groan of life's ast agony "Farewell! when strangers lift thy father's bier, And place my nameless stone without a tear; When each returning pledge hath told my child That Conrad's tomb is on the desert piled; And when the dream of troubled Fancy sees Its lonely rank grass waving in the breeze; Who then will soothe thy grief, when mine is o'er? Who will protect thee, helpless Ellenore? Shall secret scenes thy filial sorrows hide, Scorned by the world, to factious guilt allied? Ah! no; methinks the generous and the good WVill woo thee from the shades of solitude! O'er friendless grief compassion shall awake, And smile on innocence, for Mercy's sake!" Inspiring thought of rapture yet to be, The tears of Love were hopeless, but for thee! If in that frame no deathless spirit dwell, If that faint murmur be the last farewells If Fate unite the faithful but to part, Why is their memory sacred to the heart? Why does the brother of my childhood seem Restored awhile in every pleasing dream? Why do I joy the lonely spot to view, By artless friendship blessed when life was new? Eternal HOPE! when yonder spheres sublime Pealed their first notes to sound the march of Time, CAMPBELL'S POEMg. 71 Thy joyous youth began- but not to fade.When all the sister planets have decayed; When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow, And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below; Thou, undismayed, shalt o'er the ruins smile, And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile. ANALYSIS- PART,. APOSTROPHE to the power of Love -its intimate connection with generous and social Sensibility -allusion to that beautiful passage in the beginning of the Book of Genesis, which represents the happiness of Paradise itself incomplete, till Love was superadded to its other blessings - the dreams of future felicity which a lively imagination is apt to cherish, when Hope is animated by refined attachment- this disposition to combine, in one imaginary scene of residence, all that is pleasing in our estimate of happiness, compared to the skill of the great artist who personified perfect beauty, in the picture of Venus, by an assemblage of the most beautiful features he could find- a summer and winter evening described, as they may be supposed to arise in the mind of one who wishes, with enthusiasm, for the ilnion of friendship and retirement. I-ope and Imagination inseparable agents -even in those contemplative moments when our imagination wanders beyond the boundaries of this world, our minds are not unattended with all impression that we shall some day have a wider and more distinct prospect of the universe, instead of the partial glimpse we now enjoy. The last and most sublime influence of Hope is the concluding topic of the poem —the predominance of a belief in a future state over the terrors attendant on dissolution - the baneful influence of that skeptical philosophy which bars us from such comforts - allusion to the fate of a suicide - episode of Conrad and Ellenore - conclusion. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. ADVERlTISEMEI'. Most of the popular histories of England, as well as of the Americaa war, give an authentic account of the desolation of Wyoming, in Pennsylvania, which took place in 1778, by an incursion of the Ildians. The scenery and incidents of the following Poem are connected with that event. The testimonies of historians anld travellers concur il describing the infant colony as one of the happiest spots of human existence, for the hospitable and innocent manners of the inhabitants, the beauty of the country, and the luxuriant fertility of the soil and climate. In an evil hour, the junlction of European with Indian arms converted this terrestrial paradise into a frightfu, waste. MR. ISAAC WELD informs us, that the ruins of many of the vf.iages, perforated with balls, and bearing marks of conflagration, were still preserved by the recent inhal. italts, when he travelled through America in 1796 GERTRUDE OF WYOMIING. PART I. O() Susqlehanna's side, fair Wyoming! Although the wild-flower on thy ruined wal, And roofless homes, a sad remembrance bring Of what thy gentle people did befall; Yet thou wert once the loveliest land of all That see the Atlantic wave their morn restore. Sweet land! may I thy lost delights recall, And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore, \Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania's shore! IL Delightful Wyoming! beneath thly skies, 2 < e~td sw-ains had nought to do But feed their flocks on green declivities, Or skim perchance thy lake with light canoe, From morn till evening's sweeter pastime grew, W3ith timbrel, when beneath the forests brown, Tly lovely maidens would the dance renew; And aye those sunny mrountains ialf-way down Wouldl echo flagelet from some romantic town. 76 CAMPBELL S POEMS. III. Then, where of Indian hills the daylight takes His leave, how might you the flamingo see Disporting like a meteor on the lakes - -And playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree: And every sound of life was full of glee, From merry mock-bird's song, or hum of men; While hearkening, fearing nought their revelry, The wild deer arched his neck from glades, and then, Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again. IV. And scarce had Wyoming of war or crime Heard, but in transatlantic story rung, For here the exile met from every clime, And spoke in friendship every distant tongue; Men from the blood of warring Europe sprung Were but divided by the running brook; And happy where no Rhenish trumpet sung, On plains no sieging mine's volcano shook, The blue-eyed German changed his sword to prunings hook. V. Nor far some Andalusian saraband Would sound to many a native roundelay — But who is he that yet a dearer land Remembers, over hills and far away? Green Albin! * what though he no more survey Thy ships at anchor on the quiet shore, Thy pellochst rolling from the mountain bay, Thy lone sepulchral cairn upon the moor, And distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan roar! * Scotland. t The Gaelic appellation for the porpoise.. T'he great w-lirlpool of the Western Hebrides. CAMPBELL S POEMS. 77 VI. Alas! poor Caledonia's mountaineer, That want's stern edict e'er, and feudal grief, Had forced him from a home he loved so dear! Yet found he here a home, and glad relief, And plied the beverage from his own fair sheaf, That fired his Highland blood with mickle glee: Anld England sent her men, of men the chief, VVho taught those sires bf Empire yet to be, To plant the tree of life, - to plant fair Freedom's tree I vii. Here was not mingled in the citys pomp Of life's extremes the grandeur and. the gloom; Judgment awoke not here her dismal tromp, Nor sealed in blood a fellow-creature's doom, Nor mourned the captive in a living tomb. One venerable man, beloved of all, Sufficed, where innocence was yet in bloom, To sway the strife, that seldom might befall; And Albert was their judge in patriarchal hall. VIII. How reverend was the look, serenely aged, He bore, this gentle Pennsylvanian sire, Where all but kindly fervors were assuaged, Undimmed by weakness shade, or turbid ire! And though, amidst the calm of thought entire Some high and haughty features might betray A soul impetuous once,'twas earthly fire That fled composure's intellectual ray, As AEtna's fires grow dim before the rising day. IX. I boast no song in magic wonders rife, But yet, oh Nature! is there naught to prize, 7, l rp CAMPBELL S P O E M S. Familiar in thy bosom scenes of life? And dwells in daylight truth's salubrious skies No form with which the soul may sympathize?Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mild the parted ringlet shone in simplest guise, An inmate in the home of Albert smiled, Or blest his noonday walk —she was his only child. The rose of England bloomed on Gertrude's cheek — WVhat though these shades had seen her birth, her sire A Briton's independence taught to seek Far western worlds; and there his household fire The light of social love did long inspire, And many a halcyon day he lived to see Unbroken but by one misfortune dire, When fate had reft his mutual heart-but she Was gone -and Gertrude climbed a widowed father's knee. XI. A loved bequest,- and I may half impart — To them that feel the strong paternal tie, Htow like a new existence to his heart That living flower uprose beneath his eye, Dear as she was from cherub infancy, From hours when she would round his garden play, To time when as the ripening years went by, Ier lovely mind could culture well repay, And more engaging grew, from pleasing day to day. XII. I may not paint those thousand infant charms; (Unconscious fascination, undesigned!) The orison repeated in his arms, For God to bless her sire and all mankind; The book, the bosom on his knee reclined, CA.IPBELL S P OEI S. 79 Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con, (The playmate ere the teacher of her mind:) All uncompanioned else her heart had gone Till now, in Gertrude's eyes, their ninth blue summer shone. xIII. And summer was the tide, and sweet the hour, W~hen sire and daughter saw, with fleet descent, An Indian from his bark approach their bower, Of buskined limb, and swarthy lineament; The red wild feathers on his brow were blent, And bracelets bound the arm that helped to light A boy, who seemed, as he beside him went, Of Christian vesture, and complexion bright, Led by his dusky guide, like morning brought by night. XIV. Yet pensive seemed the boy for one so young — The dimple from his polished cheek had fled; When, leaning on his forest-bow unstrung, The Oneida warrior to the planter said, And laid his hand upon the stripling's head, "Peace be to thee! my words this belt approve; The paths of peace my steps have hither led: This little iursling, take him to thy love, And shield the bird unfledged, since gone the parent dove. xv. "Christian! I am the foeman of thy foe; Our wampum league thy brethren did embrace: Upon the Michigan, three moons ago, We launched our pirogues for the bison chase, And with the HIurons planted for a space, With true and faithful hands, the olive-stalk; But snakes are in the bosoms of their race, And though they held with u.s a friendly talk, The hollow peace tree fell beneath the tomahawk! s0 CAMPBELL S POEMS. XVI. "It was encamping on the lake's far port, A cry of Areouski * broke our sleep, Where stormed an ambushed foe thy nation's fort, And rapid, rapid whoops came o'er the deep; But long thy country's war-sign on the steep Appeared through ghastly intervals of light, And deathfully their thunders seemed to sweep, Till utter darkness swallowed up the sight, As if a shower of blood had quenched the fiery fight XVII. "It slept - it rose again - on high their tower Sprung upwards like a torch to light the skies; Then down again it rained an ember shower, - And louder lamentations heard we rise: As when the evil Manitou that dries The Ohio woods, consumes them in his ire, In vain the desolated panther flies, And howls amidst his wilderness of fire: Alas! too late, we reached and smote those Hurons dire I XVIII. "But as the fox beneath the nobler hound, So died their warriors by our battle-brand; And from the tree we, with her child, unbound A lonely mother of the Christian land: - iHer lord- the captain of the British band Amidst the slaughter of his soldiers lay. Scarce knew the widow our delivering hand; Upon her child she sobbed, and swooned away, Or shrieked unto the God to whom the Cristians pray. The Indian God of War. CAMPBELL' S POEMS. 81 XIX. "Our virgins fed her with their kindly bowls Of fever balm and sweet sagamite: But she was journeying to the land of souls, And lifted up her dying head to pray That we should bid an ancient friend convey Her orphan to his home of England's shore; And take, she said, this token far away, To one that will remember us of yore, When he beholds the ring that Waldegrave's Julia wore. XX. "And I, the eagle of my tribe, have rushed With this lorn dove." —A sage's self-command Had quelled the tears from Albert's heart that gushed; But yet his cheek- his agitated hand — That showered upon the stranger of the land No common boon, in grief but ill beguiled A soul that was not wont to be unmanned; "And stay," he cried, "dear pilgrim of the wild, Preserver of my old, my boon companion's child! XXI. "Child of a race whose name my bosom w srms, On earth's remotest bounds how welcome here! WVhose mother oft, a child, has filled these arms, Young as thyself, and innocently dear, Whose grandsire was my early life's compeer. Ah, happiest home of England's happy clime! How beautiful even now thy scenes appear, As iU the noon and sunshine of my prime! How gone like yesterday these thrice ten years of time!!_. 82 CAMPBELL S POEMS. XXII. "And Julia! when thou wert like Gertrude now, Can I forget thee, favorite child of yore? Or thought I, in thy father's house, when thou Wert lightest hearted on his festive floor, And first of all his hospitable door To meet and kiss me at my journey's end? But where was I when Waldegrave was no more? And thou didst pale thy gentle hand extend In woes, that even the tribe of deserts was thy friend!" XXIII. He said —and strained unto his heart the boy; — Far differently, the mute Oneida took His calumet of peace, and cup of joy; As monumental bronze unchanged his look; A soul that pity touched, but never shook; Trained from his tree-rocked cradle to his bier The fierce extreme of good and ill to brook Impassive - fearing but the shame of fear — A stoic of the woods - a man without a tear. xXIV. Yet deem not goodness on the savage stock Of Outalissi's heart disdained to grow; As lives the oak unwithered on the rock By storms above, and barrenness below; lIe scorned his own, who felt another's woe: And ere the wolf-skin on his back he flung, Or laced his moccasins, in act to go, A song of parting to the boy he sung, WVho slept on Albert's couch, nor heard his friendly tongue. XX~. "Sleep, wearied one! and in the dreaming land Shouldst thou to-morrow waith thy mother meet, CAMPBELL S POEMS. 83 Oh! tell her spirit, that the white man's hand IHath plucked the thorns of sorrow from thy feet; While I in lonely wilderness shall greet Thy little foot-prints - or by traces know The fountain, where at noon I thought it sweet To feed thee with the quarry of my bow, And poured the lotus-horn, or slew the mountain roe. XXVI. Adieu! sweet scion of the rising sun! But should affliction's storms thy blossom mock, Then come again —my own adopted one! And I will graft thee on a noble stock; The crocodile, the condor of the rock, Shall be the pastime of thy sylvan wars; And I will teach thee, in the battle's shock, To pay with Huron blood thy father's scars, And gratulate his soul rejoicing in the stars!" XXVII, So finished he the rhyme (howe'er uncouth) That true to nature's fervid feelings ran; (And song is but the eloquence of truth:) Then forth uprose that lone way-faring man; But dauntless he, nor chart, nor journey's plan In woods required, whose trained eye was keen, As eagle of the wilderness, to scan HIis path by mountain, swamp, or deep ravine, Or ken far friendly huts on good savannas green XXVIII. Old Albert saw him from the valley's sideHis pirogue launched-his pilgrimage begunFar, like the red-bird's wing he seemed to glide; Then dived, and vanished in the woodlands dun. 84 CAMPBELLX S POEMS. Oft, to that spot by tender memory won, Would Albert climb the promontory's height, If but a dim sail glimmered in the sun; But never more, to bless his longing sight, Was Outalissi hailed, with bark and plumage bright. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. PART II. A VALLEY from the river shore withdrawn Was Albert's home, two quiet woods between, Whose lofty verdure overlooked his lawn, And waters to their resting place serene Came freshening, and reflecting all the scene: (A mirror in the depth of flowery shelves;' So sweet a spot of earth, you might (I ween) Have guessed some congregation of the elves, To sport by summer moons, had shaped it for themselves IL Yet wanted not the eye far scope to muse, Nor vistas opened by the wandering stream; Both where at evening Alleghany views, Through ridges burning in her western beam, Lake after lake interminably gleam: And past those settlers' haunts the eye might roam Where earth's unliving silence all would seem; Save where on rocks the beaver built his dome, Or buffalo remote lowed far from human home. 8 56 CAMPBELL ES P E MS. III. But silent not that adverse eastern path, WVhich saw Aurora's hills th' horizon crown; There was the river heard, in bed of wrath, (A precipice of foam from mountains brown,) Like tumults heard from some far distant town; But softening in approach he left his gloom, And murmured pleasantly, and laid him down To kiss those easy curving banks of bloom, IlThat lent the windward air an exquisite perfume. IV. It seemed as if those scenes sweet influence had On Gertrude's soul, and kindness like their ownl Inspired those eyes affectionate and glad, That seemed to love whate'er they looked upon; Whether with Il-ebe's mirth her features shone, Or if a shade more pleasing them o'ercast,,As if for heavenly musing meant alone;) Yet so becomingly th' expression past, Fhat each succeeding look was lovelier than the last. V. Nor guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home, With all its picturesque and balmy grace, And fields that were a luxury to roam, Lost on the soul that looked from such a face! Enthusiast of the woods! when years apace Had bound thy lovely waist with woman's zone, The sunrise path, at morn, I see thee trace To hills with high magnolia overgrown, And joy to breathe the groves, romantic and alone. VI. The sunrise drew her thoughts to Europe forth, That thus apostrophized its viewless scene: AM PBELL S POEMS. 87 "Laudl of my father's love, my mother's birth! The home of kindred I have never seen! W\e know not other - oceans are between: Yet say, far friendly hearts! from whence we came, Of us does oft remembrance intervene? MIy mother sure- my sire a thought may claim; — But Gertrude is to you an unregarded name. VII. "And yet, loved England! when thy name I trace In many a pilgrim's tale and poet's song, HIow can I choose but wish for one embrace Of them, the dear unknown, to whom belong My mother's looks,- perhaps her likeness strong? Oh, parent! with what reverential awe, From features of thine own related throng, An image of thy face my soul could draw! And see thee once again whom I too shortly saw!' VIII. Yet deem not Gertrude sighed for foreign joy; To soothe a father's couch her only care, And keep his reverend head from all annoy: For this, methinks, her homeward steps repair, Soon as the morning wreath had bound her hair; WVhile yet the wild deer trod in spangling dew, While boatman carolled to the fresh-blown air, And woods a horizontal shadow threw, And early fox appeared in momentary view. IX. Apart there was a deep untrodden grot, Where oft the reading hours sweet Gertrude wore; Tradition had not named its lonely spot; l3But here, mcethinks, might India's sons explore Their fathers' dust, or lift, perchance of yore, 88 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. Their voice to the Great Spirit:- rocks sublime To human art a sportive semblance bore, And yellow lichens colored all the clime, Like moonlight battlements, and tow'rs decayed by time. x. But high in amphitheatre above, Gay-tinted woods their massy foliage threw: Breathed but an air of heaven, and all the grove As if instinct with living spirit grew, Rolling its verdant gulfs of every hue; And now suspended was the pleasing din, Now from a murmur faint it swelled anew, Like the first note of organ heard within Cathedral aisles, -ere yet its symphony begin. XI. It was in this lone valley she would charm The lingering noon, where flowers a couch had strewn; HIer cheek reclining, and her snowy arm On hillock by the pine-tree half o'ergrown: And aye that volume on her lap is thrown, Which every heart of human mould endears; With Shakspeare's self she speaks and smiles alone, And no intruding visitation fears,. To shame the unconscious laugh, or stop her sweetest tears. XII And nought within the grove was heard or seen But stock-doves plaining through its gloom profound, Or winglet of the fairy humming-bird, Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round; WVhen lo! there entered to its inmost ground A youth, the stranger of a distant land; tHe was, to weet, for eastern mountains bound;.. 1L~_...... i CAMPBELL S POERIS. 89 But late th' equator suns his cheek had tanned, And California's gales his roving bosom fanned. XIII. A steed, whose rein hung loosely o'er his arm, HIe led dismounted; ere his leisure pace, Amid the brown leaves, could her ear alarm, Close he had come, and worshipped for a space Those downcast features:- she her lovely face Uplift on one, whose lineaments and frame Wore youth and manhood's intermingled grace: Iberian seemed his boot- his robe the same, And well the Spanish Dlume his lofty looks became. XIV. For Albert's home he sought- her finger fair Has pointed where the father's mansion stood. Returning from the copse he soon was there; And soon has Gertrude hied from dark-green wood; Nor joyless, by the converse, understood Between the man of age and pilgrim young, That gay congeniality of mood, And early liking from acquaintance sprung; Full fluently conversed their guest in England's tongue XV. And well could he his pilgrimage of taste Unfold, - and much they loved his fervid strair, While he each fair variety retraced Of climes, and manners, o'er the eastern main. Now happy Switzer's hills, - romantic Spain, - Gay lilied fields of France, - or, more refined, The soft Ausonia's monumental reign; Nor less each rural image he designed Than all the city's pomp and home of human kind 90 CAMPBELL S POEMS. XVI. Anon some wilder portraiture he draws; Of Nature's savage glories he would speak, — The loneliness of earth that overawes, - Where, resting by some tomb of old Cacique, The lama-driver on Peruvia's peak, Nor living voice nor motion marks around; But storks that to the boundless forest shriek, Or wild-cane arch high flung o'er gulf profound, That fluctuates when the storms of El1 Dorado sound. XVII. Pleased with his guest, the good man still would ply Each earnest question, and his converse court; But Gertrude, as she eyed him, knew not why A strange and troubling wonder stopped her short. "In England thou hast been, - and, by report, An orphan's name (quoth Albert) may'st have known. Sad tale! -when latest fell our frontier fort, - One innocent - one soldier's child - alone Was spared, and brought to me, who loved him as my own. XVIII. "Young Henry Waldegrave! three delightful years These very walls his infant sports did see, But most I loved him when his parting tears Alternately bedewed my child and me: His sorest parting, Gertrude, was from thee; Nor half its grief his little heart could hold; By kindred he was sent for o'er the sea, They tore him from us when but twelve years old, And scarcely for his loss have I been yet consoled!" XIX. His face the wanderer hid- but could not hide A tear, a smile, upon his cheek that dwell; CAMI PBELLIS POEMS. 91 And "Speak! mysterious stranger!" Gertrude cried; "It is!-it is!-I knew-I knew him well!'Tis Waldegrave's self, of Waldegrave come to tell! " A burst of joy the father's lips declare; But Gertrude speechless on his bosom fell; At once his open arms embraced the pair, Was never group more blest in this wide world of care. xx. "And will ye pardon, then," replied the youth, "Your Waldegrave's feigned nanze, and false attire? I durst not in the neighborhood, in truth, The very fortunes of your house inquire; Lest one that knew me might some tidings dire Impart, and I my weakness all betray; For, had I lost my Gertrude and my sire, I meant but o'er your tombs to weep a day, Unknown I meant to weep, unknown to pass am ay. XXI. "But here ye live, ye bloom, - in each dear face, The changing hand of time I may not blame; For there, it hath but shed more reverend grace, And here, of beauty perfected the frame, And well I know your hearts are still the same - They could not change- ye look the very way, As when an orphan first to you I came. And have ye heard of my poor guide, I pray? Nay, wherefore weep ye, friends, on such a joyous day?'" XXII. "And art thou here? or is it but a dream? And wilt thou, WValdegrave, wilt thou leave us more?" "No, never! thou that yet dost lovelier seem Than aught on earth - than ev'n thyself of yore — i- --- - - i: — 2 D - X — i =ii= - 1: = - X: -— i 92 CAMPBELL S POEMS. I will not part thee from thy father's shore; But we shall cherish him with mutual arms, And hand in hand again the path explore WVhich every ray of young remembrance warms, While thou shalt be my own,'with all thy truth and charms?" XXIII. At morn, as if beneath a galaxy Of over-arching groves in blossoms white, Where all was odorous scent and harmony, And gladness to the heart, nerve, car, and sight: There, if, oh, gentle Love! I read aright The utterance that sealed thy sacred bond,'Twas listening to these accents of delight. She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyond Expression's power to paint, all languishingly fondxxIV. "Flower of my life, so lovely, and so lone! Whom I would rather in this desert meet, Scorning, and scorned by fortune's power, than own Her —pomp and splendors lavished at my feet! Turn not from me thy breath, more exquisite Than odors cast on heaven's own shrine —to please - Give me thy love, than luxury more sweet, And more than all the wealth that loads the breeze, When Coromandel's ships return from Indian seas." XXv. Then would that home admit them- happier far Than grandeur's most magnificent saloon, While, here and there, a solitary star Flushed in the darkening firmament of June; Anari silence brought the soul-felt hour, full soon, CAMPBELL'S POEMS 93 Ineffable, which I may not portray; For never did the hymenean moon A l aradise of hearts more sacred sway, In all that slept beneath her soft voluptuous ray. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. PART III. O LovE! in such a wilderness as this, WVhere transport and security entwine, Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, And here thou art a god indeed divine. Here shall no forms abridge, no hours confine, The views, the walks, that boundless joy inspire! Roll on, ye days of raptured influence, shine! Nor, blind with ecstacy's celestial fire, Shall love behold the spark of earth-born time expixe. II. Three little moons, how short! admidst the grove And pastoral savannas they consume! WVhile she, beside her buskined youth to rove, Delights, in fancifully wild costume, Her lovely brow to shade with Indian plume; And forth in hunter-seeming vest they fare; But not to chase the deer in forest gloom,'Tis but the breath of heaven- the blessed air — And interchange of hearts unknown, unseen to share. CAMPDBLL' S POE M S. 95 ItI. What though the sportive dog oft round them note, Or fawn, or wild bird bursting on the wing; Yet who, in love's own presence, would devote To death those gentle throats that wake the spring, Or writhing from the brook its victim bring? No! - nor let fear one little warbler rouse; But, fed by Gertrude's hand, still let them sing, Acquaintance of her path, amidst the boughs, That shade ev'n now her love, and witnessed first her vOWS. IV. Now labyrinths, which but themselves can pierce, Mlethinks, conduct them to some pleasant ground, Where welcome hills shut out the universe, And pines their lawny walk encompass round; There, if a pause delicious converse found,'Twas but when o'er each heart th' idea stole, (Perchance awhile in joy's oblivion drowned) That come what may, while life's glad pulses roll, Indissolubly thus should soul be knit to soul. V. And in the visions of romantic youth, What years of endless bliss are yet to flow! But mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth? The torrent's smoothness, ere it dash below! And must I change my song? and must I show, Sweet Wyoming! the day when thou wert doomed, Guiltless, to mourn thy loveliest bowers laid low! When where of yesterday a garden bloomed, Death overspread his pall, and blackening ashes gloomed! Vi. Sad was the year, by proud oppression driven, When Transatlantic Liberty arose, 96 CAMPBELL'S POE]MS. V ct in the sunshine and the smile of heaven, Aut wrapt in wlirlwinds, and begirt with woes, Amidst the strife of fratricidal foes; Her birth star was the light of burning plains; * Her baptism is the weight of blood that flows From kindred hearts - the blood of British veinsAnd famine tracks her steps, and pestilential pains. VII. Yet, ere the storm of death had raged remote, Or siege unseen in heaven reflects its beams, Who now each dreadful circumstance shall note, That fills pale Gertrude's thoughts and nightly dreams? Dismal to her the forge of battle gleams Portentous light! and music's voice is dumb; Save where the fife its shrill reveille screams, Or midnight streets reecho to the drum, That speaks of maddening strife, and blood-stained fields to come. viII. It was, in truth, a momentary pang; Yet how comprising myriad shapes of wo! First when in Gertrude's ear the summons rang, A husband to the battle doomed to go! "Nay, meet not thou," she cries, "thy kindred foe! But peaceful let us seek fair England's strand!" "Ah, Gertrude, thy beloved heart, I know, Would feel like mine the stigmatizing brand! Could I forsake the cause of Freedom's holy band! Ix. "But shame - but flight- a recreant's name to prove, To hide in exile ignominious fears; * Alluding to the miseries dt'at attended the American civil war. CAMPBELL S POEMS. 97 Say, ev'n if this I brooked, the public love Thy father's bosom to his home endears: And how could I his few remaining years, My Gertrude, sever from so dear a child?" So, day by day, her boding heart he cheers: At last that heart to hope is half beguiled, And, pale through tears suppressed, the mournful beauty smiled. x. Night came,- and in their lighted bower, full late The joy of converse had endured —.when, hark! Abrupt and loud, a summons shook their gate; And heedless of the dog's obstrep'rous bark, A form had rushed amidst them from the dark, And spread his arms, - and fell upon the floor: Of aged strength his limbs retained the mark; But desolate he looked, and famished poor, As ever shipwrecked wretch lone left on desert shore. XI. Uprisen, each wondering brow is knit and arched; A spirit from the dead they deem him first: To speak he tries; but quivering, pale, and parched, From lips, as by some powerless dream accursed, Emotions unintelligible burst; And long his filmed eye is red and dim: At length the pity-proffered cup his thirst Had half assuaged, and nerved his shuddering limb, When Albert's hand he grasped —but Albert knew not him:XII. "And hast thou then forgot," he cried forlorn, And eyed the group with half indignant air - "Oh! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the morn WVhen I with thee the cup of peace did share? Then stately was this head, and dark this hair, 9 98 CAMPBELL S POEMS. That now is white as Appalachia's snow; But, if the weight of fifteen years' despair, And age hath bowed me, and the torturing foe. Bring me my boy! - and he will his deliverer know!" XIII. It was not long, with eyes and heart of flame, Ere Henry to his loved Oneida flew: " Bless thee, my guide! "- but backward, as he came, The chief his old bewildered head withdrew, And grasped his arm, and looked and looked him through.'Twas strange -nor could the group a' smile control, The long, the doubtful scrutiny to view: At last delight o'er all his features stole, - "It is - my own," he cried, and clasped him to his soul. XIV. "Yes! thou recall'st my pride of years, for then The bowstring of my spirit was not slack, When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambushed men, I bore thee like the quiver on my back, Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack; Nor foeman then, nor cougar's crouch I feared,* For I was strong as mountain cataract: And dost thou not remember how we cheered, Upon the last hill-top, when white men's huts appeared xv. " Then welcome be my death-song, and niy death! Since I have seen thee, and again embraced." And longer had he spent his toil-worn breath; But with affectionate and eager haste, Was every arm outstretched around their guest, * Cougar, the American tiger CAMIPELL'S POEMS. 99 To welcome and to bless his aged head. Soon was the hospitable banquet placed; And Gertrude's lovely hands a balsam shed On wounds with fevered joy that more profusely bled. XVI. "But this is not a time," —he started up, And smote his breast with wo-denouncing hand"This is no time to fill the joyous cup! The Mammoth comes - the foe -the Monster Brandt! WVith all his howling desolating band; These eyes have seen their blade and burning pine Awake at once, and silence half your land. Red is the cup they drink; but not with wine: Awake, and watch to-night, or see no morning shineI XVII. "Scorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe,'Gainst Brandt himself I went to battle forth: Accursed Brandt! he left of all my tribe Nor man, nor child, nor thing of living birth: No! not the dog that watched my household hearth, Escaped that night of blood, upon our plains! All perished! —I alone am left on earth! To whom nor relative nor blood remains, No! -not a kindred drop that runs in human veins. XVm. "But go!- - and rouse your warriors; - for, if right These old bewildered eyes could guess, by signs Of striped and starred banners, on yon height Of eastern cedars, o'er the creek of pines - Some fort embattled by your country shines: Deep roars the innavigable gulf below Its squared rock, and palisaded lines. L __ ____._.___._._ 100 CAMPBELL S POEMS. Go! seek the light its warlike beacons show; WVhist I in ambush wait, for vengeance, and the foe!" XIX. Scarce had he uttered- when Heaven's verge extreme Reverberates the bomb's descending star,And sounds that mingled laugh, - and shout, - and To freeze the blood in one discordant jar, [scream, - Rung to the pealing thunderbolts of war. Whoop after whoop with rack the ear assailed; As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar; While rapidly the marksman's shot prevailed:And aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet wailed. XX. Then looked they to the hills, where fire o'erhung The bandit groups, in one Vesuvian glare; Or swept, far seen, the towers whose clock unrung Told legible that midnight of despair. She faints,- she falters not,- the heroic fair, — As he the sword and plume in haste arrayed. One short embrace- he clasped his dearest care - But hark! what nearer war-drum shakes the glade? Joy, joy! Columbia's friends are trampling through the shade! XXI. Then came of every race the mingled swarm, Far rung the groves and gleamed the midnight grass, With flambeau, javelin, and naked arm; As warriors wheeled their culverins of brass, Sprung from the woods, a bold athletic mass, WThom virtue fires, and liberty combines: And first the wild MIoravian yagers pass, HIis plumed host the dark Iberian joins And Scotia's sword beneath the Highland thistle shines. CAMPBELL' S POEMS. 101 XXII. And in, the buskined hunters of the deer, To Albert's home, with shout and cymbal throng: - Roused by their warlike pomp, and mirth, and cheer, Old Outalissi woke his battle song, And, beating with his war-club cadence strong, Tells how his deep-stung indignation smarts, Of them that wrapt his house in flames, ere long, To wheot a dagger on their stony hearts, And smile avenged ere yet his eagle spirit parts.XXIII. Calm, opposite the Christian father rose, Pale on his venerable brow its rays Of martyr light the conflagration throws; One hand upon his lovely child he lays, And one the uncovered crowd to silence sways; While, though the battle flash is faster driven, - Unawed, with eye unstartled by the blaze, He for his bleeding country prays to Heaven, - Prays that the men of blood themselves may be forgiven. XXIV. Short time is now for gratulating speech: And yet, beloved Gertrude, ere began Thy country's flight, yon distant towers to reach, Looked not on thee the rudest partisan With brow relaxed to love? And murmurs ran, As round and round their willing ranks they drew, From beauty's sight to shield the hostile van. Grateful, on them a placid look she threw, Nor wept, but as she bade her mother's grave adieu! xxv. Past was the flight, and welcome seemed the tower, That like a giart standard-bearer frowned 9* 102 @CAMPBELL'S POEMS Defiance on the roving Indian power, Beneath, each bold and promontory mound With embrasure embossed, and armor crowned, And arrowy frize, and wedged ravelin, Wove like a diadem its tracery round The lofty summit of that mountain green; Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene, - XXVI. A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun, And blended arms, and white pavilions glow; And for the business of destruction done. Its requiem the war-horn seemed to blow: There, sad spectatress of her country's wo! The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm, Had laid her cheek, and clasped her hands of snow On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hushed its wild alarm! XXVII. But short that contemplation - sad and short The pause to bid each much-loved scene adieu! Beneath the very shadow of the fort, Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners flew; Ah! -who could deem that foot of Indian crew Was near! — yet there, with lust of murderous deeds, Gleamed like a basilisk, from woods in view, The ambushed foeman's eye- his volley speeds, And Albert - Albert falls! the dear old father bleeds! XXVIII. And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swooned; Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone, Say, burst they, borrowed from her father's wound, These drops? - Oh, God! the life-blood is her own! And faltering, on her WTaldegrave's bosom thrown — CAMPBELL S POEMIS 103 "Weep not, O Love! "- she cries, "to see me bleed — Thee, Getrude's sad survivor, thee alone Heaven's peace commiserate; for scarce I heed These wounds;- yet thee to leave is death, is death indeed! XXIX. "Clasp me a little longer on the brink Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress; And when this heart hath ceased to beat- oh! think, And let it mitigate thy wo's excess, That thou hast been to me all tenderness, And friend to more than human friendship just. Oh! by that retrospect of happiness, And by the hopes of an immortal trust, God shall assuage thy pangs —when I am laid in dust! XXX. "Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart, The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move, Where my dear father took thee to his heart, And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove WVith thee, as with an angel, through the grove Of peace, imagining her lot was cast In heaven; for ours was not like earthly love And must this parting be our very last? No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past.-, XXXI. Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth,And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun, If I had lived to smile but on the birth Of one dear pledge;- but shall there then be none, In future times —no gentle little one, To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me? Yet seems it, ev'n while life's last pulses run 104 CAMPBELL S POEMS. A sweetness in the cup of death to be, Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding thee!" XXXII. Hushed were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland And beautiful expression seemed to melt With love that could not die! and still his hand She presses to the heart no more that felt. Ah, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt, And features yet that spoke a soul more fair. MIute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt, - Of them that stood encircling his despair, He heard some friendly words; —but knew not what they were. XXXIII. For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives A faithful band. WVith solemn rites between'Twas sung, how they were lovely in their lives, And in their deaths had not divided been. Touched by the music, and the melting scene, *Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd. — Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen To veil their eyes, as passed each much-loved shroud WVhile woman's softer soul in wo dissolved aloud. XXXIV. Then mournfully the parting bugle bid Its farewell, o'er the grave of worth and truth; Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid His face on earth; —him watched, in gloomy ruth, His woodland guide: but words had none to soothe The grief that knew not consolation's name: Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth, lie watched, beneath its folds, each burst that came Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame! CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 105 Xxxv. "And' I could weep"- th' Oneida chief His descant wildly thus begun: "'But that I may not stain with grief The death-song of my father's son, Or bow this head in wo! For by my wrongs, and by my wrath! To-morrow Areouski's breath, (That fires yon heaven with storms of death,) Shall light us to the foe: And we shall share, my Christian boy! The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy! XXXVI. " But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep, The spirits of the white man's heaven Forbid not thee to weep: Nor will the Christian host, Nor will thy father's spirit grieve, To see thee, on the battle's eve, Lamenting, take a mnournful leave Of her who loved thee most: She was the rainbow to thy sight! Thy sun- thy heaven —of lost delight! XXVII. "To-morrow let us do or die! But when the bolt of death is hurled, Ah! whither then with thee to fly, Shall Outalissi roam the world? Seek we thy once-loved home? The hand is gone that cropped its flowers! Unheard their clock repeats its hours! 106 CAMIPBELL S POEMS. Cold is the hearth within their bowers! And should we thither roam, Its echoes, and its empty tread, Would sound like voices from the dead! xxxvIx. "Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed, And by my side, in battle true, A thousand warriors drew. the shaft? Ah! there, in desolation cold, The desert serpent dwells alone, Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, And stones themselves to ruin grown, Like me, are death-like old. Then seek we not their camp, —for there The silence dwells of my despair!l XXXIX. "But hark, the trump! - to-morrow thou In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears: Ev'n from the land of shadows now My father's awful ghost appears, Amidst the clouds that round us roll; He bids my soul for battle thirstHe bids me dry the last —the first — The only tears that ever burst 7From Outalissi's soul; Because I may not stain with grief The death-song of an Indian chief! THEO D RIC: A DOMESTIC TALk. THEODRIC: A DOMESTIC TALE.'TWAS sunset, and the Ranz des Vaches was sung, And lights were o'er the Helvetian mountains flung, That gave the glacier tops their richest glow, And tinged the lakes like molten gold below. Warmth flushed the wonted regions of the storm, Where, Phoenix-like, you saw the eagle's form, That high in Heaven's vermilion wheeled and soared, Woods nearer frowned, and cataracts dashed and roared From heights browned by the bounding bouquetin; Herds tinkling roamed the long-drawn vales between, And hamlets glittered white, and gardens flourished green'Twas transport to inhale the bright sweet air! The mountain-bee was revelling in its glare, And roving with his minstrelsy across The scented wild weeds, and enamelled moss. Earth's features so harmoneously were linked, She seemed one great glad form, with life instinct, That felt Heaven's ardent breath, and smiled bQ':ooi Its flush of love, with consentaneous glow. A Gothic church was near; the spot around Was beautiful, even though sepulchral ground; For there nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom, But roses blossomed by each rustic tomb. 10 I 110 CAMPBELL S POEM S [j Amidst them one of spotless marble shone - A maiden's grave- and'twas inscribed thereon, That young and loved she died whose dust was there: "Yes," said my comrade, " young she died, and fair! Grace formed her, and the soul of gladness played Once in the blue eyes of that mountain-maid: Her fingers witched the chords they passed along, And her lips seemed to kiss the soul in song: Yet wooed, and worshipped as she was, till few Aspired to hope,'twas sadly, strangely true, That heart, the martyr of its fondness, burned And died of love that could not be returned. IIer father dwelt where yonder Castle shines O'er clustering trees and terrace-mantling vines. As gay as ever, the laburnum's pride I W aves o'er each walk where she was wont to glide, — And still the garden whence she grazed her brow, As lovely blooms, though trode by strangers now. How oft, from yonder window o'er the lake, Her song of wild Htelvetian swell and shake Has made the rudest fisher bend his car And rest enchanted on his oar to hear I Thus bright, accomplished, spirited, and bland, Well-born, and wealthy for that simple land, * Why had no gallant, native youth the art To win so warm -so exquisite a heart? She,'midst these rocks inspired with feelings strong By mountain-freedom - music - fancy - song, Herself descended from the brave in arms, And conscious of romance-inspiring charms, Dreamt of Heroic beings; hoped to find Some extant spirit of chivalric kind; And scorning wealth, looked cold even on the claim Of manly worth, that lacked the wreath of fame. $, j CAMPBEL L'S POEMS. 111'Her youlnger brother, sixteen surmmers old, And much her likeness both in mind and mould, Had gone, poor boy! in soldiership to shine, And bore an Austrian banner on the Rhine.'Twas when, alas! our Empire's evil star Shed all the plagues, without the pride of war; When patriots bled, and bitterer anguish crossed Our brave, to die in battles foully lost. The youth wrote home the rout of many a day; Yet still he said, and still with truth could say, One corps had ever made a valiant stand,The corps in which he served, - TaEODRIC'S band. Iis fame, forgotten chief, is now gone by, Eclipsed by brighter orbs in Glory's sky; Yet once it shone, and veterans, when they show Our fields of battle twenty years ago, Will tell you feats his small brigade performed, In charges nobly faced, and trenches stormed. Time was, when songs were chanted to his fame, And soldiers loved the march that bore his name: The zeal of martial hearts was at his call, And that Helvetian's, UDOLPH'S, most of all.'Twas touching, when the storm of war blew wild, To see a blooming boy,- almost a child, - Spur fearless at his leader's words and signs, Brave death in reconnoitring hostile lines, And speed each task, and tell each message clear, In scenes where war-trained men were stunned with fear, "THEoDaRIC praised him, and they wept for joy In yonder house, - when letters from the boy Thanked Heaven for life, and more, to use his phrase, Than twenty lives —his own Commander's praise. Then followed glowing pages, blazoning forth The fancied image of his leader's worth, With such hyperboles of youthful styles As made his parernts dry their tears and smile: I 1.___________________._______ - _ ---- -_ ____ _ _ _ _ CAMIPBELL L S POEMTS. But differently far his words impressed A wondering sister's well-believing breast;She caught the illusion, blessed TUEODRIC'S name, And wildly magnified his worth and fame; Rejoicing life's reality contained One, heretofore, her fancy had but feigned, Whosa love could make her proud!-and time and chance To passion raised that day-dream of Romance. "Once, when with hasty charge of horse and man Our arriere-guard had checked the Gallic van, TnEODRIc, visiting the outposts, found His UDOLPH wounded, weltering on the ground: Sore crushed,- half-swooning, half-upraised he lay, And bent his brow, fair boy! and grasped the clay. IHis fate moved even the common soldier's ruth - THEODGRIC succored him; nor left the youth To vulgar hands, but brought him to his tent, And lent what aid a brother would have lent. "Meanwhile, to save his kindred half the smart The war-gazette's dread blood-roll might impart, He wrote th' event to them; and soon could tell Of pains assuaged and symptoms auguring well; And last of all, prognosticating cure, Enclosed the leech's vouching signature. "Their answers, on whose pages you might note That tears had fallen, while trembling fingers wrote, Gave boundless thanks for benefits conferred, Of winch the boy, in secret, sent them word, W~rhose memoroy Time, they said, would never blot; But which the giver had hLurself forgot. "In time, the stripliz.., vigorous and healed, Resumed his barb an" banner in the field CAMPIIB E LL'S POE AtMS. 11.3 And bore himself right soldier-like, till now The third campaign had manlier bronzed his brow, When peace, though but a scanty pause for breath,- - A curtain-drop between the acts of death,- - A check in frantic war's unfinished game, Yet dearly bought, and direly welcome, came. The camp broke up, and UJDoLPI left his chief As with a son's or younger brother's grief: But journeying home, how rapt his spirits rose! How light his footsteps crushed St. Gothard's snows! How dear seemed ev'n the waste and wild Shreckhorn, Though rapt in clouds, and frowning as in scorn Upon a downward world of pastoral charms; WVhere, by the very smell of dairy-farms, And fragrance from the mountain-herbage blown, Blindfold his native hills he could have known! "His coming down yon lake —his boat in vi'ew Of windows where love's fluttering kerchief flew - The arms spread out for him- the tears that burst - ('Twas JULIA'S,'twas his sister's, met him first:) Their pride to see war's medal at his breast, And all their rapture's greeting may be guessed. "Ere long, his bosom triumphed to unfold A gift he meant their gayest room to hold -- The picture of a friend in warlike dress; And who it was he first bade JULIA guess.'Yes,' she replied,''twas he methought in sleep, 5When yoti were wounded, told me not to weep.' The painting long in that sweet mansion drew 7regards its living semblance little knew. "Meanwhile TilEODRTC, who had years before Learned England's tongue, and loved her classic lore, A glad enthusiast, no-w explored the land, Where Nature, Freedom, Art, smile hand in hand: 10l I1 t 114 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. Ier women fair; her men robust for toil; i Her vigorous souls, high-cultured as her soil; i ef r towns, whel-. civic independence flings The gauntlet down to senates, courts, and kings; HIer works of art, resembling magic's powers; Icr mighty fleets, and learning's beauteous bowers, These he had visited with wonder's smile, And scarce endured to quit so fair an isle. "But how our fates from unmomentous things May rise, like rivers out of little springs! A trivial chance postponed his parting day, And public tidings caused, in that delay, An English Jubilee.'Twas a glorious sight; At eve stupendous London, clad in light, Poured out triumphant multitudes to gaze; Youth, age, wealth, penury, smiling in the blaze; Th' illumined atmosphere was warm and bland, And Beauty's groups, the fairest of the land, Conspicuous, as in some wide festive room, In open chariot's passed with pearl and plume. Amidst them he remarked a lovelier mien Than e'er his thoughts had stlyped, or eyes had seen; The throng detained her till he reined his steed, And, ere the beauty passed, had time to read The motto and the arms her carriage bore. Led by that clue, he left not England's shore Till he had known her; and to know her well lProlonged, exalted, bound, enchantment's spell; For with affections warm, intense, refined, She mixed such calm and holy strength of mind, That, like Heaven's image in the smiling brook, C(elestial peace was pictured in her look. Hiers was the brow, in trials unperplexed, That cheered the sad, and tranquillized the vexed; She studied not the meanest to eclipse, And yet the wisest listened to her lips; ~c — i.~________. __ CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 115 She saing not, knew not Music's magic skill, But yet her voice had tones that swayed the will. Hle sought - he won her -and resolved to make lHis future home in England for her sake. "Yet, ere they wedded, matters of concern To CIEsAR'S Court commanded his return, A season's space, - and on his Alpine way, Ile reached those bowers, that rang with joy that day: The boy was half beside himself —the sire,.All frankness, honor, and Helvetian fire, Of speedy parting would not hear him speak; And tears bedewed and brightened JULIA'S cheek. "Thus, loath to wound their hospitable pride, A month he promised with them to abide; As blithe he trod the mountain-sward as they, And felt his joy make ev'n the young more gay. HIow jocund was their breakfast-parlor, fanned By yon blue water's breath-their walks how bland! Fair JULIA seemed her brother's softened sprite — A gem reflecting Nature's purest lightAnd with her graceful wit there was inwrought A wildly sweet unworldliness of thought, That almost child-like to his kindness drew, And twin with UDOLPII in his friendship grew. But did his thoughts to love one moment range! No! he who had loved CONSTANCE could not change! Besides, till grief betrayed her undesigned, Th' unlikely -thought could scarcely reach his mind, That eyes so young on years like his should beam UTnwooed devotion back for pure esteem. "True she sang to his very soul, and brought Those trains before him of luxuriant thought, Which only Music's Heaven-born art can bring, To sweep across the mind with angel wing. 116 CAI 1 CAMPBE L L'S POEMS. Once, as he smiled amidst that waking trance, She paused o'ercome: he thought it might be chance, And, when his first suspicions dimly stole, Rebuked them back like phantoms from his soul. But when he saw his caution gave her pain, And kindness brought suspense's rack again, Faith, honor, friendship, bound him to unmask ~Truths which her timid fondness feared to ask. "And yet with gracefully ingenuous power Her spirit met th' explanatory hour; Ev'n conscious beauty brightened in her eyes, That told she knew their love no vulgar prize; And pride, like that of one more woman-grown, Enlarged her mien, enriched her voice's tone.'Twas then she struck the keys, and music made That mocked all skill her hand had e'er displayed: Inspired and warbling, rapt from things around, She looked the very Muse of magic sound, Painting in sound the forms of joy and wo, Until the mind's eye saw them meltsand glow. Her closing strain composed and calm she played, And sang no words to give its pathos aid; But grief seemed lingering in its lengthened swell, And like so many tears the trickling touches fell. Of CONSTANCE then she heard THEODRIC speak,' And steadfast smoothness still possessed her cheek. But when he told her how he oft had planned Of old a journey to their mountain-land, That might have brought him hither years before,-'Ah! then,' she cried,'you knew not England's shore; And, had you come, - and wherefore did you not?''Yes,' he replied,'it would have changed our lot!' Then burst her tears through pride's restraining bands, And with her handkerchief, and both her hands, She hid her voice and wept. Contrition stung Frieonmuc for the tears his words had wrung. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ CArIPB FELL I POEMS. 117'But no,' she cried,'unsay not what you've said, Nor grudge one prop on which my pride is stayed; To think I could have merited your faith Shall be my solace even unto death!''JULIA,' THEODRIC said, with purposed look Of firmness,' my reply deserved rebuke; But by your pure and sacred peace of mind, And by the dignity of womankind, Swear that when I am gone you'll do your best To chase this dream of fondness from your breast.' "Th' abrupt appeal electrified her thought;She looked to Heav'n as if its aid she sought, Dried hastily the tear-drops from her cheek, And signified the vow she could not speak. "Ere long he communed with her mother mild:' Alas!' she said,' I warned —conjured my child, And grieved for this affection from the first, But like fatality it has been nursed; For when her filled eyes on your picture fixed, And when your name in all she spoke was mixed,'Twas hard to chide an over-grateful mind! Then each attempt a likelier choice to find Made only fresh-rejected suitors grieve, And UDOLPH'S pride- perhaps her own - believe That, could she meet, she might enchant ev'n you. You came. —I augured the event,'tis true, - But how was UDOLPHI'S mother to exclude The guest that claimed our boundless gratitude? And that unconscious you had cast a spell On JULIA'S peace, my pride refused to tell: Yet in my child's illusion I have seen, Believe me well, how blameless you have been: Nor can it cancel, howsoe'er it end, Our debt of friendship to our boy's best friend.' CAMPBELL'S POEMS. At night he parted with the aged pair; At early morn rose JULIA to prepare The last repast her hands for him should make: And UDOLPE to convoy him o er the lake. The parting was to her such bitter grief, That of her own accord she made it brief; But, lingering at her window, long surveyed His boat's last glimpses melting into shade. "TraEODRIC sped to Austria, and achieved His journey's object. Much was he relieved When UDOLPH'S letters told that JULIA's mind Had borne his loss firm, tranquil, and resigned. He took the Rhenish route to England, high Elate with hopes, fulfilled their ecstacy, And interchanged with CONSTArCE'S own breath The sweet eternal vows that bound their faith. "To paint that being to a grovelling mind Were like portraying pictures to the blind.'Twas needful ev'n- infectiously to feel Her temper's fond and firm and gladsome zeal, To share existence with her, and to gain Sparks from her love's electrifying chain Of that pure pride, which, lessening to her breast Life's ills, gave all its joys a treble zest, Before the mind compl!tely understood That mighty truth- how happy are the good! "Ev'n when her light forsook him, it bequeathed Ennobling sorrow; and her memory breathed A sweetness that survived her living days, As odorous scents outlast the censer's blaze. "Or, if a trouble dimmed their golden joy, -'Twas outward dross, and not infused alloy' CAMPB E LL'S POEMS. ].13 Their hone knew but affection's looks and speechA little Heaven, above dissension's reach. But'midst her kindred there was strife and gall; Save one congenial sister, they were all Such foils to her bright intellect and grace, As if she had engrossed the virtue of her race. I1er nature strove th' unnatural feuds to heal, Her wisdom made the weak to her appeal; And, though the wounds she cured were soon unclosed, Unwearied still her kindness interposed. "Oft on those errands though she went in vain, And home, a blank without her, gave him pain, He bore her absence for its pious end. - But public grief his spirit came to bend; For war laid waste his native land once more, And German honor bled at every pore. Oh! were he there, he thought, to rally back One broken band, or perish in the wrack! Nor think that CONSTANCE sought to move and melt His purpose: like herself she spoke and felt: -'Your fame is mine, and I will bear all wo Except its loss!- but with you let me go To arm you for, to embrace you from, the fight; Harm will not reach me- hazards will delight!' He knew those hazards better; one campaign In England he conjured her to remain, And she expressed assent, although her heart In secret had resolved they should not part. "How oft the wisest on misfortune's shelves Are wrecked by errors most unlike themselves! That little fault, that fraud of love's romance, That plan's concealment, wrought their whole mischance ZIe knew it not preparing to embark, But felt extinct his comfort's latest spark, 120 CAMPBELL S POEMS. When,'midst those numbered days, she made repair Again to kindred worthless of her care.'Tis true she said the tidings she would write Would make her absence on his heart sit light; But, haplessly, revealed not yet her plan, And left him in his home a lonely man. "Thus damped in thoughts, he mused upon the past: "Twas long since he had heard from UDOLPH last, And deep misgivings on his spirit fell That all with UDOLPH'S household was not well.'Twas that too true prophetic mood of fear That augurs griefs inevitably near, Yet makes them not less startling to the mind When come. Least looked-for then of human kind, His UDOLPH ('twas, he thought, at first, his sprite,) With mournful joy that morn surprised his sight. How changed was UDOLPH! Scarce THEODRnI durst Inquire his tidings;- he revealed the worst.' At first,' he said,'as JULIA bade me tell, She bore her fate high-mindecUly and well, Resolved from common eyes her grief to hide, And from the world's compassion saved our pride; But still her health gave way to secret wo, And long she pined -for broken hearts die slow! Her reason went, but came returning, like The warning of her death-hour- soon to strike; And all for which she now, poor sufferer! sighs, Is once to see THEODRIC ere she dies. WVhy should I come to tell you this caprice? Forgive me! for my mind has lost its peace. I blame myself, and ne'er shall cease to blame, That my insane ambition for the name Of brother to THEoDnIC, founded all Those high-built hopes that crushed her by their fall I made her slight her mother's counsel sage, But now my parents droop with. grief and age; CAMPBELL' S POEMS. 121 And, though my sister's eyes mean no rebuke, They overwhelm me with their dying look. The journey's long, but you are full of ruth; And she who shares your heart, and knows its truth, Has faith in your affection, far above The fear of a poor dying object's love.' —'She has, my UDOLPH,' he replied, "tis true; And oft we talk of JULIA —oft of you.' Their converse came abruptly to a close; For scarce could each his troubled looks compose, When visitants, to CONSTANCE near akin, (In all but traits of soul,) were ushered in. They brought not her, nor midst their kindred band The sister who alone, like her, was bland; But said- and smiled to see it give him pain — That CONSTANCE would a fortnight yet remain. Vexed by their tidings, and the haughty view They cast on UDOLPH as the youth withdrew, THEODRIc blamed his CONSTANCE'S intent. "The demons went, and left him as they went To read, when they were gone beyond recall, A note from her loved hand explaining all. She said, that with their house she only stayed That parting peace might with them all be made. But prayed for love to share his foreign life, And shun all future chance of kindred strife. He wrote with speed, his soul's consent to say: The letter missed her on her homeward way. In six hours CONSTANCE was within his arms: Moved, flushed, unlike her wonted calm of charms, And breathless- with uplifted hands outspread — Burst into tears upon his neck, and said,-'I knew that those who brought your message laughed, With poison of their own to point the shaft; And this my one kind sister thought, yet loath Confessed she feared'twas true you had been wroth..11 122 CAMIPBELLX S POEI S. But here you are, and smile on me: my pain Is gone, and CO)NSTANCE is herself again.' tHis ecstacy, it may be guessed, was much: Yet pain's extreme and pleasure's seemed to touch. What pride! embracing beauty's perfect mould; %What terror! lest his few rash words, mistold, lIad agonized her pulse to fever's heat: But calmed again so soon it healthful beat, And such sweet tones were in her voice's sound, Composed herself, she breathed composure round. "Fair being! with what nympathetic grace. She heard, bewailed, and pleaded JULIA'S case; Implored he would her dying wish attend,'And go,' she said,'to-morrow with your friend;. I'll wait for your return on England's shore, And then we'll cross the deep, and part no more.' "To-morrow both his soul's compassion drew To JULIA'S call, and CONSTANCE urged anew That not to heed her now would be to bind A load of pain for life upon his mind. He went with UDOLPH1- from his CONSTANCE went — Stifling, alas! a dark presentiment Some aliment lurked, ev'n whilst she smiled, to mock His fears of harm from yester-morning's shock. Meanwhile a faithful page he singled out, To watch at home, and follow straight his route, If aught of threatened change her health should show — With UDOLPH then he reached the house of wo. "That winter's eve how darkly Nature's brow Scowled on the scenes it lights so lovely now! The tempest, raging o'er the realms of ice, Shook fragments from the rifted precipice; And, whilst their falling echoed to the wind, The wolf's long howl in dismal discord joined, CA MPBEL L'S POEMS. I2Zi While white yon water's foam was raised in clouds That whirled like spirits wailing in their shrouds: Without was Nature's elemental din - And beauty died, and friendship wept, within "Sweet JULIA, though her fate was finished half, Still knew him- smiled on him with feeble laugh - And blessed him, till she drew her latest sigh! But lo! while UDOLPH'S bursts of agony, And age's tremulous wailings, round him rose, What accents pierced him deeper yet than those!'Twas tidings, by his English messenger, Of CONSTANCE - brief and terrible they were. She still was living when the page set out From home, but whether now was left in doubt. Poor JULIA! saw he then thy death's relief — Stunned into stupor more than wrung with grief? It was not strange; for in the human breast Two master-passions cannot coexist, And that alarm which now usurped his brain Shut out not only peace, but other pain.'Twas fancying CONSTANCE underneath the shroud That covered JULIA made him first weep loud, And tear himself away from them that swept. Fast hurrying homeward, night nor day he slept, Till, launched at sea, he dreamed that his soul's saint Clung to him on a bridge. of ice, pale, faint, O'er cataracts of blood. Awake, he blessed The shore; nor hope left utterly his breast, Till reaching home, terrific omen! there The straw-laid street preluded his despair - The servant's look- the table that revealed HTis letter sent to CONSTANCE last, still sealedThoughfl speech an(l hearing left him, told too clear That he had now to suffer - not to fear. lHe felt as if he ne'er should cease to feel — Ai wretch liotr3-roken ol rl isfortune's wheel: 124 CAMPBELL S POEMS. IIer death's cause —he might make his peace witIx Heaven, Absolved from guilt but never self-forgiven. "The ocean has its ebbings —so has grief;'Twas vent to anguish, if'twas not relief, To lay his brow ev'n on her death-cold cheek. Then first he heard her one kind sister speak: She bade him, in the name of Heaven, forbear With self-reproach to deepen his despair:''Twas blame,' she said,'I shudder to relate, But none of yours, that caused our darling's fate; Her mother (must I call her such?) foresaw, Should CONSTANCE leave the land, she would withdraw Our House's charm against the world's neglect — The only gem that drew it some respect. HIence, when you went, she came and vainly spoke To change her purpose - grew incensed, and broke With execrations from her kneeling. child. Start not! your angel from her knee rose mild, Feared that she should not long the scene outlive, Yet bade even you the unnatural one forgive. Till then her ailment had been slight, or none; But fast she drooped, and fatal pains came on: Foreseeing their event, she dictated And signed these words for you.' The letter said — "' THEODRIC, this is destiny above Our power to baffle; bear it then, my love! Rave not to learn the usage I have borne, For one true sister left me not forlorn; And though you're absent in another land, Sent from me by my own well-meant colrmand, Your soul, I know, as firm is knit to mine As these clasped hands in blessing you now join, Shape not imagined horrors in my fateEven now my sufferings are not vcry great V __- _i_._a CAMPB E LL' S P OEMS. 125 And when your grief's first transports shall subside, I call upon your strength of soul and pride To pay my memory, if'tis worth the debt, Love's glorying tribute - not forlorn regret: I charge my name with power to conjure up Reflections balmy, not its bitter cup. My pardoning angel, at the gates of Heaven, Shall look not more regard than you have given To me; and our life's union has been clad In smiles of bliss as sweet as life e'er had. Shall gloom be from such bright remembrance cast? Shall bitterness outflow from sweetness past? No! imaged in the sanctuary of your breast, There let me smile, amidst high thoughts at rest; And let contentment on your spirit shine, As if its peace were still a part of mine: For if you war not proudly with your pain, For you I shall have worse than lived in vain. Blut I conjure your manliness to bear My loss with noble spirit - not despair: I ask you by our love to promise this, And kiss these words, where I have left a kiss, —The latest from my living lips for yours.'"Words that will solace him while life endures: For though his spirit from affliction's surge Could ne'er to life, as life had been, emerge, Yet still that mind whose harmony elate Rang sweetness, even beneath the crush of fate, - That mind in whose regard all things were placed Li views that softened them, or lights that graced, That soul's example could not but dispense A portion of its own blessed influence; Invoking him to peace, and that self-sway Which Fortune can not give, nor take away: And though he mourned her long,'twas with such wo As if her spirit watched him still below." 11* TRANSLATIONS. FRAGMENT. FROM THE GIREEK OF ALCMAN. THE mountain summits sleep: glens, cliffs, and caves Are silent- all the black earth's reptile brood - The bees-the wild beasts of the mountain wood: In depths beneath the dark red ocean's waves Its monsters rest, whilst wrapt in bower and spray Each bird is hushed that stretched its pinions to the day, SONG OF HYBRIAS, THE CRETAN. MY wealth's a burly spear and brand, And a right good shield of hides untanned, Which on my arm I buckle: WVith these I plough, I reap, I sow, With these I make the sweet vintage flow, And all around me truckle. But your wights that take no pride to wield A massy spear and well-made shield, CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 127 Nor joy to draw the swordi Oh, I bring those heartless, hapless drones, Down in a trice on their marrow-bones, To call me King and Lord. MARTIAL ELEGY. FROM THE GREEK OF TYRT2PUS. How glorious fall the valiant, sword in hand, In front of battle for their native land! But oh! what ills await the wretch that yields, A recreant outcast from his country's fields! The mother whom he loves shall quit her home, An aged father at his side shall roam; His little ones shall weeping with him go, And a young wife participate his woe; While scorned and scowled upon by every face, They pine for food, and beg from place to place. Stain of his breed! dishonoring manhood's form! Al ills shall cleave to him: - affliction's storm Shall bind him wandering in the vale of years, Till, lost to all but ignominious fears, He shall not blush to leave a recreant's name, And children, like himself, innured to shame. But we will combat for our fathers' land, And we will drain the life-blood where we stand, To save our children: - fight ye side by side, And serried close, ye men of youthful pride, Disdaining fear, and deeming light the cost Of life itself in glorious battle lost. 128 CAMAIPBELL S POEMlS. Leave not our sires to stem the unequal fight, Whose limbs are nerved no more with buoyant might Nor, lagging backward, let the younger breast Permit the man of age, (a sight unblessed,) To welter in the combat's foremost thrust, Htis hoary head dishevelled in the dust, And venerable bosom bleeding bare. But youth's fair form, though fallen, is ever fair, And beaptiful in death the boy appears, The hero boy that dies in blooming years: In man's regret he lives, and woman's tears, More sacred than in life, and lovelier far, For having perished in the front of war. SPECIMENS OF TRANSLATION FROM MEDEA, KalovS $ AXEyWV, KOVreV 7L CoOov9 Tovg 7rpoaoe fporovg oVK av altaproig. Medea, v. 194, p. 33, Glasg. edit. TELL me, ye -bards, whose skill sublime First charmed the ear of youthful Time, With numbers wrapt in heavenly fire, Who bade delighted Echo swell The trembling transports of the lyre, The murmur of the shell - Why to the burst of Joy alone Accords sweet Music's soothing tone? Why can no bard, with magic strain, In slumbers steep the heart of pain? While varied tones obey your sweep, The mild, the plaintive, and the deep, CAMPBELL' S POEMS. 129 Bends not despairing Grief to hear Your golden lute, with ravished ear? Has all your art no power to bind The fiercer pangs that shake the mind, And lull the wrath at whose command MurIer bares her gory hand? When flushed with joy, the rosy throng Weave the light dance, ye swell the song! Cease, ye vain warblers! cease to charm The breast with other raptures warm! Cease! till your hand with magic strain In slumbers steep the heart of pain! SPEECH OF THE CHORUS, IN THE SAME TRAGEDY, ro DISSUADE MEDEA FROM HER PURPOSE OF PUTTING HER CHILDREN TO DEATH, AND FLYING FOR PROTECTION TO ATHENS. O HAGGARD queen! to Athens dost thou guide Thy glowing chariQt, steeped in kindred gore: Or seek to hide thy foul infanticide Where Peace and Mercy dwell for evermore? The land where Truth, pure, precious, and sublime, Wooes the deep silence of sequestered bowers, And warriors, matchless since the first of time, Rear their bright banners o'er unconquered towers! \here joyous youth, to Music's mellow strain, Twines in the dance with nymphs forever fair, While Spring eternal on the lilied plain, Waves amber radiance through the fields of air! 130 CAMPBE L'S P O E'I S The tuneful Nine (so sacred legends tell) First waked their heavenly lyre these scenes among; Still in syour greenwood bowers they love to dwell; Still in your vales they swell the choral song! Buat there the tuneful, chaste Pierian fair, The guardian nymphs of green Parnassus, now Sprung from Harmonia, while her graceful hair Waved in high auburn o'er her polished brow! ANTISTROPHE I. Where silent vales, and glades of green array, The murmuring wreaths of cool Cephisus lave, There, as the muse hath sung, at noon of day, The queen of Beauty bowed to taste the wave; And blest the stream, and breathed across the land The soft, sweet gale that fans yon summer bowers; And there the sister Loves, a smiling band, Crowned with the fragrant wreaths of rosy flowers! "And go," she cries, "in yonder valleys rove, With Beauty's torch the solemn scenes illume; TWake in each eye the radiant light of Love, Breathe on its cheek young Passion's tender bloom. "Entwine, with myrtle chains, your soft control, To sway the hearts of Freedom's darling kind! With glowing charms enrapture WVisdom's soul, And mould to grace ethereal Virtue's mind," STROPHE II. The land where Heav.en's own hallowed waters play, Where friendship binds the generous and the good, Say, shall it hail thee from thy frantic way, Unholy woman! with thy hands embrued CAMPBELL S POEMS. 131 in tSine own children's gore? Oh! ere they bleed, Let Nature's voice thy ruthless heart appall! Pause at the bold, irrevocable deedThe mother strikes —the guiltless babes shall fall! Think what remorse thy maddening thoughts shall sting, When dying pangs their gentle bosoms tear! Where shalt thou sink, when lingering echoes ring The screams of horror in thy tortured ear? No! let thy bosom melt to Pity's cry, - In dust we kneel —by sacred Heav'n implore — O! stop thy lifted arm, ere yet they die, Nor dip thy horrid hands in infant gore! ANTISTROPHE II. Say, now shalt thou that barbarous soul assume, Undamped by horror at the daring plan? Hast thou a heart to work thy children's doom? Or hands to finish what thy wrath began? When o'er each babe you look a last adieu, And gaze on Innocence that smiles asleep, Shall no fond feeling beat to Nature true, Charm thee to pensive thought —and bid thee weep I When the young suppliants clasp their parent dear, Heave the deep sob, and pour the artless prayer, - Ay! thou shalt melt; - and many a heart-shed tear Gush o'er the hardened features of despair! Nature shall throb in every tender string,Thy trembling heart the ruffian's task deny; — Thy horror-smitten hands afar shall fling The blale, undrenched in blood's eternal dye. 132 CAMPBELL'JS POEMSI. CHORUS. Hallowed Earth! with indignation Mark, oh mark, the murderous deed! Radiant eye of wide creation, Watch the accursed infanticide! Yet, ere Colchia's rugged daughter Perpetrate the dire design, And consign to kindred slaughter Children of thy golden line! Shall mortal hand, with murder gory, Cause immortal blood to flow? Sun of Heaven! - arrayed in glory Rise, forbid, avert the blow! In the vales of placid gladness Let no rueful maniac range; Chase afar the fiend of Madness, Wrest the dagger from Revenge! Say, hast thou, with kind protection, Reared thy smiling race in vain; Fostering Nature's fond affection, Tender cares, and pleasing pain? Hast thou, on the troubled ocean, Braved the tempest loud and strong, Where the waves, in wild commotion, Roar Cyanean rocks among? Didst- thou roam the paths of danger, Hymenean joys to prove? Spare, O sanguinary stranger, Pledges of thy sacred love! CAMPBELL' S rOEMS. 133 Ask not Heaven's commiseration, After thou hast done the deed! Mercy, pardon, expiation, Perish. when thy victims bleedL 12 O'CONNOR'S CHILD; OR, THE FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING.3 O0! once the harp of Innisfail Was strung full high to notes of gladness; But yet it often told a tale Of more prevailing sadness. Sad was the note, and wild its fall, As winds that moan at night forlorn Along the isles of Fion-Gall, When, for O'Connor's child to mourn, The harper told, how lone, how far From any mansion's twinkling star, From any path of social men, Or voice, but from the fox's den, The lady in the desert dwelt; And yet no wrongs, no fear she felt; Say, why should dwell, in place so wild, O'Connor's pale and lovely child? II. Sweet lady! she no more inspires Green Erin's hearts with beauty's power, As, in the palace of her sires, She bloomed a peerless flower. CAMPBBELL S POEMS. 135 Gone from her hand and bosom, gone-, The royal brooch, the jewelled ring, That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone, Like dews on lilies of the spring. Yet why, though fall'n her brother's kerne, Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern, Wrhile yet. in Leinster unexplored, Her friends survive the English sword; Why lingers she from Erin's host, So far on Galway's shipwrecked coast; Why wanders she a huntress wildO'Connor's pale and lovely child? III. And fixed on empty space, why burn Her eyes with momentary wildness; And wherefore do they then return To more than woman's mildness? Dishevelled are her raven locks; Oh Connocht Moran's name she calls; And oft amidst the lonely rocks She sings sweet madrigals. Placed'midst the fox-glove and the moss, Behold a parted warrior's cross! That is the spot where, evermore, The lady, at her shieling door, Enjoys that, in communion sweet, The living and the dead can meet, For, lo! to love-lorn fantasy, The hero of her heart is nigh. Iv. Bright as the bow that spans the storm, In Erin's yellow vesture clad, A son of light - a lovely form, lie comes and makes her glad; L _. _ _ _ _ _ __, _ _ _. __._________________ 1~3( CAMPBELL'S POEMS. Now on the grass-green turf he sits, His tasselled horn beside him laid; Now o'er the hills in chase he flits, The hunter and the deer a.shade! Sweet mourner! these are shadows vain That cross the twilight of her brain; Yet she will tell you, she is blest, Of Connocht Moran's tomb possessed, More richly than in Aghrim's bower, When bards high praised her beauty's power, And kneeling pages offered up The morat in a olden cup. "A hero's bride! this desert bower, It ill befits thy gentle breeding: And wherefore dost thou love this flower To call -' My love lies bleeding?' " "This purple flower my tears have nursed; A hero's blood supplied its bloom: I love it, for it was the first That grew on Connocht Moran's tomb. Oh! hearken, stranger, to my voice! This desert mansion is my choice! And blest. though fatal, be the star That led me to its wilds afar; For here these pathless mountains free Gave shelter to my love and me; And every rock and every stone Bore witness that he was my own. vi. "O'Connor's child, I was the bud Of Erin's royal tree of glory; CAMPBELL'S P O F 137 Bat wro to them that wrapt in blood The tissue of my story! Still as I clasp my burning brain, A death-scene rushes on my sight; It rises o'er and o'er again, The bloody feud - the fatal night, When chafing Connocht fIoran's scorn, They called my hero basely born; And bade him choose a meaner bride Than from O'Connor's house of pride. Their tribe, they said, their high degree, Was sung in Tara's psaltery; Witness their Eath's victorious brand, And Cathal of the bloody hand; Glory, they said, and power, and honor, Were in the mansion of O'Connor; But he, my loved one, bore in field A humbler crest, a meaner shield. TII. "Ah, brothers! what did it avail, That fiercely and triumphantly Ye fought the English of the pale, And stemmed De Bourgo's chivalry? And what was it to love and me, That barons by your standard rode; Or beal-fires for your jubilee Upon a hundred mountains glowed? What though the lords of tower and dome From Shannon to the North-sea foam,Thought ye your iron hands of pride Could break the knot that love had' tied No! —let the eagle change his plume, The leaf its hue, the flower its bloom; But ties around this heart were spun, That could not, Swould not, be undone! 12* 138 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. VIII. "At bleating of the wild watch-fold, Thus sang my love -'Oh, come with me: Our bark is on the lakp, -behold, Our steeds are fastened to the tree. Come far from Castle-Connor's clans; Come with thy belted forestere, And I, beside the lake of swans, Shall hunt for thee the fallow-deer; And build thy hut, and bring thee home The wild-fowl and the honey-comb; And berries from the wood provide, And play my clarshech by thy side. Then come, my love!'- How could I stay? Our nimble stag-hounds tracked the way, And I pursued, by moonless skies, The light of Connocht Moran's eyes. IX. " And fast and far, before the star Of day-spring, rushed we through the glade, And saw at dauwn the lofty bawn Of Castle-Connor fade. Sweet was to us the hermitage Of this utiploughed, untrodden shore; Like birds all joyous from the cage, For man's neglect we loved it more; And well he knew, my huntsman dear, To search the game with hawk and spear; W~hile I, his evening food to dress, Would sing to him in happiness. But, oh, that midnight of despair! When I was doomed to rend my hair: The night, to me, of shrieking sorrow! The night, to him, That had no morrow I CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 139 X.' When all was hushed, at even tide, I heard the baying of their beagle: Be hushed! my Connocht Moran cried,'Tis but the screaming of the eagle. Alas!'twas not the eyrie's sound; Their bloody bands had tracked us out; Up-listening starts our couchant hand-l And, hark! again, that nearer shout Brings faster on the' murderers. Spare- spare him- Brazil- Desmond fierce! In vain-no voice the adder charms; Their weapons crossed my sheltering arms. Another's sword has laid him low- - Another's and another's; And every hand that dealt the blow — Ah me! it was a brother's! Yes, when his moanings died away, Their iron hands had dug the clay, And o'er his burial turf they trod, And I beheld -oh God! oh God!His life-blood oozing from the sod! XI. "Warm in his death-wounds sepulchred, Alas! my warrior's spirit brave Nor mass nor ulla-lulla heard, Lamenting, sooth his grave. Dragged to their hated mansion back, How long in thraldom's grasp I lay I knew not, for my- soul was black, And knew no change of night or day. One night of horror round me grew; Or if I saw, or felt, or knew,'Twas but when those grim visages, The angry brothers of my race, ~1 140 CA1IPBELL IS POEMOS. Glared on each eye-ball's aching throb, And checked my bosom's power to sob, Or when my heart with pulses drear Beat like a death-watch to my ear. XII. 6But Heaven, at last, my soul's eclipse Did with a vision bright inspire; I woke, and felt upon my lips A prophetess's fire. Thrice in the east a war-drum beat, I heard the Saxon's trumpet sound, And ranged, as to the judgment-seat, My guilty, trembling brothers round. Clad in the helm and shield they came; For now De Bourgo's sword and flame Had ravaged Ulster's boundaries, And lighted up the midnight skies. The standard of OConnor's sway Was in the turret where I lay; That standard, with so dire a look, As ghastly shone the moon and pale, I gave, - that every bosom shook Beneath its iron mail. "And go! (I cried) the combat seek, Ye hearts that unappalled bore The anguish of a sister's shriek, Go! - and return no more For -sooner guilt the ordeal brand Shall grasp unhurt, than ye shall hold The banner with victorious hand, Beneath a sister's curse unrolled. O stranger! by my country's loss! And by my love! and by the cross! C-A MPBELL S POEMS. 141 I swear I never could have spoke The curse that severed nature's yoke; But that a spirit o'er me stood, And fired me with the wrathful mood; And frenzy to my heart was given, To speak- the malison of heaven., XIV. "s They would have crossed themselves, all mute; They would have prayed to burst the spell; But at the -stamping of nmy foot Each hand down powerless fell.! And go to Athunree! (I cried) High. ift the banner of your pride 1 But know that where its sheet unrolls, The~ weight'of blood is on your souls! Go where the havoc of your kerne Shall float as high as mountain fern! Men shall no more your mansion know; The nettles on your hearth shall grow! Dead, as the green oblivious flood That mantles by your walls,. shall be The glory of O'Connor's blood'! Away'! away to Athunree! Where, downward when the sun shall fall The raven's wing shall be your pall! And not a vassal shall unlace The visor from your dying face 1 XV. "A bolt that overhung our dome Suspended till my curse was given, Soon as it passed these lips of foam, Pealed in the blood-red heaven. Dire was the look that o'er their backs The'angry parting brothers threw: 142 CAIMrPBELL'S POEMS. But now; behold! like cataracts, Come down the hills in view O'Connmor's pltuned partisans Thrice ten Kilnagorvian clans Were marching to their doom: A sudden storm their plumage tossed, A flash of lightning o'er them crossed, And all again was gloom! XvI. 6"Stranger! I fled the home of grief, At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall;. I found the helmet of my chief, His bow still hanging on our wall, And took it down, and vowed to rove This desert place a huntress hold; Nor would I change my buried love For any heart of living mould.., No! for I am a hero's child: I'll hunt my quarry in the wild; And still my home this mansion makoe Of all unheeded and runheeding, And cherish, for my warrior's sake-s'The flower of love lies bleeding.' i CAMPBELL s POEMS. 143 LOCHIEL'S WARNING. WIZARD. -LOCHIEL. WIZARD. LOCHIEL, Lochiel! beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight. They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown; Wo, wo to the riders that trample them down! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?'Tisthine, oh Glenullin! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning: no rider is there; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led! Oh weep! but thy tears can not number the dead: For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, — Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave. LOCIIEL. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer! Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, This mantle, to cover thephantoms of fright. WIZARD. Ha'! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn 144 CAMPBELL' S POEMS. Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth, From.his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north? Lo 1 the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad; But down let him stoop from his havoc on high! Ah home let him speed,- for the spoiler is nigh. WVhy flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast Those embers, like stars fiom the firmament cast?'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlements' height, Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn; Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. LOCHIEL. False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled my clan, Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one! They are true to the last of their blood andl their breath, And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock! But wo to his kindred, and wo to his cause, WVhen Albin her claymore indignantly draws; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, All plaided and )lumed in their tartan array —-- WIZARD. -Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day; For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot cover what God would reveal;'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before. CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 145 I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, Behold, where he flies on his desolate path! Now in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight: Rise, rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight!'Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors; Culloden is lost, and my country deplores: But where is the iron-bound prisoner? - where? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn, Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn? Ah no! for a darker departure is near; The War-drum is muffled, and black is the bier; His death-bell is tolling: oh! mercy, dispel Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell! Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be thrown ere- it ceases to beat, With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale —-- LOClIEL. Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale: For never shall Albin a destiny meet So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat. Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! And leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame. 13 146 CAMPB L S PO MS. BATMIE OF THE BALTIC. OF Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day's renown WVhen to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on.II. Like leviathans afloat, La theirt ulwakson the brine; While the stgn o atte ew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath, For a time.III. But the might of England flushed To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rushed O'er the deadly space between. "Hearts of oak! " our captains cried, when each From its adamantine lips [gun Spread a death-shade round the ships, CAMPBELL' S POEMS. 147 Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.Wv. Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back: Their shots along the deep slowly boom; Then ceased - and all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom.V. Out spoke the victor then, As he hailed them o'er the wave; "Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save: — So peace instead of death let us bring; But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,'With the crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet To our King." - VI. Then Denmark blessed our chief, That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief'From her people wildly rose, As death withdrew his shades from the day, While the sun looked smiling bright O'er a wide and woful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away. — 148 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. Now joy, Old England, raise! For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep,Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore! - Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died, With the gallant, good Riou: * Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their gravet While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave! - ~ Captain Riou, justly entitled the gallant and the good, by Lord Nd. ao, when he wrote home his dispatches. -_ _ CAMPBLELL S POEMS. 149 YE MARItNERS OF ENGLAND: A NAVAL ODE. YE Mariners of England! That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, Jhe battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard,launch again To match another foel And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. The spirits of your fathers * Shall start from every wave!For the deck it was their field of famne, And Ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, Vhile the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. III. Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; 13* 150 CAMPBELL S POEMS Her march is o'er the mountain-waves Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak, She quells the floods below,As they roar on the shore, WVhen the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long And the stormy winds do blow. xir. The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn; Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more And the storm has ceased to blow. HOHENL0NDEN. ON Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darlkness of her scenery. CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 151 By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neighed, To pin the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rushed the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flashed the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser rolling rapidly.'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry! Few, few shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 152 - C MPBELL S POEMS. GLENARA. 0 HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear; And her sire, and the people, are called to her bier. Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud; Her kinsmen they followed, but moiuned not aloud: Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around: They marched all in silence - They looked on the ground. In silence they reached over mountain and moor, To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar: " Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn: Why speak ye no word? "- said Glenara the stern. "And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouses Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows? " So spake the rude chieftain: —no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding a dagger displayed. " I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud; "And empty that shroud, and that coffin did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!" 0! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, Vhen the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn,'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn' CAMPBELL S POE MS. 153 "I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her grief, I dreamed that her lord was a barbarous chief: On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem; Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!" In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert revealed where his lady was found; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne — Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn! EXILE OF ERIN. THERE name to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill: For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh! Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger; The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh! Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; I C AMPBELL 7S POEMVIS. But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace -where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me? They died to defend me, or live to deplore! Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? WVhere is the mother that looked on my childhood? And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all? Oh! my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure? Tears, like the rain drop, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they can not recall. Yet all its sad recollection suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw: Erin! an exile bequeaths thee this blessing! Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields,- sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with aevotion,Erin mavournin- Erin go bragh I * LORD UILLIN DAUGHTER. A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry." — * Ireland my dalhin -- Ireland for ever CAMPBELL S POEMS. 155 "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?" O, I'm the chief of IJlva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter. — "And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather. "His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover? " - Outspoke the hardy Highland wight, "I'll go, my chief- I'm ready: - It is not for your silver bright; But for your winsome lady: "And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry." — By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking. But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men, Their trampling sounded nearer. — t0 O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, Though tempests round us gather; 156 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father." — The boat'has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her, - When, oh! too strong for human hand, -The tempest gathered o'er her. — And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore; His wrath was changed to wailing. For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, His child he did discover: — One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover. "Come back! come back! " he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water: And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter! — oh my daughter!''Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preveltgng: — The waters wild went o'er his'child, And he was left lamenting. CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 157 ODE TO ToIE MEMORY OF BURNS. SOUL of the Poet! wheresoe'er, Reclaimed from earth, thy genius plume Her wings of immortality: Suspend thy harp in happier sphere, And with thine influence illume The gladness of our jubilee. And fly like fiends from secret spell, Discord and Strife, at BuRNs's name, Exorcised by his memory; For he was chief of bards that swell The heart with songs of social flame, And high delicious revelry. And Love's own strain to him was given, To warble all its ecstacies With Pythian words unsought, unwilled — Love, the surviving gift of Heaven, The choicest sweet of Paradise, In life's else bitter cup distilled. Who, that has melted o'er his lay To Mary's soul, in Heaven above, But pictured sees, in fancy strong, The landscape and the livelong day That smiled upon their mutual love? — Who that has felt forgets the song? Nor skilled one flame alone to fan: His country's high-souled peasantry What patriot-pride he taught! - how much 14 15 8 C AMPBELL' POEMS. To weigh the inborn worth of man! And rustic life and poverty Grow beautiful beneath his touch. Him, in his clay-built Ctt, the muse Entranced, and showed him all the forms, Of fairy-light and wizard gloom, (That only gifted Poet views,) The Genii of the floods and storms, And martial shades from Glory's tomb. On Bannock-field what thoughts arouse The swain whom BuiNs's song inspires! Beat not his Caledonian veins, As o'er the heroic turf he ploughs, WVith all the spirit of his sires, And all their scorn of death and chains? And see the Scottish exile tanned By many a far and foreign clime, Bend o'er his home-born verse, and weep In memory of his native land, Vith love that scorns the lapse of time, And ties that stretch beyond the deep. Encamped by Indian rivers wild, The soldier resting on his arms, In BURNs's carol sweet recalls The scenes that blessed him when a child, And glows and gladdens at the charms Of Scotia's woods and water-falls. O deem not,'midst this worldly strife, An idle art the Poet brings: Let high Philosophy control, And sages calm, the stream of life,'Tis he refines its fountain-springs, The nobler passions of the soul CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 159 It is the muse that consecrates The native banner of the brave, Unfurling, at the trumpet's breath, Rcse, thistle, harp;'tis she elates To sweep the field, or ride the wave, A sun-burst in the storm of death. And thou, young hero, when thy pall Is crossed with mournful sword and plume, WVhen public grief begins to fade, And only tears of kindred fall, WVho but the Bard shall dress thy tomb, And greet with fame thy gallant shade? Such was the soldier - BURNS, forgive, That sorrows of mine own intrude In strains to thy great memory due. In verse like thine, oh! could he live, The friend I mourned — the brave, the good — Edward that died at Waterloo! * Farewell, high chief of Scottish song! That couldst alternately impart Wisdom and rapture in thy page, And brand each vice with satire strong, Whose lines are mottoes of the heart, Whose truths electrify the sage. Farewell! and ne'er may Envy dare To wring one baleful poison drop From the crushed laurels of thy bust: But while the lark sings sweet in air, Still may the grateful pilgrim stop, To bless the spot that holds thy dust. - Major Edward IDodge, of the 7th Hussars, who fell at the head of.:s squadron in the attack of the Polish Lancers. He -- --..,... 16O0 CAMT P n PBELL S PO E MS LINES, WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE. AT the silence of twilight's contemplative hour, I have mused in a sorrowful mood, On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower, Where the home of my forefathers stood. All ruined and wild is their roofless abode, And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree: And travelled by few is the grass-covered road, Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode, To his hills that encircle the sea. Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous.walk, By the dial-stone aged and green, One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk, To marK where a garden had been. like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race, All wild in the silence of nature, it drew, From each wandering sun-beam, a lonely embrace, For the night-weed and thorn overshadowed the place, Where the flower of my forefathers grew. Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all That remains in this desolate heart! The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall, But patience shall never depart! Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright In the days of delusion by fancy combined tWith the vanishing phantoms of love and delight, Abandon my soul, like a dream of the night, And leave but a desert behind. CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 161 Be hushed, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns CWhen the faint and the feeble deplore; Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems A thousand wild waves on the shore! Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain, May thy front be unaltered, thy courage elate! Yea! even the name I have worshipped in vain Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again. To bear is to conquer our fate. TIE SOLDIER'S DREAM. OUR bugles sang truce - for the night-cloud had lowered, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain; At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,,nd thrice ere the morning I dreamed it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far 1 had roamed on a desolate track:'Twas Autumn, - and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. 14* 162 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. Stay, stay with us,- rest, thou art weary and worn; And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay: — But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. TO THE RAINBOW. TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky When storms prepare to part! I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art — Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, A midway station given For happy spirits to alight Betwixt the earth and heaven. Can all that Optics teach, unfold Thy form to please me so, As when I dreamed of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow When Science from Creation's face Enchantment's veil withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place To cold material laws! CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 163 And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, But words of the Most High, Have told why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky. When o'er the green, undeluged earth Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's gray fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign! And when its yellow lustre smiled O'er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child To bless the bow of God. Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, The first made anthem rang On earth delivered from the deep, And the first poet sang. Nor ever shall the Muse's eye Unraptured greet thy beam: Theme of primeval prophecy, Be still the prophet's theme! The earth to thee her incense yields, The lark thy welcome sings, When glittering in the freshened fields The snowy mushroom springs. How glorious is thy girdle cast O'er mountain, tower, and town, Or, mirrored in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down! As fresh in yon horizon dark, As young thy beauties seem, 164 CAMPBELL S POEMS As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam. For, faithful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thy span Nor lets the type grow pale with age That first spoke peace to man. THE LAST MA.N. ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The sun himself must die, Before this morta] shall assume Its Immortality! I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulf of Time! I saw the last of human mould, That shall Creation's death behold, As Adam saw her prime! The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, The Earth with age was wan, The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man! Some had expired in fight, - the brands Still rusted in their bony hands; In plague and famine some! Earth's cities had no sound nor tread; And ships were drifting with the dead To shores where all was dumb! CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 165 Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere leaves from the wood As if a storm passed by, Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run,'Tis Mercy bids thee go. For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears, That shall no longer flow. What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill; And arts that made fire, flood and earth, The vassals of his will; - Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, Thou dim discrowned king of day: For all these trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Healed not a passion or a pang Entailed on human hearts. Go, let oblivion's curtain fall Upon the stage of men, Nor with thy rising beams recall Life's tragedy again. Its piteous pageants bring not back, Nor waken flesh, upon the rack Of pain anew to writhe; Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred Or mown in battle by the sword, Like grass beneath the scythe. Even I am weary in yon skies To watch thy fading fire; Test of all sumless agonies, Behold not me expire. 166 CAMPBELL' S POEMS. My lips that speak thy dirge of deathTheir rounded gasp and gurgling breath To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,The majesty of Darkness shall Receive my parting ghost! This spirit shall return to Him'Who gave its heavenly spark; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself art dark! No! it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine, By Him recalled to breath, Who captive led captivity,'Who robbed the grave of Victory, — And took the sting from Death! Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up On Nature's awful waste To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste - Go, tell the night that hides thy face Thou saw'st the last of Adam's Arce, On Earth's sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy To quench his Immortality, Or shake his trust in God CAMPB ELL' S POEMS. 167 A DREAM. WELL may sleep present us fictions, Since our waking moments teem With such fanciful convictions As make life itself a dream.Half our daylight faith's a fable; Sleep disports with shadows too,. Seeming in their turn as stable As the world we wake to view Ne'er by day did Reason's mint Give my thoughts a clearer print Of assured reality, Than was left by Fantasy Stamped and colored on my sprite, In a dream of yesternight. In a bark, methought, lone steering, I was cast on Ocean's strife; This,'twas whispered in my hearing Meant the sea of life. Sad regrets from past existence Came, like gales of chilling breath; Shadowed in the forward distance Lay the land of Death. Now seeming more, now less remote, On that dim-seen shore, methought, I beheld two hands a space Slow unshroud a spectre's face; And my flesh's hair upstood, -'Twas mine own similitude.But my soul revived at seeing Ocean, like an emerald spark, 1JGS CAMPBELL S POEMS Kindle, while an air-dropped being Smiling steered my bark. Heaven-like- yet he looked as human As supernal beauty can, More compassionate than woman, Lordly more than man. And as some sweet clarion's breath Stirs the soldier's scorn of deathSo his accents bade me brook The spectre's eyes of icy look, Till it shut them- turned its head, Like a beaten foe, and fled. "Types not this," I said, "fair spirit! That my death-hour is not come? Say, what days shall I inherit? - Tell my soul their sum." "No," he said, "yon phantom's aspect, Trust me, would appall thee wor-e, Held in clearly measured prospect:Ask not for a curse! Make not, for I overhear Thine unspoken thoughts as clear As thy mortal ear could catch The close brought tickings of a watchMake not the untold request That's now revolving in thy breast.'Tis to live again, remeasuring Youth's years, like a scene rehearsed, In thy second lifetime treasuring Knowledge from the first. Hast thou felt, poor self-deceiver! Life's career so void of pain, As to wish its fitful fever New begun again? CAMPBELLrS POEMS. 16 Could experience, ten times thine, Pain from Being disentwine - Threads by Fate together spun? Could thy flight Heaven's lightning shun? No, nor could thy foresight's glance'Scape the myriad shafts of Chance. Wouldst thou bear again Love's troubleFriendship's death-dissevered ties; Toil to grasp or miss the bubble Of Ambition's prize? Say thy life's new guided action Flowed from Virtue's fairest springs - Still would Envy and Detraction Double not their stings? Worth itself is but a charter To be mankind's distinguished martyr" -I caught the moral, and cried, "Hail! Spirit! let us onward sail, Envying, fearing, hating noneGuardian Spirit, steer me on!" VALEDICTORY STANZAS, TO J. P. KEMBLE, ESQ. COMPOSED FOR A PUBLIC MEETING HELD JUNE, 1817. PRIDE of the British stage, A long and last adieu! Whose image brought th' hercic age. Revived to Fancy's view. 15 170 CAMPBELL' S. POE!M S. Like fields refreshed with dewy light When the sun smiles his last, Thy parting presence makes more bright Our memory of the past; And memory conjures feelings up That wine or music need not swell, As high we lift the festal cup To Kemble -fare thee well! His was the spell o'er hearts Which only Acting lends - The youngest of the sister Arts, WVhere all their beauty blends: For ill can Poetry express Full many a tone of thought sublime, And Painting, mute and motionless, Steals but a glance of time. But by the mighty actor brought, Illusion's perfect triumphs come,Verse ceases to be airy thought, And Sculpture to be dumb. Time may again revive, But ne'er eclipse the charm, When Cato spoke in him alive, Or Hotspur kindled warm. What squl was not reAigned entire To the deep sorrows of the Moor? What English heart was not on fire With him at Agincourt? And yet a majesty possessed His transport's most impetuous tone, And to each passion of the breast The Graces gave their zone. High were the task - too high, Ye conscious bosoms here! CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 171 In words to paint your memory Of Kemble and of Lear; But who forgets that white discrowned head, Those bursts of Reason's half-extinguished glare,'['hose tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed In doubt more touching than despair, If'twas reality he felt? Had Shakspeare's self'amidst you been, Friends, he had seen you melt, And triumphed to have seen! And there was many an hour Of blended, kindred fame, When Siddons's auxiliar power And sister magic came. Together at the Muse's side The tragic paragons had grown; They were the children of her pride, The columns of her throne; And undivided favor ran From heart to heart in their applause, Save for the gallantry of man In lovelier woman's cause. Fair as some classic dome, Robust and richly graced, Your KEMBLE'S spirit was the home Of genius and of taste; taste like the silent dial's power, That when supernal light is given, Can measure inspiration's hour, And tell its height in heaven. At once ennobled and correct, HIis mind surveyed the tragic page, And wh'at the actor could effotB, The scholar could presage 172 CAMPBELLX'S POE:MS These were his traits of worth: — And must we lose them now? And shall the scene no more show forth His sternly pleasing brow? Alas, the moral brings a tear! —'Tis all a transient hour below; And we that would detain thee here, Ourselves as fleetly go! Yet shall our latest age This parting scene review:Pride of the British stage, A long and last adieu LINES WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY IN LONDON, WHEN MET TO COMMEMORATE THE 21ST Ol MARCH, THE DAY OF VICTORY IN EGYPT. PLEDGE to the much-loved land that gave us birth! Invincible romantic Scotia's shore! Pledge to the memory of her parted worth! And first, amidst the brave, remember Moore! And be it deemed not wrong that name to give, In festive hours, which prompts the patriot's sigh I WVho would not envy such as Moore to live? And died he not as heroes wish to die? Yes, though too soon attaining glory's goal, To us his bright career too short was given; Yet in a mighty cause-.his phoenix soul Rose on the flames of victory to Heaven! CAMPBELL POEMS. 173 IIow oft (if beats in subjugated Spain One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn For him! -How oft on far Corunna's plain Shall British exiles weep upon his urn! Peace to the mighty dead; —our bosom thanks In sprightlier strains the living may inspire! Joy to the chiefs that led old Scotia's ranks, Of Roman garb and more than Roman fire! Triumphant be the thistle still unfurled, Dear symbol wild! on Freedom's hills it grows, Where Fingal stemmed the tyrants of the world. And Roman eagles found unconquered foes. * Joy to the band * -this day on Egypt's coast, Whose valor tamed proud France's tricolor, And wrenched the banner from her bravest host, Baptized Invincible in Austria's gore! Joy for the day on red Vineira's strand, When, bayonet to bayonet opposed, First of Britannia's host her Highland band Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost closed I Is there a son of generous England here Or fervid Erin? - he with us shall join, To pray that in eternal union dear, The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine. Types of a race who shall th' invader scorn, As rocks resist the billows round their shore; Types of a race who shall to time unborn Their country leave unconquered as of yore! * The 42d Regiment 15* 174 CAMPPBEWL' S POEMS. STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS LATEST TILLoD IN RESISTING THE REGENCY AND THE DUKE OF ANGOULEME. BRAvE men who at the Trocadero fell - Beside your cannons conquered not, though slain, There is a victory in dying well For Freedom,- and ye have not died in vain; For come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain To honor, ay embrace your martyred lot, Cursing the Bigot's and the Bourbon's chain, And looking on your graves, though trophied not, As holier hallowed ground than priests could make the spot! What though your case be baffled - freemen cast In dungeons- dragged to.death, or forced to flee; Hope is not withered in affliction's blast — The patriot's blood's the seed of Freedom's tree; And short your orgies of revenge shall be, Cowled demons of the Inquisitorial cell! Earth shudders at your victory, - for ye Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell, The baser, ranker sprung, Autochthones of Hell! Go to your bloody rites' again- bring back The hall of horrors and the assessor's pen, Recording answers shrieked upon the rack; Smile o'er the gaspings of spine-broken men; — Preach, perpetrate damnation in your den; — Then let your altars, ye blasphemers! peal With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again, To practise deeds with torturing fire and steel No eye may-search - no tongue may challenge or reveal: 1 CAMPBELL S POEMS. 175 Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime, Too proudly, ye oppressors! - Spain was free, Her soil has felt the foot-prints, and her clime Been winnowed by the wings of Liberty; And these even parting scatter as they flee Thoughts -influences, to live in hearts unborn, Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key From Persecution- show her mask off-torn, And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot, of Scorn. Glory to them that die in this great cause; Kings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame, Or shape of death, to shroud them from applause:No! - manglers of the martyr's earthly frame; Your hangman fingers can not touch his fame. Still in your prostrate land there shall be some Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom's vestal flame. Long trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb, But vengeance is behind, and justice is to come. SONG OF THE GREEKS. AGAIN to the battle, Achaians! Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance; Our land, the first garden of Liberty's treeIt has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free; For the cross of our faith is replanted, The pale dying crescent is daunted, And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves Their spirits are hovering o'er us, And the sword shall to glory:estore us. 176 @c~CAMPBELL'S POEMS Ah! what though no succor advances, Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances Are stretched in our aid- be the combat our own! And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone; For we've sworn by our Country's assaulters, By the virgins they dragged from our altars, By our massacred patriots, our children in chains, By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins, *That, living, we shall be victorious, Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious. A breath of submission we breathe not; The sword that we've drawn we will sheath not! fIts scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. Earth may hide - waves ingulf - fire consume us, But they shall not to slavery doom us: If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves; But we've smote them already with fire on the waves, And new triumphs on land are before us, To the charge! —Heaven's banner is o'er us. This day shall ye blush for its story, Or brighten your lives with its glory. Our women, oh, say, shall they shriek in despair, Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair x Accursed may his memory blacken, If a cowargl there be that would slacken Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth Being sprung from and named for the godlike of earth. Strike home and the world shall revere us As heroes descended from heroes. Old Greece lightens up with emotion Her inlands, her isles of the Ocean; Fanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee ring, And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's spring CA MPBELL S POETI S 177 Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness, That were cold and extinguished in sadness; WThilst our maidens shall dance with their white-wawing arms, Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms, When the blood' of yon Mussulman cravens, Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens. ODE TO WINTER. WnEN first the fiery-mantled sun His heavenly race began to run; Round the earth and ocean blue His children four, the Seasons, flew. First, in green apparel dancing, The young Spring smiled with angel grace; Rosy Summer next advancing, Rushed into her sire's embrace — Her bright-haired sire, who bade her keep For ever nearest to his smiles, On Calpe's olive-shaded steep, On India's citron-covered isles: More remote and buxom-brown, The Queen of vintage bowed before his throne; A rich pomegranate gemmed her crown, A ripe sheaf bound her zone. But howling Winter fled afar, To hills that prop the polar star, And loves on deer-borne car to ride With barren Darkness by his side, Round the shore where loud Lofoden Whirls to death the roaring v hale, 178 CAMPBELL S POEMS. Round the hall where Runic Odin Howls his war-song to the gale; Save when adown the ravaged globe He travels on his native storm, Deflowering Nature's grassy robe, And trampling on her faded form; Till light's returning lord assume The shaft that drives him to his polar field. Of power to pierce his raven plume And crystal-covered shield. Oh, sire of storms! whose savage ear The Lapland drum delights to hear, When Frenzy with her blood-shot eye Implores thy dreadful deity,'Archangel! power of desolation! Fast descending as thou art, Say, hath mortal invocation Spells to touch thy stony heart? Then sullen Winter, hear my prayer, And gently rule the ruined year; Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare, Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear: To shuddering Want's unmantled bed Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lead, And gently on the orphan head Of innocence descend. But chiefly spare, 0 king of clouds! The sailor on his airy shrouds; When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, And spectres walk along the deep. Milder yet thy snowy breezes Pour on yonder tented shores, Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes, Or the dark-brown Danube roars. Oh, winds of Winter! list ye there To many a deep and dying groan - ~~~"~ c~-cl —--------— ~ —-~- -~ — ---— ~ —----- ~ —--— ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 179 Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, At shrieks and thunders louder than your own. Alas ev'n your unhallowed breath May spare the victim fallen low; But man will ask no truce to death, No bounds to human woA. LINES, BPOKEN BY MRS. BARTLEY, AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE, ON THE FIRST OPENING OF THE HOUSE AFTER THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE, 1817. BRITONS! although our task is but to show The scenes and passions of fictitious wo, Think not we come this night without a part In that deep sorrow of the public heart, Which like a shade hath darkened every place, And moistened with a tear the manliest face! The bell is scarcely hushed in Windsor's piles. That tolled a requiem from the solemn aisles, For her, the royal flower, low laid in dust, That was your fairest hope, your fondest trust. Unconscious of the doom, we dreamed, alas! That ev'n these walls, ere many months should pass, Which but return sad-accents for her now, Perhaps had witnessed her benignant brow, Cheered by the voice you would have raised on high, In bursts of British love and loyalty. But, Britain! now thy chief, thy, people mourn, And Claremont's home of love is left forlorn:* This ode was written in Germany, at the close of 1800, before the conclusion of hostilities. 180 CAMPBELL S PO E Mb.'There, where the happiest of the happy dwelt, The'scutcheon glooms, and royalty hath felt A wound that every bosom feels its own,The blessing of a father's heart o'erthrown - The most beloved and most devoted bride Torn from an agonized husband's side, WVho, "long as Memory holds her seat," shall view That speechless, more than spoken, last adieu, ~When the fixed eye long looked connubial faith, And beamed affection in the trance of death. Sad was the pomp that yesternight beheld, As with the mourner's heart the anthem swelled; While torch succeeding torch illumed each high And bannered arch of England's chivalry. The rich plumed canopy, the gorgeous pall, The sacred march, and sable-vested wall, - These were not rites of inexpressive show, But hallowed as the types of real wo! Daughter of England! for a nation's sighs, A nation's heart went with thine obsequies! And oft shall time revert a look of grief On thine existence, beautiful and brief. Fair spirit! send thy blessing from above On realms where thou art canonized by love! Give to a father's, husband's bleeding mind, The peace that angels lend to human-kind; To us who in thy loved remembrance feel A sorrowing, but a soul-ennobling zeal — A loyalty that touches all the best And loftiest principles of England's breast! Still may thy name speak concord from the tombStill in the Muse's breath thy memory bloom! They shall describe thy life - thy form portray; But all the love that mourns thee swept away,'Tis not in language or expressive arts To paint- ye feel it, Britons, in your hearts I CAMPBELL S POEMS. 181 LINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE. BY strangers left upon a lonely shore, Unknown, unhonored, was the friendless dead; For child to weep, or widow to deplore, There never came to his unburied headAll from his dreary habitation fled. Nor will the lanterned fisherman at eve Launch on that water by the witches' tower,'Where hellebore and hemlock seem to weave Round its dark vaults a melancholy bower For spirits of the dead at night's enchanted hour. They dread to meet thee, poor'unfortunate! Whose crime it was, on Life's unfinished road, To feel the step-dame buffetings of fate, And render back thy being's heavy load. Ah! once, perhaps, the social passions glowed In thy devoted bosom - and the hand That smote its kindred heart, might yet be prone To deeds of mercy. Who may understand Thy many woes, poor suicide, unknown? - HIe who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone. 16 I82 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. REULLURA.* STAR of the morn and eve, Reullura shone like thee, And well for her might Aodh grieve, The dark-attired Culdee. Peace to their shades! the pure Culdee Were Albyn's earliest priests of God, Ere yet an island of her seas ]y foot of'Saxon monk was trod, Long ere her churchmen by bigotry WTere barred from wedlock's holy tie.'Twas then that Aodh, famed afar, In Iona preached the word with power, And Reullura, beauty's star, Was the partner of his bower. But, Aodh, the roof lies low, And the thistle-down waves bleaching, And the bat flits to and fro Where the Gael once heard thy preaching; And fallen is each columned aisle Where the chiefs and the people knelt.'Twas near that temple's goodly pile That honored of men they dwelt; For Aodh was wise in the sacred law, And bright Reullura's eyes'oft saw The veil of.fate uplifted. Alas, with what visions of awe Her soul in that hour was gifted — WVhen pale in the temple and faint, With Aodh she stood alone * Reullura, in Gaelic, signifies "beautiful star." CAMPBELL S POEMS. -1 3 By the statue of an aged Saint! Fair sculptured was the stone - It bore a crucifix; Fame said it once had graced A 0Christian temple, which the Picts In the Britons' land laid waste: The Pictish men, by St. Columb taught, Had hither the holy relic brought. Reullura eyed the statue's face, And cried, "It is, he shall come, Even he, in this very place, To avenge my martyrdom. "For, wo to the Gael people! Ulvfagre is on the main, And Iona shall look from tower and steeple On the coming ships of the Dane; And, dames and daughters, shall all your locks'With the spoiler's grasp entwine? No! some shall have shelter in caves and rocks, And the deep sea shall be mine. Baffled by me shall the Dane return, And here shall his torch in the temple burn, Until that holy man shall plough The waves from Innisfail. His sail is on the deep e'en now, And swells to the southern gale." ~ Ah! knowest thou not, my bride," The holy Aodh said, "That the Saint whose form we stand beside Has for ages slept with the dead?" "He liveth, he liveth," she said again, "For the span of his life tenfold extends Beyond the wonted years of men. He sits by the graves of well-loved fiiends 184 CAMPBELL S POEMS. Chat died ere thy grandsire's grandsire's birth;'The oak is decayed with age on earth, Whose acorn-seed had been planted by him; And his parents remember the day of dread When the sun on the cross looked dim, And the graves gave up their dead. Yet preaching from clime to clime, Re hath roamed the earth for ages, And hither he shall come in time When the wrath of the heathen rages, In time a remnant from the sword Ah! but a remnant to deliver; Yet, blest be the name of the Lord His martyrs shall go into bliss for ever. Lochlin,* appalled, shall put up her steel, And thou shalt embark on the bounding keel; Safe shalt thou pass through ber hundred ships, With the Saint and a remnant of the G-01, And the Lord will instruct thy lips To preach in Innisfail."t The sun, now about to set, Was burning o'er Tiree, And no gathering cry rose yet O'er the isles of Albyn's sea, Whilst Reullura saw far rowers dip Their oars beneath the sun, And the phantom of many a Danish ship WVhere ship there yet was none. And the shield of alarm was dumb, Nor did their warning till midnight come, When watch-fires burst from across the maip From Rona, and Uist, and Skye To tell that the ships of the Dane And the red-haired slayers were nigh. * D)e!izark. -I Irelanrd. CA P B ELL' S POEMS. 185 Our isle-men arose from slumbers. And buckled on their arms; But few, alas! were their numbers In Lochlin's mailed swarms And the blade of the bloody Norse Has filled the shores of the Gaol With many a floating corse, And with many a woman's wail. They have lighted the islands with ruin's torch, And the holy men of Iona's church In the temple of God lay slain; All but Aodh, the last Culdee, But bound with many an iron chain, Bound in that church was he. And where is Aodh's bride? Rocks of the ocean flood! Plunged she not from your heights in pride, And mocked the men of blood? Then Ulvfagre and his bands In the temple lighted their banquet up, And the print of their blood-red hands Was left on the altar cup.'Twas then that the Norseman to Aodh said, "Tell where thy church's treasure's laid, Or I'll hew thee limb from limb." As he spoke the bell struck three, And every torch grew dim That lighted their revelry. But the torches again burnt bright, And brighter than before, WVhen an aged man of majestic height Entered the temple door. Hushed was the revellers' sound, They were struck as mute as the dead, And their hearts were appalled by the very sound Of his footsteps' measured tread. 16' | [SC CeAMPBELL S POEMS. Nor word was spoken by one beholder, While he flung his white robe back o'er his shoulder, And stretching his arms- as each Unriveted Aodh's bands, As if the gyves had been a wreath Of willows in his hands. All saw the stranger's similitude To the ancient statue's form; The Saint before his own image stood, And grasped Ulvfagre's arm. Tl-n uprose the Danes at last to deliver Their chief, and shouting with one accord, They drew the shaft from its rattling quiver, They lifted the spear and sword, And levelled their spears in rows; But down went axes, and spears, and bows,When the Saint with his crosier signed, The archer's hand on the string was stopped, And down, like reeds laid flat by the wind, Their lifted weapons dropped. The Saint then gave a signal mute, And though Ulvfagre willed it not, He came and stood at the statue's foot, Spell-riveted to the spot, Till hands invisible shook the wall, And the tottering image was dashed Down from its lofty pedestal. On Ulvfagre's helm it crashedHelmet, and skull, and flesh, and brain, It crushed as millstones crush the grain. Then spoke the Saint, whilst all and each Of the Heathen trembled round, And the pauses amidst his speech Were as awful as the sound: "Go back, ye wolves, to your dens," he cried, "And tell the nations abroad, CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 187 IIow the fiercest of your herd has died That slaughtered the flock of God Gather him bone by bone, And take with you o'er the flood The fragments of that avenging stone That drank his heathen blood. These are the spoils from Iona's sack, The only spoils ye shall carry back; For the hand that uplifteth spear or sword Shalt be withered by palsy's shock, And 1 rome in the name of the Lord To deliver a remnant of his flock." A remnant was called together, A doleful remnant of the Gael, And the Saint in the ship that had brought him hither Took the mourners to Innisfail. Unscathed they left Iona's strand, When the opal morn first flushed the sky, For the Norse dropped spear, and bow, and brand, And looked on them silently; Safe from their hiding-places came Orphans and mothers, child and dame: But, alas! when the search for Reullura spread, No answering voice was given, For the sea had gone o'er her lovely head, And her spirit was in Heaven. 188 CAMPBELL'S POEMS THE TURKISH LADY.'TwAS the hour when rites unholy Called each Paynim voice to prayer, And the star that faded slowly Left to dews the freshened air. Day her sultry fires had wasted, Calm and sweet the moonlight rose; Ev'n a captive spirit tasted Half oblivion of his woes. Then'twas from an Emir's palace Came an Eastern lady bright; She, in spite of tyrants jealous, Saw and loved an English knight. "Tell me, captive, why in anguish Foes have dragged thee here to dwell, Where poor Christians as they languish Hear no sound of Sabbath bell?""'Twas on Transylvania's Bannat, When the Cresc-ent shone afar, Like a pale disastrous planet O'er the purple tide of war - "In that day of desolation, Lady, I was captive made; Bleeding for my Christian nation By the walls of high Belgrade." " Captive! could the brightest jewel From my turban set thee free?" CAMPBE LL'S POFMS. 189 "Lady, no!-the gift were cruel, Ransomed, yet if reft of thee. "Say, fair princess! would it grieve thee Christian climes should we behold?""Nay, bold knight! I would not leave thee Were thy ransom paid in goldc" Now in Heaven's blue expansion Rose the midnight star to view, When to quit her father's mansion Thrice she wept, and bade adieu! "Fly we then, while none discover! Tyrant barks, in vain ye ride!" Soon at Rhodes the British lover Clasped his blooming Eastern bride. THE BRAVE ROLAND. THE brave Roland I the brave Roland!False tidings reached the Rhenish strand, That he had fallen in fight; And thy faithful bosom swooned with pain, O loveliest maiden of Allemayne! For the loss of thine own true knight. But why so rash has she ta'en the veil, In yon Nonnenwerder's cloisters pale? For her vow had scarce been sworn, And the fatal mantle o'er her flung, When the Drachenfels to a trumpet rung —'Tuwas her own dear warrior's horn! 190t CAMPBELL'S POEMS. Wo! wo! each heart shall bleed-shall break! She would have hung upon his neck Had he come but yester-even; And he had clasped those peerless charms That shall never, never fill his arms, Or rpeet him but in heaven. Yet Roland the brave — Roland the true - He could not bid that spot adieu; It was dear still'midst his woes; For he loved to breathe the neighboring air, And to think she blessed him in her prayer, When the Halleluiah rose. There's yet one window of that pile, Which he built above the Nun's green isle; Thence sad and oft looked he (When the chant and organ sounded slow) On the mansion of his love below, For herself he might not see. She died! - he sought the battle-plain; Her image filled his dying brain, When he fell and wished to fall: And her name was in his latest sigh, When Roland, the flower of chivalry, Expired at Roncevall. iI CAMPBELL' S POEMS. 191 THE SPECTRE BOAT. A BALLAD. LIGHT rued false Ferdinand to leave a lovely maid forlorn, WVho broke her heart and died to hide her blushing cheek from scorn. One night he dreamed he woo'd her in their wonted bower of love, Where the flowers sprang thick around them, and the birds sang sweet above. But the scene was swiftly changed into a churchyard's dismal view. And her lips grew black beneath his kiss, from Jove's delicious hue. What more he dreamed, he told to none; but shuddering, pale, and dumb, Looked out upon the waves, like one that knew his hour was come.'T'was now the dead watch of the night —the helm was lashed a-lee, And the ship rode where Mount,Etna lights the deep Levantine sea; VWhen beneath its glare a boat came, rowed by a wuian in her shroud, WVho, with eyes that made our blood run cold, stood up and spoke aloud:"Come, Traitor, down, for whom my ghost still wanders unforgiven! Come down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke my peace with heaven!" 1932 CAMIPBELL'S POEMS It was vain to hold the victim, for he plunged to meet her call, Like the bird that shricks and flutters in the gazing serpent's thrall. You may guess the boldest mariner shrunk daunted from the sight, For the Spectre and her winding-sheet shone blue with hideous light; Like a fiery wheel the boat spun with the waving of her hand, And round they went, and donn they went, as the cock crew friom the land. SONG. OH, how hard it is to find The one just suited to our mind; And if that one should be False, unkind, or found too late, What can we do but sigh at fate, And sing Wo's me —Wo's me! Love's a boundless burning waste, Where Bliss's stream we seldom taste, And still more seldom flee Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings; Yet somehow Love a something brings That's sweet - even when we sigh " Wo's me!" L________________ __ I CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 193 1E LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS ON HERI BIRTH-DnkY. IF any white-winged Power above My joys and griefs survey, The day when thou wert born, my love — He surely blessed that day. 1 laughed (till taught by thee) when told Of Beauty's magic powers, That ripened life's dull ore to gold, And changed its weeds to flowers. My mind had lovely shapes portrayed; But thought I earth had one Could make even Fancy's visions fade Like stars before the sun? I gazed, and felt upon my lips The unfinished accents hang: One moment's bliss, one burning kiss To rapture changed each pang. And though as swift as lightning's flash Those tranced moments flew, Not all the waves of time shall wash Their memory from my view. But duly shall my raptured song, And gladly shall my eyes Still bless this day's return, as long As thou shalt see it rise. 17 194 CAM1JPBELL' S POEMS. ADELGITHIA. THE ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded, And sad pale ADELGITHA came. When forth a valiant champion bounded, And slew the slanderer of her fame. She wept, delivered from her danger; But when he knelt to claim her glove - " Seek not," she cried, "oh! gallant stranger, For hapless ADELGITIIA's love. "For he is hi a foreign far land Whose arm should now have set me free; And I must wear the willow garland For him that's dead, or false to me.' "Nay! say not that his faith is tainted!"He raised his visor —At the sight She fell into his arms and fainted: It was inr.eed her own true knight! LINES ON RECEIVING A SEAL WITH THE CAMPBELL CREST, FROM K.' —, BEFORE HER MARRIAGE. THIS wax returns not back more fair Th' impression of the gift you send, Than stamped upon my thoughts I bear The image of your worth, my friend! CAMPBE I lL'S POEMIS. 195 WVe are not friends of yesterday; But poets' fancies are a little Disposed to heat and cool, (they say,) - By turns impressible and bristle. Well! should its frailty e'er condemn My heart to prize or please you less, Your type is still the sealing gem, And mine the waxen brittleness. What transcripts of my weal and wo This little signet yet may lock, - What utterances to friend or foe, In reason's calm or passion's shock! What scenes of life's yet curtained page May own its confidential die, WVhose stamp awaits th' unwritten page, And feelings of futurity!Yet wheresoe'er my pen I lift To date the epistolary sheet, The blest occasion of the gift Shall make its recollection sweet; Sent when the star that rules your fates Hath reached its influence most benign - WVhen every heart congratulates, And none more cordially than mine. So speed my song —marked with the crest That erst the advent'rous Norman wore, Wnrho won the Lady of the WVest, The daughter of Macaillan Mor. Crest of my sires! whose blood it sealed With glory in the strife of swords, 1 196 CAMPBELL S POEMS. Ne'er may the scroll that bears it yield Degenerate thoughts or faithless -wrds! Yet little might I prize the stone, If it but typed the feudal tree From whence, a scattered leaf, I'm blown In Fortune's mutability. No!-but it tells me of a heart Allied by friendship's living tie; A prize beyond the herald's artOur soul-sprung consanguinity! KATH'RINE! to many an hour of mine Light wings and sunshine you have lent; And so adieu, and still be thine The all-in-all of life -Content! TIE DIRGE OF WVALLACE. THEY lighted a taper at the dead of night, And chanted their holiest hymn; But her brow and her bosom were damp with affrightHer eye was all sleepless and dim! And the lady of Elderslie wvept for her lord, When a death-watch beat in her lonely room, When her curtain had shook of its own accord, And the raven had flapped at her window-board — To tell of her warrior's doom. "Now, sing ye the Teath-song, and loudly pray For the soul of my knight so dear; And call me a widow this wretched day, Since the warning of God is here. l _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ___ _ _ _ _ CAMPIrBELL'S ProEMS. 197 For a nightmare rides on my strangled sleep:The lord of my bosom is doomed to die; His valorous heart they have wounded deep; And the blood-red tears shall his country weep For Wallace of Elderslie! " Yet knew not his country that ominous hour, Ere the loud matin bell was rung, That a trumpet of death on an English towei Had the dirge of her champion sung! When his dungeon light looked dim and red On the high-born blood of a martyr slain, No anthem was sung at his holy death-bed; No weeping there was when his bosom bledAnd his heart was rent in twain! Oh, it was not thus when his oaken spear Was true to that knight forlorn, And hosts of a thousand were scattered, like deer At the blast of the hunter's horn; When he strode on the wreck of each well-fought field With the yellow-haired chiefs of his native land;, For his lance was not shivered on helmet or shieldAnd the sword that seemed fit for Archangel to wield Was light in his terrible hand! Yet bleeding and bound, though the Wallace wight For his long-loved country die, The bugle ne'er sung to a braver knight Than William of Elderslie! But the day of his glory shall never depart; Iis head unentombed shall with glory be palmed: From its blood streaming altar his spirit shall start; Though the raven has fed on his mouldering heart, A nobler was never embalmed! 17* 1.98 CAMPBELL S POEMS CHAUCER AND WINDSOR. LONG shalt thou flourish, Windsor! bodying forth Chivalric times, and long shall live around Thy Castle-the old oaks of British birth, Whose knarled roots, tenacious and profound, As with a lion's talons grasp the ground. But should thy towers in ivied ruin rot, There's one, thine inmate once, whose strain renowned Would interdict thy name to be forgot; For Chaucer loved thy bowers and trode this very spot. Chaucer! our Helicon's first fountain-stream, Ohtr morning star of song - that led the way To welcome the long-after coming beam Of Spenser's light and Shakspeare's perfect day. Old England's fathers live in Chaucer's lay, AS if they ne'er had died. He grouped and drew Their likeness with a spirit of life so gay, That still they live and breathe in Fancy's view, Fresh beings fraught with truth's imperishable hue. GILDEROY. THE last, the fatal hour is come, That bears my love from me: I hear the dead note of the drum, I mark the gallows' tree! The bell has toll'd; it shakes my heart; The trumpet speaks thy name; CAMP B r.,, T 0'OEMIS. ti And must my Gild eroy depart To bear a death of shame? No bosom trembles for thy doom; No mourner wipes a tear; The gallows' foot is all thy tomb, The sledge is all thy bier. Oh, Gilderoy! bethought we then So soon, so sad to part, WVhen first in Roslin's lovely glen You triumph'd o'er my heart? Your locks they glitter'd to the sheen, Your hunter garb was trim; And graceful was the riband green That bound your manly limb! Ah! little thought I to deplore Those limbs in fetters bound; Or hear upon the scaffold floor, The midnight hammer sound. Ye cruel, cruel, that combined The guiltless to pursue; My Gilderoy was ever kind, He could not injure you. A long adieu! but where shall fly Thy widow all forlorn,'When every mean and cruel eye Regards my woe with scorn? Yes they will mock thy widow's tears, And hate thy orphan boy; Alas! his infant beauty wears The form of Gilderoy. 200 c AMPBELL'S P OEl S. Then will I seek the dreary mound That wraps thy mouldering clay, And weep and linger on the ground, And sigh my heart away. STANZAS, ON THE THREATENED INVASION, 1803. Oun bosoms we'll bare for the glorious strife, And our oath is recorded on high, To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life, Or crushed in its ruins to die! Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land!'Tis the home we hold sacred is laid to our trustGod bless the green Isle of the brave! Should a conqueror tread on our forefathers' dust, It would rouse the old dead from their grave! Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land! In a Briton's sweet home shall a spoiler abide, Profaning its loves and its charms? Shall a Frenchman insult the loved fair at our side? To arms! oh, my Country, to arms! Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land! Shall a tyrant enslave us, my countrymen! - No! His head to the sword shall be given - CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 201 A death-bed repentance be taught the proud foe, And his blood be an offering to Heaven! Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land! THE RITTER BANN. THE Ritter Bann from Hungary Came back, renowned in arms, But scorning jousts of chivalry, And love and ladies' charms. While other knights held revels, he Was wrapped in thoughts of gloom, And in Vienna's hostelrie Slow paced his lonely room. There entered one whose face he knew, — VWhose voice, he was aware, He oft at mass had listened to, In the holy house of prayer.'Twas the Abbot of St. James's monks, A fresh and fair old man: His reverend air arrested even The gloomy Ritter Bann. But seeing with him ani ancient dame Come clad in Scotch attire, The Ritter's color Wrent and came, And loud he spoke in ire. 202 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. "Ha! nurse of her that was my bane, Name not her name to me; I wish it blotted from my brain: Art poor? — take alms, and flee." "Sir Knight," the Abbot interposed, " This case your ear demands;" And the crone cried, with a cross enclosed In both her trembling hands: — "Remember, each his sentence waits; And he that shall rebut Sweet Mercy's suit, on him the gates Of Mercy shall be shut. "You wedded, undispensed by Church, Your cousin Jane in Spring; — In Autumn, when you went to search For Churchmen's pardoning, "Her house denounced your marriage-band, Betrothed her to De Grey, And the ring you put upon her hand Was wrenched by force away. "Then wept your Jane upon my neck. Crying,'Help me, nurse, to flee To my Howel Bann's Glamorgan hills;' But word arrived —ah me!"You were not there; and'twas their threat, By foul means or by fair, To-morrow morning was to set The seal on her despair. "I had a son, a sea-boy, in A ship at Hartland Bay; CAMPBELL'S POEMS, 203 By his aid from her cruel kin I bore my bird away. "To Scotland from the Devon's Green myrtle shores we fled; And the Hand that sent the ravens To Elijah, gave us bread. "She wrote you by my son, but he From England sent us word You had gone into some far countrie, In grief and gloom he heard. "For they that wronged you, to elude Your wrath, defamed my child; And you-ay, blush, Sir, as you shouldBelieved, and were beguiled. "To die but at your feet, she vowed To roam the world; and we Would both have sped and begged our bread, But so it might not be: "For when the snow-storm beat our roof, She bore a boy, Sir Bann, Who grew as fair your likeness proof As child e'er grew like man. "'Twas smiling on that babe one morn, While health bloomed on the moor, Her beauty struck young Lord Kinghorn As he hunted past our door. "She shunned him, but he raved of Jane, And roused his mother's pride: WVho came to us in high disdain, —'And where's the face,' she cried, 204 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. "' Has witched my boy to wish for one So wretched for his wife?Dost love thy husband? Know, my-son Has sworn to seek his life.' "Her anger sore dismayed us, For our mite was wearing scant, And, unless that dame would aid us, There was none to aid our want. "So I told her, weeping bitterly, What all our woes had been; And, though she was a stern ladie, The teats stood in her een. "And she housed us both, when, cheerfully My child to her had sworn, That even if made a widow, she Would never wed Kinghorn." - Here paused the nurse, and then began The Abbot, standing by:"Three months ago -a wounded man To our abbey came to die. "He heard me long, with ghastly eyes And hand obdurate clenched, Speak of the worm that never dies, And the fire that is not quenched. "At last by what this scroll attests He left atonement brief, For years of anguish to the breasts His guilt had wrung with grief. "'There lived,' he said,'a fair young dame Beneath my mother's roof; CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 205 I loved her, but against my flame Her purity was proof.," I feigned repentance, friendship pure; That mood she did not check, But let her husband's miniature Be copied from her neck, "'As means to search him; my deceit Took care to him was borne Nought but his picture's counterfeit, And Jane's reported scorn. "' The treachery took: she waited wild; My slave came back and lied Whate'er I wished; she clasped her child, And swooned, and all but died. "' I felt her tears, for years and years, Quench not my flame, but stir; The very hate I bore her mate Increased my love for her. "' Fame told us of his glory, while Joy flushed the face of Jane; And while she blessed his name, her smile Struck fire into my brain. "'No fears could damp; I reached the camp, Sought out its champion; And if my broad-sword failed at last,'Twas long and well laid on. "' This wound's my meed, my name's Kinghorn, My foe's the Ritter Bann. - The wafer to his lips was borne, And we shrived the dying man. 18 206 CAMPBELL S POEMS. "lie died not till you went to fight The Turks at Warradein; But I see my tale has changed you pale." — The Abbot went for uwie; And brought a little page who poured It out, and knelt and smiled; - The stunned knight saw himself restored To childhood in his child; And stooped and caught him to his breast, Laughed loud and wept anon, And with a shower of kisses pressed The darling little one.' And where went Jane? "- "To a nunnery, Sir - Look not again so pale - Kinghorn's old dame grew harsh to her.""And she has ta'en the veil!"" Sit down, Sir," said the priest, "I bar Rash words." -They sat all three, And the boy played with the knight's broad star, As he kept him on his knee. "Think ere you ask her dwelling-place," The Abbot further said; "Time draws a veil o'er beauty's face More deep than cloister's shade. "Grief may have made her what you can Scarce love perhaps for life." "Hush, Abbot," cried the Ritter Bann, "Or tell me where's my wife." The priest undid two doors that hid The inn's adjacent room, C AMIPBELL' S POEMS. 207 Anld there a lovely woman stood, Tears bathed her beauty's bloom. One moment may with bliss repay Unnumbered hours of pain; Such was the throb and mutual sob Of the Knight embracing Jane. SONG. "MEN OF ENGLAND." MEW of England! who inherit Rights that cost your sires their blood! Men whose undegenerate spirit Has been proved on field and flood:By the foes you've fought uncounted, By the glorious deeds you've done, Trophies captured - breaches mounted, Navies conquered - kingdoms won! Yet, remember, England gathers Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, If the freedom of your fathers Glow not in your hearts the same. What are monuments of bravery, Where no public virtues bloom? What avail in lands of slavery, Trophied temples, arch, and tomb? 208 CAMPBELL' S POEMS. Pageants! - Let the world revere us For our people's rights and laws, And the breasts of civic heroes Bared in Freedom's holy cause. Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory, Sidney's matchless shade is yours, - Martyrs in heroic story, Worth a hundred A'ncourts! We're the sons of sires that baffled Crowned and mitred tyranny; — They defied the field and scaffold For their birthrights - so will we! SONG. DRn ye to her that each loves best, And if you nurse a flame That's told but to her mutual breast, We will not ask her name. Enough, while memory tranced and glad Paints silently the fair, That each should dream of joys he's had, Or yet may hope to share. Yet far, far hence be jest or boast From hallowed thoughts so dear; But drink to her that each loves most, As she would love to hear. CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 209 THE HARPERI Ox the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I; No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray. WVhen at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, She said, (while the sorrow was big at her heart,) Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away; And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray. Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure And he constantly loved me, although I was, poor; When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away, I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray. When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, How' snugly we slept in my old coat of gray, And he licked me for kindness —my poor dog Tray. Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case, Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face; But he died at my feet on a cold winter day, And I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray. Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind. Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind? To my sweet native village, so far, far away, I can never more return with my poor dog Tray. 18* 210'CAMPBELL S PO E M S. THE WOUNDED HUSSA9R. ALONE, to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube, Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er: "Oh whither," she cried, " hast thou wandered, my lover, Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore? "What voice did I hear?-'twas my Henry that sighed!" All mournful she hastened, nor wandered she far, WVhen, bleeding and low, on the heath she descried, By the light ot the moon, her poor wounded Hussar! From Ms bosom that heaved, the last torrent was streaming, And pale was his visage, deep marked with a scar! And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming, That melted in love, and that kindled in war! How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight! How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war! "Hast thou come, my fond Love, this last sorrowful night, To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar " "Thou shalt live," she replied, "Heaven's mercy relieving Each anguishing wound, shallforbid me to mourn!" "Ah, no! the last pang of my bosom is heaving! No light of the morn shall to Henry return! "Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true! Ye babes of my love, that await me afar!"His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu, When he sunk in her arms - the poor wounded Hussar! CAMPB.ILL S POE]MS. 211 LOVE AND MALiDNRESS. AN ELEGY.-WRITTEN IN 1795. Hark! from the battlements of yonder tower * The solemn bell has tolled the midnight hour! Roused from drear visions of distempered sleep, Poor B k wakes- in solitude to weep! "Cease, Memory, cease (the friendless mourner cried) To probe the bosom too severely tried! Oh! ever cease, my pensive thoughts, to stray Through the bright fields of Fortune's better day, When youthful HOPE, the music of the mind, Tuned all its charms, and E-n was kind i "Yet, can I cease, while glows this trembling frame, In sighs to speak thy melancholy name? I hear thy spirit wail in every storm! In midnight shades I view thy passing form! Pale as in that sad hour when doomed to feel, Deep in thy perjured heart, the bloody steel,! "Demons of Vengeance! ye at whose command I grasped the sword with more than woman's hand, Say ye, did Pity's trembling voice control, Or horror damp the purpose of my soul? No! my wild heart sat smiling o'er the plan, Till Hate fulfilled what baffled Love began i! "Yes; let the clay-cold breast that never knew One tender pang to generous Nature true, * narwick Castle. 212 CAMPBELL S PO E S. Half-mingling pity with the gall of scorn, Condenun this heart, that bled in love forlorn! -And ye, proud fair, whose soul no gladness warms, Save Rapture's homage to your conscious charms! Delighted idols of a gaudy train, Ill can your blunter feelings guess the pain, When the fond faithful heart, inspired to prove Friendship refined, the cali'delight of Love, Feels all its tender strings with anguish torn, And bleeds at perjured Pride's inhuman scorn! "Say, then, did pitying Heaven condemn the deed, When Vengeance bade thee, faithless lover! bleed? Long had I watched thy dark foreboding brow, What time thy bosom scorned its dearest vow! Sad, though I wept the friend, the lover changed, Still thy cold look was scornful and estranged, Till from thy pity, love, and shelter thrown, I wandered hopeless, friendless, and alone! " Oh! righteous Heaven!'twas then my tortured soul First gave to wrath unlimited control! Adieu the silent look! the streaming eye! The murmured plaint! the deep heart-heaving sigh! Long-slumbering Vengeance wakes to better deeds; He shrieks, he falls, the perjured lover bleeds! Now the last laugh of agony is o'er, And pale in blood he sleeps, to wake no more! "'Tis done! the flame of hate no longer burns: Nature relents, but, ah! too late returns! Why does my soul this gush of fondness feel? Trembling and faint, I drop the guilty steel! Cold on my heart the hand of terror lies, And shades of honror close my languid eyes! CA MPBELL S POEMS.'213 "Oh!'twas a deed of Murder's deepest grain! Could B k's soul so true to wrath remain? A friend long true, a once fond lover fell!rWhere Love was fostered could not Pity dwell? " Unhappy youth! while yon pale crescent glows To watch on silent Nature's deep repose, Thy sleepless spirit, breathing from the toinb, Foretells my fate, and summons me to come! Once more I see thy sheeted spectre stand, Roll the dim eye, and wave the paly hand! "Soon may this fluttering spark of vital flame Forsake its languid melancholy frame! Soon may these eyes their trembling lustre close, Velcome the dreamless night of long repose! Soon may this wo-worn spirit seek the boun e Where, lulled to slumber, Grief forgets to ur!" HALLOWED GROUND. WHAT'S hallowed ground? Has earth a clod Its Maker meant not should be trod By man, the image of his God, Erect and free, Unscourged by Superstition's rod, To bow the knee? That's hallowed ground - where, mourned, and missed, The lips repose our love has kissed:But where's their memory's mansion? Is't Yon churchyard's bowers! No! in ourselves their souls exist, A part of ours. 214 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. A kiss can consecrate the ground Where mated hearts are mutual bound: The spot where love's first links were wound, That ne'er are riven, Is hallowed down to earth's profound, And up to Heaven! For time makes all but true love old; The burning thoughts that then were told Run molten still in memory's mould; And will not cool, Until the heart itself be cold In Lethe's pool. What hallows ground where heroes sleep?'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap! In ews that heavens far distant weep Their turf may bloom; Or Genii twine beneath the deep Their coral tomb: But strew his ashes to the wind Whose sword or voice has served man1hind — And is he dead, whose glorious mind Lifts thine on high?To live in hearts we leave behind, Is not to die. Is't death to fall for Freedom's right? He's dead alone that lacks her light! And murder sullies in Heaven's sight The sword he draws: - WVhat can alone ennoble fight? — A noble cause Give that? and welcome War to brace IIcr drums! and rend Heaven's reeking space CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 215 The colors planted face to face, /The charging cheer, Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, Shall still be dear. And place our trophies where men kneel To Heaven! - but Heaven rebukes my zeal! The cause of Truth and human weal, 0 God above! Transfer it from the sword's appeal To Peace and Love. Peace! Love! the cherubim that join Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine, Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, Where they are not - The heart alone can make divine Religion's spot. To incantations dost thou trust, And pompous rites in domes august? See mouldering stones and metal's rust Belie the vaunt, lhat men can bless one pile of dust With chime or chant. The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man! The temples- creeds themselves, grow wan I But there's a dome of nobler span, A temple given Thy faith, that bigots dare not banIts space is Heaven! Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling, Where trancing the rapt spirit's feeling, And God himself to man revealing, The harmonious spheres 216 CAMPBELL'S POEMS..Make music, though unheard their pealing By mortal ears. Fair stars! are not your beings pure? Can sin, can death your worlds obscure? Else why so swell the thoughts at your Aspect above? Ye must be Heavens that make us sure Of heavenly love! And in your harmony sublime I read the doom of distant time; That man's regenerate soul from crime Shall yet be drawn, And reason on his mortal clime Immortal dawn. What's hallowed ground?'Tis what gives birth To sacred thoughts in souls of worth! -- Peace! Independence! Truth! go forth Earth's compass round; And your high priesthood shall make earth All hallowed ground. SONG. WIrTHD&Aw not yet those lips and fingers Whose touch to mine is rapture's spell; Life's joy for us a moment lingers, And death seems in the word —Farewell The hour that bids us part and go, It sounds not yet, - oh! no, no, no! CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 2il Time, whilst I gaze upon thy sweetness, Flies like a courser nigh the goal; To-morrow where shall be his fleetness, When thou art parted from my soul? Our hearts shall beat, our tears shall flow, Buit not together, - no, no, no! CAROLINE. PART I. rI'u bid the hyacinth to blow, I'll teach my grotto green to be; And sing my true love, all below The holly bower and myrtle tree. There all his wild-wood sweets to bring, The sweet south wind shall wander by, And with the music of his wing Delight my rustling canopy. Come to my close and clustering bower, Thou spirit of a milder clime, Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower, Of mountain heath, and moory thyme. With all thy rural echoes come, Sweet comrade of the rosy day, Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum, Or cuckoo's plaintive roundelay. 19 218 cAMBCAMrPBELL'S PO EroMS. Where'er thy morning breath has played, Whatever isles of ocean fanned, Come to my blossom-woven shade, Thou wandering wind of fairy-land. For sure, from some enchanted isle, Where Heaven and Love their sabbath hold, Where pure and happy spirits smile, Of beauty's fairest, brightest mould: From some green Eden of the deep, WVhere Pleasure's sigh alone is heaved, Where tears of rapture lovers weep, Endeared, undoubting, undeceived; From some sweet paradise afar, Thy music wanders, distant, lostWhere Nature lights her leading star, And love is never, never crossed. Oh, gentle gale of Eden bowers, If back thy rosy feet should roanm, To revel with the cloudless Hours In Nature's more propitious home, Name to thy loved Elysian groves, That o'er enchanted spirits twine, A fairer form than cherub loves, And let the name be CGAowsz. K~~~~~~~~.. CAMPBELL S POEMS. 219 CAROLINE. PART II. TO THE EVENING STAR. GE.. of the crimson-colored Even, Companion of retiring day, Why at the closing gates of Heaven, Beloved star, dost thou delay? So fair thy pensile beauty burns, When soft the tear of twilight flows; So due thy plighted love returns, To chambers brighter than the rose: To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love, So kind a star thou seem'st to be, Sure, some enamored orb above Descends and burns to meet with thee Thine is the breathing, blushing hour, When all unheavenly passions fly, Chased by the soul-subduing power Of Love's delicious witchery. O! sacred to the fall of day, Queen of propitious stars, appear, And early rise, and long delay, When Caroline herself is here! Shine on her chosen green resort, Whose trees the sunward summit crown, And wanton flowers, that well may court An angel's feet to tread them down. 220 CAMPBELL S POEMS Shine on her sweetly-scented road, Thou star of evening's purple dome, That lead'st the nightingale abroad, And guid'st the pilgrim to his home. Shine, where my charmer's sweeter breath Embalms the soft exhaling dew, Where dying winds a sigh bequeath To kiss the cheek of rosy hue. Where, winnowed by the gentle air, Her silken tresses darkly flow, And fall upon her brow so fair, Like shadows on the mountain snow. Thus, ever thus, at day's decline, In converse sweet, to wander far, 0 bring with thee my Caroline, And thou shalt be my Ruling Star! THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION. O LEAVE this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! Though bush or flow'ret never grow My dark unwarming shade below; Nor suanmer bud perfume the dew Of rosy blush, or yellow hue I Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, lIy green and glossy leaves adorn; Nor murmuring tribes from me derive Th' ambrosial amber of the hive' CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 221 Yet leave this barren spot to me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! Thrice twenty summers I have seen The sky grow bright, the forest green; And many a wintry wind have stood In bloomless, fruitless solitude, Since childhood in my pleasant bower First spent its sweet and sportive hour, Since youthful lovers in my shade Their vows of truth and rapture made; And on my trunk's surviving frame Carved many a long-forgotten name. Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound, First breathed upon this sacred ground; By all that Love has whispered here, Or Beauty heard with ravished ear; As Love's own altar honor me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! FIELD FLOWVERS. YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you,'tis true, Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon you, For ye waft me to summers of old, WVhen the earth teemed around me with fairy delight; And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold. I love you for lulling me back into dreams Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, 19* ~2*22 cCAMPBELL S POEMS. And of birchen glades breathing their babln, WThile the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note' Made music that sweetened the calm. Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June: Of old ruinous castles ye tell, Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, tVhen the magic of Nature first breathed on my ~W.sd, And your blossoms were part of her spell. Even now what affections the violet awakes; Vhat loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes, Can the wild water-lily restore; Vhat landscapes I read in the primrose's looks, And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks In the vetches that tangled their shore. Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear Had scathed my existence's bloom; Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age, And I wish you to grow on my tomb. STANZAS TO PAINTING. O THOU by whose expressive art Her perfect image Nature sees In union with the Graces start, And sweeter by reflection please I CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 223 In whose creative hand the hues Fresh from yon orient rainbow shine; I bless thee, Promethean Muse! And call thee brightest of the Nine! Possessing more than vocal power, Persuasive more than poet's tongue; Whose lineage, in a raptured hour, From Love, the Sire of Nature, sprung; Does Hope her high possession meet? Is joy triumphant, sorrow flown Sweet is the trance, the tremor sweet, When all we love is all our own. But oh! thou pulse of pleasure dear, Slow throbbing, cold, I feel thee part; Lone absence plants a pang severe, Or death inflicts a keener dart. Then for a beam of joy to light In memory's sad and wakeful eye! Or banish from the noon of night Her dreams of deeper agony. Shall Song its witching cadence roll? Yea, even the tenderest air repeat, That breathed when soul was knit to soul, And heart to heart responsive beat? What visions rise! to charm, to melt! The lost, the loved, the dead are nearl *h, hush that strain too deeply felt! And cease that solace too severe! 224 CA MCAMPFBELL'S rOEMIS. But thou, serenely silent art! By heaven and love wast taught to lend A milder solace to the heart, The sacred image of a friend. All is not lost! if, yet possessed, To me that sweet memorial shine; If close and closer to my breast I hold that idol all divine. Or, gazing through luxurious tears, Melt o'er the loved departed form, Till death's cold bosom half appears With life, and speech, and spirit warm. She looks! she lives! this tranced hour, Her bright eye seems a purer gem Than sparkles on the throne of power, Or glory's wealthy diadem. Yes, Genius, yes! thy mimic aid A treasure to my soul has given, Where beauty's canonized shade Smiles in the sainted hues of heaven. No spectre forms of pleasure fled, Thy softening, sweetening tints restore; For thou canst give us back the dead, E'en in the loveliest looks they wore. Then blest be Nature's guardian Muse, Whose hand her perished grace redeems I Whose tablet of a thousand hues The mirror of creation seems. CAMPB3ELL' S PO EMS 225 From Love began thy high descent; And lovers, charmed by gifts of thine, Shall bless thee mutely eloquent; And call thee brightest of the Nine! LINES, NSCRIBED ON THE MONUMENT LATELY FINISHED BY MR. CHANTREY, WHICH HAS BEEN ERECTED BY THE WIDOW OF ADMIRAL SIR G. CAMPBELL, K. C. B., TO THE MEMORY OF HER HUSBAND. To him, whose loyal, brave, and gentle heart, Fulfilled the hero's and the patriot's part, - Whose charity, like that which Paul enjoined, Was warm, beneficent, and unconfined,This stone is reared: to public duty true, The seaman's friend, the father of his crew; Mild in reproof, sagacious in command, He spread fraternal zeal throughout his band, And led each arm to act, each heart to feel, What British valor owes to Britain's weal. These were his public virtues; -but to trace His private life's fair purity and grace, To paint the traits that drew affection strong From friends, an ample and an ardent throng, And, more, to speak his memory's grateful claim On her who mourns him most, and bears his nameO'ercomes the trembling hand of widowed grief, O'ercomes the heart Inconscious of relief, Save in religion's hi i and holy trust, Whilst placing thei mer.-)rial o'er his dust. 2W6 CCAMPBELL' S POEMS. SONG, TO THE EVENING STAR. STAR that bringest home the bee, And sett'st the weary laborer free! If any star shed peace,'tis thou, That send'st it from above, Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow Are sweet as hers we love. Come to the luxuriant skies, Whilst the landscape's odors rise, Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard, And songs, when toil is done, From cottages whose smoke unstirred Curls yellow in the sun. Star of'love's soft interviews, Parted lovers on thee muse; Their remembrancer in Heaven Of thrilling vows thou art, Too delicious to be riven By absence from the heart. L~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CAMPB ELL'S POEMS. 297 STANZAS, ON THE BATTLE OF NAvARINO. HEARTS of oak that have bravely delivered the brave, And uplifted old Greece from the brink of the grave,'Twas the helpless to help, and the hopeless to save, That your thunderbolts swept o'er the brine: And as long as yon sun shall look down on the wave The light of your glory shall shine. For the guerdon ye sought with your bloodshed and toil,' Was it slaves, or dominion, or rapine, or spoil? No! your lofty emprise was to fetter and foil The uprooter of Greece's domain! When he tore the last remnant of food from her soil, Till her famished sank pale as the slain! Yet, Navarino's heroes!.does Cristendom breed The base hearts that will question the fame of your deed I Are they men? - let ineffable scorn be t asir meed, And oblivion shadow their graves!Are they women }- to Turkish serails let them speed; And be mothers of Mussulman slaves. Abettors of massacre! dare ye deplore That the death-shriek is silenced on Hellas's shore? That the mother aghast sees her offspring no more By the hand of Infanticide grasped? And that stretched on your billows distained by their gore Missolonghi's assassins have gasped? Gus/& CAMPBELL'S POEMS. Prouder scene never hallowed war's pomp to the mind, Than when Christendom's pennons woo'd social the wind, And the flower of her brave for the combat combined, Their watchword, humanity's vow: Not a sea-boy that fought in that cause, but mankind Owes a. garland to honor his brow! Nor giudge, by our side, that to conquer or fall, Came the hardy rude Russ, and the high-mettled Gaul: For whose was the genius, that planned at its call, Where the -whirlwind of battle should roll? All were brave! but the star of success over all Was the light of our Codrington's soul. That star of thy day-spring, regenerate Greek I Dimmed the Saracen's moon, and struck pallid his cheek: In its fast-flushing morning thy Muses shall speak When their lore and their lutes they reclaim: And the first of their songs from Parnassus's peak Shall be "Glory to Codrington's name." THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE. NEVER wedding, ever wooing, Still a love-lorn heart pursuing, Read you not the wrong you're doing In my cheek's pale hue? All my life with sorrow strewing; Wed, or cease to woo. CAMPBELL'S POEMS. D29 Rivals banished, bosoms plighted, Still our days are disunited; Now the lamp of hope is lighted, Now half quenched appears, Damped, and wavering, and benighted, Midst my sighs and tears. Charms you call your dearest blessing, Lips that thrill at your caressing, Eyes a mutual soul confessing, Soon you'll make them' grow Dim, and worthless your possessing, Not with age, but wo! ABSENCE.'Tis not the loss of love's assurance, It is not doubting what thou art, But'tis the too, too long endurance Of absence, that afflicts my heart. The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish, When each is lonely doomed to weep, Are fruits on desert isles that perish, Or riches buried in the deep. What though, untouched by jealous madness, Our bosom's peace may fall to wreck; 20 230 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. The undoubting heart, that breaks with sadness, Is but more slowly doomed to break. Absence! is not the soul torn by it From more than light, or life, or breath!'Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet, - The pain without the peace of death! LINES, ON REVISITING A SCOTTISH RIVER. AND call they this Improvement?- to have changed, My native Clyde, thy once romantic shore, Where Nature's face is banished and estranged, And Heaven reflected in thy wave no more; Whose banks, that sweetened May-day's breath before, Lie sere and leafless now in summer's beam, With sooty exhalations covered o'er; And for the dasied greensward, down thy stream Unsightly brick-lanes smoke, and clanking engines gleam 1 Speak not to me of swarms the scene sustains; One heart free tasting Nature's breath and bloom Is worth a thousand slaves to Mammon's gains. But whither goes that wealth, and gladdening whom? See, left but life enough and breathing-room The hunger and the hope of life to feel, Yon pale Mechanic bending o'er his loom, And Childhood's self as at Ixion's wheel, From morn till midnight tasked to earn its little meal CAMPBELL S POEMS. 231 fs this Improvement? - where the human breed Degenerate as they swarm and overflow, Till Toil grows cheaper than the trodden weed, And man competes with man, like foe with foe, Till Death, that thins them, scarce seems public w! I Improvement! -smiles it in the poor man's eyes, Or blooms it on the cheek of Labor? - No — To gorge a few with Trade's precarious prize, We banish rural life, and breathe unwholesome skies. Nor call that evil slight; God has not given This passion to the heart of mall in vain, For Earth's green face, the untainted air of Heaven, And all the bliss of Nature's rustic reign. For not alone our frame imbibes a stain From fretid skies; the spirit's healthy pride Fades in their gloom. - And therefore I complain, That thou no more through pastoral scenes shouldst glide, My WVallace's own stream, and once romantic Clyde! THE "NAME UNKNOWN." IN IMITATION OP KLOPSTOCK. PROPHETIC pencil! wilt thou trace A faithful image of the face, Or wilt thou write the "Name Unknown, Ordained to bless my charmed soul, And all my future fate control, UJnrivalled and alone? 232 CAMPBELL'S POEHMS Delicious Idol of my thought Though sylph or spirit hath not taught My boding heart thy precious name; Yet musing on my distant fate, To charms unseen I consecrate A visionary flame. Thy rosy blush, thy meaning eye, Thy virgin voice of melody, Are ever present to my heart; Thy murmured vows shall yet be mine, My thrilling hand shall meet with tnine, At.d never, never part! Then fly, my days, on rapid wing, Till Love the viewless treasure bring; While I, like conscious Athens, own A power in mystic silence sealed, A guardian angel unrevealed, And bless the "Name Unknown!" LINES, ON THE CAMP HILL, NEAR HASTINGS. iN the deep blue of eve, Ere the twinkling of stars had begun, Or the lark took his leave Of the skies and the sweet setting sun, I climbed to yon heights, Where the Norman encamped him of old. CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 233 With his bowmen and knights, And his banner all burnished with gold At the Conqueror's side There his minstrelsy sat harp in hand, In pavilion wide; And they chanted the deeds of Roland. Still the ramparted ground With a vision my fancy inspires, And I hear the trump sound, As it marshalled our Chivalry's sires. On each turf of that mead Stood the captors of England's domains, That ennobled her breed And high-mettled the blood of her veins. Over hauberk and helm As the sun's setting splendor was thrown, Thence they looked o'er a realm — And to-morrow beheld it their own. FAREWELL TO LOVE. I HAD a heart that doted once in Passion's boundless pain, And though the tyrant I abjured, I could not break his chain; But now that Fancy's fire is quenched, and ne'er can burn anew, I've bid to Love, for all my life, adieu! adieu! adieu! 20* 234 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. I've known, if ever mortal knew, the spells of Beauty's thrall, And if my song has told them not, my soul has felt them all; But Passion robs my peace no more, and Beauty's witching sway Is now to me a star that's fall'n - a dream that's passed away. Hail! welcome tide of life, when no tumultuous billows roll; How wondrous to myself appears this halcyon calm of soul! The wearied bird blown o'er the deep would sooner quit its shore, Than I would cross the gulf again that time has brought me o'er. Why say they angels feel the flame? —Oh, spirits of the skies! Can love like ours, that dotes on dust, in heavenly bosoms rise? - Ah no! the hearts that best have felt its power, the best can tell, That peace on earth itself begins, when Love has bid farewell. CAMPBELLrS POEMS. 3 LINES ON POLAND. AND have I lived to see thee sword in hand Uprise again, immortal Polish Land! - Whose flag brings more than chivalry to mind, And leaves the tri-color in'shade behindA theme for uninspired lips too strong; That swells my heart beyond the power of song! Majestic men! whose deeds have dazzled faith, Ah! yet your fate's suspense arrests my breath; Whilst envying bosoms bared to shot and steel, I feel the more that fruitlessly I feel. Poles! with what indignation I endure Th' half-pitying, servile mouths that call you poor; Poor! is it England mocks you with her grief, Who hates, but dares not chide, th' Imperial Thief? France, with her soul beneath a Bourbon's thrall, And Germany that has no soul at all, - States, quailing at the giant overgrown, Whom dauntless Poland grapples with alone! No, ye are rich in fame e'en whilst ye bleed: We can not aid you - we are poor indeed! In Fate's defiance - in the world's great eye, Poland has won her immortality; The Butcher, should he reach her bosom now, Could not tear Glory's garland from her brow; Wreathed, filleted, the victim falls renowned, And all her ashes will be holy ground! But turn, my soul, from presages so dark: Great Poland's spirit is a deathless spark 23(6 CAMPBELL S POEMS. That's fanned by Heaven to mock the Tyrant's rage She, like the eagle, will renew her age, And fresh historic plumes of Fame put on, - Another Athens after Marathon, - Where eloquence shall fulmine, arts refine, Bright as her arms that now in battle shine. Come - should the heavenly shock my life destroy, And shut its flood-gates with excess of joy; Come but the day when Poland's fight is wonAnd on my grave-stone shine the morrow's sun!The day that sees Warsaw's cathedral glow, With endless ensigns ravished from the foe, - Her women lifting their fair hands with thanks, Her pious warriors kneeling in their ranks, The'scutcheoned walls of high heraldic boast, The odorous altars' elevated host, The organ sounding through the aisle's long glooms, The mighty dead seen sculptured o'er their tombs; (John, Europe's savior — Poniatowski's fair Resemblance - Kosciusko's shall be there;) The tapered pomp -the hallelujah's swell, Shall o'er the soul's devotion cast a spell, Till visions cross the rapt enthusiast's glance, And all the scene becomes a waking trance. Should Fate put far, far off that glorious scene, And gulfs of havoc interpose between, Imagine not, ye men of every clime, Who act, or by your sufferance share the crime, Your brother Abel's blood shall vainly plead Against the "deep damnation" of the deed. Germans, ye view its horror and disgrace With cold phosphoric eyes and phlegm of face. Is Allemagne profound in science, lore, And minstrel art?- her shame is but the me To doze and dream by governments oppressed, The spirit of a book-worm in each breast. Well can ye mouth fair Freedom's classic line, CAMPBELL S POEMS. 237 And talk of Constitutions o'er your wine: But all your vows to break the tyrant's yoke Expire in Bacchanalian: song and smoke: h'avens! van no ray of foresight pierce the lead And mystic metaphysics of your heads, To show the self-same grave, Oppression delves For Poland's rights, is yawning for yourselves! See, whilst the Pole, the vanguard aid of France, Has vaulted on his barb and couched the lance, France turns from her abandoned friends afresh, And soothes the Bear that prowls for patriot flesh; Buys, ignominious purchase! short repose, With dying curses and the groans of those That served, and loved, and put in her their trust! Frenchmen! the dead accuse you from the dust — Brows laurelled - bosoms marked with many a scar For France —that wore her Legion's noblest star, Cast dumb reproaches, from the field of Death, On Gallic honor: and this broken faith Has robbed you more of Fame - the life of life.Than twenty battles lost in glorious strife! And what of England?- Is she steeped so low In poverty, crest-fall'n, and palsied so, That we must sit, much wroth, but timorous more, With Murder knocking at our neighbor's door? Not Murder masked and cloaked, with hidden knife, Whose owner owes the gallows life for life; But Public Murder!- that with pomp and gaud, And royal scorn of Justice, walks abroad To wring more tears and blood than e'er were wnmg By all the culprits Justice ever hung! We read the diadcmmed Assassin's vaunt, And wince, and wish we had not hearts to pant WV ith useless indignation - sigh, and frown, But have not hearts to throw the gauntlet down. 238 CAMIPBELL S POEMS. If but a doubt hung o'er the grounds of fray, Or trivial rapine stopped the world's highway; WVere this some common strife of States embroiled, Britannia on the spoiler and the spoiled Might calmly look, and, asking time to breathe, Still honorably wear his olive wreath. But this is Darkness combatting with Light: Earth's adverse Principles for empire fight: Oppression, that has belted half the globe, Far as his knout could reach or dagger probe, Holds reeking o'er our brother-freemen slain That dagger -shakes it at us in disdain; Talks big to Freedom's States of Poland's thrall, And, trampling one, contemns them one and all. My country! colors not thy once proud brow At this affront?- Hast thou not fleets enow With Glory's streamer, lofty as the lark, Gay fluttering o'er each thunder-bearing bark, To warm the insulter's seas with barbarous blood, And interdict his flag from Ocean's flood? Ev'n now far off the sea-cliff, where I sing, I see, my Country and my Patriot King! Your ensign glad the deep. Becalmed and slow A war-ship rides; while Heaven's prismatic bow, Uprisen behind her on th' horizon's base, Shines flushing through the tackle, shrouds, and stars, And wraps her giant form in one majestic blaze. My soul accepts the omen; Fancy's eye Has sometimes a veracious augury: The Rainbow types Heaven's promise to my sight; The Ship, Britannia's interposing might! But if there should be none to aid you, Poles Ye'll but to prouder pitch wind up your souls, Above example, pity, praise, or blame, To sow and reap a boundless field of Fame. CAMPBELL' S POEMS. 239 Ask aid no more from Nations that forget Your championship - old Europe's mighty debt. Though Poland (Lazarus-like) has burst the gloom, She rises not a beggar from the tomb: In Fortune's frown, on Danger's giddiest brink, Despair and Poland's name must never link. All ills have bounds - plague, whirlwind, fire, and flood Ev'n Power can spill but bounded sums of blood. States, caring not what Freedom's price may be, May late or soon, but must at last be free; For body-killing tyrants can not kill The public soul- th' hereditary will That, downward as from sire to son it goes, By shifting bosoms more intensely glows: Its heir-loom is the heart, and slaughtered men Fight fiercer in their orphans o'er again. Poland recasts - though rich in heroes oldHer men in more and more heroic mould: Her eagle ensign best among mankind Becomes, and types her eagle-strength of mind: Her praise upon my faltering lips expires: Resume it, younger bards, and nobler lyres! MARGARET AND DORA. MARGARET's beauteous -Grecian arts Ne'er drew form completer, Yet why, in my heart of hearts, Hold I Dora's sweeter? 240 -CAMP B ELL POEMS. Dora's eyes of heavenly blue, Pass all painting's reach; Ring-dove's notes are discord to The music of her speech. Artists! Margaret's smile receive, And on canvass show it; But for perfect worship leave Dora to her poet. A THOUGHT SUGGESTED BY THB" NEWV YEAR. THE more we live, more brief appear Our life's succeeding stages; A day to childhood seems a year, And years like passing ages. The gladsome current of our youth, Ere passion yet disorders, Steals, lingering like a river smooth Along its grassy borders. But as the care-worn cheek grows wan, And sorrow's shafts fly thicker, Ye stars, that measure life to man, Why seem your courses quicker} When joys have lost their, bloom and breath, And life itself is vapid, Why, as we reach the Falls of death Feel we its tide more rapid CAMPBELL S POEMS. 241 It may be strange -yet who would change, Time's course to slower speeding; When one by one our friends have gone, And left our bosoms bleeding? Heaven gives our years of fading strength Indemnifying fleetness; And those of Youth, a seeming length, Proportioned to their sweetness. SONG. How delicious is the winning Of a kiss at Love's beginning, When two mutual hearts are sighing For the knot there's no untying! Yet, remember,'midst your wooing, Love has bliss, but Love has ruing; Other smiles may make you fickle, Tears for other charms may trickle. Love he comes, and Love he tarries, Just as fate or fancy carries; Lonest stays, when sorest chidden; Laughs and flies, when pressed and bidden. Bind the sea to slumber stilly, Bind its odor to the lily, Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, Then bind Love to last for ever! 242 CAMPBELL' S POEMS. Love's a fire that nebds renewal Of fresh beauty for its fuel; Love's wing moults when caged and captured, Only free, he soars enraptured. Can you keep the bee from ranging, Or the ring-dove's neck from changing? No! nor fettered Love from dying, In the knot there's no untying. THE POWVER OF RUSSIA. So all this gallant blood has gushed in vain! And Poland by the Northern Condor's beak And talons torn, lies prostrated again. O, British patriots, that were wont to speak Once loudly on this theme, now hushed or meek! O, -heartless men of Europe - Goth and Gaul Cold, adder-deaf to Poland's dying shriek; — That saw the world's last land of heroes fall — The brand of burning shame is on you all - all - all I But this is not the drama's closing act! Its tragic curtain must uprise anew. Nations, mute accessories to the fact! that Upas-tree of power, whose fostering Cew WVas Polish blood, has yet to cast o'er you The lengthening shadow of its head elateA deadly shadow, darkening Nature's hue. To all that's hallowed, righteous, pure, and great, Wo' wo! when they are reached by Russia's withering hate. CA M P B E LL' S P O E S 243 Russia, that on his throne of adamant, Consults what nation's breast shall next be gored. He on Polonia's Golgotha will plant His standard fresh; and, horde succeeding horde, On patriot tomb-stones he will whet the sword, For more stupendous slaughters of the free. Then Europe's realms, when their best blood is poured, Shall miss thee, Poland! as they bend the knee, AllM- all in grief, but none in glory likening thee. Why smote ye not the Giant whilst he reeled! O, fair occasion, gone forever by! To have locked his lances in their northern field, Innocuous as the phantom chivalry That flames and hurtles from yon boreal sky! Now, wave thy pennon, Russia, o'er the land Once Poland; build thy bristling castles high; Dig dungeons deep; for Poland's wrested brand Is now a weapon new to widen thy command — An awful width! Norwegian woods shall build His fleets; the Swede his vassal, and the Dane; The glebe of fifty kingdoms shall be tilled To feed his dazzling, desolating train, Camped sumless,'twixt the Black and Baltic main Brute hosts, I own; but Sparta could not write, And Rome, half-barbarous, bound Achaia's chain: So Russia's spirit, midst Sclavonic night, durns with a fire more dread than all your polished light. But Russia's limbs (so blinded statesmen say) Are crude, and too colossal to cohere. 0, Lamentable weakness! reckoning weak The stripling Titan, strengthening year by year. What impliment lacks he for war's career, That grows on earth, or in its floods and mines (Eighth sharer of the inhabitable sphere) f244 cAMPBE.LL'S POE'MS Whom Persia bows to, China ill confines, And India's homage waits, when Albion's star declines! But time will teach the Russ, even conquering War.Has handmaid arts: ay, ay, the Russ will woo All sciences that speed Bellona's car, All murder's tactic arts, and win them too; But never holier Muses shall imbue His breast, that's made of nature's basest clay: The sabre, knout, and dungeon's vapor blue His laws and ethics: far from him away Are all the lovely Nine, that breathe but Freedom's day. Say, even his serfs, half-humanized, should learn Their human rights,- will Mars put out his flame In Russian bosoms? no, he'll bid them burn A thousand years for nought but martial fame, Like Romans: - yet -forgive me, Roman name! Rome could impart what Russia never can; Proud civic rights to salve submission's shame. Our strife is coming; but in Freedom's van The Polish eagle's fall is big with fate to man. Proud bird of old! Mohammed's moon recoiled Before thy swoop: had we been timely bold, That swoop, still free, had stunned the Russ, and foiled Earth's new oppressors, as it foiled her old. Now thy majestic eyes are shut and cold: And colder still Polonia's children find The sympathetic hands, that we outhold. But, Poles, when we are gone, the world will mind, Ye bore the brunt of fate, and bled for humankind. So hallowedly have ye fulfilled your part, My pride repudiates even the sigh that blends With Poland's name - name written on my heart. My heroes, my grief-consecrated friends! CAMPBELL'S rPOESi. 2-15 Your sorrow, in nobility, transcends Your conqueror's joy: his cheek may blush; but shame Can tinge not yours, though exile's tear descends; Nor would ye change your conscience, cause, and name, For his, with all his wealth, and all his felon fame. Thee, Niemciewitz, whose song of stirring power The Czar forbids to sound in Polish lands; Thee, Czartoryski, in thy banished bower, The patricide, who in thy palace stands, May envy; proudly may Polonia's bands Throw down their swords at Europe's feet in scorn, Sayinig -" Russia from the metal of these brands Shall forge the fetters of your sons unborn; O0rx setting star is your misfortunes' rising morn.' LINES ON LEAVING A SCENE IN BAVARIA. ADIEU the woods and water's side, Imperial Danube's rich domain! Adieu the grotto, wild and wide, The rocks abrupt, and grassy plain For pallid Autumn once again fIath swelled each torrent of the hill; Her clouds collect, her shadows sail, And watery winds that sweep the vale, Grow loud and louder still. But not the storm, dethroning fast Yon monarch oak of massy pile 21* 246 C AMPB E L L'S P O E MS Nor river roaring to the blast Around its dark and desert isle; Nor church-bell tolling to beguile The cloud-born thunder passing by, Can sound in discord to my soul: Roll on, ye mighty waters, roll! And rage, thou darkened sky! Thy blossoms now no longer bright; Thy withered woods no longer green; Yet, Eldurn shore, with dark delight I visit thy unlovely scene! For many a sunset hour serene My steps have trod thy mellow dew; When his green light the glow-worm. gave, When Cynthia from the distant wave Her twilight anchor drew, - And ploughed, as with a swelling sail, The billowy clouds and starry sea; Then while thy hermit nightingale Sang on his fragrant apple-tree,Romantic, solitary, free, The visitant of Eldurn's shore, On such a moordnlight mountain strayed, As echoed to the music made By Druid harps of yore. Around thy savage hills of oak, Around thy waters bright and blue, No hunter's horn the silence broke, 1No dying shriek thine echo knew; But safe, sweet Eldurn woods, to youThe wounded wild deer ever ran, Whose myrtle bound their grassy cave, Whose very rocks a shelter gave From blood-pursuing man, CAMPB1ELL S POEi MS. 247 Oh heart effusions, that arose From nightly wanderings cherished here; To him who flies from many woes, Even homeless deserts can be dear! The last and solitary cheer Of those that own no earthly home, Say —is it not, ye banished race, In such a loved and lonely place Companionless to roam? Yes! I have loved thy wild abode, Unknown, unploughed, untrodden shore; Where scarce the woodman finds a road, And scarce the fisher plies an oar; For man's neglect I love thee more; That art nor avarice intrude To tame thy torrent's thunder-shock, Or prune thy vintage of the rock Magnificently rude. Unheeded spreads thy blossomed bud Its milky bosom to the bee; Unheeded falls along the flood Thy desolate and aged tree. Forsaken scene, how like to thee The fate of unbefriended Worth! Like thine her fruit dishonored falls; Like thee in solitude she calls A thousand treasures forth. Oh! silent spirit of the place, If, lingering with the ruined year, Thy hoary form and awful face I yet might watch and worship here! Thy storm were music to mine ear, Thy wildest walk a shelter given Sublimer thoughts on earth to find, 248 CAMPBELL S POEMS. And share, with no unhallowed mind, The majesty of heaven. VWhat though the bosom friends of Fate,Prosperity's unweaned brood, - Thy consolations can not rate, 0, self-dependent Solitude! Yet with a spirit unsubdued, Though darkened by the. clouds of Care, To worship thy congenial gloom, A pilgrim to the Prophet's tomb, The Friendless shall repair. Cun him the world hath never smiled Or looked but with accusing eye;All-silent goddess of the wild, To thee that misanthrope shall fly I hear his deep soliloquy, I mark his proud but ravaged form, As stern he wraps his mantle round, And bids, on winter's bleakest ground, Defiance to the storm. Peace to his banished heart, at last, In thy dominions shall descend, And, strong as beech-wood in the blast, His spirit shall refuse to bend; Enduring life without a friend, The world and falsehood left behind, Thy votary shall bear elate, (Triumphant o'er opposing Fate,) His dark inspired mind. But dost thou, Folly, mock the Muse A wanderer's mountain walk to sing,'Who shuns a warring world, nor woos The vulture cover of its wing? CAMPBELL' S POEMS. 29 Then fly, thou cowering, shivering thing, Back to the fostering world beguiled, To waste in self-consuming strife The loveless brotherhood of life, Reviling and reviled! Away, thou lover of the race That hither chased yon weeping deer! If Nature's all majestic face More pitiless than man's appear; Or if the wild winds seem more drear Than man's cold charities below, Behold around his peopled plains, Where'er the social savage reigns, Exuberance of wo! His art and honors wouldst thou seek Embossed on grandeur's giant walls? Or hear his moral thunders speak Where senates light their airy halls, Where man his brother man enthralls; Or sends his whirlwind warrants forth To rouse the slumbering fiends of war, To dye the blood-warm waves afar, And desolate the earth? From clime to clime pursue the scene, And mark in all thy spacious way, Where'er the tyrant man has been, There Peace, the cherub, can not stay; In wilds and woodlands far away She builds her solitary bower, Where only anchorites have trod, Or friendless men, to worship God, Have wandered for an hour. In such a far forsaken vale, - And such, sweet Eldurn vale, is thine, 250 CAM!PBELL S POEMS. Afflicted nature shall inhale Heaven-borrowed thoughts and joys divine; No longer wish, no more repine For man's neglect or woman's scorn; — Then wed thee to an exile's lot, For if the world hath loved thee not, Its absence may be borne. THtE DEATH-BOAT OF HELIGOLAND. CAN restlessness reach the cold sepulchred head -- Ay, the quick have their sleep-walkers, so have the dead. There ore brains, though they moulder, that dream in the tomb, And that maddening forehear the last trumpet of doom, Till their corses start sheeted to revel on earth, Making horror more deep by the semblance of mirth: By the glare of new-lighted volcanoes they dance, Or at mid-sea appall the chill mariner's glance. Such, I wot, was the band of cadaverous smile Seen ploughing the night-surge of Heligo's isle. The foam of the Baltic had sparkled like fire, And the red moon looked down with an aspect of ire; But her beams on a sudden grew sick-like and gray, And the mews that had slept clanged and shrieked fai away - And the buoys and the beacons extinguished their light, As the boat of the stony-eyed dead came in sight, High bounding from billow to billow; each form Had its shroud like a plaid flying loose to the storm; CAMPBELLrS POEMS. f51 VVith an oar in each pulseless and icy-cold hand, Fast they ploughed, by the lee-shore of Heligoland, Such breakers as boat of the living ne'er crossed; Now surf-sunk for minutes again they uptossed, And with livid lips shouted reply o'er the flood To the challenging watchman that curdled his blood — "We are dead -we are bound from our graves in the west, First to Hecla, and then to - " Unmeet was the rest For man's ear. The old abbey bell thundered its clang, And their eyes gleamed with phosphorous light as it rang: Ere they vanished, they stopped, and gazed silently grim,'IMll the eye could define them, garb, feature, and limb. Now who were those roamers? —of gallows or wheel Bore they marks, or the mangling anatomist's steel? No! —by magistrates' chains'mid their grave-clothes you saw, They were felons too proud to have perished by law; But a riband that hung where a rope should have been,'Twas the badge of their faction, its hue was not green, Showed them men who had trampled and tortured and driven To rebellion the fairest Isle breathed on by Heaven, — Men whose heirs would yet finish the tyrannous task, If the Truth and the Time had not dragged off their mask. They parted- but not till the sight might discern A'scutcheon distinct at their pinnace's stern, Where letters, emblazoned in blood-colored flame, Named their faction-I blot not my page with its name. 252 CAMPBELL'S POEMS SONG. WHEN LovE came first to Earth, the SrPnDG Spread rose-beds to receive him, And back he vowed his flight he'd wing To Heaven, if she should leave himBut SIRING departing, saw his faith Pledged to the next new-comer — He revelled in the warmer breath And richer bowers of SUMMER. Then sportive AUTUMN claimed by rights An Archer for her lover, And ev'n in WINTER'S dark cold nights A charm he could discover. Her routs and balls, and fireside joy, For this time were his reasonsIn short, Young Love's a gallant boy, That likes all times and seasons. SONG. EARL MARCa looked on his dying child, And smit with grief to view herThe youth, he cried, whom I exiled, Shall be restored to woo her. CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 253 She's at the window many an hour His coming to discover: And he looked up to Ellen's bower, And she looked on her loverBut ah! so pale, he knew her not, Though her smile on him was dwelling, And am I then forgot - forgot? - It broke the heart of Ellen. In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, Her cheek is cold as ashes; Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes To lift their silken lashes. SONG. WHEN Napoleon was flying From the field of Waterloo, A British soldier dying To his brother bade adieu! "And take," he said, "this token To the maid that owns my faith, With the words that I have spoken In affection's latest breath." Sore mourned the brother's heart, When the youth beside him fell; But the trumpet warned to part, And they took -a sad farewell. 254 CAMPBELL' S POEI S. There was many a friend to lose him, For that gallant soldier sighed; But the maiden of his bosom Wept when all their tears were dried. LINES TO JULIA M-H. SENT WITH A COPY OF THE AUTHOR'S POEMS. SINCE there is magic in your look, And in your voice a witching charm, As all our hearts consenting tell, Enchantress! smile upon my book, And guard its lays from hate and harm By Beauty's most resistless spell. The sunny dew-drop of thy praise, Young day-star of the rising time, Shall with its odoriferous morn Refresh my sere and withered bays. Smile, and I will believe my rhyme Shall please the beautiful unborn. Go forth, my pictured thoughts, and rise In traits and tints of sweeter tone, When Julia's glance is o'er ye flung; Glow, gladden, linger in her eyes, And catch a magic not your own, Read by the music of her tongue. cAMHPBELL' S POEMS. 255 DRINKING SONG OF MUNICH. SWEET Iser! were thy sul ny realm And flowery gardens mine, Thy waters I would shade with elm To prop the tender vine; My golden flagons I would fill With rosy draughts from every hill; And under every myrtle bower, My gay companions should prolong The laugh, the revel, and the song, To many an idle hour. Like rivers crimsoned with the beam Of yonder planet bright, Our balmy cups should ever stream Profusion of delight; No care should touch the mellow heart, And sad or sober none depart; For wine can triumph over wo, And Love and Bacchus, brother pewer., Could build in Iser's sunny bowers A paradise below! II/ 256 CCAMPBELL'S POEMS. LINES, ON THE DEPARTURE OF EMIGRANTS FOR NEW SOUTH WALES ON England's shore I saw a pensive band, WVith sails unfurled for earth's remotest strand, Like children parting from a mother, shed Tears for the home that could not yield them bread; Grief marked each face receding from the view,'Twas grief to nature honorably true. And long, poor wanderers o'er the ecliptic deep, The song that names but home shall make you weep; Oft shall ye fold your flocks by stars above In that far world, and miss the stars ye love; Oft when its tuneless birds scream round forlorn, Regret the lark that gladdens England's morn, And, giving England's names to distant scenes, Lament that earth's extension intervenes. But cloud not yet too long, industrious train, Your solid good with sorrow nursed in vain; For has the heart no interest yet as bland As that which binds us to our native land? The deep-dragwn wish, when children crown our hearth, To hear the cherub-chorus of their mirth, Undamped by dread that want may e'er unhouse, Or servile misery knit those smiling brows. The pride to rear an independent shed, And give the lips we love unborrowed bread: To see a world, from shadowy forests won, In youthful beauty wedded to the sun; To skirt our home with harvests widely sown, And call the blooming landscape all our own, CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 257 Our children's heritage, in prospect long. These are the hopes, high-minded hopes and strong, That beckon England's wanderers o'er the brine, To realms where foreign constellations shine; Where streams from undiscovered fountains roll, And winds shall fan them from th' Antarctic pole. And what though doomed to shores so far apart Fromn England's home, that ev'n the homesick heart Quails, thinking, ere that gulf can be recrossed, How large a space of fleeting life is lost! Yet there, by time, their bosoms shall be changed, And strangers once shall cease to sigh estranged, But jocund in the year's long sunshine roam, That yields their sickle twice its harvest home. There, marking o'er his farm's expanding ring New fleeces whiten and new fruits upspring, The gray-haired swain, his grandchild sporting round, Shall walk at eve his little empire's bound, Emblazed with ruby vintage, ripening corn, And verdant rampart of acacian thorn, While, mingling with the scent his pipe exhales, The orange-grove's and fig-tree's breath prevails; Survey with pride beyond a monarch's spoil, HIis honest arm's own subjlgated soil; And summing all the blessings Gird has given, Put up his patriarchal prayer to Heaven, That when his bones shall here repose in peace, The scions of his love may still increase, And o'er a land where life has ample room, Inx health and plenty innocently bloom. Delightful land, in wildness even benign, The glorious past is ours, the future thine! As in a cradled Hercules, we trace The lines of empire in thine infant face. 22* F r 258 CAIMPBELL S POEMS. NVhat nations in thy wide horizon's span Shall teem on tracts untrodden yet by man! What spacious cities with their spires shall gleam, Where now the panther laps a lonely stream, And all but brute or reptile life as dumb! Land of the free! thy kingdom is to come, Of states, with laws from Gothic bondage burst, And creeds by chartered priesthoods unaccursed: Of navies, hoisting their emblazoned flags, Where shipless seas now wash unbeaconed crags; Of hosts reviewed in dazzling files and squares, Their pennoned trumpets breathing native airs, - 1For minstrels thou shalt have of native fire, And maids to sing the songs themselves inspire: — Our very speech, methinks, in after time, Shall catch the Ionian blandness of thy clime; And whilst the light and luxury of thy skies Give brighter smiles to beauteous woman's eyes, The Arts, whose soul is love, shall all spontaneous rise. Untracked in deserts lies the marble mine, lUndug the ore that midst thy roofs shall shine; IJnborn the hands - but born they are to be - Fair Australasia, that shall give to.thee Proud temple-domes, with galleries winding high, So vast in space, so just in symmetry, They'widen to the contemplating eye, With colonnaded aisles in long array, And windows that enrich the flood of day O'er tesselated pavements, pictures fair, And niched statues breathing golden air. Nor there, whilst all that's seen bids Fancy swell, Shall Music's voice refuse to seal the spell; But choral hymns shall wake enchantment round, And organs yield their tempests of sweet sound. Meanwhile, ere Arts triumphant reach their goal, How blest the years of pastoral life shall roll! fi i= CAMPBELL S P O E S. 259 Even should some wayward Scour the settler's mind Brood sad on scenes forever left behind, Yet not a pang that England's name imparts, Shall touch a fibre of his children's hearts; Bound to that native land by nature's bond, Full little shall their wishes rove beyond Its mountains blue, and melon-skirted streams, Since childhood loved and dreamed of in their dreams. How many a name, to us uncouthly wild, Shall thrill that region's patriotic child, And bring as sweet thoughts o'er his bosom's chords, As aught that's named in song to us affords! Dear shall that river's margin be to him, Where sportive first he bathed his boyish limb, Or petted birds, still brighter than their bowers, Or twined his tame young kangaroo with flowers. But more magnetic yet to memory Shall be the sacred spot, still blooming nigh, The bower of love, where first his bosom burned, And smiling passion saw its smile returned. Go forth and prosper then, emprising band: May He, who in the hollow of his hand The ocean holds, and rules the whirlwind's sweep, Assuage its wrath, and guide you on the deep! LINES ON REVISITING CATHCART. OH! scenes of my childhood, and dear to my heart, Ye green waving woods on the margin of Cart, How blest in the morning of life I have strayed, By the stream of the vale. and the grass-covered glade! 26;0 CAMPBELL S POE NMS. Then, then every rapture was yzung and sincere, Ere the sunshine of bliss was bedimmed by a tear, And a sweeter delight every scene seemed to lend, That the mansion of peace was the home of a FRIEND. Now the scenes of my childhood, and dear to my heart, All pensive I visit, and sigh to depart; Their flowers seem to languish, their beauty to cease, For a stranger inhabits the mansion of peace. But hushed be the sigh that untimely complains, IWhile Friendship and all its enchantment remains, WVhile it blooms like the flower of a winterless clime, Untainted by chance, unabated by time. THIE CHERUBS. SUGGESTED BY AN APOLOGUE IN THE WTORKS OF FRANKLIN. Two spirits reached this world of ours: The lightning's locomotive powers Were slow to their agility: In broad daylight they moved incog, Enjoying, without mist or fog, Entire invisibility. The one, a simple cherub lad, AMuch interest in our planet had, Its face was so romantic; He couldn't persuade himself that man Was such as heavenly rumors ran, A being base and frai.tic. CAMPBELL'S POEMSI. 261 The elder spirit, wise and cool, Brought down the youth as to a school; But strictly on condition, Whatever they should see or hear, With mortals not to interfere;'Twas not in their commission. They reached a sovereign city proud, Whose emperor prayed to God aloud, With all his people kneeling, And priests performed religious-rites: "Come," said the younger of the sprites, "This shows a pious feeling." YOUNG SPIRIT. "Ar'n't these a decent godly race? " OLD SPIRIT. "The direst thieves on Nature's face." YOUNG SPIRIT. "But hark, what cheers they're giving Their emperor! -And is he a thief?" OLD SPIRIT. "Ay, and a cut-throat too;- in brief, THE GREATEST SCOUNDREL LIVING." YOUNG SPIRIT. " But say, what were they praying for, This people and their emperor? " OLD SPIRIT. " Vhy, but for God's assistance To help their army, late sent out: And what that army is about, You'll see at no great distance." 262 c CAMPBELL'S POEMS. On wvings outspeeding mail or post, Our sprites o'ertook the Imperial host; In massacres it wallowed: A noble nation met its hordes, But broken fell their cause and swords, Unfortunate, though hallowed. They saw a late bombarded town, Its streets still warm with blood ran down; Still smoked each burning rafter; And hideously,'midst rape and sack, The murderer's laughter answered back His prey's convulsive laughter. They saw the captive eye the dead, With envy of his gory bed, - Death's quick reward of bravery: They heard the clank of chains, and then Saw thirty thousand bleeding men Dragged manacled to slavery. "Fie! fie!" the younger heavenly spark Exclaimed -" we must have missed our mark, And entered hell's own portals: Earth can't be stained by crimes so black; Nay, sure, we've got among a pack Of fiends and not of mortals." "No," said the elder; "no such thing: Fiends are not fools enough to wring The necks of one another:They know their interests too well: Men fight; but every devil in hell Lives friendly with his brother. "And I could point you out some fellows, On this ill-fated planet Tel us, _ _ _ J CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 263 In royal power that reyel, Who, at the opening of the book Of judgment, may have cause to look With envy at the devil." *Name but the devil, and he'll appear, Old Satan in a trice was near, With smutty face and figure: But spotless spirits of the skies, Unseen to e'en his saucer eyes, Could watch the fiendish nigger. "Halloo!" he cried, "I smell a trick: A mortal supersedes Old Nick, IThe scourge of earth appointed: He robs me of my trade, outrants The blasphemy of hell, and vaunts Himself the Lord's anointed. " Folks make a fuss about my mischief: D-d fools, they tamely suffer this chief To play his pranks unbounded." The cherubs flew; but saw from high, &t human inhumanity, The devil himself astounded. gENEX'S SOLILOQUY ON HIS YOUTH. FUL IDOL. PLATONIC friendship at your years, Says Conscience, should content ye; Nay, name not fondness to her ears, The darling's scarcely twenty. A64 CA MPBELL'S POEMIS. Yes, and she ll loathe me unforgiven, To dote thus out of season; But beauty is a beam from heaven, That dazzles blind our reason. I'll challenge Plato from the skies, Yes, from his spheres harmonic, To look in M-y C-'s eyes, And try to be Platonic. TO SIR FRANCIS BURDETT, ON HIS SPEECH DELIVED IN PARLIAMENT, AUGUST 7, 1832, RESPECTING THE FOREIGN POLICY OF GREAT BRITAIN. BUIRDTT, enjoy thy justly foremost fame, Through good and ill report - through calm and storm - For forty years the pilot of reform! But that which shall afresh entwine thy name WVith patriot laurels never to be sere, Is that thou hast come nobly forth to chide Our slumbering statesmen for their lack of pride - Their flattery of Oppressors, and their fear — WVhen Britain's lifted finger, and her frown, Might call the nations up, and cast their tyrants down l Invoke the scorn-Alas! too few inherit The scorn for despots cherished by our sires, That baffled Europe's persecuting fires, And sheltered helpless states! - Recall that sprat, And conjure back Old England's haughty mind CAiMPBELL'S POEMS. 265 Convert the men who waver now, and pause Between their love of self and human kind; And move, Amphion-like, those hearts of stoneThe hearts that have been deaf to Poland's dying groan! Tell them, we hold the Rights of Man too dear, To bless ourselves with lonely freedom blest; But could we hope, with sole and selfish breast, To breathe untroubled Freedom's atmosphere? - Suppose we wished it? England could not stand A lone oasis in the desert ground Of Europe's slavery; from the waste around Oppression's fiery blast and whirling sand Would reach and scathe us! No; it may not be: Britannia and the world conjointly must be free! Burdett, demand why Britons send abroad Soft greetings to th' infanticidal Czar, The Bear on Poland's babes that wages war! Once, we are told, a mother's shriek o'erawed A lion, and he dropped her lifted child; But Nicholas, whom neither God nor law, Nor Poland's shrieking mothers overawe, Outholds to us his friendship's gory clutch: Shrink, Britain —shrink, my king and country, from the touch! He prays to Heaven for England's king, he says — And dares he to the God of mercy kneel, Besmeared with massacres from head to heel? NBo! Moloch is his god - to him he prays; And if his weird-like prayers had power to bring An influence, their power would be to curse. His hate is baleful, but his love is worse - A serpent's slaver deadlier than its sting! Oh, feeble statesmen! ignominious times! That lick the tyrant's feet, and smile upon his crimes 23 q66 CAMPBELL' S POEMS. ODE TO THE GERMANS. THE Spirit of Britannia Invokes across the main, HIer s.ster Allemannia To burst the Tyrant's chain: By our kindred blood, she cries, Rise, Allemannians, rise! And hallowed thrice the band Of our kindred hearts shall be, When your land shall be the land Of the free - of the free! With Freedom's lion-banner Britannia rules the waves; Whilst your BROAD STONE OF HONOR * Is still the camp of slaves. For shame, for glory's sake, Wake, Allemannians, wake! And thy tyrants now that whelm Half the world shall quail and flee, When your realm shall be the realm Of the free - of the free! MARS owes to you his thunder t That shakes the battle-field; Yet to break your bonds asunder No martial bolt has pealed. Shall the laurelled land of art Wear shackles on her heart? No! the clock ye framed to tell * Ehrenbreitstein signifies, in German,' the broad stone of honor." t Germany inlvented gulpowder, clock-making, and printing. CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 267 By its sound, the march of Time, Let it clang Oppression's knell O'er your clime — o'er your clime! The press's magic letters, That blessing ye brought forth, - Behold! it lies in fetters On the soil that gave it birth! But the trumpet must be heard, And the charger must be spurred; For your father Armin's Sprite Calls down from heaven, that ye Shall gird you for the fight, And be free!and be free I LINES, ON A PICTURE OF A GIRL IN THE ATTITUDE OF PRAYEb, BY THE ARTIST.GRUSE, IN THE POSSESSION OF LAY]) STEPNEY. WVAs man e'er doomed that beauty made By mimic art should haunt him; Like Orpheus, I adore a shade, And dote upon a phantom. Thou maid that in my inmost thought Art fancifully sainted, WVhy liv'st thou not —why art thou nought 3iut canvass sweetly painted? l 268 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. WVhose looks seem lifted to the skies, Too pure for love of mortals — As if they drew angelic eyes To greet thee at heaven's portals. Yet loveliness has here no grace, Abstracted or idealArt ne'er but from a living face Drew looks so seeming real. WVhat wert thou, maid? - thy life - thy name Oblivion hides in mystery; Though from thy face my heart could frame A long romantic history. Transported to thy time I seem, Though dust thy coffin coversAnd hear the songs, in fancy's dream, Of thy devoted lovers. How witching must have been thy breathHow sweet the living charmer, Whose every semblance after death Can make the heart grow warmer! Adieu, the charms that vainly move My soul in their possessionThat prompt my lips to speak of love, Yet rob them of expression. Yet thee, dear picture, to have praised Was but a poet's duty; And shame to him that ever gazed Impassive on thy beauty. l CAMPBELL'S POEMS, W9 LINES, ON THE VIEW PROM ST. LEONARD'S. HAIL to thy face and odors, glorious Sea!'Twere thanklessness in me to bless thee not, Great beauteous Being in whose breath and smile My heart beats calmer, and my very mind Inhales salubrious thoughts. How welcomer Thy murmurs than the murmurs of the world! Though like the world thou fluctuatest, thy din To me is peace, thy restlessness repose. Ev'n gladly I exchange yon spring-green lanes, With all the darling field-flowers in their prime, And gardens haunted by the nightingale's Long trills and gushing ecstacies of song, For these wild headlands, and the sea-mew's clang. With thee beneath my windows, pleasant Sea, I long not to o'erlook earth's fairest glades And green savannahs - earth has not a plain So boundless or so beautiful as thine; The eagle's vision can not take it in: The lightning's wing, too weak to sweep its space, Sinks half-way o'er it like a wearied bird: It is the mirror of the stars, where all Their hosts within the concave firmament, Gay marching to the music of the spheres, Can see themselves at once. Nor on the stage Of rural landscape are there lights and shades Of more harmonious dance and play than thine. How vividly this moment brightens forth, 200 270 CAMPBELL'S POEMS Between gray parallel and leaden breadths, A belt of hues that stripes thee many a league, Flushed like the rainbow, or the ring-dove's neck, And giving to the glancing sea-bird's wing The semblance of a meteor. Mighty Sea! Chameleon-like thou changest, but there's love In all thy change, and constant sympathy With yonder Sky —thy Mistress; from her brow Thou tak'st tily moods and wear'st her colors on Thy faithful bosom; — morning's milky white, Noon's sapphire, or the saffron glow of eve; And all thy balmier hours, fair Element, Have such divine complexion- crisped smiles, Luxuriant heavings, and sweet whisperings, That little is the wonder Love's own Queen From thee of old was fabled to have sprung - Creation's common! which no human power Can parcel or enclose; the lordliest floods And cataracts that the tiny hands of man Can tame, conduct, or bound, are drops of dew To thee that couldst subdue the earth itself, And brook'st commandment from the heavens alone For marshalling thy wavesYet, potent Sea! How placidly thy moist lips speak, ev'n now Along yon sparkling shingles. Who can be So fanciless as to feel no gratitude That power and grandeur can be so serene, Soothing the home-bound navy's peaceful way, And rocking ev'n the fisher's little bark As gently as a mother rocks her child?The inhabitants of other worlds behold Our crb more lucid for thy qpacious share K!__________ ________ CAMIPBELL'S POEMS. 271 On earth's rotundity; and is he not A blind worm in the dust, great Deep, the man Who sees not, or who seeing has no joy In thy magnificence? What though thou art Unconscious and material, thou canst reach The inmost immaterial mind's recess, And with thy tints and motion stir its chords To music, like the light on Memnon's lyre! The Spirit of the Universe in thee Is visible; thou hast in thee the life — Th' eternal, graceful, and majestic life Of nature, and the natural human heart Is therefore bound to thee with holy love. Earth has her gorgeous towns: th' earth-circling sea Has spires and mansions more amusive still — Men's volant homes that measure liquid space On wheel or wing. The chariot of the land With pained and panting steeds and clouds of dust Has no sight-gladdening motion like these fair Careerers with the foam beneath their bows, Whose streaming ensigns charm the waves by day, Whose carols and whose watch-bells cheer the Ifight, Moored as they cast the shadows of their masts In long array, or hither flit and yond Mysteriously with slow and crossing lights, Like spirits on the darkness of the deep. There is a magnet-like attraction in These waters to the imaginative power That links the viewless with the visible, &nd pictures things unseen. To realms beyond Yon highway of the world my fancy flies, WVhen by her tall and triple mast we know Some noble voyager that has to woo The trade-winds and to stem the ecliptic surge. f27i 2 cMCAMPBELL vS P OEABg S. The coral groves - the shores of conch and pearl, Where she will cast her anchor and reflect Her cabin-window lights on warmer waves, And under planets brighter than our own: The nights of palmy isles, that she will see Lit boundless by the fire-fly - all the smells Of tropic fruits that will regale her - all The pomp of nature, and the inspiriting Varieties of life she has to greet, Come swarming o'er the meditative mind. True, to the dream of Fancy, Ocean has hIis darker tints; but where's the element That checkers not its usefulness to man WVith casual terror? Scathes not Earth sometimes Her children with Tartarean fires, or shakes Their shrieking cities, and, with one last clang Of bells for their own ruin, strews them flat As riddled ashes- silent as the grave? Walks not Contagion on the Air itself? I should - old Ocean's Saturnalian days And roaring nights of revelry and sport With wreck and human wo- be loath to sing; For they are few, and all their ills weigh light Against his sacred usefulness, that bids Our pensile globe revolve in purer air. Here Morn and Eve with blushing thanks receive Their freshening dews, gay fluttering breezes cool Their wings to fan the brow of fevered climes, And here the Spring dips down her emerald urn For showers to glad the earth. Old Ocean was Infinity of ages ere we breathed Existence - and he will be beautiful W~hen all the living world that sees him now Shall roll unconscious dust around the sun. CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 273 Quclling from age to age the vital throb In human hearts, Death shall not subjugate The pulse that swells in his stupendous breast, Or interdict his minstrelsy to sound In thundering concert with the quiring winds; But long as Man to parent Nature owns Instinctive homage, and in times beyond The power of thought to reach, bard after bard Shall sing thy glory, BEATIFIC SEA. THE DEAD EAGLE. WRITTEN AT ORAN. FALL'N as he is, this king of birds still seems Like royalty in ruins. Though his eyes Are shut, that look undazzled on the sun, He was the sultan of the sky, and earth Paid tribute to his eyry. It was perched Htig'her than human conqueror ever built His bannered fort. Where Atlas' top looks o'er Zahara's desert to the equator's line, From thence the winged despot marked his prey, Above th' encampments of the Bedouins, ere Their watch-fires were extinct, or camels knelt To take their loads, or horsemen scoured the plain, And there he dried his feathers in the dawn, Whilst yet th' unwakened world was dark below. There's such a charm il natural strength and power, That human fancy has for ever paid 7A4 CAMPBELL S POE). J. Poetic homage to the bird of Jove. Hence,'neath his image, Rome arrayed her turms And cohorts for the conquest of the world. And figuring his flight, the mind is filled WTith thoughts that mock the pride of wingless man, True, the carred aeronaut can mount as high; But what's the triumph of his volant art? A rash intrusion on the realms of air. His helmless vehicle, a silken toy, A bubble bursting in the thunder-cloud; His course has no volition, and he drifts The passive plaything of the winds. Not such WVas this proud bird: he clove the adverse storm, And cuffed it with his wings. He stopped his flight As easily as the Arab reins his steed, And stood at pleasure'neath Heaven's zenith, like A lamp suspended from its azure dome. Vhilst underneath him the world's mountains lay Like mole-hills, and her streams like lucid threads; Then downward, faster than a falling star, He neared the earth, until his shape distinct Was blackly shadowed on the sunny ground; And deeper terror hushed the wilderness, To hear his nearer whoop. Then, up again He soared and wheeled. There was an air of scorn In all his movements, whether he threw round His crested head, to look behind him, or.Lay vertical, and sportively displayed The inside whiteness of his wing declined, In gyres and undulations full of grace, An object beautifying Heaven itself. ie - reckless who was victor, and above The hearing of their guns- saw fleets engaged In flaming combat. It was nought to him What carnage, floor or Christian, strewed their decks.la But if his intellect had matched his win-s, _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ j CAMPBELL'S POEMSS. 275 Methinks he would have scorned man's vaunted power To plough the deep; his pinions bore him down To Algiers the warlike, or the coral groves That blush beneath the green of Bona's waves; And traversed in an hour a wider space Than yonder gallant ship, with all her sails Wooing the winds, can cross from morn till eve. His bright eyes were his compass, earth his chart, His talons anchored on the stormiest cliff, And on the very light-house rock he perched, When winds churned white the waves. The earthquake's self Disturbed not him that memorable day, When, o'er yon table-land, where Spain had built Cathedrals, cannoned forts, and palaces, A palsy-stroke of Nature shook Oran, Turning her city to a sepulchre, And strewing into rubbish all her homes, Amidst whose traceable foundations now, Of streets and squares, the hyoena hides himself. That hour beheld him fly as careless o'er The stifled shrieks of thousands buried quick, As lately when he pounced the speckled snake, Coiled in yon mallows and wide nettle fields That mantle o'er the dead old Spanish town. Strange is the imagination's dread delight In objects linked with danger, death, and pain! Fresh from the luxuries of polished life, The echo of these wilds enchanted me; And my heart beat with joy when first I heard A lion's roar come down the Lybian wind, Across yon long, wide, lonely inland lake, Where boat ne'er sails from homeless shore to shore. 276 CA M PB ELL S POEMS. And yet Numidia's landscape has its spots Of pastoral pleasantness - though far between: The village planted near the Mlaraboot's Round roof has aye its feathery palm trees Paired, for in solitude they bear no fruits. HIere nature's hues all harmonize -fields white With alasum, or blue with bugloss- banks Of glossy fennel, blent with tulips wild, And sunflowers, like a garment pranked with gold; Acres and miles of opal asphodel Where sports and couches the black-eyed gazelle. Here, too, the air's harmonious - deep-toned doves Coo to the fife-like carol of the lark; And when they cease, the holy nightingale Winds up his long, long shakes of ecstacy, With notes that seem but the protracted sounds Of glassy runnels bubbling over rocks. SONG. To Love in my heart, I exclaimed, t'other morning, Thou hast dwelt here too long, little lodger, take warning; Thou shalt tempt me no more from my life's sober duty, To go gadding, bewitched by the young eyes of beauty. For weary's the wooing, ah! weary, When an old man will have a young dearie. The god left my heart, at its surly reflections, But came back on pretext of some sweet recollections, CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 277 And he made me forget what I ought to remember, That the rose-bud of June can not bloom in November. Ah! Tom,'tis all o'er with thy gay days - WVrite psalms, and not songs for the ladies. But time's been so far from my wisdom enriching, That the longer I live, beauty seems more bewitching; And the only new lore my experience traces, Is to find fresh enchantment in magical faces. How weary is wisdom, how weary! When one sits by a smiling young dearie! And should she be wroth that my homage pursues her I will turn and retort on my lovely accuser; Who's to blame, that my heart by your image is haunted It is you, the enchantress - not I, the enchanted. Would you have me behave more discreetly, Beauty, look not so killingly sweetly. LINES, WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAP OF LA PEROUSE'S VOYAGES. LOVED Voyager! his pages had a zest More sweet than fiction to my wondering breast, When, rapt in fancy, many a boyish day I tracked his wanderings o'er the watery way, Roamed round the Aleutian isles in waking dreams, Or plucked the fleur-de-lys by Jesso's streamsOr gladly leaped on that far Tartar strand Where Europe's anchor ne'er had bit the sand, 24 278 CA MPBELL S POEMS.'Where scarce a roving wild tribe crossed the plain, Or human voice broke nature's silent reign; But vast and grassy deserts feed the bear, And sweeping deer-herds dread no hunter's snare. Such young delight his real records brought, His truth so touched romantic springs of thought, That all my after-life- hig fate and fame Entwined romance with La Perouse's name.Fair were his ships, expert his gallant crews, And glorious was the emprise of La Perouse,Humanely glorious! Men will weep for him, WVhen many a guilty martial fame is dim: He ploughed the deep to bind no captive's chain — Pursued no rapine - strewed no wreck with slain; And, save that in the deep themselves lie low, His heroes plucked no wreath from human wo.'Twas his the earth's remotest bound to scan, Conciliating with gifts barbaric manEnrich the world's contemporaneous mind, And amplify the picture of mankind. Far on the vast Pacific-'midst those isles, O'er which the earliest morn of Asia smiles, He sounded and gave charts to many a shore And gulf of Ocean new to nautic lore; Yet he that led Discovery o'er the Wave, Still fills himself an undiscovered grave. He came not back, - Conjecture's cheek grew pale, Year after year- in no propitious gale His lilied banner held its homeward way, Anc Science saddened at her martyr's stay. An age elapsed - no wreck told where or when The chief went down with all his gallant men, Or whether by the storm and wild sea flood He perished, or by wilder men of blood: The shuddering Fancy only guessed his doom, And Doubt to Sorrow gave but deeper gloom. CAMPBELL' S POEMS. 279 An age elapsed —when men were dead or gray, Whose hearts had mourned him in their youthful day; Fame traced, on Mannicolo's shore, at last, The boiling surge had mounted o'er his mast. The islesmen told of some surviving men, But Christian eyes beheld them ne'er again. Sad bourne of all his toils -with all his band — To sleep, wrecked, shroudless, on a savage strand! Yet what is all that fires a hero's scorn Of death?- the hope to live in hearts unborn Life to the brave is not its fleeting breath, But worth - foretasting fame, that follows death. That worth had La Perouse - that meed he won; He sleeps —his life's long stormy watch is done. In the great deep, whose boundaries and space He measured, Fate ordained his resting-place; But bade his fame, like th' Ocean rolling o'er His relics - visit every earthly shore. Fair Science, on that Ocean's azure robe, Still writes his name in picturing the globe, And paints - (what fairer wreath could glory +wine? His watery course- a world-encircling line. 280 CAMPBELL S POEMS. THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE.* THE sunset sheds a horizontal smile O'er Highland frith and Hebridean isle, While, gay with gambols of its finny shoals, The glancing wave rejoices as it rolls With' streamered busses, that distinctly shine All downward, pictured in the glassy brine; Whose crews, with faces brightening in the sun, Keep measure with their oars, and all in one Strike up th' old Gaelic song: - Sweep, rowers, sweep! The fisher's glorious spoils are in the deep. Day sinks - but twilight owes the traveller soon, To reach his bourne, a round unclouded moon, Bespeaking long undarkened hours of time; False hope! -the Scots are steadfast —not their clime. A war-worn soldier fiom the western land, Seeks Cona's vale by Ballihoula's strand; The vale, by eagle-haunted cliffs o'erhung, Where Fingal fought and Ossian's harp was strung — Our veteran's forehead, bronzed on sultry plains, Had stood the brunt of thirty fought campaigns; I 1 received the substance of the tradition on which this Poem is tounded, in the first instance, from a friend in London, who wrote to Matthew N. Macdonald, Esq., of Edinburgh. He had the kindness to send me a circumstantial account of the tradition; and that gentleman's knowledge of the Highlands, as well as his particular acquaintance with the district of Glencoe, leave me no doubt of the incident having really happened. I have not departed from the main facts of the tradition as reported to me by Mr. Macdonald; only I have endeavored to ~color the personages of the story, and to make them as distinctive as possible CAMPBELL'S POE MS. 281 He well could vouch the sad romance of wars, And count the dates of battles by his scars; For he had served where o'er and o'er again Britannia's oriflamme had lit the plain Of glory- and victorious stamped her name On Oudenarde's and Blenheim's fields of fame. Nine times in battle-field his blood had streamed, Yet vivid still his veteran blue eye gleamed;'ull well he bore his knapsack -— unoppressed, And marched with soldier-like erected crest: Nor sign of ev'n loquacious age he wore, Save when he told his life's adventures o'er; Some tired of these; for terms to him were dear, Too tactical by far for vulgar ear, As when he talked of rampart and ravine, And trenches fenced with gabion and fascine — But when his theme possessed him all and whole He scorned proud puzzling words and warmed the soU;i Hushed groups hung on his lips with fond surprise, That sketched- old scenes -like pictures to their eyes; — The wide war-plain, with banners glowing bright, And bayonets to the furthest stretch of sight; The pause, more dreadful than the peal to come From volleys blazing at the beat of drum - Till all the field of thundering lines became Two level and confronted sheets of flame. Then to the charge, when Marlboro's hot pursuit Trode France's gilded lilies underfoot; He came and kindled - and with martial lung Would chant the very march their trumpets sung. The old soldier hoped, ere evening's light should fail, To reach a home, south-east of Cona's vale; But looking at Bennevis, capped with snow, He saw its mist come curling down below, And spread white darkness o'er the sunset glow;24* M'82 e CAMPBELL S POE-MS. Fast rolling like tempestuous Ocean's spray, Or clouds from troops in battle's fiery daySo dense, his quarry'scaped the falcon's sight, The owl alone exulted, hating light. Benighted thus our pilgrim groped his ground, Half'twixt the river's and the cataract's sound. At last a sheep-dog's bark informed his ear Some human habitation might be near; Anon sheep-bleatings rose from rock to rock, -'Twas Luath hounding to their fold the flock. Ere long the cock's "obstreperous clarion rang, And next, a maid's sweet voice, that spinning sang: At last, amidst the greensward, (gladsome sight!) A cottage stood, with straw-roof golden bright. He knocked, was welcomed in; none asked his name, Nor whither he was bound, nor whence he came; But he was beckoned to the stranger's seat, Right side the chimney fire of blazing peat. Blest Hospitality makes not her home In walled parks and castellated dome; She flies the city's needy greedy crowd, And shuns still more the mansions of the proud;; Fhe balm of savage or of simple life, & wild-flower cut by culture's polished knife! rhe house, no common sordid shieling cot, Spoke inmates of a comfortable lot; The Jacobite white rose festooned their door; The windows sashed and glazed, the oaken floor, The chimney graced with antlers of the deer, The rafters hung with meat for winter cheer, And all the mansion, indicated plain Its master a superior shepherd swain. Their supper came- the table soon was spread With eggs, and milk, and cheese, and barley bread. CAMPBELL S POEMS. 283 The family were three- a father hoar, Whose age you'd guess at seventy years or more, His son looked, fifty -cheerful like her lord, His comely wife presided at the board; All three had that peculiar courteous grace Which marks the meanest of the Highland race; WVarm hearts that burn alike in weal and wo, As if the north-wind fanned their bosoms' glow! But wide unlike their souls: old Norman's eye Was proudly savage even in courtesy. His sinewy shoulders - each, though aged and lean, Broad as the curled Herculean head between, - His. scornful lip, his eyes of yellow fire, And nostrils that dilated quick with ire, With ever downward-slanting shaggy brows, Marked the old lion you would dread to rouse. Norman, in truth, had led his earlier life In raids of red revenge and feudal strife; Religious duty in revenge he saw, Proud Honor's right and Nature's honest law. First in the charge and foremost in pursuit, Long-breathed, deep-chested, and in speed of foot A match for stags - still fleeter when the prey Was man, in persecution's evil day; Cheered to that chase by brutal bold Dundee, No Highland hound had lapped more blood than he. Oft had he changed the covenanter's breath From howls of psalmody to howls of death; And though long bound to peace, it irked him still His dirk had ne'er one hated foe to kill. Yet Norman had fierce virtues, that would mock Cold-blooded tories of the modern stock, Who starve the breadless poor with fraud and cant; - fie slew and saved them from the pangs of want 284 CA3IPBELL S POEMS. Nor was his solitary lawless charm Mere dauntlessness of soul and strength of arm; lie had his moods of kindness now and then, And feasted even well-mannered lowland men Who blew not up his Jacobitish flame, Nor prefaced with "pretender" Charles's name. Fierce, but by sense and kindness not unwon, lie loved, respected even, his wiser son; And brooked from him expostulations sage, When all advisers else were spurned with rage. Far happier times had moulded Ronald's mind, Bly nature too of more sagacious kind. His breadth of brow, and Roman shape of chin, Squared well with the firm man that reigned within. Contemning strife as childishness, he stood With neighbors on kind terms of neighborhood, And whilst his father's anger nought availed, His rational remonstrance never failed. Full skilfully he managed farm and fold, Wrote, ciphered, profitably bought and sold; And, blessed with pastoral leisure, deeply took Delight to be informed, by speech or book, Of that wide world beyond his mountain home, Where oft his curious fancy loved to roam. Oft while his faithful dog ran round his flock, He read long hours when summer warmed the rock: Guests who could tell him aught were welcomed wrmo Even pedlers' news had to his mind a charm; That like an intellectual magnet-stone 1)rew truth from judgments simpler than his own. His soul's proud instinct sought not to enjoy Romantic fictions, like a minstrel boy; Truth, standing on her solid square, fr m youth He worshipped —stern uncompromising truth. CAMPBELL S POEMS. 285 His goddess kindlier smiled on him, to find A votary of her light in land so blind-;. She bade majestic History unroll Broad views of public welfare to his soul, Until he looked on clannish feuds and foes With scorn, as on the. wars of kites and crows: Whilst doubts assailed him, o'er and o'er again, If men were made for kings, or kings for men; At last, to Norman's horror and dismay, He flat denied the Stuarts' right to sway. No blow-pipe ever whitened furnace fire Quick as these words lit up his father's ire; Who envied even old Abraham for his faith, Ordained to put his only son to death. - He started up- in such a mood of soul The white-bear bites his showman's stirring pole; He danced too, and brought out, with snarl and howl, "0 Dia! Dia! and Dioul! Dioul!" * But sense foils fury - as the blowing whale Spouts, bleeds, and dyes the waves without avail — Wears out'the cable's length that makes him fast, But, worn himself, comes up harpooned at lastEv'n so, devoid of sense, succumbs at length Mere strength of zeal to intellectual strength. His son's close logic so perplexed his pate, The old hero rather shunned than sought debate; Exhausting his vocabulary's store Of oaths and nick-names, he could say no more, But tapped his mull,t rolled mutely in. his chair, Or only whistled Killicranky's air. Witch legends Ronald scorned- ghost, kelpie, wraith, And all the trumpery of vulgar faith; *: God and the devil —a favtorile ejaculation of I tigliland saints. t Stnif-hlorn. 286 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. Grave matrons ev'n were shocked to hear him slight Authenticated facts of second-sightYet never flinched his mockery to confound The brutal superstition reigning round. Reserved himself, still Ronald loved to scan Men's natures -and he liked the old hearty man' So did the partner of his heart and lifeIrio pleased her Ronald, ne'er displeased his wife. liis sense,'tis true, compared with Norman's son, WVas common-place-his tales too long outspunYet Allan Campbell's sympathizing mind Had held large intercourse with human kind; Seen much, and gayly, graphically drew The men of every country, clime, and hue; Nor ever stooped, though soldier-like his strain, To ribaldry of mirth or oath profane. All went harmonious till the guest began To talk about his kindred, chief, and elan; And, with his own biography engrossed, Marked not the changed demeanor of each host; Nor how old choleric Norman's cheek became Flushed at the Campbell and Breadalbane name; Assigning, heedless of impe-nding harm, Their steadfast silence to his story's charm; He touched a subject perilous to touch — Saying, "'Midst this well-known vale I wondered much To lose my way. In boyhood, long ago, I roamed, and loved each pathway of Glencoe; Trapped leverets, plucked wild berries on its braes, And fished along its banks long summer days. But times grew stormy —bitter feuds arose, Our clan was merciless to prostrate foes. I never palliated my chieftain's blame, But mourned the sin, and reddened for the shame Of that foul morn (Heaven blot it from the year!) Whose shapes and shrieks still haunt my dialiaming eat CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 287 What could I do? a serf- Glenlyon's page, A soldier sworn at nineteen years of age; T' have breathed one grieved remonstrance to our chief, The pit or gallows * would have cured my grief. Forced, passive as the musket in my hand, I marched- when, feigning royalty's command, Against the clan Macdonald, Stairs's lord Sent forth exterminating fire and sword; And troops at midnight through the vale defiled, Enjoined to slaughter woman, man, and child. My clansmen many a year had cause to dread The curse that day entailed upon their head; Glenlyon's self confessed th' avenging spell — I saw it light on him. "It so befell:A soldier from our ranks to death was brought, By sentence deemed too dreadful for his fault; All was prepared — he coffin and the cart Stood near twelve muskets, levelled at his heart. The chief, whose breast for ruth had still some room, Obtained reprieve a day before his doom;But of th' awarded boon surmised no breath. The sufferer knelt, blindfolded, waiting death, - And met it. Though Glenlyon had desired The musketeers to watch before they fired; If from his pocket they should see he drew A handkerchief -their volley should ensue; But if he held a paper in its place, It should be hailed the sign of pardoning grace: He, in a fatal moment's absent fit, Drew forth the handkerchief, and not the writ; Wept o'er the corpse and wrung his hands in wo, Crying' ere's thy curse again, Glencoe! Glencoe!'" ~ To hang their vassals, or starve them to death in a dungeon, was a privilege of the Highland chiefs who had hereditary jurisdictions. l 288 CAMPBELL' S POEMS. Though thus his guest spoke feelings just and clear, The cabin's patriarch lent impatient ear; Wroth that, beneath his roof, a living man Should boast the swine-blood of the Campbell clan; He hastened to the door- called out his son To follow; walked a space, and thus begun: — "You have not, Ronald, at this day to learn The oath I took beside my father's cairn, When you were but a babe, a twelvemonth born;Sworn on my dirk- by all that's sacred, sworn To be revenged for blood that cries to Heaven Blood unforgiveable, and unforgiven! But never power, since then, have I possessed To plant my dagger in a Campbell's breast. Now, here's a self-accusing partisan, Steeped in the slaughter of Macdonald's clan! I scorn his civil speech and sweet-lipped show Of pity- he is still our house's foe: I'll perjure not myself —but sacrifice The caitiff ere to-morrow's sun arise! Stand! hear me - you're my son, the deed is just; And if I say-it must be done- it must: A debt of honor which my clansmen crave, - Their very dead demand it from the grave." Conjuring then their ghosts, he humbly prayed Their patience till the blood-debt should be paid. But Ronald stopped him. - " Sir, Sir, do not dim Your honor by a moment's angry whim; Your soul's too just and generous, were you cool, To act at once th' assassin and the fool. Bring me the men on whom revenge is due, And I will dirk them willingly as you! But all the real authors of that black Old deed are gone- you can not bring them back; And this poor guest,'tis palpable to judge, In all his life ne'er bore our clan a grudge; - Dragged, when a boy, against his will, to share L _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _... _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __=== _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ CAMPBELL'S POEMS.'8.) That massacre, he loathed the foul affair. Think, if your hardened heart be conscience-proof, To stab a stranger underneath your roof — One who has broken bread within your gate - Reflect-before reflection comes too late,Such ugly consequences there may be As judge and jury, rope and gallows-tree. The days of dirking snugly are gone by: Where could you hide the body privily, When search is made for't?" "Plunge it in yon flood, That Campbells crimsoned with our kindred blood." "Ay, but the corpse may float-" "Pshaw! dead men tell No tales- nor will it float if leaded well. I am determined!" - What could Ronald do? No house within ear-reach of his halloo; Though that would but have published household shame; He temporized with wrath he could not tame, - And said, "Come in; till night put off the deed, And ask a few more questions ere he bleed." They entered: Norman with portentous air Strode to a nook behind the stranger's chair, And, speaking nought, sat grimly in the shade, With dagger in his clutch, beneath his plaid. His son's own plaid, should Norman pounce his prey, Was coiled thick round his arm, to turn away Or blunt the dirk. He purposed leaving free The door, and giving Allan time to flee, Whilst he should wrestle with (no safe emprise) His father's maniac strength and giant size. Meanwhile he could nowise communicate Th' impending peril to his anxious mate; But she, convinced no trifling matter now Disturbed the wonted calm of Ronald's brow, Divined too well the cause of gloom that lowered, And sat with speechless terror overpowered. 25 290 CAMPBELL' S POEMS. HIer face was pale, so lately blithe and bland, The stocking knitting-wire shook in her hand. But Ronald and the guest resumed their thread Of converse - still its theme that day of dread. "Much," said the veteran, "much as I bemoan That deed, when half a hundred years have flown, Still on one circumstance I can reflect That mitigates the dreadful retrospect. A mother with her child before us flew, - I had the hideous mandate to pursue; But swift of foot, outspeeding bloodier men, I chased, o'ertook her in the winding glen, And showed her, palpitating, where to save Herself and infant in a secret cave; Nor left them till I saw that they could mock Pursuit and search within that sheltering rock." "Heavens!" Ronald cried, in accents gladly wild, "That woman was my mother - I the child! Of you, unknown by name, she late and air,* Spoke, wept, and ever blessed you in her prayer, ]Ev'n to her death; describing you withal A well-looked florid youth, blue-eyed and tall." They rose, exchanged embrace: the old lion then Upstarted, metamorphosed, from his den; Saying, "Come and make thy home with us for life, HIeaven-sent preserver of my child and wife, I fear thou'rt poor - that HIanoverian thing Rewards his soldiers ill." —" God save the king!" With hand upon his heart, old Allan said, "I wear his uniform, I eat his bread, And whilst I've tooth to bite a cartridge, all For him and Britain's fame I'll stand or fall." "Bravo! " cried Ronald. " I commend your zeal," Quoth Norman, "and I see your heart is leal; * Scotch for late and early. CAMPn ELL'S POEMS. 291 But I have prayed my soul may never thrive If thou shouldst leave this house of ours alive. Nor shalt thou; - in this home protract thy breath Of easy life, nor leave it till thy death." The following morn arose serene as glass, And red Bennevis shone like molten brass; WNbile sunrise opened flowers with gentle force, The guest and Ronald walked in long discourse. "Words fail me," Allan said, "to thank aright Your father's kindness shown me yesternight; Yet-scarce I'd wish my latest days to spend, A fireside fixture, with the dearest friend: Besides, I'vebut a fortnight's furlough now, To reach Macallin More,* beyond Lochawe. I'd fain memorialize the powers that be To deign -remembrance of my wounds and me; My life-long service never bore the brand Of sentence - lash, disgrace, or reprimand. And so I've written, though in mneagre style, A long petition to his Grace Argyle; I mean, on reaching Innerara's shore, To leave it safe within his castle door." "Nay," Ronald said, "the letter that you bear Intrust it to no lying varlet's care; But say, a soldier of King George demands Access, to leave it in the Duke's own hands. But show me, first, the epistle to your chief;'Tis nought, unless succinctly clear and brief; Great men have no great patience when they read, And long petitions spoil the cause they plead." That day saw Ronald from the field full soon Return; and when they all had dined at noon, * The Duke of Argyle. 2,92 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. He conned th' old man's memorial —lopped its length, And gave it style, simplicity, and strength; Twas finished in an hour - and in the next Transcribed by Allan in perspicuous text. At evening, he and Ronald shared once more A long and pleasant walk by Cona's shore. "I'd press you," quoth his host- (" I need not say How warmly) ever more with us to stay; But Charles intends,'tis said, in these same parts To try the fealty of our Highk md hearts.'Tis my belief, that he and all his line Have —saving to be hanged - no right divine; From whose mad enterprise can only flow To thousands slaughter, and to myriads wo. Yet have they stirred my father's spirit sore, - He flints his pistols, whets his old claymore, And longs as ardently to join the fray As boy to dance who hears the bagpipe play. Though calm one day, the next, disdaining rule, He'd gore your red coat like an angry bull: I told him, and he owned it might be so, Your tempers never could in concert flow. But' Mark,' he added,'Ronald! from our door Let not this guest depart forlorn and poor; Let not your souls the niggardness evince Of lowland pedler, or of German prince: He gave you life- then feed him as you'd feed Your very father were he cast in need.' He gave-you'll find it by your bed to-nightA leathern purse of crowns, all sterling bright: You see I do you kindness not by stealth. My wife- no advocate of squandering wealthVows that it would be parricide, or worse, Should we neglect you- here's a silken purse, Some golden pieces through the network shine,-'Tis proffered to you from her heart and mine But come! no foolish delicacy - no! I~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~~~~_____ jf CAMPBELifS POEMS. 293 We own, but can not cancel what we owe; — This sum shall duly reach you once a year." Poor Allan's furrowed face, and flowing tear, Confessed sensations which he could not speak. Old Norman bade him farewell kindly meek. At morn, the smiling dame rejoiced to pack TWith viands full the old soldier's haversack. He feared not h-ngry grass * with such a load, And Ronald saw him miles upon his road. A march of three days brought him to Lochfyne: Argyle, struck with his manly look benign, And feeling interest in the veteran's lot, Created him a sergearit on the spot — An invalid, to serve not- but with pay (A mighty sum to him,) twelve pence a day. "But have you heard not," said Macallin More, "Charles Stuart's landed on Eriska's shore, And Jacobites are arming?" - " What! indeed! Arrived! then I'm no more an invalid; My new-got halbert I must straight employ In battle." -" As you please, old gallant boy: Your gray hairs well might plead excuse,'tis true, But now's the time we want such men as you." In brief, at Innerara Allan stayed, And joined the banners of Argyle's brigade. Meanwhile, th' old choleric shepherd of Glencoe Spurned all advice, and girt himself to go.'What was't to him that foes would poind their fold, Their lease, their very beds beneath them sold? And firmly to his text he would have kept, Though Ronald argued and his daughter wept. * When the hospitable Highlalnders load a parting guest with prova. ions, they tell him he will need them, as lie ham o Qo over a great deal of "1hunLry grass."' 25* 294 e CAMPBlEI4L S POETMS. But'midst the impotence of tears and prayer, Chance snatched them from proscription and despair, Old Norman's blood was headward wont to mount Too rapid from his heart's impetuous fount; And one day, whilst the German rats he cursed, An artery in his wise sensorium burst. The lancet saved him: but how changed, alas! From him who fought at Killiecrankie's pass! Tame as a spaniel, timid as a child, IIe muttered ncoherent words and smiled; He wept at kindness, rolled a vacant eye, And laughed full often when he meant to cry. Poor man! whilst in this lamentable state, Came Allan back one morning to his gate, Hale and unburdened by the woes of eild, And fresh with credit from Culloden's field.'Twas feared, at first, the sight of him might touch The old Macdonald's morbid mind too much; But no! though Norman knew him and disclosed, Ev'n rallying memory, he was still composed; Asked all particulars of the fatal fight, And only heaved a sigh for Charles's flight; Then said, with but one moment's pride of air, It might not have been so had I been there! Few days elapsed till he reposed beneath i His gray cairn, on the wild and lonely heath: Son, friends, and kindred, of his dust took leave, And Allan with the crape bound round his sleeve. Old Allan now hung up his sergeant's sword, And sat, a guest for life, at Ronald's board. He waked no longer at the barrack's drum, Yet still you'd see, when peep of day was come, Th' erect tall red-coat, walking pastures round, Or delving with his spade the garden ground. Of cheerful temper, habits strict and sage, He reached, enjoyed a patriarchal age — CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 29Q Loved to the last by the Macdonalds. Near Their house, his stone was placed with many a teart And Ronald's self, in stoic virtue:brave, Scorned not to weep at Allan Campbell's grave. MIE CHILD AND HIND.* CoME, maids and matrons, to caress Wiesbaden's gentle hind; And, smiling, deck its glossy neck WTith forest flowers entwined. Your forest flowers are fair to show, And landscapes to enjoy; But fairer is your friendly doe That watched the sleeping boy. # I wish I had preserved a copy of the NWiesbaden newspaper in which this anecdote of the " Child and Hind " is recorded: but I have unfortunately lost it. The story, however, is a matter of fact; it took place in 1835: every circumstance mentioned in the following ballad literally happened. I was in Wiesbaden eight months ago, and was shown the very'tree under which the boy was found sleeping, with a bunch of flowers in his little hand. A similar occurrence is told by tradition of Queen Genevova's child being preserved by being suckled by a female deer, when that Princess-au early Christian - and now a Saint in the Romish calender, was chased to the desert by her heathen enemies. The spot assigned to the traditionary event, is not a hundred miles from Wiesbaden, where a chapel still stands to her memory. I could not ascertain whether the Hind that watched my hero " Wilhelm," suckled him or not; but it was generally believed that she had no milk to give him, and that the boy must have been for two days and a half entirely without food, unless it might be grass or leaves. If this was the case, the circumstance of the Wiesbaden deer watchin, the tlhild, was a still more wonderful token of instinctive fondness than that of the deer inl the Genevova tradition, who was naturally anxious to be relieved of her milk. 296 {: CAMPBELL S POEMS.'Twas after church - on Ascension dayWhen organs ceased to sound, Wiesbaden's people crowded gay The deer-park's pleasant ground. There, where Elysian meadows smile, And noble trees upshoot, The wild thyme and the chamomile Smell sweetly at their root; The aspen quivers nervously, The oak stands stilly boldAnd climbing bindweed hangs on high His bells of beaten gold.* Nor stops the eye till mountains shine That bound a spacious view, Beyond the lordly, lovely Rhine, In visionary blue. There, monuments of ages dark Awaken thoughts sublime; Till, swifter than the steaming bark, We mount the stream of time. The ivy there old castles shades That speak traditions high Of minstrels, tournaments, crusades, And mail-clad chivalry. Here came a twelve years' married pair — And with them wandered free Seven sons and daughters, blooming fair, A gladsome sight to see. * There is only one kind of bildweed that is yellow, and that is the Bonwer here mentioned, the Panicolant S ConvolvulIs. CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 297 Their TWilhelm, little innocent, The youngest of the seven, Was beautiful as painters paint The cherubim of Heaven. By turns he gave his hand, so dear, To parent, sister, brother; And each, that he was safe and near, Confided in the other. But Wilhelm loved the field-flowers bright, WVith love beyond all measure; And culled them with as keen delight As misers gather treasure. Unnoticed, he contrived to glide Adown a greenwood alley, By lilies lured, that grew beside A streamlet in the valley; And there, where under beech and birch The rivulet meandered, He strayed, till neither shout nor search Could track where he had wandered. Still louder, with increasing dread, They called his darling name; But'twas like speaking to the deadAn echo only came. Hours passed till evening's beetle roams, And blackbird's songs begin; Then all went back to happy homes, Save WVilhelm's kith and kin. The night came on- all others slept Their cares away till morn; 298 CAMPBELL S POEMS. But sleepless, all night watched and wept That family forlorn. Betimes the town crier had been sent With loud bell, up and down; And told th' afflicting accident Throughout Wiesbaden's town: The father, too, ere morning smiled, Had all his wealth uncoffered; And to the wight would bring his child A thousand crowns had offered. Dear friends, who would have blushed to take That guerdon from his hand, Soon joined in groups - for pity's sake, The child-exploring band. The news reached Nassau's Duke: ere earth Was gladdened by the lark, He sent a hundred soldiers forth To ransack all his park. Their side-arms glittered through the weod, With bugle-horns to sound;Would that on errand half so good The soldier oft were found! But though they roused up beast and bird From many a nest and den, No signal of success was heard From all the hundred men. A second morning's light expands, Unfound the infant fair; And Wilhelm's household wring their hands, Abandoned to despair. CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 299 But, haply, a poor artisan Searched ceaselessly, till he Found safe asleep the little one, Beneath a beechen tree. His hand still grasped a bunch of flowers; And (true, though wondrous) near, To sentry his reposing hours, There stood a female deerWho dipped her horns at all that passed* The spot where Wilhelm lay; Till force was had to hold her fast, And bear the boy away. Hail! sacred love of Childhood-hail!, How sweet it is to trace Thine instinct in Creation's scale, Ev'n'neath the human race. To this poor wanderer of the wild Speech, reason were unknownAnd yet she watched a sleeping child As if it were her own; And thou, WViesbaden's artisan, Restorer of the boy, Was ever welcomed mortal man With such a burst of joy? The father's ecstacy —the mother's Hysteric bosom's swell; The sisters' sobs- the shout of brothers, I have not power to tell. v The female deer has no such antlers as the male, and sometimes no horns at all; but I have observed many with short ones suckling their Flwns. 300 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. The working man, with shoulders broad, Took blithely to his wife The thousand crowns; a pleasant load, That made him rich for life. And Nassau's Duke the favorite took Into his deer-park's centre, To share a field with other pets, Where deer-slayer can not enter. There, whilst thou cropp'st thy flowery food, Each hand shall pat thee kind; And man shall never spill thy bloodWiesbaden's gentle hind. NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR.* I LOVE contemplating - apart From all his homicidal glory, The traits that soften to our heart Napoleon's glory!'Twas when his banners at Boulogne Armed in our island every freeman, His navy chanced to capture one Poor British seaman. t This anecdote has been published in several public journals, both French and British. My belief in its authenticity was confirmed by an Englishman, long resident at Boulogne, lately telling me, that ho remembered the circumstance to have been generally talked of in the place. CAMPBELL S POEMS. 301 They suffered him -I know not how, Unprisoned on the shore to roam; And aye was bent his longing brow On England's home. His eye, methinks, pursued the flight Of birds to Britain half-way over; With envy they could reach the white Dear cliffs of Dover. A stormy midnight watch, he thought, Than this sojourn would have been dearer, If but the storm his vessel brought To England nearer. At last, when care had banished sleep, He saw, one morning-dreaming, doting — An empty hogshead from the deep Come shoreward floating; He hid it in a cave, and wrought The live-long day laborious; lurking Until he launched a tiny boat By mighty working. Heaven help us!'twas a thing beyond, Description wretched; such a wherry Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond, Or crossed a ferry. For ploughing in the salt-sea field, It would have made the boldest shudder; Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled, No sail — no rudder. From neighboring woods he interlaced His sorry skiff with wattled willows; 26 302 CAMPBELL S POEMS. And thus equipped he would have passed The foaming billows: But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, His little Argus sorely jeering; Till tidings of him chanced to reach Napoleon's hearing. With folded arms Napoleon stood, Serene alike in peace and danger; And, in his wonted attitude, Addressed the stranger:"Rash man, that wouldst yon channel pass On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned, Thy heart with some sweet British lass Must be impassioned." "I have no sweetheart," said the lad; " But - absent long from one another - Great was the longing that I had To see my mother." "And so thou shalt," Napoleon said, "Ye'vce both my favor fairly won; A noble mother must have bred So brave a son." He gave the tar a piece of gold, And, with a flag of truce, commanded He should be shipped to England Old, And safely landed. Our sailor oft could scantly shift To find a dinner, plain and hearty; But never changed the coin and gift Of Bonapartb. CAMPBELLrS POEMS. 303 TEE JILTED NYM:PH. A SONG, To the Scotch Tune of " Wooed and Married and a'." I'M jilted, forsaken, outwitted; Yet think not I'll whimper or brawl — The lass is alone to be pitied Who ne'er has been courted at all: Never by great or small, Wooed or jilted. at all; Oh, how unhappy's the lass Who has never been courted at all My brother called out the dear faithlessIn fits I was ready to fall, Till I found a policeman who, scatheless, Swore them both to the peace at Guildhall; Seized them, seconds and all — Pistols, powder and ball; I wished him to die my devoted, But not in a duel to sprawl. What though at my heart he has tilted, What though I have met with a fall? Better be courted and jilted Than never be courted at all. Wooed and jilted and all, Still I will dance at the ball; And waltz and quadrille WVith light heart and heel, WVith proper young men, and tall 304 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. But lately I've met with a suitor, Whose heart I have gotten in thrall, And I hope soon to tell you, in future, That I'm wooed, and married, and all; WVooed, and married, and all, - WVhat greater bliss can befall / And you all shall partake of my bridal cake, When I'm wooed, and married, and all. BENLOMOND. HADST thou a genius on thy peak, What tales, white-headed Ben, Couldst thou of ancient ages speak, That mock th' historian's pen! Thy long duration makes our lives Seem but so many hours; And likens to the bees' frail hives Our most stupendous towers. Temples and towers thou'st seen begun, New creeds, new conquerors' sway; And, like their shadows in the sun, Hast seen them swept away. Thy steadfast summit, heaven-allied, (Unlike life's little span,) Looks down, a Mentor, on the pride Of perishable man. CAMPBELL S POEMS. 305 THE PARROT. A DOMESTIC ANECDOTE. TEz following incident, so strongly illustrating the power of memory and association in the lower animals, is not a fiction. I heard it many years ago in the Island of Mull, from the family to whom the bird belonged. THE deep affections of the breast, That Heaven to living things imparts, Are not exclusively possessed By human hearts. A parrot, from the Spanish Main, Full young, and early caged, came o'er With bright wings, to the bleak domain Of Mulla's shore. To spicy groves where he had won His plumage of resplendent hue, His native fruits, and skies, and sun, He bade adieu. For these he changed the smoke of turf, A heathery land and misty sky, And turned on rocks and raging surf His golden e-e. But, petted, in our climate cold He lived and chattered many a day; Until with age, from green and gold His wings grew gray. 26* 30 CAMPBELL L L' S POE MI S. At last; when blind and seeming dumb, He scolded, laughed, and spoke no more, A Spanish stranger chanced to come To Mulla's shore; He hailed the bird in Spanish speech, The bird in Spanish speech replied, Flapped round his cage with joyous screech, Drotrned down, and died. ON GETTING HOME THE PORTRAIT OF A FEMALE CHILD, SIX YEARS OLD, PAINTED BY EUGENIO LATILLA. TYPE of the Cherubim above, Come, live with me, and be my love! Smile from my wall, dear roguish sprite, By sunshine and by candle-light; For both look sweetly on thy traits: Or, were the Lady-Moon to gaze, She'd welcome thee with lustre bland, Like some young fay from Fairy-Land. Cast in simplicity's own mould, How canst thou be so manifold In sportively distracting charms? Thy lips - thine eves - thy little arms That wrap thy shoulders and thy head In homeliest shawl of netted thread, Brown woollen net-work; yet it seeks Accordance with thy lovely cheeks, CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 307 And more becomes thy beauty's bloom Than any shawl from Cashmere's loom. Thou hast not, to adorn thee,' girl, Flower, link of gold, or gem, or pearl — I would not let a ruby speck The peeping whiteness of thy neck. Thou need'st no casket, witching elf; No gawd —thy toilet is thyself; Not ev'n a rose-bud from the bowerThyself a magnet - gem, and flower. My arch and playful little creature, Thou hast a mind in every feature; Thy brow, with its disparted locks, Speaks language that translation mocks: Thy lucid eyes so beam with soul, They on the canvas seem to roll, Instructing both my head and heart To idolize the painter's art. He marshals minds to Beauty's feast, He is Humanity's high priest, Who proves, by heavenly forms on earth, How much this world of ours is worth. Inspire me, child, with visions fair! For children, in Creation, are The only things that could be given Back, - and alive, unchanged, - to Heaven I 308 CAMPBELL'S POEMS SONG OF THE COLONISTS DEP!ARTING FOR NEW ZEALAND. STEER, helmsman, till you steer our way, By stars beyond the line; We go to found a realm, one day, Like England's self to shine. CHORUS. Cheer up! cheer up! our course we'll keep, With dauntless heart and hand; And when we've ploughed the stormy deep, We'll plough a smiling landA land, where beauties importune The Briton to its bowers, To sow but plenteous seeds, and prune Luxuriant fruits and flowers. Chorus. - Cheer up! cheer up! &c. There, tracts uncheered by human words, Seclusion's wildest holds, Shall hear the lowing of our herds, And tinkling of our folds. Chorus. - Cheer up! cheer up I &o Like rubies set in gold, shall blush Our vineyards girt with corn; And wine, and oil, and gladness gush From Amalthea's horn. Chorus. - Cheer up! cheer up I &e. Britannia's pride is in our hearts, Her blood is in our veins - CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 309 We'll girdle earth with British arts, Like Ariel's magic chains. CHORUS. Cheer up! cheer up! our course we'll keeqr WVith dauntless heart and hand; And when we've ploughed the stormy deep, We'll plough a smiling land. MOONLIGHT. THE kiss that would make a maid's cheek ]ush Wroth, as if kissing were a sin Amidst the Argus eyes and din And tell-tale glare of noon, Brings but a murmur and a blush, Beneath the modest moon. Ye days, gone- never to come back, When love returned entranced me so, That still its pictures move and glow In the dark chamber of my heart; Leave not my memory's future track — I will not let you part.'Twas moonlight, when my earliest love First on my bosom dropped her head; A moment then concentrated The bliss of years, as if the spheres Their course had faster driven, And carried Enoch-like above, A living man to Heaven. 310 CAMPBELL'S P O ] 1'Tis by the rolling moon we measure, The date between our nuptial night And that blest hour which brings to light The fruit of bliss - the pledge of faith; When we impress upon th- treasure A father's earliest kiss. The Moon's the Earth's enamored bride; True to him in her very changes, To other stars she never ranges: Though, crossed by him, sometimes she dips Her light, in short offended pride, And faints to an eclipse. I'he fairies revel by her sheen;'Tis only when the Moon's above The fire-fly kindles into love, And flashes light to show it: The nightingale salutes her Queen Of Heaven, her heavenly poet. Then ye that love -by moonlight gloom Meet at my grave, and plight regard. Oh! could I be the Orph6an bard Of whom it is reported, That nightingales sung o'er his tomb, Whilst lovers came and courted. CAMPBEL' S POE MS. 311 CORA LINN, OR THIE FALLS OF THI CLYDE. WRITTEN ON REVISITNG IT IN 1837. THE time I saw thee, Cora, last,'Twas with congenial friends; And calmer hours of pleasure past — My memory seldom sends. It was as sweet an Autumn day As ever shone on Clyde, And Lanark's orchards all the way, Put forth their golden pride; Ev'n hedges, busk'd in bravery, Looked rich that sunny morn; The scarlet hip and blackberry So pranked September's thorn. In Cora's glen the calm how deep! The trees on loftiest hill Like statues stood, or things asleep, All motionless and still. The torrent spoke, as if his noise Bade earth be quiet round, And give his loud and lonely voice A more commanding sound. His foam, beneath the yellow light Of noon, came down like one Continuous sheet of jaspers bright, Broad rolling by the sun. 812 CASCIPM BELL' S POEMS. Dear Linn! let loftier falling floods Have prouder names than thine; And king of all, enthroned in woods, Let Niagara shine. Barbarian, let him shake his coasts With reeking thunders far, Extended like the array of hosts In broad, embattled war! His voice appalls the wilderness: Approaching thine, we feel A solemn, deep melodiousness, That needs no louder peal. More fury would but disenchant Thy dream-inspiring dln; Be thou the Scottish Muse's haunt, Romantic Cora Linn. LINES SUGGESTED BY THE STATUE OF ARNOLD VON WINKELRIED,* STANZ-UNDERWALDEN. IN'SPIRING and romantic Switzers' land, Though marked with majesty by Nature's hand, What charm ennobles most thy landscape's face?The heroic memory of thy native race * For an account of this patriotic Swiss, and his heroic death at the battle of Sempach, see Dr. Beattie's "Switzerland Illustrated," vol. ii, pp. 111-115. CAMPBELL'S POEMS 313 Who forced cyrannic hosts to bleed or flee; And made their rocks the ramparts of the free Their fastnesses rolled back the invading tide Of conquest, and their mountains taught them pride: Hence they have patriot names - in fancy's eye, Bright as their glaciers glittering in the sky; Patriots who made the pageantries of kings Like shadows seem and unsubstantial things, Their guiltless glory mocks oblivion's rust, Imperishable, for their cause was just. Heroes of old! to whom the Nine have strung Their lyres, and spirit-stirring anthems sung; Heroes of chivalry! whose banners grace The aisles of many a consecrated place, Confess how few of you can match in fame The martyr Wrinkelried's immortal name!* * The advocates of classical learning tell us that, Without classic historians, we should never become acquainted with the most splendid traits of human character; but one of those traits, patriotic self-devotion, may surely be heard of elsewhere, without learning Greek and Latin. There are few, who have read modern history, unacquainted with the noble voluntary death of the Switzer Winkelried. Whether he was a peasant or man of superior birth, is a point not quite settled in history, though I am inclined to suspect that he was simply a peasant. But this is certain, that in the battle of Sempach, perceiving that there was no other means of breaking the heavy-armed lines of the Austrians than by gathering as many of their spears as he could grasp together, he he opened a passage for his fellow combatants, who, with hammers and hatchets, hewed down the mailed men-at-arms, and won the victory 27 314 CAMPBELL S POEMS. SONG OF OUR QUEEN. SET TO MUSIC BY CHARLES NEATE, ESQ. VICTORIA'S sceptre o'er the deep Has touched, and broken slavery's chain; Yet, strange magician! she enslaves Our hearts within her own domain. Her spirit is devout, and burns With thoughts averse to bigotry; Yet she, herself the idol, turns Our thoughts into idolatry. LINES ON MY NEW CHILD-SWEETHEART. I HOLD it a religious duty To love and worship children's beauty; They've least the taint of earthly clod, They're freshest from the hand of God; With heavenly looks they make us sure The heaven that made them must be pure; We love them not in earthly fashion, But with a beatific passion. I chanced to, yesterday, behold A maiden child of beauty's mould;'Twas near, more sacred was the scene, The palace of our patriot Queen. CAMPBELL'S POEMSI. 315 The little charmer, to my view Was sculpture brought to life anew; Her eyes had a poetic glow, Her pouting mouth was Cupid's bow: And through her frock I could descry Her neck and shoulders' symmetry.'Twas obvious from her walk and gait Her limbs were beautifully straight; I stopped the enchantress, and was told, Though tall, she was but four years old. Her guide so grave an aspect wore I could not ask a question more; But followed her. The little one Threw backward ever and anon Her lovely neck, as if to say, "I know you love me, Mister Grey;" For by its instinct childhood's eye Is shrewd in physiognomy; They well distinguish fawning art From sterling fondness of the heart. And so she flirted, like a true, Good woman, till we bade adieu. Twas then I with regret grew wild, Oh, beauteous, interesting child! Why asked I not thy home and name? My courage failed me- more's the shame. But where abides this jewel rare? Oh, ye that own her, tell me where! For sad it makes my heart and sore To think I ne'er may meet her more. 316 CAMPBELL'I POEiMS. TO THE UNITED STATES OF NORTH AMERICA. UNITED STATES, your banner wears Two emblems — one of fame; Alas, the other that it bears Reminds us of your shame. Your standard's constellation types White freedom -y its stars; But what's the meaning of the stripes? They mean your negroes' scars. THE LAUNCH OF A FIRST-RATE. wRITTEN ON WITNESSING THE SPECTACLE. ENGLAND hails thee with emotion, Mightiest child of naval art, Heaven resounds thy welcome! Ocean Takes thee smiling to his heart. liant oaks of bold expansion O'er seven hundred acres fell, All to build thy noble mansion, ~Where our hearts of oak shall dweL.'Midst those trees the wild deer bounded, Ages long ere we were born, CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 317 And our great-grandfathers sounded Many a jovial hunting-horn. Oaks that living did inherit Grandeur from our earth and sky, Still robust, the native spirit. In your timbers shall not die. Ship to shine in martial story, Thou shalt cleave the ocean's path, Freighted with Britannia's glory And the' thunders of her wrath. Foes shall crowd their sails and fly thee, Threatening havoc to their deck, When afar they first descry thee, Like the coming whirlwind's speck.'allant bark! thy pomp and beauty Storm or battle ne'er shall blast, Whilst our tars in pride and duty Nail thy colors to the mast. EPISTLE FROM ALGIERS. TO HORACE SMITH. DEAR HORACE! be melted to tears, For I'm melting with heat as I rhyme; Though the name of this place is All-jeers,'Tis no joke to fall in with its clime. 27* 318 c A PIPCAMIPBELL'S POEMS. With a shaver* from France who came o'er, To an Africar. inn I ascend; I am cast on a barbarous shore, Where a barber alone is my friend. Do you ask me the sights and the news Of this wonderful city to sing? Alas! my hotel has its mews, But no muse of the Helicon's spring. My windows afford me the sight Of a people all diverse in hue; They are black, yellow, olive and white, Whilst I in my sorrow look blue. Here are groups for the painter to take, Whose figures jocosely combine, - The Arab disguised in his haik,t And the Frenchman disguised in his wine. In his breeches of petticoat size You may say as the Mussulman goes, That his garb is a fair compromise'Twixt a kilt and a pair of small clothes. The Mooresses, shrouded in white, Save two holes for their eyes to give room, Seem like corpses in sport or in spite That have slyly whipped out of their tomb. * On board the vessel from Marseilles to Algiers I met with a fellow. passenger, whom I supposed to be a physlcian, from his dress and man ners, and the attentions which he paid me to alleviate the sufftrinlgs of my sea-sickness. He turned out to be a perruquier and barber in Algeria - but his vocation did not lower him in tmy estimation —for he continued his attentions till he passed my baggage through the customs, a id helped me, when half dead with exhaustatioti, to the best hotel. t A manltle -worn by the nlatives. C CAIPB ELL'S POEMS. 319 The old Jewish dames make me sick: If I were the devil, I declare Such hags should not mount a broom-stick In my service to ride through the air But hipped and undined as I am, My lhippogriff's course I must rein, - For the pain of my thirst is no sham, Though I'm bawling aloud for champagne. Dinner's brought; but the wines have no pith; They are flat as the statutes at law; And for all that they bring me, dear Smith! Would a glass of brown stout they could draw I O'er each French trashy dish as I bend, My heart feels a patriot's grief! And the round tears, O England! descend XVhen I think on a round of thy beef. Yes, my soul sentimentally craves British beer! Iail, Britannia, hail! To thy flag on the foam of the waves, And the foam on thy flagons of ale. Yet I own, in this hour of my drought, A dessert has most welcomely come; Here are peaches that melt in the mouth, And grapes blue and big as a plum. There are melons, too, luscious and great, But the slices I eat shall be few, For from melons incautiously eat Melancholic effects may ensue. Horrid pun! you'll exclaim; but be calm, Though my letter bears date, as you view, From the land of the date-bearing palm I will palm no more puns upon you. 320 CAMPBELL S POEMS. TO A YOUNG LADY, WHO ASKED ME TO WRITE SOMETHING ORIGINAL FOR 03 ALBUM. AN original something, fair maid, you would win me To write - but how shall I begin? For I fear I have nothing original in me - Excepting Original Sin. FRAGMENT OF AN ORATORIO, PFROM THE BOOX OP JOB. HAVING met my illustrious friend the Composer Neukomm, at Alglers, several years ago, I commenced this intended Oratorio at his desire, but he left the place before I proceeded farther in the poem; and it has be*e thus left unfinished. CRUSHED by misfortune's yoke, Job lamentably spoke:"'My boundless curse be on The day that I was born; Quenched be the star that shone Upon my natal morn. In the grave I long To shroud my breast; Where the wicked cease to wrong, And the weary are at rest." CAMPBELL S POEMS. 321 Then Eliphaz rebuked his wild despair:"Wc hat HIeaven ordairs,'tis meet that man should bear. Lately, at midnight drear, A vision shook my bones with fear; A spirit passed before my face, And yet its form I could not trace; It stopped, it stood, it chilled my blood, The hair upon my flesh uprose With fireezing dread! Deep silence reigned, and at its close I heard a voice that said-'Shall mortal man be more pure and just Than God, who made him from the dust? Hast thou not learned of old, how fleet Is the triumph of the hypocrite?How soon the wreath of joy grows wan On the brow of the ungodly man? By the fire of his conscience he perisheth In an unblown flame: The Earth demands his death, And the Heavens reveal his shame.'" JOB. Is this your consolation? Is it thus that ye condole WVith the depth of my desolation, And the anguish of my soul! But I swill not cease to wail The bitterness of my bale. Man that is born of woman, Short and evil is his hour; lie fieeth like a shadow,, IHe fadeth like a flower. MIy days are past; my hope and trust Is but to moulder in the dust. 322. CAMPBELL'S POEMS. CHORUS. Bow, mortal, bow, before thy God, Nor murmur at his chastening rod; Fragile being of earthly clay, Think on God's eternal sway! Hark! from the whirlwind forth Thy Maker speaks - "Thou child of earth, Where wert thou when I laid Creation's corner-stone When the sons of God rejoicing made, And the morning stars together sang and shone Hadst thou power to bid above Heaven's constellations glow; Or shape the forms that live and move On Nature's face below? Hast thou given the horse his strength and pride? He paws the valley with nostril wide, He smells far off te battle; He neighs at the trumpet's sound — And his speed devours the ground, As he sweeps to where the quivers rattle, And the spear and shield shine bright,'Midst the shouting of the captains Ad t the thunder of the fight sor et NOTES. P. 38, 1. 13. And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore The hardy Byron to his native shore - THE following picture of his own distress, given by BYRON in his simple and interesting narrative, justifies the description in page 5. After relating the barbarity of the Indian cacique to his child, he proceeds thus: -- "A day or two after we put to sea again, and crossed the great bay I mentioned we had been at the bottom of when we first hauled away to the westward. The land here was very low and sandy, and something like the mouth of a river which discharged itself into the sea, and which had been taken no notice of by us before, as it was so shallow that the Indians were obliged to take every thing out of their canoes, and carry them over land. We rowed up the river four or five leagues, and then took into a branch of it that ran first to the eastward, and then to the northward: here it became much narrower, and the stream excessively rapid, so that we gained but little way, though we wrought very hard. At night we landed upon its banks, and had a most uncomfortable lodging, it being a perfect swamp, and we had 28 3'36 NOTES. nothing to cover us, though it rained excessively. The Indians were little better off than we, as there was no wood here to make their wigwams; so that all they could do was to prop up the bark, which they carry in the bottom of their canoes, and shelter themselves as well as they could to the leeward of it. Knowing the difficulties they had to encounter here, they had provided themselves with some seal; but we had not a morsel to eat, after the heavy fatigues of the clay, excepting a sort of root we saw the Indians make use of, which was very disagreeable to the taste. We labored all next day against the stream, and fared as we had done the day before. The next day brought us to the carrying place. IHere was plenty of wood, but nothing to be got for sustenance. We passed this night, as we had frequently done, under a tree; but what we suffered at this time is not easy to be expressed. I had been three days at the oar without any kind of nourishment except the wretched root above mentioned. I had no shirt, for it had rotted off by bits. All my clothes consisted of a short grieko, (something like a bear-skin,) a piece of red cloth which had once been a waistcoat, and a ragged pair of trousers, without shoes or stockings." P. 38, 1. 32. a Briton and a friend! Don Patricio Gedd, a Scotch physician in one of the Spanish settlements, hospitably relieved Byron and his wretched associates, of which the Commodore speaks in the warmest terms of gratitude. NO TES 327 P. 39, 1. 12. Or yield the lyre of Hieaven another string. l'he seven strings of Apollo's harp were the symbodical representation of the seven planets. Herschel, by discovering an eighth, might be said to add another string tc the instrument.:- P. 39, 1. 13. The Swoedish sage. P. 40, 1. 1. Deep from his vaults the Loxian murmurs flow. Loxias is the name frequently given to Apollo by Greek writers. It is met with more than once in the Choephorm of.Eschylus. P. 41, 1. 1. Unlocks a generous store at thy command, Like Horeb's rocks beneath the prophet's hand. See Exodus, chap. xvii. 3, 5, 6. P. 45, 1. 16. Wild Obi flies- - Among the negroes of the West Indies, Obi, or Orbiah, is the name of a magical power, which is believed by them to affect the object of its malignity Nwith dismal calamities. Such a belief must undoubtedly have been deduced from the superstitious mythology of their linsmen on the coast of Africa. I have, therefore, personified Obi as the evil 328 N OTES. sl)irit of the African, although the history of the African tribes mentions the evil spirit of their religious creed by a different appellation. P. 45, 1. 20. -- Sibir's dreary mines. Mr. Bell, of Antermony, in his Travels through Siberia, informs us that the name of the country is universalT pronounced Sibir by the Russians. P. 45, 1. 34. Presaging wrath to Poland - and to man! The history of the partition of Poland, of the massacre in the suburbs of Warsaw, and on the bridge of Prague, the triumphant entry of Suwarrow into the Polish capital, and the insult offered to human nature, by the blasphemous thanks offered up to Heaven, for victories obtained over men fighting in the sacred cause of liberty, by murderers and oppressors, are events generally known. P. 50, 1. 31. The shrill horn blew. The negroes in the WNest Indies are summoned to their morning work by a shell or horn. P. 51, 1. 16. HIow long was Timour's iron seeptre swayck) To elucidate this passage, I shall subjoin a quotation NOTES. 329 from the preface to Letters from a Iindoo Rajah, a work of elegance and celebrity. "The impostor of Mecca had established, as one of the principles of his doctrine, the merit of extending it, either by persuasion, or the sword, to all parts of the earth. How steadily this injunction was adhered to by his followers, and with what success it was pursued, is well known to all who are in the least conversant in history. "The same overwhelming torrent which had inundated the greater part of Africa, burst its way into the very heart of Europe, and covering many kingdoms of Asia with un- i bounded desolation, directed its baneful course to the flourishing provinces of Hindostan. Here these fierce and hardy adventurers, whose only improvement had been in the science of destruction, who added the fury of fanaticism to the ravages of war, found the great end of their conquest opposed by objects which neither the ardor of their persevering zeal, nor satage barbarity, could surmount. Multitudes were sacrificed by the cruel hand of religious persecution, and whole countries were deluged in blood, in the vain hope, that by the destruction of a part the remainder might be persuaded, or terrified, into the profession of Mahomedism. -But all these sanguinary efforts were ineffectual; and at length, being fully convinced, that though they might extirpate, they could never hope to convert, any number of the Hindoos, they relinquished the impracticable idea with which they had entered upon their career of conquest, and contented themselves with the acquirement of the civil dominion and almost universal empire of Hindostan.' - Letters from a faindoo Rajah, by Eliza Ilamilton. I! 283* 330 No T E S. P. 51, 1. 30. And braved the stormy Spirit of the Cape. See the description of the Cape of Good Hope, translated from CAM6sENS, by MICXILE. P.52,1.10. tWhile famished nations died along the shore. The following account of British conduct, and its consequences, in Bengal, will afford a sufficient idea of the fact alluded to in this passage. After describing the monopoly of salt, betel-nut, and tobacco, the historian proceeds thus: —"Money in this current came but by drops; it could not quench the thirst of those who waited in India to receive it. An expedient, such as it was, remained to quicken its pace. The natives could live with little salt, but could not want food. Some of the agents saw themselves well situated for collecting the rice into stores: they did so. They knew the Gentoos i would rather die than violate the principles of their religion by eating flesh. The alternative would therefore be between giving what they had, or dying. The inhabitants sunk: they that cultivated the land, and saw the harvest at the disposal of others, planted in doubt: —scarcity ensued. Then the monopoly was easier managed: — sickness ensued. In some districts, the languid living left the bodies of their numerous dead unburied." - Short History of the English Transactions in the East Indies, p. 145. N TES. 331 P. 52, 1. 25. Nrine times have Brama's wheels of lightning hurled His awfuzl presence o'er the alarmed world. Among the sublime fictions of the Hindoo mythology, it is one article of belief, that the Deity Brama has descended nine times upon the world in various forms, and that he is yet to appear a tenth time, in the figure of a warrior upon a white horse, to cut off all incorrigible offenders. Avatar is the word used to express his descent. P. 53, 1. 10. Shall Seriswattee wave her hallowed wand! And Camdeo bright, and Ganesa sitblime. Camdeo is the God of Love in the mythology of the Hindoos. Ganesa and Seriswattee correspond to the pagan deities, Janus and Minerva. P. 58, 1. 32. The noon of manhood to a myrtle shade!Sacred to Venus is the myrtle shade. - Dryden. P. 61, 1. 19. Thy woes, Arion! Falconer, in his poem, "The Shipwreck," speaks of himself by the name of Arion. - See Falconer's " Shipwreck," canto iii. P. 61, 1. 32. The robber.Moor! See Schiller's?ragedy of " lhe Robbers," scene v 332 Ni O T E S. P. 62, 1. 16 What millions died —that Caesar might be great! The carnage occasioned by the wars of Julius Caesar has been usually estimated at two millions of men. P. 62, l. 17. Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore, Marched avn their Charles to Dnieper's swampy shore. "In this extremity," (says the biographer of Charlcs XII. of Sweden, speaking of his military exploits before the battle of Pultowa,) "the memorable winter of 1709, which was still more remarkable in that part of Enrope than in France, destroyed numbers of his troops; for Charles resolved to brave the seasons, as he had done his enemies, and ventured to make long marches during this mortal cold. It was in one of these marches that two thosand men fell down dead with cold before his eyes." P. 63, 1. 7. As lona's saint. The natives of the island of Iona have an opinion, that on certain evenings every year, the tutelary saint Columba is seen on the top of the church spires counting the surrounding islands, to see that they have not been sunk by the power of witchcraft. P. 63, 1. 26. And part, like Ajut - never to return! See the history of Ajut and Anningait, in "The Ramn bler,' NOTES. 3:33 P. 76, 1. 6. From merry mock-bird's song. The mocking-bird is of the form of, but larger than, tho thrush; and the colors are a mixture of black, white, and.gray. WVhat is said of the nightingale by its greatest admirers is what may with more propriety apply to this bird, who, in a natural state, sings with very superior taste. Towards evening I have heard one begin softly, reserving its breath to swell certain notes, which, by this means, had a most astonishing effect. A gentleman in London had one of these birds for six years. During the space of a minute he was heard to imitate the woodlark, chaffinch, blackbird, thrush, and sparrow. In this country (America) I have frequently known the mocking-birds so engaged in this mimicry, that it was with much difficulty I could ever obtain an opportunity of hearing their own natural note. Some go so far as to say, that they have neither peculiar notes, nor favorite imitations. This may be denied. Their few natural notes resemble those of the (European) nightingale. Their song, however, has a greater compass and volume than the nightingale's, and they have the faculty of varying all intermediate notes in a maimer which is truly delightful. - Ashe's Travels in America, vol. ii. p. 73. P. 76, 1. 27. And distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan roar. The Corybrechtan, or Corbrechtan, is a whirlpool on the western coast of Scotland, near the island of Jura, which is heard at a prodigious distance. Its name signifies 331 o T E S. the whirlpool of the Prince of Denmark; and there is a tradition that a Danish prince once undertook, for a wager, to cast anchor in it. He is said to have used woollen instead of hempen ropes, for greater strength, but perished in the attempt. On the shores of Argyleshire, I have often listened with great delight to the sound of this vortex, at the distance of many leagues. WVhen the weather is calm, and the adjacent sea scarcely heard on these picturesque shores, its sound, which is like the sound of innumerable chariots, creates a magnificent and fine effect. P. 79, 1. 8. Of buskined limb, and swarthy lineament. In the Indian tribes there is a great similarity in their color, stature, &c. They are all, except- the Snake Indians, tall in stature, straight, and robust. It is very seldom they are deformed, which has given rise to the supposition that they put to death their deformed childxen. Their skin is of a copper color; their eyes large, bright, black, and sparkling, indicative of a subtle and discerning mind: their hair is of the same color, and prone to be long, seldom or never curled. Their teeth are large and white; I never observed any decayed among them, which- makes their breath as sweet as the air they ifhale. - Travels through America by Captains Lbwis and Clarke in 1804-5-6. P. 79, 1. 19. "Peace be to thee! my words this belt approve. The Indians 4,f North America accompany every formaa NOTES. 335 address to strangers, with whom they form or recognize a treaty of amity, with a present of a string, or belt, of wampum Wampum (says Cadwallader Colden) is made of the large whelk shell, buccinum, and shaped like long beads: it is the current money of the Indians. - History of the Five Indian Nations, p. 34, New York edition. P. 79, 1. 20. The paths of peace my steps have hither led. In relating an interview of Mohawk Indians with the Governor of New York, Colden quotes the following passage as a specimen of their metaphorical manner: " Where shall I seek the chair of peace? Where shall I find it but upon our path? and whither doth our path lead us but unto this house?" P. 79, 1. 24. Our wampum league thy brethren did embrace. When they solicit the alliance, offensive or defensive, of a whole nation, they send an embassy with a large belt of wampum and a bloody hatchet, inviting theli to come and drink the blood of their enemies. The wampum made use of on these and other occasions, before their acquaintance with the Europeans, was nothing but small shells which they picked up by the sea coasts, and on the banks of the lakes; and now it is nothing but a kind of cylindrical beads, made of shells, white and black, which are esteemed among them as silver and gold are among us. The black they call the most valuable, and both together are their greatest riches and ornaments; NOTES. these among them answering all the end that money does amongst us. They have the art of stringing, twisting, and interweaving them into their belts, collars, blankets, and moccasins, &c., in ten thousand different sizes, forms, and figures, so as to be ornaments for every part of dress, and expressive to them of all their important transactions. They dye the wampum of various colors and shades, and mix and dispose them with great ingenuity and order, and so as to be significant among themselves of almost every thing they please; so that by these their words are kept, and their thoughts communicated to one another, as ours are by writing. The belts that pass from one nation to another in all treaties, declarations, and important transactions, are very carefully preserved in the cabins of their chiefs, and serve not only as a kind of record or history, but as a public treasure. - Major Rogers's Account of North America. P. 80, 1. 14. As wzhen the evil Manitou It is certain the Indians acknowledge one Supreme Being, or Giver of Life, who presides over all things; that is, the Great Spirit; and they look up to him as the source of good, from whence no evil can proceed. They also believe in a bad Spirit, to whom they ascribed great power; and suppose that through his power all the evils which befall mankind are afflicted. To him, therefore, they pray in their distresses, begging that he would either avert their troubles, or moderate them when they are no longer avoidable. They hold also that there are good Spirits of a lower NOTES. 337 Jegree, who have their particular departiaents, in which they are constantly contributing to the happiness of mortals. These they suppose to preside over all the extraordinary productions of Nature, such as those lakes, rivers, and mountains that are of an uncommon magnitude; and likewise the beasts, birds, fishes, and even vegetables or stones, that exceed the rest of their species in size or singularity. - Clarke's Travels anwng the Indians. The Supreme Spirit of Good is called by the Indians Kitchi Manitou; and the Spirit of Evil, Matchi Manitou. P. 81, 1. 2. Of fever-balm and sweet sagamite: The fever-balm is a medicine used by these tribes; it is a decoction of a bush called the Fever Tree. Sagamite is a kind of soup administered to their sick. P. 81, 1. 10. And I, the eagle of my tribe, have rushed With this lorn dove. The testimony of all travellers among the Americain Indians who mention their hieroglyphics, authorizes me in putting this figurative language in the mouth of Outallissi. The dove is among them, as elsewhere, an emblem of meekness; and the eagle that of a bold, noble, and liberal mind. When the Indians speak of a warrior who soars above the multitude in person and endowments, they say, " he is like the eagle, who destroys his enemies, and gives protection and abundance to the weak of his own tribe." 29 NOTES. P. 82, 1. 11. Far dlfferetl/y, the mute Oneida took, ec. Tlhley are extremely circumspect and deliberate in every wtord and action; nothing hurries them into any intemnperate wrath, but that inveteracy to their enemies which is rooted in every Indian's breast. In all other instances they are cool and deliberate, taking care to suppress the emotions of the heart. If an Indian has discovered that a friend of his is in danger of being cut off by a lurking enemy, he does not tell him of his danger in direct terms, as though he were in fear, but he first coolly asks him which way he is going that clday, and having his answer, vith the same indifference, tells him that he has been informed that a noxious beast lies on the route he is going. This hint proves sufficient, and his friend avoids the danger with as much caution as though every design and motion of his enemy had been pointed out to him. If an Indian has been engaged for several days in the chase, and by accident continued long without food, when he arrives at the hut of a friend, where he knows that his wants will be immediately supplied, he takes care not to show the least symptoms of impatience, or betray the extreme hunger that he is tortured with; but on being invited in, sits contentedly down, and smokes his pipe with as much composure as.if his appetite was cloyed, and he was perfectly at ease. He does the same if among strangers. This custom is strictly adhered to by every tribe, as they esteem it a proof of fortitude, and think the reverse would entitle them to the appellation of old women. N oTE. 339 If you tell an Indian that his children have greatly signalized themselves against an enemy, having taker. nlany scalps, and brought home many prisoners, he does not appear to feel any strong emotions of pleasure on the occasion; his answer generally is, - " They have done -well," and he makes but very little inquiry about the matter; on the contrary, if you inform him that his children are slain or taken prisoners, he makes no comnplaints: he only replies, " It is unfortunate: "-and for some time asks no questions about how it happened. - Lewis and Clarke's Travels. P. 82, 1. 12. His calumet of peace, ~c. Nor is the calumet of less importance or less revered than the wampum in many transactions relative both to peace and war. The bowl of this pipe is made of a kind of soft red stone, which is easily wrought and hollowed out; the stem is of cane, alder, or some kind of light wood, painted with different colors, and decorated with the heads, tails, and feathers of the most beautiful birds. The use of the calumet is to smoke either tobacco, or some bark, leaf, or herb, which they often use instead of it, when they enter into an alliance on any serious occasion or solemn engagements; this being among them the most sacred oath that can be taken, the violation of which is esteemed most infamous, and deserving of severe punishment from Ieavein. When they treat of war, the whole pipe and all its ornaments are red: sometimes it is red only on one ~Sidfe, and by the disposition of the feathers, &c., .340 Nr OTES. one acquainted with their customs will know at first sight what the nation who presents it intends or desires. Smoking the calumet is also a religious ceremony on some occasions, and in all treaties is considered as a witness between the parties, or rather as an instrument by which they invoke the sun and moon to witness their sincerity, and to be as it were a guarantee of the treaty between them. This custom of the Indians, though to appearance somewhat ridiculous, is not without its reasons; for as they find that smoking tends to disperse the vapors of the brain, to raise the spirits, and to qualify them for thinking and judging properly, they introduced it into their councils, where, after their resolves, the pipe was considered as a seal of their decrees, and as a pledge of their performance thereof it was sent to those they were consulting, in alliance or treaty with; - so that smoking among them at the same pipe, is equivalent to our drinking together, and out of the same cup. -l Mjor Rogers's Account of North America, 1766. The lighted calumet is also used among them for a purpose still more interesting than the expression of social friendship. The austere manners of the Indians forbid any appearance of gallantry between the sexes in the daytime; but at night the young lover goes a calumetting, as his courtship is called. As these people live in a state of equality, and without fear of internal violence or theft in their own tribes, they leave their doors open by night as well as by day. The lover takes advantage of this liberty, lights his calumet, enters the cabin of his mistress, and gently presents it to her. If she extinguish it, she adinits his addresses: but if she suffer it to burn nmncticed. bh NO T E S. 3-11 retires with a disappointed and throbbing heart - Ashe's Travels. P. 82, 1. 15. Trained fromnz hls tree-rocked cradle to his bier. An Indian child, as soon as he is born, is swathed with clothes, or skins; and being laid on his bak, is bound down on a piece of thick board, spread over with soft moss. The board is somewhat larger and broader than the child, and bent pieces of wood, like pieces of hoops, are placed over its face to protect it, so that if the machine were suffered to fall the child probably would not be injured. When the women have any business to transact at home, they hang the boards on a tree, if there be one at hand, and set them a swinging from side to side, like a pendulum, in order to exercise the children. - Weld, vol ii. p. 246. P. 82, 1. 16. The fierce extreme of good and ill to brook Inmpassive - Of the active as well as passive fortitude of the Indian character, the following is an instance related by Adair in his Travels:- A party of the Senekah Indians came to war against the Katahba,- bitter enemies to each other. In the woods the former discovered a sprightly warrior belonging to the latter, hunting in their usual light dress. On his perceiving them, he sprang off for a hollow rock four or five miles distant, as they intercepted him from running homeward. He was so extremely swift and skilful with the 29* 24u2 NOTES. gun, as to kill seven of them in the running fight, before they were able to surround and take him. They carried him to their country in sad triumph: but though he had filled them with uncommon grief and shame for the loss of so many of their kindred, yet the love of martial virtue induced them to treat him, during their long journey, with a great deal more civility than if he had acted the part of a coward. The women and children, when they met him at their several towns, beat him and whipped him in as severe a manner as the occasion required, according to their law of justice; and at last he was formally condemned to die by the fiery torture. - It might reasonably be imagined, that what he had for some time gone through, by being fed with a scanty hand, a tedious march, lying at night on the bare ground, exposed to the changes of the weather, with his arms and legs extended in a pair of rough stocks, and suffering such punishment on his en tering into their hostile towns, as a prelude to those sharI torments for which he was destined, would have so impaired his health, and affected his imagination, as to have sent him to his long sleep, out of the way of any more sufferings. Probably this would have been the case with the major part of white people under similar circumstances; but I never knew this with any of the Indians; and this cool-headed, brave warrior did not deviate from their rough lessons of martial virtue, but acted his part so well as to surprise and sorely vex his numerous enemies; for when they were taking him, unpinioned, in their wild parade, to the place of torture, which lay near to a river, he suddenly dashed down those who stood in his way, sprang off, and plunged into the water, swimming under NOTES. 343 neath like an otter, only rising to take breath, till he had reached the opposite shore. He now ascended the steep bank, but though he had good reason to be in a hurry, as many of the enemy were in the water, and others running, very like bloodhounds, in pursuit of him, and the bullets flying around him from the time he took to the river, yet his heart did not allow him to leave them abruptly, without taking leave in a formal manner, in return for the extraordinary favors they had done, and intended to do him. After slapping a part of his body in defiance to them, (continues the author,) he put up the shrill warwhoop, as his last salute, till some more convenient opportunity offered, and darted off in the manner of a beast broke loose from its torturing enemies. He continued his speed, so as to run by about midnight of the same day as far as his eager pursuers were two days in reaching. There he rested till he happily discovered five of those Indians who had pursued him: he lay hid a little way off their camp, till they were sound asleep. Every circumstance of his situation occurred to him, and inspired him with heroism. He was naked, torn, and hungry, and his enraged enemies were come up with him; —but there was now every thing to relieve his wants, and a fair opportunity to save his life, and get great honor and sweet revenge by cutting them off. Resolution, a convenient spot, and sudden surprise, would effect the main object of all his wishes and hopes. He accordingly crept, took one of their tomahawks, and killed them all on the spot, - clothed himself, look a choice gun, and as much ammunition and provisions as he could well carry in a running march. He set off afresh, with a light hepxt, and did not sleep for several .d34 NOTE S. successive nights, only when he reclined, as usual, a little before day, with his back to a tree. As it were by instinct, when he found Ihe was free from the pursuing eneiny, he made directly to the very place where he had killec seven of his enemies, and was taken by them for the fiery torture. He digged them up, burnt their bodies to ashes. and went home in safety with singular triumph. Other pursuing enemies came, on the evening of the second day, to the camp of their dead people, when the sight gave them a greater shock than they had ever known before. In their chilled war-council they concluded, that as he had done such surprising things.in his defence before he was captivated, and since that in his naked condition, and now was well armed, if they continued the pursuit he would spoil them all, for he surely was an enemy-wizard; and therefore they returned home. - Adair's General Observations on the American Indians, p. 394. It is surprising (says the same author) to see the longcontinued speed of the Indians. Though some of us have often run the swiftest of them out of sight for about the distance of twelve miles, yet afterwards, without any seeming toil, they would stretch on, leave us out of sight, and outwind any horse. - Ibid, p. 318. If an Indian were driven out into the extensive woods, with only a knife and a tomahawk, or a small hatchet, it is not to be doubted but he would fatten even where a wolf would starve. He would soon collect fire by rubbing two dry pieces of wood together, make a bark hut, earth en vessels, and a bow and arrows: then kill wild game, fish, fresh-water tortoises, gather a plentiful variety of vegetables, and live in affluence. - Ibid, p. 410. NOTES. 3;5 P. 82, 1. 25. Moccasins are a sort of Indian buskins. P. 82, 1. 28 Sleep, wearied one! and in the dreaming land Shouldst thou to-morrow with thy mother meet, There is nothing (says Charlevoix) in which these bar. karians carry their superstitions farther than in what regards dreams; but they vary greatly in their manner of explaining themselves on this point." Sometimes it is the reasonable soul which ranges abroad, while the sensitive continues to animate the body. Sometimes it is the familiar genius who gives salutary counsel with respect to whatis going to happen. Sometimes it is a visit made by the soul of the object of which he dreams. But in whatever manner the dream is conceived, it is always looked upon as a thing sacred, and as the most ordinary way in which the gods make known their will to men. Filled with this idea, they can not conceive how we should pay no regard to them. For the most part, they look upon them either as a desire of the soul, inspired by some genius, or an order from him, and in consequence of this principle they hold it a religious duty to obey them. An Indian having dreamed of having a finger cut off, had it really cut off as soon as he awoke, having first prepared himself for this important action by a teast. Another having dreamed of being a prisoner, and in the hands of his enemies, was much at a loss what to do. tie consulted the jugglers, and by their aJvic caused himscef to be tied to a post 346 N o T E S and burnt in several parts of the bony. - Charlevoix, Jourt nol of a Voyage to North America. P. 83 1 7. From a flower shaped like a horn, which Chateaubriand presumes to be of the lotus kind, the Indians in their travels through the desert often find a draught of dew purer than any other water. P. 83, 1. 12. The crocodile, the condor of the rock. The alligator, or American crocodile, when full-grown, (says Bertram,) is a very large and terrible creature, and of prodigious strength, activity, and swiftness in the water. I have seen them twenty feet in length, and some are supposed to be twenty-two or twenty-three feet in length. Their body is as large as that of a horse, their shape usually resembles that of a lizard, which is flat, or cuneiform, being compressed on each side, and gradually diminishing from the abdomen to the extremity, which, with the whole body, is covered with horny plates, or squamne, impenetrable, when on the body of the live animal, even to a rifleball, except about their head, and just behind their forelegs or arms, where, it is said, they are only vulnerable. The head of a full-grown one is about three feet, and the mouth opens nearly the same length. Their eyes are small in proportion, and seem sunk in the head, by means of the prominency of the brows; the nostrils are large, inflated, and prominent on the top, so that the head on the water resembles, at a distance, a great chunk of wood floating NOTES. 34? about. Only the upper jaw moves, which they raise almost perpendicular, so as to form a right-angle with the lower one. In the fore-part of the upper jaw, on each side, just under the nostrils, are two very large, thick, strong teeth, or tusks, not very sharp, but rather the shape of a cone: these are as white as the finest polished ivory, and are not covered by any skin or lips, but always in sight, which gives the creature a frightful appearance; in the lower jaw are holes opposite to these teeth to receive them: when they clap their jaws together, it causes a surprising noise, like that which is made by forcing a heavy plank with violence upon t; e ground, and may be heard at a great distance. But what is yet more surprising to a stranger, is the incredibly loud and terrifying roar which they are capable of making, especially in breeding time. It most resembles very heavy distant thunder, not only shaking the air and waters, but causing the earth to tremble; and when hundreds are roaring at the. same time, you can scarcely be persuaded but that the whole globe is violently and dangerously agitated. An old champion, who is, perhaps, absolute sovereign of a little lake or lagoon, (when fifty less than himself are obliged to content themselves with swelling and roaring in little coves round about,) darts forth from the reedy coverts, all at once, on the surface of the waters, in a right line, at first seemingly as rapid as lightning, but gradually more slowly, until he arrives at the centre of the lake, where he stops. He now swells himself by drawing in wind and water through his mouth, which causes a loud sonorous rattling in the throat for near a minute; but it is immediately forced out again through his mouth and nostrils with a loud noise, bran. 3-'8 r OTE S r. dishing his tail in the air, and the vapor running fron is nostrils like smoke. At other times, when swollen to an extent ready to burst, his head and tail lifted up, he spins or twirls round on the surface of the water. lie acts his part like an Indian chief, when rehearsing the feats of war.- Bertram's Travels inz lNorth America. P. 83, 1. 20. Then forth uprose that lone way-faring man. They discover an amazing sagarity, and acquire, with Lthe greatest readiness, any thing that depends upon the attention of the mind. By experience, and an acute.observation, they attain many perfections to which the Americans are strangers. For instance, they will cross a forest or a plain, which is two hundred miles in breadth, so as to reach with great exactness the point at which they intend to arrive, keeping, during the whole of that space, in a direct line, without any material deviations; and this they will do with the same ease, let the weather be fair or cloudy. With equal acuteness they will point to that part of the heavens the sun is in, though it be intercepted by clouds or fogs. Besides this, they are able to pursue, with incredible facility, the traces of man or beast, either on leaves or grass; and on this account it is with great difficulty they escape discovery. They are indebted for these talents, not only to nature, but to an extraordinary command of the intellectual qualities, which can only be acquired by an unremitted attention, and by long experience. They are, in general, very happy in a retentive memory. They can recapitulate every particular that has NO TE S. 349 been treated of in council, and remember the exact time when they were held. Their belts of wampum preserve the substance of the treaties they have concluded with the neighboring tribes for ages back, to which they will appeal and refer with as much perspicuity and readiness as Europeans can to their written records. The IDdians are totally unskilled in geography, as well as all the other sciences, and yet they draw on their birchbark very exact charts or maps of the countries they are acquainted with. The latitude and longitude only are wanting to make them tolerably complete. Their sole knowledge in astronomy consists in being able to point out the polar star, by which they regulate their course when they travel in the night. They reckon the distance of places not by miles or leagues, but by a day's journey, which, according to the best calculation I could make, appears to be about twenty English miles. These they also divide into halves and quarters, and will demonstrate them in their maps with great exactness by the hieroglyphics just mentioned, when they regulate in council their war-parties, or their most distant hunting excursions. - Lewis and Clarke's Travels. Some of the French missionaries have supposed that the Indians are guided by instinct, and have pretended that Indian children can find their way tlirouglh a forest as easily as a person of maturer years; but this is a most absurd notion. It is unquestionably by a close attention to the growth of the trees, and position of the sun, that they find their way. On the northern side of a.tree there is generally the most moss; and the bark on that side, in general, differs from that on the opposite one. The 30 3,N0 OTES. branches toward the south are, for the most part, more luxuriant than those on the other sides of trees, and several other distinctions also subsist between the northern and southern sides, conspicuous to Indians, being taught from their infancy to attend to them, which a common observer would, perhaps, never notice. B]eing accustomed from their infancy likewise to pay great attention to the position of the sun, they learn to make the most accurate allowance for its apparent motion from one part of the heavens to another; and in every part of the day they will point to the part of the heavens where it is, although the sky be obscured by clouds or mists. An instance of their dexterity in finding their way through an unknown country came under my observation when I was at Staunton, situated behind the Blue Mountains, Virginia. A number of the Creek nation had arrived at that town on their way to Philadelphia, whither they were going upon some affairs of importance, and had stopped there for the night. In the morning, some circumstance or other, which could not be learned, induced one half of the Indians to set off without their companions, who did not follow until some hours afterwards. When these last were ready to pursue their journey, several of the towns-people mounted their horses to escort them part of the way. They proceeded along the high road for some miles, but, all, at once, hastily turning aside into the woods, though there was no path, the Indians advanced confidently forward. The people who accompanied them, surprised at this movement, informed them that they were quitting the road to Philadelphia, and expressed their fear lest they should miss NOTES. 351 their companions who had gone on before. They answered that they knew better, that the way through the woods Mas the shortest to Philadelphia, and that they knew very well that their companions had entered the wood at the very place where they did. Curiosity led some of the horsemen to go on; and to their astonishment, for there was apparently no track, they overtook the other Indians in the thickest part of the wood. But what appeared most singular was, that the route which they took was found, on examining a map, to be as direct for Philadelphia as if they had taken the bearings by a mariner's compass. From others of their nation, who had been at Philadelphia at a former period, they had probably learned the exact direction of that city from their villages, and had never lost sight of it, although they had already travelled three hundred miles through the woods, and had upwards of four hundred miles more to go before they could reach the place of their destination. Of the exactness with which they can find out a strange place to which they have been once directed by their own people, a striking example is furnished, I think, by Mr. Jefferson, in his account of the Indian graves in Virginia. These graves are nothing more than large mounds of earth in the woods, which, on being opened, are found to contain skeletons in an erect posture: the Indian mode of sepulture has been too often described to remain unknown to you. But to come to my story: A party of Indians that were passing on to some of the seaports on the Atlantic, just as the Creeks above mentioned were going to Phila(dcelphia, were observed, all on a sudden, to quit the straight road by which they were proceeding, and without ?352 NOTES. asking any questions, to strike through the woods, in a direct line, to one of these graves, which lay at the distance of some miles from the road. Now very near a century must have passed over since the part of Virginia in which this grave was situated had been inhabited by Indians, and these Indian travellers, who were to visit it by themselves, had unquestionably never been in that part of the country before: they must have found their way to it simply from the description of its situation that had been handed down to them by tradition. — Weld's Travels in North America, vol. ii. P. 87, 1. 30. Their fathers' dust, - It is a custom of the Indian cribes to visit the tombs of their ancestors in the cultivated-parts of America, who have been buried for upwards of a century. P, 90, 1. 8. Or wild-cane arch high flung o'er gulf profound. The bridges over narrow streams, in many parts of Spanish America, are said to be built of cane, which, however strong to support the passenger, are yet waved in the agitation of the storm, and frequently add to the effect of a mountainous and picturesque scenery. P. 99, 1. 8. The Miammoth comes, That I am justified in making the Indian chief allude NOTES. 333. to the mammoth as an. emblem of terror and destruction, will be seen by the authority quoted below. Speaking of the mammoth or big buffalo, Mr. Jefferson states, that a tradition is preserved among the Indians of that animal still existing in the northern parts of America. "A delegation of warriors from the Delaware tribe having visited the governor of Virginia during the revolution, on matters of business, the governor asked them some questions relative to their country, and, among others, what they knew or had heard of the animal whose bones were found at the Salt-licks, on the Ohio. Their chief sp aker immediately put himself into an attitude of oratory, and with a pomp suited to what he conceived the elevation of his. subject, informed him that it was a tradition handed down from their fathers, that in ancient times a herd of these tremendous animals came to the Bick-bone-licks, and began an universal destruction of the bear, deer, elk, buffalo, and other animals which had been created for the use of the Indians. That the Great Man above looking down and seeing this, was so enraged, that he seized his lightning, descended on the earth, seated himself on a neighboring mountain Oil a rock, on which his seat and the prints of his feet are still to be seen, and hurled his bolts among them, till the while were slaughtered, except the big bull, who, presenting his forehead to the shafts, shook them off as they fell, but missing one, at length, it wounded him in the side, whereon, springing round, he bounded over the Ohio, over the Wabash, the Illinois, and finally over the great lakes, where he is living at this day." -- Jefferson's Notes on Virginia. 33* a54 0OTES. P. 99, 1. 14. Scorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe,'Gainst Brandt himself I went to battle forth. I took the character of Brandt in the poem of Gertrude from the common Histories of England, all of which represented him as a bloody and bad man, (even among savagts,) and chief agent in the horrible desolation of Wyoming. Some years after this poem appeared, the son of Brandt, a most interesting and intelligent youth, came over to England, and I formed an acquaintance with him on which I still look back with pleasure. Ie appealed to my sense of honor and justice, on his own part, and on that of his sister, to retract the unfair aspersions which, unconscious of their unfairness, I had cast on his father's memory. He then referred me to documents which completely satisfied me that the common accounts of Brandt's cruelties at Wyoming, which I had found in books of Travels, and in Adolphus's and similar Histories of England, were gross errors, and that in point of fact Brandt was not even present at that scene of desolation. It is, unhappily, -to Britons and Anglo-Americans that we must refer the chief blame in this horrible business. I published a letter expressing this belief in the New Monthly Magazine, in the year 1822, to which I must refer the reader- if he has any curiosity on the subject - for an antidote to my fanciful description of Brandt. Among other expressions to young Brandt, I made use of the following words: - "Had I learned all this of your father when I was writing my poem, he should not have O T E S. - ~355 figured in it as the hero of mischief.' It was but bare justice to say thus much of a Mohawk Indian, who spoke English eloquently, and was thought capable of having written a history of the Six Nations. I ascertained also that he often strove to mitigate the cruelty of Indian warfare. The name of Brandt, therefore; remains in my poem a pure and declared character of fiction. P. 99, 1. 21. To whomn ncr relative nor blood remains, 2ro n!-ot a kindred drop that runs in human veins! Every one who recollects the specimen of Indian eloquence given in the speech of Logan, a Mingo chief, to the governor of Virginia, will perceive that I have attempted to paraphrase its concluding and most striking expression: - "There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature." The similar salutation of the fictitious personage in my story, and the real Indian orator, makes it surely allowable to borrow such an expression; and if it appears, as it can not but appear, to less advantage than in the original, I beg the reader to reflect how difficult it is to transpose such exquisitely sim. ple words, without sacrificing a portion of their effect. In the spring of 1774, a robbery and murder were committed on an inhabitant of the frontiers of Virginia, by two Indians of the Shawanee tribe. The neighboring whites, according to their custom, undertook to punish this outrage in a summary manner. Colonel Cresap, a man infamous for the many murders he had committed on those much injured people, collected a party, and pro. ~35d NOTES. ceeded down the Kanaway in quest of vengeance: unfortunately, a canoe with women and children, with one man only, was seen coming from the opposite shore unarmed, and unsuspecting an attack from the whites. Crcsap ant his party concealed themselves on the bank of the river, and the'moment tlie canoe reached the shore, singled out their objects, and at one fire killed every person in it. This happened to be the family of Logan, who had long been distinguished as a friend to the whites. This unworthy return provoked his vengeance; he accordingly signalized himself in the war which ensued. In the autumn of the same year a decisive battle was fought at the mouth of the great Kanaway, in which the collected forces of the Shawanees, Mingoes, and Delawares, were defeated by a detachment of the Virginia militia. The Indians sued for peace. Logan, however, disdained to be seen among the suppliants; but lest the sincerity of a treaty should be disturbed, from which so distinguished a chief abstracted himself, he sent, by a messenger, the following speech to be delivered to Lord Dunmore: - " I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not to eat; if ever he came cold and hungry, and he clothed him not. During the last long and bloody war Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they passed, and said, Logan is the friend of the white man. I have ever, thought to have lived with you, but for the injuries of on( man. Colonel Cresap, the last spring, in cold blood, murdered all the relations of Logan, even my women ana children. NO T E S. 357 "There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me for revenge. I have fouht for it. I have killed many. I have fully glutted my vengeance. For my country, I rejoice at the beams of peace; - but do not harbor a thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan1 never felt fear. IHe will not turn on his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan? - not one! "- Jefferson's Notes o Viryginia P. 109, 1. 3. That gave the glacier tops their richest glow. The sight of the glacieirs of Switzerland, I am told, has often disappointed travellers who had perused the accounts of their splendor and sublimity given by Bourrit and other describers of Swriss scenery. Possibly Bourrit, who had spent his life in an enamored familiarity with the beauties of nature in Switzcrland, may-have leaned to the romantic side of description. One can pardon a man for a sort of idolatry of those imposing objects of nature which heighten our ideas of the bounty of nature or Providence, when we reflect that the glaciers - those se'as of ice - are not only sublime, but useful: they are the inexhaustible reservoirs which supply the principal rivers of Europe; and their annual melting is in proportion to the summer heat which dries up those rivers and maklies them need that supply. That the picturesque grandeur of the glaciers shouid sometimes disappoint the traveller, will not seem surpnsing to any one who has been much in a mountainous country, and recollects that thle beauty of nature in such countries is not only variable, but capriciously dependent N O T E S. on the weather and sunshine. There are about four hundred different glaciers,* according to the computation of M. hourrit, between Mont Blanc and the frontiers of the Tyrol. The full effect of the most lofty and picturesque of them can, of course, only be produced by the richest and warmest light of the atmosphere; and the very heat which illuminates them must have a changing influence on many of their appearances. I imagine it is owing to this circumstance, namely, the casualty and changeableness of the appearance of some of the glaciers, that the impressions made by them on the minds of other and more transient travellers have been less enchanting than those described by lM. Bourrit. On one occasion M. Bourrit seems even to speak of a past phenomenon, and certainly one which no other spectator attests in the same terms, when he says, that there once existed, between the Kandel Steig and Lauterbrun,'" a passage amidst singular glaciers, sometimes resembling magical towns of ice, with pilasters, if | pyramids, columns, and obelisks, reflecting to the sun the most brilliant hues of the finest gems." M. Bourrit's description of the Glacier of the Rhone is quite enchanting:-" To form an idea," he says, " of this superb spectacle, figure in your mind a scaffolding of transparent ice, filling a space of two miles, rising to the clouds, and darting flashes of light like the sun. Nor were the several parts less magnificent and surprising. One might see, as it -were, the streets and buildings of a city, erected in the form of an amphitheatre, and embellished with pieces of, water, cascades, and torrents. The effects were as prodi. *Occupyilg, if t:.oien together, a surfice ef 130 sequarle Ieatg t.s o._A_____... _. __., _____ rF- - NOTES. 359 gious as the immensity and the height; - the most beautiful azure - the most splendid white - the regular appearance of a thousand pyramids of ice, - are more easy to be imagined than described." - Bourrit, iii. 163. P. 109, 1. 9. From heights browsed by the bounding bouqueting. Laborde, in his " Tableau de la Suisse," gives a curious account of this animal, the wild sharp cry and elastic movements of which must heighten the picturesque appearance of its haunts. " Nature," says Laborde, "' has destined it to mountains covered with snow: if it is not exposed to keen cold, it becomes blind. Its agility in leaping much surpasses that of the chamois, and would appear incredible to those who have not seen it. There is not a mountain'so high or steep to which it will not trust itself, provided it has room to place its feet; it can scramble along the highest wall, if its surface be rugged." P. 109, 1. 15. enamelled moss. The moss of Switzerland, as well as that of the Tyrol, is remarkable for a bright smoothness, approaching to the appearance of enamel. P. 113, 1. 11. How cdear seemed ev'n the waste and wild Shreck-horn. The Shreck-horn means, in German. the Peak of Terror. io - r -. 360 NOTES. P. 113, 1. 16. Blindfold his native hills he could have Knoxrm. I have here availed myself of a striking expression o3 the Emperor Napoleon respecting his recollections of Cor sica, which is recorded in Las Casas's History of the Em. peror's Abode at St. Helena. P. 133, 1. 1. Itnisfail, the ancient name of Ireland. P. 134,1. 5. Kerne, the plural of Kern, an Irish foot-soldier. In this sense the word is used by Shakspeare. Gainsford, in his Glories of England, says, "They (the Irish) are desperate in revenge, and their kerno think no man dead until his head be off." P. 134, 1. 27. Shieting, a rude cabin or hut. P. 134, 1. 33. In Erin's yellow vesture clad. Yellow, dyed from saffron, was the favorite color of the ancient Irish. When the Irish chieftains came to make terms with Queen Elizabeth's lord-lieutenant, we are told by Sir John Davis, that they came to court in saffron-colored uniforms. P. 135, 1. 12. Mdrat, a drink made of the juice of mulberry mixed with honey. NOTES. 361 P. 136, 1. 11. Their tribe, they said, their high degree, Was sung in Tara's psaltery. The pride of the Irish in ancestry was so great, that one of the O'Neals being told that Barrett of Castlemone had been there only four hundred years, he replied, that he hated the clown as if he had come there but yesterday. Tara was the place of assemblage and feasting of the petty princes of Ireland. Very splendid and fabulous descriptions are given by the Irish historians of the pomp and luxury of those meetings. The psaltery of Tara was the grand national register of Ireland. The grand epoch of political eminence in the early history of the Irish is the reign of their great and favorite monarch, Ollam Fodlah, who reigned, according to Keating, about nine hundred and fifty years before the Christian era. Under him was instituted the great Fes at Tara, which it is pretended was a triennial convention of the states, or a parliament; the members of which were the Druids, and other learned men, who represented the people in that assembly. Very minute accounts are given by Irish annalists of the magnificence and order of these entertainments; from which, if credible, we might collect the earliest traces of heraldry that occur in history. To preserve order and regularity in the great number and variety of the members who met on such occasions, the Irish historians inform us that when the banquet was ready to be served up, the shield-bearers of the princes, and other members of the convention, delivered in their shields and targets, which were readily distinguished by the coats of arms emblazoned upon them. 31 3642 N OTES. These were arranged by the grand marshal and principal herald, and hung upon the walls on the right side of the table; and upon entering the apartments, each member took his seat under his respective shield or target, without the slightest disturbance. The concluding days of the meeting, it is allowed by the Irish antiquaries, were spent in very free excess of conviviality; but the first six, they say, were devoted to the examination and settlement of the annals of the ldngdom. These were publicly rehearsed. When they had passed the approbation of the assembly, they were transcribed into the authentic chronicles of the nation, which was called the Register, or Psalter of Tara. Col. Vallancey gives a translation of an old Irish fragment, found in Trinity College, Dublin, in which the pal — ace of the above assembly is thus described as it existed in. the reign of Cormac: - "In the reign of Cormac, the palace of Tara was nine hundred feet square; the diameter of the surrounding rath, seven dice or casts of a dart; it contained one hundred and fifty apartments; one hundred and fifty dormitories, or sleeping-rooms for guards, and sixty men in each: the height was twenty-seven cubits; there were one hundred and fifty common drinking-horns, twelve doors, and one thousand guests daily, besides princes, orators, and men of science, engravers of gold and silver, carvers, modellers, and nobles." The Irish description of the banquet. ing-hall is thus translated:- "Twelve stalls or divisions in each ming; sixteen attendants on each side, ar d two to each table; one hundred guests in all." NOTES. 363 P. 136, 1. 22. A nd stemmed De Bourgo's chivalry. I'l.e house of O'Connmor had a right to boast of their victories over the English. It was a chief of the O'Connor race who gave a check to the English champion De Courcy, so famous for his personal strength, and for cleaving a helmet at one blow of his sword, in the presence of the kings of France and England, when the French champion declined the combat with him. Though ultimately conquered by the English under De Bourgo, the O'Connors had also humbled the pride of that name on a memorable occasion, viz.: when Walter de Bourgo, an ancestor of that De Bourgo who won the battle of Athunree, had become so insolent as to make excessive demands upon the territories of Connaught, and to bid defiance to all the rights and properties reserved by the Irish chiefs. Eath O'Connor, a near descendant of the famous Cathal, surnamed of the Bloody Hand, rose against the usurper, and defeated the English so severely, that their general died of chagrin after the battle. P. 136, 1. 25. Or beal-Jires for your jubilee. The month of May is to this day called Mi Beal tiennie, i. e., the month of Beal's fire, in the original language of Ireland, and hence I believe the name of the Beltan festival in the Highlands. These fires were lighted on the It summits of mountains (the Irish antiquaries say) in honor of the sun; and are supposed, by those conjecturing gentlemen, to prove the origin of the Irish from some nation 364 rid NOTES. who worshipped Baal or Belus. Many hills in Ireland still retain the name of Cnoc Greine, i. e., the Hill of the Sun; and on all are to be seen the ruins of Druidical altars. P. 137, 1. 12. And play my clarshech by thy side. lThe clarshech, or harp, the principal musical instrument of the Hibernian bards, does not appear to be of Irish origin, nor indigenous to any of the British islands. The Britons undoubtedly were not acquainted with it during the residence of the Romans in their country, as in all their coins, on which musical instruments are represented, we see only the Roman lyre, and not the British teylin, or harp. P. 137, 1. 18. And sagw at dawna the lofty bawn. Bzoan, from the Teutonic Bawen - to construct and secure with branches of trees, was so called because the primitive Celtic fortifications were made by digging a ditch, throwing up a rampart, and on the latter fixing stakes, which were interlaced with boughs of trees. This word is used by Spenser; but it is inaccurately called by Mr. Todd, his annotator, an eminence. P. 141, 1. 6. To speak the malison of heaveas. If the wrath which I have ascribed to -the heroine of this little piece should seem to exhibit her character as toe unnaturally stripped of patriotic and domestic affcctions, I NOTES. 365 must beg leave to plead the authority of Corneille in the representation of a similar passion: I allude to the denunciation of Camille, in the tragedy of Horace. When Horace, accompanied by a soldier bearing the three swords of the Curiatii, meets his sister, and invites her to congratulate him on his victory, she expresses only her grief, which he attributes at first only to her feelings for the loss of her two brothers; but when she bursts forth into reproaches against him as the murderer of her lover, the last of the Curiatii, he exclaims:"O ciel! qui vit jamais une pareille rage! Crois-tu donc que je sois insensible. l'outrage, Que je souffre en mon sang ce mortel deshonneur? Aime, aime cette mort qui fait notre bonheur; Et pr6fPre du moins au souvenir d'un homme Ce que doit ta naissance aux intdrgts de Rome." At the mention of Rome, Camille breaks out into this apostrophe:" Rome, Punique objet de mon ressentiment! Rome, i qui vient ton bras d'immoler mon amant! Rome qui t'a vu naitre et que ton cceur adore! Rome enfin que je hais parce qu'elle t'honore! Puissent tous ses voisins ensemble conjur6s Saper ses fondements encor mal assur6s; Et si ce n'est assez de toute l'Italie, Que l'Orient contre elle i l'Occident s'allie; Que cent peuples unis des bouts de l'univers Passent pour la ddtruire ei les monts et les mers; Qu'elle-mrnme sur soi renverse ses murailles, Et de ses propres mains d6chire ses entrailles: Que le courroux du ceil allum6 par mes vceux Fasse pleuvoir sur elle un deluge de feux' 31*.~~~~.'......................... b3tGsN O T E S. Puiss6-je de mes yeux y vu'r tomber ce foudre, Voir ses maisons en cendre, et tes lauriers en poudre, Voir le dernier Romain i son derIier soupir, Moi seule en 6tre cause, et mourir de plaisir! " P. 141, 1. I1. And go to Athunree! (I cried.) In the reign of Edward II., the Irish presented to Pope John XXII. a memorial of their sufferings under the English, of which the language exhibits all the strength of despair. "Ever since the English (say they) first appeared upon our coasts, they entered our territories under a certain specious pretence of charity, and external hypocritical show of religion, endeavoring at the same time, by every artifice malice could suggest, to extirpate us, root and branch, and without any other right than that of the strongest. They have so far succeeded, by base fraudulence and cunning, that they have forced us to quit our fair and ample habitations and inheritances, and to take refuge, like wild beasts, in the mountains, the woods, and the morasses of the country: nor even can the caverns and dens protect us against their insatiable avarice. They pursue us even into these frightful abodes, endeavoring to dispossess us of the wild uncultivated rocks, and arrogate to themselves the PROPERTY OF EVERY PLACE on which we can stamp the figure of our feet." The greatest effort ever made by the ancient Irish to regain their native independence, was made at the time when they called over the brother of Robert Bruce from Scotland. William De Bourgo, brother to the Earl of Ulster, and Richard de Bermingham, were sent against NO T ETS. 367 the main body of the native insurgeLts, who were headed rather than commanded by Feliln O'Connor. The important battle which decided the subjection of Ireland, took place on the 10th of August, 1315. It was the bloodiest that ever was fought between the two nations, and continued throughout the whole day, from the rising to the setting sun. The Irish fought with inferior discipline, but with great enthusiasm. They lest ten thousand men, among whom were twenty-nine chiefs of Connaught. Tradition states that, after this terrible day, the O'Connor family, like the Fabian, were so nearly exterminated, that throughout all Connaught not one of the name remained, except Felim's brother, who was capable of bearing arms. P. 143. Lochiel, the chief of the warlike clan of the Camerons, and descended from ancestors distinguished in their narrow sphere for great personal prowess, was a man worthy of a better cause and fate than that in which he embarked, the enterprise of the Stuarts in 1745. His memory is still fondly cherished among the Highlanders, by the appellation of the "gentle Lochiel;" for he was famed for his social virtues as much as his martial and magnanimous (though mistaken) loyalty. His influence was so important among the Highland chiefs, that it depended on his joining with his clan whether the standard of Charles should be raised or not in 1745. Lochiel was himself too wise a man to be blind to the consequences of so hopeless an enterprise; but his sensibility to the point of honor vcerruled his wisdom. Charles appealed to his loyalty, 368 NOTES. and he could not brook the reproaches of his Prince, When Charles landed at Borrodale, Lochiel went to meet him; but on his way called at his brother's house, (Canmeron of Fassafern,) and told him on what errand he was going; adding, however, that he meant to'dissuade the Prince from his enterprise. Fassafern advised him, in that case, to communicate his r ind by letter to Charles. "4 No," said Lochiel, " I think it due to my Prince to give him my reasons in person for refusing to join his standard." " Brother," replied Fassafern, " I know you better than you know yourself: if the Prince once sets eyes on you, he will make you do what he pleases." The interview accordingly took place; and Lochiel, with many arguments, but in vain, pressed the Pretender to return to France, and reserve himself and his friends for a more favorable occasion, - as he had come, by his own acknowledgment, without arms, or money, or adherents: or, at all events, to remain concealed till his friends should meet and deliberate what was best to be done. Charles, whose mind was wound up to the utmost impatience, paid no regard to this proposal, but answered, "that he was determined to put all to the hazard." "In a few days," said he, "I will erect the royal standard, and proclaim to the people of Great Britain, that Charles Stuart is come over to claim the crown of his ancestors, and to win it, or perish in the attempt. Lochiel, who my father has often told me was our firmest friend, may stay at home, and learn from the newspapers the fate of his Prince." "No," said ILochiel, " I will share the fate of my Prince, and so shall every man over whom nature or fortune hath given me any power." NOTE S. 369 The other chieftains who followed Charles err.braced his cause with no better hopes. It engages our sympathy most strongly in their behalf, that no motive, but their fear to be reproached with cowardice or disloyalty, impelled them to the hopeless adventure. Of this we have an example in the interview of Prince Charles with Clanronald, another leading chieftain in the rebel army. "Charles," says Home, " almost reduced to despair, in his discourse with Boisdale, addressed the two Highlanders with great emotion; and, summing up his arguments for taking arms, conjured them to assist their Prince, their countryman, in his utmost need. Clanronald and his friend, though well-inclined to the cause, positively refused, and told him that to take up arms without concert or support was to pull down certain ruin on their own heads. Charles persisted, argued, and implored. During this conversation (they were on ship-board) the parties walked backwards and forwards on the deck: a Highlander stood near them, armed at all points, as was then the fashion of his country. He was a younger brother of Kinloch Moidart, and had come off to the ship. to inquire for news, not knowing who was aboard. When he gathered from their discourse that' the stranger was the Prince of WVales: when he heard his chief and his brother refuse to take arms with their Prince; his color went and came, his eyes sparkled, he shifted his place, and grasped his sword. Charles observed his demeanor, and turning briskly to him, called out,' Will you assist me?' —' I will, I will,' said Ronald:' though no other man in the Highlands should draw a sword, I am ready to dis for you!' Charles, with a profusion 6f thanks to his champion, said, I 370 NOTES. he wished all the Higlanders were like him. Without further deliberation, the two Macdonalds declared that they would also join, and use their utmost endeavors to engage their countrymen to take arms." —Home's Hist. Rebellion, p. 40. P. 143, 1. 15. Weep, Albin! The Gaelic appellation of Scotland, more particularly the Highlands. P. 145, 1. 3 Lo, annointed by Heaven with tite vials of wrath, Behold, where he flies on his desolate path! The lines allude to the many hardships of the royal sufferer. An account of the second sight, in Irish called Taish, is thus given in Martin's Description of the Western Isles of Scotland: -'"T-he second sight is a singular faculty of seeing an otherwise invisible object, without any previous means used by the person who sees it for that end. The vision miakes such a lively impression upon the seers, that they neither see nor think of any thing else except the vision as long as it continues; and then they appear pensive or jovial according to the object which was represented to them. "At the sight of a vision the.eyelids of the person are erected, and the eyes continue staring until the object vanishes. This is obvious to others who are standing by when the persons happen to see a vision; and occurred NOTES. 371 more than once to my own observation, and to others that were with me. "There is oae in Skie, of whom his acquaintance observed, that when he sees a vision the inner part of his eyelids turns so far upwards, that, after the object disappears, he must draw them down with his fingers, and sometimes employ others to draw them down, which he finds to be much the easier wav. "This faculty of the second sight does not lineally descend in a family, as some have imagined; for I know several parents who are endowed with it, and their childrmn are not; and vice versd. Neither is it acquired by any previous compact. And after strict inquiry, I could never learn from any among them, that this faculty was communicable to any whatsoever. The seer knows neither thq object, time, nor place of a vision before it appears; and the same object is often seen by different persons living at a considerable distance from one another. The true way of judging as to the time and circumstances is by observation; for several persons of judgment who are without this faculty are more capable to judge of the design of a vision than a novice that is a seer. If an object appear in the day or night, it will come to pass sooner or later accordingly. "If an object is seen early in the morning, which is not frequent, it will be accomplished in a few hours afterwards; if at noon, it will probably be accomplished that very day; if in the evening, perhaps that night; if after candles be lighted, it will be accomplished that night: the latter always an accomplishment by weeks, months, and 372 NOTES. sometimes years, according to the time of the night the vision is seen. "Wd ANhen a shroud is seen about one, it tis a sure prognostic of death. The time is judged according to the height of it about the person; for if it is not seen above the middle, death is not to be expected for the space of a year, and perhaps some months longer: and as it is frequently seen to ascend higher towards thd head, death is concluded to be at hand within a few days, if not hours, as daily experience confirms. Examples of this kind were shown me, when the person of whom the observations were then made was in perfect health. "It is ordinary with them to see houses, gardens, and trees in places void of all these, and this in process of time is wont to be accomplsihed; as at Mogslot, in the Isle of Skie, where there were but a few sorry low houses, thatched with straw; yet in a few years the vision, which appeared often, was accomplished by the building of several good houses in the very spot represented to the seers, and by the planting of orchards there. " To see a spark of fire is a forerunner of a dead child, to be seen in the arms of those persons; of which there are several instances. To see a seat empty at the time of sitting in it, is a presage of that person's death quickly after it. "When a novice, or one that has lately obtained the second sight, sees a vision in the night-time, without doors, and comes near a fire, he presenting falls into a swoon. " Some find themselves as it were in a crowd of people having a corpse, which they carry along with them; and N' OTE S. 373 after such visions the seers come in sweating, and describe the vision that appeared. If there be any of their acquaintarte among them, they give an account of their names, as also of the bearers; but they know nothing concerning the corpse." Horses and cows (according to the same credulous author) have certainly sometimes the same faculty; and he endeavors to prove it by the signs of fear which the animals exhibit, when second-sighted persons see visions in the same place. "The seers (he continues) are generally illiterate and well-meaning people, and altogether void of design: nor could I ever learn that any of them ever made the least gain by it; neither is it reputable among them to have'that faculty. Besides, the people of the Isles are not so credulous as to believe implicitly before the thing predicted is accomplished; but when it is actually accomplished afterwards, it is not in their power to deny it without offering violence to their own sense and reason. Besides, if the seers were deceivers, can it be reasonable to imagine that all the islanders who have not the second sight should combine together, and offer violence to their understandings and senses, to enforce themselves to believe a lie from age to age? There are several persons among them whose title and education raise them above the suspicion of concurring with an impostor, merely to gratify an illiterate, contemptible set of persons; nor can reasonable persons believe that children, horses, and cows,should be preengaged in a combination in favor of the second sight." - Martin's Description of the Western Isle of Scotland, pp. 3, 11. 32 374 N OT. S. P. 182, 1. 4. rhe dark-attired Czuldce. The Culdees weie the primitive clergy cf Scotland, and apparently her only clergy from the sixth to the cleventh century. They were of Irish origin, and their monastery on the island of Iona, or Icolmkill, was the seminary of Christianity in North Britain. Presbyterian writers have wished to prove them to have been a sort of Presbyters, strangers to the Roman Church and Episcopacy. It seems to be established that they were not enemies to Episcopacy; - but that they were not slavishly subjected to Rome, like the clergy of later periods, appears by their resisting the Papal ordonnances respecting the celibacy of religious men, on which account they were ultimately displaced by. the Scottish sovereigns to make way for more Popish canons. P. 184, 1. 29. And the shield of alarm was dumb. Striking the shield was an ancient mode of convocation to war among the Gael. P. 189. The tradition which forms the substance of these stanzas is still preserved in Germany. An ancient tower on a height, called the Rolandseck, a few miles above Bonn on the Rhine, is shown as the habitation which Roland built in sight of a nunnery, into which his mistress had retired, on hearing an unfounded account of his death. Whatever may be thought of the credibility of the legend, its NO TE S. 375 scenery must be recollected with pleasure by every one who has visited the romantic landscape of the Drachenfels, the Rolandseck, and the beautiful adjacent islet of the Rhine, where a nunnery still stands. P. 195, 1. 23. That erst the adventurous Norman wore. A Norman leader, in the service of the King of Scotland, married the heiress of Lochow in the twelfth century, and from him the Campbells are sprung. P. 223, 1. 7. Whose lineage, in a raptured hour. Alluding to the well-known tradition respecting the origin of painting, that it arose from a young Corinthian female tracing the shadow of her lover's profile on the wall, as he lay asleep. P. 232, 1. 24. Where the Norman encamped him of old. What is called the East Hill, at Hastings, is crowned with the works of an ancient camp; and it is more than probable it was the spot which William I. occupied between his landing and the battle which gave him England's crown. It is a strong position; the works are easily traced. P. 237, 1. 10. France turns front her abandoned friends afresh ITDe fact ought to be universally known, that France 37i6 NOTES. is at this moment indebted to Poland for not being inm vaded by Russia. When the Duke Constantine fled from Warsaw, he left papers behind him proving that the Russians, after the Parisian events in July, meant to have marched towards Paris, if the Polish insurrection had not prevented them. P. 245, 1. 6. Thee, Niemciewitz. This venerable man, the most popular and influential of Polish poets, and president of the academy in Warsaw, is now in London: he is seventy-four years old; but his noble spirit is rather mellowed than decayed by age. Hie was the friend of Fox, Kosciusko, and Washington. Rich in anecdote, like Franklin, he has also a strildking resemblance to him in countenance. P. 246, 1. 3. Nor ch7urch bell In Catholic countries you often hear the church-bells rung to propitiate Heaven during thunder-storms. P. 256, 1. 12. Regret the lark that gladdens England's morn. Mr. P. Cunningham, in his interesting work. on New,outh WVales, gives the following account of its songbirds: - "We are not moved here with the deep mellow note of the blackbird, poured out from beneath some low stunted bush, nor thrilled with the wild warblings of the I.____ NOTES. 377 thrush perched on the top of some tall sapling, nor charmed with the, blithe carol of the lark as we proceed early a-field; none of our birds rivalling those divine songsters in realizing the poetical idea of' the music of the grove:' while'parrots' chattering' must supply the place of'nightingales' singing' in the future amorous lays of our sighing Celadons. We have our lark, certainly, but both his appearance and note are a most wretched parody upon the bird about which our English poets have made so many fine similies. He will mount from the ground and rise, fluttering upwards in the same manner, and with a few of the starting notes of the English lark; but on reaching the height of thirty feet or so, down he drops suddenly and mutely, diving into concealment among the long grass, as if ashamed of his pitiful attempt. For the pert, frisky robin, pecking and pattering against the windows in the dull days of winter, we have the lively'superb warbler,' with his blue, shining plumage and his long tapering tail, picking ap the crumbs at our doors; while the pretty red-bills, of the size and form of the goldfinch, constitute the sparrow of our clime, flying in flocks about our houses, and building their soft, downy, pigmy nests in the orange, peach, and lemon trees surrounding them." - Cunningham's Two Years in New South Wales, vol. ii. p. 216. P. 265, 1. 32. Oh, feeble statesmen - ignominious times. There is not upon record a more disgusting scene of Russian hypocrisy, and (wo that it must be written!) of British humiliation, than that which passed on board 32* 378' OTE S. the Talavera, when British sailors accepted money fiom the Emperor TNicholas, and gave him cheers. It will require the Talavera to fight well with the first Russian ship that she may have to encounter, to make us forget that day. P. 275, 1. 16. A palsy-stroke of Nature shook Oran. In the year 1790, Oran, the most western city in the Algerine Regency, which had been possessed by Spain for more than a hundred years, and fortified at an immense expense, was destroyed by an earthquake; six thousand of its inhabitants were buried under the ruins. P. 280, 1. 18. The vale by eagle-haunted clifs o'erhung. The valley of Glencoe, unparalleled in its scenery for gloomy grandeur, is to this day frequented by eagles. When I visited the spot, within a year ago, I saw several perch at a distance. Only one of them came so near me that I did not wish him any nearer. He favored me with a full and continued view of his noble person, and with the exception of the African eagle whom I saw wheeling and hovering over a corps of the French army that were marching from Oran, and who seemed to linger over them with delight at the sound of their trumpets, as if they were about to restore his image to the Gallic standard — I never saw a prouder bird than this black eagle of Glencoe. I was unable, from a hurt in my foot, to leave the NOTES. 379 carriage; but the guide informed me that, if I could go nearer the sides of the glen, I should see the traces of houses and gardens once belonging to the unfortunate inhabitants. As it was, I never saw a spot where I could less suppose human beings to have ever dwelt. I asked the guide how these eagles subsisted; he replied, "on the lambs and the fawns of Lord Breadalbane."'Lambs and fawns!" I said; "and how do they subsist, for I can not see verdure enough to graze a rabbit? I suspect," I added, "that these birds make the cliffs only their country-houses, and that they go down to the Lowlands to find their provender." "Ay, ay," replied the Highlander, "' it is very possible, for the eagle can gang far for his breakfast." P. 285, 1. 31. Witch legends Ronald scorned —ghost, kelpie, wraith. The most dangerous and malignant creature of Highland superstition was the kelpie, or water-horse, which was supposed to allure women and children to his subaqueous haunts, and there devour them; sometimes he would swell the lake or torrent beyond its usual limits, and overwhelm the unguarded traveller in the flocd, The shepherd, as he sat on the brow of a rock, on a summer's evening, often fancied he saw this animal dashing along the surface of the lake, or browsing on the pastureground upon its verge. - Brown's History of'he Highlana Clans, vol. i. p. 106. In Scotland, according to Dr. John Brown, it is yet a superstitious principle that the wraith, the omen or mesii 380 N o T E S. senger of death, appears in the resemblance of one in danger, immediately preceding dissolution. This ominous form, purely of a spiritual nature, seems to testify that the exaction (extinction) of life approaches. It was wont to be exhibited, also, as " a little rough dog," when it could be pacified by the death of any other being "if crossed, and conjured in time." - Brown's Superstitions of the Highlands, p. 182. It happened to me, early in life, to meet with an amusing instance of Highland superstition with regard to myself. I lived in a family of the Island of Mull, and a mile or two from their house there was a burial-ground, without any church attached to it, on the lonely moor. The cemetery was enclosed and guarded by an iron railing so high, that it was thought to be unscaleable. I was, however, commencing the study of botany at the time, and thinking there might be some nice flowers and curious epitaphs among the grave-stones, I contrived, by help of my handkerchief, to scale the railing, and was soon scampering over the tombs; some of the natives chanced to perceive me, not in the act of climbing over to, but skipping over, the burial-ground. In a day or two I observed the family looking on me with unaccountable, though not angry seriousness: at last the good old grandmother told me, with tears in her eyes, "that I could not live long, for that my wraith had been seen." "And, pray, where?" "Leaping over the stones of the burialground." The old lady was much relieved to hear that it was not my wraith, but myself. Akin to other Highland superstitions, but differing from *hem in many essential respects, is the belief- for super N OTES 381 stition it can not well be called (quoth the wise author I am quoting) -- in the second-sight, by which, as Dr. Johnson observes, "seems to be meant a mode of seeing superadded to that which Nature generally bestows; and consists of an impression made either by the mind upon the eye -- or by the eye upon the mind, by which things distant or future are perceived and seen, as if they were present. This deceptive faculty is called Traioshe in the Gaelic, which signifies a spectre or vision, and is neither voluntary nor constant; but consists in seeing an otherwise invisible object, without any previous means used by the person that sees it for that end. The vision makes such a lively impression upon the seers, that they neither see nor think of any thing else except the vision, as long as it continues; and then they appear pensive or jovial, according to the object which was represented to them." There are now few persons, if any, (continues Dr. Browne,) who pretend to this faculty, and the belief in it is almost generally exploded. Yet it can not be denied that apparent proofs of its existence have been adduced, which have staggered minds not prone to superstition.'When the connection between cause and effect can be recognised, things which would otherwise have appeared wonderful, and almost incredible, are viewed as ordinary occurrences. The impossibility of accounting for such an extraordinary phenomenon as the alleges faculty on pfhilosophical principles, or from the laws of nature, must ever leave the matter suspended between rational doubt and confirmed skepticism. "Strong reasons for incredulity," says Dr. Johnson, " will readily occur." This faculty of seeing things out of sight is local, and commonly useless 382 N O T E S. It is a breach of the common order of things, without any visible reason or perceptible benefit. It is ascribed only to a people very little enlightened, and among them, for the most part, to the mean and ignorant. In the whole history of Highland superstitions, there is not a more curious fact than that Dr. James Browne, a gentleman of the Edinburgh bar, in the nineteenth century, should show himself a more abject believer in the truth of second-sight, than Dr Samuel Johnson, of London, in the eighteenth century. P. 287, 1. 4. The pit or gallows would have cured my grief. Until the year 1747, the Highland Lairds had the right of punishing serfs, even capitally, in so far that they often hanged, or imprisoned them, in a pit or dungeon, where they were starved to death. But the law of 1746, for disarming the Highlanders, and restraining the use of the Highland garb, was followed up the following year by one of a more radical and permanent description. This was the act for abolishing the heritable jurisdictions, which, though necessary in a rude state of society, were wholly incompatible with an advanced stage of civilization. By depriving the Highland chiefs of their judicial powers, it was thought that the sway which, for centuries, they had held over their people, would be gradually impaired; and that by investing certain judges, who wer3 amenable to the legislature for the proper discharge of their duties, with the civil and criminal jurisdiction enjoyed by the proprietors of the soil, the cause of good government NOT E S. 383 would be promoted, and the facilities for repressing any attempts to disturb the public tranquillity increased. By this act, (20 George II. c. 43,) which was made to the whole of Scotland, all heritable jurisdictions of justiciary, all regalities and heritable bailieries, and constabularies, (excepting the office of high constable,) and all stewartries and sheriffships of smaller districts, which were only parts of counties, were dissolved, and the powers formerly vested in them were ordained to be exercised by such of the king's courts as these powers would have belonged to, if the jurisdictions had never been granted. All sheriffships and stewartries not dissolved by the statute, namely, those which comprehended whole counties, where they had been granted, either heritably or for life, were resumed and annexed to the crown. TWith the exception of the hereditary justiciaryship of Scotland, which was transferred from the family of Argyle to the High Court of Justiciary, the other jurisdictions were ordained to be vested in sheriffs-depute or stewarts-depute, to be appointed by the king in every shire or stewartry not dissolved by the act. As by the twentieth of Union, all heritable offices'and jurisdictions were reserved to the grantees as rights of property; compensation was ordained to be made to the holders, the amount of which was afterwards fixed by parliament, in terms of the act of Sederunt of the Court of Session, at one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. P. 287, 1. 6. I marched — when, feigning Royalty's command, Against the clan Macdonald, Stairs's Lord Sent forth exterminating fire and sword ~f84 ~N 0 T E S. I can not agree with Brown, the author of an able work, "The History of the HIighland Clans," that the affair of Glencoe has stamped indelible infamy on the government of King William III., if by this expression it be meant that WTilliam's own memory is disgraced by that massacre. I see no proof that William gave more than general orders to subdue the remaining malcontents of the Macdonald'clan; and these orders, the nearer we trace them to the government, are the more express in enjoining, that all those who would promise to swear allegiance should be spared. As these orders came down from the general government to individuals, they became more and more severe, and at last merciless, so that they ultimately ceased to be the real orders of government. Among these false agents of government, who appears with most disgrace, is the " Master of Stair," who appears in the business more like a fiend than man. When issuing his orders for the attack on the remainder of the Macdonalds in Glencoe, he expressed a hope in his letter "that the soldiers weuld trouble the government with no prisoners." It can not be supposed that I would for a moment palliate this atrocious event by quoting the provocations not very long before offered by the Macdonalds-in massacres of the Campbells. But they may be alluded to as causes, though not excuses. It is a part of the melancholy instruction which history affords us, that in the moral as well as in the physical world, there is always a reaction equal to the action. The banishment of the Moors from Spain to Africa was the chief cause of African piracy and Christian slavery among the Moors for centuries; and NOTES. 385 since the reign of William III., the Irish Orangemen have been the Algerines of Ireland. The affair of Glencoe was in fact only a lingering trait of horribly barbarous times, though it was the more shocking that it came from that side of the political world which professed to be the more liberal side, and it occurred at a late time of the day, when the minds of both parties had become comparatively civilized, the whigs by the triumph of free principles, and the tories by personal experience of the evils attending persecution. Yet that barbarism still subsisted in too many minds professing to act on liberal principles, is but too apparent from this disgusting tragedy. I once flattered myself that the Argyle Campbells, from whom I am sprung, had no share in this massacre, and a direct share they certainly had not. But on inquiry I find that they consented to shutting pp the passes of Glencoe through which the Macdonalds might escape; and perhaps relations of my great-grandfather -I am afraid to count their distance or proximity - might be indirectly concerned in the cruelty. But children are not answerable for the crimes of their forefathers; and-I hope and trust that the descendants of Breadalbane and Glenlyon are as much and justly at their ease on this subject as I am. P. 294, 1. 2. Chance snatched them from proscription and despair. Many Highland families, at the outbreak of the rebellion in 1745, were saved from utter desolation by the contrivances of some of their more sensible members, pr7nci. 33 386 NOT F.. pally the women, who foresaw the consequences of the insurrection. When I was a youth in the Highlands, I remember an old gentleman being pointed out to me, who, finding all other arguments fail, had, in conjunction with his mother and sisters, bound the old Laird hand and foot, and locked him up in his own cellar, until the news of the battle of Culloden arrived. A device pleasanter to the reader of the anecdote, though not to the sufferer, was practised by a shrewd Highland dame, whose husband was Charles-Stuart-mad, and was determined to join the insurgents. He told his wife at night that he should start early to-morrow morning on horseback. "WVell, but you will allow me to make your breakfast before you go?"." Oh yes." She accordingly prepared it, and, bringing in a full boiling kettle, poured it, by intentional accident, on his legs! THE WIND. CATALOGUE OF THE PUBLICATIONS OF Phillips, Sampson, & Company. WITH INDEXES OF AUTHORS AND SUBJECTS. BOSTON: No. I3 Winter Street. i856. 2 PIIILLIPS, SAMPSON, & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS. POETRY AND THE DRAMA. 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