IC-NRLF ISfl THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA GIFT OF Marvin MacLean THE POETICAL WORKS OF THOMAS .CAMPBELL WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY SIR JOHN GILBERT, R.A. LONDON GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL NEW YORK : 416, BROOME STREET Startles Sefr-Sin* Vetts. CHAUCEB. HEBBEBT, SHAKSPEBE. POPE. MILTON. CAMPBELL. BTEON. DOUTHSY. SCOTT. OOWPEB. SHELLEY. MOOBE. COLEBIDGE. BUBNS. HE MANS. GOLDSMITH. HOOD. CONTENTS. The Pleasures of Hope. Part I. ...... 1 - Part II. . . ..... 10 Theodric : a Domestic Tale ........ 27 TRANSLATIONS : Martial Elegy. From the Greek of Tyrtseus . . . 40 Song of Hybrias the Cretau ...... 41 Fragment. From the Greek of Alcnian . . . . 42 Specimens of Translations from Medea . . . .42 Speech of the Chorus, in the same Tragedy . . . . 43 O'Connor's Child ; or, "The Flower of Love lies bleeding ' . 46 Lodiicl's Warning . ......... 53 Battle of the Baltic . . ...... 55 Ye Mariners of England : a Navai Ode ..... 57 Hohcnliuden ........... 59 Glenara ........... 60 Exile of Erin .... ..... 61 Lord Uilin's Daughter ...... ,62 Ode to the Memory of Burns ....... 64 Lines written on visiting a Scene in Argyleshire , . 66 The Soldier's Dream ......... 67 To the Rainbow .......... 68 A Dream ............ 70 The Last Man ..... ..... 72 Valedictory Stanzas to J. P. Kemble, Eaq ..... .74 Gertrude of Wyoming. Part 1 ........ 77 - . Part II ........ 84 - - Part III. . . 9t 934 CONTENDS. Lines written at tne reqaest of the Highland Society in Lon- don, when met to commemorate the 21st of March, the Day of Victory in Egypt 101 Stanzas to the Memory of the Spanish Patriots latest killed in resisting the Regency and the Duke of Angouleme . 102 Song of the Greeks 103 Ode to Winter 105 Lines spoken by Mrs. Bartley at Drury-lane Theatre, on the First Opening of the House after the Death of the Princess Charlotte, 1S17 106 Reullura 108 The Turkish Lady 113 The Brave Roland 114 LinesontheGraveofaSuicido 115 The Spectre Boat : a Ballad 116 The Lover to his Mistress on her Birthday . . . .117 Song. "Oh, how hard it is to find" 118 Lines on receiving a Seal with the Campbell Crest, from K. M , before her Marriage 113 Adelgitha 120 The Ritter Bann 120 Gilderoy 125 Stanzas on the Threatened Invasion, 1803 . . . .127 Song. "Men of England." 128 The Harper 129 The Wounded Hussar 130 Love and Madness, an Elegy 131 Hallowed Ground 133 Song. "Withdraw not yot those lips and Sneers" . . 136 Caroline. Part 1 136 Part II. To the Evening Star . . . .138 Song." Drink ye to Her that each loves best " ... 139 The Beech Tree's Petition 140 Field Flowers ... 141 Song. To the Evening Star 142 Stanzas to Painting 142 The Maid's Remonstrance 144 Lines inscribed on the Monument erected by the Widow of Admiral Sir G. Campbell, K.C.B., to the Memory of her Husband .145 Stanzas on the Battle of Navarino 146 Lines on revisiting a Scottish River . . . . . . 147 CONTENTS. vii MM The " Name Unknown ;" in imitation of Klopstock . . 148 Lines on the Camp Hill, near Hastings 149 Farewell to Love 150 Song." How Delicious is tho Winning " 151 Lines on Poland . . 152 The Power of liussia < - 156 Margaret and Dora ... , 158 Lines on leaving a Scene in Bavaria 159 The Death-Boat of Heligoland 163 A Thought suggested by the Now Year 164 Absence .... 165 Song. "When Love came first to Earth, the Spring" . . 165 Song. "Earl March look'd on his dying Child" . . .166 Song. "When Napoleon was flying" 167 Lines to Julia M , sent with a Copy of the Author's Poems 167 Lines on the Departure of Emigrants for New South Wales . 168 The Cherubs. Suggested by an Apologue in the Works of Franklin 171 Drinkir^r Song of Munich 1T4 Line? on revisiting Cathcart 174 To Sir Francis Burdett, on his Speech delivered in Parlia- ment, August 7, 1832, respecting the Foreign Policy of Great Britain 175 Ode to the Germans 176 Lines on the View from St. Leonard's 178 Senex's Soliloquy on his youthful Idol 181 The Dead Eagle. Written at Oran 182 Song. " To Love in my Heart, I exclaimed t'other morning" 184 Lines on a Picture of a Girl in the attitude of Prayer, by the Artist Gruse, in the possession of Lady Stepney . . . 185 Lines written in a blank leaf of La Perouse's Voyages . 187 The Pilgrim of Glencoe 1S9 Napoleon and the British Sailor 202 Benlomond .204 The Child and Hind 205 The Jilted Nymph. A Song to the Scotch Tune of " Woo'd and Married and a' " 209 On getting Home the Portrait of a Female Child Six Tears Old. Painted by Eugenic Latilla 210 The Parrot. A Domestic Anecdote 212 Song of the Colonists departing for New Zealand . . .218 Moonlight 214 viii CONTENTS. Cora Linn, or the Falls of the Clyde. Written on revisiting it in 1837 215 Song on our Queen. Set to Music by Charles Neate, Esxj. '. 216 Chaucer and Windsor m 217 To the United States of North America . . . . " ! 217 Lines suggested by the Statue of Arnold von Winkelried, Stanz-Underwalden 218 To a Young Lady, who asked me to write something original for her Album 218 lines on my New Child-Sweetheart 219 The Launch of a First-Rate. Written on witnessing the Spectacle . 22Q Epistle, from Algiers, to Horace Smith 221 Fragment of an Oratorio, from the Book of Job ... 223 To my Niece, Mary Campbell 225 Notes 257 THE PLEASURES OF HOPE. IN Two PARTS. ANALYSIS OF PAET I. THE poem opens with a comparison between the 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 otter passions is next delineated an allusion is made to the well-known fiction in Pagan tradition, that, when all the guardian deities of mankind abandoned the world, Hope alone was left behind the consolations 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 humanising arts among uncivilised nations from these views of amelioration of society, and the extension of liberty and truth over despotic and barbarous countries, by a melanchoiy contrast of ideas, we are led to reflect upon the hard fate of a brave people recently conspicuous in their struggles for independence description of the capture of Warsaw, of the la.t contest of the oppressors and the oppressed, and the massacre of tht> Polish patriots at the bridge of Prague apostrophe to the self- interested enemies of human improvement ^the wrongs of Africa the barbarous 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. _ PLEASURES OP HOPE. PART L 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? '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. What potent spirit guides the raptured eye To pierce the shades of dim futurity 1 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. With thee, sweet HOPE ! resides the heavenly light That pours remotest rapture on the sight : Thine is the charm of life's bewilder'd way, That calls each slumbering passion into play. Waked by thy touch, I see the sister-band, 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 Aonian Muses say, When Man and Nature mourn'd their first decay; When every form of death, and every woe, Shot from malignant stars to earth below; When Murder bared her arm, and rampant War Yoked the red dragons of her iron car ; When Peace and Mercy, banish'd from the plain, Sprung on the viewless winds to Heaven again ; K PLEASURES OF HOPE. All, all forsook the friendless, guilty mind, But HOPE, the charmer, linger'd 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, Dropt on the world a sacred gift to man. Auspicious HOPE ! in thy sweet garden grow Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe ; 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 sph-its bring ! What viewless forms th' JEolian organ play, And sweep the furrow'd lines of anxious thought away: Angel of life ! thy glittering wings explore Earth's loneliest bounds, and Ocean's wildest shore. Lo ! to the wintry winds the pilot yields His bark careering o'er unfathom'd fields ; Now on Atlantic waves he rides afar, Where Andes, giant of the western star, With meteor-standard to the winds unfurl'd, 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, Ftum wastes that slumber in eternal snow; And waft, across the waves' 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 ! Hocks, waves, and winds, the shatter'd 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-blossom'd vale, Rush on his thought ; he sweeps before the wind, Treads the loved shore he sigh'd to leave behind j Meets at each step a friend's familiar face, And flies at last to Helen's long embrace ; Wipes from her cheek the rapture-speaking tear ! B 2 PLEASURES OF HOPE. And clasps, with many a sigh, his children dear I While, long neglected, but at length caress'd, 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. 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-cover'd fields, When front to front the banner'd 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 hi 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 famish'd 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, Hyaenas in the wild, and inermaids on the shore ; TU1, led by thee o'er many a cliff sublime, He found a warmer world, a milder clime, A home to rest, a shel ter to defend, Peace and repose, a Briton and a friend ! Congenial HOPE ! thy passion-kindling power, How bright, how strong, in youth's untroubled hour t On yon proud height, with Genius hand-in-hand, I see thee light, and wave thy golden wand. " Go, child of Heaven ! (thy winged 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 ! PLEASURES OF HOPE. Wilt then, with him, mysterious rites appiy, And watch the shrine with wonder-beaming 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, With 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? ' "Turn, child of Heaven, thy rapture-lighten'd eye To Wisdom'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, Harmonia's daughters swell The mingling tones of horn, and harp, and shell ; 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 ; Enquire of guilty wanderers whence they came, And ask each blood-stain'd form his earthly imme ; 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 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 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 impassion'd souls the joy of grief? " Yes ; to thy tongue 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, Unlocks a generous store at thy command, Like Horeb's rocks beneath the prophet's hand. The living lumber of his kindred earth, Charm'd into soul, receives a second birth, Feels thy dread power another heart afford, Whose passion-touch'd 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 march'd 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 is ever thine." Propitious Power ! when rankling cares annoy The sacred home of Hymenean joy; When doom'd to Poverty's sequester'd 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 pass'd away, That -when his eye grows dim, his tresses grey, These busy hands a lovelier cot shall build, And deck with fairer flowers his little field. Lo ! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps, Her silent watch the mournful motner keeps. p. 7. PLEASURES OF HOPE. And call from Heaven propitious dews to breathe Arcadian beauty on the barren heath ; 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 pensive 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 ! Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love at last, Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past With many a smile my solitude repay, And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away. "And say, when summon'd from the world anc* thee, 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 woe ] " 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, Or cons his murmuring task beneath her care, Or iisps 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 PLEASURES OF HOPE. Tumultuous toils, or solitary care, Uublest 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 teal's of rapture flow, And virtue triumphs o'er remember'd woe. 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, Watch'd the rude surge his shroudless corse that bore, Knew the pale form, and shrieking, in amaze, Clasp'd her cold hands, and fix'd her maddening gaz.e: Poor widow'd wretch; 'twas there she wept in vain. Till Memory fled her agonising brain ; But Mercy gave to charm the sense of woe, Ideal peace, that truth could ne'er bestow; Warm on her heart the joys of Fancy beam, And aimless HOPE delights her darkest dream. Oft when yon moon has climb'd the midnight sky, And the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry, Piled on the steep, her blazing faggots 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 err'd no more. Yon friendless man, at whose dejected eye Th' unfeeling pi'oud one looks and passes by, Condemn'd on Penury's barren path to roam, Scorn'd 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 blossom'd 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, PLEASURES OF HOPE. 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 I That generous wish can soothe unpitied care, And HOPE half mingles with the poor man's prayer. HOPE ! when I mourn, with sympathising mind, The wrongs of fate, the woes of human kind, Thy blissful omens bid rny 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 ! 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 j Each wandering genius of the lovely 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' unfathom'd darkness there, And light the dreadful features of despair. Hark ! the stern captive spurns his heavy load, And asks the image back that Heaven bestow'd ! Fierce in his eye the fire of valour burns, And as the slave departs, the man returns. Oh ! sacred Truth ! thy triumph ceased awhile, And HOPE, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression pour'd to Northern wars Her whisker'd jpandoors and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of- mom, PLEASURES OF HOPE. Peal'cl her lOiid drum, and twang'd her trumpet horn Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, Presaging wrath to Poland and to man ! Warsaw's last champion from her height survey 'd, Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid, "0 Heaven !" he cried, "my bleeding country save ! Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? Yet, though 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 array'd His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd ; 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 watch-word and reply : Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm, And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm ! In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few ! From rank to rank your volley 'd 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 woe ! Dropp d from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high career; HOPE, for a season, bade the world farewell, And Freedom shriek'd as KOSCIUSKO fell ! The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there, Tumultuous Murder shook the midnight air Oil Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below; The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way, Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay ! Hark, as the smouldering piles with thunder fall, A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call ! Earth shook red meteors flash'd along the sky, And conscious Nature shudder'd at the cry ! Oh ! righteous Heaven ; ere Freedom found a grave, Why slept the sword omnipotent to save 1 Where was thine arm, Vengeance ! where thy rod, That smote the foes of Zion and of God ; That crush'd proud Ammon, when his iron car Was yoked in wrath, and thunder'd from afar] PLEASURES OF HOPE. Where was the storm that slumber'd till the host Of blood-stain'd 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 hurl'd, Her name, her nature, wither'd from the world 3 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 ; Perhaps your little hands presume to span The march of Genius and the powers of man ; Perhaps ye watch, at Pride's unhallow'd 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 roll'd not back when Canute gave command ! Man ! can thy doom no brighter soul allow ? Still must thou live a blot on Nature's brow 1 Shall War's polluted banner ne'er be furl'd ? 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 12 PLEASURES OF HOPE. The sword of Brutus, and the Theban lyre ! Rapt in historic ardour, who adore Each classic haunt, and well-remember'd shore. Where Valour tuned, amidst her chosen throng, The Thracian trumpet, and the Spartan song ; Or, wandering thence, behold the later charing 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, Hath valour left the world to live no more ? No more shall Brutus bid a tyrant die, And sternly smile with vengeance in his eye ? Hampden no more, when suffering 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 1 Yes ! in that generous cause, for ever 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, Ordain'd to fire th' adoring sons of earth With every charm of wisdom and of worth ; Ordain d 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, unfathom'd yet by man, Wlien 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 ! PLEASURES OF HOPE. 13 Eternal Nature ! when thy giant hand Had heaved the floods, and fix'd 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 ordain' d the slave of man to toil, Yoked with the brutes, and fetter'd to the soil; Weigh' d in a tyrant's balance with his gold ] No! Nature stamp' d us in a heavenly mould 1 She bade no wretch his thankless labour 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 quiver'd chief of Congo loved to reign ; With fires proportion' d to his native sky, Strength in his arm, and lightning in his eye ; Scour' d wita 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 ; For ever fall'n ! no son of Nature now, With freedom charter'd 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 J The shrill horn blew ; at that alarum knell His guardian angel took a last farewell ! That funeral dirge to darkness hath resign'd The fiery grandeur of a generous mind ! Poor fetter'd man ! I hear thee whispering low Unhallow'd vows to Guilt, the child of Woe, Friendless thy heart ; and canst thou harbour there A wish but death a passion but despair ] The widow'd Indian, when her lord expires, Mounts the dread pile, and braves the funeral fireB I So falls the heart at Thraldom's bitter sighl 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, 14 PLEASURES OF HOPE. Degraded worth, and poor misfortune's sigh ! Ye orient realms, where Ganges' waters run ! Prolific fields ! dominions of the sun J How long your tribes have trembled and obey'd ! How long was Timour's iron sceptre sway'd, Whose marshal!' d hosts, the lions of the plain, From Scythia's northern mountains to the main, Raged o'er your plunder'd shrines and altars bare, With blazing torch and gory scimitar, Stunn'd with the cries of death each gentle gale, And bathed in blood the verdure of the vale ! Yet could no pangs the immortal spirit tame, When Brama's children perish'd 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 stretch'd 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 1 Did Peace descend to triumph and to save, When freeborn Britons cross'd the Indian wave 7 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 ! 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 .storey While famish'd nations died along the shore : Could mock the groans of fellow-men, and bear The curse of kingdoms peopled with despair ; Could stamp disgrace on man's polluted name, And barter, with their gold, eternal shame ! But hark ! as^bow'd 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, PLEASURES OF HOPE, 15 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 hurl'd His awful presence o'er the alarmed world ; Nine times hath Guilt, through all his giant frame, Convulsive trembled, as the Mighty came; Nine tunes hath suffering Mercy spared in vain But 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 ! Wide waves his flick'ring 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, Tho oppressor to dethrone, the proud to whelm ; To chase destruction from her plunder'd shore With hearts and arms that triumph'd onco before, The tenth Avatar comes ! at Heaven's command Shall Seriswattee wave her hallow'd wand ! And Camdeo bright, and Ganesa sublime, Shall bless with joy their own propitious clime ! Comq, Heavenly Powers ! primeval poace restore ! Love 1 Mercy ! Wisdom 'rule for eve? more I" 16 PLEASURES OF HOPE. ANALYSIS OF PART IL 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 supcradded to its other blessings the dreams of future felicity which a lively imagination is apt to cherish, when Ilope is animated by refined attachment this disposition to combine, in one imaginary scene of re* \dence, all that s 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 entnusiasm, for the union of friendship and retirement. Hope and Imagination inseparable agents even in those contemp- lative moments when our imagination wanders beyond the boundaries of this world, our minds are not unattended with an impression that we shall some day have a wider and more distinct prospect of the universe, instead of the partial glimpse we now enjoy. TLe last and most sublime influence of Hope is the concluding topic of the poem the predominance of a belief in a future stste over the terrors attendant on dissolution the baneful influence of that sceptical philosophy which bars us from such comforts allusion to the fate of a suicide episode of Conrad and Ellenore conclusion. PART II. IN joyous youth, what soul hath never known Thought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own 1 Who hath not paused while Beauty's pensive eye Ask'd from his heart the homage of a sigh 2 Who hath not own'd, 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 brow; There be, whose loveless wisdom never fail'd, In self-adorning pride securely mail'd: But triumph not, ye peace-enamour'd few ! Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you f PLEASURES OF HOPE. For you no fancy consecrates the scene Where rapture utter'd vows, and wept between; 'Tis yours, unmoved, to sever and to meet; No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet ! Who that would ask a heart to duluess 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, 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 charm'd the silent air ; In vain the wild bird caroll'd on the steep, To hail the sun, slow wheeling from the deep ; In vain, to soothe the solitary shade, Aerial notes in mingling measure play'd; The summer wind that shook the spangled tre&, The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee; Still slowly pass'd 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, sigh'd till woman smiled ! True, the sad power to generous hearts may bring Delirious anguish on his fiery wing; Barr'd from delight by Fate's untimely hand, By wealthless lot or pitiless command; Or doom'd 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 for ever brood, The willing victim of a weaiy mood, On heartless cares that squander life away, And cloud young Genius brightening into day?-- Shame to the coward thought that e'er betray*d The noon of manhood to a myrtle shade ! If HOPE'S creative spirit cannot raise One trophy sacred to thy future days, Scorn the dull crowd that haunt the gloomy shrine, nttf 1 8 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 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 array'd The Queen of Beauty in her Cyprian shade, The happy master mingled on his piece Each look that charm'd him in the fair of Greece. To faultless Nature true, he stole a grace From every finer form and sweeter face ; And as he sojourn'd on the ^Egean isles, Woo'd all their love, and treasured all their smiles; Then glow'd the tints, pure, precious, and refined, And mortal charms seem'd heavenly when combined 1 Love on the picture smiled ! Expression pour'd Her mingling spirit there and Greece adored ! So thy fair hand, enamour' d Fancy ! gleans The treasured pictures of a thousand 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 embosom' d in Idalian bowers ! Remote from busy Life's bewilder'd way, O'er all his heart shall Taste and Beauty sway ! Free on the sunny slope, or winding shore, With 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 splendour lights the deep, The woods and waves, and murmuring winds asleep, When fairy harps th' Hesperian planet hail, And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale, PLEASURES OF HOPE. 19 His 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 ravish' d eye to bound, Heeven, Earth, and Ocean, blazing all around. Tnt moon is up the watch-tower dimly burns And dosvn 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 polar spirits sweep The darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep ! Though boundless snows the wither'd 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-chain'd waters slumbering on the shore, How bright the faggots in his little hall Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall ! How blest he names, in Love's familiar tone, The kind fair fiiend, by nature mark'd 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 call'd 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-uncurtain'd 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 ! Charm'd as they read the verse too sadly true, How gallant Albert, and his weary crew, Heaved all their guns, their foundering bark to save, o 2 20 PLEASURES OF HOPE. And toil'd and shriek' d and perish'd 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 bless* d his darling child ! Oh ! Mercy, 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 J How poor Amelia kiss'd, with many a tear, His hand, blood-stain' d, but ever, ever dear ! Hung on the tortured bosom of her lord, And wept and pray*d perdition from his sword ! Nor sought in vain ! at that heart-piercing cry The strings of 'Nature crack'd with agony! He, with delirious laugh, the dagger hurl'd 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, March'd by then: Charles to Dneiper's swampy shore j Faint in his wounds, and shivering in the blast, The Swedish soldier sunk and groan'd his last ! File after file the stormy showers benumb, Freeze every standard-sheet, and hush the drum ; Horseman and horse confess'd 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 turn'd his eye, Thought of his home, aud closed it with a sigh ! Imperial Pride look'd sullen on his plight, And Charles beheld nor shudder'd at the sight J 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? The dying mau to Sweden turned his eye, Thought of his home, and closed it with a sigh. Imperial Pride looked sullen on nis plight, And Charles beheld nor shuddered at the sight! p. 20 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 21 In yonder pensile orb, and every sphere That gerns the starry girdle of the year ; In those unmeasured worlds, she bids thee tell, Pure from their God, created millions dwell, Whose names and natures, unreveal'd below, We yet shall learn, and wonder as we know ; For, as lona's saint, a giant form, Throned on her towers, conversing with the storm, (When o'er each Runic altar, weed-entwined, The vesper clock tolls mournful to the wind,) Counts every wave-worn isle, and mountain hoar, From Kilda to the green lerne'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 embosom'd 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 hurl'd, 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 untutor'd 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, rnethinks, when Wisdom shall assuago The grief and passions of our greener age, Though dull the close of life, and far away Each flower that hail'd 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 Thus, with forgiving tears, and reconciled, The king of Judah mourn' d his rebel child! Musing on days, when yet the guiltless boy Smiled on his sire, and fill'd 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 ! 22 PLEASURES OF HOPE. Oh ! then, thy kingdom comes ! Immortal Power \ What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye J Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey The morning dream of life's eternal day Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin, And all the phoenix spirit burns within ! Oh ! deep -en chanting 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, untravell'd by the sun ! Where Time's far-wandering tide has never run, From your unfathom'd 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 ! While Nature hears, to terror-mingled trust, The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust ; And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod The roaring waves, and call'd upon his God, With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss, And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss ! 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 hallow'd anthem sent to hail Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale, When Jordan hush'd his waves, and midnight still Watch'd 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 ; Doom'd on his airy path awhile to burn, And doom'd, like thee, to travel and return. PLEASURES OF HOPE. 23 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 whirl'd 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 "unfurl'd 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 ! 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 search'd on weary wing, By shore and sea each mute and living tiling ! Launch'd with Iberia's pilot from the steep, To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the deep? Or round the cope her living chariot driven, And wheel' d in triumph through the signs of Heaven, Oh 1 star-eyed Science, hast thou wander'd there, To waft us home the message of despair 1 Then bind the palm, thy sage's brow to suit, 24 PLEASURES OF HOPE. Of blasted leaf, and death-distilling fruit* Ah me ! the laurell'd wreath that Murder rears. Blood-nursed, and water* d by the widow's tears, Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread, As waves the nightshade round the sceptic head. What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain ? I smile on death, if Heaven-ward HOPE remain ! But, if the waning winds of Nature's strife Be all the faithless charter of my life, If Chance awaked, inexorable power, This frail and feverish being of an hour ; Doom'd o'er the world's precarious scene to sweep Swift as the tempest travels on the deep, To know Delight but by her parting smile, And toil, and wish, and weep a little while ; Then melt, ye elements that fonn'd 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, pillow* d on the heart! Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder roll'd, And that were true which Nature never told, Let Wisdom smile not on her conquer' d field * No rapture dawns, no treasure is reveal' d ! 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 orgie crowds, When the Moon lights her watch-tower in the clouds. Poor lost Alonzo! Fate's neglected child! Mild 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! PLEASURES OF HOPE. 25 When Friendship paid, in speechless sorrow drown'd, Thy midnight rites, but not on hallow'd 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 sea Mirth, 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 harmonised to joy! But why so short is Love's delighted hour] Why fades the dew on Beauty's sweetest flower ? Why can no hymned charm of music heal The sleepless woes impassion'd spirits feel 1 Can Fancy's fairy hands no veil create, To hide the sad realities of fate 1 No ! not the quaint remark, the sapient rule, Nor all the pride of Wisdom's worldly school, Have power to soothe, unaided and alone, The heart that vibrates to a feeling tone! When stepdame Nature every bliss recals, Fleet as the meteor o'er the desert falls ; When, 'reft of all, yon widow* d sire appears A lonely hermit in the vale of years ; Say, can the world one joyous thought bestow To Friendship, weeping at the couch of Woe ? No ! but a brighter soothes the last adieu, Souls of impassion'd mould, she speaks to you ! Weep not, she says, at Nature's transient pain, Congenial spirits part to meet again ! What 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 ! Doom'd 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 return' d, to bless thee, and to part ; Thrice from his trembling lips he murmur* d low The plaint that own'd unutterable woe ; Till Faith, prevailing o'er his sullen doom, 26 PLEASURES OF HOPE. As bursts the morn on night's unfathom'd gloonv 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 t Short shall this half-extinguish' d 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, When time is o'er, and worlds have pass'd away! Cold in the dust this perish'd heart may lie, But that which warm'd 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, Unveil'd by darkness unassuaged by tears ! " Yet, on the barren shore and stormy deep, Ooe tedious watch is Conrad doom'd to weep ; But when I gain the home without a friend, And press the uneasy couch where none attend, This last embrace, still cherish'd 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 last 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 ; Wlio then will soothe thy grief, when mine is o'er Who will protect thee, helpless Ellenore ? Shall secret scenes thy filial sorrows hide, Scorn'd by the world, to factious guilt allied ? Ah, no ! methinks the generous and the good Will 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 hi that frame no deathless spirit dwell, If that faint murmur be the last farewell, If Fate unite the faithful but to part, Why is their memory sacred to the heart? THEODRIC. 27 Why does the brother of my childhood seeni Restored a while in every pleasing dream ? Why do I joy the lonely spot to view, By artless friendship bless'd when life was now? Eternal HOPE ! when yonder spheres sublime Peai'd their first notes to sound the march of Time, Thy joyous youth began but not to fade. When all the sister planets have decay'd ; When rapt in fire the realms of ether glow, And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below; Thou, undismay'd, shalt o'er the ruins smile, And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile. THEODRIC. A DOMESTIC TALE. 'TWAS sunset, and the Ranz des Vaches was sung, And lights were o'er th' Helvetian mountains flung, That gave the glacier tops their richest glow, And tinged the lakes like molten gold below : Warmth flush'd the wonted regions of the storm, Where, phoenix-like, you saw the eagle's form, That high in Heaven's vermilion wheel'd and soar'd, Woods nearer frown'd, and cataracts dash'd and roar'd From heights browsed by the bounding bouquetin ; Herds tinkling roam'd the long-drawn vales between, And hamlets glitter'd white, and gardens flourish'd 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 enamell'd moss. Earth's features so harmoniously were link'd. She seem'd one great glad form, with life instinct, That felt Heaven's ardent breath, and smiled below Its flush of love, with consentaneous glow. A Gothic church was near ; the spot around Was beautiful, ev*n though sepulchral ground ; For there nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom, 28 THEODRIC. But roses blossom'd by each, rustic tomb. 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 form'd her, and the soul of gladness play'd Once in the blue eyes of that mountain-maid : Her fingers witch' d the chords they pass'd along, And her lips seein'd to kiss the soul in song: Yet woo'd, and worshipp'd as she was, till few Aspired to hope, 'twas sadly, strangely true, That heart, the martyr of its fondness, burn'd And died of love that could not be return'd. Her father dwelt where yonder Castle shines O'er clustering trees and terrace-mantling vines : As gay as ever, the laburnum's pride Waves o'er each walk where she was wont to glide, And still the garden whence she graced her brow, As lovely blooms, though trode by strangers now. How oft, from yonder window o'er the lake, Her song of wild Helvetian swell and shake Has made the rudest fisher bend his ear, And rest enchanted on his oar to hear ! Thus bright, accomplish'd, 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 E y moun tain-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, look'd cold ev'n on the claim Of manly worth, that lack'd the wreath of fame. Her younger brother, sixteen summers old, And much her likeness both in mind and mould, Had gone, poor boy ! hi soldiership to shine, And bore an Austrian banner on the Rhine. 'Twas when, alas ! our Ernpire's evil star Shed all the plagues, without the pride, of war; When patriots bled, and bitterer anguish cross'd 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 THEODRIC. 29 One corps had ever made a valiant stand, The corps in which he served, THEODRIC'S baud. His 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 perform'd In charges nobly faced and trenches storm'd. 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-train'd men were stunn'd with fear. THEODRIC praised him, and they wept for joy In yonder house, when letters from the boy Thank' d Heaven for life, and more, to use his phraae, Than twenty lives his own Commander's praise. Then followed glowing pages, blazoning forth The fancied image of his leader's worth, With such hyperbole's of youthful style As made his parents dry their tears and smile : But differently far his words impress'd A wondering sister's well-believing breast; She caught th' illusion, bless'd THEODRIC'S name,, And wildly magnified his worth and fame; Rejoicing life's reality contain'd One, heretofore, her fancy had but feign'd, [chance Whose love could make her proud ! and time and To passion raised that day-dream of Romance. Once, when with hasty charge of horse and man Our arriere-guard had check'd the Gallic van, THEODRIC, visiting the outposts, found His UDOLPH wounded, weltering on the ground: Sore crush' d, half-swooning, half-upraised he lay. And bent his brow, fair boy ! and grasp' d the clay His fate moved ev'n the common soldier's ruth THEODRIC succour* d 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 30 THEODRIC. 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 fall'n, whilst trembling fingers wrote, Gave boundless thanks for benefits conferr'd, Of which the boy, in secret, sent them word, Whose memory Time, they said, would never blot; But which the giver had himself forgot. In time, the stripling, vigorous and heal'd, Resumed his barb and banner in the field, 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 unfinish'd game, Yet dearly bought, and direly welcome, came. The camp broke up, and UDOLPH left his chiei As with a son's or younger brother's grief: But journeying home, how rapt his spirits rose ! How light his footsteps crush'd St. Gothard's snows ; How dear seem'd ev'n the waste and wild Shreckhorn, Though wrapt in clouds, and frowning as hi scorn Upon a downward world of pastoral charms ; Where, 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 view 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 guess'd. Ere long, his bosom triumph'd 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, When you were wounded, told me not to weep.' The painting long in that sweet mansion drew Regards its living semblance little knew. Meanwhile THEODRIC, who had years before Learnt England's tongue, and loved her classic lore, THEODRIC. 31 A glad enthusiast now explored the land Where Nature, Freedom, Art, smile hand in hand ; Her women fair ; her men robust for toil ; Her vigorous souls, high-cultured as her soil; Her towns, where civic independence flings The gauntlet down to senates, courts, and kings; Her works of art, resembling magic's powers ; Her 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 1 At eve stupendous London, clad in light, Pour'd 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 chariots pass'd with pearl and plume. Amidst them he remark'd a lovelier mien Than e'er his thoughts had shaped, or eyes had seen The throng detain'd her till he rein'd his steed, And, ere the beauty pass'd, 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 Prolong'd, exalted, bound, enchantment's spell ; For with affections warm, intense, refined, She mix'd such calm and holy strength of mind, That, like Heaven's image in the smiling brook, Celestial peace was pictured in her look. Hers was the brow, in trials unperplex'd, That cheer' d the sad, and tranquillised the vex'd ; She studied not the meanest to eclipse, And yet the wisest listen' d to her lips ; She sang not, knew not Music's magic skill, But yet her voice had tones that sway'd the will. He sought he won her and resolved to make His future home in England for her sake. Yet, ere they wedded, matters of concern To CESAR'S Court commanded his return, A season's space, and on his Alpine way, - 32 THEODRIC. He reach'd those bowers, that rang with joy that day: The boy was half beside himself, the sire, All frankness, honour, and Helvetian fire, Of speedy parting would not hear him speak ; And tears bedew'd and brighten'd JULIA'S cheek. Thus, loth to wound their hospitable pride, A month he pi-omised with them to abide ; As blithe he trod the mountain-sward as they, And felt his joy make ev'n the young more gay. How jocund was their breakfast-parlour, fann'd By yon blue water's breath, their walks how bland ! Fair JULIA seem'd her brother's soften'd sprite A gem reflecting Nature's purest light, And with her graceful wit there was inwrought A wildly sweet unworldliness of thought, That almost child-like to his kindness drew, And twin with UDOLPH 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 betray'd her undesign'd, Th' unlikely thought could scarcely reach his mind, That eyes so young on years like his should beam Unwoo'd 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 whig. 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, Kebuked them back like phantoms from his soul. But when he saw his caution gave her pain, And kindness brought suspense's rack again, Faith, honour, fi-iendship, bound him to unmask Truths which her timid fondness fear'd to ask. And yet with gracefully ingenuous power Her spiiit met th' explanatory hour ; Ev'n conscious beauty brighten'd in her eyes, That told she knew their love no vulgar prize ; And pride like that of one more womau-growu, Enlarged her mien, enrich'd her voice's tone. 'Twas then she struck the keys, and music made That niock'd all skill her hand had e'er display'd. Inspired and warbling, rapt from things around, She look'd the very Muse of magic sound, THEODRIC. 33 Painting in sound the forms of joy and woe, Until the mind's eye saw them melt and glow. Her closing strain composed and calm she play'd, And sang no words to give its pathos aid ; But grief seem'd lingering in its lengthen'd swell, And like so many tears the trickling touches fell. Of CONSTANCE then she heard THEODRIC speak, And steadfast smoothness still possess'd her cheek. But when he told her how he oft had plann'd 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 THEODRIC for the tears his words had wrung. ' But no,' she cried, ' unsay not what you ; vs said, Nor grudge one prop on which my pride is stay*d ; To think I could have merited your faith Shall be my solace even unto death ! ' ' JULIA,' THEODRIO 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 look'd to Heaven 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 warn'd conjured my child, And grieved for this affection from the first, But like fatality it has been nursed ; For when her fill'd eyes on your picture fix'd, And when your name in all she spoke was niix'd, '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 augur' d the event, 'tis true, But how was UDOLPH'S mother to exclude 31 THEODRIC. The guest that claim'd our boundless gratitude 1 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.' 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 UDOLPH 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 survey'd His boat's last glimpses melting into shade. THEODRIC 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 resign' d. He took the Rhenish route to England, high Elate with hopes, fulfill'd their ecstacy, And interchanged with CONSTANCE'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 completely understood That mighty truth how happy are the good ! Ev'n when her light forsook bun, it bequeath'd Ennobling sorrow ; and her memory breathed A sweetness that survived her living days, As odorous scents outlast the censers blaze. Or, if a trouble dimm'd their golden joy, 'Twas outward dross, and not infused alloy: Tlieir home knew but affection's looks and speech A 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 engross'd the virtue of her race. THEODRIC. 35 Her nature strove th' unnatural feuds to heal, Her wisdom made the weak to her appeal ; And, tho' 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 honour 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 woe 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 express' d assent, altho' her heart In secret had resolved they should not part. How oft the wisest on misfortune's shelves Are wreck' d by errors most unlike themselves ! That little fault, that fraud of love's romance, That plan's concealment, wrought their whole mischance, He knew it not preparing to embark, But felt extinct his comfort's latest spark, When, 'midst those number' d 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, reveal'd not yet her plan, And left him in his home a lonely man. Thus damp'd 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 look'd-for then of humankind, His UDOLPH ('twas, he thought at first, his sprite,) With mournful joy that morn surprised his sight. How changed was UDOLPH I Scarce THEODRIC durst D3 36 THEODRIC. Inquire his tidings, lie reveal'd the worst. ' At first,' he said, ' as JULIA bade me tell, She bore her fate high-mindedly 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 woe, 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. Why 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 THEODRIC, founded all Those high-built hopes that crush'd her by their fall. I made her slight her mother's counsel sage, But now my parents droop with grief and age : 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 usher'd 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 gave him pain That CONSTANCE would a fortnight yet remain. Vex'd 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 recal, A note from her loved hand explaining all. She said, that with their house she only staid That parting peace might with them all be made j But pray'd for love to share his foreign life, And shun all future chance of kindred strife, THEODRIC. 37 He wrote with speed, his soul's consent to say : The letter miss'd her on her homeward way. ]n six hours CONSTANCE was within his arms : Moved, flush'd, 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 laugh'd, With poison of their own to point the shaft ; And this my one kind sister thought, yet loth Confess'd she fear'd 'twas true you had been wroth. But here you are, and smile on me : my pain Is gone, and CONSTANCE is herself again.' His ecstacy, it may be guess'd, was much : Yet pain's extreme and pleasure's seem'd to touch. What pride ! embracing beauty's perfect mould ; What terror ! lest his few rash words mistold, Had agonised her pulse to fever's heat : But calrn'd again so soon it healthful beat, And such sweet tones were in her voice's sound,. Composed herself, she breathed composure round. Fair being ! Avith what sympathetic grace She heard, bewail'cl, 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 UDOLPH from his CONSTANCE went Stifling, alas ! a dark presentiment Some ailment lurk'd, ev'n whilst she smiled, to mock His fears of harm from y ester-morning's shock. Meanwhile a faithful page he singled out. To watch at home, and follow straight his route, If aught of threaten'd change her health should show* With UDOLPH then he reach'd the house of woe. That winter's eve, how darkly Nature's brow Scowl' d 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 join*d. While white yon water's foam was raised in clouds 38 THEODRIC. That whirl' d 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 finish' d half, Still knew him smiled on him with feeble laugh And bless'd 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 tban 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 Stuun'd into stupor more than wrung with grief ? It was not strange; for in the human breast Two master-passions cannot co-exist, And that alarm which now usurp'd his brain Shut out not only peace, but other pain. 'Twas fancying CONSTANCE underneath the shroud That cover'd JULIA made him first weep loud, And tear himself away from them that wept. Fast hurrying homeward, night nor day he slept, Till, launch' d at sea, he dreamt that his soul's saint Clung to him on a bridge of ice, pale, faint. O'er cataracts of blood. Awake, he bless'd 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 reveal* d His letter sent to CONSTANCE last, still seal'd Though speech and hearing left him, told to clear That he had now to suffer not to fear. He felt as if he ne'er should cease to feel A wretch live-broken on misfortune's wheel ; Her death's cause he might make his peace with 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 blaine,' she said, ' I shudder to relate, But none of yours, that caused our darling's fate; THEODRIC. 39 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. Hence, when you went, she came and vainly spoke To change her purpose grew incensed, and broko With execrations from her kneeling child. Start not ! your angel from her knee rose mild, Fear'd that she should not long the scene outlive, Yet bade ev'u you th' unnatural one forgive. Till then her ailment had been slight, or none : But fast she droop'd, and fatal pains came on : Foreseeing their event, she dictated And sigu'd 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 command, Your soul, I know, as firm is knit to mine As these clasp'd hands in blessing you now join : Shape not imagined horrors in my fate Ev'n now my sufferings are not very great ; And when your griefs 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 Reflection's 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 1 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. But I conjure your manliness to bear My loss with noble spirit not despair; I ask you by our love to promise this, 40 TRANSLATIONS. 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, ev'n beneath the crush of fate, That mind in whose regard all things were placed In views that soften'd them, or lights that graced, That soul's example could not but dispense A portion of its own bless'd influence ; Invoking him to peace and that self-sway Which Fortune cannot give, nor take away : And though he mourn'd her long, 'twas with such voe As if her spirit watch'd him still below." TRANSLATIONS. MARTIAL ELEGY. FROM THE GREEK OF TYRT.EUS. 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 scom'd and scowl'd upon by every face, They pine for food, and beg from place to place. Stain of his breed! dishonouring manhood's form, All ills shall cleave to him : Affliction's storm Shall blind 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, inured to shame. TRANSLA TIONS. 4 * 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. 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 unbless'd) To welter in the combat's foremost thrust, His hoary head dishevell'd in the dust, And venerable bosom bleeding bare. But youth's fair form, though fallen, is ever fair, And beautiful in death the boy appears, The hero boy, that dies in blooming years: In man's regret he lives, and woman's tea*; More sacred than in life, and lovelier far, For having perished in the front of war. SONG OF HYBRIAS THE CRETAN. MY wealth's a burly spear and brand, And a right good shield of hides untann'd, Which on my arm I buckle : With 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, Nor joy to draw the sword : Oh, I bring those heartless, hapless drones, Down in a trice on their marrow-bones, To call me King and Lord. 42 TRANSLATIONS. FRAGMENT. FROM THE GREEK OF AIX-MAK. TUE mountain summits sleep : glens, cliffs, and cavee 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 hush'd that stretch'd its pinions to the day. SPECIMENS OP TRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA. 'Sxaaeus Si klyut, zi>it n ffo&vs, Tews a-jes-fis /SJOTOUJ, cu% 0.1 f4a.?m{. Medea, v. 194, p. 33, Glas*. edit. TELL me, ye bards, whose skill sublime First charm'd 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, Bends not despairing Grief to hear Your golden lute with ravish'd ear ? Has all your art no power to bind The fiercer pangs that shake the mind, And lull the wrath at whose command Murder bares her gory hand? When flush'd with joy, the rosy throng Weave the light dance, ye swell the song! Cease, ye vain warblers ! cease to charm ! The breast with other raptui-es warm ! Cease ! till your hand with magic strain In slumbers steep the heart of painl TRANSLATIONS. 43 SPEECH OF THE CHORUS, IN TIIE SAME TRAGEDY, To Dissuade Medea from her Purpose of Putting her Children to Death, and Flying for Protection to Athens. HAGGARD queen! to Athens dost tbou. guide Thy glowiug chariot, steep'-d in kindred gore ; Or seek to hide thy foul infanticide Where Peace and Mercy dwell for evermore \ The laud where Truth, pure, precious, and sublime, Woos the deep silence of sequester' d bowers, And warriors, matchless since the first of time, Rear their bright banners o'er unconquer'd towers! Where joyous youth, to Music's mellow strain, Twines in the dance with nymphs for ever fair, While Spring eternal on the lilied plain, Waves amber radiance through the fields of air ! The tuneful Nine (so sacred legends tell) First waked their heavenly lyre these scenes among ; Still in your greenwood bowers they love to dwell ; Still iu your vales they swell the choral song t But 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 polish' d 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 bow'd to taste the wave ; And bless'd the stream, and breathed across the land The soft sweet gale that fans yon summer bovvers ; And there the sister Loves, a smiling band, Crown'd with the fragrant wreaths of rosy flowers! " And go," she cries, " in yonder valleys rove, With Beauty's torch the solemn scenes illume 44 TRANSLATIONS. Wake in each eye the radiant light of Love, Breathe on each cheek young Passion's tender bloom ! Entwine, with myrtle chains, your soft controul, To sway the hearts of Freedom's darling kind! With glowing charms enrapture Wisdom's soul, And mould to grace ethereal Virtue's mind." STROPUE u. The land where Heaven's own hallow'd 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 In thine own children's gore ! Oh! ere they bleed, Let Nature's voice thy ruthless heart appal ! Pause at the bold, irrevocable deed The 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 rmg The screams of horror in thy tortured ear ? No ! let thy bosom melt to Pity's ciy, In dust we kneel by sacred Heaven implore ! stop thy lifted arm, ere yet they die, Nor dip thy horrid hands in infant gore ! ANTISTROPHE 11. Say, how shalt thou that barbarous soul assume, Undamp'd 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 weop 1 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 harden'd features of despair! TRANSLATIONS. 45 Nature shall throb in every tender string, Tliy trembling heart the ruffian's task deny ; Thy horror-smitten hands afar shall fling The blade, undrench'd in blood's eternal dye. CHORUS. Hallow'd Earth ! with indignation Mark, oh mark, the murderous deed J Radiant eye of wide creation, Watch th' 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 ! array 'd 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, Rear'd 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 roatn the paths of danger, Hymenean joys to prove ] Spare, sanguinary stranger, Pledges of thy sacred love ! Ask not Heaven's commiseration, After thou hast done the deed ; Mercy, pardon, expiation, Perish when thy victims bleed. O'CONNOR'S CHILD; OR, "THE FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING." I. OH ! 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 narper told, how lone, how far From any mansion's twinkling star, From any path of social men, Or voice, b\;t from the fox's den, The lady in the desert dwelt ; And yet no wrongs, no fears she felt : Say, why should dwell hi place so wild, O'Connor's pale and lovely child ? Sweet lady ! she no more inspires Green Erin's hearts with beauty's power, As, in the palace of her sires, She bloom' d a peerless flower. Gone from her hand and bosom, gone, The royal brooch, the jewell'd ring, That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone, Like dews on lilies of the spring. Yet why, though fall'n her brothers' kerne Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern, While yet in Leinster unexplored, Her friends survive the English sword j V CONNORS CHILD. 47 Why lingers she from Erin's host, So far on Galway's shipwreck'd coast; Why wanders she a huntress wild O'Connor's pale and lovely child ] in. And fix'd on empty space, why burn Her eyes with momentary wildness ; And wherefore do they then return To more than woman's mildness ] Dishevell' d are her raven locks ; On Connocht Moran's name she calls : And oft amidst the lonely rocks She sings sweet madrigals. Placed 'midst the foxglove 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, He comes and makes her glad ; Now on the grass-green turf he sits, His tassell'd 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 possess'd, More richly than in Aghrim's bower, When bards high praised her beauty's power, And kneeling pages ofer*d up The mdrat in a golden cup. v. "A hero's bride ! this desert bower, It ill befits thy gentle breeding :^ And wherefore dost thou love this flower 48 O'CONNOR'S CHILD. 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 ; But woe 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 Moran's scorn, They call'd my hero basely-born ; And bade him choose a meaner bride Than from O'Connor's house of prido. Their tribe, they said, their high degree, Was sung in Tara's psaltery ; Witness their Bath's victorious brand ; And Cathal of the bloody hand ; Glory (they said) and power and honour Were in the mansion of O'Connor : But he, my loved one, bore in field A humbler crest, a meaner shield. Ah, brothers ! what did it avail, That fiercely and triumphantly Ye fought the English of the Pale, And stemm'd De Bourgo's chivalry ! And what was it to love and me, That barons by your standard rode j Or beal-fires for your jubilee Upon a hundred mountains glow*d ? O'CONNOR'S CHILD. 49 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, would not, be undone ! At bleating of the wild watch-fold Thus sang my love ' Oh, come with me . Our bark is on the lake, behold Our steeds are fasten'd 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 traek'd 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, rush'd we through the glade, And saw at dawn the lofty bawn Of Castle-Connor fade. Sweet was to us the hermitage Of this unplough'd, 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; While I, his evening food to dress, Would sing to him in happiness. But, oh, that midnight of despair ! When 'I was doom'd to rend my hair : The night, to me, of shrieking sorrow ! The night, to him, that had no morrow ! 50 & CONNORS CHILD. x. When all was hush'd at even tide, I heard the baying of their beagle : Be hush'd ! my Connocht Moran cried, 'Tis but the screaming of the eagle. Alas ! twas not the eyrie's sound ; Their bloody bands had track'd us out : Up-listening starts our couchant hound 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 cross'd 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. vVarm in his death -wounds sepulchred, Alas ! my warrior's spirit brave K"or mass nor ulla-lulla heard, Lamenting, soothe 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, Glared on each eye-ball's aching throb, And check'd my bosom's power to sob, Or when my heart with pulses drear Beat like a death-watch to my ear. XII. But Heaven, at last, my soul's eclipse Did with a vision bright inspire ; I woke and felt upon my lips a CONNORS CHILD. 51 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 O'Connor'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. XIII. 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 unroll'd. stranger! by my country's loss ! And by my love ! and by the cross I 1 swear I never could have spoke The curse that sever'd 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. They would have cross'd themselves, all mute ; They would have pray'd to burst the spell ; But at the stamping of my foot Each hand down powerless fell J And go to Athunree ! (I cried) High lift the banner of your pride ! 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 I 2 52 O'CONNOR'S CHILD. 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'Connors blood! Away ! away to Athunree ! Where, downward when the sun shall fa The raven's wing shall be your pall 1 And not a vassal shall unlace The vizor from your dying face ! xv. A bolt that overhung our dome Suspended till my curse was given, Soon as it pass'd these lips of foam, Peal'd in the blood-red heaven. Dire was the look that o'er their backs The angry parting brothers threw: But now, behold ! like cataracts, Come down the hills in view O'Connor's plumed partisans; Thrice ten Kilnagorvian clans Were marching to their doom : A sudden storm their plumage toss'd, A flash of lightning o'er them cross'd, And all again was gloom ! 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, aud vow'd to rove This desert place a huntress bold; 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 make. Of all unheeded and unheeding, And cherish, for my warrior's sake ' The flower of love lies bleeding.' " 53 LOCHIEL'S WARNING. WIZARD LOCHIEL. WIZARD.' LOOHIEL, Lochiel ! beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array I For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scatter'd in fight. They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown ; Woe, woe 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? 'Tis thine, 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 cannot number the dead; For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, Culloden 1 that reeks with the blood of the brave. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer 1 Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. WIZARD. Ha I laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn ! Say, rush'd 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 I Why flames the far summit ? Why shoot to the blast Those embers, like stars from the firmament castl 54 LOCIIIEVS WARNING. 'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyrie, that beacons the darkucss 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 ; Keturn 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. JXXHIIEL. False Wizard, avaunt ! I have marshall'd my clan, Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one ! They are true to the last of their blood and 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 woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanronald the daimtless, and Moray the proud, All plaided and plumed 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. I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo ! nnointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, Behold, where he flics on his desolate path! Now in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight; Rise, rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! 'Tis finish'd. Their thunders are hush'd 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, banish'd, 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. BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 55 And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Accursed be the faggots, 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 LOCHIEL. Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale : For never shall Albin a destiny meet, So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. Tho* my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heap'd 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. BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. i. OP Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day's renown, When 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. n. Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line : It was ten of April mom by the chime : As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death ; And the boldest held his breath, For a time. 56 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. in. But the might of England fiush'J To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter riujh'd. O'er the deadly space between. " Hearts of oak! " our captains cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. IV. Again! again! again! A ad 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 shatter'd sail ; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom. v Out spoke the victor then, As he hail'd 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." TIi Then Denmark bless'd 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 While the sun look'd smiling bright O'er a wide and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away. YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 57 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 ! vin. Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died ; With the gallant good Eiou ; * Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave! While the billow mournful rolls And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave! YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND : A NAVAL ODS. YE Mariners of England ! That guard our native seas ; Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, The battle and the breeze ! Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe ! And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow ; While tho battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. Opt. Ricu, styled by Lord Nelson the gallant and the good. YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. n. The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every ware! For the deck it was their field o And Ocean was their grave : Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And tho stormy winds do blow. in. Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep ; Her march is o'er the mountain- waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oa> She quells the floods below, As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow ; W T hen the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. 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. H But Linden saw another signt "When the drum beat at dead of night. Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. p. 59 59 HOHENLINDEN. ON Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow. Ami 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 darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast array'd, Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neigh'd, To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rush'd the steed to battle diiven, And louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flash'd 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. 'TJ3 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 bravo, Who rush to glory, or the grave 1 Wave, Munic .1! 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 then? feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. Co GLENARA. HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad in the galo, 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 call'd to her bier. Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud ; Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn'd not aloud : Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around ; They march'd all in silence, they look'd on the ground. In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor, To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar : " Now here let us place the grey stone of her cairn : Why speak ye no word ] " said Glenara the stern. "And tell me, I charge you ! ye clan of my spouse, 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 display'd. " I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt 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!" ! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, When 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 : " I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, 1 dreamt 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 reveal'd where his lady was found J Prom a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn ! 6i EXILE OF ERIK THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thiu robe was heavy and chill : For his country he sigh'd, 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 hour% Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh 1 Erin, my country ! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more 1 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 ? Where is the mother that look'd 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 cannot recal. Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw : Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing ! Tand of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh 1 62 LORD UL LIN'S DAUGHTER. 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 devotion,- Eriii mavournin Erin go bragh ! * LORD ULLIN'S 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." " Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyla, This dark and stormy water?" "0, I 'm the chief of Ulva'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? " Out spoke 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, 1 11 row you o'er the ferry." By this the storm grew loud apace, The water- wraith was shrieking; Ireland my darling, Ireland for ever. LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 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. "0 haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, "Though tempests round us gather; I '11 meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father." The boa.'", has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her, When, oh ! too strong for human hand The tempest gather' d o'er her. And still they row'd amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing : Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore, His wrath was changed to wailing. For sore dismay'd, through storm and His child he did discover : One lovely hand she stretch'd 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 lash'd the shore, Return or aid prsvettir.g : Th waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting. ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. SOUL of the Poet ! wheresoe'er Reclaim'd 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 AVith Pythian words unsought, unwiird, Love, the surviving gift of Heaven, The choicest sweet of Paradise, In life's else bitter cup distill' d. 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 skill'd one flame alone to fan : His country's high-soul'd peasantry What patriot-pride he taught ! how much To weigh the inborn worth of man 1 And rustic life and poverty Grow beautiful beneath his touch. Him in his clay-built cot, the Muse Entranced, and show'd 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. ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 65 On Bannock-field what thoughts arouse The swain whom BURNS'S song inspires ! Beat not his Caledonian veins, As o'er the heroic turf he ploughs, With all the spirit of his sires, And all their scorn of death and chains? And see the Scottish exile, tann'd By many a far and foreign clime, Bend o'er his home-born verse, and weep In memory of his native land, With love that scorns the lapse of time, And ties that stretch beyond the deep. Encamp'd by Indian rivers wild, The soldier resting on his arms, In BURNS'S carol sweet recals The scenes that bless'd him when a child, And glows and gladdens at the charms Of Scotia's woods and waterfalls. 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. It is the muse that consecrates The native banner of the brave, Unfurling at the trumpet's breath, Rose, thistle, harp; 'tis she elates To sweep the field or ride the wave, A sunburst in the storm of death. And thou, young hero, when thy pall Is cross'd with mournful sword and plume, When public grief begins to fade, And only tears of kindred fall, Who 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, 66 LINES. In verse like thine, oh! could he live, The friend I mourn'd the brave- -the good- Ed ward 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 crush'd 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. LINES WBITTEX ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHHLE. 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 ruin'd and wild is then* roofless abode, And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree : And travell'd by few is the grass-cover'd 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, * Major Edward Hodge, of the 7th Hussars, who fell at the head of his squadron, iu the attack of the Polish Lancers THE SOLDIERS DREAM 67 All wild in the silence of nature, it drew, From each wandering sun-beam, a lonely embrace, For the night- weed and thorn overshadow'd 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 With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight, Abandon my soul, like a dream of the night, And leave but a desert behind. Be hush'd, my dark spirit ! for wisdom condemns When 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 uualter'd,thy courage elate ! Yea! even the name I have worshipp'd in vain Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again : To bear is to conquer our fate. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. OUR bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, The weary to sleep and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain , At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track : Twas Autumn, and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 68 TO THE RAINBOW. 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. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to pa: t My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobb'd 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 return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. TO THE KAINBOW. 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 dreamt 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 ! 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. TO THE RAINBOW. 69 When o'er the green undeluged earth Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's grey 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 deliver'd 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 freshen' d fields The snowy mushroom springs. How glorious is thy girdle, cast O'er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirror'd in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down ! As fresh in yon horizon dark, As young thy beauties seern As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam : For, fait hful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thy span, Nor lets the type grow pale with age That first spoke peace to man. A DEEAM. may sleep present us fictions Since our waking moments teein 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 Season's mint Give my thoughts a clearer print Of assured reality, Than was left by Phantasy Stamp'd and colour*d on my sprite, In a dream of yesternight. In a bark, methought, lone steering, I was cast on Ocean's strife ; This, 'twas whisper'd in my hearing Meant the sea of life. Sad regrets from past existence Came, like gales of chilling breath, Shadow'd 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 uushroud 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, Kindle, while an air-dropt being Smiling stecr'd my bai-k. Heaven-like yet he look'd 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 death A DREAM. 71 So his accents bade me brook The spectre's eyes of icy look, Till it shut them turn'd 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 appal thce worse, 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 watch Make 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 life-time 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 1 ? 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 trouble Friendship's death-dissever'd ties ; Toil to grasp or miss the bubble Of Ambition's prize? Say thy life's new guided action Flow'd 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." 72 THE LAST MAN. I caught the moral, and cried, " Hail I Spirit ! let us onward sail Envying, fearing, hating none Guardian Spirit, steer me on!" THE LIST MAN" ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The Sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality ! I sas? 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 ! Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere leaves from the wood As if a storm pass'd 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. THE LAST MAN. 73 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 those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Heal'd not a passion or a pang Entail'd on human hearts. Go, let oblivion's curtain fall Upon the stage of men, Nor with thy rising beams recal Life's tragedy again: Its piteous pageants bring not back, Nor waken flesh, upon the rack Of pain anew to writhe; Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd Or mown in battle by the sword, Like grass beneath the scythe. Ev'n I am weary in yon skies To watch thy fading fire; Test of all sumless agonies, Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of death Their 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 recall'd to breath, Who captive led captivity, Who robb'd the grave of Victory, And took the sting from Death 1 74 VALEDICTORY STANZAS. 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 race, On Earth's sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy To quench his Immortality, Or shake his trust in God ! VALEDICTORY STANZAS TO J. P. EEMBLE, ESQ. COMPOSED FOR A PUBLIC MEETING, HELD JTTNE, 1ST 7. PRIDE of the British stage, A long and last adieu ! Whose image brought th' heroic age Revived to Fancy's view. Like fields refresh'd 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, Where all their beauty blends: For ill can Poetiy 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, Terse ceases to be airy thought, And Sculpture to be dumb. VALEDICTORY STANZAS. 75 Time may again revive, But ne'er eclipse the charm, When Cato spoke in him alive, Or Hotspur kindled warm. What soul was not resign'd entire To the deep sorrows of the Moor, What English heart was not on fire With him at Agincourt] And yet a majesty possess' d 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 ! In words to paint your memory Of Kemble and of Lear; But who forgets that white discrowned head, Those bursts of Reason's half-extinguish'd glare ; Those 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 molt, And triumph'd 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 favour 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, 76 VALEDICTORY STANZAS. Can measure inspiration's hour, And tell its height in heaven. At once ennobled and correct, His mind survey' d the tragic page. And what the actor could effect, The scholar could presage. 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! GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. IN THREE PARTS. ADVERTISEMENT. MOST of the popular histories of England, as well as of the American war, give an authentic account of the desolation of "Wyoming, in Pennsylvania, which took place in 1778, hy an incursion of the Indians. The Scenery and Incidents of the following Poem are con- nected with that event. The testimonies of historians and travellers concur in 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 junction of European with Indian arms converted this terrestrial paradise into a frightful waste. MB. ISAAC WELD informs us, that the ruins of many of the villages, perforated with balls, and bearing marks of conflagration, were still preserved by the recent inhabitants, when he travelled through America in 1796. PART I. i. ON Susquehanna's side, fair Wyoming ! Although the wild-flower on thy ruin'd wall, And roofless homes, a sad remembrance bring Of what thy gentle people did befal ; Yet thou wert once the loveliest land of all That see the Atlantic wave their morn restore. Sweet land ! may I thy lost delights recal, And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore, Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania's shore ! n. Delightful Wyoming ! beneath thy skies, The happy shepherd swains had nought to do But feed their flocks on green declivities, Or skim Derchance thy lake with light canoe, 78 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. From mom till evening's sweeter pastime grew, With timbrel, when beneath the forests brown, Thy lovely maidens would the dance renew ; And aye those sunny mountains half-way down Would echo flagelet from some romantic town. 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 arch'd 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 priming-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 pellochsf rolling from the mountain bay, Thy lone sepulchral cairn upon the moor, And distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan t r.?=T ! VL 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! * Scotland. t The Gaelic appellation for the porpoise. \ The great whirlpool of the Western Hebrides. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 79 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 * And England sent her men, of men the chief, Who taught those sires of Empire yet to be, To plant the tree of life, to plant fair Freedom's tree ! VII. Here was not mingled in the city's pomp Of life's extremes the grandeur and the gloom ; Judgment awoke not here her dismal tromp, Nor seal'd in blood a fellow-creature's doom, Nor mourn'd 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 befal : And Albert was their judge, in patriarchal halL vnr. How reverend was the look, serenely aged, He bore, this gentle Pennsylvanian sire, Where all but kindly fervours were assuaged, Undimm'd 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 ^Etna's fires grow dim before the rising day. IX. I boast no song in magic wonders rife, But yet, oh Nature ! is there nought to prize, Familiar in thy bosom scenes of life? And dwells in day-light truth's salubrious skies No form with which the soul may sympathise 1 ? 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. x. The rose of England bloom'd on Gertrude's cheek What though these shades had seen her birth, her sire A Briton's independence taught to seek Far western worlds ; and there his household firo 8o GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 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 climb'd a widow'd father's knee. XI. A loved bequest, and I may half impart To them that feel the strong paternal tie, How 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, Her 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, undesign'd !) The orison repeated in his arms, For God "to bless her sire and all mankind ; The book, the bosom on his knee reclined, Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con, (The playmate ere the teacher of her mind :) All uncompanion'd else her heart had gone Till now, in Gertrude's eyes, their ninth blue summer shono. xra. And summer was the tide, and sweet the hour, When sire and daughter saw, with fleet descent, An Indian from his bark approach their bower, Of buskin'd limb, and swarthy lineament ; The red wild feathers on his brow were blent, And bracelets bound the arm that help'd to light A boy, who seem'd, as he beside him went, Of Christian vesture, and complexion bright, Led by his dusky guide, like morning brought by night. xiv. Yet pensive seem'd the boy for one so young The dimple from his polish'd cheek had fled ; When, leaning on his forest-bow unstrung, Th' Oneyda warrior to the planter said, And laid his hand upon the stripling's head, +O* In vain the desolated panther flies, And. howls amidst his wilderness of fire. p. SI GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 8l "Peace be to thee ! my words this belt approve ; The paths of peace my steps have hither led : This little nursling, 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 launch'd our pirogues for the bison chase, And with the Hurons 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 us a friendly talk, The hollow peace-tree fell beneath their tomahawk 1 It was encamping on the lake's far port, A cry of Areouski* broke our sleep, Where storm'd an ambush'd foe thy nation's fort, And rapid, rapid whoops came o'er the deep ; But long thy country's war-sign on the steep Appear'd through ghastly intervals of light, And deathfully their thunders seem'd to sweep, Till utter darkness swallow'd up the sight, As if a shower of blood had quench'd the fiery fight 1 It slept it rose again on high their tower Sprung upwards like a torch to light the skies, Then down again it rain'd an ember shower, And louder lamentations heard we rise : As when the evil Manitou that dries Th' Ohio woods, consumes them in his ire, In vain the desolated panther flies, And howls amidst his wilderness of fire : Alas ! too late, we reach'd and smote those Hurons dire ! 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 : * The Indian God of War. 82 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. Her 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 sobb'd and swoon'd away, Or shriek'd unto the God to whom the Christians pray XIX. Our virgins fed her with their kindly bowls Of fever-balm and sweet sagamite : But she was journeying to the land of souis, 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 j 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. And I, the eagle of my tribe, have rush'd With this lorn dove." A sage's self-command Had quell'd the tears from Albert's heart that gnsh'd; But yet his cheek his agitated hand That shower'd upon the stranger of the land No common boon, in grief but ill beguiled A soul that was not wont to be unmann'd; "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 warms, On earth's remotest bounds how welcome here ! Whose mother oft, a child, has fill'd 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 ev'n now thy scenes appear, As in the noon and sunshine of my prime! How gone like yesterday these thrice ten years of tune I xxn. And Julia! when thou wert like Gertrude now, Can I forget thee, favourite 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 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING, 83 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 head extend In woes, that ov'n the tribe of deserts was thy friend 1 " XXIII. He said and strain'd unto his heart the boy; Far differently, the mute Oneyda took His calumet of peace, and cup of joy ; As monumental bronze unchanged his look ; A soul that pity touch'd but never shook; Train'd from his tree-rock'd 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. Yet deem not goodness on the savage stock Of Outalissi's heart disdain'd to grow ; As lives the oak unwither'd on the rock By storms above, and barrenness below ; He scom'd his own, who felt another's woe : And ere the wolf-skin on his back he flung, Or laced his mocasins, in act to go, A song of parting to the boy he sung, Who slept on Albert's couch, nor heard his friendly tongue. " Sleep, wearied one ! and in the dreaming land Shouldst thou to-morrow with thy mother meet, Oh ! tell her spirit that the white man's hand Hath pluck'd 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 pour'd the lotus-horn, or slew the mountain roe. XXVT. 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 ; a2 * GERTRUDE Of WYOMING. 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 I* XXVII. So finish'd he the rhyme (liowe'er uncouth) That true to nature's fervid feelings ran ; (And song is but the eloquence of truth :) Then forth uprose that lone wayfaring 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 His path by mountain, swamp, or deep ravine, Or ken far friendly huts on good savannas green. Old Albert saw him from the valley s side His pirogue launch'd his pilgrimage begun Far, like the red-bird's wing he seem'd to glide ; Then dived, and vanish'd in the woodlands dun. Oft, to that spot by tender memory won, Would Albert climb the promontory's height, If but a dim sail glimmered hi the sun ; But never more to bless his longing sight, Was Outalissi hail'd, with bark and plumage bright. PART II. i. A VALLEY from the river shore withdrawn Was Albert's home, two quiet woods between, Whose lofty verdure overlook'd 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 guess' d some congregation of the elves, To sport by summer moons, had shaped it for themselves. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. Y'et wanted not the eye far scope to muse, Nor vistas open'd 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 low'd far from human home. But silent not that adverse eastern path, Which 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 murmur'd pleasantly, and laid him down To kiss those easy curving banks of bloom, That lent the windward air an exquisite perfume. It seem'd as if those scenes sweet influence had On Gertrude's soul, and kindness like their own Inspired those eyes affectionate and glad, That seem'd to love whate'er they look'd upon ; Whether with Hebe's mirth her features shoue. Or if a shade more pleasing them o'ercast, (As if for heavenly musing meant alone ;) Yet so becomingly th' expression past, That each succeeding look was lovelier than the last 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 look'd 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. 86 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. The sunrise drew her thoughts to Europe forth, That thus apostrophised its viewless scene : " Land of my father's love, my mother's birth The home of kindred I have never seen ! We know not other oceans are between: Yet say, far friendly hearts ! from whence we came, Of us does oft remembrance intervene? My mother sure my sire a thought may claim ; But Gertrude is to you an unregarded name. And yet, loved England ! when thy name I trace In many a pilgrim's tale and poet's song, How 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 thec once again whom I too shortly sawl* Yet deem not Gertrude sigh'd 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 hah 1 ; While yet the wild deer trod in spangling dew, While boatmen carol'd to the fresh-blown air, And woods a horizontal shadow threw, And early fox appear'd 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; But here (methinks) might India's sons explore Their fathers' dust, or lift, perchance of yore, Their voice to the great Spirit: rocks sublime To human art a sportive semblance bore, And yellow lichens colour'd all the clime, Like moonlight battlements, and towers decay'd by time. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 87 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 swell'd 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 strown; Her 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 seen or heard But stock-doves plaining through its gloom profound, Or winglet of the fairy humming-bird, Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round; When, lo ! there enter'd to its inmost ground A youth, the stranger of a distant land; He was, to weet, for eastern mountains bound; But late th' equator suns his cheek had tann'd, And California's gales his roving bosom fann'd. XIII. A steed, whose rein hung loosely o'er his arm, He led dismounted; ere his leisure pace, Amid the brown leaves, could her ear alarm, Close he had come, and worshipp'd 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 seem'd his boot his robe the same, And well the Spanish plume his lofty looks became. S8 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. For Albert's home he sought her finger fair Has pointed where the father's mansion stood. Keturning from the copse he soon was there; And soon has Gertrude hied from dark greenwood : 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 tongus. xv. And well could he his pilgrimage of taste Unfold, and much they loved his fervid strain, 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 design'd Than all the city's pomp and home of humankind. 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 El Dorado sound. xvn. 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 stopt 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 owa GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 89 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 bedew'd 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 I ' XIX. His face the wanderer hid but could not hide A tear, a smile, upon his cheek that dwell; "And speak ! mysterious stranger!" (Gertrude cried) "It is! it is! I knew 1 knew him well; 'Tis Waldegrave's self, of Waldegrave come to tell 1" 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 name, and false attire? I durst not in the neighbourhood, hi 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 away. 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 veiy 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!' GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. XXII. "And art thou here? or is it but a dream? And wilt thou, Waldegrave, wilt thou, leave us more !" " No, never! thou that yet dost lovelier seem Thau aught on earth than ev'n thyself of yore 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 Which every ray of young remembrance warms, While thou shalt be my own, with all thy truth and charms ! * xxin. 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, ear, and sight : There, if, gentle Love ! I read aright The utterance that seal'd thy sacred bond, 'Twas listening to these accents of delight, She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyond Expression's power to paint, all lansuishingly foud XXIV. " Flower of my life, so lovely and so lone ! Whom I would rather in this desert meet, Scorning, and scorn'd by fortune's power, than own Her pomp and splendours lavish'd at my feet ! Turn not from me thy breath, more exquisite Than odours 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 Flush'd in the darkening firmament of June ; And silence brought the soul-felt hour, full soon. Ineffable, which I may not portray ; For never did the hymenean moon A paradise of hearts more sacred sway, in all that slept beneath her soft voluptuous ray GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 91 PART III. i. LOVE ! in such a wilderness as this, Where transport and security entwine, Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, And hero 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 1 Nor, blind with ecstacy's celestial fire, Shall love behold the spark of earth-bom time expire. Three little moons, how short ! amidst the grovo And pastoral savannas they consume ! While she, beside her buskin' d 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. in. 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 1 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 witness'd first her vows. IV. Now labyrinths, which but themselves can pierce, Methinks, 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. 92 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 'Twos but when o'er each heart th' idea stole, (Perchance a while in joy's oblivion drown' d) That come what may, while life's glad pulses roll, Indissolubly thus should soul be knit to soul. And in the visions of romantic youth, What years of endless bliss are yet to flow ! But mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth 1 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 doom'd, Guiltless, to mourn thy loveliest bowers laid low! When where of yesterday a garden bloom' d, Death overspread his pall, and blackening ashes gloom'd I Sad was the year, by proud oppression driven, When Transatlantic Liberty arose, Not in the sunshine and the smile of heaven, But wrapt in whirlwinds, 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 veins- And famine tracks her steps, and pestilential pains. VIL 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 re-echo 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 woe! First when in Gertrude's ear the summons rang, A husband to the battle doom'd to go ! * Alluding to the miseries that attended the American civil war. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 93 "Nay meet not thou (she cried) thy kindred foe! But peaceful let us seek fair England's strand ! " "Ah, Gertrude, thy beloved heart, I know, Would feel like mine the stigmatising brand I 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 ;. Say, ev'n if this I brook'd, 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 suppress'd, the mournful beauty smiled. x. Night came, and in their lighted bower, full late, The joy of converse had endured when, harkl Abrupt and loud, a summons shook their gate ; And heedless of the dog's obstrep'rous bark, A form had rush'd amidst them from the dark, And spread his arms, and fell upon the floor : Of aged strength his limbs retain' d the mark ; But desolate he look'd, and famish'd poor, As ever shipwreck'd wretch lone left on desert shore. Uprisen, each wond'ring brow is knit and arch'd : A spirit from the dead they deem him first : To speak he tries ; but quivering, pale, and parch'd, From lips, as by some powerless dream accursed, Emotions unintelligible burst ; And long his filmed eye is red and dim ; At length the pity-proffer* d cup his thirst Had half assuaged, and nerved his shuddering limb, When Albert's hand he grasp'd; but Albert knew not him "And hast thou then forgot," (he cried forlorn, And eyed the group with half indignant air,) " Oh ! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the morn When I with thee the cup of peace did share ? 94 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. Then stately was this head, and dark this hair, That now is white as Appalachia's snow ; But, if the weight of fifteen years' despair, And age hath bow'd 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 Oneyda flew : ''Bless thee, my guide!" but backward, as he came, The chief his old bewilder'd head withdrew, And grasp'd his arm, and look'd and look'd 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 clasp'd him to his soul. " Yes ! thou recallest my pride of years, for then The bowstring of my spirit was not slack, When, spite of woods, and floods, and am bush' d 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 1 fear'd,* For I was strong as mountain cataract : And dost thou not remember how we cheer' d, Upon the last hill-top, when white men's huts appear'd ? Then welcome be my death-song, and my 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 outstretch'd around their guest, 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 fever'd joy that more profusely bled. <; But this is not a time," he started up, And smote his breast with woe-denouncing hand " This is no time to fill the joyous cup, The Mammoth comes, the foe, the Monster Brandt, Cougar, the American tiger. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 95 With 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 shine 1 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 : N"o ! not the dog that watch'd my household hearth, Escaped that night of blood, upon our plains ! All perish'd ! I alone am left on earth ! To whom nor relative nor blood remains, No! not a kindred drop that runs in human veins! XVIII. But go ! and rouse your warriors, for, if right These old bewilder' d 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 th' innavigable gulf below Its squared rock, and palisaded lines. Go! seek the light its warlike beacons show; Whilst I in ambush wait, for vengeance, and the foe!" XIX. Scarce had he utter' d when Heaven's verge extreme Reverberates the bomb's descending star, And sounds that mingled laugh, and shout, and scream, To freeze the blood in one discordant jar Rung to the pealing thunderbolts of war. Whoop after whoop with rack the ear assail'd; As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar ; While rapidly the marksman's shot prevail' d : And aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet wail'd. xx. Then look'd they to the hills, where fire o'erhung The bandit groups, in one Vesuvian glare; Or swept, far seen, the tower, whose clock unrung Told legible that midnight of despair. 96 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. She faints, she falters not, th' heroic fair, As he the sword and plume in haste array'd. One short embrace he clasp'd 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 gleam' d the midnight grass, With flambeau, javelin, and naked arm; As warriors wheel' d their culverins of brass, Sprung from the woods, a bold athletic mass, Whom virtue fires, and liberty combines: And first the wild Moravian yagers pass, His plumed host the dark Iberian joins And Scotia's sword beneath the Highland thistle shines. XXIL And in, the buskin'd 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 whet a dagger on then* 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 th' uncover'd 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. Short time is now for gratulating speech : And yet, beloved Gertrude, ere began Thy country's flight, you distant towers to reach, Look'd not on thee the rudest partisan GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 97 With brow relax'd 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 seeui'd the tower, That like a giant standard-bearer frown'd Defiance on the roving Indian power, Beneath, each bold and promontory mound With embrasure emboss'd, and armour crown'd, And arrowy frise, 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. xxvr. 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 seem'd to blow : There, sad spectatress of her country's woe ! The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm, Had laid her cheek, and clasp'd her hands of snow On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hush'd its wild alarm 1 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 murd'rous deeds, Gleam'd like a basilisk, from woods in view, The ambush'd foeman's eye his volley speeds, And Albert Albert falls ! the dear old father bleeds! XXVIII. And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swoon'd; Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone, Say, burst they, borrow* d from her father's wound, These drops? Oh, God ! the life-blood is her own! And faltering, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrown; 98 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. "Weep not, Love!" she cries, "to see me bleed; Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone Heaven's peace commiserate; for scarce I heed These wounds; yet thee to leave is death, is death indeed ! 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 woe's excess, That thou haat 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! 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 With 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 las*, ? 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, even while life's last pulses run, A sweetness in the cup of death to be, Lord of my bosom's love ! to die beholding thee ! '* Hush'd were his Gertrude's lips ! but still their bland And beautiful expression seem'd 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. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 99 Mute, gazing, agonising as he knelt, If 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. With solemn rites between 'Twas sung, how they were lovely in their lives, And in their deaths had not divided been. Touch'd by the music, and the melting scene, Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd : Stern warriors, resting on their sworda, were seen To veil their eyes, as pass'd each much-loved shroud, While woman's softer soul hi woe dissolved aloud. 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 watch' d, 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, He watch'd, beneath its folds, each burst that came Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame! XXXV. ' And I could weep ; " th' Oneyda 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 woe ! 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 1 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, H 100 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. Nor will thy father's spirit grieve, To see thee, on the battle's eve, Lamenting take a mournful leave Of her who loved thee most : She was the rainbow to thy sight ! Thy sun thy heaven of lost delight . XXXVII. To-morrow let us do or die I But when the bolt of death is hurl'd, Ah ! whither then with thee to fly, Shall Outalissi roam the world ? Seek we thy once-loved home ] The hand is gone that cropt its flowers : Unheard their clock repeats its hours ! Cold is the hearth within their bowers 1 And should we thither roam, Its echoes, and its empty tread, Would sound like voices from the dead ! xxxvin. Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaff'd, And by my side, in battle true, A thousand warriors drew the shaft 1 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 ! 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 thirst Be bids me dry the last the first The only tears that ever burst From Outalissi's soul ; Because I may not stain with grief The death-song of an Indian chief!" 101 LINES WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OP THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY IN LONDON, WHEN MET TO COMMEMORATE THE 21ST OF MARCH, THE DAT 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 deem'd not wrong that name to give, In festive hours, which prompts the patriot's sigh ! Who 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 phcenix soul Hose on the flames of victory to Heaven ! How 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 urnl Peace to the mighty dead ! our bosom thanks In sprightlier strains the living may inspire ! Joy to the chiefs that lead old Scotia's ranks, Of Eoman garb and more than Roman fire ! Triumphant be the thistle still unfurl'd, Dear symbol wild ! on Freedom's hills it grows, Where Fingal stemm'd the tyrants of the world, And Roman eagles found unconquer'd foes. Joy to the band * this day on Egypt's coast, Whose valour tamed proud France's tricolor, And wrench'd the banner from her bravest hoot, Baptised Invincible in Austria's gore ! * The 42ad Regiment. 102 STANZAS. Joy for the day on red Vimeira's strand, When, bayonet to bayonet opposed, First of Britannia's host her Highland band Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost closed! Is there a son of generous England here, Or fervid Erin ? he with ixs shall join, To pray that in eternal union dear, The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine 1 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 unconquer'd as of yore ! STANZAS TC THE MEMORY OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS LATEST KILLED IN RESISTING THE REGENCY AND THE DUKE OF ANGOULfiME. BRAVE men who at the Trocadero fell Beside your cannons conquer'd 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 honour, ay embrace your martyr'd lot, Cursing the Bigot's and the Bourbon's chain, And looking on your graves, though trophied not, As holier hallow'd ground than priests could make the spot ! What though your c>use be baffled freemen cast In dungeons dragg'd to death, or forced to flee ? Hope is not wither'd in affliction's blast The patriot's blood's the seed of Freedom's tree ; And short your orgies of revenge shall be, Cowl'd Demons of the Inquisitorial cell ! Earth shudders at your victory, for ye Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell* Tte baser, ranker sprung, Autochthones of Hell! SONG OF THE GREEK'S. 103 Go to your bloody rites again bring back The hall of horrors and the assessor's pen, Recording answers shriek'd upon the rack ; Sniile 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 ! 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 winnow'd 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 hangmen fingers cannot 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 heai-ts bid the tyrants defiance ; Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree It 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 wash'd out in blood from our forefathers' graves. Their spirits are hovering o'er us, And the sword shall to glory restore us. io 4 SONG OF THE GREEKS. Ah! what though no succour advances, Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances Are stretch'd hi 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've dragg'd from our altars, By our massacred patriots, our children hi 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 sheathe not 1 Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. Earth may hide waves engulf 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 hi their hair ? Accursed may his memory blacken, If a coward 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 : Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness, That were cold and extinguish'd in sadness ; Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white- waving 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. WHEN 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, Rush'd into her sire's embrace : Her bright-hair'd sire who bade her keep For ever nearest to his smiles, On Calpe's olive-shaded steep, On India's citron-cover' d isles : More remote and buxom-brown, The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throno ; A rich pomegranate gemm'd 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 whale, 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-cover* d 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. o6 LINES. Say, liath mortal invocation Spells to touch thy stony heart ? Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer, And gently rule the ruin'd 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, 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 Khine's broad billow freezes, Or the dark-brown Danube roars. Oh, winds of Winter ! list ye there To many a deep and dying groan ; Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, At shrieks and thunders louder than your own. Alas ! ev'n your unhallow'd breath May spare the victim fallen low ; But man will ask no truce to death, No bounds to human woe.* LINES SPOKEN 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 woe, Think not we come this night without a part In that deep sorrow of the public heart, * This ode was written in Germany, at. the close of 1800. before the conclusion of hostilities. LINES. 107 Which like a shade hath darken'd every place, And moisten'd with a tear the manliest face ! The bell is scarcely hush'd in Windsor's piles, That toll'd 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 dreamt, alas ! That ev'n these walls, ere many months should pass, Which but return sad accents for her now, Perhaps had witness'd her benignant brow, Cheer'd by the voije yen 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 : 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 agonised husband's side, Who "long as Memory holds her seat " shall view That speechless, more than spoken last adieu, When the fix'd eye long look'd connubial faith, And beam'd affection in the trance of death. Sad was the pomp that yesternight beheld, As with the mourner's heart the anthem swell'dj While torch succeeding torch illumed each high And banner'd 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 hallow'd as the types of real woe ! 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 canonised 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 tomb io8 REULLURA. Still 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, 'Tin not in language or expressive arts To paint ye feel it, Britons in your hearts . REULLURA.* STAR of the morn and eve, Reullura shone like thee, And well for her might Aodh grieve, The dark-attired Culdee. Peace to then* shades ! the pure Culdees Were Albyn's earliest priests of God, Ere yet an island of her seas By foot of Saxon monk was trod, Long ere her churchmen by bigotry "Were barr'd from wedlock's holy tie. 'Twas then that Aodh, famed afar, In lona preach d 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 column'd aisle Where the chiefs and the people knelt. 'Twas near that temple's goodly pile That honour'd 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 When pale in the temple and faint, With Aodh she stood alone By the statue of an aged Saint ! * Eeullura, in Gaelic, signifies "beautiful st&r." REULLURA. 109 Fair sculptured was the stone, It bore a crucifix ; Fame said it once had graced A Christian temple, which the Picts In the Briton's land laid waste : The Pictish men, by St. Columb taught, Had hither the holy relic brought. Keullura eyed the statue's face, And cried, " It is, he shall come, Even he, in this very place, To avenge my martyrdom. For, woe to the Gael people ! Ulvfagre is on the main, And lona 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 V "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 friends That died ere thy grandsire's grandsire's birth ; The oak is decay 'd 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 look'd dim, And the graves gave up their dead. Yet preaching from clime to clime, He hath roam'd the earth for ages, And hither he shall come in time When the wrath of the heathen rages, no REULLURA. 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, Lochlia,* appall'd, shall put up her steel, And thou shalt embark on the bounding keei . Safe shalt thou pass through her hundred ships, With the Saint and a remnant of the Gael, 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, Where 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 main. From Rona, and Uist, and Skye, To tell that the ships of the Dane And the red-hair'd slayers were nigh. Our islemen arose from slumbers, And buckled on their arms ; But few, alas ! were their numbers To Lochlin's mailed swarms. And the blade of the bloody Norse Has filPd the shores of the Gael 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 lona'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 mock'd the men of blood ? Denmark. t Ireland. REULLUKA. in 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 burn'd bright, And brighter than before, When an aged man of majestic height Enter'd the temple door. Hush'd was the revellers' sound, They were struck as mute as the dead, And their hearts were appall'd by the very sound Of his footsteps' measured tread. Nor word was spoken by one beholder, Whilst he flung his white robe back o'er his shoul der, And stretching his arms as eath 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 grasp'd Ulvfagre's arm. Then up rose 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 levell'd their spears in rows ; But down went axes and spears and bows, When the Saint with his crosier sign'd, The archer's hand on the string was stopp'd, And down, like reeds laid flat by the wind. Their lifted weapons dropp'd. The Saint then gave a signal mute, And though Ulvfagre will'd it not, He came and stood at the statue's foot, Spell-riveted to the spot, Till hands invisible shook the wall. 112 REULLURA. And the tottering image was dash'd Down from its lofty pedestal. On Ulvfagre's helm it crash' d Helmet, and skull, and flesh, and brain, It crush d 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, How the fiercest of your herd has died That slaughter'd 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 lona's sack, The only spoils ye shall carry back ; For the hand that uplifteth spear or sword Shall be wither'd by palsy's shock, And I come in the name of the Lord To deliver a remnant of his flock." A remnant was call'd together, A doleful remnant of the Gael, And the Saint in the ship that had brought him hi Took the mourners to Innisfail. Unscathed they left lona's strand, When the opal morn first flush'd the sky, For the Norse dropp'd spear, and bow, and brand, And look'd 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. THE TUKKISH LAD?. TWAS the hour when rites unholy Call'd each Paynim voice to prayer, And the star that faded slowly . Left to dews the freshen'd 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 dragg'd thee here to dwel). Where poor Christians as they languish Hear no sound of Sabbath bell ] " " 'Twas on Transylvania's Bannat, When the Crescent 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?" " Lady, no ! the gift were cruel, Kansom'd, yet if reft of thee. Say, fair princess ! would it grieve the* Christian climes should we behold ?" " Nay, bold knight ! I would not leave the* Were thy ransom paid in gold. " H 114 THE BRAVE ROLAND. 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 Clasp'd his blooming Eastern bride. THE BRAVE ROLAND. THE brave Roland ! the brave Roland ! False tidings reach'd the Rhenish strand That he had fallen in fight ; And thy faithful bosom swoon'd 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 1 For her vow had scarce been sworn, And the fatal mantle o'er her flung, When the Drachenfels to a trumpet rung 'Twas her own dear warrior's horn ! Woe ! woe ! each heart shall bleed shall break ! She would have hung upon his neck, Had he come but yester-even ; And he had clasp'd those peerless charms That shall never, never fill his arms, Or meet him but in heaven. Yet Roland the brave yet Roland the true He could not bid that spot adieu ; It was dear still 'midst his woes , For he loved to breathe the neighbouring air, And to think she bless'd him in her prayer, When the Halleluiah rose. LINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE. 115 There's yet one window of that pile, Which he built above the Nun's green isle ; Thence sad and oft look'd 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 fill'd his dying brain, When he fell and wish'd to fall : And her name was in his latest sigh, When Eoland, the flower of chivalry, Expired at Roncevall. LINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE. BY strangers left upon a lonely shore, Unknown, unhonour'd, was the friendless dead; For child to weep, or widow to deplore, There never came to his unburied head : All from his dreary habitation fled. Nor will the lantern'd 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 unfinish'd road, To feel the step-dame bufFetings of fate, And render back thy being's heavy load. Ah ! once, perhaps, the social passions glow'd 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 ? He who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone. zi6 THE SPECTRE BOAT. A BALLAD, LIGHT rued false Ferdinand to leave a lovely maid forlorn, Who broke her heart and died to hide her blushing cheek from scorn. One night he dreamt 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 love's delicious hue. What more he dreamt, he told to none ; but shuddering, pale, and dumb, Look'd out upon the waves, like one that knew hia hour was come. 'Twas now the dead watch of the night the helm was lash'd a-lee, And the ship rode where Mount uEtna lights the deep Levantine sea ; When beneath its glare a boat came, row'd by a woman in her shroud, Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold, stood up and spoke aloud : 11 Come, Traitor down, for whom my ghost still wanders unf orgiven ! Come down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke my peace with heaven ! " It was vain to hold the victim, for he plunged to meet her call, Like the bird that shrieks and flutters in the gazing serpent's thralL THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS. 117 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 down they went, as the cock crew from the land. THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS. ON HER BIRTHDAY. IF any white- wing'd Power above My joys and griefs survey, The day when thou wert born, my love He surely bless'd that day. I laugh'd (till taught by thee) when told Of Beauty's magic powers, That ripen 'd life's dull ore to gold, And changed its weeds to flowers. My mind had lovely shapes pourtray'd ; 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 chang'd 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. 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 shag Woe's me Woe'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 Woe's uwl LINES. OH RECE1V1NO A SEAL WITH THE CAMPBELL CREST, FROM K. M , BEFORE HER MARRIAGE. THIS wax returns not back more fair Th' impression of the gift you send, Than stamp'd upon my thoughts I bear The image of your worth, my friend ! We are not friends of yesterday ; But poet's fancies are a little Disposed to heat and cool, (they say,) By turns impressible and brittle. 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 woe This little signet yet may lock, What utterances to friend or foe, In reason's calm or passion's shock! LINES. 119 What scenes of life's yet curtain'd stage May own its confidential die, Whose 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 reach'd its influence most benign When every heart congratulates And none more cordially than mine. So speed my song mark'd with the crest That erst the advent'rous Norman wore, Who won the Lady of the West, The daughter of Macaillan. Mor. Crest of my sires ! whose blood it seal'd With glory in the strife of swords, Ne'er may the scroll that bears it yield Degenerate thoughts or faithless words,! Yet little might I prize the stone, If it but typed the feudal tree From whence, a scatter'd leaf, I'm blown In Fortune's mutability. ]SJo ! but it tells me of a heart Allied by friendship's living tie; A prize beyond the herald's art Our soul-sprung consanguinity 1 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! 120 ADELGITHA. THE ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded, And sad pale A.DELGITHA 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 ADELGITHA'S love. For he is in a foreign far land Whose arms 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 vizor At the sight She fell into his arms and fainted ; It was indeed her own true knight J THE RITTER BANN, THE Ritter Bann from Hungary Came back, renown'd in arms, But scorning jousts of chivalry, And love and ladies' charms. While other knights held reveid, he Was wrapp'd in thoughts of gloom, And hi Vienna's hostelrie Slow paced his lonely room. There enter'd one whose face he knaw,- Whose voice, he was aware, He oft at mass had listen'd to In the holy house of prayer THE RITTER BANN. 121 'Twos the Abbot of St. James's monks, A fresh and fair old man : His reverend air arrested even The gloomy Hitter Bonn. But seeing with him an ancient dame Come clad in Scotch attire, The Bitter's colour went and came, And loud he spoke in ire : " 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 : "Kemember, 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 wrench'd 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. 122 THE RITTER BANN. I had a son, a sea-boy, in A ship at Hartland Bay ; 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 countrle. In grief and gloom he heard. For they that wrong'd you, to elude Your wrath, defamed my child ; And you ay, blush, Sir, as you should Believed, and were beguiled. To die but at your feet, she vowM To roam the world ; and we Would both have sped and begg'd our bread, But BO it might riot 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 heath bloom'd on the moor, Her beauty struck young Lord Kinghorn As he hunted past our door. She shunn'd him, but he raved of Jano, And roused his mother's pride : Who came to us in high disdain, 'And where's the face,' she cried, 'Has witch'd my boy to wish for one So wretched for his wife 1 ? Dost love thy husband] Know, my son Has sworn to seek his life. THE RITTER BANN. 123 Her anger sore dismay'd 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 tears stood in her e'en. And she hous'd 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 clench'd, Speak of the worm that never dies, And the fire that is not quench'd. 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 ; I loved her, but against my flame Her purity was proof. I feign'd 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. 124 THE RITTER BANN. The treachery took : she waited wild ; My slave came back and lied Whate'er I wish'd; she clasp'd her child, And swoon'd, 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 flush'd the face of Jane : And while she bless' d his name, her smil Struck fire into my brain. No fears could damp ; I reach'd the camp, Sought out its champion ; And if my broad- sword fail'd at last, 'Twas long and well laid on. This wound's my meed, my name's Kinghorn, My foe's the Kitter Bann.' The wafer to his lips was borne, And we shrived the dying man. He died not till you went to fight The Turks at Warradein ; But I see my tale has changed you pale." The abbot went for wine ; And brought a little page who pour'd It out and knelt and smiled ; The stunn'd knight saw himself restored To childhood in his child ; And stoop'd and caught him to his breast, Laugh'd loud and wept anon, And with a shower of kisses press'd 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 has she ta'en the veil?" G1LDEROY. 125 "Sit down, Sir," said the priest, "I bar Bash words." They sat all three, And the boy play*d with the knight's broad atar, 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 Bitter Bann, " Or tell me where's my wife." The priest undid two doors that hid The inn's adjacent room, And there a lovely woman stood, Tears bathed her beauty's bloom. One moment may with bliss repay Unnumber'd hours of pain ; Such was the throb and mutual sob Of the Knight embracing Jane. GILDEBOY. Tn.K 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 ; And must my Gilderoy 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. 126 GILDEROY. Oh, Gilderoy ! bethought we then So soon, so sad to part, "\Yhen 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 ribbon 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 tearz, And hate thine orphan boy ; Alas ! his infant beauty wears The form of Gilderoy. Then wili I Reek the dreary mound That wraps tby mouldering clay, And weep and linger on the ground, And sicrh my heart away. 127 STANZAS ON THE THREATENED INVASION. OUR 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 crush'd 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 trust God 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 1 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 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 ! 128 SONG, VBN 0? ENGLAND," MEN of England ! who inherit Eights that cost your sires their blood! Men amuse undegenerate spirit Has been proved on field and flood: By the foes you've fought uncounted, By tbe glorious deeds ye've done, Trophies captured breaches mounted, Navies conquered kingdoms won ! Yet, remember, England gathers Hence >" ; t 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? 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 Agincourts ! We're the sons of sires that baffled Crown' d and mitred tyranny; They defied the field and scaffold For their birthrights BO will we I +t 129 THE HARPER. ON 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. When 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 &o co.d, And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey, And he lick'd 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 play*d 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 1 To my sweet native village, so far, far away, I can aever more return with my poor dog Tray. 130 THE WOUNDED HUSSAR. ALONE to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er : " Oh whither," she cried, " hast thou wander'd, my lover, Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore ? What voice did I hear? 'twas my Henry that sigh'di" All mournful she hasten'd ; nor wander'd she far, When bleeding, and low, on the heath she descried, By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar ! From his bosom that heaved the last torrent was streaming, And pale was his visage deep mark'd with a scar ! And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming. That melted in love and *hat 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 shall forbid me to mourn ! " "Ah no ! the last pang of my bosom is heaving! No light of the morn shall to Henry return J 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 ! -* Nor wandered sne tar, When, bleeding and low, on the heath she descried, By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar ! p. 130 13* LOVE AND MADNESS. AN ELEGY. WBITTEN IN 1-795. HARK ! from the battlements of yonder tower* The solemn bell has toll'd the midnight hour! Roused from drear visions of distemper'd 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! Yet, can I cease, while glows this trembling frame, In sighs to speak thy melancholy name J I hear thy spirit wail in every storm ! In midnight shades I view thy passing form ! Pale as in that sad hour when doom'd to feel, Deep in thy perjured heart, the bloody steel ! Demons of Vengeance! ye at whose command I grasp'd 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 I my wild heart sat smiling o'er the plan, Till Hate fulfill'd what baffled Love began! Yes ; let the clay-cold breast that never knew One tender pang to generous Nature true, Half-mingling pity with the gall of scorn, Condemn this heart, that bled in love forlorn ! * Warwick Castle. K2 132 LOVE AND MADNESS. And ye, proud fair, whose soul no gladness warms, Save Rapture's homage to your conscious charms! Delighted idols of a gaudy train, 111 can your blunter feelings guess the pain, When the fond faithful heart, inspired to prove Friendship refined, the calm 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 watch'd thy dark foreboding brow, What time thy bosom scorn'd 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 wander'd hopeless, friendless, and alone ! Oh ! righteous Heaven ! 'twas then my tortured soul First gave to wrath unlimited control 1 Adieu the silent look ! the streaming eye ! The murmur'd plaint ! tho 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 horror close my languid eyes ! 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 ! Where love was foster'd 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 tomb, Foretells my fate, and summons me to come 1 Once more I see thy sheeted spectre stand, Roll the dim eye, and wave the paly hand I < HALLOWED GROUND. 133 Soon may this fluttering spark of vital flame Forsake its languid melancholy frame ! Soon may these eyes their trembling lustre close, Welcome the dreamless night of long repose ! Soon may this woe- worn spirit seek the bourne Where, lull'd to slumber, Grief forgets to mourn ! " HALLOWED GROUND. WHAT'S hallow'd 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 hallow'd ground where, mourn'd and iniss'd, The lips repose our love has kiss'dj But where' s their memory's mansion ? Is't Yon churchyard's bowers? No ! in ourselves their souls exist, A part of ours. 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 hallow'd 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 hi memory's mould ; And will not cool, Until the heart itself be cold In Lethe's pool. 134 HALLOWED GROUND. What hallows ground where heroes sleep 1 *Tis not the sculptured piles you heap ! In dews 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 mankind 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 I And murder sullies in Heaven's sight The sword he draws : What can alone ennoble fight? A noble cause ! Give that ! and welcome War to brace Her drums ! and rend Heaven's reeking space i The colours 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, 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 shrino, 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 ? PI ALLOWED GROUND. 135 See mouldering stones and metal's rust Belie the vaunt, That men can bless one pile of dust With chime or chaunt. The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man ! Thy temples creeds themselves grow wan! But there's a dome of nobler span, A temple given Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban Its 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 Make music, though unheard their pealing By mortal ears. Fair stars 1 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 halloVd 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 hallow' d ground. - 136 SONG. WITHDRAW 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! 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, But not together no, no, no ! CAROLINE. PART I. I'LL 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. CAROLINE. 137 With all thy rural echoes come, Sweet comrade of the rosy day, Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum, Or cuckoo's plaintive roundelay. Where'er thy morning breath has play'd, Whatever isles of ocean fann'd, 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, Whera Pleasure's sigh alone is heaved, Where tears of rapture lovers weep, Endear' d, undoubting, undeceiv'd : From some sweet paradise afar, Thy music wanders, distant, lost Where Nature lights her leading star, And love is never, never cross'd. Oh gentle gale of Eden bowers, If back thy rosy feet should roam, 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 CAROLINE. 138 CAROLINE. PART n. TO THE EVENING STAB. OEM of the crimson-colour'd 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 enamour'd 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. ! 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. 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. SONG. 139 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, winnow'd 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, bring with thee my Caroline, And thou shalt be my Kuling Star! SONG. DRINK 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. 5Tet far, far hence, be jest or boast From hallow'd thoughts so dear ; But drink to her that each loves most, As she would love to hear. -> I 4 THE BEECH-TREE'S PETITION. LEAVE this barren spot to me ! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree ! Though bush or floweret never grow My dark unwarming shade below ; Nor summer bud perfume the dew Of rosy blush, or yellow hue ! Nor fruits of autumn, blossom born, My green and glossy leaves adorn ; Nor murmuring tribes from me derive Th' ambrosial amber of the hive ; 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 whisper'd here, Or beauty heard with ravish'd ear ; As Love's own altar honour me : Spare, woodman, spare the beecheu tree ! FIELD FLOWERS. 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, When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd 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, And of birchen glades breathing their balm, While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note Made music that sweelen'd 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, When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind, And your blossoms were part of her spell. Even now what affections the violet awakes ! What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes, Can the wild water-lily restore ! What 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. I 4 2 SONG. rO THE BVENTNO 8TAA. STAB tliat bringest home the bee, And sett'st the weary labourer 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 odours rise, Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard, And songs when toil is done, From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd 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. STANZAS TO PAINTING. THOU by whose expressive art Her perfect image Nature sees In union with the Graces start, And sweeter by reflection please ! In whose creative hand the hues Fresh from yon orient rainbow shine; 1 bless thee, Promethean Muse ! And call thee brightest of the Nine ! STANZAS TO PAINTING. 143 Possessing more than vocal power, Persuasive more than poet's tongue ; Whose lineage, in a raptured hour, From Love, the Sire of Nature, sprung ; Docs 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 witcning 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 near! Oh, hush that strain too deeply felt 1 And cease that solace too severe ! But thou, serenely silent art ! By heaven and love wast taught to len 1 A milder solace to the heart, The sacred image of a friend. All is not lost! if, yet possest, To me that sweet memorial shine I- 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. 144 THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE. 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 canonised 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 perish'd grace redeems Whose tablet of a thousand hues The mirror of creation seems. From Love began thy high descent ; And lovers, charm'd by gifts of thine, Shall bless thee mutely eloquent ; And call thee brightest of the Ninel 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. Rivals banish'd, bosoms plighted, Still our days are disunited ; Now the lamp of hope is lighted, Now half quench'd appears, Damp d, and wavering, and benighted, 'Midst my sighs and tears. LINES. 145 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 woe! LINES INSCRIBED UN THE MONUMENT LATELY FINISHED B? MB. 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, Fulfill'd the hero's and the patriot's part, Whose charity, like that which Paul eujoin'd, Was warm, beneficent, and unconfined, This stone is rear'd : 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 valour 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 hia memory's grateful claim, On her who mourns him most, and bears his namo O'ercomes the trembling hand of widow'd grief, O'ercomes the heart, unconscious of relief, Save in religion's high and holy trust, Whilst placing their memorial o'er his dust. 146 STANZAS ON THE BATTLE OF NAVARIKO. HEARTS of oak that have bravely deliver d 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 famish'd sank pale as the slain ! Yet, Navarin's heroes! does Christendom breed The base hearts that will question the fame of your deed ! Are they men ? let ineffable scorn be their 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 grasp'd ? And that stretch'd on yon billows distain'd by their go?e Missolonghi's assassiss have gasp'd? Prouder scene never hallow'd 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 watch-word, humanity's vow ; Not a sea-boy that fought in that cause, but mankind Owes a garland to honour his brow! Nor grudge, by our side, that to conquer or fall, Came the hardy tide Russ, and the high-mettled Gaul ; LINES. 147 For whoso was the genius, that plaun'd 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 Dimm'd the Saracen's moon, and struck pallid his sheek 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 I " LINES ON REVISITING A SCOTTISH WVEB AND call they this Improvement ? to have changed, My native Clyde, thy once romantic shore, Where Nature's face is banish'd and estranged, And Heaven reflected in thy wave no more ; Whose banks, that sweeten'd May-day's breath before, Lie sere and leafless now in summer's beam, With sooty exhalations cover'd o'er ; And for the daisied green-sward, down thy stream Unsightly brick-lanes smoke, and clanking engines gleam, 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 task'd-to earn its little meal. Is this Improvement ? where the human breed Degenerates as they swarm and overflow, Till toil grows cheaper than the trodden weed, And mau competes with man, like foe with foe, L2 148 THE "NAME UNKNOWN." Till Death, that thins them scarce seems public wos? Improvement ! smiles it in the poor man's eyes, Or blooms it on tho cheek of Labour ? 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 man in vain, For Earth's green face, th' untaicted ah* of Heaven, And all the bliss of Nature's rustic reign. For not alone our frame imbibes a stain From fetid skies ; the spirit's healthy pride Fades in their gloom And therefore I complain, That thou no more through pastoral scenes shouldst glide. My Wallace's own stream, and once romantic Clyde ! THE "NAME UNKNOWN." IN IMITATION OF KLOPSTOCK. PROPHETIC pencil ! wilt thou trace A faithful image of the face, Or wilt thou write the " Name Unknown,** Ordain'd to bless my charmed soul, And all my future fate control, Unrivall'd and alone ? Delicious Idol of my thought 1 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 murmur'd vows shall yet be mine, My thrilling hand shall meet with thine, And never, never part J LINES. 149 Then fly, my days, on rapid wing, Till Love the viewless treasure bring : While I, like conscious Athens, own A power in mystic silence seal'd, A guardian angel unreveal'd, And bless the " Name Unknown !" LINES ON THE CAMP HILL, NEAR HASTINGS. IN the deep blue of eve, Ere the twinkling of stars nad begun, Or the lark took his leave Of the skies and the sweet setting sun. I climb' d to yon heights, Where the Norman encamp'd him of old, With his bowmen and knights, And his banner all burnish'd 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 marshall'd our Chivalry's sires. On each tuif 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 splendour was thrown, Thence they look'd o'er a realm And to-morrow beheld it their own. I 5 o 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 hia chain; But now that Fancy's fire is quench* d, and ne'er can burn anew, I've bid to Love, for all my life, adieu ! adieu ! adieu ! 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 iallen a dream that's pass'd away. Hail ! welcome tide of life, when no tumultuous billows roll, How wondrous to myself appears this halcyon calm of soul I The weaiied 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. 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 ; Longest stays, when sorest chidden ; Laughs and flies, when press'd and bidden. Bind the sea to slumber stilly, Bind its odour to the lily, Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, Then bind Love to last for ever ! Love's a fire that needs 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 ringdove's neck from changing ? No ! nor fetter'd Love from dying In the knot there's no untying. LINES ON POLAND. AND have I lived to see thee sword in hand Uprise again, immortal Polish Laud ! Whose flag brings more than chivalry to mind, And leaves the tri-color in shade behind ; A 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 f 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 cannot 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 ; Wreath'd, filleted, the victim falls renown'd, And all her ashes will be holy ground ! But turn, my soul, from presages so dark : Great Poland's spirit is a deathless spark That's fann'd 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 won And on my grave-stone shine the morrow's sun LINES ON POLAND. 153 The day that sees Warsaw's cathedral glow With endless ensigns ravish'd from the foe, Her women lifting their fair hands with thanks, Her pious warriors kneeling in their ranks, The scutcheon'd 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 saviour Poniatowski's fair Resemblance Kosciusko's shall be there ;) The taper' d 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 more To doze and dream by governments oppress'd, The spirit of a book-worm in each breast. Well can ye mouth fair Freedom's classic line And talk of constitutions o'er your wine : But all your vows to break the tyrant's yoke Expire in Bacchanalian song and smoke ; Heavens ! can no ray of foresight pierce the leads And mystic metaphysics of your heads, To show the self-same grave, Oppression delves For Poland's rights, is yawning for yourselves 1 See, whilst the Pole, the vanguard aid of France, Has vaulted on his barb and coucli'd the lance, France turns from her abandon'd 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 laurell'd bosoms mark'd with many a scar For France that wore her Legion's noblest star, 154 LINES ON POLAND. Cast dumb reproaches from the field of Death On Gallic honour : and this broken faith Has robb'd you more of Fame the life of life Than twenty battles lost in glorious strife ! And what of England ? is she steep'd so low In poverty, crest-fallen, and palsied so, That we must sit much wroth, but timorous more, With Murder knocking at our neighbour's door ! Not Murder mask'd and cloak'd with hidden knife, Whose owner owes the gallows life for life ; But Public Murder I that with pomp and gaud, And royal scorn of Justice, walks abroad To wring more tears and blood than e'er were wrung By all the culprits Justice ever hung ! We read the diadem'd Assassin's vaunt, And wince, and wish we had not hearts to pant With useless indignation sigh, and frown, But have not hearts to throw the gauntlet down. If but a doubt hung o'er tne grounds of fray, Or trivial rapine stopp'd the world's highway ; Were this some common strife of States embroil'd ; Britannia on the spoiler and the spoil'd Might calmly look, and, asking time to breathe, Still honourably wear her olive wreath. But this is Darkness combating 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 ! colours 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. Becalm' d and slow A war-ship rides; while Heaven's piismatic bow Uprisen behind her on th' horizon's base. LINES ON POLAND. 155 Shines flushing through the tackle, shrouds, and stays, And wraps her giant form in one majestic blaze. My soul accepts the omen ; Fancy's eyo Has sometimes a veracious augury : The Rainbow types Heaven's promise to my sight ; v 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. 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 Hood : 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 cannot kill The public soul the hereditary will That downward, as from sire to son it goes, By shifting bosoms more intensely glows : Its heir-loom is the heart, and slaughter' d men Fight fiercer in their orphans o'er again. Poland recasts though rich in heroes old Her 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 ! 1 5 6 THE POWER OF RUSSIA. So all this gallant blood has gush'd in vain ; And Poland, by the Northern Condor's beak And talons torn, lies prostrated again ! British patriots, that were wont to speak Once loudly on this theme, now hush'd 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 ! 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 dew Was Polish blood, has yet to cast o'er you The lengthening shadow of its head elate A deadly shadow, darkening Nature's hue. To all that's hallow'd, righteous, pure and great, Wo ! wo ! when they are reach'd by Russia's withering hate, Russia, that on his throne of adamant, Consults what nation's breast shall next he 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 pour*d, Shall miss thee, Poland ! as they bend the knee, All all in grief, but none in glory, likening thee. Why smote ye not the Giant whilst he reel'd ? fair occasion, gone for ever by ! To have lock'd 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 THE POWER OF RUSSIA. 157 An awful width ! Norwegian woods shall build His fleets ; the Swede his vassal, and the Dane ; The glebe of fifty kingdoms shall be till'd To feed his dazzling, desolating train, Camp'd 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, Burns with a fire more dread than all your polish' d light But Russia's limbs (so blinded statesmen speak; Are crude, and too colossal to cohere. 0, lamentable weakness ! reckoning weak The stripling Titan, strengthening year by year. What implement lacks he for war's career, That grows on earth, or in its floods and mines, (Eighth sharer of the inhabitable sphere) Whom Persia bows to, China ill confines, And India's homage waits, when Albion's star declines ? But time will teach the Russ, ev'n 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 vapour blue His laws and ethics ; far from him away Are all the lovely Nine, that breathe but Freedom's day. Say, ev'n his serfs, half-humanised, should learn Their human rights, will Mars put out his flame In Russian bosoms 1 no, he '11 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 recoil d Before thy swoop : had we been timely bold, That swoop, still free, had stunn'd the Russ, and foil'd Earth's new oppressors, as it foil'd her old. Now thy majestic eyes are shut and cold : 158 MARGARET AND DORA. 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 hallow'dly have ye fulfill'd your part, My pride repudiates eVn the sigh that blends With Poland's name name written on my heart. My heroes, my grief-consecrated friends ! 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 banish'd 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, Saying " Russia from the metal of these brands Shall forge the fetters of your sons unborn ; Our setting star is your misfortunes' rising morn." 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 ] Dora's eyes of heavenly blue Pass all painting's reach, Ringdoves' notes are discord to The music of her speech. Artists ! Margaret's smile receive, And on canvas show it; But for perfect worship leave Dora to her poet. 159 LINES ON LEAVING A SCENE IN BAVA&IA. ADIEU the woods and waters' side, Imperial Danube's rich domain ! Adieu the grotto, wild and wide, The rocks abrupt, and grassy plain ! For pallid Autumn once again Hath swell'd each torrent of the hill ; Her clouds collect, her shadows sail, And wateiy winds that sweep the vale, Grow loud and louder still. But not the storm, dethroning fast Yon monarch oak of massy pile ; 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 : Eoll on, ye mighty waters, roll ! And rage, thou darken'd sky ! Thy blossoms now no longer bright ; Thy wither'd 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 plough'd 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 moonlight mountain stray'd, As echo'd to the music made By Druid harps of yore, 160 LINES. Around thy savage hills of oak, Around thy waters bright and blue, No hunter's horn the silence broke, No dying shriek thine echo knew ; But safe, sweet Eldurn woods, to you The wounded wild deer ever ran, Whose myrtle bound their grassy cave, Whose very rocks a shelter gave From blood-pursuing man. Oh ! heart effusions, that arose From nightly wanderings cherish'd here To him who flies from many woes, Even homeless deserts can be dear f The last and solitary cheer Of those that own no earthly home, Say is it not, ye banish'd race, In such a loved and lonely place Companionless to roam ] Yes ! I have loved thy wild abode, Unknown, unplough'd, untrodden short 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 blossom'd 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 dishonour'd falls Like thee in solitude she calls A thousand treasures forth. Oh ! silent spirit of the place, If, lingering with the ruin'd year, Thy hoary form and awful face I yet might watch and worship here J Thy storm were music to mine ear, LINES. 161 Thy wildest walk a shelter given Sublimer thoughts on earth to find, And share, with no unhallow'd mind, The majesty of heaven. What though the bosom friends of Fate, Prosperity's unweaned brood, Thy consolations cannot rate, self-dependent Solitude ! Yet with a spirit unsubdued, Though darken'd by the clouds of Care, To worship thy congenial gloom, A pilgrim to the Prophet's tomb The Friendless shall repair. On him the world hath never smiled Or look'd but with accusing eye; All-silent goddess of the wild, To thee that misanthrope shall fly ! 1 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 banish'd heart, at last, In thy dominions shall descend, And, strong as beechwood 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 1 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 1 1 62 LINES. 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 woe 1 His art and honours wouldst thou seek Emboss'd on grandeur's giant walls? Or hear his moral thunders speak Where senates light their airy halls, Where man his brother man enthrals ; Or sends his whirlwind warrants forth To rouse the slumbering fiends of war, To dye the blood-warm waves afar, And desolate the earth 1 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, cannot stay ; In wilds and woodlands far away She builds her solitary bower, Where only anchorites have trod, Or friendless men, to worship God, Have wander'd for an hour. In such a far forsaken vale, And such, sweet Eldurn vale, is thine, Afflicted nature shall inhale Heaven-borrow'd 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. THE DEATH-BOAT OF HELiaOLAND. CAN restlessness reach the cold sepulchred head? Ay, the quick have their sleep-walkers, so have the dead. There are brains, though they moulder, that dream in tha 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 appal the chill'd 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 look'd down with an aspect of ire ; But her beams on a sudden grew sick-like and grey, And the mews that had slept clang'd and shriek'd far away And the buoys and the beacons extinguish'd 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 ; With an oar in each pulseless and icy-cold hand, Fast they plough' d by the lee-shore of Heligoland, Such breakers as boat of the living ne'er cross' d ; Now surf-sunk for minutes again they uptoss'd, 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 First to Hecla, and then to " Unmeet was the rest For man's ear. The old abbey bell thunder'd its clang, And their eyes gleani'd with phosphorous light as it rang: Ere they vanish'd, they stopp'd, and gazed silently grim, Till the eye could define them, garb, feature, and limb. Now who were those roomers? 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 perish'd by law: But a ribbon that hung where a rope should have been, 'Twas the badge of their faction, its hue was not green, M2 164 SUGGESTED BY THE NEW YEAR. Show*d them men who had trampled and tortured and driven To rebellion the fairest Isle breath'd on by Heaven, Men whose heirs would yet finish the tyrannous task, If the Truth and the Time had not dragg'd off their mask. They parted but not till the sight might discern A scutcheon distinct at their pinnace's stern, Where letters emblazon'd in blood-coloured flame, Named their faction I blot not my page with its name. A THOUGHT SUGGESTED BY THE NEW 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 youlb, 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 ? 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, Proportion'd to their sweetness. 165 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 doom'd to weep, Are fruits on desert isles that perish, Or riches buried in the deep. What though, untouch'd by jealous madness, Our bosom's peace may fall to wreck ; Th' undoubting heart that breaks with sadness, Is but more slowly doom'd 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 ! SONG. WHEN LOVE came first to earth, the SPRING Spread rose-beds to receive him, And back he vow*d his flight he'd wing To Heaven, if she should leave him. But SPRING departing, saw his faith Pledged to the next new-comer He revell'd in the warmer breath And richer bowers of SUMMER. <>* 166 SONG. Then sportive AUTUMN claim'd by rights An Archer for her lover, And even in WINTER'S dark cold nights A charm he could discover. Her routs and balls, and fireside joy, For this time were his reasons In short, Young LOVE'S a gallant boy, That likes all times and seasons. SONG. EARL MARCH look'd on his dying child, And sroit with grief to view her The youth, he cried, whom I exiled, Shall be restored to woo her. She's at the window many an hour His coming to discover: And he look'd up to Ellen's bower, And she look'd on her lover But 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 then- silken lashes. i6 7 SONQ. 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 mourn'd the brother's heart, When the youth beside him fell ; But the trumpet warn'd to part, And they took a sad farewell. There was many a friend to lose him, For that gallant soldier sigh'd ; But the maiden of his bosom, Wept when all their tears were dried. LINES TO JULIA M . 8KNT WITH A COPY OF THE AUTHOR'S POEM8. 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 wither* d bays. Smile, and I will believe my rhyme Shall please the beautiful unborn. 1 68 LINES. 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 uiagic not your own, Head by the music of her tongue. LINES ON THE DEPARTURE OF EMIGRANTS FOR NEW SOUTH WALES. ON England's shore I saw a pensive band, With sails unfurl' d for earth's remotest strand, Like children parting from a mother, shed Tears for the home that could not yield them bread ; Grief mark'd each face receding from the view, 'Twas grief to nature honourably true. And long, poor wanderers o'er th* ecliptic deep, The song that names but home shall make you wefap ; 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-drawn wish, when children crown our hearth, To hear the cheimb-chorus of their mirth, Undamp'd 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 unborrow'd 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, Our children's heritage, in prospect long. LINES. 169 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 undiscover'd fountains roll, And winds shall fan them from th' Antarctic pole. And what though doom'd to shores so far apart From England's home, that ev'n the home-sick heart Quails, thinking, ere that gulf can be recross'd, 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 grey-hair'd 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, His honest arm's own subjugated soil ; And summing all the blessings God 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, In health and plenty innocently bloom. Delightful land, in wildness ev'n benign, The glorious past is ours, the future thine ! As in a cradled Hercules, we trace The lines of empire in thine infant face. What 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 is dumb ! Land of the free ! thy kingdom is to come, Of states, with laws from Gothic bondage burst, And creeds by chartered priesthoods unaccurst : Of navies, hoisting their emblazon'd flags, Where shipless seas now wash unbeacon'd crags -H 170 LINES. Of hosts review'd in dazzling files and squares, Their pennon'd trumpets breathing native airs, For miustrels thou shalt have of native fire, And maids to sing the songs themselves inspire : Our very speech, methinks, in after time, Shall catch th' 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. Untrack'd in deserts lies the marble mine, Undug the ore that 'midst thy roofs shall shine ; Unborn 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 hi 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 ! Ev'n should some wayward hour the settler's mind Brood sad on scenes for ever 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 dreamt 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 THE CHERUBS, 171 Shall be the sacred spot, still blooming nigh, The bower of love, where first his bosom burn'd And smiling passion saw its smile return'd. 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 1 THE CHERUBS. SUGGESTED BY AN APOLOGUE IN THE WORKS OF FRANKLIH. Two spirits reach'd this world of ours : The lightning's locomotive powers Were slow to their agility : In broad day-light they moved incog., Enjoying, without mist or fog, Entire invisibility. The one, a simple cherub lad, Much interest in our planet had, Its face was so romantic ; He couldn't persuade himself that man Was such as heavenly rumours ran, A being base and frantic. 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 reach'd a sovereign city proud, Whose emperor pray'd to God aloud, With all his people kneeling, And priests perform'd religious rites : " Come," said the younger of the sprites, " This shows a pious feeling." 172 THE GHERUBS. YOUNG SPIRIT. "Ar'n't these a deceat godly race?" OLD SPIRIT. "The dirtiest thieves on Nature's face." YOUNG SPIHIT. " But hark, what cheers they're giving Their emperor ! And is he a thief I" 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. Why, 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." On wings outspeeding mail or post, Our sprites o'ertook the Imperial host, In massacres it wallow'd : A noble nation met its hordes, But broken fell their cause and swords, Unfortunate, though hallow'd. 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 Dragg'd manacled to slavery. THE CHERUBS. 173 " Fie ! fie ! " the younger heavenly spark Exclaim'd : "we must have miss'd our mark, And enter'd hell's own portals : Earth can't be stain'd with 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 fool 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 Tellus, In royal power that revel j 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 eVn his saucer eyes, Could watch the fiendish nigger. " Halloo ! " he cried, "I smell a trick : A mortal supersedes Old Nick, The 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, At human inhumanity, The devil himself astounded. 174 DRINKING SONG OF MUNICH. SWEET Iser ! were thy sunny 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 crimson'd 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 woe, And Love and Bacchus, brother powers, Could build in Iser's sunny bowers A paradise below. LINES ON REVISITING CATHCAET. 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 stray'd By the stream of the vale and the grass-cover'd glade I Then, then every rapture was young and sincere, Ere the sunshine of bliss was bedimm'd by a tear, And a sweeter delight every scene seem'd to lend, That the mansion of peace was the home of a FRIEND. TO SIR FRANCIS BURDETT. 175 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 hush'd be the sigh that untimely complains, While Friendship and all its enchantment remains, While it blooms like the flower of a winterless clime, Untainted by chance, unabated by time. TO SIR FRANCIS BURDETT, ON HIS SPEECH DELIVERED IN PARLIAMENT, AUGUST 7, 1832, RESPECTING THE FOREIGN POLICY OF GREAT BRITAIN. BURDETT, enjoy thyjustly 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 With 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 When Britain's lifted finger, and her frown, Might call the nations up, and cast their tyrants down ! Invoke the scorn Alas ! too few inherit The scorn for despots cherish' d by our sires, That baffled Europe's persecuting fires, And shelter'd helpless states ! Recal that spirit, And conjure back Old England's haughty mind- Convert the men who waver now, and pause Between their love of self and humankind ; And move, Amphion-like, those hearts of stone The 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 ? 176 ODE TO THE GERMANS. Suppose we wish'd 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'eraw'd A lion, and he dropt 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 1 He prays to Heaven for England's king, he says And dares he to the God of mercy kneel, Besmear'd with massacres from head to heel \ No ; 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 hia 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. ODE TO THE GERMANS. THE spirit of Britannia Invokes, across the main, Her sister Allemannia To burst the Tyrant's chain : By our kindred blood, she cries, Rise, Allemannians, rise, And hallow* d thrice the band Of our kindred hearts shall be, When your land shall be the land Of the free of the free t *f ODE TO THE GERMANS. 177 With Freedom's lion-banner Britannia rules the waves; Whilst your BROAD STONE OF HONOUR* 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 f That shakes the battle-field, Yet to break your bonds asunder No martial bolt has peal'd. Shall the laurell'd land of art Wear shackles on her heart ? No ! the clock ye framed to tell 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 spurr'd; 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 * Ehrenbreitstein signifies, in Gorman, "tTie broad stone of honour.* t Germany invented gunpowder, clock-making, and planting. 178 LINES OK THE VIEW FEOM ST. LEONARD'S. HATT, to thy face and odours, 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 cannot 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, Between grey parallel and leaden breadths, A belt of hues that stripes thee many a league, Flush'd like the rainbow, or the ringdove's neck, And giving to the glancing sea-bird's wing The semblance of a meteor. Mighty Sea! Cameleon-like thou changest, but there's love In all thy change, and constant sympathy With yonder Sky thy mistress ; from her brow LINES. 179 Thou takest thy moods and wear'st her colours en 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 inclose ; 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 waves. Yet, 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 orb more lucid for thy spacious share 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 theo Is visible; thou hast in thee the life The eternal, graceful, and majestic life Of nature, and the natural human heart T s therefore bound to thee with holy love. Earth has her gorgeous towns ; the 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 N2 i8o LINES. With pain'd 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 night, Moor'd 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, And pictures things unseen. To realms beyond Yon highway of the world my fancy flies, When by her tall and triple mast we know Some noble voyager that has to woo The trade-winds and to stem th' ecliptic surge. 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 th' inspiriting Varieties of life bhe has to greet, Come swarming o'er the meditative mind. True, to the dream of Fancy, Ocean has His darker tints ; but where's the element That chequers not its usefulness to man With 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 woe be loth 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 SENEX^S SOLILOQUY. 181 Their freshening dews, gay fluttering breezes coo Their wings to fan the brow of fever'd 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 When all the living world that sees him now Shall roll unconscious dust around the sun. Quelling 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.. SENEX'S SOLILOQUY ON HIS YOUTHFUL' IDOL PLATONIC friendship at your years, Says Conscience, should content ye : Nay, name not fondness to her ears, The darling's scarcely twenty. 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. 182 THE DEAD EAGLE, WRITTEN AT ORAX. FALLEN as he i?, tMs 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 perch'd Higher than human conqueror ever built His banner 1 d fort. Where Atlas' top looks o'er Zahara's desert to the equator's line : From thence the winged despot mark'd his prey, Above th' encampments of the Bedouins, ere Their watchfires were extinct, or camels knelt To take their loads, or horsemen scour'd the plai i, And there he dried his feathers in the dawn, Whilst yet th' unwaken'd world was dark below There's such a charm in natural strength and power That human fancy has for ever paid Poetic homage to the bird of Jove. Hence, 'neath his image, Rome array'd her turn:* And cohorts for the conquest of the world. And figuring his flight, the mind is fill'd With thoughts that mock the pride of wingless mii True the carr'd aeronaut can mount as high ; But what's the triumph of his volant art ] A rash intrusion on the realms cf 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 Was this proud bird : he clove the adverse storm, And cuffd it with his wings. He stopp'd 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, Whilst underneath him the world's mountains lay Like molehills, and her streams like lucid threads. Then downward, faster than a falling star, THE DEAD EAGLE. 183 He near'd the earth, until his shape distinct Was blackly shadow'd on the sunny ground ; And deeper terror hush'd the wilderness, To hear his nearer whoop. Then, up again He soar'd and wheel'd. 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 display'd The inside whiteness of his wing declined, In gyres and undulations full of grace, An object beautifying heaven itself. He reckless who was victor, and above The hearing of their guns saw fleets engaged In flaming combat. It was nought to him What carnage, Moor or Christian, strew'd their decks. But if his intellect had ma.tch'd his wings, Methinks he would have scorn' d 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 ner sails Wooing the winds, can cross from morn till eve. His bright eyes were his compass, earth his chart, His talons anchor'd on the stormiest cliff, And on the very light-house rock he perch'd, When winds churn' d white the waves. The earthquake's self Disturb'd not him that memorable day, When o'er yon table-land, where Spain had built Cathedrals, cannon'd 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 hyaena 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, Coil'd in yon mallows and wide nettle fields That mantle o'er the dead old Spanish town. Strange is the imagination's dread delight 184 SONG. In objects link'd with danger, death, and pain 1 Fresh from the luxuries of polish' d 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 Libyan wind, Across yon long, wide, lonely inland lake, Where boat ne'er sails from homeless shore to shore. And yet Numidia's landscape has its spots Of pastoral pleasantness though far between, The village planted near the Maraboot's Round roof has aye its feathery palm trees Pair'd, for in solitude they bear no fruits. Here nature's hues all harmonise fields white With alasum, or blue with bugloss banks Of glossy fennel, blent with tulips wild, And sunflowers, like a garment prankt 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 exclaim' d 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, bewitch'd 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, And he made me forget what I ought to remember, That the rose-bud of June cannot bloom in November. Ah ! Tom, 'tis all o'er with thy gay days- Write psalms, and not songs for the ladies. } LINES. 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 ON A PICTUBE OF A GIRL IN THE ATTITUDE QV PBA.YER, By tlw Artist Gruse, in the possession of Lady Stepney WAS man e'er doom'd 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, Why livest thou not why art thou nought But canvas sweetly painted] Whose 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 ideal Art ne'er but from a living face Drew looks so seeming real. 1 86 LINES. What 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 tune I seem, Though dust thy coffin covers And hear the songs, in fancy's dream, Of thy devoted lovers. How witching must have been thy breath How 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 possession That 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. i8 7 LINES WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF 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 track'd his wanderings o'er the watery way, Roam'd round the Aleutian isles in waking dreams, Or pluck'd the flew-de-lys by Jesso's streams Or gladly leap'd on that far Tartar strand, Where Europe's anchor ne'er had bit the sand, Where scarce a roving wild tribe cross'd 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 touch'd romantic springs of thought. That all my after-life his fate and fame Entwined romance with La Perouse's name. Fair were his ships, expert his gallant crews, And glorious was th' emprise of La Perouse, Humanely glorious ! Men will weep for him, When many a guilty martial fame is dim : He plough'd the deep to bind no captive's chain Pursued no rapine strew'd no wreck with slain j And, save that in the deep themselves lie low, His heroes pluck'd no wreath from human woe. 'Twas his the earth's remotest bound to scan, Conciliating with gifts barbaric man Enrich 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 undiscover'd grave. He came not back, Conjecture's cheek grew pale, Year after year in no propitious gale, J 188 LINES. His lilied banner held its homeward way, And Science sadden'd 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 perish' d, or by wilder men of blood The shuddering Fancy only guess'd his doom, And doubt to Sorrow gave but deeper gloom. An age elapsed when men were dead or grey, "Whose hearts had mourn'd 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, wreck' d, 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 donu In the great deep, whose Boundaries and space He measured, Fate ordain'd 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 twine I His watery cours-3 a world-encircling line. TO WILLIAM BEATTIE, M.D., IN REMEMBRANCE OF LONG-SUBSISTING AND MUTUAL FRIENDSHIP, THE POEM "GLENCOE" AND THE OTHER PIECES THAT FOLLOW IN THIS VOLUME, A TIE INSCRIBED BT THE AUTHOR. LONDON. DcccMlcr, 18-12. THE PILGKIM OP GKLENCOE. [I RECEIVED the substance of the tradition on which this Poem is founded, 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 ro doubt of the incident having really happened. I have not do- parted from the main facts of the tradition as reported to me ly Mr. Macdonald ; only I have endeavoured to colour the personages of the story, and to make them as distinctive as possible.] 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 streamer'd busses, that distinctly shine All downward, pictured in the glassy brine ; 190 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 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 I 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 undarkeu'd hours of time ; False hope the Scots are steadfast not their clime. A war-worn soldier from 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 ; 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 stamp' d her name On Oudenarde's and Blenheim's fields of fame. Nine times in battle-field his blood had stream' d, Yet vivid still his veteran blue eye gleam'd ; Full well he bore his knapsack unoppress'd, And march'd 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 talk'd of rampart and ravine, And trenches fenced with gabion and fascine But when his theme possess'd him all and whole, He scom'd proud puzzling words and warm'd the soul , Hush'd groups hung on his lips with fond surprise, That sketch'd 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 Marlbro'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 PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 191 Th* old soldier hoped, ere evening's light should fail, To reach a home, south-east of Cona's vale ; But looking at Bennevis, capp'd with snow, He saw its mists come curling down below, And spread white darkness o'er the sunset glowj Fast rolling like tempestuous Ocean's spray, Or clouds from troops in battle's fiery day So 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 inform'd his ear Some human habitation might be near ; Anon sheep-bleatings rose from rock to rock, 'Twaa 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 knock'd, was welcomed in ; none ask'd his name, Nor whither he was bound nor whence he came ; But he was beckon'd 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 j- - The balm of savage or of simple life, A wild flower cut by culture's polish d knife ! The house, no common sordid shieling cot, Spoke inmates of a comfortable lot. The Jacobite white rose festoon'd their door ; The windows sash'd 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. The family were three a father hoar, Whose age you'd guess at seventy years or more, 192 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. His son look'd 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 ; Warm hearts that burn alike in weal and woe, As if the north-wind fann'd their bosoms' glow ! But wide unlike their souls : old Norman's eye Was proudly savage ev"n in courtesy. His sinewy shoulders each, though aged and lean, Broad as the curl'd Herculean head between, His scornful lip, his eyes of yellow fire, And nostrils that dilated quick with ire, With ever downward-slanting shaggy brows, Mark'd the old lion you would dread to rouse. Norman, in truth, had led his earlier lifo In raids of red revenge and feudal strife ; Religious duty in revenge he saw, Proud Honour's right and Nature's honest law ; First in the charge and foremost in pursuit, Long breath'd, deep-chested, and in speed of foot A match for stags still fleeter when the prey Was man, in persecution's evil day ; Cheer'd to that chase by brutal bold Dundee, No Highland hound had lapp'd 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 irk'd him still His dirK. had ne'er one hated foe to kill. Y"et Norman had fierce virtues, that would mock Cold-blooded tories of the modern stock Who starve the breadless poor with fraud and cant ; He slew and saved them from the pangs of want Nor was Lia solitary lawless charm Mere dauntlessness of soul and strength of arm ; He had his moods of kindness now and then, And feasted ev'n well-manner* d lowland men Who blew not up his Jacobitish flame, Nor prefaced with " pretender " Charles's name. Fierce, but by sense and kindness not unwon, He loved, respected ev*n, his wiser son ; And brook'd from him expostulations sage, When all advisers else were spurn'd with rage. THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 193 Far happier times had moulded Ronald's mind, By nature too of more sagacious kind. His breadth of brow, and Roman shape of ehin, Squared well with the firm man that reign'd within. Contemning strife as childishness, he stood With neighbours on kind terms of neighbourhood, And whilst his father's anger nought avail'd, His rational remonstrance never fail'd. Full skilfully he managed farm and fold, Wrote, cipher'd, profitably bought and sold; And, bless'd with pastoral leisure, deeply took Delight to be imform'd, 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 warm'd the rock : Guests who could tell him aught were welcomed warm, Ev'n pedlars' news had to his mind a charm ; That like an intellectual magnet-stone Drew 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, from youth He worshipp'd stern uncompromising truth. 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 look'd on clannish feuds and foes With scorn, as on the wars of kites and crows ; Whilst doubts assail'd 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 whiten'd furnace fire, Quick as these words lit up his father's ire ; Who envied even old Abraham for his faith, Ordain'd 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, " Dia ! Dia ! " and, *' Dioul ! Dioul ! "* God arid the dovil a favourite ejaculation of Highland sainta O 194 THE PILGRIM, OF GLENCOE. But sense foils fuiy 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 harpoon'd at last E'en so, devoid of sense, succumbs at length Mere strength of zeal to intellectual strength. His son's close logic so perplex* d his pate, Th* old hero rather shunn'd than sought debate j Exhausting his vocabulary's store Of oaths and nick-names, he could say no more, But tapp'd his mull *, roll'd mutely in his chair, Or only whistled Killiecrankie's air. Witch-legends Ronald scorn* d ghost, kelpie, wraith, And all the trumpery of vulgar faith ; Grave matrons ev'n were shock'd to hear him slight Authenticated facts of second-sight Yet never flinch'd 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 life Who pleased her Ronald, ne'er displeased his wife. His sense, 'tis true, compared with Norman's son, Was common-place his tales too long outspun : Yet Allan Campbell's sympathising mind Had held large intercourse with human kind ; Seen much and gaily graphically drew The men of every country, clime, and hue ; Nor ever stoop'd 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 clan, And, with his own biography engross'd, Mark'd not the changed demeanour of each host ; Nor how old choleric Norman's cheek became Flush'd at the Campbell and Breadalbane name. Assigning, heedless of impending harm, Then: steadfast silence to his story's charm, He touch'd a subject perilous to touch Saying, " Midst this well-known vale I wonder'd muci To lose my way. In boyhood, long ago, I roam'd, and loved each pathway of Glencoe ; * Snuff-horn. THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 195 Trapp'd leverets, pluck'd wild berries on its braes, And fish'd 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 mourn'd the sin, and redden'd for the shame Of that foul morn (Heaven blot it from the year !) Whose shapes and shrieks still haunt my dreaming ear. 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 march' d when, feigning royalty's command, Against the clan Macdonald, Stair's lord Sent forth exterminating fire and sword ; And troops at midnight through the vale defiled, Enjoin'd to slaughter woman, man, and child. My clansmen many a year had cause to dread The curse that day entail'd upon their head ; Glenlyon's self confess'd th' avenging spell I saw it light on him. "Itsobefel: A soldier from our ranks to death was brought, By sentence deem'd too dreadful for his fault ; All was prepared the coffin and the cart Stood near twelve muskets, levell'd at his heart. The chief, whose breast for ruth had still some room, Obtain'd reprieve a day before his doom ; But of the 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 hail'd 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 woe, Crying, ' Here'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. o2 1.96 THE PILGRIM ^OF GLENCOE. 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 hasten'd to the door call'd out his son To follow ; walk'd 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 possess'd To plant my dagger in a Campbell's breast. Now, here's a self-accusing partisan, Steep'd in the slaughter of Macdonald's clan ; I scorn his civil speech and sweet-lipp'd show Of pity he is still our house's foe : I'll perjure not myself but sacrifice Tha 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 honour which my clansmen crave, Their very dead demand it from the grave." Conjuring then their ghosts, he humbly pny'd Their patience till the blood-debt should be paid. But Ronald stopp'd him. " Sir, Sir, do not dim Your honour 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 cannot bring them back. And this poor guest, 'tis palpable to judge, In all his life ne'er bore our clan a grudge ; Dragg"d when a boy against his will to share That massacre, he loath' d the foul affair. Think, if your harden'd 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, THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 197 Where could you bide the body privily ? When search is made for'fi" " Plunge it m yon flood, That Campbells crimson'd 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 Eonald do 7 No house within ear-reach of his halloo, Though that would but have publish'd household shame, He temporised 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 enter'd ; 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 coil'd 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 The impending peril to his anxious mate ; But she, convinced no trifling matter now Disturb' d the wonted calm of Eonald's brow, Divined too well the cause of gloom that lower'd, And sat with speechless terror overpower'd. Her 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 show'd 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," 198 THE PILGRIM 'OF GLENCOE. " 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 bless'd you in her prayer, Ev'n to her death ; describing you withal A well-look'd florid youth, blue-eyed and tall." They rose, exchanged embrace : the old lion theii Upstarted, metamorphosed, from his den ; Saying, " Come and make thy home with us for life, Heaven-sent preserver of my child and wife. I fear thou'rt poor, that Hanoverian 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 ; But I have pray'd my soul may never thrive If thou should'st leave this house of ours alive. Nor shalt thou j 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 ; While sunrise open'd flowers with gentle force, The guest and Ronald walk'd in long discourse. "Words fail me," All an said, "to thank aright Your father's kindness shown me yesternight; Yet scarce I'd wish my latest days to spend A fii*eside fixture with the dearest friend: Besides, I've but a fortnight's furlough now, To reach Macallin Moref, beyond Lochawe. I'd fain memorialise 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 meagre 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 Scotch for late and early. \ The Duke of Aj^yia. THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 199 Entrust 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 Konald from the field full soon Return ; and when they all had dined at noon, He conn'd the old man's memorial lopp'd its length, And gave it style, simplicity, and strength ; 'Twas finish'd 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 Highland hearts. 'Tis my belief, that he and all his line Have saving to be hang'd no right divine ; From whose mad enterprise can only flow To thousands slaughter, and to myriads woe* Yet have they stirr'd 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 own'd 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 niggarduess evince Of lowland pedlar, 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-night, A leathern purse of crowns, all sterling bright ; You see I do you kindness not by stealth. My wife no advocate of squandering wealth Vows that it would be parricide, or worse, Should we neglect you here's a silken purse, Some golden pieces through the network shine, 200 THE PILGRIM. OF GLENCOE. 'Tis proffer'd to you from her heart and mine. But come ! no foolish delicacy, no ! We own, but cannot cancel what we owe This sum shall duly reach you once a year." Poor Allan's furrow'd face and flowing tear Confess'd sensations which he could not speak. Old Norman bade him farewell kindly meek. At morn, the smiling dame rejoiced to pack With viands full the old soldier's havresack. He fear*d not hungry 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 sergeant on the spot An invalid, to serve not but with pay (A mighty sum to him), twelvepence a day. " B it have you heard not," said Macallin More, " Charles Stuart's landed on Ei-iska's shore, And Jacobites are arming 1 " "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 grey hairs well might plead excuse, 'tis trbe But now* s the time we want such men as you." In brief, at Innerara Allan staid, And join'd the banners of Argyle's brigade. Meanwhile, the old choleric shepherd of Glencoo Spurn'd all advice, and girt himself to go. What was't to him that foes would poind their fold, Then* lease, their very beds beneath them sold ! And firmly to his text he would have kept, Though Ronald argued and his daughter wept. But midst the impotence of tears and prayer, Chance snatch'd 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. * When the hospitable Highlanders load a parting guest with provisions, they tell him he will need them, as he has to go over a great deal of hungry grass. THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 201 The lancet saved him : but how changed, alas, From him who fought at Killiecrankie's pass ! Tame as a spaniel, timid as a child, He mutter'd incoherent words and smiled ; He wept at kindness, roll'd a vacant eye, And laugh'd full often when he meant to cry. Poor man ! whilst in this lamentable state, Came Allan back one morning to his gate, Hale and unburden'd by the woes of eild, And fresh with credit from Culloden's field. 'Twas fear'd 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 ; Ask'd 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 1 been there/ Few days elapsed till he reposed beneath. His grey cairn, on the wild and lonely heatt ; Son, friends, and kindi'ed 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 reach'd, enjoy' d, a pntriarchal age Loved to the last by the Macdonalds. Near Their house, his stone was placed with many a tear ; And Ronald's self, in stoic virtue brave, Scorn'd not to weep at Allan Campbell's grave. 2C& NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR.* I LOVE contemplating apart From all his homicidal glory, The traits that soften to our heart Napoleon's story ! 'Twas when his banners at Boulogne Ann'd in our island every freeman, His navy chanced to capture one Poor British seaman. They suffer'd him I know not how, Unprison'd 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 banish'd sleep, He saw one morning dreaming doating, An empty hogshead from the deep Come shoreward floating; * 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 he remembered the circumstance to have been generally talked of in tho place. NAPOLEON AND TPIE BRITISH SAILOR 203 He hid it in a cave, and wrought, The live-long day laborious; lurking Until he launch'd 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 cross'd a ferry. For ploughing in the salt-sea field, It would have made the boldest shudder ; Untarr'd, uncompass'd, and unkeel'd, No sail no rudder. From neighb'ring woods he interlaced His sorry skiff with wattled willows; And thus equipp'd he would have pass'd The foaming billows But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, His little Argo 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, Address' d the stranger : "Rash man, that wouldst yon Channel pass On twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd ; Thy heart with some sweet British lass Must be impassion'd." "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've both my favour fairly won; A noble mother must have bred So brave a son." 204 BEN LOMOND. lie gave the tar a piece of gold, And, with a flag of truce, commanded He should be shipp'd 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 Bonapartd. BENLOMOND. HADST thou a genius on thy peak, What tales, white-headed Ben, Could' st 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 beguc 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. 205 THE CHILD AND HIND. [I -WISH I had preserved a copy of the Wiesbaden 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 1838 : 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 an early Christian and now a Saint in the Romish calendar, 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 watching the child, was a still more wonderful token of in- Btinctive fondness than that of the deer in the Genevova tradition, who was naturally anxious to be relieved of her milk.] COMB, maids and matrons, to caress Wiesbaden's gentle hind ; And smiling, deck its glossy neck With forest flowers entwined. Your forest flowers are fair to show, And landscapes to enjoy; But fairer is your friendly doe That watch' d the sleeping boy. 'Twas after church on Ascension day When 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 camomile Smell sweetly at their root; 206 THE CHILD'* AND HIND. The aspen quivers nervously, The oak stands stilly bold And 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 wander' d free Seven sons and daughters, blooming fair, A gladsome sight to see. Their Wilhelm, 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, With love beyond all measure ; And cull'd them with as keen delight As misers gather treasure. Unnoticed, he contrived to glide Adown a greenwood alley, * There is only one kind of bindweed that is yellow, and that Is the flower here mentioned, the Paniculatus Convolvulus. THE CHILD AND HIND. 207 By lilies lured that grew beside A streamlet in the valley ; And there, where under beech and birch The rivulet meander'd, He stray 'd, till neither shout nor searcb Could track where he had wander'd. Still louder, with increasing dread, They call'd his darling name ; But 'twas like speaking to the dead An echo only came. Hours pass'd till evening's beetle roams, And blackbird's songs begin ; Then all went back to happy homes, Save Wilhelm's kith and kin. The night came on all others slept Their cares away till morn ; But sleepless, all night watch'd 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 uncoffer'd ; And to the wight would bring his child, A thousand crowns had offer'd. Dear friends, who would have blush'd to take That guerdon from his hand, Soon join'd in groups for pity's sake, The child-exploring band. The news reach'd Nassau's Duke : ere earth Was gladden'd by the lark, He sent a hundred soldiers forth To ransack all his park. Their side-arms glitter'd through the wood, With bugle-horns to sound ; ~oS THE CPIILD AND HIND. 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 Abandon'd to despair. But, haply, a poor artisan Search'd ceaselessly, till he Found safe asleep the little one, Beneath a beechen tree. His hand still grasp'd a bunch of flowers ; And (true, though wondrous) near, To sentry his reposing hours, There stood a female deer Who dipp'd her horns at all that pass'd 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 unknown And yet she watch' d a sleeping child As if it were her own ; And thou, Wiesbaden's artisan, Restorer of the boy, Was ever welcomed mortal man With such a burst of joy ? * The female deer has no such antlers as the male, and some- times no horns at all : but I have observed many with short ones suckling their fawns. THE JILTED NYMPH. 209 The father's ecstasy the mother's Hysteric bosom's swell ; The sisters' sobs the shout of brothers, I have not power to tell. 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 favourite took Into his deer-park's centre, To share a field with other pets Where deer-slayer cannot enter. There, whilst thou cropp'st thy flowery food, Each hand shall pat thee kind ; And man shall never spill thy blood- Wiesbaden's gentle hind. THE JILTED NYMPH. A SONG, TO THE SCOTCH TUNE OP " WOO'D AND MARRIED AKD 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, Woo'd or jilted at all ; Oh, how unhappy's the lass Who has never been courted at all ! My brother call'd out the dear faithless, In 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 ; 210 PORTRAIT OF A' FEMALE CHILD. I wish'd liim 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. Woo'd and jilted and all, Still I will dance at the ball ; And waltz and quadrille With light heart and heel, With proper young men, and tall 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 woo'd, and married and all T Woo'd and married and all, What greater bliss can befall \ And you all shall partake of my brida! cake, When I'm woo'd and married, and all. ON GETTING HOME THE PORTRAIT OF A FEMALE CHILD, SIX TEARS OLD. PADTTED BY ETTGENIO 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 Fairyland. Cast in simplicity's own mould, How canst thou be so manifold In sportively distracting charms 1 rhy lips thine eyes thy little arms PORTRAIT OF A FEMALE CHILD. 21 1 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, 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 bower, Thyself 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 j Thy lucid eyes so beam with soul, They on the canvas seem to roll Instructing both my head and heart To idolise 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 I For children, in Creation, are The only things that could be given Back, and alive unchanged to Heaven. 212 THE PARROT. A DOMESTIC ANECDOTE. [The 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 Moll, from the family to whom the hird belonged.] THE deep affections of the breast, That Heaven to living things imparts, Are not exclusively possess'd By human hearts. A parrot, from the Spanish Main, Full young, and early caged, came o'et 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 turn'd on rocks and raging surf His golden eye. But, petted, in our climate cold He lived and chatter'd many a day : Until with age, from green and gold His wings grew grey. At .last, -when blind and seeming dumb, He scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more, A Spanish stranger chanced to come To Mulla's shore ; He hail'd the bird in Spanish speech, The bird in Spanish speech replied, Flapp'd round his cage with joyous screech, Dropt down, and died. 213 SONQ OF THE COLONISTS DEPARTING 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. CHOKUS. Cheer up cheer up our course we'll keep, With dauntless heart and hand ; And when we've plough'd the stormy deep, We'll plough a smiling land : A 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, &e, * There, tracts uncheer'd by human words, Seclusion's wildest holds, Shall hear the lowing of our herds, And tinkling of our folds. Chorus. Cheer up cheer up, &c. 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, &c. Britannia's pride is hi our hearts, Her blood is in our veins We'll girdle earth with British arts, Like Ariel's magic chains. CHORUS. Cheer up cheer up our course we'll keep With dauntless heart and hand ; And when we've plough'd the stormy deep We'll plough a smiling land. 214 MOONLIGHT. THE kiss that would make a maid's check flush 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 retum'd 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 dropt 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. . 'Tis by the rolling moon we measure The date between our nuptial night And that blest hour which brings to light The pledge of faith the fruit of bliss ; When we impress upon the treasure A father's earliest kiss. The Moon's the Earth's enamour 'd bride ; True to him in her very changes, To other stars she never ranges : Though, cross'd by him, sometimes she dips Her light, in short offended pride, And faints to an eclipse. The fairies revel by her sheen ; 'Tis only when the Moon's above The fire-fly kindles into love, CORA LINN. 215 And flashes light to show it : The nightingale salutes her Queen Of Heaven, her heav*nly poet. Then ye that love by moonlight gloom Meet at my grave, and plight regard. Oh ! could I be the Orphean bard Of whom it is reported, That nightingales sung o'er his tomb, Whilst lovers came and courted. CORA LINN, OB THE FALLS OF THE CLYDE. WRITTEN ON REVISITING IT IN 1837. THE time I saw thee, Cora, last, 'Twas with congenial friends j And calmer hours of pleasure past My memory seldom sends. li 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 hi bravery, Look'd rich that sunny morn ; The scarlet hip and blackberry So prank'd September's thorn. In Cora's glen the calm how deep ! That trees on loftiest hill Like statues stood, or things asleep, All motionless and still. The torrent spoke, as if his noiso Bade earth be quiet round, And give his loud and lonely voice A more commanding sound. 2l6 SONG ON 0&R QUEEN. His foam, beneath the w Of noon, came down like one Continuous sheet of jaspers bright, Broad rolling by the sun. 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 th' array of hosts In broad, embattled war! His voice appals the wilderness : Approaching thine, we feel A solemn, deep melodiousness, That needs no louder peal. More fury would but disenchant Thy dream-inspiring din ; Be thou the Scottish Muse's haunt, Romantic Cora Linn. SONG ON OUR QUEEN. SET TO MUSIC BY CHARLES NEATE, ESQ. VICTORIA'S sceptre o'er the deep Has touch'd, 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. 217 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 gnarled 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 renown'd Would interdict thy name to be forgot ; For Chaucer loved thy bowers and trode this very spot. Chaucer ! our Helicon's first fountain-stream, Our 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 group'd 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. 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 by its stars ; But what's the meaHing of the stripes ? They mean your negroes' scars. 218 LINES (TOGCIKSTED BY THE STATUE OF ARNOLD VON WINKELRIED *, 8TANZ-UNDERWALDEN. INSPIRING and romantic Switzers' land, Though mark'd with majesty by Nature's hand, What charm ennobles most thy landscape's face 1 Th' heroic memory of thy native race Who forced tyrannic hosts to bleed or flee, And made their rocks the ramparts of the free ; Their fastnesses roll'd back th' invading tide Of conquest, and their mountains taught them prid^. Hence they have patriot names in fancy's eye, Bright as their glaciers glittering in the sky ; Patriots who make the pageantries of kings Like shadows seem and unsubstantial things. Their guiltless glory mocks oblivion^ rust, Imperishable, for their cause was just. Heroes of old ! to whom the Nine hav 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 Winkelried's immortal name ! TO A YOUNG LADY, WHO ASKED ME TO -WRITE SOMETHING ORIGINAL FOR HER ALBUM AN original something, fair maid, you would win me To write but how shall I begin 1 For I fear I have nothing original in ino Excepting Original Sin. * For an account of this patriotic Swiss and his heroic death at the battle of Sempach, see Dr. Beattie's " Switzerland Illus- trated," vol. ii., pp. 111115. See also Note at the end of this Volume. 219 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. 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 stopp'd th' 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 follow'd 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 ask'd I not thy home and name ? My courage fail'd me more's the shame. 220 THE LAUNCH OF* A FIRST-RATE. 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. 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. Giant oaks of bold expansion O'er seven hundred acres fell, All to build thy noble mansion, Where our hearts of oak shall dwell. 'Midst those trees the wild deer bounded, Ages long ere we were born, 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, Threat'ning havoc to their deck, When afar they first descry thee, Like the coming whirlwind's speck. Gallant bark ! thy pomp and beauty Storm or battle ne'er shall blast, Whilst our tars in pride and duty Nail thy colours to the mast. 221 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 the place is All-jeers, 'Tis no joke to fall in with its clime. With a shaver * from France who came o'er, To an African 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 haikf, 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. * On board the vessel from Marseilles to Algiers I met with a fellow passenger whom I supposed to be a physician from his dress and manners, and the attentions which he paid me to alleviate the sufferings of my sea-sickness. He turned out to be a perruquler and barber in Algeria but his vocation did not lower him in my estimation for he continued his atten- tions until he passed my baggage through the customs, and helped me, when half dead with exhaustion.to the best hotel t A. mantle worn by the natives. 222 EPISTLE TO HORACE SMITH. The Mooresses, shrouded in white, Save two holes for their eyes to give room, Seem like corpses in sport or in spite That have slily whipp'd out of their tomb. 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 hipp'd and undined as I am, My hippogriffs course I must rein For the pain of my thirst is no sham, Though I'm bawling aloud for Champagne. Dinner's brought ; but their 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 drawl O'er each French trashy dish as I bend, My heart feels a patriot's grief! And the round tears, England ! descend "When I think on a round of thy beef. Yes, my soul sentimentally craves British beer. Hail, Britannia, hail ! To thy flag on the foam of the waves, And the foam on thy flaggons 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. FRAGMENT OF AN ORATORIO, FROM THE BOOK OF JOB. [Having met my illustrious friend the Composer Neukomm, at Algiers, several years ago, I commenced this intended Ora- torio at his desire, hut he left the place before I proceeded farther in the poem ; and it has heen thus left unfinished.] CRUSH'D by misfortune's yoke, Job lamentably spoke "My boundless curse be on The day that I was born ; Quench' d 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." Then Eliphaz rebuked his wild despair: "What Heaven ordains, 'tis meet that man should bear, Lately, at midnight drear, A vision shook my bones with fear; A spirit pass'd before my face, And yet its form I could not trace ; It stopp'd it stood it chill'd my blood, The hair upon my flesh uprose With freezing dread ! Deep silence reign'd, 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 learnt 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.' " 224 FRAGMENT OF^'AN ORATORIO. JOB. Is this your consolation 1 Is it thus that ye condole With the depth of my desolation, And the anguish of my soul ] But I will not cease to wail The bitterness of my bale. Man that is born of woman, Short and evil is his hour; He fleeth like a shadow, He fadeth like a flower. My days are pass'd my hope and trust Is but to moulder in the dust. 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 the 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 And the thunder of the fight 225 TO MY NIECE, MARY CAMPBELL. OUR friendship's not a stream to dry, Or stop with angry jar ; A life-long planet in our sky No meteor-shooting star Thy playfulness and pleasant ways Shall cheer my wintry track, And give my old declining days A second summer back ! Proud honesty protects our lot, No dun infests our bowers ; Wealth's golden lamps illumine not Brows more content than ours. To think, too, thy remembrance fond May love me after death, Gives fancied happiness beyond My lease of living breath. Meanwhile thine intellects presage A life-time rich in truth, And make me feel th* advance of age Retarded by thy youth ! Good night ! propitious dreams betide Thy sleep ! awaken gay, And we will make to-morrow glide As cheerful as to-day J NOTES. Page 4, line 18. And such thy strength-inspiring aid that lore The hardy Byron to his native shore The following picture of his own distress, given by BYRON in his simple and intei'esting narrative, justifies the description given in the poem. 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 f 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 everything 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 north ward : 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 un- comfortable lodging, it being a perfect swamp, and we had 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 wig- wams ; 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 day, excepting a sort of root we saw the Indians make use of, which was very disagreeable to the taste. We laboured all next day against the stream, and fared as we had done the day before. The next day brought us to the carrying-place. Here 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. A 11 Q2 228 NOT$S. 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 p&ir of trousers, without shoes or stockings." Page 4, line 37. a Briton and a friend ! Don Patrick) Gedd, a Scotch physician in one of the Spanish settlements, hospitably relieved Byron and his wretched associates, i>f which the commodore speaks in the warmest terms of gratitude. Page 5, line 6. Or yield the lyre of Heaven another string. The seven strings of Apollo's harp were the symbolical repre- sentation of the seven planets. Herschel, by discovering an eighth, might be said to add another string to the instrument. Page 5, line 7. TJie Swedish sage. Linnaeus. Page 5, line 27. 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 Choephoraa of ^Eschylus. Page 6, line 14. Unlocks a generous store at thy command, Like Horeb's rocks beneath the prophet's hand. See Exodus, chap. xvii. 3, 5, 6. Page 9, line 30. 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 with dismal calamities. Such a belief must undoubtedly have been deduced from the superstitious mythology of their kinsmen on the coast cf Africa. I have, therefore, per- sonified Obi as the evil spirit of the African, although the history of the African tribes mentions the evil spirit of their religious creed by a different appellation. Page 9, line 34. Sibir's dreary mines. Mr. Bell of Antermony, in his Travels through Siberia, informs us that the name of the country is universally pronounced Sibir by the Russians. NOTES. 229 Pago 10, line 3. Presaging icrath 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. Page 13, line 81. The shrill horn blew. The negroes hi the West Indies are summoned to their morning work by a shell or horn. Page 14, line 5. How long was Timour's iron sceptre sway'd. To elucidate this passage, I shall subjoin a quotation from the preface to "Letters from a Hindoo 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 veiy heart of Europe ; and covering many kingdoms of Asia with unbounded 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 groat end of their conquest opposed by objects whi^h neither the ardour of their persevering zeal, nor savage 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 th-,se 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 Hindoo RajaJi, by Eliza Hamilton. 230 NOTES. Page 14, line 10. And braved the stormy Spirit of the Cape: Sco the description of tha Cape of Good Hope, translated from CAIIOENS, by MICKLE. Page 14, line 33. TF/Wk famish' d nations died along the sJiore, 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 would rather die than violate the principles of then- 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. Page 15, line 3. Nine times have Srama's wheels of ligldning hurl'd His awful presence o'er the alarmed world. Among the sublime fictions of the Hindoo mythology, it is one article ot 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 oft all incorrigible offenders. Avatar is the word used to express hia descent. Page 15, line 22. Shall Serwcattee -wave her hallow' d wand! And Camdeo bright, and Gancsa sublime. Camieo is the God of Love in the mythology of the Hindoos. Ganesa and Seriswattee correspond to the pagan deities. Janus and Minerva. Page 17, line 42. TJie noon of manhood to a myrtle shade ! ' Sacred to Venus is the myrtle shade." DRTPEN. NOTES. 231 Page 19, line 41. Thy woes, Arion f Falconer, in his poem "The Shipwreck," speaks of LImself by the name of Arion. See Falconer's "Shipwreck," Canto III. Page 20, line 9. The roller Moor ! Bee Schiller's tragedy of "The Robbers," Scene v. Page 20, line 27. What millions died/ that Casar might be great ! The carnage occasioned by the wars of Julius Caesar has been usually estimated at two millions of men. Page 20, lino 28. Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore, JKarch'd by their Charles to Dnieper's swampy shore. "In this extremity," (says the biographer of Charles XII. of Sweden, speaking of his military exploits before the battle of Pultowa,) "the memorable winter of 1709, which was still more remarkable in thatpart of Europe 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 thousand men fell down dead with cold before his eyes." Page 21, line 7. As lona's saint. The natives of the island of lona 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. Page 21, line 26. And part, like Ajut never to return ! See the history of Ajut and Anningait, in "The Rambler " Page 27, line 17. That gave the glacier tops their richest glow. The sight of the glaciers of Switzerland, I am told, has ofteik disappointed travellers who had perused the accounts of their splendour and sublimity given by Bourrit and other describers of 232 NOTES. Swiss scenery. Possibly Bourrit, who had spent his life in an enamoured familiarity with the beauties of Nature in Switzerland, 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 seas 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 makes them need that supply. That the picturesque grandeur of the glaciers should sometimes disappoint the traveller, will not seem surprising to any one who has been much in a mountainous country, and recollects that the beauty of Nature in such countries is not only variable, but capriciously dependent on the weather and sunshine. There are about four hundred different glaciers *, according to the computa- tion of M. Bourrit, between Moiit Blanc and the frontiers of tbe Tyrol. The full effect of the most lofty and picturesque of then? 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 change- ableness of the appearance of some of the glaciers, that the impres- sions made by them on the minds of other and more transient travellers have been less enchanting than those described by M. 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, 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 prodigious 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. 103. Page 27, line 23. From heiglits browsed by the bounding bouquetin. 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 id * Occupying, if taken together, a surface of 130 square leagues. NOTES. 233 not a mountain so high or steep to which it will not trust itself, provided it has loom to place its feet; it can scramble along the highest wall, if its surface be rugged." Page 27, line 29. enamell'd moss. The moss of Switzerland, as well as that of the Tyrol, is remark able for a bright smoothness approaching to the appearance oi enamel. Page 30, line 24. How dear seem'd ev'n the waste and wild SlireckJiorn. The Shreckhorn means, in German, the Peak of Terror. Page 30, line 29. Blindfold his native hills he could have known. I have here availed myself of a striking expression of tho Emperor Napoleon respecting his recollections of Corsica, which is recorded in Las Cases' History of the Emperor's abode at St. Helena. Page 46, line 1. Innisfail, the ancient name of Ireland. Page 46, st. ii., line 9. Kerne, the plural of Kern, an Irish foot-soldier. In this sense the word is used by Sbakspeare. Gainsford, in his " Glories of England, " says, "They {the Irish) are desperate in revenge, and their kerne think no man dead until his head be off." Page 47, st. iii., line 12. Shieling, a rude cabin or hut. Page 47, st. iv., line 2. In Erin's yellow vesture clad. Yellow, dyed fi-om saffron, was the favourite colour of tha ancient Irish. When the Irish chieftains came to make terras with Queen Elizabeth's lord-lieutenant, we are told by Sir John Davis, that they came to court hi saffron-coloured uniforms. Page 47, st. iv., line 16. M6rat, a drink made of the juice of mulberry mixed with honey 234 NOTES. Page 48, st. vi., line 13. Thdr 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 400 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 favourite monarch, Ollam Fodlah, who reigned, according to Keating, about 950 years before the Christian sera. Under him was instituted the great Fes at Tara, which it is pretended was a triennal 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 enter- tainments; from which, if credible, we might collect the earliest traces of heraldry that occur in history. Tu preserve order and regularity hi 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 con rention, delivered IB their shields and targets, which were readily -.iistinguished by the coats of arms emblazoned upon them. 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 kingdom. 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 palace 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 01 casts of a dart ; it contained one hundred and fifty apartments ; one hundred and fifty dormitories, or sleeping-rooms for guards, and sixty men hi each; the height was twenty-seven cubits; there were one hundred and fifty common drinking-horns, twelve doors, 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 banqueting-hall is thus translated : " Twelve stalls or divisions hi each wing ; sixteen attendant on each side, and two to each table; one hundred guests in all." NOTES. 235 Page 48, st. vii., line 4. And stemmed De Bourgo's chivalry ? The house of O'Connor had a right to boast of their victories :>ver 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 pei-son al 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 memo- rable occasion: viz., when Walter De Bourgo, an ancestor of that De Bourgo, who won the battle of Athunree, had become so inso- lent 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. Page 48, st. vii., line 7. Or beal-fires for your jubilee. The month of May is to this day called Mi Beal tiennie, i. e. the month of Seal'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 summits of mountains (the Irish antiquaries say) in honour of the sun ; and are supposed, by those conjecturing gentlemen, to prove the origin of the Irish from some nation 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. Page 49, st. viii., line 12. And play my clarshech by thy side. The clarshech, or harp, the principal musical instrument of the Hibernian bards, does not appear to be of Irish origin, nor indige- nous to any of the British islands. The Britons undoubtedly were not acquainted with it during the residence of the Romans in their country, as hi all their coins, on which musical instru- ments are represented, we see only the Roman lyre, and not the British teylin, or harp. Page 49, st ix., line 3. And saw at dawn the lofty bawn. Bawn, from the Teutonic Bawen to construct and secure witti branches of trees, was BO called because the primitive Celtk fortifications were made by digging a ditch, throwing up rampart, and on the latter fixing stakes, whicn were interlaced with boughs of trees. This word is used by Spenser , but it is inaccurately called by Mr. Todd, his annotator, an eminence 236 NOTES. Page 51, st. xiii., line 16. To speak the malison of heaven. If the wrath which I have ascribed to the heroine of this little piece should seem to exhibit her character as too unnaturally stripped of patriotic and domestic affections, I must beg leave to plead the authority of Corneille hi 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 vitjamais une pareille rage ! Crois-tu done que je sois insensible a 1'outrage, Que je souffre en mon sang ce mortel d&shonneur? Aime, aime cette mort qui fait notre bonheur ? Et prdfere du moins au souvenir d'un homme Ce que doit ta naissance aux inte'rets de Borne " At the mention of Rome, Camille breaks out into this apostrophe : "Rome, V unique objet de mon ressentiment ! Rome, a qui vient ton bras d'immoler mon amant ! Rome qui t'a vu naitre et que ton coeur adore 1 Rome enfin que je hais parce qu'elle f honore 1 Puissent tous ses voisins ensemble conjure"s Baper ses fondements encore mal assured ; Et si ce n'est assez de toute Htalie, Que 1'Orient contre elle a 1'Occident s'allie ; Que cent peuples unis des bouts de 1'univcrs Passent pour la de"truire et les monts et les mere ; Qu'elle-meme sur soi renverse ses murailles, Et de ses propres mains de"chire ses entrailles ! Que le courroux du ciel allurae" par mes voeux Fasse pleuvoir BUT elle un deluge de feux ! Puisse"-je de mes yeux y voir tomber ce foudre, Voir ses maisons en ceudre et tes lauriers en poudre, Voir le dernier Remain a son dernier soupir, Moi seule en tre cause, et mourn- de plaisir 1 " Page 51, st. xiv., line 5. And go to Athunree.' (I cried). In the reign of Edward the Second, the Irish presented to Pope John the Twenty-second 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, endeavouring at the same time, by every artifice malice could suggest, to extir- pate us root and blanch, and without any other right than that of the strongest; they "^ave so far succeeded by base fraudulence. NOTES. 237 and cunning, that they Lave forced us to quit our fair and am'ple 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 insati- able avarice. They pursue us even into these frightful abodes ; endeavouring 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 Berming- ham, were sent against the main body of the native insurgents, who were headed rather than commanded by Felim 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, nd continued throughout the whole day, from the rising to the setting sun. The Irish fought with inferior discipline, but with great enthusiasm. They lost 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 extermi- nated, that throughout all Connaught not one of *the name remained, except Felim's brother, who was capable of bearing arms. Page 53, line 1. Lochiel, the chief o* the warlike clan of the Camerons, and de- scended 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 High- landers, by tne appellation of the " gentle Lochiel ; " for he was famed for his social virtues as much as his martial and magnani- mous (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 honour overruled his wisdom. Charles appealed to his loyalty, 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 (Cameron 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 mind by letter to Charles. "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 favourable occasion, as he had come, by his own acknow- ledgment without arms, or money, or adherents : or, at all events, to remain concealed till his friends should meet and 238 NOTES? deliberate what was Itcst to be done. Charles, whose mind was wound up to the utmost impatience, paid no regard to this pro- posal, but answered, "that he was determined to put all to the hazard." "In a few days," said he, "I wiJl 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 Lochiel, " I will share the fate of my Prince, and so shall every man over whom nature or fortune hath given me any power." The other chieftains who followed Charles embraced 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 ai-ms, 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 shipboard) the parties walked backwards aud 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 Wales, when he heard his chief and his brother refuse to take arms with their Prince, his colour went and came, his eyes sparkled, he shifted his place, and grasped his sword. Charles observed his demeanour, and turning briskly to him, called out, 'Will you assist me?' 'I will, I will,' said Eouald : 'though no other man in the Highlands should draw a sword, I am ready to die for you ! ' Charles, with a profusion of thanks to his champion, said, he wished all the Highlanders were like him. Without further deliberation, the two Macdonalds declared that they would also join, and use their utmost endeavours to engage their countrymen to take arms." Home's Hist. Rebellion, p. 40. Page 53, line 15. Weep, Albin ! The Gaelic appellation of Scotland, more partic*olarly the Highlands. Page 54, line 27. Lo, anointed by Heaven -with the vials of wrath, BeJiold, where he flies on his desolate path / The lines almde to the many hardships of the royal sufferer. An account of the second sight, in Irish called Taisli, is thus given in Martin's description of the Western Isles of Scotland: NOTES. 239 " The 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 makes such a lively impression upon the [seers, that they neither see nor think of anything else except the vision as long as it continues ; and then they appear pensive or jovial according to the object which waa represented to them. "At the eight 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 more than once to my own observa- tion, and to others that were with me. "There is one in Skie, of whom his acquaintance observed, that when he sees a vision the inner" part of his eyelids turn so far upwards, that, after the object disappears, b/j must draw them down with his fingers, and sometimes employ others to draw them down, which he finds to be much the easier way. "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 children 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 the 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 a morning, which is not frequent, it will DC 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 >y weeks, months, and sometimes years, according to the time of the night the vision is seen. " When a shroud is seen about one, it is 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 the 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 observ&cions 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 accomplished : 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 urms 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 tliat person's death quickly after it. 240 " When a tiovice, or one that has lately obtained the second sight, sees a vision in the night-time without doors, and cornea near a fire, he presently falls into a swoon. ' ' Some find themselves as it were in a crowd of people, having a coi-pse, which they carry along with them ; and after such visions the seers come in sweating, and describe the vision that appeared. If there be any of their acquaintance among them, they give an account of then* 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 endeavours 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 iteople 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, with- out 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 pre- engaged in a combination in favour of the second sight." Martin's Description of the Western Isles of Scotland, p. 3. 11. Page 78, st. iii., line 6. From merry mock-bird's song "The mocking-bird is of the form of, but larger than, the thrush ; and the colours are a mixture of black, white, and grey. What 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 gentle- man hi London had one of these birds for six years. During th. space of a minute he was heard to imitate the woodlark, chaffinch, blackbird, thi-ush, 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 favourite imita- tions. 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 manner which if truly delightful." Ashe's Travels in America, vol. ij p. 73, NOTES. 241 Page 78, st. v., line 9. And distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan roar ! The Corybreclitan, 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 signfics 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 soiind of this vortex, at the distance of many leagues. When the weather is calm, and the adjacent sea is scarcely heard on these picturesque shores, its sound, which is like the sound of innumerable chariots, creates a magnificent and fine effect. Page 80, st. xiii., line 4. Of buskin'd limb, and swarthy lineament ; " In the Indian tribes there is a great similarity in their colour, 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 tneir deformed children. Their skin is of a copper colour : their eyes large, bright, black, and sparkling, indicative of a subtle and discerning mind : their hair is of the same colour, and prone to be long, seldom or never curled. Their teeth are large and white ; I never observed any decayed among them, wliich makes their breath as sweet as the air they inhale." Travels through America by Captains Lewis and Clarke in 1804-5-6. Page 81, st. xiv., line 6. Peace be to thee ! my words this belt approve. "The Indians of North America accompany every formal address to strangers, with whom they form -or recognise a treaty of amity, with the present of a string, or belt, of wampum. Wampxim (says Cadwallader Golden) 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. Page 81, at. xiv., line 7. The paths of peace my steps have hither led. In relating an interview of Mohawk Indians with the Governor of New York, Golden 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 dth our path lead us but unto this house ?" 242 NOTKS. Page 81, st. xv., line 2. 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 them 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 ; aud 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 ; 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 mocasins, supposed that the Indians are guided by instinct, and have pretended that Indian children can find their way through a forest as easily as a person of maturer years ; but this is a most absurd notion. It is unques- tionably 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 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. Being 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 eveiy part of the day they will point to the part of the heavens where it is, although the sky bo 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 I]lue 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 morn- ing, some circumstance or other, which could not be learned, induced one half of the Indians to set off without their com- panions, 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 fears lest they should miss their companions who had gone on before. They answered that they knew better, that the way through the woods was the shortest to Philadelphia, and that the knew veiy well that their companions had entered 250 NOTES. the wood at the very place where they did. Curiosity led some of the horsemen to go on ; and to then- astonishment, for there was apparently no tracfc, 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 Philadelphia, were observed, all on a sudden, to quit the straight road by which they were proceeding, and without 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. Page 86, &t. ix., line 5. Their fathers' dust It is a custom of the Indian tribes to visit the tombs of their ancestors in the cultivated parts of America, who have been buried for upwards of a century. Page 88, st. xvi., line 8. Or icttd-cane arch high flung o'er ffulf 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. NOTES. 251 Page 94, st. xvi., line 4. The Mammoth comes That I am justified in making the Indian chief allude 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 tho Ohio. Their chief speaker immediately put himself into an atti- tude 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 Bigbone-licks, and began a 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 lu's lightning, descended on the earth, seated him- self on a neighbouring mountain, on 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 whole were slaughtered, except the big bull, who, presenting his forehead to the shafts, shook them off as they fell, but missing one, at lez^th it wounded him in the side, whereon, springing round, he bounded over the Ohio, over tho Wabash, the Illinois, and finally over the great lakes, where he is living at this day." Jefferson's Nates on Virginia. Page 95, 8t. XTU., line 1. Scorning_to -wield ike hatchet for his bribe, 'Gains,, ~-*andt 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 savages), and chief agent in the horrible desolation of Wyoming. Some years after this poem appeared, the sou of Brandt, a most interesting and intel- ligent youth, came over to England, and I formed an acquaint- ance with him, on which I still look back with pleasure. He appealed to my sense of honour and justice, on his own part and on that of his sister, to retract the unfair aspersions which, un- conscious 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 252 NOTES. 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 learnt all this of your father when I was writing my poem, he should not have 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. Page 95, st. xvii., line 8. To ichom nor relative nor blood remains, l?o ! not a kindred drop that runs in human veint ! 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 cannot but appear, to less advantage than in the original, I beg the reader to reflect how difficult it is to transpose such exquisitely simple words, without sacrificing a portion of their efFect. In the spring of 1774, a robbery and rmirder were committed on an inhabitant of the Frontiers of Virginia, by two Indians of the Shawanee tribe. The neighbouring whites, according to their custom, undertook to punish this outrage in a summaiy manner. Colonel Cresap, a man infamous for the many murders he had committed on those much injured people, collected a party and proceeded down the Kanaway in quest of vengeance : unfor- tunately, a canoe, with women and children, with one man only, was seen coming from the opposite shore unarmed, and unsus. pecting an attack from the whites. Cresap and his party concealed themselves on the bank of the river, and the moment the 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 sig- nalised 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 Shawauees, Mingoes, and Delawares, were defeated by a detachment of the Virginian militia. The Indians sued for peace. Logan, however, disdained to be seen a,mong 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 naked, and k he clothed him not. During the course of the last long and bloody war, Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advo- cate for peace. Such was my love for the whites, that my country- men pointed as they passed, and said, ' Logan is the friend of the 5 NOTES. 253 white men.' I have even thought to have lived with you, but for the injuries of one man. Colonel Cresap, the last spring, in cold blood, murdered all the relations of Logan, even my women and children. " There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature : this called on me for revenge. I have fought 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 harbour a thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He will not turn his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan ? not one ! " Jefferson's Notes on Virginia. Page 108, line 10. The dark-attired Culdee. The Culdees were the piimitive clergy of Scotland, and appa- rently her only clergy from the sixth to the eleventh century. They were of Irish origin, and their monastery on the island of lona, 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 sub- jected to Rome, like the clergy of later periods, appears by their resisting the Papal ordinances respecting the celibacy of religious men, on which account they were ultimately displaced by the Scottish sovereigns to make way for more Popish canons. Page 110, line 19. And the shield of alarm was dumb. Striking the shield was an ancient mode of convocation to wai among the Gael. Page 114, line 9. 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 having heard an unfounded account of his death. Whatever may be thought of the credibility of the legend, its scenery must be recollected with pleasure by every one -who has visited the romantic landscape of the Drachen- fels, the Rolandseck, and the beautiful adjacent islet of the Rhine, where a nunnery still stands. Page 119, line 14. That erst the advent'rous 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 254 NOTE'S. Page 143, line 3. 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. Page 149, line 14. Wliere the Norman encamp'd him of old. What is called the East Hill, at Hastings, is crowned with the works of an ancient ctvmp ; 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. Page 153, line 37. France turns from her abandoned friends afresh. The fact ought to be universally known, that France is at this moment indebted to Poland for not being invaded by Russia. When the Grand Duke Constantine fled from Warsaw, he left papers behind him, proving that the Russians, after the Parisian events hi July, meant to have marched towards Paris, if the Polish insurrection had not prevented them. Page 158, line 14. Thee, Niemciewitz, This venerable man, the most popular and influential of Polish poets, and president of the academy in Warsaw, was in London when this poem was written : he was then seventy-four years old ; but his noble spirit was rather mellowed than decayed by age. He was the friend of Fox, Kosciusko, and Washington. Rich in anecdote like Franklin, he had also a striking resemblance to him in countenance. Page 159, line 16. Nor church-Qett In Catholic countries you often hear the church-bells rung to propitiate Heaven during thunder-storms. Page 168, line 20. Regret the lark that gladdens England's morn. Mr. P. Cunningham, in his interesting work on New South Wales, gives the following account of its song-birds : " We are not moved here with the deep mellow note of the blackbird, poured out frora beneath some low stunted bush, nor thrilled NOTES. 255 with the wild warblings of the thrush perched on the top of some tall sapling, nor charmed with the blithe carol of the lark as wo proceed early a-field ; none of our birds rivalling those divine songsters in realising 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 lurk, 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 similes. 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, peck- ing and pattering against the windows in the dull days of whiter, we have the lively 'superb warbler,' with his blue shining plumage and his long tapering tail, picking up the crumbs at our doors ; while the pretty red-bills, of the size and form of the gold- finch, 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. Page 176, line 24. Oh feeble statesmen ignominious times. There is not upon record a more disgusting scene of Russian hypocrisy, and (woe that it must be written !) of British humi- liation, than that which passed on board the Talavera, when British sailors accepted money from the Emperor Nicholas, 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. Page 183, line 32. A palsy-stroke of Nature shook Oran. In the year 1790, Oran, the most western city in the Algeriue Regency, which had been possessed by Spain for more than a hundred years, and fortified at an immense expense, wae destroyed by an earthquake ; six thousand of its inhabitants were buried under the ruins. Page 190, line 11. Tlie vale, ty eagle-haunted cliffs o'erhung. The valley of Glencoe, unparalleled in its scene grandeur, is to this day frequented by eagles. When I visit the spot within a year ago, I saw several perch at a dis- tance. Only one of them came so near me that I did not wish aim any nearer. He favoured me with a full and continued view of his noble person, and with the exception of the .African eagle 256 NOTES. which 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 hird than this black eagle of Glencoe. I was unable, from a hurt in my foot, to leave the 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 cannot see verdure enough to graze a rabbit? I suspect," I added, "that these birds make the clifls only their country-houses, and that they go down to the Lowlands to find then- provender." "Ay, ay." replied the High- lander, " it is very possible, for the eagle ^an gang far for his breakfast. " Page 194, Jne 13. Witch-legends Ronald scorn'd gJiost, 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 Ms 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 flood 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 pasture -ground upon its verge." Brown's History of the Highland Clang, voL L 106. In Scotland, according to Dr. John Brown, it is yet a super- stitious principle that the -wraiOi, the omen or messenger of death, appears in the resemblance of one hi 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 hi tune." 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 Hull, 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 unseal cable. 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?" NOTES. 257 'Leaping over the stones of the burial-ground." The old lady rras much relieved to hear that it was not iny wraith, but myself. Akin to other Highland superstitions, but differing from them n many essential respects, is the belief for superstition it cannot 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 receptive 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. he vision makes such a lively impression upon the seers, that they neither see nor think of anything 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. Brown), who pretend to this faculty, and the belief in it is almost generally exploded. Yet it cannot be denied that apparent proofs of its existence have been adduced, which have staggered minds not prone to superstition. When the connexion 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 extra- ordinary phenomenon as the alleged faculty on philosophical principles, or from the laws of nature, must ever leave the matter suspended between rational doubt and confirmed scepti- cism. "Strong reasons for incredulity," says Dr. Johnson, "will readily occur." This faculty of seeing things out of sight is local, and commonly useless. 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 Brown, a gentleman of the Edinburgh bar, in the nineteenth century, should show him- self a more abject believer in the truth of second-sight, than Dr. Samuel Johnson, of London, in the eighteenth centurv. Page 195, line 12. The pit or gallows would have cured my grief. Until the year 174T, 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 tha 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 incom- patible with an advanced state of civilisation. By depriving tho Highland chiefs of their judicial powers, it was thought that tha sway which, for centuries, they had held over their people, would be gradually impaired ; and that by investing certain j:.idges, who 8 258 NOTES. were 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 would be promoted, and the facilities for repressing any attempts to disturb the public tranquil li ty increased. By this act (20 George II. c. 43), which was made to include the whole of Scotland, all heritable jurisdictions of justiciary, all regali- ties and heritable bailieries, and constabularies (ex ceptiug the office of high constable), and all stewartries and shorinahips of smaller districts, which were only parts of counties, were dissolved, ana 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 sheriflships and stewartries not dissolved by the statute, namely, those which comprehended -,vhole counties, where they had been granted either heritably or for life, were resumed and annexed to the crown. With the exception of the hereditary justiciaryship of Scotland, which was transferred from the family of Argylc to the High Court of Justiciary, the other jurisdictions were ordained to be vested in sherifis-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 ; compensa- tion 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. Page 195, line 14. 1 march'd when, feigning Royalty's command, Against the clan Macdonald, Stair's Lord Sent forth exterminating fire and sword. I cannot agree with Brown, the Author of an able work, " The History of the Highland 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 William'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 indi- viduals, they became more and more severe, and at last merciless, BO that they ultimately ceased to be the real orders of govern- ment. Among these false agents of government, who appear with most disgrace, is the "Master of Stair," who appears in the business more like a fiend than a man. When issuing his orders for the attack on the remainder of tne Macdonalds in Glencoe, he expressed a hope in his letter "that the soldiers would trouble the government with no prisoners " It cannot 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 tbe melancholy instruction which history affords us, that NOTES. 259 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 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 th 10 of the day, when the minds of both parties had become compa Uively civilised, the whigs by the triumph of free principles, and ine 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 nattered myself that the Argylo 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 con- sented to shutting up 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 fore- fathers ; 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. Page 200, lice 35. Chance snatch'd 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, principally 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 had 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. " Well, but you will allow me to make your breakfast before you go ? " " Oh yes." She accord- ingly prepared it, and, bringing in a full boiling kettle, poured it. by intentional accident, on his legs 1 Page 218. 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 2 5o 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 iuspect that he was simply a peasant. But this is certain, that in the battle of Sempach, perceiving that there was no other means of break ing the heavy-armed lines of the Austrians than by gathering as many of their spears as he could grasp together, he opened a passage for his fellow-combatants, who, with hammers and hatchets, hewed down the mailed meu-at-anus, and won the victory. THE END. 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