UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 SAN DIEGO
 
 THE 
 
 POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL 
 
 (COMPLETE EDITION) 
 
 CHICAGO: 
 
 M. A. DONOHUE & CO. 
 
 407-429 DEARBORN ST.
 
 LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL, the poet, was born in his father's 
 house, High Street, Glasgow, on the 27th July, 1777. 
 He was the eighth son, the eleventh and last child of 
 Alexander and Margaret Campbell, both of the same clan 
 and name, although not of the same kin. 
 
 The poet's father had been educated for a commercial 
 life, and after spending some years in Falmouth, Vir- 
 ginia, had established himself as a merchant in Glasgow, 
 where he was very prosperous at the time of his marriage 
 in 1756. In 1775, however, nearly all the fruits of a 
 life-long industry perished in the commercial crisis which 
 followed the outbreak of war between Great Britain and 
 her American colonies; and old Campbell, being then 
 sixty-five years of age, instead of tempting fortune again, 
 preferred to husband the moderate means which he was 
 able to save from the general wreck; so that, when the 
 poet was born to him, he was living as a retired, and ; in 
 means, a broken-down merchant. This family reverse, 
 and the spectacle of his father surviving it for six and 
 twenty years, with dignity and cheerfulness, must have 
 had a powerful effect upon the poet's youthful mind, 
 and doubtless contributed not a little to the develop- 
 ment of that sympathy with misfortune, and that defiant 
 Lope when things are at the worst, which are the chief 
 moral characteristics of his poetry, and made him the true 
 expression of an age whose calamities and aspirations 
 were alike gigantic. 
 
 The poet's father, notwithstanding his reverse, re- 
 mained on terms of intimacy with Adam Smith, and was 
 the confidential friend of his successor, Dr. Thomas
 
 iv LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Reid, after whom, indeed, the poet was named. When 
 that philosopher published his "Inquiry into the Human 
 Mind," he gave a copy to Mr. Campbell; and when the 
 latter expressed the pleasure and edification he had 
 derived from its perusal, Dr. Reid is said to have replied : 
 i"I am glad to hear you are pleased with it. There are 
 now at least two men who understand my work, and 
 these are Alexander Campbell and myself. " He who re- 
 ceived such a compliment from Dr. Reid must have been 
 a man of superior parts : yet he is styled ' ' a good easy 
 man," in distinction from his wife, who is designated 
 "an admirable manager, and clever woman.'' 
 
 An anecdote told at large by Dr. Beattie, Campbell's 
 biographer, illustrates the difference between the parents, 
 and represents the future poet in a truly boyish predica- 
 ment. Either Thomas or his brother Daniel was sent 
 every morning a distance of about two miles, to inquire 
 for a cousin of their mother's, a bedridden old lady, and 
 the performance of this commission sometimes interfered 
 with an intended blackberry-gathering, or other similar 
 play. At length Thomas learned from Daniel the peril- 
 ous art of deception, and, having gathered his black- 
 berries, was in the habit of returning with a fictitious 
 message to this effect, "Mrs. Simpson's kind compliments 
 to mamma ; has had a better night, and is going on very 
 nicely." In the course of time, however, the boys were 
 caught in their own trap, for, after a long succession of 
 these satisfactory bulletins, there came suddenly an 
 announcement of the old lady's death. All were speech- 
 less at first the culprits from the sense of suddenly 
 discovered guilt, and the parents from grief and astonish- 
 ment. "At last," says the poet, in recounting the 
 circumstance, " my mother's grief for her respected cousin 
 vented itself in cuffing our ears. But I was far less 
 pained by her blows, than by a few words from my 
 father. He never raised a hand to us; and I would
 
 LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. r 
 
 advise all fathers, who would have their children love 
 their memory, to follow his example." Campbell was, 
 however, indebted to his mother for his introduction to 
 music and song. "My Poor Dog Tray" was one of her 
 favourites, and from Campbell's afterwards writing "The 
 Harper" to the tune of this song, it appears that his 
 infant memories, responsive to the echo of his mother's 
 voice, survived all cuffings which his boyish misde- 
 meanours no doubt richly deserved. 
 
 After distinguishing himself at the grammar school of 
 Glasgow by a precocious talent for versification, which he 
 employed even then most happily in metrical translations 
 from the classic poets, Campbell entered the university 
 of that city at the age of fourteen. Here lie passed 
 through the usual curriculum of four years, mingling his 
 studies as Scotch students generally do, with grout dis- 
 advantage to their scholarship, though not to their 
 development as men with miscellaneous reading, news- 
 papers not certainly excepted, attendance on debating 
 societies, flute playing, and social meetings, and eking 
 out his subsistence by private tuition. Whenever a prize 
 was offered for a metrical translation or an original 
 poem, Campbell was sure to carry it off; and he seems 
 to have paid considerable attention to the languages, 
 particularly Greek; but he made a poor figure in 
 mathematics. Poetry was his element, whatever was or 
 should have been his work; and accordingly, we find him 
 writing verses even in the mathematical class-room. A 
 too-confident youth having one day retreated from before 
 the Pons Asinorum with a confusion of face, which 
 excited only the risibility of his fellows, Campbell penned 
 on the spot a few mock heroics on Miller's Hussars, as he 
 called the students of that professor, charging this 
 redoubtable tite de pont. The dashing spirit, which 
 gallops triumphantly in Campbell's great national lyrics, 
 maybe clearly discerned in the opening stanzas.
 
 vi LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Of all which happened during Campbell's university 
 career that which produced the most lasting impression 
 upon his mind was his presence at the trial of the Scot- 
 tish Reformer, Gerald, in Edinburgh, 1794. How he 
 obtained this gratification is so well told by himself, and 
 the narrative presents so pure and beautiful a picture of 
 middle-class life in Scotland, half a century ago, that it 
 deserves to be given in his own words: "I watched 
 my mother's moUia tempora fandi,* for she had them, 
 good woman; and, eagerly catching the propitious 
 moment, I said, ' Oh ! mamma, how I long to see Edin- 
 burgh ! If I had but three shillings I could walk there 
 in one day, sleep two nights, and be two days at my 
 Aunt Campbell's, and walk back in another day.' To my 
 delightful surprise she answered : ' No, my bairn : I will 
 give you what will carry you to Edinburgh, and bring 
 you back ; but you must promise me not to walk more 
 than half the way in any one day,' that was twenty-two 
 miles. ' Here,' said she, ' are five shillings for you in all ; 
 two shillings will serve you to go, and two to return ; for 
 a bed at the half -way-house costs but sixpence.' She 
 then gave me, I shall never forget the beautiful coin! 
 a King William and Mary crown piece. I was dumb 
 with gratitude ; but sallying out to the streets, I saw, at 
 the first bookseller's shop, a print of Elijah fed by the 
 Ravens. Now, I had often heard my poor mother saying 
 confidentially to our worthy neighbour Mrs. Hamilton, 
 whose strawberries I had pilfered, that, in case of my 
 father's death, and he was a very old man, she knew 
 not what would become of .her.' 'But,' she used to add, 
 ' let me not despair, for Elijah was fed by the ravens.' 
 When I presented her with the picture, I said nothing of 
 its tacit allusion to the possibility of my being one day 
 her supporter; but she was much affected, and evidently 
 felt a strong presentiment." Young Campbell did in- 
 
 * Moments of pood humour.
 
 LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. \4 
 
 deed afterwards become his mother's support ; meanwhile 
 he trudged off to Edinburgh, with four and sixpence in 
 his pocket. % 
 
 The circumstances of Campbell's father became still 
 more straitened, during the poet's university career, by 
 the loss of a suit in Chancery; but, by taking in students 
 as boarders, the family managed to live on in their own 
 station. The diminution of his father's means made the 
 choice of a profession more necessary, but also more diffi- 
 cult than ever to the poet. At the close of his second 
 session, he entered a lawyer's office on trial, but left it 
 after a few weeks, as too uncongenial. Then he thought 
 of entering the Church ; and, towards the close of his 
 university career, he says himself that he would have 
 studied for the Bar, had he only had a few hundred 
 pounds to subsist upon in the meantime. 
 
 Twice during the long summer recess of the Scotch 
 universities, Campbell acted as tutor in the Highlands, 
 first at the solitary house of Suuipol, on the northern 
 coast of Mull, and then at Downie in Cantyre, on the 
 Sound of Jura. A gentle but commanding height near 
 the latter place is still called, from his having almost 
 daily ascended it, "The Poet's Hill;" and the former is 
 remarkable, because there, first of all, the title at least 
 of his great poem, "The Pleasures of Hope," occurs in 
 his correspondence, though not in a letter of his own. 
 He had found the solitude of Sunipol oppressive, and 
 Hamilton Paul, one of his fellow-students, to whom he 
 had unbosomed himself by letter, sent him a few stanzas 
 entitled "The Pleasures of Solitude," by way of con- 
 solation, and added banteringly, "We have now three 
 ' Pleasures,' by first-rate men of genius, viz., ' The 
 Pleasures of Imagination, ' ' The Pleasures of Memory, ' 
 and 'The Pleasures of Solitude!' Let us cherish 'The 
 Pleasures of Hope,' that WQ may soon meet in Alma 
 Mater!" "The Pleasures of Hope" were really com-
 
 OF THOMAS CAMPBELL,. 
 
 menced not long afterwards. During these retreats ho 
 translated largely and carefully from the Greek drama- 
 tists into English verse, and threw off a number of ama- 
 tory pieces; for, like all poets, or rather like all men, 
 he had his youthful attachments, to one of which he 
 refers in the "Lines written on visiting a Scene in Ar- 
 gyllshire," where he sings somewhat defiantly, 
 
 " Yea! even the name I have worshipp'cl in vain 
 Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again. 
 
 Above all, his fancy was stored with the wild scenery of 
 the Highlands, which he has so grandly sketched in his 
 latest peom, " The Pilgrim of Glencoe." 
 
 In May, 1797, he went to Edinburgh to work his way, 
 as best he might, by means of the pandects and poetry. 
 He accepted the drudgery of a copying clerk, and en- 
 dured it for two months, Avhen he was accidentally 
 introduced to Dr. Anderson, author of "Lives of the 
 British Poets." This gentleman, on seeing an Elegy 
 written during his melancholy in Mull, predicted Camp- 
 bell's success as a poet, and immediately became his 
 patron, introducing him to Mundell the publisher, who 
 offered him 20 for an abridged edition of Bryan 
 Edwards' "West Indies." With this engagement he- 
 returned to Glasgow. Here Miss Stirling of Courdale 
 induced him to compose various lyrics to favourite airs, 
 one of which, "The Wounded Hussar," became univer- 
 sally popular, and was sung even in the streets of Glas 
 gow, though this last circumstance seems to have been 
 more annoying than gratifying to Campbell himself. 
 On completing his abridgment, he returned to Edin- 
 burgh, and was engaged in other hackwork for t he- 
 booksellers, when an invitation from certain of his 
 brothers to join them in Virginia took him back to Glas- 
 gow. This invitation, however, was withdrawn before 
 it could be acted on, and so he returned to Edinburgh.
 
 LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. ix 
 
 where private tuition became his chief dependence for 
 support. "Gertrude of "Wyoming" is a monument of 
 the affectionate interest with which he at one time re- 
 garded America as his probable home. 
 
 Campbell now worked hard at " The Pleasures of 
 Hope " in a dusky lodging in Rose Street, lauding that 
 noble and most necessary passion all the more fervently, 
 because despondency sometimes quenched it in himself. 
 Somerville, the landscape-painter, then a young man 
 like Campbell, and whose lodging adjoined -tlio poet's, 
 has borne explicit testimony to Campbell's dark hours, 
 even when "The Pleasures of Hope" were passing 
 through the press. One of his gloomy outbursts is a.s 
 follows: "Supposing they should all find out one day. as 
 I did this morning, that the thing is neither more nor 
 less than tra&h, would not the author's predicament be 
 tenfold worse than if he had never written a line? I 
 assure you that to-day I coula not endure to look at my 
 own work. 'Twas an absolute punishment, and there 
 are days, Somerville, when I can't abide to walk in the 
 sunshine, and when I would almost rather be .shot, than 
 come within the sight of any man, or be spoken to by any 
 mortal! This has been one of these days. How heartily 
 I wished for night!" 
 
 On the 27th April, 1799, just three years after the death 
 of Burns, the publication of the "New Poem 1 ' was 
 announced, and its success was immediate and complete. 
 In his own reminiscences Campbell says, "The Pleasures 
 of Hope" appeared exactly when I was 21 year; and 9 
 months old. It gave me a general acquaintance in Edin- 
 burgh. Dr. Gregory, Henry Mackenzie, the author of 
 the ' Man of Feeling, ' Dugald Stewart, the Rev. Archi- 
 bald Alison, the 'Man of Taste, 'and Thomas Telford the 
 engineer, became my immediate patrons." The mature 
 strength and beauty of Campbell's chief poem, as the 
 prorViction of a youth, will ever be remarkable; but it
 
 x LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 needs not that consideration to enhance its merits. The 
 Trench Revolution, the partition of Poland, and the 
 abolition of negro slavery, were then the reigning topics 
 of the day, and the enthusiasm with which the poem was 
 received, arose no doubt in part from the noble expres- 
 sion which it gave to public feeling .on these matters. 
 But the true humanity of the sentiments pervading it was 
 then, and ever will be, its'most potent charm. As long 
 as men remain imperfect, and heavy-laden, yet struggling 
 and hopeful creatures, their hearts will be won by a 
 poem, which is distinguished by the frank acknowledg- 
 ment of human ills, and the bold utterance of eternal 
 Hope. The short lyric "Gilderoy" was composed dur- 
 ing the autumn of the same year. 
 
 The copyright of the "Pleasures of Hope "had been 
 sold for GO, and the author was presented with another 
 50 in consideration of a second edition of 2,000 copies. 
 With these moderate means, Campbell gratified a desire, 
 which he had long entertained, of visiting the Continent, 
 and, in June, 1800, he set sail from Leith for Hamburgh. 
 His fame had preceded him, and he received a poet's 
 welcome from the English residents in Hamburgh. His 
 movements were hampered, however, by the disturbed 
 state of Germany; and, until he fixed himself in Altona 
 for the winter, his head-quarters were at Rt?tisbon, in 
 Bavaria, where was a Scotch monastery for the education 
 of young Scotsmen as priests, for their native country. 
 Here he was witness of a battle which gave the French 
 possession of Ratisbon, and the deep impression which 
 the terrible scene made upon his mind explains the awful 
 solemnity of his "Hohenlinden." He himself says of it, 
 " This formed the most important epoch of my life, in 
 point of impressions. ... At times, when I have been 
 fevered and ill, I have awaked from nightmare dreams 
 about these dreadful images." 
 
 The following pieces were either composed at Ratisbon
 
 LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. xi 
 
 and Altona, or at least sent thence to England for pub- 
 lication. The "Exile of Erin," which was suggested by 
 meeting Anthony M'Cann, one of the Irish exiles of 1798, 
 walking lonely and pensive one evening on the banks of 
 the Elbe. "The Beech-Tree's Petition," which refers to 
 a noble beech-tree in the garden of Ardwell, that was to 
 have been cut down at the gardener's request. Certain 
 ladies who greatly admired the tree, applied to Camp- 
 bell's sister, Mary, with whom they were acquainted, and 
 at her request, Campbell wrote the "Petition," which 
 would, no doubt, have had the merit of saving the tree, 
 had not the intercession of the ladies themselves already 
 prevailed. The " Ode to Winter," the concluding lines 
 of which allude to the scenes of bloodshed then going 
 on, and one of which he had witnessed at Ratisbon. 
 "Ye Mariners of England," the subject of which was 
 first suggested by hearing the air played in Edinburgh. 
 Campbell entitled it, "Alteration of the old Ballad of 
 'Ye Gentlemen of England,' composed on the -prospect 
 of a Russian war," and the fortification at that time of 
 every assailable point along the straits of Dover with 
 Martello towers, is alluded to in the line, 
 " No towers along the steep." 
 
 "Lines on the Grave of a Suicide," which were written 
 on seeing the unclaimed corpse exposed on the banks of 
 a river. 
 
 In March, 1801, when hostilities broke out between 
 Britain and Denmark, Altona was no longer a safe res- 
 idence for Campbell. He, like many others, took 
 timely warning, and embarked for Leith before the 
 British squadron sailed for the Sound. The vessel, 
 however, was chased by a Danish privateer, and forced 
 to take refuge in Yarmouth, where Campbell took the 
 mail for London. Here the news of his father's death 
 reached him, and he hastened to Edinburgh to console 
 his widowed mother. He found her seriously alarmed
 
 xit LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 by rumours of high treason that were current against 
 him, and he immediately repaired to the Sheriff for the 
 purpose of clearing himself, in which he succeeded 
 without much difficulty. A box, full of Campbell's 
 papers which he had ordered to be forwarded from Yar- 
 mouth to Edinburgh, was seized at Leith, on the suppo- 
 sition of its containing proofs of his treason. Its con- 
 tents were examined by Campbell and the Sheriff over 
 a bottle of wine ; and among them was found a copy of 
 "Ye Mariners of England!" 
 
 From this time forth Campbell was truly Elijah's 
 raven to his mother and sisters. His earnings were the 
 reward of literary task-work, so that they were neither 
 large nor easily won ; but such as they were, he shared 
 them with his family. His circle of friends was now as 
 wide as he chose to make it. Roscoe and Dr. Currie in- 
 duced him to visit Liverpool twice in these years", and 
 whenever he went to London, he was noticed with dis- 
 tinction, both by literati and men of rank. There, in 
 1802, lie completed " Hohenlinden " and "Lochicl's 
 Warning." The history of the oft-quoted line in the 
 
 latter, 
 
 "And coming events cast their shadows before,"' 
 
 is exceedingly interesting. In the summer of 1801, 
 having already composed part of " Lochiel's Warning," 
 he one evening went early to bed at Minto, and, medi- 
 tating on the subject, fell sound asleep. During the 
 night he suddenly awoke, repeating "Events to ojine 
 cast their shadows before ;" and, recognising this as the 
 very thought for which- he had been hunting a whole 
 week, rang the bell till a servant came, from whom 
 he requested a candle and a cup of tea. Over this cup 
 of tea, at two A.M., at Minto, he completed the iirst 
 sketch of ''Lochiel's Warning," changing the words 
 "Events to come " into "And coming events," as they 
 now stand.
 
 LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. ::iii 
 
 Notwithstanding his attachment to Edinburgh. Camp- 
 bell waa gradually gravitating towards the great centre 
 of London; and all the more so, as an attachment sprang 
 up between him and a cousin of his own, Matilda Sin- 
 clair, whose father had been a wealthy merchant in 
 Greenock, and Provost of that town; but, through com- 
 mercial reverses, had been led to transfer his counting- 
 house to Trinity Square, in the city of London. She 
 was "a beautiful, lively, and lady-like woman;'' and 
 the father's only objection to the poet's suit was the in- 
 adequacy, and, above all, the uncertainty of his means. 
 At length, however, he yielded, and on the 10th Septem- 
 ber, 1803, the marriage was celebrated in St. Margaret's 
 Church, Westminster. 
 
 Neither was disappointed in the other; and, Camp- 
 bell's reputation being now fairly established, numerous 
 oilers of handsomely remunerated literary work promised 
 external security to their conjugal happiness. Their first 
 home was in apartments in Pimlico; but, within a year 
 after his marriage, Campbell removed to a cottage on 
 Sydenham Common, where he passed seventeen years 
 the most laborious, and the most harassed, though, for 
 all that, the happiest of his life. 
 
 In this suburban retreat were elaborated, in 104, 
 < Lord Ullin's Daughter," "The Soldier's Dream," and 
 ''The Turkish Lady," which had all been sketched long- 
 before, among the scenes to which they refer; the first in 
 the Island of Mull, and the two others at Ratisbon. A 
 little later was produced "The Battle of the Baltic,'" to 
 which his attention had been particularly called by its 
 following so closely upon his own departure from Altona. 
 
 In 1805, his Majesty, under Fox's administration, be- 
 stowed an annual pension of 200 upon Campbell, which, 
 however, diminished by office-fees, duties, etc., never 
 amounted to more than 168, the greater part of which 
 he generously divided between his mother and sisters.
 
 xiv LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 In 1807, Campbell published " Annals of Great Britain, 
 from the Accession of George III. to the Peace of Amiens, " 
 and in 1809, "Gertrude of Wyoming." It not only sup- 
 ported his reputation in Britain, but procured for him a 
 whole nation of enthusiastic admirers in America. Some 
 years afterwards, Campbell met with a son of ; 'the 
 monster Brandt" in England, and became so well con- 
 vinced that the Mohawk chief, so named, instead of 
 being a "monster," was one of nature's noblemen, that 
 he publicly retracted the infamous epithet, and, in allow- 
 ing the name to remain for the sake of the rhyme, declared 
 the character to be a pure fiction. Towards the close of this 
 same year, he finished the exquisite story of "O'Connor's 
 Child," which was suggested by seeing, in his own garden 
 at Sydenharn, the flower called "Love-lies-bleeding." 
 
 In 1812, Campbell appeared for the first time before 
 the Royal Institution in London as a lecturer on poetry, 
 adding thereby to both his reputation and his means. In 
 1815, on the death of his Highland cousin, MacArthur 
 Stewart of Ascog, he inherited a legacy of nearly 5000, 
 which, together with his pension, might have formed an 
 ample foundation for that independence and leisure which 
 he coveted so much, had he been either as close-fisted as 
 Scotsmen are generally reputed to be, or gifted with 
 ordinary prudence in pecuniary matters. What he had 
 he spent generously, and never thought of providing for 
 an exigency till it actually arrived. 
 
 Already, in 1814, Campbell had sought change of scene 
 in Paris, where he spent two months, being attracted to 
 that city in particular, by the desire of surveying the 
 theatre of so many great cotemporaneous events. In 
 1820, he undertook a more extensile tour on the Con- 
 tinent, accompanied by his wife. He ascended the Rhine, 
 and went as far as Vienna, dwelling with peculiar satis- 
 faction on the scenes which had been endeared to him by 
 his residence at Ratisbon, twenty years before.
 
 LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. xv 
 
 On returning to London, he entered on the editorship 
 of the New Monthly Magazine, with a salary of 600 a-year. 
 He held it for ten years, giving it up in 1830, because, 
 according to himself, "it was utterly impossible to con- 
 tinue editor without interminable scrapes, together with 
 a lawsuit now and then !" To the period of this editor- 
 ship belong the highest honours and severest afflictions 
 of Campbell's life. In 1821, his son Thomas, the first- 
 born of his children, and the only one who survived 
 childhood, fell a victim to a mild and intermittent form 
 of mental derangement, which necessitated his transfer- 
 ence to an asylum, and defied all human skill; and in 
 1828 death took away from him his wife. 
 
 How solemn to him was the bereavement may be 
 iudged from these lines, written to a friend within a week 
 after: "I am alone, and I feel that I shall need to be 
 some time alone prostrated in heart before that Great 
 Being, who can alone forgive my errors ; and in address- 
 ing whom alone I can frame resolutions in my heart, to 
 make my remaining life as pure as nature's infirmities 
 may permit a soul to be, that believes in His existence, 
 and goodness, and mercy." These were his severest 
 afflictions ; and what he reckoned the crowning honour 
 of his life, was his election as Lord Rector of Glasgow 
 University, in 1826, and the two following years. It was, 
 indeed, a proud position for one to occupy, who, little 
 more than thirty years before, had left its halls with the 
 reputation, indeed, of a College poet, but unable to ob- 
 tain any more congenial or better remunerated employ- 
 ment than that of a Highland tutorship, and who had 
 been indebted for his rise only to native genius and un- 
 tiring industry. To these years, also, belong Campbell's 
 greatest activity as a public-spirited citizen. He took 
 the liveliest interest in the establishment of London 
 University; and in 1825 went to Berlin expressly to ex- 
 amine the University buildings and system there, if haply
 
 xvi LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 he might bring back some useful suggestions. His gen- 
 erous sympathy with the Poles, too, must not be passed 
 over. In his great poem, at a time when lie hardly hoped 
 for himself, much less that he should one day be able to 
 succour the exiles, it had burst out in the memorable line, 
 
 "And Freedom shriek'd as Kosciusko fell:" 
 
 and now he devoted his eloquence, his interest, and his 
 money to the relief of the Polish patriots who were 
 stranded on the British shore. Greece also found him au 
 enthusiastic Philhellen. 
 
 It was not easy for Campbell to make up, by rnisrd- 
 laneous literary labour, for the loss of the annual .i'UOO 
 attached to the editorship of the New Monthly. In 1831, 
 he became editor of the Metropolitan Magazine, but soon 
 relinquished it. Later still, he published "Letters from 
 the South," recounting his travels in France and Algeria, 
 in the winter of 1834-5. But amidst all this labour his 
 health declined; and as his health declined so his longing 
 augmented for a quiet independence. In 1841 he went 
 to Wiesbaden, for the sake of the waters; and in 1842, 
 he made a hurried trip to Dinan, to see if living were 
 really as cheap there as report represented. At length, 
 however, in 1843, he settled in Boulogne, with a niece 
 whom he had brought up, and to whom he bequeathed 
 his all, for his only companion; and there he died on the 
 15th June of the following year, aged sixty-seven. His 
 remains were brought to London, and on the 3rd July 
 interred in Poet's Corner, Westminster Abbey, do -c !>y 
 the tomb of Addison. The most touching incident in 
 these last sad rites was the throwing of some earth from 
 Kosciusko's grave at Cracow, by the Polish Colonel 
 Szyrma, upon Campbell's bier. It was a tribute to the 
 eternal charm of Campbell's character and poetry, viz., 
 that lie had a heart to feel another's woe, and a tongue 
 to denounce another's wronjr.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE: 
 
 PLEASURES OF HOPE. Part I., 1 
 
 PLEASURES OF HOPE. Part II., . . . . . . 20 
 
 THEODORIC: a Domestic Tale, '& 
 
 Martial Elegy: from the Greek of Tyrtaeus, . . 51 
 
 Song of Hybrias the Cretan, . 52 
 
 Fragment: from the Greek of Alcman, . . . 5:?. 
 
 Specimens of Translations from Medea, . . . 53 
 
 Speech of the Chorus, in the same Tragedy, . . . 54 
 O'Connor's Child; or, " The Flower of Love lies Bleeding," . r >9 
 
 Locbiel's Warning, (57 
 
 Ye Mariners of England: a Naval Ode, .... 70 
 
 Battle of the Baltic, 72 
 
 Epigram, on three Young Ladies, his Pupils, . . . 79 
 On sending Reinforcements to the English Armies in Spain, 79 
 The Cruel Sempstress; or, a right piteous and heroic Trag- 
 edy, in the manner of Mister William Shakspeare. A 
 
 Fragment, SO 
 
 The Battle-Morn: a Troubadour Song for Waterloo, . . 81 
 
 Charade, 1829, 82 
 
 Fragment from the " Rhenish Baron." An unfinished Poem, 82 
 
 Lord Ullin's Daughter, 84 
 
 Ode to the Memory of Burns, 86 
 
 Love and Madness: an Elegy, 89 
 
 To the Rainbow, 92 
 
 The Last Man, 93 
 
 A Dream, 96 
 
 Valedictory Stanzas to J. P. Kemble, Esq., ... 98 
 
 GERTRUDE OP WYOMING. Part I., 102 
 
 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. Part II., 112 
 
 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. Part III., 120 
 
 Lines written at the request of the Highland Society in Lon- 
 don, when met to commemorate the 21st of March, the 
 
 Day of Victory in Egypt, 133 
 
 Stanzas to the Memory of the Spanish Patriots latest killed 
 
 in Resisting the Regency and the Duke of AngouK-me, 134 
 
 Song of the Greeks, . 136 
 
 Ode to Winter, 138 
 
 Lines spoken by Mrs. Bartley at the Drury-Lane Theatre, 
 on the first opening of the House after the Death of the 
 
 Princess Charlotte, 1817, 140 
 
 Lines on the Grave of a Suicide, 141 
 
 1,'fiilhira, 142 
 
 The Turkish Lady, 148
 
 xviii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Brave Roland, 149 
 
 The Spectre Boat: a Ballad, 151 
 
 The Lover to his Mistress on her Birth-day, .... 152 
 
 Song: "O, how Hard," . 153 
 
 Adelgitha, 153 
 
 Lines on receiving a Seal with the Campbell Crest, from K. 
 
 M , before her Marriage, 154 
 
 Gilderoy, 156 
 
 Stanzas on the threatened Invasion, 1803, .... 157 
 
 The Ritter Bann, . 158 
 
 Song: " Men of England." . 164 
 
 Song: " Drink ye to her/' 165 
 
 The Harper, 165 
 
 The Wounded Hussar, 166 
 
 Lines written on Visiting a Scene in Argyleshire, . . 168 
 
 The Soldier's Dream, 169 
 
 Hallowed Ground, 170 
 
 bong: "Withdraw not yet," 173 
 
 Caroline. Part I.. 174 
 
 Caroline. Part II. To the Evening Star, . . . .176 
 
 The Beach-tree's Petition, 178 
 
 Field-flowers, 179 
 
 Song: " To the Evening Star," 180 
 
 Stanzas to Painting, 180 
 
 The Maid's Remonstrance, 182 
 
 Absence, 183 
 
 Lines inscribed on the Monument erected by the Widow of 
 Admiral Sir G. Campbell, K. C. B., to the Memory of 
 
 her Husband, 184 
 
 Stanzas on the Battle of Navarino, . . . . . 185 
 Lines on Revisiting a Scottish Rivr, . 186 
 
 The "Name Unknown:" in Imitation of Klopstock, . . 188 
 
 Farewell to Love, 189 
 
 Lines on the Camp Hill, near Hastings, .... 190 
 
 Lines on Poland, 191 
 
 A Thought suggested by the New Year, .... 196 
 Song: "How Delicious is the Winning," .... 197 
 
 Margaret and Dora, 198 
 
 The Power of Russia, 198 
 
 Lines on Leaving a scene in Bavaria, 202 
 
 The Death-boat of Heligoland, 206 
 
 Song: "When Love came first to Earth," . . . .208 
 Song: " Earl March looked on his Dying Child," . . 209 
 
 Song: "When Napoleon was flying," 209 
 
 Lines to Julia M , sent with a copy of the Author's Poems, 210 
 
 Drinking-song of Munich, 211 
 
 Lines on the Departure of Emigrants for New South Wales, 211 
 
 Lines on Revisiting Cathcart, 215 
 
 The Cherubs: suggested by an Apologue in the Works of 
 Franklin, ... ... . . .216 
 
 Senex's Soliloquy on his Youthful Idol, .... 219 
 
 To Sir Francis Burdett, on his Speech delivered in Parlia- 
 ment, August 7, 1832, respecting the Foreign Policy of 
 Great Britain, 219
 
 CONTENTS. xix 
 
 PAGK 
 
 Ode to the Germans, 221 
 
 Lines on a Picture of a Girl in the attitude of Prayer, by the 
 Artist Gruse, in the possession of Lady Stepney, . . 222 
 
 Spanish Patriots' Song, . 22 
 
 To a Lady, on being presented with a Sprig of Alexandrian 
 
 Laurel, 225 
 
 To the Polish Countess R ski, 22(i 
 
 Francis Horner, 227 
 
 To Florine, 227 
 
 To an Infant, 22S 
 
 To , ' 22S 
 
 Forlorn Ditty on Red-Riding-Hood, 229 
 
 Joseph Marry at, M. P., 230 
 
 Song: " My Mind is my Kingdom," 230 
 
 Stanzas, 231 
 
 On accidentally possessing and returning Miss B 's Pic- 
 ture, 2?.l 
 
 Song: " I gave my Love a Chain of Gold," . . . . 2:>:J 
 To Mary feinclair, with a volume of his Poems, . . . 282 
 
 The Pilgrim of Glencoe, 234 
 
 Napoleon and the British Sailor, 24'J 
 
 Benlomond, 2;"il 
 
 The Child and Hind, 252- 
 
 The Jilted Nymph, 257 
 
 On getting Home the Portrait of a Female Child, . . . 258 
 
 The Parrot 259 
 
 Song of the Colonists departing for New Zealand, . . 260 
 
 Moonlight, 262 
 
 Song on our Queen, ; 263 
 
 Cora Linn, or the Falls of the Clyde, 26-1 
 
 Chaucer and Windsor, 265 
 
 Lines suggested by the Statue of Arnold von V.'iukelried, 26& 
 To the United States of North A mericn, . . . . 267 
 Lines on my New Child-sweetheart, . . . 267 
 
 The Launch of a First-rate, 268 
 
 To a Young Lady, iiG9 
 
 Epistle from Algiers to Horace Smith, 270 
 
 Fragment of an Oratorio, 272 
 
 To my Niece, Mary Campbell, 274 
 
 Queen of the North, 275 
 
 Hymn, 278 
 
 Chorus from the Clioephoroe, ...... 279 
 
 On a Rural Beauty in Mull, 281 
 
 On the Glasgow Yohinteirs, 282 
 
 Elegy: written in Mull, 283 
 
 Verses on the Queen of France, 284 
 
 Chorus from the Tragedy of Jephthes, 285 
 
 The Dirge of Wallace, 287 
 
 Epistle to Three Ladies, . 289 
 
 Death of my only. Son: from the Danish, .... 292 
 
 Laudohn's Attack, 293 
 
 To a Beautiful Jewish Girl of Altona 294 
 
 Farewell to my Sister, on leaving Edip burgh, . . . 29(> 
 Epitaphs, 29t
 
 ^xx CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The British Grenadiers, ........ 298 
 
 Trafalgar ........... 299 
 
 Lines written in Sickness, ....... 300 
 
 lanes on the State of Greece: occasioned by being pressed 
 
 to make it a Subject of Poetry, 1827, .... 300 
 iines on James IV. of Scotland, who fell at the Battle of 
 
 Flodden, .......... 301 
 
 'To Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore, three celebrated Scottish 
 
 Beauties, .......... 202 
 
 Song: " 'T is now the Hour," ....... 303 
 
 Lines to Edward Lytton'Bulwer, on the Birth of his Child, 304 
 Content, ........... 305 
 
 Lines on the View from St. Leonard's, .... 306 
 
 The Dead Eagle: written at Oran, ..... 310 
 
 ;8ong: "To Love in my Heart," ...... 313 
 
 Lines written in a Blank Leaf of La Perouse's Voyages, . 314 
 Impromptu, in compliment to the exquisite Singing of Mrs. 
 
 Allsop, ........ . 316 
 
 To the Countess Ameriga Vespucci, ..... 316 
 
 Translations from Petrarch, ...... .317 
 
 Extracts from the Mobiade, ...... - . 320 
 
 Mary's Return, ........ 
 
 Extempore Verses: from a Letter to Miss Mayow, . . 320 
 The Glories of a Summer Day: from a letter to Miss Mayow, 
 
 1808, . ...... 32T> 
 
 From Anacrepn: An Impromptu Translation, . . . 327 
 Lines, on telling her Faults to Miss F. W. Mayow, who had 
 
 accused him of not being able to read any writing but 
 
 his own, ....... . . . 328 
 
 Hohenlinden, ....... . 329 
 
 Glenara, . .......... 330 
 
 Exile of Erin, ......... 332 
 
 Switzerland. Written for a Motto to Switzerland Illustrated, 334 
 Ode, on the birth of Five Kittens in the House of her Bri- 
 
 tannic Majesty's Consul-General at Algiers, . . . 334 
 My Native Land, ......... 335 
 
 The Friars of Dijon, ........ 330 
 
 POEMS: 
 On the Seasons, ........ 344 
 
 On finishing Versions from the Classics, .... 344 
 
 On the Death of a Favorite Parrot, .... 34f> 
 
 From Anacreon, .......... 347 
 
 Summer, .......... 348 
 
 On Miss Mary Campbell, ....... 349 
 
 The Pons Asinorum: or, the Asses' Bridge, . . 350 
 The First of May, 1793, ....... 351 
 
 Essay on the Origin of Evil, . . . . . .356 
 
 Ode to Music, . . ....... 362
 
 PLEASURES OF HOPE,
 
 ANALYSIS OF PART 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 other 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 inter- 
 esting 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 intimately connected with views of future happi- 
 ness picture of a mother watching her infant when asleep 
 pictures of the prisoner, the maniac, and the wanderer. 
 
 From the consolations of individual misery a transition is 
 made to prospects of political improvement in the future state 
 of society the wide field that is yet open for the progress of 
 humanizing arts among uncivilized nations from these views 
 of amelioration of society, and the extension of liberty and truth 
 over despotic and barbarous countries, by a melancholy con- 
 trast 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 last contest of 
 the oppressors and the oppressed, and the massacre of the Polish 
 patriots at the bridge of Prague apostrophe to the self-inter- 
 ested 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, aud to take vengeance on the 
 violators of justice and mercy
 
 THE 
 
 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 AT summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow 
 Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, 
 Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, 
 Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky ? 
 Why do those clifts of shadowy tint appear 
 More sweet than all the landscape smiling near ? 
 7 T is 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-discovered 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 ? 
 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, 
 7 T is 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 bewildered way, 
 That calls each slumbering passion into play. 
 Waked by thy touch, I see the sister band, 
 On tiptoe watching, start at thy command,
 
 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 
 
 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 mourned 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, banished from the plain, 
 Sprung on the viewless winds to Heaven again j 
 All, all forsook the friendless, guilty mind, 
 But HOPE, the charmer, lingered still behind. 
 
 Thus, while Elijah's burning wheels prepare 
 From Carmel's heights to sweep the fields of air, 
 The prophet's mantle, ere Ids 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 th> handmaid spirits bring 
 What viewless forms th 7 JEolian organ play, 
 And sweep the furrowed lines of anxious thought 
 away. 
 
 Angel of life ! thy glittering wings explore 
 Earth's loneliest bounds, and Ocean's wildest shore ! 
 Lo ! to the wintry winds the pilot yields 
 His bark careering o'er unfathomed fields ; 
 Now on Atlantic waves he rides afar, 
 Where Andes, giant of the westeni star, 
 With meteor-standard to the winds unfurled, 
 Looks from his throne of clouds o'er half the 
 world ! 
 
 Now ' far he sweeps, where scarce a summer 
 
 smiles, 
 
 On Bearing's rocks, or Greenland's naked isles : 
 Cold on his midnight watch the breezes blo\v, 
 From wastes that slumber in eternal snow :
 
 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 5 
 
 And waft, across the waves' tumultuous roar, 
 The wolfs long howl from Oonalaska's shore. 
 
 Poor child of danger, nursling of the stonn. 
 Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form ! 
 Rocks, waves, and winds, the shattered Kirk 
 
 delay j 
 Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away. 
 
 But HOPE can here her moonlight vigils keep. 
 And sing to charm the spirit of the deep : 
 Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole, 
 Her visions warm the watchman's pensive soul : 
 His native hills that rise in happier climes, 
 The grot that heard his song of other times. 
 His cottage home, his bark of slender sail, 
 His glassy lake, and broomwood-blossomed vale, 
 Rush on his thought ; he sweeps before the wind. 
 Treads the loved shore he sighed to leave behind. ; 
 Meets at each step a friend's familiar face. 
 And flies at, last to Helen's long embrace , 
 Wipes from her cheek the rapture-speaking tear ! 
 And clasps, with many a sigh, his children dear ! 
 While, long neglected, but at length caressed, 
 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-covered fields, 
 When front to front the bannered hosts combine, 
 Halt ere they close, and form the dreadful line. 
 When all is still on Death's devoted soil, 
 The march-worn soldier mingles for the toil ! 
 As rings his glittering tube, he lifts on high 
 The dauntless brow and spirit-speaking eye, 
 Hails in his heart the triumph yet to come, 
 And hears thy stormy music in the drum ! 
 
 And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore 
 The hardy Byron to his native shore
 
 6 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 
 
 In horrid climes, where Chiloe's tempests sweep 
 Tumultuous murmurs o'er the troubled deep, 
 'T was his to mourn Misfortune's rudest shock, 
 Scourged by the winds, and cradled on the rock, 
 To wake each joyless morn and search again 
 The famished haunts of solitary men ; 
 Whose race, unyielding as their native storm, 
 Know not a trace of Nature but the form 
 Yet at thy call, the hardy tar pursued, 
 Pale, but intrepid, sad, but unsubdued, 
 Pierced the deep woods, and hailing from afar 
 The moon's pale planet and the northern star, 
 Paused at each dreary cry, unheard before, 
 Hyaenas in the wild, and mermaids on the shore ; 
 Till, led by thee o'er many a cliff sublime, 
 He found a warmer world, a milder clime, 
 A home to rest, a shelter to defend, 
 Peace and repose, a Briton and a friend ! 
 
 Congenial HOPE ! thy passion-kindling power, 
 How bright, how strong, in youth's untroubled 
 
 hour! 
 
 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 pro- 
 claim) 
 
 'T is thine to search the boundless fields of fame ! 
 Lo ! Newton, priest of Natm-e, shines afar, 
 Scans the wide world, and numbers every star ! 
 Wilt thou, with him, mysterious rites apply, 
 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 1 . 
 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
 
 PLEASUKES OF HOPE. 7 
 
 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 f 
 
 " Turn, child of Heaven, thy rapture-lightened 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-stained form his earthly name 
 Then weave in rapid verse the deeds they tell, 
 And read the trembling world the tales of hell. 
 
 " When Venus, throned in clouds of rosy hue, 
 Flings from her golden urn the vesper dew, 
 And bids fond man her glimmering noon employ, 
 Sacred to love, and walks of tender joy ; 
 A milder mood the goddess shall recall, 
 And soft as dew thy tones of music fall ; 
 While Beauty's deeply -pictured smiles impart 
 A pang more dear than pleasure to the heart 
 Warm as thy sighs shall flow the Lesbian strain, 
 And plead in Beauty's ear, nor plead in vain.
 
 PLEASURES OF HOPE. , 
 
 " Or wilt thou Orphean hymns more sacred deem. 
 And steep thy song in Mercy's mellow stream ; 
 To pensive drops the radiant eye beguile 
 For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile ; 
 On Nature's throbbing anguish pour relief, 
 And teach impassioned souls the joy of grief ? 
 
 " Yes ; to thy 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 bm 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, 
 Charmed into soul, receives a second birth, 
 Feels thy dread power another heart afford, 
 Whose passion-touched harmonious strings accord 
 True as the circling spheres to Nature's plan ; 
 And man, the brother, lives the friend of man. 
 
 "Bright as the pillar rose at' Heaven's command, 
 When Israel marched along the desert land, 
 Blazed through the night on lonely wilds afar, 
 And told the path a never-setting star : 
 So, heavenly genius, in thy course divine, 
 HOPE is thy star, her light is ever thine." 
 
 Propitious Power ! when rankling cares annoy 
 The sacred home of Hymenean joy ; 
 When doomed to Poverty's sequestered dell, 
 The wedded pair of love and virtue dwell, 
 Unpitied by the world, unknown to fame, 
 Their woes, their wishes, and their hearts the same 
 Oh, there, prophetic HOPE ! thy smile bestow, 
 And chase the pangs that worth should never 
 
 know 
 
 There, as the parent deals his scanty store 
 To friendless babes, and weeps to give no more, 
 Tell, that his manly race shall yet assuage 
 Then* father's wrongs, and shield his latter age. 
 What though for him no Hybla sweets distil, 
 Nor bloomy vines wave purple on the hill ;
 
 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 9 
 
 Tell, that when silent years have passed away, 
 That when his eye grows dim, his tresses gray, 
 These busy hands a lovelier cot shall build, 
 And deck with faker flowers his little field, 
 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 lie*, 
 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 summoned from the world and 
 
 thee, 
 
 I lay my head beneath the willow tree, 
 Wilt tJwu, 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 T 
 
 So speaks affection, ere the infant eye 
 Can look regard, or brighten in reply ; 
 But when a cherub lip hath learnt to claim 
 A mother's ear by that endearing name ; 
 
 A*
 
 10 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 
 
 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 lisps with holy look his evening prayer, 
 Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear 
 The mournful ballad warbled in his ear ; 
 How fondly looks admiring HOPE the while, 
 At every artless tear, and every smile ; 
 How glows the joyous parent to descry 
 A guileless bosom, true to sympathy ! 
 
 Where is the troubled heart consigned to share 
 Tumultuous toils, or solitary care, 
 Unblest by visionary thoughts that stray 
 To count the joys of Fortune's better day ! 
 Lo, nature, life, and liberty relume 
 The dim-eyed tenant of, the dungeon gloom, 
 A long-lost friend, or hapless child restored, 
 Smiles at its blazing hearth and social board ; 
 Warm from his heart the tears of rapture flow, 
 And virtue triumphs o'er remembered 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, 
 Watched the rude surge his shroudless corse that 
 
 bore, 
 
 Knew the pale form, and, shrieking in amaze, 
 Clasped her cold hands, and fixed her maddening 
 
 gaze : 
 Poor widowed wretch ! 't was there she wept ia 
 
 vain, 
 
 Till Memory fled her agonizing 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.
 
 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 11 
 
 Oft when yon moon Las climbed the midnight sky, 
 And the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry, 
 Piled on the steep, her blazing fagots burn 
 To hail the bark that never can return ; 
 And still she waits, but scarce forbears to weep 
 That constant love can linger on the deep. 
 
 And, mark the wretch, whose wanderings never 
 
 knew 
 
 The world's regard, that soothes, though half un- 
 true j 
 
 Whose erring heart the lash of sorrow bore, 
 But found not pity when it erred no more. 
 You friendless man, at whose dejected eye 
 Th' unfeeling proud one looks and passes by, 
 Condemned on Penury's barren path to roam, 
 Scorned by the world, and left without a home 
 Even he, at evening, should he chance to stray 
 Down by the hamlet's hawthorn-scented way, 
 Where, round the cot's romantic glade, are seen 
 The blossomed bean-field, and the sloping green, 
 Leans o'er its humble gate, and thinks the while 
 Oh ! that for me some home like this would smile, 
 Some hamlet shade, to yield my sickly form 
 Health in the breeze, and shelter in the storm ! 
 There should my hand no stinted boon assign 
 To wretched hearts with sorrow such as mine ! 
 That generous wish can soothe unpitied care, 
 And HOPE half mingles with the poor man's 
 prayer. 
 
 HOPE ! when I mourn, with sympathizing mind, 
 The wrongs of fate, the woes of human kind, 
 Thy blissful omens bid my spirit see 
 The boundless fields of rapture yet to be ; 
 I watch the wheels of Nature's mazy plan, 
 And learn the future by the past of man. 
 
 Come, bright Improvement ! on the car of Time, 
 And rule the spacious world from clime to clime ; 
 Thy handmaid arts shall every wild explore, 
 Trace every wave, and culture every shore.
 
 12 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 
 
 On Erie's banks, where tigers steal along, 
 And the dread Indian chants a dismal song, 
 Where human fiends on midnight errands Avalk, 
 And bathe in brains the murderous tomahawk, 
 There shall the flocks on thymy pasture stray, 
 And shepherds dance at Summer's opening day ; 
 Each wandering genius of the lonely glen 
 Shall start to view the glittering haunts of men, 
 And silent watch, on woodland heights around, 
 The village curfew as it tolls profound. 
 
 In Libyan groves, where damned rites are 
 
 done, 
 
 That bathe the rocks in blood, and veil the sun, 
 Truth shall arrest the murderous arm profane, 
 Wild Obi flies the veil is rent in twain. 
 
 Where barbarous hordes on Scythian mountains 
 
 roam, 
 
 Truth, Mercy, Freedom, yet shall find a home ; 
 Where'er degraded Nature bleeds and pines, 
 From Guinea's coast to Sibir's dreary mines, 
 Truth shall pervade th' unfathomed darkness there, 
 And light the dreadful features of despair. . 
 Hark ! the stern captive spurns his heavy load, 
 And asks the image back that Heaven bestowed ! 
 Fierce in his eye the fire of valor burns, 
 And, as the slave departs, the man returns. 
 
 Oh ! sacred Truth ! thy triumph ceased awhile, 
 And HOPE, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, 
 When leagued Oppression poured to Northern 
 
 wars 
 
 Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce hussars, 
 Waved her dread standard to the breeze of rnorn, 
 Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet 
 
 horn; 
 
 Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, 
 Presaging wrath to Poland and to man ! 
 
 Warsaw's last champion from her height sur- 
 veyed, 
 Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,
 
 PLEASURES OF HOPE\ 13 
 
 Oh ! 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 arrayed 
 His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed ; 
 Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, 
 Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm ; 
 Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, 
 Revenge, or death, the watchword and reply ; 
 Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, 
 And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm ! 
 
 In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few ! 
 From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew : 
 Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Tune, 
 Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime ; 
 Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, 
 Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe ! 
 Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered 
 
 spear, 
 
 Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high ca- 
 reer ; 
 
 HOPE, for a season, bade the world farewell, 
 And Freedom shrieked as KOSCIUSKO fell ! 
 The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage 
 
 there, 
 
 Tumultuous Murder shook the midnight air 
 On 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 flashed along the sky, 
 And conscious Nature shuddered at the cry !
 
 14 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 
 
 Oh ! righteous Heaven ; ere Freedom found a 
 
 grave, 
 
 Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save ? 
 Where was thine arm, Vengeance ! where thy 
 
 rod, 
 
 That smote the foes of Zion and of God ; 
 That crushed proud Ammon, when his iron car 
 Was yoked in wrath, and thundered from afar ? 
 "Where was the storm that slumbered till the host 
 Of blood-stained Pharaoh left their trembling coast ; 
 Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, 
 And heaved an ocean on their march below ? 
 
 Departed spirits of the mighty dead ! 
 Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled ! 
 Friends of the world ! restore your swords to nan, 
 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 or BAinfocK- 
 BURN! 
 
 Yes ! thy proud lords, unpitied land ! shall riee 
 That man hath yet a soul and dare be free ! 
 A little while, along thy saddening plains, 
 The starless night of Desolation reigns ; 
 Truth shall restore the light by Nature given, 
 And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven ! 
 Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurled, 
 Her name, her nature, withered from the world ! 
 
 Ye that the rising morn invidious mark, 
 And hate the light because your deeds are dark 
 Ye that expanding truth invidious view, 
 And think, or wish, the song of HOPE untrue ; 
 Perhaps your little hands presume to span 
 The march of Genius and the powers of man ; 
 Perhaps ye watch, at Pride's unhallowed shrine, 
 Her victims, newly slain, and thus divine : 
 " Here shall thy triumph, Genius, cease, and here 
 Truth, Science, Virtue, close your short career."
 
 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 15 
 
 Tyrants ! in vain ye trace the wizard ring ; 
 In vain ye limit Mind's unwearied spring : 
 What ! can ye lull the winged winds asleep, 
 Arrest the rolling world, or chain the deep '/ 
 No ! the wild wave contemns your sceptred hand : 
 It rolled not back when Canute gave command ! 
 
 Man ! can thy doom no brighter soul allow ? 
 Still must thou live a blot on Nature's brow .' 
 Shall war's polluted banner ne'er be failed ? 
 Shall crimes and tyrants cease but with the world -. 
 What ! are thou triumphs, sacred Truth, belied f 
 Why then hath Plato lived or Sidney died ? 
 
 Ye fond adorers of departed fame, 
 Who warm at Scipio's worth, or Tully's name ! 
 Ye that, in fancied vision, can admire 
 The sword of Brutus, and the Theban lyre ! 
 Rapt in historic ardor, who adore 
 Each classic haunt, and well remembered shore, 
 Where Valor tuned, amidst her chosen throng, 
 The Thracian trumpet, and the Spartan song ; 
 Or, wandering thence, behold the later charms 
 Of England's glory, and Helvetia's arms ! 
 See Roman fire in Hampden's bo^om swell, 
 And fate and freedom in the shaft of Tell ! 
 Say, ye fond zealots to the worth of yore, 
 Hath Valor 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, Avhen 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 "? 
 
 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,
 
 1C PLEASURES OF HOPE. 
 
 Ordained to fire th' adoring- sons of earth, 
 With every charm of wisdom and of worth ; 
 Ordained to light, with intellectual day, 
 The mazy wheels of nature as they play, 
 Or, warm with Fancy's energy, to glow 
 And rival all but Shakspeare's name below. 
 
 And say, supernal Powers ! who deeply scan 
 Heaven's dark decrees, unfathomed yet by man, 
 "When shall the world call down, to cleanse her 
 
 shame, 
 
 That embryo spirit, yet without a name 
 That friend of Nature, whose avenging hands 
 Shall burst the Libyan's adamantine bands ? 
 Who, sternly marking on his native soil 
 The blood, the tears, the anguish, and the toil, 
 Shall bid each righteous heart exult, to see 
 Peace to the slave, and vengeance on the free ! 
 
 Yet, yet, degraded men ! th' expected day 
 That breaks your bitter cup, is far away ; 
 Trade, wealth, and fashion, ask you still to bleed, 
 And holy men give Scripture for the deed ; 
 Scourged, and debased, no Briton stoops to save 
 A wretch, a coward ; yes, because a slave ! 
 
 Eternal Nature ! when thy giant hand 
 Had heaved the floods, and fixed the trembling land, 
 When life sprang startling at thy plastic call, 
 Endless her forms, and man the lord of all ! 
 Say, was that lordly form inspired by thee, 
 To wear eternal chains and bow the knee ? 
 Was man ordained the slave of man to toil, 
 Yoked with the brutes, and fettered to the soil ; 
 Weighed in a tyrant's balance with his gold? 
 No ! Nature stamped us in a heavenly mould ! 
 She bade no wretch his thankless labor urge, 
 Nor, trembling, take the pittance and the scourge ! 
 No homeless Libyan, on the stormy deep, 
 To call upon his country's name, and weep ! 
 
 Lo ! once in triumph, on his boundless plain, 
 The quivered chief of Congo loved to reign ;
 
 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 17 
 
 With fires proportioned to his native sky. 
 Strength in his arm, and lightning in his eye ; 
 Scoured with wild feet his sun-illumined /one, 
 The spear, the lion, and the woods, his own ! 
 Or led the combat, bold without a plan, 
 An artless savage, but a fearless man ! 
 
 The plunderer came ! alas ! no glory smiles 
 For Congo's chief, on yonder Indian Isles ; 
 Forever fallen ! no son of Nature now, 
 With Freedom chartered on his manly brow ! 
 Faint, bleeding, bound, he weeps the night away, 
 And when the sea-wind wafts the dewless day. 
 Starts, with a bursting heart, for evermore 
 To curse the sun that lights their guilty si i ore ! 
 
 The shrill horn blew ; at that alarum knell 
 His guardian angel took a last farewell ! 
 That funeral dirge to darkness hath resigned 
 The fiery grandeur of a generous mind ! 
 Poor fettered man ! I hear thee whispering low 
 Unhallowed vows to Guilt, the child of AVoe, 
 Friendless thy heart ; and canst thou harbor there 
 A wish but death a passion but despair ? 
 
 The widowed Indian, when her lord expires, 
 Mounts the dread pile, and braves the funeral tires. 
 So falls the heart at Thraldom's bitter sigh ! 
 So Virtue dies, the spouse of Liberty ! 
 
 But not to Libya's barren climes alone, 
 To Chili, or the wild Siberian zone, 
 Belong the wretched heart and haggard eye, 
 Degraded worth, and poor misfortune's sigh ! 
 Ye orient realms, where Ganges' waters run ! 
 Prolific fields ! dominions of the sun ! 
 How long your tribes have trembled and obeyed ! 
 How long was Timour's iron sceptre swayed. 
 Whose marshalled hosts, the lions of the plain, 
 From Scythia's northern mountains to the main, 
 Raged o'er your plundered shrines and altars 
 
 bare, 
 With blazing torch and gory scymetar,
 
 13 PLEASUKES OF HOPE. 
 
 Stunned 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 perished for his name ; 
 The martyrsm led beneath avenging power, 
 And braved the tyrant in his torturing hour ! 
 
 When Europe sought your subject realms to gain 
 And stretched her giant sceptre o'er the main, 
 Taught her proud barks the winding way to shape, 
 And braved the stormy Spirit of the Cape ; 
 Children of Brama ! then was Mercy nigh 
 To wash the stain of blood's eternal dye ? 
 Did Peace descend, to triumph and to save, 
 When freeborn Britons crossed the Indian wave ? 
 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 then- own, 
 Degenerate trade ! thy minions could despise 
 The heart-born anguish of a thousand cries ; 
 Could lock, with impious hands, their teeming 
 
 store, 
 
 While famished nations died along the shore : 
 Could mock the groans of fellow-men, and bear 
 The curse of kingdoms peopled with despair ; 
 Could stamp disgrace on man's polluted name, 
 And barter, with then- gold, eternal shame ! 
 
 But hark ! as bowed to earth the Bramin kneels 
 From heavenly climes propitious thunder peals ! 
 Of India's fate her guardian spirits tell, 
 Prophetic murmurs breathing on the shell, 
 . And solemn sounds that awe the listening mind, 
 Roll on the azure paths of every wind. 
 
 " Foes of mankind ! (her guardian spirits say,) 
 Revolving ages bring the bitter day, 
 AVhen Heaven's unerring arm shall fall on you, 
 And blood for blood these Indian plains bedew ;
 
 PLEASURES OF HOPE. ID 
 
 Nine times have Brama's wheels of lightning hm-L.-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 times 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 nickering sword ; his bright arms 
 
 glow 
 
 Like summer suns and light the world below ! 
 Earth, and her trembling isles in Ocean's bed, 
 Are shook j and Nature rocks beneath his tread ! 
 
 "To pour redress on India's injured realm, 
 The oppressor to dethrone, the proud to whelm ; 
 To chase destruction from her plundered shore 
 "With arts and arms that triumphed once before, 
 The tenth Avatar comes ! at Heaven's command 
 Shall Seriswatte wave her hallowed wand ! 
 And Camdeo bright, and Ganesa sublime, 
 Shall bless with joy their own propitious clime ! 
 Come, Heavenly Powers ! primeval peace restore ! 
 Love ! Mercy ! Wisdom ! rule for evermore P
 
 ANALYSIS OF PART H. 
 
 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 ol Genesis, which repre- 
 sents the happiness of Paradise itself incomplete, till love was 
 superadded to its other blessings the dreams of future felicity 
 which a lively imagination is apt to cherish, when Hope is ani- 
 mated by refined attachment this disposition to combine, ia 
 one imaginary scene of residence, all that is pleasing in our 
 estimate of happine a, compared to the skill of the- great artist 
 who personified perfect beauty, in the picture of Venus, by an 
 assemblage of the most beautiful features he could find a 
 summer and winter evening described, as they may be supposed 
 to arise in the mind of one who wishes, with enthusiasm, i'or the 
 union of friendship and retirement. 
 
 Hope and Imagination inseparable agents even in those con- 
 templative 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 dis- 
 tinct prospect of the universe, instead of the partial glimpse we 
 now enjoy. 
 
 The last and most sublime influence of Hope is the concluding 
 topic of the poem the predominance of a belief in a future 
 state over the terrors attendant on dissolution the baneful in- 
 fluence of that sceptical philosophy which bars us from such 
 comforts allusion to the fate of a suicide episode of Conrad 
 and Ellenore conclusion.
 
 THE 
 
 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 IN joyous youth, what soul hath never known 
 Thought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own / 
 "Who hath not paused while Beauty's pensive eyo 
 Asked from his heart the homage of a sigh ? 
 Who hath not owned, with rapture-smitten frame, 
 The power of grace, the magic of a name ? 
 
 There be, perhaps, who barren hearts avow, 
 Cold as the rocks on Torneo's hoary brow ; 
 There be, whose loveless wisdom never failed, 
 In self-adoring pride securely mailed : 
 But, triumph not, ye peace-enamoured few ! 
 Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you ! 
 For you no fancy consecrates the scene 
 Where rapture uttered vows, and wept between, 
 'T is yours, unmoved, to sever and to meet ; 
 No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet ! 
 
 Who that would ask a heart to dulness wed, 
 The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead ? 
 No ; the wild bliss of Nature needs alley, 
 And fear and sorrow fan the foe of joy ! 
 And say, without our hopes, wi&out 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 charmed the silent air j ' 
 In vain the mid-bird carolled on the steep, 
 To hail the sun, slow wheeling from the deep j
 
 5 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 
 
 In vain, to soothe the solitary shade, 
 Aerial notes in mingling measure played ; 
 The summer -wind that shook the spangled treo r 
 The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee ; 
 Still slowly passed the melancholy day, 
 And still the stranger wist not where to stray. 
 The world was sad ! the garden was a wild ! 
 And man, the hermit, sighed till woman smiled ! 
 
 True, the sad power to generous hearts may 
 
 bring 
 
 Delirious anguish on his fiery wing ; 
 Barred from delight by Fate's untimely hand, 
 By wealthless lot, or pitiless command : 
 Or doomed to gaze on beauties that adorn 
 The smile of triumph or the frown of scorn ; 
 While Memory watches o'er the sad review 
 Of joys that faded like the morning dew ; 
 Peace may depart and life and nature seem 
 A barren path, a wildness, and a dream ! 
 
 But can the noble mind for ever brood, 
 The willing victim of a weary mood, 
 On heartless cares that squander life away, 
 And cloud young Genius brightening into day ? 
 Shame to the coward thought that e'er betrayed 
 The noon of manhood to a myrtle shade ! 
 If HOPE'S creative spirit cannot raise 
 One trophy sacred to thy future days, 
 Scorn the dull crowd that haunt the gloomy shrine, 
 Of hopeless love to murmur and repine ! 
 But, should a sigh of milder mood express 
 Thy heart-warm wishes, true to happiness, 
 Should Heaven's fair harbinger delight to pour 
 Her blissful visions on thy pensive hour, 
 No tear to blot thy memory's pictured page, 
 No fears but such as fancy can assuage ; 
 Though thy wild heart some hapless hour may miss 
 The peaceful tenor of unvaried bliss, 
 (For love pursues an ever-devious race, 
 True to the winding lineaments of grace : )
 
 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 23 
 
 Yet still may HOPE her talisman employ 
 To snatch from Heaven anticipated joy, 
 And all her kindred energies impart 
 That burn the brightest in the purest heart. 
 
 When first the Rhodian's mimic art arrayed 
 The queen of Beauty in her Cyprian shade, 
 The happy master mingled on his piece 
 Each look that charmed him in the fair of Greece. 
 To faultless Nature true, he stole a grace 
 From every finer form and sweeter face ; 
 And as he sojourned on the ^Egean isles, 
 Wooed all their love, and treasured all their smile.. 
 Then glowed the tints, pure, precious, and refined, 
 And mortal charms seemed heavenly when com- 
 bined ! 
 
 Love on the picture smiled ! Expression poured 
 Her mingling spirit there and Greece adored ! 
 
 So thy fair hand, enamoured 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 embosomed in Idalian bowers ! 
 Remote from busy Life's bewildered 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 splendor 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, 
 His path shall be where streamy mountains swell 
 Their shadowy grandeur o'er the narrow dell, 
 Where mouldering piles and forests intervene, 
 Singling with darker tints the living green ;
 
 -1 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 
 
 No circling hills his ravished eye to bound, 
 Heaven, Earth, and Ocean, blazing all around. 
 
 The moon is up the watch-tower dimly burns 
 And down the vale his sober step returns : 
 But pauses oft, as winding rocks convey 
 The still sweet fall of music far away ; 
 And oft he lingers from his home awhile 
 To watch the dying notes ! and start, and smilo ! 
 
 Let Winter come ! let polar spirits sweep 
 The darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep ! 
 Though boundless snows the withered heath do, 
 
 form, 
 
 And the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm, 
 Yet shall the smile of social love repay, 
 With mental light, the melancholy day ! 
 And, when its short and sullen noon is o'er, 
 The ice-chained waters slumbering on the shore, 
 How bright the fagots in his little hall 
 Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall I 
 
 How blest he names, in Love's familiar tone, 
 The kind fair friend, by nature marked his own ; 
 And, in the waveless mirror of his mind, 
 Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind, 
 Since when her empire o'er his heart began ! 
 Since first he called her his before the holy man J 
 
 Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome, 
 And light the wintry paradise of home ; 
 And let the half-uncurtained window hail 
 Some way-worn man benighted in the vale ! 
 Now, while the moaning night-wind rages high, 
 As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled sky, 
 While fiery hosts in Heaven's wide circle play, 
 And bathe in lurid light the milky- way, 
 Safe from the storm, the meteor, and the shower, 
 Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn hour- 
 With pathos shall command, with wit beguile, 
 A generous tear of anguish or a smile 
 Thy woes, Arion ! and thy simple tale, 
 O'er all the heart shall triumph and prevail !
 
 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 25 
 
 Charmed as they read the verse too sadly true, 
 How gallant Albert, and his weary crew, 
 Heaved all their guns, their foundering bark to 
 
 save, 
 
 And toiled and shrieked and perished on the 
 wave! 
 
 Yes, at the dead of night, by Lonna's steep, 
 The seaman's cry was heard along the dee}) ; 
 There on his funeral waters, dark and wild, 
 The dying father blessed 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 sub- 
 limes 
 
 The robber Moor, and pleads for all his crimes ! 
 How poor Amelia kissed, with many a tear, 
 His hand, blood-stained, but ever, ever dear ! 
 Hung on the tortured bosom of her Lord, 
 And wept and prayed perdition from his sword ! 
 Nor sought in vain ! at that heart-piercing cry 
 The strings of Nature cracked with agony ! 
 He, with delirious laugh, the dagger hurled, 
 And burst the ties that bound him to the world ! 
 Turn from his dying words, that smite with steel 
 The shuddering thoughts, or wind them on the 
 
 wheel 
 
 Turn to the gentler melodies that suit 
 Thalia's harp, or Pan's Arcadian lute ; 
 Or, down the stream of Truth's historic page, 
 From clime to clime descend, from age to age ! 
 
 Yet there, perhaps, may darker scenes obtrude 
 Than Fancy fashions in her wildest mood ; 
 There shall he pause with horrent brow, to rate 
 What millions died that Caesar might bo great ! 
 Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore, 
 Marched by their Charles to Dneiper's swampy 
 
 shore ; 
 
 Faint in his wounds, and shivering in the blast, 
 The Swedish soldier sunk and groaned his last ! 
 B
 
 2G PLEASURES OF HOPE. 
 
 File after file the stormy showers benumb, 
 Freeze every standard-sheet, and hush the drum ! 
 Horseman and horse confessed the bitter pang, 
 And arms and warriors fell with hollow clang ! 
 Yet, ere he sunk in Nature's last repose, 
 Ere life's warm torrent to the fountain froze, 
 The dying man to Sweden turned his eye, 
 Thought of his home, and closed it with a sigh ! 
 Imperial Pride looked sullen on his plight, 
 And Charles beheld nor shuddered at the sight ! 
 
 Above, below, in Ocean, Earth, and Sky. 
 Thy fairy worlds, Imagination, lie, 
 And HOPE attends, companion of the way, 
 Thy dream by night, thy visions of the day ! 
 In yonder pensile orb, and every sphere 
 That gems the starry girdle of the year ; 
 In those unmeasured worlds, she bids thee tell, 
 Pure from then- God, created millions dwell, 
 Whose names and natures, unrevealed 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 embosomed in the main ; 
 Rapt to the shrine where motion first began, 
 And light and life in mingling torrent ran : 
 From whence each bright rotundity was hurled, 
 The throne of God, the centre of the world ! 
 
 Oh ! vainly wise, the moral Muse hath sung 
 That suasive HOPE hath but a Siren tongue ! 
 True ; she may sport with life's untutored day, 
 Nor heed the solace of its last decay,
 
 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 27 
 
 The guileless heart her happy mansion spurn, 
 And part, like Ajut never to return ! 
 
 But yet, methinks, when Wisdom shall assuage 
 The grief and passions of our greener age, 
 Though dull the close of life, and far away 
 Each flower that hailed the dawning of the day ; 
 Yet o'er her lovely hopes, that once were dear, 
 The time-taught spirit, pensive, not severe, 
 With milder griefs her aged eye shall fill, 
 And weep their falsehood, though she loves tlicm 
 still! 
 
 Thus, with forgiving tears, and reconciled, 
 The king of Jtidah mourned his rebel child ! 
 Musing on days, when yet the guiltless boy 
 Smiled on his sire, and filled his heart with joy ! 
 My Absalom ! the voice of Nature cried, 
 Oh ! that for thee thy father could have died ! 
 For bloody was the deed, and rashly done, 
 That slow my Absalom ! my son ! my son ! 
 
 Unfading HOPE ! when life's last embers bum, 
 When soul to soul, and dust to dust return ! 
 Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour ! 
 Oh ! then, thy kingdom comes ! Immortal Power ! 
 What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly 
 The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye ! 
 Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey 
 The morning dream of life's eternal day 
 Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin, 
 And all the phrenix spirit burns within ! 
 
 Oh ! deep-enchanting prelude to repose, 
 The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes ! 
 Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh, 
 It is a dread and awful thing to die ! 
 Mysterious worlds, untravelled by the sun ! 
 Where Time's far-wandering tide has never run, 
 From your unfathomed shades, and viewless spheres. 
 A warning comes, unheard by other ears. 
 'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud, 
 JLike Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud !
 
 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 
 
 While Xature hears, with terror-mingled trust, 
 The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust ; 
 And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod 
 The roaring waves, and called upon his God, 
 With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss, 
 And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss ! 
 
 Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illuinc 
 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 sl:y, 
 Float the sweet tones of star-born melody ; 
 Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hall 
 Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale, 
 When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight 
 
 still 
 Watched on the holy towers of Ziou liiil ! 
 
 Soul of the just ! companion of the dead ! 
 Where is thy home, and whither art thou lied f 
 Back to its heavenly source thy being goes, 
 Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose- ; 
 Doomed on his airy path a while to burn, 
 And doomed, like thee, to travel, and return. 
 Hark ! from the world's exploding centre driven, 
 With sounds that shook the firmament of Heaven, 
 Careers the fiery giant, fast and far, 
 On bickering wheels, and adamantine car , 
 From planet whirled to planet more remote, 
 He visits realms beyond the reach of thought , 
 But wheeling homeward, when his course is run, 
 Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun ! 
 So hath the traveller of earth unfurled 
 Her trembling wings, emerging from the world ;
 
 PLEASURES OF HOPE. i# 
 
 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 ex- 
 panse, 
 
 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 Avorm, 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 hire, 
 "Whose mortal life and momentary iire, 
 Light to the grave his chance-created form, 
 As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm ; 
 And, when the gun's tremendous flash i:> 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 i 
 Is this your triumph this your proud applause, 
 Children of Truth, and champions of her cause ? 
 For this hath Science searched, on wear}- whir;. 
 By shore and sea each mute and living tiling ! 
 Launched with Iberia's pilot from the steep, 
 To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the 
 
 deep? 
 
 Or round the cope her living chariot driven, 
 And wheeled in triumph through the signs of 
 
 Heaven. 
 
 Oh ! star-eyed Science, hast thou wandered there, 
 To waft us home the message of despair ? 
 Then .bind the palm, thy sage's brow to suit. 
 Of blasted leaf, and death-distilling fruit J
 
 20 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 
 
 Ah me ! the laurelled wreath that Murder rears, 
 Blood-nursed, and watered by the widow's tears, 
 Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread, 
 As waves the night-shade round the sceptic head. 
 What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain ? 
 I smile on death, if Heavenward HOPE remain ! 
 Bnt, if the warring 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 ; 
 Doomed 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 formed in vain 
 This troubled pulse, and visionary brain ! 
 Fade, ye wild flowers, memorials of my doom, 
 And sink, ye stars, that light me to the tomb ! 
 Truth, ever lovely, since the world began, 
 The foe of tyrants, and the friend of man, 
 How can thy words from balmy slumber start 
 lleposing Virtue pillowed on the heart ! 
 Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder rolled, 
 And that were true which Nature never told, 
 Let Wisdom smile not en her conquered field 5 
 No rapture dawns, no treasure is revealed ! 
 Oh ! let her read, nor loudly, nor elate, 
 The doom that bars us from a better fate ; 
 But, sad as angels for the good man's sin, 
 A Veep 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, 
 Jt 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.
 
 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 31 
 
 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 ! 
 When Friendship paid, in speechless sorrow drowned, 
 Thy midnight rites, but not on hallowed ground ! 
 
 Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind, 
 But leave oh ! leave the light of HOPE behind ! 
 What though my winged hours of bliss have been, 
 Like angel-visits, few and far between, 
 Her musing mood shall every pang appease. 
 And charm when pleasures lose the power to 
 
 please ! 
 
 Yes ; let each rapture, dear to Nature, flee : 
 Close not the light of Fortune's stormy sou 
 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 harmonized 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 impassioned spirits feel ? 
 Can Fancy's fairy hands no veil create, 
 To hide the sad realities of fate ? 
 
 No ! not the quaint remark, the sapient rule, 
 Nor all the pride of Wisdom's worldly school, 
 Have power to soothe, unaided and alone, 
 The heart that vibrates to a feeling tone ! 
 When stepdame Nature every bliss recalls, 
 Fleet as the meteor o'er the desert falls ; 
 When, 'reft of all, yon widowed 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 impassioned mould, she sneaks to YOU !
 
 5 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 
 
 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 f when he heard his knell, 
 And bade his country and his child farewell, 
 Doomed the long aisles of Sydney-cove to see, 
 The martyr of his crimes, but true to thee ? 
 Tlirice the sad father tore thee from his heart, 
 And thrice returned, to bless thee, and to part ; 
 Thrice from his trembling lips he mminured low 
 The plaint that owned unutterable woe ; 
 Till Faith, prevailing o'er his sullen doom, 
 As bursts the morn on night's unfathomed gloom, 
 Lured his dim eye to deathless hopes sublime, 
 Beyond the realms of Nature and of Time ! 
 
 " And weep not thus," he cried, " young Elle- 
 
 nore, 
 
 My bosom bleeds, but soon shall bleed no more ! 
 Short shall this half-extinguished spirit burn, 
 And soon these limbs to kindred dust return ! 
 But not, my child, with life's precarious fire, 
 The immortal ties of Nature shall expire ; 
 These shall resist the triumph of decay, 
 When time is o'er, and worlds have passed away! 
 Cold in the dust this perished heart may lie, 
 But that which wanned 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, 
 Unveiled. by darkness unassuaged by tears ! 
 
 " Yet, on the barren shore and stormy deep, 
 One tedious watch is Conrad doomed to weep j 
 But when I gain the home without a friend, . 
 And press the uneasy couch were none attend, 
 This last embrace, still cherished in my heart, 
 Shall calm the struggling spirit ere it part ! 
 Thy darling form shall seem to hover nigh, 
 And hush the groan of life's last agony !
 
 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 
 
 "Farewell! when stranger's lift thy father's bier, 
 And place my nameless stone without a tear ; 
 When each returning pledge hath told my child 
 That Conrad's tomb is on the desert piled ; 
 And when the dream of troubled Fancy sees 
 Its lonely rank grass waving in the breeze ; 
 Who then will soothe thy grief, when mine is o'er ? 
 Who will protect thee, helpless Ellenore ? 
 Shall secret scenes thy filial sorrows hide, 
 Scorned by the world, to factious guilt allied ? 
 Ah ! no ; methinks the generous and the good 
 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 J 
 If in that frame no deathless spirit dwell, 
 If that faint murmur be the last farewell, 
 If Fate unite the faithful but to part, 
 Why is then: memoiy sacred to the heart '? 
 Why does the brother of my childhood seem 
 Restored a while in every pleasing dream ? 
 Why do I joy the lonely spot to view, 
 By artless friendship blessed when life was new ? 
 
 Eternal HOPE ! when yonder spheres sublime 
 Pealed their first notes to sound the march of Time, 
 Thy joyous youth began but not to fade. 
 When all the sister planets have decayed j 
 When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow, 
 And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below ; 
 Thou, undismayed, shalt o'er the ruins smile, 
 And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile, 
 B*
 
 THEODRIC, 
 
 A DOMESTIC TALE, 
 
 'T tvAS sunset, and tlie 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 flushed the wonted regions of the storm, 
 Where, Phoenix-like, you saw the eagle's form 
 That high in Heaven's vermilion wheeled and soared, 
 Woods nearer frowned, and cataracts dashed and 
 
 roared 
 
 From heights browsed by the bounding bouquetin ; 
 Herds tinkling roamed the long-drawn vales between, 
 And hamlets glittered white, and gardens flourished 
 
 green: 
 
 'T was transport to inhale the bright sweet air ! 
 The mountain-bee was revelling in its glare, 
 And roving with his minstrelsy across 
 The scented wild weeds, and enamelled moss. 
 Earth's features so harmoniously were linked, 
 She seemed 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, even though sepulchral ground ; 
 For there nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom, 
 Ij'.it roses blossomed by each rustic tomb. 
 Amidst them one of spotless marble shone 
 A maiden's grave and 'twas inscribed thereon,
 
 THEODRIC. P,3 
 
 That young and loved she died whose dust was 
 there : 
 
 " Yes/' said my comrade, " young she died, and 
 
 fair ! 
 
 Grace formed her, and the soul of gladness played 
 Once in the blue eyes of that mountain-maid : 
 Her fingers witched the chords they passed along, 
 And her lips seemed to kiss tha soul in song : 
 Yet wooed, and worshipped as she was, till i<j-,y 
 Aspired to hope, 't was sadly, strangely true. 
 That heart, the martyr of its fondness, burnc.l 
 And died of love that could not be returned. 
 
 Her father dwelt where yonder Castle shine:.; 
 O'er clustering trees and terrace-mantling vine.; : 
 As gay as ever, the laburnum's pride 
 Waves o'er each walk where she was won: to 
 
 glide, 
 
 And still the garden whence she graced her bro\v, 
 As lovely blooms, though trode by strangers now. 
 How oft, from yonder window o'er the lake, 
 Her song of wild Helvetian ^well and shake 
 Has made the rudest fisher bend his ear, 
 And rest enchanted on his oar to hear ! 
 Thus bright, accomplished, spirited, and bland, 
 Well-born, and wealthy for that simple land, 
 Why had no gallant native youth the art 
 To win so warm so exquisite a heart ? 
 She, 'midst these rocks inspired with feelings strong 
 By mountain-freedom music fancy song, 
 Herself descended from the brave in arms, 
 And conscious of romance-inspiring charms, 
 Dreamt of Heroic beings ; hoped to find 
 Some extant spirit of chivalric kind ; 
 And scorning wealth, looked cold even on the claim 
 Of manly worth, that lacked the wreath of fame. 
 
 Her younger brother, sixteen summers old, 
 And much her likeness both in mind and mould, 
 Had gone, poor boy ! in soldiership to shine, 
 And bore au Austrian banner on the Rhine.
 
 THEODRIC. 
 
 ; T was when, alas ! our Empire's evil star 
 Shed all the plagues, without the pride of war ; 
 When patriots bled, and bitterer anguish crossed 
 Our brave, to die in battles foully lost. 
 The youth wrote home the rout of many a day ; 
 Yet still he said, and still with truth could say, 
 One corps had ever made a valiant stand, 
 The corps in which he served, THEODRIC'S 
 
 band. 
 
 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 fic-lds of battle twenty years ago, 
 Will tell you feats his small brigade performed, 
 In charges nobly faced and trenches stormed. 
 Time was, when songs were chanted to his fame, 
 And soldiers loved the march that bore his name. 
 The zeal of martial hearts was at his call, 
 And that Helvetian's, UDOLPH'S, most of all. 
 'T was touching, when the storm of Avar blew wild, 
 To see a blooming boy, almost a child, 
 Spur fearless at his leader's words and signs, 
 Brave death in reconnoitring hostile lines, 
 And speed each task, and tell each message clear, 
 In scenes where war-trained men were stunned wilh 
 
 fear. 
 
 THEODRIC praised him, and they wept for joy 
 In yonder house, when letters from the boy 
 Thanked Heaven for life, and more, to use his 
 
 phrase, 
 
 Than twenty lives his own Commander's praise. 
 Then followed glowing pages, blazoning forth 
 The fancied image of his leader's worth, 
 With such hyperboles of youthful style 
 As made his parents dry their tears and smile : 
 But differently far his words impressed 
 A wondering sister's w r ell-believing breast : 
 She caught th' illusion, blessed THEODRIC'S name, 
 And wildly magnified his worth and fame ,
 
 THEODRIC. 37 
 
 Hejoicing life's reality contained 
 
 One, heretofore, her fancy had but feigned, 
 
 Whose love could make her proud! and time and 
 
 chance 
 To passion raised that day-dream of Romance. 
 
 Once, when with hasty charge of horse and inau 
 Our arriere-guard had checked the Gallic van, 
 THEODRIC, visiting the outposts, found 
 His UDOLPH wounded, weltering on the ground : 
 Sore crushed, half-swooning, half-upraised he lay, 
 And bent his brow, fair boy! and grasped the 
 
 clay. 
 
 His fate moved even the common soldier's ruth 
 THEODRIC succoured him ; nor left the youth 
 To vulgar hands, but brought him to his tent, 
 And lent what aid a brother would have lent. 
 
 Meanwhile, to save his kindred half the smart 
 The war-gazette's dread blood-roll might impart, 
 He wrote th 7 event to them j and soon could tell 
 Of pains assuaged and symptoms auguring well ; 
 And last of all, prognosticating cure, 
 Enclosed the leech's vouching signature. 
 Their answers, on whose pages you might note 
 That tears had fallen, whilst trembling fingers wrote, 
 Gave boundless thanks for benefits conferred, 
 Of which the boy, in secret, sent them word, 
 Whose memory Time, they said, would never blot j 
 But which the giver had himself forgot. 
 
 In time, the stripling, vigorous and healed, 
 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 unfinished game, 
 Yet dearly bought, and direly welcome, came. 
 The camp broke up, and UDOLPH left his chief 
 As with a son's or younger brother's grief;
 
 38 THEODEIC. 
 
 But journeying home, how rapt his spirits rose ! 
 How light his footsteps crashed St. Gothard's snows ; 
 How dear seemed even the waste and wild Slireck- 
 
 honi, 
 
 Though wrapt in clouds, and frowning as in scoru 
 Upon a downward world of pastoral charms j 
 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, 
 
 ('T was JULIA'S, 't was his sister's, met him first :) 
 Their pride to see war's medal at his breast, 
 And all their rapture's greeting, may be guessed. 
 
 Ere long, his bosom triumphed to unfold 
 A gift he meant, their gayest room to hold, 
 The picture of a friend in warlike dress ; 
 And who it was he first bade JULIA guess. 
 ' Yes/ she replied, ' 't was 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 THEODKIC, who had years before 
 Learnt England's tongue, and loved her classic lore, 
 A glad enthusiast now explored the land, 
 Where Nature, Freedom, Art, smile hand in hand ; 
 Her women fan- ; 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 bow- 
 ers, 
 
 These he had visited, with wonder's smile, 
 And scarce endured to quit so fab: an isle. 
 But how our fates from unmomentous tilings 
 May rise, like rivers out of little springs !
 
 THEODRIC. 3? 
 
 .A trivial chance postponed his parting day, 
 
 And public tidings caused, in that delay, 
 
 An English Jubilee. 'T was a glorious sight ! 
 
 At eve stupenduous London, clad in light, 
 
 Poured out triumphant multitudes to gaze ; 
 
 Youth, age, wealth, penury, smiling in the blaze ; 
 
 Th' illumined atmosphere was warm and bland, 
 
 And Beauty's groups, the fairest of the land, 
 
 Conspicious, as in some wide festive room, 
 
 In open chariots passed with pearl and plume. 
 
 Amidst them he remarked a lovlier mien 
 
 Than e'er his thoughts had shaped, or eyes had seen 
 
 The throng detained her till he reined his steed, 
 
 And, ere the beauty passed, had time to read 
 
 The motto and the arms her carriage bore. 
 
 Led by that clue, he left not England's shore 
 
 Till he had known her ; and to know her Avell 
 
 Prolonged, exalted, bound, enchantment's spell; 
 
 For with affections warm, intense, refined, 
 
 She mixed such calm and holy strength of mind, 
 
 That, like Heaven's image in the smiling brook, 
 
 Celestial peace was pictured in her look. 
 
 Hers was the brow, in trials unperplexed, 
 
 That cheered the sad, and tranquillized the vexed ; 
 
 She studied not the meanest to eclipse, 
 
 And yet the wisest listened to her lips ; 
 
 She sang not, knew not Music's magic skill, 
 
 But yet her voice had tones that swayed 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, 
 He reached those bowers, that rang with joy tliat 
 
 day: 
 
 The boy was half beside himself, the sire, 
 All frankness, honor, and Helvetian fire, 
 Of speedy parting would not hear him speak ; 
 And tears bedewed and brightened JULIA'S checli.
 
 40 THEODRIC. 
 
 Thus, loth to wound their hospitable pride, 
 A month he promised with them to abide ; 
 As blithe he trod the mountain-sward as they, 
 And felt his joy make even the young more gay. 
 How jocund was their breakfast-parlor fanned, 
 By yon blue water's breath, their walks how 
 
 bland! 
 
 Fair JULIA, seemed her brother's softened sprite 
 A gem reflecting Nature's purest 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 betrayed her undesigned, 
 Th ; unlikely thought could scarcely reach his mind, 
 That eyes so young on years like his should beam 
 Unwooed devotion back for pure esteem. 
 
 True she sang to his very soul, and brought 
 Those trains before him of luxuriant thought, 
 "Which only Music's heaven-born art can bring, 
 To sweep across the mind with angel wing. 
 Once, as he smiled amidst that waking trance, 
 She paused o'ercome, he thought it might be 
 
 chance, 
 
 And, when his first suspicions dimly stole, 
 Rebuked them back like phantoms from his soul 
 But when he saw his caution give her pain, 
 And kindness brought suspense's rack again, 
 Faith, honor, friendship, bound him to unmask 
 Truths which her timid fondness feared to ask. 
 
 And yet with gracefully ingenuous power 
 Her spirit met th' explanatory hour ; 
 Ev'n conscious beauty brightened in her eyes, 
 That told she knew their love no vulgar prize ; 
 And pride like that of one more woman-grown, 
 Enlarged her mien, enrjclied her voice's tone.
 
 THEODK1C. -11 
 
 7 T was then she struck the keys, and music ma* 1 ..- 
 That mocked all skill her hand had e'er displayed. 
 Inspired and warbling, rapt from things around, 
 She looked the very Muse of magic sound, 
 Painting in sound the forms of joy and woe, 
 Until the mind'8 eye saw them melt and glow. 
 Her closing strain composed and calm she played, 
 And sang no words to give its pathos aid ; 
 But grief seemed lingering in its lengthened swell,. 
 And like so many tears the trickling touches fell. 
 Of CONSTANCE then she heard THEODKIC speak, 
 And steadfast smoothness still possessed 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 
 THEODRIG for the tears his words had wrung. 
 * But no/ she cried, * unsay not what you 've said, 
 Nor grudge one prop on which my pride is stayed ; 
 To think I could have merited your faith 
 Shall be my solace even unto death !' 
 MULIA,' THEODRIC said, with purposed look 
 Of firmness, ' my reply deserved rebuke ; 
 But by your pure and sacred peace of mind, 
 And by the dignity of womankind, 
 Swear that when I am gone you '11 do your best 
 To chase this dream of fondness from your breast/ 
 
 Th' abrupt appeal electrified her thought ; 
 She looked to Heav'n as if its aid she sought, 
 Dried hastily the tear-drops from her cheek, 
 And signified the vow she could not speak. 
 
 Ere long he communed with her mother mild : 
 'Alas !' she said, ' I warned conjured my cliild,
 
 42 THEODKIC. 
 
 And grieved for this affection from the first, 
 
 But like fatality it has been nursed ; 
 
 For when her filled eyes on your picture fixed, 
 
 And when your name in all she spoke was mixed, 
 
 'T was 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 even you. 
 
 You came. I augured the event, 'tis true, 
 
 But how was UDOLPH'S mother to exclude 
 
 The guest that claimed our boundless gratitude ? 
 
 And that unconscious you had cast a spell 
 
 On JULIA'S peace, my pride refused to tell : 
 
 Yet in my child's illusion I have seen, 
 
 Believe me well, how blameless you have been : 
 
 !Nor can it cancel, howsoe'er it end, 
 
 Our debt of friendship to our boy's best friend.' 
 
 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 sun-eyed 
 
 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 rmr.il 
 Had borne his loss, firm, tranquil, and resirncd. 
 He took the Rhenish route to England, high 
 Elate with hopes, fulfilled their ecstasy, 
 And interchanged with CONSTANCE'S own br; a;h 
 The sweet, eternal vows that bound their faith. 
 
 To paint that being to a grovelling mind 
 Were like portraying pictures to the blind. 
 'T was needful even infectiously to feel 
 Her temper's fond and firm and gladsome zeal,
 
 THEODRIC. 4:5 
 
 To share existence with her, and to gain 
 
 Sparks from her love's electrifying 1 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 ! 
 
 Even when her light Torsook him, it bequeathed 
 Ennobling sorrow ; and her memory breathed 
 A sweetness that survived her living days, 
 As odorous scents outlast the censor's blaze. 
 
 Or, if a trouble dimmed their golden joy, 
 7 T was outward dross, and not infused alloy : 
 Their 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 engrossed the virtue of her race. 
 Her nature strove th' unnatural feuds to heal, 
 Her wisdom made the weak to her appeal ; 
 And, though the wounds she cured were soon un- 
 closed, 
 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 Avar laid waste his native land once more, 
 And German honor bled at every pore. 
 Oh ! were he there, he thought, to rally back 
 One broken band, or perish in the wrack . 
 Nor think that CONSTANCE sought to move and molt 
 His purpose ; like herself she spoke and felt : 
 t 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,
 
 44 THEODRIC. 
 
 And she expressed assent, although her heart 
 In secret had resolved tliey should not part. 
 
 How oft the wisest on misfortune's shelves 
 Are wrecked by errors most unlike themselves ? 
 That little fault, that fraud of love's romance, 
 That plan's concealment, wrought their whole mis- 
 chance. 
 
 He knew it not preparing to embark, 
 But felt extinct his comfort's latest spark, 
 When, 'midst those numbered days, she made repair 
 Again to kindred worthless of her care. 
 'T is true she said the tidings she would write 
 Would make her absence on his heart sit light j 
 But, haplessly, revealed not yet her plan, 
 And left him in his home a lonely man. 
 
 Thus damped in thoughts, he mused upon the 
 
 past : 
 
 T was long since he had heard from UDOLPH last, 
 And deep misgivings on his spirit fell 
 That all with UDOLPH'S household was not well. 
 "T was that too true prophetic mood of fear 
 That augurs griefs inevitably near, 
 Yet makes them not less startling to the rr>5ncl 
 W T hen come. Least looked-for then of human kind 
 His UDOLPH ('t was, he thought at first, his sprite,) 
 With mournful joy that mom surprised his sight. 
 How changed was UDOLPH ! Scarce THEODRIC 
 
 durst 
 
 Inquire his tidings, he revealed 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.
 
 THI:CDKIC. -::> 
 
 Yfhy 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 crushed her bv tht-ir 
 
 fall. 
 
 I made her slight her mother's counsel sage, 
 But now my parents droop with grief and a<_r : 
 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 ru;!i ; 
 And she who shares your heart, and knov.s it:; 
 
 truth, 
 
 Has faith in your affection, far above 
 Tli3 fear of a poor dying object's love.' 
 ' She has, my U DOLPH,' he replied, ' 't is true ; 
 And oft we talk of JULIA oft of you.' 
 Their converse came abruptly to a close ; 
 For scarce could each his troubled looks conr> u? T 
 When visitants, to CONSTANCE near akin, 
 (In all but traits of soul,) were ushered in. 
 They brought not her, nor 'midst their Lh.vLvd 
 
 band 
 
 The sister who alone, like her, was bland ; 
 But said and smiled to see it gave him pal:: 
 That CONSTANCE would a fortnight yet mrua:;. 
 Vexed by their tidings, and the haughty view 
 They cast on UDOLPH as the youth withdrew, 
 THEODRIC blamed his CONSTANCE'S intent. 
 The demons went, and left him as they went 
 To read, when they were gone beyond recall, 
 A note from her loved hand explaining all. 
 She said, that with their house she only staid 
 That parting peace might with them all be made ; 
 But prayed for leave to share his foreign life, 
 And shun all future chance of kindred strife. 
 Us wrote with sjx'ed, his soul's consent to Fay : 
 Th'j letter missed her on her homeward way
 
 4o THEODRIC. 
 
 In six hours CONSTANCE was within his arms : 
 Moved, flushed, unlike her wonted calm of charms. 
 And breathless with uplifted hands outspread 
 Burst into tears upon his neck, and said, 
 'I knew that those who brought your message 
 
 laughed, 
 
 With poison of then: own to point the shaft ; 
 And this my one kind sister thought, yet loth 
 Confessed she feared 'twas true you had beem 
 
 wroth. 
 
 But here you are, and smile on me : my pain 
 Is gone, and CONSTANCE is herself again.' 
 His ecstasy, it may be guessed, was much : 
 Yet pain's extreme and pleasure's seemed t 
 
 touch. 
 
 What pride ! embracing beauty's perfect mould ; 
 What terror ! lest his few rash words mistold 
 Had agonized her pulse to fever's heat : 
 But calmed again so soon it healthful beat, 
 And such sweet tones were in her voice's sound, 
 Composed herself, she breathed composure round. 
 
 Fair being ! with what sympathetic grace 
 She heard, bewailed, and pleaded JULIA'S case j 
 Implored he would her dying wish attend, 
 1 And go,' she said, ' to-morrow with your friend ; 
 I '11 wait for your return on England's shore, 
 And then we '11 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 
 
 wenfr 
 
 Stifling, alas ! a dark presentiment 
 Some ailment lurked, eVn whilst she smiled, to 
 
 mock 
 
 Hi's fears of harm from yester-morning's shock. 
 Meanwhile a faithful page he singled out, 
 To watch at home, and follow straight his route,
 
 THRODRIC. 47 
 
 If aught of threatened change her health should 
 
 show. . 
 
 With UDOLPH then he reached the house of 
 woe. 
 
 That winter's eve, how darkly Nature's brow 
 Scowled on the scenes it lights so lovely now ! 
 The tempest, raging o'er the realms of ice, 
 Shook fragments from the rifted precipice ; 
 And, whilst their falling echoed to the wind, 
 The wolfs long howl in dismal discord joined. 
 While white yon water's foam was raised in clouds 
 That whirled like spirits wailing in their shrouds : 
 Without was Nature's elemental din 
 And beauty died, and friendship wept, within ! 
 
 Sweet JULIA, though her fate was finished hall', 
 Still knew him smiled on him with feeble laugh 
 And blessed him, till she drew her latest sigh ! 
 But lo ! while U DOLPH'S bursts of agony, 
 And age's tremulous wailings, round him rose, 
 What accents pierced him deeper yet than those ! 
 'T was tidings, by his English messenger, 
 Of CONSTANCE brief and terrible they were. 
 She still was living when the page set out 
 From home, but whether now was left in doubt. 
 Poor JULIA ! saw he then thy death's relief 
 Stunned into stupor more than wrung with grief ? 
 It was not strange ; for in the human breast 
 Two master passions cannot coexist, 
 And that alarm w"hich now usurped his bruin 
 Shut out not only peace, but other pain. 
 'T was fancying CONSTANCE underneath the shroud 
 That covered JULIA made him first weep loud, 
 And tear himself away from them that wept. 
 Fast hurrying homeward, night nor day ho slept, 
 Till, launched 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 blessed 
 The shore ; nor hope left utterly his breast,
 
 48 THEODRIC. 
 
 Till reaching home, terrific omen ! there 
 
 The straw-laid street preluded his despair 
 
 The servant's look the table that revealed 
 
 His letter sent to CONSTANCE last, still sealed 
 
 Though speech and hearing left him, told too 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 ; 
 'T was vent to anguish, if 't was not relief, 
 To lay his brow even 011 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 : 
 
 * 'T was blame,' she said, ' I shudder to relate, 
 But none of yours, that caused our darling's fate | 
 Her mother (must I call l\er 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 broke 
 With execrations from her kneeling child. 
 S^art not ! your angel from her knee rose mild, 
 Feared that she should not long the scene outlive,, 
 Yet bade even you tlr* unnatural one forgive. 
 Till then her ailment had been slight, or none ; 
 But fast she drooped, and fatal pains came on 
 Foreseeing their event, she dictated 
 And signed these words for you.' The letter 
 said 
 
 ' THEODKIC, this is destiny above 
 Our power to baffle ; bear it then, my love !
 
 THEODRIC. 49 
 
 Have not to learn the usage I have borne, 
 
 For one true sister left me not forlorn j 
 
 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 clasped hands in blessing you now join : 
 
 Shape not imagined horrors in my fate 
 
 Even 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 } t is 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 j and our life's union has been clad 
 
 In smiles of bliss as sweet as life e'er had. 
 
 Shall gloom be from such bright remembrance cast ? 
 
 Shall bitterness outflow from sweetness past ' 
 
 No ! imaged in the sanctuary of your breast, 
 
 There let me smile, amidst high thoughts at rest ; 
 
 And let contentment on your spirit shine, 
 
 As if its peace were still a part of mine : 
 
 For if you war not proudly with your pain, 
 
 For you I shall have worse than lived in vain. 
 
 Eut I conjure your manliness to bear 
 
 My loss with noble spirit not despair 
 
 I ask you by our love to promise this, 
 
 And kiss these words where I have left a kiss, 
 
 The latest from my living lips for yours.' 
 
 Words that will solace him while life endures : 
 
 For though his spirit from affliction's surge 
 
 Could ne'er to life, as life had been, emerge, 
 
 Yet still that mind whose harmony elate 
 
 Rang sweetness, even beneath the crush of fate, 
 
 That mind in whose regard all things were placed 
 
 In views that softened them, or lights that graced,
 
 ) THEODRIC. 
 
 That soul's example could not but dispense 
 A portion of its own blessed influence ; 
 Invoking him to peace and that self-sway 
 Which Fortune cannot give, nor take away : 
 And though he mourned her long, 't was with such 
 
 woe 
 As if her spirit watched him still below."
 
 TRANSLATIONS, 
 
 MARTIAL ELEGY. 
 
 FROM THE GREEK OF TYRT.3SUS. 
 
 How glorious fall the valiant, sword in Land, 
 
 In front of battle for their native land ! 
 
 Bat oh ! what ills await the wretch that yields, 
 
 A recreant outcast from his country's fields ! 
 
 The mother whom he loves shall quit her home, 
 
 An aged father at his side shall roam ; 
 
 His little ones shall weeping with him go, 
 
 And a young wife participate his woe ; 
 
 While scorned and scowled upon by every face. 
 
 They pine for food and beg from place to place. 
 
 Stain of his breed ! dishonoring manhood's form, 
 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. 
 
 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.
 
 I SONG OF HYBRIAS THE CRETAN. 
 
 Leave not out sires to stem the unequal fight, 
 Whose limbs are nerved no more with buoyant 
 
 might ; 
 
 Nor, lagging backward, let the younger breast 
 Permit the man of age (a sight unblessed) 
 To welter in the combat's foremost thrust, 
 His hoary head dishevelled 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 tears, 
 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 untanned, 
 
 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 Kinsr and Lord.
 
 TRANSLATIONS FKOM MEDEA. 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 FROM THE GREEK OF ALCMAX. 
 
 THE mountain summits sleep : glens, cliffs, and 
 
 caves 
 
 Are silent all the black earth's reptile brood 
 The bees the wild beasts of the mountain wood : 
 In depths beneath the dark red ocean's waves 
 
 Its monsters rest, whilst wrapt in bower and 
 
 spray 
 
 Each bird is hushed that stretched its pinions to 
 the dav. 
 
 SPECIMENS OF TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 MEDEA. 
 
 Aeyuv, novdtv n acxpovf 
 Tovf irpoafie fiporoV^-ovK uv u/jiaproif. 
 
 Medea, v. 194, p. 33, Glasg. edit. 
 
 TELL me, ye bards, whose skill sublime 
 First charmed the ear of youthful Time, 
 With numbers wrapt in heavenly fire, 
 Who bade delighted Echo swell 
 The trembling transports of the lyre, 
 The murmur of the shell 
 Why to the burst of Joy alone 
 Accords sweet Music's soothing tone "? 
 Why can no bard, with magic strain, 
 In slumbers steep the heart of pain ? 
 While varied tones obey your sweep, 
 The mild, the plaintive, and the deep,
 
 54 TRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA. 
 
 Bends not despairing Grief to hear 
 Your golden lute, with ravished ear ? 
 Has all your art no power to bind 
 The fiercer pangs that shake the mind, 
 And lull the wrath at whose command 
 Murder bares her gory hand ? 
 When flushed with joy, the rosy throng 
 Weave the light dance, ye swell the song ! 
 Cease, ye vain warblers ! cease to charm 
 The breast with other raptures warm ! 
 Cease ! till your hand with magic strain 
 In slumbers steep the heart of pain ! 
 
 SPEECH OF THE CHORUS, 
 
 TJf THE SAME TRAGEDY, 
 
 TO DISSUADE MFDEA FUOM HER PURPOSE OF TUTTING IIEK CHILDRBS TO 
 DEATH, AND FLY1KG FOB PROTECTION TO ATHENS. 
 
 O HAGGARD queen ! to Athens dost thou guide 
 Thy glowing chariot, steeped in kindred gore ; 
 
 Or seek to hide thy foul infanticide 
 
 Where Peace and Mercy dwell for evermore ? 
 
 The land where Truth, pure, precious, and sublime, 
 Woos the deep silence of sequestered bowers, 
 
 And warriors, matchless since the first of time, 
 Rear their bright banners o'er unconquered 
 towers ! 
 
 Where joyous youth, to Music's mellow strain, 
 Twines in the dance with nympha for ever fair, 
 
 While Spring eternal on the lilied plain, 
 
 Waves amber radiance through the fields of air !
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA. 55 
 
 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 in your vales they swell the choral song ! 
 
 But there the tuneful, chaste, Pierian fan 1 , 
 The guardian nymphs of green Parnassus, now 
 
 Sprung from Harmonia, while her graceful hair 
 Waved in high auburn o'er her polished brow ! 
 
 ANTISTKOPHE I. 
 
 Where silent vales, and glades of green array, 
 The murmuring wreaths of cool Cephisus lave, 
 
 There, as the muse hath sung, at noon of day, 
 The Queen of Beauty bowed to taste the wave ; 
 
 And blessed the stream, and breathed across the 
 
 land 
 The soft sweet gale that fans yon summer bow 
 
 ersj 
 And there the sister Loves, a smiling band, 
 
 Crowned with the fragrant wreaths of rosy flowers ! 
 
 " And go," she cries, " in yonder valleys rove, 
 With Beauty's torch the solemn scenes illume; 
 
 Wake in each eye the radiant light of Love, 
 
 Breathe on each cheek young Passion's tender 
 bloom ! 
 
 Entwine with myrtle chains, your soft control, 
 To sway the hearts of Freedom's darling kind : 
 
 With glowing charms enrapture Wisdom's soul, 
 And mould to grace ethereal Virtue's mind."
 
 50 TRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA. 
 
 STEOPHE II. 
 
 The land where Heaven's own hallowed waters play, 
 Where friendship binds the generous and the good, 
 
 Say, shall it hail thee from thy frantic way, 
 Unholy woman ! with thy hands embrued 
 
 In thine own children's gore ? Oh ! ere they bleed, 
 Let Nature's voice thy ruthless heart appall ! 
 
 Pause at the bold, irrevocable deed 
 
 The mother strikes the guiltless babes shall fall I 
 
 Think what remorse thy maddening thoughts shall 
 sting, 
 
 When dying pangs their gentle bosoms tear ! 
 Where shalt thou sink, when lingering echoes ring" 
 
 The screams of horror in thy tortured ear ! 
 
 No ! let thy bosom melt to Pity's cry, 
 
 In dust we kneel by sacred Heaven implore' 
 
 O ! stop thy lifted arm, ere yet they die, 
 Nor dip thy horrid hands in infant gore ! 
 
 AXTISTROPHE II. 
 
 Say, how shalt thou that barbarous soul assume, 
 Undamped by horror at the daring plan ? 
 
 I last thou a heart to work thy children's doom? 
 Or hands to finish what thy wrath began ? 
 
 When o'er each babe you look a last adieu, 
 And gaze on Innocence that smiles asleep, 
 
 Shall no fond feeling beat to Nature true, 
 
 Charm thee to pensive thought and bid thee 
 weep ? 
 
 When the young suppliants clasp their parent dear, 
 Heave tho deep sob, and pour the unless 
 prayer
 
 TRANSLATIONS FBOM MEDEA. 57 
 
 Av ! thou shalt melt ; and many a heart-shed 
 
 tear 
 Gush o'er the hardened features of despair ! 
 
 Mature shall throb in every tender string, 
 Thy trembling heart the ruffian's task deny ; 
 
 Thy horror-smitten hands afar shall fling 
 
 The blade, undrenched in blood's eternal dye. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 
 Hallowed Earth ! With indignation 
 
 Mark, oh mark, the murderous deed ! 
 Kadiant 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 ! arrayed in glory 
 Rise, forbid, avert the blow I 
 
 In the vales of placid gladness 
 Let no rueful maniac range ; 
 
 Chase afar the fiend of Madness, 
 Wrest the dagger from Revenge ! 
 
 Say, hast thou, with kind protection, 
 Reared thy smiling race in vain ; 
 
 Fostering Nature's fond affection, 
 Tender cares, and pleasing pain ! 
 
 Hast thou, on the troubled ocean, 
 Braved the tempest loud and strong,
 
 58 TRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA. 
 
 Where the waves, in wild commotion, 
 Eoar Cyanean's rocks among ? 
 
 Didst thou roam the paths of danger, 
 Hymenean joys to prove? 
 
 Spare, O 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 j 
 
 OR, 
 
 " THE FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDIXG." 
 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 harper told, how lone, how far 
 
 From any mansion's twinkling star, 
 
 From any path of social men, 
 
 Or voice, but from the fox's den, 
 
 The lady in the desert dwelt 5 
 
 And yet no wrongs, nor fears she felt : 
 
 Say, why should dwell in place so wild, 
 
 O'Connor's pale and lovely child ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Sweet lady ! she no more inspires 
 Green Erin's hearts with beauty's power, 
 As, in the palace of her sires, 
 She bloomed a peerless flower. 
 Gone from her hand and bosom, gone, 
 The royal broche, the jewelled ring, 
 That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone, 
 Like dews on lilies of the spring. 
 Yet why, though fall'n her brother's kerne, 
 Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern, 
 While yet in Leinster unexplored, 
 Her friends survive the English sword ;
 
 60 O'CONNOR'S CHILD. 
 
 Why lingers she from Erin's host, 
 So far on Galway's shipwrecked coast ; 
 Why wanders she a huntress wild 
 O'Connor's pale and lovely child ? 
 
 m. 
 
 And fixed on empty space, why burn 
 Her eyes with momentary wildness ; 
 And wherefore do they then return 
 To more than woman's mildness ? 
 Dishevelled are her raven locks ; 
 On Connocht Moran's name she calls ; 
 And oft amidst the lonely rocks 
 She sings sweet madrigals. 
 Placed 'midst the foxglove and the mosSj 
 Behold a parted warrior 7 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 fight a lovely form, 
 
 He comes and makes her glad ; 
 
 Now on the grass-green turf he sits, 
 
 His tasselled horn beside him laid ; 
 
 Now o'er the hills in chase he flits, 
 
 The hunter and the deer a shade ! 
 
 Sweet mourner ! these are shadows vain 
 
 That cross the twilight of her brain ; 
 
 Yet she will tell you, she is blest, 
 
 Of Connocht Moran's tomb possessed, 
 
 More richly than in Aghrim's bower. 
 
 When bards high praised her beauty's power,
 
 O'CONNOR'S CHILD. 61 
 
 And kneeling pages offered up 
 The morat 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 
 
 To call 'My love lies bleeding"?'" 
 " This purple flower my tears have nursed j 
 
 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 called my hero basely bora ; 
 And bade him chose a meaner bride 
 Than from O'Connor's house of pride. 
 Their tribe, they said, their high degree, 
 Was sung in Tara's psaltery ; 
 Witness their Eath's victorious brand, 
 And Cathal of the bloody hand ;
 
 2 O'CONNOR'S CHILD. 
 
 Glory (they said) and power and honor 
 Were in the mansion of O'Connor : 
 But he, my loved one, bore in field 
 A humbler crest, a meaner shield. 
 
 vn. 
 
 Ah, brothers ! what did it avail, 
 That fiercely and triumphantly 
 Ye fought the English of the Pale, 
 And stemmed De Bourgo's chivalry ! 
 And what was it to love and me, 
 That barons by your standard rode ; 
 Or beal-fires for your jubilee 
 Upon a hundred mountains glowed ? 
 What though the lords of tower and dome 
 From Shannon to the North-sea foam, 
 Thought ye your iron hands of pride 
 Could break the knot that love had tied ? 
 No : let the eagle change his plume, 
 The leaf its hue, the flower its bloom ; 
 But ties around this heart were spun, 
 That could not, would not, be undone ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 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 fastened to the tree. 
 Come far from Castle-Connor's clans : 
 Come with thy belted forestere, 
 And I, beside the lake of swans, 
 Shall hunt for thee the fallow-deer ; 
 And build thy hut, and bring thee home 
 The wild-fowl and the honey-comb ; 
 And berries from the wood provide, 
 And play my clarshech by thy side. 
 Then come, my love !' How could I stay ? 
 Our nimble stag-hounds tracked the way,
 
 O'CONNOR'S ^HILD. i 
 
 And I pursued, by moonless skies, 
 The light of Connocht Moran's eyes. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And/fast and far, before the star 
 
 Of day-spring, rushed we through the glade, 
 
 And saw at dawn the lofty bawn 
 
 Of Castle-Connor fade. 
 
 Sweet was to us the hermitage 
 
 Of this unploughed, 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 doomed to rend my hair : 
 
 The night, to me, of shrieking sorrow ! 
 
 The night to him, that had no morrow ! 
 
 x. 
 
 When all was hushed at even tide, 
 I heard the baying of their beagle : 
 Be hushed ! my Connocht Moran cried, 
 T is but the screaming of the eagle. 
 Alas ! 't was not the eyrie's sound ; 
 Their bloody bands had tracked 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 crossed my sheltering arms : 
 Another's sword has laid him low 
 Another's and another's ; 
 And every hand that dealt the blow 
 Ah me ! it was a brother's !
 
 C4 O'CONNOR'S CHILD. 
 
 Yes, when his meanings died away, 
 Their iron hands had dug the clay, 
 And o'er his burial turf they trod, 
 And I beheld oh God! oh God! 
 His life-blood oozing from the sod. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Warm in his death-wounds sepulchred, 
 Alas ! my warrior's spirit brave 
 Nor mass nor ulla-lulla heard, 
 Lamenting, soothe his grave. 
 Dragged tc their hated mansion back, 
 How long in thraldom's grasp I lay 
 I know 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, 
 7 T was but when those grim visages, 
 . The angry brothers of my race, 
 
 Glared on each eye-ball's aching throb, 
 And check my bosom's power to sob, 
 Or when my heart with pulses drear 
 JBeat 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 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.
 
 O'CONNOR'S CHILD. G5 
 
 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 unrolled. 
 
 stranger ! by my country's loss ! 
 And by my love ! and by the cross ! 
 
 1 swear I never could have spoke 
 The curse that severed nature's yoke, 
 But that a spirit o'er me stood, 
 And fired me with the wrathful mood ; 
 And frenzy to my heart was given, 
 To speak the malison of Heaven. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 They would have crossed themselves, all mute ; 
 
 They would have prayed to burst the spell j 
 
 But at the stamping of my foot 
 
 Each hand down powerless fell ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Men shall no more your mansion know j 
 
 The nettles on your heart shall grow !
 
 CC O'CONNOR'S CHILD. 
 
 Dead, as the green oblivious flood 
 That mantles by your walls, shall be 
 The glory of O'Connor's blood ! 
 Away ! away to Athunree ! 
 Where, downward when the sun shall fall 
 The raven's wing shall be your pall ! 
 And not a vassal shall unlace 
 The vizor from your dying face ! 
 
 xv. 
 
 A bolt that overhung our dome 
 Suspended till my curse was given, 
 Soon as it passed these lips of foam, 
 Pealed in the blood-red heaven. 
 Dire was the look that o'er their backs 
 The angry parting brothers threw : 
 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 tossed, 
 A flash of lightning o'er them crossed, 
 And all again was gloom ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Stranger ! I fled the home of grief, 
 At Connocht JVioran's tomb to fall ; 
 I found the helmet of my chief, 
 His bow still hanging on our wall, 
 And took it down, and vowed to rove 
 This desert place a huntress 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 r:^uv<';:y,
 
 LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 07 
 
 And cherish, for my warrior's sake 
 1 The flower of love lies bleeding.' " 
 
 LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 
 
 WIZARD LOCHIEL 
 
 WIZARD. 
 
 LOCHIEL ! Lochiel ! "beware of the day 
 When the lowlands shall meet thee in "battle array ! 
 For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 
 And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight. 
 They rally, they bleed, for then* 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 I through the fast-flashing lightning of war, 
 What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ? 
 7 T is thine, oh Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, 
 Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. 
 A steed comes at morning : no rider is there ; 
 But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 
 Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led ! 
 Oh weep, but thy tears cannot number the dead : 
 For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, 
 Culloden ! that reeks with the blood of the brave. 
 
 LOCHIEL. 
 
 Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer; 
 Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, 
 Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight 
 This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.
 
 63 LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 
 
 WIZARD. 
 
 Ha ! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn ? 
 Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn : 
 Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth, 
 From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the 
 
 north? 
 
 Lo ! 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. 
 Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the 
 
 blast 
 
 Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast ? 
 ; T is the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven 
 From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. 
 Oh, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might, 
 Whose banners arise on the battlements' height, 
 Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to bum ; 
 Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! 
 For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, 
 And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. 
 
 LOCHIEL. 
 
 False Wizard, avaunt ! I have marshalled my clan, 
 Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one ! 
 They are true to the last of their blood 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 hei bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, 
 Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, 
 All plaided and plumed in their tartan array
 
 LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 69 
 
 WIZARD. 
 
 Lochiel, Lochiel ! bewar of the day ; 
 
 For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, 
 But man cannot cover what God would reveal ; 
 7 T is 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 ! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wratli, 
 Behold where he flies on his desolate path ! 
 Isow in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my 
 
 . sight : 
 
 Rise, rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! 
 *T is finished. Their thunders are hushed on the 
 
 moors: 
 
 Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. 
 But where is the iron-bound prisoner ? Where 
 For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. 
 Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn, 
 Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn ? 
 Ah, no ! for a darker departure is near ; 
 The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier ; 
 His death-bell is tolling : oh ! mercy, dispel 
 Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! 
 Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, 
 And his bloo^-streaming nostril in agony swims. 
 Accursed be the fagots, that blaze at his feet, 
 Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to 
 
 beat, 
 With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale 
 
 LOCHIEL. 
 
 Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the talc : 
 
 For never shall Albin a destiny meet, 
 
 So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat. 
 
 Tho' my perishing ranks should be strewed in their 
 
 gore, 
 Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore,
 
 70 YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 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. 
 
 180-2. 
 
 YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 A NAVAL ODE. 
 I. 
 
 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 the battle rages loud and long 1 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 ii. 
 
 The spirits of your fathers 
 
 Shall start from every wave ! 
 
 For the deck it was their field of fame. 
 
 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 the stormy winds do blow.
 
 YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 III. 
 
 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 oak, 
 
 J3he quells the floods below, 
 
 As they roar on the shore. 
 
 When the stormy winds do blow : 
 
 When the battle rages loud and long, 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 IV. 
 
 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. 
 
 1600.
 
 72 BATTLE Ol^ Till: LALTIO. 
 
 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 
 
 OF 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 j 
 
 By each gun the lighted brand, 
 
 In a bold determined hand, 
 
 And the Prince of all the land 
 
 Led them on. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Like leviathans afloat, 
 
 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. 
 
 in. 
 
 But the might of England flushed 
 
 To anticipate the scene ; 
 
 And her van the fleeter rushed 
 
 O'er the deadly space between. 
 
 ( Hearts of oak !' our captain cried ; when each 
 
 gun 
 
 From its adamantine lips 
 Spread a death-shade round the ships, 
 Like the hurricane eclipse 
 Of the sun.
 
 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 73 
 
 IV. 
 
 Again ! again ! again ! 
 
 And the havoc did not. slack, 
 
 Till a feeble cheer the Dane 
 
 To our cheering sent us back ; 
 
 Their shots along the deep slowly boom : 
 
 Then ceased and all is wail, 
 
 As they strike the shattered sail : 
 
 Or, in conflagration pale, 
 
 Light the gloom. 
 
 v. 
 
 Out spoke the victor then, 
 
 As he hailed them o'er the wave ; 
 
 1 Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 
 
 And we conquer but to save : 
 
 So peace instead of death let us bring ; 
 
 But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, 
 
 With the crews, at England's feet, 
 
 And make submission meet 
 
 To our King.' 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then Denmark blessed our chief, 
 
 That he gave her wounds repose ; 
 
 And the sounds of joy and grief 
 
 From her people wildly rose, 
 
 As death withdrew his shades from the day. 
 
 While the sun looked smiling bright 
 
 O'er a wide and woful sight, 
 
 Where the fires of funeral light 
 
 Died away. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Now joy, Old England, raise ! 
 For the tidings of thy might, 
 By the festal cities' blaze, 
 'Whilst the wine-cup shines in light ; 
 D
 
 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride 
 
 Once so faithful and so true, 
 
 On the deck of fame that died ; 
 
 With the gallant good Riou ;* 
 
 Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their 
 
 While the billow mournful rolls, 
 
 And the mermaid's song condoles, 
 
 Singing glory to the souls 
 
 Of the brave ! 
 
 1805. 
 
 The Battle of the Baltic was written in the early part of lSu5>, 
 and the original sketch was communicated to Sir Walter Soote,, 
 in a letter dated March 27, 1806. On its first appearance it was 
 set to music and sung with enthusiasm by the chief vocalists 3t 
 the day. 
 
 The following is a copy of the Ode in its original state: 
 
 THE BATTLE OF COPENHAGEN. 
 
 Of Nelson and the North 
 
 Sing the day! 
 
 When, their haughty powers to vex, 
 He engaged the Danish decks, 
 And with twenty floating wrecks 
 
 Crowned the fray! 
 
 All bright, in April's sun, 
 
 Shone the day! 
 
 When a British fleet came down, 
 Through the islands of the crown, 
 And by Copenhagen town 
 
 Took their stay. 
 
 * Captain Riou, -justly entitle <i th* gallant and the good by Lc<rS 
 Kelson, when lie wrote home Jus despatches.
 
 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 73 
 
 In arms the Danish shore 
 
 Proudly shone; 
 
 By each gun the lighted brand, 
 In a bold determined hand, 
 And the Prince of all the land 
 
 Led them on! 
 
 For Denmark here had drawn 
 
 All her might! 
 
 From her battle-ships so vast 
 She had hewn away the mast, 
 And at anchor to the last 
 
 Bade them fight! 
 
 Another noble fleet 
 
 Of their line 
 
 Rode out, but these were naught 
 To the batteries, which they brought 
 Like Leviathans afloat, 
 
 in the brine. 
 
 It was ten of Thursday 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 
 
 Ere a first and fatal round 
 
 Shook the flood; 
 Every Dane looked out that day, 
 Like the red wolf on his prey, 
 And he swore his flag to sway 
 
 O r er our blood. 
 
 Not such a mind possessed 
 
 England's tar; 
 
 T was the love of noble game 
 Set his oaken heart on flame, 
 For to him 't was all the same 
 
 Sport and war. 
 
 All hands and eyes on watch, 
 
 As they keep; 
 
 By their motion light as wings, 
 .By each step that haughty springs. 
 You might know them for the kings 
 
 Of the deep!
 
 76 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 
 
 'T was the Edgar first that smote 
 
 Denmark's line; 
 
 As her flag the foremost soared, 
 Murray stamped his foot on board, 
 And an hundred cannons roared 
 
 At the sign! 
 
 Three cheers of all the fleet 
 
 Sung huzza! 
 
 Then, from centre, rear, and van, 
 Every captain, every man, 
 With a lion's heart began 
 
 To the fray. 
 
 O, dark grew soon the heavens 
 
 For each gun, 
 From its adamantine lips, 
 Spread a death-shade round the ships 
 Like a hurricane eclipse 
 
 Of the sun. 
 
 Three hours the raging fire 
 
 Did not slack; 
 
 But the fourth, their signals drear 
 Of distress and wreck appear, 
 And the Dane a feeble cheer 
 
 Sent us back. 
 
 The voice decayed, their shots 
 
 Slowly boom. 
 
 They ceased and all is wail, 
 As they strike the shattered sail, 
 Or in conflagration pale 
 
 Light the gloom. 
 
 O! death it was a sight 
 
 Filled our eyes! 
 But we rescued many a crew 
 From the waves of scarlet hue, 
 Ere the cross of England flew 
 
 O'er her prize. 
 
 Why ceased not here the strife, 
 
 O, yc brave? 
 
 Why bleeds old England's band, 
 By the fire of Danish land, 
 That smites the very hand 
 
 Stretched to save?
 
 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 77 
 
 But the Britons sent to warn 
 
 Denmark's town; 
 Proud foes, let vengeance sleep ' 
 If another chain-shot sweep 
 All our navy in the deep 
 
 Shall go down! 
 
 Then, peace instead of death 
 
 Let us bring! 
 
 If you '11 yield your conquered fleet, 
 With the crews, at England's feet, 
 And make submission meet 
 
 To our king! 
 
 Then death withdrew his pall 
 
 From the day; 
 
 And the sun looked smiling bright 
 On a wide and woful sight, 
 Where the fires of funeral light 
 
 Died away. 
 
 Yet all amidst her wrecks, 
 
 And her gore, 
 
 Proud Denmark blest our chief 
 That he gave her wounds relief; 
 And the sounds of joy and grief 
 
 Filled her shore. 
 
 All round, outlandish cries 
 
 Loudly broke; 
 But a nobler note was rung, 
 When the British, old and young, 
 To their bands of music sung 
 
 " Hearts of oak!" 
 
 Cheer! cheer! from park and tower 
 
 London town! 
 
 When the king shall ride in state 
 From St. James's royal gate, 
 And to all his peers relate 
 
 Our renown! 
 
 The bells shall ring! the day 
 
 Shall not elope, 
 But a blaze of cities bright 
 Shall illuminate the night, 
 And the wine-cup shine in light 
 
 As it flows!
 
 73 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 
 
 Yet yet, amid the joy 
 
 And uproar, 
 
 Let us think of them that sleep 
 Full many a fathom deep 
 All beside thy rocky steep, 
 
 Elsinore! 
 
 Brave hearts, to Britain's weal 
 
 Once so true! 
 
 Though death has quenched your flamt 
 Yet immortal be your name! 
 For ye died the death of fame 
 
 With Riou! 
 
 Soft sigh the winds of heav.en 
 
 O'er your grave! 
 While the billow mournful rolls, 
 And the mermaid's song condoles, 
 Singing glory to the souls 
 
 Of the brave!
 
 ON SENDING REINFORCEMENTS. 79 
 
 EPIGRAM, 
 
 ON THKEE YOUNG LADIES, HIS PUPILS. 
 
 To be instructed by the Graces, 
 
 Let other bards their favor sue ; 
 But when I view your learning faces, 
 Dear Mary, Fanny, Caroline, 
 A more delightful boast is mine ; 
 I teach the Graces while I ? m teaching you. 
 
 1809. 
 
 ON SENDING REINFORCEMENTS 
 
 TO THE ENGLISH AKMIES IN SPA IX. 
 
 As recruits, in these times, are not easily got, 
 
 And the Marshal must have them, pray why should 
 
 we not, 
 As the last and I grant you the worst of our 
 
 loans to him, 
 
 Ship off the whole Ministry, body and bones, to him ? 
 There's not in all England, I'll venture to swear, 
 Any men we could half so conveniently spare ; 
 And, though they've been helping the French for 
 
 years past, 
 
 We may thus make them useful to England at last : 
 Castlereagh, in our sieges, might save some disgraces, 
 Being versed in the taking, and keeping, of places ; 
 And Chancellor Eldon, still canting and A\ Inning, 
 Might show off his talents, in sly undermining; 
 Could the Household but spare us its glory ;>.nd pride, 
 Old H f t at horn-works, again might he tried, 
 And the Chief-Justice make a bold charge at his side ;
 
 THE CRUEL SEMPSTRESS. 
 
 While Vansittart might victual the troops upon tick, 
 And the Doctor look after the baggage and sick. 
 
 ISTay, I do not see why the great Regent himself 
 Should, in times such as these, lie at home on the 
 
 shelf; 
 
 Though in narrow denies he's not fitted to pass, 
 Yet, who could resist, if he bore down en masse ? 
 And though, of an evening, he sometimes might 
 
 prove, 
 
 Like our brave Spanish Allies, ' unable to move !' 
 Yet one thing there is, of advantage unbounded, 
 Which is that he could not with ease be sur- 
 rounded. 
 
 In my next, I shall sing of their arms and equip- 
 ment; 
 
 At present no more but good luck to the ship- 
 ment! 
 
 1613. 
 
 THE CRUEL SEMPSTRESS; 
 
 Oil. A RIGHT PITEOUS AND HEROIC TRAGEDY, IX THE 
 MANNER OF MISTER WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Prince. . . . OH, picture in the gallery of your 
 
 thoughts 
 
 Me asked to dine abroad : shaved, toiletted, 
 Busked brave in silken hose, and glossy shoon ; 
 But, rummaging my wardrobe struck aghast, 
 To find no wearable untattered shirt ! 
 Obliged to ring the bell, and call my boy, 
 And send him with a scribbled note, as sad 
 As nightingale's lamenting for her young, 
 To say I cannot come ! to frame a fib 
 A white one in my black despair, and sealed
 
 THE BATTLE-MORN. 81 
 
 "With wax as ruddy as the drops of blood 
 
 That visit this sad heart ! No Burgundy 
 
 For me this day, nor bright champagne, blanc-munge, 
 
 Nor jelly ! Nor can fancy fill the void 
 
 Of thwarted hope by figuring a lost feast : 
 
 Or who can treat his palate to champagne 
 
 By merely thinking of its sparkling bubbles ? 
 
 And who can put a shirt upon his back 
 
 By barely thinking of a shirt ? . . . . 
 
 THE BATTLE-MORN. 
 
 A TROUBADOUR SOXG FOR -WATERLOO. 
 
 I HAVE buckled the sword to my side, 
 I have woke at the sound of the drum ; 
 For the banners of France are descried, 
 And the day of the battle is come ! 
 Thick as dew-drops bespangling the grass 
 Shine our arms o'er the field of renown ; 
 And the sun looks on thousands, alas ! 
 That will never behold him go down. 
 
 Oh, my saint ! Oh, my mistress ! this morn. 
 On thy name how I rest like a charm ! 
 Every dastard sensation to scorn 
 In the moment of death and alarm ! 
 For what are those foemen to fear, 
 Or the death-shot descending to crush, 
 Like the thought that the cheek of my dear, 
 For a stain on my honor should blush ? 
 
 Fallen chiefs, when the battle is o'er, 
 Shall to glory their ashes intrust, 
 While the heart that loves thee to its core, 
 May be namelessly laid in the dust ! 
 D*
 
 S2 CHARADES. 
 
 Yet content to the combat I go, 
 
 Let my love in thy memory rest ; 
 
 Nor my name shall be lost for I know 
 
 That it lives in the shrine of thy breast ! 
 
 1815 
 
 CHARADES. 1829. 
 
 COME from my first, aye come ! 
 
 The battle dawn is nigh ; 
 And the screaming trump and the thundering drum 
 
 Are calling thee to die ! 
 
 Fight as thy fathers fought ! 
 
 Fall as thy fathers fell ! 
 Thy task is taught thy shroud is wrought 
 
 So, forward, and farewell ! 
 
 Toll ye my second, toll ! 
 
 Fling high the flambeau's light, 
 And sing ye the hymn of a parted soul ! 
 
 What do the stricken-blind and wise 
 , In common They philosophize ! (Feel loss of 
 eyes !) 
 
 FRAGMENT FROM THE " RHENISH 
 BARON." 
 
 AX TTSTIXISHED POEM. 
 
 .... the Abbot's mien was high, 
 And fiery black his persecuting eye ; 
 And swarthy his complexion void of bloom, 
 As if the times had steeped it in their gloom.
 
 FRAGMENT. 83 
 
 No butt for sophists, they got back from him 
 Shafts venomous with zeal and winged with whim : 
 For he had wit 't was whispered even to shine 
 In merriment, and joys not quite divine 
 His bigotry itself had something gay, 
 A tiger's strength exuberant even to play. 
 But make him serious ! and how trivial then 
 Was all the gravity of other men 
 Compared to his ! At the High Mass, you saw 
 His presence deepening the mysterious awe. 
 What though his creed, a Babel structure, frow::cd 
 In human pride, usurping Scripture ground, 
 His preaching terrified the heart to scan 
 Its faith, and stunned the reasoning powers of man ; 
 Yet still the effect was awful, and the mind 
 Was kindled by the flash it left behind. 
 Wild legends, relics, things grotesque and naught, 
 He made them great by passions which he wrougl i r ; 
 Till visions crossed the wrapt enthusiast's glance, 
 And all the scene became a waking trance ! 
 Then tears of pictured saints appeared to iall 
 Then written texts seemed speaking from the wall : 
 The hallelujah burst the tapers blazed 
 With more than earthly pomp : and Bernard raised 
 A voice that rilled the abbey with its tones, 
 Till fancy dreamt the very tombs and stones 
 Of Martyrs, glaring through the aisle's long track, 
 Were conscious of the sounds they echoed back ! 
 
 1833.
 
 84 LOKD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 A CHIEFTAIX, to the Highlands bound, 
 Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! 
 
 And I '11 give thee a silver pound, 
 To row us o'er the ferry." 
 
 " Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle 
 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 
 Tliree days we 've fled together, 
 
 Tor 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 f 
 
 Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
 " I '11 go, my chief I 'm ready : 
 
 It is not for your silver bright j 
 But for your winsome lady : 
 
 And by my word ! the bonny bird 
 
 In danger shall not tarry : 
 So though the waves are raging white, 
 
 I '11 row you o'er the ferry." 
 
 By this the storm grew loud apace, 
 The water-wraith was shrieking ; 
 
 And in the scowl of heaven each luce 
 Grew dark as they were speaking.
 
 LORD ULLIX'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 JBut still as wilder blew the wind, 
 
 And as the night grew drearer, 
 Adown the glen rode armed men, 
 
 Their trampling sounded nearer. 
 
 *' Oh haste thee, haste !" the lady cries, 
 "Though tempests round us gather; 
 
 I '11 meet the raging of the skies, 
 But not an angry father.' 7 
 
 The boat has left a stormy land, 
 
 A stormy sea before her, 
 "When, oh I too strong for human hand, 
 
 The tempest gathered o'er her. 
 
 And still they rowed amidst the roar 
 
 Of waters fast prevailing r 
 Xord Ullin reached that fatal shore, 
 
 His wrath was changed to wailing. 
 
 For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, 
 
 His child he did discover: 
 One lovely hand she stretched for aid, 
 
 And one was round her lover. 
 
 "Come back ! come back !" he cried in grief, 
 
 " Across this stormy water: 
 And I '11 forgive your Highland chief, 
 
 My daughter! oh, my daughter!" 
 
 *T was vain : the loud waves lashed the shore, 
 
 Return or aid preventing: 
 The waters wild went o'er his child, 
 
 And he was left lamenting. 
 
 1804.
 
 80 ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 
 
 ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS 
 
 SOUL of the Poet ! wheresoe'er, 
 Reclaimed from earth, thy genius plume 
 Her \vings 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 BURXS'S name, 
 Exorcised by his memory ; 
 For he was chief of bards that swell 
 The heart with songs of social flame, 
 And high delicious revelry. 
 
 And Love's own strain to him was given, 
 
 To warble all its ecstacies 
 
 With Pythian words unsought, unwilled,- 
 
 Love, the surviving gift of Heaven, 
 
 The choicest sweet of Paradise, 
 
 In life's else bitter cup distilled. 
 
 Who that has melted o'er his lay 
 To Mary's soul, in Heaven above, 
 But pictured sees, in fancy strong, 
 The landscape and the livelong day 
 That smiled upon their mutual love ? 
 Who that has felt forgets the sonc- 1 
 
 c? o 
 
 Nor skilled one flame alone to fan : 
 His country's high-souled peasantry 
 What patriot-pride he taught ! how much 
 To weigh the inborn worth of man ! 
 And rustic life and poverty 
 Grow beautiful beneath his touch.
 
 ODE TO THE MEMORY OF LULXS. 
 
 Him, in his clay-built cot, the Muse 
 Entranced, and showed him all the forms, 
 Of fairy-light and wizard gloom, 
 (That only gifted Poet views,) 
 The Genii of the floods and storms, 
 And martial shades from Glory's tomb. 
 
 On Bannock-field what thoughts arouse 
 
 The swain whom BUKNS'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, tanned 
 
 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. 
 
 Encamped by Indian rivers wild, 
 
 The soldier resting on his arms, 
 
 In BTTKNS'S carol sweet recalls 
 
 The scenes that blessed him when a cliild, 
 
 And glows and gladdens at the charms 
 
 Of Scotia's woods and waterfalls. 
 
 O deem not, 'midst this worldly strife, 
 An idle art the Poet brings : 
 Let high Philosophy contiol, 
 And sages calm the stream of life, 
 'T is 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 ; 7 t is she elates
 
 83 ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 
 
 To sweep the field or ride the wave, 
 A sunburst in the storm of death. 
 
 And thou, young hero, when thy pall 
 
 Is crossed with mournful sword and plume. 
 
 When public grief begins to fade, 
 
 And only tears of kindred fall, 
 
 Who but the bard shall dress tlry tomb, 
 
 And greet with fame thy gallant shade ? 
 
 Snch was the soldier BUKNS, forgive 
 That sorrows of mine own intrude 
 In strains to thy great memory due. 
 In verse like thine, oh ! could he five, 
 The friend I mourned the brave the good- 
 Edward that died at Waterloo !* 
 
 Farewell, high chief of Scottish song ! 
 That couldst alternately impart 
 Wisdom and rapture in thy page, 
 And brand each vice with satire strong, 
 Whose lines are mottoes of the heart, 
 Whose truths electrify the sage. 
 
 Farewell ! and ne'er may Envy dare 
 To wring one baleful poison drop 
 From the crashed laurels of thy bust j 
 But while the lark sings sweet in air, 
 Still may the grateful pilgrim stop, 
 To bless the spot that holds thv dust. 
 
 1815. 
 
 * Major Edward Hodge, of the 7th Huzzars, who fell at the head 
 of his squadron in the attack of the Polish Lancers.
 
 iOVE AND MADNESS. 89 
 
 LOVE AND MADNESS. 
 
 AX ELEGY. WRITTEN IX 1795. 
 
 HARK ! from the battlements of yonder tower * 
 The solemn bell has tolled the midnight hour ! 
 Housed from drear visions of distempered sleep, 
 Poor Broderick wakes in solitude to weep ! 
 
 i: 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 Errington was kind ! 
 
 Yet ; can I cease, while glows this trembling- 
 
 frame, 
 
 In sighs to speak thy melancholy name ! 
 I hear thy spirit wail in every storm ! 
 In midnight shades I view thy passing form ! 
 Pale as in that sad hour when doomed to feel ! 
 Deep in thy perjured heart, the bloody steel ! 
 
 Demons of Vengeance ! ye, at whose command 
 I grasped the sword with more than woman's hand 
 Say ye, did Pity's trembling voice control, 
 Or horror damp the purpose of my soul ? 
 No ! my wild heart sat smiling o'er the plan, 
 Till Hate fulfilled what baffled love began ! 
 
 Yes ; let the clay-cold breast that never knew 
 One tender pang to generous nature tine, 
 
 * Warwick Castle.
 
 00 LOVE AND 
 
 Half-iningling pity with the gall of scorn, 
 Condemn this heart, that bled in love forlorn ! 
 
 And ye, proud fair, whose soul no gladness 
 
 warms, 
 
 Save Rapture's homage to your conscious charms ! 
 Delighted idols of a gaudy train, 
 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 tho 
 
 deed, 
 
 When Vengeance bade thee, faithless lover ! bleed ? 
 Long had I watched thy dark foreboding brow. 
 What time thy bosom scorned its dearest vow ! 
 Sad, though I wept the friend, the lover changed, 
 Still thy cold look was scornful and estranged, 
 Till from thy pity, love, and shelter thrown, 
 I wandered hopeless, friendless, and alone ! 
 
 Oh ! righteous Heaven ! 't was then my tortured 
 
 soul 
 
 First gave to wrath unlimited control ! 
 Adieu the silent look ! the streaming eye ! 
 
 The murmured plaint! the deep heart-heaving 
 vi 
 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 ! 
 
 'T is 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 !
 
 LOVE AND MADNESS. 91 
 
 Cold on my heart the hand of terror lies, 
 And shades of horror close my languid eyes ! 
 
 Oh ! J t was a deed of Murder's deepest grain ! 
 Could Broderick's soul so true to wrath remain I 
 A friend long true, a once fond lover fell ? 
 Where Love was fostered could not Pity dwell ? 
 
 Unhappy youth ! while yon pale crescent glows 
 To watch on silent Nature's deep repose, 
 Thy sleepless spirit, breathing from the tomb, 
 Foretells my fate, and summons me to come ! 
 Once more I see thy sheeted spectre stand, 
 Roll the dim eye, and wave the paly hand ! 
 
 Soon may this fluttering spark of vital flame 
 Forsake its languid melancholy frame ! 
 Soon may these eyes their trembling lustre close, 
 Welcome the dreamless night of long repose ! 
 Soon may this woe-worn spirit seek the bourne 
 Where, lulled to slumber, Grief forgets to mourn P
 
 3 f <J TO THE RAINBOW. 
 
 TO THE RAINBOW. 
 
 TRIUMPHAL arch, that filPst 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 I 
 
 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. 
 
 When o'er the green undeluged earth 
 Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, 
 
 How came the world's gray fathers forth' 
 To watch thy sacred sign ! 
 
 And when its yellow lustre smiled 
 
 O'er mountains yet untrod, 
 Each mother held aloft her child 
 
 To bless the bow of God.
 
 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 Metbinks, thy jubilee to keep, 
 The first-made anthem rang 
 On -earth delivered from the deep, 
 And the first poet sang. 
 
 Xor ever shall the Muse's eye 
 Un raptured greet thy beam ; 
 
 Theme of primeval prophecy, 
 Be still the prophet's theme ! 
 
 The earth to thee her incense yields, 
 The lark thy welcome sings, 
 
 When glittering in the freshened fields 
 The snowy mushroom springs. 
 
 How glorious is thy girdle, cast 
 O'er mountain, tower, and town, 
 
 Or mirrored in the ocean vast, 
 A thousand fattoms down ! 
 
 As fresh in yon horizon dark, N 
 As young thy beauties seem, 
 
 As when the eagle from the ark 
 First sported in thy beam : 
 
 For, faithful to its sacred page, 
 Heaven still rebuilds thy span, 
 
 Xor lets the type grow pale with age 
 That first spoke peace to man. 
 
 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, 
 
 The Sun himself must die, 
 Before this mortal shall assume 
 
 Its Immortality !
 
 94 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 I saw a vision in my sleep, 
 
 That gave my spirit strength to sweep 
 
 Adown the gulf of Time ! 
 I saw the last of human mould 
 That shall Creation's death behold, 
 
 As Adam saw her prime ! 
 
 The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, 
 
 The Earth with age was wan, 
 The skeletons of nations were 
 
 Around that lonely man ! 
 Some had expired in fight, the brands 
 Still rusted in their bony hands 
 
 In plague and famine some ! 
 Earth's cities had no sound nor tread ; 
 And ships were drifting with the dead 
 
 To shores where all was dumb ! 
 
 Yet, prophet like, that lone one stood, 
 
 With dauntless words and high, 
 That shook the sere leaves from the wood 
 
 As if a storm passed by, 
 Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun ! 
 Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 
 
 'Tis Mercy bids thee go ; 
 For thou ten thousand thousand years 
 Hast seen the tide of human tears, 
 
 That shall no longer flow. 
 
 What though beneath thee man put forth 
 
 His pomp, his pride, his skill ; 
 And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, 
 
 The vassals of his will ? 
 Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, 
 Thou dim discrowned king of day 5 
 
 For all those trophied arts 
 And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, 
 Healed not a passion or a pang 
 
 Entailed on human hearts.
 
 THE LAST MAN. 95 
 
 Go, let oblivion's curtain fall 
 
 Upon the stage of men, 
 Nor with thy rising beams recall 
 
 Life's tragedy again : 
 Its piteous pageants bring not back, 
 Nor waken flesh, upon the rack 
 
 Of pain anew to writhe ; 
 Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred, 
 Or mown in battle by the sword. 
 
 Like grass beneath the scythe. 
 
 Even I am weary in yon skies 
 
 To watch thy fading fire ; 
 Test of all sumless agonies, 
 
 Behold not me expire. 
 My lips that speak thy dirge of death 
 Their rounded gasp and gurgling Itreath 
 
 To see thou shalt not boast. 
 The eclipse of Nature spreads iny pall, 
 The majesty of Darkness shall 
 
 Receive my parting ghost ! 
 
 This spirit shall return to Him 
 
 Who gave its heavenly spark ; 
 Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim 
 
 When thou thyself art dark ! 
 No ! it shall live again, and shine 
 In bliss unknown to beams of thine, 
 
 By him recalled to breath, 
 Who captive led captivity, 
 Who robbed the grave of Victory, 
 
 And took the sting from Death ! 
 
 Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up 
 
 On Nature's awful waste 
 To drink this last and bitter cup 
 
 Of grief that man shall taste 
 Go, tell the night that hides thy face, 
 Thou saVst the last of Adam's race,
 
 9C A DREAM. 
 
 On Earth's sepulchral clod, 
 The darkening universe defy 
 To quench his Immortality, 
 
 Or shake his trust in God ! 
 
 1828. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 WELL may sleep present us fictions, 
 
 Since our waking moments teem 
 With such fanciful convictions 
 
 As make life itself a dream. 
 Half our daylight faith a fable ; 
 
 Sleep disports with shadows too, 
 Seeming in their turn as stable 
 
 As the world we wake to view. 
 Xe'er by day did Reason's mint 
 Give my thoughts a clearer print 
 < )f assured reality, 
 Than was left by Phantasy 
 Stamped and colored on my sprite, 
 In a dream of yesternight. 
 
 In a bark, methought, lone steering, 
 
 I was cast on Ocean's strife ; 
 This 7 t was whispered in my hearing, 
 
 Meant the sea of life. 
 Sad regrets from past existence 
 
 Came like gales of chilling breath ; 
 Shadowed in the forward distance 
 
 Lay the land of Death. 
 Xow seeming more, now less remote, 
 On that dim-seen shore, methought, 
 1 beheld two hands a 'space 
 Slow unshroud a spectre's face ; 
 And my flesh's hairupstood, 
 } T was mine own similitude.
 
 A DREAM. 07 
 
 But my soul revived at seeing 
 
 Ocean, like an emerald spark, 
 Kindle, while an air-dropt being 
 
 Smiling steered my bark 
 Heaven-like yet he looked as human 
 
 As supernal beauty can, 
 More compassionate than woman, 
 
 Lordly more than man. 
 And as some sweet clarion's breath 
 Stirs the soldier's scorn of death 
 So his accents bade me brook 
 The spectre's eyes of icy look, 
 Till it shut them turned its head, 
 Like a beaten foe, and fled. 
 
 " Types not this," I said, " fair spirit ! 
 
 That my death hour is not come ? 
 Say, what days shall I inherit ? 
 
 Tell my soul their sum." 
 "No," he said, "yon phantom's aspect, 
 
 Trust me would appall thee 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. 
 
 'T is 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 '? 
 E
 
 93 VALEDICTORY STANZAS. 
 
 Could experience, ten times thine, 
 Pain from Being disentwine 
 Threads by Fate together spun ! 
 Could thy flight Heaven's lightning shun f 
 No, nor could thy foresight's glance 
 'Scape the myriad shafts of Chance. 
 
 Would'st thou bear again Love's trouble 
 
 Friendship's death-dissevered ties ; 
 Toil to grasp or miss the bubble 
 
 Of Ambition's prize ? 
 Say thy life's new guided action 
 
 Flowed from Virtue's fairest springs 
 Still would Envy and Detraction 
 
 Double not their stings ? 
 Worth itself is but a charter 
 To be mankind's distinguished martyr.' 1 
 I caught the moral, and cried, " Hail ! 
 Spirit! let us onward sail 
 Envying, fearing, hating none 
 Guardian Spirit, steer me on !" 
 
 1824. 
 
 VALEDICTORY STANZAS. 
 
 TO J. P. KEMBLE, ESQ. 
 
 COMPOSED FOll A I'UBLIC MEETING, HELD JUNE, 1817. 
 
 PRIDE of the British stage, 
 
 A long and last adieu ! 
 Whose image brought th' heroic age 
 
 Revived to Fancy's view. 
 Like fields refreshed with dewy light 
 
 When the sun smiles his last, 
 Thy parting presence makes more bright 
 
 Our memory of the past ;
 
 VALEDICTORY STANZAS. 99 
 
 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 swell o'er hearts 
 
 Which only Acting lends, 
 The youngest of the sister Arts, 
 
 Where all their beauty blends : 
 For ill can Poetry express 
 
 Full many a tone of thought sublime 1 , 
 And Painting, mute and motionless, 
 
 Steals but a glance of time. 
 But by the mighty actor brought, 
 
 Illusion's perfect triumphs come, 
 Verse ceases to be airy thought, 
 
 And Sculpture to be dumb. 
 
 Time may again revive, 
 
 But ne'er eclipse the charm, 
 When Cato spoke in him alive, 
 
 Or Hotspur kindled warm. 
 What soul was not resigned entire 
 
 To the deep sorrows of the Moor, 
 What English heart was not on fire 
 
 With him at Agincourt ? 
 And yet a majesty possessed 
 
 His transport's most impetuous tone, 
 And to each passion of the breast 
 
 The Graces gave their zone. 
 
 High were the task too high, 
 
 Ye conscious bosoms here ! 
 In words to paint your memory 
 
 Of Kemble and of Lear ; 
 But who forgets that white discrowned head. 
 
 Those bursts of Reason's half-extinguished glare. 
 Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed, 
 In doubt more touching than despair,
 
 Ilia VALEDICTORY STANZAS. 
 
 If 't was reality he felt ? 
 
 Had Shakspeare's self amidst y:>:i been, 
 Friends, he had seen you melt, 
 
 And triumphed to have seen ! 
 
 And there was many an hour 
 
 Of blended kindred fame, 
 Vriien Siddons's auxiliar power 
 
 And sister magic came. 
 Together at the Muse's side 
 
 The tragic paragons had grown 
 They were the children of her pride, 
 
 The columns of her throne, 
 And undivided favor ran 
 
 From heart to heart in their applause, 
 Save for the gallantry of man 
 
 In lovelier woman's cause. 
 
 Fair as some classic dome, 
 
 llobust and richly graced, 
 Your KE^BLE'S spirit was the home 
 
 ( )f genius and of taste ; 
 Taste, like the silent dial's power, 
 
 That, when supernal light is given, 
 Can measure inspiration's hour, 
 
 And tell its height in heaven. 
 At once ennobled and correct, 
 
 His mind surveyed 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 ! 
 
 'T is all a transient hour below ; 
 And we that would detain thee here, 
 
 Ourselves as fleetly go !
 
 VALEDICTORY STANZAS. 101 
 
 Yet shall our latest age 
 
 This parting scene review : 
 Pride of the British stage, 
 
 A long and last adieu !
 
 GEBTRUDE OF WYOMING. 
 
 IN THREE PARTS. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 Host of the popular histories of England, as well as of the 
 .Ajnerican war. give an authentic account of the desolation of 
 \Tyoming, in Pennsylvania, which took place in 1778, by an in- 
 cursion of the Indians. The scenery and incidents of the follow- 
 ing Poem are connected with that event. The testimonies of 
 historians and travellers concur in describing tiie infant colony 
 as one of the happiest spots of human existence, for the hospita- 
 ble 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 con- 
 verted this terrestrial paradise into a frightful waste. Mr. ISAAC 
 WELD informs us, that the ruins of many of the villages, perfo- 
 rated with balls, and bearing marks of conflagration, were still 
 preserved by the recent inhabitants, when he travelled through 
 America in 1796.
 
 GEKTKUDE OF WYOMING. 
 
 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 
 
 PAKT I. 
 I. 
 
 ON Susquehanna's side, fair "Wyoming ', 
 Although the wild-flower on thy ruined wall, 
 And roofless homes, a sad remembrance bring 
 Of what thy gentle people did befall ; 
 Yet thou wert once the loveliest land of all 
 That see the Atlantic wave their morn restore. 
 Sweet land ! may I thy lost delights recall, 
 And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore, 
 Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania's shore. 
 
 II. 
 
 Delightful Wyoming ! beneath thy skies, 
 The happy shepherd swains had nought to do 
 But feed their flocks on green declivities, 
 Or skim perchance thy lake with light canoe, 
 From morn till evening's sweeter pastime grew, 
 With timbrel, when beneath the forest brown, 
 Thy lovely maidens would the dance renew ; 
 And aye those sunny mountains half-way do\vn 
 Would echo flagelet from some romantic town. 
 
 in. 
 
 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,
 
 104 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 
 
 From merry mock-bird's song, or hum of men ; 
 While hearkening, fearing nought their revelry, 
 The wild deer arched his neck from glades, and then, 
 Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And scarce had Wyoming of war or crime 
 Heard, but in transatlantic stoiy 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 prun 
 ing-hook. 
 
 v. 
 
 Nor far some Andalusiau saraband 
 Would sound to many a native roundelay 
 But who is he that yet a dearer land 
 Remembers, over hills and far away ? 
 Green Albin !* what though he no more survey 
 Thy ships at anchor on the quiet shore, 
 Thy pellochst rolling from the mountain bay, 
 Thy lone sepulchral cairn upon the moor, 
 And distant isles that hear the loud CorbrechtanJ 
 roar! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Alas ! poor Caledonia's mountaineer, 
 That want's stern edict e'er, and feudal grief, 
 Had forced him from a home he loved so dear ! 
 Yet found he here a home and glad relief, 
 
 * Scotland . 
 
 t The Gaelic appellation for the porpoise. 
 
 $ The great whirlpool of the western Hebrides.
 
 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. lor> 
 
 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 sealed in blood a fellow creature's doom, 
 Nor mourned the captive in a living tomb. 
 One venerable man, beloved of all, 
 Sufficed, where innocence was yet in bloom, 
 To sway the strife, that seldom might befall : 
 And Albert was their judge, in patriarchal hall. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 How reverend was the look, serenely aged, 
 He bore, this gentle Pennsylvanian sire, 
 Where all but kindly fervors were assuaged, 
 Undimmed by weakness' shade, or turbid ire ! 
 And though, amidst the calm of thought entire, 
 Some high and haughty features might betray, 
 A soul impetuous once, 't was 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 daylight truth's salubrious skies 
 
 No form with which the soul may sympathize "? 
 
 Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mild
 
 1C j GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 
 
 The parted ringlet shone in simplest guise. 
 An inmate in the home of Albert smiled, 
 Or blessed his noonday walk she was his only 
 child. 
 
 The rose of England bloomed 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 fire 
 The light of social love did long inspire, 
 And many a halcyon day he lived to see 
 Unbroken but by one misfortune dire, 
 When fate had reft his mutual heart but she 
 Was gone and Gertrude climbed a widowed father's 
 knee. 
 
 XI. 
 
 A love 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, undesigned !) 
 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 :)
 
 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 17 
 
 All uncompanioned else her heart had gone 
 Till now, in Gertrude's eyes their ninth blue sur.uncr 
 shone. 
 
 xm. 
 
 And summer was the tide, and sweet the hour, 
 When sire and daughter saw, with fleet desce:.r. 
 An Indian from his bark approach their bower. 
 Of buskined limb, and swarthy lineament ; 
 The red wild feathers on his brow were blent, 
 And bracelets bound the arm that helped to light 
 A boy, who seemed, as he beside him went, 
 Of Christian vesture, and complexion bright, 
 Led by his dusky guide, like morning brought by 
 night. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Yet pensive seemed the boy for one so young 
 The dimple from his polished cheek had fled ; 
 When, leaning on his forest-bow unstrung, 
 The Oneyda warrior to the planter said, 
 And laid his hand upon the stripling's head, 
 " Peace be to thee ! my words this belt approve j 
 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 launched 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 !
 
 108 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 It was encamping 1 on the lake's far port, 
 A cry of Areouski* broke our sleep, 
 Where stormed an ambushed foe thy nation's fort, 
 And rapid, rapid whoops came o'er the deep ; 
 But long thy country's war-sign on the steep 
 Appeared through ghastly intervals of light, 
 And deathfully their thunders seemed to sweep, 
 Till utter darkness swallowed up the sight, 
 As if a shower of blood had quenched the iierv 
 fight ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 It slept it rose again on high their tower 
 Sprung upwards like a torch to light the skies, 
 Then down again it rained an ember shower, 
 And louder lamentations heard we rise : 
 As when the evil Manitou that dries 
 Th' Ohio woods, consumes them in his hv, 
 In vain the desolated panther flies, 
 And howls amidst his wilderness of fire : 
 Alas! too late, we reached and smote those Iluroiis 
 flire! 
 
 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 : 
 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 sobbed, and swooned away. 
 Or shrieked unto the God to whom the Christians 
 pray. 
 
 " The Indian God of War.
 
 GERTRUDE OF WYO: IIX: J. 109 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Our virgins fed her with their kindly bowls 
 Of fever-balm and sweet sagamite : 
 But she was journeying to the land of souls, 
 And lifted up her dying head to pray 
 That we should bid an ancient friend convoy 
 Her orphan to his home of England's shore ; 
 And take, she said, this token far away, 
 To one that will remember us of yore, 
 When he beholds the ring that Waldegrave's Julia 
 wore. 
 
 xx. 
 
 And I, the eagle of my tribe, have rushed 
 With this lorn dove." A sage's self-command 
 Had quelled the tears from Albert's heart that 
 
 gushed ; 
 
 But yet his cheek his agitated hand 
 That showered upon the stranger of the land 
 No common boon, in grief but ill beguiled 
 A soul that was not wont to be unmanned ; 
 " And stay," he cried, " dear pilgrim of the wild, 
 Preserver of my old, my boon companion's cliild ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Cliild of a race whose name my bosom warms, 
 On earth's remotest bounds how welcome here ! 
 Whose mother oft, a child, has filled these afcns, 
 Young as thyself, and innocently dear. 
 Whose grandsire was my early life's compeer. 
 Ah, happiest home of England's happy clime ! 
 How beautiful even now thy scenes appear, 
 As in the noon and sunshine of my prime ! 
 How gone like yesterday these thrice ten years of 
 time! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 And Julia ! when thou wert like Gertrude now, 
 Can I forget theo, favorite child of yore ?
 
 110 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 
 
 Or thought I, in thy father's house, when thou 
 Wert lightest-hearted on his festive floor, 
 And first of all his hospitable door 
 To meet and kiss me at my journey's end f 
 But where was I when Waldegrave was no more ? 
 And thou didst pale thy gentle head extend 
 In woes, that even the tribe of deserts wab thy 
 friend!" 
 
 xxm. 
 
 He said and strained unto his heart the boy j 
 Far differently, the mute Oneyda took 
 His calumet of peace and cup of joy ; 
 As monumental bronze unchanged his look ; 
 A soul that pity touched, but never shook ; 
 Trained from his tree-rocked cradle to his bier 
 The fierce extreme of good and ill to brook 
 Impassive fearing but the shame of fear 
 A stoic of the woods a man without a tear. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Yet deem not goodness on the savage stock 
 Of Outalissi's heart disdained to grow ; 
 As lives the oak unwithered on the rock 
 By storms above, and barrenness below ; 
 He scorned his own, who felt another's woe : 
 And e/e 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. 
 
 xxv. 
 
 " 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 plucked the thorns of sorrow from thy feet ; 
 While I in Idnely wilderness shall greet
 
 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. Ill 
 
 Thy little foot-prints or by traces know 
 The fountain, where at noon I thought it sweet 
 To feed thee with the quarry of my bow, 
 And poured the lotus-horn, or slew the mountain 
 roe. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Adieu, sweet scion of the rising sun ! 
 But should affliction's storms thy blossom mock, 
 Then come again my own adopted one ! 
 And I will graft thee on a noble stock : 
 The crocodile, the condor of the rock, 
 Shall be the pastime of thy sylvan wars ; 
 And I will teach thee in the battle's shock, 
 To pay with Huron blood thy father's scars !" 
 And gratulate his soul rejoicing in the stars !" 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 So finished he the rhyme (howe'er uncouth) 
 That true to nature's fervid feelings ran ; 
 (And song is but the eloquence of truth :) 
 Then forth uprose that lone way-faring man ; 
 But dauntless he, nor chart, nor journey's plan 
 In woods required, whose trained eye was keen, 
 As eagle of the wilderness, to scan 
 His path by mountain, swamp, or deep ravine, 
 Or ken far friendly huts on good savannas green. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Old Albert saw him from the valley's side 
 
 His pirogue launched his pilgrimage begun 
 
 Far, like the red-bird's wing he seemed to glide j 
 
 Then dived, and vanished 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 in the sun ; 
 
 But never more to bless his longing sight, 
 
 Was Outalissi hailed, with bark and plumage bright-
 
 112 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 
 
 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 
 
 PART II. 
 I. 
 
 A VALLEY from the river shore withdrawn 
 Was Albert's home, two quiet woods between, 
 Whose lofty verdure overlooked his lawn ; 
 And waters to their resting-place serene 
 Came freshening 1 , and reflecting all the scene ; 
 (A mirror in the depth of flowery shelves;) 
 So sweet a spot of earth, you might (I ween) 
 Have guessed some congregation of the elves, 
 To sport by summer moons, had shaped it for them 
 selves. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Yet wanted not the eye far scope to muse, 
 Nor vistas opened by the wandering stream ; 
 Both were at evening Alleghany views, 
 Through ridges burning in her western beam, 
 Lake after lake interminably gleam : 
 And past those settlers' haunts the eye might roam 
 Where earth's unliving silence all would seem ; 
 Save where on rocks the beaver built his dome, 
 Or buffalo remote lowed far from human home. 
 
 in. 
 
 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,)
 
 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 113 
 
 Like tumults heard from some far distant town j 
 But softening in approach he left his gloom, 
 And murmured pleasantly, and laid him down 
 To kiss those easy curving banks of bloom, 
 That lent the windward ah* an exquisite perfume. 
 
 IV. 
 
 It seemed as if those scenes sweet influence had 
 On Gertrude's soul, and kindness like their own 
 Inspired those eyes affectionate and glad, 
 That seemed to love whate'er they looked upon ; 
 Whether with Hebe's mirth her features shone, 
 Or if a shade more pleasing them o'ercast, 
 (As if for heavenly musing meant alone ;) 
 Yet so becomingly th' expression past, 
 That each succeeding look was lovelier than the 
 last. 
 
 v. 
 
 Nor guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home, 
 
 With all its picturesque and balmy grace, 
 
 And fields that were a luxury to roam, 
 
 Lost on the soul that looked from such a face ! 
 
 Enthusiast of the woods ! when years apace 
 
 Had bound thy lovely waist with woman's zone, 
 
 The sunrise path, at morn, I see thee trace 
 
 To hills with high magnolia overgrown, 
 
 And joy to breathe the groves, romantic and alone. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The sunrise drew her thoughts to Europe forth, 
 
 That thus apostrophized its viewless scene : 
 
 " 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 ?
 
 114 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 
 
 My mother sure my sire a thought may claim ; 
 But Gertrude is to you an unregarded name. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And yet, loved England ! when thy name I trace 
 In many a pilgrim's tale and poet's song, 
 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 f 
 Oh, parent ! with what reverential awe, 
 From features of thy own related throng, 
 An image of thy face my soul could draw ! 
 And see thee once again whom I too shortly saw I 
 
 vm. 
 
 Yet deem not Gertrude sighed for foreign joy ; 
 To soothe a father's couch her only care, 
 And keep his reverend head from all annoy : 
 For this, methinkg, her homeward steps repair, 
 Soon as the morning wreath had bound her hair ; 
 While yet the wild deer trod in spangling dew, 
 While boatmen carolled to the fresh-blown air, 
 And woods a horizontal shadow threw, 
 And early fox appeared in momentary view. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Apart there was a deep untrodden grot, 
 Where oft the reading hours sweet Gertrude wore ; 
 Tradition had not named its lonely spot j 
 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 colored all the clime, 
 Like moonlight battlements, and towers decayed by 
 time.
 
 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 115 
 
 But high in amphitheatre above, 
 Gay-tinted woods their massy foliage threw ; 
 Breathed but an air of heaven, and all the 
 
 grove 
 
 As if instinct with living spirit grew, 
 Rolling its verdant gulfs of every hue ; 
 And now suspended was the pleasing din, 
 Now from a murmur faint it swelled anew, 
 Like the first note of organ heard within 
 Cathedral aisles, ere yet its symphony begin. 
 
 XI. 
 
 It was in this lone valley she would charm 
 
 The lingering noon, where flowers a couch had 
 
 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 Shakespeare's self she speaks and smiles 
 
 alone, 
 
 And no intruding visitation fears, 
 To shame the unconscious laugh, or stop her sweet- 
 est tears. 
 
 xn. 
 
 And nought within the grove was heard or seen 
 But stock-doves plaining through its gloom pro* 
 
 found, 
 
 Or winglet of the fairy humming-bird, 
 Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round ; 
 When, lo ! there entered 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 tanned, 
 And California's gales his roving bosom fanned.
 
 11G GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 
 
 xni. 
 
 A steed, whose rein hung loosely o'er his arm, 
 He led dismounted j ere his leisure pace, 
 . Amid the brown leaves, could her ear alarm, 
 Close he had come, and worshipped for a space 
 Those downcast features : she her lovely face 
 Uplift on one, whose lineaments and frame 
 Wore youth and manhood's intermingled grace : 
 Iberian seemed his boot his robe the same, 
 And well the Spanish plume his lofty looks became. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 For Albert's home he sought her finger fair 
 Has pointed where the father's mansion stood. 
 Returning from the copse he soon was there ; 
 And soon has Gertrude hied from dark green wood. 
 Nor joyless, by the converse, understood 
 Between the man of age and pilgrim young, 
 That gay congeniality of mood, 
 And early liking from acquaintance sprung ; 
 Full fluently conversed their guest in England's 
 tongue. 
 
 xv. 
 
 And well could he his pilgrimage of taste 
 
 Unfold, and much they loved his fervid strain, 
 
 While he each fair variety retraced 
 
 Of climes, and manners, o'er the eastern main. 
 
 Now happy Switzer's hills romantic Spain, 
 
 (Jay lilied fields of France, or, more refined, 
 
 The soft Ausonia's monumental reign; 
 
 Nor less each rural image he designed 
 
 Than ail the city's pomp and home of human kind. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Anon some wilder portraiture lie draws ; 
 
 Of Nature's savage glories he would speak,
 
 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 11? 
 
 The loneliness of earth that overawes, 
 "Where, resting by some tomb/>f 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. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Pleased with his guest, the good man still would ply 
 Each earnest question, and his converse court ; 
 But Gertrude, as she eyed him, knew not why 
 A strange and troubling wonder stopt her short. 
 " In England thou hast been, and, by report, 
 An orphan's name (quoth Albert) may'st IIUVL- 
 
 known. 
 
 Sad tale ! when latest fell our frontier fort, 
 One innocent one soldier's child alone 
 Was spared, and brought to me, who loved him as 
 
 my own. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Young Henry Waldegrave ! three delightful years 
 
 These very walls his infant sports did see, 
 
 But most I loved him when his parting tears 
 
 Alternately bedewed my child and me : 
 
 His sorest parting, Gertrude, was from thee ; 
 
 Nor half its grief his little heart could hold ; 
 
 By kindred he was sent for o'er the sea, 
 
 They tore him from us when but twelve years old, 
 
 And scarcely for his loss have I been yet consoled !" 
 
 xrx. 
 
 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 I knew him well ! 
 
 'T is Waldegrave's self, of Waldegrave come to tell I"
 
 118 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 
 
 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 neighborhood, in truth. 
 The very fortunes of your house inquire ; 
 Lest one that knew me might some tidings dire 
 Impart, and I my weakness all betray, 
 For had I lost my Gertrude and my sire, 
 I meant but o'er your tombs to weep a day, 
 Unknown I meant to weep, unknown to pass away. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 But here ye live, ye bloom, in each dear face, 
 The changing hand of time I may not blame ; 
 For there, it hath but shed more reverend grace, 
 And here, of beauty perfected the frame : 
 And well I know your hearts are still the same 
 They could not change ye look the very way, 
 As when an orphan first to you I came. 
 And have you heard of my poor guide I pray '/ 
 Nay, wherefore weep ye, friends, on such a joyous 
 day ?" 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " And art thou here ? or is it but a dream f 
 
 And wilt thou, Waldegrave, wilt thou, leave us 
 
 more ?" 
 
 "No, never! thou that yet dost lovelier seem 
 Than aught on earth than even 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 ajain the path explore
 
 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 119 
 
 "Which every ray of young remembrance warms, 
 While thou shalt be my own, with all thy truth and 
 charms !" 
 
 xxm. 
 
 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, O gentle Love ! I read aright 
 The utterance that sealed thy sacred bond, 
 'T was listening to these accents of delight, 
 She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyond 
 Expression's power to paint, all langui shingly 
 fond 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " Flower of my life, so lovely and so lone ! 
 Whom I would rather in this desert meet, 
 Scorning, and scorned by fortune's power, than own 
 Her pomp and splendors lavished at my feet ! 
 Turn not from me thy breath more exquisite 
 Than odors cast on heaven's own shrine to 
 
 please 
 
 Give me thy love, than luxury more sweet, 
 And more than all the wealth that loads the breeze, 
 When Coromandel's ships return from Indian 
 
 seas." 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Then would that home admit them happier far 
 Than grandeur's most magnificent saloon, 
 While, here and there, a solitary star 
 Flushed in the darkening firmament of June ; 
 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.
 
 120 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING, 
 
 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 O LOVE ! in such a wilderness as this, 
 Where transport and security entwine, 
 Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, 
 And here thou art a god indeed divine. 
 Here shall no forms abridge, no hours confine, 
 The views, the walks, that boundless joy inspire .' 
 Roll on, ye days of raptured influence, shine ! 
 Nor, blind with ecstasy's celestial fire, 
 Shall love behold the spark of earth-born time ex- 
 pire. 
 
 II. 
 
 Three little moons, how short ! amidst the grove 
 And pastoral savannas they consume ! 
 While she, beside her buskined youth to rove. 
 Delights, in fancifully wild costume, 
 Her lovely brow to shade with Indian plume : 
 And forth in hunter-seeming vest they fare ; 
 But not to chase the deer in forest gloom, 
 'T is but the breath of heaven the blessed air 
 And interchange of hearts unknown, unseen to 
 share. 
 
 in. 
 
 
 
 What thougli 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
 
 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 121 
 
 Or writhing from the brook its victim bring ? 
 No ! nor let fear one little warbler rouse ; 
 But, fed by Gertrude's hand, still let them sing-, 
 Acquaintance of her path, amidst the boughs, 
 That shade even now her love, and witnessed 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, 
 T was but when o'er each heart the idea stole, 
 (Perchance a while in joy's oblivion drowned) 
 That come what inay, while life's glad pulses roll, 
 Indissolubly thus should soul be knit to soul. 
 
 v. 
 
 And in the visions of romantic youth, 
 What years of endless bliss are yet to flow ! 
 But mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth ? 
 The torrent's smoothness, ere it dash below ! 
 And must I change my song ? and must I show, 
 Sweet Wyoming ! the day when thou wert doomed, 
 Guiltless, to mourn thy loveliest bowers laid low ! 
 When where of yesterday a garden bloomed, 
 Death overspread his pall, and blackening ashes 
 gloomed ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Sad was the year, by proud oppression driven, 
 
 When Transatlantic Liberty arose, 
 
 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 :* 
 
 * Alluding to the miseries that attended the American civil 
 war. 
 F
 
 122 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 
 
 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. 
 
 vn. 
 
 Yet, ere the storm of death had raged remote, 
 Or siege unseen in heaven reflects its beams, 
 Who now each dreadful circumstance shall note, 
 That fills pale Gertrude's thoughts, and nightly 
 
 dreams ! 
 
 Dismal to her the forge of battle gleams 
 Portentous light ! and music's voice is dumb ; 
 Save where the fife its shrill reveille screams, 
 Or midnight streets reecho to the drum, 
 That speaks of maddening strife, and bloodstained 
 
 fields to come. 
 
 vni. 
 
 ' 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 doomed to go ! 
 "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 stigmatizing brand ! 
 Could I forsake the cause of Freedom's holy band ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 But shame but flight a recreant's name to 
 
 prove, 
 
 To hide in exile ignominious fears ; 
 Say, even if this I brooked, the public love 
 Thy father's bosom to his home endears : 
 And how could I his few remaining years, 
 My Gertrude, sever from so dear a child ?" 
 So, day by day, her boding heart he cheers :
 
 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 123 
 
 At last that heart to hope is half beguiled, 
 And, pale through tears suppressed, the mournful 
 beauty smiled. 
 
 x. 
 
 Night came, and in their lighted bower, full late, 
 The joy of converse had endured when, hark ! 
 Abrupt and loud, a summons shook their gate ; 
 And needless of the dog's obstreperous bark, 
 A form had rushed amidst them from the dark, 
 And spread his arms, and fell upon the floor: 
 Of aged strength his limbs retained the mark ; 
 But desolate he looked, and famished poor, 
 As ever shipwrecked wretch lone left on desert 
 shore. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Uprisen, each wondering brow is knit and arched : 
 A spirit from the dead they deem him first : 
 To speak he tries ; but quivering, pale, and parched , 
 From lips, as by some powerless dream accursed, 
 Emotions unintelligible burst ; 
 And long his filmed eye is red and dim : 
 At length the pity-proffered cup his thirst 
 Had half assauged, and nerved his shuddering lirnK 
 When Albert's hand he grasped ; but Albert knew 
 not him 
 
 XII. 
 
 " And hast thou then forgot " (he cried forlorn, 
 And eyed the group with half indignant air), 
 " O ! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the morn 
 When I with thee the cup of peace did share? 
 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 bowed me, and the torturing foe, 
 Bring me my boy and he will his deliverer 
 know !"
 
 1>4 GERTRUDE OF WYOMDTG. 
 
 xni. 
 
 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 bewildered head withdrew, 
 
 And grasped his arm, and looked and looked him 
 
 through. 
 
 T was strange nor could the group a smile control 
 The long, the doubtful scrutiny to view: 
 At last delight o'er all his features stole, 
 " It is my own," he cried, and clasped him tu his 
 
 soul. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " Yes ! thou recall'st my pride of years, for then 
 The bowstring of my spirit was not slack, 
 When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambushed 
 ^ men, 
 
 I bore thee like the quiver on my back, 
 Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack ; 
 Nor foeman then, nor cougar's crouch I feared,* 
 For I was strong as mountain cataract : 
 And dost thou not remember how we cheered. 
 Upon the last hill-top, when white men's huts 
 appeared ? 
 
 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 outstretched around their giu-st, 
 To welcome and .to bless his aged head. 
 Soon was the hospitable banquet placed ; 
 And Gertrude's lovely hands a balsam shed 
 On wounds with fevered joy that more profusely 
 bled. 
 
 * Cougar, the American tiger.
 
 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. !>: 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " 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, [Brandt, 
 
 The Mammoth conies, the foe, the Monster 
 
 With all his howling desolating 1 band ; 
 
 These eyes have seen their blade and burnin- 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 ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Scorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe, 
 
 'Gainst Brandt himself I went to battle forth : 
 
 Accursed Brandt ! he left of all my tribe 
 
 Nor man, nor child, nor thing of living birth : 
 
 No ! not the dog that watched my household hearth, 
 
 Escaped that night of blood, upon our plains ! 
 
 All perished ! I alone am left on earth ! 
 
 To whom nor relative nor blood remains, 
 
 No ! not a kindred drop that runs in human veins 1 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 But go ! and rouse your warriors, for, if right 
 These old bewildered eyes could guess, by signs 
 Of striped and starred banners, on you 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 !' r 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Scarce had he uttered when Heaven's verge ex- 
 treme 
 Reverberates the bomb's descending star,
 
 126 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING 
 
 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 assailed ; 
 As if unearthly fiends had burst thur bar ; 
 While rapidly the marksman's shot prevailed : 
 And aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet 
 
 wailed. 
 
 xx. 
 
 Then looked they to the hills, where fire o'erhung 
 The bandit groups, in one Vesuvian glare ; 
 Or swept, far seen, the tower, whose clock unrung 
 Told legible that midnight of despair. , 
 
 She faints, she falters not, th' heroic fair, 
 As he the sword and plume in haste arrayed. 
 One short embrace he clasped his dearest care 
 But hark! what nearer war-drum shakes ihc 
 
 glade ? 
 Joy, joy ! Columbia's frien4s are trampling through 
 
 the shade ! 
 
 Then came of every race the mingled swarm, 
 
 Far rung the groves and gleamed the midnight 
 
 grass, 
 
 With flambeau, javelin, and naked arm ; 
 As warriors wheeled their culverins of brass, 
 Sprung from the woods, a bold athletic mass, 
 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. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 And in the buskined hunters cf the deer. 
 
 To Albert's home, with shout and cymbal throng :
 
 GEKTEUDE OF WYOMING. 1'27 
 
 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 their stony hearts, 
 And smile avenged ere yet his eagle spirit parts. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Calm, opposite the Christian father rose, 
 Pale on his venerable brow its rays 
 Of martyr light the conflagration throws ; 
 One hand upon his lovely child he lays, 
 And one the uncovered crowd to silence sways ; 
 While, though the battle flash is faster driven, 
 Unawed, with eye unstartled by the blaze, 
 He for his bleeding country prays to Heaven, 
 Prays that the men of blood themselves may bo 
 forgiven. 
 
 XXIV, 
 
 Short time is now for gratulating speech : 
 
 And yet, beloved Gertrude, ere began 
 
 Thy country's flight, yon distant towers to reach, 
 
 Looked not on thee the rudest partisan 
 
 With brow relaxed to love ? And murmurs ran, 
 
 As round and round their willing ranks they drew, 
 
 From beauty's sight to shield the hostile van. 
 
 Grateful, on them a placid look she threw, 
 
 Nor wept, but as she bade her mother's grave adieu ! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Past was the flight, and welcome seemed the tower 
 That like a giant standard-bearer frowned 
 Defiance oft the roving Indian power, 
 Beneath, each bold and promontory mound
 
 S* GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 
 
 With embrasure embossed, and armor crowned, 
 And arrowy frize, and wedged ravelin, 
 Wove like a diadem its tracery round 
 The lofty summit of that mountain green ; 
 Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant 
 scene. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 A scene of death ! where fires beneath the sun, 
 And blended arms, and white pavilions glow ; 
 And- for the business of destruction done, 
 Its requiem the war-horn seemed to blow : 
 There, sad spectatress of her country's woe ! 
 The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm, 
 Had laid her cheek, and clasped her hands of snow 
 On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm 
 Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hushed its wild 
 alarm! 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 But short that contemplation sad and short 
 The pause to bid each much-loved scene adieu ! 
 Beneath the very shadow of the fort, 
 Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners 
 
 flew ; 
 
 Ah ! who could deem that foot of Indian crew 
 Was near? yet there, with lust of murderous 
 
 deeds, 
 
 Gleamed like a basilisk, from woods in view. 
 The ambushed foeman's eye his volley speeds. 
 And Albert Albert falls! the dear old father 
 
 bleeds ! 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swooned ; 
 Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone, 
 Say, burst they, borrowed from her fttther's wound, 
 These drops? Oh, God ! the life-blood is her own!
 
 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. UD 
 
 And faltering, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrown 
 " Weep not, O Love ! " she cries, " to see me 
 
 bleed 
 
 Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone 
 Heaven's peace commiserate 5 for scarce I heed 
 These wounds ; yet thee to leave is death, is death 
 
 indeed ! 
 
 xxrs. 
 
 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 hast been to me all tenderness, 
 And friend to more than human friendship just. 
 Oh ! by that retrospect of happiness, 
 And by the hopes of an immortal trust, 
 God shall assuage thy pangs when I am laid in 
 
 dust! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart, 
 
 The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move, 
 
 Where my dear father took thee to his heart, 
 
 And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove 
 
 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 last ? 
 
 No ! I shall love thee still, when death itself is 
 
 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.
 
 130 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 
 
 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, 
 
 JLord of my bosom's love ! to die beholding thee ! 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Hushed were his Gertrude's lips ! but still their 
 
 bland 
 
 And beautiful expression seemed to melt 
 With love that could not die ! and still his hand 
 She presses to the heart no more that felt. 
 Ah, heart ! where one- each fond affection dwelt, 
 And features yet that spoke a soul more fair. 
 Mute, gazing, agonL'ng, <*s he knelt, 
 Of them that stood encircling hi despair, 
 He heard some fri ndly words; but knew not 
 
 what they were. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Tor now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives 
 A faithful band. With solemn rites between 
 'T was sung, how they were lovely in their lives, 
 And in their deaths had not divided been. 
 Touched by the music, and the melting scene, 
 Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd : 
 Stern warriors, resting on ^heir swords, were seen 
 To veil their eyes, as passed each much-loved 
 
 shroud 
 While woman's softer soul in woe dissolved aloud. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Then mournfully the parting bugle bid 
 
 Its farewell, o'er the grave of worth and truth; 
 
 Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid 
 
 His face on earth; him watched, in gloomy ruth,
 
 GERTBUDE OF WYOMING. 131 
 
 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 watched, 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 : 
 
 <l 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 ! 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 But thee, my flower, whose breath was given, 
 
 By milder genii o'er the deep, 
 
 The spirits of the white man's heaven 
 
 Forbid not thee to weep : 
 
 Nor will the Christian host, 
 
 Nor will thy father's spirit grieve, 
 
 To see thee, on the battle's eve, 
 
 Lamenting, take a mournful leave 
 
 Of her who loved thee most : 
 
 She was the rainbow to thy sight ! 
 
 Thy sun thy heaven of lost delight. 
 
 xxx vn. 
 
 To-morrow let us do or die ! 
 But when the bolt of death is hurled, 
 Ah ! whither then with thee to fly, 
 Shall Outalisbi roam the world ?
 
 132 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 And should we thither roam, 
 
 Its echoes, and its empty tread, 
 
 Would sound like voices from the dead ! 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Or shall we cross 3-011 mountains blue, 
 
 Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed, 
 
 And by my side, in battle true, 
 
 A thousand warriors drew the shaft ? 
 
 Ah ! there, in desolation cold, 
 
 The desert serpent dwells alone, 
 
 Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering boney 
 
 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 ! 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 But hark, the trump ! to-morrow thou 
 In glory's fires shall dry thy tears; 
 Ev'n from tjie land of shadows now 
 My father's awful ghost appears, 
 Amidst the clouds that round us roll; 
 He bids my soul for battle thirst 
 He 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 1"
 
 LINES. 133 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE HIGHLAND S(M T- 
 ETYOFLOXDOX/WHEXMETTOCOMMEMORATr.THK 
 21st OF MARCH, THE DAY OF VICTORY IX ECYI'T. 
 
 PLEDGE to the much-loved land that gave us birth ! 
 
 Invincible romantic Scotia's shore ! 
 Pledge to the memory of her parted worth ! 
 
 And first, amidst the brave, remember Moore 
 
 And be it deemed not wrong that name to give. 
 
 In festive hours, which prompts the patriot's sigh : 
 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 j 
 
 Yet in a mighty cause his phoenix soul 
 Rose 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 urn ! 
 
 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 Roman garb and more than Roman fire ! 
 
 Triumphant be the thistle still unfurled, 
 
 Dear symbol wild ! on Freedom's hills it grows, 
 
 Where Fingal stemmed the tyrants of the world, 
 And Roman eagles found unconquered foes.
 
 13 i STANZAS. 
 
 Joy to the band* this day on Egypt's coast, 
 Whose valor tamed proud France's tricolor, 
 
 And wrenched the banner from her bravest host, 
 Baptized Invincible in Austria's gore ! 
 
 Joy for the day on red 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 us shall join, 
 
 To pray that in eternal union dear, 
 
 The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine ! 
 
 Types of a race who shall th' invader scorn, 
 As rocks resist the billows round their shore ; 
 
 Types of a race who shall to time unb'orn 
 Their country leave tmconquered as of yore ! 
 
 1S09. 
 
 TO THE MEMOKY OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS LATEST 
 KILLED IN RESISTING THE REGENCY AND THE 
 DUKE OF ANGOULEME. 
 
 BRAVE men who at the Trocadero fell 
 Beside your cannons conquered not, though slain, 
 There is a victory in dying well 
 For Freedom, and ye have not died in vain ; 
 
 * The 42d Regiment.
 
 STANZAS. 135 
 
 For, come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain 
 To honor, ay, embrace your martyred lot, 
 Cursing the Bigot's and the Bourbon's chain, 
 And looking on your graves, though trophied not, 
 As holier hallowed ground than priests could make 
 the spot ! 
 
 What though your cause be baffled freemen cast 
 In dungeonsdragged to death, or forced to flee; 
 Hope is not withered in affliction's blast 
 The patriot's blood's the seed of Freedom's tree ; 
 And short your orgies of revenge shall be, 
 Cowled demons of the Inquisitorial cell ! 
 Earth shudders at your victory, for ye 
 Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that 
 
 fell, 
 The baser, ranker sprung, Autochtiiones of Hell ! 
 
 Go to your bloody rites again bring back 
 The hall of horrors and the assessor's pen, 
 Recording answers shrieked upon the rack j 
 Smile o'er the gaspings of spine-broken men ; 
 Preach, perpetrate damnation in your den ; 
 Then let your altars, ye blasphemers ! peal 
 With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again, 
 To practise deeds with torturing fire and steel 
 No eyernay 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 clirne 
 Been winnowed by the wings of Liberty ; 
 And these even parting scatter as they flee 
 Thoughts influences, to live in hearts unborn, 
 Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key 
 From Persecution show her mask off-torn, 
 And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of 
 Scora.
 
 136 SONG OF THE GREEKS. 
 
 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 cf the martyr's earthly frame ! 
 Your hangmen fingers cannot touch his fame ! 
 Still in your prostrate land there shall be some 
 1'roud 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. 
 
 1823. 
 
 SONG OF THE GREEKS. 
 
 AGAIN" to the battle, Achaians ! 
 
 Our hearts 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 washed out in blood from our forefathers' 
 
 graves. 
 
 Their spirits are hovering o'er us, 
 And the sword shall to glory restore us. 
 
 Ah ! what though no succor advances, 
 
 Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances 
 
 Are stretched in our aid be the combat our own ! 
 
 And we '11 perish or conquer more proudly alone ; 
 
 For we 've sworn by our Country's assaulters, 
 
 By the virgins they've dragged from our altars, 
 
 By our massacred patriots, our children in chains, 
 
 By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins, 
 
 That, living, we shall be victorious, 
 
 Or that, dying, our deaths shall bo glorious.
 
 SONG OF THE GEEEKS. 137 
 
 A breath of submission we breathe not ; 
 
 The sword that we 've drawn we will sheatlu' not ! 
 
 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 in their 
 
 hair? 
 
 Accursed may his memory blacken, 
 If a coward there be that would slacken 
 Till we 've trampled the turban, and shown t our- 
 
 selves 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 extinguished in sadness ; 
 Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white- 
 waving arms, [charms,- 
 Singing joy to the brave that delivered their 
 When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens 
 Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens.
 
 ODE TO WINTER. 
 
 ODE TO WINTER. 
 
 WHEN first the fiery-mantled sun 
 His heavenly race began to run ; 
 Bound the earth and ocean blue, 
 His children four the Seasons flew. 
 First, in green apparel dancing, 
 
 The young Spring smiled with angel grace ; 
 Rosy Summer next advancing, 
 
 Rushed into her sire's embrace : 
 Her bright-haired sire, who bade her keep 
 
 For ever nearest to his smiles, 
 On Calpe's olive-shaded steep, 
 
 On India's citron-covered isles : 
 More remote and buxom-brown, 
 
 The Queen of vintage bowed before his tlirone, 
 A rich pomegranate gemmed her crown, 
 
 A ripe sheaf bound her zone. 
 But howling Winter fled afar, 
 To hills that prop the polar star, 
 And loves on deer-borne car to ride 
 With barren Darkness by his side, 
 Round the shore where loud Lofoden 
 
 Whirls to death the roaring whale, 
 Round the hall where Runic Oden 
 
 Howls his war-song to the gale ; 
 Save when adown the ravaged globe 
 
 He travels on his native storm, 
 Deflowering Nature's grassy robe, 
 
 And trampling on her faded form : 
 Till light's returning lord assume 
 
 The shaft that drives him to his polar field, 
 Of power to pierce his raven plume 
 
 And crystal-covered shield. 
 Oh, sire of storms ! whose savage ear 
 The Lapland drum delights to hear,
 
 ODE TO WINTER. 130 
 
 When Frenzy with her blood-shot eye 
 Implores thy dreadful deity, 
 Archangel ! power of desolation ! 
 
 Fast descending as thou art, 
 Say, hath mortal invocation 
 
 Spells to touch thy stony heart? 
 Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer, 
 And gently rule the ruined year ; 
 Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare, 
 Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear ; 
 To shuddering Want's unmantled bed 
 Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lead, 
 And gently on the orphan head 
 Of innocence descend. 
 But chiefly spare, king of clouds ! 
 The sailor on his airy shrouds ; 
 When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, 
 And spectres walk along the deep. 
 Milder yet thy snowy breezes 
 
 Pour on yonder tented shores, 
 Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes, 
 
 Or the dark-brown Danube roars. 
 Oh, winds of Winter ! list ye there 
 
 To many a deep and dying groan ; 
 Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, 
 
 At shrieks and thunders louder than your ovm. 
 Alas ! even your unhalknved breath 
 
 May spare the victim fallen low ; 
 But man will ask no truce to death, 
 
 No bounds to human woe.
 
 140 LINES. 
 
 LINES 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. HARTLEY AT DRURY-LAXE 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, 
 Which like a shade hath darkened every place, 
 And moistened with a tear the manliest face ! 
 The bell is scarcely hushed in Windsors piles, 
 That tolled a requiem from the solemn aisles, 
 For her, the royal flower, low laid in dust, 
 That was your fairest hope, your fondest trust. 
 Unconscious of the doom, we dreamt, alas ! 
 That even these walls, ere many uionths should 
 
 pass, 
 
 Which but return sad accents for her now, 
 Perhaps had witnessed her benignant brow, 
 Cheered by the voice you would have raised on liigh, 
 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 de voted bride 
 Tom from an agonized husband's side, 
 Who " long as Memory holds her seat " shall view 
 That speechless, more than spoken last adieu, 
 When the tixed eye long looked connubial faith, 
 And beamed affection in the trance of death. 
 Sad was the pomp that yesternight beheld, 
 As with the mourners heart the anthem swelled
 
 LINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE. 141 
 
 While torch succeeding torch illumed each high 
 And bannered arch of England's chivalry. 
 The rich plumed canopy, the gorgeous pall, 
 The sacred march, and sable-vested wall, 
 These were not rites of inexpressive show, 
 But hallowed as the types of real woe ! 
 Daughter of England ! for a nation sighs, 
 A nation's heart, went with thine obsequies ! 
 And oft shall time revert a look of grief 
 On thine existence, beautiful and brief. 
 Fair spirit ! send thy blessing from above 
 On realms where thou art canonized by love ! 
 Give to a father's, husband's bleeding mind, 
 The peace that angels lend to human kind ; 
 To us who in thy loved remembrance feel 
 A sorrowing, but a soul-ennobling zeal 
 A loyalty that touches all the best' 
 And loftiest principles of England's breast ! 
 Still may thy name speak concord from the tomb- 
 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, 
 7 T is not in language or expressive artt> 
 To paint ye feel it, Britons, in your hearts ! 
 
 LINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE. 
 
 These lines were written in Germany in January, 1801. in con- 
 sequence of seeing the unclaimed corpse of a suicide exposed on 
 the banks of a river 
 
 BY strangers left upon a lonely shore. 
 
 Unknown, unhonored, was the friendless dead; 
 For child to weep, or widow to deplore, 
 
 There never came to his unburied head : 
 
 All from his dreary habitation fled. 
 Xor will the lanterned fishermen at eve 
 
 Launch on that water by the witche: ' tower,
 
 142 REULLURA. 
 
 Where hellebore and hemlock seem to weave 
 
 Round its dark vaults a melancholy bower 
 4 For spirits of the dead at night's enchanted hour, 
 They dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate ! 
 
 Whose crime it was, on Life's unfinished road, 
 To feel the step-dame bufferings of fate, 
 
 And render back thy being's heavy load. 
 
 Ah ! once, perhaps, the social passions glowed 
 In thy devoted bosom and the hand 
 
 That smote its kindred heart, might yet be prone 
 To deeds of mercy. Who may understand 
 
 Thy many woes, poor suicide, unknown ? 
 
 He who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone. 
 
 REULLURA.* 
 
 STAR of the morn and eve, 
 
 Reullura shone like thee, 
 And well for her might Aodh grieve, 
 
 The dark-attired Culdee. 
 Peace to their shades ! the pure (Juldees 
 
 Were Albin'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 barred from wedlock's holy tie. 
 T was then that Aodh, famed afar, 
 
 In lona preached the word with power, 
 And Reullura, beauty's star, 
 
 Was the partner of his bower. 
 
 But, Aodh, the roof lies low, . 
 
 And the thistle-down waves bleaching, 
 
 * Reullura, in Gaellic, signifies " beautiful star."
 
 REULLURA. 
 
 And the bat flits to and fro 
 
 Where the Gael once heard thy preaching ; 
 And fallen is each columned aisle 
 
 Where the chiefs and people knelt. 
 'T was near that temple's goodly pile 
 
 That honored of men they dwelt. 
 For Aodh Avas 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 ! 
 
 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^ 
 1 lad hither the holy relic brought, 
 lieullura 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 I 
 Xo ! 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.
 
 144 REULLURA. 
 
 His sail is on the deep e'en now, 
 And swells to the southern gale." 
 
 " All ! know'st thou not, my bride," 
 
 The holy Aodh said, 
 
 " That the Saint whose form we stand beside 
 Has for ages slept with the dead ?" 
 " He liveth, he liveth," she said again, 
 
 " For the span of his life tenfold extends 
 Beyond the wonted years of men. 
 
 He sits by the graves of well-loved friends 
 That died ere thy grandsire's grandsire's birth ; 
 The oak is decayed with age on earth, 
 Whose acorn-seed had been planted by Mm ; 
 
 And his parents remember the day of dread. 
 When the sun on the cross looked dim, 
 
 And the graves gave up their dead. 
 Yet preaching from clime to clime, 
 
 He hath roamed the earth for ages, 
 And hither he shall come in time 
 
 When the wrath of the heathen rages, 
 In time a remnant from the sword 
 
 Ah ! but a remnant to deliver; 
 Yet, blest be the name of the Lord ! 
 
 His martyrs shall go into bliss for ever. 
 Lochlin,* appalled, shall put up her steel, 
 And thou shalt embark on the bounding keel, 
 Safe shall 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." f 
 
 The sun, now about to set, 
 
 Was burning o'er Tiree, 
 And no gathering cry rose yet 
 
 O'er the isles of Albin's sea, 
 
 * Denmark. t Ireland.
 
 KEULLURA. 145 
 
 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-haired 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 filled 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 I 
 
 Rocks of the ocean flood ! 
 Plunged she not from your heights in pride, 
 
 And mocked the men of blood ? 
 Then TJlvfagre and his bands 
 
 In the temple lighted their banquet up, 
 And the print of their blood-red hands 
 
 Was left on the altar cup. 
 'T was then that the Norseman to Aodh said : 
 " Tell me 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.
 
 146 EEULLUKA. 
 
 But the torches again burnt bright, 
 
 And brighter than before, 
 When an aged man of majestic height 
 
 Entered the temple door. 
 Hushed was the revellers' sound, 
 
 They were struck as mute as the dead, 
 And their hearts were appalled by the very sound 
 
 Of his footsteps' measured tread. 
 Nor word was spoken by one beholder, 
 Whilst he flung his white robe back o'er his shoulder, 
 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 formj 
 The Saint before his own image stood, 
 
 And grasped Ulvfagre's arm. 
 Then tip 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 levelled their spears in rows. 
 But down went axes and spears and bows, 
 When the Saint with his crosier signed, 
 
 The archer's hand on the string was stopt, 
 And down, like reeds laid flat by the wind, 
 
 Their lifted weapons dropt. 
 The Saint then gave a signal mute, 
 
 And though Ulvfagre willed it not, 
 He came and stood at the statue's foot, 
 
 Spell-riveted to the spot, 
 Till hands invisible shook the wall, 
 
 And the tottering image was dashed 
 Down from its lofty pedestal. 
 
 On Ulvfagre's helm it crashed 
 Helmet, and skull, and flesh, and brain, 
 It crushed as millstones crush the grain.
 
 REULLURA. 147 
 
 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 slaughtered the flock of God. 
 Gather him bone by bone, 
 
 And take with you o'er the flood 
 The fragments of that avenging stone 
 
 That drank his heathen blood. 
 These are the spoils from lona's sack. 
 
 The only spoils ye shall carry back ; 
 For the hand that uplifteth spear or sword 
 
 Shall be withered by palsy shock, 
 And I come in the name of the Lord 
 
 To deliver a remnant of his flock." 
 
 A remnant was called together, 
 
 A doleful remnant of the Gael, 
 And the Saint in the ship that had brought him 
 hither 
 
 Took the mourners to Innisfail. 
 Unscathed they left lona's strand, 
 
 When the opal morn first flushed the sky. 
 For the Norse dropt spear, and bow, and brand, 
 
 And looked on them silently 5 
 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,
 
 143 THE TURKISH LADY. 
 
 THE TURKISH LADY. 
 
 7 T WAS the hour when rites unholy 
 Called each Paynim voice to prayer, 
 
 And the star that faded slowly 
 Left to dews the freshened air. 
 
 Day her sultry fires had wasted, 
 
 Calm and sweet the moonlight rose ; 
 
 Even a captive spirit tasted 
 Half oblivion of his woes. 
 
 Then 7 t was from an Emir's palace 
 Came an Eastern lady bright : 
 
 She, in spite of tyrants jealous, 
 Saw and loved an English knight. 
 
 " Tell me, captive, why in anguish 
 Foes have dragged thee here to dwell, 
 
 Where poor Christians as they languish 
 Hear no sound of Sabbath bell f 
 
 '' ? T was 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."
 
 THE BRAVE ROLAND. 149 
 
 " Captive ! could the brightest jewel 
 
 From my turban set thee free f 
 " Lady, no ^the gift were cruel, 
 
 Ransomed, yet if reft of thee. 
 
 Say, fair princess ! would it grieve thc<-, 
 Christian climes should we behold ';'' 
 
 " Nay, bold knight ! I would not leave thru 
 Were thy ransom paid in gold ! " 
 
 Now in Heaven's blue expansion 
 
 Rose the midnight star to view, 
 "When to quit her father's mansion 
 
 Thrice she wept, and bade adieu ! 
 
 " Fly we then, while none discover ! 
 
 Tyrant barks, in vain ye ride !" 
 Soon at Rhodes the British lover 
 
 Clasped his blooming Eastern bride. 
 
 THE BRAVE ROLAND. 
 
 THE brave Roland ! the brave Roland ! 
 False tidings reached the Rhenish strand 
 
 That he had fall'n in fight ; 
 And thy faithful bosom swooned with pain, 
 O loveliest maid of Allemayne ! 
 
 For the loss of thine own true knight. 
 
 But why so rash has she ta'en the veil, 
 In yon Nonnenwerder's cloisters pale ! 
 
 For her vow had scarce been swoni, 
 And the fatal mantle o'er her flung, 
 When the Drachenfels to a trumpet rung 
 
 'T was her own dear Warner's horn !
 
 150 THE BRAVE ROLAND. 
 
 Woe ! woe ! each heart shall bleed shall break ! 
 She would have hung upon his neck, 
 
 Had he come but yester-even ! 
 And he had clasped those peerless charms, 
 That shall never, never fill his arms, 
 
 Or meet him but in heaven. 
 
 Yet Roland the brave Roland the true 
 He could not bid that spot adieu ; 
 
 It was dear still midst his woes ; 
 For he loved to breathe the neighboring air, 
 And to think she blessed him in her prayer, 
 
 When the Halleluiah rose. 
 
 There's yet one window of that pile, 
 Which he built above the Nun's green isle ; 
 
 Thence sad and oft looked he ' 
 (When the chant and organ sounded slow) 
 On the mansion of his love below, 
 
 For herself he might not see. 
 
 She died ! he sought the battle-plain ; 
 Her image filled his dying brain, 
 
 When he fell and wished 10 fall : 
 And her name was in his latest sigh, 
 When Roland, the flower of chivalry ? 
 
 Expired at Roncevall.
 
 THE SPECTKE BOAT. 151 
 
 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 wooed 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 church- 
 yard'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 shud- 
 dering, pale, and dumb, 
 
 Looked out upon the waves, like one that knew his 
 hour was come. 
 
 7 T was now the dead watch of the night the helm 
 
 was lashed a-lee, 
 And the ship rode where Mount JEitnn lights the 
 
 deep Levantine sea ; 
 When beneath its glare a boat came, rowed by a 
 
 woman in her shroud, 
 Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold. 
 
 stood up and spoke aloud : 
 
 "Come, Traitor, down, for whom my ghost still 
 
 wanders unforgiven ! 
 Come down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke my 
 
 peace with heaven !"
 
 152 THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS. 
 
 It was vain to hold the victim, for he plunged to 
 
 meet her call, 
 Like the bird that shrieks and flutters in the gazing 1 
 
 serpent's thrall. 
 
 You may guess the boldest mariner shrank Jaunted 
 
 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. 
 
 OX HER BIRTHDAY. 
 
 IF any white-winged Power above 
 My joys and griefs survey, 
 
 The day when thou wert bom, my love- 
 He surely blessed that day. 
 
 I laughed (till taught by thee) when told 
 
 Of Beauty's magic powers, 
 That ripened life's dull ore to gold, 
 
 And changed its weeds to flowers. 
 
 My mind had lovely shapes portrayed ; 
 
 But thought I earth had one 
 Could make even Fancy's visions fade 
 
 Like stars before the sun ? 
 
 I gazed, and felt upon my lips 
 
 The unfinished accents hang : 
 /)ne moment's bliss, one burning kiss, 
 To rapture changed each pang.
 
 ADELGITHA. 153 
 
 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 sing, 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 ev'n when we sigh, ' Woe 
 me!' 
 
 ADELGITHA. 
 
 THE ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded, 
 And sad pale ADELGITHA came, 
 
 When forth a valiant champion bounded, 
 And slew the slanderer of her fame.
 
 154 LINES. 
 
 She wept, delivered from her danger ; 
 
 But when he knelt to claim her glove 
 " Seek not," she cried, l i oh ! gallant stranger, 
 
 For hapless ADELGITHA'S love. 
 
 
 
 For he is iu a foreign far land 
 
 Whose arm should now have set me free j 
 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 ! 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON RECEIVING 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 stamped upon my thoughts I bear 
 The image of your worth, my friend ! 
 
 We are not friends of yesterday ; 
 
 But poets' 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.
 
 LINES. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 What scenes of life's yet curtained stage 
 
 May own its confidential die, 
 Whose stamp awaits th' unwritten page, 
 
 And feelings of futurity !- 
 
 Yet wh^resoe'er my pen I lift 
 
 To date the epistolary sheet, 
 The blest occasion of the gift 
 
 Shall make its recollection sweet j 
 
 Sent when the star that rules your fates 
 Hath reached its influence most benign 
 
 When every heart congratulates. 
 And none more cordially than mine. 
 
 So speed my song marked 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 sealed 
 With glory in the strife of swords, 
 
 Ne'er may the scroll that bears it yield 
 Degenerate thoughts or faithless -words I 
 
 Yet little might I prize the stone, 
 
 If it but typed the feudal tree 
 From whence, a scattered leaf, I'm blown 
 
 In Fortune's mutability. 
 
 No ! but it tells me of a heart 
 Allied by friendship's living tie ; 
 
 A prize beyond the herald's art 
 Our soul-sprung consanguinity !
 
 GILDEROY. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 1817. 
 
 GILDEROY. 
 
 
 Tin: 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 tolled ; it shakes my heart ; 
 
 The trumpet speaks thy name ; 
 And must my Gilderoy depart 
 
 To bear a death of shame ? 
 
 bosom trembles for thy doom ; 
 No mourner wipes a tear ; 
 The gallows' foot is all thy tomb, 
 Tlie sledge is all thy bier. 
 
 ()li, Gilderoy ! bethought we then 
 
 v O 
 
 So soon, so sad to part, 
 When first in Roslin's lovely glen 
 You triumphed o'er my heart t 
 
 Your locks they glittered 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; 
 
 Oi hear, upon the scaffold floor, 
 The midnight hammer Bound.
 
 STANZAS. ir.7 
 
 Ye cracl, crael, 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 f 
 
 Yes ! they will mock thy widow's tears, 
 
 And hate thine orphan boy ; 
 Alas ! his infant beauty wears 
 
 The form of Gilderoy. 
 
 Then will I seek the dreary mound 
 
 That wraps thy mouldering clay, 
 And weep and linger on the ground, 
 
 And sigh my heart away. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 ON THE THREATENED INVASION. 
 1803. 
 
 Orn bosoms we '11 bare for the glorious strife, 
 
 And our oath is recorded on high, 
 To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life, 
 
 Or crushed in its ruins to die ! 
 
 Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, 
 And swear to prevail in your dear native land ! 
 
 'T is 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 h:::;u, 
 
 And swear to prevail in your uear native land .'
 
 158 THE BITTER BANN. 
 
 In a Briton's sweet home shall a spoiler abide, 
 
 Profaning its loves and its charms ? 
 Shall a Frenchman insult the loved fair at our side ? 
 
 To arms ! oh, my Country, to arms ! . 
 Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right 
 
 hand, 
 And swear to prevail in your dear native land ! 
 
 Shall a tyrant enslave us, my countrymen ! No ! 
 
 His head to the sword shall be given 
 A death-bed repentance be taught the proud foe, 
 
 And his blood be an offering to Heaven ! 
 Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right 
 
 hand, 
 And swear to prevail in your dear native land ! 
 
 THE RITTER BANN. 
 
 THE Ritter Bann from Hungary 
 Came back, renowned in arms, 
 
 But scorning jousts of chivalry, 
 And love and ladies' charms. 
 
 While other knights held revels, he 
 Was wrapt in thoughts of gloom, 
 
 And in Vienna's hostelrie 
 Slow paced his lonely room. 
 
 There entered one whose face he knew 
 
 Whose voice, he was aware, 
 He oft at mass had listened to 
 
 In the holy house of prayer. 
 
 J T was the Abbot of St. James's monks, 
 
 A fresh and fair old man : 
 His reverend air arrested even 
 
 The gloomy Ritter Bann.
 
 THE BITTER BANN. 159 
 
 But seeing with him an ancient dame 
 
 Come clad in Scotch attire, 
 The Hitter's color 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, 
 
 " Remember, each his sentence waits ; 
 
 And he that shall rebut 
 Sweet Mercy's suit, on him the gates 
 
 Of Mercy shall be shut. 
 
 You wedded, undispensed by Church, 
 
 Your cousin Jane in Spring ; 
 In Autumn, when you went to search 
 
 For churchman's pardoning, 
 
 Her house denounced your marriage-l>aml, 
 
 Betrothed her to De Grey, 
 And the ring you put upon her hand 
 
 Was wrenched by force away. 
 
 Then wept your Jane upon my neck, 
 
 Crying ' Help me, nurse, to flee 
 To my Howel Bann's Glamorgan hills ;' 
 
 But word arrived ah me ! 
 
 You were not there , and 't was their threat, 
 
 By foul means or by fair, 
 To-morrow morning was to set 
 
 The seal on her despair.
 
 160 THE BITTER 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 countrie, 
 
 In grief and gloom he heard. 
 
 For they that wronged you, to elude 
 Your wrath, defamed my child ; 
 
 And you ay, blush, Sir, as you should 
 Believed, and were beguiled. 
 
 To (lie but at your feet, she vowed 
 
 To roam the world ; and we 
 Would both have sped and begged our bread, 
 
 But so it might not be. 
 
 For when the snow-storm beat our roof, 
 
 She bore a boy, Sir Bann, 
 "Who grew as fair your likeness' proof 
 
 As child e'er grew like man. 
 
 'T was smiling on that babe one morn 
 "While heath bloomed on the moor, 
 
 Her beauty struck young Lord Kinghom 
 As he hunted past our door. 
 
 She shunned him, but he raved of Jane, 
 And roused his mother's pride : 
 
 Who came to us in high disdain, 
 1 And where's the face,' she cried,
 
 THE RITTER BANK 
 
 ' Has witched my boy to wish for one 
 
 So wretched for his wife ? 
 Dost love thy husband ! Know, my ^ou 
 
 Has sworn to seek his life.' 
 
 Her anger sore dismayed us, 
 For our mite was wearing scant, 
 
 And, unless that dame would aid us, 
 There was none to aid our want. 
 
 So I told her, weeping bitterly, 
 
 What all our woes had been ; 
 And, though she was a stern ladie, 
 
 The tears stood in her een. 
 
 And she housed us both, when, cheerfully, 
 
 My child to her had sworn, 
 That even if made a widow, she 
 
 AYonld never wed Kinghorn." 
 
 Here paused the nurse, and then began 
 
 The abbot, standing by : 
 u Three months ago a wounded man 
 
 To our abbey came to die. 
 
 He heard me long, with ghastly eyes 
 
 And hand obdurate clenched, 
 Spoke of the worm that never die?, 
 
 And the fire that is not quenched 
 
 At last by what this scroll attests 
 
 He left atonement brief, 
 For years of anguish to the breasts 
 
 His guilt had wrung with grief. 
 
 ' There lived,' he said, ' a fair young- dame 
 
 Beneath my mother's roof; 
 I loved her, but against my flame 
 
 Her purity was proof.
 
 1G2 THE RITTER BANN. 
 
 1 feigned repentance, friendship pure ; 
 
 That mood she did not check, 
 But let her husband's miniature 
 
 Be copied from her neck, 
 
 As means to search him ; my deceit 
 
 Took care to him was borne 
 Nought but his picture's counterfeit, 
 
 And Jane's reported scorn. 
 
 
 
 The treachery took : she waited wild ; 
 
 My slave came back and lied 
 "Whate'er I wished ; she clasped her child, 
 
 And swooned, and all but died. 
 
 I felt her tears for years and years 
 
 Quench not my flame, but stir ; 
 The very hate I bore her mate 
 
 Increased my love for her. 
 
 Fame told us of his glory, while 
 Joy flushed the face of Jane ; . 
 
 And while she blessed his name, her smile 
 Struck fire into my brain. 
 
 No fears could damp j I reached the camp, 
 
 Sought out its champion ; 
 And if my broad-sword failed at last, 
 
 J T was long and well laid on. 
 
 This wound 's my meed, iny name 's Kinghoru, 
 My foe 's the Bitter Banii.' 
 
 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 ;
 
 THE BITTER BANN. K',3 
 
 And brought a little page who poured 
 
 It out, and knelt and smiled ; 
 The stunned knight saw himself restored 
 
 To childhood in his child; 
 
 And stooped and caught him to his breast, 
 
 Laughed loud and wept anon, 
 And with a shower of kisses pressed 
 
 The darling little one. 
 
 "And where went Jane?" " To anunnery. Sir - f 
 
 Look not again so pale 
 Kinghorn's old dame grew harsh to her."- 
 
 '< And has she ta'en the veil?" 
 
 " Sit down, Sir," said the priest, " I bar 
 Rash words." They sat all three, 
 
 And the boy played with the knight's broad star 
 As he kept him on his knee. 
 
 " Think ere you ask her dwelling-place, 
 
 The abbot further said ; 
 " Time draws a veil o'er beauty's face 
 
 More deep than cloister's shade. 
 
 Grief may have made her what you can 
 
 Scarce love perhaps for life." 
 u Hush, abbot," cried the Ritter Bann, 
 
 " Or tell me where 's my wife." 
 
 The priest undid two doors that hid 
 
 The inn's adjacent room, 
 And there a lovely woman stood, 
 
 Tears bathed her beauty's bloom. 
 
 One moment may with bliss repay 
 
 Unnumbered hours of pain ; 
 Such was the throb and mutual sob 
 
 Of the knight embracing Jane.
 
 101 SONG. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 n 
 
 "MEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 MEN of England ! who inherit 
 
 Rights that cost your sires their blood ! 
 Men whose undegenerate spirit 
 
 I las been proved on field and flood :- 
 
 ]>y the foes you've fought uncounted, . 
 
 By the glorious deeds ye 've done, 
 Trophies captured breaches mounted, 
 
 Navies conquered kingdoms won. 
 
 Yet, remember, England gathers 
 Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, 
 
 If tlie freedom of your fathers 
 
 (How not in your hearts the same. 
 
 AVhat are monuments of bravery, 
 AY here no public virtues bloom ? 
 
 What avail in lands of slavery, 
 Tropbied 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 
 Crowned and mitred tyranny; 
 
 They defied the field and scaffold 
 For their birthrights so will we !
 
 THE HARPER. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 DRINK ye to her that each loves best, 
 
 And if you nurse a flame 
 That's told but to her mutual Mi-east, 
 
 We will not ask her name. 
 
 l^nough, while memory tranced and glad 
 
 Paints silently the fair, 
 That each should dream of joys he 's had, 
 
 Or yet may hope to share. 
 
 Yet far, far hence be jest or boast 
 From hallowed thoughts so dear ; 
 
 But drink to her that each loves most, 
 As she would love to hear. 
 
 THE HARPER. 
 
 Ox the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was 
 
 nigh, 
 
 No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I ; 
 No harp like my own could so cheerily play, 
 And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray. 
 
 When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part r 
 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 hail always a friend in my poor dog Tray.
 
 166 THE WOUNDED HUSSAR. 
 
 When the road was so dark, and the night was so 
 
 cold, 
 
 And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, 
 How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray, 
 And he licked me for kindness my poor dog Tray. 
 
 Though my Pallet was scant, I remembered his 
 
 case, 
 
 Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face j 
 But he died at my feet on a cold winter day, 
 And I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray. 
 
 Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind ? 
 Can I find one to guide me, so faithful, and kind ? 
 To my sweet native village, so far, far away, 
 I can never more return with my poor dog Tray. 
 
 THE WOUNDED HUSSAR. 
 
 ALOXE to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube 
 Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er : 
 
 " Oh whither," she cried, " hast thou wandered, my 
 
 lover, 
 Or here dost thou welter and bleed en the shore "? 
 
 What voice did I hear ? 't was my Henry that 
 
 sighed !" 
 
 All mournful she hastened, nor wandered 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 marked with a 
 scar!
 
 THE WOUNDED HUSSAR. 107 
 
 And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming, 
 That melted in love, and that kindled in war ! 
 
 How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight ! 
 
 How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war ! 
 " Hast thou come, my fond Love, this last sorrowf:;! 
 
 night, 
 
 To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hus- 
 sar !" 
 
 " Thou shalt live," she replied, " Heaven's mercy 
 
 relieving, 
 Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to 
 
 mourn !" 
 
 tl Ah no ! the last pang of my bosom fs heaving ! 
 No light of the morn shall to Henry return ! 
 
 Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true ! 
 
 Ye babes of my love, that await me afar !'' 
 His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu, 
 
 When he sunk in her arms the poor wounded 
 Hussar !
 
 163 LINES. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIKE. 
 
 AT the silence of twilight's contemplative hour, 
 
 I have mused in a sorrowful mood, 
 On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the Lower 
 
 Where the home of my forefathers stood. 
 All ruined and wild is their roofless abode, 
 
 And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree : 
 And travelled by few is the grass-covered road, 
 Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode. 
 
 To his hills that encircle the sea. 
 
 Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk, 
 
 By the dial-stone aged and green, 
 One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk, 
 
 To mark where a garden had been. 
 Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race, 
 
 All wild in the silence of nature, it drew, 
 From each wandering sunbeam, a lonely embrace, 
 For the night- weed and thorn overshadowed the 
 place, 
 
 Where the flower of my forefathers grew. 
 
 Sweet bud of the wilderness ! emblem of all 
 
 That remains in this desolate heart ! 
 The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall, 
 
 But patience shall never depart ! 
 
 Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and 
 bright, 
 
 In the days of delusion by fancy combined 
 With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight 
 Abandon my soul, like a dream of the night, 
 
 And leave but a desert behind.
 
 THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 100 
 
 Be-hushed, my dark spirit ! for wisdom condemns 
 
 When the faint and the feeble deplore; 
 Be strong 1 as the rock of the ocean that stems 
 
 A thousand wild waves on the shore ! 
 Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of dis- 
 dain, 
 
 May thy front be unaltered, thy courage elate ! 
 Yea ! even the name I have worshipped in vain 
 rihall awake not the sigh of remembrance again : 
 
 To bear is to conquer our fate. 
 
 1800. 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 
 
 OUR bugles sang truce for the night-cloud had 
 lowered, 
 
 And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; 
 And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, 
 
 The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 
 
 When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 
 By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain 
 
 At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, 
 And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 
 
 Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, 
 Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track ; 
 
 J T was Autumn, and sunshine arose on the way 
 To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me 
 back. 
 
 I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 
 
 In life's morning march, when my bosom was 
 
 young; 
 I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, 
 
 And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers 
 sung. 
 
 H
 
 170 HALLOWED GROUND. 
 
 Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, 
 From my home and my weeping friends never to 
 part; 
 
 My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, 
 And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. 
 
 Stay, stay with us, rest, thou art weary and worn : 
 And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay 5 
 
 But sorrow returned Math the dawning of morn, 
 And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 
 
 HALLOWED GROUND. 
 
 WHAT 's hallowed ground ? Has earth a clod 
 Its maker meant not should be trod 
 By man, the image of his God 
 
 Erect and free, 
 ITnscourged by Superstition's rod 
 
 To bow the knee ? 
 
 That 's hallowed ground where, mourned and" 
 
 missed, 
 
 The lips repose our love has kissed : 
 But where 's their memory's mansion '? Is J 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 hallowed down to earth's profound, 
 
 And up to Heaven !
 
 HALLOWED GROUND. 171 
 
 For time makes all but true love old ; 
 The burning thoughts that then were told 
 Hun molten still in memory's mould ; 
 
 And will not cool, 
 Until the heart itself be cold, 
 
 In Lethe's pool. 
 
 "What hallows ground where heroes sleep ? 
 'T is 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 ! 
 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 ! 
 
 The colors planted face to face, 
 
 The charging cheer, 
 Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, 
 
 Shall still be dear. 
 
 And place our trophies where men kneel 
 To Heaven ! but Heaven rebukes my zeal. 
 The cause of Truth and human weal,
 
 172 HALLOWED GROUND. 
 
 God above ! 
 
 Transfer it from the sword's appeal 
 To Peace and Love. 
 
 Peace, Love ! the cherubim, that join 
 Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine, 
 Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, 
 
 Where they are not 
 The heart alone can make divine 
 
 Religion's spot. 
 
 To incantations dost thou trust, 
 And pompous rites in domes august ? 
 See mouldering stones and metal's rust 
 
 Belie the vaunt, 
 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 ! arc 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 !
 
 SONG. 173 
 
 And in your harmony sublime 
 I read the doom of distant time : 
 That man's regenerate soul from crime 
 
 Shall yet be drawn, 
 And reason on his mortal clime 
 
 Immortal dawn. 
 
 What's hallowed ground ? 'T is what gives birth 
 To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! 
 Peace! Independence! Truth! go forth 
 
 Karth's compass round ; 
 And your high priesthood shall make earth 
 
 All hallowed ground. 
 
 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 'I 
 
 Our hearts shalt beat, our tears shall flow, 
 But not together no, no, no !
 
 174 CAROLINE. 
 
 CAROLINE. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 I 'LL bid the hyacinth to blow, 
 
 I '11 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 bis wing 
 Delight my rustling canopy. 
 
 Come to my close and clustering bower, 
 
 Thou spirit of a milder clime, 
 Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower, 
 
 Of mountain heath, and moory thyme. 
 
 With all thy rural echoes come, 
 
 Sweet comrade of the rosy day, 
 Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum, 
 
 Or cuckoo's plaintive roundelay. 
 
 Where'er thy morning breath has played, 
 
 Whatever isles of ocean fanned, 
 Come to my blossom-woven shade, 
 
 Thou wandering wind of fairy-land. 
 
 For sure from some enchanted isle, 
 
 Where Heaven and Love their sabbath hold, 
 Where pure and happy spirits smile, 
 
 Of beauty's fairest, brightest mould :
 
 CAROLINE. 175 
 
 From some green Eden of the deep, 
 Where Pleasure's sigh alone is heaved, 
 
 Where tears of rapture lovers weep, 
 Endeared, undoubting, undeceived : 
 
 From some sweet paradise afaV, 
 Thy music wanders, distant, lost 
 
 Where Nature lights her leading star, 
 And love is never, never crossed. 
 
 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. 
 
 1795.
 
 lf8- CAROLINE. 
 
 CAROLINE. 
 
 TART II. 
 
 TO THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 < -> 
 
 GEM of the crimson-colored Even, 
 
 Companion of retiring 1 day, 
 Why at the closing gates of Heaven, 
 
 Beloved star, dost thou delay ? 
 
 So fair thy pensile beauty burns, 
 
 When s.oft the tear of twilight flows j 
 
 So due thy plighted love returns, 
 To chambers brighter than the rose : 
 
 To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love, 
 So kind a star thou seem'st to be, 
 
 Sure some enamored orb above 
 
 Descends and burns to meet with thee. 
 
 Thine is the breathing, blushing horn-, 
 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.
 
 CAROLINE. 177 
 
 Shine on her sweetly-scented road, 
 Thou star of evening's purple dome, 
 
 That lead'st the nightingale abroad, 
 And guid'st the pilgrim to his home. 
 
 Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath 
 
 Embalms the soft exhaling dew, 
 Where dying -winds a sigh bequeath, 
 
 To kiss the cheek of rosy hue. 
 
 Where winnowed by the gentle air, 
 
 Her silken tresses darkly flow, 
 And fall upon her brow so fair, 
 
 Like shadows on the mountain snow. 
 
 Thus, ever thus, at day's decline, 
 
 In converse sweet, to wander for, 
 O bring with thee my Caroline, 
 . And thou shalt be my Ruling Star ! 
 
 17%. 
 H*
 
 178 THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION. 
 
 THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION. 
 
 O LEAVE this barren spot to me ! 
 Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree ! 
 Though bush or floweret never grow 
 My dark un warming 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 j 
 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 grounc 
 By all that Love has whispered here, 
 Or beauty heard with ravished ear ; 
 As Love's own altar honor me : 
 Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree !
 
 FIELD FLOWERS. 179 
 
 FIELD FLOWERS. 
 
 YE field flowers ! the gardens eclipse you, 't is true, 
 Yet wildings ot Nature, I dote upon you, 
 
 For ye waft me to summers of old, 
 When the earth teemed around me with fairy 
 
 delight^ 
 And when daisies and buttercups*gladdened my sight, 
 
 Like treasures of silver and gold. 
 
 I love you for lulling me back into dreams 
 
 Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing 
 
 streams, 
 
 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 sweetened the calm. 
 
 Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune 
 
 Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June : 
 
 Of old ruinous castles ye tell, 
 
 Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, 
 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 j 
 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.
 
 180 STANZAS TO PAINTING. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 TO THE EVENING STAE. 
 
 STAB that bringest home the bee, 
 And sett'st the weary laborer free ! 
 If any star shed peace, 't is thou, 
 
 That send'st it from above, 
 Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow 
 
 Are sweet as hers we love. 
 
 Come to the luxuriant skies, 
 Whilst the landscape's odors rise, 
 Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard, 
 
 And songs when tell is done, 
 From cottages whose smoke unstirred 
 
 Curls yellow in the sun. 
 
 Star of love's soft interviews, 
 Parted lovers on the muse ; 
 Their remembrancer in Heaven 
 
 Of thrilling vows thou art 
 Too delicious to be riven 
 
 Bv 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 PAINTIN; . 181 
 
 Possessing more than vocal power,, 
 Persuasive more than poet's tongue ; 
 
 Whose lineage, in a raptured hour, 
 
 From Love, the Sire of Nature, sprung 1 ; 
 
 Does Hope her high possession meet ? 
 
 Is joy triumphant, sorrow flown ? 
 Sweet is the trance, the tremor sweet 
 
 When all we love is all our own. 
 
 But oh ! thou pulse of pleasure dear, 
 Slow throbbing, cold, I feel thee part ; 
 
 Lone absence plants a pang severe, 
 Or death inflicts a keener dart. 
 
 Then for a beam of joy to light- 
 In memory's sad and wakeful eye ! 
 
 Or banish from the noon of night 
 Her dreams of deeper agony. 
 
 Shall Song its witching cadence roll? 
 
 Yea, even the tenderest air repeat, 
 That breathed when soul was knit to soul, 
 
 And heart to heart responsive beat ? 
 
 What visions rise ! to charm, to melt ! 
 
 The lost, the loved, the dead are near ! 
 Oh, hush that strain too deeply felt ! 
 
 And cease that solace too severe ! 
 
 But thou, serenely silent art ! 
 
 By heaven and love wast taught to lend 
 A milder solace to the heart, 
 
 The sacred image of a friend. 
 
 All is not lost ! if, yet possest, 
 
 To me that sweet memorial shine : 
 
 If close and closer to my breast 
 I hold that idol all divine.
 
 182 THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE. 
 
 Or, gazing through luxurious tears, 
 Melt o'er the loved departed form, 
 
 Till death's cold bosom half appears 
 With life, and speech, and spirit warm. 
 
 She looks ! she lives ! this tranced hour, 
 Her bright eye seems a purer gem 
 
 Than sparkles on the throne of power, 
 Or glory's wealthy diadem. 
 
 Yes, Genius, yes ! thy mimic aid 
 A treasure to my soul has given, 
 
 Where beauty's canonized shade 
 
 Smiles in the sainted hues of heaven. 
 
 No spectre forms of pleasure fled, 
 
 Thy softening, sweetening, tints restore, 
 
 For thou canst give us back the dead, 
 E'en in the loveliest looks they wore. 
 
 Then blest be Nature's guardian Muse, 
 Whose hand her perished grace redeems 
 
 Whose tablet of a thousand hues 
 The mirror of creation seems. 
 
 From Love began thy high descent ; 
 
 And lovers, charmed by gifts of thine, 
 Shall bless thee mutely eloquent ; 
 
 And call thee brightest of the Nine ! 
 
 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.
 
 ABSENCE. 183 
 
 Rivals banished, bosoms plighted, 
 Still our days are disunited ; 
 Now the lamp of hope is lighted, 
 
 Now half-quenched appears, 
 Damped, and wavering, and benighted, 
 
 'Midst my sighs and tears. 
 
 Charms you call your dearest blessing, 
 Lips that thrill at your caressing, 
 Eyes a mutual soul confessing, 
 
 Soon you '11 make them grow 
 Dim, and worthless your possessing, 
 
 Not with age, but woe ! 
 
 ABSENCE. 
 
 T is not the loss of love's assurance, 
 
 It is not doubting what thou art, 
 But 't is the too, too long endurance 
 
 Of absence, that afflicts my heart. 
 
 The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish, 
 When each is lonely doomed to weep, 
 
 Are fruits on desert isles that perish, 
 Or riches buried in the deep. 
 
 What though, untouched by jealous madness, 
 Our bosom's peace may fall to wreck ; 
 
 Th' undoubting heart, that breaks with sadness 
 Is but more slowly doomed to break. 
 
 Absence ! is not the soul torn by it 
 
 From more than light, or life, or breath ? 
 
 J T is Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet, 
 The pain without the peace of death !
 
 184 LINES. 
 
 LINES 
 
 INSCRIBED ON THE MONUMENT LATELY FINISHED BY 
 MR. CHANTREY, 
 
 Which has been erected by the Widow of Admiral Sir G. 
 Campbell, K. C. B., to the memory of her Husband. 
 
 To him, whose loyal, brave, and gentle heart, 
 Fulfilled the hero's and the patriot's part, 
 Whose charity, like that which Paul enjoined, 
 Was warm, beneficent, and unconfined, 
 This stone is reared : to public duty true, 
 The seaman's friend, the father of his crew 
 Mild in reproof, sagacious in command, 
 He spread fraternal zeal throughout his band, 
 And led each arm to act, each heart to feel, 
 What British valor owes to Britain's weal. 
 These wore his public virtues : but to trace 
 His private life's fair purity and grace, 
 To paint the traits that drew affection strong 
 From friends, an ample and an ardent throng, 
 And, more, to speak his memory's grateful claim, 
 On her who mourns him most, and bears his name- 
 ( )'ercomes the trembling hand of widowed grief, 
 O'ercomes the heart, unconscious of relief, 
 Save in religion's high and holy trust, 
 Whilst placing their memorial o'er his dust.
 
 STANZAS. 185 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 O5T THE BATTLE OF NAVARINO. 
 
 HEARTS of oak that have bravely delivered the 
 
 , brave, 
 
 And uplifted old Greece from the brink of the grave, 
 7 T was 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 you* bloodshed n:i<l 
 
 toil, 
 
 ^Vas it slaves, or dominion, or rapine, or spoil ? 
 1 No ! your lofty emprise was to fetter and foil 
 
 The uprooter of Greece's domain ! 
 "When he tore the last remnant of food from her soil, 
 Till her famished sank pale as the slain ! 
 
 Yet, 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 then: 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 t 
 That the mother aghast sees her offspring no more r ; 
 
 By the hand of Infanticide grasped ! 
 And that stretched on yon billows distained by their 
 
 gore 
 Missolonghi's assassins have gasped ?
 
 186 : LINES. 
 
 Prouder scene never hallowed war's pomp to the 
 
 mind, 
 Than when Christendom's pennons wooed 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 honor his brow ! 
 
 Nor grudge, by our side, that to conquer or fall 
 Came the hardy rude Russ, and the high-mettled 
 
 Gaul: 
 For whose was the genius, that planned at its call, 
 
 Where the whirlwind of battle should roll? 
 All were brave ! but the star of success over all 
 
 Was the light of our Codrington's soul. 
 
 That star of thy day-spring, regenerate Greek ! 
 Dimmed the Saracen's moon, and struck pallid his 
 
 cheek ! 
 In its fast flushing morning thy Muses shall speak 
 
 When their lore and their lutes they reclaim : 
 And the first of their songs from Parnassus's peak 
 Shall be "Glory to Codrington's name ! n 
 
 1888, 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON REVISITING A SCOTTISH RIVEK. 
 
 AXD call they this Improvement ! to have changed, 
 My native Clyde, thy once romantic shore, 
 Where Nature's face is banished and estranged, 
 And heaven reflected in thy wave no more ; 
 Whose banks, that sweetened 31 ay-day's breath 
 before,
 
 LINES; 187 
 
 Lie sere and leafless now in summer's beam, 
 With sooty exhalations covered 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 tasked to earn its littL- 
 meal. 
 
 Is this Improvement ? where the human breed 
 Degenerate as they swarm and overflow, 
 Till Toil grows cheaper than the trodden weed, 
 And man competes with man, like foe with foe, 
 Till Death, that thins them, scarce seems public woe ? 
 Improvement ! smiles it in the poor man's eyes, 
 Or blooms it on the cheek of Labor ? No 
 To gorge a few with Trade's precarious prize, 
 We banish ' rural life, and breathe unwholesome 
 skies. . 
 
 Nor call that evil slight ; God has not given 
 
 This passion to the heart of man in vain, 
 
 For Earth's green face, th' untainted air of Heaven, 
 
 And all the bliss of Nature's rustic reign. 
 
 For not alone our frame imbibes a stain 
 
 Erom 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 ! 
 
 1827*.
 
 188 THE "NAME UNKNOWN." 
 
 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," 
 Ordained to bless my charmed soul, 
 And all my future fate control, 
 
 Unrivalled and alone ? 
 
 Delicious Idol of my thought ! 
 Though sylph or spirit hath not taught 
 
 My boding heart thy precious name j 
 Yet musing on my distant fate, 
 To charms unseen I consecrate 
 
 A visionary flame. 
 
 Thy rosy blush, thy meaning eye, 
 Thy virgin voice of melody, 
 
 Are ever present to my heart ; 
 Thy murmured vows shall }'et be mine, 
 My thrilling hand shall meet with thine, 
 
 And never, never part. ' 
 
 Then fly, my days, on rapid wing 
 Till Love the viewless treasure bring 
 
 While I, like conscious Athens, owr 
 A power in mystic silence sealed, 
 A guardian angel unrevealed, 
 
 And bless the " Name Unknown !" 
 
 * These lines were written in Germany.
 
 FAREWELL TO LOVE. 
 
 FAREWELL TO LOVE. 
 
 I HAD a heart that doted once in passion's boundless 
 
 pain, 
 And though the tyrant I abjured, I could not break 
 
 his chain ; 
 But now that Fancy's fire is quenched, and ne'er can 
 
 burn anew, 
 I 've bid to Love, for all my life, adieu ! adieu ! 
 
 adieu ! 
 
 IVc 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 roe a star that's fall'n a dream that's passed 
 
 away. 
 
 Hail ! welcome tide of life, when no tumultuous billows 
 
 roll, 
 How wondrous to myself appears this halcyon calm of 
 
 soul ! 
 The wearied bird blown o'er the deep would sooner 
 
 quit its shore, 
 Than I would cross the gulf again that time has brought 
 
 me o'er. 
 
 Why say they Angels feel the flame? Oh, spirits of 
 
 the skies ! 
 Can love like ours, that dotes on dust, in heavenly 
 
 bosoms rise? 
 Ah no! the hearts that best have felt its power, the 
 
 best can tell, 
 That peace on earth itself begins, when Love has bid 
 
 farewell. 
 
 1630.
 
 190 LINES. 
 
 LINES 
 
 O2T THE CAMP HILL, NEAR HASTINGS. 
 
 IK the deep blue of eve, 
 Ere the twinkling of stars had begun, 
 
 Or the lark took his leave 
 Of the skies and the sweet setting sun, 
 
 o 7 
 
 I climbed to yon heights, 
 Where the Norman encamped him of old 9 
 
 With his bowmen and knights, 
 And his banner all burnished with gold 
 
 At the Conqueror's side 
 There his minstrelsy sat harp in hand, 
 
 In pavilion wide ; 
 And they chaunted the deeds of lloland 
 
 Still the ramparted ground 
 With a vision my fancy inspires, 
 
 And I hear the trump sound, 
 As it marshalled our Chivalry's sires. 
 
 On each turf of that mead 
 Stood the captors of England's domains, 
 
 That ennobled her breed 
 And high-mettled the blood of her veins. 
 
 Over hauberk and helm 
 As the sun's setting splendor was thrown, 
 
 Thence they looked o'er a realm 
 And to-morrow beheld it their own.
 
 LINES ON POLAND. 101 
 
 LINES ON POLAND. 
 
 AND have I lived to see thee sword in hand 
 Uprise again, immortal Polish Land ! 
 Whose flag brings more than chivalry to mind, 
 And leaves the tri-color in shade 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, bare to shot and steel, 
 I feel the more that fruitlessly I feel. 
 
 Poles ! with what indignation I endure 
 Th' half-pitying servile mouths that call you poor ; 
 Poor ! is it England mocks you with her grief, 
 Who hates, but dares not chide, th' Imperial Thief? 
 France with her soul beneath a Bourbon's thrall, 
 And Germany thfft~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 ; 
 Wreathed, filleted, the victim falls renowned, 
 And all her ashes will be holy ground ! 
 
 But turn, my soul, from presages so 'dark : 
 
 Great Poland's spirit is a deathless spark 
 
 That's fanned by Heaven to mock the Tyrant's 
 
 rage: 
 
 She, like the eagle, will renew her age, 
 And fresh historic plumes of Fame put on, 
 Another Athens after Marathon,
 
 192 LINES ON POLAND. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 Conic but the day when Poland's fight is won 
 
 And on my grave-stone shine the morrow's son 
 
 The day that sees Warsaw's cathedral glow 
 
 With endless ensigns ravished from the foe, 
 
 Her women lifting their fair hands with thanks, 
 
 Her pious warriors kneeling in their ranks, 
 
 The 'scutcheoned walls of high heraldic boast. 
 
 The odorous altars' elevated host, 
 
 The organ sounding through the aisles' long 
 
 glooms, 
 
 The mighty dead seen sculptured o'er their tombs j 
 (John, Europe's saviour Poniatowski's fair 
 Resemblance Kosciusko's shall be there;) 
 The tapered pomp the hallelujah's swell, 
 Shall o'er the soul's devotion cast a spell, 
 Till visions cross the rapt enthusiast's glance, 
 And all the scene becomes a waking trance. 
 Should Fate put far far off that glorious scene, 
 And gulfs of havoc interpose between, 
 Imagine not, ye men of every clime, 
 Who act, or by your sufferance share, the crime 
 Your brother Abel's blood shall vainly plead 
 Against the " deep damnation" of the deed. 
 Germans, ye view its horror and disgrace 
 With cold phosphoric eyes and phlegm of face. 
 Is Allemagne profound in science, lore, 
 Anil minstrel art! her shame is but the more 
 To Jo/e and dream by governments oppressed, 
 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 
 Ai.d mystic metaphysics of your heads,
 
 LINES ON POLAND. 11 
 
 To sliow the self-same grave Oppression delves 
 
 For Poland's rights is yawning for yourselves '? 
 
 See, whilst the Pole, the vanguard aid of France, 
 
 Has vaulted on his barb, and couched the lance, 
 
 France turns from her abandoned friends afresh, 
 
 And soothes the Bear that prowls for patriot flesh ; 
 
 Buys, ignominious purchase ! short repose. 
 
 With dying curses, and the groans of those 
 
 That served, and loved, and put in her their trust. 
 
 Frenchmen ! the dead accuse you from the dust 
 
 Brows laurelled bosoms marked with many a scar 
 
 For France that wore her Legion's noblest star, 
 
 Cast dumb reproaches from the field of Death 
 
 On Gallic honor : and this broken faith 
 
 Has robbed you more of Fame the life of life 
 
 Than twenty battles lost in glorious strife ! 
 
 And what of England is she steeped so low 
 
 In poverty, crest-fallen, and palsied so, 
 
 That we must sit much wroth, but timorous more, 
 
 With murder knocking at our neighbor's door ! 
 
 Not murder masked and cloaked, with hidden knife, 
 
 Whose owner owes the gallows life for life ; 
 
 But Public Murder ! that with pomp and gaud, 
 
 And royal scorn of Justice, walks abroad 
 
 To wring more tears and blood than e'er were wrung 
 
 By all the culprits Justice ever hung ! 
 
 We read the diademed 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 the grounds of fray, 
 
 Or trivial rapine stopped the world's highway ; 
 
 Were this some common strife of States embroiled ; 
 
 Britannia on the spoiler and the spoiled 
 
 Might calmly look, and, asking time to breathe, 
 
 Still honorably wear her olive wreath. 
 
 But this is Darkness combating with Light ; 
 
 Earth's adverse Principles for empire fight ;
 
 '4 LINES OX POLAND. 
 
 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 Freedpm's states of Poland's thrall, 
 And, trampling one, contemns them one and all. 
 
 My country ! colors not thy once proud brow 
 
 At this affront ? Hast thou not fleets enow 
 
 \Yith Glory's streamer, lofty as the lark, 
 
 Gay fluttering o'er each plunder-bearing bark, 
 
 To warm the insulter's seas with barbarous blood, 
 
 And interdict his flag from Ocean's flood I 
 
 Even now far off the sea-cliff, where I sing, 
 
 I see, my Country and my Patriot King ! 
 
 Your ensign glad the deep. Becalmed and slow 
 
 A war-ship rides ; while Heaven's prismatic bow 
 
 Uprisen behind her on th' horizon's base, 
 
 Shines flushing through the tackle, shrouds, and 
 
 stays, 
 
 And wraps her giant form in one majestic blaze. 
 My soul accepts the omen ; Fancy's eye 
 Has sometimes a veracious augury : 
 The Rainbow types Heaven's promise to my sight j 
 The Ship, Britannia's interposing Might ! 
 But if there should be none to aid you, Poles, 
 Ye '11 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 
 
 flood: 
 Even Power can spill but bounded sums of blood.
 
 LINES ON POLAND. 
 
 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 goe^, 
 By shifting bosoms more intensely glo\v> : 
 Its heirloom is the heart, and slaughtered 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 m::id : 
 Her praise upon my faltering' lips expires; 
 Resume it, younger bards, and nobler lyres!
 
 11)0 A NEW YEAR'S THOUGHT. 
 
 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 youth, 
 
 Ere passion yet disorders, 
 Steals, lingering like a river smooth 
 
 Along its grassy borders. 
 
 But, as the care-worn cheek grows wan, 
 And sorrow's shafts fly thicker, 
 
 Ye stars, that measure life to man, 
 Why seem your courses quicker ? 
 
 When joys have lost their bloom and breath, 
 
 And life itself is vapid, 
 Why, as we reach the Falls of death, 
 
 Feel we its tide more rapid ? 
 
 It may be strange yet who would change 
 Time's course to slower speeding ; 
 
 When one by one our friends have gone, 
 And left our bosoms bleeding ? 
 
 Heaven gives our years of fading strength 
 
 Indemnifying fleetness ; 
 And those of Youth, a seeming length, 
 
 Proportioned to their sweetness.
 
 SONG. ID; 
 
 SONG. 
 
 How delicious is the winning 1 
 Of a kiss at Love's beginning, 
 When two mutual hearts are sighing 1 
 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 pressed and bidden. 
 
 Bind the sea to slumber stilly, 
 Bind its odor to the lily, 
 Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, 
 Then bind Love to last forever ! 
 
 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 fettered Love from dying 
 In the knot there's no untying.
 
 198 THE POWER OF RUSSIA. 
 
 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. 
 
 THE POWER OF RUSSIA. 
 
 So all this gallant blood has gushed in vain ! 
 And Poland, by the Northern Condor's beak 
 And talons torn, lies prostrated again. 
 O British patriots, that were wont to speak 
 Once loudly on thjs theme, now hushed or meek ! 
 O heartless men of Europe Goth and Gaul, 
 Cold, adder-deaf to Poland's dying shriek ; 
 That saw the world's last land of heroes fall 
 The brand of burning shame is on you all all- 
 all! 
 
 But this is not the drama's closing act ! 
 
 Its tragic curtain must uprise anew. 
 
 Nations, mute accessories to the fact ! 
 
 That Upas-lvee of power, whose fostering dew
 
 THE POWER OF RUSSIA. 199 
 
 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 hallowed, righteous, pure, and great, 
 Wo ! wo ! when they are reached by Russia's wither- 
 ing hate. 
 
 ussia, that on his throne of adamant, 
 Consults what nation's breast shall next be gored, 
 He on Polonia's Golgotha will plant 
 His standard fresh ; and horde succeeding horde, 
 On patriot tomb-stones he will whet the sword, 
 For more stupendous slaughters of the free. 
 Then Europe's realms, when their best blood is 
 
 poured, 
 
 Shall miss thee, Poland ! as they bend the knee, 
 All all in grief, but none in glory, likening thee. 
 
 Why smote ye not the Giant whilst he reeled ? 
 O fair occasion, gone for ever by ! 
 To have locked his lances in their northern field, 
 Innocuous as the phantom chivalry 
 That flames and hurtles from yon boreal sky ! 
 Now wave thy pennon, Russia, o'er the land 
 Once Poland ; build thy bristling castles high ; 
 Dig dungeons deep ; for Poland's wrested brand 
 Is now a weapon new to widen thy command 
 
 An awful width ! Norwegian woods shall build 
 
 His fleets ; the Swede his vassal, and the Dane j 
 
 The glebe of fifty kingdoms shall be tilled 
 
 To feed his dazzling, desolating train, 
 
 Camped sumless, 7 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 polished 
 
 light.
 
 800 THE POWER OF RUSSIA. 
 
 But Russia's limbs (so blinded statesmen speak) 
 Are crude, and too colossal to cohere. 
 O, 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 de- 
 clines ! 
 
 But time will teach the Russ, even conquering 
 
 War 
 
 Has handmaid arts : ay, ay, the Russ will woo 
 All sciences that speed Bellona's car, 
 All murder's tactic arts, and win them too ; 
 But never holier Muses shall imbue 
 His breast, that's made of nature's basest clay : 
 The sabre, knout, and dungeon's vapor blue 
 His laws and ethics : far from him away 
 Are all the lovely Nine, that breathe but Freedom's 
 
 day. 
 
 Say, even his serfs, half-humanized, should learn 
 Their human rights, will Mars put out his 
 
 flame 
 
 In Russian bosoms ? no, he'll bid them burn 
 A thousand years for naught but martial fame, 
 Like Romans : yet forgive me, Roman name ! 
 Rome could impart what Russia never can ; 
 Proud civic rights to salve submission's shame, 
 Our strife is coming ; but in freedom's van 
 The Polish eagle's fall is big with fate to man. 
 
 Proud bird of old ! Mohammed's moon recoiled 
 
 Before thy swoop : had we been timely bold, 
 
 That swoop, still free, had stunned the Russ, and 
 
 foiled 
 Earth's new oppressors, as it foiled her old.
 
 THE POWER OF RUSSIA. 2(U 
 
 Now thy majestic eyes are shut and cold : 
 
 And colder still Polonia's children find 
 
 The sympathetic hands that we onthold. 
 
 But, Poles, when we are gone, the world will 
 
 mind, 
 Ye bore the brant of fate, and bled for human. 
 
 kind. 
 
 So hallowedly have ye fulfilled your part, 
 
 My pride repudiates even the sigh that blends 
 
 With Poland's name name written on my heart. 
 
 My heroes, my grief-consecrated friends ! 
 
 Your sorrow, in nobility, transcends 
 
 Your conqueror's joy: his cheek may blush; I tut, 
 
 shame 
 
 Can tinge not yours, though exile's tear descends* ; 
 Nor would ye change your conscience, cause, and 
 
 name, 
 Por his, with all his wealth, and all his felon i'anie. 
 
 Thee, Niemciewitz, whose song of stirring power 
 The Czar forbids to sound in Polish lands ; 
 Thee, Czartoryski, in thy banished bower, 
 The patricide, who in thy palace stands, 
 May envy : proudly may Polonia's bands 
 Throw down their swords at Europe's feet in scorn, 
 Saying ' Russia from the metal of these brands 
 Shall forge the fetters of your sons unborn ; 
 Our setting star is your misfortune's rising morn/" 
 
 S83L 
 I*
 
 202 LINES. 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON LEAVING A SCENE IN BAVARIA, 
 
 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 swelled each torrent of the hill j 
 Her clouds collect, her shadows sail, 
 And watery winds that sweep the vale 
 
 Grow loud and louder still. 
 
 But not the storm, dethroning fast 
 Yon monarch oak of massy pile; 
 
 Nor river roaring to the blast 
 Around its dark and desert isle ; 
 Nor church-bell tolling to beguile 
 
 The cloud-born thunder passing by, 
 Can sound in discord to my soul : 
 Roll on, ye mighty waters, roll ! 
 
 And rage, thou darkened sky ! 
 
 Thy blossoms now no longer bright ; 
 
 Thy withered woods no longer green ; 
 Yet, Eldurn shore, with dark delight 
 
 I visit thy unlovely scene ! 
 
 For many a sunset hour serene 
 My steps have trod thy mellow dew ; 
 
 When his green light the glowworm gav(jj 
 
 When Cynthia from the distant wave 
 Her twilight anchor drew, 
 
 And ploughed, as with a swelling sail, 
 The billowy clouds and starry sea j 
 
 Then while thy hermit nightingale 
 Sang on his fragrant apple-tree, 
 .Romantic, solitary, free,
 
 LINES. 202 
 
 The visitant of Eldurn's shore, 
 
 On such a moonlight mountain strayed, 
 As echoed to the music made 
 
 By Druid harps of yore. 
 
 Around thy savage hills of oak, 
 Around thy waters bright and blue, 
 
 No hunter's horn the silence broke, 
 No dying shriek thine echo knew j 
 But safe, sweet Eldurn woods, to you 
 
 The wounded wild deer ever ran, 
 x Whose myrtle bound their grassy cavcj 
 Whose very rocks a shelter gave 
 
 From blood-pursuing man. 
 
 Oh heart effusions, that arose 
 
 From nightly wanderings cherished here ; 
 To him who flies from many woes, 
 
 Even homeless deserts can be dear ! 
 
 The last and solitary cheer 
 Of those that own no earthly home, 
 
 Say is it not, ye banished race, 
 
 In such a loved and lonely place 
 Companionless to roam ? 
 
 Yes ! I have loved thy wild abode, 
 
 Unknown, unploughed, untrodden shore* 
 Where scarce the woodman finds a road, 
 
 And scarce the fisher plies an oar ; 
 
 For man's neglect I love thee more : 
 That art nor avarice intrude 
 
 To tame thy torrent's thunder shock ; 
 
 Or prune thy vintage of the rock 
 Magnificently rude. 
 
 Unheeded spreads thy blossomed bud 
 
 Its milky bosom to the bee ; 
 Unheeded falls along the flood 
 
 Thy desolate and aged tree. 
 
 Forsaken scene, how like to thee
 
 201 LINES. 
 
 The fate of unbefriended Worth ! 
 Like thine her fruit dishonored falls j 
 Like thee in solitude she calls 
 
 A thousand treasures forth. 
 
 Oh ! silent spirit of the place, 
 
 If, lingering with the mined year, 
 
 Thy hoary form and awful face 
 
 I yet might watch and worship here ! 
 Thy storm were music to mine ear, 
 
 Thy wildest walk a shelter given 
 Sublimer thoughts on earth to find, 
 And share, with no unhallowed 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 darkened 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 looked 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 banished heart, at last, 
 In thy dominions shall descend, 
 
 And, strong as beech wood in the blast, 
 His spirit shall refuse to bend ; 
 Enduring life without a friend,
 
 LINES. 205 
 
 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 \voos 
 
 The vulture cover of its wing ? 
 
 Then fly, thou cowering, shivering thing, 
 Back to the fostering world beguiled, 
 
 To waste in self-consuming strife 
 
 The loveless brotherhood of life, 
 Reviling and reviled ! 
 
 Away, thou lover of the race 
 
 That thither 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 ! 
 
 His art and honors wouldst thou seek 
 Embossed on grandeur's giant walls ? 
 
 Or hear his moral thunders speak 
 Where senates light then: airy halls, 
 Where man his brother man enthralls; 
 
 Or sends his whirlwind warrant forth 
 To rouse the slumbering fiends of war, 
 To dye the blood-warm waves afar, 
 
 And desolate the earth ? 
 
 From clime to clime pursue the scene, 
 And mark in all thy spacious way, 
 
 Where'er the tyrant man has been, 
 There Peace, the cherub, cannot stay; 
 In wilds and woodlands far awav
 
 206 THE DEATH-BOAT OF HELIGOLAND. 
 
 She builds her solitary "bower, 
 Where only anchorites have trod, 
 Or friendless men, to worship God, 
 
 Have wandered for an hour. 
 
 In such a far forsaken vale, 
 
 And such, sweet Eldurn vale, is thine, 
 
 Afflicted nature shall inhale 
 
 Heaven-borrowed thoughts and joys divine j 
 No linger 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 HELIGOLAND. 
 
 CAN restlessness reach the cold sepulchred head ? 
 Ay, the quick have their sleep-walkers, so have I 1 .:.; 
 
 jlead. 
 There are brains, though they moulder, that dream 
 
 in the tomb, 
 And that maddening forehear the last trumpet of 
 
 doom, 
 
 Till their corses start sheeted to revel on earth, 
 Making horror more deep by the semblance of mirth : 
 By the glare of new-lighted volcanoes they dance, 
 Or at mid-sea appall the chilled mariner's glance. 
 Such, I wot, was the band of cadaverous smile 
 Seen ploughing the night surge of Heligo's isle. 
 
 The foam of the Baltic had sparkled like fire, 
 And the red moon looked down with an aspect of ire ; 
 But her beams on a sudden grew sick-like and gray, 
 And the mews that had slept clanged and shrieked 
 far away
 
 THE DEATH-BOAT OF HELIGOLAND. -jnr 
 
 And the buoys and the beacons extinguished their 
 
 light, 
 
 As the boat of the stony-eyed dead came in sight 
 High bounding from billow to billow ; each form 
 Had its shroud like a plaid flying loose to the storm; 
 With an oar in each pulseless and icy-cold hand, 
 Fast they ploughed by the lee-shore of Heligoland, 
 Such breakers as boat of the living ne'er crossed ; 
 Now surf-sunk for minutes again they uptossed ; 
 And with livid lips shouted reply o'er the flood 
 To the challenging watchman that curdled his 
 
 blood 
 ' We are dead we are bound from our graves in the 
 
 west, 
 First to Hecla, and then to ' Unmeet was the 
 
 rest 
 For man's ear. The old abbey bell thundered its 
 
 clang, 
 And their eyes gleamed with phosphorus light as it 
 
 rang: 
 Ere they vanished, they stopped, and gazed silently 
 
 grim, 
 Till the eye could define them, garb, feature, and 
 
 limb. 
 
 Now who were those roamers ? of gallows or wheel 
 Bore they marks, or the mangling anatomist's steel ? 
 No, by, magistrates' chains 'mid then* grave-clothes 
 
 you saw 
 They were felons too proud to have perished by 
 
 law: 
 But a ribbon that hung where a rope should have 
 
 been, 
 J T was the badge of their faction, its hue was not 
 
 green, 
 Showed them men who had trampled and tortured 
 
 and driven 
 To rebellion the fairest Isle breathed on by 
 
 Heaven,
 
 203 SONG. 
 
 Men whose heirs would yet finish the tyrannous task, 
 If the Truth and the Time had not dragged off their 
 
 mask. 
 
 They parted but not till the sight might discern 
 A scutcheon distinct at their pinnace's stern, 
 Where letters emblazoned in blood-colored flame, 
 Named their faction I blot not my page with its 
 
 name. 
 
 1828. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 WHEN Love came first to earth, the SPRING 
 Spread rose-beds to receive him, 
 
 And back he vowed 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 revelled in the wanner breath 
 And licher bowers of SUMMER. 
 
 Then sportive AUTUMN claimed by rights 
 
 An Archer for her lover, 
 And even in WINTER'S dark cold nights 
 
 A charm he could discover. 
 
 i 
 
 Her routs and balls, and fireside joy, 
 For this time were his reasons 
 
 In short, Young Love ; s a gallant boy, 
 That likes aU times and seasons. 
 
 1829.
 
 SONG. , 20y 
 
 SONG. 
 
 EARL MARCH looked on his dying child, 
 And smit 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 looked up to Ellen's bower, 
 
 And slie looked 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 their silken lashes. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 WHE>T NAPOLEOX 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."
 
 210 LINES TO JULIA M . 
 
 Sore mourned the brother's heart, 
 When the youth beside him fell ; 
 
 But the trumpet warned to part, 
 And they took a sad farewell. 
 
 There was many a friend to lose him, 
 For that gallant soldier sighed ; 
 
 But the maiden of his bosom 
 
 Wept when all their tears were dried. 
 
 LINES TO JULIA M- 
 
 SEXT WITH A COPY OF THE AUTHOR'S POEMS 
 
 SINCE there is magic in your look . 
 And in your voice a witching charm, 
 As all our hearts consenting tell, 
 Enchantress, smile upon my book, 
 And guard its lays from hate and harm. 
 By beauty's most resistless spell. 
 
 The sunny dew-drop of thy praise, 
 Young day-star of the rising time, 
 Shall with its odoriferous morn 
 Refresh my sere and withered bays 
 Smile, and I will believe my rhyme 
 Shall please the beautiful unborn. 
 
 Go forth, my pictured thoughts, and rise 
 In traits and tints of sweeter tone, 
 When Julia's glance is o'er ye flung ; 
 Glow, gladden, linger in her eyes, 
 And catch a magic not your own, 
 Read by the music of her tongue.
 
 DRINKING SONG OF MUNICH. I'll 
 
 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 crimsoned with the beam 
 
 Of yonder planet bright, 
 Our balmy cups should ever stream 
 
 Profusion of delight ; 
 No care should touch the mellow heart, 
 And sad or sober none depart ; 
 
 For wine can triumph over woe, 
 And Love and Bacchus, brother powers, 
 Could build in Iser's sunny bowers 
 
 A paradise below. 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON THE DEPARTURE OF EMIGRANTS FOR STEW SOUTH 
 WALES. 
 
 Ox England's shore I saw a pensive band, 
 
 With sails unfurled for earth's remotest strand, 
 
 Like children parting from a mother, shed 
 
 Tears for the home that could not yield them 
 
 bread ; 
 
 Grief marked each face receding from the view, 
 'T was grief to nature honorably true.
 
 Cl-2 LINES. 
 
 And long, poor wanderers o'er the ecliptic deep, 
 The song that names but home shall make you 
 
 weep : 
 
 Oft shall ye fold your flocks by stars above 
 In that far world, and miss the stars ye love ; 
 Oft when its tuneless birds scream round forlorn, 
 llegret the lark that gladdens England's morn, 
 And, giving England's names to distant scenes, 
 Lament that earth's extension intervenes. 
 
 Hut 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 ! [hearth, 
 The deep-drawn wish, when children crown our 
 To hear the cherub-chorus of their mirth, 
 Undamped by dread that w r ant may e'er unhouse, 
 Or servile misery knit those smiling brows : 
 The pride to rear an independent shed, 
 And give the lips we love unborrowed bread : 
 To see a world, from shadowy forests won, 
 In youthful beauty wedded to the sun ; 
 To skirt our home with harvests widely sown. 
 And call the blooming landscape all our own, 
 Our children's heritage, in prospect long. 
 These are the hopes, high-minded hopes and strong, 
 That beckon England's wanderers o'er the brine, 
 To realms where foreign constellations shine ; 
 AVhere streams from undiscovered fountains roll, 
 And winds shall fan them from th' Antarctic pole. 
 And what though doomed to shores so far apart 
 From England's home, that even the homesick heart 
 Quails, thinking, ere that gulf can be recrossed, 
 How large a space of fleeting life is lost : 
 Yet there, by time, their bosoms shall be changed, 
 And strangers once shall cease to sigh estranged, 
 But jocund in the year's long sunshine roam, 
 That yields their sickle twice its harvest-home. 
 
 There, marking o'er his farm's expanding ring 
 New fleeces whiten and new fruits upspring,
 
 LINES. 213 
 
 The gray-baked 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 even benign, 
 The glorious past is ours, the future thine ! 
 As in a cradled Hercules, we trace 
 The lines of empire in thine infant face. 
 "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 uriaccurst : 
 Of navies, hoisting their emblazoned flags, 
 AVhere shipless seas now wash unbeaconed crags ; 
 Of hosts reviewed in dazzling files and squares, 
 Their pennoned trumpets breathing native airs,- - 
 For minstrels 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.
 
 214 LINES. 
 
 Untracked in deserts lies the marble mine, 
 Undug the ore that 'midst thy roofs shall shine j 
 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 in long array, 
 And windows that enrich the flood of day 
 O'er tessellated pavements, pictures fair, 
 And niched statues breathing golden ah*. 
 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 ! 
 Even 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 then- 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, 
 AVhere sportive first he bathed his boyish limb, 
 Or petted birds, still brighter than their bowers, 
 Or twined his tame young kangaroo Avith flowers. 
 But more magnetic yet to memory 
 Shall be the sacred spot, still blooming nigh, 
 The bower of love, where first his bosom burned^ 
 And smiling passion saw its smile returned.
 
 LINES. 215 
 
 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 ! 
 
 1828. 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON REVISITING CATHCART. 
 
 Ofl ! scenes of my childhood, and dear to my heart 
 Te green waving woods on the margin of Cart, 
 How blest in the morning of life I have strayed, 
 By the stream of the vale and the grass-covered 
 glade ! 
 
 Then, then every rapture was young and sincere, 
 Ere the sunshine of bliss was bedimmed by a tear, 
 And a sweeter delight every scene seemed to lend, 
 That the mansion of peace was the home of :i 
 
 FRIEND. 
 
 Now the scenes of" my childhood and dear to my 
 
 heart, 
 
 All pensive I visit, and sigh to depart ; 
 Their flowers seem to languish, their beauty to cease, 
 JFor a stranger inhabits the mansion of peace. 
 
 But hushed 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.
 
 216 THE CHERUBS. 
 
 THE CHERUBS. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY AX APOLOGUE IN THE WORKS OF 
 FRANKLIN. 
 
 Two spirits reached this world of ours : 
 The lightning's locomotive powers 
 
 Were slow to their agility : 
 In broad daylight they moved incog., 
 Enjoying without mist or fog, 
 
 Entire invisibility. 
 
 The one, a simple cherub lad, 
 Much interest in our planet had, 
 
 Its face was so romantic ; 
 He could n't persuade himself that man 
 Was such as heavenly rumors ran, 
 
 A being base and frantic. 
 
 The elder spirit, wise and cool, 
 Brought down the youth as to a school j 
 
 But strictly on condition, 
 Whatever they should see or hear, 
 With mortals not to interfere ; 
 
 'T was not in their commission. 
 
 They reached a sovereign city proud, 
 Whose emperor prayed to God aloud, 
 
 With all his people kneeling, 
 And priests performed religious rites : 
 "Come/ 7 said the younger of the sprites, 
 
 " This shows a pious feeling.' 1 
 
 YOUNG SPIRIT. 
 
 " Ar' n't these a decent godly race ?" 
 
 OLD SPIRIT. 
 
 " The dirtiest thieves on Nature's face."
 
 THE CHERUBS. 217 
 
 YOUNG SPIRIT. 
 
 " But hark, what cheers they 're giving 
 Their emperor! And is he a thief?" 
 
 OLD SPIRIT. 
 
 " Ay, and a cut-throat too ; in brief, 
 
 THE GREATEST SCOUNDREL LIVING." 
 
 YOUNG SPIRIT. 
 
 " But say, what were they praying for, 
 This people and their emperor?" 
 
 OLD SPIRIT. 
 
 " Why, for God's assistance 
 To help their army, late sent out : 
 And what that army is about, 
 
 You '11 see at no great distance." 
 
 On wings outspeeding mail or post, 
 Our sprites overtook the imperial host, 
 
 In massacres it wallowed : 
 A noble nation met its hordes, 
 But broken fell their cause and swords, 
 
 Unfortunate, though hallowed. 
 
 They saw a late bombarded town, 
 
 Its streets still warm with blood ran down 
 
 Still smoked each burning rafter ; 
 And hideously, ; midst rape and sack, 
 The murderer's laughter answered back 
 
 His prey's convulsive laughter. 
 
 They saw the captive eye the dead, 
 With envy of his gory bed, 
 
 Death's quick reward of bravery : 
 They heard the clank of chains, and then 
 ISuw thirty thousand bleeding men 
 d manacled to slavery.
 
 18 THE CHERUBS. 
 
 u Fie ! lie !" the younger heavenly spark 
 Exclaimed: "we must have missed our mark. 
 
 And entered hell's own portals : 
 Earth can't be stained with crimes so black j 
 Nay, sure, we 've got among a pack 
 
 Of fiends, and noj of mortals f ' 
 
 ' No," said the elder, " no such thing ; 
 Fiends are not fools enough to wring 
 
 The necks of one another : 
 They know their interests too well : 
 Men fight ; but every devil in hell 
 
 Lives friendly with his brother. 
 
 And I could point you out some fellows, 
 On this ill-fated planet Tellu*, 
 
 In royal power that revel ; 
 AVho, at the opening of the book 
 ( )f 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 : 
 Bat spotless spirits of the shies 
 Unseen to e'en 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, entrants 
 Tlu blasphemy of hell, and vaunts 
 
 Himself the Lord's anointed ! 
 
 Folks make a fuss about my mischief : 
 
 1) d fools; they tamely suffer this chief 
 
 To play his pranks unbounded."
 
 TO SIR FRANCIS BURDETT. 
 
 The cherubs flew ; but saw from high, 
 At human inhumanity, 
 
 The devil himself astounded. 
 
 1632, 
 
 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 '11 loathe me unforgiven, 
 
 To dote thus out of season j 
 J3ut beauty is a beam from heaven, 
 
 That dazzles blind our reason. 
 
 I '11 challenge Plato from the skies, 
 Yes, from his spheres harmonic 
 
 To look in M y C 's eyes, 
 
 And try to be Platonic. 
 
 TO SIE FRANCIS BURDETT, 
 
 OJf HIS SPEECH DELIVERED IN PARLIAMENT, AUG- 
 UST 7, 1832, RESPECTING THE FOREIGN POLICY 
 OF GREAT BRITAIN. 
 
 BURDETT, enjoy thy justly foremost fame, 
 
 Through good and ill report through calm and 
 
 storm 
 For forty years the pilot of reform ! 
 
 .But that which shall afresh entwine thy name
 
 220 TO SIR FRANCIS BURDETT. 
 
 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 cherished by our sires, 
 That baffled Europe's persecuting fires. 
 
 And sheltered helpless states ! Recall 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 f 
 
 Suppose we wished it ? England could not stand 
 A lone oasis in the desert ground 
 Of Europe's slavery ; from the waste around 
 Oppression's fiery blast and whirling sand 
 Would reach and scathe us? No; it may not be: 
 Britannia and the world conjointly must bo free ! 
 
 Burdett, demand why Britons send abroad 
 Soft greetings to th' infanticidal Czar, 
 The Bear on Poland's babes that wages war. 
 Once, we are told, a mother's shriek o'erawed 
 
 A lion, and he 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!
 
 ODE TO THE GERMANS. 221 
 
 He prays to Heaven for England's kiiiir, he says 
 And dares he to the God of mercy kneel, 
 Besmeared with massacres from head to hcd .' 
 
 No; Moloch is his God to him he prays, 
 
 And if his weird-like prayers had power to brim; 
 
 An influence, their power would be to curse. 
 
 His hate is baleful, but his love is worse 
 A serpent's slaver deadlier than its sting ! 
 
 Oh, feeble statesmen ignominious times, 
 
 That lick the tyrant's feet, and smile upon his 
 
 ODE TO THE GERMANS. 
 
 HE 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 hallowed thrice the band 
 Of our kindred hearts shall be, 
 
 When your land shall be the land 
 Of the free of the free ! 
 
 With Freedom's lion-banner 
 
 Britannia rules the waves ; 
 Whilst your BROAD STONE or HOXOH* 
 
 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 ! 
 
 * Ehrenbreitstein signifies, ia German " the broad stone of honor.
 
 LINES. 
 
 MARS owes to you his thunder* 
 
 That shakes the battle field, 
 Yet to break your bonds asunder 
 
 No martial bolt has pealed. 
 Shall the laurelled land of art 
 Wear shackles on her heart ? 
 
 No ! the clock ye framed to tell, 
 By its sound, the march of time ; 
 
 Let it clang oppression's knell 
 
 O'er your clime o'er your clime ! 
 
 The press's magic letters, 
 
 That blessing ye brought forth, 
 Behold ! it lies in fetters 
 
 On the soil that gave it birth : 
 But the trumpet must be heard, 
 And the charger must be spurred ; 
 
 For your father Armin's Sprite 
 Calls down from heaven, that ye 
 
 Shall gird you for the fight, . 
 
 And be free ! and be free ! 
 
 1831. 
 
 LINES 
 
 OR A PICTURE OF A GIRL IX THE ATTITUDE OF 
 PRATER. 
 
 By the Artist Gruse, in the possession of Lady Stepney. 
 
 WAS man e'er doomed that beauty made 
 By mimic heart should haunt him ; 
 
 Like Orpheus, I adore a shade, 
 And dote upon a phantom. 
 
 * Germany invented gunpowder, clock-making, and printing.
 
 LINES. 
 
 Thou maid that in my inmost thought 
 
 Art i'ancifully sainted, 
 Why liv'st thou not why art thou nought 
 
 But canvass 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. 
 
 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 time 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. 
 
 1830.
 
 SPANISH PATRIOTS' SONG. 
 
 SPANISH PATRIOTS' SONG. 
 
 How rings each sparkling Spanish brand ! 
 
 There 's music in its rattle, 
 And gay as for a saraband 
 We gird us for the battle. 
 Follow, follow, 
 To the glorious revelry 
 Where the sabres bristle, 
 And the death-shots whistle ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Of rights for which our swords outspring 
 
 Shall Angouleme bereave us ? 
 We ' ve plucked a bird of nobler wing 
 The eagle could not brave us. 
 Follow, follow, 
 
 Shake the Spanish blade, and sing 
 France shall ne'er enslave us, 
 Tyrants shall not brave us ! 
 
 in. 
 
 Shall yonder rag, the Bourbon's flag, 
 
 White emblem of his liver, 
 In Spain the proud, be Freedom's shroud ?- 
 O never, never, never 
 Follow, follow, 
 Follow to the fight, and sing 
 Liberty for ever, 
 Ever, ever, ever! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thrice welcome hero of the hilt ! 
 We laugh to see his standard;
 
 TO A LADY. 225 
 
 Here let his miscreant blood be spilt, 
 Where braver men's was squandered ! 
 Follow, follow, 
 If the laurelled tricolor 
 Durst not overflaunt us, 
 Shall yon lily daunt us ? 
 
 v. 
 
 No ! ere they quell our valor's veins, 
 They'll upward to their fountains 
 Turn back the rivers on our plains, 
 And trample flat our mountains. 
 Follow, follow, 
 
 Shake the Spanish blade, and sing 
 France shall ne'er enslave us, 
 Tyrants shall not brave us ! 
 
 1823. 
 
 TO A LADY, 
 
 ON BEING PRESENTED WITH A SPRICr OK ALEXAN- 
 DRIAN LAUREL. 
 
 THIS classic laurel ! at the sight 
 
 What teeming thoughts suggested rise ! 
 The patriot's and the poet's right, 
 
 The meed of semi-deities ! 
 Men who to death have tyrants hurled. 
 
 Or bards who may have swayed at will 
 And soothed that little troubled world 
 
 The human heart with sweeter skill. 
 
 Ah! lady, little it beseems 
 
 My brow to wear these sacred leaves ! 
 
 Yet, like a treasure found in dreams, 
 Thy gift most pleasantly deceives. 
 .T*
 
 226 TO THE POLISH COUNTESS R SKI. 
 
 And where is poet on the earth 
 
 Whose self-love could the meed withstand- 
 Even though it far out-stripped his worth, 
 
 Given by so beautiful a hand ? 
 
 TO THE POLISH COUNTESS R SKI. 
 
 i. 
 
 THOUGH I honor you at heart 
 
 More than these poor lines can tell ; 
 Yet I cannot bear to part 
 
 With a common cold " farewell." 
 We are strangers, far remote 
 
 In descent, and speech, and clime ; 
 Yet, when first we met, I thought 
 
 We were friends of ancient time ! 
 
 II. 
 
 
 
 O, how long shall I delight 
 
 In the memory of that morn 
 When we climbed the Danube's height, 
 
 To the Fountain of the Thorn ! 
 And beheld his waves and islands 
 
 All glittering in the sun 
 From Vienna's gorgeous towers, 
 
 To the mountains of the Hun ! 
 
 in. 
 
 There was gladness in the sky, 
 
 There was verdure all around ; 
 And, where'er it turned, the eye 
 
 Looked on rich, historic ground ! 
 Over Aspern's field of glory 
 
 Noontide's purple haze was cast j 
 And the hills of Turkish story 
 
 Teemed with visions of the past !
 
 FRANCIS HORNER. 225 
 
 IV. 
 
 But it was not mute creation, 
 
 Nor the land's historic pride, 
 That inspired my heart's emotion, 
 
 On that lovely mountain's side ; 
 But that you had deigned to guide me, 
 
 And, benignant and serene, 
 R ski stood beside me, 
 
 Like the Genius of the scene ! 
 
 FRANCIS HORNER. 
 
 YE who have wept, and felt, and summed the whole 
 
 Of Virtue's loss in Homer's parted soul, 
 
 I speak to you ; though words can ill portray 
 
 The extinguished light, the blessing swept away 
 
 The soul high-graced to plead, high-skilled to plan, 
 
 For human welfare, gone, and lost to man ! 
 
 This weight of truth subdues my power of song, 
 
 And gives a faltering voice to feelings strong ! 
 
 But I should ill acquit the debt I feel 
 
 To private friendship and to public zeal, 
 
 Were my heart's tribute not with theirs to blend 
 
 Who loved, most intimate, their country's friend ! 
 
 Or if the Muse, to whom his living breath 
 
 Gave pride and comfort, mourned him not in death i 
 
 TO FLORINE. 
 
 COULD I bring lost youth back again, 
 And be what I have been, 
 
 I 'd court you in a gallant strain, 
 My young and fair Florine !
 
 228 TO AX INFANT. 
 
 But mine 's the chilling age that chicles 
 
 Devoted rapture's glow; 
 And Love, that conquers all besides, 
 
 Finds Time a conquering foe. 
 
 Farewell ! We 're severed, by our fate,, 
 As far as night from noon ; 
 
 You came into this world so late 
 And / depart so soon ! 
 
 TO AN INFANT. 
 
 SWEET bud of life ! thy future doom 
 
 Is present to my eyes, 
 And joyously I see thee bloom 
 
 In Fortune':; fairest skies. 
 One day that breast, scarce conscious now. 
 
 Shall burn with patriot flame ; 
 And, fraught with love, that little brow 
 
 Shall wear the wreath of Fame. 
 When I am dead, dear boy ! thou "It take 
 
 These lines to thy regard 
 Imprint them on thy heart, and make 
 
 A Prophet of the Bard ! 
 
 TO 
 
 WHIRLED by the steam's impetuous breath; 
 
 I mark yon engine's mighty wheel ; 
 How fast it forged the arms of death, 
 
 And moulded adamantine steel !
 
 TORLORN DITTY ON RED-RIpING-HOOP. 
 
 But soon, that life-like scene to stop, 
 The steam's impetuous breath to chill, 
 
 Jt needed but one single drop 
 Of water cold and all was still ! 
 
 Even so, one tear by * * shed, 
 
 It kills the bliss that once was mine ; 
 
 And rapture from my heart is fled, 
 Who caused a tear to heart like thine. 
 
 FORLORN DITTY ON RED-RIDING-HOOD. 
 
 BRIGHTER than gem ever polished by jeweller, 
 Fairer than flower that in garden e'er grew ! 
 
 Yet I 'm sony to say that to me you Ve been 
 
 crueller 
 Than the wolf in the fable to granny and you ! 
 
 I once was a fat man the merriest of jokers; 
 
 But my phiz now r s as lank as an old Jewish bro- 
 ker's, 
 
 And I toddle about on two legs thin as pokers, 
 Lamenting the lovely Red-Riding-Hood's scorn ! 
 
 I cannot eat food, and I cannot recover sleep : 
 
 Madden can cure all his patients but me ! 
 And I verily think, when I 've taken the Lover's 
 
 leap. 
 
 That my heart, like 9, cinder, will hiss in the sea ! 
 Little Red-Riding-Hood ! why won't you speak to 
 
 me '? 
 Your cause of offence is all Hebrew and Greek to 
 
 me ! 
 I conjure a compassionate smile on your cheek to 
 
 me, 
 By all the salt tears that have scalded my nose !
 
 230 JOSEPH MARRY AT, M. P. 
 
 When I drown myself, punsters will pun in each 
 
 coterie, 
 Saying, "Strangely his actions and words were 
 
 at strife ' 
 For the fellow determined his bier should be 
 
 watery 
 Though he vowed that he hated small beer all 
 
 his life !" 
 
 Yes, cruel maiden ! when least o' 't thou thinkest, 
 I '11 hie to the sea-beach ere yonder sun sink west ; 
 And the verdict shall be of the Coroner's inquest 
 "He died by the lovely Red-Kiding-Hood's 
 scorn !" 
 
 JOSEPH MARRYAT, M.P. 
 
 MARRY AT, farewell ! thy outward traits expressed 
 A manliness of nature, that combined 
 The thinking head and honorable breast. 
 In thee thy country lost a leading mind j 
 Yet they who saw not privates life draw forth 
 Thy heart's affections knew but half thy worth 
 A worth that soothes jeven Friendship's bitterest sigh, 
 To lose thee ; for thy virtues sprung from Faith, 
 And that high trust in Immortality 
 Which reason hinteth, and religion saith 
 Shall best enable man, when he has trod 
 Life's path, to meet the mercy of his GOD ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 MY mind is my kingdom ; but, if thou wilt deign 
 To sway there a queen without measure, 
 
 Then come, o'er my wishes and homage to reign, 
 And make it an empire of pleasure !
 
 STANZAS. 231 
 
 Then of thoughts and emotions, each mutinous 
 
 crowd, 
 
 That rebelled at stern Reason and Duty, 
 Returning, shall yield all their loyalty proud 
 To the halcyon dominion of Beauty ! 
 
 What arm that entwines thee need envy the fame 
 
 Of conquest in War's bloody story ? 
 Thy smiles are my triumphs my motto thy name j 
 
 And thy picture, my 'scutcheon of Glory ! 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 ALL mortal joys I could forsake, 
 
 Bid home and friends adieu! 
 Of life itself a parting take, 
 
 But never of you, my love 
 
 Never of you ! 
 
 For sure, of all that know thy worth, 
 
 This bosom beats most true; 
 And where could I behold on earth 
 
 Another form like you, my love 
 
 Another like you ! 
 
 ON ACCIDENTALLY POSSESSING AND RE- 
 TURNING MISS B 'S PICTURE. 
 
 I KNOW not, Lady, which commandment 
 In painting this the artist's hand meant 
 
 To make us chiefly break ; 
 But sure the owner's bliss I covet, 
 And half would, for possession of it, 
 
 Turn thief and risk mv neck.
 
 232 SONG. 
 
 Yet, as Prometheus rued the fetching 
 Of fire from Heaven to light his kitchen, 
 
 So, if I stole this treasure , 
 To warm my fancy at the light 
 Of those young eyes, perhaps I might 
 
 Repent it at my leisure. 
 
 An old man for a young maid dying, 
 Grave forty-five for nineteen sighing, 
 
 Would merit Wisdom's stricture ! 
 And so, to save myself from kindling, 
 As well as being sued for swindling, 
 
 I send you back the picture. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I GAVE my love a chain of gold 
 
 Around her neck to bind ; 
 She keeps me in a faster hold 
 
 And captivates my mind. 
 Methinks that mine 's the harder part : 
 
 Whilst 'neath her lovely chin 
 She carries links outside her heart, 
 
 My fetters are within ! 
 
 TO MARY SINCLAIR, WITH A VOLUME OF 
 HIS POEMS. 
 
 Go, simple Book of Ballads, go 
 From Eaton-street, in Pimlico; 
 It is a gift, my love to show 
 
 To Mary!
 
 TO MARY SINCLAIR. 233 
 
 And, more its value to increase, 
 I swear, by all the gods of Greece, 
 It cost a seven-shilling piece 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 But what is gold, so bright that looks, 
 Or all the coins of miser's nooks, 
 Compared to be in thy good books 
 
 ^ My Mary ! 
 
 Now witness earth, and skies, and main! 
 The boot to thee shall appertain; 
 I '11 never ask it back again 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 But what, you say, shall you bestow ? 
 For, as the world now goes, you know, 
 There always is a quid pro quo 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 I ask not twenty hundred kisses, 
 
 Nor smile, the lover's heart that blesses, 
 
 As poets ask from other Misses 
 
 My Mary! 
 
 I ask that, till the day you die. 
 You '11 never pull my wig awry, 
 Nor ever quiz my poetrye 
 
 My Mary!
 
 234 THE PILGKIM OF GLENCOE. 
 
 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 
 
 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 tradi- 
 tion ; and that gentleman's knowledge of the Highlands, as 
 well as his particular acquaintance with the district of Glencoe, 
 leave me no doubt of the incident having really happened. I 
 have not departed from the main facts of the tradition as re- 
 ported to me by Mr. Macdonald ; only I have endeavored to 
 color the personages of the story, and to make them as distinc- 
 tive 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 streamered busses, that distinctly shine 
 All downward, pictured in the glassy brine ; 
 Whose crews, with faces brightening in the sun, 
 Keep measure with their oars, and all in one 
 Strike up 'th' old Gaelic song. Sweep, rowers, 
 
 sweep 
 
 The fisher's glorious spoils are in the deep. 
 
 Day sinks but twilight owes the traveller soon, 
 To reach his bourne, a round unclouded moon, 
 Bespeaking long undarkened hours of time ; 
 False hope the Scots are steadfast not their 
 
 clime. 
 
 A war-worn soldier 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
 
 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 235 
 
 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 stamped her name 
 On Oudenarde's and Blenheim's fields of fame. 
 Nine times in battle-field his blood had streamed, 
 Yet vivid still his veteran blue eye gleamed ; 
 Full well he bore his knapsack unoppressed, 
 And marched with soldier-like erected crest : 
 Nor sign of even loquacious age he wore, 
 Save when he told his life's adventures o'er : 
 Some tired of these ; for terms to him were dear, 
 Too tactical by far for vulgar ear ; 
 As when he talked of rampart and ravine, 
 And trenches fenced with gabion and fascine 
 But when his theme possessed him all and whole, 
 He scorned proud puzzling words and warmed tin 
 
 soul; 
 
 Hushed groups hung on his lips with fond surprint 
 That sketched old scenes like pictures to tht-ii 
 
 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. 
 
 Th' old soldier hoped, ere evening's light should 
 
 fail, 
 
 To reach a home, south-east of Cona's vale ; 
 But looking at Bennevis, capped with snow,
 
 23C THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 
 
 lie saw its mists come curling down below, 
 And spread white darkness o'er the sunset glow; 
 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 informed his ear 
 Some human habitation might be near ; 
 Anon sheep-bleatings rose from rock to rock, 
 'T was 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 green-sward (gladsome sight!) 
 A cottage stood, with straw-roof golden bright. 
 
 He knocked, was welcomed in ; none asked his 
 
 name, 
 
 Nor whither he was bound nor whence he came ; 
 But he was beckoned to the stranger's seat, 
 Right side the chimney fire of blazing peat. 
 Blest Hospitality makes not her home 
 In walled parks and castellated dome ; 
 She flies the city's needy, greedy crowd, 
 And shuns stiH more the mansions of the proud ; 
 The balm of savage or of simple life, 
 A wild flower cut by culture's polished knife ! 
 
 The house, no common sordid shieling cot, 
 Spoke inmates of a comfortable lot. 
 The Jacobite white rose festooned their door ; 
 The windows sashed and glazed, the oaken floor, 
 The chimney graced with antlers of the deer, 
 The rafters hung with meat for winter cheer, 
 And all the mansion, indicated plain 
 Its master a superior shepherd swain.
 
 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 237 
 
 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, 
 
 His son looked fifty cheeiful like her lord 
 
 His comely wife presided at the board j 
 
 All three had that peculiar courteous grace 
 
 Which marks the meanest of the Highland race : 
 
 Warm hearts that bum alike in weal and woe, 
 
 As if the north-wind fanned their bosom's glow '. 
 
 But wide unlike their souls : old Norman's eye 
 
 Was proudly savage even in courtesy. 
 
 His sinewy shoulders each, though aged and lean, 
 
 Broad as the curled Herculean head between, 
 
 His scornful lip, his eyes of yellow fire, 
 
 And nostrils that dilated quick with ire, 
 
 With ever downward-slanting shaggy brows, 
 
 Marked the old lion you would dread to rouse. 
 
 Norman, in truth, had led his earlier life 
 
 In raids of red revenge and feudal strife ; 
 
 Religious duty in revenge he saw, 
 
 Proud Honor's right and Nature's honest law ; 
 
 First in the charge and foremost in pursuit, 
 
 Long-breathed, deep- chested, and in speed of font 
 
 A match for stags still fleeter when the prey 
 
 Was man, in persecution's evil day ; 
 
 Cheered to that chase by brutal bold Dundee, 
 
 No Highland hound had lapped more blood than he. 
 
 Oft had he changed the covenanter's breatli 
 
 From howls of psalmody to howls of death ; 
 
 And though long bound to peace it irked him still 
 
 His dirk had ne'er one hated foe to kill. 
 
 Yet Norman had fierce virtues, that .would mock 
 
 Cold-blooded tones of the modern stock 
 
 Who starve the breadless poor with fraud and 
 
 cant ; 
 He slew and saved them from the pangs of want.
 
 238 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 
 
 Nor was his solitary lawless charm 
 
 Mere dauntlessness of soul and strength of anri ; 
 
 He had his moods of kindness now and then, 
 
 And feasted even well-mannered lowland men 
 
 Who blew not up his Jacobitish flame, 
 
 Nor prefaced with " pretender" Charles's nair,e. 
 
 Fierce, but by sense and kindness not unwon ; 
 
 He loved, respected even, his wiser son ; 
 
 And brooked from him expostulations sage, 
 
 When all advisers else were spurned with rage. 
 
 Far happier times had moulded Ronald's mind, 
 By nature too of more sagacious kind. 
 His breadth of brow, and Roman thape of chin, 
 Squared well with the firm man that reigned within: 
 Contemning strife as childishness, he stood 
 With neighbors on kind terms of neighborhood, 
 And whilst his father's anger nought availed, 
 His rational remonstrance never failed. 
 Full skilfully he managed farm and fold, 
 Wrote, ciphered, profitably bought and sold ; 
 And, blessed with pastoral leisure, deeply took 
 Delight to be informed, by speech or book, 
 Of that wide world beyond his mountain home, 
 Where oft his curious fancy loved to roam. 
 Oft while his faithful dog ran round his flock, 
 He read long hours when summer warmed the rock : 
 Guests who could tell him aught were welcomed 
 
 warm, 
 
 Even peddlers' 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 worshipped stem uncompromising truth. - 
 His goddess kindlier smiled on him, to find 
 A votary of her light in land so blind ;
 
 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 239 
 
 She bade majestic History unroll 
 
 Broad views of public welfare to his soul, 
 
 Until he looked on clannish feuds and foes 
 
 With scorn, as on the wars of kites and crows ; 
 
 Whilst doubts assailed him o'er and o'er again ; 
 
 If men were made for kings or kings for men. 
 
 At last, to Norman's horror and dismay, 
 
 He flat denied the Stuarts' right to sway. 
 
 No blow-pipe ever whitened furnace lire, 
 
 Quick as these words lit up his father's ire ; 
 
 Who envied even old Abraham for his faith, 
 
 Ordained to put his only son to death. 
 
 He started up in such a mood of soul 
 
 The white bear bites his showman's stirring-pole ; 
 
 He danced too, and brought out, with snarl and howl. 
 
 " O Dia ! Dia !" and, " Dioul ! Dioul ! "* 
 
 But sense foils fury as the blowing whale 
 
 Spouts, bleeds, and dyes the waves without avail 
 
 Wears out the cable's length that makes him last, 
 
 But worn himself, comes up harpooned at last 
 
 E'en so, devoid of sense, succumbs at length 
 
 Mere strength of zeal to intellectual strength. 
 
 His son's close logic so perplexed, his pate, 
 
 Th' old hero rather shunned than sought debate ; 
 
 Exhausting his vocabulary's store 
 
 Of oaths and nicknames, he could say no more, 
 
 But tapped his mull,t rolled mutely in his chair, 
 
 Or only whistled Killiecrankie's air. 
 
 Witch-legends Ronald scorned ghost, kelpie,wraith 7 
 And all the trumpery of vulgar faith ; 
 Grave matrons even were shocked to hear him slight 
 Authenticated facts of second-sight 
 Yet never flinched his mockery to confound 
 The brutal superstition reigning round. 
 Reserved himself, still Ronald loved to scan 
 Men's natures and he liked the old hearty man ; 
 
 * God and the devil a favorite ejaculation of Higl.land .saiuts. 
 t Snuff -horn. .
 
 240 THE PILGRIM OF GLEXCOE. 
 
 So did the partner of his heart and life 
 
 WJio pleased her Ronald, ne'er displeased his wife. 
 
 His sense, 't is true, compared with Norman's son, 
 
 Was commonplace his tales too long outspun : 
 
 Yet Allan Campbell's sympathizing mind 
 
 Had held large intercourse with humankind ; 
 
 Seen much, and gaily graphically drew 
 
 The men of every country, clime, and hue ; 
 
 Nor ever stooped, though soldier-like his strain, 
 
 To ribaldry of mirth or oath profane. 
 
 All went harmonious till the guest began 
 
 To talk about his kindred, chief and clan, 
 
 And, with his own biography engrossed, 
 
 Marked not the changed demeanor of each host ; 
 
 Nor how old choleric Norman's cheek became 
 
 Flushed at the Campbell and Breadalbane name. 
 
 Assigning, heedless of impending harm, 
 
 Their steadfast silencs to his story's charm, 
 
 He touched a subject perilous to touch 
 
 Saying, " Midst this well-known vale I wondered 
 
 much 
 
 To lose my way. In boyhood, long ago, 
 I roamed, and loved each pathway of Glencoe ; 
 Trapped leverets, plucked wild berries on its braes, 
 And fished along its banks long summer days. 
 But times grew stormy bitter feuds arose, 
 Our clan was merciless to prostrate foes. 
 I never palliated my chieftain's blame, 
 But mourned the sin, and reddened for the shame 
 Of that foul mom (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. 
 
 * To hang their vassals, or starve them to death in a dungeon, was 
 a privilege of the Highland chiefs who had hereditary jurisdic- 
 tions.
 
 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 241 
 
 Forced, passive as the musket in my hand, 
 I marched 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, 
 Enjoined to slaughter woman, man, and child. 
 My clansmen many a year had cause to dread 
 The curse that day entailed upon their head ; 
 Glenlyon's self confessed th' avenging spell 
 I saw it light on him. 
 
 " It so befell : 
 
 A soldier from our ranks to death was brought, 
 By sentence deemed too dreadful for his fault ; 
 All was prepared the coffin and the cart 
 Stood near twelve muskets, levelled at his heart. 
 The chief, whose breast for rath had still some 
 
 room, 
 
 Obtained 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 hankerchief their volley should ensue ; 
 But if he held a paper in its place, 
 It should be hailed the sign of pardoning grace : 
 He, in a fatal moment's absent fit, 
 Drew forth the handkerchief, and not the writ ; 
 Wept o'er the corpse and wrung his hands in woe, 
 Crying, l Here 's thy curse again Glencoe Glen- 
 
 coe!'" 
 
 Though thus his guest spoke feelings just and clear, 
 The cabin's patriarch lent impatient ear ; 
 Wroth that, beneath his roof, a living man 
 Should boast the swine-blood of the Campbell clan. 
 He hastened to the door called out his son 
 To follow ; walked a space, and thus begun : 
 " You have not, Ronald, at this day to learn 
 The oath I took beside my father's cairn, 
 K
 
 242 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 
 
 When you were but a babe a twelvemonth born j 
 
 Sworn on my dirk by all that 's sacred, sworn 
 
 To be revenged for blood that cries to Heaven 
 
 Blood unforgivable, and unforgiven : 
 
 But never power, since tJien, have I possessed 
 
 To plant my dagger in a Campbell's breast. 
 
 Now, here 's a self-accusing partisan, 
 
 Steeped in the slaughter of Macdonald's clan ; 
 
 I scorn his civil speech and sweet-lipped show 
 
 Of pity he is still our house's foe : 
 
 I '11 perjure not myself but sacrifice 
 
 The caitiff ere to-morrow's sun arise. 
 
 Stand ! hear me you 're my son, the deed is jusr, 
 
 And if I say it must be done it must : 
 
 A debt of honor which my clansmen crave, 
 
 Their very dead demand it from the grave." 
 
 Conjuring then their ghosts, he humbly prayed 
 
 Their patience till the blood-debt should be paid. 
 
 But Ronald stopped him. " Sir, Sir, do not dim 
 
 Your honor by a moment's angry whim ; 
 
 Your soul 's too just and generous, were you cool, 
 
 To act at once th' assassin and the fool. 
 
 Bring me the men on whom revenge is due, 
 
 And I will dirk them willingly as you ! 
 
 But all the real authors of that black 
 
 Old deed are gone you cannot bring them back 
 
 And this poor guest, 't is palpable to judge, 
 
 In all his life ne'er bore our clan a grudge ; 
 
 Dragged when a boy against his will to share 
 
 That massacre, he loathed the foul affair. 
 
 Think, if your hardened heart be conscience proof, 
 
 To stab a stranger underneath your roof ! 
 
 One who has broken bread within your gate 
 
 Reflect before reflection comes too late, 
 
 Such ugly consequences there may be 
 
 As judge and jury, rope and gallows-tree. 
 
 The days of dirking snugly are gone by, 
 
 Where could you hide the body privily 
 
 When search is made for 't ?"
 
 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 243 
 
 " Plunge it in yon flood, 
 
 That Campbells crimsoned with our kindred blood." 
 " Ay, but the corpse may float " 
 
 " Pshaw ! dead men tell 
 No tales nor will it float if leaded well. 
 I am determined !" What could Ronald do ? 
 No house within ear-reach of his halloo, 
 Though that would but have published household 
 
 shame, 
 
 He temporized with wrath he could not tame, 
 And said " Come in, till night put off the deed, 
 And ask a few more questions ere he bleed." 
 They entered ; Norman with portentous air 
 Strode to a nook behind the stranger's chair, 
 And, speaking nought, sat grimly in the shade, 
 With dagger in his clutch beneath his plaid. 
 His son's own plaid, should Norman pounce his 
 
 Was coiled thick round his arm, to turn away 
 Or blunt the dirk. He purposed leaving free 
 The door, and giving Allan time to flee, 
 Whilst he should wrestle with, (no safe emprise,) 
 His father's maniac strength and giant size. 
 Meanwhile he could nowise communicate 
 The impending peril to his anxious mate ; 
 But she, convinced no trifling matter now 
 Disturbed the wonted calm of Ronald's brow, 
 Divined too well the cause of gloom that lowered, 
 And sat with speechless terror overpowered, 
 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 ;
 
 244 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 
 
 But swift of foot, outspeeding bloodier men, 
 
 I chased, o'ertook her in the winding glen, 
 
 And showed her palpitating, where to save 
 
 Herself and infant in a secret cave ; 
 
 Nor left them till I saw that they could mock 
 
 Pursuit and search within that sheltering rock." 
 
 " Heavens !" Ronald cried, in accents gladly wild, 
 
 " That woman was my mother I the child ! 
 
 Of you unknown by name she late and air * . 
 
 Spoke, wept, and ever blessed you in her prayer, 
 
 Even to her death ; describing you withal 
 
 A well-looked florid youth, blue-eyed and tall." 
 
 They rose, exchanged embrace : the old lion then 
 
 Upstarted, metamorphosed, from his den ; 
 
 Saying, il 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 '11 stand or fall." 
 
 "Bravo !" cried Ronald. " I commend your zeal," 
 
 Quoth Norman, " and I see your heart is leal ; 
 
 But I have prayed my soul may never thrive 
 
 If thou should'st leave this house of ours alive. 
 
 Nor shalt thou ; in this home protract thy breath 
 
 Of easy life, nor leave it till thy death." 
 
 The following morn arose serene as glass, 
 And red Bennevis shone like molten brass ; 
 While sunrise opened flowers with gentle force, 
 The guest and Ronald walked in long discourse, 
 " Words fail me," Allan said, " to thank aright 
 Your father's kindness shown me yesternight ; 
 Yet scarce I 'd wish my latest days to spend 
 A fireside fixture with the dearest friend : 
 
 * Scotch for late and early.
 
 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 24o 
 
 Besides, I 've but a fortnight's furlough now, 
 
 To reach Macallin More,* beyond Lochawe. 
 
 I 'd fain memoriah'ze the powers that be, 
 
 To deign remembrance of my wounds and me ; 
 
 My life-loug 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 
 
 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, 
 
 T is nought, unless succinctly clear and brief: 
 
 Great men have no great patience when they 
 
 read, 
 And long petitions spoil the cause they plead." 
 
 That day saw Ronald from the field full soon 
 Return ; and when they all had dined at noon, 
 He conned the old man's memorial lopped its 
 
 length, 
 
 And gave it style, simplicity, and strength ; 
 'T was finished in an hour and in the next 
 Transcribed by Allan in perspicuous text. 
 At evening, he and Ronald shared once more 
 A long and pleasant walk by Cona's shore. 
 *' I M press yon," quoth his host (" I need not say 
 How warmly) ever more with us to stay ; 
 But Charles intends, 't is said, in these same parts 
 To try the fealty of our Highland hearts. 
 'T is my belief, that he and all his line 
 Have saving to be hanged no right divine ; 
 From whose mad enterprise can only flow 
 To thousands slaughter, and to myriads woe. 
 
 *The Duke of Argyle.
 
 246 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 
 
 Yet have they stirred my father's spirit sore, 
 He flints his pistols whets his old claymore 
 And longs as ardently to join the fray 
 As boy to dance who hears the bagpipe play. ' 
 Though calm one day, the next, disdaining rule, 
 He 'd gore your red-coat like an angry bull : 
 I told him, and he owned it might be so, 
 Your tempers never could in concert flow. 
 But ' Mark/ he added, l Ronald ! from our door 
 Let not this guest depart forlorn and poor ; 
 Let not your souls the niggardness evince 
 Of lowland peddler, or of German prince ; 
 He gave you life then feed him as you M feed 
 Your very father were he cast in need.' 
 He gave you '11 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, 
 7 T is proffered 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 furrowed face and flowing tear 
 Confessed sensations which he could not speak. 
 Old Norman bade him farewell kindly meek. 
 
 At morn, the smiling dame rejoiced to pack 
 With viands full the old soldier's haversack. 
 He feared 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 
 
 * 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. 247 
 
 An invalid, to serve not but with pay 
 
 (A mighty sum to him), twelve-pence a clay. 
 
 " But have you heard not," said Macallin More, 
 
 " Charles Stuart 's landed on Eriska's shore, 
 
 And Jacobites are arming f " What ! indeed ! 
 
 Arrived ! then I 'm no more an invalid ; 
 
 My new-got halbert I must straight employ 
 
 In battle." " As you please, old gallant boy : 
 
 Your gray hairs well might plead excuse, 't is true, 
 
 But now 's the time we want such men as you." 
 
 In brief, at Innerara Allan staid, 
 
 And joined the banners of Argyle's brigade. 
 
 Meanwhile, the old choleric shepherd of Glencoe 
 
 Spurned all advice, and girt himself to go. 
 
 What was 7 t to him that foes would poind their 
 
 fold, 
 
 Their lease, their Very beds beneath them sold ! 
 And firmly to his text he would have kept, 
 Though Ronald argued and his daughter wept. 
 But 'midst the impotence of tears and prayer, 
 Chance snatched them from proscription and de- 
 spair. 
 
 Old Norman's blood was headward wont to mount 
 Too rapid from his heart's impetuous fount ; 
 And one day, whilst the German rats he cursed, 
 An artery in his wise sensorium burst. 
 The lancet saved him : but how changed, alas, 
 From him who fought at Killiecrankie's pass ! 
 Tame as a spaniel, timid as a child, 
 He muttered incoherent words and smiled ; 
 He wept at kindness, rolled a vacant eye, 
 And laughed full often when he meant to cry 
 Poor man ! whilst in this lamentable state, 
 Came Allan back one morning to his gate, 
 Hale and unburdened by the woes of eild, 
 And fresh with credit from Culloden's field. 
 'T was feared at first, the sight of him might touch 
 The old Macdonald's morbid mind too much ;
 
 248 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 
 
 But no ! though Norman knew him and disclosed 
 Even rallying memory, he was still composed ; 
 Asked all particulars of the fatal fight, 
 And only heaved a sigh for Charles's flight : 
 Then said, with but one moment's pride of air. 
 It might not have been so Md I been there ! 
 Few days elapsed till he reposed beneath 
 His gray cairn, on the wild and lonely heath ; 
 Son, friends, and kindred of his dust took leave, 
 And Allan, with the crape bound round his sleeve. 
 
 Old Allan now hung up his sergeant's sword, 
 And sat, a guest for life, at Ronald's board. 
 He waked no longer at the barrack's drum, 
 Yet still you 'd see, when peep of day was come, 
 Th' erect tall red-coat, walking pastures round, 
 Or delving with his spade the garden ground. 
 Of cheerful temper, habits strict and sage, 
 He reached, enjoyed, a patriarchal age 
 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, 
 Scorned not to weep at Allan Campbell's grave.
 
 NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH BAILOR. 249 
 
 NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR* 
 
 I LOVE contemplating apart, 
 
 From all his homicidal glory, 
 The traits that soften to our heart 
 
 Napoleon's story ! 
 
 'T was when his banners at Boulogne 
 Armed in our island every freeman, 
 
 His navy chanced to capture one 
 Poor British seaman. 
 
 They suffered him I know not how, 
 Unprisoned on the shore to roam ; 
 
 And aye was bent his longing brow 
 On England's home. 
 
 His eye, methinks, pursued the flight 
 Of birds to Britain half-way over ; 
 
 With envy they could reach the white, 
 Dear cliffs of Dover. 
 
 A stormy midnight watch, he thought, 
 
 Than this sojourn would have been dearer, 
 
 If but the storm his vessel brought 
 To England nearer. 
 
 At last, when care had banished sleep, 
 
 He saw one morning dreaming floating, 
 
 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 con- 
 firmed by an Englishman long resident at Boulogne, lately telling 
 me, that he remembered the circumstance to have been generally 
 talked of in the place. 
 K*
 
 250 NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR. 
 
 He hid it in a cave, and wrought 
 
 The live-long day laborious ; lurking 
 
 Until he launched a tiny boat 
 By mighty working. 
 
 Heaven help us ! 't was a thing beyond 
 Description wretched ; such a wherry 
 
 Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond, 
 Or crossed a ferry. 
 
 For ploughing in the salt-sea field, 
 
 It would have made the boldest shudder ; 
 
 Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled, 
 No sail no rudder. 
 
 From neighb'ring woods he interlaced 
 His sorry skift' with wattled willows ; 
 
 And thus equipped he would have passed 
 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, 
 Addressed the stranger : 
 
 "Rash man, that would'st yon Channel pass 
 On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned; 
 
 Thy heart with some sweet British lass 
 Must be impassioned." 
 
 " I have no sweetheart," said the lad ; 
 
 " But absent long from one another- 
 Great was the longing that I had 
 
 To see my mother."
 
 BENLOMOND. 251 
 
 :t And so thou shalt," Napoleon said, 
 " Ye Ve both my favor fairly won ; 
 
 A noble mother must have bred 
 So brave a son." 
 
 He gave the tar a piece of gold, 
 
 And, with a flag of truce, commanded 
 
 He should be shipped to England Old, 
 And safely landed. 
 
 Our sailor oft could scantily shift 
 To find a dinner, plain and hearty ; 
 
 But never changed the coin and gift 
 Of Bonaparte\ 
 
 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 begun, 
 New creeds, new conquerors' sway ; 
 
 And, like their shadows in the sun, 
 Hast seen them swept away. 
 
 Thy steadfast summit, heaven-allied 
 
 (Unlike life's little span), 
 Looks down a mentor on the pride 
 
 'Of perishable man.
 
 252 THE CHILD AND HIND. 
 
 THE CHILD AND HIND. 
 
 COME, 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 watched the sleeping boy. 
 
 'T was 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 ; 
 
 The aspen quivers nervously, 
 
 The oak stands stilly bold 
 
 And climbing bindweed hangs on liigh 
 
 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 is only one kind of bindweed that is yellow, an J rta ^e 
 th flower here mentioned, the Panieulatue Convolvulus.
 
 THE CHILD AND HIND. 2f>3 
 
 There, monuments of ages dark 
 Awaken thoughts sublime ; 
 Till, swifter than the steaming bark, 
 We mount the stream of time. 
 
 The ivy there old castles shades 
 That speak traditions high 
 Of minstrels tournaments crusades, 
 And mail : clad chivalry. 
 
 Here came a twelve years' married pair 
 And with them wandered free 
 Seven sons and daughters, blooming fair, 
 A gladsome sight to see. 
 
 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 culled them with as keen deliglr 
 As misers gather treasure. 
 
 Unnoticed, he contrived to glide 
 Adown a greenwood alley, 
 By lilies lured that grew beside 
 A streamlet in the valley ; 
 
 And there, where under beech and birch 
 The rivulet meandered, 
 He strayed, till neither shout nor search 
 Could track where he had wandered.
 
 254 THE CHILD AND HIND. 
 
 Still louder, with increasing dread, 
 They called his darling name ; 
 But 't was like speaking to the dead 
 An echo only came. 
 
 Hours passed 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 watched and wept 
 That family forlorn. 
 
 Betimes the town-crier had been sent 
 With loud bell, up and down ; 
 And told th' afflicting accident 
 Throughout Wiesbaden's town : 
 
 The father, too, ere morning smiled, 
 Had all his wealth uncoffered ; 
 And to the wight would bring his child, 
 A thousand crowns had offered. 
 
 Dear friends, who would have blushed to take 
 That guerdon from his hand, 
 Soon joined in groups for pity's sake, 
 The child-exploring band. 
 
 The news reached Nassau's Duke : ere earth 
 Was gladdened by the lark, 
 He sent a hundred soldiers forth 
 To ransack all his park. 
 
 Their side-arms glittered through the wood, 
 With bugle-horns to sound ; 
 Would that on errand half so good 
 The soldier oft were found !
 
 THE CHILD AND HIND. 235 
 
 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, 
 TJnfound the infant fair ; 
 And Wilhelm's household wring their hands, 
 Abandoned to despair. 
 
 But, haply, a poor artisan 
 Searched ceaselessly, till he 
 Found safe asleep the little one 
 Beneath a beechen tree. 
 
 His hand still grasped a bunch of flowers ; 
 And (true, though wondrous) near, 
 To sentry his reposing hours, 
 There stood a female deer 
 
 Who dipped her horns at all that passed* 
 The spot where Wilhelm lay ; 
 Till force was had to hold her fast, 
 And bear the boy away. 
 
 Hail ! sacred love of childhood hail ! 
 How sweet it is to trace 
 Thine instincts in Creation's scale, 
 Even 'neath the human race. 
 
 To this poor wanderer of the wild 
 Speech, reason were unknown 
 And yet she watched a sleeping chile. 
 As if it were her own ; 
 
 And thou, Wiesbaden's artisan, 
 Restorer of the boy, 
 
 * 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 CHILD AND HIND. 
 
 Was ever welcomed mortal man 
 With such a burst of joy ? 
 
 The father's ecstasy the mother's 
 Hysteric bosom's swell ; 
 The sisters' sobs the shout of brothers, 
 I have no 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 favorite 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. '257 
 
 THE JILTED NYMPH. 
 
 A SONG, 
 [To the Scotch tune of " Wooed and Married and a'."] 
 
 I 'M jilted, forsaken, outwitted ; 
 
 Yet think not I '11 whimper or brawl 
 The lass is alone to be pitied 
 Who ne'er has been courted at all : 
 Never by great or small, 
 Wooed or jilted at all ; 
 
 Oh, how unhappy 's the lass 
 Who has never been courted at all ! 
 
 My brother called out the dear 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 ; 
 
 I wished him to die my devoted, 
 But not in a duel to sprawl. 
 
 What though at my heart he has tilted, 
 
 What though I have met with a fall 
 Better be courted and jilted, 
 
 Than never be courted at all. 
 Wooed and jilted and all, 
 Still I will dance at the ball ; 
 
 And waltz and quadrille 
 
 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
 
 253 THE PORTRAIT OF A FEMALE CHILD. 
 
 And I hope soon to tell you in future 
 That I 'm wooed, and married, and all : 
 
 Wooed and married and all, 
 
 "What greater bliss can befall ? 
 
 And you all shall partake of my bridal cake. 
 
 When I 'm wooed and married, and all. 
 
 ON GETTING HOME THE PORTRAIT OF 
 A FEMALE CHILD, SIX YEARS OLD. 
 
 PAINTED BY EUGEXIO 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 I 
 Thy lips thine eyes thy little arms 
 That wrapt 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 ot' thy neck :
 
 THE PAEEOT. 25S> 
 
 Thou need'st no casket, witching elf, 
 No gawd thy toilet is thyself; 
 Not even 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; 
 Thy lucid eyes so beam with soul, 
 They on the canvas seem to roll 
 Instructing both my head and heart 
 To idolize the painter's art. 
 He marshals minds to Beauty's feast 
 He is Humanity's high priest 
 Who proves, by heavenly forms on earth, 
 How much this world of ours is worth. 
 Inspire me, child, with visions fair ! 
 For children, in Creation, are 
 The only things that could be given 
 Back, and alive unchanged to Heaven. 
 
 THE PARROT. 
 
 A DOMESTIC ANECDOTE. 
 
 The following incident, so strongly illustrating the power of 
 memory and association in the lower animals, is riot a fiction. 
 I heard it many years ago in the Island of Mull, from the fam- 
 ily to whom the bird belonged. 
 
 THE deep affections of the breast, 
 .That Heaven to living things i 
 
 Are not exclusively possessed 
 By human hearts.
 
 260 SONG OF THE COLONISTS. 
 
 A parrot, from the Spanish Main, 
 
 Full young, and early caged, came o'er 
 
 With bright wings, to the bleak domain 
 Of Mulla's shore. 
 
 To spicy groves where he had won 
 His plumage of resplendent hue, 
 
 His native fruits, and skies, and sun, 
 He bade adieu. 
 
 For these he changed the smoke of turf, 
 A heathery land and -misty sky, 
 
 And turned on rocks and raging surf 
 His golden eye. 
 
 But, petted, in our climate cold 
 He lived and chatted many a- day : 
 
 Until with age, from green and gold, 
 His wings grew gray. 
 
 At last, when blind and seeming dumb, 
 He scolded, laughed, and spoke no more, 
 
 A Spanish stranger chanced to come 
 To Mulla's shore ; 
 
 He hailed the bird in Spanish speech. 
 The bird in Spanish speech replied. 
 
 Flapped round his ca'ge with joyous screech, 
 Dropt down, and died. 
 
 .SONG 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.
 
 SONG OF THE COLONISTS. 2tU 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 C'heer up cheer up our course we'll keep, 
 
 With dauntless heart and hand ; 
 And when we've ploughed the stormy deep, 
 
 We '11 plough a smiling land. 
 
 A land, where beauties importune 
 
 The Briton to his bowers, 
 To sow but plenteous seeds, and prune 
 
 Luxuriant fruits and flowers. 
 
 Chorus. Cheer up cheer up, etc. 
 
 There, tracts uneheered by human words, 
 
 Seclusion's wildest holds, 
 Shall hear the lowing of our herds, 
 
 And tinkling of our folds. 
 
 Chorus. Cheer up cheer up, etc. 
 
 Like rabies 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, etc. 
 
 Britannia's pride is in our hearts, 
 
 Her blood is in our veins 
 We '11 girdle earth with British aits, 
 
 Like Ariel's magic chains. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Cheer up cheer up our course we '11 keep, 
 
 With dauntless heart and hand ; 
 And when we 've ploughed the stormy deep, 
 
 We '11 plough a smiling land.
 
 262 MOONLIGHT. 
 
 MOONLIGHT. 
 
 THE kiss that would make a maid's cheek 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 returned entranced me so. 
 That still its pictures move and glow 
 In the dark chamber of my heart ; 
 Leave not my memory's future track 
 I will not let you part. 
 
 'T was 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 earned, Enoch-like above, 
 A living man to Heaven. 
 
 'T is 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 enamoured bride ; 
 True to him in her very changes, 
 To other stars she never ranges : 
 
 Though crossed by him, sometimes she dips 
 Her light, in short offended pride, 
 And faints to an eclipse.
 
 SONG ON OUR QUEEN. 263 
 
 The fairies revel by her sheen ; 
 'T is only when the Moon 's above 
 The fire-fly kindles into love, 
 
 And flashes light to show it : 
 The nightingale salutes her Queen 
 Of Heaven, her heavenly poet. 
 
 Then ye that love by moonlight gloom 
 Meet at ray 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. 
 
 SONG ON OUR QUEEN. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY CHARLES NEATE, ESQ. 
 
 VICTORIA'S sceptre o'er the deep 
 
 Has touched, and broken slavery's chain ; 
 Yet, strange magician ! she enslaves 
 
 Our hearts within her own domain. 
 
 Her spirit is devout, and burns 
 With thoughts averse to bigotry j 
 
 Yet she herself, the idol, turns 
 Our thoughts into idolatry.
 
 264 CORA 1.IXX. 
 
 CORA LINX, OR THE FALLS OF THE 
 CLYDE. 
 
 WRITTEN ON REVISITING IT IN 1837. 
 
 THE time I saw thee, Cora, last, 
 'T was with congenial friends ; 
 And calmer hours of pleasure past 
 My memory seldom sends. 
 
 It was as sweet au Autumn day 
 As ever shone on Clyde, 
 And Lanark's orchards $11 the way 
 Put forth their golden pride ; 
 
 Even hedges, busked in bravery, 
 Looked rich that sunny morn ; 
 The scarlet hip and blackberry 
 So pranked September's thorn. 
 
 In Corn's glen the calm how deep ! 
 That trees on loftiest hill 
 Like statues stood, or things asleep, 
 All motionless and still. 
 
 Tho torrent spoke, as if his noise 
 Bade earth be quiet round, 
 And give his loud and lonely voice 
 A more commanding sound. 
 
 His foam, beneath the yellow light 
 Of noon, came down like one 
 Continuous sheet of jaspers bright, 
 Broad rolling by the sun. 
 
 Dear Linn ! let loftier falling floods 
 Have prouder names than thine ; 
 And king of all, enthroned in^woods, 
 Let Niagara shine.
 
 CHAUCER AND WINDSOR. 
 
 Barbarian, let him shake his coasts 
 With reeking thunders far, 
 Extended like th' array of hosts 
 In broad, embattled war ! 
 
 His voice appalls the wilderness : 
 Approaching thine, we feel 
 A solemn, deep melodiousness, 
 That needs no louder peal. 
 
 
 
 More fury would but disenchant 
 Thy dream-inspiring din ; 
 Be thou the Scottish Muse's haunt, 
 Romantic Cora Linn. 
 
 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 re- 
 nowned 
 
 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 grouped and drew 
 Their likeness with a spirit of life so gay, 
 That still they live and breathe in Fancy's view, 
 Fresh Jbeings fraught with truth's imperishable hue.
 
 266 LINES. 
 
 LINES 
 
 SUGGESTED BY THE STATUE OP ARXOLD VOX VTIXK- 
 ELRIED,* STAXZ-UXDERWALDKX. 
 
 IXSPIRING and romantic Switzers' land, 
 Though marked with majesty by Nature's hand, 
 What charm ennobles most thy landscape's face ? 
 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 rolled back th' invading tide 
 Of conquest, and their mountains taught them 
 
 pride. 
 
 Hence they have patriot names in fancy's eye, 
 Bright as their glaciers glittering in the sky 
 Patriots who make the pageantries of kings 
 Like shadows seem and unsubstantial things. 
 Their guiltless glory mocks oblivion's rust, 
 Imperishable, for their cause was just. 
 
 Heroes of old ! to whom the Nine have strung 
 Their lyres, and spirit-stirring anthems sung ; 
 Heroes of chivalry ! whose banners grace 
 The aisles of many a consecrated place, 
 Confess how few of you can match in fame 
 The martyr Winkelried's immortal name ! 
 
 * For an account of this patriotic Swiss and his heroic death at 
 the battle of Seinpach. see Dr. Seattle's "Switzerland Illustrated." 
 vol. ii. pp. 111-115.
 
 MY NEW CHILD-SWEETHEART. 267 
 
 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 7 s the meaning of the stripes ? 
 
 They mean your negroes' scars. 
 
 LINES ON MY NEW CHILD-SWEET- 
 HEART. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 'T was 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.
 
 268 THE LAUNCH OF A FIRST-RATE. 
 
 J T was obvious, from her walk and gait 
 Her limbs were beautifully straight ; 
 I stopped 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 followed her. The little one 
 Threw backward ever and anon 
 Her lovely neck, as if to say, 
 " I know you love me, Mister Grey ;" 
 For by its instinct childhood's eye 
 Is shrewd in physiognomy ; 
 They will distinguish fawning art 
 From sterling fondness of the heart. 
 
 And so she flirted, like a true 
 Good woman, till we bade adieu. 
 'T was then I with regret grew wild, 
 Oh, beauteous, interesting child ! 
 Why asked I not thy home and name ? 
 My courage failed me more 's the shame. 
 But where abides this jewel rare f 
 Oh, ye that own her, tell me where ! 
 For sad it makes my heart and sore 
 To think I ne'er mav meet her more. 
 
 THE LAUNCH OF A FIRST-KATE. 
 
 WRITTEN ON WITNESSING THK 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,
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 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 ilu-o, 
 Threatening 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 tare in pride and duty 
 Nail thy colors to the mast. 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY, 
 
 "VTHO 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 ? 
 For I fear I have nothing original in me 
 Excepting Original sin.
 
 270 EPISTLE FROM ALGIERS. 
 
 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, 
 7 T is 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 I 
 Alas ! my hotel has its mews, 
 
 But no muse of the Helicon's spring. 
 
 My windows afford me the sight 
 
 Of a people all diverse in hue ; 
 They are black, yellow, olive, and white, 
 
 Whilst I in my sorrow look blue. 
 
 Here are groups for the painter to take, 
 Whose figures jocosely combine, 
 
 The Arab disguised in his haik,t 
 
 And the Frenchman disguised in his wine. 
 
 * On board the vessel from Marseillfs to Algiers I met with a fel- 
 low passenger whom I supposed to be a ph3"sician from his dress 
 and manners, and the attention which he paid me to alleviate the 
 sufferings of my sea-sickness. He turned out to be a perruquier and 
 barber in Algeria but his vocation did not lower him in my estima- 
 tion for he continued his attentions until he passed my baggage 
 through the customs, and helped me, when half dead with exhaus- 
 tion, to the best hotel. 
 
 t A mautle worn by the natives.
 
 EPISTLE FROM ALGIERS. 271 
 
 In his breeches of petticoat size 
 
 You may say, as the Mussulman goes, 
 
 That his garb is a fair compromise 
 
 'Twixt a kilt and a pair of small-clothes. 
 
 The Mooresses, shrouded in white, 
 
 Save two holes for their eyes to give room, 
 
 Seem like corpses in sport or in spite 
 
 That have slyly whipped out of their tomb. 
 
 The old Jewish dames make me sick : 
 
 If I were the devil I declare 
 Such hags should not mount a broom-stick 
 
 In my service to ride through the air. 
 
 But hipped and undined as I am, 
 My 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 draw .' 
 
 O'er each French trashy dish as I bend, 
 
 My heart feels a patriot's grief ! 
 And the round tears, O 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 flagons of ale. 
 
 Yet I own, in this hour of my drought, 
 A dessert has most welcomely come ; 
 
 Here are peaches that melt in the mouth, 
 And grapes blue and big as a plum. .
 
 272 FRAGMENT OF AN ORATORIO. 
 
 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 '11 exclaim ; but be calm, 
 
 Tin* ugh my letter bears date, as you view, 
 Prom the land of the date-bearing palm, 
 I will palm no more puns upon you. 
 
 FRAGMENT OF AN ORATORIO. 
 
 FROM THE BOOK OF JOB. 
 
 CRUSHED by misfortune's yoke, 
 Job lamentably spoke 
 
 " My boundless curse be on 
 The day that I was born ; 
 Quenched be the star that shone 
 Upon my natal morn. 
 In the grave I long 
 To shroud my breast ; 
 Where the wicked cease to wrong, 
 *And the weary are at rest." 
 Then Eliphaz rebuked his wild despair : 
 
 " What Heaven ordains, 't is meet that man 
 
 should bear. 
 
 Lately, at midnight drear, 
 A vision shook my bones with fear; 
 A spirit passed before my face, 
 And yet its form I could not trace ; 
 It stopped it stood it chilled my blood, 
 The hair upon my flesh uprose 
 With freezing dread ! 
 Deep silence reigned, and, at its close,
 
 FRAGMENT OF AN ORATORIO 
 
 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/" 
 
 JOB. 
 
 Is this your consolation ? 
 
 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 fleeteth like a shadow, 
 
 He fadeth like a flower. 
 
 My days are passed my hope and trust 
 
 Is but to moulder in the dust. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Bow, mortal, bow, before thy God, 
 
 Nor murmur at his chastening rod ; 
 
 Fragile being of earthly clay, 
 
 Think on God's eternal sway ! 
 
 Hark ! from the whirlwind forth 
 
 Thy Maker speaks "Thou child of earth, 
 
 Where wert thou when I laid 
 
 Creation's comer-stone ? 
 
 When the sons of God rejoicing made, 
 
 And the morning stars together sang and 
 
 shone ? 
 Hadst thou power to bid above
 
 574 TO SIY NIECE, MAKY CAMPBELL. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 
 
 Mv lease of living breath.
 
 THE QUEEN OF THE NORTH. 275 
 
 Meanwhile thine intellects presage 
 
 A life-time rich in truth, 
 And make me feel the 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 ! 
 
 THE QUEEN OF THE NORTH. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 YET, ere Oblivion shade each fairy scene, 
 
 Ere capes and cliffs and waters intervene, 
 
 Ere distant walks my pilgrim feet explore, 
 
 By Elbe's slow wanderings, and the Danish shore, - 
 
 Still to my country turns my partial view, 
 
 That seems the dearest at the last adieu ! 
 
 Ye lawns, and grottos of the clustered plain ; 
 Ye mountain-walks, Edina's green domain ; 
 Haunts of my youth, where, oft, by Fancy drawn 
 At vermeil eve, still noon, or shady dawn, 
 My soul, secluded from the deafening throng, 
 Has wooed the bosom-prompted power of song : 
 And thou, my loved abode, romantic ground, 
 With ancient towers and spiry summits crowned ! 
 Home of the polished arts and liberal mind, 
 By truth and taste enlightened and refined ! 
 Thou scene of Scotland's glory, now decayed, 
 Where once her Senate* and her Sceptre swayed, 
 As round thy mouldered monuments of fame 
 Tradition points an emblem and a name,
 
 276 THE QUEEN OF THE NORTH. 
 
 Lo ! what a group Imagination brings 
 Of starred barons, and of thronfed kings ! 
 Departed days in bright succession start, 
 And all the patriot kindles in my heart ! 
 
 Even musing here, beside the Druid-stone, 
 Where British Arthur built his airy throne, 
 Far as my sight can travel o'er the scene, 
 From Lomond's height to Roslin's lovely green .- 
 On every moor, wild wood, and mountain-side. 
 From Forth's fair windings to the ocean tide, . 
 On each, the legendary loves to tell 
 Where chiefs encountered and the mighty fell : 
 Each war-worn turret on the distant shore 
 Speaks like a herald of the feats of yore ; 
 And though the shades of dark Oblivion frown 
 On sacred scenes and deeds of high renown. 
 Yet still some oral tale some chanted rhyme 
 Shall mark the spot, and teach succeeding time 
 How oft our fathers to their country true 
 The glorious sword of Independence drew ; 
 How well their plaided clans, in battle tried. 
 Impenetrably stood, or greatly died ; 
 How long the genius of their rights delayed, 
 How sternly guarded, and how late betrayed. 
 Fair fields of Roslin memorable name ! 
 Attest my words, and speak my country's fame ' 
 Soft as yon mantling haze of distance broods 
 Around thy waterfalls and aged woods, 
 The south sun checkers all thy birchen glade 
 With glimmering lights and deep-retiring shade 
 Fresh coverts of the dale, so dear to tread. 
 When morn's wild blackbird carols overhead ; 
 Or, when the sunflower shuts her bosom fair, 
 And scented berries breathe delicious air. 
 Dear is thy pastoral haunt to him that woos 
 Romantic Nature Silence and the Muse ! 
 But dearer still, when that returning time
 
 THE QUEEN OF THE NORTH. 27 
 
 Of fruits and flowers the year's Elysian prime 
 
 Invites, one simple festival to crown, 
 
 Young social wanderers from the sultry town ! 
 
 Ah, me! no sumptuous revelry to share, 
 The cheerful bosom asks, or envies there ; 
 Nor sighs for gorgeous splendors, such as wait 
 On feasts of wealth, and riots of the great. 
 Far sweeter scenes, the live-long summer day, 
 On these wild walks when loved companions stray, 
 But lost in joys of more enchanting flow 
 Than tasteless art or luxury bestow. 
 Here, in auspicious moments, to impart 
 The first fonjl breathings of a proffered heart. 
 Shall favored Love repair, and smiling Youth 
 To gentle Beauty vow the vows of truth. 
 
 Fair mom ascends, and sunny June has shed 
 Ambrosial odors o'er the garden bed ; 
 And wild bees seek the cherry's sweet perfume, 
 Or cluster round the full-blown apple-bloom. 
 
 These fragments are portions of a poem which Campbell 
 planned soon after the publication of the Pleasures of Hope. 
 Edinburgh was to be the scene of the poem. The Poet intended 
 to celebrate the glory and independence of Scotland, as recorded 
 in history and tradition ; to display in a series of martial epi- 
 sodes, the characters and the achievements of her great men ; 
 and to rekindle in the national mind her ancient spirit of free- 
 dom. The poem was never completed.
 
 278 HYMN. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Jordan hushed his waters still, 
 And silence slept on Zion hill, 
 When Salem's shepherds, through the night,, 
 Watched o'er their flocks by starry light, 
 Hark ! from the midnight hills around, 
 A voice, of more than mortal sound, 
 In distant hallelujahs stole, 
 Wild murmuring, on the raptured soul. 
 Then swift, to every startled eye, 
 New streams of glory gild the sky ; 
 Heaven bursts her azure gates, to pour 
 Her spirits to the midnight hour. 
 On wheels of light, and wings of flame, 
 The glorious hosts to Zion came. 
 High Heaven with sounds of triumph rung, 
 And thus they smote their harps and sung : 
 
 Zion ! lift thy raptured eye, 
 The long-expected hour is nigh 
 The joys of Nature rise again 
 The Prince of Salem comes to reign ! 
 
 See, Mercy, from her golden urn, 
 Pours a glad stream to them that mourn ; 
 Behold, she binds, with tender care, 
 The bleeding bosom of despair. 
 
 HE comes HE cheers the trembling heart 
 Night and her spectres pale depart : 
 Again the day-star gilds the gloom 
 Again the bowers of Eden bloom ! 
 
 0, Zion ! lift thy raptured eye, 
 The long-expected hour is nigh 
 The joys of Nature rise again 
 The Prince of Salem conies to reign ! 
 
 K94.
 
 CHORUS FROM THE CHOEPHORGE. 279 
 
 CHORUS FROM THE CHOEPHORCE OF 
 AESCHYLUS. 
 
 SENT from the Mourners' solitary dome, 
 I lead the solemn, long parade of woe ; 
 To lull the sleepless spirit of the tomb, 
 And hail the mighty Dead, that rest below. 
 
 Hail, sacred Dead ! a maiden weeps for you ; 
 For you I wake the madness of despair ! 
 The deep-struck wounds of woe my cheeks bedew; 
 I feed my bosom with eternal care. 
 
 Lo ! where the robes, that once my bosom bound, 
 Rent by despair, fly waving in the wind ; 
 The ceaseless strokes of anguish rudely sound, 
 As sorrow heaves tumultuous in my mind. 
 
 Heard ye wild Horror's hair-erecting scream 
 Reecho, dismal, from his distant cell ? 
 Heard ye the Spirit of the mighty dream 
 Shriek, to the solemn hour, a long-resounding yell? 
 
 The females heard him, in the haunted hall, 
 As shrill his accents smote the slumbering ear-~ 
 Prophetic accents when the proud must fall 
 And wrapt in sounds of agonizing fear. 
 
 Lo ! Wisdom's lips your nightly dreams divine, 
 And read the visions of impending woe ; 
 Blood calls for vengeance on a lawless Line; 
 The murdered spirit shrieks in wrath below. 
 
 Vain are the gifts the silent mourners send : 
 Vain Music's fall, to soothe the sullen Dead; 
 The dark collected clouds of Death impend; 
 &hall Ruin spare thy long-devoted head?
 
 10 CHORUS FROM THE CHOEPHOR03. 
 
 O, sacred dust ! O, Spirit, lingering nigh, 
 I bear the gifts of yonder guilty throne ! 
 My trembling lips the unhallowed strain deny j 
 Shall mortal man for mortal blood atone f 
 
 Mansions of Grief ! a long-impending doom 
 O'erhangs the dark dominions where ye reign 
 A sunless horror, of unfathomed gloom, 
 Shall shroud your glory for a Master slain. 
 
 The sceptred pomp, ungovernably grand, 
 Untamed ia battle, in the fields of yore ; 
 That martial glory, blazoned o'er the land, 
 Is fallen nor bids the prostrate world adore ! 
 
 Yet, sure, to bask in Glory's golden day, 
 
 Or on the lap of Pleasure to repose, 
 
 Unvexed to roam on Life's bewildered way, 
 
 Is more than Earth is more than Heaven bestows. 
 
 For Justice, oft, with ready bent arraigns, 
 And Guilt hath oft deferred his deadly doom 
 Lurked in the twilight's slow suspicious pains, 
 Or wrapped his deeds in Night's eternal gloom. 
 
 1794.
 
 ELEGY. 261 
 
 ELEGY. 
 
 WRITTEN IN MULL. 
 
 THE tempest blackens on the dusky moor, 
 
 And billows lash the long-resounding shore ; 
 
 In pensive mood I roam the desert ground, 
 
 And vainly sigh for scenes no longer found. 
 
 O, whither fled the pleasurable hours 
 
 That chased each care, and fired the Muse's powers ; 
 
 The classic haunts of youth, forever gay, 
 
 Where mirth and friendship cheered the close of 
 
 day; 
 
 The well-known valleys, where I wont to roam ; 
 The native sports, the nameless joys of home? 
 
 Far different scenes allure my wondering eye : 
 The white wave foaming to the distant sky ; 
 The cloudy heavens, unblest by summer's smile ; 
 The sounding storm, that sweeps the rugged isle ; 
 The chill, bleak summit of eternal gnow ; 
 The wide, wild glen the pathless plains below ; 
 The dark blue rocks, in barren grandeur piled ; 
 The cuckoo, sighing to the pensive wild ! 
 
 Far different these from all that charmed before 
 The grassy banks of Clutha's winding shore ; 
 Her sloping vales, with waving forests lined, 
 Her smooth, blue lakes, unruffled by the wind. 
 
 Hail, happy Clutha ! glad shall I survey 
 Thy gilded turrets from the distant way ! 
 Thy sight shall cheer the weary traveller's toil, 
 And joy shall hail me to my native soil. 
 
 1795.
 
 282 ON THE GLASGOW VOLUNTEERS. 
 
 ON THE GLASGOW VOLUNTEERS. 
 
 HARK hark ! the fife's shrill notes arise ! 
 
 And ardor beats the martial drum ; 
 And broad the silken banner flies, 
 
 "Where Clutha's native squadrons come ! 
 
 Where spreads the green extended plain, 
 By music's solemn marches trod, 
 
 Thick-glancing 1 bayonets marked the train 
 That beat the meadow's grassy sod. 
 
 These are no hireling sons of war ! 
 
 No jealous tyrant's grimly band, 
 The wish of freedom to debar, 
 
 Or scourge a despot's injured land ! 
 
 Naught but the patriotic view 
 
 Of free-born valor ever fired, 
 To baffle Gallia's boastful crew, 
 
 The soul of northern breast inspired. 
 
 'T was thus, on Tiber's sunny banks, 
 What time the Volscian ravaged nigh, 
 
 To mark afar her glittering ranks, 
 
 Home's towering eagle shone on lii<rl:, 
 
 O O C 1 
 
 There, toil athletic on the field 
 In mock array portrayed alarm, 
 
 And taught the massy sword to wield, 
 And braced the nerve of Roman arm. 
 
 1793.
 
 ON A RURAL BEAUTY IN MULL. 
 
 ON A RURAL BEAUTY IX MULL. 
 
 THE wandering swain, w.ith fond delight, 
 
 Would view the daisy smile 
 On Pambemara's desert height, 
 
 Or Lomond's heathy pile. 
 
 So, fixed in rapture and surprise, 
 
 I gazed across the plain, 
 When young Maria met my eyes 
 
 Amid the reaper-train. 
 
 Methought, shall, beauty such as this, 
 
 Meek, modest, and refined, 
 On Thule's shore be doomed to bless 
 
 The shepherd or the hind ? 
 
 From yon bleak mountain's barren side 
 
 That gentle form convey, 
 And in Golconda's sparkling pride 
 
 The shepherdess array. 
 
 In studious Fashion's proudest cost 
 
 Let artful Beauty shine ; 
 The pride of art could never boast 
 
 A faker form than thine. 
 
 Yet, simple beauty, never sigh 
 
 To share a prouder lot ; 
 Nor, caught by grandeur, seek to fly 
 
 The solitary cot ! 
 
 The concluding stanza is illegible in the manuscript.
 
 2*4 VERSES ON THE QUEEN OF FRANCE. 
 
 VERSES ON THE QUEEN OF FRANCE. 
 
 BEHOLD ! where Gallia's captive Queen, 
 "With steady eye, and look serene, 
 In life's last awful awful scene, 
 Slow leaves her sad captivity ! 
 
 Hark ! the shrill horn, that rends the sky, 
 Bespeaks the ready murder nigh ; 
 The long parade of death I spy, 
 And leave my lone captivity ! 
 
 Farewell, ye mansions of despair ! 
 Scenes of my sad sequestered care ; 
 The balm of bleeding woe is near, 
 Adieu, my lone captivity ! 
 
 To purer mansions in the sky 
 Fair Hope directs my grief- worn eye ; 
 Where Sorrow's child no more shall sigh, 
 Amid her lone captivity ! 
 
 Adieu, ye babes, whose infant bloom, 
 Beneath Oppression's lawless doom, 
 Pines in the solitary gloom 
 Of undeserved captivity ! 
 
 O, Power benign, that rul'st on liigl 
 Cast down, cast down a pitying eye ! 
 Shed consolation from the sky, 
 To soothe their sad captivity ! 
 
 Now, virtue's sure reward to prove, 
 I seek emp'real realms above, 
 To meet my long-departed love. 
 Adieu, mv lone Ciiptivitv ! 
 
 1793.
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF JEPHTHES. 265 
 
 CHORUS FROM THE TRAGEDY ()] 
 JEPHTHES. 
 
 GLASSY Jordan, smooth meandering 
 
 Jacob's flowery meads between ; 
 Lo ! thy waters gently wandering 
 
 Lave the valleys rich and green ! 
 AY hen the winter, keenly showering, 
 
 Strips fair Salem 's shade, 
 There thy current, broader pouring, 
 
 Lingers in the leafless glade. 
 When, O when, shall light, returning, 
 
 Chase the melancholy gloom, 
 And the golden star of morning 
 
 Yonder sable vault illume ? 
 AY lien shall Freedom, holy charmer, 
 
 Cheer my long-benighted soul ? 
 AYhen shall Israel, fierce in armor, 
 
 Burst the tyrant's base control ? 
 Yo that boldly bade defiance, 
 
 Proud iu arms, to Pharaoh's throne, 
 Can ye now, in tame compliance, 
 
 In a baser bondage groan ? 
 Gallant Nation ! naught appalled you, 
 
 Bold, in Heaven's propitious hour, 
 AYhen the voice of Freedom called you 
 
 From a tyrant's haughty power. 
 AVhen their chariots, clad in thunder, 
 
 Swept the ground in long array ; 
 AVhen the ocean, burst asunder, 
 
 Hovered o'et your sandy way. 
 Gallant race I that, ceaseless toiling 
 
 Trod Arabia's pathless wild ; 
 Plains iu verdure never smiling, 
 
 Roclts in barren grandeur piled, 
 AA'hithcr fled, () altered Nation ! 
 
 AA'hitlu-r fk-d that generous soul?
 
 286 THE TRAGEDY OF JEPHTHES. 
 
 Dead to Freedom's inspiration, 
 
 Slaves of Ammon's base control ! 
 God of Heaven ! whose voice, commanding, 
 
 Bids the whirlwind scour the deep, 
 Or the waters, smooth expanding, 
 
 Robed in glassy radiance sleep, 
 God of Love ! in mercy bending, 
 
 Hear thy woe-worn captives' prayer ! 
 From thy throne, in peace descending, 
 
 Soothe their sorrows, calm their care ! 
 Though thy mercy, long departed, 
 
 Spurn thy once-loved people's cry, 
 Say, shall Ammon, iron-hearted, 
 
 Triumph with impunity ? 
 If the sword of desolation 
 
 Must our sacred camp appall, 
 And thy chosen generation 
 
 Prostrate in the battle fall 
 Grasp, O God ! thy flaming thunder ; 
 
 Launch thy stormy wrath around ! 
 Cleave their battlements asunder, 
 
 Shake their cities to the ground ! 
 Hast thou dared, in mad resistance, 
 
 Tyrant, to contend with God ? 
 Shall not Heaven's supreme assistance 
 
 Snatch us from thy mortal rod ? 
 Wretch accursed ! thy fleeting gladness 
 
 Leaves Contrition's serpent sting ; 
 Short-lived pleasure yields to sadness, 
 
 Hasty fate is on the wing ! 
 Mark the battle, mark the ruin ; 
 
 Havoc loads the groaning plain ; 
 Ruthless vengeance, keen pursuing, 
 
 Grasps thee in her iron chain ! 
 
 1794.
 
 THE DIRGE OF WALLACE. 2S7 
 
 THE DIRGE OF WALLACE. 
 
 WHEX Scotland's great Regent, our warrior most 
 dear, 
 
 The debt of his nature did pay, 
 'T was Edward, the cruel, had reason to fear, 
 
 And cause to be struck with dismay. 
 
 At the window of Edward the raven did croak, 
 
 Though Scotland a widow became ; 
 Each tie of true honor to Wallace he broke 
 
 The raven croaked " Sorrow and shame !" 
 
 At Elderslie Castle no raven was heard, 
 But the soothings of honor and truth ; 
 
 His spirit inspired the soul of the bard 
 To comfort the Love of his youth ! 
 
 They lighted the tapers at dead of night, 
 
 And chanted their holiest hymn ; 
 But her brow and her bosom were damp with 
 affright, 
 
 Her eye was all sleepless and dim ! 
 
 And the lady of Elderslie wept for her lord, 
 
 When a death-watch beat in her lonely room, 
 When her curtain had shook of its own accord, 
 And the raven had flapped at her window board 
 
 To tell of her warriors doom. 
 
 1 \ 
 Now sing ye the death-song, and loudly pray 
 
 For the soul of my knight so dear ! 
 And call me a widow, this wretched da}-, 
 
 Since the warning of GOD is here. 
 
 For a nightmare rests on my strangled sleep j 
 The lord of my bosom is doomed to die !
 
 "8 THE DIRGE OF WALLACE. 
 
 His valorous heart they have wounded deep, 
 And the blood-red tears shall his country weep 
 For Wallace of Elderslie. 
 
 Yet knew not his country, that ominous hour, 
 
 Ere the loud matin-bell was rung, 
 That the trumpet of death on an English tower, 
 
 Had the dirge of her champion sung. 
 
 When his dungeon-light looked dim and red 
 On the high-born blood of a martyr slain, 
 No anthem was sung at his lowly death-bed, 
 No weeping was there when his bosom bled, 
 And his heart was rent in twain. 
 
 When he strode o'er the wreck of each well-fought 
 field, 
 
 With the yellow-haired chiefs of his native land ; 
 For his lance was not shivered on helmet or shield, 
 And the sword that was fit for archangel to wield 
 
 Was light in his terrible hand. 
 
 Yet, bleeding and bound, though '' the Wallace- 
 wight" 
 
 For his long-loved country die, 
 The bugle ne'er sung to a braver knight 
 
 Than William of Elderslie. 
 
 But the day of his triumphs shall never depart ; 
 His head, unentombed, shall with glory be 
 
 palmed : 
 
 From its blood-streaming altar his spirit shall start ; 
 Though the raven has fed en his mouldering heart, 
 A nobler was never embaluiwd ! 
 
 1795.
 
 EPISTLE TO THREE LADIES. 269 
 
 EPISTLE TO THREE LADIES. 
 
 WRITTEN OX THE BANKS OP THE CART. 
 
 HEALTH and Content forevermore abide 
 
 The sister Friends that dwell on Cartha's side 
 
 Pleased may ye pass your rural life, and rind 
 
 In every guest a pure, congenial mind ! 
 
 Blessed be your sheltered cot, and sweet the walk 
 
 Where Mira, Helen, and Eugenia, talk ! 
 
 Where, wandering slow the pendent woods bet ween, 
 
 Ye pass no song unheard, no flower unseen ; 
 
 With kindly voice the. little warbler tame, 
 
 And call familiar " Robin" by his name ; 
 
 The favorite bird comes fluttering at command, 
 
 Nor fears unkindness from a gentle hand. 
 
 I bless your sheltered vale and rural cot ! 
 Yet why my blessing ? for ye need it not ; 
 The charm of life forevermore endures, 
 Congenial Sisters, in a home like yours ! 
 Whatever sweets descend from heaven to cheer 
 The changeful aspect of the circling year, 
 Whatever charms the enthusiast can peruse 
 In Nature's face, in music, and the Muse, 
 'T is yours to taste, exalted and refined, 
 Beyond the pleasures of a vulgar mind. 
 
 When dew-drops glitter in the morning ray, 
 By Cartha's side, a smiling group, ye stray ; 
 Or round the tufted hill delight to roam 
 Where the pure torrent falls in showery foam ; 
 Or climb the castled cliff, and pause to view 
 Spires, villas, plains, and mountains dimly blue j 
 Then, down the steep, a wood-grown path explore. 
 And, wandering home by Elepa's cottage-door, 
 To greet the rustic pair a while delay, 
 And ask for their poor boy, in India far away !
 
 1290 EPISTLE TO THREE LADIES. 
 
 Congenial Sisters ! when the vesper-bell 
 Tolls from yon village, through your echoing dell, 
 Around your parlor-fire your group convenes, 
 To talk of friends beloved, and former scenes. 
 Remembrance pours her visions on the sight, 
 Sweet as the silver moon's reflected light ; 
 And Fancy colors, with her brightest dye, 
 The musing mood of pensive ecstasy. 
 
 Perhaps ye hear in heavenly measure play 
 The pipe of Shenstone, or the lyre of Gray ; 
 With Eloise deplore the lover's doom ; 
 With Ossian weep at Agandecca's tomb j 
 Or list the lays of Burns, untimely starred ! 
 Or weep for " Auburn" with the sweetest bard. 
 Friends of according hearts ! to you belong 
 The soul of feeling fit to judge of song ! 
 Unlike the clay-cold pedantry, that draws 
 The length and breadth for censure and applause. 
 
 Shame to the dull-browed arrogance of schools ! 
 
 Shall apish Art to Nature dictate rules ? 
 
 Shall critic hands to Pathos set the seal, 
 
 Or tell the heart to feel or not to feel ? 
 
 No ! let the verse a host of these defy 
 
 That draws the tear from one impassioned eye. 
 
 Congenial Friends ! your Cartha's woody side 
 How simply sweet, beyond the city's pride ! 
 Who would forsake your green retreat to share 
 The noise of life the fashion and the glare ! 
 To herd with souls by no fine feeling moved ; 
 To speak, and live, unloving unbeloved ! 
 In noisy crowds the languid heart to drown, 
 And barter Peace and Nature for a town ! 
 
 0, Nature Nature ! thine the vivid charm 
 To raise the true-toned spirit, and to warm !
 
 EPISTLE TO THREE LADIES. 291 
 
 Thy face, still changing with the changeful clime, 
 Mild or romantic, beauteous or sublime, 
 Can win the raptured taste to every scene 
 Kilda's wild shore, or Roslin's lovely green. 
 
 Yes I have found thy power pervade my mind, 
 When every other charm was left behind ; 
 When doomed a listless, friendless guest to roam, 
 Far from the sports and nameless joys of Lome ! 
 Yet, when the evening linnet sang to rest 
 The day-star wandering to the rosy west, 
 I loved to trace the wave- worn shore, and view 
 Romantic Nature in her wildest hue. 
 There, as I lingered on the vaulted steep, 
 lona's towers tolled mournful o'er the deep ; 
 Till all my bosom owned a sacred mood, 
 And blessed the wild delight of solitude ! 
 
 Yes all alone, I loved in days of yore 
 
 To climb the steep, and trace the sounding shore ; 
 
 But better far my new delight to hail 
 
 Nature's mild face in Cartha's lovely vale ! 
 
 Well pleased I haste to view each favorite spot, 
 
 The wood, the stream, the castle, and the cot. 
 
 And hear sweet Robin in the sheltered walk, 
 
 Where Mira, Helen, and Eugenia, talk ! 
 
 1797.
 
 DEATH OF MY ONLY .SON. 
 DEATH OF MY ONLY SON. 
 
 FROM THE DANISH. 
 
 CAN mortal solace ever raise 
 The eroken pillar of my days, 
 Or Fate restore a form so dear 
 As that which lies unconscious here ? 
 Ah no, my Darco ! latest given, 
 And last reclaimed gift of Heaven ! 
 Possessing thee, I still could Mess 
 One lingering beam of happiness ! 
 
 My loved, my lost, my only care ! 
 I vainly thought with thee to share 
 Thy heart's discourse, so gently kind, 
 And mould to worth thy pliant mind; 
 Nor, warned of all my future woe, 
 Presumed on happiness below ! 
 But losing thee, my blooming Boy, 
 I cannot lose another joy ; 
 For all that stayed my earthly trust 
 With thee is buried in the dust ! 
 
 Nine charming years had fraught with grace 
 Thy sprightly soul and lovely face, 
 Where harshness had not planted fear, 
 Nor sorrow wrung one silent tear ; 
 But frank and warm my Darco flew, 
 To share each welcome and adieu, 
 Each word, each step, each look to attend 
 My child, my pupil, and my friend ! 
 
 O, when his gayly-srniling talk 
 Endeared my lonely summer walk. 
 Or when I sat at day's decline 
 And clasped his little hand in mine, 
 How many woes were then forgot ! 
 How blissful seemed his futhei'* lot!
 
 LAUDOHN'S ATTACK. 293 
 
 And, breathing love, my bosom said, 
 Thus, on my dying couch when laid, 
 Thus shall I bid thee, Darco, stand, 
 And grasp thee with my failing hand. 
 
 Cold, cold, thou pledge of future charms, 
 As she who gave thee to my arms ! 
 My buried hopes ! your grave is won, 
 And Mary sleeps beside her son ! 
 
 Now hush, my heart ! afflicting Heaven, 
 Thy will be done, thy solace given ! 
 For mortal hand can never raise 
 The broken pillar of my days, 
 Nor earth restore a form so dear 
 As that which lies unconscious here. 
 
 1800. 
 
 LAUDOHN'S ATTACK. 
 
 RISE, ye Croats, fierce and strong, 
 Form the front, and march along ! 
 1 And gather fast, ye gallant men 
 From Nona and from Warrasden, 
 Whose sunny mountains nurse a line 
 Generous as her fiery wine ! 
 
 Hosts of Buda! hither bring 
 The bloody flag and eagle wing : 
 Ye that drink the rapid stream 
 Fast by walled Salankeme. 
 Eanks of Agria ! head and hee ' 
 Sheathed in adamantine eteel 
 Quit the woodlands and the boar, 
 Ye hunters wild, on Drava's shore ; 
 And ye that hew her oaken wood, 
 Brown with lusty hardihood 
 The trumpets sound, the colors fly, 
 And Laudohn leads to victory !
 
 294 TO A BEAUTIFUL JEWISH GIRL. 
 
 Hark ! the summons loud and strong,. 
 " Follow, soldiers ! march along !" 
 Every baron, sword in hand, 
 Rides before his gallant band ! 
 Grenadiers ! that, fierce and large, 
 Stamp like dragons to the charge 
 Foot and horseman, serf and lord, 
 Triumph now with one accord. 
 Years of triumph shall repay 
 Death and danger's troubled day. 
 Soon the rapid shot is o'er, 
 But glory lasts forevermore ! 
 Glory, whose immortal eye 
 Guides us to the victory. 
 
 TO A BEAUTIFUL JEWISH GIRL OF 
 ALTONA. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 O, JUDITH ! had our lot been cast , 
 
 In that remote and simple time 
 When, shepherd swains, thy fathers past 
 From dreary wilds and deserts vast 
 To Judah's happy clime ; 
 
 My song upon the mountain rocks 
 Had echoed of thy rural charms j 
 
 And I had fed thy father's flocks, 
 
 O Judith of the raven locks ! 
 To win thee to my arms. 
 
 Our tent, beside the murmur calm 
 
 Of Jordan's grassy-vested shore, 
 Had sought the shadow of the palm, 
 And blessed with Gilead's holy balm 
 Our hospitable door !
 
 TO A BEAUTIFUL JEWISH GIRL. 
 
 At falling night, or ruby dawn, 
 
 Or yellow moonlight's welcome cool, - 
 With health and gladness we had drawn. 
 From silver fountains on the lawn, 
 Our pitcher brimming full. 
 
 How sweet to us at sober hours 
 
 The bird of Salem would have sung, 
 In orange or in almond bowers, 
 Fresh with the bloom of many flowers, 
 Like thee forever young ! 
 
 But ah, my Love ! thy father's land 
 Presents no more a spicy bloom ! 
 
 Nor fills with fruit the reaper's hand ; 
 
 But wide its silent wilds expand 
 A desert and a tomb. 
 
 Yet, by the good and golden hours 
 
 That dawned those rosy fields among, 
 
 By Zion's palm-encircled towers, 
 
 J5y Salem's far forsaken bowers, 
 And long-forgotten song 
 # # 
 
 1800.
 
 296 EPITAPHS. 
 
 FAREWELL 
 
 TO MY SISTER, ON LEAVING EDINBURGH. 
 
 FAREWELL, Edina ! pleasing name, 
 
 Congenial to my heart ! 
 A joyous guest to thee I fame, 
 
 And mournful I depart. 
 
 And fare thce well, whose blessings seem 
 Heaven's blessing to portend ! 
 
 Endeared by nature and esteem 
 My sister and my friend ! 
 
 EPITAPHS. 
 
 IN deep submission to the will above, 
 
 Yet with no common cause for human tears, 
 
 This stone to the lost partner of his love. 
 And for his children lost, a mourner rears. 
 
 One fatal moment, one o'envhelming doom, 
 
 Tore, threefold, from his heart the ties of earth : 
 
 His Mary, Margaret, in their early bloom, 
 
 And HER who gave them life, and taught thero 
 worth. 
 
 Farewell, ye broken pillars of my fate ! 
 
 My life's companion, and my two first-born 
 Yet while this silent stone I consecrate 
 
 To conjugal, paternal love forlorn,
 
 EPITAPHS. -207 
 
 O, may each passer-by the lesson learn, 
 Which can alone the bleeding heart sustain 
 
 Where Friendship weeps at Virtue's funeral um, 
 That, to the pure in heart, To die is gain ! 
 
 n. 
 
 He pointed out to others, and he trod 
 
 Himself, the path to virtue and to God ; 
 
 The Christian's practice and the preacher's zeal 
 
 His life united : many who have lost 
 
 Their friend, their pastor, mourn for him ; but most 
 The hearts that knew lum nearest, deepest, feel. 
 And yet, lamented spirit ! we should ill 
 The sacred precepts of thy life fulfil, 
 Could we thy mother and thy widowed wife . 
 
 Consign thy much-loved relics to the dust 
 
 Unsolaced by this high and holy trust 
 There is another and a better life ! 
 
 m. 
 
 Man ! shouldst thou fill the proudest throne, 
 And have mightiest deeds enacted, 
 
 Thither, like steel to the magnet-stone, 
 Thou goest compelled attracted ! 
 
 The grave-stone the amulet of trouble- 
 Makes love a phantom seem ; 
 
 Calls glory but a bubble, 
 And life itself a dream. 
 
 The grave } & a sealed letter, 
 
 That secrets will reveal 
 Of a next world, worse or better, 
 
 And the gravestone is the seal ! 
 
 But the seal shall not be broken, 
 
 Nor the letter's secrets read. 
 Till the last trump shall have spoken 
 
 To the living and the dead !
 
 298 THE BKITISH GRENADIERS. 
 
 THE BRITISH GRENADIERS. 
 
 UPON the plains of Flanders, 
 
 Our fathers, long ago, 
 They fought like Alexanders 
 
 Beneath brave Marlborough ! 
 And still, in fields of conquest, 
 
 Our valor bright has shone 
 With Wolfe and Abercrombie, 
 
 And Moore, and Wellington ! 
 
 Our plumes have waved in combats 
 
 That ne'er shall be forgot, 
 Where many a mighty squadron 
 
 Reeled backward from our shot : 
 In charges with the bayonet 
 
 We lead our bold compeers, 
 But Frenchmen like to stay not 
 
 For the British Grenadiers ! 
 
 Once boldly, at Vimiera,* 
 
 They hoped to play their parts, 
 And sang fcd-lira-lira, 
 
 To cheer their drooping hearts : 
 But, English, Scots, and Paddy Whacks, 
 
 We gave three noble cheers; 
 And the French soon turned their backs 
 
 To the British Grenadiers ! 
 
 At St. Sebastiano's, 
 
 And Badajos's town, 
 Where, raging like volcanoes, 
 
 The shot and shells came down, 
 
 * At Vimiera, the French ranks advanced singing; ttie British 
 nly cheered.
 
 TRAFALGAR. 299 
 
 courage never wncng, 
 We scaled the ramparts high, 
 And waved the British ensign 
 In glorious victory ! 
 
 And what could Bonaparte. 
 
 With all his cuirassiers, 
 At Waterloo, in battle do 
 
 With British Grenadiers ? 
 Then ever sweet the drum shall beat 
 
 That march unto our ears, 
 Whose martial roll awakes the soul 
 
 Of British Grenadiers ! 
 
 TRAFALGAR. 
 
 WHEN Frenchmen saw, with coward art, 
 
 The assassin shot of war 
 That pierced Britain's noblest heart, 
 
 And quenched her brightest star, 
 
 Their shout was heard, they triumphed now 
 
 Amidst the battle's roar, 
 And thought the British oak would bow, 
 
 Since Nelson was no more. 
 
 But fiercer flamed old England's pride, 
 And marked the vengeance due ! 
 
 " Down, down, insulting ship," she cried, 
 "To death, with all thy crew! 
 
 " So perish ye for Nelson's blood ! 
 
 If deaths like thine can pay 
 JToi blood so brave, or ocean wave 
 
 Can wash that crime away !"
 
 300 LINES ON THE STATE OF GREECE. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN SICKNESS. 
 
 O, DEATH ! if there be quiet in thine arms, 
 And I must cease gently, O, gently come 
 To me ! and let my soul learn no alarms, 
 
 But strike me, ere a shriek can echo, dumb, 
 Senseless, and breathless ! And thou, sickly life, 
 
 If the decree be writ that I must die, 
 Do thou be guilty of no needless strife, 
 
 Nor pull me downwards to mortality 
 When it were fitter I should take a flight 
 
 But whither? Holy Pity ! hear, O, hear ! 
 And lift me to^some far-off skyey sphere, 
 
 Whore I may wander in celestial light : 
 Might it be so then would my spirit fear 
 
 To quit the things I have so loved when seen, 
 
 The air, the pleasant sun, the summer green, 
 Knowing now few would shed one kindly tear, 
 
 Or keep in mind that I had ever been '? 
 
 LINES ON THE STATE OF GREECE, 
 
 OCCASIONED BY BEING PRESSED TO MAKE IX A 
 SUBJECT OF POETRY, 1827. 
 
 Ix Greece's cause the Muse, you deem, 
 Ought still to plead, persisting strong ; 
 
 But feel you not 't is now a theme 
 
 That wakens thought too deep for song ? 
 
 The Christian world has seen you, Greeks, 
 
 Heroic on your ramparts fall ; 
 The world has heard your widows' slirieks. 
 
 Ami sp.cn your orphans dragged in thrall.
 
 LINES. . 301 
 
 Even England brooks that, reeking hot, 
 The ruffian's sabre drinks your veins, 
 
 And leaves your thinning remnant's lot 
 The bitter choice of death or chains. 
 
 O ! if we have nor hearts nor swords, 
 To snatch you from the assassins' brand, 
 
 Let not our pity's idle words 
 
 Insult your pale and prostrate land ! 
 
 No ! be your cause to England now, 
 That by permitting acts the wrong, 
 
 A thought of horror to her brow, 
 
 A theme for blushing not for song ! 
 
 To see her unavenging ships 
 
 Ride fast by Greece's funeral-pile, 
 'T is worth a curse from Sibyl lips ! 
 
 7 T is matter for a demon's smile ! 
 
 LINES 
 
 OX JAMES TV. OF SCOTLAND, WHO FELL AT THE 
 BATTLE OF FLOBDEN 
 
 J T "WAS he that ruled his coimtry's heart 
 
 With more than royal sway ; 
 But Scotland saw her James depart, 
 
 And saddened at x his stay. 
 She heard his fate she wept her grief 
 That James her loved, her gallant chief, 
 
 Was gone forevermore : 
 But this she learnt, that, ere he fell, 
 (0 men ! O patriots ! mark it well),
 
 302 TO JEMIMA, ROSE, AND ELEANORE. 
 
 His fellow-soldiers round his fall 
 Enclosed him like a living wall, 
 
 Mixing their kindred gore ! 
 Nor was the day of Flodden done 
 Till they were slaughtered one by one ; 
 
 And this may serve to show, 
 When kings are patriots, none will fly ; 
 When such a king was doomed to die, 
 
 O, who would death forego ? 
 
 TO JEMIMA, ROSE, AND ELEANORE, 
 
 THREE CELEBRATED SCOTTISH BEAUTIES. 
 
 ADIEU, Romance's heroines ! 
 Give me the nymphs who this good hour 
 May charm me not in fiction's scenes, 
 But teach me Beauty's living power; 
 My harp, that has been mute too long, 
 Shall sleep at Beauty's name no more, 
 tSo but your smiles reward my song, 
 Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore, 
 
 In whose benignant eyes are beaming 1 
 The rays of purity and truth ; 
 Such as we fancy woman's seeming, 
 In the creation's golden youth ; 
 The more I look upon thy grace, 
 Rosina, I could look the more, 
 But for Jemima's witching face, 
 And the sweet voice of Eleanore. 
 
 Had I been Lawrence, kings had wanted 
 Their portraits, till I 'd painted yours, 
 And these had future hearts enchanted 
 When this poor verse no more endures ;
 
 SONG, 303 
 
 I would have left the congress faces, 
 A dull-eyed diplomatic corps, 
 Till I had grouped you a8 the graces, 
 Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore! 
 
 The Catholic bids fair saints befriend him 
 Your poet's heart is catholic too, 
 His rosary shall be flowers ye send him, 
 His saint-days when he visits you. 
 And my sere laurels, for my duty, 
 Miraculous at your touch would rise, 
 Could I give verse one trace of beauty 
 Like that which glads me from your eyes. 
 
 Unsealed by you, these lips Lave spoken, 
 
 Disused to song for many a day ; 
 
 Ye Ve tuned a harp whose strings were broken, 
 
 And warmed a heart of callous clay 5 
 
 So, when my fancy next refuses 
 
 To twine for you a garland more, 
 
 Come back again and be my Muses, 
 
 Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 'T is now the hour 't is now the hour 
 
 To bow at Beauty's shrine ; 
 Now, whilst our hearts confess the power 
 
 Of women, wit, and wine ; 
 And beaming eyes look on so bright, 
 Wit springs, wine sparkles in then- light. 
 
 In such an hour in such an hour, 
 
 In such an hour as this, 
 While Pleasure's fount throws up a shower 
 
 Of social sprinkling bliss, 
 Why does my bosom heave the sigh 
 That mars delight ? She is not by !
 
 304 LINES TO EDWARD LYTTOX BULWER. 
 
 There was an hour there was an hour 
 
 When I indulged the spell 
 That love wound round-me with a power 
 
 Words vainly try to tell ; 
 Though love has filled my checkered doom 
 With fruits and thorns, and light and gloom- 
 Yet there 's an hour there 's still an hour 
 
 Whose coming sunshine may 
 Clear from the clouds that hang and lower 
 
 My fortune's future day : 
 That hour of hours beloved will be 
 The hour that gives thee back to me ! 
 
 LINES TO EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, 
 
 ON THE BIRTH OF HIS CHILD. 
 
 MY heart is with you, Bulwer ! and portrays 
 The blessings of your first paternal days. 
 To clasp the pledge of purest, holiest faith, 
 To taste one's own and love-born infant's breath, 
 I know, nor would for worlds forget the bliss. 
 I 've felt that to a father's heart that kiss, 
 As o'er its little lips you smile and cling, 
 Has fragrance which Arabia could not bring. 
 
 Such are the joys, ill mocked in ribald song, 
 
 In thought even freshening life our life-time long., 
 
 That give our souls on earth a heaven-drawn 
 
 bloom ; 
 
 Without them, we are weeds upon a tomb. 
 Joy be to thee, and her whose lot with thine 
 Propitious stars saw truth and passion twine !
 
 CONTENT. 305 
 
 Joy be to her who in your rising name 
 
 Feels Love's bower brightened by the beams of 
 
 fame! 
 
 I lacked a father's claim to her but knew 
 Regard for her young years so pure and true, 
 That, when she at the altar stood your bride, 
 A sire could scarce have felt more sire-like pride. 
 
 CONTENT* 
 
 [Air " The Flower of North Wales."] 
 
 CHERUB Content ! at thy moss-covered shrine 
 
 1 'd all the gay hopes of my bosom resign ; 
 I 'd part with ambition thy votary to be, 
 
 And breathe not a sigh but to Friendship and thee ! 
 
 But thy presence appears from my wishes to fly, 
 Like the gold-colored clouds on the verge of the sky ; 
 No lustre that hangs on the green willow tree 
 Is so sweet as the smile of thy favor to me. 
 
 In the pulse of my heart I have nourished a care 
 That forbids me thy sweet inspiration to share ; 
 The noon of my life slow departing I see, 
 But its years as they pass bring no tidings of thee. 
 
 cherub Content ! at thy moss-covered shrine 
 
 1 would offer my vows, if Matilda were mine ; 
 Could I call her my own, whom enraptured I see, 
 
 I would breathe not a sigh but to Friendship and 
 thee! 
 
 These verses were addressed to Matilda Sinclair, who after- 
 wards became Campbell's wife.
 
 306 LINES. 
 
 LINES 
 
 OX THE VIEW FROM ST. LEONARD'S. 
 
 HAIL to thy face and odors, glorious Sea ! 
 ''T were 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. 
 Even 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 gray parallel and leaden breadths, 
 A belt of hues that stripes thee many a league, 
 Flushed like the rainbow, or the ringdove's neck, 
 And giving to the glancing sea-bird's wing 
 The semblance of a meteor.
 
 LIKES. 307 
 
 Mighty Sea ! 
 
 Cameleon-like thou changes!, but there 's love 
 In all thy change, and constant sympathy 
 With yonder Sky thy Mistress ; from her brow 
 Thou tak'st thy moods and wear'st her colors on 
 Thy faithful bosom ; morning's milky white, 
 Noon's sapphire, or the saffron glow of eve ; 
 And all thy balmier hours, fair Element, 
 Have such divine complexion crisped smiles, 
 Luxuriant heavings and sweet whisperings, 
 That little is the wonder Love's own Queen 
 From thee of old was fabled to have sprang 
 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 could'st 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 even 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 homebound navy's peaceful way, 
 And rocking even 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, 
 
 A*nd with th.y tints and motion stir its chords 
 
 To music, like ihe light on Memnon's lyre !
 
 SOB 
 
 The Spirit of the Universe in thee 
 
 Is visible ; thou hast in thee the life 
 
 The eternal, graceful, and majestic life 
 
 Of nature, and the natural human heart 
 
 Is therefore bound to thee with holy love. 
 
 Earth has her gorgeous towns ; 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 
 With pained and panting steeds and clouds of dust 
 Has no sight-gladdening motion like these fair 
 Careerers with the foam beneath their bows, 
 Whose streaming ensigns charm the waves by day, 
 Whose carols and whose watch-bells ' cheer the 
 
 night, 
 
 Moored as they cast the shadows of their masts 
 In long array, or hither flit and yond 
 Mysteriously with slow and crossing lights, 
 Like spirits on the darkness of the deep. 
 
 There is a magnet-like attraction in 
 
 These waters to the imaginative power 
 
 That links the viewless with the visible, 
 
 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 the 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 the inspiriting 
 
 Varieties of life she has to greet, 
 
 Come swarming o'er the meditative mind.
 
 LINES. - ' 309 
 
 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 insurer air. 
 
 Here Morn and Eve with blushing thanks receive 
 
 Their freshening dews, gay fluttering breezes cool 
 
 Their wings to fan the brow of fevered climes, 
 
 And here the Spring dips down her emerald urn 
 
 For showers to glad the earth. 
 
 Old Ocean was 
 
 Infinity of ages ere we breathed 
 Existence and he will be beautiful 
 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 Avith 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. 
 
 1831.
 
 318 THE DEAD EAGLE. 
 
 THE DEAD EAGLE. 
 
 WEITTEX AT ORAX. 
 
 FALLEN as he is, this king of birds still seems 
 
 Like royalty in ruins. Though his eyes 
 
 Are shut, that look undazzled on the sun, 
 
 He was the sultan of the sky, and earth 
 
 Paid tribute to his eyry. It was perched 
 
 Higher than human conqueror ever built 
 
 His bannered fort. Where Atlas' top looks o'er 
 
 Zahara's desert to the equator's line : 
 
 From thence the winged despot marked his prey, 
 
 Above th' encampments of the Bedouins, ere 
 
 Their watchfires were extinct, or camels knelt 
 
 To take their loads, or horsemen scoured th-' plain, 
 
 And there he dried his feathers in the dawn, 
 
 Whilst yet th' unwakened 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 arrayed her turms 
 
 And cohorts for the conquest of the world. 
 
 And figuring his flight, the mind is filled 
 
 With thoughts that mock the pride of wingless man. 
 
 True, the carred aeronaut can mount as high ; 
 
 But what 's the triumph of his volant art ? 
 
 A rash intrusion on the realms of air. 
 
 His helmless vehicle, a silken toy, 
 
 A bubble bursting in the thunder-cloud ; 
 
 His course has no volition, and he drifts 
 
 The passive plaything of the winds. Not such 
 
 Was this proud bird : he clove the adverse storm, 
 
 And cuffed it with his wings. He stopped his flight 
 
 As easily as the Arab reigns his steed, 
 
 And stood at pleasure 'ueath Heaven's zenith, like
 
 THE DEAD EAGLE. 311 
 
 A lamp suspended from its azure dome, 
 
 Whilst underneath him the world's mountains lay 
 
 Like mole hills, and her streams like lucid threads, 
 
 Then downward, faster than a falling star, 
 
 He neared the earth, until his shape distinct 
 
 Was blackly shadowed on the sunny ground ; 
 
 And deeper terror hushed the wilderness, 
 
 To hear his nearer whoop. Then, up again 
 
 He soared and wheeled. There was an air of scorn 
 
 In all his movements, whether he threw reund 
 
 His crested head to look behind him; or 
 
 Lay vertical and sportively displayed 
 
 The inside whiteness of his wing declined, 
 
 In gyres and undulations full of grace, 
 
 An object beautifying Heaven itself. 
 
 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, strewed their 
 
 decks. 
 
 But if his intellect had matched his wings, 
 Methinks he would have scorned man's vaunted 
 
 power 
 
 To plough the deep ; his pinions bore him down 
 To Algiers the warlike, or the coral groves, 
 That blush beneath the green of Bona's waves ; 
 And traversed in an hour a wider space 
 Than yonder gallant ship, with all her sails 
 Wooing the winds, can cross from morn till eve. 
 His bright eyes were his compass, earth his chart, 
 His talons anchored on the stormiest cliff, 
 And on the very light-house rock he perched, 
 When winds churned white the waves. 
 
 The earthquake's self 
 Disturbed not him that memorable day. 
 When, o'er yon table-land, where Spain had built, 
 Cathedrals, cannoned forts, and palaces, 
 A palsy stroke of Nature shook Oran, 
 Turning her city to a sepulchre,
 
 312 THE DEAD EAGLE. 
 
 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, 
 Coiled in yon mallows and wide nettled fields 
 That mantle o'er the dead old Spanish town. 
 
 Strange is the imagination's dread delight 
 
 In objects linked with danger, death and pain ! 
 
 Fresh from the luxuries of polished life, 
 
 The echo of these wilds enchanted me ; 
 
 And my heart beat with joy when first I hear 
 
 A lion's roar come down the Lybian wind, 
 
 Across yon long, wide, lonely inland lake, 
 
 Where boat ne'er sails from homeless shore to shore 
 
 And yet Numidia's landscape has its epots 
 
 Of pastoral pleasantness though far between, 
 
 The village planted near the Maraboot's 
 
 Round roof has aye its feathery palm trees 
 
 Paired, for in solitude they bear no fruits. 
 
 Here nature's hues all harmonize fields white 
 
 With alasum, or blue with bugloss banks 
 
 Of glossy fennel, blent with tulips wild, 
 
 And sunflowers, like a garment 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-liks carol of the lark ; 
 
 And when they cease, the holy nightingale 
 
 Winds up his long, long shakes of ecstasy, 
 
 With notes that seem but the protracted sounds 
 
 Of glassy runnels bubbling over rocks.
 
 SONG. 313 
 
 SONG. 
 
 To Love in my heart, I exclaimed t' other morning-, 
 Thou hast dwelt here too long, little lodger, take 
 
 warning ; 
 Thou shalt tempt me no more from my life's sober 
 
 duty, 
 To go gadding, bewitched by the young eyes of 
 
 beauty. 
 
 For weary 's the wooing, ah, weary ! 
 When an old man will have a young dearie. 
 
 The god left my heart, at its surly reflections. 
 But came back on pretext of some sweet recollec- 
 tions, 
 
 And he made me forget what I ought to remember, 
 That the rose-bud of June cannot bloom in Novem- 
 ber. 
 
 Ah ! Tom, 't is all o'er with thy gay days 
 "Write psalms, and not songs for the ladies. 
 
 But time 's been so far from my wisdom enriching, 
 That the longer I live, beauty seems more bewitching; 
 And the only new lore my experience traces, 
 Is to find fresh enchantment in magical faces. 
 
 How weary is wisdom, how weary ! 
 "When one sits by a smiling young dearie ! 
 
 And should she be wroth that my homage pursues 
 
 her, 
 
 I will turn and retort on my lovely accuser ; 
 "Who 's to blame, that my heart by your image is 
 
 haunted 
 It is you, the enchantress not I, the enchanted, 
 
 Would you have me behave more discreetly, 
 Beauty, look not so killingly sweetly.
 
 314 LINES. 
 
 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, wrapt in fancy, many a boyish day 
 I tracked his wanderings o'er the watery way, 
 Roamed round the Aleutian isles in waking dreams, 
 Or plucked the Jteur-de-lys by Jesso's streams 
 Or gladly leaped on that far Tartar strand, 
 Where Europe's anchor ne'er had bit the sand, 
 Where scarce a roving wild tribe crossed the plain, 
 Or human voice broke nature's silent reign j 
 But vast and grassy deserts feed the bear, 
 And sweeping deer-herds dread no hunter's snare. 
 Such young delight his real recoids brought, 
 His truth so touched romantic springs of thought, 
 That all my after-life his fate and fame 
 Entwined romance with La Perouse's name. 
 Fair were hia 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 ploughed the deep to bind no captive's chain- 
 Pursued no rapine strewed no wreck with slain ; 
 And, save that in the deep themselves lie low, 
 His heroes plucked no wreath from human woe. 
 'T was 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 ;
 
 LINES. 315 
 
 Yet he that led Discovery o'er the wave, 
 
 Still fills himself an undiscovered grave. 
 
 He came not back, Conjecture's cheek grew pale, 
 
 Year after year in no propitious gale, 
 
 His lilied banner held its homeward way, 
 
 And Science saddened at her martyr's stay. 
 
 An age elapsed no wreck told where or when 
 
 The chief went down with all his gallant men, 
 
 Or whether by the storm and wild sea flood 
 
 He perished, or by wilder men of blood 
 
 The shuddering Fancy only guessed his doom , 
 
 And Doubt to Sorrow gave but deeper gloom. 
 
 An age elapsed when men were dead or gray, 
 
 Whose hearts had mourned him in their youthful 
 
 day; 
 
 Fame traced on Mannicolo's shore at last, 
 The boiling surge had mounted o'er his mast. 
 The islemen told of some surviving men, 
 But Christian eyes beheld them ne'er again. 
 Sad bourne of all his toils with all his band 
 To sleep, wrecked, shroudless, on a savag-e strand ! 
 Yet what is all that fires a hero's scorn , 
 
 Of death ? the hope to live in hearts unborn : 
 Life to the brave is not its fleeting breath, 
 But worth foretasting fame, that follows death. 
 That worth had La Perouse that meed he won ; 
 He sleeps his life's long stormy watch is done. 
 In the great deep, whose boundaries and space 
 He measured, Fate ordained his resting-place ; 
 But bade his fame, like th' Ocean rolling o'er 
 His relics visit every earthly shore. 
 Fair Science on that Ocean's azure robe 
 Still writes his name in picturing the globe, 
 And paints (what fairer wreath could glory 
 
 twine f) 
 His watery course a world-encircling line. 
 
 18.51.
 
 31G TO THE COUNTESS AMERIGA VESPUCCI. 
 
 IMPROMPTU. 
 
 IN COMPLIMENT To THE EXQUISITE SINGING OF MRS. 
 ALLSOP. 
 
 A MONTH in summer we rejoice 
 
 To hear the nightingale's sweet song j 
 But thou a more enchanting voice 
 
 Shalt dwell with us the live year long. 
 Angel of Song ! still with us stay ! 
 
 Nor, when succeeding years have shone, 
 Let us thy mansion pass and say, 
 
 Tlie voice of melody is gone ! 
 
 TO THE COUNTESS AMERIGA VESPUCCI. 
 
 
 
 DESCENDANT of the chief who stamped his name 
 
 On earth's Hesperian hemisphere I greet 
 
 Not only thy hereditary fame, 
 
 But beauty, wit, and spirit, bold and sweet, 
 
 That captivates alike, where'er thou art. 
 
 The British and the Transatlantic heart ! 
 
 Ameriga Vespucci ! thou art fair 
 
 As classic Venus ; but the Poets gave 
 
 Her not thy noble, more than classic, air 
 
 Of courage. Homer's Venus was not brave 
 
 She shrieked and fled the fight. You never fled, 
 
 But in the cause of Freedom fought and bled.
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM PETRARCH. 317 
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM PETRARCH. 
 
 PROEMIO. 
 
 Voi, ch? ascoltate in rime sparse il suono. 
 
 YE who shall hear amidst my scattered lays 
 The sighs with which I fanned and fed my heart, 
 When, young and glowing, I was but in part 
 The man I am become in later days, 
 Ye who have marked the changes of my style 
 From vain despondency to hope as vain, 
 From him among you who has felt love's pain 
 I hope for pardon, ay, and Pity's smile. 
 Though conscious, now, my passion was a theme 
 Long idly dwelt on by the public tongue, 
 I blush for all the vanities I 've sung, 
 And find the world's applause a fleeting dream. 
 
 SONXET XXIII. 
 Quest" 1 anima gentil che si diparte. 
 
 THIS lovely spirit, if ordained to leave 
 
 Its mortal tenement before its time, 
 
 Heaven's fairest habitation shall receive, 
 
 And welcome her to breathe its sweetest clime. 
 
 If she establish her abode between 
 
 Mars and the planet-star of Beauty's queen, 
 
 The sun will be obscured, BO dense a cloud 
 
 Of spirits from adjacent stars will crowd 
 
 To gaze upon her beauty infinite. 
 
 Say that she fixes on a lower sphere, 
 
 Beneath the glorious Sun, her beauty soon 
 
 Will dim the splendor of inferior stars 
 
 Of Mars, of Venus, Mercury, and the Moon. 
 
 She '11 choose not Mars, but higher place than Mars 
 
 She will eclipse all planetary light, 
 
 And Jupiter himself will seem less bright.
 
 313 TRANSLATIONS FROM PETRARCH. 
 
 SONNET LX. 
 
 lo nonfu d'amar voi lassato unquanco. 
 TIRED, did you say, of loving you ? O, no t 
 I ne'er shall tire of the unwearying flame. 
 Bat I am weary, kind and cruel dame, 
 With tears that uselessly and ceaseless flow, 
 Scorning myself, and scorned by you. I long 
 For 'death j but let no gravestone hold in view 
 Our names conjoined ; nor tell my passion strong 
 Upon the dust that glowed through life for you. 
 And yet this heart of amorous faith demands, 
 Deserves, a better boon ; but cruel, hard 
 As is my fortune, I will bless Love's bands 
 Forever, if you give me this reward. 
 
 SONNET LXVIII. 
 Erano i capei d'oro air aura sparsi. 
 TIME was her tresses by the breathing air 
 Were wreathed to many a \inglet golden bright, 
 Time was her eyes diffused unmeasured light, 
 Though now their lovely beams are waxing rare. 
 Her face methought that in its blushes showed 
 Compassion, her angelic shape and walk, 
 Her voice that seemed with Heaven's own speech to 
 
 talk, 
 
 At these, what wonder that my bosom glowed ! 
 A living sun she seemed a spirit of Heaven. 
 Those charms decline : but does my passion ? No ! 
 I love not less the slackening of the bow 
 Assuages not the wound its shaft has given. 
 
 SONNET CXXV. 
 
 In qual parte del CieT, in quale idea. 
 IN what ideal world or part of heaven 
 Did Nature find the model of that face 
 And form, so fraught with loveliness and grace, 
 In which, to our creation, she has given
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM PETRARCH. 319 
 
 Her prime proof of creative power above ? 
 
 What fountain nymph or goddess ever let 
 
 Such lovely tresses float of gold refined 
 
 Upon the breeze, or in a single mind 
 
 Where have so many virtues ever met 
 
 E'en though those charms have slain my bosom': 
 
 weal 1 
 
 He knows not love who has 'not seen her eyes 
 Turn when she sweetly speaks, or smiles, or sighs, 
 Or how the power of love can hurt or heal. 
 
 SONNET CCXX. 
 Cercato ho sempre sotitaria vita. 
 
 IN solitudes I 've ever loved to abide, 
 
 By woods and streams, and shunned the evil-hearted, 
 
 Who from the path of heaven are foully parted. 
 
 Sweet Tuscany has been to me denied, 
 
 Whose sunny realms I would have gladly haunted, 
 
 Yet still the Sorgue his beauteous hills among 
 
 Has lent auxiliar murmurs to my song, 
 
 And echoed to the plaints rny love has chanted. 
 
 Here triumphed too the poet's hand that wrote 
 
 These lines the power of love has witnessed this. 
 
 Delicious victory ! I know my bliss, 
 
 She knows it too the saint on whom I dote.
 
 320 EXTRACTS FROM THE MOBIADE. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM THE MOBIADE* 
 
 AX EPIC POEM, IN THREE BOOKS. 
 
 ARGUMENT. Invocation to the P)issardes Description of the 
 influence of scarcity on New-Year's Day, 1801 Bold interfer- 
 ence of the Ibissardfs in public affairs First assembly and 
 march of the insurgents Their progress to the neighborhood 
 of Bridewell Speech of the prisoners to the insurgents De- 
 scription of the Calton Hill beside Bridewell From thence the 
 Poet makes a familiar transition to his old lodgings on the High- 
 Terrace, opposite these scenes He describes his visionary mus- 
 ings at his window that overlooked them His subsequent 
 orders for dinner, delivered in Iambics He returns to the 
 proper subject of his Poem Compliments Count Rumford 
 and concludes Book the First. 
 
 ****** 
 
 STAY your rude steps, whose hands have never 
 
 thrown 
 
 Th' avenging flight of turnip or of stone j 
 Whose tiny hearts with no delirium throb, 
 "VVheu Heaven's dread justice arms the mighty mob ! 
 But come, ye vocal nymphs, whose roseate feet 
 Print, with unslippered steps, the miry street} 
 Whose serenades at morning-tide begin, 
 From lips bedewed with aromatic gin ! 
 Nymphs! your bold hands, in dearth's alarming 
 
 hour, 
 
 Swing the huge jorden, hurl the flinty shower j 
 Drag the scared miser from his hoarded crops. 
 And storm the hucksters in their barred shops ; 
 Deal the brown loaves, sweet grain, and mealy 
 
 roots,t 
 And pelt proud provosts in their gala suits ! 
 
 * In 1^01, owing to the clearness of provisions, riots took 
 place in Edinburgh, which it required military interference to 
 suppress. These riots were called "meal mobs." and were gen- 
 erally composed of fish-women "the Poi.iKO.rdes of New Haven 
 and Mnsselburgh "against whom the magistrates found it very 
 difficult to act. 
 
 t Barley-loaves and potatoes.
 
 EXTRACTS FROM THE MOBIADE. 32 L 
 
 Thus, when Monopoly's briarean hands 
 Had dragged her harrow o'er a hundred lands ; 
 But chief, the terrors of her gorgon frown 
 Had scared Edina's faint and famished town ; 
 Then Want, the griffin, champed with iron claws, 
 Our shuddering hearts and agonizing maws ; 
 Chased from our plundered boards each glad regale 
 Of vermeil ham, brown beef, and buxom ale ! 
 Ah me ! no strepent goose, at Christmas-tide, 
 Hissed in the strangled hand, and kicked and 
 
 died! 
 
 No trembling jellies, nor ambrosial pie, 
 Regaled the liquorish mouth and longing eye. 
 Red sunk December's last dishonored sun, 
 And the young TEAR'S-DAY passed without a 1 >un ! 
 
 Nymphs! in that hour with pattering steps ye ran, 
 And roused to nobler deeds the soul of man ; 
 Called the fierce tribes, impatient of their doom, 
 From shadowy booth, dark shop, and sounding 
 
 loom ; 
 
 Lured the young 'prentice with seductive art, 
 And trained to glory his enamoured heart ! 
 
 Then sprung each patriot from his lowly den ; 
 Even tailors would avenge the rights of men ! 
 Huzzaing barbers swell the marching line, 
 Whose nice hands trim " the human face divine." 
 Sweeps, in their panoply of soot revealed, 
 The glorious besom of destruction wield ; 
 Their leathern aprons Crispian heroes stock 
 With tingling brick, huge tiles, and massy rock ! 
 
 Now in divisions march the marshalled band, 
 Troop follows troop, and blackeois all the land : 
 Man shouts to man, on thousands thousands rush, 
 Toes tramp on toes, and neighbors neighbors crush. 
 
 N*
 
 32-2 EXTRACTS FROM THE MOBIABE. 
 
 Siliceous showers in dread collision blend ; 
 High hurled in air th' unburied cats descend ! 
 Bold hands in vain from windowed heights o'erturn 
 Th' unblessed waters of the nameless urn ; 
 From street to street their dreadful route they steer, 
 Rage in their van, and rapine in their rear ? 
 *. * * * 
 
 Nymphs ! in that hour ye spread your parted train 
 By winding walk, dark arch, and gloomy lane ; 
 These to the trembling South's remotest bound, 
 And t ftose to Bridewell's sand-encircled ground. 
 Thrice by that rock whose stern Bastile appalls 
 Heroic worth, and hems in marble walls 
 Indignant stopt, the roaring cavalcade 
 Swung their waved hats, and long and loud huzzaed ! 
 Thrice from the hollow vaults, responsive rise 
 Hoarse shouts of manly throats, and virgin's sweeter 
 
 cries! 
 "Down down with Provosts, and their tyrant 
 
 sway!" 
 
 Each caged warbler said, or seemed to say 
 " March on, ye champions of the public weal ! 
 Revenge or ruin ! death or cheaper meal ! 
 Oh, could ye burst but those obdurate bands 
 That clasp our gates, and bind our brawny hands ! 
 Then, what a host of aid would rush to crown ! 
 Your glorious work, and rob the ravaged town 
 Then should no sceptred beadle dare provoke 
 Our hearts of iron, and our clubs of oak ! 
 Nor listed bayonet, nor the loud platoon 
 Of ' Volunteer, town-guard,' or ' light dragoon ' 
 Should screen the big-wigged Justice, timely caught 
 Even in the noose* these toiling hands have 
 
 wrought. 
 
 Tyrant should balance tyrant, dangling high, 
 And Bridewell's /temp avenge her slavery !" 
 
 * Alluding to the ropes, etc., made as task-work in the 'Bride- 
 well.'
 
 EXTRACTS FROM THE MOBIADE. 3^3 
 
 So sung the prison-birds ; but all in vain, 
 
 As Yorick's starling waked his plaintive strain ! 
 
 No battering beam, loud axe, or sounding saw, 
 
 Burst on the dragon-guarded doors of law ! 
 
 For them no friendly portal shall expand, 
 
 Nor high deliverer wave his angel wand ; 
 
 No visitant for them the path prepares 
 
 Thro' sentried gates, dark vaults, and winding 
 
 stairs; 
 
 Save when that dreadful foe who oft reveals 
 Dismantled heroes at his chariot wheels 
 With red-robed spearmen, and the sound of 
 
 drums, 
 Nine-tailed Bashaw, the savage Hangman conies ! 
 
 * * * * 
 
 But say, fair Heroines of my vent'rous song ! 
 Where next your stormy thousands rushed along ? 
 For fainter now the groans of Bridewell grew, 
 And more remote the mountain streamer flew, 
 Whose airy length, expanded to the blast, 
 Waves o'er the tall and telegraphic mast ! 
 Here (but a mightier voice recalls her home !) 
 My desultory Muse would love to roam : 
 And other charms than yours, sweet nymphs, to 
 
 sing, 
 Rest on the Calton height her wearied wing ! . . 
 
 Fair salutary spot! where Health inhales 
 Her freshest fountains, and her purest gales ; 
 I love thy homely name's familiar sound, 
 Thou green Parnassus of my native ground ! 
 Haunt of my youth ! while yet the poet's head 
 Peeped from yon high and heaven-aspiring shed, 
 O'erlooking far Edina's gilded vanes, 
 And all her dusky wilderness of lanes. 
 What time, sublimely lodged ! he mounted higher 
 Than Attic station with his Scotian l3"re;
 
 324 EXTRACTS FROM THE MOBIADE. 
 
 And, warm in fancy's castle-building hour, 
 
 Sung to the shelter of his sky-light bower.* 
 
 'T was then, sweet hill ! imagination drew 
 
 Thy winding walk some paradise in view ; 
 
 Each white-robed nymph that sailed thy terrace 
 
 round, 
 
 Seemed like a goddess on Elysian ground. 
 Then spread Illusion, with her pencil warm, 
 Unearthly hues on every meaner form ; 
 Wings on the grazing horse appeared to grow, 
 And Delphian woods to wave, and Helicon to flow. 
 
 Nor ceased my day-dream till the waning hours 
 Had shook fair Fancy from her throne of flowers ; 
 And o'er my heart emotions, less divine, 
 Imperious warned the esurient bard to dine : 
 Yet when my bell its awful summons rung, 
 And menial Mary heard its iron tongue 
 Not in plebeian prose, I spoke aloud, 
 When mortal wants th' immortal spirit bowed : 
 111 would it suit to ask a poet's food 
 In vulgar phrase, ignobly understood ! 
 Then stood the culinary maiden dumb, 
 And slowly twirled each circumvolvent thumb, 
 Astounded listening to the voice sublime 
 Of oral thunders, and Iambic rhyme : 
 
 Bring me the beef the dulcet pudding bring ! 
 Or fry the mud-lark'st odoriferous wing ; 
 Or simmering greens, with soft rotation turn, 
 Champed in the luscious treasure of the chum ! 
 Then pour the brown ale, rich as ever ran 
 From Balder's horn, or Odin's creamy can ! 
 Blest in that honest draught, let none repine 
 For nec'trous noyeau, or ambrosial wine ; 
 
 * The Poet's lodgings on the High-terrace. Leith Walk. 
 t Th^ poetical name for a pig, principal!} 7 used in the elegant 
 phraseology of Kilmainham jail.
 
 MARY'S RETURN. 3->:> 
 
 But lest my waning wealth refuse to raise 
 80 fair a feast, in these degenerate days 
 Take from this splendid shilling, what may find 
 Some sweet reflection of a sober mind 
 Yon earth-born apple, vegetable grace 
 Of Erin's sons a blunder-loving race ; 
 Well could that food of bulls delight me now, 
 Mixt with the mantling beverage of the cow ; 
 My vaccine milk, on 'tatoes sweet should pour, 
 And fruit and liquor charm one fairy-footed hour ! 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Such were my humble themes of other time, 
 Ye red-armed heroines of my native clime ! 
 Ere yet the Muse of unambitious days 
 Had ever sung, or hoped to sing, your praise. 
 For other nymphs beguiled my busy brains 
 To love-sick odes, and honey-suckle strains ; 
 What time, erratic o'er my nightly roof, 
 Grimalkin-warblers caterwauled aloof; 
 Or sportive, through the groves of chimneys sprung, 
 And "all night long their am'rous descant sung." 
 Then lower themes for you, the Poet spurns ; 
 Sole in his heart the patriot passion burns ! 
 
 MARY'S RETURN. 
 
 WHY mourns the wind, why leafless lies the track, 
 
 Why breaks no sun, or sings no bird to cheer 
 The morn, beloved friends, that welcomes back 
 
 Your Mary to her home of Sydenham dear? 
 Could painter's hand appropriate landscape form, 
 
 Were she to seem the Genius of the place ; 
 There would not, sure, be there a shade or storm, 
 
 But all, herself resembling, bloom and grace.
 
 326 EXTEMPORE VERSES. 
 
 And yet, dear maid, though loveliest scenes of earth 
 Might suit thee; more, they could not make us 
 
 prize 
 
 The voice like music to our wintry hearth ; 
 The smile like summer's gladness to our eyes. 
 
 November 20, 1807. 
 
 EXTEMPORE VERSES. 
 
 FROM A LETTER TO MISS MAYOTT. 
 
 HARK ! from yon corner rings the supper-bell 
 Adieu ! adieu ! dear Fanny, fare thee well ! 
 Oppressed by hunger, I must walk up stall's ; 
 Then go to bed, when I have said my prayers. 
 But that same rat* will still his visit pay 
 So I '11 be forced to watch as well as pray ; 
 Yet watching sleeping doomed to sup or dine, 
 However faring still, i'air friend, I 'in thine 
 
 THE GLORIES OF A SUMMER DAY. 
 
 FROM A LETTER TO MISS MATOW, 1808. 
 
 In reverge for your absence, I mean to debar you from the 
 eight of a beautiful poem, which I have written in blank-verse, 
 upon " The Glories of a Summer Day:" 
 
 OH, for a muse of fire, to celebrate 
 
 The sweltering glories of a summer's day ! 
 
 * To-day I must be half dead with the old bad sleep, in conse- 
 quence of an impudent rat who laid his teeth like a saw to the 
 wainscot near my bed. and kept grinding genteelly till day-break. 
 Duels have been fought in saw-pits: but, surely, sleeping in a 
 saw-pit is impossible, and so I round it. All my knocks and 
 hisses, and rapping, till my knuckles were sore, did not. discon- 
 cert the engineer. I f xrtect the same felicity to-night. Fruin the 
 Letter containing the nbore verses.
 
 FRO'M ANACREON. IW7 
 
 Now the thermometer of Fahrenheit 
 
 Too far-in-height, alas ! is seventy-five. 
 
 Red-faced, and dripping transpiratious dews, 
 
 The morning stranger visits your abode, 
 
 And mutual plainings of the sultry weather 
 
 Follow the gratulations of the day. 
 
 Now Beau hangs out his tongue, and drops his 
 
 jaw 
 
 (Oh, that less honest brutes would drop their jaw !) 
 The animal creation quit their sports, 
 All but the playful kitten. She, alone, 
 Her tiger-origin of climes adust 
 Betraying, wantons in the solar blaze, etc., etc. 
 
 FROM ANACREON. 
 
 AX IMPROMPTU TRANSLATION. 
 
 To podov TO'T&V Epwrwv 
 
 THE rose, to love that sacred grows, 
 
 To Bacchus let us bring, 
 And, crowned with garlands of the rose, 
 
 Exulting quaflj and sing, 
 And laugh away the happy hours 
 The rose, the paragon of flowers 
 
 The rose, the nursling of the spring ! 
 
 Roses, the gods themselves enjoy, 
 And Venus's delightful Boy, 
 
 His lovely ringlets to attire, 
 With rosy wreaths his brow embraces, 
 When he dances with the Graces. 
 
 Then crown me, aud I'll strike the lyre, etc. 
 
 1*09.
 
 328 LINES. 
 
 LINES, ON TELLING HER FAULTS TO 
 MISS F. W. MAYOW, 
 
 WHO HAD ACCUSED HIM OF NOT BEING ABLE TO READ 
 ANY WRITING BUT HIS OWN. 
 
 IN Fanny's praise let others talk ; 
 
 I '11 tell the blemish of her nature- 
 It is not in her speech or walk, 
 
 Her conversation or her stature. 
 
 I like her heart ; 7 t is warm to friends ; 
 
 Her face I could not wish to vary ; 
 And, polished to her finger ends, 
 . Her form has something statuary. 
 
 Her taste I 'm vain enough to deem 
 Is good, because with mine it tallies ; 
 
 Her wit, I very much esteem 
 
 Save when my own dear self it rallies! 
 
 And yet I will not while I live 
 
 For all your worth and virtues many 
 
 I will not one sad fault forgive ; 
 You write illegibly, my Fanny ! 
 
 1609.
 
 HOHENLINDEN. 329 
 
 HOHENUNDEN. 
 
 ON Linden, when the sun was low, 
 All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, 
 And dark as winter was the flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 But Linden saw another sight, 
 When the drum beat, at dead of night., 
 Commanding fires of death to light 
 Tho darkness of her scenery. 
 
 By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, 
 Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
 And furious every charger neighed, 
 To join the dreadful revelry. 
 
 Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
 Then rushed the steed to battle driven, 
 And louder than the bolts of heaven, 
 Far flashed the red artillery. 
 
 But redder yet that light shall glow 
 On Linden's hills of stained snow, 
 And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 'T is morn, but scarce yon level sun 
 Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
 Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, 
 Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 
 
 The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
 Who rash to glory, or the grave ! 
 Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, 
 And charge with all thy chivalry !
 
 330 - GLENARA. 
 
 Few, few, shall part where many meet ! 
 The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 
 And every turf beneath their feet 
 Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 
 
 1803. 
 
 GLENARA. 
 
 O HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, 
 Where a band cometh slowly with weeping- and 
 
 wail? 
 
 'T is the chief of Glenara laments for his clear ; 
 And her sire, and the people, are called to her 
 
 bier. 
 
 Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud ; 
 Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not 
 
 aloud : 
 
 Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around ; 
 They marched all in silence, they looked on the 
 ground. 
 
 In silence they reached over mountain and moor, 
 To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and 
 
 hoar: 
 "Now here let us place the gray stone of her 
 
 cairn: 
 Why speak ye no word !" said Glenara the stern. 
 
 " And tell me, I charge you ! ye clan of my spouse, 
 Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your 
 
 brows t" 
 
 So spake the rude chieftain : no answer is made, 
 But each mantle unfolding, u dagger displayed.
 
 GLENARA. 331 
 
 " 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, 
 T was 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 revealed where his lady was found ; 
 > From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne 
 Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn !
 
 332 EXILE OF ERIN. 
 
 EXILE OF ERIN. 
 
 THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, 
 
 The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ; 
 For his country he sighed, when at twilight repair* 
 
 ing 
 
 To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill : 
 
 But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, 
 
 For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, 
 
 Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, 
 
 He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. 
 
 Sad is my fate ! said the heart-broken stranger; 
 
 The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, 
 But I have no refuge from famine and danger, 
 
 A home and a country remain not to me. 
 Never again, in the green sunny bowers, 
 Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet 
 
 hours, 
 Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, 
 
 And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh ! 
 
 Erin, my country ! though sad and forsaken, 
 In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; 
 
 But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken, 
 
 And sigh for the friends who can meet me no 
 more ! 
 
 Oh cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me 
 
 In a mansion of peace where no perils can chase 
 me ? 
 
 Never again shall my brothers embrace me ! 
 They died to defend me or live to deplore !
 
 EXILE OF ERIN. 333 
 
 "Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood ? 
 
 Sisters and sire ! did \"j weep for its fall ? 
 Where is the mother that looked on my childhood ; 
 
 And where is the bosom friend dearer than all ? 
 Oh! my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, 
 Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure '? 
 Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure, 
 
 But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. 
 
 Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, 
 One dying wish my lone bosom can draw ; 
 
 Erin ! an exile bequeathes thee his blessing ! 
 Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! 
 
 Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, 
 
 Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean ! 
 
 A.nd thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devo- 
 tion, 
 Erin mavournin Erin go bragh !* 
 
 v darling, Ireland for ever.
 
 334 ODE. 
 
 SWITZERLAND. 
 
 WRITTEN FOB A MOTTO TO SWITZERLAND .ILLUS- 
 TRATED. 
 
 THE Switzer's land ! where Glory is encamped, 
 
 Impregnably, in mountain tents of snow ; 
 Realms, that by human footprint ne'er were 
 
 stamped 
 Where the eagle wheels, and glacial rampails 
 
 glow ! 
 
 Seek, Nature's worshipper, those landscapes ! Go 
 
 Where all her fiercest, fairest, charms are joined ! 
 
 Go to the land where TELL drew Freedom's 
 
 bow ! 
 
 And in the Patriot's Country thou shalt find 
 A semblance 'twixt the scene and his immortal 
 mind! 
 
 1834. 
 
 ODE, 
 
 ON THE BIRTH OF FIVE KITTENS IN THE HOUSE OF HER 
 BRITANNIC MAJESTY'S CONSUL-GENERAL AT ALGIERS. 
 
 [Tune " The Campbells are coming."] 
 
 THE cat she has kittened, Ohon ! Ohon ! 
 
 In the Consular house of St. John, St. John j 
 
 Of her five little cats 
 
 (They are all blind as bats) 
 There are two to be drowned, that are gone, are 
 
 gone ! 
 
 But the rest 't were a pity to drown, to drown ; 
 Zugasti* and Campbell, and Brown, and Brown,t 
 
 * The Chevalier Zugasti, Spanish Consul at Algiers, 
 f Mr. Brown, Consul of the United States, America.
 
 MY NATIVE LAND. 335 
 
 Are to save all the three 
 From this cat-as trophce, 
 And to rear them as cats of renown, renown. 
 
 These three pretty kittens, so sleek, so sleek, 
 There 's Campbell to teach them their (lrccl\ 
 their Greek! 
 
 Brown will train them to mew 
 
 " Yankee doodle, doo, doo!" 
 And Zugasti in Spanish to speak, to speak. 
 
 Five lives they shall have, every one, one, one; 
 Fame's domestics shall beat a rattan, rattan, 
 
 On the Barbary coast, 
 
 Of their beauty to boast, 
 From the shores of Bougie to Oran, Oran ! 
 
 Musicians then* cat-gut shall bring, shall bring, 
 And our kittens shall caper and sing, and sing. 
 To the glorious years 
 Of the French in Algiers, 
 
 And the health oflier CITIZKX KING, king, king ! 
 * * * * * 
 
 1835. 
 
 MY NATIVE LAND. 
 
 MY native land ! my native land ! 
 
 Now near thy coast-crags high and hoar, 
 I see the surf that strikes the strand 
 
 I hear its hoarse and restless roar. 
 Before the breeze we gaily scud 
 
 With straining stay and swollen sail, 
 And while we stir the foaming flood, 
 
 All hail ! mv native land, all hail !
 
 336 THE FRIARS OF DIJON. 
 
 Through Afric's sands the gold ore gleams, 
 
 On Asia's shores the diamond shines, 
 But there, beneath their sun's bright beams, 
 
 The black, a bondsman, pants and pines. 
 Proud parent of the FAIR and FREE, 
 
 O'er roaring surf and rolling swell, 
 With happy heart I look on thee, 
 
 All hail ! my native land, all hail ! 
 
 "What Briton's breast but deeply draws 
 
 The breath that sighs thy shores adieu ! 
 But throbs, as oft a thought he throws 
 
 From far, on days of 3 7 outh and you ? 
 You ! whom my heart hath sighed to see, 
 
 When hope was faint and health was frail, 
 How gladly now I look on thee, 
 
 All hail ! my native land, all hail ! 
 
 Bound on, bold bark ! with powerful prow, 
 
 Through whitening waves that round thee roar! 
 From port the pilot hails us now ; 
 
 Hark ! hark ! I hear the plunging oar, 
 The anchor drags the clanking chain ; 
 
 The seaman furls the flapping sail, 
 Thick throbs my heart and yet again 
 
 All hail ! my native land, all hail ! 
 
 THE FEIARS OF DIJON. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 WHEX honest men confessed their sins, 
 And paid the church genteelly 
 
 In Burgundy two Capuchins 
 Lived jovially and freely.
 
 THE FRIARS OF DIJOX. 337 
 
 They marched about from place to place, 
 
 With shrift and dispensation ; 
 And mended broken consciences 
 
 Soul-tinkers by vocation. 
 
 One friar was Father Boniface, 
 
 And he ne'er knew disquiet, 
 Save when condemned to saying grace 
 
 O'er mortifying diet. 
 
 The other was lean Dominick, 
 
 Whose slender form, and sallow, 
 Would scarce have made a candlewick 
 
 For Boniface's tallow. 
 
 Albeit, he tippled like a fish, 
 
 Though not the same potation ; 
 And mortal man ne'er cleared a disli 
 
 With nimbler mastication. 
 
 Those saints without the sliirts arrived. 
 
 One evening late, to pigeon 
 A country pair for alms, that lived 
 
 About a league from Dijon 
 
 Whose supper-pot was set to boil, 
 
 On fagots briskly crackling : 
 The friars entered, with a smile 
 
 To Jacquez and to Jacqueline. 
 
 They bowed, and blessed the dame, and then 
 
 In pious terms besought her, 
 To give two holy-minded men 
 
 A meal of bread and water. 
 
 For water and a crust they crave, 
 
 Those mouths that even on Lent days 
 
 Scarce knew the taste of water, save 
 When watering for dainties.
 
 338 THE FRIARS OF DIJON. 
 
 Quoth Jacquez, " That were sorry cheer 
 For men fatigued and dusty ; 
 
 And if ye supped on crusts, I fear, 
 You 'd go to bed but crusty." 
 
 So forth he brought a flask of rich 
 
 Wine fit to feast Silenus, 
 And viands, at the sight of which 
 
 They laughed like two hyaenas. 
 
 Alternately, the host and spouse 
 Regaled each pardon-ganger, 
 
 Who told them tales right marvellous, 
 And lied as for a wager 
 
 'Bout churches like balloons conveyed 
 
 With aeronautic martyrs 
 And wells made warm, where holy maid 
 
 Had only dipt her garters. 
 
 And if their hearers gaped, I guess, 
 With jaws three inch asunder, 
 
 'T was partly out of weariness, 
 And partly out of wonder. 
 
 Then striking up duets, the Freres 
 Went on to sing in matches, 
 
 From psalms to sentimental airs, 
 From these to glees and catches. 
 
 At last, they would have danced outright', 
 Like a baboon and a tame bear, 
 
 If Jacquez had not drunk Good-night, 
 And shown them to their chamber. 
 
 The room was high, the host was nigh 
 
 Had wife or he suspicion, 
 That monks would make a raree-show 
 
 Of chinks in the partition ?
 
 THE FRIARS OF DIJON. 330 
 
 Or that two Confessors would come, 
 
 Their holy ears out-reaching 
 To conversations as hum-drum 
 
 Almost as their own preaching J ? 
 
 Shame on you, Friars of orders gray, 
 That peeping knelt, and wriggling, 
 
 And when you should have gone to pray, 
 Betook yourselves to giggling ! 
 
 But every deed will have its meed : 
 
 And hark ! what information 
 Has made the sinners, in a trice, 
 
 Look back with consternation. 
 
 The fanner on a hone prepares 
 
 His knife, a long and keen one ; 
 And talks of killing both the Freres, 
 
 The fat one, and the lean one. 
 
 To-morrow by the break of day, 
 
 He orders too, salt-petre, 
 And pickling-tubs ; but, reader, stay, 
 
 Our host was no man-eater. 
 
 The priests knew not that country-folk 
 
 Gave pigs the name of friars ; 
 But startled, witless of the joke, 
 
 As if they 'd trod on briars. 
 
 Meanwhile, as they perspired with dread, 
 
 The hair of either craven 
 Had stood erect upon his head, 
 
 But that their heads were shaven. 
 
 What, pickle and smoke us limb by limb ! 
 
 God curse him and his lardners ! 
 St. Peter will bedevil him, 
 
 If he salt-petres Friars.
 
 540 THE FRIARS OI- 1 
 
 Yet, Dominick, to die ! the bare 
 
 Idea shakes one oddly ; 
 Yes, Boniface, ; t is time we were 
 
 Beginning to be godly. 
 
 Would that, for absolution's sake 
 Of all our sins and cogging, .. 
 
 We had a whip to give and take 
 A last kind mutual flogging. 
 
 O Dominick, thy nether end 
 
 Should bleed for expiation, 
 And thou shouldst have, my dear fat friend, 
 
 A glorious flagellation. 
 
 But having ne'er a switch, poor souls, 
 They bowed like weeping willows, 
 
 And told the Saints long rigmaroles 
 Of all their peccadillos. 
 
 Yet midst this penitential plight 
 A thought their fancies tickled, 
 
 J T were better brave the window's height 
 Than be at morning pickled. 
 
 And so they girt themselves to leap, 
 
 Both under breath imploring 
 A regiment of Saints to keep 
 
 Their host and hostess snoring. 
 
 The lean one lighted like a cat, 
 Then scampered off like Jehu, 
 
 Nor stopped to help the man of fat, 
 Whose cheek was of a clay hue 
 
 Who being by nature more designed 
 
 For resting than for jumping, 
 Fell heavy on his parts behind, 
 
 That broadened with the plumping.
 
 THE FRIARS OF DIJON. 341 
 
 There long beneath the window's scone 
 
 His bruises he sat pawing, 
 Squat as the figure of a bonze 
 
 Upon a Chinese drawing. 
 
 At length he waddled to a sty; 
 
 r |M, , >v'- Sj you'd thought for game sake, 
 C; .ie round and nosed him lovingly, 
 
 As if they 'd known their namesake. 
 
 Meanwhile the other flew to town, 
 
 And with short respiration 
 Brayed like a donkey up and down 
 
 Ass-ass-ass-assination ! 
 
 Men left their beds, and night-capped heads 
 
 Popped out from every casement ; 
 The cats ran frightened on the leads; 
 
 Dijon was all amazement. 
 
 41 
 
 Doors banged, dogs bayed, and boys hurrahed, 
 Throats gaped aghast in bare rows, 
 
 Till soundest-sleeping watchmen woke, 
 And even at last the mayor rose 
 
 Who, charging him before police, 
 
 Demands of Dominick surly, 
 What earthquake, fire, or breach of peace 
 
 Made all this hurly-burly f 
 
 Ass quoth the priest ass-assins, Sir, 
 
 Are (hence a league, or nigher) 
 About to salt, scrape, massacre, 
 
 And barrel up a friar. 
 
 Soon, at the magistrate's command, 
 A troop from the gens-d'armes house 
 
 Of twenty men rode sword in hand, 
 To storm the bloody farm's-housc.
 
 342 THE FRIARS OF DIJON. 
 
 As they were cantering toward the place. 
 Comes Jacquez to the swineyard, 
 
 But started when a great round face 
 Cried, Rascal, hold thy whinyard. 
 
 'T was Boniface, as mad 's King Lear, 
 Playing antics in the piggery : 
 
 " And what the devil brought you l.L-re, 
 You mountain of a friar, eh f 
 
 Ah, once how jolly, now how wan, 
 And blubbered with the vapors, 
 
 That frantic Capuchin began 
 To cut fantastic capers 
 
 Crying, Help, hollo, the bellows blow, 
 
 The pot is on to stew me ; 
 I am a pretty pig, but, no ! 
 
 They shall not barbacuc me. 
 
 Nor was this raving fit a sham ; 
 
 In truth, he was hysterical, 
 Until they brought him out a dram, 
 
 And that wrought like a miracle. 
 
 Just as the horsemen halted near, 
 Crying, Murderer, stop, ahoy, oh! 
 
 Jacquez was comforting the frere 
 With a good glass of noyeau 
 
 Who beckoned to them not to kick up 
 
 A row ; but, waxing mellow, 
 Squeezed Jacquez' hand, and with a hiccup 
 
 Said, You 're a d d good fellow. 
 
 Explaining lost but little breath j 
 
 Here ended all the matter ; 
 So God save Queen Elizabeth, 
 
 And long live Henry Quatre!
 
 THE FRIARS OF DIJON. 343 
 
 The gens-d'armes at the story broke 
 
 Into horse-fits of laughter, 
 And, as if they had known the joke, 
 
 Their horses neighed thereafter. 
 
 Lean Dominick, methinks, his chaps 
 
 Yawned weary, worn, and moody; 
 So may my readers, too, perhaps. 
 
 And thus I wish 'em Good-day.
 
 JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 ON THE SEASONS. 
 
 A FRAGMENT WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF TEN. 
 
 OH, joyful Spring, thy cheerful days prolong, 
 (The feathered songsters thus begin the song) 
 Lo, smiling May doth now return at last, 
 But ah ! she runs, she runs along too fast, 
 The sultry June arrives, May's pleasure ? s short, 
 Yet July yields some fruit for cool resort : 
 Blest Autumn comes, arrayed in golden grain, 
 And bounteously rewards the lab'ring swain. 
 
 1788. 
 
 ON FINISHING VERSIONS FROM THE 
 CLASSICS. 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF TEN. 
 
 Now farewell my books and also my Versions, 
 I hope now I will have some time for diversions. 
 The labor and pains you have cost me 's not small, 
 
 But now by good luck I 've got free of you all. 
 
 t 
 
 When the pen was not good I blotted the paper, 
 And then my father cried, Tom, what's the matter? 
 Consider but once what items you need, 
 My^ purse it must suffer or you must take heed. 
 
 So adieu to rebukes and also to Versions, 
 
 I hope I '11 now have some time for diversions. 
 
 1788.
 
 OX THE DEATH OF A PARROT. 
 
 OX THE DEATH OF A FAVORITE 
 PARROT. 
 
 IN Caledonia lives a youth 
 
 Of genius and of fame, 
 Whose company yields me delight^ 
 
 Will Irvine is his name. 
 
 II. 
 
 A chattering parrot he possessed 
 
 Whose each diverting jest 
 For weary lessons cheered him up 
 
 And soothed his anxious breast. 
 
 in. 
 
 Poll's chattering lays and curious jokes 
 And rhymes well got by rote 
 
 Were sweeter far to him than lark's 
 Or Philomela's note. 
 
 IT. 
 
 When from the grammar school he came 
 With Poll he oft made sport ; 
 
 The parrot mimicked all he said 
 With fun the nights seemed short. 
 
 v. 
 
 Short were they then but now they're long 
 Poll 's dead ; he 's left to mourn 
 
 And weep without a comforter 
 That Poll can ne'er return.
 
 340 ON THE DEATH OF A PA1UIOT. 
 
 VI. 
 
 For Poll was but an hourly joy 
 
 A gift soon to decay 
 Emblem of all our earthly bliss . 
 
 That only lasts a day. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Once in December's gloomy month 
 This same youth did sit down 
 
 With aching heart for to relate 
 Of Death's dart lately thrown. 
 
 viii. 
 
 That dart which thrown at poor Poll's heart 
 
 Caused him to weep and cry 
 " Oh may that day of the year be dark 
 
 On which my Poll did die/' 
 
 IX. 
 
 "But let me moralize" he said 
 
 "Death overtakes us all 
 The haughtiest tyrant ever -lived 
 
 Did by his arrows fall. 
 
 x. 
 
 "None can escape his powerful arm 
 
 Or shun the fatal blow 
 Thus powerful kings as well as Poll 
 
 His victims are laid low." 
 
 1788.
 
 FROM ANACKEON. 347 
 
 FROM ANACREON. 
 
 TRANSLATED AT THE AGE OF TWELVE. 
 
 IN T sooth, I 'd with pleasure rehearse 
 
 The Atridae and Cadmus's fame, 
 
 If my lute would accord to my verse, 
 
 And sound aught but Venus's name ! 
 
 J T was in vain that I changed each string, 
 
 To alter its amorous tone ; 
 
 And began of Alcides to sing, 
 
 But my lute warbled Venus alone ! 
 
 I therefore my strains must renew 
 
 And accord to the lays of my lute 
 
 So ye heroes, for ever adieu ! 
 
 Love alone is the theme that can suit. 
 
 H yfj fj, Atwvo 
 The sable earth imbibes the rain; 
 The trees and shrubs drink it again j 
 The sea into his spacious breast, 
 Imbibes the gales of air compressed : 
 The sun, in his prodigious cup, 
 Drinks all the seas and rivers up : 
 The silver light the moon displays, 
 Is but a draught from Phoebus' rays. 
 Why then, companions, chide my choice 
 Who wish to drink, and still rejoice ! 
 
 Aeyovaiv ai yvvaiKe$. Ode xi. 
 
 Anacreon, the ladies say 
 Your pate is bald, your beard is gray ! 
 Take you a looking-glass ; forsooth 
 You'll find what they say is truth.
 
 343 SUMMER. 
 
 But whether this be true or not, 
 
 As little do I care as wot ; 
 
 Bnt this I know 't is best to rhyme 
 
 Thus o'er my jokes while suits the time. 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 A STRAIN sublime, that now my breast inspires, 
 Ye nymphs of Sicily ! your aid requires. 
 The golden season crowned with joy appears ; 
 The grand dispeller of our winter cares ! 
 No more the student, at the glimmering light, 
 Shall pore his senses, moping day and night; 
 For now the tasks and exercises stale, 
 ' Shall cease the Muse's pinions down to nail. 
 From toil and college hardships free, no more 
 rrct) shall tease you that vile monster 's o'er ! , 
 
 The iron age of winter, stern and dread, 
 
 At length he has hid his grisly baneful head ; 
 
 The golden age appears that Virgil sung 
 
 An age that well might claim his tuneful tongue 
 
 Unbidden flowers with bloom spontaneous grow ; 
 
 Wide spreads the ivy for the poet's brow ; 
 
 The modest lily and the full-blown rose, 
 
 And grander tulip, all their sweets disclose ; 
 
 The feathered choir, that tune the song of love, 
 
 Invite the Muse's fancy forth to rove. 
 
 Now, now, ye bards, let every lyre be strung, 
 
 Nor let the flower its sweets disclose, unsung. . . 
 
 'T is true some poets that unguarded sing, 
 The golden age would fain ascribe to Spring ; 
 For me, I see not how wits e'er so starch 
 Could prove the beauties of the bleak-eyed March,
 
 ON MISS MARY CAMPBELL. 349 
 
 Nor February, clad in horrid snow, 
 Nor April when the winds relentless blow ; 
 These chilly months, it sure alone belongs 
 To those who sing, to frame unmeaning songs. . . . 
 Oct. 4, 1790. 
 
 ON MISS MARY CAMPBELL. 
 
 BY many a strange neglect diverted, 
 The Muse and I had long been parted ; 
 At length by chance we met at last 
 At eve, when every toil was past. 
 
 The Muse, insinuating maid, 
 Soon set me to my ancient trade 
 Says she " Since I my service proffer, 
 'T is hard that you should spurn the offer; 
 Believe me, tho' unkind you be, 
 You '11 not find every one like me." . . . . 
 
 I shrunk to hear my Muse thus scold, 
 And sorrow made my heart grow cold ; 
 At length I trembling scarce could sav 
 " I fear I shall not know the way ; 
 I 'm at a dreadful loss, dear Maam, 
 To know how I may find a theme ?" 
 
 " Lives there not now, in Scotia's land, 
 The fairest of the female band ? 
 A maid adorned with every grace 
 E'er known among the female race ! 
 Use all my aid if that can tell 
 Her praise, and virtues that excel. 
 No fiction here you will require 
 The swelling note of praise to fire ;
 
 350 THE PONS ASINORUM. 
 
 But ah ! her virtues to rehearse 
 Is sure unequal for thy verse ; 
 Then cease but let resounding fame 
 Tell that Maria is the name !" 
 
 1790. 
 
 THE PONS ASINORUM; OR, THE ASSES' 
 BRIDGE. 
 
 SONG, WRITTEN IN MR. J. MILLER'S MATHEMAT- 
 ICAL CLASS. 
 
 As Miller's Hussars marched up to the wars, 
 With their captain in person before 'em ; 
 It happened one day that they met on their way, 
 With the dangerous Pons Asinorum !* 
 
 Now see the bold band, each a sword in his hand, 
 And his Euclid for target before him ; 
 Not a soul of them all could the dangers appall 
 Of the hazardous Pons Asinorum ! 
 
 While the streamers wide flew, and the loud trum- 
 pets blew, 
 
 And the drum beat responsive before 'em ; 
 
 Then Miller their chief thus harangued them in 
 brief, 
 
 'Bout the dangerous Pons Asinorum ! 
 
 tl My soldiers," said he, " though dangers there be, 
 Yet behave with a proper decorum ; 
 Dismiss ev'ry fear, and with boldness draw near 
 To the dangerous Pons Asinorum /" 
 
 Now it chanced in the van stood a comical man, 
 Who, as Miller strode bravely before him, 
 
 * Fifth Proposition of the First Book of Euclid.
 
 THE FIRST OF MAY, 1793. 3T.1 
 
 To his SOITOW soon found that his brains v;ere 
 
 wheeled round, 
 As he marched to the Pans Asinorum ! 
 
 O sorrowful wight, how sad was his plight, 
 
 When he looked at the Pons Asinorum ! 
 
 Soon the flight took his heels, like a drunkard he 
 
 reels, 
 And his head flew like thunder before him. 
 
 So rude was the jump, as the mortal fell plump, 
 That not Miller himself could restore him ; 
 So his comrades were left, of " Plumbano " bereft r . 
 O pitiful plight to deplore him ! 
 
 1791. 
 
 THE FIRST OF MAY, 1793* 
 
 PHCEBUS has risen ; and many a glittering ray 
 
 Diffuses splendor o'er the auspicious day. 
 
 This is the day sure, Nature well may smile 
 
 When present glory crowns forgotten toil ; 
 
 When honor lifts aloft the happy few, 
 
 And laurelled worth attracts the wondering view. 
 
 Th' appointed hour, that warns to meet, is near; 
 A mixed assemblage on the Green appear ; 
 Some in gay clubs, and some in pairs advance, 
 An hundred busy tongues are heard at once. 
 Some, on the long-extended gravel- walk, 
 Joined friend to friend, in serious converse talk. 
 Their tones are different, one content proclaims ; 
 And one, in frantic jealousy, declaims 
 Against a rival's name U 'T is quite absurd : 
 He write the theme ? he never wrote one word ! 
 
 * In a note, in the handwriting of the poet's sister Mary, it is re- 
 corded that this poem was written in his twelfth ye&r though not 
 Driven in until I7H3.
 
 352 THE FIRST OF MAY, 1793. 
 
 Sir, I assure you, 't was a tutor wrote it ! 
 And lie to class a shameful forgery brought it." 
 Such, Disappointment, is thine empty strain ; 
 So, crossed Ambition, vents his inward pain ! 
 
 Meanwhile the destined victor, through th 
 
 throng 
 
 Elate with conscious glory, moves along : 
 Joy glistens in his eye, erects his mien, 
 And fills his bosom with th' approaching scene. 
 He sees the massy volume, feels its weight, 
 And views himself advance in visionary state ! 
 
 From yonder spire is heard the solemn bell : 
 The distant crowds are summoned at the knell ! 
 See, at the narrow outlet, where they push, 
 All, all is tumult ; to the courts they rush : 
 With hasty steps, I see them seek the gate 
 Where countless swarms before the doors await : 
 Spectators, here convened awhile to gaze, 
 Glad for some friend th' applauding shout to raise, 
 And some, perhaps, to hear a brother's name 
 Full proud at heart, amidst the lists of fame. 
 
 At last the ctoors unfold: fast, fast within 
 Compacted numbers rush with bustling din; 
 Kude the assault, and boist'rous is the fray, 
 And nought but trampling force secures a way. 
 Thus, if things mighty can compare with small, 
 Before the opening of some battered wall, 
 Thus, at the breach, in dread, defenceless hour, 
 With rushing might, embattled squadrons pour. 
 
 Now up the stairs ascend the jarring crew, 
 And the long hall is opened to the view : 
 There, on the left, the pulpit clad in green ; 
 And there, the bench of dignity is seen, 
 Where Wisdom sits, with equitable sway, 
 To judge the important merits of the day. 
 
 The doors are fastened, silence reigns within, 
 Tsow, memorable day! thy joys begin. 
 The reverend voice of power is heard proclaim, 
 lu solemn tone, the votaries of fame.
 
 THE FIRST OF MAY, 1793. 353 
 
 Near him the glittering silver medal lies 
 All bright to view 't is Elocution's prize. 
 Three rival youths, by emulation fired, 
 To tempt the dubious contest are inspired : 
 Sec, in you distant corner, while they stand, 
 Hope, fear, and doubt, by turns, their breast com- 
 mand. 
 
 The first steps forth, amid the silent gaze, 
 Mounts the tall rostrum, and his parts displays : 
 A second rival, and a third ascend ; 
 You know not which to praise, or which to discom- 
 mend, 
 
 But skill, superior judgment, hath decreed 
 The anxious rivals from suspense are freed ! 
 And thou, thrice happy youth, the victor found, 
 Approach ! while plaudits to the roof resound. 
 Approach! and to thy heart that beats with pilde, 
 Gay, glittering honor, be the riband tied ! 
 
 Thus is the first important conquest done ; 
 More youthful honors shall be soon begun. 
 See yon bright store of volumes in a row, 
 Where gold and Turkey's gayest honors glow ! 
 The first, the brightest volume 's reared on high ; 
 Probando, prince of youths, is bid draw nirh. 
 The youth draws nigh, and, hailed with loud 
 
 applause, 
 
 Receives the boon, and modestly withdraws. 
 Probando is a youth well known to fame ; 
 Nor e'er inglorious will you hear his name. 
 'T is his the problem's deep abyss to sound, 
 Nor e'er to leave the hidden truth unfound 5 
 'T is his, the syllogist's dark rule to ply, 
 And prove absurd the sophism e'er so sly, 
 Or, if you please, with deep mysterious skill, 
 Make you talk nonsense even against your v, ill. 
 Tonillus, next, is summoned from the throng, 
 His head light tosses as he moves along : 
 No mean reward is his, but why so vain 1 
 What means that strutting gait and crested mane?
 
 354 THE FIRST OF MAY, 1793. 
 
 Away with all thy light affected airs, 
 For honor vanishes when pride appears. 
 
 The third, gay glittering volume, high is reared: 
 Mysterious Jove ! Pluniband's name is heard : 
 With lazy steps, the loiterer quits his place 
 While wonder gazes in each length of face 
 Accepts the gift, with stinted scrape and nod, 
 And slow returns with an unworthy load. 
 And does Plumbano bear this bright reward, 
 Himself unworthy ! Justice unimpaired ? 
 'T is strange to tell ! and yet it has been so ; 
 The seeming paradox attend, and know 
 Plumbano is a youth, as fame reports, 
 The palm of victory who seldom courts ; 
 Full many a race inglorious has he run, 
 Passed for a dunce, but 't was to him all one. 
 But though the youth ambition ne'er possessed, 
 Neglect and |corn could touch the parents' breast. 
 It grieved their pride to see their favorite boy 
 No mark of honor with the rest enjoy ; 
 They sought the cause that kept his spirits low, 
 And fixed a glumness on his vacant brow. 
 All, who had skill, declared without a pause, 
 That nat'ral dulness was the only cause ! 
 Can aught remove it ? Yes, a tutor 's got ! 
 Plumbano's past appearance is forgot ; 
 A masterpiece of skill each theme appears, 
 The tutored dolt outstrips his best compeers; 
 Merit is brought to light, before unknown, 
 Ah ! merit truly, had it been thine own, 
 Had not another penned the admired theme, 
 Nor thou, at truth's expense, procured thy fame ! 
 7 T is hard, indeed, but yet it must be so, 
 Well-honored as he is, the dunce may go. 
 But, let me tell thee, vain deluded boy, 
 Small is the glory of thy glittering toy ! 
 Two shining boards is all about the book 
 .At which with pleasure, numskull, thou canst 
 look
 
 THE FIRST OF MAY, 1793. 355 
 
 Though wisdom's ample stores its leaves contain, 
 By thee, unrifled, they shall there remain. 
 Go, dunce! to all the world thy gift be shown, 
 We cannot grudge thee what is not thine O\VH ! 
 
 Thick pass the honored victors of the day, 
 Ingenio shrewd, and Alaccr the gay : 
 Durando grave, Acerrimo the wit, 
 Prof undo serious, with his eyebrows knit. 
 Countless they pass : applauded, each returns ; 
 While o'er his cheek the conscious pleasure- burns. 
 Meanwhile, I see each one a joy impart 
 To some glad father's, friend's, or brother's heart ! 
 Full glad they view the youth's distinguished praise, 
 And, midst applauding bursts, in silence fondly gaze. 
 A well pleased smile is seen on every face, 
 Save where, afar, in yonder secret place. 
 Foul Envy, blasted at another's fame, 
 O'er the pale visage casts a sickly gleam. 
 There sit a silent, solitary few, 
 Destined, unseen, another's fame to view ; 
 For whom no glittering boon is raised on high, 
 Nor shouts of praise, nor dusty volumes fly ! 
 Hard lot, while knitted brows and bitten nails 
 Disclose the envy which the wretch inhales. 
 
 Here end the honors that to worth are due : 
 The pleased spectator takes his last adieu ! 
 The youth are left alone : let all attend 
 To what sage wisdom now may recommend,* 
 And hear the advice that fain would profit all, 
 The good encourage, and the bad recall. 
 Long may these precepts warn the youthful heart, 
 And long, through life, their influence impart ! 
 Now, go ! ye prosp'rous, be not too elate, 
 And let contentment soothe the adverse fate ! 
 
 * The Exhortation annually given by the Principal.
 
 356 ESSAY ON THE ORIGIN OF EVIL. 
 
 ESSAY ON THE ORIGIN OF EVIL. 
 
 PART I. EVILS ARISING FROM IMPERFECTION. 
 
 GIVEN IX AS AN EXERCISE IN THE MORAL PHILOSOPHY 
 CLA8S, GLASGOW, APRIL 25, 1794. 
 
 "WHILE Nature's gifts appear a jarring strife, 
 
 And Evil balances the Good of life ; 
 
 "While varied scenes, in Man's estate, disclose 
 
 Delusive Pleasure, mixed with surer woes: 
 
 Bewildered Reason, in the dubious maze 
 
 Of human lot, a feeble wand'rer strays, 
 
 Sees destined ills on Virtue vent their force, 
 
 Dash all her bliss, and wonders whence the source. 
 
 Sure Heaven is good, no further proof we need, 
 In Nature's page the doubtless text we read. 
 Lo ! at thy feet earth's verdant carpet spread, 
 Heaven's azure vault o'ercanopies thy head ; 
 For thee the varied seasons grace the ] -lain, 
 The venial floweret, and the golden grain ; 
 Fur thee all-wise Beneficence on high 
 Bade Day's bright monarch lighten in the sky, 
 And Night's pale chariot, o'er the vault of blue, 
 With silver wheels the silent path pursue. 
 
 Yes, Heaven is good, the source of ample bliss ; 
 In spite of ills, creation teaches this. 
 The simple, yet important truth to spy, 
 AYe need no Plato's soul, no sage's eye ; 
 A native faith each distant clime pervades, 
 And sentiment the voice of reason aids. 
 The shuddering tenant of the Arctic Pole 
 Adores revolving suns that round him roll : 
 No sceptic bosom doubts the hand of Heaven; 
 And, though misplaced, still adoration 's given. 
 Search distant climates, at the thirsty line, 
 There still devotion thanks a power divine -,
 
 ESSAY ON THE ORIGIN OF EVIL. 357 
 
 Still, though no Science treads on Libyan plains, 
 
 The inborn gratitude to God remains ; 
 
 And shall the soul, by Science taught to view 
 
 Truth more refined, call inborn faith untrue ? 
 
 No should misfortune cloud thy latest days, 
 
 Still view this truth through life's perplexing 
 
 maze ; 
 
 While Nature teaches, let not doubt obtrude, 
 But own with gratitude that God is good. 
 
 Yet whence, methinks, repining mortal cries, 
 If Heaven be good, can human ill arise I 
 Man's feeble race, what countless ills await, 
 Ills self-created ills ordained by fate. 
 While yet warm youth the breast with passion fires, 
 Hope whispers joy, and promised bliss inspires, 
 In dazzling colors future life arrays, 
 And many a fond ideal scene displays. 
 The sanguine zealot promised good pursues. 
 Nor finds that wish, but still the chase renews : 
 Still lured by Hope, he wheels the giddy round, 
 And grasps a phantom never to be found. 
 Too soon the partial bliss of youth is flown, 
 Nor future bliss, nor Hope itself is known ; 
 No more ideal prospects charm the breast, 
 Life stands in dread reality confessed ; 
 A mingled scene of aggravated woes, 
 Where Pride and Passion every curse disclose ! 
 
 Cease, erring man ; nor arrogant presume 
 To blame thy lot or Heaven's unerring doom. 
 HE who thy being gave, in skill divine, 
 Saw what was best, and bade that best be thine, 
 But, count thy wants and all thine evils name, 
 Still, HE that bade them be, is free from blame ; 
 Tell all the imperfections of thy state, 
 The wrongs of man to man the wrongs of Fate ; 
 Still Reason's voice shall justify them all, 
 And bid complaint to resignation fall. 
 
 If HEAVEN be blamed, that imperfection 's thine, 
 As just to blame that man is not divine.
 
 359 ESSAY ON THE ORIGIN OF EVIL. 
 
 Of all the tribes that fill this earthly scheme, 
 Thy sphere is highest, and thy gifts supreme ; 
 Of mental gifts, Intelligence is given, 
 Conscience is thine, to point the will of Heaven ; 
 The spur of Action, Passions are assigned, 
 And Fancy, parent of the soul refined. 
 
 ; T is true, thy Reason's progress is but slow, 
 And Passion, if misguided, tends to wo ; 
 7 T is true, thy gifts are finite in extent, 
 What then ? can nought that 's finite give content? 
 Leave, then, proud Man ! this scene of earthly 
 
 chance ; 
 Aspire to spheres supreme, and be a god at once 1 
 
 " No," you reply ; " superior powers I claim, 
 Though not perfection, or a sphere supreme ; 
 In Reason more exalted, let me shine ; 
 The lion's strength, the fox's art be mine ; 
 The bull's firm chest, the steed's superior grace, 
 The stag's transcendant swiftness in the chase. 
 Say, why were these denied, if Heaven be kind, 
 And full content to human lot assigned ?" 
 
 The reason 's simple ; in the breast of man 
 To soar still upward dwells th' eternal plan ; 
 A wish innate, and kindly placed by Heaven, 
 That man may rise, through means already given. 
 Aspiring thus, to mend the ills of fate> 
 To find new bliss and cure th > human state, 
 In varied souls its varied shapes appear 
 Here, fans desire of wealth of honor, there ; 
 Here, urges Newton Nature to explore, 
 And promises delight by knowing more: 
 And there, in Caesar, lightens up the flame 
 To mount the pinnacle of human fame. 
 
 In spite of Fate, it fires the active mind, 
 Keeps man alive, and serves the use assigned ; 
 Without it, none would urge; a favorite bent, 
 And man were useless but for Discontent. 
 
 Seek not perfection, then, of higher kind, 
 Since man is perfect in the state assigned ;
 
 ESSAY OX THE ORIGIN OF EVIL. 359 
 
 Nor perfect, as probation can allow, 
 Accuse thy lot, although imperfect now. 
 
 PART II. *MORAL EVILS. 
 
 But, grant that Man is justly frail below, 
 
 Still Imperfection is not all our wo : 
 
 If final good be God's eternal plan, 
 
 Why is the power of ill bestowed on man ? 
 
 Why is Revenge an inboni passion found ? 
 
 And why the means to spread that passion round ? 
 
 Whence in Man's breast, the constant wish we find, 
 
 That tends to work the ruin of his kind ? 
 
 Whence flows the ambition of a Caesar'* soul, 
 
 Or Sylla's wish to ravage and control I 
 
 Whence, monster Vice ! originates thy course ? 
 
 Art thou from God I is purity thy source ? 
 
 No ; let not blasphemy that cause pursue ! 
 A simpler source in Man himself we view : 
 If Man, endowed with freedom, basely act, 
 Can such from blameless purity detract ? 
 An ample liberty of choice is given, 
 Man chooses ill and where the fault of Heaven ? 
 Say not the human heart is prone to sin, 
 Virtue, by Nature, reigns as strong within : 
 The passions, if perverted, tend to wo. 
 " What then I did God perversion, too, bestow P 
 No ; blame thyself if Guilt distract thy lot ; 
 Man may be virtuous Heaven forbids it not. 
 Blind as thou art, in this imperfect state, 
 Still conscious Virtue might support thy fate ; 
 Give Reason strength, thy passions to control 
 Vice is not inborn ; drive it from thy soul ! 
 
 Yet you reply, " Though ample freedom 's mine, 
 The fault of Evil still is half divine ; 
 If Heaven foresaw that, from the scope of choice, 
 Perversion, vice, and misery should rise ; 
 Why then on Man, if prone to good, bestow 
 The possibility of working wo !"
 
 360 ESSAY ON THE ORIGIN OF EVIL. 
 
 Ask not ; 't is answered : arrogantly blind 
 To scan the secrets of the eternal Mind ! 
 If Heaven be just, then Reason tells us this 
 That Man, by merit, must secure his bliss. 
 Cease, then, with Evil to upbraid the &kies; 
 That, to the vice of mortals, owes its rise ; 
 Is GOD to blame, if Man's inhuman heart 
 Deny the boon that Pity should impart I 
 If patriots to brutality should change, 
 And grasp the lawless dagger of Revenge 
 If frantic murderers mingle from afar, 
 To palliate carnage by the name of war 
 If pampered Pride disdain a sufferer's fate, 
 And spuni imploring misery from her gate ? 
 No ! Heaven hath placed Compassion in the breast 
 The means are given and ours is all the rest. 
 
 But what, to ease thy sorrow, shall avail 
 For human lot the misanthropic wail ? 
 Since all complain, and all are vicious, too, 
 Each hates the vile pursuit, but all pursue, 
 Let actions, then, and not complaints prevail ; 
 Let each his part withdraw, the whole shall fail. 
 
 PART III. XATUKAL EVILS. 
 
 Yet, grant that Error must result from choice, 
 Still man has ills besides the ills of vice ; 
 Griefs unforeseen ; Disease's pallid train ; 
 And Death, sad refuge from a world of pah: ! 
 Disastrous ills each element attend, 
 And certain woes with every blessing bleml ! 
 
 Lo ! where the stream in quivering silver plays. 
 There, slippery Fate upon its verge betrays ; 
 Yon sun, that feebly gilds the western sky, 
 In warmer climes bids arid nature die. 
 Disgusted Virtue quits her injured reign. 
 Vice comes apace, and Folly leads her train J 
 But not alone, if blissful all thy lot, 
 Were Vice pursued, and Gratitude forgot.
 
 ESSAY ON THE ORIGIN OF EVIL. 361 
 
 Defects still further in the scheme we view, 
 
 Since Virtue, willing, scarce could man pursue. 
 
 Hay, if each mortal were completely blest, 
 
 Where could the power of aiding wo exist? 
 
 If, at the gate, no suppliant sufferer stand, 
 
 Could e'er Compassion stretch her liberal hand? 
 
 Did never winter chill the freezing waste, 
 
 Could kindness e'er invite the shuddering guest? 
 
 AVhat boots if good the changeless lot of man 
 
 Thqhilanthropic wish, the patriot's plan ? 
 
 Or wiiat could goodness do? Nought else, 7 t is plain, 
 
 But rage to bridle, passion to restrain ; 
 
 A virtue negative, scarce worth the name, 
 
 Far from the due reward that generous actions claim. 
 
 Still less the scope of Fortitude we find, 
 Were pain dismissed, and Fortune ever kind. 
 The path of merit, then, let ills be viewed, 
 And own their power, if virtue be thy good. 
 Nor on that scheme let lawless wishes run, 
 Where vice had all her scope, and virtue none 5 
 But rest contented with thy Maker's plan, 
 Who ills ordained, the means of good to man. 
 Nor, midst complaint of hardships, be forgot 
 The mingled pleasures of thy varied lot ! 
 
 AVhat, though the transient gusts of sorrow come-* 
 Though passion vex, or penury benumb ; 
 Still bliss, sufficient to thy hope, is given 
 To warm thy heart with gratitude to Heaven ! 
 Still mortal Reason darts sufficient day 
 To guide thy steps, through life's perplexing way ; 
 Still Conscience tells 't is all we need to know 
 ' Virtue to seek, and vice to shun below." 
 Hear, then, the, warnings of her solemn voice, 
 And seek the plaudit of a virtuous choice ! 
 
 1794.
 
 ODE TO MUSIC. 
 
 ODE TO MUSIC. 
 
 ALL-POWERFUL charmer ef the soul, 
 
 Each mood of fancy formed to pi ease j 
 To bid the wave of Passion roll, 
 
 Or tune the languid breast to ease. 
 Come, in thy native garb arrayed, 
 
 And pour the sweetly simple song : 
 And all the Muse's breast pervade, 
 
 And guide the fluent verse along. 
 What time the moon, with silver beam, 
 
 Shall sparkle on the light-blue lake ; 
 And Hope with sympathetic gleam, 
 
 And silent pleasure, shall awake : 
 Then, aa thy quivering notes resound 
 
 From lively pipe and mellow horn j 
 And quick-paced marches breathe around, 
 
 Shrill thro' the ringing valleys borne 
 Then, swelled with every winding tone, 
 
 Tumultuous shall my heart rebound ; 
 And ardor o'er my bosom thrown, 
 
 Shall kindle at the rising bound. 
 Or, oft at evening's closing hour, 
 
 When doeper puqjle (lyes the cloud ; 
 When Fancy haunts he silent bower, 
 
 And pensive thoughts the bosom crowd. 
 What time the softening zephyr flies, 
 
 Thy notes shall aid the gentle theme 
 That lonely Meditation tries, 
 
 And, grateful, soothe her placid dream. 
 Far from the world's assiduous throng, 
 
 Then let the mellow warbling flute, 
 In slow, sad numbers, pour the song,
 
 ODE TO MUSIC. 363 
 
 The best this solemn hour may suit. 
 And thou, O Thomson,* skilled to 'wake 
 
 The wild notes Scotia loves so dear ; 
 Oft let me these with thee partake. 
 
 And oft thy silver cadence hear ! 
 
 1794. 
 
 * One of 'JaiapOeU's classmates. 
 
 THE END.
 
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