b'\n\n\nf : \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n*:*->= \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nv v ^ \n\n\n\nV * \n\n\n\n\n\n\nH<a* \n\n\n\n\n<^ \n\n\n\n\n<v, u * s \n\n\n\n* .r$ \n\n\n\no, ^X \n\n\n\nV ^* ^ ^ \n\n\n\n\n* . r \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nW \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n*fe/\'o.** A^v * \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa0O. y o * *\xe2\x96\xa0 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nO\' \n\n\n\n\n\n\n* -co \n\n\n\n\n\n\n- \\> \xe2\x80\x9e \xe2\x96\xa0< * o \xe2\x80\x9e \n\n\n\n^ s. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nV s \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nV \n\n\n\n\n\n\nI/- %.<* \n\n\n\n*v 3* \n\n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa05* a "Tj. "C \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n1>*.-0, # % \n\n\n\nfr * \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n03. \'o.** A 1 \n\n\n\nV** \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\', ~<f> \n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE \n\n\n\nCOMPLETE POETICAL WORKS \n\nOF \n\nTHOMAS CAMPBELL. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nIN PRESS. \n\nTHE COMPLETE \n\nPOETICAL WORKS OF SAMUEL ROGERS, \n\nWITH A MEMOIR. \nIn an uniform style with the present editiou of Campbell\'s Poems. \n\n\n\nAlso. \xe2\x80\x94 The Poetical "Works of \n\nLOCKHART, MACAULAT, BULWER LYTTON, W, E. SPENCER, \n\nHORACE SMITH, and HOOD. \n\n\n\nThe publishers will issue all the Standard Poets hi the same style, as rapidly as is \nconsistent with their accurate preparation. \n\n\n\n/6 \n\n\n\nTH E \n\n\n\nCOMPLETE \n\n\n\nPOETICAL WORKS \n\n\n\nTHOMAS CAMPBELL; \n\n\n\nOriginal Uiffgrapjjg, ana Softs \n\n\n\nEDITED BY \n\n\n\nEPES SARGENT \n\n\n\nBOSTON: \nPHILLIPS, SAMPSON AND COMPANY. \n\nMDCCCLIV. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa71 \n\n\n\nb* \n\n\n\n\\* \n\n\n\nrAr \n\n\n\nEntered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by \n\nEPES SARGENT, \n\nIn the Clerk\'s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. \n\nGift. \n\nW. L, Shoemaker \n1 S \'06 \n\n\n\nStereotyped by \n\nHOBAET & ROBBINS, \n\nNEW ENGLAND TYPE AN\'D STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY, \n\nBOSTON. \n\n\n\nPREFACE \n\n\n\nThis edition of the Complete Poetical Works of Thomas \nCampbell possesses some advantages, it is believed, over \nany one hitherto published. \n\nIt contains a very full Memoir, compiled from the life \nand letters of the poet, edited by Dr. Beattie, long his \nmost intimate friend, and his literary executor ; and from \nthe Reminiscences of Mr. Cyrus Redding, who was for \nsome ten years associated with Campbell in editing the New \nMonthly Magazine. \n\nThe poems collected in the Moxon editions are given \nfrom the text, and according to the arrangement approved \nby the author. To these we have added fifty poems, some \nof which are hardly surpassed by the best of his acknowl- \nedged lyrics, and all of which are worthy of a permanent \nplace in his works. For many of these we have been \n\nindebted to Dr. Beattie. Some we have copied from the \n1^ \n\n\n\nVI PREFACE. \n\npages of the New Monthly Magazine. The translations \nfrom the Italian are from the Life of Petrarch, by the poet. \nOther poems have been authenticated by a list prepared by \nMr. Eedding whilst he was assisting Campbell in editing the \nfirst complete edition of his works, in 1828. A more par- \nticular reference to the source of each poem will be found \nin the notes. \n\nThe engraved head prefixed to the volume is a faithful \nlikeness of the poet in his early years ; and the full-length \npen-and-ink sketch, which represents him in the ease and \nundress of his study, is said to convey a correct impression \nof his appearance in advanced life. \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\n\nLIFE OP THOMAS CAMPBELL. \n\nCHAPTER I. \n\nCampbell\'s Birth. \xe2\x80\x94 His Childhood and School Days. \xe2\x80\x94 Enters University of Glasgow. \n\xe2\x80\x94 Anecdotes of his Parents. \xe2\x80\x94 His Favorite Authors. \xe2\x80\x94 His First Attempt in Verse. \xe2\x80\x94 \nPons Asinorum. \xe2\x80\x94 His Yisit to Edinburgh. \xe2\x80\x94 Trial of Gerald and Muir for Treason. \xe2\x80\x94 \nAcademic Honors. \xe2\x80\x94 Translations from the Greek. \xe2\x80\x94 The Professors at Glasgow. \xe2\x80\x94 His \nCollege Friends. \xe2\x80\x94 Goes to Mull as a Tutor, 1 \xe2\x80\x94 13. \n\nCHAPTER II. \n\nChoice of a Profession. \xe2\x80\x94 The Church, Medicine and the Law. \xe2\x80\x94 Tutorship in Argyle- \nshire. \xe2\x80\x94 Downie. \xe2\x80\x94 Caroline. \xe2\x80\x94 Hamilton Paul. \xe2\x80\x94 Anecdote. \xe2\x80\x94 Amatory Consolations. \xe2\x80\x94 \nReturn to Glasgow. \xe2\x80\x94 Edinburgh. \xe2\x80\x94 Introduction to Dr. Anderson. \xe2\x80\x94 Engagements with \nMundell, the Bookseller. \xe2\x80\x94 The Professors of the University. \xe2\x80\x94 Young. \xe2\x80\x94 Jardine. \xe2\x80\x94 John \nMiller. \xe2\x80\x94 Society in Edinburgh. \xe2\x80\x94 The Poet\'s Friends. \xe2\x80\x94 Intention of going to America \nabandoned. \xe2\x80\x94 Pleasures of Hope. \xe2\x80\x94 His Training for the Work. \xe2\x80\x94 Anecdote. \xe2\x80\x94 Sale of \nCopyright. \xe2\x80\x94 Publication. \xe2\x80\x94 Passages recited at Dinner by Stephen Kemble. \xe2\x80\x94 Original \nIntroduction to The Pleasures of Hope. \xe2\x80\x94 Poetical World at the time, 13 \xe2\x80\x94 24. \n\nCHAPTER III. \n\nCampbell determines to Travel. \xe2\x80\x94 His Literary Plans. \xe2\x80\x94 Perry. \xe2\x80\x94 Hamburg. \xe2\x80\x94 Yisit \nto Klopstock. \xe2\x80\x94 Route to Ratisbon described. \xe2\x80\x94 War Scenes. \xe2\x80\x94 The Monks of St. James. \xe2\x80\x94 \nMode of Living at Ratisbon. \xe2\x80\x94 Economical Travelling in Germany. \xe2\x80\x94 Altona. \xe2\x80\x94 The \nQueen of the North. \xe2\x80\x94 Extracts from his Correspondence. \xe2\x80\x94 The Lyrical Poems com- \nposed in Germany. \xe2\x80\x94 Scenes on the Danube. \xe2\x80\x94 English Squadron sails for the Baltic. \xe2\x80\x94 \nCampbell embarks for Leith. \xe2\x80\x94 Arrives in London. \xe2\x80\x94 Perry and his Family. \xe2\x80\x94 King cf \nClubs. \xe2\x80\x94 Lord Holland. \xe2\x80\x94 Mackintosh. \xe2\x80\x94 Rogers. \xe2\x80\x94 Death of the Poet\'s Father. \xe2\x80\x94 Arrest \nfor Treason. \xe2\x80\x94 Anecdote. \xe2\x80\x94 Arrangements for his Mother and Sisters. \xe2\x80\x94 Abandons his \nContemplated Poem. \xe2\x80\x94 Compendium of English Annals. \xe2\x80\x94 Yisit to Lord Minto. \xe2\x80\x94 London \nSociety. \xe2\x80\x94 The Kembles and Telford. \xe2\x80\x94 Castle Minto. \xe2\x80\x94 Scott. \xe2\x80\x94 Lochiel. \xe2\x80\x94 Hohenlinden. \n\xe2\x80\x94 Anecdote of Mrs. Dugald Stewart. \xe2\x80\x94 The Poet and John Leyden. \xe2\x80\x94 His Prospects in \nLiterature. \xe2\x80\x94His Marriage, 21 \xe2\x80\x94 38. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nVIII CONTENTS. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV. \n\nThe Poet\'s Wife. \xe2\x80\x94 Lodgings at Pimlico. \xe2\x80\x94 Application to Literature. \xe2\x80\x94 Birth of a Boy. \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 The Father\'s Introduction to him described. \xe2\x80\x94 The Connection a Fortunate and Happy \nOne. \xe2\x80\x94 Removal to Sydenham. \xe2\x80\x94 Pecuniary and Personal Matters. \xe2\x80\x94 Engagements with \nPeriodical Literature. \xe2\x80\x94 Poems of this Period. \xe2\x80\x94 The Battle of Copenhagen. \xe2\x80\x94 The British \nPoets. \xe2\x80\x94 Negotiation with Scott and the Booksellers. \xe2\x80\x94 Murray. \xe2\x80\x94 Nursery Amusements. \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 Pension. \xe2\x80\x94 Another Subscription Edition of his Poems. \xe2\x80\x94 Dines with Fox at Lord Hol- \nland\'s. \xe2\x80\x94 Outline of Gertrude of "Wyoming, 38 \xe2\x80\x94 50. \n\nCHAPTER V. \n\nThe Quarterly\'s Description of Society at Sydenham. \xe2\x80\x94 Tom Hill\'s Box the Original of \nPaul Pry. \xe2\x80\x94 Completes Gertrude of Wyoming. \xe2\x80\x94 Jeffrey\'s Epistolary Critique. \xe2\x80\x94 Recep- \ntion of the Poem. \xe2\x80\x94 Lectures before the Royal Institution. \xe2\x80\x94 Death of his Mother. \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnalysis of the Lectures. \xe2\x80\x94 The Poet\'s Account of his Success. \xe2\x80\x94 Letter to Dr. Alison. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe Princess of Wales and Society at Blackheath. \xe2\x80\x94 Madame D\'Arblay. \xe2\x80\x94 Theodore \nHook. \xe2\x80\x94 Captain Morris. \xe2\x80\x94 Madame de Stael. \xe2\x80\x94 A Few Weeks at Brighton. \xe2\x80\x94 Herschel. \xe2\x80\x94 \nHolland House. \xe2\x80\x94 Lord Byron. \xe2\x80\x94 Visit to Paris. \xe2\x80\x94 The Louvre. \xe2\x80\x94 The Apollo. \xe2\x80\x94 Duke of \nWellington. \xe2\x80\x94 Legacy from MacArthur Stewart. \xe2\x80\x94 Letter from Sir Walter Scott. \xe2\x80\x94 Death \nof Francis Horner. \xe2\x80\x94 Monody. \xe2\x80\x94 Crabbe and Moore at Holland House. \xe2\x80\x94 Kemble Festi- \nval. \xe2\x80\x94 Dinner of Moore, Rogers and Crabbe, at Sydenham. \xe2\x80\x94 The Bees and the Wasps. \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 Monody on the Death of Princess Charlotte. \xe2\x80\x94 Lectures at Liverpool and Birmingham. \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 James Watt. \xe2\x80\x94 Publication of the Specimens, 50 \xe2\x80\x94 63. \n\nCHAPTER VI. \n\nLectures again before the Royal Institution. \xe2\x80\x94 Visits Germany to revise and extend \nhis Lectures. \xe2\x80\x94 Extracts from his Letters. \xe2\x80\x94 Bonn. \xe2\x80\x94 Ratisbon and Vienna. \xe2\x80\x94 The Polish \nCountess R. \xe2\x80\x94 Returns to London. \xe2\x80\x94 New Monthly Magazine. \xe2\x80\x94 Sydney Smith and Moore \ndecline to write for him. \xe2\x80\x94 His Whig Friends indifferent. \xe2\x80\x94 Contributors to the Magazine. \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 Mr. Cyrus Redding his Assistant Editor. \xe2\x80\x94 Campbell\'s Contributions in Prose and \nVerse. \xe2\x80\x94 The Last Man. \xe2\x80\x94 Theodric. \xe2\x80\x94 Jeffrey\'s Critique on this Poem. \xe2\x80\x94 University of \nLondon. \xe2\x80\x94 Another Visit to Germany. \xe2\x80\x94 The Exile of Erin. \xe2\x80\x94 The Poet elected Lord \nRector of the University of Glasgow. \xe2\x80\x94 Death of his Wife. \xe2\x80\x94 The Literary Union. \xe2\x80\x94 \nMilnes. \xe2\x80\x94 Calcott, the Artist. \xe2\x80\x94 Mrs. Dugald Stewart and Baron Cuvier dine with the \nPoet. \xe2\x80\x94 Leaves the New Monthly, 63 \xe2\x80\x94 74. \n\nCHAPTER VII. \n\nAccounts with his Publisher. \xe2\x80\x94 The Metropolitan. \xe2\x80\x94 Anecdote of Rogers. \xe2\x80\x94 St. Leon- \nard\'s. \xe2\x80\x94 Poem on the Sea. \xe2\x80\x94 Lines on Poland. \xe2\x80\x94 Correspondence with Mrs. Arkwright. \xe2\x80\x94 \nMrs. Hemans. \xe2\x80\x94 Visit to the Arkwrights, in Derbyshire. \xe2\x80\x94 Neukomm and his Playing on \nthe Organ. \xe2\x80\x94 Life of Mrs. Siddons. \xe2\x80\x94 The Metropolitan. \xe2\x80\x94 Captain Marryatt. \xe2\x80\x94 The Polish \nAssociation. \xe2\x80\x94 Leaves St. Leonard\'s. \xe2\x80\x94 Cause of Poland engrosses him. \xe2\x80\x94 Extracts from \nhis Letters. \xe2\x80\x94 Thoughts of Standing for Parliament. \xe2\x80\x94 Attic in the Polish Chambers. \xe2\x80\x94 \nCampbell becomes intimate with Dr. Beattie. \xe2\x80\x94 Hampstead. \xe2\x80\x94 Campbell\'s Ward. \xe2\x80\x94 \nJoanna Baillie. \xe2\x80\x94 Life of Mrs. Siddons published. \xe2\x80\x94 Visit to Paris. \xe2\x80\x94 Trip to Algiers. \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnecdote. \xe2\x80\x94 Newkomm. \xe2\x80\x94 The Oratorios of Job. \xe2\x80\x94 Return by the way of Paris to London. \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 His Appearance improved. \xe2\x80\x94 Legacy. \xe2\x80\x94 Letter from the South. \xe2\x80\x94 Visit to Scotland. \xe2\x80\x94 \nCordial Reception. \xe2\x80\x94 Dinner at Glasgow, and at Edinburgh. \xe2\x80\x94 Visit to Lord Brougham. \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 Illustrated Edition of his Works. \xe2\x80\x94 Turner\'s Designs. \xe2\x80\x94 Presents his Works to the \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. IX \n\nQueen. \xe2\x80\x94 Literary Tasks. \xe2\x80\x94Rumor of his Marriage. \xe2\x80\x94 House in Victoria-square. \xe2\x80\x94 His \nNiece. \xe2\x80\x94 Petrarch. \xe2\x80\x94 Starts for the Brunnens of Nassau. \xe2\x80\x94 Hallam. \xe2\x80\x94 German Children. \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 Return to England. \xe2\x80\x94 The Pilgrim of Glencoe.\xe2\x80\x94 New Edition of his Works. \xe2\x80\x94 Retires to \nBoulogne. \xe2\x80\x94 His Last Year. \xe2\x80\x94 The Closing Scene. \xe2\x80\x94 His Funeral. \xe2\x80\x94 Westminster Abbey. \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 Horace Smith\'s Poem, " Campbell\'s Funeral," 74\xe2\x80\x9489. \n\nCHAPTER VIII. \n\nCampbell\'s Person and Countenance. \xe2\x80\x94 Mr. Carruthers\' Description of the Poet in his \nStudy. \xe2\x80\x94 Leigh Hunt\'s. \xe2\x80\x94 Compared with Gray. \xe2\x80\x94 Life and Habits at Sydenham. \xe2\x80\x94 Mrs. \nCampbell. \xe2\x80\x94 The Poet\'s Carelessness about Papers. \xe2\x80\x94 Mr. Canning\'s Contributions to the \nNew Monthly. \xe2\x80\x94 Anecdote. \xe2\x80\x94 Carelessness in Money Matters. \xe2\x80\x94 Fondness for Money in \nhis Decline, arising from his Interest in Private and Public Charities. \xe2\x80\x94 Manner in \nConversation. \xe2\x80\x94 Anecdotes. \xe2\x80\x94 Absence of Mind. \xe2\x80\x94 His Political Yiews. \xe2\x80\x94 Yisits at Mur- \nray\'s. \xe2\x80\x94 Aversion to Controversy. \xe2\x80\x94 Difference with Moore on the Publication of Byron\'s \n\nLife Discussion on the Merits of Pope. \xe2\x80\x94 His Organization and Character. \xe2\x80\x94 Habits of \n\nStudy. \xe2\x80\x94 His Memory. \xe2\x80\x94 Favorite Literary Pursuits. \xe2\x80\x94 Composition of his Poems. \xe2\x80\x94 \nRecollections by Osgood, the Artist. \xe2\x80\x94 His Works. \xe2\x80\x94 Conclusion, 89 \xe2\x80\x94 100. \n\n\n\nPOEMS. \n\nPage \n\nPleasures of Hope. \xe2\x80\x94 Parti 103 \n\n" " \xc2\xab Part II 125 \n\nTheodrio : a Domestic Tale, 140 \n\nMartial Elegy : from the Greek of Tyrtesus, 159 \n\nSong of Hybrias the Cretan, 160 \n\nFragment : from the Greek of Alcman, 161 \n\nSpecimens of Translations from Medea, 161 \n\nSpeech of the Chorus, in the same Tragedy, 162 \n\nO\'Connor\'s Child ; or, " The Flower of Love lies Bleeding," 167 \n\nLochiel\'s Warning, 177 \n\nYe Mariners of England : a Naval Ode, 180 \n\nBattle of the Baltic, 182 \n\nHohenlinden, 185 \n\nGlenara, 186 \n\nExile of Erin, \' 187 \n\nLord Ullin\'s Daughter, 189 \n\nOde to the Memory of Burns, 191 \n\nLines written on Yisiting a Scene in Argyleshire, 19-4 \n\nThe Soldier\'s Dream, 196 \n\nTo the Rainbow, . -197 \n\nThe Last Man, 199 \n\nA Dream, 202 \n\nValedictory Stanzas to J. P. Kemble, Esq 205 \n\n\n\nX CONTENTS. \n\nPage \n\nGertrude op Wyominc. Part 1 211 \n\n" " \xc2\xab Part II 221 \n\n" " " Part III 229 \n\nLines written at the request of the Highland Society in London, when met to commem- \norate the 21st of March, the Day of Victory in Egypt, 243 \n\nStanzas to the Memory of the Spanish Patriots latest killed in Resisting the Regency \n\nand the Duke of AngoulGine, 244 \n\nSong of the Greeks, 216 \n\nOde to Winter, 248 \n\nLines spoken by Mrs. Bartley at Drury-Lane Theatre, on the first opening of the \n\nHouse after the Death of the Princess Charlotte, 1817, 250 \n\nLines on the Grave of a Suicide, 252 \n\nReullura, 253 \n\nThe Turkish Lady, 259 \n\nThe Brave Roland, 261 \n\nThe Spectre Boat : a Ballad, 2G2 \n\nThe Lover to his Mistress on her Birth-day, 264 \n\nSong : " 0, how Hard," \' 265 \n\nAdelgitha, 265 \n\nLines on Receiving a Seal with the Campbell Crest, from K. M , before her Mar- \nriage, 266 \n\nGilderoy, 268 \n\nStanzas on the threatened Invasion, 1803, 269 \n\nThe Ritter Bann, 2T0 \n\nSong: \xe2\x80\xa2" Men of England," 277 \n\nSong: <; Drink ye to her," \xe2\x80\xa2 . 278 \n\nThe Harper, 278 \n\nThe Wounded Hussar, 279 \n\nLove and Madness : an Elegy, 2S1 \n\nHallowed Ground, 284 \n\nSong : " Withdraw not yet," 287 \n\nCaroline. Part I 288 \n\n" Part II. To the Evening Star, 289 \n\nThe Beech-tree\'s Petition, 291 \n\nField-flowers, 292 \n\nSong: " To the Evening Star," 293 \n\nStanzas to Painting, 294 \n\nThe Maid\'s Remonstrance, 296 \n\nAbsence, 297 \n\nLines inscribed on the Monument erected by the Widow of Admiral Sir G. Campbell, \n\n, K.C.B., to the Memory of her Husband, .^98 \n\nStanzas on the Battle of Navarino, 299 \n\nLines on Revisiting a Scottish River, 300 \n\nThe " Name Unknown : " in Imitation of Klopstock, 302 \n\nFarewell to Love, 303 \n\nLines on the Camp Hill, near Hastings, 304 \n\nLines on Poland, 305 \n\nA Thought suggested by the New Year, 310 \n\nSong : " How Delicious is the Winning," 311 \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. XI \n\nPage \n\nMargaret and Dora, 312 \n\nThe Power of Russia, 313 \n\nLines on Leaving a Scene in Bavaria, 316 \n\nThe Death-boat of Heligoland, 321 \n\nSong: " When Love came first to Earth," 323 \n\nSong : " Earl March looked on his Dying Child," 324 \n\nSong : u "When Napoleon was flying," 325 \n\nLines to Julia M , sent with a Copy of the Author\'s Poems, 325 \n\nDrinking-song of 3Iunich, 326 \n\nLines od the Departure of Emigrants for New South Wales, 327 \n\nLines on Revisiting Cathcart, 331 \n\nThe Cherubs : suggested by an Apologue in the Works of Franklin, 332 \n\nSenex\'s Soliloquy on his Youthful Idol, 335 \n\nTo Sir Francis Burdett, on his Speech delivered in Parliament, August 7, 1832, \n\nrespecting the Foreign Policy of Great Britain, 336 \n\nOde to the Germans, 337 \n\nLines on a Picture of a Girl in the attitude of Prayer, by the Artist Gruse, in the pos- \nsession of Lady Stepney, 339 \n\nLines on the Tiew from St. Leonard\'s, 340 \n\nThe Dead Eagle : written at Oran, 315 \n\nSong : " To Love in my Heart," 34S \n\nLines written in a Blank Leaf of La Perouse\'s Voyages, 349 \n\nThe Pilgrim of Glencoe, 352 \n\nNapoleon and the British Sailor, 369 \n\nBenlomond, 371 \n\nThe Child and Hind, 372 \n\nThe Jilted Nymph, . \xe2\x80\xa2 377 \n\nOn getting Home the Portrait of a Female Child, 379 \n\nThe Parrot, 380 \n\nSong of the Colonists departing for New Zealand, 381 \n\nMoonlight, 383 \n\nSong on our Queen, 384 \n\nCora Linn, or the Falls of the Clyde, 385 \n\nChaucer and Windsor, 386 \n\nLines suggested by the Statue of Arnold von Winkelried, 387 \n\nTo the United States of North America, 388 \n\nLines on my New Child-sweetheart, . . \' 388 \n\nThe Launch of a-First-rate, 390 \n\nEpistle from Algiers to Horace Smith," \' 391 \n\nTo a Young Lady, 393 \n\nFragment of an Oratorio, 394 \n\nTo my Niece, Mary Campbell, 393 \n\nFUGITIVE POEMS NOW" FIRST COLLECTED. \n\nQueen of the North, 401 \n\nHymn, 404 \n\nChorus from the Choephorce, 405 \n\nElegy : written in Mull, 407 \n\n\n\nXII CONTENTS. \n\nPago \n\nOn the Glasgow Volunteers, 408 \n\nOn a Rural Beauty in Mull, 409 \n\nVerses on the Queen of France, 410 \n\nChorus from the Tragedy of Jephthes, 411 \n\nThe Dirge of Wallace, 413 \n\nEpistle to Three Ladies, 415 \n\nDeath of my only Son : from the Danish, 418 \n\nLaudohn\'s Attack, 420 \n\nTo a Beautiful Jewish Girl of Altona, 421 \n\n"Farewell to my Sister, on leaving Edinburgh, 422 \n\nEpitaphs, 423 \n\nThe British Grenadiers, 424 \n\nTrafalgar, 426 \n\nTines written in Sickness, . \xe2\x80\xa2 427 \n\nLines on the State of Greece : occasioned by being pressed to make it a Subject of \n\nPoetry, 1827, 427 \n\nLines on James IV. of Scotland, who fell at the Battle of Flodden, 428 \n\nTo Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore, three celebrated Scottish Beauties, 429 \n\nSong : " \'T is now the Hour," ." 431 \n\nLines to Edward Lytton Bulwer, on the Birth of his Child, 432 \n\nContent, . \xe2\x80\xa2 432 \n\nSpanish Patriots 1 Song, 433 \n\nTo a Lad\xc2\xa3, on being presented with a Sprig of Alexandrian Laurel, 435 \n\nTo the Polish Countess R ski, 435 \n\nFrancisHorner 437 \n\nTo Plorine, 437 \n\nTo an Infant, 438 \n\nTo , 438 \n\nForlorn Ditty on Little Red-Riding-Hood, 439 \n\nJosephJMarryat, M.P 440 \n\nSong : JiiJfcI_y_Mind is my Kingdom," 440 \n\nStanzas, 441 \n\nOn accidentally possessing and returning Miss B \'s Picture, 441 \n\nSong : " I gave my Love a Chain of Gold," 442 \n\nTo Mary Sinclair, with a volume of his Poems, 442 \n\nImpromptu, in compliment to the exquisite Singing of Mrs. Allsop, 443 \n\nTo the Countess Ameriga Vespucci, 444 \n\nTranslations from Petrarch, 444 \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER I. \n\nThomas Campbell was born on the 27th of July, 1777, in a house in \nthe High-street, in Glasgow, at that time, and for fourteen years \nafterwards, occupied by his father, but since pulled down to make \nway for modern improvements. His family was of a numerous and \nrespectable connection, and the particular branch from which he was \ndescended had been long settled in that part of the Argyle frontier \nwhich lies between Lochawe and Lochfyne. They were known as the \nCampbells of Kirnan, from the name of the estate which was occupied \nby the poet\'s grandfather, the last of his race who resided there. \nHe died leaving three sons, and Kirnan passed into the hands of \nRobert, the eldest, who was fond of display, and lavish in his hospi- \ntality, and was compelled to part with the ancestral acres to a \nneighboring proprietor, the son of Mrs. Campbell by a former \nmarriage. Robert afterwards settled in London ; distinguished him- \nself as a political writer in defence of the Walpole administration, \nand died soon after its close. Archibald, the next brother, became \na Presbyterian minister, and in that capacity went out to Jamaica, \nbut subsequently removed to the Province of Virginia, where he re- \nsided till his death at an advanced age . His family there maintained \na highly respectable character, and one of his sons was District \nAttorney during the administration of Washington. To his landed \nproperty in Virginia he gave the name of Kirnan, and his grandson \n1 \n\n\n\nA LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nFrederick, many years afterwards, succeeded under an entail to the \nold family Kirnan, in Argyleshire. Alexander, the youngest of \nthe brothers, and father of the poet, was educated in mercantile \npursuits. Early in life he went to Falmouth, in Virginia, where he \nformed valuable business connections, that enabled him to return \nto Glasgow and establish a commercial house, in partnership with \nMr. Daniel Campbell, whose acquaintance he had made in America, \nand whose sister Margaret he afterwards married. For many years \nthe respectable firm of Campbell & Co. enjoyed a well-earned pros- \nperity, but it was prostrated by the embarrassments in which the \nRevolution involved all merchants engaged in the American trade. At \nthe age of sixty-five years Alexander found himself stripped of fortune, \nand involved in an expensive chancery suit ; with a wife and nine \nchildren to provide for from the scanty remnants of his estate, and \na small income from two provident institutions of which he was a \nmember. It was soon after these reverses that the poet was born. \n\n" I have uncommonly early recollection of life," says the poet, in \na MS. supposed to have been written in 1842. " I remember \xe2\x80\x94 that is \nto say, I seem to remember \xe2\x80\x94 many circumstances which I was told \nhad occurred when I could not have been quite three years old. \n\n" In very early years I was boarded, during the summer, in the \ncountry near Glasgow, at Pollock Shaws, in the humble house of a \nstocking- weaver, John Stewart, whose wife Janet- was as kind to me \nas my own mother could be. \n\n" During the winter, in those infantine years, I returned to my \nfather\'s house, and my youngest sister taught me reading. My read- \ning, of course, was principally in the Bible, and I contracted a \nliking for the Old Testament which has never left me. The recol- \nlection of this period makes an exception to the general retrospect \nof my life, making\' me somewhat sad. I was then the happiest of \nyoung human animals, at least during the months which I spent \nunder the roof of John and Janet Stewart. It is true I slept on a \nbed of chaff, and my fare, as may be supposed, was not sumptuous ; \nbut life was young within me. Pollock Shaws was at that time \nrural and delightful. The stocking- weaver\'s house was on a flat \npiece of ground, half circularly enclosed by a small running stream, \ncalled by the Scotch a \' burn.\' On one side above it were ascend- \ning fields which terminated in trees along the high road to Glasgow. \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 6 \n\nI remember no picture by Claude that ever threw me into such \ndreams of delight as this landscape. I remember leaping over the \ntallest yellow weeds with ecstasy. I remember seeing beautiful \nweed-flowers on the opposite side of the burn which I could not \napproach to pull, and wishing in my very soul to get at them ; still \nI could not cross the burn. There were trouts, too, in the stream ; \nand what a glorious event was the catching a trout ! I was happy, \nhowever. Once only in my life perfectly happy. \n\n"At eight years old I went to the grammar-school of Glasgow, \nwhere, among seventy other boys, I was the pupil of David Allison. \nHe was a severe disciplinarian of the old school, and might be com- \npared to Gil Bias\' master, l who was the most expert flogger in all \nOviedo.\'\' But I was one of his pet scholars, and he told my father \nthat he often spared me when he ought to have whipt me, because \nI looked so innocent. He was a noble-looking man. At the periodical \nexaminations by the magistrates, he looked a prince in comparison \neven with the Provost with his golden chain. And he \n\n\' "Was kind, or if severe in aught, \nThe love he bore to learning was in fault.\' \n\nSo that he was popular even among his whippees. I was so \nearly devoted to poetry, that at ten years old, when our master \ninterpreted to us the first Eclogue of Virgil, I was literally thrilled by \nits beauty. Already we had read bits of Ovid, but he never affected \nme half so much as the apostrophe of Tityrus to his cottage, from \nwhich he had been driven : \n\n\' En unquam patrios longo post tempore fines, \nPauperis et tuguri congestum cespite culmen \nPost aliquot, mea regna videns, mirabor aristas.\' \n\n" In my thirteenth year I went to the University of Glasgow, and \nput on the red gown. The joy of the occasion made me unable to \neat my breakfast. I am told that race-horses, on the morning of the \nday when they know they are to be brought to the race, are so \nagitated that they refuse their orits. Whether it was presentiment, \nor the mere castle-building of my vanity, I had even then a day- \ndream that I should be one day Lord Rector of the University. In \nmy own lifetime Lord Jeffrey and myself have been the only two \nRectors who were educated at Glasgow." \n\n\n\n4 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nFrom the time of their misfortunes, Alexander Campbell and his \nwife seem to have devoted themselves almost exclusively to the \neducation of their younger children. He was a man of great fortitude , \nfirmness and good sense, and of integrity unsuspected in his severest \ntrials. With Adam Smith and Dr. Thomas Reid (from whom the \npoet received his baptismal name) he was on terms of friendship \nand intimacy. His favorite studies were in theology, history and \nthe sciences, though ho had something of a musical taste, and sang \na good naval song. He was a devout man, and maintained to the \nlast, in his house, the practice of family worship. "His were the \nonly extemporal prayers I ever heard," said his son, " which might \nhave been printed as they dropped from his lips." In person \nhe was under the middle size, but compact and hardy ; his feat- \nures were handsome, and in his advanced years he presented a \nvery interesting and venerable appearance. \n\n" The first time," says an intimate friend of the poet, " that I \ndrank tea in the house of Mr. Campbell, was in the winter of 1790. \nThe old gentleman was seated in his arm-chair, and dressed in a suit \nof snuff-brown cloth, all from the same web. There were present, \nbesides Thomas, his brother and two sisters, \xe2\x80\x94 Daniel, Elizabeth, \nand Isabella. The father, then at the age of fourscore, spoke only \nonce to us. It was when one of his sons and I \xe2\x80\x94 Thomas, I think, \nwho was then about thirteen, and of my own age \xe2\x80\x94 were speaking \nabout getting new clothes, and descanting in grave earnest as to the \nmost fashionable colors. Tom was partial to green ; I preferred \nblue. \xe2\x80\x94 \' Lads !\' said the senior, in a voice which fixed our attention, \n\' if you wish to have a lasting suit, get one like mine.\' We thought \nhe meant one of a snuff-brown color ; but he added, \' I have a suit \nin the Court of Chancery, which has lasted thirty years, and I think \nit will never wear out.\'" \n\nThe mother of the poet was of a slight figure, with black eyes \nand dark hair, and features which in her advanced years became \nround and full, but which were originally well-chiselled and ex- \npressive. She was a notable manager, a strict disciplinarian, and \nwell educated for the age and sphere in which she lived. Such time \nas she could give to books was devoted to the perusal of the standard \nEnglish authors of the previous generation. Of music she was pas- \nsionately fond, and sang many of the popular melodies of Scotland \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 5 \n\nwith taste and feeling. Her manners were dignified, but full of \nvivacity and sprightliness ; and her nature, in spite of a sometime \nsevere exercise of authority, overflowed with kindness and charity. \nThis severity, indeed, was never manifested toward her youngest \nson, of whom she was very fond and proud, and on whose mind and \ncharacter many of her own peculiarities were strongly impressed. \nIn her declining years, and after her boy had become famous, she \nnow and then manifested her maternal weakness in a manner that \nwas amusing enough to be remembered. Once at a silk-mercer\'s, \nwhere the old lady had bought a shawl, when the parcel was folded, \nand the usual inquiry made as to where it should be sent, "Send \nit," she said, "to Mrs. Campbell \xe2\x80\x94 Mrs. Campbell of Kirnan;" \nthen added, " mother of the author of the Pleasures of Hope." On \nall occasions she spoke in the warmest and most genial language of \nher son Thomas. " Nothing," she said, " could be more kind and \nrespectful than the tenor of his letters to herself." \n\nIn his very school days Campbell was familiar with the popular \nLatin and Greek poets, and not only attempted the translation of \ntheir most admired passages, but sought to express in verse of his \nown the impressions that had been made upon his mind by the scenes \nin which the summers of his childhood had been passed. At the \nage of twelve years he became an enthusiastic student of the Greek \nliterature ; and throughout his life seems to have piqued himself more \non his Greek than his poetry. His favorite English authors at this \ntime were Milton, Pope, Thomson, Gray, and Goldsmith ; a selection \nwhich seems such as his good mother herself would have made for \nhim, and the influence of which is visible in all his writings. From \nthe blotted and ragged condition of his copy of the Paradise Lost, \nDr. Beattie infers that this was oftener in his hands than any other \nbook. Some of the elder English dramatists he dipped into at this \nperiod, and the Sermons of the younger Sherlock, Doddridge\'s Fam- \nily Expositor, and the Life of Colonel Gardiner, he read " with \nan interest and relish for which he could never account." His father \nused to say that he "would be much better reading Locke than \nscribbling so," when he caught the young poet with his manuscripts ; \nbut failed, we imagine, by advice thus tendered to recommend the \nworks of the philosopher over those of Smollett, Fielding and Burns, \nwhich were among the favorites of his small library. \n1* \n\n\n\n<> LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nIn the October term of 1791 commenced his first session at the \nCollege of Glasgow, where students have always been received at a \nmuch earlier age than at the English universities. Before many- \nmonths had elapsed, Campbell received from the college authorities \nprizes for English and Latin verse, and, as a third prize, a bursary \nor exhibition on Archbishop Leighton\'s foundation. Thus brilliant \nwas the dawn of his academic career, in which he won a good title \nto the praises it has received, though he himself modestly disclaims \nthem. "Some of my biographers," he observes, " have, in their \nfriendly zeal, exaggerated my triumphs at the university. It is not \ntrue that I carried away all the prizes, for I was idle in some of the \nclasses, and, being obliged by my necessities to give elementary \ninstruction to younger lads, my powers of attention were exhausted \nin teaching when I ought to have been learning." \n\nFrom the notes illustrative of this period, furnished by one of his \nearliest friends to his biographer, it appears that Campbell constantly \ncultivated his poetical talent, and composed a ballad which was \nprinted on a slip of paper, and distributed among his fellow-students. \nIt comprised one hundred and forty lines, was entitled Morven and \nFillan, and began with the following stanza : \n\n" Loud breathed afar the angry sprite \nThat rode upon the storm of night, \nAnd loud the waves were heard to roar \nThat lashed on Morven\'s rocky shore." \n\nIn the spring of 1792 a little incident occurred in the mathematical \nclass in which Campbell was a student, that furnished him the sub- \nject of a poem in a style of verse in which he was very felicitous, but \nwhich he employed chiefly for his private amusement. -The occasion \nwas an examination of the class in the books of Euclid, when one of \nits members, who had manifested a most proud and pleasing con- \nsciousness of his acquirements, and was confident of making a grand \ndisplay, boggled at the problem which is known, among the faculty \nand undergraduates, as the Asses\' Bridge. This misadventure \nwas the origin of a jeu d\'esprit, by Campbell, which was handed \nabout in manuscript, and was the source, no doubt, of a mischievous \nsatisfaction to his fellow-students : \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 7 \n\nPONS ASINORUM ; or, THE ASSES\' BRIDGE. \n\nA SONG, WRITTEN\' IX MR. J. MILLER\'S MATHEMATICAL CLASS. \n\nAs Miller\'s Hussars marched up to the wars, \n"With their captain in person before \'em, \nIt happened one day that they met on their way \nWith the dangerous Pons Asinorum ! \n\nNow see the bold band, each a sword in his hand, \nAnd his Euclid for target before him; \nNot a soul of them all could the dangers appal \nOf the hazardous Pons Asinorum : \n\nWhile the streamers wide flew, and the loud trumpets blew, \nAnd the drum beat responsive before \'em, \nThen Miller their chief thus harangued them in brief \n\'Bout the dangerous Pons Asinorum ! \n\n" My soldiers," said he, " though dangers there be, \nYet behave with a proper decorum; \nDismiss every fear, and with boldness draw near \nTo the dangerous Pons Asinorum ! " \n\nNow, it chanced in the van stood a comical man, \n\nWho, as Miller strode bravely before him, \n\nTo his sorrow soon found that his brains were wheeled round, \n\nAs he marched to the Pons Asinorum ! \n\n0, sorrowful wight, how sad was his plight, \n\nWhen he looked at the Pons Asinorum ! \n\nSoon the fright took his heels, like a drunkard he reels, \n\nAnd his head fiew like thunder before him. \n\nSo rude was the jump, as the mortal fell plump, \n\nThat not Miller himself could restore him; \n\nSo his comrades were left, of "Plumbano" bereft, \n\npitiful plight, to deplore him ! T. C. at. 13 \n\nHis cousin, Mrs. Johnstone, has given us her recollection of the \nyoung poet at the age of fourteen. He used to spend a day, now \nand then, at her father\'s house, a short distance from Glasgow. \n"There," she observes, "he was always welcomed as a special \nfavorite ; for, to the most unassuming manners were united a gayety \nand cheerfulness of disposition which he had the art of communi- \n\n\n\n8 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\neating to every one around him." It was there he laid aside his \nGreek and Latin, and entertained the fireside circle with anecdotes \nand " auld fanant stories." He was a clever mimic, and could per- \nsonate the notabilities about the college with ludicrous accuracy. \nHe sang a few plaintive airs very prettily, and played on the German \nflute, so that he was an useful and acceptable addition to the social \ncircle. \n\nIn Campbell\'s second year at the university, Professor Jardine, \nlecturer in the Logic class, awarded him the eighth prize for the best \ncomposition on various subjects, and appointed him examiner of the \nexercises sent in by the members of his class. In the same year he \nreceived the third prize in the Greek class, for exemplary conduct as \na student ; and on the last day of the session, his poem bore away \nthe palm from all competitors. It was entitled a " Description of \nthe Distribution of the Prizes in the Common Hall of the University \nof Glasgow, on the 1st of May, 1793." \n\nThe poet sympathized and mixed with the world, from his earliest \nyears. With all his fondness for study, if we may take his own \naccount, he was more fond of sport. He belonged to the college \nclubs, and figured in them, and of one of them has left us a brief \naccount. " There was a Debating Society," he says, "called the \nDiscursive, composed almost entirely of boys as young as myself, \nand I was infatuated enough to become a leader in this spouting \nclub. It is true that we had promising spirits among us, and, in \nparticular, could boast of Gregory "Watt, son of the immortal Watt, \na youth unparalleled in his early talent for eloquence. With me- \nlodious elocution, great acuteness in argument, and rich, unfailing \nfluency of diction, he seemed born to become a great orator, and I \nhave no doubt would have shone in Parliament had he not been \ncarried off by consumption in his five-and-twentieth year. He was \nliterally the most beautiful youth I ever saw. When he was only \ntwenty-two, an eminent English artist (Howard, I think) made his \nhead the model of a picture of Adam. But, though we had this \nsplendid stripling, and other members that were not untalented, we \nhad no head among us old and judicious enough to make the society \na proper palastra for our mental powers, and it degenerated into a \nplace of general quizzing and eccentricity." \n\nIn the spring of 1794, as a reward for his exemplary conduct, \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 9 \n\nCampbell obtained a few days\' leave of absence from, college. It \nwas a time of great political excitement, and the young poet was a \ndemocrat of the school of the French Revolution. The trial of \nMuir and Gerald, for high treason, was expected to take place ; and \nCampbell wished "insufferably" to seethe great agitators of Scottish \nReform, though he did not altogether approve their proceedings. \nBut an important question with him was how to get to Edinburgh. \nWe are furnished with an answer in the words of the poet himself: \n\n" While gravely considering the ways and means, it immediately \noccurred to me that I had an uncle\'s widow in Edinburgh \xe2\x80\x94 a kind- \nhearted elderly lady, who had seen me at Glasgow, and said that \nshe would be glad to receive me at her house, if I should ever come \nto the Scottish metropolis. I watched my mother\'s mollia tempora \nfandi, \xe2\x80\x94 for she had them, good woman ! \xe2\x80\x94 and, eagerly catching the \npropitious moment, I said, \'0, Mamma, how I long to see Edin- \nburgh ! \xe2\x80\x94 If I had but three shillings, I could walk there in one day, \nsleep two nights, and be two days at my aunt Campbell\'s, and walk \nback in another day.\' To my delightful surprise, she answered, \' No, \nmy bairn ; I will give you what will carry you to Edinburgh and \nbring you back ; but you must promise me not to walk more than \nhalf the way in any one day,\' \xe2\x80\x94 that was twenty-two miles. \' Here,\' \nsaid she, \' are five shillings for you in all ; two shillings will serve \nyou to go, and two to return ; for a bed at the half-way house costs \nbut sixpence.\' She then gave me \xe2\x80\x94 I shall never forget the beautiful \ncoin ! \xe2\x80\x94 a King William and Mary crown-piece. I was dumb with \ngratitude ; but, sallying out to the streets, I saw at the first book- \nseller\'s shop a print of Elijah fed by the ravens. Now, I had often \nheard my poor mother saying confidentially to our worthy neighbor \nMr. Hamilton \xe2\x80\x94 whose strawberries I had pilfered \xe2\x80\x94 that in case of \nmy father\'s death \xe2\x80\x94 and he was a very old man \xe2\x80\x94 she knew not what \nwould become of her. \' \' But,\' she used to add, \'let me not despair, \nfor Elijah was fed by the ravens.\' When I presented her with the \npicture, I said nothing of its tacit allusion to the possibility of my \nbeing one day her supporter; but she was much affected, and \nevidently felt a strong presentiment." His mother\'s presentiment \nwas not disappointed ; in the generous affection of her son she found \na never-failing resource in her declining years. \n\n" Next morning," continues Campbell, " I took my way to Edin- \n\n\n\n10 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nburgh, with four shillings and sixpence in my pocket. I witnessed \nJoseph Gerald\'s trial, and it was an era in my life. Hitherto I had \nnever known what public eloquence was ; and I am sure the Jus- \nticiary Scotch lords did not help me to a conception of it \xe2\x80\x94 speaking, \nas they did, bad arguments in broad Scotch. But the Lord Advo- \ncate\'s speech was good ; the speeches of Laing and Gillies were \nbetter ; and Gerald\'s speech annihilated the remembrance of all the \neloquence that had ever been heard within the walls of that house. \nHe quieted the judges, in spite of their indecent interruptions of \nhim, and produced a silence in which you might have heard a pin \nfall to the ground. At the close of his defence, he said, \' And now, \ngentlemen of the jury \xe2\x80\x94 now that I have to take leave of you for- \never, let me remind you that mercy is no small part of the duty of \njurymen ; that the man who shuts his heart on the claims of the \nunfortunate, on him the gates of mercy will be shut, and for him \nthe Saviour of the world shall have died in vain ! \' At this finish I \nwas moved, and, turning to a stranger beside me, apparently a trades- \nman, I said to him, \' By heavens, sir, that is a great man ! \' \' Yes, \nsir,\' he answered ; \'he is not only a great man himself, but he \nmakes every other man feel great who listens to him.\' " \n\nThis scene of political excitement made a lasting impression on \nCampbell, and he returned to college to read the liberal newspapers, \ndeclaim in the debating societies on the rights of man and the cor- \nruption of modern legislation, and postpone for a while Greek \npoetry to the records of Greek patriotism. What he saw, felt, and \ndreamed of at this period, exerted, no doubt, a marked influence on \nhis whole subsequent career. \n\nAt the close of his third session, Campbell was distinguished by \nnew academic honors. In the Moral Philosophy class he received a \nprize for his poetical essay on the Origin of Evil. In the Greek \nclass he gained the first prize for the best translations from the \nClouds of Aristophanes. The latter circumstance he thus alludes to \nin one of his manuscript notes : " Professor Young pronounced my \nversion, in his opinion, the best essay that had ever been given in \nby any student at the university. This was no small praise to a \nboy of fifteen, from John Young, who, with the exception of Miller, \nwas the ablest man in the college." \n\nOne day, shortly before the close of this session, while Professor \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 11 \n\nArthur, of the Moral Philosophy chair, was showing the university \nto an English gentleman, who had come into the class-room, Camp- \nbell says: "I happened to be standing unobserved behind him, \nand could hear distinctly the conversation that passed between them. \n\' And is there any one among your students,\' inquired the stranger, \n\' who shows a talent for poetry? \' \' Yes,\' said the professor, \' there \nis one Campbell, who shows a very promising talent.\' Little knew \nthe professor that I was listening to this question and answer. In \nexplanation of this \' talent,\' I had written in Arthur\'s class a verse \nessay on the Origin of Evil, for which I afterwards received the \nprize, and which gave me a local celebrity throughout all Glasgow, \nfrom the High Church down to the bottom of the Saltmarket ! It \nwas even talked of, as I am credibly informed, by the students over \ntheir oysters at Lucky M\' Alpine\'s, in the Trongate ! " \n\nCampbell\'s intimate asssociates in his college days were James \nThomson and Gregory Watt. The former, a fellow-student from \nLancashire, was his friend and correspondent till the poet\'s death, \nand to him most of his early letters were addressed. For more than \nhalf a century the links of this friendship were kept bright. " No \ndistance," wrote the young student in 1794, when he thought of \nemigrating to America, " shall put an end to our epistolary corret \nspondence. Our friendship, though begun in the years of youth, I \ntrust shall survive that period, and be immutably fixed in graver \nyears." This dream of youthful enthusiasm proved a reality. Tt \nwas to Mr. Thomson\'s order that two marble busts of the poet were \nlong afterwards executed by Bailey, and the admirable portrait by Sir \nThomas Lawrence, now prefixed to most of the editions of his works, \nwas also commissioned by this friend of a life-time. The three \nfriends were rivals in scholarship and in the clubs, but competition \nseems never to have impaired their common attachment. " Gregory \nis still among us," wrote Campbell from Glasgow, in April, 1795, \nto his friend Thomson. "He and I are at present very intimate, \nbut as different souls as ever God created. Gregory is all volubility \nand solution of copper ; for me, you would take me for a Spaniard \xe2\x80\x94 \nas sober as Socrates. Our prizes are to be decided to-morrow, for \nthe summer exercises. I care not two pence about the event. Pro- \nfessor \'s \' genteelity \' in his prizes has made me a stoic about \n\nobtaining them. Gregory speaks of writing you ; he has made a fine \n\n\n\n12 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nfigure at college this winter, and has a chance of several premiums. \nGod bless you, my friend Thomson ! " \n\nCampbell took prizes as usual, though he had made up his mind \nto be very indifferent to them in the event of failure. They were \ngiven for translations from the Latin and Greek, of which the \nchorus to the Medea is the only one that has been included in his \ncollected poems. But the loss of the " everlasting " chancery suit, \nand its incidents, had entirely deprived his parents of their little \nremaining property ; and it became necessary for the young poet to \nmake some exertion for his own support. Through the aid of the \ncollege professors, he obtained a remunerating exile to Mull, in the \nHebrides, in the shape of a private tutorship in the family of a \nyoung widow lady, " a namesake and connection of his own." \nHere he wrote letters to his friend Thomson ; translated the whole \nClouds of Aristophanes, and the Coephorce of iEschylus ; indulged \nin " botanizing" rambles in the neighborhood ; and studied pictures of \nglen, heath, rock, torrent and the sea, which, at various intervals, \nin after years, were reproduced in his poems. Before taking up his \nresidence at Mull, he had sportively speculated on the impossibility \nof " making an elopement from the Hebrides to Gretna Green in a \ncoach-and-four ;" and looked only for a " calm retreat for study and \nthe Muses." He was not called upon to make the trial, though he \nfound " plenty of beauties in Mull," more than one of whom seems \nto have inspired his song. Here he became acquainted with the \nyoung lady to whom the pretty poems were addressed that are \npublished under the title of " Caroline ;" and here a " rural beauty" \nprompted verses hardly less worthy of a place in his collected works. \n\nWhen he first went to Mull, he was very dull and melancholy, \nand he wrote his friend Thomson that it was a place ill-suited to rub \noff the rust of an ill temper. " Every scene you meet with in it," \nhe says, " is, to be sure, marked by sublimity and the wild majesty \nof nature ; but it is only fit for the haunts of the damned, in bad \nweather." Poetry, love-making, and the Greek dramatists, how- \never, would soon have reconciled Campbell to a more dismal place \nthan Mull ; and, from the moment he received his books and a supply \nof paper, he thanked God he could " call himself happy." " The \npoint of Callioch," wrote the poet long afterwards, "commands a \nmagnificent prospect of thirteen Hebrid-islands, among which are \n\n\n\nLIFE OE CAMPBELL. 13 \n\nStaffa and Icolmkill, which I visited with enthusiasm. I had also, \nnow and then, a sight of wild deer sweeping across that wilder \ncountry, and of eagles perching on its shore. These objects fed the \nromance of my fancy, and I may say that I was attached to Sunipol, \nbefore I took leave of it. Nevertheless, God wot, I was better \npleased to look on the kirk steeples, and whinstone causeways of \nGlasgow, than on all the eagles and wild deer of the Highlands." \nCallioch is on the northern shore of Mull, and Sunipol was the house \nof the good lady with whom he resided. \n\nTo the kirk steeples and whinstone causeways of Glasgow the \npoet returned, and resumed his duties as student and tutor for the \nsession which terminated his university career. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER II. \n\nCampbell hesitated long and wavered much in the choice of a \nprofession. It was desirable, from the circumstances of his parents, \nthat he should engage in some pursuit from which he could derive \nan immediate income. He was too poor to study for any one of the \nlearned professions, even if he had entertained a decided choice \namong them. He tried all by turns, and sometimes thought seriously \nof embarking in trade, and joining his brothers in America. \n\nIn the early part of his academic career, Campbell studied with \na view to the church ; his prospects of preferment were small as far \nas family patronage and influence were concerned, but bright enough , \nperhaps, in view of the powers which he was conscious of possessing. \nAt this period he read Hebrew with the students of theology ; cul- \ntivated a knowledge of the most celebrated divines, and wrote a \nhymn on the Advent which has merit enough still to keep its place \nin many collections of religious poetry. The study of medicine or \nsurgery was attempted. Campbell managed well enough with the \nlectures, but the dissecting-room was too much for him. If he had \nany professional predilection, it was probably for the law. " Had I \n\n2 \n\n\n\n14 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\npossessed but a few hundred pounds," says the poet, in his autobio- \ngraphical notes, " I should certainly have studied for the bar." \n" Thomas," wrote his sister Elizabeth to their brother Alexander, \n" has attended the college near six years, is perfectly master of the \nlanguages, and last year he studied law. That is the line he means \nto pursue, and what I think nature has just fitted him for. He is a \nfine public speaker, and, I make no doubt, will make a figure at the \nbar." He passed some weeks in the office of a writer to the \nSignet, and attended Professor Miller\'s lectures on Roman law, and \ntook "several choice books on jurisprudence " to the Highlands \nwith him, and studied them with interest. But the result of his \npractical connection with the law is thus given in a letter to his \nfriend Thomson: "Well, I have fairly tried the business of an \nattorney, and, upon my conscience, it is the most accursed of all pro- \nfessions ! Such meanness, such toil, such contemptible modes \nof peculation, were never moulded into one profession!" He then \npronounces a hearty " malediction on the law in all its branches." \n" It is true," he adds, " there are many emoluments ; but I declare \nto God that I can hardly spend, with a safe conscience, the little sum \nI made during my residence in Edinburgh !" With these feelings, \nwe may well suppose that the world might have lost an Ovid without \ngaining a Murray, if Campbell had devoted himself to the profes- \nsion. His forte was literature, and he was destined to earn his bread \nand his fame in the same field. \n\nOn taking final leave of the university, Campbell was engaged \nto return to Argyleshire as domestic tutor to the only son of Colonel \nNapier, who lived with his mother at Downie, his grandfather\'s \nestate. " He is a most agreeable man," \xe2\x80\x94 wrote Campbell of the \nfather to his friend Thomson, \xe2\x80\x94 " with all the mildness of a scholar \nand the majesty of a British grenadier. The son is about eight \nyears of age, and a miniature picture of his father. The colonel \nis uncommonly refined in his manners, for one who has been a soldier \nfrom his seventeenth year. I suppose you will not like him the \nworse for being a great-grandson of the celebrated Napier of Mer- \nchiston. I believe he does not intend staying long with his father- \nin-laAV at Downie, but proposes to go with his wife to Edinburgh, \nor, perhaps, \xe2\x80\x94 Heaven grant it ! \xe2\x80\x94 to London. 0, Thomson, if the \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 15 \n\nfates should be so good as to send us thither, I should certainly \nshake hands with one friend in that great metropolis." \n\n"I am lying dormant here," he wrote in October, 1796, " in a \nsolitary nook of the world. The present moments are of little \nimportance to me : I must expect all my pleasure and pain from the \nremembrance of the past and the anticipation of the future ! This \nis, I believe, the case with all men, but more so with one in solitude. \nI contrive, however, to relieve the tcedium vitce with a tolerable variety \nof amusements. I have neat pocket copies of Yirgil and Horace, \naffluence of English poets, a sort of flute, and a choice selection \nof Scotch and Irish airs. I have the correspondence of a few friends, \nand, though I have no companion, yet, by means of a few post-recon- \nciliations, I can safely venture to think that there is not a soul \nunder heaven bears to me a serious grudge. Life is thus tolerable , \nbut, were my former correspondence with my best and earliest friend \nrenewed to its wonted vigor, I should be completely happy !" \n\nDownie was but a short distance from Inverary, the residence of \nthe lady to whom he had addressed verses at Mull, and whom he \nstyles the adorable Caroline. In her family he was a constant \nvisitor, with his friend Hamilton Paul, who thus sketches a scene \nwith the poet, as they were rambling along the shore of Loch-Fyne : \n"The evening was fine, the sun was just setting behind the Gram-, \npians. The wood- fringed shores of the lake, the sylvan scenes \naround the castle of Inverary, the sunlit summits of the mountains \nin the distance, \xe2\x80\x94 all were inspiring. Thomas was in ecstasy. He \nrecited poetry of his own composition, \xe2\x80\x94 some of which has never \nbeen printed, \xe2\x80\x94 and then, after a moment\'s pause, addressed me: \n1 Paul, you and I must go in search of adventures ! If you will per- \nsonate Roderick Random, I will go through the world with you as \nStrap!\'" \n\nWhile at Downie in the autumn, he complained to a friend of \nbeing caged in by rocks and seas from the haunts of man, and the \nonce-prized interviews with his Amanda. In the spring following he \ncommunicated, in the strictest secrecy, to the same friend, that his \nevening walks were sometimes accompanied by one who for a twelve- \nmonth past had won his " purest, but most ardent aifection." " You \nmay well imagine," he adds, " how the consoling words of such a \nperson warm my heart into ecstasy of a most delightful nature." \n\n\n\n16 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\n\n\nsolation was administered by Amanda or the adorable Caroline, or \nwhether they were one and the same person. However that may \nhave been, his youthful attachment was of the class sometimes con- \nsidered unfortunate, as his charmer consoled herself with a suitor \nwho possessed more substantial attractions. \n\n" Mull and Downie," says Dr. Beattie, " were the two schools in \nwhich he combined the study of Highland characteristics, moral and \nphysical, and the recollection of which furnished him with many \nlife-like pictures, which he afterwards recast and sent forth to the \nworld. The house he once inhabited, the primitive hospitality he \nhad often enjoyed, the patriarchal suppers, the domestic circle, \nthe warm hearts of the inmates, and the stanch Jacobite at their \nhead, are sketched with a force and brevity that show how faith- \nfully they had been treasured up in the poet\'s mind." \n\nHis engagements at Downie terminated, Campbell returned, with \ndisappointed hopes and sad prospects, to his father\'s house at Glas- \ngow. Here a violent attack of fever relieved his morbid and excited \nsensibilities, and prepared him to enter on his struggle with the \nworld. In the metropolis he determined to seek his fortunes, and to \nEdinburgh he went, with nothing but sanguine hopes to sustain him, \na little money in his pocket, and the dead weight (for all convertible \npurposes) of two translations from Euripides and iEschylus nearly \nready for the press. Here he obtained the temporary employment \nwhich he regarded as experience in an attorney\'s office. While \nhis fortunes were at their lowest ebb, he formed an -acquaintance \nwhich marks, in the judgment of his biographer, " a most important \nepoch in his history." He was introduced to Dr. Anderson, a \ngentleman who seems to have enjoyed a deservedly high social posi- \ntion in Edinburgh, and who is known in literature as the author of \ncertain lives of the British poets, prefixed to an ill-edited and ill- \nprinted collection of their works. The handsome face of Campbell \nhappened to attract the eyes of the young ladies, and they managed \nto have him introduced to their father. His poetry completed the \nconquest of the family. The doctor was as much charmed with the \nlad\'s verses as the girls had been by his fine eyes ; and Miss \nAnderson, many years afterwards, described his first visit in a man- \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 17 \n\nner so lively as to show that it must have produced the strong \nimpression she represents : \n\n" It was a most interesting scene ; and, although very young, it \nmade a deep and lasting impression upon us. Mr. Campbell\'s ap- \npearance bespoke instant favor : his countenance was beautiful ; and, \nas the expression of his face varied with his various feelings, it be- \ncame quite a study for a painter to catch the fleeting graces as they \nrapidly succeeded each other. The pensive air which hung so \ngracefully over his youthful features gave a melancholy interest to his \nmanner, which was extremely touching. But when he indulged in \nany lively sallies of humor he was exceedingly amusing ; every now \nand then, however, he seemed to check himself, as if the effort to \nbe gay was too much for his sadder thoughts, which evidently pre- \nvailed. As Dr. Anderson became more and more interested in the \nyoung poet, he sought every occasion to awaken in his favor a simi- \nlar interest in the minds of others : and in this effort he succeeded." \n\nDr. Anderson introduced his young friend, with a warm recom- \nmendation, to Mr. Mundell, the bookseller, who immediately em- \nployed him to prepare an abridged edition of Bryan Edwards\' West \nIndies, for the sum of twenty pounds. On this visit Campbell \nremained but about two months at Edinburgh, when he returned to \nGlasgow to finish his translation of the Medea, and the preparation \nof his abridgment for Mundell. For the Medea he received an offer \nfrom his new friend, the bookseller ; but the intention of publishing \nit was abandoned, from the conviction probably that it would not pay. \nWhile at Glasgow he planned a magazine that was never started, \nbut he still continued an amateur student of the law. " My leisure \nhours," he wrote to Dr. Anderson, " I employ in perusing Godwin, \nand the Corpus Juris. The latter I always held as a somniferous \nvolume ; but really, on closer inspection, there is something \namusing as well as improving in tracing the mental progress of man- \nkind from the period of the Twelve Tables till the advanced time of \nJustinian." \n\nCampbell mixed freely in the general society of Glasgow, and con- \ntinued to cultivate relations with his old college professors. Of \nthese, John Miller, for forty years professor of law in the university, \nseems to have been his favorite. John Young, the Greek professor, \nCampbell remembered as a man of great humor, with an exquisite \n\n2* \n\n\n\n18 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nsense of the ludicrous ; of Professor Jardine he spoke as the " amia- \nble," the " benign," the " philosophic." He thought all the profes- \nsors at Glasgow very respectable, college-like persons, but of Miller \nhe wrote with enthusiasm. " There was an air," he said, " of the \nhigh-bred gentleman about Miller, that you saw nowhere else, \xe2\x80\x94 \nsomething that made you imagine such old patriots as Lord Belhaven, \nor Fletcher of Saltoun. He was a fine, muscular man, somewhat \nabove the middle size, with a square chest, and shapely bust, a prom- \ninent chin, gray eyes that were unmatched in expression, and a \nhead that would have become a Roman senator. He was said to be \na capital fencer ; and to look at his light, elastic step when he was \nturned of sixty disposed you to credit the report. But the glory was \nto see his intellectual gladiatorship, when he would slay or pink into \nconvulsions some offensive political antagonist. He spoke with no \nmincing affectation of English pronunciation ; but his Scoto-English \nwas as different from vulgar Scotch as that of St. James\'s from St. \nGiles\'s. Lastly, he had a playfulness in his countenance and con- \nversation that was graceful from its never going to excess." \n\nOn completing his abridgment, he returned to Edinburgh, per- \nforming the journey on foot. For a while he obtained sufficient em- \nployment from Mundell, but was obliged to have recourse again to \nthe uncongenial vocation of a tutor. " And now," wrote Campbell, \nmany years later, "Hived in the Scottish metropolis by instruct- \ning pupils in Greek and Latin. In this vocation I made a comfort- \nable livelihood as long as I was industrious. But The Pleasures of \nHope came over me. I took long walks about Arthur\'s Seat, con- \nning over my own (as I thought them) magnificent lines ; and, as \nmy Pleasures of Hope got on, my pupils fell off. I was not friend- \nless, nor quite solitary, at this period, in Edinburgh. My aunt, Mrs. \nCampbell, and her beautiful daughter Margaret, \xe2\x80\x94 so beautiful that \nshe was commonly called Mary Queen of Scots, \xe2\x80\x94 used to receive \nme kindly of an evening, whenever I called ; and it was to them \n\xe2\x80\x94 and with no small encouragement \xe2\x80\x94 that I first recited my poem, \nwhen it was finished." Before he became known as an author, Jio \nwas intimate with Francis Jeffrey, and with Thomas Brotvn, after- \nwards the successor of Dugald Stewart in the Moral Philosophy chair \nof Edinburgh. With John Richardson, then serving his apprentice- \nship with a writer to the Signet, and James Grahame, an advocate \n\n\n\nLIFE OP CAMPBELL. 19 \n\nat the Scottish bar (author of " The Sabbath") , Campbell at this time \nformed an intimacy, which continued till the death of Grahame in \n1811, and between the survivors for forty-six years, unimpaired. \nRichardson enjoyed through life the confidential friendship, not only \nof Campbell, but of Walter Scott and Joanna Baillie. \n\nAllusion has been made to the intention some time entertained by \nCampbell of joining his brothers in America. The final abandonment \nof this purpose was communicated to his friend Thomson, in a letter, \nthat is interesting from the evidence it gives of the early republican \nbias which marked Campbell\'s political character through life. \nThe letter is dated at Edinburgh, March 30th, 1798 : \n\n" You were among the few to whom I mentioned my resolution of \n\ngoing to , and you may well suppose I congratulate myself \n\nnow upon the discretion with which I mentioned it ; being compelled \nby necessity to stay at home ! Yes, there, is surely either a fate or a \nProvidence, or a blind necessity, which regulates the course of things\'. \nEver since I knew what America was, I have loved and respected \nher government and state of society ; but, without incurring censure, \nI cannot yet become a citizen of that enviable country. My youngest \nbrother, who resides there, anxious to see me once more, negotiated \nfor me, at my request, and procured me a situation ; but my eldest \nbrother, who is a man of more experience , forbids me to quit Britain \ntill I have acquired more useful knowledge. I venerate his opinion, \nand, however unwilling, I relinquish my wish." \n\nSuch as we have described it in the preceding pages, was the \ntraining of Campbell for the production of The Pleasures of Hope. \nFor the merely artistic portion of it he had been thoroughly \nschooled in the Greek and Roman classics, and was familiar with the \nmasters of the best English style. In the practice of composition he \nhad enjoyed no little experience. Besides the elaborate translation \nfrom the Greek dramatists, on which he had bestowed so much time \nand toil, he had written several original poems, some of which, with \nthe choruses of Medea, he admitted, notwithstanding his fastidious- \nness, to a permanent place in his collected works. He had written \nnot only his Elegy in Mull, which is said to have been the poem \nthat first commended him to the attention of Dr. Anderson, but the \ntwo parts of the pretty poem addressed to Caroline, an elegy entitled \nLove and Madness, and the touching ballads of The Wounded \n\n\n\n20 LIFE OP CAMPBELL. \n\nHussar, and The Harper. The Dirge of Wallace, The Epistle to the \nThree Ladies of Cart, and the Lines to a Rural Beauty, were also \npoems of this period, which possess a merit and interest independent \nof the youth of the author, in the production of which he had tried \nand disciplined his wonderful powers. \n\nHis experience of life had not been large, but it had been not \nunfavorable to the cultivation of his poetical genius. The summer, \nwhich in childhood he had passed in the country, impressed upon \nhis mind scenes and images of quiet beauty which were never \neffaced. The trial for treason, which he attended at Edinburgh, \nexcited his earnest sympathies, and taught him to feel deeply with \nhumanity struggling for enfranchisement in whatever land. He had \nloved, too, measurably, and, as well as we can guess, more than once ; \nand had been consoled for his disappointments, and learned to play \nhis flute, and write verses to a new love when he was off with the \nold. The wild and stern displays of nature in her gloom and sub- \nlimity he had studied in the Hebrides and Highlands, in moods \nwhich sometimes made him an apt learner in so severe a school. But, \nabove all, he felt the continual spur and impulse of necessity. \nAcademic competition and honors had made the praise of men a \nwant with him ; and he had a name to make, and a position to win \nin the world, by which he might achieve a fortune or a fame that \nwould give lustre to circumstances even more humble than his own. \nIt is this ungentle and irksome necessity that has been the-origin of \nthe greatest works of man, and to which, beyond all things else, we \nare indebted for The Pleasures of Hope. If Campbell had been a \nchild of wealth, he would have dreamed away life as an amateur and \ncritic of the works of others ; but poverty compelled him to be a \n" maker " himself. \n\nIn his notes of this year he narrates an anecdote of his friend, Mr. \nThomas Robertson, with whose kindness he seems to have_ been \ndeeply impressed. " I had a friend at this time," he says, " whose \nkindness I shall never forget." . . . "He had seen the manuscript \nof The Pleasures of Hope, and, calling on me one morning, he said, \n" Campbell, if you need money for the printing of the poem, my purse \nis at your service. How much will it cost ? \' At a random guess, I \nsaid \' Fifteen pounds. \xe2\x80\x94 But, my dear fellow,\' I added, \' God only \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 21 \n\nknows when I may be able to repay you !\' \xe2\x80\x94 \' Never mind that,\' he \nreplied, and left me the money ; but for the fifteen pounds I had a \nhundred and fifty calls more pressing than the press itself." \n\nCampbell had at first intended to publish the poem by subscription ; \nbut finally, through his friend Dr. Anderson, submitted the manu- \nscript to Mundell, the only bookseller with whom he had formed \nany profitable connection. After some discussion, the copyright \nwas sold " out and out " for sixty pounds, in money and books. So \nscanty and precarious were the resources of its author at that time, \nhe could not be dissuaded from thus disposing of the poem ; and \nthough, about three years afterwards, a London bookseller estimated \nthe value at an " annuity of two hundred pounds for life," it is not \nprobable that Mundell thought he was driving a hard bargain. The \npublisher, indeed, behaved with so much liberality that the poet \nreceived from the first seven editions of his work the large sum of \nnine hundred pounds, notwithstanding he had divested himself of \nall legal interest in the copyright. \n\n" The Pleasures of Hope," says Campbell in his reminiscences, \n" appeared exactly when I was twenty-one years and nine months \nold. It gave me a general acquaintance in Edinburgh. Dr. Gregory, \nHenry Mackenzie, the author of the Man of Feeling, Dugald \nStewart, the Rev. Archibald Alison, the \' Man of Taste,\' and Thomas \nTelford, the engineer, became my immediate patrons." With Wal- \nter Scott he had been previously acquainted ; and, soon after the \nappearance of his poem, was invited by him to a dinner-party of his \nselect literary friends, among whom Campbell found himself an entire \nstranger. No introduction took place ; but, after the cloth was \nremoved, Scott rose, and, with a kind and complimentary reference to \nthe poem, proposed a bumper to the " Author of the Pleasures of \nHope." "The poem," he added, "is in the hands of all our \nfriends ; and the poet," pointing to a young gentleman on his right, \n" I have now the honor of introducing to you as my guest." \n\nIn a letter written, thirty years afterwards, to Mrs. Arkwright, \nthe daughter of Stephen Kemble, we find a paragraph of peculiar \ninterest, as containing the poet\'s description of himself at this period, \nand fixing the locality which suggested one of the remarkable passages \nin his poem. " The day that I first met your honored father," he \nwrote, " was at Henry Siddons\', on the Calton Hill, in Edinburgh. \n\n\n\n22 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nThe scenery of the Frith of Forth was in full view from the house ; \nthe time was summer, and the weather peculiarly balmy and beauti- \nful. I was a young, shrinking, bashful creature : my poems were \nout but a few days ; and it was neck or nothing with me, whether I \nshould go down to the gulf of utter neglect or not ; although, with \nall my bashfulness, I had then a much better opinion of myself and \nmy powers than I have at this moment. Your dear father praised \nmy work, and quoted the lines \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n1 \'T is distance lends enchantment to the view,\' &c, \n\nlooking at the very hills that had suggested the thought ! Well, I \nthought to myself (for, as I have said, I was at that time enormously \nvain) , there is some taste in this world, and I shall get on in it ; and \nmy heart is warmed to the name of Kemble ever since. We are, \nalas ! very selfish ; and there was a vivid picture of that little party \nin my mind, when I went with an ardent heart to join in the thun- \nders of applause that welcomed your gifted relative, who is to be the \nqueen of our stage." It is hardly necessary to add that the lady to \nwhom he referred was Miss Fanny Kemble. \n\nThe original manuscript of The Pleasures of Hope is in exist- \nence, in good preservation, in the autograph of the poet. It formerly \nbelonged to the late Dr. Murray, Professor of Oriental Languages, \nand was at the time of Campbell\'s death in the possession of Mr. \nPatrick Maxwell, a literary gentleman of Edinburgh. The MS. \nconsists of about forty or fifty paragraphs, extending over some \ntwenty pages, and containing above four hundred lines. At the end \nof the poem is The Irish Harper\'s Lament for his Dog, word for \nword as it is now printed under the title of The Harper. \n\nFrom this manuscript the following extract, shortly after the poet\'s \ndeath, was inserted in the Edinburgh Advertiser, with Mr. Maxwell\'s \npermission, as a literary curiosity : \n\nORIGINAL INTRODUCTION TO THE \xc2\xab PLEASURES OF HOPE." \nSeven lingering moons have crossed the starry line \nSince Beauty\'s form or Nature\'s face divine \nHad power the sombre of my soul to turn, \xe2\x80\x94 \nHad power to wake my strings and bid them burn. \nThe charm dissolves ! What Genius bade me go \nTo search the unfathorned mine of human woe \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 23 \n\nThe wrongs of man to man, of clime to clime, \nSince Nature yoked the fiery steeds of Time ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe tales of death \xe2\x80\x94 since cold on Eden\'s plain \nThe beauteous mother clasped her Abel slain ; \nAmbitious guilt \xe2\x80\x94 since Carthage wept her doom ; \nThe Patriot\'s fate \xe2\x80\x94 since Brutus fell with Borne 1 \n\nThe charm dissolves ! My kindling fancy dreams \nOf brighter forms inspired by gentler themes; \nJoy and her rosy flowers attract my view, \nAnd Mirth can please, or Music charm anew; \nAnd Hope, the harbinger of golden hours, \nThe light of life, the fire of Fancy\'s powers, \nBeturns : \xe2\x80\x94 again I lift my trembling gaze, \nAnd bless the smiling guest of other days. \n\nSo when the Northern in the lonely gloom, \nWhere Hecla\'s fires the Polar night illume, \nHails the glad summer to his Lulean shores, \nAnd, bowed to earth, his circling suns adores. \n\nSo when Cimmerian darkness wakes the dead, \nAnd hideous Nightmare haunts the curtained bed, \nAnd scowls her wild eye on the maddening brain, \nWhat speechless horrors thrill the slumbering swain, \nWhen shapeless fiends inhale his tortured breath, \nImmure him living in the vaults of death ; \nOr lead him lonely through the charnelled aisles, \nThe roaring floods, the dark and swampy vales ! \nWhen rocked by winds he wanders on the deep, \nClimbs the tall spire, or scales the beetling steep, \nHis life-blood freezing to the central urn, \nNo voice can call for aid, no limb can turn, \nTill eastern shoot the harbinger of day, \nAnd Night and all her spectres fade away ! \n\nIf then some wandering huntsman of the morn \nWind from the hill his murmuring bugle horn, \nThe shrill sweet music wakes the slumberer\'s ear, \nAnd melts his blood, and bursts the bands of fear; \nThe vision fades \xe2\x80\x94 the shepherd lifts his eye, \nAnd views the lark that carols to the sky. \n\n\n\nMany of the passages in the original draft are the same as they \nstand in the printed poem ; others have been retouched, and others \nentirely suppressed. The whole poem, indeed, was much amplified \n\n\n\n24 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nand altered ; and the poet was aided in the process of revision by \nthe severe and judicious criticism of Dr. Anderson, to \'whom he was \nindebted for many kind offices, which he recognized by dedicating \nto him the first volume of his poems. \n\n" The rapture of April, 1799," says a writer in the Quarterly Re- \nview, " on the first appearance of The Pleasures of Hope, was very \nnatural. Burns had lately died. Cowper was sunk in hopeless in- \nsanity, soon to be released. Their vivid examples had not sufficed \nto abolish the drowsy prestige of Hayley. Of the great constellation \nthat has since illuminated us, but few of the more potent stars had \nascended above the horizon. Crabbe, under a domestic sorrow of \nwhich Campbell was destined to participate, had fallen into a de- \njected inactivity, and was all but forgotten. Rogers had some years \nearlier published The Pleasures of Memory, to which The Pleasures \nof Hope owed more than the suggestion of a title ; but that genial \neffusion only promised the consummate graces since displayed, though \ntoo parsimoniously, by its now venerable author. Wordsworth and \nColeridge had sent forth Lyrical Ballads, some of them exquisitely \nbeautiful, and in the aggregate most deeply influential ; but these \nwere as yet, and for a long while after, appreciated only within a \nnarrow circle; no one misunderstood and undervalued them more \nthan did Campbell himself. Southey had produced nothing that sur- \nvives in much vitality. Moore was at college, or at Anacreon. \nByron had not yet lain dreaming under the elm of Harrow, nor Wil- \nson listened to \'the sweet bells of Magdalen tower.\' The moment \nwas fortunate, and the applause more creditable to the public than \nadvantageous (in the upshot) to the new poet." \n\n\n\nCHAPTER III. \n\nThe sale of his poem had improved Campbell\'s finances ; and with \na little money in his pocket he was always buoyant and sanguine. \nHe determined to travel, Goldsmith fashion, on the continent. His \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 20 \n\ncareer had been decided. It was to be that of a man of letters ; and \nin this view it was important for him to become acquainted with the \nliterature and literary men of Germany. On his route he was to be \njoined by his friend Richardson, and together they were to produce a \nvolume of travels, that was to go far towards paying their expenses. \nThen he was engaged on a poem styled The Queen of the North, in \nwhich he was to celebrate the glories and independence of Scotland. \nOf this poem he had already composed several fragments, and had \ncontracted for its illustration with Mr. Williams, whom he describes \nas an artist of first-rate genius in his profession of a landscape \npainter. Fortunately, too, he had formed a connection, through some \nof his whig friends, with Perry, the liberal and gentlemanly editor \nof the Morning Chrojiide, of London, for whose columns he was em- \nployed as a correspondent. The projected poem and the volume of \ntravels both failed, and his only substantial resources in Germany \nproved to be Perry and The Pleasures of Hope. \n\nIn June, 1800, in company with his brother Daniel, who intended \nto establish himself on the continent as a manufacturer, the young \npoet embarked at Leith for Hamburg. His prudence had overcome \nhis anxiety to visit London and its celebrities ; and he consoled him- \nself for losing the sight of Godwin, Mackintosh, Mrs. Siddons and his \nfriend Thomson, by the reflection that he should see Schiller and \nGoethe, the banks of the Rhine and the mistress of Werter. \n\n" Besides, upon reflection," as he records himself, in a letter of \nthat period, " I see the propriety of making my first appearance in \nLondon to the best advantage. At present I am a raw Scotch lad, \nand, in a London company of wits and geniuses, would make but a \ndull figure with my northern brogue and \' braw Scotch boos.\' I am \nnot satisfied with my quantum of literature, but intend to write a \nfew more books before I make my debut in London. In reality, my \nfixed intention, on returning from Germany, is to set up a course of lec- \ntures upon the Belles Lettres. I had some thoughts of lecturing in \nEdinburgh, but cannot think of remaining any longer in one place. \n\n" If London should not offer encouragement, I mean to try Dublin. \nI think this a respectable profession, as the showman of the bear \nand monkey said, when he gave his name to the commissioners of \nthe income tax, as an itinerant lecturer on Natural History." \n\nCampbell met a kind reception among the British residents at \n\n3 \n\n\n\n26 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nHamburg, where he resided nine or ten weeks to acquire some \nknowledge of the language and country, before proceeding to the \ninterior. " I have seen the great Klopstock," he wrote, soon after his \narrival, to John Richardson, " and given him a copy of the third \nedition;" and the " mild, civil old man " returned the compliment by \nletters of introduction to his friends in other parts of Germany. \nWith Klopstock he conversed only in Latin, a language which en- \nabled him to make his way very well with the French and Germans, \nand still better when he fell in with the Hungarians. \n\nFrom Hamburg he proceeded to Ratisbon, on the Danube, \xe2\x80\x94 the \nancient capital of Bavaria, \xe2\x80\x94 where he arrived three days before it \nwas taken by the French. The scenery of his route he describes in a \nletter to Dr. Anderson, in prose, which even his best poetry hardly \nsurpasses. The incidents of war, which he witnessed, he paints with \nequal brilliancy and effect ; and if any one of his contemporaries \nhas achieved anything better in the same style, it was surely not at \nthe age of two and twenty, or in a sketch designed only for the eye \nof private friendship. He writes, on the 10th of August, 1800, from \nRatisbon : \n\n" What are the expectations of politicians now with regard to \npeace? Everything here is whisper, surmise, and suspense. If war \nbreaks out, the bridge over the Danube is expected to be blown up ! \nYou may guess what a devil of a splutter twenty-four large arches \nwill make,\xe2\x80\x94 flying miles high in the air, and coming down like fall- \ning planets to crush- the town! Joking apart, \xe2\x80\x94 and indeed the \nevent will be no joke, \xe2\x80\x94 Ratisbon will be shivered to atoms ; and, as \nno premonition is expected, the inhabitants may be buried under \nthe ruins. But, in spite of all conjectures to the contrary, I think \npeace is not far off. \n\n" My journey to Ratisbon was tedious, but not unpleasant. The \ngeneral constituents of German scenery are corn-fields, \xe2\x80\x94 many \nleagues in extent, \xe2\x80\x94 and dark tracts of forest equally extensive. Of \nthis the eye soon becomes tired ; but in a few favored spots there \nis such an union of wildness, variety, richness and beauty, as cannot \nbe looked upon without lively emotions of pleasure and surprise. \nWe entered the valley of Heitsch, on the frontier of Bavaria, late in \nthe evening, after the sun had set behind the hills of Saxony. A \nwinding road through a long woody plain leads to this retreat. It \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 27 \n\nwas some hours before we got across it, frequently losing our way \nin the innumerable paths that intersect each other. At last the \nshade of the forest grew deeper and darker, till a sudden and steep \ndescent seemed to carry us into another world. It was a total eclipse ; \nbut, like the valley of the shadow of death, it was the path to paradise. \nSuddenly the scene expanded into a broad grassy glen ; lighted from \nabove by a full and beautiful moon, it united all the wildness of a \nScotch glen with the verdure of an English garden. The steep hills \non either side of our green pathway were covered with a luxuriant \ngrowth of trees, where millions of fire-flies flew like stars among the \nbranches. Such enchantment could not be surpassed in Tempe \nitself. I would travel to the walls of China, to feel again the wonder \nand delight that elevated my spirits when I first surveyed this en- \nchanting scene. An incident apparently slight certainly heightened \nthe effect produced by external beauty. While we gazed up to the \nruined fortifications, that stretched in bold, broken piles across the \nridge of the mountain, military music sounded at a distance. Five \nthousand Austrians, on their march to Bohemia (where the French \nwere expected to penetrate), passed our carriage in a long broad line, \nand encamped in a wide plain, at one extremity of the valley. As \nwe proceeded on our way, the rear of their army, composed of Ked- \ncloaks and Pandours, exhibited strange and picturesque gx*oups, \nsleeping on the bare ground, with their horses tied to trees ; whilst \nthe sound of the Austrian trumpets died faintly away among the \nechoes of the hills. \n\n" It was a sudden transition from the beauties of an interesting \njourney to the horrors of war and confusion that prevailed at Ratis- \nbon. The richest fields of Europe desolated by contending troops. \nPeasants driven from their homes to starve and beg in the streets ; \nhorses dying of hunger, and men dying of their wounds, were the \ndreadful novelties at this time. A few more agreeable circumstances \ntended to lessen the effect of these disagreeable scenes. The novelty \nof everything around me, the splendor and sublimity of the Catholic \nservice, and the hospitality of the good monks [of the Benedictine \nScotch College of St. James] in their old marble hall, amused me \ninto peace of mind, as far as tranquillity could be enjoyed in such \nperilous times. The music of our high church cathedral is beyond \nconception. On the morning before the French entered Ratisbon, a \n\n\n\n28 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nsolemn ceremony was held. One passage in the Latin service was \nsingularly apropos to the fears of the inhabitants for siege and \nbombardment. The dreadful prophecy, \' 0, Jerusalem, Jerusalem ! \nthou shalt be made desolate !\' was chanted by a loud, single voice, \nfrom one end of the long echoing cathedral. A pause, more express- \nive than any sound, succeeded ; and then the whole thunder of the \norgans, trumpets and drums, broke in. I never conceived that the \nterrific in music could be carried to such a pitch. \n\n\' \' Within two hours an alarm was given for the Hungarian infantry \nto march from the camp, and support their retreating countrymen. \nTheir music, though less sacred, was perfect in its kind. The effect \nof this military exhibition, the most impressive that could be \nwitnessed, was heightened by the sound of distant artillery, and \nthe flashing of carbines in the neighboring wood, where the \nFrench and Austrian Roth-mantels skirmished in small parties. The \nappearance of dead and wounded men carrying past gave a serious \naspect to the scene, and convinced the spectator that he was not \nwitnessing the scene of a holiday parade." \n\nHere was Campbell " fairly caged," \xe2\x80\x94 the French in Ratisbon and \nthe Austrians in the village of Haddamhoff on the other side. Now \nand then he went to the Scottish convent ; but his republican politics \nwere not suited to that meridian ; and he denounces the monks as \nlazy, greasy and ignorant. The French officers were more after his \nown heart, and, in general, " famous fellows." Of his mode of life \nat this time, and his views of pedestrian travel, we find an account, \nin a letter to his " dear and much-wished-for friend," Richardson, \nwhich, in style and substance, seems to us Goldsmith over again. \n\n\' \' Ratisbon is a place of much note in the history of Germany. We \nmust learn all the striking events connected with its legends. You may \njudge what we could live upon, by the rate of my expenses here ; \nand I believe, upon an average, you cannot live much cheaper in any \nother city. My room costs two florins \xe2\x80\x94 four shillings \xe2\x80\x94 per week. \nI lodge with a surgeon, called Deisch, a very genteel and agreeable \nman. He sends me dinner and a glass of good beer from his own \ntable, for eighteen kreuzers, or sevenpence a day, to my own room. \nThis is fully as cheap as the most reasonable eating-house would \ndemand ; and the victuals are always clean and wholesome. The wood \nfor my winter-stove, Father Boniface tells me, will cost about thirty \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 29 \n\nshillings for a half-year. Tea and sugar are high ; but of these we \nmight have a sufficient quantum from home, without possibility of \ndetection. The room is large enough to hold two beds ; and, if our \nstocks were joined, we might live for half nothing. We might keep \nsufficient company at a tenth of the expense we could at Edinburgh ; \nfor the only treat is a dish of coffee, or a glass of beer, at twopence \na bottle. \n\n" Travelling is very cheap to those who know the coins, and the \nmode of procedure. Travelling even as \' Milord Anglais,\' I could \nhardly spend a guinea a day. "With economy, and on foot, we may \nvisit all the corners of Germany, travel a space of three thousand \nmiles, stop at convenient stages for a few days at a time, and be \nmasters of all the geographical knowledge worth learning, for thirty \npounds apiece. I reckon thus : We set out with a stick, fitted as \nan umbrella, - \xe2\x80\x94 a nice contrivance, very common here, \xe2\x80\x94 with a fine \nHolland shirt in one pocket, our stockings and silk breeches in the \nother, and a few cravats, wrapt in clean paper, in the crowns of our \nhats. This, with a pocket-book, is all the baggage we require. \nBooks for entertainment and assistance must be deferred till we stop \nat some considerable towns, where there are always good libraries, \nand where we ought to stop, with introductory letters, a few days at \nleast. Of these I can get sufficient. At country inns a bed and \nsupper are had for half-a-crown apiece. Refreshments of coffee for \nsixpence, and of bread and beer for twopence. On reaching towns, \nif we manage properly, and search for a cheap little berth in the sub- \nurbs, we may live with equal economy. This is the cheapest way of \ntravelling ; and, even should my literary schemes succeed this year \nbeyond expectation, I am determined to put it in practice ; fori have \nneglected economy too long ; and, thank God, we are both philoso- \nphers enough to despise hardships for the sake of knowledge and ex- \npansion of mind. Travelling along with you, my dear friend, a crust \nof rye bread will bepleasanter than the finest fare in your absence." \n\nCampbell left Ratisbon late in October, and returned, by way of \nLeipsic, to Altona, where he resided until he embarked for England. \nMeanwhile, his situation had been, in many respects, difficult and \npainful. For several weeks he remained without news from home. \nHe was solitary, dejected, anxious for the future, and in a state of \nuncertainty and suspense with regard to what " was saying or doing \n\n3* \n\n\n\n30 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nin Britain." He was troubled about the yet unfinished Queen of \nthe North. His letters to Richardson during this period express \nan earnest longing for his friend\'s presence. "0, how I shall leap," \nhe says, " when I see you spring from the packet to the Danish \nshore ! Then, my boy, for Buda ! the Danube ! the hills of Bavaria ! \nVienna ! Our tour shall delight the universe !" A fit of sickness \nconfined him for many weeks, disabled and dispirited him, broke up \nhis plans, and arrested all intellectual exertion. On the 25th of \nDecember, he wrote to his long-expected and still missing friend \nRichardson : \n\n" By February \xe2\x80\x94 even by the middle of January \xe2\x80\x94 nay, even for \ncertain by the 15th of January \xe2\x80\x94 I shall have sent to Perry twenty- \nfour pieces of poetry ; he could not insert more in a year\'s time, and \nby that period I shall be entitled surely to fifty pounds. This is all \nmy resource. If you do not come by Yarmouth, write to him for my \nsake ; and, on condition of twenty-four pieces being sent by that \nperiod, request, with dignified politeness, that amount ; and offer \ntwenty pieces to be sent next year for the like sum, \xe2\x80\x94 all as highly \npolished as regard to my reputation can induce me to make. What \ncould I not. do, were you beside me ! This is all hush-work ; no \nsending through the drum, or talking of it in Mundell\'s shop. For- \ntified with fifty pounds, I defy fate ! I know how to travel and live \nfrugally. Judge of my economy when I tell you that I can at pres- \nent content myself with two meals a day, of which dinner costs eight- \npence and supper sixpence. \n\n" Let us plunge down to Hungary, and there we can live comfort- \nably upon ten shillings a week, for all the expenses of each. From \nthis to Munich \xe2\x80\x94 which is worthy of a whole volume in our travels \xe2\x80\x94 \nwe can walk for four pounds apiece ; and you may get by water down \nto Presburg or Ofen for a guinea, or less. Walking, I must repeat \nit, is our best plan ; sure and independent. Let your luggage be \nlittle ; but bring, for God\'s sake, Shakspeare, and a few British clas- \nsics. These things will be sent to Ratisbon, and thence down the \nDanube at small expense. I forgot to mention Adams\' Comparison \nof Ancient and Modern Geography ; also, if you wish to keep me \nfrom cutting my throat, bring the materials detailed in my last. \nMarch, March ! I will ever bless thy bleak, pale face, if thou gives t \nme my friend !" \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 31 \n\nThe materials referred to were scraps, hints and extracts, touching \nthe history and tradition of Edinburgh, and some details in regard \nto the surrounding scenery, for his contemplated Queen of the \nNorth. \n\nOf fourteen pieces communicated to Perry during Campbell\'s \nresidence on the Danube and the Elbe, but a few have been admit- \nted to a place in his collected poems. Of these, the first was The \nExile of Erin, written immediately after his arrival at Altona, and \nsuggested by the fortunes of Anthony M\'Cann, a refugee Irishman, \nwhose acquaintance Campbell had made at Hamburg. The song \nis to an old Irish air, which had been often used as the medium of \nsimilar sentiments. The Lines on Revisiting a Scene in Argyleshire \nwere first sketched in 1798, but were finished at Hamburg, and \ntransmitted from Germany for the columns of the Morning Chronicle. \nThe Beech-tree\'s Petition was written at the request of his sister \nMary, and the venerable subject of the poem still stands in the \ngarden of Ardwell, the seat of J. Murray M\'Culloch, Esq., who relates \nthe following anecdote : " On occasion of one of my happy visits to \nAbbotsford, my friend Sir Walter and I were taking a forenoon\'s \nwalk over his fields. In our conversation, some allusion was made \nto The Pleasures of Hope, and to the celebrated author of that \nfine poem ; when Sir Walter said, \' By the by, I was lately told \nthat the Beechen Tree of Tom Campbell stands in your garden at \nArdwell. This I took upon me to contradict, for I had never heard \nmy friend Campbell say that he had been at Ardwell ; nor did I ever \nhear you say that he had been there.\' I answered, \' Indeed, my dear \nsir, you have unintentionally done us injustice : for it stands in our \ngarden, and we are very proud of our classic and celebrated Beech. \nWe must not be deprived of our tree, especially by such authority \nas yours ; so you must get the matter authenticated as soon as you \nhave any opportunity of doing so.\' " Scott was satisfied by this \nexplanation that the Campbell Beech really stood in Mr. M\'Culloch\'s \ngarden, and promised to rectify his error on every appropriate \noccasion. \n\nThe Ode to Winter and Ye Mariners of England were among \nthe most finished and successful lyrics composed in Germany. \n\nThe latter was first suggested by hearing the air played at the \nhouse of a friend in Edinburgh, but was finished at Altona. It was \n\n\n\n32 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\npublished by Mr. Perry, with this title: "Alteration of the Old \nBallad Ye Gentlemen of England, composed on the Prospect of a \nRussian War," \xe2\x80\x94 and was signed " Amator Patriae." \n\nThis Ode was followed by Lines written on seeing the unclaimed \nCorpse of a Suicide exposed on the Banks of a River ; and the \nName Unknown, imitated from Klopstock. These poems, as they \nare now published, do not differ materially from the original \nmanuscript. \n\nOf his minor pieces, and the larger poem in contemplation, he \nthus writes to Richardson : " Look westward from Charlotte-street \nand tell me what are the principal scenes, or if connected with any- \nthing describable. Do see the same from the west. Is Benledi or \nBenlomond visible 1 What can be said of that view ? Look from \nthe castle, and see what views it can possibly afford. What is there \nremarkable about the Abbey"? and where is the place of \' refuge \' ? \nRoslin Castle, \xe2\x80\x94 try, my dear friend, what can be done with \nthat. * * \n\n" The subject, I think seriously, is capital. I have got an episode to \nthe college, which pleases me. As to my labors this summer, they \nhave been but ineffectual. God knows what a state of spirits I have \nenjoyed. But there is one piece, on the Valley of Eldurn, which I \nthink well-polished and classical. Wallace is bold and irregu- \nlar, \xe2\x80\x94 of its merit I am more doubtful. The Exile of Erin pleases \nTony MacCann and his brethren. I would send Perry my Latin \nverses on the Deer, but you will see the subject is taken into the \nValley of Eldurn. * . * * \n\n" I request your caution most earnestly about what I have said \nabout the Queen of the North. Keep up the public mind. We \nshall do it this summer in our halting-place. I expect you to be the \nbearer of the materials." \n\nThe Valley of Eldurn we suppose to be the first sketch of his beau- \ntiful poem on leaving a scene in Bavaria, and the incident which \nsuggested the allusion to the wounded deer is related in one of those \ndescriptive passages which make some of his letters exquisite prose \npoems. " I have explored," he writes, " new and wonderful regions of \nromantic scenery on the Danube, and its tributary streams. Formerly \nI talked of scenery from pictures and imagination. But now I feel \nelevated to an enthusiasm which only wants your society to be \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 33 \n\nboundless, when I scour the woods of gigantic oak, the bold and \nbeautiful hills, the shores and the rocks upon the Danube. \n\n"Some days of this harvest have been truly fine. The verdure \nhas revived from the heat of summer, which before had entirely \nparched it. What think you of valleys scoured by wild deer, lined \nwith woods of rich and sublime growth, and scented with wild plums \nand Indian beans ? The myrtle and vine, that would starve in our \nbleak climate, grow wild upon the rocks, and twine most beautifully \nround the caves, where the wild deer hide themselves, inaccessible \nto the dogs and the hunter. I saw an instance of this myself : a \npoor animal flew up the heights, close to my path, dived into the \nrocks, and neither search nor scrutiny, nor crying nor shouting, \ncould dislodge her. The huntsman and his pack returned from this \nplace, which I have christened the \' rock of mercy,\' rupes misericor- \ndice. I have written some Latin lines upon it, which I may show \nyou some day in my portfolio." \n\nIt was in March, 1801, that the English squadron under Nelson \nsailed for the coast of Denmark. Rumors of this naval armament had \npreceded it, and Campbell came to the conclusion that no man in his \nsenses would remain on the continent who was not independent of \nany connection with Great Britain. He embarked for Leith, but the \nvessel in which he sailed, on parting with her convoy, was spied by \na Danish privateer, and chased into Yarmouth Roads, where Camp- \nbell quitted her, and took coach for London. There he arrived with \nfew shillings in his pocket ; but found Perry, and met with a most \nwarm and cordial reception. " I will be your friend," said Perry. \n" I will be all that you could wish me to be." All the " fears and \nblue devils " of the young poet were dissipated by these few words \nof earnest and hearty encouragement. " Come, my dear Richardson," \nhe wrote to his friend, " and enhance all the good fortune I enjoy \nby your precious society ! You will be acquainted with Perry also, \nand must, like me, admire him. His wife is an angel, and his niece \na goddess. I am over head and ears in love with the latter. Leap \ninto your boots like Lefleur, and be in London to-morrow." \n\nIn the notes of his first visit to London, he says : " Calling on \nPerry one day, he showed me a letter from Lord Holland, asking \nabout me, and expressing a wish to have me to dine at the King of \nClubs. Thither with his lordship I accordingly repaired, and it was \n\n\n\n34 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nan era in my life. There I met, in all their glory and feather, Mack- \nintosh, Rogers, the Smiths, Sydney, and others. In the retrospect \nof a long life, I know no man whose acuteness of intellect gave me \na higher idea of human nature than Mackintosh ; and, without dis- \nparaging his benevolence, \xe2\x80\x94 for he had an excellent heart, \xe2\x80\x94 I may \nsay that I never saw a man who so reconciled me to hereditary \naristocracy like the benignant Lord Holland." \n\nWhile intoxicated with this social and literary success, he learned, \nsuddenly, the death of his father, at the patriarchal age of ninety- \none. He immediately left London by sea for Edinburgh. On the \nvoyage a lady passenger startled him with news of the arrest of \nCampbell the poet, for high treason. Not only was he arrested, but \nhe was confined in the Tower, and likely to be executed. He laughed \nat this, and had forgotten it, when, as he was at dinner a week \nor two afterwards, he had a summons to attend the Sheriff of Edin- \nburgh. The officer carried a search-warrant, and he and his papers \nwere conveyed to the sheriff. That magistrate received him with \nsolemnity. One of his fellow-voyagers from the Elbe to Yarmouth \nhad been a certain Donovan, who had commanded a regiment of \nrebels at Vinegar Hill. Government had been warned of this man\'s \nreturn by some Hamburg spy, who thought fit to add that he had \nfor his companion the author of The Exile of Erin and other \ndangerous songs, a travelling agent of the Morning Chronicle, noto- \nrious when in Germany for haunting rebel society, and vehemently \nsuspected of having conspired with Moreau in Austria, and with the \nIrish at Hamburg, to get a French army landed in Ireland. Dono- \nvan was now in the Tower, and it might be necessary to confront his \nassociate with him. Campbell answered that he had never seen \nDonovan except on board the Hamburg ship, and was wholly \nignorant of his subsequent adventures. The sheriff opened the trunk, \nand began to examine the MSS. Innocent letters and diaries ap- \npeared, fragments of poems, and, by and by, the original draft of \nYe Mariners, which this loyal functionary had not before heard of, \nand now read with equal surprise and delight. " Mr. Campbell," \nsaid he, " this is a cold, wet evening \xe2\x80\x94 what do you say to our having \na bottle of wine during the examination of your treasonable papers ? " \nThe sheriff, of course, dismissed him in good humor. \n\nOn his return to Edinburgh, he found his family affairs dismal \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 35 \n\nenough. The small pension paid, during his father\'s lifetime, by \nthe Merchants\' Society at Glasgow, was discontinued. This, Camp- \nbell, with his usual generous feelings, undertook to make good. He \nalso proposed, that two of his sisters, who were then employed as \ngovernesses in private families, should get rid of their engagements, \njoin their mother, and. set up a boarding-school of their own in \nEdinburgh. The plan was adopted : it insured comfort otherwise \nunattainable for the destitute family, and for a time promised well. \nThe poet, before quitting London, had been " liberally considered" \nby Perry, and he looked forward to a subscription edition of The \nPleasures of Hope, which his publisher permitted him to issue for his \nexclusive benefit. He was released from his obligations in regard to \nThe Queen of the North, and agreed to execute for Mundell a com- \npendium of English History, from the accession of George III. to \nthe commencement of the present century, in three volumes octavo, \nat one hundred pounds each. This work is said to be a very useful \nabridgment, unambitiously written, and of convenient reference. \n\nIn the autumn of this year (1801), Lord Minto, who had then \nrecently returned from the court of Vienna, where he had resided \nas British Envoy Extraordinary, invited him on a visit to Minto \nCastle. The invitation was accepted, and the result of the visit was \nso agreeable to both parties that Campbell consented to take up his \nquarters for the ensuing season at his lordship\'s mansion in Hano- \nver-square, where a " poet\'s room" was prepared for his reception. \n\nHis lordship availed himself occasionally of his services as secre- \ntary ; but Campbell was now master of his time, and had the best \nopportunities of introduction to London society. At Mr. Perry\'s \ntable he met the same distinguished men who had bid him welcome \non his arrival from Germany ; and at the King of Clubs, to which \nhe was taken by Lord Holland and Mackintosh, he mingled with the \nfirst literary and political men of the metropolis. His happiest \nmoments at this period seem to have been passed with Mrs. Siddons, \nthe Kembles and his friend Telford, the distinguished engineer, whom \nhe describes as a " fellow of infinite humor," and a most useful \ncicerone in London, from his universal acquaintance and popular \nmanners. Telford, on the other hand, always manifested an affec- \ntionate attachment for Campbell, as well as a high admiration for \nhis genius. \n\n\n\n36 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nAt the close of the parliamentary session, Lord Minto started for \nScotland, taking the poet with him as his travelling companion. \nCampbell remained a while in Edinburgh, and did not reach Castle \nMinto till late in August, when he found there, among other visitors, \none whom he mentions as " our Tyrtaeus of the Edinburgh volunteers \n\xe2\x80\x94 Walter Scott." It was while under his lordship\'s roof that \nLochiel and Hohenlinden were composed, revised, and finally pre- \npared for the press. It was intended that they should first appear \nin the subscription quarto copy of his poems ; but they were pub- \nlished anonymously by themselves, and dedicated to the Rev. Mr. \nAlison. When he read his manuscript of Lochiel to Mrs. Dugald \nStewart, the good lady rose very gravely from her chair, walked \nacross the room, and, laying her hand gently upon his head, \nsaid, " This will bear another wreath of laurel yet!" This little \ncompliment made a strong impression on the mind of Campbell, and \nhe alludes to it as one of the principal incidents in his life which \ngave him confidence in his own powers. \n\nIt was long before Lochiel could be put into a shape that satisfied \nthe poet. The first sketch of it was completed over a cup of tea, at \ntwo o\'clock in the morning, at Castle Minto. The idea that " coming \nevents cast their shadow before" had struck him between sleeping \nand waking at that seasonable hour, and, with that wrought out, he \nfinished the poem on the spot. Some passages which he after- \nwards struck out he restored at the suggestion of Scott, with whom \nthe poem was a great favorite. But Campbell had infinite trouble \nwith it, and he wrote Lord Minto that he had made so many \nattempts to remodel it, and found it incorrigible, that he was \ntempted to throw it away in vexation. Washington Irving, in his bio- \ngraphical sketch of Campbell, speaks of this poem and Hohenlinden \n" as exquisite gems, sufficient of themselves to establish his title to \nthe sacred name of poet." But the poet himself did not seem to \nthink much of Hohenlinden, and considered some of the verses \n\n" d d drum-and-trumpet lines." This we have from .Sir Walter \n\nScott, who relates an amusing anecdote in regard to it. " John \nLeyden," says Scott, " introduced me to Campbell. They after- \nwards quarrelled. When I repeated Hohenlinden to Leyden, he \nsaid, \' Dash it, man ! tell the fellow that I hate him. But, dash \nhim, he has written the finest verses that have been published these \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 37 \n\nfifty years. \' I did mine errand as faithfully as one of Homer\'s mes- \nsengers, and had for answer, \' Tell Ley den that I detest him ; but I \nknow the value of his critical approbation.\' " \n\nIf this communication took place before the 27th March, 1803, \nCampbell\'s resentment was stronger than his. vanity, for under that \ndate he writes of his sturdy critic in a strain that is anything but \ncomplimentary. " London," he says, " has been visited in one \nmonth by John Leyden and the influenza ! Saul hath slain his \nthousands, and David his tens of thousands. They are both raging \nwith great violence. John has been dubbed Dr. Leyden, and the \ninfluenza has been called La Grippe. The latter complaint has con- \nfined Telford and myself for a week or so ; the former has attacked \nus several times." Three or four days afterwards he wrote, " Ley- \nden has gone at last, to diminish the population of India." \n\nDr. Beattie clears up Scott\'s passing allusions to this feud. \nCampbell had fancied he traced to Leyden an absurd exaggeration \nof his earlier distresses \xe2\x80\x94 which at last, it seems, took the shape of \na newspaper paragraph, detailing how he had been actually on his \nway to Leith to drown himself, when he fell in with the school- \nmaster Park, and that thus his very life was due to the first inter- \nview with Dr. Anderson. Campbell\'s pride was grievously wounded, \nand he never forgave the imputed offence. "We have no belief , " \nsays an intelligent writer in the North British Review, " that Ley- \nden either invented the story or wrote the paragraph ; but we can \nvery easily understand that there was a repulsive instinct between \nthat very rough subject and the pretty-looking, probably somewhat \nprim little junior, originally no doubt introduced to his notice as the \nPope of Glasgow." \nHis poem published and the subscriptions still pouring in, the Annals \niu progress at one hundred pounds the volume, a fifty-pound bank- \nnote in actual possession, and withal " few or no debts," Campbell \nthought he could safely venture upon matrimony. During the sum- \nmer he had fallen in love with his cousin, and his love was returned. \nOf his intended change of condition he wrote to his friend, Dr. \nCurrie, that it began with a dash of romance quite sufficient for a \nmodern novel, " for the lady\'s name is Matilda, and we intend to live \nin a cottage. What more romance would you wish for 1 \xe2\x80\x94 a poet, a \ncottage, a fine name, and a fortuneless marriage. It will set many \n4 \n\n\n\n38 LIFE OP CAMPBELL. \n\nan empty head a shaking to devise by what infatuation the poor \nyouth has set his face against the ills of life, with this increase of \nresponsibility ! But it is happy that human prosperity does not \ndepend upon frigid maxims. A strong and virtuous motive to ex- \nertion is worth uncounted thousands, for encountering life with \nadvantage." \n\nEarly in September, 1803, the London newspapers announced the \nmarriage of " Thomas Campbell, Esq., author of The Pleasures of \nHope, to Matilda, youngest daughter of Robert Sinclair, Esq., of \nPark-street, Westminster." \n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV. \n\nThe marriage of Campbell and his cousin was one of love on both \nsides. In the poet\'s eye his wife was a beautiful, lively and lady- \nlike woman. She had travelled too ; and Campbell\'s stories of the \nElbe and\' Danube were matched by hers of the Rhone and Loire. \nIn Geneva she had learned the art of making the best cup of Mocha \nin the world ; and there was a tradition that the Turkish ambas- \nsador, seeing her at the opera in a turban and feathers, asked who \nshe was, was told she was a Scottish lady, and thereupon said \nhe had seen nothing so beautiful in Europe. " Her features," says \nDr. Beattie, " had much of the Spanish cast ; her complexion was \ndark ; her figure graceful, below the middle size ; she had great \nvivacity of manners, energy of mind, and sensibility, or rather irri- \ntability, which often impaired her health." \n\nIn a letter to the American publishers of Dr. Beattie\'s biography, \nWashington Irving confirms the poet\'s accounts of her personal \nbeauty, and states that her mental qualities seemed equally to jus- \ntify his eulogies. " She was, in fact," he adds, " a more suitable \nwife for a poet than poets\' wives are apt to be ; and for once a son \nof song had married a reality, and not a poetical fiction." \n\nThe young couple took lodgings in the first instance in Pimlico, \nwhere Campbell entered upon a course of life that he thought would \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 39 \n\ninsure his industrious application to literature. "lam habitually \ncontented," he wrote to his sister Mary, some three weeks after \nmarriage, " and disposed to write from morning till night. Give \nme but the continuance of this prosperity, and, if vexations from \nexternal quarters do not come in upon my balance of mind, I shall \nask no other blessing from Heaven but the habit of industry. Luck- \nily, my wife is as domestic as myself. She sits all day beside me at \nher seam, and, except to receive such visitors as cannot be denied, \nwe sit forever at our respective vocations. I ask no more from \nHeaven than to be allowed calmly and peaceably to work for my \nbread in this manner ; and, if I can only do so, there is no earthly \ndoubt that my circumstances will expand \xe2\x80\x94 not to competency, but \nto wealth. This is a full and true picture of my present situation \nand future prospects." \n\nAt Pimlico their first boy was born, and was christened Thomas \nTelford, after Campbell\'s old friend, who stood sponsor on the occa- \nsion. The young father\'s introduction to him is thus tenderly de- \nscribed in a letter to Dr. Currie : < ; Our first interview was when he \nlay in his little crib, in the midst of white muslin and dainty lace, \nprepared by Matilda\'s hands,\xe2\x80\x94 long before the stranger\'s arrival. I \nverily believe that lovelier babe was never smiled upon by the light \nof heaven. He was breathing sweetly in his first sleep \xe2\x80\x94 I durst not \nwaken him, but ventured one kiss. He gave a faint murmur, and \nopened his little azure lights. Since that time he has continued to \ngrow in grace and stature. I can take him in my arms, but still his \ngood nature and his beauty are but provocatives to the affection \nwhich one must not indulge ; he cannot bear to be hugged, he can- \nnot yet stand a worrying. , that I were sure he would live to the \ndays when I could take him on my knee, and feel the strong plump- \nness of childhood waxing into vigorous youth ! My poor boy ! shall \nI have the ecstasy of teaching him thoughts, and knowledge, and \nreciprocity of love to me 1 It is bold to venture into futurity so far. \nAt present, his lovely little face is a comfort to me ; his lips breathe \nthat fragrance which it is one of the loveliest kindnesses of nature \nthat she has given to infants \xe2\x80\x94 a sweetness of smell more delightful \nthan all the treasures of Arabia. What adorable beauties of God \nand nature\'s bounty we live in without knowing ! How few have \never seemed to think an infant beautiful ! But to me there seems to \n\n\n\n40 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nbe a beauty in the earliest dawn of infancy which is not inferior to \nthe attractions of childhood, especially when they sleep. Their \nlooks excite a more tender train of emotions. It is like the tremu- \nlous anxiety we feel for a candle new lighted, which we dread going \nout." \n\nAll the poet\'s letters in the early stages of married life show that, \nwhatever he may have suffered from insufficient or ill-managed re- \nsources, or from over-tasking his mental faculties to sickness, his \nconnection was a fortunate and happy one. " They were greatly \nattached," \xe2\x80\x94 we are told by a lady who visited Mr. and Mrs. Camp- \nbell at Pimlico, \xe2\x80\x94 " Mrs. C. studied her husband in every way. As \none proof, \xe2\x80\x94 the poet being closely devoted to his books and writing \nduring the day, she would never suffer him to be disturbed by \nquestions or intrusion, but left the door of his room a little ajar, \nthat she might every now and then have a silent peep of him. On \none occasion she called me to come softly on tiptoe, and she would \nshow me the poet in a moment of inspiration. We stole softly \nbehind his chair \xe2\x80\x94 his eye was raised, the pen in his hand; but \nhe was quite unconscious of our presence, and we retired unsus- \npected." \n\n" In my married life," says Campbell, " I lived a year in town, \nand then took and furnished a house at Sydenham, to which I \nbrought my young wife and a lovely boy." In that happy home he \nlived seventeen years, laboring sometimes at much uncongenial task- \nwork, but regularly and conscientiously, even under the pressure of \nbodily pain. \n\n" Laboring in this way " (to quote his own words), " I contrived \nto support my mother, and wife and children. ***** Life be- \ncame tolerable to me, and, at Sydenham, even agreeable. I had \nalways my town friends to come and partake of my humble fare on \na Sunday ; and among my neighbors I had an elegant society, \namong whom I counted sincere friends. It so happened that the \ndearest friends I had there were thorough Tories ; and my Whigism \nwas as steadfast as it still continues to be ; but this acquaintance, \nripening into friendship, called forth a new liberalism in my mind, \nand possibly also in theirs. On my part, I know that it softened \nthe rancor of my prejudices, without affecting the sincerity of my \nprinciples ; and I would advise all spirits that are apt to be over- \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 41 \n\nexcitable, like myself, on party questions, to go sometimes \xe2\x80\x94 not \nas a spy, but as a truce-bearer, \xe2\x80\x94 into the enemy\'s camp, and use- \nful views and knowledge will be discovered among them when they \nare least suspected." \n\nOf his personal and pecuniary circumstances at all times inform- \nation has been communicated to the world in unnecessary detail. \nIt is a topic frequently touched upon in letters not intended for the \npublic eye, and which in our judgment ought to have been suppressed. \nThey are all highly honorable, however, to Campbell. If he was \ncompelled to borrow small sums, he was scrupulous in their prompt \nrepayment. In his extremest need, too, something was sure to \n"turnup" to prevent his distress from becoming serious. But a \nmemoir of Campbell would be incomplete that failed to make some \nallusion to a subject which has been so thoroughly blazoned, and \nwhich we desire once for all to dispose of by the following extracts \nfrom his letters : \n\n" I do not mean to say that we suffered the absolute privations \nof poverty. On the contrary, it was rather the fear than the sub- \nstance of it which afflicted us. But I shall never forget my sensa- \ntions when I one day received a letter from my eldest brother in \nAmerica, stating that the casual remittances which he had made to \nmy mother must now cease, on account of his unfortunate cir- \ncumstances ; and that I must undertake, alone, the pious duty of \nsupporting our widowed parent. ***** Here, now, I had two \nestablishments to provide for \xe2\x80\x94 one at Edinburgh, and another at \nSydenham ; and it may be remembered that in those times the \nprice of living was a full third-part dearer than at present. I ven- \nture to say that I could live, at the time I now write, as comfortably \non four hundred pounds a year, as I could have then lived on an \nincome of six hundred. The war prices put all economy to flight and \ndefiance." * * * * In another passage, he says, "I had never \nknown, in earnest, the fear of poverty before j but it now came upon \nme like a ruthless fiend. If I were sentenced to live my life over \nagain, and had the power of supplicating Adversity to spare me, I \nwould say, \' 0, Adversity ! take any other shape ! \' " * * * * "To \nmeet these pressing demands," he adds, "I got literary engage- \nments both in prose and poetry ; but a malady came over me, which \nput all poetry, and even imaginative prose, out of the question. \n4* \n\n\n\n42 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nMy anxiety to wake in the morning, in order to be at my literary \nlabors, kept me awake all night ; and, from less to more, I became \na regular victim to the disease called the Coma-vigil. Any attempt \nat original composition on my part was at this time out of the \nquestion. But the wolf was at the door ; and, besides the current \nexpenses of our common maintenance, I had to meet the quarterly \npayment of usurious interest, on a debt which I had been obliged to \ncontract for our new furniture, and for the very cradle that rocked \nour first-born child. The usurious interest to which I allude was \nforty pounds a year upon a loan of two hundred pounds \xe2\x80\x94 a Judaic \nloan. \n\n" Throbbing as my temples were, after sleepless and anxious \nnights, I was obliged next day to work at such literary labor as I \ncould undertake \xe2\x80\x94 that is, at prosaic tasks of compilation, abridg- \nment, or commonplace thought, which required little more than the \nlabor of penmanship. \n\n" I accepted an engagement to write for the Star newspaper, and \nthe Philosophical Magazine, conducted by Mr. Tulloch, the editor of \nthe Star, for which I received at the rate of two hundred pounds a \nyear. But that sum \xe2\x80\x94 out of which I had to pay for a horse on \nwhich I rode to town every day \xe2\x80\x94 was quite inadequate to my \nwants ; so I betook myself to literary engagements that would allow \nme to labor all day in the country. Dispirited beneath all hope of \nraising my reputation by what I could write, I contracted for only \nanonymous labor \xe2\x80\x94 and, of course, at an humble price." \n\nIt was during his early residence at Sydenham that Campbell com- \npleted Lord Ullin\'s Daughter, which had been first planned in the \nIsland of Mull. Two of his poems written in Bavaria were now \nalso revised for publication \xe2\x80\x94 The Turkish Lady and The Soldier\'s \nDream. Then, too, the famous Battle of the Baltic was finished. \n" I am stagnated by the cares of the world," he wrote to Walter \nScott, on the 27th March, 1805; "I have only fought one other \nbattle \xe2\x80\x94 it is Copenhagen. I wonder how you will like it in its \nincorrect state." Dr. Beattie affords us the 1 opportunity of com- \nparing it in this state with the finished poem : \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 43 \n\n\n\nTHE BATTLE OF COPENHAGEN. \n\nOf Nelson and the North \n\nSing the day ! \nWhen, their haughty powers to vex, \nHe engaged the Danish decks, \nAnd with twenty floating wrecks \n\nCrowned the fray ! \n\nAll bright, in April\'s sun, \n\nShone the day ! \nWhen a British fleet came down, \nThrough the islands of the crown, \nAnd by Copenhagen town \n\nTook their stay. \n\nIn arms the Danish shore \n\nProudly shone ; \nBy each gun the lighted brand, \nIn a bold determined hand, \nAnd the Prince of all the land \n\nLed them on ! \n\nFor Denmark here had drawn \n\nAll her might ! \nFrom her battle-ships so vast \nShe had hewn away the mast, \nAnd at anchor to the last \n\nBade them fight ! \n\nAnother noble fleet \n\nOf their line \nRode out, but these were naught \nTo the batteries, which they brought, \nLike Leviathans afloat, \n\nIn the brine. \n\nIt was ten of Thursday morn, \n\nBy the chime, \nAs they drifted on their path \nThere was silence deep as death, \nAnd the boldest held his breath \n\nFor a time \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n44 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nEre a first and fatal round \n\nShook the flood ; \nEvery Dane looked out that day, \nLike the red wolf on his prey, \nAnd he swore his flag to sway \n\nO\'er our blood. \n\nNot such a mind possessed \n\nEngland\'s tar ; \n\'T was the love of noble game \nSet his oaken heart on flame, \nFor to him \' t was all the same \n\nSport and war \n\nAll hands and eyes on watch, \n\nAs they keep ; \nBy their motion light as wings, \nBy each step that haughty springs, \nYou might know them for the kings \n\nOf the deep ! \n\n\'T was the Edgar first that smote \n\nDenmark\'s line ; \nAs her flag the foremost soared, \nMurray stamped his foot on board, \nAnd an hundred cannons roared \n\nAt the sign ! \n\nThree cheers of all the fleet \n\nSung huzza ! \nThen, from centre, rear and van, \nEvery captain, every man, \nWith a lion\'s heart began \n\nTo the fray. \n\n0, dark grew soon the heavens \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFor each gun, \nFrom its adamantine lips, \nSpread a death-shade round the ships, \nLike a hurricane eclipse \n\nOf the sun. \n\nThree hours the raging fire \nDid not slack : \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 45 \n\nBut the fourth, their signals drear \nOf distress and wreck appear, \nAnd the Dane a feeble cheer \nSent us back. \n\nThe voice decayed, their shots \n\nSlowly boom. \nThey ceased \xe2\x80\x94 and all is wail, \nAs they strike the shattered sail, \nOr in conflagration pale \n\nLight the gloom. \n\n! death \xe2\x80\x94 it was a sight \n\nFilled our eyes ! \nBut we rescued many a crew \nFrom the waves of scarlet hue, \nEre the cross of England flew \n\nO\'er her prize. \n\nWhy ceased not here the strife, \n\n0, ye brave 1 \nWhy bleeds old England\'s band, \nBy the fire of Danish land, \nThat smites the very hand \n\nStretched to save 1 \n\nBut the Britons sent to warn \n\nDenmark\'s town ; \nProud foes, let vengeance sleep \nIf another chain-shot sweep \xe2\x80\x94 \nAll your navy in the deep \n\nShall go down ! \n\nThen, peace instead of death \n\nLet us bring ! \nIf you \'11 yield your conquered fleet, \nWith the crews, at England\'s feet, \nAnd make submission meet \n\nTo our king ! \n\nThen death withdrew his pall \nFrom the day ; \n\n\n\n46 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nAnd the sun looked smiling bright \nOn a wide and woful sight, \nWhere the fires of funeral light \nDied away. \n\nYet all amidst her wrecks, \n\nAnd her gore, \nProud Denmark blest our chief \nThat he gave her wounds relief ; \nAnd the sounds of joy and grief \n\nFilled her shore. \n\nAll round, outlandish cries \n\nLoudly broke ; \nBut a nobler note was rung, \nWhen the British, old and young, \nTo their bands of music sung \n" Hearts of oak ! " \n\nCheer ! cheer ! from park and tower, \n\nLondon town ! \nWhen the king shall- ride in state \nFrom St. James\'s royal gate, \nAnd to all his peers relate \n\nOur renown ! \n\nThe bells shall ring ! the day \n\nShall not close, \nBut a blaze of cities bright \nShall illuminate the night, \nAnd the wine-cup shine in light \n\nAs it flows ! \n\nYet \xe2\x80\x94 yet, amid the joy \n\nAnd uproar, \nLet us think of them that sleep \nFull many a fathom deep \nAll beside thy rocky steep, \n\nElsinore ! \n\nBrave hearts, to Britain\'s weal \n\nOnce so true ! \nThough death has quenched your flame, \nYet immortal be your name ! \nFor ye died the death of fame \n\nWith Biou ! \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 47 \n\nSoft sigh the winds of heaven \n\nO\'er your grave ! \nWhile the billow mournful rolls, \nAnd the mermaid\'s song condoles. \nSinging \xe2\x80\x94 glory to the souls \n\nOf the brave ! \n\nIt was at this time that Campbell first thought of the publication \nof specimens of the British Poets, and communicated his plan to \nScott in the letter containing a draft of the foregoing poem. Scott\'s \nideas with regard to publishing were on a larger scale than Camp- \nbell\'s ; and on the 12th of April they were developed in a letter to \nhis partner, James Ballantyne, apparently on the suggestion of his \nbrother-poet. " I have imagined," he says, " a very superb work. \nWhat think you of a complete edition of British Poets, ancient and \nmodern] Johnson\'s is imperfect and out of print ; so is Bell\'s, \nwhich is a Lilliputian thing ; and Anderson\'s, the most complete in \npoint of number, is most contemptible in execution both of the \neditor and printer. There is a scheme for you ! \' \' Further corre- \nspondence took place between Scott and Campbell on the subject, and \nsome negotiation with the booksellers. It was contemplated to unite \ntheir labors in the production of the larger work suggested by Scott. \nConstable entered warmly into the scheme, and Campbell had some \nconference with Cadell and Davies, London publishers, who had been \ntreating with Sir James Mackintosh for the biographical and critical \nprefaces to a similar work. Campbell offered the same terms which \nwere suggested by Mackintosh \xe2\x80\x94 a thousand pounds for thirty lives ; \nbut the booksellers higgled about the price, and the negotiation \nappears to have been broken off on this difference of terms. Hence, \ninstead of giving the world a really superb and valuable, collection, \nedited by Scott and Campbell, the booksellers secured for their pro- \nposed publication the cheap services of Mr. Alexander Chalmers, \nwhom Lockhart describes as one of their own Grub-street vassals. \nThis, said Campbell, was disgraceful even to booksellers. One man, \nhe was told, offered to stake his whole reputation on the work for one \nhundred and fifty pounds ; and Chalmers was not reluctant to con- \ntract for three hundred. The publishers saved seven hundred pounds \nby the operation, and lost the making of many times seven hundred. \nA twelvemonth afterwards, Campbell formed the acquaintance of \n\n\n\n48 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nMurray of Fleet-street, whom he found a " very excellent, and gentle- \nman-like man \xe2\x80\x94 albeit a bookseller ;" and none the less so, no doubt, \nin the poet\'s judgment, for being willing to pay a thousand pounds \nfor the Lives, by the partnership. But Scott, by this time, was too \nmuch involved in his own literary labors to resume the undertaking ; \nand Campbell negotiated with Murray for the Specimens, which did \nnot appear for many years afterwards. \n\nCampbell\'s second son was born on the 2d of June, in this year, \nand in a long letter addressed to Mr. Alison, we find a humorous \nsketch of his two boys, and his nursery amusements. \n\n" 17th July. \xe2\x80\x94 * * Your beloved namesake is growing a sweet \nand beautiful child. The elder, Telford, I am sorry to send you less \nfavorable accounts of. Don\'t alarm yourself, however, for his health ; \nit is his moral dispositions which are become rude and savage ! * * * \nHe talks a language like man in his pristine barbarity, consisting of \nunmodulated cries and indefinite sounds. He is rapacious, and would \neat bread and milk till the day of judgment ; but he is obliged to \nstint his stomach to five loaves and as many pints of milk per diem, \nbesides occasional repasts. He is mischievous, and watches every \nopportunity to poke out little Alison\'s eyes, and tear the unformed \nnose from his face ! He had not been christened, but only named, \ntill Alison and he were converted to Christianity together. The \nwatering of the young plants was a very uncommon scene. Telford \nscolded the clergyman, and dashed down the bowl with one smash of \nhis Herculean arms. He continued boasting and scolding the priest, \ntill a wild cry of Y-a-men ! from the clerk, astonished him into \nsilence. The first meeting of Telford and his young friend of the \nnursery was diverting. T. had seen no live animal of the same size, \nexcept the lambs on the Common, which he had been taught to salute \nby the appellation of B-a-a ! This was for some time his nickname \nfor your namesake. \n\n" The importance of these pieces of information may well be called \nin question ; but you remember the anecdote of some one who was \nfound on his knees playing with his bairns, and who asked his visitor \n\' Have you ever been a father V I shall not incur your contempt by \nconfessing that I have worn out the knees of my breeches, not so much \nby praying as by creeping after Telford, the rumbustical dog ! What \n\n\n\nLIFE OE CAMPBELL. 49 \n\nwould we give to have one day of you at Sydenham, to join our creep- \ning party!" \n\nFor the disappointment of his great scheme with his brother poet, \nand the " happiness he had built upon it," he was to some extent \nconsoled by an event that figures in a laconic- and agreeable postscript \nto a letter, otherwise in a very low key, to "Walter Scott : \n\n"P. S. His Majesty has been pleased to confer a pension of 200Z. a \nyear upon me. God Save the Kixg !" \n\nIt is not known to whom, nor for precisely what services, Camp- \nbell was indebted for this seasonable assistance. At the time it was \nascribed to the suggestion of one of the princesses, who had been \ncharmed with his poetry, and had interceded with the king in his \nbehalf. Campbell\'s notes on the subject are in very general terms. \n" My pension," he says, " was given to me under Charles Fox\'s ad- \nministration. So many of my friends in power expressed a desire \nto see that favor conferred upon me, that I could never discover \nthe precise individual to whom I was indebted for it. Lord Minto\'s \ninterest, I know, was not wanting : but I hope I may say, without \ningratitude to others, that I believe Charles Fox and Lord Holland \nwould have bestowed the boon without any other intervention." \n\n" Before that event, I had labored under such gloomy prospects as \nI am reluctant to look back upon ; and I should probably consign \nthe history of them to oblivion, if I gave way to unmanly feeling or \nfalse- pride. But everything that is false in my pride gives way to \nthe gratitude which I owe to those friends who rallied round me at \nthat period ; and it would be black ingratitude if I could forget that \nin one of those days I was saved from taking a debtor\'s lodgings in \nthe King\'s Bench by a munificent present which the Rev. Sydney \nSmith conveyed to me from Lady Holland." \n\nThe pension netted him, after the deduction of fees and expenses, one \nhundred and sixty-eight pounds a year, \xe2\x80\x94 half of which he reserved \nto his own use, and the residue he divided between his mother and \nsisters. While some of his friends had exerted themselves thus bene- \nficially with the ministry, others were seeking to make some perma- \nnent provision for his family, by again publishing a subscription \nedition of his poems. The celebrated Francis Horner, one of the \npoet\'s earliest friends, worked hard for him, and with good success. \nIn a letter to Richardson, Horner says, " It may do you good, among \n\n5 \n\n\n\n50 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nthe slaves in Scotland, to let it be known that Mr. Pitt put his name \nto the subscription when he was at Bath, and we hope that most of \nthe ministers will follow him." \n\nCampbell mentions a dinner at Lord Holland\'s, where he met Fox, \nin the spring of 1806. " "What a proud day," he says, " to shake \nhands with the Demosthenes of his time \xe2\x80\x94 to converse familiarly with \nthe great man whose sagacity I revered as unequalled, \xe2\x80\x94 whose benev- \nolence was no less apparent in his simple manners, \xe2\x80\x94 and to walk arm- \nin-arm round the room with him ! " They spoke of Virgil. Fox was \npleased, and said at parting, " Mr. Campbell, you must come and see \nme at St. Anne\'s Hill ; there we shall talk more of these matters." \nFox, turning to Lord Holland, said, " I like Campbell, he is so right \nabout Yirgil." \n\n" What particularly struck me about Fox," the poet adds, " was \nthe electric quickness and wideness of his attention in conversation. \nAt a table of eighteen persons, nothing that was said escaped him, \nand the pattest animadversion on everything that was said came down \nsmack upon us ; so that his conversation was anything but passively \nindolent or unformidable. * * * My hope of seeing Charles Fox \nat St. Anne\'s Hill was frustrated, alas ! by the national misfortune \nof his death " \n\nThis year was passed by Campbell chiefly in seclusion at Syden- \nham, in revising an edition of Johnson\'s Lives, and in writing several \nnew biographical sketches of the poets.. Towards its close he is said \nto have made the first outline sketch of Gertrude of Wyoming. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER V. \n\nA writer in the Quarterly Review gives a lively description of the \nsociety by which Campbell was surrounded at Sydenham. The neigh- \nborhood was studded with the residences of comfortable families \nconnected, with the commerce of London, and with several of these the \npoet and his wife soon came to be on a footing of close intimacy. \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 51 \n\n" Weary wives, idle widows, involuntary nuns, -were excited splen- \ndidly by such a celebrity at their doors. The requests for autographs \n\xe2\x96\xa0were unceasing. Xo party could be complete without The Pleasures \nof Hope ; he was here in no danger of being overborne or outshone. \n\n" By-and-by he joined a volunteer regiment, called the \' Xorth \nBritons.\' and for a time was constant at drill, and also at mess. This \nlast was not good for his health. Already, his newspaper engage- \nment bringing him daily to town, he had been quite enough exposed \nto the temptation of festive boards and tavern meetings. Moreover, \nfcations of a like kind were not wanting at Sydenham itself. \nThere were jolly aldermen there, as well as enthusiastic spinsters. \nAbove all, the original of Paul Pry, Tom Hill, then a nourishing dry- \nsalter in the city, and proprietor and editor of the Theatrical Mirror, \nhad a pretty box in the village, where on Saturdays convened the \nlights of song and the drama, Matthews, Liston, Incledon, and with \nthem their audacious messmate and purveyor, the stripling Hook. \nThe dignity of Campbell\'s reputation surrounded him amidst these \nmerrymakers with a halo before which every head bowed \xe2\x80\x94 which \nevery chorus recognized. All this was very different from Holland \nHouse, from the King of Clubs \xe2\x80\x94 even from the Divan in the Row. \nTo Campbell it was more fascinating. Even so Goldy, in the circle \nof Burke and Johnson, sighed secretly for his Irish poetasters and \nindex-makers, and the \'shoemaker\'s holidays/ as he called them, \nof Highbury Barn. \' \' \n\nBut it was in the midst of all these influences \xe2\x80\x94 unfavorable as \nthey may have been to poetic inspiration \xe2\x80\x94 that Campbell composed \nGertrude of "Wyoming. This exquisite poem was completed in IS 08, \nand published in the following year with a dedication to Lord Hol- \nland. The proof-sheets were read by Mr. Alison and one or two \njudicious friends in Edinburgh ; but it does not appear that the poem \nwas submitted to any such processes as no doubt greatly improved \nThe Pleasures of Hope. Among the friends permitted to peruse the \nmanuscript was the editor of the Edinburgh Review, who favored the \nauthor with an epistolary critique, to the justice of which every \nappreciating reader of Campbell must assent : \n\n<\xe2\x80\xa2\' Edixbvrgh, March 1st, 1809. \n* * * * "I have seen your Gertrude. The sheets were sent to Alison, \nand he allowed me, though very hastily, to peruse them. There is great \n\n\n\n52 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nbeauty, and great tenderness and fancy in the work \xe2\x80\x94 and I am sure it will \nbe very popular. The latter part is exquisitely pathetic, and the whole \ntouched with those soft and skyish tints of purity and truth which fall like \nenchantment on all minds that can make anything of such matters. Many \nof your descriptions come nearer the tone of \' The Castle of Indolence \' \nthan any succeeding poetry, and the pathos is much more graceful and del- \nicate. * * * But there are faults, too, for which you must be scolded. \nIn the first place, it is too short, \xe2\x80\x94 not merely for the delight of the reader, \nbut, in some degree, for the development of the story, and for giving full \neffect to the fine scenes that are delineated. It looks almost as if you had \ncut out large portions of it, and filled up the gaps very imperfectly. * * * \n\n" There is little or nothing said, I think, of the early love and of the \nchildish plays of your pair, and nothing certainly of their parting, and the \neffects of separation on each \xe2\x80\x94 though you had a fine subject in his Euro- \npean tour, seeing everything with the eyes of a lover, a free man, and a \nman of the woods. * * * It ends rather abruptly, \xe2\x80\x94 not but there is \ngreat spirit in the description, but a spirit not quite suitable to the soft \nand soothing tenor of the poem. The most dangerous faults, however, are \nyour faults of diction. There is still a good deal of obscurity in many \npassages, and in others a strained and unnatural expression \xe2\x80\x94 an appear- \nance of labor and hardness ; you have hammered the metal in some places \ntill it has lost all its ductility. \n\n"These are not great faults, but they are blemishes ; and, as dunces will \nfind them out, noodles will see them when they are pointed to. I wish you \nhad had courage to correct, or rather to avoid them ; for with you they \nare faults of over-finishing, and not of negligence. I have another fault to \ncharge you with in private, for which I am more angry with you than for \nall the rest. Tour timidity, or fastidiousness, or some other knavish quality, \nwill not let you give your conceptions glowing, and bold, and powerful, as \nthey present themselves ; but you must chasten and refine and soften them, \nforsooth, till half their nature and grandeur is chiselled away from them. \nBelieve me, my dear C, the world will never know how truly you are a \ngreat and original poet till you venture to cast before it some of the rough \npearls of your fancy. Write one or two things without thinking of publi- \ncation, or of what will be thought of them \xe2\x80\x94 and let me see them, at least, \nif you will not venture them any further. I am more mistaken in my \nprognostics than I ever was in my life, if they are not twice as tall as any \nof your full-dressed children. * * * I write all this to you in a terrible \nhurry, but tell me instantly when your volume is to be out. \n\n"F. Jeffrey." \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. * 53 \n\nBy his friends in Edinburgh the new poem was hailed with a gen- \neral acclamation of delight, to which the reading public of Great \nBritain gave a cordial response. In the following spring a second \nedition was called for. Meanwhile, with a facility somewhat re- \nmarkable for Campbell, he sketched the touching story of O\'Con- \nnor\'s Child in the autumn, finished it in December, and published it \nin the same volume with Gertrude. \n\nIn 1811, Campbell was invited to deliver a course of lectures before \nthe Royal Institution, for one hundred guineas \xe2\x80\x94 the terms pro- \nposed by himself. Two were to be delivered before and three after \nEaster, in the following year. To his brother Alexander the poet \nwrote that it was a "very honorable appointment." "I hope," \nsaid Sir Walter Scott, " that Campbell\'s plan of lectures will suc- \nceed. I think the brogue may be got over, if he will not trouble \nhimself by attempting to correct it, but read with fire and feeling. \nHe is an animated reciter, but I never heard him read." \n\nIn February of the year 1812, the poet\'s mother died at Edinburgh, \nat the age of seventy-six. She had been for several months a sufferer, \nand Campbell said that he felt more at the news of her first shock of \nparalysis than at her decease. " It is only," said he, "when I \nimagine her alive in my dreams, that I feel deeply on the subject." \n\nMeanwhile, the time approached for the delivery of his lectures, \nof which we find, in a letter of the poet, the annexed synopsis. " I \nbegin my first lecture with the Principles of Poetry ; I proceed, in my \nsecond, to Scripture, to Hebrew, and to Greek Poetry. In the \nfourth, Tdiscuss the Poetry of the Troubadours and Romancers, the \nrise of Italian Poetry with Dante, and its progress with Ariosto and \nTasso. In the fifth, I discuss the French theatre, and enter on Eng- \nlish poetry \xe2\x80\x94 Chaucer, Spenser, Shakspeare. In the sixth, Milton, \nDryden, Pope, Thomson, Cowper and Burns, are the yet unfinished \nsubjects. It forms a sort of chronological, though necessarily \nimperfect, sketch of the whole history of Poetry. My endeavor is \nto give portraits of the succession of the truly great poets in the most \npoetical countries of Europe. I forgot to say that I have touched \nalso on Oriental poetry." \n\nOf the poet\'s success in his new vocation we learn from one of his \nown letters to an old friend : \n5* \n\n\n\n54 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\n\n\nTO THE EEV. ARCHIBALD ALISON. \n\n"Sydenham, April 26, 1812. \n\n" My dearest Alison : The day before yesterday I gave my first lecture \nat the Royal Institution, with as much success as ever your heart could \nhave wished, and with more than my most sanguine expectations antici- \npated. Indeed, I had occasionally pretty sanguine expectations of a very \ndifferent sort of reception. I took, however, great pains with the first lec- \nture, and, though I was flattered by some friends saying I had thrown \naway too many good things for the audience, yet I have a very different \nopinion. I felt the effect of every sentence and thought, which I had tried \nto condense. You will think me mad in asserting the audience to be en- \nlightened ; but now I must think them so \xe2\x80\x94 wise, enlightened as gods, since \nthey cheered me so ! and you will think me very vain in telling you all this.\' \nPray burn this letter with fire in case it should rise up in judgment against \nmy vanity ! But really and truly, my dear old friend, I am not so vain as \nsatisfied that all my labor has not been threshing on the water. I was told, \nof course, all the good things about my own sweet self, in the ante-chamber. \nLord Byron, who has now come out so splendidly, told me he heard Bland, \nthe poet, say (knowing neither his lordship nor me), \' I have had more \nportable ideas given me in the last quarter of an hour than I ever imbibed \nin the same portion of time.\' Archdeacon Nares fidgeted about, and said, \n* That \'s new ; at least, quite new to me.\' I could not look in my friend\'s \nface ; and I threatened to divorce my wife if she came. All friends struck \nme blind, except my chieftain\'s lovely daughter, and now next-door neigh- \nbor on the Common, Lady Charlotte Campbell. I thought she had a feudal \nright to have the lecturer\'s looks to herself. But chiefly did I repose my \nawkward eyes on the face of a little yellow unknown man, with a face and \na smile of approbation indescribably ludicrous. When I came to your \nname about \' association,\' I felt the force of your doctrine, and my heart, \nhaving passed from fear to confidence, swelled so much that, for fear of \ncrying, I stopt sooner than I ought, but I said you were an eloquent and \nvenerable clergyman. I could not add my friend, for it sent another idea \nmost terribly through my heart. \n\n" I had taken no small pains with my voice and pronunciation, strength- \nening the one not under a pedantic teacher, but with some individuals who \nare good judges of reading, and getting rid of Caiedonianisms in the utter- \nance. \n\n" My dear boy, Thomas, hoped, on my return, that * nobody had made me \nlaugh during my lecture ! \' The little wee man with the yellow face cer- \ntainly made me smile. \n\n" Now this news, with the taking of Badajos, is quite sufficient for one \nweek. I had forgot to remind you of my pension \xe2\x80\x94 no wonder. I shall be \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 55 \n\npopular in London, for probably three weeks ! and nothing less than a riot \nat the theatre, or a more than ordinary case of gallantry in high life, can \nput me before that time out of date ! * * * \n\n" But seriously, my dearest Alison, a greater cause of my good spirits is \nthe recovery of Thomas from an illness and fever of six weeks, which has \nreduced him to a shadow. He is now fairly better. How are all your dear \ncircle % Remember me to them. " Your ever affectionate \n\n"T. Campbell." \n\nDuring the remainder of this year and a portion of 1813, the poet \nseems to have devoted more time than was usual with him to general \nsociety. Lady Charlotte Campbell had introduced him to the Princess \nof Wales, and he became an habitual visitor at the Court of Black- \nheath, where he was no doubt more at his ease than he would have \nbeen in any other court. He became quite a favorite of the princess, \nand danced Scotch reels with her " more than once." Here he met \nMackintosh and Sir Thomas Lawrence ; and, on one occasion, Dr. \nBurney and his daughter, Madame D\'Arblay. " Her features," he \nsays, " must have been once excellent ; her manners are highly pol- \nished, and delicately courteous, \xe2\x80\x94 just like Evelina grown old, \xe2\x80\x94 not \nbashful, but sensitively anxious to please those about her. I sat next \nto her, alternately pleased and tormented with the princess\' naivete \nand Madame D\'Arblay\'s refinement. Her humility made me vow \nthat I would abandon the paths of impudence forever ! Yet I know \nnot that anybody but herself could manage so much gentleness. I \nbelieve any other person would appear designing with it. But really \nyou would love her for her communicativeness, and fine tact in con- \nversation." \n\nCampbell\'s first acquaintance with Theodore Hook was of this \nperiod. " Yesterday an improvisatore \xe2\x80\x94 a wonderful creature of the \nname of Hook \xe2\x80\x94 sang some extempore songs, not to my admiration, \nbut to my astonishment. I prescribed a subject, \xe2\x80\x94 \' pepper and salt,\' \n\xe2\x80\x94 and he seasoned the impromptu with both \xe2\x80\x94 very truly Attic salt. \nHe is certainly the first improvisatore this country ever possessed \xe2\x80\x94 he \nis but twenty." \n\nIn the same circles he met with another man of extraordinary \nsocial talent, and of no little note, towards the close of the last cen- \ntury, for his convivial songs. " I dined yesterday with Captain Mor- \nris, the old bard, who sang his own songs in his eighty-first year with \n\n\n\n56 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nthe greatest glee, and obliged me to sing some Scotch songs and the \nExile of Erin. * * * The party was at Lonsdale\'s, the painter\'s ; \nand you may guess how social it was when worse, infinitely worse \nthrapples, as we Scotch say, volunteered songs after dinner, in the \nhearing of ladies. Poor old Morris was cut a little \xe2\x80\x94 but he is a \nwonderful spirit. His dotage seems to consist of boasting of the \nking\'s kindness to him. I was as sober as a judge when I came home, \nat one in the morning." \n\nIn the spring of 1813 Madame de Stael visited England. Camp- \nbell had previously corresponded with her, and had offered to super- \nintend the translation of one of her works. She had written him, in \nJanuary, from Stockholm, thanking him for his offer, and telling \nhim that during the ten years for which she had been absent \nfrom England the English poem which excited her most, and which \nshe read again and again, was The Pleasures of Hope. During the \nvisit Campbell saw her several times, and read her his lectures, one \nof them against her own doctrines in poetry. Woman of genius as \nshe was, Madame de Stael showed the tact and lavished the compli- \nments of a French woman. Campbell tells us that " every now and \nthen " she said to him, " When you publish your lectures they will \nmake a great impression over all Europe ; I know nothing in English \nbut Burke\'s writings so striking." Every now and then ! The poet \nmight have thought, with the queen in Hamlet, " the lady doth pro- \ntest too much, methinks." \n\nDuring this summer Campbell passed a few weeks at Brighton, \nwhere he met Herschel, whom he found a " simple, great being." \nHe spent a day with the astronomer by invitation. Herschel described \nhis interview with Bonaparte, and said that, though the emperor \naffected astronomical subjects, he did not understand them deeply. \nOf his great telescope Herschel said, with a greatness and simplicity \nof expression that struck the poet with wonder, " I have looked \nfurther into space than ever human being did before me. I have \nobserved stars of which the light takes two millions of years to travel \nto this globe." \n\nAt Holland House, also, as well as at St. James\'s Place, in the \nsociety of Lord Holland and Mr. Kogers, he now met familiarly the \ndistinguished men of the time. "I have spent," he writes to a \nfriend, " a pleasant day at Lord Holland\'s. We had the Marquis \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 57 \n\nof Buckingham, Sergeant Best, Major Stanhope, Sir James Mackin- \ntosh, and a swan at dinner. Lord Byron came in the evening. It \nwas one of the best parties I ever saw." Byron and Campbell had \nfirst met in 1811, at the table of Mr. Rogers. On another occasion \xe2\x80\x94 \nafter a dinner party at Holland House \xe2\x80\x94 Lord Byron writes, " Camp- \nbell looks well, seems pleased, and dresses to sprucery. A blue coat \nbecomes him, \xe2\x80\x94 so does a new wig. He really looked as if Apollo \nhad sent him a birth-day suit, or a wedding garment. He was lively \nand witty. # * * We were standing in the ante-saloon when \nLord H. brought out of the other room a vessel of some composition, \nsimilar to that used in Catholic churches ; and, seeing us, he ex- \nclaimed, \' Here is some incense for you ! \' Campbell answered, \n\' Carry it to Lord Byron : he is used to it.\' " \n\nIn 1814 the poet visited Paris, and, though his acquaintance with \nart was so limited as to render his criticism of little value, we cannot \nread without interest the glowing transcript of his impressions in the \nLouvre. \n\n" Paris, September 8, 1814. \n& "Written in the Louvre, within two yards of the Apollo. I take out this \nsheet the moment I see the Apollo\' de Belvidere and the Venus de Medicis. \nMrs. Siddons is with me. I could almost weep \xe2\x80\x94 indeed I must. * * * \n\n" T. C." \n\n" I write this after returning from the Louvre. * * * You may im- \nagine with what feelings I caught the first sight of Paris, and passed under \nMontmartre, the scene of the last battle between the French and Allies. \n\n* * * * It was evening when we entered Paris. Next morning, I met Mrs. \nSiddons ; walked about with her, and then visited the Louvre together \n\n* * * 0, how that immortal youth, Apollo, in all his splendor \xe2\x80\x94 majesty \n\xe2\x80\x94 divinity \xe2\x80\x94 flashed upon us from the end of the gallery ! What a torrent \nof ideas, classically associated with this godlike form, rushed upon me at \nthis moment ! My heart palpitated \xe2\x80\x94 my eyes filled with tears \xe2\x80\x94 I was \ndumb with emotion. \n\n"Here are a hundred other splendid statues, \xe2\x80\x94 the Venus, the Menander, \nthe Pericles, Cato and Portia, \xe2\x80\x94 the father and daughter in an attitude of \nmelting tenderness. ... I wrote on the table where I stood with Mrs. \nSiddons the first part of this letter in pencil, \xe2\x80\x94 a record of the strange mo- \nments in which I felt myself suddenly transported, as it were, into a new \nworld, and while standing between the Apollo and the Venus." * * * \n\n" Coming home, I conclude a transcript of the day : The effect of the \nstatue-gallery was quite overwhelming \xe2\x80\x94 it was even distracting ; for the \n\n\n\n58 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nsecondary statues arc things on which you might dote for a whole day ; and \nwhile you are admiring one, you seem to grudge the time, because it is not \nspent in admiring something else. Mrs. Siddons is a judge of statuary ; \nbut I thought I could boast of a triumph over them, in point of taste, when \nshe and some others of our party preferred another Venus to * the statue \nthat enchants the world.\' I bade them recollect the waist of the true \nVenus \xe2\x80\x94 the chest and the shoulders. We returned, and they gave in to \nmy opinion that these parts were beyond all expression. It was really a \nday of tremulous ecstasy. The young and glorious Apollo is, happily, still \nwhite in color. He seems as if he had just leapt from the sun ! All pedantic \nknowledge of statuary falls away, when the most ignorant in the arts finds \na divine presence in this great created form. Mrs. Siddons justly observed \nthat it gives one an idea of God himself having given power to catch, in \nsuch imitation, a ray of celestial beauty. \n\n" The Apollo is not perfect ; some parts are modern, and he is not quite \nplaced on his perpendicular by his French transporters ; but his head, his \nbreast, and one entire thigh and leg, are indubitable. The whole is so \nperfect, that, at the full distance of the hall, it seems to blaze with propor- \ntion. The muscle that supports the head thrown back \xe2\x80\x94 the mouth, tho \nbrow, the soul that is in the marble, \xe2\x80\x94 are not to be expressed. \n\n" After such a subject, what a falling off it is to tell you I dined with \nhuman beings ! \xe2\x80\x94 yea, verily, at a hotel with Mrs. Siddons, her family, \nand Sergeant Best and party. We were all splendidly dressed, dined \nsplendidly, and paid in proportion ; yet I never paid fourteen shillings for \na dinner with more pleasure. It was equal to any at Lord Holland\'s table \n\xe2\x80\x94 a profusion of luxuries and fruits fit to pall an epicure. After dinner \nwe repaired to the opera \xe2\x80\x94 a set of silly things, but with some exquisite \nmusic, at which even Mrs. Siddons, exhausted with admiring the Apollo, \nfell asleep. I should tell you that last night I was alone at the \' Orphan \nof China,\' and read the tragedy so as closely to follow, and feel the recita- \ntion. * * * " T. C." \n\n\xc2\xab Paris, Sept. 12, 1814. \n\xc2\xab * * * i have seen a good deal of French society at Madame de Stael\'s. \nYesterday I dined with Schlegel and Humboldt, who are both very superior \nmen, and with a host of Marqwts and Marquises. After much entreaty, \nthey made me repeat Lochiel. I have made acquaintance also with Denon, \nthe Egyptian traveller, who is a very pleasing person, and gave me an \nadmission to the sittings of the academy." \n\nA month afterwards Campbell wrote to a friend, \xe2\x80\x94 " To-morrow I \nam to be at Madame de Stael\'s, where the Duke of Wellington is \nexpected. I was introduced to him at his own house, where he was \n\n\n\nLIFE\' OF CAMPBELL. 59 \n\npolite enough ; but the man who took me was so stupid as not to \nhave told him the only little circumstance about me that could have \nentitled me to his notice. Madame de Stael asked him if he had \nseen me\'? He said a Mr., &c, had been introduced to him, hut he \nthought it was one of the thousands of that name from the same \ncountry ; he did not know that it was the Thomas ; but, after which, \nhis Grace took my address in his memorandum-book, adding, he was \nsorry he had not known me sooner." \n\nIn 1815 Campbell was called to Scotland by the death of his High- \nland cousin, Mac Arthur Stewart, of Ascog, who had left five hun- \ndred pounds, with a share of any unsettled residue of his estate, to \nu the author of The Pleasures of Hope." In giving his instructions \nfor the settlement, the old man said that " little Tommy, the poet, \nought to have a legacy, because he had been so kind as to give his \nmother sixty pounds yearly out of his pension." This bequest \nturned out to be worth nearly five thousand pounds, the income of \nwhich Campbell enjoyed during his lifetime, the capital remaining \nuntouched, and descending, ultimately, to his son. This turn of good \nluck came opportunely to the poet, like many others in the course of \nhis life. "I feel as blithe" he said to his Edinburgh friends, " as \nif the devil were dead." But it does not seem that Campbell was \nany less in want of money, whatever he might receive from pension, \nlegacies, or copyright ; his disposition to give expanded with his \nmeans, and he managed always to let his charities exceed his income \njust enough to subject himself to continual annoyance. \n\nIn April, 1816, Sir "Walter Scott wrote to his " dear Tom" that \nlie had heard, " with great glee," of his intention to visit Edinburgh \nthe next winter, with the view of lecturing ; and that hearing this \nhad put a further plan in his head, which he communicated in con- \nfidence. His idea was, that either of the two classes of rhetoric and \nhistory in the university of Edinburgh might be made worth four or \nfive hundred pounds to Campbell, though they were of no value to the \nprofessors in possession. " Our magistrates," says Scott, " who are \npatrons of the university, are at present rather well disposed towards \nliterature (witness their giving me my freedom, with a huge silver \ntankard that would have done honor to Justice Shallow); and the \nProvost is really a great man, and a man of taste and reading ; so I \nhave strong hope our point, so advantageous to the university, may \n\n\n\n60 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nbe carried. If not, the failure is mine, not yours. You will under- \nstand me to be sufficiently selfish in this matter, since few things \ncould give me more pleasure than to secure your good company \nthrough what part of life\'s journey may remain to me. In saying \nspeak to nobody, I do not include our valuable friend John Richard- \nson, or any other sober or well-judging friend of yours." \n\nCampbell did not carry out his intention of lecturing in Edin- \nburgh, and it does not appear that any action was taken upon the \nfriendly suggestion of Sir Walter Scott. \n\nOn the death of Francis Horner, a loved and lamented friend, \nCampbell attempted a poem to his memory. Horner\'s political fame \nsprung from his skilful discussion of financial questions ; and it was \nnot easy to treat of banking and bullion in a poetical aspect. In spite \nof this difficulty, the poet succeeded better than he had hoped. The \nsketch of the monody was read at Holland House, and was condemned, \nwe are inclined to believe, on the merits ; though Campbell thought \nhe had given umbrage to his noble friends by a line in praise of \nCanning\'s eloquence. \n\nIn the spring of 1817 Campbell met the poet Crabbe at Holland \nHouse, in company with Moore. They lounged the better part of \na day about the park and library, conversing, among other mat- \nters, about the English novelists. " Your father," he wrote subse- \nquently to the son of Crabbe, " was a strong Fieldingite, and I as \nsturdy a Smollettite. His mildness in literary argument struck me \nwith surprise in so stern a painter of nature ; and I could not but \ncontrast the unassumingness of his manners with the originality of \nhis powers. In what may be called the ready-money small-talk of \nconversation, his facility might not, perhaps, seem equal to the \nknown calibre of his talents ; but in the progress of conversation \n1 recollect remarking that there was a vigilant shrewdness that \nalmost eluded you, by keeping its watch so quietly. Though an oldish \nman when I saw him, he was a \' laudator temporis acti,\' but a decided \nlover of later times. The part of the morning which I spent with \nhim and Tom Moore was to me, at least, of memorable agreeable- \nness." \n\nOn the 27th of June, in this year, the festival in honor of John \nPhilip Kemble was celebrated in Freemason\'s Hall, and the fame of it \nwill live forever in the splendid verses which Campbell contributed to \nthe occasion. \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. * 61 \n\nOn the 4th of July Campbell gave a little dinner at Sydenham, at \nwhich Orabbe, Moore and Rogers, were the only guests. It may well \nbe that at his own hospitable board the poet of Memory had some- \ntimes brought together a more distinguished party, but it was not \ncommon at Sydenham. Moore and Campbell, at all events, remem- \nbered it, and both wrote about it. Campbell says: " One day \xe2\x80\x94 \nand how can it fail to be memorable to me, when Moore has com- \nmemorated it ? \xe2\x80\x94 Crabbe, Rogers, and Moore came down to Syden- \nham, pretty early in the forenoon, and stopped to dine with me. "We \ntalked of founding a Poet\'s Club, and set about electing the mem- \nbers, not by ballot, but viva voce. The scheme failed \xe2\x80\x94 I scarcely \nknow how ; but this I know, that a week or two afterwards I met \nwith Mr. Perry, of the Morning Chronicle, who asked me how our \nPoet\'s Club was going on. I said \' I don\'t know. We have some \ndifficulty in giving it a name ; we thought of calling ourselves The \nBees.\'\' \'Ah,\' said Perry, \' that\'s a little different from the common \nreport ; for they say you are to be called The Wasps ! \' I was so stung \nwith this waspish report, that I thought no more of the Poet\'s Club." \n\nOf the same dinner he wrote a few days afterwards, to his sister : \n\n" We had a most pleasant day. The sky had lowered and rained \ntill they came, and then the sun shone out. \' You see,\' I said to my \nguests, \' that Apollo is aware of our meeting ! \' Crabbe is absolutely \ndelightful \xe2\x80\x94 simple as a child, but shrewd, and often good-naturedly \nreminding you of the best parts of his poetry. He took his wine \ncheerfully, far from excess ; but his heart really seemed to e*xpand, \nand he was full of anecdote and social feeling." \n\nThe commemoration of the day by Moore is in the verses to the \npoet Crabbe\'s Inkstand, written May, 1832 : \n\n" How freshly doth my mind recall, \n\n\'Mong the few days I \'ve known with thee, \nOne that, most buoyantly of all, \nFloats in the wake of memory ! \n# * * \n\n" He,* too, was of our feast that day, \n\nAnd all were guests of one whose hand \nHath shed a new and deathless ray \nAround the lyre of this great land ; \n\n* Rogers. \n\n\n\n62 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nIn whose sea-odes, as in those shells \n\nWhere ocean\'s voice of majesty \nSeems still to sound, immortal dwells \n\nOld Albion\'s Spirit of the Sea. \n\n" Such was our host ; and though since then \n\nSlight clouds have risen \'twixt him and me, \nWho would not grasp such hand again, \n\nStretched forth again in amity % \nWho can, in this short life, afford \n\nTo let such mists a moment stay, \nWhen thus one frank, atoning word, \n\nLike sunshine, melts them all away 1 " \n\nOn the occasion of the lamented death of the Princess Charlotte, \nCampbell wrote a monody, which was recited by Mrs. Bartley, at \nDrury Lane, for the benefit of the performers, who were severe suf- \nferers by this national calamity. Before it was printed, copies of this \nmonody were sent by the author to the Prince Regent and Prince \nLeopold. He enclosed the lines, also, to his sister, with the remark \nthat they were hardly worth mentioning for their poetry, but that \nthey were a sincere expression of the feelings of a whole kingdom. \nLeopold sent him a very polite and kind acknowledgment, " like a \ntrue gentleman," but the poet heard nothing from Carlton House. \n\nIn the autumn of 1818, on an invitation communicated by his \nfriend Mr. Roscoe, the poet delivered a course of lectures on poetry, \nbefore the Royal Institution of Liverpool. It embraced the same \nsubjects with his London course, but there was some change in the \narrangement. On this excursion he received three hundred and forty \npounds from his Liverpool subscriptions, and one hundred more for \nrepeating the lectures at Birmingham, on his way to London. From \nthe contemporary notices we infer that Campbell must have been a \nvery agreeable lecturer. We know that in private he sometimes \nrecited his own poetry with animation and effect ; and we can well \nimagine that his fine eye and voice were made to do their full part \nin setting off his public discourses to the best advantage. \n\nAt Birmingham he seldom visited, except at the house of " poor \nGregory Watt\'s father, the James Watt." Here he was a guest \npeculiarly welcome, and he found Watt, at the age of eighty-three, \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 63 \n\nfull of anecdote and interest. His son promised the poet a cast of a \n" glorious bust of his father, by Chantrey, and a profile of Gregory." \n\nHis lectures he concluded so much to his own satisfaction, and \nthat of his auditors, that he thought lecturing likely to become his \nmetier. Invitations to repeat the series were urged upon him from \nGlasgow and Edinburgh, but they were declined, in consequence of a \nchest complaint, from which he was at that time suffering. He said \nthat he had not a voice to exert without imminent hazard. \n\nDuring his absence from London the Specimens of the British \nPoets at length made its appearance. It was published in seven vol- \numes, duodecimo, the first of which was devoted to an essay on \nEnglish poetry. The remaining volumes were occupied with the \nspecimens, and with critical and biographical notices of their au- \nthors. A second edition was published many years afterwards, in \none volume octavo, and it has been recently republished in the \nUnited States. The work was deservedly successful, and still main- \ntains a high reputation. A writer in the Quarterly Review, after the \ndeath of Campbell, styled it "a book not unworthy to be handed \ndown with the classical verse of its author." \n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI. \n\nIn the month of May, 1820, Campbell was lecturing again before \nthe Royal Institution, and preparing for another visit to Germany, \nwith his family. It was his intention to proceed to the Rhine, \nand pass some time at Bonn, or Heidelberg, in revising his lectures, \nand extending them till they should comprehend an entire view of \nGreek, Roman, French, Spanish, German and Italian literature. \nBefore starting on his journey, he signed an agreement with Mr. Col- \nburn, the publisher, to edit the New Monthly Magazine for three \nyears from the first of the succeeding January, and furnish for it \n\n\n\nG4 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nannually six articles in prose and six in verse, on a salary of five \nhundred pounds. It was stipulated that the prose articles should \ncontain the whole value and substance of the Lectures on Poetry, the \ncopyright of which, with that of all his own writings in the maga- \nzine, was to revert to the author. This matter arranged, Campbell \nembarked for Germany by the way of Rotterdam. Early in June \nhe was at Bonn, on the Rhine, where he studied German with Pro- \nfessor Strahl, whom, in return, he assisted in the pronunciation of \nthe English. The professor read to him from a book entitled Beau- \nties of British Literature, containing extracts from Scott and Byron, \nwith the entire works of Campbell himself. Another edition of his \npoems had also appeared at Leipsic. \n\nOf this visit his letters record some personalities of interest : \n\n" Bonn, June 30. \n"I am fortunate in my lodgings. For a pound a week I have two very \nlarge, good bed-rooms and a sitting-room ; lofty, beautifully papered ; the \nceiling painted ; china vases in the recesses ; paintings in gilded frames \nall round the walls ; and a sofa covered with such new and beautiful silk, \nthat I cannot find in my heart to sit down upon it. For half-a-crown a day, \nI have dinner for Matilda and myself, consisting of soup, cutlets, ham, \nfowls, &c; and a bottle of Rhenish for a shilling. Thomas is boarded with \nProfessor Kapp, at five pounds a month, including all teachers. He sees us \nvery seldom, and is kept tightly to his studies ; while I prosecute my own \nin the library, and step in at pleasure to the lectures of the professors. \nSch].egel, I must say, is very eloquent ; though I cannot yet perfectly fol- \nlow German as I hear it spoken. His students seem in raptures with him ; \nin fact, he should never be out of the pulpit." \n\n" Ratisbon, August 2. \n" Though much exhausted, my spirits rallied at sight of the Danube, \xe2\x80\x94 \nfirst visible from the high road, about four miles from Ratisbon. At that \nmoment, as you may guess, I felt a flood of associations rushing upon my \nmind, that seemed as wide as the river I was contemplating. The sensation \nwas less melancholy than I expected ; I felt myself tranquil, and even \ncheerful ; though the scene reminded me how much of life was gone by, \nand how much there was to regret in the retrospect ! But the evening was \nfine, the prospect grand ; and, as I stood up in the carriage, I could reckon \ntwenty places fraught with lively interest to my memory. There were the \nheights to which the Austrians retreated in 1800 ; there was the spire of \nthe church from which I had watched their movements ; there was the \nwood, from which the last shot was fired, before the armistice. Alas ! that \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 65 \n\ncampaign was but a trifle ; ten years afterwards, thirty thousand fell in \nthe great battle with Napoleon, before Ratisbon. This morning, since five \no\'clock, I have been looking at the scene of action. \n\n" My first visit was to the Scotch college, \xe2\x80\x94 a dismal visit ! Of all the \nmonastery, there are only two survivors, out of a dozen whom I knew. I \nfirst inquired for the worthy prelate, who had shown a fatherly kindness to \nme when I was here. He died, they told me, last April, between eighty \nand ninety years of age. I scarcely imagined that the news of an old \nman\'s death could have touched me so much ; but I could not help weep- \ning heartily when I recalled his benevolent looks and venerable figure, and \nfound myself in the same hall where I had often sat and conversed with \nhim, \xe2\x80\x94 admiring, what seemed so strange to me, the most liberal and tol- \nerant religious sentiments from a Roman Catholic abbot. Poor old Arbuth- \nnot ! it was impossible not to love him. All Bavaria, they told me, \nlamented his death. He was, when I knew him, the most commanding \nhuman figure I ever beheld. His head was then quite white ; but his com- \nplexion was fresh, and his features were regular and handsome. In man- \nners, he had a perpetual suavity and benevolence. I think I still see him \nin the cathedral, with the golden cross on his fine chest, and hear his full, \ndeep voice chanting the service." \n\n" Yiexxa, Sept. 29. \n\n" I have found a kind friend in the Countess R. All Vienna speaks not \nonly well, but reverentially, of her. She is majestic, like Mrs. Siddons, but \nvery natural and gentle, an excellent scholar, \xe2\x80\x94 for she helped me out \nwith a quotation from Cicero, \xe2\x80\x94 yet perfectly unassuming, almost to timidity. \nHer house is the rendezvous of the best society in Vienna ; and she made \nme promise to come every evening. When I arrive, I find her seated in \nfull glory at the upper end of the room, where the place beside her is \nreserved for me. * * * Here you meet a number of the Polish nobil- \nity, of whom the women are extremely beautiful. The men are more like \nEnglishmen than any foreigners I have seen. It is curious to find myself \nat home amongst them, and receiving invitations to call upon them, should \nI ever be at Warsaw ! \n\n" During a day I spent at the countess\' house, she took me to the height \ncalled the \'Fountain of the Thorn,\' where we had a most magnificent view \nof the course of the Danube, from the walls of Vienna to the mountains of \nHungary. Our party partook of a collation on the side of a beautiful hill, \nwhere we looked over woods on the fine prospect, and sat surrounded by \nbeds of mignonette, which was fragrant enough to regale even my dull \nsenses. * * * I have written a few lines to the countess- on the subject, \nwhich I will show you when we meet. \n\n"I have found an excellent friend, \xe2\x80\x94 for so I may truly call him, \xe2\x80\x94 in \n6* \n\n\n\n66 LIFE OP CAMPBELL. \n\nVon Hammer, a member of the Aulic Council, and of celebrity as an Ori- \nental scholar. He has translated my Lines on a Scene in Argyleshire ; \nanother literary man has translated Ye Mariners ; and both have appeared \ni-n the Vienna papers. The Exile of Erin has been ten years translated ; \nand \xe2\x80\x94 would you believe it! \xe2\x80\x94 The Pleasures of Hope was translated into \nDanish three years ago, and the translator is to sup -with me to-night !" \n\nFrom Vienna Campbell returned to Bonn, where he left his son to \nbe educated under care of Dr. Meyer, and proceeded, with his wife, \nto England. Having entered on the editorship of Mr. Colburn\'s \nmagazine, he found it necessary to remove to London, and took lodg- \nings at 62 Margaret-street,- till he established himself permanently \nin a small house in Seymour-street West. "With this journal he con- \ntinued his connection for ten years. \n\nThe politics of the New Monthly had been ultra "tory, while \nCampbell was a whig ; but this he seemed to think of little import- \nance. Relying upon the literary superiority which he could give to \nits pages, he sought at once to procure able contributors among his \nliterary friends. As might have been expected, however, those of \nthem who were implicated in political relations turned a cold shoulder \non his enterprise. The witty and reverend Sydney Smith wrote him \na quizzical note of negation, in which great anxiety was expressed to \nknow the line of conduct he intended to " hold on the subject of reli- \ngion." " Answer my question," he added, " and I will take time \nto consider the matter." Moore wrote from Sevres that he had been \nof late giving himself up to pleasure and had dwelt carelessly, and \nthat the few hours the " world " left him were barely sufficient for him- \nself, without "admitting any works of supererogation for others." \n"His old friend Perry, too, of the Morning Chronicle, was opposed to \nthe magazine, because it had stolen the name of another work for \nparty purposes. In spite of these drawbacks, Campbell succeeded in \nenlisting a corps of writers, who, by their varied and lively talents, \ngave the New Monthly a high position in the world of belles-lettres. \nIt maintained a fair rivalry with Blackwood, and far excelled all \nother competitors in the same field. Talfourd, the Smiths, authors of \nThe Rejected Addresses, Mrs. Hemans, Hazlitt, Foscolo, Miss Lan- \ndon, Barry Cornwall, Praed, and Mr. Blanco White, the author of \nDoblado\'s Letters, were among his contributors ; and Mr. Cyrus \nRedding rendered valuable service to the poet as his assistant editor. \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 67 \n\nCampbell, during the ten years, furnished some thirty poems, which \nwere printed with his name. Besides his twelve lectures, his chief \nprose contributions were, a Letter to Mr. Brant, the son of a Mo- \nhawk Chief ; Letters to the Students of the Glasgow University ; an \narticle on the University of London ; a few reviews, \xe2\x80\x94 one, of Mil- \nton\'s theological tracts : of the four first volumes of Las Casas\' \nNapoleon ; Hugh\'s Travels, and Moore\'s Byron ; with articles on \nthe Civilization of Africa, Shakspeare\'s Sonnets, and Flaxman\'s \nLectures. He wrote, sometimes, a critical notice of a new book, and \nwhen a friend died contributed a few lines for the obituary. The \nmagazine, probably, derived more advantage from his name than \nfrom his labors ; though a public journal takes its tone and character \nfrom the directing mind, which, in this case, was undoubtedly \nCampbell\'s. \n\nAmong his poetical contributions to the magazine was The Last \nMan, published in 1823, an effort in the style of his best days. He \nwas not a little troubled lest he should be suspected of stealing the \nidea of this poem from the Darkness of Lord Byron. It was one, it \nseems, that he had long cherished, \xe2\x80\x94 as we see many instances in \nwhich half a score or more of years elapsed between his conception \nof a poem and its completion. In this case he had conversed with \nhis\'brother poet, some fifteen years previously, on the subject; and to \nthis conversation he attributed the similarity of the leading idea in \nthe two poems, though it was original in neither. \n\nOn the 16th of Xovember, 1824, Campbell wrote to a friend, " I \nam to be out in print on Monday ; and, if I should not see you on \nthat day, Theodoric will/\' The poem appeared, and sorely disap- \npointed a public then accustomed to high achievements in the poet- \nical art, and looking to the mature power of Campbell for something \nto surpass the productions of his marvellous youth. " I am sorry," \nhe wrote to his sister, " that there should be any great expectation \nexcited about the poem, which is not of a nature to gratify such \nexpectation. It is truly a domestic and private story. I know very \nwell what will be its fate ; there will be an outcry and regret that \nthere is\' nothing grand or romantic in the poem, and that it is too \nhumble and familiar. But I am prepared for this ; and I also know \nthat, when it recovers from the first buzz of such criticism, it will \nattain a steady popularity." \n\n\n\n68 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nCampbell expressed much pleasure when he learned that Jeffrey \nintended to review his new work. " I think," said the poet, " he has \nthe stuff in him to understand Theodoric." In a kind and gentle \nspirit the great critic exercised his censorial functions. He surveyed \nthe poem in its favorable aspect, and said everything in its behalf \nthat could suggest itself to the ingenious advocate. He said it, too, \nin that plausible and persuasive style which he knew so well how to \nemploy, and which would induce the belief that he was quietly \nexpressing his own convictions, instead of adroitly seeking to make \nout his case. But it was all in vain. Campbell\'s idea of the imme- \ndiate reception of the poem was certainly realized, but it has not yet \nattained the " steady popularity " to which its author thought it \nwas ultimately destined. \n\nThe event of most interest in the public life of Campbell was the \nestablishment, through his agency, of the University of London. Of \nthis scheme he was the originator, and, in managing its preliminary \narrangements, exhibited uncommon address and energy. From his \ncorrespondence of this period, it would seem to be owing mainly to \nhis exertions that the institution escaped, at the outset, a sectarian \ncharacter, that would have seriously impaired its usefulness. We \ncite a few extracts from the correspondence to which we refer : \n\n" Seymour-steeet West, April 30, 1825. \na * * * J have had a double-quick time of employment since I saw \nyou. In addition to the business of the magazine, I have had that of the \nuniversity in a formidable shape. Brougham, who must have popularity \namong dissenters, propounded the matter to them. The delegates of almost \nall the dissenting bodies in London came to a conference at his summons. At \nthe first meeting, it was decided that there should be theological chairs, partly \nChurch of England and partly Presbyterian. I had instructed all friends \nof the university to resist any attempt to make us a theological body ; but \nBrougham, Hume, and John Smith, came away from the first meeting say- \ning, \' We think, with you, that the introduction of divinity will be mis- \nchievous ; but we must yield to the dissenters, with Irving at their head. \nWe must have a theological college.\' I immediately waited on the Church \nof England men, who had already subscribed to the number of a hundred, \nand said to theni, \'\xe2\x96\xa0 You see our paction is broken ; I induced you to \nsubscribe, on the faith that no ecclesiastical interest, English or Scotch, \nshould predominate in our scheme ; but the dissenters are rushing in. \nWhat do you say 1 \' They \xe2\x80\x94 that is, the Church of England friends of the \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 69 \n\nscheme \xe2\x80\x94 concerted that I should go commissioned from them to say at the \nconference, that either the Church of England must predominate, or else \nthere must be no church influence. I went with this commission ; I debated \nthe matter with the dissenters. Brougham, Hume, and John Smith, who \nhad before deserted me, changed sides, and came over to me. Irving and \nhis party stoutly opposed me ; but I succeeded, at last, in gaining a com- \nplete victory. \n\n" A directory of the association for the scheme of the university is to \nmeet in my house on Monday, and everything promises well. Tou cannot \nconceive what anxiety I have undergone, whilst I imagined that the whole- \nbeautiful project was likely to be reduced to a mere dissenter\'s university. \nBut I have no more reason to be dissatisfied with the dissenters than with \nthe hundred Church of England subscribers, whose interests I have done \nmy best to support. I regard this as an eventful day in my life." \n\nA few days afterwards he wrote to a friend who had manifested a \ndeep interest in the enterprise, and whom from the closing sentence \nof the letter we presume to be Dr. Beattie : \n\n" You will not grudge postage to be told the agreeable news that \nBrougham and Hume have reported their having had a conference \nwith the Chancellor of the Exchequer and Lord Liverpool ; and that \nthey expressed themselves not unfavorable to the plan of a great col- \nlege in London. Of course, as ministers had not been asked to \npledge themselves to support us, but only to give us a general idea of \ntheir disposition, we could only get what we sought \xe2\x80\x94 a general \nanswer \xe2\x80\x94 but that being so favorable is much. I was glad also to \nhear that both Mr. Robinson and Lord Liverpool approved highly of \nno rival theological chairs having been agreed upon. Mr. R. even \ndiffered from Mr. Hume, when the latter said that, of course, getting \na charter is not to be thought of. \' I beg your pardon,\' said Mr. \nRobinson, \' I think it might be thought of; and it is by no means \nan impossible supposition.\' \n\n" A copy of my scheme of education, but much mutilated and \nabridged, is submitted to their inspection. I mean, however, to \ntransmit to them my scheme in an entire shape, and to publish it \nafterwards as a pamphlet. In the mean time, I must for a while \nretire, and leave this business to other hands, now that it seems safe \nfrom any mischief which hitherto threatened it. I send you this in- \ntelligence, because it is an event to me, or at least a step in a promised \nevent, which will be, perhaps, the only important one in my life\'s little \n\n\n\n70 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nhistory ; and your correspondence has been a register of my affairs \nfor a long time, and I hope will always be." \n\nHis plan fairly in the way to be carried out, Campbell revisited \nGermany, with the view of making himself familiar with the disci- \npline and internal arrangements of her universities. At Hamburg, \nhe met Tony M\'Cann, the Exile of Erin, no longer " lonely and pen- \nsive " as in 1801, but as happy as a married gentleman in easy \ncircumstances could well be \xe2\x80\x94 out of Ireland. His exile had been \nsolaced by the charms and fortune of a wealthy young widow of \nAltona, whose compassion for the "heart-broken stranger" may \nhave been first excited by the pathetic strains of the poet. " I found \nmy Exile of Erin," says Campbell, " as glad to see me as if we had \nbut parted a quarter of a year, instead of a quarter of a century." \nUnder such auspices, Hamburg threatened to be a little too gay for \nhim, and he escaped from an " impending shower of invitations " to \nBerlin, where he fixed himself at the St. Petersburg hotel. Here \nhe had a slight fever, but applied himself industriously to the \nobject of his journey, and obtained all the information respecting the \nuniversity, and every book he desired. On his return to Hamburg, \nin October, he was invited by the English residents, to the number \nof eighty, to a public dinner. \n\nFrom the active part which Campbell, as its prime\' mover, had \ntaken in the establishment of the London university, it was naturally \nexpected that he was to be installed as warden, and, at the same \ntime, occupy some professorship. Why no such appointment was \noffered him remains to this day unexplained. Dr. Beattie throws no \nlight upon the point. Though he intimates, in a foot-note, that the \nimportance of his services was not acknowledged, he does not tell us \nwho questioned it, or why Campbell was passed over in organizing \nthe college in Gower-street. If the slight was a mortification to the \npoet, he was presently to be compensated for it by unexpected honors \nfrom another quarter. \n\nThe academic fame of Campbell would have descended, by tradi- \ntion, among the students of the university of Glasgow, if it had not \nbeen kept alive by his celebrity as a poet. Early in 1826 he received \nan intimation that it was desired he should become Lord Rector of \nthat institution for the ensuing year. The office had long been con- \nsidered as the mere medium of a compliment to some gentleman of \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. \' 71 \n\nthe neighborhood, and was usually held by a whig and tory in succes- \nsion. " The election," says a writer in the London Quarterly Review, \n" was with the students in certain classes \xe2\x80\x94 those, we presume, of \nthe first foundation : these were all, however, very young students, \xe2\x80\x94 \nthe majority boys from twelve to sixteen, \xe2\x80\x94 and they had for ages voted \nin their red togas and antique nations as their masters in conclave \nsettled beforehand. The scheme was to make this undergraduate-poll \na real one ; to have Lord Rectors of their own free choice ; and it \nwas very natural and honorable for the Glasgow lads to think first \nof the originator of the London novelty, and greatest literary name \nconnected with their, own college within living memory. Campbell \nwas delighted when he heard of this rebellion against the Senatus \nAcademicus, then mostly composed of tories. He and his whig \nfriends in the north exerted every energy ; the \' ancient solitary reign\' \nof the dignitaries fell at the first assault, and was (apparently) \nabolished forever." This triumph was the more gratifying from the \nfact that it was achieved over two other candidates, Sir Thomas \nBrisbane and Mr. Canning. \n\nIn consequence of his delicate state of health, Campbell was not \ninstalled as Lord Rector until the 12th of April, when he delivered \nhis inaugural address to an overflowing assembly of professors, stu- \ndents and citizens. " I was a student then," says a reminiscent, \n" and, like others, was charmed. We have had the most distinguished \nmen of the day successively elected to the office of Rector, \xe2\x80\x94 Sir \nRobert Peel, Lord Stanley, Lord Brougham, Lord Jeffrey, Sir James \nMackintosh, and many more celebrated in oratory, science and general \nliterature. I have heard all their addresses, but none of them came \nup to that of Thomas Campbell." \n\nOn the 14th of November Campbell was reelected Lord Rector \nfor the year 1828, without a dissentient voice. During his second \nyear of office, he lost his wife. She died on the 9th of May, and on \nthe 15th of the same month the poet thus writes : " * * * I am \nalone ; and I feel that I shall need to be some time alone, prostrated in \nheart before that Great Being who can alone forgive my errors ; and \nin addressing whom, alone, I can frame resolutions in my heart to \nmake my remaining life as pure as nature\'s infirmities may permit a \nsoul to be that believes in His existence and goodness and mercy. \' \' \nAs his grief subsided, we find him in communication with Lord Aber- \n\n\n\n72 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\ndeen on the Commission of Inquiry, and doing his utmost to preserve \nthe privileges of his students ; and so grateful were " his boys," as \nhe called them, that, to testify their admiration and cordial respect, \nthey resolved to strain every nerve to reelect him for the third time, \xe2\x80\x94 \nan honor the highest that they could confer. No such instance had \nhappened for a century previously. This honor, however, was dis- \nputed. Sir Walter Scott was put forward as a competitor, and was \nsupported by the Vice-rector. Campbell, however, was reelected for \nthe year 1829 ; and, by his exertions, permanent advantages were \nsecured for his " darling boys." " For three years," says a writer \nin Blackwood\'\' s Magazine for February, 1849, " during which unusual \nperiod he held the office, his correspondence with the students never \nnagged ; and it may be doubted whether the university ever possessed \na better Rector. " A club bearing his name was founded in his honor, \nand the students presented him with a silver bowl, which he prized \nhighly and mentions in his will. \n\nDuring the year 1829 he formed a society with the title of the \nLiterary Union, the object of which was to bring the literary men of \nLondon into habits of more social and friendly intercourse than then \nexisted. Campbell had been one of the original founders, and a regu- \nlar attendant down to this time, of the Athena3um Club. Why he \nabandoned it to set up a rival institution in its neighborhood, is not \nstated. It is surmised by the Quarterly Review that he had been \noffended by the reluctance of the old committee to facilitate the \nadmission of some of his Polish and Irish friends, while in the new club \nhe had everything his own way. He presided over it till 1843, but it \ndid not long survive its founder. \n\nEarly in 1830 the poet was shocked by the death of his friend, Sir \nThomas Lawrence. He commenced soon afterwards the preparation \nof his biography, but abandoned it in consequence of the impatience \nof the booksellers, and the difficulty of collecting the necessary mate- \nrials. The following extracts from his correspondence of this year \nwill be read with interest : \n\n" June 2d. \xe2\x80\x94 I am happy to tell you, my dearest sister, that I have \nat last had the pleasure of seeing young Milnes under my roof. He \nis a charming young man. I had a party of twelve at dinner about a \nweek ago, where he met the family of the Calcotts ; and they admired \nhim so much that they asked me for his address, that they might \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 73 \n\ninvite him to their house. Calcott is an artist of the very first-rate \ngenius and estimation. He might have been President, if he had chosen \nto stand candidate at the late election. His wife was the Maria \nGraham who wrote her travels in South America and India. * * * \n\n" I have been spending a month in the country with an excellent \nyoung friend, the author of The Silent River, and another beautiful \nlittle drama. I was very happy there \xe2\x80\x94 too happy to be industrious ; \nand the life of Sir Thomas was therefore suspended. My health, \nhowever, has been benefited. \n\n" Aug. 2Qth. \xe2\x80\x94 # * * On Monday last I had my dear friends, \nMrs. Dugald Stewart and her daughter, to dine with me. * * * I \nhad also the good fortune to have that day the great Cuvier and his \ndaughter for my guests. \n\n" Baron Cuvier is delightfully simple as you could wish a first- \nrate great man to be ; and his daughter, or I should say his step- \ndaughter, M\'lle Devaucel, enchanted us all. Mr. Rogers, who knew \nher at Paris, and was with us, said that she had a sort of fascination \nover all the savans in Paris ; and a wager was laid that she would \nfascinate even the giraffe. It really so happened ; and the stupen- \ndous animal, twenty-two feet high, used to follow her about like a \nlamb. \n\n" Sept. 28th. \xe2\x80\x94 I am so fatigued by finishing the October number of \nthe New Monthly, that I can hardly hold a pen ; I have had agitation \nsuperadded to fatigue. You remember that the end of last month I \nwent to visit my poor boy ; I went out of town with a full assurance \non my mind that there was no objectionable paper for the September \nnumber in the hands of the printer \xe2\x80\x94 no paper which I had not seen \nand approved of. The bargain between Colburn and myself gives me \nthe privilege as an editor. Judge of my horror, when I returned to \ntown, to find that an article had been printed attacking the memory \nof Dr. Glennie, of Dulwich, a man with whom you know I was on \nintimate and kindly terms of friendship. I have made in the forth- \ncoming number a full and distinct explanation of this accident. The \n\nvile paper was sent by , whom Dr . Glennie would not allow to \n\ntry experiments on Lord B \'s foot, when Lord B was \n\nDr. G.\'s pupil." \n\nThis circumstance led to the close of his editorial relations with \nMr. Colburn\'s magazine. \n\n7 \n\n\n\n74 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII. \n\nIt had been Campbell\'s intention, on leaving the New Monthly, to \nwithdraw from all connection with periodical literature, and so to \nhusband his resources as to live without the " drudgery of author- \nship." But, on adjusting accounts with his publisher, he found him- \nself largely in debt ; and then commenced the traffic on his name which \nassociated it with works unworthy of his high reputation. In 1831 \nhe became connected with the Metropolitan Magazine, originally as \neditor, afterwards as part proprietor, with Mr. Cochrane, the pub- \nlisher, and Captain Chamier. His friend Rogers lent him five hun- \ndred pounds to pay for his share in the partnership, for which the \nbanker-poet refused to take security. Campbell, however, was not to \nbe outdone in delicacy or punctilio where money was concerned, and \ncaused a security to be made by a life insurance, and a lien upon his \nlibrary and furniture. Not long after, he learned, to his dismay, that \nthe speculation was a bubble, and weeks elapsed before he succeeded \nin withdrawing his money from a bankrupt concern. We can well \nimagine the weight that was lifted from his heart when he was able \nto write to his friend, "I am very happy to tell you that the Jive \nhundred, which you so generously lent me, is safe at my banker\'s in \nSt. James-street, and waits your calling for it. Blessed be God, that \nI have saved both it and myself from being involved as partner in \nThe Metropolitan!" \n\nDuring the summer of this year he passed some time at St. Leon- \nard\'s, where his health was much improved by the balmy sea-air, and \nwhere his poetic faculty came back to him with its old glow and vigor. \nHe was secure here from social temptations, and wrote more verses \nthan he had written for many years before within the same time. \nThe magnificent poem on the sea, which Campbell in his later years \nconsidered his finest production, and which is entirely worthy of his \nearly fame, was written here in the course of eight or nine days. \nHere also he wrote the Lines on Poland. These two poems, which first \nappeared in the Metropolitan, he republished in a brochure, in the \nhope, by selling it at a couple of shillings, to raise fifty pounds for \nthe Polish charities in which he was now largely involved. In the \nautumn he wrote to a friend : \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 75 \n\n" I find St. Leonard\'s still, on the whole, agree pretty well with my \nhealth, though the highly bracing effect of the sea-air has gone with \nits novelty, and there is something either in its saline particles, or in \nthe glaring light of the place, that affects my eyes most disagreeably. \n* * * The society also \xe2\x80\x94 though the sea is not accountable for others \n\xe2\x80\x94 is too changeable. The disagreeable gentry are, for the most part, \nthe most permanent ; and the agreeables \xe2\x80\x94 almost as soon as you begin \nto know the value of their society, like \' riches, take unto themselves \nwings and flee away.\' I experience this mutability of the place very \nmuch in a little literary society which I have formed, and which is \ncalled The Monks of St. Leonard\'s, and of which I am the venerable \nAbbot ! All our best cowls are going away \xe2\x80\x94 and very dull ones \nremaining in their stead." \n\nAbout this time Campbell was in correspondence with Mrs. Ark- \nwright in regard to setting some of his poems to music. " There are \nno verses of mine," he tells her in one of his letters, " that I shall not \nthink the better of, for their being selected by you as the subjects of \nmusical composition." "You may turn every line of me into \nmusic," he writes again, " if you think me worth the honor. "Would \nto heaven you could turn my poor self into a pleasant tune ! But \nthe difficulty would be how to set me. I am too graceless for a psalm- \ntune, too dull for a glee, and too irregular for a march." In one of \nhis letters to this accomplished lady, he expresses his pleasure to find \nthat. Mrs Hemans is one of her favorite poets. " She seems to me," \nhe adds, " a genius singularly fitted for the accompaniment of your \ngraceful and noble musical powers. She may not be the boldest and \ndeepest of female geniuses, though the richness of her vein is very \nsterling ; but, to my taste, she is the most elegant (lyric) poetess that \nEngland has produced. I hope you are personally acquainted with \nher, which, I am sorry to say, I am not." \n\nMrs. Arkwright, as we have mentioned, was a daughter of Stephen \nKemble, and, in allusion to a meeting with that distinguished actor \nmany years previously, he says : "As your father was the first who \nrejoiced my ear by commending the beginning of my first poem, so \nI have a superstitious joy in thanking his daughter for setting its \nconclusion to music." | \n\nIn October, 1831, he paid a -visit to Mr. Arkwright and his family \nin Derbyshire, where he renewed his intimacy with the Kembles, and \n\n\n\n76 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\ntalked with his host about farming and machinery, both of which he \nfound " amusing subjects. " But he preferred, no doubt, another part \nof his entertainment, which was reading poetry to Mrs. Arkwright \nand the ladies. He was at all times devoted to the society of the sex, \nand very susceptible to their charms. Even in his widowhood he \nfound as many Carolines and Amandas as he used to rave about \nwhen he was a handsome bachelor at Mull. Every now and then he \nattached himself to some amiable and accomplished female, who put \nhim to considerable expense in new wigs and dress-coats, to say \nnothing of more spacious lodgings, and more stylish furniture. \nBut, if he was volatile in love, he was steadfast in friendship ; and it \ndoes not seem to have been his own fault that he failed to form a new \nconnection, " to restore him to the happiness of married life." \n\nAt Mr. Arkwright\'s he made the acquaintance of Xeukonim, whose \nperformances on the organ struck him with wonder and admiration. \n" That a human being could create such sounds," he said, " I never \nimagined. Such glory, such radiance of sound, such mystery, \nsuch speaking dreams, that bring angels to smile upon you, \xe2\x80\x94 - such \nluxury and pathos ! \xe2\x80\x94 0, it is no learned music \xe2\x80\x94 it is a soul speaking \nas if from heaven ! Xo disparagement to Paganini, he is the wonder- \nful itself, in music \xe2\x80\x94 but Heavens ! what has he to do with the heart, \nlike this organ-music of Xeukomm 1 I seem as if I had never heard \nmusic before. We were all wrapped in astonishment ! It was strange \nto see the expressions of ecstasy in the vulgarest rustic faces. * * He \nis a highly-polished man, and as meek and amiable as he is wonder- \nful. The pleasure of his company beguiled me to go and hear him \nagain on the organ yesterday, and I almost wished I had not gone. \nHis playing was, if possible, more exquisite. It was too \xe2\x80\x94 too much. \nHe made me imagine my child, Alison, was speaking to me from \nheaven ! Again \xe2\x80\x94 as if he knew what was passing in my thoughts \nabout Poland, he introduced martial music, and what seemed to me \nlamentations for the slain. I suspect he did so purposely ; for we had \nspoken much of the Poles. I could not support this. Luckily I had \na pew to myself ; and I believe, and trust, I escaped notice. But \nwhen two pieces were over I got out as quietly as I could to a lonely \npart of the church-yard, wheref hid myself, and gave way to almost \nconvulsive sensations. I have not recovered this inconceivably pleas- \ning and painful shock." \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 77 \n\nOn his return to St. Leonard\'s, having meanwhile been disembar- \nrassed of his pecuniary responsibilities for the Metropolitan, he set \nhimself down in earnest to the composition of the Life of Mrs. Siddons. \nIn the spring of 1832 he was able to say that he had finished " two \nchapters to perfection." " I have got noble materials for the rest," \nhe wrote to Mrs. Arkwright, " and you will not be sorry for my being \nher biographer." To the same lady he wrote : \n\n" Wheresoever I go I hear nothing but your music, and either my \npoetry with it, or Lockhart\'s. Acquit poets of jealousy. Truly I \nlove Lockhart\'s \' Lay your golden cushion down \' so that I always \ntell the fair songstress, \' Tut ! give us none of Campbell\'s drawling \nthings, but that lively Spanish ballad, " Get up, Get up, Zeripha \'" \' \nand, on my return home from the party, I sing it to myself all the way. \nI do think that air one of the happiest your happy genius ever threw \noff. It is \' wild, warbling nature all \xe2\x80\x94 above the reach of art ! \' \n\n" Pray don\'t relax in your ambition to be a popular melodist. The \nmaker of melodies is a real poet ; melody-making is a sort of distillery \nof the spirit of poetry, and the melodist may deny all submission in \nrank to the brewers and vintners of versification." \n\nThe Metropolitan now passed into the hands of Captain Marryatt, \nthe novelist, " a blunt rough diamond," says Campbell, " but a clever \nfellow and a gentleman." He entreated the poet to remain in the \neditorial department ; and, as they were old friends, the poet could not \nrefuse. The Polish association, too, required nis services, and he \nreturned to London. " I have left St. Leonard\'s," he wrote on the \n30th of April, " and given up my house there. It was inconvenient \nfor me to be so far from town ; but I shall always have a kindly feeling \nto the place. The sea restored my health, and, excepting the agony \nI felt at the news from Poland, I never felt half a year pass over \nwith more tolerable tranquillity. I had, besides the Milneses, some \nvery pleasant acquaintances. My small neat house hung over the \nsea, almost like the stern of a ship." \n\nHis whole life was now engrossed with the cause of Poland. " His \ndevotion to it," says Dr. Madden in his recollections furnished to Dr. \nBeattie, " was a passion, that had all the fervor of patriotism, the \npurity of philanthropy, the fidelity of a genuine love of liberty. I \nwas with him on the day he received an account of the fall of Warsaw. \nNever in my life did I see a man so stricken with profound sorrow ! He \n\n7* \n\n\n\n78 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nlooked utterly woe-begone ; his features were haggard, his eyes \nsunken, his lips pale, his color almost yellow. I feared that if this \nprostration of all energy of mind and body continued, his life or his \nreason must have sunk under the blow." \n\nThe poet\'s letters give a lively impression of his habits and mode \nof life at this time : \n\n" May 3Ls\xc2\xa3. \xe2\x80\x94 We have had a dinner in the Association Cham- \nbers, \xe2\x80\x94 the room where Milton wrote his \' Defence of the People of \nEngland !\' Prince Czartoryski, and the other Poles now in London, \nwere our guests ; and we sat down fifty-three in number. Never did \na fete go off better. The Kev. Dr. Wade, in full canonicals, offered a \nsolemn prayer in form of grace, which was strikingly impressive. * * \n\n" I was in the chair. When we had the cloth removed, at seven \np. m., I had not one word prepared for the score of toasts I had to give. \nBut I felt no difficulty in speaking, except that of being overcome by \nmy feelings ; and the general feeling was so strong, that one of the \nBirmingham deputies, a noble-looking man, burst into tears, and \nsobbed audibly." \n\n"June 28th. \xe2\x80\x94 The affairs of Poland are getting more and more \ninteresting. * * * We have got the subject into Parliament. We \nhave auxiliary Polish societies in the provinces. Everywhere the \nsubject stirs up indignation and enthusiasm ; and, though one\'s \ninterest in it is painful, it is still an irresistible subject. The business \nof the association has accordingly engrossed much of my time. I \nhave letters in French, German, and even Latin, to write, \xe2\x80\x94 for we \nhave correspondence as far as Hungary, \xe2\x80\x94 and these afford me \nnothing like a sinecure." \n\n" June 28th. \xe2\x80\x94 You have heard that a strong party of my friends \nhave already agreed to bring me in (if they can) for Glasgow. What \nmy chance is, I believe no mortal alive, without preternatural \npowers, could determine. But I am really not at all anxious to get \ninto Parliament." \n\n"July 2>lst. \xe2\x80\x94 After full and frequent deliberation, I have come to \nthe resolution not to make the attempt to get into Parliament. * # * \nIf I were elected to-morrow, \xe2\x80\x94 elected even for Glasgow, \xe2\x80\x94 I am con \nvinced that the seeming good fortune would be a misfortune to me. \nI find myself implicated in the Polish Association to a degree that \nhalf absorbs my time and attention. The German question \xe2\x80\x94 another \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 79 \n\nand the same with the Polish \xe2\x80\x94 involves me also in correspondence \nwith the German patriots ; and really, at this moment, my own pri- \nvate studies are so much impeded, that to go into Parliament \xe2\x80\x94 even \nif I could get into it \xe2\x80\x94 would be my ruin." \n\n" Aug. 25th. \xe2\x80\x94 Here, in the Polish Chambers, I daily parade the \nmain room, \xe2\x80\x94 a superb hall, \xe2\x80\x94 where all my books are ensconced, \nand where old < Nol \' used to give audience to his foreign ambas- \nsadors." \n\n"Sept. 28th. \xe2\x80\x94 I am not dissatisfied with my existence, as it is now \noccupied. * * * I get up at seven, write letters for the Polish \nAssociation until half-past nine, breakfast, go to the club, and read \nthe newspapers till twelve. Then I sit down to my own studies ; and \nwith many, and, alas ! vexatious interruptions, do what I can till \nfour. I then walk round the Park, and generally dine out at six. \nBetween nine and ten I return to chambers, read a book, or write a \nletter; and go to bed always before twelve." * * * " But my \nown proper business, you will ask, \xe2\x80\x94 what is that? Why, now, it is, \nin earnest, the Life of Mrs. Siddons. How it has been impeded I \ncan scarcely tell you. The Metropolitan will hardly account for it, \n\xe2\x80\x94 though, really, my random contributions to that journal break up \nmore time than you would imagine. But our journal, Polonia, has \nimposed a great deal of trouble upon me." \n\n"Dec. 4th. \xe2\x80\x94 About four-score refugees have .been supported or \nrelieved, and sent abroad, by our society. But the task of doing so \nwas left entirely to your humble servant and our indefatigable and \nworthy secretary, Adolphus Bach. He has injured his business, as a \nGerman jurist, by giving up so much of his time for this purpose ; \nand I have injured my health." \n\nAt this time Campbell occupied an attic at the Polish chambers, \nin Duke-street, which is now distinguished by a marble tablet affixed \nby his friend Bach, and bearing the following inscription : "In this \nattic Thomas Campbell, Hope\'s bard, and mourning Freedom\'s hope, \nlived and thought, A. D. mdcccxxxii., while at the head of the Lit- \nerary Association of the friends of Poland, his creation. Divince \nvirtutis pietati amicitia, mdcccxlvii. A. B. col." In the summer of \n1833 he became more intimate than hitherto with Dr. Beattie, and \nwent to reside at his cottage, in Hampstead. He immediately took \npossession of a room, which he designated as " Campbell\'s ward," the \n\n\n\n80 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nname by which it is still known. In this pleasant village he passed hid \ntime in morning walks on the heath, visits to Mrs. Joanna Baillie \nand her sister, and in such literary pursuits as amused, without \nfatiguing or exciting him. His health rapidly improved under the \nwatchful care of his friendly physician, to whom he was chiefly in- \ndebted for whatever comfort and happiness he enjoyed in his later \nyears. These visits he frequently repeated, and, whenever he found \nhimself suffering in health or spirits, "Well," he would say, "I \nmust come into hospital ! " and, packing up his valise, would repair \nto Campbell ward. Dr. Beattie was not only a skilful physician, \nbut a man of letters, and an enthusiastic admirer of the poet\'s \ngenius. The effect of his visits to the pleasant villa of his friend, \nand the society of Hampstead, is well described in a letter of the \npoet to his sister. He is speaking of Dr. Beattie. " His society," \nhe says, " and that of his wife and sister, have been to me a sort of \nmoral medicine, they are such kind, amiable, and happy people. \nBeattie has been a fortunate man. * * He married a charming \nwoman. * * Their home is a little picture of paradise ! * * I \ncannot describe to you how they have tended your brother\'s health." \nThe Life of Mrs. Siddons was not fairly off his hands till the mid- \ndle of 1834, having been originally written for one volume octavo, \nand expanded to two volumes for the accommodation of the book- \nsellers. Campbell thought the matter would " bear diffusion," but \nwe imagine the work must have suffered in the process. Having put \nthe corrections to the last sheet, Campbell started for Paris, which \nhe had not visited for twenty years. There the Polish Literary \nSociety immediately waited upon him with a complimentary address, \nand a public dinner was given him, at which Prince Czartoryski pre- \nsided. He was still occupied with literary projects, and commenced \nthe collection of materials for a work on the Geography of Classical \nHistory. He wrote to Dr. Beattie that he was studying twelve hours \na day. During his researches in the king\'s library he cast his eyes \non a point of the map, the ancient Roman city of Icosium, that \ncorresponded with the site of Algiers. It occurred to him that the \nrecent French conquest might develop more interesting matters than \nwere to be found in the labors of the classic topographers, and, \nclosing his book, with all his soul he wished himself at Algiers. \nHis old propensity for roving took possession of him, and, finding \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 81 \n\nthat he had the money necessary at his command, he determined to \ngratify it. \n\nOn his arrival at Algiers, he took lodgings in the house of a gen- \ntleman who had been an old officer of Napoleon\'s staff, then a \nmerchant, but a great amateur of music, painting and natural \nhistory. Campbell first called on him to see his cabinet of Moorish \nantiquities, not knowing that he had apartments to let. Learning \nthis, he went the next day to inquire their price. " It is only," he \nreplied, " for fear of hurting your feelings, that I do not offer them \nto you for nothing," and named a price far below their value. \n" Monsieur Descousse," the. traveller rejoined, " they are worth twice \nthat rent ; I am rather a rich man than otherwise, and let me pay for \nthem what is fair and just." He would not take a sou more, and \nthis little act of courtesy seems to have gratified Campbell as much \nas to learn that Captain St. Palais, aid-de-camp of the commander \nin chief of the colonial army, was engaged in translating his poems, \nwith a view to publication. At Algiers he met Chevalier Xeukomm, \nwhose acquaintance he had made at Mrs. Arkwright\'s. At his in- \nstance Campbell undertook the composition of the words of an \noratorio from the book of Job, and to this we owe the fragment \nwhich appears among his poems. Campbell found it impossible to \nversify the sublime text of the Bible without impairing it. \n\nDuring his stay in Africa, he visited the whole coast of Algiers, \nfrom Bona to Oran, and penetrated seventy miles into the interior, as \nfar as Mascara, the capital of an unconquered native province. " I \nhave slept for several nights," he says in a letter to his nephew, \n" under the tents of the Arabs. I have heard a Hon roar in his native \nsavage freedom, and I have seen the noble animal brought in dead \xe2\x80\x94 \nmeasuring seven feet and a half, independently of the tail. I dined \nalso at General Trizel\'s table off the said lion\'s tongue, and it was as \nnice as a neat\'s tongue." \n\nOn his return from Algiers, in 1835, Campbell had a gratifying inter- \nview in Paris with Louis Philippe, who was curious to learn the state \nof the province from an intelligent Englishman, and received him \nwith marked courtesy and respect. When the poet arrived in London, \nhe looked and felt " some years younger" than when he commenced \nhis travels. His mind and body were restored to their old tone and \nelasticity, and Dr. Beat-tie says that he never appeared to greater \n\n\n\n82 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nadvantage than immediately after his return. His chronic complaint \nof " impecuniosity " had been relieved by a seasonable legacy of a \nthousand pounds from his old friend Telford, the engineer. He had \npicked up much entertaining information in his tour, and told his \n" traveller\'s stories" with animation and effect. The results of his \nobservation he published in the New Monthly, under the title of \nLetters from the South, afterwards collected in two volumes. \n\nThe summer subsequent to his return he passed in Scotland, on a visit \nto his " Northern brethren," and the happiest he ever made. His \nresidence during this period was chiefly in the house of his cousin, Mr. \nGray, of Blairbeth, near Glasgow, and in that of Mr. Alison, at Edin- \nburgh. He had been at Blairbeth but a day or two, when a deputation \nfrom the Campbell Club, of Glasgow, waited upon him, to the number \nof " two coach-loads," with a request that he would appoint a day for \ndining with them. The dinner was fixed accordingly for the 21st of \nJune. Campbell, as the guest of the evening, sat on the right of the \npresident, and Professor Wilson, who had come up from Edinburgh \nexpressly to be present on this occasion, on the left. Some eighty \ngentlemen were present, and the poet was received and cheered with \nthe greatest enthusiasm. From Glasgow he went to the Highlands, \nInverary, Rothsay, Castle Towart and Greenock. " It would savor \nof vanity," he wrote to a friend, " to tell you how I have been \nreceived. Cheered on coming aboard the steamboats, into public \nrooms, and cheered on leaving them. Yes : but Cobbett, you will tell \nme, had also his hand-shakings and popularity. True ; but were the \nmotives of those who greeted him so pure as those of my greeters 1 \nAnd yet, no small stimulus of happiness was necessary to help me over \nrecollections which the scenes of Scotland have inspired \xe2\x80\x94 the homes \nof my dead friends ! \xe2\x80\x94 above all that, \' yesterday\'\' \xe2\x80\x94 my birth-day ! \xe2\x80\x94 \nwhich reminds me how soon I shall be gathered to my fathers !" \n\nOn returning to Glasgow, he found a communication from the Lord \nProvost of Edinburgh, inviting him to a public dinner in that city. \nIt was a painful occasion for him, however ; and when he came to \nspeak of Dugald Stewart, Alison, and other of his old friends, " the \nact of suppressing tears amounted to agony. \' \' A similar honor was \nproposed to him at Dublin, which he was compelled to decline. In \nSeptember he spent three days with Brougham at his country-seat, \nwhence he returned directly to London. \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 83 \n\nIn 1836 he commenced the preparation of a new edition of his \npoems, with designs by Turner, in the style of the illustrated copy \nof Eogers\' Italy. Campbell was much pleased with the great \nartist\'s drawing for \'Connor\'s Child, but seems to have been disap- \npointed in the general result. He had not the same exchequer to \ndraw upon as his friend the banker ; and when the edition was out \nhe found great difficulty in disposing of the drawings, for which he \nhad paid Turner five hundred and fifty pounds. " I had been \ntold," he wrote to his friend, Mr. Gray, of Glasgow, " that Turner\'s \ndrawings were like bank-notes, that would always fetch the price \npaid for them ; but, when I offered them at three hundred pounds, \nI could get no purchaser. One very rich and judicious amateur, to \nwhom I offered them, said to me, \' I have no intention to purchase \nthese drawings, because they are worth so little money that I should \nbe sorry to see you sell them for as little as they are really worth. \nThe truth is, that fifteen out of the twenty are but indifferent \ndrawings. But, sell them by lottery, and either Turner\'s name \nwill bring you in two hundred guineas, or Turner himself will \nbuy them up.\' I went to Turner, and the amateur\'s prediction \nwas fulfilled, for Turner bought them up for two hundred guineas." \n\nSoon after the issue of this edition, Campbell took it into his head to \nmake a present of his works to the queen. This was purely an act of \ngallantry and loyalty. No man ever lived who had less of the tuft- \nhunter in his composition than Campbell. When he had got up his \nLetters from the South, and a copy of the vignette edition of his \npoems, " bound with as much gilding as would have gilt the Lord \nMayor\'s coach," he went to Sir H. Wheatley, to beg that he would \npresent them to his sovereign. It was objected that the queen \ndeclined all presentation copies from authors. Campbell parried this \nobjection skilfully and with dignity. "Stranger as I am. Sir \nHenry," he said, " I am known to you by character ; and may I beg \nof you to convey to the queen, \xe2\x80\x94 if it can be done with tact and \ndelicacy, \xe2\x80\x94 that I am in perfectly easy circumstances ; that I covet \nno single advantage that is in the gift of her sceptre ; and that I \nwould rather bury my book in the ground than that the offering of \nit should be interpreted into a selfish wish to intrude myself on her \nnotice." Sir Henry finally consenting to take charge of the volumes \n\n\n\n84 LIFE OF CAMPBELL, \n\nand speak to the queen on the subject, Campbell sent them with a \nnote, in these words : \n\n" Sir : I thank you for your kind promise to take charge of my works, \nand to apply to her Majesty to receive them. I have been for nearly forty \nyears one of the popular living poets of England, and I think it no over- \nweening ambition to wish to be read by my sovereign." \n\n"That evening," says Campbell, "I had a note from Sir Henry, \nsaying that the queen had been graciously pleased to accept the \nvolumes, and desired that I should write my name in them. I repaired \nto St. James\'s next morning ; Sir Henry began stammering out a \ndictation of what I should write about her Majesty\'s feet, loyal \nduty, and so forth, when I wrote on each blank leaf, \' To her Majesty \nQueen Victoria, from her devoted subject, Thomas Campbell.\' \' Ah, \nthat will do,\' said Sir Henry." \n\nAn edition of Shakspeare which he supervised for Mr. Moxon, a \nnew poem, entitled The Pilgrim of Glencoe, and a Life of Petrarch, \nwere now the literary task-work of his life. In the winter of 1840 \nhe leased a house in Victoria-square, Pimlico, where he proposed to \nspend his declining years. This movement gave rise to another mat- \nrimonial rumor, " So you are to be married" his sister wrote him ; \n" that is reported, and quite certain. 0, my good brother, is not this \na rash step at your years? " Campbell replied that he suspected \nthere was some mistake in the report, but did not know why she \nshould be surprised at such a step at his young and giddy age of \nsixty-three. Instead of taking a wife (a dream that he seems never \nto have abandoned) , he pursued the more prudent course of adopting \na daughter, in the person of his favorite niece, Mary Campbell. \n\nIn the new residence, which he had very tastefully and comforta- \nbly fitted up, he corrected the last proofs of Petrarch ; but his health \ndeclined, and his powers failed rapidly. He became restless and \nwhimsical. On one occasion he surprised his friends by advertising \nfor a young child whom he had met in the streets, and who interested \nhim so much that he desired to " be allowed to see her again." Soon \nafter, he started suddenly for the Brunnens of Nassau, where he \nfound himself without money, having left a quantity of bank-notes \nin his bed-room press, which he had forgotten. He wrote to his \nfriend Dr. Beattie, in great dismay, and requested him to enter his \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 85 \n\nhouse, and make search for the missing funds. After a minute and \nunsuccessful examination, the doctor accidentally lighted upon a red- \nembroidered slipper, in which he was surprised and pleased to find \nthree hundred pounds in bank-notes, twisted as if they were to be \nused as paper matches. \n\nIn his voyage up the Rhine, Campbell met on the steamboat the \nhistorian of the middle ages. " Hallam is a most excellent man," \nsaid the poet, in one of his letters, " of great acuteness, and of im- \nmense research in reading. I believe him to have neither gall nor \nbitterness ; and yet he is a perfect boa-contradictor ! * * His \npowers of study are like those of the scholars of the Alexandrian \nAcademy, whose viscera were alleged to be made of brass. He baits \nSydney Smith himself, with his provoking accuracy as to matters of \nfact. Smith once said to me, \' If Hallam were in the midst of a full \nassembly of scientific men, and if Euclid were to enter the room, with \nhis Elements under his arm, and were to say, " Gentlemen, I sup- \npose no one present doubts the truth of the Forty-fifth Proposition \nof my First Book of Elements," Mr. Hallam would say, " Yes, I have \nmy doubts." \' " \n\nIn another letter from Germany, he alludes to the admiration of \nchildren which appears in several of his poems, and which led to the \neccentric advertisement just mentioned : \n\n" What pleases me most about the Germans is, that they indulge \nme in my ruling passion of admiration of fine children. Their chil- \ndren are not quite so beautiful as ours, but really some of them are \ngreat beauties. I have met with one of three, and another of six \nyears old, both of them charming ; and, like true young women, they \nare sensible to admiration. The younger has large round black eyes, \nthat glow with triumph when you admire her ; and the other is a \nblonde, that blushes still more interestingly. Every one here, from \nthe highest to the lowest, that has a fine child, seems to take it as a \ncompliment that you stop and shake its little hand ; whereas the \nsame thing in England would be resented as a liberty." \n\nSoon after his return to England, he published The Pilgrim of \nGlencoe, with other poems, dedicated to his friend Dr. Beattie. To \nsay that the chief piece in this collection was regarded as a failure, \nwould be but a faint expression of the truth. It is a feeble produc- \ntion, possessing little interest as a story, and no merit as a poem. \n\n\n\n86 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nHis next literary enterprise was a subscription edition of his works ; \nbut, before this was issued, he received the sum of eight hundred \npounds, by the death of his only surviving sister, and the plan of \npublishing by subscription was abandoned. The new edition was \ntransferred to Mr. Moxon. The poet now became more restless and \nuneasy than ever, and went to various places in France and England \nin pursuit of health, but derived no benefit from these changes. He \nfelt the advances of age, which were only too visible to his friends. \nHis constitution, never robust, was sensibly undermined ; and in the \nsummer of 1843 he repaired to Boulogne, hoping to emancipate him- \nself from the cares and expenses of London, and pass the remainder \nof his days in cheerful seclusion. \n\nNot many days were left for him, and those were painful ones, \nthough they were solaced by the kind attentions of an affectionate \nniece, and towards their close by the presence of his best friend, \xe2\x80\x94 \nDr. Beattie. He was disappointed in his new residence. It was more \nexpensive than he had anticipated. HeTound the climate keen and \ncold, and the winds " chilled his marrow." The society was very \nagreeable, though infested by rogues and swindlers. The streets, \ntoo, were " semi-perpendicular." In regard to the importation of \nbooks from England, he was vexed by the custom-house restrictions. \nHe missed his club, \xe2\x80\x94 a great loss for such a club-haunter as Camp- \nbell. His brother and sisters were now all dead. The wife to whom \nhe was tenderly attached had gone before him many years. His \nonly surviving son was a lunatic. He had no " old familiar faces " \nabout him. He was home-sick, and was dying in a foreign land. \nNot altogether cheerless, however, was his decline. His niece read to \nhim from his favorite authors, and played the airs which he had loved \nin his youth. The notes which he wrote at this period were good- \nhumored, and his conversation continued cheerful and pleasant to the \nlast. \n\nIn June, 1844, a letter from Mary Campbell brought Dr. Beattie \nand his wife to the chamber of the dying poet. He had now been \nmore than three weeks confined to his bed, and for some time, ex- \ncepting his physician, Dr. Allatt, had seen no one but his niece \nand a sister of charity, who watched with him during the night. \n"When his old friends arrived, his words were " Visit of angels from \nheaven." He smiled faintly, and spoke with his eye more express- \n\n\n\nLIFE OP CAMPEELL. 87 \n\nively than by his lip. His complaint was of weakness and a morbid \nsensation of chilliness. The next day he rallied a little, but it was \nevident that the case was hopeless. At one time, being doubtful if \nhe was conscious of what was said, some one named Hohenlinden, \nand suggested that the author was a Mr. Robinson. " No," said the \npoet, calmly and distinctly, " it was one Tom Campbell." On the \nseventh of June, his respiration was more impeded, and a swelling in \nhis right foot increased. He continued to converse, however, at \nintervals, in a serene and interesting manner. In reply to the in- \nquiry of Dr. Beattie if his mind was quite easy, he said, with much \nearnestness and energy, " Yes, I have entire control over my mind ;" \nadding, after a little pause, " I am quite \xe2\x80\x94 " The last word was \ninaudible. He was fully aware of his situation, and, though serious, \nwas placid and composed. No murmur or expression of pain escaped \nfrom him during several days which Dr. Beattie passed in his cham- \nber. At last, on its being remarked that he showed great patience \nunder suffering, he said faintly, and for the first time, " I do suffer." \nA strong religious feeling was now manifested by the poet. Prayers \nfrom the Liturgy Avere read to him at his request, and passages from \nthe Scriptures, which he listened to with deep emotion. A day or \ntwo before his death, he was visited by Mr. Moxon, his publisher, \nand expressed pleasure at seeing him. On the fourteenth of the \nmonth, when he seemed sleeping heavily, his lips suddenly moved, \nand in a slow, distinct whisper he said, " We shall see * * to-mor- \nrow," naming a long-departed friend. In the afternoon of the next \nday he died. When the spirit had left the body his countenance was \nplacid, and fixed in its happiest expression. \n\nWhile the arrangements required by the laws of France were in \nprogress, the body remained in the drawing-room, the head slightly \nelevated in the coffin, and crowned with a wreath of laurel and ever- \ngreen. This had been placed there by his old English\' nurse, a sol- \ndier\'s widow, whom Dr. Beattie found sitting by the remains, with \nthe prayer-book in her hand, and Campbell\'s Poems by her side. \nThe folds of his shroud were scattered with roses, and a bunch of \nwild-flowers was held in his unconscious grasp. Many of the Eng- \nlish residents of Boulogne, friends and strangers, called to give a last \nlook and pay a last tribute of respect to one who had been, for nearly \nhalf a century, emphatically the " popular poet " of his country. \n\n\n\n88 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nOn the third of July his body was deposited in the centre of Poet\'s \nCorner, in Westminster Abbey. His funeral was most honorably \nattended. His brother poet, the Rev. Mr. Milman, one of the pre- \nbendaries of the church, headed the procession. His old and dear \nfriend Richardson, and the Duke of Argyle, head of his clan, stood \nby his bier. Sir Robert Peel, then premier, Brougham, Lockhart, \nMacaulay, Lord Campbell, B. D \'Israeli, Horace Smith, Dr. Croly, \nThackeray, and many other gentlemen of political and literary dis- \ntinction, united in rendering the last honors to one whom they ad- \nmired for his generous and noble qualities as a man no less than for \nhis genius as a poet. A guard of Polish nobles, and a numerous \nbody of private friends and citizens, joined in the sad ceremonies. \nWhen the officiating minister arrived at that portion of the ceremony \nin which dust is consigned to dust, Colonel Szyrma, a member of the \nLiterary Association of Poland, scattered over the coffin of the poet a \nhandful of earth from the grave of Kosciusko, at Cracow. More cor- \ndial respect and homage had never marked the obsequies of any \nliterary man, since the Abbey received the ashes of Addison. \n\nThe inscription on the coffin was, "Thomas Campbell, LL.D., \nauthor of The Pleasures of Hope, aged lxvii." \n\nThis event was commemorated by a kindred spirit \xe2\x80\x94 Horace Smith \n\xe2\x80\x94 in lines worthy to live in the same volume with the immortal pro- \nductions of him in whose honor they were written. \n\nCAMPBELL\'S FUNERAL. \n\n\'T is well to see these accidental great, \n\nNoble by birth, or Fortune\'s favor blind, \nGracing themselves in adding grace and state \nTo the more noble eminence of mind ; \nAnd doing homage to a bard \n"Whose breast by Nature\'s gems was starred, \nWhose patent by the hand of God himself was signed. \n\nWhile monarchs sleep, forgotten, unrevered, \n\nTime trims the lamp of intellectual fame. \nThe builders of the pyramids, who reared \n\nMountains of stone, left none to tell their name. \n\nThough Homer\'s tomb was never known, \n\nA mausoleum of his own, \nLong as the world endures, his greatness shall proclaim. \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 89 \n\nWhat lauding sepulchre does Campbell want 1 \n\n\'T is his to give, and not derive renown. \n"What monumental bronze or adamant \nLike his own deathless Lays can hand him down 1 \nPoets outlast their tombs : the bust \nAnd statue soon revert to dust ; \nThe dust they represent still wears the laurel crown. \nThe solid abbey walls that seem time-proof, \nFormed to await the final day of doom, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe clustered shafts, and arch-supported roof, \nThat now enshrine and guard our Campbell\'s tomb, \xe2\x80\x94 \nBecome a ruined, shattered fane, \nMay fall and bury him again, \nYet still the bard shall live, his fame-wreath still shall bloom. \nMethought the monumental effigies \n\nOf elder poets, that were grouped around, \nLeaned from their pedestals with eager eyes, \nTo peer into the excavated ground, \n\nWhere lay the gifted, good and brave ; \nWhile earth from Kosciusko\'s grave \nFell on his coffin-plate with Freedom-shrieking sound. \nAnd over him the kindred dust was strewed \n\nOf Poet\'s Corner. misnomer strange ! \nThe poet\'s confine is the amplitude \nOf the whole earth\'s illimitable range, \nO\'er which his spirit flings its flight, \nShedding an intellectual light \xe2\x80\x94 \nA sun that never sets, a moon that knows no change. \nAround his grave in radiant brotherhood, \n\nAs if to form a halo o\'er his head, \nNot few of England\'s master-spirits stood, \nBards, artists, sages, reverently led \nTo wave each separating plea \nOf sect, clime, party and degree, \nAll honoring him on whom Nature all honors shed. \nTo me, the humblest of the mourning band, \n\nWho knew the bard through many a changeful year, \nIt was a proud, sad privilege to stand \nBeside his grave and shed a parting tear. \nSeven lustres had he been my friend ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nBe that my plea when I suspend \nThis all-unworthy wreath on such a poet\'s bier. \n8* \n\n\n\n90 LIFE OP CAMPBELL. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII. \n\nIn his early years Campbell was eminently handsome, and the \nportraits of him when somewhat advanced in life show that he still \nretained a countenance of great beauty. " He was a delicate child," \nsays a writer in the Quarterly Review, who seems to have been famil- \niar with his person at various periods of his life, " with a slight \nform, small, accurate features, a hectic complexion, and eyes such as \nno one could see and forget ; Lawrence\'s pencil alone could transmit \ntheir dark mixture of fire and softness. Many physiologists have \nnoticed the contrast between the organization of the ordinary Gael \nand that of the aristocracy. Speaking generally, no class of gentry \nin Europe are above these last, whether you regard the proportions \nof the frame or the facial lines. Their blood, no doubt, has been \nlargely dashed with intermixtures ; and Campbell\'s countenance, we \nmust own, said more than the heralds have been able to do in sup- \nport of the story of the \' adventurous Norman \' and \' the Lady of the \nWest.\'" \n\nOf his personal appearance in his study in his later years, the full- \nlength etching which accompanies this biographical sketch is said to \nconvey a faithful presentment. It is copied from an outline in Fra- \nzer\'s Magazine, taken while the poet was editor of the New Monthly ; \nand no doubt savors of caricature, notwithstanding the general resem- \nblance. It seems to correspond with the account given by Mr. K. \nCarruthers, in his Mornings with Campbell. " The poet," says this \nwriter, " was breakfasting in his sitting-room, which was filled with \nbooks, and had rather a showy appearance. The carpet and tables \nwere littered with stray volumes, letters and papers. At this time, \nhe was, like Charles Lamb, a worshipper of the great plant ; and \ntobacco-pipes were mingled with the miscellaneous literary wares. A \nlarge print of the queen hung over the fireplace ; he drew my atten- \ntion to it, and said it had been presented to him by her majesty ; he \nvalued it very highly. \' Money could not buy it from me,\' he \nremarked. # * He was generally careful as to dress, and had \nnone of Dr. Johnson\'s indifference to fine linen. His wigs were \nalways nicely adjusted, and scarcely distinguishable from natural \n\n\n\n\n\' J^\'t/^^^ \n\n\n\n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 91 \n\nhair. His appearance was interesting and handsome. Though rather \nbelow the middle size, he did not seem little ; and his large dark eye \nand countenance bespoke great sensibility and acuteness. His thin, \nquivering lip, and delicate nostril, were highly expressive. When he \nspoke, as Leigh Hunt has remarked, dimples played about his mouth, \nwhich, nevertheless, had something restrained and close in it, as if \nsome gentle Puritan had crossed the breed, and left a stamp on his \nface such as we see in the female Scotch face rather than the male \n* * In personal neatness and fastidiousness, no less than in \ngenius and taste, Campbell in his best days resembled Gray. Each \nwas distinguished by the same careful finish in composition, the same \nclassical predilections and lyric fire, rarely but strikingly displayed. \nIn ordinary life they were both somewhat finical, yet with great free- \ndom and idiomatic plainness in their unreserved communications, \xe2\x80\x94 \nGray\'s being evinced in his letters, and Campbell\'s in conversation." \n\nDuring his residence at Sydenham, Campbell generally rose late. \nHe breakfasted and studied for an hour or two, and dined at two or \nthree o\'clock. He then made calls upon his neighbors, passing a \ngood deal of time with his friends the Mayos, of whose conversation \nhe was fond. After tea, he retired to his study, where he remained \ntill a late hour. His habits at this time were strictly domestic. He \nhad a few literary friends, now and then, to dine with him, giving \nthem a hearty welcome, and a poet\'s frugal fare. He was hospitable \nand social. When with company, he liked to sit and chat over his \nwine. When alone, he never indulged in the pleasures of the table. \nHis household, indeed, was managed with the most prudent economy \nduring the whole of Mrs. Campbell\'s lifetime. His circumstances \nwere moderate, and he lived accordingly. " And his good, gentle, \npatient little wife," says Mrs. Grant, " was so frugal, so simple, and \nso sweet-tempered, that she disarmed poverty of half its evils." \n\nHe was very careless about his letters and papers, and when editor \nof the New Monthly Magazine was continually losing the articles \ndesigned for the journal. It was his habit to read every note he \nreceived, and, if it was convenient at the moment, to send a brief and \nformal reply. At other times, he would read his letters and thrust \nthem into his coat-pocket, from which they seldom emerged for any \npurposes of response. He had no method or system in the disposition \nof his papers. They lay scattered about his table in confusion, and, \n\n\n\n92 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nby way of clearing up, he would occasionally jumble them into a \nheap, or thrust them into a box or drawer. In his study, he would \nplace them over the books in his shelves, or in the volumes that he \nhappened to be reading ; but they were always missing when wanted. \nMrs. Campbell w T as in the habit of taking possession of all letters and \narticles intended for the magazine, and sending them to the office. \n" How should he take care of the papers," she would say, laughingly, \nto his assistant editor, Mr. Redding, " when he cannot take care of \nhimself? I am obliged to look after him ; he had better not have \nthem in the study at all." \n\nSoon after becoming editor of the New Monthly, he received, through \nthe Hon. T. P. Courtenay, a poetical contribution from Mr. Canning, \nthen premier. It was an epitaph on his son, George Charles Can- \nning. Shortly afterwards, Mr. Courtenay brought him from the \nsame source a copy of a private letter addressed by Mr. Canning to \nMr. Bolton, of Liverpool, explaining the circumstances of his resig- \nnation. The letter originated in an article in the Courier newspaper, \nand on its face was obviously confidential. It was handed to Camp- \nbell with no view to its publication, but to post him up in the affair, \nand give the tone to his political comments for the month. He passed \nover the letter, without reading it, or a moment\'s reflection, to Mr. \nRedding, who asked, very naturally, if it was to be inserted entire. \nCampbell replied in the affirmative. We may judge of the horror \nof Mr. Courtenay and Mr. Canning, when this confidential letter \nappeared at full length in the pages of the New Monthly, to which it \ncould have been communicated only by the ex-premier or his confi- \ndential correspondent. It is needless to say that Mr. Canning had no \nfurther contributions for the New Monthly. \n\nWe have already mentioned an incident illustrating the poet\'s care- \nlessness about money. On his return from his last visit to Scotland, \nMr. Redding met him in the street in London, and walked to his \nlodgings with him. After sitting a while, a thought struck him, and \nhe began fumbling in his pockets. " Surely," said he, " I can\'t have \nlost them, \xe2\x80\x94 I had a hundred pounds here, and more, just now." \nHis pockets were searched in vain. He had been set down in the \nWhite House Yard, Fetter Lane. He was positive he had the notes \nthere. Thither they repaired, in a fruitless search. Campbell did \nnot know their number, and of course never heard of the missing \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 93 \n\nnotes. They were loose in his pocket, and he had probably pulled \nthem out in the coach or the yard, when he was searching for some- \nthing else. \n\nThis habitual carelessness was inconsistent with a growing fond- \nness for money, which was one of the marks of his decline. Natu- \nrally he was one of the most generous men in the world. He seems \nto have had no expensive habits, but, after satisfying his own mod- \nerate wants, always managed to embarrass himself by his charities. \nHis circumstances in his latter years ought to have been entirely com- \nfortable, as the number of his private dependants had diminished. \nBut he had grown acquisitive, or affected to have become so. When \nhe edited the Scenic Annual for 1838, he was conscious that he would \nbe much abused for lending his name to such a work. " But," he \nsaid, " as I get two hundred pounds for writing a sheet or two of \npaper, it will take a great deal of abuse to mount up to that sum." \nSo, when he was engaged in eliminating a Life of Petrarch from the \nmanuscripts of Arch-deacon Coxe, he found it wearisome enough ; \nbut the thought of two hundred pounds descending in a golden \nshower consoled him. " I am the lovely Danae," he said, " and \nColburn is my Jupiter." In relation to the same enterprise, he \ndescribed himself to a friend as working literally as hard as any \nmechanic, from six to twelve; \xe2\x80\x94 but "this treadmill labor," he \nadded, " is the result of sheer avarice, miserly niggardliness! I am \nprincipally employed in translating from Italian authors, and could \nget the whole done by an assistant, I believe, for thirty pounds. But \nthe money \xe2\x80\x94 the money ! , my dear M., the thought of parting with \nit is unthinkable ! and pounds sterling are to me \' dear as the ruddy \ndrops that warm my heart ! \' " \n\nIf Campbell had been the miser that he pretends, he would never \nhave confessed it to himself, much less to his correspondents. If it \nwere anything more than a whim or caprice, the secret of it is ex- \nplained in the following extract from a letter to an intimate friend : \n" Moxon has thrown off ten thousand copies of an edition of all my \npoems, in double columns, at two shillings a copy. I hope to make \nwell by it. I am getting more and more avaricious \xe2\x80\x94 at the same \ntime, more interested than ever in public charities; above all, in the \nMendicity Society. At present, the payment of the wood-cuts keeps \nme low, but next year I expect to be rich ! Whatever I can now \n\n\n\n94 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nspare, I mean to go to organized societies for the benefit of my own \ncountrymen. After supporting the Polish Association for nine years, \nI mean now to take my leave of it, because it interferes with my \nsubscriptions to other institutions. * * * Poor fellows ! I heartily \npity the Poles still ; and there is, no doubt, much suffering among \nthem ; but where can you look round, without seeing sufferings % \n\nAnd our own country has the most sacred claim upon us. 0, ! \n\nwere you and I but rich enough, what masses of misery we should \nalleviate ! * # * For my own part, the last years of my checkered \nlife are cheered by the prospect of having a residue to relieve distress, \nout of an income that has lately increased, and is threatened with no \ndiminution." \n\nCampbell\'s manner in conversation was lively, and sometimes \nimpetuous. He was never comic, but as light-hearted and cheerful as \na boy. He told an amusing story with effect, though he failed in \nall his printed attempts of this kind. He occasionally put on a \nScotch accent, for humor\'s sake ; but his general conversation was \nfree from it. In the domestic circle he is said to have been the \n" pleasantest company that could be conceived." An instance is \nrelated of the way in which he would sometimes abandon himself to \nhis impulses. "When he went to Glasgow to be inaugurated as Lord \nRector, on reaching the college-green he found the boys pelting each \nother with snow-balls. He rushed into the melee, and flung about \nhis snow-balls right and left with great dexterity, much to the de- \nlight of the boys, but to the great scandal of the professors. He was \nproud of the piece of plate that the Glasgow lads gave him, and \nreferred to the occasion as one of the pleasantest recollections of his \nlife. Of the honor conferred by his college title he was less sensible. \nHe hated the sound of Doctor Campbell ; and when Pringle, the poet \nand traveller, reminded him that he must submit to it as an LL.D., \nhe looked grave, and said that " no friend of his would ever call \nhim so." \n\nIn his study he kept a tobacco-box, from which he would fill his \npipe, and occasionally, when a little abstracted, transfer a small \nquantity of the weed to his mouth. But this was an exception to \nhis general habit, and rather an indication of absence of mind. Of \nthis latter trait, one or two anecdotes are told. Whenever he wanted \nto dispose of anything at home in a particularly secure place, he was \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 95 \n\nsure not to find it again without a good deal of extra trouble. On \none occasion, he by note invited his friend Redding to dine with him \non the 29th of January. When his guest came, with whom he was \nintimate enough to take the liberty, Campbell expressed surprise, \nand insisted that he had invited him for the next day. " I \'ve tories \nto-day," he said, "and whigs to-morrow." Redding would have \nwithdrawn, but Campbell peremptorily forbade it. " You shall have \nboth dinners," he said. " All the party for to-morrow are of the \nright kind, \xe2\x80\x94 stanch Cromwellians, sturdy Roundheads, \xe2\x80\x94 and we \'11 \nhave calf\'s head, and toast the immortal memory of Old Noll." \nCampbell would have protested that the mistake in the day was his \nfriend\'s ; but the invitation was in writing, and spoke for itself. \n\nCampbell\'s politics, however, did not materially interfere with his \nfriendships. He was in the habit of going familiarly to Murray\'s, \nwhere he met with more men of talent than under any other roof, \nbut Rogers\' or Lord Holland\'s. Murray\'s was then the great resort \nof the Quarterly reviewers and the literary tories ; but Campbell \nmingled with them freely. Sometimes he found himself the only \nwhig present ; and on one occasion, it being remarked that he had \nnot remained long on a visit \xe2\x80\x94 "I felt myself a sojourner in a strange \nland," he replied ; " I did not like to be the only one of my party." \nHe was warm and earnest in his views of political questions, high- \nminded and liberal ; and, with less impatience of restraint, and a more \nregular application to business, he might have distinguished himself \nin public life. He was not successful, however, as a speaker. His \nideas flowed faster than his speech, and he soon became excited and \nalmost unintelligible. \n\nHe was averse to controversy, and sought to live upon kind terms \nwith all his literary brethren, though he detested Hazlitt, and had \nno love for the poets of the Lake school. On the publication of \nMoore\'s Life of Byron, he found two or three passages that annoyed \nhim exceedingly, and, as the champion of Lady Byron, he assailed \nthe author in terms of unnecessary ardor. The noble poet had un- \nderstood Campbell as speaking in a sarcastic spirit at Lord Holland\'s, \nwhen he said, " Take the incense to Lord Byron, he is used to it," \xe2\x80\x94 \nand had represented him as being " nettled." " What feeling," he \nsaid, in a letter to Moore on this subject, " but that of kindness could \nI have had to Lord Byron? He was always affectionate to me, both \n\n\n\n9b LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nm his writings and in personal interviews ; how strange that he \nshould misunderstand rny manner on the occasion alluded to ! and \nwhat temptation could I have to show myself pettish and envious \nbefore my inestimable friend Lord Holland\'? The whole scene \ndescribed by Lord Byron is a phantom of his imagination. Ah, my \ndear Moore ! if we had him back again, how easily could we settle \nthese matters!" A coldness ensued between the poets, in conse- \nquence of Campbell\'s attack on the biographer ; but it formed only \na temporary interruption to their friendship. \n\nHis disposition to evade discussion is shown by his conduct in \nregard to the " Pope " controversy. In his Specimens of the British \nPoets, speaking of the several editors of Pope, Campbell had referred \nto Mr. Bowles, and the stress laid by that critic on the argument that \nPope\'s images are " drawn more from art than nature." Campbell \ndefended Pope, and Mr. Bowles wrote a letter to justify what he \ncalled his "invariable principles of poetry." On this, a literary \nmelee followed, in which Byron, Gilchrist, Roscoe, the Quarterly \nReview, and at length Moore, were engaged, with no little ardor. \nOn the publication of his third lecture on Poetry, Campbell attached \na note to it, in which he says, " When the book in which I dissented \nfrom Mr. Bowles\' theory of criticism comes to a second edition, I \nshall have a good deal to say to my reverend friend. I have not mis- \nrepresented him, as he imagines ; but 1 have no leisure to write pam- \nphlets about him.\'\'\'\' When the work in question came to a second \nedition, Campbell was still less in the vein for controversy. He left \nthe volunteers to fight out the battle, and perhaps never thought of \nit again. \n\nCampbell was of a delicate organization. Hay don, the painter, in \nhis autobiographical notes, styles him " bilious and shivering." His \nhabits required seclusion even for the perusal of a book. Trifles dis- \ntracted him. He was exceedingly sensitive, and reserved in the expres- \nsion of his opinions. Of his own poetry he spoke but seldom, and \nonly when he could not well avoid it. He was a simple-hearted man, \nof blameless intentions, and with a tender regard for the feelings \nof all with whom he was called to associate. One who had known \nhim for thirty years, and for more than one-third of that period had \nbeen in habits of almost daily association with him, bears the strong- \nest testimony to the beauty and purity of his character. " I believe \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 97 \n\na more guileless man," says Mr. Cyrus Redding, " one less capable \nof imagining evil towards another, never breathed." \n\nHis habits of study were discursive. Some ten years elapsed be- \ntween his commencement of the Specimens of the British Poets and \nits publication. His Lectures on Poetry he laid by for a year and a \nhalf, whilst he was editing the New Monthly Magazine, to which he \ncontributed meanwhile but a few verses. Many subjects interested \nhim. He was sometimes deep in political economy, and again in \nGerman metaphysics and biblical literature. To classical literature \nhe always devoted a good deal of time. From the main subject of \nhis immediate study \'he was continually diverging into the collateral \ntopics suggested in the course of his reading. This easy diversion \nrendered him unreliable in any literary undertaking ; and hence, \nperhaps, Campbell\'s querulous censures of the booksellers. The \ntrade could not depend upon his punctuality, and were not ready to \ncontract for unfinished works at some uncertain future period. \nThough in jest he toasted Napoleon for having " shot a bookseller," \nhe seems to have been treated with uniform liberality by his \npublishers. \n\nHis memory was well stored with passages from the ancient and \nmodern classics. Greek verses he could repeat thirty or forty in \nsuccession, and with the same facility from the English and Italian \npoets. With French literature he was not so conversant, and the \nwriters in that language he seldom quoted. He was exceedingly \nfastidious with reference to his own productions. He was not satis- \nfied with effect, but sought to finish and polish till he sometimes \nimpaired and enfeebled his poems. Many of his poems, as they are \nnow printed, are very different from the original impressions. His \nretouches, however, were chiefly designed to render his verse more \ncomplete, or to improve the verbal expression of a thought. Errors \nof description or in natural history, such as abound in Gertrude of \nWyoming, he never corrected. Except in the case of The Pleasures \nof Hope, he consulted no one before publication. He said that he \n" never leaned on the taste of others, with that miserable disregard \nof his own judgment " which was implied in some of the anecdotes, \nin regard to his habits of composition, which had found their way \ninto print. His prose manuscripts he seldom copied. His poems he \nfrequently wrote out very fairly and legibly, on paper which he ruled \n9 \n\n\n\n98 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nfor the purpose. When he had completed the manuscript of his \nsmaller poems, he would have a few copies printed on slips, to keep \nby him for alteration and revision. Gertrude of Wyoming, which, \nof his longer poems, the poet preferred, he wrote in the leisure time \nof a tAvolve-month. The Last Man was composed in the space of \nthree forenoons, and it was sent to press with very inconsiderable \nchanges from the original copy. Mr. Bedding doubts if he ever wrote \nanything entirely to his own satisfaction, except the Lines on \nKemble. \n\nGenerally, he composed with difficulty. He could never accom- \nplish the leading article for a newspaper ; a task which requires the \npossession of a peculiar, not to say rare talent. He could not express \nhis thoughts with sufficient rapidity under the idea of editorial re- \nsponsibility ; and hence it happened that Perry was compelled to \nassign him to the Correspondence and the Poet\'s Corner, in his early \nconnection with the Morning Chronicle. He sometimes wrote an \nimpromptu in verse, though his efforts in this way, we imagine (as he \nintimates was the case on one of his German visits) , were generally \ngot up in the forenoon, to be written in the ladies\' albums in the \nevening. Mr. Redding, however, mentions onejfchat may well have \nbeen what it claimed to be. \n\nSome time about the year 1822, the elder Roscoe was introduced to \nSir Walter Scott, at Campbell\'s residence. They had a very pleasant \nmeeting, and the great novelist diverted Mrs. Campbell exceedingly \nby his stories. Mr. Redding took coffee with them that evening. \nCampbell was in good spirits, and said, " I have a mind to try an \nimpromptu." " I fancy such things are not so much your forte as \nTheodore Hook\'s," Redding replied. "Well, I will try," rejoined \nthe poet ; "leave me uninterrupted for a few minutes." Redding \ntook up a book. Campbell quickly repeated the following lines : \n\n" Quoth the South to the North, \xc2\xab In your comfortless sky \nNot a nightingale sings.\' \' True,\' the North made reply, \n\' But your nightingale\'s warblings I envy you not, \nWhen I think of the strains of my Burns and my Scott ! \'" \n\n" There is my impromptu," said the poet, " and you imagined I \nwas not equal to making one !" " Now, then, the lines should be put \nupon paper," Mr. Redding rejoined. And the poet immediately \n\n\n\nLIFE OF CAMPBELL. 99 \n\nwrote down the words, with the title " Impromptu by Thomas Camp- \nbell." Redding retained the original as a memento of the meeting \nof Scott, Roscoe and Campbell, and published it in his Reminiscences \nof the poet, in the New Monthly Magazine. \n\nBesides the well-known portrait of Campbell by Lawrence, several \nothers were taken at different periods. About the year 1838, he sat \nto a distinguished American artist, Mr. S. S. Osgood, who has suc- \nceeded in the execution of two very faithful likenesses, and to whom \nwe have been indebted for an anecdote well worth preserving. When \nthe artist first saw Campbell, it was at his lodgings, near the head \nof St. James-street, Piccadilly, up three nights of stairs. The poet \nreceived him in his library, in which there was but one window ; the \nwalls were covered with well-filled book-cases, and by the hearth was \na leopard\'s skin for a rug. " When I painted my last picture of that \ndistinguished man," says the artist, " now some fourteen years ago, \nhe was plainly exhibiting the lines of sorrow and age on his fine \ncountenance. The dreadful malady with which his only son was \nvisited to one of Campbell\'s acute sensibilities must have been the \nmost terrible affliction that could befall him. It gave a shock to his \nwhole nervous system, from which he never recovered, and which \naccounts in some measure for the charge sometimes made against \nhim of indulging to excess in the use of stimulants. A slight indul- \ngence overcame him, in the diseased state of his nervous system. At \ntimes I found him one of the most agreeable men I ever encountered ; \nat other times he was thoughtful, vrith an expression of deep sad- \nness, which indeed never entirely left his countenance, even in his \nhappiest moments. An overwhelming grief had stamped its impress \nupon his features. * * I made some notes of his conversation at \nthis time : but I have mislaid them, and will not venture to repeat \nfrom memory. One thing, however-, from its peculiarity, I have not \nforgotten. You know the way in which his name is generally pro- \nnounced in this country. In allusion to this, he once said to me, \n\' Why do the Americans always call me Camel ? I \'ve no hump on \nmy back. \' This little fact may be of interest, as showing that his \nname should be pronounced as it is spelt." \n\nThis imperfect personal narrative, we think, furnishes abundant \nproof that Campbell was a generous, noble-hearted, and high-minded \nman. Whatever may be the opinions of critics with regard to the \n\nLOFC. \n\n\n\n100 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. \n\nrelative merits of his longer didactic and descriptive works, it is, no \ndoubt, the well-established popular judgment, that Campbell stands \nfirst and without a rival among the Lyrical Poets of his age. " Many \nyears since," said Washington Irving, in 1841, " we hailed the pro- \nductions of his muse, as beaming forth like the pure lights of heaven \namong the meteor exhalations and paler fires with which our literary \natmosphere abounds. Since that time many of these meteors and \npaler fires, that dazzled and bewildered the public eye, have fallen to \nthe earth and passed away, \xe2\x80\x94 and still we find his poems like the stars, \nshining on with undiminished lustre.\'\'\' More fit words for the con- \nclusion of this sketch are nowhere to be found than those of the poet \nhimself, uttered in his old age : "I believe when I am gone justice \nwill be done to me in this way \xe2\x80\x94 that I was a pure writer. It is an \ninexpressible comfort, at my time of life, to be able to look back \nand feel that I have not written one line against religion or virtue." \n\n\n\nPOEMS \n\n\n\nPLEASURES OF HOPE \n\n\n\nPART THE FIRST. \n\n\n\nANALYSIS OE PART I. \n\n\n\nThe Poem opens with a comparison between the beauty of remote objects in a landscape \nand those ideal scenes of felicity which the imagination delights to contemplate \xe2\x80\x94 the \ninfluence of anticipation upon the other passions is next delineated \xe2\x80\x94 an allusion is made \nto the well-known fiction in Pagan tradition, that, when all the guardian deities of man- \nkind abandoned the world, Hope alone was left behind \xe2\x80\x94 the consolations of this passion \nin situations of danger and distress \xe2\x80\x94 the seaman on his watch \xe2\x80\x94 the soldier marching \ninto battle \xe2\x80\x94 allusion to the interesting adventures of Byron. \n\nThe inspiration of Hope, as it actuates the efforts of genius, whether in the department \nof science, or of taste \xe2\x80\x94 domestic felicity, how intimately connected with views of future \nhappiness \xe2\x80\x94 picture of a mother watching her infant when asleep \xe2\x80\x94 pictures of the pris- \noner, the maniac, and the wanderer. \n\nFrom the consolations of individual misery a transition is made to prospects of political \nimprovement in the future state of society \xe2\x80\x94 the wide field that is yet open for the pro- \ngress of humanizing arts among uncivilized nations \xe2\x80\x94 from these views of amelioration of \nsociety, and the extension of liberty and truth over despotic and barbarous countries, by \na melancholy contrast of ideas we are led to reflect upon the hard fate of a brave people \nrecently conspicuous in their struggles for independence \xe2\x80\x94 description of the capture of \nWarsaw, of the last contest of the oppressors and the oppressed, and the massacre of the \nPolish patriots at the bridge of Prague \xe2\x80\x94 apostrophe to the self-interested enemies of \nhuman improvement \xe2\x80\x94 the wrongs of Africa \xe2\x80\x94 the barbarous policy of Europeans in \nIndia \xe2\x80\x94 prophecy in the Hindoo mythology of the expected descent of the Deity to redress \nthe miseries of their race, and to take vengeance on the violators of justice and mercy. \n\n\n\nPLEASURES OF HOPE \n\n\n\nPART I \n\n\n\nAt summer eve, when Heaven\'s ethereal bow \nSpans with bright arch the glittering hills below, \nWhy to yon mountain turns the musing eye, \nWhose sunbright summit mingles with the sky 1 \nWhy do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear \nMore sweet than all the landscape smiling near?- \n\'T is distance lends enchantment to the view, \nAnd robes the mountain in its azure hue. \nThus, with delight, we linger to survey \nThe promised joys of life\'s unmeasured way; \nThus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene \nMore pleasing seems than all the past hath been, \nAnd every form that Fancy can repair \nFrom dark oblivion glows divinely there. \n\nWhat potent spirit guides the raptured eye \nTo pierce the shades of dim futurity ? \nCan Wisdom lend, with all her heavenly power, \nThe pledge of Joy\'s anticipated hour ? \nAh, no ! she darkly sees the fate of man \xe2\x80\x94 \nHer dim horizon bounded to a span : \n\n\n\n104 PLEASURES OP HOPE. \n\nOr, if she hold an image to the view, \n\n? T is Nature pictured too severely true. \n\nWith thee, sweet Hope ! resides the heavenly light, \n\nThat pours remotest rapture on the sight : \n\nThine is the charm of life\'s bewildered way, \n\nThat calls each slumbering passion into play. \n\nWaked by thy touch, I see the sister band, \n\nOn tiptoe watching, start at thy command, \n\nAnd fly where\'er thy mandate bids them s,teer, \n\nTo Pleasure\'s path or Glory\'s bright career. \n\nPrimeval Hope ! the Aonian Muses say, \nWhen Man and Nature mourned their first decay ; \nWhen every form of death, and every woe, \nShot from malignant stars to earth below ; \nWhen Murder bared her arm, and rampant War \nYoked the red dragons of her iron car ; \nWhen Peace and Mercy, banished from the plain, \nSprung on the viewless winds to Heaven again ; \nAll, all forsook the friendless, guilty mind, \nBut Hope, the charmer, lingered still behind. \n\nThus, while Elijah\'s burning wheels prepare \nFrom Carmel\'s heights to sweep the fields of air, \nThe prophet\'s mantle, ere his flight began, \nDropt on the world \xe2\x80\x94 a sacred gift to man. \n\nAuspicious Hope ! in thy sweet garden grow \nWreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe ; \nWon by their sweets, in Nature\'s languid hour, \nThe way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower ; \nThere, as the wild bee murmurs on the wing, \nWhat peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring ! \nWhat viewless forms the iEolian organ play, \nAnd sweep the furrowed lines of anxious thought away. \n\n\n\nPLEASURES OF HOPE. 105 \n\nAngel of life ! thy glittering wings explore \nEarth\'s loneliest bounds, and Ocean\'s wildest shore. \nLo ! to the wintry winds the pilot yields \nHis bark careering o\'er unfathomed fields ; \nNow on Atlantic waves he rides afar, \nWhere Andes, giant of the western star, \nWith meteor-standard to the winds unfurled, \nLooks from his throne of clouds o\'er half the world ! \n\nNow far he sweeps, where scarce a summer smiles, \nOn Bhering\'s rocks, or Greenland\'s naked isles ; \nCold on his midnight watch the breezes blow, \nFrom wastes that slumber in eternal snow, \nAnd waft, across the waves\' tumultuous roar, \nThe wolf\'s long howl from Oonalaska\'s shore. \n\nPoor child of danger, nursling of the storm, \nSad are the woes that wreck thy manly form ! \nRocks, waves and winds, the shattered bark delay ; \nThy heart is sad, thy home is far away. \n\nBut Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep, \nAnd sing to charm the spirit of the deep ; \nSwift as yon streamer lights the starry pole, \nHer visions warm the watchman\'s pensive soul ; \nHis native hills that rise in happier climes, \nThe grot that heard his song of other times, \nHis cottage home, his bark of slender sail, \nHis glassy lake, and broomwood-blossomed vale, \nRush on his thought ; he sweeps before the wind, \nTreads the loved shore he sighed to leave behind ; \nMeets at each step a friend\'s familiar face, \nAnd flies at last to Helen\'s long embrace; \nWipes from her cheek the rapture-speaking tear ! \nAnd clasps, with many a sigh, his children dear ! \n\n\n\n106 PLEASURES OF HOPE. \n\nWhile, long neglected, but at length caressed, \nHis faithful dog salutes the smiling guest, \nPoints to the master\'s eyes (where\'er they roam) \nHis wistful face, and whines a welcome home. \n\nFriend of the brave ! in peril\'s darkest hour, \nIntrepid Virtue looks to thee for power ; \nTo thee the heart its trembling homage yields, \nOn stormy floods, and carnage-covered fields, \nWhen front to front the bannered hosts combine, \nHalt ere they close, and form the dreadful line. \nWhen all is still on Death\'s devoted soil, \nThe march-worn soldier mingles for the toil ! \nAs rings his glittering tube, he lifts on high \nThe dauntless brow, and spirit-speaking eye, \nHails in his heart the triumph yet to come, \nAnd hears thy stormy music in the drum ! \n\nAnd such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore \nThe hardy Byron to his native shore \xe2\x80\x94 \nIn horrid climes, where Chiloe\'s tempests sweep \nTumultuous murmurs o\'er the troubled deep, \n\'T was his to mourn Misfortune\'s rudest shock, \nScourged by the winds, and cradled on the rock ; \nTo wake each joyless morn and search again \nThe famished haunts of solitary men, \nWhose race, unyielding as their native storm, \nKnow not a trace of Nature but the form ; \nYet, at thy call, the hardy tar pursued, \nPale, but intrepid, \xe2\x80\x94 sad, but unsubdued, \nPierced the deep woods, and, hailing from afar \nThe moon\'s pale planet and the northern star, \nPaused at each dreary cry, unheard before, \nHyenas in the wild, and mermaids on the shore ; \n\n\n\nPLEASURES OE HOPE. 107 \n\nTill, led by thee o\'er many a cliff sublime, \nHe found a warmer world, a milder clime, \nA home to rest, a shelter to defend, \nPeace and repose, a Briton and a friend ! \n\nCongenial Hope ! thy passion-kindling power, \nHow bright, how strong, in youth\'s untroubled hour ! \nOn yon proud height, with Genius hand in hand, \nI see thee \'light, and wave thy golden wand. \n\n" Go, child of Heaven ! (thy winged words proclaim) \n\'T is thine to search the boundless fields of fame ! \nLo ! Newton, priest of Nature, shines afar, \nScans the wide world, and numbers every star ! \nWilt thou, with him, mysterious rites apply, \nAnd watch the shrine with wonder-beaming eye 1 \nYes, thou shalt mark, with magic art profound, \nThe speed of light, the circling march of sound ; \nWith Franklin grasp the lightning\'s fiery wing, \nOr yield the lyre of Heaven another string. \n\n" The Swedish sage admires, in yonder bowers. \nHis winged insects, and his rosy flowers : \nCalls from their woodland haunts the savage train, \nWith sounding horn, and counts them on the plain ; \nSo once, at Heaven\'s command, the wanderers came \nTo Eden\'s shade, and heard their various name. \n\n" Far from the world, in yon sequestered clime, \nSlow pass the sons of Wisdom, more sublime ; \nCalm as the fields of Heaven, his sapient eye \nThe loved Athenian lifts to realms on high ; \nAdmiring Plato, on his spotless page, \nStamps the bright dictates of the Father sage : \n1 Shall Nature bound to Earth\'s diurnal span \nThe fire of God, the immortal soul of man ? \' \n\n\n\n108 PLEASURES OF HOPE. \n\n"Turn, child of Heaven, thy rapture-lightened eye \nTo Wisdom\'s walks, the sacred Nine are nigh ; \nHark ! from bright spires that gild the Delphian height, \nFrom streams that wander in eternal light, \nRanged on their hill, Harmonia\'s daughters swell \nThe mingling tones of horn and harp and shell : \nDeep from his vaults the Loxian murmurs flow. \nAnd Pythia\'s awful organ peals below. \n\n" Beloved of Heaven ! the smiling Muse shall shed \nHer moonlight halo on thy beauteous head ; \nShall swell thy heart to rapture unconfined, \nAnd breathe a holy madness o\'er thy mind. \nI see thee roam her guardian power beneath, \nAnd talk with spirits on the midnight heath ; \nInquire of guilty wanderers whence they came, \nAnd ask each blood-stained form his earthly name ; \nThen weave in rapid verse the deeds they tell, \nAnd read the trembling world the tales of hell. \n\n" When Venus, throned in clouds of rosy hue, \nFlings from her golden urn the vesper dew, \nAnd bids fond man her glimmering noon employ, \nSacred to love, and walks of tender joy, \nA milder mood the goddess. shall recall, \nAnd soft as dew thy tones of music fall ; \nWhile Beauty\'s deeply-pictured smiles impart \nA pang more dear than pleasure to the heart, \nWarm as thy sighs shall flow the Lesbian strain, \nAnd plead in Beauty\'s ear, nor plead in vain. \n\n" Or wilt thou Orphean hymns more sacred deem, \nAnd steep thy song in Mercy\'s mellow stream; \nTo pensive drops the radiant eye beguile \xe2\x80\x94 \nFor Beauty\'s tears are lovelier than her smile; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\nPLEASUKES OP HOPE, 109 \n\nOn Nature\'s throbbing anguish pour relief, \nAnd teach impassioned souls the joy of grief? \n\nu Yes ; to thy tongue shall seraph words be given, \nAnd power on earth to plead the cause of Heaven ; \nThe proud, the cold, untroubled heart of stone, \nThat never mused on sorrow but its own, \nUnlocks a generous store at thy command, \nLike Horeb\'s rocks beneath the prophet\'s hand. \nThe living lumber of his kindred earth, \nCharmed into soul, receives a second birth, \nFeels thy dread power another heart afford, \nWhose passion-touched, harmonious strings accord \nTrue as the circling spheres to Nature\'s plan ; \nAnd man, the brother, lives the friend of man. \n\n" Bright as the pillar rose at Heaven\'s command, \nWhen Israel marched along the desert land, \nBlazed through the night on lonely wilds afar, \nAnd told the path, \xe2\x80\x94 a never-setting star ; \nSo, heavenly Genius, in thy course divine, \nHope is thy star, her light is ever thine ! " \n\nPropitious Power ! when rankling cares annoy \nThe sacred home of Hymenean joy ; \nWhen doomed to Poverty\'s sequestered dell \nThe wedded pair of love and virtue dwell, \nUnpitied by the world, unknown to fame, \nTheir woes, their wishes, and their hearts the same, \xe2\x80\x94 \n0, there, prophetic Hope ! thy smile bestow, \nAnd chase the. pangs that worth should never know \xe2\x80\x94 \nThere, as the parent deals his scanty store \nTo friendless babes, and weeps to give no more, \nTell that his manly race shall yet assuage \nTheir father\'s wrongs, and shield his latter age. \n10 \n\n\n\n110 PLEASURES OF HOPE. \n\nWhat though for him no Hybla sweets distil, \nNor bloomy vines wave purple on the hill ; \nTell, that when silent years have passed away, \nThat when his eye grows dim. his tresses gray, \nThese busy hands a lovelier cot shall build, \nAnd deck with fairer flowers his little field, \nAnd call . from Heaven propitious dews to breathe \nArcadian beauty on the barren heath ; \nTell, that while Love\'s spontaneous smile endears \nThe days of peace, the sabbath of his years, \nHealth shall prolong to many a festive hour \nThe social pleasures of his humble bower. \n\nLo ! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps, \nHer silent watch the mournful mother keeps ; \nShe, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, \nSmiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes, \nAnd weaves a song of melancholy joy, \xe2\x80\x94 \n" Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy ! \nNo lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine ; \nNo sigh that rends thy father\'s heart and mine ; \nBright as his manly sire the son shall be \nIn form and soul ; but, ah ! more blest than he ! \nThy fame, thy worth, thy filial love at last, \nShall soothe his aching heart for all the past, \nWith many a smile my solitude repay, \nAnd chase the world\'s ungenerous scorn away. \n\n" And say, when summoned from the world and thee, \nI lay my head beneath the willow tree, \nWilt thou, sweet mourner ! at my stone appear, \nAnd soothe my parted spirit lingering near ? \n0, wilt thou come at evening hour to shed \nThe tears of Memory o\'er my narrow bed ; \n\n\n\nPLEASURES OP HOPE. Ill \n\nWith aching temples on thy hand reclined, \nMuse on the last farewell I leave behind, \nBreathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low, \nAnd think on all my love, and all my woe 1 " \n\nSo speaks affection, ere the infant, eye \nCan look regard, or brighten in reply ; \nBut when the cherub lip hath learnt to claim \nA mother\'s ear by that endearing name ; \nSoon as the playful innocent can prove \nA tear of pity, or a smile of love, \nOr cons his murmuring task beneath her care, \nOr lisps with holy look his evening prayer, \nOr gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear \nThe mournful ballad warbled in his ear ; \nHow fondly looks admiring Hope the while \nAt every artless tear, and every smile ; \nHow glows the joyous parent to descry \nA guileless bosom, true to sympathy ! \n\nWhere is the troubled heart consigned to share \nTumultuous toils, or solitary care, \nUnblest by visionary thoughts that stray \nTo count the joys of Fortune\'s better day ! \nLo, nature, life, and liberty relume \nThe dim-eyed tenant of the dungeon gloom, \nA long-lost friend, or hapless child restored, \nSmiles at his blazing hearth and social board ; \nWarm from his heart the tears of rapture flow, \nAnd virtue triumphs o\'er remembered woe. \n\nChide not his peace, proud Reason ; nor destroy \nThe shadowy forms of uncreated joy, \nThat urge the lingering tide of life, and pour \nSpontaneous slumber on his midnight hour. \n\n\n\n112 PLEASURES OF HOPE. \n\nHark ! the wild maniac sings, to chide the gale \n\nThat wafts so slow her lover\'s distant sail ; \n\nShe, sad spectatress, on the wintry shore \n\nWatched the rude surge his shroudless corse that bore, \n\nKnew the pale form, and, shrieking in amaze, \n\nClasped her cold hands, and fixed her maddening gaze : \n\nPoor widowed wretch ! \'t was there she wept in vain, \n\nTill Memory fled her agonizing brain ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBut Mercy gave, to charm the sense of w T oe, \n\nIdeal peace, that truth could ne\'er bestow; \n\nWarm on her heart the joys of Fancy beam, \n\nAnd aimless Hope delights her darkest dream. \n\nOft when yon moon has climbed the midnight sky. \nAnd the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry, \nPiled on the steep, her blazing fagots burn \nTo hail the bark that never can return ; \nAnd still she waits, but scarce forbears to weep, \nThat constant love can linger on the deep. \n\nAnd, mark the wretch, whose wanderings never knew \nThe world\'s regard, that soothes, though half untrue ; \nWhose erring heart the lash of sorrow bore, \nBut found not pity when it erred no more. \nYon friendless man, at whose dejected eye \nThe unfeeling proud one looks \xe2\x80\x94 and passes by, \nCondemned on Penury\'s barren path to roam, \nScorned by the world, and left without a home \xe2\x80\x94 \nEven he, at evening, should he chance to stray \nDown by the hamlet\'s hawthorn-scented way, \nWhere, round the cot\'s romantic glade, are seen \nThe blossomed bean-field, and the sloping green, \nLeans o\'er its humble gate, and thinks the while \xe2\x80\x94 \n! that for me some home like this would smile, \n\n\n\nPLEASURES OF HOPE. 113 \n\nSome hamlet shade, to yield my sickly form \nHealth in the breeze, and shelter in the storm ! \nThere should my hand no stinted boon assign \nTo wretched hearts with sorrow such as mine ! \xe2\x80\x94 \nThat generous wish can soothe unpitied care, \nAnd Hope half mingles with the poor man\'s prayer. \n\nHope ! when I mourn, with sympathizing mind, \nThe wrongs of fate, the woes of human kind, \nThy blissful omens bid my spirit see \nThe boundless fields of rapture yet to be ; \nI watch the wheels of Nature\'s mazy plan, \nAnd learn the future by the past of man. \n\nCome, bright Improvement ! on the car of Time, \nAnd rule the spacious world from clime to clime ; \nThy handmaid arts shall every wild explore, \nTrace every wave, and culture every shore. \nOn Erie\'s banks, where tigers steal along, \nAnd the dread Indian chants a dismal song, \nWhere human fiends on midnight errands walk, \nAnd bathe in brains the murderous tomahawk, \nThere shall the flocks on thymy pasture stray, \nAnd shepherds dance at Summer\'s opening day ; \nEach wandering genius of the lonely glen \nShall start to view the glittering haunts of men, \nAnd silent watch, on woodland heights around, \nThe village curfew as it tolls profound. \n\nIn Libyan groves, where damned rites are done, \nThat bathe the rocks in blood, and veil the sun, \nTruth shall arrest the murderous arm profane, \nWild Obi flies \xe2\x80\x94 the veil is rent in twain. \n\nWhere barbarous hordes on Scythian mountains roam, \nTruth, Mercy, Freedom, yet shall find a home ; \n10* \n\n\n\n114 PLEASURES OF HOPE. \n\nWhere\'er degraded Nature bleeds and pines, \nFrom Guinea\'s coast to Sibir\'s dreary mines, \nTruth shall pervade the unfathomed darkness there, \nAnd light the dreadful features of despair. \xe2\x80\x94 \nHark ! "the stern captive spurns his heavy load, \nAnd asks the image back that Heaven bestowed ! \nFierce in his eye the fire of valor burns, \nAnd, as the slave departs, the man returns. \n\n! sacred Truth ! thy triumph ceased a while, \nAnd Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, \nWhen leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars \nHer whiskered pandoors and her fierce hussars, \nWaved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, \nPealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn \nTumultuous horror brooded o\'er her van, \nPresaging wrath to Poland \xe2\x80\x94 and to man ! \n\nWarsaw\'s last champion from her height surveyed, \nWide o\'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid, \xe2\x80\x94 \n! Heaven ! he cried, my bleeding country save ! \xe2\x80\x94 \nIs there no hand on high to shield the brave ? \nYet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, \nRise, fellow-men ! our country yet remains ! \nBy that dread name, we wave the sword on high, \nAnd swear for her to live \xe2\x80\x94 with her to die ! \n\nHe said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed \nHis trusty warriors, few, but undismayed ; \nFirm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, \nStill as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm ; \nLow murmuring sounds along their banners fly, \nRevenge, or death, \xe2\x80\x94 the watch- word and reply; \nThen pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, \nAnd the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm ! \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\nPLEASURES OF HOPE, 115 \n\nIn vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few ! \nFrom rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew : \xe2\x80\x94 \n0, bloodiest picture in the hook of Time, \nSarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime ; \nFound not a generous friend, a pitying foe, \nStrength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe ! \nDropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, \nClosed her bright eye, and curbed her high career : \xe2\x80\x94 \nHope, for a season, bade the world farewell, \nAnd freedom shrieked \xe2\x80\x94 as Kosciusko fell ! \n\nThe sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there, \nTumultuous murder shook the midnight air \xe2\x80\x94 \nOn Prague\'s proud arch the fires of ruin glow, \nHis blood-dyed waters murmuring far below ; \nThe storm prevails, the rampart yields a way, \nBursts the wild cry of horror and dismay ! \nHark, as the smouldering piles with thunder fall, \nA thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call ! \nEarth shook \xe2\x80\x94 red meteors flashed along the sky, \nAnd conscious Nature shuddered at the cry ! \n\n! righteous Heaven ! ere Freedom found a grave, \nWhy slept the sword, omnipotent to save ? \nWhere was thine arm, Vengeance ! where thy rod, \nThat smote the foes of Zion and of God ; \nThat crushed proud Ammon, when his iron car \nWas yoked in wrath, -and thundered from afar ? \nWhere was the storm that slumbered till the host \nOf blood-stained Pharaoh left their trembling coast ; \nThen bade the deep in wild commotion flow, \nAnd heaved an ocean on their march below 1 \n\nDeparted spirits of the mighty dead ! \nYe that at Marathon and Leuctra bled ! \n\n\n\n116 PLEASURES OF HOPE. \n\nFriends of the world, restore your swords to man, \n\nTight in his sacred cause, and lead the van ! \n\nYet for Sarmatia\'s tears of blood atone, \n\nAnd make her arm puissant as your own ! \n\n! once again to Freedom\'s cause return \n\nThe patriot Tell \xe2\x80\x94 the Bruce of Baxnockburn! \n\nYes ! thy proud lords, unpitied land ! shall see \nThat man hath yet a soul \xe2\x80\x94 and dare be free ! \nA little while along thy saddening plains \nThe starless night of Desolation reigns ; \nTruth shall restore the light by Nature given, \nAnd, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven ! \nProne to the dust Oppression shall be hurled, \nHer name, her nature, withered from the world ! \n\nYe that the rising morn invidious mark, \nAnd hate the light because your deeds are dark ; \nYe that expanding truth invidious view, \nAnd think, or wish, the song of Hope untrue ; \nPerhaps your little hands presume to span \nThe march of Genius and the powers of man ; \nPerhaps ye watch, at Pride\'s unhallowed shrine, \nHer victims, newly slain, and thus divine : \xe2\x80\x94 \n" Here shall thy triumph, Genius, cease, and here \nTruth, Science, Virtue, close your short career." \n\nTyrants ! in vain ye trace the wizard ring ; \nIn vain ye limit Mind\'s unwearied spring : \nWhat ! can ye lull the winged winds asleep, \nArrest the rolling world, or chain the deep 1 \nNo ! the wild wave contemns your sceptred hand ; \nIt rolled not back when Canute gave command ! \n\nMan ! can thy doom no brighter soul allow 1 \nStill must thou live a blot on Nature\'s brow? \n\n\n\nPLEASURES OF HOPE. 117 \n\nShall war\'s polluted banner ne\'er be furled? \nShall crimes and tyrants cease but with the world ? \nWhat ! are thy triumphs, sacred Truth, belied 1 \nWhy then hath Plato lived \xe2\x80\x94 or Sidney died ? \n\nYe fond adorers of departed fame, \nWho warm at Scipio\'s worth, or Tully\'s name ! \nYe that, in fancied vision, can admire \nThe sword of Brutus, and the Theban lyre ! \nRapt in historic ardor, who adore \nEach classic haunt, and well-remembered shore, \nWhere Valor tuned, amidst her chosen throng, \nThe Thracian trumpet, and the Spartan song ; \nOr, wandering thence, behold the later charms \nOf England\'s glory, and Helvetia\'s arms ! \nSee Roman fire in Hampden\'s bosom swell, \nAnd fate and freedom in the shaft of Tell ! \nSay, ye fond zealots to the worth of yore, \nHath Valor left the world \xe2\x80\x94 to live no more 1 \nNo more shall Brutus bid a tyrant die, \nAnd sternly smile with vengeance in his eye ; \nHampden no more, when suffering freedom calls, \nEncounter Fate, and triumph as he fails ; \nNor Tell disclose, through peril and alarm, \nThe might that slumbers in a peasant\'s arm? \n\nYes, in that generous cause, forever strong, \nThe patriot\'s virtue, and the poet\'s song, \nStill, as the tide of ages rolls away, \nShall charm the world, unconscious of decay. \n\nYes, there are hearts, prophetic Hope may trust. \nThat slumber yet in uncreated dust, \nOrdained to fire the adoring sons of earth \nWith every charm of wisdom and of worth ; \n\n\n\n118 PLEASURES OF HOPE. \n\nOrdained to light, with intellectual day, \nThe mazy wheels of nature as they play, \nOr, warm with Fancy\'s energy, to glow, \nAnd rival all but Shakspeare\'s name below. \n\nAnd say, supernal Powers ! who deeply scan \nHeaven\'s dark decrees, unfathomed yet by man, \nWhen shall the world call down, to cleanse her shame, \nThat embryo spirit, yet without a name, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThat friend of Nature, whose avenging hands \n\nl CO \n\nShall burst the Libyan\'s adamantine bands ! \nWho, sternly marking on his native soil \nThe blood, the tears, the anguish, and the toil, \nShall bid each righteous heart exult, to see \nPeace to the slave, and vengeance on the free ! \n\nYet, yet, degraded men ! the expected day \nThat breaks your bitter cup is far away ; \nTrade, wealth and fashion, ask you still to bleed, \nAnd holy men give Scripture for the deed ; \nScourged, and debased, no Briton stoops to save \nA wretch, a coward ; yes, because a slave ! \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nEternal Nature ! when thy giant hand \nHad heaved the floods, and fixed the trembling land, \nWhen life sprang startling at thy plastic call, \nEndless her forms, and man the lord of all ! \nSay, was that lordly form inspired by thee, \nTo wear eternal chains and bow the knee ? \nWas man ordained the slave of man to toil, \nYoked with the brutes, and fettered to the soil ; \nWeighed in a tyrant\'s balance with his gold? \nNo, Nature stamped us in a heavenly mould ! \nShe bade no wretch his thankless labor urge, \nNor, trembling, take the pittance and the scourge ! \n\n\n\nPLEASURES OF HOPE. 119 \n\nXo homeless Libyan, on the stormy deep, \n\nTo call upon his country\'s name, and weep ! \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nLo ! once in triumph, on his boundless plain, \nThe quivered chief of Congo loved to reign ; \nWith fires proportioned to his native sky, \nStrength in his arm, and lightning in his eye ; \nScoured with wild feet his sun-illumined zone. \nThe spear, the lion, and the woods, his own ! \nOr led the combat, bold without a plan, \nAn artless savage, but a fearless man ! \n\nThe plunderer came : alas, no glory smiles \nFor Congo\'s chief, on yonder Indian Isles ! \nForever fallen, no son of Nature now, \nWith Freedom chartered on his manly brow ! \nFaint, bleeding, bound, he weeps the night away, \nAnd when the sea-wind wafts the dewless day \nStarts, with a bursting heart, forevermore \nTo curse the sun that lights their guilty shore ! \n\nThe shrill horn blew ; at that alarum knell \nHis guardian angel took a last farewell ! \nThat funeral dirge to darkness hath resigned \nThe fiery grandeur of a generous mind ! \nPoor fettered man ! I hear thee whispering low \nUnhallowed vows to Gruilt, the child of Woe, \nFriendless thy heart ; and canst thou harbor there \nA wish but death, \xe2\x80\x94 a passion but despair 1 \n\nThe widowed Indian, when her lord expires, \nMounts the dread pile, and braves the funeral fires ! \nSo falls the heart at Thraldom\'s bitter sigh ! \nSo Virtue dies, the spouse of Liberty ! \n\nBut not to Libya\'s barren climes alone, \nTo Chili, or the wild Siberian zone, \n\n\n\n120 PLEASURES OF HOPE. \n\nBelong the wretched heart and haggard eye, \nDegraded worth, and poor misfortune\'s sigh ! \xe2\x80\x94 \nYe orient realms, where Ganges\' waters run ! \nProlific fields, dominions of the sun ! \nHow long your tribes have trembled and obeyed ! \nHow long was Timour\'s iron sceptre swayed, \nWhose marshalled hosts, the lions of the plain, \nFrom Scythia\'s northern mountains to the main, \nRaged o\'er your plundered shrines and altars bare, \nWith blazing torch and gory cimitar, \xe2\x80\x94 \nStunned with the cries of death each gentle gale, \nAnd bathed in blood the verdure of the vale ! \nYet could no pangs the immortal spirit tame, \nWhen Brama\'s children perished for his name ; \nThe martyr smiled beneath avenging power, \nAnd braved the tyrant in his torturing hour ! \n\nWhen Europe sought your subject realms to gain, \nAnd stretched her giant sceptre o\'er the main, \nTaught her proud barks the winding way to shape, \nAnd braved the stormy Spirit of the Cape ; \nChildren of Brama, then was Mercy nigh \nTo wash the stain of blood\'s eternal dye? \nDid Peace descend, to triumph and to save, \nWhen freeborn Britons crossed the Indian wave 1 \nAh, no ! \xe2\x80\x94 to more than Rome\'s ambition true, \nThe Nurse of Freedom gave it not to you ! \nShe the bold route of Europe\'s guilt began, \nAnd, in the march of nations, led the van ! \n\nRich in the gems of India\'s gaudy zone, \nAnd plunder piled from kingdoms not their own, \nDegenerate trade, thy minions could despise \nThe heart-born anguish of a thousand cries ; \n\n\n\nPLEASURES OE HOPE. 121 \n\nCould lock, with impious hands, their teeming store, \nWhile famished nations died along the shore ; \nCould mock the groans of fellow-men, and bear \nThe curse of kingdoms peopled with despair ; \nCould stamp disgrace on man\'s polluted name, \nAnd barter, with their gold, eternal shame ! \n\nBut hark ! as bowed to earth the Bramin kneels, \nFrom heavenly climes propitious thunder peals ! \nOf India\'s fate her guardian spirits tell. \nProphetic murmurs breathing on the shell, \nAnd solemn sounds, that awe the listening mind, \nRoll on the azure paths of every wind. \n\n" Foes of mankind ! (her guardian spirits say) \nRevolving ages bring the bitter day, \nWhen Heaven\'s unerring arm shall fall on you, \nAnd blood for blood these Indian plains bedew ; \nNine times have Brama\'s wheels of lightning hurled \nHis awful presence o\'er the alarmed world ; \nNine times hath Guilt, through all his giant frame, \nConvulsive trembled, as the Mighty came ; \nNine times hath suffering Mercy spared in vain, \xe2\x80\x94 \nBut heaven shall burst her starry gates again ! \nHe comes ! dread Brama shakes the sunless sky \nWith murmuring wrath, and thunders from on high. \nHeaven\'s fiery horse, beneath his warrior form, \nPaws the light clouds, and gallops on the storm ! \nWide waves his flickering sword ; his bright arms glow \nLike summer suns, and light the world below ! \nEarth, and her trembling isles in Ocean\'s bed, \nAre shook ; and Nature rocks beneath his tread ! \n\n" To pour redress on India\'s injured realm, \nThe oppressor to dethrone, the proud to whelm ; \n11 \n\n\n\n122 PLEASURES OP HOPE. \n\nTo chase destruction from her plundered shore \nWith arts and arms that triumphed once before, \nThe tenth Avatar comes ! at Heaven\'s command \nShall Seriswattee wave her hallowed wand ! \nAnd Camdeo bright, and Ganesa sublime. \nShall bless with joy their own propitious clime ! \xe2\x80\x94 \nCome, Heavenly Powers ! primeval peace restore ! \nLove ! \xe2\x80\x94 Mercy ! \xe2\x80\x94 Wisdom ! \xe2\x80\x94 rule forevermore ! " \n\n\n\nPART THE SECOND. \n\n\n\nANALYSIS OF PART II. \n\n\n\nApostrophe to the power of Love \xe2\x80\x94 its intimate connection with generous and social \nSensibility \xe2\x80\x94 allusion to that beautiful passage, in the beginning of the Book of Genesis, \nwhich represents the happiness of Paradise itself incomplete till love was superadded to \nits other blessings \xe2\x80\x94 the dreams of future felicity which a lively imagination is apt to \ncherish, when Hope is animated by refined attachment \xe2\x80\x94 this disposition to combine, in \none imaginary scene of residence, all that is pleasing in our estimate of happiness, com- \npared to the skill of the great artist who personified perfect beauty, in the picture of \nVenus, by an assemblage of the most beautiful features he could find \xe2\x80\x94 a summer and \nwinter evening described, as they may be supposed to arise in the mind of one who \nwishes, with enthusiasm, for the union of friendship and retirement. \n\nHope and Imagination inseparable agents \xe2\x80\x94 even in those contemplative moments \nwhen our imagination wanders beyond the boundaries of this world, our minds are not \nunattended with an impression that we shall some day have a wider and more distinct \nprospect of the universe, instead of the partial glimpse we now enjoy. \n\nThe last and most sublime influence of Hope is the concluding topic of the poem \xe2\x80\x94 the \npredominance of a belief in a future state over the terrors attendant on dissolution \xe2\x80\x94 the \nbaneful influence of that sceptical philosophy which bars us from such comforts \xe2\x80\x94 allusion \nto the fate of a suicide \xe2\x80\x94 Episode of Conrad and Ellenore \xe2\x80\x94 conclusion. \n\n\n\nPART II. \n\nIn joyous youth, what soul hath never known \nThought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own? \nWho hath not paused while Beauty r s pensive eye \nAsked from his heart the homage of a sigh 1 \nWho hath not owned, with rapture-smitten frame, \nThe power of grace, the magic of a name 1 \n\nThere be, perhaps, who barren hearts avow, \nCold as the rocks on Torneo\'s hoary brow ; \nThere be, whose loveless wisdom never failed, \nIn self-adoring pride securely mailed ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nBut, triumph not, ye peace-enamored few ! \nFire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you ! \nFor you no fancy consecrates the scene \nWhere rapture uttered vows, and wept between ; \n; Tis yours, unmoved, to sever and to meet ; \nNo pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet ! \n\nWho that would ask a heart to dulness wed, \nThe waveless calm, the slumber of the dead ? \nNo ; the wild bliss of Nature needs alloy, \nAnd fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy ! \nAnd say, without our hopes, without our fears, \nWithout the home that plighted love endears, \nWithout the smile from partial beauty won. \n0, what were man? \xe2\x80\x94 a world without a sun. \n\nTill Hymen brought his love-delighted hour. \nThere dwelt no joy in Eden\'s rosy bower ! \n11* \n\n\n\n126 PLEASURES OF HOPE. \n\nIn vain the viewless seraph lingering there, \nAt starry midnight charmed the silent air ; \nIn vain the wild-bird carolled on the steep, \nTo hail the sun, slow wheeling from the deep ; \nIn vain, to soothe the solitary shade, \nAerial notes in mingling measure played ; \nThe summer wind that shook the spangled tree, \nThe whispering wave, the murmur of the bee ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nStill slowly passed the melancholy day, \nAnd still the stranger wist not where to stray. \nThe world was sad ; the garden was a wild ! \nAnd man, the hermit, sighed, till woman smiled ! \n\nTrue, the sad power to generous hearts may bring \nDelirious anguish on his fiery wing ; \nBarred from delight by Fate\'s untimely hand, \nBy wealthless lot, or pitiless command ; \nOr doomed to gaze on beauties that adorn \nThe smile of triumph or the frown of scorn ; \nWhile Memory watches o\'er the sad review \nOf joys that faded like the morning dew ; \nPeace may depart, and life and nature seem \nA barren path, a wildness, and a c(ream ! \n\nBut can the noble mind forever brood, \nThe willing victim of a weary mood, \nOn heartless cares that squander life away, \nAnd cloud young Genius brightening into day ? \nShame to the coward thought that e\'er betrayed \nThe noon of manhood to a myrtle shade ! \nIf Hope\'s creative spirit cannot raise \nOne trophy sacred to thy future days, \nScorn the dull crowd that haunt the gloomy shrine, \nOf hopeless love to murmur and repine ! \n\n\n\nPLEASURES OF HOPE. 127 \n\nBut, should a sigh of milder mood express \n\nThy heart-warm wishes, true to happiness, \n\nShould Heaven\'s fair Harbinger delight to pour \n\nHer blissful visions on thy pensive hour, \n\nNo tear to blot thy memory\'s pictured page. \n\nNo fears but such as fancy can assuage ; \n\nThough thy wild heart some hapless hour may miss \n\nThe peaceful tenor of unvaried bliss \n\n(For love pursues an ever-devious race, \n\nTrue to the winding lineaments of grace) ; \n\nYet still may Hope her talisman employ \n\nTo snatch from Heaven anticipated joy, \n\nAnd all her kindred energies impart, \n\nThat burn the brightest in the purest heart. \n\nWhen first the Rhodian\'s mimic art arrayed \nThe queen of Beauty in her Cyprian shade, \nThe happy master mingled on his piece \nEach look that charmed him in the fair of Greece. \nTo faultless Nature true, he stole a grace \nFrom every finer form and sweeter face ; \nAnd as he sojourned on the iEgean isles, \nWooed all their love, and treasured all their smiles ! \nThen glowed the tints, pure, precious, and refined, \nAnd mortal charms seemed heavenly when combined ; \nLove on the picture smiled ! Expression poured \nHer mingling spirit there, and Greece adored ! \n\nSo thy fair hand, enamored Fancy, gleans \nThe treasured pictures of a thousand scenes ; \nThy pencil traces on the lover\'s thought \nSome cottage-home, from towns and toil remote, \nWhere love and lore may claim alternate hours, \nWith Peace embosomed in Idalian bowers ; \n\n\n\n128 PLEASURES OF HOPE. \n\nRemote from busy Life\'s bewildered way, \n\nO\'er all his heart shall Taste and Beauty sway ; \n\nFree on the sunny slope, or winding shore, \n\nWith hermit steps to wander and adore ! \n\nThere shall he love, when genial morn appears, \n\nLike pensive Beauty smiling in her tears, \n\nTo watch the brightening roses of the sky, \n\nAnd muse on Nature with a poet\'s eye ! \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd when the sun\'s last splendor lights the deep, . \n\nThe woods and waves, and murmuring winds asleep, \n\nWhen fairy harps the Hesperian planet hail, \n\nAnd the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale, \n\nHis path shall be where streamy mountains swell \n\nTheir shadowy grandeur o\'er the narrow dell, \n\nWhere mouldering piles and forests intervene, \n\nMingling with darker tints the living green ; \n\nNo circling hills his ravished eye to bound, \n\nHeaven, Earth and Ocean, blazing all around. \n\nThe moon is up, \xe2\x80\x94 the watch-tower dimly burns,\xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd down the vale his sober step returns ; \nBut pauses oft, as winding rocks convey \nThe still sweet fall of music far away ; \nAnd oft he lingers from his home a while \nTo watch the dying notes, and start, and smile ! \n\nLet Winter come, let polar spirits sweep \nThe darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep ! \nThough boundless snows the withered heath deform, \nAnd the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm, \nYet shall the smile of social love repay, \nWith mental light, the melancholy day ; \nAnd, when its short and sullen noon is o\'er, \nThe ice-chained waters slumbering on the shore, \n\n\n\nPLEASURES OF HOPE. 129 \n\nHow bright the fagots in his little hall \n\nBlaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall ! \n\nHow blest he names, in Love\'s familiar tone, \nThe kind fair friend, by nature marked his own ; \nAnd, in the waveless mirror of his mind, \nViews the fleet years of pleasure left behind, \nSince when her empire o\'er his heart began, \nSince first he called her his before the holy man ! \n\nTrim the gay taper in his rustic dome, \nAnd light the wintry paradise of home ; \nAnd let the half-uncurtained window hail \nSome way-worn man benighted in the vale ! \nNow, while the moaning night- wind rages high, \nAs sweep the shot-stars down the troubled sky, \nWhile fiery hosts in Heaven\'s wide circle play, \nAnd bathe in lurid light the milky- way, \nSafe from the storm, the meteor, and the shower, \nSome pleasing page shall charm the solemn hour, \xe2\x80\x94 \nWith pathos shall command, with wit beguile, \nA generous tear of anguish, or a smile, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThy woes, Arion, and thy simple tale, \nO\'er all the heart shall triumph and prevail ! \nCharmed as they read the verse too sadly true, \nHow gallant Albert, and his weary crew, \nHeaved all their guns, their foundering bark to save, \nAnd toiled, and shrieked, and perished on the wave ! \n\nYes, at the dead of night, by Lonna\'s steep, \nThe seaman\'s cry was heard along the deep ; \nThere on his funeral waters, dark and wild, \nThe dying father blessed his darling child ; \n0, Mercy, shield her innocence ! he cried, \nSpent on the prayer his bursting heart, and died ! \n\n\n\n130 PLEASURES OF HOPE. \n\nOr they will learn how generous worth sublimes \nThe robber Moor, and pleads for all his crimes ! \nHow poor Amelia kissed, with many a tear, \nHis hand, blood-stained, but ever, ever dear ! \nHung on the tortured bosom of her lord, \nAnd wept and prayed perdition from his sword ! \nNor sought in vain \xe2\x80\x94 at that heart-piercing cry \nThe strings of Nature cracked with agony ! \nHe, with delirious laugh, the dagger hurled, \nAnd burst the ties that bound him to the world ! \nTurn from his dying words, that smite with steel \nThe shuddering thoughts, or wind them on the wheel \xe2\x80\x94 \nTurn to the gentler melodies that suit \nThalia\'s harp, or Pan\'s Arcadian lute ; \nOr, down the stream of Truth\'s historic page, \nFrom clime to clime descend, from age to age ! \n\nYet there, perhaps, may darker scenes obtrude \nThan Fancy fashions in her wildest mood ; \nThere shall he pause, with horrent brow, to rate \nWhat millions died \xe2\x80\x94 that Caesar might be great ! \nOr learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore, \nMarched by their Charles to Dneiper\'s swampy shore ; \nFaint in his wounds, and shivering in the blast, \nThe Swedish soldier sunk \xe2\x80\x94 and groaned his last ! \nFile after file the stormy showers benumb, \nFreeze every standard-sheet, and hush the drum ! \nHorseman and horse confessed the bitter pang, \nAnd arms and warriors fell with hollow clang ! \nYet, ere he sunk in Nature\'s last repose, \nEre life\'s warm torrent to the fountain froze, \nThe dying man to Sweden turned his eye, \nThought of his home, and closed it with a sigh ; \n\n\n\nPLEASURES OF HOPE. 131 \n\nImperial Pride looked sullen on his plight, \n\nAnd Charles beheld \xe2\x80\x94 nor shuddered at the sight ! \n\nAbove, below, in Ocean, Earth, and Sky, \nThy fairy worlds, Imagination, lie, \nAnd Hope attends, companion of the way, \nThy dream by night, thy visions of the day ! \nIn yonder pensile orb, and every sphere \nThat gems the starry girdle of the year \xe2\x80\x94 \nIn those unmeasured worlds, she bids thee tell. \nPure from their God, created millions dwell, \nWhose names and natures, unrevealed below, \nWe yet shall learn, and wonder as we know : \nFor, as lona\'s saint, a giant form, \nThroned on her towers, conversing with the storm \n(When o\'er each Runic altar, weed-entwined, \nThe vesper-clock tolls mournful to the wind), \nCounts every wave- worn isle, and mountain hoar, \nFrom Kilda to the green Ierne\'s shore ; \nSo, when thy pure and renovated mind \nThis perishable dust hath left behind, \nThy seraph eye shall count the starry train, \nLike distant isles embosomed in the main ; \nRapt to the shrine where motion first began, \nAnd light and life in mingling torrent ran ; \nFrom whence each bright rotundity was hurled. \nThe throne of God \xe2\x80\x94 the centre of the world ! \n\n0, vainly wise, the moral Muse hath sung \nThat suasive Hope hath but a Siren tongue ! \nTrue ; she may sport with life\'s untutored day, \nNor heed the solace of its last decay, \nThe guileless heart her happy mansion spurn, \nAnd part, like Ajut \xe2\x80\x94 never to return ! \n\n\n\n132 PLEASURES OF HOPE. \n\nBut yet, methinks, when Wisdom shall assuage \nThe grief and passions of our greener age, \nThough dull the close of life, and far away \nEach flower that hailed the dawning of the day ; \nYet o\'er her lovely hopes, that once were dear, \nThe time-taught spirit, pensive, not severe, \nWith milder griefs her aged eye shall fill, \nAnd weep their falsehood, though she loves them still ! \n\nThus, with forgiving tears, and reconciled, \nThe King of Judah mourned his rebel child ! \nMusing on days when yet the guiltless boy \nSmiled on his sire, and filled his heart with joy ; \nMy Absalom ! the voice of Nature cried, \n0, that for thee thy father could have died ! \nFor bloody was the deed, and rashly done, \nThat slew my Absalom ! \xe2\x80\x94 my son ! \xe2\x80\x94 my son ! \n\nUnfading Hope ! when life\'s last embers burn, \nWhen soul to soul and dust to dust return, \nHeaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour ! \n0, then thy kingdom comes ! Immortal Power ! \nWhat though each spark of earth-born rapture fly \nThe quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye ! \nBright to the soul thy seraph hands convey \nThe morning dream of life\'s eternal day \xe2\x80\x94 \nThen, then, the triumph and the trance begin, \nAnd all the phoenix spirit burns within ! \n\n0, deep-enchanting prelude to repose, \nThe dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes ! \nYet half I hear the panting spirit sigh, \nIt is a dread and awful thing to die ! \nMysterious worlds, untravelled by the sun ! \nWhere Time\'s far-wandering tide has never run, \n\n\n\nPLEASUKES OF HOPE. 183 \n\nFrom your unfathomed shades, and viewless spheres, \nA warning comes, unheard by other ears. \n\'Tis Heaven\'s commanding trumpet, long and loud, \nLike Sinai\'s thunder, pealing from the cloud ! \nWhile Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust, \nThe shock that hurls her fabric to the dust ; \nAnd, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod \nThe roaring waves, and called upon his God, \nWith mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss, \nAnd shrieks, and hovers o\'er the dark abyss ! \n\nDaughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume \nThe dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb ! \nMelt and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll \nCimmerian darkness o\'er the parting soul ! \nFly, like the moon-eyed herald of Dismay, \nChased on his night-steed by the star of day ! \nThe strife is o\'er \xe2\x80\x94 the pangs of Nature close, \nAnd life\'s last rapture triumphs o\'er her woes. \nHark ! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze, \nThe noon of Heaven, undazzled by the blaze, \nOn heavenly winds, that waft her to the sky, \nFloat the sweet tones of star-born melody ; \nWild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail \nBethlehem\'s shepherds in the lonely vale, \nWhen Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still \nWatched on the holy towers of Zion hill ! \n\nSoul of the just ! companion of the dead ! \nWhere is thy home, and whither art thou fled ? \nBack to its heavenly source thy being goes, \nSwift as the comet wheels to whence he rose ; \nDoomed on his airy path a while to burn, \nAnd doomed, like thee, to travel and return. \n12 \n\n\n\n134 PLEASURES OF HOPE. \n\nHark ! from the world\'s exploding centre driven, \nWith sounds that shook the firmament of Heaven, \nCareers the fiery giant, fast and far, \nOn bickering wheels, and adamantine car ; \nFrom planet whirled to planet more remote, \nHe visits realms beyond the reach of thought ; \nBut wheeling homeward, when his course is run, \nCurbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun ! \nSo hath the traveller of earth unfurled \nHer trembling wings, emerging from the world ; \nAnd o\'er the path by mortal never trod \nSprung to her source \xe2\x80\x94 the bosom of her God ! \n\n0, lives there, Heaven, beneath thy dread expanse, \nOne hopeless, dark idolater of Chance, \nContent to feed, with pleasures unrefined, \nThe lukewarm passions of a lowly mind ; \nWho, mouldering earthward, \'reft of every trust \nIn joyless union wedded to the dust, \nCould all his parting energy dismiss, \nAnd call this barren world sufficient bliss 1 \nThere live, alas ! of heaven-directed mien, \nOf cultured soul, and sapient eye serene, \nWho hail thee, Man ! the pilgrim of a day. \nSpouse of the worm, and brother of the clay, \nFrail as the leaf in Autumn\'s yellow bower, \nDust in the wind, or dew upon the flower ; \nA friendless slave, a child without a sire, \nWhose mortal life and momentary fire \nLight to the grave his chance-created form, \nAs ocean- wrecks illuminate the storm ; \nAnd, when the gun\'s tremendous flash is o\'er, \nTo night and silence sink forevermore ! \n\n\n\nPLEASURES OE HOPE. 135 \n\nAre these the pompous tidings ye proclaim, \nLights of the world, and demi-gods of Fame ? \nIs this your triumph \xe2\x80\x94 this your proud applause, \nChildren of Truth, and champions of her. cause ? \nFor this hath Science searched, on weary wing, \nBy shore and sea, each mute and living thing ! \nLaunched with Iberia\'s pilot from the steep, \nTo worlds unknown, and isles beyond the deep 1 \nOr round the cope her living chariot driven, \nAnd wheeled in triumph through the signs of Heaven. \n0, star-eyed Science ! hast thou wandered there, \nTo waft us home the message of despair ? \nThen bind the palm, thy sage\'s brow to suit, \nOf blasted leaf, and death-distilling fruit ! \nAh me ! the laurelled wreath that Murder rears, \nBlood-nursed, and watered by the widow\'s tears, \nSeems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread, \nAs waves the night-shade round the sceptic head. \nWhat is the bigot\'s torch, the tyrant\'s chain? \nI smile on death, if heaven-ward Hope remain ! \nBut, if the warring winds of Nature\'s strife \nBe all the faithless charter of my life, \nIf Chance awaked, inexorable power, \nThis frail and feverish being of an hour ; \nDoomed o\'er the world\'s precarious scene to sweep, \nSwift as the tempest travels on the deep,. \nTo know Delight but by her parting smile, \nAnd toil, and wish, and weep a little while ; \nThen melt, ye elements, that formed in vain \nThis troubled pulse, and visionary brain ! \nFade, ye wild flowers, memorials of my doom, \nAnd sink, ye stars, that light me to the tomb ! \n\n\n\n136 PLEASUKES OF HOPE. \n\nTruth, ever lovely, \xe2\x80\x94 since the world began, \nThe foe of tyrants, and the friend of man, \xe2\x80\x94 \nHow can thy words from balmy slumber start \nReposing Virtue, pillowed on the heart ! \nYet, if thy voice the note of thunder rolled, \nAnd that were true which Nature never told, \nLet Wisdom smile not on her conquered field, \nNo rapture dawns, no treasure is revealed ! \n0, let her read, nor loudly, nor elate, \nThe doom that bars us from a better fate ; \nBut, sad as angels for the good man\'s sin, \nWeep to record, and blush to give it in ! \n\nAnd well may Doubt, the mother of Dismay, \nPause at her martyr\'s tomb, and read the lay. \nDown by the wilds of yon deserted vale, \nIt darkly hints a melancholy tale ! \nThere, as the homeless madman sits alone, \nIn hollow winds he hears a spirit moan ; \nAnd there, they say, a wizard orgie crowds, \nWhen the moon lights her watch-tower in the clouds. \nPoor lost Alonzo ! Fate\'s neglected child ! \nMild be the doom of Heaven \xe2\x80\x94 as thou wert mild ! \nFor, ! thy heart in holy mould was cast, \nAnd all thy deeds were blameless but the last. \nPoor lost Alonzo ! still I seem to hear \nThe clod that struck thy hollow-sounding bier ! \nWhen Friendship paid, in speechless sorrow drowned, \nThy midnight rites, but not on hallowed ground ! \n\nCease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind, \nBut leave, 0, leave the light of Hope behind ! \nWhat though my winged hours of bliss have been, \nLike angel- visits, few and far between, \n\n\n\nPLEASUEES OF HOPE. 13? \n\nHer musing mood shall every pang appease, \n\nAnd charm \xe2\x80\x94 when pleasures lose the power to please ! \n\nYes ; let each rapture, dear to Nature, flee : \n\nClose not the light of Fortune\'s stormy sea \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMirth, Music, Friendship, Love\'s propitious smile, \n\nChase every care, and charm a little while, \n\nEcstatic throbs the fluttering heart employ, \n\nAnd all her strings are harmonized to joy ! \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBut why so short is Love\'s delighted hour 1 \n\nWhy fades the dew on Beauty\'s sweetest flower? \n\nWhy can no hymned charm of music heal \n\nThe sleepless woes impassioned spirits feel? \n\nCan Fancy\'s fairy hands no veil create, \n\nTo hide the sad realities of fate? \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNo ! not the quaint remark, the sapient rule, \nNor all the pride of Wisdom\'s worldly school, \nHave power to soothe, unaided and alone, \nThe heart that vibrates to a feeling tone ! \nWhen stepdame Nature every bliss recalls, \nFleet as the meteor o\'er the desert falls ; \nWhen, \' reft of all, yon widowed sire appears \nA lonely hermit in the vale of years ; \nSay, can the world one joyous thought bestow \nTo Friendship, weeping at the couch of Woe ? \nNo ! but a brighter soothes the last adieu, \xe2\x80\x94 \nSouls of impassioned mould, she speaks to you ! \nWeep not, she says, at Nature\'s transient pain, \nCongenial spirits part to meet again ! \n\nWhat plaintive sobs thy filial spirit drew, \nWhat sorrow choked thy long and last adieu ! \nDaughter of Conrad ? when he heard his knell, \nAnd bade his country and his child farewell, \n12* \n\n\n\n138 PLEASURES OF HOPE. \n\nDoomed the long isles of Sidney-cove to see. \nThe martyr of his crimes, but true to thee ? \nThrice the sad father tore thee from his heart, \nAnd thrice returned, to bless thee, and to part ; \nThrice from his trembling lips he murmured low \nThe plaint that owned unutterable woe ; \nTill Faith, prevailing o\'er his sullen doom, \nAs bursts the mOrn on night\'s unfathomecl gloom, \nLured his dim eye to deathless hopes sublime, \nBeyond the realms of Nature and of Time ! \n\n" And weep not thus," he cried, " young Ellenore, \nMy bosom bleeds, but soon shall bleed no more ! \nShort shall this half-extinguished spirit burn, \nAnd soon these limbs to kindred dust return ! \nBut not, my child, with life\'s precarious fire, \nThe immortal ties of Nature shall expire ; \nThese shall resist the triumph of decay, \nWhen time is o\'er, and worlds have passed away ! \nCold in the dust this perished heart may lie, \nBut that which warmed it once shall never die ! \nThat spark unburied in its mortal frame, \nWith living light, eternal, and the same, \nShall beam on Joy\'s interminable years, \nUnveiled by darkness \xe2\x80\x94 unassuaged by tears ! \n\n" Yet, on the barren shore and stormy deep, \nOne tedious watch is Conrad doomed to weep ; \nBut when I gain the home without a friend, \nAnd press the uneasy couch where none attend, \nThis last embrace, still cherished in my heart. \nShall calm the struggling spirit ere it part ! \nThy darling form shall seem to hover nigh, \nAnd hush the groan of life\'s last agony ! \n\n\n\nPLEASURES OF HOPE. 139 \n\n" Farewell ! when strangers lift thy father\'s bier, \nAnd place my nameless stone without a tear ; \nWhen each returning pledge hath told my child \nThat Conrad\'s tomb is on the desert piled ; \nAnd when the dream of troubled Fancy sees \nIts lonely rank grass waving in the breeze ; \nWho then will soothe thy grief, when mine is o\'er ? \nWho will protect thee, helpless Ellenore ? \nShall secret scenes thy filial sorrows hide, \nScorned by the world, to factious guilt allied ? \nAh ! no ; methinks the generous and the good \nWill woo thee from the shades of solitude ! \nO\'er friendless grief Compassion shall awake, \nAnd smile on innocence, for Mercy\'s sake ! " \n\nInspiring thought of rapture yet to be, \nThe tears of Love were hopeless, but for thee ! \nIf in that frame no deathless spirit dwell, \nIf that faint murmur be the last farewell, \nIf Fate unite the faithful but to part, \nWhy is their memory sacred to the heart 3 \nWhy does the brother of my childhood seem \nRestored a while in every pleasing dream ? \nWhy do I joy the lonely spot to view, \nBy artless friendship blessed when life was new ? \n\n^Eternal Hope ! when yonder spheres sublime \nPealed their first notes to sound the march of Time, \nThy joyous youth began \xe2\x80\x94 but not to fade. \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhen all the sister planets have decayed ; \nWhen wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow, \nAnd Heaven\'s last thunder shakes the world below ; \nThou, undismayed, shalt o\'er the ruins smile, \nAnd light thy torch at Nature\'s funeral pile ! \n\n\n\nTHEODRIC ; \n\nA DOMESTIC TALE. \n\n\'T WAS sunset, and the Ranz des Vaches was sung, \n\nAnd lights were o\'er the Helvetian mountains flung, \n\nThat gave the glacier tops their richest glow, \n\nAnd tinged the lakes like molten gold below : \n\nWarmth flushed the wonted regions of the storm, \n\nWhere, Phoenix-like, you saw the eagle\'s form \n\nThat high in Heaven\'s vermilion wheeled and soared, \n\nWoods nearer frowned, and cataracts dashed and roared \n\nFrom heights browsed by the bounding bouquetin ; \n\nHerds tinkling roamed the long-drawn vales between, \n\nAnd hamlets glittered white, and gardens flourished green \n\n\'T was transport to inhale the bright sweet air ! \n\nThe mountain-bee was revelling in its glare, \n\nAnd roving with his minstrelsy across \n\nThe scented wild weeds, and enamelled moss. \n\nEarth\'s features so harmoniously were linked, \n\nShe seemed one great glad form, with life instinct, \n\nThat felt Heaven\'s ardent breath, and smiled below \n\nIts flush of love, with consentaneous glow. \n\nA Gothic church was near ; the spot around \nWas beautiful, even though sepulchral ground; \nFor there nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom, \nBut roses blossomed by each rustic tomb. \n\n\n\nTHEODBIC. 141 \n\nAmidst them one of spotless marble shone, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA maiden\'s grave, \xe2\x80\x94 and 5 t was inscribed thereon, \n\nThat young and loved she died whose dust was there : \n\n" Yes," said my comrade, " young she died, and fair ! \nGrace formed her, and the soul of gladness played \nOnce in the blue eyes of that mountain-maid : \nHer fingers witched the chords they passed along, \nAnd her lips seemed to kiss the soul in song : \nYet wooed and worshipped as she was, till few \nAspired to hope, \'t was sadly, strangely true, \nThat heart, the martyr of its fondness, burned, \nAnd died of love that could not be returned. \n\nHer father dwelt where yonder castle shines \nO\'er clustering trees and terrace-mantling vines : \nAs gay as ever, the laburnum\'s pride \nWaves o\'er each walk where she was wont to glide, \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd still the garden whence she graced her brow \nAs lovely blooms, though trode by strangers now. \nHow oft, from yonder window o\'er the lake, \nHer song of wild Helvetian swell and shake \nHas made the rudest fisher bend his ear, \nAnd rest enchanted on his oar to hear ! \nThus bright, accomplished, spirited, and bland, \nWell-born, and wealthy for that simple land, \nWhy had no gallant native youth the art \nTo win so warm \xe2\x80\x94 so exquisite a heart ? \nShe, \'midst these rocks inspired with feelings strong \nBy mountain-freedom \xe2\x80\x94 music \xe2\x80\x94 fancy \xe2\x80\x94 song, \nHerself descended from the brave in arms, \nAnd conscious of romance-inspiring charms, \nDreamt of heroic beings ; hoped to find \nSome extant spirit of chivalric kind ; \n\n\n\n142 THEODRIC. \n\nAnd, scorning wealth, looked cold even on the claim \nOf manly worth, that lacked the wreath of fame. \n\nHer younger brother, sixteen summers old, \nAnd much her likeness both in mind and mould, \nHad gone, poor boy ! in soldiership to shine, \nAnd bore an Austrian banner on the Khine. \n: T was when, alas ! our empire\'s evil star \nShed all the plagues, without the pride, of war; \nWhen patriots bled, and bitterer anguish crossed \nOur brave, to die in battles foully lost. \nThe youth wrote home the rout of many a day ; \nYet still he said, and still with truth could say, \nOne corps had ever made a valiant stand, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe corps in which he served, \xe2\x80\x94 Theodric\'s band. \nHis fame, forgotten chief ! is now gone by, \nEclipsed by brighter orbs in Glory\'s sky; \nYet once it shone, and veterans, when they show \nOur fields of battle twenty years ago, \nWill tell you feats his small brigade performed, \nIn charges nobly faced and trenches stormed. \nTime was when songs were chanted to his fame, \nAnd soldiers loved the march that bore his name : \nThe zeal of martial hearts was at his call, \nAnd that Helvetian\'s, Udolph\'s, most of all. \n\'T was touching, when the storm of war blew wild, \nTo see a blooming boy \xe2\x80\x94 almost a child \xe2\x80\x94 \nSpur fearless at his leader\'s words and signs, \nBrave death in reconnoitring hostile lines, \nAnd speed each task, and tell each message clear, \nIn scenes where war-trained men were stunned with fear. \n\nTheodric praised him, and they wept for joy \nIn yonder house, when letters from the boy \n\n\n\nTHEODRIC. 143 \n\nThanked Heaven for life, and more, to use his phrase. \n\nThan twenty lives \xe2\x80\x94 his own commander\'s praise. \n\nThen followed glowing pages, blazoning forth \n\nThe fancied image of his leader\'s worth, \n\nWith such hyperboles of youthful style \n\nAs made his parents dry their tears and smile : \n\nBut differently far his words impressed \n\nA wondering sister\'s well-believing breast ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nShe caught the illusion, blessed Theodric\' s name. \n\nAnd wildly magnified his worth and fame ; \n\nKejoicing life\'s reality contained \n\nOne heretofore her fancy had but feigned, \n\nWhose love could make her proud ! \xe2\x80\x94 and time and chance \n\nTo passion raised that day-dream of Romance. \n\nOnce, when with hasty charge of horse and man \nOur arriere-guard had checked the Gallic van, \nTheodric, visiting the outposts, found \nHis Udolph wounded, weltering on the ground : \nSore crushed, half-swooning, half- upraised he lay, \nAnd bent his brow, fair boy ! and grasped the clay. \nHis fate moved even the common soldier\'s ruth \xe2\x80\x94 \nTheodric succored him ; nor left the youth \nTo vulgar hands, but brought him to his tent, \nAnd lent what aid a brother would have lent. \n\nMeanwhile, to save his kindred half the smart \nThe war-gazette\'s dread blood-roll might impart, \nHe wrote the event to them ; and soon could tell \nOf pains assuaged and symptoms auguring well ; \nAnd last of all, prognosticating cure, \nEnclosed the leech\'s vouching signature. \n\nTheir answers, on whose pages you might note \nThat tears had fallen whilst trembling fingers wrote, \n\n\n\n144 THEODRIC. \n\nGave boundless thanks for benefits conferred, \nOf which the boy, in secret, sent them word, \nWhose memory Time, they said, would never blot ; \nBut which the giver had himself forgot. \n\nIn time, the stripling, vigorous and healed, \nResumed his barb and banner in the field, \nAnd bore himself right soldier-like, till now \nThe third campaign had manlier bronzed his brow, \nWhen peace, though but a scanty pause for breath, \xe2\x80\x94 \nA curtain-drop between the acts of death, \xe2\x80\x94 \nA check in frantic war\'s unfinished game, \nYet dearly bought, and direly welcome, came. \nThe camp broke up, and Udolph left his chief \nAs with a son\'s or younger brother\'s grief; \nBut journeying home, how rapt his spirits rose ! \nHow light his footsteps crushed St. Gothard\'s snows ! \nHow dear seemed even the waste and wild Shreckhorn, \nThough wrapt in clouds, and frowning as in scorn \nUpon a downward world of pastoral charms ; \nWhere, by the very smell of dairy-farms, \nAnd fragrance from the mountain-herbage blown, \nBlindfold his native hills he could have known ! \n\nHis coming down yon lake, \xe2\x80\x94 his boat in view \nOf windows where love\'s fluttering kerchief flew, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe arms spread out for him \xe2\x80\x94 the tears that burst \xe2\x80\x94 \n(\'T was Julia\'s, \'t was his sister\'s, met him first) ; \nTheir pride to see war\'s medal at his breast, \nAnd all their rapture\'s greeting, may be guessed. \n\nEre long, his bosom triumphed to unfold \nA gift he meant their gayest room to hold, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe picture of a friend in warlike dress ; \nAnd who it was he first bade Julia guess. \n\n\n\nTHEODMC. 145 \n\n: Yes,\' she replied, \' \'t was he, methought in sleep. \nWhen you were wounded, told me not to weep.\' \nThe painting long in that sweet mansion drew \nEegards its living semblance little knew. \n\nMeanwhile Theodric, who had years before \nLearnt England\'s tongue, and loved her classic lore, \nA glad enthusiast now explored the land, \nWhere Nature, Freedom. Art, smile hand in hand ; \nHer women fair ; her men robust for toil ; \nHer vigorous souls, high-cultured as her soil ; \nHer towns, where civic independence flings \nThe gauntlet down to senates, courts, and kings ; \nHer works of art, resembling magic\'s powers ; \nHer mighty fleets, and learning\'s beauteous bowers, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThese he had visited, with wonder\'s smile, \nAnd scarce endured to quit so fair an isle. \nBut how our fates from unmomentous things \nMay rise, like rivers out of little springs ! \nA trivial chance postponed his parting day, \nAnd public tidings caused, in that delay, \nAn English Jubilee. \'Twas a glorious sight ! \nAt eve stupendous London, clad in light, \nPoured out triumphant multitudes to gaze ; \nYouth, age, wealth, penury, smiling in the blaze ; \nThe illumined atmosphere was warm and bland, \nAnd Beauty\'s groups, the fairest of the land, \nConspicuous, as in some wide festive room, \nIn open chariots passed with pearl and plume. \nAmidst them he remarked a lovelier mien \nThan e\'er his thoughts had shaped, or eyes had seen ; \nThe throng detained her till he reined his steed, \nAnd, ere the beauty passed, had time to read \n13 \n\n\n\n146 THEODRIC. \n\nThe motto and the arms her carriage bore. \n\nLed by that clue, he left not England\'s shore \n\nTill he had known her ; and to know her well \n\nProlonged, exalted, bound, enchantment\'s spell ; \n\nFor with affections warm, intense, refined, \n\nShe mixed such calm and holy strength of mind, \n\nThat, like Heaven\'s image in the smiling brook, \n\nCelestial peace was pictured in her look. \n\nHers was the brow, in trials unperplexed, \n\nThat cheered the sad, and tranquillized the vexed ; \n\nShe studied not the meanest to eclipse, \n\nAnd yet the wisest listened to her lips ; \n\nShe sang not, knew not Music\'s magic skill, \n\nBut yet her voice had tones that swayed the will. \n\nHe sought \xe2\x80\x94 he won her \xe2\x80\x94 and resolved to make \n\nHis future home in England, for her sake. \n\nYet, ere they wedded, matters of concern \nTo Cesar\'s court commanded his return, \nA season\'s space, \xe2\x80\x94 and on his Alpine way, \nHe reached those bowers, that rang with joy that day ; \nThe boy was half beside himself, \xe2\x80\x94 the sire, \nAll frankness, honor, and Helvetian fire, \nOf speedy parting would not hear him speak ; \nAnd tears bedewed and brightened Julia\'s cheek. \n\nThus, loth to wound their hospitable pride, \nA month he promised with them to abide ; \nAs blithe he trod the mountain-sward as they, \nAnd felt his joy make even the young more gay. \nHow jocund was their breakfast-parlor, fanned \nBy yon blue water\'s breath, \xe2\x80\x94 their walks how bland ! \nEair Julia seemed her brother\'s softened sprite \xe2\x80\x94 \nA gem reflecting Nature\'s purest light, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\nTHEODRIC. 147 \n\nAnd with her graceful wit there was inwrought \nA wildly sweet unworldliness of thought, \nThat almost child-like to his kindness drew, \nAnd twin with Udolph in his friendship grew. \nBut did his thoughts to love one moment range 7 \xe2\x80\x94 \nNo, he who had loved Constance could not change ! \nBesides, till grief betrayed her undesigned, \nThe unlikely thought could scarcely reach his mind, \nThat eyes so young on years like his should beam \nUnwooed devotion back for pure esteem. \n\nTrue she sang to his very soul, and brought \nThose trains before him of luxuriant thought, \nWhich only Music\'s heaven-born art can bring, \nTo sweep across the mind with angel wing. \nOnce, as he smiled amidst that waking trance, \nShe paused o\'ercome, he thought it might be chance, \nAnd, when his first suspicions dimly stole, \nRebuked them back like phantoms from his soul. \nBut when he saw his caution gave her pain, \nAnd kindness brought suspense\'s rack again, \nFaith, honor, friendship, bound him to unmask \nTruths which her timid fondness feared to ask. \n\nAnd yet with gracefully ingenuous power \nHer spirit met the explanatory hour ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nEven conscious beauty brightened in her eyes, \nThat told she knew their love no vulgar prize ; \nAnd pride like that of one more woman-grown, \nEnlarged her mien, enriched her voice\'s -tone. \n\'T was then she struck the keys, and music made \nThat mocked all skill her hand had e\'er displayed. \nInspired and warbling, rapt from things around, \nShe looked the very Muse of magic sound, \n\n\n\n148 THEODRIC. \n\nPainting in sound the forms of joy and woe, \n\nUntil the mind\'s eye saw them melt and glow. \n\nHer closing strain composed and calm she played, \n\nAnd sang no words to give its pathos aid ; \n\nBut grief seemed lingering in its lengthened swell, \n\nAnd like so many tears the trickling touches fell. \n\nOf Constance then she heard Theodric speak, \n\nAnd steadfast smoothness still possessed her cheek. \n\nBut when he told her how he oft had planned \n\nOf old a journey to their mountain-land, \n\nThat might have brought him hither years before, \n\n\'Ah, then,\' she cried, \'you knew not England\'s shore! \n\nAnd had you come \xe2\x80\x94 and wherefore did you not ? \' \n\n\' Yes,\' he replied, \' it would have changed our lot ! \' \n\nThen burst her tears through pride\'s restraining bands, \n\nAnd with her handkerchief, and both her hands, \n\nShe hid her voice and wept. \xe2\x80\x94 Contrition stung \n\nTheodric for the tears his words had wrung. \n\n\' But no,\' she cried, \' unsay not what you \'ve said, \n\nNor grudge one prop on which my pride is stayed ; \n\nTo think I could have merited your faith \n\nShall be my solace even unto death ! \' \n\n\'Julia,\' Theodric said, with purposed look \n\nOf firmness, \' my reply deserved rebuke ; \n\nBut, by your pure and sacred peace of mind, \n\nAnd by the dignity of womankind, \n\nSwear that when I am gone you \'11 do your best \n\nTo chase this dream of fondness from your breast.\' \n\nThe abrupt appeal electrified her thought ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nShe looked to Heaven as if its aid she sought, \nDried hastily the tear-drops from her cheek, \nAnd signified the vow she could not speak. \n\n\n\nTHE0DRIC. 149 \n\nEre long lie communed with her mother mild ; \n\'Alas,\' she said, c I warned \xe2\x80\x94 conjured my child, \nAnd grieved for this affection from the first, \nBut like fatality it has been nursed ; \nFor when her filled eyes on your picture fixed, \nAnd when your name in all she spoke was mixed, \n\'T was hard to chide an over-grateful mind ! \nThen each attempt a likelier choice to find \nMade only fresh-rejected suitors grieve, \nAnd Udolph\'s pride \xe2\x80\x94 perhaps her own \xe2\x80\x94 believe \nThat, could she meet, she might enchant even you. \nYou came. \xe2\x80\x94 I augured the event, \'tis true, \nBut how was Udolph\'s mother to exclude \nThe guest that claimed our boundless gratitude ? \nAnd that unconscious you had cast a spell \nOn Julia\'s peace, my pride refused to tell; \nYet in my child\'s illusion I have seen, \nBelieve me well, how blameless you have been ; \nNor can it cancel, howsoe\'er it end, \nOur debt of friendship to our boy\'s best friend.\' \nAt night he parted with the aged pair : \nAt early morn rose Julia to prepare \nThe last repast her hands for him should make ; \nAnd Udolph to convoy him o\'er the lake. \nThe parting was to her such bitter grief, \nThat of her own accord she made it brief; \nBut, lingering at her window, long surveyed \nHis boat\'s last glimpses melting into shade. \nTheodric sped to Austria, and achieved \nHis journey\'s object. Much was he relieved \nWhen Udolph\'s letters told that Julia\'s mind \nHad borne his loss firm, tranquil, and resigned. \n13* \n\n\n\n150 TIIBODRIC. \n\nHe took the Rhenish route to England, high, \nElate with hopes, fulfilled their ecstasy, \nAnd interchanged with Constance\'s own breath \nThe sweet eternal vows that bound their faith. \n\nTo paint that being to a grovelling mind \nWere like portraying pictures to the blind. \n\'T was needful even infectiously to feel \nHer temper\'s fond and firm and gladsome zeal, \nTo share existence with her, and to gain \nSparks from her love\'s electrifying chain \nOf that pure pride, which, lessening to her breast \nLife\'s ills, gave all its joys a treble zest, \nBefore the mind completely understood \nThat mighty truth \xe2\x80\x94 how happy are the good ! \n\nEven when her light forsook him, it bequeathed \nEnnobling sorrow ; and her memory breathed \nA sweetness that survived her living days, \nAs odorous scents outlast the censer\'s blaze. \n\nOr, if a trouble dimmed their golden joy, \n\'T was outward dross, and not infused alloy ; \nTheir home knew but affection\'s looks and speech \xe2\x80\x94 \nA little Heaven, above dissension\'s reach. \nBut \'midst her kindred there were strife and gall ; \nSave one congenial sister, they were all \nSuch foils to her bright intellect and grace, \nAs if she had engrossed the virtue of her race. \nHer nature strove the unnatural feuds to heal, \nHer wisdom made the weak to her appeal ; \nAnd, though the wounds she cured were soon unclosed, \nUnwearied still her kindness interposed. \n\nOft on those errands though she went in vain, \nAnd home, a blank without her, gave him pain, \n\n\n\nTHBODEIC. 151 \n\nHe bore her absence for its pious end. \n\nBut public grief his spirit came to bend ; \n\nFor war laid waste his native land once more, \n\nAnd German honor bled at every pore. \n\n0, were he there, he thought, to rally back \n\nOne broken band, or perish in the wrack ! \n\nNor think that Constance sought to move and melt \n\nHis purpose ; like herself she spoke and felt : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n1 Your fame is mine, and I will bear all woe \n\nExcept its loss ! \xe2\x80\x94 but with you let me go \n\nTo arm you for, to embrace you from, the fight, \n\nHarm will not reach me \xe2\x80\x94 hazards will delight ! \' \n\nHe knew those hazards better ; one campaign \n\nIn England he conjured her to remain, \n\nAnd she expressed assent, although her heart \n\nIn secret had resolved they should not part. \n\nHow oft the wisest on misfortune\'s shelves \nAre wrecked by errors most unlike themselves ! \nThat little fault, that fraud of love\'s romance, \nThat plan\'s concealment, wrought their whole mischance. \nHe knew it not preparing to embark, \nBut felt extinct his comfort\'s latest spark, \nWhen, \'midst those numbered days, she made repair \nAgain to kindred worthless of her care. \n\'T is true she said the tidings she would write \nWould make her absence on his heart sit light ; \nBut, haplessly, revealed not yet her plan, \nAnd left him in his home a lonely man. \n\nThus damped in thoughts, he mused upon the past ; \n\'T was long since he had heard from Udolph last, \nAnd deep misgivings on his spirit fell \nThat all with Udolph\'s household was not well. \n\n\n\n152 THE0DRIC. \n\n\'Twas that too true prophetic mood of fear \nThat augurs griefs inevitably near, \nYet makes them not less startling to the mind \n"When come. Least looked-for then of human kind \nHis Udolph (\'twas, he thought at first, his sprite), \nWith mournful joy that morn surprised his sight. \nHow changed was Udolph ! Scarce Theodmc durst \nInquire his tidings, \xe2\x80\x94 he revealed the worst. \n\' At first/ he said, \' as Julia bade me tell, \nShe bore her fate high-mindedly and well, \nResolved from common eyes her grief to hide, \nAnd from the world\'s compassion saved our pride ; \nBut still her health gave way to secret woe. \nAnd long she pined \xe2\x80\x94 for broken hearts die slow ! \nHer reason went, but came, returning like \nThe warning of her death-hour \xe2\x80\x94 soon to strike ; \nAnd all for which she now, poor sufferer ! sighs, \n. Is once to see Theodmc ere she dies. \nWhy should I come to tell you this caprice ? \nForgive me ! for my mind has lost its peace. \nI blame myself, and ne\'er shall cease to blame, \nThat my insane ambition for the name \nOf brother to Theodric founded all \nThose high-built hopes that crushed her by their fall. \nI made her slight her mother\'s counsel sage, \nBut now my parents droop with grief and age ; \nAnd, though my sister\'s eyes mean no rebuke, \nThey overwhelm me with their dying look. \nThe journey \'s long, but you are full of ruth; \nAnd she who shares your heart, and knows its truth, \nHas faith in your affection far above \nThe fear of a poor dying object\'s love.\' \n\n\n\nTHE0DRIC. 153 \n\n\' She has, my Udolph,\' he replied, c \'tis true; \n\nAnd oft we talk of Julia \xe2\x80\x94 oft of you.\' \n\nTheir converse came abruptly to a close ; . \n\nFor scarce could each his troubled looks compose, \n\nWhen visitants, to Constance near akin \n\n(In all but traits of soul), were ushered in. \n\nThey brought not her, nor \'midst their kindred band \n\nThe sister who alone, like her, was bland ; \n\nBut said \xe2\x80\x94 and smiled to see it give him pain \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat Constance would a fortnight yet remain. \n\nVexed by their tidings, and the haughty view \n\nThey cast on Udolph as the youth withdrew, \n\nTheodric blamed his Constance\'s intent. \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe demons went, and left him as they went \n\nTo read, when they were gone beyond recall, \n\nA note from her loved hand explaining all. \n\nShe said that with their house she only staid \n\nThat parting peace might with them all be made ; . \n\nBut prayed for love to share his foreign life, \n\nAnd shun all future chance of kindred strife. \n\nHe wrote with speed, his soul\'s consent to say : \n\nThe letter missed her on her homeward way. \n\nIn six hours Constance was within his arms : \n\nMoved, flushed, unlike her wonted calm of charms, \n\nAnd breathless, with uplifted hands outspread, \n\nBurst into tears upon his neck, and said, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n1 1 knew that those who brought your message laughed, \n\nWith poison of their own to point the shaft ; \n\nAnd this my one kind sister thought, yet loth \n\nConfessed she feared \'t was true you had been wroth. \n\nBut here you are, and smile on me ; my pain \n\nIs gone, and Constance is herself again.\' \n\n\n\n154 TiiEO^RlC. \n\nHis ecstasy, it may bo guessed, was much ; \nYet pain\'s extreme and pleasure\'s seemed to touch. \nWhat pride ! embracing beauty\'s perfect mould ; \nWhat terror ! lest his few rash words mistold \nHad agonized her pulse to fever\'s heat ; \nBut calmed again so soon it healthful beat, \nAnd such sweet tones were in her voice\'s sound, \nComposed herself, she breathed composure round. \n\nFair being ! with what sympathetic grace \nShe heard, bewailed and pleaded, Julia\'s case ; \nImplored he would her dying wish attend, \n\' And go,\' she said, \' to-morrow with your friend ; \nI \'11 wait for your return on England\'s shore, \nAnd then we \'11 cross the deep, and part no more.\' \n\nTo-morrow both his soul\'s compassion drew \nTo Julia\'s call, and Constance urged anew \nThat not to heed her now would be to bind \nA load of pain for life upon his mind. \nHe went with Udolph \xe2\x80\x94 from his Constance went \xe2\x80\x94 \nStifling, alas ! a dark presentiment \nSome ailment lurked, even whilst she smiled, to mock \nHis fears of harm from yester-morning\'s shock. \nMeanwhile a faithful page he singled out, \nTo watch at home, and follow straight his route, \nIf aught of threatened change her health should show. \n\xe2\x80\x94 With Udolph then he reached the house of woe. \n\nThat winter\'s eve, how darkly Nature\'s brow \nScowled on the scenes it lights so lovely now ! \nThe tempest, raging o\'er the realms of ice, \nShook fragments from the rifted precipice ; \nAnd whilst their falling echoed to the wind, \nThe wolf\'s long howl in dismal discord joined. \n\n\n\nTHE0DRIC. 155 \n\nWhile white yon water\'s foam was raised in clouds \nThat whirled like spirits wailing in their shrouds : \nWithout was Nature\'s elemental din \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd beauty died, and friendship wept, within ! \n\nSweet Julia, though her fate was finished half, \nStill knew him \xe2\x80\x94 smiled on him with feeble laugh \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd blessed him, till she drew her latest sigh ! \nBut, lo ! while Udolph\'s bursts of agony, \nAnd age\'s tremulous wailings, round him rose, \nWhat accents pierced him deeper yet than those ! \n\'T was tidings, by his English messenger. \nOf Constance \xe2\x80\x94 brief and terrible they were. \nShe still was living when the page set out \nFrom home, but whether now was left in doubt. \nPoor Julia ! saw he then thy death\'s relief \xe2\x80\x94 \nStunned into stupor more than wrung with grief? \nIt was not strange ; for in the human breast \nTwo master-passions cannot coexist, \nAnd that alarm which now usurped his brain \nShut out not only peace, but other pain. \n\'T was fancying Constance underneath the shroud \nThat covered Julia made him first weep loud, \nAnd tear himself away from them that wept. \nFast hurrying homeward, night nor day he slept, \nTill, launched at sea, he dreamt that his soul\'s saint \nClung to him on a bridge of ice, pale, faint, \nO\'er cataracts of blood. Awake, he blessed \nThe shore ; nor hope left utterly his breast, \nTill, reaching home, terrific omen ! there \nThe straw-laid street preluded his despair \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe servant\'s look \xe2\x80\x94 the table that revealed \nHis letter sent to Constance last, still sealed, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n156 THEODRIC. \n\nThough speech and hearing left him, told too clear \n\nThat he had now to suffer \xe2\x80\x94 not to fear. \n\nHe felt as if he ne\'er should cease to feel \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA wretch live-broken on misfortune\'s wheel : \n\nHer death\'s cause \xe2\x80\x94 he might make his peace with Heaven, \n\nAbsolved from guilt, but never self-forgiven. \n\nThe ocean has its ebbings \xe2\x80\x94 so has grief; \n\'Twas vent to anguish, if \'twas not relief, \nTo lay his brow even on her death-cold cheek. \nThen first he heard her one kind sister speak : \nShe bade him, in the name of Heaven, forbear \nWith self-reproach to deepen his despair: \n\n1 \'T was blame,\' she said, c I shudder to relate, \nBut none of yours,, that caused our darling\'s fate ; \nHer mother (must I call her such ?) foresaw, \nShould Constance leave the land, she would withdraw \nOur House\'s charm against the world\'s neglect \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe only gem that drew it some respect. \nHence, when you went, she came and vainly spoke \nTo change her purpose \xe2\x80\x94 grew incensed, and broke \nWith execrations from her kneeling child. \nStart not ! your angel from her knee rose mild, \nFeared that she should not long the scene outlive, \nYet bade even you the unnatural one forgive. \nTill then her ailment had been slight, or none ; \nBut fast she drooped, and fatal pains came on : \nForeseeing their event, she dictated \nAnd signed these words for you.\' The letter said \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x96\xa0 \n\n1 Theodric, this is destiny above \nOur power to baffle : bear it, then, my love ! \nRave not to learn the usage I have borne. \nFor one true sister left me not forlorn ; \n\n\n\nTHEODRIC. 157 \n\nAnd though you \' re absent in another land. \nSent from me by my own well-meant command. \nYour soul, I know, as firm is knit to mine \nAs these clasped hands in blessing you now join : \nShape not imagined horrors in my fate \xe2\x80\x94 \nEven now my sufferings are not very great ; \nAnd when your grief\'s first transports shall subside, \nI call upon your strength of soul and pride \nTo pay my memory, if \'tis worth the debt, \nLove\'s glorying tribute \xe2\x80\x94 not forlorn regret : \nI charge my name with power to conjure up \nReflection\'s balmy, not its bitter cup. \nMy pardoning angel, at the gates of Heaven, \nShall look not more regard than you have given \nTo me ; and our life\'s union has been clad \nIn smiles of bliss as sweet as life e\'er had. \nShall gloom be from such bright remembrance cast ? \nShall bitterness outflow from sweetness past ? \nNo ! imaged in the sanctuary of your breast, \n\' There let me smile, amidst high thoughts at rest ; \nAnd let contentment on your spirit shine, \nAs if its peace were still a part of mine : \nFor, if you war not proudly with your pain, \nFor you I shall have worse than lived in vain. \nBut I conjure your manliness to bear \nMy loss with noble spirit \xe2\x80\x94 not despair ; \nI ask you by our love to promise this, \nAnd kiss these words, where I have left a kiss \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe latest from my living lips for yours.\' \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWords that will solace him while life endures : \nFor though his spirit from affliction\'s surge \nCould ne\'er to life, as life had been, emerge, \n14 \n\n\n\n158 THEODRIC. \n\nYet still that mind whose harmony elate \n\nRang sweetness, even beneath the crush of fate, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat mind in whose regard all things were placed \n\nIn views that softened them, or lights that graced, \n\nThat soul\'s example could not but dispense \n\nA portion of its own blessed influence ; \n\nInvoking him to peace and that self-sway \n\nWhich Fortune cannot give, nor take away : \n\nAnd though he mourned her long, \'twas with such woe \n\nAs if her spirit watched him still below." \n\n\n\nTRANSLATIONS \n\n\n\nMARTIAL ELEGY. \n\nFROM THE GREEK OF TTRT^rS. \n\nHow glorious fall the valiant, sword in hand, \n\nIn front of battle for their native land ! \n\nBut, ! what ills await the wretch that yields, \n\nA recreant outcast from his country\'s fields ! \n\nThe mother whom he loves shall quit her home, \n\nAn aged father at his side shall roam : \n\nHis little ones shall weeping with him go, \n\nAnd a young wife participate his woe ; \n\nWhile, scorned and scowled upon by every face, \n\nThey pine for food, and beg from place to place. \n\nStain of his breed, dishonoring manhood\'s form, \nAll ills shall cleave to him : \xe2\x80\x94 Affliction\'s storm \nShall blind him wandering in the vale of years, \nTill, lost to all but ignominious fears, \nHe shall not blush to leave a recreant\'s name, \nAnd children, like himself, inured to shame. \n\nBut we will combat for our fathers\' land, \nAnd we will drain the life-blood where we stand, \nTo save our children : \xe2\x80\x94 fight ye side by side, \nAnd serried close, ye men of youthful pride, \n\n\n\nICO SONG OF HYBMAS THE CRETAN. \n\nDisdaining fear, and deeming light the cost \nOf life itself in glorious battle lost. \n\nLeave not our sires to stem the unequal fight. \nWhose limbs are nerved no more with buoyant might ; \nNor, lagging backward, let the younger breast \nPermit the man of age (a sight unblessed) \nTo welter in the combat\'s foremost thrust, \nHis hoary head dishevelled in the dust, \nAnd venerable bosom bleeding bare. \n\nBut youth\'s fair form, though fallen, is ever fair, \nAnd beautiful in death the boy appears, \nThe hero boy, that dies in blooming years : \nIn man\'s regret he lives, and woman\'s tears, \nMore sacred than in life, and lovelier far \nFor having perished in the front of war. \n\n\n\nSONG OF HYBMAS THE CRETAN. \n\nMy wealth \'s a burly spear and brand, \nAnd a right good shield of hides untanned, \n\nWhich on my arm I buckle ; \nWith these I plough, I reap, I sow, \nWith these I make the sweet vintage flow, \n\nAnd all around me truckle. \n\nBut your wights that take no pride to wield \nA massy spear and well-made shield, \nNor joy to draw the sword : \n\n\n\nTKANSLATIOXS FROM MEDEA. 161 \n\n0, I bring those heartless, hapless drones, \nDown in a trice on their marrow-bones, \nTo call me King and Lord. \n\n\n\nFRAGMENT. \n\nFROM THE GREEK OF ALCJIAN. \n\nThe mountain summits sleep : glens, clifls, and caves # \nAre silent \xe2\x80\x94 all the black earth\'s reptile brood \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe bees \xe2\x80\x94 the wild beasts of the mountain wood : \n\nIn depths beneath the dark red ocean\'s waves \n\nIts monsters rest, whilst wrapt in bower and spray- \nEach bird is hushed that stretched its pinions to the day. \n\n\n\nSPECIMENS ;OF TRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA. \n\n2y.aiovq 8s teywv, xovSiv ri ocxpovg \nTovg TTQoo&s (ioorovg ovx av uuaoroig. \n\nMedea, y. 194, p. 33, Glasg. edit. \n\nTell me, ye bards, whose skill sublime \nFirst charmed the ear of youthful Time, \nWith numbers wrapt in heavenly fire, \nWho bade delighted Echo swell \nThe trembling transports of the lyre. \nThe murmur of the shell \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhy to the burst of Joy alone \nAccords sweet Music\'s soothing tone ? \n14* \n\n\n\n162 TRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA. \n\nWhy can no bard, with magic strain, \nIn slumbers steep the heart of pain 1 \nWhile varied tones obey your sweep, \nThe mild, the plaintive, and the deep, \nBends not despairing Grief to hear \nYour golden lute, with ravished ear 1 \nHas all your art no power to bind \nThe fiercer pangs that shake the mind, \nAnd lull the wrath at whose command \nMurder bares her gory hand ? \nWhen, flushed with joy, the rosy throng \nWeave the light dance, ye swell the song ! \nCease, ye vain warblers ! cease to charm \nThe breast with other raptures warm ! \nCease, till your hand with magic strain \nIn slumbers steep the heart of pain ! \n\n\n\nSPEECH OF THE CHORUS, \n\nIN THE SAME TRAGEDY, \n\nTO DISSUADE MEDEA FROM HER PURPOSE OF PUTTING HER CHILDREN TO DEATH, AND \nFLYING FOR PROTECTION TO ATHENS. \n\nhaggard queen ! to Athens dost thou guide \nThy glowing chariot, steeped in kindred gore ; \n\nOr seek to hide thy foul infanticide \n\nWhere Peace and Mercy dwell forevermore 1 \n\nThe land where Truth, pure, precious and sublime, \nWoos the deep silence of sequestered bowers, \n\nAnd warriors, matchless since the first of time, \n\nRear their bright banners o\'er unconquered towers ! \n\n\n\nTRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA. 163 \n\nWhere joyous youth, to Music\'s mellow strain, \nTwines in the dance with nymphs forever fair, \n\nWhile Spring eternal on the liliecl plain \n\nWaves amber radiance through the fields of air ! \n\nThe tuneful Nine (so sacred legends tell) \n\nFirst waked their heavenly lyre these scenes among : \n\nStill in your greenwood bowers they love to dwell ; \nStill in your vales they swell the choral song ! \n\nBut there the tuneful, chaste, Pierian fair, \nThe guardian nymphs of green Parnassus, now \n\nSprung from Harmonia, while her graceful hair \nWaved in high auburn o\'er her polished brow ! \n\n\n\nAXTISTROPHE I. \n\n\n\nWhere silent vales, and glades of green array, \nThe murmuring wreaths of cool Cephisus lave, \n\nThere, as the Muse hath sung, at noon of day, \nThe Queen of Beauty bowed to taste the wave ; \n\nAnd blessed the stream, and breathed across the land \nThe soft sweet gale that fans yon summer bowers ; \n\nAnd there the sister Loves, a smiling band, \n\nCrowned with the fragrant wreaths of rosy flowers ! \n\n"And go," she cries, "in yonder valleys rove, \nWith Beauty\'s torch the solemn scenes illume ; \n\nWake in each eye the radiant light of Love, \n\nBreathe on each cheek young Passion\'s tender bloom ! \n\n\n\n164 TRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA. \n\n"Entwine, with myrtle chains, your soft control, \nTo sway the hearts of Freedom\'s darling kind ! \n\nWith glowing charms enrapture Wisdom\'s soul, \nAnd mould to grace ethereal Virtue\'s mind." \n\n\n\nSTROPHE II. \n\n\n\nThe land where Heaven\'s own hallowed waters play, \nWhere friendship binds the generous and the good, \n\nSay, shall it hail thee from thy frantic way, \nUnholy woman ! with thy hands embrued \n\nIn thine own children\'s gore? 0, ere they bleed, \nLet Nature\'s voice thy ruthless heart appal ! \n\nPause at the bold, irrevocable deed \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe mother strikes \xe2\x80\x94 the guiltless babes shall fall ! \n\nThink what remorse thy maddening thoughts shall sting, \nWhen dying pangs their gentle bosoms tear ! \n\nWhere shalt thou sink, when lingering echoes ring \nThe screams of horror in thy tortured ear ? \n\nNo, let thy bosom melt to Pity\'s cry, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIn dust we kneel \xe2\x80\x94 by sacred Heaven implore \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n0, stop thy lifted arm, ere yet they die, \nNor dip thy horrid hands in infant gore ! \n\n\n\nTRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA. 165 \n\n\n\nANTISTROPHE II. \n\n\n\nSay, how shalt thou that barbarous soul assume, \nUndamped by horror at the daring plan 1 \n\nHast thou a heart to work thy children\'s doom 1 \nOr hands to finish what thy wrath began ? \n\nWhen o\'er each babe you look a last adieu, \nAnd gaze on Innocence that smiles asleep, \n\nShall no fond feeling beat to Nature true, \n\nCharm thee to pensive thought \xe2\x80\x94 and bid thee weep ? \n\nWhen the young suppliants clasp their parent dear, \nHeave the deep sob, and pour the artless prayer, \n\nAy, thou shalt melt ; \xe2\x80\x94 and many a heart-shed tear \nGush o\'er the hardened features of despair ! \n\nNature shall throb in every tender string, \nThy trembling heart the ruffian\'s task deny ; \n\nThy horror-smitten hands afar shall fling \nThe blade, undrenched in blood\'s eternal dye. \n\n\n\nHallowed Earth ! with indignation \nMark, mark, the murderous deed ! \n\nRadiant eye of wide creation, \nWatch the accursed infanticide ! \n\nYet, ere Colchia\'s rugged daughter \n\nPerpetrate the dire design, \nAnd consign to kindred slaughter \n\nChildren of thy golden line ! \n\n\n\n166 TRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA. \n\nShall mortal hand, with murder gory, \nCause immortal blood to flow ? \n\nSun of Heaven ! \xe2\x80\x94 arrayed in glory \nRise, forbid, avert the blow ! \n\nIn the vales of placid gladness \nLet no rueful maniac range ; \n\nChase afar the fiend of Madness, \nWrest the dagger from Revenge ! \n\nSay, -hast thou, with kind protection, \nReared thy smiling race in vain ; \n\nFostering Nature\'s fond affection, \nTender cares, and pleasing pain ? \n\nHast thou, on the troubled ocean, \nBraved the tempest loud and strong, \n\nWhere the waves, in wild commotion, \nRoar Cyanean rocks among ? \n\nDidst thou roam the paths of danger, \nHymenean joys to prove 1 \n\nSpare, sanguinary stranger, \nPledges of thy sacred love ! \n\nAsk not Heaven\'s commiseration, \nAfter thou hast done the deed ; \n\nMercy, pardon, expiation, \n\nPerish when thy victims bleed. \n\n\n\nO\'CONNOR\'S CHILD; \n\n\n\n" THE FLOWER OF LOYE LIES BLEEDING. \nI. \n\n0, oxce the harp of Innisfail \n\nWas strung full high to notes of gladness \n\nBut yet it often told a tale \n\nOf more prevailing sadness. \n\nSad was the note, and wild its fall, \n\nAs winds that moan at night forlorn \n\nAlong the isles of Fion-Gall, \n\nWhen, for O\'Connors child to mourn, \n\nThe harper told how lone, how far \n\nFrom any mansion\'s twinkling star, \n\nFrom any path of social men, \n\nOr voice, but from the fox\'s den, \n\nThe lady in the desert dwelt ; \n\nAnd yet no wrongs nor fears she felt ; \n\nSay, why should dwell in place so wild \n\nO\'Connor\'s pale and lovely child 1 \n\nII. \nSweet lady ! she no more inspires \nGreen Erin\'s hearts with beauty\'s power, \nAs, in the palace of her sires. \nShe bloomed a peerless flower. \nGone from her hand and bosom, gone. \nThe royal broach, the jewelled ring, \n\n\n\n168 \n\n\n\nThat o\'er her dazzling whiteness shone, \n\nLike dews on lilies of the spring. \n\nYet why, though fallen her brother\'s kerne, \n\nBeneath De Bourgo\'s battle stern, \n\nWhile yet in Leinster unexplored, \n\nHer friends survive the English sword ; \n\nWhy lingers she from Erin\'s host, \n\nSo far on Galway\'s shipwrecked coast ; \n\nWhy wanders she a huntress wild \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nO\'Connor\'s pale and lovely child ? \n\nin. \n\nAnd, fixed on empty space, why burn \nHer eyes with momentary wildness ; \nAnd wherefore do they then return \nTo more than woman\'s mildness ? \nDishevelled are her raven locks ; \nOn Connocht Moran\'s name she calls ; \nAnd oft amidst the lonely rocks \nShe sings sweet madrigals. \nPlaced \'midst the fox-glove and the moss, \nBehold a parted warrior\'s cross ! \nThat is the spot where, evermore, \nThe lady, at her shieling door, \nEnjoys that, in communion sweet, \nThe living and the dead can meet, \nFor, lo ! to love-lorn fantasy, \nThe hero of her heart is nigh. \n\nIV. \n\nBright as the bow that spans the storm, \nIn Erin\'s yellow vesture clad, \n\n\n\nO\'CONNOR\'S CHILD. 169 \n\nA son of light \xe2\x80\x94 a lovely form, \n\nHe comes and makes her glad ; \n\nNow on the grass-green turf he sits, \n\nHis tasselled horn beside him laid ; \n\nNow o\'er the hills in chase he flits, \n\nThe hunter and the deer a shade ! \n\nSweet mourner ! these are shadows vain \n\nThat cross the twilight of her brain ; \n\nYet she will tell you she is blest, \n\nOf Connocht Moran\'s tomb possessed, \n\nMore richly than in Aghrim\'s bower, \n\nWhen bards high praised her beauty\'s power, \n\nAnd kneeling pages offered up \n\nThe morat in a golden cup. \n\nv. \n\n" A hero\'s bride ! this desert bower, \n\nIt ill befits thy gentle breeding ; \n\nAnd wherefore dost thou love this flower \n\nTo call \xe2\x80\x94 \' My love lies bleeding \' ? " \xe2\x80\x94 \n" This purple flower my tears have nursed ; \n\nA hero\'s blood supplied its bloom ; \n\nI love it, for it was the first \n\nThat grew on Connocht Moran\'s tomb. \n\n0, hearken, stranger, to my voice ! \n\nThis desert mansion is my choice ! \n\nAnd blest, though fatal, be the star \n\nThat led me to its wilds afar ; \n\nFor here these pathless mountains free \n\nGave shelter to my love and me ; \n\nAnd every rock and every stone \n\nBore witness that he was my own. \n15 \n\n\n\n170 O\'CONNOR\'S CHILD. \n\nVI. \n\nO\'Connor\'s child, I was the bud \nOf Erin\'s royal tree of glory ; \nBut woe to them that wrapt in blood \nThe tissue of my story ! \nStill as I clasp my burning brain, \nA death-scene rushes on my sight ; \nIt rises o\'er and o\'er again, \nThe bloody feud \xe2\x80\x94 the fatal night, \nWhen, chafing Connocht Moran\'s scorn, \nThey called my hero basely born, \nAnd bade him choose a meaner bride \nThan from O\'Connor\'s house of pride. \nTheir tribe, they said, their high degree, \nWas sung in Tara\'s psaltery ; \nWitness their Eath\'s victorious brand, \nAnd Cathal of the bloody hand ; \nGlory (they said) and power and honor \nWere in the mansion of O\'Connor; \nBut he, my loved one, bore in field \nA humbler crest, a meaner shield. \n\nVII. \n\nAh, brothers ! what did it avail, \nThat fiercely and triumphantly \nYe fought the English of the Pale, \nAnd stemmed De Bourgo\'s chivalry ? \nAnd what was it to love and me \nThat barons by your standard rode, \nOr beal-fires for your jubilee \nUpon a hundred mountains glowed 1 \n\n\n\nO\'COXNOH\'S CHILD. 1T1 \n\nWhat though the lords of tower and dome \nFrom Shannon to the North-sea foam, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThought ye your iron hands of pride \nCould break the knot that love had tied ? \nNo ; let the eagle change his plume, \nThe leaf its hue, the flower its bloom ; \nBut ties around this heart were spun, \nThat could not, would not, be undone ! \n\nVIII. \n\nAt bleating of the wild watch-fold \n\nThus sang my love, \xe2\x80\x94 \' 0, come with me, \n\nOur bark is on the lake, behold \n\nOur steeds are fastened to the tree. \n\nCome far from Castle-Connor\'s clans : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nCome with thy belted forestere, \n\nAnd I, beside the lake of swans, \n\nShall hunt for thee the fallow-deer ; \n\nAnd build thy hut, and bring thee home \n\nThe wild-fowl and the honey-comb : \n\nAnd berries from the wood provide, \n\nAnd play my clarshech by thy side. \n\nThen come, my love ! \' \xe2\x80\x94 How could I stay ? \n\nOur nimble stag-hounds tracked the way, \n\nAnd I pursued, by moonless skies, \n\nThe light of Connocht Moran\'s eyes. \n\nIX. \n\nAnd fast and far, before the star \n\nOf day-spring, rushed we through the glade, \n\nAnd saw at dawn the lofty bawn \n\nOf Castle- Connor fade. \n\n\n\n172 o\'connor\'s child. \n\nSweet was to us the hermitage \nOf this unploughed, untrodden shore ; \nLike birds all joyous from the cage, \nFor man\'s neglect we loved it more ; \nAnd well he knew, my huntsman dear, \nTo search the game with hawk and spear; \n"While I, his evening food to dress, \nWould sing to him in happiness. \nBut, 0, that midnight of despair ! \nWhen I was doomed to rend my hair ; \nThe night, to me, of shrieking sorrow ! \nThe night, to him, that had no morrow ! \n\nx. \n\nWhen all was hushed at eventide, \n\nI heard the baying of their beagle ; \n\nBe hushed ! my Connocht Moran cried, \n\n\'T is but the screaming of the eagle. \n\nAlas ! \'t was not the eyrie\'s sound ; \n\nTheir bloody bands had tracked us out ; \n\nUp-listening starts our couchant hound, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd, hark ! again, that nearer shout \n\nBrings faster on the murderers. \n\nSpare \xe2\x80\x94 spare him \xe2\x80\x94 Brazil \xe2\x80\x94 Desmond fierce ! \n\nIn vain \xe2\x80\x94 no voice the adder charms ; \n\nTheir weapons crossed my sheltering arms ; \n\nAnother\'s sword has laid him low \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnother\'s and another\'s ; \n\nAnd every hand that dealt the blow \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAh me ! it was a brother\'s ! \n\nYes, when his moanings died away, \n\nTheir iron hands had dug the clay, \n\n\n\n173 \n\n\n\nAnd o\'er his burial turf they trod. \nAnd I beheld \xe2\x80\x94 God ! God ! \xe2\x80\x94 \nHis life-blood oozing from the sod. \n\nXI. \n\nWarm in his death-wounds sepulchred, \nAlas ! my warrior\'s spirit brave \nNor mass nor ulla-lulla heard, \nLamenting, soothe his grave. \nDragged to their hated mansion back, \nHow long in thraldom\'s grasp I lay \nI know not, for my soul was black, \nAnd knew no change of night or day. \nOne night of horror round me grew ; \nOr if I saw, or felt, or knew, \n\'T was but when those grim visages, \nThe angry brothers of my race, \nGlared on each eye-ball\'s aching throb, \nAnd checked my bosom\'s power to sob, \nOr when my heart with pulses drear \nBeat like a death-watch to my ear. \n\nXII. \n\nBut Heaven, at last, my soul\'s eclipse \nDid with a vision bright inspire ; \nI woke, and felt upon my lips \nA prophetess\'s fire. \nThrice in the east a war-drum beat, \nI heard the Saxon\'s trumpet sound, \nAnd ranged, as to the judgment-seat, \nMy guilty, trembling brothers round. \n15* \n\n\n\n174 O\'CONNOR\'S CHILD. \n\nClad in the helm and shield they came ; \nFor now De Bourgo\'s sword and flame \nHad ravaged Ulster\'s boundaries, \nAnd lighted up the midnight skies. \nThe standard of O\'Connor\'s sway- \nWas in the turret where I lay ; \nThat standard, with so dire a look, \nAs ghastly shone the moon and pale, \nI gave \xe2\x80\x94 that every bosom shook \nBeneath its iron mail. \n\nXIII. \n\nAnd go ! (I cried) the combat seek, \nYe hearts that unappalled bore \nThe anguish of a sister\'s shriek \xe2\x80\x94 \nGo ! and return no more ! \nFor sooner guilt the ordeal brand \nShall grasp unhurt, than ye shall hold \nThe banner with victorious hand, \nBeneath a sister\'s curse unrolled. \n\nstranger ! by my country\'s loss ! \nAnd by my love ! and by the cross ! \n\n1 swear I never could have spoke \nThe curse that severed nature\'s yoke, \nBut that a spirit o\'er me stood, \n\nAnd fired me with the wrathful mood ; \nAnd frenzy to my heart was given, \nTo speak the malison of Heaven. \n\nXIV. \n\nThey would have crossed themselves, all mute ; \nThey would have prayed to burst the spell ; \n\n\n\no\'connor\'s child. 175 \n\nBut at the stamping of my foot \nEach hand down powerless fell ! \nAnd go to Athunree ! (I cried) \nHigh lift the banner of your pride ! \nBut know that where its sheet unrolls \nThe weight of blood is on your souls ! \nGo where the havoc of your kerne \nShall float as high as mountain fern ! \nMen shall no more your mansion know : \nThe nettles on your hearth shall grow ! \nDead, as the green oblivious flood \nThat mantles by your walls, shall be \nThe glory of O\'Connor\'s blood ! \nAway ! away to Athunree ! \nWhere, downward when the sun shall fall, \nThe raven\'s wing shall be your pall ! \nAnd not a vassal shall unlace \nThe vizor from your dying face ! \n\nxv. \n\nA bolt that overhung our dome \nSuspended till my curse was given, \nSoon as it passed these lips of foam, \nPealed in the blood-red heaven. \nDire was the look that o\'er their backs \nThe angry parting brothers threw : \nBut now, behold ! like cataracts, \nCome down the hills in view \nO\'Connor\'s plumed partisans; \nThrice ten Kilnagorvian clans \nWere marching to their doom : \n\n\n\n176 O\'CONNOR\'S CHILD. \n\nA sudden storm their plumage tossed, \nA flash of lightning o\'er them crossed, \nAnd all again was gloom ! \n\nXVI. \n\nStranger ! I fled the home of grief. \nAt Connocht Moran\'s tomb to fall ; \nI found the helmet of my chief, \nHis bow still hanging on our wall, \nAnd took it down, and vowed to rove \nThis desert place a huntress bold ; \nNor would I change my buried love \nFor any heart of living mould. \nNo ! for I am a hero\'s child ; \nI \'11 hunt my quarry in the wild ; \nAnd still my home this mansion make, \nOf all unheeded and unheeding, \nAnd cherish, for my warrior\'s sake, \n1 The flower of love lies bleeding.\' \' \n\n\n\nLOCHIEI/S WAENING. \n\n\n\nWizard \xe2\x80\x94 Lochiel. \n\n\n\nWIZAKD. \n\n\n\nLochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day \nWhen the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! \nFor a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, \nAnd the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight. \nThey rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown ; \nWoe, woe to the riders that trample them down ! \nProud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, \nAnd their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. \nBut hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war. \nWhat steed to the desert flies frantic and far ? \n\'Tis thine, Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, \nLike a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. \nA steed comes at morning : no rider is there ; \nBut its bridle is red with the sign of despair. \nWeep, Albin ! to death and captivity led ! \nweep, but thy tears cannot number the dead ! \nFor a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, \nCulloden ! that reeks with the blood of the brave. \n\n\n\nGo. preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer ! \nOr, if gory Culloden so dreadful appeal\', \nDraw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight \nThis mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright ! \n\n\n\n178 LOCHIEI/S WARNING. \n\nWIZARD. \n\nHa ! laugh\'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? \nProud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn ! \nSay, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth, \nFrom his home, in the dark-rolling clouds of the north ? \nLo ! the death-shot of fo\'emen outepeeding, he rode \nCompanionless, bearing destruction abroad ; \nBut down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! \nAh ! home let him speed, \xe2\x80\x94 for the spoiler is nigh. \nWhy flames the far summit 1 Why shoot to the blast \nThose embers, like stars from the firmament cast ? \n\'T is the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven \nFrom his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. \n0, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might. \nWhose banners arise on the battlements\' height, \nHeaven\'s fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; \nReturn to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! \nFor the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, \nAnd a wild mother scream o\'er her famishing brood. \n\nLOCHIEL. \n\nFalse Wizard, avaunt ! I have marshalled my clan, \nTheir swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one ! \nThey are true to the last of their blood and their breath, \nAnd Like reapers descend to the harvest of death. \nThen welcome be Cumberland\'s steed to the shock ! \nLet him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock ! \nBut woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, \nWhen Albin her claymore indignantly draws ; \nWhen her bonnetted chieftains to victory crowd, \nClanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, \nAll plaided and plumed in their tartan array \n\n\n\nLOCHIEL\'S WABNING. 179 \n\n\n\nLochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day ; \n\n\n\nFor, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal. \n\nBut man cannot cover what God would reveal ; \n\n\'T is the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, \n\nAnd coming events cast their shadows before. \n\nI tell thee, Culloden\'s dread echoes shall ring \n\nWith the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. \n\nLo ! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, \n\nBehold, where he flies on his desolate path ! \n\nNow in darkness and billows he sweeps from my sight : \n\nBise, rise, ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! \n\n\'T is finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors \n\nCulloden is lost, and my country deplores. \n\nBut where is the iron-bound prisoner ? Where ? \n\nFor the red eye of battle is shut in despair. \n\nSay, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn, \n\nLike a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn 1 \n\nAh no ! for a darker departure is near ; \n\nThe war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier ; \n\nHis death-bell is tolling : ! mercy, dispel \n\nYon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! \n\nLife flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs. \n\nAnd his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. \n\nAccursed be the fagots, that blaze at his feet, \n\nWhere his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat, \n\nWith the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale \n\n\n\nDown, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale \n\n\n\nFor never shall Albin a destiny meet, \n\nSo black with dishonor, so foul with retreat. \n\n\n\n180 YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. \n\nThough my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore. \n\nLike ocean- weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, \n\nLochiel, untainted by flight or by chains. \n\nWhile the kindling of life in his bosom remains, \n\nShall victor exult, or in death be laid low, \n\nWith his back to the field, and his feet to the foe ! \n\nAnd leaving in battle no blot on his name, \n\nLook proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame ! \n\n\n\nYE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. \n\nA NAVAL ODE. \nI. \n\nYe Mariners of England ! \n\nThat guard our native seas ; \n\nWhose flag has braved, a thousand years, \n\nThe battle and the breeze ! \n\nYour glorious standard launch again \n\nTo match another foe ! \n\nAnd sweep through the deep, \n\nWhile the stormy winds do blow ; \n\nWhile the battle rages loud and long. \n\nAnd the stormy winds do blow. \n\nII.\' \n\nThe spirits of your fathers \n\nShall start from every wave ! \n\nFor the deck it was their field of fame, \n\nAnd Ocean was their grave : \n\n\n\nYE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 181 \n\nWhere Blake and mighty Nelson fell. \nYour manly hearts shall glow, \nAs ye sweep through the deep, \nWhile the stormy winds do blow ; \nWhile the battle rages loud and long, \nAnd the stormy winds do blow. \n\nin. \nBritannia needs no bulwarks, \nNo towers along the steep ; \nHer march is o\'er the mountain- waves, \nHer home is on the deep. \nWith thunders from her native oak, \nShe quells the floods below, * \nAs they roar on the shore, \nWhen the stormy winds do blow ; \nWhen the battle rages loud and long, \nAnd the stormy winds do blow. \n\nIV. \n\nThe meteor flag of England \nShall yet terrific burn ; \nTill danger\'s troubled night depart, \nAnd the star of peace return. \nThen, then, ye ocean- warriors ! \nOur song and feast shall flow \nTo the fame of your name, \nWhen the storm has ceased to blow ; \nWhen the fiery fight is heard no more, \nAnd the storm has ceased to blow. \n16 \n\n\n\n182 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. \n\n\n\nBATTLE OF THE BALTIC. \n\nI. \n\nOf Nelson and the North, \n\nSing the glorious day\'s renown, \n\nWhen to battle fierce came forth \n\nAll the might of Denmark\'s crown, \n\nAnd her arms along the deep proudly shone ; \n\nBy each gun &e lighted brand, \n\nIn a bold, determined hand, \n\nAnd the prince of all the land \n\nLed them on. \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nII. \n\nLike leviathans afloat, \n\nLay their bulwarks on the brine ; \n\nWhile the sign of battle flew \n\nOn the lofty British line : \n\nIt was ten of April morn by the chime : \n\nAs they drifted on their path, \n\nThere was silence deep as death ; \n\nAnd the boldest held his breath, \n\nFor a time. \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nin. \n\nBut the might of England flushed \n\nTo anticipate the scene ; \n\nAnd her van the fleeter rushed \n\nO\'er the deadly space between. \n\nc Hearts of oak ! \' our captain cried : when each gun \n\n\n\nBATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 183 \n\nErom its adamantine lips \n\nSpread a death-shade round the ships, \n\nLike the hurricane eclipse \n\nOf the sun. \n\nIV. \n\nAgain ! again ! again ! \n\nAnd the havoc did not slack, \n\nTill a feeble cheer the Dane \n\nTo our cheering sent us back ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTheir shots along the deep slowly boom ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThen ceased \xe2\x80\x94 and all is wail, \n\nAs they strike the shattered sail : \n\nOr, in conflagration pale, \n\nLight the gloom. \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\nOut spoke the victor then, \n\nAs he hailed them o\'er the wave ; \n\n" Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! \n\nAnd we conquer but to save : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSo peace instead of death let us bring ; \n\nBut yield, proud foe, thy fleet, \n\nWith the crews, at England\'s feet, \n\nAnd make submission meet \n\nTo our king." \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nVI. \n\nThen Denmark blessed our chief, \nThat he gave her wounds repose ; \nAnd the sounds of joy and grief \nFrom her people wildly rose, \n\n\n\n184 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. \n\nAs death withdrew his shades from the day. \nWhile the sun looked smiling bright \nO\'er a wide and woful sight, \nWhere the fires of funeral light \nDied away. \n\nVII. \n\nNow joy, Old England, raise ! \nFor the tidings of thy might, \nBy the festal cities\' blaze, \nWhilst the wine-cup shines in light ; \nAnd yet amidst that joy and uproar, \nLet us think of them that sleep, \nEull many a fathom deep, \nBy thy wild and stormy steep, \nElsinore ! \n\nVIII. \n\nBrave hearts ! to Britain\'s pride \n\nOnce so faithful and so true, \n\nOn the deck of fame that died ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWith the gallant good Biou ; * \n\nSoft sigh the winds of Heaven o\'er their grave ! \n\nWhile the billow mournful rolls, \n\nAnd the mermaid\'s song condoles, \n\nSinging glory to the souls \n\nOf the brave ! \n\n* Captain Biou, justly entitled the gallant and the good by Lord Nelson, \nwhen he wrote home his despatches. \n\n\n\nHOHENLINDEN. 185 \n\n\n\nHOHENLINDEN. \n\n\n\nOn Linden, when the sun was low. \nAll bloodless lay the untrodden snow, \nAnd dark as winter was the flow \nOf Iser, rolling rapidly. \n\nBut Linden saw another sight, \nWhen the drum beat, at dead of night, \nCommanding fires of death to light \nThe darkness of her scenery. \n\nBy torch and trumpet fast arrayed, \nEach horseman drew his battle-blade, \nAnd furious every charger neighed, \nTo join the dreadful revelry. \n\nThen shook the hills with thunder riven, \nThen rushed the steed to battle driven, \nAnd louder than the bolts of heaven \nFar flashed the red artillery. \n\nBut redder yet that light shall glow \nOn Linden\'s hills of stained snow, \nAnd bloodier yet the torrent flow \nOf Iser, rolling rapidly. \n\n\'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun \nCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, \nWhere furious Frank, and fiery Hun, \nShout in their sulphurous canopy. \n\n16* \n\n\n\n186 GLENARA. \n\nThe combat deepens. On, ye brave, \nWho rush to glory, or the grave ! \nWave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, \nAnd charge with all thy chivalry ! \n\nFew, few, shall part where many meet ! \nThe snow shall be their winding-sheet, \nAnd every turf beneath their feet \nShall be a soldier\'s sepulchre. \n\n\n\nGLENARA. \n\n\n\nheard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, \nWhere a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail 1 \n\'T is the chief of Glenara laments for his dear ; \nAnd her sire, and the people, are called to her bier. \n\nGlenara came first with the mourners and shroud ; \nHer kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud ; \nTheir plaids all their bosoms were folded around ; \nThey marched all in silence, \xe2\x80\x94 they looked on the ground. \n\nIn silence they reached over mountain and moor, \nTo a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar. \n" Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn : \nWhy speak ye no word 1 " \xe2\x80\x94 said Glenara the stern. \n\n" And tell me, I charge you ! ye clan of my spouse, \nWhy fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows 1 n \nSo spake the rude chieftain : \xe2\x80\x94 no answer is made, \nBut each mantle, unfolding, a dagger displayed. \n\n\n\nEXILE OF EKIX. 187 \n\n" I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud," \nCried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud : \n" And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem : \nGlenara, Glenara ! now read me my dream ! . " \xe2\x96\xa0 \n\n! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween. \nWhen the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen ; \nWhen a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\'T was the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn : \n\n" I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, \n\n1 dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief: \nOn a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem ; \nGlenara ! Glenara ! now read me my dream ! " \n\nIn dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground, \nAnd the desert revealed where his lady was found ; \nFrom a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne \xe2\x80\x94 \nNow joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn ! \n\n\n\nEXILE OF ERIN. \n\n\n\nTheke came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, \n\nThe dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill : \nFor his country he sighed,, when at twilight repairing \n\nTo wander alone by the wind-beaten hill : \n\nBut the day-star attracted his eye\'s sad devotion, \n\nFor it rose o\'er his own native isle of the ocean, \n\nWhere once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, \n\nHe sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. \n\n\n\n188 EXILE OP ERIN. \n\nSad is my fate ! said the heart-broken stranger ; \n\nThe wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, \nBut I have no refuge from famine and danger, \n\nA home and a country remain not to me. \nNever again, in the green sunny bowers, \nWhere my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours. \nOr cover my harp with the wild- woven flowers, \n\nAnd strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh ! \n\nErin, my country ! though sad and forsaken, \n\nIn dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; \nBut, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken, \n\nAnd sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! \ncruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me \nIn a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me 1 \nNever again shall my brothers embrace me ? \n\nThey died to defend me, or live to deplore ! \n\nWhere is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood 1 \nSisters and sire ! did ye weep for its fall ? \n\nWhere is the mother that looked on my childhood !\xe2\x96\xa0 \nAnd where is the bosom friend, dearer than all 1 \n\n0, my sad heart ! long abandoned by pleasure, \n\nWhy did it dote on a fast-fading treasure 1 \n\nTears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure. \nBut rapture and beauty they cannot recall. \n\nYet, all its sad recollections suppressing, \nOne dying wish my lone bosom can draw : \n\nErin ! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing ! \nLand of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! \n\n\n\nLORD ullin\'s daughter. 189 \n\nBuried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, \nGreen be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean ! \nAnd thy harp-striking bards sing aloud, with devotion^ \nErin mayournin \xe2\x80\x94 Erin go bragh ! * \n\n\n\nLORD ULUN\'S DAUGHTER. \n\nA chieftain, to the Highlands bound. \nCries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! \n\nAnd I ? 11 give thee a silver pound \nTo row us o\'er the ferry." \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\' \'\xe2\x80\xa2 Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, \nThis dark and stormy water?" \n\n"0, I \'m the chief of Ulva\'s isle, \nAnd this Lord Ullin\'s daughter. \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n" And fast before her father\'s men \nThree days we\'ve .fled together, \n\nFor should he find us in the glen, \nMy blood would stain the heather. \n\n" His horsemen hard behind us ride ; \n\nShould they our steps discover, \nThen who will cheer my bonny bride \n\nWhen they have slain her lover? " \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOut spoke the hardy Highland wight, \n\'\xe2\x80\xa2 I \'11 go, my chief \xe2\x80\x94 I \'m ready : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIt is not for your silver bright ; \nBut for your winsome lady : \n\n* Ireland my darling, Ireland forever. \n\n\n\n190 LORD ullin\'s daughter. \n\n" And by my word ! the bonny bird \n\nIn danger shall not tarry : \nSo, though the waves are raging white, \n\nI \'11 row you o\'er the ferry." \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBy this the storm grew loud apace, \nThe water- wraith was shrieking ; \n\nAnd in the scowl of heaven each face \nGrew dark as they were speaking. \n\nBut still as wilder blew the wind, \nAnd as the night grew drearer, \n\nAdown the glen rode armed men, \nTheir trampling sounded nearer. \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n* " haste thee, haste ! " the lady cries, \n" Though tempests round us gather; \nI \'11 meet the raging of the skies, \nBut not an angry father ! " \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe boat has left a stormy land, \n\nA stormy sea before her, \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhen, ! too strong for human hand, \n\nThe tempest gathered o\'er her. \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd still they rowed amidst the roar \n\nOf waters fast prevailing : \nLord Ullin reached that fatal shore, \n\nHis wrath was changed to wailing. \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFor sore dismayed, through storm and shade, \nHis child he did discover : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOne lovely hand she stretched for aid, \nAnd one was round her lover. \n\n\n\nODE TO THE MEMORY OE BURNS. 191 \n\n" Come back ! come back ! " he cried, in grief, \n\n" Across this stormy water : \nAnd I \'11 forgive your Highland chief, \n\nMy daughter ! my daughter ! " \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\'T was vain : \xe2\x80\x94 the loud waves lashed the shore, \n\nReturn or aid preventing : \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe waters wild went o\'er his child, \n\nAnd he was left lamenting. \n\n\n\nODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. \n\nSoul of the Poet ! wheresoe\'er, \nReclaimed from earth, thy genius plume \nHer wings of immortality : \nSuspend thy harp in happier sphere, \nAnd with thine influence illume \nThe gladness of our jubilee. \n\nAnd fly like fiends from secret spell, \nDiscord and Strife, at Burns\' s name, \nExorcised by his memory ; \nFor he was chief of bards that swell \nThe heart with songs of social flame, \nAnd high delicious revelry. \n\nAnd love\'s own strain to him was given, \n\nTo warble all its ecstasies \n\nWith Pythian words unsought, unwilled,\' \n\nLove, the surviving gift of Heaven. \n\nThe choicest sweet of Paradise, \n\nIn life\'s else bitter cup distilled. \n\n\n\n192 ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. \n\nWho that has melted o\'er his lay- \nTo Mary\'s soul, in Heaven above, \nBut pictured sees, in fancy strong, \nThe landscape and the livelong day \nThat smiled upon their mutual love 1 \xe2\x80\x94 \nWho that has felt forgets the song ? \n\nNor skilled one flame alone to fan : \n\nHis country\'s high-souled peasantry \n\nWhat patriot-pride he taught ! \xe2\x80\x94 how much \n\nTo weigh the inborn worth of man ! \n\nAnd rustic life and poverty \n\nGrow beautiful beneath his touch. \n\nHim, in his clay-built cot, the Muse \nEntranced, and showed him all the forms, \nOf fairy-light and wizard gloom \n(That only gifted Poet views), \nThe Genii of the floods and storms, \nAnd martial shades from Glory\'s tomb. \n\nOn Bannock-field what thoughts arouse \n\nThe swain whom Burns\' s song inspires ! \n\nBeat not his Caledonian veins, \n\nAs o\'er the heroic turf he ploughs, \n\nWith all the spirit of his sires, \n\nAnd all their scorn of death and chains ? \n\nAnd see the Scottish exile, tanned \n\nBy many a far and foreign clime, \n\nBend o\'er his home-born verse, and weep \n\nIn memory of his native land, \n\nWith love that scorns the lapse of time, \n\nAnd ties that stretch beyond the deep. \n\n\n\nODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 193 \n\nEncamped by Indian rivers wild, \n\nThe soldier resting on his arms, \n\nIn B urns\' s carol sweet recalls \n\nThe scenes that blessed him when a child, \n\nAnd glows and gladdens at the charms \n\nOf Scotia\'s woods and waterfalls. \n\ndeem not, \'midst this worldly strife, \nAn idle art the Poet brings : \nLet high Philosophy control, \nAnd sages calm, the stream of life, \n\'T is he refines its fountain-springs, \nThe nobler passions of the soul. \n\nIt is the Muse that consecrates \nThe native banner of the brave, \nUnfurling, at the trumpet\'s breath, \nRose, thistle, harp ; \'t is she elates \nTo sweep the field or ride the wave, \nA sunburst in the storm of death. \n\nAnd thou, young hero, when thy pall \n\nIs crossed with mournful sword and plume, \n\nWhen public grief begins to fade, \n\nAnd only tears of kindred fall, \n\nWho but the bard shall dress thy tomb, \n\nAnd greet with fame thy gallant shade 1 \n\nSuch was the soldier \xe2\x80\x94 Burns, forgive \nThat sorrows of mine own intrude \nIn strains to thy great memory due. \nIn verse like thine, ! could he live, \n17 \n\n\n\n194 LINES. \n\nThe friend I mourned \xe2\x80\x94 the brave \xe2\x80\x94 the good- \nEdward that died at Waterloo ! * \n\nFarewell, high chief of Scottish song ! \nThat couldst alternately impart \nWisdom and rapture in thy page. \nAnd brand each vice with satire strong, \nWhose lines are mottoes of the heart, \nWhose truths electrify the sage. \n\nFarewell ! and ne"er may Envy dare \nTo wring one baleful poison drop \nFrom the crushed laurels of thy bust : \nBut while the lark sings sweet in air, \nStill may the grateful pilgrim stop, \nTo bless the spot that holds thy dust ! \n\n\n\nLINES \n\nWRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE. \n\nAt the silence of twilight\'s contemplative hour, \n\nI have mused, in a sorrowful mood, \nOn the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower \n\nWhere the home of my forefathers stood. \nAll ruined and wild is their roofless abode, \n\nAnd lonely the dark raven\'s sheltering tree : \nAnd travelled by few is the grass-covered road. \nWhere the hunter of deer and the warrior trode, \n\nTo his hills that encircle the sea. \n\n* Major Edward Hodge, of the 7th Hussars, who fell at the head of his \nsquadron in the attack of the Polish Lancers. \n\n\n\nlines 195 \n\nYet. wandering, I found on my ruinous walk, \n\nBy the dial-stone aged and green, \nOne rose of the wilderness left on its stalk, \n\nTo mark where a garden had been. \nLike a brotherless hermit, the last of its race, \n\nAll wild in the silence of nature, it drew, \nFrom each wandering sunbeam, a lonely embrace, \nFor the night-weed and thorn overshadowed the place \n\nWhere the flower of my forefathers grew. \n\nSweet bud of the wilderness ! emblem of all \n\nThat remains in this desolate heart ! \nThe fabric of bliss to its centre may fall, \n\nBut patience shall never depart ! \nThough the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright, \n\nIn the days of delusion by fancy combined \nWith the vanishing phantoms of love and delight, \nAbandon my soul, like a dream of the night, \n\nAnd leave but a desert behind. \n\nBe hushed, my dark spirit ! for wisdom condemns \n\nWhen the faint and the feeble deplore ; \nBe strong as the rock of the ocean that stems \n\nA thousand wild waves on the shore ! \nThrough the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain, \n\nMay thy front be unaltered, thy courage elate ! \nYea ! even the name I have worshipped in vain \nShall awake not the sigh of remembrance a\xc2\xb0-ain : \n\nTo bear is to conquer our fate. \n\n\n\n196 THE soldier\'s dream. \n\n\n\nTHE SOLDIER\'S DREAM. \n\n\n\nOur bugles sang truce \xe2\x80\x94 for the night-cloud had lowered, \nAnd the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; \n\nAnd thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered. \nThe weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. \n\nWhen reposing that night on my pallet of straw, \nBy the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, \n\nAt the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, \nAnd thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. \n\nMethought from the battle-field\'s dreadful array \nFar, far I had roamed on a desolate track : \n\n\'Twas Autumn, \xe2\x80\x94 and sunshine arose on the way \nTo the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. \n\nI flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft \n\nIn life\'s morning march, when my bosom was young; \n\nI heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, \n\nAnd knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. \n\nThen pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore \nFrom my home and my weeping friends never to part ; \n\nMy little ones kissed me a thousand times o\'er, \nAnd my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. \n\nStay, stay with us, \xe2\x80\x94 rest, thou art weary and worn ! \n\nAnd fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nBut sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, \n\nAnd the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. \n\n\n\nTO THE RAINBOW. 197 \n\n\n\nTO THE RAINBOW. \n\nTriumphal arch, that fill\'st the sky, \nWhen storms prepare to part, \n\nI ask not proud Philosophy \nTo teach me what thou art \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nStill seem, as to my childhood\'s sight, \n\nA midway station given \nFor happy spirits to alight \n\nBetwixt the earth and heaven. \n\nCan all that Optics teach unfold \n\nThy form to please me so, \nAs when I dreamt of gems and gold \n\nHid in thy radiant bow ? \n\nWhen Science from Creation\'s face \nEnchantment\'s veil withdraws, \n\nWhat lovely visions yield their place \nTo cold material laws ! \n\nAnd yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, \nBut words of the Most High, \n\nHave told why first thy robe of beams \nWas woven in the sky. \n\nWhen o\'er the green undeluged earth \nHeaven\'s covenant thou didst shine, \n\nHow came the world\'s gray fathers forth \nTo watch thy sacred sign ! \n17* \n\n\n\n198 TO THE RAINBOW. \n\nAnd when its yellow lustre smiled \nO\'er mountains yet untrod, \n\nEach mother held aloft her child \nTo bless the bow of God. \n\nMethinks, thy jubilee to keep, \nThe first-made anthem rang \n\nOn earth delivered from the deep, \nAnd the first poet sang. \n\nNor ever shall the Muse\'s eye \nUnraptured greet thy beam : \n\nTheme of primeval prophecy, \nBe still the prophet\'s theme ! \n\nThe earth to thee her incense yields, \nThe lark thy welcome sings, \n\nWhen glittering in the freshened fields \nThe snowy mushroom springs. \n\nHow glorious is thy girdle, cast \nO\'er mountain, tower, and town, \n\nOr mirrored in the ocean vast, \nA thousand fathoms down ! \n\nAs fresh in yon horizon dark, \nAs young thy beauties seem, \n\nAs when the eagle from the ark \nFirst sported in thy beam : \n\nFor, faithful to its sacred page, \nHeaven still rebuilds thy span, \n\nNor lets the type grow pale with age \nThat first spoke peace to man. \n\n\n\nTHE LAST MAN. 199 \n\n\n\nTHE LAST MAN. \n\n\n\nAll worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, \n\nThe Sun himself must die, \nBefore this mortal shall assume \n\nIts Immortality ! \nI saw a vision in my sleep, \nThat gave my spirit strength to sweep \n\nAdown the gulf of Time ! \nI saw the last of human mould \nThat shall Creation\'s death behold, \n\nAs Adam saw her prime ! \n\nThe Sun\'s eye had a sickly glare, \n\nThe Earth with age was wan, \nThe skeletons of nations were \n\nAround that lonely man ! \nSome had expired in fight, \xe2\x80\x94 the brands \nStill rusted in their bony hands ; \n\nIn plague and famine some ! \nEarth\'s cities had no sound nor tread ; \nAnd ships were drifting with the dead \n\nTo shores where all was dumb ! \n\nYet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, \nWith dauntless words and high, \n\nThat shook the sere leaves from the wood \nAs if a storm passed by. \n\nSaying, We are twins in death, proud Sun ! \n\nThy face is cold, thy race is run, \n\'T is Mercy bids thee go ; \n\n\n\n200 THE LAST MAN. \n\nFor thou ten thousand thousand years \nHast seen the tide of human tears, \nThat shall no longer flow. \n\nWhat though beneath thee man put forth \n\nHis pomp, his pride, his skill ; \nAnd arts that made fire, flood and earth, \n\nThe vassals of his will? \xe2\x80\x94 \nYet mourn I not thy parted sway, \nThou dim, discrowned king of day ; \n\nFor all those trophied arts, \nAnd triumphs that beneath thee sprang, \nHealed not a passion or a pang \n\nEntailed on human hearts. \n\nGo, let oblivion\'s curtain fall \n\nUpon the stage of men, \nNor with thy rising beams recall \n\nLife\'s tragedy again : \nIts piteous pageants bring not back, \nNor waken flesh, upon the rack \n\nOf pain anew to writhe ; \nStretched in disease\'s shapes abhorred, \nOr mown in battle by the sword, \n\nLike grass beneath the scythe. \n\nEven I am weary in yon skies \n\nTo watch thy fading fire ; \nTest of all sumless agonies, \n\nBehold not me expire. \nMy lips that speak thy dirge of death \xe2\x80\x94 \nTheir rounded gasp and gurgling breath \n\nTo see thou shalt not boast. \n\n\n\nTHE LAST MAN. 201 \n\nThe eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe majesty of Darkness shall \nKeceive my parting ghost ! \n\nThis spirit shall return to Him \n\nWho gave its heavenly spark \xe2\x80\xa2 \nYet think not, Sun, it shall be dim \n\nWhen thou thyself art dark ! \nNo ! it shall live again, and shine \nIn bliss unknown to beams of thine, \n\nBy Him recalled to breath, \nWho captive led captivity, \nWho robbed the grave of Victory, \n\nAnd took the sting from Death ! \n\nGo, Sun, while Mercy holds me up \n\nOn Nature\'s awful waste \nTo drink this last and bitter cup \n\nOf grief that man shall taste \xe2\x80\x94 \nGo, tell the night that hides thy face, \nThou saw\'st the last of Adam\'s race, \n\nOn Earth\'s sepulchral clod, \nThe darkening universe defy- \nTo quench his Immortality, \n\nOr shake his trust in God ! \n\n\n\n202 A DREAM. \n\n\n\nA DREAM. \n\n\n\nWell may sleep present us fictions, \n\nSince our waking moments teem \nWith such fanciful convictions \n\nAs make life itself a dream. \xe2\x80\x94 \nHalf our daylight faith\'s a fable; \n\nSleep disports with shadows too, \nSeemiflg in their turn as stable \n\nAs the world we wake to view. \nNe\'er by day did Reason\'s mint \nGive my thoughts a clearer print \nOf assured reality, \nThan was left by Fantasy \nStamped and colored on my sprite, \nIn a dream of yesternight. \n\nIn a bark, methought, lone steering, \n\nI was cast on Ocean\'s strife ; \nThis, \'t was whispered in ray hearing, \n\nMeant the sea of life. \nSad regrets from past existence \n\nCame, like gales of chilling breath ; \nShadowed in the forward distance \n\nLay the land of Death. \nNow seeming more, now less remote, \nOn that dim-seen shore, methought, \nI beheld two hands a space \nSlow unshroud a spectre\'s face ; \nAnd my flesh\'s hair upstood, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\'T was mine own similitude. \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\nA DREAM. 203 \n\nBut my soul revived at seeing \n\nOcean, like an emerald spark, \nKindle, while an air-dropt being \n\nSmiling steered my bark. \nHeaven-like \xe2\x80\x94 yet he looked as human \n\nAs supernal beauty can, \nMore compassionate than woman, \n\nLordly more than man. \nAnd as some sweet clarion\'s breath \nStirs the soldier\'s scorn of death, \nSo his accents bade me brook \nThe spectre\'s eyes of icy look. \nTill it shut them \xe2\x80\x94 turned its head, \nLike a beaten foe, and fled. \n\n" Types not this," I said, "fair spirit ! \n\nThat my death-hour is not come ? \nSay, what days shall I inherit ? \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTell my soul their sum." \n" No," he said, " yon phantom\'s aspect, \n\nTrust me, would appall thee worse, \nHeld in clearly-measured prospect : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAsk not for a curse ! \nMake not \xe2\x80\x94 for I overhear \nThine unspoken thoughts as clear \nAs thy mortal ear could catch \nThe close-brought tickings of a watch \xe2\x80\x94 \nMake not the untold request \nThat \'s now revolving in thy breast. \n\n" \'Tis to live again, remeasuring \nYouth\'s years, like a scene rehearsed, \n\n\n\n204 A DREAM. \n\nIn thy second life-time treasuring \n\nKnowledge from the first. \nHast thou felt, poor self-deceiver ! \n\nLife\'s career so void of pain, \nAs to wish its fitful fever \n\nNew begun again 1 \nCould experience, ten times thine, \n\nPain from Being disentwine \xe2\x80\x94 \nThreads by Fate together spun ? \nCould thy flight Heaven\'s lightning shun 1 \nNo, nor could thy foresight\'s glance \n\'Scape the myriad shafts of Chance. \n\n" Wouldst thou bear again Love\'s trouble - \n\nFriendship\'s death-dissevered ties ; \nToil to grasp or miss the bubble \n\nOf Ambition\'s prize ? \nSay thy life\'s new-guided action \n\nFlowed from Virtue\'s fairest springs \xe2\x80\x94 \nStill would Envy and Detraction \n\nDouble not their stings 1 \nWorth itself is but a charter \nTo be mankind\'s distinguished martyr.\'\' \n\xe2\x80\x94 I caught the moral, and cried, " Hail ! \nSpirit ! let us onward sail \nEnvying, fearing, hating none \xe2\x80\x94 \nGuardian Spirit, steer me on ! " \n\n\n\nVALEDICTORY STANZAS. 205 \n\nVALEDICTORY STANZAS TO J. P. KEMBLE, Esq. \n\nCOMPOSED FOR A PUBLIC MEETING, HELD JUNE, 1817. \n\nPride of the British stage, \n\nA long and last adieu ! \n"Whose image brought the heroic age \n\nRevived to Fancy\'s view. \nLike fields refreshed with dewy light \n\nWhen the sun smiles his last, \nThy parting presence makes more bright \n\nOur memory of the past ; \nAnd memory conjures feelings up \n\nThat wine or music need not swell, \nAs high we lift the festal cup \n\nTo Kemble \xe2\x80\x94 fare thee well ! \n\nHis was the spell o\'er hearts \n\nWhich only Acting lends, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe youngest of the sister Arts, \n\nWhere all their beauty blends : \nFor ill can Poetry express \n\nFull many a tone of thought sublime, \nAnd Painting, mute and motionless, \n\nSteals but a glance of time. \nBut, by the mighty actor brought, \n\nIllusion\'s perfect triumphs come, \xe2\x80\x94 \nVerse ceases to be airy thought, \n\nAnd Sculpture to be dumb. \n\nTime may again revive, \n\nBut ne\'er eclipse the charm, \n18 \n\n\n\n206 VALEDICTORY STANZAS. \n\nWhen Cato spoke in him alive, \n\nOr Hotspur kindled warm. \nWhat soul was not resigned entire \n\nTo the deep sorrows of the Moor, \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhat English heart was not on fire \n\nWith him at Agincourt ? \nAnd yet a majesty possessed \n\nHis transport\'s most impetuous tone, \nAnd to each passion of the breast \n\nThe Graces gave their zone. \n\nHigh were the task \xe2\x80\x94 too high, \n\nYe conscious bosoms here ! \nIn words to paint your memory \nOf Kemble and of Lear : \nBut who forgets that white discrowned head, \n\nThose bursts of Reason\'s half-extinguished glare \nThose teai*s upon Cordelia\'s bosom shed. \nIn doubt more touching than despair. \nIf \'twas reality he felt? \n\nHad Shakspeare\'s self amidst you been, \nFriends, he had seen you melt, \nAnd Triumphed to have seen ! \n\nAnd there was many an hour \n\nOf blended kindred fame, \nWhen Siddons\'s auxiliar power \n\nAnd sister magic came. \nTogether at the Muse\'s side \n\nThe tragic paragons had grown \xe2\x80\x94 \nThey were the children of her pride, \n\nThe columns of her throne. \n\n\n\nVALEDICTORY STANZAS. 207 \n\nAnd undivided favor ran \n\nFrom heart to heart in their applause, \nSave for the gallantry of man \n\nIn lovelier woman\'s cause. \n\nFair as some classic dome, \n\nRobust and richly graced, \nYour Kemble\'s spirit was the home \n\nOf genius and of taste ; \nTaste, like the silent dial\'s power, \n\nThat, when supernal light is given, \nCan measure inspiration\'s hour, \n\nAnd tell its height in heaven. \nAt once ennobled and correct, \n\nHis mind surveyed the tragic page, \nAnd what the actor could effect \n\nThe scholar could presage. \n\nThese were his traits of worth : \n\nAnd must we lose them now ? \nAnd shall the scene no more show forth \n\nHis sternly- pleasing brow 1 \nAlas, the moral brings a tear ! \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\'Tis all a transient hour below; \nAnd we that would detain thee here \n\nOurselves as fleetly go ! \nYet shall our latest age \n\nThis parting scene review : \nPride of the British stage, \n\nA long and last adieu ! \n\n\n\nGERTRUDE OF WYOMING \n\n\n\nADVERTISEMENT. \n\n\n\nMost of the popular histories of England, as well as of the American war, give an \nauthentic account of the desolation of Wyoming, in Pennsylvania, which took place in \n1778, by an incursion of the Indians. The scenery and incidents of the following Poem \nare connected with that event. The testimonies of historians and travellers concur in \ndescribing the infant colony as one of the happiest spots of human existence, for the hospi- \ntable and innocent manners of the inhabitants, the beauty of the country, and the luxuri- \nant fertility of the soil and climate. In an evil hour, the junction of European with Indian \narms converted this terrestrial paradise into a frightful waste. Mr. Isaac Weld informs us \nthat the ruins of many of the villages, perforated with balls, and bearing marks of confla- \ngration, were still preserved by the recent inhabitants, when he travelled through America, \nin 1796. \n\n\n\nGERTRUDE OF WYOMING. \n\n\n\nPART I. \n\n\n\nOn Susquehanna\'s side, fair Wyoming ! \nAlthough the wild-flower on thy ruined wall, \nAnd roofless homes, a sad remembrance bring \nOf what thy gentle people did befall : \nYet thou wert once the loveliest land of all \nThat see the Atlantic wave their morn restore. \nSweet land ! may I thy lost delights recall. \nAnd paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore, \nWhose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania\'s shore ! \n\nii. \n\nDelightful Wyoming ! beneath thy skies, \nThe happy shepherd swains had naught to do, \nBut feed their flocks on green declivities, \nOr skim perchance thy lake with light canoe, \nFrom morn till evening\'s sweeter pastime grew, \nWith timbrel, when beneath the forests brown \nThy lovely maidens would the dance renew ; \nAnd aye those sunny mountains half-way down \nWould echo flagelet from some romantic town. \n\n\n\n212 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. \n\nIII. \n\nThen, where of Indian hills the daylight takes \nHis leave, how might you the flamingo see \nDisporting like a meteor on the lakes \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree ! \nAnd every sound of life was full of glee. \nFrom merry mock-bird\'s song, or hum of men ; \nWhile hearkening, fearing naught their revelry, \nThe wild deer arched his neck from glades, and then, \nUnhunted. sought his woods and wilderness again. \n\nIV. \n\nAnd scarce had Wyoming of war or crime \n\nHeard, but in transatlantic story rung, \n\nFor here the exile met from every clime, \n\nAnd spoke in friendship every distant tongue : \n\nMen from the blood of warring Europe sprung \n\nWere but divided by the running brook : \n\nAnd happy where no Rhenish trumpet sung, \n\nOn plains no sieging mine\'s volcano shook, \n\nThe blue-eyed German changed his sword to pruning-hook. \n\n\n\nNor far some Andalusian saraband \n\nWould sound to many a native roundelay \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBut who is he that yet a dearer land \n\nRemembers, over hills and far away ? \n\nGreen Albin ! * what though he no more survey \n\nThy ships at anchor on the quiet shore, \n\nThy pellochs t rolling from the mountain bay, \n\n* Scotland. f The Gaelic appellation for the porpoise. \n\n\n\nGERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 213 \n\nThy lone* sepulchral cairn upon the moor, \n\nAnd distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan * roar ! \n\nVI. \n\nAlas ! poor Caledonia\'s mountaineer, \n\nThat want\'s stern edict e\'er, and feudal grief, \n\nHad forced him from a home he loved so dear ! \n\nYet found he here a home and glad relief, \n\nAnd plied the beverage from his own fair sheaf, \n\nThat fired his Highland blood with mickle glee : \n\nAnd England sent her men, of men the chief, \n\nWho taught those sires of Empire yet to be, \n\nTo plant the tree of life, \xe2\x80\x94 to plant fair Freedom\'s tree ! \n\nVII. \n\nHere was not mingled in the city\'s pomp \nOf life\'s extremes the grandeur and the gloom ; \nJudgment awoke not here her dismal tromp, \nNor sealed in blood a fellow-creature\'s doom, \nNor mourned the captive in a living tomb. \nOne venerable man, beloved of all, \nSufficed, where innocence was yet in bloom, . \nTo sway the strife, that seldom might befall : \nAnd Albert was their judge, in patriarchal hall. \n\nVIII. \n\nHow reverend was the look, serenely aged, \nHe bore, this gentle Pennsylvanian sire, \nWhere all but kindly fervors were assuaged, \nUndimmed by weakness\' shade, or turbid ire ! \nAnd though, amidst the calm of thought entire, \n\n* The great whirlpool of the western Hebrides. \n\n\n\n214 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. \n\nSome high and haughty features might betray \nA soul impetuous once, \'t was earthly fire \nThat fled composure\'s intellectual ray, \nAs iEtna\'s fires grow dim before the rising day. \n\nIX. \n\nI boast no song in magic wonders rife, \n\nBut yet, Nature ! is there naught to prize, \n\nFamiliar in thy bosom scenes of life ? \n\nAnd dwells in daylight truth\'s salubrious skies \n\nNo form with which the soul may sympathize 1 \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nYoung, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mild \n\nThe parted ringlet shone in simplest guise, \n\nAn inmate in the home of Albert smiled, \n\nOr blessed his noonday walk \xe2\x80\x94 she was his only child. \n\nx. \n\nThe rose of England bloomed on Gertrude\'s cheek \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhat though these shades had seen her birth, her sire \n\nA Briton\'s independence taught to seek \n\nFar western worlds ; and there his household fire \n\nThe light of social love did long inspire, \n\nAnd many a halcyon day he lived to see \n\nUnbroken but bj one misfortune dire, \n\nWhen fate had reft his mutual heart \xe2\x80\x94 but she \n\nWas gone \xe2\x80\x94 and Gertrude climbed a widowed father\'s knee. \n\nXI. \n\nA loved bequest, \xe2\x80\x94 and I may half impart \xe2\x80\x94 \nTo them that feel the strong paternal tie, \nHow like a new existence to his heart \nThat living flower uprose beneath his eye, \nDear as she was from cherub infancy, \n\n\n\nGERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 215 \n\nFrom hours when she would round his garden play. \nTo time when, as the ripening years went by, \nHer lovely mind could culture well repay. \nAnd more engaging grew, from pleasing day to day. \n\nXII. \n\nI may not paint those thousand infant charms \n\n(Unconscious fascination, undesigned !) : \n\nThe orison repeated in his arms, \n\nFor God to bless her sire and all mankind ; \n\nThe book, the bosom on his knee reclined, \n\nOr how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con \n\n(The playmate ere the teacher of her mind) : \n\nAll uncompanioned else her heart had gone \n\nTill now, in Gertrude\'s eyes, their ninth blue summer shone. \n\nXIII. \n\nAnd summer was the tide, and sweet the hour, \n\nWhen sire and daughter saw. with fleet descent, \n\nAn Indian from his bark approach their bower. \n\nOf buskinecl limb, and swarthy lineament : \n\nThe red wild feathers on his brow were blent, \n\nAnd bracelets bound the arm that helped to light \n\nA boy, who seemed, as he beside him went. \n\nOf Christian vesture, and complexion bright, \n\nLed by his dusky guide, like morning brought by night. \n\nXIV. \n\nYet pensive seemed the boy for one so young \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe dimple from his polished cheek had fled ; \nWhen, leaning on his forest-bow unstrung, \nThe Oneyda warrior to the planter said, \nAnd laid his hand upon the stripling\'s head. \n\n\n\n216 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. \n\n" Peace be to thee ! my words this belt approve ; \n\nThe paths of peace my steps have hither led : \n\nThis little nursling, take him to thy love, \n\nAnd shield the bird unfledged, since gone the parent dove. \n\nxv. \nChristian ! I am the foeman of thy foe ; \nOur wampum league thy brethren did embrace : \nUpon the Michigan, three moons ago, \nWe launched our pirogues for the bison chase, \nAnd with the Hurons planted for a space, \nWith true and faithful hands, the olive-stalk ; \nBut snakes are in the bosoms of their race, \nAnd though they held with us a friendly talk, \nThe hollow peace-tree fell beneath their tomahawk ! \n\nXVI. \n\nIt was encamping on the lake\'s far port, \n\nA cry of Areouski * broke our sleep, \n\nWhere stormed an ambushed foe thy nation\'s fort, \n\nAnd rapid, rapid whoops came o\'er the deep ; \n\nBut long thy country\'s war-sign on the steep \n\nAppeared through ghastly intervals of light, \n\nAnd deathfully their thunders seemed to sweep, \n\nTill utter darkness swallowed up the sight, \n\nAs if a shower of blood had quenched the fiery fight ! \n\nXVII. \n\nIt slept \xe2\x80\x94 it rose again \xe2\x80\x94 on high their tower \nSprung upwards like a torch to light the skies, \nThen down again it rained an ember shower, \nAnd louder lamentations heard we rise : \n\n* The Indian God of War. \n\n\n\nGERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 217 \n\nAs when the evil Manitou that dries \n\nThe Ohio woods, consumes them in his ire. \n\nIn vain the desolated panther flies, \n\nAnd howls amidst his wilderness of fire : \n\nAlas ! too late, we reached and smote those Hurons dire ! \n\nXVIII. \n\nBut as the fox beneath the nobler hound, \n\nSo died their warriors by our battle-brand ; \n\nAnd from the tree we, with her child, unbound \n\nA lonely mother of the Christian land : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHer lord \xe2\x80\x94 the captain of the British band \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAmidst the slaughter of his soldiers lay. \n\nScarce knew the widow our delivering hand ; \n\nUpon her child she sobbed, and swooned away, \n\nOr shrieked unto the God to whom the Christians pray. \nf \n\nXIX. \n\nOur virgins fed her with their kindly bowls \n\n.Of fever-balm and sweet sagamite ; \n\nBut she was journeying to the land of souls, \n\nAnd lifted up her dying head to pray \n\nThat we should bid an ancient friend convey \n\nHer orphan to his home of England\'s shore ; \n\nAnd take, she said, this token far away, \n\nTo one that will remember us of yore, \n\nWhen he beholds the ring that Waldegrave\'s Julia wore. \n\nxx. \nAnd I, the eagle of my tribe, have rushed \nWith this lorn dove." \xe2\x80\x94 A sage\'s self-command \nHad quelled the tears from Albert\'s heart that gushed ; \nBut yet his cheek \xe2\x80\x94 his agitated hand \xe2\x80\x94 \n19 \n\n\n\n218 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. \n\nThat showered upon the stranger of the land \n\nNo common boon, in grief but ill beguiled \n\nA soul that was not wont to be unmanned ; \n\n" And stay," he cried, " dear pilgrim of the wild, \n\nPreserver of my old, my boon companion\'s child ! \n\nXXI. \n\nChild of a race whose name my bosom warms, \n\nOn earth\'s remotest bounds how welcome here ! \n\nWhose mother oft, a child, has filled these arms, \n\nYoung as thyself, and innocently dear, \n\nWhose grandsire was my early life\'s compeer. \n\nAh, happiest home of England\'s happy clime ! \n\nHow beautiful even now thy scenes appear, \n\nAs in the noon and sunshine of my prime ! \n\nHow gone like yesterday these thrice ten years of time ! \n\nXXII. \n\nAnd Julia ! when thou wert like Gertrude now, \n\nCan I forget thee, favorite child of yore 1 \n\nOr thought I, in thy father\'s house, when thou \n\nWert lightest-hearted on his festive floor, \n\nAnd first of all his hospitable door \n\nTo meet and kiss me at my journey\'s end 1 \n\nBut where was I when Waldegrave was no more ? \n\nAnd thou didst pale thy gentle head extend \n\nIn woes, that even the tribe of deserts was thy friend ! " \n\nXXIII. \n\nHe said \xe2\x80\x94 and strained unto his heart the boy ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFar differently the mute Oneyda took \n\nHis calumet of peace, and cup of joy ; \n\nAs monumental bronze unchanged his look ; \n\n\n\nGERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 219 \n\nA soul that pity touched, but never shook ; \nTrained from his tree-rocked cradle to his bier \nThe fierce extreme of good and ill to brook \nImpassive \xe2\x80\x94 fearing but the shame of fear \xe2\x80\x94 \nA stoic of the woods \xe2\x80\x94 a man without a tear. \n\n\n\nXXIV. \n\nYet deem not goodness on the savage stock \n\nOf Outalissi\'s heart disdained to grow; \n\nAs lives the oak unwithered on the rock \n\nBy storms above, and barrenness below ; \n\nHe scorned his own, who felt another\'s woe ; \n\nAnd ere the wolf-skin on his back he flung, \n\nOr laced his moccasins, in act to go, \n\nA song of parting to the boy he sung, \n\nWho slept on Albert\'s couch, nor heard his friendly tongue. \n\nxxv. \n" Sleep, wearied one ! and in the dreaming land \nShouldst thou to-morrow with thy mother meet, \n! tell her spirit that the white man\'s hand \nHath plucked the thorns of sorrow from thy feet ; \nWhile I in lonely wilderness shall greet \nThy little foot-prints \xe2\x80\x94 or by traces know \nThe fountain, where at noon I thought it sweet \nTo feed thee with the quarry of my bow, \nAnd poured the lotus-horn, or slew the mountain roe. \n\nXXVI. \n\nAdieu ! sweet scion of the rising sun ! \nBut should affliction\'s storms thy blossom mock. \nThen come again, my own adopted one ! \nAnd I will graft thee on a noble stock ; \n\n\n\n220 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. \n\nThe crocodile, the condor of the rock, \nShall be the pastime of thy sylvan wars ; \nAnd I will teach thee in the battle\'s shock, \nTo pay with Huron blood thy father\'s scars, \nAnd gratulate his soul rejoicing in the stars ! " \n\nXXVII. \n\nSo finished he the rhyme (howe\'er uncouth) \nThat true to nature\'s fervid feelings ran \n(And song is but the eloquence of truth) : \nThen forth uprose that lone wayfaring man ; \nBut dauntless he, nor chart, nor journey\'s plan \nIn woods required, whose trained eye was keen, \nAs eagle of the wilderness, to scan \nHis path by mountain, swamp, or deep ravine, \nOr ken far friendly huts on good savannas green. \n\nXXVIII. \n\nOld Albert saw him from the valley\'s side \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHis pirogue launched \xe2\x80\x94 his pilgrimage begun\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFar, like the red-bird\'s wing he seemed to glide ; \n\nThen dived, and vanished in the woodlands dun. \n\nOft, to that spot by tender memory won, \n\nWould Albert climb the promontory\'s height, \n\nIf but a dim sail glimmered in the sun : \n\nBut never more, to bless his longing sight, \n\nWas Outalissi hailed, with bark and plumage bright. \n\n\n\nGERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 221 \n\n\n\nPART II. \n\n\n\nA valley from the river shore withdrawn \n\nWas Albert\'s home, two quiet woods between, \n\nWhose lofty verdure overlooked his lawn ; \n\nAnd waters to their resting-place serene \n\nCame freshening, and reflecting all the scene \n\n(A mirror in the depth of flowery shelves) : \n\nSo sweet a spot of earth, you might (I ween) \n\nHave guessed some congregation of the elves, \n\nTo sport by summer moons, had shaped it for themselves. \n\nII. \n\nYet wanted not the eye far scope to muse, \nNor vistas opened by the wandering stream ; \nBoth where at evening Alleghany views. \nThrough ridges burning in her western beam, \nLake after lake interminably gleam : \nAnd past those settlers\' haunts the eye might roam \nWhere earth\'s unliving silence all would seem ; \nSave where on rocks the beaver built his dome, \nOr buffalo remote lowed far from human home. \n\nill. \n\nBut silent not that adverse eastern path, \nWhich saw Aurora\'s hills the horizon crown ; \nThere was the river heard, in bed of wrath \n(A precipice of foam from mountains brown). \nLike tumults heard from some far distant town ; \' \n19* \n\n\n\n222 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. \n\nBut softening in approach he left his gloom, \nAnd murmured pleasantly, and laid him down \nTo kiss those easy-curving banks of bloom, \nThat lent the windward air an exquisite perfume. \n\nIV. \n\nIt seemed as if those scenes sweet influence had \n\nOn Gertrude\'s soul, and kindness like their own \n\nInspired those eyes, affectionate and glad, \n\nThat seemed to love whate\'er they looked upon ; \n\nWhether with Hebe\'s mirth her features shone, \n\nOr if a shade more pleasing them o\'ercast \n\n(As if for heavenly musing meant alone) ; \n\nYet so becomingly the expression past, \n\nThat each succeeding look was lovelier than the last. \n\nv. \nNor guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home, \nWith all its picturesque and balmy grace, \nAnd fields that were a luxury to roam, \nLost on the soul that looked from such a face ! \nEnthusiast of the woods ! when years apace \nHad bound thy lovely waist with woman\'s zone, \nThe sunrise path, at morn, I see thee trace \nTo hills with high magnolia overgrown, \nAnd joy to breathe the groves, romantic and alone. \n\nvi. \n\nThe sunrise drew her thoughts to Europe forth. \nThat thus apostrophized its viewless scene : \n"Land of my father\'s love, my mother\'s birth ! \nThe home of kindred I have never seen ! \nWe know not other \xe2\x80\x94 oceans are between : \n\n\n\nGERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 22S \n\nYet say, far friendly hearts ! from whence we came. \nOf us does oft remembrance intervene ? \nMy mother sure \xe2\x80\x94 my sire a thought may claim ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nBut Gertrude is to you an unregarded name. \n\nVII. \n\nAnd yet, loved England ! when thy name I trace \n\nIn many a pilgrim\'s tale and poet\'s song, \n\nHow can I choose but wish for one embrace \n\nOf them, the dear unknown, to whom belong \n\nMy mother\'s looks, \xe2\x80\x94 perhaps her likeness strong? \n\n0, parent ! with what reverential awe, \n\nFrom features of thy own related throng, \n\nAn image of thy face my soul could draw ! \n\nAnd see thee once again whom I too shortly saw ! " \n\nVIII. \n\nYet deem not Gertrude sighed for foreign joy ; \nTo soothe a father\'s couch her only care, \nAnd keep his reverend head from all annoy : \nFor this, methinks, her homeward steps repair, \nSoon as the morning wreath had bound her hair ; \nWhile yet the wild deer trod in spangling dew, \nWhile boatmen carolled to the fresh-blown air, \nAnd woods a horizontal shadow threw, \nAnd early fox appeared in momentary view. \n\nIX. \n\nApart there was a deep untrodden grot, \n\nWhere oft the reading hours sweet Gertrude wore ; \n\nTradition had not named its lonely spot ; \n\nBut here (methinks) might India\'s sons explore \n\nTheir fathers\' dust, or lift, perchance of yore, \n\n\n\n224 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. \n\nTheir voice to the great Spirit : \xe2\x80\x94 rocks sublime \n\nTo human art a sportive semblance bore, \n\nAnd yellow lichens colored all the clime, \n\nLike moonlight battlements, and towers decayed by time. \n\nx. \n\nBut high in amphitheatre above, \nGay-tinted woods their massy foliage threw ; \nBreathed but an air of heaven, and all the grove \nAs if instinct with living spirit grew, \nRolling its verdant gulfs of every hue ; \nAnd now suspended was the pleasing din, \nNow from a murmur faint it swelled anew, \nLike the first note of organ heard within \nCathedral aisles, ere yet its symphony begin. \n\nXI. \n\nIt was in this lone valley she would charm \n\nThe lingering noon, where flowers a couch had strewn ; \n\nHer cheek reclining, and her snowy arm \n\nOn hillock by the pine-tree half o\'ergrown : \n\nAnd aye that volume on her lap is thrown, \n\nWhich every heart of human mould endears ; \n\nWith Shakspeare\'s self she speaks and smiles alone, \n\nAnd no intruding visitation fears, \n\nTo shame the unconscious laugh, or stop her sweetest tears. \n\nXII. \n\nAnd naught within the grove was heard or seen \nBut stock-doves plaining through its gloom profound, \nOr winglet of the fairy humming-bird, \nLike atoms of the rainbow fluttering round ; \nWhen, lo ! there entered to its inmost ground \n\n\n\nGERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 225 \n\n\n\nA youth, the stranger of a distant land ; \nHe was, to weet, for eastern mountains bound ; \nBut late the equator suns his cheek had tanned, \nAnd California\'s gales his roving bosom fanned. \n\nXIII. \n\nA steed, whose rein hung loosely o\'er his arm, \nHe led dismounted ; ere his leisure pace, \nAmid the brown leaves, could her ear alarm, \nClose he had come, and worshipped for a space \nThose downcast features : \xe2\x80\x94 she her lovely face \nUplift on one, whose lineaments and frame \nWore youth and manhood\'s intermingled grace : \nIberian seemed his boot \xe2\x80\x94 his robe the same, \nAnd well the Spanish plume his lofty looks became. \n\nXIV. \n\nFor Albert\'s home he sought \xe2\x80\x94 her finger fair \n\nHas pointed where the father\'s mansion stood. \n\nReturning from the copse he soon was there ; \n\nAnd soon has Gertrude hied from dark-green wood ; \n\nNor joyless, by the converse, understood \n\nBetween the man of age and pilgrim young, \n\nThat gay congeniality of mood, \n\nAnd early liking from acquaintance sprung ; \n\nFull fluently conversed their guest in England\'s tongue. \n\nxv. \nAnd well could he his pilgrimage of taste \nUnfold, \xe2\x80\x94 and much they loved his fervid strain, \nWhile he each fair variety retraced \nOf climes, and manners, o\'er the eastern main. \nNow happy Switzer\'s hills, \xe2\x80\x94 romantic Spain, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n226 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. \n\nGay lilied fields of France, \xe2\x80\x94 or, more refined, \n\nThe soft Ausonia\'s monumental reign ; \n\nNor less each rural image he designed \n\nThan all the city\'s pomp and home of human kind. \n\nXVI. \nAnon some wilder portraiture he draws ; \nOf Nature\'s savage glories he would speak, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe loneliness of earth that overawes, \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhere, resting by some tomb of old Cacique, \nThe lama-driver on Peru via\' s peak \nNor living voice nor motion marks around ; \nBut storks that to the boundless forest shriek, \nOr wild-cane arch high flung o\'er gulf profound, \nThat fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado sound. \n\nXVII. \n\nPleased with his guest, the good man still would ply \n\nEach earnest question, and his converse court ; \n\nBut Gertrude, as she eyed him, knew not why \n\nA strange and troubling wonder stopt her short. \n\n" In England thou hast been, \xe2\x80\x94 and, by report, \n\nAn orphan\'s name (quoth Albert) may\'st have known. \n\nSad tale ! \xe2\x80\x94 when latest fell our frontier fort \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOne innocent \xe2\x80\x94 one soldier\'s child \xe2\x80\x94 alone \n\nWas spared, and brought to me, who loved him as my own. \n\nXVIII. \n\nYoung Henry Waldegrave ! three delightful years \nThese very walls his infant sports did see, \nBut most I loved him when his parting tears . \nAlternately bedewed my child and me : \nHis sorest parting, Gertrude, was from thee ; \n\n\n\nGERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 227 \n\nNor half its grief his little heart could hold ; \n\nBy kindred he was sent for o\'er the sea, \n\nThej tore him from us when but twelve years old, \n\nAnd scarcely for his loss have I been yet consoled ! " \n\nXIX. \n\nHis face the wanderer hid \xe2\x80\x94 but could not hide \n\nA tear, a smile, upon his cheek that dwell ; \n\n" And speak ! mysterious stranger ! (Gertrude cried) \n\nIt is ! \xe2\x80\x94 it is ! \xe2\x80\x94 I knew \xe2\x80\x94 I knew him well ! \n\nJ T is Waldegrave\' s self, of Waldegrave come to tell !" \n\nA burst of joy the father\'s lips declare ! \n\nBut Gertrude, speechless, on his bosom fell : \n\nAt once his open arms embraced the pair, \n\nWas never group more blest in this wide world of care. \n\nxx. \n" And will ye pardon then (replied the youth) \nYour Waldegrave\' s feigned name, and false attire ? \nI durst not in the neighborhood, in truth, \nThe very fortunes of your house inquire ; \nLest one that knew me might some tidings dire \nImpart, and I my weakness all betray, \nFor had I lost my Gertrude and my sire, \nI meant but o\'er your tombs to weep a day, \nUnknown I meant to weep, unknown to pass away. \n\nXXI. \n\nBut here ye live, ye bloom, \xe2\x80\x94 in each dear face, \nThe changing hand of time I may not blame ; \nFor there, it hath but shed more reverend grace, \nAnd here, of beauty perfected the frame : \nAnd well I know your hearts are still the same \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n228 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. \n\nThey could not change \xe2\x80\x94 ye look the very way, \n\nAs when an orphan first to you I came. \n\nAnd have ye heard of my poor guide, I pray ? \n\nNay, wherefore weep ye, friends, on such a joyous day?" \n\nXXII. \n\n\' \' And art thou here ? or is it but a dream \'? \nAnd wilt thou, Waldegrave, wilt thou leave us more?" \xe2\x80\x94 \n" No, never ! thou that yet dost lovelier seem \nThan aught on earth \xe2\x80\x94 than even thyself of yore \xe2\x80\x94 \nI will not part thee from thy father\'s shore ; \nBut we shall cherish him with mutual arms, \nAnd hand in hand again the path explore \nWhich every ray of young remembrance warms. \nWhile thou shalt be my own, with all thy truth and \ncharms ! " \n\nXXIII. \n\nAt morn, as if beneath a galaxy \n\nOf over-arching groves in blossoms white, \n\nWhere all was odorous scent and harmony, \n\nAnd gladness to the heart, nerve, ear and sight : \n\nThere, if, gentle Love ! I read aright \n\nThe utterance that sealed thy sacred bond, \n\n\'T was listening to these accents of delight, \n\nShe hid upon his breast those eyes, beyond \n\nExpression\'s power to paint, all languishingly fond \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nXXIV. \n\n" Flower of my life, so lovely and so lone ! \nWhom I would rather in this desert meet, \nScorning, and scorned by fortune\'s power, than own \nHer pomp and splendors lavished at my feet ! \nTurn not from me thy breath more exquisite \n\n\n\nGERTRUDE OF WYOMING.\' 229 \n\nThan odors cast on heaven\'s own shrine \xe2\x80\x94 to please \xe2\x80\x94 \nGive me thy love, than luxury more sweet. \nAnd more than all the wealth that loads the breeze, \nWhen Coromandel\'s ships return from Indian seas." \n\nxxv. \nThen would that home admit them \xe2\x80\x94 happier far \nThan grandeur\'s most magnificent saloon, \nWhile, here and there, a solitary star \nFlushed in the darkening firmament of June ; \nAnd silence brought the soul-felt hour, full soon, \nIneffable, which I may not portray ; \nFor never did the hymenean moon \nA paradise of hearts more sacred sway, \nIn all that slept beneath her soft voluptuous ray. \n\n\n\nPART III. \n\n\n\nLove ! in such a wilderness as this. \nWhere transport and security entwine, \nHere is the empire of thy perfect bliss. \nAnd here thou art a god indeed divine. \nHere shall no forms abridge, no hours confine, \nThe views, the walks, that boundless joy inspire ! \nRoll on, ye days of raptured influence, shine ! \nNor, blind with ecstasy\'s celestial fire, \nShall love behold the spark of earth-born time expire. \n20 \n\n\n\n230 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. \n\nII. \n\nThree little moons, how short ! amidst the grove \n\nAnd pastoral savannas they consume ! \n\nWhile she, beside her buskined youth to rove, \n\nDelights, in fancifully wild costume, \n\nHer lovely brow to shade with Indian plume ; \n\nAnd forth in hunter-seeming vest they fare ; \n\nBut not to chase the deer in forest gloom ; \n\n\'Tis but the breath of heaven \xe2\x80\x94 the blessed air \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd interchange of hearts unknown, unseen to share. \n\nin. \n\nWhat though the sportive dog oft round them note, \n\nOr fawn, or wild bird bursting on the wing ; \n\nYet who, in Love\'s own presence, would devote \n\nTo death those gentle throats that wake the spring, \n\nOr writhing from the brook its victim bring ? \n\nNo ! \xe2\x80\x94 nor let fear one little warbler rouse ; \n\nBut, fed by Gertrude\'s hand, still let them sing, \n\nAcquaintance of her path, amidst the boughs, \n\nThat shade even now her love, and witnessed first her vows. \n\nIV. \n\nNow labyrinths, which but themselves can pierce, \nMethinks, conduct them to some pleasant ground, \nWhere welcome hills shut out the universe, \nAnd pines their lawny walk encompass round ; \nThere, if a pause delicious converse found, \n\'T was but when o\'er each heart the idea stole \n(Perchance a while in joy\'s oblivion drowned), \nThat come what may, while life\'s glad pulses roll, \nIndissolubly thus should soul be knit to soul. v \n\n\n\nGERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 231 \n\n\n\nAnd in the visions of romantic youth, \n\nWhat years of endless bliss are yet to flow ! \n\nBut mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth ? \n\nThe torrent\'s smoothness, ere it dash below ! \n\nAnd must I change my song ? and must I show, \n\nSweet Wyoming ! the day when thou wert doomed, \n\nGuiltless, to mourn thy loveliest bowers laid low ! \n\nWhen where of yesterday a garden bloomed. \n\nDeath overspread his pall, and blackening ashes gloomed ! \n\nVI. \n\nSad was the year, by proud oppression driven, \n\nWhen Transatlantic Liberty arose, \n\nNot in the sunshine and the smile of heaven, \n\nBut wrapt in whirlwinds, and begirt with woes, \n\nAmidst the strife of fratricidal foes : \n\nHer birth-star was the light of burning plains ; \n\nHer baptism is the weight of blood that flows \n\nProm kindred hearts \xe2\x80\x94 the blood of British veins \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd famine tracks her steps, and pestilential pains. \n\nVII. \n\nYet ere the storm of death had raged remote, \nOr siege unseen in heaven reflects its beams, \nWho now each dreadful circumstance shall note \nThat fills pale Gertrude\'s thoughts, and nightly dreams ! \nDismal to her the forge of battle gleams \nPortentous light ! and music\'s voice is dumb; \nSave where the fife its shrill reveille screams, \nOr midnight streets reecho to the drum, \nThat speaks of maddening strife, and bloodstained fields \nto come. \n\n\n\n232 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. \n\nVIII. \nIt was in truth a momentary pang ; \nYet how comprising myriad shapes of woe ! \nFirst when in Gertrude\'s ear the summons rang, \nA husband to the battle doomed to go ! \n1 \' Nay, meet not thou (she cried) thy kindred foe ! \nBut peaceful let us seek fair England\'s strand ! " \n" Ah, Gertrude, thy beloved heart, I know, \nWould feel like mine the stigmatizing brand ! \nCould I forsake the cause of Freedom\'s holy band ! \n\nIX. \n\nBut shame \xe2\x80\x94 but flight \xe2\x80\x94 a recreant\'s name to prove. \nTo hide in exile ignominious fears ; \nSay, even if this I brooked, the public love \nThy father\'s bosom to his home endears : \nAnd how could I his few remaining years, \nMy Gertrude, sever from so dear a child 1 " \nSo, day by day, her boding heart he cheers : \nAt last that heart to hope is half beguiled, \nAnd, pale through tears suppressed, the mournful beauty \nsmiled. \n\nx. \nNight came, \xe2\x80\x94 and in their lighted bower, full late, \nThe joy of converse had endured \xe2\x80\x94 when, hark ! \nAbrupt and loud, a summons shook their gate ; \nAnd, heedless of the dog\'s obstreperous bark, \nA form had rushed amidst them from the dark, \nAnd spread his arms, \xe2\x80\x94 and fell upon the floor : \nOf aged strength his limbs retained the mark ; \nBut desolate he looked, and famished poor, \nAs ever shipwrecked wretch lone left on desert shore. \n\n\n\nGERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 233 \n\nXI, \n\nUprisen, each wondering brow is knit and arched: \nA spirit from the dead they deem him first : \nTo speak he tries : but quivering, pale and parched, \nFrom lips, as by some powerless dream accursed, \nEmotions unintelligible burst ; \nAnd long his filmed eye is red and dim ; \nAt length the pity-proffered cup his thirst \nHad half assuaged, and nerved his shuddering limb, \nWhen Albert\'s hand he grasped : \xe2\x80\x94 but Albert knew not \nhim \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nXII. \n\n11 And hast thou then forgot" (he cried forlorn, \n\nAnd eyed the group with half-indignant air), \n\n"0! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the morn \n\nWhen I with thee the cup of peace did share ? \n\nThen stately was this head, and dark this hair, \n\nThat now is white as Appalachia\'s snow ; \n\nBut if the weight of fifteen years\' despair, \n\nAnd age hath bowed me, and the torturing foe, \n\nBring me my boy \xe2\x80\x94 and he will his deliverer know ! " \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nXIII. \n\nIt was not long, with eyes and heart of flame, \nEre Henry to his loved Oneyda flew : \n" Bless thee, my guide ! " \xe2\x80\x94 but backward, as he came, \nThe chief his old bewildered head withdrew, \nAnd grasped his arm, and looked and looked him through. \n\'T was strange \xe2\x80\x94 nor could the group a smile control \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe long, the doubtful scrutiny to view ; \nAt last delight o\'er all his features stole, \n" It is \xe2\x80\x94 my own," he cried, and clasped him to his soul. \n20* \n\n\n\n\n\n\n234 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. \n\nXIV. \n\n"Yes ! thou recall\' st my pride of years, for then \n\nThe bowstring of my spirit was not slack, \n\nWhen, spite of woods, and floods, and ambushed men, \n\nI bore thee like the quiver on my back, \nFleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack : \nNor foeman then, nor cougar\'s crouch I feared, \nFor I was strong as mountain cataract : \n\nAnd dost thou not remember how we cheered, \n\nUpon the last hill-top, when white men\'s huts appeared ? \n\nxv. \n\nThen welcome to my death-song, and my death ! \n\nSince I have seen thee, and again embraced." \n\nAnd longer had he spent his toil-worn breath ; \n\nBut with affectionate and eager haste \n\nWas every arm outstretched around their guest, \n\nTo welcome and to bless his aged head. \n\nSoon was the hospitable banquet placed ; \n\nAnd Gertrude\'s lovely hands a balsam shed \n\nOn wounds with fevered joy that more profusely bled. \n\nXVI. \n\nII But this is not a time," \xe2\x80\x94 he started up, \n\nAnd smote his breast with woe-denouncing hand \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n" This is no time to fill the joyous cup, \n\nThe Mammoth comes, \xe2\x80\x94 the foe, \xe2\x80\x94 the Monster Brandt, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWith all his howling desolating band ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThese eyes have seen their blade and burning pine \n\nAwake at once and silence half your land. \n\nBed is the cup they drink ; but not with wine : \n\nAwake, and watch to-night, or see no morning shine ! \n\n\n\nGERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 235 \n\nXVII. \n\nScorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe, \n\n\'Gainst Brandt himself I went to battle forth: \n\nAccursed Brandt ! he left of all my tribe \n\nNor man, nor child, nor thing of living birth : \n\nNo ! not the dog that watched my household hearth \n\nEscaped that night of blood, upon our plains ! \n\nAll perished ! \xe2\x80\x94 I alone am left on earth ! \n\nTo whom nor relative nor blood remains, \n\nNo ! \xe2\x80\x94 not a kindred drop that runs in human veins ! \n\nXVIII. \n\nBut go ! \xe2\x80\x94 and rouse your warriors, for, if right \n\nThese old bewildered eyes could guess, by signs \n\nOf striped and starred banners, on yon height \n\nOf eastern cedars, o\'er the creek of pines, \n\nSome fort embattled by your country shines : \n\nDeep roars the innavigable gulf below \n\nIts squared rock, and palisaded lines. \n\nGo ! seek the light its warlike beacons show ; \n\nWhilst I in ambush wait, for vengeance, and the foe ! " \n\nXIX. \n\nScarce had he uttered \xe2\x80\x94 when Heaven\'s verge extreme \n\nReverberates the bomb\'s descending star, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd sounds that mingled laugh, and shout, and scream, \n\nTo freeze the blood, in one discordant jar, \n\nRung to the pealing thunderbolts of war. \n\nWhoop after whoop with rack the ear assailed ; \n\nAs if unearthly fiends had burst their bar; \n\nWhile rapidly the marksman\'s shot prevailed : \n\nAnd aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet wailed. \n\n\n\n236 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. \n\nXX. \n\nThen looked they to the hills, where fire o\'erhung \n\nThe bandit groups, in one Vesuvian glare ; \n\nOr swept, far seen, the tower, whose clock unrung \n\nTold legible that midnight of despair. \n\nShe faints, \xe2\x80\x94 she falters not, \xe2\x80\x94 the heroic fair, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAs he the sword and plume in haste arrayed. \n\nOne short embrace \xe2\x80\x94 he clasped his dearest care \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBut hark ! what nearer war-drum shakes the glade ? \n\nJoy. joy ! Columbia\'s friends are trampling through the shade! \n\nXXI. \n\nThen came of every race the mingled swarm, \n\nFar rung the groves and gleamed the midnight grass, \n\nWith flambeau, javelin, and naked arm : \n\nAs warriors wheeled their culverins of brass, \n\nSprung from the woods, a bold athletic mass, \n\nWhom virtue fires, and liberty combines : \n\nAnd first the wild Moravian yagers pass, \n\nHis plumed host the dark Iberian joins \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd Scotia\'s sword beneath the Highland thistle shines. \n\nXXII. \n\nAnd in the buskined hunters of the deer, \n\nTo Albert\'s home, with shout and cymbal throng : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nRoused by their warlike pomp, and niirtk, and cheer, \n\nOld Outalissi woke his battle-song, \n\nAnd, beating with his war-club cadence strong, \n\nTells how his deep-stung indignation smarts, \n\nOf them that wrapt his house in flames, ere long, \n\nTo whet a dagger on their stony hearts, \n\nAnd smile avenged ere yet his eagle spirit parts. \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\nGERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 237 \n\nXXIII. \n\nCalni, opposite the Christian father rose, \n\nPale on his venerable brow its rays \n\nOf martyr light the conflagration throws ; \n\nOne hand upon his lovely child he lays, \n\nAnd one the uncovered crowd to silence sways ; \n\nWhile, though the battle flash is faster driven, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nUnawed, with eye unstartled by the blaze, \n\nHe for his bleeding country prays to Heaven, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nPrays that the men of blood themselves may be forgiven. \n\nXXIV. \n\nShort time is now for gratulating speech : \n\nAnd yet, beloved Gertrude, ere began \n\nThy country\'s flight, yon distant towers to reach, \n\nLooked not on thee the rudest partisan \n\nWith brow relaxed to love ? And murmurs ran, \n\nAs round and round their willing ranks they drew, \n\nFrom beauty\'s sight to shield the hostile van. \n\nGrateful, on them a placid look she threw, \n\nNor wept, but as she bade her mother\'s grave adieu ! \n\nxxv. \n\nPast was the flight, and welcome seemed the tower, \n\nThat like a giant standard-bearer frowned \n\nDefiance on the roving Indian power, \n\nBeneath, each bold and promontory mound \n\nWith embrasure embossed, and armor crowned, \n\nAnd arrowy frieze, and wedged ravelin, \n\nWove like a diadem its tracery round \n\nThe lofty summit of that mountain green ; \n\nHere stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene. \n\n\n\n238 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. \n\nXXVI. \n\nA scene of death ! where fires beneath the sun, \n\nAnd blended arms, and white pavilions glow ; \n\nAnd for the business of destruction done, \n\nIts requiem the war-horn seemed to blow : \n\nThere, sad spectatress of her country\'s woe ! \n\nThe lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm, \n\nHad laid her cheek, and clasped her hands of snow \n\nOn Waldegrave\'s shoulder, half within his arm \n\nEnclosed, that felt her heart, and hushed its wild alarm ! \n\nXXVII. \n\nBut short that contemplation \xe2\x80\x94 sad and short \n\nThe pause to bid each much-loved scene adieu ! \n\nBeneath the very shadow of the fort, \n\nWhere friendly swords were drawn, and banners flew, \n\nAh who could deem that foot of Indian crew \n\nWas near ? \xe2\x80\x94 yet there, with lust of murderous deeds, \n\nGleamed like a basilisk, from woods in view, \n\nThe ambushed foeman\'s eye \xe2\x80\x94 his volley speeds, \n\nAnd Albert \xe2\x80\x94 Albert falls ! the dear old father bleeds ! \n\nXXVIII. \n\nAnd tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swooned ; \n\nYet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone, \n\nSay, burst they, borrowed from her father\'s wound, \n\nThese drops ? \xe2\x80\x94 0, God ! the life-blood is her own ! \n\nAnd faltering, on her Waldegrave\'s bosom thrown \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n" Weep not, \' Love ! " \xe2\x80\x94 she cries, " to see me bleed \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThee, Gertrude\'s sad survivor, thee alone \n\nHeaven\'s peace commiserate ; for scarce I heed \n\nThese wounds ; \xe2\x80\x94 yet thee to leave is death, is death indeed ! \n\n\n\nGERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 239 \n\n\n\nXXIX. \n\nClasp me a little longer on the brink \n\nOf fate ! while I can feel thy dear caress ; \n\nAnd when this heart hath ceased to beat \xe2\x80\x94 ! think, \n\nAnd let it mitigate thy woe\'s excess, \n\nThat thou hast been to me all tenderness, \n\nAnd friend to more than human friendship just. \n\n! by that retrospect of happiness, \n\nAnd by the hopes of an immortal trust, \n\nGod shall assuage thy pangs \xe2\x80\x94 when I am laid in dust \n\nxxx. \nGo, Henry, go not back, when I depart, \nThe scene thy bursting tears too deep will move, \nWhere my dear father took thee to his heart, \nAnd Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove \n"With thee, as with an angel, through the grove \nOf peace, imagining her lot was cast \nIn heaven ; for ours was not like earthly love. \nAnd must this parting be our very last"? \nNo ! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past. \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nXXXI. \n\nHalf could I bear, methinks;\' to leave this earth, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun, \n\nIf I had lived to smile but on the birth \n\nOf one dear pledge : \xe2\x80\x94 but shall there then be none. \n\nIn future times \xe2\x80\x94 no gentle little one, \n\nTo clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me 1 \n\nYet seems it, even while life\'s last pulses run, \n\nA sweetness in the cup of death to be, \n\nLord of my bosom\'s love ! to die beholding thee ! " \n\n\n\n240 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. \n\nXXXII. \n\nHushed were his Gertrude\'s lips ! but still their bland \nAnd beautiful expression seemed to melt \nWith love that could not die ! and still his hand \nShe presses to the heart no more that felt. \nAh, heart ! where once each fond affection dwelt. \nAnd features yet that spoke a soul more fair. \nMute, gazing, agonizing, as he knelt, \xe2\x80\x94 \nOf them that stood encircling his despair, \nHe heard some friendly words ; \xe2\x80\x94 but knew not what they \nwere. \n\nXXXIII. \n\nFor now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives \n\nA faithful band. With solemn rites between \n\n\'T was sung, how they were lovely in their lives, \n\nAnd in their deaths had not divided been. \n\nTouched by the music, and the melting scene, \n\nWas scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nStern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen \n\nTo veil their eyes, as passed each much-loved shroud \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhile woman\'s softer soul in woe dissolved aloud. \n\nxxxiv. \nThen mournfully the parting bugle bid \nIts farewell, o\'er the grave of worth and truth : \nProne to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid \nHis face on earth ; \xe2\x80\x94 him watched, in gloomy ruth, \nHis woodland guide ; but words had none to soothe \nThe grief that knew not consolation\'s name : \nCasting his Indian mantle o\'er the youth, \nHe watched, beneath its folds, each burst that came \nConvulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame ! \n\n\n\nGERTRUDE OP WYOMING. 241 \n\nXXXV. \n\n" And I could weep ; " \xe2\x80\x94 the Oneyda chief \n\nHis descant wildly thus begun : \n\n" But that I may not stain with grief \n\nThe death-song of my father\'s son. \n\nOr bow this head in woe ! \n\nFor by my wrongs, and by my wrath ! \n\nTo-morrow Areouski\'s breath \n\n(That fires yon heaven with storms of death) \n\nShall light us to the foe : \n\nAnd we shall share, my Christian boy ! \n\nThe foeman\'s blood, the avenger\'s joy ! \n\nXXXVI. \n\nBut thee, my flower, whose breath was given \n\nBy milder genii o\'er the deep. \n\nThe spirits of the white man\'s heaven \n\nForbid not thee to weep : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNor will the Christian host, \n\nNor will thy father\'s spirit grieve, \n\nTo see thee, on the battle\'s eve, \n\nLamenting, take a mournful leave \n\nOf her who loved thee most : \n\nShe was the rainbow to thy sight ! \n\nThy sun \xe2\x80\x94 thy heaven \xe2\x80\x94 of lost delight ! \n\nXXXVII. \n\nTo-morrow let us do or die ! \nBut when the bolt of death is hurled. \nAh ! whither then with thee to fly, \nShall Outalissi roam the world 1 \nSeek we thy once-loved home ? \n21 \n\n\n\n242 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. \n\n\n\nThe hand is gone that cropt its flowers : \nUnheard their clock repeats its hours ! \nCold is the hearth within their bowers ! \nAnd should we thither roam, \nIts echoes, and its empty tread, \nWould sound like voices from the dead ! \n\nXXXVIII. \n\nOr shall we cross yon mountains blue, \n\nWhose streams my kindred nation quaffed, \n\nAnd by my side, in battle true, \n\nA thousand warriors drew the shaft ? \n\nAh ! there, in desolation cold, \n\nThe desert serpent dwells alone, \n\nWhere grass o\'ergrows each mouldering bone, \n\nAnd stones themselves to ruin grown, \n\nLike me, are death-like old. \n\nThen seek we not their camp, \xe2\x80\x94 for there \n\nThe silence dwells of my despair ! \n\nxxxix. \nBut hark, the trump ! \xe2\x80\x94 to-morrow thou \nIn glory\'s fires shalt dry thy tears ; \nEven from the land of shadows now \nMy father\'s awful ghost appears, \nAmidst the clouds that round us roll ; \nHe bids my soul for battle thirst \xe2\x80\x94 \nHe bids me dry the last \xe2\x80\x94 the first \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe only tears that ever burst \nFrom Outalissi\'s soul ; \nBecause I may not stain with grief \nThe death-song of an Indian chief ! " \n\n\n\nlines. 248 \n\nLINES. \n\nWRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY OF LONDON, \n\nWHEN MET TO COMMEMORATE THE 21ST OF MARCH, \n\nTHE DAY OF VICTORY IN EGYPT. \n\nPledge to the much-loved land that gave us birth ! \n\nInvincible romantic Scotia\'s shore ! \nPledge to the memory of her parted worth ! \n\nAnd first, amidst the brave, remember Moore ! \n\nAnd be it deemed not wrong that name to give. \n\nIn festive hours, which prompts the patriot\'s sigh ! \nWho would not envy such as Moore to live 1 \n\nAnd died he not as heroes wish to die ? \n\nYes, though too soon attaining glory\'s goal, \nTo us his bright career too short was given ; \n\nYet in a mighty cause his phoenix soul \nRose on the flames of victory to Heaven ! \n\nHow oft (if beats in subjugated Spain \n\nOne patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn \n\nFor him ! \xe2\x80\x94 How oft on far Corunna\'s plain \nShall British exiles weep upon his urn ! \n\nPeace to the mighty dead ! \xe2\x80\x94 our bosom thanks \nIn sprightlier strains the living may inspire ! \n\nJoy to the chiefs that lead old Scotia\'s ranks, \nOf Roman garb and more than Roman fire ! \n\nTriumphant be the thistle still unfurled, \n\nDear symbol wild ! on Freedom\'s hills it grows, \n\nWhere Fingal stemmed the tyrants of the world, \nAnd Roman eagles found unconquered foes. \n\n\n\n244 STANZAS. \n\nJoy to the band * this day on Egypt\'s coast. \n\nWhose valor tamed proud France\'s tricolor, \nAnd wrenched the banner from her bravest host, \n\nBaptized Invincible in Austria\'s gore ! \n\nJoy for the day on red Vimeira\'s strand, \n\nWhen, bayonet to bayonet opposed, \nFirst of Britannia\'s host her Highland band \n\nGave but the death-shot once, and foremost closed ! \n\nIs there a son of generous England here \nOr fervid Erin? \xe2\x80\x94 he with us shall join, \n\nTo pray that in eternal union dear \n\nThe rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine ! \n\nTypes of a race who shall the invader scorn, \nAs rocks resist the billows round their shore ; \n\nTypes of a race who shall to time unborn \nTheir country leave unconquered as of yore ! \n\n\n\nSTANZAS \n\n\n\nTO THE MEMORY OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS LATEST KILLED IN RESISv \nLNG THE REGENCY AND THE DUKE OF ANGOULEME. \n\nBrave men who at the Trocadero fell \xe2\x80\x94 \nBeside your cannons conquered not, though slain, \nThere is a victory in dying well \nFor Freedom, \xe2\x80\x94 and ye have not died in vain ; \nFor, come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain \n\n* The 4 2d Regiment. \n\n\n\nSTANZAS. 245 \n\nTo honor, ay, embrace jour martyred lot, \n\nCursing the Bigot\'s and the Bourbon\'s chain, \n\nAnd looking on your graves, though trophied not, \n\nAs holier hallowed ground than priests could make the spot ! \n\nWhat though your cause be baffled \xe2\x80\x94 freemen cast \n\nIn dungeons \xe2\x80\x94 dragged to death, or forced to flee ! \n\nHope is not withered in affliction\'s blast \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe patriot\'s blood \'s the seed of Freedom\'s tree ; \n\nAnd short your orgies of revenge shall be. \n\nCowled demons of the Inquisitorial cell ! \n\nEarth shudders at your victory, \xe2\x80\x94 for ye \n\nAre worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell, \n\nThe baser, ranker sprung, Autochthones of Hell ! \n\nGo to your bloody rites again \xe2\x80\x94 bring, back \n\nThe hall of horrors and the assessor\'s pen, \n\nRecording answers shrieked upon the rack ; \n\nSmile o\'er the gaspings of spine-broken men ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nPreach, perpetrate damnation in your den ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThen let your altars, ye blasphemers ! peal \n\nWith thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again, \n\nTo practise deeds with torturing fire and steel \n\nNo eye may search \xe2\x80\x94 no tongue may challenge or reveal ! \n\nYet laugh not in your carnival of crime \nToo proudly, ye oppressors ! \xe2\x80\x94 Spain was free, \nHer soil has felt the foot-prints, and her clime \nBeen winnowed by the wings of Liberty ; \nAnd these even parting scatter as they flee \nThoughts \xe2\x80\x94 influences, to live in hearts unborn, \nOpinions that shall wrench the prison-key \n21* \n\n\n\n246 SONG OF THE GREEKS. \n\nFrom Persecution \xe2\x80\x94 show her mask off-torn, \n\nAnd tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of Scorn. \n\nGlory to them that die in this great cause ! \nKings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame, \nOr shape of death, to shroud them from applause : \xe2\x80\x94 \nNo ! \xe2\x80\x94 manglers of the martyr\'s earthly frame ! \nYour hangmen fingers cannot touch his fame ! \nStill in your prostrate land there shall be some \nProud hearts, the shrines of Freedom\'s vestal flame. \nLong trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb, \nBut vengeance is behind, and justice is to come. \n\n\n\nSONG OF THE GREEKS. \n\nAgain to the battle, Achaians ! \n\nOur hearts bid the tyrants defiance ! \n\nOur land, the first garden of Liberty\'s tree \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIt has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free : \n\nFor the cross of our faith is replanted, \n\nThe pale, dying crescent is daunted, \n\nAnd we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet\'s slaves \n\nMay be washed out in blood from our forefathers\' graves. \n\nTheir spirits are hovering o\'er us, \n\nAnd the sword shall to glory restore us. \n\nAh ! what though no succor advances, \n\nNor Christendom\'s chivalrous lances \n\nAre stretched in our aid \xe2\x80\x94 be the combat our own ! \n\nAnd we \' 11 perish or conquer more proudly alone ! \n\n\n\nSONG OF THE GREEKS. 247 \n\nFor we \'ve sworn by our country\'s assaulters. \nBy the virgins they \'ve dragged from our altars, \nBy our massacred patriots, our children in chains, \nBy our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins, \nThat, living, we shall be victorious, \nOr that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious. \n\nA breath of submission we breathe not ; \n\nThe sword that we \'ve drawn we will sheathe not ! \n\nIts scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, \n\nAnd the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. \n\nEarth may hide \xe2\x80\x94 waves engulf \xe2\x80\x94 fire consume us, \n\nBut they shall not to slavery doom us : \n\nIf they rule, it shall be o\'er our ashes and graves; \n\nBut we \'ve smote them already with fire on the waves, \n\nAnd new triumphs on land are before us, \n\nTo the charge ! \xe2\x80\x94 Heaven\'s banner is o\'er us. \n\nThis day shall ye blush for its story, \n\nOr brighten your lives with its glory. \n\nOur women, 0, say, shall they shriek in despair, \n\nOr embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair ? \n\nAccursed may his memory blacken, \n\nIf a coward there be that would slacken \n\nTill we \'ve trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth \n\nBeing sprung from and named for the godlike of earth. \n\nStrike home, and the world shall revere us \n\nAs heroes descended from heroes. \n\nOld Greece lightens up with emotion \n\nHer inlands, her isles of the ocean ; \n\nFanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee ring, \n\nAnd the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon\'s spring : \n\n\n\n248 ODE TO WINTER. \n\nOur hearths shall be kindled in gladness, \n\nThat were cold and extinguished in sadness ; \n\nWhilst our maidens shall dance with their white-waving \n\narms, \nSinging joy to the brave that delivered their charms, \nWhen the blood of yon Mussulman cravens \nShall have purpled the beaks of our ravens. \n\n\n\nODE TO WINTER. \n\nWhen first the fiery-mantled sun \nHis heavenly race began to run, \nEound the earth and ocean blue \nHis children four the Seasons flew. \nFirst, in green apparel dancing, \n\nThe young Spring smiled with angel grace ; \nRosy Summer, next advancing, \n\nRushed into her sire\'s embrace : \xe2\x80\x94 \nHer bright-haired sire, who bade her keep \n\nForever nearest to his smiles, \nOn Calpe\'s olive-shaded steep, \n\nOn India\'s citron-covered isles : \nMore remote and buxom-brown, \n\nThe Queen of vintage bowed before his throne; \nA rich pomegranate gemmed her crown, \n\nA ripe sheaf bound her zone. \nBut howling Winter fled afar, \nTo hills that prop the polar star, \nAnd loves on deer-borne car to ride \nWith barren Darkness by his side, \n\n\n\nODE TO WINTER. 249 \n\nBound the shore where loud Lofoden \n\nWhirls to death the roaring whale, \nRound the hall where Runic Odin \n\nHowls his war-song to the gale ; \nSave when adown the ravaged globe \n\nHe travels on his native storm, \nDeflowering Nature\'s grassy robe, \n\nAnd trampling on her faded form : \xe2\x80\x94 \nTill light\'s returning lord assume \n\nThe shaft that drives him to his polar field, \nOf power to pierce his raven plume \n\nAnd crystal-covered shield. \n0, sire of storms ! whose savage ear \nThe Lapland drum delights to hear, \nWhen Frenzy with her blood-shot eye \nImplores thy dreadful deity, \nArchangel ! power of desolation ! \n\nFast descending as thou art, \nSay, hath mortal invocation \n\nSpells to touch thy stony heart ? \nThen, sullen Winter, hear my prayer, \nAnd gently rule the ruined year ; \nNor chill the wanderer\'s bosom bare, \nNor freeze the wretch\'s falling tear ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nTo shuddering Want\'s unmantled bed \nThy horror-breathing agues cease to lead, \nAnd gently on the orphan head \nOf innocence descend. \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x96\xa0 \nBut chiefly spare, king of clouds ! \nThe sailor on his" airy shrouds ; \nWhen wrecks and beacons strew the steep, \nAnd spectres walk along the deep. \n\n\n\n250 letes. \n\nMilder yet thy snowy breezes \n\nPour on yonder tented shores, \nWhere the Khine\'s broad billow freezes, \n\nOr the dark-brown Danube roars. \n0, winds of Winter ! list ye there \n\nTo many a deep and dying groan ; \nOr start, ye demons of the midnight air, \n\nAt shrieks and thunders louder than your own. \nAlas ! even your unhallowed breath \n\nMay spare the victim fallen low ; \nBut man will ask no truce to death, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNo bounds to human woe. \n\n\n\nLIXES. \n\n\n\nSPOKEN BY MRS. BARTLEY AT DRURY-LAXE THEATRE, ON THE FIRST \n\nOPENING OF THE HOUSE AFTER THE DEATH OF THE \n\nPRLXCESS CHARLOTTE, 1817. \n\nBritons ! although our task is but to show \nThe scenes and passions of fictitious woe, \nThink not we come this night without a part \nIn that deep sorrow of the public heart, \nWhich like a shade hath darkened every place, \nAnd moistened with a tear the manliest face ! \nThe bell is scarcely hushed in Windsor\'s piles, \nThat tolled a requiem from the solemn aisles, \nFor her, the royal flower, low laid in dust, \nThat was your fairest hope, your fondest trust. \n- Unconscious of the doom, we dreamt, alas ! \nThat even these walls, ere many months should pass, \nWhich but return sad accents for her now. \nPerhaps had witnessed her benignant brow, \n\n\n\nLINES. 251 \n\nCheered by the voice you would have raised on high, \n\nIn bursts of British love and loyalty. \n\nBut, Britain ! now thy chief, thy people mourn, \n\nAnd Claremont\'s home of love is left forlorn : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThere, where the happiest of the happy dwelt, \n\nThe \'scutcheon glooms, and royalty hath felt \n\nA wound that every bosom feels its own, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe blessing of a father\'s heart o\'erthrown \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe most beloved and most devoted bride \n\nTorn from an agonized husband\'s side, \n\nWho " long as Memory holds her seat " shall view \n\nThat speechless, more than spoken last adieu, \n\nWhen the fixed eye long looked connubial faith, \n\nAnd beamed affection in the trance of death. \n\nSad was the pomp that yesternight beheld, \n\nAs with the mourner\'s heart the anthem swelled; \n\nWhile torch succeeding torch illumed each high \n\nAnd bannered arch of England\'s chivalry. \n\nThe rich plumed canopy, the gorgeous pall, \n\nThe sacred march, and sable-vested wall, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThese were not rites of inexpressive show, \n\nBut hallowed as the types of real woe ! \n\nDaughter of England ! for a nation\'s sighs, \n\nA nation\'s heart went with thine obsequies ! \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd oft shall time revert a look of grief \n\nOn thine existence,, beautiful and brief. \n\nFair spirit ! send thy blessing from above \n\nOn realms where thou art canonized by love ! \n\nGive to a father\'s, husband\'s bleeding mind, \n\nThe peace that angels lend to human kind ; \n\nTo us who in thy loved remembrance feel \n\nA sorrowing, but a soul-ennobling zeal \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n252 LINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE. \n\nA loyalty that touches all the best \n\nAnd loftiest principles of England\'s breast ! \n\nStill may thy name speak concord from the tomb \n\nStill in the Muse\'s breath thy memory bloom ! \n\nThey shall describe thy life \xe2\x80\x94 thy form portray ; \n\nBut all the love that mourns thee swept away, \n\n\'T is not in language or expressive arts \n\nTo paint \xe2\x80\x94 ye feel it, Britons, in your hearts ! \n\n\n\nLINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE. \n\nBy strangers left upon a lonely shore, \n\nUnknown, unhonored, was the friendless dead ; \n\nFor child to weep, or widow to deplore, \n\nThere never came to his unburied head : \xe2\x80\x94 \nAll from his dreary habitation fled. \n\nNor will the lanterned fishermen at eve \n\nLaunch on that water by the witches\' tower, \n\nWhere hellebore and hemlock seem to weave \nBound its dark vaults a melancholy bower \nFor spirits of the dead at night\'s enchanted hour. \n\nThey dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate ! \n\nWhose crime it was, on Life\'s unfinished road, \nTo feel the step-dame buffetings of fate, \n\nAnd render back thy being\'s heavy load. \n\nAh ! once, perhaps, the social passions glowed \nIn thy devoted bosom \xe2\x80\x94 and the hand \n\nThat smote its kindred heart, might yet be prone \nTo deeds of mercy. Who may understand \n\nThy many woes, poor suicide unknown ? \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHe who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone. \n\n\n\nREULLURA. 253 \n\n\n\nREULLURA.* \n\n\n\nStar of the morn and eve, \n\nReullura shone like thee, \nAnd well for her might Aodh grieve, \n\nThe dark-attired Culdee. \nPeace to their shades ! the pure Culdees \n\nWere Albyn\'s earliest priests of God, \nEre yet an island of her seas \n\nBy foot of Saxon monk was trod, \nLong ere her churchmen by bigotry \nWere barred from wedlock\'s holy tie. \n\'T was then that Aodh, famed afar, \n\nIn Iona preached the word with power. \nAnd Reullura, beauty\'s star, \n\nWas the partner of his bower. \n\nBut, Aodh, the roof lies low, \n\nAnd the thistle-down waves bleaching, \nAnd the bat flits to and fro \n\nWhere the Gael once heard thy preaching ; \nAnd fallen is each columned aisle \n\nWhere the chiefs and the people knelt. \n\'T was near that temple\'s goodly pile \n\nThat honored of men they dwelt. \nFor Aodh was wise in the sacred law, \nAnd bright Reullura\' s eyes oft saw \n\nThe veil of fate uplifted. \nAlas ! with what visions of awe \n\nHer soul in that hour was gifted \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n* Reullura, in Gaelic, signifies " beautiful starJ\' \n\n22 \n\n\n\n254 REULLURA. \n\nWhen pale in the temple and faint, \n\nWith Aodh she stood alone \nB y the statue of an aged Saint ! \n\nFair sculptured was the stone, \nIt bore a crucifix ; \n\nFame said it once had graced \nA Christian temple, which the Picts \n\nIn the Britons\' land laid waste : \nThe Pictish men, by St. Columb taught, \n\nHad hither the holy relic brought. \nBeullura eyed the statue\'s face, \n\nAnd cried, "It is, he shall come, \nEven he, in this very place, \n\nTo avenge my martyrdom. \n\nFor, woe to the Gael people ! \n\nUlvfagre is on the main, \nAnd Iona shall look from tower and steeple \n\nOn the coming ships of the Dane ; \nAnd, dames and daughters, shall all your locks \n\nWith the spoiler\'s grasp entwine ? \nNo ! some shall have shelter in caves and rocks, \n\nAnd the deep sea shall be mine. \nBaffled by me shall the Dane return, \nAnd here shall his torch in the temple burn, \nUntil that holy man shall plough \n\nThe waves from Innisfail. \nHis sail is on the deep e\'en now, \n\nAnd swells to the southern gale." \n\n" Ah ! know\'st thou not, my bride," \nThe holy Aodh said, \n\n\n\nREULLURA. 255 \n\n" That the Saint whose form we stand beside \nHas for ages slept with the dead 1 " \xe2\x80\x94 \n" He liveth, he liveth," she said again, \n\n"For the span of his life tenfold extends \nBeyond the wonted years of men. \n\nHe sits by the graves of well-loved friends \nThat died ere thy grandsire\'s grandsire\'s birth ; \nThe oak is decayed with age on earth, \nWhose acorn-seed had been planted by him ; \n\nAnd his parents remember the day of dread \nWhen the sun on the cross looked dim. \n\nAnd the graves gave up their dead. \nYet preaching from clime to clime, \n\nHe hath roamed the earth for ages, \nAnd hither he shall come in time \n\nWhen the wrath of the heathen rages, \nIn time a remnant from the sword \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAh ! but a remnant to deliver ; \nYet, blest be the name of the Lord ! \n\nHis martyrs shall go into bliss forever. \nLochlin,* appalled, shall put up her steel, \nAnd thou shalt embark on the bounding keel ; \nSafe shalt thou pass through her hundred ships, \n\nWith the Saint and a remnant of the Gael, \nAnd the Lord will instruct thy lips \n\nTo preach in Innisfail." t \n\nThe sun, now about to set, \n\nWas burning o\'er Tiree, \nAnd no gathering cry rose yet \n\nO\'er the isles of Albyn\'s sea, \n\n* Denmark. f Ireland. \n\n\n\n256 REULLURA. \n\nWhilst Reullura saw far rowers dip \n\nTheir oars beneath the sun, \nAnd the Phantom of many a Danish ship, \n\nWhere ship there yet was none. \nAnd the shield of alarm was dumb, \nNor did their warning till midnight come, \nWhen watch-fires burst from across the main, \n\nFrom Rona, and Uist, and Skye, \nTo tell that the ships of the Dane \n\nAnd the red-haired slayers were nigh. \n\nOur islemen arose from slumbers, \n\nAnd buckled on their arms ; \nBut few, alas ! were their numbers \n\nTo Lochlin\'s mailed swarms. \nAnd the blade of the bloody Norse \n\nHas filled the shores of the Gael \nWith many a floating corse, \n\nAnd with many a woman\'s wail. \nThey have lighted the islands with ruin\'s torch, \nAnd the holy men of lona\'s church \nIn the temple of God lay slain ; \n\nAll but Aodh, the last Culdee, \nBut bound with many an iron chain, \n\nBound in that church was he. \nAnd where is Aodh\'s bride ? \n\nRocks of the ocean flood ! \nPlunged she not from your heights in pride, \n\nAnd mocked the men of blood ? \nThen Ulvfagre and his bands \n\nIn the temple lighted their banquet up, \nAnd the print of their blood-red hands \n\nWas left on the altar cup. \n\n\n\nREULLUEA. 257 \n\n\'T was then that the Norseman to Aodh said, \n" Tell where thy church\'s treasure \'s laid, \nOr I \'11 hew thee limb from limb." \n\nAs he spoke the bell struck three, \nAnd every torch grew dim \n\nThat lighted their revelry. \n\nBut the torches again burnt bright, \n\nAnd brighter than before, \nWhen an aged man of majestic height \n\nEntered the temple door. \nHushed was the revellers\' sound, \n\nThey were struck as mute as the dead, \nAnd their hearts were appalled by the very sound \n\nOf his footsteps\' measured tread. \nNor word was spoken by one beholder, \nWhilst he flung his white robe back o\'er his shoulder, \nAnd stretching his arms \xe2\x80\x94 as eath \n\nUnriveted Aodh\'s bands, \nAs if the gyves had been a wreath \n\nOf willows in his hands. \n\nAll saw the stranger\'s similitude \n\nTo the ancient statue\'s form : \nThe Saint before his own image stood, \n\nAnd grasped Ulvfagre\'s arm. \nThen up rose the Danes at last to deliver \n\nTheir chief, and shouting with one accord, \nThen drew the shaft from its rattling quiver, \n\nThey lifted the spear and sword, \nAnd levelled their spears in rows. \nBut down went axes and spears and bows, \n22* \n\n\n\n258 REULLURA. \n\nWhen the Saint with his crosier signed, \n\nThe archer\'s hand on the string was stopt, \nAnd down, like reeds laid flat by the wind, \n\nTheir lifted weapons dropt. \nThe Saint then gave a signal mute, \n\nAnd though Ulvfagre willed it not, \nHe came and stood at the statue\'s foot, \n\nSpell-riveted to the spot, \nTill hands invisible shook the wall, \n\nAnd the tottering image was dashed \nDown from its lofty pedestal. \n\nOn Ulvfagre\' s helm it crashed \xe2\x80\x94 \nHelmet, and skull, and flesh, and brain, \nIt crushed as millstones crush the grain. \nThen spoke the Saint, whilst all and each \n\nOf the Heathen trembled round, \nAnd the pauses amidst his speech \n\nWere as awful as the sound : \n\n" Go back, ye wolves ! to your dens " (he cried), \n\n" And tell the nations abroad, \nHow the fiercest of your herd has died \n\nThat slaughtered the flock of God. \nGather him bone by bone, \n\nAnd take with you o\'er the flood \nThe fragments of that avenging stone \n\nThat drank his heathen blood. \nThese are the spoils from Iona\'s sack, \n\nThe only spoils ye shall carry back ; \nFor the hand that uplifteth spear or sword \n\nShall be withered by palsy\'s shock, \nAnd I come in the name of the Lord \n\nTo deliver a remnant of his flock." \n\n\n\nTHE TURKISH LADY. 259 \n\nA remnant was called together, \n\nA doleful remnant of the Gael, \nAnd the Saint in the ship that had brought him hither \n\nTook the mourners to Innisfail. \nUnscathed they left Iona\'s strand, \n\nWhen the opal morn first flushed the sky, \nFor the Norse dropt spear, and bow, and brand, \n\nAnd looked on them silently ; \nSafe from their hiding-places came \nOrphans and mothers, child and dame : \nBut, alas ! when the search for Reullura spread, \n\nNo answering voice was given, \nFor the sea had gone o\'er her lovely head, \n\nAnd her spirit was in Heaven. \n\n\n\nTHE TURKISH LADY. \n\n5 T WAS the hour when rites unholy \nCalled each Paynim voice to prayer, \n\nAnd the star that faded slowly \nLeft to dews the freshened air. \n\nDay her sultry fires had wasted, \nCalm and sweet the moonlight rose ; \n\nEven a captive spirit tasted \nHalf oblivion of his woes. \n\nThen \'t was from an Emir\'s palace \nCame an Eastern lady bright : \n\nShe, in spite of tyrants jealous, \nSaw and loved an English knight. \n\n\n\n260 THE TURKISH LADY. \n\n" Tell me, captive, why in anguish \nFoes have dragged thee here to dwell, \n\nWhere poor Christians as they languish \nHear no sound of Sabbath bell ? " \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n" \'Twas on Transylvania\'s Bannat, \nWhen the Crescent shone afar, \nLike a pale disastrous planet, \nO\'er the purple tide of war \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIn that day of desolation, \n\nLady, I was captive made ; \nBleeding for my Christian nation \n\nBy the walls of high Belgrade." \n\n" Captive ! could the brightest jewel \nFrom my turban set thee free ? " \n\n"Lady, no ! \xe2\x80\x94 the gift were cruel, \nRansomed, yet if reft of thee. \n\nSay, fair princess ! would it grieve thee \nChristian climes should we behold ? " \xe2\x80\x94 \n" Nay, bold knight ! I would not leave thee \nWere thy ransom paid in gold ! " \n\nNow in Heaven\'s blue expansion \nRose the midnight star to view, \n\nWhen to quit her father\'s mansion \nThrice she wept, and bade adieu ! \n\n"Fly we, then, while none discover ! \nTyrant barks, in vain ye ride ! " \xe2\x80\x94 \nSoon at Rhodes the British lover \nClasped his blooming Eastern bride. \n\n\n\nTHE BEAVE ROLAND. 261 \n\n\n\nTHE BEAVE ROLAND. \n\nThe brave Roland ! \xe2\x80\x94 the brave Roland ! \nFalse tidings reached the Rhenish strand \n\nThat he had fallen in fight ; \nAnd thy faithful bosom swooned with pain, \nloveliest maid of Allemayne ! \n\nFor the loss of thine own true knight. \n\nBut why so rash has she ta\'en the veil \nIn yon Nonnenwerder\'s cloisters pale ? \n\nFor her vow had scarce been sworn, \nAnd the fatal mantle o\'er her flung, \nWhen the Drachenfels to a trumpet rung \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\'T was her own dear warrior\'s horn ! \n\nWoe ! woe ! each heart shall bleed \xe2\x80\x94 shall break ! \nShe would have hung upon his neck, \n\nHad he come but yester-even ! \nAnd he had clasped those peerless charms, \nThat shall never, never fill his arms, \n\nOr meet him but in heaven. \n\nYet Roland the brave \xe2\x80\x94 Roland the true \xe2\x80\x94 \nHe could not bid that spot adieu ; \n\nIt was dear still midst his woes ; \nFor he loved to breathe the neighboring air, \nAnd to think she blessed him in her prayer, \n\nWhen the Hallelujah rose. \n\nThere \'s yet one window of that pile, \nWhich he built above the Nun\'s green isle ; \nThence sad and oft looked he \n\n\n\n262 THE SPECTRE BOAT. \n\n(When the chant and organ sounded slow) \nOn the mansion of his love below. \n\nFor herself he might not see. \n\nShe died ! \xe2\x80\x94 he sought the battle-plain ; \nHer image filled his dying brain, \n\nWhen he fell and wished to fall : \nAnd her name was in his latest sigh, \nWhen Roland, the flower of chivalry, \n\nExpired at Roncevall. \n\n\n\nTHE SPECTRE BOAT. \n\nA BALLAD. \n\nLight rued false Ferdinand to leave a lovely maid forlorn, \nWho broke her heart and died to hide her blushing cheek \n\nfrom scorn. \nOne night he dreamt he wooed her in their wonted bower of \n\nlove, \nWhere the flowers sprang thick around them, and the birds \n\nsang sweet above. \n\nBut the scene was swiftly changed into a church-yard\'s \n\ndismal view, \nAnd her lips grew black beneath his kiss, from love\'s \n\ndelicious hue. \nWhat more he dreamt, he told to none; but shuddering, \n\npale and dumb, \nLooked out upon the waves, like one that knew his hour \n\nwas come. \n\n\n\nTHE SPECTEE BOAT. 263 \n\n\'T was now the dead watch of the night \xe2\x80\x94 the helm was \n\nlashed a-lee. \nAnd the ship rode where Mount iEtna lights the deep \n\nLevantine sea ; \nWhen beneath its glare a boat came, rowed by a woman in \n\nher shroud, \nWho, with eyes that made our blood run cold, stood up and \n\nspoke aloud : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n" Come, Traitor, down, for whom my ghost still wanders \n\nunforgiven ! \nCome down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke my peace \n\nwith heaven ! " \nIt was vain to hold the victim, for he plunged to meet her \n\ncall, \nLike the bird that shrieks and nutters in the gazing \n\nserpent\'s thrall. \n\nYou may guess the boldest mariner shrunk daunted from the \n\nsight, \nFor the Spectre and her winding-sheet shone blue with \n\nhideous light ; \nLike a fiery wheel the boat spun with the waving of her \n\nhand, \nAnd round they went, and down they went, as the cock \n\ncrew from the land. \n\n\n\n264 THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS. \n\nTHE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS. \n\nON HER BIRTH-DAY. \n\nIf any white- winged Power above \nMy joys and griefs survey, \n\nThe day when thou wert born, my love \xe2\x80\x94 \nHe surely blessed that day. \n\nI laughed (till taught by thee) when told \nOf Beauty\'s magic powers, \n\nThat ripened life\'s dull ore to gold, \nAnd changed its weeds to flowers. \n\nMy mind had lovely shapes portrayed ; \n\nBut thought I earth had one \nCould make even Fancy\'s visions fade \n\nLike stars before the sun ? \n\nI gazed, and felt upon my lips \nThe unfinished accents hang : \n\nOne moment\'s bliss, one burning kiss, \nTo rapture changed each pang. \n\nAnd though as swift as lightning\'s flash \nThose tranced moments flew, \n\nNot all the waves of time shall wash \nTheir memory from my view. \n\nBut duly shall my raptured song, \n\nAnd gladly shall my eyes, \nStill bless this day\'s return, as long \n\nAs thou shalt see it rise. \n\n\n\nSONG. \xe2\x80\x94 ADELGITHA. 265 \n\n\n\nSONG. \n\n0, how hard it is to find \n\nThe one just suited to our mind ! \n\nAnd if that one should be \nFalse, unkind, or found too late, \nWhat can we do but sigh at fate, \n\nAnd sing " Woe \'s me \xe2\x80\x94 Woe \'s me " ? \n\nLove \'s a boundless burning waste, \nWhere Bliss\'s stream we seldom taste, \n\nAnd still more seldom flee \nSuspense\'s thorns, Suspicion\'s stings ; \nYet somehow Love a something brings \n\nThat \'s sweet \xe2\x80\x94 even when we sigh " Woe \'s me ! " \n\n\n\nADELGITHA. \n\n\n\nThe ordeal 1 s fatal trumpet sounded, \n\nAnd sad pale Adelgitha came, \nWhen forth a valiant champion bounded, \n\nAnd slew the slanderer of her fame. \n\nShe wept, delivered from her danger ; \n\nBut when he knelt to claim her glove \xe2\x80\x94 \n" Seek not," she cried, " ! gallant stranger, \n\nFor hapless Adelgitha\' s love. \n\nFor he is in a foreign far land \n\nWhose arms should now have set me free ; \nAnd I must wear the willow garland \n\nFor him that\'s dead, or false to me." \n23 \n\n\n\n266 Lin \n\n"Nay ! say not that his faith is tainted ! " \xe2\x80\x94 \nHe raised his visor. \xe2\x80\x94 At the sight \n\nShe fell into his arms and fainted : \nIt was indeed her own true knight ! \n\n\n\nLIXES \nox RECErrrsG a seal with the Campbell crest, from k. \n\nBEFORE HER MARRIAGE. \n\nThis wax returns not back more fair \nThe impression of the gift you send, \n\nThan stamped upon my thoughts I bear \nThe image of your worth, my friend ! \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWe are not friends of yesterday : \xe2\x80\x94 \nBut poets\' fancies are a little \n\nDisposed to heat and cool (they- say), \xe2\x80\x94 \nBy turns impressible and brittle. \n\nWell ! should its frailty e\'er condemn \nMy heart to prize or please you less, \n\nYour type is still the sealing gem. \nAnd mine the waxen brittleness. \n\n"What transcripts of my weal and woe* \nThis little signet yet may lock. \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhat utterances to friend or foe. \nIn reason\'s calm or passion\'s shock ! \n\nWhat scenes of life\'s yet curtained stage \nMay own its confidential die. \n\nWhose stamp awaits the unwritten page. \nAnd feelings of futurity ! \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\nLINES. 267 \n\nYet wheresoe\'er my pen I lift \n\nTo date the epistolary sheet, \nThe blest occasion of the gift \n\nShall make its recollection sweet : \n\nSent when the star that rules your fates \nHath reached its influence most benign \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhen every heart congratulates, \nAnd none more cordially than mine. \n\nSo speed my song \xe2\x80\x94 marked with the crest \nThat erst the adventurous Norman wore, \n\nWho won the Lady of the West, \nThe daughter of Macaillan Mor. \n\nCrest of my sires ! whose blood it sealed \n\nWith glory in the strife of swords, \nNe\'er may the scroll that bears it yield \n\nDegenerate thoughts or faithless words ! \n\nYet little might I prize the stone, \n\nIf it but typed the feudal tree \nFrom whence, a scattered leaf, I \'m blown \n\nIn Fortune\'s mutability. \n\nNo ! \xe2\x80\x94 but it tells me of a heart \n\nAllied by friendship\'s living tie ; \nA prize beyond the herald\'s art \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOur soul-sprung consanguinity ! \n\nKatherixe ! to many an hour of mine \nLight wings and sunshine you have lent ; \n\nAnd so adieu, and still be thine \nThe all-in-all of life \xe2\x80\x94 Content ! \n\n\n\n268 GILDEROY. \n\nGILDEROY . \n\nThe last, the fatal hour is come, \nThat bears my love from me : \nI hear the dead note of the drum, \n\xe2\x80\xa2 I mark the gallows\' tree ! \n\nThe bell has tolled ; it shakes my heart ; \n\nThe trumpet speaks thy name ; \nAnd must my Gilderoy depart \n\nTo bear a death of shame ? \n\nNo bosom trembles for thy doom : \nNo mourner wipes a tear; \n\nThe gallows\' foot is all thy tomb, \nThe sledge is all thy bier. \n\n0, Gilderoy ! bethought we then \n\nSo soon, so sad to part, \nWhen first in Roslin\'s lovely glen \n\nYou triumphed o\'er my heart? \n\nYour locks they glittered to the sheen, \nYour hunter garb was trim : \n\nAnd graceful was the ribbon green \nThat bound your manly limb ! \n\nAh ! little thought I to deplore \nThose limbs in fetters bound ; \n\nOr hear, upon the scaffold floor, \nThe midnight hammer sound. \n\nYe cruel, cruel, that combined \n\nThe guiltless to pursue ; \nMy Gilderoy was ever kind, \n\nHe could not injure you ! \n\n\n\n\n\n\nSTANZAS. 269 \n\nA long adieu ! but where shall fly \n\nThy widow all forlorn, \nWhen every mean and cruel eye \n\nRegards my woe with scorn 1 \n\nYes ! they will mock thy widow\'s tears, \n\nAnd hate thine orphan boy ; \nAlas ! his infant beauty wears \n\nThe form of Gilderoy. \n\nThen will I seek the dreary mound \n\nThat wraps thy mouldering clay, \nAnd weep and linger on the ground, \n\nAnd sigh my heart away. \n\n\n\nSTANZAS \n\nON THE THREATENED INVASION, 1803. \n\nOur bosoms we \'11 bare for the glorious strife, \n\nAnd our oath is recorded on high, \nTo prevail in the cause that is dearer than life, \n\nOr crushed in its ruins to die ! \nThen rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand, \nAnd swear to prevail in your dear native land ! \n\n\'T is the home we hold sacred is laid to our trust \xe2\x80\x94 \nGod bless the green Isle of the brave ! \n\nShould a conqueror tread on our forefathers\' dust, \nIt would rouse the old dead from their grave ! \n\nThen rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand, \n\nAnd swear to prevail in your dear native land ! \n23* \n\n\n\n270 THE RITTER BANN. \n\nIn a Briton\'s sweet home shall a spoiler abide, \n\nProfaning its loves and its charms ? \nShall a Frenchman insult the loved fair at our side ? \n\nTo arms ! 0, my Country, to arms ! \nThen rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand, \nAnd swear to prevail in your dear native land ! \n\nShall a tyrant enslave us, my countrymen ! \xe2\x80\x94 No ! \n\nHis head to the sword shall be given \xe2\x80\x94 \nA death-bed repentance be taught the proud foe, \n\nAnd his blood be an offering to Heaven ! \nThen rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand, \nAnd swear to prevail in your dear native land ! \n\n\n\nTHE HITTER BANN. \n\nThe Hitter Bann from Hungary \nCame back, renowned in anns, \n\nBut scorning jousts of chivalry, \nAnd love and ladies\' charms. \n\nWhile other knights held revels, he \nWas rapt in thoughts of gloom, \n\nAnd in Vienna\'s hostelrie \nSlow paced his lonely room. \n\nThere entered one whose face he knew,- \nWhose voice, he was aware, \n\nHe oft at mass had listened to \nIn the holy house of prayer. \n\n\n\nTHE HITTER BANN, 271 \n\n\'T was the Abbot of St. James\'s monks, \n\nA fresh and fair old man : \nHis reverend air arrested even \n\nThe gloomy Bitter Bann. \n\nBut seeing with him an ancient dame \n\nCome clad in Scotch attire, \nThe Bitter\'s color went and came, \n\nAnd loud he spoke in ire : \n\n" Ha ! nurse of her that was my bane, \n\nName not her name to me : \nI wish it blotted from my brain : \' \n\nArt poor? \xe2\x80\x94 take alms, and flee." \n\n" Sir Knight," the abbot interposed, \n\n" This case your ear demands ;" \nAnd the crone cried, with a cross enclosed \n\nIn both her trembling hands, \n\n" Remember, each his sentence waits ; \n\nAnd he that shall rebut \nSweet Mercy\'s suit, on him the gates \n\nOf Mercy shall be shut. \n\nYou wedded, undispensed by Church, \n\nYour cousin Jane in Spring ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nIn Autumn, when you went to search \n\nFor churchman\'s pardoning, \n\nHer house denounced your marriage-band, \n\nBetrothed her to De Grey, \nAnd the ring you put upon her hand \n\nWas wrenched by force away. \n\n\n\n272 THE RITTER BANN. \n\nThen wept your Jane upon my neck, \nCrying, \' Help me, nurse, to flee \n\nTo my Howel Bann\'s Glamorgan hills ;\' \nBut word arrived \xe2\x80\x94 ah me ! \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nYou were not there : and \'twas their threat, \n\nBy foul means or by fair, \nTo-morrow morning was to set \n\nThe seal on her despair. \n\nI had a son, a sea-boy, in \n\nA ship at Hartland Bay ; \nBy his aid from her cruel kin \n\nI bore my bird away. \n\nTo Scotland from the Devon\'s \nGreen myrtle shores we fled ; \n\nAnd the Hand that sent the ravens \nTo Elijah gave us bread. \n\nShe wrote you by my son, but he \n\nFrom England sent us word \nYou had gone into some far countrie, \n\nIn grief and gloom, he heard. \n\nFor they that wronged you, to elude \nYour wrath, defamed my child; \n\nAnd you \xe2\x80\x94 ay, blush, Sir, as you should \xe2\x80\x94 \nBelieved, and were beguiled. \n\nTo die but at your feet, she vowed \n\nTo roam the world ; and we \nWould both have sped and begged our bread, \n\nBut so it might not be. \n\n\n\nTHE EITTER BANN. 273 \n\nFor when the snow-storm beat our roof, \n\nShe bore a boy, Sir Bann, \nWho grew as fair your likeness\' proof \n\nAs child e\'er grew like man. \n\n\'T was smiling on that babe one morn \n\nWhile heath bloomed on the moor, \nHer beauty struck young Lord Kinghorn \n\nAs he hunted past our door. \n\nShe shunned him, but he raved of Jane, \n\nAnd roused his mother\'s pride : \nWho came to us in high disdain, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n1 And where \'s the face,\' she cried, \n\n1 Has witched my boy to wish for one \n\nSo wretched for his wife ? \xe2\x80\x94 \nDost love thy husband ? Know, my son \n\nHas sworn to seek his life.\' \n\nHer anger sore dismayed us, \n\nFor our mite was wearing scant, \nAnd, unless that dame would aid us, \n\nThere was none to aid our want. \n\nSo I told her, weeping bitterly, \n\nWhat all our woes had been ; \nAnd, though she was a stern ladie. \n\nThe tears stood in her een. \n\nAnd she housed us both, when, cheerfully, \n\nMy child to her had sworn, \nThat even if made a widow, she \n\nWould never wed Kinghorn. "- \n\n\n\n274 THE HITTER BANN. \n\nHere paused the nurse, and then began \n\nThe abbot, standing by : \xe2\x80\x94 \n" Three months ago a wounded man \nTo our abbey came to die. \n\nHe heard me long, with ghastly eyes \nAnd hand obdurate clenched, \n\nSpoke of the worm that never dies, \nAnd the fire that is not quenched. \n\nAt last, by what this scroll attests, \n\nHe left atonement brief, \nFor years of anguish to the breasts \n\nHis guilt had wrung with grief. \n\n\' There lived,\' he said, \' a fair young dame \n\nBeneath my mother\'s roof; \nI loved her, but against my flame \n\nHer purity was proof. \n\nI feigned repentance, friendship pure ; \n\nThat mood she did not check, \nBut let her husband\'s miniature \n\nBe copied from her neck, \n\nAs means to search him ; my deceit \nTook care to him was borne \n\nNaught but his picture\'s counterfeit, \nAnd Jane\'s reported scorn. \n\nThe treachery took : she waited wild ; \n\nMy slave came back and lied \nWhate\'er I wished ; she clasped her child, \n\nAnd swooned, and all but died. \n\n\n\nTHE BITTER BANN. 275 \n\nI felt her tears for years and years \n\nQuench not my flame, but stir ; \nThe very hate I bore her mate \n\nIncreased my loye for her. \n\nFame told us of his glory, while \n\nJoy flushed the face of Jane ; \nAnd, while she blessed his name, her smile \n\nStruck fire into my brain. \n\nNo fears could damp ; I reached the camp, \' \n\nSought out its champion ; \nAnd if my broad-sword failed at last, \n\nJ T was long and well laid on. \n\nThis wound \'s my meed, my name \'s Kinghorn, \n\nMy foe ; s the Hitter Bann.\' \n\nThe wafer to his lips was borne, \n\nAnd we shrived the dying man. \n\nHe died not till you went to fight \n\nThe Turks, at Warradein ; \nBut I see my tale has changed you pale." \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe abbot went for wine ; \n\nAnd brought a little page who poured \n\nIt out, and knelt and smiled ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe stunned knight saw himself restored \n\nTo childhood in his child ; \n\nAnd stooped and caught him to his breast, \n\nLaughed loud and wept anon, \nAnd, with a shower of kisses, pressed \n\nThe darling little one. \n\n\n\n276 THE RITTEE BANN. \n\n" And where went Jane ? " \xe2\x80\x94 " To a nunnery, Sir,- \n\nLook not again so pale, \xe2\x80\x94 \nKinghorn\'s old dame grew harsh to her." \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n" And has she ta\'en the veil ?" \n\n" Sit down, Sir," said the priest, " I bar \n\nRash words." \xe2\x80\x94 They sat all three, \nAnd the boy played with the knight\'s broad star, \nAs he kept him on his knee. \n\n" Think, ere you ask her dwelling-place," \n\nThe abbot further said ; \n" Time draws a veil o\'er beauty\'s face \n\nMore deep than cloister\'s shade. \n\nGrief may have made her what you can \nScarce love perhaps for life." \xe2\x80\x94 \n"Hush, abbot," cried the Bitter Bann, \n" Or tell me where \'s my wife." \n\nThe priest undid two doors that hid \n\nThe inn\'s adjacent room, \nAnd there a lovely woman stood, \n\nTears bathed her beauty\'s bloom. \n\nOne moment may with bliss repay \n\nUnnumbered hours of pain ; \nSuch was the throb and mutual sob \n\nOf the knight embracing Jane. \n\n\n\nsong. 277 \n\nSONG. \n\n"MEN OF ENGLAND." \n\nMen of England ! who inherit \n\nEights that cost your sires their blood ! \n\nMen whose unclegenerate spirit \n\nHas been proved on field and flood : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBy the foes you \'ve fought uncounted, \n\nBy the glorious deeds ye \'ve done, \nTrophies captured \xe2\x80\x94 breaches mounted, \n\nNavies conquered \xe2\x80\x94 kingdoms won. \n\nYet, remember, England gathers \nHence but fruitless wreaths of fame, \n\nIf the freedom of your fathers \nGlow not in your hearts the same. \n\nWhat are monuments of bravery, \n\nWhere no public virtues bloom ? \nWhat avail, in lands of slavery, \n\nTrophied temples, arch, and tomb ? \n\nPageants ! \xe2\x80\x94 Let the world revere us \n\nFor our people\'s rights and laws, \nAnd the breasts of civic heroes \n\nBared in Freedom\'s holy cause. \n\nYours are Hampden\'s, Russell\'s glory, \nSidney\'s matchless shade is yours, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMartyrs in heroic story, \n\nWorth a hundred Agincourts ! \n\n24 \n\n\n\n278 SONG. \xe2\x80\x94 THE HARPER. \n\nWe \' re the sons of sires that baffled \nCrowned and mitred tyranny ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThey defied the field and scaffold \nFor their birthrights \xe2\x80\x94 so will we ! \n\n\n\nSONG. \n\nDrink ye to her that each loves best. \n\nAnd if you nurse a flame \nThat\'s told but to her mutual breast, \n\nWe will not ask her name. \n\nEnough, while memory tranced and glad \n\nPaints silently the fair, \nThat each should dream of joys he \'s had. \n\nOr yet may hope to share. \n\nYet far, far hence be jest or boast \nFrom hallowed thoughts so dear ; \n\nBut drink to her that each loves most, \nAs she would love to hear. \n\n\n\nTHE HARPER. \n\n\n\nOn the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, \n\nNo blithe Irish lad was so happy as I ; \n\nNo harp like my own could so cheerily play, \n\nAnd wherever I went was my poor dog Tray. \n\n\n\nTHE HARPER. \xe2\x80\x94 THE WOUNDED HUSSAE. 279 \n\nWhen at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, \nShe said (while the sorrow was big at her heart), \n\n! remember your Sheelah when far, far away : \nAnd be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray. \n\nPoor dog ! he was faithful and kind,, to be sure, \nAnd he constantly loved me, although I was poor ; \nWhen the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away, \n\n1 had always a friend in my poor dog Tray. \n\nWhen the road was so dark, and the night was so cold, \nAnd Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, \nHow snugly we slept in my old coat of gray, \nAnd he licked me for kindness \xe2\x80\x94 my poor dog Tray. \n\nThough my wallet was scant, I remembered his case, \nNor refused my last crust to his pitiful face ; \nBut he died at my feet on a cold winter day, \nAnd I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray. \n\nWhere now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind ? \nCan I find one to guide me, so faithful, and kind ? \nTo my sweet native village, so far, far away, \nI can never more return with my poor dog Tray. \n\n\n\nTHE WOUNDED HUSSAR. \n\nAlone to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube \nFair Adelaide hied when the battle was o\'er : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n" whither ! " she cried, " hast thou wandered, my lover, \nOr here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore ? \n\n\n\n280 THE WOUNDED HUSSAR. \n\nWhat voice did I hear ? \' t was my Henry that sighed ! " \nAll mournful she hastened, nor wandered she far, \n\nWhen bleeding, and low, on the heath she descried, \nBy the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar ! \n\nFrom his bosom that heaved, the last torrent was streaming, \nAnd pale was his visage, deep marked with a scar ! \n\nAnd dim was that eye, once expressively beaming, \nThat melted in love, and that kindled in war ! \n\nHow smit was poor Adelaide\'s heart at the sight ! \n\nHow bitter she wept o\'er the victim of war ! \n" Hast thou come, my fond Love, this last sorrowful night, \n\nTo cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar?" \n\n" Thou shalt live," she replied, " Heaven\'s mercy relieving \nEach anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn ! " \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n" Ah no ! the last pang of my bosom is heaving ! \nNo light of the morn shall to Henry return ! \n\nThou charmer of life, ever tender and true ! \n\nYe babes of my love, that await me afar ! " \xe2\x80\x94 \nHis faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu, \n\nWhen he sunk in her arms \xe2\x80\x94 the poor wounded Hussar ! \n\n\n\nLOVE AND MADNESS. 281 \n\n\n\nLOVE AND MADNESS. \n\nAN ELEGY. \n-n-RiTTE:s is 1795. \n\nHark ! from the battlements of yonder tower * \nThe solemn bell has tolled the midnight hour ! \nRoused from drear visions of distempered sleep. \nPoor B k wakes \xe2\x80\x94 in solitude to weep ! \n\n" Cease, Memory, cease (the friendless mourner cried) \nTo probe the bosom too severely tried ! \n\n! ever cease, my pensive thoughts, to stray \nThrough the bright fields of Fortune\'s better day, \n"When youthful Hope, the music of the mind, \nTuned all its charms, and E n was kind ! \n\nYet, can I cease, while glows this trembling frame, \nIn sighs to speak thy melancholy name ? \n\n1 hear thy spirit wail in every storm ! \n\nIn midnight shades I view thy passing form ! \nPale as in that sad hour when doomed to feel, \nDeep in thy perjured heart, the bloody steel ! \n\nDemons of Vengeance ! ye at whose command \n\nI grasped the sword with more than woman\'s hand, \n\nSay ye, did Pity\'s trembling voice control, \n\nOr horror damp the purpose of my soul 1 \n\nNo ! my wild heart sat smiling o\'er the plan, \n\nTill Hate fulfilled what baffled Love began ! \n\n* Warwick Castle. \n\n24* \n\n\n\n282 LOVE AND MADNESS. \n\nYes ; let the clay-cold breast that never knew \nOne tender pang to generous Nature true. \nHalf-mingling pity with the gall of scorn, \nCondemn this heart, that bled in love forlorn ! \n\nAnd ye, proud fair, whose soul no gladness warms, \nSave rapture\'s homage to your conscious charms ! \nDelighted idols of a gaudy train, \n111 can your blunter feelings guess the pain, \nWhen the fond faithful heart, inspired to prove \nFriendship refined, the calm delight of Love, \nFeels all its tender strings with anguish torn, \nAnd bleeds at perjured Pride\'s inhuman scorn. \n\nSay, then, did pitying Heaven condemn the deed, \nWhen Vengeance bade thee, faithless lover, bleed ? \nLong had I watched thy dark foreboding brow, \nWhat time thy bosom scorned its dearest vow ! \nSad, though I wept the friend, the lover changed, \nStill thy cold look was scornful and estranged, \nTill from thy pity, love, and shelter thrown, \nI wandered hopeless, friendless, and alone ! \n\n! righteous Heaven ! \'t was then my tortured soul \nFirst gave to wrath unlimited control ! \nAdieu the silent look ! the streaming eye ! \nThe murmured plaint ! the deep heart-heaving sigh ! \nLong-slumbering Vengeance wakes to bitter deeds ; \nHe shrieks, he falls, the perjured lover bleeds ! \nNow the last laugh of agony is o\'er, \nAnd pnle in blood he sleeps, to wake no more ! \n\n\n\nLOVE AND MADNESS. 283 \n\n\'Tis done ! the flame of hate no longer burns : \nNature relents, but, ah ! too late returns ! \nWhy does my soul this gush of fondness feel ? \nTrembling and faint, I drop the guilty steel ! \nCold on my heart the hand of terror lies, \nAnd shades of horror close my languid eyes ! \n\n! \'t was a deed of Murder\'s deepest grain ! \n\nCould B k\'s soul so true to wrath remain ? \n\nA friend long true, a once fond lover fell ! \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhere Love was fostered could not Pity dwell 1 \n\nUnhappy youth ! while yon pale crescent glows \nTo watch on silent Nature\'s deep repose, \nThy sleepless spirit, breathing from the tomb, \nForetells my fate, and summons me to come ! \nOnce more I see thy sheeted spectre stand, \nRoll the dim eye, and wave the paly hand ! \n\nSoon may this fluttering spark of vital flame \nForsake its languid melancholy frame ! \nSoon may these eyes their trembling lustre close, \nWelcome the dreamless night of long repose ! \nSoon may this woe- worn spirit seek the bourn \nWhere, lulled to slumber, Grief forgets to mourn ! " \n\n\n\n284 HALLOWED GROUND. \n\n\n\nHALLOWED GROUND. \n\nWhat \'s hallowed ground ? Has earth a clod \nIts Maker meant not should be trod \nBy man, the image of his God, \n\nErect and free, \nUnscourged by Superstition\'s rod \n\nTo bow the knee ? \n\nThat\'s hallowed ground \xe2\x80\x94 where, mourned and missed, \n\nThe lips repose our love has kissed : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBut where \'s their memory\'s mansion ? Is \'t \n\nYon church-yard\'s bowers ? \nNo ! in ourselves their souls exist, \n\nA part of ours. \n\nA kiss can consecrate the ground \nWhere mated hearts are mutual bound : \nThe spot where love\'s first links were wound. \n\nThat ne\'er are riven, \nIs hallowed down to earth\'s profound, \n\nAnd up to Heaven ! \n\nFor time makes all but true love old ; \nThe burning thoughts that then were told \nRun molten still in memory\'s mould ; \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 And will not cool, \nUntil the heart itself be cold \n\nIn Lethe\'s pool. \n\nWhat hallows ground where heroes sleep ? \n\'T is not the sculptured piles you heap ! \n\n\n\nHALLOWED GKOUND. 285 \n\nIn dews that heavens far distant weep \n\nTheir turf may bloom ; \nOr Genii twine beneath the deep \n\nTheir coral tomb : \n\nBut strew his ashes to the wind \n\nWhose sword or voice has served mankind \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd is he dead, whose glorious mind \n\nLifts thine on high ? \xe2\x80\x94 \nTo live in hearts we leave behind, \n\nIs not to die. \n\nIs \'t death to fall for Freedom\'s right ? \nHe \'s dead alone that lacks her light ! \nAnd murder sullies in Heaven\'s sight \n\nThe sword he draws : \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhat can alone ennoble fight 1 \n\nA noble cause ! \n\nGive that ! and welcome War to brace \n\nHer drums ! and rend Heaven\'s reeking space ! \n\nThe colors planted face to face, \n\nThe charging cheer, \nThough Death\'s pale horse lead on the chase. \n\nShall still be dear. \n\nAnd place our trophies where men kneel \nTo Heaven ! but Heaven rebukes my zeal. \nThe cause of Truth and human weal, \n\nGod above ! \nTransfer it from the sword\'s appeal \n\nTo Peace and Love. \n\n\n\n286 HALLOWED GROUND. \n\nPeace, Love ! the cherubim, that join \nTheir spread wings o\'er Devotion\'s shrine, \nPrayers sound in vain, and temples shine, \n\nWhere they are not \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe heart alone can make divine \n\nReligion\'s spot. \n\nTo incantations dost thou trust, \nAnd pompous rites in domes august l \nSee mouldering stones and metal\'s rust \n\nBelie the vaunt, \nThat men can bless one pile of dust \n\nWith chime or chant. \n\nThe ticking wood- worm mocks thee, man ! \nThy temples \xe2\x80\x94 creeds themselves grow wan ! \nBut there \'s a dome of nobler span, \n\nA temple given \nThy faith, that bigots dare not ban \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIts space is Heaven ! \n\nIts roof star-pictured Nature\'s ceiling, \nWhere, trancing the rapt spirit\'s feeling, \nAnd God himself to man revealing, \n\nThe harmonious spheres \nMake music, though unheard their pealing \n\nBy mortal ears. \n\nFair stars ! are not your beings pure ? \nCan sin, can death, your world obscure ? \nElse why so swell the thoughts at your \n\nAspect above ? \nYe must be Heavens that make us sure \n\nOf heavenly love ! \n\n\n\nsong. 287 \n\nAnd in your harmony sublime \nI read the doom of distant time ; \nThat man\'s regenerate soul from crime \n\nShall yet be drawn. \nAnd reason on his mortal clime \n\nImmortal dawn. \n\nWhat \'s hallowed ground ? \'T is what gives birth \nTo sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! \xe2\x80\x94 \nPeace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth \n\nEarth\'s compass round ; \nAnd your high priesthood shall make earth \n\nAll hallowed ground. \n\n\n\nSONG. \n\nWithdraw not yet those lips and fingers, \nWhose touch to mine is rapture\'s spell ; \n\nLife\'s joy for us a moment lingers, \n\nAnd death seems in the word \xe2\x80\x94 Farewell. \n\nThe hour that bids us part and go, \n\nIt sounds not yet, \xe2\x80\x94 ! no, no, no ! \n\nTime, whilst I gaze upon thy sweetness, \nFlies like a courser nigh the goal ; \n\nTo-morrow where shall be his fleetness, \nWhen thou art parted from my soul 1 \n\nOur hearts shall beat, our tears shall flow, \n\nBut not together \xe2\x80\x94 no, no, no ! \n\n\n\n288 CAROLINE. \n\n\n\nCAROLINE. \n\nPABT I. \n\nI \'ll bid the hyacinth to blow, \nI \'11 teach my grotto green to be ; \n\nAnd sing my true love, all below \nThe holly bower and myrtle tree. \n\nThere all his wild-wood sweets to bring, \nThe sweet south wind shall wander by, \n\nAnd with the music of his wing \nDelight my rustling canopy. \n\nCome to my close and clustering bower, \n\nThou spirit of a milder clime, \nFresh with the dews of fruit and flower, \n\nOf mountain heath, and raoory thyme. \n\nWith all thy rural echoes come, \n\nSweet comrade of the rosy day, \nWafting the wild bee\'s gentle hum, \n\nOr cuckoo\'s plaintive roundelay. \n\nWhere\'er thy morning breath has played. \n\nWhatever isles of ocean fanned. \nCome to my blossom- woven shade, \n\nThou wandering wind of fairy-land. \n\nFor sure from some enchanted isle, \n\nWhere Heaven and Love their sabbath hold, \nWhere pure and happy spirits smile, \n\nOf beauty\'s fairest, brightest mould : \n\n\n\nCAROLINE. 289 \n\nFrom some green Eden of the deep. \nWhere Pleasured sigh alone is heaved, \n\nWhere tears of rapture lovers weep. \nEndeared, undoubting, undeceived : \n\nFrom some sweet paradise afar. \nThy music wanders, distant, lost \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhere Nature lights her leading star. \nAnd love is never, never crossed. \n\ngentle gale of Eden bowers, \n\nIf back thy rosy feet should roam, \n\nTo revel with the cloudless Hours \nIn Nature\'s more propitious home, \n\nName to thy loved Elysian groves, \n\nThat o\'er enchanted spirits twine, \nA fairer form than cherub loves, \n\nAnd let the name be Caroline. \n\n\n\nCAROLINE. \n\n\n\nTO THE EVENING STAR. \n\nGem of the crimson-colored Even, \n\nCompanion of retiring day, \nWhy at the closing gates of Heaven, \n\nBeloved star, dost thou delay ? \n\nSo fair thy pensile beauty burns, \nWhen soft the tear of twilight flows ; \n\nSo due thy plighted love returns, \nTo chambers brighter than the rose : \n25 \n\n\n\n290 CAROLINE. \n\nTo Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love, \nSo kind a star thou seem\'st to be, \n\nSure some enamored orb above \n\nDescends and burns to meet with thee. \n\nThine is the breathing, blushing hour, \nWhen all unheavenly passions fly, \n\nChased by the soul-subduing power \nOf Love\'s delicious witchery. \n\n! sacred to the fall of day, \n\nQueen of propitious stars, appear, \n\nAnd early rise, and long delay, \nWhen Caroline herself is here ! \n\nShine on her chosen green resort, \n\nWhose trees the sunward summit crown, \n\nAnd wanton flowers, that well may court \nAn angel\'s feet to tread them down. \n\nShine on her sweetly-scented road, \nThou star of evening\'s purple dome, \n\nThat lead\'st the nio-htino;ale abroad, \nAnd guid\'st the pilgrim to his home. \n\nShine where my charmer\'s sweeter breath \nEmbalms the soft exhaling dew, \n\nWhere dying winds a sigh bequeath \nTo kiss the cheek of rosy hue. \n\nWhere, winnowed by the gentle air, \nHer silken tresses darkly flow, \n\nAnd fall upon her brow so fail*, \n\nLike shadows on the mountain snow. \n\n\n\nTHE BEECH-TREE\'S PETITION. 291 \n\nThus, ever thus, at day\'s decline, \n\nIn converse sweet, to wander far, \nbring with thee my Caroline, \n\nAnd thou shalt be my Ruling Star ! \n\n\n\nTHE BEECH-TREE\'S PETITION. \n\nleave this barren spot to me ! \nSpare, woodman, spare the beechen tree ! \nThough bush or floweret never grow \nMy dark unwarming shade below ; \nNor summer bud perfume the dew \nOf rosy blush, or yellow hue ! \nNor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, \nMy green and glossy leaves adorn ; \nNor murmuring tribes from me derive \nThe ambrosial amber of the hive ; \nYet leave this barren spot to me : \nSpare, woodman, spare the beechen tree ! \n\nThrice twenty summers I have seen \nThe sky grow bright, the forest green ; \nAnd many a wintry wind have stood \nIn bloomless, fruitless solitude, \nSince childhood in my pleasant bower \nFirst spent its sweet and sportive hour ; \nSince youthful lovers in my shade \nTheir vows of truth and rapture made ; \nAnd on my trunk\'s surviving frame \nCarved many a long-forgotten name. \n! by the sighs of gentle sound, \nFirst breathed upon this sacred ground ; \n\n\n\n292 FIELD-FLOWERS. \n\nBy all that Love has whispered here, \nOr beauty heard with ravished ear ; \nAs Love\'s own altar honor me : \nSpare, woodman, spare the beechen tree ! \n\n\n\nFIELD-FLOWERS. \n\n\n\nYe field-flowers ! the gardens eclipse you, \'tis true, \nYet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon you, \n\nFor ye waft me to summers of old, \nWhen the earth teemed around me with fairy delight, \nAnd when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, \n\nLike treasures of silver and gold. \n\nI love you for lulling me back into dreams \n\nOf the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, \n\nAnd of birchen glades breathing their balm, \nWhile the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, \nAnd the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon\'s note \n\nMade music that sweetened the calm. \n\nNot a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune \n\nThan ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June : \n\nOf old ruinous castles ye tell, \nWhere I thought it delightful your beauties to find, \nWhen the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind, \n\nAnd your blossoms were part of her spell. \n\nEven now what affections the violet awakes ! \nWhat loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes, \nCan the wild water-lily restore ! \n\n\n\nsong. 293 \n\nWhat landscapes I read in the primrose\'s looks, \nAnd what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks, \nIn the vetches that tangled their shore ! \n\nEarth\'s cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, \nEre the fever of passion, or ague of fear, \n\nHad scathed my existence\'s bloom ; \nOnce I welcome you more, in life\'s passionless stage, \nWith the visions of youth to revisit my age, \n\nAnd I wish you to grow on my tomb. \n\n\n\nSONG. \n\nTO THE EVENING STAR, \n\nStak that bringest home the bee, \nAnd sett\'st the weary laborer free ! \nIf any star shed peace, \'t is thou, \n\nThat send\'st it from above, \nAppearing when Heaven\'s breath and brow \n\nAre sweet as hers we love. \n\nCome to the luxuriant skies, \nWhilst the landscape\'s odors rise, \nWhilst far-off lowing herds are heard, \n\nAnd songs when toil is done, \nFrom cottages whose smoke unstirred \n\nCurls yellow in the sun. \n\nStar of love\'s soft interviews, \nParted lovers on thee muse ; \n\n25* \n\n\n\n294 STANZAS TO PAINTING. \n\nTheir remembrancer in Heaven \nOf thrilling vows thou art, \n\nToo delicious to be riven \nBy absence from the heart. \n\n\n\nSTANZAS TO PAINTING. \n\nthou by whose expressive art \nHer perfect image Nature sees \n\nIn union with the Graces start, \nAnd sweeter by reflection please ! \n\nIn whose creative hand the hues \n\nFresh from yon orient rainbow shine ; \n\n1 bless thee, Promethean muse ! \n\nAnd call thee brightest of the Nine ! \n\nPossessing more than vocal power, \nPersuasive more than poet\'s tongue ; \n\nWhose lineage, in a raptured hour, \n\nFrom Love, the Sire of Nature, sprung : \n\nDoes Hope her high possession meet ? \n\nIs joy triumphant, sorrow flown ? \nSweet is the trance, the tremor sweet, \n\nWhen all we love is all our own. \n\nBut, ! thou pulse of pleasure dear, \nSlow throbbing, cold, I feel thee part ; \n\nLong absence plants a pang severe, \nOr death inflicts a keener dart. \n\n\n\nSTANZAS TO PAINTING. 295 \n\nThen for a beam of joy to light \n\nIn memory\'s sad and wakeful eye ! \nOr banished from the noon of night \n\nHer dreams of deeper agony. \n\nShall Song its witching cadence roll ? \n\nYea, even the tenderest air repeat, \nThat breathed when soul was knit to soul, \n\nAnd heart to heart responsive beat ? \n\nWhat visions rise, to charm, to melt ! \n\nThe lost, the loved, the dead are near ! \n0, hush that strain too deeply felt ! \n\nAnd cease that solace too severe ! \n\nBut thou, serenely silent Art ! \n\nBy heaven and love wast taught to lend \nA milder solace to the heart, \n\nThe sacred image of a friend. \n\nAll is not lost ! if, yet possest, \n\nTo me that sweet memorial shine : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIf close and closer to my breast \nI hold that idol all divine. \n\nOr, gazing through luxurious tears, \n\nMelt o\'er the loved departed form, \nTill death\'s cold bosom half appears \n\nWith life, and speech, and spirit warm. \n\nShe looks ! she lives !, this tranced hour, \n\nHer bright eye seems a purer gem \nThan sparkles on the throne of power, \n\nOr glory\'s wealthy diadem. \n\n\n\n296 THE maid\'s remonstrance. \n\nYes, Genius, yes ! thy mimic aid \nA treasure to my soul has given, \n\nWhere beauty\'s canonized shade \n\nSmiles in the sainted hues of heaven. \n\nNo spectre forms of pleasure fled \n\nThy softening, sweetening tints restore ; \n\nFor thou canst give us back the dead. \nE\'en in the loveliest looks they wore. \n\nThen blest be Nature\'s guardian Muse, \nWhose hand her perished grace redeems ! \n\nWhose tablet of a thousand hues \nThe mirror of creation seems. \n\nFrom love began thy high descent ; \n\nAnd lovers, charmed by gifts of thine, \nShall bless thee mutely eloquent ; \n\nAnd call thee brightest of the Nine ! \n\n\n\nTHE MAID\'S REMONSTRANCE. \n\nNever wedding, ever wooing, \nStill a love-lorn heart pursuing, \nRead you not the wrong you \'re doing \n\nIn my cheek\'s pale hue? \nAll my life with sorrow strewing, \n\nWed, or cease to woo. \n\nRivals banished, bosoms plighted, \nStill our days are disunited; \n\n\n\nABSENCE. 297 \n\nNow the lamp of hope is lighted, \n\nNow half-quenched appears, \nDamped, and wavering, and benighted, \n\n\'Midst my sighs and tears. \n\nCharms you call your dearest blessing, \nLips that thrill at your caressing, \nEyes a mutual soul confessing, \n\nSoon you \'11 make them grow \nDim, and worthless your possessing, \n\nNot with age, but woe ! \n\n\n\nABSENCE. \n\n\n\n\'T IS not the loss of love\'s assurance, \n\nIt is not doubting what thou art, \nBut \'t is the too, too long endurance \n\nOf absence, that afflicts my heart. \n\nThe fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish, \nWhen each is lonely doomed to weep, \n\nAre fruits on desert isles that perish, \nOr riches -buried in the deep. \n\nWhat though, untouched by jealous madness, \nOur bosom\'s peace may fall to wreck ! \n\nThe undoubting heart, that breaks with sadness. \nIs but more slowly doomed to break. \n\nAbsence ! is not the soul torn by it \n\nFrom more than light, or life, or breath ? \n\n\'T is Lethe\'s gloom, but not its quiet, \nThe pain without the peace of death ! \n\n\n\n298 LINES. \n\n\n\nLINES \n\nINSCRIBED ON THE MONUMENT LATELY FINISHED BY MR. CHANTREY, \n\nWhich has been erected by the Widow of Admiral Sir G. Campbell, K.C.B., to the \nmemory of her Husband. \n\nTo him, whose loyal, brave, and gentle heart, \nFulfilled the hero\'s and the patriot\'s part, \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhose charity, like that which Paul enjoined, \nWas warm, beneficent, and unconfined, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThis stone is reared : to public duty true, \nThe seaman\'s friend, the father of his crew \xe2\x80\x94 \nMild in reproof, sagacious in command, \nHe spread fraternal zeal throughout his band, \nAnd led each arm to act, each heart to feel, \nWhat British yalor owes to Britain\'s weal. \nThese were his public virtues : \xe2\x80\x94 but to trace \nHis private life\'s fair purity and grace, \nTo paint the traits that drew affection strong \nFrom friends, an ample and an ardent throng, \nAnd, more, to speak his memory\'s grateful claim, \nOn her who mourns him most, and bears his name \xe2\x80\x94 \nO\'ercomes the trembling hand of widowed grief, \nO\'er comes the heart, unconscious of relief, \nSave in religion\'s high and holy trust, \nWhilst placing their memorial o\'er his dust. \n\n\n\nSTA3ZA3. 299 \n\n\n\nSTANZAS \n\nON THE BATTLE OF NAVARIXO. \n\nHearts of oak, that have bravely delivered the brave. \nAnd uplifted old Greece from the brink of the grave, \n\'Twas the helpless to help, and the hopeless to save, \n\nThat your thunderbolts swept o\'er the brine : \nAnd, as long as yon sun shall look down on the wave, \n\nThe light of your glory shall shine. \n\nFor the guerdon ye sought with your bloodshed and toil, \nWas it slaves, or dominion, or rapine, or spoil ? \nNo ! your lofty emprise was to fetter and foil \n\nThe uprooter of Greece\'s domain ! \nWhen he tore the last remnant of food from her soil, \n\nTill her famished sank pale as the slain ! \n\nYet, Navarin\'s heroes ! does Christendom breed \n\nThe base hearts that will question the fame of your deed 1 \n\nAre they men 7 \xe2\x80\x94 let ineffable scorn be their meed, \n\nAnd oblivion shadow their graves ! \xe2\x80\x94 \nAre they women 1 \xe2\x80\x94 to Turkish serails let them speed. \n\nAnd be mothers of Mussulman slaves. \n\nAbettors of massacre ! dare ye deplore \n\nThat the death-shriek is silenced on Hellas\' s shore 1 \n\nThat the mother aghast sees her offspring no more \n\nBy the hand of Infanticide grasped ! \nAnd that stretched on yon billows distained by their gore \n\nMissolonghi\'s assassins have gasped ? \n\nProuder scene never hallowed war\'s pomp to the mind, \nThan when Christendom\'s pennons wooed social the wind, \n\n\n\n300 LINES. \n\nAnd the flower of her brave for the combat combined, \n\nTheir watch- word, humanity\'s vow : \nNot a sea-boy that fought in that cause, but mankind \n\nOwes a garland to honor his brow ! \n\nNor grudge, by our side, that to conquer or fall \n\nCame the hardy rude Russ, and the high-mettled Gaul : \n\nFor, whose was the genius, that planned at its call, \n\nWhere the whirlwind of battle should roll ? \nAll were brave ! but the star of success over all \n\nWas the light of our Codrington\'s soul. \n\nThat star of thy day-spring, regenerate Greek ! \nDimmed the Saracen\'s moon, and struck pallid his cheek \nIn its fast-flushing morning thy Muses shall speak \n\nWhen their lore and their lutes they reclaim : \nAnd the first of their songs from Parnassus\' s peak \n\nShall be " Glory to Codringtorts name /" \n\n\n\nLINES \n\nON REVISITING A SCOTTISH RIVER. \n\nAnd call they this Improvement ? \xe2\x80\x94 to have changed, \n\nMy native Clyde, thy once romantic shore, \n\nWhere Nature\'s face is banished and estranged, \n\nAnd heaven reflected in thy wave no more ; \n\nWhose banks, that sweetened May-day\'s breath before, \n\nLie sere and leafless now in summer\'s beam, \n\nWith sooty exhalations covered o\'er ; \n\nAnd for the daisied green-sward, down thy stream \n\nUnsightly brick lanes smoke, and clanking engines gleam. \n\n\n\nLINES. 301 \n\nSpeak not to me of swarms the scene sustains ; \n\nOne heart free tasting Nature\'s breath and bloom \n\nIs worth a thousand slaves to Mammon\'s gains. \n\nBut whither goes that wealth, and gladdening whom 1 \n\nSee, left but life enough and breathing-room \n\nThe hunger and the hope of life to feel, \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2Yon pale Mechanic bending o\'er his loom, \n\nAnd Childhood\'s self, as at Ixion\'s wheel, \n\nFrom morn till midnight tasked to earn its little meal. \n\nIs this Improvement 1 \xe2\x80\x94 where the human breed \n\nDegenerate as they swarm and overflow, \n\nTill Toil grows cheaper than the trodden weed. \n\nAnd man competes with man, like foe with foe, \n\nTill Death, that thins them, scarce seems public woe 1 \n\nImprovement ! \xe2\x80\x94 smiles it in the poor man\'s eyes, \n\nOr blooms it on the cheek of Labor ? \xe2\x80\x94 No \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTo gorge a few with Trade\'s precarious prize, \n\n"We banish rural life, and breathe unwholesome skies. \n\nNor call that evil slight ; God has not given \nThis passion to the heart of man in vain, \nFor Earth\'s green face, the untainted air of Heaven. \nAnd all the bliss of Nature\'s rustic reign. \nFor, not alone our frame imbibes a stain \nFrom foetid skies ; the spirit\'s healthy pride \nFades in their gloom. \xe2\x80\x94 And therefore I complain, \nThat thou no more through pastoral scenes shouldst glide, \nMy Wallace\'s own stream, and once romantic Clyde ! \n26 \n\n\n\n302 THE NAME UNKNOWN. \n\n\n\nTHE "NAME UNKNOWN;" \n\nIN IMITATION OF KLOPSTOCK. \n\nProphetic pencil ! wilt thou trace \nA faithful image of the face, \n\nOr wilt thou write the " Name Unknown," \nOrdained to bless my charmed soul, \nAnd all my future fate control. \n\nUnrivalled and alone ? \n\nDelicious Idol of my thought ! \nThough sylph or spirit hath not taught \n\nMy boding heart thy precious name : \nYet musing on my distant fate, \nTo charms unseen I consecrate \n\nA visionary flame. \n\nThy rosy blush, thy meaning eye, \nThy virgin voice of melody, \n\nAre ever present to my heart ; \nThy murmured vows shall yet be mine, \nMy thrilling hand shall meet with thine, \n\nAnd never, never part ! \n\nThen fly, my days, on rapid wing, \nTill Love the viewless treasure bring, \n\nWhile I, like conscious Athens, own \nA power in mystic silence sealed, \nA guardian angel unrevealed, \n\nAnd bless the " Name Unknown ! " \n\n\n\nFAREWELL TO LOVE. 303 \n\n\n\nFAREWELL TO \' LOVE. \n\nI had a heart that doted once in passion\'s boundless pain. \nAnd though the tyrant I abjured, I could not break his \n\nchain ; \nBut now that Fancy\'s fire is quenched, and ne\'er can burn \n\nanew, \nI \'ve bid to Love, for all my life, adieu ! adieu ! adieu ! \n\nI \'ve known, if ever mortal knew, the spells of Beauty\'s \n\nthrall, \nAnd if my song has told them not, my soul has felt them \n\nall; \nBut Passion robs my peace no more, and Beauty\'s witching \n\nsway \nIs now to me a star that \'s fallen \xe2\x80\x94 a dream that \'s passed \n\naway. \n\nHail ! welcome tide of life, when no tumultuous billows \n\nroll, \nHow wondrous to myself appears this halcyon calm of \n\nsoul ! \nThe wearied bird blown o\'er the deep would sooner quit its \n\nshore, \nThan I would cross the gulf again that time has brought \n\n\n\nWhy say they Angels feel the flame ? \xe2\x80\x94 0, spirits of the \n\nskies ! \nCan love like ours, that dotes on dust, in heavenly bosoms \n\nrise ? \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n304 LINES. \n\nAll no ! the hearts that best have felt its power the best \n\ncan tell, \nThat peace on earth itself begins, when Love has bid \n\nfarewell. \n\n\n\nLINES \n\nON THE CAMP HILL, NEAR HASTINGS. \n\nIn the deep blue of eve, \nEre the twinkling of stars had begun, \n\nOr the lark took his leave \nOf the skies and the sweet setting sun, \n\nI climbed to yon heights, \nWhere the Norman encamped him of old, \n\nWith his bowmen and knights, \nAnd his banner all burnished with gold. \n\nAt the Conqueror\'s side \nThere his minstrelsy sat harp in hand, \n\nIn pavilion wide ; \nAnd they chanted the deeds of Roland. \n\nStill the ramparted ground \nWith a vision my fancy inspires, \n\nAnd I hear the trump sound, \nAs it marshalled our Chivalry\'s sires. \n\nOn each turf of that mead \nStood the captors of England\'s domains, \n\nThat ennobled her breed \nAnd high-mettled the blood of her veins. \n\n\n\nLINES ON POLAND. 305 \n\nOver hauberk and helm \nAs the sun\'s setting splendor was thrown. \n\nThence they looked o\'er a realm \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd to-morrow beheld it their own. \n\n\n\nLINES ON POLAND. \n\nAnd have I lived to see thee sword in hand \nUprise again, immortal Polish Land ! \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhose flag brings more than chivalry to mind, \nAnd leaves the tri-color in shade behind ; \nA theme for uninspired lips too strong ; \nThat swells my heart beyond the power of song : \xe2\x80\x94 \nMajestic men, whose deeds have dazzled faith, \nAh ! yet your fate\'s suspense arrests my breath : \nWhilst envying bosoms, bared to shot and steel, \nI feel the more that fruitlessly I feel. \n\nPoles ! with what indignation I endure \nThe half-pitying, servile mouths that call you poor ! \nPoor ! is it England mocks you with her grief, \nWho hates, but dares not chide, the Imperial Thief? \nFrance with her soul beneath a Bourbon\'s thrall, \nAnd Germany that has no soul at all, \xe2\x80\x94 \nStates, quailing at the giant overgrown, \nWhom dauntless Poland grapples with alone ! \nNo, ye are rich in fame e\'en whilst ye bleed : \nWe cannot aid you \xe2\x80\x94 tve are poor indeed ! \nIn Fate\'s defiance \xe2\x80\x94 in the world\'s great eye, \nPoland has won her immortality : \n26* \n\n\n\n306 LINES ON POLAND. \n\nThe Butcher, should he reach her bosom now, \nCould not tear Glory\'s garland from her brow ; \nWreathed, filletted, the victim falls renowned, \nAnd all her ashes will be holy ground ! \n\nBut turn, my soul, from presages so dark : \nGreat Poland\'s spirit is a deathless spark \nThat \'s fanned by Heaven to mock the Tyrant\'s rage \nShe, like the eagle, will renew her age, \nAnd fresh historic plumes of Fame put on, \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnother Athens after Marathon, \xe2\x80\x94 \n"Where eloquence shall fulmine, arts refine, \nBright as her arms that now in battle shine. \nCome \xe2\x80\x94 should the heavenly shock my life destroy, \nAnd shut its flood-gates with excess of joy ; \nCome but the day when Poland\'s fight is won \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd on my grave-stone shine the morrow\'s sun \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe day that sees Warsaw\'s cathedral glow \nWith endless ensigns ravished from the foe, \xe2\x80\x94 \nHer women lifting their fair hands with thanks, \nHer pious warriors kneeling in their ranks, \nThe \'scutcheoned walls of high heraldic boast, \nThe odorous altars\' elevated host, \nThe organ sounding through the aisles\' long glooms, \nThe mighty dead seen sculptured o\'er their tombs \n(John, Europe\'s savior \xe2\x80\x94 Poniatowski\'s fair \nResemblance \xe2\x80\x94 Kosciusko\'s shall be there) ; \nThe tapered pomp \xe2\x80\x94 the hallelujah\'s swell, \nShall o\'er the soul\'s devotion cast a spell, \nTill visions cross the rapt enthusiast\'s glance, \nAnd all the scene becomes a waking trance. \nShould Fate put far \xe2\x80\x94 far off that glorious scene, \nAnd gulfs of havoc interpose between, \n\n\n\nLINES ON POLAND. 307 \n\nImagine not, ye men of every clime, \n\nWho act, or by your sufferance share, the crime \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nYour brother Abel\'s blood shall vainly plead \n\nAgainst the " deep damnation" of the deed. \n\nGermans, ye view its horror and disgrace \n\nWith cold phosphoric eyes and phlegm of face. \n\nIs Allemagne profound in science, lore, \n\nAnd minstrel art 1 \xe2\x80\x94 her shame is but the more \n\nTo doze and dream by governments oppressed, \n\nThe spirit of a book- worm in each breast. \n\nWell can ye mouth fair Freedom\'s classic line, \n\nAnd talk of Constitutions o\'er your wine : \n\nBut all your vows to break the tyrant\'s yoke \n\nExpire in Bacchanalian song and smoke : \n\nHeavens ! can no ray of foresight pierce the leads \n\nAnd mystic metaphysics of your heads, \n\nTo show the self-same grave Oppression delves \n\nFor Poland\'s rights is yawning for yourselves ? \n\nSee, whilst the Pole, the vanguard aid of France, \n\nHas vaulted on his barb, and couched the lance, \n\nFrance turns from her abandoned friends afresh, \n\nAnd soothes the Bear that prowls for patriot flesh j \n\nBuys, ignominious purchase ! short repose, \n\nWith dying curses and the groans of those \n\nThat served, and loved, and put in her their trust. \n\nFrenchmen ! the dead accuse you from the dust \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBrows laurelled \xe2\x80\x94 bosoms marked with many a scar \n\nFor France \xe2\x80\x94 that wore her Legion\'s noblest star, \n\nCast dumb reproaches from the field of Death \n\nOn Gallic honor : and this broken faith \n\nHas robbed you more of Fame \xe2\x80\x94 the life of life \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThan twenty battles lost in glorious strife ! \n\n\n\n308 LINES ON POLAND. \n\nAnd what of England \xe2\x80\x94 is she steeped so low \n\nIn poverty, crest-fallen, and palsied so, \n\nThat we must sit much wroth, but timorous more, \n\nWith Murder knocking at our neighbor\'s door 1 \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNot Murder masked and cloaked, with hidden knife, \n\nWhose owner owes the gallows life for life ; \n\nBut Public Murder ! \xe2\x80\x94 that with pomp and gaud, \n\nAnd royal scorn of Justice, walks abroad \n\nTo wring more tears and blood than e\'er were wrung \n\nBy all the culprits Justice ever hung ! \n\nWe read the diademed Assassin\'s vaunt, \n\nAnd wince, and wish we had not hearts to pant \n\nWith useless indignation \xe2\x80\x94 sigh and frown, \n\nBut have not hearts to throw the gauntlet down. \n\nIf but a doubt hung o\'er the grounds of fray, \n\nOr trivial rapine stopped the world\'s highway : \n\nWere this some common strife of states embroiled ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBritannia on the spoiler and the spoiled \n\nMight calmly look, and, asking time to breathe, \n\nStill honorably wear her olive wreath. \n\nBut this is Darkness combating with Light : \n\nEarth\'s adverse Principles for empire fight: \n\nOppression, that has belted half the globe, \n\nFar as his knout could reach or dagger probe, \n\nHolds reeking o\'er our brother-freemen slain \n\nThat dagger \xe2\x80\x94 shakes it at us in disdain : \n\nTalks big to Freedom\'s states of Poland\'s thrall, \n\nAnd, trampling one, contemns them one and all. \n\nMy country ! colors not thy once proud brow \nAt this affront ? \xe2\x80\x94 Hast thou not fleets enow \n\n\n\nLUTES OX POLAND. 309 \n\nWith Glory\'s streamer, lofty as the lark, \n\nGuy fluttering o\'er each thunder- bearing bark, \n\nTo "warm the insulter\'s seas with barbarous blood, \n\nAnd interdict his flag from Ocean\'s flood ? \n\nEven now far off the sea-cliff, where I sing, \n\nI see, my Country, and my Patriot King ! \n\nTour ensign glad the deep. Becalmed and slow \n\nA war-ship rides : while Heaven\'s prismatic bow, \n\nUprisen behind her on the horizon\'s base, \n\nShines flushing through the tackle, shrouds and stays, \n\nAnd wraps her giant form in one majestic blaze. \n\nMy soul acepts the omen : Fancy ? s eye \n\nHas sometimes a veracious augury : \n\nThe Rainbow types Heaven : s promise to my sight: \n\nThe Ship, Britannia\'s interposing Might ! \n\nBut if there should be none to aid you, Poles, \n\nYe \'11 but to prouder pitch wind up your souls, \n\nAbove example, pity, praise or blame. \n\nTo sow and reap a boundless field of Fame. \n\nAsk aid no more from Xations that forget \n\nTour championship \xe2\x80\x94 old Europe\'s mighty debt. \n\nThough Poland, Lazarus-like, has burst the gloom. \n\nShe rises not a beggar from the tomb : \n\nIn Fortune\'s frown, on Danger\'s giddiest brink, \n\nDespair and Poland\'s name must never link. \n\nAll ills have bounds \xe2\x80\x94 plague, whirlwind, fire, and flood : \n\nEven power can spill but bounded sums of blood. \n\nStates caring not what Freedom\'s price may be, \n\nMay late or soon, but must at last, be free: \n\nFor body-killing tyrants cannot kill \n\nThe public soul \xe2\x80\x94 the hereditary will, \n\n\n\n310 A THOUGHT SUGGESTED BY THE NEW YEAR. \n\nThat downward, as from sire to son it goes, \nBy shifting bosoms more intensely glows : \nIts heir-loom is the heart, and slaughtered men \nFight fiercer in their orphans o\'er again. \nPoland recasts \xe2\x80\x94 though rich in heroes old \xe2\x80\x94 \nHer men in more and more heroic mould : \nHer eagle-ensign best among mankind \nBecomes, and types her eagle-strength of mind : \nHer praise upon my faltering lips expires ; \nResume it, younger bards, and nobler lyres ! \n\n\n\nA THOUGHT SUGGESTED BY THE NEW YEAR. \n\nThe more we live, more brief appear \n\nOur life\'s succeeding stages : \nA day to childhood seems a year, \n\nx\\nd years like passing ages. \n\nThe gladsome current of our youth, \n\nEre passion yet disorders, \nSteals, lingering like a river smooth \n\nAlong its grassy borders. \n\nBut, as the care-worn cheek grows wan, \n\nAnd sorrow\'s shafts fly thicker, \nYe stars, that measure life to man, \n\nWhy seem your courses quicker ? \n\nWhen joys have lost their bloom and breath, \n\nAnd life itself is vapid, \nWhy, as we reach the Falls of death, \n\nFeel we its tide more rapid ? \n\n\n\nSONG. 311 \n\nIt may be strange \xe2\x80\x94 yet who would change \n\nTime\'s course to slower speeding \xe2\x80\xa2 \nWhen one by one our friends have gone, \n\nAnd left our bosoms bleeding ? \n\nHeaven gives our years of fading strength \n\nIndemnifying fleetness ; \nAnd those of Youth, a seeming length, \n\nProportioned to their sweetness. \n\n\n\nSONG. \n\n\n\nHow delicious is the winning \nOf a kiss at Love\'s beginning, \nWhen two mutual hearts are sighing \nFor the knot there \'s no untying ! \n\nYet, remember, "midst your wooing, \nLove has bliss, but Love has ruing ; \nOther smiles may make you fickle, \nTears for other charms may trickle. \n\nLove he comes, and Love he tarries, \nJust as fate or fancy carries : \nLongest stays when sorest chidden : \nLaughs and flies, when pressed and bidden. \n\nBind the sea to slumber stilly, \nBind its odor to the lily, \nBind the aspen ne\'er to quiver, \nThen bind Love to last forever ! \n\n\n\n312 MARGARET AND DORA. \n\nLove \'s a fire that needs renewal \n\nOf fresh beauty for its fuel ; \n\nLove\'s wing moults when caged and captured, \n\nOnly free, he soars enraptured. \n\nCan you keep the bee from ranging, \nOr the ringdove\'s neck from changing ? \nNo ! nor fettered Love from dying \nIn the knot there \'s no untying. \n\n\n\nMARGARET AND DORA. \n\nMargaret 5 s beauteous \xe2\x80\x94 Grecian arts \nNe\'er drew form completer, \nYet why, in my heart of hearts, \nHold I Dora \'s sweeter ? \n\nDora\'s eyes of heavenly blue \nPass all painting\'s reach, \nRingdoves\' notes are discord to \nThe music of her speech. \n\nArtists ! Margaret\'s smile receive, \nAnd on canvas show it ; \nBut for perfect worship leave \nDora to her poet. \n\n\n\nTHE POWER OF RUSSIA. 313 \n\n\n\nTHE POWER OF RUSSIA. \n\nSo all this gallant blood has gushed in vain ! \nAnd Poland, by the Northern Condor\'s beak \nAnd talons torn, lies prostrated again. \nBritish patriots, that were wont to speak \nOnce loudly on this theme, now hushed or meek ! \nheartless men of Europe \xe2\x80\x94 Goth and Gaul, \nCold, adder-deaf to Poland\'s dying shriek ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nThat saw the world\'s last land of heroes fall \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe brand of burning shame is on you all \xe2\x80\x94 all \xe2\x80\x94 all ! \n\nBut this is not the drama\'s closing act ! \nIts tragic curtain must uprise anew. \nNations, mute accessories to the fact ! \nThat Upas tree of power, whose fostering dew \nWas Polish blood, has yet to cast o\'er you \nThe lengthening shadow of its head elate \xe2\x80\x94 \nA deadly shadow, darkening Nature\'s hue. \nTo all that \'s hallowed, righteous, pure and great, \nWoe ! woe ! when they are reached by Russia\'s withering \nhate. \n\nRussia, that on his throne of adamant, \nConsults what nation\'s breast shall next be gored : \nHe on Polonia\'s Golgotha will plant \nHis standard fresh : and, horde succeeding horde, \nOn patriot tomb-stones he will whet the sword, \nEor more stupendous slaughters of the free. \nThen Europe\'s realms, when their best blood is poured, \nShall miss thee, Poland ! as they bend the knee, \nAll \xe2\x80\x94 all in grief, but none in glory, likening thee. \n27 \n\n\n\n314 THE POWER OF RUSSIA. \n\nWhy smote ye not the Giant whilst he reeled ? \nfair occasion ; gone forever by ! \nTo have locked his lances in their northern field, \nInnocuous as the phantom chivalry \nThat flames and hurtles from yon boreal sky ! \nNow wave thy pennon, Russia, o\'er the land \nOnce Poland ; build thy bristling castles high \xe2\x96\xa0; \nDig dungeons deep ; for Poland\'s wrested brand \nIs now a weapon new to widen thy command \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAn awful width ! Norwegian woods shall build \nHis fleets; the Swede his vassal, and the Dane\'; \nThe glebe of fifty kingdoms shall be tilled \nTo feed his dazzling, desolating train, \nCamped sumless, \'twixt the Black and Baltic main : \nBrute hosts, I own ; but Sparta could not write, \nAnd Home, half-barbarous, bound Achaia\'s chain : \nSo Russia\'s spirit, \'midst Sclavonic night, \nBurns with a fire more dread than all your polished light. \n\nBut Russia\'s limbs (so blinded statesmen speak) \nAre crude, and too colossal to cohere. \n0, lamentable weakness ! reckoning weak \nThe stripling Titan, strengthening year by year. \nWhat implement lacks he for war\'s career, \nThat grows on earth, or in its floods and mines l \n(Eighth sharer of the inhabitable sphere), \nWhom Persia bows to, China ill confines, \nAnd India\'s homage waits, when Albion\'s star declines ! \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 But time will teach the Russ even conquering War \nHas handmaid arts : ay, ay, the Russ will woo \n\n\n\nTHE POWER OF RUSSIA. 315 \n\nAll sciences that speed Bellona\'s car, \nAll murder\'s tactic arts, and win them too ; \nBut never holier Muses shall imbue \nHis breast, that \'s made of nature\'s basest clay : \nThe sabre, knout, and dungeon\'s vapor blue \nHis laws and ethics ; far from him away \nAre all the lovely Nine, that breathe but Freedom\'s day. \n\nSay, even his serfs, half-humanized, should learn \nTheir human rights, \xe2\x80\x94 will Mars put out his flame \nIn Russian bosoms 1 no, he ; 11 bid them burn \nA thousand years for naught but martial fame, \nLike Romans : \xe2\x80\x94 yet forgive me, Roman name ! \nRome could impart what Russia never can ; \nProud civic rights to salve submission\'s shame. \nOur strife is coming ; but in freedom\'s van \nThe Polish eagle\'s fall is big with fate to man. \n\nProud bird of old ! Mohammed\'s moon recoiled \nBefore thy swoop : had we been timely bold, \nThat swoop, still free, had stunned the Russ, and foiled \nEarth\'s new oppressors, as it foiled her old. \nNow thy majestic eyes are shut and cold : \nAnd colder still Polonia\'s children find \nThe sympathetic hands, that we outhold. \nBut, Poles, when we are gone, the world will mind, \nYe bore the brunt of fate, and bled for human kind. \n\nSo hallowedly have ye fulfilled your part, \nMy pride repudiates even the sigh that blends \nWith Poland\'s name \xe2\x80\x94 name written on my heart. \nMy heroes, my grief-consecrated friends ! \n\n\n\n316 LINES. \n\nYour sorrow, in nobility, transcends \nYour conqueror\'s joy : his cheek may blush ; but shame \nCan tinge not yours ; though exile\'s tear descends ; \nNor would ye change your conscience, cause and name, \nFor his, with all his wealth, and all his felon fame. \n\nThee, Niemciewitz, whose song of stirring power \nThe Czar forbids to sound in Polish lands ; \nThee, Czartoryski, in thy banished bower, \nThe patricide, who in thy palace stands, \nMay envy : proudly may Polonia\'s bands \nThrow down their swords at Europe\'s feet in scorn, \nSaying \xe2\x80\x94 " Russia from the metal of these brands \nShall forge the fetters of your sons unborn ; \nOur setting star is your misfortunes\' rising morn ! " \n\n\n\nLINES \n\nON LEAVING A SCENE IN BAVARIA. \n\nAdieu the woods and waters\' side, \nImperial Danube\'s rich domain ! \n\nAdieu the grotto, wild and wide, \nThe rocks abrupt, and grassy plain ! \nFor pallid autumn once again \n\nHath swelled each torrent of the hill ; \nHer clouds collect, her shadows sail, \nAnd watery winds that sweep the vale \n\nGrow loud and louder still. \n\nBut not the storm, dethroning fast \nYon monarch oak of massy pile ; \n\n\n\nLINES. 317 \n\nNor river roaring to the blast \n\nAround its dark and desert isle ; \n\nNor church-bell tolling to beguile \nThe cloud-born thunder passing by, \n\nCan sound in discord to my soul : \n\nRoll on, ye mighty waters, roll ! \nAnd rage, thou darkened sky ! \n\nThy blossoms now no longer bright ; \n\nThy withered woods no longer green : \nYet. Eldurn shore, with dark delight \n\nI visit thy unlovely scene ! \n\nFor many a sunset hour serene \nMy steps have trod thy mellow dew ; \n\nWhen his green light the glow-worm gave, \n\nWhen Cynthia from the distant wave \nHer twilight anchor drew, \n\nAnd ploughed, as with a swelling sail, \n\nThe billowy clouds and starry sea ; \nThen while thy hermit nightingale \n\nSang on his fragrant apple-tree, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nRomantic, solitary, free, \nThe visitant of Eldurn\' s shore, \n\nOn such a moonlight mountain strayed, \n\nAs echoed to the music made \nBy Druid harps of yore. \n\nAround thy savage hills of oak, \nAround thy waters bright and blue, \n\nNo hunter\'s horn the silence broke, \nNo dying shriek thine echo knew ; \nBut safe, sweet Eldurn woods, to you \n27* \n\n\n\n318 LINES. \n\nThe wounded wild deer ever ran, \n\nWhose myrtle bound their grassy cave. \nWhose very rocks a shelter gave \n\nFrom blood-pursuing man. \n\nheart effusions, that arose \n\nFrom nightly wanderings cherished here ; \nTo him who flies from many woes, \n\nEven homeless deserts can be dear ! \n\nThe last and solitary cheer \nOf those that own no earthly home, \n\nSay \xe2\x80\x94 is it not, ye banished race, \n\nIn such a loved and lonely place \nCompanionless to roam ? \n\nYes ! I have loved thy wild abode, \n\nUnknown, unploughed, untrodden shore ; \n\nWhere scarce the woodman finds a road, \nAmi scarce the fisher plies an oar ; \nFor man\'s neglect I love thee more ; \n\nThat art nor avarice intrude \n\nTo tame thy torrent\'s thunder-shock, \nOr prune thy vintage of the rock \n\nMagnificently rude. \n\nUnheeded spreads thy blossomed bud \n\nIts milky bosom to the bee ; \nUnheeded falls along the flood \n\nThy desolate and aged tree. \n\nForsaken scene, how like to thee \nThe fate of unbefriended Worth ! \n\nLike thine her fruit dishonored falls ; \n\nLike thee in solitude she calls \nA thousand treasures forth. \n\n\n\nLINES. # 319 \n\n\n\n! silent spirit of the place, \nIf, lingering with the ruined year, \n\nThy hoary form and awful face \n\nI yet might watch and worship here ! \nThy storm were music to mine ear, \n\nThy wildest walk a shelter given \nSublimer thoughts on earth to find, \nAnd share, with no unhallowed mind \n\nThe majesty of heaven. \n\n\n\nWhat though the bosom friends of Fate, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nProsperity\'s unweaned brood, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThy consolations cannot rate, \n\nself-dependent solitude ! \nYet with a spirit unsubdued, \n\nThough darkened by the clouds of Care, \nTo worship thy congenial gloom, \nA pilgrim to the Prophet\'s tomb \n\nThe Friendless shall repair. \n\nOn him the world hath never smiled, \nOr looked but with accusing eye ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAll-silent goddess of the wild, \n\nTo thee that misanthrope shall fly ! \n\n1 hear his deep soliloquy, \n\nI mark his proud but ravaged form, \nAs stern he wraps his mantle round, \nAnd bids, on winter\'s bleakest ground, \n\nDefiance to the storm. \n\nPeace to his banished heart, at last, \n\nIn thy dominions shall descend, \nAnd, strong as beechwood in the blast, \n\n\n\n320 LINES. \n\nHis spirit shall refuse to bend ; \n\nEnduring life without a friend. \nThe world and falsehood left behind, \n\nThy votary shall bear elate \n\n(Triumphant o\'er opposing Fate) \nHis dark inspired mind. \n\nBut dost thou, Folly, mock the Muse \nA wanderer\'s mountain walk to sing, \n\nWho shuns a warring world, nor woos \nThe vulture cover of its wing ? \nThen fly, thou cowering, shivering thing, \n\nBack to the fostering world beguiled, \nTo waste in self-consuming strife \nThe loveless brotherhood of life, \n\nReviling and reviled ! \n\nAway, thou lover of the race \n\nThat hither chased yon weeping deer ! \n\nIf Nature\'s all-majestic face \n\nMore pitiless than man\'s appear ; \n\nOr if the wild winds seem more drear \n\nThan man\'s cold charities below, \nBehold around his peopled plains, \nWhere\'er the social savage reigns, \n\nExuberance of woe ! \n\nHis art and honors wouldst thou seek \nEmbossed on grandeur\'s giant walls ? \n\nOr hear his moral thunders speak \nWhere senates light their airy halls. \nWhere man his brother man enthralls ; \n\n\n\nTHE DEATH-BOAT OF HELIGOLAND. 321 \n\nOr sends his whirlwind warrant forth \nTo rouse the slumbering fiends of war, \nTo dye the blood-warm waves afar. \n\nAnd desolate the earth ? \n\nFrom clime to clime pursue the scene, \nAnd mark in all thy spacious way, \n\nWhere\'er the tyrant man has been, \nThere Peace, the cherub, cannot stay ; \nIn wilds and woodlands far away \n\nShe builds her solitary bower, \nWhere only anchorites have trod, \nOr friendless men, to worship God, \n\nHave wandered for an hour. \n\nIn such a far forsaken vale, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd such, sweet Eldurn vale, is thine, \xe2\x80\x94 \nAfflicted nature shall inhale \n\nHeaven-borrowed thoughts and joys divine ; \n\nNo longer wish, no more repine \nFor man\'s neglect or woman\'s scorn ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThen wed thee to an exile\'s lot, \n\nFor if the world hath loved thee not, \nIts absence may be borne. \n\n\n\nTHE DEATH-BOAT OF HELIGOLAND. \n\nCan restlessness reach the cold sepulchred head? \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAy, the quick have their sleep-walkers, so have the dead. \n\nThere are brains, though they moulder, that dream in the \n\ntomb, \nAnd that maddening forehear the last trumpet of doom, \n\n\n\n322 THE DEATH-BOAT OF HELIGOLAND. \n\nTill their corses start sheeted to revel on earth, \nMaking horror more deep by the semblance of mirth : \nBy the glare of new-lighted volcanoes they dance, \nOr at mid-sea appal the chilled mariner\'s glance. \nSuch, I wot, was the band of cadaverous smile \nSeen ploughing the night-surge of Heligo\'s isle. \n\nThe foam of the Baltic had sparkled like fire, \n\nAnd the red moon looked down with an aspect of ire ; \n\nBut her beams on a sudden grew sick-like and gray, \n\nAnd the mews that had slept clanged and shrieked far \n\naway \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd the buoys and the beacons extinguished their light, \nAs the boat of the stony-eyed dead came in sight, \nHigh bounding from billow to billow ; each form \nHad its shroud like a plaid flying loose to the storm ; \nWith an oar in each pulseless and icy-cold hand, \nFast they ploughed by the lee-shore of Heligoland. \nSuch breakers as boat of the living ne\'er crossed ; \nNow surf-sunk for minutes again they uptossed ; \nAnd with livid lips shouted reply o\'er the flood \nTo the challenging watchman that curdled his blood \xe2\x80\x94 \n"We are dead \xe2\x80\x94 we are bound from our graves in the west, \n\nFirst to Hecla, and then to " Unmeet was the rest \n\nFor man\'s ear. The old abbey-bell thundered its clang, \nAnd their eyes gleamed with phosphorus light as it rang : \nEre they vanished, they stopped, and gazed silently grim, \nTill the eye could define them, garb, feature and limb. \n\nNow, who were those roamers ? of gallows or wheel \nBore they marks, or the mangling anatomist\'s steel ? \n\n\n\nsong. 323 \n\nNo, by magistrates\' chains \'mid their grave-clothes you saw \nThey were felons too proud to have perished by law : \nBut a ribbon that hung where a rope should have been \xe2\x80\x94 \n\'T was the badge of then faction, its hue was not green \xe2\x80\x94 \nShowed them men who had trampled and tortured and \n\ndriven \nTo rebellion the fairest isle breathed on by Heaven, \xe2\x80\x94 \nMen whose heirs would yet finish the tyrannous task. \nIf the Truth and the Time had not dragged off their mask. \nThey parted \xe2\x80\x94 but not till the sight might discern \nA scutcheon distinct at their pinnace\'s stern. \nWhere letters emblazoned in blood-colored flame \nNamed their faction \xe2\x80\x94 I blot not my page with its name. \n\n\n\nSONG. \n\n\n\nWhen Love came first to earth, the Spring \n\n\n\nSpread rose-beds to receive him, \nnd back he vowed his flight he \'d wii \nTo Heaven, if she should leave him. \n\n\n\nBut Spring, departing, saw his faith \nPledged to the next new comer \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHe revelled in the warmer breath \nAnd richer bowers of Summer. \n\nThen sportive Autumn claimed by rights \n\nAn Archer for her lover, \nAnd even in Winter\'s dark cold nights \n\nA charm he could discover. \n\n\n\n324 song. \n\nHer routs and balls, and fireside joy, \nFor this time were his reasons \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIn short, Young Love\'s a gallant boy, \nThat likes all times and seasons. \n\n\n\nSONG. \n\nEael March looked on his dying child, \nAnd, smit with grief to view her, \n\nThe youth, he cried, whom I exiled, \nShall be restored to woo her. \n\nShe \'s at the window many an hour \n\nHis coming to discover : \nAnd he looked up to Ellen\'s bower, \n\nAnd she looked on her lover \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBut, ah ! so pale, he knew her not, \nThough her smile on him was dwelling. \n\nAnd am I then forgot \xe2\x80\x94 forgot? \xe2\x80\x94 \nIt broke the heart of Ellen. \n\nIn vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, \n\nHer cheek is cold as ashes; \nNor love\'s own kiss shall wake those eyes \n\nTo lift their silken lashes. \n\n\n\nSONG. \xe2\x80\x94 LINES TO JULIA M \xe2\x80\x94 , 325 \n\n\n\nSONG. \n\nWhen Napoleon was flying \nFrom the field of Waterloo, \n\nA British soldier dying \nTo his brother bade adieu ! \n\n"And take," he said, "this token \nTo the maid that owns my faith. \n\nWith the words that I have spoken \nIn affection\'s latest breath." \n\nSore mourned the brother\'s heart, \nWhen the youth beside him fell : \n\nBut the trumpet warned to part, \nAnd they took a sad farewell, \n\nThere was many a friend, to lose him, \nFor that gallant soldier sighed ; \n\nBut the maiden of his bosom \n\nWept when all their tears were dried. \n\n\n\nLINES TO JULIA M . \n\nSENT WITH A COPY OF THE AUTHOR\' S POEMS. \n\nSince there is magic in your look, \nAnd in your voice a witching charm, \nAs all our hearts consenting tell, \nEnchantress, smile upon my book, \nAnd guard its lays from hate and harm \nBy beauty\'s most resistless spell. \n28 \n\n\n\n326 DRINKING-SONG OF MUNICH. \n\nThe sunny dew-drop of thy praise. \nYoung day-star of the rising time. \nShall with its odoriferous morn \nRefresh my sere and withered bays. \nSmile, and I will believe my rhyme \nShall please the beautiful unborn. \n\nGo forth, my pictured thoughts, and rise \nIn traits and tints of sweeter tone, \nWhen Julia\'s glance is o\'er ye flung ; \nGlow, gladden, linger in her eyes, \nAnd catch a magic not your own, \nRead by the music of her tongue. \n\n\n\nDRINKING-SONG OF MUNICH. \n\nSweet Iser ! were thy sunny realm \n\nAnd flowery gardens mine, \nThy waters I would shade with elm \n\nTo prop the tender vine ; \nMy golden flagons I would fill \nWith rosy draughts from every hill ; \n\nAnd under every myrtle bower \nMy gay companions should prolong \nThe laugh, the revel, and the song, \n\nTo many an idle hour. \n\nLike rivers crimsoned with the beam \nOf yonder planet bright, \n\nOur balmy cups should ever stream \nProfusion of delight ; \n\n\n\nLINES. 327 \n\nNo care should touch the mellow heart, \nAnd sad or sober none depart ; \n\nFor wine can triumph over woe, \nAnd Love and Bacchus, brother powers, \nCould build in Iser\'s sunny bowers \n\nA paradise below. \n\n\n\nLINES. \n\nON THE DEPARTURE OF EMIGRANTS FOR NEW SOUTH WALES. \n\nOn England\'s shore I saw a pensive band, \n\nWith sails unfurled for earth\'s remotest strand, \n\nLike children parting from a mother, shed \n\nTears for the home that could not yield them bread ; \n\nGrief marked each face receding from the view, \n\n\'T was grief to nature honorably true. \n\nAnd long, poor wanderers o\'er the ecliptic deep, \n\nThe song that names but home shall make you weep : \n\nOft shall ye fold your flocks by stars above \n\nIn that far world, and miss the stars ye love ; \n\nOft when its tuneless birds scream round forlorn, \n\nRegret the lark that gladdens England\'s morn, \n\nAnd, giving England\'s names to distant scenes, \n\nLament that earth\'s extension intervenes. \n\nBut cloud not yet too long, industrious train, \nYour solid good with sorrow nursed in vain : \nEor has the heart no interest yet as bland \nAs that which binds us to our native land ? \nThe deep-drawn wish, when children crown our hearth, \nTo hear the cherub-chorus of their mirth, \n\n\n\n328 lines. \n\nUndamped by dread that want may e\'er unhouse, \n\nOr servile misery knit those smiling brows : \n\nThe pride to rear an independent shed, \n\nAnd give the lips we love unborrowed bread ; \n\nTo see a world, from shadowy forests won, \n\nIn youthful beauty wedded to the sun ; \n\nTo skirt our home with harvests widely sown, \n\nAnd call the blooming landscape all our own, \n\nOur children\'s heritage, in prospect long. \n\nThese are the hopes, high-minded hopes and strong, \n\nThat beckon England\'s wanderers o\'er the brine, \n\nTo realms where foreign constellations shine ; \n\nWhere streams from undiscovered fountains roll, \n\nAnd winds shall fan them from the Antarctic pole. \n\nAnd what though doomed to shores so far apart \n\nFrom England\'s home, that even the homesick heart \n\nQuails, thinking, ere that gulf can be recrossed, \n\nHow large a space of fleeting life is lost : \n\nYet there, by time, their bosoms shall be changed, \n\nAnd strangers once shall cease to sigh estranged, \n\nBut jocund in the year\'s long sunshine roam, \n\nThat yields their sickle twice its harvest-home. \n\nThere, marking o\'er his farm\'s expanding ring \nNew fleeces whiten and new fruits upspring, \nThe gray-haired swain, his grandchild sporting round, \nShall walk at eve his little empire\'s bound, \nEmblazed with ruby vintage, ripening corn, \nAnd verdant rampart of acacian thorn, \nWhile, mingling with the scent his pipe exhales, \nThe orange grove\'s and fig-tree\'s breath prevails ; \nSurvey with pride beyond a monarch\'s spoil, \nHis honest arm\'s own subjugated soil : \n\n\n\nlines. 329 \n\nAnd, summing all the blessings God has given, \nPut up his patriarchal prayer to Heaven, \nThat, when his bones shall here repose in peace, \nThe scions of his love may still increase, \nAnd o\'er a land where life has ample room \nIn health and plenty innocently bloom. \n\nDelightful land, in wildness even benign, \nThe glorious past is ours, the future thine ! \nAs in a cradled Hercules, we trace \nThe lines of empire in thine infant face. \nWhat nations in thy wide horizon\'s span \nShall teem on tracts untrodden yet by man ! \nWhat spacious cities with their spires shall gleam, \nWhere now the panther laps a lonely stream, \nAnd all but brute or reptile life is dumb ! \nLand of the free ! thy kingdom is to come, \nOf states, with laws from Gothic bondage burst, \nAnd creeds by chartered priesthoods unaccurst : \nOf navies, hoisting their emblazoned flags, \nWhere shipless seas now wash unbeaconed crags ; \nOf hosts reviewed in dazzling files and squares, \nTheir pennoned trumpets breathing native airs, \xe2\x80\x94 \nFor minstrels thou shalt have of native fire, \nAnd maids to sing the songs themselves inspire : \xe2\x80\x94 \nOur very speech, methinks, in after-time, \nShall catch the Ionian blandness of thy clime ; \nAnd, whilst the light and luxury of thy skies \nGive brighter smiles to beauteous woman\'s eyes, \nThe Arts, whose soul is love, shall all spontaneous rise. \n\nUntracked in deserts lies the marble mine, \nUndug the ore that \'midst thy roofs shall shine ; \n\n\n\n330 LINES. \n\nUnborn the hands \xe2\x80\x94 but born they are to be \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFair Australasia, that shall give to thee \n\nProud temple-domes, with galleries winding high, \n\nSo vast in space, so just in symmetry. \n\nThey widen to the contemplating eye, \n\nWith colonnaded aisles in long array, \n\nAnd windows that enrich the flood of day \n\nO\'er tessellated pavements, pictures fair, \n\nAnd niched statues breathing golden air. \n\nNor there, whilst all that \'s seen bids Fancy swell, \n\nShall Music\'s voice refuse to seal the spell ; \n\nBut choral hymns shall wake enchantment round, \n\nAnd organs yield their tempests of sweet sound. \n\nMeanwhile, ere Arts triumphant reach then\' goal, \nHow blest the years of pastoral life shall roll ! \nEven should some wayward hour the settler\'s mind \nBrood sad on scenes forever left behind, \nYet not a pang that England\'s name imparts \nShall touch a fibre of his children\'s hearts ; \nBound to that native land by nature\'s bond, \nFull little shall their wishes rove beyond \nIts mountains blue, and melon-skirted streams, \nSince childhood loved and dreamt of in their dreams. \nHow many a name, to us uncouthly wild, \nShall thrill that region\'s patriotic child, \nAnd bring as sweet thoughts o\'er his bosom\'s chords \nAs aught that \'s named in song to us affords ! \nDear shall that river\'s margin be to him, \nWhere sportive first he bathed his boyish limb, \nOr petted birds, still brighter than their bowers, \nOr twined his tame young kangaroo with flowers. \n\n\n\nLINES. 331 \n\nBut more magnetic yet to memory \nShall be the sacred spot, still blooming nigh, \nThe bower of love, where first his bosom burned,. \nAnd smiling passion saw its smile returned. \n\nGo forth and prosper, then, emprising band : \nMay He, who in the hollow of his hand \nThe ocean holds, and rules the whirlwind\'s sweep, \nAssuage its wrath, and guide you on the deep ! \n\n\n\nLINES \n\nON REVISITING CATHCART. \n\n\n\n! scenes of my childhood, and dear to my heart, \nYe green-waving woods on the margin of Cart, \nHow blest in the morning of life I have strayed, \nBy the stream of the vale and the grass-covered glade ! \n\nThen, then every rapture was young and sincere, \nEre the sunshine of bliss was bedimmed by a tear, \nAnd a sweeter delight every scene seemed to lend, \nThat the mansion of peace was the home of a eriend. \n\nNow the scenes of my childhood, and clear to my heart, \nAll pensive I visit, and sigh to depart ; \nTheir flowers seem to languish, their beauty to cease. \nFor a stranger inhabits the mansion of peace. \n\nBut hushed be the sigh that untimely complains, \nWhile Friendship and all its enchantment remains, \nWhile it blooms like the flower of a winterless clime, \nUntainted by chance, unabated by time. \n\n\n\n332 THE CHERUBS. \n\nTHE CHERUBS. \n\nSUGGESTED BY AN APOLOGUE EST THE WORKS OF FRANKLIN. \n\nTwo spirits reached this world of ours : \nThe lightning\'s locomotive powers \n\nWere slow to their agility : \nIn broad day-light they moved incog., \nEnjoying, without mist or fog, \n\nEntire invisibility. \n\nThe one, a simple cherub lad, \nMuch interest in our planet had, \n\nIts face was so romantic ; \nHe could n\'t persuade himself that man \nWas such as heavenly rumors ran, \n\nA being base and frantic. \n\nThe elder spirit, wise and cool, \nBrought down the youth as to a school ; \n\nBut strictly on condition, \nWhatever they should see or hear, \nWith mortals not to interfere ; \n\n\'T was not in their commission. \n\nThey reached a sovereign city proud, \nWhose emperor prayed to God aloud, \n\nWith all his people kneeling, \nAnd priests performed religious rites : \n" Come," said the younger of the sprites, \n\n" This shows a pious feeling." \n\nYOUNG SPIRIT. \n\n" Ar\' n\'t these a decent godly race ? " \n\n\n\nTHE CHERUBS. 333 \n\nOLD SPIRIT. \n\n"The dirtiest thieves on Nature\'s face." \n\nYOUNG SPIRIT. \n\n" But hark ; what cheers they \'re giving \nTheir emperor ! \xe2\x80\x94 And is he a thief? " \n\nOLD SPIRIT. \n\n" Ay, and a cut-throat too ; \xe2\x80\x94 in brief, \nThe greatest scoundrel living." . \n\nYOUNG SPIRIT. \n\n" But say, what were they praying for, \nThis people and their emperor ? " \n\nOLD SPIRIT. \n\n" Why, but for God\'s assistance \nTo help their army, late sent out : \nAnd what that army is about \n\nYou \'11 see at no great distance." \n\nOn wings outspeeding mail or post, \nOur sprites o\'er took the Imperial host. \n\nIn massacres it wallowed : \nA noble nation met its hordes, \nBut broken fell their cause and swords, \n\nUnfortunate, though hallowed. \n\nThey saw a late bombarded town, \n\nIts streets still warm with blood ran down ; \n\nStill smoked each burning rafter ; \nAnd hideously, \'midst rape and sack, \nThe murderer\'s laughter answered back \n\nHis prey\'s convulsive laughter. \n\n\n\n334 THE CHERUBS. \n\nThey saw the captive eye the dead, \nWith envy of his gory bed, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nDeath\'s quick reward of bravery : \nThey heard the clank of chains, and then \nSaw thirty thousand bleeding men \n\nDragged manacled to slavery. \n\n" Fie ! fie ! " the younger heavenly spark \nExclaimed : \xe2\x80\x94 " we must have missed our mark. \n\nAnd entered hell\'s own portals : \nEarth can\'t be stained with crimes so black ; \nNay, sure, we \'ve got among a pack \n\nOf fiends, and not of mortals 1 " \n\n" No." said the elder ; " no such thing : \nFiends are not fools enough to wring \n\nThe necks of one another : \xe2\x80\x94 \nThey know their interests too well : \nMen fight ; but every devil in hell \n\nLives friendly with his brother. \n\nAnd I could point you out some fellows. \nOn this ill-fated planet Tellus, \n\nIn royal power that revel ; \nWho, at the opening of the book \nOf judgment, may have cause to look \n\nWith envy at the devil." \n\nName but the devil, and he \'11 appear. \nOld Satan in a trice was near, \n\nWith smutty face and figure : \nBut spotless spirits of the skies, \nUnseen to e\'en his saucer eyes, \n\nCould watch the fiendish nigger. \n\n\n\nSENEX\'S SOLILOQUY ON HIS YOUTHFUL IDOL. 335 \n\n" Halloo ! " he cried, " I smell a trick : \nA mortal supersedes Old Nick, \n\nThe scourge of earth appointed : \nHe robs me of my trade, outrants \nThe blasphemy of hell, and vaunts \n\nHimself the Lord\'s anointed ! \n\nFolks make a fuss about my mischief, \n\nD d fools ! they tamely suffer this chief \n\nTo play his pranks unbounded." \nThe cherubs flew ; but saw, from high, \nAt human inhumanity \n\nThe devil himself astounded. \n\n\n\nSENEX\'S SOLILOQUY ON HIS YOUTHFUL IDOL. \n\nPlatonic friendship at your years, \nSays Conscience, should content ye : \n\nNay, name not fondness to her ears, \nThe darling \'s scarcely twenty. \n\nYes, and she \'11 loathe me unforgiven, \n\nTo dote thus out of season ; \nBut beauty is a beam from heaven, \n\nThat dazzles blind our reason. \n\nI \'11 challenge Plato from the skies, \nYes, from his spheres harmonic, \n\nTo look in M \xe2\x80\x94 y C \'s eyes, \n\nAnd try to be Platonic. \n\n\n\n336 TO SIR FRANCIS BURDETT. \n\n\n\nTO SIR FRANCIS BURDETT, \n\nON HIS SPEECH DELIVERED IN PARLIAMENT, AUGUST 7,1832, RESPECTING \nTHE FOREIGN POLICY OF GREAT BRITAIN. \n\nBurdett, enjoy thy justly foremost fame. \n\nThrough good and ill report \xe2\x80\x94 through calm and storm \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFor forty years the pilot of reform ! \nBut that which shall afresh entwine thy name \n\nWith patriot laurels never to be sere. \nIs that thou hast come nobly forth to chide \nOur slumbering statesmen for their lack of pride \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTheir flattery of Oppressors, and their fear \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhen Britain\'s lifted finger, and her frown, \nMight call the nations up, and cast their tyrants down ! \n\nInvoke the scorn \xe2\x80\x94 alas ! too few inherit \n\nThe scorn for despots cherished by our sires, \n\nThat baffled Europe\'s persecuting fires, \nAnd sheltered helpless states ! \xe2\x80\x94 Recall that spirit, \n\nAnd conjure back Old England\'s haughty mind \xe2\x80\x94 \nConvert the men who waver now, and pause \n\nBetween their love of self and humankind ; \nAnd move, Amphion-like, those hearts of stone \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe hearts that have been deaf to Poland\'s dying groan ! \n\nTell them we hold the Bights of Man too dear, \n\nTo bless ourselves with lonely freedom blest ; \n\nBut could we hope, with sole and selfish breast, \nTo breathe untroubled Freedom\'s atmosphere ? \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSuppose we wished it ? England could not stand \nA lone oasis in the desert ground \nOf Europe\'s slavery ; from the waste around, \n\nOppression\'s fiery blast and whirling sand \n\n\n\nODE TO THE GERMANS. 337 \n\nWould reach and scathe us ? No ; it may not be : \nBritannia and the world conjointly must be free ! \n\nBurdett, demand why Britons send abroad \n\nSoft greetings to the infanticidal Czar, \n\xe2\x80\xa2 The Bear on Poland\'s babes that wages war. \nOnce, we are told, a mother\'s shriek o\'erawed \n\nA lion, and he dropped her lifted child ; \nBut Nicholas, whom neither God nor law, \nNor Poland\'s shrieking mothers, overawe, \nOutholds to us his friendship\'s gory clutch : [touch ! \n\nShrink, Britain, \xe2\x80\x94 shrink, my king and country, from the \n\nHe prays to Heaven for England\'s king, he says \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd dares he to the God of mercy kneel, \nBesmeared with massacres from head to heel ? \n\nNo ; Moloch is his god \xe2\x80\x94 to him he prays ; \n\nAnd if his weird-like prayers had power to bring \nAn influence, their power would be to curse. \n\nHis hate is baleful, but his love is worse \xe2\x80\x94 \nA serpent\'s slaver deadlier than its sting ! \n\n! feeble statesmen \xe2\x80\x94 ignominious times, \n\nThat lick the tyrant\'s feet, and smile upon his crimes ! \n\n\n\nODE TO THE GERMANS. \n\nThe spirit of Britannia \nInvokes across the main \n\nHer sister Allemannia \n\nTo burst the tyrant\'s chain : \n\nBy our kindred blood, she cries, \n\nRise, Allemannians, rise, \n\'29 \n\n\n\n338 ODE TO THE GERMANS. \n\nAnd hallowed thrice the band \nOf our kindred hearts shall be, \nWhen your land shall be the land \nOf the free \xe2\x80\x94 of the free ! \n\nWith Freedom\'s lion-banner \n\nBritannia rules the waves ; \nWhilst your broad stone of honor \n\nIs still the camp of slaves. \nFor shame, for glory\'s sake, \nWake, Allemannians, wake, \n\nAnd thy tyrants now that whelm \nHalf the world shall quail and flee, \n\nWhen your realm shall be the realm \nOf the free \xe2\x80\x94 of the free ! \n\nMars owes to you his thunder \n\nThat shakes the battle field, \nYet to break your bonds asunder \n\nNo martial bolt has pealed. \nShall the laurelled land of art \nWear shackles on her heart 1 \n\nNo ! the clock ye framed to tell, \nBy its sound, the march of time ; \n\nLet it clang Oppression\'s knell \n\nO\'er your clime \xe2\x80\x94 o\'er your clime ! \n\nThe press\'s magic letters, \n\nThat blessing ye brought forth, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBehold ! it lies in fetters \n\nOn the soil that gave it birth : \n\nBut the trumpet must be heard, \n\nAnd the charger must be spurred ; \n\n\n\nlines. 339 \n\nEor your father Armin\'s Sprite \nCalls down from heaven, that ye \nShall gird you for the fight, \n\nAnd be free ! \xe2\x80\x94 and be free ! \n\n\n\ni \n\nLINES \n\nON A PICTURE OF A GIRL IN THE ATTITUDE OF PRATER. \n[By the artist Gruse, in the possession of Lady Stepney.] \n\nWas man e\'er doomed that beauty made \nBy mimic art should haunt him ; \n\nLike Orpheus, I adore a shade, \nAnd dote upon a phantom. \n\nThou maid that in my inmost thought \n\nArt fancifully sainted, \nWhy liv\'st thou not \xe2\x80\x94 why art thou naught \n\nBut canvas sweetly painted ? \n\nWhose looks seem lifted to the skies, \n\nToo pure for love of mortals \xe2\x80\x94 \nAs if they drew angelic eyes \n\nTo greet thee at heaven\'s portals. \n\nYet loveliness has here no grace, \n\nAbstracted or ideal \xe2\x80\x94 \nArt ne\'er but from a living face \n\nDrew looks so seeming real. \n\nWhat wert thou, maid? \xe2\x80\x94 thy life \xe2\x80\x94 thy name \n\nOblivion hides in mystery ; \nThough from thy face my heart could frame \n\nA long romantic history. \n\n\n\n340 LINES. \n\nTransported to thy time I seem. \nThough dust thy coffin covers \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd hear the songs in fancy\'s dream, \nOf thy devoted lovers. \n\nHow witching must have been thy breath \nHow sweet the living charmer \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhose every semblance after death \nCan make the heart grow warmer ! \n\nAdieu, the charms that vainly move \nMy soul in their possession \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat prompt my lips to speak of love, \nYet rob them of expression. \n\nYet thee, dear picture, to have praised \n\nWas but a poet\'s duty ; \nAnd shame to him that ever gazed \n\nImpassive on thy beauty ! \n\n\n\nLINES \n\nON THE VIEW FROM ST. LEONARD\'S. \n\nHail to thy face and odors, glorious Sea ! \n\'Twere thanklessness in me to bless thee not, \nGreat beauteous Being ! in whose breath and smile \nMy heart beats calmer, and my very mind \nInhales salubrious thoughts. How welcomer \nThy murmurs than the murmurs of the world ! \nThough like the world thou fluctuatest, thy din \nTo me is peace, thy restlessness repose. \n\n\n\nLINES. 341 \n\nEven gladly I exchange yon spring-green lanes. \nWith all the darling field-flowers in their prime. \nAnd gardens haunted by the nightingale\'s \nLong trills and gushing ecstasies of song, \nFor these wild headlands, and the sea-mew\'s clang. \n\nWith thee beneath my windows, pleasant Sea, \n\nI long not to o\'erlook earth\'s fairest glades \n\nAnd green savannas. \xe2\x80\x94 Earth has not a plain \n\nSo boundless or so beautiful as thine ; \n\nThe eagle\'s vision cannot take it in : \n\nThe lightning\'s wing, too weak to sweep its space, \n\nSinks half-way o ; er it like a wearied bird : \n\nIt is the mirror of the stars, where all \n\nTheir hosts within the concave firmament, \n\nGay marching to the music of the spheres, \n\nCan see themselves at once. \n\nNor on the stage \nOf rural landscape are there lights and shades \nOf more harmonious dance and play than thine. \nHow vividly this moment brightens forth, \nBetween gray parallel and leaden breadths, \nA belt of hues that stripes thee many a league, \nFlushed like the rainbow, or the ringdove\'s neck, \nAnd giving to the glancing sea-bird\'s wing \nThe semblance of a meteor. \n\nMighty Sea ! \nChameleon-like thou changest, but there \'s love \nIn all thy change, and constant sympathy \nWith yonder Sky \xe2\x80\x94 thy Mistress : from her brow \nThou tak\'st thy moods and wear\'st her colors on \nThy faithful bosom : morning\'s milky white, \n29* \' \n\n\n\n342 LINES. \n\nNoon\'s sapphire, or the saffron glow of eve ; \nAnd all thy balmier hours, fair Element, \xe2\x80\xa2 \nHave such divine complexion \xe2\x80\x94 crisped smiles. \nLuxuriant heavings, and sweet whisperings, \nThat little is the wonder Love\'s own Queen \nFrom thee of old was fabled to have sprung \xe2\x80\x94 \nCreation\'s common ! which no human power \nCan parcel or enclose ; the lordliest floods \nAnd cataracts that the tiny hands of man \nCan tame, conduct or bound, are drops of dew \nTo thee that could\' st subdue the Earth itself, \nAnd brook\' st commandment from the heavens alone \nFor marshalling thy waves \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nYet, potent Sea ! \nHow placidly thy moist lips speak even now \nAlong yon sparkling shingles ! Who can be \nSo fanciless as to feel no gratitude \nThat power and grandeur can be so serene, \nSoothing the home-bound navy\'s peaceful way, \nAnd rocking even the fisher\'s little bark \nAs gently as a mother rocks her child ? \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe inhabitants of other worlds behold \n\nOur orb more lucid for thy spacious share \n\nOn earth\'s rotundity ; and is he not \n\nA blind worm in the dust, great Deep, the man \n\nWho sees not or who seeing has no joy \n\nIn thy magnificence ? What though thou art \n\nUnconscious and material, \xe2\x80\x94 thou canst reach \n\nThe inmost immaterial mind\'s recess, \n\nAnd with thy tints and motion stir its chords \n\nTo music, like the light on Memnon\'s lyre ! \n\n\n\nlines. 343 \n\nThe Spirit of the Universe in thee \n\nIs visible ; thou hast in thee the life \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe eternal, graceful, and majestic life \n\nOf nature, and the natural human heart \n\nIs therefore bound to thee with holy love. \n\nEarth has her gorgeous towns ; the earth-circling sea \n\nHas spires and mansions more amusive still \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMen\'s volant homes that measure liquid space \n\nOn wheel or wing. The chariot of the land \n\nWith pained and panting steeds and clouds of dust \n\nHas no sight-gladdening motion like these fair \n\nCareerers with the foam beneath their bows, \n\nWhose streaming ensigns charm the waves by day, \n\nWhose carols and whose watch-bells cheer the night, \n\nMoored as they cast the shadows of their masts \n\nIn long array, or hither flit and yond \n\nMysteriously with slow and crossing lights, \n\nLike spirits on the darkness of the deep. \n\nThere is a magnet-like attraction in \n\nThese waters to the imaginative power \n\nThat links the viewless with the visible, \n\nAnd pictures things unseen. To realms beyond \n\nYon highway of the world my fancy flies, \n\nWhen by her tall and triple mast we know \n\nSome noble voyager that has to woo \n\nThe trade-wmds and to stem the ecliptic surge. \n\nThe coral groves \xe2\x80\x94 the shores of conch and pearl, \n\nWhere she will cast her anchor and reflect \n\nHer cabin-window lights on warmer waves, \n\nAnd under planets brighter than our own : \n\nThe nights of palmy isles, that she will see \n\n\n\n344 LINES. \n\nLit boundless by the fire-fly \xe2\x80\x94 all the smells \nOf tropic fruits that will regale her \xe2\x80\x94 all \nThe pomp of nature, and the inspiriting \nVarieties of life she has to greet, \nCome swarming o\'er the meditative mind. \n\nTrue to the dream of Fancy, Ocean has \nHis darker tints ; but where \'s the element \nThat checkers not its usefulness to man \nWith casual terror? Scathes not earth sometimes \nHer children with Tartarean fires, or shakes \nTheir shrieking cities, and, with one last clang \nOf bells for their own ruin, strews them flat \nAs riddled ashes \xe2\x80\x94 silent as the grave ? \nWalks not Contagion on the Air itself? \nI should old Ocean\'s Saturnalian days, \nAnd roaring nights of revelry and sport, \nWith wreck and human woe, be loth to sing ; \nFor they are few, and all their ills weigh light \nAgainst his sacred usefulness, that bids \nOur pensile globe revolve in purer air. \nHere Morn and Eve with blushing thanks receive \nTheir freshening dews, gay fluttering breezes cool \nTheir wings to fan the brow of fevered climes, \nAnd here the Spring dips down her emerald urn \nFor showers to glad the earth. \n\nOld Ocean was \nInfinity of ages ere we breathed \nExistence \xe2\x80\x94 and he will be beautiful \nWhen all the living world that sees him now \nShall roll unconscious dust around the sun. \nQuelling from age to age the vital throb \n\n\n\nTHE DEAD EAGLE. 345 \n\nIn human hearts, Death shall not subjugate \nThe pulse that swells in his stupendous breast, \nOr interdict his minstrelsy to sound \nIn thundering concert with the quiring winds ; \nBut long as Man to parent Nature owns \nInstinctive homage, and in times beyond \nThe power of thought to reach, bard after bard \nShall sing thy glory, Beatific Sea ! \n\n\n\nTHE DEAD EAGLE. \n\nTTRITTEN AT ORAN. \n\nFallen as he is, this king of birds still seems \n\nLike royalty in ruins. Though his eyes \n\nAre shut that look undazzled on the sun, \n\nHe was the sultan of the sky, and earth \n\nPaid tribute to his eyry. It was perched \n\nHigher than human conqueror ever built \n\nHis bannered fort. Where Atlas\' top looks o\'er \n\nSahara\'s desert to the equator\'s line : \n\nFrom thence the winged despot marked his prey, \n\nAbove the encampments of the Bedouins, ere \n\nTheir watch-fires were extinct, or camels knelt \n\nTo take their loads, or horsemen scoured the plain, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd there he dried his feathers in the dawn, \n\nWhilst yet the unwakened world was dark below. \n\nThere \'s such a charm in natural strength and power, \n\nThat human fancy has forever paid \n\nPoetic homage to the bird of Jove. \n\nHence, \'neath his image, Koine arrayed her turms \n\n\n\n346 THE DEAD EAGLE. \n\nAnd cohorts for the conquest of the world. \n\nAnd figuring his flight, the mind is filled \n\nWith thoughts that mock the pride of wingless man. \n\nTrue the carred aeronaut can mount as high ; \n\nBut what ; s the triumph of his volant art 1 \n\nA rash intrusion on the realms of air. \n\nHis helmless vehicle, a silken toy, \n\nA bubble bursting in the thunder-cloud ; \n\nHis course has no volition, and he drifts \n\nThe passive plaything of the winds. Not such \n\nWas this proud bird : he clove the adverse storm, \n\nAnd cuffed it with his wings. He stopped his flight \n\nAs easily as the Arab reins his steed, \n\nAnd stood at pleasure ; neath Heaven\'s zenith, like \n\nA lamp suspended from its azure dome, \n\nWhilst underneath him the world\'s mountains lay \n\nLike mole-hills, and her streams like lucid threads. \n\nThen downward, faster than a falling star, \n\nHe neared the earth, until his shape distinct \n\nWas blackly shadowed on the sunny ground ; \n\nAnd deeper terror hushed the wilderness, \n\nTo hear his nearer whoop. Then, up again \n\nHe soared and wheeled. There was an air of scorn \n\nIn all his movements, whether he threw round \n\nHis crested head to look behind him ; or \n\nLay vertical and sportively displayed \n\nThe inside whiteness of his wing declined, \n\nIn gyres and undulations full of grace, \n\nAn object beautifying Heaven itself. \n\nHe \xe2\x80\x94 reckless who was victor, and above \n\nThe hearing of their guns \xe2\x80\x94 saw fleets engaged \n\n\n\nTHE DEAD EAGLE. 347 \n\nIn flaming combat. It was naught to him \n\nWhat carnage, Moor or Christian, strewed their decks. \n\nBut if his intellect had matched his wings, \n\nMethinks he would have scorned man\'s vaunted power \n\nTo plough the deep ; his pinions bore him down \n\nTo Algiers the warlike, or the coral groves, \n\nThat blush beneath the green of Bona\'s waves ; \n\nAnd traversed in an hour a wider space \n\nThan yonder gallant ship, with all her sails \n\nWooing the winds, can cross from morn till eve. \n\nHis bright eyes were his compass, earth his chart, \n\nHis talons anchored on the stormiest cliff, \n\nAnd on the very light-house rock he perched, \n\nWhen winds churned white the waves. \n\nThe earthquake\'s self \nDisturbed not him that memorable day, \nWhen, o\'er yon table-land, where Spain had built \nCathedrals, cannoned forts, and palaces, \nA palsy-stroke of Nature shook Oran, \nTurning her city to a sepulchre, \nAnd strewing into rubbish all her homes ; \nAmidst whose traceable foundations now, \nOf streets and squares, the hyena hides himself. \nThat hour beheld him fly as careless o\'er \nThe stifled shrieks of thousands buried quick, \nAs lately when he pounced the speckled snake, \nCoiled in yon mallows and wide nettle fields \nThat mantle o\'er the dead old Spanish town. \n\nStrange is the imagination\'s dread delight \n\nIn objects linked with danger, death, and pain ! \n\nFresh from the luxuries of polished life, \n\n\n\n348 song. \n\nThe echo of these wilds enchanted me ; \n\nAnd my heart beat with joy when first I heard \n\nA lion\'s roar come down the Lybian wind, \n\nAcross yon long, wide, lonely inland lake, \n\nWhere boat ne\'er sails from homeless shore to shore. \n\nAnd yet Numidia\'s landscape has its spots \n\nOf pastoral pleasantness \xe2\x80\x94 though far between, \n\nThe village planted near the Maraboot\'s \n\nRound roof has aye its feathery palm-trees \n\nPaired, for in solitude they bear no fruits. \n\nHere nature\'s hues all harmonize \xe2\x80\x94 fields white \n\nWith alasum, or blue with bugloss \xe2\x80\x94 banks \n\nOf glossy fennel, blent with tulips wild, \n\nAnd sun-flowers, like a garment prankt with gold ; \n\nAcres and miles of opal asphodel, \n\nWhere sports and couches the black-eyed gazelle. \n\nHere, too, the air \'s harmonious \xe2\x80\x94 deep- toned do\\cs \n\nCoo to the fife-like carol of the lark : \n\nAnd when they cease, the holy nightingale \n\nWinds up his long, long shakes of ecstasy, \n\nWith notes that seem but the protracted sounds \n\nOf glassy runnels bubbling over rocks. \n\n\n\nSONG. \n\nTo Love in my heart, I exclaimed, t\' other morning, \nThou hast dwelt here too long, little lodger, take warning ; \nThou shalt tempt me no more from my life\'s sober duty, \nTo go gadding, bewitched by the young eyes of beauty. \n\nFor weary \'s the wooing, ah, weary ! \nWhen an old man will have a young dearie. \n\n\n\n-sBaH\xc2\xbbwi\xc2\xbb \n\n\n\nLINES. 349 \n\nThe god left my heart, at its surly reflections. \nBut came back on pretext of some sweet recollections, \nAnd he made me forget what I ought to remember, \nThat the rose-bud of June cannot bloom in November. \n\nAh ! Tom, \'t is all o\'er with thy gay days \xe2\x80\x94 \nWrite psalms, and not songs, for the ladies. \n\nBut time \'s been so far from my wisdom enriching, \nThat the longer I live, beauty seems more bewitching ; \nAnd the only new lore my experience traces, \nIs to find fresh enchantment in magical faces. \n\nHow weary is wisdom, how weary ! \nWhen one sits by a* smiling young dearie ! \n\nAnd should she be wroth that my homage pursues her, \nI will turn and retort on my lovely accuser ; \nWho \'s to blame, that my heart by your image is haunted? \xe2\x80\x94 \nIt is you, the enchantress \xe2\x80\x94 not I, the enchanted. \n\nWould you have me behave more discreetly, \nBeauty, look not so killingly sweetly. \n\n\n\nLINES \n\nWRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF LA PEROUSE\'s VOYAGES. \n\nLoved Voyager ! his pages had a zest \nMore sweet than fiction to my wondering breast, \nWhen, rapt in fancy, many a boyish day \nI tracked his wanderings o\'er the watery way, \nRoamed round the Aleutian isles in waking dreams, \nOr plucked the fleur-de-lys by Jesso\'s streams \xe2\x80\x94 \n30 \n\n\n\n350 LINES. \n\nOr gladly leaped on that far Tartar strand, \n\nWhere Europe\'s anchor ne\'er had bit the sand, \n\nWhere scarce a roving wild tribe crossed the plain, \n\nOr human voice broke nature\'s silent reign : \n\nBut vast and grassy deserts feed the bear, \n\nAnd sweeping deer-herds dread no hunter\'s snare. \n\nSuch young delight his real records brought, \n\nHis truth so touched romantic springs of thought, \n\nThat all my after-life \xe2\x80\x94 his fate and fame \n\nEntwined romance with La Perouse\'s name. \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFan were his ships, expert his gallant crews, \n\nAnd glorious was the emprise of La Perouse, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHumanely glorious ! Men will weep for him, \n\nWhen many a guilty martial fame is dim : \n\nHe ploughed the deep to bind no captive\'s chain \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nPursued no rapine \xe2\x80\x94 strewed no wreck with slain ; \n\nAnd, save that in the deep themselves lie low, \n\nHis heroes plucked no wreath from human woe. \n\n\'T was his the earth\'s remotest bound to scan, \n\nConciliating with gifts barbaric man \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nEnrich the world\'s contemporaneous mind, \n\nAnd amplify the picture of mankind. \n\nEar on the vast Pacific \xe2\x80\x94 \'midst those isles, \n\nO\'er which the earliest morn of Asia smiles, \n\nHe sounded and gave charts to many a shore \n\nAnd gulf of Ocean new to nautic lore ; \n\nYet he, that led Discovery o\'er the wave, \n\nStill fills himself an undiscovered grave. \n\nHe came not back, \xe2\x80\x94 Conjecture\'s cheek grew pale, \n\nYear after year \xe2\x80\x94 in no propitious gale, \n\nHis lilied banner held its homeward way, \n\nAnd Science saddened at her martyr\'s stay. \n\n\n\nLINES. 351 \n\nAn age elapsed \xe2\x80\x94 no "wreck told where or when \n\nThe chief went clown with all his gallant men, \n\nOr whether by the storm and wild sea flood \n\nHe perished, or by wilder men of blood \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe shuddering Fancy only guessed his doom, \n\nAnd Doubt to Sorrow gave but deeper gloom. \n\nAn age elapsed \xe2\x80\x94 when men were dead or gray, \n\nWhose hearts had mourned him in their youthful day ; \n\nFame traced on Mannicolo\'s shore at last, \n\nThe boiling surge had mounted o\'er his mast. \n\nThe islemen told of some surviving men, \n\nBut Christian eyes beheld them ne\'er again. \n\nSad bourn of all his toils \xe2\x80\x94 with all his band \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTo sleep, wrecked, shroudless, on a savage strand ! \n\nYet what is all that fires a hero\'s scorn \n\nOf death 1 \xe2\x80\x94 the hope to live in hearts unborn : \n\nLife to the brave is not its fleeting breath, \n\nBut worth \xe2\x80\x94 foretasting fame, that follows death. \n\nThat worth had La Perouse \xe2\x80\x94 that meed he won ; \n\nHe sleeps \xe2\x80\x94 his life\'s long stormy watch is done. \n\nIn the great deep, whose boundaries and space \n\nHe measured, Fate ordained his resting-place ; \n\nBut bade his fame, like the Ocean rolling o\'er \n\nHis relics \xe2\x80\x94 visit every earthly shore. \n\nFair Science on that Ocean\'s azure robe \n\nStill writes his name in picturing the globe, \n\nAnd paints \xe2\x80\x94 (what fairer wreath could glory twine ?) \n\nHis watery course \xe2\x80\x94 a world-encircling line. \n\n\n\n352 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. \n\n\n\nTHE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. \n\nI received the substance of the tradition on which this poem is founded, in the first \ninstance, from a friend in London, who wrote to Matthew N. Macdonald, Esq., of Edin- \nburgh. He had the kindness to send me a circumstantial account of the tradition ; and \nthat gentleman\'s knowledge of the Highlands, as well as his particular acquaintance witli \nthe district of Glencoe, leave me no doubt of the incident having really happened. I have \nnot departed from the main facts of the tradition as reported to me by Mr. Macdonald ; \nonly I have endeavored to color the personages of the story, and to make them as distinctive \nas possible. \n\nThe sunset sheds a horizontal smile \n\nO\'er Highland frith and Hebridean isle. \n\nWhile, gay with gambols of its finny shoals, \n\nThe glancing wave rejoices as it rolls \n\nWith streamered busses, that distinctly shine \n\nAll downward, pictured in the glassy brine ; \n\nWhose crews, with faces brightening in the sun, \n\nKeep measure with their oars, and all in one \n\nStrike up the old Gaelic song. \xe2\x80\x94 Sweep, rowers, sweep ! \n\nThe fisher\'s glorious spoils are in the deep. \n\nDay sinks \xe2\x80\x94 but twilight owes the traveller soon, \n\nTo reach his bourn, a round unclouded moon, \n\nBespeaking long undarkened hours of time ; \n\nFalse hope \xe2\x80\x94 the Scots are steadfast \xe2\x80\x94 not their clime. \n\nA war-worn soldier from the western land \n\nSeeks Cona\'s vale by Ballihoula\'s strand ; \n\nThe vale, by eagle-haunted cliffs o\'erhung, \n\nWhere Fingal fought and Ossian\'s harp was strung \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x96\xa0 \n\nOur veteran\'s forehead, bronzed on sultry plains, \n\nHad stood the brunt of thirty fought campaigns ; \n\nHe well could vouch the sad romance of wars, \n\nAnd count the dates of battles by his scars ; \n\n\n\nTHE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 353 \n\nFor he had served where o\'er and o\'er again \n\nBritannia\'s oriflamme had lit the plain \n\nOf glory \xe2\x80\x94 and victorious stamped her name \n\nOn Oudenarcle\'s and Blenheim\'s fields of fame. \n\nNine times in battle-field his blood had streamed. \n\nYet vivid still his veteran blue eye gleamed ; \n\nFull well he bore his knapsack unoppressed, \n\nAnd marched with soldier-like erected crest : \n\nNor sign of even loquacious age he wore, \n\nSave when he told his life\'s adventures o\'er ; \n\nSome tired of these ; for terms to him were dear \n\nToo tactical by far for vulgar ear ; \n\nAs when he talked of rampart and ravine, \n\nAnd trenches fenced with gabion and fascine \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBut when his theme possessed him all and whole, \n\nHe scorned proud puzzling words, and warmed the soul; \n\nHushed groups hung on his lips with fond surprise, \n\nThat sketched old scenes \xe2\x80\x94 like pictures to their eyes : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe wide war-plain, with banners glowing bright, \n\nAnd bayonets to the furthest stretch of sight ; \n\nThe pause, more dreadful than the peal to come \n\nFrom volleys blazing at the beat of drum \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTill all the field of thundering lines became \n\nTwo level and confronted sheets of flame. \n\nThen to the charge, when Marlbro\'s hot pursuit \n\nTrode France\'s gilded lilies underfoot ; \n\nHe came and kindled \xe2\x80\x94 and with martial lung \n\nWould chant the very march their trumpets sung. \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe old soldier hoped, ere evening\'s light should fail, \nTo reach a home, south-east of Cona\'s vale ; \n30* \n\n\n\n354 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. \n\nBut looking at Bennevis, capped with snow, \n\nHe saw its mists come curling down below. \n\nAnd spread white darkness o\'er the sunset glow ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFast rolling like tempestuous Ocean\'s spray, \n\nOr clouds from troops in battle\'s fiery day \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSo dense, his quarry \'scaped the falcon\'s sight, \n\nThe owl alone exulted, hating light. \n\nBenighted thus our pilgrim groped his ground. \nHalf \'twixt the river\'s and the cataract\'s sound. \nAt last a sheep-dog\'s bark informed his ear \nSome human habitation might be near ; \nAnon sheep-bleatings rose from rock to rock, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\'T was Luath hounding to their fold the flock. \nEre long the cock\'s obstreperous clarion rang, \nAnd next, a maid\'s sweet voice, that spinning sang : \nAt last amidst the green-sward (gladsome sight !) \nA cottage stood, with straw-roof golden bright. \n\nHe knocked, was welcomed in ; none asked his name, \n\nNor whither he was bound nor whence he came ; \n\nBut he was beckoned to the stranger\'s seat, \n\nRight side the chimney fire of blazing peat. \n\nBlest Hospitality makes not her home \n\nIn walled parks and castellated dome ; \n\nShe flies the city\'s needy, greedy crowd, \n\nAnd shuns still more the mansions of the proud : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe balm of savage or of simple life, \n\nA wild-flower cut by culture\'s polished knife ! \n\nThe house, no common sordid shieling cot, \nSpoke inmates of a comfortable lot. \nThe Jacobite white rose festooned their door ; \nThe windows sashed and glazed, the oaken floor, \n\n\n\nTHE PILGEIM OF GLENCOE. 355 \n\nThe chimney graced with antlers of the deer, \nThe rafters hung with meat for winter cheer, \nAnd all the mansion, indicated plain \nIts master a superior shepherd swain. \n\nTheir supper came \xe2\x80\x94 the table soon was spread \n\nWith eggs and milk and cheese and barley bread. \n\nThe family were three \xe2\x80\x94 a father hoar, \n\nWhose age you \'d guess at seventy years or more, \n\nHis son looked fifty \xe2\x80\x94 cheerful like her lord \n\nHis comely wife presided at the board ; \n\nAll three had that peculiar courteous grace \n\nWhich marks the meanest of the Highland race ; \n\nWarm hearts that burn alike in weal and woe, \n\nAs if the north-wind fanned their bosoms\' glow ! \n\nBut wide unlike their souls : old Norman\'s eye \n\nWas proudly savage even in courtesy. \n\nHis sinewy shoulders \xe2\x80\x94 each, though aged and lean, \n\nBroad as the curled Herculean head between, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHis scornful lip, his eyes of yellow fire, \n\nAnd nostrils that dilated quick with ire, \n\nWith ever downward-slanting shaggy brows, \n\nMarked the old lion you would dread to rouse. \n\nNorman, in truth, had led his earlier life \nIn raids of red revenge and feudal strife ; \nKeligious duty in revenge he saw, \nProud Honor\'s right and Nature\'s honest law ; \nFirst in the charge and foremost in pursuit, \nLong-breathed, deep-chested, and in speed of foot \nA match for stags \xe2\x80\x94 still fleeter when the prey \nWas man, in persecution\'s evil day ; \n\n\n\n356 THE PILGKIM of glencoe. \n\nCheered to that chase by brutal bold Dundee, \n\nNo Highland hound had lapped more blood than he. \n\nOft had he changed the covenanter\'s breath \n\nFrom howls of psalmody to howls of death ; \n\nAnd though long bound to peace, it irked him still \n\nHis dirk had ne\'er one hated foe to kill. \n\nYet Norman had fierce virtues, that would mock \n\nCold-blooded tories of the modern stock \n\nWho starve the breadless poor with fraud and cant ; - \n\nHe slew and saved them from the pangs of want. \n\nNor was his solitary lawless charm \n\nMere dauntlessness of soul and strength of arm ; \n\nHe had his moods of kindness now and then, \n\nAnd feasted even well-mannered lowland men \n\nWho blew not up his Jacobitish flame, \n\nNor prefaced with " pretender " Charles\'s name. \n\nFierce, but by sense and kindness not unwon, \n\nHe loved, respected even, his wiser son ; \n\nAnd brooked from him expostulations sage, \n\nWhen all advisers else were spurned with rage. \n\nFar happier times had moulded Ronald\'s mind, \n\nBy nature too of more sagacious kind. \n\nHis breadth of brow, and Roman shape of chin, \n\nSquared well with the firm man that reigned within. \n\nContemning strife as childishness, he stood \n\nWith neighbors on kind terms of neighborhood, \n\nAnd whilst his father\'s anger naught availed, \n\nHis rational remonstrance never failed. \n\nFull skilfully he managed farm and fold, \n\nWrote, ciphered, profitably bought and sold ; \n\n\n\nTHE PILGRIM OF GLEXCOE. 357 \n\nAnd, blessed with pastoral leisure, deeply took \n\nDelight to be informed, by speech or book, \n\nOf that wide world beyond his mountain home, \n\nWhere oft his curious fancy loved to roam. \n\nOft, while his faithful dog ran round his flock, \n\nHe read long hours when summer warmed the rock : \n\nGuests who could tell him aught were welcomed warm, \n\nEven pedlers\' news had to his mind a charm ; \n\nThat like an intellectual magnet-stone \n\nDrew truth from judgments simpler than his own. \n\nHis soul\'s proud instinct sought not to enjoy \n\nRomantic fictions, like a minstrel boy ; \n\nTruth, standing on her solid square, from youth \n\nHe worshipped \xe2\x80\x94 stern, uncompromising truth. \n\nHis goddess kindlier smiled on him, to find \n\nA votary of her light in land so blind ; \n\nShe bade majestic History unroll \n\nBroad views of public welfare to his soul, \n\nUntil he looked on clannish feuds and foes \n\nWith scorn, as on the wars of kites and crows ; \n\nWhilst doubts assailed him o\'er and o\'er again, \n\nIf men were made for kings or kings for men. \n\nAt last, to Norman\'s horror and dismay, \n\nHe flat denied the Stuarts\' right to sway. \n\nNo blow-pipe ever whitened furnace fire, \n\nQuick as these words lit up his father\'s ire ; \n\nWho envied even old Abraham for his faith, \n\nJ h\'dained to put his only son to death. \n\nie started up \xe2\x80\x94 in such a mood of soul \n\n^he white bear bites his showman\'s stirring pole ; \n\n\n\n358 THE PILGKIM OF GLEXC0E. \n\nHe danced too, and brought out, with snarl and howl, \n" Dia ! Dia ! " and, " Dioul ! Dioul ! " * \nBut sense foils fury \xe2\x80\x94 as the blowing whale \nSpouts, bleeds, and dyes the waves without avail \xe2\x80\x94 \nWears out the cable\'s length that makes him fast, \nBut, worn himself, comes up harpooned at last \xe2\x80\x94 \nE\'en so, devoid of sense, succumbs at length \nMere strength of zeal to intellectual strength. \nHis son\'s close logic so perplexed his pate, \nThe old hero rather shunned than sought debate : \nExhausting his vocabulary\'s store \nOf oaths and nick-names, he could say no more, \nBut tapped his mull,t rolled mutely in his chair, \nOr only whistled Killiecrankie\'s air. \n\nWitch-legends Ronald scorned \xe2\x80\x94 ghost, kelpie, wraith, \n\nAnd all the trumpery of vulgar faith ; \n\nGrave matrons even were shocked to hear him slight \n\nAuthenticated facts of second-sight \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nYet never flinched his mockery to confound \n\nThe brutal superstition reigning round. \n\nReserved himself, still Ronald loved to scan \n\nMen\'s natures \xe2\x80\x94 and he liked the old hearty man ; \n\nSo did the partner of his heart and life \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWho pleased her Ronald, ne\'er displeased his wife. \n\nHis sense, \'t is true, compared with Norman\'s son, \n\nWas commonplace \xe2\x80\x94 his tales too long outspun : \n\nYet Allan Campbell\'s sympathizing mind \n\nHad held large intercourse with humankind ; \n\n\n\n* God and the devil \xe2\x80\x94 a favorite ejaculation of Highland saints, \n\xe2\x80\xa2j- Snuff-horn, \n\n\n\nTHE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 359 \n\nSeen much, and gayly, graphically drew \n\nThe men of every country, clime, and hue ; \n\nNor ever stooped, though soldier-like his strain, \n\nTo ribaldry of mirth or oath profane. \n\nAll went harmonious till the guest began \n\nTo talk about his kindred, chief and clan, \n\nAnd, with his own biography engrossed, \n\nMarked not the changed demeanor of each host ; \n\nNor how old choleric Norman\'s cheek became \n\nFlushed at the Campbell and Breadalbane name. \n\nAssigning, heedless of impending harm, \n\nTheir steadfast silence to his story\'s charm, \n\nHe touched a subject perilous to touch \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSaying, " \'Midst this well-known vale I wondered much \n\nTo lose my way. In boyhood, long ago, \n\nI roamed, and loved each pathway of Glencoe : \n\nTrapped leverets, plucked wild berries on its braes, \n\nAnd fished along its banks long summer days. \n\nBut times grew stormy \xe2\x80\x94 bitter feuds arose, \n\nOur clan was merciless to prostrate foes. \n\nI never palliated my chieftain\'s blame, \n\nBut mourned the sin, and reddened for the shame \n\nOf that foul morn (Heaven blot it from the year ! ) \n\nWhose shapes and shrieks still haunt my dreaming ear. \n\nWhat could I do 1 \xe2\x80\x94 a serf \xe2\x80\x94 Glenlyon\'s page, \n\nA soldier sworn at nineteen years of age ; \n\nTo have breathed one grieved remonstrance to our chief, \n\nThe pit or gallows * would have cured my grief. \n\nForced, passive as the musket in my hand, \n\nI marched \xe2\x80\x94 when, feigning royalty\'s command, \n\n* To hang their vassals, or starve them to death in a dungeon, was a privi- \nlege of the Highland chiefs who had hereditary jurisdictions. \n\n\n\n360 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. \n\nAgainst the clan Macdonald, Stair\'s lord \nSent forth exterminating fire and sword ; \nAnd troops at midnight through the vale defiled, \nEnjoined to slaughter woman, man, and child. \nMy clansmen many a year had cause to dread \nThe curse that day entailed upon their head ; \nGlenlyon\'s self confessed the avenging spell \xe2\x80\x94 \nI saw it light on him. \n\nIt so befell : \xe2\x80\x94 \nA soldier from our ranks to death was brought, \nBy sentence deemed too dreadful for his fault ; \nAll was prepared \xe2\x80\x94 the coffin and the cart \nStood near twelve muskets, levelled at his heart. \nThe chief, whose breast for ruth had still some room, \nObtained reprieve a day before his doom ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nBut of the awarded boon surmised no breath. \nThe sufferer knelt, blindfolded, waiting death, \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd met it. Though Glenlyon had desired \nThe musketeers to watch before they fired ; \nIf from his pocket they should see he drew \nA handkerchief \xe2\x80\x94 their volley should ensue : \nBut if he held a paper in its place, \nIt should be hailed the sign of pardoning grace : \xe2\x80\x94 \nHe, in a fatal moment\'s absent fit, \nDrew forth the handkerchief, and not the writ ; \nWept o\'er the corpse and wrung his hands in woe, \nCrying, \'Here \'s thy curse again \xe2\x80\x94 Glencoe ! Glencoe! \nThough thus his guest spoke feelings just and clear, \nThe cabin\'s patriarch lent impatient ear ; \nWroth that, beneath his roof, a living man \nShould boast the swine-blood of the Campbell clan : \n\n\n\n5 5) \n\n\n\nTHE PILGRIM OF GLENC0E. 361 \n\nHe hastened to the door \xe2\x80\x94 called out his son \nTo follow ; walked a space, and thus begun : \xe2\x80\x94 \n" You have not, Ronald, at this day to learn \nThe oath I took beside my father\'s cairn, \nWhen you were but a babe a twelvemonth born ; \nSworn on my dirk \xe2\x80\x94 by all that *s sacred, sworn \nTo be revenged for blood that cries to Heaven \xe2\x80\x94 \nBlood unforgivable, and unforgiven : \nBut never power, since then, have I possessed \nTo plant my dagger in a Campbell\'s breast. \nNow, here \'s a self-accusing partisan, \nSteeped in the slaughter of Macdonald\'s clan ; \nI scorn his civil speech and sweet-lipped show \nOf pity \xe2\x80\x94 he is still our house\'s foe : \nI \'11 perjure not myself \xe2\x80\x94 but sacrifice \nThe caitiff ere to-morrow\'s sun arise. \nStand ! hear me \xe2\x80\x94 you \'re my son, the deed is just ; \nAnd if I say it must be done \xe2\x80\x94 it must ; \nA debt of honor which my clansmen crave, \nTheir very dead demand it from the grave." \nConjuring then their ghosts, he humbly prayed \nTheir patience till the blood-debt should be paid. \nBut Ronald stopped him. \xe2\x80\x94 " Sir, Sir, do not dim \nYour honor by a moment\'s angry whim ; \nYour soul \'s too just and generous, were you cool, \nTo act at once the assassin and the fool. \nBring me the men on whom revenge is due, \nAnd I will dirk them willingly as you ! \nBut all the real authors of that black \nOld deed are gone \xe2\x80\x94 you cannot bring them back. \nAnd this poor guest, \'t is palpable to judge, \nIn all his life ne\'er bore our clan a grudge ; \n31 \n\n\n\n362 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. \n\nDragged when a boy against his will to share \n\nThat massacre, he loathed the foul aflair. \n\nThink, if your hardened heart be conscience-proof, \n\nTo stab a stranger underneath your roof ! \n\nOne who has broken bread within your gate \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nReflect \xe2\x80\x94 before reflection \'comes too late, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSuch ugly consequences there may be \n\nAs judge and jury, rope and gallows-tree. \n\nThe days of dirking snugly are gone by, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhere could you hide the body privily, \n\nWhen search is made for \'t 1 " \n\n" Plunge it in yon flood, \nThat Campbells crimsoned with our kindred blood." \n" Ay ! but the corpse may float \xe2\x80\x94 " \xe2\x96\xa0 \n\n" Pshaw ! dead men tell \nNo tales \xe2\x80\x94 nor will it float if leaded well. \nI am determined ! " \xe2\x80\x94 What could Ronald do? \nNo house within ear-reach of his halloo, \nThough that would but have published household shame, \nHe temporized with wrath he could not tame, \nAnd said, " Come in, till night put off the deed, \nAnd ask a few more questions ere he bleed." \nThey entered ; Norman with portentous air \nStrode to a nook behind the stranger\'s chair, \nAnd, speaking naught, sat grimly in the shade, \nWith dagger in his clutch beneath his plaid. \nHis son\'s own plaid, should Norman pounce his prey, \nWas coiled thick round his arm, to turn away \nOr blunt the dirk. He purposed leaving free \nThe door, and giving Allan time to flee, \nWhilst he should wrestle with (no safe emprise) \nHis father\'s maniac strength and giant size. \n\n\n\nTHE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 363 \n\nMeanwhile he could nowise communicate \nThe impending peril to his anxious mate ; \nBut she, convinced no trifling matter now \nDisturbed the wonted calm of Ronald\'s brow. \nDivined too well the cause of gloom that lowered. \nAnd sat with speechless terror overpowered. \nHer face was pale, so lately blithe and bland, \nThe stocking knitting- wire shook in her hand. \nBut Ronald and the guest resumed their thread \nOf converse, still its theme that day of dread. \n" Much," said the veteran, "much as I bemoan \nThat deed, when half a hundred years have flown, \nStill on one circumstance I can reflect \nThat mitigates the dreadful retrospect. \nA mother with her child before us flew, \nI had the hideous mandate to pursue ; \nBut swift of foot, outspeeding bloodier men, \nI chased, o\'ertook her in the winding glen, \nAnd showed her, palpitating, where to save \nHerself and infant in a secret cave ; . \nNor left them till I saw that they could mock \nPursuit and search within that sheltering rock." \n" Heavens !" Ronald cried, in accents gladly wild, \n" That woman was my mother \xe2\x80\x94 I the child ! \nOf you unknown by name she late and air * \nSpoke, wept, and ever blessed you in her prayer, \nEven to her death ; describing you withal \nA well-looked florid youth, blue-eyed and tall." \nThey rose, exchanged embrace : the old lion then \nUpstarted, metamorphosed, from his den ; \n\n* Scotch for late and early. \n\n\n\n364 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. \n\nSaying, " Come and make thy home with us for life, \n\nHeaven-sent preserver of my child and wife ! \n\nI fear thou\'rt poor, \xe2\x80\x94 that Hanoverian thing \n\nRewards his soldiers ill." \xe2\x80\x94 " God save the king ! " \n\nWith hand upon his heart, old Allan said, \n\n\' l I wear his uniform, I eat his bread, \n\nAnd whilst I \'ve tooth to bite a cartridge, all \n\nFor him and Britain\'s fame I \'11 stand or fall." \n\n" Bravo ! " cried Ronald. " I commend your zeal," \n\nQuoth Norman, " and I see your heart is leal ; \n\nBut I have prayed my soul may never thrive \n\nIf thou shouldst leave this house of ours alive. \n\nNor shalt thou ; in this home protract thy breath \n\nOf easy life, nor leave it till thy death." \n\n\n\nThe following morn arose serene as glass, \nAnd red Bennevis shone like molten brass ; \nWhile sunrise opened flowers with gentle force. \nThe guest and Ronald walked in long discourse. \n" Words fail me," Allan said, " to thank aright \nYour father\'s kindness shown me yesternight ; \nYet scarce I \'d wish my latest days to spend \nA fireside fixture with the dearest friend : \nBesides, I \'ve but a fortnight\'s furlough now, \nTo reach Macallin More,* beyond Lochawe. \nI \'d fain memorialize the powers that be, \nTo deign remembrance of my wounds and me ; \nMy life-long service never bore the brand \nOf sentence \xe2\x80\x94 lash \xe2\x80\x94 disgrace or reprimand. \nAnd so I \'ve written, though in meagre style, \nA long petition to his Grace Argyle ; \n\n* The Duke of Argyle. \n\n\n\nTHE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. **365 \n\nI mean, on reaching Innerara\'s shore, \n\nTo leave it safe within his castle door." \n\n" Nay," Ronald said, " the letter that you bear, \n\nIntrust it to no lying varlet\'s care ; \n\nBut say a soldier of King George demands \n\nAccess, to leave it in the Duke\'s own hands. \n\nBut show me, first, the epistle to your chief ; \n\n\'Tis naught, unless succinctly clear and brief; \n\nGreat men have no great patience when they read, \n\nAnd long petitions spoil the cause they plead." \n\nThat day saw Ronald from the field full soon \nReturn ; and when they all had dined at noon, \nHe conned the old man\'s memorial \xe2\x80\x94 lopped its length, \nAnd gave it style, simplicity, and strength ; \n\'Twas finished in an hour \xe2\x80\x94 and in the next \nTranscribed by Allan in perspicuous text. \nAt evening, he and Ronald shared once more \nA long and pleasant walk by Cona\'s shore. \n"I\'d press you," quoth his host \xe2\x80\x94 (" I need not say \nHow warmly) evermore with us to stay ; \nBut Charles intends, \'t is said, in these same parts \nTo try the fealty of our Highland hearts. \n\'T is my belief, that he and all his line \nHave \xe2\x80\x94 saving to be hanged \xe2\x80\x94 no right divine ; \nFrom whose mad enterprise can only flow \nTo thousands slaughter, and to myriads woe. \nYet have they stirred my father\'s spirit sore, \nHe flints his pistols \xe2\x80\x94 whets his old claymore \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd longs as ardently to join the fray \nAs boy to dance who hears the bagpipe play. \n31* \n\n\n\nTHE BILGMM OF GLENCOE. \n\nThough calm one day, the next, disdaining rule, \n\nHe \'d gore your red coat like an angry bull : \n\nI told him, and he owned it might be so. \n\nYour tempers never could in concert flow. \n\nBut \'Mark,\' he added, \' Ronald ! from our door \n\nLet not this guest depart forlorn and poor ; \n\nLet not your souls the niggardness evince \n\nOf lowland pedler, or of German prince ; \n\nHe gave you life \xe2\x80\x94 then feed him as you \'d feed \n\nYour very father were he cast in need.\' \n\nHe gave \xe2\x80\x94 you \'11 find it by your bed to-night \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA leathern purse of crowns, all sterling bright : \n\nYou see I do you kindness not by stealth. \n\nMy wife \xe2\x80\x94 no advocate of squandering wealth \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nVows that it would be parricide, or worse, \n\nShould we neglect you \xe2\x80\x94 here ; s a silken purse, \n\nSome golden pieces through the network shine, \n\n\'T is proffered to you from her heart and mine. \n\nBut come ! no foolish delicacy, no ! \n\nWe own, but cannot cancel what we owe \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThis sum shall duly reach you once a year." \n\nPoor Allan\'s furrowed face and flowing tear \n\nConfessed sensations which he could not speak. \n\nOld Norman bade him farewell kindly meek. \n\nAt morn, the smiling dame rejoiced to pack \nWith viands full the old soldier\'s haversack. \nHe feared not hungry grass* with such a load, \nAnd Ronald saw him miles upon his road. \n\n* When the hospitable Highlanders load a parting guest with provisions, \nthey tell him he will need them, as he has to go over a great deal of hungry \ngrass. \n\n\n\nTHE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 367 \n\nA march of three days brought him to Lochfyne. \nArgyle, struck with his manly look benign, \nAnd feeling interest in the veteran\'s lot. \nCreated him a sergeant on the spot \xe2\x80\x94 \nAn invalid, to serve not \xe2\x80\x94 but with pay \n(A mighty sum to him), twelve-pence a day. \n" But have you heard not," said Macallin More, \n" Charles Stuart \'s landed on Eriska\'s shore, \nAnd Jacobites are arming ?." \xe2\x80\x94 " What ! indeed ! \nArrived ! then I\'mno more an invalid ; \nMy new-got halbert I must straight employ \nIn battle." \xe2\x80\x94 "As you please, old gallant boy : \nYour gray hairs well might plead excuse, \'t is true, \nBut now \'s the time we want such men as you." \nIn brief, at Innerara Allan staid, \nAnd joined the banners of Argyle\'s brigade. \n\nMeanwhile, the old choleric shepherd of Glencoe \nSpurned all advice, and girt himself to go. \nWhat was \'t to him that foes would poind their fold, \nTheir lease, their very beds beneath them sold ! \nAnd firmly to his text he would have kept, \nThough Ronald argued and his daughter wept. \nBut \'midst the impotence of tears and prayer, \nChance snatched them from proscription and despair. \nOld Norman\'s blood was headward wont to mount \nToo rapid from his heart\'s impetuous fount ; \nAnd one day, whilst the German rats he cursed, \nAn artery in his wise sensorium burst. \nThe lancet saved him ; but how changed, alas ! \nFrom him who fought at Killiecrankie\'s pass ! \n\n\n\nTHE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. \n\nTame as a spaniel, timid as a child. \nHe muttered incoherent words and smiled ; \nHe wept at kindness, rolled a vacant eye, \nAnd laughed full often when he meant to cry. \nPoor man ! whilst in this lamentable state, \nCame Allan back one morning to his gate, \nHale and unburdened by the woes of eild, \nAnd fresh with credit from Culloden\'s field. \n\'T was feared at first the sight of him might touch \nThe old Macdonald\'s morbid mind too much; \nBut no ! though Norman knew him, and disclosed \nEven rallying memory, he was still composed ; \nAsked all particulars of the fatal fight, \nAnd only heaved a sigh for Charles\'s flight : \nThen said, with but one moment\'s pride of air, \nIt might not have been so had I been there ! \nFew days elapsed till he reposed beneath \nHis gray cairn, on the wild and lonely heath ; \nSon, friends and kindred, of his dust took leave, \nAnd Allan, with the crape bound round his sleeve. \n\nOld Allan now hung up his sergeant\'s sword, \nAnd sat, a guest for life, at Ronald\'s board. \nHe waked no longer at the barrack\'s drum, \nYet still you \'d see, when peep of day was come, \nThe erect tall red-coat, walking pastures round, \nOr delving with his spade the garden ground. \nOf cheerful temper, habits strict and sage, \nHe reached, enjoyed, a patriarchal age \xe2\x80\x94 \nLoved to the last by the Macdonalds. Near \nTheir house his stone was placed with many a tear ; \nAnd Ronald\'s self, in stoic virtue brave, \nScorned not to weep at Allan Campbell\'s grave. \n\n\n\nNAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR. 369 \n\n\n\nNAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR.* \n\nI loye contemplating; apart \n\nFrom all bis homicidal glory, \nThe traits that soften to our heart \n\nNapoleon\'s story ! \n\n\'Twas when his banners at Boulogne \nArmed in our island every freeman, \n\nHis navy chanced to capture one \nPoor British seaman. \n\nThey suffered him \xe2\x80\x94 I know not how \xe2\x80\x94 \nUnprisoned on the shore to roam ; \n\nAnd aye was bent his longing brow \nOn England\'s home. \n\nHis eye, methinks, pursued the flight \nOf birds to Britain half-way over ; \n\nWith envy they could reach the white, \nDear cliffs of Dover. \n\nA stormy midnight watch, he thought, \nThan this sojourn would have been dearer, \n\nIf but the storm his vessel brought \nTo England nearer. \n\nAt last, when care had banished sleep, \nHe saw one morning \xe2\x80\x94 dreaming \xe2\x80\x94 doting, \n\nAn empty hogshead from the deep \nCome shoreward floating : \n\n* This anecdote has been published in several public journals, both \nFrench and British. My belief in its authenticity was confirmed by an \nEnglishman, long resident at Boulogne, lately telling me that he remem- \nbered the circumstance to have been generally talked of in the place. \n\n\n\n370 NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR. \n\nHe hid it in a cave, and wrought \nThe live-long day laborious ; lurking \n\nUntil he launched a tiny boat \nBy mighty working. \n\nHeaven help us ! \'twas a thing beyond \nDescription wretched ; such a wherry \n\nPerhaps ne\'er ventured on a pond, \nOr crossed a ferry. \n\nFor ploughing in the salt-sea field, \n\nIt would have made the boldest shudder ; \n\nUntarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled, \nNo sail \xe2\x80\x94 no rudder. \n\nFrom neighboring woods he interlaced \nHis sorry skiff with wattled willows ; \n\nAnd thus equipped he would have passed \nThe foaming billows \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBut Frenchmen caught him on the beach, \nHis little Argo sorely jeering : \n\nTill tidings of him chanced to reach \nNapoleon\'s hearing. \n\nWith folded arms Napoleon stood, \nSerene alike in peace and danger ; \n\nAnd, in his wonted attitude, \nAddressed the stranger : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n"Rash man, that would\' st yon Channel pass \nOn twigs and staves so rudely fashioned ; \n\nThy heart with some sweet British lass \nMust be impassioned." \n\n\n\nBENLOMOND. 371 \n\n"I have no sweetheart," said the lad; \n\n" But \xe2\x80\x94 absent long from one another \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x96\xa0 \nGreat was the longing that I had \n\nTo see my mother." \n\n" And so thou shalt," Napoleon said, \n" Ye \'ve both my favor fairly won ; \n\nA noble mother must have bred \nSo brave a son." \n\nHe gave the tar a piece of gold, \n\nAnd, with a flag of truce, commanded \n\nHe should be shipped to England Old, \nAnd safely landed. \n\nOur sailor oft could scantily shift \nTo find a dinner, plain and hearty ; \n\nBut never changed the coin and gift \nOf Bonaparte. \n\n\n\nBENLOMOND. \n\n\n\nHadst thou a genius on thy peak, \nWhat tales, white-headed Ben, \n\nCouldst thou of ancient ages speak, \nThat mock the historian\'s pen ! \n\nThy long duration makes our lives \nSeem but so many hours ; \n\nAnd likens to the bees\' frail hives \nOur most stupendous towers. \n\n\n\n372 THE CHILD AND HIND. \n\nTemples and towers thou \'st seen begun, \nNew creeds, new conquerors\' sway ; \n\nAnd, like their shadows in the sun, \nHast seen them swept away. \n\nThy steadfast summit, heaven-allied \n(Unlike life\'s little span), \n\nLooks down, a Mentor, on the pride \nOf perishable man. \n\n\n\nTHE CHILD AND HIND. \n\nI wish I had preserved a copy of the Wiesbaden newspaper in which this anecdote of \nthe " Child and Hind" is recorded ; but I have unfortunately lost it. The story, however, \nis a matter of fact ; it took place in 1838 ; every circumstance mentioned in the following \nballad literally happened. I was in Wiesbaden eight months ago, and was shown the \nvery tree under which the boy was found sleeping with a bunch of flowers in his little \nhand. A similar occurrence is told by tradition, of Queen Genevova\'s child being pre- \nserved by being suckled by a female deer, when that princess \xe2\x80\x94 an early Christian, and \nnow a Saint in the Romish calendar \xe2\x80\x94 was chased to the desert by her heathen enemies. \nThe spot assigned to the traditionary event is not a hundred miles from Wiesbaden, \nwhere a chapel still stands to her memory. \n\nI could not ascertain whether the Hind that watched my hero " Wilhelm " suckled him \nor not ; but it was generally believed that she had no milk to give him, and that the boy \nmust have been for two days and a half entirely without food, unless it might be grass or \nleaves. If this was the case, the circumstance of the Wiesbaden deer watching the child \nwas a still more wonderful token of instinctive fondness than that of the deer in the \nGenevova tradition, who was naturally anxious to be relieved of her milk. \n\nCome, maids and matrons, to caress \nWiesbaden\'s gentle hind ; \nAnd, smiling, deck its glossy neck \nWith forest flowers entwined. \n\nYour forest flowers are fair to show, \nAnd landscapes to enjoy ; \nBut fairer is your friendly doe \nThat watched the sleeping boy. \n\n\n\nTHE CHILD AND HIND. 373 \n\n\'T was after church \xe2\x80\x94 on Ascension day \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhen organs ceased to sound, \nWiesbaden\'s people crowded gay \nThe deer-park\'s pleasant ground. \n\nThere, where Elysian meadows smile, \nAnd noble trees upshoot, \nThe wild thyme and the camomile \nSmell sweetly at their root ; \n\nThe aspen quivers nervously, \n\nThe oak stands stilly bold \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd climbing bindweed hangs on high \n\nHis bells of beaten gold. \n\nNor stops the eye till mountains shine \nThat bound a spacious view, \nBeyond the lordly, lovely Rhine, \nIn visionary blue. \n\nThere, monuments of ages dark \nAwaken thoughts sublime ; \nTill, swifter than the steaming bark, \nWe mount the stream of time. \n\nThe ivy there old castles shades \n\nThat speak traditions high \n\nOf minstrels \xe2\x80\x94 tournaments \xe2\x80\x94 crusades, \n\nAnd mail-clad chivalry. \n\n\xe2\x99\xa6 \n\nHere came a twelve years\' married pair \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd with them wandered free \nSeven sons and daughters, blooming fair, \nA gladsome sight to see. \n32 \n\n\n\n374 THE CHILD AND HIND. \n\nTheir Wilhelm, little innocent, \nThe youngest of the seven. \nWas beautiful as painters paint \nThe cherubim of Heaven. \n\nBy turns, he gave his hand, so clear. \nTo parent, sister, brother ; \nAnd each, that he was safe and near. \nConfided in the other. \n\nBut Wilhelm loved the field-ilowers bright, \nWith love beyond all measure ; \nAnd culled them with as keen delight \nAs misers gather treasure. \n\nUnnoticed, he contrived to glide \nAdown a greenwood alley, \nBy lilies lured, that grew beside \nA streamlet in the valley ; \n\nAnd there, where under beech and birch \nThe rivulet meandered, \nHe strayed, till neither shout nor search \nCould track where he had wandered. \n\nStill louder, with increasing dread, \nThey called his darling name ; \n\nBut \'t was like speaking to the dead \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAn echo only came. \n\nHours passed till evening\'s beetle roams, \nAnd blackbird\'s songs begin ; \nThen all went back to happy homes. \nSave Wilhelm\' s kith and kin. \n\n\n\nTHE CHILD AND HIND. 375 \n\nThe night came on \xe2\x80\x94 all others slept \nTheir cares away till morn ; \nBut, sleepless, all night watched and wept \nThat family forlorn. \n\nBetimes the town-crier had been sent \nWith loud bell up and down ; \nAnd told the afflicting accident \nThroughout Wiesbaden\'s town : \n\nThe father, too, ere morning smiled, \nHad all his wealth uncoffered ; \nAnd to the wight would bring his child \nA thousand crowns had offered. \n\nDear friends, who would have blushed to take \nThat guerdon from his hand, \nSoon joined in groups \xe2\x80\x94 for pity\'s sake, \nThe child- exploring band. \n\nThe news reached Nassau\'s Duke : ere earth \nWas gladdened by the lark, \nHe sent a hundred soldiers forth \nTo ransack all his park. \n\nTheir side-arms glittered through the wood, \nWith bugle-horns to sound ; \nWould that on errand half so good \nThe soldier oft were found ! \n\nBut though they roused up beast and bird \nFrom many a nest and den, \nNo signal of success was heard \nFrom all the hundred men. \n\n\n\n376 THE CHILD AND HIND. \n\nA second morning\'s light expands, \nUnfound the infant fair ; \nAnd Wilhelm\'s household wring their hands, \nAbandoned to despair. \n\nBut, haply, a poor artisan \nSearched ceaselessly, till he \nPound safe asleep the little one, \nBeneath a beechen tree. \n\nHis hand still grasped a bunch of flowers ; \nAnd (true, though wondrous) near, \nTo sentry his reposing hours, \nThere stood a female deer \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWho dipped her horns at all that passed * \nThe spot where Wilhelm lay ; \nTill force was had to hold her fast, \nAnd bear the boy away. \n\nHail, sacred love of childhood \xe2\x80\x94 hail ! \nHow sweet it is to trace \nThine instinct in Creation\'s scale, \nEven \'neath the human race ! \n\nTo this poor wanderer of the wild \nSpeech, reason, were unknown \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd yet she watched a sleeping child \nAs if it were her own ; \n\nAnd thou, Wiesbaden\'s artisan, \nRestorer of the boy, \n\n*The female deer has no such antlers as the male, and sometimes no \nhorns at all; but I have observed many with short ones suckling their \nfawns. \n\n\n\nTHE JILTED NYMPH. 377 \n\nWas ever welcomed mortal man \nWith such a burst of joy 9 \n\nThe father\'s ecstasy \xe2\x80\x94 the mother\'s \nHysteric bosom\'s swell ; \nThe sisters\' sobs \xe2\x80\x94 the shout of brothers, \nI have not power to tell. \n\nThe working man, with shoulders broad, \nTook blithely to his wife \nThe thousand crowns ; a pleasant load, \nThat made him rich for life. \n\nAnd Nassau\'s Duke the favorite took \nInto his deer-park\'s centre, \nTo share a field with other pets, \nWhere deer-slayer cannot enter. \n\nThere, whilst thou cropp\'st thy flowery food, \nEach hand shall pat thee kind ; \nAnd man shall never spill thy blood \xe2\x80\x94 \nWiesbaden\'s gentle hind ! \n\n\n\nTHE JILTED NYMPH. \n\nA SONG, \n[To the Scotch tune of " Woo\'d and married and a\'."] \n\nI\'m jilted, forsaken, outwitted; \n\nYet think not I \'11 whimper or brawl \nThe lass is alone to be pitied \n\nWho ne\'er has been courted at all : \n\n32* \n\n\n\n378 THE JILTED NYMPH. \n\nNever, by great or small, \nWooed or jilted at all ; \n\n0, how unhappy 5 s the lass \nWho has never been courted at all ! \n\nMy brother called out the dear faithless, \n\nIn fits I was ready to fall, \nTill I found a policeman who, scatheless, \n\nSwore them both to the peace at Guildhall j \nSeized them, seconds and all \xe2\x80\x94 \nPistols, powder and ball ; \n\nI wished him to die my devoted, \nBut not in a duel to sprawl. \n\nWhat though at my heart he has tilted, \n\nWhat though I have met with a fall ? \nBetter be courted and jilted, \n\nThan never be courted at all. \nWooed and jilted and all, \nStill I will dance at the ball ; \n\nAnd waltz and quadrille \n\nWith light heart and heel, \nWith proper young men, and tall. \n\nBut lately I \'ve met with a suitor, \nWhose heart I have gotten in thrall, \n\nAnd I hope soon to tell you in future \nThat I \'m wooed and married and all : \n\nWooed and married and all, \n\nWhat greater bliss can befall ? \n\nAnd you all shall partake of my bridal cake, \n\nWhen I \'m wooed and married and all. \n\n\n\nON THE PORTRAIT OF A FEMALE CHILD. 379 \n\n\n\nON GETTING HOME THE PORTRAIT OF A FEMALE \nCHILD, SEX YEARS OLD. \n\nPAINTED BY EUGENTO LATILLA. \n\nType of the Cherubim above, \nCome, live with me, and be my love ! \nSmile from my wall, dear roguish sprite, \nBy sunshine and by candle-light ; \nFor both look sweetly on thy traits : \nOr, were the Lady Moon to gaze, \nShe \'d welcome thee with lustre bland, \nLike some young fay from Fairyland. \nCast in simplicity\'s own mould, \nHow canst thou be so manifold \nIn sportively distracting charms ? \nThy lips \xe2\x80\x94 thine eyes \xe2\x80\x94 thy little arms \nThat wrap thy shoulders and thy head, \nIn homeliest shawl of netted thread, \nBrown woollen net-work ; yet it seeks \nAccordance with thy lovely cheeks, \nAnd more becomes thy beauty\'s bloom \nThan any shawl from Cashmere\'s loom. \nThou hast not, to adorn thee, girl, \nFlower, link of gold, or gem or pearl \xe2\x80\x94 \nI would not let a ruby speck \nThe peeping whiteness of thy neck : \nThou need\'st no casket, witching elf, \nNo gaud \xe2\x80\x94 thy toilet is thyself; \nNot even a rose-bud from the bower, \nThyself a magnet \xe2\x80\x94 gem and flower. \nMy arch and playful little creature, \nThou hast a mind in every feature ; \n\n\n\n380 THE PARROT, \n\nThy brow, with its disparted locks. \n\nSpeaks language that translation mocks ; \n\nThy lucid eyes so beam with soul, \n\nThey on the canvas seem to roll \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nInstructing both my head and heart \n\nTo idolize the painter\'s art. \n\nHe marshals minds to Beauty\'s feast \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHe is Humanity\'s high priest, \n\nWho proves, by heavenly forms on earth, \n\nHow much this world of ours is worth. \n\nInspire me, child, with visions fair ! \n\nFor children, in Creation, are \n\nThe only things that could be given \n\nBack, and alive \xe2\x80\x94 unchanged \xe2\x80\x94 to Heaven. \n\n\n\nTHE PARROT. \n\nA DOMESTIC ANECDOTE. \n\n\n\nThe following incident, so strongly illustrating the power of memory and association in \nthe lower animals, is not a fiction. I heard it many years ago in the Island of Mull, from \nthe family to whom the bird belonged. \n\nThe deep affections of the breast, \n\nThat Heaven to living things imparts, \n\nAre not exclusively possessed \nBy human hearts. \n\nA parrot, from the Spanish Main, \n\nFull young, and early caged, came o\'er, \n\nWith bright wings, to the bleak domain \nOf Mulla\'s shore. \n\n\n\nNEW ZEALAND COLONISTS\' SONG. 381 \n\nTo spicy groves where he had won \n\nHis plumage of resplendent hue, \nHis native fruits, and skies, and sun, \n\nHe bade adieu. \n\xe2\x80\xa2 \nFor these he changed the smoke of turf, \n\nA heathery land and misty sky, \nAnd turned on rocks and raging surf \n\nHis golden eye. \n\nBut, petted, in our climate cold \n\nHe lived and chattered many a day : \n\nUntil with age, from green and gold \nHis wings grew gray. \n\nAt last, when, blind and seeming dumb, \nHe scolded, laughed, and spoke no more, \n\nA Spanish stranger chanced to come \nTo Mulla\'s shore ; \n\nHe hailed the bird in Spanish speech, \nThe bird in Spanish speech replied, \n\nFlapped round his cage with joyous screech, \nDropt down, and died. \n\n\n\nSONG OF THE COLONISTS DEPARTING FOR \nNEW ZEALAND. \n\nSteer, helmsman, till you steer our way \n\nBy stars beyond the line ; \nWe go to found a realm, one day \n\nLike England\'s self to shine. \n\n\n\n382 NEW ZEALAND COLONISTS\' SONG. \n\n\n\nCheer up \xe2\x80\x94 cheer up \xe2\x80\x94 our course we \'11 keep, \n\nWith dauntless heart and hand ; \nAnd when we \'ve ploughed the stormy deep, \n\nWe \'11 plough a smiling land : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA land where beauties importune \n\nThe Briton to its bowers, \nTo sow but plenteous seeds, and prune \n\nLuxuriant fruits and flowers. \n\nChorus. \xe2\x80\x94 Cheer up \xe2\x80\x94 cheer up, &c. \n\nThere, tracts uncheered by human words, \n\nSeclusion\'s wildest holds, \nShall hear the lowing of our herds, \n\nAnd tinkling of our folds. \n\nChorus. \xe2\x80\x94 Cheer up \xe2\x80\x94 cheer up, &c. \n\nLike rubies set in gold, shall blush \n\nOur vineyards girt with corn ; \nAnd wine, and oil, and gladness gush \n\nFrom Amalthea\'s horn. \n\nChorus.\xe2\x80\x94 Cheer up \xe2\x80\x94 cheer up, &c. \n\nBritannia\'s pride is in our hearts, \n\nHer blood is in our veins \xe2\x80\x94 \nWe \'11 girdle earth with British arts, \n\nLike Ariel\'s magic chains. \n\nCEORUS. \n\nCheer up \xe2\x80\x94 cheer up \xe2\x80\x94 our course we \'11 keep, \n\nWith dauntless heart and hand ; \nAnd when we \'ve ploughed the stormy deep, \n\nWe \'11 plough the smiling land. \n\n\n\nMOONLIGHT. 383 \n\n\n\nMOONLIGHT. \n\n\n\nThe kiss that would make a maid\'s cheek flush, \nWroth, as if kissing were a sin \nAmidst the Argus eyes and din \nAnd tell-tale glare of noon, \nBrings but a murmur and a blush, \nBeneath the modest moon. \n\nYe days, gone \xe2\x80\x94 never to come back, \n\nWhen love returned entranced me so, \n\nThat still its pictures move and glow \n\nIn the dark chamber of my heart ; \n\nLeave not my memory\'s future track \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nI will not let you part. \n\n\'T was moonlight, when my earliest love \nFirst on my bosom dropt her head ; \nA moment then concentrated \nThe bliss of years, as if the spheres \nTheir course had faster driven, \nAnd carried, Enoch-like above, \nA living man to Heaven. \n\n\'T is by the rolling moon we measure \nThe date between our nuptial night \nAnd that blest hour which brings to light \nThe pledge of faith \xe2\x80\x94 the fruit of bliss ; \nWhen we impress upon the treasure \nA father\'s earliest kiss. \n\nThe Moon \'s the Earth\'s enamored bride ; \nTrue to him in her very changes, \nTo other stars she never ranges : \n\n\n\n384 SONG ON OUR QUEEN. \n\nThough, crossed by him, sometimes she dips \nHer light, in short offended pride, \nAnd faints to an eclipse. \n\nThe fairies revel by her sheen ; \n\'T is only when the Moon \'s above \nThe fire-fly kindles into love, \nAnd flashes light to show it : \nThe nightingale salutes her Queen \nOf Heaven, her heavenly poet. \n\nThen ye that love \xe2\x80\x94 by moonlight gloom \nMeet at my grave, and plight regard. \n! could I be the Orphean bard \nOf whom it is reported, \nThat nightingales sung o\'er his tomb, \nWhilst lovers came and courted. \n\n\n\nSONG ON OUR QUEEN. \n\nSET TO MUSIC BY CHARLES NEATE, ESQ. \n\nVictoria\'s sceptre o\'er the deep \n\nHas touched, and broken slavery\'s chain \n\nYet, strange magician,! she enslaves \nOur hearts within her own domain. \n\nHer spirit is devout, and burns \nWith thoughts averse to bigotry ; \n\nYet she herself, the idol, turns \nOur thoughts into idolatry. . \n\n\n\nCORA LINN. 385 \n\n\n\nCORA LINN, OR THE FALLS OF THE CLYDE. \n\nWRITTEN ON REVISITING IT IN 1837. \n\nThe time I saw thee, Cora, last, \n\'T was with congenial friends ; \nAnd calmer hours of pleasure past \xe2\x80\x94 \nMy memory seldom sends. \n\nIt was as sweet an Autumn day \nAs ever shone on Clyde, \nAnd Lanark\'s orchards all the way \nPut forth their golden pride ; \n\nEven hedges, busked in bravery, \nLooked rich that sunny morn ; \nThe scarlet hip and blackberry \nSo pranked September\'s thorn. \n\nIn Cora\'s glen the calm how deep ! \nThat trees on loftiest hill \nLike statues stood, or things asleep, \nAll motionless and still. \n\nThe torrent spoke, as if his noise \nBade earth be quiet round, \nAnd give his loud and lonely voice \nA more commanding sound. \n\nHis foam, beneath the yellow light \nOf noon, came down like one \nContinuous sheet of jaspers bright, \nBroad rolling by the sun. \n33 \n\n\n\n386 CHAUCER AND WINDSOR. \n\nDear Linn ! let loftier falling floods \nHave prouder names than thine ; \nAnd king of all, enthroned in woods, \nLet Niagara shine. \n\nBarbarian, let him shake his coasts \nWith reeking thunders far, \nExtended like the array of hosts \nIn broad, embattled war ! \n\nHis voice appals the wilderness : \nApproaching thine, we feel \nA solemn, deep melodiousness, \nThat needs no louder peal. \n\nMore fury would but disenchant \nThy dream-inspiring din ; \nBe thou the Scottish Muse\'s haunt, \nRomantic Cora Linn ! \n\n\n\nCHAUCER AND WINDSOR. \n\nLong shalt thou flourish, Windsor ! bodying forth \n\nChivalric times, and long shall live around \n\nThy Castle the old oaks of British birth, \n\nWhose gnarled roots, tenacious and profound, \n\nAs with a lion\'s talons grasp the ground. \n\nBut should thy towers in ivied ruin rot, \n\nThere \'s one, thine inmate once, whose strain renowned \n\nWould interdict thy name to be forgot ; \n\nFor Chaucer loved thy bowers and trode this very spot. \n\n\n\nlines. 387 \n\nChaucer ! our Helicon\'s first fountain-stream, \n\nOur morning star of song \xe2\x80\x94 that led the way \n\nTo welcome the long-after coming beam \n\nOf Spenser\'s light and Shakspeare\'s perfect day. \n\nOld England\'s fathers live in Chaucer\'s lay, \n\nAs if they ne\'er had died. He grouped and drew \n\nTheir likeness with a spirit of life so gay, \n\nThat still they live and breathe in Fancy\'s view, \n\nFresh beings fraught with Truth\'s imperishable hue. \n\n\n\nLINES \n\nSUGGESTED BY THE STATUE OF ARNOLD VON WLNKELRIED,* \nST ANZ-UNDERWALDEN . \n\nInspiring and romantic Switzers\' land, \nThough marked with majesty by Nature\'s hand, \nWhat charm ennobles most thy landscape\'s face ? \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe heroic memory of thy native race, \nWho forced tyrannic hosts to bleed or flee, \nAnd made their rocks the ramparts of the free ; \nTheir fastnesses rolled back the invading tide \nOf conquest, and their mountains taught them pride. \nHence they have patriot names \xe2\x80\x94 in Fancy\'s eye, \nBright as their glaciers glittering in the sky ; \nPatriots who make the pageantries of kings \nLike shadows seem and unsubstantial things. \nTheir guiltless glory mocks oblivion\'s rust, \nImperishable, for their cause was just. \n\n* For an account of this patriotic Swiss, and his heroic death at the \nbattle of Senipach, see Dr. Beattie\'s "Switzerland Illustrated," vol. ii. \npp. Ill \xe2\x80\x94 115. See also note at the end of this Tolume. \n\n\n\n388 TO THE UNITED STATES. \xe2\x80\x94 LINES. \n\nHeroes of old ! to whom the Nine have strung \nTheir lyres, and spirit-stirring anthems sung ; \nHeroes of chivalry ! whose banners grace \nThe aisles of many a consecrated place. \nConfess how few of you can match in fame \nThe martyr Winkelried\'s immortal name ! \n\n\n\nTO THE UNITED STATES OF NORTH AMERICA. \n\nUnited States, your banner wears \n\nTwo emblems \xe2\x80\x94 one of fame ; \nAlas ! the other that it bears \n\nReminds us of your shame. \n\nYour standard\'s constellation types \n\nWhite freedom by its stars ; \nBut what\'s the meaning of the stripes? \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThey mean your negroes\' scars. \n\n\n\nLINES ON MY NEW CHILD-SWEETHEART. \n\nI hold it a religious duty \nTo love and worship children\'s beauty; \nThey \'ve least the taint of earthly clod, \nThey \'re freshest from the hand of God ; \nWith heavenly looks they make us sure \nThe heaven that made them must be pure. \nWe love them not in earthly fashion, \nBut with a beatific passion. \n\n\n\nLINES. 389 \n\nI chanced to, yesterday, behold \nA maiden child of beauty\'s mould ; \n\'T was near, more sacred was the scene, \nThe palace of our patriot Queen. \nThe little charmer to my view \nWas sculpture brought to life anew. \nHer eyes had a poetic glow, \nHer pouting mouth was Cupid\'s bow : \nAnd through her frock I could descry \nHer neck and shoulders\' symmetry. \n\'T was obvious from her walk and gait \nHer limbs were beautifully straight ; \nI stopped the enchantress, and was told, \nThough tall, she was but four years old. \nHer guide so grave an aspect wore \nI could not ask a question more : \nBut followed her. The little one \nThrew backward ever and anon \nHer lovely neck, as if to say, \n" I know you love me, Mister Grey ; " \nFor by its instinct childhood\'s eye \nIs shrewd in physiognomy ; \nThey well distinguish fawning art \nFrom sterling fondness of the heart \n\nAnd so she flirted, like a true \nGood woman, till we bade adieu. \n\'T was then I with regret grew wild, \n0, beauteous, interesting child ! \nWhy asked I not thy home and name ? \nMy courage failed me \xe2\x80\x94 more \'s the shame. \n\n\n\n390 THE LAUNCH OF A FIRST-RATE. \n\nBut where abides this jewel rare ? \n0, ye that own her, tell me where ! \nFor sad it makes my heartand sore \nTo think I ne\'er may meet her more. \n\n\n\nTHE LAUNCH OF A FIRST-RATE. \n\nWRITTEN ON WITNESSING THE SPECTACLE. \n\nEngland hails thee with emotion. \n\nMightiest child of naval art, \nHeaven resounds thy welcome ! Ocean \n\nTakes thee smiling to his heart. \n\nGiant oaks of bold expansion \nO\'er seven hundred acres fell, \n\nAll to build thy noble mansion, \n\nWhere our hearts of oak shall dwell. \n\n\'Midst those trees the wild deer bounded, \nAges long ere we were born, \n\nAnd our great-grandfathers sounded \nMany a jovial hunting-horn. \n\nOaks that living did inherit \nGrandeur from our earth and sky, \n\nStill robust, the native spirit \nIn your timbers shall not die. \n\nShip to shine in martial story, \n\nThou shalt cleave the ocean\'s path \n\nFreighted with Britannia\'s glory \nAnd the thunders of her wrath. \n\n\n\nEPISTLE FROM ALGIERS. 391 \n\nFoes shall crowd their sails and fly thee, \n\nThreatening havoc to their deck, \nWhen afar they first descry thee, \n\nLike the coming whirlwind\'s speck. \n\nGallant bark ! thy pomp and beauty \n\nStorm or battle ne\'er shall blast, \nWhilst our tars in pride and duty \n\nNail thy colors to the mast. \n\n\n\nEPISTLE FKOM ALGIERS, \n\nTO HORACE SMITH. \n\nDear Horace ! be melted to tears, \n\nFor I \'m melting with heat as I rhyme ; \n\nThough the name of the place is All-jeers, \n\'T is no joke to fall in with its clime. \n\nWith a shaver* from France who came o\'er, \n\nTo an African inn I ascend ; \nI am cast on a barbarous shore, \n\nWhere a barber alone is my friend. \n\nDo you ask me the sights and the news \n\nOf this wonderful city to sing 1 \nAlas ! my hotel has its mews, \n\nBut no muse of the Helicon\'s spring. \n\n* On board the vessel from Marseilles to Algiers I met with a fellow- \npassenger whom I supposed to be a physician from his dress and manners, \nand the attentions which he paid me to alleviate the sufferings of my sea- \nsickness. He turned out to be a perruquier and barber in Algeria ; but \nhis vocation did not lower him in my estimation \xe2\x80\x94 for he continued his \nattentions until he passed my baggage through the customs, and helped \nme, when half dead with exhaustion, to the best hotel. \n\n\n\n392 EPISTLE FROM ALGIERS. \n\nMy windows afford me the sight \n\nOf a people all diverse in hue ; \nThey are black, yellow, olive, and white, \n\nWhilst I in my sorrow look blue. \n\nHere are groups for the painter to take, \nWhose figures jocosely combine, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe Arab disguised in his haik, \n\nAnd the Frenchman disguised in his wine. \n\nIn his breeches of petticoat size \n\nYou may say, as the Mussulman goes, \n\nThat his garb is a fair compromise \n\n\'Twixt a kilt and a pair of small-clothes. \n\nThe Mooresses, shrouded in white, \n\nSave two holes for their eyes to give room, \n\nSeem like corpses in sport or in spite \n\nThat have slyly whipped out of their tomb. \n\nThe old Jewish dames make me sick : \n\nIf I were the devil \xe2\x80\x94 I declare \nSuch hags should not mount a broom-stick \n\nIn my service to ride through the air. \n\nBut hipped and undined as I am, \n\nMy hippogriff\'s course I must rein \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFor the pain of my thirst is no sham, \n\nThough I \'m bawling aloud for champagne. \n\nDinner } s brought; but their wines have no pith \xe2\x80\x94 \nThey are flat as the statutes at law ; \n\nAnd for all that they bring me, dear Smith ! \nWould a glass of brown stout they could draw ! \n\n\n\nTO A YOUNG LADY. 393 \n\nO\'er each French trashy dish as I bend, \n\nMy heart feels a patriot\'s grief! \nAnd the round tears, England ! descend \n\nWhen I think on a round of thy beef. \n\nYes, my soul sentimentally craves \nBritish beer. \xe2\x80\x94 Hail, Britannia, hail ! \n\nTo thy flag on the foam of the waves, \nAnd the foam on thy flagons of ale. \n\nYet I own, in this hour of my drought, \nA dessert has most welcomely come ; \n\nHere are peaches that melt in the mouth, \nAnd grapes blue and big as a plum. \n\nThere are melons too, luscious and great, \n\nBut the slices I eat shall be few, \nFor from melons incautiously eat \n\nMelancholic effects may ensue. \n\nHorrid pun ! you \'11 exclaim ; but be calm, \nThough my letter bears date, as you view, \n\nFrom the land of the date-bearing palm, \nI will palm no more puns upon you. \n\n\n\nTO A YOUNG LADY, \n\nWHO ASKED ME TO WRITE SOMETHING ORIGINAL FOR HER ALBUM. \n\nAn original something, fair maid, you would win me \nTo write \xe2\x80\x94 but how shall I begin ? \nFor I fear I have nothing original in me \xe2\x80\x94 \nExcepting Original Sin. \n\n\n\n394 FRAGMENT OF AN ORATORIO. \n\nFRAGMENT OF AN ORATORIO, \n\nFROM THE BOOK OF JOB. \n\nHaving met my illustrious friend, the composer Neukomm, at Algiers, several years \nago, I commenced this intended Oratorio at hi3 desire $ but he left the place before I pro- \nceeded further in the poem, and it has been thus left unfinished. \n\nCrushed by misfortune\'s yoke, \nJob lamentably spoke \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n"My boundless curse be on \nThe day that I was born ; \nQuenched be the star that shone \nUpon my natal morn ! \nIn the grave I long \nTo shroud my breast ; \nWhere the wicked cease to wrong, \nAnd the weary are at rest." \nThen Eliphaz rebuked his wild despair : \n\n" What Heaven ordains \'t is meet that man should bear. \nLately, at midnight drear, \nA vision shook my bones with fear ; \nA spirit passed before my face, \nAnd yet its form I could not trace ; \nIt stopped \xe2\x80\x94 it stood \xe2\x80\x94 it chilled my blood, \nThe hair upon my flesh uprose \nWith freezing dread ! \nDeep silence reigned, and, at its close, \nI heard a voice that said \xe2\x80\x94 \n\' Shall mortal man be more pure and just \nThan God, who made him from the dust ? \nHast thou not learnt, of old, how fleet \nIs the triumph of the hypocrite ; \n\n\n\nFRAGMENT OF AN ORATORIO. 395 \n\nHow soon the wreath of joy grows wan \n\nOn the brow of the ungodly man ? \n\nBy the fire of his conscience he perisheth \n\nIn an unblown flame : \n\nThe Earth demands his death, \n\nAnd the Heavens reveal his shame.\' " \n\nJOB. \n\nIs this your consolation ? \n\nIs it thus that ye condole \n\nWith the depth of my desolation, \n\nAnd the anguish of my soul 1 \n\nBut I will not cease to wail . , \n\nThe bitterness of my bale. \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMan that is born of woman, \n\nShort and evil is his hour ; \n\nHe fleeth like a shadow, \n\nHe fadeth like a flower. \n\nMy days are passed \xe2\x80\x94 my hope and trust \n\nIs but to moulder in the dust. \n\n\n\nBow, mortal, bow, before thy God, \n\nNor murmur at his chastening rod ; \n\nFragile being of earthly clay, \n\nThink on God\'s eternal sway ! \n\nHark ! from the whirlwind forth \n\nThy Maker speaks \xe2\x80\x94 " Thou child of earth, \n\nWhere wert thou when I laid \n\nCreation\'s corner-stone ? \n\nWhen the sons of God rejoicing made, \n\nAnd the morning stars together sang and shone 1 \n\n\n\n396 \n\n\n\nHadst thou power to bid above \n\nHeaven\'s constellations glow ; \n\nOr shape the forms that live and move \n\nOn Nature\'s face below? \n\nHast thou given the horse his strength and pride ? \n\nHe paws the valley, with nostril wide \n\nHe smells far off the battle ; \n\nHe neighs at the trumpet\'s sound \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd his speed devours the ground. \n\nAs he sweeps to where the quivers rattle, \n\nAnd the spear and shield shine bright, \n\n\'Midst the shouting of the captains \n\nAnd the thunder of the fight. \n\n\n\nTO MY NIECE, MARY CAMPBELL. \n\nOur friendship \'s not a stream to dry, \n\nOr stop with angry jar ; \nA life-long planet in our sky \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNo meteor-shooting star. \n\nThy playfulness and pleasant ways \nShall cheer my wintry track, \n\nAnd give my old declining days \nA second summer back. \n\nProud honesty protects our lot, \nNo dun infests our bowers : \n\nWealth\'s golden lamps illumine not \nBrows more content than ours. \n\n\n\nTO MY NIECE, MARY CAMPBELL. 397 \n\nTo think, too, thy remembrance fond \n\nMay love me after death, \nGives fancied happiness beyond \n\nMy lease of living breath. \n\nMeanwhile thine intellects presage \n\nA life-time rich in truth, \nAnd make me feel the advance of age \n\nRetarded by thy youth ! \n\nGood-night ! propitious dreams betide \n\nThy sleep - \xe2\x80\x94 awaken gay, \nAnd we will make to-morrow glide \n\nAs cheerful as to-day ! \n34 \n\n\n\nFUGITIVE POEMS, \n\n\n\nNOT INCLUDED IN THE AUTHOR\'S EDITIONS. \n\n\n\nFUGITIVE POEMS. \n\n\n\nQUEEN OF THE NORTH. \n\nA FRAGMENT. \n\nYet, ere Oblivion shade each fairy scene, \n\nEre capes and cliffs and waters intervene, \n\nEre distant walks my pilgrim feet explore, \n\nBy Elbe\'s slow wanderings, and the Danish shore,- \n\nStill to my country turns my partial view, \n\nThat seems the dearest at the last adieu ! \n\nYe lawns, and grottos of the clustered plain ; \nYe mountain- walks, Edina\'s green domain ; \nHaunts of my youth, where, oft, by Fancy drawn, \nAt vermeil eve, still noon, or shady dawn, \nMy soul, secluded from the deafening throng, \nHas wooed the bosom-prompted power of song : \nAnd thou, my loved abode, \xe2\x80\x94 romantic ground, \nWith ancient towers and spiry summits crowned ! - \nHome of the polished arts and liberal mind. \nBy truth and taste enlightened and refined ! \xe2\x80\x94 \nThou scene of Scotland\'s glory, now decayed, \nWhere once her Senate and her Sceptre swayed, \xe2\x80\x94 \n34* \n\n\n\n402 QUEEN OF THE NORTH. \n\nAs round thy mouldered monuments of fame \nTradition points an emblem and a name, \nLo ! what a group Imagination brings \nOf starred barons, and of throned kings ! \nDeparted days in bright succession start, \nAnd all the patriot kindles in my heart ! \n\n\n\nEven musing here, beside the Druid-stone, \nWhere British Arthur built his airy throne, \nFar as my sight can travel o\'er the scene, \nFrom Lomond\'s height to Roslin\'s lovely green, \xe2\x80\x94 \nOn every moor, wild wood, and mountain-side, \nFrom Forth\' s fair windings to the ocean tide, \xe2\x80\x94 \nOn each, the legendary loves to tell, \n"Where chiefs encountered and the mighty fell ; \nEach war-worn turret on the distant shore \nSpeaks like a herald of the feats of yore ; \nAnd though the shades of dark Oblivion frown \nOn sacred scenes and deeds of high renown, \nYet still some oral tale \xe2\x80\x94 some chanted rhyme \xe2\x80\x94 \nShall mark the spot, and teach succeeding time \nHow oft our fathers \xe2\x80\x94 to their country true \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe glorious sword of Independence drew ; \nHow well their plaided clans, in battle tried, \nImpenetrably stood, or greatly died ; \nHow long the genius of their rights delayed, \nHow sternly guarded, and how late betrayed. \nFair fields of Roslin \xe2\x80\x94 memorable name ! \nAttest my words, and speak my country\'s fame ! \nSoft as yon mantling haze of distance broods \nAround thy waterfalls and aged woods, \n\n\n\nQUEEN OE THE NORTH. 403 \n\nThe south sun checkers all thy birchen glade \n\nWith glimmering lights and deep-retiring shade ; \n\nFresh coverts of the dale, so dear to tread. \n\nWhen morn\'s wild blackbird carols overhead ; \n\nOr, when the sunflower shuts her bosom fair, \n\nAnd scented berries breathe delicious air. \n\nDear is thy pastoral haunt to him that woos \n\nRomantic Nature \xe2\x80\x94 Silence \xe2\x80\x94 and the Muse ! \n\nBut dearer still, when that returning time \n\nOf fruits and flowers \xe2\x80\x94 the year\'s Elysian prime \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nInvites, one simple festival to crown, \n\nYoung social wanderers from the sultry town ! \n\nAh, me ! \xe2\x80\x94 no sumptuous revelry to share, \nThe cheerful bosom asks, or envies there ; \nNor sighs for gorgeous splendors, such as wait \nOn feasts of wealth, and riots of the great. \nFar sweeter scenes, the live-long summer day, \nOn these wild walks when loved companions stray, \nBut lost in joys of more enchanting flow \nThan tasteless art or luxury bestow. \nHere, in auspicious moments, to impart \nThe first fond breathings of a proffered heart, \nShall favored Love repair, and smiling Youth \nTo gentle Beauty vow the vows of truth. \n\nFair morn ascends, and sunny June has shed \nAmbrosial odors o\'er the garden bed ; \nAnd wild bees seek the cherry\'s sweet perfume, \nOr cluster round the full-blown apple-bloom. \n\n\n\n404 HYMN. \n\nHYMN. \n\nWhen Jordan hushed his waters still, \n\nAnd silence slept on Zion hill, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhen Salem\'s shepherds, through the night, \n\nWatched o\'er their flocks by starry light, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHark ! from the midnight hills around, \n\nA voice, of more than mortal sound, \n\nIn distant hallelujahs stole, \n\nWild murmuring, on the raptured soul. \n\nThen swift, to every startled eye, \n\nNew streams of glory gild the sky ; \n\nHeaven bursts her azure gates, to pour \n\nHer spirits to the midnight hour. \n\nOn wheels of light, and wings of flame, \n\nThe glorious hosts to Zion came. \n\nHigh Heaven with sounds of triumph rung, \n\nAnd thus they smote their harps and sung : \n\nZion ! lift thy raptured eye, \nThe long-expected hour is nigh \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe joys of Nature rise again \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe Prince of Salem comes to reign ! \n\nSee, Mercy, from her golden urn, \nPours a glad stream to them that mourn ; \nBehold, she binds, with tender care, \nThe bleeding bosom of despair. \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHe comes \xe2\x80\x94 He cheers the trembling heart - \nNight and her spectres pale depart : \nAgain the day-star gilds the gloom \xe2\x80\x94 \nAgain the bowers of Eden bloom ! \n\n\n\nCHORUS FROM THE CHOEPHORCB. 405 \n\n0, Zion ! lift thy raptured eye, \nThe long-expected hour is nigh \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe joys of Nature rise again \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe Prince of Salem comes to reign ! \n\n\n\nCHORUS FROM THE CHOEPHORGE. \n\nWRITTEN 1794. \n\nSent from the Mourners\' solitary dome, \nI lead the solemn, long parade of woe ; \nTo lull the sleepless spirit of the tomb, \nAnd hail the mighty Dead, that rest below. \n\nHail, sacred Dead ! a maiden weeps for you ; \nFor you I wake the madness of despair ! \nThe deep-struck wounds of woe my cheeks bedew ; \nI feed my bosom with eternal care. \n\nLo ! where the robes, that once my bosom bound, \nRent by despair, fly waving in the wind ; \nThe ceaseless strokes of anguish rudely sound, \nAs sorrow heaves tumultuous in my mind. \n\nHeard ye wild Horror\'s hair-erecting scream \nReecho, dismal, from his distant cell ? \nHeard ye the Spirit of the mighty dream \nShriek, to the solemn hour, a long-resounding yell ? \n\nThe females heard him, in the haunted hall, \nAs shrill his accents smote the slumbering ear \xe2\x80\x94 \nProphetic accents \xe2\x80\x94 when the proud must fall \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd wrapt in sounds of agonizing fear. \n\n\n\n406 CHORUS FROM THE CHOEPHORCE. \n\nLo ! Wisdom\'s lips your nightly dreams divine, \nAnd read the visions of impending woe ; \nBlood calls for vengeance on a lawless Line ; \nThe murdered spirit shrieks in wrath below. \n\nVain are the gifts the silent mourners send ; \nVain Music\'s fall, to soothe the sullen Dead ; \nThe dark collected clouds of Death impend ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nShall Ruin spare thy long-devoted head ? \n\n0, sacred dust ! 0, Spirit, lingering nigh, \nI bear the gifts of yonder guilty throne ! \nMy trembling lips the unhallowed strain deny ; \nShall mortal man for mortal blood atone ? \n\nMansions of Grief ! a long-impending doom \nO\'erhangs the dark dominions where ye reign ; \nA sunless horror, of unfathomed gloom, \nShall shroud your glory \xe2\x80\x94 for a Master slain. \n\nThe sceptred pomp, ungovernably grand, \nUntamed in battle, in the fields of yore ; \nThat martial glory, blazoned o\'er the land, \nIs fallen \xe2\x80\x94 nor bids the prostrate world adore ! \n\nYet, sure, to bask in Glory\'s golden day, \n\nOr on the lap of Pleasure to repose, \n\nUnvexed to roam on Life\'s bewildered way, \n\nIs more than Earth \xe2\x80\x94 is more than Heaven bestows. \n\nFor Justice, oft, with ready bent arraigns, \nAnd Guilt hath oft deferred his deadly doom \xe2\x80\x94 \nLurked in the twilight\'s slow suspicious pains, \nOr wrapped his deeds in Night\'s eternal gloom. \n\n\n\nELEGY. 407 \n\n\n\nELEGY. \n\nWRITTEN IN MULL. \n\nThe tempest blackens on the dusky moor, \n\nAnd billows lash the long-resounding shore ; \n\nIn pensive mood I roam the desert ground. \n\nAnd vainly sigh for scenes no longer found. \n\n0, whither fled the pleasurable hours \n\nThat chased each care, and fired the Muse\'s powers ; \n\nThe classic haunts of youth, forever gay, \n\nWhere mirth and friendship cheered the close of day ; \n\nThe well-known valleys, where I wont to roam ; \n\nThe native sports, the nameless joys of home ? \n\nFar different scenes allure my wondering eye : \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe white wave foaming to the distant sky ; \nThe cloudy heavens, unblest by summer\'s smile ; \nThe sounding storm, that sweeps the rugged isle; \nThe chill, bleak summit of eternal snow ; \nThe wide, wild glen \xe2\x80\x94 the pathless plains below ; \nThe dark blue rocks, in barren grandeur piled ; \nThe cuckoo, sighing to the pensive wild ! \n\nFar different these from all that charmed before \nThe grassy banks of Clutha\'s winding shore ; \nHer sloping vales, with waving forests lined, \nHer smooth, blue lakes, unruffled by the wind. \n\nHail, happy Clutha ! glad shall I survey \nThy gilded turrets from the distant way ! \nThy sight shall cheer the weary traveller\'s toil, \nAnd joy shall hail me to my native soil. \n\n\n\n408 ON THE GLASGOW VOLUNTEERS. \n\n\n\nON THE GLASGOW VOLUNTEERS. \n\nHark\xe2\x80\x94 -hark ! the fife\'s shrill notes arise ! \n\nAnd ardor beats the martial drum ; \nAnd broad the silken banner flies, \n\nWhere Clutha\'s native squadrons come ! \n\nWhere spreads the green extended plain, \nBy music\'s solemn marches trod, \n\nThick-glancing bayonets mark the train \nThat beat the meadow\'s grassy sod. \n\nThese are no hireling sons of war ! \n\nNo jealous tyrant\'s grimly band, \nThe wish of freedom to debar, \n\nOr scourge a despot\'s injured land ! \n\nNaught but the patriotic view \n\nOf free-born valor ever fired, \nTo baffle Gallia\'s boastful crew, \n\nThe soul of northern breast inspired. \n\n\'T was thus, on Tiber\'s sunny banks, \nWhat time the Volscian ravaged nigh, \n\nTo mark afar her glittering ranks, \nRome\'s towering eagle shone on high. \n\nThere, toil athletic on the field \nIn mock array portrayed alarm, \n\nAnd taught the massy sword to wield, \nAnd braced the nerve of Roman arm. \n\n\n\nON A RURAL BEAUTY IN MULL. 409 \n\nON A RURAL BEAUTY IN MULL. \n\nThe wandering swain, with fond delight, \n\nWould view the daisy smile \nOn Pambemara\'s desert height, \n\nOr Lomond\'s heathy pile. \n\nSo, fixed in rapture and surprise, \n\nI gazed across the plain, \nWhen young Maria met my eyes \n\nAmid the reaper-train. \n\nMethought, shall beauty such as this, \n\nMeek, modest and refined, \nOn Thule\'s shore be doomed to bless \n\nThe shepherd or the hind? \n\nFrom yon bleak mountain\'s barren side \n\nThat gentle forai convey, \nAnd in Golconda\'s sparkling pride \n\nThe shepherdess array. \n\nIn studious Fashion\'s proudest cost \n\nLet artful Beauty shine ; \nThe pride of art could never boast \n\nA fairer form than thine. \n\nYet, simple beauty, never sigh \n\nTo share a prouder lot ; \nNor, caught by grandeur, seek to fly \n\nThe solitary cot ! * \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2AL; 4\xc2\xa3- JZ* -A/, .AL. \n\n-TV -Tv "TV TV TV \n\nThe concluding stanza is illegible in the manuscript. \n\n35 \n\n\n\n410 VERSES ON THE QUEEN OF FRANCE. \n\nVERSES ON THE QUEEN OF FRANCE. \n\nBehold ! where Gallia\'s captive Queen, \nWith steady eye, and look serene, \nIn life\'s last awful \xe2\x80\x94 awful scene, \nSlow leaves her sad captivity ! \n\nHark ! the shrill horn, that rends the sky, \nBespeaks the ready murder nigh ; \nThe long parade of death I spy, \nAnd leave my lone captivity ! \n\nFarewell, ye mansions of despair ! \nScenes of my sad sequestered care ; \nThe balm of bleeding woe is near, \xe2\x80\x94 \nAdieu, my lone captivity ! \n\nTo purer mansions in the sky \nFair Hope directs my grief- worn eye ; \nWhere Sorrow\'s child no more shall sigh, \nAmid her lone captivity ! \n\nAdieu, ye babes, whose infant bloom, \nBeneath Oppression\'s lawless doom, \nPines in the solitary gloom \nOf undeserved captivity ! \n\n0, Power benign, that rul\'st on high ! \nCast down, cast down a pitying eye ! \nShed consolation from the sky, \nTo soothe their sad captivity ! \n\nNow, virtue\'s sure reward to prove, \nI seek emp\'real realms above. \nTo meet my long-departed love, \xe2\x80\x94 \nAdieu, my lone captivity ! \n\n\n\nCHORUS FROM THE TRAGEDY OF JEPHTHES. 411 \n\n\n\nCHORUS FROM THE TRAGEDY OF JEPHTHES. \n\nGlassy Jordan, smooth meandering \n\nJacob\'s flowery meads between ; \nLo ! thy waters gently wandering \n\nLave the valleys rich and green ! \n. When the winter, keenly showering, \n\nStrips fair Salem\'s shade, \nThere thy current, broader pouring, \n\nLingers in the leafless glade. \nWhen, when, shall light, returning, \n\nChase the melancholy gloom, \nAnd the golden star of morning \n\nYonder sable vault illume? \nWhen shall Freedom, holy charmer, \n\nCheer my long-benighted soul? \nWhen shall Israel, fierce in armor, \n\nBurst the tyrant\'s base control ? \nYe that boldly bade defiance, \n\nProud in arms, to Pharaoh\'s throne, \nCan ye now, in tame compliance, \n\nIn a baser bondage groan ? \nGallant Nation ! naught appalled you, \n\nBold, in Heaven\'s propitious hour, \nWhen the voice of Freedom called you \n\nFrom a tyrant\'s haughty power. \nWhen their chariots, clad in thunder, \n\nSwept the ground in long array ; \nWhen the ocean, burst asunder, \n\nHovered o\'er your sandy way. \nGallant race ! that, ceaseless toiling, \n\nTrod Arabia\'s pathless wild ; \n\n\n\n412 CHORUS FROM THE TRAGEDY OF JEPHTHES. \n\nPlains in verdure never smiling, \n\nRocks in barren grandeur piled, \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhither fled, altered Nation ! \n\nWhither fled that generous soul ? \nDead to Freedom\'s inspiration, \n\nSlaves of Amnion\'s base control ! \nGod of Heaven ! whose voice, commanding, \n\nBids the whirlwind scour the deep, \nOr the waters, smooth expanding, \n\nRobed in glassy radiance sleep, \xe2\x80\x94 \nGod of Love ! in mercy bending, \n\nHear thy woe-worn captives\' prayer ! \nFrom thy throne, in peace descending, \n\nSoothe their sorrows, calm their care ! \nThough thy mercy, long departed, \n\nSpurn thy once-loved people\'s cry, \nSay, shall Ammon, iron-hearted, \n\nTriumph with impunity 1 \nIf the sword of desolation \n\nMust our sacred camp appal, \nAnd thy chosen generation \n\nProstrate in the battle fall \xe2\x80\x94 \nGrasp, God ! thy flaming thunder ; \n\nLaunch thy stormy wrath around I \nCleave their battlements asunder, \n\nShake their cities to the ground I \nHast thou dared, in mad resistance. \n\nTyrant, to contend with God ? \nShall not Heaven\'s supreme assistance \n\nSnatch us from thy mortal rod ? \nWretch accursed ! thy fleeting gladness \n\nLeaves Contrition\'s serpent sting ; \n\n\n\nTHE DIRGE OF WALLACE. 413 \n\nShort-lived pleasure yields to sadness, \n\nHasty fate is on the wing ! \nMark the battle, mark the ruin ; \n\nHavoc loads the groaning plain ; \nRuthless vengeance, keen pursuing, \n\nGrasps thee in her iron chain ! \n\n\n\nTHE DIRGE OF WALLACE. \n\nWhen Scotland\'s great Regent, our warrior most dear, \n\nThe debt of his nature did pay, \n\'T was Edward, the cruel, had reason to fear, \n\nAnd cause to be struck with dismay. \n\nAt the window of Edward the raven did croak, \n\nThough Scotland a widow became ; \nEach tie of true honor to Wallace he broke \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe raven croaked " Sorrow and shame ! " \n\nAt Elderslie Castle no raven was heard, \n\nBut the soothings of honor and truth ; \nHis spirit inspired the soul of the bard \n\nTo comfort the Love of his youth ! \n\nThey lighted the tapers at dead of night, \n\nAnd chanted their holiest hymn : \nBut her brow and her bosom were damp with affright, \n\nHer eye was all sleepless and dim ! \n\nAnd the lady of Elderslie wept for her lord, \nWhen a death-watch beat in her lonely room, \n\n35* \n\n\n\n414 THE DIRGE OF WALLACE. \n\nWhen her curtain had shook of its own accord, \nAnd the raven had flapped at her window board, \nTo tell of her warrior\'s doom. \n\nNow sing ye the death-song, and loudly pray \n\nFor the soul of my knight so dear ! \nAnd call me a widow, this wretched day, \n\nSince the warning of God is here. \n\nFor a nightmare rests on my strangled sleep ; \n\nThe lord of my bosom is doomed to die ! \nHis valorous heart they have wounded deep, \nAnd the blood-red tears shall his country weep \n\nFor Wallace of Elderslie. \n\nYet knew not his country, that ominous hour, \n\nEre the loud matin-bell was rung, \nThat the trumpet of death, on an English tower, \n\nHad the dirge of her champion sung. \n\nWhen his dungeon-light looked dim and red \nOn the high-born blood of a martyr slain, \nNo anthem was sung at his lowly death-bed \xe2\x80\x94 \nNo weeping was there when his bosom bled, \nAnd his heart was rent in twain. \n\nWhen he strode o\'er the wreck of each well-fought field,. \n\nWith the yellow-haired chiefs of his native land ; \nFor his lance was not shivered on helmet or shield, \nAnd the sword that was fit for archangel to wield \n\nWas light in his terrible hand. \n\nYet, bleeding and bound, though "the Wallace-wight " \n\nFor his long-loved country die, \nThe bugle ne\'er sung to a braver knight \n\n\n\nThan William of Elderslie \n\n\n\nEPISTLE TO THREE LADIES. 415 \n\nBut the day of his triumphs shall never depart ; \n\nHis head, unentombed, shall with glory be palmed ; \nFrom its blood-streaming altar his spirit shall start ; \nThough the raven has fed on his mouldering heart, \n\nA nobler was never embalmed ! \n\n\n\nEPISTLE TO THREE LADIES. \n\nWRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF THE CART. \n\nHealth and Content forevermore abide \n\nThe sister Friends that dwell on Cartha\'s side ! \n\nPleased may ye pass your rural life, and find \n\nIn every guest a pure, congenial mind ! \n\nBlessed be your sheltered cot, and sweet the walk \n\nWhere Mira, Helen and Eugenia, talk ! \n\nWhere, wandering slow the pendent woods between, \n\nYe pass no song unheard, no flower unseen ; \n\nWith kindly voice the little warbler tame, \n\nAnd call familiar " Robin " by his name ; \n\nThe favorite bird comes fluttering at command, \n\nNor fears unkindness from a gentle hand. \n\nI bless your sheltered vale and rural cot ! \xe2\x80\x94 \nYet why my blessing 1 \xe2\x80\x94 for ye need it not ; \nThe charm of life forevermore endures, \nCongenial Sisters, in a home like yours ! \nWhatever sweets descend from heaven to cheer \nThe changeful aspect of the circling year, \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhatever charms the enthusiast can peruse \nIn Nature\'s face, in music, and the Muse, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n416 EPISTLE TO THREE LADIES. \n\n\'T is jours to taste, exalted and refined, \nBeyond the pleasures of a vulgar mind. \n\nWhen dew-drops glitter in the morning ray, \nBy Cartha\'s side, a smiling group, ye stray ; \nOr round the tufted hill delight to roam \nWhere the pure torrent falls in showery foam ; \nOr climb the castled cliff, and pause to view \nSpires, villas, plains, and mountains dimly blue ; \nThen, down the steep, a wood-grown path explore, \nAnd, wandering home by Elspa\'s cottage-door, \nTo greet the rustic pair a while delay, \nAnd ask for their poor boy, in India \xe2\x80\x94 far away ! \n\nCongenial Sisters ! when the vesper-bell \nTolls from yon village, through your echoing dell, \nAround your parlor-fire your group convenes, \nTo talk of friends beloved, and former scenes. \nRemembrance pours her visions on the sight, \n- Sweet as the silver moon\'s reflected light ; \nAnd Fancy colors, with her brightest dye, \nThe musing mood of pensive ecstasy. \n\nPerhaps ye hear in heavenly measure play \nThe pipe of Shenstone, or the lyre of Gray ; \nWith Eloise deplore the lover\'s doom ; \nWith Ossian weep at Agandecca\'s tomb ; \nOr list the lays of Burns, untimely starred ! \nOr weep for " Auburn" with the sweetest bard. \n\nFriends of according hearts ! to you belong \nThe soul of feeling \xe2\x80\x94 fit to judge of song ! \nUnlike the clay-cold pedantry, that draws \nThe length and breadth for censure and applause. \n\n\n\nEPISTLE TO THREE LADIES. 417 \n\nShame to the dull-browed arrogance of schools ! - \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nShall apish Art to Nature dictate rules ? \n\nShall critic hands to Pathos set the seal, \n\nOr tell the heart to feel \xe2\x80\x94 or not to feel ? \n\nNo ! \xe2\x80\x94 let the verse a host of these defy \n\nThat draws the tear from one impassioned eye. \n\nCongenial Friends ! your Cartha\'s woody side \nHow simply sweet, beyond the city\'s pride ! \nWho would forsake your green retreat to share \nThe noise of life \xe2\x80\x94 the fashion and the glare ! \nTo herd with souls by no fine feeling moved ; \nTo speak, and live, unloving \xe2\x80\x94 unbeloved ! \nIn noisy crowds the languid heart to drown, \nAnd barter Peace and Nature for a town ! \n\n0, Nature \xe2\x80\x94 Nature ! thine the vivid charm \nTo raise the true-toned spirit, and to warm ! \nThy face, still changing with the changeful clime, \xe2\x80\x94 \nMild or romantic, beauteous or sublime, \xe2\x80\x94 \nCan win the raptured taste to every scene \xe2\x80\x94 \nKilda\'s wild shore, or Roslin\'s lovely green. \n\nYes \xe2\x80\x94 I have found thy power pervade my mind, \nWhen every other charm was left behind ; \nWhen doomed a listless, friendless guest to roam, \nFar from the sports and nameless joys of home ! \nYet, when the evening linnet sang to rest \nThe day-star wandering to the rosy west, \nI loved to trace the wave-worn shore, and view \nRomantic Nature in her wildest hue. \nThere, as I lingered on the vaulted steep, \nIona\'s towers tolled mournful o\'er the deep ; \n\n\n\n418 DEATH OF MY ONLY SON. \n\nTill all my bosom owned a sacred mood, \nAnd blessed the wild delight of solitude ! \n\nYes \xe2\x80\x94 all alone, I loved in days of yore \nTo climb the steep, and trace the sounding shore ; \nBut better far my new delight to hail \nNature\'s mild face in Cartha\'s lovely vale ! \nWell pleased, I haste to view each favorite spot, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe wood, the stream, the castle and the cot, \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd hear sweet Robin in the sheltered walk, \nWhere Mira, Helen and Eugenia, talk ! \n\n\n\nDEATH OF MY ONLY SON. \n\nFROM THE DAOTSH. \n\nCan mortal solace ever raise \nThe broken pillar of my days, \nOr Fate restore a form so dear \nAs that which lies unconscious here ? \nAh no, my Darco ! latest given, \nAnd last reclaimed gift of Heaven ! \nPossessing thee, I still could bless \nOne lingering beam of happiness ! \n\nMy loved, my lost, my only care ! \nI vainly thought with thee to share \nThy heart\'s discourse, so gently kind, \nAnd mould to worth thy pliant mind ; \nNor, warned of all my future woe, \nPresumed on happiness below ! \nBut losing thee, my blooming Boy, \nI cannot lose another joy ; \n\n\n\nDEATH OF MY ONLY SON. 419 \n\nFor all that stayed my earthly trust \nWith thee is buried in the dust ! \n\nNine charming years had fraught with grace \nThy sprightly soul and lovely face, \nWhere harshness had not planted fear, \nNor sorrow wrung one silent tear ; \nBut frank and warm my Darco flew, \nTo share each welcome and adieu, \xe2\x80\x94 \nEach word, each step, each look to attend \xe2\x80\x94 \nMy child, my pupil, and my friend ! \n\n0, when his gayly-smiling talk \nEndeared my lonely summer walk. \nOr when I sat at day\'s decline \nAnd clasped his little hand in mine, \nHow many woes were then forgot ! \nHow blissful seemed his father\'s lot ! \nAnd, breathing love, my bosom said, \nThus, on my dying couch when laid, \nThus shall I bid thee, Darco, stand, \nAnd grasp thee with my failing hand. \n\nCold, cold, thou pledge of future charms, \nAs she who gave thee to my arms ! \nMy buried hopes ! your grave is won, \nAnd Mary sleeps beside her son ! \n\nNow hush, my heart ! afflicting Heaven, \nThy will be done, thy solace given ! \nFor mortal hand can never raise \nThe broken pillar of my days, \nNor earth restore a form so dear \nAs that which lies unconscious here ! \n\n\n\n420 \n\n\n\nLAUDOHN\'S ATTACK. \n\nRise, ye Croates, fierce and strong, \nFrom the front, and march along ! \nAnd gather fast, ye gallant men \nFrom Nona and from Warrasden, \nWhose sunny mountains nurse a line \nGenerous as her fiery wine ! \n\nHosts of Buda ! hither bring \nThe bloody flag and eagle wing : \nYe that drink the rapid stream \nFast by walled Salankeme. \nRanks of Agria ! \xe2\x80\x94 head and heel \nSheathed in adamantine steel \xe2\x80\x94 \nQuit the woodlands and the boar, \nYe hunters wild, on Drava\'s shore ; \nAnd ye that hew her oaken wood, \nBrown with lusty hardihood \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe trumpets sound, the colors fly, \nAnd Laudohn leads to victory ! \n\nHark ! the summons loud and strong, \n" Follow, soldiers ! march along ! " \nEvery baron, sword in hand, \nRides before his gallant band ! \nGrenadiers ! that, fierce and large, \nStamp like dragons to the charge \xe2\x80\x94 \nFoot and horseman, serf and lord, \nTriumph now with one accord. \nYears of triumph shall repay \nDeath and danger\'s troubled day. \n\n\n\nTO A BEAUTIFUL JEWISH GIRL OE ALTONA. 421 \n\nSoon the rapid shot is o\'er, \nBut glory lasts forevermore ! \nGlory, whose immortal eye \nGuides us to the victory ! \n\n\n\nTO A BEAUTIFUL JEWISH GIKL OF ALTONA. \n\nA FRAGMENT. \n\n0, Judith ! had our lot been cast \nIn that remote and simple time \nWhen, shepherd swains, thy fathers past \nFrom dreary wilds and deserts vast \nTo Judah\'s happy clime ; \n\nMy song upon the mountain rocks \nHad echoed of thy rural charms ; \n\nAnd I had fed thy father\'s flocks, \n\nJudith of the raven locks ! \nTo win thee to my arms. \n\nOur tent, beside the murmur calm \nOf Jordan\'s grassy- vested shore, \nHad sought the shadow of the palm, \nAnd blessed with Gilead\'s holy balm \nOur hospitable door ! \n\nAt falling night, or ruby dawn, \n\nOr yellow moonlight\'s welcome cool, \nWith health and gladness we had drawn, \nFrom silver fountains on the lawn, \nOur pitcher brimming full. \n36 \n\n\n\n422 FAREWELL. \n\n\n\nHow sweet to us at sober hours \n\nThe bird of Salem would have sung. \nIn orange or in almond bowers, \xe2\x80\x94 \nFresh with the bloom of many flowers. \nLike thee forever young ! \n\nBut ah, my Love ! thy father\'s land \nPresents no more a spicy bloom ! \n\nNor fills with fruit the reaper\'s hand ; \n\nBut wide its silent wilds expand \xe2\x80\x94 \nA desert and a tomb. \n\nYet, by the good and golden hours \n\nThat dawned those rosy fields among,- \nBy Zion\'s palm-encircled towers, \nBy Salem\'s far forsaken bowers, \nAnd long-forgotten song \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\nFAREWELL \n\nTO MY SISTER, ON LEAVING EDINBURGH. \n\nFarewell, Edina ! pleasing name, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nCongenial to my heart ! \nA joyous guest to thee I came, \n\nAnd mournful I depart. \n\nAnd fare thee well, whose blessings seem \nHeaven\'s blessing to portend ! \n\nEndeared by nature and esteem \xe2\x80\x94 \nMy sister and my friend ! \n\n\n\nEPITAPHS. 423 \n\n\n\nEPITAPHS. \nI. \nIn deep submission to the will above, \n\nYet with no common cause for human tears. \nThis stone to the lost partner of his love, \nAnd for his children lost, a mourner rears. \n\nOne fatal moment, one o\'erwhelming doom, \n\nTore, threefold, from his heart the ties of earth : \n\nHis Mary, Margaret, in their early bloom, \n\nAnd her who gave them life, and taught them worth. \n\nFarewell, ye broken pillars of my fate ! \n\nMy life\'s companion, and my two first-born ! \nYet while this silent stone I consecrate \n\nTo conjugal, paternal love forlorn, \n\n0, may each passer-by the lesson learn, \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhich can aloDe the bleeding heart sustain \n\nWhere Friendship weeps at Virtue\'s funeral urn, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThat, to the pure in heart, To die is gain ! \n\nII. \n\n^le pointed out to others, and he trod \n\nffimself. the path to virtue and to God.; \n\nThe Christian\'s practice and the preacher\'s zeal \n\nHis life united : many who have lost. \n\nTheir friend, their pastor, mourn for him ; but most \nThe hearts that knew him nearest, deepest, feel. \nAnd yet, lamented spirit ! we should ill \nThe sacred precepts of thy life fulfil, \n\n\n\n424 THE BRITISH GRENADIERS. \n\nCould we \xe2\x80\x94 thy mother and thy widowed wife \nConsign thy much-loved relics to the dust \nUnsolaced by this high and holy trust \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThere is another and a better life ! \n\nin. \nMan ! shouldst thou fill the proudest throne, \n\nAnd have mightiest deeds enacted, \nThither, like steel to the magnet-stone, \n\nThou goest compelled \xe2\x80\x94 attracted ! \n\nThe grave-stone \xe2\x80\x94 the amulet of trouble \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMakes love a phantom seem ; \nCalls glory but a bubble, \n\nAnd life itself a dream. \n\nThe grave \'s a sealed letter, \n\nThat secrets will reveal \nOf a next world, \xe2\x80\x94 worse or better, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd the gravestone is the seal ! \n\nBut the seal shall not be broken, \n\nNor the letter\'s secrets read, \nTill the last trump shall have spoken \n\nTo the living and the dead ! \n\n\n\nTHE BRITISH GRENADIERS. \n\nUpon the plains of Flanders, \nOur fathers, long ago, \n\nThey fought like Alexanders \nBeneath brave Marlborough ! \n\n\n\nTHE BRITISH GRENADIERS. 425 \n\nAnd still, in fields of conquest, \n\nOur valor bright has shone \nWith Wolfe and Abercrombie, \n\nAnd Moore, and Wellington ! \n\nOur plumes have waved in combats \n\nThat ne\'er shall be forgot, \nWhere many a mighty squadron \n\nReeled backward from our shot : \nIn charges with the bayonet \n\nWe lead our bold compeers, \nBut Frenchmen like to stay not \n\nFor the British Grenadiers ! \n\nOnce boldly, at Vimiera,* \n\nThey hoped to play their parts, \nAnd sang fal-lira-lira, \n\nTo cheer their drooping hearts : \nBut, English, Scots and Paddy Whacks, \n\nWe gave three noble cheers, \nAnd the French soon turned their backs \n\nTo the British Grenadiers ! \n\nAt St. Sebastiano\'s \n\nAnd Badajos\'s town, \nWhere, raging like volcanoes, \n\nThe shot and shells came down, \nWith courage never wincing, \n\nWe scaled the ramparts high, \nAnd waved the British ensign \n\nIn glorious victory ! \n\n* At Vimiera, the French ranks advanced singing ; the British only \nCheered. \xe2\x80\x94 T. C. \n\n36* \n\n\n\n426 TRAFALGAR. \n\n\n\nAnd what could Bonaparte, \n\nWith all his cuirassiers. \nAt Waterloo, in battle do \n\nWith British Grenadiers ? \xe2\x80\x94 \nThen ever sweet the drum shall beat \n\nThat march unto our ears, \nWhose martial roll awakes the soul \n\nOf British Grenadiers ! \n\n\n\nTRAFALGAR. \n\nWhen Frenchmen saw, with coward art, \n\nThe assassin shot of war \nThat pierced Britain\'s noblest heart, \n\nAnd quenched her brightest star, \n\nTheir shout was heard, \xe2\x80\x94 they triumphed now, \n\nAmidst the battle\'s roar, \nAnd thought the British oak would bow, \n\nSince Nelson was no more. \n\nBut fiercer flamed old England\' s pride, \nAnd \xe2\x80\x94 mark the vengeance due ! \n\n" Down, down, insulting ship," she cried, \n" To death, with all thy crew ! \n\n" So perish ye for Nelson\'s blood ! \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIf deaths like thine can pay \nFor blood so brave, or ocean wave \n\nCan wash that crime away ! " \n\n\n\nLINES WRITTEN IN SICKNESS. 427 \n\n\n\nLINES WRITTEN IN SICKNESS. \n\n0, Death ! if there be quiet in thine arms, \n\nAnd I must cease \xe2\x80\x94 gently, 0, gently come \nTo me ! and let my soul learn no alarms, \n\nBut strike me, ere a shriek can echo, dumb, \nSenseless, and breathless ! \xe2\x80\x94 And thou, sickly life, \n\nIf the decree be writ that I must die, \nDo thou be guilty of no needless strife, \n\nNor pull me downwards to mortality \nWhen it were fitter I should take a flight \n\nBut whither? \xe2\x80\x94 Holy Pity! hear, 0, hear ! \nAnd lift me to some far-off skyey sphere, \n\nWhere I may wander in celestial light : \nMight it be so \xe2\x80\x94 then would my spirit fear \n\nTo quit the things I have so loved when seen, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe air, the pleasant sun, the summer green, \xe2\x80\x94 \nKnowing how few would shed one kindly tear, \n\nOr keep in mind that I had ever been ? \n\n\n\nLINES ON THE STATE OF GREECE, \n\nOCCASIONED BY BEING PRESSED TO MAKE IT A SUBJECT OF POETRY, 182T. \n\nIn Greece\'s cause the Muse, you deem, \nOught still to plead, persisting strong ; \n\nBut feel you not \'t is now a theme \n\nThat wakens thought too deep for song ? \n\nThe Christian world has seen you, Greeks, \nHeroic on your ramparts fall ; \n\n\n\n428 LINES. \n\nThe world has heard your widows\' shrieks. \nAnd seen your orphans dragged in thrall. \n\nEven England brooks that, reeking hot, \nThe ruffian\'s sabre drinks your veins, \n\nAnd leaves your thinning remnant\'s lot \nThe bitter choice of death or chains. \n\n! if we have nor hearts nor swords \nTo snatch you from the assassins\' brand, \n\nLet not our pity\'s idle words \n\nInsult your pale and prostrate land ! \n\nNo ! be your cause to England now, \nThat by permitting acts the wrong, \n\nA thought of horror to her brow, \n\nA theme for blushing \xe2\x80\x94 not for song ! \n\nTo see her unavenging ships \n\nRide fast by Greece\'s funeral-pile, \n\n\'T is worth a curse from Sybil lips ! \n\'T is matter for a demon\'s smile ! \n\n\n\nLINES \n\nON JAMES IV. OF SCOTLAND, WHO FELL AT THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN. \n\n\'T WAS he that ruled his country\'s heart \n\nWith more than royal sway ; \nBut Scotland saw her James depart, \n\nAnd saddened at his stay. \nShe heard his fate \xe2\x80\x94 she wept her grief \xe2\x80\x94 \nThat James her loved, her gallant chief, \n\n\n\nTO JEMIMA, ROSE, AND ELEANORE. 429 \n\nWas gone forevermore : \nBut this she learnt, that, ere he fell \n(0 men ! patriots ! mark it well), \nHis fellow-soldiers round his fall \nEnclosed him like a living wall, \n\nMixing their kindred gore ! \nNor was the day of Flodden done \nTill they were slaughtered one by one ; \n\nAnd this may serve to show, \nWhen kings are patriots, none will fly ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhen such a king was doomed to die, \n\n0, who would death forego ? \n\n\n\nTO JEMIMA, ROSE, AND ELEANORE, \n\nTHREE CELEBRATED SCOTTISH BEAUTIES. \n\nAdieu, Romance\'s heroines ! \nGive me the nymphs who this good hour \nMay charm me not in fiction\'s scenes, \nBut teach me Beauty\'s living power; \xe2\x80\x94 \nMy harp, that has been mute too long, \nShall sleep at Beauty\'s name no more, \nSo but your smiles reward my song, \nJemima, Rose, and Eleanore, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIn whose benignant eyes are beaming \nThe rays of purity and truth ; \nSuch as we fancy woman\'s seeming, \nIn the creation\'s golden youth ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n430 JEMIMA, ROSE, AND ELEANORE. \n\nThe more I look upon thy grace, \nRosina, I could look the more, \nBut for Jemima\'s witching face, \nAnd the sweet voice of Eleanore. \n\nHad I been Lawrence, kings had wanted \nTheir portraits, till I \'d painted yours, \nAnd these had future hearts enchanted \nWhen this poor verse no more endures ; \nI would have left the congress faces, \nA dull-eyed diplomatic corps, \nTill I had grouped you as the graces, \nJemima, Rose, and Eleanore ! \n\nThe Catholic bids fair saints befriend him ; \nYour poet\'s heart is catholic too, \xe2\x80\x94 \nHis rosary shall be flowers ye send him, \nHis saint-days when he visits you. \nAnd my sere laurels, for my duty, \nMiraculous at your touch would rise, \nCould I give verse one trace of beauty \nLike that which glads me from your eyes. \n\nUnsealed by you, these lips have spoken, \n\nDisused to song for many a day ; \n\nYe \'ve tuned a harp whose strings were broken, \n\nAnd warmed a heart of callous clay ; \n\nSo, when my fancy next refuses \n\nTo twine for you a garland more, \n\nCome back again and be my Muses, \n\nJemima, Rose, and Eleanore. \n\n\n\nSONG. 431 \n\n\n\nSONG. \n\n\'T IS now the hour \xe2\x80\x94 \'t is now the hour \n\nTo bow at Beauty\'s shrine ; \nNow, whilst our hearts confess the power \n\nOf women, wit, and wine ; \nAnd beaming eyes look on so bright, \nWit springs, wine sparkles in their light. \n\nIn such an hour \xe2\x80\x94 in such an hour. \n\nIn such an hour as this, \nWhile Pleasure\'s fount throws up a shower \n\nOf social sprinkling bliss, \nWhy does my bosom heave the sigh \nThat mars delight ? \xe2\x80\x94 She is not by ! \n\nThere was an hour \xe2\x80\x94 there was an hour \n\nWhen I indulged the spell \nThat love wound round me with a power \n\nWords vainly try to tell ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nThough love has filled my checkered doom \nWith fruits and thorns, and light and gloom \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nYet there \'s an hour \xe2\x80\x94 there \'s still an hour \n\nWhose coming sunshine may \nClear from the clouds that hang and lower \n\nMy fortune\'s future day : \nThat hour of hours beloved will be \nThe hour that gives thee back to me ! \n\n\n\n432 LINES TO EDWARD LYTTON BULWEK. \xe2\x80\x94 CONTENT. \nLINES TO EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, \n\nON THE BIRTH OF HIS CHILD. \n\nMy heart is with you, Bulwer ! and portrays \nThe blessings of your first paternal days. \nTo clasp the pledge of purest, holiest faith, \nTo taste one\'s own and love-born infant\'s breath, \nI know, nor would for worlds forget the bliss. \nI \'ve felt that to a father\'s heart that kiss, \nAs o\'er its little lips you smile and cling, \nHas fragrance which Arabia could not bring. \n\nSuch are the joys, ill mocked in ribald song, \nIn thought even freshening life our life-time long, \nThat give our souls on earth a heaven-dr^wn bloom ; \nWithout them, we are weeds upon a tomb. \n\nJoy be to thee, and her whose lot with thine \nPropitious stars saw truth and passion twine ! \nJoy be to her who in your rising name \nFeels Love\'s bower brightened by the beams of fame ! \nI lacked a father\'s claim to her \xe2\x80\x94 but knew \nRegard for her young years so pure and true, \nThat, when she at the altar stood your bride, \nA sire could scarce have felt more sire-like pride. \n\n\n\nCONTENT. \n\n[Air \xe2\x80\x94 " The Flower of North Wales."] \n\ncheeub Content ! at thy moss-covered shrine \n\n1 \'d all the gay hopes of my bosom resign ; \nI \'d part with ambition thy votary to be, \n\nAnd breathe not a sigh but to Friendship and thee ! \n\n\n\nSPANISH PATRIOTS\' SONG. 433 \n\nBut thy presence appears from my wishes to fly, \nLike the gold-colored clouds on the verge of the sky; \nNo lustre that hangs on the green willow-tree \nIs so sweet as the smile of thy favor to me. \n\nIn the pulse of my heart I have nourished a care \nThat forbids me thy sweet inspiration to share ; \nThe noon of my life slow departing I see. \nBut its years as they pass bring no tidings of thee. \n\ncherub Content ! at thy moss-covered shrine \n\n1 would offer my vows, if Matilda were mine ; \nCould I call her my own, whom enraptured I see, \n\nI would breathe not a sigh but to Friendship and thee ! \n\n\n\nSPANISH PATRIOTS\' SONG. \nI. \n\nHow rings each sparkling Spanish brand ! \n\nThere \'s music in its rattle, \nAnd gay as for a saraband \nWe gird us for the battle. \nFollow, follow, \nTo the glorious revelry \nWhere the sabres bristle, \nAnd the death-shots whistle ! \n\nII. \nOf rights for which our swords outspring \n\nShall Angouleme bereave us ? \nWe \'ve plucked a bird of nobler wing \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe eagle could not brave us. \n37 \n\n\n\n434 SPANISH patriots\' song. \n\nFollow, follow, \n\nShake the Spanish blade, and sing \nFrance shall ne\'er enslave us, \nTyrants shall not brave us ! \n\nIII. \nShall yonder rag, the Bourbon\'s flag, \n\nWhite emblem of his liver, \nIn Spain the proud, be Freedom\'s shroud? \nnever, never, never ! \nFollow, follow, \nFollow to the fight, and sing \nLiberty for ever, \nEver, ever, ever! \n\nIV. \n\nThrice welcome hero of the hilt ! \nWe laugh to see his standard ; \nHere let his miscreant blood be spilt, \nWhere braver men\'s was squandered ! \nFollow, follow, \nIf the laurelled tricolor \nDurst not overflaunt us, \nShall yon lily daunt us 7 \n\n\n\nNo ! ere they quell our valor\'s veins, \nThey \'11 upward to their fountains \nTurn back the rivers on our plains, \nAnd trample flat our mountains. \nFollow, follow, \n\nShake the Spanish blade, and sing \nFrance shall ne\'er enslave us, \nTyrants shall not brave us ! \n\n\n\nTO THE POLISH COUNTESS R SKI. 435 \n\nTO A LADY, \n\nON BEING PRESENTED WITH A SPRIG OF ALEXANDRIAN LAUREL. \n\nThis classic laurel ! at the sight \n\nWhat teeming thoughts suggested rise ! \nThe patriot\'s and the poet\'s right, \n\nThe meed of semi-deities ! \xe2\x80\x94 \nMen who to death have tyrants hurled, \n\nOr bards who may have swayed at will \nAnd soothed that little troubled world \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe human heart \xe2\x80\x94 with sweeter skill. \n\nAh ! lady, little it beseems \n\nMy brow to wear these sacred leaves ! \nYet, like a treasure found in dreams, \n\nThy gift most pleasantly deceives. \nAnd where is poet on the earth \n\nWhose self-love could the meed withstand, \xe2\x80\x94 \nEven though it far out-stripped his worth, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nGiven by so beautiful a hand ? \n\n\n\nTO THE POLISH COUNTESS R SKI. \n\nI. \nThough I honor you at heart \n\nMore than these poor lines can tell; \nYet I cannot bear to part \n\nWith a common cold " farewell." \nWe are strangers, far remote \n\nIn descent, and speech, and clime ; \nYet, when first we met, I thought \n\nWe were friends of ancient time ! \n\n\n\n436 TO THE POLISH COUNTESS R SKI. \n\nII. \n\n0, how long shall I delight \n\nIn the memory of that mom \nWhen we climbed the Danube\'s height, \n\nTo the Fountain of the Thorn ! \nAnd beheld his waves and islands \n\nAH glittering in the sun \xe2\x80\x94 \nFrom Vienna\'s gorgeous towers, \n\nTo the mountains of the Hun ! \n\nin. \nThere was gladness in the sky, \n\nThere was verdure all around ; \nAnd, where\'er it turned, the eye \n\nLooked on rich, historic ground ! \nOver Aspern\'s field of glory \n\nNoontide\'s purple haze was cast ; \nAnd the hills of Turkish story \n\nTeemed with visions of the past ! \n\nIV. \n\nBut it was not mute creation, \n\nNor the land\'s historic pride, \nThat inspired my heart\'s emotion, \n\nOn that lovely mountain\'s side ; \nBut that you had deigned to guide me, \n\nAnd, benignant and serene, \nR ski stood beside me, \n\nLike the Genius of the scene ! \n\n\n\nFRANCIS HORNER. \xe2\x80\x94 TO FLORINE. 437 \n\nFRANCIS HORNER. \n\nYe who have wept, and felt, and summed the whole \n\nOf Virtue\'s loss in Horner\'s parted soul, \n\nI speak to you; though words can ill portray \n\nThe extinguished light, the blessing swept away \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe soul high-graced to plead, high-skilled to plan, \n\nFor human welfare, gone, and lost to man ! \n\nThis weight of truth subdues my power of song, \n\nAnd gives a faltering voice to feelings strong ! \n\nBut I should ill acquit the debt I feel \n\nTo private friendship and to public zeal, \n\nWere my heart\'s tribute not with theirs to blend \n\nWho loved, most intimate, their country\'s friend ! \n\nOr if the Muse, to whom his living breath \n\nGave pride and comfort, mourned him not in death ! \n\n\n\nTO FLORINE. \nCould I bring lost youth back again, \n\nAnd be what I have been, \nI \'d court you in a gallant strain, \n\nMy young and fair Florine ! \n\nBut mine \'s the chilling age that chides \n\nDevoted rapture\'s glow ; \nAnd Love, that conquers all besides, \n\nFinds Time a conquering foe. \n\nFarewell ! We \'re severed, by our fate, \n\nAs far as night from noon ; \nYou came into this world so late \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd / depart so soon ! \n\n37* \n\n\n\n438 TO AN INFANT. \xe2\x80\x94 TO \n\n\n\nTO AN INFANT. \n\nSweet bud of life ! thy future doom \n\nIs present to my eyes, \nAnd joyously I see thee bloom \n\nIn Fortune\'s fairest skies. \nOne day that breast, scarce conscious now, \n\nShall burn with patriot flame; \nAnd, fraught with love, that little brow \n\nShall wear the wreath of Fame. \nWhen I am dead, dear boy ! thou \'It take \n\nThese lines to thy regard \xe2\x80\x94 \nImprint them on thy heart, and make \n\nA Prophet of the Bard ! \n\n\n\nTO \n\n\n\nWhirled by the steam\'s impetuous breath, \nI marked yon engine\'s mighty wheel ; \n\nHow fast it forged the arms of death, \nAnd moulded adamantine steel ! \n\nBut soon, that life-like scene to stop, \nThe steam\'s impetuous breath to chill, \n\nIt needed but one single drop \n\nOf water cold \xe2\x80\x94 and all was still ! \n\nEven so, one tear by * * shed, \n\nIt kills the bliss that once was mine ; \n\nAnd rapture from my heart is fled, \nWho caused a tear to heart like thine. \n\n\n\nFORLORN DITTY ON RED-RIDING-HOOD. 439 \n\n\n\nFORLORN DITTY ON RED-RIDING-HOOD. \n\nBrighter than gem ever polished by jeweller, \nFairer than flower that in garden e\'er grew ! \n\nYet I \'m sorry to say that to me you \'ve been crueller \nThan the wolf in the fable to granny and you ! \n\nI once was a fat man \xe2\x80\x94 the merriest of jokers ; \n\nBut my phiz now \'s as lank as an old Jewish broker\'s, \n\nAnd I toddle about on two legs thin as pokers, \nLamenting the lovely Red-Riding-Hood\'s scorn ! \n\nI cannot eat food, and I cannot recover sleep : \n\nMadden can cure all his patients but me ! \nAnd I verily think, when I \'ve taken the Lover\'s leap, \n\nThat my heart, like a cinder, will hiss in the sea ! \nLittle Red-Riding-Hood ! why won\'t you speak to me ? \nYour cause of offence is all Hebrew and Greek to me ! \nI conjure a compassionate smile on your cheek to me, \n\nBy all the salt tears that have scalded my nose ! \n\nWhen I drown myself, punsters will pun in each coterie, \nSaying, " Strangely his actions and words were at strife ! \n\n[For the fellow determined his bier should be watery \xe2\x80\x94 \nThough he vowed that he hated small beer all his life ! " \n\nYes, cruel maiden ! when least o\' \'t thou thinkest, \n\nI \'11 hie to the sea-beach ere yonder sun sink west ; \n\nAnd the verdict shall be, of the Coroner\'s Inquest \xe2\x80\x94 \n" He died by the lovely Red-Riding-Hood\'s scorn ! " \n\n\n\n440 JOSEPH MARRYAT, M.P. \xe2\x80\x94 SONG. \n\n\n\nJOSEPH MARRYAT, M.P. \n\nMarryat, farewell ! thy outward traits expressed \nA manliness of nature, that combined \nThe thinking head and honorable breast. \nIn thee thy country lost a leading mind ; \nYet they who saw not private life draw forth \nThy heart\'s affections knew but half thy worth \xe2\x80\x94 \nA worth that soothes even Friendship\'s bitterest sigh, \nTo lose thee ; for thy virtues sprung from Faith, \nAnd that high trust in Immortality \nWhich reason hinteth, and religion saith \nShall best enable man, when he has trod \nLife\'s path, to meet the mercy of his God ! \n\n\n\nSONG. \n\nMy mind is my kingdom ; but, if thou wilt deign \nTo sway there a queen without measure, \n\nThen come, o\'er my wishes and homage to reign, \nAnd make it an empire of pleasure ! \n\nThen of thoughts and emotions, each mutinous crowd, \nThat rebelled at stern Reason and Duty, \n\nReturning, shall yield all their loyalty proud \nTo the halcyon dominion of Beauty ! \n\nWhat arm that entwines thee need envy the fame \n\nOf conquest, in War\'s bloody story? \nThy smiles are my triumphs \xe2\x80\x94 my motto thy name ; \n\nAnd thy picture, my \'scutcheon of Glory ! \n\n\n\nSTANZAS. \' 441 \n\nSTANZAS. \n\nAll mortal joys I could forsake, \n\nBid home and friends adieu ! \nOf life itself a parting take. \n\nBut never of you, my love \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNever of you ! \n\nFor sure, of all that know thy worth, \n\nThis bosom beats most true : \nAnd where could I behold on earth \n\nAnother form like you, my love \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnother like you ! \n\n\n\nON ACCIDENTALLY POSSESSING AND RETURNING MISS \nB \'S PICTURE. \n\nI know not, Lady, which commandment \nIn painting this the artist\'s hand meant \n\nTo make us chiefly break ; \nBut sure the owner\'s bliss I covet, \nAnd half would, for possession of it, \n\nTurn thief and risk my neck. \n\nYet, as Prometheus rued the fetching \nOf fire from Heaven to light his kitchen, \n\nSo, if I stole this treasure \nTo warm my fancy at the light \nOf those young eyes, perhaps I might \n\nRepent it at my leisure. * \n\nAn old man for a young maid dying, \nGrave forty-five for nineteen sighing, \nWould merit Wisdom\'s stricture ! \n\n\n\n442 song. \n\n\n\nAnd so, to save myself from kindling, \nAs well as being sued for swindling, \nI send you back the picture. \n\n\n\nSONG. \n\nI gave my love a chain of gold \n\nAround her neck to bind ; \nShe keeps me in a faster hold, \n\nAnd captivates my mind. \nMe thinks that mine \'s the harder part : \n\nWhilst \'neath her lovely chin \nShe carries links outside her heart, \n\nMy fetters are within ! \n\n\n\nTO MARY SINCLAIR, WITH A VOLUME OF HIS \n\nPOEMS. \n\n. Go, simple Book of Ballads, go \nFrom Eaton-street, in Pimlico ; \nIt is a gift, my love to show \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTo Mary ! \n\nAnd, more its value to increase, \nI swear, by all the gods of Greece, \nIt cost a seven-shilling piece \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMy Mary ! \n\nBut what is gold, so bright that looks, \nOr all the coins of miser\'s nooks, \nCompared to be in thy good books \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMy Mary ! \n\n\n\nIMPROMPTU. 443 \n\nNow witness earth, and skies, and main ! \nThe book to thee shall appertain ; \nI \'11 never ask it back again \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMy Mary ! \n\nBut what, you say, shall you bestow ? \nFor, as the world now goes, you know, \nThere always is a quid pro quo \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMy Mary ! \n\nI ask not twenty hundred kisses, \n\nNor smile, the lover\'s heart that blesses, \n\nAs poets ask from other Misses \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMy Mary ! \n\nI ask that, till the day you die, \nYou \'11 never pull my wig awry, \nNor ever quiz my poetrye \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMy Mary ! \n\n\n\nIMPROMPTU. \n\nIN COMPLIMENT TO THE EXQUISITE SINGING OP MRS. ALLSOP. \n\nA month in summer we rejoice \n\nTo hear the nightingale\'s sweet song ; \nBut thou \xe2\x80\x94 a more enchanting voice \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nShalt dwell with us the live year long. \nAngel of Song ! still with us stay ! \n\nNor, when succeeding years have shone, \nLet us thy mansion pass and say, \n\nThe voice of melody is gone ! \n\n\n\n444 TRANSLATIONS FROM PETRARCH. \n\n\n\nTO THE COUNTESS AMERIGA VESPUCCI. \n\nDescendant of the chief who stamped his name \n\nOn earth\'s Hesperian hemisphere \xe2\x80\x94 I greet \n\nNot only thy hereditary fame, \n\nBut beauty, wit, and spirit, bold and sweet, \n\nThat captivates alike, where\'er thou art, \n\nThe British and the Transatlantic heart ! \n\nAmeriga Yespucci ! thou art fair \n\nAs classic Venus ; but the Poets gave \n\nHer not thy noble, more than classic, air \n\nOf courage. Homer\'s Venus was not brave \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nShe shrieked and fled the fight. You never fled, \n\nBut in the cause of Freedom fought and bled. \n\n\n\nTRANSLATIONS FROM PETRARCH. \n\nPROEMIO. \n\nVoi, ch* ascoltate in rime sparse il suono. \n\nYe who shall hear amidst my scattered lays \nThe sighs with which I fanned and fed my heart, \nWhen, young and glowing, I was but in part, \nThe man I am become in later days, \xe2\x80\x94 \nYe who have marked the changes of my style \nFrom vain despondency to hope as vain, \nFrom him among you who has felt love\'s pain \nI hope for pardon, ay, and Pity\'s smile. \n\n\n\nTRANSLATIONS FROM PETRARCH. 445 \n\nThough conscious, now, niy passion was a theme \n\nLong idly dwelt on by the public tongue, \n\nI blush for all the vanities I \'ve sung, \n\nAnd find the world\'s applause a fleeting dream. \n\n\n\nSONNET XXIII. \n\nQuest" 1 anima gentil die si diparte. \n\nThis lovely spirit, if ordained to leave \n\nIts mortal tenement before its time, \n\nHeaven\'s fairest habitation shall receive, \n\nAnd welcome her to breathe its sweetest clime. \n\nIf she establish her abode between \n\nMars and the planet-star of Beauty\'s queen, \n\nThe sun will be obscured, so dense a cloud \n\nOf spirits from adjacent stars will crowd \n\nTo gaze upon her beauty infinite. \n\nSay that she fixes on a lower sphere, \n\nBeneath the glorious Sun, her beauty soon \n\nWill dim the splendor of inferior stars \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOf Mars, of Venus, Mercury, and the Moon. \n\nShe \'11 choose not Mars, but higher place than Mars \n\nShe will eclipse all planetary light, \n\nAnd Jupiter himself will seem less bright. \n\nSONNET LX. \n\nIo nonfu (Tamar vol lassato unquanco. \n\nTired, did you say, of loving you ? 0, no ! \nI ne\'er shall tire of the unwearying flame. \nBut I am weary, kind and cruel dame, \nWith tears that uselessly and ceaseless flow, \n\n38 \n\n\n\n446 TRANSLATIONS FROM PETRARCH. \n\nScorning myself, and scorned by you. I long \nFor death ; but let no gravestone hold in view \nOur names conjoined ; nor tell my passion strong \nUpon the dust that glowed through life for you. \nAnd yet this heart of amorous faith demands, \nDeserves, a better boon ; but cruel, hard \nAs is my fortune, I will bless Love\'s bands \nForever, if you give me this reward. \n\n\n\nSONNET LXYIII. \n\nJErano i capei d\'oro alV aura spar si. \n\nTime was her tresses by the breathing air \nWere wreathed to many a ringlet golden bright. \nTime was her eyes diffused unmeasured light. \nThough now their lovely beams are waxing rare. \nHer face methought that in its blushes showed \nCompassion, her angelic shape and walk, \nHer voice that seemed with Heaven\'s own speech to talk, \nAt these, what wonder that my bosom glowed ! \nA living sun she seemed \xe2\x80\x94 a spirit of Heaven. \nThose charms decline : but does my passion 1 No ! \nI love not less \xe2\x80\x94 the slackening of the bow \nAssuages not the wound its shaft has given. \n\nSONNET CXXV. \n\nIn qual parte del CieP, in quale idea. \n\nIn what ideal world or part of heaven \nDid Nature find the model of that face \nAnd form, so fraught with loveliness and grace. \nIn which, to our creation, she has given \n\n\n\nTRANSLATIONS FROM PETRARCH. 447 \n\nHer prime proof of creative power above 1 \n\nWhat fountain nymph or goddess ever let \n\nSuch lovely tresses float of gold refined \n\nUpon the breeze, or in a single mind \n\nWhere have so many virtues ever met \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nE\'en though those charms have slain my bosom\'s weal\'? \n\nHe knows not love who has not seen her eyes \n\nTurn when she sweetly speaks, or smiles, or sighs, \n\nOr how the power of love can hurt or heal. \n\nSONNET CCXX. \n\nCercalo ho sempre solitaria vita. \n\nIn solitudes I \'ve ever loved to abide, \nBy woods and streams, and shunned the evil-hearted, \nWho from the path of heaven. are foully parted. \nSweet Tuscany has been to me denied, \nWhose- sunny realms I would have gladly haunted, \n\xe2\x80\xa2 Yet still the Sorgue his beauteous hills among \nHas lent auxiliar murmurs to my song, \nAnd echoed to the plaints my love has chanted. \nHere triumphed too the poet\'s hand that wrote \nThese lines \xe2\x80\x94 the power of love has witnessed this. \nDelicious victory ! I know my bliss, \nShe knows it too \xe2\x80\x94 the saint on whom I dote. \n\n\n\nNOTES. \n\n\n\nTHE PLEASURES OE HOPE. \nPage 106, line 18. \nAnd such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore \nThe hardy Byron to his native shore. \n\nThe following picture of his own distress, given by Byrox in his simple and interesting \nnarrative, justifies the description in page 5. \n\nAfter relating the barbarity of the Indian cacique to his child, he proceeds thus : \xe2\x80\x94 \n" A day or two after we put to sea again, and crossed the great bay I mentioned we had \nbeen at the bottom of when we first hauled away to the westward. The land here was \nvery low and sandy, and something like the mouth of a river which discharged itself into \nthe sea, and which had been taken no notice of by us before, as it was so shallow that the \nIndians were obliged to take everything out of their canoes, and carry them over land. \nWe rowed up the river four or five leagues, and then took into a branch of it that ran \nfirst to the eastward, and then to the northward ; here it became much narrower, and the \nstream excessively rapid, so that we gained but little way, though we wrought very hard. \nAt night we landed upon its banks, and had a most uncomfortable lodging, it being a \nperfeet swamp, and we had nothing to cover us, though it rained excessively. The \nIndians were little better off than we, as there was no wood here to make their wigwams ; \nso that all they could do was to prop up the bark, which they carry in the bottom of their \ncanoes, and shelter themselves as well as they could to the leeward of it. Knowing the \ndifficulties they had to encounter here, they had provided themselves with some seal ; but \nwe had not a morsel to eat, after the heavy fatigues of the day, excepting a sort of root \nwe saw the Indians make use of, which was very disagreeable to the taste. "We labored \nall next day against the stream, and fared as we had done the day before.\' The next \nday brought us to the carrying-place. Here was plenty of wood, but nothing to be got for \nsustenance. We passed this night, as we had frequently done, under a tree ; but what \nwe suffered at this time is not easy to be expressed. I had been three days at the oar \nwithout any kind of nourishment, except the wretched root above mentioned. I had no \nshirt, for if had rotted off by bits. All my clothes consisted of a short grieko (something \nlike a bear-skin), a piece of red cloth, which had once been a waistcoat, and a ragged pair \nof trousers, without shoes or stockings." \n\nPage 107, fine 4. \n\na Briton and a friend ! \n\nDonn Patricio Gedd, a Scotch physician in one of the Spanish settlements, hospitably \nrelieved Byron and his wretched associates, of which the commodore speaks in the warmest \nterms of gratitude. \n\n38* \n\n\n\n450 NOTES. \n\nPage 107, line 18. \nOr yield the lyre of Heaven another string. \nThe seven strings of Apollo\'s harp were the symbolical representation of the seven \nplanets. Herschel, by discovering an eighth, might be said to add another string to the \ninstrument. \n\nPage 107, line 19. \nThe Swedish-sage. \nLinnaeus. \n\nPage 108, line 7. \nDeep from his vaults the Loxian murmurs flow. \nLoxias is the name frequently given to Apollo by Greek writers ; it is met with more \nthan once in the Choephorae of JEschylus. \n\nPage 109, line 7. \n\nUnlocks a generous store at thy command, \nLike HoreVs rocks., beneath the prophet\'s hand. \n\nSee Exodus, 17 : 3, 5, 6. \n\nPage 113, line 30. \nWild Obi flies \xe2\x80\x94 \nAmong the negroes of the "West Indies, Obi, or Orbiah, is the name of a magical power, \nwhich is believed by them to affect the object of its malignity with dismal calamities. Such \na belief must undoubtedly have been deduced from the superstitious mythology of their \nkinsmen on the coast of Africa. I have, therefore, personified Obi as the evil spirit of \nthe African, although the history of the African tribes mentions the evil spirit of their \nreligious creed by a different appellation. \n\nPage 114, line 2. \nSibir\'s dreary mines. \n\n\n\nMr. Bell of Antermony, in his travels through Siberia, informs us that the name of the \ncountry is universally pronounced Sibir by the Russians. \n\nPage 114, line 16. \n\nPresaging wrath to Poland \xe2\x80\x94 and to man .\' \n\nThe history of the partition of Poland, of the massacre in the suburbs of Warsaw and \non the bridge of Prague, the triumphant entry of Suwarrow into the Polish capital, and the \ninsult offered to human nature by the blasphemous thanks offered up to Heaven for \nvictories obtained over men fighting in the sacred cause of liberty, by murderers and \noppressors, are events generally known. \n\nPage 119, line 19. \n\nThe shrill horn blew ; \n\nThe negroes in the West Indies are summoned to their morning work by a shell or horn. \n\nPage 120, line 6. \n\nHow long was Timour^s iron sceptre swayed, \n\nTo elucidate this passage, I shall subjoin a quotation from the preface to Letters from a \nHindoo Rajah, a work of elegance and celebrity. \n\n\n\nNOTES. 451 \n\n\n\n" The impostor of Mecca had established, as one of the principles of his doctrine, the \nmerit of extending it either by persuasion, or the sword, to all parts of the earth. How \nsteadily this injunction was adhered to by his followers, and with what success it was \npursued, is well known to all who are in the least conversant in history. \n\n" The same overwhelming torrent which had inundated the greater part of Africa burst \nits way into the very heart of Europe ; and, covering many kingdoms of Asia with \nunbounded desolation, directed its baneful course to the flourishing provinces of Hindostan. \nHere these fierce and hardy adventurers, whose only improvement had been in the \nscience of destruction, who added the fury of fanaticism to the ravages of war, found the \ngreat end of then- conquest opposed by objects which neither the ardor of their persever- \ning zeal, nor savage barbarity, could surmount. Multitudes were sacrificed by the cruel \nhand of religious persecution, and whole countries were deluged in blood, in the vain hope \nthat, by the destruction of a part, the remainder might be persuaded, or terrified, into the \nprofession of Mahometanism. But all these sanguinary efforts were ineffectual ; and at \nlength, being fully convinced that, though they might extirpate, they could never hope to \nconvert, any number of the Hindoos, they relinquished the impracticable idea with which \nthey had entered upon then: career of conquest, and contented themselves with the \nacquirement of the civil dominion and almost universal empire of Hindostan." \xe2\x80\x94 Letters \nfrom a Hindoo Rajah, by Eliza Hamilton. \n\nPage 120, line 20. \n\nAnd braved the stormy Spirit of the Cape ; \n\nSee the description of the Cape of Good Hope, translated from Camoens, by Mickle. \n\nPage 121, line 2. \n\nWhile famished nations died along the shore .\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nThe following account of British conduct and its consequences in Bengal will afford a \nsufficient idea of the fact alluded to in this passage. \n\nAfter describing the monopoly of salt, betel-nut and tobacco, the historian proceeds thus : \n\xe2\x80\x94 " Money in this current came but by drops ; it could not quench the thirst of those \nwho waited in India to receive it. An expedient, such as it was, remained to quicken its \npace. The natives could live with little salt, but could not want food. Some of the agents \nsaw themselves well situated for collecting the rice into stores ; they did so. They knew \nthe Gentoos would rather die than violate the principles of their religion by eating flesh. \nThe alternative would therefore be between giving what they had, or dying. The inhabit- \nants sunk ; \xe2\x80\x94 they that cultivated the land, and saw the harvest at the disposal of others, \nplanted in doubt, \xe2\x80\x94 scarcity ensued. Then the monopoly was easier managed \xe2\x80\x94 sickness \nensued. In some districts the languid living left the bodies of their numerous dead \nunburied." \xe2\x80\x94 Short History of the English Transactions in the East Indies, p. 145. \n\nPage 121, line 17. \nNine times have Brama\'s ivheels of lightning hurled \nHis awful presence o\'er the alarmed world ; \nAmong the sublime fictions of the Hindoo mythology, it is one article of belief, that the \nDeity Brama has descended nine times upon the world in various forms, and that he is \nyet to appear a tenth time, in the figure of a warrior upon a white horse, to cut off all \nincorrigible offenders. Avater is the word used to express his descent. \n\nPage 122, line 4. \nShall Seriswattee wave her hallowed wand ! \nAnd Camdeo bright, and Ganesa sublime, \nCamdeo is the God of Love in the mythology of the Hindoos. Ganesa and Seriswattee \ncorrespond to the pagan deities Janus and Minerva. \n\n\n\n452 NOTES. \n\n- Page 126, line 28. \nThe noon of manhood to a myrtle shade ! \nSacred to Venus is the myrtle shade. \xe2\x80\x94 Drtden. \n\nPage 129, line 21. \nThy woes, Arion ! \nFalconer, in his poem " The Shipwreck," speaks of himself by the name of Arion. \nSee Falconer\'s " Shipwreck," Canto in. \n\nPage 130, line 2. \nThe robber Moor, \nSee Schiller\'s tragedy of the " Robbers," Scene V. \n\nPage 130, line 20. \nWhat millions died \xe2\x80\x94 that Caesar might be great ! \n\nThe carnage occasioned by the wars of Julius Cassar has been usually estimated at two \nmillions of men. \n\nPage 130, line 22. \n\nOr learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore, \nMarched by their Charles to Dneiper , s swampy shore; \n\n"In this extremity" (says the biographer of Charles XII. of Sweden, speaking of his \nmilitary exploits before the battle of Pultowa), " the memorable winter of 1709, which was \nstill more remarkable in that part of Europe than in France, destroyed numbers of his \ntroops ; for Charles resolved to brave the seasons as he had done his enemies, and ven- \ntured to make long marches during this mortal cold. It was in one of these marches that \ntwo thousand men fell down dead with cold before his eyes." \n\nPage 131, line 13. \n\nFor, as Iona\'s saint, \n\nThe natives of the island of Iona have an opinion, that on certain evenings every year \nthe tutelary saint Columba is seen on the top of the church spires counting the surround- \ning islands, to see that they have not been sunk by the power of witchcraft. \n\nPage 131, line 32. \nAnd part, like Ajut \xe2\x80\x94 never to return ! \nSee the history of Ajut and Anningait, in " The Pvambler." \n\n\n\nTHEODRIC. \nPage 140, line 3. \n\n\n\nThat gave the glacier tops their richest glow, \n\nThe sight of the glaciers of Switzerland, I am told, has often disappointed travellers who \n\nhad perused the accounts of their splendor and sublimity given by Bourrit and other \n\n\n\nNOTES. 453 \n\n\n\ndescribers of Swiss scenery. Possibly Bourrit, who had spent his life in an enamored \nfamiliarity with the beauties of nature in Switzerland, may have leaned to the romantic \nside of description. One can pardon a man for a sort of idolatry of those imposing objects of \nnature which heighten our ideas of the bounty of nature or Providence, when we reflect \nthat the glaciers \xe2\x80\x94 those seas of ice \xe2\x80\x94 are not only sublime, but useful ; they are the \ninexhaustible reservoirs which supply the principal rivers of Europe ; and then- annual \nmelting is in proportion to the summer heat which dries up those rivers and makes thera \nneed that supply. \n\nThat the picturesque grandeur of the glaciers should sometimes disappoint the traveller, \nwill not seem surprising to any one who has been much in a mountainous country, and \nrecollects that the beauty of nature in such countries is not only variable, but capri- \nciously dependent on the weather and sunshine. There are about four hundred different \nglaciers,* according to the computation of M. Bourrit, between Mont Blanc and the fron- \ntiers of the Tyrol. The full effect of the most lofty and picturesque of them can, of course, \nonly be produced by the richest and warmest lights of the atmosphere ; and the very \nheat which illuminates them must have a changing influence on many of their appear- \nances. I imagine it is owing to this circumstance, namely, the casualty and changeable, \nness of the appearance of some of the glaciers, that the impressions made by them on the \nminds of other and more transient travellers have been less enchanting than those described \nby M. Bourrit. On one occasion M. Bourrit seems even to speak of a past phenomenon, and \ncertainly one which no other spectator attests in the same terms, when he says that there \nonce existed, between the Kandel Steig and Lauterbrun, " a passage amidst singular gla- \nciers, sometimes resembling magical towns of ice, with pilasters, pyramids, columns and \nobelisks, reflecting to the sun the most brilliant hues of the finest gems." \xe2\x80\x94 M. Bourrit\'s \ndescription of the Glacier of the Rhone is quite enchanting : \xe2\x80\x94 "To form an idea," he \nsays, " of this superb spectacle, figure in your mind a scaffolding of transparent ice, fill- \ning a space of two miles, rising to the clouds and darting flashes of light like the sun. Nor \nwere the several parts less magnificent and surprising. One might see, as it were, the \nstreets and buildings of a city, erected in the form of an amphitheatre, and embellished \nwith pieces of water, cascades and torrents. The effects were as prodigious as the im- \nmensity and the height; \xe2\x80\x94 the most beautiful azure \xe2\x80\x94 the most splendid white \xe2\x80\x94 the \nregular appearance of a thousand pyramids of ice, are more easy to be imagined than \ndescribed." \xe2\x80\x94 Bourrit, iii. 163. \n\nPage 140, line 9. \nFrom heights browsed by the bounding bouquetin ; \nLaborde, in his " Tableau de la Suisse," gives a curious account of this animal, the wild \nsharp, cry and elastic movements of which must heighten the picturesque appearance of \nits haunts. \xe2\x80\x94 "Nature," says Laborde, "has destined it to mountains covered with \nsnow ; if it is not exposed to keen cold, it becomes blind. Its agility in leaping much \nsurpasses that of the chamois, and would appear incredible to those who have not seen it. \nThere is not a mountain so high or steep to which it will not trust itself, provided it has \nroom to place its feet ; it can scramble along the highest wall, if its surface be rugged." \n\nPage 140, line 15. \n\nenamelled moss. \n\nThe moss of Switzerland, as well as that of the Tyrol, is remarkable for a bright \nsmoothness, approaching to the appearamce of enamel. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 Occupying, if taken together, a surface of one hundred and thirty square leagues. \n\n\n\n454 NOTES. \n\nPage 144, line 17. \nHow dear seemed even the waste and iviid Shreckhorn \nThe Shreckhorn means, in German, the Peak of Terror. \n\nPage 144, line 22. \nBlindfold his native hills he could have known ! \nI have here availed myself of a striking expression of the Emperor Napoleon respect- \ning his recollections of Corsica, which is recorded in Las Cases\' History of the Emperor\'s \nAbode at St. Helena. \n\n\n\nO\'CONNOR\'S CHILD. \nPage 167, line 1. \nlnnisfail, the ancient name of Ireland. \n\nPage 163, line 3. \n\nKerne, the plural of Kern, an Irish foot-soldier. In this sense the word is used by \nShakspeare. Gainsford, in his Glories of England, says, " They (the Irish) are desperate \nin revenge, and their kerne think no man dead vntil his head be off." \n\nPage 168, line 22. \nShieling, a rude cabin or hut. \n\nPage 168, line 28. \n\nIn Erin\'s yellow vesture clad, \n\nYellow, dyed from saffron, was the favorite color of the ancient Irish. When the Irish \nchieftains came to make terms with Queen Elizabeth\'s lord-lieutenant, we are told by Sir \nJohn Davis that they came to court in saffron-colored uniforms. \n\nPage 169, line 14. \n\nMdrat, a drink made of the juice of mulberry mixed with honey. \n\nPage 170, line 14. \n\nTheir tribe, they said, their high degree, \nWas sung in Tara\'s psaltery ; \n\nThe pride of the Irish in ancestry was so great, that one of the O\'Neals being told that \nBarret of Castlemone had been there only four hundred years, he replied that he hated \nthe clown as if he had come there but yesterday. \n\nTara was the place of assemblage and feasting of the petty princes of Ireland. Very \nsplendid and fabulous descriptions are given by the Irish historians of the pomp and \nluxury of those meetings. The psaltery of Tara was the grand national register of Ire- \nland. The grand epoch of political eminence in the early history of the Irish is the reign \n\n\n\nNOTES. 455 \n\nof their great and favorite monarch, Ollam Fodlah, who reigned, according to Keating, \nabout nine hundred and fifty years before the Christian era. Under nim was instituted \nthe great Fes at Tara, which it is pretended was a triennial convention of the states, or a \nparliament ; the members of which were the Druids, and other learned men, who repre- \nsented the people in that assembly. Tery minute aceounts are given by Irish annalists of \nthe magnificence and order of these entertainments ; from which, if credible, we might \ncollect the earliest traces of heraldry that occur in history. To preserve order and regu- \nlarity in the great number and variety of the members who met on such occasions, the \nIrish historians inform us that, when the banquet was ready to be served up, the shield- \nbearers of the princes, and other members of the convention, delivered in then- shields and \ntargets, which were readily distinguished by the coats of arms emblazoned upon them. \nThese were arranged by the grand marshal and principal herald, and hung upon the walls \non the right side of the table ; and, upon entering the apartments, each member took his \nseat under his respective shield or target, without the slightest disturbance. The conclud- \ning days of the meeting, it is allowed by the Irish antiquaries, were spent in very free \nexcess of conviviality ; but the first six, they say, were devoted to examination and settle- \nment of the annals of the kingdom. These were publicly rehearsed. "When they had \npassed the approbation of the assembly, they were transcribed into the authentic chroni- \ncles of the nation, which was called the Register, or Psalter, of Tara. \n\nCol. Yallancey gives a translation of an old Irish fragment, found in Trinity College, \nDublin, in which the palace of the above assembly is thus described, as it existed in the \nreign of Cormac : \n\n" In the reign of Cormac, the palace of Tara was nine hundred feet square ; the diam- \neter of the surrounding rath, seven dice or casts of a dart ; it contained one hundred and \nfifty apartments ; one hundred and fifty dormitories, or sleeping-rooms for guards, and \nsixty men in each \xe2\x80\xa2, the height was twenty-seven cubits ; there were one hundred and fifty \ncommon drinking-horns, twelve doors, and one thousand guests daily, besides princes, \norators, and men of science, engravers of gold and silver, carvers, modellers and nobles." \nThe Irish description of the banqueting-hall is thus translated : " Twelve stalls or divis- \nions in each wing ; sixteen attendants on each side, and two to each table ; one hundred \ngueste in all." \n\nPage 1T0, line 24. \nAnd stemmed De Bourgo\'s chivalry ? \n\nThe house of O\'Connor had a right to boast of their victories over the English. It was \na chief of the O\'Connor race who gave a check to the English champion De Courcy, so \nfamous for his personal strength, and for cleaving a helmet at one blow of his sword, in the \npresence of the Kings of France and England, when the French champion declined the \ncombat with him. Though ultimately conquered by the English under De Bourgo, the \nO\'Connors had also humbled the pride of that name on a memorable occasion, namely, \nwhen Walter De Bourgo, an ancestor of that De Bourgo who won the battle of Athunree, \nhad become so insolent as to make excessive demands upon the territories of Connaught, \nand to bid defiance to all the rights and properties reserved by the Irish chiefs. Eath \nO\'Connor, a near descendant of the famous Cathal, surnamed of the Bloody Hand, rose \nagainst the usurper, and defeated the English so severely, that then- general died of \nchagrin after the battle. \n\nPage 170, line 27. \nOr beal-jires for your jubilee \n\nThe month of May is to this day called Mi Beal tiennie, that is, the month of Beal\'s fire, \nin the original language of Ireland, and hence, I believe, the name of the Beltan festival in \n\n\n\n456 NOTES. \n\n\n\nthe Highlands. These fires were lighted on the summits of mountains (the Irish antiqua- \nries say) in honor of the sun ; and are supposed, by those conjecturing gentlemen, to \nprove the origin of the Irish from some nation who worshipped Baal or Belus. Many hills \nin Ireland still retain the name of Cnoc Greine, that is, the Hill of the Sun ; and on all are \nto be seen the ruins of druidical altars. \n\nPage 171, line 20. \n\nAnd play my clarshech by thy side. \n\nThe clarshech, or harp, the principal musical instrument of the Hibernian bards, doe3 \nnot appear to be of Irish origin, nor indigenous to any of the British islands. The Britons \nundoubtedly were not acquainted with it during the residence of the Romans in their \ncountry, as in all then- coins, on which musical instruments are represented, we see only \nthe Roman lyre, and not the British teylin, or harp. \n\nPage 1*71, line 27. \nAnd saw at dawn the lofty bawn \nBawn, from the Teutonic Bawen, \xe2\x80\x94 to construct and secure with branches of trees, \xe2\x80\x94 was \nso called because the primitive Celtic fortifications were made by digging a ditch, throwing \nup a rampart, and on the latter fixing stakes, which were interlaced with boughs of trees. \nThis word is used by Spenser ; but it is inaccurately called by Mr. Todd, his annotator, \nan eminence. \n\nPage 174, line 26. \n\nTo speak the malison of heaven. \n\nIf the wrath which I have ascribed to the heroine of this little piece should seem to \nexhibit her character as too unnaturally stripped of patriotic and domestic affections, I \nmust beg leave to plead the authority of Corneille in the representation of a similar pas- \nsion ; I allude to the denunciation of Camille, in the tragedy of " Horace." When \nHorace, accompanied by a soldier bearing the three swords of the Curiatii, meets his sis- \nter, and invites her to congratulate him on his victory, she expresses only her grief, which \nhe attributes at first only to her feelings for the loss of her two brothers ; but when she \nbursts forth into reproaches against him as the murderer of her lover, the last of the \nCuriatii, he exclaims : \n\n" ciel ! qui vit jamais une pareille rage ! \nCrois-tu done que je sois insensible a l\'outrage, \nQue je souffre en mon sang ce mortel d^shonneur i \nAime, aime cette mort qui fait notre bonheur ; \nEt prefere du moins au souvenir d\'un homme \nCe que doit ta naissance aux interets de Rome." \n\nAt the mention of Rome, Camille breaks out into this apostrophe : \n\n" Rome, l\'unique objet de mon ressentiment ! \nRome, a qui vient ton bras d\'immoler mon amant ! \nRome qui t\'a vu naltre et que ton coeur adore ! \nRome enfin que je hais parce qu\'elle t\'honore ! \nPuissent tous ses voisins ensemble conjures \nSaper ses fondements encor mal assures ; \nEt si ce n\'est assez de toute l\'ltalie, \nQue l\'Orient contre elle a l\'Occident s\'allie ; \nQue cent peuplcs unis des bouts de l\'univers \nPassent pour la detruire et les monts et les mers ; \nQu\'elle meme sur soi renverse ses murailles, \n\n\n\nNOTES. 457 \n\nEt de ses propres mains dechire ses entrailles I \nQue le couitoux du ciel allume par nies voeux \nFasse pleuvoir sur elle un deluge de feux ! \nPuisse-je des mes yeux y voir tomber ce foudre, \nVoir ses maisons en cendre et tes lauriers en poudre, \nVoir le dernier Romain a son dernier soupir, \nMoi seule en Stre cause, et mourir de plaisir ! " \n\nPage 175, line 3. \nAnd go to Athunree ! (I cried) \n\nIn the reign of Edward the Second, the Irish presented to Pope John the Twenty- \nsecond a memorial of their sufferings under the English, of which the language exhibits all \nthe strength of despair. " Ever since the English (say they) first appeared upon our \ncoasts, they entered our territories under a certain specious pretence of charity, and exter- \nnal hypocritical show of religion, endeavoring, at the same time, by every artifice malice \ncould suggest, to extirpate us root and branch, and without any other right than that of \nthe strongest ; they have so far succeeded, by base fraudulence and cunning, that they \nhave forced us to quit our fan- and ample habitations and inheritances, and to take refuge \nlike wild beasts in the mountains, the woods and the morasses of the country ; nor even \ncan the caverns and dens protect us against their insatiable avarice. They pursue us even \ninto these frightful abodes ; endeavoring to dispossess us of the wild uncultivated rocks, \nand arrogate to themselves the property of every place on which we can stamp the \nfigure of our feet." \n\nThe greatest effort ever made by the ancient Irish to regain their native independence, \nwas made at the time when they called over the brother of Robert Bruce from Scotland. \n\xe2\x96\xa0William de Bourgo, brother to the Earl of Ulster, and Richard de Bermingham, were sent \nagainst the main body of the native insurgents, who were headed rather than commanded \nby Felim O\'Connor. The important battle which decided the subjection of Ireland took \nplace on the tenth of August, 1315. It was the bloodiest that ever was fought between \nthe two nations, and continued throughout the whole day, from the rising to the setting \nsun. The Irish fought with inferior discipline, but with great enthusiasm. They lost ten \nthousand men, among whom were twenty-nine chiefs of Connaught. Tradition states \nthat after this terrible day the O\'Connor family, like the Fabian, were so nearly extermi- \nnated, that throughout all Connaught not one of the name remained, except Felim\'s brother, \nwho was capable of bearing arms. \n\n\n\nLOCHIEL\'S WARNING. \nPage 177. \n\n\n\nLochiel, the chief of the warlike clan of the Camerons, and descended from ancestors \ndistinguished in then- narrow sphere for great personal prowess, was a man worthy of a \nbetter cause and fate than that in which he embarked, the enterprise of the Stuarts in 1745. \nHis memory is still fondly cherished among the Highlanders, by the appellation of the \n\'\xe2\x96\xa0\'\xe2\x96\xa0gentle Lochiel ;" for he was famed for his social virtues as much as his martial and \nmagnanimous (though mistaken) loyalty. His influence was so important among the \nHighland chiefs that it depended on his joining with his clan whether the standard of \nCharles should be raised or not in 1745. Lochiel was himself too wise a man to be blind to \nthe consequences of so hopeless an enterprise, but his sensibility to the point of honor \n\n39 \n\n\n\n458 NOTES. \n\n\n\noverruled his wisdom. Charles appealed to his loyalty, and he could not brook the \nreproaches of his prince. When Charles landed at Borrodale, Lochiel went to meet him, \nbut on his way called at his brother\'s house (Cameron of Fassafern), and told him on what \nerrand he was going ; adding, however, that he meant to dissuade the prince from his \nenterprise. Fassafern advised him in that case to communicate his mind by letter to \nCharles. " No," said Lochiel, " I think it due to my prince to give him my reasons in \nperson for refusing to join his standard." " Brother," replied Fassafern, "I know you \nbetter than you know yourself ; if the prince once sets eyes on you, he will make you do \nwhat he pleases." The interview accordingly took place ; and Lochiel, with many argu- \nments, but in vain, pressed the Pretender to return to France, and reserve himself and his \nfriends for a more favorable occasion, as he had come, by his own acknowledgment, with- \nout arms, or money, or adherents ; or, at all events, to remain concealed till his friends \nshould meet and deliberate what was best to be done. Charles, whose mind was wound \nup to the utmost impatience, paid no regard to this proposal, but answered, " that he was \ndetermined to put all to the hazard." " In a few days," said he, " I will erect the royal \nstandard, and proclaim to the people of Great Britain that Charles Stuart is come over to \nclaim the crown of his ancestors, and to win it, or perish in the attempt. Lochiel, who, \nmy father has often told me, was our firmest friend, may stay at home and learn from \nthe newspapers the fate of his prince." " No," said Lochiel, " I will share the fate \nof my prince, and so shall every man over whom na\'ture or fortune hath given me any \npower." \n\nThe other chieftains who followed Charles embraced his cause with no better hopes. It \nengages our sympathy most strongly in their behalf, that no motive but their fear to be \nreproached with cowardice or disloyalty impelled them to the hopeless adventure. Of \nthis we have an example in the interview of Prince Charles with Clanronald, another \nleading chieftain in the rebel army. \n\n" Charles," says Home, " almost reduced to despair, in his discourse with Boisdalc, \naddressed the two Highlanders with great emotion, and, summing up his arguments for \ntaking arms, conjured them to assist their prince, their countryman, in his utmost need. \nClanronald and his friend, though well inclined to the cause, positively refused, and told \nhim that to take up arms without concert or support was to pull down certain ruin on then- \nown heads. Charles persisted, argued and implored. During this conversation (they \nwere on shipboard) the parties walked backwards and forwards on the deck \xe2\x80\xa2, a Highlander \nstood near them, armed at all points, as was then the fashion of his country. He was a \nyounger brother of Kinloch Moidart, and had come off to the ship to inquire for news, not \nknowing who was aboard. When he gathered from their discourse that the stranger was \nthe Prince of Wales, when he heard his chief and his brother refuse to take arms with \ntheir prince, his color went and came, his eyes sparkled, lie shifted his place, and grasped \nhis sword. Charles observed his demeanor, and turning briskly to him, called out, \' Will \nyou assist me ?\' \'I will, I will,\' said Ronald ; \' though no other man in the Highlands \nshould draw a sword, I am ready to die for you ! \' Charles, with a profusion of thanks to \nhis champion, said he wished all the Highlanders were like him. Without further delib- \neration, the two Macdonalds declared that they would also join, and use then - utmost \nendeavors to engage their countrymen to take arms." \xe2\x80\x94 Home\'s Hist. Rebellion, \np. 40. \n\nPage 177, line 15. \nWeep, Albin ! \nThe Gaelic appellation of Scotland, more particularly the Highlands. \n\n\n\nNOTES. 459 \n\n\n\nPage 179, line 8. \n\nLo ! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, \nBehold, where hejlies on his desolate -path ! \n\nThe lines allude to the many hardships of the royal sufferer. \n\nAn account of the second sight, in Irish called Taish, is thus given in Martin\'s Descrip- \ntion of the "Western Isles of Scotland. \n\n" The second sight is a singular faculty of seeing an otherwise invisible object, without \nany previous means used by the person who sees it for that end. The vision makes such \na lively impression upon the seers, that they neither see nor think of anything- else except \nthe vision as long as it continues ; and then they appear pensive or jovial according to the \nobject which was represented to them. \n\n" At the sight of a vision the eyelids of the person are erected, and the eyes continue \nstaring until the object vanishes. This is obvious to others who are standing by when the \npersons happen to see a vision ; and occurred more than once to my own observation, and \nto others that were with me. \n\n" There is one in Skie, of whom his acquaintance observed, that when he sees a vision \nthe inner part of his eyelids turns so far upwards, that, after the object disappears, he \nmust draw them down with his fingers, and sometimes employ others to draw them down, \nwhich he finds to be much the easier way. \n\n" This faculty of the second sight does not lineally descend in a family, as some have \nimagined ; for I know several parents who are endowed with it, and their children are \nnot 5 and vice versa. Neither is it acquired by any previous compact. And, after strict \ninquiry, I could never learn, from any among them, that this faculty was communicable to \nany whatsoever. The seer knows neither the object, time nor place of a vision, before it \nappears ; and the same object is often seen by different persons living at a considerable \ndistance from one another. The true way of judging as to the time and circumstances is \nby observation ; for several persons of judgment who are without this faculty are more \ncapable to judge of the design of a vision than a novice that is a seer. If an object appear \nin the day or night, it will come to pass sooner or later accordingly. \n\n" If an object is seen early in a morning, which is not frequent, it will be accomplished \nin a few hours afterwards ; if at noon, it will probably be accomplished that very day 5 if \nin the evening, perhaps that night 5 if after candles be lighted, it will be accomplished \nthat night ; the latter always an accomplishment by weeks, months and sometimes years, \naccording to the time of the night the vision is seen. \n\n"When a shroud is seen about one, it is a sure prognostic of death. The time is judged \naccording to the height of it about the person ; for if it is not seen above the middle, death \nis not to be expected for the space of a year, and perhaps some months longer 5 and as it \nis frequently seen to ascend higher towards the head, death is concluded to be at hand \nwithin a few days, if not hours, as daily experience confirms. Examples of this kind \nwere shown me, when the person of whom the observations were then made was in perfect \nhealth. \n\n"It is ordiuary with them to see houses, gardens and trees, in places void of all these, \nand this in process of time is wont to be accomplished ; as at Mogslot, in the Isle of Skie, \nwhere there but a few sorry low houses, thatched with straw ; yet in a few years the \nvision, which appeared often, was accomplished by the building of several good houses iu \nthe very spot represented to the seers, and by the planting of orchards there. \n\n" To see a spark of fire is a forerunner of a dead child, to be seen in the arms of those \npersons ; of which there are several instances. To see a seat empty at the time of sitting \nin it is a presage of that person\'s death quickly, after it. \n\n\n\n460 NOTES. \n\nu When a novice, or one that ha3 lately obtained the second sight, sees a vision in the \nnight-time without doors, and comes near a fire, he presently falls into a swoon. \n\n" Some find themselves, as it were, in a crowd of people, having a corpse, which they \ncarry along with them ; and after such visions the seers come in sweating, and describe \nthe vision that appeared. If there be any of their acquaintance among them, they give \nan account of their names, as also of the bearers ; but they know nothing concerning the \ncorpse." \n\nHorses and cows (according to the same credulous author) have certainly sometimes the \nsame faculty ; and he endeavors to prove it by the signs of fear which the animals exhibit \nwhen second-sighted persons see visions in the same place. \n\n"The seers," he continues, "are generally illiterate and well-meaning people, and \naltogether void of design ; nor could I ever learn that any of them ever made the least \ngain by it ; neither is it reputable among them to have that faculty. Besides, the people \nof the Isles are not so credulous as to believe implicitly before the thing predicted is accom- \nplished ; but when it is actually accomplished afterwards, it is not in their power to deny \nit, without offering violence to then- own sense and reason. Besides, if the seers were \ndeceivers, can it be reasonable to imagine that all the islanders who have not the second \nsight should combine together and offer violence to their understandings and senses, to en- \nforce themselves to believe a lie from age to age ? There are several persons among them \nwhose title and education raise them above the suspicion of concurring with an impostor \nmerely to gratify an illiterate, contemptible set of persons ; nor can reasonable persons \nbelieve that children, horses and cows, should be preengaged in a combination in favor of \nthe second sight." \xe2\x80\x94 Martin\'s Description of the Western Isles of Scotland, pp. \n3 11. \n\n\n\nGERTRUDE OF WYOMING. \n\nPage 211, line 6. \nFrom merry mock-bird\'s song, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\nThe mocking-bird is of the form of, but larger than the thrush ; and the colors are a \nmixture of black, white and gray. What is said of the nightingale by its greatest admir- \ners is what may with more propriety apply to this bird, who, in a natural state, sings with \nvery superior taste. Towards evening I have heard one begin softly, reserving its breath \nto swell certain notes, which, by this means, had a most astonishing effect. A gentleman in \nLondon had one of these birds for six years. During the space of a minute he was heard \nto imitate the woodlark, chaffinch, blackbird, thrush and sparrow. In this country \n(America) I have frequently known the mocking-birds so engaged in this mimicry, that it \nwas with much difficulty I could ever obtain an opportunity of hearing their own natural \nnote. Some go so far as to say that they have neither peculiar notes nor favorite imita- \ntions. This may be denied. Their few natural notes resemble those of the (European) \nnightingale. Their song, however, has a greater compass and volume than the nightin- \ngale\'s, and they have the faculty of varying all intermediate notes in a manner which is \ntruly delightful. \xe2\x80\x94 Ashe\'s Travels in America, vol. ii. p. 73. \n\n\n\nNOTES. 461 \n\n\n\nPage 213, line 2. \nAnd distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan roar ! \n\nThe Corybrechtan, or Corbrechtan, is a whirlpool on the western coast of Scotland, \nnear the island of Jura, which is heard at a prodigious distance. Its name signifies the \nwhirlpool of the Prince of Denmark ; and there is a tradition that a Danish prince once \nundertook, for a wager, to cast anchor in it. He is said to have used woollen instead of \nhempen ropes, for greater strength, but perished in the attempt. On the shores of \nArgyleshire I have often listened with great delight to the sound of this vortex, at the dis- \ntance of many leagues. When the weather is calm, and the adjacent sea scarcely heard \non these picturesque shores, its sound, which is like the sound of innumerable chariots, \ncreates a magnificent and fine effect. \n\nPage 215, fine 17. \nOf buskined limb, and swarthy lineament ; \nIn the Indian tribes there is a great similarity in their color, stature, &c. They are all, \nexcept the Snake Indians, tall in stature, straight and robust. It is very seldom they are \ndeformed, which has riven rise to the supposition that they put to death their deformed \nchildren. Their skin is of a copper-color ; their eyes large, bright, black and sparkling, \nindicative of a subtle and discerning mind 5 their hah is of the same color, and prone to be \nlong, seldom or never curled. Their teeth are large and white ; I never observed any \ndecayed among them, which makes their breath as sweet as the ah- they inhale. \xe2\x80\x94 Travels \nin America by Captains Lewis and Clarke, in 180-1\xe2\x80\x945-6. \n\nPage 216, line 1. \n" Peace be to thee ! my ivords this belt approve ; \nThe Indians of North America accompany every formal address to strangers, with whom \nthey form or recognize a treaty of amity, with a present of a string, or belt, of wampum. \nWampum (says Cadwallader Colden) is made of the large whelk shell, buccinum, and \nshaped like long beads ; it is the current money of the Indians. \xe2\x80\x94 History of the Five \nIndian Nations, p. 34. New York edition. \n\nPage 216, line 2. \n\nThe paths of peace my steps have hither led : \n\nIn relating an interview of Mohawk Indians with the Governor of New York, Colden \nquotes the following passage as a specimen of their metaphorical manner : " Where shall I \nseek the chair of peace ? Where shall I find it but upon our path ? and whither doth our \npath lead us but unto this house ? " . \n\nPage 216, line 6. \nOur wampum league thy brethren did embrace : \nWhen they solicit the alliance, offensive or defensive, of a whole nation, they send an \nembassy with a large belt of wampum and a bloody hatchet, inviting them to come and \ndrink the blood of their enemies. The wampum made use of on these and other occasions, \nbefore their acquaintance with the Europeans, was nothing but small shells which they \npicked up by the sea-coasts and on the banks of the lakes \xe2\x80\xa2, and now it is nothing but a \nkind of cylindrical beads, made of shells, white and black, which are esteemed among them \nas silver and gold are among us. The black they call the most valuable, and both together \nare then- greatest riches and ornaments ; these among them answering all the end that \nmoney does amongst us. They have the art of stringing, twisting, and interweaving them \n\n39* \n\n\n\n462 NOTES. \n\n\n\ninto their belts, collars, blankets and moccasins, &c, in ten thousand different sizes, forms \nand figures, so as to be ornaments for every part of dress, and expressive to them of all \ntheir important transactions. They dye the wampum of various colors and shades, and \nmix and dispose them with great ingenuity and order, and so as to be significant among \nthemselves of almost everything they please ; so that by these their words are kept, and \ntheir thoughts communicated to one another, as ours are by writing. The belts that pass \nfrom one nation to another in all treaties, declarations and important transactions, are very \ncarefully preserved in the cabins of their chiefs, and serve not only as a kind of record or \nhistory, but as a public treasure. \xe2\x80\x94 Major Rogers\' 1 Account of North America. \n\nPage 217, line 1. \nAs when the evil Manitou \n\nIt is certain the Indians acknowledge one Supreme Being, or Giver of Life, who presides \nover all things, \xe2\x80\x94 that is, the Great Spirit, \xe2\x80\x94 and they look up to him as the source of good, \nfrom whence no evil can proceed. They also believe in a bad Spirit, to whom they ascribe \ngreat power ; and suppose that through his power all the evils which befall mankind are \ninflicted. To him, therefore, they pray in their distresses, begging that he would either \navert their troubles, or moderate them when they are no longer avoidable. \n\nThey hold also that there are good Spirits of a lower degree, who have their particu- \nlar departments, in which they are constantly contributing to the happiness of mortals. \nThese they suppose to preside over all the extraordinary productions of nature, such as \nthose lakes, rivers and mountains, that are of an uncommon magnitude ; and likewise the \nbeasts, birds, fishes, and even vegetables or stones, that exceed the rest of their species in \nsize or singularity. \xe2\x80\x94 Clarke\'s Travels among the Indians. \n\nThe Supreme Spirit of Good is called by the Indians Kitchi Manitou 5 and the Spirit of \nevil, Matchi Manitou. \n\nPage 217, line 15. \nOf fever-balm and sweet sagamite : \nThe fever-balm is a medicine used by these tribes ; it is a decoction of a bush called the \nFever-tree. Sagamite is a kind of soup administered to their sick. \n\nPage 217, line 24. \nAnd I, the eagle of my tribe, have rushed \nWith this lorn dove." \nThe testimony of all travellers among the American Indians who mention their hiero- \nglyphics authorizes me in putting this figurative language in the mouth of Outalissi. \nThe dove is among them, as elsewhere, an emblem of meekness ; and the eagle, that of a \nbold, noble and liberal mind. "When the Indians speak of a warrior who soars above the \nmultitude in person and endowments, they say, " he is like the eagle, who destroys his \nenemies, and gives protection and abundance to the weak of his own tribe." \n\nPage 218, line 24. \nFar differently, the mute Oneyda took, fyc. \n\nThey are extremely circumspect and deliberate in every word and action 5 nothing \nhurries them into any intemperate wrath, but that inveteracy to then enemies which is \nrooted in every Indian\'s breast. In all other instances they are cool and deliberate, taking \ncare to suppress the emotions of the heart. If an Indian has discovered that a friend of his \nis in danger of being cut off by a lurking enemy, he does not tell him of his danger in direct \nterms as though he were in fear, but he first coolly asks him which way he is going that \n\n\n\nNOTES. 463 \n\nday, and having his answer, with the same indifference tells him that he has been in- \nformed that a noxious beast lies on the route he is going. This hint proves sufficient, and \nhis friend avoids the danger with as much caution as though every design and motion of \nhis enemy had been pointed out to him. \n\nIf an Indian has been engaged for several days in the chase, and by accident continued \nlong without food, when he arrives at the hut of a friend, where he knows that his wants \nwill be immediately supplied, he takes care not to show the least symptoms of impatience, \nor betray the extreme hunger that he is tortured with ; but, on being invited in, sits con- \ntentedly down, and smokes his pipe with as much composure as if his appetite was cloyed \nand he was perfectly at ease. He does the same if among strangers. This custom is \nstrictly adhered to by every tribe, as they esteem it a proof of fortitude, and think the \nreverse would entitle them to the appellation of old women. \n\nIf you tell an Indian that his children have greatly signalized themselves against an \nenemy, have taken many scalps, and brought home many prisoners, he does not appear \nto feel any strong emotions of pleasure on the occasion ; his answer generally is, " They \nhave done well," and he makes but very little inquiry about the matter \xe2\x80\xa2, on the contrary, \nif you inform him that his children are slain or taken prisoners, he makes no complaints ; \nhe only replies, " It is unfortunate ;" and for some time asks no questions about how it \nhappened. \xe2\x80\x94 Lewis and Clarke\'s Travels. \n\nPage 218, line 25. \nHis calumet of peace, fyc. \n\nNor is the calumet of less importance or less revered than the wampum in many trans- \nactions relative both to peace and war. The bowl of this pipe is made of a kind of soft \nred stone, which is easily wrought and hollowed out 5 the stem is of cane, alder or some \nkind of light wood, painted with different colors, and decorated with the heads, tails and \nfeathers, of the most beautiful birds. The use of the calumet is to smoke either tobacco or \nsome bark, leaf or herb, winch they often use instead of it, when they enter into an alli- \nance on any serious occasion, or solemn engagements ; this being among them the most \nsacred oath that can be taken, the violation of which is esteemed most infamous, and \ndeserving of severe punishment from Heaven. When they treat of war, the whole \npipe and all its ornaments are red ; sometimes it is red only on one side, and by the dis- \nposition of the feathers, &c, one acquainted with their customs will know at first sight \nwhat the nation who presents it intends or desires. Smoking the calumet is also a reli- \ngious ceremony on some occasions, and in all treaties is considered as a witness between \nthe parties, or rather as an instrument by which they invoke the sun and moon to witness \ntheir sincerity, and to be, as it were, a guarantee of the treaty between them. This cus- \ntom of the Indians, though to appearance somewhat ridiculous, is not without its reasons ; \nfor as they find that smoking tends to disperse the vapors of the brain, to raise the spirits, \nand to qualify them for thinking and judging properly, they introduce it into their coun- \ncils, where, after then- resolves, the pipe was considered as a seal of then* decrees, and as \na pledge of then performance thereof it was sent to those they were consulting, in alliance \nor treaty with ; \xe2\x80\x94 so that smoking among them at the same pipe is equivalent to our \ndrinking together and out of the same cup. \xe2\x80\x94 Major Rogers\' 1 Account of North \nAmerica, 1766. \n\nThe lighted calumet is also used among them for a purpose still more interesting than \nthe expression of social friendship. The austere manners of the Indians forbid any ap- \npearance of gallantry between the sexes in the day-time ; but at night the young lover \ngoes a-calumeting, as Ins courtship is called. As these people live in a state of equality, \nand without fear of internal violence or theft in their own tribes, they leave then doors open \nby night, as well as by day. The lover takes advantage of this liberty, lights his calumet, \nenters the cabin of his mistress, and gently presents it to her. H she extinguish it, she \n\n\n\n464 NOTES. \n\n\n\nadmits his addresses ; but, if-she suffer it to burn unnoticed, he retires with a disappointed \nand throbbing heart. \xe2\x80\x94 Ashe\'s Travels. \n\nPage 219, line 2. \nTrained from his tree-rocked cradle to his bier \nAn Indian child, as soon as he is born, is swathed with clothes, or skins ; and, being \nlaid on his back, is bound down on a piece of thick board, spread over with soft moss. \nThe board is somewhat larger and broader than the child, and bent pieces of wood, like \npieces of hoops, are placed over its face to protect it, so that if the machine were suffered \nto fall the child probably would not be injured. When the women have any business to \ntransact at home, they hang the boards on a tree, if there be one at hand, and set them \na swinging from side to side, like a pendulum, in order to exercise the children. \xe2\x80\x94 Weld, \nvol. ii. p. 216. \n\nPage 219, line 3. \n\nThe fierce extreme of good and ill to brook \nImpassive \n\nOf the active as well as passive fortitude of the Indian character the following is an \ninstance related by Adair in his Travels : \n\nA party of the Senekah Indians came to war against the Katahba, bitter enemies to \neach other. In the woods the former discovered a sprightly warrior belonging to the lat- \nter, hunting in their usual light dress ; on his perceiving them, he sprang off for a hollow \nrock four or five miles distant, as they intercepted him from running homeward. He was \nso extremely swift and skilful with the gun, as to kill seven of them in the running fight \nbefore they were able to surround and take him. They carried him to their country in \nsad triumph ; but, though he had filled them with uncommon grief and shame for the loss \nof so many of then- kindred, yet the love of martial virtue induced them to treat him, \nduring then 1 long journey, with a great deal more civility than if he had acted the part Oi \na coward. The women and children, when they met him at their several towns, beat him \nand whipped him in as severe a manner as the occasion required, according to their law \nof justice, and at last he was formally condemned to die by the fiery torture. It might \nreasonably be imagined that what he had for some time gone through, by being fed with \na scanty hand, a tedious march, lying at night on the bare ground, exposed to the changes \nof the weather, with his arms and legs extended in a pair of rough stocks, and suffering \nsuch punishment, on his entering into their hostile towns, as a prelude to those sharp \ntorments for which he was destined, would have so impaired his health and affected his \nimagination, as to have sent him to his long sleep, out of the way of any more sufferings. \nProbably this would have been the case with the major part of the white people, under \nsimilar circumstances ; but I never knew this with any of the Indians ; and this cool- \nheaded, brave warrior did not deviate from their rough lessons of martial virtue, but acted \nhis part so well as to surprise and sorely vex his numerous enemies ; for when they were \ntaking him, unpinioned, in their wild parade, to the place of torture, which lay near to a \nriver, he suddenly dashed down those who stood in his way, sprang off and plunged into \nthe water, swimming underneath like an otter, only rising to take breath, till he reached \nthe opposite shore. He now ascended the steep bank, but, though he had good reason to \nbe in a hurry, as many of the enemy were in the water, and others running very like \nbloodhounds in pursuit of him, and the bullets flying around him from the time he took to \nthe river, yet his heart did not allow him to leave them abruptly, without taking leave in a \nformal manner, in return for the extraordinary favors they had done and intended to do \nto him. After slapping a part of his body in defiance to them (continues the author), he put \nup the shrill war-whoop, as his last salute, till some more convenient opportunity offered, \n\n\n\nnotes. 465 \n\n\n\nand darted off in the manner of a beast broke loose from its torturing enemies. He continued \nhis speed so as to run, by about midnight of the same day, as far as his eager pursuers \nwere two days in reaching. There he rested till he happily discovered five of those In- \ndians who had pursued him ; \xe2\x80\x94 he lay hid a little way off then- camp, till they were sound \nasleep. Every circumstance of his situation occurred to him, and inspired him with hero- \nism. He was naked, torn and hungry, and his enraged enemies were come up with him ; \n\xe2\x80\x94 but there was now everything to relieve his wants, and a fair opportunity to save his \nlife, and get great honor and sweet revenge by cutting them off. Resolution, a convenient \nspot, and sudden surprise, would effect the main object of all his wishes and hopes. He \naccordingly crept, took one of their tomahawks, and killed them all on the spot, \xe2\x80\x94 clothed \nhimself, took a choice gun, and as much ammunition and provisions as he could well carry \nin a running march. He set off afresh with a light heart, and did not sleep for several \nsuccessive nights, only when he reclined, as usual, a little before day, with his back to a \ntree. As it were by instinct, when he found he was free from the pursuing enemy, he \nmade directly to the very place where he had killed seven of his enemies, and was taken \nby them for the fiery torture. He digged them up, burnt their bodies to ashes, and went \nhome in safety, with singular triumph. Other pursuing enemies came, on the evening of \nthe second day, to the camp of their dead people, when the sight gave them a greater \nshock than they had ever known before. In their chilled war-council they concluded \nthat, as he had done such surprising things in his defence before he was captivated, and \nsince that in his naked condition, and now was well armed, if they continued the pursuit \nhe would spoil them all, for he surely was an enemy wizard, \xe2\x80\x94 and therefore they returned \nhome. \xe2\x80\x94 Adair^s General Observations on the American Indians, p. 394. \n\nIt is surprising (says the same author) to see the long-continued speed of the Indians. \nThough some of us have often run the swiftest of them out of sight for about the distance \nof twelve miles, yet afterwards, without any seeming toil, they would stretch on, leave us \nout of sight, and outwind any horse. \xe2\x80\x94 Ibid, p. 318. \n\nIf an Indian were driven out into the extensive woods, with only a knife and a toma- \nhawk, or a small hatchet, it is not to be doubted but he would fatten, even where a wolf \nwould starve. He would soon collect fire by rubbing two dry pieces of wood together, \nmake a bark hut, earthen vessels, and a bow and arrows ; then kill wild game, fish, fresh- \nwater tortoises, gather a plentiful variety of vegetables, and live in affluence. \xe2\x80\x94 Ibid, p. 410. \n\nPage 219, line 12. \nMoccasins are a sort of Indian buskins. \n\nPage 219, line 15. \n\n"Sleep, wearied one ! and in the dreaming land \nShouldst thou to-morrovj ivith thy mother meet, \nThere is nothing (says Charlevoix) in which these barbarians carry their superstitions \nfurther than in what regards dreams 5 but they vary greatly in their manner of explain- \ning themselves on this point. Sometimes it is the reasonable soul which ranges abroad, \nwhile the sensitive continues to animate the body. Sometimes it is the familiar genius \nwho gives salutary counsel with respect to what is going to happen. Sometimes it is a \nvisit made by the soul of the object of which he dreams. But, in whatever manner the \ndream is conceived, it is always looked upon as a thing sacred, and as the most ordinary \nway in which the gods make known their will to men. Pilled with this idea, they cannot \nconceive how we should pay no regard to them. Por the most part, they look upon them \neither as a desire of the soul, inspired by some genius, or an order from him ; and in con- \nsequence of this principle they hold it a religious duty to obey them. An Indian having \ndreamt of having a finger cut off, had it really cut off as socn as he awoke, having first \n\n\n\n466 NOTES. \n\n\n\nprepared himself for this important action by a feast. Another having dreamt of being a \nprisoner, and in the hands of his enemies, was much at a loss what to do. He consulted \nthe jugglers, and by their advice caused himself to be tied to a post, and burnt in several \nparts of the body. \xe2\x80\x94 Charlevoix, Journal of a Voyage to North America. \n\nPage 219, line 23. \nFrom a flower shaped like a horn, which Chateaubriand presumes to be of the lotus \nkind, the Indians in their travels through the desert often find a draught of dew purer \nthan any other water. \n\nPage 220, line 1. \nThe crocodile, the condor of the rock. \n\nThe alligator, or American crocodile, when full-grown (says Bertram), is a very large \nand terrible creature, and of prodigious strength, activity and swiftness, in the water. I \nhave seen them twenty feet in length, and some are supposed to be twenty-two or twenty- \nthree feet in length. Their body is as large as that of a horse ; their shape usually resem- \nbles that of a lizard, which is flat, or cuneiform, being compressed on each side, and grad- \nually diminishing from the abdomen to the extremity, which, with the whole body, is cov- \nered with horny plates, or squamje, impenetrable, when on the body of the five ani- \nmal, even to a rifle-ball, except about their head, and just behind their fore-legs or arms, \nwhere, it is said, they are only vulnerable. The head of a full-grown one is about three \nfeet, and the mouth opens nearly the same length. Their eyes ai-e small in proportion, \nand seem sunk in the head, by means of the prominency of the brows ; the nostrils are \nlarge, inflated, and prominent on the top, so that the head on the water resembles, at a \ndistance, a great chunk of wood floating about \xe2\x80\xa2, only the upper jaw moves, which they \nraise almost perpendicular, so as to form a right angle with the lower one. In the fore- \npart of the upper jaw, on each side, just under the nostrils, are two very large, thick, \nstrong teeth, or tusks, not very sharp, but rather the shape of a cone ; these are as white \nas the finest polished ivory, and are not covered by any skin or lips, but always in sight, \nwhich gives the creature a frightful appearance ; in the lower jaw are holes opposite to. \nthese teeth to receive them ; when they clap their jaws together, it causes a surprising \nnoise, like that which is made by forcing a heavy plank with violence upon the ground, \nand may be heard at a great distance. But what is yet more surprising to a stranger is \nthe incredibly loud and terrifying roar which they are capable of making, especially in \nbreeding time. It most resembles very heavy, distant thunder, not only shaking the air and \nwaters, but causing the earth to tremble ; and when hundreds are roaring at the same \ntime, you can scarcely be persuaded but that the whole globe is violently and dangerously \nagitated. An old champion, who is, perhaps, absolute sovereign of a little lake or lagoon \n(when fifty less than himself are obliged to content themselves with swelling and roaring \nin little coves round about), darts forth from the reedy coverts, all at once, on the surface \nof the waters in a right line, at first seemingly as rapid as lightning, but gradually more \nslowly, until he arrives at the centre of the lake, where he stops. He now swells himself \nby drawing in wind and water through his mouth, which causes a loud sonorous rattling \nin the throat for near a minute 5 but it is immediately forced out again through his mouth \nand nostrils with a loud noise, brandishing his tail in the air, and the vapor running from \nhis nostrils like smoke. At other times, when swollen to an extent ready to burst, his head \nand tail lifted up, he spins or twirls round on the surface of the water. He acts his part \nlike an Indian chief when rehearsing his feats of war. \xe2\x80\x94 Bertram\'s Travels in North \nAmerica. \n\n\n\nNOTES. 467 \n\nPage 220, line 9. \nThen forth uprose that lone wayfaring man ; \n\nThey discover an amazing sagacity, and acquire, with the greatest readiness, anything \nthat depends upon the attention of the mind. By experience, and an acute observation, \nthey attain many perfections to which the Americans are strangers. Por instance, they \nwill cross a forest or a plain which is two hundred miles in breadth, so as to reach with \ngreat exactness the point at which they intend to arrive, keeping, during the whole of that \nspace, in a direct line, without any material deviations ; and this they will do with tiie \nsame ease, let the weather be fair or cloudy. "With equal acuteness they will point to that \npart of the heavens the sun is in, though it be intercepted by clouds or fogs. Besides this, \nthey are able to pursue, with incredible facility, the traces of man or beast, either on \nleaves or grass ; and on this account it is with great difficulty they escape discovery. \nThey are indebted for these talents not only to nature, but to an extraordinary command \nof the intellectual qualities, which can only be acquired by an unremitted attention, and \nby long experience. They are, in general, very happy in a retentive memory. They can \nrecapitulate every particular that has been treated of in councils, and remember the exact \ntime when they were held. Their belts of wampum preserve the substance of the treaties \nthey have concluded with the neighboring tribes for ages back, to which they will appeal \nand refer with as much perspicuity and readiness as Europeans can to then written \nrecords. \n\nThe Indians are totally unskilled in geography, as well as all the other sciences ; and \nyet they draw on their birch-bark very exact charts or maps of the countries they are \nacquainted with. The latitude and longitude only are wanting to make them tolerably \ncomplete. \n\nTheir sole knowledge in astronomy consists in being able to point out the polar star, by \nwhich they regulate their course when they travel in the night. \n\nThey reckon the distance of places not by miles or leagues, but by a day\'s journey, \nwhich, according to the best calculation I could make, appears to be about twenty English \nmiles. These they also divide into halves and quarters, and will demonstrate them in \ntheir maps with great exactness by the hieroglyphics just mentioned, when they regulate \nIn council their war-parties, or their most distant hunting excursions, \xe2\x80\x94 Lewis and \nClarke\'s Travels. \n\nSome of the French missionaries have supposed that the Indians are guided by instinct, \nand have pretended that Indian children can find their way through a forest as easily \nas a person of maturer years ; but this is a most absurd notion. It is unquestionably by \na close attention to the growth of the trees, and position of the sun, that they find then- \nway. On the northern side of a tree there is generally the most moss ; and the bark on \nthat side, in general, differs from that on the opposite one. The branches toward the \nsouth are, for the most part, more luxuriant than those on the other sides of trees ; and \nseveral other distinctions also subsist between the northern and southern sides, conspicuous \nto Indians, being taught from then* infancy to attend to them, which a common observer \nwould, perhaps, never notice. Being accustomed from then 1 infancy likewise to pay great \nattention to the position of the sun, they learn to make the most accurate allowance for its \napparent motion from one part of the heavens to another ; and in every part of the day \nthey will point to the part of the heavens where it is, although the sky be obscured by \nclouds or mists. \n\nAn instance of then- dexterity in finding their way through an unknown country came \nunder my observation when I was at Staunton, situated behind the Blue Mountains, \nVirginia. A number of the Creek nation had arrived at that town on their way to Phila- \ndelphia, whither they were going upon some affairs of importance, and had stopped there \nfor the night. In the morning, some circumstance or other, which could not be learned, \n\n\n\n468 NOTES. \n\n\n\ninduced one-half of the Indians to set off without their companions, who did not follow \nuntil some hours afterwards. When these last were ready to pursue their journey, \nseveral of the towns-people mounted their horses to escort them part of the way. They \nproceeded along the high road for some miles, but, all at once, hastily turning aside into \nthe woods, though there was no path, the Indians advanced confidently forward. The \npeople who accompanied them, surprised at this movement, informed them that they were \nquitting the road to Philadelphia, and expressed their fear lest they should miss their com- \npanions who had gone on before. They answered that they knew better, that the way \nthrough the woods was the shortest to Philadelphia, and that they knew very well that \nthen companions had entered the wood at the very place where they did. Curiosity led \nsome of the horsemen to go on ; and, to their astonishment, for there was apparently no \ntrack, they overtook the other Indians in the thickest part of the wood. But what \nappeared most singular was, that the route which they took was found, on examining a \nmap, to be as direct for Philadelphia as if they had taken the bearings by a mariner\'s \ncompass. From others of their nation, who had been at Philadelphia at a former period, \nthey had probably learned the exact direction of that city from their villages, and had \nnever lost sight of it, although they had already travelled three hundred miles through the \nwoods, and had upwards of four hundred miles more to go before they could reach the \nplace of then- destination. Of the exactness with which they can find out a strange place \nto which they have been once directed by then\' own people, a striking example is fur- \nnished, I think, by Mr. Jefferson, in his account of the Indian graves in Virginia. These \ngraves are nothing more than large mounds of earth in the woods, which, on being opened, \nare found to contain skeletons in an erect posture : the Indian mode of sepulture has. been \ntoo often described to remain unknown to you. But to come to my story. A party of \nIndians that were passing on to some of the sea-ports of the Atlantic, just as the Creeks \nabove mentioned were going to Philadelphia, were observed, all on a sudden, to quit the \nstraight road by which they were proceeding, and, without asking any questions, to strike \nthrough the woods, in a direct line, to one of these graves, which lay at the distance of \nsome miles from the road. Now, very near a century must have passed over since the \npart of Virginia in which this grave was situated had been inhabited by Indians ; and \nthese Indian travellers, who were to visit it by themselves, had unquestionably never been \nin that part of the country before ; they must have found\xc2\xabtheir way to it simply from the \ndescription of its situation that had been handed down to them by tradition. \xe2\x80\x94 Weld\'s \nTravels in North America, vol. ii. \n\nPage 223, last hue. \n\nTheir fathers\' dust \n\nIt is a custom of the Indian tribes to visit the tombs of their ancestors in the cultivated \nparts of America, who have been buried for upwards of a century. \n\nPage 226, line 12. - \n\nOr wild-cane arch high flung o\'er gulf profound, \n\nThe bridges over narrow streams in many parts of Spanish America are said to be built \nof cane, which, however strong to support the passenger, are yet waved in the agitation of \nthe storm, and frequently add to the effect of a mountainous and picturesque scenery. \n\nPage 234, line 26. \n\nThe Mammoth comes, \n\nThat I am justified in making the Indian chief allude to the mammoth as an emblem of \nterror and destruction, will be seen by the authority quoted below. Speaking of the mam- \n\n\n\nNOTES. 469 \n\n\n\nmoth or big buffalo, Mr. Jefferson states that a tradition is preserved among the Indians \nof that animal still existing in the northern parts of America. \n\n"A delegation of warriors from the Delaware tribe having visited the Governor of \nVirginia during the Revolution, on matters of business, the governor asked them some \nquestions relative to their country, and, among others, what they knew or had heard of \nthe animal whose bones were found at the Salt-licks, on the Ohio. Their chief speaker \nimmediately put himself into an attitude of oratory, and with a pomp suited to what he \nconceived the elevation of his subject, informed him that it was a tradition handed down \nfrom then* fathers, that in ancient times a herd of these tremendous animals came to the \nBig-bone-licks, and began an universal destruction of the bear, deer, elk, buffalo and other \nanimals which had been created for the use of the Indians. That the Great Man above, \nlooking down and seeing this, was so enraged that he seized his lightning, descended on \nthe" earth, seated himself on a neighboring mountain , on a rock on which his seat and the \nprints of his feet are still to be seen, and hurled his bolts among them, till the whole were \nslaughtered, except the big bull, who, presenting his forehead to the shafts, shook them \noff as they fell, but, missing one at length, it wounded him in the side, whereon, springing \nround, he bounded over the Ohio, over the "Wabash, the Illinois, and finally over the great \nlakes, where he is living at this day." \xe2\x80\x94 Jefferson\'s Notes on Virginia. \n\nPage 235, line 6. \nScorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe, \n\'Gainst Brandt himself I went to battle forth : \n\nI took the character of Brandt, in the poem of Gertrude, from the common Histories of \nEngland, all of which represented him as a bloody and bad man (even among savages), \nand chief agent in the horrible desolation of Wyoming. Some years after this poem \nappeared, the son of Brandt, a most interesting and intelligent youth, came over to Eng- \nland, and I formed an acquaintance with him, on which I still look back with pleasure. \nHe appealed to my sense of honor and justice, on his own part and on that of his sister, \nto retract the unfair aspersions which, unconscious of their unfairness, I had cast on his \nfather\'s memory. \n\nHe then referred me to documents, which completely satisfied me that the common \naccounts of Brandt\'s cruelties at Wyoming, which I had found in books of travels, and in \nAdolphus\' and similar Histories of England, were gross errors, and that in point of fact \nBrandt was not even present at that scene of desolation. \n\nIt is, unhappily, to Britons and Anglo-Americans that we must refer the chief blame in \nthis horrible business. I published a letter expressing this belief in the New Monthly \nMagazine, in the year 1822, to which I must refer the reader \xe2\x80\x94 if he has any curiosity \non the subject \xe2\x80\x94 for an antidote to my fanciful description of Brandt. Among other \nexpressions to young Brandt, I made use of the following words : " Had I learnt all this \nof your father when I was writing my poem, he should not have figured in it as the hero \nof mischief." It was but bare justice to say thus much of a Mohawk Indian, who spoke \nEnglish eloquently, and was thought capable of having written a history of the Six \nNations. I ascertained, also, that he often strove to mitigate the cruelty of Indian warfare. \nThe name of Brandt, therefore, remains in my poem a pure and declared character of \nfiction. \n\nPage 235, line 13. \nTo whom nor relative nor blood remains, \nNo ! \xe2\x80\x94 not a kindred drop that runs in human veins ! \nEvery one who recollects the specimen of Indian eloquence given in the speech of Logan, \na Mingo chief, to the Governor of Virginia, will perceive that I have attempted to para- \n\n40 \n\n\n\n4T0 NOTES. \n\n\n\nphrase its concluding and most striking expression \xe2\x80\xa2. " There runs not a drop of my blood \nin the veins of any living creature." The similar salutation of the fictitious personage in \nmy story, and the real Indian orator, makes it surely allowable to borrow such an \nexpression ; and if it appears, as it cannot but appear, to less advantage than in the \noriginal, I beg the reader to reflect how difficult it is to transpose such exquisitely simple \nwords, without sacrificing a portion of their effect. \n\nIn the spring of 1774, a robbery and murder were committed on an inhabitant of the \nfrontiers of Virginia, by two Indians of the Shawanee tribe. The neighboring whites, \naccording to their custom, undertook to punish this outrage in a summary manner. \nColonel Cresap, a man infamous for the many murders he had committed on those inuch- \ninjured people, collected a party and proceeded down the Kanaway in cpiest of vengeance 5 \nunfortunately, a canoe with women and children, with one man only, was seen coming from \nthe opposite shore, unarmed, and unsuspecting an attack from the whites. Cresap and his \nparty concealed themselves on the bank of the river, and, the moment the canoe reached \nthe shore, singled out then objects, and at one fire killed every person in it. This hap- \npened to be the family of Logan, who had long been distinguished as a friend to the whites. \nThis unworthy return provoked his vengeance ; he accordingly signalized himself in the \nwar which ensued. In the autumn of the same year a decisive battle was fought at the \nmouth of the Great Kanaway, in which the collected forces of the Shawanees, Mingoes and \nDelawares, were defeated by a detachment of the Virginian militia. The Indians sued for \npeace. Logan, however, disdained to be seen among the suppliants ; but, lest the sincerity \nof a treaty should be disturbed, from which so distinguished a chief abstracted himself, he \nsent, by a messenger, the following speech to be delivered to Lord Dunmore : \n\n" I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan\'s cabin hungry , and he gave him \nnot to eat ; if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not. During the course \nof the last long and bloody war, Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. \nSuch was my love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they passed, and said, \nLogan is the friend of the white men. I have even thought to have lived with you, but \nfor the injuries of one man. Colonel Cresap, the last spring, in cold blood murdered all \nthe relations of Logan, even my women and children. \n\n" There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature : \xe2\x80\x94 this called on \nme for revenge. I have fought for it. I have killed many. I have fully glutted my \nvengeance. For my country I rejoice at the beams of peace ; \xe2\x80\x94 but do not harbor a \nthought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He will not turn on his heel \nto save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan ? \xe2\x80\x94 not one ! " \xe2\x80\x94 Jefferson\'s Notes \non Virginia. \n\n\n\nMISCELLANEOUS POEMS. \n\n\n\nPage 253, line 4. \n\nThe dark-attired Culdee, \n\nThe Culdees were the primitive clergy of Scotland, and apparently her only clergy from \nthe sixth to the eleventh century. They were of Irish origin, and their monastery on the \nisland of Iona, or Icolmkill, was the seminary of Christianity in North Britain. Presby- \nterian writers have wished to prove them to have been a sort of Presbyters, strangers to \nthe Roman Church and Episcopacy. It seems to be established that they were not \n\n\n\nNOTES. 471 \n\n\n\nenemies to Episcopacy ; but that they were not slavishly subjected to Rome, like the clergy \nof later periods, appears by their resisting the papal ordinances respecting the celibacy of \nreligious men, on which account they were ultimately displaced by the Scottish sovereigns, \nto make way for more Popish canons. \n\nPage 265, line 5. \nAnd the shield of alarm was dumb, \nStriking the shield was an ancient mode of convocation to war among the Gaels. \n\nPage 261. \nThe tradition which forms the substance of these stanzas is still preserved in Germany. \nAn ancient tower on a height, called the Rolandseck, a few miles above Bonn on the Rhine, \nis shown as the habitation which Roland built in sight of a nunnery, into which his mis- \ntress had retired, on having heard an unfounded account of his death. Whatever may be \nthought of the credibility of the legend, its scenery must be recollected with pleasure by \nevery one who has visited the romantic landscape of the Drachenfels, the Rolandseck, and \nthe beautiful adjacent islet of the Rhine, where a nunnery still stands. \n\nPage 267, line 10. \nThat erst the adventurous Norman wore, \nA Norman leader, in the service of the King of Scotland, married the heiress of Lochow, \nin the twelfth century, and from him the Campbells are sprung. \n\nPage 294, line 15. \nWhose lineage, in a raptured hour, \nAlluding to the well-known tradition respecting the origin of painting, that it arose from \na young Corinthian female tracing the shadow of her lover\'s profile on the wall as he lay \nasleep. \n\nPage 304, line 10. \n\nWhere the Norman encamped him of old, \n\nWhat is called the East Hill, at Hastings, is crowned with the works -of an ancient \n\ncamp ; and it is more than probable it was the spot which William I. occupied between \n\nhis landing and the battle which gave him England\'s crown. It is a strong position ; the \n\nworks are easily traced. \n\nPage 307, line 21. \nFrance turns from her abandoned friends afresh, \nThe fact ought to be universally known, that France is at this moment indebted to \nPoland for not being invaded by Russia. When the Grand Duke Constantine fled from \nWarsaw, he left papers behind him proving that the Russians, after the Parisian events \nin July, meant to have marched towards Paris, if the Polish insurrection had not pre- \nvented them. \n\nPage 316, line 6. \n\nThee, Niemtiewitz, \n\nThis venerable man, the most popular and influential of Polish poets, and president of \nthe academy in Warsaw, was in London when this poem was written ; he was then \nseventy-four years old ; but his noble spirit is rather mellowed than decayed by age. He \n\n\n\n472 NOTES. \n\n\n\nwas the friend of Fox, Kosciusko and Washington. Rich in anecdote like Franklin, \nhas also a striking resemblance to him in countenance. \n\n\n\nPage 317, line 3. \nNor church-bell \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\nIn Catholic countries you often hear the church-bells rung to propitiate Heaven during \nthunder-storms. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9e Page 327, line 20. \n\nRegret the lark that gladdens England\'s morn, \nMr. P. Cunningham, in his interesting work on New South Wales, gives the following \naccount of its song-birds : "We are not moved here with the deep mellow note of the black- \nbird, poured out from beneath some low stunted bush, nor thrilled with the wild warblings \nof the thrush perched on the top of some tall sapling, nor charmed with the blithe carol \nof the lark as we proceed early a-field ; none of our birds rivalling those divine songsters \nin realizing the poetical idea of \' the music of the grove ; \' while \'\xe2\x96\xa0parrots\'\' chattering \' \nmust supply the place of \' nightingales\' singing \' in the future amorous lays of our sighing \nCeladoDS. We have our lark, certainly; but both his appearance and note are a taost \nwretched parody upon the bird about which our English poets have made so many fine \nsimiles. He will mount from the ground and rise, fluttering upwards in the same manner, \nand with a few of the starting notes of the English lark ; but, on reaching the height of \nthirty feet or so, down he drops suddenly and mutely, diving into concealment among the \nlong grass, as if ashamed of his pitiful attempt. For the pert,-frisky robin, pecking and \npattering against the windows in the dull days of winter, we have the lively \' superb \nwarbler,\' with his blue shining plumage and his long tapering tail, picking up the crumb3 \nat our doors ; while the pretty red-bills, of the size and form of the goldfinch, constitute \nthe sparrow of our clime, flying in flocks about our houses, and building their soft, downy, \npigmy nests in the orange, peach and lemon trees surrounding them." \xe2\x80\x94 Cunningham\\s \nTwo Years in Neiv South Wales, vol. ii. p. 216. \n\nPage 337, line 19. \nO, feeble statesmen \xe2\x80\x94 ignominious times, \nThere is not upon record a more disgusting scene of Russian hypocrisy, and (woe that \nit must be written !) of British humiliation, than that which passed on board the Talavera, \nwhen British sailors accepted money from the Emperor Nicholas, and gave him cheers. \nIt will require the Talavera to fight well with the first Russian ship that she may have to \nencounter, to make us forget that day. \n\nPage 347, line 20. \n\nA palsy-stroke of Nature shook Or an, \n\nIn the year 1790, Oran, the most western city in the Algerine Regency, which had \n\nbeen possessed by Spain for more than a hundred years, and fortified at an immense \n\nexpense, was destroyed by an earthquake ; six thousand of its inhabitants were buried \n\nunder the ruins. \n\n\n\nNOTES. 473 \n\n\n\nTHE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. \nPage 352, line 17. \nThe vale, by eagle-haunted cliff\'s overhung, \n\nThe valley of Glencoe, unparalleled in its scenery for gloomy grandeur, is to this day \nfrequented by eagles. When I visited the spot within a year ago, I saw several perch at \na distance. Only one of them came so near me that I did not wish him any nearer. He \nfavored me with a full and continued view of his noble person, and, with the exception of the \nAfrican eagle which I saw wheeling and hovering over a corps of the French army that \nwere marching from Oran, and who seemed to linger over them with delight at the sound \nof their trumpets, as if they were about to restore his image to the Gallic standard, I \nnever saw a prouder bird than this black eagle of Glencoe. \n\nI was unable, from a hurt in my foot, to leave the carriage ; but the guide informed me \nthat, if I could go nearer the sides of the glen, I should see the traces of houses and gar- \ndens once belonging to the unfortunate inhabitants. As it was, I never saw a spot where \nI could less suppose human beings to have ever dwelt. I asked the guide how these \neagles subsisted ; he replied, " On the lambs and the fawns of Lord Breadalbane." \n" Lambs and fawns ! " I said ; " and how do they subsist ? for I cannot see verdure \nenough to graze a rabbit. I suspect," I added, " that these birds make the cliffs only \ntheir country-houses, and that they go down to the Lowlands to find their provender." \n" Ay, ay," replied the Highlander, " it is very possible, for the eagle can gang far for hi3 \nbreakfast." \n\nPage 358. line 15. \nWitch-legends Ronald scorned \xe2\x80\x94 ghost, kelpie, wraith, \n\n" The most dangerous and malignant creature of Highland superstition was the kelpie, \nor water-horse, which was supposea to allure women and children to his subaqueous \nhaunts, and there devour them ; sometimes he would swell the lake or torrent beyond its \nusual limits, and overwhelm the unguarded traveller in the flood. The shepherd, as he \nsat on the brow of a rock on a summer\'s evening, often fancied he saw this animal dashing \nalong on the surface of the lake, or browsing on the pasture-ground upon its verge." \xe2\x80\x94 \nBrown\' History of the Highland Clans, vol. i. 106. \n\nIn Scotland, according to Dr. John Brown, it is yet a superstitious principle that the \nwraith, the omen or messenger of death, appears in the resemblance of one in danger, \nimmediately preceding dissolution. This ominous form, purely of a spiritual nature, \nseems to testify that the exaction (extinction) of life approaches. It was wont to be ex- \nhibited also as " a little rough dog," when it could be pacified by the death of any other \nbeing, "if crossed, and conjured in time." \xe2\x80\x94 Brown\'s Superstitions of the Highlands, \np. 182. \n\nIt happened to me, early in life, to meet with an amusing instance of Highland super- \nstition with regard to myself. I lived in a family of the Island of Mull, and a mile or two \nfrom then- house there was a burial-ground, without any church attached to it, on the \nlonely moor. The cemetery was enclosed and guarded by an iron railing, so high that it \nwas thought to be unscalable. I was, however, commencing the study of botany at the \ntime, and, thinking there might be some nice flowers and curious epitaphs among the \ngrave-stones, I contrived, by help of my handkerchief, to scale the railing, and was soon \nscampering over the tombs ; some of the natives chanced to perceive me, \xe2\x80\x94 not in the act \nof climbing over to, but skipping over the burial-ground. In a day or two I observed \nthe family looking on me with unaccountable, though not angry, seriousness ; at last the \ngood old grandmother told me, with tears in her eyes, " that I could not live long, for that \nmy wraith had been seen." " And, pray, where ? " " Leaping over the stones of the \n\n40* \n\n\n\n474 NOTES. \n\nburial-ground." The old lady was much relieved to hear that it was not my wraith, but \nmyself. \n\nAkin to other Highland superstitions, but differing from them in many essential \nrespects, is the belief \xe2\x80\x94 for superstition it cannot well be called (quoth thenvise author I \nam quoting) \xe2\x80\x94 in the second-sight, by which, as Dr. Johnson observes, "seems to be \nmeant a mode of seeing superadded to that which nature generally bestows ; and consists \nof an impression made either by the mind upon the eye, or by the eye upon the mind, by \nwhich things distant or future are perceived and seen as if they were present. This \ndeceptive faculty is called Traioshe in the Gaelic, which signifies a spectre or vision ; and is \nneither voluntary nor constant, but consists in seeing an otherwise invisible object, with- \nout any previous means used by the person that sees it for that end. The vision makes \nsuch a lively impression upon the seers, that they neither see nor think of anything else, \nexcept the vision, as long as it continues ; and then they appear pensive or jovial, accord- \ning to the object which was represented to them." \n\nThere are now few persons, if any (continues Dr. Brown), who pretend to this faculty, \nand the belief in it is almost generally exploded. Yet it cannot be denied that apparent \nproofs of its existence have been adduced, which have staggered minds not prone to super- \nstition. "When the connection between cause and effect can be recognized, things which \nwould otherwise have appeared wonderful, and almost incredible, are viewed as ordinary \noccurrences. The impossibility of accounting for such an extraordinary phenomenon as \nthe alleged faculty on philosophical principles, or from the laws of nature, must ever leave \nthe matter suspended between rational doubt and confirmed scepticism. " Strong reasons \nfor incredulity," says Dr. Johnson, " will readily occur." This faculty of seeing things \nout of sight is local, and commonly useless. It is a breach of the common order of things, \nwithout any visible reason or perceptible benefit. It is ascribed only to a people very \nlittle enlightened, and among them, for the most part, to the mean and ignorant. \n\nIn the whole history of Highland superstitions, there is not a more curious fact than \nthat Dr. James Brown, a gentleman of the Edinburgh bar, in the nineteenth century, \nshould show himself a more abject believer in the truth of second sight than Dr. Samuel \nJohnson, of London, in the eighteenth century. \n\nPage 359, line 28. \nThe pit or gallows would have cured my grief. \n\nUntil the year 1747, the Highland Lairds had the right of punishing serfs even capitally, \nin so far as they often hanged, or imprisoned them in a pit or dungeon, where they were \nstarved to death. But the law of 1746, for disarming the Highlanders and restraining the \nuse of the Highland garb, was followed up the following year by one of a more radical and \npermanent description. This was the act for abolishing the heritable jurisdictions, which, \nthough necessary in a rude state of society, were wholly incompatible with an advanced \nstate of civilization. By depriving the Highland chiefs of their judicial powers, it was \nthought that the sway which, for centuries, they had held over their people, would be \ngradually impaired ; and that by investing certain judges, who were amenable to the \nlegislature for the proper discharge of their duties, with the civil and criminal jurisdiction \nenjoyed by the proprietors of the soil, the cause of good government would be promoted, \nand the facilities for repressing any attempts to disturb the public tranquillity increased. \n\nBy this act (20 George n. c. 43), which was made to the whole of Scotland, all heritable \njurisdictions of justiciary, all regalities and heritable bailieries, and constabularies (except- \ning the office of high constable), and all stewartries and sheriffships of smaller districts, \nwhich were only parts of counties, were dissolved, and the powers formerly vested in them \nwere ordained to be exercised by such of the king\'s courts as these powers would have \nbelonged to if the jurisdictions had never been granted. All sheriffships and stewartries \n\n\n\nNOTES. 475 \n\n\n\nnot dissolved by the statute \xe2\x80\x94 namely, those which comprehended whole counties, where \nthey had been granted either heritably or for life \xe2\x80\x94 were resumed and annexed to the \ncrown. With the exception of the hereditary justiciaryship of Scotland, which was trans- \nferred from the family of Argyle to the High Court of Justiciary, the other jurisdictions \nwere ordained to be vested in sheriffs-depute or Stewarts depute, to be appointed by the \nking in every shire or stewartry not dissolved by the act. As, by the twentieth of Union, \nall heritable offices and jurisdictions were reserved to the grantees as rights of property, \ncompensation was ordained to be made to the holders, the amount of which was after- \nwards fixed by Parliament, in terms of the act of Sederunt of the Court of Session, at one \nhundred and fifty thousand pounds. \n\nPage 359, line 30. \nI marched \xe2\x80\x94 when, feigning royalty\' \'s command, \nAgainst the clan Macdonald, Stair\'s lord \nSent forth exterminating fire and sword; \n\nI cannot agree with Brown, the author of an able work, " The History of the Highland \nClans," that the affair of Glencoe has stamped indelible infamy on the government of \nKing William III., if by this expression it be meant that William\'s own memory is dis- \ngraced by that massacre. I see no proof that William gave more than general orders \nto subdue the remaining malcontents of the Macdonald clan ; and these orders, the nearer \nwe trace them to the government, are the more express in enjoining that all those who \nwould promise to swear allegiance should be spared. As these orders came down from \nthe general government to individuals, they became more and more severe, and, at last, \nmerciless, so that they ultimately ceased to be the real orders of government. Among \nthese false agents of government, who appear with most disgrace, is the " Master of Stair," \nwho appears in the business more like a fiend than a man. When issuing his orders for \nthe attack on the remainder of the Macdonalds in Glencoe, he expressed a hope in his \nletter " that the soldiers would trouble the government with no prisoners. 1 \' \n\nIt cannot be supposed that I would, for a moment, palliate this atrocious event by quot- \ning the provocations not very long before offered by the Macdonalds in massacres of the \nCampbells. But they may be alluded to as causes, though not excuses. It is a part of \nthe melancholy instruction which history affords us, that in the moral, as well as in the \nphysical world, there is always a reaction equal to the action. The banishment of the \nMoors from Spain to Africa was the chief cause of African piracy and Christian slavery \namong the Moors for centuries ; and since the reign of William III. the Irish Orangemen \nhave been the Algerines of Ireland. \n\nThe affair of Glencoe was in fact only a lingering trait of horribly barbarous times, \nthough it was the more shocking that it came from that side of the political world which \nprofessed to be the more liberal side, and it occurred at a late time of the day, when the \nminds of both parties had become comparatively civilized, the whigs by the triumph of free \nprinciples, and the tories by personal experience of the evils attending persecution. Yet \nthat barbarism still subsisted in too many minds professing to act on liberal principles, ia \nbut too apparent from this disgusting tragedy. \n\nI once flattered myself that the Argyle Campbells, from whom I am sprung, had no \nshare in this massacre, \xe2\x80\x94 and a direct share they certainly had not. But, on inquiry, I find \nthat they consented to shutting up the passes of Glencoe, through which the Macdonalds \nmight escape \xe2\x80\xa2, and perhaps relations of my great-grandfather \xe2\x80\x94 I am afraid to count their \ndistance or proximity \xe2\x80\x94 might be indirectly concerned in the cruelty. \n\nBut children are not answerable for the crimes of their forefathers ; and I hope and trust \nthat the descendants of Breadalbane and Glenlyon are as much and justly at their ease on \nthis subject as I am. \n\n\n\n476 NOTES. \n\nPage 367, line 24. \nChance snatched them from proscription and despair. \n\nMany Highland families, at the outbreak of the rebellion in 1T45, were saved from utter \ndesolation by the contrivances of some of their more sensible members, principally the \nwomen, who foresaw the consequences of the insurrection. When f was a youth in the \nHighlands, I remember an old gentleman being pointed out to me, who, finding all other \narguments fail, had, in conjunction with his mother and sisters, bound the old laird hand \nand foot, and locked him up in his own cellar, until the news of the battle of Culloden had \narrived. \n\nA device pleasanter to the reader of the anecdote, though not to the sufferer, was prac- \ntised by a shrewd Highland dame, whose husband was Charles-Stuart-mad, and was \ndetermined to join the insurgents. He told his wife at night that he should start early to- \nmorrow morning, on horseback. " Well, but you will allow me to make your breakfast \nbefore you go ? " " 0, yes." She accordingly prepared it, and, bringing in a full boiling \nkettle, poured it, by intentional accident, on his legs ! \n\n\n\nNOTK TO THE VERSES ON WlNKELRIED. \n\nPage 387. \nThe advocates of classical learning tell us that, without classic historians, we should \nnever become acquainted with the most splendid traits of human character ; but one of \nthose traits, patriotic self-devotion, may surely be heard of elsewhere, without learning \nGreek and Latin. There are few, who have read modern history, unacquainted with the \nnoble voluntary death of the Switzer Winkelried. Whether he was a peasant or man of \nsuperior birth is a point not quite settled in history, though I am inclined to suspect that \nhe was simply a peasant. But this is certain, that in the battle of Sempach, perceiving \nthat there was no other means of breaking the heavy-armed fines of the Austrians than by \ngathering as many of their spears as he could grasp together, he opened a passage for his \nfellow-combatants, who, with hammers and hatchets, hewed down the mailed men-at- \narms, and won the victory. \n\n\n\nFUGITIVE POEMS. \n\nQueex op the North. \n\nPage 401. \n\nThese extracts are from the poem which Campbell planned soon after the completion of \nThe Pleasures of Hope, and which he intended to write on his first visit to Germany. In \nthe portion following the asterisks the scenery of Roslin and Arthur\'s seat is sketched \nwith a truth and felicity of expression which may well excite regret that the patriotic \ntheme was never resumed. \xe2\x80\x94 Dr. Beattie. \n\nHtmn. \n\nPage 404. \n\nThis hymn on the advent, so far as I know, is one of his original poems, which has never \n\nbeen publicly acknowledged. The poet\'s copy, however, has an autograph inscription, \n\nstating that he wrote it at the age of sixteen. The original has been forty years in the \n\npossession of Dr. Irving. \xe2\x80\x94 Dr. Beattie. \n\n\n\nNOTES. 477 \n\n\n\nChorus from the Choephorce. \n\nPage 405. \n\nThe third prize awarded to Campbell was for his translation of passages from the Coe- \n\nphorce of iEschylus ; a copy of which has been sent me by a lady to whom it was shortly \n\nafterwards presented by Campbell, in the Island of Mull. It was written in 1741. \xe2\x80\x94 Dr. \n\nBeattie. -~- \n\nElegy Written in Mull. \n\nPage 407. \nThis is the elegy with which Dr. Anderson was so much pleased, on the author\'s intro- \nduction to him in Edinburgh (July 1794), and from the perusal of which he predicted \nhis success as a great poet. \n\nOn the Glasgow Volunteers. \nPage 408; \n\nAmong the productions of his college life Dr. Beattie places this poem and that on the \nQueen of France. Of the last, on Marie Antoinette, inspired by one of the most atrocious \nevents of the day, \xe2\x80\x94 an event over which he wept at the time, and the mere recollection \nof which, after the lapse of forty years, still made him shudder, \xe2\x80\x94 Dr. Beattie says, it \n" excited much attention, and met the public sympathy, so universally felt at the time." \nIt was published in the Glasgow Courier. Of the first spirited lyric, he says that it \nobtained much local celebrity, particularly among the friends and members of the house- \nhold troops. \n\nThe Dirge op Wallace. \n\nPage 413. \n\nWe publish the version of this poem given by Dr. Beattie, the opening 9tanzas being \nomitted in the Galignani edition of 1829. When Mr. Redding was assisting the poet in \npreparing the edition of his works of 1828, he pleaded for the insertion of the Dirge, for \nwhich he expressed great admiration. Campbell objected, \xe2\x80\x94 " There were inaccuracies in \nit \xe2\x80\x94 it was only written for the newspapers." Walter Scott, it was said, had it by heart, \nand thought it one of his finest things ; but Campbell " did not care \xe2\x80\x94 he would not take \nit \xe2\x80\x94 he disliked it." \n\nGreat diversity of opinion prevails among the critics as to the merits of this poem. The \nQuarterly Review (July, 1849) says -. " Excepting the close of one stanza, we see little \nin it beyond an echo of the then fashionable strains of Alonzo the Brave, and the like." \nThe stanza in question is the one alluding to the sword of \'Wallace. The North British \nReview (February, 1849) agrees with its contemporary : \xe2\x80\x94 "It is quite unequal to Camp- \nbell\'s usual style. There is a boyish accumulation of the stock imagery of the \' Tales of \nWonder.\' Ravens, nightmares, matin-bells and midnight tapers, are scattered in waste \nprofusion at the opening of the poem, to the consternation of the English king and the \naffright of Wallace\'s wife. Nothing well can be worse than all this. What follows is bet- \nter, and there are some fines worthy of Campbell." \n\nA writer in Blackwood\'s Magazine for the same month, on the other hand, agrees in \nhis estimate of the poem with Mr. Redding and Sir Walter Scott : " In the foreign edi- \ntion of his works there is inserted a poem called the Dirge of Wallace, which, with a very \nlittle concentration, might have been rendered as perfect as any of his later compositions. \nIn spirit and energy it is assuredly inferior to none of them. We hope to see it restored \nto its proper place, in the next edition ; in the mean time we select the following noble \nstanzas." The critic then quotes nearly the whole poem, Italicizing the lines which \nfollow : \n\n" When he strode o\'er the wreck of each well-fought field, \nWith the yellow-haired chiefs of his native land ; \n\n\n\n478 NOTES. \n\n\n\nFor his lance was not shivered on helmet or shield, \nAnd the sword which was fit for archangel to wield \nWas light in his terrible hand." \n\n" Nothing can be finer," he adds, " than the lines we have quoted in Italics ; nor per- \nhaps did Campbell himself ever match them." \n\n00 \n\nEpistle to Three Ladies. \nPage 415. \nThis poem Dr. Beattie received from Mr. Richardson, to whom it was communicated in \na letter many years previously. The ladies were Isabella Hill and Helen Hill, sisters, and \ntheir cousin, Jean Grahame, sister of the author of The Sabbath. \n\nDeath of my Only Son. \nPage 418. \nWritten in 1800, at Ratisbon or Altona. A translation from the Danish. \n\nBeautiful Jewish Girl of Altona. \nPage 421. \n" It was at Altona he composed these sweet lines, which have been long ago published, \nbut which he would not allow to appear in his collected works, \' because they were a \nfragment.\'\' " \n\nWe find this poem in a volume of the New Monthly Magazine, to which it was \ncommunicated, with the above note, by Mr. Cyrus Redding. \n\nNote to Epitaph I. \nPage 423. \nThese lines are engraved on a monument erected at Moncton Combe, Somerset, to the \nmemory of Mrs. Shute of Sydenham, and her two daughters, who were drowned at Chep- \nstow, on Sunday, September 20. It is remarkable that they had attended the church on \nthat day, and heard a sermon from Philippians 1 : 21, \xe2\x80\x94 " Por me to live is Christ, and to \ndie is gain." \xe2\x80\x94 Note by T. C. \n\nPage 424. \nThe third of these pieces, hastily written on a slip of paper, is too remarkable to be \noverlooked. \xe2\x80\x94 Dr. Beattie. \n\nTrafalgar. \nPage 426. \nThis little poem appeared, with Campbell\'s name, in one of the annuals. \n\nJemima, Rose, and Eleanore. \nPage 429. \nThis beautiful poem appeared in the Galignani edition of 1829. It is one of the list \nauthenticated by Mr. Redding, and we are at a loss to imagine why it was condemned by \nthe author. It seems to us one of his freest and most effective poems. \n\nLines to Bulwer. ,, \n\nPage 432. \nProm the New Monthly Magazine. \n\n\n\nNOTES. 479 \n\n\n\nContext. \nPage 432. \nThese pretty verses were addressed to his cousin Matilda Sinclair, whom he afterwards \nmarried. They probably first appeared in the columns of Perry\'s Chronicle, though \nthey are credited to Johnson\'s Scots\' Musical Museum, for 1803. \n\nSpanish Patriots\' Song. \nPage 435. \nFrom the Neiv Monthly Magazine for 1823. \n\nLines to the Polish Countess R 1. \n\nPage 435. \nJames Montgomery, in his Lectures on General Literature and Poetry, refers to this \npoem as a " hasty but certainly a happy effusion of Thomas Campbell\'s, in the dew and \nblossom of his youthful poetry ; " and says that it was probably produced about the year \n1802. Prom Dr. Beattie we learn that it was written nearly twenty years afterwards. \n\nThe lecturer says that from the descriptive portion of the poem a painter might pro- \nduce a landscape as superb as ever emanated in colors of this world from the pencil of \nTitian or Rubens. If the reader is curious to see how suggestive the few words of Camp- \nbell have been to a brother poet, let him turn to the Lectures of Montgomery, American \nedition, pages 19 to 22. Why Campbell should have omitted this poem from his collected \nworks we cannot imagine. \n\nTo Ploeine. \nPage 437. \nThese verses appeared in one of the annuals. The subject of them afterwards became \nthe wife of Mr. G. H. Gordon, the transcriber of the "VVaverley MSS. for the press, and died \nin Paris within a month after marriage, in her twenty-second year. \n\nTo an Infant. \n\nPage 438. \n\nThese pretty verses were addressed to the son of his friends, Mr. and Mrs. Graham. \n\nPage 440. \n\nMy mind is my kingdom \n\nThe first two verses of this song appeared in one of the early editions of Campbell\'s \nPoems. Por the third stanza we have been indebted to Dr. Beattie. \n\n\n\n..v H~*r Sf^-*4s *1 far \xc2\xabUt \'^ c^ ^j / iA \n\n\n\nU t tAr brC^i -not: "wu hrfit^>r. fu^> O-Wltn. \'tJiU-tLf \n\n\n\n>\xc2\xa3*-\xc2\xbb,, -&~pr^ ALtjL* \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n.V Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. \nNeutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide \nTreatment Date: March 2009 \n\n^ PreservationTechnologies \n\n< A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION \n111 Thomson Park Drive \nCranberry Township, PA 16066 \n(724) 779-2111 \n\n\n\n^ <-y \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n7Ws 4 \n\n\n\n: i \n\n\n\n\n* * \xc2\xb0 > \xc2\xb00 A* <\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x96\xa0"">\' ^6 A* - * v * \xc2\xb0 \' ( \n\n\n\n\n\n\n^ \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n# v %, \' \n\n\n\n^_* y o, x* A \n\n\n\n\n\n/ ^ %, \xe2\x80\xa2- \n\n\n\n\n\n\n; $ \n\n\n\np-**. \n\n\n\n\n>p^. \n\n\n\nv^v^,v-\xe2\x80\x94 ^ \n\n\n\n9* ^\' \n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 A v * \xe2\x80\x9e ^ * o \xc2\xbb K* A %, J o \xe2\x80\xa2 * * A v . ^ \' o \xe2\x96\xa0> \n\n-X^ r i<3 Si * r& v- \n\nI : ^ # \n\no * x "* A ^ y o , x "* A * ^ y o * v * A <^ y o \xc2\xbb v - \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n# v ^, \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\n\n&-r \n\n\n\n>?\xe2\x80\xa2% \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n^"^ \n\n\n\n^ ^ \n\n\n\n^^:^ ^:/^:" \n\n\n\n^% \n\n\n\n* A , A ^^ y o , v \n\n-. \\ van. \xe2\x80\xa2V"! \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n4? ^ \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n$"% \n\n\n\n\n\n\nLIBRARY OF CONGRESS \n\n\n\n\n014 458 629 3 # \n\n\n\n'