> LIBRARY OF THE N UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN tit AV- , : Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2016 https://archive.org/details/poeticalworkswitOOcamp * > « ♦ • v * > r *. 4 • ♦ • *•. * •*- ( - * # * *j * t '> THE POETICAL WORKS OF THOMAS CAMPBELL WITH MEMOIR AND NOTES. GLASGOW: DUNN & WEIGHT, 176 BUCHANAN STREET, AND 102 STIRLING ROAD. LONDON: 15 AVE MARIA LANE. GLASGOW: DUNN AND WEIGHT, PRINTERS. —MS-' V?OT£F CONTENTS. Prefatory Memoir The Pleasures of Hope— Part I. .. * .. Part II Gertrude of Wyoming — Parti Part II PartHI. O’Connor’s Child ; or, the “ Flower of Love Lies Bleeding Theodric; A Domestic Tale Lochiel’s Warning Miscellaneous Poems— Battle of the Baltic Song of the Greeks Ye Mariners Of England; a Naval Ode Ode to Winter . Stanzas to the Memory of the Spanish Patriots latest Killed in Resisting the Regency and the Duke of Angouleme Lines Written at the Request of the Highland Society in London, when Met to Commemorate the 21st of March, the Day of Victory in Egypt A Dream Valedictory Stanzas to J. P. Kemble, Esq., for a Public Meeting, held June, 1817 To the Rainbow . Glenara . Hohenlinden .... The Wounded Hussar . The Spectre Boat ; a Ballad . The Last Man . Pago vii Composed 17 82 44 50 56 65 71 85 88 90 91 92 94 95 96 98 100 102 103 104 104 105 iv CONTENTS. Miscellaneous Poems — Continued. Page The Lover to His Mistress on Her Birth- day 107 Lines Inscribed on the Monument lately finished by Mr Chantrey, which has been Erected by the Widow of Admiral Sir G. Campbell, K.C.B., to the Memory of Her Husband .... 108 The Turkish Lady . , . 100 Lines Spoken by Mr * * % at Drury Lane Theatre, on the First Opening of the House after the Death of the Princess Charlotte, 1817 .... 110 The Brave Poland . . . . * , 111 Lines on the Grave of a Suicide 112 Lines on Receiving a Seal with the Campbell Crest, from K. M— , before her Marriage 113 Lord Ullin’s Daughter . . . 111 The Soldier’s Dream 110 Exile of Erin . . . • . . 0 . 110 Song 117 Song .... 118 Ode to the Memory of Burns ..... 118 Song . .' 121 The Beech-Tree’s Petition 121 Song ' 122 Love and Madness; an Elegy, written in 1705 . 122 Spanish Patriot’s Song . 12 i Lines written on Visiting a Scene in Argyleshiro 125 The Harper 120 Stanzas on the Threatened Invasion, 1803 . 127 Song — “ Men of England” 128 Song— “ To the Evening Star ” ..... 129 Gilderoy '1-29 Adelgitha m Absence . 131 ! ']-> The Maid’s P.emonstrance 137 Lines on the Departure of Emigrants for New SouTi Wales . . , . . . i 157 Farewell to Love 140 Song CONTENTS. V Miscellaneous Poems — Continued. Page Verses on Marie Antoinette . . , , , 142 Drinking-Song of Munich ..... 142 Dirge of Wallace 143 Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore; three Celebrated Scot- tish Beauties 14-4 Lines on a Picture of a Girl in the Attitude of Prayer, by the Artist Gruse, in the Possession of Lady Stepney ' 14G The Death-Boat of Heligoland .... 147 Stanzas to Painting ...... 148 Lines on Revisiting a Scottish River . , t . 150 Lines on Revisiting Cathcart .... 151 The “Name Unknown in imitation of Klopstock 151 Song, 152 Hallowed Ground . 153 Caroline — Part I. 155 Caroline— Part II. — To the Evening Star . 156 Stanzas on the Battle of Navarina 158 Lines on Leaving a Scene in Bavaria, . 159 Field Flowers 163 Lines on the View from St Leonard’s . , 164 Reullura 167 Lines on Poland 173 Lines written in a Blank Leaf of La Perouse’s Voyages 177 The Power of Russia ...... 179 Ode to the Germans . . 181 Florine 182 Lines on the Camp Hill, near Hastings 183 Translations— * Song of Hvbrias the Cretan .... 184 Martial Elegy from the Greek of Tyrtseus . 184 Fragment from the Greek of Aleman . 185 Speech of the Chorus in the Tragedy of “Medea,” to dissuade Medea from her purpose of Putting her Children to Death, and Flying for Protection to Athens , 186 Specimen oh Translation from “ Medea ” . • 189 Notes « 191 LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL, LL.D. The monument erected in George Square, Glasgow, to Thomas Campbell, and placed beside those of Walter Scott and Robert Burns, is not only a graceful recognition of the poetic gifts of the author of “Pleasures of Hope,” but a visible repre- sentation of poetic succession and of brilliant historic con- tinuity and combination. Burns, during his famous sojourn in Edinburgh, stood gazing with tearful eyes at a print in the house of Professor Fergusson representing a slain soldier and his widow with a child in her arms beside him, with the words inscribed beneath, “ The child of misery baptized in tears.” No one could tell the name of the author of the line till Walter Scott, then a delicate boy, whispered that it was Langhorne. Burns turned and laid his hand on the head of the lad, accompanied with the expression, “ You will be a man yet.” When the lame boy had entered manhood, and begun a literary career, of whose greatness and splendour Burns, with all his sagacity, could have no prophetic anticipa- tion, he was so taken with Campbell’s 44 Lochiel ” that he desired to read it over, and, to the astonishment of his brother bard, recited the whole piece of ninety-eight lines without a single slip. This feat not merely exhibited Scott’s wonderful power of memory, but his keen appreciation of Campbell’s genius. Burns died in 1796, just two years before Campbell’s 44 Pleasures of Hope” shot in splendour across the literary heavens, and six years before Scott published his “Minstrelsy yiii LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. of the Scottish Border.” They thujs appear in history, as their monuments in George Square, in close connection with each other, while their works will be cherished as a glorious pos- session as long as our literature endures. Campbell is not like Scott, and, pre-eminently, Burns, an intensely national poet. There are passages in Burns and Scott which thrill with fervid Scottish feeling with which there is nothing in Campbell to be compared. But while the author of “Ye Mariners of England” may not be so thoroughly Scottish as the authors of the “ Lay of the Last Minstrel ” and u Scots wha ha’e,” his lyrical songs show that he was equally patriotic. The three poets, living in the times of the French Bevolution, were keenly gazing, with hearts aglow, yet with somewhat different feelings, at the stupendous events transpiring on the Continent of Europe, while each of them was indeed a patriot bard, ready to defend his native land from hostile invaders. Scott’s sympathies were more with the past, of which he was the grand delineator, while Burns and Campbell sympathised with what appeared the birth throes of political liberty for the Continental nations. It is somewhat noteworthy that Burns and Campbell were alike suspected of favouring our “foreign foes,” and drew upon them the eyes of the Government. Burns was told to attend to his Excise duties, and not interfere with political freedom, and Campbell’s luggage was examined, on landing from Altona, for proofs of treason. Among the contents was found “Ye Mariners of England,” which, with the absence of anything treasonable, satisfied the authorities, and Burns’ conduct might well have been freed from suspicion on the publication of the u Dumfries Volunteers.” While hailing the dawn of freedom in France, and lamenting the downfall of Poland in strains that thrill the soul, Campbell, like Burns, poured forth stirring songs which did much to arouse and sustain patriotic feeling in his native land. Campbell does not rank in genius with Burns, whose poetic ~ i LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. ix effusions, great though they be, were but the potential indica- tions of his powers, or, with Scott, who scattered with bound- less prodigality fils magnificent creations, yet he deserves an honoured niche in the Valhalla of our British poets. So long as men admire freshness, loftiness, and vigour of thought, clearness, compactness, and purity of style, delicacy of taste, lyrical fire, patriotic fervour, and elevation of moral sentiment, all borne along in a current of polished and melodious verse, will the works of Campbell be read and prized. His over fastidiousness in composition cramped, perhaps, his energies, and limited the productiveness of his genius. It is said that when he returned the proof of his lyric for the Burns Festival, he neglected to change the relative pronoun “which” into “that,” and he travelled from Sydenham to London to get it corrected. If Shakespeare or Scott had been so punctilious on such laborious trifles, they would not have written so much as they did, and our literary treasures would have been less, though at the same time it must be admitted that the corrections Campbell made upon his poems were usually improvements, either in the greater clearness of the thought, or in the more felicitous expression. But though his fastidi- ousness may have restrained the sweep of his genius, it made him one of the most correct and classical of British poets. Some of his condensed and polished lines are among the most frequently quoted by all classes of the people, and such phrases as “ Coming events cast their shadows before,” and many others, linger in the memory, and are interwoven with the very web and structure of English literature. Thomas Campbell was born in Glasgow on July 27, 1777. He was the tenth and youngest child of his parents, his father, at the time of the poet’s birth, having reached the 67th year of his age. The house in which he first saw the light was situated in the High Street, a short distance from the Old College, in which he was destined to win youthful triumphs X LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. as a scholar and poet, and of which, in his cultured manhood, he was thrice elected Lord Rector. The house, which stood close to the east of George Street, has long since disappeared, to make way for city improvements. He was baptized by Dr Thomas Reid, Professor of Moral Philosophy in the Uni- versity of Glasgow, and author of “ An inquiry into the human mind on the principles of common sense,” who preached in the College Hall on Sabbaths, and being an intimate friend of the elder Campbell, he named the boy after himself. The poet was a Campbell of the Campbells, both father and mother being of the same clan, though of different branches of that widespreading stock. His father had been very prosperous as a merchant till within two years of the poet’s birth. His business transactions being chiefly with Virginia, when war broke out between Great Britain and her American Colonies, the most of his means were lost in the commercial crisis which followed. He retired from business with what he was able to save out of the wreck of his fortune, and was thus living in a very humble way when his youngest child was born. He must, however, have been a man of intellect, for, intimate with Dr Reid and with Adam Smith, he must have been able to discuss with those cele- brated men questions of “ deep philosophy.” When Dr Reid, indeed, published his 11 Inquiry,” he presented a copy to Mr Campbell, who thanked the author for the gratification and instruction he had received from the study of it. Though in straitened circumstances, Mr Campbell, as was to be expected from his literary leanings, gave to his children a good education. At the age of seven, Thomas was sent to the Grammar School of Glasgow, where he learned Latin under one of the most successful teachers of classics in the city. Here his talent for metrical translations from the ancient poets was manifested, and in other directions he showed his aptitude for learning. About the age of twelve* LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. 2d he entered the University, where he remained six years. In his first year at College he gained the bursary on Archbishop Leighton’s foundation, his most formidable opponent being a student nearly twice his age. He afterwards received a prize for the best translation of “ The Clouds ” of Aristophanes, which Professor Young pronounced to be the best exercise which had ever been given in by any student of the University. At the close of each college session he received numbers of prizes as rewards for his diligence and attainments. He excelled so much, especially in Greek translation, that his fellow-students would not enter the lists with him, and all his tasks were performed in a highly creditable manner. The Professor of Greek was a great enthusiast in Grecian litera- ture, and young Campbell caught from him a similar spirit, which, fed and fired during his college course, burned within him during all his life. Favourite passages from the Greek poets he used to recite with power and fervour, pointing out their literary beauties with glowing and discriminating elo- quence. When attending the University he not only carefully pursued his prescribed studies, but, like most men who have shone in literature, eagerly devoured all kinds of knowledge that came in his way. He attended debating societies, social meetings, practised the flute, and took an eager and intelli- gent interest in what was transpiring in the busy world around him. When about seventeen years of age, the trial and condem- nation of the Scottish Reformer Gerald made a great and lasting impression on his mind. He walked to Edinburgh to be present at the trial, and Gerald’s transportation to Botany Bay filled him with sadness and consternation. During his college course his father’s means became still more reduced by the loss of a suit in Chancery, and his mother had to eke out the family income by taking in students as boarders. Thomas Campbell, anxious to qualify himself for a profes- xii LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. sion, entered a lawyer’s office at the close of his second session, but feeling the duties irksome he soon left it. Haying still an inclination to the Bar, he, after completing his classical and philosophical course, attended the lectures of Professor Millar on civil law. His mental gifts attracted the notice of the Professor, to whose house he was admitted a welcome guest, and his native love of liberty was inten- sified by personal contact with one distinguished for liberality of mind and sympathy for human freedom. On leaving college, he lived for a year in his ancestral county of Argyle, on the wild and romantic shores of Loch Goil. His father was the youngest son of Campbell of Kernan, a Highland laird, and in one of his early pieces the poet refers to the scenes associated with their ancient heritage : — “ At the silence of twilight’s contemplative hour, I have mused in a sorrowful mood, On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower, Where the home of my forefathers stood. All ruined and "wild is their roofless abode, And lonely the dark raven’s sheltering tree ; And travelled by few is the grass-covered road, Whore the hunter of deer and the warrior trode To his hills that encircle the sea.” It is here that {C Lord Ullin’s Daughter” would take form, in presence of the stormy winds and magnificent scenery with which the poet' was surrounded. He was for some time tutor in two families, one of whom resided on the shores of Mull, and the other near the Sound of Jura. Amid the magnificent solitudes of those regions his imagination was filled with images of grandeur and sublimity, which afterwards rose resplendent in his works — {C As lovely halcyons dive into the main And show far off their shining plumes again.” I LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. ' xiil He refers to the awe and delight with which he used to listen to the distant roar of Corryvreckan. “ When the weather is calm,” he says, “ and the adjacent sea scarcely heard on these picturesque shores, the sound of the vortex, whifch is like the sound of innumerable chariots, creates a magnificent and fine effect.” A rock, on which he often mused, is still pointed out in the island of Mull as the “ Poet’s Seat.” While living in the Highlands he published several pieces, which won for him local fame, one of which, “Love and Madness,” is found in his works, but the others he allowed to fall into neglect. Giving up all intention of studying law, he repaired to Edinburgh, where he betook himself to private teaching and the drudgery of a copying-clerk. He was also engaged by Mr Mundell,' publisher, to compile an abridged edition of Edwards’ “ West Indies.” In the meantime, the spirit of poetry burned strong within him, and he w r as working hard on the “ Pleasures of Hope.” On the 27th April, 1799, the poem was published, dedicated to Dr Bobert Anderson, the biographer of the poets, who had shown Gampbell much kindness and taken great interest in his welfare. ^ The success of the poem was swift, brilliant, and complete, and the author at once rose into the front rank of living poets, and won for himself the friendship of Professor Dugald Stewart, Professor Playfair, and Henry Mackenzie (author of “The Man of Feeling”), and he was introduced to the acquaintance of Sidney Smith, Brougham, Jeffrey, and others, who were then culti- vating “ literature on a little oatmeal ” in the “ Grey Metropolis of the North.” The volume went through four editions in a twelvemonth, and the profits enabled the author to realise a youthful dream of making a tour through Germany. In June, 1800, he sailed for Hamburg, and after visiting various places he went to Bavaria, in December, and witnessed from the Monastery of St Jacob the memorable battle of Hohenlinden, XIV LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. fought between the French and the Austrians. His spirit- stirring lyric on that battle is unsurpassed in power and vividness of description, and the soul of the reader is stirred as if he was an actual spectator. In a few magical touches the poet brings before us the still midnight scene, with its untrodden snow, then the sudden call to arms, the rush and neighing of horses, the flashing of sabres, the roar of cannon, and the shoutings of “Furious Frank and fiery Hun,” and then, when the battle is over, the last verse rises as a solemn dirge over the slain : — “Few, few shall part where many meet, The snow shall be their winding sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre, ” While Campbell remained in Germany he set himself to acquire the German language, and also resumed his Greek studies under Professor Heyne. He made the acquaintance of some of the most eminent men of that country, among whom were the two Schlegels and Klopstock, the poet. He intended to have visited Italy, but owing to' the war, he was prevented both on his way by Vienna and by the Tyrol. Returning home by way of Hamburg, he became acquainted with some Irish refugees, which suggested to him the subject of his fine piece, “The Exile of Erin ,1’ which he penned at Alton a. His intimacy with the French officers under Moreau, and with the Irish exiles at Hamburg, gave a colouring to the report of some Hamburg spy, that the poet was conspiring against the British Government, and hence the action of the authorities when he ‘arrived in Edinburgh, to which allusion has already been made. About a year after his return to Edinburgh he wrote “Lochiel’s Warning,” and several ballads and songs. Deem- ing London a better field for literary work, he in 1803 went LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. XV there, and resided for some time with Mr Telford, the cele- brated engineer. He was drawn to London by another attraction. An attachment had sprung up between the poet and Matilda Sinclair, his cousin, whose father, once a merchant in Greenock, had transferred his business to London. She is described as a lady of considerable personal beauty, and Campbell himself at that time was of fascinating manners, and of a handsome and manly countenance. The marriage took place in the autumn of the same year, and the married couple took up their abode at Sydenham. Mr Campbell now settled down to steady literary labour. He wrote several papers for Brewster’s “Edinburgh Encyclopaedia” — chiefly biographies, an account of the drama, and a historical notice of Great Britain. He was also engaged in other compilations, and writing articles occasionally for the daily press and periodical literature. Like Burns and Scott, Campbell’s con- versational powers were of a high order, and his company at social meetings at Sydenham and neighbourhood was very much sought. Among the kindred spirits who gathered round him were the brothers James and Horace Smith, Theodore Hook, and others, but it is doubtful if those con- vivial gatherings contributed to his well-being. In 1806, through the influence of Mr Fox, he obtained a pension from Government of £800 a-year. Of this he re- tained a half for himself, and gave the remainder to his mother and sister. In 1809 appeared his second volume of poems — “ Gertrude of Wyoming, a Pennsylvanian Tale,” “ Glenara,” “ The Battle of the Baltic,” and others. The volume increased the popularity of the poet, and added to his already high reputation. u O’Connor’s Child,” a touching ballad, appeared in a subsequent edition ; and then fifteen years passed on before he published any considerable poem. In 18-18 he paid another visit to Germany, and on his return the following year he published “ Specimens of the British XVI LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. Poets,” in seven volumes ; and a second edition of this work wa% issued in 1841 in one. large volume, edited by Mr Peter Cunningham. His criticisms on poetry are fine illustrations of his literary taste and skill, and of his excellence in prose as well as in poetry. In 1820 he delivered, at the Surrey Literary and Scientific Institution, a course of lectures on poetry, which attracted great attention, and were highly praised. In the same year he undertook the editorship of the New Monthly Magazine , in which appeared one of his minor poems, “The Last Man,” which, though a sketch, must be ranked as one of his most remarkable productions. In 1824 was published his “ Theodric,” which is not worthy of Campbell’s genius, and is now but little known. To Camp- bell belongs the honour of establishing the London Univer- sity, in which he was heartily seconded by Lord Brougham. In November, 1826, he was chosen Lord Rector of Glasgow University, which he esteemed the highest honour that had ever been conferred upon him. The honour was heightened by his re-election in the two following years, and having for liis opponent on the last occasion such a man as Sir Walter Scott. An incident connected with the election is worthy of notice, as illustrating the generous nature of Sir Walter. Campbell had the greatest number of votes, but there was a parity of nations. In these cases the casting-vote rests with the former Rector, or in his absence, with the vice -Rector, who that year was Professor Gibb. He was brought from a sick-bed, and declared for Sir Walter Scott. The prince of novelists, however, declined the honour in the circumstances. Another election took place, and Campbell was again chosen. The enthusiasm of his supporters was great, and in a body they repaired to Great Clyde Street, where Mr Campbell was residing with his relative, Mr Gray, a jeweller, during the election. Addressing the tumultuous crowd of students from the window of the house, he -exclaimed, in somewhat elevated LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. XVU strain, that “ Sooner will the river cease to flow into the sea than I, while I live, will forget the honour this day has done me.” Surprised at the excited gestures of the orator, a washerwoman, passing on the outskirts of the crowd, and taking him for a lunatic, naively said : “ Puir man! can his freends no tak’ him in.” In 1830 he resigned the editorship of the New Monthly Magazine , which he had conducted for ten years, and soon after started the Metropolitan , from which he soon retired. His wife died at this time, after a period of mental derangement ; and one of his two sons was several years in a private asylum, and the other, a youth of rich promise, died in early life. In 1832 he, in bis love for travel, visited Algiers, and on his return published an account of his journey in the New Monthly Magazine , and which was after- wards reprinted in two volumes. In 1831 he published his “Life of Mrs Siddons,” with whom, in company with John Kemble, years before, he had visited Paris, and enjoyed the works of art in the Louvre. Having sent a copy of his works to Queen Victoria, Her Majesty soon after her coronation sent her portrait ta Mr Campbell, which he hung up in his sitting-room in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where he had gone to live in comparative seclusion after the death of his wife. In 1842 appeared his “ Pilgrim of Glencoe,” dedicated to his friend, physician, and biographer, Dr Beattie. He made another journey to Germany, and on his return took a house in Pimlico, where he devoted his time to the education of his niece, whom he had adopted. His health at this time began to decline, and in the summer of 1843 he went to Boulogne, where it was hoped he would derive benefit from the change. He, however, gradually got worse, and on the 15th June, 1844, his spirit passed away into that land where hope rises into full and blessed fruition : — “ Unfading Hope! when life’s last embers burn, When soul to soul, and dust to dust return ; B LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. i xviii Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour ; Oh ! then, thy kingdom comes, Immortal Power! What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye ; Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey The morning dream of life’s eternal day — Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin, And all the phoenix spirit burns within.” His remains were brought to England and buried in the Poets’ Corner of Westminster Abbey, close to the tomb of Addison. The funeral was attended by the most eminent men of that generation, and the pall was borne by Sir Robert Peel, the Earl of Aberdeen, the Duke of Argyll, Lord Mor- peth, Lord Brougham, Lord Campbell, Lord Dudley Coutts Stuart, and Lord Leigh. One of the spectators, an American, who was present, says that “ there was one part of the cere- mony most impressive : a deputation from the Polish Associa- tion was there, and when the officiating clergyman arrived at that portion of the ceremony in which dust is consigned to dust, one of the number (Colonel Szyrma) took a handful of dust, brought for the occasion from the tomb of Kosciusko, and scattered it upon the coffin ” — fit tribute to one whose voice was the most eloquent lifted up on behalf of Poland, and whose strong love of freedom made him sympathise with oppressed nationalities throughout the world. CAMPBELL’S POETICAL WORKS. PLEASURES OF HOPE. PART I. At summer eve, when Heaven’s ethereal bow Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, Whose sunbriglit summit mingles with the sky? Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near ? — ’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes 'the mountain in its azure hue. Thus, with delight we linger to survey The promised joys of life’s unmeasured way ; Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene More pleasing seems than all the past hath been ; And every form, that Fancy can repair From dark oblivion, glows divinely there. What potent spirit guides the raptured eye To pierce the shades of dim futurity ? Can Wisdom lend, with all her heavenly power, The pledge of Joy’s anticipated hour ? Ah, no ! she darkly sees the fate of man — Her dim horizon bounded to a span ; Or, if she hold an image to the view, ’Tis Nature pictured too severely true. With thee, sweet Hope ! resides the heavenly light, * That pours remotest rapture on the sight : Thine is the charm of life’s bewildered way, That calls each slumbering passion into play. Waked by thy touch, I see the sister band, On tiptoe watching, start at thy command, 18 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. And fly where’er thy mandate bids them steer, To Pleasure’s path, or Glory’s bright career. Primeval Hope, the Aonian Muses say, When Man and Nature mourned their first decay ; When every form of death, and every woe, Shot from malignant stars to earth below, When Murder bared her arm, and rampart War Yoked the red dragons of her iron car, When Peace and Mercy, banished from the plain, Sprung on the viewless winds to heaven again ; All, all forsook the friendless, guilty mind, But Hope, the charmer, lingered still behind. Thus, while Elijah’s burning wheels prepare From Carmel’s heights to sweep the fields of air, The prophet’s mantle, ere his flight began, Dropt on the world — a sacred gift to man. Auspicious Hope! in thy sweet garden grow Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe ; Won by their sweets, in Nature’s languid hour, The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower ; There, as the wild bee murmurs on the wing, What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring! What viewless forms the iEolian organ play, And sweep the furrowed lines of anxious thought away. Angel of life ! thy glittering wings explore Earth’s loneliest bounds, and Ocean’s wildest shore. Lo ! to the wintry winds the pilot yields His bark careering o’er unfathomed fields ; Now on Atlantic waves he rides afar, Where Andes, giant of the western star, With meteor- standard to the winds unfurled, Looks from his throne of clouds o’er half the world ! Now far he sweeps, where scarce a summer smiles, On Behring’s rocks, or Greenland’s naked isles : Cold on his midnight watch the breezes blow, From wastes that slumber in eternal snow ; And waft, across the wave’s tumultuous roar, The wolf’s lpng howl from Oonalaska’s shore. Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm, i Bad are .the woes that wreck thy manly -form ! i ■#' PLEASURES OF HOPE. 19 Hocks, waves, and winds, the shattered bark delay ; Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away. But Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep,. And sing to charm the spirit of the deep : Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole, Her visions warm the watchman’s pensive soul ; His native hills that rise in happier climes, The grot that heard his song of other times, His cottage home, his bark of slender sail, His glassy lake, and broomwood-blossomed vale, Hush on his thought ; he sweeps before the wind, Treads the loved shore he sighed to leave behind ; Meets at each step a friend’s familiar face, And flies at last to Helen’s long embrace ; Wipes from her cheek the rapture -speaking tear, 4 And clasps, with many a sigh, his children dear ! While, long neglected, but at length caressed, His faithful clog salutes the smiling guest, Points to the master’s eyes (where’er they roam) His wistful face, and whines a welcome home. Friend of the brave ! in peril’s darkest hour, Intrepid Virtue looks to thee for power ; To thee the heart its trembling homage yields, On stormy floods, and carnage -covered fields, When front to front the bannered hosts combine, Halt ere they close, and form the dreadful line. When all is still on Death’s devoted soil, The march- worn soldier mingles for the toil ; As rings his glittering tube, he lifts on high The dauntless brow and spirit- speaking eye, Hails in his heart the triumph yet to come, And hears thy stormy music in the drum ! And such thy strength -inspiring aid that bore The hardy Byron to his native shore — In horrid climes, where Chiloe’s tempests sweep Tumultuous murmurs o’er the troubled deep, ’Twas his to mourn Misfortune’s rudest shock. Scourged by the winds and cradled on the rock, To wake each joyless morn, and search again The famished haunts of solitary men ; 20 Campbell’s poems. Whose race, unyielding as their native storm, Know not a trace of Nature but the form ; Yet, at thy call, the hardy tar pursued, Pale, but intrepid — sad, but unsubdued, Pierced the deep woods, and hailing from afar The moon’s pale planet and the northern star, Paused at each dreary cry, unheard before, Hyaenas in the wild, and mermaids on the shore ; Till, led by thee o’er many a cliff sublime, He found a warmer world, a milder clime, A home to rest, a shelter to defend, Peace and repose, a Briton and a friend ! Congenial Hope ! thy passion -kindling power, How bright, how strong, in youth’s untroubled hour ! On yon proud height, with Genius hand in hand, I see thee light, and wave thy golden wand. “ Go, child of Heaven ! (thy winged words proclaim) ’Tis thine to search the boundless fields of fame ? Lo ! Newton, priest of Nature, shines afar, Scans the wide world, and numbers every star ! Wilt thou, with him, mysterious rites apply, And watch the shrine with wonder-beaming eye ! Yes, thou shalt mark, with magic art profound, The speed of light, the circling march of sound ; With Franklin grasp the lightning’s fiery wing, Or yield the lyre of Heaven another string. “ The Swedish sage admires, in yonder bowers, His winged insects, and his rosy flowers ; Calls from their woodland haunts the savage train With sounding horn, and counts them on the plain — So once, at Heaven’s command the wanderers came To Eden’s shade and heard their various name. “Far from the world, in yon sequestered clime, Slow pass the sons of wisdom more sublime ; Calm as the fields of Heaven his sapient eye The loved Athenian lifts to realms on high, Admiring Plato, on his spotless page, Stamps the bright dictates of the Father sage : 4 Shall nature bound to earth’s diurnal span The fire of God, the immortal soul of man ? * PLEASURES OF HOPE* 21 “Turn, child of Heaven, thy rapture -lightened eye To Wisdom’s walks, the sacred Nine are nigh : Hark ! from bright spires that gild the Delphian height, From streams that wander in eternal light, Banged on their hill, Harmonia’s daughters swell The mingling tones of horn, and harp, and shell ; Deep from his vaults, the Loxian murmurs flow, And Pythia’s awful organ peals below. “ Beloved of Heaven ! the smiling Muse shall shed Her moonlight halo on thy beauteous head ; Shall swell thy heart to rapture unconfined, And breathe a holy madness o’er thy mind. I see thee roam her guardian power beneath, And talk with spirits on the midnight heath ; Enquire of guilty wanderers whence they came, And ask each blood-stained form his earthly name ; Then weave in rapid verse the deeds they tell, And read the trembling world the tales of hell. “ When Venus, throned in clouds of rosy hue, Flings from her golden urn the vesper dew, And bids fond man her glimmering noon employ, Sacred to love, and walks of tender joy ; A milder mood the goddess shall recall, And soft as dew thy tones of music fall ; While Beauty’s deeply-pictured smiles impart A pang more dear than pleasure to the heart — Warm as thy sighs shall flow the Lesbian strain, And plead in Beauty’s ear, nor plead in vain. “ Or wilt thou Orphean hymns more sacred deem, And steep thy song in Mercy’s mellow stream ; To pensive drops the radiant eye beguile — For Beauty’s tears are lovelier than her smile ; — On Nature’s throbbing anguish pour relief, And teach impassioned souls the joy of grief ? “ Yes ; to thy tongue shall seraph words be given, And power on earth to plead the cause of Heaven ; The proud, the cold, untroubled heart of stone, That never mused on sorrow but its own, Unlocks a generous store at thy command, Like Horeb’s rocks beneath the prophet’s hand. 22 Campbell’s poems. The living lumber of his kindred earth, Charmed into soul, receives a second birth, Feels thy dread power another heart afford, Whose passion-touched harmonious strings accord \ True as the circling spheres to Nature’s plan ; J And man, the brother, lives the friend of man. il Bright as the pillar rose at Heaven’s command, When Israel marched along the desert land, Blazed through the night on lonely wilds afar, And told the path — a never- setting star ; So, heavenly Genius, in thy course divine, Hope is thy star, her light is ever thine.” Propitious Power ! when rankling cares annoy The sacred home of Hymenean joy ; When doomed to Poverty’s sequestered dell, The wedded pair of love and virtue dwell, Unpitied'by the world, unknown to fame, Their woes, their wishes, and their hearts the same — • Oil, there, prophetic Hope ! thy smile bestow, And chase the pangs that worth should never know — There, as the parent deals his scanty store To friendless babes, and weeps to give no more, Tell, that his manly race shall yet assuage Their father’s wrongs, and shield his latter age. What though for him no Hybla sweets distil, Nor bloomy vines wave purple on the hill ; Tell, that wdien silent years have passed away, That when his eye grows- dim, his tresses grey, These busy hands a lovelier cot shall build, And deck with fairer flowers his little field, And call from Heaven propitious dews to breathe Arcadian beauty on the barren heath ; Tell, that while Love’s spontaneous smile endears The days of peace, the sabbath of his years, Health shall prolong to many a festive hour The social pleasures of his humble bower. Lo ! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps, Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps ; She, while the lovely babe unconscious lifcs, Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes, And weaves a song of melancholy joy — “ Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy: PLEASURES OF HOPE. 23 No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine ; No sigh that rends thy father’s heart and mine ; Bright as his manly sire the son shall be In form and soul ; but, ah ! more blest than he ! Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last, Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past— With many a smile my solitude repay, And chase the world’s ungenerous scorn away. “ And say, when summoned from the world and thee, I lay my head beneath the willow tree, Wilt thou , sweet mourner ! at my stone appear, And soothe my parted spirit lingering near ? Oh, wilt thou come, at evening hour to shed The tears of Memory o’er my narrow bed ; With aching temples on thy hand reclined, Muse on the last farewell I leave behind, Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low, And think on all my love, and all my woe ? ” So speaks affection, ere the infant eye Can look regard, or brighten in reply ; But when the cherub lip hath learnt to claim A mother’s ear by that endearing name ; Soon as the playful innocent can prove A tear of pity, or a smile of love, Or cons his murmuring task beneath her care, Or lisps with holy look his evening prayer, Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear The mournful ballad warbled in his ear ; How fondly looks admiring Hope the while, At every artless tear, and every smile ! How glows the joyous parent to descry A guileless bosom, true to sympathy : Where is the troubled heart, consigned to share Tumultuous toils, or solitary care, Unblest by visionary thoughts that stray To count the joys of Fortune’s better day ! Lo, nature, life, and liberty relume The dim-eyed tenant of the dungeon gloom, A long-lost friend, or hapless child restored, Smiles at his blazing hearth and social board ; Warm from his heart the tears of rapture flow, And virtue triumphs o’er remembered woe. 24 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. Chide not his peace, proud Reason ! nor destroy The shadowy forms of uncreated joy, That urge the lingering tide of life, and pour ■Spontaneous slumber on his midnight hour. Hark ! the wild maniac sings, to chide the gale That wafts so slow her lover’s distant sail ; She, sad spectatress, on the wintry shore Watched the rude surge his shroudless corse that bore, Knew the pale form, and, shrieking in amaze, Clasped her cold hands, and fixed her maddening gaze : Poor widowed wretch ! ’twas there she wept in vain, Till Memory fled her agonising brain ; — But Mercy gave, to charm the sense of woe, Ideal peace, that truth could ne’er bestow ; Warm on her heart the joys of Fancy beam, And aimless Hope delights her darkest dream. Oft when yon moon has climbed the midnight sky, And the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry, Piled on the steep, her blazing faggots bum To hail the bark that never can return ; And still she waits, but scarce forbears to weep That constant love can linger on the deep. And, mark the wretch, whose wanderings never knew The world’s regard, that soothes, though half untrue, Whose erring heart the lash of sorrow bore, But found not pity when ft erred no more. Yon friendless man, at whose dejected eye The unfeeling proud one looks — and passes by, Condemned on Penury’s barren path to roam, Scorned by the world, and left without a home — Even he, at evening, should he chance to stray Down by the hamlet’s hawthorn-scented way, Where, round the cot’s romantic glade, are seen The blossomed bean-field, and the sloping green, Leans o’er its humble gate, and thinks the while — - Oh ! that for me some home like this would smile, Some hamlet shade, to yield my sickly form Health in the breeze, and shelter in the storm ! There should my hand no stinted boon assign To wretched hearts with sorrow such as mine ! — That generous wish can soothe unpitied care, And Hope half mingles with the poor man’s prayer. PLEASURES OF HOPE. 25 Hope ! when I mourn, with sympathising mind, The wrongs of fate, the woes of human kind, Thy blissful omens bid my spirit see The boundless fields of rapture yet to be ; I watch the wheels of Nature’s mazy plan, And learn the future by the past of man. Come, bright Improvement ! on the car of time, And rule the spacious world from clime to clime ; Thy handmaid *irts shall every wild explore, Trace every wave, and culture every shore. On Erie’s banks, where tigers steal along, And the dread Indian ch aunts a dismal song. Where human fiends on midnight errands walk, And bathe in brains the murderous tomahawk, There shall the flocks on thymy pasture stray, And shepherds dance at Summer’s opening day ; Each wandering genius of the lonely glen Shall start to view the glittering haunts of men, And silence watch, on woodland heights around, The village curfew as it tolls profound. In Lybian groves, where damned rites are done, That bathe the rocks in blood, and veil the sun, Truth shall arrest the murderous arm profane, Wild Obi flies — the veil is rent in twain. Where barbarous hordes on Scythian mountains roam, Truth, Mercy, Freedom, yet shall find a home ; ' Where’er degraded Nature bleeds and pines, From Guinea’s coast to Sibir’s dreary mines, Truth shall pervade the unfathomed darkness there, And light the dreadful features of despair. Hark! the stern captive spurns his heavy load, And asks the image back that Heaven bestowed ! Fierce in his eye the fire of valour burns, And, as the slave departs, the man returns. Oh ! sacred Truth ! thy triumph ceased awhile, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Fealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn ; 26 Campbell’s poems. Tumultuous horror brooded o’er her van, Presaging wrath to Poland — and to man ! Warsaw’s last champion from her height surveyed, Wide o’er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,— “ Oh ! Heaven ! ” he cried, “ my bleeding country save ! — Is there no hand on high to shield the brave ? Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, \ Rise, fellow -men ! our country yet remains ! By that dread name, we wave the sword on high ! And swear for her to live ! — with her to die ! ” He said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed ; Firm -paced and slow, a horrid front they form, Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm ; Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, Revenge, or death, — the watchword and reply ; Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm ! — In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few ! From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew : — Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime ; Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, ,, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe ! Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career; — Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, And Freedom shrieked — as Kosciusko fell ! The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there, Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air — On Prague’s proud arch the fires of ruin glow, His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below ; The storm, prevails, the rampart yields a way, Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay ! Hark ! as the smouldering piles with thunder fall, A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call ! Earth shook — red meteors flashed along the sky, And conscious Nature shuddered at the cry ! Oh ! righteous Heaven ! ere Freedom found a grave, Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save ? i PLEASURES OF HOPE. 27 Where was thine arm, O Vengeance ! where thy rod, That smote the foes of Zion and of God ; That crushed proud Ammon, w r hen his iron car Was yoked in wrath, and thundered from afar? Where was the storm that slumbered till the host Of blood-stained Pharaoh left their trembling coast ; Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow. And heaved an ocean on their march below ? Departed spirits of the mighty dead ! Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled ! Friends of the world ! restore your swords to man, Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van ! Yet for Sarmatia’s tears of blood atone, And make her arm puissant as your own ! Oh ! once again to Freedom’s cause return The patriot Tell — the Bruce of Bannockburn ! Yes ! thy proud lords, unpitied land ! shall see That man hath yet a soul — and dare be free ! A little whitS, along thy saddening plains, The starless night of Desolation reigns ; Truth shall restore the light by Nature given, And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven ! Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurled, Her name, her nature, withered from the world ! Ye that the rising morn invidious mark, And hate the light— because your deeds are dark ; Ye that expanding truth invidious view, And think, or wish, the song of Hope untrue ; Perhaps your little hands presume to span The march of Genius, and the powers of man ; Perhaps ye watch, at Pride’s unhallowed shrine, Her victims, newly slain, and thus divine : — “ Here shall thy triumph, Genius, cease, and here Truth, Science, Virtue, close your short career.” Tyrants ! in vain ye trace the wizard ring ; In vain ye limit Mind’s unwearied spring : What ! can ye lull the winged winds asleep. Arrest the rolling world, or chain the deep ? No ! — the wild wave contemns your sceptred hand : It rolled not back when Canute gave command 28 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. Man ! can thy doom no brighter soul allow ? Still must thou live a blot on Nature’s brow ? Shall War’s polluted banner ne’er be furled ? Shall crimes and tyrants cease but with the world ? What ! are thy triumphs, sacred Truth, belied ? Why then hath Plato lived — or Sidney died ?• — Ye fond adorers of departed fame, Who warm at Scipio’s worth, or Tully’s name ! Ye that, in fancied vision, can admire The sword of Brutus, and the Theban lyre ! Bapt in historic ardour, who adore Each classic haunt, and ’well-remembered shore, Where valour tuned', amid her chosen throng, The Thracian trumpet and the Spartan song ; Or, wandering thence, behold the later charms Of England’s glory, and Helvetia’s arms ! See Boman fire in Hampden’s bosom swell, And fate and freedom in the shaft of Tell ! Say, ye fond zealots to the worth of yore, Hath Yalour left the world — to live no more ? No more shall Brutus bid a tyrant die, And sternly smile with vengeance in his eye ? Hampden no more, when suffering Freedom calls, Encounter Fate, and triumph as he falls ? Nor Tell disclose, through peril and alarm, The might that slumbers in a peasant’s arm ? Yes ! in that generous cause, for ever strong, The patriot’s virtue and the poet’s song, Still, as the tide of ages rolls away, Shall charm the world, unconscious of decay ! Yes ! there are hearts, prophetic Hope may trust, That slumber yet in uncreated dust, Ordained to fire the adoring sons of earth With every charm of wisdom and of worth ; Ordained to light, with intellectual day, The mazy wheels of Nature as they play, Or, warm with Fancy’s energy, to glow, And rival all but Shakspeare’s name below ! And say, supernal Powers ! who deeply scan Heaven’s dark decrees, unfathomed yet by man, PLEASURES OF HOPE. 29 When shall the world call down, to cleanse her shame, That embryo spirit, yet without a name, — That friend of Nature, whose avenging hands Shall burst the Lybian’s adamantine bands ? Who, sternly marking on his native soil The blood, the tears, the anguish, and the toil, Shall bid each righteous heart exult, to see Peace to the slave, and vengeance on the free ! Yet, yet, degraded men ! the expected day That breaks your bitter cup, is far away ; Trade, wealth, and fashion, ask you still to bleed, And holy men give Scripture for the deed ; Scourged, and debased, no Briton stoops to save A wretch, a coward ; yes, because a slave ! — Eternal Nature ! when thy giant hand * Had heaved the floods, and fixed the trembling land, When life sprung startling at thy plastic call, Endless her forms, and man the lord of all! Say, was that lordly form inspired by thee, To wear eternal chains and bow the knee ? Was man ordained the slave of man to toil, Yoked with the brutes, and fettered to the soil ; Weighed in a tyrant’s balance with his gold ? No ! — Nature stamped us in a heavenly mould ! She bade no wretch his thankless labour urge, Nor, trembling, take the pittance and the scourge ! No homeless Lybian, on the stormy deep, To call upon his country’s name, and weep ! Lo ! once in triumph, on his boundless plain, The quivered chief of Congo loved to reign ; With fires proportioned to his native sky, Strength in his arm, and lightning in his eye ; Scoured with wild feet his sun-illumined zone, The spear, the lion, and the woods his own ! Or led the combat, bold without a plan, An artless savage, but a fearless man ! The plunderer came !— alas ! no glory smiles For Congo’s chief on yonder Indian isles ; For ever fallen ! no son of Nature now. With Freedom chartered on his manly brow ! CAMPBELL’S POEMS. 80 Faint, bleeding, bound, he weeps the night away, And when the sea -wind wafts the dewless day, Starts, with a bursting heart, for evermore To curse the sun that lights their guilty shore ! The shrill horn blew ; at that alarum knell His guardian angel took a last farewell ! That funeral dirge to darkness hath resigned The fiery grandeur of a generous mind ! Poor fettered man ! I hear thee whispering low Unhallowed vows to Guilt, the child of Woe! Friendless thy heart ; and canst thou harbour there A wish but death — a passion but despair ? The widowed Indian, when her lord expires, Mounts the dread pile, and braves the funeral fires ! So falls the heart at Thraldom’s bitter sigh ! So Virtue dies, the spouse of Liberty ! But not to Lybia’s barren climes alone, To Chili, or the wild Siberian zone, Belong the wretched heart and haggard eye. Degraded worth, and poor Misfortune’s sigh ! — Ye orient realms, where Ganges’ waters run ! Prolific fields ! dominions of the sun ! How long your tribes have trembled and obeyed ! How long was Tirnour’s iron sceptre swayed, ‘ Whose marshalled hosts, the lions of the plain, From Scythia’s northern mountains to the main, Raged o’er your plundered shrines and altars bare, With blazing torch and gory scimitar, — Stunned with the cries of death each gentle gale, And bathed in blood the verdure of the vale ! Yet could no pangs the immortal spirit tame, When Brahma’s children perished for his name ; The martyr smiled beneath avenging power, And braved the tyrant in his torturing hour ! When Europe sought your subject realms to gain And stretched her giant sceptre o’er the main, Taught her proud barks the winding way to shape, And braved the stormy spirit of the Cape. Children of Brahma ! then was Mercy nigh To wash the stain of blood’s eternal dye l PLEASURES OF HOPE. Did Peace descend, to triumph and to save, When freeborn Britons crossed the Indian wave ? Ah, no ! — to more than Rome’s ambition true. The Nurse of Freedom gave it not to you ! She the bold route of Europe’s guilt began, And, in the march of nations, led the van ! Rich in the gems of India’s gaudy zone, And plunder piled from kingdoms not their own, Degenerate trade ! thy minions could despise The heart-born anguish of a thousand cries ; Could lock, with impious hands, their teeming store, While famished nations died along the shore : Could mock the groans of fellow-men, and bear The curse of kingdoms peopled with despair ; Could stamp disgrace on man’s polluted name, And barter, with their gold, eternal shame ! But hark ! as bowed to earth the Brahmin kneels, From heavenly climes propitious thunder peals ! Of India’s fate her guardian spirits tell, Prophetic murmurs breathing on the shell, And solemn sounds that awe the listening mind, Roll on the azure paths of every wind. “ Foes of mankind ! (her guardian spirits say), Revolving ages bring the bitter day, When Heaven’s unerring arm shall fall on you, And blood for blood these Indian plains bedew ; Nine times have Brahma’s wheels of lightning hurled His awful presence o’er the alarmed world ; Nine times hath Guilt, through all his giant frame, Convulsive trembled, as the Mighty came ; Nine times hath suffering Mercy spared in vain — But Heaven shall burst her starry gates again ! He comes ! dread Brahma shakes the sunless sky With murmuring wrath, and thunders from on high, Heaven’s fiery horse, beneath his warrior form, Paws the light clouds, and gallops on the storm ! Wide waves his flickering sword ; his bright arms glow Like summer suns, and light the world below ! Earth, and her trembling isles in Ocean’s bed, Are shook ; and Nature rocks beneath his tread ! Campbell’s poems. “ To pour redress on India’s injured realm, The oppressor to dethrone, the proud to whelm ; To chase destruction from her plundered shore With arts and arms that triumphed once before, The tenth Avatar comes ! at Heaven’s command Shall Seriswattee wave her hallowed wand ! And Camdeo bright, and Ganesa sublime, Shall bless with joy their own propitious clime ! — Come, Heavenly Powers ! primeval peace restore ! Love ! — Mercy ! — Wisdom ! — rule for evermore ! *’ PAET II. In joyous youth, what soul hath never known Thought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own ? Who hath not paused while Beauty’s pensive eye Asked from his heart the homage of a sigh ? Who hath not owned, with rapture -smitten frame, The power of grace, the magic of a name ? There be, perhaps, who barren hearts avow, Cold as the rocks on Torneo’s hoary brow ; There be, whose loveless wisdom never failed, In self-adoring pride securely mailed : — But, triumph not, ye peace -enamoured few ! Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you P For you no fancy consecrates the scene Where rapture uttered vows, and wept between ; ’Tis yours, unmoved, to sever and to meet ; No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet ! Who that would ask a heart to dullness wed, The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead ? No ; the wild bliss of Nature needs alloy, And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy ! And say, without our hopes, without our fears, Without the home that plighted love endears, Without the smile from partial beauty won, Oh ! what were man ? — a world without a sun. Till Hymen brought his love -delighted hour, There dwelt no joy in Eden’s rosy bower ! In vain the viewless seraph lingering there, At starry midnight charmed the silent air ; PLEASURES OF HOPE. 33 In vain the wild bird carolled on the steep, To hail the sun, slow wheeling from the deep ; In vain, to soothe, the solitary shad Aerial notes in mingling measure played ; The summer wind that shook the spangled tree, The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee ; — Still slowly passed the melancholy day, And still the stranger wist not where to stray. The world was sad ! — the garden was a wild ! And man, the hermit, sighed— till woman smiled ! True, the sad power to generous hearts may bring Delirious anguish on his fiery wing ; Barred from delight by Fate’s untimely hand, By wealthless lot, or pitiless command ; Or doomed to gaze on beauties that adorn The smile of triumph or the frown of scorn ; While Memory watches o’er the sad review, Of joys that faded like the morning dew ; Peace may depart — and life and nature seem A barren path, a wildness, and a dream ! But can the noble mind for ever brood, The willing victim of a weary mood, On heartless cares that squander life away, And cloud young Genius brightening into day ? — Shame to? the coward thought that e’er betrayed The noon of manhood to a myrtle shade ! — If Hope’s creative spirit cannot raise One trophy sacred to thy future days, Scorn the dull crowd that haunt the gloomy shrine, Of hopeless love to murmur and repine ! But, should a sigh of milder mood express Thy heart- warm wishes, true to happiness, Should Heaven’s fair harbinger delight to pour Her blissful visions on thy pensive hour, No tear to blot thy memory’s pictured page No fears but such as fancy can assuage ; Though thy wild heart some hapless hour may miss The peaceful tenor of unvaried bliss, (For love pursues an ever- devious race, True to the winding lineaments of grace ; ) Yet still may hope her talisman employ To snatch from Heaven anticipated joy, 34 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. And all her kindred energies impart That burn the brightest in the purest heart. When first the Rhodian’s mimic art arrayed The queen of Beauty in her Cyprian shade, The happy master mingled on his piece Each look that charmed him in the fair of Greece. ? To faultless nature true, he stole a grace From every finer form and sweeter face ; And as he sojourned on the iEgean isles, Woo’d all their love, and treasured all their smiles ; Then glowed the tints, pure, precious, and refined, And mortal charms seemed heavenly when combined ! Love on the picture smiled ! Expression poured Her mingling spirit there — and Greece adored ! So thy fair hand, enamoure'd Fancy, gleans The treasured pictures of a thousand scenes ; Thy pencil traces on the lover’s thought Some cottage-home, from towns and toil remote, Where love and lore may claim alternate hours, With Peace embosom’d in Idalian bowers ; Remote from busy Life’s bewildered way, O’er all his heart shall Taste and Beauty sway ! Free on the sunny slope, or winding shore, With hermit steps to wander and adore ! ^ There shall he love, when genial morn appears, Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears, To watch the brightening roses of the sky, And muse on Nature with a poet’s eye ! — And when the sun’s last splendour lights the deep, The woods and waves, and murmuring winds asleep ; When fairy harps the Hesperian planet hail, And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale, His path shall be where streamy mountains swell Their shadowy grandeur o’er the narrow dell, Where mouldering piles and forests intervene, Mingling with darker tints the living green ; No circling hills his ravished eye to bound, Heaven, Earth, and Ocean, blazing all around. The moon is up — the watch-tower dimly burns—* And down the vale his sober step returns $ PLEASURES OF HOPE. 35 But pauses oft, as winding rocks convey The still sweet fall of music far away ; And oft he lingers from his home a while To watch the dying notes — and start, and smile ! Let winter come ! let polar spirits sweep The darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep ; Though boundless snows the withered heath deform, And the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm, - Yet shall the smile of social love repay, With mental light, the melancholy day ! And, when its short and sullen noon is o’er, The ice-chained waters slumbering on the shore, How bright the faggots in his little hall Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall ! How blest he names, in Love’s familiar tone, The kind, fair friend, by nature marked his own ; And, in the waveless mirror of his mind, Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind, Since Anna’s empire o’er his heart began ! Since first he called her his before the holy man ! Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome, And light the wintry paradise of home ! And let the^ half -uncurtained window hail Some way-worn man benighted in the vale ! How, while the moaning night- wind rages high, As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled sky, While fiery hosts in Heaven’s wide circle play, And bathe in lurid light the milky-way, Safe from the storm, the meteor, and the shower, Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn hour — With pathos shall command, with wit beguile, A generous tear of anguish, or a smile — Thy woes, Arion ! and thy simple tale, O’er all the heart shall triumph and prevail ! Charmed as they read the verse too sadly true, How gallant Albert, and his weary crew, Heaved all their guns, their foundering bark to save, And toiled — and shrieked — and perished on the wave ! Yes, at the dead of night, by Lonna’s steep, The seaman’s cry was heard along the deep ; 36 Campbell’s poems. There, on his funeral waters dark and wild, The dying father blessed his darling child ! “ Oh ! Mercy, shield her innocence,” he cried, Spent on the prayer his bursting heart, and died ! Or they will learn how generous worth sublimes The robber Moor, and pleads for all his crimes ! How poor Amelia kissed, with many a tear, His hand blood-stained, but ever, ever dear ! Hung on the tortured bosom of her lord, And wept and prayed perdition from his sword ! Nor sought in vain ! at that heart -piercing cry The strings of Nature cracked with agony f He, with delirious laugh, the dagger hurled, And burst the ties that bound him to the world ! Turn from his dying words, that smite with steel The shuddering thoughts, or wind them on the wheel — Turn to the gentler melodies that suit Thalia’s harp, or Pan’s Arcadian lute ; Or, down the stream of Truth’s historic page, From clime to clime descend, from age to age ! Yet there, perhaps, may darker scenes obtrude Than Fancy fashions in her wildest mood ; There shall he pause with horrent brow, to rate What millions died— that Csesar might be great ! Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore, Marched by their Charles to Dneiper’s swampy shore ; Faint in his wounds, and shivering in the blast, The Swedish soldier sunk — and groaned his last ! File after file the stormy showers benumb, Freeze every standard- sheet, and hush the drum ! Horsemen, and horse confessed the bitter pang, And arms and warriors fell with hollow clang ! Yet, ere he sunk in Nature’s last repose, Ere life’s warm torrent to the fountain froze, The dying man to Sweden turned his eye, Thought of his home and closed it with a sigh ! Imperial Pride looked sullen on his plight, And Charles beheld— nor shuddered at the sight ! Above, below, in Ocean, Earth, and Sky, Thy fairy worlds, Imagination, lie, PLEASURES OF HOPE. 37 And Hope attends, companion of the way, Thy dream by night, thy visions of the day ! In yonder pensile orb, and every sphere That gems the starry girdle of the year ; In those unmeasured worlds, she bids thee tell, Pure from their God, created millions dwell, Whose names and natures, unrevealed below, We yet shall learn, and wonder as we know ; For, as Iona’s saint, a giant form, Throned on her towers, conversing with the storm, (When o’er each Runic altar, weed-entwined, The vesper clock tolls mournful to the wind,) Counts every wave -worn isle, and mountain hoar, From Kilda to the green Ierne’s shore ; So, when thy pure and renovated mind This perishable dust hath left behind, Thy seraph eye shall count the starry train, Like distant isles embosomed in the main ; Rapt to the shrine where motion first began, And light and life in mingling torrent ran ; From whence each bright rotundity was hurled, The throne of God, — the centre of the world ! Oh ! vainly wise, the moral Muse hath sung That suasiye Hope hath but a Syren tongue ! True ; she may sport with life’s untutored day, Nor heed the solace of its last decay, The guileless heart her happy mansion spurn, And part, like Ajut — never to return ! But yet, methinks, when Wisdom shall assuage The grief and passions of our greener age, Though dull the close of life, and far away Each flower that hailed the dawning of the day ; Yet o’er her lovely hopes, that once were dear, The time-taught spirit, pensive, not severe, With milder griefs her aged eye shall fill, And weep their falsehood, though she love them still ! Thus, with forgiving tears, and reconciled, The king of Judah mourned his rebel child ! Musing on days, when yet the guiltless boy Smiled on his sire, and filled his heart with joy ! 38 Campbell’s poems. My Absalom ! the voice of Nature cried : Oh ! that for thee thy father could have died ! For bloody was the deed, and rashly done, That slew my Absalom ! — my son ! my son ! Unfading Hope ! when life’s last embers burn, When soul to soul, and dust to dust return ! Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour ! Oh ! then, thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power ! What though each spark of earth-born rapture liy The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye ! Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey The morning dream of life’s eternal day — Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin, And all the phoenix spirit burns within ! Oh, deep-enclianting prelude to repose, The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes ! Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh, It is a dread and awful thing to die ! Mysterious worlds, untravelled by the sun ! Where Time’s far-wandering tide has never run, From your unfathomed shades, and viewless spheres, A warning comes, unheard by other ears. ’Tis Heaven’s commanding trumpet, long and loud, Like Sinai’s thunder, pealing from the cloud ! While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust, The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust ; And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod The roaring waves, and call’d upon his God, With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss, And shrieks, and hovers o’er the dark abyss ! Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb ; Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul ! Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay. Chased on his night -steed by the star of day ! The strife is o’er — the pangs of Nature close, And life’s last rapture triumphs o’er her woes. Hark ! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze, The noon of Heaven un dazzled by the blaze, PLEASURES OF HOPE. 89 On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky, Float the sweet tones of star- born melody ; - Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail Bethlehem’s shepherds in the -lonely vale, When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still Watched on the holy towers of Zion hill ! Soul of the just ! companion of the dead ! Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled ? Back to its heavenly source thy being goes, Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose ; Doomed on his airy path a while to burn, And doomed, like thee, to travel, and return. — Hark! from the world’s exploding centre driven, With sounds that shook the firmament of Heaven, Careers the fiery giant, fast and far, On bickering wheels and adamantine car ; From planet whirled to planet more remote, He visits realms beyond the reach of thought ; But wheeling homeward, when his course is run, Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun ! So hath the traveller of earth unfurled Her trembling wings, emerging from the world ; And o’er the path by mortal never trod, Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God ! Oh ! lives there, Heaven ! beneath thy dread expanse, One hopeless, dark idolater of Chance, Content to feed, with pleasures unrefined, The lukewarm* passions of a lowly mind ; Who, mouldering earthward, ’reft of every trust, In joyless union wedded to the dust, Could all his parting energy dismiss, And call this barren world sufficient bliss ?— There live, alas ! of heaven- directed mien, Of cultured soul, and sapient eye serene, Who hail thee, Man ! the pilgrim of a day, Spouse of the worm, and brother of the day, Frail as the leaf in Autumn’s yellow bower, Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower ; A friendless slave, a child without a sire, Whose mortal life and momentary fire, * Lights to the grave his chance -created form, As ocean -wrecks illuminate the storm ; 40 CAMPBELL^ POEMS. And, when the gun’s tremendous flash is o’er, To night and silence sink for evermore ! — Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim, Lights of the world, and demi-gods of Fame ? Is this your triumph — this your proud applause, Children of Truth, and champions of her cause ? For this hath Science searched, on weary wing, By shore and sea — each mute and living thing ! Launched with Iberia’s pilot from the steep, To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the deep? Or round the cope her living chariot driven, And wheeled in triumph through the signs of Heaven ? Oh ! star-eyed Science, hast thou wandered there, To waft us home the message of despair? Then bind the palm, thy sage’s brow to suit, Of blasted leaf, and death -distilling fruit ! Ah me ! the laurelled wreath that Murder rears, Blood-nursed, and watered by the widow’s tears, Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread, As waves the night- shade round the sceptic’s head. What is the bigot’s torch, the tyrant’s chain ? I smile on death, if heavenward Hope remain? But, if the warring winds of Nature’s strife Be all the faithless charter of my life, If Chance awaked, inexorable power, This frail and feverish being of an hour ; Doomed o’er the world’s precarious scene to sweep, Swift as the tempest travels on the deep, To know Delight but by her parting smile, And toil, and wish, and weep a little while ; Then melt, ye elements, that formed in vain This troubled pulse, and visionary brain ! Fade, ye wild flowers, memorials of my doom, And sink, ye stars, that light me to the tomb ! Truth, ever lovely, — since the world began, The foe of tyrants, and the friend of man, — How can thy words from balmy slumber start Reposing Virtue, pillowed on the heart! Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder rolled, And that were true which Nature never told, Let Wisdom smile not on her conquered field ; No rapture dawns, no treasure is revealed I PLEASURES OF HOPE. 41 j - : i Oh ! let her read, nor loudly, nor elate, , The doom that bars us from a better fate ; But, sad as angels for the good man’s sin, Weep to record, and blush to give it in ! And well may Doubt, the mother of Dismay, Pause at her martyr’s tomb, and read the lay. Down by the wilds of yon deserted vale It darkly hints a melancholy tale ! There, as the homeless madman sits alone, In hollow winds he hears a spirit moan ! And there, they say, a wizard orgie crowds, When the moon lights her watch-tower in the clouds. Poor lost Alonzo ! Fate’s neglected child ! Mild be the doom of Heaven— as thou wert mild ! For oh ! thy heart in holy mould was cast, And all thy deeds were blameless, but the last. Poor lost Alonzo ! still I seem to hear The clod that struck thy hollow-sounding bier ! When Friendship paid, in speechless sorrow drowned, Thy midnight rites, but not on hallowed ground !, Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind, But leave — oh, leave the light of Hope behind ! What though my winged hours of bliss have been, Like angel- visits, few and far between, Her musing mood shall every pang appease, And charm — when pleasures lose the power to please ! Yes ; let each rapture, dear to Nature, flee : Close not the light of Fortune’s stormy sea — Mirth, Music, Friendship, Love’s propitious smile, Chase every care, and charm a little while, Ecstatic throbs the fluttering heart employ, And all her strings are harmonised to joy ! — But why so short is Love’s delighted hour ? Why fades the dew on Beauty’s sweetest flower ? Why can no hymned charm of music heal The sleepless woes impassioned spirits feel ? Can Fancy’s fairy hands no veil create, To hide the sad realities of fate?— No ! not the quaint remark, the sapient rule, Nor all the pride of Wisdom’s worldly school, 42 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. Have power to soothe, unaided and alone, The heart that vibrates to a feeling tone ! When stepdame Nature every bliss recalls, Fleet as the meteor o’er the desert falls ; When ’reft of all, yon widowed sire appears A lonely hermit in the vale of years ; Say, can the world one joyous thought bestow To Friendship, weeping at the couch of Woe ? No ! but a brighter soothes the last adieu, — Souls of impassioned mould, she speaks to you ! Weep not, she says, at Nature’s transient pain, Congenial spirits part to meet again ! What plaintive sobs thy filial spirit drew, What sorrow choked thy long and last adieu, — Daughter of Conrad ! when he heard his knell, And bade his country and his child farewell ! Doomed the long isles of Sydney-cove to see, The martyr of his crimes, but true to thee. Thrice the sad father tore thee from his heart, And thrice returned, to bless thee, and to part ; Thrice from his trembling lips he murmured low The plaint that owned unutterable woe ; Till Faith prevailing o’er his sullen doom, As bursts the morn on night’s unfathomed gloom, » Lured his dim eye to deathless hopes sublime, Beyond the realms of Nature and of Time ! “And weep not thus,” he cried, “young Ellenore, My bosom bleeds, but soon shall bleed no more ! Short shall this half-extinguished spirit burn, And soon these limbs to kindred dust return! But not, my child, with life’s precarious fire, The immortal ties of Nature shall expire ; These shall resist the triumph of decay, When time is o’er, and worlds have passed away ! Cold in the dust this perished heart may lie, But that which warmed it once shall never die ! That spark unburied in its mortal frame, With living light, eternal, and the same, Shall beam on Joy’s interminable years, Unveiled by darkness — unassuaged by tears I PLEASUEES OF HOPE. 43 44 Yet, on the barren shore and stormy deep, One tedious watch is Conrad doomed to weep; But when 1 gain the home without a friend, And press the uneasy couch where none attend, This last embrace, still cherished in my heart, Shall calm the struggling spirit ere it part ; Thy darling form shall seem to hover nigh, And hush the groan of life’s last agony ! 4 4 Farewell! when strangers lift thy father’s bier, And place my nameless stone without a tear ; When each returning pledge hath told my child That Conrad’s tomb is on the desert piled ; And when the dream of troubled Fancy sees Its. lonely rank grass waving in the breeze ; Who then will soothe thy grief, when mine is o’er ? Who will protect thee, helpless Ellenore? Shall secret scenes thy filial sorrows hide, Scorned by the world, to factious guilt allied? Ah ! no ; methinks the generous and the good Will woo thee from the shades of solitude ! O’er friendless grief compassion shall awake, And smile on innocence, for Mercy’s sake ! ” Inspiring thought of rapture yet to be, The tears of Love were hopeless, but for thee ! If in that frame no deathless spirit dwell, If that faint murmur be the last farewell, If Fate unite the faithful but to part, Why is their memory sacred to the heart ? Why does the brother of my childhood seem Restored a while in every pleasing dream ? Why do I joy the lonely spot to view, By artless friendship blessed when life was riew ? Internal Hope ! when yonder spheres sublime Pealed their first notes to sound the march of Time, Thy joyous youth began — but not to fade — When all the sister planets have decayed ; When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow, And Heaven’s last thunder shakes the world below $ Thou, undismayed, shalt o’er the ruins smile, And light thy torch at Nature’s funeral pile. 44 Campbell’s poems. GERTRUDE OE WYOMING. PART I. On Susquehana’s side, fair Wyoming ! Although the wild -flower on thy ruined wall And roofless homes, a sad remembrance bring Of what thy gentle people did befall ; Yet thou wert once the loveliest land of all That see the Atlantic wave their morn restore. Sweet land ! may I thy lost delights recall, And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore, Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania’s shore ! Delightful Wyoming ! beneath thy skies, The happy shepherd swains had nought to do . * But feed their flocks on green declivities, Or skim perchance thy lake with light canoe, From morn till evening’s sweeter pastime grew, With timbrel, when beneath the forests brown, Thy lovely maidens would the dance renew ; And aye those sunny mountains half-way down Would echo flageolet from some romantic town. Then, where of Indian hills the daylight takes His leave, how might you the flamingo see Disporting like a meteor on the lakes — And playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree : And every sound of life was full of glee, From merry mock-bird’s song, or hum of men ; While hearkening, fearing nought their revelry, The wild-deer arched his neck from glades, and then Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again. And scarce had Wyoming of war or crime Heard, but in transatlantic story rung, For here the exile met from every clime, And spoke in friendship every distant tongue : Men from the blood of warring Europe sprung, Were but divided by the running brook ; And happy where no Rhenish trumpet sung? On plains no sieging mine’s volcano shook, The blue-eyed German changed his sword to pruning-hook. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 45 Nor far some Andalusian saraband Would sound to many a native roundelay — But who is be that yet a dearer land Eem embers over hills and far away ? Green Albin ! what though he no more survey Thy shins at anchor on the quiet shore, Thy pellochs rolling from the mountain bay, Thy lone sepulchral cairn upon the moor, And distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan roar ! Alas ! poor Caledonia’s mountaineer, That want’s stern edict e’er, and feudal grief, Had forced him from a home he loved so dear ! Yet found he here a home, and glad relief, And plied the beverage from his own fair sheaf, That fired his Highland blood with mickle glee : And England sent her men, of men the chief, Who taught those sires of Empire yet to be, To plant the tree of life, — to plant fair Freedom’s tree ! Here was not mingled in the city’s pomp Of life’s extremes the grandeur and the gloom ; Judgment awoke not here her dismal tromp, Nor sealed in blood a fellow-creature’s doom, Nor mourned the captive in a living tomb. One venerable man, beloved of all, Sufficed, where innocence was yet in bloom, To sway the strife, that seldom might befall ; And Albert was their judge in patriarchal hall. How reverend was the look, serenely aged, He bore, this gentle Pennsylvanian sire, Where all but kindly fervours were assuaged, Undimmed by weakness’ shade, or turbid ire ! And though, amidst the calm of thought entire, Some high and haughty features might betray A soul impetuous once, ’twas earthly fire That fled composure’s intellectual ray, As Etna’s fires grow dim before the rising day. I boast no song in magic wonders rife, But yet, oh, Nature ! is there nought to prize, Familiar in #hy bosom scenes of life ? And dwells in daylight truth’s salubrious skies No form with which the soul may sympathise ?— CAMPBELL’S POEMS. 46 Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mild The parted ringlet shone in simplest guise, An inmate in the home of Albert smiled, Or blest his noonday walk — she was his only child. The rose of England bloomed on Gertrude’s cheek — What though these shades had seen her birth, her sire A Briton’s independence taught to seek Far western worlds ; and there his household fire The light of social love did long inspire, And many a halcyon day he lived to see Unbroken but by one misfortune dire, When fate had reft his mutual heart — but she Was gone — and Gertrude climbed a widowed father’s knee. ! A loved bequest, —and I may half impart — To them that feel the strong paternal tie, How like a new existence to his heart That living flower uprose beneath his eye, Dear as she was from cherub infancy, From hours when she would round his garden play, To time when as the ripening years went by, Her lovely mind could culture well repay, And more engaging grew, from pleasing day to day. I may not paint those thousand infant charms ; (Unconscious fascination, undesigned) ! The orison repeated in his arms, For God to bless her sire and all mankind ; The book, the bosom on his knee reclined, Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con, (The playmate ere the teacher of her mind) ; All uncompanioned else her heart had gone Till now, in Gertrude’s eyes, their ninth blue summer shone. And summer was the tide, and sweet the hour, When sire and daughter saw, with fleet descent, An Indian from his bark approach their bower, Of buskined limb, and swarthy lineament ; The red wild feathers on his brow were blent, And bracelets bound the arm that helped to light A boy, who seemed, as he beside him went, • Of Christian vesture, and complexion bright, Led by his dusky guide s like morning brought by night. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 47 Yet pensive seemed the boy for one so young — The dimple from his polished cheek had fled ; When, leaning on his forest-bow unstrung, The Oneyd^ warrior to the planter said, And laid his hand upon the stripling’s head, “ Peace be to thee ! my words this belt approve ; The paths of peace my steps have hither led : This little nursling, take him to thy love, And shield the bird unfledged, since gone the parent dove. u Christian ! I am the foeman of thy foe ; Our wampum league thy brethren did embrace : Upon the Michigan, three moons ago. We launched our pirogues for the bison chase, And with the Hurons planted for a space, With true and faithful hands the olive-stalk ; But snakes are in the bosoms of their race, And though they held with us a friendly talk, The hollow peace-tree fell beneath their tomahawk ! “ It was encamping on the lake’s far port, A cry of Areouski broke our sleep, Where stormed an ambushed foe thy nation’s fort, And rapid, rapid whoops came o’er the deep ; But long thy country’s war- sign on the steep Appeared through ghastly intervals of light, And deathfully their thunders seemed to sweep, Till utter darkness swallowed up the sight, As if a shower of blood had quenched the fiery fight I It slept — it rose again— on high their tower Sprung upwards like a torch to light the skies, Then down again it rained an ember shower, And louder lamentations heard we rise : As when the evil Manitou that dries The Ohio woods, consumes them in his ire, In vain the desolated panther flies, And howls amidst his wilderness of fire : Alas ! too late, we reached and smote those Hurons- dire ! “ But as the fox beneath the nobler hound, So died their w T arriors by our battle-brand ; And from the tree we, with her child, unbound A lonely mother of the Christian land D 48 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. Her lord— the captain of the British hand — Amidst the slaughter of his soldiers lay. Scarce knew the widow our delivering hand ; Upon her child she sobbed, and swooned aW|iy, Or shrieked unto the God to whom the Christians pray. “ Our virgins fed her with their kindly bowls Of fever-balm and sweet sagamite : But she was journeying to the land of souls, And lifted up her dying head to pray That we should bid an ancient friend convey Her orphan to his home of England’s shore ; — And take, she said, this token far away, To one that will remember us of yore, When he beholds the ring that Waldegrave’s Julia wore. u And I, the eagle of my tribe, have rushed With this lorn dove/’ — A sage’s self-command Had quelled the tears from Albert’s heart that gushed ; But yet his cheek — his agitated hand — ' That showered upon the stranger of the land No common boon, in grief but ill beguiled A soul that was not wont to be unmanned ; “ And stay,” he cried, “ dear pilgrim of the wild, Preserver of my old, my boon companion’s child !— “ Child of a race whose name my bosom warms, On earth’s remotest bounds how welcome here ? Whose mother oft, a child, has filled these arms, Young as thyself, and innocently dear, Whose grandsire was my early life’s compeer. Ah, happiest home of England’s happy clime ! How beautiful e’en now thy scenes appear, As in the noon and sunshine of my prime ! How gone like yesterday these thrice ten years of time ! u And, Julia ! when thou wert like Gertrude now, Can I forget thee, favourite child of yore ? Or thought I, in thy father’s house, when thou Wert lightest hearted on his festive floor, And first of all at his hospitable door To meet and kiss me at my journey’s end ? But where was I when Waldegrave was no more ? And thou didst pale thy gentle head extend In woes, that e’en the tribe of deserts was thy friend ? ” I GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. He said — and strained nnto his heart the boy : — Far differently the mute Onevda took His calumet of peace, and cup of joy ; As monumental bronze unchanged his look ; A soul that pity touched, but never shook ; Trained from his tree-rocked cradle to his bier The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear^ — A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. Yet deem not goodness on the savage stock Of Outalissi’s heart disdained to grow ; As lives the oak un withered on the rock By storms above, and barrenness below ; He scorned his own, who felt another’s woe : And ere the wolf-skin on his back he flung, Or laced his moccasins, in act to go, A song of parting to the boy he sung, Who slept on Albert’s couch, nor heard his friendly u Sleep, wearied one ! and in the dreaming land Shouldst thou to-morrow with thy mother meet, Oh ! tell her spirit, that the white man’s hand Hath plucked the thorns of sorrow from thy feet ; While I in lonely wilderness shall greet Thy little foot-prints — or by traces know The fountain, where at noon I thought it sweet To feed thee with the quarry of my bow, And poured the lotus-horn, or slew the mountain rc “ Adieu ! sweet scion of the rising sun ! But should affliction’s storms thy blossom mock Then come again — my own adopted one ! And I will graft thee on a noble stock : The crocodile, the condor of the rock, Shall be the pastime of thy sylvan wars ; And I will teach thee, in the battle’s shock, To pay with Huron blood thy father’s scars, And gratulate his soul rejoicing in the stars ! ” So finished he the rhyme (howe’er uncouth) That true to nature’s fervid feelings ran ; (And song is but the eloquence of truth :) Then forth uprose that lone way-faring man ; But dauntless he, nor chart, nor journey’s plan 49 ! i tongue. 50 Campbell’s poems. In woods required, whose trained eye was keen As eagle of the wilderness, to scan His path, by mountain, swamp, or deep ravine, Or ken far friendly huts on good savannahs green. Old Albert saw him from the valley’s side — His pirogue launched — his pilgrimage begun — Far, like the red-bird’s wing he seemed to glide ; Then dived, and vanished in the woodlands dun. Oft, to that spot by .tender memory won, Would Albert climb the promontory’s height, If but a dim sail glimmered in the sun ; But never more, to bless his longing sight, Was Outalissi hailed, with bark and plumage bright. PART II. A valley from the river shore withdrawn Was Albert’s home, two quiet woods between, Whose lofty verdure overlooked his lawn ; And w r aters to their resting-place serene Came freshening, and reflecting all the scene : (A mirror in the depth of flowery shelves ;) So sweet a spot of earth, you might (I ween) Have guessed some congregation of the elves, To sport by summer moons, had shaped it for themselves. Yet wanted not the eye far scope to muse, Nor vistas opened by the wandering stream ; Both were at evening Allegany views, Through ridges burning in her western beam, Lake after lake interminably gleam ; And past those settlers’ haunts the eye might roam Where earth’s unliving silence all would seem ; Save where on rocks the beaver built his dome, Or buffalo remote lowed far from human home. But silent not that adverse eastern path, Which saw Aurora’s hills the horizon crown ; There was the river heard, *in bed of wrath (A precipice of foam from mountains brown), Like tumults heard from some far distant town ; But softening in approach he left his gloom, And murmured pleasantly, and laid him down GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 51 * To kiss those easy curving banks of bloom, That lent the windward air an exquisite perfume. It seemed as if those scenes sweet influence had On Gertrude’s soul, and kindness like their own Inspired those eyes affectionate and glad, That seemed to love whate’er they looked upon ; Whether with Hebe’s mirth her features shone, Or if a shade more pleasing them o’ercast, (As if for heavenly musing meant alone ;) Yet so becomingly the expression past, That each succeeding look was lovelier than the last. Nor guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home, With all its picturesque and balmy grace, And fields that were a luxury to roam, Lost on the soul that looked from such a face ! Enthusiast of the woods ! when years apace Had bound thy lovely waist with woman’s zone, The sunrise path, at morn, I see thee trace To hills with high magnolia overgrown, And joy to breathe the groves, romantic and alone. The sunrise drew her thoughts to Europe forth, That thus apostrophised its viewless scene : “ Land of my father’s love, my mother’s birth \ The home of kindred I have never seen ! We know not other — oceans are between : Yet say ! far friendly hearts, from whence we came, Of us does oft remembrance intervene ? My mother sure — my sire a thought may claim : — But Gertrude is to you an unregarded name. “And yet, loved England ! when thy name I trace In many a pilgrim’s tale and poet’s song, How can I choose but wish for one embrace Of them, the dear unknown, to whom belong My mother’s looks,— perhaps her likeness strong ? Oh, parent ! with what reverential awe, From features of thine own related throng, An image of thy face my soul could draw ! And see thee once again whom I too shortly saw ! ” Yet deem not Gertrude sighed for foreign joy ; To soothe a father’s couch her only care, Campbell’s poems. 52 And keep his reverend head from all annoy : For this, inethinks, her homeward steps repair, Soon as the morning wreath had bound her hair ; While yet the wild deer trod in spangling dew, While boatmen carolled to the fresh-blown air, ! And woods a horizontal shadow threw, And early fox appeared in momentary view. Apart there was a deep untrodden grot, Where oft the reading hours sweet Gertrude wore ; Tradition had not named its lonely spot; But here (methinks) might India’s sons explore Their fathers’ dust, or lift, perchance of yore, Their voice to the great Spirit : — rocks sublime To human art a sportive semblance bore, And yellow lichens coloured all the clime, Like moonlight battlements, and towers decayed by time. But high in amphitheatre above, His arms the everlasting aloes threw : Breathed but an air of heaven, and all the grove As if with instinct living spirit grew, Bolling its verdant gulfs of every hue ; And now suspended was the pleasing din, How from a murmur faint it swelled anew, Like the first note of organ heard within Cathedral aisles, — ere yet its symphony begin. It was in this lone valley she would charm The lingering noon, where flowers a couch had strewn ; Her cheek reclining, and her snowy arm On hillock by the palm-tree half o’ergrown : And aye that volume on her lap is thrown, Which every heart of human mould endears ; “With Shakespeare’s self she speaks and smiles alone, And no intruding visitation fears, To shame the unconscious laugh, or stop her sweetest tears. And nought within the grove was heard or seen But stock-doves ’plaining through its gloom profound. Or winglet of the fairy humming bird, Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round ; When, lo ! there entered to its inmost ground A youth, the stranger of a distant land ; He was, to wit, for eastern mountains bound ; GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 53 But late the equator suns his cheek had tanned, And California’s gales his roving bosom fanned. A steed, whose rein hung loosely o’er his arm, He led dismounted ; ere his leisure pace, Amid the brown leaves, could her ear alarm, Close he had come, and worshipped for a space Those downcast features she her lovely face Uplift on one, whose lineaments and frame Were youth and manhood’s intermingled grace : Iberian seemed his boot — his robe the same. And well the Spanish plume his lofty looks became. For Albert’s home he sought — her finger fair Has pointed where the father’s mansion stood. Returning from the copse he soon was there ; And soon has Gertrude hied from dark green wood ; Nor joyless, by the converse, understood, Between the man of age and pilgrim young. That gay congeniality of mood, And early liking from acquaintance sprung ; Full fluently conversed their guest in England’s tongue. And well could he his pilgrimage of taste Unfold, — and much they loved his fervid strain, While he each fair variety retraced Of climes, and manners, o’er the eastern main. Now happy Switzer’s hills, — romantic Spain, — Gay lilied fields of France, — or, more refined, The soft Ausonia’s monumental reign ; Nor less each rural image he designed Than all the city’s pomp and home of human kind. Anon some wilder portraiture he draws; Of Nature’s savage glories he would speak, — The loneliness of earth that overawes, — Where resting by some tomb of old Cacique, The llama-driver on Peruvia’s peak, Nor living voice nor motion marks around ; But storks that to the boundless forest shriek, Or wild-cane arch high flung o’er gulf profound, That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado sound. Pleased with his guest, the good man still would ply Each earnest question, and his converse court ; 54 Campbell’s poems. But Gertrude, as she eyed him, knew not why A strange and troubling wonder stopt her short. 44 In England thou hast been,— and, by report, An orphan’s name,” quoth Albert, “may’st have known. Sad tale ! — when latest fell our frontier fort, — One innocent — one soldier’s child — alone Was spared, and brought to me, who loved him as my own. 44 Young Henry Waldegrave ! three delightful years These very walls his infant sports did see ; But most 1 loved him when his parting tears Alternately bedewed my child and me : His sorest parting, Gertrude, was from thee ; Nor half its grief his little heart could hold : By kindred he was sent for o’er the sea, They tore him from us when but twelve years old, And scarcely for his loss have I been yet consoled ! ” His face the wanderer hid — but could not hide A tear, a smile, upon his cheek that dwell ; — 44 And speak! mysterious stranger! ” Gertrude cried, 44 It is ! — it is ! — I knew — I knew him well ! ’Tis Waldegrave’s self, of Waldegrave come to tell !’’ A burst of joy the father’s lips declare ; But Gertrude speechless on his bosom fell : At once his open arms embraced the pair, Was never group more blest, in this wide world of care. 44 And will ye pardon then,” replied the youth, 44 Your Waldegrave’s feigned name, and false attire? I durst not in the neighbourhood, in truth, The very fortunes of your house inquire ; Lest one that knew me might some tidings dire Impart, and I my weakness all betray ; For had I lost my Gertrude and my sire, I meant but o’er your tombs to weep a day, Unknown I meant to weep, unknown to pass away. 44 But here ye live, — ye bloom, — in each dear face, The changing hand of time I may not blame ; For there, it hath but shed more reverend grace, And here of beauty perfected the frame : And well I know your hearts are still the same — They could not change — ye look the very way, As when an orphan first to you I came. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 55 And have ye heard of my poor guide, I pray ? Nay, wherefore weep ye, friends, on such a joyous day?” “ And art thou here ? or is it but a dream ? And wilt thou, Waldegrave, wilt thou, leave us more?” “No, never ! thou that yet dost lovelier seem Than aught on earth — than e’en thyself of yore — I will not part thee from thy father’s shore ; But we shall cherish him with mutual arms, And hand in hand again the path explore, Which every ray of young remembrance warms, While thou shalt be my own, with all thy truth and charms ! ” At morn, as if beneath a galaxy Of over-arching groves in blossoms white, Where all was odorous scent and harmony, And gladness to the heart, nerve, ear, and sight : There, if, oh, gentle Love ! I read aright The utterance that sealed thy sacred bond, ’Twas listening to these accents of delight, She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyond Expression’s power to paint, all languishingly fond— “ Flower of my life, so lovely and so lone ! Whom I would rather in this desert meet, Scorning, and scorned by fortune’s power, than own Her pomp and splendours lavished at my feet ! Turn not from me thy breath, more exquisite Than odours cast on heaven’s own shrine — to please — Give me thy love, than luxury more sweet, And more than all the wealth that loads the breeze, When Coromandel’s ships raturn from Indian seas.” Then would that home admit them — happier far Than grandeur’s most magnificent saloon, While, here and there, a solitary star Flushed in the darkened firmament of June ; And silence brought the soul-felt hour, full soon, Ineffable, which I may not portray ; For never did the hymenean moon A paradise of hearts more sacred sway, In all that slept beneath her soft voluptuous ray. §6 Campbell’s poems. part III. O LoyE ! in such a wilderness as this, Where transport and security entwine, Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, And here thou art a god indeed divine. Here shall no forms abridge, no hours confine The views, the walks, that boundless joy inspire ! Roll on, ye days of raptured influence, shine ! Nor, blind with ecstasy’s celestial fire, Shall love behold the spark of earth-born time expire. Three little moons, how short ! amidst the grove And pastoral savannahs they consume ! While she, beside her buskined youth to rove, Delights, in fancifully wild costume, Her lovely brow to shade with Indian plume ; And forth in hunter-seeming vest they fare ; But not to chase the deer in forest gloom ; ’Tis but the breath of heaven — the blessed air — And interchange of hearts unknown, unseen to share. What though the sportive dog oft round them note, Or fawn, or wild bird bursting on the wing ; Yet who in love’s own presence, would devote To death those gentle throats that wake the spring, Or writhing from the brook its victim bring ? No ! — fior let fear one little warbler rouse ; But, fed by Gertrude’s hand, still let them sing, Acquaintance of her path, amidst the boughs, That shade e’en now her love, and witnessed first her vows. Now labyrinths, which but themselves can pierce, Methinks, conduct them to some pleasant ground, Where welcome hills slmt out the universe, And pines their lawny walk encompass round ; There, if a pause delicious converse found, ; Twas but when o’er each heart the idea stole, (Perchance a while in joy’s oblivion drowned) That come what may, while life’s glad pulses roll, Indissolubly thus should soul be knit to soul. And in the visions of romantic youth, What years of endless bliss are yet to flow ! GERTRUDE OP WYOMING. 57 But, mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth ? The torrent’s smoothness, ere it dash below ! And must I change my song ? and must I show, Sweet Wyoming ! the day when thou wert doomed, Guiltless, to mourn thy loveliest bowers laid low ! When where of yesterday a garden bloomed, Death overspread his pall, and blackening ashes gloomed ! Sad was the year, by proud oppression driven, When Transatlantic Liberty arose, Not in the sunshine and the smile of heaven, But wrapt in whirlwinds, and begirt with woes, Amidst the strife of fratricidal foes ; Her birth star was the light of burning plains ; Her baptism is the weight of blood that flows From kindred hearts — the blood of British veins— And famine tracks her steps, and pestilential pains. Yet, ere the storm of death had raged remote, Or siege unseen in heaven reflects its beams, Who now each dreadful circumstance shall note, That fills pale Gertrude’s thoughts, and nightly dreams V Dismal to her the forge of battle gleams Portentous light ! and music’s voice is dumb ; Save where the fife its shrill reveille screams, Or midnight streets re-echo to the drum, [come. That speaks of maddening strife, and bloodstained fields to It was in truth a momentary pang ; Yet how comprising myriad shapes of woe ! First when in Gertrude’s ear the summons rang, A husband to the battle doomed to go ! “ Nay meet not thou,” she cries, “ thy kindred foe ! But peaceful let us seek fair England’s strand ! “ Ah, Gertrude ! thy beloved heart, I know, Would feel like mine, the stigmatising brand ! Could I forsake the cause of Freedom’s holy band ! “ But shame— but flight — a recreant’s name to prove, To hide in exile ignominious fears ; Say, e’en if this I brooked, — the public love Thy father’s bosom to his home endears : And how could I his few remaining years, My Gertrude, sever from so dear a child? ’* So, day by day, her boding heart he cheers : 68 cahpbell’s poems. At last that heart to hope is half beguiled, [smiled. And, pale through tears suppressed, the mournful beauty Night came, — and in their lighted bower, full late, The joy of converse had endured — when, hark ! Abrubt and loud a summons shook their gate ; And heedless of the dog’s obstreperous bark, A form has rushed amidst them from the dark, And spread his arms, — and fell upon the floor : Of aged strength his limbs retained the mark ; But desolate he looked, and famished poor, As ever shipwrecked wretch lone left on desert shore. Uprisen, each wondering brow is knit and arched : A spirit from the dead they deem him first : To speak he tries ; but quivering, pale, and parched, From lips, as by some powerless dream accursed, Emotions unintelligible burst ; And long his filmed eye is red and dim ; At length the pity-proffered cup his thirst Had half assuaged, and nerved his shuddering limb, [him — When Albert’s hand he grasped ; — but Albert knew not u And hast thou then forgot,” he cried, forlorn, And eyed the group with half indignant air, “ Oh ! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the morn When I with thee the cup of peace did share ? Then stately was this head, and dark this hair That now is white as Appalachia’s snow ; But, if the weight of fifteen years’ despair, And age hath bowed me, and the torturing foe, Bring me my boy — and he will his deliverer know ! ” It was not long, with eyes and heart of flame, Ere Henry to his loved Oneyda flew : “ Bless thee, my guide ! ” — but backward, as he came, The chief his old bewildered head withdrew, And grasped his arm, and looked and looked him through. ’Twas strange — nor could the group a smile control— The long, the doubtful scrutiny to view : — At last delight o’er all his features stole, “ It is — my own,” he cried, and clasped him to his soul. 11 Yes! thou recall’st my pride of years, for then The bowstring of my spirit was not slack, GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 59 When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambushed men, I bore thee like the quiver on my back, Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack ; Nor foeman then, nor cougar’s crouch I feared, For I was strong as mountain cataract : And dost thou not remember how we cheered, Upon the last hill top, when white men’s huts appeared? “ Then welcome be my death song, and my death ! Since I have seen thee, and again embraced.” And longer had he spent his toil-worn breath ; But with affectionate and eager haste, Was every arm outstretched around their guest, To welcome and to bless his aged head. Soon was the hospitable banquet placed ; And Gertrude’s lovely hands a balsam shed On wounds with fevered joy that more profusely bled. u But this is not a time, — he started up, And smote his breast with woe-denouncing hand — “ This is no time to fill the joyous cup, The Mammoth comes, — the foe, — the Monster Brandt, With all his howling, desolating band ; — These eyes have seen their blade and -burning pine Awake at once, and silence half your land. Red is the cup they drink ; but not with wine : Awake, and watch to-night, or see no morning shine ! “ Scorning to yield the hatchet for his bribe, ’Gainst Brandt himself I went to battle forth ; Accursed Brandt ! he left of all my tribe Nor man, nor child, nor thing of living birth : No ! not the dog, that watched my household hearth, Escaped that night of blood, upon our plains ! All perished ! — I alone am left on earth ! To whom nor relative nor blood remains, No ! — not a kindred drop that runs in human veins ! “ But go ! — and rouse your warriors for, if right These old bewildered eyes could guess, by signs Of striped and starred banners, on yon height Of eastern cedars, o’er the creek of pines — Some fort embattled by your country shines : Deep roars the innavigable gulf below p Its squared rock, and palisaded lines. GO Campbell’s poems. Go ! seek the light its warlike beacons show ; Whilst I in ambush wait for vengeance, and the foe ! ” Scarce had he uttered — when Heaven’s verge extreme Reverberates the bomb’s descending star, — And sounds that mingled laugh— and shout — and scream — To freeze the blood, in one discordant jar, Rung to the pealing thunderbolts of war. iyhoop after whoop with rack the ear assailed ; As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar ; While rapidly the marksman’s shot prevailed : And aye as if for death some lonely trumpet wailed. Then looked they to the hills, where fire o’erhung The bandit groups, in one Vesnvian glare ; Or swept, far seen, the tower, whose clock unrung, Told legible that midnight of despair. She faints, — she falters not, — the heroic fair, — As he the sword and plume in haste arrayed. One short embrace — he clasped his dearest care — But hark ! what nearer war-drum shakes the glade ? [shade ! Joy, joy! Columbia’s friends are trampling through the Then came of every race the mingled swarm, Far rung the groves and gleamed the midnight grass, . With flambeau, javelin, and naked arm ; As warriors wheeled their culverins of brass, Sprung from the woods, a bold athletic mass, Whom virtue fires, and liberty combines : And first the wild Moravian yagers pass, His plumed host the dark Iberian joins — And Scotia’s sword beneath the Highland thistle shines. And in, the buskined hunters of the deer, To Albert’s home, with shout and cymbal throng : — Roused by their warlike pomp, and mirth, and cheer, Old Outalissi woke his battle song, And, beating with his war- club cadence strong, Tells how his deep stung indignation smarts, Of them that wrapt his house in flames, ere long, To whet a dagger on their stony hearts, And smile avenged ere yet his eagle spirit parts. Calm, opposite the Christian father rose, Rale on his venerable brow its rays GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 61 | Of martyr light the conflagration throws ; One hand upon his lovely child he lays, And one the uncovered crowd to silence sways ; While, though the battle flash is faster driven, — Unawed, with eye unstartled by the blaze, He for his bleeding country prays to Heaven, — Prays that the men of blood themselves may be forgiven. Short time is now for gratulating speech : And yek, beloved Gertrude, ere began Thy country’s flight, yon distant towers to reach, Looked not on thee the rudest partisan With brow relaxed to love ? And murmurs ran, As round and round their willing ranks they drew, From beauty’s sight to shield the hostile van. Grateful, on them a placid look she threw, Nor wept, but as she bade her mother’s grate adieu ! Past was the flight, and welcome seemed the tower, That like a giant standard-bearer frowned Defiance on the roving Indian power. Beneath, each bold and promontory mound With embrasure embossed, and armour crowned, And arrowy frieze, and wedged ravelin, Wove like a diadem its tracery round The lofty summit of that mountain green ; Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene,—- A scene of death ! where fires beneath the sun, And blended arms, and white pavilions glow ; And for the business of destruction done Its requiem the war-horn seemed to blow : There sad spectatress of her country’s woe ! The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm, Had laid her cheek, and clasped her hands of snow On Waldegrave’s shoulder, half within his arm Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hushed its wild alarm ! But short that contemplation — sad and short The pause to bid each much -loved scene adieu ! Beneath the very shadow of the fort, Where friendly sw r ords were drawn, and banners flew ; . Ah ! who could deem that foot of Indian crew 62 Campbell’s poems. Was near ? — yet there, with lust of murderous deeds, Gleamed like a basilisk, from woods in view, The ambushed foeman’s eye — his volley speeds, And Albert — Albert— falls ! the dear old father bleeds ! And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swooned ; Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone, Say, burst they, borrowed from her father’s wound, These drops ? — Oh, God ! the life-blood is her own ! And faltering, on her Waldegrave’s bosom thrown — “ Weep not, O Love !” she cries, “ to see me bleed — Thee, Gertrude’s sad survivor, thee alone Heaven’s peace commiserate ; for scarce I heed These wounds ; yet thee to leave is death, is death indeed. “ Clasp me a little longer on the brink Of fate ! while I can feel thy dear caress : And when this heart hath ceased to beat — oh ! think, And let it mitigate thy woe’s excess, That thou hast been to me all tenderness, And friend to more than human friendship just. Oh ! by that retrospect of happiness, And by the hopes of an immortal trust, God shall assuage thy pangs - when I am laid in dust! “Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart, The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move, Where my dear father took thee to his heart, And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove. With thee, as with an angel, through the grove Of peace, imagining her lot was cast In heaven ; for ours was not like earthly love. And must this parting be our very last ? No ! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past. u Half could 1 bear, methinks, to leave this earth, — And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun, If I had lived to smile but on the birth Of one dear pledge ; — but shall there then be none, In future times — no gentle little one, To clasp thy neck, and look resembling me ? Yet seems it, e’en while life’s last pulses run, A sweetness in the cup of death to be, Lord of my bosom’s love ! to die beholding thee ! v GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 63 Hushed were his Gertrude’s lips ! but still their bland And beautiful expression seemed to melt With love that could not die ! and still his hand She presses to the heart no more that felt. Ah, heart ! where once each fond affection dwelt, And features yet that spoke a soul more fair. Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt, — Of them that stood encircling his despair, [were. He heard some friendly words ; but knew not what they For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives A faithful band. With solemn rites between, ’Twas sung how they were lovely in their lives, And in their deaths had not divided been. Touched by the music and the melting scene, Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd : — Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen To veil their eyes, as passed each much loved shroud — While woman’s softer soul in woe dissolved aloud. Then mournfully the parting bugle bid Its farewell, o’er the grave of worth and truth ; Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid His face on earth ; —him watched in gloomy ruth. His woodland guide : but words had none to soothe The grief that knew not consolation’s name : Casting his Indian mantle o’er the youth, He watched beneath its folds each burst that came Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame ! “ And I could weep ; ’’—the Oneyda chief His descant wildly thus begun : “ But that I may not stain with grief The death -song of my father’s son, Or bow this head in woe ! For by my wrongs, and by my wrath ! To-morrow Areouski’s breath (That fires yon heaven with storms of death), Shall light us to the foe : And we shall share, my Christian boy ! The foeman’s blood the avenger’s joy ! “But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o’er the deep, 64 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. The spirits of the white man’s heaven Forbid not thee to weep : — Nor will the Christian host, Nor will thy father’s spirit grieve To see thee on the battle’s eve, Lamenting, take a mournful leave Of her who loved thoe most : She was the rainbow to thy sight ! Thy sun— thy heaven — of lost delight ! 44 To-morrow let us do or die ! But when the bolt of death is hurled, Ah ! whither then with thee to fly, Shall Outalissi roam the world ? Seek we thy once loved home ? The hand is gone that cropt its flowers : Unheard their clock repeats its hours ! Cold is the hearth within their bowers ! And should we thither roam, Its echoes, and its empty tread, Would sound like voices from the dead ! 44 Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed ? And by my side, in battle true, A thousand warriors drew the shaft ? Ah ! there in desolation cold The desert serpent dwells alone, Where grass o’ergrows each mouldering bone, And stones themselves to ruin grown, Like me, are death-like old. Then seek we not their camp— for there — The silence dwells of my despair ! 44 But hark, the trump ! — to-morrow thou In glory’s fires shalt dry thy tears : E’en from the land of shadows now My father’s awful ghost appears, Amidst the clouds that round us roll ; He bids my soul for battle thirst — He bids me dry the last — the first — The only tears that ever burst From Outalissi’s soul ; Because I may not stain with grief The death-song of an Indian chief ! O’CONNOR’S CHILD. 65 O'CONNOR’S CHILD ; OR, THE “ FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING.” Oh ! once the harp of Innisfail Was strung full high to notes of gladness; But yet it often told a tale Of more prevailing sadness, Sad was the note, and wild its fall, As winds that moan at night forlorn Along the isles of Fion-Gall, When, for O’Connor’s child to mourn, The harper told, how lone, how far From any mansion's twinkling star, From any path of social men, Or voice, but from the fox’s den, The lady in the desert dwelt ; And yet no wrongs, no fear she felt : Say, why should dwell in place so wild, O’Connor’s pale and lovely child ? Sweet lady ! she no more inspires Green Erin’s hearts with beauty’s power, As, in the palace of her sires, She bloomed a peerless flower. Gone from her hand and bosom, gone, The royal brooch, the jewelled ring, That o’er her dazzling whiteness shone, Like dews on lilies of the spring. Yet why, though fallen her brother’s kerne, Beneath De Bourgo’s battle stern, While yet in Leinster unexplored, Her friends survive the English sword ; Why lingers she from Erin’s host, So far on Galway’s shipwrecked coast ; Why wanders she a huntress wild — O’Connor’s pale and lovely child? And fixed on empty space, why burn Her eyes with momentary wildness ; And wherefore do they then return To more than woman’s mildness ? 66 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. Dishevelled are her raven locks ; On Connocht Moran’s name she calls ; And oft amidst the lonely rocks She sings sweet madrigals. Placed in the foxglove and the moss, Behold a parted warrior’s cross ! That is the spot where, evermore, The lady, at her shieling door, Enjoys that, in communion sweet, The living and the dead can meet : For, lo ! to love-lorn fantasy, The hero of her heart is nigh. Bright as the bow- that spans the storm, In Erin's yellow vesture clad, A son of light — a lovely form, He comes and makes her glad ; Now on the grass-green turf he sits, His tasselled horn beside him laid ; Now o’er the hills in chase he flits, The hunter and the deer a shade ! Sweet mourner ! those are shadows vain That cross the twilight of her brain ; Yet she will tell you she is blest, Of Connocht Moran’s tomb possessed, More richly than in Aghrim’s bower, When bards high praised her beauty’s power, And kneeling pages offered up The morat in a golden cup. u A hero’s bride ! this desert bower, It ill befits thy gentle breeding : And wherefore dost thou love this flower To call — ‘ My love lies bleeding? “ This purple flower my tears have nursed ; A hero’s blood supplied its bloom : I love it, for it was the first That grew on Connocht Moran’s tomb. Oh ! hearken, stranger, to my voice ! This desert mansion is my choice ! And blest, though fatal, be the star That led me to its wilds afar : For here these pathless mountains free Gave shelter to my love and me ; O’CONNOR’S CHILD. And every rock and every stone Bare witness that he was my own. li O’Connors child, I was the bud Of Erin’s royal tree of glory ; But woe to them that wrapt in blood The tissue of my story ! Still as I clasp my burning brain, A death- scene rushes on my sight ; It rises o’er and o’er again, The bloody feud — the fatal night, When chafing Connocht Moran’s scorn, They called my hero basely born ; And bade him choose a meaner bride Than from O'Connor’s house of pride. Their tribe, they said, their high degree, Was sung in Tara’s psaltery ; Witness their Eath’s victorious brand, And Cathal of the bloody hand ; Glory (they s*iid) and power and honour* Were in the mansion of O’Connor : But he, my loved one, bore in field A meaner crest upon his shield. 44 Ah, brothers ! what did it avail, That fiercely and triumphantly Ye fought the English of^the pale, And stemmed De Bourgo’s chivalry ? And what was it to love and me, That barons by your standard rode ; Or beal-fires for your jubilee, Upon a hundred mountains glowed? What though the lords of tower and dome From Shannon to the North Sea foam, — Thought ye your iron hands of pride Could break the knot that love had tied No : — let the eagle change his plume, The leaf its hue, the flower its bloom ; But ties around this heart were spun, That could not, would not, be undone ! “ At bleating of the wild w r atch-fold Thus sang my love — 4 Oh, come with me : 68 Campbell’s poems. Our bark is on the lake, behold Our steeds are fastened to the tree. Come far from Castle Connor’s clans — Come with thy belted forestere, And I, beside the lake of swans, Shall hunt for thee the fallow-deer ; And build thy hut, and bring thee home The wild-fowl and the honey-comb ; And berries from the wood provide, And play my clarshech by thy side. Then come, my love ! ’ — How could I stay ? Our nimble stag-hounds tracked the way, And I pursued, by moonless skies, The light of Connocht Moran’s eyes. And fast and far, before the star Of day-spring, rushed we through the glade, And saw at dawn the lofty bawn Of Castle Connor fade. Sweet was to us the hermitage % Of this unploughed, untrodden shore ; Like birds all joyous from the cage, For man’s neglect we loved it more. And well he knew, my huntsman dear, To search the game with hawk and spear ; While I, his evening food to dress, Would sing to him in happiness. But, oh, that midnight of despair ! When I was doomed to rend my hair : The night, to me, of shrieking sorrow ! The night, to him, that had no morrow ! “ When all was hushed, at eventide, I heard the baying of their beagle : 4 Be hushed ! ’ my Connocht Moran cried, 4 ’Tis but the screaming of the eagle.’ Alas ! ,’twas not the eyrie’s sound ; Their bloody bands had tracked us out ; Up-listening starts our couchant hound, And, hark ! again, that nearer shout Brings faster on the murderers. Spare — spare him — Brazil — Desmond fierce ! In vain — no voice the adder charms ; Their weapons crossed my shelteriug arms: O'CONNOR’S CHILD. 69 Another’s sword has laid him low. Another’s and another’s ; And every hand that dealt the blow — Ah me ! it was a brother’s ! Yes, when his moanings died away, Their iron hands had dug the clay, And o’er his burial turf they trod, And I beheld — Oh God ! Oh Gad ! His life-blood oozing from the sod ! “ Warm in his death-wounds sepulchred, Alas ! my warrior’s spirit brave. Hor mass nor ulla-lulla heard* Lamenting, soothe his grave. Dragged to their hated mansion back, How long in thraldom’s grasp I lay, I knew not, for my soul was black, And knew no change of night or day. One night of horror round me grew ; Or if I saw, or felt, or knew, ’Twas but when those grim visages, The angry brothers of my race, i Glared on each eye-ball’s aching throb, And checked my bosom’s power to sob, Or when my heart with pulses drear, Beat like a death-watch to my ear. “ But Heaven, at last, my soul’s eclipse Did with a vision bright inspire : I woke and felt upon my lips A prophetess’s fire. Thrice in the east a war- drum beat, I heard the Saxon’s trumpet sound, And ranged, as to the judgment-seat, My guilty, trembling brothers round. Clad in the helm and shield they came • For now De Bourgo’s sword and flame Had ravished Ulster’s boundaries, And lighted up the midnight skies. The standard of O’Connor’s sway W as in the turret where I lay ; That standard with so dire a look, As ghastly shone the moon and pale, 70 Campbell’s poems I gave, that every bosom shook Beneath its iron mail. 44 4 And go ! 7 I cried, 4 the combat seek, Ye hearts that unappalled bore The anguish of a sister’s shriek, Go ! — and return no more ! For sooner guilt the ordeal brand Shall grasp unhurt, than ye shall hold The banner with victorious hand, Beneath a sister’s curse unrolled.’ 0 stranger ! by my country’s loss ! And by my love ! and by the cross ! 1 swear 1 never could have spoke The curse that severed nature’s yoke ; But that a spirit o’er me stood. And fired me with the wrathful mood ; And frenzy to my heart was given, To speak the malison of heaven. 44 They would have crossed themselves, all mute ; They would have prayed to burst the spell ; But at the stamping of my foot, Each hand down powerless fell ! 4 And go to Athunree ! 7 I cried, 4 High lift the banner of your pride ! But know that where its sheet unrolls, The weight of blood is on your souls ! Go where the havoc of your kerne Shall float as high as mountain fern ! Men shall no more your mansion know ; The nettles on your hearth shall grow ! “ Dead, as the green oblivious flood That mantles by your walls, shall be The glory of O’Connor’s blood : Away ! away to Athunree ! Where, downward when the sun shall fall, The raven’s wing shall be your pall ! And not a vassal shall unlace The vizor from your dying face ! ’ 44 A bolt that overhung our dome Suspended till my curse was given, Soon as it passed these lips of foam, Pealed in the blood-red heaven. THEODRIC. 71 Dire was the look that o’er their backs The angry parting brothers threw : But now, behold ! like cataracts, Come down the hills in view O’Connor’s plumed partisans ; Thrice ten Kilnagorvian clans Were marching to their doom : A sudden storm their plumage tossed, A flash of lightning o’er them crossed, And all again was gloom ! 44 Stranger ! I fled the home of grief, At Connocht Moran’s tomb to fail ; I found the helmet of my chief, His bow still hanging on our wall, And took it down, and vowed to rove This desert place a huntress bold ; Nor would I chailge my buried love For any heart of living mould. No ! for I am a hero’s child ; I’ll hunt my quarry in the wild ; And still my home this mansion make, Of all unheeded and unheeding, And cherish, for my warrior’s sake— 4 The flower of love lies bleeding.’ ” THEODMC ; A DOMESTIC TALE. ’Twas sunset, and the 44 Banz des Vaches ” was sung, And lights were o’er the Helvetian mountains flung. That gave the glacier tops their richest glow, And tinged the lakes like molten gold below. Warmth flushed the wonted regions of the storm, ]- Where, Phoenix-like, you saw the eagle’s form, That high in Pleaven’s vermilion wheeled and soared. Woods nearer frowned, and cataracts dashed and roared. From heights browsed by the bounding bouquetin ; Herds tinkling roamed the long-drawn vales between, And hamlets glittered white, and gardens flourished green. ! ’Twas transport to inhale the bright sweet air ! The mountain-bee was revelling in its glare, 72 Campbell’s poems. And roving with his minstrelsy across The scented wild weeds and enamelled moss. Earth’s features so harmoniously were linked, She seemed one great glad form, with life instinct, That felt Heaven’s ardent breath, and smiled below Its flush of love, with consentaneous glow. A Gothic church was near ; the spot around Was beautiful, even though sepulchral ground ; For there nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom, But roses blossomed by each rustic tomb. Amidst them one of spotless marble shone — A maiden’s grave— and ’twas inscribed thereon, That young and loved she died whose dust was there : “Yes,” said my comrade, “young she died, and fair! •- Grace formed her, and the soul of gladness played Once in the blue eyes of that mountain-maid : Her fingers witched the chords they passed along, And her lips seemed to kiss the soul in song : Yet wooed, and worshipped as she was, till few Aspired to hope, ’twas sadly, strangely true, That heart, the martyr of its fondness, burned And died of love that could not be returned. “ Her father dwelt where yonder castle shines O’er clustering trees and terrace-mantling vines. As gay as ever, the laburnum’s pride Waves o’er each walk where she Was wont to glide,— And still the garden whence she graced her brow, As lovely blooms, though trod by strangers now. How oft from yonder window o’er the lake, Her song of wild Helvetian swell and shake Has made the rudest fisher bend his ear, And rest enchanted on his oar to hear! Thus bright, accomplished, spirited, and bland, Well-born, and wealthy for that simple land, Why had no gallant native youth the art To win so warm — so exquisite a heart ? She, ’midst these rocks inspired with feelings strong By mountain freedom — music— fancy — song, Herself descended from the brave in arms, And conscious of romance -inspiring charms, THEODRIC. 73 Dreamt of Heroic beings ; hoped to find Some extant spirit of chivalric kind ; And scorning wealth, looked cold e’en on the claim Of manly worth, that lacked the wreath of fame. “Her younger brother, sixteen summers old, And much her likeness both in mind and mould, Had gone, poor boy ! in soldiership to shine, And bore an Austrian banner on the Rhine. ’Twas when, alas ! our Empire’s evil star Shed all the plagues, without the pride, of war ; When patriots bled, and bitter anguish crossed Our brave, to die in battles foully lost. The youth wrote home the rout of many a day ; Yet still lie said, and still with truth could say, One corps had ever made a valiant stand, — The corps in which he served — Theodric’s"band. His fame, forgotten chief, is now gone by, Eclipsed by brighter orbs in glory’s sky ; Yet once it shone, and veterans, when they show Our fields of battle twenty years ago, Will tell you feats his small brigade performed, In charges nobly faced and trenches stormed. Time was when songs were chanted to his fame, And soldiers loved the march that bore his name : The zeal of martial hearts was at his call, And that Helvetian, Udolph’s, most of all. ’Twas touching, when the storm of war blew wild, To see a blooming boy, — almost a child, — Spur fearless at his leader’s words and signs, Brave death in reconnoitring hostile lines, And speed each task, and tell each message clear, In scenes where war-trained men were stunned with fear. u Theodric praised him, and they wept for joy In yonder house, — when letters from the boy Thanked Heaven for life, and more, to use his phrase, Than twenty lives —his own Commander’s praise. Then followed glowing pages, blazoning forth The fancied image of his Leader’s worth, With such hyperboles of youthful style As made his parents dry their tears and smile : But differently far his words impressed A wondering sister’s well-believing breast ; — 74 Campbell’s poems. / She caught the illusion, blest Theodric’s name, And wildly magnified his worth and fame ; Rejoicing life’s reality contained One, heretofore, her fancy had but feigned, Whose love could make her proud and time and chance To passion raised that day-dream of Romance. u Once, when with hasty charge of horse and man Our arriere-guard had checked the Gallic van, Theodric, visiting the outposts, found His Udolph wounded, weltering on the ground : — Sore crushed, — half swooning, half upraised, he lay, And bent his brow, fair boy ! and grasped the clay. His fate moved e’en the common soldier’s ruth — Theodric succoured him ; nor left the youth To vulgar lianas, but brought him to his tent, And lent what aid a brother would have lent. “Meanwhile, to save his kindred half the smart The war-gazette’s dread blood-roll might impart, He wrote the event to them ; and soon could tell Of pains assuaged and symptoms auguring well ; And last of all, prognosticating cure, Enclosed the leech’s vouching signature. “ Their answers, on whose pages you might note That tears had fallen, whilst trembling fingers wrote, Gave boundless thanks for benefits conferred, Of which the boy in secret sent them word, Whose memory Time, they said, would never blot ; But which the giver had himself forgot. “ In time, the stripling, vigorous and healed, Resumed his barb and banner in the field, And bore himself right soldier-like, till now The third campaign had manlier bronzed his brow, When peace, though but a scanty pause for breath, — A curtain-drop between the acts of death, — A check in frantic war’s unfinished game, Yet dearly bought, and direly welcome, came. The camp broke up, and Udolph left his chief As with a son’s or younger brother’s grief : But journeying home, how rapt his spirits rose ! How light his footsteps crushed St. Gothard’s snows ! THEODRIC. { 75 How dear seemed e!en the waste and wild Shreckhorn, Though wrapt in clouds and frowning as in scorn Upon a downward world of pastoral charms ; Where, by the very smell of dairy-farms, And fragrance from the mountain -herbage blown, Blindfold his native hills he could have known ! “ His coming down yon lake,— his boat in view Of windows where love’s fluttering kerchief flew, — The arms spread out for him— the tears that burst, (’Twas Julia’s, ’twas his sister’s, met him first :)— Their pride to see war’s medal at his breast, And all their rapture’s greeting, may be guessed. “ Ere long, his bosom triumphed to unfold A gift he meant their gayest room to hold, — The picture of a friend in warlike dress ; And who it was he first bade Julia guess. ‘ Yes,’ she replied, ‘ ’twas he, methought in sleep, When you -were wounded, told me not to weep.’ The painting long in that sweet mansion drew Regards its living semblance little knew. “ Meanwhile Theodric, who had years before Learnt England’s tongue, and loved her classic lore, A glad enthusiast now explored the land, Where Nature, Freedom, Art, smile hand in hand : Her women fair ; her men robust for toil ; Her vigorous souls, high-cultured as her soil ; Her towns, where civic independence flings The gauntlet down to senates, courts, and kings ; Her works of art, resembling magic’s power ; Her mighty fleets, and learning’s beauteous bowers. — These he had visited, with wonder’s smile, And scarce endured to quit so fair an isle. But how our fates from unmomentous things May rise, like rivers out of little springs ! A trivial chance postponed his parting day, And public tidings caused, in that delay, An English jubilee. ’Twas* a glorious sight ; At eve, stupendous London, clad in light, Poured out triumphant multitudes to gaze ; Youth, age, wealth, penury, smiling in the blaze : The illumined atmosphere was warm and bland, And Beauty’s groups, the fairest of the land, 76 Campbell's poems. Conspicuous, as in some wide festive room, In open chariots passed with pearl and plume. 4 . Amidst them he remarked a lovelier mien Than e’er his thoughts had shaped, or eyes had seen ; The throng detained her till he reigned his steed, And, ere the beauty passed, had time to read The motto and the arms her carriage bore. Led by that clue, he left not England’s shore Till he had known her : and to know her well Prolonged, exalted, bound, enchantment’s spell ; For with affections warm, intense, refined, She mixed such calm and holy strength of mind, That, like Heaven’s image in the smiling brook, Celestial peace was pictured in her look. Hers was the brow, in trials unperplexed, That cheered the sad, and tranquillised the vexed ; She studied not the meanest to eclipse, And yet the wisest listened to her lips ; She sang not, knew not Music’s magic skill, But yet her voice had tones that swayed the will. He sought — he won her — and resolved to make His future home in England for her sake. “ Yet, ere they wedded, matters of concern To Caesar’s court commanded his return, A season’s space, — and on his Alpine way, He reached those bowers, that rang with joy that day : The boy was half beside himself,- — the sire, All frankness, honour, and Helvetian fire, Of speedy parting would not hear him speak ; And tears bedewed and brightened Julia’s cheek. “Thus, loth to wound their hospitable pride, A month he promised with them to abide ; As blithe he trod the mountain sward as they, And felt his joy make e’en the young more gay. How jocund was their breakfast-parlour fanned By yon blue water’s breath, — their walks how bland ! Fair Julia seemed her brother’s softened sprite — A gem reflecting Nature’s purest light, — And with her graceful wit there was inwrought A wildly sweet unworldliness of thought, That almost child-like to his kindness drew, And twin with Udolph in his friendship grew. f THEODKIC. 77 But did his thoughts to love one moment range? — ]S r o ! he who had loved Constance could not change ! Besides, till grief betrayed her undesigned, The unlikely thought could scarcely reach his mind, That eyes so young on years like his should beam Unwooed devotion back for pure esteem. 44 True, she sang to his very soul, and brought Those trains before him of luxuriant thought, Which only Music’s heaven-born art can bring, To sweep across the mind with angel wing. Once, as he smiled amidst that waking trance, She paused o’ercome : he thought it might be chance, And, when his first suspicions dimly stole, Eebuked them back like phantoms from his soul. But when he saw his caution gave her pain, And kindness brought suspense’s rack again, Faith, honour, friendship, bound him to unmask Truths which her timid fondness feared to ask. 44 And yet with gracefully ingenuous power Her spirit met the explanatory hour ; — Even conscious beauty brightened in her eyes, That told she knew their love no vulgar prize ; And pride, like that of one more woman-grown, Enlarged her mien, enriched her voice’s tone. ’Twas then she struck the keys, and music made That mocked all skill her hand had e’er displayed : Inspired and warbling, rapt from things around, She looked the very Muse of magic sound, Painting in sound the forms of joy and woe, Until the mind’s eye saw them melt and glow. Her closing strain composed and calm she played, And sang no words to give its pathos aid ; But grief seemed lingering in its lengthened swell, And like so many tears the trickling touches fell. Of Constance then she heard Theodric speak, And steadfast smoothness still possessed her cheek ; But when he told her how he oft had planned Of old a journey to their mountain land, That might have brought him hither years before, 4 Ah ! then,’ she cried, 4 you knew not England's shore ; And, had you come, — and wherefore did you not ? ’ 4 Yes,’ he replied, 4 it would have changed our lot ! ’ 78 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. Then burst her tears through pride’s restraining bands, And with her handkerchief, and both her hands, She hid her face and wept. — Contrition stung Theodric for the tears his words had wrung. 4 But no,’ she cried, 4 unsay not what you’ve said, Nor grudge one prop on which my pride is stayed ; To think I could have merited your faith, Shall be my solace even unto death ?’ — 4 Julia,’ Theodric said, with purposed look Of firmness, 4 my reply deserved rebuke ; But by your pure and sacred peace of mind, And by the dignity of womankind, Swear that when I am gone you’ll do your best To chase this dream of fondness from your breast.’ 44 The abrupt appeal electrified her thought ; — She looked to Heaven, as if its aid she sought, Dried hastily the tear-drops from her cheek, And signified the vow she could not speak. 44 Ere long he communed with her mother mild : 4 Alas ! ’ she said, 4 1 warned — conjured my child, And grieved for this affection from the first, But like fatality it has been nursed ; For when her filled eyes on your picture fixed, And when your name in all she spoke was mixed, ’Twas hard to chide an over-grateful mind ! Then each attempt a likelier choice to find Made only fresh-rejected suitors grieve, And Udolph’s pride — perhaps her own — believe That could she meet, she might enchant e’en you. You came. — I augured the event, ’tis true, But how was Udolph’s mother to exclude The guest that claimed our boundless gratitude ? And that unconscious you had cast a spell On Julia’s peace, my pride refused to tell : Yet in my child’s illusion I have seen, Believe me well, how blameless you have been : Nor can it cancel, howsoe’er it end, Our debt of friendship to our boy’s best friend.’ At night he parted with the aged pair ; At early morn rose Julia to prepare The last repast her, hands for him should make ; Udplph conyoy hm o’er the lake. TIIEODRIC. 70 The parting was to her suck bitter grief, That of her own accord she made it brief ; But, lingering at her window, long surveyed His boat’s last glimpses melting into shade. “ Theodric sped to Austria, and achieved His journey’s object. Much was he relieved When Udolph’s letters told that Julia’s mind Had borne his loss firm, tranquil, and resigned. He took the Rhenish route to England, high Elate with hopes, fulfilled their ecstasy, And interchanged with Constance’s own breath The sweet eternal vows that bound their faith. “ To paint that being to a grovelling mind Were like portraying pictures to the blind. ’Twas needful e’en infectiously to feel Her temper’s fond and firm and gladsome zeal, To share existence with her and to gain Sparks from her love’s electrifying chain, Of that pure pride, which lessening to her breast Life’s ills, gave all its joys a treble zest, Before the mind completely understood That mighty truth — how happy are the good ! — “E’en when her light forsook him, it bequeathed Ennobling sorrow ; and her memory breathed A sweetness that survived her living days, As odorous scents outlast the censer’s blaze. “ Or if a trouble dimmed their golden joy, ’Twas outward dross and not infused alloy : Their home knew but affection’s looks and speech — A little Heaven, above dissension’s reach. But ’midst her kindred there was strife and gall ; Save one congenial sister, they were all Such foils to her bright intellect and grace, As if she had engrossed the virtue of her race. Her nature strove the unnatural feuds to heal, Her wisdom made the weak to her appeal ; And though the wounds she cured were soon unclosed. Unwearied still her kindness interposed. “ Oft on those errands though she went, in vain, And home, a blank without her, gave him pain, F — — — ^ so Campbell’s poems. He bore her absence for its pious end.— But public grief his spirit came to bend ; For war laid waste his native land once more, And German honour bled at every pore. Oh ! were he there, he thought, to rally back One broken band, or perish in the wrack ! Nor think that Constance sought to move or melt His purpose : like herself she spoke and felt : — , 1 Your fame is mine, and I will bear all woe Except its loss ! — but with you let me go To arm you for, to embrace you from the fight ; Harm will not reach me — hazards will delight ! ’ He knew those hazards better; one campaign In England he conjured her to remain, And she expressed assent, although her heart In secret had resolved they should not part. “ How oft the wisest on misfortune’s shelves Are wrecked by errors most unlike themselves ! That little fault, that fraud of love’s romance, That plan’s concealment wrought their whole mischance. lie knew it not preparing to embark, But felt extinct his comfort’s latest spark, When, ’midst those numbered days she made repair Again to kindred worthless of her care. ’Tis true she said the tidings she would write Would make her absence on his heart sit light ; But, haplessly, revealed not yet her plan, And left him in his home a lonely man. u Thus damped in thoughts, he mused upon the past : ’Twas long since he had heard from Udolph last, And deep misgivings on his spirit fell, That all with Udolph’s household was not well. ’Twas that too true prophetic mood of fear That augurs griefs inevitably near, Yet makes them not less startling to the mind, When come. Least looked-for then of human kind, His Udolph (’twas, he thought at first, his sprite) With mournful joy that morn surprised his sight. How changed was Udolph! Scarce Theodric, durst Inquire his tidings, — he revealed the worst. ‘ At first,’ he said, 4 as Julia bade me tell, She bore, her fate high-mindedly and well, THEODRIC. 81 Kesolved from common eyes her grief to hide, And from the world’s compassion saved our pride ; But still her health gave way to secret woe, And long she pined — for broken hearts die slow ! Her reason went, but came returning, like The warning of her death-hour — soon to strike ; And all for which she now, poor sufferer ! sighs, Is once to see Theodric ere she dies. Why should I come to tell you this caprice ? Forgive me ! for my mind has lost its peace. I blame myself, and ne’er shall cease to blame, That my insane ambition for the name Of brother to Theodric, founded all Those high -built hopes that crushed her by their fall. I made her slight a mother’s counsel sage, But now my parents droop with grief and age ; And though my sister’s eyes mean no rebuke, They overwhelm me with their dying look. The journey’s long, but you are full of ruth ; And she who shares your heart, and knows its truth, Has faith in your affection, far above The fear of a p.QCr dying object’s love.’ 1 Sh6 has, my Udolph,’ he replied, ‘ ’tis true ; And. oft wo talk pf Julia — oft of you.’ Their converse came abruptly to a close ; For scar C e could each his troubled looks compose, When visitants, to Constance near akin (In all but traits of soul) were ushered in. They brought not her, nor ’midst their kindred band The sister who alone, like her, was bland ; But , sa id — and smiled to see it gave him pain— That Constance would a fortnight yet remain. Veiled by their tidings, and the haughty view They cast on Udolph as the youth withdrew, Theodric blamed his Constance’s intent. — , The demons went, and left him as they went, r To read, when they were gone beyond recall, A note from her loved hand, explaining all. She said, that with their house she only stayed That parting peace might with them all be made ; But prayed for love to share his foreign life, And shun all future chance of kindred strife. 82 Campbell’s poems. He wrote with speed, his soul’s consent to say : The letter missed her on her homeward way. In six hours Constance was within his arms : Moved, flushed, unlike her wonted calm of charms, And breathless — with uplifted hands outspread — Burst into tears upon his neck, and said, — ‘ I knew that those who brought your message laughed, With poison of their own to point the shaft ; And this my one kind sister thought, yet loth Confessed she feared ’twas true you had been wroth. But here you are, and smile on me : my pain Is gone, and Constance is herself again.’ His thoughts, it may be guessed, Yet pain’s extreme and pleasure’s seemed to touch. What pride ! embracing beauty’s perfect mould ; What terror ! lest his few rash words, mistold, Had agonised her pulse to fever’s heat : But calmed again so soon it healthful beat, And such sweet tones were in her voice’s sound, Composed herself, she breathed composure round. “ Fair being! with what sympathetic grace She heard, bewailed, and pleaded Julia’s cast ; Implored he would her dying wish attend, ‘ And go,’ she said, 4 to-morrow with your friend ; I’ll wait for your return on England’s shore, And then we’ll cross the deep, and part no more.’ 41 To-morrow both his soul’s compassion drew To Julia’s call, and Constance urged anew That not to heed her now would be to bind A load of pain for life upon his mind. He went with Udolph — from his Constance went— Stifling, alas ! a dark presentiment Some ailment lurked, e’en while she smiled, to mock His fears of harm from yester-morning’s shock. Meanwhile a faithful page he singled out, To watch at home, and follow straight his route, If aught of threatened change her health should show With Udolph then he reached the house of woe, 4 4 That winter’s eve how darkly Nature’s brow Scowled on the scenes it lights so lovely now ! THEODEIC. The tempest, raging o’er the realms of ice, Shook fragments from the rifted precipice ; And whilst their falling echoed to the wind, The wolf’s long howl in dismal discord joined, While white yon water’s foam was raised in clouds That whirled like spirits wailing in their shrouds : Without was Nature’s elemental dm — And beauty died, and friendship wept, within ! “ Sweet Julia, though her fate was finished half, Still knew him — smiled on him with feeble laugh— And blessed him, till she drew her latest sigh ! But lo ! while Udolph’s bursts of agony, And age’s tremulous wailings, round him rose, What accents pierced him deeper yet than those ? *Twas tidings by his English messenger, Of Constance — brief and terrible they were. She still was living when the page set out From home, but whether now was left in doubt. Poor Julia ! saw he then thy death’s relief — Stunned into stupor more than wrung with grief ? It was not strange ; for in the human breast Two master-passions cannot co-exist, And that alarm which now usurped his brain Shut out not only peace, but other pain. ’Twas fancying Constance underneath the shroud .That covered Julia made him first weep loud, And tear himself away from them that wept. Fast hurrying homeward, night nor day he slept, Till, launched at sea, lie dreamt that his soul’s saint Clung to him on a bridge of ice, pale, faint, O’er cataracts of blood. Awake, he blessed The shore ; nor hope left utterly his breast, Till reaching home, terrific omen ! there The straw-laid street .preluded'’ his despair — The servant’s look — the table that revealed His letter sent to Constance last, still sealed — Though speech and hearing left him, told too clear That he had now to suffer — not to fear. He felt as if he ne’er should cease to feel — A wretch live-broken on misfortune’s wheel : Her death’s cause — he might make his peace with Heaven, Absolved from guilt, but never self-forgiven. j 84 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. “ The ocean has its ebbings — so has grief ; ’Twas vent to anguish, if ’twas not relief, To lay his brow e’en on her death-cold cheek. Then first he heard her one kind sister speak : She bade him, in the name of Heaven, forbeai* With self-reproach to deepen his despair : 1 ’Twas blame,’ she said, 4 1 shudder to relate, But none of yours, that caused our darling’s fate : Her mother (must I call her such ?) foresaw, Should Constance leave the land, she would withdraw Our House’s charm against the world’s neglect — The only gem that drew it some respect. Hence, when you went, she came and vainly spoke To change her purpose — grew incensed, and broke With execrations from her kneeling child. Start not ! your angel from her knee rose mild, Feared that she should not long the scene outlive, Yet bade e’en you the unnatural one forgive. Till then her ailment had been slight or none ; But fast she drooped, and fatal pains came on : Foreseeing their event, she dictated And signed, these words for you.’ The letter said — 44 4 Theodric, this is destiny above Our power to baffle ; bear it then, my love ! Rave not to learn the usage I have borne, For one true sister left me not forlorn ; And though you’re absent in another land, Sent from me by my own well-meant command, Your soul, I know, as firm is knit to mine As these clasped hands in blessing you now join : Shape not imagined horrors in my fate — E’en now my sufferings are not very great ; And when your grief’s first transports shall subside I call upon your strength 6f soul and pride To pay my memory, if ’tis worth the debt, Love’s glorying tribute — not forlorn regret : I charge my name with power to conjure up Reflection’s balmy, not its bitter cup. My pardoning angel, at the gates of Heaven, Shall look not more regard than you have given To me ; and our life’s union has been clad In smiles of bliss as sweet as life e’er had. lochiel’s warning, 85 Shall gloom be from such bright remembrance cast ? Shall bitterness outflow from sweetness past ? N o ! imaged in the sanctuary of your breast, There let me smile, amidst high thoughts at rest ; And let contentment on your spirit shine, As if its peace were still a part of mine : For if you war not proudly with your pain, For you I shall have worse than lived in vain. But I conjure your manliness to bear My loss with noble spirit — not despair : I ask you by our love to promise this, And kiss these words, where I have left a kiss, — The latest from my living lips* for yours.’ — “Words that will solace him while life endures: For though his spirit from affliction’s surge Could ne’er to life, as life had been, emerge, Yet still that mind whose harmony elate Rang sweetness, e’en beneath the crush of fate, — That mind in whose regard all things were placed In views that softened them, or lights that graced* That soul’s example could not but dispense A portion of its own blessed influence ; Invoking him to peace, and that self-sway ; Which Fortune cannot give, nor take away : And though he mourned her long, ’twas with such woe As if her spirit watched him still below.” LOCHIEL’S WARNING. WIZARD— LOCHIEL. WIZARD. Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight. They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown ; Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down ! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof -beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. j 86 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ? J Tis thine, oh Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, Like a love -lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning : no rider is there ; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led ! O weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead : For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, Culloden ! that reeks with the blood of the brave. LOCHIEL. | Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer ! Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, This mantle to cover the phantoms of fright. WIZARD. Ha ! laugh’s t thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn ? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn ! Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth, From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north ? Lo ! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ; But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! ' Ah! home let him speed, — for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast ? ’Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. Oh, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlement’s height, Heaven’s fire is around thee to blast and to burn ; Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o’er her famishing brood. LOCHIEL. False Wizard, avaunt ! I have marshalled my clan, Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one ! They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. ! Then welcome be Cumberland’s steed to the shock ! | Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock I i _ : I* LOCHIEL’S WARNING. 87 But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws*; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, All plaided and plumed in their tartan array 1 WIZARD. Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day ; j For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot cover wnat God would reveal ; ’Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, ? And coming events cast their shadows before. I tell thee Culloden’s dread echoes shall ring With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. j Lo ! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! FiOw in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight : Rise, rise ! ye, wild tempests, and cover his flight ! Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors : Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. But where is the iron-bound prisoner ? Where ? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean -w r ave, banished forlorn, Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn ? Ah no ! for a darker departure is near : The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier- His death-bell is tolling : Oh ! mercy dispel ’ Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Accursed, be the faggots, that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale ’ LOCHIEL. — — Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale : For never shall Albin a destiny meet, So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, 88 Campbell’s poems. Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, W ith his back to the field, and his feet to the foe ! And leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame. ■ BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. Of Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day’s renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark’s crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on. Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line : It was ten of April morn by the chime ; As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death ; And the boldest held his breath For a time. But the might of England flushed To anticipate the scene ; And her van the fleeter rushed O’er the deadly space between. u Hearts of oak ! ” our captain cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. Again ! again ! again ! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back ; — Their shots along the deep slowly boom : — Then ceased— and all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail ; BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 89 Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom. Out spoke the victor then, As he hailed them o’er the wave ; “ Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! ' And we conquer but to save : — So peace instead of death let us bring ; But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, With the crews, at England’s feet, And make submission meet To our King.” Then Denmark blessed our chief, That he gave her wounds repose ; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As death withdrew his shades from the day. While the sun looked smiling bright O’er a wide and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away. Now joy, Old England, raise ! For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities’ blaze, While the wine- cup shines in light ; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep, Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore ! Brave hearts ! to Britain’s pride Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died ; — With the gallant good Biou : Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o’er their grave ! While the billow mournful rolls And the mermaid’s song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave ! 90 Campbell’s poems. SONG OF THE GREEKS. Again to the battle, Achaians ! Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance ; Our land, the first garden of Liberty’s tree— It has been, and shall yet be the land of the free : For the cross of our faith is replanted, The pale dying crescent is daunted, And we march that the foot -prints of Mahomet’s slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefathers’ graves. Their spirits are hovering o’er us, And the sword shall to glory restore us. Ah ! what though no succour advances, Nor Christendom’s chivalrous lances Are stretched in our aid — be the combat our own ! And we’ll perish or conquer more proudly alone ; For we’ve sworn by our Country’s assaulters, By the virgins they’ve dragged from our altars, By our massacred patriots, our children in chains, By our heroes of old and their blood in our veins, That living, we shall be victorious, Or that dying, our deaths shall be glorious. A breath of submission we breathe not ; The sword that we’ve drawn we will sheathe not ! Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. Earth may hide — waves engulph — fire consume us, But they shall not to slavery doom us : If they rule, it shall be o’er our ashes and graves ; But we’ve smote them already with fire on the waves, And new triumphs on land are before us, To the charge ! — Heaven’s banner is o’er us. This day shall ye blush for its story, Or brighten your lives with its glory. Our women, oh, say, shall they shriek in despair, Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair ? Accursed may his memory blacken, If a coward there be that would slacken Till we’ve trampled the turban and shown ourselves worth Being' sprung from and named for the godlike of earth. Strike home, and the world shall revere us As heroes descended from, heroes. YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 91 1 Old Greece lightens up with emoiion Her inlands, her isles of the Ocean ; Fanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee rin» And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon’s sprint • Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness, 0 ' That were cold and extinguished in sadness ; farms Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white-waving ?»r D u g ' ng J 0y t0 the brave that delivered their charms, When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens. YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND: A NAVAL ODE. Ye mariners of England ! That guard our native seas ; Whose flag has braved, a thousand years. The battle and the breeze ! Your glorious standard launch again To meet another foe ! And sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow ; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. ° The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave ! For the deck it was their fieid of fame, And Ocean was their grave : Whore Blake and mighty Nelson fell, Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow ; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. ° Britannia needs no bulwark, No towers along the steep ; Her march is o’er the mountain-waves Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below, ; 92 Campbell’s poems. As they roar on the shore, When the stormy tempests blow: When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn ; Till danger’s troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow ; When the fiery fight is beard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow. ODE TO WINTER. When first the fiery -mantled sun His heavenly race began to run ; Round the earth and ocean blue, His children four the Seasons flew, i First, in green apparel dancing, The young Spring smiled with angel grace ; Rosy Summer next advancing, Rushed into her sire’s embrace : — Her bright-haired sire, who bade her keep For ever nearest to his smiles, On Calpe’s olive-shaded steep, On India’s citron-covered isles : More remote and buxom-brown, The Queen of vintage bowed before his throne ; A rich pomegranate gemmed her crown, A ripe sheaf bound her zone. But howling Winter fled afar, To hills that prop the polar star, And loves on deer-borne car to ride, With barren darkness by his side, Round the shore where loud Lofoden Whirls to death the roaring whale, Round the hall where Runic Odin Howls his war-song to the gale ; ODE TO WINTEB. Save when adown the ravaged globe He travels on Ms^native storm, Deflowering Nature’s grassy robe, And trampling on her faded form : — Till light’s returning lord assume 'Hie shaft that drives him to his polar field, Of power to pierce his raven plume And crystal -covered shield. Oh, sire of storms ! whose savage ear The Lapland drum delights to hear, When frenzy with her blood-shot eye Implores thy dreadful deity, Archangel ! power of desolation ! Fast descending as thou art, Say, hath mortal invocation Spells to touch thy stony heart? Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer, And gently rule the ruined year ; Nor chill the wanderer’s bosom bare, Nor freeze the wretch’s falling tear ; — To shuddering W ant’s unmantled bed Thy horror -breathing agues cease to lead. And gently on the orphan head Of innocence descend. But chiefly spare, O, king of clouds ! The sailor on his airy shrouds ; When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, And spectres walk along the deep. Milder yet thy snowy breezes Pour on yonder tented shores, Where the Rhine’s broad billow freezes, Or the dark- brown Danube roars. Oh, winds of Winter ! list ye there To many a deep and dying groan ; Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, At shrieks and thunders louder than your own. Alas ! ev’n your unhallowed breath May spare the victim fallen low ; But man will ask no truce to death,— No bounds to human woe. CAMPBELL'S POEMS. 94 STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS LATEST KILLED IN RESISTING THE REGENCY AND THE DUKE OF ANGOULEME. Brave men who at the Trocadero fell — Beside your cannons conquered not, though slain, There is a victory in dying well For freedom, — and ye have not died in vain ; For come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain To honour, aye embrace your martyred lot, Cursing the Bigot’s and the Bourbon’s chain, And looking on your graves, though trophied not, As holier, hallowed ground than priests could make the spot ! What though your cause be baffled — freemen cast In dungeons — dragged to death, or forced to flee ; Hope is not withered in affliction’s blast— The patriot’s blood’s the seed of Freedom’s tree ; And short your orgies of revenge shall be, Cowled Demons of the Inquisitorial cell ! Earth shudders at your victory, — for ye Are worse than common fiends, from Heaven that fell, The baser, ranker sprung, Autochthones of Hell ! Go to your bloody rites again — bring back The hall of horrors and the assessor’s pen, Recording answers shrieked upon the rack ; Smile o’er the gaspings of spine -broken men ; — Preach, perpetrate damnation in your den ; — Then let your altars, ye blasphemers ! peal With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again, To practise deeds with .torturing fire and steel No eye may search — no tongue may challenge or reveal ! Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime Too proudly, ye oppressors ! — Spain was free, Her soil has felt the foot-prints, and her clime Been winnowed by the wings of Libert} r ; And these even parting scatter as they flee Thoughts — influences, to live in hearts unborn, Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key From Persecution — show her mask off -torn, And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of Scorn, LINES. 95 Glory to them that die in this great cause ! Kings, Bigots, can inHict no brand of shame, Or shape of death, to shroud them from applause : — No ! — manglers of the martyr’s earthly frame ! Your hangmen fingers cannot touch his fame. Still in your prostrate land there shall be some Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom’s vestal flame. Long'trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb, But vengeance is behind, and justice is to come. LINES WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY IN LONDON, WHEN MET TO COMMEMORATE THE 21ST OF MARCH, THE DAY OF VICTORY IN EGYPT. Pledge to the much-loved land that gave us birth ! Invincible romantic Scotia’s shore ! Pledge to the memory of her parted worth ! And first, amidst the brave, remember Moore : And be it deemed not wrong that name to give, In festive hours, which prompts the patriot’s sigh ! Who would not envy such as Moore to live ? And died he not as heroes wish to die ? Yes, though too soon attaining glory’s goal, To us his bright career too short was given : Yet in a mighty cause his phoenix soul Rose on the flames of victory to Heaven ! How oft (if beats in subjugated Spain One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn For him ! — How oft on far Corunna’s plain Shall British exiles weep upon his urn ! Peace to the mighty dead ! — our bosom thanks In sprightlier strains the living may inspire ! Joy to the chiefs that lead old Scotia’s ranks, Of Roman garb and more than Roman fire ! Triumphant be the Thistle still unfurled, Dear symbol wild ! on Freedom’s hills it grows, Where Fingal stemmed the tyrants, of the world, And Roman eagles found unconquered foes, G 96 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. Joy to the band this day on Egypt’s coast, Whose valour tamed proud France’s tricolor, And wrenched the banner from her bravest host, Baptised Invincible in Austria’s gore ! Joy for the day on red Vimeira’s strand, When, bayonet to bayonet opposed, First of Britannia’s host her Highland band Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost closed ! Is there a son of generous England here Or fervid Erin ? — Ife with us shall join, To pray that in eternal union dear, The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine ! Types of a race who shall the invader scorn, As rocks resist the billows round their shore ; Types of a race who shall to time unborn Their country leave unconquered as of yore ! A DREAM. Well may sleep present us fictions, Since our waking moments teem With such fanciful convictions As make life itself a dream. Half our daylight faith’s a fable ; Sleep disports with shadows too, Seeming in their turn as stable As the world we wake to view. Ne’er by day did Reason’s mint Give my thoughts a clearer print Of assured reality, Than was left by Phantasy, Stamped and coloured on my sprite, In a dream of yesternight. In a bark, methougkt, lone steering, I was cast on Ocean’s strife ; This, ’twas whispered in my hearing, Meant the sea of life. Sad regrets from past existence Came, like gales of chilling breath ; A DREAM; 97 Shadowed in the forward distance Lay the land of Death. Now seeming more, now less remote, On that dim-seen shore, methought I beheld two hands a space Slow unshroud a spectre’s face ; And my flesh’s hair npstood, — ’Twas min.e own similitude. But my soul revived at seeing Ocean like an emerald spark, Kindle, while an air-dropt being Smiling steered my bark, Heaven-like — yet he looked as human As s,upernal beauty can, More compassionate than woman, # Lordly more than man. And as some sweet clarion’s breath Stirs the soldier’s scorn of death — So his accents bade me brook The spectre’s eyes of icy look, Till it shut them — turned its head, Like a beaten foe, and fled. “ Types not this,” I said, “ fair spirit \ That my death-hour is not come ? Say, what days shall I inherit ? — Tell my soul their sum.” “No,” he said, “yon phantom’s aspect, Trust me, would appal thee worse, Held in clearly measured prospect : — Ask not for a curse ! Make not, for I overhear Thine unspoken thoughts as clear As thy mortal ear could catch The close-brought tickings of a watch — Make not the untold request That’s now revolving in thy breast. “ ’Tis to live again, remeasuring Youth’s years, like a scene rehearsed, In thy second life-time treasuring Knowledge from the first. 98 Campbell’s poems. Hast thou felt, poor self-deceiver ! Life’s career so void of pain, As to wish its fitful fever New begun again? . Could experience, ten times thine, Fain from Being disentwine — Threads by Fate together spun ? Could thy flight Heaven’s lightning shun ? No, nor could thy foresight’s glance ’Scape the myriad shafts of Chance. “ Would’st thou bear again Love’s trouble — Friendship’s death- dissevered ties ; Toil to grasp or miss the bubble Of Ambition’s prize ? Say thy life’s new guided action Flowed from Virtue’s fairest springs— Still would Envy and Detraction Double not their stings ? Worth itself is but a charter To be mankind’s distinguished martyr.” I caught the moral, and cried “ Hail ! Spirit ! let us onward sail, Envying, fearing, hating none — Guardian Spirit, steer me on ! ” VALEDICTORY STANZAS TO J. P. KEMBLE, ESQ., COMPOSED FOR A PUBLIC MEETING, HELD JUNE, 1817. Pride of the British stage, A long and last adieu ! Whose image brought the heroic age Revived to Fancy’s view Like fields refreshed with dewy light When the sun smiles his last. Thy parting presence makes more bright Our memory of the past ; And memory conjures feelings up That wine or music need not swell, As high we lift the festal cup To Kemble-— fare thee well ! VALEDICTORY STANZAS. 99 His was the spell o’er hearts Which only acting lends, — The youngest of the sister Arts, Where all their beauty blends : For ill can Poetry express Full many a tone of thought sublime, And Painting, mute and motionless, Steals but a glance of time. But by the mighty actor brought, Illusion’s perfect triumphs come, — Yerse ceases to be airy thought, And Sculpture to be dumb. Time may again revive, But ne’er eclipse the charm, When Cato spoke in him alive, Or Hotspur kindled warm. What soul was not resigned entire To the deep sorrows of the Moor, — What English heart was not on fire With him at Agincourt ? And yet a Majesty possessed His transport’s most impetuous tone, And to each passion of his breast The Graces gave their zone. High were the task — too high, Ye conscious bosoms here ! In words to paint your memory Of Kemble and of Lear ; But who forgets that white discrowned head, Those bursts of Reason’s half-extinguished glare — Those tears upon Cordelia’s bosom shed, In doubt more touching than despair, If ’twas reality he felt ? Had Shakespeare’s self amidst you been, Friends, he had seen you melt, And triumphed To have seen ! And there was many an hour Of blended kindred fame, W T ken Siddons’ auxiliar power And sister magic came. 100 Campbell's poems. Together at the Muse's side The tragic paragons had grown — They were the children of her pride, The columns of her throne, And undivided favour ran From heart to heart in their applause, Save for the gallantry of man, In l<*velier woman's cause. Fair as some classic dome, Robust and richly graced, Your Kemble’s spirit was the home Of genius and of taste : — Taste like the silent dial's power. That when supernal light is given, Can measure inspiration's hour, And tell its height in Heaven. At once ennobled and correct. His mind surveyed the tragic page, And what the actor could effect, The scholar could presage. These were his traits of worth : — And must we lose them now ! And shall the scene no more show forth* His sternly pleasing brow r ! Alas, the moral brings a tear ! — Tis all a transient hour below ; And we that would detain thee here, Ourselves as fleetly go ! Yet shall our latest age This parting scene review : — Pride of the British stage, A long and last adieu ! TO THE RAINBOW. Triumphal arch, that fill’st the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art — Still seem as to my childhood’s sight, A midway station given TO THE RAINBOW. 101 For happy spirits to alight Betwixt the earth and heaven. Can all that Optics teach, unfold Thy form to please me so, As when I dreamt of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow ? When Science from Creation’s face Enchantment’s veil withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place To cold material laws ! And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, But words of the Mo$t High, Have told why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky ! When o’er the green undeluged earth Heaven’s covenant thou didst shine, How came the world’s grey fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign. And when its yellow lustre smiled O’er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child To bless the bow of God. Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, The first made anthem rang On earth delivered from the deep, And the first poet sang. Nor ever shall the Muse’s eye Unraptured greet thy beam : Theme of primeval prophecy, Be still the poet’s theme ! The earth to thee her incense yields, The lark thy welcome sings, When glittering in the freshened fields The snowy mushroom springs. How glorious is thy girdle cast O’er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirrored in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down ! 102 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. As fresh in yon horizon dark, As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam. For, faithful to its sacred page, JEeaven still rebuilds thy span, Nor lets the type grow pale with age That first spoke peace to man. GLENABA. O heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and waii V ’Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear ; And her sire, and the people, are called to her bier- . Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud ; Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud ; Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around : They marched all in silence, — they looked on the ground. In silence they reached over mountain and moor, To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar ; “ Now here let us place the grey stone of her cairn : Why speak ye no word ! ” — said Glenara the stern. “ And tell me, I charge you ! ye clan of my spouse, Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows ? ” So spake the rude chieftain : — no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding a dagger displayed. u I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,” Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud ; “ And empty that shroud, and that coffin did seem : Glenara ! Glenara ! now read me my dream ! ” 0 ! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I wehn, When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen ; When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn, ,r Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn : “ I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, 1 dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief : On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem ; Glenara ! Glenara ! now read me my dream ! ” HOHENLINDEN. 103 In dnst, low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert revealed where his lady was found ; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne — Isow joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn ! HOHENLINDEK On Linden when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neighed, To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rushed the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flashed the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden’s hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. ? Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Ilun, Shout in their sulph’rous canop3 r . The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave ! Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry ! Few, few, shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre. 104 Campbell’s poems. THE WOUNDED HUSSAR. Alone to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o’er : — “ Oh, whither,” she cried, “ hast thou wandered, my lover? Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore ? M What voice did I hear? ’twas my Henry that sighed ! ” All mournful she hastened, nor wandered she far, When bleeding, and low, on the heath she descried, By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar ! From his bosom that heaved, the last torrent was streaming, And pale was his visage, deep marked with a scar ! And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming, That melted in love, and that kindled in war ! How smit was poor Adelaide’s heart at the sight ! How bitter she wept o’er the victim of war ! “ Hast thou come, my fond Love, this last sorrowful night, To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar ? ” “ Thou shalt live,” she replied, “ Heaven’s mercy relieving Each anguishing wpund, shall forbid me to mourn ! ” “ Ah, no ! the last pang of my bosom is heaving ! No light of the morn shall to Henry return ! “ Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true ! Ye babes of my love, that await me afar ! ” His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu, When he sunk in her arms — the poor wounded Hussar ! THE SPECTRE BOAT. A BALLAD. Light rued false Ferdinand to leave a lovely maid forlorn, Who broke her heart and died to hide her blushing cheek from scorn. One night he dreamt he wooed her in their wonted bower of love, Where the flowers sprang thick around them, and the birds sang sweet above. But the scene was swiftly changed into a churchyard’s dismal view, And her lips grew black beneath his kiss, from love’s delicious hue. THE LAST MAtf. 105 j What more he dreamt he told to none ; but, shuddering, pale, and dumb, Looked out upon the waves, like one that knew his hour was come. ’Twas now the dead watch of the night — the helm was lashed a-lee, And the ship rode where Mount iEtna lights the deep Levan- tine sea ; TYhen beneath its glare a boat came, rowed by a woman in her shroud, Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold, stood up and spoke aloud : — 11 Come, Traitor, down, for whom my ghost still wanders un- forgiven ! Come down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke my peace with Heaven ! ” — It was vain to hold the victim, for he plunged to meet her call, Like the bird that shrieks and flutters in the gazing serpent’s thrall. You may guess the boldest mariner shrunk daunted from the sight, For the spectre and her winding- sheet shone blue with hideous . light ; Like a fiery wheel the boat spun with the waving of her hand, And round they went, and down they went, as the cock crew from the land. THE LAST MAH. All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The Sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality ! 1 saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulph of Time ! I saw the last of human mould, That shall Creation’s death behold, As Adam saw her prime ! The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, The Earth "with age was wan, 106 Campbell’s poems. The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man ! Some had expired in fight, — the brands Still rested in their bony hands ; In plague andrfamine some ! Earth’s cities had no sound nor tread ; And ships were drifting with the dead To shores where all was dumb ! Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere leaves from the wood As if a storm passed by, Saying, “We are twins in death, proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run, ’Tis mercy bids thee go. For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears, That shall no longer flow. “ What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill ; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, The vassals of his will ; — Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, Thou dim discrowned king of day : For all those tropliied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Healed not a passion or a pang Entailed on human hearts. “ Go, let oblivion’s curtain fall ^ Upon the stage of men, Nor with thy rising beams recall Life’s tragedy again. Its piteous pageants bring not back, Nor waken flesh upon the rack Of pain anew to writhe ; Stretched in disease’s shapes abhorreU, Or mown in battle by the sword, Like grass beneath the scythe. u E’en I am weary in yon skies To watch thy fading fire ; THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS. 107 Test of all sumless agonies, Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of death — Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,— . The majesty of Darkness shall Receive my parting ghost ! 41 This spirit shall return to Him That gave its heavenly spark ; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself art dark ! No ! it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine, By Him recalled to breath, Who captive led captivity, Who robbed the grave of Victory, — And took the sting from Death ! “ Go, San, while Mercy holds me up On Nature’s awful waste To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste — Go, tell the night that hides thy face, Thou saw’st the last of Adam’s race, On Earth’s sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy To quench his Immortality, Or shake his trust in God ! ” THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS ON HER BIRTH -DAY. If any white-winged power above My joys and griefs survey, The day when thou wert born, my love — He surely blessed that day. I laughed (till taught by thee) when told Of Beauty’s magic powers, That ripened life’s dull ore to gold, And changed its weeds to flowers. 108 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. My mind had lovely shapes portrayed ; But thought 1 earth had one Could make e’en Fancy’s visions fade Like stars before the sun ? I gazed, and felt upon my lips The unfinished accents hang : One moment’s bliss, one burning kiss, To rapture changed each pang. And though as swift as lightning’s flash Those tranced moments flew, Not all the waves of time shall wash Their memory from my view. But duly shall my raptured song, And gladly shall my eyes Still bless this day’s return, as long As thou shalt see it rise. LINES INSCRIBED ON THE MONUMENT LATELY FINISHED BY MR CHANTREY, WHICH HAS BEEN ERECTED BY THE WIDOW OF ADMIRAL SIR G. CAMPBELL, K.C.B., TO THE MEMORY OF HER HUSBAND. To him, whose loyal, brave, and gentle heart, Fulfilled the hero’s and the patriot’s part, — Whose charity, like that which Paul enjoined, Was warm, beneficent, and unconfined, — This stone is reared : to public duty true, The seaman’s friend, theTather of his crew — Mild in reproof, sagacious in command, He spread fraternal zeal throughout his band, And led each arm to act, each heart to feel, What British valour owes to Britain’s weal. These were his public virtues : — but to trace His private life’s fair purity and grace, To paint the traits that drew affection strong From friends, an ample and an ardent throng, And, more, to speak his memory’s grateful claim On her who mourns him most, and bears his name — O’ercomes the trembling hand of widowed grief, O’ercomes the heart, unconscious of relief Save in religion’s high and holy trust, Whilst placing their memorial o’er his dust. THE TURKISH LADY. 109 THE TURKISH LADY. ’TwaS the hour when rites unholy, Called each Raynim voice to prayer, And the star that faded slowly Left to dews the freshened air. Day her sultry fires had wasted, Calm and sweet the moonlight rose ; E’en a captive spirit tasted Half oblivion of his woes. Then ’twas from an Emir’s palace Came an Eastern lady bright : She, in spite of tyrants jealous, Saw and loved an English knight. 4 4 Tell me, captive, why in anguish Foes have dragged thee here to dwell, Where poor Christians as they languish Hear no sound of Sabbath bell?” 44 ’Twas on Transylvania’s Bannat, When the Crescent shone afar, Like a pale disastrous planet O’er the purple tide of war— 44 In that day of desolation, Lady, I was captive made ; Bleeding for my Christian nation By the wails of high Belgrade.” 44 Captive ! could the brightest jewel From my turban set thee free? ” 44 Lady, no ! — the gift were cruel, Ransomed, yet if reft of thee. 44 Say, fair princess ! would it grieve thee Christian climes should we behold ? ” 44 Nay, bold knight ! I would not leave thee Were thy ransom paid in gold ! ” Now in heaven’s blue expansion Rose the midnight star to view, When to quit her father’s mansion Thrice she wept, and bade adieu ! 110 Campbell’s poems. “ Fly we then, while none discover ! Tyrant barks, in vain ye ride ! ” Soon at Khodes the British lover Clasped his blooming Eastern bride. LINES SPOKEN BY MR * * *, AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE, ON THE FIRST OPENING OF THE HOUSE AFTER THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE, 1817. Britons ! although our task is but to show The scenes and passions of fictitious woe, Think not we come this night without a part In that deep sorrow of the public heart, Which like a shade hath darkened every place, And moistened with a tear the manliest face ! The bell is scarcely hushed in Windsor’s piles, That tolled a requiem from the solemn aisles, For her, the royal flower, low laid in dust, That was your fairest hope, your fondest trust. Unconscious of the doom, we dreamt, alas ! That e’en these walls, ere many months should pass, Which but return sad accents for her now, Perhaps had witnessed her benignant brow, Cheered by the voice you would have raised on high, In bursts of British love and loyalty. But, Britain ! now thy chief, thy people mourn, And Claremont’s home of love is left forlorn : — There, where the happiest of the happy dwelt, The ’scutcheon glooms, and royalty hath felt A wound that every bosom feels its own, — The blessing of a father’s heart o’er thrown — The most beloved and most devoted bride Torn from an agonized husband’s side, Who “long as Memory holds her seat ” shall view That speechless, more than spoken last adieu, When the fixed eye long looked connubial faith, And beamed affection in the trance of death. Sad was the pomp that yesternight beheld, As with the mourner’s heart the anthem swelled ; While torch succeeding torch illumed each high Aud bannered arch of England’s chivalry.. THE BRAVE ROLAND, 111 The rich plumed canopy, the gorgeous pall, The sacred march, and sable-vested wall, — These were not rites of inexpressive show, But hallowed as the types of real woe ! Daughter of England! for a nation’s sighs A nation’s heart went with thine obsequies ! — And oft shall time revert a look of grief On thine existence, beautiful and brief. Fair spirits ! send thy blessing from above On realms where thou art canonised by love ! Give to a father’s, husband’s bleeding mind, The peace that angels lend to human kind ; To us who in thy loved remembrance feel A sorrowing, but a soul -ennobling zeal — A loyalty that touches all the best And loftiest principles of England’s breast ! Still may thy name speak concord from the tomb— Still in the Muse’s breath thy memory bloom ! They shall describe thy life — thy form portray ; But all the love that mourns thee swept away, ’Tis not in language or expressive arts To paint — yet feel it, Britons, in your hearts ! The brave Boland !— the brave Roland ! — False tidings reached the Rhenish strand That he had fallen in fight ; And thy faithful bosom swooned with pain, O loveliest maiden of Allemayne ! For the loss of thine own true knight. But why so rash has she ta’en the veil, In yon Nonnenwerder’s cloisters pale ? For her vow had scarce been sworn, And the fatal mantle o’er her flung, When the Drachenfells to a trumpet rung — ’Twas her own dear warrior’s horn ! Woe ! woe ! each heart shall bleed — shall break! She would have hung upon his neck, Had he come but y ester- even ; And he had clasped those peerless charms That shall never, never fill his arms, Or meet him but in heaven, THE BRA YE ROLAND, 112 Campbell’s poems. Yet Roland the brave — Roland the true — • He could not bid that spot adieu ; It was dear still ’midst his woes ; For he loved to breathe the neighbouring air, And to think she- blessed him in her prayer, When the Hallelujah rose. There’s yet one window of that pile, Which he built above the Nun’s green isle ; Thence sad and oft looked he (When the chant and organ sounded slow) On the mansion of his love below, For herself he might not see. She died ! — He sought the battle plain ; Her image filled his dying brain, When he fell and wished to fall : And her name was in his latest sigh, Wlien Roland, the flower of chivalry, Expired at RoncevalL LINES ON THE GRAVE OP A SUICIDE. By strangers left upon a lonely shore, Unknown, unhonoured, was the friendless dead, For child to weep, or widow to deplore, There never came to his unburied head : — All from his dreary habitation fled. Nor will the lanterned fisherman at eve Launch on that water by the witches’ tower, Where hellebore and hemlock seem to weave Round its dark vaults a melancholy bower, For spirits of the dead at night’s enchanted hour. They dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate ! Whose crime it was, on life’s unfinished road To feel the stepdame buffetings of fate, And render back thy being’s heavy load. Ah ! once, perhaps, the social passions glowed In thy devoted bosom— and the hand That smote its kindred heart, might yet be prone To deeds of mercy. Who may understand Thy many woes, poor suicide, unknown ? — He who thy being g^ve shall judge of thee alone. LINES ON RECEIVING A SEAL. 113 LINES ON RECEIVING A SEAL WITH THE CAMPBELL CREST, FROM K. M— , BEFORE HER MARRIAGE. This wax returns not back more fair The impression of the gift you send, Than stamped upon my thoughts I bear The image of your worth, my friend ! We are not friends of yesterday ; But poets’ fancies are a little Disposed to heat and cool (they say), — By turns impressible and brittle. Well ! should its frailty e’er condemn My heart to prize or please you less, Your type is still the sealing gem, And mine the waxen brittleness. What transcripts of my weal and woe This little signet yet may lock, — What utterances to friend or foe, In reason’s calm or passion’s shock ! What scenes of life’s yet curtained page May own its confidential die, Whose stamp awaits the unwritten page, And feelings of futurity ! Yet wheresoe’er my pen I lift To date the epistolary sheet, The blest occasion of the gift Shall make it® recollection sweet ; Sent when the star that rules your fates Hath reached its influence most benign — When every heart congratulates, And none more cordially than mine. So speed my song — marked with the crest That erst the adventurous Norman wore, Who won the Lady of the West, The daughter of Macaillain Mor. Crest of my sires ! whose blood it sealed With glory in the strife of swords, 114 Campbell’s poems. Ne’er may the scroll that bears it yield Degenerate thoughts or faithless words ! Yet little might I prize the stone, If it but typed the feudal tree From whence a scattered leaf, I’m blown In Fortune’s mutability. No ! — but it tells me of a "heart, Allied by friendship’s living tie ; A prize beyond the herald’s art — Our soul-sprung consanguinity ! Katherine ! to many an hour of mine Light wings and sunshine you have lent ; And so adieu, and still be thine The all-in-all of life — Content ! LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER. A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound. Cries, “ Boatman, do not tarry ! And I’ll give thee a silver pound, To row us o’er the ferry.” “Now who be ye%ould cross Lochgyle, This dark and stolmy water? ” “ O, I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle, And this Lord Ullin’s daughter. “ And fast before her father’s men Three days we’ve fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather. “ His horsemen hard behind us ride ; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover ? ” Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, “ I’ll go, my chief — I’m ready ; It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady ; LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER. 1 15 j 44 And by my word ! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry ; So though the waves are raging white, I’ll row you o’er the ferry.” By this the storm grew loud apace, The water- wraith was shrieking ; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking. But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men, Their trampling sounded nearer. 44 O haste thee, haste ! ” the lady cries, 44 Though tempests round us gather ; I’ll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father.” The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her, — When, oh ! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o’er her. And still they rowed -1 amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing : Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore. His wrath was changed to wailing. For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, His child he did discover : One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover. 44 Come back ! come back ! ” he cried in grief, 44 Across this stormy water : And I’ll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter !— oh my daughter ! ” Twas vain : the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing : The waters wild went o'er his child— And he was left lamenting. Campbell’s poems. 116 THE SOLDIER’S DREAM. Our bugles sang truce — for the night-cloud had lowered, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; ! And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf- scaring faggot that guarded the slain ; At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field’s dreadful array, Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track : ’Twas Autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life’s morning march, when my bosom* was young ; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine- cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o’er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. Stay, stay with us, — rest, thou art weary and worn ; And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; — But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. EXILE OF ERIK There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill : For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye’s sad devotion, For it rose o’er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once in the fire of his youthful- emotion, He sang the bold anthem of u Erin go bragh ! ” EXILE OF ERIN. 117 “Sadis my fate ! ” said the heart-broken stranger ; 44 The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of 4 Erin go bragh ! ’ “Erin, my country ! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! Oh cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace — where no perils can chase me ? Never again shall my brothers embrace me ? They die to defend me, or live to deplore ! “ Where is my cabin- door, fast by the wild -wood ? Sisters and sire ! did ye weep for its fall ? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood? And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ? Oh ! my sad heart ! long abandoned by pleasure, Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure ! Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. “Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw : Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing ! Land of my forefathers ! 4 Erin go bragh ! ’ Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, — sweetest isle of the ocean ! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, — Erin mavournin — 4 Erin go bragh ! ’ ” SONG. Drink ye to her that each loves best, And if you nurse a flame That’s told but to her mutual breast, We will not ask her name. 118 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. Enough, while memory tranced and glad Paints silently the fair, That each should dream of joys he’s had, Or yet may hope to share. Yet far, far hence be jest or boast From hallowed thoughts so dear ; But drink to them that we love most, As they would love to hear. SONG. # Oh, how hard it is to find The one just suited to our mind ; And if that one should be False, unkind, or found too late, What can we do but sigh at fate, And sing, V/oe’s me — Woe’s me! Love’s a boundless burning waste, Where Bliss’s stream we seldom taste, And still more seldom flee Suspense’s thorns, Suspicion’s stings ; Yet somehow Love a something brings That’s sweet — e’en when we sigh, “ Woe’s me ! ” ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. Soul of the Poet ! wheresoe’er, Reclaimed from earth, thy genius plume Her wings of immortality : Suspend thy harp in happier sphere, And with thine influence illume The gladness of our jubilee. And fly like fiends from secret spell, Discord and strife, at Burns’s name, Exorcised by his memory ; For he was chief of bards that swell r AN ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 119 The heart with songs of social flame. And high delicious revelry. And Love’s own strain to him was given, To warble all its ecstasies With Pythian words unsought, unwilled — Love, the surviving gift of Heaven, The choicest sweet of Paradise, In life’s else bitter cup distilled. Who that has melted o’er his lay To Mary’s soul, in Heaven above, But pictured sees, in fancy strong, The landscape and the livelong day That smiled upon their mutual love ? — Who that has felt forgets the song ? Nor skilled one flame alone to fan : His country’s high-souled peasantry What patriot-pride he taught ! — how much To weigh the inborn worth of man ! And rustic life and poverty Grow beautiful beneath his touch. Him, in his clay-built cot, the muse Entranced, and showed him all the forms Of fairy-light and wizard gloom (That only gifted Poet views), The Genii of the floods and storms, And martial shades from Glory’s tomb. On Bannock-field what thoughts arouse The swain whom Burns’s song inspires ? Beat not his Caledonian veins, As o’er the heroic turf he ploughs, With all the spirit of his sires, And all their scorn of death and chains ? And see the Scottish exile tanned- By many a far and foreign clime, Bend o’er his home-born verse, and weep In memory of his native land, With love that scorns the lapse of time, And ties that stretch beyond the deep. Encamped by Indian rivers wild, The soldier resting on his arms, 120 Campbell’s poems. In Burns’s carol sweet recalls The scenes that blessed him when a child, And glows and gladdens at the charms Of Scotia’s woods and waterfalls. O deem not, ’midst this worldly strife, An idle art the Poet brings : Let high Philosophy control And sages calm the stream of life, ’Tis he refines its fountain-springs, The nobler passions of the soul. It is the muse that consecrates The native banner of the brave, Unfurling at the trumpet’s breath, Pose, thistle, harp ; ’tis she elates To sweep the field or ride the wave, A sunburst in the storm of death. And thou, young hero, when thy pall Is crossed with mournful sword and plume, When public grief begins to fade, And only tears of kindred fall, Who but the Bard shall dress thy tomb, And greet with fame thy gallant shade ? Such was the soldier — Burns, forgive That sorrows of mine own intrude In strains to thy great memory due. In verse like thine, oh ! could he live, The friend I mourned — the brave, the good — Edward that died at Waterloo ! Farewell, high chief of Scottish song ! That couldst alternately impart Wisdom and rapture in thy page, And brand each vice with satire strong, Whose lines are mottoes of the heart, Whose truths electrify the sage. Farewell ! and ne’er may Envy dare To wring one baleful poison drop From the crushed laurels of thy bust : But while the lark sings sweet in air, Still may the grateful pilgrim stop, To bless the spot that holds thy dust. THE BEECH-TREE’S PETITION. 121 j SONG-. When Napoleon was flying From the field of Waterloo, A British soldier dying To his brother bade adieu ! u And take,” he Said, ^this token To the maid that owns my faith, With the words that I have spoken In affection’s latest breath.” Sore mourned the brother’s heart, When the youth beside him fell : But the trumpet warned to part, And they took a sad farewell. There was many a friend to lose him, For that gallant soldier sighed ; But the maiden of his bosom Wept when all their tears were dried. THE BEECH-TREE’S PETITION. . O leave this barren spot to me ! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree ! Though bush or floweret never grow My dark unwarming shade below ; Nor summer bird perfume the dew Of rosy blush, or yellow hue ; Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, My green and glossy leaves adorn ; Nor murmuring tribes from me derive The ambrosial amber of the hive ; Yet leave this barren spot to me : Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree ! Thrice twenty summers I have seen The sky grow bright, the forest green ; And many a wintry wind have stood In bloomless, fruitless solitude, Since childhood in my pleasant bower First spent its sweet and sportive hour. 122 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. Since youthful lovers in my shade Their vows of truth and rapture made ; And on my trunk’s surviving frame Carved many a long, forgotten name. Oh ! by the sighs of gentle sound, First breathed upon this sacred ground ; By all that love has whispered here, Or beauty heard with ravished ear ; As Love’s own altar honour me : Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree ! Earl March looked on his dying child, And smit with grief to view her — “ The youth,” he cried, “ whom I exiled, Shall be restored to woo her.” She’s at the window many an Lour His coming to discover ; And her love looked up to Ellen’s bower, And she looked on her lover — But ah ! so pale, he knew her not, Though her smile on him was dwelling. “ And am I then forgot — forgot? ” — It broke the heart of Ellen. In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, Her cheek is cold as ashes ; Nor love’s own kiss shall wake those eyes To lift their silken lashes. LOYE AND MADNESS. Hark ! from the battlements of yonder tower The solemn bell has tolled the midnight hour 1 Roused from drear visions of distempered sleep, Poor Broderick wakes — in solitude to weep ! SONG. AN ELEGY. — WRITTEN IN 1795 . LOVE AND MADNESS. 123 44 Cease, Memory, cease,” the friendless mourner cried, 44 To probe the bosom too severely tried ! Oh ! ever cease, my pensive thoughts, to stray Through the bright fields of Fortune’s better day When "youthful Hope, the music of the mind, Tuned ail its charms, and Errington was kind ! 44 Yet, can I cease, while glows this trembling frame, In sighs to speak thy melancholy name ? I hear thy spirit wail in every storm ! In midnight shades I view thy passing form ! Pale as in that sad hour when doomed to feel, Deep in thy perjured heart, the bloody steel ! 44 Demons of Vengeance ! ye at whose command I grasped the sword with more than woman’s hand, Say ye, did Pity’s trembling voice control, Or horror damp the purpose of my soul ? N o ! my wild heart sat smiling o’er the plan, Till Hate fulfilled what baffled Love began ! 4 4 Yes ; let the clay-cola breast that never knew One tender pang to generous Nature true, Half -mingling pity with the gall of scorn, Condemn this heart, that bled in love forlorn ! 44 And ye, proud fair, whose soul no gladness warms, Save Rapture’s homage to your conscious charms ! Delighted idols of a gaudy train, 111 can your blunter feelings guess the pain, When the fond, faithful heart, inspired to prove Friendship refined, the calm delight of love, Feels all its tender strings with anguish torn, " And bleeds at perjured Pride’s inhuman scorn ! 4 4 Say, then, did pitying Heaven condemn the deed, When Vengeance bade thee, faithless lover ! bleed? Long had I watched thy dark, foreboding brow, What time thy bosom scorned its dearest vow ! Sad, though I wept the friend, the lover changed, Still thy cold look was scornful and estranged, Till from thy pity, love, and shelter thrown, I wandered hopeless, friendless, and alone ! 44 Oh ! righteous Heaven ! ’twas then my tortured soul First gave to wrath unlimited control ! 124 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. Adieu the silent look ! the streaming eye ! The murmured plaint ! the deep heart-heaving sigh ! Long-slumbering Vengeance wakes to better deeds; He shrieks, he falls, the perjured lover bleeds ! How the last laugh of agony is o’er, And pale in blood he sleeps, to wake no more ! “ ’Tis done ! the flame of hate no longer burns : Nature relents, but, ah ! too late returns ! Why does my soul this gush of fondness feel ? Trembling and faint, I drop the guilty steel ! Cold on my heart the hand of terror lies, And shades of horror close my languid eyes ! “ Oh ! ’twas a deed of Murder’s deepest grain ! Could Broderick’s soul so true to wrath remain ? A friend long true, a once fond lover fell ! — Where love was fostered could not Pity dwell ? “ Unhappy youth ! while yon pale crescent glows To watch on silent nature’s deep repose, Thy sleepless spirit, breathing from the tomb, Foretells my fate, and summons me to come ! Once more I see thy sheeted spectre stand, Roll the dim eye, and wave'the paly hand ! “ Soon may this fluttering spark of vital flame Forsake its languid melancholy frame ! Soon may these eyes their trembling lustre close, v Welcome the dreamless night of long repose ! Soon may this woe-worn spirit seek the bourne Where, lulled to slumber. Grief forgets to mourn ! ’•* SPANISH PATRIOT’S SONG. How rings each sparkling Spanish brand, There’s music in its rattle ; And gay as for a saraband, We gird us for the battle. Follow, follow ! To the glorious revelry, When the sabres bristle, And the death- shots whistle. ON VISITING A 'SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE. 125 Of rights for which our swords o.utspring, Shall Angouleme bereave us ? We’vo plucked a bird of nobler wing — The eagle could not brave us. Follow, follow ! Shake the Spanish blade, and sing : France shall ne’er enslave us : Tyrants shall not brave us. Shall yonder rag, the Bourbon’s flag, White emblem of his liver, For Spain the proud be Freedom’s shroud ? Oh, never, never, never. Follow, follow ! Follow to the fight, and sing — Liberty for ever : Ever, ever, ever. Thrice welcome hero of the hilt, We laugh to see his standard ; Here let his miscreant blood be spilt Where braver men’s was squandered. Follow, follow ! If the laureled tricolor Durst not over- flaunt us, Shall yon lily daunt us ? Ho ! ere they quell our valour’s veins, They’ll upward to their fountains Turn back the rivers on our plains, And trample flat our mountains. Follow, follow ! Shake the Spanish blade, and sing— France shall ne’er enslave us : Tyrants shall not brave us. LINES WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE. At the silence of twilight’s contemplative hour, I have mused in a sorrowful mood, On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower, Where the home of my forefathers stood. 126 Campbell’s poems. All ruined and wild is their roofless abode, And lonely the dark raven’s sheltering tree : And travelled by few is the grass- covered road, Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode To his hills that encircle the sea. Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk, By the dial-stone ag£d and green, One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk, To mark where a garden had been. Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race, All wild in the silence of nature, it drew, From each wandering sun-beam, a lonely embrace, For the night-weed and thorn overshadowed the place, Where the flower of my forefathers grew. Sweet bud of the wilderness ! emblem of all That remains in this desolate heart ! The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall, But patience shall never depart ! Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright, In the days of delusion by fancy combined With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight, Abandon my soul, like a dr§am of the night, And leave but a desert behind. Be hushed, my dark spirit ! for wisdom condemns , When the faint and the feeble deplore ; Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems A thousand wild waves on the shore ! Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain, May thy front be unaltered, thy courage elate ! Yea ! even the name I have worshipped in vain Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again : To bear is to conquer our fate. THE HARPER, On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I ; No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray, STANZAS. 127 When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart), “ Oh ! remember your Sheelah when far, far away; And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.’* Poor dog ! he was faithful and kind, to be sure, And he constantly loved me, although I was poor ; When the sour~looking folks sent me heartless away, I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray. When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold, And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray, And he licked me for kindness — my poor dog Tray. Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case, Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face ; But he died at my feet on a cold winter day, And I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray. Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind ? Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind ? To my sweet native village, so far, far away, I can never more return with my poor dog Trav. STANZAS ON THE THREATENED INVASION, 1803. Our bosoms well bare for the glorious strife, And our oath is recorded on high, To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life, Or crushed in its ruins to die ! Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land ! ’Tis the home we hold sacred is laid to our trust — God bless the green Isle of the brave ! Should a conqueror tread on our forefathers’ dust, It would rouse the old dead from their grave ! Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land ! i 128 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. In a Briton’s sweet home shall a spoiler abide, Profaning its loves and its charms? Shall a Frenchman insult the loved fair at our side ? To arms ! oh, my Country, to arms ! Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land ! Shall a tyrant enslave us, my countrymen ! — No ! His head to the sword shall he given — A death-bed repentance be taught the proud foe, And his blood be an offering to Heaven ! Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land. SONG. “ MEN OF ENGLAND.” Men of England ! who inherit Eights that cost your sires their blood ! Men whose undegenerate spirit Has been proved on land and flood : — By the foes ye’ve fought uncounted, By the glorious deeds you’ve done, Trophies captured — breaches mounted, Navies conquered — kingdoms won ! Yet, remember, England gathers Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, If the patriotism of your fathers Glow not in your hearts the same. IVhat are monuments of bravery, Where no public virtues bloom ? What avail in lands of slavery, Trophied temples, arch, and tomb ? Pageants ! — Let the world revere us For our people’s rights and laws, And the breasts of civic heroes Bared in Freedom’s holy cause. TO THE EYEING STAR. 129 | Yours are Hampden’s, Russell’s glory, Sydney’s matchless shade is yours,— Martyrs in heroic story, W orth a hundred Agincourts ! We’re the sonsjof sires that baffled Crowned and mitred tyranny : — They defied the field and scaffold For their birthrights— -so will we ! SONG. TO THE EVENING STAR. Star that bringest home the bee, And sett’st the weary labourer free ! If any star shed peace, ’tis thou, That send’st it from above, Appearing when Heaven’s breath and brow Are sweet as hers we love. Come to the luxuriant skies, Whilst the landscape’s odours rise, Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard, And songs, when toil is done, From cottages whose smoke unstirred Curls yellow in the sun. Star of love’s soft interviews, Parted lovers on thee muse ; Their remembrancer in Heaven Of thrilling vows thou art, Too delicious to bs riven By absence from the heart. GILDEROY. The last, the fatal hour is come, That bears my love from me : 1 hear the dead note of the drum, I mark the gallows’ tree 1 130 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. The bell has tolled : it shakes my heart 5 The trumpet speaks thy name ; And must my Gilderoy depart To bear a death of shame ? No bosom trembles for thy doom ; No mourner wipes a tear ; The gallows’ foot is all thy tomb, The sledge is all thy bier. Oh, Gilderoy ! bethought we then So soon, so sad to part, When first in Roslin’s lovely glen You triumphed o’er my heart? Your locks they glittered to the sheen, Your hunter garb was trim ; And graceful was the ribbon green That bound your manly limb ! Ah ! little thought I to deplore Those limbs in fetters bound ; Or hear, upon the scaffold floor, The midnight hammer sound. Ye cruel, cruel, that combined The guiltless to pursue ; My Gilderoy was ever kind, He could not injure you ! A long adieu ! but where shall fly Thy widow all forlorn, When every mean and cruel eye Regards my woe with scorn ? Yes ! they will mock thy widow's tears, And hate thine orphan boy ; Alas ! his infant beauty wears The form of Gilderoy. Then will I seek the dreary mound That wraps thy mouldering clay, And weep and linger on the ground, And sigh my heart away. ADELGITHA. 131 ADELGITHA. The ordeal’s fatal trumpet sounded, And sad pale Adelgitha came, When forth a valiant champion bounded, And slew the slanderer of her fame. She wept, delivered from her danger ; But when he knelt to claim her glove — “ Seek not,” she cried, “ oh ! gallant stranger, For hapless Adelgitha’s love. 11 For he is in a foreign far land Whose arm should now have set me free ; And I must wear the willow garland For him that’s dead, or false to me.” 1 4 Nay ! say not that his faith is tainted ! ” He raised his vizor — At the sight She fell into his arms and fainted ; It wa3 indeed her own true knight ! ABSENCE. ’Tis not the loss of love’s assurance, It is not doubting what thou art, But ’tis the too, too long endurance Of absence, that afflicts my heart. The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish, When each is lonely doomed to weep, Are fruits on desert isles that perish, Or riches buried in the deep. What though, untouched by jealous madness, Our bosom’s peace may fall to wreck ; The undoubting heart, that breaks with sadness, Is but more slowly doomed to break. Absence ! is not the soul torn by it From more than light, or life, or breath ? ’Tis Lethe’s gloom, but not its quiet, — The pain without the peace of death ! 1§2 campbEll’s poems. THE BITTER BANK The Ritter Bann from Hungary Came back renowned in arms, But scorning jousts of chivalry And love and ladies’ charms. / While other knights held revels, he Was wrapt in thoughts of gloom, And in Vienna’s hostelrie Slow paced his lonely room. There entered one whose face he knew, — Whose voice, he was aware, He oft at mass had listened to, In the holy house of prayer. ’Twas the Abbot of St James’s monks, A fresh and fair old man : His reverend air arrested even The gloomy Ritter Bann. But seeing with him an ancient dame Come clad in Scotch attire, The Ritter’s colour went and came, And loud he spoke in ire : “ Ha ! nurse of her that was my bane, Name not her name to me ; I wish it blotted from my brain : Art poor ? — take alms, and flee.” “ Sir Knight,” the Abbot interposed, “ This case your ear demands ; ” And the crone cried, with a cross enclosed In both her trembling hands : — “Remember, each his sentence waits ; And he that shall rebut Sweet Mercy’s suit, on him the gates Of Mercy shall be shut. “You wedded, undispensed by Church, Your cousin Jane in Spring ; In Autumn, when you went to search For churchmen’s pardoning, THE RITTER BANit. 183 “Her house denounced your marriage-band, Betrothed her to De Grey, And the ring you put upon her hand Was wrenched by force away. “ Then wept your Jane upon my neck, Crying, ‘ Help me, nurse, to flee To my Howel Bann’s Glamorgan Hills ; ’ But word arrived — ah me ! — “You were not there ; and ’twas their threat, By foul means or by fair, To-morrow morning was to set The seal on her despair. “ I had a son, a sea-boy, in A ship at Hartland Bay ; By his aid from her cruel kin I bore my bird away. “ To Scotland from the Devon’s Green myrtle shores we fled ; And the Hand that sent the ravens To Elijah, gave us bread. “ She wrote you by my son, but he From England sent us word You had gone into some far countrie, In grief and gloom he heard. “ For they that wronged you, to elude Your wrath, defamed my child ; And you — aye, blush, Sir, as you should— Believed, and were beguiled. “ To die but at your feet, she vowed To roam the world ; and we Would both have sped and begged our bread, But so it might not be. “ For when the snow-storm beat our roof, She bore a boy, Sir Bann, Who grew as fair your likeness proof As child e’er grew like man. 184 CAMPBELLS POEMS. 44 ’Twas smiling on that babe one morn While heath bloomed on the moor, Pier beauty struck young Lord Kinghorn As he hunted past our door. \ 44 She shunned him, but he raved of Jane, And roused his mother’s pride ; Who came to us in high disdain, — 4 And where’s the face,’ she cried, “ ‘ Has witched my boy to wish for one So wretched for his wife? — Dost love thy husband ? Know, my son Has sworn to seek his life.’ 44 Her anger sore dismayed us, For~our mite was wearing scant, And unless that dame would aid us, There was none to aid our want. 44 So I told her, weeping bitterly, What all our woes had been ; And though she was a stern ladie, The tears stood in her een. 44 xlnd she housed us both, when, cheerfully, My child to her had sworn, That even if made a widow, she Would never wed Kinghorn.”. Here paused the nurse, and then began The Abbot, standing by : — 44 Three months ago a wounded man To our abbey came to die. 44 He heard me long, with ghastly eyes And hand obdurate clenched, Speak of the worm that never dies, And the fire that is not quenched. 44 At last by what this scroll attests He left atonement brief, For years of anguish to the breasts His guilt had w T rung with grief. THE RITTER BANN. u 4 There lived/ he said, 4 a fair young dame Beneath my mother’s roof ; I loved her, but against my flame Her purity was proof. 44 4 I feigned repentance, friendship pure ; That mood she did not check, But let her husband’s miniature Be copied from her neck. 44 4 As means to search him, my deceit Took care to him was borne Hought but his picture’s counterfeit, And Jane’s reported scorn. 44 ■ The treachery took : she waited wild ; My slave came back and lied "VVhate’er I wished ; she clasped her child, And swooned, and all but died. 44 • I felt her tears for years and yeara Quench not my flame, but stir ; The very hate I bore her mate Increased my love for her. 44 4 Fame told us of his glory, while Joy flushed the face of Jane ; And while she blessed his name, her smile Struck fire into my brain. 4 No fears could damp ; I reached the camp, Sought out its champion ; And if my broad-sword failed at last, 5 Twas long and well laid on. 44 4 This wound’s my meed, my name’s Kinghorn, My foe’s the Ritter Bann.’ The wafer to his lips was borne, And we shrived the dying man. “ He died not till you went to fight The Turks at Warradein ; But I see my tale has changed you pale.’’— The Abbot went for wine ; 136 Campbell’s poems. And brought a little page who poured It out, and knelt and smiled : — The stunned knight saw himself restored To childhood in his child ; And stooped and caught him to his breast, Laughed loud and wept anon, And with a shower of kisses pressed The darling little one. “And where went Jane?” — “ To a nunnery, Sir — Look not again so pale — Kinghorn’s old dame grew harsh to her.” — “ And has she ta’en the veil ?” — “ Sit down, Sir,” said the priest, “ I bar Lash words.” — They sat all three, And the boy played with the knight’s broad star, As he kept him on his knee: “ Think ere you ask her d welling- place,” The Abbot further said ; “ Time draws a veil o’er beauty’s face More deep than cloister’s shade. 4 4 Grief may have made her what you can Scarce love perhaps for life.” 44 Hush, Abbot,” cried the Litter Bann, 44 Or tell me where’s my wife.” The priest undid two doors that hid The inn’s adjacent room, And there a lovely woman stood, Tears bathed her beauty’s bloom. One moment may with bliss repay Unnumbered hours of pain : Such was the throb and mutual sob Of the Knight embracing Jane. LINES ON THE DEPARTURE OF EMIGRANTS. 187 THE MAID’S REMONSTRANCE. Never wedding, ever wooing, Still a love-lorn heart pursuing, Read you not the wrong you’re doing In my cheek’s pale hue ? All my life with sorrow strewing : Wed or cease to woo. Rivals banished, bosoms plighted, Still our days are disunited ; Now the lamp of hope is lighted, Now half quenched appears, Damped, and wavering, and benighted, ’Midst my sighs and tears. Charms you call your dearest blessing, Lips that thrill at your caressing, Eyes a mutual soul confessing, Soon you’ll make them grow Dim, and worthless your possessing, Net with age, but woe 1 LINES ON THE DEPARTURE OF EMIGRANTS FOR NEW SOUTH WALES. On England’s shore I saw a pensive band, With sails unfurled for earth’s remotest strand, Like children parting from a mother, shed Tears for the home that could not yield them bread • Grief marked each face receding from the view, ’Twas grief to nature honourably true. And long, poor wanderers o’er the ecliptic deep, The song that names but home shall bid you weep ; Oft shall you fold your flocks by stars above In that far world, and miss the stars ye love ; Oft, when its tuneless birds scream round forlorn, Regret the lark that gladdens England’s morn, And, giving England’s names to distant scenes, Lament that earth’s extension intervenes. 138 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. But cloud not yet too long, industrious train, Your solid good with sorrow nursed in vain : For has the heart no interest yet as bland As that which binds us to our native land ? The deep-drawn wish, when children crown our hearth, To hear the cherub -chorus of their mirth, Undamped by dread that want may e’er unhouse, Or servile misery knit those smiling brows : The pride to rear an independent shed, And give the lips we love unborrowed bread ; To see a world, from shadowy forests won, In youthful beauty wedded to the sun ; To skirt our home with harvests widely sown, And call the blooming landscape all our own, Our children’s heritage, in prospect long. These are the hopes, high-minded hopes and strong. That beckon England’s wanderers o’er the brine, To realms where foreign constellations shine ; Where streams from undiscovered fountains roll, And winds shall fan them from th’ Antarctic pole, And what though doomed to shores so far apart From England’s home, that e’en the home-sick heart Quails, thinking ere that gulf can be recrossed, How large a space of fleeting life is lost : Yet there, by time, their bosoms shall be changed, And strangers once shall cease to sigh estranged, But jocund in the year’s long sunshine roam, That yields their sickle twice its harvest-home. There, marking o’er his farm’s expanding ring New fleeces whiten and new fruits upspring, The grey-haired swain, his grandchild sporting round, Shall walk at eve his little empire’s bound, Emblazed with ruby vintage, ripening corn, And verdant rampart of Acacian thorn, While mingling with the scent his pipe exhales, The orange-grove’s and fig-tree’s breath prevails ; Survey with pride beyond a monarch’s spoil, His honest arm’s own subjugated soil ; And summing all the blessings God has given, ‘ Put up his patriarchal prayer to Heaven, LINES ON THE DEPARTURE OF EMIGRANTS. 139 That when his bones shall here repose in peace, The scions of his love may still increase, And o’er a land where life has ample room, In health and plenty innocently bloom. Delightful land, in wildness e’en benign, The glorious past is ours, the future thine ! As in a cradled Hercules, we trace The lines of empire in thine infant face. What nations in thy wide horizon’s span Shall teem on tracts untrodden yet by man ! What spacious cities with their spires shall gleam, Where now the panther laps a lonely stream. And all but brute or reptile life is dumb ! Land of the free ! thy kingdom is to come, " Of states, with laws from Gothic bondage burst, And creeds by chartered priesthood’s unaccurst ; Of navies, hoistmg their emblazoned flags, Where shipless seas now wash unbeaconed crags ; Of hosts reviewed in dazzling files and squares, Their pennGned trumpets breathing native airs, — For minstrels thou shalt have of native fire, And maids to sing the songs themselves inspire : — Our very speech, me thinks, in after time, Shall catch th’ Ionian blandness of thy clime ; And whilst the light and luxury of thy skies Give brighter smiles to beauteous woman’s eyes, The Arts, whose soul is love, shall all spontaneous rise. Untracked in deserts lies the marble mine, Undug the ore that ’midst thy roofs shall shine ; Unborn the hands — but born they are to be — Fair Australasia, that shall give to thee Proud temple -domes, with galleries winding high, . So vast in space, so just in symmetry, They widen to the contemplating eye, With colonnaded aisles in long array, And windows that enrich the flood of day O’er tesselated pavements, pictures fair, And niched statues breathing golden air. Nor there, whilst all that’s seen bids Fancy swell, Shall Music’s voice refuse to seal the spell ; I 140 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. But choral hymns shall wake enchantment round, - And organs yield their tempests of sweet sound. Meanwhile, ere Arts triumphant reach their goal, How blest the years of pastoral life shall roll ! E’en should some w r ayward hour the settler’s mind Brood sad on scenes for ever left behind, Yet not a pang that England’s name imparts, Shall touch a fibre of his children’s hearts ; Bound to that native land by nature’s bond, Full little shall their wishes rove beyond Its mountains blue, and melon-skirted streams, Since childhood loved and dreamt of in their dreams. How many a name, to us uncouthly wild, Shall thrill that region’s patriotic child, And bring as sweet thoughts o’er his bosom’s chords, As aught that’s named in song to us affords ! Hear shall that river’s margin be to him, Where sportive first he bathed his boyish limb, Or petted birds, still brighter than their bowers, Or twined his tame young kangaroo with flowers. But more magnetic yet to memory Shall be the sacred spot, still blooming nigh, The bower of love, where first his bosom burned, And smiling passion saw its smile returned. Go forth and prosper then, emprizing band : May He, who in the hollow of his hand The ocean holds, and rules the whirlwind’s sweep, Assuage its wrath, and guide you on the deep ! FAREWELL TO LOTE. I had a heart that doated once in passion’s boundless pain, And though the tyrant I abjured, I could not break his chain , But now that Fancy’s fire is quenched, and ne’er can burn anew, I’ve bid to love, for all my life, adieu ! adieu ! adieu ! I’ve known, if ever mortal knew, the spells of Beauty’s thrall, And if my song has told them not, my soul has felt them all ; SONG. 141 j j But Passion robs my peace no more, and Beauty’s witching sway Is now to me a star that's fall'n — a dream that's passed away. Hail ! welcome tide of life, when no tumultuous billows roll, : How wondrous to myself appears this halcyon calm of soul ! 1 The wearied bird blown o’er the deep would sooner quit its shore, Than I would cross the gulf again that time has brought me o’er. Why say the Angels feel the flame? — Oh, spirits of the skies ! Can love like ours, that doats on dust, in heavenly bosoms rise ? — Ah no ; the hearts that best have felt its power, the best can tell, That peace on earth itself begins, when Love has bid farewell ! SONG. When Love came first to Earth, the Spuing Spread rose-beds to receive him. And back he vowed his flight he’d win g To Heaven, if she should leave him. But Spring departing, saw his faith Pledged to the next new comer — He revelled in the warmer breath And richer bowers of Scmmer. Then sportive Autumn claimed by rights An Archer for her lover, And even in Winter’s dark cold nights A charm he could discover. Her routs and balls, and fireside joy, For this time were his reasons — In short, Young Love’s a gallant boy, That likes all times and seasons. 142 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. YERSES ON MARIE ANTOINETTE. Behold where Gallia’s captive queen, With steady eye and look serene, In life’s last awful — awful scene, Slow leaves her sad captivity. Hark ! the shrill horn that rends the sky Bespeaks thy ready murder nigh, The long parade of death I spy, And leave my lone captivity. Farewell, ye mansions of despair, Scenes of my sad sequestered care, The balm of bleeding war is near, Adieu, my lone captivity. To purer mansions in the sky, Fair Hope directs my grief -worn eye, Where sorrow’s child no more shall sigh Amid her lone captivity. Adieu, ye babes whose infant bloom Beneath oppression’s lawless doom, Pines in the solitary gloom Of undeserved captivity. 0 Power benign that rul’st on high, Cast down, cast down a pitying eye ; ^ Shed consolation from the sky, To soothe their sad captivity. Now virtue’s sure reward to prove, 1 seek empyreal realms above, To meet my long- departed love ; Adieu my lone captivity. DRINKING-SONG OF MUNICH. Sweet Iser ! were thy sunny realm And flowery gardens mine, Thy waters I would shade with elm To prop the tender vine ; DIRGE OF WALLACE. 14.3 My golden flagons I would fill With rosy draughts from every hill ; And under every myrtle bower, My gay companions should prolong The laugh, the revel, and the song, To many an idle hour. Like rivers crimsoned with the beam Of yonder planet bright, Our balmy cups should ever stream Profusion of delight ; No care should touch the mellow heart, And sad or sober none depart : For wine can triumph over woe, And Love and Bacchus, brother powers, Could build in Iser’s sunny bowers A paradise below. DIRGE OF WALLACE. They lighted the tapers at dead of night, And chanted their holiest hymn, But her brow and her bosom were damp with affright, And her eye was all sleepless and dim. And the lady of Elderslie wept for her lord, When a death watch beat in her lonely room, When her curtain had shook of its own accord. And the raven had flapped at her window board, To tell of her warrior’s doom. I Now sing the death-song and loudly pray For the soul of my knight so dear, And call me a widow this wretched day, Since the w r arning of God is here. For a nightmare rides on my strangled sleep — The lord of my bosom is doomed to die ; Ilis valorous heart they have wounded deep, And. the blood-red tears shall his country weep, For Wallace of Elderslie. K 144 Campbell’s poems." Yet knew not his country that ominous hour, Ere the loud matin bell was rung, That a trumpet of death on an EDglish tower Had the dirge of her champion sung. When his dungeon light looked dim and red On the high-born blood of a martyr slain, No anthem was sung at his holy death -bed ; No weeping was there when his bosom bled, And his heart was rent in twain. Oh ! it was not thus when his ashen spear Was true to that knight forlorn, And hosts of a thousand were scattered like deer, At the sound of the hunter’s horn ! When he strode o’er the wreck of each well-fought field, With the yellow-haired chiefs of his native land ; For his lance was not shivered on helmet or shield, And the sword that seemed fit for archangel to wield, Was light in his terrible hand. But bleeding and bound though “ the Wallace wight,” For his much-loved country die, The bugle ne’er sung to a braver knight Than Wallace of Elderslie. But the day of his glory shall never depart, His head unentombed shall with glory be palmed, From its blood-streaming altar his spirit shall start ; Though the raven has fed on his mouldering heart — A nobler was never embalmed. JEMIMA, HOSE, AND ELEANORE ; THREE CELEBRATED SCOTTISH BEAUTIES. Adieu ! Romance’s heroines — Give me the nymphs who this good hour May charm me, not in Fiction’s scenes, But teach me Beauty’s living power. i i ■ JEMIMA, ROSE, AND ELEANORE. 145 My harp that has been mute too long Shall sleep at Beauty’s name no more ; So but your smiles reward my song — Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore. In whose benignant eyes are beaming The rays of purity and truth ; Such as we fancy woman’s seeming In the creation’s golden youth. The more I look upon thy grace, Rosina, I could look the more ; But for Jemima’s witching face, And the swget smile of Eleanore. Had I been Laurence, kings had wanted Their, portraits till I painted yours ; And these had future hearts enchanted, When this poor verse no more endures. I would have left the Congress faces, A dull- eyed diplomatic corps, Till I had grouped you as the Graces — Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore. The Catholic bids fair saints befriend him, Your poet’s heart is Catholic too ; His rosary shall be flowers ye send him, His saints’ days when he visits you. And my sere laurels for my duty, Miraculous at your touch would rise ; Could I give verse one trait of beauty Like that which glads me from your eyes. Unsealed by you these lips have spoken, Disused to song for many a day ; Ye’ve tuned a harp whose strings were broken, And warmed a heart of callous clay ; So when my fancy next refuses To twine for you a garland more, Come back again and be my Muses — Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore. 146 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. LINES ON A PICTURE OF A GIRL IN THE ATTITUDE OF PRAYER, BY THE ARTIST GRUSE, IN THE POSSESSION OF LADY STEPNEY. Was man e’er doomed that beauty made By mimic art should haunt him ? Like Orpheus, I adore a shade, And doat upon a phantom. Thou maid that in my inmost thought Art fancifully sainted, Why liv’st thou not — why s#t thou nought But canvas sweetly painted ? Whose looks seem lifted to the skies, Too pure for love of mortals — As if they drew angelic eyes To greet thee at heaven’s portals. Yet loveliness has here no grace, Abstracted or ideal — Art ne’er but from a living face Drew looks so seeming real. What wert thou, maid ? — thy life — thy name Oblivion hides in mystery ; Though from thy face my heart could frame A long romantic history. Transported to thy time I seem, Though dust thy coffin covers — And hear the songs, in fancy’s dream, Of thy devoted lovers. How witching must have been thy breath — How sweet the living charmer — Whose very semblance after death Can make the heart grow warmer ! Adieu the charms that vainly move My soul in their possession — That prompt my lips to speak of love, Yet rob them of expression. TI-IE DEATH -BOAT OF HELIGOLAND. 147 Yet thee, dear picture, to have praised W as but a poet’s duty ; And shame to him that ever gazed Impassive on thy beauty. THE DEATH-BOAT OF HELIGOLAND. Can restlessness reach the cold sepulchred head? — Ay, the quick have their sleep-walkers, so have the dead. There are brains, though they moulder, that dream in the tomb, And that maddening forebear the last trumpet of doom, Till their corses start sheeted to revel on earth, Making horror more deep by the semblance of mirth : By the glare of new-lighted volcanoes they dance, Or at mid-sea appal the chilled mariner’s glance. Such, I wot, was the band of cadaverous smile Seen ploughing the niglit-surge of Heligo’s isle. The foam of the Baltic had sparkled like fire, And the red moon looked down with an aspect of ire ; But her beams on a sudden grew sick- like and grey, And the muse^hat had slept clanged and shrieked far away — And the buoys and the beacons extinguished their light, As the boat of the stony-eyed dead came in sight, High bounding from billow to billow ; each form Had its shroud like a plaid flying loose to the storm ; With an oar in each pulseless and icy- cold hand, Fast they ploughed by the lee-shore of Heligoland, Such breakers as boat of the living ne’er crossed ; Now surf-sunk for minutes again they uptossed, And with livid lips shouted reply o’er the flood To the challenging watchman that curdled his blood — “We are dead — we are bound from our graves in the west, First to Hecla, and then to ” Unmeet was the rest For man’s ear. The old abbey bell thundered its clang, And their eyes gleamed with phosphorus light as it rang : Ere they vanished, they stopped, and gazed silently grim, Till the eye could define them, garb, feature and limb. Now who were those roamers ?— of gallows or wheel Bore they marks, or the mangling anatomist’s steel ? 148 Campbell’s poems. No, by magistrates 1 chains ’mid their grave-clothes you saw, They were felons too proud to have perished by law ; But a ribbon that hung where a rope should have been, ’Twas the badge of their faction, its hue was not green, Showed them men who had trampled and tortured and driven To rebellion the fairest Isle breathed on by Heaven, — Men whose heirs would yet finish the tyrannous task, If the Truth*and the lime had not dragged off their mask. They parted — but not till the sight might discern A scutcheon distinct at their pinnace’s stern, Where letters emblazoned in blood-coloured flame, Named their faction — I blot not my page with its name. STANZAS TO PAINTING. 0 thou by whose expressive art Her perfect image Nature sees In union with the Graces start, And sweeter by reflection please ! In whose creative hand the hues Fresh from yon orient rainbow shine ; 1 bless thee, Promethean Muse ! And call thee brightest of the Nine? Possessing more than vocal power, Persuasive more than poet’s tongue ; Whose lineage, in a raptured hour, From Love, the Sire of Nature, sprung. Does Hope her high possession meet? Is joy triumphant, sorrow flown ? Sweet is the trance, the tremor sweet, When all we love is all our own. ^ But oh ! thou pulse of pleasure dear, Slow throbbing, cold, I feel thee part ; Lone absence plants a pang severe, Or death inflicts a keener dart. Then for a beam of joy to light In memory’s sad and wakeful eye 1 STANZAS TO PAINTING. 149 Or banish from the noon of nighfc Her dreams of deeper agony. Shall Song its witching cadence roll ? Yea, even the tenderest air repeat, That breathed when soul was knit to soul, And heart to heart responsive beat ? What visions rise ! to charm, to melt ! The lost, the loved, the dead are near ! Oh, hush that strain too deeply felt! And cease that solace too severe ! But thou serenely silent art ! By heaven and love wast taught to lend A milder solace to the heart, The sacred image of a friend. All is not lost ! if, yet possest, To me that sweet memorial shine : — If close and closer to my breast I hold that idol all divine. Or, gazing through luxurious tears, Melt o’er the lo^ed departed form, , Till death’s cold bosom half appears With life, and speech, and spirit warm. She looks ! she lives ! this tranced hour, Her bright eye seems a purer gem Than sparkles on the throne of power, Or glory’s wealthy diadem. Yes, Genius, yes! thy mimic aid A treasure to my soul has given, Where beauty’s canonised shade Smiles in the sainted hues of heaven. Ho spectre forms of pleasure fled, Thy softening, sweetening tints restore ; For thou canst give us back the dead, E’en in the loveliest looks they wore. Then blest be Hature’s guardian Muse, Whose hand her perished grace redeems ! Whose tablet of a thousand hues The mirror of creation seems. 150 Campbell’s poems. From Love began thy high descent ; And lovers, charmed by gifts of thine* Shall bless thee mutely eloquent ; And call thee brightest of the Nine ! LINES ON REVISITING A SCOTTISH RIVER. And call they this Improvement? — to have changed, My native Clyde, thy once romantic shore, Where Nature’s face is banished and estranged, And Heaven reflected in thy wave no more ; Whose banks, that sweetened May-day’s breath before, Lie sere and leafless now in summer’s beam With sooty exhalations covered o’er ; And for the daisied green sward, down thy stream Unsightly brick-lanes smoke, and clanking engines gleam. Speak not to me of swarms the scene sustains ; One heart free tasting Nature’s breath and bloom Is worth a thousand slaves to Mammon’s gains. But whither goes that wealth, and gladd’ning whom ! See, left but life enough and breathing-room The hunger and the hope of life to feel, Yon pale Mechanic bending o’er his loom, And Childhood’s self as at Ixion’s wheel, From morn till midnight tasked to earn its little meal. Is this Improvement?— -where the human breed Degenerates as they swarm and overflow, Till Toil grows cheaper than the trodden weed, And man competes with man, like foe with foe, Till Death, that thins them, scarce seems public woe? Improvement ! — smiles it in the poor man’s eyes, Or blooms it on the cheek of Labour ? — No — To gorge a few with Trade’s precarious prize, We banish rural life, and breathe unwholesome skies. Nor call that evil slight ; God has not given This passion to the heart of man in vain, — 1 THE “NAME UNKNOWN.” 15 1 For Earth’s green face, th 5 untainted air of Heaven, And all the bliss of Nature’s rustic reign. For not alone our frame imbibes a stain From foetid skies ; the spirit’s healthy pride Fades in their gloom — And therefore I complain, That thou no more through pastoral scenes shouldst glide, My Wallace’s own stream, and once romantic Clyde I LINES ON REVISITING CATHCART. Oh ! scenes of my childhood, and dear to my heart Ye green waving woods on the margin of Cart, How blest in the morning of life I have strayed, By the stream of the vale and the grass-covered glade ! Then, then every rapture was young and sincere, Ere the sunshine of bliss was bedimmed by a tear, And a sweeter delight every scene seemed to lend, That the mansion of peace was the house of a friend. Now the scenes of my childhood and dear to my heart, All pensive I visit, and sigh to depart ; Their flowers seem to languish, their beauty to cease, For a stranger inhabits the mansion of peace. But hushed be the sigh that untimely complains, While Friendship and all its enchantment remains, While it blooms like the flower of a winterless clime, Untainted by chance, unabated by time. THE “NAME UNKNOWN IN IMITATION OF KL0PST0CK. Prophetic pencil ! wilt thou trace A faithful image of the face, Or wilt thou write the “ Name Unknown,” Ordained to bless my charmed soul, And all my future fate control, Unrivalled and alone ? 152 camfbell’s poems. Delicious Idol of my thought ! Though sylph or spirit hath not taught My boding heart thy precious name ; Yet musing on my distant fate, To charms unseen I consecrate A visionary flame. Thy rosy . blush, thy meaning eye, Thy virgin voice of melody, Are ever present to my heart ; Thy murmured vows shall yet be mine, My thrilling hand shall meet with thine, And never, never part ! Then fly, my days, on rapid wing, Till Love the viewless treasure bring ; While 1, like conscious Athens, own A power in mystic silence sealed, A guardian angel unrevealed, And bless the “ Name Unknown ! ” SONG. Withdraw not yet those lips and fingers, Whose touch to mine is rapture’s spell ; Life’s joy for us a moment lingers, And death seems in the word — farewell. The hour that bids us part and go, It sounds not yet, — oh ! no, no, no ! Time, whilst I gaze upon thy sweetness, Flies like a courser nigh the goal ; To-morrow where shall be his fleetness, When thou art parted from my soul ? Our hearts shall beat, our tears shall flow, But not together, —no, no, no ! HALLOWED GROUND* 153 HALLOWEP GROUND. • What’s hallowed ground? Has earth a clod ' Its Maker meant not should be trod . By man, the image of his God, Erect and free, Unscourged by superstition’s rod To bow the knee ? That’s hallowed ground — where mourned and missed The lips repose our love has kissed ; — But where’s their memory’s mansion? Is’t Yon churchyard’s bowers ? No ! in ourselves their souls exist, A part of ours. A kiss can consecrate the ground Where mated hearts are mutual bound : ^ The spot where love’s first links were wound, That ne’er are riven, Is hallowed down to earth’s profound, And up to Heaven ! For time makes all but true love old ; . The burning thoughts that then were told Run molten still in memory’s mould ; And will not cool, Until the heart itself be cold In Lethe’s pool. What hallows ground where heroes sleep ? ’Tis not the sculptured piles you heap ! In dews that heavens far distant weep j Their turf may bloom ; Or Genii twine beneath the deep Their coral tomb. But strew his ashes to the wind Whose sword or voice has served mankind — And is he dead, whose glorious mind Lifts thine on high ?— - To live in hearts we leave behind, Is not to die. 154 CAMPBELL’S POEMS, Is’t death to fall for Freedom’s right ? He’s dead alone that lacks her light ! And murder sullies in Heaven’s sight The sword he draws : — What can alone ennoble fight ? A noble cause ! Give that ! and welcome war to brace Her drums ! and rend Heaven’s reeking space ! The colours planted face to face, The charging cheer, Though Death’s pale horse lead on the chase, Shall still be dear. And place our trophies where men kneel To Heaven ; — but Heaven rebukes my zeal ! The cause of Truth and Human weal, O God above ! Transfer it from the sword’s appeal To Peace and Love. Peace, Love ! the cherubim that join Their spread wings o’er Devotion’s shrine — Prayers sound' in vain, and temples shine, Where they are not — The heart alone can make divine Religion’s spot. To incantations dost thou trust, And pompous ritesjn domes august ? See mouldering stones and metal’s rust Belie the vaunt, That man can bless one pile of dust With chime or chaunt. The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man ! Thy temples— creeds themselves grow wan ; % But there’s a dome of nobler span, A temple given Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban-w- its space is Heaven ! Its roof star-pictured Nature’s ceiling, W 7 here trancing the ’rapt spirit’s feeling, And God himself to man revealing The harmonious spheres CAROLINE. Make music, though unheard their pealing By mortal ears. Fair stars ! are not your beings pure ? Can sin, can deatjfryour worlds obscure? Else why so swell the thoughts at your Aspect above ? Ye must be Heaven’s that make us sura Of heavenly love ! And in your harmony sublime I read the doom of distant time ; That man’s regenerate soul from crime Shall yet ye drawn, And reason on v his mortal clime Immortal dawn. What’s hallowed ground ? ’Tis what gives birth To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! — Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth Earth’s compass round ; And your high priesthood shall make earth All hallowed ground . CAROLINE. PART I. I’ll bid the hyacinth to blow, I’ll teach my grotto green to be ; And sing my true love all below The holly bower and myrtle tree. There all his wild%ood sweets to bring, The sweet South wind shall wander by, And with the music of his wing Delight my rustling canopy. Come to my close and clustering bower Thou spirit of a milder clime, Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower, Of mountain heath, and moory thyme 156 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. With all thy rural echoes come, Sweet comrade of the rosy day, Wafting the wild bee’s gentle hum, Or cuckoo’s plaintive roundelay. Where’er thy morning breath has played, Whatever isles of ocean fanned, Come to my blossom-woven shade, Thou wandering wind of fairy-land. For sure from some enchanted isle, Where Heaven and Love their sabbath hold, Where pure and happy spirits smile, Of beauty’s fairest, brightest mould : From some green Eden of the deep, Where Pleasure’s sigh alone is heaved, Where tears of rapture lovers weep, Endeared, undoubting, undeceived ; From some sweet paradise afar, Thy music wanders, distant, lost — Where Nature lights her leading star, And love is never, never crossed. Oh gentle gale of Eden bowers, If back thy rosy feet should roam, To revel with the cloudless Hours In Nature’s more propitious home. Name to thy loved Elysian groves, That o’er enchanted spirits twine, A fairer form than cherub loves, And let the name be Caroline. “ 9 PART II. TO THE EVENING STAR. Gem of the crimson- coloured Even, Companion of retiring day. Why at the closing gates of Heaven, Beloved star dost thou delay ? CAROLINE. 157 So fair thy pensile beauty burns. When sdft the tear of twilight flows ; So due thy plighted love returns, To chambers brighter than the rose ; To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love, So kind a star thou seem’st to be, Sure some enamoured orb above Descends and burns to meet with thee. Thine is the breathing, blushing hour, When all unheavenly passions fly, Chased by the soul-subduing power Of Love’s delicious witchery. O ! sacred to the fall of day, Queen of propitious stars appear, And early rise and long delay, W T hen Caroline herself is here ! Shine on her chosen green resort, Whose trees the sunward summit crown, And wanton flowers that well may court An angel’s feet to tread them down. Shine on her sweetly-scented road, Thou star of evening’s purple dome, That lead’s t the nightingale abroad, And guid’st the pilgrim to his home. Shine, where my charmer’s sweeter breath, Embalms the soft exhaling dew. Where dying winds a sigh bequeath To kiss the cheek of rosy hue. Where, winnowed by the gentle air, Her silken tresses darkly flow, And fall upon her brow so fair, Like shadows on the mountain snow. Thus, ever thus, at day’s decline, In converse sweet to wander far, O bring with thee my Caroline, And thou shalt be my ruling star ! 158 Campbell’s poems. STANZAS ON THE BATTLE OF NAV ARINA. Hearts of oak that have bravely delivered the brave, And uplifted old Greece from the brink of the grave, ’Twas the helpless to help, and the hopeless to save, That your thunderbolts, swept o’er the brine ; And as long as yon mm shall look down on the wave The light of your glory shall shine. For the guerdon ye sought with your bloodshed and toil, Was it slaves, or dominion, or rapine, or spoil? No ! your lofty emprize was to fetter and foil The uprooter of Greece’s domain ! When he tore the last remnant of food from her soil, Till her famished sank pale as the slain ! Yet, Navarin’s heroes ! does Christendom breed The base hearts that will question the fame of your deed ? Are they men?— let ineffable scorn be their meed, And oblivion shadow their graves ! — Are they women ? — to Turkish serails let then! speed ! And be mothers of Mussulman slaves. Abettors of massacre ! dare ye deplore That the death-shriek is silenced on Kella’s shore ? That the mother aghast sees her offspring no more By the hand of Infanticide grasped ? And that stretched on yon billows dyestained by their gore Missolonghi’s assassins have gasped ? Prouder scene never hallowed war’s pomp to the mind, Than when Christendom’s pennons wooed social the wind, And the flower of her brave for the combat combined, Their watch-word, humanity’s vow ; — Not a sea- boy that fought in that cause, but mankind Owes a garland to honour his brow ! Nor grudge, by our side, that to conquer or fall, Came the hardy rude Buss, and the high-mettled Gaul *, For whose was the genius, that planned at its call, Where the whirlwind of battle should roll ? All were brave ! but the star of success over all Was the light of our Codrington’s soul. LINES ON LEAVING A SCENE IN BAVARIA. 159 ; That star of the day-spring, regenerate Greek ! Dimmed the Saracen’s moon, and struck pallid his cheek : In its first flushing morning thy Muses shall speak When their lore and their lutes they reclaim : And the first of their songs from Parnassus’s peak Shall be “ Glory to Codring ton's name ! 11 1 — i LINES ON LEAVING A SCEN'E IN BAVARIA. Adieu the woods and waters’ side, Imperial Danube’s rich domain ! Adieu the gro + to, wild and wide, The rocks abrupt, and grassy plain ! For pallid Autumn once again Hath swelled each torrent of the hill ; Her clouds collect, her shadows sail, And watery winds that sweep the vale, Grow loud and louder still. But not the storm, dethroning fast Yon monarch oak of massy pile, Nor river roaring to the blast Around its dark and desert isle ! Nor church -bell tolling to beguile The cloud-born thunder passing by, Can sound in discord to my soul : Roll on, ye mighty waters, roll ! And rage, thou darkened sky ! Thy blossoms now no longer bright ; Thy withered woods no longer green ; Yet, Eldurn shore, with dark delight I visit thy unlovely scene ! For many a sunset hour serene My steps have trod thy mellow dew ; When his green light the fire -fly gave, When Cynthia from the distant wave Her twilight anchor drew, And ploughed, as with a swelling sail, The billowy clouds and starry sea ; L CAMPBELL’S POEMS. 160 Then while thy hermit nightingale Sang on his fragrant apple-tree, — Romantic, solitary, free, The visitant of Eldurn’s shore, On such a moonlight mountain strayed As echoed to the music made By Druid harps of yore. Around thy savage hills of oak, Around thy waters bright and blue, No hunter’s horn the silence broke, No dying shriek thine echo knew ; But safe, sweet Eldurn woods, to you The wounded wild deer ever ran, Whose myrtle bound their grassy cave, Whose very rocks a shelter gave From blood-pursuing man. Oh heart effusions, that arose From nightly wanderings cherished here ; To him who flies from many woes, Even homeless deserts can be dear ! The last and solitary cheer Of those that own no earthly home, Say — is it not, ye banished race, In such a loved and lonely place Companionless to roam ? Yes ! I have loved thy wild abode, Unknown, unploughed, untrodden shore ; Where scarce the woodman finds a road, And scarce the fisher plies an oar : For man’s neglect I love thee more ; That art nor avarice intrude To tame thy torrent’s thunder-shock, Or prune thy vintage of the rock Magnificently rude. / Unheeded spreads thy blossomed bud Its milky bosom to the bee ; Unheeded falls along the flood Thy desolate and aged tree. Forsaken scene, how like to thee LINES ON LEAVING A SCENE IN BAVARIA. 161 The fate of unbefriended Worth ! Like thine her fruit dishonoured falls ; Like thee in solitude she calls A thousand treasures forth. 0 ! silent spirit of the place, If, lingering with the ruined year, Thy hoary form and awful face 1 yet might watch and worship here ! Thy storm were music to mine ear, Thy wildest walk a shelter given Sublimer thoughts on earth to find, And share, with no unhallowed mind, The majesty of heaven. What though the bosom friends of Fate,— Prosperity’s unweaned brood, — Thy consolations cannot rate, 0 self-dependent solitude ! Yet with a spirit unsubdued, Though darkened by the clouds of Care, To worship thy congenial gloom, A pilgrim to the Prophet’s tomb Misfortune shall repair. On her the world hath never smiled Or looked but with accusing eye ; All -silent goddess of the wild, To thee that misanthrope shall fly ! 1 hear her deep soliloquy, 1 mark her proud but ravaged form, As stern she wraps her mantle round, And bids, on winter’s bleakest ground, Defiance to the storm. Peace to her banished heart, at last, In thy dominions shall descend, And, strong as beechwood in the blast, Her spirit shall refuse to bend ; Enduring life without a friend, The world and falsehood left behind, Thy votary shall bear elate (Triumphant o’er opposing Fate), Her dark inspired mind. 162 Campbell’s poems. JBut dost tliou. Folly, mock the muse A wanderer’s mountain walk to sing, Who shuns a warring world, nor woos The vulture cover of its wing? Then fly, tliou cowering, shivering thing, Back to the fostering world beguiled To waste in self-consuming strife The loveless brotherhood of life, lleviling and reviled ! Awaj r , thou lover of the race That hither chased yon weeping deer ! If Nature’s all majestic face * More pitiless than man’s appear ; Or if the wild winds seem more drear Than man’s cold charities below, Behold around his peopled plains, Where’er the social savage reigns, Exuberance of woe ! His art and honours wouldst thou seek Embossed on grandeur’s giant walls ? Or hear his moral thunders speak Where senates light their airy halls, Where man his brother man enthralls ; Or sends his whirlwind warrants forth To rouse the slumbering fiends of war, To dye the blood-waijrn waves afar, And desolate the earth ? From clime to clime pursue the scene, And mark in all thy spacious way, Where’er the tyrant man has been. There Peace, the cherub, cannot stay ; In wilds and woodlands far away She builds her solitary bower, Where only anchorites have trod, Or friendless men, to worship God, Have wandered for an hour. In such a far forsaken vale,— And such, sweet Eldurft vale, is liiine,-— Afflicted nature shall inhale Heaven-borrowed thoughts and joys divine : FIEL§ FLOWERS. lCd \ No longer wish, no more repine For man’s neglect or woman’s scorn Then wed thee to an exile’s lot, For if the world hath loved thee not, Its absence may be borne. FIELD FLOWERS. Ye field flowers ! the gardens eclipse you ’tis true, Yet, wildings of nature, I doat upon you, For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teemed around me with faery delight. And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of. silver and gold. I love you for lulling me back into dreams Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, And of birchen glades breathing their balm, While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon’s note, Made music that sweetened the calm. Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June ; Of old ruinous castles ye tell, Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, W hen the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind, And your blossoms were part of her spell. E'en now what affections the violet awakes ; What loved little islands twice seen in their lakes, Can the wild water-lily restore ; "What landscapes I read in the primrose’s looks, And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks In the vetches that tangled their shore. Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear Had scathed my existence’s bloom ; Once I welcome you more in life’s passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age, And I wish you to grow on my tomb. lot CAMPBELL’S POEMS. LINES ON THE VIEW FROM ST LEONARDS. Hail to thy face and odours, glorious Sea ! ’Twere thanklessness in me to bless thee not, Great beauteous Being ! in whose breath and smile My heart beats calmer, and my very mind Inhales salubrious thoughts. How welcomer Thy murmurs than the murmurs of the world ! Though like the world thou fluctuatest, thy din To me is peace, thy restlessness repose. E’en gladly I exchange yon spring- green lanes With all the darling field-flowers in their prime, And gardens haunted by the nightingales’ Long trills and gushing ecstacies of song For these wild headlands and the sea-mew’s clang — With thee beneath my Windows, pleasant Sea, I long not to o’erlook earth’s fairest glades And green savannahs — Earth has not a plain So boundless or so beautiful as thine ; The eagle’s vision cannot take it in : The lightning’s wing too weak to sweep its space, Sinks half-way o’er it like a wearied bird : It is the mirror of the stars, where all Their hosts within the concave firmament, Gay marching to the music of the spheres, Can see themselves at once. Nor on the stage Of rural landscape are there lights and shades Of more harmonious dance and play than thine. How vividly this moment brightens forth, Between grey parallel and leaden breadths, A belt of hues that stripes thee many a league, Flushed like the rainbow, or the ringdove’s neck, And giving to the glancing sea-bird’s wing The semblance of a meteor. Mighty Sea ! Cam eleon -like thou changest, but there’s love In all thy change, and constant sympathy With yonder Sky— thy Mistress ; from her brow LINES OK THE VIEW FROM ST LEOKAED’S. JG5 | Thou tak’st thy moods and wear’st her colours on Thy faithful bosom ; morning’s milky white, Noon’s sapphire, or the saffron glow of eye ; And all thy balmier hours, fair Element, Have such divine complexion — crisped smiles, Luxuriant heavings, and sweet whisperings, That little is the wonder Love’s own Queen From thee of old was fabled to have sprung — Creation’s common ! which no human power Can parcel or enclose ; the lordliest floods And cataracts that the tiny hands of man Can tame, conduct, or bound, are drops of dew To thee that couldst subdue the Earth itself, And brook’st commandment from the Heavens alone For marshalling thy waves — Yet, potent Sea ! How placidly thy moist lips speak e’en now Along yon sparkling shingles. Who can be So fanciless as to feel no gratitude That power and grandeur can be so serene, Soothing the home-bound navy’s peaceful way, And rocking e’en the fisher’s little bark As gently as a mother rocks her child ? — The inhabitants of other worlds behold Our orb more lucid for thy spaGious share On earth’s rotundity ; and is he not A blind worm in the dust, great Deep, the man Who sees not or who seeing has no joy In thy magnificence ? What though thou art Unconscious and material, thou canst reach The inmost immaterial mind’s recess, And with thy tints and motion stir its chords To music, like the light on Memnon’s lyre ! The Spirit of the Universe in thee Is visible ; thou hast in thee the life — The eternal, graceful, and majestic life — Of nature and the natural human heart Is therefore bound to thee with holy love. 1G6 Campbell’s poems. Earth has her gorgeous towns ; the earth-circling sea Has spires and mansions more amusive still — Men’s volant homes that measure liquid space On wheel or wing. The chariot of the land With pained and panting steeds and clouds of dust Has no sight -gladdening motion like these fair Careerers with the foam beneath their bows, Whose streaming ensigns charm the waves by day, Whose carols and whose watch-bells cheer the night, Moored as they cast the shadows of their masts In long array, or hither flit and yond Mysteriously with slow and crossing lights, Like spirits on the darkness of the deep. There is a magnet-like attraction in These waters to the imaginative power That links the viewless with the visible, And pictures things unseen. To realms beyond Yon highway of the world my fancy flies, When by her fall and triple mast we know Some noble voyager that has to woo The trade-winds and to stem the ecliptic surge. The coral groves — the shores of conch and pearl, Where she will cast her anchor and reflect Her cabin-window lights on warmer waves, And under planets brighter than our own : The nights of palmy isles, that she will see Lit boundless by the fire-fly — all the smells Of tropic fruits that will ’regale her — all The pomp of nature, and the inspiriting Varieties of life she has to greet,. Come swarming o’er the meditative mind. True, to the dream of Fancy, Ocean has His darker tints ; but where’s the element That chequers not its usefulness to man With casual terror ? Scathes not Earth sometimes Her children with Tartarean fires, or shakes Their shrieking cities, and, with one last clang Of bells for their own ruin, strews them flat As riddled ashes — silent as the grave? Walks not Contagion on the Air itself ? I should— old Ocean’s Saturnalian days 'REULLURA. 167 And roaring nights of revelry and sport With wreck and human woe— -be loth to sing ; For they are few and all their ills weigh light Against his sacred usefulness, that bids Our pensile globe revolve in purer air. Here Morn and Eve with blushing thanks receive Their fresh’ning dew r s, gay fluttering breezes cool Their wings to fan the brow of fevered climes, And here the Spring dips down her emerald urn For showers to glad the earth. Old Ocean was Infinity of ages ere w-e breathed Existence — arid he will be beautiful When all the living world that sees him now Shall roll unconscious dust around the sun. Quelling from age to age the vital throb In human hearts, Death shall not subjugate The pulse that swells in his stupendous breast, Or interdict his minstrelsy to sound In tliundring concert with the quiring winds ; But long as Man to parent Nature owns Instinctive homage, and in times beyond The power of thought to reach, bard after bard Shall sing thy glory, Beatific Sea ! HEULLTTRA. Star of the morn and eve, Reullura shone like thee, And well for her might Aodh grieve, The dark-attired Culdee. Peace to their shades ! the pure Ouldees Were Albyn’s earliest priests of God, Ere yet an island of her seas By foot of Saxon monk was trod, Long ere her churchmen by bigotry Were barred from holy wedlocVs tie. 105 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. ’Twas then that Aodh, famed afar, In Iona preached the word with power, And Reullura, beauty’s star, Was the partner of his bower. # But, Aodh, the roof lies low, And the thistle-down waves bleaching, And the bat flits to and fro Where the Gael once heard thy preaching ; Amd fall’n is each columned aisle Where the chiefs and the people knelt. ’Twas near that temple’s goodly pile That honoured of men they dwelt. For Aodh was wise in the sacred law, And bright lteullura’s eyes oft saw The veil of fate uplifted. Alas with what visions of awe Her soul in that hour was gifted — When pale in the temple and faint, With Aodh she stood alone • By the statue of an aged Saint ! Fair sculptured was the stone, It bore a crucifix ; Fame said it once had graced A Christian temple, which the Pic is In the Britons’ land laid waste : The Pictish men, by St Columb taught, Had hither the holy relic brought. Beullura eyed the statue’s face, And cried, u It is he shall come, Even he in this very place, To avenge my martyrdom. “ For, woe to the Gael people 1 Ulvfagre is on the main, And Iona shall look from tower and steeple On the coming ships of the Dane ; And, dames and daughters, shall all your locks With the spoiler’s grasp entwine ? No ! some shall have shelter in caves and rocks 5 And the deep sea shall be mine. EEULLUBA. 169 Baffled by me shall the Dane return, And here shall his torch in the temple burn, Until that holy man shall plough The waves from Innisfail. His sail is on the deep e’en now, And swells to the southern gale.” “Ah ! knowest thou not, my bride,” ^ The holy Aodh said, “ That the Saint whose form we stand beside Has for ages slept with the dead ? ” “He liveth, he liveth,” she said again, “ For the span of his life tenfold extends Beyond the wanted years of men. He sits by the graves of well-loved friends That died ere thy grandsire’s grandsire’s birth The oak is decayed with old age on earth, Whose acorn seed had been planted by him ; And his parents remember the day of dread When the sun on the cross looked dim, And the graves gave up their dead. “Yet preaching from clime to clime, He hath roamed the earth for ages, And hither he shall come in time When the wrath of the heathen rages, In time a remnant from the sword — Ah ! but a remnant to deliver ; Yet, blessed be the name of the Lord ! His martyrs shall go into bliss for ever. Lochlin, appalled, shall put up her steel, And thou shaft embark on the bounding keel, Safe shalt thou pass through her hundred ships, With the Saint and a remnant of the Gael, And the Lord will instruct thy lips To preach in Innisfail.” The sun now about to set, W as burning o’er Tiriee, And no gathering cry rose yet O’er the isles of Albyn’s sea, 170 CAMPBELL'S POEMS. Whilst Reullura saw far rowers dip Their oars beneath the sun, And the phantom of many a Danish ship, Where ship there yet was none. And the shield of alarm was dumb, Nor did their warning till midnight come, When watch-fires burst from across the main, From Rona and Uist and Skye, To tell that the ships of the Dane And the red-haired slayers were nigh. Our isles men arose from slumbers, And buckled on their arms ; But few, alas ! were their numbers To Lochlin’s mailed swarms. And the blade of the bloody Norse Has filled the shores of the Gael With many a floating corse, And with many a woman’s wail, They have lighted the islands with ruin’s torch, And the holy men of Iona’s church In the temple of God lay slain ; All but Aodh, the last Culdee, But bound with many an iron chain, Bound in that church was he. And where is Aodli’s bride ? Rocks of the ocean flood ! Blunged she not from your heights in pride, And mocked the men of blood ? Then Ulvfagre and his bands In the temple lighted their banquet up, And the print of their blood- red hands Was left on the altar cup. ’Twas then that the Norseman to Aodh said, 4 ‘Tell where thy church’s treasure’s laid, Or I’ll hew thee limb from limb.” As lie spoke the bell struck three, And every torch grew dim That lighted their revelry. I 171 i PEULLURA. But the torches again burnt bright, And brighter than before, When an aged man of majestic height Entered the temple door. Hushed was the revellers’ sound, They were struck as mute as the dead, And their hearts were appalled by the very sound Of his footstep’s measured tread. Nor word was spoken by one beholder, While he flung his white robe back on his shoulder, And stretching hi§ arm — as eath Uuriveted Aodh’s bands, As if the gyves had been a wreath Of willows in his hands. All saw the stranger’s similitude To the ancient statue’s form ; The Saint before his own image stood, And grasped Ulvfagre’s arm. Then up rose the Hanes at last to deliver Their chief, ana shouting with one accord. They drew the shaft from its rattling quiver, They lifted the spear, and sword, And levelled their spears in rows, But down went axes and spears and bows, When the Saint with his crosier signed, The archer’s hand on the string was stopt, And down, like reeds laid flat by the wind, Their lifted weapons dropt. The Saint then gave a signal mute, And though Uivfagre willed it not, He came and stood at the statue’s foot, Spell -riveted to the spot Till hands invisible shook the wall, And the tottering image was dashed Down from its lofty pedestal. On Ulvfagre’s helm it crashed — Helmet, and skull, and flesh, and brain, It crushed as millstone crushes the grain. Then spoke the Saint, whilst all and each Of the Heathen trembled round, i 7 i CAMPBELL’S POEMS*. 172 And the pauses amidst his speech Were as awful as the sound : “ Go back, ye wolves, to your dens,” he cried, u And tell the nations abroad, How the fiercest of your herd has died That slaughtered the flock of God. Gather him bone by bone, And take with you o’er the flood The fragments of that avenging stone That drank his heathen blood. These are the spoils from Iona’s sack, The only spoils ye shall carry back ; For the hand that uplifteth spear or sword Shall be withered by palsy’s shock, And I come in the name of the Lord To deliver a remnant of his flock.” A remnant was called together, A doleful remnant of 1m e Gael, And the Saint in the ship that had brought him hither Took the mourners to Innisfail. Unscathed they left Iona’s strand, When the opal morn first flushed the sky, For the Nores dropt spear, and bow and brand, And looked Qn them silently : Safe from their hiding places came Orphans and mothers, child and dame : But alas ! when the search for Keullura spread, No answering voice was given, For the sea had gone o’er her lovely head, And her spirit was in Heaven. LINES ON POLAND. 173 LINES ON POLAND. And have I lived to see thee sword in hand Uprise again, immortal Polish Land ! — Whose flag brings more than chivalry to mind, And leaves the tri-color in shade behind ; — A theme for uninspired lips too strong ; That swells my heart beyond the power of song : — Majestic men, whose deeds have dazzled faith, Ah ! yet your fate’s suspense arrests my breath ; Whilst, envying bosoms bared to shot and steel, I feel the more that fruitlessly I feel. Poles ! with what indignation I endure Th’ half-pitying servile mouths that call you poor : Poor ! is it England mocks you with her grief, That hates, but dares not chide, th’ Imperial Thief ? France with her soul beneath a Bourbon’s thrall, And Germany that has no soul at all, — States, quailing at the giant overgrown, Whom dauntless Poland grapples with alone ? No, ye are rich in fame e’en whilst ye bleed : We cannot aid you — we are poor indeed ! In Fate’s defiance — in the world’s great eye, Poland has won her Immortality ! The Butcher, should he reach her bosom now, Could tear not Glory’s garland from her brow ; Wreathed, filleted, the victim falls renowned, And all her ashes would be holy ground ! But turn, my soul, from presages so dark : Great Poland’s spirit is a deathless spark That’s fanned by Heaven to mock the Tyrant’s rage : She, like the eagle, will renew her age, And fresh historic plumes of Fame put on, — Another Athens after Marathon, — Where eloquence shall fulmine, arts refine, Bright as her arms that now in battle shine. Come — should the heavenly shock my life destroy And shut its flood-gates with excess of joy ; Come but the day when Poland’s fight is won — And on my grave-stone shine the morrow’s sun— 174 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. The day that sees Warsaw’s cathedral glow With endless ensigns ravished from the foe, — Her women lifting their fair hands with thanks, Her pious warriors kneeling in their ranks, The scutcheoned walls of high heraldic boast, The odorous altar’s elevated host, The organ sounding through the aisle’s long glooms, The mighty dead seen sculptured o’er their tombs ; (John, Europe’s saviour — Poniatowski’s fair llesemblance — Kosciusko’s shall be there ;) The tapered pomp— the halleluiah’s swell, Shall o’er the soul’s devotion cast a spell, Till visions cross the rapt enthusiast’s glance, And all the scene becomes a waking trance. Should Fate put far— far off that glorious. scene, And gulfs of havoc interpose between, Imagine not, ye men of every clime, Who act, or by your sufferance share the crime — Your brother Abel’s blood shall vainly plead Against the “ deep damnation ” of the deed. Germans ye view its horror and disgrace With cold phosphoric eyes and phlegm of face. Is Allemagne profound in science, lore, And minstrel art ? — her shame is but the more To dose and dream by governments oppressed, The spirit of a book-worm in each breast. Well can ye mouth fair Freedom’s classic line, And talk of Constitutions o’er your wine : But all your vows to break the tyrant’s yoke Expire in Bacchanalian song and smoke : Heavens ! can no ray of foresight pierce the leads And mystic metaphysics of your heads, To show the self-same grave, Oppression delves For Poland’s rights, is yawning for yourselves ! See, whilst the Pole, the vanguard aid of France, Has vaulted on his barb and couched the lance, France turns from her abandoned friends afresh, And soothes the Bear that prowls for patriot flesh, Buys, ignominious purchase ! short repose, With dying curses and the groans of those That served, and loved, and put in her their trust. Frenchmen ! the dead accuse you from the dust—* LINES ON POLAND. Brows laurelled— bosoms marked with many a scar b or 1< ranee— that wore her Legion’s noblest star, Cast dumb reproaches from the field of Death On Gadic honour ; and this broken faith Has robbed you more of Fame— the life of life — Ilian twenty battles lost in glorious strife ! * And what of England—Is she steeped so low- in poverty, crest-fallen, and palsied so, rhat we must sit much wroth, but timorous more, Uith murder knocking at our neighbour’s door !_ i>ot murder masked and cloaked with hidden knife VY hose owner owes the gallows life for life • •but Public Murder! -that with pomp and gaud, -Knd royal scorn of Justice, walks abroad To wring more tears and blood than e’er were wrurn* ijy all the culprits Justice ever hung ! We read the diademed Assassin’s vaunt And wmee, and wish we had not hearts’to pant ith useless indignation— sigh, and frown. But have not hearts to throw the gauntlet down. If but a doubt hung o’er the grounds of frav. Or trivial rapine stopped the world’s highway • VVere this some common strife of States embro’iled • Britannia on the spoiler and the spoiled Might calmly look, and, asking time to breathe, fetili honourably wear her olive wreath But this is Darkness combating with Light : Larth s adverse Principles for empire fioht • Oppression that has belted half the globe bar as his knout could reach or dagger probe Holds reeking o’er our brother freemen slain ? lhat dagger— shakes it at us in disdain ; lalks big to Freedom’s states of Poland’s thrall. And, trampling one, contemns them one and all. ^/P JUn J ry ! P olours not thy once proud brow Attbisaffronf?— Hast thou not fleets enow With Glory s streamer, lofty as the lark Gay fluttering o’er each thunder-bearing bark To warm th’ Insurer’s seas with barb’rous blood, And interdict his flag from Ocean’s flood ? 176 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. E’en now far off the sea-cliff, where I sing, I see, my Country, and my Patriot King ! Your ensign glad the deep. Becalmed and slow A war-ship rides ; while Heaven’s prismatic bow Uprisen behind her on the horizon’s base, > Shines flushing through the tackle, shrouds, and stays, > And wraps her giant form in one majestic blaze. ) My soul accepts the omen ; Fancy’s eye Has sometimes a veracious augury : The Rainbow types Heaven’s promise to my sight ; The Ship, Britannia’s interposing Might ! But if there should be none to aid you, Poles. Ye’ll but to prouder pitch wind up your souls, Above example, pity, praise or blame, To sow and reap a boundless field of Fame. Ask aid no more from Nations that forget Your championship — old Europe’s mighty debt. Though Poland (Lazarus-like) has burst the gloom, She rises not a beggar from the tomb : In Fortune’s frown, on Danger’s giddiest brink, Despair and Poland’s name must never link. All ills have bounds — plague, whirlwind, fire, and flood ; E’en power can spill but bounded sums of blood. States caring not what freedom’s price may be, May late or soon, but must at last be free ; For body-killing tyrants cannot kill The public soul — the hereditary will That downward as from sire to son it goes, By shifting bosoms more intensely glows : Its heir- loom is the heart, and slaughtered men Fight fiercer in their orphans o’er fgain. Poland recasts — though rich in heroes old, — Her men in more and more heroic mould : Her Eagle-ensign best among mankind Become, and types her eagle -strength of mind: Her praise upon my faltering lips expires : Resume it, younger bards, and nobler lyres I LINES WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF. 177 LINES WRITTEN IN A- BLANK LEAF OF LA PEROUSE’S VOYAGES. Loved Voyager ! whose pages had a zest More sweet than fiction to my wond’ring breast. When, ’rapt in fancy, many a boyish day I tracked his wanderings o’er the watery way. Eoamed round the Aleutian isles in waking dreams, Or plucked the flear-de-lys by Jesso’s streams— Or gladly leaped on that far Tartar strand, Where Europe’s anchor ne’er had bit the sand, Where scarce a roving wild tribe crossed the plain, Or human voice broke nature’s silent reign ; But vast and grassy deserts feed the bear, And sweeping deer-herds dread no hunter’s snare. Such young delight his real records brought, His truth so touched romantic springs of thought, That all my after-life — his fate and fame Entwined romance with La Perouse’s name. Fair were his ships, expert his gallant crews, And glorious was th’ emprize of La Perouse, — Humanely glorious ! Men will weep for him, When many a guilty martial fame is dim : He ploughed the deep to bind no captive’s chain — Pursued no rapine — strewed no wreck with slain ; And, save that in the deep themselves lie low, His heroes plucked no wreath from human woe. ’Twas his the earth’s remotest bounds to scan, Conciliating with gifts barbaric man — Enrich the world’s contemporaneous mind, And amplify the picture of mankind. Far on the vast Pacific — ’midst those isles, O’er which the earliest morn of Asia smiles, He sounded and gave charts to many a shore And gulf of Ocean new to nautic lore ; Yet he that led Discovery o’er the wave, Still finds himself an undiscovered grave. 178 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. He came not back,— Conjecture’s cheek grew pale, Year after year— in no propitious gale, His lilied banner held its homeward way, And Science saddened at her martyr’s stay. An age elapsed — no wreck told where or when The chief went down with all his gallant men, Or whether by the storm and wild sea flood He perished, or by wilder men of blood— The shudd’ring Fancy only guess’d his doom, And Doubt to sorrow gave but deeper gloom. An age elapsed — when men were dead or grey, Whose hearts had mourned him in their youthful day ; Fame traced on Mannicolo’s shore at last The boiling surge had mounted o’er his mast. The islesmen told of some surviving men, But Christian eyes beheld them ne’er again. Sad bourne of all his toils — with all his band — To sleep, wrecked, shroudless, on a savage strand ! Yet what is all that fires a hero’s scorn Of death ? — the hope to live in hearts unborn : Life to the brave is not its fleeting breath, But worth — foretasting fame, that follows death. That worth had La Perouse — that meed he won ; He sleeps — his life’s long stormy watch is done. In the great deep, whose boundaries and space He measured, Fate ordained his resting-place ; But bade his fame, like th’ Ocean rolling o’er His relics — visit every earthly shore. Fair Science on that Ocean’s azure robe, Still writes his name in picturing the globe, And paints — (what fairer wreath could Glory twine?) His watery course— a world’ encircling line. THE POWER OE RUSSIA. 179 THE POWER OF RUSSIA. So all this gallant blood has gushed in vain ! And Poland by the Northern Condor’s beak And talons torn, lies prostrated again. O, British patriots, that were wont to speak Once loudly on this theme, now hushed or meek ! O, heartless men of Europe — Goth and Gaul ! Cold, adder- deaf to Poland’s dying shriek; — That saw the world’s last land of heroes fail — The brand of burning shame is on you all — all— all ! But this is not the drama’s closing act ; Its tragic curtain must uprise anew. Nations, mute accessories to the fact ! That Upas-tree of power, whose fostering dew Was Polish blood, has yet to cast o’er you The lengthening shadow of its head elate — A deadly shadow, darkening nature’s hue. To all that’s hallowed, righteous, pure, and great, Wo ! wo ! when they are reached by Russia’s withering hate. Russia, that on his throne of adamant, Consults what nation’s breast shall next be gored : Be on Polonia’s Golgotha will plant His standard fresh ; and, horde succeeding horde, On patriot tomb -stones he will whet the sword, For more stupendous slaughters of the free. Then Europe’s realms, when their best blood is poured, Shall miss thee, Poland ! as they bend the knee, All — all in grief, but none in glory likening thee. Why smote ye not the giant whilst he reeled? O, fair occasion, gone for ever by ! To have locked his lances in their northern field, Innocuous as the phantom chivalry That flames and hurtles from yon boreal sky ! Now wave thy pennon, Russia, o’er the land Once Poland ; build thy bristling castles high ; Dig dungeons deep ; for Poland’s wrested brand Is now a weapon new to widen thy command — Campbell’s poems. iso An awful width ! Norwegian woods shall build His fleets ; the Swede his vassal, and the Dane : The glebe of fifty kingdoms shall be tilled To feed his dazzling, desolating train, Camped sumless, ’twixt the Black and Baltic main : Brute hosts, I own ; but Sparta could not write, And Rome, half-barbarous, bound Achaia’s chain : So Russia’s spirit, ’midst Sclavonic night, Burns with a fire more dread than all your polished light. But Russia’s limbs (so blinded statesmen say) Are crude, and too colossal to cohere. O, lamentable weakness ! reckoning weak The stripling Titan, strengthening year by year. What implement lacks he for war’s career, That grows on earth, or in its floods and mines, (Eighth sharer of the inhabitable sphere) Whom Persia bows to, China ill confines, And India’s homage waits, when Albion’s star declines ? But time will teach the Russ, e’en conquering Has handmaid arts : ay, ay, the Russ will woo All sciences that speed Bellona’s car, All murder’s tactic arts, and win them too ; But never holier Muses shall imbue His breast that’s made of nature’s basest clay : The sabre, knout, and dungeon’s vapour blue His laws and ethics : far from him away Are all the lovely nine that breathe but freedom’s day. Say, e’en his serfs, half humanised, should learn Their human rights, — will Mars put out his flame In Russian bosoms ? no, he’ll bid them burn A thousand years for nought but martial fame, Like Romans : — yet forgive me, Roman name ! Rome could impart what Russia never can ; Proud civic rights to salve submission’s shame. Our strife is coming ; but in freedom’s van The Polish Eagle’s fall is big with fate to man. Proud bird of old ! Mohammed’s moon recoiled Before thy swoop : had we been timely bold, ODE TO THE GERMANS. 181 That swoop, still free, had stunned the Russ, and foiled Earth’s new oppressors, as it foiled her old. Now thy majestic eyes are shut and cold : And colder still Polonia’s children find The sympathetic hands, that we outhold. But, Poles, when we are gone, the world will mind, Ye bore the brunt of fate, and bled for humankind. So hallo wedly have ye fulfilled your part, My pride repudiates e’en the sigh that blends With Poland’s name — name written on my heart. My heroes, my grief- consecrated friends ! Your sorrow, in nobility, transcends Your conqueror’s joy : his cheek may blush ; but shame Can tinge not yours, though exile’s tear descends ; Nor would ye change your conscience, cause and name, For his, with all his wealth, and all his felon fame. Thee, Niemciewitz, whose song of stirring power The Czar forbids to sound in Polish lands ; Thee, Czartoriski, in thy banished bower, The parricide, who in thy palace stands, May envy ; proudly may Polonia’s bands Throw down their swords at Europe’s feet in scorn, Saying — “ Russia, from the metal of these brands Shall forge the fetters of your sons unborn ; Our setting star is your misfortune’s rising morn.” ODE TO THE GERMANS. The Spirit of Britannia Invokes across the main, Pier sister Allemania To burst the Tyrant’s chain : By our kindred blood she cries, Rise, Allemanians, rise, And hallowed thrice the band Of our kindred hearts shall be, When your land shall be the land Of the free— -of the free ! | 182 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. With Freedom’s lion- banner Britannia rules the waves ; Whilst your broad stone of honour Is still the camp of slaves. For shame, for glory’s sake, Wake, Allemanians, wake, And the tyrants now that whelm Half the world, shall quail and flee, When your realm shall he the realm Of the free— of the free ! Mars owes to you his thunder That shakes the battle-field, Yet to break your bonds asunder No martial bolt has pealed. Shall the laurelled land of art Wear shackles on her heart? No ! the dock ye framed to tell By its sound, the march of time ; Let it clang oppression’s knell O’er your clime — o’er your clime ! The Press’s magic letters, - That blessing ye brought forth,— Behold ! it lies in fetters On the soil that gave it birth : But the trumpet must be heard, And the charger must be spurred ; For you father Armin’s Sprite Calls down from heaven, that ye Shall gird you for the fight, And be free ! — and be free ! FLOEINE. Could I bring back lost youth again, And be what I have been, I’d court you in a gallant strain, My young and fair Florine. LINES ON THE CAMP HILL. 183 ! But mine’s the chilling age that chides Devoted rapture’s glow, And Love— that conquers all besides — Finds Time a conquering foe. Farewell ! we’re severed by our fate, As far as night from noon ; You came into the world too late, And I depart so soon. LINES ON THE CAMP HILL, NEAR HASTINGS. In the deep blue of eve, Ere the twinkling of stars had begun, Or the lark took his leave Gf the skies and the sweet setting sun, I climbed to yon heights, Where the Norman encamped him of old, With his bowmen and knights, And his banner all burnished with gold. At the Conqueror’s side Tli ere his minstrelsy sat harp in hand, In pavilion wide ; And they chaunted the deeds of Boland. Still the ramparted ground With a vision my fancy inspires, And I hear the trump sound, As it marshalled our Chivalry’s sires. On each turf of that mead Stood the captors of England’s domains, That ennobled her breed And high-mettled the blood of her veins. Over hauberk and helm As the sun’s setting splendour was thrown, Thence they looked o’er a realm — And to-morrow beheld it their own. Campbell’s poems. 184 TRANSLATIONS. SONG- OF HYBRIAS THE CRETAN. My wealth’s a burly spear and brand, And a right good shield of hides untanned, Which on my arm I buckle : With these I plough, I reap, I sow, With these I make the sweet vintage flow, And all around me truckle. But your wights that take no pride to wield A massy spear and well-made shield, Nor joy to draw the sword : Oh, I bring those heartless, hapless drones, Down in a trice on their marrow-bones, To call me King and Lord. MARTIAL ELEGY FROM THE GREEK OF TYRTJ2US. How glorious fall the valiant, sword in hand, In front of battle for their native land ! But oh ! what ills await the wretch that yields, A recreant outcast from his country’s fields ! The mother whom he loves shall quit her home, An aged father at his side shall roam ; His little ones shall weeping with him go, And a young wife participate his woe ; W 7 hile scorned and scowled upon by every face, They pine for food, and beg from place to place. I FRAGMENT FROM THE GREEK OF ALCMAN. 185 | Stain of his breed ! dishonouring manhood’s form, All ills shall cleave to him : — Affliction’s storm Shall blind him wandering in the vale of years, Till, lost to all but ignominious fears, He shall not blush to leave a recreant’s name. And children, like himself, inured to shame. But we will combat for our father’s land, And we will drain the life-blood where we stand To save our children : — tight ye side by side, And serried close, ye men of youthful pride, Disdaining fear, and deeming light the cost Of life itself in glorious battle lost. Leave not our sires to stem the unequal tight, Whose limbs are nerved no more with buoyant might ; Nor lagging backward, let the younger breast Permit the man of age (a sight unblessed) To welter in the combat’s foremost^hrust, PI is hoary head dishevelled in the dust, And venerable bosom bleeding bare. But youth’s fair form, though fallen, is ever fair, And beautiful in death the boy appears, The hero boy, that dies in blooming years : In man’s regret he lives, and woman’s tears, More sacred than in life, and lovelier far, For having perished in the front of war. FRAGMENT. FROM THE GREEK OF ALCMAN. The mountain summits sleep : glens, cliffs and caves, Are silent — all the black earth’s reptile brood — The bees — the wild beasts of the mountain wood ; In depths beneath the dark red ocean’s waves Its monsters rest, whilst wrapt in bower and spray Each bird is hushed that stretched its pinions to the day. 180 CAMPBELL’S POEMS. SPEECH OF THE CHORUS IN THE TRAGEDY OF “ MEDEA,” TO DISSUADE MEDEA FROM HER . PURPOSE OF PUTTING HER CHILDREN TO DEATH, AND FLYING FOR PROTECTION TO ATHENS. O haggard queen ! to Athens dost thou guide Thy glowing chariot, steeped in kindred gore ; Or seek to hide thy damned parricide Where Peace and Mercy dwell for evermore ? The land where Truth, pare, precious, and sublime, Woos the deep silence of sequestered bowers, And warriors, matchless since the first of time, Rear their bright banners o’er unconquered towers ! Where joyous youth, to Music’s mellow strain, Twines in the dance with nymphs for ever fair, While Spring eternal on the lilied plain, Waves amber radiance through the fields of air. The tuneful Nine (so sacred legends tell) First waked their heavenly lyre these scenes among ; Still in your greenwood bowers they love to dwell ; Still in your vales they swell the choral song ! But there the tuneful, chaste, Pierian fair, The guardian nymphs of green Parnassus, now Sprung from Harmonia, while her graceful hair Waved in bright auburn o’er her polished brow ! ANTISTROPHE I. Where silent vales, and glades of green array, The murmuring wreaths <5f cool Cephisus lave, There, as the muse hath sung, at noon of day, The Queen of Beauty bowed to taste the wave ; SPEECH OF THE CHORUS. 187 And blest the stream, and breathed across the Land The soft sweet gale that fans yon summer bowers ; And there the sister Loves, a smiling band, Crowned with the fragrant wreaths of rosy flowers ! 11 And go,” she cries, “ in yonder valleys rove, With Beauty’s torch the solemn scenes illume ; Wake in each eye the radiant light of Love, Breathe on each cheek young Passion’s tender bloom ! 11 Entwine, with myrtle chains, your soft control, To sway the hearts of Freedom’s darling kind ! With glowing charms enrapture Wisdom’s soul, And mould to grace ethereal Virtue’s mind.” STROPHE II. The land where Heaven’s own hallowed waters play, Where friendship binds the generous and the good, Say, shall it hail thee from thy frantic way, Unholy woman ! with thy hands embrued In thine own children’s gore? Oh ! ere they bleed, Let Nature’s voice thy ruthless heart appal 1 Pause at the bold, irrevocable deed — The mother strikes— the guiltless babes shall fall ! Think what remorse thy maddening thoughts shall sting, When dying pangs their gentle bosoms tear ! Where shalt thou sink, when lingering echoes ring The screams of horror in thy tortured ear ?. No ! let thy bosom melt to Pity’s cry, — In dust we kneel — by sacred Heaven implore — 0 ! stop thy lifted arm, ere yet they die, Nor dip thv horrid hands in infant gore ! 188 Campbell’s poems. ANTTSTROPHE II. Say, how shalt thou that barbarous soul assume. Undamped by horror at the daring plan ? Hast thou a heart to work thy children’s doom ? Or hands to finish what thy wrath began ? When o’er each babe you look a last adieu, And gaze on Innocence that smiles asleep, Shall no fond feeling beat to Nature true, Charm thee to pensive thought — and bid thee weep? When the young suppliants clasp their parent dear, Heave the deep sob, and pour the artless prayer, — . Ay ! thou shalt melt ; — and many a heart-shed tear Gush o’er the hardened features of despair ! Nature shall throb in every tender string, — Thy trembling heart the ruffian’s task deny ; — Thy horror-smitten hands afar shall fling The blade, undrenched in blood’s eternal dye. CHORUS. Hallowed Earth ! with indignation Mark, oh mark, the murderous deed l Radiant eye of wide creation, Watch the damned parricide ! Yet, ere Colchia’s rugged daughter Perpetrate the dire design, And consign to kindred slaughter Children of thy golden line ! Shall thy hand, with murder gory, Cause immortal blood to flow ! Sun of Heaven !— arrayed in glory Rise, forbid, avert the blow ! TRANSLATION FROM “ MEDEA.' 189 In the vales of placid gladness Let no rueful maniac range ; Chase afar the fiend of Madness, Wrest the dagger from Revenge ! Say, hast thou, with kind protection, Reared thy smiling race in vain ; Fostering Nature’s fond affection, Tender cares, and pleasing pain ? Hast thou, on the troubled ocean, Braved the tempest loud and strong, Where the waves, in wild commotion, Boar Cyanean rocks among ? Didst thou roam the paths of danger, Hymenean joys to prove ? Spare, O sanguinary stranger. Pledges of thy sacred love ! Shall not Heaven, with indignation, Watch thee o’er the barbarous deed? Shalt thou cleanse, with expiation, Monstrous, murderous parricide ? SPECIMEN OF TRANSLATION FROM “ MEDEA/’ 2 kkiou$ Xiyuv xovbiv rt coQov; T ov$ vpocrfa fiporovs oua uv ctpctprois, “ Medea,” v. 194, p. 33. Glasg. edit. Tell me, ye bards, whose skill sublime First charmed the ear of youthful Time, With numbers wrapt in heavenly fire, Who bade delighted echo swell The trembling transports of the lyre, The murmur of the shell — 190 Campbell’s poems. Why to the burst of Joy alone Accords sweet Music’s soothing tone ? Why can no bard, with magic strain, In slumbers steep the heart of pain ? While varied tones obey your sweep, The mild, the plaintive, and the deep. Bends not despairing Grief to hear Your golden lute, with ravished ear? Oh ! has your sweetest shell no power to bind The fiercer pangs that shake the mind, And lull the wrath at whose command, Murder bares her gory hand ? When flushed with joy, the rosy throng Weave the light dance, ye swell the song! Cease, ye vain warblers ! cease to charm The breast with other raptures warm ! Cease ! till your hand with magic strain In slumbers steep the heart of pain ! N 0 t e s TO THE PLEASURES OF HOPE, ANALYSIS OF PART I. The Poem opens with a comparison between the beauty of remote objects in a landscape, and those ideal scenes of felicity which the imagination delights to contemplate — the influence of anticipation upon the other passions is next delineated — an allusion is made to the well-known Action in Pagan tradition, that, when all the guardian deities of mankind abandoned the world, Hope alone was left behind— the consolations of this passion in situations of distress — the seaman on his watch — the soldier marching into battle — allusion to the interesting • adventures of Byron. The inspiration of Hope, as it actuates the efforts of genius, whether in the department of science, or of taste — domestic felicity, how intimately connected with views of future happi- ness — picture of a mother watching her infant when asleep — pictures of the prisoner, the maniac, and the wanderer. From the consolations of individual misery a transition is made to prospects of political improvement in the future state of society — the wide field that is yet open for the progress of humanising arts among uncivilised nations — from these views of amelioration of society, and the extension of liberty and truth over despotic and barbarous countries, by a melancholy contrast of ideas, we are led to reflect upon the hard fate of a brave people recently conspicuous in their struggles for in- dependence — description of the capture of Warsaw, of the last j 192 NOTES TO THE PLEASURES OF HOPE. contest of the oppressors and the oppressed, and the massacre of the Polish patriots at the bridge of Prague — apostrophe to the self-interested enemies of human improvement — the wrongs of Africa — the barbarous policy of Europeans in India — pro- phecy in the hindoo mythology of the expected descent of the Deity to redress the miseries of their race, and to take ven- geance on the violators of justice and mercy. PAPvT I. Note to Page 19. “ And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore The hardy Byron to his native shore.” The following picture of his own distress, given by Byron in his simple and interesting narrative, justifies the descrip- tion in page 19. After relating the barbarity of the Indian cacique to his child, he proceeds thus: — “ A day or two after we put to sea again, and crossed the great bay I mentioned we had been at the bottom of when we first hauled away to the westward. The land here was very low and sandy, and something like the mouth of a river which discharged itself into the sea, and which had been taken no notice of by us before, as it was so shallow that the Indians were obliged to take everything out of their canoes, and carry them over land. We rowed up the river four or five leagues, and then took into a branch of it that ran first to the eastward, and then to the northward : here it became much narrower, and the stream excessively rapid, so that we gained but little way, though we wrought very hard. At night we landed upon its banks, and had a most uncomfortable lodging, it being a perfect swampland we had nothing to cover us, though it rained excessively. KOTES TO THE PLEASURES OF HOPE. 193 The Indians were little better off than we, as there was no wood here do make their wigwams ; so that all they could do was to prop up the bark, which they carry in the bottom of their canoes, and shelter themselves as well as they could to the leeward of it. Knowing the difficulties they had to encounter here, they had provided themselves with some seal ; but we had not a morsel to eat, after the heavy fatigues of the day, excepting a sort of root we saw the Indians make use of, which was very disagreeable to the taste. We laboured all next day against the stream, and fared as we had done the day before. The next day brought us to the carrying place. Here was plenty of wood, but nothing to be got for sus- tenance. We passed this night, as we had frequently done, under a tree ; but what we suffered at this time is not easy to be expressed. I had been three days at the oar without any kind of nourishment except the wretched root above mentioned. I had no shirt, for it had rotted off by bits. All my clothes consisted of a short grieko (something like a bear-skin), a piece of red cloth which had once been a waistcoat, and a ragged pair of trousers, without shoes or stockings.” Hote to Page 25. “Wild Obi flies.” Among the negroes of the West Indies, Obi, or Obiah, is the name of a magical power, which is believed by them to affect the object of its malignity with dismal calamities. Such a belief must undoubtedly have been deduced from the super? stitious mythology of their kinsmen on the coast of Africa. I have, therefore, personified Obi as the evil spirit of the African, although the history of the African tribes men- tions the evil spirits of their religious creed by a different appellation. 194 NOTES TO THE PLEASURES OF HOPE. Note to Page 25. “ Sibir’s dreary mines.” Mr Bell, of Antermony, in his “ Travels through Siberia,” informs us that the name of the country is universally pro- nounced “SibT” by the Russians. Note to Page 26. “ Presaging wrath to Poland— and to man ! ” The history of the partition of Poland, of the massacre in the suburbs of Warsaw, and on the bridge of Prague, the triumphant entry of Suwarrow into the Polish capital, and the insult offered to human nature, by the blasphemous thanks offered up to Heaven, for victories obtained over men fighting in the sacred cause of liberty, by murderers and oppressors, are events generally known. Note to Page DO. “ How long was Timour’s iron sceptre swayed?” To elucidate this passage, I shall subjoin a quotation from the preface to “Letters from a Hindoo Rajah,” by Eliza Hamilton, a work of elegance and celebrity “ The impostor of Mecca had established, as one of the principles of his doctrine, the merit of extending it either by persuasion, or the sword, to all parts of the earth. How steadily this injunction was adhered to by his followers, and with what success it was pursued, is well known to all who are in the least conversant in history. “ The same overwhelming torrent which had inundated the greater part of Africa, burst its way into the very heart of Europe, and covering many kingdoms of Asia, with unbounded I / I i 4 NOTES TO THE PLEASURES OF HOPE. 195 desolation, directed its baneful course to the flourishing pro- vinces of Hindostan. Here these fierce and hardy adven- turers, whose only improvement had been in the science of destruction, who added the fury of fanaticism to the ravages of War, found the great end of their conquest opposed by objects which neither the ardour of their persevering zeal, nor savage barbarity, could surmount. Multitudes were sacrificed by the cruel hand of religious | persecution, and whole countries were deluged in blood, j in the vain hope, that by the destruction of a part, the [ remainder might be persuaded, or terrified, into the profession j of Mohammedism. But all these sanguinary efforts were incftec- I tual ; and at length,- being fully convinced, that though they j might extirpate, they could never hope to convert, any rum- j her of the Hindoos, they relinquished the impracticable idea j with which they had entered upon their career of conquest, and contented themselves with the acquirement of the civil j dominion and almost universal empire of Hindostan .’ 7 iSToTE to Page 81. “ While famished nations died along the shore,” The following account of British conduct, and its conse- quences, in Bengal, will afford a sufficient idea of the fact alluded to in this passage. After describing the monopoly of salt, betel nut, and tobacco, the historian proceeds thus : — u Money in this current came but by drops ; it could not quench the thirst of those who waited in India to receive it. An expedient such as it was, remained to quicken its pace. The natives could live with little salt-, but could not want food. Some of the agents saw themselves w^ell situated for collecting the rice into stores ; they did so. They knew the Gentoos would rather die thar violate the principles of their religion by eating flesh. Tin l 98 notes to the pleasures of hope. alternative would therefore be between giving what they had or dying. The inhabitants sunk ; — they that cultivated the land, and saw the harvest at the disposal of others, planted in doubt —scarcity ensued. Then the monopoly was easier j managed— sickness ensued. In some districts the languid living left the bodies of their numerous dead unburied.” — Short History of the English Transactions in the East Indies , page 145. Note to Page 31. “ Nine times have Brahma’s wheels of lightning hurled TIis awful presence o’er the alarmed world.’* Among the sublime fictions of the Hindoo mythology, it is one article of belief that the Deity Brafima has descended nine times upon the world in various forms, and that he is yet to appear a tenth time, in the figure of a warrior upon a white horse, to cut off all incorrigible offenders. “Avatar” is the word used to express his descent. ANALYSIS OF PART II. Apostrophe to the power of love — its intimate connection with generous and social Sensibility — allusion to that beautiful passage in the beginning of the book of Genesis, which repre- sents the happiness of Paradise itself incomplete, till love was superadded to its other blessings — the dreams of future felicity which a lively imagination is apt to cherish, when Hope, is animated by refined attachment — this disposition to combine, in one imaginary scene of residence, all that is pleasing in our estimate of happiness, compared to the skill of the great artist f NOTES TO THE PLEASURES OF HOPE. 197 who personified perfect beauty, in the picture of Yenus, by an assemblage of the most beautiful features he could find — a summer and winter evening described, as the^may be supposed to arise in the mind of one who wishes, with enthusiasm, for the union of friendship and retirement. Hope and imagination inseparable agents— even in those contemplative moments when our imagination wanders beyond the boundaries of this world, our minds are not unattended with an impression that we shall some day have a wider and distinct prospect of the universe, instead of the partial glimpse we now enjoy. The last and most sublime influence of Hope is the con- cluding topic of the poem — the predominance of a belief in a future state over the terrors attendant on dissolution — the baneful influence of that sceptical philosophy which bars us from such comforts — allusion to the fate of a suicide — episode of Conrad and Ellenore — conclusion. PART II. Note to Page 36. “ Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bcfre, Marched by their Charles to Dneipers swampy shore.” * 1 In this 'extremity,” says the biographer of Charles XII. of Sweden, speaking of his military exploits before the battle of Pultowa, a the memorable winter of 1709, which was still more remarkable in that part of Europe than in France, de- stroyed numbers of his troops ; for Charles resolved to brave the seasons as he had done his enemies, and ventured to make long marches during this mortal cold. It w T as in one of these marches that two thousand men fell down dead v/ith j cold before his eyes.” 198 NOTES TO GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. Note to Page 37. ® “ As Iona’s saint.” The natives of the island of Iona have an opinion that on certain evenings every year the tutelary saint Colu mba is seen on the top of the church spires counting the surrounding islands, to see that they have not been sunk by the power of witchcraft. NOTES TO GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. ADVERTISEMENT. Most of the popular histories of England, as well as of the American war, give an authentic account of the desolation of Wyoming, in Pennsylvania, which took place in 1778, by an incursion of the Indians. The Scenery and Incidents of the following Poem are connected with that event. The testi- monies of historians and travellers concur in describing the infant colony as one of the happiest spots of human existence, for the hospitable and innocent manners of the inhabitants, the beauty of the country, and the luxuriant fertility of the soil and climate. In an evil hour, the junction of European with Indian arms, converted this terrestrial paradise into a frightful waste. Mr Isaac Weld informs us, that the ruins of many of the villages, perforated with balls, and bearing marks of conflagration, were still preserved by the recent inhabitants, when he travelled through America in 1796. I NOTES TO GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. •199 PART I. Note to Page 44. 11 From merry mock-bird’s song.” “ TIis mocking-bird is of the form, but larger than the thrush ; and the colours are a mixture of black, white, and grey. What is said of the nightingale by its greatest admirers, is what may with more propriety apply to this bird, who, in a natural state, sings with very superior taste. Towards evening I have heard one begin softly, reserving its breath to swell certain notes, which, by this means, had a most astonishing •; effect. A gentleman in London had one of these birds for j six years. Daring the space of a minute he was heard to j imitate the woodlark, chaffinch, blackbird, thrush, and sparrow* j In this country (America) I have frequently known the mock- | ing-birds so engaged in this mimicry, that it was with much j difficulty I could ever obtain an opportunity of hearing their ! own natural note. Some go so far as to say, that they have I neither peculiar notes, nor favourite imitations. This may j be denied. Their few natural notes resemble those of the j (European) nightingale. Their song, however, has a greater j compass and volume than the nightingale, and they have the ' faculty of varying all intermediate notes in a manner which is j truly delightful.”-— Ashe’s Travels in America , vol. ii. p, 73. Note to Page 45. “ And distant isles that hear the loud Corbrecktan roar ! ” . j The Corybrechtan, or Corbreclitan, is a whirlpool on the j western coast of Scotland, near the island of Jura, which is 1 heard at a prodigious distance. Its name signifies the whirl- j pool of the Prince of Denmark ; and there is a tradition that ! a Danish prince once undertook, for a wager, to cast anchor 200 NOTES TO GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. I in it. He is said to have used woollen instead of hempen rope 3 , for greater strength, but perished in the attempt. On the shores of Argyleshire, I have often listened with great delight to the sound of this vortex, at the distance of many leagues. When the weather is calm, and the adjacent sea is scarcely heard on these picturesque shores, its sound, which is like the sound of innumerable chariots, creates a magnificent and fine effect. Note to Page 46. “ Of buskined limb, and swarthy lineament.” 44 In the Indian tribes there is a great similarity in their colour, stature, &e. They are all, except the Snake Indians, tall in stature, straight, and robust. It is very seldom they are deformed, which has given rise to the supposition that they put to death their deformed children. Their skin is of a copper colour ; their eyes large, bright, black, and sparkling, indicative of a subtile and discerning mind : their hair is of the same colour, and prone to be long, seldom or never curled. Their teeth are large and white ; I never observed any de- cayed among them, which makes their breath as sweet as the air they inhale .’' — Travels through America by Capts. Lewis and Clarke * in 1804-5-6. Note to Page 47. 44 Peace be to thee ! my words this belt approve.” 44 The Indians of North America accompany every formal address to strangers, with whom they form or recognise a treaty of amity, with a present of a string, or belt, of wam- pum. 4 W ampum,’ says Cadwalladar Colden, 4 is made of the large whelk shell, Buccinum , and shaped like long beads NOTES TO GE&TEUDE OP WYOMING. 201 it is the current money of the Indians.’ ” — History of the five Indian Nations , p. 34. New York edition* Note to Page 47. 44 The paths of peace my steps have hither led.” In relating an interview of Mohawk Indians with the Governor of New York, Colden quotes the following passage as a specimen of their metaphorical manner : — 4 4 Where shall I seek the chair of peace ? where shall I find it but upon our path? and whither doth our path lead us but unto this house ? ” Note to Page 47. 44 Our wampum league thy brethren did embrace.” 44 When they solicit the alliance, offensive or defensive, of a whole nation, they send an embassy with a large belt of wampum and a bloody hatchet, inviting them to come and drink the blood of their enemies. The wampum made use of on these and other occasions, before their acquaintance with the Europeans, was nothing but small shells which they picked up by the sea-coasts, and on the banks of the lakes ; and now it is nothing but a kind of cylindrical beads, made of shells, white and black, which are esteemed among them as silver and gold are among us. The black they call the most valu- able, and both together are their greatest riches and ornaments ; these among them answering all the end that money does amongst us. They have the art of stringing, twisting, and interweaving them into their belts, collars, blankets, and mocassins, &c., in ten thousand different sizes, forms, and figures, so as to be ornaments for every part of dress, and expressive to them of all their important transactions. They 202 NOTES TO GERTRUDE OF WYOMING, dye the wampum of various colours and shades, and mix and dispose them with great ingenuity and order, and so as to be significant among themselves of almost everything they please ; so that by these their words are kep^and their thoughts com- municated to one another, as ours are by writing. The belts that pass from one nation to another in all treaties, declara- tions, and important transactions, are very carefully preserved in the cabins of their chiefs, and serve not only as a kind of record or history, but as a public treasure .” — Major Rogers' Account of North America . Note to Page 47 . “As when the evil Manitou.” “It is certain the Indians acknowledge one Supreme Being, or Giver of Life, who presides over all things ; that is, the Great Spirit ; and they look up to him as the source of good, from whence no evil can proceed. They also believe in a bad Spirit, to whom they ascribe great power ; and suppose that through his power all the evils which befall mankind are in- flicted. To him, therefore, they pray in their distresses, bhgging that he w r ould either avert their troubles, or moderate them w 7 hen they are no longer avoidable. “ They hold also that there are good Spirits of a lower degree, who have their particular departments, in which they are constantly contributing to the happiness of mortals. These they suppose to preside over all the extraordinary productions of Nature, such as those lakes, rivers, and mountains that are of an uncommon magnitude ; and likewise the beasts, birds* fishes, and even vegetables or stones, that exceed the rest of their species in size or singularity .” — Clarke s Travels among the Indians . The Supreme Spirit of good is called by the Indians Kitchi Manitou” ; and the Spirit of evil, “ Matchi Manitou.” NOTES TO GERTRUDE OF WYOMING, 203 Note to Page 48. “ Fever-balm and sweet sagainite.” # The fever-balm is a medicine used by these tribes ; it is a decoction of a bush called the Fever Tree, Sagamite is a ; kind of soup administered to their sick. Note to Page 48. “ And I, the eagle of my tribe, have rushed with this lorn dove. 7 ’ , The testimony of all travellers among the American Indians j who mention their hieroglyphics, authorises me in putting this j figurative language in the mouth of OutalissL The dove is j among them, as elsewhere, an emblem of meekness ; and the eagle, that of a bold, noble, and liberal mind. When the : Indians speak of a warrior who soars above the multitude in j person and endowments, they say, u he is like the eagle, who destroys his enemies and gives protection and abundance to the weak of his own tribe.” Note to Page 40. “Far differently; the mute Oneyda took,” &c. * £ They are extremely circumspect and deliberate in every word and action ; nothing hurries them into any intemperate wrath, but that inveteracy to their enemies which is rooted in every Indian’s breast. In all other instances they are cool and deliberate, taking care to suppress the emotions of the heart. If an Indian has discovered that a friend of his is in danger of I being cut off by a lurking enemy, he does not tell him of his ; danger in direct terms as though he were in fear, but he first j j coolly asks him which way he is going that day, and having his j answer, with the same indifference tells him that he has been i informed that a noxious beast lies on the route he is going. I 204 NOTES TO GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. This hint proves sufficient, and his friend avoids the danger with as much caution as though every design and motion of his enenyr had been pointed out to him. “ If an Indian has been eDgaged for several days in the chase, and by accident continued long without food, when he arrives at the hut of a friend, where he knows that his wants will be immediately supplied, he takes care not to show the least symptoms of impatience, or betray the extreme hunger that he is tortured with ; but on being invited in, sits contentedly down and smokes his pipe with as much com- posure as if his appetite was cloyed and he was perfectly at ease. He does the same if among strangers. This custom is strictly adhered to by every tribe, as they esteem it a proof of fortitude, and think the reverse would entitle them to the appellation of old women. “If you tell an Indian that his children have greatly sig- , nalised themselves against an enemy, have taken many scalps, 1 and brought home many prisoners, he does not appear to feel any strong emotions of pleasure on the occasion ; his answer generally is — they have ‘done well,’ and he makes but very little inquiry about the matter; on the contrary, if you inform him that his children are slain or taken prisoners, he makes no complaints : he only replies, ‘ It is unfortunate — and for some time asks no questions about how it happened .” — Lewis and Clarke's Travels . Note to Page 49. “ His calumet of peace,” &c. “Nor is the calumet of less importance or less revered than the wampum in many transactions relative both to peace and war. The bowl of this pipe is made of a kind of soft red stone, which is easily wrought and hollowed out ; the stem is of cane, alder, or some kind of light wood, painted with dif- NOTES TO GERTRUDE OE WYOMING. 205 | ferent colours, and decorated with the heads, tails, and feathers of the most beautiful birds. The use of the calumet is to smoke either tobacco or some bark, leaf, or herb, which they often use instead of it, when they ent§r into an alliance or any serious occasion or solemn engagements ; this being among them the most sacred oath that can be taken, the violation of which is esteemed most infamous, and deserving of severe punishment from Heaven. When they treat of war, the whole pipe and all its ornaments are red : sometimes it is red only on one side, and by the disposition of the feathers, &c., one acquainted with their customs will know at first sight what the nation who presents it intends or desires. Smoking the calumet is also a religious ceremony on some occasions, and in all treaties is considered as a witness between the par- ties, or rather as an instrument by which they invoke the sun and moon to witness their sincerity, and to be as it were a guarantee of the treaty between them. This custom of the Indians, though to appearance somewhat ridiculous, is not without its reasons ; for as they find that smoking tends to disperse the vapours of the brain, to raise the spirits, and to qualify them for thinking and judging properly, they intro- duced it into their councils, where, after their resolves, the pipe was considered as a seal of their decrees, and as a pledge of their performance thereof, it was sent to those they were consulting, in alliance or treaty with ; — so that smoking among them at the same pipe, is equivalent to our drinking together and out of the same cup .” — Major Rogers ’ Account of North America , 1766. “ The lighted calumet is also used among them for a pur- pose still more interesting than the expression of social friendship. The austere manners of the Indians forbid any appearance of gallantry between the sexes in day time ; but at night the young lover goes a calumetting, as his courtship is called. As these people live in a state of equality, and without fear of internal violence or theft in their own tribes, 206 NOTES TO GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. they leave their doors open by night as well as by day. The lover takes advantage of this liberty, lights his calumet, enters the cabin of his mistress, and gently presents it to her. If she extinguishes it, she admits his addresses ; but if she suffer it to burn unnoticed, he retires with a disappointed and throbbing heart.”-— Ashe’s Travels . Note to Page 49. u Trained from his tree-rocked cradle to his bier.” “ An Indian child, as soon as he is born, is swathed with clothes, or skins ; and being laid on his back, is bound down on a piece of thick board, spread over with soft moss. The board is somewhat larger and broader than the child, and bent pieces of wood, like pieces of hoops, are placed over its face to protect it, so that if the machine were suffered to fall, the child probably would not be injured. When the women have any business to transact ft home, they hang the board on a tree, if there be one at hand, and set them a swinging from side to side, like a pendulum, in order to exercise the children.”-— Weld, voh ii., p. 246. Note to Page 49. “ The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook Impassive”— Of the active as well as passive fortitude of the Indian character, the following is an instance related by Adair in his Travels ” “A party of the Senekah Indians came to war against the Katahba, bitter enemies to each other.— In the woods the former discovered a sprightly warrior belonging to the latter, hunting in their usual light dress : on his perceiving them, he sprang off for a hollow rock four or five miles distance, as NOTES TO GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 207 they intercepted him from running homeward. He was so extremely swift and skilful with the gun, as to kill seven of them in the running fight before they were able to surround and take him. They carried him to their country in sad triumph ; but though he had filled them with uncommon grief and shame for the loss of so many of their kindred, yet the love of martial virtue induced them to treat him, during their long journey, with a great deal more civility than if he had acted the part of a coward. The women and children, when they met him at their several towns, beat him and whipped him in as severe a manner as the occasion required, according to their law of justice, and at last he was formally condemned to die by the fiery torture. — It might reasonably be imagined that what he had for some time gone through, by being fed with a scanty hand, a tedious march, lying at night on the bare ground, exposed to the changes of the weather, with his arms and legs extended in a pair of rough stocks, and suffer- ing such punishment on his entering into their hostile towns, as a prelude to those sharp torments for -which he was destined, would have so impaired his health and affected his imagination) , as to have sent him to his long sleep, out of the way of any more sufferings. — Probably this would have been the case with the major part of white people under similar circumstances ; but I never knew this with any of the Indians : and this cool- headed, brave warrior, did not deviate from their rough lessons of martial virtue, but acted his part so well as to surprise and sorely vex his numerous enemies : — for when they were taking him, unpinioned, in their wild parade, to the place of torture, which lay near to a river, he suddenly dashed down those who stood in his way, sprang off and plunged into the water, swimming underneath like an otter, only rising to take breath, till he reached the opposite shore. He now ascended the steep bank, but though he had good reason to be in a hurry, as many of the enemy were in the water, and others running, very like bloodhounds, in pursuit of him, and the bullets flying 0 NOTES TO GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. j 208 around him from the time he took to the river, yet his heart did not allow him to leave them abruptly, without taking leave in a formal manner, in return for the extraordinary favours they had done, and intended to do him. After slapping a part of his body in defiance to them,” continues the author, 4 ‘he put up the shrill war-whoop, as his last salute, till some more convenient opportunity offered, and darted off in the manner of a beast broke loose from its torturing enemies, fie con- tinued his speed, so as to run by about midnight of the same day as far as his eager pursuers were two days in reaching. There he rested till he happily discovered five of those Indians who had pursued him : — he lay hid a little way off their camp, till they were sound asleep. Every circumstance of his situa- tion occurred to him, and inspired him with heroism. He was naked, torn, and hungry, and his enraged enemies were come up with him ; — but there was now every thing to relieve his wants, and a fair opportunity to save his life, and get great honour and sweet revenge by cutting them off. Kesolution, a qonvenient spot, and sudden surprise, would effect the main object of all his wishes and hopes. He accordingly creeped, took one of their tomahawks, and killed them all on the spot, — clothed himself, took a choice gun, and as much ammunition and provisions as he could well carry in a running march. He set off afresh with a light heart, and did not sleep for several successive nights, only when he reclined, as usual, a little be- fore day, with his back to a tree. As it were by instinct, when he found he was free from the pursuing enemy, he made di- rectly to the very place where he had killed seven of his enemies and was taken by them for the fiery torture. He digged them up, burnt their bodies to ashes, and went home in safety with singular triumph. Other pursuing enemies came, on the even- ing of the second day, to the camp of their dead people, when the sight gave them a greater shock than they had ever known before. In their chilled war- council they concluded that as he had done such surprising things in his defence before he j NOTES TO GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 209 was captured, and since that in his naked condition, and now was well-armed, if they continued the pursuit he would spoil them all, for he surely was an enemy wizard, — and therefore they returned home.” — Adair’s General Observations on the American Indians , p. 394. 46 It is surprising,” says the same author, u to see the long continued speed of the Indians. Though some of us have often run the swiftest of them out of sight for about the distance of twelve miles, yet afterwards, without any seeming toil, they would* stretch on, leave us out of sight, and outwind any horse.”— Ibid. p. 318. “ If an Indian were driven out into the extensive woods, with only a knife and a tomahawk, or a small hatchet, it is not to be doubted but he would fatten even where a wolf would starve. He would soon collect fire by rubbing two dry pieces of wood together, make a bark hut, earthen vessels, and a bow and arrows ; then kill wild game, fish fresh-water tortoises, gather a plentiful variety of vegetables, and live in affluence,” — Ibid. p. 410. Note to Page 49. tl Sleep, wearied one ! and in the dreaming land Shouldst thou to-morrow with thy mother meet.” “ There is nothing,” says Charlevoix, “ in which these bar- barians carry their superstitions farther than in what regards dreams ; but they vary greatly in their manner of explaining themselves on this point. Sometimes it is the reasonable soul which ranges abroad, while the sensitive continues to animate the body. Sometimes it is the familiar genius who gives salu- tary counsel with respect to what is going to happen. Some- times it is a visit made by the soul of the object of which he j dreams. But in whatever manner the dream is conceived, it | is always looked upon as a thing sacred, and as the most or- 210 NOTES TO GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. dinary way in which the gods make known their will to men. Filled with this idea, they cannot conceive how we should pay no regard to them. For the most part they look upon them either as a desire of the soul, inspired by some genius, or an order from him, and in consequence of this principle they hold it a religious duty to obey them. An Indian having dreamt of having a finger cut off, had it really cut off as soon as he awoke, having first prepared himself for this important action by a feast. Another having dreamt of being a prisoner, and in the hands of his enemies, was much at a loss what to do. He consulted the jugglers, and by their advice caused himself to be tied to a post, and burnt in several parts of the body.” — Charlevoix's Journal of a Voyage to North America . Note to Page 49. ‘‘And pour’d the lotus-horn.” From a flower shaped like a horn, which Chateaubriand j presumes to be of the lotus kind, the Indians in their travels j through the desert often find a draught of dew purer than any other water. Note to Page 49. u The crocodile, the condor of the rock.” “The alligator, or American crocodile, when full grown,” says Bertram, “ is a very large and terrible creature, and of prodigious strength, activity, and swiftness in the water. I have seen them twenty feet in length, and some are supposed to be twenty-two or twenty-three feet in length. Their body is as j large as that of a horse, their shape usually resembles that of a I lizard, which is fiat, or cuneiform, being compressed on each 1 side, and gradually diminishing from the abdomen to the NOTES TO GERTRUDE OF WYOMING, 211 i extremity, which, with the whole body, is covered with horny plates, of squamae, impenetrable when on the body of the live animal, even to a rifle-ball, except about their head, and just behind their fore-legs or arms, where, it is said, they are only vulnerable. The head of a full-grown one is about three feet, and the mouth opens nearly the same^ngth. Their eyes are small in proportion, and seem sunk in the head, by means of the prominency of the brows ; the nostrils are large, inflated, and prominent on the top, so that the head on the water resembles, at a distance, a great chunk of wood floating about : only the upper jaw moveS, which they raise almost perpen- dicular, so as to form a right angle with the lower one. In the fore-part of the upper jaw, on each side, just under the nos- trils, are two very large, thick, strong teeth, or tusks, not very sharp, but rather the shape of a cone : these are as white as the finest polished ivory, and are not covered by any skin or lips, but always in sight, which gives the creature a frightful appearance ; in the lower jaw are holes opposite to these teeth to receive them ; when they clap their jaws together it causes a surprising noise, like that which is made by forcing a heavy plank with violence upon the ground, and may be heard at a great distance.- — But what is yet more surprising to a stranger, is the incredibly loud and terrifying roar which they are capable of making, especially in breeding- time. It most resembles very heavy distant thunder, not only shaking the air and water, but causing the earth to tremble ; and when hundreds are roaring at the same time, you can scarcely be persuaded but that the whole globe is violently and danger- ously agitated. An old champion who is, perhaps, absolute sovereign of a little lake or lagoon (when fifty less than him- self are obliged to content themselves with swelling and roar- ing in liftle coves round about), darts forth from the reedy coverts, all at once, on the surface of the waters in a right line, at first seemingly as rapid as lightning, but gradually more slowly, until he arrives at the centre of the lake, where 212 NOTES YO GERTRUDE OP WYOMING. lie stops. He now swells himself by drawing in wind and water through his mouth, which causes a loud sonorous rattling in the throat for near a minute ; but it is immediately forced , out again through his mouth and nostrils with a loud noise, brandishing his tail in the air, and the vapour running from his nostrils like smoke . & At other times, when swollen to an extent ready to burst, his head and tail lifted up, he spins or twirls round on the surface of the water. He acts his part I like an Indian chief, when rehearsing his feats of war.” — i Bertram's Travels in North America . Note to Page 49 . u Then forth uprose that lone way-faring man.” u They discover an amazing sagacity, and acquire, with the greatest readiness, any thing that depends upon the attention of the mind. By experience, and an acute observa- tion, they attain many perfections to which Americans are strangers. For instance, they will cross a forest or a plain? which is two hundred miles in breadth, so as to reach, with great exactness, the point at which they intend to arrive, keep- ing, during the whole of that space, in a direct line, without any material deviations ; and this they will do with the same ease, let the weather be fair or cloudy. With equal acuteness they will point to that part of the heavens the sun is in, though it be intercepted by cloud or fogs. Besides this, they are able to pursue, with incredible facility, the traces of man or beast, either on leaves or grass; and on this account it is with great difficulty they escape discovery. They are indebted for these talents hot only to nature, but to an extraordinary command of the intellectual qualities, which can only be acquired by an unremitted attention, and by long experience. They are, in general, very happy in a retentive memory. They can recapitulate every particular that has been treated of in NOTES TO GERTRtJDfc OF WYOMING. 213 council,' and remember the exact time when they were held. Their belts of wampum preserve the substance of the treaties they have concluded with the neighbouring tribes for ages back, to which they will appeal and refer with as much perspicuity and readiness as Europeans can to their written records. “The Indians are totally unskilled in geography, as well as all the other sciences, and yet they draw on their birch-bark very exact charts or maps of the countries they are acquainted with. The latitude and longitude only are wanting to make them tolerably complete. “ Their sole knowledge in astronomy consists in being able to point out the polar star, by which they regulate their course when they travel in the night. “ They reckon the distance of places not by miles or leagues, but by a day’s journey, which, according to the best calcula- tion I could make, appears to be about twenty English miles. These they also divide into halves and quarters, and will demonstrate them in their maps with great exactness by the hieroglyphics just mentioned, when they regulate in council their war-parties, or their most distant hunting excursions.” — Lewis and Clarke's Travels. “Some of the French missionaries have supposed that the Indians are guided by instinct, and have pretended that Indian children can find their way through a forest as easily as a person of maturer years; but this is a most absurd notion. It is unquestionably by a close attention to the growth of the trees, and position of the sun, that they find their way. On the northern side of a tree there is generally the most moss ; and the bark on that side, in general, differs from that on the opposite one. The branches towards the south are, for the most part, more luxuriant than those on the other sides of trees, and several other distinctions al§o subsist between the northern and southern sides, conspicuous to Indians, being taught from their infancy to attend to them, which a common £14 NOTES TO GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. observer would, perhaps, never notice. Being accustomed from their infancy likewise to pay great attention to the posi- tion of the sun, they learn to make the most accurate allow- ance for its apparent motion from one part of the heavens to \ another ; and in every part of the day they will point to the part of the heavens where it is, although the sky be obscured by clouds or mists. “ An instance of their dexterity in finding their way through an unknown country came under my observation when I was at Staunton, situated behind the Blue Mountains, Virginia. A number of the Creek nation had arrived at that town on their way to Philadelphia, whither they were going upon some affairs of importance, and had stopped there for the night. In the morning, some circumstance or other, which could not be learned, induced one half of the Indians to set off without their companions, who did not follow until some hours afterwards. When these last were ready to pursue their journey, several of the towns-people mounted their horses to escort them part of the way. They proceeded along the high road for some miles, but, all at once, hastily turning aside into the woods, though there was no path, the Indians advanced confidently forward. The people who accompanied them, surprised at this movement, informed them that they were quitting the road to Philadelphia, and expressed their fear lest they should miss their companions who had gone on before. They answered that they knew better, that the way through the woods was the shortest to Philadelphia, and that they knew very well that th^ir companions had entered the wood at the very place where they did. Curiosity led some of the horsemen to go on ; and to their astonishment, for there was apparently no track, they overtook the other Indians in the thickest part of the wood. But what appeared most sin- gular was, that the route which they took was found, on examining a map, to be as direct for Philadelphia as if they had taken the bearings bv a mariners comnass. From others : NOTES TO GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 215 of their nation who had been at Philadelphia at a former period, they had probably learned the exact direction of that city from their villages, and had never lost sight of it, although they had already travelled three hundred mile3 through the woods, and had upwards of four hundred miles more to go before they could reach the place of their destination.— Of the exactness with which they can find out a strange place to which they have been once directed by their own people, a striking example is furnished, I think, by Mr Jefferson, in his account of the Indian graves in Virginia. These graves are nothing more than large mounds of earth in the woods, which, on being opened, are found to contain skeletons in an erect pos- ture : the Indian mode of sepulture has been too often de- scribed to remain unknown to you. But to come to my story. A party of Indians that were passing on to some of the sea- ports on the Atlantic, just as the Creeks, above mentioned, were going to Philadelphia, were observed, all on a sudden, to quit the straight road by which they were proceeding, and without asking any questions, to strike through the woods, in a direct line, to one of these graves, which lay at the distance of some miles from the road. Now very near a century must have passed over since the part of Virginia in which this grave was situated had been inhabited by Indians, and these Indian travellers who were to visit it by themselves, had unquestion- ably never been in that part of the country before : they must have found their way to it simply from the description of its situation, that had been handed down to them by tradition. 0 Weld's Travels in North America, vol. ii. Note to Page 52. li Their fathers’ dust.” It is a custom of the Indian tribes to visit the tombs of their ancestors in the cultivated parts of Ameiica who have been buried for upwards of a century. 216 NOTES TO GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. Note to Page 53. “ Or wild-cane arch high flung o’er gulf profound.” The bridges over narrow streams in many parts of Spanish America are said to be built of cane, which, however strong to support the passenger, are yet waved in the agitation of the storm, and frequently add to the effect of a mountainous and picturesque scenery. PART III. Note to Page 59. “ The Mammoth comes.” That I am justified in making the Indian chief allude to the mammoth as an emblem of terror and destruction, will be seen by the authority quoted below. Speaking of the mam- moth, or big buffalo, Mr Jefferson states, that a tradition is preserved among the Indians of that animal still existing in the northern parts of America : — “A delegation of warriors from the Delaware tribe having visited the Governor of Virginia during the revolution, on matters of business, the Governor asked them some questions relative to their country, and, among others, what they knew or had heard of the animal whose bones were found at the Salt-licks, on the Ohio. Their chief speaker immediately put himself into an attitude of oratory, and with a pomp suited to what he conceived the elevation of his subject, informed him that it was a tradition handed down from their fathers, that in ancient times a herd of these tremendous animals came to the Bick-bone-licks, and began a universal destruction of the bear, deer, elk, buffalo, and other animals which had been created for the use of the Indians. That the Great Man above NOTES TO GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 217 looking down and seeing this, was so enraged that he seized his lightning, descended on the earth, seated himself on a neighbouring mountain, on a rock, of which his seat and the prints of his feet are still to be seen, and hurled his bolts among them, till the whole were slaughtered, except the big bull, who, presenting his forehead to the shafts, shook them off as they fell, but missing one, at length it wounded him in the side, whereon, springing round, he bounded over the Ohio, over the W abash, the Illinois, and finally over the great lakes, where he is living at this day.” — Jefferson's Notes on Virginia. Note to Page 59. ' k t i Scorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe, ’Gainst Brandt himself I went to battle forth.” I took the character of Brandt in the poem of “ Gertrude ” from the common Histories of England, all of which repre- sented him as a bloody and bad man (even among savages), and chief agent in the horrible desolation of Wyoming. Some years after this poem appeared, the son of Brandt, a most . interesting and intelligent youth, came over to England, and I formed an acquaintance with him, on which I still look back with pleasure. He appealed to my sense of honour and justice, on his own part and on that of his sister, to retract the unfair aspersions which, unconscious of its unfairness, I had cast on his father’s memory. He then referred me to documents which completely satis- fied me that the common accounts of Brandt’s cruelties at Wyoming, w T hich I had found in books of Travels, and in Adolphus’s and similar Histories of England, were gross errors, and that, in point of fact, Brandt was not even present at that scene of desolation. It is, unhappily, to Britons and Anglo-Americans that we 218 NOTES TO GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. must refer the chief blame in this horrible business. I pub- lished a letter expressing this belief in the New Monthly Magazine , in the year 1822, to which I must refer the reader — if he has any curiosity on the subject— for an antidote to my fanciful description of Brandt. Among other expressions to young Brandt, I made use of the following words : — u Had I ; learnt all this of your father when I was writing my poem, he ! should hot have figured in it as the hero of mischief.” It was but bare justice to say thus much of a Mohawk Indian, who spoke English eloquently, and was thought capable of having written a history of the Six Nations. I ascertained also that he often strove to mitigate the cruelty of Indian warfare. The name of Brandt, therefore, remains in my poem a pure and declared character of fiction, * Note to Page 50. “To whom nor relative nor blood remains, No ! — not a kindred drop that runs in human veins ! ” Every one who recollects the specimen of Indian eloquence given in the speech of Logan, a Mingo chief, to the Governor of Virginia, will perceive that I have attempted to paraphrase its concluding and most striking expression : — “ There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature.” The similar salutation of the fictitious personage in my story, and the real Indian orator, makes it surely allowable to bor- row such an expression ; and if it appears, as it cannot but appear, to less advantage than in the original, I beg the reader to reflect how difficult it is to transpose such exquisitely simple words without sacrificing a portion of their effect. In the spring of 1774, a robbery and murder were commit- ted on an inhabitant of the frontiers of Virginia, by two Indians of the Shawnee tribe. The neighbouring whites, according to their custom, undertook to punish this outrage ? NOTES TO GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 219 in a summary manner. Colonel Cresap, a man infamous for the many murders he had committed on those much injured people, collected a.party, and proceeded down the Kanaway in quest of vengeance ; unfortunately a canoe with women and children, with one man only, was seen coming from the opposite shore unarmed, and unsuspecting an attack from the whites. Cresap and his party concealed themselves on the bank of the river, and the moment the canoe reached the shore, singled out their objects, and at one fire killed every person in it. This happened to be the Tamily of Logan, who had long been distinguished as a friend to the whites. This unworthy return provoked his vengeance ; he accordingly signalised himself in the war which ensued. In the autumn of the same year a decisive battle was fought at the mouth of the great Kanaway, in which the collected forces of the Shawnees, Miugoes, and Delawares, were defeated by a de- tachment of the Virginian militia. The Indians sued for peace. Logan, however, disdained to be seen among the suppliants ; but lest the sincerity of a treaty should be dis- turbed, from which so distinguished a chief abstracted himself, he sent, by a messenger, the following speech to be delivered to Lord Dunmore : — * u I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan’s cabin hungry, and he gave him not to eat ; if ever he came cold and hungry, and he clothed him not. Daring the course of the last long and bloody war Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they passed, and said, 1 Logan is the friend of white men.’ I have even thought to have lived with you but for the injuries of one man. Colonel Cresap, the last spring, in cold blood, murdered all the re- lations of Logan, even my women and children. “ There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature : — this called on me for revenge. I have fought for it. I have killed many. I have fully glutted my vengeance. 220 NOTES TO O’CONNOR’S CHILD. For my country I rejoice at the beams of peace; but do not harbour a thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He will not turn on his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan ? not one ! ” — Jefferson's Notes on Virginia . NOTES TO O’CONNOR’S CHILD. Notes to Page 65. “ Innisfail,” the ancient name of Ireland. u Kerne,” the plural of Kern, an Irish foot-soldier. In this sense the word is used by Shakespeare. Gainsford, in his “ Glories of England,” says, “They (the Irish) are desperate in revenge, and their kerne think no man dead until his head be off.” Notes to Page 66. “ Shieling,” a rude cabin or hut. a In Erin’s yellow vesture clad.” Yellow, dyed from saffron, was the favourite colour of the ancient Irish. W r hen the Irish chieftains came to make terms with Queen Elizabeth’s lord-lieutenant, we are told by Sir John Davis, that they came to court in saffron-coloured uni- forms. i NOTES TO O’CONNOR’S CHILD. 221 Note to Page 66. u Morat,” A drink made of the juice of mulberry mixed with honey. Note to Page 67. 61 Their tribe, they said, their high degree, Was sung in Tara’s psaltery.” The pride of the Irish in ancestry was so great, that one of the O’Neals, being told that Barrett of Castlemone had been there only 400 years, he replied,— that he hated the clown as if he had come there but yesterday. Tara was the place of assemblage and feasting of the petty princes of Ireland. Very splendid and fabulous descriptions are given by the Irish historians of the pomp and luxury of those meetings. The psaltery of Tara was the grand national register of Ireland. The grand epoch of political eminence in the early history of the Irish is the reign of their great and favourite monarch, Ollam Fodlah, who reigned, according to Keating, about 950 years before the Christian era. Under him was instituted the great Fes at Tara, which it is pretended was a triennial convention of the states, or a parliament ; the members of which were the Druids, and other learned men who represented the people in that assembly. Very minute accounts are given by Irish annalists of the magnificence and order of these entertainments; from which, if credible, we might collect the earliest traces of heraldry that occur in history. To preserve order and regularity in the great number and variety of the members who met on such occasions, the Irish historians inform us that when the banquet was ready to be served Up, the shield-bearers of the princes, and other members of the convention, delivered in theirshields and targets, which were readily distinguished by the coats of arms em- 222 NOTES TO O’CONNOR’S CHILD. blazoned upon them. These were arranged by the grand marshal and principal herald, and hung upon the walls on the right side of the table ; and upon entering the apartments, each member took his seat under his respective shield or target, without the slightest disturbance. The concluding days of the meeting, it is allowed by the Irish antiquaries, were spent in very free excess of conviviality ; but the first six, they say, were devoted to the examination and settlement of the annals of the kingdom. These were publicly rehearsed. When they had passed the approbation of the assembly, they were tran- scribed into the authentic chronicles of the nation, which was called the Eegister, or Psalter of Tara. Colonel Valiancy gives a translation of an old Irish frag- ment, found in Trinity College, Dublin, in which the palace of the above assembly is thus described as it existed in the reign of Cormac : — 44 In the reign of Cormac, the palace of Tara was nine hun- dred feet square ; the diameter of the surrounding rath, seven dice or casts of a dart ; it contained one hundred and fifty apartments ; one hundred and fifty dormitories, or sleeping- rooms for guards, and sixty men in each : the height was twenty-seven cubits ; there were one hundred and fifty common drinking-horns, twelve doors, and one thousand guests daily, besides princes, orators, and men of science, engravers of gold and silver, carvers, modellers, and nobles.” The Irish de- scription of the banquetting-hall is thus translated : 44 Twelve stalls or divisions in each wing ; sixteen attendants on each side, and two to each table ; one hundred guests in all.” Note to Page 67 . 44 And stemmed De Bourgo’s chivalry.” The house of O’Connor had a right to boast of their victories over the English. It was a chief of the O’Connor race who NOTES TO O’CONNOR’S CHILD. 223 gave a check to the English champion De Courcy, so famous for his personal strength, and for cleaving a helmet at one blow of his sword, in the presence of the kings of France and England, 'when the French champion declined the combat with him. Though ultimately conquered by the English under- lie Bourgo, the O’Connors had also humbled the pride of that name on a memorable occasion : viz., when Walter De Bourgo, an ancestor of that De Bourgo who won the battle of Athunree, had become so insolent as to make excessive demands upon the territories of Connaught, and to bid defiance to all the rights and properties reserved by the Irish chiefs, Aeth - O’Connor, a near descendant of the famous Cathal, surnamed of the bloody hand, rose against the usurper, and defeated the English so severely, that their general died of chagrin after the battle. Note to Page 67. “ Or beal-fires for your jubilee.” The month of May is to this day called “Mi Beal tienuie,” i\e., the month of Beal’s fire, in the original language of Ireland, and hence I believe the name of the Beltan festival in the Highlands, These fires were lighted on the summits of mountains (the Irish antiquaries say), in honour of the sun ; and are supposed, by those conjecturing gentlemen, to prove the origin of the Irish from some nation who worshipped j Baal or Belus. Many hills in Ireland still retain the name of j “Cnoc Greine,” the hill of* the sun ; and on all are to be seen the ruins of Druidical altars. Note- to Page G8. 11 And play my clarshech by thy side.” The clarshech, or harp, the principal musical instrument of the Hibernian bards, does not appear to be of Irish origin, p 224 NOTES TO O’CONNOR'S CHILD. nor indigenous to any of the British Islands. — The Britons undoubtedly were not acquainted with it during the residence of the Romans in their country, as on all their coins, on which musical instruments are represented, we see only the Roman lyre, and not the British Teylin, or harp. Note to Page 68. u And saw' at dawn the lofty bawn.” ‘‘Bawn, M from the Teutonic “ Bawen” — to construct and secure with branches of trees, was so called because the primi- tive Celtic fortification was made by digging a ditch, throwing up a rampart, and on the latter fixing stakes, which were interlaced with boughs of trees. This w r ord is used by Spencer; but it is inaccurately called by Mr Todd, his annotator, an eminence. Note to Page 70. “ To speak the malison of heaven.” If the wrath which I have ascribed to the heroine of this little piece should seem to exhibit her character as too un- naturally stript of patriotic and domestic affections, I must beg leave to plead the authority of Corneille in the repre- sentation of a similar passion : I allude to the denuncia.ion of Camilla, in the tragedy of Horace. When Horace, accom- panied by a soldier bearing the three swords of the Curiatii, meets his sister, and invites her to congratulate him on his victory, she expresses only her grief, which he attributes at first only to her feelings for the loss of her two brothers; but when she bursts forth into reproaches against him as the murderer of her lover, the last of the Curiatii, he exclaims : — u 0 Ciel ! qui vit jamais une pared! e rage : Crois-tu done quo je sois insensible a Toutrage, NOTES TO O’CONNOR’S CHILD. 225 Que je so tiff re en mon sang ee mortel ddslionneur ! Airae, Aime, cette mort qui f nit notre bouheur, Et prefbre du moins au souvenir d’un liommo Ce que doit ta naissance aux interns de Koine.” At the mention of Rome, Camille breaks out into this apostrophe : — “Eome, l’unique objet de mon ressentiment ! Eome, h qui vient ton bras d’immoler mon aman^! Eome, qui t’a vu naitre et que ton coeur adore! Eome, enfin, que je bais, parce qu’elle t’honore ! Puissent tous ses voisins, ensemble coujure3, Sapper ses fondemens encore mal assures ; Et, si ce n’est as>ez de toute l’ltalie, Que l’Orient, coutre elle, k TOccident s’allie j Que cent peuples unis, des bouts de lunivers Passent, pour la detruire, et ies monts et les mers ; Q.u’elle- meme sur soi ren verse se^ murailles, Et de ses propres mains c e.-hire ses entrailles ; Que le courroux du Ciel, allume par mes voeux, Easse pleuvoir sur elle un deluge de feux ! Puissai- je de mes yeux y voir tomber ce foudre, Voir ses maisous en cendre, et tes lauriers en poudre ; ' Voir le dernier Eomain a son dernier soupir, Moi seule en etre cause, et mourir de plaisir ! ” Note to Page 70 . 11 And go to Athunree ! ” I cried. In the reign of Edward the Second, the Irish presented to Pope John the Twenty-second a memorial of their sufferings under the English, of which the language exhibits all the strength of despair: — “ Ever since the English,” say they, 44 first appeared upon our coasts, they entered our territories under a certain specious pretence of charity, and external hypocritical show of religion, endeavouring at the same time, by every artifice malice could suggest, to extirpate us root and branch, and without any other right than that of the 226 NOTES TO O’CONNOR’S CHILD. strongest ; they have so far succeeded by base fraudulence, and cunning, that they have forced us to quit our fair and ample habitations and inheritances, and to take refuge like wild beasts in the mountains, the woods, and the morasses of the country ; — nor even can the caverns and dens protect us against their insatiable avarice. They pursue us even into these frightful abodes ; endeavouring to dispossess us of the wild uncultivated rocks, and arrogate to themselves the property of every place on which we can stamp the figure of our feet.” * The greatest effort ever made by the ancient Irish to regain their native independence was made at the time when j they called ovor the brother of Robert Bruce from Scotland. | William de Bourgo, brother to the Earl of Ulster, and ! Bichard de Bermingham, were sent against the main body of ! the native insurgents, who were headed rather than com- j manded by Felim O'Connor. The important battle, which | decided the subjection of Ireland, took place on the 10th of | August, 1315. It was the bloodiest that ever was fought | between the two nations, and continued throughout the whole day, from the rising to the setting sun. The Irish fought with inferior discipline, but with great enthusiasm. They lost ten thousand men, among whom were twenty-nine chiefs of Connaught. Tradition states that after this terrible day, the O’Connor family, like the Fabian, were so nearly exter- minated, that throughout all Connaught not one of the name remained^ except Felim’s brother, who was capable of bearing arms ; NOTES TO TIIEODPJC. 227 ( DfflX i *'- 1 —n— r - " — ” NOTES TO THEODRIC. Note to Page 71. u That gave the glacier tops their richest glow.” The sight of the glaciers of Switzerland, I am told, has often disappointed travellers who had perused the accounts of their splendour and sublimity given by Bourrit and other describers of Swiss scenery. Possibly Bourrit, who had spent his life in an enamoured familiarity with the beauties of Nature in Switzerland, may have leaned to the romantic side of de- scription. One can pardon a man for a sort of idolatry of those imposing objects of Nature which heighten our ideas of the bounty of Nature or. Providence, when we reflect that the glaciers— those seas of ice — are not only sublime, but useful : they are the inexhaustible reservoirs which supply the princi- pal rivers of Europe ; and their annual melting is in propor- tion to the summer heat which dries up those rivers and makes them need that supply. That the picturesque grandeur of the glacier should some- times disappoint the traveller, will not seem surprising to any one who has been much in a mountainous country, and recol- lects that the beauty of Nature in such countries is not only variable, but capriciously dependent on the weather and sun- shine. There are about four hundred different glaciers,* ac- cording to the computation of M. Bourrit, between Mont Blanc and the frontiers of the Tyrol. The full effect of the most lofty and picturesque of them can, of course, only be produced by the richest and warmest light of the atmosphere ; and the very heat which illuminates them must have a chang- ing influence on many of their appearances. I imagine it is owing to ibis circumstance, namely, the casualty and change- ableness of the appearance of some of the glaciers, that the * Occupying, if taken together, a surface of 1-30 square leagues. 228 NOTES TO THEODRIC. impressions made by them on the minds of other and more transient travellers have been less enchanting than those de- scribed by M. Bourrit. On one occasion M. Bourrit seems even to speak of a past phenomenon, and certainly one which no other spectator attests in the same terms, when he says that there once existed between the Kandel Steig and Lauterbrun, “ a passage amidst singular glaciers, sometimes resembling magical towns of ice, with pilasters, pyramids, columns, and obelisks, reflecting to the sun the most brilliant hues of the finest gems.”. M. Bourrit’s description of the Glacier of the Rhone is quite enchanting : — “ To form an idea,” he says, “ of this su- perb spectacle, figure in your mind a scaffolding of trans- parent ice, filling a space of two miles, rising to the clouds, and darting flashes of light like the sun. Nor were the several parts less magnificent and surprising. One might see, as it were, the streets and buildings of a city, erected in the form of an amphitheatre, and embellished with pieces of water, cascades and torrents. The effects were as prodigious as the immen- sity and the height ; — the most beautiful azure — the most splendid white — the regular appearance of a thousand pyra- mids of ice, are more easy to be imagined than described.” — Bourrit, iii. 163. Note to Page 71. “ From heights browsed by the bounding bouqiietin.” Laborde, in his “ Tableau de la Suisse,” gives a curious account of this animal, the wild sharp cry and elastic move- ments of which must heighten the picturesque appearance of its haunts u Nature,” says Laborde, “has dcsldued it to mountains covered with snow: if it is not exposed to keen cold it becomes blind. Its agility in leaping much surpasses that of the chamois, and would appear incredible to those who have not seen it. There is not a mountain so high or steep to NOTES TO LOCHIEL. 22? which it will not trust itself,- provided it has room to place its feet ; it can scramble along the highest wall, if its surface be rugged.’ 7 Note to Page 72. u Enamelled moss.” The moss of Switzerland, as well as that of the Tyrol, is remarkable for a bright smoothness approaching to the ap- pearance of enamel. Note to Page 75. “ How dear seemed e’en the waste and wild Shreckhorn.’ 7 The “Shreckhorn” means in German, the “Peak of Terror.” Note to Page 75. “ Blindfold his native hills he could have known ! ” I have here availed myself of a striking expression of the Emperor Napoleon respecting his recollections t)f Corsica, which is recorded in Las Case’s “History of the Emperor’s Abode at St. Helena.” NOTES TO LOCHIEL. Note to Page 85. Lochiel, the chief of the warlike clan of the Camerons, and descended from ancestors distinguished in their narrow sphere for great personal prowess, was a man worthy of a better cause and fate than that in which he embarked,— the *230 KOTES TO LOCHIEL. enterprise of the Stuarts in 1745. His memory is stili fondly cjierished among the Highlanders, by the appellation of the u gentle Lochiel ; ” for he was famed for his social virtues as much as his martial and magnanimous (though mistaken) loyalty. His influence was so important among the Highland chiefs that it depended on his joining with his clan whether the standard of Charles should be raised or not in 1745. Lochiel was himself too wise a man to be blind to the conse- quences of so hopeless an enterprise, but his sensibility to the point of honour overruled his wisdom. Charles appealed to his loyalty, and he could not brook the reproaches of his Prince. When Charles landed at Borrodale, Lochiel went to meet him, but on his way called at his brother’s house (Cameron of Fassafern), and told him on what errand he was going; adding, however, that he meant to dissuade the Prince from his enterprise. Fassafern advised him in that case to communicate his mind by letter to Charles. “No," said Lochiel, “I think it due to my Prince to give him my reasons in person for refusing to join his standard.” — “Brother,” replied Fassafern, “ I know you better than you know your- self : if the Prince once sets his eyes on you, he will make you do what he pleases.” The interview accordingly took place ; and Lochiel, with many arguments, but in vain, pressed the Pretender to return to France, and reserve himself and his friends for a more favourable occasion, as he had come, by his own acknowledgment, without arms, or money, or adherents: or, at all events, to remain concealed till his friends should meet and deliberate what was best to be done. Charles, whose mind was wound up to the utmost impatience, paid no regard to this proposal, but. answered, “ that he was determined to put all to the hazard.” “ In a few days,” said he, “I will erect the royal standard, and proclaim to the people of Great Britain that Charles Stuart is come over to claim the crown of his ancestors, and to win it, or perish in the attempt. Lochiel, who my father has often told me was NOTES TO LOCHIEL. 201 j our firmest friend, may stay at home, and learn from the i newspapers the fate of his Prince.” — 44 Ko,” said Lochiel, 44 I will share the fate of my Prince, and so shall every man over whom nature or fortune hath given me any power.” The other chieftains who followed Charles embraced his cause with no better hopes. It engages our sympathy most strongly in their behalf, that no motive, but their fear to be reproached with cowardice or disloyalty, impelled them to the hopeless adventure. Of this we have an example in the inter- view of Prince Charles with Clanronald, another leading chieftain in the rebel army. 44 Charles,” says Home, “^almost reduced to despair, in his discourse with Boisdale, addressed the two Highlanders with great emotion, and, summing up his arguments for taking arms, conjured them to assist their Prince, their countryman, in his utmost need. Clanronald and his friend, though well inclined to the cause, positively refused, and