:,x;;: ::.: htoi^i I .ffJ;,i<) t'i;;:;;^; i:-:;:..: .^■•;:.i-,,';i); : !tki!;;iipWi.;.j:ti;::.j;;';;:;;'- 1 COMPLETE POETICAL WOPiKS THOMAS CAMPBELL; WITH A \ ©riginal 'giograpj}];, anb llotrs. EDITED BY EPKS SARGENT. BOSTON: CROSBY, NICHOLS, LEE, & CO., 117 Wasim.notox Stueet. 1 8 GO. Butered according to Act of Congress, in Uie year 18M, by BPES SARGENT, In the Clerk's Office of the District Coiirt of th<; District of Mas?-acliuscltt ? University Press, Cambridge : Printed by Welcli, Bigelow, and Company. sS'^- I N PRESS THE COMPLETE PO TICAL WORKS OF SAMUEL ROGERS, WITH A MEMOlfi. lii an uniform style with the present edition of Campbell s I'ocms. Also. — The Poetical Works of LOCKHART, MACAULAY, BULWER LYTTON, W. R. SPENCER, HORACE SMirn, ami HOOD. The publishers will issue all the Standard Poets in the same style, as rapidly sis is consistent with their accurate preparation. PEEFACE, This edition of the Complete Poetical Works of Thomas Campbell possesses some advantages, it is believed, over any one hitherto published. It contains a very full Memoir, compiled from the life and letters of the poet, edited by Dr. Beattie, long his most intimate friend, and his literary executor ; and from the Reminiscences of Mr. Cyrus Redding, who was for some ten years associated with Campbell in editing the New Monthly Magazine. The poems collected in the Moxon editions are given from the text, and according to the arrangement approved by the author. To these we have added fifty poems, some of which are hardly surpassed by the best of his acknowl- edged lyrics, and all of which are worthy of a permanent place in his works. For many of these we have been indebted to Dr. Beattie. Some we have copied from the 1* VI PREFACE. pages of the New Monthly Magazine. The translations from the Italian are from the Life of Petrarch, bj the poet. Other poems have beea authenticated bj a list prepared bj Mr. Redding whilst he was assisting Campbell in editing the first complete edition of his works, in 1828. A more par- ticular reference to the source of each poem will be found in the notes. The engraved head prefixed to the volume is a faithful likeness of the poet in his early years ; and the full-length pen-and-ink sketch, which represents him in the ease and undress of his study, is said to convey a correct impression of his appearance in advanced life. CONTENTS, LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. CHAPTER I. Campbell's Birth. — His Childhood and School Days. — Enters University oi Glasgow. — Anecdotes of his Parents. — His Favorite Authors. — His First Attempt in Verse. — Pons Asinorum. — His Visit to Edinburgh. — Trial of Gerald and Muir for Treason.— Academic Honors. — Translations from the Greek. — The Professors at Glasgow.- His College Friends. — Goes to Mull as a Tutor, 1 — 13. CHAPTER II. Choice of a Profession. —The Church, Medicine and the Law. — Tutorship In Argyle- shire. — Downie. — Caroline. — Hamilton Paul. — Anecdote. — Amatory Consolations. — Betm-nto Glasgow. — Edinburgh. — InU-oduction to Dr. Anderson. — Engagements with Mundell, the Bookseller. — The Professors of the University.- Young. — J ardme. — John Miller. — Society in Edinbm-gh. — The Poet's Friends. — Intention of going to America abandoned. — Pleasures of 'Hope. -7 His Training for the Work. — Anecdote. — Sale of Copyright. — Publication. — Passages recited at Dinner by Stephen Kemble. — Original Introduction to The Pleasui-es of Hope. — Poetical World at the time, 13— 24. CHAPTER III. Campbell determines to Travel. — His Literary Plans. — Perry. — Hamburg. — Visit to Klopstock. — Route to Ratisbon described. — War Scenes. —The Monks of St. James. — Mode of Living at Ratisbon. — Economical Travelling in Germany. — Altona. — The Queen of the North. — Extracts from his Correspondence. — The Lyrical Poems com- posed in Germany. — Scenes on the Danube. — English Squadron sails for the Baltic. — Campbell elhbarks for Leith. — Arrives in London. — Perry and his Family. — King of Clubs. — Lord Holland. — Mackintosh. — Rogers. — Death of the Poet's Father. — Arrest foi- Treason. — Anecdote. — Arrangements for his Mother and Sisters. — Abandons his Contemplated Poem. — Compendium of English Annals. — Visit to Lord Minto. — London Society. — The Kembles and Telford. — Castle Minto. — Scott. — Lochiel. — Hohenlinden. — Anecdote of Mrs. Dugald Stewart. — The Poet and John Leyden. — His Prospects in Literature. ~ His Marriage, 24—38. CONTENTS. CHAPTER IV. The Poet's TTife. — Lodgings at Pimlico. — Application to Literature. — Birth of a Boy. — The Father's Introduction to him described. —The Connection a Fortunate and Happy One. —Removal to Sydenham. — Pecuniary and Personal Matters. — Engagements with Periodical Literature. — Poems of this Period. — The Battle of Copenhagen. — The British Poets. — Negotiation with Scott and the Booksellers. — Murray. — Nursery Amusements. — Pension. — Another Subscription Edition of his Poems. — Dines with Fox at Lord Hol- land's. —Outline of Gertrude of Wyoming, 38—50. CHAPTER V. The Quarterly's Description of Society at Sydenham.— Tom Uill's Box the Original of Paul Pry. — Completes Gertrude of Wyoming. —Jeffrey's Epistolary Critique. — Recep- tion of the Poem. — Lectures before the Royal Institution. — Death of his Mother. — Analysis of the Lectures. — The Poet's Account of his Success. — Letter to Dr. Alison. — The Princess of Wales and Society at Blackheath. — Madame D'Arblay. — Theodore Hook. — Captain Morris. — Madame de StaSl. — A Few Weeks at Brighton. — llerschel. — Holland House. — Lord Byron. — Visit to Paris. — The Louvre. — The Apollo. — Duke of WelUngton. — Legacy from MacArLhur Stewart. — Letter from Sir Walter Scott. — Death of Francis Horner. — Monody. — Crabbe and Moore at Holland House. — Kemble Festi- val. — Dinner of Moore, Rogers and Crabbe, at Sydenham. — The Bees and the Wasps. — Monody on the Death of Princess Charlotte. — Lectures at Liverpool and Birmingham. — James Watt. — Publication of the Specimens, 60 — 63. CHAPTER VI. Ik Lectures again before the Royal Institution. — Visits Germany to revise and extend his Lectures. — Extracts from his Letters. — Bonn. — Ratisbon and Vienna. — The Polish Countess R. — Returns to London. — New Monthly Magazine. — Sydney Smith and Moore decline to write for him. — His Whig Friends indifferent. — Contributors to the Magazine. -Mr. Cyrus Redding his Assistant Editor. — Campbell's Contributions in Prose and Verse. — The Last Man. — Theodric. — Jeffrey's Critique on this Poem. — University of London. — Another Visit to Germany. — The Exile of Erin. — The Poet elected Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow. — Death of his Wife. — The Literary Union. — Milnes. — Calcott, the Artist. — Mrs. Dugald Stewart and Baron Cuvier dine with the Poet. — Leaves the New Monthly, 63—74. CHAPTER VII. Accounts with his Publisher. — The Metropolitan. — Anecdote of Rogers.- St. Leon- ard's. — Poem on the Sea. — Lines on Poland. — Correspondence with Mrs. Arkwright. — Mrs. Hemans. — Visit to the Arkwrights, in Derbyshire. — Neukomm and his Playing on the Organ. — Life of Mrs. Siddons. — The Metropolitan.— Captain Marryatt. — The Polish Association. — Leaves St. Leonard's. — Cause of Poland engrosses him. — Extracts from his Letters. — Thoughts of Standing for Parliament. — Attic in the Polish Chambers. — Campbell becomes intimate with Dr. Beattie. — Hampstead. — Campbell's Wai'd Joanna Baillie. — Life of Mrs. Siddons published. — Visit to Paris. — Trip to Algiers Anecdote. — Newkomm. — The Oratorios of Job Return by the way of Paris to London. — His Appearance improved. — Legacy. — Letter from the South. — Visit to Scotland. — CorilialReception.— Dinner at Glasgow, and at Edinburgh. — Visit to Lord Brougham. — Illustrated Edition of his Works. — Turner's Designs. — Presents his Works to the CONTENTS. IX Queen. — Literary Tasks. —Rumor of his Marriage. — House in Victoria-square. — His Niece. — Petrarch. — Starts for the Brunnens of Nassau. — Hallam. — German Children. — Keturn to England. — The Pilgrim of Glencoe. — New Edition of his Works. — Retires to Boulogne. — His Last Year. — The Closing Scene. — His Funeral. — Westminster Abbey — Horace Smith's Poem, " Campbell's Funeral," 74—89 CHAPTER VIII. Campbell's Person and Countenance. — Mr. Cuiiutliers' Description of the Poet in his Study. — Leigh Hunt's. — Compared with Gray. — Life and Habits at Sydenham. — Mrs. Campbell. — The Poet's Carelessness about Papers. — Mr. Canning's Contributions to the New Monthly. — Anecdote. — Carelessness in Money Matters. — Fondness for Money in his Decline, arising from his Interest in Private and Public Charities. — Manner in Conversation. — Anecdotes. — Absence of Mind. — His Political Views. — Visits at Mur- ray's. — Aversion to Controversy. — Difference with Jloore on the Publication of Byron's Life. — Discussion on the Merits of Pope. — His Organization and Character. — Habits of Study. —His Memory. — Favorite Literary Pursuits. — Composition of his Poems.— Recollections by Osgood, the Artist. — His Works. — Conclusion, '. .89—100. POEMS. Page Pleasubes of Hope. — Parti 103 " " " Part II 125 Theodric : a Domestic Tale, 140 Martial Elegy : from the Greek of Tyrtseus, 15i) Song of Hybrias the Cretan, 160 Fragment : from the Greek of Alcman, 161 Specimens of Translations from Medea, IGl Speech of the Chorus, In the same Tragedy, 162 O'Connor's Child ; or, " The Flower of Love lies Bleeding," 167 Lochiel's Warning, 177 Ye Mariners of England : a Naval Ode, 180 Battle of the Baltic, 182 Hohenlinden, 185 Glenara, 186 E.xile of Erin, 187 Lord TJllin's Daughter, 189 Ode to the Memory of Burns, 191 Lines written on Visiting a Scene in Argyleshire, 194 The Soldier's "Dream, •. . 196 To the Rainbow, 197 The Last Man, 199 A Dream, 203 Valedictory Stanzas to J. P. Kemble, Esq 203 Pajo Oehtrudb of Wyoming. Part 1 211 " " " Part II 221 « " « Part III 229 Linea written at the request of the Highland Society in London, when met to commem- orate the 21st of March, the Day of Victory in Egypt, 243 Stanzas to the Memory of the Spanish Patriots latest killed in Resisting the Regency and the Duke of AngoulAme, 244 Song of the Greeks, 246 Ode to Winter, 248 Lines spoken by Mrs. Bartley at Drury-Lane Tlieatre, on the first oiieniug of tlie House after the Death of the Princess Charlotte, 1817, 250 Lines on the Grave of a Suicide, 252 Keullura, 253 The Turkish Lady, 259 The Brave Roland, 26i, The Spectre Boat : a Ballad, 262 The Lover to his Mistress on her Birth-day, 264 Song : " 0, how Hard," 265 Adelgitha, 265 Lines on Receiving a Seal with the Campbell Crest, from K. M before her Mar- riage, 266 Gilderoy, 2G8 Stanzas on the threatened Invasion, 1803, 269 The Ritter Bann, 270 Song : " Men of England," 277 Song : " Drink ye to her," 278 The Harper, 278 The Wounded Hussar, 279 Love and Madness : an Elegy, 281 Hallowed Ground, 284 Song : " Withdraw not yet," 287 CaroUne. Part 1 288 " Part II. To the Eveiimg Star, 289 The Beech-tree's Petition, 291 Field-flowers, 292 Song : " To the Evening Star," 293 Stanzas to Painting, 294 The Maid's Remonstrance, ... 296 Absence, 297 Lines inscribed on the Monument erected by the Widow of Admiral Sir G. Camptell, K.C.B., to the Memory of her Husband 298 Stanzas on the Battle of Navarino, 299 Lines on Revisiting a Scottish River, — 300 The " Name Unknown : " in Imitation of Klopstock, 302 Farewell to Love, 303 Lines on the Camp Hill, near Hastings, 304 Lines on Poland, 305 A Thought suggested by the New Year, 310 Song : " How Delicious is the Winning," 311 CONTENTS. Xr Page Margaret and Dora, 312 The Power of Russia, 313 Lines on Leaving a Scene in Bavaria, 316 The Death-boat of Heligoland, 321 Song : " When Love came first to Earth," — 323 Song : " Earl March looked on his Dying Child," , 324 Song : " When Napoleon was flying," 325 Lines to Julia M , sent with a Copy of the Author's Poems, 325 Drinking-song of Munich, ..• 326 Lines on the Departure of Emigrants for New South Wales, 327 Lines on Revisiting Cathcart, 331 The Cherubs : suggested by an Apologue in the Works of Franklin, 332 Senex's Soliloquy on his Youthful Idol, 335 To Sir Francis Burdett, on his Speech delivered in Parliament, August 7, 1832, respecting the Foreign Policy of Great Britain, 336 Ode to the Germans, 337 Lines on a Picture of a Girl in the attitude of Prayer, by the Artist Qruse, in the pos- session of Lady Stepney, 339 Lines on the View from St. Leonard's, 340 The Dead Eagle : written at Oran, 345 Song : " To Love in my Heart," 348 Lines written in a Blank Leaf of La Pernuse's Voyagee, 349 The Pilgrim of Glencoe, 352 Napoleon and the British Sailor, 369 Benlomond, 371 The Child and Hind, 372 The Jilted Nymph, . • 377 On getting Home the Portrait of a Female Child, 379 The Parrot, 380 Song of the Colonists departing for New Zealand, 381 Moonlight, 383 Song on our Queen, 384 Cora Linn, or the Falls of the Clyde, 385 Chaucer and Windsor, 386 Lines suggested by the Statue of Arnold von Winkeh-ied, 387 To the United States of North America, 388 Lines on my New Child-sweetheart, 388 The Launch of a First-rate, 390 Epistle from Algiers to Horace Smith, 391 To a Young Lady, 393 Fragment of an Oratorio, 394 To my Niece, 5Iary Campbell, 398 FUGITIVE POEMS NOW FIRST COLLECTED. Queen of the North, 401 Hymn, 404 Chorus from the Choephoroe, 405 Klegy : written in Mull 407 XII CONTENTS, Page On the Glasgow Volunteers, 408 On a Rural Beauty in Mull, 409 Verses on the Queen of France, 410 Chorus from the Tragedy of Jephthes 411 The Du-ge of Wallace, 413 Epistle to Three Ladies 415 Death of my only Son : from the Danish, 418 Laudohn's Attack, 420 To a Beautiful Jewish Girl of Altoiia, 421 Farewell to my Sister, on leaving Edinburgh, 422 Epitaphs, 423 The BriUsh Grenadiers, 424 Trafalgar, 426 Lines written In Sickness, 427 Lines on the State of Greece : occasioned by being pressed to make it a Subject of Poetry, 1827, 427 Lines on James IV. of Scotland, who feU at the Battle of Flodden, 428 To Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore, three celebrated Scottish Beauties, 429 Song : '"T is now the Hour," 431 lines to Edward Ly tton Bulwer, on the Birth of his Child, 432 Content, . • 432 Spanish Patriots' Song, 433 To a Lady, on being presented with a Sprig of Alexandrian Laurel, 435 To the PoUsh Countess R ski, 435 Francis Horner 437 To Florine, 437 To an Infant, 438 To , 438 Forlorn Ditty on Little Red-Riding-Hood, 439 Joseph Marryat, 5LP 440 Song : " My Mind is my Kingdom," .«. 440 Stanzas, . . . • 441 Ou accidentally possessing and returning Miss B 's Picture, 441 Song : " I gave my Love a Chain of Gold," 442 To Mary Sinclair, with a volume of his Poems, 442 Impromptu, in compliment to the exquisite Singing of Mrs. Allsop, 443 To the Countess Ameriga Vespucci, 444 I from Petrarch, 444 r_^^ LIFE OF CAMPBELL, CHAPTER I. Thomas Campbell was born on the 27th of July, 1777, in a house in the High-street, in Glasgow, at that time, and for fourteen years afterwards, occupied by his father, but since pulled dovm. to make way for modern improvements. His family was of a numerous and respectable connection, and the particular branch from which he was descended had been long settled in that part of the Argyle frontier which lies between Lochawe and Lochfyne. They were known as the Campbells of Kirtian, from the name of the estate which was occupied by the poet's grandfather, the last of his race who resided there. He died leaving three sons, and Kirnan passed into the hands of Robert, the eldest, who was fond of display, and lavish in his hospi- tality, and was compelled to part with the ancestral acres to a neighboring proprietor, the son of Mrs. Campbell by a former marriage. Robert afterwards settled in London ; distinguished him- self as a political writer in defence of the Walpole administration, and died soon after its close. Archibald, the next brother, became a Presbyterian minister, and in that capacity Avent out to Jamaica, but subsequently removed to the Province of Virginia, where he re- sided till his death at an advanced age. His family there maintained a highly respectable character, and one of his sons was District Attorney during the administration of Washington. To his landed property in Virginia he gave the name of Kirnan, and his grandson 1 2 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. Frederick, many years afterwards, succeeded under an entail to the old family Kirnan, in Argyleshire. Alexander, the youngest of the brothers, and father of the poet, was educated in mercantile pursuits. Early in life he went to Falmouth, in Virginia, where he formed valuable business connections, that enabled him to return to Glasgow and establish a commercial house, in partnership with Mr. Daniel Campbell, whose acquaintance he had made in America, and whose sister ^largaret he afterwards married. For many years the respectable firm of Campbell & Co. enjoyed a well-earned pros- perity, but it was prostrated by the embarrassments in Avhich the Revolution involved all merchants engaged in the American trade. At the age of sixty-five years Alexander found himself stripped of fortune, and involved in an expensive chancery suit ; with a wife and nine children to provide for from the scanty remnants of his estate, and a small income from two provident institutions of which he was a member. It was soon after these reverses that the poet was born. " I have uncommonly early recollection of life," says the poet, in a MS. supposed to have been written in 1842. " -I remember — that is to say, I seem to remember — many circumstances which I was told had occurred when I could not have been quite three years old. " In very early years I was boarded, during the summer, in the country near Glasgow, at Pollock Shaws, in the humble house of a stocking-weaver, John Stewart, whose wife Janet was as kind to me as my own mother could be. " During the winter, in those infantine years, I returned to my father's house, and my youngest sister tauglit me reading. My read- ing, of course, was principally in the Bible, and I contracted a liking for the Old Testament which has never left me. The recol- lection of this period makes an exception to the general retrospect of my life, making me somewhat sad. I was then the happiest of young human animals, at least during the months which I spent under the roof of John and Janet Stewart. It is true I slept on a bed of chafi", and my fare, as may be supposed, was not sumptuous ; but life was young within me. Pollock Shaws was at that time rural and delightful. The stocking-weaver's house was on a flat piece of ground, half circularly enclosed by a small running stream, called by the Scotch a ' burn.' On one side above it were ascend- ing fields which terminated in trees along the high road to Glasgow. LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 3 [ remember no picture by Claude that ever threw me into such dreams of delight as this landscape. I remember leaping over the tallest yellovsr weeds with ecstasy. I remember seeing beautiful weed-flowers on the opposite side of the burn which I could not approach to pull, and wishing in my very soul to get at them ; still I could not cross the burn. There were trouta, too, in the stream ; and what a glorious event was the catching a trout ! I was happy, however. Once only in my life perfectly happy. " At eight years old I went to the grammar-school of Glasgow, where, among seventy other boys, I was the pupil of David Allison. He was a severe disciplinarian of the old school, and might be com- pared to Gil Bias' master, ' who was the most expert flogger in all Oviedo.^ But I was one of his pet scholars, and he told my father that he often spared me when he ought to have whipt me, because I looked so innocent. He was a noble-looking man. At the periodical examinations by the magistrates, he looked a prince in comparison even with the Provost with his golden chain. And he • Was kind, or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault.' So that he was popular even among his whippees. I was so early devoted to poetry, that at ten years old, when our master interpreted to us the first Eclogue of Virgil, I was literally thrilled by its beauty. Already we had read bits of Ovid, but he never aifected me half so much as the apostrophe of Tityrus to his cottage, from which he had been driven : * En unquam patrios longo post tempore fines, Pauperis et tuguri congestum cespite culmen Post aliquot, mea regna videns, mirabor aristas.' " In my thirteenth year I went to the University of Glasgow, and put on the red gown. The joy of the occasion made me unable to eat my breakfast. I am told that race-horses, on the moi-ning of the day when they know they are to be brought to the race, are so agitated that they refuse their oats. Whether it was presentiment, or the mere castle-building of my vanity, I had even then a day- dream that I should be one day Lord Rector of the University. In my own lifetime Lord Jeffrey and myself have been the only two Rectors who were educated at Glasgow." 4 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. From the time of their misfortunes, Alexander Campbell and hie wife seem to have devoted themselves almost exclusively to tho education of their younger children. He was a man of great fortitude, firmness and good sense, and of integrity unsuspected in his severest trials. With Adam Smith and Dr. Thomas Reid (from whom the poet received his baptismal name) he was on terms of friendship and intimacy. His favorite studies were in theology, history and the sciences, though he had something of a musical taste, and sang a good naval song. He was a devout man, and maintained to the last, in his house, the practice of family worship. "His were the only extemporal praj-ers I ever heard," said his son, " which might have been printed as they dropped from his lips." In person he was under the middle size, but compact and hardy ; his feat- ures were handsome, and in his advanced years he presented a very interesting and venerable appearance. " The first time," says an intimate friend of the poet, " that I drank tea in the house of Mr. Campbell, was in the winter of 1790. The old gentleman was seated in his arm-chair, and dressed in a suit of snuff-brown cloth, all from the same web. There were present, besides Thomas, his brother and two sisters, — Daniel, Elizabeth, and Isabella. The father, then at the age of fourscore, spoke only once to us. It was when one of his sons and I — Thomas, I think, who was then about thirteen, and of my own age — were speaking about getting new clothes, and descanting in grave earnest as to the most fashionable colors. Tom was partial to green ; I preferred blue. — ' Lads !' said the senior, in a voice which fixed our attention, ' if you wish to have a lasting suit, get one like mine.' We thought he meant one of a snuff-brown color ; but he added, ' I have a suit in the Court of Chancery, which has lasted thirty years, and I think it will never wear out.' " The mother of the poet was of a slight figure, with black eyes and dark hair, and features which in her advanced years became round and full, but which were originally well-chiselled and ex- pressive. She was a notable manager, a strict disciplinarian, and well educated for the age and sphere in which she lived. Such time as she could give to books was devoted to the perusal of the standard English authors of the previous generation. Of music she was pas- eionately fond, and sang many of the popular melodies of Scotland LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 6 with taste and feeling. Her manners were dignified, but full of vivacity and sprightliness ; and her nature, in spite of a sometime severe exercise of authority, overflowed with kindness and charity. This severity, indeed, was never manifested toward her youngest son, of whom she was very fond and proud, and on whose mind and character many of her own peculiarities were strongly impressed. In her declining years, and after her boy had become famous, she now and then manifested her maternal weakness in a manner that was amusing enough to be remembered. Once at a silk-mercer's, where the old lady had bought a shawl, when the parcel was folded, and the usual inquiry made as to where it should be sent, "Send it," she said, "to Mrs. Campbell — Mrs. Campbell of Kii-nan;" then added, " mother of the author of the Pleasures of Hope." On all occasions she spoke in the warmest and most genial language of her son Thomas. " Nothing," she said, " could be more kind and respectful than the tenor of his letters to herself." In his very school days Campbell was familiar with the popular Latin and Greek poets, and not only attempted the translation of their most admired passages, but sought to express in verse of his own the impressions that had been made upon his mind by the scenes in which the summers of his childhood had been passed. At the age of twelve years he became an enthusiastic student of the Greek literature ; and throughout his life seems to have piqued himself more on his Greek than his poetry. His favorite English authors at this time were Milton, Pope, Thomson, Gray, and Goldsmith ; a selection which seems such as his good mother herself would have made for him, and the influence of which is visible in all his writings. From the blotted and ragged condition of his copy of the Paradise Lost, Dr. Beattie infers that this was oftener in his hands than any other book. Some of the elder English dramatists he dipped into at this period, and the Sermons of the younger Sherlock, Doddridge's Fam- ily Expositor, and the Life of Colonel Gardiner, he read "with an interest and relish for which he could never account." His father used to say that he "would be much better reading Locke than scribbling so," when he caught the young poet with his manuscripts ; but failed, we imagine, by advice thus tendered to recommend the works of the philosopher over those of Smollett, Fielding and Burns, wJiich were among the favorites of his small library. 1* 6 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. In the October term of 1791 commenced his first session at the College of Glasgow, where students have always been received at a much earlier age than at the English universities. Before many months had elapsed, Campbell received from the college authorities prizes for English and Latin verse, and, as a third prize, a bursary or exhibition on Archbishop Leighton's foundation. Thus brilliant was the dawn of his academic career, in which he won a good title to the praises it has received, though he himself modestly disclaims them. "Some of my biographers," he observes, " have, in their friendly zeal, exaggerated my triumphs at the university. It is not true that I carried away all the prizes, for I was idle in some of tlie classes, and, being obliged by my necessities to give elementary instruction to younger lads, my powers of attention were exhausted in teaching when I ought -to have been learning." From the notes illustrative of this period, furnished by one of his earliest friends to his biographer, it appears that Campbell constantly cultivated his poetical talent, and composed a ballad which was printed on a slip of paper, and distributed among his fellow-students. It comprised one hundred and forty lines, was entitled Morven and Fillan, and began with the following stanza : " Loud breathed afar the angry sprite That rode upon the storm of night, And loud the waves were heard to roar That lashed on jVlorven's rocky shore." In the spring of 1792 a little incident occurred in the mathematical class in which Campbell was a student, that furnished him the sub- ject of a poem in a style of verse in which he was very felicitous, but which he employed chiefly for" his private amusement. The occasion was an examination of the class in the books of Euclid, when one of its members, who had manifested a most proud and pleasing con- sciousness of his acquirements, and was confident of making a grand display, boggled at the problem which is known, among the faculty and undergraduates, as the Asses' Bridge. This misadventure was the origin of a jeu d'esprit, by Campbell, which was handed about in manuscript, and was the source, no doubt, of a mischievous satisfaction to his fellow-students : LIFE OF CAMPBELL. PONS ASINORUM ; or, THE ASSES' BRIDGE. A SONG, WRITTEN IN SIR. J. MILLEB'S MATHEMATICAL CLASS. A3 Miller's Hussars marched up to the wars, AVith their captain in person before 'em, It happened one day that they met on their way With the dangerous Pons Asinorum ! Now see the bold band, each a sword in his hand. And his Euclid for target before him; Not a soul of them all could the dangers appal Of the hazardous Pons Asinorum : AVhile the streamers wide flew, and the loud trumpets blew. And the drum beat responsive before 'em. Then Miller their chief thus harangued them in brief 'Bout the dangerous Pons Asinorum ! " My soldiers," said he, " though dangers there be. Yet behave with a proper decorum; Dismiss every fear, and with boldness draw near To the dangerous Pons As Now, it chanced in the van stood a comical man. Who, as Miller strode bi-avely before him, lo his sorrow soon found that his brains were wheeled round. As he marched to the Pons Asinorum ! 0, sorrowful wight, how sad was his plight, AVhen he looked at the Pons Asinorum ! Soon the fright took his heels, like a drunkard he reels. And his head flew like thunder before him. So rude was the jump, as the mortal fell plump, That not Miller himself could restore him; So his comrades were left, of "Plumbano" bereft, pitiful plight, to deplore him ! T. C. ea. 13 His cousin, Mrs. Johnstone, has given us her recollection of the young poet at the age of fourteen. He used to spend a day, now and then, at her father's house, a short distance from Glasgow, "There," she observes, "he was always welcomed as a special favorite ; for, to the most unassuming manners Avere united a gayety and cheerfulness of disposition which he had the art of communi b LIFE OF CAMPBELL. eating to everyone around him." It was there he laid aside hia Greek and Latin, and entertained the fireside circle vfith anecdotes and " auld fanant stories." He was a clever mimic, and could per- sonate the notabilities about the college with ludicrous accuracy. He sang a few plaintive airs very prettily, and played on the German flute, so that he was an useful and acceptable addition to the social circle. In Campbell's second year at the university, Professor Jardine, lecturer in the Logic class, awarded him the eighth prize for the best composition on various subjects, and appointed him examiner of the exercises sent in by the members of his class. In the same year he received the third prize in the Greek class, for exemplary conduct as a student ; and on the last day of the session, his poem bore away the palm from all competitors. It was entitled a " Description of the Distribution of the Prizes in the Common Hall of the University of Glasgow, on the 1st of May, 1793." The poet sympathized and mixed with the world, from his earliest years. With all his fondness for study, if we may take his own account, he was more fond of sport. lie belonged to the college clubs, and figured in them, and of one of them has left us a brief account. " Thei-e was a Debating Society," he says, "called the Discursive, composed almost entirely of boys as young as myself, and I was infatuated enough to become a leader in this spouting club. It is true that we had promising spirits among us, and, in particular, could boast of Gregory Watt, son of the immortal Watt, a youth unparalleled in his early talent for eloquence. With me- lodious elocution, great acuteness in argument, and rich, unfailing fluency of diction, he seemed born to become a great orator, and I have no doubt would have shone in Parliament had he not been carried off by consumption in his five-and-twentieth year. He was literally the most beautiful youth I ever saw. When he was only twenty-tvi'o, an eminent English artist (Howard, I think) made his head the model of a picture of Adam. But, though we had this splendid stripling, and other members that were not untalcnted, we had no head among us old and judicious enough to make the society a proper palcestra for our mental powers, and it degenerated into a place of general quizzing and eccentricity." In the spring of 1794, as a reward for his exemplary conduct, LIFE OF CAMPBELL. » Campbell obtained a few days' leave of absence from college. It was a timo of great political excitement, and the young poet was a democrat of the school of the French Revolution. The trial of Muir and Gerald, for high treason, was expected to take place ; and Campbell wished "insufferably" to seethe great agitators of Scottish Reform, though he did not altogether approve their proceedings. But an important question with him was how to get to Edinburgh. We are furnished with an answer in the words of the poet himself: " While gravely considering the ways and means, it immediately occurred to me that I had an uncle's widow in Edinburgli — a kind- hearted elderly lady, who had seen me at Glasgow, and said that she would be glad to receive me at her house, if I should ever come to the Scottish metropolis. I watched my mother's mollia tempora fandi, — for she had them, good woman ! — and, eagerly catching the propitious moment, I said, '0, Mamma, how I long to see Edin- burgh ! — If I had but three shillings, I could walk there in one day, sleep two nights, and be two days at my aunt Campbell's, and walk back in another day.' To my delightful surprise, she answered, ' No, my bairn ; I will give you what will carry you to Edinburgh and bring you back ; but you must promise me not to walk more than half the way in any one day,' — that was twenty-two miles. ' Here,' said she, ' are five shillings for you in all ; two shillings will servo you to go, and two to return ; for a bed at the half-way house costs but sixpence.' She then gave me — I shall never forget the beautiful coin ! — a King William and Mary crown-piece. I was dumb with gratitude ; but, sallying out to the streets, I saw at the first book- seller's shop a print of Elijah fed by the ravens. Now, I had often heard my poor mother saying confidentially to our worthy neighbor Mr. Hamilton — whose strawben-ies I had pilfered — that in case of my father's death — and he was a very old man — she knew not what would become of her. ' But,' she used to add, ' let me not despair, for Elijah was fed by the ravens.' When I presented her with the picture, I said nothing of its tacit allusion to the possibility of my being one day her supporter ; but she was much affected, and evidently felt a strong presentiment." His mother's presentiment was not disappointed ; in the generous affection of her son she found a never-failing resource in her declining years. " Next morning," continues Campbell, " I took my way to Edin- 10 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. burgh, with four shillings and sixpence in my pocket, I •witnessed Joseph GeraWs trial, and it was an era in my life. Hitherto I had never known what public eloquence was ; and I am sure tlie Jus- ticiary Scotch lords did not help me to a conception of it — speaking, as they did, bad arguments in broad Scotch. But the Lord Advo- cate's speech was good ; the speeches of Laing and Gillies were better ; and Gerald's speech anniliilated the remembrance of all the eloquence that had ever been heard witliin the walls of that house. He quieted the judges, in spite of their indecent interruptions of him, and produced a silence in which you might have heard a pin fall to the ground. At the close of his defence, he said, ' And now, gentlemen of the jury — now that I have to take leave of you for- ever, let mc remind you that mercy is no small part of the duty of jurymen ; that the man who shuts his heart on the claims of the unfortunate, on him the gates of mercy will be shut, and for him the Saviour of the world shall have died in vain ! ' At tliis finish I was moved, and, turning to a stranger beside me, apparently a trades- man, I said to him, ' By heavens, sir, that is a great man ! ' ' Yes, sir,' he answered ; ' he is not only a great man himself, but ha makes every other man feel great who listens to him.' " This scene of political excitement made a lasting impression on Campbell, and he returned to college to read the liberal newspapers, declaim in the debating societies on the rights of man and the cor- ruption of modern legislation, and postpone for a while Greek poetry to the records of Greek patriotism. What he saw, felt, and dreamed of at this period, exerted, no doubt, a marked influence on his whole subsequent career. At the close of his third session, Campbell was distinguished by new academic honors. In the Moral Philosophy class he received a prize for his poetical essay on the Origin of Evil. In the Greek class he gained the first prize for the best translations from the Clouds of Aristophanes. The latter circumstance he thus alludes to in one of his manuscript notes : " Professor Young pronounced my version, in his opinion, the best essay that had ever been given in by any student at the university. This was no small praise to a boy of fifteen, from John Young, who, with the exception of Miller, was the ablest man in the college." One day, shortly before the close of this session, while Professor LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 11 Arthur, of the Moral Philosophy chair, was showing the university to an English gentleman, who had come into the class-room, Camp- bell says: "I happened to be standing unobserved behind him, and could hear distinctly the conversation that passed between them. ' And is there any one among your students,' inquired the stranger, ' who shows a talent for poetry? ' ' Yes,' said the professor, ' there is one Campbell, who shows a very promising talent.' Little knew the professor that I was listening to this 'question and answer. In explanation of this ' talent,' I had written in Arthur's class a verse essay on the Origin of Evil, for which I afterwards received the prize, aiid which gave me a local celebrity throughout all Glasgow, from the High Church down to the bottom of the Saltmarket ! It was even talked of, as I am credibly informed, by the students over their oysters at Lucky M'Alpine's, in the Trongate ! " Campbell's intimate asssociates in his college days were James Thomson and Gregory Watt. The former, a fellow-student from Lancashire, was his friend and correspondent till the poet's death, and to him most of his early letters were addressed. For more than half a century the links of this friendship were kept bright. " No distance," wrote the young student in 1794, when he thought of emigrating to America, " shall put an end to our epistolary corret epondence. Our friendship, though begun in the years of youth, T trust shall survive that period, and be immutably fixed in graver years." This dream of youthful enthusiasm proved a reality. It was to I\Ir. Thomson's order that two marble busts of the poet were long afterwards executed by Bailey, and the admirable portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence, now prefixed to most of the editions of his works, was also commissioned by this friend of a life-time. The three friends were rivals in scholarship and in the clubs, but competition seems never to have impaired their common attacliment. " Gregory is still among us," wrote Campbell from Glasgow, in April, 1795, to his friend Thomson. " He and I are at present very intimate, but as different souls as ever God created. Gregory is all volubility and solution of copper ; for me, you would take me for a Spaniard — as so])er as Socrates. Our prizes are to be decided to-morrow, for the summer exercises. I care not two pence about the event. Pro- fessor 's ' genteelity ' in his prizes has made me a stoic about obtaining them. Gregory speaks of writing you ; he has made a fine 12 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. figure at college this winter, and has a chance of several premiums. God bless you, my friend Thomson ! " Campbell took prizes as usual, though he had made up his mind to be very indifferent to them in the event of failure. They were given for translations from the Latin and Greek, of which the chorus to the Medea is the only one that has been included in his collected poems. But the loss of the " everlasting " chancery suit, and its incidents, had entirely deprived his parents of their little remaining property ; and it became necessary for the young poet to make some exertion for his own support. Through the aid of the college professors, he obtained a remunerating exile to Mull, in the Hebrides, in the shape of a private tutorship in the family of a young widow lady, "a namesake and connection of his own." Here he wrote letters to his friend Thomson ; translated the whole Clouds of Aristophanes, and the Coephoroe of ^schylus ; indulged in "botanizing" rambles in the neighborhood ; and studied pictures of glen, heath, rock, torrent and the sea, which, at various intervals, in after years, were reproduced in his poems. Before taking up his residence at Mull, he had sportively speculated on the impossibility of " making an elopement from the Hebrides to Gretna Green in a coach-and-four ;" and looked only for a " calm retreat for study and the Muses." He was not called upon to make the trial, though he found " plenty of beauties in Mull," more than one of whom seems to have inspired his song. Here he became acquainted with the young lady to whom the pretty poems were addressed that are published under the title of " Caroline ;" and here a " rural beauty" prompted verses hardly less worthy of a place in his collected works. When he first went to Mull, he was very dull and melancholy, and he wrote his friend Thomson that it was a place ill-suited to rub off the rust of an ill temper. " Every scene you meet with in it," he says, " is, to be sure, marked by sublimity and the wild majesty of nature; but it is only fit for the haunts of the damned, in bad weather." Poetry, love-making, and the Greek dramatists, how- ever, would soon have reconciled Campbell to a more dismal place than Mull ; and, from the moment he received his books and a supply of paper, he thanked God he could " call himself happy." " The point of Callioch," wrote the poet long afterwards, " commands a magnificent prospect of thirteen Hebrid-islands, among which are LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 13 Staffa and Icolmkill, which I visited with enthusiasm. 1 had also, now and then, a sight of wild deer sweeping across that wilder country, and of eagles perching on its shore. These objects fed the romance of my fancy, and I may say that I was attached to Sunipol, before I took leave of it. Nevertheless, God wot, I was better pleased to look on the kirk steeples, and whinstone causeways of Glasgow, than on all the eagles and wild deer of the Highlands." Callioch is on the northern shore of jMuU, and Sunipol was the house of the good lady with whom he resided. To the kirk steeples and whinstone causeways of Glasgow the poet returned, and resumed his duties as student and tutor for the session which terminated his university career. CHAPTER II. Campbell hesitated long and wavered much in the choice of a profession. It was desirable, from the circumstances of his parents, that he should engage in some pursuit from which he could derive an immediate income. He was too poor to study for any one of the learned professions, even if he had entertained a decided choice among them. He tried all by turns, and sometimes thought seriously of embarking in trade, and joining his brothers in America. In the early part of his academic career, Campbell studied with a view to the church ; his prospects of preferment were small as f\ir as family patronage and influence were concerned, but bright enough, perhaps, in view of the powers which he was conscious of possessing. At this period he read Hebrew with the students of theology ; cul- tivated a knowledge of the most celebrated divines, and wrote a hymn on the Advent which has merit enough still to keep its place in many collections of religious poetry. The study of medicine or surgery was attempted. Campbell managed well enough with the lectures, but the dissecting-room was too much for him. If he had any professional predilection, it was probably for the law. " Had 1 2 14 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. possessed but a few hundred pounds," says the poet, in his autobio- graphical notes, "I should certainly have studied for the bar." " Thomas," wi-ote his sister Elizabeth to their brother Alexander, " has attended, the college near sis years, is perfectly master of the languages, and last year he studied law. That is the line he means to pursue, and what I think nature has just fitted him for. He is a fine public speaker, and, I make no doubt, will make a figure at the bar." He passed some weeks in the ofiicc of a writer to the Signet, and attended Professor Miller's lectures on Roman law, and took "several choice books on jurisprudence " to the Highlands with him, and studied them with interest. But the result of his practical connection with the law is thus given in a letter to his friend Thomson: "Well, I have fairly tried the business of an attorney, and, upon my conscience, it is the most accursed of all pro- fessions ! Such meanness, such toil, such contemptible modes of peculation, were never moulded into one profession!" He then pronounces a hearty " malediction on the law in all its branches." " It is true," he adds, " there are many emoluments ; but I declare to God that I can hardly spend, with a safe conscience, the little sum I made during my residence in Edinburgh!" With these feelings, we may well suppose that the world might have lost an Ovid without gaining a Murray, if Campbell liad devoted himself to the profes- sion. His forte was literature, and he was destined to earn his bread and his fame in the same field. On taking final leave of the university, Campbell was engaged to return to Argyleshire as domestic tutor to the only son of Colonel Napier, who lived with his mother at Downie, his grandfather's estate. " He is a most agreeable man," — wrote Campbell of the father to his friend Thomson, — " with all the mildness of a scholar and the majesty of a British grenadier. The son is about eight years of age, and a miniature picture of his father. The colonel is uncommonly refined in his manners, for one who has been a soldier from his seventeenth year. I suppose you will not like him the worse for being a great-grandson of the celebrated Napier of Mer- chiston. I believe he does not intend staying long with liis father- in-law at Downie, but proposes to go with his wife to Edinburgh, or, perhaps, — Heaven grant it ! — to London. 0, Thomson, if the LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 15 fates should be so good .as to send us thither, I should certainly shake hands with one friend in that great metropolis." " I am lying dormant here," he wrote in October, 1796, '* in a solitary nook of the world. The present moments are of little importance to me : I must expect all my pleasure and pain from the remembrance of the past and the anticipation of the future ! This is, I believe, the case with all men, but more so with one in solitude. I contrive, however, to relieve the tcEcUum vitce with a tolerable variety of amusements. I have neat pocket copies of Virgil and Horace, affluence of English poets, a sort of flute, and a choice selection of Scotch and Irish airs. I have the correspondence of a few friends, and, though I have no companion, yet, by means of a few post-recon- ciliations, I can safely venture to think that there is not a soul under heaven bears to me a serious grudge. Life is thus tolerable ; but, were my former correspondence with my best and earliest friend renewed to its wonted vigor, I should be completely happy !" Downie was but a short distance from Inverary, the residence of the lady to whom he had addressed verses at Mull, and whom he styles the adorable Caroline. In her fiiraily he was a constant visitor, with his friend Hamilton Paul, who thus sketches a sceno with the poet, as they were rambling along the shore of Loch-Fyne : "The evening was fine, the sun was just setting behind the Gram- pians. The wood-fringed shores of the lake, the sylvan scenes around the castle of Inverary, the sunlit summits of the mountains in the distance, — all were inspiring. Thomas was in ecstasy. He recited poetry of his own composition, — some of which has never been printed, — and then, after a moment's pause, addressed me: ' Paul, you and I must go in search of adventures ! If you Mill per sonate Roderick Random, I will go through the world with you as Strap!'" While at Downie in the autumn, he complained to a friend of being caged in by rocks and seas from the haunts of man, and the once-prized interviews with his Amanda. In the spring following he communicated, in the strictest secrecy, to the same friend, that his evening walks were sometimes accompanied by one who for a twelve- month past had won his " purest, but most ardent aflTeetion." " You may well imagine," he adds, " how the consoling words of such a person warm my heart into ecstasy of a most delightful nature." 16 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. It is left a little doubtful, on the face of the letters, whether this con • eolation was administered by Amanda or the adorable Caroline, or whether they were one and the same person. However that may have been, his youthful attachment was of the class sometimes con- sidered unfortunate, as his charmer consoled herself with a suitor who possessed more substantial attractions. " Mull and Downie," says Dr. Beattie, " were the two schools in which he combined the study of Highland characteristics, moral and physical, and the recollection of which furnished him with many life-like pictures, which he afterwards recast and sent forth to the world. The house he once inhabited, the primitive hospitality he had often enjoyed, the patriarchal suppers, the domestic circle, the warm hearts of the inmates, and the stanch Jacobite at their head, are sketched with a force and brevity that show how faith- fully they had been treasured up in the poet's mind." His engagements at Downie terminated, Campbell returned, with disappointed hopes and sad prospects, to his father's house at Glas- gow. Here a violent attack of fever relieved his morbid and excited sensibilities, and prepared him to enter on his struggle with the world. In the metropolis he determined to seek his fortunes, and to Edinburgh he went, with nothing but sanguine hopes to sustain him, a little money in his pocket, and the dead weight (for all convertible purposes) of two translations from Euripides and ^schylus nearly ready for the press. Here he obtained the temporary employment which he regarded as experience in an attorney's office. While his fortunes were at their lowest ebb, he formed an acquaintance which marks, in the judgment of his biographer, " a most important epoch in his history." He was introduced to Dr. Anderson, a gentleman who seems to have enjoyed a deservedly high social posi- tion in Edinburgh, and who is known in literature as the author of certain lives of the British poets, prefixed to an ill-edited and ill- printed collection of their works. The handsome face of Campbell happened to attract the eyes of the young ladies, and they managed to have him introduced to their father. His poetry completed the conquest of the family. The doctor was as much charmed with the lad's verses as the girls had been by his fine eyes ; and Miss Anderson, many years afterwards, described his first visit in a man- LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 17 ner so lively as to show that it must have produced the strong impression she represents : " It was a most interesting scene ; and, although very young, it made a deep and lasting impression upon us. Mr. Campbell's ap- pearance bespoke instant favor : his countenance was beautiful ; and, as the expression of his face vai-ied with his various feelings, it be- came quite a study for a painter to catch the fleeting graces as they rapidly succeeded each other. The pensive air which hung so gracefully over his youthful features gave a melancholy interest to hi s manner, which was extremely touching. But when he indulged in any lively sallies of humor he was exceedingly amusiog ; every now and then, however, he seemed to check himself, as if the effort to be gay was too much for his sadder thoughts, which evidently pre- vailed. As Dr. Anderson became more and more interested in the young poet, he sought every occasion to awaken in his favor a simi- lar interest in the lainds of others : and in this effort he succeeded." Dr. Anderson introduced his young friend, with a warm recom- mendation, to Mr. Mundell, the bookseller, who immediately em- ployed him to prepare an abridged edition of Bryan Edwards' West Indies, for the sum of twenty pounds. On this visit Campbell remained but about two months at Edinburgh, when he returned to Glasgow to finish his translation of the Medea, and the preparation of liis abridgment for Mundell. For the Medea he received an offer from his new friend, the bookseller ; but the intention of publishing it was abandoned, from the conviction probably that it would not pay. While at Glasgow he planned a magazine that was never started, but he still continued an amateur student of the law. " My leisure hours," he wrote to Dr. Anderson, " I employ in perusing Godwin, and the Corpus Juris. The latter I always held as a somniferous volume ; but really, on closer inspection, there is something amusing as well as improving in tracing the mental progress of man- kind from the period of the Twelve Tables till the advanced time of Justinian." Campbell mixed freely in the general society of Glasgow, and con- tinued to cultivate relations with his old college professors. Of these, John Miller, for forty years professor of law in the university, seems to have been his favorite. John Young, the Greek professor, Campbell remembered as a man of great humor, with an exquisite 2* 18 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. Bense of the ludicrous ; of Professor Jardine he spoke as the " amia- ble," the " benign," the " philosophic." He thought all the profes- Bors at Glasgow very respectable, college-like persons, but of Miller he wrote with enthusiasm. " There was an air," he said, " of the high-bred gentleman about Miller, that you saw nowliere else, — something that made you imagine such old patriots as Lord Belhaven, or Fletcher of Saltoun. He was a fine, muscular man, somewhat above the middle size, with a square chest, and shapely bust, a prom- inent chin, gray eyes that were unmatched in expression, and a head that would have become a Roman senator. He was said to be a capital fencer ; and to look at his light, elastic step when he was turned of sixty disposed you to credit the report. But the glory was to see his intellectual gladiatorship, when he would slay or pink into convulsions some offensive political antagonist. He spoke with no mincing affectation of English pronunciation ; but his Scoto-English was as different from vulgar Scotch as that of St. James's from St. Giles's. Lastly, he had a playfulness in his countenance and con- versation tliat was graceful from its never going to excess." On completing his abridgment, he returned to Edinburgh, per- forming the journey on foot. For a while he obtained sufficient em- ployment from Mundell, but was obliged to have recourse again to the uncongenial vocation of a tutor. " And now," wrote Campbell, many years later, "Hived in the Scottish metropolis by instruct- ing pupils in Greek and Latin. In tliis vocation I made a comfort- able livelihood as long as I was industrious. But The Pleasures of Hope came over me. I took long walks about Arthur's Seat, con- ning over my own (as I thought them) magnificent lines ; and, as my Pleasures of Hope got on, my pupils fell off. I was not friend- less, nor quite solitary, at this period, in Edinburgh. My aunt, Mrs. Campbell, and her beautiful daughter Margaret, — so beautiful that she was commonly called Mary Queen of Scots, — used to receive me kindly of an evening, whenever I called ; and it was to them — and with no small encouragement — that I first recited my poem, when it was finished." Before he became known as an author, he was intimate with Francis Jeflrey, and with Thomas Brown, after- wards the successor of Dugald Stewart in the Moral Philosophy chair of Edinburgh. With John Richardson, then serving his apprentice- ehip with a writer to the Signet, and James Grahame, an advocate LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 19 at the Scottish bar (author of " The Sabbath"), Campbell at this time formed an iatimacy, which continued till the death of Grahame in 1811, and between the survivors for forty-six years, unimpaired. Richardson enjoyed through life the confidential friendship, not only of Campbell, but of Walter Scott and Joanna Baillie. Allusion has been made to the intention some time entertained by Campbell of joining his brothers in America. The final abandonment of this purpose was communicated to his friend Thomson, in a letter, that is interesting from the evidence it gives of the early republican bias which marked Campbell's political character through life. The letter is dated at Edinburgh, March 30th, 1798 : " You were among the few to whom I mentioned my resolution of going to , and you may well suppose I congratulate myself now upon the discretion with which I mentioned it ; being compelled by necessity to stay at home! Yes, there is surely either a fate or a Providence, or a blind necessity, which regulates the course of things. Ever since I knew what America was, I have loved and respected her government and state of society ; but, without incurring censure, I cannot yet become a citizen of that enviable country. !My youngest brother, who resides there, anxious to see me once more, negotiated for me, at my request, and procured me a situation ; but my eldest brother, who is a man of more experience, forbids me to quit Britain till I have acquired more useful knowledge. I venerate his opinion, and, however unwilling, I relinquish my wish." Such as we have described it in the preceding pages, was the training of Campbell for the production of The Pleasures of Hope. For the merely artistic portion of it he had been thoroughly schooled in the Greek and Roman classics, and was familiar with the masters of the best English style. In the practice of composition he had enjoyed no little experience. Besides the elaborate translation fi-om the Greek dramatists, on which he had bestowed so much time and toil, he had written several original poems, some of which, with the choruses of Medea, he admitted, notwithstanding his fastidious- ness, to a permanent place in his collected works. He had written not only his Elegy in Mull, which is said to have been the poem that first commended him to the attention of Dr. Anderson, but the two parts of the pretty poem addressed to Caroline, an elegy entitled Love and Madness, and the touching ballads of The Wounded 20 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. Hussar, and The Harper. The Dirge of WaUace, The Epistle to the Three Ladies of Cart, and the Lines to a Rural Beauty, were also poems of this period, which possess a merit and interest independent of the youth of the author, in the production of which he had tried and disciplined his wonderful powers. His experience of life had not been large, but it had been not unfavorable to the cultivation of his poetical genius. The summer, which in childhood he had passed in the country, impressed upon his mind scenes and images of quiet beauty which were never effaced. The trial for treason, which he attended at Edinburgh, excited his earnest sympathies, and taught him to feel deeply with humanity struggling for enfranchisement in whatever land. He had loved, too, measurably, and, as well as we can guess, more than once ; and had been consoled for his disappointments, and learned to play his flute, and write verses to a new love when he was off with tho old. The wild and stern displays of nature in her gloom and sub- limity he had studied in the Hebrides and Highlands, in moods which sometimes made him an apt learner in so severe a school. But, above all, he felt the continual spur and impulse of necessity. Academic competition and honors had made the praise of men a want with him ; and he had a name to make, and a position to win in the world, by which he might achieve a fortune or a fame that would give lustre to circumstances even more humble than his own. It is this ungentle and irksome necessity tiiat has been the origin of the greatest works of man, and to which, beyond all things else, we are indebted for The Pleasures of Hope. If Campbell liad been a child of wealth, he would have dreamed away life as an amateur and critic of the works of others ; but poverty compelled him to be a " maker " himself. In his notes of this year he narrates an anecdote of his friend, Mr. Thomas Robertson, with whose kindness he seems to have been deeply impressed. " I had a friend at this time," he says, " whose kindness I shall never forget." . . . " He had seen the manuscript of The Pleasures of Hope, and, calling on me one morning, he said, " Campbell, if you need money for the printing of the poem, my purse is at your service. How much will it cost ? ' At a random guess, I said ' Fifteen pounds. —But, my dear fellow,' I added, ' God only LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 21 knows when I may be able to repay you !' — ' Never mind that,' he replied, and left me the money ; but for the fifteen pounds I had a hundred and fifty calls more pressing than the press itself." Campbell had at first intended to publish the poem by subscription ; but finally, through his friend Dr. Anderson, submitted the manu- script to Mundell, the only bookseller with whom he had formed any profitable connection. After some discussion, the copyright was sold " out and out " for sixty pounds; in money and books. So scanty and precarious were the resources of its author at that time, he could not be dissuaded from thus disposing of the poem ; and though, about three years afterwards, a London bookseller estimated the value at an " annuity of two hundred pounds for life," it is not probable that Mundell thought he was driving a hard bargain. The publisher, indeed, behaved with so much liberality that the poet received from the first seven editions of his work the large sum of nine hundred pounds, notwithstanding he had divested himself of all legal interest in the copyright. " The Pleasures of Hope," says Campbell in his reminiscences, " appeared exactly when I was twenty-one years and nine months old. It gave me a general acquaintance in Edinburgh. Dr. Gregory, Henry Mackenzie, the author of the Man of Feeling, Dugald Stewart, the Rev. Archibald Alison, the ' Man of Taste,' and Thomas Telford, the engineer, became my immediate patrons." With Wal- ter Scott he had been previously acquainted ; and, soon after the a^jpearance of his poem, was invited by him to a dinner-party of his select literary friends, among whom Campbell found himself an entire stranger. No introduction took place ; but, after the cloth was removed, Scott rose, and, with a kind and complimentary reference to the poem, proposed a bumper to the " Author of the Pleasures of Hope." "The poem," he added, "is in the hands of all our friends ; and the poet," pointing to a young gentleman on his right, " I have now the honor of introducing to you as my guest." In a letter written, thirty years afterwards, to INIrs. Arkwright, the daughter of Stephen Kemble, we find a paragraph of peculiar interest, as containing the poet's description of himself at this period, and fixing the locality which suggested one of the remarkable passages in his poem. "The day that I first met your honored father," he wrote, " was at Henry Siddous', on the Calton Hill, in Edinburgh 'SA LIFE OF CAMPBELL. The scenery of the Frith of Forth was in full view from the house ; the time was summer, and the weather peculiarly balmy and beauti- ful. I was a young, shrinking, bashful creature : my poems were out but a few days ; and it was neck or nothing with me, whether I should go down to the gulf of utter neglect or not ; althougli, with all my bashfulness, I had then a much better opinion of myself and my powers than I have at this moment. Your dear father praised my work, and quoted the lines — ' 'T is distance lends enchantment to the view,' ustical dog ! What LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 49 would we give to have one day of you at Sydenham, to join our creep- ing party ! ' ' For the disappointment of his great scheme with his brother poet, and the " happiness he had built upon it," he was to some extent consoled by an event that figures in a laconic- and agreeable postscript to a letter, otherwise in a very low key, to Walter Scott : "P. S. His Majesty has been ■pleased to confer a pension of 200/. a year upon me. God Save the King !" It is not known to whom, nor for precisely what services, Camp- bell was indebted for this seasonable assistance. At the time it was ascribed to the suggestion of one of the princesses, who had been charmed with his poetry, and had interceded with the king in his behalf. Campbell's notes on the subject are in very general terms. " jNIy pension," he says, " was given to me under Charles Fox's ad- ministration. So many of my friends in power expressed a desire to see that favor conferred upon me, that I could never discover the precise individual to whom I was indebted for it. Lord Minto's interest, I know, was not wanting : but I hope I may say, without ingratitude to others, that I believe Charles Fox and Lord Holland would have bestowed the boon without any other intervention." " Before that event, I had labored under such gloomy prospects aa 1 am reluctant to look back upon ; and I should probably consign the history of them to oblivion, if I gave way to unmanly feeling or folse pride. But everything that is felse in my pride gives way to the gratitude which I owe to those friends who rallied round me at that period ; and it would be black ingratitude if I could forget that in one of those days I was saved from taking a debtor's lodgings in the King's Bench by a munificent present which the Rev. Sydney Smith convoyed to me from Lady Holland." The pension netted him, after the deduction of fees and expenses, one hundred and sixty-eight pounds a year, — half of which he reserved to his own use, and the residue he divided between his mother and sisters. While some of his friends had exerted themselves thus bene- ficially with the ministry, others were seeking to make some perma- nent provision for his family, by again publishing a subscription edition of his poems. The celebrated Francis Horner, one of the poet's earliest friends, worked hard for him, and with good success. In a letter to Richardson,, Horner says. " It may do you good, among 5 50 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. the slaves in Scotland, to let it be known that ^Mr. Pitt put his name to the subscription when lie was at Bath, and we hope that most of the ministers will follow him." Campbell mentions a dinner at Lord Holland's, where he met Fox, in the spring of 180G. " What a proud day," he says, " to shake hands with the Demosthenes of his time — to converse familiarly with the great man whose sagacity I revered as unequalled, — whose benev- olence was no less apparent in his simple manners, — and to walk arm- in-arm round the room with hun ! ' ' They spoke of Virgil. Fox was pleased, and said at parting, " Mr. Campbell, you must come and see me at St. Anne's Hill ; there we shall talk more of these matters." Fox, turning to Lord Holland, said, " I like Campbell, he is so right about Virgil." " What particularly struck me about Fox," the poet adds, " was the electric quickness and wideness of his attention ia conversation. At a table of eighteen persons, nothing that was said escaped him, and the pattest animadversion on everything that was said came down smack upon us ; so that his conversation was anything but passively indolent or uuformidable. * * * ;My hope of seeing Charles Fox at St. Anne's Hill was frustrated, alas ! by the national misfortune of his death " This year was passed by Campbell chiefly in seclusion at Syden- ham, in revising an edition of Johnson's Lives, and in writing several new biographical sketches of the poets. Towards its close he is said to have made the first outline sketch of Gertrude of Wyoming. CHAPTER V. A WRITER in the Quarterly Review gives a lively description of the society by which Campbell was surrounded at Sydenham. The neigh- borhood was studded with the residences of comfortable famUiea connected with the commerce of London, and with several of these the poet and his wife soon came to be on a footing of close intimacy, LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 5] " Weary wives, idle widows, involuntary nuns, were excited splen- didly by such a celebrity at their doors. The requests for autographs were unceasing. No party could be complete without The Pleasures of Hope ; he was here in no danger of being overborne or outshone. " By-and-by he joined a volunteer regiment, called the ' North Britons,' and for a time was constant at drill, and also at mess. This last was not good for his health. Already, his newspaper engage- ment bringing him daily to town, he had been quite enough exposed to the temptation of festive boards and tavern meetings. Moreover, temptations of a like kind were not wanting at Sydenham itself. There were jolly aldermen there, as well as enthusiastic spinsters. Above all, the original of Paul Pry, Tom Hill, then a flourishing dry- salter in the city, and proprietor and editor of the Theatrical Mirror, had a pretty box in the village, where on Saturdays convened the lights of song and the drama, Matthews, Liston, Incledon, and with them their audacious messmate and purveyor, the stripling Hook. The dignity of Campbell's reputation surrounded him amidst these merrymakers with a halo before which every head bowed — which every chorus recognized. All this was very diflerent from Holland House, from the King of Clubs — even from the Dis^an in the Row. To Campbell it was more fascinating. Even so Goldy, in the circle of Burke and Johnson, sighed secretly for his Irish poetasters and index-makers, and the ' shoemaker's holidays,' as he called them, of Highbury Barn." But it was in the midst of all these influences — unfavorable as they may have been to poetic inspiration — that Campbell composed Gertrude of Wyoming. This exquisite poem was completed in 1808, and publLshed in the following year with a dedication to Lord Hol- land. The proof-sheets were read by Mr. Alison and one or two judicious friends in Edinburgh ; but it does not appear that the poem was submitted to any such processes as no doubt greatly improved The Pleasures of Hope. Among the friends permitted to peruse the manuscript was the editor of the Edinburgh Revieiv, who favored the author with an epistolary critique, to the justice of which eveiy appreciating reader of Campbell must assent : " Edinburgh, March 1st, 1809. * it if * <« J have seen your Gertrude. The sheets were sent to Alison, and he allowed me, though very hastily, to peruse them. There is great 52 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. beauty, and great tenderness and fancy in the work — and I am sure it will be very popular. The latter part is exquisitely pathetic, and the whole touched with those soft and skyish tints of purity and truth which fall like enchantment on all minds that can make anything of such matters. Many of your descriptions come nearer the tone of ' The Castle of Indolence ' than any succeeding poetry, and the pathos is much more graceful and del- icate. * * * But there are faults, too, for which you must be scolded. In the first place, it is too short, — not merely for the delight of the reader, but, in some degree, for the development of the story, and for giving full effect to the fine scenes that are delineated. It looks almost as if you had cut out large portions of it, and filled up the gaps very imperfectly. * * * " There is little or nothing said, I think, of the early love and of the childish plays of your pair, and nothing certainly of their parting, and the effects of separation on each — though you had a fine subject in his Euro- pean tour, seeing everything with the eyes of a lover, a free man, and a man of the woods. » * * It ends rather abruptly, — not but there is great spirit in the description, but a spirit not quite suitable to the soft and soothing tenor of the poem. The most dangerous faults, however, are your faults of diction. There is still a good deal of obscurity in many passages, and in others a strained and unnatural expression — an appear- ance of labor and hardness ; you have hammered the metal in some places till it has lost all its ductility. "These are not great faults, but they are blemishes ; and, as dunces will find them out, noodles will see them when they are pointed to. I wish you had had courage to correct, or rather to avoid them ; for with you they are faults of over-finishing, and not of negligence. I have another fault to charge you with in private, for which I am more angry with you than for all the rest. Your timidity, or fastidiousness, or some other knavish quality, will not let you give your conceptions glowing, and bold, and powerful, as they present themselves ; but you must chasten and refine and soften them, forsooth, till half their nature and grandeur is chiselled away from them. Believe me, my dear C, the world will never know how truly you are a great and original poet till you venture to cast before it some of the rough pearls of your fancy. Write one or two things without thinking of publi- cation, or of what will be thought of them — and let me see them, at least, if you will not venture them any further. I am more mistaken in my prognostics than I ever was in my life, if they are not twice as tall as any of your full-dressed children. * * * I write all this to you in a terrible hurry, but tell me instantly when your volume is to be out. "F. Jeffrey LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 53 By his friends in Edinburgh the new poem was hailed with a gen- eral acclamation of delight, to which the reading pulilic of Great Britain gave a cordial response. In the following spring a second edition was called for. Meanwhile, with a facility somewhat re- markable for Campbell, he sketched the touching story of O'Con- nor's Child in the autumn, finished it in December, and published it in the same volume with Gertrude. In 1811, Campbell was invited to deliver a course of lectures before the Royal Institution, for one hundred guineas — the terms pro- posed by himself. Two were to be delivered before and three after Easter, in the following year. To his brother Alexander the poet vn.'ote that it was a "very honorable appointment." "I hope,"' said Sir "Walter Scott, " that Campbell's plan of lectures will suc- ceed. I think the brogue may be got over, if he will not trouble himself by attempting to correct it, but read with fire and feeling. He is an animated reciter, but I never heard him read." In February of the year 1812, the poet's mother died at Edinburgh, at the age of seventy-six. She had been for several months a sufierer, and Campbell said that he felt more at the news of her first shock of paralysis than at her decease. " It is only," said he, " when I imagine her alive in my dreams, that I feel deeply on the subject." Meanwhile, the time approached for the delivery of his lectures, of which we find, in a letter of the poet, the annexed synopsis. " 1 begin my first lecture with the Principles of Poetry ; I proceed, in my second, to Scripture, to Hebrew, and to Greek Poetry. In the fourth, I discuss the Poetry of the Troubadours and Romancers, the rise of Italian Poetry with Dante, and its progress with Ariosto and Tasso. In the fifth, I discuss the French theatre, and enter on Eng- lish poetry — Chaucer, Spenser, Shakspeare. In the sixth, Milton, Dryden, Pope, Thomson, Cowper and Burns, are the yet unfinished subjects. It forms a sort of chronological, though necessarily imperfect, sketch of the whole history of Poetry. Mj endeavor is to give portraits of the succession of the truly great poets in the most poetical countries of Europe. I forgot to say that I have touched also on Oriental poetry." Of the poet's success in his new vocation we learn from one of his own letters to an old friend ; 5* 54 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. TO THE REV. ARCHIBALD ALISON. "Sydenham, April 20, 1812. " Mr DEAREST Alison : The day before yesterday I gave my first lecture at the Royal Institution, with as much success as ever your heart could have wished, and with more than my most sanguine expectations antici- pated. Indeed, I had occasionally pretty sanguine expectations of a very different sort of reception. I took, however, great pains with the first lec- ture, and, though I was flattered by some friends saying I had thrown away too many good things for the audience, yet I have a very different opinion. I felt the effect of every sentence and thought, which I had tried to condense. You will think me mad in asserting the audience to be en- lightened ; but now I must think them so — wise, enlightened as gods, since they cheered me so ! and you will think me very vain in telling you all this. Pray burn this letter with fire in case it should rise up in judgment against my vanity ! But really and truly, my dear old friend, I am not so vain as satisfied that all my labor has not been threshing on the water. I was told, of course, all the good things about my own sweet self, in the ante-chamber. Lord Byron, who has now come out so splendidly, told mo he heard Bland, the poet, say (knowing neither his lordship nor me), ' I have had more portable ideas given me in the last quarter of an hour than I ever imbibed in the same portion of time.' Archdeacon Nares fidgeted about, and said, ' That 's new ; at least, quite new to me.' I could not look in my friend's face ; and I threatened to divorce my wife if she came. All friends struck me blind, except my chieftain's lovely daughter, and now next-door neigh- bor on the Common, Lady Charlotte Campbell. I thought she had a feudal right to have the lecturer's looks to herself. But chiefly did I repose my awkward eyes on the face of a little yellow unknown man, with a face and a smile of approbation indescribably ludicrous. When I came to your name about 'association,' I felt the force of your doctrine, and my heart, having passed from fear to confidence, swelled so much that, for fear of crying, I stopt sooner than I ought, but I said you were an eloquent and venerable clergyman. I could not add my friend, for it sent another idea most terribly through my heart. " I had taken no small pains with my voice and pronunciation, strength- ening the one not under a pedantic teacher, but with some individuals who are good judges of reading, and getting rid of Caledoniauisms in the utter- ance. "My dear boy, Thomas, hoped, on my return, that • nobody had made me laugh during my lecture ! ' The little wee man with the yellow face cer- tainly made me smile. " Now this news, with the taking of Badajos, is quite sufficient for one week. I had forgot to remind you of my pension — no wonder. I shall be LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 55 popular in London, for probably tbree weeks ! and nothing less tban a riot at the theatre, or a more than ordinary case of gallantry in high life, can put me before that time out of date ! * * * " But seriously, my dearest Alison, a greater cause of my good spirits is the recovery of Thomas from an illness and fever of six weeks, which has reduced him to a shadow. He is now fairly better. How are all your dear circle 1 Remember me to them. " Your ever affectionate " T. Campbell." During the remainder of this year and a portion of 1813, the poet Beems to have devoted more time than was usual Avith him to general society. Lady Charlotte Campbell had introduced him to the Princess of Wales, and he became an habitual visitor at the Court of Black- heath, where he was no doubt more at his ease than he would have been in any other court. He became quite a favorite of the princess, and danced Scotch reels with her " more than once." Here he met Mackintosh and Sir Thomas Lawrence ; and, on one occasion, Dr. Burney and his daughter, Madame D'Arblay. " Her features," he says, " must have been once excellent ; her manners are highly pol- ished, and delicately courteous, — just like Evelina grown old, — not bashful, but sensitively anxious to please those about her. I sat next to her, alternately pleased and tormented with the princess' ndiveti and Madame D'Arblay's refinement. Her humility made me vow that I would abandon the paths of impudence forever ! Yet I know not that anybody but herself could manage so much gentleness. I believe any other person would appear designing with it. But really you would love her for her communicativeness, and fine tact in con- versation." Campbell's first acquaintance vdth Theodore Hook was of this period. " Yesterday an improvisatore — a wonderful creature of the name of Hook — sang some extempore songs, not to my admiration, but to my astonishment. I prescribed a subject, — ' jDe^jper and salt.' — and he seasoned the impromptu with both — very truly Attic salt. He is certainly the first improvisatore this country ever possessed — he is but twenty." In the same circles he met with another man of extraordinary social talent, and of no little note, towards the close of the last cen- tury, for his convivial songs. " I dined yesterday with Captain j\Ior- fis, the old bard, who sang liis own songs in his eighty-first year with 56 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. the greatest glee, and obliged me to sing some Scotch songs and the Exile of Erin. * * * The party was at Lonsdale's, the painter's ; and you may guess how social it was when worse, infinitely worse thrappk's, as we Scotch say, volunteered songs after dinner, in the hearing of ladies. Poor old Morris was cut a little — but he is a wonderful spirit. His dotage seems to consist of boasting of the king's kindness to him. I was as sober as a judge when I came home, at one in tlie morning." In the spring of 1813 Madame de Stael visited England. Camp- bell had previously corresponded with her, and had oflFered to super- intend the translation of one of her works. She had written him, in January, from Stockliolm, thanking him for his offer, and telling him that during the ten years for which she had been absent from England the English poem which excited her most, and which she read again and again, was The Pleasures of Hope. During the visit Campbell saw her several times, and read her his lectures, one of them against her own doctrines in poetry. Woman of genius as she was, ]\Iadame de Stael showed the tact and lavished the compli- ments of a French woman. Campbell tells us that " every now and then " she said to him, " "When you publish your lectures they will make a great impression over all Europe ; I know nothing in English but Burke's writings so striking." Every now and then ! The poet might have thought, with the queen in Hamlet, " the lady doth pro- test too much, methinks." During this summer Campbell passed a few weeks at Brighton, where he met Herschel, whom he found a " simple, great being." He spent a day with the astronomer by invitation. Herschel described his interview with Bonaparte, and said that, though the emperor affected astronomical subjects, he did not understand them deeply. Of his great telescope Herschel said, with a greatness and simplicity of expression that struck the poet with wonder, " I have looked further into space than ever human being did before me. I have observed stars of which the light takes two millions of years to travel to this globe." At Holland House, also, as well as at St. James's Place, in the society of Lord Holland and Mv. Rogers, he now met familiarly the distinguished men of the time. "I have spent," he writes to a friend, " a pleasant day at Lord Holland's. "We had the Marquis LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 57 of Buckingham. Sergeant Best, !Major Stanhope, Sir James Mackin- tosh, and a sivan at dinner. Lord Byron came in the evening. It was one of the best parties I ever saw." Byron and Campbell had first met in 1811, at the table of Mr. Rogers. On another occasion — after a dinner party at Holland House — Lord Byron writes, " Camp- bell looks well, seems pleased, and dresses to sprucery. A blue coat becomes him, — so does a new wig. He really looked as if Apollo had sent him a birth-day suit, or a wedding garment. He was lively and witty. * * * We were standing in the ante-saloon when Lord H. brought out of the other room a vessel of some composition, similar to that used in Catholic churches ; and, seeing us, he ex- claimed, ' Here is some incense for you ! ' Campbell answered, * Carry it to Lord Byron : he is used to it.' " In 1814 the poet visited Paris, and, though his acquaintance with art was so limited as to render his criticism of little value, we cannot read without interest the glowing transcript of his impressions in the Louvre. " Paris, September 8, 1814. " "Written in the Louvre, within two yards of the Apollo. I take out this sheet the moment I see the Apollo de Belvidere and the Venus de Medicis. Mrs. Siddans is with me. I could almost weep — indeed I must. * * * " T. C." " I write this after returning from the Louvre. * * * You may im- agine with what feelings I caught the first sight of Paris, and passed under Montmarti-e, the scene of the last battle between the French and Allies. * * * * It was evening when we entered Paris. Next morning, I met Mrs. Siddons ; walked about with her, and then visited the Louvre together * * * 0, how that immortal youth, Apollo, in all his splendor — majesty — divinity — flashed upon us from the end of the gallery ! What a torrent of ideas, classically associated with this godlike form, rushed upon me at this moment ! My heart palpitated — my eyes filled with tears — I was dumb with emotion. "Here are a hundred other splendid statues, — the Venus, the Menander, the Pericles, Cato and Portia, — the father and daughter in an attitude of melting tenderness. ... I wrote on the table where I stood with Mrs. Siddons the Jirxt part of this letter in pencil, — a record of the strange mo- ments in which I felt myself suddenly transported, as it were, into a new world, and while standing between the Apollo and the Venus." * * * "Coming home, I conclude a transcript of the day : The effect of the statue-gallery was quite overwhelming — it was even distracting ; for the 58 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. eecondary statues are things on which you might dote for a whole day ; and while you are admiring one, you seem to grudge the time, because it is not epent in admiring something else. Mrs. Siddons is a judge of statuary ; but I thought I could boast of a triumph over them, in point of taste, when she and some others of our party preferred another Venus to ' the statue that enchants the world.' I bade them recollect the waist of the true Venus — the chest and the shoulders. We returned, and they gave in to my opinion that these parts were beyond all expression. It was really a day of tremulous ecstasy. The young and glorious Apollo is, happily, still white in color. He seems as if he had just leapt from the sun ! All pedantic knowledge of statuary falls away, when the most ignorant in the arts finds a divine presence in this great created form. Mrs. Siddons justly observed that it gives one an idea of God himself having given power to catch, in Buch imitation, a ray of celestial beauty. " The Apollo is not perfect ; some parts are modern, and he is not quite placed on his perpendicular by his French transporters ; but his head, his breast, and one entire thigh and leg, are indubitable. The whole is so perfect, that, at the full distance of the hall, it seems to blaze with propor- tion. The muscle that supports the bead thrown back — the mouth, the brow, the soul that is in the marble, — are not to be expressed. •' After such a subject, what a falling off it is to tell you I dined with human beings ! — yea, verily, at a hotel with Mrs. Siddons, her family, and Sergeant Best and party. We were all splendidly dressed, dined splendidly, and paid in proportion ; yet I never paid fourteen shillings for a dinner with more pleasure. It was equal to any at Lord Holland's table — a profusion of luxuries and fruits fit to pall an epicure. After dinner we repaired to the opera — a set of silly things, but with some exquisite music, at which even Mrs. Siddons, exhausted with admiring the Apollo, fell asleep. I should tell you that last night I was alone at the ♦ Orphan of China,' and read the tragedy so as closely to follow, and feel the recita- tion. * * * " T. C." " Paris, Sept. 12, 1814. " * * * I have seen a good deal of French society at Madame de Stael's. Yesterday I dined with Schlegel and Humboldt, who are both very superior men, and with a host of Marquis and Marquisfs. After much entreaty, they made me repeat Lochiel. I have made acquaintance also with Denon, the Egyptian traveller, who is a very pleasing person, and gave me an admission to the sittings of the academy." A month afterwards Campbell wrote to a friend, — " To-morrow I am to be at Madame de StaeTs, where the Duke of Wellington ia expected. I was introduced to him at his own house, where he was LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 59 polite enough ; but the man who took me was so stupid as not to have told him the only little circumstance about me that could have entitled me to his notice. ]\Iadame de Skiel asked him if he had seen me? He said a Mr., &c., had been introduced to him, but he thought it was one of the thousands of that name from the same country ; he did not know that it was (he Thomas ; but, after which, his Grace took my address in his memorandum-book, adding, he was sorry he had not known me sooner." In 1815 Campbell was called to Scotland by the death of his High- land cousin, MacArthur Stewart, of Ascog, who had left five hun- dred pounds, with a share of any unsettled residue of his estate, to " the author of The Pleasures of Hope." In giving his instructions for the settlement, the old man said that " little Tommy, the poet, ought to have a legacy, because he had been so kind as to give his mother sixty pounds yearly out of his pension." This bequest turned out to be worth nearly five thousand pounds, the income of which Campbell enjoyed during his lifetime, the capital remaining untouched, and descending, ultimately, to his son. This turn of good luck came opportunely to the poet, like many others in the course of his life. "I feel as blithe" he said to his Edinburgh friends, "as if the devil were dead." But it does not seem that Campbell was any less in vrant of money, whatever he might receive from pension, legacies, or copyi-ight ; his disposition to give expanded with hia means, and he managed always to let his charities exceed his income just enough to subject himself to continual annoyance. In April, 1816, Sir Walter Scott wrote to his "dear Tom" that he had heard, " with great glee," of his intention to visit Edinburgh the next vpinter, with the view of lecturing ; and that hearing thia had put a further plan in his head, which he communicated in con- fidence. His idea was, that either of the two classes of rhetoric and history in the university of Edinburgh might be made worth four or five hundred pounds to Campbell, though they were of no value to the professors in possession. "Our magistrates," says Scott, " who are patrons of the university, are at present rather well disposed towards literature (witness their giving me my freedom, with a huge silver tankard that would have done honor to Justice Shallow) ; and the Provost is really a great man, and a man of taste and reading; so I have strong hope our point, so advantageous to the university, may 60 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. be carried. If not, the failure is mine, not yours. You will under- stand me to be sufficiently selfish in this matter, since few things could give me more pleasure than to secure your good company through what part of life's journey may remain to me. In saying Bpeak to nobody, 1 do not include our valuable friend John Richard- son, or any other sober or well-judging friend of yours." Campbell did not carry out his intention of lecturing in Edm- buro-h, and it does not appear that any action was taken upon the friendly suggestion of Sir Walter Scott. On the death of Francis Horner, a loved and lamented friend, Campbell attempted a poem to his memory. Horner's political fame sprung from his skilful discussion of financial questions ; and it was not easy to treat of banking and bullion in a poetical aspect. In spite of this difficulty, the poet succeeded better than he had hoped. The sketch of the monody was read at Holland House, and was condemned, we are inclined to believe, on the merits ; though Campbell thought he had given umbrage to his noble friends by a line in praise of Canning's eloquence. In the spring of 1817 Campbell met the poet Crabbe at Holland House, in company with Moore. They lounged the better part of a day about the park and library, conversing, among other mat- ters, about the English novelists. " Your fiither," he wrote subse- quently to the son of Crabbe, " was a strong Fieldingite, and I as sturdy a Smollettite. His mildness in literary argument struck me with surprise in so stern a painter of nature ; and I could not but contrast the unassumingness of his manners with the originality of his powers. In what may be called the ready-money small-talk of convei'sation, his facility might not, perhaps, seem equal to the known calibre of his talents ; but in the progress of conversation 1 recoUect remarking that there was a vigilant shrewdness that almost eluded you, by keeping its watch so quietly. Though an oldish man when I saw him, he was a ' laudator teniforis acti,'' but a decided lover of later times. The part of the morning which I spent with him and Tom Moore was to me, at least, of memorable agreeable- ness." On tlie 27th of June, in this year, the festival in honor of John Philip Kemble was celebrated in Freemason's Hall, and the fame of it will live forever in the splendid verses which Campbell contributed tc the occasion. LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 61 On the 4th of July Campbell gave a little dinner at Sydenham, at which Ci-al))je, INIoore and Rogers, were the only guests. It may well be that at his OAvn hospitable board the poet of INIemory had some- times brought together a more distinguished party, but it was not common at Sydenham. Moore and Campbell, at all events, remem- bered it, and both wrote about it. Campbell says: " One day — and how can it fail to be memorable to me, when Moore has com- memorated it? — Crabbe, Rogers, and Moore came down to Syden- ham, pretty early in the forenoon, and stopped to dine with me. We talked of founding a Poet's Club, and set about electing the mem- bers, not by ballot, but vh'd voce. The scheme failed — I scarcely know how ; but this I know, that a week or two afterwards I met with Mr. Perry, of the Morning Chronicle, who asked me how our Poet's Club was going on. I said ' I don't know. We have some difficulty in giving it a name ; we thought of calling ourselves The Bees.'' 'Ah,' said Perry, ' that's a little different from the common report ; for they say you are to be called The Wasps ! ' I was so stung with this waspish report, that I thought no more of the Poet's Club." Of the same dinner he wrote a few days afterwards, to his sister : " We had a most pleasant day. The sky had lowered and rained till they came, and then the sun shone out. ' You see,' I said to my guests, ' that Apollo is aware of our meeting ! ' Crabbe is absolutely delightf\il — simple as a child, but shrewd, and often good-naturedly reminding you of the best parts of his poetry. He took his wine cheerfully, far from excess ; but his heart really seemed to expand, and he was full of anecdote and social feeling." The commemoration of the day by JSIoore is in the verses to the poet Crabbe's Inkstand, written May, 1832 : " How freshly doth my mind recall, 'Mong the few days I 've known with thee. One that, most buoyantly of all, Floats in the wake of memory ! * * * " He,* too, was of our feast that day. And all were guests of one whose hand Hath shed a new and deathless ray Around the lyre of this great land ; * Rogers. 62 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. In whose sea-odes, as in those shells Where ocean's voice of majesty Seems still to sound, immortal dwells Old Albion's Spirit of the Sea. '* Such was our host ; and though since then Slight clouds have risen 'twixt him and me, Who would not grasp such hand again. Stretched forth again in amity 1 Who can, in this short life, afford To let such mists a moment stay, When thus one frank, atoning word, Like sunshine, melts them all away 1 " On the occasion of the lamented death of the Princess Charlotte, Campbell wrote a monody, which was recited by Mrs. Bartley, at Drury Lane, for the benefit of the performers, who were severe suf- ferers by this national calamity. Before it was printed, copies of this monody were sent by the author to the Prince Regent and Prince Leopold. lie enclosed the lines, also, to his sister, with the remark that they were hardly worth mentioning for their poetry, but that they were a sincere expression of the feelings of a whole kingdom. Leopold sent him a very polite and kind acknowledgment, " like a true gentleman," but the poet heard nothing from Carlton House. In the autumn of 1818, on an invitation communicated by his friend Mr. Roscoe, the poet delivered a course of lectures on poetry, before the Royal Institution of Liverpool. It embraced the same subjects with his London course, but there was some change in the arrangement. On this excursion he received three hundred and forty pounds from his Liverpool subscriptions, and one hundred more for repeating the lectures at Bu-mingham, on his way to London. From the contemporary notices we infer that Campbell must have been a very agreeable lecturer. We know that in private he sometimes recited his own poetry with animation and effect ; and we can well imagine that his fine eye and voice were made to do their full part in setting off his public discourses to the best advantage. At Birmingham he seldom visited, except at the house of " poor Gregory Watt's father, the James Watt." Here he was a guest peculiarly welcome, and he found Watt, at the age of eighty-three^. LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 63 full of anecdote and interest. His son promised the poet a cast of a " glorious bust of liis father, by Chan trey, and a profile of Gregory." His lectures he concluded so much to his own satisfaction, and that of his auditors, that he thought lecturing likely to become hia metier. Invitations to repeat the series were urged upon him from Glasgow and Edinburgh, but they were declined, in consequence of a chest complaint, from which he was at that time sufiering. He said tliat he had not a voice to exert without imminent hazard. During his absence from London the Specimens of the British Poets at length made its appearance. It was published in seven vol- umes, duodecimo, the first of which was devoted to an essay on English poetry. The remaining volumes were occupied with the specimens, and with critical and biographical notices of their au- thors. A second edition was published many years afterwards, in one volume octavo, and it has been recently republished in the United States. The work was deservedly successful, and still main- tains a high reputation. A writer in the Quarterly Review, after the death of Campbell, styled it " a book not unworthy to be handed down with the classical verse of its author." CHAPTER VI. In the month of May, 1820, Campbell was lecturing again before the Royal Institution, and preparing for another visit to Germany, with his family. It was his intention to proceed to the Rhine, and pass some time at Bonn, or Heidelberg, in revising his lectures, and extending them till they should comprehend an entire view of Greek, Roman, French, Spanish, German and Italian literature. Before starting on his journey, he signed an agreement with ]\Ir. Col- burn, the publisher, to edit the New Monthly Magazine for three years from the first of the succeeding January, and furnish for it 64 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. annually six articles in prose and six in verse, on a salary of five hundred pounds. It was stipulated that the prose articles should contain the whole value an4 substance of the Lectures on Poetry, the copyright of which, with that of all his own writings in the maga- zine, was to revert to the author. This matter arranged, Campbell embarked for Germany by the way of Rotterdam. Early in June he was at Bonn, on the Rhine, where lie studied German with Pro- fessor Strahl, wiiom, in return, he assisted in the pronunciation of the English. The professor road to him from a book entitled Beau- ties of British Literature, containing extracts from Scott and Byron, with the entire works of Campbell himself. Another edition of his poems had also appeared at Leipsic. Of this visit his letters record some personalities of interest : " Bonn, June 30. " I am fortunate in my lodgings. For a pound a week I have two very large, good bed-rooms and a sitting-room ; lofty, beautifully papered ; the ceiling painted ; china vases in the recesses ; paintings in gilded frames all round the walls ; and a sofa covered with such new and beautiful silk, that I cannot find in my heart to sit down upon it. For half-a-crown a day, I have dinner for Matilda and myself, consisting of soup, cutlets, ham, fowls, &c.; and a bottle of Rhenish for a shilling. Thomas is boarded with Professor Kapp, at five pounds a month, including all teachers. He sees us very seldom, and is kept tightly to his studies ; while I prosecute my own in the library, and step in at pleasure to the lectures of the professors. Schlegel, I must say, is very eloquent ; though I cannot yet perfectly fol- low German as I hear it spoken. Ills students seem in raptures with him ; in fact, he should never be out of the pulpit." " Ratisbon, August 2. " Though much exhausted, my spirits rallied at sight of the Danube, — first visible from the high road, about four miles from Ratisbon. At that moment, as you may guess, I felt a flood of associations rushing upon my mind, that seemed as wide as the river I was contemplating. The sensation was less melancholy than I expected ; I felt myself tranquil, and even cheerful ; though the scene reminded me how much of life was gone by, and how much there was to regret in the retrospect ! But the evening was fine, the prospect grand ; and, as I stood up in the carriage, I could reckon twenty places fraught with lively interest to my memory. There were the heights to which the Austrians retreated in 1800 ; there was the spire of the church from which I had watched their movements ; there was the wood, from which the last shot was fired, before the armistice. Alas ! that LIFE OF CAMPBELL. G5 campaign was but a trifle ; ten years afterwards, thirty thousand fell in the great battle with Napoleon, before Ratisbon. This morning, since five o'clock, I have been looking at the scene of action. " My first visit was to the Scotch college, — a dismal visit ! Of all the monastery, there are only two survivors, out of a dozen whom I knew. I first inquired for the worthy prelate, who had shown a fatherly kindness to me when I was here. He died, they told me, last April, between eighty and ninety years of age. I scarcely imagined that the news of an old man's death could have touched me so much ; but I could not help weep- ing heartily when I recalled his benevolent looks and venerable figure, and found myself in the same hall where I had often sat and conversed with him, — admiring, what seemed so strange to me, the most liberal and tol- erant religious sentiments from a Roman Catholic abbot. Poor old Arbuth- not ! it was impossible not to love him. All Bavaria, they told me, lamented his death. He was, when I knew him, the most commanding human figure I ever beheld. His head was then quite white ; but his com- plexion was fresh, and his features were regular and handsome. In man- ners, he had a perpetual suavity and benevolence. I think I still see him in the cathedral, with the golden cross on his fine chest, and hear his full, deep voice chanting the service." « Vienna, Sept. 29. " I have found a kind friend in the Countess R. All Vienna speaks not only well, but reverentially, of her. She is majestic, like Mrs. Siddons, but very natural and gentle, an excellent scholar, — for she helped me out with a quotation from Cicero, — yet perfectly unassuming, almost to timidity. Her house is the rendezvous of the best society in Vienna ; and she made me promise to come every evening. When I arrive, I find her seated in full glory at the upper end of the room, where the place beside her is reserved for me. * * * Here you meet a number of the Polish nobil- ity, of whom the women are extremely beautiful. The men are more like Englishmen than any foreigners I have seen. It is curious to find myself at home amongst them, and receiving invitations to call upon them, should I ever be at Warsaw ! " During a day I spent at the countess' house, she took me to the height called the 'Fountain of the Thorn,' where we had a most magnificent view of the course of the Danube, from the walls of Vienna to the mountains of Hungary. Our party partook of a collation on the side of a beautiful hill, where we looked over woods on the fine prospect, and sat surrounded by beds of mignonette, which was fragrant enough to regale even my dull senses. * * * i have written a few lines to the countess on the subject, which I will show you when we meet. "I have found an excellent friend, — for so I may truly call him, — in ?.* 66 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. Von Hammer, a member of the Aulic Council, and of celebrity as an Ori- ental scholar. He has translated my Lines on a Scene in Argyleshire ; another literary man has translated Ye Mariners ; and both have appeared in the Vienna papers. The Exile of Erin has been ten years translated ; and — would you believe it 1 — The Pleasures of Hope was translated into Danish three years ago, and the translator is to sup with me to-night !" From Vienna Campbell returned to Bonn, where he left his son to be educated under care of Dr. Meyer, and proceeded, with his wife, to England. Having entered on the editorship of ^Ir. Colburn's magazine, he found it necessary to remove to London, and took lodg- ings at G2 ^largaret-street, till he established himself permanently in a small house in Seymour-street West. With this journal he con- tinued his connection for ten years. The politics of the New Monthly had been ultra tory, while Campbell was a whig ; but this he seemed to think of little import- ance. Eelying upon the literary superiority which he could give to its pages, he sought at once to procure able contributors among his literary friends. As might have been expected, however, those of them who were implicated in political relations turned a cold shoulder on his enterprise. The witty and reverend Sydney Smith wrote him a quizzical note of negation, in which great anxiety was expressed to know the line of conduct he intended to " hold on the subject oY reli- gion.^^ " Answer my question," he added, "and I will take time to consider the matter." Moore wrote from Sevres that he had been of late giving himself up to pleasure and had dwelt carelessly, and that the few hours the " world " left him were barely sufficient for him- self, without "admitting any works of supererogation for others." His old friend Perry, too, of the Morning Chronicle, was opposed to the magazine, because it had stolen the name of another work for party purposes. In spite of these drawbacks, Campbell succeeded in enlisting a corps of writers, who, by their varied and lively talents, gave the New Monthly a high position in the world of belles-lettres. It maintained a fair rivalry with Blackwood, and far excelled all other competitors in the same field. Talfourd, the Smiths, authors of The Rejected Addresses, Mrs. Hemans, Hazlitt, Foscolo, Miss Lan- don, Barry Cornwall, Praed, and Mr. Blanco White, the author of Doblado's Letters, were among his contributors ; and Mr. Cyrus Redding rendered valuable service to the poet as his assistant editor. LIFE OP CAMPBELL. 67 Campbell, during the ten years, furnished some thirty poems, which were printed with his name. Besides his twelve lectures, his chief prose contributions were, a Letter to Mr. Brant, the son of a Mo- hawk Chief; Letters to the Students of the Glasgow University ; ac article on the University of London ; a few reviews, — one, of Mil- ton's theological tracts ; of the four first volumes of Las Casas' Napoleon ; Hugh's Travels, and Moore's Byron ; with articles on the Civilization of Africa, Shakspeare's Sonnets, and Flasman's Lectures. He wrote, sometimes, a critical notice of a new book, and when a friend died contributed a few lines for the obituary. The magazine, probably, derived more advantage from his name than from his labors ; though a public journal takes its tone and character from the directing mind, which, in this case, was undoubtedly Campbell's. Among his poetical contributions to the magazine was The Last Man, published in 1823, an effort in the style of his best days. He was not a little troubled lest he should be suspected of stealing the idea of this poem from the Darkness of Lord Byron. It was one, it seems, that he had long cherished, — as we see many instances in which half a score or more of years elapsed between his conception of a poem and its completion. In this case he had conversed with his brother poet, some fifteen years previously, on the subject ; and to this conversation he attributed the similarity of the leading idea in the two poems, though it was original in neither. On the 16th of November, 1824, Campbell wrote to a friend, " I am to be out in print on Monday ; and, if I should not see you on that day, Theodoric will.'' The poem appeared, and sorely disap- pointed a public then accustomed to high achievements in the poet- ical art, and looking to the mature power of Campbell for something to surpass the productions of his marvellous youth. " I am sorry," he wrote to his sister, " that there should be any great expectation excited about the poem, which is not of a nature to gratify such expectation. It is truly a domestic and private story. I know very well what will be its fate ; there will be an outcry and regret that there is nothing grand or romantic in the poem, and that it is too humble and familiar. But I am prepared for this ; and I also know that, when it recovers from the first buzz of such criticism, it will attain a steady popularity." 68 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. Campbell expressed much pleasure when he learned that Jeffrey intended to review his new work. " I think," said the poet, " he has the stuff in him to understand Theodoric." In a kind and gentle spirit the great critic exercised his censorial functions. He surveyed the poem in its favorable aspect, and said everything in its behalf that could suggest itself to the ingenious advocate. He said it, too, in that plausible and persuasive style which he knew so well how to employ, and which would induce the belief that he was quietly expressing his own convictions, instead of adroitly seeking to make out his case. But it was all in vain. Campbell's idea of the imme- diate reception of the poem was certainly realized, but it has not yet attained the " steady popularity " to which its author thought it was ultimately destined. The event of most interest in the public life of Campbell was the establislunent, through his agency, of the University of London. Of this scheme he was the originator, and, in managing its preliminary arrangements, exhibited uncommon address and energy. From his correspondence of this period, it would seem to be owing mainly to his exertions that the institution escaped, at the outset, a sectarian character, that would have seriously impaired its usefulness. We cite a few extracts from the correspondence to which we refer : " Seymour-street West, April 30, 1825. <« * * * I have had a double-quick time of employment since I saw you. In addition to the business of the magazine, I have had that of the university in a formidable shape. Brougham, who must have popularity among dissenters, propounded the matter to them. The delegates of almost all the dissenting bodies in London came to a conference at his summons. At the first meeting, it was decided that there should be theological chairs, partly Church of England and partly Presbyterian. I had instructed all friends of the university to resist any attempt to make us a theological body ; but Brougham, Hume, and John Smith, came away from the first meeting say- ing, ' We think, with you, that the introduction of divinity will be mis- chievous ; but we must yield to the dissenters, with Irving at their head. We must have a theological college.' I immediately waited on the Church of England men, who had already subscribed to the number of a hundred, and said to them, ' You see our paction is broken ; I induced you to subscribe, on the faith that no ecclesiastical interest, English or Scotch, should predominate in our scheme ; but the dissenters are rushing in. What do you say 1 ' They — that is, the Church of England friends of the LIFE OF CAMPBELL, 69 scheme — concerted that I should go commissioned from them to say at the conference, that either the Church of England must predominate, or else there must be no church influence. I went with this commission ; I debated the matter with the dissenters. Brougham, Hume, and John Smith, who had before deserted me, changed sides, and came over to me. Irving and his party stoutly opposed me ; but I succeeded, at last, in gaining a com- plete victory. « A directory of the association for the scheme of the university is to meet in my house on Monday, and everything promises well. You cannot conceive what anxiety I have undergone, whilst I imagined that the whole beautiful project was likely to be reduced to a mere dissenter's university. But I have no more reason to be dissatisfied with the dissenters than with the hundred Church of England subscribers, whose interests I have done my best to support. I regard this as an eventful day in my life." A few days afterwards he wrote to a friend who had manifested a deep interest Lq the enterprise, and whom from the closing sentence of the letter we presume to be Dr. Beattie : " You will not grudge postage to be told the agreeable news that Brougham and Hume have reported their having had a conference with the Chancellor of the Exchequer and Lord Liverpool ; and that they expressed themselves not unfavorable to the plan of a great col- lege in London. Of course, as ministera had not been asked to pledge themselves to support us, but only to give us a general idea of their disposition, we could only get what we sought — a general answer — but that being so favorable is much. I was glad also to hear that both Mr. Robinson and Lord Liverpool approved highly of no rival theological chairs having been agreed upon. Mr. R. even differed from Mr. Hume, when the latter said that, of course, getting a charter is not to be thought of. ' I beg your pardon,' said Mr. Robinson, ' I think it might be thought of; and it is by no means an impossible supposition.' " A copy of my scheme of education, but much mutilated and abridged, is submitted to their inspection. I mean, however, to transmit to them my scheme in an entire shape, and to publish it afterwards as a pamphlet. In the mean time, I must for a while retire, and leave this business to other hands, now that it seems safe from any mischief which hitherto threatened it. I send you this in- telligence, because it is an event to me, or at least a step in a promised event, which will be, perhaps, the only important one in my life's littk 70 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. history ; and your correspondence has been a register of my affaira for a long time, and I hope will always be." His plan fairly in the way to be carried out, Campbell revisited Germany, with the view of making himself familiar with the disci- pline and internal arrangements of her universities. At Hamburg, he met Tony M'Cann, the Exile of Erin, no longer " lonely and pen- sive " as in 1801, but as happy as a married gentleman in easy circumstances could well be — out of Ireland. His exile had been solaced by the charms and fortune of a wealthy young widow of Altona, whose compassion for the "heart-broken stranger" may have been first excited by the pathetic strains of the poet. " I found my Exile of Erin," says Campbell, " as glad to see me as if we had but parted a quarter of a year, instead of a quarter of a century." Under such auspices, Hamburg threatened to be a little too gay for him, and he escaped from an " impending shower of invitations" to Berlin, where he fixed himself at the St. Petersburg hotel. Here he had a slight fever, but applied himself industriously to the object of his journey, and obtained all the information respecting the university, and every book he desired. On his return to Hamburg, in October, he was invited by the English residents, to the number of eighty, to a public dinner. From the active part which Campbell, as its prime mover, had taken in the establishment of the London university, it was naturally expected that he was to be installed as warden, and, at tlie same time, occupy some professorship. Why no such appointment was offered him remains to this day unexplained. Dr. Beattie throws no light upon the point. Though he intimates, in a foot-note, that the importance of his services was not acknowledged, he does not tell us who questioned it, or why Campbell was passed over in organizing the college in Gower-strcet. If the slight was a mortification to the poet, he was presently to be compensated for it by unexpected honors from another quarter. The academic fame of Campbell would have descended, by tradi- tion, among the students of the university of Glasgow, if it had not been kept alive by his celebrity as a poet. Early in 1826 he received an intimation that it was desired he should become Lord Rector of that institution for the ensuing year. The office had long been con. sidered as the mere medium of a compliment to some gentleman of LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 71 the iielghborliood, and vras usually held by a -whig and tory in succeS' sion. " The election," says a \VTiter in the London Quarterly Review, " was with the students in certain classes — those, we presume, of the first foundation : these were all, however, very young students, — the majority boys from twelve to sixteen, — and they had for ages voted in their red togas and antique nations as their masters in conclave settled beforehand. The scheme was to make this undeigraduate-poU a real one ; to have Lord Rectors of their- own free choice ; and it was very natural and honorable for the Glasgow lads to think first of the originator of the London novelty, and greatest literary name connected with their own college within living memory. Campbell was delighted when he heard of this rebellion against the Senatus Academicus, then mostly composed of tories. He and his whig friends in the north exerted every energy ; the ' ancient solitary reign' of the dignitaries fell at the first assault, and was (apparenth") abolished forever." This triumph was the more gratifying from the fact that it was achieved over two other candidates, Sir Thomas Brisbane and Mr. Canning. In consequence of his delicate state of health, Campbell was not installed as Lord Rector untU the 12th of April, when he delivered his inaugural address to an overflowing assembly of professors, stu- dents and citizens. " I was a student then," says a reminiscent, " and, like others, was charmed. We have had the most distinguished men of the day successively elected to the office of Rector, — Sir Robert Peel, Lord Stanley, Lord Brougham, Lord Jeffrey, Sir Jamea Mackintosh, and many more celebrated in oratory, science and general literature. I have heard all their addresses, but none of them came up to that of Thomas Campbell." On the 14th of November Campbell was reelected Lord Rector for the year 1828, without a dissentient voice. During his second year of office, he lost his wife. She died on the 9th of May, and on the 15th of the same month the poet thus writes : " * * * I am alone ; and I feel that I shall need to be some time alone, prostrated in heart before that Great Being who can alone forgive my errors ; and in addressing whom, alone, I can frame resolutions in my heart to make my remaining life as pure as nature's infirmities may permit a soul to be that believes in His existence and goodness and mercy." As his grief subsided, we find him in communication with LordAber- 72 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. deen on the Commission of Inquiry, and doing hie utmost to preserve the privileges of his students ; and so grateful were " his boys," as he called them, that, to testify their admiration and cordial respect, they resolved to strain evei-y nerve to reelect him for the third time, — an honor the highest that they could confer. No such instance had happened for a century previously. This honor, however, was dis- puted. Sir Walter Scott was put forward as a competitor, and was supported by the Vice-rector. Campbell, however, was reelected for the year 1829 ; and, by his exertions, permanent advantages were secured for his " darling boys." " For three years," says a writer in Blackwood's Magazine hv February, 1849, " during which unusual period he held the office, his correspondence with the students never flagged ; and it may be doubted whether the university ever possessed a better Rector." A club bearing his name was founded in his honor, and the students presented him with a silver bowl, which he prized highly and mentions in liLs will. During the year 1829 he formed a society with the title of the Literary Union, the object of which was to bring the literai-y men of London into habits of more social and friendly intercourse than then existed. Campbell had been one of the original founders, and a regu- lar attendant down to this time, of the Athenaeum Club. Why he abandoned it to set up a rival institution in its neighborhood, is not stated. It is surmised by the Quarterly Review that he liad been offended by the reluctance of the old committee to facilitate the admission of some of his Polish and Irish friends, while in the new club he had everj'thing his own way. He presided over it till 1843, but it did not long survive its founder. Early in 1830 the poet Avas shocked by the death of his friend. Sir Thomas Lawi-ence. lie commenced soon afterwards the preparation of his biography, but abandoned it in consequence of the impatience of the booksellers, and the difficulty of collecting the necessary mate- rials. The following extracts from his correspondence of this year will be read with interest : " June 2d. — I am happy to tell you, my dearest sister, that I have at last had the pleasure of seeing young Milnes under my roof. He is a charming young man. I had a party of twelve at dinner al)out a week ago, where he met the family of the Calcotts ; and they admired him so much that they asked me for his address, that they might LIFE OE CAMPBELL. 73 invite him to their house. Calcott is an artist of the very first-rate genius and estimation. He might have been President, if he had chosen to stand candidate at the late election. His wife was the ]\Iaria Graham who wrote her travels in South America and India. * * * " I have been spending a month in the country with an excellent young friend, the author of The Silent River, and another beautiful little drama. I was very happy there — too happy to be industrious ; and the life of Sir Thomas was therefore" suspended. My health, however, has been benefited. " Aug. 2(Jth. — * * * On ISIouday last I had my dear friends, Mrs. Dugald Stewart and her daughter, to dine with me. * * * I had also the good fortune to have that day the great Cuvier and his daughter for my guests. " Baron Cuvier is delightfully simple as you could wish a first- rate great man to be ; and his daughter, or I should say his step- daughter, ISrile Devaucel, enchanted us all. Mr. Rogers, who knew her at Paris, and was with us, said that she had a sort of fascination over all the savans in Paris ; and a wager was laid that she would fascinate even the giraffe. It really so happened ; and the stupen- dous animal, twenty- two feet high, used to follow her about like a lamb. " Sept. 28th. — I am so fatigued by finishing the October number of the Neiv Monthly, that I can hardly hold a pen ; I have had agitation Bujjeradded to fatigue. You remember that the end of last month I went to visit my poor boy ; I went out of town with a full assurance on my mind that there was no objectionable paper for the September number in the hands of the printer — no paper which I had not seen and approved of. The bargain between Colburn and myself gives me the privilege as an editor. Judge of my horror, when I returned to town, to find that an article had been printed attacking the memory of Dr. Glennie, of Dulwich, a man with whom you know I was on intimate and kindly terms of friendship. I have made in the forth- coming number a full and distinct explanation of this accident. The vile paper was sent by , whom Dr. Glennie would not allow to try experiments on Lord B 's foot, when Lord B waa Dr. G.'s pupil." This circumstance led to the close of his editorial relations with Mr. Colburn's magazine. 7 74: LIFE OF CAMPBELL. CHAPTER VII. It had been Campbell's intention, on leaving the Neiu Monthly, to withdraw from all connection with periodical literature, and so to husband his resources as to live without the " drudgery of author- ship." But, on adjusting accounts with his publisher, he found him- self largely in debt ; and then commenced the traffic on his name which associated it with works unworthy of his high reputation. In 1831 he became connected with the Metropolitan Magazine, originally as editor, afterwards as part proprietor, with Mr. Cochrane, the pub- lisher, and Captain Chamier. His friend Rogers lent him five hun- dred pounds to pay for his share in the partnership, for which the banker-poet refused to take security. Campbell, however, was not to be outdone in delicacy or punctilio where money was concerned, and caused a security to be made by a life insurance, and a lien upon his library and furniture. Not long after, he learned, to his dismay, that the speculation was a bubble, and weeks elapsed before he succeeded in withdrawing his money from a bankrupt concern. We can well imagine the weiglit that was lifted from his heart when he was able to write to his friend, "I am very happy to tell you that the^^'fe hundred, which you so generously lent me, is safe at my banker's in St. James-street, and waits your calling for it. Blessed be God, that I have saved both it and myself from being involved as partner in The Metropolitan .'" During the summer of this year he passed some time at St. Leon- ard's, where his health was much improved by the balmy sea-air, and where his poetic faculty came back to him with its old glow and vigor. He was secure here from social temptations, and wrote more verses than he had written for many years before within the same time. The magnificent poem on the sea, which CampbeU in his later years considered his finest production, and which is entirely worthy of his early fame, was written here in the course of eight or nine days. Here also he wrote the Lines on Poland. These two poems, which first appeared in the Metropolitan, he republished in a brochure, in the hope, by selling it at a couple of shillings, to raise fifty pounds for the Polish charities in which he was now largely involved. In the autumn he wrote to a friend : LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 75 " I find St. Leonard's still, on the whole, agi-ee pretty well with my health, though the highly bracing effect of the sea-air has gone with its novelty, and there is something either in its saline particles, or in the glaring light of the place, that aflFects my eyes most disagreeably * * * The society also — though the sea is not accountable for othera — is too changeable. The disagreeable gentry are, for the most part, the most permanent ; and the agreeables — almost as soon as you begin to know the value of their society, like ' riches, take unto themselvea wings and flee away.' I experience this mutability of the place very much in a little literary society which I have formed, and which is called The Monks of St. Leonard's, and of which I am the venerable Abbot I All our best cowls are going away — and very dull ones remaining in their stead." About this time Campbell was in correspondence with INIrs. Ark- wright in regard to setting some of his poems to music. " There are no verses of mine," he tells her in one of his letters, " that I shall not think the better of, for their being selected by you as the subjects of musical composition." " You may turn every line of me into music," he writes again, " if you think me worth the honor. Would to heaven you could turn my poor self into a pleasant tune ! But the difficulty would be how to set me. I am too graceless for a psalm- tune, too dull for a glee, and too u'regular for a march," In one of his letters to this accomplished lady, he expresses his pleasure to find that Mrs Hemans is one of her favorite poets. " She seems to me," he adds, " a genius singularly fitted for the accompaniment of your graceful and noble musical powers. She may not be the boldest and deepest of female geniuses, though the richness of her vein is very sterling ; but, to my taste, she is the most elegant (lyric) poetess that England has produced. I hope you are personally acquainted with her, which, I am sorry to say, I am not." Mrs. Arkwright, as we have mentioned, was a daughter of Stephen Kemble, and, in allusion to a meeting with that distinguished actor many years previously, he says : " As your father was the first who rejoiced my ear by commending the beginning of my first poem, so I have a superstitious joy in thanking his daughter for setting its conclusion to music." In October, 1831, he paid a visit to Mr. Arkwright and his family in Derbyshire, where he renewed hia intimacy with the Kembles, and 76 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. talked with his host about farming and machinery, both of which ho found ^' amusing subjects." But he preferred, no doubt, another part of his entertainment, which was reading poetry to Mrs. Arkwright and the kdies. He was at all times devoted to the society of the sex, and very susceptible to their charms. Even in liis widowhood he found as many Carolines and Amandas as he used to rave about when he was a handsome bachelor at Mull. Every now and then he attached himself to some amiable and accomplished female, who put him to considerable expense in new wigs and dress-coats, to say nothing of more spacious lodgings, and more stylish furniture. But, if he was volatile in love, he Avas steadfast in friendship ; and it does not seem to have been his own fault that he failed to form a new connection, " to restore him to the happiness of married life." At Mr. Arkwright's he made the acquaintance of Neukomm, whose performances on the organ struck him with wonder and admiration. " That a human being could create such sounds," he said, " I never imagined. Such glory, such radiance of sound, such mystery, such speaking dreams, that bring angels to smile upon you, — such luxury and jjathos ! — 0, it is no learned music — it is a soul speaking as if from heaven ! No disparagement to Paganini, he is the wonder- ful itself, in music — but Heavens ! what has he to do with the heart, like this organ-music of Neukomm ? I seem as if I had never heard music before. We were all wrapped in astonishment ! It was strange to see the expressions of ecstasy in the vulgarest rustic faces. * * He is a highly-polished man, and as meek and amiable as he is wonder- ful. The pleasure of his company beguiled me to go and hear him again on the organ yesterday, and I almost wished I had not gone. His playing was, if possible, more exquisite. It was too — too much. He made me imagine my child, Alison, was speaking to me from heaven ! Again — as if he knew what was passing in my thoughts about Poland, he introduced martial music, and what seemed to me lamentations for the slain. I suspect he did so purposely ; for we had spoken much of the Poles. I could not support this. Luckily I had a pew to myself ; and I believe, and trust, I escaped notice. But when two pieces were over I got out as quietly as I could to a lonely part of the church-yard, where I hid myself, and gave way to almost convulsive sensations. I have not recovered this inconceivably pleas ing and painful shock." LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 77 On his return to St. Leonard's, having meanwhile been disembar- rassed of his pecuniary responsibilities for the Metropolitan, he set himself down in earnest to the composition of the Life of Mrs. Siddons. In the spring of 1832 he was able to say that he had finished " two chapters to perfection." " I have got noble materials for the rest," he wrote to Mrs. Arkwright, " and you will not be sorry for my being her biographer." To the same lady he wrote : " Wheresoever I go I hear nothing but your music, and either my poetry with it, or Lockhart's. Acquit poets of jealousy. Truly I love Lockhart's ' Lay your golden cushion down ' so that I always tell the fair songstress. ' Tut ! give us none of Campbell's drawling things, but that lively Spanish ballad, " Get up, Get up, Zeripha '" ' and, on my return home from the party, I sing it to myself all the way. I do think that air one of the happiest your happy genius ever threw off. It is ' wild, warbling nature all — above the reach of art ! ' " Pray don't relax in your ambition to be a popular melodist. The maker of melodies is a real poet ; melody-making is a sort of distillery of the spirit of poetry, and the melodist may deny all submission in rank to the brewers and vintners of versification." The Metropolitan now passed into the hands of Captain Marryatt, the novelist, " a blunt rough diamond," says Campbell, " but a clever fellow and a gentleman." He entreated the poet to remain in the editorial department ; and, as they were old friends, the poet could not refuse. The Polish association, too, required his services, and he returned to London. " I have left St. Leonard's," he wrote on the 30th of April, " and given up my house there. It was inconvenient for me to be so far from town ; but I shall always have a kindly feeling to the place. The sea restored my health, and, excepting the agony I felt at the news from Poland, I never felt half a year pass over with more tolerable tranquillity. I had, besides the Milneses, some very pleasant acquaintances. My small neat house hung over the sea, almost like the stern of a ship." His whole life was now engrossed with the cause of Poland. " Hia devotion to it," says Dr. Madden in his recollections furnished to Dr. Beattie, " was a passion, that had all the fervor of patriotism, the purity of philanthropy, the fidelity of a genuine love of liljerty. I was with him on the day he received an account of the fall of Warsaw. Never in my life did I see a man so stricken with profound sorrow ! He 7* 78 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. looked utterly woe-begone; his features were haggard, his eyes sunken, his lips pale, his color almost yellow. I feared that if this prostration of all energy of mind and body continued, his life or his reason must have sunk under the blow." The poet's letters give a lively impression of his habits and mode of life at this time : " Mfl?/ 31s/. — We have had a dinner in the Association Cham- bers, — the room where Milton wrote his ' Defence of the People of England !' Prince Czartoryski, and the other Poles now in London, were our guests ; and we sat down fifty-three in number. Never did a fete go off better. The Rev. Dr. Wade, in full canonicals, offered a solemn prayer in form of grace, which was strikingly impressive. * * " I was in the chair. When we had the cloth removed, at seven p. M., I had not one word prepared for the score of toasts I had to give. But I felt no difficulty in speaking, except that of being overcome by my feelings ; and the general feeling was so strong, that one of the Birmingham deputies, a noble-looking man, burst into tears, and sobbed audibly." "Ju}ie2Stk. — The affairs of Poland are getting more and more interesting. * * * We have got the subject into Parliament. We have auxiliary Polish societies in the provinces. Everywhere the subject stirs up indignation and enthusiasm ; and, though one's interest in it is painful, it is still an irresistible subject. The business of the association has accordingly engrossed much of my time. I have letters in French, German, and even Latin, to write, — for we have correspondence as far as Hungary, — and these afford me nothing like a sinecure." " June 28th. — You have heard that a strong party of my friends have already agreed to bring me in (if they can) for Glasgow. What my chance is, I believe no mortal alive, without preternatural powers, could determine. But I am really not at all anxious to get into Parliament." "July Zlst. — After full and frequent deliberation, I have come to the resolution not to make the attempt to get into Parliament. * * * If I were elected to-morrow, — elected even for Glasgow, — I am con vinced that the seeming good fortune would be a misfortune to me. I find myself implicated in the Polish Association to a degree that half absorbs my time and attention. The German question — another LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 79 and the same with the Polish — involves me also in correspondence with the German patriots ; and really, at this moment, my own pri- vate studies are so much impeded, that to go into Parliament — even if I could get into it — would be my ruin." " Ang. 25th. — Here, in the Polish Chambers, I daily parade the main room, — a superb hall, — where all my books are ensconced, and where old ' Nol ' used to give audience to his foreign ambas- sadors." *^Sept. 2Slh. — I am not dissatisfied with my existence, as it is now occupied. * * * I get up at seven, write letters for the Polish Association until half-past nine, breakfast, go to the club, and read the newspapers till twelve. Then I sit dovra to my own studies ; and with many, and, alas ! vexatious interruptions, do what I can till four. I then walk round the Park, and generally dine out at six Between nine and ten I return to chambers, read a book, or write a letter; and go to bed always before fivelve.^' * * * " But my own proper business, you will ask, — what is thati Why, now, it is, in earnest, the Life of Mrs. Siddons. How it has been impeded I can scarcely tell you. The Metropolitan will hardly account for it, — though, really, my random contributions to that journal break up more time than you would imagine. But our journal, Polonia, haa imposed a great deal of trouble upon me." ^^Dec. Ath. — About four-score refugees have been supported or relieved, and sent abroad, by our society. But the task of doing so was left entirely to your humble servant and our indefatigable and worthy secretary, Adolphus Bach. He has injured his business, as a German jurist, by giving up so much of his time for this purpose ; and I have injured my health." At this time Campbell occupied an attic at the Polish chambers, in Duke-street, which is now distinguished by a marble tablet aiExed by his friend Bach, and bearing the following inscription : " In thia attic Thomas Campbell, Hope's bard, and mourning Freedom's hope, lived and thought, A. D. mdcccxxxii., while at the head of the Lit- erary Association of the friends of Poland, his creation. Divines virtutis pietati amicitia, mdcccxlvii. A. B. col.'''' In the summer of 1833 he became more intimate than hitherto with Dr. Beattie, and went to reside at his cottage, in Hampstead. He immediately took possession of a room, which he designated as " Campbell's ward," the 80 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. name by which it is still known. In this pleasant village he passed his time in morning walks on the heath, visits to Mrs. Joanna Baillie and her sister, and in such literary pursuits as amused, without fatiguing or exciting him. His health rapidly improved under the watchful care of his friendly physician, to whom he was chiefly in- debted for whatever comfort and liappincss he enjoyed in his later years. These visits he frequently repeated, and, whenever he found himself suffering in health or spirits, " Well," he would say, " I must come into hospital ! " and, packing up his valise, would repair to Campbell ward. Dr. Beattie was not only a skilful physician, out a man of letters, and an enthusiastic admirer of the poet's genius. The effect of his visits to the pleasant villa of his friend, and the society of Hampstead, is well described in a letter of the poet to his sister. He is speaking of Dr. Beattie. " His society," he says, " and that of his wife and sister, have been to me a sort of moral medicine, they are such kind, amiable, and happy people. Beattie has been a fortunate man. * * He married a charming woman. * * Their home is a little picture of paradise ! * * I cannot describe to you how they have tended your brother's health." The Life of Mrs. Siddons was not fairly off his hands till the mid- dle of 1834, having been originally written for one volume octavo, and expanded to two volumes for the accommodation of the book- sellers. Campbell thought the matter would " bear diffusion," but we imagine the work must have suffered in the process. Having put the corrections to the last sheet, Campl)ell started for Paris, wliich he had not visited for twenty years. There the Polish Literary Society immediately waited upon him with a complimentary address, and a public dinner was given him, at which Prince Czartoryski pre- sided. He was still occupied with literary projects, and commenced the collection of materials for a work on the Geography of Classical History. He wrote to Dr. Beattie that he was studying twelve hours a day. During his researches in the king's library he cast his eyes on a point of the map, the ancient Roman city of Icosium, that corresponded with the site of Algiers. It occurred to him that the recent French conquest might develop more interesting matters than were to be found in the labors of the classic topographers, and, closing his book, with all his soul he wished himself at Algiers. His old propensity for roving took possession of him, and, finding LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 81 that he had the money necessary at his command, he determined to gratify it. On his arrival at Algiers, he took lodgings in the house of a gen- tleman who had been an old officer of Napoleon's stafiF, then a merchant, but a great amateur of music, painting and natural history. Campbell first called on him to see his cabinet of ^Moorish antiquities, not knowing that he had apartments to let. Learning this, he went the next day to inquire their price. " It is only," he replied, " for fear of hurting your feelings, that I do not offer them to you for nothing," and named a price far below their value. " Monsieur Descousse," the traveller rejoined, " they are worth twice that rent ; I am rather a rich man than otherwise, and let me pay for them what is fair and just." He would not take a sou more, and this little act of courtesy seems to have gratified Campbell as much as to learn that Captain St. Palais, aid-de-camp of the commander in chief of the colonial army, was engaged in translating his poems, with a view to publication. At Algiers he met Chevalier Neukomm, whose acquaintance he had made at Mrs. Arkwright's. At his in- stance Campbell undertook the composition of the words of an oratorio from the Ijook of Job, and to this we owe the fragment which appears among his poems. Cami:)bell found it impossible to versify the sublime text of the Bible without impairing it. During his stay in Africa, he visited the whole coast of Algiers, from Bona to Oran, and penetrated seventy miles into the interior, a8 far as Mascara, the capital of an unconquered native province. " I have slept for several nights," he says in a letter to his nephew, " under the tents of the Arabs. I have heard a lion roar in his native savage freedom, and I have seen the noble animal brought in dead — measuring seven feet and a half, independently of the tail, I dined also at General Trizel's table off the said lion's tongue, and it was aa nice as a neat's tongue." On his return from Algiers, in 1835, Campbell had a gratifying inter- view in Paris with Louis Philippe, who was curious to learn the state of the province from an intelligent Englishman, and received him with marked courtesy and respect. "When the poet arrived in London, he looked and felt " some years younger" than when he commenced his travels. His mind and body were restored to their old tone and elasticity, and Dr. Beattie says that he never appeared to greater 82 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. advantage than immediately after his return. His chronic complaint of " impecuniosity " had been relieved by a seasonable legacy of a thousand pounds from his old friend Telford, the engineer. He had picked up much entertaining information in his tour, and told hia •' traveller's stories" with animation and effect. The results of his observation he published in the New Monthly, under the title of Letters from the South, afterwards collected in two volumes. The summer subsequent to his return he passed in Scotland, on a visit to his " Northern brethren," and the happiest he ever made. His residence during this period was chiefly in the house of his cousin, Mr. Gray, of Blairbeth, near Glasgow, and in that of Mr. Alison, at Edin- burgh. He had been at Blairbeth but a day or two, when a deputation from the Campbell Club, of Glasgow, waited upon him, to the number of " two coach-loads," with a request that he would appoint a day for dining with them. The dinner was fixed accordingly for the 2l8t of June. Campbell, as the guest of the evening, sat on the right of the president, and Professor Wilson, who had come up from Edinburgh expressly to be present on this occasion, on the left. Some eighty gentlemen were present, and the poet was received and cheered witli the greatest enthusiasm. From Glasgow he went to the Highlands, Inverary, Rothsay, Castle Towart and Greenock. " It would savor of vanity," he MTote to a friend, " to tell you how I have been received. Cheered on coming aboard the steamboats, into public rooms, and cheered on leaving them. Yes : but Cobbett, you will tell me, had also his hand-shakings and popularity. True ; but were the motives of those who greeted him so pure as those of my greeters 1 And yet, no small stimulus of happiness was necessary to help me over recollections which the scenes of Scotland have inspired — the homes of my dead friends ! — above all that, ' yesterday^ — my birth-day ! — which reminds me how soon I shall be gathered to my fathers !" On returning to Glasgow, he found a communication from the Lord Provost of Edinburgh, inviting him to a public dinner in that city. It was a painful occasion for him, however; and when he came to speak of Dugald Stewart, Alison, and other of his old friends, " the act of suppressing tears amounted to agony." A similar honor was proposed to him at Dublin, which he was compelled to decline. In September he spent three days with Brougham at his country-seat whence he returned directly to London. LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 83 In 1836 he commenced the preparation of a new edition of his poems, with designs by Turner, in the style of the illustrated copy of Rogers' Italy. Campbell was much pleased with the great artist's drawing for 'Connor's Child, but seems to have been disap- pointed in the general result. He had not the same exchequer to draw upon as his friend the banker ; and when the edition was out he found great difficulty in disposing of the drawings, for which he had paid Turner five hundred and fifty pounds. " I had been told," he wrote to his friend, Mr. Gray, of Glasgow, "that Turner's drawings were like bank-notes, that would always fetch the price paid for them ; but, when I ofiered them at three hundred pounds, I could get no purchaser. One very rich and judicious amateur, to whom I offered them, slid to me, ' I have no intention to purchase these drawings, because they are worth so little money that I should be sorry to see you sell them for as little as they are really worth. The truth is, that fifteen out of the twenty are but indifferent drawings. But, sell them by lottery, and either Turner's name will bring you in two hundred guineas, or Turner himself will buy them up.' I went to Turner, and the amateur's prediction was fulfilled, for Turner bought them up for two hundred guineas." Soon after the issue of this edition, Campbell took it into his head to make a present of his works to the queen. This was purely an act of gallantry and loyalty. No man ever lived who had less of the tuft- hunter in his composition than Campbell. When he had got up his Letters from the South, and a copy of the vignette edition of hia jDoems, " bound with as much gilding as would have gilt the Lord Mayor's coach," he went to Sir H. Wheatiey, to beg that he would present them to his sovereign. It was objected that the queen declined all presentation copies from authors. Campbell parried this objection skilfully and with dignity. "Stranger as I am. Sir Henry," he said, " I am known to you by character ; and may I Ijeg of you to convey to the queen, — if it can be done with tact and delicacy, — that I am in perfectly easy circumstances ; that I covet no single advantage that is in the gift of her sceptre ; and that I would rather bury my book in the ground than that the offering of it should be interpreted into a selfish wish to intrude myself on her notice." Sir Henry finally consenting to take charge of the volumes 84 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. and speak to the queen on the subject, Campbell sent them -with a note, in these words : " Sir : I thank you for your kind promise to take charge of my works, and to apply to her Majesty to receive them. I have been for nearly forty years one of the popular living poets of England, and I think it no over- weening ambition to wish to be read by my sovereign." "That evening," says Campbell, "I had a note from Sir Henry, saying that the queen had been graciously pleased to accept the volumes, and desired that I should write my name in them. I repaired to St. James's next morning ; Sir Henry began stammering out a dictation of what I should vrrite about her Majesty's feet, loyal duty, and so forth, when I wrote on each blank leaf, ' To her ^Majesty Queen Victoria, from her devoted subject, Thomas Campbell.' ' Ah, that will do,' said Sir Henry." An edition of Shakspcare which he supervised for Mr. Moxon, a new poem, entitled The Pilgrim of Glencoe, and a Life of Petrarch, were now the literary task-work of his life. In the winter of 1840 he leased a house in Victoria-square, Pimlico, where he proposed to spend his declining years. This movement gave rise to another mat- rimonial rumor. " So you are to be married,'''' his sister wrote him ; " that is reported, and quite certain. 0, my good brother, is not this a rash step at your years?" Campbell replied that he suspected there was some mistake in the report, but did not know why she should be surprised at such a step at his young and giddy age of sixty-three. Instead of taking a wife (a dream that he seems never to have abandoned), he pursued the more prudent course of adopting a daughter, in the person of his favorite niece, Mary Campbell. In the new residence, which he had very tastefully and comforta- bly fitted up, he corrected the last proofs of Petrarch ; but his health declined, and his powers failed rapidly. He became restless and whimsical. On one occasion he surprised his friends by advertising for a young child whom he had met in the streets, and who interested him so much that he desired to " be allowed to see her again." Soon after, he started suddenly for the Brunnens of Nassau, where he found himself without money, having left a quantity of bank-notes in his bed-room press, which he had forgotten. He wrote to liis friend Dr. Beattie, in great dismay, and requested him to enter hie LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 85 house, and make search for the missing funds. After a minute and unsuccessful examination, the doctor accidentally lighted upon a red- embroidered slipper, in which he was surprised and pleased to find three hundred pounds in bank-notes, twisted as if they were to be used as paper matches. In his voyage up the Rhine, Campbell met on the steamboat the historian of the middle ages. " Ilallam is a most excellent man," Baid the poet, in one of his letters, '< of great acuteness, and of im- mense research in reading. I believe him to have neither gall nor bitterness ; and yet he is a perfect boa-contradictor ! * * His powers of study are like those of the scholars of the Alexandrian Academy, whose viscera were alleged to be made of brass. He baits Sydney Smith himself, with his provoking accuracy as to matters of fact. Smith once said to me, ' If Hallam were in the midst of a full assembly of scientific men, and if Euclid were to enter the room, with his Elements under his arm, and were to say, " Gentlemen, I sup- pose no one present doubts the truth of the Forty-fifth Proposition of my First Book of Elements," Mr. Hallam would say, " Yes, / have my doubts." ' " In another letter from Germany, he alludes to the admiration of children which appears in several of his poems, and which led to the eccentric advertisement just mentioned : " What pleases me most about the Germans is, that they indulge me in my ruling passion of admiration of fine children. Their chil- dren are not quite so beautiful as ours, but really some of them are great beauties. I have met with one of three, and another of six years old, both of them charming ; and, like true young women, they are sensible to admiration. The younger has large round black eyes, that glow with triumph when you admire her ; and the other is a blonde, that blushes still more interestingly. Every one here, from the highest to the lowest, that has a fine child, seems to take it as a compliment tha,t you stop and shake its little hand ; whereas the same thing in England would be resented as a liberty." Soon after his return to England, he pul)iished The Pilgrim of Glencoe, with other poems, dedicated to his friend Dr. Beattie. To say that the chief piece in this collection was regarded as a failure, would be but a faint expression of the truth. It is a feeble produc- tion, possessing little interest as a story, and no merit as a poem 86 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. His nest literary enterprise was a subscription edition of his worts , but, before this was issued, he received the sum of eight hundred pounds, by the death of his only surviving sister, and the plan of publishing by subscription was abandoned. The new edition was transferred to IMr. !Moson. The poet now became more restless and uneasy than ever, and went to various places in France and England in pursuit of health, but derived no benefit from these changes. lie felt the advances of age, which were only too visible to his friends. His constitution, never robust, was sensibly undermined ; and in the summer of 1843 he repaired to Boulogne, hoping to emancipate him- self from the cares and expenses of London, and pass the remainder of his days in cheerful seclusion. Not many days were left for him, and those were painful ones, though they were solaced by the kind attentions of an affjctionate niece, and towards their close by the presence of his best friend, — Dr. Beattie. He was disappointed in his new residence. It was more expensive than he had anticipated. He found the climate keen and cold, and the winds " chilled his marrow." The society was very agreeable, though infested by rogues and swindlers. The streets, too, were " semi-perpendicular." In regard to the importation of books from England, he was vexed by the custom-house restrictions. He missed his club, — a great loss for such a club-haunter as Camp- bell. His brother ^nd sisters were now all dead. The wife to whom he was tenderly attaclied had gone before him many years. Hia only surviving son was a lunatic. He had no " old familiar faces " about him. He was home-sick, and was dying in a foreign land. Not altogether cheerless, however, was his decline. His niece read to him from his favorite authors, and played the airs which he had- loved in his youth. The notes which he wrote at this period were good- humored, and his conversation continued cheerful and pleasant to the last. In June, 1844, a letter from Mary Campbell brought Dr. Beattie and his wife to the chamber of the dying poet. He had now been more than three weeks confined to his bed, and for some time, ex- cepting his physician, Dr. AUatt, had seen no one but his niece and a sister of charity, who watched with him during the night. When his old friends arrived, his words were " Visit of angels from heaven." He smiled faintly, and spoke with his eye more express- LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 87 ively than by his lip. His comphiint was of weakness and a morbid sensation of chilliness. The next day he rallied a little, but it waa evident that the case was hopeless. At one time, being doubtful if he was conscious of what was said, some one named Hohenlinden, and suggested that the author was a ]\Ir. Robinson. " No," said the poet, calmly and distinctly, " it was one Tom CampbeU." On the seventh of June, his respiration was more impeded, and a swelling in his right foot increased. He continued to converse, however, at intervals, in a serene and interesting manner. In reply to the in- quiry of Dr. Beattie if his mind was quite easy, he said, with much earnestness and energy, " Yes, I have entire control over my mind ;"" adding, after a little pause, " 1 am quite — " The last word was inaudible. He was fully aAvare of his situation, and, though sarious. was placid and composed. No murmur or expression of pain escaped from him during several days which Dr. Beattie passed in his cham- ber. At last, on its being remarked that he showed great patience under suffering, he said faintly, and for the first time, " I do suflPor." A strong religious feeling was now manifested by the poet. Prayers from the Liturgy were read to him at his request, and passages from the Scriptures, which he listened to with deep emotion. A day or two before his death, he was visited by Mr. INIoxon, his publisher, and expressed pleasure at seeing him. On the fourteenth of the month, when he seemed sleeping heavily, his lip^ suddenly moved, and in a slow, distinct whisper he said, " We shall see * * to-mor- row," naming a long-departed friend. In the afternoon of the next day he died. When the spirit had left the^body his countenance was placid, and fixed in its happiest expression. While the arrangements required by the laws of France were in progress, the body remained in the drawing-room, the head slightly elevated in the coffin, and crowned with a- wreath of laurel and ever- green. This had been placedthere by his old English nurse, a sol- dier's widow, whom Dr. Beattie found sitting by the remains, with the prayer-book in her hand, and Campbell's Poems by her side. The folds of his shroud were scattered with roses, and a bunch of wild-flowers was held in his unconscious grasp. IMany of the Eng- lish residents of Boulogne, friends and strangers, called to give a last look and pay a last tribute of respect to one who had been, for nearly half a century , emphatically the " popular poet " of his country 0» LIFE OF CAMPBELL, On the third of July liis hodj was deposited in the centre of Poet's Corner, in Westminster Abbey. His funeral was most honorably attended. His brother poet, the Rev. Mr. Milman, one of the pre- tendarios of the church, headed the procession. His old and dear friend Richardson, and the Duke of Argyle, head of his clan, stood by his bier. Sir Robert Peel, then premier, Brougham, Lockhart, Macaulay, Lord Campbell, B. D'Israeli, Horace Smith, Dr. Croly, Thackeray, and many other gentlemen of political and literary dis- tinction, united in rendering the last honors to one wliom tliey ad- mired for his generous and noble qualities as a man no less than for his genius as a poet. A guard of Polish nobles, and a numerous body of private friends and citizens, joined in the sad ceremonies. When the officiating minister arrived at that portion of the ceremony in which dust is consigned to dust. Colonel Szyrma, a member of tho Literary Association of Poland, scattered over the coffin of the poet a handful of earth from the grave of Kosciusko, at Cracow. INIore cor- dial respect and homage had never marked the obsequies of any literary man, since the Abbey received the ashes of Addison. The inscription on the coffin was, "Thomas Campbell, LL.D., author of The Pleasures of Hope, aged lxvii." This event was commemorated by a kindred spirit — Horace Smith — in lines worthy to live in the same volume with the immortal pro ductions of him i^ whose honor they were written. CAMPBELL'S FUNERAL. 'T is well to see these accidental great, Noble by birth, or Fortune's favor blind, Gracing themselves in adding grace and state To the more noble eminence of mind ; And doing homage to a bard Whose breast by Nature's gems was starred, Whose patent by the hand of God himself was signed While monarchs sleep, forgotten, unrevered. Time trims the lamp of intellectual fame. The builders of the pyramids, who reared Mountains of stone, left none to tell their name Though Homer's tomb was never known, A mausoleum of his own. Long as the world endures, his greatness shall proclaim LIFE OF CAMPBELL. » AVhat lauding sepulchre does Campbell want 1 'Tis his to give, and not derive renown. What monumental bronze or adamant Like his own deathless Lays can hand him down 1 Poets outlast their tombs : the bust And statue soon revert to dust ; The dust they represent still wears the laurel crown. The solid abbey walls that seem time-proof. Formed to await the final day of doom, — The clustered shafts, and arch-supported roof. That now enshrine and guard our Campbell's tomb, — Become a ruined, shattered fane. May fall and bury him again. Yet still the bard shall live, his fame-wreath still shall bloom Methought the monumental effigies Of elder poets, that were grouped around. Leaned from their pedestals with eager eyes, To peer into the excavated ground, . Where lay the gifted, good and brave ; * While earth from Kosciusko's grave Fell on his coffin-plate with Freedom-shrieking sound. And over him the kindred dust was strewed Of Poet's Corner. misnomer strange ! The poet's confine is the amplitude Of the whole earth's illimitable range. O'er which his spirit flings its flight, Shedding an intellectual light — A sun that never sets, a moon that knows no change. Around his grave in radiant brotherhood. As if to form a halo o'er his head. Not few of England's master-spirits stood. Bards, artists, sages, reverently led To wave each separating plea Of sect, clime, party and degree, All honoring him on whom Nature all honors shed. To me, the humblest of the mourning band. Who knew the bard through many a changeful year. It was a proud, sad privilege to stand Beside his grave and shed a parting tear. Seven lustres had he been my friend ; — Be that my plea when I suspend This all-unworthy wreath on such a poet's bier 90 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. CHAPTER VIII. In his early yeai-s Campbell was eminently handsome, and the portraits of him when somewhat advanced in life show tliat he still retained a countenance of great beauty. " He was a delicate child," says a writer in the Qvarterly Review, who seems to have been famil- iar with his person at various periods of his life, " with a slio;ht form, small, accurate features, a hectic complexion, and eyes such as no one could see and forget ; Lawrence's pencil alone could transmit their dark mixture of fire and softness. j\Iany physiologists have noticed the contrast between the organization of the ordinary Gael and that of the aristocracy. Speaking generally, no class of gentry in Europe are above these last, whether you regard the proportions of the frame or the facial lines. Their blood, no doul)t, has been largely dashed with intermixtures; and Campbell's countenance, we must own, said more than the heralds have been able to do in sup- port of the story of the ' adventurous Norman ' and ' the Lady of the West.'" Of his personal appearance in his study i)\ his later years, the full- length etching which accompanies this biographical sketch is said to convey a faitiiful presentment. It is copied from an outline in Fra- ser^s Magazine, taken while the poet was editor of the New Monthly ; and no doubt savors of caricature, notwithstanding the general resem- blance. It seems to correspond with the account given by Mr. E. Carruthers, in his Mornings with Campbell. " The poet," says this ^vl•iter, " was breakf\xsting in his sitting-room, which Avas filled with books, and had rather a showy appearance. The carpet and tables were littered with stray volumes, letters and papers. At this time, he was, like Charles Lamb, a worshipper of the great plant ; and tobacco-pipes were mingled with the miscellaneous literary wares. A large print of the queen hung over the fireplace ; he drew my atten- tion to it, and said it had been presented to him by her majesty ; he valued it very highly. ' Money could not buy it from me,' he remarked. * * He was generally careful as to dress, and had none of Dr. Johnson's indifterence to fine linen. His wigs were always nicely adjusted, and scarcely distinguishable from natural LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 91 hair. His appearance was interesting and handsome. Though rather below the middle size, he did not seem little ; and his large dark eye and countenance bespoke great sensibility and acuteness. His thin, quivering lip, and delicate nostril, were highly expressive. When he epoke, as Leigh Hunt has remarked, dimples played about his mouth, which, nevertheless, had something restrained and close in it, as if some gentle Puritan had ci-ossed the breed, and left a stamp on hia face such as we see in the female Scotch face rather than the male * * In personal neatness and fastidiousness, no less than in genius and taste, Campbell in his best days resembled Gray. Each was distinguished by the same careful finish in composition, the same classical predilections and lyric fire, rarely but strikingly displayed. In ordinary life they were both somewhat finical, yet with great free- dom and idiomatic plainness in their unreserved communications, — Gray's being evinced in his letters, and Campbell's in conversation." During his residence at Sydenham, Campbell generally rose late. He breakfasted and studied for an hour or two, and dined at two or three o'clock. He then made calls upon his neighbors, passing a good deal of time with his friends the ^layos, of whose conversation he was fond. After tea, he retired to his study, where he remained till a late hour. His habits at this time were strictly domestic. He had a few literary friends, now and then, to dine with hun, giving them a hearty welcome, and a poet's frugal fare. He was hospitable and social. When with company, he liked to sit and chat over his wine. When alone, he never indulged in the pleasures of the table. His household, indeed, was managed with the most prudent economy during the whole of Mrs. Campbell's lifetime. His circumstances were moderate, and he lived accordingly. " And his good, gentle, patient little wife," says Mrs. Grant, " was so frugal, so simple, and 80 sweet-tempered, that she disarmed poverty of half its evils." He was very careless about his letters and papers, and when editor of the New Monthly Magazine was continually losing the articles designed for the journal. It was his habit to read every note ho received, and, if it was convenient at the moment, to send a brief and formal reply. At other times, he would read his letters and thrust them into his coat-pocket, from which they seldom emerged for any purposes of response. He had no method or system in the disposition of his papers. They lay scattered about his table in confusion, and 92 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. by way of clearing up, he would occasionally jumble them into a heap, or thrust them into a box or drawer. In his study, he would place them over the books in his shelves, or in the volumes that ha happened to lie reading ; but they were always missing when wanted. Mrs. Campbell was in the habit of taking possession of all letters and articles intended for the magazine, and sending them to the office. " How should he take care of the papers," she would say, laughingly, to his assistant editor, Mv. Redding, " when he cannot take care of himself? I am obliged to look after him ; he had better not have them in the study at all." Soon after becoming editor of the New Monthly, he received, through the Hon. T. P. Courtenay, a poetical contribution from Mr. Canning, then premier. It was an epitaph on his son, George Charles Can- ning. Shortly afterwards, Mr. Courtenay brought him from the same source a copy of a private letter addressed by ^Ir. Canning to Mr. Bolton, of Liverpool, explaining the circumstances of his resig- nation. The letter originated in an article in the Courier newspaper, and on its face was obviously confidential. It was handed to Camp- bell with no view to its pul)lioation, but to post him up in the afiiiir, and give tlie tone to his political comments for the month. He passed over the letter, without reading it, or a moment's reflection, to Mr Redding, who asked, very naturally, if it was to be inserted entire Campbell replied in the affirmative. "We may judge of the horroi of Mr. Courtenay and Mr. Canning, when this confidential letter appeared at full length in the pages of the New Monthly, to which it could have been communicated only by the ex-premier or his confi- dential correspondent. It is needless to say that Mr. Canning had no further contributions for the New Monthly. We have already mentioned an incident illustrating the poet's care- lessness about money. On his return from his last visit to Scotland, Mr. Redding met him in the street in London, and walked to his lodgings with him. After sitting a while, a thought struck him, and he began fumbling in his pockets. " Surely," said he, " I can't have lost them, — I had a hundred pounds here, and more, just now." His pockets were searched in vain. He had been set down in the White House Yard, Fetter Lane. He was positive he had the notes there. Thither they repaired, in a fruitless search'. Campbell did not know their number, and of course never heard of the missing LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 93 notes. They were loose in his pocket, and he had probably pulled them out in the coach or the yard, when he was searching for some- thing else. This habitual carelessness was inconsistent with a growing fond- ness for money, which was one of the marks of his decline. Natu- rally he was one of the most generous men in the world. He seems to have had no expensive habits, but, after satisfying his own mod- erate wants, always managed to embarrass himself by his charities. His circumstances in his latter years ought to have been entirely com- fortable, as the number of his private dependants had diminished. But he had grown acquisitive, or affected to have become so. When he edited the Scenic Annual for 1838, he was conscious that he would be much abused for lending his name to such a work. " But," he said, " as I get two hundred pounds for writing a sheet or two of paper, it will take a great deal of abuse to mount up to that sum." So, when he was engaged in eliminating a Life of Petrarch from the manuscripts of Arch-deacon Coxe, he found it wearisome enough ; but the thought of two hundred pounds descending in a golden shower consoled him. " I am the lovely Danae," he said, " and Colburn is my Jupiter." In relation to the same enterprise, he described himself to a friend as working literally as hard as any mechanic, from six to twelve; — but "this treadmill labor," he added, " is the result of sheer avarice, miserly niggardliness! I am principally employed in translating from Italian authors, and could get the whole done by an assistant, I believe, for thirty pounds. But the money — the money ! , my dear M. , the thought of parting vsdth it is unthinkable ! and pounds sterling are to me ' dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart ! ' " If Campbell had been the miser that he pretends, he would never have confessed it to himself, much less to his correspondents. If it vrere anything more than a whim or caprice, the secret of it is ex- plained in the following extract from a letter to an intimate friend : " Moxon has thrown off ten thousand copies of an edition of all my poems, in double columns, at two shillings a copy. I hope to make well by it. I am getting more and mure avaricious — at the same 'ime, more interested than ever in public charities; above all, in the Mendicity Society. At present, the payment of the wood-cuts keeps me low, but next year I expect to be rich ! Whatever 1 can now 94 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. spare, I mean to go to organized societies for the benefit of my own countrymen. After supporting the Polish Association for nine years, 1 mean now to take my leave of it, because it interferes with my subscriptions to other institutions. * * * Poor fellows ! I heartily pity the Poles still ; and there is, no doubt, much suffering among them; but where can you look round, Avithout seeing sufferings? And our own country has the most sacred claim upon us. 0, ! were you and I but rich enough, what masses of misery we should alleviate ' * * * For my own part, the last years of my checkered life are cheered by the prospect of having a residue to relieve distress, out of an income that has lately increased, and is threatened with no diminution." Campbell's manner in conversation was lively, and sometimes impetuous. He was never comic, but as light-hearted and cheerful aa a boy. He told an amusing story with effect, though he failed in all his printed attempts of tliis kind. He occasionally put on a Scotch accent, for humor's sake ; but his general conversation was free from it. In the domestic circle he is said to have been the *' pleasantest company that could be conceived." An instance is related of the way in which he would sometimes abandon himself to his impulses. When he went to Glasgow to be inaugurated as Lord Piector, on reaching the college-green lie found the boys pelting each other with snow-balls. He ruslied into the melee, and flung about his snow-balls right and left with great dexterity, much to the de- liglit of the boys, but to the great scandal of the professors. He was proud of the piece of plate that the Glasgow lads gave him, and referred to the occasion as one of the pleasantest recollections of his life. Of the honor conferred by his college title he was less sensible. He hated the sound of Doctor Campbell ; and when Px-ingle, the poet and traveller, reminded him that he must submit to it as an LL.D., he looked grave, and said that " no friend of his would ever call him so." In his study he kept a tobacco-box, from which he would fill his pipe, and occasionally, when a little abstracted, transfer a small quantity of the weed to his mouth. But this was an exception to his general habit, and rather an indication of absence of mind. Of this latter trait, one or two anecdotes are told. Whenever he wanted to dispose of anything at home in a particularly secure place, he was , LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 95 Biire not to find it again without a good deal of extra trouble. On one occasion, he by note invited his friend Redding to dine with him on the 29th of January. When his guest came, with whom he was intimate enough to take the liberty, Campbell expressed surprise, and insisted that he had invited him for the next day. " I 've tories to-day," he said, " and whigs to-morrow." Redding would have witlidrawn, but Campbell peremptorily forbade it. " You shall have both dinners," he said. " All the party for to-morrow are of the right kind, — stanch Cromwellians, sturdy Roundheads, — and we '11 have calPs head, and toast the immortal memory of Old Noll." Campbell would have protested that the mistake in the day was his friend's ; but the invitation was in writing, and spoke for itself. Campbell's politics, however, did not materially interfere with his friendships. He was in the habit of going familiarly to jNIurray's, where he met with more men of talent than under any other roof, but Rogers' or Lord Holland's. ^lurray's was then the great resort of the Quarterly reviewers and the literary tories ; but Campbell mingled with them freely. Sometimes he found himself the only whig present ; and on one occasion, it being remarked that he had not remained long on a visit — "I felt myself a sojourner in a strange land," he replied ; " I did not like to be the only one of my party." He was warm and earnest in his views of political questions, high- minded and liberal ; and, with less impatience of restraint, and a more regular application to business, he might have distinguished himself in public life. He was not successful, however, as a speaker. His ideas flowed faster than his speech, and he soon became excited and almost unintelligible. He was averse to controversy, and sought to live upon kind terms with all his literary brethren, though he detested Hazlitt, and had no love for the poets of the Lake school. On the publication of Moore's Life of Byron, he found two or three passages that annoyed him exceedingly, and, as the champion of Lady Byron, he assailed the author in terms of unnecessary ardor. The noble poet had un- derstood Campbell as speaking in a sarcastic spirit at Lord Holland's, when he said, " Take the incense to Lord Byron, he is used to it," — and had represented him as being " nettled." " Wliat feeling," he said, in a letter to Moore on this subject, " but that of kindness could T have had to Lord Byron 1 He was always affectionate to me, both 96 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. in his writings and in personal interviews ; how strange that he should misunderstand my manner on the occasion alluded to ! and what temptation could I have to show myself pettish and envious before my inestimable friend Lord Holland? The whole scene described by Lord BjTon is a phantom of his imagination. Ah, my dear Moore ! if we had him back again, how easily could we settle these matters!" A coldness ensued between the poets, in conse- quence of Campbell's attack on the biographer ; but it formed only a temporary interruption to their friendship. His disposition to evade discussion is shown by his conduct in regard to the " Pope " controversy. In liis Specimens of the British Poets, speaking of the several editors of Pope, Campbell had referred to Mr. Bowles, and the stress laid by that critic on the argument that Pope's images are " drawn more from art than nature." Campl)ell defended Pope, and Mr. Bowles wrote a letter to justify what he called his " invariable principles of poetry." On this, a literary melee followed, in which Byron, Gilchrist, Roscoe, the Quarterly Review, and at length Moore, were engaged, with no little ardor. On the publication of his third lecture on Poetry, Campbell attached a note to it, in which he says, " When the book in which I dissented from Mr. Bowles' theory of criticism comes to a second edition, I shall have a good deal to say to my reverend friend. I have not mis- represented him , as he imagines ; but 1 have no leisure to write ■pam- phlcts about him.^'' When the work in question came to a second edition, Campbell was still less in the vein for controversy. He left the volunteers to fight out the battle, and perhaps never thought of it again. Campbell was of a delicate organization. Haydon, the painter, in his autobiographical notes, styles him " bilious and shivering." His habits required seclusion even for the perusal of a book. Trifles dis- tracted him. He was exceedingly sensitive, and reserved in the expres- sion of his opinions. Of his own poetry he spoke but seldom, and only when he could not well avoid it. He was a simple-hearted man, of blameless intentions, and vrith a tender regard for the feelings of all with whom he was called to associate. One who had known him for thirty years, and for more than one-third of that period had been in habits of almost daily association with him, bears the strong- est testimony to the beauty and purity of his character. " I believe LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 97 a more guileless man," says Mr. Cyrus Redding, "one less capable of imagining evil towards another, never breathed." His habits of study were discursive. Some ten years elapsed be- tween his commencement of the Specimens of the British Poets and its publication. His Lectures on Poetry he laid by for a year and a half, whilst he was editing the New Monthly Magazine, to which he contributed meanwhile but a few verses. Many subjects interested him. He was sometimes deep in political economy, and again in German metaphysics and biblical literature. To classical literature he always devoted a good deal of time. Froin the main subject of his immediate study he was continually diverging into the collateral topics suggested in the course of his reading. This easy diversion rendered him unreliable in any literary undertaking ; and hence, perhaps, Campbell's querulous censures of the booksellers. The trade could not depend upon his punctuality, and were not ready to contract for unfinished works at some uncertain future period. Though in jest he toasted Napoleon for having " shot a bookseller," he seems to have been treated with uniform liberality by his publishers. His memory was well stored with passages from the ancient and modern classics. Greek verses he could repeat thirty or forty in succession, and with the same facility from the English and Italian poets. With French literature he was not so conversant, and the writers in that language he seldom quoted. He was exceedingly fastidious with reference to his own productions. He was not satis- fied with efiect, but sought to finish and polish till he sometimes impaired and enfeebled his poems. Many of his poems, as they are now printed, are very difierent from the original impressions. His retouches, however, were chiefly designed to render his verse more complete, or to improve the verbal expression of a thought. Errors of description or in natural history, such as abound in Gertrude of Wyoming, he never corrected. Except in the ease of The Pleasures of Hope, he consulted no one before publication. He said that he " never leaned on the taste of others, with that miseralale disregard of his own judgment " which was implied in some of the anecdotes, in regard to his habits of composition, which had found their way into print. His prose manuscripts he seldom copied. His poems he frequently wrote out very fairly and legibly, on paper which he ruled 9 98 LIFE OF CAMPBELL, for the purpose. When he had completed the manuscript of his smaller poems, he would have a few copies printed on slips, to keep by him for alteration and revision. Gertrude of Wyoming, which, of his longer poems, the poet preferred, he wrote in the leisure time of a twelve-month. The Last Man was composed in the space of three forenoons, and it was sent to press with very inconsiderable changes from the original copy. Mr. Redding doubts if he ever v\rrote anything entirely to liis own satisfaction, except the Lines on Kemble. Generally, he composed with difficulty. He could never accom- plish the leading article for a newspaper ; a task wliich requires the possession of a peculiar, not to say rare talent. He could not express his thoughts with sufficient rapidity under the idea of editorial re- sponsibility ; and hence it happened that Perry was compelled to assign him to the Correspondence and the Poet's Corner, in his early connection with the Morning Chronicle. He sometimes wrote an impromptu in verse, though his effijrts in this way, we imagine (as he intimates was the case on one of his German visits) , were generally got up in the forenoon, to be wi-itten in the ladies' albums in the evening. Mr. Redding, however, mentions one that may well have been what it claimed to be. Some time about the year 1822, the elder Roscoe was introduced to Sir Walter Scott, at Campbell's residence. They had a very pleasant meeting, and the great novelist diverted Mrs. Campbell exceedingly by his stories. Mr. Redding took coffi3e with them that evening. Campbell was in good spirits, and said, " I have a mind to try an impromptu." " I fancy such things are not so much your forte as Theodore Hook's," Redding replied. "Well, I will try," rejoined the poet; "leave me uninterrupted for a few minutes." Redding took up a book. Campbell quickly repeated the following lines : " Quoth the South to the North, • In your comfortless sky Not a nightingale sings.' 'True,' the North made reply, « But your nightingale's warblings I envy you not. When I think of the strains of my Burns and my Scott ! ' '* " There is my impromptu," said the poet, " and you imagined 1 was not equal to making one !" " Now, then, the lines should be put upon paper," Mr. Redding rejoined. And the poet immediately LIFE OF CAMPBELL. 99 wrote down the words, with the title " Impromptu by Thomas Camp- bell." Redding retained the original as a memento of the meeting of Scott, Roscoe and Campbell, and published it in his Reminiscences of the poet, in the New Monthly Magazine. Besides the well-known portrait of Campbell by Lawrence, several others were taken at different periods. About the year 1838, he sal to a distinguished American artist, Mr. S. S. Osgood, who has suc- ceeded in the execution of two very faithful likenesses, and to whom we have been indebted for an anecdote well worth preserving. When the artist first saw Campbell, it was at his lodgings, near the head of St. James-street, Piccadilly, up three flights of stairs. The poet received him in his library, in which there was but one window ; the walls were covered with well-filled book-cases, and by the hearth was a leopard's skin for a rug. " When I painted my last picture of that distinguished man," says the artist, " now some fourteen years ago, he was plainly exhibiting the lines of sorrow and age on his fine countenance. The dreadful malady with which his only son was visited to one of Campbell's acute sensibilities must have been the most terrible afiliction that could befall him. It gave a shock to his whole nervous system, from which he never recovered, and which accounts in some measure for the charge sometimes made against him of indulging to excess in the use of stimulants. A slight indul- gence overcame him, in the diseased state of his nervous system. At times I found him one of the most agreeable men I ever encountered ; at other times he was thoughtful, Avith an expression of deep sad- ness, which indeed never entirely left his countenance, even in hia happiest moments. An overwhelming grief had stamped its impress upon his features. * * 1 made some notes of his conversation at this time : but I have mislaid them, and will not venture to repeat from memory. One thing, however, from its peculiarity, I have not forgotten. You know the way in which his name is generally pro- nounced in this country. In allusion to this, he once said to me, * Why do the Americans always call me Camel ? I 've no hump on my back.' This little fact may be of interest, as showing that hia name should be pronounced as it is spelt." This imperfect personal narrative, we think, furnishes abundant proof that Campbell was a generous, noble-hearted, and high-minded man. Whatever may be the opiuions of critics with regard to the 100 LIFE OF CAMPBELL. relative merits of his longer didactic and descriptive works, it is, no doubt, the well-established popular judgment, that Campbell stands first and without a rival among the Lyrical Poets of his age. " Many years since," said Washington Irving, in 1841, " we hailed the pro- ductions of his muse, as beaming forth like the pure lights of heaven among the meteor exlialations and paler fii-es with which our literary atmosphere abounds. Since that time many of these meteors and paler fires, that dazzled and bewildered the public eye, have fallen to the earth and passed away, — and still we find his poems like the stars, shining on ivith undiminished lustre.'^ More fit words for the con- clusion of this sketch are nowliere to be found than those of the poet himself, uttered in his old age : " I believe when I am gone justice will be done to me in this way — that I was a pure writer. It is an inexpressible comfort, at my time of life, to be able to look back and feel that I have not written one line against religion or virtue." POEMS. PLEASURES OE HOPE. PART THE FIRST. ANALYSIS OF PART I. The Poem opens with a comparison between the beauty of remote objects in a landscape and those ideal scenes of felicity which the imagination delights to contemplate — the influence of anticipation upon the other passions is next delineated — an allusion is made to the well-known fiction in Pagan tradition, that, when all the guardian deities of man- kind abandoned the world, Hope alone was left behind — the consolations of this passion in situations of danger and distress — the seaman on his watch — the soldier marching into battle — allusion to the interesting adventures of Byron. The inspiration of Hope, as it actuates the efforts of genius, whether in the department of science, or of taste — domestic felicity, how intimately connected with views of future happiness — picture of a mother watching her infant when asleep — pictures of the pris- oner, 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 pro- gress of humanizing arts among uncivilized nations — from these views of amelioration of society, and the extension of liljerty 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 independence — description of the capture of Warsaw, of the last contest of the oppressors and the oppressed, and the massacre of the Polish patriots at the bridge of Prague — apostrophe to the self-interested enemies of human improvement — the wrongs of Africa — the barbarous policy of Europeans in India — prophecy in the Hindoo mythology of the expected descent of the Deity to redress the miseries of their race, and to take vengeance on the violators of justice and mercy. PLEASUEES OE HOPE PART I. At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky ? Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near?- 'T is distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue. Thus, with delight, we linger to survey The promised joys of life's unmeasured way ; Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene More pleasing seems than all the past hath been, And every form that Fancy can repair From dark oblivion glows divinely there. What potent spirit guides the raptured eye To pierce the shades of dim futurity 1 Can Wisdom lend, with all her heavenly power, The pledge of Joy's anticipated hour ? Ah, no ! she darkly sees the fate of man — Her dim horizon bounded to a span ; 104 PLEASURES OF HOPE. Or, if she hold an image to the view, 'T is Nature pictured too severely true. With thee, sweet Hope ! resides the heavenly light, That pours remotest rapture on the sight : Thine is the charm of life's bewildered way, That calls each slumbering passion into play. Waked by thy touch, I see the sister band. On tiptoe watching, start at thy command. 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 Avoe, Shot from malignant stars to earth below ; When Murder bared her arm, and rampant War Yoked the red dragons of her iron car ; When Peace and Mercy, banished from the plain. Sprung on the viewless winds to Heaven again ; 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 ^olian organ play, And sweep the furrowed lines of anxious thought away. PLEASURES OF HOPE. 105 Angel of life ! tlij 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 Bhering'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 waves' tumultuous roar, The wolf's long howl from Oonalaska's shore. Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm, Sad are the Avoes that wreck thy manly form ! Rocks, waves and winds, the shattered bark delay ; Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away. But Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep, And sing to charm the spirit of the deep ; Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole. Her visions warm the watchman's pensive soul ; His native hills that rise in happier climes, The grot that heard his song of other times, His cottage home, his bark of slender sail, His glassy lake, and broomwood-blossomed vale, Rush on his thought ; he sweeps before the wind, Treads the loved shore he sighed to leave behind ; Meets at each step a friend's familiar face, And flies at last to Helen's long embrace ; Wipes from her cheek the rapture-speaking tear ! And clasps, with many a sigh, his children dear ! 106 PLEASURES OF HOPE. While, long neglected, but at length caressed, His faithful dog salutes the smiling guest. Points to the master's eyes (where'er they roam) His wistful face, and whines a welcome home. Friend of the brave ! in peril's darkest hour. Intrepid Virtue looks to thee for power ; To thee the heart its trembling homage yields, On stormy floods, and carnage-covered fields. When front to front the bannered hosts combine. Halt ere they close, and form the dreadful line. When all is still on Death's devoted soil, The march-worn soldier mingles for the toil ! As rings his glittering tube, he lifts on high The dauntless brow, and spirit-speaking eye. Hails in his heart the triumph yet to come. And hears thy stormy music in the drum ! And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore The hardy Byron to his native shore — In horrid climes, where Chiloe's tempests sweep Tumultuous murmurs o'er the troubled deep, 'Twas his to mourn Misfortune's rudest shock, Scourged by the winds, and cradled on the rock ; To wake each joyless morn and search again The famished haunts of solitary men, Whose race, unyielding as their native storm, Know not a trace of Nature but the form ; Yet, at thy call, the hardy tar pursued, Pale, but intrepid, — sad, but unsubdued, Pierced the deep woods, and, hailing from afar The moon's pale planet and the northern star, Paused at each dreary cry, unheard before. Hyenas in the wild, and mermaids on the shore PLEASURES OF HOPE. 107 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, hoAV 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) 'T is 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 : ' Shall Nature bound to Earth's diurnal span The fire of God, the immortal soul of man 7 ' 108 PLEASURES OF HOPE. "Turn, child of Heaven, thj rapture-lightened eye To Wisdom's walks, the sacred Nine are nigh ; Hark ! from bright spires that gild the Delphian height, From streams that wander in eternal light. Ranged on their hill, Harmonia's daughters swell The mingling tones of horn and harp and shell ; Deep from his vaults the Loxian murmurs flow. And Pjthia's awful organ peals below. " Beloved of Heaven ! the smiling Muse shall shed Her moonlight halo on thy beauteous head ; Shall swell thy heart to rapture unconfined, And breathe a holy madness o'er thy mind. I see thee roam her guardian power beneath, And talk with spirits on the midnight heath ; Inquire of guilty wanderers whence they came. And ask each blood-stained form his earthly name ; Then weave in rapid verse the deeds they tell, And read the trembling world the tales of hell. ""Wlien 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 Avilt 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; — PLEASUEES OF HOPE. 109 On Nature's throbbing anguish pour relief, And teach impassioned souls the joj of grief? " Yes ; to thj 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 thj command, Like Horeb's rocks beneath the prophet's hand. The living lumber of his kindred earth. Charmed into soul, receives a second birth, Feels thj dread power another heart afford. Whose passion-touched, harmonious strings accord True as the circling spheres to Nature's plan ; And man, the brother, lives the friend of man. " Bright as the pillar rose at Heaven's command. When Israel marched along the desert land, Blazed through the night on lonelj 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, — 0, 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 Avrongs, and shield his latter age. 10 ./ no PLEASURES OF HOPE. What tliougli for him no Hjbla sweets distil, Nor bloomy vines wave purple on the hill ; Tell, that when silent years have passed away, That when his eye grows dim. his tresses gray, These busy hands a lovelier cot shall build, And deck with fairer flowers his little field, And call from Heaven propitious dews to breathe Arcadian beauty on the barren heath ; Tell, that while Love's spontaneous smile endears The days of peace, the sabbath of his years, Health shall prolong to many a festive hour The social pleasures of his humble bower. Lo ! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps. Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps ; She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes, And weaves a song of melancholy joy, — " Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy ! No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine ; No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine ; Bright as his manly sire the son shall be Li 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, N ) And chase the world's ungenerous scorn awa(y. " 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 ? 0, wilt thou come at evening hour to shed The tears of Memory o'er my narrow bed ; \\ PLEASURES OF HOPE. Ill 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 mj woe7 '" So speaks affection, ere the infant eje Can look regard, or brighten m replj ; 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 tavsk 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 sharo 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. Chide not his peace, proud Reason; nor destroy The shadoT\'y forms of uncreated joy. That urge the lingering tide of life, and pour Spontaneous slumber on his midnight hour. 112 PLEASURES OF HOPE. Hark ! the wild maniac sings, to chicle the gale That wafts so slow her lover's distant sail ; She, sad spectatress, on the wintry shore Watched the rude surge his shroudless corse that bore, Knew the pale form, and, shrieking in amaze. Clasped her cold hands, and fixed her maddening gaze : Poor widowed wretch ! 't was there she wept in vain, Till Memory fled her agonizing brain ; — But Mercy gave, to charm the sense of woe. Ideal peace, that truth could ne'er bestow; Warm on her heart the joys of Fancy beam. And aimless Hope delights her darkest dream. Oft when yon moon has climbed the midnight sky. And the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry, Piled on the steep, her blazing fagots burn To hail the bark that never can return ; And still she waits, but scarce forbears to weep. That constant love can linger on the deep. And, mark the wretch, whose wanderings never knew The world's regard, that soothes, though half untrue ; Whose erring heart the lash of sorrow bore, But found not pity when it erred no more. Yon friendless man, at whose dejected eye The unfeeling proud one looks — and passes by, Condemned on Penury's barren path to roam. Scorned by the world, and left Avithout 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 — ! that for me some home like this would smile, PLEASURES OF HOPE. 113 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 prayei ^[ Hope ! when I mourn, with sympathizing mind, The wrongs of fate, the woes of human kind. Thy blissful omens bid my spirit see The boundless fields of rapture yet to be ; I watch the wheels of Nature's mazy plan. And learn the future by the past of man. \ \ Come, bright Improvement ! on the car of Time, And rule the spacious world from clime to clime ; Thy handmaid arts shall every wild explore, Trace every wave, and culture every shore. On Erie's banks, where tigers steal along, And the dread Indian chants a dismal song. Where human fiends on midnight errands walk, And bathe in brains the murderous tomahawk, There shall the flocks on thymy pasture stray. And shepherds dance at Summer's opening day ; Each wandering genius of the lonely glen Shall start to view the glittering haunts of men, And silent watch, on woodland heights around. The village curfew as it tolls profound. In Libyan groves, where damned rites are done, That bathe the rocks in blood, and veil the sun, Truth shall arrest the murderous arm profane, Wild Obi flies — the veil is rent in twain. Where barbarous hordes on Scythian mountains roam, Truth, Mercy, Freedom, yet shall find a home ; 10* 114 PLEASURES OF HOPE. * 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 valor burns, And, as the slave departs, the man returns. ! sacred Truth ! thy triumph ceased a while, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce hussars. Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn. Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn ■ 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, — ! Heaven ! he cried, my bleeding country save ! — Is there no hand on high to shield the brave 7 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 an-ayed 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 watch-word and reply; Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, And the loud tocsin tolled then- last alarm ! — PLEASURES OF HOPE. 115 In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few ! From rank to rank your volleyed thimder flew : — 0, 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, k/^ 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 ! ! righteous Heaven ! ere Freedom found a grave, Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save ? Where was thine arm, Vengeance ! where thy rod. That smote the foes of Zion and of God ; That crushed proud Ammon, when his iron car Was yoked in wrath, and thundered from afar ? Where was the storm that slumbered till the host Of blood-stained Pharaoh left their trembling coast ; Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, And heaved an ocean on their march below ? Departed spirits of the mighty dead ! Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled ! 116 PLEASURES OF HOPE, 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 ! ! once again to Freedom's cause return The patriot Tell — the Bruce of Bannockburn! Yes ! thy proud lords, unpitied land ! shall see That man hath yet a soul — and dare be free ! A little while along thy saddening plains The starless night of Desolation i-eigns ; 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 7 No ! the wild wave contemns your sceptred hand ; It rolled not back when Canute gave command ! Man ! can thy doom no brighter soul allow ? Still must thou live a blot on Nature's brow 7 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 117 Shall war's polluted banner ne'er be furled 7 Shall crimes and tyrants cease but with the world ? What ! are thy triumphs, sacred Truth, belied 7 Why then hath Plato lived — or Sidney died 7 Ye fond adorers of departed fame, Who warm at Scipio's worth, or Tully's name ! Ye that, in fancied vision, can admire The sword of Brutus, and the Theban lyre ! Rapt in historic ardor, who adore Each classic haunt, and well-remembered shore, Wnere Valor tmied, amidst her chosen throng, The Thracian trumpet, and the Spartan song ; Or, wandering thence, behold the later charms Of England's glory, and Helvetia's arms ! See Roman fire in Hampden's bosom swell, And fate and freedom in the shaft of Tell ! Say, ye fond zealots to the worth of yore, Hath Valor left the world — to live no more 1 No more shall Brutus bid a tyrant die. And sternly smile with vengeance in his eye ; Hampden no more, when sujQfering 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, m that generous cause, forever strong, The patriot's virtue, and the poet's song. Still, as the tide of ages rolls away. Shall charm the world, unconscious of decay. Yes, there are hearts, prophetic Hope may trust, That slumber yet in uncreated dust, Ordained to fire the adoring sons of earth With every charm of wisdom and of worth ; 118 PLEASURES OF HOPE. Ordained to light, with intellectual daj, The mazy wheels of nature as they play, Or, warm with Fancy's energy, to glow. And rival all but Shakspeare's name below. And say, supernal Powers ! who deeply scan Heaven's dark decrees, unfathomed yet by man, When shall the world call down, to cleanse her shame That embryo spirit, yet without a name, — That friend of Nature, Avliose avenging hands Shall burst the Libyan's adamantine bands ! Who, sternly marking on his native soil The blood, the tears, the anguish, and the toil, Shall bid each righteous heart exult, to see Peace to the slave, and vengeance on the free ! Yet, yet, degraded men ! 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 sprang startling at thy plastic call, Endless her forms, and man the lord of all ! Say, was that lordly form inspired by thee. To wear eternal chains and bow the knee 1 Was man ordained the slave of man to toil, Yoked with the brutes, and fettered to the soil ; Weighed in a tyrant's balance with his gold? No, Nature stamped us in a heavenly mould ! She bade no wretch his thankless labor urge, Nor, trembling, take the pittance and the scourge PLEASURES OF HOPE. 119 No homeless Libyan, on the stormy deep, To call upon his country's name, and weep ! — Lo ! once in triumph, on his boundless plaia, The quivered chief of Congo loved to reign ; With fires proportioned to his native sky. Strength in his arm, and lightning in his eye ; Scoured with wild feet his sun-illumined zone. The spear, the lion, and the woods, his own ! Or led the combat, bold without a plan. An artless savage, but a fearless man ! The plunderer came ; alas, no glory smiles For Congo's chief, on yonder Indian Isles ! Forever fallen, no son of Nature now, With Freedom chartered on his manly brow ! Faint, bleeding, bound, he weeps the night away, And when the sea-wind wafts the dewless day Starts, with a bursting heart, forevermore 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 harbor there A wish but death, — a passion but despair? The widowed Indian, when her lord expires, Mounts the dread pile, and braves the funeral fires ! So falls the heart at Thraldom's bitter sigh ! So Virtue dies, the spouse of Liberty ! But not to Libya's barren clunes alone, To Chili, or the wild Siberian zone. 120 PLEASURES OF HOPE. Belong the wretched heart and haggard eye. Degraded worth, and poor misfortune's sigh ! — Ye orient realms, where Ganges' waters run ! Prolific fields, dominions of the sun ! How long your tribes have trembled and obeyed ! How long was Timour's iron sceptre swayed, Whose marshalled hosts, the lions of the plain, From Scythias northern mountains to the main, Raged o'er your plundered shrines and altars bare, With blazing torch and gory cimitar. — Stunned Avith the cries of death each gentle gale, And bathed in blood the verdure of the vale ! Yet could no pangs the immortal spirit tame. When Brama's children perished for his name ; The martyr smiled beneath avenging power. And braved the tyrant in his torturing hour ! When Europe sought your subject realms to gain, And stretched her giant sceptre o'er the main, Taught her proud barks the winding way to shape, And braved the stormy Spirit of the Cape ; Children of Brama, then was ]\Iercy nigh To wash the stain of blood's eternal dye? Did Peace descend, to triumph and to save, "When freeborn Britons crossed the Indian wave 1 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 fi-om kingdoms not their own. Degenerate trade, thy minions could despise The heart-born anguish of a thousand cries ; PLEASUKES OP HOPE. 121 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 Bramin kneels, From heavenly climes propitious thunder peals ! Of India's fate her guardian spirits tell. Prophetic murmurs breathing on the shell. And solemn sounds, that awe the listening mind, Boll on the azure paths of every wind. " Foes of mankind ! (her guardian spirits say) Revolving ages bring the bitter day, When Heaven's unerring arm shall fall on you, And blood for blood these Indian plains bedew ; Nine times have Brama's wheels of lightning hurled His awful presence o'er the alarmed world ; Nine times hath Guilt, through all his giant frame. Convulsive trembled, as the Mighty came ; Nine times hath suffering Mercy spared in vain, — But heaven shall burst her starry gates again ! He comes ! dread Brama shakes the sunless sky With murmuring wrath, and thunders from on high. Heaven's fiery horse, beneath his warrior form. Paws the light clouds, and gallops on the storm ! Wide waves his flickering sword ; his bright arms glow Like summer suns, and light the world below ! Earth, and her trembling isles in Ocean's bed, Are shook ; and Nature rocks beneath his tread ! " To pour redress on India's injured realm, The oppressor to dethrone, the proud to whelm ; 11 122 PLEASURES OF HOPE. To chase destruction from lier 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 forevermore 1 ' PART THE SECOND. ANALYSIS OF PAflT 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 represents the happiness of Paradise itself incomplete till love was superadded to its other blessings — the dreams of future felicity which a lively imagination is apt to cherish, when Hope is animated by refined attachment — this disposition to combine, in one imaginary scene of residence, all that is pleasing in our estimate of happiness, com- pared to the skill of the great artist who personified perfect beauty, in the picture of Venus, by an assemblage of the most beautiful features he could find — a summer and winter evening descriiied, as they 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 momenta when our imagination wanders beyond the boundaries of this world, our minds are not unattended with an impression that we shall some day have a wider and more distinct prospect of the universe, instead of the partial glimpse we now enjoy. The last and most sublime influence of Hope is the concluding topic of the poem — the predominance of a belief in a future state over the terrors attendant on dissolution — the baneful influence of that sceptical philosophy which bars us from such comforts — allusion to the fate of a suicide — Episode of Com'ad and Ellenore — conclusion. PART II. In joyous youth, what soul hath never known Thought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own ? Who hath not paused while Beauty's pensive eye Asked from his heart the homage of a sigh 7 Who hath not owned, with rapture-smitten frame, The power of grace, the magic of a name 7 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-enamored few ! Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you ! For you no fancy consecrates the scene Where rapture uttered vows, and wept between ; 'T is yours, unmoved, to sever and to meet ; No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet ! Who that would ask a heart to dulness wed, The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead 7 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, 0, what were man? — a world without a sun. Till Hymen brought his love-delighted hour, There dwelt no joy in Eden's rosy bower ! 11* 126 PLEASUKES OF HOPE. In vain the viewless serapli lingering there. At starry midnight charmed the silent air ; In vain the wild-bird carolled on the steep, To hail the sun, slow wheeling from the deep ; In vain, to soothe the solitary shade, 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 hy Fate's untimely hand, By wealthless lot, or pitiless command ; Or doomed to gaze on beauties that adorn The smile of triumph or the frown of scorn ; While Memory watches o'er the sad review Of joys that faded like the morning dew ; Peace may depart, and life and nature seem A barren path, a wildness, and a dream ! But can the noble mind forever brood, The willing victim of a weary mood. On heartless cares that squander life away, And cloud young Genius brightenmg into day 1 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 ! PLEASURES OF HOPE. 127 But, should a sigh of milder mood express Thj heart-warm wishes, true to happiness, Should Heaven's fair Harbinger delight to pour Her blissful visions on thy pensive hour, No tear to blot thy memory's pictured page, No fears but such as fancy can assuage ; Though thy wild heart some hapless hour may miss The peaceful tenor of unvaried bliss (For love pursues an ever-devious- race, True to the winding lineaments of grace) ; Yet still may Hope her talisman employ To snatch from Heaven anticipated joy, And all her kindred energies impart. That burn the brightest in the purest heart. When first the Rhodian's mimic art arrayed The queen of Beauty in her Cyprian shade, The happy master mingled on his piece Each look that charmed him in the fair of Greece. To faultless Nature true, he stole a grace From every finer form and sweeter face ; And as he sojourned on the iEgean isles, Wooed all their love, and treasured all their smiles ! Then glowed the tints, pure, precious, and refined. And mortal charms seemed heavenly when combined ; Love on the picture smiled ! Expression poured Her mingling spirit there, and Greece adored ! So thy fair hand, enamored Fancy, gleans The treasured pictures of a thousand scenes ; Thy pencil traces on the lover's thought Some cottage-home, from towns and toil remote. Where love and lore may claim alternate hours, With Peace embosomed in Idalian bowers : 128 PLEASURES OF HOPE. Remote from busy Life's bewildered way, O'er all his heart shall Taste and Beauty sway ; Free on the sunny slope, or winding shore. With hermit steps to wander and adore ! There shall he love, when genial morn appears, Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears, To watch the brightening roses of the sky. And muse on Nature with a poet's eye ! — And when the sun's last splendor lights the deep. The woods and waves, and murmuring winds asleep, When fairy harps 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, Wliere 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 do^vn the vale his sober step returns ; But pauses oft, as winding rocks convey The still sweet fall of music far away ; And oft he lingers from his home 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, T.'hen its short and sullen noon is o'er, The ice-chained waters slumbering on the shore. PLEASURES OF HOPE. 129 How bright the fagots 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, bj nature marked his own ; And, in the waveless mirror of his mind. Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind, Since when her empire o'er his heart began, Since first he called her his before the holy man ! Trim the gaj taper in his rustic dome, And light the wintry paradise of home ; And let the half-uncurtained window hail Some way-worn man benighted in the vale ! Now, while the moaning night-wind rages high. As sweep the shot-stars doym the troubled sky, While fiery hosts in Heaven's wide chicle play, And bathe in lurid light the milky-way. Safe from the storm, the meteor, and the shower, Some pleasing page shall charm the solenm hour, — With pathos shall command, with wit beguile, A generous tear of anguish, or a smile, — Thy woes, Arion, and thy simple tale. O'er all the heart shall triumph and prevail ! Charmed as they read the verse too sadly true, How gallant Albert, and his weary crew, Heaved all their guns, their foundering bark to save, And toiled, and shrieked, and perished on the wave ! Yes, at the dead of night, by Lonna's steep. The seaman's cry was heard along the deep ; There on his funeral waters, dark and wild. The dying father blessed his darling child ; 0, Mercy, shield her innocence ! he cried, Spent on the prayer his bursting heart, and died ! • 130 PLEASURES OF HOPE. Or they will learn how generous worth sublimes The robber ISIoor, 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 SAVOrd ! Nor sought in vain — at that heart-piercing cry The strings of Nature cracked with agony ! He, with delirious laugh, the dagger hurled, And burst the ties that bound him to the world ! Turn from his dying words, that smite with steel The shuddering thoughts, or wind them on the wheel — Turn to the gentler melodies that suit Thalia's harp, or Pan's Arcadian lute ; Or, down the stream of Truth's historic page, From clime to clime descend, from age to age ! Yet there, perhaps, may darker scenes obtrude Than Fancy fashions in her wildest mood ; There shall he pause, with horrent brow, to rate What millions died — that Caesar might be great ! Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore, Marched by their Charles to 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 ! Horseman and horse confessed the bitter pang. And ai-ms 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 PLEASURES OF nOPE. 131 Imperial Pride looked sullen on his plight, And Charles beheld — nor shuddered at the sight ! Above, below, in Ocean, Earth, and Sky, Thy fairy worlds, Imagination, lie, And Hope attends, companion of the way. Thy dream by night, thy visions of the day ! In yonder pensile orb, and every sphere That gems the starry girdle of the year — In those unmeasured worlds, she bids thee tell. Pure from their God, created millions dwell, Whose names and natures, unrevealed below, We yet shall learn, and wonder as we know ; For, as lona's saint, a giant form. Throned on her towers, conversing with the storm (When o'er each Runic altar, Aveed-entwined, The vesper-clock tolls mournful to the wind). Counts every wave- worn isle, and mountain hoar, From Kilda to the green lerne's shore ; So, when thy pure and renovated mind This perishable dust hath left behind. Thy seraph eye shall count the starry train, Like distant isles embosomed in the main ; Rapt to the shrine where motion first began, And light and life in mingling torrent ran ; From whence each bright rotundity was hurled, The throne of God — the centre of the world ! 0, vainly wise, the moral Muse hath sung That suasive Hope hath but a Siren tongue ! True ; she may sport with life's untutored day, Nor heed the solace of its last decay. The guileless heart her happy mansion spurn, And part, like Ajut — never to return ! 132 PLEASURES OF HOPE. But yet, methinks, when Wisdom shall assuage The grief and passions of our greener age, Though dull the close of life, and far away Each flower that hailed the dawning of the day ; Yet o'er her lovely hopes, that once were dear, The time-taught spirit, pensive, not severe, With milder griefs her aged eye shall fill. And weep their falsehood, though she loves them si 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 ; My Absalom ! the voice of Nature cried, 0, 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 ! 0, then thy kingdom conies ! 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 ! 0, deep-enchanting prelude to repose, The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes ! Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh. It is a dread and awful thing to die ! Mysterious worlds, untravelled by the sun ! Where Time's far- wandering tide has never run, PLEASURES OF HOPE. 133 rrom your unfathomed shades, and viewless spheres, A warning comes, unheard by other ears. 'T is 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 called upon his God, With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss, And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss ! Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb ! Melt and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll Cimmerian darkness o'er the parting soul ! Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of Dismay, Chased on his night-steed by the star of day ! The strife is o'er — the pangs of Nature close, And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes. Hark ! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze. The noon of Heaven, undazzled by the blaze, On heavenly winds, that waft her to the sky. Float the sweet tones of star-born melody ; Wild as that 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. 12 134 PLEASURES OF HOPE. Hark ! from the -world's exploding centre driven, With sounds that shook the firmament of Heaven, Careers the fiery giant, fast and fiir, 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 tremblino; wings, emergino; from the world ; And o'er the path by mortal never trod Sprung to her source — the bosom of her God ! 0, 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 mJnd ; 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 7 There live, alas ! of heaven-directed mien, Of cultured soul, and sapient eye serene, Who hail thee, Man ! the pilgrim of a day, Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay, Frail as the leaf in Autumn's yellow bower. Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower ; A friendless slave, a child without a sire, Whose mortal life and momentary fire Light to the grave his chance-created form, As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm ; And, when the gun's tremendous flash is o'er, To night and silence sink forevermore ! PLEASURES OF HOPE. 135 Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim, Lights of the world, and demi-gods of Fame 7 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 1 Or round the cope her living chariot driven, And wheeled in triumph through the signs of Heaven 0, star-eyed Science ! hast thou wandered there, To waft us home the message of despair 7 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 head. What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain 7 I smile on death, if heaven-ward Hope remain ! But, if the warring winds of Nature's strife Be all the faithless charter of my life. If Chance 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 ! 186 PLEASURES OF HOPE. Truth, ever lovelj, — 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 Natm-e never told. Let Wisdom smile not on her conquered field, No rapture dawns, no treasure is revealed ! 0, 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 weii mild ! For, ! 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 drownedj Thy midnight rites, but not on hallowed ground ! Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind. But leave, 0, leave the light of Hope behind ! Wliat though my winged hours of bliss have been. Like angel-visits, few and far between, PLEASURES OF HOPE. 137 Her musing mood shall every pang appease, And chai-m — 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 harmonized to joy ! — But why so short is Love's delighted hour ? Why fades the dew on Beauty's sweetest flower 1 Why can no hymned charm of music heal The sleepless woes impassioned spirits feel 7 Can Fancy's fairy hands no veil create. To hide the sad realities of fate ? — No ! not the quaint remark, the sapient rule, Nor all the pride of Wisdom's worldly school, Have power to soothe, unaided and alone. The heart that vibrates to a feeling tone ! When stepdame Nature every bliss recalls, Fleet as the meteor o'er the desert falls ; When, ' reft of all, yon widowed sire appears A lonely hermit in the vale of years ; Say, can the world one joyous thought bestow To Friendship, weeping at the couch of Woe ? No ! but a brighter soothes the last adieu, — Souls of impassioned mould, she 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 7 when he heard his knell. And bade his country and his child farewell, 12* 138 PLEASURES OF HOPE. Doomed the long isles of Sidney-cove to see, The martyr of his crimes, but true to thee 1 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 subhme. Beyond the realms of Nature and of Time ! " And weep not thus," he cried, " young Ellenoro 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 ! "Yet, on the barren shore and stormy deep. One tedious watch is Conrad doomed to weep ; But when I gain the home without a friend, And press the uneasy couch where none attend, This last embrace, still cherished in my heart, Shall calm the struggling spirit ere it part ! Thy darling form shall seem to hover nigh. And hush the groan of life's last agony ! PLEASUKES OF HOPE. 139 " Farewell ! when strangers lift thy father's bier, And place mj nameless stone without a tear ; When each returning pledge hath told mj 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 7 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 ! [f in that frame no deathless spirit dwell, [f that faint murmur be the last farewell, [f Fate unite the faithful but to part. Why is their memory sacred to the heart 7 Why does the brother of my childhood seem Restored a while in every pleasing dream 1 Why do I joy the lonely spot to view, By artless friendship blessed when life was new ? Eternal Hope ! when yonder spheres sublime Pealed their first notes to sound the march of Time, Thy joyous youth began — but not to fade. — When all the sister planets have decayed ; 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 ! THEODRIC ; A DOMESTIC TALE. 'T WAS sunset, and the Ranz des Vaches was sung, And lights were o'er the Helvetian mountains flung, That gave the glacier tops their richest glow, And tinged the lakes like molten gold below : Warmth flushed the wonted regions of the storm, Where, Phoenix-like, you saw the eagle's form That high in Heaven's vermilion wheeled and soared, Woods nearer frowned, and cataracts dashed and roared From heights browsed by the bounding bouquetin ; Herds tinkling roamed the long-drawn vales between, And hamlets glittered white, and gardens flourished green ; 'T was transport to inhale the bright sweet air ! The mountain-bee was revelling in its glare, And roving with his minstrelsy across The scented wild weeds, and enamelled moss. Earth's features so harmoniously were linked, She seemed one great glad form, with life instinct, That felt Heaven's ardent breath, and smiled below Its flush of love, with consentaneous glow. A Gothic church was near ; the spot around Was beautiful, even though sepulchral ground; For there nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom. But roses blossomed by each rustic tomb. THEODRIC. 141 Amidst them one of spotless marble shone, — A maiden's grave, — and 't was 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, 't was 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 trode by strangers now. How oft, from yonder window o'er the lake. Her song of wild Helvetian swell and shake Has made the rudest fisher bend his ear, And rest enchanted on his oar to hear ! Thus bright, accomplished, spirited, and bland, "Well-born, and wealthy for that simple land, Why had no gallant native youth the art To win so warm — so exquisite a heart ? She, 'midst these rocks inspired with feelings strong By mountain-freedom — music — fancy — song, Herself descended from the brave in arms, And conscious of romance-inspiring charms, Dreamt of heroic beings ; hoped to find Some extant spirit of chivah-ic kind ; 142 THEODKIC. And, scorning wealth, looked cold even on the claim Of manlj 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. 'T was when, alas ! our empire's evil star Shed all the plagues, without the pride, of war; When patriots bled, and bitterer anguish crossed Our brave, to die in battles foully lost. The youth wrote home the rout of many a day ; Yet still he said, and still with truth could say, One corps had ever made a valiant stand, — The corps in which he served, — Theodric's band. His fiime, forgotten chief ! is now gone by, Eclipsed by brighter orbs in Glory's sky; Yet once it shone, and veterans, when they show Our fields of battle twenty years ago, Will tell you feats his small brigade performed. In charges nobly faced and trenches stormed. Time was when songs were chanted to his fame. And soldiers loved the march that bore his name : The zeal of martial hearts was at his call. And that Helvetian's, Udolph's, most of all. 'T was 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. Theodric praised him, and they wept for joy In yonder house, when letters from the boy THEODRIC. 143 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 ; — She caught the illusion, blessed 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. 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 even the common soldier's ruth — Theodric succored him; nor left the youth To vulgar hands, but brought him to his tent, And lent what aid a brother would have lent. Meanwhile, to save his kindred half the smart The war-gazette's dread blood-roll might impart. He wrote 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, 144 THEODRIC. Gave boundless thanks for benefits conferred, Of -which the boj, 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 ! How dear seemed even 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 — ('T was Julia's, 't was his sister's, met him first) ; Their pride to see war's medal at his breast, And all their rapture's greeting, may be guessed. Ere long, his bosom triumphed to unfold A gift he meant their gayest room to hold, — The picture of a friend in warlike dress ; And who it was he first bade Julia gruess. THEODRIC. 145 'Yes,' she replied, ' 't was he, methought in sleep, When you were wounded, told me not to weep.'. The painting long in that sweet mansion drew Regards its living semblance little knew. Meanwhile 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 to-vvns, where civic independence flings The gauntlet down to senates, courts, and kings ; Her works of art, resembling magic's powers ; Her mighty fleets, and learning's beauteous bowers, — These he had visited, with wonder's smile. And scarce endured to quit so fair an isle. But how our fates from unmomentous things May rise, like rivers out of little springs ! A trivial chance postponed his parting day. And public tidings caused, in that delay. An English Jubilee. 'Twas a glorious sight ! 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, Conspicuous, as in some wide festive room. In open chariots passed with pearl and plume. Amidst them he remarked a lovelier mien Than e'er his thoughts had shaped, or eyes had seen ; The throng detained her till he reined his steed, And, ere the beauty passed, had time to read 13 146 THEODRIC. The motto and the arms her carriage bore. Led bj 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 holj strength of mind, That, like Heaven's image in the smiling brook, Celestial peace was pictured in her look. Hers was the brow, in trials unperplexed, That cheered the sad, and tranquillized the vexed ; She studied not the meanest to eclipse. And yet the wisest listened to her lips ; She sang not, knew not Music's magic skill, But yet her voice had tones that swayed the will. He sought — he won her — and resolved to make Hjs 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, honor, 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 even the young more gay. How jocund was their breakfast-parlor, fanned By yon blue water's breath, — their walks how bland ! Fair Julia seemed her brother's softened sprite — A gem reflecting Nature's purest light, — THEODKIC. 141 And -svitli her graceful wit there was inwrought A wildly sweet unworldliness of thought, That almost child-like to his kindness drew, And twin with Udolph in his friendship grew. .But did his thoughts to love one moment range 7 — No, 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. True she sang to his very soul, and brought Those trains before him of luxuriant thought, Which only Music's heaven-born art can bring. To sweep across the mind with angel wing. Once, as he smiled amidst that waking trance, She paused o'ercome, he thought it might be chance^ And, when his first suspicions dimly stole. Rebuked them back like phantoms from his soul. But when he saw his caution gave her pain, And kindness brought suspense's rack again. Faith, honor, friendship, bound him to unmask Truths which her timid fondness feared to ask. And yet with gracefully ingenuous power Her spirit met 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. 'T was 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, 148 THEODRIC. Painting in sound the fonns of joj and woe, Until the mind's eje 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, 'Ah, then,' she cried, 'you knew not England's shore! And had you come — and wherefore did you not ? ' ' Yes,' he replied, ' it would have changed our lot ! ' Then burst her tears through pride's restraining bands, And with her handkerchief, md both her hands, She hid her voice and wept. — Contrition stung Theodric for the tears his words had wrung. ' But no,' she cried, ' unsay not what you 've said, Nor grudge one prop on which my pride is stayed ; To think I could have merited your faith Shall be my solace even unto death ! ' ' Julia,' Theodric said, with purposed look Of firmness, ' my reply deserved i-ebuke ; But, by your pure and sacred peace of mind. And by the dignity of womankind. Swear that when I am gone you '11 do your best To chase this dream of fondness from your breast' 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. THEODKIC. 149 Ere long lie communed with her mother mild ; 'Alas,' she said, ' I warned — conjured mj child, And grieved for this aflfection from the first. But like fatality it has been nursed ; For when her filled eyes on your picture fixed, And when your name in all she spoke was mixed, 'T was hard to chide an over-grateful muid ! Then each attempt a likelier choice to find Made only fresh-rejected suitors grieve. And Udolph's pride — perhaps her own — believe That, could she meet, she might enchant even you. You came. — I augured the event, 'tis true. But how was Udolph's mother to exclude The guest that claimed our boundless gratitude And that unconscious you had cast a spell On Julia's peace, my pride refused to tell; Yet in my child's illusion I have seen, Believe me well, how blameless you have been Nor can it cancel, howsoe'er it end. Our debt of friendship to our boy's best friend.' At night he parted with the aged pair ; At early morn rose Julia to prepare The last repast her hands for him should make : And Udolph to convoy him o'er the lake. The parting was to her such bitter grief. That of her own accord she made it brief; But, lingering at her window, long 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 fii'm, tranquil, and resigned. 13* 150 THEODRIC. He took the Rhenish route to England, high, Elate with hopes, fulfilled theu' 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. 'T was needful even 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 ! Even 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, 'T was outward dross, and not infused alloy ; Their home knew but affection's looks and speech — A little Heaven, above dissension's reach. But 'midst her kindred there were 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, THEODEIC. 161 He bore her absence for its pious end. But public grief liis spirit came to bend ; For war laid waste his native land once more, And German honor bled at every pore. 0, were he there, he thought, to rally back One broken band, or perish in the wrack ! Nor think that Constance sought to move and melt His purpose ; like herself she spoke and felt : — ' Your fame is mine, and I will bear all woe Except its loss ! — but with you let me go To arm you for, to embrace you from, the fight. Harm will not reach me — hazards will delight ! ' He knew those hazards better ; one campaign In England he conjured her to remain, And she 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, iJuit fraud of love's romance, That plan's concealment, wrought their whole mischance. He knew it not preparing to embark. But felt extinct his comfort's latest spark, When, 'midst those numbered days, she made repair Again to kindred worthless of her care. 'T is true she said the tidings she would write Would make her absence on his heart sit light But, haplessly, revealed not yet her plan, And left him in his home a lonely man. Thus damped in thoughts, he mused upon the past ; 'T was long since he had heard from Udolph last, And deep misgivings on his spirit fell That all with Udolph's household was not well. 152 THEODRIC. 'T was 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 ("t was, he thought at first, his sprite), With mournful joy that morn surprised his sight. HoAv changed was Udolph ! Scarce Theodric durst Inquire his tidings, — he revealed the worst. ' At first,' he said, ' as Julia bade me tell. She bore her fate high-mindedly and well, Resolved from common eyes her grief to hide, And from the world's compassion saved our pride ; But still her health gave way to secret woe, And long she pined — for broken hearts die slow ! Her reason Avent, but came, returning like The warning of her death-hour — soon to strike ; And all for which she now, poor suft'erer ! sighs, Is once to see TiiEODmc 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 her mother's counsel sage, But now my parents droop with grief and age ; And, though my sister's eyes mean no rebuke, They overwhelm me with their dying look. The journey 's long, but you are full of ruth ; And she who shares your heart, and knows its truth, Bas faith in your affection far above The fear of a poor dying object's love.' THEODKIC. 153 ' She has, my Udolph,' he replied, "t is true ; And oft we talk of Julia — oft of you.' Their converse came abruptly to a close ; For scarce could each his troubled looks compose, When visitants, to Constance near akin (In all but traits of soul), were ushered in. They brought not her, nor 'midst their kindred band The sister who alone, like her, was bland ; But said — and smiled to see it give him pain — ij That Constance would a fortnight yet remain. ^1 Vexed by their tidings, and the haughty view j They cast on Udolph as the youth withdrew, ' Theodric blamed his Constance's intent— ; The demons went, and left him as they went To read, when they were gone beyond recall, A note from her loved hand explaining all. She said that with their house she only staid That parting peace might with them all be made; But prayed for love to share his foreign life. And shun all future chance of kindred strife. He wrote with speed, his soul's consent to say : The letter missed her on her homeward way. In six hours Constance was within his arms : Moved, flushed, unlike her wonted calm of charms. And breathless, with uplifted hands outspread, Burst into tears upon his neck, and said, — ' I knew that those who brought your message laughed, With poison of their own to point the shaft ; And this my one kind sister thought, yet loth Confessed she feared 't was true you had been wroth. But here you are, and smile on me ; my pain Is gone, and Constance is herself again.' 154 THEODEIC. His ecstasy, it may be guessed, was much ; Yet pain's extreme and pleasure's seemed to touch. What pride ! embracing beauty's perfect mould ; What terror ! lest his few rash words mistold Had agonized her pulse to fever's heat ; But calmed again so soon it healthful beat, And such sweet tones were in her voice's sound, Composed herself, she breathed composure round. Fair being ! with what sympathetic grace She heard, bewailed and pleaded, Julia's case ; Implored he would her dying wish attend, ' And go,' she said, ' to-morrow with your friend ; I '11 wait for your return on England's shore, And then we '11 cross the deep, and part no more.' To-morrow both his soul's compassion drew To Julia's call, and Constance urged anew That not to heed her now would be to bind A load of pain for life upon his mind. He went with Udolph — from his Constance went — Stifling, alas ! a dark presentiment Some ailment lurked, even whilst she smiled, to mock His fears of harm from yester-morning's shock. Meanwhile a faithful page he singled out. To watch at home, and follow straight his route. If aught of threatened change her health should show — With Udolpii then he reached the house of woe. That winter's eve, how darkly Nature's brow Scowled on the scenes it lights so lovely now ! The tempest, raging o'er the realms of ice. Shook fragments from the rifted precipice ; And whilst tlieir falling echoed to the wind. The wolf's long howl in dismal discord joined. 155 While white yon water's foam was raised in clouds That whu-led like spirits wailing in their shrouds : Without was Nature's elemental din — And beauty died, and friendship wept, within ! Sweet Julia, though her fate was finished half, Still knew him — smiled on him with feeble laugh — And blessed him, till she drew her latest sigh ! But, lo ! while Udolph's bursts of agony, And age's tremulous wailings, round him rose. What accents pierced him deeper yet than those ! 'T was tidings, by his English messenger, Of Constance — brief and terrible they were. She still was living when the page set out From home, but whether now was left in doubt. Poor Julia ! saw he then thy death's relief — Stunned into stupor more than wrung with grief 7 It was not strange ; for in the human breast Two master-passions cannot coexist, And that alarm which now usurped his brain Shut out not only peace, but other pain. 'T was fancying Constance underneath the shroud That covered Julia made him first weep loud, And tear himself away from them that wept. Fast hurrying homeward, night nor day he slept, Till, launched at sea, he dreamt that his soul's saint Clung to him on a bridge of ice, pale, faint. O'er cataracts of blood. Awake, he blessed The shore ; nor hope left utterly his breast, 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, — 156 THEODRIC. Though speech and hearing left him, told too clear That he had now to suffer — not to fear. He felt as if he ne'er should cease to feel — A wretch live-broken on misfortune's wheel : Her death's cause — he might make his peace with Heaven, Absolved from guilt, but never self-forgiven. The ocean has its ebbings — so has grief; 'Twas vent to anguish, if 'twas not relief. To lay his brow even on her death-cold cheek. Then fii-st he heard her one kind sister speak : She bade him, in the name of Heaven, forbear With self-reproach to deepen his despair : ' 'T was blame,' she said, ' I shudder to relate, But none of yours, that caused our darling's fate ; Her mother (must I call 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 even you the unnatural one forgive. Till then her ailment had been slight, or none ; But fast she drooped, and fatal pains came on : Foreseeing their event, she dictated And signed these words for you.' The letter said — ' Theodric, this is destiny above Our power to baffle ; bear it, then, my love ! Rave not to learn the usage I have borne, For one true sister left me not forlorn ; 157 And thougli you ' re absent in another land, Sent from me bj my own well-meant command, Your soul, I know, as firm is knit to mine As these clasped hands in blessing you now join : Shape not imagined horrors in my fate — Even now my sufferings are not very great ; And when your grief's first transports shall subside, I call upon your strength of soul and pride To pay my memory, if 'tis worth the debt. Love's glorying tribute — not forlorn regret: I charge my name with power to conjure up Reflection's balmy, not its bitter cup. My pardoning angel, at the gates of Heaven, Shall look not more regard than you have given To me ; and our life's union has been clad In smiles of bliss as sweet as life e'er had. Shall gloom be from such bright remembrance cast? Shall bitterness outflow from sweetness past ? No ! imaged in the sanctuary of your breast. There let me smile, amidst high thoughts at rest ; And let contentment on your spirit shine, As if its peace were still a part of mine : For, if you war not proudly with your pain, For you I shall have worse than lived in vain. But I conjure your manliness to bear My loss with noble spirit — not despair ; I ask you by our love to promise this. 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, 14 158 THEODRIC. Yet still that mind whose harmony elate Rang sweetness, even beneath the crush of fate, — That mind in whose regard all things were placed In views that softened them, or lights that graced, 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." TRANSLATIONS MARTIAL ELEGY, FROM THE GREEK OF TYRT^US. How glorious fall the valiant, sword in hand, In front of battle for their native land ! But, ! what ills await the wretch that yields, A recreant outcast from his country's fields ! The mother whom he loves shall quit her home, An aged father at his side shall roam ; His little ones shall weeping with him go. And a young wife participate his woe ; While, scorned and scowled upon by every face, They pine for food, and beg from place to place. Stain of his breed, dishonoring manhood's form, All ills shall cleave to him : — Affliction's storm Shall blind him wandering in the vale of years. Till, lost to all but ignominious fears. He shall not blush to leave a recreant's name. And children, like himself, inured to shame. But we will combat for our fathers' land. And we vrill drain the life-blood where we stand, To save our children : — fight ye side by side. And serried close, ye men of youthful pride. 160 SONG OF HYBKIAS THE CRETAN. Disdaining fear, and deeming light the cost Of life itself* in glorious battle lost. Leave not our sires to stem the unequal fight, Whose limbs are nerved no more -with buoyant might ; Nor, lagging backward, let the younger breast Permit the man of age (a sight unblessed) To welter in the combat's foremost tln-ust, His hoary head dishevelled in the dust, And venerable bosom bleeding bare. But youth's fair form, though fallen, is ever fair, And beautiful in death the boy appears. The hero boy, that dies in blooming years : In man's regret he lives, and woman's tears, More sacred than in life, and lovelier far For having perished in the front of war. SONG OF IIYBRIAS 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 : TRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA. 161 0, I bring those heartless, hapless drones, Down in a trice on their marrow-bones, To call me Kins: and Lord. 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. SPECBIENS ;0F TRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA. Sxatovg ds Xiyuvy xovSiv ri aoifovq Tovg nQooSg (igorovg ovx av a/naQToig, Medea, v. 194, p. 33, Glasg. edit. Tell me, ye bards, whose skill sublime First charmed the ear of youthful Time, With numbers wrapt in heavenly fire. Who bade delighted Echo swell The trembling transports of the lyre, The murmur of the shell — Why to the burst of Joy alone Accords sweet Music's soothing tone ? 14* 162 TRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA. "Why can no bard, with magic strain, In slumbers steep the heart of pain 1 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 7 Has all your art no power to bind The fiercer pangs that shake the mind. And lull the wrath at whose command Murder bares her gory hand 1 "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 Avarm ! Cease, till your hand with magic strain In slumbers steep the heart of pain ! SPEECH OF THE CHORUS, IN THE SAME TRAGEDY, TO DISSUADE MEDEA FROM HER PnRPOSB Of PUTTISO HER CHILDREN TO DEATH, AND FLTISO FOR PROTECTION TO ATHENS. HAGGARD quecn ! to Athens dost thou guide Thy glowing chariot, steeped in kindred gore ; Or seek to hide thy foul infanticide Where Peace and Mercy dwell forevermore ? The land where Truth, pure, precious and sublime, Woos the deep silence of sequestered bowers. And warriors, matchless since the first of time. Rear their bright banners o'er unconquered towers ! TRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA. 163 Where jojous youth, to Music's mellow strain, Twines in the dance with nymphs forever fair, While Spring eternal on the lilied plain Waves amber radiance through the fields of air ! 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 high auburn o'er her polished brow ! ANTISTROPHE I. Where silent vales, and glades of green array. The murmuring wreaths of cool Cephisus lave. There, as the Muse hath sung, at noon of day. The Queen of Beauty bowed to taste the wave ; And blessed the stream, and breathed across the land The soft sweet gale that fans yon summer bowers j And there the sister Loves, a smiling band. Crowned with the fragrant wreaths of rosy flowers ! "And go," she cries, " in yonder valleys rove. With Beauty's torch the solemn scenes illume ; Wake in each eye the radiant light of Love, Breathe on each cheek young Passion's tender bloom ! 164 TRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA. ''Entwine, with myrtle chains, jour 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 1 0, ere they bleed. Let Nature's voice thy ruthless heart appal ! Pause at the bold, irrevocable deed — The mother strikes — the guiltless babes shall fall ! Think what remorse thy maddening thoughts shall sting "When dying pangs their gentle bosoms tear ! Where shalt thou sink, when lingering echoes ring The screams of horror in thy tortured ear 1 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 thy horrid hands in infant gore ! TRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA. 165 AXTISTROPHE II. Say, how shalt thou that barbarous soul assume, Undamped by horror at the daring plan 7 Hast thou a heart to work thy children's doom 1 Or hands to finish what thy wrath began 7 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. Hallowed Earth ! with indignation Mark, mark, the murderous deed ! Radiant eye of wide creation. Watch the accursed infanticide ! Yet, ere Colchia's rugged daughter Perpetrate the dire design, And consign to kindred slaughter Children of thy golden line ' 166 TRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA. Shall mortal hand, with murder gory, Cause immortal blood to flow ? Sun of Heaven ! — arrayed in glory Rise, forbid, avert the blow ! In the vales of placid gladness Let no rueful maniac range ; Chase afar the fiend of Madness, Say, hast thou, with kind protection, Reared thy smiling race in vain ; Postering Nature's fond affection, Tender cares, and pleasing pain 1 Hast thou, on the troubled ocean, Braved the tempest loud and strong, Wliere the waves, in wild commotion, Roar Cyanean rocks among 1 Didst thou roam the paths of danger, Hymenean joys to prove 7 Spare, sanguinary stranger, Pledges of thy sacred love ! Ask not Heaven's commiseration. After thou hast done the deed ; Mercy, pardon, expiation, Perish when thy victuns bleed O'CONNOR'S CHILD; OR, THE FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING." 0, 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 nor fears she felt ; Say, why should dwell in place so wild O'Connor's pale and lovely child ? II. Sweet lady ! she no more inspires Green Erin's hearts with beauty's power. As, in the palace of her sires, She bloomed a peerless flower. Gone from her hand and bosom, gone, The royal broach, the jewelled ring, 168 O'Connor's child. That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone. Like dews on lilies of the spi'ing. 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 ; WTiy lingers she from Erin's host. So far on Galway's shipwrecked coast; Wliy wanders she a huntress wild — O'Connor's pale and lovely child 1 III. And, fixed on empty space, why burn Her eyes with momentary wuldness ; And wherefore do they then return To more than woman's mildness 1 Dishevelled are her raven locks ; On Connocht Moran's name she calls; And oft amidst the lonely rocks She sings sweet madrigals. Placed 'midst the fox-glove and the moss, Behold a parted warrior's cross ! That is the spot where, evermore, The lady, at her shieling door, Enjoys that, in communion sweet, The living and the dead can meet, For, lo ! to love-lorn fantasy, The hero of her heart is nigh. IV. Bright as the bow that spans the storm, In Erin's yellow vesture clad, O'CONNOR'S CHILD. 169 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 ! these are shadows vain That cross the twilight of her brain ; Yet she will tell you she is Idlest, 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. 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. 0, hearken, stranger, to my voice ! This desert mansion is my choice ! And blest, though fatal, be the star That led me to its wilds afar ; For here these pathless mountains free Gave shelter to my love and me ; And every rock and every stone Bore witness that he was my own. 15 170 O'CONNOR'S CHILD. O'Connor's child, I was the bud Of Erin's rojal tree of glorj ; 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 IMoran's scorn, They called my hero basely born. And bade him choose a meaner bride Than from 0" Connor's house of pride. Their tribe, they said, their high degree, Was sung in Tara's psaltery ; Witness their Eath's victorious brand, And Cathal of the bloody hand ; Glory (they said) and power and honor Were in the mansion of O'Connor; But he, my loved one, bore in field A humbler crest, a meaner shield. VII. Ah, brothers ! what did it avail, That fiercely and triumphantly Ye fought the English of the Pale, And stemmed De Bourgo's chivalry 1 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 ? O'CONNOR'S CHILD. 171 What though the lords of tower and dome From Shannon to the North-sea foam, — Thought ye your h'on hands of pride Could break the knot that love had tied 1 No ; let the eagle change his plume, The leaf its hue, the flower its bloom; But ties around this heart were spun, That could not, would not, be undone ! VIII. At bleating of the wild watch-fold Thus sang my love, — ' 0, come with me, Our bark is on the lake, behold Our steeds are fastened to the tree. Come far from Castle-Connor's clans : — Come with thy belted forestere, And I, beside the lake of swans, Shall hunt for thee the fallow-deer ; And build thy hut, and bring thee home The wild-fowl and the honey-comb ; And berries from the wood provide. And play my clarshech by thy side. Then come, my love ! ' — How could I stay ? Our nimble stag-hounds tracked the way, And I pursued, by moonless skies, The light of Connocht Moran's eyes. IX. And fast and far, before the star Of day-spring, rushed we through the glade, And saw at dawn the lofty bawn Of Castle- Connor fade. 172 o'connok's child. 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, 0, that midnight of despair ! When I was doomed to rend my hair ; The night, to me, of shrieking sorrow ! When all was hushed at eventide, I heard the baying of their beagle ; Be hushed ! my Connocht Moran cried, 'T is but the screaming of the eagle. Alas ! 't was not the eyrie's sound ; Their bloody bands had tracked us out ; Up-listening starts our couchant hound, — And, hark ! again, that nearer shout Brings faster on the murderers. Spare — spare him — Brazil — Desmond fierce ! In vain — no voice the adder charms ; Their weapons crossed my sheltering arms ; Another's sword has laid him low — Another's and another's ; And every hand that dealt the blow — Ah me ! it was a brother's ! Yes, when his meanings died away, Their iron hands had dug the clay, O'CONNOR'S CHILD. 173 And o'er his burial turf thej trod, And I beheld — God ! God ! — His life-blood oozing from the sod. XI. Warm in his death-wounds sepulchred, Alas ! mj warrior's spirit brave Nor mass nor ulla-lulla heard," Lamenting, soothe his grave. Dragged to their hated mansion back, How long in thraldom's grasp I lay I know not, for my soul was black. And knew no change of night or day. One night of horror round me grew ; Or if I saw, or felt, or knew, 'T was but when those grim visages, The angry brothers of my race. Glared on each eye-ball's aching throb, And checked my bosom's power to sob, Or when my heart with pulses drear Beat like a death-watch to my ear. XII. 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. 15* 174 O'Connor's child. Clad in the helm and shield they came ; For now De Bourgo's sword and flame Had ravaged Ulster's boundaries, And lighted up the midnight skies. The staniard of O'Connor's sway Was in the turret where I lay ; That standard, with so dire a look, As ghastly shone the moon and pale, I gave — that every bosom shook Beneath its non mail. And go ! (I cried) the combat seek, Ye hearts that unappalled bore The anguish of a sister's shriek — Go ! and return no more ! For sooner guilt the ordeal brand Shall grasp unhurt, than ye shall hold The banner with victorious hand, Beneath a sister s curse unrolled. stranger ! by my country's loss ! And by my lovo ! and by the cross ! 1 swear I never could have spoke The curse that severed nature's yoke. But that a spirit o'er me stood. And fired me with the wrathful mood ; And frenzy to my heart was given, To speak the malison of Heaven. XIV. They would have crossed themselves, all mute ; They would have prayed to burst the spell ; o'conxor's child. 175 But at the stamping of my foot Each hand down powerless fell ! And go to Athunree ! (I cried) High lift the banner of your pride ! But know that where its sheet unrolls The weight of blood is on your souls ! Go where the havoc of your kerne Shall float as high as mountain fern ! Men shall no more your mansion know : 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 ! XV. A bolt that overhung our dome Suspended till my curse was given, Soon as it passed these lips of foam, Pealed in the blood-red heaven. Dire was the look that o'er their backs The angry parting brothers threw : But now, behold ! like cataracts, Come down the hills in view O'Connor's plumed partisans; Thrice ten Kilnagorvian clans Were marching to their doom : 176 O'CONNOR'S CHILD. A sudden storm their plumage tossed, A flash of lightning o'er them crossed, And all again was gloom ! XVI. Stranger ! I fled the home of grief, At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall ; I found the helmet of my chief. His bow still hanging on our wall. And took it down, and vowed to rove This desert place a huntress bold ; Nor would I change my buried love For any heart of living mould. No ! for I am a hero's child ; I '11 hunt my quarry in the wild ; And still my home this mansion make. Of all unheeded and unlieeding, And cherish, for my warrior's sake, ' The flower of love lies bleeding.' " LOCHIEL'S WARNING. Wizard — Lochiel. LocHiEL, Lochiel ! beware of the da;^ 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. But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far 1 'T is thine, Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning : no rider is there ; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led ! 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. 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 ! 178 lochiel's warning. Ha ! laugh" st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn ! Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth, From his home, in the dark-rolling clouds of the north '^ Lo ! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ; But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! Ah ! home let him speed, — for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit 7 Why shoot to the blast Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast ? 'T is the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. 0, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might, "Whose bannei-s arise on the battlements' height, Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o'er her famishinjr brood. False Wizard, avaunt ! I have marshalled my clan. Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one ! They are true to the last of their blood and their breath. And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock ! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock ! But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ; When her bomietted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, All plaided and plumed in their tartan array lochiel's warning. 179 ';/ Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day ; For, dark and despairing, mj sight I may seal, But man cannot cover what God would reveal ; 'T is the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before. I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo ! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath. Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from my sight : Rise, rise, ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! 'T is finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. But where is the iron-bound prisoner ? Where 1 For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn, Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn 1 Ah no ! for a darker departure is near ; The war-drum is mufiled, and black is the bier ; His death-bell is tolling : ! mercy, dispel Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Accursed be the fagots, that blaze at his feet. Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat, With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale : For never shall Albin a destiny meet. So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat. 180 YE MARINEKS OF ENGLAND. Though mj perishing ranks should be strewed in theii gora Like ocean- weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untauited by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low. With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe ! And leaving in battle no blot on his name. Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame ! 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 match another foe ! And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds dp blow ; Wliile the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. II. The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave ! For tlie deck it was then- field of fame, And Ocean was their grave : YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 181 Where Blake and mightj Nelson fell, Your manlj hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow ; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep ; Her march is o'er the mountain- waves Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak. She quells the floods below. As they roar on the shore. When the stormy winds do blow ; When the battle rages loud and long And the stormy winds do blow. IV. The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn ; Till danger's troubled night depart. And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean- warriors ! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow ; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow. 16 182 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 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, .A.nd her arms along the deep proudly shone ; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold, determined hand, And the prince of all the land Led them on. — II. Like leviathans afloat. Lay their bulwarks on the brine j 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. ' Hearts of oak ! ' our captain cried ; when each gun BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 183 From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. IV. Again ! again ! again ! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeljle cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back ; — Their shots along the deep slowly boom ; — Then ceased — and all is wail. As thej strike the shattered sail : Or, in conflagration pale, Light the a;loom. — 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." — VL Then Denmark blessed our chief, That he gave her wounds repose ; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, 184 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. As death withdrew his shades from the day. "While the sun looked smiling bright O'er a wide and woful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died awaj. Now joy, Old England, raise ! For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light ; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep. Full many a fathom deep. By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore ! Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died ; — With the gallant good Riou ; * " Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave * While the billow mournful rolls. And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave ! * Captain Kiou, justly entitled the gallant and the good by Lord Nelson when he wrote home his despatches. HOHENLINDEN. 185 HOHENLINDEN. On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless laj the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidlj. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenerj. By torch and trumpet fast arrayed. Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neighed. To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rushed the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven Far flashed the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet' the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 'T is morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 16* 186 GLENARA. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glorj, or the grave ! Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivahy ! 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. GLENARA. HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail ? 'T is the chief of Glenara laments for his 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 gray stone of her cairn : Why speak ye no word 7 " — 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 1 " So spake the rude chieftain : — no answer is made, But each mantle, unfolding, a dagger displayed. EXILE OF ERIN. 187 " I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud : " And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem : Glenara, Glenara ! now read me my dream ! " ! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen ; When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn, — 'T was the youth who had loved the "fair Ellen of Lorn : " I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, 1 dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief: On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem ; Glenara ! Glenara ! now read me my dream ! " In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert revealed where his lady was found ; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne — Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn ( EXILE OF ERIN. There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill : For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill : But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean. Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion. He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. 188 EXILE OF ERIN. Sad is my fate ! said the heart-broken stranger : The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remam not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers. Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh ! Erin, my country ! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken. And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me 7 Never again shall my brothers embrace me 7 They died to defend me, or live to deplore ! Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood 1 Sisters and sire ! did ye weep for its Ml 7 Where is the mother that looked on my childhood 7 And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all 7 0, my sad heart ! long abandoned by pleasure, Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure 7 Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall Avithout 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 ! Erin go bragh ! LORD ullin's daughter. 189 Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thj fields, sweetest isle of the ocean ! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud, with devotion, Erin mavournin — Erin go bragh ! * LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! And I '11 give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry." — " Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water 7 " " 0, I 'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter. — " And fast before her father's men Three days we 've fled together, For should he find us in the glen. My blood would stain the heather. " His horsemen hard behind us ride ; Should they our steps discover. Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover? " — Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, " I '11 go, my chief — I 'm ready : — It is not for your silver bright ; But for your winsome lady : * Ireland my darling, Ireland forever. 190 LORD TJLLIN'S DAUGHTER. " And by mj word ! the bonnj bird In danger shall not tarry : So, though the waves are raging white, I '11 row you o'er the ferry." — By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking ; And in the scowl of heaven each 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. — " haste thee, haste ! " the lady cries, "Though tempests round us gather; I '11 meet the raging of the skies. But not an angry father ! " — The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her, — When, ! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o'er her. — And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing : Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore. His wrath was changed to wailing. — For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, His child he did discover : — One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 191 " Come back ! come back ! " he cried, in grief, " Across this stormy water : And I '11 forgive your Highland chief, My daughter ! my daughter ! " — 'T was vain : — the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing : — The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting. 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 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. 192 ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. Who that has melted o'er his lay To Marj's soul, in Heaven above, But pictured sees, in fancy strong, The landscape and the hvelong day That smiled upon their mutual love 7 — 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 B urns' s song haspires ! 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 1 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. ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 193 Encamped by Indian rivers wild, The soldier resting on his arms, In Burns' s carol sweet recalls The scenes that blessed him when a child, And glows and gladdens at the charms Of Scotia's woods and waterfalls. deem not, 'midst this worldly strife. An idle art the Poet brings : Let high Philosophy control, And sages calm, the stream of life, 'T is he refines its fountain-springs, The nobler passions of the soul. It is the Muse that consecrates The native banner of the brave. Unfurling, at the trumpet's breath, Rose, thistle, harp ; 't is she elates To sweep the field or ride the wave, A sunburst in the storm of death. And thou, young hero, w^hen 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 l Such was the soldier — Burns, forgive That sorrows of mine own intrude In strains to thy great memory due. In verse like thine, ! could he live, 17 194 LINES. 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 ! LINES WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESmRE. 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 forcfithers stood. All ruined and wild is their roofless abode. And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree : And travelled by few is the grass-covered road, Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode. To his hills that encircle the sea. * Major Edward Hodge, of the 7th Hussars, who fell at the head of his squadron in the attack of the Polish Lancers. LINES. ' 195 Yet, wandering, I found on mj ruinous walk, By the dial-stone aged and green. One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk. To mark where a garden had been. Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race, All wild in the silence of nature, it drew, From each wandering sunbeam, a lonely embrace. For the night-weed and thorn overshadowed the place Where the flower of mj forefathers grew. Sweet bud of the wilderness ! emblem of all That remains in this desolate heart ! The fabric of bliss to its centre maj fall, But patience shall never depart ! Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright, In the days of delusion by flmcy combined With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight, Abandon my soul, like a dream of the night. And leave but a desert behind. Be 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. 196 THE soldier's dream. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. Our bugles sang truce — for the night-cloud had lowered And the sentinel stare set their watch in the skj ; 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 Avolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track : 'T was Autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. i flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft. And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er. And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. Stay, stay with us, — rest, thou art weary and worn ! And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; — But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn. And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. TO THE RAINBOW. 397 TO THE RAINBOW. Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky, When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art — Still seem, as to my childhood's sight_ A midway station given For happy spirits to alight Betwixt the earth and heaven. Can all that Optics teach unfold Thy form to please me so, As when I dreamt of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow 1 When Science from Creation's face Enchantment's veil withdraws; What lovely visions yield their place To cold material laws ! And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, But words of the Most High, Have told why first thy robe of beame Was woven in the sky. When o'er the green undeluged earth Heaven's covenant thou didst shine. How came the world's gray fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign ! 17* 198 TO THE RAINBOW. And when its yellow lustre smiled O'er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child To bless the bow of God, Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, The first-made anthem rang On earth delivered from the deep, And the first poet sang. Nor ever shall the Muse's eye Unraptured greet thy beam : Theme of primeval prophecy, Be still the prophet's theme ! The earth to thee her incense yields. The lark thy welcome sings. When glittering in the freshened fields The snowy mushroom springs. How glorious is thy girdle, cast O'er mountain, tower, and to^vn, Or muTored in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down ! 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, Heaven still rebuilds thy span. Nor lets the type grow pale with age That first spoke peace to man. THE LAST MAN. 199 TIIE LAST MAN. All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The Sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume Its Immortality ! I saw a vision in my sleep, • That gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulf of Time ! I saw the last of human mould That shall Creation's death behold, As Adam saw her prime ! The Sun's eye had a sickly glare. The Earth with age was wan, The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man ! Some had expired in fight, — the brands Still rusted in their bony hands ; In plague and famine some ! Earth's cities had no sound nor tread And ships Avere 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, 'T is Mercy bids thee go ; 200 THE LAST MAN. 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 trophied arts, And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Healed not a passion or a pang Entailed on human hearts. Go, let oblivion's curtain fall Upon the stage of men. Nor with thy rising beams recall Life's tragedy again : Its piteous pageants bring not back, Nor waken flesh, upon the rack Of pain anew to writhe ; Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred, Or mown in battle by the sword, Like grass beneath the scythe. Even I am weary in yon skies To watch thy fading fire ; Test of all sumless agonies, Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of death — Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath To see thou shalt not boast. THE LAST MAN. 201 The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,- The majesty of Darkness shall Receive my parting ghost ! This spirit shall return to Him Who gave its heavenly spark ; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself art dark ! No ! it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine By Him recalled to breath, Who captive led captivity, Who robbed the grave of Victory, And took the sting from Death ! Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up On Nature's awful waste To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste — Go, tell the night that hides thy face, Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race. On Earth's sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy To quench his Immortality, Or shake his trust in God ! 202 A DREAM. 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 fiith 's a fable ; Sleep disports with shadows too, Seeming in their turn as stable As the world we wake to view. Ne'er by day did Reason's mint Give my thoughts a clearer print Of assured reality, Than was left by Fantasy Stamped and colored on my sprite, In a dream of yesternight. In a bark, mcthought, lone steering, I was cast on Ocean's strife ; This, 't was whispered in my hearing, Meant the sea of life. Sad regrets from past existence Came, like gales of chilling breath : Shadowed in the forward distance Lay the land of Death. Now seeming more, now less remote, On that dim-seen shore, mcthought, I beheld two hands a space Slow unshroud a spectre's face ; And my flesh's hair upstood, — 'T was mine own similitude. — 208 But my soul revived at seeing Ocean, like an emerald spark, Kiddle, while an air-dropt being Smiling steered my bark. Heaven-like — yet he looked as human As supernal beauty can, More compassionate than woman, Lordly more than man. And as some sweet clarion's breath Stirs the soldier's scorn of death. So his accents bade me brook The spectre's eyes of icy look. Till it shut them — turned its head. Like a beaten foe, and fled. " Types not this," I said, " fair spirit ! That my death-hour is not come 7 Say, what days shall I inherit 7 — Tell my soul their sum." "No," he said, " yon phantom's aspect Trust me, would appall thee worse. Held in clearly-measured prospect : — Ask not for a curse ! Make not — for I overhear Thine unspoken thoughts as clear As thy mortal ear could catch The close-brought tickings of a watch — Make not the untold request That 's now revolving in thy breast. " 'T is to live again, remeasuring Youth's years, like a scene rehearsed, 204 In thy second life-time treasuring Knowledge from the first. Hast thou felt, poor self-deceiver ! Life's career so void of pain, As to wish its fitful fever New begun again 7 Could experience, ten times thine, Pain from Being disentwine — Threads by Fate together spun 7 Could thj flight Heaven's lightning shun 1 No, nor could thy foresight's glance 'Scape the myriad shafts of Chance. " Wouldst thou bear again Love's trouble — Friendship's death-disscvcrcd ties ; Toil to grasp or miss the bubble Of Ambition's prize 7 Say thy life's new-guided action Flowed from Virtue's fairest springs — Still would Envy and Detraction Double not their stings 7 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 mo on !" VALEDICTORY STANZAS. 205 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 ! His was the spell o'er hearts Which only Acting lends, — The youngest of the sister Arts, Wliere all their beauty blends : Por ill can Poetry express Full many a tone of thought sublime, And Painting, mute and motionless. Steals but a glance of time. But, by the mighty actor brought, Illusion's perfect triumphs come, — Verse ceases to be airy thought, And Sculpture to be dumb. Time may again revive, But ne'er eclipse the charm, 18 206 VALEDICTORY STANZAS. When Cato spoke in him alive, Or Hotspur kindled warm. What soul was not resigned entire To the deep sorrows of the Moor, — What English heart was not on fire With him at Agincourt ? And yet a majesty possessed His transport's most impetuous tone And to each passion of the breast The Graces gave their zone. High were the task — too high, Ye conscious bosoms here ! In words to paint your memory Of Kemble and of Lear ; But who forgets that white discrowned head, Those bursts of Reason's half-extinguished glare Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed. In doubt more touching than despair, If 't was reality he felt 1 Had Shakspeare's self amidst you been, Friends, he had seen you melt. And triumphed to have seen ! And there was many an hour Of blended kindred fame, Wlien Siddons's auxiliar power And sister magic came. Together at the Muse's side The tragic paragons had grown — They were the children of her pride, The columns of her throne, VALEDICTORY STANZAS. 207 And undivided favor ran From heart to heart in their applause, Save for the gallantry of man In lovelier woman's cause. Fair as some classic dome, Robust and richly graced. Your Kemble's spirit was the home Of genius and of taste ; Taste, like the silent dial's power, That, when supernal light is given, Can measure inspiration's hour, And tell its height in heaven. At once ennobled and correct, His mind surveyed the tragic page, And what the actor could effect The scholar could presage. These were his traits of worth : And must we lose them now? And shall the scene no more show forth His sternly-pleasing brow ? Alas, the moral brings a tear ! — 'Tis all a transient hour below; And Ave 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 ! GEETEUDE OE WYOMING. ADVERTISEMENT. Most of the popular histories of England, as well as of the American war, give au authentic account of the desolation of Wyoming, in Pennsylvania, which took place in 1778, by an incursion of the Indians. Tlie scenery and incidents of the following Poem are connected with that event. The testimonies of historians and travellers concur in describing the infant colony as one of the happiest spots of human existence, for the hospi- table and innocent manners of the inhabitants, the beauty of the country, and the luxuri- ant 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 confla- gration, were still preserved by the recent inhabitants, when be travelled through America. In 1790. GEETRUDE OF WYOMING. PART I, On Susquehanna's side, fair Wyoming ! Although the wild-flower on thj 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 naught 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 flao-elet from some romantic town. 212 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. III. Then, where of Indian hills the daylight takes His leave, hmv might jou the flamingo see Disporting like a meteor on the lakes — And playful squu-rel 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 naught 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. Nor far some Andalusian saraband Would sound to many a native roundelay — But who is he that yet a dearer land Remembers, over hills and far away 1 Green Albin ! * what though he no more survey Thy ships at anchor on the quiet shore, Thy pellochs t rolling from the mountain bay, * Scotland. f ^® Gaelic appellation for the porpoise. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 213 Thj lone sepulchral cairn upon the moor, And distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan * roar ! VI. Alas ! poor Caledonia's mountaineer, That want's stern edict e'er, and feudal grief. Had forced him from a home he loved so dear ! Yet found he here a home and glad relief, And plied the beverage from his own fair sheaf, That fired his Highland blood with mickle glee : And England sent her men, of men the chief, Who taught those sires of Empire yet to be, To plant the tree of life, — to plant fair Freedom's tree ! VII. Here was not mingled m 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 Pennsylvania!! sire, Where all but kindly fervors were assuaged, Undimmed by weakness' shade, or turbid ire ! And though, amidst the calm of thought entire, * The great whirlpool of the western Hebrides. 214 GERTRUDE OF WTOMINQ. Some high and haughty features might betray A soul impetuous once, 't was earthly fii-e That fled composure's intellectual ray, As Etna's fires grow dim before the rising day. IX. I boast no song in magic wonders rife, But yet, Nature ! is there naught to prize, Familiar in thy bosom scenes of life 7 And dwells in daylight truth's salubrious skies No form with which the soul may sympathize 'I — Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mild The parted ringlet shone in simplest guise. An inmate in the home of Albert smiled, Or blessed his noonday walk — she was his only child. X. 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. XT. 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 fi'om cherub infancy, GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 215 From hours wlien she would round his garden play, To time when, as the ripening years went by. Her lovely mind could culture well repay, And more engaging grew, from pleasing day to day. XII. I may not paint those thousand infant charms (Unconscious fascination, undesigned !) : The orison repeated in his arms. For God to bless her sire and all mankind ; The book, the bosom on his knee reclined, Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con (The playmate ere the teacher of her mind) : All uncompanioned else her heart had gone Till now, in Gertrude's eyes, their ninth blue summer shone. XIII. And summer was the tide, and sweet the hour, 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 Avere 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, Let by his dusky guide, like morning brought by night. XIV. Yet pensive seemed the boy for one so young — The dimple from his polished cheek had fled ; When, leaning on his forest-bow unstrung, The Oneyda warrior to the planter said, And laid his hand upon the stripling's head, 216 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. " 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. Christian ! I am the foeman of thy foe ; Our Avampum league thy brethren did embrace : Upon the INIichigan, 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 Ai*eouski * broke our sleep, Where stormed an ambushed foe thy nation's fort. And rapid, rapid whoops came o'er the deep ; But long thy country's war-sign on the steep Appeared through ghastly intervals of light. And deathfully their thunders seemed to sweep, Till utter darkness swallowed up the sight, As if a shower of blood had quenched the fiery fight ! XVII. It slept — it rose again — on high their tower Sprung upwards like a torch to light the skies. Then down again it ramed an ember shower. And louder lamentations heard we rise : • The Indian God of War. GEKTRUDE OF WYOMING. 217 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 ! XVIII. But as the fox beneath the nobler hound. So died their warriors by our battle-brand ; And from the tree we, with her child, unbound A lonely mother of the Christian land : — Her lord — the captain of the British band — Amidst the slaughter of his soldiers lay. Scarce knew the widow our delivering hand ; Upon her child she sobbed, and swooned away, Or shrieked unto the God to whom the Christians pray. XIX. Our virgins fed her with their kindly bowls Of fever-balm and sweet sagamite ; But she was journeying to the land of souls, And lifted up her dying head to pray That we should bid an ancient friend convey Her orphan to his home of England's shore ; And take, she said, this token far away. To one that will remember us of yore. When he beholds the ring that Waldegrave's Julia wore, XX. And I, the eagle of my tribe, have rushed With this lorn dove." — A sage's self-command Had quelled the tears from Albert's heart that gushed ; But yet his check — his agitated hand — 19 218 GERTRUDE OF WYOMI^^G. That showered upon the stranger of the land No common boon, in grief but ill beguiled A soul that was not wont to be unmanned ; " And stay," he cried, " dear pilgrim of the wild, Preserver of my old, my boon companion's child ! XXI. Child of a race whose name my bosom 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 even now thy scenes appear, As in the noon and sunshine of my prime ! How gone like yesterday these thrice ten years of time ! XXII. And Julia ! when thou wert like Gertrude now, Can I forget thee, favorite child of yore ? Or thought I, in thy father's house, when thou Wert lightest-hearted on his festive floor, And first of all his hospitable door To meet and kiss me at my journey's end 7 But where was I when Waldegrave was no more 1 And thou didst pale thy gentle head extend In woes, that even the tribe of deserts was thy friend ! " He said — and strained unto his heart the boy ; — Far differently the mute Oneyda took His calumet of peace, and cup of joy ; As monumental bronze unchanored his look : GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 219 A soul that pity touched, but never shook ; Trained from his tree-rocked cradle to his bier The fierce extreme of good and ill to brook Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear — A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. XXIV. Yet deem not goodness on the savage stock Of Outalissi's heart disdained to grow ; As lives the oak unwithered on the rock By storms above, and barrenness below ; He scorned his own, who felt another's woe ; And 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 tongue, XXV. " Sleep, wearied one ! and in the dreaming land Shouldst thou to-morrow with thy mother meet, ! 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 roe. XXVI. Adieu ! sweet scion of the rising sun ! But should affliction's storms thy blossom mock, Then come again, my own adopted one ! And I will graft thee on a noble stock ; 220 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. The crocodile, the condor of the rock, Shall be the pastime of thy sylvan wars ; And I will teach thee in the battle's shock, To pay with Huron blood thy father's scars, And gratulate his soul rejoicing in the stars ! " XXVII. So finished he the rhyme (howe'er uncouth) That true to nature's fervid feelings ran (And song is but the eloquence of truth) : Then forth uprose that lone wayfaring man ; But dauntless he, nor chart, nor journey's plan In woods required, whose trained eye was keen, As eagle of the wilderness, to scan His path by mountain, swamp, or deep ravine, Or ken far friendly huts on good savannas green. XXVIII. Old Albert saw him from the valley's side — His pirogue launched — his pilgrimage begun — Far, like the red-bird's wing he seemed to glide ; 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. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 221 PART II, A VALLEY from the river shore withdrawn Was Albert's home, two quiet woods between, Whose lofty verdure overlooked his lawn ; And waters to their resting-place serene Came freshening, and reflecting all the scene (A mirror in the depth of flowery shelves) : So sweet a spot of earth, you might (I ween) Have guessed some congregation of the elves, To sport by summer moons, had shaped it for themselvea Yet wanted not the eye far scope to muse, Nor vistas opened by the wandering stream ; Both where at evening Alleghany views. Through ridges burning in her western beam, Lake after lake interminably gleam : And past those settlers' haunts the eye might roam Where earth's unliving silence all would seem ; Save where on rocks the beaver built his dome, Or bufialo remote lowed far from human home. III. But silent not that adverse eastern path. Which saAV 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 ; 19* i2 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. But softening in approacli lie left liis gloom, And mui-mured pleasantly, and laid him doAvn To kiss those easj-curving banks of bloom, That lent the windward air an exquisite perfume. IV. It seemed as if those scenes sweet influence had On Gertrude's soul, and kindness like their own Inspired those eyes, affectionate and glad. That seemed to love whatever 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. V. Nor guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home, With all its picturesque and balmy grace. And fields that were a luxury to roam. Lost on the soul that looked from such a face ! Enthusiast of the woods ! when years apace Had bound thy lovely waist with Avoman's zone, The sunrise path, at morn, I see thee trace To hills with high magnolia overgrown, And joy to breathe the groves, romantic and alone. VI. The sunrise drew her thoughts to Europe forth. That thus apostrophized its viewless scene : ''Land of my father's love, my mother's bii'th ! The home of kindred I have never seen ! We know not other — oceans are between : GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 223 Yet saj, far friendly hearts ! from whence we came, Of us does oft remembrance intervene 1 My mother sure — my sire a thought may claim ; — But Gertrude is to you an unregarded name. VII. And yet, loved England ! when thy name I trace In many a pilgrim's tale and poet's- song, How can I choose but wish for one embrace Of them, the dear unknown, to whom belong My mother's looks, — perhaps her likeness strong 1 0, parent ! with what reverential awe, From features of thy own related throng, An image of thy face my soul could draw ! And see thee once again whom I too shortly saw ! " Yet deem not Gertrude sighed for foreign joy ; To soothe a father's couch her only care. And keep his reverend head from all annoy : For this, methinks, her homeward steps repair, Soon as the morning wreath had bound her hair ; While yet the wild deer trod in spangling dew, While boatmen carolled to the fresh-blown air, And woods a horizontal shadow threw, And early fox appeared in momentary view. IX. Apart there was a deep untrodden grot. Where oft the reading hours sweet Gertrude wore ; Tradition had not named its lonely spot ; But here (methinks) might India's sons explore Their fathers' dust, or lift, perchance of yore. 224 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. Their voice to the great Spirit : — rocks sublime To human art a sportive semblance bore, And yellow lichens colored all the clime, Like moonlight battlements, and towers decayed by time, X. But high in amphitheatre above, Gay-tinted woods their massy foliage threw ; Breathed but an air of heaven, and all the grove As if instinct with living spirit grew. Rolling its verdant gulfs of every hue ; And now suspended was the pleasing din, Now from a murmur faint it swelled anew, Like the first note of organ heard within Cathedral aisles, ere yet its symphony begin. XI. It was in this lone valley she Avould charm The lingering noon, Avhere flowers a couch had strewn ; Her cheek reclining, and her snowy arm On hillock by the pine-tree half o'ergrown : And aye that volume on her lap is thrown, Which every heart of human mould endears ; With Shakspeare's self she speaks and sn)iles alone, And no intruding visitation fears, To shame the unconscious laugh, or stop her sweetest tears XII. And naught within the gro^e was heard or seen But stock-doves plaining through its gloom profound, Or winglet of the fairy humming-bii'd. Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round ; When, lo ! there entered to its inmost ground GERTKUDE OF WYOMING. 225 A youth, the stranger of a distant land ; He was, to weet, for eastern mountains bound ; But late the equator suns his cheek had tanned, And California's gales his rovins; 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 flxce Uplift on one, whose lineaments and frame Wore youth and manhood's intermingled grace : Iberian seemed his boot — his robe the same, And well the Spanish plume his lofty looks became. XIV. For Albert's home he sought — her finger fair Has pointed where the father's mansion stood. Returning from the copse he soon was there ; And soon has Gertrude hied from dark-green wood ; Nor joyless, by the converse, understood Between the man of age and pilgrim young. That gay congeniality of mood. And early liking from acquaintance sprung ; Full fluently conversed their guest in England's tongue. XV. And well could he his pilgrimage of taste Unfold, — and much they loved his fervid strain, While he each fiir variety retraced Of climes, and manners, o'er the eastern main. Now happy Switzer's hills, — romantic Spain, — 226 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. Gay lilied fields of France, — or, more refined, The soft Ausonia's monumental reign ; Nor less each rural image he designed Than all the citj"s pomp and home of human kind. XVI. Anon some wilder portraiture he draws ; Of Nature's savage glories he would speak, — The loneliness of earth that overawes, — Where, resting by some tomb of old Cacique, The lama-driver on Peruvia's peak Nor living voice nor motion marks around ; But storks that to the boundless forest shriek, Or wild-cane arch high flung o'er gulf profound. That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado sound. XVII. Pleased with his guest, the good man still would ply Each earnest question, and his converse court ; But Gertrude, as she eyed him, knew not why A strange and troubling wonder stopt her short. "In England thou hast been, — and, by report. An orphan's name (quoth Albert) may'st have known. Sad tale ! — when latest fell our frontier fort — One innocent — one soldier's child — alone Was spared, and brought to me, who loved him as my own. XVIII. Young Henry Waldegrave ! three delightful years These very walls his infant sports did see, But most I loved him when his parting tears Alternately bedewed my child and me : His sorest parting, Gertrude, was from thee : GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 227 Nor half its grief his little heart could hold ; By kindred he was sent for o'er the sea, They tore him from us when but twelve years old, And scarcely for his loss have I been yet consoled ! " XIX. His face the wanderer hid — but could not hide A tear, a smile, upon his cheek that dwell ; " And speak ! mysterious stranger ! (Gertrude cried) It is ! — it is ! — I knew — I knew him well ! 'T is Waldegrave's self, of Waldegrave come to tell !" A burst of joy the father's lips declare ! But Gertrude, speechless, on his bosom fell ; At once his open arms embraced the pair, Was never group more blest in this wide world of care. XX. " And will ye pardon then (replied the youth) Your Waldegrave's feigned name, and false attire ? I durst not in the neighborhood, in truth, The very fortunes of your house inquire ; Lest one that knew me might some tidings dire Impart, and I my weakness all betray, For had I lost my Gertrude and my sire, I meant but o'er your tombs to weep a day, Unknown I meant to Aveep, unknown to pass away. XXI. But here ye live, ye bloom, — in each dear face, The changing hand of time I may not blame ; For there, it hath but shed more reverend grace, And here, of beauty perfected the frame : And well I know your hearts are still the same — 228 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. They could not change — ye look the very way, As when an orphan first to you I came. And have ye heard of my poor guide, I pray 7 Nay, wherefore weep ye, friends, on such a joyous day?" XXII. " And art thou here 1 or is it but a dream ? And Avilt thou, Waldegrave, wilt thou leave us more?" — " No, never ! thou that yet dost lovelier seem Than aught on earth — than even thyself of yore — I will not part thee from thy father's shore ; But we shall cherish him with mutual arms, And hand in hand again the path explore Which every ray of young remembrance warms, While thou shalt be my own, with all thy truth and charms ! " XXIII. At mom, as if beneath a galaxy Of over-arching groves in blossoms white. Where all was odorous scent and harmony. And gladness to the heart, nerve, ear and sight : There, if, gentle Love ! I read aright The utterance that scaled thy sacred bond, 'T was listening to these accents of delight, She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyond Expression's power to paint, all languishingly fond — XXIV. " Flower of my life, so lovely and so lone ! Whom I would rather in this desert meet, Scorning, and scorned by fortune's power, than own Her pomp and splendors lavished at my feet ! Tui'n not from me thy breath more exq^uisite GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 229 Than odors cast on heaven's own shrine — to please — Give me thy love, than luxury more sweet, And more than all the wealth that loads the breeze, When Coromandel's ships return from Indian seas.'' XXV. Then would that home admit them — happier far Than grandeur's most magnificent saloon. While, here and there, a solitary star Flushed in the darkening firmament of June ; And silence brought the soul-felt hour, full soon, Inefiable, 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 raj. PART III. Love ! in such a wilderness as this, Where transport and security entwine. Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss. And here thou art a god indeed divine. Here shall no forms abridge, no hours confine, The views, the walks, that boundless joy inspire ! Roll on, ye days of raptured influence, shine ! Nor, blind with ecstasy's celestial fire, Shall love behold the spark of earth-born time expire. 20 230 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. Three little moons, how short ! amidst the grove And pastoral savannas they consume ! While she, beside her buskined youth to rove, Delights, in fancifully wild costume, Her lovely brow to shade with Indian plume ; And forth in hunter-seeming vest they fare ; But not to chase the deer in forest gloom ; 'T is but the breath of heaven — the blessed air — And interchancre 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 7 No ! — nor let fear one little warbler rouse ; But, fed by Gertrude's hand, still let them sing. Acquaintance of her path, amidst the boughs, That shade even now her love, and witnessed first her vows IV. Now labyrinths, which but themselves can pierce, Methinks, conduct them to some pleasant ground. Where welcome hills shut out the universe. And pines their laAvny walk encompass round ; There, if a pause delicious converse found, 'T was but when o'er each heart the idea stole (Perchance a while in joy's oblivion drowned), That come what may, while life's glad pulses roll, Indissolubly thus should soul be knit to soul. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 231 And in the visions of romantic youth, What years of endless bliss are yet to flow ! But mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth 7 The torrent's smoothness, ere it dash below ! And must I change my song 7 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 ! Dismal to her the forge of battle gleams Portentous light ! and music's voice is dumb; Save where the fife its shrill reveille screams, Or midnight streets reecho to the drum, That speaks of maddening strife, and bloodstained fields to come. 232 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. VIII. It was in truth a momentary pang ; Yet how comprising myriad shapes of woe ! Fii'st when in Gertrude's ear the summons rang, A husband to the battle doomed to go ! " Nay, meet not thou (she cried) thy kindred foe ! But peaceful let us seek fair England's strand ! " " Ah, Gertrude, thy beloved heart, I know. Would feel like mine the stigmatizing brand ! Could I forsake the cause of freedom's holy band ! IX. But shame — but flight — a recreant's name to prove, To hide in exile ignominious fears ; Say, even if this I brooked, the public love Thy father's bosom to his home endears : And how could I his few remaining years, My Gertrude, sever from so dear a child ?" So, day by day, her boding heart he cheers : At last that heart to hope is half beguiled. And, pale through tears suppressed, the mournful beauty smiled. X. Night came, — and in their lighted bower, full late, The joy of convei-sc had endured — when, hark ! Abrupt and loud, a summons shook their gate ; And, heedless of the dog's obstreperous bark, A form had rushed amidst them from the dark, And spread his arms, — and fell upon the floor ; Of aged strength his limbs retained the mark; But desolate he looked, and famished poor, As ever shipwrecked wretch lone left on desert shore. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 233 XI. Uprisen, each wondering brow is knit and arched : A spirit from the dead they deem him first : To speak he tries ; but quivering, pale and parched, From lips, as by some powerless dream accursed, Emotions unintelligible burst ; And long his filmed eye is red and dim ; At length the pity-proffered cup his thirst Had half assuaged, and nerved his shuddering limb, When Albert's hand he grasped ; — but Albert knew not him — XII. " And hast thou then forgot" (he cried forlorn. And eyed the group with half-indignant air), " ! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the morn When I with thee the cup of peace did share 1 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. 'T was strange — nor could the group a smile control — The long, the doubtful scrutiny to view ; At last delight o'er all his features stole, "It is — my own." he cried, and clasped him to his soul. 20* 234 GERTRUDE OF AYYOMING. "Yes ! thou recairst my pride of years, for tlien The bowstring of my spirit was not slack, When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambushed men, I bore thee like the quiver on my back, Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack : Nor foeman then, nor cougar's crouch I feared, For I was strong as mountain cataract : And dost thou not remember how we cheered. Upon the last hill-top, when white men's huts appeared ? 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. " 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 ! GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 235 XVII. Scorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe, 'Gainst Brandt himself I Avent 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 Its squared rock, and palisaded lines. Go ! seek the light its warlike beacons show ; Whilst I in ambush wait, for vengeance, and the foe ! " XIX. Scarce had he 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. Whoop after whoop with rack the ear assailed ; As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar; While rapidly the marksman's shot prevailed : And aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet wailed. 236 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. Then looked they to the hills, where fire o'erhung The bandit groups, in one Vesuvian glare ; Or swept, far seen, the tower, whose clock unrung Told legible that midnight of despair. She faints, — she falters not, — the heroic fair, — As he the sword and plume in haste arrayed. One short embrace — he clasped his dearest care — But hark ! what nearer war-drum shakes the glade ? Joy, joy ! Columbia's friends are trampling through the shade! XXI. Then came of every race the mingled swarm, Far rung the groves and gleamed the midnight grass, With flambeau, javelin, and naked arm ; As warriors wheeled their culverins of bi-ass. Sprung from the woods, a bold athletic mass, Whom vu'tue 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 shmes. 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. — GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 237 Calm, opposite the Christian father rose, Pale on his venerable brow its rays Of martyr light the conflagration throws ; One hand upon his lovely child he lays, And one the uncovered crowd to silence sways ; While, though the battle flash is faster driven, — Unawed, with eye unstartled by the blaze, He for his bleeding country prays to Heaven, — Prays that the men of blood themselves may be forgivea Short time is now for gratulating speech : And yet, beloved Gertrude, ere began Thy country's flight, yon distant towers to reach. Looked not on thee the rudest partisan With brow relaxed to love 7 And murmurs ran. As round and round their willing ranks they drew, From beauty's sight to shield the hostile van. Grateful, on them a placid look she threw. Nor wept, but as she bade her mother's grave adieu I 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 armor 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. 238 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. XXVI. A scene of death ! where fires beneath the sun, And blended arms, and white pavilions glow ; And for the business of destruction done, Its requiem the war-horn seemed to blow : There, sad spectatress of her country's woe ! The lovely Gertrude, safe from present haim, 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 swords Avere drawn, and banners flew, Ah who could deem that foot of Indian crew Was near ? — yet there, with lust of murderous deeds, Gleamed like a basilisk, from woods in view, The ambushed foeman's eye — his volley speeds. And Albert — Albert falls ! the dear old father bleeds ! XXVIII. And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swooned ; Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone. Say, burst they, borrowed from her father's wound. These drops 7 — 0, God ! the life-blood is her own ! And faltering, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrown — " Weep not, Love ! " — she cries, " to see me bleed — Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone Heaven's peace commiserate ; for scarce I heed These wounds ; — yet thee to leave is death, is death indeed GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 239 XXIX. Clasp me a little longer on the brink Of fate ! while I can feel thy dear caress ; And when this heart hath ceased to beat — ! 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. ! by that retrospect of happiness, And by the hopes of an immortal trust, God shall assuage thy pangs — when I am laid in dust ! XXX. Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart. The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move, Where my dear father took thee to his heart, And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove With thee, as with an angel, through the grove Of peace, imagining her lot was cast In heaven ; for ours was not like earthly love. And must this parting be our very last? No ! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past. — XXXI. Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth, — And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun, If I had lived to smile but on the birth Of one dear pledge ; — but shall there then be none. In future times — no gentle little one, To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me ? Yet seems it, even while life's last pulses run, A sweetness in the cup of death to be. Lord of my bosom's love ! to die beholding thee ! " 240 GERTRUDE OF WTOMINQ. XXXII. Hushed were his Gertrude's lips ! but still their bland And beautiful expression seemed to melt With love that could not die ! and still his hand She presses to the heart no more that felt. Ah, heart ! where once each fond affection dwelt, And features yet that sjDoke a soul more fair. Mute, gazing, agonizing, as he knelt, — Of them that stood encircling his despair, He heard some friendly words ; — but knew not Avhat they were. XXXIII. For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives A faithful band. With solemn rites between 'T was sung, how they were lovely in their lives, And in their deaths had not divided been. Touched by the music, and the melting scene. Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd : — Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen To veil their eyes, as passed each much-loved shroud — While woman's softer soul in woe dissolved aloud. XXXIV. Then mournfully the parting bugle bid Its farewell, o'er the grave of worth and truth ; Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldcgrave 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 ! GERTRUDE OP WYOMING. 241 XXXV. " 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, 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 wlio loved thee most : She was the rainbow to thy sight ! Thy sun — thy heaven — of lost delight ! 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 ? 21 242 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. The hand is gone that crept its flowers : Unheard theii- clock repeats its hours ! Cold is the hearth Avithin their bowers ! And should we thither roam, Its echoes, and its empty tread. Would sound like voices from the dead ! XXXVIII. Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed, And by my side, in battle true, A thousand warriors drew the shaft 7 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 ! XXXIX. But hark, the trump ! — to-morrow thou In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears ; Even from the land of shadows now My ftither"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-sonor of an Indian chief ! " LINES. 243 LINES. WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY OF 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 moui-n 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. 244 Joy to the band * this day on Egypt's coast. Whose valor tamed proud France's tricolor, And wrenched the banner from her bravest host, Baptized Invincible in Austria's gore ! Joy for the day on red Vimeira's strand, When, bayonet to bayonet opposed, First of Britannia's host her Highland band Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost closed ! Is there a son of generous England here Or fervid Erin 7 — he with us shall join. To pray that in eternal union dear The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine ! Types of a race who shall 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 ! STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS LATEST KILLED IN RESIST ING 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 » The 42d Regiment. STANZAS. 245 To honor, ay, embrace your martyred lot. Cursing the Bigot's and the Bourbon's chain, And looking on your graves, though trophied not, As holier hallowed ground than priests could make the spot ! What though your cause be baffled — freemen cast In 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 Liberty ; And these even parting scatter as they flee Thoughts — mfluences, to live in hearts unborn, Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key 21* 246 SONG OF THE GREEKS. From Persecution — show her mask off-torn, And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of Scorn. Glory to them that die in this great cause ! Kings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame. Or shape of death, to shroud them from applause : — No ! — manglers of the martyr's earthly frame ! Your hangmen fingers cannot touch his fame ! Still in your prostrate land there shall be some Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom's vestal flame. Long trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb. But vengeance is behind, and justice is to come. SONG OF THE GREEKS. Again to the battle, Achaians ! Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance ! Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree — It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free : For the cross of our faith is replanted, The pale, dying crescent is daunted, And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves Their spirits are hovering o'er us. And the sword shall to glory restore us. Ah ! what though no succor advances, Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances Are stretched in our aid — be the combat our own ! And we ' 11 perish or conquer more proudly alone ! SONG OF THE GREEKS. 247 For we 've sworn bj 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 veinSj 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 engulf — fire consume us But they shall not to slavery doom us : If they rule, it shall be o"er our ashes and graves ; But we 've smote them already with fire on the waves, And new triumphs on land are before us. To the charge ! — Heaven's banner is o'er us. This day shall ye blush for its story, Or brighten your lives with its glory. Our women, 0, say, shall they shriek in despair. Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair 1 Accursed may his memory blacken, If a coward there be that would slacken Till we 've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth Being sprung from and named for the godlike of earth Strike home, and the world shall revere us As heroes descended from heroes. Old Greece lightens up with emotion Her inlands, her isles of the ocean ; Fanes rebuilt and fiiir towns shall with jubilee ring, And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's spring : 248 ODE .TO WINTER. Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness, That were cold and extinguished in sadness ; Whilst our maidens shall dance Avith their white-waving arms, Singing joj to the brave that delivered their charms, When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens. ODE TO WINTER. When first the fierj-mantled sun His heavenly race began to run, Round the earth and ocean blue His children four the Seasons flew. First, in green appai-el dancing, The young Spring smiled with angel grace ; Rosy Summer, next advancing, Rushed into her sire's embrace : — Her bright-haired sire, wlio bade her keep Forever 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 thronej 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, ODE TO WINTER. 249 Round the shore where loud Lofoden Whirls to death the roaring whale, Round the hall where Runic Odin Howls his war-song to the gale ; Save when adown the ravaged globe He travels on his native storm, Deflowering Nature's grassy robe. And trampling on her faded form : — Till light's returning lord assume The shaft that drives him to his polar field, Of power to pierce his raven plume And crystal-covered shield. 0, sire of storms ! whose savage ear The Lapland drum delights to hear, When Frenzy Avith 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 1 Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer, And gently rule the ruined year ; Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare. Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear ; — To shuddering Want's unmantled bed Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lead, And gently on the orphan head Of innocence descend. — But chiefly spare, king of clouds ! The sailor on his airy shrouds ; When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, And spectres walk along the deep. 250 LIXES. Milder yet thy snowy breezes Pour on yonder tented shores, Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes, Or the dark-brown Danube roars. 0, 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 o^vn. Alas ! even your unhallowed breath May spare the victim fallen low ; But man will ask no truce to death, — No bounds to human woe. LINES. SPOKEN BY MRS. flARTUrV AT DRCRY-L.VXE TnE.\TRE, OX THE FIRST OPENING OF THE HOUSE AFTER TUE DE^^TU OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE, 181". Britoxs ! 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 even these walls, ere many months should pass, Which but return sad accents for her now, Perhaps had Avitnessed her benignant brow, 251 Cheered bj the voice jou would have raised on high. In bursts of British love and loyalty. But, Britain ! now thj chief, thy people mourn, And Claremont's home of love is left forlorn : — There, where the happiest of the happy dwelt, The 'scutcheon glooms, and royalty hath felt A wound that every bosom feels its own, — The blessing of a father's heart o'erthrown — The most beloved and most devoted bride Torn from an 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 mouiner's heart the anthem swelled ; While torch succeeding torch illumed each high And bannered arch of England's chivalry. The rich plumed canopy, the gorgeous pall, The sacred march, and sable-vested wall, — These were not rites of inexpressive show. But hallowed as the tyj)es of real woe ! Daughter of England ! for a nation's sighs, A nation's heart went with thine obsequies ! — And oft shall time revert a look of grief On thine existence, beautiful and brief. Fair spirit ! send thy blessing from above On realms where thou art canonized by love ! Give to a father's, husband's bleeding mind, The peace that angels lend to human kind ; To us who in thy loved remembrance feel A sorrowino;, but a soul-ennobling zeal — 252 LINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE. A loyalty that touches all the best And loftiest principles of England's breast ! Still may thy name speak concord fiom 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, 'T is not in language or expressive arts To paint — ye feel it, Britons, in your hearts ! LINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE. By strangers left upon a lonely shore, Unknown, unhonored, was the friendless dead ; For child to weep, or widow to deplore. There never came to his unburicd head : — All from his dreary habitation fled. Nor will the lanterned fishermen at eve Launch on that water by the witches' tower, Where hellebore and hemlock seem to weave Round its dark vaults a melancholy bower For spirits of the dead at night's enchanted hour. They dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate ! Whose crime it was, on Life's unfinished road, To feel the step-dame buffetings of fate. And render back thy being's heavy load. Ah ! once, perhaps, the social passions glowed Li 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 7 — He who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone. REULLURA. 253 REULLURA. Star of the morn and eve, Reullura shone like thee, And well for her might Aodh grieve, The dark-attired Culdee. Peace to their shades ! the pure Culdees Were Albyn's earliest priests of God, Ere yet an island of her seas By foot of Saxon monk was trod, Long ere her churchmen by bigotry Were barred from wedlock's holy tie. 'T was then that Aodh, famed afar, In lona preached the word with power^ And Reullura, beauty's star, Was the partner of his bower. But, Aodh, the roof lies low, And the thistle-do^n waves bleaching. And the bat flits to and fro Where the Gael once heard thy preaching And fallen is each columned aisle Where the chiefs and the people knelt. 'T was near that temple's goodly pile That honored of men they dwelt. For Aodh was wise in the sacred law, And bright Reullura' s eyes oft saw The veil of fate uplifted, Alas ! with what visions of awe Her soul in that hour was gifted — ♦ Reullura, in Gaelic, signifies " beautiful star." 22 254 REULLURA. When pale in the temple and faint, With Aodh she stood alone By the stiitue of an aged Saint ! Fair sculptured was the stone, It bore a crucifix ; Fame said it once had graced A Christian temple, which the Picts In the Britons' land laid waste : The Pictish men, hj St. Columb taught, Had hither the holy relic brought. ReuUura eyed the statue's face, And cried, " It is, he shall come, Even he, in this very place, To avenge my martyrdom. For, woe to the Gael people ! Ulvfagre is on the main, And lona shall look from tower and steeple On the coming ships of the Dane ; And, dames and daughters, shall all your locks With the spoiler's grasp entwine ? No ! some shall have shelter in caves and rocks, And the deep sea shall be mine. Baffled by me shall the Dane return. And here shall his torch in the temple bum, 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 ! know'st thou not, my bride," The holy Aodh said, REULLURA. 255 " That the Saint whose form we stand beside Has for ages slept with the dead 7 " — " He liveth, he liveth," she said again, " For the span of his life tenfold extends Beyond the wonted years of men. He sits by the graves of well-loved friends That died ere thy grandsire's grandsire's birth ; The oak is decayed with age on earth, Whose acorn-seed had been planted by 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, blest be the name of the Lord ! His martyrs shall go into bliss forever. Lochlin,* appalled, shall put up her steel. And thou shalt 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 Linisfail."t The sun, now about to set, Was burning o'er Tiree, And no gathering cry rose yet O'er the isles of Albyn's sea, * Denmark. f Ireland. 256 EEULLURA. Whilst Rcullura saw far rowera 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 Avatch-fires burst from across the main, From llona, and Uist, and Skye, To tell that the ships of the Dane And the red-haired slayei-s were nigh. Our islemen arose from slumbers, And buckled on their arms ; But few, alas ! were their numbers To Loclilin's mailed swarms. And the blade of the bloody Norse Has filled the shores of the Gael With many a floating coi-se, And with many a woman's wail. They have lighted the islands with ruin's torch, And the holy men of lona's church In the temple of God lay slain ; All but Aodh, the last Culdee, But bound with many an iron chain, Bound in that church was he. And where is Aodh's bride ? Rocks of the ocean flood ! Plunged she not from your heights in pride, And 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. REULLURA. 257 'T was then that the Norseman to Aodh said, " Tell where thj church's treasure 's laid, Or I '11 hew thee limb from limb." As he spoke the bell struck three, And every torch grew dim That lighted their revelry. But the torches again burnt bright, And brighter than before, When an aged man of majestic height Entered the temple door. Hushed was the revellers' sound, They were struck as mute as the dead, And their hearts were appalled by the very sound Of his footsteps' measured tread. Nor word was spoken by one beholder. Whilst he flung his white robe back o'er his shoulder, And stretching his arms — as eath Unriveted Aodh's bands, As if the gyves had been a wreath Of willows in his hands. All saw the stranger's similitude To the ancient statue's form ; The Saint before his own image stood, And grasped Ulvfagre's ai-m. Then up rose the Danes at last to deliver Their chief, and shouting with one accord, Then 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 258 REULLURA. When the Saint with his crosier signed, The archer's hand on the string was stopt, And down, like reeds hiid flat by the wind, Their lifted weapons dropt. The Saint then gave a signal mute, And though Ulvfagre Avilled 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 Ulvfiigre's helm it crashed — Helmet, and skull, and flesh, and brain, It crushed as millstones crush the grain. Then spoke the Saint, whilst all and each Of the Heathen trembled round, And the pauses amidst his speech Were as awful as the sound : " Go back, ye wolves ! to your dens " (he cried), " And tell the nations abroad, How the fiercest of your herd has died That slaughtered the flock of God. Gather him bone by bone, And take with you o'er the flood The fragments of that avenging stone That drank his heathen blood. These are the spoils from lona's sack. The only spoils ye shall carry back ; For the hand that uplifteth spear or sword Shall be withered by palsy's shock. And I come in the name of the Lord To deliver a remnant of his flock." THE TURKISH LADY. 259 A remnant was called together, A doleful remnant of the Gael, And the Saint in the ship that had brought him hither Took the mourners to Innisfail. Unscathed they left lona's strand, When the opal morn first flushed the sky, For the Norse dropt spear, and bow, and brand, And looked on them silently'; Safe from their hiding-places came Orphans and mothers, child and dame : But, alas ! when the search for Eeullura spread, No answering voice was given. For the sea had gone o'er her lovely head. And her spirit was in Heaven. THE TUKKISH LADY. 'T WAS the hour when rites unholy Called each Paynim voice to prayer, And the star that fiided slowly Left to dews the freshened air. Day her sultry fires had wasted. Calm and sweet the moonlight rose ; Even a captive spirit tasted Half oblivion of his woes. Then 't was from an Emir's palace Came an Eastern lady bright : She, in spite of tyrants jealous, Saw and loved an English knight 260 THE TURKISH LADY. " Tell me, captive, why in anguish Foes have dragged thee here to dwell, Where poor Christians as thej languish Hear no sound of Saljbath bell '? " — " 'Twas on Transylvania's Bannat, When the Crescent shone afar, Like a pale disastrous planet. O'er the purple tide of Avar — In that day of desolation, Lady, I was captive made ; Bleeding for my Christian nation By the walls of high Belgrade." " Captive. ! could the brightest jewel From my turban set thee free 1 " " Lady, no ! — the gift were cruel, Ransomed, yet if reft of thee. Say, fair princess ! would it grieve thee Christian climes should we behold 1 " — " 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 ! " Fly we, then, while none discover ! Tyrant barks, in vain ye ride ! " — Soon at Rhodes the British lover Clasped his blooming Eastern bride. THE BRAVE ROLAND. 263 THE BRAVE ROLAND. The brave Roland ! — the brave Roland ! False tidings reached the Rhenish strand That he had fallen in fight ; And thy faithful bosom swooned with pain, loveliest maid of Allemayne ! For the loss of thine own true knight. But whj so rash has she ta'en the veil In yon Nonnenwerder's cloisters pale ? For her vow had scarce been sworn, And the fatal mantle o'er her flung, When the Drachenfels to a trumpet rung — 'T was her own dear warrior's horn ! Woe ! woe ! each heart shall bleed — shall break ! She would have hung upon his neck. Had he come but yester-even ! And he had clasped those peerless charms, That shall never, never fill his arms, Or meet him but in heaven. Yet Roland the brave — Roland the true — He could not bid that spot adieu ; It was dear still midst his woes ; For he loved to breathe the neighboring air, And to think she blessed him in her prayer. When the 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 262 THE SPECTRE BOAT. (When the chant and organ sounded slow) On the mansion of his love below, For herself he might not see. She died ! — he sought the battle-plain ; Her image filled his dying brain, "When he fell and wished to fall : And her name was in his latest sigh, When Roland, the flower of chivahy. Expired at Roucevall. THE SPECTRE BOAT. A BALLAD. Light rued false Ferdinand to leave a lovely maid forlorn, Who broke her heart and died to hide her blushing cheek from scorn. One night he dreamt he wooed her in their wonted bower of love, Where the flowers sprang thick around them, and the birds sang sweet above. But the scene was swiftly changed into a church-yard's dismal view, And her lips grew black beneath his kiss, from love's delicious hue. What more he dreamt, he told to none; but shuddering, pale and dumb, Looked out upon the waves, like one that knew his hour was come. THE SPECTRE BOAT, 263 'Twas now tlie dead watch of the night — the helm was lashed a-lee, And the ship rode where Mount iEtna lights the deep Levantine sea ; When beneath its glare a boat came, rowed by a woman in her shroud, Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold, stood up and spoke aloud : — " Come, Traitor, down, for whom my ghost still wanders unforgiven ! Come do-vyn, 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 serneut'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 Avent, and down they went, as the cock crew from the land. 264 THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS. THE LOVER TO HIS ^IISTRESS. ON HER BIRTH-DAT. If any white-winged Power above My joys and griefs survey, The day Avhen 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. .My mind had lovely shapes portrayed ; But thought I earth had one Could make even Fancy's visions fade Like stiirs before the sun '? 1 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. SONG. — ADELGITHA. 265 SONG. 0, 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 smg " Woe 's me — Woe 's me " ^ Love 's a boundless burning waste, Where Bliss's stream we seldom taste. And still more seldom flee Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings ; Yet somehow Love a something brings That 's sweet — even when we sigh " Woe 's me ADELGITHA. The ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded. And sad pale Adelgitha came. When forth a valiant champion bounded. And slew the slanderer of her fame. She wept, delivered from her danger ; But when he knelt to claim her glove — " Seek not," she cried, " ! gallant stranger, For hapless Adelgitha' s love. For he is in a foreign far land Whose arms should now have set me free ; And I must wear the willow garland For him that's dead, or false to me." 23 266 " Nay ! say not that his faith is tainted ! " He raised his visor. — At the sight She fell into his arms and fainted ; It was indeed her o\Yn true knight ! LINES ON RECEIVING A SE:\L WITU THE CAMPBELL CREST, FROM K. U- BEFOKE UER MARRIAGE. This wax returns not back more fair The impression of the gift you send, Than stamped upon my thoughts I bear The image ot' 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 tlie waxen brittleness. What transcripts of my weal and woe This little signet yet may lock, — "What utterances to friend oi foe, In reason's calm or passion's shock ! What scenes of life's yet curtained stage May own its confidential die, Whose stamp awaits the unwritten page, And feelings of futurity ! — LINES. 267 Yet wlieresoe'er mj pen I lift To date the epistolaiy sheet, The blest occasion of the gift Shall make its recollection sweet ; Sent when the star that rules your fates Hath reached its influence most benign — When everj heart congratulates, And none more cordially than mine. So speed m j song — marked with the crest That erst the adventurous Norman wore, Who won the Lady of the West, The daughter of Macaillan Mor. Crest of my sires ! whose blood it sealed With glory in the strife of swords, Ne'er may the scroll that bears it yield Degenerate thoughts or faithless words ! 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 ! Katherixe ! 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 ! 268 GILDEROY. GILDEROY . The last, the fatal hour is come, That bears mj love from me : I hear the dead note of the drum, I mark the gallows' tree ! The bell has tolled ; it shakes my heart ; The trumpet speaks thy name ; And must my Gilderoj'^ depart To bear a death of shame 7 No bosom trembles for thy doom ; No mourner wipes a tear ; The galloAvs' foot is all thy tomb, The sledge is all thy bier. 0, Gilderoy ! bethought we tlien 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 ! 269 A long adieu ! but where shall fly Thy widow all forlora, When every mean and cruel eye Regards my woe with scorn 7 Yes ! they will mock thy widow's tears, And hate thine orphan boy ; Alas ! his infant beauty wears The form of Gilderoy. Then will I seek the dreary mound That wraps thy mouldering clay, And weep and linger on the ground. And sigh my heart away. STANZAS ON THE THREATKNED INVASION, 1803. Our bosoms we '11 bare for the glorious strife. And our oath is recorded on high, To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life, Or crushed in its ruins to die ! Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land ! 'T is the home we hold sacred is laid to our tnist — 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 ! 23^ 270 THE RITTER BANN. In a Briton's sweet home shall a spoiler abide, Profaning its loves and its charms 1 Shall a Frenchman insult the loved fair at our side 7 To arms ! 0, my Country, to arras ! Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land ! Shall a tyrant enslave us, my countrymen ! — No ! His head to the sword shall be given — A death-bed repentance be taught the proud foe, And his blood be an offering to Heaven ! Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land ! THE RITTER BANN. The Ritter Bann from Hungary Came back, renowned in arms. But scorning jousts of chivalry, And love and ladies' charms. While other knights held revels, he Was rapt 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. THE RITTER BANN. 271 'T was 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 Bitter's color went and came. And loud he spoke in ire : " Ha ! nurse of her that was my bane, Name not her name to me ; I wish it blotted from my brain : Art poor? — take alms, and flee." " Sir Knight," the abbot interposed, " This case your ear demands;" And the crone cried, with a cross enclosed In both her trembling hands, " Remember, each his sentence waits ; And he that shall rebut Sweet Mercy's suit, on him the gates Of Mercy shall be shut. You wedded, undispensed by Church, Your cousin Jane in Spring ; — In Autumn, when you went to search For churchman's pardoning. Her house denounced your marriage-band, Betrothed her to Be Grey, And the ripg you put upon her hand Was wrenched by force away. 272 THE RITTER BANX. Then wept jour Jane upon my neck, Crying, ' Help me, nurse, to flee To my Ilowel Bann's Glamorgan hills ;' But word arrived — ah me ! — You were not there ; and *t was their threat, By foul means or by fair, To-moiTow morning was to set The seal on her despair. I had a son, a sea-boy, in A ship at Ilartland Bay ; By his aid from her cruel kin I bore my liird away. To Scotland from the Devon's Green myrtle shores we fled ; And the Hand that sent the ravens To Elijah gave us bread. She wrote you by my son, but he From England sent us word You had gone into some far countrie, In grief and gloom, he heard. For they that wronged you, to elude Your wrath, defamed my child; And you — ay, blush. Sir, as you should — Believed, and were beguiled. To die but at your feet, she vowed To roam the world ; and we Would both have sped and begged our bread, But so it miifht not be. THE RITTER BANN. 273 For when the snow-storm beat our roof, She bore a boj, Sir Bann, Who grew as fair jour likeness' proof As child e'er grew like man. 'T was smiling on that babe one morn While heath bloomed on the moor, Her beautj struck young Lord Kinghorn As he hunted past our door. She shunned him, but he raved of Jane, And roused his mother's pride : Who came to us in high disdain, — ' And where 's the face,' she cried, ' Has witched my boy to wish for one So wretched for his wife 7 — Dost love thy husband 7 Know, my son Has sworn to seek his life.' Her anger sore dismayed us. For our mite was wearing scant, And, unless that dame would aid us, There was none to aid our want. So I told her, weeping bitterly, What all our woes had been ; And, though she was a stern ladie, The tears stood in her een. And she housed us both, when, cheerfully, My child to her had sworn, That even if made a widow, she Would never wed Kinshorn." ^74 THE RITTER BANN. Here paused the nurse, and tlien began The abbot, standing by : — " Three months ago a wounded man To our abbey came to die. He heard me long, -with ghastly eyes And hand obdurate clenched, Spoke of the -worm that never dies, And the fire that is not quenched. At last, by what this scroll attests, He left atonement brief. For years of anguish to the breasts His guilt had wrung with grief. ' There lived,' he said, ' a fliir young dame Beneath my mother's roof; I loved her, but against my flame Her purity Avas proof I feigned repentance, friendship pure ; That mood she did not check. But let her husband's miniature Be copied from her neck. As means to search liim ; my deceit Took care to him was borne Naught but his picture's counterfeit, And Jane's reported scorn. The treachery took : she waited wild ; My slave came back and lied Whate'er I wished ; she clasped her child And swooned, and all but died. THE RITTER BANN. 275 I felt her tears for years and years Quench not my flame, but stir ; The very hate I bore her mate Increased my love for her. Fame told us of his glory, while Joy flushed the face of Jane ; And, while she blessed his narne, her smile Struck fire into my brain. No fears could damp ; I reached the camp, Sought out its champion ; And if my broad-sword failed at last, 'T was long and well laid on. This wound 's my meed, my name 's Kinghorn, My foe 's the Ritter Bann.' The wafer to his lips was borne, And we shrived the dying man. He died not till you went to fight The Turks, at WaiTadein ; But I see my tale has changed you pale." — The abbot went for wine ; 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. 276 THE RITTER BANN. '■■ 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 7 " " Sit down. Sir," said the priest, " I bar Rash words." — They sat all three. And the boy played with the knight's broad star, As he kept him on his knee. " Think, ere you ask her dwelling-place," The abbot further said ; " Time draws a veil o'er beauty's face More deep than cloister's shade. Grief may have made her what you can Scarce love perhaps for life." — "Hush, abbot," cried the Ritter Bann, " Or tell me where 's my wife." The priest undid two doors that hid The inn's adjacent room. 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 J ane. SONG. 277 SONG. " MEN OF ENGIiAND." Men of England ! who inherit Rio-hts that cost your sires their blood ! Men whose undegenerate spirit Has been proved on field and flood : - By the foes you 've fought uncounted, By the glorious deeds ye 've done, Trophies captured — breaches mounted, Navies conquered — kingdoms won. Yet, remember, England gathers Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, If the freedom of your fathers Glow not in your hearts the same. What are monuments of bravery, Where no public virtues bloom 1 What avail, in lands of slavery, Trophied temples, arch, and tomb 7 Pageants ! — Let the world revere us For our people's rights and laws. And the breasts of civic heroes Bared in Freedom's holy cause. Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory, Sidney's matchless shade is yours, — Martyrs in heroic story, Worth a hundred Agincourts ! 24 278 SONG, — THE HARPER. We ' re the sons of sires that baffled Crowned and mitred tyranny ; — They defied the field and scafibld For their bii-thri^hts — so will we ! SONG. Drink ye to her that each loves best, And if you nurse a flame That ' s told but to her mutual breast, We will not ask her name. Enough, while memory tranced and glad Paints silently the fair, That each should dream of joys he 's had, Or yet may hope to share. Yet far, far hence be jest or boast From hallowed thoughts so dear ; But drink to her that each loves most. As she would love to hear. THE HARPER. 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. THE HARPER. — THE WOUNDED HUSSAR. 279 When at last I was forced from mj Sheelali to part, She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart), ! remember jour Slieelah when far, far away : And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Traj. 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, 1 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 7 Can I find one to guide me, so faithful, and kind 7 To my sweet native village, so far, far away, I can never more return with my poor dog Tray. THE WOUNDED HUSSAR. Alone to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er : — '' whither ! " she cried, " hast thou wandered, my lover Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore ? 280 THE WOUNDED HUSSAR. What voice did I hear ? ' t was mj Heniy that sighed ! " All moui-nful she hastened, nor wandered she far, When bleeding, and low, on the heath she descried, By the light of the moon, her poor Avounded Hussar ! From his bosom that heaved, the last torrent was streaming, And pale was his visage, deep marked with a scar ! And dun 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 sorroAvful night, To cheer the lone heart of your Avounded Hussar?" "Thou shalt live,"' she replied, "Heaven's mercy relieving Each anguishing -wound, shall forbid me to mourn !" — " Ah no ! the last pang of my bosom is heaving ! No light of the morn shall to Henry return ! Thou chai-mer 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 aims — the poor wounded Hussar ! LOVE AND MADNESS. 281 LOVE AND MADNESS. AN ELEGY. WRITTEN IK 1795. Hark ! from the battlements of yonder tower * The solemn bell has tolled the midnight hour ! Roused from drear visions of distempered sleep, Poor B k wakes — in solitude to weep ! ' ' Cease, Memory, cease (the friendless mourner cried) To probe the bosom too severely tried ! ! ever cease, my pensive thoughts, to stray Through the bright fields of Fortune's better day, When youthful HorE, the music of the mind, Tuned all its charms, and E n was kind ! Yet. can I cease, while glows this trembling frame, In sighs to speak thy melancholy name 7 1 hear thy spirit wail in every storm ! In midnight shades I view thy passing form ! Pale as in that sad hour when doomed to feel, Deep in thy perjured heart, the bloody steel ! Demons of Vengeance ! ye at whose command I grasped the sword with more than woman's hand, Say ye, did Pity's trembling voice control. Or horror damp the purpose of my soul 7 No ! my wild heart sat smiling o'er the plan, Till Hate fulfilled what baffled Love began ! * Warwick Castle. 24* 282 LOVE AND MADNESS. Yes ; let the claj-cold breast that never knew One tender pang to generous Nature true, Half-mingling pity with the gall of scorn, Condemn this heart, that bled in love forlorn ! And ye, proud fair, whose soul no gladness waniis, Save rapture's homage to your conscious charms ! Delighted idols of a gaudy train, HI can your blunter feelings guess the pain, When the fond faithful heart, inspired to prove Friendship refined, the calm delight of Love, Feels all its tender strings with anguish torn, And bleeds at perjured Pride's inhuman scorn. Say, then, did pitj'ing 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 ! ! righteous Heaven ! 't was then my tortured soul First gave to wrath unlimited control ! Adieu the silent look ! the streaming eye ! The murmured plaint ! the deep heart-heaving sigh ! Long-slumbering Vengeance wakes to bitter deeds ; He shrieks, he falls, the perjured lover bleeds ! Now the last laugh of agony is o'er. And pale in blood he sleej)S, to wake no more ! LOVE AND MADNESS. 283 'T is done ! the flame of hate no longer burns : Nature relents, but, ah ! too late returns ! Whj does mj soul this gush of fondness feel 1 Trembling and faint, I drop the guiltj steel ! Cold on my heart the hand of terror lies, And shades of horror close mj languid eyes ! ! 't was a deed of Murder's deepest grain ! Could B k's soul so true to wrath remain 1 A friend long true, a once fond lover fell ! — Where Love was fostered could not Pity dwell 7 Unhappy youth ! while yon pale crescent glows To watch on silent Nature's deep repose, Thy sleepless spirit, breathing from the tomb, Foretells my fate, and summons me to come ! Once more I see thy sheeted spectre stand, Roll the dim eye, and wave the paly hand ! Soon may this fluttering spark of vital flame Forsake its languid melancholy frame ! Soon may these eyes their trembling lustre close, Welcome the dreamless night of long repose ! Soon may this woe-worn spirit seek the bourn Where, lulled to slumber, Grief forgets to mourn ! '' 284 HALLOWED GROUND. HALLOWED GROUND. What 's hallowed ground ] Has earth a clod Its IMaker meant not should be trod Bj man, the image of his God, Erect and free, Unscourged by Superstition's rod To bow the knee 7 That's hallowed ground — where, mourned and missed, The lips repose our love has kissed : — But where 's their memory's mansion I Is 't Yon church-yard's bowers 7 No ! m 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, up And up to Ileaven ! 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 gi'ound where heroes sleep 1 'T is not the sculptured piles you heap ! HALLOWED GROUND. 285 In dews that heavens far distant weep Their turf may bloom ; Or Genii twine beneath the deep Their coral tomb : But strew his ashes to the wind Whose sword or voice has served mankind — And is he dead, whose glorious mind Lifts thine on high 7 — To live in hearts we leave behind, Is not to die. Is 't death to fall for Freedom's right ? He 's dead alone that lacks her light ! And murder sullies in Heaven's sight The sword he draws : — What can alone ennoble fight 1 A noble cause ! Give that ! and welcome War to brace Her drums ! and rend Heaven's reekmg space ! The colors planted face to face, The charging cheer, Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, Shall still be dear. And place our trophies where men kneel To Heaven ! but Heaven rebukes my zeal. The cause of Truth and human weal, God above ! Transfer it from the sword's appeal To Peace and Love. 286 HALLOWED GROUND. Peace, Love ! the cherubim, that join Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, Where they are not — The heart alone can make divine Religion's spot. To incantations dost thou trust, And pompous rites in domes august ? See mouldering stones and metal's rust Belie the vaunt, That men can bless one pile of dust With chime or chant. The ticking wood-vroi-m mocks thee, man ! Thy temples — creeds themselves grow wan ! But there "s a dome of nobler span, A temple given Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban — Its space is Heaven ! Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling. Where, trancing the rapt spirit's feeling. And God himself to man revealing, The harmonious spheres Make music, though unheard their pealing By mortal ears. Fair stars ! are not your beings pure ? Can sin, can death, your world obscure 1 Else why so swell the thoughts at your Aspect above ? Ye must be Heavens that make us sure Of heavenly love ! 287 And in your harmony sublime I read the doom of distant time ; That man's regenerate soul from crime Shall yet be drawn, And reason on his mortal clime Immortal dawn. What 's hallowed ground 7 'T is what gives birth To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! — Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth Earth's compass round ; And your high priesthood shall make earth All hallowed ground. SONG. 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 — Fai'ewell. The hour that bids us part and go, It sounds not yet, — ! no, no, no ! Time, whilst I gaze upon thy sweetness, Fhes like a courser nigh the goal ; To-morrow where shall be his fleetness, When thou art parted from my soul 7 Our hearts shall beat, our tears shall flow, But not together — no, no, no ! 283 CAROLINE. PART I. I 'll bid the hyacinth to blow, I '11 teach my grotto green to be ; And sing my true love, all below The holly bower and myrtle tree. There all his wild-wood sweets to bring, The sweet south wind shall wander by, And with the music of his wing Delight my rustling canopy. Come to my close and clustering bower, Thou spirit of a milder clime. Fresh with the dcAvs of fruit and flower, Of mountain heath, and moory thyme. With all thy rural echoes come, Sweet comrade of the rosy day. Wafting the wild bee"s gentle hum, Or cuckoo's plamtive roundelay. Where'er thy morning breath has played, Whatever isles of ocean fanned. Come to my blossom-woven shade, Thou wandermg wind of fairy-land. For sure from some enchanted isle, Where Heaven and Love their sabbath hold, Where pure and happy spirits smile, Of beauty's fairest, brightest mould : CAROLINE. 289 From some green Eden of the deep, Wliere 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. 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. CAROLINE. TO THE EVENING STAR. Gem of the crimson-colored Even, Companion of retiring day. Why at the closing gates of Heaven, Beloved star, dost thou delay ? So fair thy pensile beauty burns, When soft the tear of twilight flows : So due thy plighted love returns, To chambers brighter than the rose : 25 290 CAROLINE. To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love, So kind a star thou seem"st to be, Sure some enamored orb above Descends and burns to meet mth. thee. Thine is the breathing, blushing hour, When all unheavenlj passions flj, Chased by the soul-subduing power Of Love's delicious witchery. ! sacred to the fall of day, Queen of propitious stars, appear, And early rise, and long delay, When Caroline herself is here ! Shine on her chosen green resort. Whose trees the sunward summit crown, And wanton flowers, that well may court An angels feet -to tread them down. Shine on her sweetly-scented road. Thou star of evening's purple dome, That lead'st the nightingale abroad. And guid'st the pilgrim to his home. 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. THE BEECH-TKEE's PETITION. 291 Thus, ever thus, at daj's decline, In converse sweet, to wander far, bring with thee my Caroline, And thou shalt be mj Ruling Star ! THE BEECH-TREE'S PETITION. LEAVE this barren spot to me ! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree ! Though bush or floweret never grow My dark unwarming shade below ; Nor summer bud perfume the dew Of rosy blush, or yellow hue ! Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, My green and glossy leaves adorn ; Nor murmuring tribes from me derive 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 SAveet and sportive hour ; Smce 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. ! by the sighs of gentle sound. First breathed upon this sacred ground ; 292 FIELD-FLOAVERS. Bj all that Love has whisijered here, Or beauty heard Avith ravished ear ; As Love's own altar honor me : Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree ! FIELD-FLOWERS. Ye field-flowers ! the gardens eclipse you, 't is true, Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon you. For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teemed around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold. I love you for lulling me back into dreams Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, And of birchen glades breathing their balm. While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote. And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note Made music that sweetened the calm. Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June : Of old ruinous castles ye tell, Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind, And your blossoms were part of her spell. Even now what affections the violet awakes ! What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes. Can the wild water-lily restore ! SONG. 293 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. SONG. TO THE EVENING STAR. Star that bringest home the bee, And sett'st the weary laborer free ! If any star shed peace, 't is thou. That send'st it from above. Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow Are sweet as hers we love. Come to the luxuriant skies. Whilst the landscape's odors rise, Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard, And songs when toil is done. From cottages whose smoke unstirred Curls yellow in the sun. Star of love's soft interviews, Parted lovers on thee muse ; 25* 294 STANZAS TO PAINTING. Their remembrancer in Heaven Of thrilling vows thou art, Too delicious to be riven B J absence from the heart. STANZAS TO PAINTING. THOU by whose expressive art Her perfect image Nature sees In union with the Graces start, And sweeter by reflection please ! In whose creative hand the hues Fresh from yon orient rainbow shine ; 1 bless thee, Promethean muse ! And call thee brightest of the Nine ! Possessing more than vocal power, Pei-suasive more than poet's tongue ; Whose lineage, in a raptured hour, From Love, the Sire of Nature, sprung ; Does Hope her high possession meet 7 Is joy triumphant, sorrow flown ? Sweet is the trance, the tremor sweet, When all we love is all our own. But, ! thou pulse of pleasure dear, Slow throbbing, cold, I feel thee part ; Long absence plants a pang severe, Or death inflicts a keener dart. STANZAS TO PAINTING. 295 Then for a beam of joy to light In memory's sad and wakeful eye! Or banished from the noon of night Her dreams of deeper agony. Shall Song its witching cadence roll 7 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 ! 0, 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 loved departed form, Till death's cold bosom half appears With life, and speech, and spirit warm She looks ! she lives ! this tranced hour. Her bright eye seems a purer gem Than sparkles on the throne of power. Or glory's wealthy diadem. 296 THE maid's remonstrance. Yes, Genius, yes ! thy mimic aid A treasure to my soul has given, Where beauty's canonized shade Smiles in the sainted hues of heaven. No spectre forms of pleasure fled Thy softening, sweetening tints restore ; For thou canst give us back the dead, E'en in the loveliest looks they wore. Then blest be Nature's guardian Muse, Whose hand her perished grace redeems ! Whose tablet of a thousand hues The mirror of creation seems. From love began thy high descent ; And lovers, charmed by gifts of thine, Shall bless thee mutely eloquent ; And call thee brightest of the Nine ! THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE. Never wedding, ever wooing, Still a love-lorn heart pursuing. Read you not the wrong you 're doing In my cheek's pale hue ? All my life with sorrow strewing, Wed, or cease to woo. Rivals banished, bosoms plighted, Still our days are disunited; ABSENCE. Now the lamp of hope is lighted, Now half-quenched appears, Damped, and wavering, and benighted, 'Midst my sighs and tears. Charms you call your dearest blessing, Lips that thrill at your caressing. Eyes a mutual soul confessing, Soon you '11 make them grow Dim, and worthless your possessing. Not with age, but woe ! 297 ABSENCE. 'T IS not the loss of love's assurance. It is not doubting what thou art. But 't is the too, too long endurance Of absence, that afflicts my heart. The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish, When each is lonely doomed to weep. Are fruits on desert isles that perish. Or riches buried in the deep. What though, untouched by jealous madness, Our bosom's peace may fall to wreck ! 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 7 'Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet. The pain without the peace of death ! 298 LINES. LINES INSCRIBED ON THE MONUMENT LiVTELY FINISHED BT MR. CHANTREV, WTiich 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 charitj, like that which Paul enjoined, Was warm, beneficent, and unconfined, — This stone is reared : to public duty true, The seaman's friend, the father of his crew — Mild in reproof, sagacious in command. He spread fraternal zeal throughout his band, And led each arm to act, each heart to feel, What British valor owes to Britain's weal. These were his public virtues : — but to trace His private life's fair purity and grace. To paint the traits that drew affection strong From friends, an ample and an ardent throng. And, more, to speak his memory's grateful claim, On her who mourns him most, and bears his 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. 299 STANZAS ON THE BATTLE OF NAVARINO. Hearts of oak, that have bravelj delivered the brave, And uplifted old Greece from the brink of the grave, 'T was the helpless to help, and the hopeless to save. That your thunderbolts swept o'er the brine : And, as long as yon sun shall look down on the wave, The light of your glory shall shine. For the guerdon ye sought with your bloodshed and toil, Was it slaves, or dominion, or rapine, or spoil ] No ! your lofty emprise was to fetter and foil The uprooter of Greece's domain ! When he tore the last remnant of food from her soil, Till her famished sank pale as the slain ! Yet, Navarin's heroes ! does Christendom breed The base hearts that will question the fame of your deed 1 Are they men 7 — let ineffable scorn be their meed. And oblivion shadow their graves ! — Are they women 7 — to Turkish serails let them speed. And be mothers of Mussulman slaves. Abettors of massacre ! dare ye deplore That the death-shriek is silenced on Hellas' s shore 7 That the mother aghast sees her offspring no more By the hand of Infanticide grasped ! And that stretched on yon billows distained by their gore Missolonghi's assassins have gasped 7 Prouder scene never hallowed war's pomp to the mind. Than when Christendom's pennons wooed social the wind. 300 LINES. And the flower of her brave for the combat combined, Their watch-word, humanity's vow : Not a sea-boy that fought in that cause, but mankind Owes a garland to honor his brow ! Nor grudge, by our side, that to conquer or fall Came the hardy rude Russ, and the high-mettled Gaul : For, whose was the genius, that planned at its call, Where the whirlwind of battle should roll ? All were brave ! but the star of success over all Was the light of our Codrington's soul. That star of thy day-spring, regenerate Greek ! Dimmed the Saracen's moon, and struck pallid his cheek ; In its fast-flushing morning thy Muses shall speak When their lore and their lutes they reclaim : And the first of their songs from Parnassus's peak Shall be " Glory to Codrhigtoii' s name!^^ LINES OK REVISITING A SCOTTISH RfVER. 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. LINES. 301 Speak not to me of swarms the scene sustains ; One heart free tasting Nature's breath and bloom Is worth a thousand slaves to Mammon's gains. But whither goes that wealth, and gladdening whom ? See, left but life enough and breathing-room The hunger and the hope of life to feel. Yon pale Mechanic bending o'er his loom, And Childhood's self, as at Ixion's wheel, From morn till midnight tasked to earn its little meal. Is this Improvement 7 — where the human breed Degenerate as they swarm and overflow, Till Toil grows cheaper than the trodden weed. And man competes with man, like foe with foe. Till Death, that thins them, scarce seems public woe 7 Improvement ! — smiles it in the poor man's eyes, Or blooms it on the cheek of Labor 7 — No — To gorge a few with Trade's precarious prize. We banish rural life, and breathe unwholesome skies. Nor call that evil slight ; God has not given This passion to the heart of man in vain. For Earth's green face, the 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 ! 26 302 THE NAME UNKNG JVN. THE "NAME UNKNOWN;" IN IMITATION OF KLOPSTOCK. Prophetic pencil ! wilt thou trace A faithful image of the face, Or wilt thou write the " Name Unknown," Ordained to bless my charmed soul, And all my future fate control, Unrivalled and alone 1 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, Arc 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 I, like conscious Athens, own A power in mystic silence sealed, A guardian angel unrevealed, And bless the " Name Unknown ! " FAKEWELL TO LOVE. 303 FAREWELL TO LOVE. I HAD a heart that doted once in passion's boundless pain, And though the tyrant I abjured, I could not break his chain ; But now that Fancy's fire is quenched, and ne'er can burn anew, I 've bid to Love, for all my life, adieu ! adieu ! adieu ! I 've known, if ever mortal knew, the spells of Beauty's thrall. And if my song has told them not, my soul has felt them all; But Passion robs my peace no more, and Beauty's witching sway Is now to me a star that 's fallen — a dream that 's passed away. Hail ! welcome tide of life, when no tumultuous billows roll, How wondrous to myself appears this halcyon calm of soul ! The wearied bird blown o'er the deep would sooner quit its shore. Than I would cross the gulf again that time has brought me o'er. Why say they Angels feel the flame 7 — 0, spirits of the skies ! Can love like ours, that dotes on dust, in heavenly bosoms rise ? — 304 LINES. 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. LINES ON THE CAMP UILL, NEAR HASTINGS. In the deep blue of eve, Ere the twinklino; of stars had begun, Or the lark took his leave Of the skies and the sweet setting sun, I climbed to yon heights, Where the Norman encamped him of old, With his bowmen and knights, And his banner all burnished with gold. At the Conqueror's side There his minstrelsy sat harp in hand, In pavilion wide ; And they chanted the deeds of Roland. Still the ramparted ground With a vision my fancy inspires. And I hear the trump sound. As it mai-shalled our Chivalry's sires. On each turf of that mead Stood the captors of England's domains, That ennobled her breed And hio-h-mettled the blood of her veins. LINES ON POLAND, 305 Over hauberk and helm As the sun's setting splendor was thrown, Thence thej looked o'er a realm — And to-morrow beheld it their own. 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 The half-pitying, servile mouths that call you poor ! Poor ! is it England mocks you with her grief, Who hates, but dares not chide, the Imperial Thief 7 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 ; 306 LINES ON POLAND. The Butcher, should he reach her bosom now, Could not tear Glory's garland from her brow ; "Wreathed, fiUetted, the victim falls renowned, And all her ashes will be holy ground ! But turn, my soul, from presages so dark : Great Poland's spirit is a deathless spark That 's fanned by Heaven to mock the Tyrant's rage She, like the eagle, will renew her age. And fresh historic plumes of Fame put on, — Another Athens after Marathon, — Where eloquence shall fulmine, arts refine, Bright as her arras 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 — The day that sees "Warsaw's cathedral glow With endless ensigns ravished from the foe, — Her women lifting their fair hands with thanks. Her pious warriors kneeling in their ranks, The 'scutcheoned walls of high heraldic boast, The odorous altars' elevated host. The organ sounding through the aisles' long glooms^ The mighty dead seen sculptured o'er their tombs (John, Europe's savior — PoniatoAvski's fixir Resemblance — Kosciusko's shall be there) ; The tapered pomp — the hallelujah's swell, Shall o'er the soul's devotion cast a spell, Till visions cross the rapt enthusiast's glance. And all the scene becomes a waking trance. Should Fate put far — far off that glorious scene, And gulfs of havoc interpose between, LINES ON POLAND. 307 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 7 — her shame is but the more To doze and dream by governments oppressed. The spirit of a book-worm in each breast. Well can ye mouth fair Freedom's classic line, 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 — Brows laurelled — bosoms marked with many a scar For France — that wore her Legion's noblest star, Cast dumb reproaches from the field of Death On Gallic honor : and this broken faith Has robbed you more of Fame — the life of life -- Than twenty battles lost in glorious strife ! 308 LINES ON POLAND. And what of England — is she steeped so low In poverty, crest-fallen, and palsied so, That we must sit much wroth, but timorous more. With Murder knocking at our neighbor's door 7 — Not Murder masked and cloaked, with hidden knife, Whose owner owes the gallows life for life ; But Public Murder ! — that with pomp and gaud, And royal scorn of Justice, walks abroad To wring more tears and blood than e'er were wi'ung By all the culprits Justice ever hung ! We read the diademed Assassin's vaunt, And wince, and wish we had not hearts to pant With useless indignation — sigh and frown, But have not hearts to throw the gauntlet down. K but a doubt hung o'er the grounds of fray, Or trivial rapine stopped the world's highway ; Were this some common strife of states embroiled ; — Britimnia on the spoiler and the spoiled Might calndy look, and, asking time to breathe. Still honorably wear her olive wreath. But this is Darkness combating with Light ; Earth's adverse Principles for empire fight: Oppression, that has belted half the globe. Far as his knout could reach or dagger probe. Holds reeking o'er our brother-freemen slain That dagger — shakes it at us in disdain ; Talks big to Freedom's states of Poland's thrall. And, trampling one, contemns them one and all. My country ! colors not thy once proud brow At this affront ? — Hast thou not fleets enow LINES ON POLAND. SOii With Glory's streamer, lofty as the lark. Gay fluttering o'er each thunder-bearing bark, To warm the insulter's seas with barbarous blood, And interdict his flag from Ocean's flood 1 Even now far ofi" the sea-clifi", where I sing, I see, my Country, and my Patriot King ! Your ensign glad the deep. Becalmed and slow A war-ship rides ; Avhile 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 acepts 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 '11 but to prouder pitch wind up your souls. Above example, pity, praise or blame. To sow and reap a boundless field of Fame. Ask aid no more from Nations that forget Your championship — old Europe's mighty debt. Though Poland, Lazarus-like, has burst the gloom, She rises not a beggar from the tomb : In Fortune's frown, on Danger's giddiest brink. Despair and Poland's name must never link. All ills have bounds — plague, whirlwind, fire, and flood : Even power can spill but bounded sums of blood. 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. 310 A THOUGHT SUGaESTED BY THE NEA7 YEAR. That do-\TOward, as from sire to son it goes, Bj shifting bosoms more intensely glows : Its heir-loom is the heart, and slaughtered men Fight fiercer in their orphans o'er again. Poland recasts — though rich in heroes old — Her men in more and more heroic mould : Her eagle-ensign best among mankind Becomes, and types her eagle-strength of mind : Her praise upon my faltering lips expires ; Resume it, younger bards, and nobler lyres ! A THOUGHT SUGGESTED BY THE NEW YEAR The more we live, more brief appear Our life's succeeding stages : A day to childhood seems a year, And years like passing ages. The gladsome current of our youth, Ere passion yet disorders, Steals, lingering like a river smooth Along its grassy borders. But, as the care-worn cheek grows wan, And sorrow's shafts fly thicker, Ye stars, that measure life to man. Why seem your courses quicker ] When joys have lost their bloom and breath, And life itself is vapid, Why, as we reach the Falls of death Feel we its tide more rapid ? 311 It may be strange — yet who would cliange Time's course to slower speeding ; When one by one our friends have gone, And left our bosoms bleeding 7 Heaven gives our years of fading strength Indemnifying fleetness ; And those of Youth, a seeming length. Proportioned to their sweetness. SONG. How delicious is the winning Of a kiss at Love's beginning, "When two mutual hearts are sighing For the knot there 's no untying ! Yet, remember, 'midst your wooing, Love has bliss, but Love has ruing ; Other smiles may make you fickle, Tears for other charms may trickle. Love he comes, and Love be tarries, Just as fate or fancy carries ; Longest stays when sorest chidden ; Laughs and fiies, when pressed and bidden. Bind the sea to slumber stilly. Bind its odor to the lily, Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, Then bind Love to last forever ! 312 MARGARET AND DORA. Love "s a fire that needs renewal Of fresh beauty for its fuel ; Love's wing moults when caged and captured, Only free, he soars enraptured. Can you keep the bee from ranging, Or the ringdove's neck from changing 1 Ko ! nor fettered Love from dying Li the knot there 's no im tying. MARGARET AND DORA. Margaret 's beauteous — Grecian arte Ne'er drew form completer. Yet why, in my heart of hearts, Hold I Dora 's sweeter 1 Dora's eyes of heavenly blue Pass all painting's reach, Ringdoves' notes are discord to The music of her speech. Artists ! Margaret's smile receive, And on canvas show it ; But for perfect worship leave Dora to her poet THE POWER OF RUSSIA. 313 THE POWER OF RUSSIA. So all this gallant blood has gushed in vain ! And Poland, by the Xorthern Condor's beak And talons torn, lies prostrated again. British patriots, that were wont to speak Once loudlj on this theme, now hushed or meek ! heartless men of Europe — Goth and Graul, Cold, adder-deaf to Poland's dying shriek : — That saw the world" s last land of heroes fall — The brand of burning shame is on you all — all — all ! But this is not the di-ama"s closing act ! Its tragic curtain must uprise anew. Nations, mute accessories to the fact ! That Upas tree of power, whose fostering dew AYas 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 ballowed, righteous, pure and great, Woe ! woe ! when they are reached by Russia's withering hate. Russia, that on his throne of adamant, Consults Avhat nation's breast shall next be gored : He on Polonia's Golgotha will plant His standard fresh ; and, horde succeeding horde, On patriot tomb- stones he will whet the sword, For more stupendous slaughters of the free. Then Europe's realms, when their best blood is poured, Shall miss tbee, Poland ! as they bend the knee, All — all in grief, but none in glory, likening thee. 27 314 THE POAA'^ER OF RUSSIA. Why smote ye not the Giant Avliilst he reeled 1 fair occasion, gone forever by ! To have locked his lances in their northern field, Innocuous as the phantom chivalry That flames and hurtles from yon boreal sky ! Now wave thy pennon, Russia, o'er the land Once Poland ; build thy bristling castles high ; Dig dungeons deep ; for Poland's wrested brand Is now a weapon new to widen thy command — An awful width ! Norwegian woods shall build His fleets ; the Swede his vassal, and the Dane ; The glebe of fifty kingdoms shall be tilled To feed his dazzling, desolating train. Camped sumlcss, '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 speak) Are crude, and too colossal to cohere. 0, lamentable weakness ! reckoning weak The stripling Titan, strengthening year by year. What implement lacks he for war's career, That grows on earth, or in its floods and mines (Eighth sharer of the inhabitable sphere), Whom Persia bows to, China ill confines, And India's homage waits, when Albion's star declines ! But time will teach the Russ even conquering War Has handmaid arts : ay, ay, the Russ will woo THE POWER OF RUSSIA. 316 All sciences that speed Bellona's car, All murder's tactic arts, and win them too ; But never holier Muses shall imbue His breast, that 's made of nature's basest clay : The sabre, knout, and dungeon's vapor blue His laws and ethics ; far from him away Ai'e all the lovely Nine, that breathe but Freedom's day. Say, even his serfs, half-humanized, should learn Their human rights, — will Mars put out his flame In Russian bosoms 7 no, he '11 bid them burn A thousand years for naught but martial fame. Like Romans : — yet forgive me, Roman name • Rome could impart what Russia never can ; Proud civic rights to salve submission's shame. Our strife is coming ; but in freedom's van The Polish eagle's fall is big with fate to man. Proud bird of old ! Mohammed's moon recoiled Before thy swoop : had we been timely bold. That swoop, still free, had stunned the Russ, and foiled Earth's neAV 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 human kind. So hallowedly have ye fulfilled your part. My pride repudiates even the sigh that blends With Poland's name — name written on my heart. My heroes, my grief-consecrated friends ! 316 LINES. Your sorroTV, in nobilitj, transcends Your conqueror's joj : his cheek may blush ; but shame Can tinge not yours ; though exile's tear descends ; Nor would ye change your conscience, cause and name. For his, ■with all his wealth, and all his felon fame. Thee, Niemciewitz, -whose song of stirring power The Czar forbids to sound in Polish lands ; Thee, Czartoryski, in thy banished bower, The patricide, who in thy palace stands. May envy : proudly may Polonia"s bands Throw down their swords at Europe's feet in scorn, Saying — "Russia from the metal of these brands Shall forge the fetters of your sons unborn ; Our setting star is your misfortunes' rising morn ! " LINES ON LILWIXG A SCEXE IN BAVARIA. Adieu the woods and waters' side, Imperial Danube's rich domain ! Adieu the grotto, wild and wide, The rocks abrupt, and grassy plain ! For pallid autumn once again Hath swelled each torrent of the hill ; 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 ; 817 Nor river roaring to the blast Around its dark and desert isle ; Nor church-bell tolling to beguile The cloud-born thunder passing bj, Can sound in discord to my soul : Roll on, ye mighty waters, roll ! And rage, thou darkened sky ! Thy blossoms now no longer bright ; Thy withered woods no longer green ; Yet, Eldurn shore, with dark delight I visit thy unlovely scene ! For many a sunset hour serene My steps have trod thy mellow dew ; When his green light the glow-worm gave, When Cynthia from the distant wave Her twilight anchor drew, And ploughed, as with a swelling sail, The billowy clouds and starry sea ; Then while thy hermit nightingale Sang on his fragrant apple-tree, — Romantic, sohtary, free, The visitant of Eldurn's shore. On such a moonlight m.ountain 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 27* 318 The wounded wild deer ever ran, Whose myrtle bound their grassy cave, Whose very rocks a shelter gave From blood-pui-suing man. 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 our ; For man's neglect I love thee more ; That art nor avarice intrude To tame thy torrent's thunder-shock, Or prune thy vintage of the rock Magnificently rude. Unheeded spreads thy blossomed bud Its milky bosom to the bee ; Unheeded falls along the flood Thy desolate and aged tree. Forsaken scene, how like to thee The fate of unbefriended Worth ! Like thine her fruit dishonored falls ; Like thee in solitude she calls A thousand treasures forth. 319 ! silent spirit of the place, If, lingering with the ruined year. Thy hoary form and awful face I yet might watch and worship here ! Thy storm were music to mine ear, Thy wildest walk a shelter given Sublimer thoughts on earth to find. And share, with no unhallowed mind, The majesty of heaven. What though the bosom friends of Fate,- Prospcrity's unweaned brood, — Thy consolations cannot rate, self-dependent solitude ! Yet with a spirit unsubdued. Though darkened by the clouds of Care, To worship thy congenial gloom, A pilgrim to the Prophet's tomb The Friendless shall repair. On him the world hath never smiled, Or looked but with accusing eye ; — All-silent goddess of the wild. To thee that misanthrope shall fly ! 1 hear his deep soliloquy, 1 mark his proud but ravaged form. As stern he wraps his mantle round, And bids, on winter's bleakest ground, Defiance to the storm. Peace to his banished heart, at last. In thy dominions shall descend, And, strong as beechwood in the blast, 320 His spirit shall refuse to bend ; Enduring life without a friend, The world and falsehood left behind, Thy votary shall bear elate (Triumphant o'er opposing Fate) His dark inspired mind. But dost thou, Folly, mock the Muse A wanderer's mountain walk to sing, Who shuns a warring world, nor woos The vulture cover of its wing 1 Then fly, thou cowering, shivering thing, Back to the fostering world beguiled, To waste in self-consuming strife The loveless brotherhood of life, Reviling and reviled ! Away, thou lover of the race That hither chased yon weeping deer ! If Nature's all-majestic face More pitiless than man's appear ; Or if the wild winds seem more drear Than man's cold charities below. Behold around his peopled plains. Where'er the social savage reigns. Exuberance of woe ! His art and honoi-s 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 : THE DEATH-BOAT OF HELIGOLAND. 321 Or sends his whirlwind warrant forth To rouse the slumbering fiends of war, To dye the blood-warm waves afar, And desolate the earth 7 From clime to clime pursue the scene, And mark in all thy spacious way, Where'er the tyrant man hj^s 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 Eldurn vale, is thine, — Afflicted nature shall inhale Heaven-borrowed thoughts and joys divine ; No longer wish, no more repine For man's neglect or woman's scorn ; — Then wed thee to an exile's lot. For if the world hath loved thee not, Its absence may be borne. 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 tlie tomb, And that maddening forebear the last trumpet of doom, 822 THE DEATH-BOAT OF HELIGOLAND. 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 thej dance, Or at mid-sea appal the chilled mariner's glance. Such, I wot, was the band of cadaverous smile Seen ploughing the night-surge of Heligo's isle. The foam of the Baltic had sparkled like fire. And the red moon looked down with an aspect of ire ; But her beams on a sudden grew sick-like and gray, And the mews that had slept clanged and shrieked far away — 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 roatners 7 of gallows or wheel Bore they marks, or the mangling anatomist's steel 7 328 No, by magistrates' chains 'mid tlieir 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 — 'T was the badge of their faction, its hue was not green — Showed them men who had trampled and tortured and driven To rebellion the fairest isle breathed on by Heaven, — Men whose heirs Avould yet finish the tyrannous task, If the Truth and the Time had not dragged off their mask. They parted — but not till the sight might discern A scutcheon distinct at their pinnace's stern. Where letters emblazoned in blood-colored flame Named their faction — I blot not my page with its name. «ONG. When Love came first to earth, the Spring Spread rose-beds to receive him, And back he vowed his flight he 'd wing To Heaven, if she should leave him. But Spring, departing, saw his faith Pledged to the next new comer — He revelled in the warmer breath And richer bowers of Summer. Then sportive Autumn claimed by rights An Archer for her lover. And even in Winter's dark cold nights A charm he could discover. aai SONG. Her routs and balls, and fireside joy, For this time were his reasons — In short, Young Love's a gallant boy, That likes all times and seasons. SONG. Earl March looked on his dying child, And, smit with grief to view her, The youth, he cried, whom I exiled, Shall be restored to woo her. She 's at the window many an hour His coming to discover : And he looked up to Ellen's bower, And 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. SONG. — LINES TO JULIA M . 325 SONG. When Napoleon was flying From the field of Waterloo, A British soldier dying To his brother bade adieu ! "And take," he said, "this token To the maid that owns my faith. With the words that I have spoken In affection's latest breath." Sore mourned the brother's heart, When the youth beside him fell : But the trumpet warned to part. And they took a sad farewell, There was many a friend, to lose him, For that gallant soldier sighed ; But the maiden of his bosom Wept when all their tears were dried. LINES TO JULIA M . SENT WITH A COPY OF THE AUTHOR 'S POEMS Since there is magic in your look, And in your voice a witching charm, As all our hearts consenting tell, Enchanti-ess, smile upon my book. And guard its lays from hate and harm By beauty's most resistless spell. 28 326 DRINKING-SONG OF MUNICH. The sunny dew-drop of thy praise, Young day-star of the rising time, Shall with its odoriferous morn Refresh my sere and withered bays. Smile, and I will believe my rhyme Shall please the beautiful unborn. Go forth, my pictured thoughts, and rise In traits and tints of sweeter tone, ^Vhen Julia's glance is o'er ye flung ; Glow, gladden, linger in her eyes, And catch a magic not your own, Read by the music of her tongue. DRINKING-SONG OF MUNICH. Sweet Iser ! were thy sunny realm And flowery gardens mine, Thy waters I would shade with elm To prop the tender vine ; My golden flagons I would fill With rosy draughts from every hill ; And under every myrtle bower My gay companions should prolong The laugh, the revel, and the song, To many an idle hour. Like rivers crimsoned with the beam Of yonder planet bright. Our balmy cups should ever stream Profusion of delight ; 327 No care should touch the mellow heart, And sad or sober none depart ; For wine can triumph over woe, And Love and Bacchus, brother powers, Could build in Iser's sunny bowers A paradise below. LINES. (Jn the departure of emigrants for new soutu 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 'T was grief to nature honorably true. And long, poor wanderers o'er the ecliptic deep. The song that names but home shall make you weep : Oft shall ye fold your flocks by stars above In that far world, and miss the stars ye love ; Oft when its tuneless birds scream round forlorn, Regret the lark that gladdens England's morn, And, giving England's names to distant scenes, Lament that earth's extension intervenes. But cloud not yet too long, industrious train, Tour 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. 328 Undamped by dread that want may e'er unhousG; 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 o^vn, 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 the Antarctic pole. And what though doomed to shores so far apart From England's home, that even the homesick heart Quails, tiiinking, ere that gulf can be recrossed, How large a space of fleeting life is lost : Yet there, by time, their bosoms shall be changed, And strangers once shall cease to sigh estranged, But jocund in the year's long sunshine roam, That yields their sickle twice its harvest-home. There, marking o'er his farm's expanding ring New fleeces whiten and new fruits upspring, The gray-haired swain, his grandchild sporting round Shall walk at eve his little empire's bound. Emblazed with ruby vintage, ripening corn, And verdant rampart of acacian thorn. While, mingling with the scent his pipe exhales. The orange grove's and fig-tree's breath prevails ; Survey with pride beyond a monarch's spoil. His honest arm's own subjugated soil ; 829 And, summing all the blessings God has given, Put up hjs patriarchal prayer to Heaven, That, when his bones shall here repose in peace; The scions of his love may still increase. And o'er a land where life has ample room In health and plenty innocently bloom. Delightful land, in wildness even benign, The glorious past is ours, the future thine ! As in a cradled Hercules, we trace The lines of empire in thine infant face. What nations in thy wide horizon's span Shall teem on tracts untrodden yet by man ! What spacious cities with their spires shall gleam, Where now the panther laps a lonely stream, And all but brute or reptile life is dumb ! Land of the free ! thy kingdom is to come, Of states, with laws from Gothic bondage burst, And creeds by chartered priesthoods unaccurst : Of navies, hoisting their emblazoned flags, Where shipless seas now wash unbeaconed craga ; Of hosts reviewed in dazzling files and squares. Their pennoned trumpets breathing native airs, — For minstrels thou shalt have of native fire. And maids to sing the songs themselves inspire : — Our very speech, methinks, in after-time. Shall catch the Ionian blandness of thy clime ; And, whilst the light and luxury of thy skies Give brighter smiles to beauteous woman's eyes. The Arts, whose soul is love, shall all spontaneous rise. Untracked in deserts lies the marble mine, Ilndug the ore that 'midst thy roofs shall shine ; 28* 330 LINES. Unborn the hands — but born thej are to be — Fair Australasia, that shall give to thee Proud temple-domes, with galleries winding high, So vast in space, so just in symmetry, They widen to the contemplating eye, With colonnaded aisles in long array, And windows that enrich the flood of day O'er tessellated pavements, pictures fair. And niched statues breathing golden air. Nor there, whilst all that 's seen bids Fancy swell. Shall Music's voice refuse to seal the spell ; But choral hymns shall wake enchantment round, And organs yield their tempests of sweet sound. Meanwhile, ere Arts triumphant reach their goal, How blest the years of pastoral life shall roll ! Even should some wayward hour the settler's mind Brood sad on scenes forever left behind. Yet not a pang that England's name imparts Shall touch a fibre of his children's hearts ; Bound to that native land by nature's bond, Full little shall their wishes rove beyond Its mountains blue, and melon-skirted streams. Since childhood loved and dreamt of in their dreams. IIow many a name, to us uncouthly wild, Shall thrill that region's patriotic child, And bring as sweet thoughts o'er his bosom's chords As aught that 's named in song to us affords ! Dear shall that river's margin be to him. Where sportive first he bathed his boyish limb, Or petted birds, still brighter than their bowers. Or twined his tame young kangaroo with flowers. LINES. 331 But more magnetic yet to memory Shall be the sacred spot, still blooming nigh, The bower of love, where first his bosom burned, And smiling passion saw its smile returned. Go forth and prosper, then, emprising band : May He, who in the hollow of his hand The ocean holds, and rules the whirlwind's sweep, Assuage its wrath, and guide you on the deep ! LINES ON REVISITING CATHCART. ! 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 I Then, then every rapture was young and sincere, Ere the sunshine of bliss was bedimmed by a tear, And a sweeter delight every scene seemed to lend, That the mansion of peace was the home of 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. 332 THE CHERUBS. THE CHERUBS. SUGGESTED BY AN APOLOGUE IN THE WORKS OF FRANKLIN. Two spirits reached this world of ours : The lightning's locomotive powers Were slow to their agility : In broad day-light they moved incog., Enjoying, Avithout mist or fog, Entire invisibility. The one, a simple cherub lad, Much interest in our planet had, Its face was so romantic ; He could n't persuade himself that man Was such as heavenly rumors ran, A being base and frantic. The elder spirit, wise and cool, Brought down the youth as to a school ; But strictly on condition. Whatever they should see or hear, With mortals not to interfere ; 'T was not in their commission. They reached a sovereign city proud, "^Vhose emperor prayed to God aloud. With all his people kneeling, And priests performed religious rites : " Come," said the younger of the sprites, " This shows a pious feeling." YOUNG SPIRIT. " At' n't these a decent godly race ? " THE CHERUBS. OLD SPIRIT. "The dirtiest thieves on Nature's face." TOtING SPIRIT. " But hark, what cheers they 're giving Their emperor ! — And is he a thief? " OLD SPIRIT. • " Ay, and a cut-throat too ; — in brief, The greatest scoundrel living." TOUNG SPIRIT. " But say, what were they praying for, This people and their emperor '? " OLD SPIRIT. " Why, but for God's assistance To help their army, late sent out : And what that army is about You '11 see at no great distance." On wings outspeeding mail or post, Our sprites o'ertook the Imperial host, In massacres it wallowed : A noble nation met its hordes, But broken fell their cause and swords. Unfortunate, though hallowed. They saw a late bombarded town. Its streets still warm with blood ran down; Still smoked each burning rafter ; And hideously, 'midst rape and sack. The murderer's laughter answered back His prey's convulsive laughter. 333 334 THE CHERUBS. They saw the captive eye the dead, With envy of his gory bed, — Death's quick reward of bravery: They heard the clank of chains, and then Saw thirty thousand bleeding men Dragged manacled to slavery. " Fie ! fie ! " the younger heavenly spark Exclaimed : — '* we must have missed our marl And entered hell's own portals : Earth can't be stained with crimes so black ; Nay, sure, we 've got among a pack Of fiends, and not of mortals 1 " " No." said the elder ; "no such thing : Fiends are not fools enough to wrinw The necks of one another : — They know their interests too well : Men fight ; but every devil in hell Lives friendly with his brother. And I could point you out some fellows, On this ill-fated planet Tellus, In royal power that revel ; Who, at the opening of the book Of judgment, may have cause to look With envy at the devil." Name but the devil, and he '11 appear. Old Satan in a trice was near, With smutty fiice and figure : But spotless spirits of the skies, Unseen to e'en his saucer eyes. Could watch the fiendish nigger. SENEX'S SOLILOQUY ON HIS YOUTHFUL IDOL. 335 " Halloo ! " he cried, " I smell a trick : A mortal supersedes Old Nick, The scourge of earth appointed : He robs me of my trade, outrants The blasphemy of hell, and vaunts Himself the Lord's anointed ! Folks make a fuss about my mischief, D d fools ! they tamely suffer this chief To play his pranks unbounded." The cherubs flew ; but saw, from high. At human inhumanity The devil himself astounded. SENEX'S SOLILOQUY ON HIS YOUTHFUL IDOL. Platonic friendship at your years, Says Conscience, should content ye : Nay, name not fondness to her ears, The darling 's scarcely twenty. Yes, and she '11 loathe me unforgiven, To dote thus out of season ; But beauty is a beam from heaven, That dazzles blind our reason. I'll challenge Plato from the skies, Yes, from his spheres harmonic, To look in M— y C 's eyes, And try to be Platonic. 336 TO SIR FRANCIS BURDETT. TO SIR FRANCIS BURDETT, ON HIS SPEECU DELIVERED IN PARLIAMENT, AUGUST 7,1832, RESPECTINa THE FOREIGN POUCY OF GREAT BRITAIN. BURBETT, enjoy thy justly foremost fame, Througli good and ill report — through calm and storm — For forty years the pilot of reform ! But that which shall afresh entwine thy name Witli patriot laurels never to be sere, Is that thou hast come nobly forth to chide Our slumbering statesmen for their lack of pride — Their flattery of Oppressors, and their fear — When Britain's lifted finger, and her frown, Might call the nations up, and cast their tyrants down ! Invoke the scorn — alas ! too few inherit The scorn for despots cherished by our sires. That baflled Europe's persecuting fires, And sheltered helpless states ! — Recall that spirit, And conjure back Old England's haughty mind — Convert the men who waver now, and pause Between their love of self and humankind ; And move, Amphion-like, those hearts of stone — The hearts that have been deaf to Poland's dying groan ! Tell them we hold the Rights of Man too dear. To bless ourselves with lonely freedom blest ; But could we hope, with sole and selfish breast, To breathe untroubled Freedom's atmosphere 7 — Suppose we wished it? England could not stand A lone oasis in the desert ground Of Europe's slavery ; from the waste around, Oppression's fiery blast and whirling sand ODE TO THE GERMANS. 337 Would reach and scathe us ? No ; it may not be : Britannia and the world conjointly must be free ! Burdett, demand why Britons send abroad Soft greetings to the infanticidal Czar, The Bear on Poland's babes that wages war. Once, we are told, a mother's shriek o'erawed A lion, and he dropped her lifted child ; But Nicholas, whom neither God nor law, Nor Poland's shrieking mothers, overawe, Outholds to us his friendship's gory clutch : [touch ! Shrink, Britain, — shrink, my king and country, from the He prays to Heaven for England's king, he says — And dares he to the God of mercy kneel. Besmeared with massacres from head to heel 1 No ; Moloch is his god — to him he prays ; And if his weird-like prayers had power to bring An influence, their power would be to curse. His hate is baleful, but his love is worse — A serpent's slaver deadlier than its sting ! ! feeble statesmen — ignominious times. That lick the tyrant's feet, and smile upon his crimes ! ODE TO THE GERMANS. The spirit of Britannia Invokes across the main Her sister Allemannia To burst the tyrant's chain : By our kindred blood, she cries, Rise, Allemannians, rise, '29 ODE TO THE GERMANS. And hallowed thrice the band Of our kindred hearts shall be, When your land shall be the land Of the free — of the free ! With Freedom's lion-banner Britannia rules the waves ; Whilst your broad stone of honor Is still the camp of slaves. For shame, for glory's sake, Wake, Allemannians, wake, And thy tyrants now that whelm Half the world shall quail and flee, When 3'^our realm shall be 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 clock ye framed to tell, By its sound, the march of time ; Let it clang Oppression's knell O'er your clime — o'er your clime ! The press's magic letters, That blessing ye brought forth, — Behold ! it lies in fetters On the soil that gave it birth : But the trumpet must be heard. And the charger must be spurred ; 339 For your father Armin's Sprite Calls down from heaven, that ye Shall gird you for the fight, And be free ! — and be free ! LINES ON A PICTURE OF A GIRL IN THE ATTITUDE OF PRATER. [By the artist Gruse, in the possession of Lady Stepney.] Was man e'er doomed that beauty made By mimic heart should haimt him ; Like Orpheus, I adore a shade, And dote upon a phantom. Thou maid that in my inmost thought Ai't fancifully sainted, Why liv'st thou not — why art thou naught 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. 340 LINES. Transported to thy time I seem, Though dust thy coffin covers — And hear the songs in fancy's dream, Of thy devoted lovei*s. How -witching must have been thy breath How sweet the living charmer — Whose every semblance after death Can make tlie heart grow warmer ! Adieu, the charms that vainly move My soul in their possession — That prompt my lips to speak of love, Yet rob them of expression. Yet thee, dear picture, to have praised Was but a poet's duty ; And shame to him that ever gazed Impassive on thy beauty ! LINES ON THE VIEW FROM ST. LEONARD'S. Hail to thy face and odors, glorious Sea ! 'T were thanklessness in me to bless thee not, Great beauteous Being ! m 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. 341 Even gladly I exchange yon spring-green lanes, With all the darling field-flowers in their prime, And gardens haunted by the nightingale's Long trills and gushing ecstasies 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 savannas. — Earth has not a plain So boundless or so beautiful as thine ; The eagle's vision cannot take it in : The lightning's wing, too weak to sweep its space, Sinks half-way o'er it like a wearied bird • It is the mirror of the stars, where all Their hosts within the concave firmament. Gay marching to the music of the spheres. Can see themselves at once. Nor on the stage Of rural landscape are there lights and shades Of more harmonious dance and play than thine. How vividly this moment brightens forth. Between gray parallel and leaden breadths, A belt of hues that stripes thee many a league, Flushed like the rainbow, or the ringdove's neck. And giving to the glancing sea-bird's wing The semblance of a meteor. Mighty Sea ! Chameleon -like thou changest, but thei'e 's love In all thy change, and constant sympathy With yonder Sky — thy Misti-ess ; from her brow Thou tiik'st thy moods and wear'st her colors on Thy faithful bosom ; morning's milky Avhite, 29* 342 LixES. Noon's sapphire, or the saffron glow of eve ; And all thy balmier hours, fail- 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 could'st subdue the Earth itself, And brook'st commandment from the heavens alone For marshalling thj waves — Yet, potent Sea ! How placidly thy moist lips speak even now Along yon sparkling shingles ! Who can be So fanciless as to feel no gratitude That power and grandeur can be so serene, Soothing the home-bound navy's peaceful way, And rocking even the fisher's little bark As gently as a mother rocks her child 7 — The inhabitants of other worlds behold Our orb more lucid for thy spacious share On earth's rotundity ; and is he not A blind worm in the dust, great Deep, the man T\'Tio sees not or who seeing has no joy Li thy magnificence 7 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 ! LINES. 348 The Spirit of the Universe in thee Is visible ; thou hast in thee the life — The eternal, graceful, and majestic life Of nature, and the natural human heart Is therefore bound to thee with holy love. Earth has her gorgeous towns ; the earth-circling sea Has spires and mansions more amusive still — Men's volant homes that measure liquid space On wheel or wing. The chariot of the land With pained and panting steeds and clouds of dust Has no sight-gladdening motion like these fair Careerers with the foam beneath their bows. Whose streaming ensigns charm the waves by day, Whose carols and whose watch-bells cheer the night Moored as they cast the shadows of their masts In long array, or hither flit and yond Mysteriously with slow and crossing lights. Like spirits on the darkness of the deep. There is a magnet-like attraction in These waters to the imaginative power That links the viewless with the visible. And pictures things unseen. To realms beyond Yon highway of the world my fancy flies. When by her tall and triple mast we know Some noble voyager that has to woo The trade-winds and to stem the ecliptic surge. The coral groves — the shores of conch and pearly 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 344 Lit boundless hy the fire-fly — all the smells Of trojjic fruits that Avill 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 checkers not its usefulness to man With casual terror 7 Scathes not earth sometimes Her children with Tartarean fires, or shakes Their shrieking cities, and, with one last clang Of bells for their o^vn ruin, strews them flat As riddled ashes — silent as the grave 7 Walks not Cont;igion on the Air itself 7 I should old Ocean's Saturnalian days, And roaring nights of revelry and sport, With wreck and human woe, be loth to sing ; For they are few, and all their ills weigh light Against his sacred usefulness, that bids Our pensile globe revolve in purer air. Here Morn and Eve with blushing thanks receive Their freshening dews, gay fluttering breezes cool Their wings to fan the brow of fevered climes. And here the Spring dips down her emerald urn For showers to glad the earth. Old Ocean was Infinity of ages ere we breathed Existence — and he will be beautiful When all the living world that sees him now Shall roll unconscious dust around the sun. Quelling from age to age the vital throb THE DEAD EAGLE. 345 In human hearts, Death shall not subjugate The pulse that swells in his stupendous breast, Or interdict his minstrelsj to sound In thundering concert with the quiring winds ; But long as Man to parent Nature owns Instinctive homage, and in times beyond The power of thought to reach, bard after bard Shall sing thj glory, Beatific Sea ! THE DEAD EAGLE. WRITTEN AT ORAN. Fallen as he is, this king of birds still seems Like royalty in ruins. Though his eyes Are shut that look undazzled on the sun, He was the sultan of the sky, and earth Paid tribute to his eyry. It was perched Higher than human conqueror ever built His bannered fort. Where Atlas' top looks o'er Sahara's desert to the equator's line : From thence the winged despot marked his prey, Above the encampments of the Bedouins, ere Their watch-fires were extinct, or camels knelt To take their loads, or horsemen scoured the plain,- And there he dried his feathers in the dawn, Whilst yet the unwakened world was dark below. There 's such a charm in natural strength and powei j That human fancy has forever paid Poetic homage to the bird of Jove. Hence, 'neath his image, Rome arrayed her turms 346 THE DEAD EAGLE. And cohorts for the conquest of the world. And figuring his flight, the mind is filled With thoughts that mock the pride of wingless man. True the carred aeronaut can mount as high ; But what 's the triumph of his volant art 7 A rash intrusion on the realms of air. His helmless vehicle, a silken toy, A bubble bursting in the thunder-cloud ; His course has no volition, and he drifts The passive plaything of the winds. Not such Was this proud bird : he clove the adverse storm, And cuffed it with his wings. He stopped his flight As easily as the Arab reins his steed, And stood at pleasure 'neath Heaven's zenith, like A lamp suspended from its azure dome. Whilst underneath him the world's mountains lay Like mole-hills, and her streams like lucid threads. Then downward, faster than a falling star. He neared the earth, until his shape distinct Was blackly shadowed on the sunny ground ; And deeper terror hushed the wilderness. To hear his nearer whoop. Then, up again He soared and wheeled. There was an air of scorn In all his movements, whether he threw round His crested head to look behind him ; or Lay vertical and sportively displayed The inside whiteness of his wing declined, Li gyres and undulations full of grace, An object beautifying Heaven itself. He — reckless who was victor, and above The hearing of their guns — saw fleets engaged THE DEAD EAGLE. 347 In flaming combat. It was naught to him What carnage, Moor or Christian, strewed their decks. But if his intellect had matched his wings, Methinks he would have scorned man's vaunted power To plough the deep ; his pinions bore him down To Algiers the warlike, or the coral groves, That blush beneath the green of Bona's waves; And traversed in an hour a wider space Than yonder gallant ship, with all her sails Wooing the winds, can cross from morn till eve. His bright ejes were his compass, earth his chart, His talons anchored on the stormiest cliff. And on the very light-house rock he perched, When winds churned white the waves. The earthquake's self Disturbed not him that memorable day, When, o'er yon table-land, where Spain had built Cathedrals, cannoned forts, and palaces, A palsy-stroke of Nature shook Oran, Turning her city to a sepulchre. And strewing into rubbish all her homes ; Amidst whose traceable foundations now, Of streets and squares, the hyena hides himself. That hour beheld him fly as careless o'er The stifled shrieks of thousands buried quick, As lately when he pounced the speckled snake, Coiled in yon mallows and wide nettle fields That mantle o'er the dead old Spanish town. Strange is the imagination's dread delight In objects linked with danger, death, and pain ! Fresh from the luxuries of polished life, 348 The echo of these wilds enchanted me ; And mj heart beat with joy when first I heard A lion's roar come down the Ljbian wind, Across yon long, wide, lonely inland lake. Where boat ne'er sails from homeless shore to shore. And yet Numidia's landscape has its spots Of pastoral pleasantness — though far between, The village planted near the Maraboot's Round roof has aye its feathery palm-trees Paired, for in solitude they bear no fruits. Here nature's hues all harmonize — fields white With alasum, or blue with bugloss — banks Of glossy fennel, blent with tulips wild. And sun-flowers, like a garment prankt Avith gold; Acres and miles of opal asphodel, Where sports and couches the blaek-eyed gazelle. Here, too, the air 's harmonious — deep-toned doves Coo to the fife-like carol of the lark ; And when they cease, the holy nightingale Winds up his long, long shakes of ecstasy, With notes that seem but the protracted sounds Of glassy runnels bubbling over rocks. SONG. To Love in my heart, I exclaimed, t' other morning, Thou hast dwelt here too long, little lodger, take warning Thou shalt tempt me no more from my life's sober duty, To go gadding, bewitched by the young eyes of beauty, For weary 's the wooing, ah, weary ! When an old man will have a young dearie. 849 The god left my heart, at its surlj reflections, But came back on pretext of some sweet recollections. And he made me forget what I ought to remember, That the rose-bud of June cannot bloom in November. Ah ! Tom, 't is all o'er with thy gay days — Write psalms, and not songs, for the ladies. But time 's been so far from my wisdom enriching. That the longer I live, beauty seems more bewitching ; And the only new lore my experience traces, Is to find fresh enchantment in magical faces. How weary is wisdom, how weary ! When one sits by a smiling young dearie ! And should she be wroth that my homage pursues her, I will turn and retort on my lovely accuser ; Who's to blame, that my heart by your image is haunted?- It is you, the enchantress — not I, the enchanted. Would you have me behave more discreetly, Beauty, look not so killingly sweetly. LINES WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF LA PEROUSe'S VOYAGES. Loved Voyager ! his pages had a zest More sweet than fiction to my wondering breast. When, rapt in fancy, many a boyish day I tracked his wanderings o'er the watery way. Roamed round the Aleutian isles in waking dreams, Or plucked the Jieu7'-de-lys by Jesse's streams — 30 350 Or gladly leaped on that far Tartar strand, Where Europe's anchor ne'er had hit the sand, Where scarce a roving wild tribe crossed the plain, Or human voice broke nature's silent reign ; But vast and grassj 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 Avith La Perouse's name.— Fair were his ships, expert his gallant crews, And glorious was the emprise of La Perouse, — Humanely glorious ! Men will weep for him. When many a guilty martial fame is dim : He ploughed the deep to bind no captive's chain — Pui-sued no rapine — strewed no wreck with slain ; And, save that in the deep themselves lie low, His heroes plucked no wreath from human woe. 'T was his the earth's remotest bound to scan. Conciliating with gifts barbaric man — Enrich the world's contemporaneous mind, And amplify the picture of mankind. Far on the vast Pacific — 'midst those isles. O'er which the earliest morn of Asia smiles, He sounded and gave charts to many a shore And gulf of Ocean new to nautic lore ; Yet he, that led Discovery o'er the wave, Still fills himself an undiscovered grave. He came not back, — Conjecture's cheek grew pale, Year after year — in no propitious gale, His lilied banner held its homeward way. And Science saddened at her martyr's stay. LINES. 351 An age elapsed — no ■wreck told wliere or when The chief went down with all his gallant men, Or whether bj the storm and wild sea flood lie perished, or by wilder men of blood — The shuddering Fancy only guessed his doom, And Doubt to Sorrow gave but deeper gloom. An age elapsed — when men were dead or gray, Whose hearts had mourned him. in their youthful day ; Fame traced on Mannicolo's shore at last, The boiling surge had mounted o'er his mast. The islemen told of some surviving men. But Christian eyes beheld them ne'er again. Sad bourn 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 7 — 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 the 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 WTcath could glory twine T) His watery course — a world-encircling line. 352 TUE PILGRIM OF GLEXCOE. THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. I received the substance of the tradition on which this poem is founded, in the first Instance, from a friend in London, who wrote to Matthew N. Macdonald, Esq., of Edin- burgh, lie bad the kindness to send me a circumstantial account of the tradition ; and that gentleman's knonieilge of the Highlands, as well as his particular acquaintance witli the district of Olencoe, leave me no doubt of the incident having really happened. I have not departed from the main facts of the tradition as reported to me by Mr. Macdonald ; only I have endeavored to color the personages of the story, and to make them as distinctive as possible. The sunset sheds a horizontal smile O'er Highland frith and Ilebridean isle, While, gay with gaml)ol3 of its finny shoals, The glancing wave rejoices as it rolls With streamercd busses, that distinctly shine All downward, pictured in the glassy brine ; Whose crews, with faces brightening in the sun, Keep measure with their oars, and all in one Strike up the old Gaelic song. — Sweep, rowers, sweep ! The fisher's glorious spoils are in the deep. Day sinks — but twilight owes the traveller soon, To reach his bourn, a round unclouded moon, Bespeaking long undarkened hours of time ; False hope — the Scots are steadfiist — not their clime. A war-worn soldier from the western land Seeks Cona's vale by Ballihoula's strand ; The vale, by eagle-haunted clifis o'erhung. Where Fingal fought and Ossian's harp was strung — ■ Our veteran's forehead, bronzed on sultry plains, Had stood the brunt of thirty fought campaigns ; He well could vouch the sad romance of wars. And count the dates of battles by liis scars ; THE PILGRIM OF GLEXCOE. 353 For lie had served where o'er and o'er again Britannia's oriflamme had lit the plain Of glory — and victorious stamped her name On Oudenarde's and Blenheim's fields of fame. Nine times in battle-field his blood had streamed, Yet vivid still his veteran blue eye gleamed ; Full well he bore his knapsack unoppressed, And marched with soldier-like erected crest : Nor sign of even loquacious age he wore, Save when he told his life's adventures o'er ; Some tired of these ; for terms to him were dear Too tactical by far for vulgar ear ; As when he talked of rampart and ravine. And trenches fenced with gabion and fascine — But when his theme possessed him all and whole, He scorned proud puzzling words, and warmed the soul; Hushed groups hung on his lips with fond surprise, That sketched old scenes — like pictures to their eyes: — The wide war-plain, with banners glowing bright, And bayonets to the furthest stretch of sight ; The pause, more dreadful than the peal to come From volleys blazing at the beat of drum — Till all the field of thundering lines became Two level and confronted sheets of flame. Then to the charge, when Marlbro's hot pursuit Trode France's gilded lilies underfoot ; He came and kindled — and with martial lung Would chant the very march their trumpets sung. — The old soldier hoped, ere evening's light should fail, To reach a home, south-east of Cona's vale ; 30* 354 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. But looking at Bennevis, capped with snow, He saw its mists come curling down below. And spread white darkness o'er the sunset glow ; — Fast rolling like tempestuous Ocean's spraj, Or clouds from troops in battle's fiery day — So dense, his quarry 'scaped the falcon's sight. The owl alone exulted, hating light. Benighted thus our pilgrim groped his ground. Half 'twixt the river's and the cataract's sound. At last a sheep-dog's bark informed his ear Some human habitation might be near ; Anon shecp-bleatings rose from rock to rock, — 'T was Luath hounding to their fold the flock. Ere long the cock's obstreperous clarion rang, And next, a maid's sweet voice, that spinning sang : At last amidst the green-sward (gladsome sight !) A cottage stood, with straw-roof golden bright. He knocked, was welcomed in ; none asked his name, Nor whitlier he was bound nor whence he came ; But he was beckoned to the stranger's seat, Right side the chimney fire of blazing peat. Blest Hospitality makes not her home. In walled parks and castellated dome ; She flies the city's needy, greedy crowd. And shuns still more the mansions of the proud ; — The balm of savage or of simple life, A wild-flower cut by culture's polished knife ! The house, no common sordid shieling cot, Spoke inmates of a comfortable lot. The Jacobite white rose festooned their door ; The windows sashed and glazed, the oaken floor, THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 355 The chimney graced with antlers of the deer, The rafters hung with meat for winter cheer. And all the mansion, indicated plain Its master a superior shepherd SAvain. Their supper came — the table soon was spread With eggs and milk and cheese and barley bread. The family were three — a father hoar. Whose age you 'd guess at seventy years or more. His son looked fifty — cheerful like her lord His comely wife presided at the board ; All three had that peculiar courteous grace Which marks the meanest of the Highland race ; Warm hearts that burn alike in weal and woe. As if the north-wind fanned their bosoms' glow ! But wide unlike their souls : old Norman's eye Was proudly savage even in courtesy. His sinewy shoulders — each, though aged and lean, Broad as the curled Herculean head between, — His scornful lip, his eyes of yellow fire. And nostrils that dilated quick with ire. With ever downward-slanting shaggy brows, Marked the old lion you would dread to rouse. Norman, in truth, had led his earlier life In raids of red revenge and feudal strife ; Religious duty in revenge he saw, Proud Honor's right and Nature's honest law ; First in the charge and foremost in pursuit. Long-breathed, deep-chested, and in speed of foot A match for stags — still fleeter when the prey Was man, in persecution's evil day ; 356 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. Cheered to that chase bj brutal bold Dundee, No Highland hound had lapped more blood than he. Oft had he changed the covenanter's breath From howls of psalmody to howls of death ; And though long bound to peace, it irked him still His dirk had ne'er one hated foe to kill. Yet Norman had fierce virtues, that would mock Cold-blooded tories of the modern stock Who starve the breadless poor with fraud and cant ; - He slew and saved them from the pangs of want. Nor was his solitary lawless charm Mere dauntlessness of soul and strength of arm ; He had his moods of kindness now and then, And feasted even well-mannered lowland men Who blew not up his Jacobitish flame, ' Nor prefaced with " pretender " Charles's name. Fierce, but by sense and kindness not unwon, He loved, respected even, his wiser son ; And brooked from him expostulations sage. When all advisers else were spurned with rage. Far happier times had moulded Ronald's mind, By nature too of more sagacious kind. His breadth of brow, and Roman shape of chin, Square's dreary mines. Mr. Bell of Antermony, in his travels through Siberia, informs us that the name of the country is universally pronounced Sibir by the Russians. Page 114, line 16. 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 natm'e by the blasphemous thanks offered up to Heaven for victories obtained over men fighting in the sacred cause of liberty, by murderers and oppressors, are events generally known. Page 119, line 19. The shrill horn blew ; The negroes in the West Indies are summoned to their morning work by a shell or horn Page 120, line 6. How long was Timour''s iron sceptre swayed, To elucidate this passage, I shall subjoin a quotation from the preface to Letters from a Dindoo Bajah, a work of elegance and celebrity. NOTES. 451 " Tte impostor of Mecca had established, as one of tlie iiriticiples 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 desolation, directed its baneful coui-se to the flourishing provinces of Hindostan Here these fierce and hardy adventurers, whose only improvement had been in the science of destruction, who added the fury of fanaticism to the ravages of war, found the great end of their conquest opposed by objects which neither the ardor of their persever- ing zeal, nor savage barbarity, could surmount. Multitudes were sacrificed by the cruel hand of religious persecution, and whole countries were deluged in blood, in the vain hope that, by the destruction of a part, the remainder might be persuaded, or terrified, into the profession of Mahometanism. But all these sanguinary efforts were ineffectual ; and at length, being fully convinced that, though they might extirpate, they could never hope tc convert, any nmnber of the Hindoos, they relinquished the impracticable idea with which they had entered upon their career of conquest, and contented themselves with the acquirement of the civil dominion and almost universal empire of Hindostan." — Letters from a Hindoo Rajah, by Eliza Hamilton. Page 120, Une 20. And braved the stormy Spirit of the Cape ; See the description of the Cape of Good Hope, translated from Camoens, by Mickle. Page 121, Une 2. While famished nations died along the shore .• The following account of British conduct and its consequences in Bengal will afford a sufficient idea of the fact alluded to in this passage. After describing the monopoly of salt, betel-nut and tobacco, the historian proceeds thus : — " Money in this current came but by drops ; it could not quench the thirst of those who waited in India to receive it. An expedient, such as it was, remained to quicken its pace. The natives could live with little salt, but could not want food. Some of the agents saw themselves well situated for collecting the rice into stores ; they did so. They knew the Qentoos would rather die than violate the principles of their religion by eating flesh. The alternative would therefore be between giving what they had, or dying. The inhabit- ants sunk ; — they that cultivated the land, and saw the harvest at the disposal of others, planted in doubt, — scarcity ensued. Then the monopoly was easier managed — sickness ensued. In some districts the languid living left the bodies of their numerous dead unburied." — Short History of the English Transactions in the East Indies, p. 145. Page 121, Une 17. Nine times have Brama's wheels of lightning hurled His awful presence o''er the alarmed U'orld ; Among the sublime fictions of the Hindoo mythology, it is one article of belief, that the Deity Brama has descended nine times upon the world in various forms, and that he is yet to appear a tenth time, in the figure of a warrior upon a white horse, to cut ofif all L (Corrigible offenders. Avater is the word used to express his descent. Page 122, Une 4. Shall Seriswattee wave her hallowed wand ! And Camdeo bright, and Ganesa sublime, Camdeo is the God of Love in the mythology of the Hindoos. Ganesa and Seriswattee correspond to the pagan deities Janus and Minerva 452 NOTES. Page 126, Une 28. The noon of manhood to a myrtle shade ! Sacred to Venus is the myrtle shade. — Detden. Page 129, line 21. Thy woes, Arion ! Falconer, in his poem " The Shipwreck," speaks of himself by the name of Arioa. See Falconer's " Shipwreck," Canto lU. Page 130, line 2. The robber Moor, See Schiller's tragedy of the " Robbers," Scene V. Page 130, line 20. What millions died — that Ctesar might be great ! The carnage occasioned by the wars of Julius Caesar has beeu usually estimated at two millions of men. Page 130, Une 22. Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore, Marched by their Charles to Dneiper^s swampy shore; " In this extremity" (says the biographer of Charles XII. of Sweden, spealdng of his military e.xploits before the battle of Pultowa), " the memorable winter of 1709, which was still more remarkable in that part of Europe than in France, destroyed numbers of his iroops ; for Charles resolved to brave the seasons as he had done his enemies, and ven- tured to make long marches during this mortal cold. It was in one of these marches that two thousand men fell down dead with cold Ijefore his eyes." Page 131, line 13. For, as lona^s saint. The natives of the island of lona have an opinion, that on certain evenings every year the tutelary saint Columba is seen on the top of the church spires counting the surround- ing islands, to see that they have not been sunk by the power of witchcraft Page 131, Une 32. And part, like Ajut — never to return ! See the history of Ajut and Anningait, in " The Rambler." THEODRIC. Page 140, Une 3. 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 splendor and subUmity given by Bourrit and other :n-otes. 453 describers of Swiss scenery. Possibly Bourrit, who had spent his life in an enamored familiarity with the beauties of nature iu Switzerland, may have leaned to the romantic Bide of description. One can pardon a man for a sort of idolatry of those imposing objects of natui-e 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 reservou-s which supply the principal rivers of Europe ; and their annual melting is in proportion to the summer heat which dries up those rivers and makes them need that supply. That the picturesque grandeur of the glaciers should sometimes disappoint the traveller, will not seem surprising to any one who has been much in a mountainous country, and recollects that the beauty of natui-e in such countries is not only variable, but capri- ciously dependent on the weather and sunshine. There are about four hundred different glaciers,* according to the computation of M. Bourrit, between Mont Blanc and the fron tiers 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 lights of the atmosphere ; and the very heat which illuminates them must have a changing influence on many of their appear ances. I imagine it is owing to this ch-cumstance, namely, the casualty and changeable ness of the appearance of some of the glaciers, that the impressions made by them on the minds of other and more transient travellers have been less enchanting than those described by 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 e.xisted, between the Kandel Steig and Lauterbrun, " a passage amidst singular gla ciers, sometimes resembling magical towns of ice, with pilasters, pyramids, columns and obelisks, reflecting to the sun the most brilliant hues of the finest gems." — M. Bourrit's description of the Glacier of the Rhone is quite enchanting : — "To form an idea," he says, " of this superb spectacle, figure in your mind a scaffolding of transparent ice, fill- ing 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 surprismg. 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 im- mensity and the height; — the most beautiful azure — the most splendid white — the regular appearance of a thousand pyramids of ice, are more easy to be imagined than described." — Bourrit, iii. 163. Page 140, line 9. From heights broivsed by the bounding bouquetin ; Laborde, in his " Tableau de la Suisse," gives a curious account of this animal, the wild sharp cry and elastic movements of which must heighten the picturesque appearance of its haunts. — "Nature," says Laborde, "has destined it to mountains covered with snow ; if it is not exposed to keen cold, it becomes blind. Its agility in leaping much surpasses that of the chamois, and would appear incredible to those who have not seen it. There is not a mountain so high or steep to which it will not trust itself, provided it has room to place its feet ; it can scramble along the highest wall, if its sui'face be rugged." Page 140, Une 15. enamelled moss. The moss of Switzerland, as well as that of the Tyrol, is remarkable for a bright Bmoothness, approaching to the appearamce of enamel. • Occupying, if taken together, a surface of one hundred and thirty srjuare leagues. 454 NOTES. Page 144, line 17. How dear seemed even the rvaste and wild Shreckhorn The Shreckhorn means, in German, the Peak of Terror. Page 144, line 22. Blindfold his native hills he could have known ! I have here availed myself of a atriking expression of the Emperor Napoleon respect- ing his recollections of Corsica, which is recorded m Las Cases' History of the Emperor's Abode at St. Helena. O'CONNOll'S CHILD. Page 167, line 1. Innis/ail, the ancient name of Ireland. Page 168, Une 3. Kerne, the plural of Kern, an Irish foot-soldier. In this sense the word is used by Shakspeare. Oaitisford, in his Glories of Enu'Iand, says, " They (the Irish) are desperate in revenge, and their kerne think no man dead until his head be off." Page 16S, line 22. ihieling, a rude cabin or hut. Page 168, line 28. In Brings yellow vesture clad, Yellow, dyed from saffron, was the favorite color of the ancient Irish. When the Irish cliieftains came to make terms with Queen Elizabeth's lord-lieutenant, we are told by Sir John Davis that they came to court in saffron-colored uniforms. Page 169, line 14. Mdrat, a drink made of the juice of mulberry mixed with honey. Page 170, line 14. Their tribe, they said, their high degree, Was sung in Turd's psaltery ; The i)ride of the Irish in ancestry was so great, that one of the O'Neals being told that Barret of Castlemone had been there only four hundred years, he replied that he hated the clown as if he had come there but yesterday. Tara was the place of assemblage and feasting of the petty princes of Ireland. Very splendid and fabulous descriptions are given by the Irish historians of the pomp and luxury of those meetings. The psaltery of Tara was the grand national register of Ire- land. The grand epoch of poUtical eminence in the early history of the Irish is the reign 455 of their great and favorite monarch, Ollara Fodlah, who reigned, according to Keating, about nine hundred and fifty years before the Christian era. Under him was instituted the great Fes at Tara, which it is pretended was a triennial convention of tlie states, or a parliament ; the members of which were the Druids, and other learned men, wlio rejire- Bented the people in that assembly. Very minute aceounts are given by Irish annalists ol the magnificence and order of these entertauunents ; from wliich, if credible, we might collect the earUest traces of heraldry that occur in history. To preserve order and regu- larity 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, deUvered in their shields and targets, which were readily distinguished by the coats of arms emblazoned upon them. These were arranged by the grand marshal and principal herald, and hung upon the walls on the right side of the table ; and, upon entering the apartments, each member took his seat under his respective shield or target, without the slightest disturbance. The conclud- ing 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 examination and settle- ment of the annals of the kingdom. These were publicly rehearsed. When they had passed the approbation of the assembly, they were transcribed into the authentic chroni- cles of the nation, which was called the Register, or Psalter, of Tara. Col. VaUancey gives a translation of an old Irish fragment, found in Trinity College, Dublin, in which the palace of the above assembly is thvis described, as it existed in the reign of Cormac : " In the reign of Cormac, the palace of Tara was nine hundred feet square ; the diam- . eter of the surrounding rath, seven dice or casts of a dart ; it contained one hundred and fifty apartments ; one hundi'ed and fifty dormitories, or sleeping-rooms for guards, and si.xtj' men in each ; the height was twenty-seven cubits ; there were one hundred and fifty common drinking-horns, twelve doors, and one thousand guests daily, besides princes, orators, and men of science, engravers of gold and silver, carvers, modellers and nobles." The Irish description of the banqueting-liall is thus translated : " Twelve stalls or divis- ions in each wing ; sixteen attendants on each side, and two to each table ; one hundred guests in all." Page ItO, line 24. 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 gave a check to the English champion De Com-cy, so famous for his personal strength, and for cleaving a helmet at one blow of his sword, in the presence of the Kings of France and England, when the French champion declined the combat with him. Though ultimately conquered by the English under De Bourgo, the O'Connors had also humbled the pride of that name on a memorable occasion, namely, 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 projierties reserved by the Irish chiefs. Eath O'Connor, a near descendant of the famous Cathal, surnamed of the Bloody Hand, roso agamst the usurper, and defeated the English so severely, that their general died of chagrin after the battle. Page ITO, line 27. Or beal-fires for your jubilee Tlie month of May is to this day called Mi Deal tiennie, that is, the month cf Beal's fire, in the original language of Ireland, and hence, I beUeve, the name of the Beltan festival in 456 NOTES. tlje Highlands. These fires were lighted on the summits of mountains (the Irish antiqua- ries say) in honor of the sun ; and are supposed, by those conjecturing gentlemen, to prove the origin of the Irish from some nation wlio worshipped Baal or Belus. Many hills in Ireland still retain the name of Cnoc Greine, that is, the Hill of the Sun ; and on all are to be seen the ruins of druidical altars. Page 171, Une 20. And play my clarsheck by thy side. The clarshech, or harp, the principal musical instrument of the Hibernian bards, does not appear to ])e of Irish origin, nor indigenous to any of the British islands. The Britons undoubtedly were not acquainted with it during the residence of the Komans in their country, as in all their coins, on which musical instruments are represented, we see only the Roman lyre, and not the British teylin, or harp. Page 171, line 27. And saw at dawn the lofty bawn Bawn, from the Teutonic Bawen, — to con-struct and secure with branches of trees, — was 80 called because the primitive Celtic fortifications were made bj' digging a ditch, throwing up a rampart, aiid on the latter fixing stakes, which were interlaced with boughs of trees. This word is used by Spenser ; but it is inaccurately called by Mr. Todd, his annotator, an eminence. Page 174, Une 26. To speak the malison of heaven. If the wrath which I have ascribed to the heroine of this little piece should seem to exhibit her character as too unnaturally stripjied of patriotic and domestic affections, I must beg leave to plead the authority of Corneille in the representation of a similar pas- sion ; I allude to tlie denunciation of Camille, in the tragedy of " Horace." When Horace, accompanied by a soldier bearing the three swords of the Curiatii, meets his sis- ter, and invites her to congratulate him on his victory, she expresses only her grief, which he attril)utes 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 : " ciel ! qui vit jamais une pareille rage ! Crois-tu done que je sols insensible t. I'outrage, Que je souffre en mon sang ce mortel d^shonneur ? Aime, airae cette raort qui fait notre bonheur ; Et pr^fire du moins au souvenir d'un homme Ce que doit ta naissance aujc int6r6ts de Kome." At the mention of Rome, Camille breaks out into this apostrophe : " Rome, I'unique objet de mon ressentiment ! Rome, & qui vient ton bras d'immoler mon amant ! Rome qui t'a vu naitre et que ton cceur adore ! Rome enfin que je hais parce qu'elle t'honore i Puissent to/ 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 lat- ter, hunting in their usual light dress ; on his perceiving them, he sprang off for a hollow rock four or five miles distant, as they intercepted him from running homeward. He was so extremely swift and skilful with the gun, as to kill seven of them in the running fight before they were able to surround and take liftn. They carried him to tlieir country in sad triumph ; but, though he had tilled them with unconmion giief and shame for the loss of so many of their kindred, yet the love of martial virtue induced them to treat him, during tlieir long journey, with a great deal more civility than if he had acted the part Oi 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 occiision required, according to their law of justice, and at last he was formally condemned to die by the fiery torture. It might reasonably be imagined that what he had for some time gone through, by being fed with a scanty hand, a tedious march, lying at night on the bare ground, exposed to the changes of the weather, with his arms and legs extended in a pair of rough stocks, and suffering such punishment, on his 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 the white people, under similar circumstances ; but I never knew this with any of the Indians ; and this cool- lieaded, 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, unjjinioned, 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 iu a hurry, as many of the enemy were in the water, and others running very like bloodhounds in pursuit of him, and the bullets flying around him from the time he took to the river, yet his heart did not allow him to leave them abruptly, without taking leave in a formal manner, in return for the extraordinary favors they had done and intended to do to him. After slapping a part of his body in defiance to them (continues the autlior), he put up the shrill war-whoop, as his last salute, till some more convenient opportunity offered, NOTES. 465 and darted off in the manner of a beast broke loose from its torturing enemies. He continued his siieed so as to run, by about midnight of the same day, as far as liis eager pursuers were two days in reacliing. There he rested till he happily discovered five of tliose In- dians who had pursued him ; — he lay hid a little way off their camp, till they were sound asleep. Every circumstance of his situation occui-red to him, and inspired him with hero- ism, lie was naked, torn and hungi-y, and his enraged enemies were come up with him ; — but there was now everytliing to relieve his wants, and a fair opportunity to save his life, and get great honor and sweet revenge by cutting them off. Resolution, a convenient spot, and sudden sui-prise, would effect the main object of all his wishes and hopes. He accordingly crept, took one of their tomahawks, and killed them all on the spot, — clothed himself, 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 before day, with his back to a tree. As it were by instinct, when he found he was free from the pursviiug enemy, he made directly 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 evening of the second day, to the camp of their dead people, when the siglit gave them a greater shock than they had ever known before. In their chilled war-council they concluded that, as he had done such surprising things in his defence before he was captivated, and since that in his naked condition, and now was well armed, if they continued the pursuit he would spoil them all, for he surely was an enemy wizard, — and therefore they returned home. -^ Adair^s General Observations on the American Indians, p. 394. It is surprising (says the same author) to see the 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 toma- hawk, 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, ahd Uve in affluence. — Ibid, p. 410. Page 219, line 12. Moccasins are a sort of Indian buskins. Page 219, line 15. "Sleep, wearied one ! and in the dreamins; land Shouldst thou to-morrow with thy mother meet, There is nothing (says Charlevoix) in which these barbarians carry their superstitions further than in what regards dreams ; but they vary greatly in their manner of explain- ing themselves on this point. Sometimes it is the reasonable soul which ranges abroad, while the sensitive continues to animate the body. Sometimes it is the familiar genius who gives salutary counsel with respect to what is going to happen. Sometimes it is a visit made by the soul of the object of wliich he dreams. But, in whatever manner the dream is conceived, it is always looked upon as a thing sacred, and as the most ordinary way in which the gods make known their will to men. Filled with this idea, they cannot conceive how we should pay no regard to them. For the most part, they look upon tliem either as a desire of the soul, inspired by some genius, or an order from him ; and in con- sequence 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 466 NOTES. prepared himself for this important action by a feast. Another ha%ing 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, Journal of a Voyage to North America. Page 219, line 23. From a flower shaped like a horn, which Chateaubriand presumes to be of the lotus kind, the Indians in their travels through the desert often find a draught of dew purer than any other water. Page 220, line 1. The crocodile, the condor of the rock. The alligator, or American crocodile, when full-grown (says Bertram), is a very large and terrible creature, and of prodigious strength, activity and swiftness, in the water. I have seen them twenty feet in length, and some are supposed to be twenty-two or twenty- three feet in length. Their body is as large as that of a horse ; their shape usually resem- bles that of a lizard, which is fiat, or cuneiform, being compressed on each side, and grad- ually diminisliing from the abdomen to the extremity, which, with the whole body, is cov- ered with horny plates, or serpendicular, so as to form a right angle with the lower one. In the fore- part of the upper jaw, on each side, just under the nostrils, are two very large, thick, strong teeth, or tusks, not very sharp, but rather the shape of a cone ; these are as white as the finest polished ivory, and ar^e not covered by any skin or lips, but always in sight, which gives the creature a frightf||- appearance j in the lower jaw are holes opposite to these teeth to receive them , wheir 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 waters, but causing the earth to tremble ; and when hundreds are roaring at the same time, you can scarcely be persuaded but that the whole globe is violently and dangerously agitated. An old champion, who is, perhaps, absolute sovereign of a little lake or lagoon (when fifty less than himself are obliged to content themselves with swelling and roaring in little coves round about), darts forth from the reedy coverts, all at once, on the surface of the waters in a right line, at first seemingly as rapid as lightning, but gradually more slowly, until he arrives at the centre of the lake, where he stops. He now swells himself by drawing in wind and water through his mouth, which causes a loud sonorous rattling in the throat for near a minute ; but it is immediately forced out again through his mouth and nostrils with a loud noise, brandishing his tail in the air, and the vapor 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 sui-face of the water. He acts his part like an Indian chief when rehearsing his feats of war. — Bertram^s Travels in North America. NOTES. 4<37 Page 220, line 9.' Then forth uprose that lone wayfaring man ; TUey discoTer aa amazing sagacity, and acquire, with the greatest readiness, anything that depends upon the attention of the mind. By experience, and an acute observation, they attain many perfections to which the Americans are strangers. For instance, they will cross a forest or a plain which is two hundred miles in breadth, so as to reach with great exactness the point at which they intend to arrive, keeping, during the whole of that space, in a direct line, without any material deviations ; and this they will do with the same ease, let the weather be fair or cloudy. With equal acuteness they will point to that part of the heavens the sun is in, though it be intercepted by clouds or fogs. Besides this, they are able to pursue, with incredible facility, the traces of man or beast, either on leaves or grass ; and on this account it is with great difficulty they escape discovery. They are indebted for these talents not only to nature, but to an extraordinary command of the mtellectual 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 councils, and remember the exact tune wlien they were held. Their belts of wampum preserve the substance of the treaties they have concluded with the neighboring tribes for ages back, to which they will appeal and refer with as much perspicuity and readiness as Europeans can to their written records. The Indians are totally unskilled in geography, as well as all the other sciences : and yet they draw on their burch-bark vei-y exact charts or maps of the countries they are acquainted with. The latitude and longitude only are wanting to make them tolerably complete. Tlieir sole knowledge in astronomy consists in being able to pomt out the polar star, by which they regulate their course when they travel in the night. Thej' reckon the distance of places not by miles or leagues, but by a day's journe}\ which, according to the best calculation I could make, appears to be about twenty English miles. These they also divide into halves and quarters, and will demonstrate them in their maps with great exactness by the hieroglyphics just mentioned, when they regulate In council their war-parties, or their most distant hunting excui-sions, — 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 toward the south are, for the most part, more luxuriant than those on the other sides of trees ; and several other distinctions also subsist between the northern and southern sides, conspicuous to Indians, being taught from their infancy to attend to them, which a common observer would, perhaps, never notice. Being accustomed from theu- infancy likewise to pay great attention to the position of the sun, they learn to make the most accurate allowance for its apparent motion &-om 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 slouds 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 Phila- delphia, 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. 468 NOTES. 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 ))eople who accompanied tliem, surprised at this movement, informed them that they were quitting the road to Philadelphia, and expressed their fear lest they should miss their com- )ianions who had gone on before. They answered that thoy knew better, that the way through the woods was the shortest to Philadelphia, and that they knew very well that their companions had entered the wood at the very place wliere they did. Curiosity 1^ some of the horsemen to go on ; and, to their astonishment, for there was apparently no track, they overtook the other Indians in the thickest part of the wood. But what appeared most singular was, that the route which they took was found, on examining a map, to be as direct for Philadelphia as if they had taken the bearings by a mariner's compass. From others of their nation, who had been at Philadelphia at a former period, they had probably learned the exact direction of that city from their villages, and had never lost sight of it, although they had already travelled three hundred miles through the woods, and had upwards of four hundred miles more to go before they could reach the place of their destination. Of the exactness with which they can find out a strange place to which they have been once directed by their own people, a striking example is fur- nished, I think, by Mr. Jefferson, in his account of the Indian graves in Virginia. These graves are nothing more than large mounds of earth in the woods, which, on being opened, are found to contain skeletons in an erect posture : the Indian mode of sepulture has been too often 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 of 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 jiroceeding, and, without asking any questions, to strike through the woods, in a direct line, to one of these graves, which lay at the distance of some miles from the road. Now, very near a century must have passed over since the part of Virginia in which this grave was situated had been inhabited by Indians ; and these Indian travellers, who were to visit it by themselves, had unquestionably never been in that part of the country before ; they must have found their way to it simply from the description of its situation that had been handed down to them by tradition. — IVeld's Travels in North America, vol. ii. Page 223, last Une. Their fathers^ dust It 13 a custom of the Indian tribes to visit the tombs of their ancestors in the cultivated parts of America, who have been buried for upwards of a century. Page 226, line 12. Or wild-cane arch highjiung o^er sulf profound. The bridges over narrow streams in many parts of Spanish America are said to Ije built of cane, which, however strong to support the passenger, are yet waved in the agitation ol the storm, and frequently add to the effect of a mountainous and picturesque scenery. Page 234, line 26. The Mammoth comes, That I am justified in making the Indian chief allude to the mammoth as an emblem of txjrror and desti-uction, will be seen by the authority quoted below. Speaking of the mam NOTES. 469 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 Big-bone-licks, and began an universal destruction of the bear, deer, elk, buffalo and other animals which had been created for the use of the Indians. That the Great Man above, looking down and seeing this, was so enraged that he seized his lightning, descended on the earth, seated himself on a neighboring mountain, on a rock on which his seat and the prints of his feet are still to be seen, and hurled his bolts among them, till the whole were slaughtered, except the big bull, who, presenting his forehead to the shafts, shook them off as they fell, but, missing one at length, it wounded him in the side, whereon, springing round, he bounded over the Ohio, over the Wabash, the Illinois, and finally over the great lakes, where he is living at this day." — Jefferson's Notes on Firginia. Page 235, line 6. Scorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe, 'Gainst Brandt himself I went to battle forth : I took the character of Brandt, in the poem of Gertrude, from the common Histories of England, all of which represented him as a bloody and bad man (even among 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 Eng- land, and I formed an acquaintance with him, on which I still look back with pleasure He appealed to my sense of honor and justice, on his own part and on that of his sistei to retract the unfair aspersions which, unconscious of their unfairness, I had cast on hia father's memory. He then referred me to documents, which completely satisfied me that the common accounts of Brandt's cruelties at Wyoming, which I had fomid in books of travels, and in Adolphus' and similar Histories of England, were gross errors, and that in point of fact Brandt was not even present at that scene of desolation. It is, unhappily, to Britons and Anglo-Americans that we must refer the chief blame in this horrible business. I published a letter expressing this belief in the New Monthly Magazine, In the year 1822, to which I must refer the reader — if he has any curiosity on the subject — for an antidote to my fanciful description of Brandt. Among other expressions to young Brandt, I made use of the following words : " Had I learnt all this of your father when I was writing my poem, he should not have figured in it as the hero of mischief." It was but bare justice to say thus much of a Mohawk Indian, who spoke English eloquently, and was thought capable of having written a history of the Six Nations. I ascertained, also, that he often strove to mitigate the cruelty of Indian warfare. The name of Brandt, therefore, remains in my poem a pure and declared character of fiction. Page 235, Une 13. 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 Vu'ginia, will perceive that I have attemi:)ted to pai'a- 40 470 plirase its concluding and most striking exijresgion : " There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature." The similar salutation of the fictitious personage in my story, and the real Indian orator, makes it surely allowable to borrow such an expression ; and if it appears, as it cannot but appear, to less advantage than in the original, I beg the reader to reflect how difficult it is to transpose such exquisitely simple words, without sacrificing a portion of their effect. In the spring of 1774, a robbery and murder were committed on an inhabitant of the frontiers of Virginia, by two Indians of tlie Shawanee tribe. The neighboring whites, according to their custom, undertook to punish this outrage in a summary manner. Colonel Cresap, a man infamous for the many murders he had committed on those much- injured people, collected a party and 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 ]>arty 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 hap- pened to l)e tlie family of Logan, who had long been distinguished as a friend to the whites. This unworthy return provoked his vengeance ; he accordingly signalized himself in the war which ensued. In the autumn of the same year a decisive battle was fought at the mouth of the'Great Kanaway, in which the collected forces of the Shawanees, Mingoes and Delawares, were defeated by a detachment of the 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 disturbed, from which so distinguished a chief abstracted himself, he sent, by a messenger, the following speech to be delivered to Lord Dunmore : " I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him liot to eat ; if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not. During 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, Logan is the friend of the white men. I have even thought to have lived with you, but for the injuries of one man. Colonel Cresap, the last spring, in cold blood murdered all the relations of Logan, even my women and children. " There runs not a drop of my bkKxl iu the veins of any living creature : — this called on me for revenge. I have fouglit for it. I have killed many. I have fully glutted my vengeance. For my country I rejoice at the beams of peace ; — but do not harbor a lliought 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 ! " — Jeffersori'a Notes on yirsinia. MISCELLANEOUS I'OEMS. Page 253, line 4. The dark-attired Culdee, The Culdees were the primitive clergy of Scotland, and apparently her only clergy from the sixth to the eleventh century. They were of Irish origin, and their monastery on the island of lona, or Icolmkill, wi-s the seminary of Christianity in North Britain. Presby- terian writers have wished to prove them to have been a sort of Presbyters, strangers to the Roman Church and Episcopacy. It seems to be established that they were not NOTES. 471 enemies to Episcopacy ; but that they were not slavishly subjected to Rome, like the clergy of later periods, appears by their resisting the papal ordinances respecting the celibacy of religious men, on wliicli account they were ultimately displaced by the Scottish sovereignSi to make way for more Popish canons. Page 265, line 5. And the shield of alarm was dumb, Striking the shield was an ancient mode of convocation to war among the GaCls. Page 261. The tradition which forms the substance of these stanzas is still preserved in Germany An ancient tower on a height, called the Kolandseck, a few miles above Bonn on the Rhine is shown as the habitation which Roland built in sight of a nunnery, into which his mis- tress had retired, on having heard an unfounded account of his death. Whatever may be thought of the credibility of the legend, its scenery must be recollected with pleasure by every one who has visited the romantic landscape of the Drachenfels, the Kolandseck, and the beautiful adjacent islet of the Rhine, where a nunnery still stands. Page 267, line 10. That erst the adventurous Norman wore, A Norman leader, in the service of the King of Scotland, married the heuress of Lochow, In the twelfth century, and from him the Campbells are sprung. Page 294, line 15. Whose lineage, in a raptured hour. Alluding to the well-known tradition respecting the origin of painting, that it arose from a young Corinthian female tracing the shadow of her lover's profile on the wall as he lay asleep. Page 304, Une 10. Where the Norman encamped him of old, What is called the East Hill, at Hastings, is crowned with the works of an ancient camp ; and it is more than probable it was the spot which William I. occupied Ijetween his landing and the battle which gave him England's crown. It is a strong position ; the works are easily traced. Page 307, Une 21. France turns from her abandoned friends afresh, Xhe fact ought to be universally known, that France is at this moment indebted to Poland for not being invaded by Russia. When the Grand Duke Constantine fled from Warsaw, he left papers behind him proving that the Russians, after the Parisian events in July, meant to have marched towards Paris, if the Polish insurrection had not pre vented them. Page 316, line 6. Thee, Niemciewits, This venerable man, the most popular and influential of Polish poets, and president of the academy in Warsaw, was in London when this poem was written ; he was then seventy -four years old ; but his noble spirit is rather mellowed than decayed by age. He 472 NOTES. was the friend of Pox, Kosciusko and Washington. Rich hi anecdote lilie Franlilin, he has also a striking resemblance to him in counteuance. Page 317, line S. ITor church-bell ^^^ In Catholic countries you often hear the church-bells rung to propitiate Heaven during thunder-storms. Page 327, line 20. Regret the lark that gladdens England's morn, Mr. P. Cunningham, in his interesting work on New South Wales, gives the following account of its song-birds : "We are not moved liere with the deep mellow note of the black- bird, poured out from beneath some low 8tunteearance and note are a most wretched paroTnn on the advent, so far as I know, is one of his original poems, which has never been publicly acknowledged. The poet's copy, however, has an autograph inscription, stating that he wrote it at the age of sixteen. The original has been forty years in the possession of Dr. Irving — Dr. Beattie. NOTES. 477 Chorus from tub Choephorce. Page 405. The third prize awarded to Campbell was for his translation of passages from the Coe phovoe of ^schylus ; a copy of which has been sent me by a lady to whom it was shortl> afterwards presented by Campbell, in the Island of Mull. It was written in 1741. — Dr. Beattie. Elegy Writtek in Mull. Page 407. This is the elegy with which Dr. Anderson was so much pleased, on the author's intro- duction to him in Edinburgh (July 1794), and from the perusal of which he predicted his success as a great poet. Ox THE Glasgow Volunteers. Page 408. Among the productions of his college life Dr. Beattie places this poem and that on the Queen of France. Of the last, on Marie Antoinette, inspired by one of the most atrocious events of t)ie day, — an event over which he wej)t at the time, and the mere recollection of which, after the lapse of forty years, still made him shudder, — Dr. Beattie says, it " excited much attention, and met the public sympathy, so universally felt at the time." It was published in the Glasgow Courier. Of the first spirited lyric, he says that it obtained much local celebrity, particularly among the friends and members of the house- hold troops. Tee Dirge of Wallace. Page 413. We ijublish the version of this poem given by Dr. Beattie, the opening stanzas being omitted in the Galignani edition of 1829. When Mr. Redding was assisting the poet in preparing tlie edition of liia works of 1828, he pleaded for the insertion of the Dirge, for which he expressed great admiration. Campbell objected, — " There were inaccuracies in it — it was only written for the newspapers." Walter Scott, it was said, had it by heart, and thought it one of liis finest things ; but Campbell " did not care — he would not take it— he disliked it." Great diversity of opinion prevails among the critics as to the merits of this poem. The Quarterly Review (July, 1849) says : " E.xcepting the close of one stanza, we see little in it beyond an echo of the then fashionable strains of Alonzo the Brave, and the like." The stanza in question is the one alluding to the sword of Wallace. The North British Review (February, 1849) agrees with its contemporary : — "It is quite unequal to Camp- bell's usual style. There is a boyish accumulation of the stock imagery of the ' Tales of Wonder.' Ravens, nightmares, matin-bells and midnight tapers, are scattered in waste profusion at the opening of the poem, to the consternation of the English king and the affright of Wallace's wife. Nothing well can be worse than all this. What follows is bet- ter, and there are some lines worthy of Campbell." A writer in Blackwood's Magazine for the same month, on the other hand, agrees in his estimate of the poem with Mr. Redding and Sir Walter Scott : " In the foreign edi- tion of his works there is inserted a poem called the Dirge of Wallace, which, with a very little concentration, might have been rendered as perfect as any of his later compositions. In spirit and energy it is assuredly inferior to none of them. We hope to see it restored to its proper place, in the next edition ; in the mean time we select the following noble stanzas." The critic then quotes nearly the whole poem, Italicizing the lines wliich toUow : " When he strode o'er the wreck of each well-fought field. With the yellow-haired chiefs of his native land ; NOTES. For his lance was not shivered on helmet or shield, And the sword which was fit for archangel to wield Was light in his terrible hand." " Nothing can be finer," he adds, " tlian the lines we have quoted in Italics ; nov per haps did Campbell himself ever match them." Epistle to Three Ladies. Page 415. This poem Dr. Beattie received from Mr. Richardson, to whom it was communicated in a letter many years previously. The la