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THE

POETICAL WOEKS

THOMAS CAMPBELL,

COMPLETE:

WITH

A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR

BY

WASHINGTON IRVING,

A^•D
REMARKS UPON HIS WRITINGS

BY

LORD JEFFREY.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS.

PHILADELPHIA:
LEA AND BLANCHARD,

1845.

Pliiladelphia :

Printed by T. K. & P. G. Collins.

Xo. 1 Lodge Alley.

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ADVERTISEMENT,

Thomas Campbell died at Boulogne on the 15th of
June, 1844. A few months before his death he super-
intended the publication of a complete collection of his
Poetical Writings, which is here re-produced, with a
Memoir of the author by Mr. Irving, Remarks on his
Genius by Lord Jeffrey, and some additional notes by
the present Editor.

The poetry of Mr. Campbell has little need of critical
illustration. His chief merit is rhetorical. There is no
vagueness or mysticism in his verse. The scenes and
feelings he delineates are common to human beings in
general, and the impressive style with which these are
unfolded, owes its charm to vigour of language and
forcible clearness of epithet. Many of his lines ring
with a harmonious energy, and seem the offspring of the
noblest enthusiasm. This is especially true of his martial
lyrics, which in their way are unsurpassed. The Plea-
sures of Hope, his earliest work, is one of the few
standard heroic poems in our language. Poetic taste has
undergone many remarkable changes since it appeared,
but its ardent numbers are constantly resorted to by those

IV ADVERTISEMENT.

who love the fire of the muse as well as her more deli-
cate tracery. Though more generally read, it is by no
means equal to Gertrude of Wyoming, a Pennsylvania
Tale, written in the full maturity of his powers, and
characterized by remarkable taste, feeling and tender-
ness. Nearly all Campbell's earlier writings are popu-
lar, and although a more transcendental school of poetry
is at present in vogue, admirers of felicity of expression
can never fail to recognize the stamp of true geniiis in
one who has sung in such thrilling numbers of patriotism
and affection.

R. W. G.

Philadelphia, Nuveniha; 1844.

*#* The Portrait of Mr. Campbell, in this volume, has been admirably engraved,
b}' Mr. Sartain, from the picture by Thomas Phillips, R. A., in possession of John
Murray, Esq., and the woodcuts, from designs by Harvey, have been executed by
some of the best artists of London. The publishers believe this first complete
American edition of Campbell's AVorks may be compared, without disadvantage,
to the splendid English impression from which it is printed, — while the elegant
Memoir by Mr. Irving, the Essay by I-ord Jeffrey, and other additions, render it
decidedly preferable to any edition hitherto published.

MEMOIR

THOMAS CAMPBELL,

WASHINGTON IRVING.

It has long been admitted as a lamentable truth, that authors seldom
receive impartial justice from the world, while living. The grave seems
to be the ordeal to which in a manner their names must be subjected, and
from whence, if worthy of immortality, they rise with pure and imperish-
able lustre. Here many, who through the caprice of fashion, the influ-
ence of rank and fortune, or the panegyrics of friends, have enjoyed an
undeserved notoriety, descend into oblivion, and it may literally be said
"they rest from their labours, and their works do follow them." Here
likewise many an ill-starred author, after struggling with penury and ne-
glect, and starving through a world he has enriched by his talents, sinks
to rest, and becomes an object of universal admiration and regret. The
sneers of the cynical, the detractions of the envious, the scoffings of the
ignorant, are silenced at the hallowed precincts of the tomb ; and the
world awakens to a sense of his value, when he is removed beyond its
patronage for ever. Monuments are erected to his memory, books are
written in his praise, and mankind will devour whh avidity the biography
of a man, whose life was passed unheeded before their eyes. He is hke
some canonized saint, at whose shrine treasures are lavished and clouds
of incense offered up, though while living the slow hand of charity with-
held the pittance that would have relieved his necessities.

But this tardiness in awarding merit its due, this preference continually
shown to departed authors, over living ones of perhaps superior excel-
lence, may be ascribed to more charitable motives than those of envy and
ill-nature. Of the former we judge almost exclusively by their works.
We form our opinion of the whole flow of their minds and the tenor of
their dispositions from the volumes they have left behind ; without consi-

1*

VI MEMOIR OF

dering that these are like so many masterly portraits, presenting their
genius in its most auspicious moments, and noblest attitudes, when its
powers were collected by solitude and reflection, assisted by study, sti-
mulated by ambition and elevated by inspiration. We witness nothing of
the menial exhaustion and languor which follow these gushes of genius.
We behold the stream only in the spring- tide of its current, and conclude
that it has always been equally profound in its depth, pure in its wave,
and majestic in its course.

Living authors, on the contrary, are continually in public view, and
exposed to the full glare of scrutinizing familiarity. Though we may
occasionally wonder at their eagle soarings, yet we soon behold them
descend to our own level, and often sink below it. Their habits of seclu-
sion make them less easy and engaging in society than the mere man of
fashion, whose only study is to please. Their ignorance of the common
topics of the day, and of matters of business, frequently makes them
inferior in conversation to men of ordinary capacities, while the constitu-
tional delicacy of their minds and irritability of their feelings, make them
prone to more than ordinary caprices. At one time solitary and unso-
cial, at another listless and petulant, often trifling among the frivolous,
and not unfrequently the dullest among the dull. All these circum-
stances tend to diminish our respect and admiration of their mental
e.x'cellence and show clearly, that authors, like actors, to be impartially
criticized, should never be known behind the scenes.

Such are a few of the causes that operate in Europe to defraud an
author of the candid judgment of his countrymen, but their influence
does not e.xtend to this side of the Atlantic. We are placed, in some
degree, in the situation of posterity. The vast ocean that rolls between
us, like a space of time, removes us beyond the sphere of personal
favour, personal prejudice or personal familiarity. An European work,
therefore, appears before us depending simply on its intrinsic merits. —
We have no private friendship nor party purpose to serve by magnifying
the author's merits, and in sober sadness the humble state of our na-
tional literature places us far below any feehng of national rivaiship.

But while our local situation thus enables us to exercise the enviable
impartiality of posterity, it is evident we must share likewise in one of
its disadvantages. We are in as complete ignorance respecting the
biography of most living authors of celebrity, as though they had existed
ages before our time, and indeed are better informed concerning the
character and lives of authors who have long since passed away, than
of those who are actually adding to the stores of European literature.
Few think of writing the anecdotes of a distinguished character while
living. His intimates, who of course are most capable, are prevented
by their very intimacy, little thinking that those domestic habits and
peculiarities, which an every day's acquaintance has made so trite and
famihar to themselves, can be objects of curiosity to all the world be-

THOMAS CAMPBELL. VU

sides. Thus then we who are too distant to gather those particulars
concerning foreign authors, that are circulated from mouth to mouth in
their native countries, must content themselves to remain in almost utter
ignorance ; unless perchance some friendly magazine now and then gives
us a meagre and apocryphal account of them, which rather provokes
than satisfies our curiosity. A proof of these assertions will be furnished
in the following sketch, which, unsatisfactory as it is, contains all the
information we can collect, concerning a British poet of rare and exqui-
site endowments.

Thomas Campbell was born at Glasgow, on the 2Tth September, 1777.
He was the youngest son of Mr. Alexander Campbell, a merchant of that
city, highly spoken of for his amiable manners and unblemished inte-
grity ; who united the scholar and the man of business, and amidst the
engrossing cares and sordid pursuits of business, che»ished an enthusi-
astic love of literature.

It may not be uninteresting to the American reader to know that Mr.
Campbell, the poet, had near connections in this country. His father
passed several years of his youth at Falmouth, in Virginia, but returned
to Europe before the revolutionary war. His uncle, who had accom-
panied his father across the Atlantic, remained in Virginia, where his
family uniformly maintained a highly respectable station in society. —
One of his sons was district attorney under the administration of Wash-
ington, and was celebrated for his demeanour. He died in 1795. Robert
Campbell, a brother of the poet, settled in Virginia, where he married a
daughter of the celebrated Patrick Henry. He died about 1807.

The genius of Mr. Campbell showed itself almost in his infancy. At
the age of seven he displayed a vivacity of imagination and a vigour of
mind surprising in such early youth. He now commenced the study of
Latin under the care of the Rev. David Alison, a teacher of distinguished
reputation. A strong inclination for poetry was already discernible in
him, audit was not more than two years after this that, as we are told,
" he began to try his wings." None of the first flutterings of his muse,
however, have been preserved, but they had their effect in rendering
him an object of favour and attention, aided no doubt by his personal
beauty, his generous sensibility, and the gentleness and modesty of his
deportment. At twelve he entered the University of Glasgow, and in
the following year gained a bursary on Bishop Leighton's foundation,
for a translation of one of the comedies of Aristophanes, which he exe-
cuted in verse. This triumph was the more honourable from being
gained after a hard contest over a rival candidate of nearly twice his age,
who was considered one of the best scholars in the University. His
second prize-exercise was the translation of a tragedy of ^schylus,
likewise in verse, which he gained without opposition, as none of the
students would enter the lists with him. He continued seven years in
the University, during which time his talents and application were tesli-

via MEMOIR OF

fied by yearly academical prizes. He was particularly successful in his
translations from the Greek, in which language he took great delight ;
and on receiving his last prize for one of these performances, the Greek
professor publicly pronounced it the best that had ever been produced in
the university.

He made equal proficiency in other branches of study, especially in
Moral Philosophy ; he attended likewise the academical course of Law
and Physic, but pursued none of these studies with a view to a profes-
sion. On the contrary, the literary passion, we are told, was already so
strong with him, that he could not endure the idea of devoting himself
to any of the dull and sordid pursuits of busy life. His father, influ-
enced by his own love of literature, indulged those wayward fancies in
his son, building fond hopes on his early display of talent. Atone time,
it is true, a part qf the family expressed a wish that he should be fitted
for the Church, but this was overruled by the rest, and he was left, with-
out further opposition, to the impulses of his genius, and the seductions
of the muse.

After leaving the university he passed some time among the moun-
tains of Argyleshire, at the seat of Colonel Napier, a descendant of
Napier Baron Merchester, the celebrated inventor of logarithms. It is
suggested that he may have imbibed from this gentleman his taste and
knowledge of the military arts, traces of which are to be seen through-
out his poems. From Argyleshire he went to Edinburgh, where the
reputation he had acquired at the university gained him a favourable
reception into the literary and scientific circles of that intellectual city.
Among others he was particularly noticed by Professors Stewart and
Playfair. To the ardour and elevation of mind awakened by such asso-
ciates may we ascribe, in a great measure, the philosophical spirit and
moral sublimity displayed in his first production, " The Pleasures of
Hope," written during his residence in Edinburgh, when he was but
twenty years of age.

Inexperienced in authorship, and doubtful of success, he disposed of
the copyright of his poem for an inconsiderable sum. It was received
by the public with acclamation, and ran through two editions in the
course of a few months, when his bookseller permitted him to publish a
splendid edition for himself, by which means he was enabled, in some
measure, to participate in the golden harvest of his talent. His great
reward, however, was the bright and enduring reputation which he
instantly acquired, as one of the legitimate line of British poets.

The passion for German hterature which prevailed at this time in
Great Britain, awakened a desire in Mr. Campbell to study it at the
fountain head. This, added to a curiosity to visit foreign parts, induced
him to embark for Germany in the year 1800. He had originally fixed
upon the college of Jena for his first place of residence, but on arriving
at Hamburgh he found, by the public prints, that a victory had been

THOMAS CAMPBELL. IX

gained by the French near Uhn, and that Munich and the heart of
Bavaria were the theatre of an interesting war. " One moment's sensa-
tion," he observes in a letter to a relation in this country, " the single
hope of seeing human nature exhibited in its most dreadful attitude,
overturned my past decisions. I got down to the seat of war some
weeks before the summer armistice of lyOO, and indulged in what you
will call the criminal curiosity of witnessing blood and desolation. Never
shall time efface from my memory the recollection of that hour of asto-
nishment and suspended breath, when I stood with the good monks of St.
Jacob, to overlook a charge of Klenaw's cavalry upon the French under
Grennier, encamped below us. We saw the fire given and returned,
and heard distinctly the sound of the French jms de charge, collecting
the lines to attack in close columns. After three hours' awaiting the
issue of a severe action, a park of artillery wa^ opened just beneath the
walls of the monastery, and several wagoners that were stationed to con-
vey the wounded in spring wagons, were killed in our sight. My love
of novelty now gave way to personal fears. I took a carriage in com-
pany with an Austrian surgeon back to Landshut," &c. This awful
spectacle he has described with all the poet's fire, in his Battle of Hohen-
linden; a poem which, perhaps, contains more grandeur and martial
sublimity, than are to be found anywhere else in the same compass of
English poetry.

From Landshut Mr. Campbell proceeded to Ralisbon, where he was
at the time it was taken possession of by the French, and expected as
an Englishman to be made prisoner, but he observes, " Moreau's army
was under such excellent discipline, and the behaviour both of officers
and men so civil, that I soon mixed among them without hesitation, and
formed many agreeable acquaintances at the messes of their brigade sta-
tioned in town, to which their chef de 6/-/g-atZe often invited me. This
worthy man. Colonel Le Fort, whose kindness I shall ever remember
with gratitude, gave me a protection to pass through the whole army of
Moreau."

After this he visited different parts of Germany, in the course of
which he paid one of the casual taxes on travelling, being plundered
among the Tyrolese mountains, by a scoundrel Croat, of his clothes, his
books, and thirty ducats in gold. About midwinter he returned to Ham-
burgh, where he remained four months, in the expectation of accom-
panying a young gentleman of Edinburgh in a tour to Constantinople.
His unceasing thirst for knowledge, and his habits of industrious appli-
cation, prevented these months from passing heavily or unprofitably.
" My time at Hamburgh," he observes, in one of his letters, "was
chiefly employed in reading German, and, I am almost ashamed to con-
fess it, for twelve successive weeks in the study of Kant's Philosophy.
I had heard so much of it in Germany, its language was so new to me,
and the possibility of its application to so many purposes in the different

X MEMOIR OF

theories of science and belles-lettres, was so constantly maintained, that
I began to suspect Kant might be another Bacon, and blamed myself
for not perceiving his merit. Distrusting my own imperfect acquaint-
ance with the German, I took a disciple of Kant's for a guide through
his philosophy, but found, even with all this fair play, nothing to reward
my labour. His metaphysics are mere innovations upon the received
meaning of words, and the coinage of new ones convey no more instruc-
tion than the distinction of Duns Scotus and Thomas Aquinas. In belles-
lettres, the German language opens a richer field than in their philoso-
{)hy. I cannot conceive a more perfect poet than their favourite Wie-
land."

While in Germany, an edition of his Pleasures of Hope was proposed
for publication in Vienna, but was forbidden by the court in consequence
of those passages which relate to Kosciusko, and the partition of Poland.
Being disappointed in his projected visit to Constantinople, he returned
to England in 1801, after nearly a year's absence, which had been
passed much to his satisfaction and improvement, and had stored his
mipd with grand and awful images. " I remember," says he, "how
little I valued the art of painting before I got into the heart of such im-
pressive scenes ; but in Germany, I would have given any thing to have
possessed an art capable of conveying ideas inaccessible to speech and
writing. Some particular scenes were indeed rather overcharged with
that degree of the terrific which oversteps the sublime, and I own my
flesh yet creeps at the recollection of spring wagons and hospitals — but
the sight of Ingolstadt in ruins, or Hohenlinden covered with fire, seven
miles in circumference, were spectacles never to be forgotten."

On returning to England, he visited London for the first time, where,
though unprovided with a single letter of introduction, the celebrity of
his writings procured him the immediate notice and attentions of the best
society. The following brief sketch which he gives of a literary club in
London, will be gratifying to those who have felt an interest in the anec-
dotes of Addison and his knot oi beaux esprits at Button's coffee house,
and Johnson and his learned fraternity at the Turk's head. — "Mackin-
tosh, the Vindiciffi Gallica; was particularly attentive to me, and took me
with him to his convivial parties at the King of Clubs, a place dedicated
to the meetings of the reigning wits of London, and, in fact, a lineal
descendant of the Johnson, Burke and Goldsmith society, constituted
for literary conversations. The dining table of these knights of litera-
ture was an arena of very keen conversational rivalship, maintained, to
be sure, with perfect goodnature, but in which the gladiators contended
as hardly as ever the French and Austrians in the scenes I had just
witnessed. Much, however, as the wit and erudition of these men
pleases an auditor at the first or second visit, this trial of minds becomes
at last fatiguing, because it is unnatural and unsatisfactory. Every one
of these brilliants goes there to shine; for conversational powers are so

THOMAS CAMPBELL. XI

much the rage in London, that no reputation is higher than his who
exhibits them. Where every one tries to instruct, there is, in fact, but
little instruction: wit, paradox, eccentricity, even absurdity, if delivered
rapidly and facetiously, takes priority in these societies of sound reason-
ings and delicate taste. I have watciied sometimes the devious tide of
conversation, guided by accidental associations, turning from topic to
topic and satisfactory upon none. What has one learned ? has been my
general question. The mind, it is true, is electrified and quickened,
and the spirits finely exhilarated, but one grand fault pervades the whole
institution ; their inquiries are desultory, and all improvements to be
reaped must be accidental."

The friendship of Mrs. Siddons was another acquisition, of which Mr.
Campbell spoke with great pleasure ; and what rendered it more grati-
fying was its being unsought for. It was the means of introducing him
to much excellent society in London. " The character of that great
woman," he observes, " is but little understood, and more misrepre-
sented than any living character I know, by those who envy her repu-
tation, or by those of the aristocracy, whom her irresistible dignity
obliges to pay their homage at a respectable distance. The reserve of
her demeanour is banished towards those who show neither meanness
in flattering her, nor forwardness in approaching her too familiarly.
The friends of her fireside are only such as she ialJis to and talks o/with
aflfection and respect."

The recent visit of Mr. Campbell to the continent had increased
rather than gratified his desire to travel. He now contemplated another
tour, for the purpose of improving himself in the knowledge of foreign
languages and foreign manners, in the course of which he intended to
visit Italy and pass some time at Rome. From this plan he was diverted,
most probably by an attachment he formed to a Miss Sinclair, a distant
relation, whom he married in 1803. This change in his situation natu-
rally put an end to all his wandering propensities, and he established
himself at Sydenham in Kent, near London, where he devoted himself to
literature. Not long afterwards he received a solid and flattering token
of the royal approbation of his poem of the Pleasures of Hope in a pen-
sion of 200Z. What made this mark of royal favour the more gratifying
was, that it was granted for no poliiical services rendered or expected.
Mr. Campbell was not of the court party, but of the constitutional
Whigs. He has uniformly, both before and since, been independent in
his opinions and writings ; a sincere and enthusiastic lover of liberty,
and advocate for popular rights.

Though withdrawn from the busy world in his retirement at Syden-
ham, yet the genius of Mr. Campbell, Hke a true brilliant, occasionally
flashed upon the public eye in a number of exquisite little poems, which
appeared occasionally in the periodical works of the day. Among these,
were Hohenlinden and Lochiel, exquisite gems, suflacient of themselves

Xll MEMOIR OF

to establish his title to the sacred name of poet : and the Mariners of
England and the Battle of the Baltic, two of the noblest national songs
ever written, fraught with sublime imagery and lofty sentiments, and
delivered in a gallant swelling vein, that lifts the soul into heroics.

In the beginning of 180'J, he gave to the public his Gertrude of
Wyoming, connected with the fortunes of one of our little patriarchal
villages on the banks of Susquehanna, laid desolate by the Indians dur-
ing our revolutionary war. There is no great scope in the story of this
poem, nor any very skilful development of the plan, but it contains
passages of exquisite grace and tenderness, and others of spirit and
grandeur ; and the character of Outalissi is a classic delineation of one
of our native savages: —

A stoic of the woods, a man without a tear.

What gave this poem especial interest in our eyes at the time of its
appearance, and awakened a strong feeling of good-will toward the
author, was, that it related to our own country, and was calculated to
give a classic charm to some of our own home scenery. The following
remarks were elicited from us at the time, though the subsequent lapse
of thirty years has improved the cogency of many of them.

"We have so long been accustomed to experience little else than
contumely, misrepresentation, and very witless ridicule from the British
press; and we have had such repeated proofs of the extreme ignorance
and absurd errors that prevail in Great Britain, respecting our country
and its inhabitants, that we confess, we were both surprised and grati-
fied to meet with a poet, sufficiently unprejudiced to conceive an idea of
moral excellence and natural beauty on this side of the Atlantic. Indeed,
even this simple show of liberality, has drawn on the poet the censures
and revilings of a host of narrow-minded writers; with whom liberality to
this country is a crime. We are sorry to see such pitiful manifesta-
tions of hostility towards us. Indeed we must say, that we consider
the constant acrimony and traduction indulged in by the British press,
toward this country, to be as opposite to the interest, as it is dero-
gatory to the candour and magnanimity of the nation. It is operat-
ing to widen the difference between two nations, which, if left to the
impulse of their own feelings, would naturally grow together, and
among the sad changes of this disastrous world, be mutual supports and
comforts to each other.

" Whatever may be the occasional collisions of etiquette and interest,
which will inevitably take place between two great commercial nations,
whose property and people are spread far and wide on the fice of the
ocean; whatever may be the clamorous expressions of hostility vented
at such times by our unreflecting populace, or rather uttered in their
name, by a host of hireling scribblers, who pretend to speak the senti-
ments of the people ; it is certain that the well-educated and well-

THOMAS CAMPBELL. XIU

informed class of our citizens entertain a deep-rooted good will, and a
rational esteem for Great Britain. It is almost impossible that it should
be otherwise. Independent of those hereditary affections, which spring
up spontaneously for the nation whence we have descended, the single
circumstance of imbibing our ideas from the same authors, has a power-
ful effect in causing an attachment.

" The writers of Great Britain are the adopted citizens of our country,
and, though they have no legislative voice, exercise a powerful influence
over our opinions and affections. In these works, we have British valour,
British magnanimity, British might and British wisdom, continually
before our eyes, portrayed in the most captivating colours, and are thus
brought up, in constant contemplation of all that is amiable and illustrious
in the British character. To these works, likewise, we resort, in every
varying mood of mind, or vicissitude of fortune. They are our delight
in the hour of relaxation ; the solemn monitors and instructors of our
closet ; our comforters under the gloom of despondency. In the season
of early life, in the strength of manhood, and still in the weakness and
apathy of age, it is to them we are indebted for our hours of refined and
unalloyed enjoyment. When we turn our eyes to England, therefore,
whence this bounteous tide of literature pours in upon us, it is with
such feelings as the Egyptian, when he looks towards the sacred source
of that stream, which, rising in a far distant country, flows down upon
his own barren soil, diffusing riches, beauty and fertility.

" .Surely it cannot be the interest of Great Britain to trifle with such
feelings. Surely the good will, thus cherished among the best hearts of
a country, rapidly increasing in power and importance, is of too much
consequence to be scornfully neglected or surlily dashed away. It most
certainly, therefore, would be both politic and honourable, for those
enlightened British writers, who sway the sceptre of criticism, to expose
these constant misrepresentations, and discountenance these galling and
unworthy insults of the pen, whose effect is to mislead and to irritate,
without serving one valuable purpose. They engender gross prejudices
in Great Britain, inimical to a proper national understanding, while with
us they wither all those feelings of kindness and consanguinity that
were shooting forth, like so many tendrils, to attach us to our parent
country.

" While, therefore, we regard the poem of Mr. Campbell with com-
placency, as evincing an opposite spirit to this, of which we have just
complained, there are other reasons likewise, which interest us in its
favour. Among the lesser evils, incident to the infant state of our
country, we have to lament its almost total deficiency in those local
associations produced by history and moral fiction. These may appear
trivial to the common mass of readers ; but the mind of taste and sensi-
bility will at once acknowledge it, as constituting a great source of
national pride, and love of country. There is an inexpressible charm
imparted to every place, that has been celebrated by the historian, or

2

XIV MEMOIR OF

immortalized by the poet ; a charm that dignifies it in the eyes of the
stranger, and endears it to the heart of the native inhabitant. Of this
romantic attraction we are almost entirely destitute. While every insig-
nificant hill and turbid stream in classic Europe have been hallowed by
the visitations of the muse, and contemplated with fond enthusiam, our
lofty mountains and stupendous cataracts excite no poetical feelings, and
our majestic rivers roll their waters unheeded, because unsung.

" Thus circumstanced, the sweet strains of Mr. Campbell's muse
break upon us as gladly as would the pastoral pipe of the shepherd, amid
the savage solitude of one of our trackless wildernesses. We are de-
lighted to witness the air of captivating romance and rural beauty, our
native fields and wild woods can assume under the plastic pencil of a
master; and while wandering with the poet among the shady groves of
Wyoming, or along the banks of the Susquehanna, almost fancy our-
selves transported to the side of some classic stream, in the ' hollow
breast of Appenine.' This may assist to convince many, who were
before slow to believe, that our own country is capable of inspiring the
highest poetic feelings and furnishing abundance of poetic imagery,
though destitute of the hackneyed materials of poetry ; though its groves
are not vocal with the song of the nightingale ; though no naiads have
ever sported in its streams, nor satyrs and driads gamboled among its
forests. Wherever nature displays herself in simple beauty or wild mag-
nificence, and wherever the human mind appears in new and striking
situations, neither the poet nor the philosopher can want subjects worthy
of his genius."

As we before remarked, the lapse of thirty years has materially im-
paired the cogency of the foregoing remarks. The acrimony and traduc-
tion of the British press produced the efl'ect apprehended, and contributed
to hasten a war between the two nations. That war, however, made us
completely a nation, and destroyed our mental dependence on England
forever. A literature of our own has subsequently sprung up and is
daily increasing with wonderful fecundity ; promising to counteract the
undue influence of British literature, and to furnish us with productions
in all departments of taste and knowledge, illustrative of our country, its
history and its people, and in harmony with our condition and the nature
of our institutions.

[In 1810 Mr. Campbell published " O'Connor's Child, or the Flower
of Love Lies Bleeding," a spirited and affecting little story, which was
followed at intervals in the next four years by various short poems in the
magazines. In 1819 appeared his "Specimens of the British Poets,"
generally and very justly esteemed the best work of the kind extan-t.
Its chief fault is, that he does not, in many cases, give the best speci-
mens of his authors, because they had been quoted by some previous
compiler, in whose steps he did not wish to follow ; but the " Prelimi-
nary Essay" is a charming piece of prose, and juster and more elegant
criticism cannot be found than is contained in some of his memorials.

THOMAS CAMPBELL. XV

In 1820 he entered upon the editorship of " The New Monthly Maga-
zine," which he conducted several years, without much advantage to its
proprietor more than was derived from his name. In 1824 he put forth
another poem, a domestic tale, entitled " Theodric," but it has little
merit, and was coldly received by the critics. In 1827 he was elected,
by the free and unanimous choice of the students, lord rector of his own
University of Glasgow, and ho was subsequently twice re-elected to the
same office, without opposition. In 1830 he withdrew from the " New
Monthly," and became editor of " The Metropolitan," but his connec-
tion with this periodical was of short duration. In 1834 he published
his " Life of Mrs. Siddons," one of the worst specimens of recent bio-
graphy, and soon afterwards made a journey to Algiers, during which he
wrote his " Letters from the South." His other publications are "A His-
tory of Great Britain from the Accession of George the Third to the
Peace of Amiens," " Lectures on Greek Poetry," " A Life of Shaks-
peare," " Frederick the Great, his Court and Times," " The Life and
Times of Petrarch," and several articles on poetry and Belles-Lettres in
the Edinburgh Encyclopedia. Scarcely any of his later prose writings
are deserving ofmuch consideration. Indeed, his habits in his last years,
more than the advances of age, were such as to destroy his genius, taste
and energy. He died at Boulogne, on the fifteenth of June, 1844, and
his remains were interred in the Poet's Corner of Westminster Abbey,
on the third of the following month.]

REMARKS ON CAMPBELL'S POEMS.

BY LORD JEFFREY.

We rejoice once more to see a polished and pathetic poem, in the old
style of English pathos and poetry. Gertrude of Wyoming is of the
pitch of the Castle of Indolence, and the finer parts of Spenser; with
more feeling, in many places, than the first, and more condensation and
diligent finishing than the latter. If the true tone of nature be not every-
where maintained, it gives place, at least, to art only, and not to affect-
ation— and, least of all, to afiectation of singularity or rudeness.

Beautiful as the greater part of this volume is, the public taste, we
are afraid, has of late been too much accustomed to beauties of a more
obtrusive and glaring kind, to be fully sensible of its merit. Without
supposing that this taste has been in any great degree vitiated, or even
imposed upon, by the babyism or the antiquarianism which has lately
been versified for its improvement, we may be allowed to suspect, that
it has been somewhat dazzled by the splendour and bustle, and variety of
the most popular of our recent poems ; and that the more modest colour-
ing of truth and nature may, at this moment, seem somewhat cold and
feeble. We have endeavoured, on former occasions, to do justice to
the force and originality of some of these brilliant productions, as well
as to the genius (fitted for much higher things) of their authors — and
have little doubt of being soon called upon for a renewed tribute of ap-
plause; But we cannot help saying, in the mean time, that the work
before us belongs to a class which comes nearer to our conception of
pure and perfect poetry. Such productions do not, indeed, strike so
strong a blow as the vehement effusions of our modern Trotiveurs ; but
they are calculated, we think, to please more deeply, and to call out
more permanently, those trains of emotion, in which the delight of poetry
will probably be found to consist. They may not be so loudly nor so
universally applauded ; but their fame will probably endure longer, and
they will be oftener recalled to mingle with the reveries of solitary lei-
sure or the consolations of real sorrow.

There is a sort of poetry, no doubt, as there is a sort of flowers, which
can bear the broad sun and the ruffling winds of the world, — which

2*

XVlll REMARKS ON CAMPBELL S POEMS.

thrives under the hands and eyes of indiscriminating multitudes, and
pleases as much in hot and crowded saloons, as in their own sheltered
repositories ; but the finer and the purer sorts blossom only in the shade,
and never give out their sweets but to those who seek them amid the
quiet and seclusion of the scenes which gave them birth. There are
torrents and cascades which attract the admiration of tittering parties,
and of which even the busy must turn aside to catch a transient glance ;
but "the haunted stream" steals through a still and a solitary land-
scape ; and its beauties are never revealed but to him who strays, in
calm contemplation, by its course, and follows its wanderings with un-
distracted and unimpatient admiration. There is a reason, too, for all
this, which may be made more plain than by metaphors.

The highest delight which poetry produces, does not arise from the
mere passive perception of the images or sentiments which it presents
to the mind, but from the excitement which is given to its own eternal
activity, and the character which is impressed on the train of its spontane-
ous conceptions. Even the dullest reader generally sees more than is
directly presented to him by the poet ; but a lover of poetry always sees
infinitely more ; and is often indebted to his author for little more than
an impulse, or the key-note of a melody, which his fancy makes out for
itself. Thus, the effect of poetry depends more on the fruiffubiess of
the impressions to which it gives rise, than on their own individual force
or novelty ; and the writers who possess the greatest powers of fascina-
tion, are not those who present us with the greatest number of lively
images or lofty sentiments, but who most successfully impart their own
impulse to the current of our thoughts and feelings, and give the colour
of their brighter conceptions to those which they excite in us. Now,
upon a little consideration, it will probably appear, that the dazzling, and
the busy and marvellous scenes which constitute the whole charm of
some poems, are not so well calculated to produce this effect as those
more intelligible delineations which are borrowed from ordinary life, and
coloured from familiar aflections. The object is to awaken in our minds
a train of kindred emotions, and to excite our imaginations to work out
for themselves a tissue of pleasing or impressive conceptions. But it
seems obvious, that this is more likely to be accomplished by surround-
ing us gradually with those objects, and involving us in those situations,
with which we have long been accustomed to associate the feelings of the
poet, — than by startUng us with some tale of wonder, or attempting to
engage our affections for personages of whose character and condition
we are little able to form any conception. These, indeed, are more sure
than the other to produce a momentary sensation, by the novelty and
exaggeration with which they are commonly attended ; but their power is
spent at the first impulse ; they do not strike root and germinate in the
mind, like the seeds of its native feehngs ; nor propagate throughout the
imagination that long series of delightful movements, which is only ex-
cited when the song of the poet is the echo of our familiar feelings.

REMARKS ON CAMPBELL' S POEMS. xix

It appears to us, therefore, that by far the most powerful and enchant-
ing poetry is that which depends for its efiect upon the just representation
of common feelings and common situations, and not on the strangeness
of its incidents, or the novelty or exotic splendour of its scenes and cha-
racters. The difficulty is, no doubt, to give the requisite force, elegance
and dignity to these ordinary subjects, and to win a way for them to the
heart, by that true and concise expression of natural emotion which is
among the rarest gifts of inspiration. To accomplish this, the poet must
do much ; and the reader something. The one must practise enchant-
ment, and the other submit to it. The one must purify his conceptions
from all that is low or artificial ; and the other must lend himself gently
to the impression, and refrain from disturbing it by any movement of
worldly vanity, derision or hard- heartedness. In an advanced state ol
society, the expression of simple emotion is so obstructed by ceremony,
or so distorted by affectation, that though the sentiment itself be still fami-
liar to the greater part of mankind, the verbal representation of it is a
task of the utmost difficulty. One set of writers, accordingly, finding
the whole language fcf men and women too sophisticated for this purpose,
have been obliged to go to the nursery for a more suitable phraseology ;
another has adopted the style of courtly Arcadians ; and a third, that of
mere Bedlamites. So much more difficult is it to express natural feel-
ings than to narrate battles or describe prodigies I ,

But even when the poet has done his part, there are many causes which
may obstruct his immediate popularity. In the first place, it requires a
certain degree of sensibility to perceive his merit. There are thousands
of people who can admire a florid description or be amused with a won-
derful story, to whom a pathetic poem is quite unintelligible. In the
second place, it requires a certain degree of leisure and tranquillity. A
picturesque stanza may be well enough relished while the reader is get-
ting his hair combed ; but a sense of tenderness or emotion will not do
for the corner of a crowded drawing-room. Finally, it requires a certain
degree of courage to proclaim the merits of such a writer. Those who
feel the most deeply, are most given to disguise their feelings ; and deri-
sion is never so agonizing as when it pounces on the wanderings of mis-
guided sensibility. Considering the habits of the age in which we live,
therefore, and the fashion which, though not immutable, has for some
time run steadily in an opposite direction, we should not be much sur-
prised if a poem, whose chief merit consisted in its pathos, and in the
softness and exquisite tenderness of its representations of domestic life
and romantic seclusion, should meet with less encouragement than it
deserves. If the volume before us were the work of an unknown writer,
indeed, we should feel no little apprehension about its success ; but Mr.
Campbell's name has power, we are persuaded, to ensure a very partial
and a very general attention to whatever it accompanies, and, we would
fain hope, influence enough to reclaim the public taste to a juster standard

XX REMARKS ON CAMPBELL'S POEMS.

of excellence. The success of his former work,* indeed, goes far to
remove our anxiety for the fortune of this. It contained, perhaps, more
brilliant and bold passages than are to be found in the poem before us ;
but it was inferior, we think, in softness and beauty ; and, being neces-
sarily of a more desultory and didactic character, had far less pathos and
interest than this very simple tale. Those who admired the Pleasures
of Hope for the passages about Brama and Kosciusko, may perhaps be
somewhat disappointed with the gentler tone of Gertrude ; but those
who loved that charming work for its pictures of infancy and of maternal
and connubial love, may read on here with the assurance of a still higher

gratification.

*******

We close this volume, on the whole, with feelings of regret for its
shortness, and of admiration for the genius of its author. There are
but two noble sorts of poetry, — the pathetic and the sublime ; and we
think he has given very extraordinary proofs of his talents for both. —
There is something, too, we will venture to add, in the style of many
of his conceptions, which irresis'tibly impresses us with the conviction,
that he can do much greater things than he has hitherto accomplished ;
and leads us to regard him, even yet, as a poet of still greater promise
than performance. It seems to us as if the natural force and boldness
of his ideas were habitually checked by a certain fastidious timidity, and
an anxiety about the minor graces of correct and chastened composition.
Certain it is, at least, that his greatest and most lofty flights have been
made in those smaller pieces, about which, it is natural to think, he
must have felt least solicitude ; and that he has succeeded most splen-
didly where he must have been most free from the fear of failure. We
wish any praises or exhortations of ours had the power to give him con-
fidence in his own great talents ; and hope earnestly, that he will now
meet with such encouragement, as may set him above all restraints that
proceed from apprehension, and induce him to give free scope to that
genius, of which we are persuaded that the world has hitherto seen
rather the grace than the richness.

* This was written on tlie first appearance of Gertrude of Wyoming, and the
work here alluded to is the Pleasures of Hope.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

Adverliseinint ......--- iii

Memoir of Thomas Campbell, by Washington Irving - . - - v

Remarks on Campbell's Poems, by Lord Jeffrey ... - xvii

PLEASURES OF HOPE.— Part 1. 25

Part 11. 49

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.— Part I. 69

Part II. &3

Part III. 94

THEODRIC : a Domestic Tale - - - - - - - 111

THE PILGRIM OP GLENCOE 133

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS ;—

O'Connor's Child ; or, "The Flower of Love lies Bleeding" - - - 159

Lochiel's Warning ........ 171

Caroline.— Part I. .....--- 17-5

Part II.— To the Evening Star . .... 177

ReuUura - 179

Lord Ullin's Daughter - - -- - - - - !&"

The Last Man - 190

The Turkish Lady 194

A Dream 190

To the Rainbow 200

Ode to Winter --.------ 203

Ode to the Memory of Burns .--.--- 20()

Lines written on Visiting a Scene in Arg)'lcshire .... 210

On the Grave of a Suicide ...-.-- 213

Gilderoy 21-3

XXU CONTENTS.

PAGE

Ye Mariners of England : a Naval Ode ..... 21.5

Battle of the Baltic ........217

Hohenlinden - -•- - - - - - -231

Stanzas to the Memory of the Spanish Patriots latest killed in resisting the

Regency of the Duke of Angouleme ..... 223

Song of the Greeks 225

Song. — " Oh, how hard it is to find" ..---. 227

Stanzas on the threatened Invasion, lft03 ..... 228

Song.— "Men of England" 229

The Soldier's Dream 231

Scnex's Soliloquy on his Youthful Idol ...... 232

Tlie Wounded Hussar 233

Song. — "Withdraw not yet those lips and fingers" .... 234

The Harper ......... 235

Margaret and Dora ........ 236

The Brave Roland 237

Adelgitha 2-39

The Ritter Bann 240

Exile of Erin 243

Lines written at the Request of the Highland Societ)' of London, when met

to commemorate the 21st of March, the day of Victory in Egypt - 250

Song. — "Drink ye to her that each loves best" - .... 252

Stanzas to Painting ........ 253

Absence .......... 256

Field Flowers - - - - { 257

Stanzas on the Battle of Navarino ...... 259

The Maid's Remonstrance ....... 261

Valedictory Stanzas to J. P. Kemble, Esq., composed for a Public Meeting,

held June, 1817 262

The Beech Tree's Petition ------- 206

Glenara .......... 057

Lines spoken by Mrs. Bartley at Drury-Lane Theatre, on the first Opening

of the House after the Death of the Prmcess Charlotte, 1617 - 209

CONTENTS. XXIU

PAGE

Lines on the Camp Hill, near Hastings ------ 07^

Song. — To the Evening Star ----... 073

The Spectre Boat.— A Ballad -.-.... 274

The "Name Unknown;" in imitation of Klopstock - - . . 075

A Thought suggested by the New Year . . - . . 277
Lines on receiving the Seal with the Campbell Crest, from K. M — •, before

her Marriage ---.-... 279

Song. — " How delicious is the winning" - . - . . ogi

Hallowed Ground ........ 283

The Lover to his Mistress on her Birth-day . - . . . 2S7

Lines on leaving a Scene in Bavaria ..--.. 059

Song. — "Earl March look'd on his dying child" .... 295

Song. — "When Love came first to Earth" ..... ogg

Song. — "When Napoleon was flying" ...--. 297

The Clierubs. — Suggested by an Apologue in the Works of Franklin - 298

Farewell to Love -------.. 302

Drinking Song of Munich -...-.. 304
To Sir Francis Burdett, on his Speech delivered in Parliament, August 7,

lSo2, respecting the foreign Policy of Great Britain - - . 305

Song. — " To Love in my heart" .-----. 307

Lines to Julia M , sent with a Copy of the Author's Poems - - 309

Ode to the Germans -----... 2it)

Lines on Revisiting Cathcart .----.. 312
Lines on a Picture of a Girl in the attitude of Prayer, by the Artist Gruse,

in the possession of Lady Stepney ..... 313

Napoleon and the British Sailor ------- 315

To the United States of North America ----- 318

Benlomond ......... 319

The Child and Hind 320

The Jilted Nymph 327

On Getting Home the Portrait of a Female Child, Six Years Old - - 329

The Parrot 331

Song of the Colonists departing from New Zealand - - - - 333

XXIV CONTENTS.

PAGE

JMoonlight 335

Cora Linn, or the Falls of the Clyde 337

Lines on my new Child-Sweetheart ...--- 339

The Launch of a First-rate ....... 341

Epistle, from Algiers, to Horace Smith .--.-- 343

Song on our Queen .....--- 346

The Death-Boat of Heligoland 347

Love and Madness. — An Elegy - - - - - - - 349

Lines inscribed on a Monument lately finished by Mr. Chantrey, which
has been erected by the Widow^ of Admiral Sir G. Campbell, K.C.B.,

to the Memory of her Husband ..... 352

Lines on Revisiting a Scottish River ...... 354

Lines on Poland -...---.- 356

The Power of Russia ........ 363

liines on the Departure of Emigrants from New South AVales - - 367

Lines on the View from St. Leonard's ..-.-- 372

The Dead Eagle.— Written at Oran .-...- 37S

To"a Young Lady, who asked me to write something Original in her Album 382

Chaucer and Windsor .....--. 3?3

Lines suggested by the Statue of Arnold Von Winkelried ... 3S4

Lines written in a Blank leaf of La Perouse's Voyages ... 3S6

Fragment of an Oratorio ........ 3S9

TRANSLATIONS :—

Martial Eleg>', from the Greek of Tyrtaeus .... 395

Song of Hybrias the Cretan ...... 397

Fragment, from the Greek of Alcman ..... 397

Specimens of Translations from Medea ..... 398

Speech of the Chorus, in the same Tragedy .... 399

Notes .......... 405

THE

PLEASURES or HOPE

PART THE FIRST

ANALYSIS.

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 deli-
neated— an allusion is made to the well-known fiction in Pagan tradition, that,
when all the guardian deities of mankind abandoned the world, Hope alone was
left behind — the consolations of this passion in situations of danger and distress —
the seaman on his watch — the soldier marching into battle — allusion to the interest-
ing 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 prisoner, the maniac and the wanderer.

From the consolations of individual misery, a transition is made to prospects of
political improvement in the future state of society — the wide field that is yet open
for the progress of hiunanizing arts among uncivilized nations — from these views of
amelioration of society, and the extension of liberty and truth over despotic and
barbarous countries, by a melancholy contrast of ideas, we are led to reflect uj)on
the hard fate of a brave people recently conspicuous in their struggles for independ-
ences-description of the capture of Warsaw, of the last contest of the oppressor
and the oppressed, and the massacre of the Polish patriots at the bridge of Prague —
apostrophe to the self-interested enemies of himian improvement — the wrongs of
Africa — the barbarous policy of Europeans in India — prophecy in the Hindoo my-
thology 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.

THE

PLEASURES OF HOPE.

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 thbse cliffs of shadowy tint appear
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near ? —
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,
And robes the mountain in its azure hue.
Thus, with delight, we linger to survey
The promised joys of life's unmeasured way;
Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene
More pleasing seems than all the past hath been,
And every form, that Fancy can repair
From dark oblivion, glows divinely there.

What potent spirit guides the raptured eye
To pierce the shades of dim futurity?
Can Wisdom lend, with all her heavenly power,
The pledge of Joy's anticipated hour?

28 PLEASURES OF HOPE.

Ah, no ! she darkly sees the fate of man —

Her dim horizon bounded to a span ;

Or, if she hold an image to the view,

'Tis Nature pictured too severely true.

With thee, sweet Hope! resides the heavenly light,

That pours remotest rapture on the sight :

Thine is the charm of life's bewilder'd way,

That calls each slumbering passion into play.

Waked by thy touch, I see the sister band,

On tiptoe watching, start at thy command,

And fly where'er thy mandate bids them steer.

To Pleasure's path, or Glory's bright career.

Primeval Hope, the Abnian Muses say,
When Man and Nature mourn'd their first decay ;
When every form of death, and every woe.
Shot from malignant stars to earth below ;
When Murder bared her arm, and rampant War
Yoked the red dragons of her iron car ;
When Peace and Mercy, banish'd from the plain.
Sprung on the viewless winds to Heaven again ;
All, all forsook the friendless, guilty mind,
But Hope, the charmer, linger'd still behind.

Thus, while Elijah's burning wheels prepare
From Carmel's heights to sweep the fields of air.
The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began,
Dropt on the world — a sacred gift to man.

Auspicious Hope ! in thy sweet garden grow
Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe ;

PLEASURES OF HOPE. 29

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 th' ^olian organ play,

And sweep the furrow'd lines of anxious thought away.

Angel of life ! thy glittering wings explore
Earth's loneliest bounds, and Ocean's wildest shore.
Lo ! to the wintry winds the pilot yields
His bark careering o'er unfathom'd fields ;
Now on Atlantic waves he rides afar,
Where Andes, giant of the western star.
With meteor-standard to the winds unfurl'd,
Looks from his throne of clouds o'er half the world !

Now far he sweeps, where scarce a summer smiles,
On Behring's rocks, or Greenland's naked isles :
Cold on his midnight watch the breezes blow.
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 woes that wreck thy manly form!
Rocks, waves, and winds, the shatter'd bark delay ;
Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away.

But Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep.
And sing to charm the spirit of the deep :
Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole.
Her visions warm the watchman's pensive soul ;

3*

30 PLEASURES OF HOPE.

His native hills that rise in happi-er climes.
The grot that heard his song of other times,
His cottage home, his bark of slender sail,
His glassy lake, and broomwood-blossom'd vale,
Rush on his thought; he sweeps before the wind,
Treads the loved shore he sigh'd to leave behind ;
Meets at each step a friend's familiar face,
And flies at last to Helen's long embrace ;
Wipes from her cheek the rapture-speaking tear!
And clasps, with many a sigh, his children dear!
While, long neglected, but at length caress'd,
His faithful dog salutes the smiling guest.
Points to the master's eyes (where'er they roam)
His wistful face, and whines a welcome home.

Friend of the brave ! in peril's darkest hour,
Intrepid Virtue looks to thee for power ;
To thee the heart its trembling homage yields.
On stormy floods, and carnage-cover'd fields.
When front to front the banner'd hosts combine,
Halt ere they close, and form the dreadful line.
When all is still on Death's devoted soil.
The march-worn soldier mingles for the toil !
As rings his glittering tube, he lifts on high
The dauntless brow and spirit-speaking eye,
Hails in his heart the triumph yet to come,
And hears thy stormy music in the drum !

And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore
The hardy Byron to his native shore —

PLEASURES OF HOPE. 31

In horrid climes, where Chiloe's tempests sweep
Tumultuous murmurs o'er the troubled deep,
'Twas his to mourn Misfortune's rudest shock,
Scourged by the winds, and cradled on the rock,
To wake each joyless morn and search again
The famish'd haunts of solitary men ;
Whose race, unyielding as their native storm.
Know not a trace of Nature but the form ;
Yet, at thy call, the hardy tar pursued,
Pale, but intrepid, sad, but unsubdued,
Pierced the deep woods, and, hailing from afar
The moon's pale planet and the northern star.
Paused at each dreary cry, unheard before.
Hyaenas in the wild, and mermaids on the shore ;
Till, led by thee o'er many a cliff sublime.
He found a warmer world, a milder clime,
A home to rest, a shelter to defend,
Peace and repose, a Briton and a friend !

Congenial Hope ! thy passion-kindling power.
How bright, how strong, in youth's untroubled hour!
On yon proud height, with Genius hand in hand,
I see thee 'light, and wave thy golden wand.
"Go, child of Heaven! (thy winged words proclaim)
'Tis thine to search the boundless fields of fame !
Lo ! Newton, priest of Nature, shines afar.
Scans the wide world, and numbers every star!
Wilt thou, with him, mysterious rites apply,
And watch the shrine with wonder-beaming eye I

39

PLEASURES OF HOPE.

Yes, thou shalt mark, with magic art profound.
The speed of light, the circHng 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 sequester'd clime,
Slow, pass the sons of Wisdom, more sublime;
Calm as the fields of Heaven, his sapient eye
The loved Athenian lifts to realms on high.
Admiring Plato, on his spotless page,
Stamps the bright dictates of the Father sage :
' Shall Nature bound to Earth's diurnal span
The fire of God, th' immortal soul of man ?'

" Turn, child of Heaven, thy rapture-lighten'd eye
To Wisdom's walks, the sacred Nine are nigh :
Hark! from bright spires that gild the Delphian height.
From streams that wander in eternal light.
Ranged on their hill, Harmonia's daughters swell
The mingling tones of horn, and harp, and shell ;
Deep from his vaults the Loxian murmurs flow.
And Pythia's awful organ peals below.

"Beloved of Heaven! the smiling Muse shall shed
Her moonlight halo on thy beauteous head ;

PLEASURES OF HOPE. 33

Shall swell thy heart to rapture unconfined,
And breathe a holy madness o'er thy mind.
I see thee roam her guardian power beneath,
And talk with spirits on the midnight heath ;
Enquire of guilty wanderers whence they came,
And ask each blood-stain'd form his earthly name ;
Then weave in rapid verse the deeds they tell.
And read the trembling world the tales of hell.

" When Venus, throned in clouds of rosy hue.
Flings from her golden urn the vesper dew.
And bids fond man her glimmering noon employ,
Sacred to love, and walks of tender joy;
A milder mood the goddess shall recall, .
And soft as dew thy tones of music fall ;
While Beauty's deeply-pictured smiles impart
A pang more dear than pleasure to the heart —
Warm as thy sighs shall flow the Lesbian strain,
And plead in Beauty's ear, nor plead in vain.

" Or wilt thou Orphean hymns more sacred deem,
And steep thy song in Mercy's mellow stream ;
To pensive drops the radiant eye beguile —
For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile ; —
On Nature's throbbing anguish pour relief.
And teach impassion'd souls the joy of grief?

"Yes; to thy tongue shall seraph words be given,
And power on earth to plead the cause of Heaven ;
The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone.
That never mused on sorrow but its own,

34 PLEASURES OF HOPE.

Unlocks a generous store at thy command,
Like Horeb's rocks beneath the prophet's hand.
The living lumber of his kindred earth,
Charm'd into soul, receives a second birth,
Feels thy dread power another heart afford,
Whose passion-touch'd harmonious strings accord
True as the circling spheres to Nature's plan ;
And man, the brother, lives the friend of man.

" Bright as the pillar rose at Heaven's command,
When Israel march'd along the desert land.
Blazed through the night on lonely wilds afar.
And told the path, — a never-setting star:
So, heavenly Genius, in thy course divine,
Hope is thy star, her light is ever thine."

Propitious Power ! when rankling cares annoy
The sacred home of Hymenean joy ;
When doom'd to Poverty's sequester'd dell.
The wedded pair of love and virtue dwell,
Unpitied by the world, unknown to fame.
Their woes, their wishes, and their hearts the same-
Oh, there, prophetic Hope! thy smile bestow.
And chase the pangs that worth should never know-
There, as the parent deals his scanty store
To friendless babes, and weeps to give no more.
Tell, that his manly race shall yet assuage
Their father's wrongs, and shield his latter age.
What though for him no Hybla sweets distil.
Nor bloomy vines wave purple on the hill ;

PLEASURES OF HOPE. 35

Tell, that when silent years have pass'd 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
In form and soul ; but ah ! more blest than he !
Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love at last,
Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past —
With many a smile my solitude repay.
And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away.

" And say, when summon'd from the world and thee,
I lay my head beneath the willow tree.
Wilt thoUy sweet mourner ! at my stone appear.
And soothe my parted spirit lingering near?

36 PLEASURES OF HOPE.

Oh, wilt thou come at evening hour to shed
The tears of Memory o'er my narrow bed;
With aching temples on thy hand reclined,
Muse on the last farewell I leave behind,
Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low.
And think on all my love, and all my woe?"

So speaks affection, ere the infant eye
Can look regard, or brighten in reply ;
But when the cherub lip hath learnt to claim
A mother's ear by that endearing name ;
Soon as the playful innocent can prove
A tear of pity, or a smile of love.
Or cons his murmuring task beneath her care,
Or lisps with holy look his evening prayer.
Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear
The mournful ballad warbled in his ear ;
How fondly looks admiring Hope the while,
At every artless tear, and every smile ;
How glows the joyous parent to descry
A guileless bosom, true to sympathy!

Where is the troubled heart consign'd to share
Tumultuous toils, or solitary care,
Unblest by visionary thoughts that stray
To count the joys of Fortune's better day!
Lo, nature, life, and liberty relume
The dim-eyed tenant of the dungeon gloom,
A long-lost friend, or hapless child restored,
Smiles at his blazing hearth and social board ;

PLEASURES OF HOPE. 37

Warm from his heart the tears of rapture flow,
And virtue triumphs o'er remember'd woe.

Chide not his peace, proud Reason ! nor destroy
The shadowy forms of uncreated joy,
That urge the hngering tide of life, and pour
Spontaneous slumber on his midnight hour.
Hark! the wild maniac sings, to chide the gale
That wafts so slow her lover's distant sail ;
She, sad spectatress, on the wintry shore,
Watch'd the rude surge his shroudless corse that bore,
Knew the pale form, and, shrieking in amaze,
Clasp'd her cold hands, and fix'd her maddening gaze :
Poor widow'd wretch ! 'twas 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 climb 'd 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 err'd no more.
4

38 PLEASURES OF HOPE.

Yon friendless man, at whose dejected eye
Th' unfeeling proud one looks — and passes by,
Condemned on Penury's barren path to roam,
Scorn'd by the world, and left without a home —
Even he, at evening, should he chance to stray
Down by the hamlet's hawthorn-scented way,
Where, round the cot's romantic glade, are seen
The blossom'd bean-field, and the sloping green,
Leans o'er its humble gate, and thinks the while —
Oh ! that for me some home like this would smile,
Some hamlet shade, to yield my sickly form
Health in the breeze, and shelter in the storm!
There should my hand no stinted boon assign
To wretched hearts with sorrow such as mine ! —
That generous wish can soothe unpitied care,
And Hope half mingles with the poor man's prayer.

Hope ! when I mourn, with sympathizing mind,
The wrongs of fate, the woes of human kind.
Thy blissful omens bid my spirit see
The boundless fields of rapture yet to be ;
I watch the wheels of Nature's mazy plan,
And learn the future by the past of man.

Come, bright Improvement! on the car of Time,
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime;
Thy handmaid arts shall every wild explore,
Trace every wave, and culture every shore.
On Erie's banks, where tigers steal along,
And the dread Indian chants a dismal song,

PLEASURES OF HOPE. 39

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 ;
Where'er degraded Nature bleeds and pines,
From Guinea's coast to Sibir's dreary mines.
Truth shall pervade th' unfathom'd darkness there,
And light the dreadful features of despair. —
Hark ! the stern captive spurns his heavy load,
And asks the image back that Heaven bestow'd !
Fierce in his eye the fire of valour burns,
And, as the slave departs, the man returns.

Oh ! sacred Truth ! thy triumph ceased a while,
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile
When leagued Oppression pour'd to Northern wars
Her whisker'd pandoors and her fierce hussars,
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn,
Peal'd her loud drum, and twang'd her trumpet horn ;

40 PLEASURES OF HOPE.

Tumultuous Horror brooded o'er her van,
Presaging wrath to Poland — and to man !

Warsaw's last champion from her height survey'd,
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid, —
Oh! Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save! —
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave ?
Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains,
Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains!
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high!
And swear for her to live ! — with her to die !

He said, and on the rampart-heights array 'd
His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd ;
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm ;
Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly,
Revenge, or death, — the watch-word and reply;
Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm.
And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm ! —

In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few!
From rank to rank your volley'd thunder flew : —
Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time,
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime ;
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe.
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe !
Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear.
Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high career; —
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
And Freedom shriek'd — as Kosciusko fell !

PLEASURES OF HOPE. 41

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 away,
Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay!
Hark, as the smouldering piles with thunder fall,
A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call !
Earth shook — red meteors flash'd along the sky,
And conscious Nature shudder'd at the cry !

Oh ! righteous Heaven ; ere Freedom found a grave.
Why slept the sw^ord, omnipotent to save ?
Where was thine arm, 0 Vengeance! where thy rod.
That smote the foes of Zion and of God ;
That crush'd proud Ammon, when his iron car
Was yoked in wrath, and thunder'd from afar ?
Where was the storm that slumber'd till the host
Of blood-stain'd Pharaoh left their trembling coast ;
Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow.
And heaved an ocean on their march below ?

Departed spirits of the mighty dead!
Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled !
Friends of the world! restore your swords to man.
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van !
Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone,
And make her arm puissant as your own !
Oh ! once again to Freedom's cause return
The patriot Tell — the Bruce of Bannockburn !

42 PLEASURES OF HOPE.

Yes! thy proud lords, unpitied land! shall see
That man hath yet a soul — and dare be free !
A little while, along thy saddening plains.
The starless night of Desolation reigns ;
Truth shall restore the light by Nature given,
And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven !
Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurl'd.
Her name, her nature, wither'd from the world!

Ye that the rising morn invidious mark.
And hate the light — because your deeds are dark ;
Ye that expanding truth invidious view,
And think, or wish, the song of Hope untrue;
Perhaps your little hands presume to span
The march of Genius and the powers of man ;
Perhaps ye watch, at Pride's unhallow'd shrine,
Her victims, newly slain, and thus divine : —
"Here shall thy triumph. Genius, cease, and here
Truth, Science, Virtue, close your short career."

Tyrants ! in vain ye trace the wizard ring ;
In vain ye limit Mind's unwearied spring :
What ! can ye lull the winged winds asleep.
Arrest the rolling world, or chain the deep ?
No ! — the wild wave contemns your sceptred hand ;
It roll'd not back when Canute gave command !

Man ! can thy doom no brighter soul allow ?
Still must thou live a blot on Nature's brow ?
Shall War's polluted banner ne'er be furl'd ?
Shall crimes and tyrants cease but with the world .''

PLEASURES OF HOPE. 43

What! are thy triumphs, sacred Truth, belied?
Why then hath Plato lived — or Sidney died ? —

Ye fond adorers of departed fame.
Who warm at Scipio's worth, or Tully's name !
Ye that, in fancied vision, can admire
The sword of Brutus, and the Theban lyre !
Rapt in historic ardour, who adore
Each classic haunt, and well-remember'd shore,
Where Valour tuned, amidst her chosen throng,
The Thracian trumpet and the Spartan song ;
Or, wandering thence, behold the later 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 Valour left the world — to live no more ?
No more shall Brutus bid a tyrant die,
And sternly smile with vengeance in his eye ?
Hampden no more, when suffering Freedom calls,
Encounter Fate, and triumph as he falls?
Nor Tell disclose, through peril and alarm.
The might that slumbers in a peasant's arm ?

Yes! in that generous cause, for ever strong.
The patriot's virtue and the poet's song,
Still, as the tide of ages rolls away.
Shall charm the world, unconscious of decay.

Yes! there are hearts, prophetic Hope may trust.
That slumber yet in uncreated dust,

44 PLEASURES OF HOPE.

Ordain'd to fire the adoring sons of earth,
With every charm of wisdom and of worth ;
Ordain'd to light, with intellectual day.
The mazy wheels of nature as they play.
Or, warm with Fancy's energy, got low,
And rival all but Shakspeare's name below.

And say, supernal Powers! who deeply scan
Heaven's dark decrees, unfathom'd yet by man.
When shall the world call down, to cleanse her shame,
That embryo spirit, yet without a name, —
That friend of Nature, whose avenging hands
Shall burst the Libyan's adamantine bands ?
Who, sternly marking on his native soil
The blood, the tears, the anguish, and the toil,
Shall bid each righteous heart exult, to see
Peace to the slave, and vengeance on the free !

Yet, yet, degraded men ! th' expected day
That breaks your bitter cup, is far away ;
Trade, wealth, and fashion, ask you still to bleed.
And holy men give Scripture for the deed ;
Scourged, and debased, no Briton stoops to save
A wretch, a coward ; yes, because a slave ! —

Eternal Nature ! when thy giant hand
Had heaved the floods, and fix'd the trembling land.
When life sprang startling at thy plastic call.
Endless her forms, and man the lord of all !
Say, was that lordly form inspired by thee
To wear eternal chains and bow the knee ?

PLEASURES OF HOPE. 45

Was man ordain'd the slave of man to toil,
Yoked with the brutes, and fetter'd to the soil ;
Weigh'd in a tyrant's balance with his gold ?
No! — Nature stamp'd us in a heavenly mould!
She bade no wretch his thankless labour urge,
Nor, trembling, take the pittance and the scourge !
No homeless Libyan, on the stormy deep.
To call upon his country's name, and weep !

Lo! once in triumph, on his boundless plain,
The quiver'd chief of Congo loved to reign ;
With fires proportion'd to his native sky,
Strength in his arm, and lightning in his eye ;
Scour'd with wild feet his sun-illumined zone,
The spear, the lion, and the woods his own !
Or led the combat, bold without a plan.
An artless savage, but a fearless man!

The plunderer came ! — alas ! no glory smiles
For Congo's chief, on yonder Indian isles ;
For ever fall'n ! no son of Nature now,
With Freedom charter'd on his manly brow !
Faint, bleeding, bound, he weeps the night away,
And when the sea- wind wafts the dewless day.
Starts, with a bursting heart, for evermore
To curse the sun that lights their guilty shore !

The shrill horn blew ; at that alarum knell
His guardian angel took a last farewell !
That funeral dirge to darkness hath resign'd
The fiery grandeur of a generous mind !

46 PLEASURES OF HOPE.

Poor fetter'd man ! I hear thee whispering low
Unhallow'd vows to Guilt, the child of Woe,
Friendless thy heart ; and canst thou harbour there
A wish but death — a passion but despair ?

The widow'd Indian, when her lord expires.
Mounts the dread pile, and braves the funeral fires!
So falls the heart at Thraldom's bitter sigh !
So Virtue dies, the spouse of Liberty!

But not to Libya's barren climes alone.
To Chili, or the wild Siberian zone.
Belong the wretched heart and haggard eye,
Degraded worth, and poor misfortune's sigh ! —
Ye orient realms, where Ganges' waters run !
Prolific fields ! dominions of the sun !
How long your tribes have trembled and obey'd !
How long was Timour's iron sceptre sway'd,
Whose marshal'd hosts, the lions of the plain,
From Scythia's northern mountains to the main,
Raged o'er your plunder'd shrines and altars bare.
With blazing torch and gory cimitar, —
Stunn'd with the cries of death each gentle gale,
And bathed in blood the verdure of the vale !
Yet could no pangs the immortal spirit tame.
When Brama's children perish'd for his name ;
The martyr smiled beneath avenging power.
And braved the tyrant in his torturing hour !

When Europe sought your subject realms to gain,
And stretch'd her giant sceptre o'er the main,

PLEASURES OF HOPE. 47

Taught her proud barks the winding way to shape,
And braved the stormy Spirit of the Cape ;
Children of Brama! then was Mercy nigh
To wash the stain of blood's eternal dye ?
Did Peace descend, to triumph and to save,
When freeborn Britons cross'd the Indian wave ?
Ah, no! — to more than Rome's ambition true.
The Nurse of Freedom gave it not to you !
She the bold route of Europe's guilt began,
And, in the march of nations, led the van!

Rich in the gems of India's gaudy zone.
And plunder piled from kingdoms not their own,
Degenerate trade ! thy minions could despise
The heart-born anguish of a thousand cries ;
Could lock, with impious hands, their teeming store.
While famish'd nations died along the shore :
Could mock the groans of fellow-men, and bear
The curse of kingdoms peopled wdth despair ;
Could stamp disgrace on man's polluted name,
And barter, with their gold, eternal shame !

But hark ! as bow'd to earth the Bramin kneels,
From heavenly climes propitious thunder peals !
Of India's fate her guardian spirits tell.
Prophetic murmurs breathing on the shell,
And solemn sounds that awe the listening mind.
Roll on the azure paths of every wind.

Foes of mankind ! (her guardian spirits say,)
Revolving ages bring the bitter day

4S PLEASURES OF HOPE.

When Heaven's unerring arm shall fall on you,
And blood for blood these Indian plains bedew ;
Nine times have Brama's wheels of lightning hurl'd
His awful presence o'er the alarmed world ;
Nine times hath Guilt, through all his giant frame.
Convulsive trembled, as the Mighty came ;
Nine 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 ;
To chase destruction from her plunder'd shore
With arts and arms that triumph'd once before,
The tenth Avatar comes ! at Heaven's command
Shall Seriswattee wave her hallow'd wand !
And Camdeo bright, and Ganesa sublime.
Shall bless with joy their own propitious clime! —
Come, Heavenly Powers! primeval peace restore!
Love! — Mercy! — Wisdom! — rule for evermore!"

PART THE SECOND.

ANALYSIS.

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, compared to the skill of the great artist who personified
perfect beauty, in the picture of Venus, by an assemblage of the most beautiful
features he could find — a summer and winter evening described, as they may be
supposed to arise m the mind of one who wshes, with enthusiasm, for the union
of friendship and retirement.

Hope and Imagination inseparable agents — even in those contemplative moments
when our Imagination wanders beyond the boundaries of this world, our minds
are not unattended with an impression that we shall some day have a wider and
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 Conrad and Elle-
nore — conclusion .

PART THE SECOND.

In joyous youth, what soul hath never known
Thought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own ?
Who hath not paused while Beauty's pensive eye
Ask'd from his heart the homage of a sigh ?
Who hath not own'd, with rapture-smitten frame,
The power of grace, the magic of a name ?

There be, perhaps, who barren hearts avow.
Cold as the rocks on Torneo's hoary brow ;
There be, whose loveless wisdom never fail'd.
In self-adoring pride securely mail'd : —
But, triumph not, ye peace-enamour'd few!
Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you!
For you no fancy consecrates the scene
Where rapture utter'd vows, and wept between ;
'Tis yours, unmoved, to sever and to meet ;
No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet!

Who that would ask a heart to dulness wed.
The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead ?
No ; the wild bliss of Nature needs alloy.
And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy!

52 PLEASURES OF HOPE.

And say, without our hopes, without our fears,
Without the home that plighted love endears.
Without the smile from partial beauty won.
Oh ! what were man ? — a world without a sun.

Till Hymen brought his love-delighted hour,
There dwelt no joy in Eden's rosy bower!
In vain the viewless seraph lingering there
At starry midnight charmed the silent air ;
In vain the wild-bird caroll'd on the steep.
To hail the sun, slow wheeling from the deep ;
In vain, to soothe the solitary shade,
Aerial notes in mingling measure play'd ;
The summer wind that shook the spangled tree.
The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee ; —
Still slowly pass'd the melancholy day,
And still the stranger wist not where to stray.
The world was sad ! — the garden was a wild !
And man, the hermit, sigh'd — till woman smiled!

True, the sad power to generous hearts may bring
Delirious anguish on his fiery wing;
Barr'd from delight by Fate's untimely hand.
By wealthless lot, or pitiless command ;
Or doom'd to gaze on beauties that adorn
The smile of triumph or the frown of scorn ;
While Memory watches o'er the sad review
Of joys that faded like the morning dew ;
Peace may depart — and life and nature seem
A barren path, a wildness, and a dream!

PLEASURES OF HOPE. 53

But can the noble mind for ever brood
The willing victim of a weary mood,
On heartless cares that squander life away,
And cloud young Genius brightening into day ? —
Shame to the coward thought that e'er betray'd
The noon of manhood to a myrtle shade ! —
If Hope's creative spirit cannot raise
One trophy sacred to thy future days.
Scorn the dull crowd that haunt the gloomy shrine,
Of hopeless love to murmur and repine !
But, should a sigh of milder mood express
Thy heart-warm wishes, true to happiness.
Should Heaven's fair harbinger delight to pour
Her blissful visions on thy pensive hour.
No tear to blot thy memory's pictured page,
No fears but such as fancy can assuage ;
Though thy wild heart some hapless hour may miss
The peaceful tenor of unvaried bliss,
(For love pursues an ever-devious race,
True to the winding lineaments of grace ;)
Yet still may Hope her talisman employ
To snatch from Heaven anticipated joy.
And all her kindred energies impart
That burn the brightest in the purest heart.

When first the Rhodian's mimic art array'd
The Queen of Beauty in her Cyprian shade.
The happy master mingled on his piece
Each look that charm'd him in the fair of Greece.

5*

54 PLEASURES OF HOPE.

To faultless Nature true, he stole a grace
From every finer form and sweeter face ;
And as he sojourned on the ^gean isles,
Woo'd all their love, and treasured all their smiles ;
Then glow'd the tints, pure, precious, and refined.
And mortal charms seem'd heavenly when combined I
Love on the picture smiled ! Expression pour'd
Her mingling spirit there— and Greece adored !

So thy fair hand, enamour'd Fancy! gleans
The treasured pictures of a thousand scenes ;
Thy pencil traces on the lover's thought
Some cottage-home, from towns and toil remote,
Where love and lore may claim alternate hours,
With Peace embosom'd in Idalian bowers !
Remote from busy Life's bewilder'd way.
O'er all his heart shall Taste and Beauty sway!
Free on the sunny slope, or winding shore,
With hermit steps to wander and adore !
There shall he love, when genial morn appears.
Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears.
To watch the brightening roses of the sky.
And muse on Nature with a poet's eye ! —
And when the sun's last splendour lights the deep.
The woods and waves, and murmuring winds asleep,
When fairy harps th' Hesperian planet hail,
And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale.
His path shall be where streamy mountains swell
Their shadowy grandeur o'er the narrow dell,

PLEASURES OF HOPE. 55

Where mouldering piles and forests intervene.
Mingling with darker tints the living green ;
No circling hills his ravish'd eye to bound,
Heaven, Earth, and Ocean, blazing all around.

The moon is up — the watch-tower dimly burns —
And down the vale his sober step returns ;
But pauses oft, as winding rocks convey
The still sweet fall of music far away ;
And oft he lingers from his home awhile
To watch the dying notes ! — and start, and smile !

Let winter come ! let polar spirits sweep
The darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep !
Though boundless snows the wither'd heath deform,
And the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm,
Yet shall the smile of social love repay.
With mental light, the melancholy day!
And, when its short and sullen noon is o'er,
The ice-chain'd waters slumbering on the shore,
How bright the 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, by nature mark'd his own;
And, in the waveless mirror of his mind.
Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind,
Since when her empire o'er his heart began !
Since first he call'd her his before the holy man !

Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome.
And light the wintry paradise of home ;

e shower,
in. the solemn hour-
■ ud, with ^vit beguile,
h, or a smile —

waters,

:^ sword!

PLEASURES OF HOPE. 57

Nor sought in vain ! at that heart-piercing cry
The strings of Nature crack'd with agony!
He, with dehrious laugh, the dagger hurl'd.
And burst the ties that bound him to the world !

Turn from his dying words, that smite with steel
The shuddering thoughts, or wind them on the wheel —
Turn to the gentler melodies that suit
Thalia's harp, or Pan's Arcadian lute ;
Or, down the stream of Truth's historic page,
From clime to clime descend, from age to age!

Yet there, perhaps, may darker scenes obtrude
Than Fancy fashions in her wildest mood ;
There shall he pause with horrent brow, to rate
What millions died — that Caesar might be great!
Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore,
March'd by their Charles to Dneiper's swampy shore ;
Faint in his wounds, and shivering in the blast,
The Swedish soldier sunk — and groan'd his last!
File after file the stormy showers benumb.
Freeze every standard-sheet, and hush the drum !
Horseman and horse confess'd the bitter pang.
And arms and warriors fell with hollow clang!
Yet, ere he sunk in Nature's last repose.
Ere life's warm torrent to the fountain froze,
The dying man to Sweden turn'd his eye.
Thought of his home, and closed it with a sigh !
Imperial Pride look'd sullen on his plight.
And Charles beheld — nor shudder'd at the sight !

'58 PLEASURES OF HOPE.

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, unreveal'd below.
We yet shall learn, and wonder as we know ;
For, as lona's saint, a giant form,
Throned on her towers, conversing with the storm,
(When o'er each Runic altar, weed-entwined.
The vesper clock tolls mournful to the wind,)
Counts every wave-worn isle, and mountain hoar.
From Kilda to the green lerne's shore ;
So, when thy pure and renovated mind
This perishable dust hath left behind,
Thy seraph eye shall count the starry train,
Like distant isles embosom'd in the main ;
Rapt to the shrine where motion first began,
And light and life in mingling torrent ran ;
From whence each bright rotundity was hurl'd.
The throne of God, — the centre of the world !
Oh! vainly wise, the moral Muse hath sung
That suasive Hope hath but a Siren tongue !
True ; she may sport with life's untutor'd day,
Nor heed the solace of its last decay.

PLEASURES OF HOPE. 59

The guileless heart her happy mansion spurn,
And part, like Ajut — never to return!

But yet, methinks, when Wisdom shall assuage
The grief and passions of our greener age.
Though dull the close of life, and far away
Each flower that hail'd the dawning of the day ;
Yet o'er her lovely hopes, that once were dear.
The time-taught spirit, pensive, not severe.
With milder griefs her aged eye shall fill,
And weep their falsehood, though she loves them still !

Thus, with forgiving tears, and reconciled.
The king of Judah mourn'd his rebel child !
Musing on days when yet the guiltless boy
Smiled on his sire, and fill'd his heart with joy!
My Absalom ! the voice of Nature cried.
Oh ! that for thee thy father could have died !
For bloody was the deed, and rashly done.
That slew my Absalom ! — my son ! — my son !

Unfading Hope ! when life's last embers burn.
When soul to soul, and dust to dust return !
Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour !
Oh ! then, thy kingdom comes ! Immortal Power I
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 !

60 PLEASURES OF HOPE.

Oh ! deep-enchanting prelude to repose,
The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes!
Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh,
It is a dread and awful thing to die !
Mysterious worlds, untravell'd by the sun!
Where Time's far wandering tide has never run.
From your unfathom'd shades, and viewless spheres,
A warning comes, unheard by other ears,
'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud,
Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud !
While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust,
The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust;
And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod
The roaring waves, and call'd upon his God,
With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss.
And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss!

Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume
The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb ;
Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll
Cimmerian darkness 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 w^oes.
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 ;

PLEASURES OF HOPE. 61

Wild as that hallow'd anthem sent to hail
Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale,
When Jordan hush'd his waves, and midnight still
Watch'd on the holy towers of Zion hill !

Soul of the just! companion of the dead!
Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled?
Back to its heavenly source thy being goes,
Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose ;
Doom'd on his airy path a while to burn.
And doom'd, like thee, to travel, and return. —
Hark! from the world's exploding centre driven,
With sounds that shook the firmament of Heaven,
Careers the fiery giant, fast and far,
On bickering wheels, and adamantine car ;
From planet whirl'd to planet more remote.
He visits realms beyond the reach of thought ;
But wheeling homeward, when his course is run.
Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun !
So hath the traveller of earth unfurl'd
Her trembling wings, emerging from the world ;
And o'er the path by mortal never trod.
Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God !

Oh ! lives there. Heaven, beneath thy dread expanse,
One hopeless, dark idolater of Chance,
Content to feed, with pleasures unrefined,
The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind ;
Who, mouldering earthward, 'reft of every trust.
In joyless union wedded to the dust,
6

62 PLEASURES OF HOPE.

Could all his parting energy dismiss,
And call this barren world sufficient bliss ? —
There live, alas! of heaven-directed mien.
Of cultured soul, and sapient eye serene,
Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of a day,
Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay,
Frail as the leaf in Autumn's yellow bower.
Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower ;
A friendless slave, a child without a sire.
Whose mortal life and momentary fire
Light to the grave his chance-created form,
As ocean- wrecks illuminate the storm ;
And, when the gun's tremendous flash is o'er,
To nicjht and silence sink for evermore ! —

Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim.
Lights of the world, and demi-gods of Fame ?
Is this your triumph — this your proud applause.
Children of Truth, and champions of her cause?
For this hath Science search'd, on weary wing.
By shore and sea — each mute and living thing!
Launch'd with Iberia's pilot from the steep,
To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the deep ?
Or round the cope her living chariot driven.
And wheel'd in triumph through the signs of Heaven.
Oh ! star-eyed Science, hast thou wander'd there.
To waft us home the message of despair ?
Then bind the palm, thy sage's brow to suit,
Of blasted leaf and death-distilling fruit !

PLEASURES OF HOPE. 63

Ah me ! the laurel'd wreath that Murder rears,
Blood-nursed, and water'd by the widow's tears,
Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread.
As waves the night-shade round the sceptic head.
What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain ?
I smile on death, if Heaven- ward Hope remain!
But, if the 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;
Doom'd o'er the world's precarious scene to sweep,
Swift as the tempest travels on the deep.
To know Delight but by her parting smile,
And toil, and wish, and weep a little while ;
Then melt, ye elements, that form'd in vain
This troubled pulse, and visionary brain !
Fade, ye wild flowers, memorials of my doom,
And sink, ye stars, that light me to the tomb !
Truth, ever lovely, — since the world began.
The foe of tyrants and the friend of man, —
How can thy words from balmy slumber start
Reposing Virtue, pillow'd on the heart !
Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder roll'd.
And that were true which Nature never told,
Let Wisdom smile not on her conquer'd field ;
No rapture dawns, no treasure is reveal'd !
Oh! let her read, nor loudly, nor elate.
The doom that bars us from a better fate ;

64 PLEASURES OF HOPE.

But, sad as angels for the good man's sin,
Weep to record, and blush to give it in!

And well may Doubt, the mother of Dismay,
Pause at her martyr's tomb, and read the lay.
Down by the wilds of yon deserted vale,
It darkly hints a melancholy tale !
There as the homeless madman sits alone.
In hollow winds he hears a spirit moan !
And there, they say, a wizard orgie crowds.
When the Moon lights her watch-tower in the clouds.
Poor lost Alonzo ! Fate's neglected child !
Mild be the doom of Heaven — as thou wert mild!
For oh ! thy heart in holy mould was cast,
And all thy deeds were blameless, but the last.
Poor lost Alonzo ! still I seem to hear
The clod that struck thy hollow-sounding bier !
When Friendship paid, in speechless sorrow drown'd,
Thy midnight rites, but not on hallow'd ground !

Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind.
But leave — oh ! leave the light of Hope behind !
What though my winged hours of bliss have been,
Like angel-visits, few and far between,
Her musing mood shall every pang appease.
And charm — when pleasures lose the power to please !
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.

PLEASURES OF HOPE. 65

Ecstatic throbs the fluttering heart employ,
And all her strings are harmonized to joy! —
But why so short is Love's delighted hour ?
Why fades the dew on Beauty's sweetest flower?
Why can no hymned charm of music heal
The sleepless woes impassion'd spirits feel?
Can Fancy's fairy hands no veil create,
To hide the sad realities of fate ? —

No! not the quaint remark, the sapient rule,
Nor all the pride of Wisdom's worldly school,
Have power to soothe, unaided and alone,
The heart that vibrates to a feeling tone !
When stepdame Nature every bliss recalls ;
Fleet as the meteor o'er the desert falls ;
When, 'reft of all, yon widow'd sire appears
A lonely hermit in the vale of years ;
Say, can the world one joyous thought bestow
To Friendship, weeping at the couch of Woe ?
No ! but a brighter soothes the last adieu, —
Souls of impassion'd mould, she speaks to you !
Weep not, she says, at Nature's transient pain,
Congenial spirits part to meet again !

What plaintive sobs thy filial spirit drew.
What sorrow choked thy long and last adieu !
Daughter of Conrad ! when he heard his knell.
And bade his country and his child farewell!
Doom'd the long isles of Sydney-cove to see.
The martyr of his crimes, but true to thee !

6*

66 PLEASURES OF HOPE.

Thrice the sad father tore thee from his heart,
And thrice retum'd, to bless thee, and to part ;
Thrice from his trembling lips he murmur'd low
The plaint that own'd unutterable woe;
Till Faith, prevailing o'er his sullen doom,
As bursts the morn on night's unfathom'd gloom,
Lured his dim eye to deathless hopes sublime,
Beyond the realms of Nature and of Time !

"And weep not thus," he cried, "young Ellenore,
My bosom bleeds, but soon shall bleed no more !
Short shall this half-extinguish'd spirit burn,
And soon these limbs to kindred dust return !
But not, my child, with life's precarious fire,
The immortal ties of Nature shall expire ;
These shall resist the triumph of decay.
When time is o'er, and worlds have pass'd away !
Cold in the dust this perish'd heart may lie,
But that which warm'd it once shall never die !
That spark unburied in its mortal frame.
With living light, eternal, and the same,
Shall beam on Joy's interminable years,
Unveil'd by darkness — unassuaged by tears !

"Yet, on the barren shore and stormy deep.
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 cherish'd in my heart.
Shall calm the struggling spirit ere it part !

PLEASURES OF HOPE. 67

Thy darling form shall seem to hover nigh,
And hush the groan of life's last agony!

" Farewell! when strangers lift thy father's bier,
And place my nameless stone without a tear ;
When each returning pledge hath told my child
That Conrad's tomb is on the desert piled ;
And when the dream of troubled Fancy sees
Its lonely rank grass waving in the breeze ;
Who then will soothe thy grief, when mine is o'er?
Who will protect thee, helpless Ellenore ?
Shall secret scenes thy filial sorrows hide,
Scorn'd by the world, to factious guilt allied ?
Ah ! no ; methinks the generous and the good
Will woo thee from the shades of solitude !
O'er friendless grief Compassion shall awake,
And smile on innocence, for Mercy's sake!"

Inspiring thought of rapture yet to be.
The tears of love were hopeless, but for thee !
If in that frame no deathless spirit dwell.
If that faint murmur be the last farewell.
If Fate unite the faithful but to part.
Why is their memory sacred to the heart ?
Why does the brother of my childhood seem
Restored a while in every pleasing dream ?
Why do I joy the lonely spot to view.
By artless friendship bless'd when life was new?

Eternal Hope ! when yonder spheres sublime
Peal'd their first notes to sound the march of Time,

68 PLEASURES OF HOPE.

Thy joyous youth began — but not to fade. —
When all the sister planets have decay'd ;
When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow,
And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below j
Thou, undismay'd, shalt o'er the ruins smile,
And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile.

GERTRUDE OE WYOMING.

PART I.

ADVERTISEMENT.

Most of ihe popular histories of England, as well as of the American war, give
an authentic account of the desolation of Wyoming, in Pennsylvania, which took
place in 1778, by an incursion of the Indians. The Scenery and Incidents of the
following Poem are connected with that event. The testimonies of historians and
travellers concur in describing the infant colony as one of the happiest spots of
human existence, for the hospitable and innocent manners of the inhabitants, the
beauty of the country, and the luxuriant fertility of the soil and climate. In an
evil hour, the jiuiction of European with Indian arms converted this terrestrial
paradise into a frightful waste. Mr. Isaac Weld informs us, that the ruins of
many of the villages, perforated with balls, and bearing marks of conflagration,
were still preserved by the recent inhabitants when he travelled through America
in 1796.

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

PART I.
I.

On Susquehanna's side, fair Wyoming!
Although the wild-flower on thy ruin'd wall,
And roofless homes, a sad remembrance bring
Of what thy gentle people did befall ;
Yet thou wert once the loveliest land of all
That see the Atlantic wave their morn restore.
Sweet land ! may I thy lost delights recall,
And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore,
Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania's shore!

Delightful Wyoming! beneath thy skies
The happy shepherd swains had nought to do
But feed their flocks on green declivities.
Or skim perchance thy lake with light canoe,
From morn till evening's sweeter pastime grew,
With timbrel, when beneath the forests brown
Thy lovely maidens would the dance renew ;
And aye those sunny mountains half-way down
Would echo flagelet from some romantic town.

72 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

Then, where of Indian hills the daylight takes
His leave, how might you the flamingo see
Disporting like a meteor on the lakes —
And playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree:
And every sound of life was full of glee,
From merry mock-bird's song, or hum of men ;
While hearkening, fearing nought their revelry,
The wild deer arch'd his neck from glades, and then,
Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again.

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

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 73

Remembers, over hills and far away?

Green Albin !* what though he no more survey

Thy ships at anchor on the quiet shore,

Thy pellochsf rolling from the mountain bay.

Thy lone sepulchral cairn upon the moor.

And distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan| roar.

Alas! poor Caledonia's mountaineer,

That want's stern edict e'er, and feudal grief,

Had forced him from a home he loved so dear !

Yet found he here a home and glad relief,

And plied the beverage from his own fair sheaf.

That fired his Highland blood with mickle glee :

And England sent her men, of men the chief.

Who taught those sires of Empire yet to be.

To plant the tree of life, — to plant fair Freedom's tree !

Here was not mingled in the city's pomp
Of life's extremes the grandeur and the gloom ;
Judgment awoke not here her dismal tromp,
Nor seal'd in blood a fellow-creature's doom.
Nor mourn'd the captive in a living tomb.
One venerable man, beloved of all.
Sufficed, where innocence was yet in bloom,

* Scotland. t Tlie Gaelic appellation for the porpoise.

t The great whirlpool of the Western Hebrides.

7

74 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

To sway the strife that seldom might befall :
And Albert was their judge in patriarchal hall.

How reverend was the look, serenely aged,
He bore, this gentle Pennsylvanian sire.
Where all but kindly fervours were assuaged,
Undimm'd by weakness' shade, or turbid ire !
And though, amidst the calm of thought entire,
Some high and haughty features might betray
A soul impetuous once, 'twas earthly fire
That fled composure's intellectual ray.
As ^Etna's fires grow dim before the rising day.

I boast no song in magic wonders rife.

But yet, oh Nature ! is there nought to prize,

Familiar in thy bosom-scenes of life ?

And dwells in day-light truth's salubrious skies

No form with which the soul may sympathize ? —

Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mild

The parted ringlet shone in simplest guise,

An inmate in the home of Albert smiled.

Or bless'd his noonday walk — she was his only child.

The rose of England bloom'd on Gertrude's cheek —
What though these shades had seen her birth, her sire

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 75

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 climb 'd a widow'd father's
knee.

A loved bequest: and I may half impart —

To them that feel the strong paternal tie —

How like a new existence lo hie heart

That living flower uprose beneath his eye,

Dear as she was from cherub infancy,

From hours when she would round his garden play,

To time when, as the ripening years went by,

Her lovely mind could culture well repay.

And more engaging grew, from pleasing day to day.

I may not paint those thousand infant charms ;
(Unconscious fascination, undesign'd!)
The orison repeated in his arms,
For God to bless her sire and all mankind ;
The book, the bosom on his knee reclined.
Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con,
(The playmate ere the teacher of her mind:)

76 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

All uncompanion'd else her heart had gone
Till now, in Gertrude's eyes, their ninth blue summer
shone.

And summer was the tide, and sweet the hour
When sire and daughter saw, with fleet descent,
An Indian from his bark approach their bower,
Of buskin'd limb, and swarthy lineament ;
The red wild feathers on his brow were blent.
And bracelets bound the arm that help'd to light
A boy, who seem'd, as he beside him went.
Of Christian vesture, and complexion bright.
Led by his dusky guide, like morning brought by
night.

Yet pensive seem'd the boy for one so young —
The dimple from his polish'd cheek had fled ;
When, leaning on his forest-bow unstrung,
The Oneyda warrior to the planter said.
And laid his hand upon the stripling's head,
" Peace be to thee! my words this belt approve;
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.

.■¥

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 77

XV.

Christian ! I am the foeman of thy foe ;

Our wampum league thy brethren did embrace ;

Upon the Michigan, three moons ago,

We launch 'd our pirogues for the bison chase,

And with the Hurons planted for a space,

With true and faithful hands, the olive-stalk ;

But snakes are in the bosoms of their race.

And though they held with us a friendly talk,

The hollow peace-tree fell beneath their tomahawk !

It was encamping on the lake's far port,

A cry of Areouski* broke our sleep,

Where storm'd an ambush'd foe thy nation's fort.

And rapid, rapid whoops came o'er the deep ;

But long thy country's war-sign on the steep

Appeared through ghastly intervals of light.

And deathfully their thunders seem'd to sweep,

Till utter darkness swallow'd up the sight,

As if a shower of blood had quench'd the fiery fight.

It slept — it rose again — on high their tower
Sprung upwards like a torch to light the skies,
Then down again it rain'd an ember shower.
And louder lamentations heard we rise :

* The Indian God of War.

78 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

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 reach'd and smote those Hurons dire !

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 sobb'd, and swoon'd away,

Or shriek'd unto the God to whom the Christians pray.

Our virgins fed her with their kindly bowls
Of fever balm and sweet sagamit^ :
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.

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 79

XX.

And I, the eagle of my tribe, have rush'd

With this lorn dove." — A sage's self-command

Had quell'd the tears from Albert's heart that gush'd ;

But yet his cheek — his agitated hand —

That shower'd upon the stranger of the land

No common boon, in grief but ill beguiled

A soul that was not wont to be unmann'd ;

"And stay," he cried, "dear pilgrim of the wild,

Preserver of my old, my boon companion's child ! —

Child of a race whose name my bosom warms.

On earth's remotest bounds how welcome here !

Whose mother oft, a child, has fiU'd these arms.

Young as thyself, and innocently dear.

Whose grandsire was my early life's compeer.

Ah, happiest home of England's happy clime !

How beautiful ev'n now thy scenes appear,

As in the noon and sunshine of my prime !

How gone like yesterday these thrice ten years of time !

And Julia! when thou wert like Gertrude now,
Can I forget thee, favourite child of yore ?
Or thought I, in thy father's house, when thou
Wert lightest-hearted on his festive floor,
And first of all his hospitable door

80

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

To meet and kiss me at my journey's end?

But where was I when Waldegrave was no more ?

And thou didst pale thy gentle head extend

In woes, that ev'n the tribe of deserts was thy friend!"

He said — and strain'd unto his heart the boy ;-
Far differently, the mute Oneyda took
His calumet of peace, and cup of joy;
As monumental bronze unchang'd his look ;
A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook ;
Train'd from his tree-rock'd cradle to his bier
The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook
Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear —
A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear.

Yet deem not goodness on the savage stock
Of Outalissi's heart disdain'd to grow ;
As lives the oak unwither'd on the rock
By storms above, and barrenness below ;
He scorn'd his own, who felt another's woe :
And ere the wolf-skin on his back he flung.
Or laced his mocasins, in act to go,
A song of parting to the boy he sung.
Who slept on Albert's couch, nor heard his friendly
tongue.

?ixid!"

taM

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 81

XXV.

"Sleep, wearied one! and in the dreaming land

Shouldst thou to-morrow with thy mother meet,

Oh ! tell her spirit that the white man's hand

Hath pluck'd the thorns of sorrow from thy feet ;

While I in lonely wilderness shall greet

Thy little foot-prints — or by traces know

The fountain, where at noon I thought it sweet

To feed thee with the quarry of my bow,

And pour'd the lotus-horn, or slew the mountain roe.

Adieu ! sweet scion of the rising sun !
But should affliction's storms thy blossom mock,
Then come again — my own adopted one !
And I will graft thee on a noble stock :
The crocodile, the condor of the rock,
Shall be the pastime of thy sylvan wars ;
And I will teach thee, in the battle's shock,
To pay with Huron blood thy father's scars,
And gratulate his soul rejoicing in the stars!"

So finish'd 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

82 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

In woods required, whose trained eye was keen,
As eagle of the wilderness, to scan
His path by mountain, swamp, or deep ravine.
Or ken far friendly huts on good savannas green.

Old Albert saw him from the valley's side —

His pirogue launch'd — his pilgrimage begun —

Far, like the red-bird's wing, he seem'd to glide ;

Then dived, and vanish'd in the woodlands dun.

Oft, to that spot by tender memory won,

Would Albert climb the promontory's height,

If but a dim sail glimmer'd in the sun ;

But never more, to bless his longing sight,

Was Outalissi hail'd, with bark and plumage bright.

END OF THE FIRST PART.

PART II.

A VALLEY from the river-shore withdrawn

Was Albert's home, two quiet woods between,

Whose lofty verdure overlook'd his lawn ;

And waters to their resting-place serene

Came freshening, and reflecting all the scene :

(A mirror in the depth of flowery shelves ;)

So sweet a spot of earth, you might (I ween)

Have guess'd some congregation of the elves,

To sport by summer moons, had shap'd it for themselves.

Yet wanted not the eye far scope to muse.
Nor vistas open'd by the wandering stream ;
Both where at evening Alleghany views,
Through ridges burning in her western beam,
Lake after lake interminably gleam :
And past those settlers' haunts the eye might roam
Where earth's unliving silence all would seem ;
Save where on rocks the beaver built his dome,
Or buffalo remote low'd far from human home.

84 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

III.

But silent not that adverse eastern path,
Which saw Aurora's hills th' horizon crown ;
There was the river heard, in bed of wrath,
(A precipice of foam from mountains brown,)
Like tumults heard from some far-distant town ;
But softening in approach he left his gloom.
And murmur'd pleasantly, and laid him down
To kiss those easy curving banks of bloom.
That lent the windward air an exquisite perfume.

It seem'd as if those scenes sweet influence had

On Gertrude's soul, and kindness like their own

Inspired those eyes affectionate and glad.

That seem'd to love whate'er they look'd upon ;

Whether with Hebe's mirth her features shone,

Or if a shade more pleasing them o'ercast,

(As if for heavenly musing meant alone ;)

Yet so becomingly the expression past.

That each succeeding look was lovelier than the last.

Nor guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home.
With all its picturesque and balmy grace.
And fields that were a luxury to roam.
Lost on the soul that look'd on such a face !
Enthusiast of the woods ! when years apace

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 85

Had bound thy lovely waist with woman's zone,

The sunrise path, at morn, I see thee trace

To hills with high magnolia overgrown.

And joy to breathe the groves, romantic and alone.

The sunrise drew her thoughts to Europe forth.

That thus apostrophized its viewless scene :

"Land of my father's love, my mother's birth!

The home of kindred I have never seen !

We know not other — oceans are between :

Yet say, far friendly hearts ! from whence we came.

Of us does oft remembrance intervene ?

My mother sure — my sire a thought may claim ; —

But Gertrude is to you an unregarded name.

And yet, loved England ! when thy name I trace

In many a pilgrim's tale and poet's song,

How can I choose but wish for one embrace

Of them, the dear unknown, to whom belong

My mother's looks, — perhaps her likeness strong ?

Oh, parent ! with what reverential awe.

From features of thine own related throng.

An image of thy face my soul could draw !

And see thee once again whom I too shortly saw!"

86 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

VIII.

Yet deem not Gertrude sigh'd for foreign joy;
To soothe a father's couch her only care,
And keep his reverend head from all annoy :
For this, methinks, her homeward steps repair,
Soon as the morning wreath had bound her hair;
While yet the wild deer trod in spangling dew,
While boatmen carol'd to the fresh-blown air.
And woods a horizontal shadow threw,
And early fox appear'd in momentary view.

Apart there was a deep untrodden grot.

Where oft the reading hours sweet Gertrude wore ;

Tradition had not named its lonely spot ;

But here (methinks) might India's sons explore

Their fathers' dust, or lift, perchance of yore.

Their voice to the great Spirit : — rocks sublime

To human art a sportive semblance bore,

And yellow lichens colour'd all the clime.

Like moonlight battlements, and towers decay'd by time.

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 ;

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 87

And now suspended was the pleasing din,
Now from a murmur faint it swell'd anew,
Like the first note of organ heard within
Cathedral aisles, — ere yet its symphony begin.

It was in this lone valley she would charm
The lingering noon, where flowers a couch had strown ;
Her cheek reclining, and her snowy arm
On hillock by the pine-tree half o'ergrown :
And aye that volume on her lap is thrown.
Which every heart of human mould endears ;
With Shakspeare's self she speaks and smiles alone,
And no intruding visitation fears,

To shame the unconscious laugh, or stop her sweetest
tears.

And nought within the grove was heard or seen

But stock-doves plaining through its gloom profound,

Or winglet of the fairy humming-bird,

Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round ;

When, lo ! there entered to its inmost ground

A youth, the stranger of a distant land ;

He was, to weet, for eastern mountains bound ;

But late th' equator suns his cheek had tann'd,

And California's gales his roving bosom fann'd.

GQ GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

XIII.

A steed, whose rein hung loosely o'er his arm,
He led dismounted ; ere his leisure pace,
Amid the brown leaves, could her ear alarm,
Close he had come, and worshipp'd for a space
Those downcast features : — she her lovely face
Uplift on one, whose lineaments and frame
Wore youth and manhood's intermingled grace :
Iberian seem'd his boot — his robe the same.
And well the Spanish plume his lofty looks became.

For Albert's home he sought — her finger fair

Has pointed where the father's mansion stood.

Returning from the copse he soon was there ;

And soon has Gertrude hied from dark green wood ;

Nor joyless, by the converse, understood

Between the man of age and pilgrim young.

That gay congeniality of mood,

And early liking from acquaintance sprung ;

Full fluently conversed their guest in England's tongue.

And well could he his pilgrimage of taste
Unfold, — and much they loved his fervid strain,
While he each fair variety retraced
Of climes, and manners, o'er the eastern main.

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 89

Now happy Switzer's hills, — romantic Spain, —

Gay lilied fields of France, — or, more refined,

The soft Ausonia's monumental reign ;

Nor less each rural image he design'd

Than all the city's pomp and home of human kind.

Anon some wilder portraiture he draws ;

Of Nature's savage glories he would speak, —

The loneliness of earth that overawes, —

Where, resting by some tomb of old Cacique,

The 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.

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 stopp'd 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.

90 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

XVJIIi

Young Henry Waldegrave ! three delightful years

These very walls his infant sports did see,

But most I loved him when his parting tears

Alternately bedew'd my child and me :

His sorest parting, Gertrude, was from thee ;

Nor half its grief his little heart could hold ;

By kindred he was sent for o'er the sea ;

They tore him from us when but twelve years old,

And scarcely for his loss have I been yet consoled !"

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 ! — T knew — I knew him well !

'Tis Waldegrave's self, of Waldegrave come to tell!"

A burst of joy the father's lips declare;

But Gertrude speechless on his bosom fell ;

At once his open arms embraced the pair,

Was never group more blest in this wide world of care.

"And will ye pardon then (replied the youth)
Your Waldegrave's feigned name, and false attire ?
I durst not in the neighbourhood, in truth.
The very fortunes of your house inquire ;

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 91

Lest one that knew me might some tidings dire
Impart, and I my weakness all betray ;
For had I lost my Gertrude and my sire,
I meant but o'er your tombs to weep a day,
Unknown I meant to weep, unknown to pass away.

But here ye live, ye bloom, — in each dear face

The changing hand of time I may not blame ;

For there, it hath but shed more reverend grace.

And here, of beauty perfected the frame :

And well I know your hearts are still the same —

They could not change — ye look the very way,

As when an orphan first to you I came.

And have ye heard of my poor guide, I pray ?

Nay, wherefore weep ye, friends, on such a joyous day?"

"And art thou here? or is it but a dream?
And wilt thou, Waldegrave, wilt thou, leave us more ?" —
"No, never! thou that yet dost lovelier seem
Than aught on earth — than ev'n thyself of yore —
I will not part thee from thy father's shore ;
But we shall cherish him with mutual arms.
And hand in hand again the path explore.
Which every ray of young remembrance warms,
While thou shalt be my own with all thy truth and
charms!"

92 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

XXIII.

At morn, as if beneath a galaxy
Of over-arching groves in blossoms white,
Where all was odorous scent and harmony,
And gladness to the heart, nerve, ear, and sight:
There, if, oh gentle Love ! I read aright
The utterance that seal'd thy sacred bond,
'Twas listening to these accents of delight.
She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyond
Expression's power to paint, all languishingly fond-

" Flower of my life, so lovely and so lone!
Whom I would rather in this desert meet,
Scorning, and scorn'd by fortune's power, than own
Her pomp and splendours lavish'd at my feet !
Turn not from me thy breath, more exquisite
Than odours cast on heaven's own shrine — to please-
Give me thy love, than luxury more sweet.
And more than all the wealth that loads the breeze.
When Coromandel's ships return from Indian seas."

Then would that home admit them — happier far
Than grandeur's most magnificent saloon.
While, here and there, a solitary star
Flush'd in the darkening firmament of June ;

tiiad-

14 ^m

JROt.

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 93

And silence brought the soul-felt hour, full soon,

Ineffable, which I may not portray ;

For never did the hymenean moon

A paradise of hearts more sacred sway.

In all that slept beneath her soft voluptuous ray.

END OF THE SECOND PART.

PART III,

O Love ! in such a wilderness as this,

Where transport and security entwine,

Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss,

And here thou art a god indeed divine.

Here shall no forms abridge, no hours confine,

The views, the walks, that boundless joy inspire!

Roll on, ye days of raptured influence, shine !

Nor, blind with ecstasy's celestial fire.

Shall Love behold the spark of earth-born time expire.

Three little moons, how short ! amidst the grove

And pastoral savannas they consume !

While she, beside her buskin'd youth to rove.

Delights, in fancifully wild costume,

Her lovely brow to shade with Indian plume ;

And forth in hunter-seeming vest they fare ;

But not to chase the deer in forest gloom,

'Tis but the breath of heaven — the blessed air —

And interchange of hearts unknown, unseen to share.

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 95

What though the sportive dog oft round them note,
Or fawn, or wild bird bursting on the wing;
Yet who, in Love's own presence, would devote
To death those gentle throats that wake the spring,
Or writhing from the brook its victim bring?
No ! — nor let fear one little w^arbler rouse ;
But, fed by Gertrude's hand, still let them sing
Acquaintance of her path, amidst the boughs
That shade ev'n now her love, and witness'd first her
vows.

IV.

Now labyrinths, which but themselves can pierce,
Methinks, conduct them to some pleasant ground.
Where welcome hills shut out the universe.
And pines their lawny walk encompass round ;
There, if a pause delicious converse found,
'Twas but when o'er each heart the idea stole,
(Perchance awhile in joy's oblivion drown'd)
That come what may, while life's glad pulses roll,
Indissolubly thus should soul be knit to soul.

And in the visions of romantic youth.
What years of endless bliss are yet to flow !
But mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth ?
The torrent's smoothness, ere it dash below !
And must I change my song? and must I show.

96 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

Sweet Wyoming! the day when thou wert doom'd,
Guiltless, to mourn thy loveliest bowers laid low !
When where of yesterday a garden bloom'd,
Death overspread his pall, and blackening ashes gloom'd !

Sad was the year, by proud oppression driven.

When Transatlantic Liberty arose,

Not in the sunshine and the smile of heaven.

But wrapped 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 re-echo to the drum.
That speaks of maddening strife, and bloodstain'd fields
to come.

* Alluding to the miseries that attended the American Revolution.

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 97

vni.
It was in truth a momentary pang ;
Yet how comprising myriad shapes of woe !
First when in Gertrude's ear the summons rang,
A husband to the battle doom'd 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 !

But shame — but flight — a recreant's name to prove,
To hide in exile ignominious fears ;
Say, ev'n if this I brook'd, the public love
Thy father's bosom to his home endears :
And how could I his few remaining years,
My Gertrude, sever from so dear a child?"
So, day by day, her boding heart he cheers :
At last that heart to hope is half beguiled,
And, pale, through tears suppress'd, the mournful beauty
smiled.

Night came, — and in their lighted bower, full late,
The joy of converse had endured — when, hark!
Abrupt and loud, a summons shook their gate ;
And heedless of the dog's obstrep'rous bark
9

98 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

A form had rush'd amidst them from the dark,
And spread his arms, — and fell upon the floor:
Of aged strength his limbs retain'd the mark;
But desolate he look'd, and famish'd poor,
As ever shipwreck'd wretch lone left on desert shore.

Uprisen, each wandering brow is knit and arch'd :
A spirit from the dead they deem him first :
To speak he tries ; but quivering, pale, and parch'd,
From lips, as by some powerless dream accursed,
Emotions unintelligible burst ;
And long his filmed eye is red and dim ;
At length the pity-proffer'd cup his thirst
Had half assuaged, and nerved his shuddering limb.
When Albert's hand he grasp'd ; — but Albert knew not
him —

"And hast thou then forgot, (he cried forlorn.
And eyed the group with half indignant air,)
Oh ! hast thou. Christian chief, forgot the morn
When I with thee the cup of peace did share ?
Then stately was this head, and dark this hair,
That now is white as Appalachia's snow ;
But, if the weight of fifteen years' despair,
And age hath bow'd me, and the torturing foe.
Bring me my boy — and he will his deliverer know!"

r on;

r«-

m

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 99

XIII.

It was not long, with eyes and heart of flame,

Ere Henry to his loved Oneyda flew :

"Bless thee, my guide!" — but backward, as he came,

The chief his old bewilder'd head withdrew.

And grasp'd his arm, and look'd and look'd him through.

'Twas strange — nor could the group a smile control —

The long, the doubtful scrutiny to view :

At last delight o'er all his features stole,

" It is — my own," he cried, and clasp'd him to his soul.

"Yes! thou recall'st my pride of years, for then

The bowstring of my spirit was not slack.

When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambush'd men,

I bore thee like the quiver on my back.

Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack ;

Nor foeman then, nor cougar's crouch I feared,*

For I was strong as mountain-cataract :

And dost thou not remember how we cheered,

Upon the last hill-top, when white men's huts appeared ?

Then welcome be my death-song, and my death !
Since I have seen thee, and again embraced."
And longer had he spent his toil-worn breath ;

* Cougar, the American tiger. It is not, however, as Mr. Campbell supposed, a
native of this part of the continent.

J(;A.vil W^nT

100 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

But with affectionate and eager haste

Was every arm outstretch'd around their guest,

To welcome and to bless his aged head.

Soon was the hospitable banquet placed ;

And Gertrude's lovely hands a balsam shed

On wounds with fever'd joy that more profusely bled.

"But this is not a time," — he started up,

And smote his breast with woe-denouncing hand —

" This is no time to fill the joyous cup,

The Mammoth comes, — the foe, — the Monster Brandt,-

With all his howling desolating band ; —

These eyes have seen their blade and burning pine

Awake at once, and silence half your land.

Red is the cup they drink ; but not with wine :

Awake, and watch to-night, or see no morning shine!

Scorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe,

'Gainst Brandt himself I went to battle forth :

Accursed Brandt ! he left of all my tribe

Nor man, nor child, nor thing of living birth:

No ! not the dog that watch'd ray household hearth

Escaped that night of blood, upon our plains !

All perish'd ! I alone am left on earth !

To whom nor relative nor blood remains.

No ! not a kindred drop that runs in human veins !

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 101

XVIII.

But go ! and rouse your warriors ; for, if right

These old bewilder'd eyes could guess, by signs

Of striped and starred banners, on yon height

Of eastern cedars, o'er the creek of pines —

Some fort embattled by your country shines :

Deep roars 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!"

Scarce had he utter'd — when Heaven's verge extreme

Reverberates the bomb's descending star, —

And sounds that mingled laugh, — and shout, — and

scream, —
To freeze the blood, in one discordant jar.
Rung to the pealing thunderbolts of war.
Whoop after whoop with rack the ear assail'd ;
As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar; —
While rapidly the marksman's shot prevail'd : —
And aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet wail'd.

Then look'd they to the hills, where fire o'erhung
The bandit groups, in one Vesuvian glare;
Or swept, far seen, the tower, whose clock unrung
Told legible that midnight of despair.

9*

102 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

She faints, — she falters not, — the heroic fair, —
As he the sword and plume in haste array'd.
One short embrace — he clasp'd his dearest care —
But hark ! what nearer war-drum shakes the glade ?
Joy, joy ! Columbia's friends are trampling through the
shade !

Then came of every race the mingled swarm,

Far rung the groves and gleam'd the midnight grass,

With flambeau, javelin, and naked arm;

As warriors wheel'd their culverins of brass,

Sprung from the woods, a bold athletic mass,

Whom virtue fires, and liberty combines:

And first the wild Moravian yagers pass.

His plumed host the dark Iberian joins —

And Scotia's sword beneath the Highland thistle shines.

And in the buskin'd hunters of the deer.

To Albert's home, with shout and cymbal throng: —

Roused by their warlike pomp, and mirth, and cheer,

Old Outalissi woke his battle song,

And, beating with his war-club cadence strong.

Tells how his deep-stung indignation smarts.

Of them that wrapt his house in flames, ere long.

To whet a dagger on their stony hearts.

And smile avenged ere yet his eagle spirit parts. —

^GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 103

XXIII. ■'

V

Calm, opposite the Christian father rose,

Pale 6*1 his venerable brow its fays

Of martyr-lighVihe conflagration throws;

One hand upon his lovely child he lays,

And one the uncover'd crowd to silence sways ;

While, though the battle flash is faster driven, —

Unawed, with eye unstartled by the blaze.

He for his bleeding country prays to Heaven, —

Prays that the men of blood themselves may be forgiven.

Short time is now for gratulating speech :

And yet, beloved Gertrude, ere began

Thy country's flight, yon distant towers to reach,

Look'd not on thee the rudest partisan

With brow relax'd to love ? And murmurs ran,

As round and round their willing ranks they drew,

From beauty's sight to shield the hostile van.

Grateful, on them a placid look she threw.

Nor wept, but as she bade her mother's grave adieu !

Past was the flight, and welcome seem'd the tower,
That like a giant standard-bearer frown'd
Defiance on the roving Indian power,
Beneath, each bold and promontory mound

104 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

With embrasure emboss'd, and armour crown'd,

And arrowy frize, and wedged ravelin,

Wove like a diadem its tracery round

The lofty summit of that mountain green ;

Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene, —

A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun,

And blended arms, and white pavilions glow;

And for the business of destruction done.

Its requiem the war-horn seem'd to blow :

There, sad spectatress of her country's woe !

The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm.

Had laid her cheek, and clasp'd her hands of snow

On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm

Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hush'd its wild alarm!

But short that contemplation — sad and short

The pause to bid each much-loved scene adieu !

Beneath the very shadow of the fort.

Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners flew ;

Ah ! who could deem that foot of Indian crew

Was near? — yet there, with lust of murderous deeds,

Gleamed like a basilisk, from woods in view,

The ambush'd foeman's eye — his volley speeds.

And Albert — Albert falls ! the dear old father bleeds !

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 105

XXVIII.

And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swoon'd ;
Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone,
Say, burst they, borrow'd from her father's wound,
These drops ? — Oh God ! the life-blood is her own !
And faltering, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrown —
"Weep not, 0 Love!" — she cries, "to see me bleed —
Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone
Heaven's peace commiserate ; for scarce I heed
These wounds; — yet thee to leave is death, is death
indeed !

Clasp me a little longer on the brink

Of fate ! while I can feel thy dear caress ;

And when this heart hath ceased to beat — oh ! think,

And let it mitigate thy woe's excess,

That thou hast been to me all tenderness.

And friend to more than human friendship just.

Oh ! by that retrospect of happiness.

And by the hopes of an immortal trust,

God shall assuage thy pangs — when I am laid in dust !

Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart.
The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move,
Where my dear father took thee to his heart.
And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove

106 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

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.

Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth, —

And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun,

If I had lived to smile but on the birth

Of one dear pledge ; — but shall there then be none,

In future times — no gentle little one.

To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me ?

Yet seems it, even while life's last pulses run,

A sweetness in the cup of death to be.

Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding thee!"

Hush'd were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland
And beautiful expression seem'd to melt
With love that could not die ! and still his hand
She presses to the heart no more that felt.
Ah, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt.
And features yet that spoke a soul more fair.
Mute, gazing, agonizing, as he knelt, —
Of them that stood encircling his despair.
He heard some friendly words ; — but knew not what
they were.

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 107

IXXIII.

For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives

A faithful band. With solemn rites between

'Twas sung, how they were lovely in their lives.

And in their deaths had not divided been.

Touch'd by the music, and the melting scene.

Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd ; —

Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen

To veil their eyes, as pass'd each much-loved shroud —

While woman's softer soul in woe dissolved aloud.

Then mournfully the parting bugle bid

Its farewell, o'er the grave of worth and truth ;

Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid

His face on earth ; — him watch'd, in gloomy ruth.

His woodland guide : but words had none to soothe

The grief that knew not consolation's name :

Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth.

He watch'd beneath its folds, each burst that came

Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame !

"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 !

108 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

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 who loved thee most :

She was the rainbow to thy sight!

Thy sun — thy heaven — of lost delight!

XIXVII.

To-morrow let us do or die !

But when the bolt of death is hurl'd.

Ah ! whither then with thee to fly.

Shall Outalissi roam the world ?

Seek we thy once-loved home ?

The hand is gone that cropt its flowers :

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 109

Unheard their clock repeats its hours !
Cold is the hearth within their bowers !
And should we thither roam,
Its echoes, and its empty tread,
Would sound like voices from the dead !

Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,

Whose streams my kindred nation quaff'd,

And by my side, in battle true,

A thousand warriors drew the shaft ?

Ah ! there, in desolation cold,

The desert serpent dwells alone.

Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone,

And stones themselves to ruin grown.

Like me, are death-like old.

Then seek we not their camp, — for there —

The silence dwells of my despair!

But hark ! the trump ! — to-morrow thou
In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears :
Ev'n from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears.
Amidst the clouds that round us roll ;
He bids my soul for battle thirst —
He bids me dry the last — the first —
10

110 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

The only tears that ever burst
From Outalissi's soul ;
Because I may not stain with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief!"

END OF THE THIRD PART.

THEODRIC

A DOMESTIC TALE.

THEODRIC

A DOMESTIC TALE.

'TwAS 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 flush'd the wonted regions of the storm.
Where, Phcenix-like, you saw the eagle's form.
That high in Heaven's vermilion wheel'd and soar'd.
Woods nearer frown'd, and cataracts dash'd and roar'd
From heights browsed by the bounding bouquetin ;
Herds tinkling roam'd the long-drawn vales between.
And hamlets glitter'd white, and gardens flourish'd green:
'Twas transport to inhale the bright sweet air!
The mountain-bee was reveling in its glare.
And roving with his minstrelsy across
The scented wild weeds, and enamel'd moss.
Earth's features so harmoniously were link'd.
She seem'd one great glad form, with life instinct.
That felt Heaven's ardent breath, and smiled below
Its flush of love, with consentaneous glow.

10*

1 14 THEODRIC.

A Gothic church was near; the spot around
Was beautiful, ev'n though sepulchral ground ;
For there nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom,
But roses blossom'd by each rustic tomb.
Amidst them one of spotless marble shone —
A maiden's grave — and 'twas inscribed thereon,
That young and loved she died whose dust was there :

"Yes," said my comrade, "young she died, and fair!
Grace form'd her, and the soul of gladness play'd
Once in the blue eyes of that mountain-maid :
Her fingers witch 'd the chords they pass'd along,
And her lips seem'd to kiss the soul in song:
Yet woo'd, and worship'd as she was, till few
Aspired to hope, 'twas sadly, strangely true,
That heart, the martyr of its fondness, burn'd
And died of love that could not be return'd.

Her father dwelt where yonder castle shines
O'er clustering trees and terrace-mantling vines.
As gay as ever, the laburnum's pride
Waves o'er each walk where she was wont to glide, —
And still the garden whence she graced her brow.
As lovely blooms, though trod by strangers now.
How oft, from yonder window o'er the lake.
Her song of wild Helvetian swell and shake
Has made the rudest fisher bend his ear,
And rest enchanted on his oar to hear!
Thus bright, accomplish'd, spirited, and bland.
Well-born, and wealthy for that simple land.

THEODRIC. 115

Why had no gallant native youth the art

To win so warm— so exquisite a heart ?

She, 'midst these rocks inspired with feelings strong

By mountain-freedom — music — fancy — song,

Herself descended from the brave in arms,

And conscious of romance-inspiring charms,

Dreamt of Heroic beings ; hoped to find

Some extant spirit of chivalric kind ;

And, scorning wealth, look'd cold ev'n on the claim

Of manly worth, that lack'd the wreath of fame.

Her younger brother, sixteen summers old.
And much her likeness both in mind and mould.
Had gone, poor boy ! in soldiership to shine.
And bore an Austrian banner on the Rhine.
'Twas when, alas ! our Empire's evil star
Shed all the plagues, without the pride, of war ;
When patriots bled, and bitterer anguish cross'd
Our brave, to die in battles foully lost.
The youth wrote home the rout of many a day;
Yet still he said, and still with truth could say.
One corps had ever made a valiant stand, —
The corps in which he served, — Theodric's band.
His fame, forgotten chief! is now gone by,
Eclipsed by brighter orbs in Glory's sky ;
Yet once it shone, and veterans, when they show
Our fields of battle twenty years ago,
Will tell you feats his small brigade perform'd.
In charges nobly faced and trenches storm'd.

116 THEODRIC.

Time was, when songs were chanted to his fame,

And soldiers loved the March that bore his name :

The zeal of martial hearts was at his call,

And that Helvetian's, Udolph's, most of all.

'Twas touching, when the storm of war blew wild.

To see a blooming boy, — almost a child, —

Spur fearless at his leader's words and signs.

Brave death in reconnoitring hostile lines,

And speed each task, and tell each message clear.

In scenes where war-train'd men were stunn'd with fear.

Theodric praised him, and they wept for joy
In yonder house, — when letters from the boy
Thank'd Heaven for life, and more, to use his phrase,
ThEin twenty lives — his own Commander's praise.
Then follow'd 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 impress'd
A wondering sister's well-believing breast ; —
She caught th' illusion, bless'd Theodric's name,
And wildly magnified his worth and fame ;
Rejoicing life's reality contain'd
One, heretofore, her fancy had but feign'd.
Whose love could make her proud! — and time and

chance
To passion raised that day-dream of Romance.

THEODRIC. 117

Once, when with hasty charge of horse and man
Our arri^re-guard had check'd the Gallic van,
Theodric, visiting the outposts, found
His Udolph wounded, weltering on the ground :
Sore crush'd, — half-swooning, half-upraised he lay,
And bent his brow, fair boy ! and grasp'd the clay.
His fate moved ev'n the common soldier's ruth —
Theodric succour'd him ; nor left the youth
To vulgar hands, but brought him to his tent.
And lent what aid a brother would have lent.

Meanwhile, to save his kindred half the smart
The war-gazette's dread blood-roll might impart,
He wrote th' event to them ; and soon could tell
Of pains assuaged and symptoms auguring well ;
And last of all, prognosticating cure,
Enclosed the leech's vouching signature.

Their answers, on whose pages you might note
That tears had fall'n, whilst trembling fingers wrote.
Gave boundless thanks for benefits conferr'd.
Of which the boy, in secret, sent them word.
Whose memory Time, they said, would never blot ;
But which the giver had himself forgot.

In time, the stripling, vigorous and heal'd.
Resumed his barb and banner in the field.
And bore himself right soldier-like, till now
The third campaign had manlier bronzed his brow.
When peace, though but a scanty pause for breath, —
A curtain-drop between the acts of death, —

118 THEODRIC.

A check in frantic war's unfinish'd 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 crush'd St. Gothard's snows ;
How dear seem'd ev'n the waste and wild Shreckhorn,
Though wrapt in clouds, and frowning as in scorn
Upon a downward world of pastoral charms;
Where, by the very smell of dairy-farms,
And fragrance from the mountain-herbage blown.
Blindfold his native hills he could have known !

His coming down yon lake, — his boat in view
Of windows where love's fluttering kerchief flew, —
The arms spread out for him — the tears that burst, —
('Twas Julia's, 'twas his sister's, met him first:)
Their pride to see war's medal at his breast,
And all their rapture's greeting, may be guess'd.

Ere long, his bosom triumph'd to unfold
A gift he meant their gayest room to hold, —
The picture of a friend in warlike dress ;
And who it was he first bade Julia guess.
" Yes," she replied, " 'twas he methought in sleep,
When you were wounded told me not to weep."
The painting long in that sweet mansion drew
Regards its living semblance little knew.

Meanwhile Theodric, who had years before
Learnt England's tongue, and loved her classic lore.

THEODRIC. 119

A glad enthusiast now explored the land,

Where Nature, Freedom, Art, smile hand in hand ;

Her women fair ; her men robust for toil ;

Her vigorous souls, high-cultured as her soil ;

Her towns, where civic independence flings ''

The gauntlet down to senates, courts, and kings ;

Her works of art, resembling magic's powers ;

Her mighty fleets, and learning's beauteous bowers, —

These he had visited with wonder's smile,

And scarce endured to quit so fair an isle.

But how our fates from unmomentous things

May rise, like rivers out of little springs !

A trivial chance postponed his parting day,

And public tidings caused, in that delay.

An English Jubilee. 'Twas a glorious sight ;

At eve stupendous London, clad in light,

Pour'd out triumphant multitudes to gaze ;

Youth, age, wealth, penury, smiling in the blaze ;

Th' illumined atmosphere was warm and bland.

And Beauty's groups, the fairest of the land.

Conspicuous, as in some wide festive room.

In open chariots pass'd with pearl and plume.

Amidst them he remark'd a lovelier mien

Than e'er his thoughts had shaped, or eyes had seen ;

The throng detain'd her till he rein'd his steed,

And, ere the beauty pass'd, had time to read

The motto and the arms her carriage bore.

Led by that clue, he left not England's shore

120 THEODRIC.

Till he had known her ; and to know her well

Prolong'd, exalted, bound, enchantment's spell ;

For with affections warm, intense, refin'd.

She mix'd such calm and holy strength of mind,

That, like Heaven's image in the smiling brook,

Celestial peace was pictured in her look.

Hers was the brow, in trials unperplex'd ;

That cheer'd the sad, and tranquillized the vex'd;

She studied not the meanest to eclipse,

And yet the wisest listen'd to her lips;

She sang not, knew not Music's magic skill.

But yet her voice had tones that sway'd the will.

He sought — he won her — and resolved to make

His future home in England for her sake.

Yet, ere they wedded, matters of concern
To CjEsar's Court commanded his return,
A season's space, — and on his Alpine way,
He reach'd those bowers, that rang with joy that day:
The boy was half beside himself, — the sire,
All frankness, honour, and Helvetian fire,
Of speedy parting would not hear him speak ;
And tears bedew'd and brighten'd Julia's cheek.

Thus loth to wound their hospitable pride,
A month he promised with them to abide ;
As blithe he trod the mountain-sward as they,
And felt his joy make ev'n the young more gay.
How jocund was their breakfast-parlour fann'd
By yon blue water's breath, — their walks how bland !

THEODRIC. 121

Fair Julia seem'd her brother's soften'd sprite —
A gem reflecting Nature's purest light, —
And with her graceful wit there was inwrought
A wildly sweet unworldliness of thought,
That almost child-like to his kindness drew,
And twin with Udolph in his friendship grew.
But did his thoughts to love one moment range ? —
No ! he who had loved Constance could not chanp^e !

O

Besides, till grief betray'd her undesign'd,
Th' unlikely thought could scarcely reach his mind,
That eyes so young on years like his should beam
Unwoo'd devotion back for pure esteem.

True, she sang to his very soul, and brought
Those trains before him of luxuriant thought,
Which only Music's Heaven-born art can bring,
To sweep across the mind with angel 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, honour, friendship, bound him to unmask
Truths which her timid fondness fear'd to ask.

And yet with gracefully ingenuous power
Her spirit met th' explanatory hour ; —
Ev'n conscious beauty brighten'd in her eyes.
That told she knew their love no vulgar prize ;
11

122 THEODRIC.

And pride, like that of one more woman-grown,
Enlarged her mien, enrich'd her voice's tone.
'Twas then she struck the keys, and music made
That mock'd all skill her hand had e'er display'd.
Inspired and warbling, rapt from things around,
She look'd the very Muse of magic sound,
Painting in sound the forms of joy and woe.
Until the mind's eye saw them melt and glow.
Her closing strain composed and calm she play'd
And sang no words to give its pathos aid ;
But grief seem'd lingering in its lengthen'd swell.
And like so many tears the trickling touches fell.
Of Constance then she heard Theodric speak.
And steadfast smoothness still possess'd her cheek.
But when he told her how he oft had plann'd
Of old a journey to their mountain-land.
That might have brought him hither years before,
"Ah ! then," she cried, " you knew not England's shore ;
And had you come, — and wherefore did you not?"
"Yes," he replied, "it would have changed our lot!"
Then burst her tears through pride's restraining bands.
And with her handkerchief, and both her hands.
She hid her voice and wept. — Contrition stung
Theodric for the tears his words had wrung.
"But no," she cried, "unsay not what you've said.
Nor grudge one prop on which my pride is stay'd ;
To think I could have merited your faith
Shall be my solace even unto death!"

THEODRIC. 123

"Julia," Theodric said with purposed look

Of firmness, "my reply deserved rebuke;

But by your pure and sacred peace of mind,

And by the dignity of womankind,

Swear that when I am gone you'll do your best

To chase this dream of fondness from your breast."

Th' abrupt appeal electrified her thought ; —
She look'd to Heav'n as if its aid she sought,
Dried hastily the tear-drops from her cheek.
And signified the vow she could not speak.

Ere long he communed with her mother mild :
"Alas!" she said, " I warn'd — conjured my child,
And grieved for this affection from the first,
But like fatality it has been nursed ;
For when her filPd eyes on your picture fix'd.
And when your name in all she spoke was mix'd,
'Twas hard to chide an over-grateful mind !
Then each attempt a likelier choice to find
Made only fresh- rejected suitors grieve.
And Udolph's pride — perhaps her own — believe
That, could she meet, she might enchant ev'n you.
You came. — I augur'd the event, 'tis true,
But how was Udolph's mother to exclude
The guest that claim'd our boundless gratitude ?
And that unconscious you had cast a spell
On JuLL4.'s peace, my pride refused to tell :
Yet in my child's illusion I have seen.
Believe me well, how blameless you have been :

124 THEODRIC.

Nor can it cancel, howsoe'er it end,

Our debt of friendship to our boy's best friend."

At night he parted with the aged pair ;

At early morn rose Julia to prepare

The last repast her hands for him should make :

And Udolph to convoy him o'er the lake.

The parting was to her such bitter grief,

That of her own accord she made it brief;

But, lingering at her window long survey'd

His boat's last glimpses melting into shade.

Theodric sped to Austria, and achieved
His journey's object. Much was he relieved
When Udolph's letters told that Julia's mind
Had borne his loss, firm, tranquil, and resign'd.
He took the Rhenish route to England, high
Elate with hopes, fiilfill'd their ecstacy.
And interchanged with Constance's own breath
The sweet eternal vows that bound their faith.

To paint that being to a grovelling mind
Were like portraying pictures to the blind.
'Twas needful ev'n infectiously to feel
Her temper's fond and firm and gladsome zeal,
To share existence with her, and to gain
Sparks from her love's electrifying chain
Of that pure pride, which, lessening to her breast
Life's ills, gave all its joys a treble zest.
Before the mind completely understood
That mighty truth — how happy are the good !

THEODRIC. 125

Ev'n 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 dimm'd their golden joy,
'Twas outward dross, and not infused alloy :
Their home knew but affection's looks and speech —
A little Heaven, above dissension's reach.
But 'midst her kindred there was strife and gall ;
Save one congenial sister, they were all
Such foils to her bright intellect and grace,
As if she had engross'd the virtue of her race.
Her nature strove th' unnatural feuds to heal.
Her wisdom made the weak to her appeal ;
And, tho' the wounds she cured were soon unclosed,
Unwearied still her kindness interposed.

Oft on those errands though she went in vain.
And home, a blank without her, gave him pain,
He bore her absence for its pious end. —
But public grief his spirit came to bend ;
For war laid waste his native land once more,
And German honour bled at every pore.
Oh! were he there, he thought, to rally back
One broken band, or perish in the wrack!
Nor think that Constance sought to move aud 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

11*

126 THEODRIC.

To arm you for, to embrace you from, the fight ;
Harm will not reach me — hazards will delight!"
He knew those hazards better ; one campaign
In England he conjured her to remain.
And she express'd assent, although her heart
In secret had resolved they should not part.

How oft the wisest on misfortune's shelves
Are wreck'd by errors most unlike themselves !
That little fault, that fraud of love's romance,
That plan's concealment, wrought their whole mischance.
He knew it not preparing to embark,
But felt extinct his comfort's latest spark,
When, 'midst those number'd days, she made repair
Again to kindred worthless of her care.
'Tis true she said the tidings she would write
Would make her absence on his heart sit light;
But, haplessly, reveal'd not yet her plan.
And left him in his home a lonely man.

Thus damp'd in thoughts, he mused upon the past:
'Twas long since he had heard from Udolph last.
And deep misgivings on his spirit fell
That all with Udolph's household was not well.
'Twas that too true prophetic mood of fear
That augurs griefs inevitably near.
Yet makes them not less startling to the mind
When come. Least look'd-for then of human kind.
His Udolph ('twas, he thought at first, his sprite,)
With mournful joy that morn surprised his sight.

THEODRIC. 127

How changed was Udolph ! Scarce Theodric durst

Inquire his tidings, — he revealed the worst.

''At first," he said, " as Julia bade me tell,

She bore her fate high-mindedly and well.

Resolved from common eyes her grief to hide.

And from the world's compassion saved our pride ;

But still her health gave way to secret woe,

And long she pined — for broken hearts die slow !

Her reason went, but came returning, like

The warning of her death-hour — soon to strike :

And all for which she now, poor sufferer! sighs,

Is once to see Theodric ere she dies.

Why should I come to tell you this caprice?

Forgive me ! for my mind has lost its peace.

I blame myself, and ne'er shall cease to blame,

That my insane ambition for the name

Of brother to Theodric, founded all

Those high-built hopes that crush'd her by their fall.

I made her slight her mother's counsel sage.

But now my parents droop with grief and age :

And, though my sister's eyes mean no rebuke,

They overwhelm me with their dying look.

The journey's long, but you are full of ruth;

And she who shares your heart, and knows its truth,

Has faith in your affection, far above

The fear of a poor dying object's love." —

" She has, my Udolph," he replied, " 'tis true;

And oft we talk of Julia — oft of you."

128

THEODRIC.

Their converse came abruptly to a close ;

For scarce could each his troubled looks compose,

When visitants, to Constance near akin,

(In all but traits of soul,) were usher'd in.

They brought not her, nor midst their kindred band

The sister who alone, like her, was bland ;

But said — and smiled to see it give him pain —

That Constance would a fortnight yet remain.

Vex'd by their tidings, and the haughty view

They cast on Udolph as the youth withdrew,

Theodric blamed his Constance's intent. —

The demons went, and left him as they went

To read, when they were gone beyond 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 pray'd 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 miss'd her on her homeward way.

In six hours Constance was within his arms :

Moved, flush'd ; unlike her wonted calm of charms.

And breathless — with uplifted hands outspread —

Burst into tears upon his neck, and said, —

" I knew that those who brought your message laugh'd.

With poison of their own to point the shaft ;

And this my one kind sister thought, yet loth

Confess'd she fear'd 'twas true you had been wroth.

THEODRIC. 129

But here you are, and smile on me : my pain

Is gone, and Constance is herself again."

His ecstasy, it may be guess'd, was much :

Yet pain's extreme and pleasure's seem'd to touch.

What pride ! embracing beauty's perfect mould ;

What terror ! lest his few rash words mistold

Had agonized her pulse to fever's heat :

But calm'd again so soon it healthful beat,

And such sweet tones were in her voice's sound,

Composed herself, she breathed composure round.

Fair being! with what sympathetic grace
She heard, bewail'd, and pleaded Julia's case ;
Implored he would her dying wish attend,
"And go," she said, "to-morrow with your friend;
I'll wait for your return on England's shore.
And then we'll cross the deep, and part no more."

To-morrow both his soul's compassion drew
To Julia's call, and Constance urged anew
That not to heed her now would be to bind
A load of pain for life upon his mind.
He went with Udolph — from his Constance went —
Stifling, alas ! a dark presentiment
Some ailment lurk'd, ev'n whilst she smiled, to mock
His fears of harm from yester-morning's shock.
Meanwhile a faithful page he singled out.
To watch at home, and follow straight his route,
If aught of threaten'd change her health should show.
— With Udolph then he reach'd the house of woe.

130 THEODRIC.

That winter's eve, how darkly Nature's brow
Scowl'd on the scenes it lights so lovely now!
The tempest, raging o'er the realms of ice
Shook fragments from the rifted precipice ;
And whilst their falling echoed to the wind.
The wolfs long howl in dismal discord join'd ;
While white yon water's foam was rais'd in clouds
That whirl'd like spirits wailing in their shrouds :
Without was Nature's elemental din —
And beauty died, and friendship wept, within !

Sweet Julia, though her fate was finish'd half.
Still knew him — smiled on him with feeble laugh —
And bless'd him, till she drew her latest sigh !
But lo ! while Udolph's bursts of agony.
And age's tremulous wailings, round him rose.
What accents pierced him deeper yet than those !
'Twas tidings by his English messenger.
Of Constance — brief and terrible they were.
She still was living when the page set out
From home, but whether now was left in doubt.
Poor Julia ! saw he then thy death's relief —
Stunn'd into stupor more than wrung with grief?
It was not strange ; for in the human breast
Two master-passions cannot co-exist.
And that alarm which now usurp'd his brain
Shut out not only peace, but other pain.
'Twas fancying Constance underneath the shroud
That cover'd Julia made him first weep loud,

THEODRIC. 131

And tear himself away from them that wept.
Fast hurrying homeward, night nor day he slept,
Till, launch'd at sea, he dreamt that his soul's saint
Clung to him on a bridge of ice, pale, faint.
O'er cataracts of blood. Awake, he bless'd
The shore ; nor hope left utterly his breast,
Till reaching home, terrific omen ! there
The straw-laid street preluded his despair —
The servant's look — the table that reveal'd
His letter sent to Constance last, still seal'd —
Though speech and hearing left him, told 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 ev'n on her death-cold cheek.
Then first he heard her one kind sister speak :
She bade him, in the name of Heaven, forbear
With self-reproach to deepen his despair :
" 'Twas 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.

132 THEODRIC.

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,
Fear'd that she should not long the scene outlive,
Yet bade ev'n you th' unnatural one forgive.
Till then her ailment had been slight, or none ;
But fast she droop'd, and fatal pains came on ;
Foreseeing their event, she dictated
And sign'd these words for you." The letter said —

"Theodric, this is destiny above
Our power to baffle ; bear it then, my love !
Rave not to learn the usage I have borne,
For one true sister left me not forlorn ;
And though you're absent in another land.
Sent from me by my own well-meant command.
Your soul, I know, as firm is knit to mine
As these clasp'd hands in blessing you now join:
Shape not imagined horrors in my fate —
Ev'n now my sufferings are not very great ;
And when your 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

THEODRIC. 133

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 Iqss with noble spirit — not despair ;

I ask you by our love to promise this.

And kiss these words, where I have left a kiss, —

The latest from my living lips for yours." —

Words that will solace him while life endures :
For though his spirit from affliction's surge
Could ne'er to life, as life had been, emerge.
Yet still that mind whose harmony elate
Rang sweetness, ev'n beneath the crush of fate, —
That mind in whose regard all things were placed
In views that soften'd them, or lights that graced,
That soul's example could not but dispense
A portion of its own bless'd influence ;
Invoking him to peace and that self-sway
Which Fortune cannot give nor take away :
And though he mourn'd her long, 'twas with such woe
As if her spirit watch'd him still below."
12

THE

PILGEIM 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 w^rote to Matthew N. Macdonald, Esq.,
of Edinburgh. He had the kindness to send me a circumstantial accotmt of the
tradition ; and that gentleman's knowledge of the Highlands, as well as his par-
ticular acquaintance ipvith the district of Glencoe, leave me no doubt of the incident
having really happened. I have not departed from the main facts of the tradition
as reported to me by Mr. Macdonald ; only I have endeavoured to colour the per-
sonages of the story, and to make them as distinctive as possible.]

THE

PILGRIM OF GLENCOE.

The sunset sheds a horizontal smile

O'er Highland frith and Hebridean isle,

While, gay with gambols of its finny shoals,

The glancing wave rejoices as it rolls

With streamer'd busses, that distinctly shine

All downward, pictured in the glassy brine ;

Whose crews, with faces brightening in the sun,

Keep measure with their oars, and all in one

Strike up th' old Gaelic song, — Sweep, rowers, sweep !

The fisher's glorious spoils are in the deep.

Day sinks — but twilight owes the traveller soon.
To reach his bourne, a round unclouded moon.
Bespeaking long undarken'd hours of time ;
False hope — the Scots are steadfast — not their clime.
A war-worn soldier from the western land
Seeks Cona's vale by Ballihoula's strand ;

12*

138 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE.

The vale, by eagle-haunted cliffs o'erhung,

Where Fingal fought and Ossian's harp was strung —

Our veteran's forehead, bronzed on sultry plains,

Had stood the brunt of thirty fought campaigns ;

He well could vouch the sad romance of wars.

And count the dates of battles by his scars;

For he had served where o'er and o'er again

Britannia's oriflamme had lit the plain

Of glory — and victorious stamp'd her name

On Oudenarde's and Blenheim's fields of fame.

Nine times in battle-field his blood had stream'd,

Yet vivid still his veteran blue eye gleam'd ;

Full well he bore his knapsack^unoppress'd,

And march'd with soldier-like erected crest:

Nor sign of ev'n loquacious age he wore,

Save when he told his life's adventures o'er;

Some tired of these ; for terms to him were dear

Too tactical by far for vulgar ear ;

As when he talk'd of rampart and ravine.

And trenches fenced with gabion and fascine —

But when his theme possess'd him all and whole.

He scorn'd proud puzzling words and warm'd the soul ;

Hush'd groups hung on his lips with fond surprise,

That sketch'd old scenes — like pictures to their eyes : —

The wide war-plain, with banners glowing bright.

And bayonets to the furthest stretch of sight ;

The pause, more dreadful than the peal to come

From volleys blazing at the beat of drum —

THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 139

Till all the field of thundering lines became

Two level and confronted sheets of flame.

Then to the charge, when Marlbro's hot pursuit

Trode France's gilded lilies underfoot;

He came and kindled — and with martial lung

Would chant the very march their trumpets sung. —

Th' old soldier hoped, ere evening's light should fail,

To reach a home, south-east of Cona's vale ;

But looking at Bennevis, capp'd 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 spray.

Or clouds from troops in battle's fiery day —

So dense, his quarry 'scaped the falcon's sight.

The owl alone exulted, hating light.

Benighted thus our pilgrim groped his ground,
Half 'twixt the river's and the cataract's sound.
At last a sheep-dog's bark inform'd his ear
Some human habitation might be near;
Anon sheep-bleatings rose from rock to rock, —
'Twas Luath hounding to their fold the flock.
Ere long the cock's obstreperous clarion rang,
And next, a maid's sweet voice, that spinning sang;
At last amidst the greensward (gladsome sight!)
A cottage stood, with straw-roof golden bright.

140 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE.

He knock'd, was welcomed in ! none ask'd his name,

Nor whither he was bound nor whence he came ;

But he was beckon'd to the stranger's seat,

Right side the chimney fire of blazing peat.

Blest Hospitality makes not her home

In walled parks and castellated dome ;

She flies the city's needy greedy crowd,

And shuns still more the mansions of the proud ; —

The balm of savage or of simple life, '

A wild flower cut by culture's polish'd knife !

The house, no common sordid shieling cot,
Spoke inmates of a comfortable lot.
The Jacobite white rose festoon'd their door ;
The window sash'd and glazed, the oaken floor,
The chimney graced with antlers of the deer,
The rafters hung with meat for winter cheer.
And all the mansion, indicated plain
Its master a superior shepherd swain.

Their supper came — the table soon was spread
With eggs and milk and cheese and barley bread.
The family were three — a father hoar.
Whose age you'd guess at seventy years or more.
His son look'd fifty — cheerful like her lord
His comely wife presided at the board ;
All three had that peculiar courteous grace
Which marks the meanest of the Highland race ;

THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 141

Warm hearts that burn alike in weal and woe,
As if the north- wind fann'd their bosom's glow!
But wide unlike their souls : old Norman's eye
Was proudly savage ev'n in courtesy.
His sinewy shoulders — each, though aged and lean,
Broad as the curl'd Herculean head between, —
His scornful lip, his eyes of yellow fire.
And nostrils that dilated quick with ire,
With ever downward- slanting shaggy brows,
Mark'd the old lion you would dread to rouse.
Norman, in truth, had led his earlier life
In raids of red revenge and feudal strife ;
Religious duty in revenge he saw,
Proud Honour's right and Nature's honest law
First in the charge and foremost in pursuit,
Long-breath'd, deep-chested, and in speed of foot
A match for stags — still fleeter when the prey
Was man, in persecution's evil day ;
Cheer'd to that chase by brutal bold Dundee,
No Highland hound had lapp'd more blood than he.
Oft had he changed the Covenanter's breath
From howls of psalmody to howls of death ;
And though long bound to peace, it irk'd him still
His dirk had ne'er one hated foe to kill.

Yet Norman had fierce virtues that would mock
Cold-blooded tories of the modern stock

142 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE.

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 ev'n well-manner'd lowland men
Who blew not up his Jacobitish flame,
Nor prefaced with "pretender" Charles's name.
Fierce, but by sense and kindness not unwon,
He loved, respected ev'n, his wiser son ;
And brook'd from him expostulations sage,
When all advisers else were spurn'd with rage.

Far happier times had moulded Ronald's mind,

By nature too of more sagacious kind.

His breadth of brow, and Roman shape of chin.

Squared well with the firm man that reign'd within.

Contemning strife as childishness, he stood

With neighbours on kind terms of neighbourhood,

And whilst his father's anger nought avail'd,

His rational remonstrance never fail'd.

Full skilfully he managed farm and fold.

Wrote, cipher'd, profitably bought and sold ;

And, bless'd with pastoral leisure, deeply took

Delight to be inform'd, by speech or book,

Of that wide world beyond his mountain home,

Where oft his curious fancy loved to roam.

THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 143

Oft while his faithful dog ran round his flock,

He read long hours when summer warm'd the rock :

Guests who could tell him aught were welcomed warm,

Ev'n pedlars' news had to his mind a charm ;

That like an intellectual magnet-stone

Drew truth from judgments simpler than his own.

His soul's proud instinct sought not to enjoy
Romantic fictions, like a minstrel boy ;
Truth, standing on her solid square, from youth
He worshipp'd — stern uncompromising truth.
His goddess kindlier smiled on him, to find
A votary of her light in land so blind ;
She bade majestic History unroll
Broad views of public welfare to his soul.
Until he look'd on clannish feuds and foes
With scorn, as on the wars of kites and crows;
Whilst doubts assail'd him, o'er and o'er again,
If men were made for kings or kings for men.
At last, to Norman's horror and dismay.
He flat denied the Stuarts' right to sway.

No blow-pipe ever whiten'd furnace fire.

Quick as these words lit up his father's ire ;

Who envied even old Abraham for his faith,

Ordain'd to put his only son to death.

He started up — in such a mood of soul

The white bear bites his showman's stirring pole ;

144 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE.

He danced too, and brought out, with snarl and howl,

"0 Dia! Dia!" and, "Dioul! Dioul!"*

But sense foils fury — as the blowing whale

Spouts, bleeds, and dyes the waves without avail —

Wears out the cable's length that makes him fast,

But, worn himself, comes up harpoon'd at last —

E'en so devoid of sense, succumbs at length

Mere strength of zeal to intellectual strength.

His son's close logic so perplex'd his pate,

Th' old hero rather shunn'd than sought debate ;

Exhausting his vocabulary's store

Of oaths and nick-names, he could say no more,

But tapp'd his mull,t roll'd mutely in his chair,

Or only whistled Killicranky's air.

Witch-legends Ronald scom'd — ghost, kelpie, wraith,

And all the trumpery of vulgar faith ;

Grave matrons ev'n were shock'd to hear him slight

Authenticated facts of second-sight —

Yet never flinch'd his mockery to confound

The brutal superstition reigning round.

Reserved himself, still Ronald loved to scan
Men's natures — and he liked the old hearty man;
So did the partner of his heart and life —
Who pleased her Ronald, ne'er displeased his wife.

* God and the devil — a favourite ejaculation of Highland saints.
t Snuff-horn.

THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 145

His sense, 'tis true, compared with Norman's son,
Was common-place — his tales too long outspun :
Yet Allan Campbell's sympathizing mind
Had held large intercourse with human kind ;
Seen much, and gaily graphically drew
The men of every country, clime, and hue ;
Nor ever stoop'd, though soldi^-like his strain,
To ribaldry of mirth or oath profane.
All went harmonious till the guest began
To talk about his kindred chief and clan,
And, with his own biography engross'd,
Mark'd not the changed demeanour of each host;
Nor how old choleric Norman's cheek became
Flush'd at the Campbell and Breadalbane name.
Assigning, heedless of impending harm.
Their steadfast silence to his story's charm,
He touch'd a subject perilous to touch —
Saying, "Midst this well-known vale I wonder 'd much
To lose my way. In boyhood, long ago,
I roam'd, and loved each pathway of Glencoe ;
Trapp'd leverets, pluck'd wild berries on its braes.
And fish'd along its banks long summer days.
But times grew stormy — bitter feuds arose,
Our clan was merciless to prostrate foes.
I never palliated ray chieftain's blame.
But mourn'd the sin, and redden'd for the shame
Of that foul morn (Heaven blot it from the year!)
Whose shapes and shrieks still haunt my dreaming ear.
13

146 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE.

What could I do ? a serf — Glenlyon's page,

A soldier sworn at nineteen years of age ;

T' have breathed one grieved remonstrance to our chief,

The pit or gallows* would have cured my grief.

Forced, passive as the musket in my hand,

I march'd — when, feigning royalty's command,

*

Against the clan Macdonald, Stair's lord
Sent forth exterminating fire and sword ;
And troops at midnight through the vale defiled,
Enjoin'd to slaughter woman, man, and child.
My clansmen many a year had cause to dread
The curse that day entail'd upon their head ;
Glenlyon's self confess'd th' avenging spell —
I saw" it light on him.

" It so befel :—
A soldier from our ranks to death was brought.
By sentence deem'd too dreadful for his fault ;
All was prepared — the coffin and the cart
Stood near twelve muskets level'd at his heart.
The chief, whose breast for ruth had still some room,
Obtain'd reprieve a day before his doom ; —
But of the awarded boon surmised no breath.
The sufferer knelt, blindfolded, waiting death, —
And met it. Though Glenlyon had desired
The musketeers to watch before they fired ;

* To hang their vassals, or starve them to death in a dungeon, was a privilege of
the Highland chiefs who had hereditar>' jurisdictions.

THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 147

If from his pocket they should see he drew

A handkerchief — their volley should ensue ;

But if he held a paper in its place,

It should be hail'd the sign of pardoning grace : —

He, in a fatal moment's absent fit,

Drew forth the handkerchief, and not the writ ;

Wept o'er the corpse and wrung his hands in woe,

Crying, 'Here's thy curse again — Glencoe! Glencoe!' "

Though thus his guest spoke feelings just and clear,

The cabin's patriarch lent impatient ear;

Wroth that, beneath his roof, a living man

Should boast the swine-blood of the Campbell clan;

He hasten'd to the door — call'd out his son

To follow ; walk'd a space, and thus begun : —

" You have not, Ronald, at this day to learn

The oath I took beside my father's cairn.

When you were but a babe a twelvemonth born ;

Sworn on my dirk — by all that's sacred, sworn

To be revenged for blood that cries to Heaven —

Blood unforgiveable, and unforgiven :

But never power, since then, have I possess'd

To plant my dagger in a Campbell's breast.

Now, here's a self-accusing partisan,

Steep'd in the slaughter of Macdonald's clan;

I scorn his civil speech and sweet-lipp'd show

Of pity — he is still our house's foe :

I'll perjure not myself — but sacrifice

The caitiff ere to-morrow's sun arise.

148 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE.

Stand! hear me — you're my son, the deed is just;

And if I say — it must be done — it must :

A debt of honour which my clansmen crave,

Their very dead demand it from the grave."

Conjuring then their ghosts, he humbly pray'd

Their patience till the blood-debt should be paid.

But Ronald stopp'd him. — " Sir, sir, do not dim

Your honour by a moment's angry whim ;

Your soul's too just and generous, were you cool,

To act at once th' assassin and the fool.

Bring me the men on whom revenge is due,

And I will dirk them willingly as you !

But all the real authors of that black

Old deed are gone — you cannot bring them back.

And this poor guest, 'tis palpable to judge.

In all his life ne'er bore our clan a grudge ;

Dragg'd when a boy against his will to share

That massacre, he loath'd the foul affair.

Think, if your harden'd heart be conscience-proof,

To stab a stranger underneath your roof!

One who has broken bread within your gate —

Reflect — before reflection comes too late, —

Such ugly consequences there may be

As judge and jury, rope and gallows-tree.

The days of dirking snugly are gone by,

Where could you hide the body privily

THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 149

When search is made for 't?"

"Plunge it in yon flood,
That Campbells crimson'd with our kindred blood."
"Aye, but the corpse may float — "

"Pshaw! dead men tell
No tales — nor will it float if leaded well.
I am determined!" — What could Ronald do?
No house within ear-reach of his halloo,
Though that would but have publish'd household shame.
He temporized with wrath he could not tame,
And said " Come in, till night put off" the deed,
And ask a few more questions ere he bleed."
They enter' d ; Norman with portentous air
Strode to a nook behind the stranger's chair.
And, speaking nought, sat grimly in the shade.
With dagger in his clutch beneath his plaid.
His son's own plaid, should Norman pounce his prey.
Was coil'd thick round his arm, to turn away
Or blunt the dirk. He purposed leaving free
The door, and giving Allan time to flee,
Whilst he should wrestle with, (no safe emprise,)
His father's maniac strength and giant size.
Meanwhile he could nowise communicate
The impending peril to his anxious mate ;
But she, convinced no trifling matter now
Disturb'd the wonted calm of Ronald's brow,
Divined too well the cause of gloom that lower'd,
And sat with speechless terror overpower'd.

13*

150 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE.

Her face was pale, so lately blithe and bland,

The stocking knitting- wire shook in her hand.

But Ronald and the guest resumed their thread

Of converse, still its theme that day of dread.

"Much," said the veteran, "much as I bemoan

That deed, when half a hundred years have flown,

Still on one circumstance I can reflect

That mitigates the dreadful retrospect.

A mother with her child before us flew,

I had the hideous mandate to pursue ;

But swift of foot, outspeeding bloodier men,

I chased, o'ertook her in the winding glen,

And show'd her palpitating, where to save

Herself and infant in a secret cave ;

Nor left them till I saw that they could mock

Pursuit and search within that sheltering rock."

"Heavens!" Ronald cried, in accents gladly wild,

" That woman was my mother — I the child !

Of you unknown by name she late an air*

Spoke, wept, and ever bless'd you in her prayer,

Ev'n to her death ; describing you withal

A well-look'd florid youth, blue-eyed and tall."

They rose, exchanged embrace : the old lion then

Upstarted, metamorphosed, from his den ;

Saying, " Come and make thy home with us for life,

Heaven-sent preserver of my child and wife.

* Scotch for late and early.

THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 151

I fear thou'rt poor, that Hanoverian thing
Rewards his soldiers ill." — " God save the king!"
With hand upon his heart, old Allan said,
"I wear his uniform, I eat his bread,
And whilst I've tooth to bite a cartridge, all
For him and Britain's fame I'll stand or fall."
"Bravo!" cried Ronald. "I commend your zeal,"
Quoth Norman, " and I see your heart is leal ;
But I have pray'd ray soul may never thrive
If thou should'st leave this house of ours alive.
Nor shalt thou ; in this home protract thy breath
Of easy life, nor leave it till thy death."

The following morn arose serene as glass.
And red Bennevis shone like molten brass;
While sunrise open'd flowers with gentle force,
The guest and Ronald walk'd in long discourse.
" Words fail me," Allan said, "to thank aright
Your father's kindness shown me yesternight ;
Yet scarce I'd wish my latest days to spend
A fireside fixture with the dearest friend :
Besides, I've but a fortnight's furlough now.
To reach Macallin More,* beyond Lochawe.
I'd fain memorialize the powers that be.
To deign remembrance of my wounds and me ;

* The Duke of Argyle.

152 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE.

My life-long service never bore the brand
Of sentence — lash — disgrace or reprimand.
And so I've written, though in meagre style,
A long petition to his Grace Argyle ;
I mean, on reaching Innerara's shore,
To leave it safe within his castle door."
"Nay," Ronald said, "the letter that you bear
Entrust it to no lying varlet's care ;
But say a soldier of King George demands
Access to leave it in the Duke's own hands.
But show me, first, the epistle to your chief,
'Tis nought, unless succinctly clear and brief;
Great men have no great patience when they read,
And long petitions spoil the cause they plead."

That day saw Ronald from the field full soon

Return ; and when they all had dined at noon.

He conn'd the old man's memorial — lopp'd its length.

And gave it style, simplicity, and strength ;

'Twas finished in an hour — and in the next

Transcribed by Allan in perspicuous text.

At evening, he and Ronald shared once more

A long and pleasant walk by Cona's shore.

" I'd press you," quoth his host — (" I need not say

How warmly) ever more with us to stay ;

But Charles intends, 'tis said, in these same parts

To try the fealty of our Highland hearts.

THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 153

'Tis my belief, that he and all his line

Have — saving to be hang'd — no right divine ;

From whose mad enterprise can only flow

To thousands slaughter, and to myriads woe.

Yet have they stirr'd my father's spirit sore.

He flints his pistols — whets his old claymore —

And longs as ardently to join the fray

As boy to dance who hears the bagpipe play.

Though calm one day, the next, disdaining rule,

He'd gore your red coat like an angry bull :

I told him, and he own'd it might be so,

Your tempers never could in concert flow.

But 'Mark,' he added, 'Ronald! from our door

Let not this guest depart forlorn and poor;

Let not your souls the niggardness evince

Of lowland pedlar, or of German prince ;

He gave you life — then feed him as you'd feed

Your very father were he cast in need.'

He gave — you'll find it by your bed to-night,

A leathern purse of crowns, all sterling bright:

You see I do you kindness not by stealth.

My wife — no advocate of squandering wealth —

Vows that it would be parricide, or worse.

Should we neglect you — here's a silken purse,

Some golden pieces through the network shine,

'Tis proffer'd to you from her heart and mine.

But come ! no foolish delicacy, no !

We own, but cannot cancel what we owe —

154 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE.

This sum shall duly reach you once a year."
Poor Allan's furrow'd face and flowing tear
Confess'd sensations which he could not speak.
Old Norman bade him farewell kindly meek.

At morn, the smiling dame rejoiced to pack

With viands full the old soldier's havresack.

He feared not hungry grass* with such a load,

And Ronald saw him miles upon his road.

A march of three days brought him to Lochfyne.

Argyle, struck with his manly look benign.

And feeling interest in the veteran's lot,

Created him a sergeant on the spot^ —

An invalid, to serve not — but with pay

(A mighty sum to him), twelve-pence a day.

^'But have you heard not," said Macallin More,

*" Charles Stuart's landed on Eriska's shore.

And Jacobites are arming?" — " What! indeed!

Arrived ! then I'm no more an invalid :

My new-got halbert I must straight employ

In battle." — "As you please, old gallant boy:

Your gray hairs well might plead excuse, 'tis true,

But now's the time we want such men as you."

In brief, Innerara Allan staid.

And join'd the banners of Argyle's brigade.

♦ When the hospitable Highlanders load a parting guest with provisions, they tell
liim he will need thera, as he has to go over a great deal of hungry grass.

THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 155

Meanwhile, the old choleric shepherd of Glencoe

Spurn'd all advice, and girt himself to go.

What was't to him that foes would poind their fold,

Their lease, their very beds beneath them sold!

And firmly to his text he would have kept,

Though Ronald argued and his daughter wept.

But 'midst the impotence of tears and prayer.

Chance snatched them from proscription and despair.

Old Norman's blood was headward wont to mount

Too rapid from his heart's impetuous fount ;

And one day, whilst the German rats he cursed.

An artery in his wise sensorium burst.

The lancet saved him : but how changed, alas,

From him who fought at Killiecrankie's pass!

Tame as a spaniel, timid as a child.

He mutter'd incoherent words and smiled ;

He wept at kindness, roll'd a vacant eye.

And laugh'd full often when he meant to cry.

Poor man ! whilst in this lamentable state.

Came Allan back one morning to his gate.

Hale and unburden'd by the woes of eild.

And fresh with credit from Culloden's field.

'Twas fear'd at first, the sight of him might touch

The old Macdonald's morbid mind too much ;

But no ! though Norman knew him and disclosed,

Ev'n rallying memory, he was still composed ;

Ask'd all particulars of the fatal fight.

And only heaved a sigh for Charles's flight ;

156 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE.

Then said, with but one moment's pride of air,
It might not have been so had I been there !
Few days elapsed till he reposed beneath
His gray cairn, on the wild and lonely heath ;
Son, friends and kindred of his dust took leave.
And Allan, with the crape bound round his sleeve.

Old Allan now hung up his sergeant's sword,
And sat, a guest for life, at Ronald's board.
He waked no longer at the barrack's drum.
Yet still you'd see, when peep of day was come,
Th' erect tall red-coat, walking pastures round.
Or delving with his spade the garden ground.
Of cheerful temper, habits strict and sage,
He reach'd, enjoy'd, a patriarchal age —
Loved to the last by the Macdonalds. Near
Their house, his stone was placed with many a tear;
And Ronald's self, in stoic virtue brave,
Scorn'd not to weep at Allan Campbell's grave.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS,

14

O'CONNOR'S CHILD;

'THE FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING."

Oh! once the harp of Innisfail

Was strung full high to notes of gladness ;

But yet it often told a tale

Of more prevailing sadness.

Sad was the note, and wild its fall,

As winds that moan at night forlorn

Along the isles of Fion-Gall,

When, for O'Connor's child to mourn,

The harper told, how lone, how far

From any mansion's twinkling star,

From any path of social men.

Or voice, but from the fox's den.

The lady in the desert dwelt ;

And yet no wrongs, no fears she felt :

Say, why should dwell in place so wild,

O'Connor's pale and lovely child?

160 o'connor's child.

n.
Sweet lady! she no more inspires
Green Erin's hearts with beauty's power,
As, in the palace of her sires.
She bloom'd a peerless flower.
Gone from her hand and bosom, gone.
The royal broche, the jewel'd ring.
That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone,
Like dews on lilies of the spring.
Yet why, though fallen her brother's kerne.
Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern,
While yet in Leinster unexplored,
Her friends survive the English sword ;
Why lingers she from Erin's host.
So far on Galway's shipwreck'd coast ;
Why wanders she a huntress wild —
O'Connor's pale and lovely child?

And fix'd on empty space, why burn
Her eyes with momentary wildness ;
And wherefore do they then return
To more than woman's mildness ?
DishevePd are her raven locks ;
On Connocht Moran's name she calls ;
And oft amidst the lonely rocks
She sings sweet madrigals.

o'connor's child. 161

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.

Bright as the bow that spans the storm,
In Erin's yellow vesture clad,
A son of light — a lovely form,
He comes and makes her glad ;
Now on the grass-green turf he sits.
His tassel'd horn beside him laid ;
Now o'er the hills in chase he flits.
The hunter and the deer a shade !
Sweet mourner! these are shadows vain
That cross the twilight of her brain ;
Yet she will tell you, she is bless'd.
Of Connocht Moran's tomb possess'd.
More richly than in Aghrim's bower,
When bards high praised her beauty's power.
And kneeling pages offer'd up
The morat in a golden cup.
14*

162 o'connor's child.

V.

"A hero's bride! this desert bower,
It ill befits thy gentle breeding :
And wherefore dost thou love this flower
To call — 'My love lies bleeding?'
This purple flower my tears have nursed ;
A hero's blood supplied its bloom :
I love it, for it was the first
That grew on Connocht Moran's tomb.
Oh! hearken, stranger, to my voice!
This desert mansion is my choice I
, 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.

O'Connor's child, I was the bud

Of Erin's royal tree of glory;

But woe to them that wrapt in blood

The tissue of my story!

Still as I clasp my burning brain,

A death-scene rushes on my sight ;

It rises o'er and o'er again.

The bloody feud — the fatal night.

o'connor's child. 163

When, chafing Connocht Moran's scorn,
They call'd my hero basely born ;
And bade him choose a meaner bride
Than from O'Connor's house of 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 honour
Were in the mansion of O'Connor :
But he, my loved one, bore in field
A humbler crest, a meaner shield.

Ah, brothers ! what did it avail.
That fiercely and triumphantly
Ye fought the English of the Pale,
And stemm'd De Bourgo's chivalry?
And what was it to love and me,
That barons by your standard rode ;
Or beal-fires for your jubilee
Upon a hundred mountains glow'd ?
What though the lords of tower and dome
From Shannon to the North-sea foam, —
Thought ye your iron hands of pride
Could break the knot that love had tied ?
No : — let the eagle change his plume,
The leaf its hue, the flower its bloom ;

164 o'connor's child.

But ties around this heart were spun,
That could not, would not, be undone!

At bleating of the wild watch-fold
Thus sang my love — ' Oh, come with me :
Our bark is on the lake, behold
Our steeds are fasten'd to the tree.
Come far from Castle-Connor's clans : —
Come with thy belted forestere,
And I, beside the lake of swans,
Shall hunt for thee the fallow-deer ;
And build thy hut, and bring thee home
The wild-fowl Eind 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 track'd the way.
And I pursued, by moonless skies.
The light of Connocht Moran's eyes.

And fast and far, before the star

Of day-spring, rush'd we through the glade.

And saw at dawn the lofty bawn

Of Castle- Connor fade.

Sweet was to us the hermitage

Of this unplough'd, untrodden shore ;

o'connor's child. 165

Like birds all joyous from the cage,
For man's neglect we loved it more,
And well he knew, my huntsman dear,
To search the game with hawk and spear ;
While I, his evening food to dress.
Would sing to him in happiness.
But, oh, that midnight of despair!
When I was doom'd to rend my hair:
The night, to me, of shrieking sorrow!
The night, to him, that had no morrow!

When all was hush'd, at even tide,

I heard the baying of their beagle :

Be hush'd ! my Connocht Moran cried,

'Tis but the screaming of the eagle.

Alas ! 'twas not the eyrie's sound ;

Their bloody bands had track'd us out ;

Up-listening starts our couch ant hound —

And, hark! again, that nearer shout

Brings faster on the murderers.

Spare — spare him — Brazil — Desmond fierce!

In vain — no voice the adder charms ;

Their weapons cross'd my sheltering arms :

Another's sword has laid him low —

Another's and another's;

And every hand that dealt the blow —

Ah me ! it was a brother's !

166 o'connor's child.

Yes, when his moanings died away.
Their iron hands had dug the clay,
And o'er his burial turf they trod.
And I behold!— oh God! oh God!—
His life-blood oozing from the sod !

Warm in his death- wounds sepulchred,
Alas ! my warrior's spirit brave
Nor mass nor ulla-lulla heard.
Lamenting, soothe his grave.
Dragg'd to their hated mansion back,
How long in thraldom's grasp I lay
I knew not, for my soul was black.
And knew no change of night or day.
One night of horror round me grew ;
Or if I saw, or felt, or knew,
'Twas but when those grim visages.
The angry brothers of my race,
Glared on each eye-ball's aching throb,
And check'd my bosom's power to sob,
Or when my heart with pulses drear
Beat like a death-watch to ray ear.

But Heaven, at last, my soul's eclipse
Did with a vision bright inspire ;

o'connor's child. 167

I woke and felt upon my lips
A phrophetess's fire.
Thrice in the east a war-drum beat,
I heard the Saxon's trumpet sound,
And ranged as to the judgment-seat.
My guilty, trembling brothers round.
Clad in the helm and shield they came ;
For now De Bourgo's sword and flame
Had ravaged Ulster's boundaries,
And lighted up the midnight skies.
The standard of O'Connor's sway
Was in the turret where I lay ;
That standard, with so dire a look,
As ghastly shown the moon and pale,
, I gave, — that every bosom shook
Beneath its iron 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 unroll'd.
0 stranger! by my country's loss!
And by my love ! and by the cross !

168 o'connor's child.

I swear I never could have spoke
The curse that sever'd nature's yoke !
But that a spirit o'er me stood,
And fired me with the wrathful mood ;
And frenzy to my heart was given
To speak the malison of heaven.

They would have cross'd themselves, all mute ;

They would have pray'd to burst the spell ;

But at the stamping of my foot

Each hand down powerless fell !

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 I

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 !

o'connor's child. 169

XV.

A bolt that overhung our dome
Suspended till my curse was given,
Soon as it pass'd these lips of foam,
Peal'd in the blood-red heaven.
Dire was the look that o'er their backs
The angry parting brothers threw :
But now, behold ! like cataracts,
Come down the hills in view
O'Connor's plumed partisans;
Thrice ten Kilnagorvian clans
Were marching to their doom :
A sudden storm their plumage toss'd,
A flash of lightning o'er them cross'd.
And all again was gloom!

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 vow'd to rove
This desert place a huntress bold ;
Nor would I change my buried love
For any heart of living mould.
No! for I am a hero's child;
I'll hunt my quarry in the wild ;
15

170 o'connor's child.

And still my home this mansion make,
Of all unheeded and unheeding,
And cherish, for my warrior's sake —
' The flower of love lies bleeding.' "

LOCHIEL'S WARNING,

Wizard. — Lochiel.

LocHiEL, Lochiel! beware of the day
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array !
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight,
And the clans of Culloden are scatter'd in fight.
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down!
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain.
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war,
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ?
'Tis thine, oh Glenullin! whose bride shall await.
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate.
A steed comes at morning: no rider is there;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led !
Oh weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead :
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave,
Culloden ! that reeks with the blood of the brave.

172 lochiel's warning.

LOCHIEL.

Go preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer!
Or, if gory CuUoden so dreadful appear,
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.

Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn?
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn !
Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth
From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the

north ?
Lo ! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ;
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high !
Ah! home let him speed, — for the spoiler is nigh.
Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast?
'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven.
Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might.
Whose banners arise on the battlement's height.
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ;
Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return !
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood.
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood.

ldchiel's warning. 173

LOCHIEL.

False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshal'd my clan,
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one !
They are true to the last of their blood and their breath,
And like reapers descend to the harvest of death.
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock!
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock !
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause,
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ;
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd,
Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud,
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array

-Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day;

For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal.
But man cannot cover what God would reveal;
'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore.
And coming events cast their shadows before.
I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring
With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king.
Lo ! 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 !
'Tis finish'd. Their thunders are hush'd on the moors ;
Culloden is lost, and my country deplores.

15*

174 lochiel's warning.

But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where?

For the red eye of battle is shut in despair.

Say, mounts he the ocean- wave, banish'd, forlorn,

Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn ?

Ah no ! for a darker departure is dear ;

The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier;

His death-bell is tolling: oh! Mercy, dispel

Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell !

Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs,

And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims.

Accursed be the 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 dishonour, so foul with retreat.

Though my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their

gore,
Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf-beaten shore,
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains.
While the kindling of life in his bosom remains.
Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,
With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe !
And, leaving in battle no blot on his name.
Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame.

(«Bf

lift

CAROLINE.

PART I.

I'll bid the hyacinth to blow,
I'll teach my grotto green to be ;

And sing my true love, all below
The holly bower and myrtle tree.

There all his wild- wood sweets to bring,
The sweet south wind shall wander by.

And with the music of his wing
Delight my rustling canopy.

Come to my close and clustering bower,
Thou spirit of a milder clime,

Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower,
Of mountain heath, and moory thyme.

With all thy rural echoes come.
Sweet comrade of the rosy day,

Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum.
Or cuckoo's plaintive roundelay.

Where'er thy morning breath has play'd,
Whatever isles of ocean fann'd,

176 CAROLINE.

Come to my blossom- woven shade,
Thou wandering wind of fairy-land.

For sure from some enchanted isle,

Where Heaven and Love their sabbath hold.
Where pure and happy spirits smile,

Of beauty's fairest, brightest mould:

From some green Eden of the deep.
Where Pleasure's sigh alone is heaved.

Where tears of rapture lovers weep,
Endear'd, undoubting, undeceived.

From some sweet paradise afar,
Thy music wanders, distant, lost —

Where Nature lights her leading star.
And love is never, never cross'd.

Oh, gentle gale of Eden bowers.
If back thy rosy feet should roam.

To revel with the cloudless Hours
In Nature's more propitious home.

Name to thy loved Elysian groves.
That o'er enchanted spirits twine,

A fairer form than cherub loves.
And let the name be Caroline.

CAROLINE.

PART II.
TO THE EVENING STAR.

Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even,

Companion of retiring day,
Why at the closing gates of Heaven,

Beloved star, dost thou delay ?

So fair thy pensile beauty burns,

When soft the tear of twilight flows ;

So due thy plighted love returns,
To chambers brighter than the rose :

To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love,
So kind a star thou seem'st to be.

Sure some enamour'd orb above

Descends and burns to meet with thee.

Thine is the breathing, blushing hour.
When all unheavenly passions fly,

Chased by the soul-subduing power
Of Love's delicious witchery.

0 ! sacred to the fall of day,

Queen of propitious stars, appear.

178 CAROLINE.

And early rise, and long delay,
When Caroline herself is here I

Shine on her chosen green resort.

Whose trees the sunward summit crown,

And wanton flowers, that well may court
An angel's feet to tread them down.

Shine on her sweetly- scented road,
Thou star of evening's purple dome,

That lead'st the nightingale abroad.
And guid'st the pilgrim to his home.

Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath
Embalms the soft exhaling dew.

Where dying winds a sigh bequeath
To kiss the cheek of rosy hue.

Where, winnow'd by the gentle air,
Her silken tresses darkly flow,

And fall upon her brow so fair,

Like shadows on the mountain snow.

Thus, ever thus, at day's decline,
In converse sweet, to wander far,

0 bring with thee my Caroline,
And thou shalt be my Ruling Star !

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 barr'd from Wedlock's holy tie.
'Twas then that Aodh, famed afar.

In lona preach'd the word with power,
And Reullura, beauty's star,

Was the partner of his bower.

But, Aodh, the roof lies low.

And the thistle-down waves bleaching,
And the bat flits to and fro

Where the Gael once heard thy preaching ;

* Reullura, in Gaelic, signifies " beautiful star."

180 REULLURA.

And fallen is each column'd aisle

Where the chiefs and the people knelt.
'Twas near that temple's goodly pile

That honour'd of men they dwelt.
For Aodh was wise in the sacred law.
And bright Reullura's eyes oft saw

The vale of fate uplifted.
Alas! with what visions of awe

Her soul in that hour was gifted —
When pale in the temple and faint.

With Aodh she stood alone
By the statue of an aged Saint!

Fair sculptured was the stone, .
It bore a crucifix ;

Fame said it once had graced
A Christian temple, which the Picts

In the Britons' land laid waste :
The Pictish men, by St. Columb taught,
Had hither the holy relic brought.
Reullura 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 ;

REULLURA. 181

And, dames and daughters, shall all your locks

With the spoilers' grasp entwine ?
No ! some shall have shelter in eaves and rocks,

And the deep sea shall be mine.
Baffled by me shall the Dane return,
And here shall his torch in the temple burn.
Until that holy man shall plough ^

The waves from Innisfail.
His sail is on the deep e'en now,

And swells to the southern gale."
" Ah ! knowest thou not, my bride,"

The holy Aodh said,
" That the Saint whose form we stand beside

Has for ages slept with the dead ?"
"He liveth, he liveth," she said again,

" For the span of his life tenfold extends
Beyond the wonted years of men.

He sits by the graves of well-loved friends
That died ere thy grandsire's grandsire's birth ;
The oak is decay'd with age on earth.
Whose acorn-seed had been planted by him;

And his parents remember the day of dread
When the sun on the cross look'd dim.

And the graves gave up their dead.
Yet preaching from clime to clime,

He hath roam'd the earth for ages,
And hither he shall come in time

When the wrath of the heathen rages,
16

182 REULLURA.

In time a remnant from the sword —

Ah ! but a remnant to deliver ;
Yet, blest be the name of the Lord !

His martyrs shall go into bliss for ever.
Lochlin,* appall'd, 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 InnisfaiL"!
The sun, now about to set,

Was burning o'er Tiree,
And no gathering-cry rose yet

O'er the isles of Albyn's sea.
Whilst Reullura saw far rowers dip

Their oars beneath the sun.
And the phantom of many a Danish ship,

Where ship there yet was none.
And the shield of alarm was dumb.
Nor did their warning till midnight come.
When watch-fires burst from across the main,

From Rona, and Uist, and Skye,
To tell that the ships of the Dane

And the red-hair'd slayers were nigh.

Our islemen arose from slumbers.
And buckled on their arms ;

* Denmark. t Ireland.

REULLURA. 183

But few, alas! were their numbers

To Lochlin's mailed swarms.
And the blade of the bloody Norse

Has fill'd the shores of the Gael
With many a floating corse,

And with many a woman's wail.
They have lighted the islands with ruin's torch,
And the holy men of lona's church
In the temple of God lay slain ;

All but Aodh, the last Culdee,
But bound with many an iron chain,

Bound in that church was he.
And where is Aodh's bride ?

Rocks of the ocean flood !
Plunged she not from your heights in pride,

And mock'd the men of blood?
Then Ulvfagre and his bands

In the temple lighted their banquet up,
And the print of their blood-red hands

Was left on the altar cup.
'Twas then that the Norseman to Aodh said,
" Tell where thy church's treasure 's laid.
Or I'll hew thee limb from limb."

As he spoke the bell struck three.
And every torch grew dim

That lighted their revelry.

184 REULLURA.

But the* torches again burnt bright,
»
And brighter than before,

When an aged man of majestic height

Enter' d the temple door.
Hush'd was the revellers' sound.

They were struck as mute as the dead.
And their hearts were appall'd by the very sound

Of his footsteps' measured tread.
Nor word was spoken by one beholder.
Whilst he flung his white robe back o'er his 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 grasp'd Ulvfagre's arm.
Then up rose the Danes at last to deliver

Their chief, and shouting with one accord.
They drew the shaft from its rattling quiver.

They lifted the spear and sword.
And level'd their spears in rows.
But down went axes and spears and bows,
When the Saint with his crosier sign'd ;

The archer's hand on the string was stopp'd,

REULLURA. 185

And down, like reeds laid flat by the wind,

Their lifted weapons dropp'd.
The Saint then gave a signal mute,

And though Ulvfagre will'd it not,
He came and stood at the statue's foot,

Spell-riveted to the spot,
Till hands invisible shook the wall.

And the tottering image was dash'd
Down from its lofty pedestal :

On Ulvfagre's helm it crash'd —
Helmet, and skull, and flesh, and brain,
It crush'd as millstones crush the grain.
Then spoke the Saint, whilst all and each

Of the Heathen trembled round,
And the pauses amidst his speech

Were as awful as the sound :

" Go back, ye wolves, to your dens," (he cried,)

" And tell the nations abroad,
How the fiercest of your herd has died

That slaughter'd the flock of God.
Gather him bone by bone.

And take with you o'er the flood
The fragments of that avenging stone

That drank his heathen blood.
These are the spoils from lona's sack.

The only spoils ye shall carry back ;
16*

186 REULLURA.

For the hand that uplifteth spear or sword

Shall be wither'd by palsy's shock,
And I come in the name of the Lord

To deliver a remnant of his flock."

A remnant was call'd together,

A doleful remnant of the Gael,
And the Saint in the ship that had brought him hither

Took the mourners to Innisfail.
Unscathed they left lona's strand,

When the opal morn first flush'd the sky,
For the Norse dropp'd spear, and bow, and brand.

And look'd on them silently ;
Safe from their hiding-places came
Orphans and mothers, child and dame :
But, alas ! when the search for Reullura spread,

No answering voice was given,
For the sea had gone o'er her lovely head.

And her spirit was in Heaven.

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER,

A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!

And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry." —

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?"

" 0, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle.
And this Lord Ullin's daughter. —

And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together,

For should he find us in the glen.
My blood would stain the heather.

His horsemen hard behind us ride ;

Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride

When they have slain her lover?" —

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
"I'll go, my chief— I'm ready: —

188 LORD ullin's daughter.

It is not for your silver bright ;
But for your winsome lady :

And by my word ! the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry ;
So though the waves are raging white,

I'll row you o'er the ferry." —

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water- wraith was shrieking;

And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,

Adown the glen rode armed men.
Their trampling sounded nearer. —

" 0 haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
" Though tempests round us gather,

I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father." —

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her, —

When, oh ! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gather'd o'er her. —

LORD ullin's daughter. 189

And still they row'd amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing :
Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,

His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade,

His child he did discover : —
One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,

And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,

" Across this stormy water :
And I'll forgive your Highland chief.

My daughter! — oh, my daughter!" —

'Twas vain : the loud waves lash'd the shore,

Return or aid preventing: —
The waters wild went o'er his child.

And he was left lamenting.

THE 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 were drifting with the dead

To shores where all was dumb !

THE LAST MAN. 191

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood.

With dauntless words and hisrh.
That shook the sere leaves from the wood

As if a storm pass'd by,
Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun !
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

'Tis Mercy bids thee go :
For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears.

That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath thee man put forth

His pomp, his pride, his skill ;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth.

The vassals of his will ; —
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway.
Thou dim discrowned king of day :

For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Heal'd not a passion or a pang

Entail'd on human hearts.

Go, let Oblivion's curtain fall

Upon the stage of men.
Nor with thy rising beams recall

Life's tragedy again.
Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack

192 THE LAST MAN.

Of pain anew to writhe ;
Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd,
Or mown in battle by the sword.

Like grass beneath the scythe.

Ev'n I am weary in yon skies

To watch thy fading fire ;
Test of all sumless agonies,

Behold not me expire.
My lips that speak thy dirge of death —
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath

To see thou shalt not boast.
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, —
The majesty of Darkness shall

Receive my parting ghost!

This spirit shall return to Him

Who gave its heavenly spark ;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim

When thou thyself art dark!
No ! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine.

By Him recall'd to breath.
Who captive led Captivity,
Who robb'd the grave of Victory, —

And took the sting from Death !

THE LAST MAN. 193

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 !

17

THE TURKISH LADY.

'TwAS the hour when rites unholy
Call'd each Paynim voice to prayer,

And the star that faded slowly
Left to dews the freshen'd air.

Day her sultry fires had wasted,

Calm and sweet the moonlight rose ;

Ev'n a captive spirit tasted
Half oblivion of his woes.

Then 'twas from an Emir's palace
Came an Eastern lady bright :

She, in spite of tyrants jealous,
Saw and loved an English knight.

"Tell me, captive, why in anguish
Foes have dragg'd thee here to dwell,

Where poor Christians as they languish
Hear no sound of Sabbath bell?" —

" 'Twas on Transylvania's Bannat,
When the Crescent shone afar,

THE TURKISH LADY. 195

Like a pale disastrous planet
O'er the purple tide of war —

In that day of desolation,

Lady, I was captive made ;
Bleeding for my Christian nation

By the walls of high Belgrade."

"Captive! could the brightest jewel

From my turban set thee free?"
" Lady, no ! — the gift were cruel,

Ransom'd, yet if reft of thee.

Say, fair princess ! would it grieve thee
Christian climes should we behold?" —

"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

Clasp'd his blooming Eastern bride.

A DREAM

Well may sleep present us fictions,

Since our waking moments teem
With such fanciful convictions

As make life itself a dream. —
Half our daylight faith's a fable ;

Sleep disports with shadows too,
Seeming in their turn as stable

As the world we wake to view.
Ne'er by day did Reason's mint
Give my thoughts a clearer print
Of assured reality.
Than was left by Phantasy
Stamp'd and colour'd on my sprite,
In a dream of yesternight.

In a bark, methought, lone steering,
I was cast on Ocean's strife ;

This, 'twas whispered in my hearing,
Meant the sea of life.

Sad regrets from past existence

Came, like gales of chilling breath ;

A DREAM. 197

Shadow'd in the forward distance

Lay the land of Death.
Now seeming more, now less remote,
On that dim-seen shore, methought,
I beheld two hands a space
Slow unshroud a spectre's face ;
And my flesh's hair upstood, —
'Twas mine own similitude. —

But my soul revived at seeing

Ocean, like an emerald spark.
Kindle, while an air-dropt being

Smiling steer'd my bark.
Heaven-like — yet he look'd as human

As supernal beauty can.
More compassionate than woman,

Lordly more than man.
And as some sweet clarion's breath
Stirs the soldier's scorn of death —
So his accents bade me brook
The spectre's eyes of icy look.
Till it shut them — turn'd its head,
Like a beaten foe, and fled.

"Types not this," I said, "fair Spirit,

That my death-hour is not come ?
Say, what days shall I inherit? —

Tell my soul their sum."

17*

198 A DREAM.

"No," he said, "yon phantom's aspect,

Trust me, would appal thee worse.
Held in clearly measured prospect : —

Ask not for a curse !
Make not, for I overhear
Thine unspoken thoughts as clear
As thy mortal ear could catch
The close-brought tickings of a watch —
Make not the untold request
That's now revolving in thy breast.

'Tis to live again, remeasuring

Youth's years, like a scene rehearsed,
In thy second lifetime 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 ?
Could experience, ten times thine.
Pain from Being disentwine —
Threads by Fate together spun ?
Could thy flight Heaven's lightning shun ?
No, nor could thy foresight's glance
'Scape the myriad shafts of Chance.

Wouldst thou bear again Love's trouble —
Friendship's death-dissever'd ties;

A DREAM. 199

Toil to grasp or miss the bubble

Of Ambition's prize ?
Say thy life's new guided action

Flow'd from Virtue's fairest springs —
Still would Envy and Detraction

Double not their stings ?
Worth itself is but a charter
To be mankind's distinguish'd martyr."
— I caught the moral, and cried, " Hail !
Spirit ! let us onward sail,
Envying, fearing, hating none —
Guardian Spirit, steer me on!"

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 ?

When Science from Creation's face
Enchantment's veil withdraws.

What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws !

TO THE RAINBOW. 201

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,

But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams

Was woven in the sky.

When o'er the green undeluged earth
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,

How came the world's gray fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign !

And when its yellow lustre smiled

O'er mountains yet untrod.
Each mother held aloft her child

To bless the bow of God.

')

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep
The first made anthem rang

On earth deliver'd from the deep
And the first po^t 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.

202 TO THE RAINBOW.

When glittering in the freshen'd fields
The snowy mushroom springs.

How glorious is thy girdle, cast
O'er mountain, tower, and town,

Or mirror'd in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down !

As fresh in yon horizon dark.
As young thy beauties 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 types grow pale with age
That first spoke peace to man.

ODE TO WINTER.

When first the fiery-mantled sun
His heavenly race began to run ;
Round the earth and ocean blue
His children four the Seasons flew.
First, in green apparel dancing.

The young Spring smiled with angel grace ;
Rosy Summer next advancing

Rush'd into her sire's embrace: —
Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep

For ever nearest to his smiles.
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep.

On India's citron-cover'd isles :
More remote and buxom-brown.

The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne ;
A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,

A ripe sheaf bound her zone.
But howling Winter fled afar,
To hills that prop the polar star.
And loves on deer-borne car to ride
With barren Darkness by his side.

204 ODE TO WINTER.

Round the shore where loud Lofoden

Whirls to death the roaring whale,
Round the hall where Runic Odin

Howls his war-song to the gale ;
Save when adown the ravaged globe

He travels on his native storm,
Deflowering Nature's grassy robe.

And trampling on her faded form : —
Till light's returning lord assume

The shaft that drives him to his polar field,
Of power to pierce his raven plume

And crystal-cover'd shield.
Oh, sire of storms! whose savage ear
The Lapland drum delights to hear,
When Frenzy with her blood-shot eye
Implores thy dreadful deity.
Archangel ! power of desolation !

Fast descending as thou art.
Say, hath mortal invocation

Spells to touch thy stony heart?
Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer,
And gently rule the ruin'd year;
Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare,
Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear ; —
To shuddering Want's unmantled bed
Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lead.
And gently on the orphan head
Of innocence descend. —

ODE TO WINTER. 205

But chiefly spare, 0 king of clouds !
The sailor on his airy shrouds ;
When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,
And spectres walk along the deep.
Milder yet thy snowy breezes

Pour on yonder tented shores.
Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,

Or the dark-brown Danube roars.
Oh, winds of Winter ! list ye there

To many a deep and dying groan ;
Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,

At shrieks and thunders louder than your own.
Alas ! ev'n your unhallow'd breath

May spare the victim fallen low ;
But man will ask no truce to death, —

No bounds to human woe.*

* This ode was written in Germany, at the close of 1800, before the conclusion of
hostilities.

18

ODE

TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS.

Soul of the Poet! wheresoe'er,
Reclaim'd from earth, thy genius plume
Her wings of immortality :
Suspend thy harp in happier sphere,
And with thine influence illume
The gladness of our jubilee.

And fly like fiends from secret spell.
Discord and Strife, at Burns's name,
Exorcised by his memory ;
For he was chief of bards that swell
The heart with songs of social flame,
And high delicious revelry.

And Love's own strain to him was given.

To warble all its ecstasies

With Pythian words unsought, unwilPd, —

Love, the surviving gift of Heaven,

The chgicest sweet of Paradise,

In life's else bitter cup distill'd.

ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 207

Who that has melted o'er his lay-
To Mary's soul, in Heaven above,
But pictured sees, in fancy strong,
The landscape and the livelong day
That smiled upon their mutual love ? —
Who that has felt forgets the song?

Nor skill'd one flame alone to fan :
His country's high-soul'd peasantry
What patriot-pride he taught! — how much
To weigh the inborn worth of man !
And rustic life and poverty
Grow beautiful beneath his touch.

Him, in his clay-built cot, the Muse
Entranced, and show'd him all the forms
Of fairy-light and wizard gloom,
(That only gifted Poet views,)
The Genii of the floods and storms,
And martial shades from Glory's tomb.

On Bannock-field what thoughts arouse

The swain whom Burns's song inspires ;

Beat not his Caledonian veins,

As o'er the heroic turf he ploughs.

With all the spirit of his sires.

And all their scorn of death and chains ?

208 ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS.

And see the Scottish exile, tann'd

By many a far and foreign clime,

Bend o'er his home-born verse, and weep

In memory of his native land.

With love that scorns the lapse of time.

And ties that stretch beyond the deep.

Encamp 'd by Indian rivers wild,

The soldier resting on his arms,

In BuRNs's carol sweet recalls

The scenes that bless'd him when a child.

And glows and gladdens at the charms

Of Scotia's woods and waterfalls.

0 deem not, 'midst this worldly strife,
An idle art the Poet brings :
Let high Philosophy control.
And sages calm the stream of life,
'Tis he refines its fountain-springs.
The nobler passions of the soul.

It is the muse that consecrates
The native banner of the brave,
Unfurling, at the trumpet's breath,
Rose, thistle, harp ; 'tis she elates
To sweep the field or ride the wave,
A sunburst in the storm of death.

ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 209

And thou, young hero, when thy pall

Is cross'd with mournful sword and plume,

When public grief begins to fade,

And only tears of kindred fall.

Who but the Bard shall dress thy tomb,

And greet with fame thy gallant shade ?

Such was the soldier — Burns, forgive

That sorrows of my own intrude

In strains to thy great memory due.

In verse like thine, oh ! could he live,

The friend I mourn'd — 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 crush'd laurels of thy bust :
But while the lark sings sweet in air,
Still may the grateful pilgrim stop.
To bless the spot that holds thy dust.

* Major Edward Hodge, of the 7th Hussars, who fell at the head of his squadron
in the attack of the Polish Lancers.

18*

LINES

WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE.

At the silence of twilight's contemplative hour

I have mused, in a sorrowful mood,
On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower

Where the home of my forefathers stood :
All ruin'd and wild is their roofless abode.

And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree ;
And travelPd by few is the grass-cover'd road,
Where the hunter of deer and the w^arrior trode.

To his hills that encircle the sea.

Yet wandering I found on my ruinous walk,

By the dial-stone aged and green.
One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk,

To mark where a garden had been.
Like a brotherless hermit the last of its race.

All wild in the silence of nature, it drew,
From each wandering sunbeam, a lonely embrace,
For the night- weed and thorn overshadow'd the place

Where the flower of my forefathers grew.

LINES. 211

Sweet bud of the wilderness ! emblem of all

That remains in this desolate heart!
The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall,

But patience shall never depart !
Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright,

In the days of delusion by fancy combined
With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight.
Abandon my soul, like a dream of the night,

And leave but a desert behind.

Be hush'd, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns

When the faint and the feeble deplore ;
Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems

A thousand wild waves on the shore !
Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain,

May thy front be unalter'd, thy courage elate !
Yea! even the name I have worshipp'd in vain
Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again :

To bear is to conquer our fate.

ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE

By strangers left upon a lonely shore,

Unknown, unhonoured, was the friendless dead ;
For child to weep, or widow to deplore.

There never came to his unburied head : —

All from his dreary habitation fled.
Nor will the lantern'd fisherman at eve

Launch on that water by the witches' tower,
Where hellebore and hemlock seem to weave

Round its dark vaults a melancholy bower

For spirits of the dead at night's enchanted hour.

They dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate !

Whose crime it was, on Life's unfinished road.
To feel the step-dame buffetings of fate.

And render back thy being's heavy load.

Ah ! once, perhaps, the social passions glow'd
In thy devoted bosom — and the hand

That smote its kindred heart, might yet be prone
To deeds of mercy. Who may understand

Thy many woes, poor suicide, unknown ? —

He who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone.

GILDEROY.

The last, the fatal hour is come,
That bears my love from me ;

I hear the dead note of the drum,
I mark the gallows' tree !

The bell has toll'd ; it shakes my heart ;

The trumpet speaks thy name ;
And must my Gilderoy depart

To bear a death of shame ?

No bosom trembles for thy doom ;

No mourner wipes a tear ;
The gallows' foot is all thy tomb,

The sledge is all thy bier.

Oh, Gilderoy! bethought we then

So soon, so sad to part,
When first in Roslin's lovely glen

You triumph'd o'er my heart?

Your locks they glitter'd to the sheen,
Your hunter garb was trim ;

214 GILDEROY.

And graceful was the ribbon green
That bound your manly limb !

Ah ! little thought I to deplore
Those limbs in fetters bound ;

Or hear, upon the scaffold floor,
The midnight hammer sound.

Ye cruel, cruel, that combined

The guiltless to pursue ;
My Gilderoy was ever kind,

He could not injure you !

A long adieu ! but where shall fly

Thy widow all forlorn
When every mean and cruel eye

Regards my woe with scorn?

Yes ! they will mock thy widow's tears.
And hate thine orphan boy ;

Alas! his infant beauty wears
The form of Gilderoy.

Then will I seek the dreary mound
That wraps thy mouldering clay.

And weep and linger on the ground.
And sigh my heart away.

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 do blow ;

While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave ! —

For the deck it was their field of fame,

And Ocean was their grave :

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,

Your manly hearts shall glow,

216 YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow ;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy wnnds 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.

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.

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

Of Nelson and the North,

Sing the glorious day's renown,

When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark's crown.

And her arms along the deep proudly shone ;

By each gun the lighted brand,

In a bold determined hand,

And the Prince of all the land

Led them on. —

Like leviathans afloat,
Lay their bulwarks on the brine ;
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line :
It was ten of April morn by the chime ;
As they drifted on their path.
There was silence deep as death ;
And the boldest held his breath,
For a time. —
19

218 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

III.

But the might of England flush'd

To anticipate the scene ;

And her van the fleeter rush'd

O'er the deadly space between.

" Hearts of oak !" our captain cried ; when each gun

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,

Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back ; —

Their shots along the deep slowly boom ;

Then ceased — and all is wail.

As they strike the shatter'd sail ;

Or, in conflagration pale.

Light the gloom. —

Out spoke the victor then.
As he hail'd them o'er the wave ;
"Ye are brothers! ye are men!
And we conquer but to save : —

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 219

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."

vr.
Then Denmark bless'd our chief,
That he gaye her wounds repose ;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose.
As Death withdrew his shades from the day.
"While the sun look'd smiling bright
O'er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.

Now joy. Old England, raise !
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze.
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 !

220 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

VIII.

Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride

Once so faithful and so true,

On the deck of fame that died ; —

With the gallant good Riou :

Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave !

While the billow mournful rolls,

And the mermaid's song condoles.

Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave ! —

HOHENLINDEN.

On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night.
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd.
Each horseman drew his battle-blade.
And furious every charger neigh'd.
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven.
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven.
Far flash'd the red artillery.
19*

222 HOHENLINDEN.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave.
Who rush to glory, or the grave !
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave.
And charge with all thy chivalry !

Few, few, shall part where many meet !
The snow shall be their winding sheet.
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

STANZAS

TO THE MEMORY OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS LATEST KILLED IN
RESISTING THE REGENCY AND THE DUKE OF ANGOULEMR

Brave men who at the Trocadero fell —
Beside your cannons conquer'd not, though slain,
There is a victory in dying well
For Freedom, — and ye have not died in vain ;
For, come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain
To honour^ aye, embrace your martyr'd lot.
Cursing the Bigot's and the Bourbon's chain,
And looking on your graves, though trophied not.
As holier hallow'd ground than priests could make the
spot !

What though your cause be baffled — freemen cast

In dungeons — dragg'd to death, or forced to flee ;

Hope is not wither'd in affliction's blast —

The patriot's blood 's the seed of Freedom's tree ;

And short your orgies of revenge shall be,

Cowl'd Demons of the Inquisitorial cell !

Earth shudders at your victory, — for ye

Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell.

The baser, ranker sprung. Autochthones of Hell!

224 STANZAS.

Go to your bloody rites again — bring back

The hall of horrors and the assessor's pen,

Recording answers shriek'd 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 winnow'd by the wings of Liberty;

And these even parting scatter as they flee

Thoughts — influences, to live in hearts unborn,

Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key

From Persecution — show her mask off'-tom.

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

Maybe wash'd out in blood from our forefathers' graves.

Their spirits are hovering o'er us.

And the sword shall to glory restore us.

Ah ! what though no succour advances,

Nor Christendom's"chivalrous lances

Are stretch'd in our aid — be the combat our own!

And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone ;

For we've sworn by our Country's assaulters.

By the virgins they've dragg'd from our altars.

By our massacred patriots, our children in chains.

By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins.

That, living, we shall be victorious.

Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious.

226 SONG OF THE GREEKS.

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, oh, say, shall they shriek in despair.

Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair ?

Accursed may his memory blacken,

If a coward there be that would slacken

Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves

worth
Being sprung from and named for the godlike of earth.
Strike home, and the world shall revere us
As heroes descended from heroes.

Old Greece lightens up with emotion

Her inlands, her isles of the Ocean ;

Fanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee ring,

And the Nine shall new-hollow their Helicon's spring:

'Me.

<BF'

m

randres

.laitlL

SONG. 227

Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness,

That were cold and extinguish'd in sadness ;

Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white- waving

arms,
Singing joy to the brave that deliver'd their charms,
When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens
Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens.

SONG.

Oh, how hard it is to find

The one just suited to our mind ;

And if that one should be
False, unkind, or found too late.
What can we do but sigh at fate.

And sing Woe's me — Woe's me !

Love's a boundless burning waste.
Where Bliss's stream we seldom taste,

And still more seldom flee
Suspense's thorns. Suspicion's stings ;
Yet somehow Love a something brings

That's sweet — ev'n when we sigh "Woe's me!"

STANZAS

ON THE THREATENED INVASION.
1803.

Our bosoms we'll bare for the glorious strife,

And our oath is recorded on high,
To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life,

Or crush'd in its ruins to die !
Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand.
And swear to prevail in your dear native land !

'Tis the home we hold sacred is laid to our trust —
God bless the green Isle of the brave !

Should a conqueror tread on our forefathers' dust,
It would rouse the old dead from their grave !

Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,

And swear to prevail in your dear native land !

In a Briton's sweet home shall a spoiler abide,

Profaning its loves and its charms ?
Shall a Frenchman insult the loved fair at our side ?

To arms! oh, my Country, to arms!
Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand.
And swear to prevail in your dear native land !

SONG. 229

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 !

SONG.

"MEN OF ENGLAND."

Men of England ! who inherit

Rights 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 conquer'd — 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.
20

230 SONG.

What are monuments of bravery,
Where no public virtues bloom ?

What avail in lands of slavery
Trophied temples, arch, and tomb ?

Pageants ! — Let the world revere us
For our people's rights and laws,

And the breasts of civic heroes
Bared in Freedom's holy cause.

Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory,
Sidney's matchless shade is yours, —

Martyrs in heroic story.

Worth a hundred Agincourts !

We're the sons of sires that baffled
Crown'd and mitred tyranny ; —

They defied the field and scaffold
For their birthrights — so will we !

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

Our bugles sang truce — for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ;

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring 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 roam'd on a desolate track :

'Twas Autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ;

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft.

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
From my home and my weeping friends never to part ;

232 SENEX'S SOLILOQUY.

My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.

Stay, stay with us, — rest, thou art weary and worn !

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; —
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

SENEX'S SOLILOQUY ON HIS YOUTHFUL IDOL.

Platonic friendship at your years.
Says Conscience, should content ye :

Nay, name not fondness to her ears,
The darling's scarcely twenty.

Yes, and she'll loathe me unforgiven.

To dote thus out of season ;
But beauty is a beam from heaven,

That dazzles blind our reason.

I'll challenge Plato from the skies.
Yes, from his spheres harmonic,

To look in M — y C 's eyes.

And try to be Platonic.

THE WOUNDED HUSSAR.

Alone to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube
Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er : —

"Oh whither," she cried, "hast thou wander'd, my
lover,
Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore ?

What voice did I hear? 'twas my Henry that sigh'd!"
All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far,

When bleeding and low, on the heath she descried,
By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar !

From his bosom that heaved, the last torrent was stream-
ing,

And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar !
And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming,

That melted in love, and that kindled in war!

How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight!

How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war!
" Hast thou come, my fond Love, this last sorrowful night.

To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar?"
20*

234 SONG.

"Thou shalt live," she replied, "Heaven's mercy re-
lieving

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 charmer of life, ever tender and true !

Ye babes of my love, that await me afar !" —
His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu,

When he sunk in her arms — the poor wounded Hussar !

SONG.

Withdraw not yet those lips and fingers.
Whose touch to mine is rapture's spell ;

Life's joy for us a moment lingers,

And death seems in the word — Farewell.

The hour that bids us part and go.

It sounds not yet, — oh ! no, no, no !

Time, whilst I gaze upon thy sweetness,
Flies like a courser nigh the goal ;

To-morrow where shall be his fleetness.
When thou art parted from my soul ?

Our hearts shall beat, our tears shall flow.

But not together — no, no, no !

THE HARPER.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,

No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I ;

No harp like my own could so cheerily play.

And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part.
She said, (while the sorrow was big at her heart,)
Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away;
And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.

Poor dog ! he was faithful and kind, to be sure.
And he constantly loved me, although I was poor;
When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away,
I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,
And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,
How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray,
And he lick'd me for kindness — my poor dog Tray.

Though my wallet was scant, I remember'd his case,
Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face ;

236 MARGARET AND DORA.

But he died at my feet on a cold winter day.
And I play'd a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind ?
Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind?
To my sweet native village, so far, far away,
I can never more return with my poor dog Tray.

MARGARET AND DORA.

Margaret's beauteous — Grecian arts
Ne'er drew form completer.
Yet why, in my heart of hearts,
Hold I Dora's sweeter.''

Dora's eyes of heavenly blue
Pass all painting's reach.
Ringdove's notes are discord to
The music of her speech.

Artiste ! Margaret's smile receive,
And on canvas show it ;
But for perfect worship leave
Dora to her poet.

THE BRAVE ROLAND.

The brave Roland ! — the brave Roland ! —
False tidings reach'd the Rhenish strand

That he had fallen in fight ;
And thy faithful bosom swoon'd with pain,
0 loveliest maiden of Allemayne !

For the loss of thine own true knight.

But why so rash has she ta'en the veil,
In yon Nonnenwerder's cloisters pale?

For her vow had scarce been sworn,
And the fatal mantle o'er her flung.
When the Drachenfels to a trumpet rung —

'Twas her own dear warrior's horn !

Woe ! woe ! each heart shall bleed — shall break !
She would have hung upon his neck.

Had he come but yester-even ;
And he had clasp'd those peerless charms,
That shall never, never fill his arms.

Or meet him but in Heaven.

238 THE BRAVE ROLAND.

Yet Roland the brave — Roland the true —
He could not bid that spot adieu ;

It was dear still 'midst his woes ;
For he loved to breathe the neighbouring air,
And to think she bless'd him in her prayer,

When the Halleluiah rose.

There 's yet one window of that pile,
Which he built above the Nuns' green isle ;

Thence sad and oft look'd he
(When the chant and organ sounded slow)
On the mansion of his love below,

For herself he might not see.

She died ! — He sought the battle plain ;
Her image fill'd his dying brain,

When he fell and wish'd to fall:
And her name was in his latest sigh,
When Roland, the flower of chivalry,

Expired at Roncevall.

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, deliver'd from her danger ;

But when he knelt to claim her glove —
" Seek not," she cried, "oh! gallant stranger,

For hapless Adelgitha's love.

"For he is in a foreign far land

Whose arm should now have set me free ;
And I must wear the willow garland

For him that's dead or false to me."

" Nay ! say not that his faith is tainted !"
He raised his vizor — At the sight

She fell into his arms and fainted ;
It was indeed her own true knight !

THE RITTER BANN.

The Ritter Bann from Hungary-
Came back, renown'd in arms,

But scorning jousts of chivalry,
And love and ladies' charms.

While other knights held revels, he
Was wrapt in thoughts of gloom.

And in Vienna's hostelrie
Slow paced his lonely room.

There enter'd one whose face he knew,-
Whose voice, he was aware,

He oft at mass had listen'd to,
In the holy house of prayer.

'Twas the Abbot of St. James's monks,

A fresh and fair old man :
His reverend air arrested even

The gloomy Ritter Bann.

But seeing with him an ancient dame
Come clad in Scotch attire,

THE RITTER BANN. 241

The Ritter's colour went and came,
And loud he spoke in ire.

" Ha! nurse of her that was my bane,

Name not her name to me ;
I wish it blotted from my brain :

Art poor? — take alms, and flee."

" Sir Knight," the abbot interposed,

"This case your ear demands;"
And the crone cried, with a cross enclosed

In both her trembling hands :

"Remember, each his sentence waits;

And he that shall rebut
Sweet Mercy's suit, on him the gates

Of Mercy shall be shut.

You wedded, undispensed by Church,

Your cousin Jane in Spring ; —
In Autumn, when you went to search

For churchmen's pardoning.

Her house denounced your marriage-band,

Betrothed her to De Grey,

And the ring you put upon her hand

Was wrench'd by force away.
21

242 THE RITTER BANN.

Then wept your Jane upon my neck,
Crying, ' Help me, nurse, to flee

To my Howel Bann's Glamorgan hills ;'
But word arrived — ah me ! —

You were not there ; and 'twas their threat.

By foul means or by fair,
To-morrow morning was to set

The seal on her despair.

I had a son, a sea-boy, in

A ship at Hartland Bay;
By his aid from her cruel kin

I bore my bird away.

To Scotland from the Devon's
Green myrtle shores we fled ;

And the Hand that sent the ravens
To Elijah, gave us bread.

She wrote you by my son, but he

From England sent us word
You had gone into some far countrie,

In grief and gloom he heard.

For they that wrong'd you, to elude
Your wrath, defamed my child ;

And you — aye, blush. Sir, as you should —
Believed, and were beguiled.

THE RITTER BANN. 243

To die but at your feet, she vow'd

To roam the world ; and we
Would both have sped and begged our bread,

But so it might not be.

For when the snow-storm beat our roof,

She bore a boy, Sir Bann,
Who grew as fair your likeness' proof

As child e'er grew like man.

'Twas smiling on that babe one morn
While heath bloom'd on the moor,
Her beauty struck young Lord Kinghorn
- As he hunted past our door.

She shunn'd him, but he raved of Jane,

And roused his mother's pride :
Who came to us in high disdain, —

'And where 's the face,' she cried,

* Has witch'd my boy to wish for one

So wretched for his wife ? —
Dost love thy husband ? Know, my son

Has sworn to seek his life.'

Her anger sore dismay'd us.

For our mite was wearing scant,
And, unless that dame would aid us.

There was none to aid our want.

244 THE RITTER BANN.

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 Kinghom." —

Here paused the nurse, and then began
The abbot, standing by: —
• " Three months ago, a wounded man
To our abbey came to die.

He heard me long, with ghastly eyes
And hand obdurate clench'd.

Spoke of the worm that never dies,
And the fire that is not quench'd.

At last, by what this scroll attests,

He left atonement brief.
For years of anguish to the breasts

His guilt had wrung with grief.

' There lived,' he said, * a fair young dame

Beneath my mother's roof;
I loved her, but against my flame

Her purity was proof.

THE RITTER BANN. 245

I feign'd repentance, friendship pure ;

That mood she did not check,
But let her husband's miniature

Be copied from her neck,

As means to search him ; my deceit

Took care to him was borne
Nought but his picture's counterfeit,

And Jane's reported scorn.

The treachery took : she waited wild ;

My slave came back and lied
Whate'er I wish'd ; she clasp'd her child,

And swoon'd, and all but died.

I felt her tears for years and years

Quench not my flame, but stir ;
The very hate I bore her mate

Increased my love for her.

Fame told us of his glory, while

Joy flush'd the face of Jane ;
And while she bless'd his name, her smile

Struck fire into my brain.

No fears could damp ; I reach'd the camp,

Sought out its champion ;
And if my broad-sword fail'd at last,

'Twas long and well laid on.
21*

246 THE HITTER BANN.

This wound 's my meed, my name 's Kinghorn,

My foe 's the Ritter Bann.'

The wafer to his lips was borne,

And we shrived the dying man.

He died not till you went to fight

The Turks at Warradein ;
But I see my tale has changed you pale." —

The abbot went for wine ;

And brought a little page who pour'd

It out, and knelt and smiled ; —
The stunn'd knight saw himself restored

To childhood in his child ;

And stoop'd and caught him to his breast,

Laugh'd loud and wept anon,
And with a shower of kisses prest

The darling little one.

"And where went Jane?" — "To a nunnery, Sir-
Look not again so pale —

Kinghorn's old dame grew harsh to her."
"And has she ta'en the veil?" —

"Sit down, Sir," said the priest, "I bar
Rash words." — They sat all three.

And the boy play'd with the knight's broad star,
As he kept him on his knee.

THE RITTER BANN. 247

" 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

Unnumber'd hours of pain:
Such was the throb and mutual sob

Of the knight embracing Jane.

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 sigh'd, when at twilight repairing

To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill :

But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,

For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean.

Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,

He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.

Sad is my fate ! said the heart-broken stranger ;

The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee.
But I have no refuge from famine and danger,

A home and a country remain not to me.
Never again, in the green sunny bowers,
Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet

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 ;

so,

ili-t

0^'

EXILE OF ERIN. 249

But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more !

Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me

In a mansion of peace — where no perils can chase me ?

Never again shall my brothers embrace me ?
They died to defend me, or lived to deplore !

Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood ?

Sisters and sire did ye weep for its fall ?
Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood ?

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all?
Oh! my sad heart! long abandon'd by pleasure,
Why did it dote on a fast- fading treasure ?
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,

But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

Yet all its sad recollections suppressing,
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw :

Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing!
Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh !

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion.

Green be thy fields, — sweetest isle of the ocean !

And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, —
Erin mavournin — Erin go bragh !*

* Ireland my darling, Ireland for ever.

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 deem'd not wrong that name too give,
In festive hours, which prompts the patriot's sigh !

Who would not envy such as Moore to live ?
And died he not as heroes wish to die ?

Yes, though too soon attaining glory's goal.
To us his bright career too short was given ;

Yet in a mighty cause his phoenix soul
Rose on the flames of victory to Heaven !

How oft (if beats in subjugated Spain
One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn

LINES. 251

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 led old Scotia's ranks,
Of Roman garb and more than Roman fire !

Triumphant be the thistle still unfurPd,

Dear symbol wild ! on Freedom's hills it grows,

Where Fingal stemm'd the tyrants of the world,
And Roman eagles found unconquer'd foes.

Joy to the band* this day on Egypt's coast.
Whose valour tamed proud France's tricolor.

And wrench'd the banner from her bravest host.
Baptized Invincible in Austria's gore !

Joy for the day on red Vimeira's strand

When, bayonet to bayonet opposed.
First of Britannia's host her Highland band

Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost closed !

Is there a son of generous England here,
Or fervid Erin ? — he with us shall join,

To pray that in eternal union dear

The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine !

* The 42nd Regiment.

252 SONG.

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 unconquer'd as of yore !

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 hallow'd thoughts so dear ;

But drink to her that each loves most.
As she would love to hear.

STANZAS TO PAINTING.

0 THOU by whose expressive art
Her perfect image Nature sees

In union with the Graces start,
And sweeter by reflection please !

In whose creative hand the hues

Fresh from yon orient rainbow shine ;

1 bless thee, Promethean Muse !

And call thee brightest of the Nine !

Possessing more than vocal power,
Persuasive more than poet's tongue ;

Whose lineage, in a raptured hour.
From Love, the Sire of Nature, sprung;

Does Hope her high possession meet ?

Is joy triumphant, sorrow flown?
Sweet is the trance, the tremor sweet.

When all we love is all our own.

But oh ! thou pulse of pleasure dear,

Slow-throbbing, cold, I feel thee part ;
22

254 STANZAS TO PAINTING.

Lone absence plants a pang severe,
Or death inflicts a keener dart.

Then for a beam of joy to light
In memory's sad and wakeful eye!

Or banish from the noon of night
Her dreams of deeper agony.

Shall Song its witching cadence roll ?

Yea, even the tenderest air repeat,
That breathed when soul was knit to soul,

And heart to heart responsive beat ?

What visions rise ! to charm, to melt !

The lost, the loved, the dead are near!
Oh, hush that strain too deeply felt !

And cease that solace too severe !

But thou, serenely silent art!

By heaven and love was 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.

STANZAS TO PAINTING. 255

Or, gazing through luxurious tears,

Melt o'er the loved departed form,
Till death's cold bosom half appears

With life, and speech, and spirit warm.

She looks ! she lives ! this tranced hour.

Her bright eye seems a purer gem
Than sparkles on the throne of power,

Or glory's wealthy diadem.

Yes, Genius, yes ! thy mimic aid

A treasure to my soul has given.
Where beauty's canonized shade

Smiles in the sainted hues of heaven.

No spectre forms of pleasure fled,

Thy softening, sweetening, tints restore ;

For thou canst give us back the dead,
E'en in the loveliest looks they wore.

Then blest be Nature's guardian Muse,
Whose hand her perish'd grace redeems !

Whose tablet of a thousand hues
The mirror of creation seems.

From Love began thy high descent ;

And lovers, charm'd by gifts of thine.
Shall bless thee mutely eloquent ;

And call thee brightest of the Nine !

ABSENCE

'Tis not the loss of love's assurance,

It is not doubting what thou art,
But 'tis the too, too long endurance

Of absence, that afflicts my heart.

The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish.
When each is lonely doom'd to weep.

Are fruits on desert isles that perish.
Or riches buried in the deep.

What though, untouch'd by jealous madness,
Our bosom's peace may fall to wreck ;

Th' undoubting heart, that breaks with sadness.
Is but more slowly doom'd to break.

Absence ! is not the soul torn by it

From more than light, or life, or breath ?

'Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet, —
The pain without the peace of death I

FIELD FLOWERS.

Ye field flowers ! the garden's eclipse you, 'tis true,
Yet, wildings of Nature, I doat upon you.

For ye waft me to summers of old.
When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight.
And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my sight,

Like treasures of silver and gold.

I love you for lulling me back into dreams

Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams,

And of birchen glades breathing their balm.
While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote.
And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note

Made music that sweeten'd the calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune

Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June :

Of old ruinous castles ye tell.
Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find.
When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind.

And your blossoms were part of her spell.
22*

258 FIELD FLOWERS.

Even now what affections the violet awakes ;
What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes,

Can the wild water-lily restore ;
What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks,
And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks,

In the vetches that tangled their shore.

Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear.
Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear.

Had scathed my existence's bloom ;
Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage,
With the visions of youth to revisit my age.

And I wish you to grow on my tomb.

STANZAS

ON THE BATTLE OF NAVARINO.

Hearts of oak that have bravely deliver'd the brave,
And uplifted old Greece from the brink of the grave,
'Twas the helpless to help, and the hopeless to save,

That your thunderbolts swept o'er the brine :
And as long as yon sun shall look down on the wave

The light of your glory shall shine.

For the guerdon ye sought with your bloodshed and toil,
Was it slaves, or dominion, or rapine, or spoil ?
No ! your lofty emprise was to fetter and foil

The uprooter of Greece's domain!
When he tore the last remnant of food from her soil,

Till her famish'd sank pale as the slain !

Yet, Navarin's heroes! does Christendom breed

The base hearts that will question the fame of your deed

Are they men? — let ineffable scorn be their meed.

And oblivion shadow their graves !
Are they women ? — to Turkish serails let them speed ;

And be mothers of Mussulman slaves.

260 STANZAS.

Abettors of massacre ! dare ye deplore

That the death-shriek is silenced on Hellas's shore ?

That the mother aghast sees her offspring no more

By the hand of Infanticide grasp'd ?
And that stretch'd on yon billows distain'd by their gore

Missolonghi's assassins have gasp'd ?

Prouder scene never hallow'd war's pomp to the mind,
Than when Christendom's pennons woo'd social the wind,
And the flower of her brave for the combat combined,

Their watch- word, humanity's vow :
Not a sea-boy that fought in that cause, but mankind

Owes a garland to honour his brow !

Nor grudge, by our side, that to conquer or fall

Came the hardy rude Russ, and the high-mettled Gaul:

For whose was the genius, that plann'd at its call.

Where the whirlwind of battle should roll ?
All were brave ! but the star of success over all

Was the light of our Codrington's soul.

That star of thy day-spring, regenerate Greek !
Dimm'd 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 Codringtori's name.^^

THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE.

Never wedding, ever wooing,
Still a love-lorn heart pursuing.
Read you not the wrong you're doing

In my cheek's pale hue ?
All my life with sorrow strewing,

Wed, or cease to woo.

Rivals banish'd, bosoms plighted,
Still our days are disunited ;
Now the lamp of hope is lighted,

Now half quench'd appears,
Damp'd, and wavering, and benighted,

'Midst my sighs and tears.

Charms you call your dearest blessing,
Lips that thrill at your caressing,
Eyes a mutual soul confessing.

Soon you'll make them grow
Dim, and worthless your possessing,

Not with age, but woe !

VALEDICTORY STANZAS

TO

J. P. KE;MBLE, Esa.

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 refresh'd with dewy light

When the sun smiles his last,
Thy parting presence makes more bright

Our memory of the past;
And memory conjures feelings up

That wine or music need not swell,
As high we lift the festal cup

To Kemble — fare thee well!

His was the spell o'er hearts
Which only Acting lends, —

The youngest of the sister Arts,
Where all their beauty blends :

VALEDICTORY STANZAS. 263

For ill can Poetry express

Full many a tone of thought sublime,
And Painting, mute and motionless,

Steals but a glance of time.
But by the mighty actor brought.

Illusion's perfect triumphs come, —
Verse ceases to be airy thought,

And Sculpture to be dumb.

Time may again revive,

But ne'er eclipse the charm.
When Cato spoke in him alive,

Or Hotspur kindled warm.
What soul was not resign'd entire

To the deep sorrows of the Moor, —
What English heart was not on fire

With him at Agincourt?
And yet a majesty possess'd

His transport's most impetuous tone,
And to each passion of the breast

The Graces gave their zone.

High were the task — too high,

Ye conscious bosoms here !
In words to paint your memory
Of Kemble and of Lear;
But who forgets that white discrowned head.

Those bursts of Reason's half-extinguish'd glare —

264 VALEDICTORY STANZAS.

Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed,
In doubt more touching than despair,
If 'twas reality he felt ?

Had Shakspeare's self amidst you been,
Friends, he had seen you melt.
And triumph'd to have seen !

And there was many an hour

Of blended kindred fame.
When Siddons's auxiliar power

And sister magic came.
Together at the Muse's side

The tragic paragons had grown —
They were the children of her pride,

Thecolumns of her throne;
And undivided favour ran

From heart to heart in their applause,
Save for the gallantry of man

In lovelier woman's cause.

Fair as some classic dome,

Robust and richly graced.
Your Kemble's spirit was the home

Of genius and of taste ;
Taste, like the silent dial's power.

That, when supernal light is given,
Can measure inspiration's hour.

And tell its height in heaven.

VALEDICTORY STANZAS. 265

At once ennobled and correct,

His mind survey'd the tragic page,

And what the actor could effect.
The scholar could presage.

These were his traits of worth: —

And must we lose them now ! —
And shall the scene no more show forth

His sternly pleasing brow ?
Alas, the moral brings a tear ! — /

'Tis all a transient hour below ;
And we that would detain thee here,

Ourselves as fleetly go !
Yet shall our latest age

This parting scene review ; —
Pride of the British stage,

A long and last adieu !

23

THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION,

0 LEAVE this barren spot to me !
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree !
Though bush or floweret never grow
My dark unwarming shade below ;
Nor summer bud perfume the dew,
Of rosy blush, or yellow hue !
Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born.
My green and glossy leaves adorn ;
Nor murmuring tribes from me derive
Th' ambrosial amber of the hive ;
Yet leave this barren spot to me :
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree !

Thrice twenty summers I have seen
The sky grow bright, the forest green ;
And many a wintry wind have stood
In bloomless, fruitless solitude.
Since childhood in my pleasant bower
First spent its sweet and sportive hour.
Since youthful lovers in my shade
Their vows of truth and rapture made ;

GLENARA. 267

And on my trunk's surviving frame
Carved many a long-forgotten name.
Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,
First breathed upon this sacred ground :
By all that Love has whisper'd here,
Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear ;
As Love's own altar honour me :
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

GLENARA .

0 HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale.
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail ?
'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear;
And her sire, and the people, are call'd to her bier.

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud ;
Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourned not aloud :
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around :
Theymarch'd all in silence, — they look'd on the ground.

In silence they reached over mountain and moor.
To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar :
"Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn :
Why speak ye no word !" — said Glenara the stern.

268 GLENARA.

"And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse,
Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?"
So spake the rude chieftain: — no answer is made,
But each mantle unfolding a dagger display'd.

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,"
Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud ;
"And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem:
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream !"

0 ! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,
When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen ;
When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn,
'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn :

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,
I 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 reveaPd 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!

LINES

SPOKEN BY MRS. HARTLEY AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE, ON THE

FIRST OPENING OF THE HOUSE AFTER THE DEATH

OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE, 1817.

Britons ! although our task is but to show

The scenes and passions of fictitious woe,

Think not we come this night without a part

In that deep sorrow of the public heart,

Which like a shade hath darken'd every place,

And moisten'd with a tear the manliest face !

The bell is scarcely hush'd in Windsor's piles.

That tgll'd a requiem from the solemn aisles,

For her, the royal flower, low laid in dust.

That was your fairest hope, your fondest trust.

Unconscious of the doom, we dreamt, alas!

That ev'n these walls, ere many months should pass,

Which but return sad accents for her now.

Perhaps had witness'd her benignant brow,

Cheer'd by the voice you would have raised on high,

In bursts of British love and loyalty.

But, Britain ! now thy chief, thy people mourn,

And Claremont's home of love is left forlorn : —

23*

270 LINES.

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 fix'd eye long look'd connubial faith.
And beam'd affection in the trance of death.
Sad was the pomp that yesternight beheld,
As with the mourner's heart the anthem swell'd ;
While torch succeeding torch illumed each high
And banner'd arch of England's chivalry.
The rich-plumed canopy, the gorgeous pall.
The sacred march, and sable-vested wall, —
These were not rites of inexpressive show,
But hallow'd as the types of real woe !
Daughter of England ! for a nation's sighs,
A nation's heart, went with thine obsequies! —
And oft shall time revert a look of grief
On thine existence, beautiful and brief.
Fair spirit! send thy blessing from above
On realms where thou art canonized by.loye I
Give to a father's, husband's bleeding mind
The peace that angels lend to human kind;
To us who in thy loved remembrance feel
A sorrowing, but a soul-ennobling zeal —

LINES. 271

A loyalty that touches all the best

And loftiest principles of England's breast!

Still may thy name speak concord from the tomb —

Still in the Muse's breath thy memory bloom !

They shall describe thy life — thy form portray ;

But all the love that mourns thee swept away

'Tis not in language or expressive arts

To paint — ye feel it, Britons, in your hearts !

LINES

ON THE CAMP HILL, NEAR HASTINGS.

In the deep blue of eve.
Ere the twinkling of stars had begun.

Or the lark took his leave
Of the skies and the sweet setting sun,

I climb'd to yon heights,
Where the Norman encamp'd him of old.

With his bowmen and knights,
And his banner all burnish'd with gold.

At the Conqueror's side
There his minstrelsy sat harp in hand,

In pavilion wide ;
And they chaunted the deeds of Roland.

272 LINES.

Still the ramparted ground
With a vision my fancy inspires,

And I hear the trump sound,
As it marshal'd our Chivalry's sires.

On each turf of that mead
Stood the captors of England's domains,

That ennobled her breed
And high mettled the blood of her veins.

Over hauberk and helm
As the sun's setting splendour was thrown.

Thence they look'd o'er a realm —
And to-morrow beheld it their own.

SONG.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

Star that bringest home the bee,
And sett'st the weary labourer free !
If any star shed peace, 'tis thou,

That send'st it from above.
Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow

Are sweet as hers we love.

Come to the luxuriant skies.
Whilst the landscape's odours rise.
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard.

And songs, when toil is done.
From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd

Curls yellow in the sun.

Star of love's soft interviews.
Parted lovers on thee muse ;
Their remembrancer in Heaven

Of thrilHng vows thou art.
Too delicious to be riven

By absence from the heart.

THE SPECTRE BOAT.

A BALLAD.

Light rued false Ferdinand to leave a lovely maid for-
lorn,

Who broke her heart and died to hide her blushing
cheek from scorn.

One night he dreamt he woo'd her in their wonted
bower of love,

Where the flowers sprang thick around them, and the
birds sang sweet above.

But the scene was swiftly changed into a churchyard's

dismal view,
And her lips grew black beneath his kiss, from love's

delicious hue.
What more he dreamt, he told to none ; but shuddering,

pale, and dumb,
Look'd out upon the waves, like one that knew his hour

was come.

'Twas now the dead watch of the night — the helm was

lash'd a-lee.
And the ship rode where Mount ^Etna lights the deep

Levantine sea;

THE SPECTRE BOAT. 275

When beneath its glare a boat came, row'd by a woman

in her shroud,
Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold, stood up

and spoke aloud: —

" Come, Traitor, down, for whom my ghost still wan-
ders unforgiven!

Come down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke my
peace with Heaven!"

It was vain to hold the victim, for he plunged to meet
her call,

Like the bird that shrieks and flutters in the gazing ser-
pent's thrall.

You may guess the boldest mariner shrunk daunted from

the sight,
For the Spectre and her winding-sheet shone blue with

hideous light ;
Like a fiery wheel the boat spun with the waving of her

hand,
And round they went, and down they went, as the cock

crew from the land.

THE "NAME UNKNOWN

IN IMITATION OF KLOPSTOCK.

Prophetic pencil ! wilt thou trace
A faithful image of the face,

Or wilt thou write the "Name Unknown,"
Ordain'd to bless my charmed soul.
And all my future fate control,

Unrival'd and alone ?

Delicious Idol of my thought !
Though sylph or spirit hath not taught

My boding heart thy precious name ;
Yet musing on my distant fate,
To charms unseen I consecrate

A visionary flame.

Thy rosy blush, thy meaning eye.
Thy virgin voice of melody.

Are ever present to my heart ;
Thy murmur'd vows shall yet be mine.
My thrilling hand shall meet with thine,

And never, never part!

A THOUGHT. 277

Then fly, my days, on rapid wing.
Till Love the viewless treasure bring ;

While I, like conscious Athens, own
A power in mystic silence seal'd,
A guardian angel unreveal'd,

And bless the "Name Unknown!"

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,

24

278 A THOUGHT.

Why, as we reach the Falls of death,
Feel we its tide more rapid ?

It may be strange — yet who would change
Time's course to slower speeding;

When one by one our friends have gone.
And left our bosoms bleeding ?

Heaven gives our years of fading strength

Indemnifying fleetness ;
And those of Youth, a seeming length

Proportion'd to their sweetness.

LINES

ON RECEIVING A SEAL WITH THE CAMPBELL CREST, FROM K. M-,
BEFORE HER MARRIAGE.

This wax returns not back more fair
Th' impression of the gift you send,

Than stamp'd upon my thoughts I bear
The image of your worth, my friend !

We are not friends of yesterday ; —
But poets' fancies are a little

Disposed to heat and cool, (they say,) —
By turns impressible and brittle.

Well! should its frailty e'er condemn
My heart to prize or please you less.

Your type is still the sealing gem.
And mine the waxen brittleness.

What transcripts of my weal and woe,
This little signet yet may lock, —

What utterances to friend or foe.
In reason's calm or passion's shock!

280

LINES.

What scenes of life's yet curtain'd page

May own its confidential die,
Whose stamp awaits th' unwritten page,

And feelings of futurity.

Yet wheresoe'er my pen I lift

To date the epistolary sheet.
The blest occasion of the gift

Shall make its recollection sweet ;

Sent when the star that rules your fates
Hath reach'd its influence most benign —

When every heart congratulates,
And none more cordially than mine.

So speed my song — mark'd with the crest
That erst the advent'rous Norman wore,

Who won the Lady of the West,
The daughter of Macaillan Mor.

Crest of my sires ! whose blood it seaPd
With glory in the strife of swords,

Ne'er may the scroll that bears it yield
Degenerate thoughts or faithless words !

Yet little might I prize the stone.

If it but typed the feudal tree
From whence, a scatter'd leaf, I'm blown

In Fortune's mutability.

SONG. 281

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 !

Kath'rine ! to many an hour of mine
Light wings and sunshine you have lent ;

And so adieu, and still be thine
The all-in-all of life — Content!

SONG

How delicious is the winning
Of a kiss at Love's beginning,
When two mutual hearts are sighing
For the knot there's no untying !

Yet, remember, 'midst your wooing.
Love has bliss, but Love has ruing;
Other smiles may make you fickle,
Tears for other charms may trickle.

Love he comes, and Love he tarries,
Just as fate or fancy carries ;
Longest stays, when sorest chidden ;
Laughs and flies, when press'd and bidden.
24*

282 SONG.

Bind the sea to slumber stilly,
Bind its odour to the lily,
Bind the aspen ne'er to quiyer,
Then bind Love to last for ever !

Love's a fire that needs renewal

Of fresh beauty for its fuel ;

Love's wing moults when caged and captured

Only free, he soars enraptured.

Can you keep the bee from ranging,
Or the ringdove's neck from changing ?
No ! nor fetter'd Love from dying,
In the knot there's no untying.

HALLOWED GROUND.

What's hallow'd ground ? Has earth a clod
Its Maker meant not should be trod
By man, the image of his God

Erect and free,
Unscourged by Superstition's rod

To bow the knee ?

That 's hallow'd ground — where, mourn'd and miss'd,
The lips repose our love has kiss'd : —
But where's their memory's mansion ? Is't

Yon churchyard's bowers?
No ! in ourselves their souls exist,

A part of ours.

A kiss can consecrate the ground

Where mated hearts are mutual bound :

The spot where love's first links were wound.

That ne'er are riven,
Is hallow'd down to earth's profound.

And up to Heaven !

284 HALLOWED GROUND.

For time makes all but true love old ;
The burning thoughts that then were told
Run molten still in memory's mould ;

And will not cool,
Until the heart itself be cold

In Lethe's pool.

What hallows ground where heroes sleep ^
'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap !
In dews that heavens far distant weep

Their turf may bloom ;
Or Genii twine beneath the deep

Their coral tomb :

But strew his ashes to the wind

Whose sword or voice has served mankind-

And is he dead, whose glorious mind

Lifts thine on high ? —
To live in hearts we leave behind,

Is not to die.

Is 't death to fall for Freedom's right?
He's dead alone that lacks her light!
And murder sullies in Heaven's sight

The sword he draws : —
What can alone ennoble fight?

A noble cause !

HALLOWED GROUND, 285

Give that ! and welcome War to brace

Her drums ! and rend Heaven's reeking space !

The colours planted face to face,

The charging cheer,
Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase,

Shall still be dear.

And place our trophies where men kneel
To Heaven ! — but Heaven rebukes my zeal !
The cause of Truth and human weal,

0 God above!
Transfer it from the sword's appeal

To Peace and Love.

Peace, Love! the cherubim, that join
Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine,
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine.

Where they are not —
The heart alone can make divine

Religion's spot.

To incantations dost thou trust,
And pompous rites in domes august?
See mouldering stones and metal's rust

Belie the vaunt,
That men can bless one pile of dust

With chime or chaunt.

286 HALLOWED GROUND.

The ticking wood- worm mocks thee, man !
Thy temples — creeds themselves grow wan !
But there's a dome of nobler span,

A temple given
Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban —

Its space is Heaven !

Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling,
Where trancing the rapt spirit's feeling,
And God himself to man revealing,

The harmonious spheres
Make music, though unheard their pealing

By mortal ears.

Fair stars ! are not your beings pure ?
Can sin, can death, your worlds obscure ?
Else why so swell the thoughts at your

Aspect above ?
Ye must be Heavens that make us sure

Of heavenly love !

And in your harmony sublime
I read the doom of distant time ;
That man's regenerate soul from crime

Shall yet be drawn.
And reason on his mortal clime

Immortal dawn.

THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS. 287

What 's hallow'd ground ? 'Tis what gives birth
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! —
Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth

Earth's compass round ;
And your high priesthood shall make earth

All hallowed ground.

THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS
ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

If any white- wing'd Power above

My joys and griefs survey,
The day when thou wert born, my love —

He surely bless'd that day.

I laugh'd (till taught by thee) when told

Of Beauty's magic powers.
That ripen'd life's dull ore to gold,

And changed its weeds to flowers.

My mind had lovely shapes portray'd ;

But thought I earth had one
Could make even Fancy's visions fade

Like stars before the sun?

288 THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS.

I gazed, and felt upon my lips
The unfinish'd 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 riew.

But duly shall my raptured song.
And gladly shall my eyes.

Still bless this day's return, as long
As thou shalt see it rise.

LINES

ON LEAVING A SCENE IN BAVARIA.

Adieu the woods and waters' side,
Imperial Danube's rich domain!

Adieu the grotto, wild and wide.
The rocks abrupt, and grassy plain !
For pallid Autumn once again

Hath swell'd each torrent of the hill ;
Her clouds collect, her shadows sail,
And watery winds that sweep the vale

Grew loud and louder still.

But not the storm, dethroning fast
Yon monarch oak of massy pile ;

Nor river roaring to the blast
Around its dark and desert isle ;
Nor church-bell tolling to beguile

The cloud-born thunder passing by,
Can sound in discord to my soul :
Roll on, ye mighty waters, roll !

And rage, thou darken'd sky !
25

290 LINES.

Thy blossoms now no longer bright ;

Thy wither'd woods no longer green ;
Yet, Eldurn shore, with dark delight

I visit thy unlovely scene !

For many a sunset hour serene
My steps have trod thy mellow dew ;

"When his green light the glow-worm gave,

When Cynthia from the distant wave
Her twilight anchor drew,

And plough'd, as with a swelling sail,

The billowy clouds and starry sea, ;
Then while thy hermit nightingale

Sang on his fragrant apple-tree, —

Romantic, solitary, free.
The visitant of Eldurn's shore.

On such a moonlight mountain stray'd,

As echo'd to the music made
By Druid harps of yore.

Around thy savage hills of oak.

Around thy waters bright and blue,

No hunter's horn the silence broke.
No dying shriek thine echo knew;
But safe, sweet Eldurn woods, to you

The wounded wild deer ever ran.

Whose myrtle bound their grassy cave,
Whose very rocks a shelter gave

From blood-pursuing man.

LINES. 291

Oh heart effusions, that arose

From nightly wanderings cherish'd 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 banish'd race,

In such a loved and lonely place
Companionless to roam?

Yes ! I have loved thy wild abode,

Unknown, unplough'd, untrodden shore ;
Where scarce the woodman finds a road.

And scarce the fisher plies an oar ;

For man's neglect I love thee more ;
That art nor avarice intrude

To tame thy torrent's thunder-shock.

Or prune thy vintage of the rock
Magnificently rude.

Unheeded spreads thy blossom'd bud

Its milky bosom to the bee ;
Unheeded falls along the flood

Thy desolate and aged tree.

Forsaken scene, how like to thee
The fate of unbefriended Worth!

Like thine her fruit dishonour'd falls ;

Like thee in solitude she calls
A thousand treasures forth.

292 LINES.

Oh! silent spirit of the place,

If, lingering with the ruin'd year,

Thy hoary form and awful face

I yet might watch and worship here !
Thy storm were music to mine ear,

Thy wildest walk a shelter given
Sublimer thoughts on earth to find,
And share, with no unhallow'd mind.

The majesty of heaven.

What though the bosom friends of Fate, —

Prosperity's unweaned brood, —
Thy consolations cannot rate,

0 self-dependent solitude !
Yet with a spirit unsubdued.

Though darken'd by the clouds of Care,
To worship thy congenial gloom,
A pilgrim to the Prophet's tomb

The Friendless shall repair.

On him the world hath never smiled
Or look'd but with accusing eye ;

All-silent goddess of the wild.

To thee that misanthrope shall fly !

1 hear his deep soliloquy,

I mark his proud but ravaged form.
As stern he wraps his mantle round.
And bids, on winter's bleakest ground,

Defiance to the storm.

LINES. 293

Peace to his banish'd heart, at last,

In thy dominions shall descend,
And, strong as beechwood in the blast,

His spirit shall refuse to bend ;

Enduring life without a friend,
The world and falsehood left behind,

Thy votary shall bear elate,

(Triumphant o'er opposing Fate,)
His dark inspired mind.

But dost thou. Folly, mock the Muse

A wanderer's mountain walk to sing.
Who shuns a warring world or woos

The vulture cover of its wing?

Then fly, thou cowering, shivering thing.
Back to the fostering world beguiled.

To waste in self-consuming strife

The loveless brotherhood of life.
Reviling and reviled !

Away, thou lover of the race

That hither chased yon weepino- 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!

25*

294 LINES.

His art and honours wouldst thou seek
Emboss'd on grandeur's giant walls?

Or hear his moral thunders speak
Where senates light their airy halls,
Where man his brother man enthralls ;

Or sends his whirlwind warrants forth
To rouse the slumbering fiends of war,
To dye the blood-warm waves afar,

And desolate the earth ?

From clime to clime pursue the scene,
And mark in all thy spacious way,

Where'er the tyrant man has been.
There Peace, the cherub, cannot stay;
In wilds and woodlands far away

She builds her solitary bower.
Where only anchorites have trod,
Or friendless men, toworship God,

Have wander'd for an hour.

In such a far forsaken vale, —

And such, sweet Eldurn vale, is thine, —
Afflicted nature shall inhale

Heaven-borrow'd thoughts and joys divine ;

No longer wish, no more repine
For man's neglect or woman's scorn ; —

Then wed thee to an exile's lot.

For if the world hath loved thee not,
Its absence may be borne.

SONG.

Earl March look'd 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 look'd up to Ellen's bower,

And she look'd on her lover —

But ah ! so pale, he knew her not.

Though her smile on him was dwelling.

And am I then forgot — forgot? —
It broke the heart of Ellen.

In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,

Her cheek is cold as ashes ;
Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes

To lift their silken lashes.

SONG

When Love came first to Earth, the Spring
Spread rose-beds to receive him,

And back he vow'd his flight he'd wing
To Heaven, if she would leave him.

But Spring departing, saw his faith
Pledged to the next new comer —

He revel'd in the warmer breath
And richer bowers of Summer.

Then sportive Autumn claira'd by rights

An Archer for her lover,
And even in Winter's dark cold nights

A charm he could discover.

Her routs and balls, and fireside joy,
For this time were his reasons —

In short. Young Love's a gallant boy,
That likes all times and seasons.

SONG.

. When Napoleon was flying
From the field of Waterloo,
A British soldier dying
To his brother bade adieu !

"And take," he said, "this token
To the maid that owns my faith,
With the words that I have spoken
In affection's latest breath."

Sore mourn'd the brother's heart,
When the youth beside him fell;

But the trumpet warn'd to part,
And they took a sad farewell.

There was many a friend to lose him,
For that gallant soldier sigh'd ;

But the maiden of his bosom

Wept when all their tears were dried.

THE CHERUBS.

SUGGESTED BY AN APOLOGUE IN THE AVORKS OF FRANKLIN.

Two spirits reach'd this world of ours ;
The lightning's locomotive powers

Were slow to their agility :
In broad day-light they moved incog.,
Enjoying, without mist or fog,

Entire invisibility.

The one, a simple cherub lad,
Much interest in our planet had,

Its face was so romantic;
He couldn't persuade himself that man
Was such as heavenly rumours ran,

A being base and frantic.

The elder spirit, wise and cool.
Brought down the youth as to a school ;

But strictly on condition.
Whatever they should see or hear.
With mortals not to interfere ;

'Twas not in their commission.

THE CHERUBS. 299

They reach'd a sovereign city proud,
Whose emperor pray'd to God aloud,

With all his people kneeling,
And priests perform'd religious rites:
" Come," said the younger of the sprites,

" This shows a pious feeling."

TOUNG SPIRIT.

"Ar'n't these a decent godly race?"

OLD SPIRIT.

" The dirtiest thieves on Nature's face."

YOUNG SPIRIT.

"But hark, what cheers they're giving
Their emperor! — And is he a thief?"

OLD SPIRIT.

"Aye, and a cut-throat too ; — in brief,
The greatest scoundrel living."

YOUNG SPIRIT.

" But say, what were they praying for,
This people and their emperor?"

OLD SPIRIT.

"Why, but for God's assistance
To help their army, late sent out:
And what that army is about.

You'll see at no great distance."

300 THE CHERUBS.

On wings outspeeding mail or post,
Our sprites o'ertook the Imperial host,

In massacres it wallow'd :
A noble nation met its hordes.
But broken fell their cause and swords.

Unfortunate, though hallow'd.

They saw a late bombarded town.

Its streets still warm with blood ran down ;

Still smoked each burning rafter ;
And hideously, 'midst rape and sack.
The murderer's laughter answer'd back

His prey's convulsive laughter.

They saw the captive eye the dead.
With envy of his gory bed, —

Death's quick reward of bravery:
They heard the clank of chains, and then
Saw thirty thousand bleeding men

Dragg'd manacled to slavery.

"Fie! fie!" the younger heavenly spark
Exclaim'd : — " we must have miss'd our mark.

And enter'd hell's own portals :
Earth can't be stain'd with crimes so black ;
Nay, sure, we've got among a pack

Of fiends, and not of mortals."

THE CHERUBS. 301

"No," said the elder; "no such thing:
Fiends are not fools enough to wring

The necks of one another : —
They know their interests too well :
Men fight ; but every devil in hell

Lives friendly with his brother.

And I could point you out some fellows,
On this ill-fated planet 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'll appear.
Old Satan in a trice was near,

With smutty face and figure :
But spotless spirits of the skies.
Unseen to e'en his saucer eyes,

Could watch the fiendish nigger.

"Halloo!" he cried, "I smell a trick:
A mortal supersedes Old Nick,

The scourge of earth appointed :
He robs me of my trade, outrants
The blasphemy of hell, and vaunts

Himself the Lord's anointed.
26

302 FAREWELL TO LOVE.

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.

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 ;
Eut now that Fancy's fire is quench'd, and ne'er can burn

anew,
I've bid to Love, for all my life, adieu ! adieu ! adieu !

I've known, if ever mortal knew, the spells of beauty's
thrall,

And if my song has told them not, my soul has felt them
all;

But Passion robs my peace no more, and Beauty's witch-
ing sway

Is now to me a star that's fall'n — a dream that's pass'd
away.

FAREWELL TO LOVE. 303

Hail ! welcome tide of life, when no tumultuous billows

roll,
How wondrous to myself appears this halcyon calm of

soul !
The wearied bird blown o'er the deep would sooner quit

its shore,
Than I would cross the gulf again that time has brought

me o'er.

Why say they Angels feel the flame ? — Oh, spirits of the

skies !
Can love like ours, that dotes on dust, in heavenly

bosoms rise ? —
Ah no ; the hearts that best have felt its power, the best

can tell.
That peace on earth itself begins, when Love has bid

farewell.

DRINKING SONG OF MUNICH.

Sweet Iser! were thy sunny realm

And flowery gardens mine,
Thy waters I would shade with elm

To prop the tender vine ;
My golden flagons I would fill
With rosy draughts from every hill ;

And under every myrtle bower
My gay companions should prolong
The laugh, the revel, and the song,

To many an idle hour.

Like rivers crimson'd with the beam

Of yonder planet bright,
Our balmy cups should ever stream

Profusion of delight;
No care should touch the mellow heart,
And sad or sober none depart ;

For wine can triumph over woe.
And Love and Bacchus, brother powers,
Could build in Iser's sunny bowers

A paradise below.

TO SIR FRANCIS BURDETT,

ON HIS SPEECH DELIVERED IN PARLIAMENT, AUGUST 7, 1632,
RESPECTING THE FOREIGN POLICY OF GREAT BRITAIN.

BuRDETT, enjoy thy justly foremost fame,

Through good and ill report — through calm and storm —

For forty years the pilot of reform !
But that which shall afresh entwine thy name

With patriot laurels never to be sere,
Is that thou hast come nobly forth to chide
Our slumbering statesmen for their lack of pride —

Their flattery of Oppressors, and their fear —
When Britain's lifted finger, and her frown.
Might call the nations up, and cast their tyrants down !

Invoke the scorn — Alas ! too few inherit

The scorn for despots cherish'd by our sires.

That baffled Europe's persecuting fires,
And shelter'd helpless states! — 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 human kind ;
26*

306 TO SIR FRANCIS BURDETT.

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 ? —

Suppose we wish'd it ! England could not stand
A lone oasis in the desert ground
Of Europe's slavery; from the waste around

Oppression's fiery blast and whirling sand
Would reach and scathe us ! No ; it may not be :
Britannia and the world conjointly must be free!

Burdett, demand why Britons send abroad
Soft greetings to th' infanticidal Czar,
The Bear on Poland's babes that wages war.
Once, we are told, a mother's shriek o'erawed

A lion, and he dropt her lifted child ;
But Nicholas, whom neither God nor law,
Nor Poland's shrieking mothers overawe,
Outholds to us his friendship's gory clutch :
Shrink, Britain — shrink, my king and country, from the
touch !

He prays to Heaven for England's king, he says —
And dares he to the God of mercy kneel,
Besmear'd with massacres from head to heel ?

No ; Moloch is his God — to him he prays ;

SONG. 307

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!
Oh, feeble statesmen — ignominious times,
That lick the tyrant's feet, and smile upon his crimes!

SONG.

To Love in my heart, I exclaim'd t'other morning.
Thou hast dwelt here too long, little lodger, take warn-
ing;
Thou shalt tempt me no more from my life's sober duty,
To go gadding, bewitch'd by the young eyes of beauty.

For weary's the wooing, ah ! weary.
When an old man will have a young dearie.

The god left my heart, at its surly reflections,
But came back on pretext of some sweet recollections,
And he made me forget what I ought to remember,
That the rose-bud of June cannot bloom in November.

Ah ! Tom, 'tis all o'er with thy gay days —
Write psalms, and not songs for the ladies.

But time's been so far from my wisdom enriching,
That the longer I live, beauty seems more bewitching;

308 SONG.

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 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,
Enchantress, smile upon my book,
And guard its lays from hate and harm
By Beauty's most resistless spell.

The sunny dew-drop of thy praise,
Young day-star of the rising time.
Shall with its odoriferous morn
Refresh my sere and wither'd bays.
Smile, and I will believe my rhyme
Shall please the beautiful unborn.

Go forth, my pictured thoughts, and rise
In traits and tints of sweeter tone,
When Julia's glance is o'er ye flung ;
Glow, gladden, linger in her eyes,
And catch a magic not your own.
Read by the music of her tongue.

ODE TO THE GERMANS.

The Spirit of Britannia

Invokes, across the main,
Her sister Allemannia

To burst the Tyrant's chain :
By our kindred blood, she cries,
Rise, Allemannians, rise.

And hallow'd thrice the band
Of our kindred hearts shall be.

When your land shall be the land
Of the free — of the free !

With freedom's lion-banner

Britannia rules the waves ;
Whilst your broad stone of honour*

Is still the camp of slaves.
For shame, for glory's sake.
Wake, Allemannians, wake.

And thy tyrants now that whelm
Half the world shall quail and flee,

When your realm shall be the realm
Of the free — of the free !

♦ Ehrenbreitstein signifies, in German, " the broad stone of honour.'

ODE TO THE GERMANS. 311

Mars owes to you his thunder*
That shakes the battle-field,
Yet to break your bonds asunder

No martial bolt has peal'd.
Shall the laurePd land of art
Wear shackles on her heart ?

No ! the clock ye framed to tell,
By its sound, the march of time ;

Let it clang oppression's knell

O'er your clime— o'er your clime !

The press's magic letters,

That blessing ye brought forth,—
Behold! it lies in fetters

On the soil that gave it birth :
But the trumpet must be heard,
And the charger must be spurr'd ;

For your father Armin's Sprite
Calls down from heaven, that ye

Shall gird you for the fight,

And be free .'—and be free !

* Germany inventod gunpowder, clock-making, and prmting.

LINES

ON REVISITING CATHCART.

Oh! scenes of ray childhood, and dear to my heart,
Ye green waving woods on the margin of Cart,
How blest in the morning of life I have stray'd
By the stream of the vale and the grass-cover'd glade!

Then, then every rapture was young and sincere.
Ere the sunshine of bliss was bedimm'd by a tear.
And a sweeter delight every, scene seem'd to lend,
That the mansion of peace was the home of a friend.

Now the scenes of my childhood and dear to my heart,
All pensive I visit, and sigh to depart ;
Their flowers seem to languish, their beauty to cease,
For a stranger inhabits the mansion of peace.

But hush'd be the sigh that untimely complains,
While Friendship and all its enchantment remains.
While it blooms like the flower of a winterless clime.
Untainted by chance, unabated by time.

LINES

ON A PICTURE OF A GIRL IN THE ATTITUDE OP PRAYER.

BY THE AKTIST GRTJSE, IN THE POSSESSION OP LADY STEPNEY.

Was man e'er doom'd that beauty made
By mimic art should haunt him ;

Like Orpheus, I adore a shade,
And dote upon a phantom.

Thou maid that in my inmost thought

Art fancifully sainted,
Why liv'st thou not — why art thou nought

But canvas sweetly painted ?

Whose looks seem lifted to the skies,
Too pure for love of mortals —

As if they drew angelic eyes

To greet thee at heaven's portals.

Yet loveliness has here no grace.

Abstracted or ideal —
Art ne'er but from a living face

Drew looks so seeming real.
27

314 LINES.

What wert thou, maid ? — thy life — thy name

Oblivion hides in mystery ;
Though from thy face my heart could frame

A long romantic history.

Transported to thy time I seem,
Though dust thy coffin covers —

And hear the songs, in fancy's dream,
Of thy devoted lovers.

How witching must have been thy breath —
How sweet the living charmer —
. Whose every semblance after death
Can make the heart grow warmer!

Adieu, the charms that vainly move

My soul in their possession —
That prompts 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.

NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR.*

I LOVE contemplating — apart

From all his homicidal glory,
The traits that soften to our heart

Napoleon's glory !

'Twas when his banners at Boulogne
Arm'd in our island every freeman,

His navy chanced to capture one
Poor British seaman.

They suffer'd him — I know not how,
Unprison'd on the shore to roam ;

And aye was bent his longing brow
On England's home.

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight
Of birds to Britain half-way over ;

With envy they could reach the white.
Dear cliffs of Dover.

* This anecdote has been published in several public journals, both French and
British. My belief in its authenticity was confirmed by an Englishman long resident
at Boulogne lately telling me, that he remembered the circimistance to have been
generally talked of in the place.

316 NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR.

A stormy midnight watch, he thought,

Than this sojourn would have been dearer

If but the storm his vessel brought
To England nearer.

At last, when care had banish'd sleep,

He saw one morning — dreaming — doating,

An empty hogshead from the deep
Come shoreward floating;

He hid it in a cave, and wrought
The live-long day laborious ; lurking

Until he launch'd a tiny boat
By mighty working.

Heaven help us ! 'twas a thing beyond
Description wretched ; such a wherry

Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond.
Or cross'd a ferry.

For ploughing in the salt-sea field,

It would have made the boldest shudder ;

Untarr'd, uncompass'd, and unkeel'd.
No sail — no rudder.

From neighb'ring woods he interlaced
His sorry skiff with wattled willows ;

And thus equipp'd he would have pass'd
The foaming billows —

NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR. 317

But Frenchmen caught him on the beach,

His little Argo sorely jeering;
Till tidings of him chanced to reach

Napoleon's hearing.

With folded arms Napoleon stood,

Serene alike in peace and danger;
And, in his wonted attitude,

Address'd the stranger: —

" Rash man, that wouldst yon Channel pass
On twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd ;

Thy heart with some sweet British lass
Must be impassion'd."

" I have no sweetheart," said the lad ;

"But — absent long from one another —
Great was the longing that I had

To see my mother."

"And so thou shalt," Napoleon said ;

" Ye've both my favour fairly won ;
A noble mother must have bred

So brave a son."

He gave the tar a piece of gold,

And, with a flag of truce, commanded

He should be shipp'd to England Old
And safely landed.

27*

318 TO THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

Our sailor oft could scantily shift
To find a dinner, plain and hearty ;

But never changed the coin and gift
Of Bonaparte.

TO

THE UNITED STATES OF NORTH AMERICA.

United States, your banner wears
Two emblems — one of fame ;

Alas, the other that it bears
Reminds us of your shame.

Your standard's constellation types

White freedom by its stars ;
But what's the meaning of the stripes ?

They mean your negroes' scars.

BENLOMOND.

Hadst thou a genius on thy peak,
What tales, white-headed Ben,

Could'st thou of ancient ages speak.
That mock th' historian's pen !

Thy long duration makes our lives

Seem but so many hours ;
And likens, to the bees' frail hives,

Our most stupendous towers.

Temples and towers thou'st seen begun,
New creeds, new conquerors' sway ;

And, like their shadows in the sun.
Hast seen them swept away.

Thy steadfast summit, heaven-allied

(Unlike life's little span).
Looks down, a Mentor, on the pride

Of perishable man.

THE CHILD AND HIND.

[I WISH I had preserved a copy of the Wiesbaden newspaper in which this anec- ^
dote of the " Child and Hind " is recorded ; but I have unfortunately lost it. The
story, however, is a matter of fact | it took place in 1S38 : every circumstance
mentioned in the following ballad literally happened. I was in Wiesbaden eight
months ago, and was shown the very tree under which the boy was found sleeping
with a bunch of flowers in his little hand. A similar occurrence is told by tradition,
of Queen Genevova's child being preserved by being suckled by a female deer,
when that Princess — an early Christian, and now a Saint in the Romish calendar —
was chased to the desert by her heathen enemies. The spot assigned to the tradi-
tionary event is not a hundred miles from Wiesbaden, where a chapel still stands
to her memory.

I could not ascertain whether the Hind that watched my hero " Wilhelm," suckled
him or not ; but it was generally believed that she had no milk to give him, and
that the boy must have been for two days and a half entirely without food, unless
it might be grass or leaves. If this was the case, the circiunstance of the Wies-
baden deer watching the child, was a still more w^onderful token of instinctive
fondness than that of the deer in the Genqvova tradition, who was naturally anxious
to be relieved of her milk.] ^

Come, maids and matrons, to caress
Wiesbaden's gentle hind ;
And, smiling, deck its glossy neck
With forest flowers entwined.

Your forest flowers are fair to show,
And landscapes to enjoy;
But fairer is your friendly doe
That watch'd the sleeping boy.

THE CHILD AND HIND. 321

'Twas after church — on Ascension day —
When organs ceased to sound,
Wiesbaden's people crowded gay
The deer-park's pleasant ground.

There, where Elysian meadows smile,
And noble trees upshoot,
The wild thyme and the camomile
Smell sweetly at their root ;

The aspen quivers nervously,

The oak stands stilly bold —

And climbing bindweed hangs on high

His bells of beaten gold.*

Nor stops the eye till mountains shine
That bound a spacious view,
Beyond the lordly, lovely Rhine,
In visionary blue.

There, monuments of ages dark
Awaken thoughts sublime ;
Till, swifter than the steaming bark,
We mount the stream of time.

The ivy there old castles shades
That speak traditions high

* There is only one kind of bindweed that is yellow, and that is the flower here
mentioned, the Paniculatus Convolvulus.

THE CHILD AND HIND.

Of minstrels — tournaments — crusades,
And mail-clad chivalry.

Here came a twelve years' married pair —
And with them wander'd free
Seven sons and daughters, blooming fair,
A gladsome sight to see.

Their Wilhelm, little innocent.
The youngest of the seven,
Was beautiful as painters paint
The cherubim of Heaven.

By turns he gave his hand, so dear,
To parent, sister, brother;
And each, that he was safe and near,
Confided in the other.

But Wilhelm loved the field flowers bright.
With love beyond all measure ;
And cull'd them with as keen delight
As misers gather treasure.

Unnoticed, he contrived to glide
Adown a greenwood alley,
By lilies lured — that grew beside
A streamlet in the valley ;

THE CHILD AND HIND.

And there, where under beech and birch
The rivulet meander'd,
He stray'd, till neither shout nor search
Could track where he had wander'd.

Still louder, with increasing dread,
They call'd his darling name ;
But 'twas like speaking to the dead —
An echo only came.

Hours pass'd till evening's beetle roams,'
And blackbird's songs begin ;
Then all went back to happy homes.
Save Wilhelm's kith and kin.

The night came on — all others slept
Their cares away till morn ;
But sleepless, all night watch'd and wept
That family forlorn.

Betimes the town-crier had been sent
With loud bell, up and down ;
And told th' afflicting accident
Throughout Wiesbaden's town :

The father, too, ere morning smiled,
Had all his wealth uncoffer'd ;
And to the wight would bring his child,
A thousand crowns had offer'd.

323

324 THE CHILD AND HIND.

Dear friends, who would have blush'd to take
That guerdon from his hand,
Soon join'd in groups — for pity's sake,
The child-exploring band.

The news reach'd Nassau's Duke : ere earth
Was gladden'd by the lark,
He sent a hundred soldiers forth
To ransack all his park.

Their side-arms glitter'd through the wood,
With bugle-horns to sound ;
Would that on errand half so good
The soldier oft were found !

But though they roused up beast and bird
From many a nest and den.
No signal of success was heard
From all the hundred men.

A second morning's light expands,
Unfound the infant fair ;
And Wilhelm's household wring their hands,
Abandon'd to despair.

But, haply, a poor artizan
Search'd ceaselessly, till he
Found safe asleep the little one,
Beneath a beech en tree.

THE CHILD AND HIND. 325

His hand still grasp'd a bunch of flowers ;
And (true, though wondrous,) near,
To sentry his reposing hours,
There stood a female deer —

Who dipp'd her horns at all that pass'd*
The spot where Wilhelm lay ;
Till force was had to hold her fast.
And bear the boy away.

Hail ! sacred love of childhood — hail !
How sweet it is to trace
Thine instinct in Creation's scale,
Ev'n 'neath the human race.

To this poor wanderer of the wild
Speech, reason were unknown —
And yet she watch'd a sleeping child
As if it were her own ;

And thou, Wiesbaden's artisan,
Restorer of the boy.
Was ever welcomed mortal man
With such a burst of joy?

The father's ecstacy — the mother's
Hysteric bosom's swell ;

* The female deer has no such antlers as the male, and sometimes no horns at all:
but I have observed many with short ones suckling their fawms.

28

326 THE CHILD AND HIND.

The sisters' sobs — the shout of brothers,
I have not power to tell.

The working man, with shoulders broad,
Took blithely to his wife
The thousand crowns ; a pleasant load,
That made him rich for life.

And Nassau's Duke the favourite took
Into his deer-park's centre.
To share a field with other pets
Where deer-slayer cannot enter.

There, whilst thou cropp'st thy flowery food.
Each hand shall pat thee kind ;
And man shall never spill thy blood —
Wiesbaden's gentle hind.

THE JILTED NYMPH.

A SONG,

TO THE SCOTCH TUNE OF " WOO'd AND MARRIED AND A'."

I'm jilted, forsaken, outwitted ;

Yet think not I'll whimper or brawl —
The lass is alone to be pitied

Who ne'er has been courted at all :
Never by great or small,
Woo'd or jilted at all ;

Oh, how unhappy 's the lass
Who has never been courted at all!

My brother call'd out the dear faithless.

In fits I was ready to fall.
Till I found a policeman who, scatheless.

Swore them both to the peace at Guildhall
Seized them, seconds and all —
Pistols, powder and ball ;

I wish'd him to die my devoted.
But not in a duel to sprawl.

328 THE JILTED NYMPH.

What though at my heart he has tilted,

What though I have met with a fall ?
Better be courted and jilted,

Than never be courted at all.
Woo'd and jilted and all,
Still I will dance at the ball ;

And waltz and quadrille

With light heart and heel,
With proper young men, and tall.

But lately I've met with a suitor.
Whose heart I have gotten in thrall,

And I hope soon to tell you in future
That I'm woo'd, and married and all :

Woo'd and married and all.

What greater bliss can befall?

And you all shall partake of my bridal cake,

When I'm woo'd and married, and all.

ON GETTING HOME

THE PORTRAIT OF A FEMALE CHILD,

SIX YEARS OLD.

PAINTED BY EUGENIO LATILLA.

Type of the Cherubim above,
Come, live with me, and be my love!
Smile from my wall, dear roguish sprite,
By sunshine and by candle-light ;
For both look sweetly on thy traits ;
Or, were the Lady Moon to gaze,
She'd welcome thee with lustre bland,
Like some young fay from Fairyland.
Cast in simplicity's own mould,
How canst thou be so manifold
In sportively distracting charms ?
Thy lips — thine eyes — thy little arms
That wrap thy shoulders and thy head,
In homeliest shawl of netted thread,
Brown woollen net- work ; yet it seeks
Accordance with thy lovely cheeks,
And more becomes thy beauty's bloom
Than any shawl from Cashmere's loom.
28*

330 THE PORTRAIT OF A FEMALE CHILD.

Thou hast not, to adorn thee, girl,
Flower, link of gold, or gem or pearl —
I would not let a ruby speck
The peeping whiteness of thy neck :
Thou need'st no casket, witching elf,
No gawd — thy toilet is thyself;
Not ev'n a rose-bud from the bower,
Thyself a magnet — gem and flower.

My arch and playful little creature.
Thou hast a mind in every feature ;
Thy brow, with its disparted locks,
Speaks language that translation mocks ;
Thy lucid eyes so beam with soul,
They on the canvas seem to roll —
Instructing both my head and heart
To idolize the painter's art.

He marshals minds to Beauty's feast —

He is Humanity's high priest

Who proves, by heavenly forms on earth,

How much this world of ours is worth.

Inspire me, child, with visions fair !

For children, in Creation, are

The only things that could be given

Back, and alive — unchanged — to Heaven.

THE PARKOT.

A DOMESTIC ANBCDOTE.

The following incident, so strongly illustrating the power of memory and associa-
tion in the lower animals, is not a fiction. I heard it many years ago in the Island
of Mull, from the family to whom the bird belonged.

The deep affections of the breast,
That Heaven to living things imparts.

Are not exclusively possess'd
By human hearts.

A parrot, from the Spanish Main,

Full young, and early caged, came o'er

With bright wings, to the bleak domain
Of Mulla's shore.

To spicy groves where he had won

His plumage of resplendent hue,
His native fruits, and skies, and sun.

He bade adieu.

For these he changed the smoke of turf,

A heathery land and misty sky.
And turn'd on rocks and raging surf
His golden eye.

332 THE PARROT.

But, petted, in our climate cold

He lived and chatter'd many a day :

Until with age, from green and gold
His wings grew gray.

At last, when blind and seeming dumb.
He scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more,

A Spanish stranger chanced to come
To Mulla's shore ;

He hail'd the bird in Spanish speech,
The bird in Spanish speech replied,
' Flapp'd round his cage with joyous screech,
Dropt down, and died.

SONG

OF THE COLONISTS DEPARTING FOR NEW ZEALAND.

Steer, helmsman, till you steer our way,

By stars beyond the line ;
We go to found a realm, one day.

Like England's self to shine.

Cheer up — cheer up — our course we'll keep.
With dauntless heart and hand ;

And when we've plough'd the stormy deep,
We'll plough a smiling land : —

A land, where beauties importune

The Briton to its bowers,
To sow but plenteous seeds, and prune

Luxuriant fruits and flowers.

Chorus. — Cheer up — cheer up, &c.

There, tracts uncheer'd by human words,
Seclusion's wildest holds,

334 SONG OF THE COLONISTS.

Shall hear the lowing of our herds,
And tinkling of our folds.

Chorus. — Cheer up — cheer up, &c.

Like rubies set in gold, shall blush

Our vineyards girt with corn ;
And wine, and oil, and gladness gush

From Amalthea's horn.

Chorus. — Cheer up — cheer up, &c.

Britannia's pride is in our hearts.

Her blood is in our veins —
• We'll girdle earth with British arts.
Like Ariel's magic chains.

Cheer up — cheer up — our course we'll keep
With dauntless heart and hand ;

And when we've plough'd the stormy deep,
We'll plough a smiling land.

MOONLIGHT.

The kiss that would make a maid's cheek flush

Wroth, as if kissing were a sin

Amidst the Argus eyes and din

And tell-tale glare of noon,

Brings but a murmur and a blush,

Beneath the modest moon.

Ye days, gone — never to come back.
When love return'd entranced me so,
That still its pictures move and glow
In the dark chamber of my heart;
Leave not my memory's future track —
I will not let you part,

'Twas moonlight, when my earliest love
First on my bosom dropt her head ;
A moment then concentrated
The bliss of years, as if the spheres
Their course had faster driven.
And carried, Enoch-like above,
A living man to Heaven.

336 MOONLIGHT.

'Tis by the rolling moon we measure
The date between our nuptial night
And that blest hour which brings to light
The fruit of bliss — the pledge of faith ;
When we impress upon the treasure
A father's earliest kiss.

The Moon's the Earth's enamour'd bride ;
True to him in her very changes,
To other stars she never ranges :

Though cross'd by him sometimes she dips
Her light in short offended pride,
And faints to an eclipse.

The fairies revel by her sheen ;
'Tis only when the Moon's above
The fire-fly kindles into love.
And flashes light to show it :
The nightingale salutes her Queen
Of Heaven, her heav'nly poet.

Then ye that love — by moonlight gloom
Meet at my grave, and plight regard.
Oh ! could I be the Orphean bard
Of whom it is reported.
That nightingales sung o'er his tomb.
Whilst lovers came and courted.

COEA LINN, OR THE FALLS OF THE CLYDE.

WRITTEN ON REVISITING IT IN 1837.

The time I saw thee, Cora, last,
'Twas with congenial friends;
And calmer hours of pleasure past
My memory seldom sends.

It was as sweet an Autumn day
As ever shone on Clyde,
And Lanark's orchards all the way
Put forth their golden pride ;

Ev'n hedges, busk'd in bravery,
Look'd rich that sunny morn ;
The scarlet hip and blackberry
So prank'd September's thorn.

In Cora's glen the calm how deep !
That trees on loftiest hill
Like statues stood, or things asleep,
All motionless and still.
29

338 CORA LINN.

The torrent spoke, as if his noise
Bade earth be quiet round,
And give his loud and lonely voice
A more commanding sound.

His foam, beneath the yellow light
Of noon, came down like one
Continuous sheet of jaspers bright.
Broad rolling by the sun.

Dear Linn! let loftier falling floods
Have prouder names than thine ;
And king of all, enthroned in woods,
Let Niagara shine.

Barbarian, let him shake his coasts,
With reeking thunders far.
Extended like th' array of hosts
In broad, embattled war!

His voice appals the wilderness :
Approaching thine, we feel
A solemn, deep melodiousness,
That needs no louder peal.

More fury would but disenchant
Thy dream-inspiring din ;
Be thou the Scottish Muse's haunt,
Romantic Cora Linn.

LINES

ON MY NEW CHILD-SWEETHEART.

I HOLD it a religious duty

To love and worship children's beauty;

They 've least the taint of earthly clod,

They 're freshest from the hand of God;

With heavenly looks they make us sure

The heaven that made them must be pure ;

We love them not in earthly fashion,

But with a beatific passion.

I chanced to, yesterday, behold

A maiden child of beauty's mould ;

'Twas near, more sacred was the scene,

The palace of our patriot Queen.

The little charmer to my view,

Was sculpture brought to life anew,

Her eyes had a poetic glow,

Her pouting mouth was Cupid's bow;

And through her frock I could descry

Her neck and shoulders' symmetry.

'Twas obvious from her walk and gait

Her limbs were beautifully straight;

340 LINES ON MY NEW CHILD-SWEETHEART.

I stopp'd th' enchantress, and was told,
Though tall, she was but four years old.
Her guide so grave an aspect wore
I could not ask a question more ;
But follow'd her. The little one
Threw backward ever and anon
Her lovely neck, as if to say,
"I know you love me, Mister Grey;"
For by its instinct childhood's eye
Is shrewd in physiognomy ;
They well distinguish fawning art
From sterling fondness of the heart.

And so she flirted, like a true
Good woman, till we bade adieu.
'Twas then I with regret grew wild,
Oh, beauteous, interesting child!
Why ask'd I not thy home and name ?
My courage fail'd me — more's the shame.
But where abides this jewel rare?
Oh, ye that own her, tell me where !
For sad it makes my heart and sore
To think I ne'er may meet her more.

THE LAUNCH OF A FIRST-RATE,

WRITTEN ON WITNESSING THE SPECTACLE.

England hails thee with emotion,

Mightiest child of naval art,
Heaven resounds thy welcome! Ocean

Takes thee smiling to his heart.

Giant oaks of bold expansion
O'er seven hundred acres fell.

All to build thy noble mansion.

Where our hearts of oak shall dwell.

'Midst those trees the wild deer bounded,
Ages long ere we were born,

And our great-grandfathers sounded
Many a jovial hunting-horn.

Oaks that living did inherit

Grandeur from our earth and sky,
Still robust, the native spirit

In your timbers shall not die.
29*

342 THE LAUNCH OF A FIRST-RATE.

Ship to shine in martial story,

Thou shalt cleave the ocean's path

Freighted with Britannia's glory
And the thunders of her wrath.

Foes shall crowd their sails and fly thee,
Threat'ning havoc to their deck,

When afar they first descry thee,
Like the coming whirlwind's speck.

Gallant bark ! thy pomp and beauty
Storm or battle ne'er shall blast,

Whilst our tars in pride and duty
Nail thy colours to the mast.

EPISTLE, FROM ALGIERS,

HORACE SMITH.

Dear Horace ! be melted to tears,

For I'm melting with heat as I rhyme ;

Though the name of this place is All-jeers,
'Tis no joke to fall in with its clime.

With a shaver* from France who came o'er,

To an African inn I ascend ;
I am cast on a barbarous shore.

Where a barber alone is my friend.

Do you ask me the sights and the news

Of this wonderful city to sing?
Alas ! my hotel has its mews.

But no muse of the Helicon's spring.

* On board the vessel from Marseilles to Algiers I met witli a fellow-passenger
whom I supposed to be a physician from his dress and manners, and the attentions
which he paid me to alleviate the sufferings of my sea-sickness. He turned out to
be a perruquier and barber in Algeria — but his vocation did not lower him in my
estimation — for he continued his attentions until he passed my baggage through the
customs, and helped me, when half dead with exhaustion, to the best hotel.

344 EPISTLE FROM ALGIERS.

My windows afford me the sight
Of a people all diverse in hue ;

They are black, yellow, olive, and white,
Whilst I in my sorrow look blue.

Here are groups for the painter to take,
Whose figures jocosely combine, —

The Arab disguised in his haik,*

And the Frenchman disguised in his wine.

In his breeches of petticoat size

You may say, as the Mussulman goes,

That his garb is a fair compromise

'Twixt a kilt and a pair of small-clothes.

The Mooresses, shrouded in white.

Save two holes for their eyes to give room,

Seem like corpses in sport or in spite

That have slily whipp'd out of their tomb.

The old Jewish dames make me sick :

If I were the devil — I declare
Such hags should not mount a broom-stick

In my service to ride through the air.

But hipp'd and undined as I am.

My hippogriff 's course I must rein —

* A mantle worn by the natives.

EPISTLE FROM ALGIERS. 345

For the pain of my thirst is no sham,

Though I'm bawling aloud for champagne.

Dinner 's brought ; but their wines have no pith —

They are flat as the statutes at law ;
And for all that they bring me, dear Smith !

Would a glass of brown stout they could draw !

O'er each French trashy dish as I bend,

My heart feels a patriot's grief!
And the round tears, 0 England ! descend

When I think on a round of thy beef.

Yes, my soul sentimentally craves

British beer. — Hail, Britannia, hail!
To thy flag on the foam of the waves.

And the foam on thy flagons of ale.

Yet I own, in this hour of my drought,

A dessert has most welcomely come ;
Here are peaches that melt in the mouth.

And grapes blue and big as a plum.

There are melons, too, luscious and great,

But the slices I eat shall be few,
For from melons incautiously eat

Melancholic effects may ensue.

346 SONG ON OUR QUEEN.

Horrid pun I you'll exclaim ; but be calm,
Though my letter bears date, as you view,

From the land of the date-bearing palm,
I will palm no more puns upon you.

SONG ON OUR QUEEN.

SET TO MUSIC BY CHARLES NEATE, ESQ.

Victoria's sceptre o'er the deep

Has touch'd, and broken slavery's chain ;

Yet, strange magician ! she enslaves
Our hearts within her own domain.

Her spirit is devout, and burns
With thoughts averse to bigotry ;

Yet she herself, the idol, turns
Our thoughts into idolatry.

THE DEATH-BOAT OF HELIGOLAND.

Can restlessness reach the cold sepulchred head ? —
Aye, the quick have their sleep-walkers, so have the dead.
There are brains, though they moulder, that dream in the

tomb,
And that maddening forebear the last trumpet of doom,
Till their corses start sheeted to revel on earth.
Making horror more deep by the semblance of mirth :
By the glare of new-lighted volcanoes they dance.
Or at mid-sea appal the chill'd mariner's glance.
Such, I wot, was the band of cadaverous smile
Seen ploughing the night-surge of Heligo's isle.

The foam of the Baltic had sparkled like fire,
And the red moon look'd down with an aspect of ire ;
But her beams on a sudden grew sick-like and gray.
And the mews that had slept clang'd and shriek'd far

away —
And the buoys and the beacons extinguish'd their light.
As the boat of the stony-eyed dead came in sight.
High bounding from billow to billow ; each form
Had its shroud like a plaid flying loose to the storm ;
With an oar in each pulseless and icy-cold hand.
Fast they plough'd by the lee-shore of Heligoland,

348 THE DEATH-BOAT OF HELIGOLAND.

Such breakers as boat of the living ne'er cross'd ;
Now surf-sunk for minutes again they uptoss'd,
And with livid lips shouted reply o'er the flood
To the challenging watchman that curdled his blood —
"We are dead — we are bound from our graves in the
west.

First to Hecla, and then to " Unmeet was the rest

For man's ear. The old abbey bell thunder'd its clang,
And their eyes gleam'd with phosphorous light as it rang:
Ere they vanish'd, they stopp'd, and gazed silently grim,
Till the eye could define them, garb, feature, and limb.

Now who were those roamers ? — of gallows or wheel
Bore they marks, or the mangling anatomist's steel?
No, by magistrates' chains 'mid their grave-clothes you

saw
They were felons too proud to have perish'd by law:
But a ribbon that hung where a rope should have been,
'Twas the badge of their faction, its hue was not green,
Show'd them men who had trampled and tortured and

driven
To rebellion the fairest Isle breath'd on by Heaven,
Men whose heirs would yet finish the tyrannous task.
If the Truth and the Time had not dragg'd oflf their mask.
They parted — but not till the sight might discern
A scutcheon distinct at their pinnace's stern,
"Where letters emblazon'd in blood-colour'd flame
Named their faction— I blot not my page with its name.

LOVE AND MADNESS

AN ELEGY.

WRITTEN IN 1795.

Hark ! from the battlements of yonder tower*
The solemn bell has toll'd the midnight hour!
Roused from drear visions of distemper'd sleep,
Poor B k wakes — in solitude to weep !

" Cease, Memory, cease (the friendless mourner cried)
To probe the bosom too severely tried !
Oh! ever cease, my pensive thoughts, to stray
Through the bright fields of Fortune's better day,
When youthful Hope, the music of the mind,
Tuned all its charms, and E n was kind !

Yet, can I cease, while glows this trembling frame,
In sighs to speak thy melancholy name !
I hear thy spirit wail in every storm !
In midnight shades I view thy passing form !
Pale as in that sad hour when doom'd to feel.
Deep in thy perjured heart, the bloody steel !

• Warwick Castle.

30

350 LOVE AND MADNESS.

Demons of Vengeance ! ye at whose command
I grasp'd the sword with more than woman's hand.
Say ye, did Pity's trembling voice control,
Or horror damp the purpose of my soul?
No ! my wild heart sat smiling o'er the plan,
Till Hate fulfill'd what baffled Love began !

Yes ! let the clay-cold breast that never knew
One tender pang to generous Nature true,
Half-mingling pity with the gall of scorn.
Condemn this heart, that bled in love forlorn !

And ye, proud fair, whose soul no gladness warms,
Save Rapture's homage to your conscious charms!
Delighted idols of a gaudy train,
111 can your blunter feelings guess the pain.
When the fond faithful heart, inspired to prove
Friendship refined, the calm delight of Love,
Feels all its tender strings with anguish torn,
And bleeds at perjured Pride's inhuman scorn!

Say, then, did pitying Heaven condemn the deed.
When Vengeance bade thee, faithless lover! bleed?
Long had I watch'd thy dark foreboding brow,
What time thy bosom 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 wander'd hopeless, friendless, and alone !

LOVE AND MADNESS. 351

Oh ! righteous Heaven ! 'twas then my tortured soul
First gave to wrath unlimited control !
Adieu the silent look ! the streaming eye !
The murmur'd plaint! the deep heart-heaving sigh!
Long-slumbering Vengeance wakes to better deeds ;
He shrieks, he falls, the perjured lover bleeds!
Now the last laugh of agony is o'er,
And pale in blood he sleeps, to wake no more !

'Tis done ! the flame of hate no longer burns :
Nature relents, but, ah ! too late returns !
Why does my soul this gush of fondness feel?
Trembling and faint, I drop the guilty steel !
Cold on my heart the hand of terror lies,
And shades of horror close my languid eyes !

Oh ! 'twas a deed of Murder's deepest grain !

Could B k's soul so true to wrath remain ?

A friend long true, a once fond lover fell ! —
Where Love was fostered could not Pity dwell ?

Unhappy youth ! while yon pale crescent glows
To watch on silent Nature's deep repose,
Thy sleepless spirit, breathing from the tomb,
Foretels my fate, and summons me to come !
Once more I see thy sheeted spectre stand.
Roll the dim eye, and wave the paly hand !

352 LINES.

Soon may this fluttering spark of vital flame
Forsake its languid melancholy frame !
Soon may these eyes their trembling lustre close,
Welcome the dreamless night of long repose !
Soon may this woe- worn spirit seek the bourne
Where lull'd to slumber, Grief forgets to mourn !

LINES

INSCRIBED ON A MONUMENT LATELY FINISHED BY MR.
CHANTREY,

■fVTnCH HAS BEEN ERECTED BY THE VVTDOW OF ADMIRAL SIR G. CAMPBELL, K. C. B.,
TO THE MEMORY OF HER HUSBAND.

To him, whose loyal, brave, and gentle heart,
Fulfill'd the hero's and the patriot's part, —
Whose charity, like that which Paul enjoined,
Was warm, beneficent, and unconfined, —
This stone is rear'd : to public duty true.
The seaman's friend, the father of his crew —
Mild in reproof, sagacious in command.
He spread fraternal zeal throughout his band,
And led each arm to act, each heart to feel.
What British valour owes to Britain's weal.
These were his public virtues : — but to trace
His private life's fair purity and grace.

LINES. 353

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 widow'd grief,
O'ercomes the heart, unconscious of relief.
Save in religion's high and holy trust.
Whilst placing their memorial o'er his dust.

30*

LINES

ON REVISITING A SCOTTISH RIVER.

And call they this Improvement? — to have changed,

My native Clyde, thy once romantic shore,

Where Nature's face is banish'd and estranged.

And Heaven reflected in thy wave no more;

"Whose banks, that sweeten'd May-day's breath before,

Lie sere and leafless now in summer's beam,

With sooty exhalations cover'd o'er;

And for the daisied green sward, down thy stream

Unsightly brick-lanes smoke, and clanking engines gleam.

Speak not to me of swarms the scene sustains ;

One heart free tasting Nature's breath and bloom

Is worth a thousand slaves to Mammon's gains.

But whither goes that wealth, and gladdening whom ?

See, left but life enough and breathing-room

The hunger and the hope of life to feel,

Yon pale Mechanic bending o'er his loom.

And Childhood's self as at Ixion's wheel.

From morn till midnight task'd to earn its little meal.

LINES. 355

Is this Improvement? — where the human breed

Degenerate as they swarm and overflow,

Till Toil grows cheaper than the 4:rodden weed,

And man competes with man, like foe with foe,

Till Death, that thins them, scarce seems public woe?

Improvement ! — smiles it in the poor man's eyes,

Or blooms it on the cheek of Labour? — No —

To gorge a few with Trade's precarious prize.

We banish rural life, and breathe unwholesome skies.

Nor call that evil slight ; God has not given

This passion to the heart of man in vain

For Earth's green face, th' untainted air of Heaven,

And all the bliss of Nature's rustic reign.

For not alone our frame imbibes a stain

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!

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-colour in shade behind ;

A theme for uninspired lips too strong;

That swells my heart beyond the power of song : —

Majestic men, whose deeds have dazzled faith,

Ah ! yet your fate's suspense arrests my breath ;

Whilst envying bosoms bared to shot and steel,

I feel the more that fruitlessly I feel.

Poles! with what indignation I endure

Th' half-pitying servile mouths that call you poor;

Poor! is it England mocks you with her grief,

Who hates, but dares not chide, th' Imperial Thief?

France with her soul beneath a Bourbon's thrall.

And Germany that has no soul at all, —

States, quailing at the giant overgrown.

Whom dauntless Poland grapples with alone !

No, ye are rich in fame e'en whilst ye bleed :

We cannot aid you — we are poor indeed !

LINES ON POLAND. 357

In Fate's defiance — in the world's great eye,
Poland has won her immortality ;
The Butcher, should he reach her bosom now,
Could not tear Glory's garland from her brow ;
Wreathed, filleted, the victim falls renown'd.
And all her ashes will be holy ground!

But turn, my soul, from presages so dark :

Great Poland's spirit is a deathless spark

That 's fann'd by Heaven to mock the Tyrant's rage :

She, like the eagle, will renew her age,

And fresh historic plumes of Fame put on, —

Another Athens after Marathon, —

Where eloquence shall fulmine, arts refine.

Bright as her arms that now in battle shine.

Come — should the heavenly shock my life destroy,

And shut its flood-gates with excess of joy;

Come but the day when Poland's fight is won —

And on my grave-stone shine the morrow's sun —

The day that sees Warsaw's cathedral glow

With endless ensigns ravish'd from the foe, —

Her women lifting their fair hands with thanks,

Her pious. warriors kneeling in their ranks.

The 'scutcheon'd walls of high heraldic boast,

The odorous altars' elevated host,

The organ sounding through the isles' long glooms,

The mighty dead seen sculptured o'er their tombs ;

358 LINES ON POLAND.

(John, Europe's saviour — Poniatowski's fair
Resemblance — Kosciusko's shall be there ;)
The taper'd pomp — the hallelujah's swell,
Shall o'er the soul's devotion cast a spell,
Till visions cross the rapt enthusiast's glance.
And all the scene becomes a waking trance.
Should Fate put far — far off that glorious scene,
And gulfs of havoc interpose between.
Imagine not, ye men of every clime.
Who act, or by your sufferance share, the crime —
Your brother Abel's blood shall vainly plead
Against the " deep damnation''^ of the deed.
Germans, ye view its horror and disgrace
With cold phosphoric eyes and phlegm of face.
Is Allemagne profound in science, lore.
And minstrel art ? — her shame is but the more
To doze and dream by governments oppress'd,
The spirit of a book-worm in each breast.
Well can ye mouth fair Freedom's classic line,
And talk of Constitutions o'er your wine :
But all your vows to break the tyrant's yoke
Expire in Bacchanalian song and smoke :
Heavens ! can no ray of foresight pierce the leads
And mystic metaphysics of your heads.
To show the self-same grave Oppression delves
For Poland's rights is yawning for yourselves?

LINES ON POLAND. 359

See, whilst the Pole, the vanguard aid of France,
Has vaulted on his barb, and couch'd the lance,
France turns from her abandon'd friends afresh,
And soothes the Bear that prowls for patriot flesh ;
Buys, ignominious purchase ! short repose
With dying curses and the groans of those
That served, and loved, and put in her their trust.
Frenchmen! the dead accuse you from the dust —
Brows laurel'd — bosoms mark'd with many a scar
For France — that wore her Legion's noblest star.
Cast dumb reproaches from the field of Death
On Gallic honour : and this broken faith
Has robb'd you more of Fame — the life of life —
Than twenty battles lost in glorious strife !

And what of England — is she steep'd so low

In poverty, crest-fallen, and palsied so.

That we must sit much wroth, but timorous more.

With Murder knocking at our neighbour's door ! —

Not Murder mask'd and cloak'd, with hidden knife,

Whose owner owes the gallows life for life ;

But Public Murder ! — that with pomp and gaud.

And royal scorn of Justice, walks abroad

To wring more tears and blood than e'er were wrung

By all the culprits Justice ever hung!

We read the diadem'd Assassin's vaunt.

And wince, and wish we had not hearts to pant

360 LINES ON POLAND.

With useless indignation — sigh, and frown,
But have not hearts to throw the gauntlet down.
If but a doubt hung o'er the grounds of fray,
Or trivial rapine stopp'd the world's highway ; —
Were this some common strife of States embroil'd ;-
Britannia on the spoiler and the spoil'd
Might calmly look, and, asking time to breathe.
Still honourably wear her olive wreath.
But this is Darkness combating with Light :
Earth's adverse Principles for empire fight:
Oppression that has belted half the globe.
Far as his knout could reach or dagger probe.
Holds reeking o'er our brother-freemen slain
That dagger — shakes it at us in disdain ;
Talks big to Freedom's states of Poland's thrall,
And, trampling one, contemns them one and all.

My country ! colours not thy once proud brow

At this affront ? — Hast thou not fleets enow

With Glory's streamer, lofty as the lark.

Gay fluttering o'er each thunder-bearing bark,

To warm the insulter's seas with barbarous blood.

And interdict his flag from Ocean's flood ?

Ev'n now far off the sea-cliff", where I sing,

I see, my Country and my Patriot King!

Your ensign glad the deep. Becalm'd and slow

A war-ship rides ; while Heaven's prismatic bow

LINES ON POLAND. 361

Uprisen behind her on th' horizon's base,

Shines flushing through the tackle, shrouds, and stays,

And wraps her giant form in one majestic blaze.

My soul accepts the omen ; Fancy's eye

Has sometimes a veracious augury :

The Rainbow types Heaven's promise to my sight;

The Ship, Britannia's interposing Might!

But if there should be none to aid you, Poles,
Ye'll but to prouder pitch wind up your souls,
Above example, pity, praise, or blame.
To sow and reap a boundless field of Fame.
Ask aid no more from Nations that forget
Your championship — old Europe's mighty debt.
Though Poland (Lazarus-like) has burst the gloom,
She rises not a beggar from the tomb :
In Fortune's frown, on Danger's giddiest brink.
Despair and Poland's name must never link.
All ills have bounds — plague, whirlwind, fire, and flood :
Ev'n Power can spill but bounded sums of blood.
States caring not what Freedom's price may be.
May late or soon, but must at last be free;
For body-killing tyrants cannot kill
The public soul — the hereditary will
That downward, as from sire to son it goes.
By shifting bosoms more intensely glows :
Its heir-loom is the heart, and slaughter'd men
Fight fiercer in their orphans o'er again.
31

362 LINES ON POLAND.

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 her faltering lips expires :
Resume it, younger bards, and nobler lyres !

THE POWER OF RUSSIA

So all this gallant blood has gush'd in vain !
And Poland, by the Northern Condor's beak
And talons torn, lies prostrated again.
0 British patriots, that were wont to speak
Once loudly on this theme, now hush'd or meek !
0 heartless men of Europe — Goth and Gaul,
Cold, adder-deaf to Poland's dying shriek ; —
That saw the world's last land of heroes fall —
The brand of burning shame is on you all — all — all!

But this is not the drama's closing act !
Its tragic curtain must arise anew.
Nations, mute accessories to the fact!
That Upas-tree of power, whose fostering dew
Was Polish blood, has yet to cast o'er you
The lengthening shadow of its head elate —
A deadly shadow, darkening Nature's hue.
To all that's hallow'd, righteous, pure and great.
Wo ! wo ! when they are reach'd by Russia's withering
hate.

364 THE POWER OF RUSSIA.

Russia, that on his throne of adamant
Consults what nation's breast shall next be gored :
He on Polonia's Golgotha will plant
His standard fresh ; and, horde succeeding horde.
On patriot tomb-stones he will whet the sword
For more stupendous slaughters of the free.
Then Europe's realms, when their best blood is pour'd,
Shall miss thee, Poland ! as they bend the knee,
All — all in grief, but none in glory, likening thee.

Why smote ye not the Giant whilst he reel'd ?
O fair occasion, gone for ever by !
To have lock'd his lances in their northern field,
Innocuous as the phantom chivalry
That flames and hurtles from yon boreal sky !
Now wave thy pennon, Russia, o'er the land
Once Poland ; build thy bristling castles high ;
Dig dungeons deep ; for Poland's wrested brand
Is now a weapon new to widen thy command —

An awful width ! Norwegian woods shall build
His fleets ; the Swede his vassal, and the Dane ;
The glebe of fifty kingdoms shall be till'd
To feed his dazzling, desolating train,
Camp'd sunless, 'twixt the Black and Baltic main :
Brute hosts, I own ; but Sparta could not write.
And Rome, half-barbarous, bound Achaia's chain :
So Russia's spirit, midst Sclavonic night.
Burns with a fire more dread than all your polish'd light.

THE POWER OF RUSSIA. 365

But Russia's limbs (so blinded statesmen speak)
Are crude, and too colossal to cohere.
0 lamentable weakness! reckoning weak
The stripling Titan, strengthening year by year.
What implement lacks he for war's career.
That grows on earth, or in its floods and mines,
(Eighth sharer of the inhabitable sphere)
Whom Persia bows to, China ill confines.
And India's homage waits, when Albion's star declines !

But time will teach the Russ, ev'n conquering War
Has handmaid arts : aye, aye, the Russ will woo
All sciences that speed Bellona's car.
All murder's tactic arts, and win them too ;
But never holier Muses shall imbue
His breast, that's made of natures basest clay :
The sabre, knout, and dungeon's vapour blue
His laws and ethics : far from him away
Are all the lovely Nine, that breathe but Freedom's day.

Say, ev'n his serfs, half-humanized, should learn

Their human rights, — will Mars put out his flame

In Russian bosoms ? no, he'll bid them burn,

A thousand years for nought but martial fame.

Like Romans: — yet forgive me, Roman name!

Rome could impart what Russia never can ;

Proud civic rights to salve submission's shame.

Our strife is coming ; but in freedom's van

The Polish eagle's fall is big with fate to man.

31*

366 THE POWER OF RUSSIA.

Proud bird of old ! Mohammed's moon recoiPd
Before thy swoop : had we been timely bold,
That swoop, still free, had stunn'd the Russ, and foil'd
Earth's new oppressors, as it foil'd her old.
Now thy majestic eyes are shut and cold :
And colder still Polonia's children find
The sympathetic hands, that we outhold.
But, Poles, when we are gone, the world will mind
Ye bore the brunt of fate, and bled for humankind.

So hallowedly have ye fulfill'd your part.
My pride repudiates ev'n the sigh that blends
With Poland's name — name written on my heart.
My heroes, my grief-consecrated friends !
Your sorrow, in nobility, transcends
Your conqueror's joy : his cheek may blush ; but shame
Can tinge not yours, though exile's tear descends;
Nor would ye change yourconscience, cause, and name,
For his, with all his wealth, and all his felon fame.

Thee, Niemciewitz, whose song of stirring power
The Czar forbids to sound in Polish lands ;
Thee, Czartoryski, in thy banish'd bower.
The patricide, who in thy palace stands.
May envy ; proudly may Polonia's bands
Throw down their swords at Europe's feet in scorn.
Saying — " Russia from the metal of these brands
Shall forge the fetters of your sons unborn ;
Our setting star is your misfortunes' rising morn."

LINES

ON THE DEPARTURE OF EMIGRANTS FOR NEW SOUTH WALES.

On England's shore I saw a pensive band,

With sails unfurl'd for earth's remotest strand,

Like children parting from a mother, shed

Tears for the home that could not yield them bread ;

Grief mark'd each face receding from the view,

'Twas grief to nature honourably true.

And long, poor wanderers o'er 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,
Your solid good with sorrow nursed in vain :
For has the heart no interest yet as bland
As that which binds us to our native land ?

368 LINES.

The deep-drawn wish, when children crown our hearth,

To hear the cherub-chorus of their mirth,

Undamped by dread that want may e'er unhouse,

Or servile misery knit those smiling brows :

The pride to rear an independent shed.

And give the lips we love unborrow'd bread :

To see a world, from shadowy forests won,

In youthful beauty wedded to the sun ;

To skirt our home with harvests widely sown,

And call the blooming landscape all our own, ^

Our children's heritage, in prospect long.

These are the hopes, high-minded hopes and strong,

That beckon England's wanderers o'er the brine

To realms where foreign constellations shine ;

Where streams from undiscover'd fountains roll.

And winds shall fan them from th' Antarctic pole.

And what though doom'd to shores so far apart

From England's home, that ev'n the homesick heart

Quails, thinking, ere that gulf can be recross'd.

How large a space of tleeting 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'har vest-home.

There, marking o'er his farm's expanding ring
New fleeces whiten and new fruits upspring.

LINES. 369

The gray-hair'd swain, his grand-child sporting round,

Shall walk at eve his little empire's bound,

Emblazed with ruby vintage, ripening corn.

And verdant rampart of acacian thorn.

While, mingling with the scent his pipe exhales,

The orange-grove's and fig-tree's breath prevails ;

Survey with pride beyond a monarch's spoil

His honest arm's own subjugated soil;

And, summing all the blessings God has given,

Put up his patriarchal prayer to Heaven

That, when his bones shall here repose in peace.

The scions of his love may still increase.

And o'er a land where life has ample room

In health and plenty innocently bloom.

Delightful land ! in wildness ev'n benign.

The glorious past is ours, the future thine !

As in a cradled Hercules, we trace

The lines of empire in thine infant face.

What nations in thy wide horizon's span

Shall teem on tracts untrodden yet by man !

What spacious cities with their spires shall gleam,

Where now the panther laps a lonely stream.

And all but brute or reptile life is dumb !

Land of the free! thy kingdom is to come.

Of states, with laws from Gothic bondage burst,

And creeds by charter'd priesthoods unaccurst :

370 LINES.

Of navies, hoisting their emblazon'd flags,

Where shipless seas now wash unbeacon'd crags ;

Of hosts review'd in dazzling files and squares,

Their pennon'd trumpets breathing native airs, —

For minstrels thou shalt have of native fire.

And maids to sing the songs themselves inspire : —

Our very speech, methinks, in after time.

Shall catch th' Ionian blandness of thy clime ;

And whilst the light and luxury of thy skies

Give brighter smiles to beauteous woman's eyes.

The Arts, whose soul is love, shall all spontaneous rise.

Untrack'd in deserts lies the marble mine,

Undug the ore that midst thy roofs shall shine ;

Unborn the hands — but born they are to be —

Fair Australasia, that shall give to thee

Proud temple-domes, with galleries winding high,

So vast in space, so just in symmetry.

They widen to the contemplating eye.

With colonnaded aisles in long array.

And windows that enrich the flood of day

O'er tesselated pavements, pictures fair.

And niched statues breathing golden air.

Nor there, whilst all that's seen bids Fancy swell.

Shall Music's voice refuse to seal the spell ;

But choral hymns shall wake enchantment round,

And organs yield their tempests of sweet sound.

LINES. 371

Meanwhile, ere Arts triumphant reach their goal,

How blest the years of pastoral life shall roll !

Ev'n should some wayward hour the settler's mind

Brood sad on scenes for ever left behind,

Yet not a pang that England's name imparts

Shall touch a fibre of his children's hearts ;

Bound to that native land by Nature's bond,

Full little shall their wishes rove beyond

Its mountains blue, and melon-skirted streams.

Since childhood loved and dreamt of in their dreams.

How many a name, to us uncouthly wild.

Shall thrill that region's patriotic child.

And bring as sweet thoughts o'er his bosom's chords

As aught that's named in song to us affords !

Dear shall that river's margin be to him,

Where sportive first he bathed his boyish limb,

Or petted birds, still brighter than their bowers.

Or twined his tame young kangaroo with flowers.

But more magnetic yet to memory

Shall be the sacred spot, still blooming nigh,

The bower of love, where first his bosom burn'd,

And smiling passion saw its smile return'd.

Go forth and prosper then, emprising band :
May He, who in the hollow of his hand
The ocean holds, and rules the whirlwind's sweep.
Assuage its wrath, and guide you on the deep !

LINES

ON THE VIEW FROM ST. LEONARD'S.

Hail to thy face and odours, glorious Sea!
'Twere thanklessness in me to bless thee not,
Great beauteous Being ! in whose breath and smile
My heart beats calmer, and my very mind
Inhales salubrious thoughts. How welcomer
Thy murmurs than the murmurs of the world !
Though like the world thou fluctuatest, thy din
To me is peace, thy restlessness repose.
Ev'n gladly I exchange yon spring-green lanes
With all the darling field-flowers in their prime.
And gardens haunted by the nightingale's
Long trills and gushing 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 savannahs — Earth has not a plain
So boundless or so beautiful as thine ;
The eagle's vision cannot take it in :

LINES. 373

The lightning's wing, too weak to sweep its pace,
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 landscapes are there lights and shades
Of more harmonious dance and play than thine.
How vividly this moment brightens forth,
Between gray p^irallel and leaden breadths,
A belt of hues that stripes thee many a league,
Flush'd like the rainbow, or the ringdove's neck,
And giving to the glancing sea-bird's wing
The semblance of a meteor.

Mighty Sea!
Cameleon-like thou changest, but there's love
In all thy change, and constant sympathy
With yonder Sky — thy Mistress ; from her brow
Thou tak'st thy moods and wear'st her colours on
Thy faithful bosom ; morning's milky white.
Noon's sapphire, or the saffron glow of eve ;
And all thy balmier hours, fair Element,
Have such divine^ complexion — crisped smiles.
Luxuriant heavings, and sweet whisperings.
That little is the wonder Love's own Queen
From thee of old was fabled to have sprung —
Creation's common ! which no human power
32

374 LINES.

Can parcel or inclose ; the lordliest floods

And cataracts that the tiny hands of man

Can tame, conduct, or bound, are drops of dew

To thee that could'st subdue the Earth itself,

And brook'st commandment from the heavens alone

For marshaling thy waves —

Yet, potent Sea!
How placidly thy moist lips speak ev'n now
Along yon sparkling shingles. Who can be
So fanciless as to feel no gratitude
That power and grandeur can be so serene,
Soothing the home-bound navy's peaceful way
And rocking ev'n the fisher's little bark
As gently as a mother rocks her child ?

The inhabitants of other worlds behold

Our orb more lucid for thy spacious share

On earth's rotundity; and is he not

A blind worm in the dust, great Deep, the man

Who sees not or who seeing has no joy

In thy magnificence ? What though thou art

Unconscious and material, thou canst reach

The inmost immaterial mind's recess,

And with thy tints and motion stir its chords

To music, like the light on Memnon's lyre !

The Spirit of the Universe in thee
Is visible ; thou hast in thee the life —
The eternal, graceful and majestic life

LINES. 375

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 pain'd and panting steeds and clouds of dust
Has no sight-gladdening motion like these fair
Careerers with the foam beneath their bows,
Whose streaming ensigns charm the waves by day.
Whose carols and whose watch-bells cheer the night,
Moor'd as they cast the shadows of their masts
In long array, or hither flit and yond
Mysteriously with slow and crossing lights.
Like spirits on the darkness of the deep.

There is a magnet-like attraction in
These waters to the imaginative power
That links the viewless with the visible,
And pictures things unseen. To realms beyond
Yon highway of the world my fancy flies.
When by her tall and triple mast we know
Some noble voyager that has to woo
The trade- winds and to stem the ecliptic surge.
• The coral groves — the shores of conch and pearl.
Where she will cast her anchor and reflect
Her cabin- window lights on warmer waves,

376 LINES.

And under planets brighter than our own :
The nights of palmy isles, that she will see
Lit boundless by the fire-fly — all the smells
Of tropic fruits that will regale her — all
The pomp of nature, and the inspiriting
Varieties of life she has to greet.
Come swarming o'er the meditative mind.

True, to the dream of Fancy, Ocean has

His darker tints ; but where's the element

That chequers not its usefulness to man

With casual terror ? Scathes not Earth sometimes

Her children with Tartarean fires, or shakes

Their shrieking cities, and, with one last clang

Of bells for their own ruin, strews them flat

As riddled ashes — silent as the grave ?

Walks not Contagion on the Air itself?

I should — old Ocean's Saturnalian days

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 fever'd climes.

And here the Spring dips down her emerald urn

For showers to glad the earth.

LINES. 377

Old Ocean was
Infinity of ages ere we breathed
Existence — and he will be beautiful
When all the living world that sees him now
Shall roll unconscious dust around the sun.
Quelling from age to age the vital throb
In human hearts, Death shall not subjugate
The pulse that swells in his stupendous breast,
Or interdict his minstrelsy to sound
In thundering concert with the quiring winds ;
But long as Man to parent Nature owns
Instinctive homage, and in times beyond
The power of thought to reach, bard after bard
Shall sing thy glory. Beatific Sea.

32*

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 perch'd

Higher than human conqueror ever built

His banner'd fort. "Where Atlas' top looks o'er

Zahara's desert to the equator's line :

From thence the winged despot mark'd his prey.

Above th' encampments of the Bedouins, ere

Their watchfires were extinct, or camels knelt

To take their loads, or horsemen scour'd the plain,

And there he dried his feathers in the dawn,

Whilst yet the unwaken'd world was dark below.

There's such a charm in natural strength and power.

That human fancy has for ever paid

Poetic homage to the bird of Jove.

Hence, 'neath his image, Rome array'd her turms

THE DEAD EAGLE. 379

And cohorts for the conquest of the world.

And figuring his flight, the mind is fill'd

With thoughts that mock the pride of wingless man.

True the carr'd aeronaut can mount as high ;

But what's the triumph of his volant art?

A rash intrusion on the realms of air.

His hemless 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 cufl''d it wdth his wings. He stopp'd his flight

As easily as the Arab reins his steed,

And stood at pleasure 'neath Heaven's zenith, like

A lamp suspended from its azure dome.

Whilst underneath him the world's mountains lay

Like molehills, and her streams like lucid threads.

Then downward, faster than a falling star,

He near'd the earth, until his shape distinct

Was blackly shadow'd on the sunny ground ;

And deeper terror hush'd the wilderness,

To hear his nearer whoop. Then, up again

He soar'd and wheel'd. There was an air of scorn

In all his movements, whether he threw round

His crested head to look behind him ; or

Lay vertical and sportively display'd

The inside whiteness of his wing declined,

380 THE DEAD EAGLE.

In gyres and undulations full of grace,
An object beautifying Heaven itself.

He — reckless who was victor, and above

The hearing of their guns — saw fleets engaged

In flaming combat. It was nought to him

What carnage, Moor or Christian, strew'd their decks.

But if his intellect had match'd his wings,

Methinks he would have scorn'd man's vaunted power

To plough the deep ; his pinions bore him down

To Algiers the warlike, or the coral groves,

That blush beneath the green of Bona's waves ;

And traversed in an hour a wider space

Than yonder gallant ship, with all her sails

Wooing the winds, can cross from morn till eve.

His bright eyes were his compass, earth his chart,

His talons anchor'd on the stormiest cliff",

And on the very light-house rock he perch'd.

When winds churn'd white the waves.

The earthquake's self
Disturb'd not him that memorable day,
When, o'er yon table-land, where Spain had built
Cathedrals, cannon'd forts, and palaces,
A palsy-stroke of Nature shook Oran,
Turning her city to a sepulchre.
And strewing into rubbish all her homes ;

THE DEAD EAGLE. 381

Amidst whose traceable foundations now,
Of streets and squares, the hysena hides himself.
That hour beheld him fly as careless o'er
The stifled shrieks of thousands buried quick.
As lately when he pounced the speckled snake,
Coil'd in yon mallows and wide nettle fields
That mantle o'er the dead old Spanish town.

Strange is the imagination's dread delight

In objects link'd with danger, death, and pain!

Fresh from the luxuries of polish'd life

The echo of these wilds enchanted me ;

And my heart beat with joy when I first heard

A lion's roar come down the Lybian wind.

Across yon long, wide, lonely inland lake.

Where boat ne'er sails from homeless shore to shore.

And yet Numidia's landscape has its spots

Of pastoral pleasantness — though far between.

The village planted near the Maraboot's

Round roof has aye its feathery palm trees

Pair'd, for in solitude they bear no fruits.

Here nature's hues all harmonize — fields white

With alasum, or blue with buglos — banks

Of glossy fennel, blent with tulips wild,

And sunflowers, like a garment prankt with gold ;

Acres and miles of opal asphodel,

Where sports and couches the black-eyed gazelle.

382 TO A YOUNG LADY.

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.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

WHO ASKED ME TO WRITE SOINIETHING ORIGINAL FOR HER
ALBUM.

An original something, fair maid, you would win me
To write — but how shall I begin ?
For I fear I have nothing original in me —
Excepting Original Sin.

CHAUCER AND WINDSOR.

Long shalt thou flourish, Windsor! bodying forth

Chivalric times, and long shall lire around

Thy Castle — the old oaks of British birth.

Whose gnarled roots, tenacious and profound,

As with a lion's talons grasp the ground.

But should thy towers in ivied ruin rot,

There's one, thine inmate once, whose strain renown'd

Would interdict thy name to be forgot;

For Chaucer loved thy bowers and trode this very spot,

Chaucer ! our Helicon's first fountain-stream.

Our morning star of song — that led the way

To welcome the long-after coming beam

Of Spenser's light and Shakspeare's perfect day.

Old England's fathers live in Chaucer's lay,

As if they ne'er had died. He group'd and drew

Their likeness with a spirit of life so gay.

That still they live and breathe in Fancy's view.

Fresh beings fraught with truth's imperishable hue.

LINES

SUGGESTED BY THE STATUE OF ARNOLD VON WINKELRIED*

STANZ-UNDERW ALDEN

Inspiring and romantic Switzers' land,
Though mark'd with majesty by Nature's hand,
What charm ennobles most thy landscape's face ? —
Th' heroic memory of thy native race —
Who forced tyrannic hosts to bleed or flee,
And made their rocks the ramparts of the free ;
Their fastnesses roU'd back th' invading tide
Of conquest, and their mountains taught them pride.
Hence they have patriot names — in fancy's eye,
Bright as their glaciers glittering in the sky ;
Patriots who make the pageantries of kings
Like shadows seem and unsubstantial things.
Their guiltless glory mocks oblivion's rust.
Imperishable, for their cause was just.

* For an account of this patriotic Swiss and his heroic death at the battle of
Sempach, see Dr. Beattie's " Switzerland Illustrated," vol. ii., pp. Ill — 115. See also
Note at the end of this Volunne.

LINES. 385

Heroes of old ! to ■whom the Nine have strung
Their lyres, and spirit-stirring anthems sung ;
Heroes of chivalry! whose banners grace
The aisles of many a consecrated place,
Confess how few of you can match in fame
The martyr Winkelried's immortal name !

33

LINES

WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF LA PEROUSE'S VOYAGES.

Loved Voyager! his pages had a zest
More sweet than fiction to my wondering breast,
When rapt in fancy, many a boyish day
I track'd his wanderings o'er the watery way,
Roam'd round the Aleutian isles in waking dreams,
Or pluck'd the jieur~de-lys by Jesso's streams —
Or gladly leap'd on that far Tartar strand,
Where Europe's anchor ne'er had bit the sand,
Where scarce a roving wild tribe cross'd the plain,
Or human voice broke nature's silent reign ;
But vast and grassy deserts feed the bear.
And sweeping deer-herds dread no hunter's snare.
Such young delight his real records brought.
His truth so touch'd romantic springs of thought,
That all my after-life — his fate and fame
Entwined romance with La Perouse's name. —
Fair were his ships, expert his gallant crews,
And glorious was th' emprise of La Perouse, —
Humanely glorious ! Men will weep for him,
When many a guilty martial fame is dim :

LINES. 387

He plough'd the deep to bind no captive's chain —

Pursued no rapine — strew'd no wreck with slain ;

And, save that in the deep themselves lie low,

His heroes pluck'd no wreath from human woe.

'Twas his the earth's remotest bound to scan,

Conciliating with gifts barbaric man —

Enrich the world's cotemporaneous mind.

And amplify the picture of mankind.

Far on the vast Pacific — 'midst those isles.

O'er which the earliest morn of Asia smiles.

He sounded and gave charts to many a shore

And gulf of Ocean new to nautic lore ;

Yet he that led Discovery o'er the wave.

Still fills himself an undiscover'd grave.

He came not back, — Conjecture's cheek grew pale.

Year after year — in no propitious gale.

His lilied banner held its homeward way.

And Science sadden'd at her martyr's stay.

An age elapsed — no wreck told where or when
The chief went down with all his gallant men.
Or whether by the storm and wild sea flood
He perish'd, or by w^ilder men of blood —
The shuddering Fancy only guess'd his doom,
And Doubt to Sorrow gave but deeper gloom.
An age elapsed — when men were dead or gray,
Whose hearts had mourn'd him in their youthful day ;

388 LINES.

Fame traced on Mannicolo's shore at last,

The boiling surge had mounted o'er his mast.

The islemen told of some surviving men,

But Christian eyes beheld them ne'er again.

Sad bourne of all his toils — with all his band —

To sleep, wreck'd, shroudless, on a savage strand! —

Yet what is all that fires a hero's scorn

Of death? — ^the hope to live in hearts unborn:

Life to the brave is not its fleeting breath,

But worth — foretasting fame, that follows death.

That worth had La Perouse — that meed he won ;

He sleeps — his life's long stormy watch is done.

In the great deep, whose boundaries and space

He measured, Fate ordain'd his resting-place ;

But bade his fame, like th' Ocean rolling o'er

His relics — visit every earthly shore.

Fair Science on that Ocean's azure robe

Still writes his name in picturing the globe,

And paints — (what fairer wreath could glory twine ?)

His watery course — a world-encircling line.

FRAGMENT OF AN ORATORIO,

FROM THE BOOK OF JOB.

Having met my illustrious friend the Composer Neukomm, at Algiers, several
years ago, I commenced this intended Oratorio at his desire, but he left the place
before I proceeded farther in the poem ; and it has been thus left unfinished.

Crushed by misfortune's yoke,
Job lamentably spoke —
*' My boundless curse be on
The day that I was born ;
Quench'd be the star that shone
Upon my natal morn.
In the grave I long
To shroud ray breast ;
Where the wicked cease to wrong,
And the weary are at rest."
Then Eliphaz rebuked his wild despair :
" What Heaven ordains, 'tis meet that man should bear.
Lately, at midnight drear,
A vision shook my bones with fear ;
A spirit pass'd before my face,
And yet its form I could not trace ;
It stopp'd — it stood — it chill'd my blood,

33*

390 FRAGMENT OF AN ORATORIO.

The hair upon my flesh uprose

With freezing dread !

Deep silence reign'd, and, at its close,

I heard a voice that said —

' Shall mortal man be more pure and just

Than God, who made him from the dust ?

Hast thou not learnt of old, how fleet

Is the triumph of the hypocrite ;

How soon the wreath of joy grows wan

On the brow of the ungodly man ?

By the fire of his conscience he perisheth

In an unblown flame :

The Earth demands his death.

And the Heavens reveal his shame.' "

Is this your consolation ?

Is it thus that ye condole

With the depth of my desolation.

And the anguish of my soul ?

But I will not cease to wail

The bitterness of my bale. —

Man that is born of woman,

Short and evil is his hour ;

He fleeth like a shadow,

He fadeth like a flower.

My days are pass'd — my hope and trust

Is but to moulder in the dust.

FRAGMENT OF AN ORATORIO. 391

CHORUS.

Bow, mortal, bow, before thy God,

Nor murmur at his chastening rod ;

Fragile being of earthly clay.

Think on God's eternal sway !

Hark ! from the whirlwind forth

Thy Maker speaks — " Thou child of earth,

Where wert thou when I laid

"Creation's corner-stone ?

When the sons of God rejoicing made.

And the morning stars together sang and shone ?

Hadst thou power to bid above

Heaven's constellations glow ;

Or shape the forms that live and move

On Nature's face below ?

Hast thou given the horse his strength and pride ?

He paws the valley with nostril wide.

He smells far off the battle ;

He neighs at the trumpet's sound —

And his speed devours the ground.

As he sweeps to where the quivers rattle,

And the spear and shield shine bright,

'Midst the shouting of the captains

And the thunder of the fight.

TRANSLATIONS,

ETC. ETC.

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 oh! what ills await the wretch that yields,

A recreant outcast from his country's fields !

The mother whom he loves shall quit her home.

An aged father at his side shall roam ;

His little ones shall weeping with him go.

And a young wife participate his woe ;

While scorn'd and scowl'd upon by every face.

They pine for food, and beg from place to place.

Stain of his breed! dishonouring manhood's form,
All ills shall cleave to him : — Affliction's storm
Shall blind him wandering in the vale of years,
Till, lost to all but ignominious fears,
He shall not blush to leave a recreant's name,
And children, like himself, inured to shame.

396 TRANSLATIONS.

But we will combat for our fathers' land,
And we will drain the life-blood where we stand,
To save our children : — fight ye side by side,
And serried close, ye men of youthful pride,
Disdaining fear, and deeming light the cost
Of life itself in glorious battle lost.

Leave not our sires to stem th' 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 unblessM)
To welter in the combat's foremost thrust,
His hoary head dishevel'd in the dust,
And venerable bosom bleeding bare.

But youth's fair form, though fallen, is ever fair,
And beautiful in death the boy appears.
The hero boy, that dies in blooming years :
In man's regret he lives, and woman's tears.
More sacred than in life, and lovelier far.
For having perish'd in the front of war.

TRANSLATIONS. 397

SONG OF HYBKIAS THE CRETAN.

My wealth's a burly spear and brand,
And a right good shield of hides untann'd,

Which on my arm I buckle :
With these I plough, I reap, I sow.
With these I make the sweet vintage flow.

And all around me truckle.

But your wights that take no pride to wield
A massy spear and well-made shield,

Nor joy to draw the sword :
Oh, I bring those heartless, hapless drones,
Down in a trice on their marrow-bones,

To call me King and Lord.

FRAGMENT.

PROM THE GREEK OF ALCMAN.

The mountain summits sleep : glens, clifTs, 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 hush'd that stretch'd its pinions to the day.
34

398 TRANSLATIONS.

SPECIMENS OF TRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA.

2xatouj Ss Xsywv, xovSiv -ft aofovs

Tovi fipoaOs jSpoforj ovx av ajxap-toii.

Medea, v. 194, p. 33, Glasg. edit.

Tell me, ye bards, whose skill sublime
First charm'd the ear of youthful Time,
With numbers wrapt in heavenly fire,
Who bade delighted Echo swell
The trembling transports of the lyre.
The murmur of the shell —
Why to the burst of Joy alone
Accords sweet Music's soothing tone "^
Why can no bard, with magic strain,
In slumbers steep the heart of pain .''
While varied tones obey your sweep.
The mild, the plaintive, and the deep,
Bends not despairing Grief to hear
Your golden lute, with ravish'd ear?
Has all your art no power to bind
The fiercer pangs that shake the mind.
And lull the wrath at whose command
Murder bares her gory hand ?
When flush'd with joy, the rosy throng
Weave the light dance, ye swell the song!

TRANSLATIONS. 399

Cease, ye vain warblers! cease to charm!
The breast with other raptures warm !
Cease! till your hand with magic strain
In slumbers steep the heart of pain!

SPEECH OF THE CHORUS,
IN THE SAME TRAGEDY,

TO DISSUADE MEDEA FROM HER PURPOSE OF PUTTING HER CHILDREN TO DEATH, AND
FLYING FOR PROTECTION TO ATHENS.

0 HAGGARD quecH ! to Athens dost thou guide
Thy glowing chariot, steep'd in kindred gore ;

Or seek to hide thy foul infanticide

Where Peace and Mercy dwell for evermore ?

4

The land where Truth, pure, precious, and sublime,
Woos the deep silence of sequester'd bowers,

And warriors, matchless since the first of time,

Rear their bright banners o'er unconquer'd towers!

Where joyous youth, to Music's mellow strain.
Twines in the dance with nymphs for ever fair.

While Spring eternal on the lilied plain

Waves amber radiance through the fields of air!

The tuneful Nine (so sacred legends tell)

First waked their heavenly lyre these scenes among ;

.400 TRANSLATIONS.

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 polish'd brow !

ANTISTROPHE I.

Where silent vales, and glades of green array,

The murmuring wreaths of cool Cephisus lave.
There, as the muse hath sung, at noon of day,
■ The Queen of Beauty bow'd to taste the wave ;

And bless'd the stream, and breath'd across the land
The soft sweet gale that fans yon summer bowers ;

And there the sister Loves, a smiling band,

Crown'd with the fragrant wreaths of rosy flowers!

"And go," she cries, "in yonder valleys rove.
With Beauty's torch the solemn scenes illume ;

Wake in each eye the radiant light of Love,
Breathe on each cheek young Passion's tender bloom!

Entwine, with myrtle chains, your soft control.
To sway the hearts of Freedom's darling kind !

With glowing charms enrapture Wisdom's soul,
And mould to grace ethereal Virtue's mind."

TRANSLATIONS. 401

STKOPHE II.

The land where Heaven's own hallow'd waters play,
Where friendship binds the generous and the good,

Say, shall it hail thee from thy frantic way,
Unholy woman ! with thy hands embrued

In thine own children's gore ? Oh! ere they bleed,
Let Nature's voice thy ruthless heart appal!

Pause at the bold, irrevocable deed —

The mother strikes — the guiltless babes shall fall !

Think what remorse thy maddening thoughts shall sting.
When dying pangs their gentle bosoms tear !

Where shalt thou sink, when lingering echoes ring
The screams of horror in thy tortured ear ?

No ! let thy bosom melt to Pity's cry —

In dust we kneel — by sacred Heaven implore —

0 ! stop thy lifted arm, ere yet they die,
Nor dip thy horrid hands in infant gore !

ANTISTKOPHE II.

Say, how shalt thou that barbarous soul assume,
Undamp'd by horror at the daring plan ?

Hast thou a heart to work thy children's doom .'
Or hands to finish what thy wrath began.''

When o'er each babe you look a last adieu.
And gaze on Innocence that smiles asleep,
34*

402 TRANSLATIONS.

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, —

Aye! thou shalt melt; — and many a heart- shed tear
Gush o'er the harden'd 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, undrench'd in blood's eternal dye.

Hallow'd Earth ! with indignation
Mark, oh mark, the murderous deed !

Radiant eye of wide creation.
Watch th' accurs'd infanticide !

Yet, ere Colchia's rugged daughter

Perpetrate the dire design.
And consign to kindred slaughter

Children of thy golden line !

Shall mortal hand, with murder gory.
Cause immortal blood to flow!

Sun of Heaven! — array'd in glory
Rise, forbid, avert the blow !

TRANSLATIONS. 403

In the vales of placid gladness

Let no rueful maniac range ;
Chase afar the fiend of Madness,

Wrest the dagger from Revenge !

Say, hast thou, with kind protection,

Rear'd thy smiling race in vain ;
Fostering Nature's fond affection,

Tender cares, and pleasing pain ?

Hast thou, on the troubled ocean.
Braved the tempest loud and strong,

Where the waves, in wild commotion.
Roar Cyanean rocks among?

Didst thou roam the paths of danger,

Hymenean joys to prove?
Spare, 0 sanguinary stranger.

Pledges of thy sacred love !

Ask not Heaven's commiseration.

After thou hast done the deed ;
Mercy, pardon, expiation.

Perish when thy victims bleed.

NOTES.

THE PLEASURES OF HOPE.

Page 30.
And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore
The hardy Byron to his native shore —

The following picture of his own distress, given by Bykon in his simple and
interesting narrative, justifies the description in page 30.

After relating the barbarity of the Indian cacique to his child, he proceeds thus :
" A day or two after we put to sea again, and crossed the great bay I mentioned
we had been at the bottom of when we first hauled away to the westward. The
land here was very low and sandy, and something like the mouth of a river whicla
discharged itself into the sea, and which had been taken no notice of by us before,
as it was so shallow that the Indians were obliged to take every thing out of theii-
canoes, and carry them over land. We rowed up the river four or five leagues, and
then took into a branch of it that ran first to the eastward, and tlien to the north-
ward : here it became much narrower, and the stream excessively rapid, so that we
gained but little way, though we wrought very hard. At night we landed upon its
banks, and had a most uncomfortable lodging, it being a perfect swamp, and we
had nothing to cover us, though it rained excessively. The Indians were little bet-
ter off than we, as there was no wood here to make their wigwams ; so all they
could do was to prop up the bark, which they carry in the bottom of their canoes,
and shelter themselves as well as they could to the leeward of it. Knowing the
difficulties they had to encounter here, they had provided themselves with some
seal J but we had not a morsel to eat, after the heavy fatigues of the daj', excepting
a sort of root we saw the Indians make use of, which was very disagreeable to the-
taste. We laboured all next day against the, stream, and fared as we had done thf
day before. The next day brought us to the carrying-place. Here was plenty of
wood, but nothing to be got for sustenance. We passed the night as we had fre-
quently done, under a tree ; but wliat we suffered at this time is not easy to be ex-
pressed. I had been three days at the oar without any kind of nourishment except
the wretched root above mentioned. I had no shirt, for it had rotted off by bits. All
my clothes consisted of a short grieko (something like a bear-skin), a piece of red
cloth which had once been a waistcoat, and a ragged pair of trowsers, without
shoes or stockings."

Page 31.

a Briton and a friend .'

Don Patricio Gedd, a Scotch physician in one of the Spanish settlements, hospi-
tably relieved Byron and his wretched associates, of which the commodore speaks
in the warmest terms of gratitude.

406 NOTES.

Page 32.
Or yield the lyre of Heaven another string.
The seven strings of Apollo's harp were the symbolical representation of the
seven planets. Herscliel, by discovering an eighth, might be said to add another
string to the instrument.

Page .32.

The Sicedish-mge.
Linnaeus.

Page 33.
Deep from his vaults the Loxian murmurs flovj,
Loxias is the name frequently given to Apollo by Greek writers: it is met with
more than once in the ChoephoriB of -SIschylus.

Page 34.
Unlocks a generous store at thy command,
Like Horel^s rocks beneath the prophet's hand.
See Exodus, chap. xvii. 3, 5, 0.

Page 39.
Wild Obi flies—
Among the negroes of the West Indies, Obi, or Orbiah, is the name of a magical
power, which is believed by them to affect the object of its malignity with dismal
calamities. Such a belief must undoubtedly have been deduced from the supersti-
tious mythology of their kinsmen on the coast of Africa. I have, therefore, personi-
fied Obi as the evil spirit of the African, although the history of the African tribes
mentions the evil spirit of their religious creed by a different appellation.

, Page 39.

Sibifs 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 40.
Presaging wrath to Poland — and to man !
The history of the partition of Poland, of the massacre in the suburbs of Warsaw,
and on the bridge of Prague, the triumphant entry of Suwarrow into the Polish
capital, and the insult offered to human nature, by the blasphemous thanks offered
up to Heaven, for victories obtained over men fighting in the sacred cause of libert>',
by murderers and oppressors, are events generally known.

Page 4^.

The shrill horn bleio ;
The negroes of the West Indies are summoned to their morning work by a shell
or horn.

Page 4G.
How long was Timour'^s iron sceptre swayed.
To elucidate this passage, I shall subjoin a quotation from the preface to Letters
from a Hindoo Rajah, a work of elegance and celebrity.

NOTES. 407

'• The impostor of Mecca had established, as one of the principles of his doctrine,
the merit of extending it either by persuasion, or the sword, to all parts of tlie earth.
How steadily this injunction was adhered to by his followers, and with what suc-
cess 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 course to the flourishing provinces
of Hindostan. Here these fierce and hardy adventurers, whose only improvement
had been in the science of destruction, who added the fury of fanaticism to the
ravages of war, found the great end of their conquest opposed by objects which
neither the ardour of their persevering zeal, nor savage barbarity, could surmount.
Multitudes were sacrificed by the cruel hand of religious persecution, and whole
countries were deluged in blood, in the vain hope, that by the destruction of a part
the remainder might be persuaded, or terrified, into the profession of Mahomedism.
But all these sanguinary efforts were ineffectual ; and at length, being fully con-
vinced that, though they might extirpate, they could never hope to convert, any
number of the Hindoos, they relinquished the impracticable idea with which they
had entered upon their career of conquest, and contented themselves with the
acquirement of the civil dominion and almost luiiversal empire of Hindostan." —
Letters from a Hindoo Rajah, by Eliza Hamilton.

Page 47.
And braved the stormy Spirit of the Cape;
See the description of the Cape of Good Hope, translated from Camoens, by

MiCKLE.

Page 47.
While famish' d 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 pro-
ceeds thus: — " Money in this current came but hydrops; it could not quench the
thirst of those who waited in India to receive it. An expedient, such as it was,
remained to quicken its pace. The natives could live with little salt, but could not
want food. Some of the agents saw themselves well situated for collecting the rice
into stores ; they did so. They knew the Gentoos would rather die than violate the
principles of their religion by eating flesh. The alternative would therefore be
between giving what they had, or dying. The inhabitants sunk; — they that culti-
vated 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,^. 145.

Page 4S.

Nine times have Brama^s wheels of lightning hurVd

His awful presence okr the alarmed world;

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

408 NOTES.

Iwrse, to cut off all incorrigible offenders. Avatar is the word used to express his
descent.

Page 48.
Shall Seriswatlee wave her hallotvH ivand!
And Camdeo bright, and Ganesa sublime,
Camdeo is the God of Love in the mythology of the Hindoos. Ganesa and Seris-
wattee correspond to the pagan deities, Jajius and Minerva.

Page 53.

Tlie noon of manhood to a myrtle shade .' —

Sacred to Venus is the myrtle shade. — Dryden.

Page 56.
Till) woes, Arion!
Falconer, in his poem, "The Shipwreck," speaks of himself by the name of Arion.
See Falconer's " Shipwreck," Canto III.

Page 56.
Tlie robber Moor,
See Schiller's tragedy of " The Robbers," Scene v.

Page 57.
Wliat millions died — that Cccsar might be great!
The carnage occasioned by the wars of Julius Ccesar, has been usually estimated
at two millions of men.

Page 57.

Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore,

Marched by their Charles to Dneipefs swampy shore;

" In this extremity," (says the biographer of Charles XII. of Sweden, speaking of

his military exploits before the battle of Pultowa,) " the memorable winter of 1709,

which was still more remarkable in that part of Europe than in France, destroyed

niunbers of his troops ; for Charles resolved to brave the seasons as he had done his

enemies, and ventured to make long marches during this mortal cold. It was in one

of these marches that two thousand men fell down dead with cold before his eyes."

Page 58.

For, as Iona''s saint,

The natives of the island of lona have an opinion, that on certain evenings every

year, the tutelary saint Columba is seen on the top of the church spires counting the

surrounding islands, to see that they have not been sunk by the power of witchcraft.

Page 59.
And part, like Ajut — never to return!
See the history of Ajut and Anningait, in "The Rambler."

NOTES, 4091

GERTRUDE OF AVYOMING.
Page 72.

From merry 7nock-bird''s song,

The mocking-bird is of tlie form of, but larger than, the thrush ; and the colours
are a mixture of black, white and gray. What is said of the nightingale by its
greatest admirers is what may -with more propriety apply to this bird, who, in a
natural state, sings with very superior taste. Towards evening I have heard one
begin softly, reserving its breath to swell certain notes, which, by this means, had
a most astonishing effect. A gentleman in London liad one of these birds for six
years. During tlie space of a minute he was heard to imitate the woodlark, chaf-
finch, blackbird, thrush, and .sparrow. In this country (America) I have frequently
known the mocking-birds so engaged in this mimicry, that it was with much
difficulty I could ever obtain an opportunity of hearing their own natural note.
Some go so far as to say, that they have neither peculiar notes, nor favourite imita-
tions. This may be denied. Their few natural notes resemble those of the
(European) nightingale. Their song, however, has a greater compass and volume
than the nightingale's, and they have the faculty of varying all intermediate notes
in a manner which is truly delightful. — Ashe's Travels in Anierica, vol. ii. p. 73.

Page 73.
And distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan roar !
The Corybrechtan, or Corbrechtan, is a whirlpool on the western coast of Scotland,
near the island of Jura, which is heard at a prodigious distance. Its name signifies
the whirlpool of the Prince of Denmark ; and there is a tradition that a Danish
prince once undertook, for a wager, to cast anchor in it. He is said to have used
woollen instead of hempen ropes, for greater strength, but perished in the attempt.
On the shores of Argyleshire. I have often listened with great delight to the sound
of this vortex, at the distance of many leagues. When the weather is calm, and the
adjacent sea scarcely heard on these picturesque shores, its sound, which is like the
sound of innumerable chariots, creates a magnificent and fine effect.

Page 76.
Ofhuslcin''d limb, and svarthy lineament;
In the Indian tribes there is a great similarity in their colour, stature, &c. They
are all, except the Snake Indians, tall in stature, straight and robust. It is very
seldom they are deformed, which has given rise to the supposition that they put to
death their deformed children. Their skin is of a copper colour ; their eyes large,
bright, black and sparkling, indicative of a subtle, and discerning mmd : their hair
is of the same colour, and prone to be long, seldom or never curled. Their teeth
are large and white j I never observed any decayed among them, which makes
tlieir breath as sweet as the air they inhale. — Travels through America by Captains
Lewis and Clarke, in 1804-5-6.

Page 76.
" Peace be to thee .' my words th is belt approve ;
Tlie Indians of North America accompany every formal address to strangers,
with whom they form or recognize a treaty of amity, with a present of a string, or
belt of wampum. Wampum (says Cadwaliader Golden) is made of the large whelk
shell, buccimim, and shaped like long beads : it is the current money of the Indians.
— History of the Five Indian Nations, p. 34. New York edition.

35

410 NOTES.

Page 76.
The paths of peace my steps have hither led:
In relating an interview of Mohawk Indians with the Governor of New York,
Golden quotes the following passage as a specimen of their metaphorical manner:
''Where shall I seek the chair of peace ? Where shall I find it but upon our path ?
and whither doth our path lead us but unto this house V [It is a defect of this fine
poem, that Mr. Campbell did not. in the speeches of Outalissi, imitate more closely
the usual poetical manner of the Indian sachems.]

Page 77.
Our wampum league thy brethren did embrace:
When they solicit the alliance, offensive or defensive, of a whole nation, they
send an embassy with a large belt of wampum and a bloody hatchet, inviting them
to come and drink the blood of their enemies. The vi'ampum made use of on these
and other occasions, before their acquaintance with the Europeans, was nothing
but small shells which they picked up by the sea-coasts, and on the banks of the
lakes; and now it is nothing but a kind of cylindrical beads, made of shells, white
and black, which are esteemed among them as silver and gold are among us. The
black they call the most valuable, and both together are their greatest riches and
ornaments ; these among them answering all the end that money does amongst tis.
They have the art of stringing, twisting, and interweaving them in their belts,
collars, blankets, and mocasins, &c. in ten thousand different sizes, forms, and
figures, so as to be ornaments for every part of dress, and expressive to them of all
their important transactions. They dye the wampum of various colours and shades,
and mix and dispose them with great ingenuity and order, and so as to be signifi-
cant among themselves of almost every thing they please ; so that by these their
words are kept, and their thoughts communicated to one another, as ours are by
writing. The belts that pass from one nation to another in all treaties, declara-
tions, and important transactions, are very carefully preserved in the cabins of their
chiefs, and serve not only as a kindof record or history, but as a public treasure. —
Major Eogers's Account of North America.

Page 78.
As when the evil Manitou ' — —

It is certain the Indians acknowledge one Supreme Being, or Giver of Life, who
presides over all things; that is, the Great Spirit, and they look up to him as the
source of good, from whence no evil can proceed. They also believe in a bad Spirit^
to whom they ascribe great power: and suppose tliat through his power all the evils
which befall mankind tfre inflicted. To him, therefore, they pray in their dis-
tresses, begging that he would either avert their troubles, or moderate them when
they are no longer avoidable.

They hold also that there are good Spirits of a lower degree, who have their par-
ticular departments, in which they are constantly contributing to the happiness of
mortals. These they suppose to preside over all the extraordinary productions of
Nature, such as those lakes, rivers, and mountains that are of an uncommon mag-
nitude ; and likewise the beasts, birds, fishes, and even vegetables or stones, that
exceed the rest of their species in size or singularity. — Clarke's Travels among the
Indians.

The Supreme Spirit of Good is called by the Indians, Kitchi Manitou; and the
Spirit of Evil, Matciii Manitou.

NOTES. 411

Page 78.
Of fever-balm and sweet sagamiti :
The fever-balm is a medicine used by these tribes; it is a decoction of a bush
called the Fever Tree. Sagamit6 is a kind of soup administered to their sick.

Page 79.
And I, the eagle of^ny tribe, have rushed
With this lorn dove.
The testimony of all travellers among the American Indians who mention their
liieroglyphics, authorizes me in putting this figurative language m the mouth of
Outalissi. The dove is among them, as elsewhere, an emblem of meekness ; and
the eagle, that of a bold, noble and liberal mind. When the Indians speak of u
warrior who soars above the multitude in person and endowments, they say, " he
is like the eagle, who destroys his enemies, and gives protection and abundance to
the weak of his own tribe."

Page 80.
Far differently, the mute Oneyda took, &;■€.

They are extremely circumspect and deliberate in every word and action; no-
thing hurries them into any intemperate wrath, but that inveteracy to their enemies
which is rooted in every Indian's breast. In all other instances they are cool and
deliberate, taking care to suppress the emotions of the heart. If an Indian has
discovered'that a friend of his is in danger of being cut off by a lurking enemy, he
does not tell him of his danger in direct terms as though he were in fear, but he
first coolly asks him which way he is going that day, and having his answer, with
the same indifference tells him that he has been informed that a noxious beast lies
on the route he is going. This hint proves sufficient, and his friend avoids the dan-
ger with as much caution as though every design and motion of his enemy had been
pointed out to him.

If an Indian has been engaged for several days in the chase, and by accident con-
tinued long without food, when he arrives at the hut of a friend, where he knows
that his wants will be immediately supplied, he takes care not to show the least
symptoms of impatience, or betray the extreme hunger that he is tortured with ;
but on being invited in, sits conteiu^dly down, and smokes his pipe with as much
composure as if his appetite w^as cloyed and he was perfectly at ease. He does the
same if among strangers. This custom is strictly adhered to by every tribe, as they
esteem it a proof of fortitude, and think the reverse would entitle them to the appel-
lation of old women.

If you tell an Indian that his children have greatly signalized themselves against
an enemy, have taken many scalps, and brought home many prisoners, he does not
appear to feel any strong emotions of pleasure on the occasion; his answer gene-
rally is, — " They have done well," and he makes but very little inquiry about the
matter; on the contrary, if you inform him that his children are slain or taken pri-
soners, he makes no complaints; he only replies, "It is unfortunate :" and for some
time asks no questions about how it happened. — Lewis and darkens Travels

Page SO.
His calumet of peace, Sfc.

Nor is the calumet of less importance or less revered than the wampum in many
tr..-eQf>t;nns rplBtive both to peace and war. The bowl of this pipe is made of a

412 NOTES.

kiiitl of soft red stone, which is easily wrought and hollowed out; the stem' is o{
cane, alder, or some kind of light wood, painted with different colours, and deco-
rated with the heads, tails and feathers of the most beautiful birds. The use of the
calumet is to smoke either tobacco or some bark, leaf, or herb, which they often use
instead of it, when they enter into an alliance on any serious occasion, or solemn
engagements ; this being among them the most sacred oath that can be taken, the
violation of which is esteemed most infamous, and deserving of severe punishment
from Heaven. When they treat of war, the whole pipe and alUts ornaments are
red ; sometimes it is red only on one side, and by the disposition of the feathers, &c.,
one acquainted with their customs will know at first sight what the nation who
presents it intends or desires. Smoking the calumet is also a religious ceremony
on some occasions, and in all treaties is considered as a witness between the par-
ties, or rather as an instrument by which they invoke the sun and moon to witness
their sincerity, and to be as it were a guarantee of the treaty between them. This
custom of the Indians, though to appearance somewhat ridiculous, is not without its
reasons ; for as they find that smoking tends to disperse the vapours of the brain, to
raise the spirits, and to qualify them for thinking and judging properly, they intro-
duce it into their councils, where, after their resolves, the pipe was considered as a
seal of their decrees, and as a pledge of their performance thereof, it was sent to those
lliey were consulting, in alliance or treaty with; — so that smoking among them at
the same pipe is equivalent to our drinking together and out of the same cup. —
Major Rogers^s Account of North America, 1766.

The lighted calumet is also used among them for a purpose still more interesting
than the expression of social friendship. The austere manners of the Indians for-
bid any appearance of gallantry between the sexes in the day-time ; but at night
the young lover goes a-calumetting, as his courtship is called. As these people live in
a state of equality, and without fear of internal violence or theft in their own tribes,
they leave their doors open by night as well as by day. The lover takes advantage
of this liberty, lights his calimiet, enter.s the cabin of his mistress, and gently pre-
sents it to her. If she extinguish it, she admits his addresses ; but if she suffer it to
burn unnoticed, lie retires with a disappointed and throbbing heart. — Ashe's Travels.

Page 60.
Trained from his tree-rock' d cradle to his bier
An Indian child, as soon as he is born, is swathed with clothes, or skins ; and
being laid on his back, is bound down on a piece of thick board, spread over with
soft moss. The board is somewhat larger and broader than the child, and bent
pieces of wood, like pieces of hoops, are placed over its face to protect it, so that if
the machine were suffered to fall the cliild probably would not be injured. When
the women have any business to transact at home, they hang the boards on a treei
if there be one at hand, and set them a swinging from side to side, like a pendulum,
in order to exercise the children. — Weld, vol. ii. p. 246.

Page 50.
The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook

Impassive

Of the active as well as passive fortitude of the Indian character, the following is
an instance related by Adair in his Travels : —

A party of the Seneca Indians came to war against the Katahba, bitter enemies
to each other. — In the woods the former discovered a sprightly warrior belonging to
the latter, hunting in their usual light dress : on his perceiving them, he sprang ofi'

NOTES. 413

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 betbre they were able to surround and take him. They
carried him to their country in sad triumph ; hut though he had filled them witii
uncommon grief and shame for the loss of so many of their kindred, yet the love of
martial virtue induced them to treat him, during their long journey, w^ith a great
deal more civility than if he had acted the part of a coward. The women and
children, when they met him at their several towns, beat him and whipped him in
as severe a manner as the occasion required, according to their law of justice, and
at last he was formally condemned to die by the fiery torture. It might reasonably
be imagined that what he had for some time gone through, by being fed with a
scanty hand, a tedious march, lying at night on the bare ground, exposed to the
changes of the weather, with his arms and legs extended in a pair of rough stocks,
and 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-headed, brave warrior did not deviate from
their rough lessons of martial virtue, but acted his part so well as to surprise and
sorely vex his numerous enemies : — for when they were taking him, unpinioned, in
their wild parade, to the place of torture, which lay near to a river, he suddenly
dashed down those who stood in his way, sprang off, and plunged into the water,
swimming underneath like an otter, only rising to take breath, till he reached the
opposite shore. He now ascended the steep bank, but though he had good reason
to be in a hurry, as many of the enemy w^ere 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 favours they had
done, and intended to do him. After slapping a part of his body in defiance to them
(continues the author), he put up the shrill war-whoop, as his last salute, till some more
convenient opportunity offered, and darted off in the manner of a beast broke loose
from its torturing enemies. He continued his speed so as to run by about midnight
of the same day as far as his eager pursuers were two days in reaching. There he
rested till he happily discovered five of those Indians who had pursued him; — he
lay hid a little way off' their camp, till they were sound asleep. Every circumstance
of his situation occurred to him, and inspired him with heroism. He was naked,
torn and hungry, and his enraged enemies were come up with him; — but there was
now every thing to relieve his wants, and a fair opportunity to save his life, and get
great honour and sweet revenge, by cutting them off. Resolution, a convenient
spot, and sudden surprise, 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 be-
fore day, with his back to a tree. As it were by instinct, when he found he was free
from the pursuing enemy, he made 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 sight gave them a greater shock than they had ever known before-

35*

414 NOTES.

Ill their chilled war-council they concluded, that as he had done such surprising:
ihmgs in his defence before he was captivated, and since that in his naked condi-
tion, 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 o?i the American Indians, p. 394.

It is surprising (says the same author) to see the long-continued speed of the In-
dians. 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 outvvind any horse. — Ibid., p. 318.

If an Indian were driven out into the extensive woods, with only a knife and a
tomahawk, or a small hatchet, it is not to be doubted but he would fatten even where,
a wolf would starve. He would soon collect fire by rubbing two dry pieces of woo<l
together, make a bark hut, earthen vessels, and a bow and arrows; then kill wild
game, fish, fresh-water tortoises, gather a plentiful variety of vegetables, and live
in affluence.— Jtirf., p. 410.

Page 81.
" Sleep, wearied one! and in the dreamng land ,

Shouldsl thou to-morrow vjith thy mother meet.
There is nothing (says Charlevoix) in which these barbarians carry their super-
stitions farther than in ■what regards dreams; but they vary greatly in their manner
of explaining themselves on this point. Sometimes it is the reasonable soul which
ranges abroad, while the sensitive continues to animate the body. Sometimes it is
the familiar genius who gives salutary counsel ■with respect to ■what is going to
happen. Sometimes it is a visit made by the soul of the object of which 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 them either as a desire of the soul, in-
spired by some genius, or an order from him, and in consequence of this principle,
they hold it a religious duty to obey them. An Indian having dreamt of having a
finger cut off, had it really cut off as soon as he awoke, having first prepared him-
self for this important action by a feast. Another having dreamt of being a prisoner
and in the hands of his enemies, was much at a loss what to do. He consulted the
jugglers, and by their advice caused himself to be tied to a post and burnt in several
parts of the body. — Charlevoix, Journal of a Voyage to North America.

Page 81.
Tlte crocodile, the condor of the rock,
The alligator, or American crocodile, ■when full gro'wn, (says Bartram.) 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 resembles that of a lizard, which is flat or cuneiform, being
compressed on each side, and gradually diminishing from the abdomen to the ex-
tremity, which, with the whole body, is covered with horny plates or squamte.
impenetrable when on the body of the live animal, even to a rifle-ball, except about
their head, and just behind their fore-legs or arms, ■where, it is said, they are only
vulnerable. The head of a full-grown one is about three feet, and the mouth opens
nearly the same length. Their eyes are small in proportion, and seem sunk in tlie
head by means of tlie prominency of the brows; the nostrils are large, inflated and

NOTES. 415

prominent on the top, so that the head on the water resembles, at a distance, a
great chunk of wood floating about : only the upper jaw moves, which they raise
almost perpendicular, 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 are not covered by any skin or lips,
but always in sight, which gives the creature a frightful appearance : in the lower
jaw are holes opposite to these teeth to receive them. When they clap their jaws
together, it causes a surprising noise, like that Avhich 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 llie 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 rapidly 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 liis mouth and nostrils with a loud noise, brandishing his
tail in the air, and the vapour running from his nostrils like smoke. At other times,
when swoln to an extent ready to burst, his head and tail lifted up, he spins or
twirls round on the surface of the water. He acts his part like an Indian chief,
when rehearsing his feats of war. — Bartrani's Travels in North America.

[It is hardly necessary to inform American readers that neither the crocodile nor
the condor is known in Pennsylvania.]

Page SI.
Theti forth uprose that lone wayfaring man;
They discover an amazing sagacity, and acquire, with the greatest readiness, any
thing that depends upon the attention of the mind. By experience, and an acute
observation, they attain many perfections to which the Americans are strangers.
For instance, thty 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 mate-
rial deviations ; and this they will do with the same ease, let the vifeather 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 tracesof manor beast, either on leaves or grass;
and on this account it is with great difficulty they escape discovery. They are in-
debted for these talents not only to nature, but to an extraordinary command of the
intellectual qualities, which can only be acquired by an unremitted attention, and
by long experience. They are, in general, very happy in a retentive memory. They
can recapitulate every particular that has been treated of in councils, and remember
the exact time when they were held. Their belts of wampum preserve the sub-
stance of the treaties they have concluded with the neighbouring tribes for ages
back, to wliich they will appeal and refer with as much perspicuity and readines.s
as Europeans can to tlieir written records.

416 NOTES.

The Indians are totally unskilled in geography, as well as all the other sciences,
and yet they draw on their birch-bark very exact charts or maps of the countries
they are acquainted with. The latitude and longitude only are wanting to make
them tolerably complete.

Their sole knowledge in astronomy consists in being able to point out the polar
star, by which they regulate their course when they travel in the night.

They reckon the distance of places not by miles or leagues, but by a day's journey,
which, according to the best calculation I could make, appears to be about twenty
English miles. These they also divide into halves and quarters, and will demon-
strate them in their maps with great exactness by the hieroglyphics just mentioned,
when they regulate in council their war-parties, or. their most distant hunting
excursions. — Lewis and darkens Travels.

Some of the French missionaries have supposed that the Indians are guided by
instinct, and have pretended that Indian children can find their vi^ay 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 the 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 side of trees, and several other distinctions also subsist
between the northern and southern sides, conspicuous to Indians, being taught from
their infancy to attend to them, which a common observer would, perhaps, never
notice. Being accustomed from their infancy, likewise, to pay great attention to the
position of the sun, they learn to make the most accurate allowance for its apparent
motion from one part oi the heavens to another: and in every part of the day they
will point to the part of the heavens where it is, although the sky be obscured by
clouds or mists.

An instance of their dexterity in finding their way through an unknown country
came under my observation when I was at Staunton, situated behind the Blue
Mountains, Virginia. A number of the Creek nation had arrived at that town on
their way to Philadelphia, whither they were going upon some affairs of importance,
and had stopped there for the night. In the morning, some circumstance or other,
which could not be learned, induced one half of the Indians to set off without their
companions, who did not follow until some hours afterwards. When these last
were ready to pursue their journey, several of the towns-people mounted their horses
to escort them part of the way. They proceeded along the high road for some miles,
but, all at once, hastily turning aside into the woods, though there was no path, the
Indians advanced confidently forward. The people who accompanied them, sur-
prised at this movement, informed them that they were quitting the road to Phila-
delphia, and expressed their fear lest they should miss their companions who had
gone on before. They ansvi'ered that they 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 w^ood at the very place where they did. Curiosity led
some of the horsemen to go on; and to their astonishment, for there was apparently
no track, they overtook the other Indians in the thickest part of the wood. But
what appeared most 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

NOTES. 417

more to go before tliey could reach the place of their destination. Of the exactness
with which they can find out a strange place to which they have been once directed
by their own people, a striking example is furnished, I think, by Mr. Jefferson, in
his account of the Indian graves in Virginia. These graves are nothing more than
large mounds of earth in the woods, which, on being opened, are found to contain
skeletons in an erect posture : the Indian mode of sepulture has been too often
described to remain unknown to you. But to come to my story. A party of Indians
that were passing on to some of the seaports on the Atlantic, just as the Creeks
above mentioned were going to Philadelphia, were observed, all on a sudde)i, to quit
the straight road by which they were proceeding, and without asking any questions.
to strike through the woods, in a direct line, to one of these graves, which lay at the
distance of some miles from the road. Now very near a century must have passed
over since the part of Virginia in which this grave was situated had been inhabited
by Indians, and these Indian travellers, who were to visit it by themselves, had
unquestionably never been in that part of the country before : they mu.st have found
their way to it simply from the description of its situation, that had been handed
down to them by tradition. — Welcfs Travels in North America, vol. ii.

Page SO.

Tlieir fathers^ dust

It is a custom of the Indian tribes to visit the tombs of their ancestors in the culti-
vated parts of America, who have been buried for upwards of a century.

Page iQ.

Or wild-cane arch higli flung o'er gulf •profound,
The bridges over narrow streams in many parts of Spanish America are said to be
built of cane, which, however strong to support the passenger, are yet waved in the
agitation of the storm, and frequently add to the effect of a mountainous and pic-
turesque scenery.

Page 100.
Tlie Mammoth comes,

That I am justified in making the Indian chief allude to the mammoth as an
emblem of terror and destruction, will be seen by the authority quoted Ibelow.
Speaking of the mammoth, 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 tre-
mendous animals came to the Big-bone-licks, and began an universal destruction of
tlie 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
neighbouring mountain — on a rock on which his seat and the prints of his feet are
still to be seen — and hurled his bolts among them, till the whole were slaughtered,
except the big bull, who, presenting his forehead to the shafts, shook them off a.?
they fell, but missing one, at length, it wounded liim in the side, whereon, springing

418 NOTES.

round, he bounded over the Ohio, over the Wabash, the Illinois, and finally over the
great lakes, where he is living at this day." — Jeffersoii's Notes on Virgmia.

Page 100.
Scorning to ivield 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 BranQt, a most interesting and intelligent youth,
came over to England, and I formed an acquaintance w^ith hira, on which I still look
back with pleasure. He appealed to my sense of honour and justice, on hisown part
and on that of his sister, to retract the unfair aspersions which, unconscious of their
unfairness, I had cast on his father's memory.

He then referred me to documents, which completely satisfied me that the common
accounts of Brandt's cruelties at Wyoming, which I had found in books of Travels
and in Adolphus's and similar Histories of England, were gross errors, and that, in
point of fact, Brandt was not even present at that scene of desolation.

It is, unhappily, to Britons and Anglo-Americans that we must refer the chief
blame in this horrible business. I published a letter expressing this belief in the
iVeio Montldy Magazine, in the year lrf2, 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 cruelly of Indian warfare. The name of Brandt, therefore, remains
in my poem a pure and declared character of fiction.

[The late Colonel William L. Stone, of New York, was the first to do justice to
the character of Brandt, or Thayendanegea, as he was named by the Indians. By
that author's History of Wyoming, and his elaborate memoir of the celebrated
Mohawk chief, this point of history may be considered as conclusively settled.]

Page 100.

To whom nor relative nor blood remains,

No! — not a kindred drop that runs in human veins!

Every one who recollects the specimen of Indian eloquence given in the speech
of Logan, a Mingo chief, to the governor of Virginia, will perceive that I have at-
tempted to paraphrase its concluding and most striking expression: — "There runs
not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature." The similar saluta-
tion 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 diffi-
cult it is to transpose such exquisitely simple words, without sacrificing a portion
of their eftect.

In the spring of 1774, a robbery and murder were committed on an inhabitant of
the frontiers of Virginia, by two Indians of the Shawnee tribe. The neighbouring
whites, according to their custom, undertook to punish this outrage 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

NOTES. 419

ill quest of vengeance ; unfortunately, a canoe with women and children, with one
man only, was seen coming from the opposite shore unarmed, and unsuspecting an
attack from the whites. Cresap and his party concealed themselves on the bank of
the river, and the moment the canoe reached the shore, singled out their objects, and
at one fire, killed every person in it. This happened to be the family of I>ogan, who
had long been distinguished as a friend to the whites. This unworthy return pro-
voked 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 Kauaway, in which the collected forces of the Shawanees, Mingoes and Dela-
wares, 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 not to eat; if ever he came cold and hungry, 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 blood in the veins of any living creature: — this
called on me for revenge. I have fought for it. I have killed many. I have fully
glutted my vengeance. For my country I rejoice at the beams of peace ; — but do not
harbour a thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He will not
turn on his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan? not one!" —
Jefferson's Notes on Virginia.

One of our own eminent poets, Mr. Halleck, has written some beautiful verses
upon Wyoming, which, on account of their allusions to Campbell's poem, we add
to the author's notes.

'• Dites si la Nature n'a pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour une Claire, et
pour un St. Preux, mais ne les y cherchez pas." — Rousseau.

I.

Thou com'st, in beauty, on my gaze at last,
'•On Susquehannah's side, fair Wyoming!"
Image of many a dream, in hours long past,
When life was in its bud and blossoming.
And waters, gushing from the fountain spring
Of pure enthusiast thought, dimmed my young eyes,
As by the poet borne, on unseen wing,
I breathed, in fancy, 'neath thy cloudless skies,
The summer's air, and heard her echoed harmonies.

II.
I then but dreamed : thou art before me now,
In life, a vision of the brain no more.

420 NOTES.

I've stood upon the wooded mountain's brow,
That beetles high thy lovely valley o'er ;
And now, where winds thy river's greenest shore,
Within a bower of sycamores am laid;
And winds, as soft and sweet as ever bore
The fragrance of wild flowers through sun and shade.
Are singing in the trees, whose low boughs press my head.

III.
Nature hath made thee lovelier than the power
Even of Campbell's pen hath pictured : he
Had woven, had he gazed one sunny hour
Upon thy smiling vale, its scenery
With more of truth, and made each rock and tree
Known like old friends, and greeted from afar ;
And there are tales of sad reality.
In the dark legends of thy border war.
With woes of deeper lint than his own Gertrude's are.

IV.

But where are they, the beings of the mind,
The bard's creations, moulded not of clay.
Hearts to strange bliss and suffering assigned —
Young Gertrude, Albert, AValdegrave — where are they ?
AVe need not ask. The people of to-day
Appear good, honest, quiet men enough,
And hospitaljle, too — for ready pay, —
AVith manners like their roads, a little rough,
And hands whose grasp is warm and welcoming, tho' tough.

V.
Judge Hallenbach, who keeps the toll-bridge gate
And the town records, is the Albert now
Of Wyoming : like him, in church and state,
Her Doric column ; and upon his brow
The thin hairs, white with seventy winters' snow,
Look patriarchal. Waldegrave 'twere in vain
To point out here, unless in yon scare-crow
That stands full-unitbrmed upon the plain.
To frighten flocks of crows and blackbirds from the grain.

VI.
For he would look particularly droll
In his "Iberian boot" and " Spanish plume,"
And be the wonder of each Christian soul
As of the birds that scare-crow and his broom.
But Gertrude, in her loveliness and bloom,
Hath many a model here, — for Woman's eye,
In court or cottage, wheresoe'er her home
Hath a heart-spell too holy and too high
To be o'er-praised even by her worshipper— Poesy.

NOTES. 421

VII.
There's one in the next field — of sweet sixteen —
Singing and summoning thoughts of beauty born
In heaven — with her jacket of liglit green,
" Love-darting eyes, and tresses like the morn,"
Without a shoe or stocking, — hoeing corn.
Whether, like Gertrude, she oft wanders there,
With Shakspeare's volume in her bosom borne,
I think is doubtful. Of the poet-player
The maiden knows no more than Cobbett or Voltaire.

VIII.

There is a w^oman, widowed, gray and old,
Who tells you where the foot of battle slept
Upon their day of massacre. She told
Its tale, and pointed to the spot, and wept.
Whereon her father and five brothers slept
Shroudless, the bright-dreamed slumbers of the brave,
When all the land a funeral mourning kept.
And there, wild laurels planted on the grave
By Nature's hand, in air tlieir pale red blossoms wave.

IX.

And on the margin of yon orchard hill
Are marks where time-worji battlements have been,
And in the tall grass traces linger still
Of -'arrowy frieze and wedged ravelin."
Five hundred of her brave that Valley green
Trod on the morn in soldier-spirit gay ;
But twenty lived to tell the noon-day scene —
And where are now the twenty ? Passed away.
Kas Death no triumph-hours, save on the battle-day ?

THEODRIC.

Page 113.
Thai gave the glacier tops their richest gloiv,

The sight of the glaciers of Switzerland, I am told, has often disappointed travel-
lers who had perused the accounts of their splendour and sublimity given by Bourrit
and other describers of Swiss scenery. Possibly Bourrit, who has spent his life in
an enamoured familiarity with the beauties of Nature in Switzerland, may have
leaned to the romantic side of description. One can pardon a man for a sort of
idolatry of those imposing objects of Nature which heighten our ideas of the bounty
of Nature or Providence, when we reflect that the glaciers — those seas of ice — are
not only sublime, but useful : they are the inexhaustible reservoirs which supply the
principal rivers of Europe, and their annual melting is in proportion to the sununer
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

36

422 NOTES.

country, and recollects that the beauty of Nature in such countries is not only vari-
able, but capriciously 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 frontiers of the Tyrol. The full effect of the most
lofty and picturesque of them can, of course, only be produced by the richest
and warmest lights of the atmosphere; and the very heat which illuminates them
must have a changing influence on many of their appearances. I imagine it is
owing to this circumstance, namely, the casualty and changeableness of the appear-
ance 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 pheno-
menon, and certainly one which no other spectator attests in the same terms, when
he says that there once existed, between the Kandel Steig and Lauterbrun, " a
passage amidst singular glaciers, sometimes resembling magical towns of ice, with
pilasters, pyramids, columns and obelisks, reflecting to the sun the most brilliant
liues of the finest gems." — M. Bourrit's description of the glacier of the Rhone is
(juite enchanting: — "To form an idea," he says, "of this superb spectacle, figure
in your mind a scaffolding of transparent ice, filling a space of two miles, rising to
the clouds, and darting flashes of light like the sun. Nor were the several parts less
magnificent and surprising. One might see, as it were, the streets and buildings of
a city, erected in the form of an amphitheatre, andembcllished with pieces of water,
cascades and torrents. The effects were as prodigious as the immensity and the
lieight; — 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. 16-3.

Page 113.
From heights browsed by the bounding bouQuetin;

Laborde, in his "Tableau de la Suisse," gives a curious account of this animal,
the wild, sharp cry and elastic movements of which must heighten the picturesque
appearance of its haunts. "Nature," says Laborde, "has destined it to mountains
covered with snow : if it is not exposed to keen cold, it becomes blind. Its agility
in leaping much surpasses that of the chamois, and would appear incredible to
those who have not seen it. There 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
liighest wall, if its surface be rugged."

Page 113.
enameWd moss.

The moss of Switzerland, as well as that of the Tyrol, is remarkable for a bright
smoothness, approaching to the appearance of enamel.

Page 118.

How dear seeni'd ev'n the waste and wild Shreck-horn,

The Shreck-horn means, in German, the Peak of Terror.

Page 118.

Blindfold his native hills lie could have knotvn!

I have here availed myself of a striking expression of the Emperor Napoleon
respecting his recollections of Corsica, which is recorded in Las Cases's History of
the Emperor's Abode at St. Helena.

« Occupying, if taken togctlicr, a surface of 100 square leagues.

NOTES. 423

THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE.

Page 138.

The vale, by eagle-haunted cliffs overhung,

The valley of Glenooe, unparalleled in its scenery for gloomy grandeur, is to this
day frequented by eagles. When I visited the spot within a year ago, I saw several
perch at a distance. Only one of them came so near me that I did not wish him any
nearer. He favoured me vsrith a full and continued view of his noble person, and
with the exception of the African eagle which I saw wheeling and hovering over a
corps of the French army that were marching from Oran, and who seemed to linger
over them with delight at the sound of their trumpets, as if they w^ere about to
restore his image to the Gallic standard — I never saw a prouder bird than this black
eagle of Glencoe.

I was unable, from a hurt in my foot, to leave the carriage; but the guide informed
me that if I could go nearer the sides of the glen, I should see the traces of houses
and gardens once belonging to the unfortimate inhabitants. As it was, I never saw
a spot where I could less suppose human beings to have ever dwelt. I asked the
guide how these eagles subsisted ; he replied, "on the lambs and the fawns of Lord
Breadalbane." " Lambs and fawnsl" I said ; " and how do they subsist, for I cannot
see verdure enough to graze a rabbit? I suspect," I added, "that these birds make
the cliffs only their country-houses, and that they go down to the Lowlands to find
their provender." " Ay, ay," replied the Highlander, " it is very possible, for the
eagle can gang far for his breakfast."

Page 144.
Witch-legends Ronald sconVd — ghost, kelpie, wraith,

"The most dangerous and malignant creature of Highland superstition was the
kelpie, or water-horse, which was supposed to allure women and children to his
subaqueous haunts, and there devour them; sometimes he would swell the lake or
torrent beyond its usual limits, and overwhelm the unguarded traveller in the flood.
The shepherd, as he sat on the brow of a rock on a summer's evening, often fancied
he saw this animal dashing along the surface of the lake, or browsing on the pasture-
ground upon its verge." — Brovin's History of the Highland Clans, vol. i. 106.

In Scotland, according to Dr. John Brown, it is yet a superstitious principle that
the wraith, the omen or messenger of death, appears in the resemblance of one in
danger, immediately preceding dissolution. This ominous form, purely of a spiritual
nature, seems to testily that the exaction (extinction) of life approaches. It was
wont to be exhibited, also, as " a little rough dog,'''' when it could be pacified by the
death of any other being, " if crossed and conjured in time." — Brown^s Superstitions
of the Highlands, p. 182.

It happened to me, early in life, to meet with an amusing instance of Highland
superstition with regard to myself I lived in a family of the Island of Mull, and a
mile or two from their house there was a burial-ground without any church attached
to it, on the lonely moor. The cemetery was enclosed and guarded by an iron rail-
ing, so high, that it was thought to be unscalable. I was, however, commencing
the study of botany at the time, and thinking there might be some nice flowers and
curious epitaphs among the grave-stones, I contrived, by help of my handkerchief.
to scale the railing, and was soon scampering over the tombs. Some of the natives
chanced to perceive me, not in the act of climbing over to — but skipping over the
burial-ground. In a day or two I observed the family looking on me with unac-
countable, though not angry seriousness. At last the good old grandmother told

424 NOTES.

me, with tears in her eyes, " that I could not live long, for that my wraith had
been seen." " And, pray, where ?" " Leaping over the stones of the burial-
ground." The old lady was much relieved to hear that it was not my wraith, but
myself

Akin to other Highland superstitions, but differing from them in many essential
respects, is the belief — for superstition it cannot well be called (quoth the wise
author I am quoting) — in the second-sight, by which, as Dr. Johnson observes.
" seems to be meant a mode of seeing superadded to that which Nature generally
bestows; and consists of an impression made either by the mind upon the eye, or
by the eye upon the mind, by which things distant or future are perceived and seen,
as if ihey were present. This deceptive faculty is called Traioshe in the Gaelic,
which signifies a spectre or vision, and is neither voluntary nor constant, but con-
sists in seeing an otherwise invisible object, without any previous means used by the
person that sees it for that end. The vision makes such a lively impression upon
the seers, that they neitlier see nor think of any thing else except the vision, as long
as it continues: and then they appear pensive or jovial, according to the object
which w^as represented to them."

There are now few persons, if any, (continues Dr. Brown), who pretend to ihi.s
faculty, and the belief in it is almost generally exploded. Yet it cannot be denied
that apparent proofs of its existence have been adduced which have staggered minds
not prone to superstition. When the connection between cause and effect can be
recognized, things which would otherwise have appeared wonderful and almost
incredible, are viewed as ordinary occurrences. The impossibility of accounting
for such an extraordinary phenomenon as the alleged faculty on philosophical prin-
ciples, or from the laws of nature, must ever leave the matter suspended between
rational doubt and confirmed scepticism. "Strong reasons for incredulity," says
Dr. Johnson, "will readily occur." This faculty of seeing thmgs of sight is local,
and commonly useless. It is a breach of the common order of things, without any
visible reason or perceptible benefit. It is ascribed only to a people very little en-
lightened, and among them, for the most part, to the mean and ignorant.

In the whole history of Highland superstitions, there is not a more curious fact
than that Dr. James Brovirn, a gentleman of the Edinburgh bar, in the nineteenth
cenmry, should show himself a more abject believer in the Irutli of second-sight
than Dr. Samuel Johnson, of London, in the eighteenth century.

Page 146.
The pit or gallows would have cured my grief.
Until the year 1747, the Highland Lairds had the right of punishing serfs even
capitally, in so far that they often hanged or imprisoned them in a pit or dungeon,
where they were starved to death. But the law of 1746, for disarming the High-
landers and restraining the use of the Highland garb, was followed up the following
year by one of a more radical and permanent description. This was the act for
abolishing the heritable jurisdictions, which, though necessary in a rude slate of
society, were wholly incompatible with an advanced stage of civilization. By
depriving the Highland chiefs of their judicial powers, it was thought that the sway
which, for centuries, they had held over their people, would be gradually impaired :
and that by investing certain judges, who were amenable to the legislature for the
proper discharge of their duties, with the civil and criminal jurisdiction enjoyed by
the proprietors of the soil, the cause of good government w^ould be promoted, and
the facilities for repressing any attempts to disturb the public tranquillity increased.
By this act (20 George II. c. 43), which was made to the whole of Scotland, all

NOTES. 425

heritable jurisdiclions of justiciary, all regalities and heritable bailieries, and consta-
bularies (excepting the office of high constable), and all stewartries and sheriffships
of smaller districts, -which were only parts of counties, were dissolved, and the
powers formerly vested in them were ordained to be exercised by such of the king's
courts as these powers would have belonged to, if the jurisdictions had never been
granted. All sheriffships and stewartries not dissolved by the statute, namely, those
which comprehended whole counties, where they had been granted either heritably
or for life, were resumed and annexed to the crown. AVith the exception of the
hereditary justiciaryship of Scotland, which was transferred from the family of
Argyle to the High Court of Justiciary, the other jurisdictions were ordained to be
vested in sheriffs-depute or stewarts-depute, to be appointed by the king in every
shire or stewartry not dissolved by the act. As by the twentieth of Union, all heri-
table offices and jurisdictions were reserved to the grantees as rights of property ;
compensation was ordained to be made to the holders, the amount of which was
afterwards fixed by Parliament, in terms of the act of Sederunt of the Court of
Session, at one hundred and fifty thousand pounds.

Page 146.

/ marcJCd — ivhen, feigning Royalty''s command,

Against the clan Macdonald, Staifs Lord

Sent forth exterminating fire a7id sword;
I cannot agree with Brown, the author of an able work, " The History of the
Highland Clans," that the affair of Glencoe has stamped indelible infamy on the
government of King William HI., if by this expression it be meant that AVilliam's
own memory is disgraced by that massacre. I see no proof that William gave more
than general orders to subdue the remaining malcontents of the Macdonald clan;
and these orders, the nearer we trace them to the government, are the more express
in enjoining that all those who would promise to swear allegiance should be spared.
As these orders came down from the general government to individuals, they became
more and more severe, and at last merciless, so that they ultimately ceased to be
the real orders of government. Among these false agents of government, w^ho
appear with most disgrace, is the " Master of Stair," who appears in the business
more like a fiend than a man. When issuing his orders for the attack on the
remainder of the Macdonalds in Glencoe, he expressed a hope in his letter "that
the soldiers would trouble the government with no prisoners."

It cannot be supposed that I would, for a moment, palliate this atrocious event by
quoting the provocations not very long before offered by the Macdonalds in mas*
sacresof the Campbells. But they may be alluded to as causes, though not excuses.
It is a part of the melancholy instruction which history affords us, that in the moral
as well as in the physical world there is always a reaction equal to the action.
The banishment of the Moors from Spain to Africa was the chief cause of African
piracy and Christian slavery among the Moors for centuries; and since the reign of
William III. the Irish Orangemen have been the Algerines of Ireland.

The affair of Glencoe was, in fact, only a lingering trait of horribly barbarous
times, though it was the more shocking that it came from that side of the political
world which professed to be the more liberal side, and it occurred at a late time of.
the day, when the minds of both parties had become comparatively civilized, the
Whigs by the trmmph of free principles, and the Tories by personal experience of
the evils attending persecution. Yet that barbarism still subsisted in too many
minds professing to act on liberal principles, is but too apparent from tliis disgusting
tragedy.

36*

426 NOTES.

I once flattered myself that the Argyle Campbells, from whom I am sprung, had
no share in this massacre, and a direct share they certainly had not. But on inquiry
I find that they consented to shutting up the passes of Glencoe through which the
Macdonalds might escape ; and perhaps relations of my great-grandfather— I am
afraid to count their distance or proximity — might be indirectly concerned in the
cruelty.

But children are not answerable for the crimes of their forefathers ; and I hope
and trust that the descendants of Breadalbane and Gleiilyon are as much and justly
at their ease on this subject as I am.

Page 155.
Chance snatcWd them from proscription and despair.

Many Highland families, at the outbreak of the rebellion in 1745, were saved from
utter desolation by the contrivances of some of their more sensible members, princi-
pally the women, who foresaw the consequences of the insurrection. When I was
a youth in the Highlands, I remember an old gentleman being pointed out to me,
\vho, finding all other arguments fail, had, in conjunction with his mother and
sisters, bound the old laird hand and foot, and locked him up in his o'wn cellar
imtil the news of the battle of Culloden had arrived.

A device pleasanter to the reader of the anecdote, though not to the sufTerer, was
practised by a shrewd Highland dame, whose husband was Charles-Stuan-mad, ami
was determined to join the insurgents. He told his wife at night that he should
statt early to-morrow morning on horseback. "Well, but you will allow me to
make your breakfast before you go?" " Oh yes." She accordingly prepared it, and
bringing in a full, boiling kettle, poured it, by intentional accident, on his legs !

O'CONNOR'S' CHILD.
Page 159.
Innisfail, the ancient name of Ireland.

Page 160.
Kerne, the plural of Kern, an Irish foot-soldier. In this sense the word is used by
Shakspeare. Gainsford, in his Glories of England, says, •' They (the Irish) are
desperate in revenge, and their kerne think no man dead until his head be offX'

Page 161.
Shieling, a rude cabin or hut.

Page IGl.
In Erin's yellow vesture clad,
Yellow, dyed from saffron, was the favourite colour of the ancient Irish. When
the Irish chieftains came to make terms with Queen Elizabeth's lord-lieutenant, we
are told by Sir Jolui Davis, that they came to court in saffron-coloured uniforms.

Page 161.
M6rat, a drink made of the juice of the mulberry mixed with honey.

Their tribe, they said, their high degree,
Wassimgin Tara's psaltery ;

NOTES. » 427

The pride of the Irish ancestry was so great, that one of the O'Neals being told
that Barret of Castlemone had been there only 400 years, he replied, — that he hated
the clown as if he had come there but yesterday.

Tara was the place of assemblage and feasting of the petty princes of Ireland-
Very splendid and t'abulous descriptions are given by the Irish historians of the
pomp and luxury of those meetings. The psaltery of Tara was the grand national
register of Ireland. The grand epoch of political eminence in the early history of the
Irish is the reign of their great and favourite monarch, 011am Fodlah, who reigned,
according to Keating, about 950 years before the Christian cera. Under him was
instituted the great Fes at Tara, which it is pretended was a triennial convention
of the states, or a parliament : the members of which were the Druids, and other
learned men, who represented the people in that assembly. Very minute accounts
are given by Irish annalists of the magnificence and order of these entertainments :
from which, if credible, we might collect the earliest traces of heraldry that occur in
history. To preserve order and regularity in the great number and variety of the
members who met on such occasions, the Irish historians inform us that, when the
banquet was ready to be served up, the shield-bearers of the princes, and other
members of the convention, delivered in their shields and targets, which were readily
distinguished by the coat 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 con-
cluding days of the meeting, it is allowed by the Irish antiquaries, were spent in very
free excess of conviviality ; but the first six, they say, were devoted to the examina-
tion and settlement of the annals of the kingdom. These were publicly rehearsed.
When they had passed the approbation of the assembly, they were transcribed into
the authentic chronicles of the nation, which was called the Register, or Psalter,
of Tara.

Col. Vallancey gives a translation of an old Irish fragment, found in Tiinity
College, Dublin, in which the palace of the above assembly is thus described, as it
existed in the reign of Cormac : —

"In the reign of Cormac, the palace of Tara was nine hundred feet square ; the
diameter of the surrounding rath, seven dice or casts of a dart; it contained one
hundred and fifty apartments ; one hundred and fifty dormitories, or sleeping-rooms
for guards, and sixty men in each ; the height was twenty-seven cubits ; there were
one hundred and fifty common drinking horns, twelve doors, and one thousand
guests daily, besides princes, orators and men of science, engravers of gold and
silver, carvers, modellers, and nobles." The Irish description of the banqueting-
hall is thus translated : " Twelve stalls or divisions in each wing ; sixteen attend-
ants on each side, and two to each table ; one hundred guests in all."

Page 163.
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
Courcy, so famous for his personal strength, and lor 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, viz., when Walter De Bourgo, an ancestor of that De
Bourgo who won the battle of Athunree, had become so insolent as to make exces-

42S ^ NOTES.

sive demands upon the territories of Connaught, and to bid defiance to all the rights
and properties reserved by the Irish chiefs. Eath O'Connor, a near descendant of
llie lamous Cathal, surnamed of the Bloody Hand, rose against the usurper, and
defeated the English so severely, that their general died of chagrin after the battle.

Page 163.
Or beal-Jires for your jubilee.
The month of iVTay is to this day called Mi Beal tiennie, i. e., the month of Beal'.?
fire, in the original language of Ireland, and hence , I believe, the name of the Beltan
festival in the Highlands. These fires were lighted on the summits of mountains
(the Irish antiquaries say) in honour of the sun ; and are supposed, by those conjec-
turing gentlemen, to prove the origin of the Irish from some nation who worshipped
Baal or Belus. Many hills in Ireland still retain the name of Cnoc Greine, i. e., the
Hill of the Sun ; and on all are to be seen the ruins of Druidical altars.
Page 164.
And play my clarshech by thy side.
The clarshech, or harp, the principal musical instrument of the Hibernian bards,
does not appear to be of Irish origin, nor indigenous to any of tlie British islands. —
The Britons undoubtedly were not acquainted with it during the residence of the
Romans in their country, as in all their coins, on which musical mstruments are
represented, we see only the Roman lyre, ansl not the British teylin, or harp.
Page 164.
And satv at dawn the lofty bawn.
Bawn, from the Teutonic Bawen — to construct and secure with branches of trees,
was so called because the primitive Celtic fortifications were made by digging a
ditch, throwing up a rampart, and on the latter fixing stakes, which w^ere interlaced
with boughs of trees. This word is used by Spenser; but it is inaccurately called
by Mr. Todd, his annotator, an eminence.

. Page 168.
To speak the malison of heaven.
If the wrath which I have ascribed to the heroine of this little piece should seem
to exhibit her character as too unnaturally stripped of patriotic and domestic affec-
tions, I must beg leave to plead the authority of Corneille in the representation of a
similar passion : I allude to the denunciation of Camille, in the tragedy of " Horace."
When Horace, accompanied by a soldier bearing the three swords of the Curiatii,
meets his sister, and invites her to congratulate him on his victory, she expresses
only her grief, which he attributes at first only to her feelings for the loss of her two
brothers ; but when she bursts forth into reproaches against him as the murderer of
her lover, the last of the Curiatii, he exclaims:

" O ciel ! qui vit jamais une pareille rage !
Crois-tu done que je sois insensible k I'outrage,
Que je soufTre en mon sang ce mortel d6shonneur ?
Aime, aime cette mort qui fait notre bonheur ;
Et pr6f6re du moins au souvenir d'un homme
Ce que doit ta naissance aux.int6r6ts de Rome."
At the mention of Rome, Camille breaks out into this apostrophe ;
'• Rome, I'unique objet de mon ressentiment I
Rome, ii qui vient ton bras d'immoler mon amant 1

NOTES. 429

Rome qui t'a vu naitre et que ton coeur adore !
Rome enfin que je hais parce qu'elle t'honore I
Puissent tous ses voisins ensemble conjures
Saper ses fondements encor mal assures ;
Et si ce n'est assez de toute I'ltalie,
Que I'Orient contre elle k TOccident s'allie ;
Que cent peuples uiiis des bouts de I'univers
Passant pour la d^truire et les monts et les mers;
Qu'elle-mfime sur soi renverse ses murailles,
Et de ses propres mains d6chire ses entraiUes I
Que le courroux du ciel allum^ par mes vodux
Fasse pleuvoir sur elle un deluge de leux I
Puiss6-je de mes yeux y voir tomber ce foudre,
Voir ses maisons en cendre et tes lauriers en poudre,
Voir le dernier Romain £t son dernier soupir,
Moi seule en §tre cause, et mourir de plaisir!"

Page 168.
And go to Athunree! [I cried)

In the reign of Edward the Second, the Irish presented to Pope John the Twenty-
second, a memorial of their sufferings under the English, of which the language
exhibits all the strength of despair. " Ever since the English (say they) first
appeared upon our coasts, they entered our territories under a certain specious
pretence of charity, and external hypocritical show of religion, endeavouring at the
same time, by every artifice malice could suggest, to extirpate us root and branch,
and without any other right than that of the strongest ; they have so far succeeded
by base fraudulence and cunning, that they have forced us to quit our fair and
ample habitations and inheritances, and to take refuge, like wild beasts, in the
mountains, the woods, and the morasses of the country ; — nor even can the caverns
and dens protect us against their insatiable avarice. They pursue us even into
these frightful abodes ; endeavouring to dispossess us of the wild uncultivated rocks,
and arrogate to themselves the pkopekty of every place on which we can stamp
the figure of our feet."

The greatest effort ever made by the ancient Irish to regain their native indepen-
dence, was made at the time when they called over the brother of Robert Bruce
from Scotland. William De Bourgo, brother to the Earl of Ulster, and Richard de
Bermingham, were sent against the main body of the native insurgents, who were
headed, rather than commanded, by Felim O'Connor. The important battle which
decided the subjection of Ireland, took place on the 10th of August, 1315. It was
the bloodiest that ever was fought between the two nations, and continued through-
out the whole day, from the rising to the setting sun. The Irish fought with inferior
discipline, but with great enthusiasm. They lost ten thousand men, among whom
were twenty-nine chiefs of Connaught. Tradition states that, after this terrible day.
the O'Connor family, like the Fabian, were so nearly exterminated, that throughout
all Connaught not one of the name remained, except Felim's brother, who was
capable of bearing arms.

430 NOTES.

LOCHIEL'S WARNING.

Page 171.

LocHFEL, the chief of the warlike clan of the Camerons, and descended from
ancestors distinguished in their narrow sphere for great personal prowess, was a
man worthy of a better cause and fate than that in which he embarked, the enter-
prize of the Stuarts in 1745. His memory is still fondly cherished among the High-
landers, by the appellation of the "-gentle Lochiel ;" for he was famed for his social
virtues as much as his martial and magnanimous (though mistaken) loyalty. His
influence was so important among the Highland chiefs, that it depended on his
joining with his clan whether the standard of Charles should be raised or not in
1745. Lochiel was himself too wise a man to be blind to the consequences of so
hopeless an enterprize, but his sensibility to the point of honour overruled his wis-
dom. Charles appealed to his loyalty, and he could not brook the reproaches of his
Prince. When Charles landed at Borrodale, Lochiel w^ent to meet him, but on his
way called at his brother's house (Cameron of Fassafern), and told him on what
errand he vvras going; adding, however, that he meant to dissuade the Prince from
liis enterprize. Fassafern advised him in that case to communicate his mind by
letter to Charles. " No," said Lochiel, "I think it due to my Prince to give him my
reasons in person for refusing to join his standard." — " Brother,'- replied Fassafern,
'■ I know you better than you know yourself: if the Prince once sets eyes on you,
he will make you do what he pleases." The interview accordingly took place ; and
Lofchiel, with many arguments, but in vain, pressed the Pretender to return to
France, and reserve himself and his friends for a more favourable occasion, as he
had come, by his own acknowledgment, without arms, or money, or adherents : or,
at all events, to remain concealed till his friends should meet and deliberate what
was best to be done. Charles, whose mind was wound up to the utmost impatience,
paid no regard to this proposal, but answered, " that he ■was determined to put all
to the hazard." " In a few days," said he, " I will erect the royal standard, and pro-
claim to the people of Great Britain, that Charles Stuart is come over to claim the
crown of his ancestors, and to win it, or perish in the attempt. Lochiel, who my
father has often told me was our firmest friend, may stay at home and learn from
the newspapers the fate of his Prince." — " No," said Lochiel, " I will share the fate
of my Prince, and so shall every man over whom nature or fortune hath given me
any power."

The other chieftains who followed Charles embraced his cause with no better
hopes. It engages our sympathy most strongly in their behalf, that no motive but
their fear to be reproached with cowardice or disloyalty, impelled them to the hope-
less adventure. Of this we have an example in the interview of Prince Charles
with Clanronald, another leading chieftain in the rebel army.

'■ Charles," says Home, " almost reduced to despair, in his discourse with Bois-
dale, addressed the two Highlanders with great emotion, and, summing up his argu-
ments for taking arms, conjured them to assist their Prince, their countryman, in his
utmost need. Clanronald and his friend, though well inclined to the cause, positively
refused, and told him that to take up arms without concert or support, was to pull
down certain ruin on their own heads. Charles persisted, argued and implored.
Buring this conversation (they were on shipboard) the parties walked backwards
and forwards on the deck ; a Highlander stood near them, armed at all points, as
was then the fashion of his country. He was a younger brother of Kinlock Moidart,
and had come off to the ship to inquire for news, not knowing who was aboard-
When he gathered from their discourse that the stranger was the Prince of Wales;

NOTES, 431

when he heard his chief and his brother refuse to take arms with their Prince, his
colour went and came, his eyes sparkled, he shifted his place and grasped his
sword. Charles observed his demeanour, and turning briskly to him, called out,
'Will you assist me?' — ' I will, I will,' said Ronald: 'though no other man in the
Highlands should draw a sword, I am ready to die for you !' Charles, with a pro-
fusion of thanks to his champion, said he wished all the Highlanders were like him.
Without further deliberation, the two Macdonalds declared that they would also
join, and use their utmost endeavours to engage their countrymen to take arms." —
Homers Hist. Rebellion, p. 40.

Page 171.
Weep, Albin .'
The Gaelic appellation of Scotland, more particularly the Highlands.

Page 173.
Lo, anointed by Heaven ivith the vials of wrath,
Behold where he flies on his desolate path .'

The lines allude to the many hardships of the royal suiferer.

An account of the second sight, in Irish called Taish, is thus given in Martin's
Description of the Western Isles of Scotland.

" The second sight is a singular faculty of seeing an otherwise invisible object,
without any previous means used by the person who sees it for that end. The
vision makes such a lively impression upon the seers, that they neither see nor
think of any thing else except the vision as long as it continues ; and then they
appear pensive or jovial, according to the object which was represented to them.

" At the sight of a vision, the eyelids of the person are erected, and the eyes con-
tinue staring until the object vanishes. This is obvious to others who are standing
by when the persons happen to see a vision ; and occurred more than once to my
own observation, and to others that were with me.

" There is one in Skie, of whom his acquaintance observed, that when he sees a
vision, the inner part of his eyelids turns so far upwards, that, after the object disap-
pears, he must draw them down with his fingers, and sometimes employ others to
draw them down, which he finds to be much the easier way.

" This faculty of the second sight does not lineally descend in a family, as some
have imagined ; for I know several parents who are endowed with it, and their
children are not ; and vice versd. Neither is it acquired by any previous compact.
And after strict inquiry, I could never learn from any among them that this faculty
was communicable to any whatsoever. The seer knows neither the object, time,
nor place of a vision before it appears ; and the same object is often seen by diflerent
persons living at a considerable distance from one another. The true way of judging
as to the time and circumstances is by observation; lor several persons of judg-
ment who are without this faculty are more capable to judge of the design of a
vision than a novice that is a seer. If an object appear in the day or night, it will
come to pass sooner or later accordingly."

" If an object is seen early in a morning, which is not frequent, it will be accom-
plished in a few hours afterwards ; if at noon, it will probably be accomplished that
very day ; if in the evening, perhaps that night ; if after candles be lighted, it will
be accomplished that night : the latter always an accomplishment by weeks, months,
an4 sometimes years, according to the time of the night the vision is seen.

"When a shroud is seen about one, it is a sure prognostic of death. The time is
judged according to the height of it about the person ; for if it is not seen above the

432 NOTES.

middle, death is nol to be expected for the space of a year, and perhaps some months
longer ; and as it is frequently seen to ascend higher towards the head, death is
concluded to be at haiid within a few days, if not hours, as daily experience con-
firms. Examples of this kind were shown me, when the person of whom the
observations were then made was in perfect health.

" It is ordinary with them to see houses, gardens and trees, in places void of all
these, and this in process of time is wont to be accomplished : as at Mogslot, in the
Isle of Skie, where there were but a few sorry low houses, thatched with straw ;
yet in a few years the vision, which 'appeared often, was accomplished by the
building of several good houses in the very spot represented to the seers, and by the
planting of orchards there.

" To see a spark of fire is a forerunner of a dead child, to be seen in the arms of
those persons ; of which there are several instances. To see a seat empty at the
time of sitting in it, is a presage of that person's death quickly after it.

•' When a novice, or one that has lately obtained the second sight, sees a vision ni
the night-time without doors, and comes near a fire, he presently falls into a swoon.

•■ Some find themselves, as it were, in a crowd of people, having a corpse, which
they carry along with them ; and after such visions the seers come in sweating, and
describe the vision that appeared. If there be any of their acquaintance among
them, they give an account of their names, as also the bearers; but they know
nothing concerning the corpse."

Horses and cows (according to the same credulous author) have certainly some-
tinies the same faculty; and he endeavours to prove it by the signs of fear which
llie animals exhibit, when second-sighted persons see visions in the same place.

•' The seers (he continues) are generally illiterate and well-meaning people, and
altogether void of design ; nor could I ever learn that any of them ever made the
least gain by it ; neither is it reputable among them to have that faculty. Besides,
the people of the Isles are not so credulous as to believe implicitly before the thing
predicted is accomplished; but when it is actually accomplished afterwards, it is
not in their power to deny it,. without offering violence to their own sense and
reason. Besides, if the seers were deceivers, can it be reasonable to imagine that
all the islanders who have not the second sight should combine together, and offer
violence to their understandings and senses, to enforce themselves to believe a lie
from age to age. There are several persons among them whose title and education
raise them above the suspicion of concurring with an impostor merely to gratify
an illiterate contemptible set of persons ; nor can reasonable persons believe that
children, horses and cows, should be pre-engaged in a combination hi favour of the
second sight." — Martin's Description of the Western Isles of Scotland, p 3. 11.

Page 179.
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 monas-
tery on the island of lona, or Icolmkill, was the seminary of Christianity in North
Britain. Presbyterian writers have wished to prove them to have been a sort of
Presbyters, strangers to the Roman Church and Episcopacy. It seems to be esta-
blished that they were not 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 which account they
were ultimately displaced by the Scottish sovereigns to make way for more Popish
canons.

NOTES. 433

Page 182.

And the shield of alarm was dumb,

Striking the shield was an ancient mode of convocation to war among the Gael.

Page 237.
The tradition which forms the substance of these stanzas is still preserved in Ger-
many. An ancient tower on a height, called a Rolandseck, a few miles above
Bonn on the Rhine, is shown as the habitation which Roland built in sight of a
nunnery, into which his mistress had retired, on having heard an unfounded account
of his death. Whatever may be thought of the credibility of the legend, its scenery
must be recollected with pleasure by every one who has visited the romantic land-
scape of the Drachenfels, the Rolandseck, and the beautiful adjacent islet of tlie
Rhine, where a nunnery still stands.

That erst the adventurous Norman wore,
A Norman leader, in the service of the King of Scotland, married the heiress of
Lochow, in the twelfth century, and from him the Campbells are sprung.

Page 253.
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 271.

Where the Norman encam'p'd 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

between his landing and the battle which gave him England's crown. It is a strong

position; the works are easily traced.

Page 359.
France turns from her abandoned friends afresh,
The fact ought to be universally known, that France is at this moment indebted
to Poland for not being invaded by Russia. When the Grand Duke Constantine
fled from Warsaw, he left papers behind him proving that the Russians, after the
Parisian events in July, meant to have marched tow^ards Paris, if the Polish insur-
rection had not prevented them.

Page 366.

Thee, Niemciewitz,

This venerable man, the most popular and influential of Polish poets, and presi-
dent 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 was the friend of Fox, Kosciusko and Washington. Rich in
anecdote like Franklin, he has also a striking resemblance to him in countenance.

Page 366.

Nor church-bell

In Catholic countries you often hear the church-bells rung to propitiate Heaven
during thunder-storms.

37

434 NOTES.

Page 367.
Regret the lark that gladdens England^s morn.
Mr. P. Cunningham, in his interesting work on New South Wales, gives the fol-
lowing account of its song-birds : — '' We are not moved here with the deep mellow
note of the blackbird, poured out from beneath some low smnted bush, nor thrilled
with the wild warblings of the thrush perched on the top of some tall sapling, nor
charmed with the blithe carol of the lark as we proceed early a-field ; none of our
birds rivalling those divine songsters in realizing the poetical idea of ' the music of
the grove. -^ while '•parrots' chattering' must supply the place of 'nightingales' singing'
in the future amorous lays of our sighing Celadons. We have our lark, certainly ;
but both his appearance and note are a most wretched parody upon the bird about
which our English poets have made so many fine similes. He will mount from the
ground and rise, fluttering upwards in the same manner, and with a few of the
starting notes of the English lark; but, on reaching the height of thirty feet or so,
down he drops suddenly and mutely, diving into concealment among the long grass,
as if ashamed of his pitiful attempt. For the pert, frisky robin, pecking and pat-
tering against the windows in the dull days of winter, we have the lively ' superb
warbler,' with his blue, shining plumage, and his long, tapering tail, picking up the
crumbs at our doors ; while the pretty red-bills, of the size and form of the goldfinch,
constitute the sparrow of our clime, flying in flocks about our houses, and building
their soft, downy pigmy nests in the orange, peach and lemon trees surrounding
them." — Cunningham's Tivo Years in New South Wales, vol. ii. p. 216.

Page 307.
Oh, feeble statesmen — ignominious times.
There is not upon record a more disgusting scene of Russian hypocrisy, and (woe
that it must be written!) of British humiliation, than that which passed on board
the Talavera, when British sailors accepted money from the Emperor Nicholas and
gave him cheers. It will require the Talavera to fight well with the first Russian
ship that she may have to encounter, to make us forget that day.

Page 380.

A palsy-stroke of Nature shook Oran,

In the year 1790, Oran, the most western city in the Algerine Regency, which had

been possessed by Spain for more than a hundred years, and fortified at an immense

expense, was destroyed by an earthquake ; six thousand of its inhabitants were

buried under the ruins.

Page 384.

The advocates of classical learning tell us that, without classic historians, we

I*-, should never become acquainted with the most splendid traits of human character;

^ but one of those traits, patriotic self-devotion, may surely be heard of elsewhere,

without learning Greek and Latin. There are few, who have read modern history,

unacquainted with the noble, voluntary death of the Switzer Winkelried. Whether

5 he was a peasant or man of superior birth is a point not quite settled in history

, ;" • though I am inclined to suspect that he was simply a peasant. But this is certain,

1, .• jt that in the battle of Sempach, perceiving that there was no other means of breaking

. .J?.^ the heavy-armed lines of the Austrians than by gathering as many of their spears

as he could grasp together, he opened a passage for his fellow-combatants, who,

with hammers and hatchets, hewed down the mailed men-at-arms, and won the

victory.

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