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With folded arms I linger not

Be prompt his Holy word to hear,
To call them back — 'twere vain : It teaches you to banish fear;
In this, or in some other spot

The lesson lies on all sides near.
I know they'll shine again.

Ten summers hence the sprightliest lad
In Nature's face will look more sad,

And ask where are those smiles she had ?

Ere many days the last will close. CHILDREN, keep up that harmless play, Play on, play on, for then (who Your kindred angels plainly say

knows?) By God's authority ye may.

Ye who play here may here repose.


1777-1844. (THOMAS CAMPBELL was born at Glasgow in 1777 of a good Scotch family. He was educated at the Glasgow Grammar School and University, and after one or two tutorships proceeded to Edinburgh to try his fortunes in literature. He published The Pleasures of Hope at the age of twenty-one, and from that date forward his career was one of literary success sufficient, with a pen. sion of £200 from the Crown, to secure him from pecuniary anxiety. He contested successfully the Rectorship of his University with Sir Walter Scott in 1827, and was re-elected the two following years. He removed to London in 1840, but the last years of his life were spent at Boulogne, where he died in 1844. He was buried in Westminster Abbey.) HOPE.

Their joyous youth began – but not to

fade. PRIMEVAL Hope, the Aonian Muses say,

When all the sister planets have de. When Man and Nature mourned their

cayed; first decay,

When rapt in fire the realms of ether When every form of Death and every woe

glow, Shot from malignant stars to Earth be

And Heaven's last thunder shakes the low,

world below; When Murder bared her arm, and ram

Thou, undismayed, shalt o'er the ruins

smile, Yoked the red dragons of her iron car;

And light thy torch at Nature's funeral When Peace and Mercy, banished from

pile! the plain, Sprung on the viewless winds to Heaven

again; All, all forsook the friendless guilty

THE LAST MAN, mind. But, Hope, the charmer, lingered still ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, behind.

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 ETERNAL Ilope! when yonder spheres Adown the gulf of Time! sublime

I saw the last of human mould, Pealed their first notes to sound the That shall creation's death behold, march of time,

As Adam saw her prime !

pant War

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!

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 recalled to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robbed the grave of victory, -

And took the sting from death!

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,

With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere leaves from the

wood As if a storm passed by — Saying, We are twins in death, proud

sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

Tis mercy bids thee go; For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears,

That shall no longer flow.

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 lo quench his immortality,

Dr shake his trust in God!

What though beneath thee man put

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

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

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

Entailed on human hearts.

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall

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

Of pain anew to writhe;
Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred,
Or mown in battle by the sword,

Like grass beneath the scythe. Even. I am weary in yon skies

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

Behold not me expire.

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 Loch

gyle, This dark and stormy water?" “Oh! 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 island wight,

“I'll go, my chief — I'm ready: 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. “Oh! 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 teinpest gathered o'er her.
And still they rowed amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing;
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,

His wrath was changed to wailing. For sore dismayed through storm and

shade, His child he did discover: One lovely hand she stretched for aid,

And one was round her lover. “Come back! come back!” he cried

in grief, * Across this stcrmy water; And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter ! - oh! my daughter!” 'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the

shore, Return or aid preventing; The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.


[Gertrude of Wyoming.] "And I could weep;" th' 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 his head in woe; For by my wrongs, and by my wrath! To-morrow Areouski's breath (That fires yon heav'n 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! “To-morrow let us do or die! But when the bolt of death is hurled, Ah! whither then with thee to fly, Shall Outalissi roam the wordd? Seek we thy once loved home? The hand is gone that cropt its flowers: Unheard their clock repeats its hours ! Cold is the hearth within their bow'rs! 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 quaffed; And by my side, in battle true, A thousand warriors drew the shaft? Ah! there, in desolation cold, The desert serpent dwells alone, Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering

bone, And stones themselves to ruin grown, Like me, are death-like old.

[blocks in formation]

I few to the pleasant fields traversed so

oft In ife's morning march, when my

bosom was young;



Never again in the green sunny bowers, Green be thy fields -- sweetest isle of Where my forefathers lived, shall i

the ocean! spend the sweet hours,

And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud Or cover my harp with the wild woven

with devotion flowers,

Erin mavournin !- Erin go bragh! And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!

FIELD FLOWERS. Erin my country! though sad and forsaken,

Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten

you, 'tis true, shore;

Yet, wildings of nature, I doat upon But alas! in a far foreign land I



waft me to summers of old, And sigh for the friends who can When the earth teemed around me with meet me no more!

fairy delight, Ob cruel fate! wilt thou never replace And when laisies and buttercups glad

dened my sight, In a mansion of peace – where no perils Like treasures of silver and gold.

can chase me? Never again, shall my brothers embrace I love you for lulling me back into me?

dreams They died to defend me, or live to of the blue Fighland mountains and deplore!

echoing streams, And of birchen glades breathing

their balm, Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?

While the deer was seen glancing in

sunshine remote, Sisters and sire ! did ye weep for its fall?

And the deep mellow crush of the woodWhere is the mother that looked on

pigeon's note

Made music that sweetened the my childhood ?

calm. And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all?

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter Oh! my sac heart! long abandoned by

tune pleasure, Why did it rote on a fast-fading treas

Than ye speak to my heart, little wild

ings of June : ure!

Of old ruinous castles ye tell, Tears like the rain-drop, may fall with

Where I thought it delightful your out measure,

beauties to find, But rapture and beauty they cannot

When the magic of Nature first breathed recall.

on my mind,

And your blossoms were part of her Yet all its sad recollection suppressing, spell. One dying wish my lone bosom can draw:

Even now what affections the violet Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee this bless

awakes; ing!

What loved little islands twice seen in Land of my forefathers! Erin go their lakes, bragh!

Can the wild water-lily restore; Buried and cold, when my heart stills What landscapes I read in the primher motion,

rose's looks,

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