With folded arms I linger not To call them back -'twere vain : In this, or in some other spot I know they'll shine again. CHILDREN PLAYING IN A Be prompt his Holy word to hear, Ten summers hence the sprightliest lad 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?) Ye who play here may here repose. THOMAS CAMPBELL. 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 pension 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.} My lips that speak thy dirge of death This spirit shall return to Him Who gave its heavenly spark; And took the sting from death! Go, sun, while mercy holds me up On nature's awful waste, To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste Go, tell the night that hides thy face, Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, On earth's sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy To quench his immortality, Or shake his trust in God! LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound, "Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle, 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, And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing; 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 stormy water; And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!-oh! my daughter!" 'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing; THE LAMENT OF OUTALISSI. [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, "To-morrow let us do or die! "Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed; And by my side, in battle true, And stones themselves to ruin grown, |