Go!-let oblivion's curtain fall

And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame.

THE LAST MAN.1

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!

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're 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 discrownéd 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.

1 Campbell's fame, says the London Spectator of Oct. 1875, "is likely, we think, to be permanent, for no alteration of popular taste, no fashions in poetry, as evanescent sometimes and as absurd as fashions in dress, can affect the reputation of such poems as 'The Soldier's Dream,' 'The Battle of the Baltic,' 'Hohenlinden,' or 'The Last Man.' These are Campbell's noblest works, in which whatever lyrical inspiration was in him finds fullest ex[ ression."-ED.

Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life's tragedy again!

Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack

Of pain, anew, to writhe,Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred, Or mown in battle by the sword, Like grass beneath the scythe!

Even I am weary, in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,

Behold not me expire!

My lips, that speak thy dirge of death-
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast:
The eclipse of nature spreads my pall,—
The majesty of darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!

This spirit shall return to Him

Who gave its heavenly spark; Yet think not, sun, it shall be dim, When thou thyself art dark. No! it shall live again,-and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine,By Him recalled to breath, Who captive led captivity, Who robbed the grave of victory,

And took the sting from death!

Go, sun! while mercy holds me up
On nature's awful waste,

To drink this last and bitter cup

Of grief that man shall tasteGo! 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!

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.-

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 ceas'd-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:-
So peace instead of death let us bring:
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's fect,
And make submission meet
To our king."—
Then Denmark blest our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;-
And the sounds of joy and grief,
From her people wildly rose;

As death withdrew his shades from the day,

While the sun look'd smiling bright
O'er a wide and woeful sight,

Where the fires of fun'ral 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!

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 heav'n 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 the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast 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 heav'n,
Far flash'd the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow,
On Linden's hills of stained snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling, dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery 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!

GLENARA.

O heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and

wail?

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.

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 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 embosomed 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 travell'd by few is the grass-cover'd road, Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trod,

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.

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.

ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS.

Soul of the Poct! wheresoe'er

Reclaimed from earth, thy genius plume
Her wings of immortality:
Suspend thy harp in happier sphere,
And with thine influence illume
The gladness of our jubilec.

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 ecstacies

With Pythian words unsought, unwill'd,-
Love, the surviving gift of Heaven,
The choicest sweet of Paradise,
In life's else bitter cup distill'd.

Who that has melted o'er his lay
To Mary's soul, in Heaven above,
But pictured sces, 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-souled peasantry

What patriot-pride he taught!-how much
To weigh the inborn worth of man!
And rustic life and poverty
Grow beautiful beneath his touch.

Him in his clay-built cot, the Muse
Entranced, and 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?

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' carol sweet recals

The scenes that bless'd him when a child,
And glows and gladdens at the charms
Of Scotia's woods and waterfalls.

O deem not, 'midst this worldly strife,
An idle art the poet brings:
Let high philosophy control,
And sages calm, the stream of life,
"Tis he refines its fountain-springs,
The nobler passions of the soul.

It is the muse that consecrates
The native banner of the brave,
Unfurling at the trumpet's breath,
Rose, thistle, harp; 'tis she elates
To sweep the field or ride the wave,
A sunburst in the storm of death.

And thou, young hero, when thy pall
Is 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 mine 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!1

1 Major Edward Hodge, of the 7th Hussars, who fell

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.

LINES ON REVISITING CATHCART.

Oh! scenes of my childhood, and dear to my heart,

Ye green waving woods on the margin of Cart, How blest in the morning of life I have 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.

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 twice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

at the head of his squadron, in the attack of the Polish Lancers.