From Thomas Campbell to Marquis of Lorne

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.

What's hallowed 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!

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?"

"O, 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,
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.

"O 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, O! too strong for human hand,

The tempests 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 stormy water;

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter!-0, 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.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

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,
As ye sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow-
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep:

Her march is o'er the mountain-wave,
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 blowWhen the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.

LOCHIEL'S WARNING.

WIZARD-LOCHIEL.

WIZARD.

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 scattered in fight.
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and
crown;

Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down.
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the
plain.

LOCHIEL.

False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled my clan;
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one!
They are true to the last of their blood and their
breath,

And like reapers descend to the harvest of death.
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock!

Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the

rock!

But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause,
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws;
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd,
Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud,
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array-

WIZARD.

But, hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day;

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.

LOCHIEL.

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! Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling secr! 'Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,

Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.

WIZARD.

Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn?
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be
torn!

Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth
From his home in the dark-rolling clouds of the
north?

Lo! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad;
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high!
Ah! home let him speed--for the spoiler is nigh.
Why flames the far summit? 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 battlements' height,
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn;
Return to thy dwelling!-all lonely return!

moors:

Culloden is lost, and my country deplores.
But where is the iron-bound prisoner? where?
For the red eye of battle is shut in despair.
Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn,
Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and
torn?

Ah, no! for a darker departure is near;
The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier;
His death-bell is tolling. O! 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 faggots 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

LOCHIEL.

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 strewed in their gore,

Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore,

For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, stood,

While the kindling of life in his bosom remains,

And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,

brood.

With his back to the field, and his feet to the foc!

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 expression."—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.-

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!-

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 fect
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?

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