The Poets and Poetry of England

But, as she, who once hath been
A king's consort, is a queen ́
Ever after, nor will bate
Any tittle of her state,
Though a widow, or divorced,
So I, from thy converse forced,
The old name and style retain,
A right Katherine of Spain;
And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys
Of the blest Tobacco Boys;
Where though I, by sour physician,
Am debarr'd the full fruition
Of thy favours, I may catch
Some collateral sweets, and snatch
Sidelong odours, that give life

Like glances from a neighbour's wife;
And still live in the by-places
And the suburbs of thy graces;
And in thy borders take delight,
An unconquer'd Canaanite.

HESTER.

WHEN maidens such as Hester die, Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try.

With vain endeavour.

A month or more hath she been dead,
Yet cannot I by force be led
To think upon the wormy bed,
And her together.

A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step, did indicate

Of pride and joy no common rate,
That flush'd her spirit.

I know not by what name beside
I shall it call:-if 't was not pride,
It was a joy to that allied,
She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule, Which doth the human feeling cool, But she was train'd in nature's school, Nature had blest her.

A waking eye, a prying mind,
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind,
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,
Ye could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbour, gone before To that unknown and silent shore, Shall we not meet, as heretofore,

Some summer morning,

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go away,
A sweet fore-warning?

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.

I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women!
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her-
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood.

Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces-

How some they have died, and some they have left

me,

And some are taken from me; all are departed; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

THE FAMILY NAME.

WHAT reason first imposed thee, gentle name, Name that my father bore, and his sire's sire, Without reproach? we trace our stream no higher; And I, a childless man, may end the same.

Perchance some shepherd on Lincolnian plains, In manners guileless as his own sweet flocks, Received thee first amid the merry mocks

And arch-allusions of his fellow swains. Perchance from Salem's holier fields return'd, With glory gotten on the heads abhorr'd Of faithless Saracens, some martial lord Took his meek title, in whose zeal he burn'd. Whate'er the fount whence thy beginnings came, No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name.

SONNET.

We were two pretty babes, the youngest she,
The youngest, and the loveliest far, I ween,
And Innocence her name. The time has been,
We two did love each other's company;

Time was, we two had wept to have been apart.
But when by show of seeming good beguiled,
I left the garb and manners of a child,
And my first love for man's society,

Defiling with the world my virgin heartMy loved companion dropp'd a tear and fled, And hid in deepest shades her awful head.

Beloved, who shall tell me where thou artIn what delicious Eden to be foundThat I may seek thee the wide world around?

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THOMAS CAMPBELL was born on the twenty- | ability worthy of his reputation, for ten years,

seventh of September, 1777, in Glasgow, where his father was a retired merchant. When twelve years old he entered the university of his native city, and in the following year gained a prize for a translation from ARISTOPHANES, after a hard contest, over a competitor of nearly twice his age. He was here seven years, in all which time he had scarcely a rival in classical learning; and the Greek professor, when bestowing on him a medal for one of his versions, announced that it was the best ever produced in the university. He made equal proficiency in other branches of education, and, on completing his academical course, studied medicine and law.

He quitted Glasgow to remove into Argyleshire, whence he went to Edinburgh, where he was for several years a private tutor. At the early age of twenty-one he finished The Pleasures of Hope, which placed him in the front rank of contemporary poets. In the spring of 1800, he left Scotland for the Conti

nent.

While at Hamburgh he wrote the Exile of Erin, from an impression made upon his mind by the condition of some Irish exiles in the vicinity of that city; and, with the Danish war in prospect, his famous naval lyric, Ye Mariners of England. He travelled over the most interesting portions of Germany and Prussia, visited their universities, and formed friendships with the SCHLEGELS, KLOPSTOCK, and other scholars and men of genius. From the walls of a convent he saw the charge of KLENAU upon the French at Hohenlinden, which he has so vividly described in his celebrated ode upon that battle. Soon after his return to Scotland, in 1801, he received a token of the royal admiration of his Pleasures of Hope, in a pension of two hundred pounds; and, after a short residence at Edinburgh, married Miss MATILDA SINCLAIR, and settled at Sydenham, near London, where he remained many years, and wrote Gertrude of Wyoming, Lord Ullin's Daughter, and several of his minor poems. In 1820 he became editor of the New Monthly Magazine, which he conducted with a spirit and

at the end of which time the death of his wife induced its abandonment. In this period he took an active interest in the causes of Greece and Poland; was three times elected Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow; discharged the duties of Professor of Poetry in the Royal Institution; and laid the foundation of the London University.

For several years before his death, Mr. CAMPBELL produced nothing of much excellence. The Pilgrim of Glencoe and other Poems, which appeared in 1842, owed all their little reputation to his name. He died at Boulougne, 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.

verse.

CAMPBELL'S poetry has little need of critical illustration. His chief merit is rhetorical. There is no vagueness or mysticism in his 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 Pleasures 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 who love the fire of the muse as well as her more delicate 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 tenderness. Nearly all CAMPBELL's earlier writings are popular, and although a more transcendental school of poetry is at present in vogue, admirers of felicity of expression can never fail to recognise the stamp of true genius in one who has sung in such thrilling numbers of patriotism and affection.

Besides his poems, Mr. CAMPBELL wrote A History of Great Britain from the Accession of George III. to the Peace of Amiens; Lectures on Greek Poetry; Letters from the South during a Journey to Algiers; Lives of » Petrarch, Shakspeare, and Mrs. Siddons; several articles on poetry and belles lettres, in the Edinburgh Encyclopedia, and other prose writings, none of which deserved much consideration. His name appears also on the title-pages

of a Life of Frederick the Great of Prussia, but I believe he had little to do with the work. His Specimens of the British Poets, with Biographical and Critical Notices, and an Essay on English Poetry, was published in seven volumes in 1819, and has recently been reproduced by Mr. Murray. It is a work of great value, containing much admirable criticism, and a judicious account of the poetry in the English language down to the time of Cowper.

LOCHIEL'S WARNING.

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 scatter'd in fight.
They rally, they bleed for their country and crown;
Wo, wo 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, O 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 o'er Culloden shall wave,
Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave.
Lochiel. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-
telling seer!

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?

Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock!
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock!
But wo to his kindred, and wo to his cause,
When Albin her clay more indignantly draws;
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd,
Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud,
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array-

Wizard. 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.
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?

Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn! Ah, no! for a darker departure is near;
Say. rush the bold eagle exultingly forth
Fromhis home in the dark rolling clouds of the north?
Lo! the deathshot 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!
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood,
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood.
Lochiel. False wizard, avaunt! I have marshall'd
my clan,

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,

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.

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 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 deathbed of Fame.

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.

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,
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, floods, and earth,
The vassals of his will;

Yet mourn not I 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
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.

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

That 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!
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 that 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!

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 tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests 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 tempests blow, While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. Britannia needs no bulwark,

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 tempests blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests 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.

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.

But the might of England flush'd
To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rush'd

O'er the deadly space between. [gun "Hearts of oak," our captains cried; when each 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.

Outspoke 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 feet,
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 woful 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,

While the wine-cup shines in light;

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 daystar 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 seabeaten shore;
But alas! in a fair foreign land I awaken, [more.
And sigh for the friends who can meet me no
Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me [me?
In a mansion of peace-where no perils can chase
Never again, shall my brothers embrace me;

They died to defend me, or live 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 doat 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 recollection 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 de

votion

Erin mavournin!-Erin go bragh!

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The Poets and Poetry of England: In the Nineteenth Century