ECLIPSE OF ITS BRIGHTNESS. Her birth star was the light of burning plains; p. 50, 51. 189 Gertrude's alarm and dejection at the prospect of hostilities are well described: "O, meet not thou," she cries, "thy kindred foe! But peaceful let us seek fair England's strand," &c. -as well as the arguments and generous sentiments by which her husband labours to reconcile her to a necessary evil. The nocturnal irruption of the old Indian is given with great spirit: Age and misery had so changed his appearance, that he was not at first recognized by any of the party. “And hast thou then forgot' - - (he cried forlorn, 'Bless thee, my guide!'-but, backward as he came, And grasp'd his arm, and look'd and look'd him through. At last delight o'er all his features stole, 'It is my own!' he cried, and clasp'd him to his soul. "Yes! thou recall'st my pride of years; for then When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambush'd men, I bore thee like the quiver on my back, Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack; And dost thou not remember how we cheer'd Upon the last hill-top, when white men's huts appear'd?" p. 54-56. After warning them of the approach of their terrible foe, the conflagration is seen, and the whoops and scat tering shot of the enemy heard at a distance. The motley militia of the neighbourhood flock to the defence of Albert: the effect of their shouts and music on the old Indian is fine and striking. "Rous'd by their warlike pomp, and mirth, and cheer, Old Outalissi woke his battle song, And, beating with his war-club cadence strong, Tells how his deep-stung indignation smarts," &c. p. 61. Nor is the contrast of this savage enthusiasm with the venerable composure of Albert less beautifully represented. "Calm, opposite the Christian Father rose, - p. 62. They then speed their night march to the distant fort, whose wedged ravelins and redoubts "Wove like a diadem its tracery round and look back from its lofty height on the desolated scenes around them. We will not separate, nor apologize for the length of the fine passage that follows; which alone, we think, might justify all we have said in praise of the poem. "A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun, Its requiem the war-horn seem'd to blow. On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm Enclos'd, that felt her heart, and hush'd its wild alarm! "But short that contemplation! sad and short Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners flew, THE CATASTROPHE. Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian crew Was near? Yet there, with lust of murd'rous deeds, The ambush'd foeman's eye - his volley speeds! And Albert Albert - falls! the dear old father bleeds! "And tranc'd in giddy horror Gertrude swoon'd! Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone, 66 6 Say, burst they, borrow'd from her father's wound, Heaven's peace commiserate! for scarce I heed - 191 Yet thee to leave is death, is death indeed. Clasp me a little longer, on the brink Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress; And, when this heart hath ceas'd to beat-oh! think, And let it mitigate thy woe's excess, That thou hast been to me all tenderness, And friend to more than human friendship just. Oh! by that retrospect of happiness, And by the hopes of an immortal trust, God shall assuage thy pangs - when I am laid in dust! "Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart! The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move, With thee, as with an angel, through the grove Of peace In heav'n! for ours was not like earthly love! No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past. "Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earthAnd thee, more lov'd than aught beneath the sun! Could I have liv'd to smile but on the birth Of one dear pledge! - But shall there then be none, To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me! A sweetness in the cup of death to be, Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding thee!' Hush'd were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland And beautiful expression seem'd to melt With love that could not die! and still his hand She presses to the heart no more that felt. Ah heart! where once each fond affection dwelt, And features yet that spoke a soul more fair!"—p. 64—68. 192 CAMPBELL'S GERTRUDE -THE DEATH SONG. The funeral is hurried over with pathetic brevity; and the desolated and all-enduring Indian brought in again with peculiar beauty. 66 Touch'd by the music, and the melting scene, "Then mournfully the parting bugle bid Its farewell o'er the grave of worth and truth. He watch'd beneath its folds, each burst that came After some time spent in this mute and awful pause, this stern and heart-struck comforter breaks out into the following touching and energetic address, with which the poem closes, with great spirit and abruptness:— "And I could weep;' But that I may not stain with grief For by my wrongs, and by my wrath! (That fires yon heaven 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 flow'r! whose breath was giv'n By milder genii o'er the deep, The spirits of the white man's heav'n Forbid not thee to weep! Nor will the Christian host, Nor will thy father's spirit grieve It is needless, after these extracts, to enlarge upon the beauties of this poem. They consist chiefly in the feeling and tenderness of the whole delineation, and the taste and delicacy with which all the subordinate parts are made to contribute to the general effect. Before dismissing it, however, we must say a little of its faults, which are sufficiently obvious and undeniable. In the first place, the narrative is extremely obscure and imperfect; and has greater blanks in it than could be tolerated even in lyric poetry. We hear absolutely nothing of Henry, from the day the Indian first brings him from the back country, till he returns from Europe fifteen years thereafter. It is likewise a great oversight in Mr. Campbell to separate his lovers, when only twelve years of age-a period at which it is utterly inconceivable that any permanent attachment could have been formed. The greatest fault, however, of the work, is the occasional constraint and obscurity of the diction, proceeding apparently from too laborious an effort at emphasis or condensation. The metal seems in several places to have been so much overworked, as to have lost |