Sidor som bilder
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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.

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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.

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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 heart—
My loved companion dropp'd a tear and fled,
And hid in deepest shades her awful head.
Beloved, who shall tell me where thou art—
In what delicious Eden to be found—

That I may seek thee the wide world around?

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Thomas CAMPBell was born on the twentyseventh 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 ARistoph ANEs, 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 Continent. 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

ability worthy of his reputation, for ten years, 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.

CAMPBell's poetry has little need of critical illustration. His chief merit is rhetorical. There is no vagueness or mysticism in his verse. 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

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LO CHIEL’S WARNING.

W7zard. Lochtel ! 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 deathtelling 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 ? Proud bird of the mountain,thy plume shall be torn! Say, rush the bold eagle exultingly forth From his homein the darkrolling 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, 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.

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.

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 claymore 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!
Ah, no l for a darker departure is near;
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,
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.

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