XXXIX.

But hark, the trump !-to-morrow thou
In glory's fires shall dry thy tears;
Ev'n from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears,
Amidst the clouds that round us roll;
He bids my soul for battle thirst—
He bids me dry the last-the first-
The only tears that ever burst
From Outalissi's soul;

Because I may not stain with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief!"

IN 1809, "Gertrude" appeared, dedicated to Campbell's steady friend, Lord Holland. The cordial reception it received formed a bright epoch in the Poet's life. On the same day the work was published appeared also an article in the Edinburgh Review opening with a brilliant eulogium on the taste and talent of the author. "We rejoice once more," said the writer, "to see a polished and pathetic põem in the old style of English pathos and poetry. This is of the pitch of the 'Castle of Indolence,' and the finer parts of Spenser, with more feeling in many places than the first, and more condensation and diligent finishing than the latter." Then pointing attention to the admired poetry of the day, there was added: "We have endeavoured on former occasions to do justice to the force and originality of these brilliant productions, as well as to the genius fitted for higher things of

their authors; and have little doubt of being soon called upon for a renewed tribute of applause. But we cannot help saying, in the mean time, that the work before us belongs to a class which comes nearer to our conception of pure and perfect poetry. Such productions do not, indeed, strike so strong a blow as the vehement effusions of our modern Trouveurs; but they are calculated, we think, to please more deeply, and to call out more permanently those traits of nature in which the delight of poetry will be found to consist. They may not be so loudly nor so universally applauded, but their fame will probably endure longer, and they will be oftener recalled to mingle with the reveries of solitary leisure, or the consolations of real sorrow. There is a sort of poetry, no doubt, as there is a sort of flowers, which can bear the broad sun and the ruffling winds of the world: which thrive under the hands and eyes of indiscriminate multitudes, and please as much in hot and crowded saloons as in their own sheltered repositories; but the finer and the purer sorts blossom only in the shade, and never give out their sweets but to those who seek them amid the quiet and seclusion of the scenes which gave them birth. There are torrents and cascades which attract the admiration of tittering parties, and of which even the busy must turn aside to catch a transient glance; but the haunted stream steals through a still and solitary landscape, and its beauties are never revealed but to him who strays in calm contemplation, by its course, and follows its wanderings with undiminished and unimpatient admiration."

LINES

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY OF LONDON, WHEN MET TO COMMEMORATE THE 21ST OF MARCH, THE

DAY OF VICTORY IN EGYPT.

PLEDGE to the much-loved land that gave us birth!

Invincible romantic Scotia's shore!

Pledge to the memory of her parted worth!
And first, amidst the brave, remember Moore !

And be it deem'd not wrong that name to give,
In festive hours, which prompts the patriot's
sigh!

Who would not envy such as Moore to live?
And died he not as heroes wish to die?

Yes, though too soon attaining glory's goal,
To us his bright career too short was given;

Yet in a mighty cause his phoenix soul

Rose on the flames of victory to Heaven!

How oft (if beats in subjugated Spain

One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn For him!-How oft on far Corunna's plain Shall British exiles weep upon his urn!

Peace to the mighty dead!—our bosom thanks In sprightlier strains the living may inspire! Joy to the chiefs that lead old Scotia's ranks, Of Roman garb and more than Roman fire!

Triumphant be the thistle still unfurl'd,

Dear symbol wild! on Freedom's hills it grows, Where Fingal stemm'd the tyrants of the world, And Roman eagles found unconquer'd foes.

Joy to the band' this day on Egypt's coast,
Whose valour tamed proud France's tricolor,
And wrench'd the banner from her bravest host,
Baptiz'd Invincible in Austria's gore!

Joy for the day on red Vimeira's strand,
When, bayonet to bayonet opposed,

First of Britannia's host her Highland band

Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost

closed!

Is there a son of generous England here

Or fervid Erin ?-he with us shall join,

To pray that in eternal union dear,

The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine!

Types of a race who shall th' invader scorn,
As rocks resist the billows round their shore;

Types of a race who shall to time unborn
Their country leave unconquer'd as of yore!

1 The 42d Regiment.

1809.

STANZAS

TO THE MEMORY OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS LATEST KILLED IN RESISTING THE

REGENCY AND THE DUKE

OF ANGOULEME.

BRAVE men who at the Trocadero fell-
Beside your cannons conquer'd not, though slain,
There is a victory in dying well

For Freedom,—and ye have not died in vain ;
For, come what may, there shall be hearts in
Spain

To honour, ay, embrace your martyr'd lot,

Cursing the Bigot's and the Bourbon's chain, And looking on your graves, though trophied not, As holier hallow'd ground than priests could make the spot!

What though your cause be baffled-freemen cast
In dungeons-dragg'd to death, or forced to flee;
Hope is not wither'd in affliction's blast-

The patriot's blood's the seed of Freedom's tree;
And short your orgies of revenge shall be,
Cowl'd demons of the Inquisitorial cell!
Earth shudders at your victory,—for ye