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.'-

VI.

Then Denmark bless'd 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.

VII.

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!

VIII.

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,

On the deck of fame that died ;—
With the gallant good Riou ;1

Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,

And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!

1805.

1 Captain Riou, justly entitled the gallant and the good by Lord Nelson, when he wrote home his despatches.

HOHENLINDEN.

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 heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stainèd 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 sulphurous 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 feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

1802.

THIS poem was composed in the year 1802, and printed anonymously with "Lochiel," being dedicated to the Rev. A. Alison. It has been described as "the only representation of a modern battle which possesses either interest or sublimity."

Washington Irving, in a "Biographical Sketch of Campbell," appended to "The Poetry and History of Wyoming, containing Campbell's 'Gertrude,'" speaks of this piece and Lochiel, as "Exquisite gems, sufficient of themselves to establish his title to the sacred name of poet;" and Sir Walter Scott, during a visit of the same gifted individual to Abbotsford, made the following observation-"And there's that glorious little poem too of 'Hohenlinden;' after he had written it he did not seem to think much of it, but considered some of it d-d drum and trumpet lines. I got him to recite it to me, and I believe that the delight I felt and expressed had an effect in inducing him to print it.

"The fact is," added he, "Campbell is in a manner a bugbear to himself. The brightness of his early success is a detriment to all his further efforts. He is afraid of the shadow that his own fame casts before him.”

GLENARA.

O HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and

wail?

'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear; And her sire, and the people, are call'd to her bier.

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud; Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn'd not aloud: Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around; They march'd all in silence,-they look'd on the ground.

In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor, To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and

hoar:

"Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn: Why speak ye no word!"—said Glenara the stern.

"And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse, Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your

brows?"

So spake the rude chieftain :—no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding, a dagger display'd.