Tame as a spaniel, timid as a child,
He muttered incoherent words and smiled;
He wept at kindness, rolled a vacant eye,
And laughed full often when he meant to cry.
Poor man! whilst in this lamentable state,
Came Allan back one morning to his gate,
Hale and unburdened by the woes of eild,
And fresh with credit from Culloden's field.
'T was feared at first the sight of him might touch
The old Macdonald's morbid mind too much;
But no! though Norman knew him, and disclosed
Even rallying memory, he was still composed;
Asked all particulars of the fatal fight,
And only heaved a sigh for Charles's flight :
Then said, with but one moment's pride of air,
It might not have been so had I been there!
Few days elapsed till he reposed beneath
His gray cairn, on the wild and lonely heath;
Son, friends and kindred, of his dust took leave,
And Allan, with the crape bound round his sleeve.

Old Allan now hung up his sergeant's sword,
And sat, a guest for life, at Ronald's board.
He waked no longer at the barrack's drum,
Yet still you'd see, when peep of day was come,
The erect tall red-coat, walking pastures round,
Or delving with his spade the garden ground.
Of cheerful temper, habits strict and sage,
He reached, enjoyed, a patriarchal age-
Loved to the last by the Macdonalds. Near
Their house his stone was placed with many a tear;
And Ronald's self, in stoic virtue brave,

Scorned not to weep at Allan Campbell's grave.

NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR.

369

NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR.*

I LOVE Contemplating, apart

From all his homicidal glory,
The traits that soften to our heart
Napoleon's story!

'Twas when his banners at Boulogne
Armed in our island every freeman,
His navy chanced to capture one
Poor British seaman.

They suffered him-I know not how-
Unprisoned on the shore to roam;
And aye was bent his longing brow
On England's home.

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight
Of birds to Britain half-way over;
With envy they could reach the white,
Dear cliffs of Dover.

A stormy midnight watch, he thought,
Than this sojourn would have been dearer,
If but the storm his vessel brought

To England nearer.

At last, when care had banished sleep,

He saw one morning-dreaming-doting,

An empty hogshead from the deep

Come shoreward floating;

This anecdote has been published in several public journals, both French and British. My belief in its authenticity was confirmed by an Englishman, long resident at Boulogne, lately telling me that he remembered the circumstance to have been generally talked of in the place.

370

NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR.

He hid it in a cave, and wrought
The live-long day laborious; lurking
Until he launched a tiny boat
By mighty working.

Heaven help us! 't was a thing beyond
Description wretched; such a wherry
Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond,
Or crossed a ferry.

For ploughing in the salt-sea field,

It would have made the boldest shudder;
Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled,
No sail-no rudder.

From neighboring woods he interlaced
His sorry skiff with wattled willows;
And thus equipped he would have passed
The foaming billows-

But Frenchmen caught him on the beach,
His little Argo sorely jeering:
Till tidings of him chanced to reach

Napoleon's hearing.

With folded arms Napoleon stood,

Serene alike in peace and danger;

And, in his wonted attitude,

Addressed the stranger:

"Rash man, that would'st yon Channel pass
On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned;

Thy heart with some sweet British lass
Must be impassioned."

"I have no sweetheart," said the lad;

"But

absent long from one another

Great was the longing that I had

"And so thou shalt," Napoleon said,
"Ye've both my favor fairly won ;
A noble mother must have bred
So brave a son."

He gave the tar a piece of gold,

And, with a flag of truce, commanded He should be shipped to England Old, And safely landed.

Our sailor oft could scantily shift
To find a dinner, plain and hearty;
But never changed the coin and gift
Of Bonaparté.

BENLOMOND.

HADST thou a genius on thy peak,
What tales, white-headed Ben,
Couldst thou of ancient ages speak,
That mock the historian's pen!

Thy long duration makes our lives
Seem but so many hours;

And likens to the bees' frail hives

Our most stupendous towers.

Temples and towers thou 'st seen begun,
New creeds, new conquerors' sway;
And, like their shadows in the sun,
Hast seen them swept away.

Thy steadfast summit, heaven-allied
(Unlike life's little span),
Looks down, a Mentor, on the pride
Of perishable man.

THE CHILD AND HIND.

I wish I had preserved a copy of the Wiesbaden newspaper in which this anecdote of the "Child and Hind" is recorded; but I have unfortunately lost it. The story, however, is a matter of fact; it took place in 1838; every circumstance mentioned in the following ballad literally happened. I was in Wiesbaden eight months ago, and was shown the very tree under which the boy was found sleeping with a bunch of flowers in his little hand. A similar occurrence is told by tradition, of Queen Genevova's child being preserved by being suckled by a female deer, when that princess—an early Christian, and now a Saint in the Romish calendar - was chased to the desert by her heathen enemies. The spot assigned to the traditionary event is not a hundred miles from Wiesbaden, where a chapel still stands to her memory.

I could not ascertain whether the Hind that watched my hero "Wilhelm " suckled him or not; but it was generally believed that she had no milk to give him, and that the boy must have been for two days and a half entirely without food, unless it might be grass or leaves. If this was the case, the circumstance of the Wiesbaden deer watching the child was a still more wonderful token of instinctive fondness than that of the deer in the Genevova tradition, who was naturally anxious to be relieved of her milk.

COME, maids and matrons, to caress

Wiesbaden's gentle hind;

And, smiling, deck its glossy neck

With forest flowers entwined.

Your forest flowers are fair to show,

And landscapes to enjoy ;

But fairer is your friendly doe

That watched the sleeping boy.