I gazed, and felt upon my lips Th' unfinish'd accents hang: And though as swift as lightning's flash Not all the waves of time shall wash But duly shall my raptured song, LINES ON RECEIVING A SEAL WITH THE CAMPBELL CREST, Th' impression of the gift you send, We are not friends of yesterday;- By turns impressible and brittle. Well! should its frailty e'er condemn My heart to prize or please you less, And mine the waxen brittleness. What transcripts of my weal and woe In reason's calm or passion's shock! And feelings of futurity! Yet wheresoe'er my pen I lift Shall make its recollection sweet: Sent when the star that rules your fates Hath reach'd its influence most benignWhen every heart congratulates, And none more cordially than mine. So speed my song-mark'd with the crest That erst th' advent'rous Norman' wore Who won the Lady of the West, The daughter of Macaillain Mor. Crest of my sires! whose blood it seal'd With glory in the strife of swords, Ne'er may the scroll that bears it yield Degenerate thoughts or faithless words! 1 A Norman leader, in the service of the king of Scotland, married the heiress of Lochow in the twelfth century, and from him the Campbells are sprung. Yet little might I prize the stone, No!-but it tells me of a heart, Allied by friendship's living tie; A prize beyond the herald's artOur soul-sprung consanguinity! Kath'rine! to many an hour of mine Light wings and sunshine you have lent; And so adieu, and still be thine The all-in-all of life-Content! GILDEROY. THE last, the fatal hour is come, The bell has toll'd: it shakes my heart; And must my Gilderoy depart No bosom trembles for thy doom; Oh, Gilderoy! bethought we then You triumph'd o'er my heart? Your locks they glitter'd to the sheen, Ah! little thought I to deplore Those limbs in fetters bound; Or hear, upon the scaffold floor, The midnight hammer sound. Ye cruel, cruel, that combined He could not injure you! A long adieu! but where shall fly Yes! they will mock thy widow's tears, Then will I seek the dreary mound ADELGITHA. THE ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded, She wept, deliver'd from her danger; But when he knelt to claim her glove"Seek not," she cried, "oh! gallant stranger, For hapless Adelgitha's love. "For he is in a foreign far land Whose arm should now have set me free; And I must wear the willow garland For him that's dead, or false to me." "Nay! say not that his faith is tainted!"- ABSENCE. "Tis not the loss of love's assurance, What though, untouch'd by jealous madness, Absence! is not the soul torn by it From more than light, or life, or breath? "Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet,The pain without the peace of death! THE RITTER BANN. THE Ritter Bann from Hungary Came back, renown'd in arms, But scorning jousts of chivalry And love and ladies' charms. While other knights held revels, he Slow paced his lonely room. There enter'd one whose face he knew,Whose voice, he was aware, He oft at mass had listen'd to, In the holy house of prayer. "T was the Abbot of St. James's monks, His reverend air arrested even But seeing with him an ancient dame "Ha! nurse of her that was my bane, I wish it blotted from my brain: "Sir Knight," the abbot interposed, "This case your ear demands;" And the crone cried, with a cross inclosed In both her trembling hands: "Remember, each his sentence waits; And he that shall rebut Sweet Mercy's suit, on him the gates Of Mercy shall be shut. "You wedded undispensed by Church, "Her house denounced your marriage-band, Betrothed her to De Grey, And the ring you put upon her hand "Then wept your Jane upon my neck, Crying, Help me, nurse, to flee To my Howel Bann's Glamorgan hills;' But word arrived-ah me! "I had a son, a sea-boy, in "To Scotland from the Devon's "She wrote you by my son, but he "For they that wrong'd you, to elude "At last by what this scroll attests For years of anguish to the breasts "There lived,' he said, 'a fair young dame Beneath my mother's roof; I loved her, but against my flame "I feign'd repentance, friendship pure; "As means to search him, my deceit The treachery took; she waited wild; My slave came back and lied Whate'er I wished; she clasp'd her child, And swoon'd, and all but died. "I felt her tears for years, and years Quench not my flame, but stir; The very hate I bore her mate Increased my love for her. "Fame told us of his glory, while Joy flush'd the face of Jane; "No fears could damp; I reach'd the camp, Sought out its champion; And if my broad-sword fail'd at last, "T was long and well laid on. "This wound's my meed, my name's Kinghorn, My foe's the Ritter Bann.' The wafer to his lips was borne, And we shrived the dying man. "He died not till you went to fight The Turks at Warradein; But I see my tale has changed you pale."— And brought a little page, who pour'd And stoop'd and caught him to his breast, "And where went Jane?'-"To a nunnery, SirLook not again so pale Kinghorn's old dame grew harsh to her." "Think ere you ask her dwelling-place," The abbot further said; "Time draws a veil o'er beauty's face More deep than cloister's shade. "Grief may have made her what you can The priest undid two doors that hid One moment may with bliss repay When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart), Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away; And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray. Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure, And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, Though my wallet was scant, I remember'd his case, Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind? Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind? To my sweet native village, so far, far away, I can never more return with my poor dog Tray. SONG. TO THE EVENING STAR. STAR that bringest home the bee, Come to the luxuriant skies, Whilst the landscape's odors rise, Star of love's soft interviews, SONG. "MEN OF ENGLAND." MEN of England! who inherit Rights that cost your sires their blood! Men whose undegenerate spirit Has been proved on land and flood:By the foes ye've fought uncounted, By the glorious deeds ye've done, Trophies captured-breaches mounted, Navies conquer'd-kingdoms won! Yet, remember, England gathers Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, If the patriotism of your fathers Glow not in your hearts the same. What are monuments of bravery, Trophied temples, arch and tomb? Pageants!-Let the world revere us Bared in Freedom's holy cause. Yours are Hampden's, Russel's glory, Sydney's matchless shade is yours,— Martyrs in heroic story, Worth a hundred Azincours! We're the sons of sires that baffled THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE. Rivals banish'd, bosoms plighted, Charms you call your dearest blessing, SONG. DRINK ye to her that each loves best, We will not ask her name. Enough, while memory tranced and glad Paints silently the fair, That each should dream of joys he's had, Yet far, far hence be jest or boast SONG. WHEN Napoleon was flying From the field of Waterloo, A British soldier, dying, To his brother bade adieu! "And take," he said, "this token To the maid that owns my faith, With the words that I have spoken In affection's latest breath." Sore mourn'd the brother's heart, There was many a friend to lose him, But the maiden of his bosom Wept when all their tears were dried. THE BEECH-TREE'S PETITION. O LEAVE this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! Though bush or floweret never grow My dark unwarming shade below; Nor summer bud perfume the dew Of rosy blush or yellow hue; Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, My green and glossy leaves adorn; Nor murmuring tribes from me derive Th' ambrosial amber of the hive; Yet leave this barren spot to me : Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! Thrice twenty summers I have seen The sky grow bright, the forest green; And many a wintry wind have stood In bloomless, fruitless solitude, Since childhood in my pleasant bower First spent its sweet and sportive hour, Since youthful lovers in my shade Their vows of truth and rapture made; And on my trunk's surviving frame Carved many a long-forgotten name. Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound, First breathed upon this sacred ground: By all that Love has whisper'd here, Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear; As Love's own altar honor me, Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! SONG. EARL March look'd on his dying child, She's at the window many an hour, And her love look'd up to Ellen's bower, But ah! so pale, he knew her not, Though her smile on him was dwelling. And am I then forgot-forgot? It broke the heart of Ellen. In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, |