nemis, et nous partagerons, alors ô mon fils chrétien, le sang des vaincus et la joie de la vengeance. * Mais toi, jeune plante, que le souffle plus doux des génies d'un autre climat a fait naître, les esprits du ciel des hommes blancs ne te défendent pas de gémir ; ni l'armée chrétienne, ni l'ombre de ton père ne s'affligeront de te voir, la veille du combat, dire, les yeux en pleurs, un lugubre adieu à celle qui t'avait tant aimée. Elle était ton arc-en-ciel, ton soleil, ton paradis, ta félicité . .. .. et tu l'as perdue. * Demain vaincre, ou périr ! Mais quand la foudre du trépas sera lancée, ah ! où fuir avec toi, en quels lieux du monde, Outalissi et toi, porterez-vous vos pas errans ? Reprendrons-nous le chemin de cette belle demeure naguère si douce ? Elle est glacée le main qui en cueillait les fleurs ! l'horloge y sonne solitairement les heures; la cendre des foyers est froide, et si nous y retournions, l'echo ne nous renverrait que le bruit de nos pas et des sons semblables à la voix des morts. * Franchirons-nous ces montagnes bleues, dont les torrens désaltéraient jadis les nations de ma race, et où à mes côtés, mille guerriers saisissaient un arc vengeur ? Hélas! dans ces lieux désolés le serpent du désert habite seul ; le gazon couvre les ossemens blanchis, et les pierres des tombeaux sont elles-mêmes minées comme moi par le temps. Oh ! ne pénétrons pas dans leur camp-oû règne le silence du désespoir ! o-Mais écoutons, la trompette a retenti !— Demain tu sécheras tes larmes, au milieu des feux de la gloire: l'ombre vénérable demon père vient à moi de la région des ombres; elle m'apparait, portée sur les vapeurs qui roulent au-dessus de nos tétes: elle excite en mon âme la soif du combat. Elle m'ordonne d’essuyer la première, la dernière, la seule larme qui se soit jamais échappée du coeur d'Outalissi; il ne m'est pas permis de souiller par des pleurs le chant de mort d'un chef Indien.” This lyrical song concludes Gertrude of Wyoming : it naturally leads me to refer to Lochiel, which is a prediction of the defeat of Culloden, by a mountain seer, and the ballad of O’Connor’s Daughter, which “ Rossignol Moore,” unintentionally imitating some verses of M. Rogers, calls a tear of the Irish muse, crystallized by genius. Alternately sparkling with grace and elegance, or nobly energetic, the minor poems of Campbell would alone be sufficient to establish his reputation, if he had not written Gertrude. As a prose writer, he is not less brilliant, and has published a summary of English literature, replete with original ideas. His lectures on ancient literature, are distinguished by the same merit. In society, Mr. Campbell is an amiable man; in politics, he passes for being, or having been, somewhat ministerial; * but he has maintained the incognito while pleading for power; and he is, therefore, a ministerialist, ashamed of his task, if he be so. In his poems he has advocated the cause of liberty, and still later, the cause of Grecian freedom.

* This is a mistake.—Translator.

P. S. The poem of Theodoric, which has just made its appearance, is less correct than Gertrude and the Pleasures of Hope; and the interest of it is of a less vivid description. Among the fugitive pieces which accompany Theodoric, there is one entitled “The Last Man,” which bears great analogy to the “Darkness” of Byron. Mr. Campbell, himself, claims the having suggested the idea of “Darkness” to the noble poet. We have, in France, suffered a prose poem to fall into oblivion, which is also called Le Dernier Homme, by M. De Grainville, an extraordinary work, which has preceded the Darkness and the Last Man of Campbell.

“All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The Sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume
Its Immortality :
I saw a vision in my sleep,
That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulph of Time !
I saw the last of human mould,
That shall Creation’s death behold,
As Adam saw her prime !

“The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man
Some had expired in fight-the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;

In plague and famine some !
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead

To shores where all was dumb 1

“Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As if a storm pass'd by,
Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun,
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
'Tis Mercy bids thee go.
For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,”
That shall no longer flow.

“What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,
The vassals of his will;-
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day:
For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Heal’d not a passion or a pang
Entail'd on human hearts.

“Go, let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life's tragedy again.
Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack
Of pain anew to writhe;
Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.

“Ev’n I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire.

My lips that speak thy dirge of death—
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,—
The majesty of Darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost

“This spirit shall return to Him
That gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Hom recall'd to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robb'd the grave of victory,
And took the sting from Death!

“Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up
On Nature's awful waste
To drink this last and bitter cup
Of grief that man shall taste—
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,
On Earth's sepulchral clod,
The dark'ning universe defy
To quench his Immortality,
Or shake his trust in God!”

The “Darkness” of Lord Byron is a vision of despair; it is one of those pictures, which terrify even when reflected in the mirror of poetry. Nothing can be more terrific than the image of two enemies seated beside an expiring flame, the last flash of which reveals them to each other, and embitters their death with a feeling of hatred. But in Campbell's poem, how sublime is

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