CANTO III

Now, my Calliope! to teach incline what speech great Gama for the king did frame: Inspire immortal song, grant voice divine unto this mortal who so loves thy name. Thus may the God whose gift was Medicine, to whom thou barest Orpheus, lovely Dame! never for Daphne, Clytia, Leucothoe due love deny thee or inconstant grow he.

Satisfy, Nymph! desires that in me teem, to sing the merits of thy Lusians brave; so worlds shall see and say that Tagus-stream rolls Aganippe's liquor. Leave, I crave, leave flow'ry Pindus-head; e'en now I deem Apollo bathes me in that sovran wave; else must I hold it, that thy gentle sprite, fears thy dear Orpheus fade through me from sight.

All stood with open ears in long array to hear what mighty Gama mote unfold; when, past in thoughtful mood a brief delay, began he thus with brow high-raised and bold:-- "Thou biddest me, O King! to say my say anent our grand genealogy of old: Thou bidd'st me not relate an alien story; Thou bidd'st me laud my brother Lusian's glory.

"That one praise others' exploits and renown is honour'd custom which we all desire; yet fear I 'tis unfit to praise mine own; lest praise, like this suspect, no trust inspire; nor may I hope to make all matters known for Time however long were short; yet, sire! as thou commandest all is owed to thee; maugre my will I speak and brief will be.

"Nay, more, what most obligeth me, in fine, is that no leasing in my tale may dwell; for of such Feats whatever boast be mine, when most is told, remaineth much to tell: But that due order wait on the design, e'en as desirest thou to learn full well, the wide-spread Continent first I'll briefly trace, then the fierce bloody wars that waged my race.

* * * * *

"Lo! here her presence showeth noble Spain, of Europe's body corporal the head; o'er whose home-rule, and glorious foreign reign, the fatal Wheel so many a whirl hath made; Yet ne'er her Past or force or fraud shall stain, nor restless Fortune shall her name degrade; no bonds her bellic offspring bind so tight but it shall burst them with its force of sprite.

"There, facing Tingitania's shore, she seemeth to block and bar the Med'iterranean wave, where the known Strait its name ennobled deemeth by the last labour of the Theban Brave. Big with the burthen of her tribes she teemeth, circled by whelming waves that rage and rave; all noble races of such valiant breast, that each may justly boast itself the best.

"Hers the Tarragonese who, famed in war, made aye-perturbed Parthenope obey; the twain Asturias, and the haught Navarre twin Christian bulwarks on the Moslem way: Hers the Gallego canny, and the rare Castilian, whom his star raised high to sway Spain as her saviour, and his seign'iory feel Baetis, Leon, Granada, and Castile.

"See, the head-crowning coronet is she of general Europe, Lusitania's reign, where endeth land and where beginneth sea, and Phoebus sinks to rest upon the main. Willed her the Heavens with all-just decree by wars to mar th' ignoble Mauritan, to cast him from herself: nor there consent he rule in peace the Fiery Continent.

"This is my happy land, my home, my pride; where, if the Heav'ens but grant the pray'er I pray for glad return and every risk defied, there may my life-light fail and fade away. This was the Lusitania, name applied by Lusus or by Lysa, sons, they say, of antient Bacchus, or his boon compeers, eke the first dwellers of her eldest years.

"Here sprang the Shepherd,[6] in whose name we see forecast of virile might, of virtuous meed; whose fame no force shall ever hold in fee, since fame of mighty Rome ne'er did the deed. This, by light Heaven's volatile decree, that antient Scyther, who devours his seed, made puissant pow'er in many a part to claim, assuming regal rank; and thus it came:--

"A King there was in Spain, Afonso hight, who waged such warfare with the Saracen, that by his 'sanguined arms, and arts, and might, he spoiled the lands and lives of many men. When from Herculean Calpe winged her flight his fame to Caucasus Mount and Caspian glen, many a knight, who noblesse coveteth, comes offering service to such King and Death.

"And with intrinsic love inflamed more for the True Faith, than honours popular, they trooped, gath'ering from each distant shore, leaving their dear-loved homes and lands afar. When with high feats of force against the Moor they proved of sing'ular worth in Holy War, willed Afonso that their mighty deeds commens'urate gifts command and equal meeds.

"'Mid them Henrique, second son, men say, of a Hungarian King, well-known and tried, by sort won Portugal which, in his day, ne prized was ne had fit cause for pride: His strong affection stronger to display the Spanish King decreed a princely bride, his only child, Teresa, to the count; And with her made him Seigneur Paramount.

"This doughty Vassal from that servile horde, Hagar, the handmaid's seed, great vict'ories won; reft the broad lands adjacent with his sword and did whatever Brav'ery bade be done; Him, for his exploits excellent to reward, God gave in shortest space a gallant son, whose arm to 'noble and enfame was fain the warlike name of Lusitania's reign.

"Once more at home this conqu'ering Henry stood who sacred Hierosol'yma had relieved, his eyes had fed on Jordan's holy flood, which the Dear Body of Lord God had laved; when Godfrey left no foe to be subdued, and all Judaea conquered was and saved, many that in his wars had done devoir to their own lordships took the way once more.

"But when this stout and gallant Hun attained Life's fatal period, age and travail-spent, he gave, by Death's necessity constrained, his sprite to him that had that spirit lent: A son of tender years alone remained, to whom the Sire bequeath'd his 'bodiment; with bravest braves the youth was formed to cope, for from such sire such son the world may hope.

"Yet old Report, I know not what its weight (for on such antique tale no man relies), saith that the Mother, tane in tow the State, A second nuptial bed did not despise: Her orphan son to disinher'ited fate she doomed, declaring hers the dignities, not his, with seigniory o'er all the land, her spousal dowry by her sire's command.

"Now Prince Afonso (who such style had tane in pious mem'ory of his Grandsire's name), seeing no part and portion in his reign all pilled and plundered by the Spouse and Dame. by dour and doughty Mars inflamed amain, privily plots his heritage to claim: He weighs the causes in his own conceit till firm Resolve its fit effect shall greet.

"Of Guimara'ens the field already flow'd with floods of civil warfare's bloody tide, where she, who little of the Mother show'd, to her own bowels love and land denied. Fronting the child in fight the parent stood; nor saw her depth of sin that soul of pride against her God, against maternal love: Her sensual passion rose all pow'r above.

"O magical Medea! O Progne dire! if your own babes in vengeance dared ye kill for alien crimes, and injuries of the sire, look ye, Teresa's deed was darker still. Foul greed of gain, incontinent desire, were the main causes of such bitter ill: Scylla her aged sire for one did slay, for both Teresa did her son betray.

"Right soon that noble Prince clear vict'ory won from his harsh Mother and her Fere indign; in briefest time the land obeyed the son, though first to fight him did the folk incline. But reft of reason and by rage undone he bound the Mother in the biting chain: Eftsoons avenged her griefs the hand of God: Such veneration is to parents ow'd.

"Lo! the superb Castilian 'gins prepare his pow'r to 'venge Teresa's injuries, against the Lusian land in men so rare, whereon ne toil ne trouble heavy lies. Their breasts the cruel battle grandly dare, aid the good cause angelic Potencies; unrecking might unequal still they strive, nay, more, their dreadful foe to flight they drive!

"Passeth no tedious time, before the great Prince a dure Siege in Guimaraens dree'd by passing pow'er, for to 'mend his state, came the fell en'emy, full of grief and greed: But when committed life to direful Fate, Egas, the faithful guardian, he was free'd, who had in any other way been lost, all unprepared 'gainst such 'whelming host.

"But when the loyal Vassal well hath known how weak his Monarch's arm to front such fight, sans order wending to the Spanish fone, his Sovran's homage he doth pledge and plight. Straight from the horrid siege th' invader flown trusteth the word and honour of the Knight, Egas Moniz: But now the noble breast of the brave Youth disdaineth strange behest.

"Already came the plighted time and tide, when the Castilian Don stood dight to see, before his pow'er the Prince bend low his pride, yielding the promised obediency. Egas who views his knightly word belied, while still Castile believes him true to be, Sweet life resolveth to the winds to throw, nor live with foulest taint of faithless vow.

"He with his children and his wife departeth to keep his promise with a faith immense; unshod and stripped, while their plight imparteth far more of pity than of vengeance: 'If, mighty Monarch! still thy spirit smarteth to wreak revenge on my rash confidence,' quoth he, 'Behold! I come with life to save my pledge, my knightly honour's word I gave.'

"'I bring, thou seest here, lives innocent, of wife, of sinless children dight to die; if breasts of gen'erous mould and excellent accept such weaklings' woeful destiny. Thou seest these hands, this tongue inconsequent: hereon alone the fierce exper'iment try of torments, death, and doom that pass in full Sinis or e'en Perillus' brazen bull.'

"As shrifted wight the hangman stands before, in life still draining bitter draught of death, lays throat on block, and of all hope forlore, expects the blighting blow with bated breath: So, in the Prince's presence angry sore, Egas stood firm to keep his plighted faith: When the King, marv'elling at such wondrous truth, feels anger melt and merge in Royal ruth.

"Oh the great Portingall fidelity of Vassal self-devote to doom so dread! What did the Persian more for loyalty whose gallant hand his face and nostrils shred? When great Darius mourned so grievously that he a thousand times deep-sighing said, far he prefer'd his Zop'yrus sound again, than lord of twenty Babylons to reign.

"But Prince Afonso now prepared his band of happy Lusians proud to front the foes, those haughty Moors that held the glorious land yon side where clear delicious Tagus flows: Now on Ourique[8] field was pitched and plan'd the Royal 'Campment fierce and bellicose, facing the hostile host of Sarrasin though there so many, here so few there bin.

"Confident, yet would he in naught confide, save in his God that holds of Heav'en the throne; so few baptized stood their King beside, there were an hundred Moors for every one: Judge any sober judgment, and decide 'twas deed of rashness or by brav'ery done to fall on forces whose exceeding might a cent'ury showed to a single Knight.

"Order five Moorish Kings the hostile host of whom Ismar, so called, command doth claim; all of long Warfare large experience boast, wherein may mortals win immortal fame: And gallant dames the Knights they love the most 'company, like that brave and beauteous Dame, who to beleaguered Troy such aidance gave with woman-troops that drained Thermodon's wave.

"The coolth serene, and early morning's pride, now paled the sparkling stars about the Pole, when Mary's Son appearing crucified in vision, strengthened King Afonso's soul. But he, adoring such appearance, cried, fired with a phrenzied faith beyond control: 'To th' Infidel, O Lord! to th' Infidel:[9] Not, Lord, to me who know Thy pow'er so well.'

"Such gracious marvel in such manner sent 'flamed the Lusians' spirits fierce and high, towards their nat'ural King, that excellent Prince, unto whom love-boon none could deny: Aligned to front the foeman prepotent, they shouted res'onant slogan to the sky, and fierce the 'larum rose, 'Real, real, for high Afonso, King of Portugal!'

* * * * *

"Accomplished his act of arms victorious, home to his Lusian realm Afonso[10] sped, to gain from Peace-tide triumphs great and glorious, as those he gained in wars and battles dread; when the sad chance, on History's page memorious, which can unsepulchre the sheeted dead, befell that ill-starr'd, miserable Dame who, foully slain, a throned Queen became.

"Thou, only thou, pure Love, whose cruel might obligeth human hearts to weal and woe, thou, only thou, didst wreak such foul despight, as though she were some foul perfidious foe. Thy burning thirst, fierce Love, they say aright, may not be quencht by saddest tears that flow; Nay, more, thy sprite of harsh tyrannick mood would see thine altars bathed with human blood.

"He placed thee, fair Ignez! in soft retreat, culling the first-fruits of thy sweet young years, in that delicious Dream, that dear Deceit, whose long endurance Fortune hates and fears: Hard by Mondego's yearned-for meads thy seat, where linger, flowing still, those lovely tears, until each hill-born tree and shrub confest the name of Him deep writ within thy breast.[11]

"There, in thy Prince awoke responsive-wise, dear thoughts of thee which soul-deep ever lay; which brought thy beauteous form before his eyes, whene'er those eyne of thine were far away; Night fled in falsest, sweetest phantasies, in fleeting, flying reveries sped the Day; and all, in fine, he saw or cared to see were memories of his love, his joys, his thee.

"Of many a dainty dame and damosel The coveted nuptial couches he rejecteth; for naught can e'er, pure Love! thy care dispel, when one enchanting shape thy heart subjecteth. These whims of passion to despair compel the Sire, whose old man's wisdom aye respecteth, his subjects murmuring at his son's delay to bless the nation with a bridal day.

"To wrench Ignez from life he doth design, better his captured son from her to wrench; deeming that only blood of death indign the living lowe of such true Love can quench. What Fury willed it that the steel so fine, which from the mighty weight would never flinch of the dread Moorman, should be drawn in hate to work that hapless delicate Ladye's fate?

"The horr'ible Hangmen hurried her before the King, now moved to spare her innocence; but still her cruel murther urged the more the People, swayed by fierce and false pretence. She with her pleadings pitiful and sore, that told her sorrows and her care immense for her Prince-spouse and babes, whom more to leave than her own death the mother's heart did grieve:

"And heav'enwards to the clear and crystalline skies, raising her eyne with piteous tears bestained; her eyne, because her hands with cruel ties one of the wicked Ministers constrained: And gazing on her babes in wistful guise, whose pretty forms she loved with love unfeigned, whose orphan'd lot the Mother filled with dread, until their cruel grandsire thus she said:--

"'If the brute-creatures, which from natal day on cruel ways by Nature's will were bent; or feral birds whose only thought is prey, upon aerial rapine all intent; if men such salvage be'ings have seen display to little children loving sentiment, e'en as to Ninus' mother did befall, and to the twain who rear'd the Roman wall:

"'O thou, who bear'st of man the gest and breast, (an it be manlike thus to draw the sword on a weak girl because her love imprest his heart, who took her heart and love in ward); respect for these her babes preserve, at least! since it may not her obscure death retard: Moved be thy pitying soul for them and me, although my faultless fault unmoved thou see!

"'And if thou know'est to deal in direful fight the doom of brand and blade to Moorish host, Know also thou to deal of life the light to one who ne'er deserved her life be lost; But an thou wouldst mine inno'cence thus requite, place me for aye on sad exiled coast, in Scythian sleet, on seething Libyan shore, with life-long tears to linger evermore.

"'Place me where beasts with fiercest rage abound,-- Lyons and Tygers,--there, ah! let me find if in their hearts of flint be pity found, denied to me by heart of humankind. There with intrinsic love and will so fond for him whose love is death, there will I tend these tender pledges whom thou see'st; and so shall the sad mother cool her burning woe.'

"Inclin'ed to pardon her the King benign, moved by this sad lament to melting mood; but the rude People and Fate's dure design (that willed it thus) refused the pardon sued: They draw their swords of steely temper fine, They who proclaim as just such deed of blood: Against a ladye, caitiff, felon wights! how showed ye here, brute beasts or noble Knights?

"Thus on Polyxena, that beauteous maid, last solace of her mother's age and care, when doom'd to die by fierce Achilles' shade, the cruel Pyrrhus hasted brand to bare: But she (a patient lamb by death waylaid) with the calm glances which serene the air, casts on her mother, mad with grief, her eyes and silent waits that awesome sacrifice.

"Thus dealt with fair Ignez the murth'erous crew, in th' alabastrine neck that did sustain the charms whereby could Love the love subdue of him, who crown'd her after death his Queen; bathing their blades; the flow'ers of snowy hue, which often water'ed by her eyne had been, are blood-dyed; and they burn with blinding hate, reckless of tortures stor'd for them by Fate.

"Well mightest shorn of rays, O Sun! appear to fiends like these on day so dark and dire; as when Thyestes ate the meats that were his seed, whom Atreus slew to spite their sire. And you, O hollow Valleys! doomed to hear her latest cry from stiffening lips expire-- her Pedro's name,--did catch that mournful sound, whose echoes bore it far and far around!

"E'en as Daisy sheen, that hath been shorn in time untimely, floret fresh and fair, and by untender hand of maiden torn to deck the chaplet for her wreathed hair; gone is its odor and its colours mourn; So pale and faded lay that Ladye there; dried are the roses of her cheek, and fled the white live color, with her dear life dead.

"Mondego's daughter-Nymphs the death obscure wept many a year, with wails of woe exceeding; and for long mem'ry changed to fountain pure the floods of grief their eyes were ever feeding: The name they gave it, which doth still endure, revived Ignez, whose murthered love lies bleeding, see yon fresh fountain flowing 'mid the flowers, tears are its waters, and its name 'Amores!'[12]

"Time ran not long, ere Pedro saw the day of vengeance dawn for wounds that ever bled; who, when he took in hand the kingly sway, eke took the murth'erers who his rage had fled: Them a most cruel Pedro did betray; for both, if human life the foemen dread, made concert savage and dure pact, unjust as Lepidus made with Anthony' and Augustus."

[6] Viriatus.

[7] Valdevez, or Campo da Matanca, A.D. 1128 (Canto iv. 16).

[8] Battle of Ourique, A.D. 1139.

[9] _I. e._, disclose Thyself; show a sign.

[10] Alfonso IV. (1325-1357).

[11] Writing his name upon the tree-trunks and leaves.

[12] The famous _Fonte-dos-Amores_, near Coimbra.

THE CANZON OF LIFE

I

Come here! my confidential Secretary Of the complaints in which my days are rife, Paper,--whereon I gar my griefs o'erflow. Tell we, we twain, Unreasons which in life Deal me inexorable, contrary Destinies surd to prayer and tearful woe. Dash we some water-drops on muchel lowe, Fire we with outcries storm of rage so rare That shall be strange to mortal memory. Such misery tell we To God and Man, and eke, in fine, to air, Whereto so many times did I confide My tale and vainly told as I now tell; But e'en as error was my birthtide-lot, That this be one of many doubt I not. And as to hit the butt so far I fail E'en if I sinned her cease they to chide: Within mine only Refuge will I 'bide To speak and faultless sin with free intent. Sad he so scanty mercies must content!

II

Long I've unlearnt me that complaint of dole Brings cure of dolours; but a wight in pain To greet is forced an the grief be great. I _will_ outgreet; but weak my voice and vain To express the sorrows which oppress my soul; For nor with greeting shall my dole abate. Who then shall grant me, to relieve my weight Of sorrow, flowing tears and infinite sighs Equal those miseries my Sprite o'erpower? But who at any hour, Can measure miseries with his tears or cries? I'll tell, in fine, the love for me design'd By wrath and woe and all their sovenance; For other dole hath qualities harder, sterner. Draw near and hear me each despairing Learner! And fly the many fed on Esperance Or wights who fancy Hope will prove her kind; For Love and Fortune willed, with single mind, To leave them hopeful, so they comprehend What measure of unweal in hand they hend.

III

When fro' man's primal grave, the mother's womb, New eyes on earth I oped, my hapless star To mar my Fortunes 'gan his will enforce; And freedom (Free-will given me) to debar: I learnt a thousand times it was my doom. To know the Better and to work the Worse: Then with conforming tormentize to curse My course of coming years, when cast I round A boyish eye-glance with a gentle zest, It was my Star's behest A Boy born blind should deal me life-long wound. Infantine tear-drops welled out the deep With vague enamoured longings, nameless pine: My wailing accents fro' my cradle-stound Already sounded me love-sighing sound. Thus age and destiny had like design: For when, peraunter, rocking me to sleep They sung me Love-songs wherein lovers weep, Attonce by Nature's will asleep I fell, So Melancholy witcht me with her spell!

IV

My nurse some Feral was; Fate nilled approve By any Woman such a name be tane Who gave me breast; nor seemed it suitable. Thus was I suckled that my lips indrain E'en fro' my childhood venom-draught of Love, Whereof in later years I drained my fill, Till by long custom failed the draught to kill. Then an Ideal semblance struck my glance Of that fere Human deckt with charms in foyson, Sweet with the suavest poyson, Who nourisht me with paps of Esperance; Till later saw mine eyes the original, Which of my wildest, maddest appetite Makes sinful error sovran and superb. Meseems as human form it came disturb, But scintillating Spirit's divinest light. So graceful gait, such port imperial Were hers, unweal vainglory'd self to weal When in her sight, whose lively sheen and shade Exceeded aught and all things Nature made.

V

What new unkindly kind of human pain Had Love not only doled for me to dree But eke on me was wholly execute? Implacable harshness cooling fervency Of Love-Desire (thought's very might and main) Drave me far distant fro' my settled suit, Vext and self-shamed to sight its own pursuit. Hence sombre shades phantastick born and bred Of trifles promising rashest Esperance; While boons of happy chance Were likewise feigned and enfigured. But her despisal wrought me such dismay That made my Fancy phrenesy-ward incline, Turning to disconcert the guiling lure. Here mine 'twas to divine, and hold for sure, That all was truest Truth I could divine; And straightway all I said in shame to unsay; To see whatso I saw in contrayr way; In fine, just Reasons seek for jealousy Yet were the Unreasons eather far to see.

VI

I know not how she knew that fared she stealing With Eyen-rays mine inner man which flew Her-ward with subtlest passage through the eyne Little by little all fro' me she drew, E'en as from rain-wet canopy, exhaling The subtle humours, sucks the hot sunshine. The pure transparent geste and mien, in fine, Wherefore inadequate were and lacking sense "Beauteous" and "Belle" were words withouten weight; The soft, compassionate Eye-glance that held the spirit in suspense: Such were the magick herbs the Heavens all-wise Drave me a draught to drain, and for long years To other Being my shape and form transmew'd; And this transforming with such joy I view'd That e'en my sorrows snared I with its snares; And, like the doomed man, I veiled mine eyes To hide an evil crescive in such guise; Like one caressed and on flattery fed Of Love, for whom his being was born and bred.

VII

Then who mine absent Life hath power to paint Wi' discontent of all I bore in view; That Bide, so far from where she had her Bide, Speaking, which even what I spake unknew, Wending, withal unseeing where I went, And sighing weetless for what cause I sigh'd? Then, as those torments last endurance tried, That dreadful dolour which from Tartarus's waves Shot up on earth and racketh more than all, Wherefrom shall oft befall It turn to gentle yearning rage that raves? Then with repine-ful fury fever-high Wishing yet wishing not for Love's surcease; Shifting to other side for vengeaence, Desires deprived of their esperance, What now could ever change such ills as these? Then the fond yearnings for the things gone by, Pure torment sweet in bitter faculty, Which from these fiery furies could distill Sweet tears of Love with pine the soul to thrill?

VIII

For what excuses lone with self I sought, When my suave Love forfended me to find Fault in the Thing beloved and so loved? Such were the feigned cures that forged my mind In fear of torments that for ever taught Life to support itself by snares approved. Thus through a goodly part of Life I roved, Wherein if ever joyed I aught content Short-lived, immodest, flaw-full, without heed, 'Twas nothing save the seed That bare me bitter tortures long unspent. This course continuous dooming to distress, These wandering steps that strayed o'er every road So wrought, they quencht for me the flamy thirst I suffered grow in Sprite, in Soul I nurst With Thoughts enamoured for my daily food, Whereby was fed my Nature's tenderness: And this by habit's long and asperous stress, Which might of mortals never mote resist, Was turned to pleasure-taste of being triste.

IX

Thus fared I Life with other interchanging; I no, but Destiny showing fere unlove; Yet even thus for other ne'er I'd change. Me from my dear-loved patrial nide she drove Over the broad and boisterous Ocean ranging, Where Life so often saw her extreme range. Now tempting rages rare and missiles strange Of Mart, she willed that my eyes should see And hands should touch, the bitter fruit he dight: That on this Shield they sight In painted semblance fire of enemy, Then ferforth driven, vagrant, peregrine, Seeing strange nations, customs, tongues, costumes; Various heavens, qualities different, Only to follow, passing-diligent Thee, giglet Fortune! whose fierce will consumes Man's age upbuilding aye before his eyne A Hope with semblance of the diamond's shine: But, when it falleth out of hand we know, 'Twas fragile glass that showed so glorious show.

X

Failed me the ruth of man, and I descried Friends to unfriendly changed and contrayr, In my first peril; and I lacked ground, Whelmed by the second, where my feet could fare; Air for my breathing was my lot denied, Time failed me, in fine, and failed me Life's dull round. What darkling secret, mystery profound This birth to Life, while Life is doomed withhold Whate'er the world contain for Life to use! Yet never Life to lose Though 'twas already lost times manifold! In brief my Fortune could no horror make, Ne certain danger ne ancipitous case (Injustice dealt by men, whom wild-confused Misrule, that rights of olden days abused, O'er neighbour-men upraised to power and place!) I bore not, lashed to the sturdy stake, Of my long suffering, which my heart would break With importuning persecuting harms Dasht to a thousand bits by forceful arms.

XI

Number I not so numerous ills as He Who, 'scaped the wuthering wind and furious flood, In happy harbour tells his travel-tale; Yet now, e'en now, my Fortune's wavering mood To so much misery obligeth me That e'en to pace one forward pace I quail: No more shirk I what evils may assail; No more to falsing welfare I pretend; For human cunning naught can gar me gain. In fine on sovran Strain Of Providence divine I now depend: This thought, this prospect 'tis at times I greet My sole consoler for dead hopes and fears. But human weakness when its eyne alight Upon the things that fleet, and can but sight The sadding Memories of the long-past years; What bread such times I break, what drink I drain, Are bitter tear-floods I can ne'er refrain, Save by upbuilding castles based on air, Phantastick painture fair and false as fair.

XII

For an it possible were that Time and Tide Could bend them backward and, like Memory, view The faded footprints of Life's earlier day; And, web of olden story weaving new, In sweetest error could my footsteps guide 'Mid bloom of flowers where wont my youth to stray; Then would the memories of the long sad way Deal me a larger store of Life-content: Viewing fair converse and glad company, Where this and other key She had for opening hearts to new intent;-- The fields, the frequent stroll, the lovely show, The view, the snow, the rose, the formosure, The soft and gracious mien so gravely gay, The singular friendship casting clean away All villein longings, earthly and impure, As one whose Other I can never see;-- Ah, vain, vain memories! whither lead ye me With this weak heart that still must toil and tire To tame (as tame it should) your vain Desire?

L'ENVOI

No more, Canzon! no more: for I could prate Sans compt a thousand years; and if befall Blame to thine over-large and long-drawn strain We ne'er shall see (assure who blames) contain An Ocean's water packt in vase so small, Nor sing I delicate lines in softest tone For gust of praise; my song to man makes known Pure Truth wherewith mine own Experience teems; Would God they were the stuff that builds our dreams!

ADIEU TO COIMBRA

Sweet lucent waters of Mondego-stream, Of my Remembrance restful jouissance, Where far-fet, lingering, traitorous Esperance Long whiles misled me in a blinding Dream: Fro' you I part, yea, still I'll ne'er misdeem That long-drawn Memories which your charms enhance Forbid me changing and, in every chance, E'en as I farther speed I nearer seem. Well may my Fortunes hale this instrument Of Soul o'er new strange regions wide and side, Offered to winds and watery element: But hence my Spirit, by you 'companied, Borne on the nimble wings that Reverie lent, Flies home and bathes her, Waters! in your tide.

THOMAS CAMPBELL

(1777-1844)

The life of Thomas Campbell, though in large measure fortunate, was uneventful. It was not marked with such brilliant successes as followed the career of Scott; nor was fame purchased at the price of so much suffering and error as were paid for their laurels by Byron, Shelley, and Burns; but his star shone with a clear and steady ray, from the youthful hours that saw his first triumph until near life's close. The world's gifts--the poet's fame, and the public honors and rewards that witnessed to it--were given with a generous hand; and until the death of a cherished wife and the loss of his two children--sons, loved with a love beyond the common love of fathers--broke the charm, Campbell might almost have been taken as a type of the happy man of letters.

Thomas Campbell was born in Glasgow, July 27th, 1777. His family connection was large and respectable, and the branch to which he belonged had been settled for many years in Argyleshire, where they were called the Campbells of Kirnan, from an estate on which the poet's grandfather resided and where he died. His third son, Alexander, the father of the poet, was at one time the head of a firm in Glasgow, doing a profitable business with Falmouth in Virginia; but in common with almost all merchants engaged in the American trade, he was ruined by the War of the Revolution. At the age of sixty-five he found himself a poor man, involved in a costly suit in chancery, which was finally decided against him, and with a wife and nine children dependent upon him. All that he had to live on, at the time his son Thomas was born, was the little that remained to him of his small property when the debts were paid, and some small yearly sums from two provident societies of which he was a member. The poet was fortunate in his parents: both of them were people of high character, warmly devoted to their children, whose education was their chief care,--their idea of education including the training of the heart and the manners as well as the mind.

When eight years old Thomas was sent to the grammar school at Glasgow, where he began the study of Latin and Greek. "I was so early devoted to poetry," he writes, "that at ten years old, when our master, David Allison, interpreted to us the first Eclogue of Virgil, I was literally thrilled with its beauty. In my thirteenth year I went to the University of Glasgow, and put on the red gown. The joy of the occasion made me unable to eat my breakfast. Whether it was presentiment or the mere castle-building of my vanity, I had even then a day-dream that I should one day be Lord Rector of the university."

As a boy, Campbell gained a considerable familiarity with the Latin and Greek poets usually read in college, and was always more inclined to pride himself on his knowledge of Greek poetry than on his own reputation in the art. His college life was passed in times of great political excitement. Revolution was in the air, and all youthful spirits were aflame with enthusiasm for the cause of liberty and with generous sympathy for oppressed people, particularly the Poles and the Greeks. Campbell was caught by the sacred fire which later was to touch the lips of Byron and Shelley; and in his earliest published poem his interest in Poland, which never died out from his heart, found its first expression. This poem, 'The Pleasures of Hope,' a work whose title was thenceforth to be inseparably associated with its author's name, was published in 1799, when Campbell was exactly twenty-one years and nine months old. It at once placed him high in public favor, though it met with the usual difficulty experienced by a first poem by an unknown writer, in finding a publisher. The copyright was finally bought by Mundell for sixty pounds, to be paid partly in money and partly in books. Three years after the publication, a London publisher valued it as worth an annuity of two hundred pounds for life; and Mundell, disregarding his legal rights, behaved with so much liberality that from the sale of the first seven editions Campbell received no less than nine hundred pounds. Besides this material testimony to its success, scores of anecdotes show the favor with which it was received by the poets and writers of the time. The greatest and noblest of them all, Walter Scott, was most generous in his welcome. He gave a dinner in Campbell's honor, and introduced him to his friends with a bumper to the author of 'The Pleasures of Hope.'

It seemed the natural thing for a young man so successfully launched in the literary coteries of Edinburgh and Glasgow to pursue his advantage in the larger literary world of London. But Campbell judged himself with humorous severity. "At present," he writes in a letter, "I am a raw Scotch lad, and in a company of wits and geniuses would make but a dull figure with my northern brogue and my 'braw Scotch boos.'" The eyes of many of the young men of the time were turned toward Germany, where Goethe and Schiller, Lessing and Wieland, were creating the golden age of their country's literature; and Campbell, full of youthful hope and enthusiasm, and with a little money in his pocket, determined to visit the Continent before settling down to work in London. In 1800 he set out for Ratisbon, which he reached three days before the French entered it with their army. His stay there was crowded with picturesque and tragic incidents, described in his letters to friends at home--"in prose," as his biographer justly says, "which even his best poetry hardly surpasses." From the roof of the Scotch Benedictine Convent of St. James, where Campbell was often hospitably entertained while in Ratisbon, he saw the battle of Hohenlinden, on which he wrote the poem once familiar to every schoolboy. Wearied with the bloody sights of war, he left Ratisbon and the next year returned to England. While living at Altona he wrote no less than fourteen of his minor poems, but few of these escaped the severity of his final judgment when he came to collect his verses for publication. Among these few the best were 'The Exile of Erin' and the noble ode 'Ye Mariners of England,' the poem by which alone, perhaps, his name deserves to live; though 'The Battle of the Baltic' in its original form 'The Battle of Copenhagen'--unfortunately not the one best known--is well worthy of a place beside it.

On his return from the Continent, Campbell found himself received in the warmest manner, not only in the literary world but in circles reckoned socially higher. His poetry hit the taste of all the classes that go to make up the general reading public; his harp had many strings, and it rang true to all the notes of patriotism, humanity, love, and feeling. "His happiest moments at this period," says his biographer, "seem to have been passed with Mrs. Siddons, the Kembles, and his friend Telford, the distinguished engineer, for whom he afterward named his eldest son." Lord Minto, on his return from Vienna, became much interested in Campbell and insisted on his taking up his quarters for the season in his town-house in Hanover Square. When the season was over Lord Minto went back to Scotland, taking the poet with him as traveling companion. At Castle Minto, Campbell found among other visitors Walter Scott, and it was while there that 'Lochiel's Warning' was composed and 'Hohenlinden' revised, and both poems prepared for the press.

In 1803 Campbell married his cousin, Matilda Sinclair. The marriage was a happy one; Washington Irving speaks of the lady's personal beauty, and says that her mental qualities were equally matched with it. "She was, in fact," he adds, "a more suitable wife for a poet than poets' wives are apt to be; and for once a son of song had married a reality and not a poetical fiction."

For seventeen years he supported himself and his family by what was for the most part task-work, not always well paid, and made more onerous by the poor state of his health. In 1801 Campbell's father died, an old man of ninety-one, and with him ceased the small benevolent-society pensions that, with what Thomas and the eldest son living in America could contribute, had hitherto kept the parents in decent comfort. But soon after Thomas's marriage and the birth of his first child, the American brother failed, so that the pious duty of supporting the aged mother now came upon the poet alone. He accepted the addition to his burden as manfully as was to be expected of so generous a nature, but there is no doubt that he was in great poverty for a few years. Although often despondent, and with good reason, his natural cheerfulness and his good sense always came to the rescue, and in his lowest estate he retained the respect and the affection of his many friends.

In 1805 Campbell received a pension of L200, which netted him, when fees and expenses were deducted, L168 a year. Half of this sum he reserved for himself and the remainder he divided between his mother and his two sisters. In 1809 he published 'Gertrude of Wyoming,' which had been completed the year before. It was hailed with delight in Edinburgh and with no less favor in London, and came to a second edition in the spring of 1810. But like most of Campbell's more pretentious poetry, it has failed to keep its place in the world's favor. The scene of the poem is laid in an impossible Pennsylvania where the bison and the beaver, the crocodile, the condor, and the flamingo, live in happy neighborhood in groves of magnolia and olive; while the red Indian launches his pirogue upon the Michigan to hunt the bison, while blissful shepherd swains trip with maidens to the timbrel, and blue-eyed Germans change their swords to pruning-hooks, Andalusians dance the saraband, poor Caledonians drown their homesick cares in transatlantic whisky, and Englishmen plant fair Freedom's tree! The story is as unreal as the landscape, and it is told in a style more labored and artificial by far than that of Pope, to whom indeed the younger poet was often injudiciously compared. Yet it is to be noted that Campbell's prose style was as direct and unaffected as could be wished, while in his two best lyrical poems, 'Ye Mariners of England,' and the first cast of 'The Battle of the Baltic,' he shows a vividness of conception and a power of striking out expression at white heat in which no one of his contemporaries excelled him.

Campbell was deservedly a great favorite in society, and the story of his life at this time is largely the record of his meeting with distinguished people. The Princess of Wales freely welcomed him to her court; he had corresponded with Madame de Stael, and when she came to England he visited her often and at her request read her his lectures on poetry; he saw much of Mrs. Siddons, and when in Paris in 1814, visited the Louvre in her company to see the statues and pictures of which Napoleon had plundered Italy.

In 1826 Campbell was made Lord Rector of Glasgow University, and in 1828 he was re-elected unanimously. During this second term his wife died, and in 1829 the unprecedented honor of an election for a third term was bestowed upon him, although he had to dispute it with no less a rival than Sir Walter Scott. "When he went to Glasgow to be inaugurated as Lord Rector," says his biographer, "on reaching the college green he found the boys pelting each other with snowballs. He rushed into the melee and flung about his snowballs right and left with great dexterity, much to the delight of the boys but to the great scandal of the professors. He was proud of the piece of plate given him by the Glasgow lads, but of the honor conferred by his college title he was less sensible. He hated the sound of _Doctor_ Campbell, and said to an acquaintance that no friend of his would ever call him so."

The establishment through his direct agency of the University of London was Campbell's most important public work. Later his life was almost wholly engrossed for a time by his interest in the cause of Poland--a cause indeed that from his youth had lain near his heart. But as he grew older and his health declined he became more and more restless, and finally in 1843 took up his residence at Boulogne. His parents, his brothers and sisters, his wife, his two children, so tenderly loved, were all gone. But he still corresponded with his friends, and to the last his talk was cheerful and pleasant. In June, 1844, he died, and in July he was buried in Westminster Abbey in Poets' Corner. About his grave stood Milman, the Duke of Argyle,--the head of his clan,--Sir Robert Peel, Brougham, Lockhart, Macaulay, D'Israeli, Horace Smith, Croly and Thackeray, with many others, and when the words "Dust to dust" were pronounced, Colonel Szyrma, a distinguished Pole, scattered over the coffin a handful of earth from the grave of Kosciuszko at Cracow.

HOPE

From the 'Pleasures of Hope'

At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky? Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue. Thus with delight we linger to survey The promised joys of life's unmeasured way; Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene More pleasing seems than all the past hath been, And every form that Fancy can repair From dark oblivion glows divinely there. What potent spirit guides the raptured eye To pierce the shades of dim futurity? Can Wisdom lend, with all her heavenly power, The pledge of Joy's anticipated hour? Ah no! she darkly sees the fate of man-- Her dim horizon bounded to a span; Or if she hold an image to the view, 'Tis Nature pictured too severely true. With thee, sweet Hope, resides the heavenly light That pours remotest rapture on the sight; Thine is the charm of life's bewildered way, That calls each slumbering passion into play. Waked by thy touch, I see the sister band, On tiptoe watching, start at thy command, And fly where'er thy mandate bids them steer, To Pleasure's path or Glory's bright career.... Where is the troubled heart consigned to share Tumultuous toils or solitary care, Unblest by visionary thoughts that stray To count the joys of Fortune's better day? Lo! nature, life, and liberty relume The dim-eyed tenant of the dungeon gloom; A long-lost friend, or hapless child restored, Smiles at his blazing hearth and social board; Warm from his heart the tears of rapture flow, And virtue triumphs o'er remembered woe. Chide not his peace, proud Reason; nor destroy The shadowy forms of uncreated joy, That urge the lingering tide of life, and pour Spontaneous slumber on his midnight hour. Hark! the wild maniac sings, to chide the gale That wafts so slow her lover's distant sail; She, sad spectatress, on the wintry shore, Watched the rude surge his shroudless corse that bore, Knew the pale form, and shrieking in amaze, Clasped her cold hands, and fixed her maddening gaze; Poor widowed wretch! 'Twas there she wept in vain, Till Memory fled her agonizing brain:-- But Mercy gave, to charm the sense of woe, Ideal peace, that truth could ne'er bestow; Warm on her heart the joys of Fancy beam, And aimless Hope delights her darkest dream. Oft when yon moon has climbed the midnight sky, And the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry, Piled on the steep, her blazing fagots burn To hail the bark that never can return; And still she waits, but scarce forbears to weep That constant love can linger on the deep.

THE FALL OF POLAND

From the 'Pleasures of Hope'

O Sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased a while, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn; Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, Presaging wrath to Poland--and to man! Warsaw's last champion from her height surveyed, Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid-- O Heaven! he cried,--my bleeding country save! Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains. By that dread name, we wave the sword on high, And swear for her to live! with her to die! He said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed His trusty warriors, few but undismayed; Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, Revenge, or death--the watchword and reply; Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm! In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few! From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew; Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime; Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe! Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, Closed her bright eye and curbed her high career; Hope for a season bade the world farewell, And Freedom shrieked, as Kosciusko fell! The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there; Tumultuous Murder shook the midnight air-- On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below; The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way, Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay! Hark, as the smoldering piles with thunder fall, A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call! Earth shook--red meteors flashed along the sky, And conscious Nature shuddered at the cry! O righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave, Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save? Where was thine arm, O Vengeance! where thy rod, That smote the foes of Zion and of God; That crushed proud Ammon, when his iron car Was yoked in wrath, and thundered from afar? Where was the storm that slumbered till the host Of blood-stained Pharaoh left their trembling coast; Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, And heaved an ocean on their march below? Departed spirits of the mighty dead! Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled! Friends of the world! restore your swords to man, Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van; Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, And make her arm puissant as your own; Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return The patriot Tell, the Bruce of Bannockburn!

THE SLAVE

From the 'Pleasures of Hope'

And say, supernal Powers! who deeply scan Heaven's dark decrees, unfathomed yet by man,-- When shall the world call down, to cleanse her shame, That embryo spirit, yet without a name, That friend of Nature, whose avenging hands Shall burst the Libyan's adamantine bands? Who, sternly marking on his native soil The blood, the tears, the anguish and the toil, Shall bid each righteous heart exult to see Peace to the slave, and vengeance on the free! Yet, yet, degraded men! th' expected day That breaks your bitter cup is far away; Trade, wealth, and fashion ask you still to bleed, And holy men give Scripture for the deed; Scourged and debased, no Briton stoops to save A wretch, a coward--yes, because a slave! Eternal Nature! when thy giant hand Had heaved the floods and fixed the trembling land, When life sprang startling at thy plastic call, Endless thy forms, and man the lord of all:-- Say, was that lordly form inspired by thee, To wear eternal chains and bow the knee? Was man ordained the slave of man to toil, Yoked with the brutes, and fettered to the soil, Weighed in a tyrant's balance with his gold? No! Nature stamped us in a heavenly mold! She bade no wretch his thankless labor urge, Nor, trembling, take the pittance and the scourge; No homeless Libyan, on the stormy deep, To call upon his country's name and weep! Lo! once in triumph, on his boundless plain, The quivered chief of Congo loved to reign; With fires proportioned to his native sky, Strength in his arm, and lightning in his eye; Scoured with wild feet his sun-illumined zone, The spear, the lion, and the woods, his own; Or led the combat, bold without a plan, An artless savage, but a fearless man. The plunderer came;--alas! no glory smiles For Congo's chief, on yonder Indian isles; Forever fallen! no son of nature now, With Freedom chartered on his manly brow. Faint, bleeding, bound, he weeps the night away, And when the sea-wind wafts the dewless day, Starts, with a bursting heart, for evermore To curse the sun that lights their guilty shore! The shrill horn blew; at that alarum knell His guardian angel took a last farewell. That funeral dirge to darkness hath resigned The fiery grandeur of a generous mind. Poor fettered man! I hear thee breathing low Unhallowed vows to Guilt, the child of Woe: Friendless thy heart; and canst thou harbor there A wish but death--a passion but despair? The widowed Indian, when her lord expires, Mounts the dread pile, and braves the funeral fires. So falls the heart at Thraldom's bitter sigh; So Virtue dies, the spouse of Liberty!

DEATH AND A FUTURE LIFE

From the 'Pleasures of Hope'

Unfading Hope! when life's last embers burn, When soul to soul, and dust to dust return! Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour. Oh, then thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power! What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye,-- Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey The morning dream of life's eternal day-- Then, then the triumph and the trance begin, And all the phoenix spirit burns within! Oh deep-enchanting prelude to repose, The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes! Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh, It is a dread and awful thing to die! Mysterious worlds, untraveled by the sun! Where Time's far-wandering tide has never run,-- From your unfathomed shades and viewless spheres, A warning comes, unheard by other ears. 'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud, Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud! While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust, The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust; And like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod The roaring waves, and called upon his God, With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss, And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss! Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb; Melt and dispel, ye spectre doubts, that roll Cimmerian darkness o'er the parting soul! Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of Dismay, Chased on his night-steed by the star of day! The strife is o'er--the pangs of Nature close, And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes. Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze, The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze, On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky Float the sweet tones of star-born melody; Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale, When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still Watched on the holy towers of Zion hill. Soul of the just! companion of the dead! Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled? Back to its heavenly source thy being goes. Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose; Doomed on his airy path a while to burn, And doomed like thee to travel and return. Hark! from the world's exploding centre driven, With sounds that shook the firmament of Heaven, Careers the fiery giant, fast and far, On bickering wheels and adamantine car; From planet whirled to planet more remote, He visits realms beyond the reach of thought; But wheeling homeward, when his course is run, Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun: So hath the traveler of earth unfurled Her trembling wings, emerging from the world; And o'er the path by mortal never trod, Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God! Oh, lives there, Heaven, beneath thy dread expanse, One hopeless, dark idolater of Chance, Content to feed, with pleasures unrefined, The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind, Who, moldering earthward, reft of every trust, In joyless union wedded to the dust, Could all his parting energy dismiss, And call this barren world sufficient bliss? There live, alas! of heaven-directed mien, Of cultured soul, and sapient eye serene, Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of a day, Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay; Frail as the leaf in Autumn's yellow bower, Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower; A friendless slave, a child without a sire, Whose mortal life and momentary fire Light to the grave his chance-created form, As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm; And when the guns' tremendous flash is o'er, To-night and silence sink for evermore! Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim, Lights of the world, and demigods of Fame? Is this your triumph--this your proud applause, Children of Truth, and champions of her cause? For this hath Science searched, on weary wing, By shore and sea, each mute and living thing? Launched with Iberia's pilot from the steep, To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the deep? Or round the cope her living chariot driven, And wheeled in triumph through the signs of Heaven? O star-eyed Science, hast thou wandered there, To waft us home the message of despair? Then bind the palm, thy sage's brow to suit, Of blasted leaf and death-distilling fruit. Ah me! the laureled wreath that Murder rears, Blood-nursed, and watered by the widow's tears, Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread, As waves the nightshade round the skeptic's head. What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain? I smile on death, if Heavenward Hope remain! But if the warring winds of Nature's strife Be all the faithless charter of my life; If Chance awaked, inexorable power, This frail and feverish being of an hour; Doomed o'er the world's precarious scene to sweep, Swift as the tempest travels on the deep; To know Delight but by her parting smile, And toil, and wish, and weep a little while;-- Then melt, ye elements, that formed in vain This troubled pulse and visionary brain! Fade, ye wild flowers, memorials of my doom, And sink, ye stars, that light me to the tomb! Truth, ever lovely,--since the world began, The foe of tyrants, and the friend of man,-- How can thy words from balmy slumber start Reposing Virtue, pillowed on the heart! Yet if thy voice the note of thunder rolled, And that were true which Nature never told, Let Wisdom smile not on her conquered field: No rapture dawns, no treasure is revealed. Oh! let her read, nor loudly, nor elate, The doom that bars us from a better fate; But, sad as angels for the good man's sin, Weep to record, and blush to give it in!

LOCHIEL'S WARNING

WIZARD

Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight. They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown; Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? 'Tis thine, O Glenullin! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning; no rider is there; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led! Oh weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead: For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave.

LOCHIEL

Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer! Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.

WIZARD

Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn! Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth, From his home in the dark rolling clouds of the north? Lo! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad; But down let him stoop from his havoc on high! Ah! home let him speed,--for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? 'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. O crested Lochiel! the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlements' height, Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn; Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood.

LOCHIEL

False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshaled my clan; Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one! They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock! But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, All plaided and plumed in their tartan array--

WIZARD

Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day; For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot cover what God would reveal; 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before. I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, Behold, where he flies on his desolate path! Now in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight: Rise, rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight! 'Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors: Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. But where is the iron-bound prisoner? where? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean wave, banished, forlorn, Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn? Ah no! for a darker departure is near; The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier; His death-bell is tolling: O Mercy, dispel Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell! Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases to beat, With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale--

LOCHIEL

Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale: For never shall Albin a destiny meet So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat. Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM

Our bugles sang truce--for the night-cloud had lowered, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track: 'Twas Autumn,--and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fullness of heart.

"Stay, stay with us,--rest; thou art weary and worn!" And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay:-- But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER

A Chieftan, to the Highlands bound, Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound, To row us o'er the ferry."

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?" "O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together; For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?"

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, "I'll go, my chief--I'm ready;-- It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady;

"And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So though the waves are raging white I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men, Their trampling sounded nearer.

"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, "Though tempests round us gather, I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father."

The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her, When, oh! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore; His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, His child he did discover: One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water; And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!--oh, my daughter!"

'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing:-- The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting.

THE EXILE OF ERIN

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill; But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of _Erin go bragh_.

Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger; The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger. A home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of _Erin go bragh_!

Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! O cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me? They died to defend me, or live to deplore!

Where is my cabin door, fast by the wildwood? Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood? And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all? Oh! my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, Why did it dote on a fast fading treasure? Tears, like the raindrop, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw: Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! Land of my forefathers! _Erin go bragh_! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion-- Erin mavournin--_Erin go bragh_!

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND

Ye Mariners of England! That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, The battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe! And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirit of your fathers Shall start from every wave!-- For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwark, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below,-- As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.

HOHENLINDEN

On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay th' 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 arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neighed, To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rushed the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained 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 sulph'rous 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.

THE BATTLE OF COPENHAGEN

Of Nelson and the North Sing the day! When, their haughty powers to vex, He engaged the Danish decks, And with twenty floating wrecks Crowned the fray!

All bright, in April's sun, Shone the day! When a British fleet came down Through the islands of the crown, And by Copenhagen town Took their stay.

In arms the Danish shore Proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on!

For Denmark here had drawn All her might! From her battle-ships so vast She had hewn away the mast, And at anchor to the last Bade them fight!

Another noble fleet Of their line Rode out, but these were naught To the batteries, which they brought, Like Leviathans afloat, In the brine.

It was ten of Thursday morn, By the chime; As they drifted on their path There was silence deep as death, And the boldest held his breath For a time--

Ere a first and fatal round Shook the flood; Every Dane looked out that day, Like the red wolf on his prey, And he swore his flag to sway O'er our blood.

Not such a mind possessed England's tar; 'Twas the love of noble game Set his oaken heart on flame, For to him 'twas all the same-- Sport and war.

All hands and eyes on watch, As they keep; By their motion light as wings, By each step that haughty springs, You might know them for the kings Of the deep!

'Twas the Edgar first that smote Denmark's line; As her flag the foremost soared, Murray stamped his foot on board, And an hundred cannons roared At the sign!

Three cheers of all the fleet Sung huzza! Then, from centre, rear, and van, Every captain, every man, With a lion's heart began To the fray.

Oh, dark grew soon the heavens-- For each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like a hurricane eclipse Of the sun.

Three hours the raging fire Did not slack; But the fourth, their signals drear Of distress and wreck appear, And the Dane a feeble cheer Sent us back.

The voice decayed, their shots Slowly boom. They ceased--and all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail, Or in conflagration pale Light the gloom.

Oh death!--it was a sight Filled our eyes! But we rescued many a crew From the waves of scarlet hue, Ere the cross of England flew O'er her prize.

Why ceased not here the strife, O ye brave? Why bleeds old England's band, By the fire of Danish land, That smites the very hand Stretched to save?

But the Britons sent to warn Denmark's town; Proud foes, let vengeance sleep; If another chain-shot sweep, All your navy in the deep Shall go down!

Then, peace instead of death Let us bring! If you'll yield your conquered fleet, With the crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet To our king!

Then death withdrew his pall From the day; And the sun looked smiling bright On a wide and woful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away.

Yet all amidst her wrecks, And her gore, Proud Denmark blest our chief That he gave her wounds relief; And the sounds of joy and grief Filled her shore.

All round, outlandish cries Loudly broke; But a nobler note was rung, When the British, old and young. To their bands of music sung 'Hearts of Oak!'

Cheer! cheer! from park and tower, London town! When the King shall ride in state From St. James's royal gate, And to all his peers relate Our renown!

The bells shall ring! the day Shall not close, But a blaze of cities bright Shall illuminate the night, And the wine-cup shine in light As it flows!

Yet--yet--amid the joy And uproar, Let us think of them that sleep Full many a fathom deep All beside thy rocky steep, Elsinore!

Brave hearts, to Britain's weal Once so true! Though death has quenched your flame, Yet immortal be your name! For ye died the death of fame With Riou!

Soft sigh the winds of heaven O'er your grave! While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing--"Glory to the souls Of the brave!"

FROM THE 'ODE TO WINTER'

But howling winter fled afar, To hills that prop the polar star, And loves on deer-borne car to ride With barren Darkness by his side, Round the shore where loud Lofoden Whirls to death the roaring whale, Round the hall where Runic Odin Howls his war-song to the gale; Save when adown the ravaged globe He travels on his native storm, Deflowering Nature's grassy robe, And trampling on her faded form:-- Till light's returning lord assume The shaft that drives him to his polar field; Of power to pierce his raven plume And crystal-covered shield. O sire of storms! whose savage ear The Lapland drum delights to hear, When Frenzy with her bloodshot eye Implores thy dreadful deity. Archangel! power of desolation! Fast descending as thou art, Say, hath mortal invocation Spells to touch thy stony heart? Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer, And gently rule the ruined year; Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare, Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear;-- To shuddering Want's unmantled bed Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lead, And gently on the orphan head Of innocence descend,-- But chiefly spare, O king of clouds! The sailor on his airy shrouds; When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, And spectres walk along the deep. Milder yet thy snowy breezes Pour on yonder tented shores, Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes, Or the dark-brown Danube roars.

CAMPION

(-1619)

BY ERNEST RHYS

Dr. Thomas Campion, lyric poet, musician, and doctor of medicine,--who, of the three liberal arts that he practiced, is remembered now mainly for his poetry,--was born about the middle of the sixteenth century; the precise date and place being unknown. It has been conjectured that he came of an Essex family; but the evidence for this falls through. Nor was he, as has been ingeniously supposed, of any relationship to his namesake Edmund Campion, the Jesuit. What is certain, and thrice interesting in the case of such a poet, is that he was so nearly a contemporary of Shakespeare's. He was living in London all through the period of Shakespeare's mastery of the English stage, and survived him only by some three or four years. From an entry in the register of St. Dunstan's-in-the-West, Fleet Street, we learn that Campion was buried there in February, 1619-20. But although it is clear that the two poets, one the most famous, the other well-nigh the least known, in the greater Elizabethan galaxy, must have often encountered in the narrower London of that day, there is no single reference in the lives or works of either connecting one with the other.

We first hear of Campion at Gray's Inn, where he was admitted a member in 1586, from which it is clear that his first idea was to go in for law. He tired of it before he was called to the bar, however; and turning to medicine instead, he seems to have studied for his M.D. at Cambridge, and thereafter repaired again to London and begun to practice as a physician,--very successfully, as the names of some of his more distinguished patients show. A man of taste, in the very finest sense,--cultured, musical, urbane,--his own Latin epigrams alone would show that he had all that social instinct and tact which count for so much in a doctor's career. He was fortunate, too, in finding in London the society best adapted to stimulate his finely intellectual and artistic faculty. The first public sign of his literary art was his book of 'Poemata,' the Latin epigrams referred to, which appeared in 1595, and every copy of which has disappeared. Fortunately a second series of epigrams, written in maturer years, gave him an excuse to republish the first series in connection with them, in the year of his death, 1619. From the two series we learn many interesting facts about his circle of friends and himself, and the evident ease and pleasantness of his life, late and early. There is the same sense of style in his Latin verse that one finds in his English lyrics; but though he had a pretty wit, with a sufficient salt in it on occasion,--as in his references to Barnabe Barnes,--his faculty was clearly more lyrical than epigrammatical, and his lyric poems are all that an exacting posterity is likely to allow him to carry up the steep approach to the House of Fame.

His earliest collection of these exquisite little poems was not issued under his own name, but under that of Philip Rosetter the musician, who wrote the music for half the book; the other half being of Campion's own composition. This, the first of the delightful set of old music-books which are the only source we have to draw upon for his lyric poems, was published in 1601. There is no doubt that for many years previous to this, Campion had been in the habit of writing both the words and music of such songs for the private delectation of his friends and himself. Some of his very finest lyrics, as memorable as anything he has given us, appear in this first volume of 1601.

The second collection of Campion's songs was published, this time under his own name, probably in 1613. It is entitled 'Two Books of Airs'; the first, 'Divine and Moral Songs,' which include some of the finest examples of their kind in all English literature; the second book, 'Light Conceits of Lovers,' is very well described by its title, containing many sweetest love-songs. We have not yet exhausted the list of Campion's music-books. In 1617 two more, 'The Third & Fourth Books of Airs,' were published in another small folio; and these again afford songs fine enough for any anthology. Meanwhile we have passed by all his Masques, which are among the prettiest of their kind, and as full of lyrical moments as of picturesque effects. The first was performed at Whitehall for the marriage of "my Lord Hayes" (Sir James Hay), on Twelfth Night, 1606-7. Three more were written by Campion in 1613; and in the same year he published his 'Songs of Mourning,' prompted by the untimely death of the promising young Prince Henry, which had taken place in November, 1612. These songs, which do not show Campion at his best, were set to music by Copario (alias John Cooper). This completes the list of Campion's poetry; but besides his actual practice in the arts of poetry and music, he wrote on the theory of both. His interesting 'Observations in the Art of English Poesie' (1602) resolves itself into a naive attack upon the use of rhyme in poetry, which comes paradoxically enough from one who was himself so exquisite a rhymer, and which called forth a very convincing reply in Daniel's 'Defence of Rhyme.' The 'Observations' contain some very taking examples of what may be done in the lyric form, without rhyme. Campion's musical pamphlet is less generally interesting, since counterpoint, on which he offered some practical rules, and the theory of music, have traveled so far since he wrote. It remains only to add that Campion remained in the limbo of forgotten poets from his own day until ours, when Professor Arber and Mr. A. H. Bullen in their different anthologies and editions rescued him for us. Mr. Bullen's privately printed volume of his works appeared in 1889. The present writer has more recently (1896) edited a very full selection of the lyrics in the 'Lyric Poets' series. Campion's fame, without doubt, is destined to grow steadily from this time forth, based as it is on poems which so perfectly and exquisitely satisfy the lyric sense and the lyric relationship between music and poetry.

[Signature: Ernest Rhys]

A HYMN IN PRAISE OF NEPTUNE

Of Neptune's empire let us sing, At whose command the waves obey; To whom the rivers tribute pay, Down the high mountains sliding; To whom the scaly nation yields Homage for the crystal fields Wherein they dwell; And every sea-god pays a gem Yearly out of his wat'ry cell, To deck great Neptune's diadem.

The Tritons dancing in a ring Before his palace gates do make The water with their echoes quake, Like the great thunder sounding: The sea-nymphs chant their accents shrill, And the Syrens, taught to kill With their sweet voice, Make every echoing rock reply, Unto their gentle murmuring noise, The praise of Neptune's empery.

From 'Ward's English Poets.'

OF CORINNA'S SINGING

When to her lute Corinna sings, Her voice revives the leaden strings, And doth in highest notes appear As any challenged echo clear. But when she doth of mourning speak, E'en with her sighs the strings do break. And as her lute doth live and die, Led by her passions, so must I: For when of pleasure she doth sing, My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring; But if she do of sorrow speak, E'en from my heart the strings do break.

From 'Ward's English Poets'

FROM 'DIVINE AND MORAL SONGS'

(A. H. Bullen's modern text)

Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore, Never tired pilgrim's limbs affected slumber more. Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast. O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest!

Ever blooming are the joys of heaven's high Paradise; Cold age deafs not there our ears, nor vapor dims our eyes: Glory there the sun outshines, whose beams the Blessed only see. O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee!

TO A COQUETTE

(A. H. Bullen's modern text)

When thou must home to shades of underground, And there arrived, a new admired guest, The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round, White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest, To hear the stories of thy finished love From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;

Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights, Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make, Of tourneys and great challenges of knights, And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake: When thou hast told these honors done to thee, Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me.

SONGS FROM 'LIGHT CONCEITS OF LOVERS'

Where shee her sacred bowre adornes, The Rivers clearely flow; The groves and medowes swell with flowres, The windes all gently blow. Her Sunne-like beauty shines so fayre, Her Spring can never fade; Who then can blame the life that strives To harbour in her shade?

Her grace I sought, her love I wooed; Her love though I obtaine, No time, no toyle, no vow, no faith, Her wished grace can gaine. Yet truth can tell my heart is hers, And her will I adore; And from that love when I depart, Let heav'n view me no more!

GIVE beauty all her right,-- She's not to one forme tyed; Each shape yeelds faire delight, Where her perfections bide. Helen, I grant, might pleasing be; And Ros'mond was as sweet as shee.

Some, the quicke eye commends; Some, swelling lips and red; Pale lookes have many friends, Through sacred sweetnesse bred. Medowes have flowres that pleasure move, Though Roses are the flowres of love.

Free beauty is not bound To one unmoved clime: She visits ev'ry ground, And favours ev'ry time. Let the old loves with mine compare, My Sov'raigne is as sweet and fair.

GEORGE CANNING

(1770-1827)

The political history of this famous British statesman is told by Robert Bell (1846), by F.H. Hill (English Worthies Series), and in detail by Stapleton (his private secretary) in 'Political Life of Canning.' He became a friend of Pitt in 1793, entered the House of Commons in 1794, was made Under-Secretary of State in 1796, was Treasurer of the Navy from 1804 to 1806, Minister for Foreign Affairs from 1807 till 1809, Ambassador to Lisbon from 1814 to 1816, again at the head of foreign affairs in 1822, and was made Premier in 1827, dying under the labor of forming his Cabinet.

Soon after his birth in London, April 11th, 1770, his disinherited father died in poverty, and his mother became an unsuccessful actress. An Irish actor, Moody, took young Canning to his uncle, Stratford Canning, in London, who adopted him and sent him to Eton, where he distinguished himself for his wit and literary talent. With his friends John and Robert Smith, John Hookham Frere, and Charles Ellis, he published a school magazine called The Microcosm, which attracted so much attention that Knight the publisher paid Canning L50 for the copyright. It was modeled on the Spectator, ridiculed modes and customs, and was a unique specimen of juvenile essay-writing. A fifth edition of the Microcosm was published in 1825. Subsequently Canning studied at Oxford. He died August 8th, 1827, at Chiswick (the residence of the Duke of Devonshire), in the same room and at the same age as Fox, and under similar circumstances; and he was buried in Westminster Abbey by the side of William Pitt.

It was not until 1798 that he obtained his great reputation as a statesman and orator. Every one agrees that his literary eloquence, wit, beauty of imagery, taste, and clearness of reasoning, were extraordinary. Byron calls him "a genius--almost a universal one; an orator, a wit, a poet, and a statesman." As a public speaker, we may picture him from Lord Dalling's description:--

"Every day, indeed, leaves us fewer of those who remember the clearly chiseled countenance, which the slouched hat only slightly concealed; the lip satirically curled; the penetrating eye, peering along the Opposition benches, of the old Parliamentary leader in the House of Commons. It is but here and there that we find a survivor of the old days to speak to us of the singularly mellifluous and sonorous voice, the classical language,--now pointed with epigram, now elevated into poetry, now burning with passion, now rich with humor,--which curbed into still attention a willing and long-broken audience."

As a statesman his place is more dubious. Like every English politician not born to a title, however,--Burke is an instance,--he was ferociously abused as a mere mercenary adventurer because his livelihood came from serving the public. The following lampoon is a specimen; the chief sting lies not in Canning's insolent mockery,--"Every time he made a speech he made a new and permanent enemy," it was said of him,--but in his not being a rich nobleman.

THE UNBELOVED

Not a woman, child, or man in All this isle that loves thee, Canning. Fools, whom gentle manners sway, May incline to Castlereagh; Princes who old ladies love Of the Doctor[A] may approve; Chancery lords do not abhor Their chatty, childish Chancellor; In Liverpool, some virtues strike, And little Van's beneath dislike. But thou, unamiable object, Dear to neither prince nor subject, Veriest, meanest scab for pelf Fastening on the skin of Guelph, Thou, thou must surely _loathe thyself_.

[A] Addington.

But his dominant taste was literary. His literature helped him to the field of statesmanship; as a compensation, his statesmanship is obscured by his literature. Bell says of him:--

"Canning's passion for literature entered into all his pursuits. It colored his whole life. Every moment of leisure was given up to books. He and Pitt were passionately fond of the classics, and we find them together of an evening after a dinner at Pitt's, poring over some old Grecian in a corner of the drawing-room while the rest of the company are dispersed in conversation.... In English writings his judgment was pure and strict; and no man was a more perfect master of all the varieties of composition. He was the first English Minister who banished the French language from our diplomatic correspondence and indicated before Europe the copiousness and dignity of our native tongue."

Part of the time that he was Foreign Secretary, Chateaubriand held the like post for France, and Canning devoted much attention to giving his diplomatic correspondence a literary polish which has made these national documents famous. He also formed an intimate friendship with Sir Walter Scott, founding with him and Ellis the Quarterly Review, to which he contributed with the latter a humorous article on the bullion question.

In literature Canning takes his place from his association with the Anti-Jacobin, a newspaper established in 1797 under the secret auspices of Pitt as a literary organ to express the policy of the administration,--similar to the Rolliad, the Whig paper published a few years before this date; but more especially to oppose revolutionary sentiment and ridicule the persons who sympathized with it. The house of Wright, its publisher in Piccadilly, soon became the resort of the friends of the Ministry and the staff, which included William Gifford, the editor,--author of the 'Baviad' and 'Maeviad,'--John Hookham Frere, George Ellis, Canning, Mr. Jenkinson (afterward Earl of Liverpool), Lord Clare, Lord Mornington (afterward Lord Wellesley), Lord Morpeth (afterward Earl of Carlisle), and William Pitt, who contributed papers on finance.

The Anti-Jacobin lived through thirty-six weekly numbers, ending July 16th, 1796. Its essays and poetry have little significance to-day except for those who can imagine the stormy political atmosphere of the Reign of Terror, which threatened to extend its rule over the whole of Europe. Hence the torrents of abuse and the violent attacks upon any one tainted with the slightest Sans-culottic tone may be understood.

The greater number of poems in the Anti-Jacobin are parodies, but not exclusively political ones. The 'Loves of the Triangles' is a parody on Dr. Erasmus Darwin's 'Loves of the Plants,' and contains an amusing contest between Parabola, Hyperbola, and Ellipsis for the love of the Phoenician Cone; the 'Progress of Man' is a parody of Payne Knight's 'Progress of Civil Society'; the 'Inscription for the Cell of Mrs. Brownrigg' a parody of Southey; and 'The Rovers,' of which one scene is given below, is a burlesque on the German dramas then in fashion. This was written by Canning, Ellis, Frere, and Gifford, and the play was given at Covent Garden in 1811 with great success, especially the song of the captive Rogero. 'The Needy Knife-Grinder,' also quoted below, a parody of Southey's 'Sapphics,' is by Canning and Frere. The poetry of the Anti-Jacobin was collected and published by Charles Edmonds (London, 1854), in a volume that contains also the original verses which are exposed to ridicule. Canning's public speeches, edited by R. Therry, were published in 1828.

ROGERO'S SOLILOQUY

From 'The Rovers; or the Double Arrangement'