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326

LINES ON THE DEATH OF CAMPBELL.

“And Cambell's epitaph shall be,
‘Sparta possess'd no worthier son than he.”
Babd and Minor Poems.

Another light hath faded from the sky,
Another flower hath vanish'd from the earth;
Hot tear-drops fill each sympathising eye
For him, that pearl of genius, wit, and worth.
Ten years, ten mournful years, have glided o'er
When first this faithful hand rehears'd his praise;
Since then the bard of Ettrick is no more,
Sweet Coleridge, Southey, master of the bays:—
And Campbell—from the blue hills of Argyle,
Each forest, and deep glen, and misty vale,
From every mountain, continent, and isle,
Shall sound the loud lament, the bitter wail.
How large his soul! how noble was the man!
What glorious visions kindled in his brain:
Like sun-lit waves each beauteous image ran,
Bright, rainbow-hued as drops of April rain.
“From grave to gay, from lively to severe,”
He stalk'd or sported, merry or sedate;
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Now as a fairy's song he charm'd the ear,
Now as a Titan was he fierce and great.
O, how divinely tripp'd the joyous hours,
Those festive moments, that harmonious glee!
What Protean colours gleam'd through Fancy's bowers,
What heavenly hues adorn'd Philosophy!
I see him now!—the orb'd, majestic head,
The polish'd brow, the Phidian nose, blue eyes,
The patriot look, the ever glancing smiles,
The thoughts inspired, and language of the skies.
Yea, proud was I to worship at thy feet,
Gamaliel, poet-father, Fancy's guide!
A critic thou, enthroned on highest seat,
A poet placed by Shakspere's, Milton's side!
In prose, or honey'd verse, alike a king,
Renown'd in Grecian, as in Roman glory;
Thou eagle-like could'st soar, or lark-like sing,
Now crown'd immortally in English story.
He is not dead! O say he is not dead!
“Fair Wyoming” records to endless time
The poet's fame, and binds his laurell'd head;
By “Susquehanah's shade” he stands sublime.
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He is not dead!—the Paradise of Hope
Blooms with victorious garlands, heavenly flowers,
With fresh delight shall future poets ope
Each page inspired among the summer bowers.
He is not dead!—Old England's mariners
Shall own the heart-quake and the shouts of war,
Red Linden quivered to his martial airs,
Nile, Copenhagen, tremble from afar.
He is not dead!—whilst Poland is alive,
And Poland's heart still cleaves to liberty:
In Poland's blood-stained annals he shall live,
A meteor-light in Freedom's cloudless sky.
He is not dead!—whilst Scotland's mountains stand,
Loch Awe, Loch Katrine glow with burnish'd gold;
His name shall star-like hover o'er the land,
Link'd with her Burns!—her proudest sons of old!
Her woodland flowers lament him, the deep grove
Is musical with songs of lyre and lute!
All her broad forests murmur notes of love,
At his rich voice the nightingale is mute.
Her streams hear music sweeter than their own,
Stars in their spheres a melody more sweet;
Angels might listen to each heavenly tone,
And earthly lovers holier raptures greet!
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And when he died, the nobles of the land,
They who derided, or had scorn'd his lot,
Clasp'd round his corpse, who had refused his hand,
And crowded to that consecrated spot.
Immortal ever!—more immortal yet
When Kosciusko's dust was mixed with thine:
O, proudly would the poet's heart have beat
In foretaste of an union so divine!
Farewell true poet, most beloved friend!
Accept this earthly offering in the skies;
To the bright mansions let this tribute wend,
With heart-rung tears, and agonizing sighs.
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