Songs of Three Centuries

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

[1777 - 1844]

THE LAST MAN.

ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume
Its immortality!

I saw a vision in my sleep,

That gave my spirit strength to sweep

Adown the gulf of time!

I saw the last of human mould
That shall creation's death behold,
As Adam saw her prime!

The sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The earth with age was wan;
The skeletons of nations were

Around that lonely man!
Some had expired in fight, the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands,

In plague and famine some!
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb!

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood,
As if a storm passed by,

Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack
Of pain anew to writhe;
Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.

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

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

Receive my parting ghost!

This spirit shall return to Him

Who gave its heavenly spark; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself art dark! No! it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine, By him recalled to breath, Who captive led captivity, Who robbed the grave of victory,

And took the sting from death!

Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up
On Nature's awful waste

To drink this last and bitter cup
Of grief that man shall taste,
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,

Saying, Weare twins in death, proud Sun! Thou saw'st the last of Adan's race,

Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

'Tis Mercy bids thee go;

For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears, That shall no longer flow.

On earth's sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy To quench his immortality, Or shake his trust in God!

In silence they marched over mountain and moor,

To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar:

"Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn:

Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara

the stern.

"And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse,

Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?"

So spake the rude chieftain :-no answer is made,

But each mantle unfolding, a dagger displayed.

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,"

Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud;

"And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem:

Glenara! Glenara!

dream!"

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

139

A CHIEFTAIN, 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:

now read me my So, though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry.'

O, pale grew the cheek of that chieftain,
I ween,

When the shroud was unclosed, and no
lady was seen;

When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn,

"T was the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,

I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief:

On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did

seem;

Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground,

And the desert revealed where his lady was found;

From a rock of the ocean that beauty is
borne,

Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of
Lorn!

By this the storm grew loud apace,

And in the scowl of heaven each face
The water-wraith was shrieking;
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still, as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode arméd 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, O, 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 But to that fane, most catholic and

solemn,

Which God hath planned;

Ye bright mosaics! that with storied In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly

beauty

The floor of nature's temple tessellate, What numerous emblems of instructive duty

Artist, With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread hall,

What a delightful lesson thou impartest Of love to all!

Not useless are ye, flowers! though made for pleasure;

Blooming o'er field and wave by day and night,

From every source your sanction bids

me treasure

Harmless delight.

Not to the domes where crumbling arch Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary

and column

Attest the feebleness of mortal hand,

For such a world of thought could furnish scope?

Tell us,

141

Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbid

den,

By oath, to tell the mysteries of thy

trade;

Then say, what secret melody was hidden In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played?

Perhaps thou wert a priest; if so, my struggles

Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles!

Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat,

Hath hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass;

Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat; Or doffed thine own, to let Queen Dido

pass;

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, A torch, at the great temple's dedication!

I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed,

Has any Roman soldier mauled and

knuckled;

For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed,

Ere Romulus and Remus had been

suckled:

Antiquity appears to have begun
Long after thy primeval race was run.

Thou couldst develop, if that withered tongue

Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen,

How the world looked when it was fresh and young

And the great deluge still had left it

green;

Or was it then so old that history's

pages

Contained no record of its early ages?

- for doubtless thou canst recol- Still silent!- Incommunicative elf!

lect,

To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame ?

Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect

Of either pyramid that bears his name?

Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer? Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer?

Art sworn to secrecy? Then keep thy

Vows!

But, prithee, tell us something of thyself,

Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house ; Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered,

What hast thou seen, what strange adventures numbered?

THE day was dark, save when the beam
Of noon through darkness broke;
In gloom I sat, as in a dream,
Beneath my orchard oak;
Lo! splendor, like a spirit, came,
A shadow like a tree!

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy While there I sat, and named her name

head,

Who once sat there with me.

I started from the seat in fear;
I looked around in awe,
But saw no beauteous spirit near,
The seat, the tree, where oft, in tears,
Though all that was I saw,
She mourned her hopes o'erthrown,
Her joys cut off in early years,

Like gathered flowers half blown.

Again the bud and breeze were met,
But Mary did not come;

And e'en the rose, which she had set,
Was fated ne'er to bloom!
The thrush proclaimed, in accents sweet,
That winter's reign was o'er;
The bluebells thronged around my feet,
But Mary came no more.

FOREST WORSHIP.

WITHIN the sunlit forest,

Our roof the bright blue sky, Where fountains flow, and wild-flowers blow,

We lift our hearts on high: Beneath the frown of wicked men

Our country's strength is bowing; But, thanks to God! they can't prevent The lone wild-flowers from blowing!

High, high above the tree-tops,

The lark is soaring free;

Where streams the light through broken clouds

His speckled breast I see: Beneath the might of wicked men

The poor man's worth is dying; But, thanked be God! in spite of them, The lark still warbles flying!

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