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short, well told in ballad metre, but with epigrammatic rather than poetic effect. Those which are not good of their kind are songs or ballads which Dame Nature seems to have intended for ebullitions, and which probably were so in their birth, but which Stepdame Art has laboured to improve.

For the rest, the complete editions of Campbell's poems, like those of most poets renowned in their day, contain a proportion of juvenile and senile efforts which might have been spared with advantage to the collection as a whole; and the same may be said of certain occasional poems written because they were wanted. Some verses on Marie Antoinette, of no very great merit in themselves, are remarkable in having been written at fifteen years of age. And there is another poem, included in the edition published by Moxon in 1837, which is remarkable amongst Campbell's poems for not being Campbell's. It is Wordsworth's well-known poem beginning

There is a change, and I am poor.'

It is singular that such a misappropriation should have happened when both the poets were still living.



On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the 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 sulphurous 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.


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 do1 blow;

While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits 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 earlier editions have while the stormy tempests blow' throughout

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.


Of Nelson and the North
Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark's crown,

And her arms along the deep proudly shone;

By each gun the lighted brand

In a bold determin'd hand,

And the Prince of all the land

Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat

Lay their bulwarks on the brine,
While the sign of battle flew

On the lofty British line:

It was ten of April 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.

But the might of England flushed
To anticipate the scene,

And her van the fleeter rushed

O'er the deadly space between

'Hearts of oak,' our captains cried, when each gun

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,

Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back ;—

Their shots along the deep slowly boom :-
Then ceased-and all is wail,

As they strike the shattered sail,

Or in conflagration pale

Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then,

As he hailed them o'er the wave;

'Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save;

So peace instead of death let us bring:

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet

With the crews at England's feet,

And make submission meet

To our King.'

Then Denmark blest our chief,

That he gave her wounds repose;

And the sounds of joy and grief,

From her people wildly rose,

As death withdrew his shades from the day;

While the sun looked smiling bright

O'er a wide and woeful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light

Died away.

Now joy, old England, raise

For the tidings of thy might,

By the festal cities' blaze,

While the wine cup shines in light';

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