"God rest her; she is still enough

Who sleeps beneath my feet!"
The old man cried. "No harm I trow

She ever did herself, though now

She lies where four roads meet. I have past by about that hour

When men are not most brave; It did not make my heart to fail, And I have heard the nightingale Sing sweetly on the grave.

I have past by about that hour

When ghosts their freedom have ; But there was nothing here to fright, And I have seen the glowworm's light, Shine on the poor girl's grave. There's one who like a Christian lies Beneath the church tree's shade; I'd rather go a long mile round Than pass at evening through the ground Wherein that man is laid.

A decent burial that man had,

The bell was heard to toll,

In silent pomp they laid him down,—
But for all the wealth in Bristol town
I would not be with his soul !

Didst see a house below the hill,

Which the winds and the rains destroy? The man in that farmhouse did dwell, And I remember it full well

When I was a growing boy.

And she was a poor parish girl,
Who came up from the West;
From service hard she ran away,
And at that house in evil day
Was taken in to rest.

A man of a bad name was he;
An evil life he led ;

Passion made his dark face turn white;
And his grey eyes were large and light,
And in anger they grew red.

The man was bad, the mother worse,—
Bad fruit of an evil stem!

'Twould make your hair to stand on end, If I should tell to you, my friend,

The things that were told of them!
Didst see an outhouse standing by?
The walls alone remain;

It was a stable then, but now
The mossy roof has fallen through,
All rotted by the rain.

This poor girl she had served with them
Some half a year or more,

When she was found hung up one day,
Stiff as a corpse, and cold as clay,
Behind the stable door.

It is a wild and lonesome place;
No hut or house is near;

Should one meet a murderer there alone,
'Twere vain to scream, and the dying groan
Could never reach mortal ear.

And there were strange reports about;
But still the coroner found

That she by her own hand had died,
And should buried be by the wayside,
And not in Christian ground.

This was the very place he chose,
Just where these four roads met,
And I was one among the throng
That hither followed them along :
I shall never the sight forget!

They carried her upon a board,

In the clothes in which she died;
I saw the cap blow off her head,
Her face was of a dark, dark red,
Her eyes were starting wide:

I think they could not have been closed,
So widely did they strain.

I never saw so dreadful a sight,

And it often made me wake at night,

For I saw her face again.

They laid her here where four roads meet,
Beneath this very place.

The earth upon her corpse was prest,
This post is driven into her breast,
And a stone is on her face."

THOMAS CAMPBELL.
(1777-1844.)

BORN at Glasgow, and educated at the university of his native city. After leaving the university he resided for some time in Edinburgh, where he published his first work (The Pleasures of Hope). The profits which he derived from the sale of this poem enabled him to visit the continent in the year 1800. He reached Bavaria (then the seat of war), and from a safe distance had a view of the battle of Hohenlinden. Soon after his return from the continent, he settled in London, and commenced the pursuit of literature as a profession. In 1806 a pension of £200 a year was bestowed upon him by the Fox ministry. Campbell died at Boulogne in 1844, and his body was brought to England, and interred in Westminster Abbey.

His chief works are:- The Pleasures of Hope; Gertrude of Wyoming; The Battle of the Baltic; Hohenlinden; Lora Ullin's Daughter, etc.

TO THE RAINBOW.

TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky
When storms prepare to part,

I ask not proud philosophy

To teach me what thou art.

Still seem as to my childhood's sight

A midway station given,

For happy spirits to alight

Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that optics teach, unfold
Thy form to please me so,
As when I dreamt of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow?

When science from Creation's face
Enchantment's veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws!

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.

When o'er the green undeluged earth
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world's gray fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign!

And when its yellow lustre smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child,
To bless the bow of God.

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first-made anthem rang
On earth, delivered from the deep,
And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye
Unraptured greet thy beam;
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet's theme!

The earth to thee her incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
When glittering in the freshened fields,
The snowy mushroom springs.
How glorious is thy girdle cast
O'er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirrored in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!
As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.
For, faithful to its sacred page,

Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age,
That first spoke peace to man.

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

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 Loch-Gyle,
This dark and stormy water?"
"Oh, 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 would cheer my bonny bride,
When they have slain her lover?"