THOMAS CAMPBELL.
BORN, 1777; DIED, 1843.
Principal Works.—Pleasures of Hope, Gertrude of Wyoming,
Theodric, Pilgrim of Glencoe.
THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN.
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 show'd 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-sound array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills, with thunder riven;
Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven;
And, volleying like the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery.
But redder still these fires shall glow,
On Linden's hill of purpled snow;
And bloodier still shall be the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
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,
every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
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
Heav'n'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 deliver'd 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 its incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
When glittering in the freshen'd fields,
The snowy mushroom springs.
How glorious is thy girdle cast
O'er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirror'd in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down.
As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the raven 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.
THOMAS MOORE.
BORN, 1780; DIED, 1852.
Principal Works.-Irish Melodies, Lalla Rookh, Poems, and Songs.
JERUSALEM.
FALLEN is thy throne, O Israel!
Silence is o'er thy plains;
Thy dwellings all lie desolate;
Thy children weep in chains.
Where are the dews that fed thee
On Etham's barren shore?
That fire from Heaven which led thee
Now lights thy path no more.
Lord, thou didst love Jerusalem!
Once she was all thine own;
Her love, thy fairest heritage,
Her power, thy glory's throne.
Till evil came and blighted
Thy long-lov'd olive tree,
And Salem's shrines were lighted
For other gods than Thee.
Then sank the star of Solyma,
Then pass'd her glory's day;
Like heath that in the wilderness
The wild wind whirls away.
Silent and waste her bowers
Where once the mighty trod,
And sunk those guilty towers
Where Baal reign'd as God!
"Go," said the Lord, "ye conquerors!
Steep in her blood your swords;
And raze to earth her battlements,
For they are not the Lord's;
Till Zion's mournful daughter,
O'er kindred bones shall tread;
And Hinnom's vale of slaughter
Shall hide but half her dead."
But soon shall other pictur'd scenes,
In brighter visions rise,
When Zion's sun shall sevenfold shine
On all her mourners' eyes;
And on her mountains beauteous stand
The messengers of peace;
"Salvation by the Lord's right hand!"
They shout, and never cease.
THE POWER OF GOD.
THOU art, O God, the life and light
Of all this wondrous world we see;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,
Are but reflections caught from Thee!
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine.
When day with farewell beam delays
Among the opening clouds of even,
And we can almost think we gaze
Through golden vistas into heaven,
Those hues that make the sun's decline,
So soft, so radiant, Lord, are Thine.
When night, with wings of starry gloom,
O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark beauteous bird, whose plume
Is sparkling with unnumber'd eyes,
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord, are Thine.
When youthful Spring around us breathes,
Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh,
And every flower the summer wreaths
Is born beneath that kindling eye:
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine.
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