Thomas Campbell

Without the smile from partial beauty won, Oh what were man? — a world without a sun.

Who hath not owned, with rapture-smitten frame, The power of grace, the magic of a name?

And rival all but Shakespeare's name below.

On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below.

Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, And Freedom shrieked—as Kosciusko fell!

O Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save!

Angel of life! thy glittering wings explore Earth's loneliest bounds, and Ocean's wildest shore.

Thus, while Elijah's burning wheels prepare, From Carmel's height, to sweep the fields of air, The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, Dropt on the world — a sacred gift to man.

When peace and mercy, banish'd from the plain, Sprung on the viewless winds to Heav'n again; All, all forsook the friendless guilty mind, But Hope, the charmer, linger'd still behind.

With thee, sweet Hope! resides the heav'nly light, That pours remotest rapture on the sight: Thine is the charm of life's bewilder'd way, That calls each slumb'ring passion into play.

What potent spirit guides the raptur'd eye To pierce the shades of dim futurity? Can Wisdom lend, with all her heav'nly pow'r, The pledge of Joy's anticipated hour? Ah, no! she darkly sees the fate of man— Her dim horizon bounded to a …

'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief "Across this stormy water; And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter! O my daughter!"

"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.

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!"

An original something, fair maid, you would win me To write — but how shall I begin? For I fear I have nothing original in me — Excepting Original Sin.

Better be courted and jilted Than never be courted at all.

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.

Whose lines are mottoes of the heart, Whose truths electrify the sage.

And rustic life and poverty Grow beautiful beneath his touch.

To live in hearts we leave behind Is not to die.

But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young.

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.