PART III.

POETRY OF THE AFFECTIONS.

THE BUSH OF SOUTHERNWOOD.

BY CALDER CAMPBELL.

Sunny is life's path at first,

When the flowers Romance hath nurs't
With Hope's early dews,
Cluster round us thick and fair,
Shedding fragrance on the air
From a hundred hues :
Dearer then, to me, than all

The brightest gems in Flora's hall,
In my father's humble garden

Was one Bush of Southernwood!

But no sooner doth life's track
Leave youth's glowing shores for black
And bitter manhood's sea,
Than earth turneth dark and bare ;-
So with me it led to where

Few sunny things there be;
Yet still, with mem'ry's eye I view'd-
Dearer for its solitude-

In that northern Scottish garden

One dear Bush of Southernwood. Now, when downwards bends life's roadI too bending 'neath the load

Age and sorrow lendStormy gloom that path besets; And for Hope's gay coronets,

Thorns with sad thoughts blend;
While I know that, distant far,

New hearts, new hands, new faces are,
In my dead old father's garden

Near that Bush of Southernwood.

Oh, how oft will fancy flee
To those merry days, when we
In that garden play'd!

Then my sisters twain were there

"Dimpled cheek," and "golden hair,"-
Laughing lips that made

Merriment whene'er they smiled:-
Happy was I, as a child,

In Ardersier's dear garden

With its Bush of Southernwood! Brothers, too, would sometimes come To fill our little sitting-room

With loud jest and glee; Kinsmen flocking from all parts,

With clasping hands and bounding hearts,
There would gather'd be ;

For they loved to fare a-field,
Where the blithsome reapers wield
Their sickles near that garden,

And its bush of Southernwood.

While we scamper'd o'er the braes,
Where the sheep turned out to graze
In the Autumn morn-

Shone like snow, we'd pause to pick
Wild flowers, berries black and thick,
Spite of gorse and thorn;

And returning, red of lip,
Freighted well with haw and hip,

Sought the green trees in the garden,
Round that Bush of Southernwood.

Sometimes, too, the seaward track
Tempted us-though fast the rack
Scudded overhead-

To search the shore for weeds and shells,
Or loiter 'midst the heather-bells,
Scaring from moss-beds

Panting hares that, through the night,
Pilfer'd salads, fresh and white,

From that fruitful Scottish garden,

With its Bush of Southernwood.
Often, too, with reckless glee,
Garments kilted to the knee,

'Mid the wave-wet sands-
Shoes and stockings cast aside,
Waded we, none nigh to chide-
Gathering with glad hands
Cockles, lurking 'neath green weed,
Muscles, 'mid the rocks that breed,
Far from that humble garden,

And its Bush of Southernwood.
Happy, happy days of youth,
When there was no dark untruth,
Sorrow, sin, nor shame!
When my gentle mother's look
Was too me a loveful book,
Where I read no blame;
And my eldest sister's smile
Lured me homeward many a mile,
To our father's simple garden,

With its Bush of Southernwood.
Oh! the dear flowers of that place!
Now I see them fill the space

Which they filled of yore;
Honeysuckles here and there,
Sweetbriar, wallflower, every where,
Mignonette, rich store,
Columbine of every hue,

Orange turk's-cap, monk's hood blue-
All in my father's garden,

Next that Bush of Southernwood.
Primroses by ranks and rows,
Marigold, a flower that grows
Freely, where you will;
Beds of healthful chamomile,
Hyssop, mint, and myrrh, that wile
Bees with natural skill;

Costmary, and roses many,
Peonies, and, dear as any

In, ah! that old Manse-garden,
That one Bush of Southernwood.

Shall I never wander more
Where I sowed such ample store

Of those simple flowers?
Shall the rich laburnums shed
Golden bunches on my head,

'Mid those hawthorn bowers? Shall the lilacs give their bloom And their gentle soft perfume

To the walks of that old garden,
With its Bush of Southernwood.
Strange masters now are there;
New halls, new walls, new hedges fair,
Near that parsonage :-
Father, mother, sister, brothers,-
Graves for them, and for dear others,
Rise upon the page

Of certainty :-and now 'twould be
A task as sore as death to me
To visit that loved garden

And its Bush of Southernwood!

"And Campbell's epitaph shall be,
Sparta possessed no worthier son than he."
Bard and Minor Poems.

Another light hath faded from the sky,
Another flower hath vanish'd from the earth;
Hot tear-drops fill each sympathizing eye

For him, the pearl of genius, wit, and worth.

Ten years, ten weary years have glided o'er When first this faithful hand rehearsed his praise,

Since then the Bard of Ettrick is no more, Sweet Coleridge, Southey, circled with his bays:

And Campbell !-from the blue hills of Argyle Each forest, and deep glen, and misty vale, From every mountain, continent, and isle

Shall ring the loud lament, the bitter wail. How large that soul! how noble was the man! What glorious visions kindled in his brain: Like sunlit waves each beauteous image ran, Bright, rainbow-hued, as drops of April rain, "From grave to gay, from lively to severe," He stalk'd, or sported, merry or sedate, Now as a Fairy's song he charm'd the ear, Now as a Titan was he fierce and great.

O, how divinely tripp'd the joyous hours,

Those festive moments, that harmonious glee, What Protean colors gleamed through Fancy's bowers,

What heavenly hues adorn'd Philosophy!

I see him now! the orb'd majestic head,
The polish'd brow, the Phidian nose, blue eyes.

The Patriot-look, the ever-playing smiles, The thoughts inspir'd, and language of the skies.

Yea, proud was I to worship at thy feet,
Gamaliel, Poet-father, Fancy's guide;
A critic thou, enthron'd on highest seat
A Poet placed by Shakspeare's, Milton's side.
In prose, or honey'd verse alike a king,
Renown'd in Grecian, as in Roman glory,
Thou, eagle-like, couldst soar, or lark-like sing,
Now crown'd immortally in British story.

He is not dead! O, say he is not dead!

"Fair Wyoming" records to endless time The POET's fame, and binds his laurel'd head; "By Susquehanna's shore" he stands sublime.

He is not dead! the Paradise of Hope Blooms with victorious garlands, heavenly flowers,

With fresh delight shall future poets ope

Each page inspired among the summer bowers.

He is not dead! old England's Mariners
Shall own the heart-quake, and the shouts of

war

Red Linden quiver to his martial airs,
Nile, Copenhagen, tremble from afar !

He is not dead! whilst Poland is alive-
And Poland's heart still leaps to Liberty-
In Poland's blood-stained annals he shall live
A meteor-light in Freedom's cloudless sky.

He is not dead! whilst Scotland's mountains stand,

Loch Awe, Loch Katrine glow with burnish'd gold,

His name shall hover star-like o'er the land, Link'd with her Burns,-her proudest sons of old!

Her woodlands shall lament him,—the deep grove
Is musical with songs of lyre and lute,
All her broad forests murmur notes of love,
At his rich voice the nightingale is mute.

Her streams hear "music sweeter than their own,"

Stars in their spheres, a melody more sweetAngels might listen to each heavenly tone

And earthly lovers holier raptures greet.

And when he died, the nobles of the land,
They who derided or had scorn'd his lot,
Clasp'd round his corpse, who had refus'd his
hand,

And crowded to that consecrated spot.

Immortal ever! more immortal yet,

When Kosciusko's dust was mix'd with thine: O, proudly would the poet's heart have beat In foretaste of a union so divine!

Farewell, true poet-most beloved friend-
Accept this earthly offering in the skies;
To the bright mansions let this tribute wend,
With heart-wrung tears, and agonizing sighs.

Gally Hill Farm, Cleveland, 1844,

For not the tree is blasted, but the leaf

Has sear'd and fallen in its winter time: The fruit is garner'd, and the drooping sheaf Has shed its golden prime.

The dust around is sentient, and the air

Is glorious with the spirits of the brave,
Who hover o'er the bier with gentle care,
And guard the narrow grave.

The drooping watcher in his fancy sees,
Not the dark grave, but thou, sweet Wyoming,
With mossied hillocks, and o'erarching trees
In Susquehanna bending.

The kneeling chieftain sees on Warsaw's plain
Thy real grave by Kosciusko's side,
Wrapp'd in the sacred banner of the slain
In pomp and warrior pride.

The prayers of men and angels are as one

As on thy corse, with reverend hand, they

strew

The sacred dust of Poland's noblest son,
Mingling the Brave and True.

Instead of anthem or lamenting dirge

"Ye mariners of England" steals along, Whilst to the Fancy's ear the ocean's surge Makes musical the song.

The good achiev'd on earth by one so just
Falls on the heart like prayer in this sad hour,
Teaching that truth springs upwards from our dust,
That mind is real power.

Whilst Britons hold dominion of the sea,

Whilst they deserve the glory of their fame, One word shall nerve the weak and prompt the free

'Tis Campbell's name !

A MOTHER'S WAIL AFTER THE BAT. TLE.

BY CALDER CAMPBELL.

Oh! gentle moonlight, rest upon our fieldsOh! peaceful moonlight! leave to light our shields,

That all too long have boldly braved the sun; Oh! soft nocturnal sky, oh! starry sky,

Weep thy sweet tears where our slain warriors lie

Their gallant race is run!

Ob black and dismal grove, oh! sombre grove, Where buried lie the children of my love,

With songs of gleeful birds no longer ring; Let wild and wailing strains fall on the earA mother's dirge for all her heart held dear From thy dim alleys spring!

Beautiful shells! of the dark blue wave,
Floating o'er shingles, or flushing in cave ;
Ye're the fairest in form, and the purest in tone,
That Neptune may boast of, or ocean may own.
H. R. B.

THE STAR AND THE ANGEL.

I mused upon the silent stars,
One eve, when glory out was welling
From all the founts of light, and long'd
In one fair orb to fix my dwelling.

A modest star, not wildly bright,
In its own calm blue field alone;
For quiet, holy, happy thought,

An Eden of the stars it shone.

Its ray, a beam of holy love,

Was imaged in the fount within
Of feeling to its own bright source,
In deep serenity, akin.

To that fair orb my soul was knit
By sympathy's mysterious spell,
And long'd to pass the gates of life,
O er all to roam, but there to dwell.

I mused upon its distance vast,

Its peopled planets, glorious sky. The myriad life its radiance warm'd, Its origin and destiny.

A sudden shade obscured its ray,

A form of dread yet lovely might

Before my eyes, colossal stood,

And dimm'd, not veil'd, the trembling light.

And thus he spoke in mournful tones :

Thy eyes have drunk the glorious beam

That left, a thousand years ago,

Of light an overflowing stream.

"I was the angel of that star,

With twice ten planets round it roll'd, A system fair as ever flamed

'Mid night's unnumber'd spheres of gold.

"A million years its stately march

Through the wide infinite it kept; Around the central depths of space, With all the host of heaven it swept.

"Its planets teem'd with myriad life, Whose beings, generations, Time Had oft renew'd as oft decay'd,

While sped the star its course sublime.

"Its eycle round the centre past,— "Twas girt with bright consuming flameVanish'd, nor left within the sky

A relic of its wondrous frame.

"And still a thousand years shall wing Their flight before the latest ray That left its orb, a parting smile,

On earth at midnight hour shall play.

"Upon its orbit's utmost verge,

It seems but yesterday, when I Beheld thy system's earliest light, And hail'd its giant infancy.

ON READING HIS "PAST AND PRESENT," AND 66 HEROES AND HERO WORSHIP.

The beacon sign-light storms and tempests braves, And, from the distance high, streams forth its light

In scintillations through the baze of night, Warning where evil, hid beneath the waves, Holds direful watch within her rocky caves,

To crush the ribs of ships, and shipmen's might,

And sailors' thrilling hopes of home to blight, And whelm them down into her deep sea-graves: So Carlyle, shining o'er the gloomy way,

The dull, drear realms of Sham, that surges o'er Men's sunken hearts and souls with hollow roar, Tow'ring, and streaming forth, the red light ray Of thy bold genius warns of dangers dark, That fearfully surround the social barque. Mile End.

SONNET.

H. B.

THE WIND AND THE LEAF; OR, ELOPE-
MENT.

O, listen, Ladies, and I'll tell you brief
A touching tale, and true as history