It stopp'd it stood-it chill'd my blood, The hair upon my flesh uprose

With freezing dread!

Deep silence reign'd, and, at its close,

I heard a voice that said

'Shall mortal man be more pure and just
Than God, who made him from the dust?
Hast thou not learnt of old, how fleet
Is the triumph of the hypocrite;

How soon the wreath of joy grows wan
On the brow of the ungodly man ?

By the fire of his conscience he perisheth In an unblown flame:

The Earth demands his death,

And the Heavens reveal his shame.""

With the depth of my desolation,

And the anguish of my soul?
But I will not cease to wail
The bitterness of my bale.-
Man that is born of woman,
Short and evil is his hour;
He fleeth like a shadow,

He fadeth like a flower.

My days are pass'd-my hope and trust Is but to moulder in the dust.

CHORUS.

Bow, mortal, bow, before thy God,
Nor murmur at his chastening rod;
Fragile being of earthly clay,
Think on God's eternal sway!

Hark! from the whirlwind forth

Thy Maker speaks-"Thou child of earth,
Where wert thou when I laid

Creation's corner-stone?

When the sons of God rejoicing made,

And the morning stars together sang and shone?

Hadst thou power to bid above

Heaven's constellations glow;

Or shape the forms that live and move

On Nature's face below?

Hast thou given the horse his strength and pride?

He paws the valley, with nostril wide,

He smells far off the battle;

He neighs at the trumpet's sound—
And his speed devours the ground,

As he sweeps to where the quivers rattle,
And the spear and shield shine bright,
'Midst the shouting of the captains

And the thunder of the fight.

TO MY NIECE, MARY CAMPBELL.

[THE following lines were written in Mrs. Alfred Hill's album, in the early part of 1842, about twelve months after her arrival in London from Scotland, and they exhibit the gentle and affectionate feelings which ever marked Campbell's intercourse with those he loved.]

OUR friendship's not a stream to dry,
Or stop with angry jar;

A life-long planet in our sky-
No meteor-shooting star.

Thy playfulness and pleasant ways
Shall cheer my wintry track,
And give my old declining days
A second summer back!

Proud honesty protects our lot,
No dun infests our bowers;
Wealth's golden lamps illumine not
Brows more content than ours.

To think, too, thy remembrance fond
May love me after death,
Gives fancied happiness beyond

My lease of living breath.

386

TO MY NIECE, MARY CAMPBELL.

Meanwhile thine intellects presage

A life-time rich in truth,

And make me feel th' advance of age
Retarded by thy youth!

Good night! propitious dreams betide

Thy sleep-awaken gay,

And we will make to-morrow glide
As cheerful as to-day!

APPENDIX.

THE DIRGE OF WALLACE.

WHEN Scotland's great Regent, our warrior most dear, The debt of his nature did pay,

'Twas Edward, the cruel, had reason to fear, And cause to be struck with dismay.

At the window of Edward the raven did croak,
Though Scotland a widow became;

Each tie of true honor to Wallace he broke-
The raven croaked "Sorrow and shame!"

At Elderslie Castle no raven was heard,
But the soothings of honor and truth;
His spirit inspired the soul of the bard
To comfort the Love of his youth!

They lighted the tapers at dead of night,
And chanted their holiest hymn;

But her brow and her bosom were damp with affright,
Her eye was all sleepless and dim!

And the lady of Elderslie wept for her lord,
When a death-watch beat in her lonely room,
When her curtain had shook of its own accord,
And the raven had flapped at her window board,
To tell of her warrior's doom.

Now sing ye the death-song, and loudly pray
For the soul of my knight so dear!