There, sad spectatress of her country's woe!
The lovely Gertrude, save from present harm,
Had laid her cheek, and clasped her hands of snow
On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm
Inclosed, that felt her heart, and hushed its wild alarm !

But short that contemplation—sad and short
The pause to bid each much-loved scene adieu !
Beneath the very shadow of the fort,

Where friendly swords were drawn and banners flew ;
Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian crew
Was near?-yet there, with lust of murderous deeds,
Gleamed like a basilisk, from woods in view,
The ambushed foemen's eye-his volley speeds,

And Albert, Albert falls! the dear old father bleeds!

And tranced in giddy horror, Gertrude swooned;
Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone,
Say, burst they, borrowed from her father's wound,
These drops? Oh, God! the life-blood is her own!
And faltering, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrown-
'Weep not, O love!' she cries, 'to see me bleed;
Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone
Heaven's peace commiserate; for scarce I heed

These wounds; yet thee to leave is death, is death indeed!

Clasp me a little longer on the brink

Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress;

And when this heart hath ceased to beat-oh! think,

And let it mitigate thy woe's excess,

That thou hast been to me all tenderness,

And friend to more than human friendship just.
Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,

And by the hopes of an immortal trust,

God shall assuage thy pangs-when I am laid in dust!'

Hushed were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland And beautiful expression seemed to melt

With love that could not die! and still his hand

He heard some friendly words, but knew not what they

For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives
A faithful band. With solemn rites between,
'Twas sung, how they were lovely in their lives,
And in their deaths had not divided been.
Touched by the music and the melting scene,
Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd-
Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen
To veil their eyes, as passed each much-loved shroud-
While woman's softer soul in woe dissolved aloud.

Then mournfully the parting bugle bid

Its farewell o'er the grave of worth and truth;
Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid
His face on earth; him watched, in gloomy ruth,
His woodland guide: but words had none to soothe
The grief that knew not consolation's name ;
Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth,

He watched, beneath its folds, each burst that came
Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame !

And I could weep,' the Oneyda chief

His descant wildly thus begun;
But that I may not stain with grief

The death-song of my father's son,

Or bow this head in woe!

For, by my wrongs, and by my wrath,
To-morrow Areouski's breath,

That fires yon heaven with storms of death,
Shall light us to the foe:

And we shall share, my Christian boy,
The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy!

'But thee, my flower, whose breath was given

By milder genii o'er the deep,

The spirits of the white man's heaven
Forbid not thee to weep:

Nor will the Christian host,

Nor will thy father's spirit grieve,

To see thee, on the battle's eve,
Lamenting, take a mournful leave
Of her who loved thee most:
She was the rainbow to thy sight!
Thy sun-thy heaven-of lost delight!
'To-morrow let us do or die.

But when the bolt of death is hurled,
Ah! whither then with thee to fly,
Shall Outalissi roam the world?

Seek we thy once-loved home?

The hand is gone that cropt its flowers;
Unheard their clock repeats its hours;
Cold is the hearth within their bowers:
And should we thither roam,

Its echoes and its empty tread
Would sound like voices from the dead!

'Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,
Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed,
And by my side, in battle true,

A thousand warriors drew the shaft?

Ah! there, in desolation cold,

The desert serpent dwells alone,

Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone,

And stones themselves to ruin grown,

Like me, are death-like old.

Then seek we not their camp; for there

The silence dwells of my despair!

'But hark, the trump! to-morrow thou
In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears:
Even from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears,
Amidst the clouds that round us roll;
He bids my soul for battle thirst—
He bids me dry the last-the first-
The only tears that ever burst
From Outalissi's soul;
Because I may not stain with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief!'

(From Gertrude of Wyoming.)

Ye Mariners of England.

Ye mariners of England!
That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has braved a thousand years

The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;

While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave!

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave;
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,
Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below,

As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy winds do blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,

And the storm has ceased to blow !

When the poem was first published in the Naval Chronicle for 1801, the line about Blake and Nelson read 'Where Granvill (boast of freedom) fell;' but after Trafalgar the Georgian hero was substituted for the Elizabethan, Tennyson's Sir Richard Grenville; and Blake the Cromwellian was added-though Blake did not precisely fall,' but died of scorbutic fever on board his ship as it entered Plymouth Sound.

The Battle of the Baltic.

Of Nelson and the North,

Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark's crown,

And her arms along the deep proudly shone ;

By each gun the lighted brand,

In a bold determined hand,

And the Prince of all the land

Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat,

Lay their bulwarks on the brine;

While the sign of battle flew

On the lofty British line:

It was ten of April morn by the chime :

As they drifted on their path,

There was silence deep as death;

And the boldest held his breath
For a time.

But the might of England flushed

To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rushed

O'er the deadly space between.

'Hearts of oak!' our captains cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

Again! again! again!
And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back;
Their shots along the deep slowly boom,
Then ceased-and all is wail,

As they strike the shattered sail;
Or, in conflagration pale,
Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then,

As he hailed them o'er the wave: 'Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save;

So peace instead of death let us bring;
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,

With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet

To our king.'

Then Denmark blessed our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,

As death withdrew his shades from the day.
While the sun looked smiling bright

O'er a wide and woful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light

Died away.

Now joy, Old England, raise!

For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,
Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore !

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died,
With the gallant good Riou;

Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls

And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!

Captain Riou was praised by Lord Nelson as the gallant and the good. The first draft of this poem, sent to Scott in 1805, consisted of thirty stanzas-all published in Beattie's Life of Campbell. The piece was greatly improved by condensation, but the excision of these verses on English sailors was clearly a loss: Not such a mind possessed

England's tar;

"Twas the love of noble game
Set his oaken heart on flame,
For to him 'twas all the same-
Sport and war.

All hands and eyes on watch
As they keep-

By their motion light as wings,
By each step that haughty springs,
You might know them for the kings
Of the deep.

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 saw 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 fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stainèd snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

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;
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

From 'The Last Man.'

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom-
The sun himself must die,

Before this mortal shall assume
Its immortality!

I saw a vision in my sleep,

That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulf of time!

I saw the last of human mould
That shall creation's death behold,
As Adam saw her prime!

The sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The earth with age was wan;
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!

Some had expired in fight—the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands-

In plague and famine some: Earth's cities had no sound nor tread; And ships were drifting with the dead To shores where all was dumb!

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood,
As if a storm passed by ;

Saying: 'We are twins in death, proud sun;
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

'Tis Mercy bids thee go.

For thou, ten thousand thousand years,
Hast seen the tide of human tears,

That shall no longer flow. . . .

'This spirit shall return to Him
That gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, sun, it shall be dim,
When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recalled to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robbed the grave of victory,
And took the sting from death !'

From 'O'Connor's Child.'
O'Connor's child, I was the bud
Of Erin's royal tree of glory;

But woe to them that wrapt in blood
The tissue of my story!

Still as I clasp my burning brain,
A death-scene rushes on my sight;

It rises o'er and o'er again,

The bloody feud-the fatal night,
When, chafing Connocht Moran's scorn,
They call'd my hero basely born;
And bade him choose a meaner bride
Than from O'Connor's house of pride.
Their tribe, they said, their high degree,
Was sung in Tara's psaltery;
Witness their Eath's victorious brand,
And Cathal of the bloody hand;
Glory (they said) and power and honour
Were in the mansion of O'Connor:
But he, my loved one, bore in field
A humbler crest, a meaner shield.

Ah, brothers! what did it avail,
That fiercely and triumphantly
Ye fought the English of the Pale,
And stemm'd De Bourgo's chivalry?
And what was it to love and me,
That barons by your standard rode;
Or beal-fires for your jubilee

Upon a hundred mountains glow'd?
What though the lords of tower and dome
From Shannon to the North-sea foam,-
Thought ye your iron hands of pride
Could break the knot that love had tied?
No-let the eagle change his plume,
The leaf its hue, the flower its bloom;
But ties around this heart were spun,
That could not, would not, be undone !

At bleating of the wild watch-fold

Thus sang my love-‘Oh, come with me:
Our bark is on the lake, behold
Our steeds are fasten'd to the tree.
Come far from Castle-Connor's clans :-
Come with thy belted forestere,

And I, beside the lake of swans,

Shall hunt for thee the fallow-deer;
And build thy hut, and bring thee home
The wild-fowl and the honey-comb;
And berries from the wood provide,

And play my clarshech by thy side.
Then come, my love!'- How could I stay?

Our nimble stag-hounds track'd the way,
And I pursued, by moonless skies,

The light of Connocht Moran's eyes.

And fast and far, before the star

Of day-spring, rush'd we through the glade,
And saw at dawn the lofty bawn
Of Castle-Connor fade.

Sweet was to us the hermitage

Of this unplough'd, untroddden shore;
Like birds all joyous from the cage,
For man's neglect we loved it more,
And well he knew, my huntsman dear,
To search the game with hawk and spear;
While I, his evening food to dress,
Would sing to him in happiness.
But, oh, that midnight of despair!
When I was doom'd to rend my hair :
The night, to me, of shrieking sorrow!
The night, to him, that had no morrow!

When all was hush'd, at even tide,
I heard the baying of their beagle:
Be hush'd! my Connocht Moran cried,
'Tis but the screaming of the eagle.
Alas! 'twas not the eyrie's sound;
Their bloody bands had track'd us out ;
Up-listening starts our couchant hound-
And, hark! again, that nearer shout
Brings faster on the murderers.
Spare-spare him-Brazil-Desmond fierce!
In vain-no voice the adder charms;
Their weapons cross'd my sheltering arms:
Another's sword has laid him low-
Another's and another's;

And every hand that dealt the blow-
Ah me! it was a brother's!
Yes, when his moanings died away,
Their iron hands had dug the clay,
And o'er his burial turf they trod,
And I behold!-oh God! oh God!-
His life-blood oozing from the sod!
Warm in his death-wounds sepulchred,
Alas! my warrior's spirit brave
Nor mass nor ulla-lulla heard,
Lamenting, soothe his grave.

Dragg'd to their hated mansion back,
How long in thraldom's grasp I lay
I knew not, for my soul was black,
And knew no change of night or day.
One night of horror round me grew ;
Or if I saw, or felt, or knew,
'Twas but when those grim visages,
The angry brothers of my race,
Glared on each eye-ball's aching throb,
And check'd my bosom's power to sob,
Or when my heart with pulses drear
Beat like a death-watch to my ear.
But Heaven, at last, my soul's eclipse
Did with a vision bright inspire;
I woke and felt upon my lips
A prophetess's fire.

Thrice in the east a war-drum beat,
I heard the Saxon's trumpet sound,
And ranged, as to the judgment-seat,
My guilty, trembling brothers round.
Clad in the helm and shield they came;
For now De Bourgo's sword and flame
Had ravaged Ulster's boundaries,
And lighted up the midnight skies.

The standard of O'Connor's sway
Was in the turret where I lay ;
That standard, with so dire a look,
As ghastly shone the moon and pale,
I gave, that every bosom shook
Beneath its iron mail.

And go! (I cried) the combat seek,
Ye hearts that unappalled bore
The anguish of a sister's shriek,
Go!-and return no more!

For sooner guilt the ordeal-brand
Shall grasp unhurt, than ye shall hold
The banner with victorious hand,
Beneath a sister's curse unroll'd.
O stranger! by my country's loss !
And by my love! and by the cross!

I swear I never could have spoke
The curse that sever'd nature's yoke;
But that a spirit o'er me stood,
And fired me with the wrathful mood;
And frenzy to my heart was given
To speak the malison of heaven.

From 'Ode to the Memory of Burns.'
O deem not, 'midst this worldly strife,
An idle art the Poet brings:
Let high Philosophy control,
And sages calm, the stream of life,
'Tis he refines its fountain-springs,
The nobler passions of the soul.
It is the muse that consecrates
The native banner of the brave,
Unfurling, at the trumpet's breath,
Rose, thistle, harp; 'tis she elates
To sweep the field or ride the wave,
A sunburst in the storm of death.

Farewell, high chief of Scottish song!
That could'st alternately impart
Wisdom and rapture in thy page,
And brand each vice with satire strong;
Whose lines are mottoes of the heart,
Whose truths electrify the sage.

Farewell! and ne'er may Envy dare
To wring one baleful poison drop
From the crush'd laurels of thy bust :
But while the lark sings sweet in air,
Still may the grateful pilgrim stop,

To bless the spot that holds thy dust.

The authorities for Campbell's biography are his Life and Letters by W. Beattie (1840), and Cyrus Redding's Literary Reminiscences of him (1859). There is also a monograph on him by Cuthbert Hadden in the Famous Scots' series (1900; unsympathetic). The best popular edition of his poems is the Aldine (1875; new ed. 1890; based on that of his nephew, the Rev. W. A. Hill, 1860), with a Memoir by William Allingham the poet.

Lady Dacre (1768-1854), one of the most accomplished women of her time, was a daughter of Admiral Ogle, and was married first to Mr Wilmot, an officer in the Guards, and in 1819 to the twenty-first Lord Dacre. She wrote poems and four dramas, of which Ina, on an AngloSaxon plot, was produced at Drury Lane by Sheridan; and her translations from Petrarch

were published with Ugo Foscolo's Essays on Petrarch (1823). A separate volume of her Translations from the Italian was privately printed in 1836. Her one daughter, the wife of Mr Sullivan, a Hertfordshire clergyman, wrote The Recollections of a Chaperon and Tales of the Peerage and Peasantry, both of which were edited by Lady Dacre.

Lady Charlotte Bury (1775-1861) wrote nearly a score of books (most of them anonymously), including several fashionable novelsFlirtation, Separation, A Marriage in High Life, The Divorced, Family Records, Love, some poems, two books of devotion, and, as was then believed and still seems probable, the Diary illustrative of the Times of George IV., a scandalous chronicle, published in 1838. Born Lady Charlotte Campbell-a daughter of the Duke of Argyll by his duchess, 'the beautiful Miss Gunning,' widow of the Duke of Hamilton-she had for her first husband Colonel John Campbell. During her widowhood and before her marriage to the Rev. E. J. Bury, while holding an appointment in the household of the Princess of Wales, she seems to have kept this Diary, in which she recorded the foibles and failings of the unfortunate princess and other members of the court. The work was strongly condemned by the leading critical journals, and was received generally with much professed disapprobation, but nevertheless ran swiftly through several editions.

Mary Brunton (1778-1818), novelist, was born in the small, bare, and wind-swept island of Burray in the Orkneys, the daughter of Colonel Balfour of Elwick and a niece of Lord Ligonier. Mary was carefully educated by her mother, and at Edinburgh thoroughly acquired French and Italian; but while she was only sixteen her mother died, and for four years the cares and duties of the household devolved on her. Then she was married to the minister of Bolton in Haddingtonshire; and when in 1803 Mr Brunton was called to one of the churches in Edinburgh, she had opportunity of meeting cultivated society. 'Till I began Self-control,' she says in one of her letters, 'I had never in my life written anything but a letter or a recipe, excepting a few hundreds of vile rhymes, from which I desisted by the time I had gained the wisdom of fifteen years; therefore I was so ignorant of the art on which I was entering, that I formed scarcely any plan for my tale. I merely intended to show the power of the religious principle in bestowing self-command, and to bear testimony against a maxim as immoral as indelicate, that a reformed rake makes the best husband.' Of Self-control, published anonymously in 1811, the first edition was sold in a month, and a second and third were called for. In 1814 Discipline was also well received. She began a third work, Emmeline, but did not live to finish it. Next year her husband published (1819) the un

finished tale with a memoir. In Self-control the authoress showed acute observation, and attained individuality in her portraits; but the plot is very unskilfully managed, and the style at times conventional and stilted. Hargrave is obviously based on Lovelace, and Laura is the Clarissa of the tale.

Christian Isobel Johnstone (1781-1857) published anonymously Clan Albin (1815), a tale written before the appearance of Waverley, and like Waverley aiming to cast a romantic glow over Highland character and scenery. A second novel, Elizabeth de Bruce, was published in 1827 by Mrs Johnstone, who wrote some interesting tales for children—The Diversions of Hollycot, The Knights of the Round Table, &c.-and was an extensive contributor to the periodical literature of the day. She was for some years editor of Taifs Magazine. But the most notable and successful of her publications was the unromantic Cook and Housewife's Manual, by Mrs Margaret Dods, familiarly known as 'Meg Dods's Cookery' (the pseudonym being taken from St Ronan's Well, which went through ten editions between 1826 and 1854. Born in Fife, she was the wife of a Dunfermline schoolmaster, who became an editor and publisher, latterly in Edinburgh.

Jane Porter (1776–1850) and Anna Maria Porter (1780-1832) were daughters of an Irish army-surgeon, who died in 1779, leaving a widow and five children with but a small patrimony for their support. Mrs Porter removed from Durham to Edinburgh while Anna Maria was still in her nurse-maid's arms, and there the two girls and their brother, Sir Robert Ker Porter, received the rudiments of their education. Sir Walter Scott, when a student at college, was intimate with the family, and as to Jane we are told 'he was very fond of either teasing the little female student when very gravely engaged with her book, or more often fondling her on his knees, and telling her stories of witches and warlocks, till both forgot their former playful merriment in the marvellous interest of the tale.' Chiefly with a view to the education of her children, Mrs Porter left Edinburgh in 1790 for London, settling finally at Esher in Surrey. Anna Maria became an authoress at the age of twelve, with Artless Tales (2 vols. 1793-95). In 1797 she published Walsh Colville, and in 1798 a three-volume novel, Octavia. A numerous series of works of fiction followed-The Lake of Killarney (1804), A Sailor's Friendship and a Soldier's Love (1805), The Hungarian Brothers (1807), Don Sebastian, or the House of Braganza (1809), Ballad Romances and other Poems (1811), The Recluse of Norway (1814), Honor O'Hara (1826), &c. Altogether, Miss Porter's works amount to about fifty volumes. She died at Bristol while on a visit to her brother, Dr Porter of that city, in 1832. The most popular and perhaps the best of Anna Maria Porter's novels is her Don Sebastian. In all of them she