respect, a guard of Polish exiles escorting his body to the grave, into which a handful of earth from the tomb of Kosciusko, the Polish hero, was thrown.

Few poets of the century have met with such immediate and complete recognition as fell to the lot of the "Bard of Hope." For a young man of twenty-one years of age to step at once into the front rank of living poets is phenomenal, though it must be admitted that in his day the course was tolerably clear. In 1798, the year of the "Lyrical Ballads," Samuel Rogers may be said to have stood alone in the front rank of popularity. Crabbe's "Village" had appeared in 1783; but except "The Newspaper," which was published in 1785, he had remained silent since. Blake was unknown, Wordsworth and Coleridge had not secured a following, Scott and Hogg had not yet spoken, and Southey had published nothing that had brought him fame. The "Pleasures of Memory," published in 1793, was, therefore, the foremost poem of the time; and the " Pleasures of Hope," which contains finer passages than can be found in the "Pleasures of Memory," probably secured some degree of vogue from the apparent sequential character of its idea and title. The poem suffers from the same defects in subject and form as does the model on which it was framed; and, like the model, has long ceased to hold the place of honour it so early and so easily won. With such subjects, and in such measure, it is so easy to prose and so difficult to avoid monotony, that it may be doubted whether any greater success than that actually achieved was, or is, open to the means employed.

In "Gertrude of Wyoming," the poet adopted a different measure, and with greater success. In

ninety-two Spenserean stanzas, divided into three parts, he tells a simple and pathetic story with true poetic power.

But it is by his shorter pieces that Campbell will retain his hold upon posterity. It is difficult to imagine a time in which human hearts will not thrill with patriotic ardour at the recital of "Hohenlinden," "Ye Mariners of England," and "The Battle of the Baltic," or throb with sympathy at the recital of "The Soldier's Dream," and the story of "Lord Ullin's Daughter." There are a lofty tone and rhythmic movement in these ballads which one would think could never fail to please. "The Last Man" is one of the grander of these shorter pieces, and well-nigh rises to the level of its sublime theme. "O'Connor's Child" is a more sustained effort, full of passion, pathos, and poetic fervour. Campbell was at his best when his heart was stirred by patriotic emotion or sympathy for the suffering and the oppressed. Had he written no more than this small group of poems, with "O'Connor's Child" for his longest effort, he would have written himself deep in human hearts, and therefore high in human estimation.

ALFRED H. MILES.

Mariners of England!

Yat 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.

II.

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.

III.

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.

IV.

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.

II.-HOHENLINDEN.

1800.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,

All bloodless lay th' 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 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, louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd 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 sulph'rous 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.