THE CAPTIVE KNIGHT. 'Twas a trumpet's pealing sound! And the knight looked down from the Paynim's tower, Cease awhile, clarion! clarion wild and shrill, "I knew 'twas a trumpet's note! And I see my brethren's lances gleam, And their pennons wave, by the mountain stream, And their plumes to the glad wind float? Cease awhile, clarion! clarion wild and shrill, Cease! let them hear the captive's voice,-be still! "I am here, with my heavy chain ! And I look on a torrent, sweeping by, And a host, to its battle plain! Cease awhile, clarion! clarion wild and shrill, "Must I pine in my fetters here? With the wild wave's foam, and the free bird's flight, And the tall spears glancing on my sight, And the trumpet in mine ear? Cease awhile, clarion! clarion wild and shrill, Cease! let them hear the captive's voice,—be still! "They are gone! they have all pass'd by! Sound again, clarion! clarion, pour thy blast! THE TRUMPET. THE trumpet's voice hath roused the land, Light up the beacon-pyre! A hundred hills have seen the brand, And waved the sign of fire! A hundred banners to the breeze The chief is arming in his hall, The peasant by his hearth; The mourner hears the thrilling call, The mother on her firstborn son They come not back, though all be won, The bard hath ceased his song, and bound E'en for the marriage altar crowned, The lover quits his bride! And all this haste, and change, and fear, By earthly clarion spread! How will it be when kingdoms hear The blast that wakes the dead? THE RETURN TO POETRY. ONCE more the eternal melodies from far, THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. WHAT hid'st thou in thy treasure caves and cells? We ask not such from thee. Yet more, the depths have more !-what wealth untold, Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, Won from ten thousand royal argosies. Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main ! Yet more, the depths have more!―thy waves have rolled Above the cities of a world gone by! Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry! Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play, Man yields them to decay! Yet more, the billows and the depths have more! Give back the lost and lovely!—those for whom To thee the love of woman hath gone down; Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,O'er youth's bright locks and beauty's flowery crown! Yet must thou hear a voice.-Restore the dead! Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee! Restore the dead, thou sea! ALLAN CUNNINGHAM was born at Black wood, a place of much natural beauty, on Nithside, a few miles above Dumfries, on the 7th of December, 1784. His father and grandfather were farmers; and one of his ancestors, an officer under the great Montrose, shared in his leader's good and evil fortune at Kilsythe and Philiphaugh. Some hopes held out by relative of a situation in India, having, it appears, failed, Allan, at eleven years of age, was removed from school, to learn, under an elder brother, his business of a mason. This he did not dislike, and soon became a skilful workman; but he loved still better to pore over old books-listen to old songs and tales-and roam among his native glens and hills. A thirst for knowledge came early; but a love of writing, as we have heard him say, came late. Some of his lyrics, however, found their way into a singular book,-Cromek's "Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song."-and, passing for ancient, were received with an applause which at once startled and amused the writer. Dr. Percy boldly declared they were too good to be old; and the author of " Marmion" has more than once said, that not even Burns himself had enriched Scottish song with more beautiful effusions. In 1810, Mr. Cunningham was allured from the Nith to the Thames. For some years he attached himself to the public press; and, in 1814, entered the studio of Sir Francis Chantrey, the distinguished sculptor, as superintendent of his works. The first volume he ventured to publish was "Sir Marmadukė Maxwell," a dramatic poem, named after one of the heroes of his native district. It was well received by critics; and Sir Walter Scott generously "Handed the rustic stranger up to fame," by a kind notice of his first attempt in the Preface to the "Fortunes of Nigel." Thenceforward Mr. Cunningham took his place among the Poets of Great Britain. He died on the 29th October, 1842; and few writers of his age have bequeathed to posterity more valuable works. He was proud of his country, and his country gives him high rank among its worthies. Few modern writers were more universally respected and esteemed than Mr. Cunningham; he numbered among his personal friends all the most eminent and accomplished of his contemporaries: in private life he was irreproachable. An early and a happy marriage probably preserved him from the errors and eccentricities which too generally mark the career of a youth of genius, upon entering the perilous maze of the metropolis-where hundreds of as rare promise have sunk under the effects of dissipation or despondency, and whose names are to be found only in the terrible records of "Calamities of Authors." Cunningham, in person, seemed better fitted to deal with huge blocks of marble than with creations of fancy. His frame was of vigorous proportions; his countenance highly expressive of mental as well as physical power; his eye keen and searching, but peculiarly gentle and winning. He combined industry with genius and rigid integrity with both. His biographies have been objected to, on the ground that he has seen more to censure than to praise in the subjects of them: if, however, such contributions are valuable only as they are TRUE, and in proportion to their distance from the imaginative and the misleading, they are the best, and will be the most enduring of his works. The Poems of Cunningham, as we have intimated, are not numerous: his last poetical production of any length,-the Maid of Elvar,-is, perhaps, his best; the scene of this little rustic epic, as he correctly styles it, is laid in his native vale; and many of the delicious pictures it contains, with a true vein of poetry throughout, are drawn from rural life. It is, however, written in a measure ill calculated to become extensively popular. The. poetical reputation of Allan Cunningham has been made, and is sustained, by his ballads and lyrical pieces. They are exquisite in feelingchaste and elegant in style-graceful in expression, and natural in conception: they seem, indeed, the mere unstudied out-pourings of the heart; yet will bear the strictest and most critical inspection of those who consider elaborate finish to be at least the second requisite of writers of song. His own country has supplied him with his principal themes; and the peculiar dialect of Scotland-in which he frequently writes his good taste prevents him from ever rendering harsh, or even inharmonious to Southern ears. CHILD of the country! free as air Of such a fair and gladsome thing. Child of the town! for thee I sigh; A gilded roof's thy golden sky, A carpet is thy daisied sod, A narrow street thy boundless road, |