THOMAS CAMPBELL. [1777 - 1844] THE LAST MAN. ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, 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 The sun's eye had a sickly glare, Around that lonely man! In plague and famine some! Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, Its piteous pageants bring not back, Even I am weary in yon skies My lips that speak thy dirge of death, Receive my parting ghost! This spirit shall return to Him Who 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! Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up To drink this last and bitter cup Saying, Weare twins in death, proud Sun! Thou saw'st the last of Adan's race, 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. On earth's sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy To quench his immortality, Or shake his trust in God! In silence they marched over mountain and moor, To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar: "Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn: Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern. "And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse, Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?" So spake the rude chieftain :-no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding, a dagger displayed. "I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud; "And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem: Glenara! Glenara! dream!" LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 139 A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter. "And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together, My blood would stain the heather. "His horsemen hard behind us ride; Out spoke the hardy Highland wight: "And by my word! the bonny bird now read me my So, though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry.' O, pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, When the shroud was unclosed, and no When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn, "T was the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn: "I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief: On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem; Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!" In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert revealed where his lady was found; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of By this the storm grew loud apace, And in the scowl of heaven each face But still, as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, "O, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, "Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father." The boat has left a stormy land, And still they rowed amidst the roar His wrath was changed to wailing. For, sore dismayed, through storm and But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, Which God hath planned; Ye bright mosaics! that with storied In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly beauty The floor of nature's temple tessellate, What numerous emblems of instructive duty Artist, With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread hall, What a delightful lesson thou impartest Of love to all! Not useless are ye, flowers! though made for pleasure; Blooming o'er field and wave by day and night, From every source your sanction bids me treasure Harmless delight. Not to the domes where crumbling arch Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary and column Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, For such a world of thought could furnish scope? Tell us, 141 Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbid den, By oath, to tell the mysteries of thy trade; Then say, what secret melody was hidden In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played? Perhaps thou wert a priest; if so, my struggles Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles! Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, Hath hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass; Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat; Or doffed thine own, to let Queen Dido pass; Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, A torch, at the great temple's dedication! I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled; For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed, Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled: Antiquity appears to have begun Thou couldst develop, if that withered tongue Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen, How the world looked when it was fresh and young And the great deluge still had left it green; Or was it then so old that history's pages Contained no record of its early ages? - for doubtless thou canst recol- Still silent!- Incommunicative elf! lect, To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame ? Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect Of either pyramid that bears his name? Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer? Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer? Art sworn to secrecy? Then keep thy Vows! But, prithee, tell us something of thyself, Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house ; Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered, What hast thou seen, what strange adventures numbered? THE day was dark, save when the beam Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy While there I sat, and named her name head, Who once sat there with me. I started from the seat in fear; Like gathered flowers half blown. Again the bud and breeze were met, And e'en the rose, which she had set, FOREST WORSHIP. WITHIN the sunlit forest, Our roof the bright blue sky, Where fountains flow, and wild-flowers blow, We lift our hearts on high: Beneath the frown of wicked men Our country's strength is bowing; But, thanks to God! they can't prevent The lone wild-flowers from blowing! High, high above the tree-tops, The lark is soaring free; Where streams the light through broken clouds His speckled breast I see: Beneath the might of wicked men The poor man's worth is dying; But, thanked be God! in spite of them, The lark still warbles flying! |