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JERUSALEM.

Fall'n is thy throne, O Israel!
Silence is o'er thy plains;
Thy dwellings all lie desolate,
Thy children weep in chains.
Where are the dews that fed thee,

On Etham's barren shore?

That fire from Heaven which led thee,
Now lights thy path no more.
Lord! thou didst love Jerusalem-
Once she was all thy own;
Her love thy fairest heritage,
Her power thy glory's throne.
Till evil came, and blighted

Thy long-lov'd olive-tree;
And Salem's shrines were lighted
For other Gods than Thee.
Then sunk the star of Solyma -
Then pass'd her glory's day,
Like heath that, in the wilderness,
The wild wind whirls away.
Silent and waste her bowers,
Where once the mighty trod,
And sunk those guilty towers,
While Baal reign'd as God.

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HARK! 'TIS THE BREEZE. Hark! 'tis the breeze of twilight calling Earth's weary children to repose; While, round the couch of Nature falling, Gently the night's soft curtains close. Soon o'er a world, in sleep reclining, Numberless stars, through yonder dark, Shall look, like eyes of Cherubs shining From out the veils that hid the Ark.

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Guard us, oh Thou, who never sleepest, Thou who, in silence throned above, 10 Throughout all time, unwearied, keepest Thy watch of Glory, Pow'r, and Love.

Grant that, beneath thine eye, securely, Our souls, awhile from life withdrawn, May, in their darkness, stilly, purely, Like 'sealed fountains,' rest still dawn. (Ibid.)

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THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THOMAS CAMPBELL, born in Glasgow, in the year 1777, was the youngest son of a family of ten. He attended the university in his native city for six years, and gained much distinction by his knowledge of the Greek language and literature, which he extended by attentive study in Germany under Prof. Heyne. Campbell wrote his poem entitled, 'Love and Madness' in Argyleshire, where he resided a year upon leaving the university. In 1799 he published his 'Pleasures of Hope,' which went through four editions in one year. After this, he spent some time on the Continent, and whilst in Bavaria he is said to have been an eye-witness of the Battle of Hohenlinden, which he has described in the poem bearing that name. He was prevented by the existing hostilities from continuing his journey as far as he had intended, and was obliged to return from Vienna. In Hamburgh 1801 he wrote his 'Exile of Erin' and 'Ye mariners of England;' he published

HOPE TRIUMPHANT IN DEATH.

Unfading Hope! when life's last embers burn

When soul to soul, and dust to dust return, Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour!

Oh! then thy kingdom comes, Immortal Power!

What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly 5 The quivering lip, pale cheek and closing eye!

Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey
The morning dream of life's eternal day-
Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin,
And all the Phoenix spirit burns within! 10

Oh, deep enchanting prelude to repose,
The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes!
Yet half I hear the parting spirit sigh,
It is a dread and awful thing to die!
Mysterious worlds, untravelled by the sun!
Where time's far-wandering tide has never

run,

From your unfathomed shades, and viewless spheres,

A warning comes, unheard by other ears. 'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud,

Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud! While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust,

The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust; With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss, And shrieks and hovers o'er the dark abyss!

'Lochiel's Warning' a year after his arrival in Edinburgh. In 1803 Campbell resolved to devote himself to literature as a profession, and for that purpose took up his residence in London: soon after his arrival there, he brought forward his 'Annals of Great Britain from the Accession of George III. to the Peace of Amiens." In 1809 he published his 'Gertrude of Wyoming,' in 1820 he wrote his splendid poems, 'O'Connor's Child' and "Theodoric,' and between 1820 and 1830 many of his most beautiful poetical pieces made their appearance in 'The New Monthly Magazine:' of these we may mention "The Last Man, which is considered one of his finest productions. In 1842 'The Pilgrim of Glencoe and other pieces appeared. Besides his poems, Campbell published in 1837 the 'Life of Mrs. Siddons,' the 'Life of Petrarch,' and 'Letters from the South,' in which he has described a visit to Algiers. He died at Boulogne in 1844, and was buried in Westminster-Abbey.

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'And say, when, summoned from the world and thee, 15 I lay my head beneath the willow-tree, Wilt thou, sweet mourner! at my stone appear, And soothe my parted spirit ling'ring near? Oh! wilt thou come at ev'ning hour, to shed The tears of mem'ry o'er my narrow bed; With aching temples on thy hand reclined, Muse on the last 'farewell!' I leave behind, Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low,

And think on all my love, and all my woe?

So speaks affection, ere the infant eye 25
Can look regard, or brighten in reply;
But, when the cherub lip hath learned to
claim

A mother's ear by that endearing name,-
Soon as the playful innocent can prove
A tear of pity, or a smile of love, 30

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That shall no longer flow. What though beneath thee man put forth And arts that made fire, flood and earth, His pomp, his pride, his skill; The vassals of his will;Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, Thou dim discrowned king of day:

For all those trophied arts Heal'd not a passion or a pang And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,

Entail'd on human hearts.

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life's tragedy again,

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Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack

Of pain anew to writhe;
Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.

Ev'n I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,

Behold not me expire.

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My lips that speak thy dirge of death-55
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,-
The majesty of Darkness shall

Receive my parting ghost!

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 recall'd to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robb'd the grave of Victory,-

And took the sting from Death!

Go, sun, while Mercy holds me up
On nature's awful waste
To drink this last and bitter cup
Of grief that man shall taste-
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,
On Earth's sepulchral clod,

The dark'ning universe defy
To quench his Immortality,

Or shake his trust in God.

O'CONNOR'S CHILD.

Oh! once the harp of Innisfail (1)

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A hero's bride! this desert bower,
It ill befits thy gentle breeding:
And wherefore dost thou love this flower
To call My love lies bleeding?
This purple flower my tears have nursed;
A hero's blood supplied its bloom:
I love it, for it was the first

That grew on Connocht Moran's tomb.
Oh! hearken, stranger, to my voice!
This desert mansion is my choice!
That led me to its wilds afar:
And blest, though fatal, be the star

For here these pathless mountains free
Gave shelter to my love and me;
And every rock and every stone
Bare witness that he was my own.

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!

65 Still as I clasp my burning brain,

A death-scene rushes on my sight;
It rises o'er and o'er again,

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The bloody feud-the fatal night,
When, chafing Connocht Moran's scorn,
70 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, 45
Was sung in Tara's psaltery;

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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 meaner crest upon his shield.

Ah, brothers! what did it avail
That fiercely and triumphantly
Ye fought the English of the pale,
And stemmed De Bourgo's chivalry?

Was strung full high to notes of glad- And what was it to love and me

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That barons by your standard rode, Or beal-fires (1) for your jubilee

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Upon an hundred mountains glowed? 60 What though the lords of dower 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,
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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:

(1) Originally kindled in honour of the God Belus or Bel.

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When all was hushed, at even-tide

I heard the baying of their beagle:
Be hushed! my Connocht Moran cried,
'Tis but the screaming of the eagle.
Alas! 'twas not the eyrie's sound; 105
Their bloody bands has 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 crossed my sheltering arms:
Another's sword has laid him low-
Another's and another's;

And every hand that dealt the blow- 115
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 beheld-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.

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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 severed 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.

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They would have cross'd themselves, all mute; They would have pray'd to burst the spell;

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But, at the stamping of my foot,

Each hand down pow'rless fell!
And go to Athunree! (I cried)
High lift the banner of your pride!

125 But know that where its sheet unrolls
The weight of blood is on your souls!
Go where the havoc of your kern
Shall float as high as mountain-fern!

(1) Harp. (2) A building or inclosure for sheep or cattle.

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