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.

CAMPBELL.

GERTRUDE'S CHILDHOOD.

A LOVED bequest-and I may half impart
To those that feel the strong paternal tic,
How like a new existence in his heart

That living flower uprose beneath his eye.
Dear as she was, from cherub infancy,

From hours when she would round his garden play, To time when as the ripening years went by,

Her lovely mind could culture well repay,

And more engaging grew from pleasing day to day.

I may not paint those thousand infant charms, (Unconscious fascination, undesigned!)

The orison repeated in his arms,

For God to bless her sire and all mankind; The book, the bosom on his knee reclined,

Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con (The playmate ere the teacher of her mind);

All uncompanioned else her years had gone,

Till now in Gertrude's eyes their ninth blue summer shone.

And summer was the tide, and sweet the hour,
When sire and daughter saw, with fleet descent,
An Indian from his bark approach their bower,
Of buskined limb and swarthy lineament;

The red wild flowers on his brow were blent,

And bracelets bound the arm that helped to light A boy, who seemed, as he beside him went,

Of Christian vesture and complexion bright,

Led by his dusty guide, like morning brought by night.

CAMPBELL.

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.

What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,
The vassals of his will ;-

Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day:
For all those trophied arts

And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Healed not a passion or a pang

Entailed on human hearts.

Go-let oblivion's curtain fall

Upon the stage of men,

Nor with thy rising beams recall

Life's tragedy again.

Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack
Of pain anew to writhe;
Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred,
Or mown in battle by the sword,

Like grass beneath the scythe.

Even I am weary in yon skies,

To watch thy fading fire;

Test of all sumless agonies,

Behold not me expire.

My lips that speak thy dirge of death-
Their rounded grasp 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 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
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 darkening universe defy
To quench his Immortality,

Or shake his trust in God!

CAMPBELL.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

OUR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track:
'Twas Autumn-and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore,
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.

Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn;
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay:
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

CAMPBELL.