 Section 6, Library of World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, Volume 8. Biographical note on Thomas Campbell by Charles Dudley Warner. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Rita Boutros. Thomas Campbell, 1777-1844 The life of Thomas Campbell, though in large measure fortunate, was uneventful. It was not marked with such brilliant successes as followed the career of Scott, nor was fame purchased at the price of so much suffering and error as were paid for their laurels by Byron, Shelley, and Burns. But his star shone with a clear and steady ray from the youthful hours that saw his first triumph until near life's close. The world's gifts, the poet's fame and the public honors and rewards that witnessed to it, were given with a generous hand. And until the death of a cherished wife and the loss of his two children, sons, loved with a love beyond the common love of fathers, broke the charm, Campbell might almost have been taken as a type of the happy man of letters. Thomas Campbell was born in Glasgow, July 27, 1777. His family connection was large and respectable, and the branch to which he belonged had been settled for many years, where they were called the Campbells of Kernan, from an estate on which the poet's grandfather resided and where he died. His third son Alexander, the father of the poet, was at one time the head of a firm in Glasgow, doing a profitable business with Falmouth in Virginia. But in common with almost all merchants engaged in the American trade, he was ruined by the War of the Revolution. At the age of 65, he found himself a poor man involved in a costly suit in Chancery, which was finally decided against him, and with a wife and nine children dependent upon him. All that he had to live on at the time his son Thomas was born was the little that remained to him of his small property when the debts were paid, and some small yearly sums from two Providence societies of which he was a member. The poet was fortunate in his parents. Both of them were people of high character, warmly devoted to their children, whose education was their chief care, their idea of education including the training of the heart and the manners as well as the mind. When eight years old, Thomas was sent to the grammar school at Glasgow where he began the study of Latin and Greek. I was so early devoted to poetry, he writes, that at ten years old when our master David Allison interpreted to us the first eclog of Virgil, I was literally thrilled with its beauty. In my 13th year, I went to the University of Glasgow and put on the red gown. The joy of the occasion made me unable to eat my breakfast. Whether it was pre-sentiment or the mere castle building of my vanity, I had even then a daydream that I should one day be Lord Rector of the University. As a boy, Campbell gained a considerable familiarity with the Latin and Greek poets usually read in college and was always more inclined to pride himself on his knowledge of Greek poetry than on his own reputation in the art. His college life was passed in times of great political excitement. Revolution was in the air and all youthful spirits were aflame with enthusiasm for the cause of liberty and with generous sympathy for oppressed people, particularly the Poles and the Greeks. Campbell was caught by the sacred fire, which later was to touch the lips of Byron and Shelley. And in his earliest published poem, his interest in Poland, which never died out from his heart, found its first expression. This poem, The Pleasures of Hope, a work whose title was bent forth to be inseparably associated with its author's name, was published in 1799 when Campbell was exactly 21 years and nine months old. It at once placed him high in public favor, though it met with the usual difficulty experienced by a first poem by an unknown writer in finding a publisher. The copyright was finally bought by Mundell for 60 pounds to be paid partly in money and partly in books. Three years after the publication, a London publisher valued it as worth and annuity of 200 pounds for life. And Mundell, disregarding his legal rights, behaved with so much liberality that from the sale of the first seven editions, Campbell received no less than 900 pounds. Besides this material testimony to its success, scores of anecdotes show the favor with which it was received by the poets and writers of the time. The greatest and noblest of them all, Walter Scott, was most generous in his welcome. He gave a dinner in Campbell's honor and introduced him to his friends with a bumper to the author of The Pleasures of Hope. It seemed the natural thing for a young man so successfully launched in the literary coderies of Edinburgh and Glasgow to pursue his advantage in the larger literary world of London. But Campbell judged himself with humorous severity. At present, he writes in a letter, I am a raw Scotch lad, and in a company of wits and geniuses would make but a dull figure with my northern brogue and my bra Scotch booze. The eyes of many of the young men of the time were turned toward Germany, where Goethe and Schiller, Blessing and Wheland were creating the golden age of their country's literature. And Campbell, full of youthful hope and enthusiasm and with a little money in his pocket, determined to visit the continent before settling down to work in London. In 1800, he set out for Radisbon, which he reached three days before the French entered it with their army. His stay there was crowded with picturesque and tragic incidents, described in his letters to friends at home in prose, as his biographer justly says, which even his best poetry hardly surpasses. From the roof of the Scotch Benedictine convent of St. James, where Campbell was often hospitably entertained while in Radisbon, he saw the battle of Hohenlinden on which he wrote the poem once familiar Wearyed with the bloody sights of war, he left Radisbon and the next year returned to England. While living in Altona, he wrote no less than 14 of his minor poems, but few of these escaped the severity of his final judgment when he came to collect his verses for publication. Among these few the best were The Exile of Aaron and the noble Ode, Ye Mariners of England, the poem by which alone perhaps his name deserves to live, though the battle of the Baltic in its original form, the battle of Copenhagen, unfortunately not the one best known, is well worthy of a place beside it. On his return from the continent, Campbell found himself received in the warmest manner, not only in the literary world, but in circles reckoned socially higher. His poetry hit the taste of all the classes that go to make up the general reading public. His harp had many strings, and it rang true to all the notes of patriotism, humanity, love, and feeling. His happiest moments at this period, as his biographer seemed to have passed with Mrs. Siddins, the Kembles, and his friend Telford, the distinguished engineer for whom he afterward named his eldest son. Lord Minto, on his return from Vienna, became much interested in Campbell and insisted on his taking up his quarters for the season in his townhouse in Hanover Square. When the season was over, Lord Minto went back to Scotland, taking the poet with him as traveling companion. At Castle Minto, Campbell found among other visitors Walter Scott, and it was while there that Lottiell's warning was composed, and Hohenlinden revised, and both poems prepared for the press. In 1803, Campbell married his cousin Matilda Sinclair. The marriage was a happy one. Washington Irving speaks of the lady's personal beauty and says that her mental qualities were equally matched with it. She was, in fact, he adds, a more suitable wife for a poet than poets' wives are apt to be, and for once a son of song had married a reality and not a poetical fiction. For 17 years, he supported himself and his family by what was for the most part task work, not always well-paid, and made more onerous by the poor state of his health. In 1801, Campbell's father died, an old man of 91, and with him ceased the small benevolent society pensions that, with what Thomas and the eldest son living in America could contribute, had hitherto kept the parents in decent comfort. But soon after Thomas' marriage and the birth of his first child, the American brother failed so that the pious duty of supporting the aged mother now came upon the poet alone. He accepted the addition to his burden as manfully as was to be expected of so generous a nature, but there is no doubt that he was in great poverty for a few years, although often despondent and with good reason, his natural cheerfulness and his good sense always came to the rescue, and in his lowest estate he retained the respect and the affection of his many friends. In 1805, Campbell received a pension of 200 pounds, which netted him when fees and expenses were deducted 168 pounds a year. Half of this sum he reserved for himself and the remainder he divided between his mother and his two sisters. In 1809, he published Gertrude of Wyoming, which had been completed the year before. It was hailed with delight in Edinburgh and with no less favour in London, and came to a second edition in the spring of 1810. But like most of Campbell's more pretentious poetry, it had failed to keep its place in the world's favour. The scene of the poem is laid in an impossible Pennsylvania where the bison and the beaver, the crocodile, the condor, and the flamingo live in happy neighbourhood in groves of magnolia and olive, while the red Indian launches his parrug upon the Michigan to hunt the bison, while blissful shepherd's swains trip with maidens to the timbrel and blue-eyed Germans change their swords to pruning hooks and illusions dance the saraband. Poor Caledonians drown their homesick cares in transatlantic whiskey an Englishman plant fair freedoms tree. The story is as unreal as the landscape, and it is told in a style more laboured and artificial by far than that of Pope, to whom indeed the younger poet was often injudiciously compared. Yet it is to be noted that Campbell's prose style was as direct and unaffected as could be wished, while in his two best lyrical poems Ye Mariners of England and the first cast of The Battle of the Baltic, he shows a vividness of conception and a power of striking out expression at white heat in which no one of his contemporaries excelled him. Campbell was deservedly a great favourite in society, and the story of his life at this time is largely the record of his meeting with distinguished people. The Princess of Wales freely welcomed him to her court. He had corresponded with Madame Distel, and when she came to England he visited her often, and at her request read her his lectures on poetry. He saw much of Mrs. Siddons, and when in Paris in 1814 visited the Louvre in her company to see the statues and pictures of which Napoleon had plundered Italy. In 1826, Campbell was made Lord Rector of Glasgow University, and in 1828 he was re-elected unanimously. During this second term his wife died, and in 1829 the unprecedented honour of an election for a third term was bestowed upon him, although he had to dispute it with no less arrival than Sir Walter Scott. When he went to Glasgow to be inaugurated as Lord Rector, says his biographer, on reaching the college green he found the boys pelting each other with snowballs. He rushed into the melee and flung about his snowballs right and left with great dexterity, much to the delight of the boys, but to the great scandal of the professors. He was proud of the piece of plate given him by the Glasgow lads, but of the honour conferred by his college title, he was less sensible. He hated the sound of Dr. Campbell and said to an acquaintance that no friend of his would ever call him so. The establishment through his direct agency of the University of London was Campbell's most important public work. Later his life was almost wholly engrossed for a time by his interest in the cause of Poland, a cause indeed that from his youth had lain near his heart. But as he grew older and his health declined, he became more and more restless and finally in 1843 took up his residence in Bologna. His parents, his brothers and sisters, his wife, his two children so tenderly loved were all gone, but he still corresponded with his friends and to the last his talk was cheerful and pleasant. In June 1844 he died and in July he was buried in Westminster Abbey in Poets Corner. About his grave stood Milman, the Duke of Argyle, the head of his clan, Sir Robert Peale, Brogham, Lockhart, Macaulay, Disraeli, Horace Smith, and Thackeray with many others and when the words dust to dust were pronounced, Colonel Cezerma, a distinguished pole, scattered over the coffin a handful of earth from the grave of Kosciuszko at Krakow. End of Section 6. Section 7, Library of World's Best Literature Ancient and Modern, Volume 8. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org recording by Rita Butros. Excerpts Pleasure of Hope. Thomas Campbell. Hope from the Pleasures of Hope. At Summer's Eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, why, to young mountain turns the musing eye, whose sun-bright summit mingles with the sky, why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear more sweet than all the landscape smiling near? Tis distance lends enchantment to the view and robes the mountain in its azure hue. Thus with delight we linger to survey the promised joys of life's unmeasured way. Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene more pleasing seems than all the past has been. And every form that fancy can repair from dark oblivion glows divinely there, what potent spirit guides the raptured eye to pierce the shades of dim futurity. Can wisdom lend with all her heavenly power the pledge of joys anticipated hour? Ah, no, she darkly sees the fate of man, her dim horizon bounded to a span. Or, if she hold an image to the view, tis nature pictured too severely true. With thee, sweet Hope, resides the heavenly light that pours remotest rapture on the sight. Thine is the charm of life's bewildered way that calls each slumbering passion into play. Waked by thy touch, I see the sister band on tiptoe watching start at thy command, and fly wherever thy mandate bids them steer to pleasure's path or glory's bright career. Where is the troubled heart consigned to share tumultuous toils or solitary care? Unblessed by visionary thoughts that stray to count the joys of fortune's better day, low, nature life and liberty relume, the dim-eyed tenant of the dungeon gloom. A long-lost friend or hapless child restored smiles at his blazing hearth and social board, warm from his heart the tears of rapture flow and virtue triumphs or remembered woe. Chide not his peace, proud reason, nor destroy the shadowy forms of uncreated joy, that urge, the lingering tide of life and poor spontaneous slumber on his midnight hour. Hark! the wild maniac sings to chide the gale that wafts so slow her lover's distant sail. She, sad spectatrice on the wintry shore, watched the rude surge his shroudless course that bore. Knew the pale form and shrieking in amaze, clasped her cold hands and fixed her maddening gaze. Poor widowed wretch, twas there she wept in vain till memory fled her agonizing brain. But mercy gave to charm the sense of woe ideal peace that truth could never bestow. Warm on her heart the joys of fantasy beam and aimless hope delights her darkest dream. Oft when yon moon has climbed the midnight sky and the lone seabird wakes its wildest cry, piled on the steep her blazing faggots burn, to hail the bark that never can return. And still she waits but scares forebears to weep that constant love can linger on the deep. The fall of Poland from the pleasures of hope. O sacred truth, thy triumph seized a while and hope thy sister seized with thee to smile. When leagued oppression poured to northern wars, her whiskered pandours and her fierce hasars waved her dread standard to the breeze of mourn, peeled her loud drum and twanged her trumpet horn, tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, presaging wrath to Poland and to man. Warsaw's last champion from her height surveyed, wide o'er the fields a waste of ruin laid. O heaven he cried, my bleeding country save, is there no hand on high to shield the brave? Yet though destruction sweep those lovely plains, rise fellow men, our country yet remains. By that dread name we waved the sword on high and swear for her to live with her to die. He said, and on the rampart heights arrayed his trusty warriors few but undismayed, firm paced and slow a hard front they form, still as the breeze but dreadful as the storm. Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, revenge or death the watchword and reply, then peeled the notes omnipotent to charm, and the loud toxin told their last alarm. In vain alas, in vain, ye gallant few, from rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew. O bloodiest picture in the book of time, Sarmatia fell unwept without a crime, found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, strengthened her arms nor mercy in her woe, dropped from her nervless grasp the shattered spear, closed her bright eye and curbed her high career. Hope for a season bad the world farewell, and freedom shrieked as Kosciuszko fell. The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there. Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air. On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, his blood dyed waters murmuring far below. The storm prevails, the rampart yields away, burst the wild cry of horror and dismay, hark as the smoldering piles with thunder fall, a thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call. Earth shook, red meteors flashed along the sky, and conscious nature shuddered at the cry. O righteous heaven, air freedom found aggrave, why slept the sword omnipotent to save? Where was thine arm, O vengeance, where thy rod that smote the foes of Zion and of God, that crushed proud Amon when his iron car was yoked in wrath and thundered from afar? Where was the storm that slumbered till the host of blood-stained pharaoh left their trembling coast, then bad the deep in wild commotion flow, and heaved an ocean on their march below? Departed spirits of the mighty dead, ye that at Marathon and Luctra bled, friends of the world restore your swords to man. Fight in his sacred cause and lead the van, yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, and make her arm puissant as your own. O, once again, to freedom's cause return, the patriot tell the Bruce of Benakburn, the slave from the pleasures of hope, and say, supranel powers who deeply scan Heaven's dark decrees unfathomed yet by man, when shall the world call down to cleanse her shame, that embryo spirit yet without a name, that friend of nature whose avenging hands shall burst the Libyan's adamantine bands, who, sternly marking on his native soil the blood, the tears, the anguish, and the toil, shall bid each righteous heart exult to sea, peace to the slave, and vengeance on the free. Yet, yet, degraded men, the expected day that breaks your bitter cup is far away. Trade, wealth, and fashion ask you still to bleed, and holy men give scripture for the deed, scourged and debased, no Britain's stoopes to save a wretch a coward, yes, because a slave. Eternal nature, when thy giant hand heaved the floods and fixed the trembling land, when life sprang startling at thy plastic call, endless thy forms and man, the Lord of all, say, was that lordly form inspired by thee to wear eternal chains and bow the knee? Was man ordained the slave of man to toil, yoked with the brutes and fettered to the soil, weighed in a tyrant's balance with his gold? No, nature stamped us in a heavenly mold. She bade no wretch his thankless labor urge, nor trembling take the pittance and the scourge, no homeless Libyan on the stormy deep to call upon his country's name and weep. Low, once in triumph on his boundless plain, the quivered chief of Congo loved to reign, with fires proportioned to his native sky, strengthened his arm and lightning in his eye, scoured with wild feet his sun-illumined zone, the spear, the lion, and the woods his own, or led the combat bold without a plan, an artless savage but a fearless man. The plunderer came, alas, no glory smiles for Congo's chief on yonder Indian Isles, forever fallen, no son of nature now, with freedom chartered on his manly brow, faint, bleeding, bound, he weeps the night away, and when the sea wind wafts the douless day, starts with a bursting heart forevermore to curse the sun that lights their guilty shore. The shrill horn blew at that allerum knell his guardian angel took a last farewell. That funeral dirge to darkness hath resigned the fiery grandeur of a generous mind. Poor fettered man, I hear thee breathing low, unhallowed vows to guilt the child of woe. Friendless thy heart, and canst thou harbour there a wish but death, a passion but despair? The widowed Indian, when her lord expires, mounts the dread pile and braves the funeral fires, so falls the heart at thralldom's bitter sigh, so virtue dies the spouse of liberty. Death and a future life from the pleasures of hope. 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-borne rapture fly, 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, oh, deep enchanting prelude to repose, the dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes. Yet, half I hear the panting spirit sigh, it is a dread and awful thing to die, mysterious worlds untraveled 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 cyanized thunder peeling from the cloud. While nature hears with terror mingled trust the shock that hurls her fabric to the dust, and like the trembling Hebrew when he trod the roaring waves and called upon his God, with mortal terrors, clouds immortal bliss, and shrieks and hovers o'er the dark abyss. Daughter of faith, awake, arise, elume the dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb, melt and dispel ye specter doubts that roll Sumerian darkness or the parting soul, fly like the moon-eyed herald of dismay, chased on his night-steed by the star of day. The strife is o'er, the pangs of nature close, and life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes. Hark, as the spirit eyes with eagle gaze, the noon of heaven undazzled by the blaze, on heavenly winds that waft her to the sky, float the sweet tones of star-born melody. Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail, Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely veil, when Jordan hushed his waves, the midnight still watched on the holy towers of Zion Hill. Soul of the just, companion of the dead, where is thy home and wither art thou fled? Back to its heavenly source thy being goes, swift as the comet wheels to wence he rose, doomed on his airy path a while to burn, and doomed like thee to travel and return. Hark, from the world's exploding center driven, with sounds that shook the firmament of heaven, careers the fiery giant fast and far, on bickering wheels an adamantine car. From planet world to planet more remote, he visits realms beyond the reach of thought, but wheeling homeward when his courses run, curbs the red yoke and mingles with the sun. So hath the traveler of earth unfurled, her trembling wings emerging from the world, and o'er the path by mortal never trod, sprung to her source the bosom of her god. O, lives there, heaven, beneath thy dread expanse, one hopeless dark idolater of chance. Content to feed with pleasures unrefined, the lukewarm passions of a lowly mind. Who, moldering earthward, ref'd of every trust, in joyless union wedded to the dust, could all his parting energy dismiss and call this barren world sufficient bliss? There live alas of heaven-directed mane, of cultured soul and sapient eye, serene. Who hail thee, man, the pilgrim of a day, spouse of the worm and brother of the clay? Frey is the leaf in autumn's yellow bower, dust in the wind or dew upon the flower. A friendless slave, a child without a sire, whose mortal life and momentary fire, light to the grave his chance created form, as ocean wrecks illuminate the storm. And when the guns tremendous flashes o'er, to-night and silence sink, forever, are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim, lights of the world and demigods of fame? Is this your triumph, this your proud applause, children of truth and champions of her cause? For this hath science searched on weary wing by shore and sea, each mute and living thing, launched with Iberia's pilot from the steep to worlds unknown and aisles beyond the deep, or round the cope her living chariot driven and wheeled in triumph through the signs of heaven. O star-eyed science, hath thou wandered there to waft us home the message of despair? Then bind the palm thy sages brow to suit of blasted leaf and death distilling fruit. Ami, the laurel reef that murder rears, blood nursed and watered by the widow's tears, seems not so foul, so tainted and so dread. As waves the nightshade round the skeptic's head, what is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain? I smile on death if heavenward hope remain, but if the warring winds of nature's strife be all the faithless charter of my life, if chance awaked inexorable power, this frail and feverish being of an hour, doomed o'er the world's precarious scene to sweep, swift as the tempest travels on the deep, to no delight but by her parting smile and toil and wish and weep a little while. Then melt ye elements that formed in vain this troubled pulse and visionary brain. Fade ye wildflowers, memorials of my doom and sink ye stars that light me to the tomb. Truth ever lovely since the world began, the foe of tyrants and the friend of man. How can thy words from balmy slumber start, reposing virtue pillowed on the heart? Yet if thy voice, the note of thunder rolled and that were true, which nature never told, let wisdom smile not on her conquered field, no raptured dawns, no treasure is revealed. Oh, let her read nor loudly nor elate the doom that bars us from a better fate, but sad as angels for the good man's sin weep to record and blush to give it in. End of excerpts, pleasure of hope. Section 8. Library of the World's Best Literature ancient and modern, volume 8. Selected Poems of Thomas Campbell. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rita Boutros. Lockeel's Warning. Wizard. Lockeel, lockeel, beware of the day. When the lowlands shall meet thee in battle array. For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight and the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight. They rally, they bleed for their kingdom and crown. Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down. Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain and their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark, through the fast flashing lightning of war what steed to the desert flies frantic and far. Tis thine, O Glenulan, whose bride shall await. Like a love-lighted watchfire all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning, no rider is there, but its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albin, to death and captivity led. O weep, but thy tears cannot number the dead. For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave. Culloden that reeks with the blood of the brave. Lockeel, go, preach to the coward thou death-telling seer, or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, draw, daughtered, around thy old-wavering sight, this mantle to cover the phantoms of fright. Wizard, ha, laughest thou, Lockeel, my vision to scorn. Proud bird of the mountain thy plume shall be torn. Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth from his home in the dark rolling clouds of the north. Low, the death-shot of foeman outspeeding, he rode, companionless, bearing destruction abroad. But down, let him stoop from his havoc on high. Ah, home, let him speed, for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast those embers like stars from the firmament cast? Tis the fire-shower of rune all dreadfully driven from his airy that beacons the darkness of heaven. O crested Lockeel, the peerless in might, whose banners arise on the battlement's height. Heaven's fire is around thee to blast and to burn. Return to thy dwelling all lonely return, for the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, and a wild mother's scream or her famishing brood. Lockeel, false wizard, avante, I have marshaled my clan. Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one. They are true to the last of their blood and their breath. And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock. Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock. But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, when Alvin her claymore indignantly draws. When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clan Ronald, the Dauntless, and More the Proud, all plated and plumed in their tartan array. Wizard, lockeel, lockeel, beware of the day, for dark and despairing my sight I may seal, but man cannot cover what God would reveal. Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, and coming events cast their shadows before. I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring with the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. Low, anointed by heaven with the vials of wrath, behold where he flies on his desolate path. Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from my sight. Rise, rise ye wild tempests and cover his flight. Tis finished, their thunders are hushed on the moors. Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. But where is the ironbound prisoner where? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean wave banished forlorn, like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn. Ah, no, for a darker departure is near, the war drum is muffled and black is the beer. His death bell is tolling, oh mercy, dispel yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell. Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, and his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. A cursed be the faggots that blaze at his feet, where his heart shall be thrown ere its ceases to beat. With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale. Low, Culloden, down, soothless and sulter, I trust not the tale, for never shall Albin a destiny meet, so black with dishonor, so foul with retreat. Though my perishing ranks should be strewn in their gore, like ocean weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, low keel untainted by flight or by chains, while the kindling of life in his bosom remains. Shall Victor exult or in death be laid low, with his back to the field and his feet to the foe, and, leaving in battle, no blot on his name, look proudly to heaven from the deathbed of fame. The Soldiers Dream Our bugles sang truce, for the night cloud had lowered, 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. Me thought from the battlefield'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 bleeding 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 too part, my little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, and my wife sobbed aloud in her fullness of heart. Stay, stay with us, rest, thou art weary and worn, and feign was their war-broken soldier to stay, but sorrow returned with the dawning of mourn, and the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. Lord Olin's Daughter A chieftain to the Highlands bound, cries boatmen, do not tarry, and I'll give thee a silver pound, to Roas or the ferry. Now who be ye would cross Lachgyle, this dark and stormy water? Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's Isle, and this Lord Olin's Daughter. And fast before her father's men, three days we fled together, for should he find us in the glen, my blood would stain the heather. His horsemen hard behind us ride, should they our steps discover, then who will cheer my bonny bride, when they have slain her lover? Outspoke the hearty Highland white, I'll go, my chief, I'm ready. It is not for your silver bright, but for your winsome lady. And, by my word, the bonny bird, in danger shall not tarry, so though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry. By this the storm grew loud apace, the water wraith was shrieking, and in the scowl of heaven each face grew dark as they were speaking. But still, as wilder blew the wind, and as the night grew drearer, a down the glen rode armoured men, their trampling sounded nearer. 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, a stormy sea before her, when, O, too strong for human hand, the tempest gathered o'er her. And still they rode amidst the roar of waters fast prevailing, Lord Ulin reached that fatal shore, his wrath was changed to welling. For sore dismayed through storm and shade, his child he did discover, one lovely hand she stretched for aid, and one was round her lover. Come back, come back, he cried in grief across this stormy water, and I'll forgive your highland chief, my daughter, O, my daughter. Twas vain, the loud waves lash the shore, return o'er aid preventing, the waters wild went o'er his child, and he was left lamenting. The Exile of Arran There came to the beach a poor exile of Arran, the dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill, for his country he sighed when at twilight repairing, to wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eyes' sad devotion, for it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, he sang the bold anthem of Erengobrah. Sad is my fate, said the heartbroken stranger, the wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, but I have no refuge from famine and danger, a home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers and strike to the numbers of Erengobrah. Arran, my country, though sad and forsaken, in dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore, but alas in a far foreign land I awaken and sigh for the friends who can meet me no more. O cruel fate wilt thou never replace me in a mansion of peace where no perils can chase me. Never again shall my brothers embrace me, they die to defend me or live to deplore. Where is my cabin door, fast by the wildwood? Sisters in sire, did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood and where is the bosom friend dearer than all? O my sad heart, long abandoned by pleasure, why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure? Tears like the raindrop may fall without measure, but rapture and beauty they cannot recall. Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, one dying wish my lone bosom can draw. Arran, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing, land of my forefathers Erengobrah. Buried in cold when my heart stills her motion, green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean, and thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion. Arran, Mevornin, Arran, Gobrah. Ye mariners of England. Ye mariners of England, that 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. The spirit 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. Bertania needs no bulwark, 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. The meteor flag of England shall yet terrific burn, till dangers 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. Hoenn Linden. On Linden, when the sun was low, all bloodless lay the untrodden snow, and dark as winter was the flow of icer 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 arrayed, the horseman drew his battle-blade, and furious every charger-nade to join the dreadful reverie. Then shook the hills with thunder-riven, then rushed the steed to battle-driven, and louder than the bolts of heaven, far flashed the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow on Linden's hills of stained snow, and bloodier yet the torrent flow of icer rolling rapidly. Tis mourn but scarce yawn-level sun can pierce the war clouds rolling done, where furious Frank and fiery Hun shout in their sulfurous 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 sepulcher. The Battle of Copenhagen Of Nelson and the North sing the day when their haughty powers to vex, he engaged the Danish decks, and with twenty floating wrecks, crowned the fray, all bright as the April sun shone the day when a British fleet came down through the islands of the crown, and by Copenhagen town took their stay. In arms the Danish shore proudly shone by each gun the lighted brand in a bold determined hand, and the prince of all the land led them on. For Denmark here had drawn all her might from her battleships so vast that they could not sway the mast, and at anchor to the last bad them fight. Another noble fleet of their line rode out, but these were not to the batteries which they brought, like Leviathans afloat in the brine. It was ten of Thursday morn by the chime as they drifted on their path, there was silence deep as death, and the boldest held his breath for a time. First and fatal round shook the flood, every day looked out that day, like the red wolf on his prey, and he swore his flag to sway or our blood. Not such a mind possessed, England's tar, it was the love of noble game, set his oaken heart on flame, for to him it was all the same sport and war, all hands and eyes on watch as they keep, by their motion light his wings, by each step that haughty springs, you might know them for the kings of the deep. Twas the Edgar first that smote Denmark's line, as her flag, the foremost sword, Murray stamped his foot on board, and an hundred cannons roared at the sign. Three cheers of all the fleet, song haza, then from center, rear and van, every captain, every man, with a lion's heart began to the fray. Oh, dark grew soon the heavens, for each gun from its adamantine lips spread a death shade round the ships, like a hurricane eclipse of the sun. Three hours the raging fire did not slack, but the fourth their signals drear of distress and wreck appear, and a dain of feeble cheer sent us back. The voice decayed, their shots slowly boom, they ceased and all is wail, as they strike the shattered sail, or in conflagration pale, light the gloom. Oh death, it was a sight filled our eyes, but we rescued many a crew from the waves of scarlet hue, ere the cross of England flew, or her prize. Why cease not here the strife, oh ye brave, why bleeds old England's band by the fire of Danish land, that smites the very hand stretched to save, but the Britain sent to warn Denmark's town, proud foes, let vengeance sleep, if another chainshot sweep, all your navy in the deep shall go down. Then peace instead of death let us bring, if you'll yield your conquered fleet, with the crews at England's feet, and make submission meet to our king. Then death withdrew his paw from the day, and the sun looked smiling bright, on a wide and woeful sight, when the fires of funeral light died away. Yet all amidst her wrecks and her gore, proud Denmark blessed our chief, then he gave her wounds relief, and the sounds of joy and grief filled her shore. All round outlandish cries loudly broke, but a nobler note was rung, when the British, old and young, to their bands of music sung hearts of oak. Cheer, cheer from park and tower, London town, when the king shall ride in state, from St. James royal gate, and to all his peers relate our renown. The bells shall ring the day, shall not close, but a blaze of cities bright shall illuminate the night, and the wine cup shine in light as it flows. Yet, yet, amid the joy and uproar, let us think of them that sleep, full many a fathom deep, all beside thy rocky steep, Elsinore. Brave hearts to Britain's wheel once so true, though death has quenched your flame, yet immortal be your name, for he died the death of fame with Ryu. Soft sigh the winds of heaven or your grave, while the billow mournful rolls and the mermaid's song condols, singing glory to the souls of the brave. From the ode to winter, but howling winter fled afar to hills that prop the polar star and loves on dear-born car to ride with barren darkness by his side, round the shore where loud lafoden whirls to death the roaring wail, round the hall where Runic Odin howls his war song to the gale, save when a down the ravaged globe he travels on his native storm, deflowering nature's grassy robe and trampling on her faded form. Tis light's returning lord assume the shaft that drives him to his polar field of power to pierce his raven plume and crystal-covered shield. O sire of storms, whose savage ear the lapland drum delights to hear, when frenzy with her bloodshot eye implores thy dreadful deity. Archangel, power of desolation, fast descending as thou art, say half mortal invocation spells to touch thy stony heart. Then sullen winter hear my prayer and gently rule the ruined year, till the wanderer's bosom bear, nor freeze the wretches falling tear. To shuddering wants, unmantled bed, thy horror-breathing agues cease to lead and gently on the orphan head of innocence descend. But chiefly spare, O king of clouds, the sailor on his airy shrouds when wrecks and beacons strew the steep and specters walk along the deep, milder yet thy snowy breezes pour on yonder-tented shores where the rinds broad below freezes or the dark-brown Danube roars. End of Section 8 Section 9 of Library of the World's Best Literature Ancient and Modern, Volume 8 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Nemo Library of the World's Best Literature Ancient and Modern, Volume 8 Section 9 Biographical Note on Campion by Ernest Ries Dr. Thomas Campion, lyric poet, musician, and doctor of medicine, who, of the three liberal arts that he practice, is remembered now mainly for his poetry, was born about the middle of the 16th century, the precise state in place being unknown. It has been conjectured that he came of an Essex family, but the evidence for this falls through. Nor was he, as has been ingeniously supposed of any relationship to his namesake, Edmund Campion, the Jesuit. What is certain and thrice interesting in the case of such a poet is that he was so nearly a contemporary of Shakespeare's. He was living in London all through the period of Shakespeare's mastery of the English stage and survived him only by some three or four years. From an entry in the register of St. Dunstins in the West, Fleet Street, we learn that Campion was buried there in February 1619-20. But although it is clear that the two poets, one the most famous, the other while nigh, are known, in the greater Elizabethan galaxy must have often encountered in the narrower London of that day there is no single reference in the lives or works of either connecting one with the other. We first hear of Campion at Grey's Inn where he was admitted a member in 1586 from which it is clear that his first idea was to go in for law. He tired of it before he was called to the bar, however, in turning to medicine instead. He seems to have studied for his MD at Cambridge and thereafter repaired again to London and begun to practice as a physician, very successfully. As the names of some of the more distinguished patients show, a man of taste in the very finest sense, cultured, musical, urbane, his own Latin epigrams alone would show that he had all that social instinct intact which count for so much in a doctor's career. He was fortunate to, in finding in London the society best adapted to stimulate his finely intellectual and artistic faculty. The first public sign of his literary art was his book of Pomara, the Latin epigrams referred to, which appeared in 1595 in every copy of which has disappeared. Fortunately, a second series of epigrams written in mature years gave him an excuse to republish the first series in connection with him in the year of his death, 1619. From the two series we learn many interesting facts about his circle of friends and himself and the evident ease and pleasantness of his life, late and early. There is the same sense of style in his Latin verse that one finds in his English lyrics, but though he had a pretty wit with a sufficient salt in it on occasion, as in his references to Barnaby Barnes, his faculty was clearly more lyrical than epigrammatical and his lyric poems are all that in exacting posterity is likely to allow him to carry up his deep approach to the House of Fame. His earliest collection of these exquisite little poems was not issued under his own name, but under that of Philip Rosetta, the musician, who wrote the music for half the book, the other half being of Campion's own composition. This, the first of the delightful set of old music books, which are the only source we have to draw upon for his lyric poems, was published in 1601. There is no doubt that for many years previous to this, Campion had been in the habit of writing both the words and music of such songs for the private delectation of his friends in himself. Some of his very finest lyrics, as memorable as anything he has given us, appear in the first volume of 1601. The second collection of Campion's songs was published, this time under his own name, probably in 1613. It is entitled Two Books of Heirs. The first, Divine and Moral Songs, which include some of the finest examples of their kind in all English literature. The second book, Light Conceits of Lovers, is very well described by its title, containing many sweetest love songs. We have not yet exhausted the list of Campion's music books. In 1617, two more, the third and fourth books of Heirs, were published in another small folio, and these again afford songs fine enough for any anthology. Meanwhile, we have passed by all his masks, which are among the prettiest of their kind, and is full of lyrical moments as of picturesque effects. The first was performed at White Hall for the marriage of My Lord Hayes, Sir James Hay, on twelfth night, 1606-7. Three more were written by Campion in 1613, and in the same year, he published his Songs of Morning, prompted by the untimely death of the promising young Prince Henry, which had taken place in November 1612. These songs, which do not show Campion at his best, were set to music by Copperio, alias John Cooper. This completes the list of Campion's poetry, but besides his actual practice in the arts of poetry and music, he wrote on the theory of both. His interesting observations in the Art of English Poetry, 1602, resolves itself into a naive attack upon the use of rhyme in poetry, which comes paradoxically enough from one who is himself so exquisite a rhymeer, and which called forth a very convincing reply in Daniel's Defensive Rhyme. The observations contain some very taking examples of what may be done in the lyric form without rhyme. Campion's musical pamphlet is less generally interesting, since counterpoint, on which he offered some practical rules and the theory of music, have traveled so far since he wrote. It remains only to add that Campion remained in the limbo of forgotten poets from his own day until hours when Professor Arbor and Mr. A. H. Bollen in their different anthologies and editions rescued him for us. Mr. Bollen's privately printed volume of his works appeared in 1889. The present writer has more recently, 1896, edited a very full selection of the lyrics in the Lyric Poetry series. Campion's fame, without a doubt, is destined to grow steadily from this time forth, based as it is on poems which so perfectly and exquisitely satisfy the lyric sense in the Lyric relationship between music and poetry. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nima. Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, Volume 8, Section 10, Selected Poems by Thomas Campion. A hymn in praise of Neptune. Of Neptune's empire let us sing, at whose command the waves obey, to whom the rivers tribute pay, down the high mountains sliding, to whom the scaly nation yields, homage for the crystal fields, wherein they dwell, and every sea-god pays a gem, yearly, out of his watery cell, to deck great Neptune's diadem. The tritons dancing in a ring, before his pal escapes to make, the water with their echoes quake, great thunder sounding. The sea-nymphs chant their accent shrill, and the sirens, taught to kill, with their sweet voice, make every echoing rock reply, unto their gentle murmuring noise, the praise of Neptune's empire. From Ward's English poets, of Corinna's singing, when to her lute Corinna sings, her voice revives the leaden strings, and doth and highest notes appear as any challenged echo clear. But when she doth of morning speak, e'en with her sighs the strings do break, and as her lute doth live and die, led by her passions, so must I. For when of pleasure she doth sing, my thoughts enjoy a sudden spring. But if she do of sorrow speak, e'en for my heart the strings do break, from Ward's English poets. From Divine and Moral Songs, A. H. Bolin's Modern Text. Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore, never tired pilgrims limbs affected slumber more, than my weird sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast, O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest. Ever-blooming are the joys of Heaven's high paradise, cold age-deafs not there are ears, nor vapor dims our eyes. Glory there the sun outshines, whose beams the blessed only see. O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to thee, to a coquette. A. H. Bolin's Modern Text. When thou must home to shades of underground, and there arrived a new admired guest, the beauteous spirits do engirt thee round, white Iope, Blythe, Helen, and the rest, to hear the stories of thy finished love from that smooth tongue whose music how can move. Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights of mask and revels which sweet youth did make, of turnies and great challenges of nights, and all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake, when thou hast told these honors done to thee, and tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me. Songs from light conceits of lovers. Were she her sacred bower adorns, the rivers clearly flow, the groves and meadows swell with flowers, the winds all gently blow, her sun-like beauty shines so fair, her spring can never fade, who then can blame the life that strives to harbor in her shade. Her grace I sought, her love I would, her love, though I obtain, no time, no toil, no vow, no faith, her wished grace can gain, yet truth can tell my heart is hers, and her will I adore, and from that love when I depart, let heaven view me no more. Give beauty all her right, she's not to one form tied, each shape yields fair delight, where her perfections bind. Helen, I grant, might pleasing be, and Rosemund was as sweet as she. Some, the quick eye commends, some swelling lips in red, pale looks have many friends, through sacred sweetness spread. Meadows have flowers that pleasure move, though roses are the flowers of love. Free beauty is not bound to one unmoved climb, she visits every ground and favors every time. Let the old loves with mine compare. My sovereign is this sweet and fair. End of Section 10 Library of World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, Volume 8 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rita Butros. Library of World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, Volume 8 Section 11, Biography on George Canning by Charles Dudley Warner. George Canning, 1770-1827 The political history of this famous British statesman is told by Robert Bell, 1846 by F. H. Hill, English-worthy series and in detail by Stapleton, his private secretary, in Political Life of Canning. He became a friend of Pitt in 1793, entered the House of Commons in 1794, was made Undersecretary of State in 1796, was Treasurer of the Navy from 1804-1806, Minister for Foreign Affairs from 1807-1809, Ambassador to Lisbon from 1814-1816, again at the Head of Foreign Affairs in 1822, and was made Premier in 1827, dying under the labor of forming his cabinet. Soon after his birth in London, April 11, 1770, his disinherited father died in poverty and his mother became an unsuccessful actress. An Irish actor, Moody, took young Canning to his uncle, Stratford Canning in London, who adopted him and sent him to Eaton where he distinguished himself for his wit and literary talent. With his friends John and Robert Smith, John Hookam-Fraer and Charles Ellis, he published a school magazine called The Microcosm, which attracted so much attention that Night the Publisher paid Canning fifty pounds for the copyright. It was modeled on The Spectator, ridiculed modes and customs, and was a unique specimen of juvenile essay writing. A fifth edition of The Microcosm was published in 1825. Subsequently, Canning studied at Oxford. He died August 8, 1827 at Chiswick, the residence of the Duke of Devonshire, in the same room and at the same age as Fox, and under similar circumstances, and he was buried in Westminster Abbey by the side of William Pitt. It was not until 1798 that he obtained his great reputation as a statesman and orator. Everyone agrees that his literary eloquence, wit, beauty of imagery, taste, and clearness of reasoning were extraordinary. Byron calls him a genius, almost a universal one, an orator, a wit, a poet, and a statesman. As a public speaker, we may picture him from Lord Dowling's description. Every day indeed leaves us fewer of those who remember the clearly chiseled countenance, which the slouched hat only slightly concealed the lip satirically curled, the penetrating eye peering along the opposition benches of the old parliamentary leader in the House of Commons. It is but here and there that we find a survivor of the old days to speak to us of the singularly malifluous and sonorous voice the classical language now pointed with epigram, now elevated into poetry, now burning with passion, now rich with humor, which curbed into still attention a willing and long broken audience. As a statesman, his place is more dubious. Like every English politician not born to a title, however, Burke is an instance. He was ferociously abused as a mere mercenary adventurer because his livelihood came from serving the public. The following lampoon is a specimen. The chief sting lies not in Canning's insolent mockery. Every time he made a speech, he made a new and permanent enemy, it was said of him, but in his not being a rich nobleman. The unbeloved. Not a woman child or man in all this aisle that loves the Canning fools whom gentle manners sway may incline to castle ray. Princes who old ladies love of the doctor may approve. Chancellery lords do not abhor their chatty, childish chancellor. In Liverpool some virtues strike and little vans beneath dislike, but thou unamiable object dear to neither prince nor subject. Various meanest scab for pelf fastening on the skin of gulf. Thou, thou must surely loathe thyself. But his dominant taste was literary. His literature helped him to the field of statesmanship as a compensation. His statesmanship is obscured by his literature. Bell says of him, Canning's passion for literature entered all his pursuits. It colored his whole life. Every moment of leisure was given up to books. He and Pitt were passionately fond of the classics and we find them together of an evening after a dinner at Pitt's pouring over some old Grecian in a corner of the drawing room while the rest of the company are dispersed in conversation. In English writings his judgment was pure and strict and no man was a more perfect master of all the varieties of composition. He was the first English minister who banished the French language from our diplomatic correspondence and indicated before Europe the copiousness and dignity of our native tongue. Part of the time that he was foreign secretary Chateau Beyond held the like post for France and Canning devoted much attention to giving his diplomatic correspondence a literary polish which has made these national documents famous. He also formed an intimate friendship with Sir Walter Scott with him and Ellis the quarterly review to which he contributed with the latter a humorous article on the bullion question. In literature Canning takes his place from his association with the anti-Jacobin a newspaper established in 1797 under the secret auspices of Pitt as a literary organ to express the policy of the administration similar to the Roliad the wake paper published a few years before the state but more especially to oppose revolutionary sentiment and ridicule the persons who sympathized with it. The House of Right its publisher in Piccadilly soon became the resort of the friends of the ministry and the staff which included William Gifford the editor author of the Bavillade and Meviade John Hookam-Fraer George Ellis Canning Mr. Jenkinson afterward Earl of Liverpool Lord Claire Lord Mornington afterward Lord Wesley Lord Morpeth afterward Earl of Carlisle and William Pitt who contributed papers on finance. The anti-Jacobin lived through 36 weekly numbers ending July 16th 1796. Its essays and poetry have little significance today except for those who can imagine the stormy political atmosphere of the reign of terror which threatened to extend its rule over the whole of Europe. Hence the torrents of abuse and the violent attacks upon anyone tainted with the slightest senskulotic tone may be understood. The greater number of poems in the anti-Jacobin are parodies but not exclusively political ones. The loves of the triangles is a parody on Dr. Erasmus Darwin's Love of the Plants and containing an amusing contest between parabola, hyperbola, and ellipsis for the love of the Phoenician cone. The progress of man is a parody of Paine Knight's Progress of Civil Society the inscription for the cell of Mrs. Brownrig a parody of Sothe and the rovers of which one scene is given below is a burlesque on the German dramas then in fashion. This was written by Canning, Ellis, Freyr, and Gifford and the play was given at Covent Garden in 1811 with great success especially the song of the captive Rogerot the needy knife grinder also quoted below a parody of Sothe's sapphicks is by Canning and Freyr. The poetry of the anti-Jacobin was collected and published by Charles Edmonds London, 1854 in a volume that contains also the original verses which are exposed to ridicule. Canning's public speeches edited by R. Therry were published in 1828. End of section 11 Library of the World's Best Literature Ancient and Modern, volume 8 This is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Rita Boutros Library of the World's Best Literature Ancient and Modern, volume 8 Section 12 Selected Excerpts by George Canning Rogerot's Soliloquy From the Rovers or the Double Arrangement Act 1 The scene is a subterranean vault in the abbey of Quedlinburg with coffins, scutians, death's heads and crossbones toads and other loathsome reptiles are seen traversing the obscure parts of the stage. Rogerot appears in chains in a suit of rusty armor with his beard grown and a cap of a grotesque form upon his head. Beside him a crock or pitcher supposed to contain his daily allowance of sustenance. A long silence during which the wind is heard to whistle through the caverns. Rogerot rises and comes slowly forward with his arms folded. 11 years It is now 11 years since I was first immured in this living suppulcher the cruelty of a minister the perfidy of a monk Yes, Matilda, for thy sake alive amidst the dead chained, coffined, confined, cut off from the converse of my fellow men. Soft, what have we here? Stumbles over a bundle of sticks. This cavern is so dark that I can scarcely distinguish the objects under my feet or the register of my captivity. Let me see how stands the account. Takes up the sticks and turns them over with a melancholy air then stands silent for a few minutes as if absorbed in calculations. 11 years on 15 days ha, the 28th of August How does the recollection of it vibrate on my heart? It was on this day that I took my last leaf of Matilda. It was a summer evening her melting hand seemed to dissolve in mine as I pressed it to my bosom. Some team and whispered that I should never see her more. I stood gazing on the hated vehicle which was conveying her away forever. The tears were petrified under my eyelids. My heart was crystallized with agony. Anon I looked along the road. The diligence seemed to diminish every instant. I felt my heart beat against its prison as if anxious to leap out and overtake it. I saw a world round as I watched the rotation of the hinder wheels. A long trail of glory followed after her and mingled with the dust. It was the emanation of divinity luminous with love and beauty like the splendor of the setting sun. But it told me that the sun of my choice was sunk forever. Yes, here in the depths of an eternal dungeon in the nursing cradle of hell the suburbs of perdition in a nest of demons where despair and vain sits brooding over the putrid eggs of hope where agony woos the embrace of death where patience besides the bottomless pool of despondency sits angling for impossibilities. Yet even here to behold her to embrace her Yes, Matilda whether in this dark abode amidst toads on spiders or in a royal palace amidst the more lotsome reptiles of a court would be indifferent to me. Angels would shower down their hems of gratulation upon our heads while fiends would envy the eternity of suffering love. Soft, what air was that? It seemed a sound of more than human warblings. Again listens attentively for some minute. Only the wind. It is well, however, it reminds me of that melancholy air which has so often soulless the hours of my captivity. Let me see what the damps of this dungeon have not yet injured my guitar. Takes his guitar, tunes it and begins the following air with a full accompaniment of violins from the orchestra. Air, Lanterna Magica Song When air with haggard eyes I view this dungeon that I'm rotting in I think of those companions true who studied with me at the you University of Göttingen University of Göttingen weeps and pulls out a blue kerchief with which he wipes his eyes gazing tenderly at it he proceeds. Sweet kerchief checked with heavenly blue which once my love sat knotting in alas Matilda Zen was true at least I thought so at the you University of Göttingen University of Göttingen at the repetition of this line Rogero clanks his chains in cadence Bob's, Bob's alas how swift you flew her neat post wagon trotting in he bore Matilda from my view for long I languished at the you University of Göttingen University of Göttingen this faded form this pallid hue this blood my veins is clotting in my ears are many they were few when first I entered at the you University of Göttingen University of Göttingen there first for thee my passion grew sweet sweet Matilda pottingen now what's the daughter of my tutor law professor at the you University of Göttingen University of Göttingen sun moon and our feign world at you thus kings and priests are plotting in here doomed to starve on water gruel never shall I see the you University of Göttingen University of Göttingen during the last stanza Rogero dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison so hard as to produce a terrible contusion he then throws himself on the floor in an agony the curtain drops the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen the friend of humanity and the knife grinder friend of humanity needy knife grinder with her are you going rough is the road your wheel is out of order the peak blows the blast your hat has got a hole in it so have your breeches weary knife grinder little think the proud ones who in their coaches roll along the turnpike road what hard work tis crying all day knives and scissors to grind oh tell me knife grinder how you came to grind knives did some rich man tyrannically use you was it the squire or parson of the parish or the attorney was it the squire for killing of his game or covetous parson for his tithes distraining or roguish lawyer made you lose your little all in a lawsuit have you not read the rights of man by tom pain drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids pitiful story knife grinder story god bless you I have none to tell sir only last night a drinking at the checkers this poor old hat and breeches as you see were torn in a scuffle constables came up for to take me into custody they took me before the justice justice old mixon put me in the parish stocks for a vagrant glad to drink your honors health in a pot of beer if you will give me six pence but for my part I never love to meddle with politics sir friend of humanity I give these six pence I will see the damned first wretch whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance sordid unfeeling reprobate degraded spiritless outcast in a world where the commander overturns his wheel and exit in a transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy on the english constitution from the speech on parliamentary reform other nations excited by the example of the liberty which this country has long possessed have attempted to copy our constitution and some of them have shot beyond it in the fierceness suit I grudge not to other nations that share of liberty which they may acquire in the name of god let them enjoy it but let us warn them that they lose not the object of their desire by the very eagerness with which they attempt to grasp it inheritors and conservators of rational freedom let us while others are seeking it in restlessness and trouble be a steady and shining light not a wandering meteor to bewilder and mislead them let it not be thought that this is an unfriendly or disheartening council to those who are either struggling under the pressure of harsh government or exalting in the novelty of sudden emancipation it is addressed much rather to those who though cradled and educated amidst the sober blessings of the british constitution pant for other schemes of liberty those which that constitution sanctions other than are compatible with a just equality of civil rights or with the necessary restraints of social obligation of some of whom it may be said in the language which Dryden puts into the mouth of one of the most extravagant of his heroes that they would be free as nature first made man ere the base laws of servitude began held in the woods the noble savage ran noble and swelling sentiments but such as cannot be reduced into practice grand ideas but which must be qualified and adjusted by a compromise between the aspirings of individuals and a do concern for the general tranquility must be subdued and chastened by reason and experience before they can be directed to any useful end a search after abstract perfection in government may produce in generous minds and enterprise and enthusiasm to be recorded by the historian and to be celebrated by the poet but such perfection is not an object of reasonable pursuit because it is not one of possible attainment and never yet did a passionate struggle after an absolutely unattainable object failed to be productive of misery to an individual of madness and confusion to a people as the inhabitants of those burning climates which lie beneath a tropical sun sigh for the coolness of the mountain and the grove so all history instructs us do nations which have best for a time in the tarred blaze of an unmitigated liberty too often call upon the shades of despotism even of military despotism to cover them Oh, Kwismi Gelidis in Valobos Hemi Sistat et Injenti Ramoram Protigat Ambra a protection which blights while it shelters which dwarfs the intellect and stunts the energies of man but to which a wearied nation willingly resorts from intolerable heats and from perpetual danger of convulsion our lot is happily cast in the temperate zone of freedom the climb best suited to the development of the moral qualities of the human race to the cultivation of their faculties and to the security as well as the improvement of their virtues a climb not exempt indeed from variations of the elements but variations which purify while they agitate the atmosphere that we breathe the sensible of the advantages which it is our happiness to enjoy let us guard with pious gratitude the flame of genuine liberty that fire from heaven of which our constitution is the holy depository and let us not for the chance of rendering it more intense and more radiant impair its purity or hazard its extinction on Broom and South America I now turn to that other part of the honorable and learned gentleman's Mr. Broom's speech in which he acknowledges his acquiescence in the passages of the address echoing the satisfaction felt at the success of the liberal commercial principles adopted by this country and at the steps taken for recognizing the new states of America it does happen however that the honorable and learned gentleman being not frequently a speaker in this house nor very concise in his speeches and touching occasionally as he proceeds on almost every subject within the range of his imagination as well as making some observations on the matter in hand and having at different periods proposed and supported every innovation of which the law or constitution of the country is susceptible to innovate without appearing to borrow from him either therefore we must remain forever absolutely locked up as in a northern winter or we must break our way out by some mode already suggested by the honorable and learned gentleman and then he cries out ah I was there before you that is what I told you to do but as you would not do it then you have no right to do it now the gentleman's reign there lived a very sage and able critic named Dennis who in his old age was the prey of a strange fancy that he had himself written all the good things in all the good plays that were acted every good passage he met with in any author he insisted was his own it is none of his Dennis would always say no it's mine tragedy nothing particularly good to his taste occurred till a scene in which a great storm was represented as soon as he heard the thunder rolling over his head he exclaimed that's my thunder so it is with the honorable and learned gentleman it's all his thunder it will henceforth be impossible to confer any boon or make any innovation but he will claim it as his wisdom to acknowledge that he does not claim everything he will be content with the exclusive merit of the liberal measures relating to trade and commerce not desirous of violating his own principles by claiming a monopoly of foresight and wisdom he kindly throws overboard to my honorable and learned friend Sir J. McIntosh near him the praise of South America I should like to know whether in some degree this also is not his thunder he thinks it right itself but lest we should be too proud if he approved our conduct in Toto he thinks it wrong in point of time I differ from him essentially for if I peak myself on anything in this affair it is the time that at some time or other states which had separated themselves from the mother country should not be admitted to the rank of independent nations is a proposition to which no possible dissent could be given the whole question was one of time and mode there were two modes one a reckless and headlong course by which we might have reached our object at once but at the expense of drawing upon us consequences not likely to be estimated the other was more strictly guarded in point so that while we pursued our own interests we took care to give no just cause of offense to other powers end of section 12