THOMAS CAMPBELL

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:And, when I crossed the wild,I chanced to see at break of dayThe solitary child.No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;5She dwelt on a wide moor.—The sweetest thing that ever grewBeside a human door!You yet may spy the fawn at play,The hare upon the green;10But the sweet face of Lucy GrayWill never more be seen."To-night will be a stormy night—You to the town must go;And take a lantern, child, to light15Your mother through the snow.""That, Father! will I gladly do:'Tis scarcely afternoon—The minster-clock has just struck two,And yonder is the moon!"20At this the father raised his hook,And snapped a faggot-band;He plied his work;—and Lucy tookThe lantern in her hand.Not blither is the mountain roe:25With many a wanton strokeHer feet disperse the powdery snow,That rises up like smoke.The storm came on before its time:She wandered up and down;30And many a hill did Lucy climb,But never reached the town.The wretched parents all that nightWent shouting far and wide;But there was neither sound nor sight35To serve them for a guide.At day-break on a hill they stoodThat overlooked the moor;And thence they saw the bridge of wood,A furlong from their door.40They wept—and turning homeward, cried,"In heaven we all shall meet!"—When in the snow the mother spiedThe print of Lucy's feet.Then downwards from the steep hill's edge45They tracked the footprints small;And through the broken hawthorn hedge,And by the long stone-wall;And then an open field they crossed;The marks were still the same;50They tracked them on, nor ever lost;And to the bridge they came.They followed from the snowy bankThose footmarks, one by one,Into the middle of the plank;55And further there were none!—Yet some maintain that to this dayShe is a living child;That you may see sweet Lucy GrayUpon the lonesome wild.60O'er rough and smooth she trips along,And never looks behind;And sings a solitary songThat whistles in the wind.

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:And, when I crossed the wild,I chanced to see at break of dayThe solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;5She dwelt on a wide moor.—The sweetest thing that ever grewBeside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,The hare upon the green;10But the sweet face of Lucy GrayWill never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night—You to the town must go;And take a lantern, child, to light15Your mother through the snow."

"That, Father! will I gladly do:'Tis scarcely afternoon—The minster-clock has just struck two,And yonder is the moon!"20

At this the father raised his hook,And snapped a faggot-band;He plied his work;—and Lucy tookThe lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe:25With many a wanton strokeHer feet disperse the powdery snow,That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time:She wandered up and down;30And many a hill did Lucy climb,But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that nightWent shouting far and wide;But there was neither sound nor sight35To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stoodThat overlooked the moor;And thence they saw the bridge of wood,A furlong from their door.40

They wept—and turning homeward, cried,"In heaven we all shall meet!"—When in the snow the mother spiedThe print of Lucy's feet.

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge45They tracked the footprints small;And through the broken hawthorn hedge,And by the long stone-wall;

And then an open field they crossed;The marks were still the same;50They tracked them on, nor ever lost;And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bankThose footmarks, one by one,Into the middle of the plank;55And further there were none!

—Yet some maintain that to this dayShe is a living child;That you may see sweet Lucy GrayUpon the lonesome wild.60

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,And never looks behind;And sings a solitary songThat whistles in the wind.

On Linden, when the sun was low,All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser,[104]rolling rapidly.But Linden saw another sight,5When the drum beat at dead of night,Commanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,Each horseman drew his battle blade,10And furious every charger neighed,To join the dreadful revelry.Then shook the hills with thunder riven,Then rushed the steed to battle driven,And louder than the bolts of heaven,15Far flashed the red artillery.But redder yet that light shall glow,On Linden's hills of stained snow,And bloodier yet the torrent flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.20'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank and fiery HunShout in their sulphurous canopy.The combat deepens. On, ye brave,25Who 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,30And every turf beneath their feetShall be a soldier's sepulchre.

On Linden, when the sun was low,All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser,[104]rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,5When the drum beat at dead of night,Commanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,Each horseman drew his battle blade,10And furious every charger neighed,To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,Then rushed the steed to battle driven,And louder than the bolts of heaven,15Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow,On Linden's hills of stained snow,And bloodier yet the torrent flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.20

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank and fiery HunShout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,25Who 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,30And every turf beneath their feetShall be a soldier's sepulchre.

Of Nelson and the North,Sing the glorious day's renown,When to battle fierce came forthAll the might of Denmark's crown,And her arms along the deep proudly shone;5By each gun the lighted brand,In a bold determined hand,And the Prince of all the landLed them on.

Like leviathans afloat,10Lay their bulwarks on the brine;While the sign of battle flewOn the lofty British line:It was ten of April morn by the chime:As they drifted on their path,15There was silence deep as death;And the boldest held his breath,For a time.

III

But the might of England flush'dTo anticipate the scene;20And her van the fleeter rush'dO'er the deadly space between."Hearts of oak!" our captain cried; when each gunFrom its adamantine lipsSpread a death-shade round the ships,25Like the hurricane eclipseOf the sun.

Again! again! again!And the havoc did not slack,Till a feeble cheer the Dane30To our cheering sent us back;—Their shots along the deep slowly boom:—Then ceased—and all is wail,As they strike the shatter'd sail;Or, in conflagration pale,35Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then,As he hailed them o'er the wave;"Ye are brothers! ye are men!And we conquer but to save:—40So peace instead of death let us bring;But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,With the crews, at England's feetAnd make submission meetTo our King."45

Then Denmark bless'd our chief,That he gave her wounds repose;And the sounds of joy and griefFrom her people wildly rose,As Death withdrew his shades from the day,50While the sun looked smiling brightO'er a wide and woful sight,Where the fires of funeral lightDied away.

VII

Now joy, Old England, raise!55For the tidings of thy might,By the festal cities' blaze,Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;And yet amidst that joy and uproar,Let us think of them that sleep,60Full many a fathom deep,By thy wild and stormy steep,Elsinore!

VIII

Brave hearts! to Britain's prideOnce so faithful and so true;65On the deck of fame that died;—With the gallant good Riou[105];Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their graveWhile the billow mournful rolls,And the mermaid's song condoles,70Singing glory to the soulsOf the brave.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,As his corse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO'er the grave where our hero we buried.We buried him darkly at dead of night,5The sods with our bayonets turning;By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,And the lantern dimly burning.No useless coffin enclosed his breast,Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;10But he lay like a warrior taking his restWith his martial cloak around him.Few and short were the prayers we said,And we spoke not a word of sorrow;But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,15And we bitterly thought of the morrow.We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,And smoothed down his lonely pillow,That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,And we far away on the billow!20Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep onIn the grave where a Briton has laid him.But half of our weary task was done25When the clock struck the hour for retiring;And we heard the distant and random gunThat the foe was sullenly firing.Slowly and sadly we laid him down,From the field of his fame fresh and gory;30We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone—But we left him alone with his glory.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,As his corse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,5The sods with our bayonets turning;By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;10But he lay like a warrior taking his restWith his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,And we spoke not a word of sorrow;But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,15And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,And smoothed down his lonely pillow,That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,And we far away on the billow!20

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep onIn the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our weary task was done25When the clock struck the hour for retiring;And we heard the distant and random gunThat the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,From the field of his fame fresh and gory;30We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone—But we left him alone with his glory.

A Fable

My hair is gray, but not with years,Nor grew it whiteIn a single night,As men's have grown from sudden fears.[107]My limbs are bowed, though not with toil,5But rusted with a vile repose,For they have been a dungeon's spoil,And mine has been the fate of thoseTo whom the goodly earth and airAre banned, and barred—forbidden fare;10But this was for my father's faithI suffered chains and courted death;That father perished at the stakeFor tenets he would not forsake;And for the same his lineal race15In darkness found a dwelling-place;We were seven—who now are one,Six in youth, and one in age,Finished as they had begun,Proud of Persecution's rage;20One in fire, and two in field,Their belief with blood have sealed[108]:Dying as their father died,For the God their foes denied;—Three were in a dungeon cast,25Of whom this wreck is left the last.

There are seven[109]pillars of Gothic mouldIn Chillon's dungeons deep and old,There are seven columns massy and gray,Dim with a dull imprisoned ray,30A sunbeam which hath lost its way,And through the crevice and the cleftOf the thick wall is fallen and left:Creeping o'er the floor so damp,Like a marsh's meteor lamp[110]:35And in each pillar there is a ring,And in each ring there is a chain;That iron is a cankering[111]thing,For in these limbs its teeth remain,With marks that will not wear away40Till I have done with this new day,Which now is painful to these eyes,Which have not seen the sun so riseFor years—I cannot count them o'er,I lost their long and heavy score45When my last brother drooped and died,And I lay living by his side.

III

They chained us each to a column stone,And we were three—yet, each alone;We could not move a single pace,50We could not see each other's face,But with that pale and livid lightThat made us strangers in our sight:And thus together—yet apart,Fettered in hand, but joined in heart;55'Twas still some solace, in the dearthOf the pure elements[112]of earth,To hearken to each other's speech,And each turn comforter to eachWith some new hope or legend old,60Or song heroically bold;But even these at length grew cold.Our voices took a dreary tone,An echo of the dungeon stone,A grating sound—not full and free65As they of yore were wont to be;It might be fancy—but to meThey never sounded like our own.

I was the eldest of the three,And to uphold and cheer the rest70I ought to do—and did my best—And each did well in his degree.The youngest, whom my father loved,Because our mother's brow was givenTo him—with eyes as blue as heaven,75For him my soul was sorely moved:And truly might it be distressedTo see such bird in such a nest;For he was beautiful as day—(When day was beautiful to me80As to young eagles being free)—A polar day,[113]which will not seeA sunset till its summer's gone,Its sleepless summer of long light,The snow-clad offspring of the sun:85And thus he was as pure and bright,And in his natural spirit gay,With tears for naught but others' ills,And then they flowed like mountain rills,Unless he could assuage the woe90Which he abhorred to view below.

The other was as pure of mind,But formed to combat with his kind;Strong in his frame, and of a moodWhich 'gainst the world in war had stood,95And perished in the foremost rankWith joy:—but not in chains to pine:His spirit withered with their clank,I saw it silently decline—And so perchance in sooth[114]did mine:100But yet I forced it on to cheerThose relics of a home so dear.He was a hunter of the hills,Had followed there the deer and wolf;To him this dungeon was a gulf,105And fettered feet the worst of ills.

Lake Leman[115]lies by Chillon's walls,A thousand feet in depth belowIts massy waters meet and flow;Thus much the fathom-line was sent110From Chillon's snow-white battlement,Which round about the wave inthrals:A double dungeon wall and waveHave made—and like a living grave.Below the surface of the lake115The dark vault lies wherein we lay,We heard it ripple night and day;Sounding o'er our heads it knockedAnd I have felt the winter's sprayWash through the bars when winds were high120And wanton in the happy sky;And then the very rock hath rocked,And I have felt it shake, unshocked,Because I could have smiled to seeThe death that would have set me free.125

VII

I said my nearer brother pined,I said his mighty heart declined,He loathed and put away his food;It was not that 'twas coarse and rude,For we were used to hunter's fare,130And for the like had little care:The milk drawn from the mountain goatWas changed for water from the moat,[116]Our bread was such as captive's tearsHave moistened many a thousand years,135Since man first pent his fellow-menLike brutes within an iron den;But what were these to us or him?These wasted not his heart or limb;My brother's soul was of that mould140Which in a palace had grown cold,Had his free breathing been deniedThe range of the steep mountain's side;But why delay the truth?—he died.I saw, and could not hold his head,145Nor reach his dying hand—nor dead,—Though hard I strove, but strove in vain,To rend and gnash my bonds in twain.He died, and they unlocked his chain,And scooped for him a shallow grave150Even from the cold earth of our cave.I begged them, as a boon, to layHis corse in dust whereon the dayMight shine—it was a foolish thought,But then within my brain it wrought,155That even in death his freeborn breastIn such a dungeon could not rest.I might have spared my idle prayer—They coldly laughed—and laid him there:The flat and turfless earth above160The being we so much did love;His empty chain above it leant,Such murder's fitting monument!

VIII

But he, the favourite and the flower,Most cherished since his natal hour,165His mother's image in fair face,The infant love of all his race,His martyred father's dearest thought,My latest care, for whom I soughtTo hoard my life, that his might be170Less wretched now, and one day free;He, too, who yet had held untiredA spirit natural or inspired—He, too, was struck, and day by dayWas withered on the stalk away.175Oh, God! it is a fearful thingTo see the human soul take wingIn any shape, in any mood:—I've seen it rushing forth in blood,[117]I've seen it on the breaking ocean180Strive with a swoln convulsive motion,I've seen the sick and ghastly bedOf Sin delirious with its dread:But these were horrors—this was woeUnmixed with such—but sure and slow;185He faded, and so calm and meek,So softly worn, so sweetly weak,So tearless, yet so tender—kind,And grieved for those he left behind;With all the while a cheek whose bloom190Was as a mockery of the tomb,Whose tints as gently sunk awayAs a departing rainbow's ray—An eye of most transparent light,That almost made the dungeon bright,195And not a word of murmur—notA groan o'er his untimely lot,—A little talk of better days,A little hope my own to raise,For I was sunk in silence—lost200In this last loss, of all the most;And then the sighs he would suppressOf fainting nature's feebleness,More slowly drawn, grew less and less:I listened, but I could not hear—205I called, for I was wild with fear;I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dreadWould not be thus admonishèd;I called, and thought I heard a sound—I burst my chain with one strong bound,210And rushed to him:—I found him not,Ionly stirred in this black spot,Ionly lived—Ionly drewThe accursed breath of dungeon-dew;The last—the sole—the dearest link215Between me and the eternal brink,Which bound me to my failing race,Was broken in this fatal place.One on the earth, and one beneath—My brothers—both had ceased to breathe;220I took that hand which lay so still,Alas! my own was full as chill;I had not strength to stir, or strive,But felt that I was still alive—A frantic feeling, when we know225That what we love shall ne'er be so.I know not whyI could not die,I had no earthly hope—but faith,And that forbade a selfish death.[118]230

What next befell me then and thereI know not well—I never knew—First came the loss of light, and air,And then of darkness too:I had no thought, no feeling—none—235Among the stones I stood a stone,And was, scarce conscious what I wist,[119]As shrubless crags within the mist;For all was blank, and bleak, and gray,It was not night—it was not day,240It was not even the dungeon-light,So hateful to my heavy sight,But vacancy absorbing space,And fixedness—without a place;There were no stars—no earth—no time—245No check—no change—no good—no crime—But silence, and a stirless breathWhich neither was of life nor death;A sea of stagnant idleness,Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless!250

A light broke in upon my brain,—It was the carol of a bird;It ceased, and then it came again,The sweetest song ear ever heard,And mine was thankful till my eyes255Ran over with the glad surprise,And they that moment could not seeI was the mate of misery;But then by dull degrees came backMy senses to their wonted track,260I saw the dungeon walls and floorClose slowly round me as before,I saw the glimmer of the sunCreeping as it before had done,But through the crevice where it came265That bird was perched, as fond and tame,And tamer than upon the tree;A lovely bird, with azure wings,And song that said a thousand things,And seemed to say them all for me!270I never saw its like before,I ne'er shall see its likeness more:It seemed like me to want a mate,But was not half so desolate,And it was come to love me when275None lived to love me so again,And cheering from my dungeon's brink,Had brought me back to feel and think.I know not if it late were free,Or broke its cage to perch on mine,280But knowing well captivity,Sweet bird! I could not wish for thine!Or if it were, in wingèd guise,A visitant from Paradise;For—Heaven forgive that thought! the while285Which made me both to weep and smile;I sometimes deemed that it might beMy brother's soul[120]come down to me;But then at last away it flew,And then 'twas mortal—well I knew,290For he would never thus have flown,And left me twice so doubly lone,—Lone—as the corse within its shroud,Lone—as a solitary cloud,[121]A single cloud on a sunny day,295While all the rest of heaven is clear,A frown upon the atmosphere,That hath no business to appearWhen skies are blue, and earth is gay.

A kind of change came in my fate,300My keepers grew compassionate;I know not what had made them so,They were inured to sights of woe,But so it was:—my broken chainWith links unfastened did remain,305And it was liberty to strideAlong my cell from side to side,And up and down, and then athwart,And tread it over every part;And round the pillars one by one,310Returning where my walk begun.Avoiding only, as I trod,My brothers' graves without a sod;For if I thought with heedless treadMy step profaned their lowly bed,315My breath came gaspingly and thick,And my crushed heart fell blind and sick.

XII

I made a footing in the wall,It was not therefrom to escape,For I had buried one and all320Who loved me in a human shape;And the whole earth would henceforth beA wider prison unto me:No child—no sire—no kin had I,No partner in my misery;325I thought of this, and I was glad,For thought of them had made me mad;But I was curious to ascendTo my barred windows, and to bendOnce more, upon the mountains high,330The quiet of a loving eye.

XIII

I saw them—and they were the same,They were not changed like me in frame;I saw their thousand years of snowOn high—their wide long lake below,335And the blue Rhone in fullest flow;I heard the torrents leap and gushO'er channelled rock and broken bush;I saw the white-walled distant town,And whiter sails go skimming down;340And then there was a little isle,[122]Which in my very face did smile,The only one in view;A small green isle it seemed no more,Scarce broader than my dungeon floor,345But in it there were three tall trees,And o'er it blew the mountain breeze,And by it there were waters flowing,And on it there were young flowers growing,Of gentle breath and hue.350The fish swam by the castle wall,And they seemed joyous each and all;The eagle rode the rising blast,Methought he never flew so fastAs then to me he seemed to fly,355And then new tears came in my eye,And I felt troubled—and would fainI had not left my recent chain;And when I did descend again,The darkness of my dim abode360Fell on me as a heavy load;It was as is a new-dug grave,Closing o'er one we sought to save,—And yet my glance, too much oppressed,Had almost need of such a rest.365

XIV

It might be months, or years, or days,I kept no count—I took no note,I had no hope my eyes to raise,And clear them of their dreary mote;At last men came to set me free,370I asked not why, and recked not where,It was at length the same to me,Fettered or fetterless to be,I learned to love despair.And thus when they appeared at last,375And all my bonds aside were cast,These heavy walls to me had grownA hermitage—and all my own!And half I felt as they were comeTo tear me from a second home:380With spiders I had friendship made,And watched them in their sullen trade,Had seen the mice by moonlight play,And why should I feel less than they?We were all inmates of one place,385And I, the monarch of each race,Had power to kill—yet, strange to tell!In quiet we had learned to dwell—My very chains and I grew friends,So much a long communion tends390To make us what we are:—even IRegained my freedom with a sigh.[123]

'Twas after dread Pultowa's[124]day,When Fortune left the royal Swede.Around a slaughter'd army lay,No more to combat and to bleed.The power and glory of the war,5Faithless as their vain votaries, men,Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar,And Moscow's walls were safe again,Until a day more dark and drear,[125]And a more memorable year,10Should give to slaughter and to shameA mightier host and haughtier name;A greater wreck, a deeper fall,A shock to one—a thunderbolt to all.

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