For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives Touched by the music and the melting scene, Then mournfully the parting bugle bid Its farewell o'er the grave of worth and truth: His face on earth; him watched, in gloomy ruth, He watched, beneath its folds, each burst that came Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame! 'And I could weep,' the Oneyda chief His descant wildly thus begun; But that I may not stain with grief The death-song of my father's son, Or bow this head in woe! For, by my wrongs, and by my wrath, To-morrow Areouski's breath, That fires yon heaven with storms of death, Shall light us to the foe: And we shall share, my Christian boy. The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy! 'But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep, The spirits of the white man's heaven Forbid not thee to weep: Nor will the Christian host, Nor will thy father's spirit grieve, She was the rainbow to thy sight! 'To-morrow let us do or die. But when the bolt of death is hurled, The hand is gone that cropt its flowers; Its echoes and its empty tread Would sound like voices from the dead! 'Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed, And by my side, in battle true, A thousand warriors drew the shaft? Ah! there, in desolation cold, The desert serpent dwells alone, Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, And stones themselves to ruin grown, Then seek we not their camp; for there 'But hark, the trump! to-morrow thou Because I may not stain with grief Ye Mariners of England. Britannia needs no bulwarks, With thunders from her native oak The meteor flag of England » When the storm has ceased to blow; * When first printed (Nelson being then living), this line stood, Where Blake, the boast of freedom, fell.' Then Denmark blessed our chief, While the sun looked smiling bright O'er a wide and woful sight. Where the fires of funeral light Now joy, Old England raise! Brave hearts! to Britain's pride While the billow mournful rolls As death withdrew his shades from the And the mermaid's song condoles, day. Singing glory to the souls Hohenlinden. On Linden, when the sun was low, But Linden saw another sight, By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Then shook the hills with thunder riven, But redder yet that light shall glow "Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun The combat deepens. On. ye brave, Few, few shall part where many meet! * Captain Riou, styled by Lord Nelson the gallant and the good.-CAMPBELL. Shall mark the soldier's cemet'ry.' The first draft of the above noble poem was sent to Scott in 1805. and consists of thirty stanzas-all published in Beattie's Life of Campbell. The piece was greatly improved by the condensation, but the following omitted verses on the English sailors are striking: Not such a mind possessed England's tar; 'Twas the love of noble game All hands and eyes on watch As they keep By their motion light as wings. From 'The Last Man.' All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep I saw the last of human mould The sun's eye had a sickly glare, Around that lonely man! In plague and famine some: A Thought suggested The more we live, more brief appear. A day to childhood seems a year, The gladsome current of our youth, But as the care-worn cheek grows wan, Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood That shook the sere leaves from the wood, As if a storm passed by; Saying: 'We are twins in death, proud sun; Thy face is cold, thy race is run, "Tis mercy bids thee go. For thou, ten thousand thousand years, That shall no longer flow. . . . 'This spirit shall return to Him by the New Year. When joys have lost their bloom and breath, And life itself is vapid, Why, as we reach the falls of death It may be strange-yet who would change Heaven gives our years of fading strength And those of youth, a seeming length, MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS. MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS, author of The Monk,' was born in London in the year 1775. His father was deputy-secretary in the War-office, and owner of extensive West Indian possessions. Matthew was educated at Westminster School, where he was more remarkable for his love of theatrical exhibitions than for his love of learning. On leaving Westminster, he was entered of Christ Church College, Oxford, but remained only a short period, being sent to Germany with a view of acquiring a knowledge of the language of that country. When a child, Lewis had pored over Glanville on Witches, and other books of diablerie; and in Germany he found abundant food of the same description. Romance and the drama were his favourite studies; and whilst resident abroad, he composed the story of The Monk,' a work more extravagant in its use of supernatural machinery than any previous English tale of modern times, and disfigured with licentious passages. The novel was published in 1795, and attracted much attention. A prosecution, it is said, was threatened on account of the peccant scenes and descriptions; to avert which, Lewis pledged himself to recall the printed copies, and to recast the work in another edition. The author continued through life the same strain of marvellous and terrific composition-now clothing it in verse, now infusing it into the scenes of a drama, and at other times expanding it into regular tales. His 'Tales of Terror,' 1799; Tales of Wonder' (to which Sir Walter Scott contributed); Romantic Tales,' 1808; The Bravo of Venice,' 1804: and 'Feudal Tyrants,' 1806, both translated from the German, with numerous dramas, all bespeak the same parentage as 'The Monk,' and none of them excels it. His best poetry, as well as prose, is to be found in this novel; for, like Mrs. Radcliffe, Lewis introduced poetical compositions into his tales; and his ballads of Alonzo the Brave,' and 'Durandarte' were as attractive as any of the adventures of Ambrosio the monk. Flushed with the brilliant success of his romance, and fond of distinction and high society, Lewis procured a seat in parliament, and was returned for the borough of Hindon, but he never attempted to address the House. The theatres offered a more attractive field for his genius; and his play of 'The Castle Spectre,' produced in 1797, was applauded as enthusiastically and more universally than his romance. Connected with his dramatic fame, a very interesting anecdote is related in the Memoirs and Correspondence of Lewis, published in 1839. It illustrates his native benevolence, which, amidst all the frivolities of fashionable life, and the excitement of misapplied talents, was a con spicuous feature in his character: 'Being one autumn on his way to participate in the enjoyments of the season with the rest of the fashionable world at a celebrated watering-place, he passed through a small country town, in which chance occasioned his temporary sojourn: here also were located a company of strolling players, whose performance he one evening witnessed. Among them was a young actress, whose benefit was on the tapis, and who, on hearing of the arrival of a person so talked of as Monk Lewis, waited upon him at the inn, to request the very trifling favour of an original piece from his pen. The lady pleaded in terms that urged the spirit of benevolence to advocate her cause in a heart never closed to such appeal. Lewis had by him at that time an unpublished trifle, called "The Hindoo Bride," in which a widow was immolated on the funeral pile of her husband. The subject was one well suited to attract a country audience, and he determined thus to appropriate the drama. The delighted suppliant departed all joy and gratitude at being requested to call for the manuscript the next day. Lewis, however, soon discovered that he had been reckoning without his host, for, on searching the travelling-desk which contained many of his papers, 66 The |