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"I knew 'twas a trumpet's note ! And I see my brethren's lances gleam, And their pennons wave, by the mountain stream, And their plumes to the glad wind float! Cease awhile, clarion! clarion wild and shrill, Cease! let them hear the captive's voice,-be still!

"I am here, with my heavy chain! And I look on a torrent, sweeping by, And an eagle, rushing to the sky,

And a host, to its battle plain! Cease awhile, clarion! clarion wild and shrill, Cease! let them hear the captive's voice,-be still!

"Must I pine in my fetters here?

With the wild wave's foam, and the free bird's flight, And the tall spears glancing on my sight,

And the trumpet in mine ear?

Cease awhile, clarion! clarion wild and shrill, Cease! let them hear the captive's voice,-be still!


They are gone! they have all pass'd by! They in whose wars I had borne my part, They that I loved with a brother's heart, They have left me here to die!

Sound again, clarion! clarion pour thy blast!
Sound! for the captive's dream of hope is past!"


THE trumpet's voice hath roused the land,
Light up the beacon-pyre!
A hundred hills have seen the brand,
And waved the sign of fire!

A hundred banners to the breeze

Their gorgeous folds have cast; And, hark! was that the sound of seas? A king to war went past!

The chief is arming in his hall,
The peasant by his hearth;
The mourner hears the thrilling call,
And rises from the earth!

The mother on her firstborn son

Looks with a boding eye;—

They come not back, though all be won, Whose young hearts leap so high.

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound The falchion to his side;

E'en for the marriage altar crowned,

The lover quits his bride!

And all this haste, and change, and fear,
By earthly clarion spread!

How will it be when kingdoms hear
The blast that wakes the dead?


ONCE more the eternal melodies from far,
Woo me like songs of home: once more discerning
Through fitful clouds the pure majestic star,
Above the poet's world serenely burning,-
Thither my soul, fresh-winged by love, is turning,
As o'er the waves the wood-bird seeks her nest,
For those green heights of dewy stillness yearning,
Whence glorious minds o'erlook the earth's unrest.
Now be the spirit of Heaven's truth my guide
Through the bright land! that no brief gladness, found
In passing bloom, rich odour, or sweet sound,
May lure my footsteps from their aim aside:
Their true, high quest—to seek, if ne'er to gain,
The inmost, purest shrine of that august domain.


WHAT hid'st thou in thy treasure caves and cells?
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main!
Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colour'd shells,
Bright things that gleam unrecked of and in vain.
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!

We ask not such from thee.

Yet more, the depths have more !-what wealth untold, Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,

Won from ten thousand royal argosies.

Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main!
Earth claims not these again!

Yet more, the depths have more!-thy waves have rolled Above the cities of a world gone by!

Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,

Seaweed o'ergrown the halls of revelry!
Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play,
Man yields them to decay!

Yet more, the billows and the depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters roar,—

The battle thunders will not break their rest.
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!
Give back the true and brave!

Give back the lost and lovely!—those for whom

The place was kept at board and hearth so long; The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom, And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown,— But all is not thine own!

To thee the love of woman hath gone down;

Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,— O'er youth's bright locks and beauty's flowery crown! Yet must thou hear a voice,-Restore the dead! Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee! Restore the dead, thou sea!

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM was born at Blackwood, a place of much natural beauty, on Nithside, a few miles above Dumfries, on the 7th of December, 1784. His father and grandfather were farmers; and one of his ancestors, an officer under the great Montrose, shared in his leader's good and evil fortune at Kilsythe and Philiphaugh. Some hopes held out by a relative of a situation in India, having, it appears, failed, Allan, at eleven years of age, was removed from school, to learn, under an elder brother, his business of a mason. This he did not dislike, and soon became a skilful workman; but he loved still better to pore over old books-listen to old songs and tales—and roam among his native glens and hills. A thirst for knowledge came early; but a love of writing, as we have heard him say, came late. Some of his lyrics, however, found their way into a singular book,—Cromek's "Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Songs,"-and, passing for ancient, were received with an applause which at once startled and amused the writer. Dr. Percy boldly declared they were too good to be old; and the author of "Marmion" has more than once said, that not even Burns himself has enriched Scottish song with more beautiful effusions. In 1810, Mr. Cunningham was allured from the Nith to the Thames. For some years he attached himself to the public press; and in 1814, entered the studio of Sir Francis Chantrey, the distinguished sculptor, as superintendant of his works,—a station which he continues to occupy. The first volume he ventured to publish was "Sir Marmaduke Maxwell," a dramatic poem, named after one of the heroes of his native district. It was well received by critics; and Sir Walter Scott generously

"Handed the rustic stranger up to fame,"

by a kind notice of his first attempt in the Preface to the "Fortunes of Nigel." Thenceforward Mr. Cunningham took his place among the Poets of Great Britain. He has since supplied us with but occasional proofs of his right to retain it; having devoted much of his leisure to the production of prose works of fiction; and commenced an undertaking of vast magnitude and importance,—the "Lives of the Poets from Chaucer to Coleridge”—a task for which he is eminently qualified.

Few modern writers are more universally respected and esteemed than Mr. Cunningham; he numbers among his personal friends

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