Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe,

And sweep through the deep
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long

And the stormy tempests blow."

Still more like martial music is the Battle of the Baltic:

"Of Nelson and the North,

Sing the glorious day's renown,

When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark's crown;

And her arms along the deep proudly shone;

By each gun the lighted brand,

In a bold determined hand,

And the prince of all the land'
Led them on.

"Like leviathans afloat,

Lay their bulwarks on the brine,
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line;

It was ten of April morn by the chime;

As they drifted on their path,

There was silence deep as death,

And the bravest held his breath

For a time.

"But the might of England flushed

66

To anticipate the scene,

And her van the fleeter rushed

O'er the deadly space between.

'Hearts of oak!' our captain cried, when each gun

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,

Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our chcering sent us back;

Their shots along the deep slowly boom;

They cease-and all is wail,

As they strike the shattered sail;

Or, in conflagration pale,
Light 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!

So peace instead of death let us bring;
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our King.'

"Then Denmark blessed our chief
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy or grief
From her people wildly rose,

As Death withdrew his shades from the day;

While the sun looked smiling bright

O'er a wide and woful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light

Died away.

"Now joy, Old England raise!

For the tidings of thy might

By the festal cities' blaze,

While the wine-cup shines in light;

And yet, amidst that joy and uproar,

Let us think of them that sleep,

Full many a fathom deep,

By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!"

Such pieces as these, vigorous and dramatic, are admirably adapted for recitation, and hence many of Campbell's minor poems have had wide circulation in reading-books and collections of poetry.

After publishing a volume of short poems, Campbell wrote his Gertrude of Wyoming, a Tale of Pennsylvania. It was written on a tragedy of the war of the Revolution, in which a savage band, more than half of them Indians, swept down on a little settlement in the valley of the Wyoming, and massacred the villagers, men, women, and babes,

Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe,

And sweep through the deep
While the stormy tempests blow;

While the battle rages loud and long

And the stormy tempests blow."

Still more like martial music is the Battle of the Baltic:

"Of Nelson and the North,

Sing the glorious day's renown,

When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark's crown;

And her arms along the deep proudly shone;

By each gun the lighted brand,

In a bold determined hand,

And the prince of all the land'
Led them on.

"Like leviathans afloat,

Lay their bulwarks on the brine,
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line;

It was ten of April morn by the chime;

As they drifted on their path,

There was silence deep as death,

And the bravest held his breath

For a time.

"But the might of England flushed

To anticipate the scene,

And her van the fleeter rushed

O'er the deadly space between.

'Hearts of oak!' our captain cried, when each gun

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

"Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,

Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our chcering sent us back;

Their shots along the deep slowly boom;

They cease-and all is wail,

As they strike the shattered sail;

Or, in conflagration pale,
Light 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!

So peace instead of death let us bring;
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,

With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our King.'

"Then Denmark blessed our chief
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy or grief
From her people wildly rose,

As Death withdrew his shades from the day;

While the sun looked smiling bright

O'er a wide and woful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light

Died away.

"Now joy, Old England raise!

For the tidings of thy might

By the festal cities' blaze,

While the wine-cup shines in light;

And yet, amidst that joy and uproar,

Let us think of them that sleep,

Full many a fathom deep,

By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!"

Such pieces as these, vigorous and dramatic, are admirably adapted for recitation, and hence many of Campbell's minor poems have had wide circulation in reading-books and collections of poetry.

After publishing a volume of short poems, Campbell wrote his Gertrude of Wyoming, a Tale of Pennsylvania. It was written on a tragedy of the war of the Revolution, in which a savage band, more than half of them Indians, swept down on a little settlement in the valley of the Wyoming, and massacred the villagers, men, women, and babes,

light-hearted selfishness and the eager vanity with which he sought the society of the rich and great who petted him for his charming manners and accomplishments.

He was born at Dublin, with no poetical surroundings, for his parents kept a grocery and liquor shop, but he took to poetry by instinct, and began to rhyme as early as Pope. At nineteen he went to London with some translations from the Greek poet, Anacreon, which he published by subscription and dedicated to the Prince of Wales. These made him at once known as a poet. A few years later he got an appointment of some kind at the Bermuda Islands and went abroad, making a tour on his return through the United States and Canada. He was gone in all fourteen months, and published his poems soon after his return. Some of his American poems are among his best-The Lake of the Dismal Swamp, The Indian Bark and The Canadian Boat Song.

He was a little over thirty when he married his dear Bessy, and settled down in Wiltshire, far enough from London so that he could not be diverted from work by the constant call of society. Here he arranged with a publisher to furnish the Irish Melodies at five hundred pounds a year. Thus these songs, which of all literary productions, sound the most spontaneous, were really made to order. The melodies were written to national airs of Ireland, Moore writing the verses and adapting the music to them. His own feeling and taste for music helped him, and one of their great charms was in the perfect fitness of words to music. It must have been a treat to have heard Moore sing them. Campbell said that after hearing Moore, he thought more highly of the melodies than ever before. They were sung everywhere, from the palaces of the English aristocracy to the highways of Ireland, where, even the Irish boy who drove the jaunting-car, knew the best of them by heart. Moore was feted and caressed by the great people in London, and wherever he went the doors of the best