Poems by Thomas Campbell

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The Exile Of Erin

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,

The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill:

For his country he sign'd, when at twilight repairing

To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.

But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,

For it rose o'er his own native isle fo the ocean,

Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion.

He sang the bold anthem of Erin Go Bragh!

by Thomas Campbell

Hope Triumphant in Death

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-born 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 —

by Thomas Campbell

Maternal Hope

Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps,

Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps:

She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies,

Smiles on her slumb'ring child with pensive eyes,

And weaves a song of melancholy joy:—

"Sleep, image of thy father! — sleep, my boy!

No ling'ring hour of sorrow shall be thine,

No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine.

by Thomas Campbell

The Child and the Hind

Come, maids and matrons, to caress

Wiesbaden's gentle hind;

And, smiling, deck its glossy neck

With forest flowers entwined.

'Twas after church — on Ascension day —

When organs ceased to sound,

Wiesbaden's people crowded gay

The deer park's pleasant ground.

by Thomas Campbell

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

by Thomas Campbell

To The Rainbow

Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky

When storms prepare to part,

I ask not proud Philosophy

To teach me what thou art; -

Still seem; as to my childhood's sight,

A midway station given

For happy spirits to alight

Betwixt the earth and heaven.

by Thomas Campbell

Benlomond

Hadst thou a genius on thy peak,

What tales, white-headed

Ben, Could'st thou of ancient ages speak, That mock th' historian's pen! Thy long duration makes our livea Seem but so many hours; And likens, to the bees' frail hives, Our most stupendous towers. Temples and towers thou seest begun, New creeds, new conquerers sway; And, like their shadows in the sun, Hast seen them swept away. Thy steadfast summit, heaven-allied (Unlike life's little span), Looks down a mentor on the pride Of perishable man.