Page:The poetical works of Thomas Campbell.djvu/117

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Encamped by Indian rivers wild,The soldier resting on his arms,In Burns's carol sweet recalsThe scenes that blessed him when a child,And glows and gladdens at the charmsOf Scotia's woods and waterfalls.
O deem not, midst this worldly strife,An idle art the Poet brings:Let high Philosophy control,And sages calm, the stream of life,'Tis he refines its fountain-springs,The nobler passions of the soul.
It is the muse that consecratesThe native banner of the brave,Unfurling at the trumpet's breath,Rose, thistle, harp; 'tis she elatesTo sweep the field or ride the wave,A sunburst in the storm of death.
And thou, young hero, when thy pallIs crossed with mournful sword and plume,When public grief begins to fade,And only tears of kindred fall,Who but the Bard shall dress thy tomb,And greet with fame thy gallant shade?
Such was the soldier—Burns, forgiveThat sorrows of mine own intrudeIn strains to thy great memory due.In verse like thine, oh! could he live,The friend I mourned—the brave, the good—Edward that died at Waterloo[1]!
  1. ↑ Major Edward Hodge, of the 7th Hussars, who fell at the head of his squadron in the attack of the Polish Lancers.
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