But, as she, who once hath been Like glances from a neighbour's wife; HESTER. WHEN maidens such as Hester die, Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try. With vain endeavour. A month or more hath she been dead, A springy motion in her gait, Of pride and joy no common rate, I know not by what name beside Her parents held the Quaker rule, Which doth the human feeling cool, But she was train'd in nature's school, Nature had blest her. A waking eye, a prying mind, My sprightly neighbour, gone before To that unknown and silent shore, Shall we not meet, as heretofore, Some summer morning, When from thy cheerful eyes a ray THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, I have been laughing, I have been carousing, I loved a love once, fairest among women! I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man; Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood. Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. THE FAMILY NAME. WHAT reason first imposed thee, gentle name, Name that my father bore, and his sire's sire, Without reproach? we trace our stream no higher; And I, a childless man, may end the same. Perchance some shepherd on Lincolnian plains, In manners guileless as his own sweet flocks, Received thee first amid the merry mocks And arch-allusions of his fellow swains. Perchance from Salem's holier fields return'd, With glory gotten on the heads abhorr'd Of faithless Saracens, some martial lord Took his meek title, in whose zeal he burn'd. Whate'er the fount whence thy beginnings came, No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name. SONNET. We were two pretty babes, the youngest she, Time was, we two had wept to have been apart. Defiling with the world my virgin heartMy loved companion dropp'd a tear and fled, And hid in deepest shades her awful head. Beloved, who shall tell me where thou artIn what delicious Eden to be foundThat I may seek thee the wide world around? THOMAS CAMPBELL. THOMAS CAMPBELL was born on the twenty- | ability worthy of his reputation, for ten years, seventh of September, 1777, in Glasgow, where his father was a retired merchant. When twelve years old he entered the university of his native city, and in the following year gained a prize for a translation from ARISTOPHANES, after a hard contest, over a competitor of nearly twice his age. He was here seven years, in all which time he had scarcely a rival in classical learning; and the Greek professor, when bestowing on him a medal for one of his versions, announced that it was the best ever produced in the university. He made equal proficiency in other branches of education, and, on completing his academical course, studied medicine and law. He quitted Glasgow to remove into Argyleshire, whence he went to Edinburgh, where he was for several years a private tutor. At the early age of twenty-one he finished The Pleasures of Hope, which placed him in the front rank of contemporary poets. In the spring of 1800, he left Scotland for the Conti nent. While at Hamburgh he wrote the Exile of Erin, from an impression made upon his mind by the condition of some Irish exiles in the vicinity of that city; and, with the Danish war in prospect, his famous naval lyric, Ye Mariners of England. He travelled over the most interesting portions of Germany and Prussia, visited their universities, and formed friendships with the SCHLEGELS, KLOPSTOCK, and other scholars and men of genius. From the walls of a convent he saw the charge of KLENAU upon the French at Hohenlinden, which he has so vividly described in his celebrated ode upon that battle. Soon after his return to Scotland, in 1801, he received a token of the royal admiration of his Pleasures of Hope, in a pension of two hundred pounds; and, after a short residence at Edinburgh, married Miss MATILDA SINCLAIR, and settled at Sydenham, near London, where he remained many years, and wrote Gertrude of Wyoming, Lord Ullin's Daughter, and several of his minor poems. In 1820 he became editor of the New Monthly Magazine, which he conducted with a spirit and at the end of which time the death of his wife induced its abandonment. In this period he took an active interest in the causes of Greece and Poland; was three times elected Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow; discharged the duties of Professor of Poetry in the Royal Institution; and laid the foundation of the London University. For several years before his death, Mr. CAMPBELL produced nothing of much excellence. The Pilgrim of Glencoe and other Poems, which appeared in 1842, owed all their little reputation to his name. He died at Boulougne, on the fifteenth of June, 1844, and his remains were interred in the Poet's Corner of Westminster Abbey on the third of the following month. verse. CAMPBELL'S poetry has little need of critical illustration. His chief merit is rhetorical. There is no vagueness or mysticism in his The scenes and feelings he delineates are common to human beings in general, and the impressive style with which these are unfolded, owes its charm to vigour of language and forcible clearness of epithet. Many of his lines ring with a harmonious energy, and seem the offspring of the noblest enthusiasm. This is especially true of his martial lyrics, which in their way are unsurpassed. The Pleasures of Hope, his earliest work, is one of the few standard heroic poems in our language. Poetic taste has undergone many remarkable changes since it appeared, but its ardent numbers are constantly resorted to by those who love the fire of the muse as well as her more delicate tracery. Though more generally read, it is by no means equal to Gertrude of Wyoming, a Pennsylvania Tale, written in the full maturity of his powers, and characterized by remarkable taste, feeling and tenderness. Nearly all CAMPBELL's earlier writings are popular, and although a more transcendental school of poetry is at present in vogue, admirers of felicity of expression can never fail to recognise the stamp of true genius in one who has sung in such thrilling numbers of patriotism and affection. Besides his poems, Mr. CAMPBELL wrote A History of Great Britain from the Accession of George III. to the Peace of Amiens; Lectures on Greek Poetry; Letters from the South during a Journey to Algiers; Lives of » Petrarch, Shakspeare, and Mrs. Siddons; several articles on poetry and belles lettres, in the Edinburgh Encyclopedia, and other prose writings, none of which deserved much consideration. His name appears also on the title-pages of a Life of Frederick the Great of Prussia, but I believe he had little to do with the work. His Specimens of the British Poets, with Biographical and Critical Notices, and an Essay on English Poetry, was published in seven volumes in 1819, and has recently been reproduced by Mr. Murray. It is a work of great value, containing much admirable criticism, and a judicious account of the poetry in the English language down to the time of Cowper. LOCHIEL'S WARNING. Wizard. LOCHIEL! Lochiel! beware of the day Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! Wizard. Lochiel! Lochiel! beware of the day! Lo! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, Rise, rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight! moors; Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn! Ah, no! for a darker departure is near; The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier; Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one! And, like reapers, descend to the harvest of death. With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale- the tale: For never shall Albin a destiny meet So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. their gore, Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf-beaten shore, THE LAST MAN. ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep The sun's eye had a sickly glare; Around that lonely man. In plague and famine some. Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun, For thou ten thousand thousand years That shall no longer flow. What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill; And arts that made fire, floods, and earth, Yet mourn not I thy parted sway, For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Go, let oblivion's curtain fall Its piteous pageants bring not back, Even I am weary in yon skies My lips that speak thy dirge of death- To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,- Receive my parting ghost! This spirit shall return to Him That gave its heavenly spark; And took the sting from death! Of grief that man shall taste- Or shake his trust in God! YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. YE Mariners of England! That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved a thousand years Your glorious standard launch again While the stormy tempests blow; The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave,For the deck it was their field of fame, And ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow, While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. Britannia needs no bulwark, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain waves, With thunders from her native oak, As they roar on the shore, When the stormy tempests blow; When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow. 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 But the might of England flush'd And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly space between. [gun "Hearts of oak," our captains cried; when each From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Of the sun. Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back;— Their shots along the deep slowly boom :— As they strike the shatter'd sail; Light the gloom. Outspoke the victor then, As he hail'd them o'er the wave, "Ye are brothers! ye are men! Then Denmark blest our chief, As death withdrew his shades from the day. O'er a wide and woful sight, 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; THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, Erin my country! though sad and forsaken, They died to defend me, or live to deplore! Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood? And where is the bosom friend dearer than all? Oh! my sad heart! long abandon'd by pleasure, Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure! Tears like the rain drop, may fall without measure; But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. Yet all its sad recollection suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw, Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields-sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with de votion Erin mavournin!-Erin go bragh! |