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THOMAS CAMPBELL, 1777-1844.

THOMAS CAMPBELL, the celebrated English poet, was the son of a merchant in Glasgow, and was born in that city on the 27th of July, 1777. After finishing his academical course at the University of Glasgow, where he gave much promise of future fame, he accepted the situation of a tutor in a family in Argyleshire. After remaining here a short time, he went to Edinburgh in the winter of 1798, with the first rough draft of the "Pleasures of Hope" in his pocket, and showed it to Dugald Stewart and Dr. Robert Anderson, who praised it warmly, and prophesied its success. It was dedicated to Dr. Anderson, and published in April, 1799. The author was so unwise as to sell the copyright for the small sum of twenty guineas, to Mundell, the bookseller; but when it became popular, Mundell behaved very handsomely, and gave the poet fifty pounds for every after edition.

With "money in his purse" Campbell had an earnest desire to visit Germany. He did so, and was gone about thirteen months; and on his return made arrangements for the publication of a complete edition of all his poems in a quarto form, which appeared in London in 1803. On the 11th of October, the same year, he married Miss Matilda Sinclair, of Edinburgh, and fixed his residence in Sydenham, in Kent, working for his bread by contributing to magazines, newspapers, &c. In 1805, he received a pension of two hundred pounds a year, which came very opportunely to save him from great pecuniary embarrassment. In 1809, he added another wreath to his fame by the publication of "Gertrude of Wyoming," in which "the exceeding poverty of the story is concealed by the elegance of the descriptive passages, and the sweetness and delicacy of the poetical language, which charms us with its grace and melody."

His next great work was the "Specimens of the British Poets," in seven octavo volumes, published in 1819. The "Preliminary Essay" to this work is a charming piece of prose, and the little prefatory notices abound in delightful criticism. The next year he entered upon the editorship of the "New Monthly Magazine." He contributed but little, however, to this periodical, though he drew around him a band of clever writers, who made it very popular. In 1824, he put forth another poem-a dramatic tale"Theodric," in which the public were sadly disappointed. After this, he wrote no poem of any considerable length.2

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But the fault of the work is, it does NOT give the best specimens of the various authors, and it is for this reason, I presume, that another edition was not called for till 1841, when it was reprinted in one large octavo volume. The ground had been trodden by others before, who made the best selections from their authors. Campbell wished not to tread in their track, and hence the failure of the book. As was well said by a writer in "Frazer's Magazine" for November, 1844, No one will go to a book for specimens of a poet in his second-best manner, or his third-rate mood. We want the cream of a poet, not the skimmed milk of his genius."

"What a pity it is," said Sir Walter Scott to Washington Irving, "that

In 1827, he was elected Lord Rector of his own mother University at Glasgow by the free and unanimous choice of the students. On the 9th of May, the next year, he lost his amiable and excellent wife, which was a severe blow to him. In 1830, he threw up the editorship of the "New Monthly," and, lending his name to another publisher, started the "Metropolitan Magazine," in which he was afterwards aided by his poetical friend Thomas Moore. In 1834, he published, in two octavo volumes, the "Life of Mrs. Siddons," which added but little to his reputation. His subsequent publications were a "Life of Shakspeare," "The Life and Times of Petrarch," "Frederick the Great, and his Court and Times," and some smaller poems. He left London for Boulogne, on account of his health, in 1843, and he resided in that city, with his niece as his companion, till the day of his death, which took place on the 15th of June, 1844. On the third of the next month, his remains were deposited in the “Poet's Corner" in Westminster Abbey, over against the monument to Shakspeare. He had two sons; the younger died at an early age-while the elder, a helpless imbecile from his birth, survived the father.1

No poet of the nineteenth century has, in my estimation, a higher rank than Thomas Campbell; no one is more universally admired, and no one

Campbell does not write more and oftener, and give full sweep to his genius! He has wings that would bear him to the skies, and he does, now and then, spread them grandly, but folds them up again and resumes his perch, as if he was afraid to launch away. The fact is, Campbell is in a manner a bugbear to himself; the brightness of his early success is a detriment to all his after efforts. He is afraid of the shadow that his own fame casts before him.”

"It was deep snow," writes Allan Cunningham, "when he reached the college-green; the students were drawn up in parties, pelting one another; the poet ran into the ranks, threw several snowballs with unerring aim, then, summoning the scholars around him in the hall, delivered a speech replete with philosophy and eloquence. It is needless to say how this was welcomed."

The after history of the magazine is well known; the two poets retired, and Marryat, with his "Peter Simple," gave it an extent of reputation it had not before.

The "Quarterly Review" called it "an abuse of biography," and its writer "the worst theatrical historian we ever read."

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Read an "Essay on the Genius and Character of Campbell, by George Gilfillan;" also the Life and Letters of Thomas Campbell, by William Beattie, M. D. ;" and an excellent review of this work in the "Gentleman's Magazine" for February, 1849. At the close of the second volume of Dr. Beattie's work, the author, his devoted friend who attended him to the last, thus feelingly and beautifully writes: At a quarter past four in the afternoon our beloved poet expired, without a struggle. Though quite prepared, as I thought, for the crisis, yet I confess I was so bewildered, at the moment of transition, that, when I saw the head drop lifeless upon the chest, I could hardly satisfy my mind that I was standing in the same chamber, and at the bedside of Thomas Campbell. There lay the breathless form of him who had im pressed all sensitive hearts with the magic influence of his genius-the hallowed glow of his poetry-the steady warmth of his patriotism-the unwearied labors of his philanthropy; the man whom I had seen under many varieties of circumstance-in public, the observed of all observers-in private, the delight of his circle; the pride of his country-the friend of humanity; now fol lowed with acclamations-now visited with sorrows; struggling with diffculties, or soured with disappointments; then, striving to seek repose in exileand here finding it in death."

will be longer remembered. His exquisite harmony of versification, his occasional sublimity, his enthusiasm, his pathetic tenderness, his richness of natural description, together with his elevation and purity of moral sentiment, all combine to make him a classic secure of his immortalitystanding upon the same shelf with Goldsmith, Thomson, and Gray.

THE MOTHER AND HER CHILD.

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 slumbering child with pensive eyes,
And weaves a song of melancholy joy-
"Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy;
No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine;
No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine;
Bright as his manly sire the son shall be
In form and soul; but, ah! more blest than he!
Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love at last,
Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past-
With many a smile my solitude repay,

And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away.

"And say, when summon'd from the world and thee,

I lay my head beneath the willow tree,

Wilt thou, sweet mourner! at my stone appear,
And soothe my parted spirit lingering near?
Oh, wilt thou come at evening hour to shed
The tears of Memory o'er my narrow bed;
With aching temples on thy hand reclined,
Muse on the last farewell I leave behind,
Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low,
And think on all my love, and all my woe?"
So speaks affection, ere the infant eye
Can look regard, or brighten in reply;
But when the cherub lip hath learnt to claim
A mother's ear by that endearing name;
Soon as the playful innocent can prove
A tear of pity, or a smile of love,

Or cons his murmuring task beneath her care,
Or lisps with holy look his evening prayer,
Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear
The mournful ballad warbled in his ear;
How fondly looks admiring HOPE the while,
At every artless tear, and every smile!
How glows the joyous parent to descry
A guileless bosom, true to sympathy!

Pleasures of Hope.

THE ADVANCEMENT OF SOCIETY.

Come, bright Improvement! on the car of Time,
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime;
Thy handmaid arts shall every wild explore,
Trace every wave, and culture every shore.
On Erie's banks, where tigers steal along,
And the dread Indian chants a dismal song,
Where human fiends on midnight errands walk,
And bathe in brains the murderous tomahawk,
There shall the flocks on thymy pasture stray,
And shepherds dance at Summer's opening day.
Each wandering genius of the lonely glen
Shall start to view the glittering haunts of men,
And silent watch, on woodland heights around,
The village curfew as it tolls profound.

In Libyan groves, where damnéd rites are done,
That bathe the rocks in blood, and veil the sun,
Truth shall arrest the murderous arm profane,

Wild Obi flies-the veil is rent in twain.

Where barbarous hordes on Scythian mountains roam,
Truth, Mercy, Freedom, yet shall find a home;
Where'er degraded Nature bleeds and pines,
From Guinea's coast to Sibir's dreary mines,

Truth shall pervade th' unfathom'd darkness there,
And light the dreadful features of despair-
Hark! the stern captive spurns his heavy load,
And asks the image back that Heaven bestow'd!
Fierce in his eye the fire of valor burns,
And, as the slave departs, the man returns.

The same

MAN MADE TO BE FREE.

And say, supernal Powers! who deeply scan Heaven's dark decrees, unfathom'd yet by man,

When shall the world call down, to cleanse her shame,

That embryo spirit, yet without a name—

That friend of Nature, whose avenging hands

Shall burst the Libyan's adamantine bands?
Who, sternly marking on his native soil

The blood, the tears, the anguish, and the toil,
Shall bid each righteous heart exult, to see
Peace to the slave, and vengeance on the free!
Yet, yet, degraded men! th' expected day,
That breaks your bitter cup, is far away;
Trade, wealth, and fashion ask you still to bleed,
And holy men give Scripture for the deed;

Scourged, and debased, no Briton stoops to save
A wretch, a coward; yes, because a slave!!

Eternal Nature! when thy giant hand

Had heaved the floods, and fixed the trembling land,
When life sprang startling at thy plastic call,
Endless her forms, and man the lord of all!
Say, was that lordly form inspired by thee
To wear eternal chains and bow the knee?
Was man ordain'd the slave of man to toil,
Yoked with the brutes, and fetter'd to the soil;
Weigh'd in a tyrant's balance with his gold?
No! Nature stamp'd us in a heavenly mould!
She bade no wretch his thankless labor urge,
Nor, trembling, take the pittance and the scourge!
No homeless Libyan, on the stormy deep,
To call upon his country's name, and weep!

The same.

PICTURE OF DOMESTIC LOVE.

-Thy fair hand, enamor'd Fancy! gleans
The treasured pictures of a thousand scenes;
Thy pencil traces on the lover's thought
Some cottage-home, from towns and toil remote,
Where love and lore may claim alternate hours,
With Peace embosom'd in Idalian bowers!
Remote from busy Life's bewilder'd way,
O'er all his heart shall Taste and Beauty sway!
Free on the sunny slope or winding shore,
With hermit steps to wander and adore!
There shall be love, when genial morn appears,
Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears,
To watch the brightening roses of the sky,

And muse on Nature with a poet's eye!

And when the sun's last splendor lights the deep,
The woods and waves, and murmuring winds asleep,
When fairy harps th' Hesperian planet hail,

And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale,

His path shall be where streamy mountains swell
Their shadowy grandeur o'er the narrow dell,

"Mr. Campbell has earned the title of the Bard of Liberty as well as of Hope. Freedom is his favorite watchword, and to ban a tyrant is his dear delight. God forbid it should ever be otherwise with an English poet."

Quarterly Review, vol. Ivii. p. 359.

"It is a proud thing indeed for England, for poetry, and for mankind, that all the illustrious poets of the present day-Byron, Moore, Rogers, Campbellare distinguished by their zeal for freedom, while those who have deserted that manly and holy cause have from that hour felt their inspiration withdrawn, their harp-strings broken, and the fire quenched in their censers." Edinburgh Review, vol. xli. p. 281.

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