THOMAS CAMPBELL.

(1777-1844).

THE three most splendid war poems in the English language were written by Thomas Campbell, and familiar as they are to almost every reader, can rarely be repeated without a stirring of the blood. Hohenlinden," declaimed by every schoolboy, "Ye Mariners of England," and "The Battle of the Baltic," belong to immortal verse, and are ornaments of the literature of a race famed both for its singers and its warriors. No other poet, not even Tennyson in his "Charge of the Light Brigade,” has reached a higher level in this particular form of lyric verse, though Campbell was not a great poet. He was simply happy in his opportunity.

His more ambitious poems, "The Pleasures of Hope" and "Gertrude of Wyoming," are scarcely read in these days, though there is a passage in the former, "The Fall of Poland," that has long

held a place in the school-books. There are few Americans who have not stood on school platforms and in impassioned boyish treble told the unhappy story of how

Hope for a season bade the world farewell,

And Freedom shrieked when Kosciusko fell.

This poem probably did more to keep alive American sympathy for Poland than anything

else.

Thomas Campbell was born at Glasgow, July, 27, 1777, and was educated at the university in that city. "The Pleasures of Hope" was published in 1799 when he was twenty-two. Like Rogers' poem, "The Pleasures of Memory," it was fortunate in appearing at a time when it had no competitors for public favor. It was in the classical style and its smooth and pleasing couplets were received with the highest favor. Campbell was at once accorded a high seat on the British Par

nassus.

Many of its lines have long been quoted for their aptness and melody.

At summer's eve, when heaven's ethereal bow
Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below,
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye,
Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky ?

Why do these tints of shadow cliff appear

More sweet than all the landscape standing near?
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,

And robes the mountain in its azure hue.
Thus with delight we linger to survey

The promised joys of life's unmeasured way.

Then follow the descriptions of such scenes in life in which hope prevails over the other feelings of the heart-the tempest-tossed longing for home -the youth looking forward to success in life— parents solicitous for the welfare of their children -maniac looking for her lost lover—and finally the hope of a life to come. If one is not too fastidious and too modern he may find much to enjoy in "The Pleasures of Hope."

When "Gertrude of Wyoming" appeared it was highly praised by Jeffrey in the Edinburgh Review," but it requires considerable resolution for a modern reader to get through with it.

"Lochiel's Warning" is also a notable poem, and was a great favorite with Sir Walter Scott. It contains many stirring lines.

Campbell removed to London in 1803, and resided there until his death. He was for a number of years the editor of Colburn's Monthly Magazine, a very popular periodical in its day. He wrote biographies, compiled histories, and delivered lectures, all mere hack-work and all tol

erably well forgotten. He was a warm friend of Washington Irving and gave him a letter of introduction to Scott that secured him a warm welcome at Abbotsford.

When Carlyle went up to London he carried letters to Campbell, but in his "Reminiscences he gives no very favorable view of his brother Scot. He writes: "There is a smirk on his face which would befit a shopnian or an auctioneer. His very eye has the cold vivacity of a conceited worldling. His talk is small, contemptuous and shallow. The blue frock and trousers, the eyeglass, the wig, the very fashion of his bow proclaim the literary dandy."

Inasmuch as Carlyle never spoke well of any one, we need not lay much stress on this description, but let us turn to Bulwer-Lytton, who succeeded Campbell as editor of the Monthly.

I remember being told by a personage who was both a very popular writer and a very brilliant converser that the poet Campbell reminded him of Goldsmith, his conversation was so inferior to his fame. I could not deny it, for I had often met Campbell in general society, and his talk had disappointed me. Three days afterward Campbell asked me to come and sup with him tête-à-tête. I did so. I went at ten o'clock. I stayed till dawn, and all my recollections of the most sparkling talk I have ever heard in drawing-rooms afford nothing to equal the riotous affluence of wit, of humor, of fancy, of genius, that the great lyrist poured forth in his

wondrous monologue. Monologue it was; he had it all to himself.

Campbell's literary work was not large, but his life was reasonably successful, and he received considerable honor and praise while he lived. His domestic life was not particularly happy, due principally to his own uncomfortable disposition and habits. He died in 1844, and is buried in Westminster Abbey.