Twenty suns did rise and set, Made a virtue out of need, And his labours wiselier deem'd of, Did omit what the queen dream'd of. HESTER. When maidens such as Hester die, A month or more hath she been dead, A springy motion in her gait, I know not by what name beside Her parents held the Quaker rule, A waking eye, a prying mind, My sprightly neighbour, gone before When from thy cheerful eyes a ray SCOTLAND has the honour of giving birth to this illustrious poet of the nineteenth century. Thomas Campbell was born in Glasgow, in 1777. After studying the elements of classical learning, he was sent, at the age of twelve, to the University of his native city, where he gained a bursary from a candidate twice as old as himself; and in Greek he made such proficiency, that he far outstripped all his fellow students. Even already he had written a considerable portion of verse, and while attending the Greek class, he produced poetical versions from the choruses of the Greek Tragedians, which were declared superior to any similar exercises that had been produced at that college. After the usual curriculum had been finished at the University, Campbell removed to Argyleshire, where the romantic scenery of the Highlands vivified his natural perceptions of the sublime and beautiful, and stored his mind with those images of which he afterwards so happily availed himself. It was here that, among other pieces, he composed The Dirge of Wallace, which we have inserted in this collection. While still in his minority, Campbell took up his residence in Edinburgh, where his talents and acquirements procured him the acquaintanceship of the most distinguished characters in the northern metropolis. It was here, also, that, at the early age of twenty-one, he produced The Pleasures of Hope an astonish ing work, especially when the youth of the author is taken into account. The public hailed it as the commencement of a new era in poetry, and were charmed with the depth of thought and intensity of feeling which it displayed in such beautiful and harmonious numbers. But notwithstanding the celebrity of this poem, and the profit which it yielded to the publishers, at the rate of two or three hundred pounds per annum, the author received at first only ten pounds for the copyright, which was afterwards augmented. After he had enjoyed for a short time the fame which his publication had procured, Campbell travelled for about a year in Germany, where several of his most beautiful poems owed their existence to local circumstances. Thus, The Exile of Erin was suggested by his meeting several unfortunate Irish exiles at Hamburgh; and The Battle of Hohenlinden might have been prefaced with quæque ipse miserrima vidi, as he surveyed the whole conflict from the walls of a convent that overlooked the field. During this tour, also, he acquired a knowledge of the German language, and the acquaintanceship of the two Schlegels, and spent a day with Klopstock. On his return to London, he composed those splendid national odes, "Ye Mariners of England," and the "Battle of the Baltic," which, if he had written nothing more, would have ensured him the highest place in poetry, as well as the lasting gratitude of his country. After this period, the author of The Pleasures of Hope took up his residence at Sydenham, where he seems to have spent his time for several years in literary ease, if we may judge from the amount of his labours, as nothing proceeded from his pen but Gertrude of Wyoming. This poem did not produce at first the sensation that might have been expected: perhaps the great work of his youth had raised the public expectation extravagantly high as to what his matured age would produce; or, perhaps, the public ear, from long disuse, was unaccustomed to the Spenserian stanza which he had adopted. But this work possesses even a higher poetical power and greater originality than his first production, and nothing can be more beautiful than his description of the Indian village, or more sublime than the death of Outalissi. The subsequent poetical productions of Campbell are all distinguished by his prevailing characteristics-originality of conception, and the most classical correctness and delicacy of execution. Indeed, on account of this latter quality, he is cautious and slow in composition; and hence the small amount of his poetry, compared with the long life which he has spent, since the commencement of his public career. All his productions are sterling gold, of which the intrinsic value cannot be measured by mere bulk. Besides his distinction as a poet and a critic, he will be always remembered with gratitude as the founder of the London University, an institution, the idea of which originated with himself, and in which he laboured until his efforts were crowned with success. 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 dayThen, then, the triumph and the trance begin, And all the phoenix spirit burns within! Oh! deep-enchanting prelude to repose, The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes! Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh, It is a dread and awful thing to die! Mysterious worlds, untravell'd by the sun! Where Time's far-wandering tide has never run, with quæque ipse miserrima vidi, as he surveyed the whole conflict from the walls of a convent that overlooked the field. During this tour, also, he acquired a knowledge of the German language, and the acquaintanceship of the two Schlegels, and spent a day with Klopstock. On his return to London, he composed those splendid national odes, "Ye Mariners of England," and the "Battle of the Baltic," which, if he had written nothing more, would have ensured him the highest place in poetry, as well as the lasting gratitude of his country. After this period, the author of The Pleasures of Hope took up his residence at Sydenham, where he seems to have spent his time for several years in literary ease, if we may judge from the amount of his labours, as nothing proceeded from his pen but Gertrude of Wyoming. This poem did not produce at first the sensation that might have been expected: perhaps the great work of his youth had raised the public expectation extravagantly high as to what his matured age would produce; or, perhaps, the public ear, from long disuse, was unaccustomed to the Spenserian stanza which he had adopted. But this work possesses even a higher poetical power and greater originality than his first production, and nothing can be more beautiful than his description of the Indian village, or more sublime than the death of Outalissi. The subsequent poetical productions of Campbell are all distinguished by his prevailing characteristics-originality of conception, and the most classical correctness and delicacy of execution. Indeed, on account of this latter quality, he is cautious and slow in composition; and hence the small amount of his poetry, compared with the long life which he has spent, since the commencement of his public career. All his productions are sterling gold, of which the intrinsic value cannot be measured by mere bulk. Besides his distinction as a poet and a critic, he will be always remembered with gratitude as the founder of the London University, an institution, the idea of which originated with himself, and in which he laboured until his efforts were crowned with success. 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 dayThen, then, the triumph and the trance begin, And all the phoenix spirit burns within! Oh! deep-enchanting prelude to repose, The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes! Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh, It is a dread and awful thing to die! Mysterious worlds, untravell'd by the sun! Where Time's far-wandering tide has never run, |