CAMPBELL. THE POET AND HIS POETRY. [THOMAS CAMPBELL, the Bard of Hope, was born at Glasgow, in 1777, at which City he received his education. The writings of this poet have done mankind some service, and tended very materially to fix the poetic taste of the present generation. Campbell has shown that the pure and exalted feelings of our nature, afford legitimate subjects for poetry of the highest stamp, and that it is not necessary for the poet to identify himself with the gloomy, or the terrible, to claim the attention of the majority. The "Pleasures of Hope," the master-piece of Campbell's genius, embodies some of the purest and most delicate conceptions in our language. And finding an echo in every human bosom, as universal in its application, it awakens the tenderest emotions of the soul, and fans into flame those aspirations which ever speak to man of his high destiny, and turning hope itself into faith, gives the "evidence of things not seen." The style and diction of Campbell resemble a beautiful Grecian temple of the Ionic order, whose delicate symmetry enchants the beholder. A temple in which vestal virgins might minister, and in which the religion of the heart might find a sanctuary. Its imagery is as the delicate filigree work of some beautiful casket, which contains a set of jewels for some virgin bride and indicates the purity of which she is the example; Campbell appears to unite with the sweetness and simplicity of Goldsmith, and the terseness of Pope, a higher vein of imagination and a more dignified expression, and although he may seldom startle the soul as he carries it forward in its contemplations, he has no less the power to entrance it and to subdue. Campbell has written little, but what he has written will stand against the withering touch of time. He takes his place securely among the poets of his age, and although he may not be the first, he is among the first of the poetic brotherhood. His minor pieces are most of them elaborately finished. The "Soldier's Dream," is finely and naturally described; "Lochiel's Warning,' would not suffer even by a comparison with the "Bard" of Gray. The lines written on visiting a scene in Bavaria have a dignity and force about them that rivet the attention, while the "Last Man," exhibits touches which none but the Christian could feel, and none but the master hand of genius could give. His "Gertrude of Wyoming," a beautiful Indian tale, written in the Spenserian stanza, contains many chastely beautiful and elaborate passages. "Theoderic," almost the last of this author's performances, is a more sober production, and although it may not add to the poet's reputation, it in no way detracts from it; it has a deep and quiet pathos and intensity, and shows that a good man's heart never grows old.] LOCHIEL'S WARNING. WIZARD.] Lochiel! Lochiel! beware of the day LOCHIEL.] Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer! Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight! This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. WIZARD.] Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn ! Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth, From his home, in the dark-rolling clouds of the north? But down let him stoop from his havoc on high! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, LOCHIEL.] False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshall'd my clan : They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, WIZARD.] Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day! Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight: But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish'd, forlorn, Like a limb from his country, cast bleeding and torn? Ah, no! for a darker departure is near; The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier; Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell! LOCHIEL.] Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale : So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. Though my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their gore Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame. THE LAST MAN. All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep I saw the last of human mould, The sun's eye had a sickly glare, Earth's cities had no sound nor tread; Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, That shook the sere leaves from the wood, Saying, "We are twins in death, proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run 'Tis mercy bids thee go; For thou, ten thousand, thousand years, Hast seen the tide of human tears, That shall no longer flow. "What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, The vassals of his will; Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, Thou dim discrowned king of day: For all those trophied arts And triumphs, that beneath thee sprang, Entail'd on human hearts. "Go,-let oblivion's curtain fall Nor with thy rising beams recall, Its piteous pageants bring not back, Stretch'd in diseases shapes abhorr'd "Even I am weary in yon skies My lips that speak thy dirge of death- "This spirit shall return to Him Who captive led captivity, And took the sting from death. "Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up, On Nature's awful waste, To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste; Or shake his trust in God." |