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196 cAMPBELL's POEMs.

details. Nothing in our judgment can be more impressive than the following very short and simple description of the British fleet bearing up to close action:

“As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death !
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.—"—p. 109.

The description of the battle itself (though it begins with a tremendous line) is in the same spirit of homely sublimity; and worth a thousand stanzas of thunder, shrieks, shouts, tridents, and heroes.

“‘Hearts of oak, our captains cried when each gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.—

“Again! again! again
And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feebler cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back;--
Their shots along the deep slowly boom: –
Then cease!—and all is wail,
As they strike the shatter'd sail;
Or, in conflagration pale,
Light the gloom.—"

There are two little ballad pieces, published for the first time, in this collection, which have both very considerable merit, and afford a favourable specimen of Mr. Campbell's powers in this new line of exertion. The longest is the most beautiful; but we give our readers the shortest, because we can give it entire. “O heard ye yon pibrach sound sad in the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?

"T is the chief of Glenara laments for his dear;
And her sire, and the people, are called to her bier.

“Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn’d not aloud :
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around:
They march'd all in silence—they look'd on the ground.

“In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor,
To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar;
Now here let us place the grey stone of her cairn:
‘Why speak ye no word?'—said Glenara the stern.

SONGS AND BALLADS. 197

“And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse,
Why fold you your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?"
So spake the rude chieftain :-no answer is made,
But each mantle unfolding, a dagger display'd.

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“0 ! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,
When the shroud was unclos'd, and no lady was seen;
When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn,
T was the youth who had lov'd the fair Ellen of Lorn :

“‘I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,
I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief;
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem ;
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dreams'

“In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert reveal’d where his lady was found;
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne,
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!"—p. 105–107.

We close this volume, on the whole, with feelings of regret for its shortness, and of admiration for the genius of its author. There are but two noble sorts of poetry—the pathetic and the sublime; and we think _ he has given very extraordinary proofs of his talents for both. There is something, too, we will venture to add, in the style of many of his conceptions, which irresistibly impresses us with the conviction, that he can do much greater things than he has hitherto accomplished; and leads us to regard him, even yet, as a poet of still greater promise than performance. It seems to us, as if the natural force and boldness of his ideas were habitually checked by a certain fastidious timidity, and an anxiety about the minor graces of correct and chastened composition. Certain it is, at least, that his greatest and most lofty flights have been made in those smaller pieces, about which, it is natural to think, he must have felt least solicitude; and that he has succeeded most splendidly where he must have been most free from the fear of failure. We wish any praises or exhortations of ours had the power to give him con

198 cAMPBELL's PoEMs.

fidence in his own great talents; and hope earnestly, that he will now meet with such encouragement, as may set him above all restraints that proceed from apprehension; and induce him to give free scope to that genius, of which we are persuaded that the world has hitherto seen rather the grace than the richness.

CAMPBELL's THEoDR1c. 199

(JANUARY, 1825.)

Theodric, a Domestic Tale: with other Poems. By THOMAs CAMPBELL. 12mo. pp. 150. London: 1824.

If Mr. Campbell's poetry was of a kind that could be forgotten, his long fits of silence would put him fairly in the way of that misfortune. But, in truth, he is safe enough ; – and has even acquired, by virtue of his exemplary laziness, an assurance and pledge of immortality which he could scarcely have obtained without it. A writer who is still fresh in the mind and favour of the public, after twenty years' intermission, may reasonably expect to be remembered when death shall have finally sealed up the fountains of his inspiration, imposed silence on the cavils of envious rivals, and enhanced the value of those relics to which it excludes the possibility of any future addition. At all events, he has better proof of the permanent interest the public take in his productions, than those ever can have who are more diligent in their multiplication, and keep themselves in the recollection of their great patron by more frequent intimations of their existence. The experiment, too, though not without its hazards, is advantageous in another respect; —for the re-appearance of such an author, after those long periods of occultation, is naturally hailed as a novelty — and he receives the double welcome, of a celebrated stranger, and a remembered friend. There is, accordingly, no living poet, we believe, whose advertisement excites greater expectation than Mr. Campbell's: — and a new poem from him is waited for with even more eagerness (as it is certainly for a much longer time) than a new novel from the author of Waverley. Like all other human felicities, however, this high expectation and prepared homage has its drawbacks and its dangers. A popular author, as we

200 cAMPBELL's THEODRIC A. Doys ESTIC STORY,

have been led to remark on former occasions, has no rival so formidable as his former self—and no comparison to sustain half so dangerous as that which is always made between the average merit of his new work, and the remembered beauties—for little else is ever remembered — of his old ones. How this comparison will result in the present instance, we do not presume to predict with confidence — but we doubt whether it will be, at least in the beginning, altogether in favour of the volume before us. The poems of this author, indeed, are generally more admired the more they are studied, and rise in our estimation in proportion as they become familiar. Their novelty, therefore, is always rather an obstruction than a help to their popularity; — and it may well be questioned, whether there be any thing in the novelties now before us that can rival in our affections the longremembered beauties of the Pleasures of Hope — of Gertrude — of O'Connor's Child—the Song of Linden —The Mariners of England—and the many other enchanting melodies that are ever present to the minds of all lovers of poetry. The leading piece in the present volume is an attempt at a very difficult kind of poetry; and one in which the most complete success can hardly ever be so splendid and striking as to make amends for the difficulty. It is entitled “a Domestic Story” — and it is so; — turning upon few incidents—embracing few characters — dealing in no marvels and no terrors—displaying no stormy passions. Without complication of plot, in short, or hurry of action — with no atrocities to shudder at, or feats of noble daring to stir the spirits of the ambitious —it passes quietly on, through the shaded paths of private life, conversing with gentle natures and patient sufferings—and unfolding, with serene pity and sober triumph, the pangs which are fated at times to wring the breast of innocence and generosity, and the courage and comfort which generosity and innocence can never fail to bestow. The taste and the feeling which led to the selection of such topics, could not but impress their

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