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And whilst their falling echoed to the wind,
The wolf's long howl in dismal discord join'd,
While white yon water's foam was raisd in clouds
That whirld like spirits wailing in their shrouds :
Without was Nature's elemental din
And Beauty died, and Friendship wept within !

“ Sweet Julia, though her fate was finish'd half,
Still knew him smil'd on him with feeble laugh—
And blest him, till she drew her latest sigh !

“ But lo! while Udolph's bursts of agony, And age's tremulous wailings, round him rose, What accents pierced him deeper yet than those ! "Twas tidings — by his English messenger

Of Constance — brief and terrible they were,” &c. p. 35, 36. These must suffice as specimens of the Swiss part of the poem, w

which we have already said we consider as on the whole the most perfect. The English portion is undoubtedly liable to the imputation of being occupied with scenes too familiar, and events too trivial, to admit of the higher embellishments of poetry. The occasion of Theodric's first seeing Constance - in the streets of London on a night of public rejoicing — certainly trespasses on the borders of this wilful stooping of the Muses' flight — though the scene itself is described with great force and beauty.

" "Twas a glorious sight!
At eve stupendous London, clad in light,
Pour'd out triumphant multitudes to gaze;
Youth, age, wealth, penury, smiling in the blaze !
Th' illumin’d atmosphere was warm and bland,
And Beauty's groups the fairest of the land,
Conspicuous, as in some wide festive room,
In open chariots pass'd, with pearl and plume.

Amidst them he remark'd a lovelier mien," &c.— p. 15. The description of Constance herself, however, is not liable to this, or to any other objection.

And to know her well
Prolong'd, exalted, bound, enchantment's spell ;
For with affections warm, intense, refin'd,
She mix'd such calm and holy strength of mind,
That, like Heav'n's image in the smiling brook,
Celestial peace was pictur'd in her look.
Hers was the brow, in trials unperplex'd,
That cheer'd the sad and tranquilliz'd the vex'd.






She studied not the meanest to eclipse,
And yet the wisest listen’d to her lips;
She sang not, knew not Music's magic skill,
But yet her voice had tones that sway'd the will."—p. 16.

• To paint that being to a grov'lling mind
Were like pourtraying pictures to the blind.
'Twas needful ev'n infectiously to feel
Her temper's fond, and firm, and gladsome zeal,
To share existence with her, and to gain
Sparks from her love's electrifying chain,
Of that pure pride, which, less'ning to her breast
Life's ills, gave all its joys a treble zest,
Before the mind completely understood

That mighty truth — how happy are the good !"— p. 25. All this, we think, is dignified enough for poetry of any description ; but we really cannot extend the same indulgence to the small tracassaries of this noble creature's unworthy relations — their peevish quarrels, and her painful attempts to reconcile them - her husband's grudges at her absence on those errands — their teazing visits to him and his vexation at their false reports that she was to spend “yet a fortnight” away from him. We object equally to the substance and the diction of the passages to which we now refer. There is something questionable even in the fatal indications by which, on approaching his home, he was first made aware of the calamity which had befallen him — though undoubtedly there is a terrible truth and impressive brevity in the passage.

“ Nor hope left utterly his breast,
Till reaching home, terrific omen! there
The straw-laid street preluded his despair -
The servant's look the table that reveal'd
His letter sent to Constance last, still seal’d,
Though speech and hearing left him, told too clear

That he had now to suffer — not to fear!”—p. 37. We shall only add the pathetic letter in which this noble spirit sought, from her deathbed, to soothe the beloved husband she was leaving with so much reluctance.

Theodric! this is destiny above
Our power to baffle! Bear it then, my love,
Your soul, I know, as firm is knit to mine
As these clasp'd hands in blessing you now join :

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Shape not imagin d horrors in my fate -
Ev'n now my suff'rings are not very great ;
And when your grief's first transports shall subside,
I call upon your strength of soul and pride
To pay my memory, if it is worth the debt,
Love's glorying tribute pot forlorn regret:
I charge my name with power to conjure up
Reflection's balmy, not its bitter cup.
My pard'ning angel, at the gates of Heaven,
Shall look not more regard than you have given
To me: and our life's union has been clad
In smiles of bliss as sweet as life e'er had.
Shall gloom be from such bright remembrance cast ?
Shall bitterness outflow from sweetness past?
No! imaged in the sanctuary of your breast,
There let me smile, amidst high thoughts at rest ;
And let contentment on your spirit shine,
As if its peace were still a part of mine:
For if you war not proudly with your pain,
For you I shall have worse than liv‘d in vain.
But I conjure your manliness to bear
My loss with noble spirit - not despair :
I ask you by our love to promise this !
And kiss these words, where I have left a kiss –

The latest from my living lips for yours?""— p. 39–41. The tone of this tender farewell must remind all our readers of the catastrophe of Gertrude ; and certainly exposes the author to the charge of some poverty of invention in the structure of his pathetic narratives — a charge from which we are not at this moment particularly solicitous to defend him.

The minor poems which occupy the rest of the volume are of various character, and of course of unequal merit; though all of them are marked by that exquisite melody of versification, and general felicity of diction, which makes the mere recitation of their words a luxury to readers of taste, even when they pay but little attention to their sense. Most of them, we believe, have already appeared in occasional publications, though it is quite time that they should be collected and engrossed in a less perishable record. If they are less brilliant, on the whole, than the most exquisite productions of the author's earlier days, they are generally marked, we think, by greater solemnity and depth of thought, a vein of deeper reflection, and more intense sympathy with human



feelings, and, if possible, by a more resolute and entire devotion to the cause of liberty. Mr. Campbell, we rejoice to say, is not among those poets whose hatred of oppression has been chilled by the lapse of years, or allayed by the suggestions of a base self-interest. He has held on his course through good and through bad report, unseduced, unterrified; and is now found in his duty, testifying as fearlessly against the invaders of Spain, in the volume before us, as he did against the spoilers of Poland in the very first of his publications. 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, Campbell — are distinguished by their zeal for freedom, and their scorn for adulation ; 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 ! Even the Laureate, since his unhappy Vision of Judgment, has ceased to sing; and fallen into undutiful as well as ignoble silence, even on court festivals. As a specimen of the tone in which an unbought Muse can yet address herself to public themes, we subjoin a few stanzas of a noble ode to the Memory of the Spanish Patriots who died in resisting the late atrocious invasion.

" Brave men who at the Trocadero fell Beside your cannons

- conquer'd not, though slain !
There is a victory in dying well
For Freedom and ye have not died in vain ;
For come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain
To honour, ay, embrace your martyr'd lot,
Cursing the Bigot's and the Bourbon's chain,
And looking on your graves, though trophied not,
As holier, hallow'd ground than priests could make the spot!"

“Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime
Too proudly, ye oppressors! - Spain was free:
Her soil has felt the foot-prints, and her clime
Been winnow'd by the wings of Liberty !
And these, even parting, scatter as they flee
Thoughts — influences, to live in hearts unborn,
Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key
From Persecution show her mask off-torn,
And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of scorn.

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Glory to them that die in this great cause ! Kings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame, Or shape of death, to shroud them from applause : No!-- manglers of the martyr's earthly frame! Your hangman fingers cannot touch his fame, Still in your prostrate land there shall be some Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom's vestal flame. Long trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb, But Vengeance is behind, and Justice is to come."- p. 78–81. Mr. Campbell's muse, however, is by no means habitually political; and the greater part of the pieces in this volume have a purely moral or poetical character. The exquisite stanzas to the Rainbow, we believe, are in every body's hands; but we cannot resist the temptation of transcribing the latter part of them.

“When o'er the green undelug'd earth

Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world's grey fathers forth

To watch thy sacred sign?
And when its yellow lustre smil'd

O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child

To bless the bow of God!
“Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,

The first-made anthem rang
On earth deliver'd from the deep,

And the first poet sang.
Nor ever shall the Muse's eye

Unraptur'd greet thy beam:
Theme of primeval prophecy,

Be still the poet's theme!
The earth to thee her incense yields,

The lark thy welcome sings,
When glitt'ring in the freshen'd fields

The snowy mushroom springs !
" How glorious is thy girdle cast

O'er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirror'd in the ocean vast,

A thousand fathoms down!
As fresh in yon horizon dark,

As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark

First sported in thy beam.




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