204

CAMPBELL'S THEODRIC·

ROMANCE.

Yet woo'd, and worshipp'd as she was, till few
Aspir'd to hope, 'twas sadly, strangely true,
That heart, the martyr of its fondness, burn'd
And died of love that could not be return'd.

666

Her father dwelt where yonder Castle shines
O'er clust'ring trees and terrace-mantling vines.
As gay as ever, the laburnum's pride
Waves o'er each walk where she was wont to glide
And still the garden whence she grac'd her brow,
As lovely blooms, though trode by strangers now.
How oft from yonder window o'er the lake,
Her
song,
of wild Helvetian swell and shake,
Has made the rudest fisher bend his ear,
And rest enchanted on his oar to hear!
Thus bright, accomplish'd, spirited, and bland,
Well-born, and wealthy for that simple land,
Why had no gallant native youth the art
To win so warm so exquisite a heart?
She, midst these rocks inspir'd with feeling strong
By mountain-freedom-music-fancy-song,
Herself descended from the brave in arms,
And conscious of romance-inspiring charms,
Dreamt of Heroic beings; hoped to find
Some extant spirit of chivalric kind;

p. 3-7.

And scorning wealth, look'd cold ev'n on the claim Of manly worth, that lack'd the wreath of Fame.' We pass over the animated picture of the brother's campaigns, and of the fame of Theodric, and the affectionate gratitude of parents and sister for his care and praises of their noble boy. We must make room, however, for this beautiful sketch of his return.

"In time, the stripling, vigorous and heal'd,
Resum'd his barb and banner in the field,
And bore himself right soldier-like, till now
The third campaign had manlier bronz'd his brow;
When peace, though but a scanty pause for breath-
A curtain-drop between the acts of death-
A check in frantic war's unfinish'd game,
Yet dearly bought, and direly welcome, came.
The camp broke up, and Udolph left his chief
As with a son's or younger brother's grief:
But journeying home, how rapt his spirits rose!
How light his footsteps crush'd St. Gothard's snows!
How dear seem'd ev'n the waste and wild Shreckhorn,
Though wrapt in clouds, and frowning as in scorn
Upon a downward world of pastoral charms;
Where, by the very smell of dairy-farms,

THEODRIC.

And fragrance from the mountain herbage blown,
Blindfold his native hills he could have known!

"His coming down yon lake his boat in view
Of windows where love's flutt'ring kerchief flew —
The arms spread out for him - the tears that burst -
(Twas Julia's, 't was his sister's met him first;)
Their pride to see war's medal at his breast,

205

And all their rapture's greeting, may be guess'd."—p. 12, 13.

At last the generous warrior appears in person among those innocent beings, to whom he had so long furnished the grand theme of discourse and meditation.

"The boy was half beside himself— the sire,
All frankness, honour, and Helvetian fire,
Of speedy parting would not hear him speak;
And tears bedew'd and brighten'd Julia's cheek.

"Thus, loth to wound their hospitable pride,
A month he promis'd with them to abide;
As blithe he trode the mountain-sward as they,
And felt his joy make ev'n the young more gay
How jocund was their breakfast-parlour, fann'd
By yon blue water's breath! - their walks how bland!
Fair Julia seem'd her brother's soften'd sprite —
A gem reflecting Nature's purest light-
And with her graceful wit there was inwrought
A wildly sweet unworldliness of thought,
That almost child-like to his kindness drew,
And twin with Udolph in his friendship grew.
But did his thoughts to love one moment range?-
No! he who had lov'd Constance could not change!
Besides, till grief betray'd her undesign'd,
Th' unlikely thought could scarcely reach his mind,
That eyes so young on years like his should beam
Unwoo'd devotion back for

pure esteem.'

- p. 17, 18.

Symptoms still more unequivocal, however, at last make explanation necessary; and he is obliged to disclose to her the secret of his love and engagement in England. The effects of this disclosure, and all the intermediate events, are described with the same grace and delicacy. But we pass at once to the close of poor Julia's pure-hearted romance.

"That winter's eve how darkly Nature's brow
Scowl'd on the scenes it lights so lovely now!
The tempest, raging o'er the realms of ice,
Shook fragments from the rifted precipice;

206

CAMPBELL'S THEODRIC

CONSTANCE.

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 rais'd in clouds
That whirl'd 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 laughAnd 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 tidingsby 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, 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.

CONSTANCE ·

CATASTROPHE.

207

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 :

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 'tis worth the debt,
Love's glorying tribute - not 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