In the first, the word printed "behold should be beheld-in the other, the word "knew" should be know. In both, a meaning inconsistent with the general feeling of the passage is unfortunately suggested. We cannot follow Dr. Beattie in narrating how the means of life were made out by Campbell. He lectured-he published specimens of the poets, accompanied with criticism, always sensible, often acute; but his prose has no abiding life. It did its day's work. Letters from Paris, which he visited in 1814, are printed. They contain little more than his impressions about works of art, with the principles of which he was not sufficiently acquainted to justify us in transcribing what he says-and his opinion of Mrs. Siddons, which he afterwards worked into a sort of trade life of her. In 1821, he undertook the editorship of the New Monthly Magazine, which he continued for nine or ten years. At the end of this time, he found himself in the publisher's debt, and felt obliged to look round him for employment of the same kind. He became editor of the "Metropolitan Magazine," and soon after, Rogers lent him five hundred pounds to purchase a share in the Metropolitan. The money had a narrow escape, as the bankruptcy of some copartner occurred at the time. Rogers had refused taking any security, but Campbell insured his life, and had some deed executed that gave Rogers rights against whatever property he had. Campbell, though always a struggling man, seems to have been anxious that his improvidence should not injure his friends. To his own family-his mother and sisters, his generosity was very great. The book contains some very painful scenes, on which we do not think it desirable to enter. Of two children of his marriage, one died in infancy; the other was, during his father's life, in such doubtful health as to render it necessary that he should live at a distance from home under medical care. Campbell felt it necessary to live in London, and he felt it necessary to allow himself to be made chairman of Polish clubs, and to preside at patriotic dinners. This brought him acquainted with strange companions, whom it was not at all times possible to get rid of. Dr. Beattie tells us of some affecting scenes, when the broken-hearted man was thoughtlessly reproached at his own table by a guest who thought the host had taken too much wine, and who ought himself either not to have taken any, or not stopped at what is not inappropriately called the cross drop. In the cause of education Campbell was at all times an enthusiast. To him, above all others, is to be ascribed the origination and the success of the London University. His election to the rectorship of Glasgow University was the most gratifying incident of his life, and it resulted in permanent advantages to that institution. Campbell resided for a while at St. Leonard's, and afterwards settled in London. These were moments of great pecuniary difficulty and embarrassment; but towards the close of life, and at the moment when such relief was most seasonable, additions came to his income by some two or three legacies. In one instance, the sum that seemed providentially sent came in vain, for without waiting to consult any one, he laid it out in an annuity for his own life, which lasted for little more than a year after this transaction. His wife had been some years dead. There is some obscure intimation of his making some overtures towards a second marriage, which failed. He was fond, passionately fond of children, and it occurred to him that one of his nieces-a girl of some thirteen or fourteen years of age--might come from Scotland to be his housekeeper. He was to teach her French. His only son was sufficiently provided for; and the poet promised her parents to leave her whatever little property he might have at his death. In one respect alone are we dissatisfied with Dr. Beattie's book. In every line of it there breathes the strongest affection towards the poet, and yet how, where, or when their intimacy commenced, the book gives us no information whatever. For many of the latter years of Campbell's life, Dr. Beattie was his most anxious friend, and we believe it is in the strictest sense of the word true, that but for him that life must have closed long before it did. Campbell removed to Boulogne in September, 1843. Every object of his removal was disappointed. He found the place scarcely cheaper than that which he left; he found the climate worse; he had all the trouble and expense of a removal. He fixed plans of study, and tried to execute them. The custom-house regulations interfered with his receiving English books. He would, when weary of reading, diversify the day by conversation; but where were his old friends? Home-sickness," says his kind physician, "was on him.” He sought to write to his friends, but his letters became few and short; still they were cheerful. At last, a letter from his niece brought over Dr. Beattie. When he arrived, he found a Sister of Charity assisting her in attending on the dying poet. When Beattie was introduced into his chamber, he complained of chilliness--morbid chilliness. He held out his hand, and thanked Beattie, and the other friends who had come to assist him. This was June the 4th. On the 6th he was able to converse more freely; but his strength had become more reduced, and on being assisted to change his posture, he fell back in the bed insensible. Conversation was carried on in the room in whispers ; and Campbell uttered a few sentences so unconnected, that his friends were doubtful whether he was conscious or not of what was going on in his presence, and had recourse to an artifice to learn. One of them spoke of the poem of Hohenlinden, and pretending to forget the author's name, said he had heard it was by a Mr. Robinson. Campbell saw the trick, was amused, and said playfully, but in a calm and distinct tone, "No; it was one Tom Campbell." The poet had-as far as a poet can--become for years indifferent to posthumous fame. In 1838, five years before this time, he had been speaking to some friends in Edinburgh on the subject. "When I think of the existence which shall commence when the stone is laid above my head, how can literary fame appear to me-to any one--but as nothing? I believe, when I am gone, justice will be done to me in this way -that Iwas a pure writer. It is an inexpressible comfort, at my time of life, to be able to look back and feel that I have not written one line against religion or virtue." The next day swelling of the feet appeared. In answer to an inquiry, he replied, with a remarkable expression of energy, "Yes, I have entire control over my mind. I am quite"-Beattie lost the last word, but thinks it was "re row?" " signed." "Then with shut eyes and a placid expression of countenance, he remained silent but thoughtful. When I took leave at night, his eye followed me anxiously to the door, as if to say, 'Shall we meet to-morDr. Beattie's journal records a few days passed like the last. Religious feeling was, as the closing scene approached, more distinctly expressed. Beattie was thinking of the lines in THE LAST MAN, when he heard with delight the dying man express his belief "in life and immortality brought to light by the Saviour." "This spirit shall return to Him Who gave the heavenly spark: Yet think not, sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself art dark! * ** friend." out a struggle. This was the fifteenth of June; on Thurs day, the 27th, he was interred in Westminster Abbey, in a new grave, in the centre of Poet's corner. Among the mourners in the and other representatives of the house of funeral procession were the Duke of Argyle, Campbell; Sir Robert Peel and Lord Strangford. Lord Brougham was there, and Lockhart and Macaulay. A monument is projected to his memory, and on the committee are Lord John Russell and Sir Robert Peel. Among Dr. Beattie's recollections of the poet's conversations a year or two before, he tells of the emphasis with which he repeated Lest Tickell's lines on the burial of Addison. I should forget them," Dr. Beattie adds, "he sent me a copy of them next day in his own handwriting." With these lines from one of the most affecting poems in the language we close our notice of a book in many respects honorable to its author; in none more than in his anxious wish to conceal the faults and to vindicate the memory of his distinguished friend. "Can I forget the dismal night that gave What awe did the slow, solemn knell inspire- And the last words that "dust to dust" conveyed. From the Literary Gazette. ELIZA COOK'S NEW POEMS. Poems by Eliza Cook. 3 vols. Simpkin, Marshall & Co. A TRINE of volumes to a poet is, like one of those in the prophetic almanacs, an important sign, and predictive of influence and fame. To this honor has our fair friend duly and honestly reached, by a number of compositions which have justly hecome popular within the boundaries of the English language. They are the offspring of nature and feeling; some homely, and imparting pleasure to the homes of the refined as well as the lowly; some more ambitious in subject and treatment, and all dictated by that love of kind which makes genius earnest in every effort to promote the welfare of our fellow creatures. We have often been seduced to bestow our meed of praise on the productions of the author, and it is with pleasure we observe that the novelties in this edition fully bear out the reputation she has so fairly achieved. Here is one of her simple melodies, like the best of former days: 66 THE VILLAGE CHURCH. "The village church is passing gay, The bells gush out in merry tune, A flag is o'er the turret grey, The porch holds all the flowers of June, For Youth and Beauty come to wed, With bounding form and beaming eyeWith all the rapture love can shed, And all the hope that gold can buy; And children twine with noisy glee, White favors round the cypress tree. "An old man sitteth on a grave, His steps no more are firm and fast; And then he turns to gaze around; Where he shall sleep in hallowed ground: 'Just by yon daisy patch,' saith he, Tis there, 'tis there, I'd have it be.' "The bridal hearts in triumph glow, With all the world before them yet; The old man's pulse beats calm and slow, Like sun-rays, lengthening as they set. They see the fancied hours to come, He sees the real days gone by; He thinks it well that man should die. A prayer, closing an address rather doggerelly to the Pope, though fervently put up, has not been fulfilled "All honor to the Pope!' Long life and fame to Pius!' The world's heart still may hope, While such as he stand by us." It is dangerous now-a-days to speculate The upon any thrones or political events. poor Pope could not stand by himself; far less "by Us," except in the representative person and precepts of Dr. M'Hale! Some very affecting stanzas to William Thom, the Inverary poet, are, we trust, only imaginative in expressing kindred woes "O'er thy draught of sorrow, Willie, We are glad to seek refuge in a lighter fancy, in "Lines among the Leaves," though with a teaching and touching moral close: "Have ye heard the west wind singing, Where the summer trees are springing! Have ye counted o'er the many tunes it knows? For the wide-winged spirit rangeth, And its ballad metre changeth As it goes. "A plaintive wail it maketh, "Another tale 'tis telling, "Oh! the summer days are bright, Goes on with the fairy story." "Love," too, is finely sung, as the following stanzas will testify: "There's not a dark, dull coffin-board but what has stood to bear A swarm of summer warblers in the mellow greenwood air; There's not a thread of cere-cloth but has held its blossom bells, And swung the morning pearls about within the fragrant wells. "The rude, bold savage, pouring forth his homage to the sun, ९ Asking for other 'hunting-fields' when life's long chase is run The poet boy who sitteth down upon the upland grass, Whose eagle thoughts are nestled by the zephyr wings that pass; "The weak old man that creepeth out once more before be dies, With longing wish to see and feel the sunlight in his eyes Oh! these are the unerring types that Nature setteth up, To tell that an elixir drop yet sanctifies our cup. "Love, beautiful and boundless Love, thou dwellest here below, Teaching the human lip to smile-the violet to blow: Thine is the breath ethereal that yet exhales and burns In sinful breasts as incense steals from dim unsightly urns." The playfulness in an address to "Winter," offers a different strain : แ "Oh, Winter, old Winter! for many a year You and I have been friends, but I sadly fear That your blustering nights and stormy days Will have no more of my love or my praise. "There was a time when I used to look You full in the face on the frost-bound brook; "It was fun to see you redden a nose, "I've greeted you, come what there might in your train, The hurricane wind or the deluging rain; I've even been kind to your sleet and your fog, When folks said 'twasn't weather to turn out a dog.' "I've welcomed you ever, and tuned each string "But you treat me so very unfairly now, That, indeed, old fellow, we must have a row,' Though your tyrannous conduct's so fiercely uncouth, That I hardly dare venture 'to open my mouth.’ "I tremble to hear you come whistling along, For my breathing gets weak as yours grows strong; And I crouch like my hound in the fire's warm blaze, And eagerly long for the solstice rays. "You may spit your snow, but you need not make My cheek as white as the icicle flake; You may darken the sky, but I cannot tell why You should spitefully seek to bedim my eye. "You sent old Christmas parading the land, With his wassail cup and minstrel band; But you griped me hard when the sports began, Crying, 'Drink if you dare, and dance if you can.' "It is true I had proffers of meat and of wine, Which, with honest politeness, I begged to decline; For with drams antimonial I cannot agree, |