He bids my soul for battle thirstHe bids me dry the last-the firstThe only tears that ever burstFrom Outalissi's soul!Because I may not stain with grief The death-song of an Indian chief!'"-pp. 70-73. It is needless, after these extracts, to enLarge upon the beauties of this poem. They consist chiefly in the feeling and tenderness of the whole delineation, and the taste and delicacy with which all the subordinate parts are made to contribute to the general effect. Before dismissing it, however, we must say a little of its faults, which are sufficiently obvious and undeniable. In the first place, the narrative is extremely obscure and imperfect; and has greater blanks in it than could be tolerated even in lyric poetry. We hear absolutely nothing of Henry, from the day the Indian first brings him from the back country, till he returns from Europe fifteen years thereafter. It is likewise a great oversight in Mr. Campbell to separate his lovers, when only twelve years of age-a period at which it is utterly inconceivable that any permanent attachment could have been formed. The greatest fault, however, of the work, is the occasional constraint and obscurity of the diction, proceeding apparently from too laborious an effort at emphasis or condensation. The metal seems in several places to have been so much overworked, as to have lost not only its ductility, but its lustre; and, while there are passages which can scarcely be at all understood after the most careful consideration, there are others which have an air so elaborate and artificial, as to destroy all appearance of nature in the sentiment. Our readers may have remarked something of this sort, in the first extracts with which we have presented them; but there are specimens still more exceptionable. In order to inform us that Albert had lost his wife, Mr. Campbell is pleased to say, that

"Fate had reft his mutual heart;" and in order to tell us something else-though what, we are utterly unable to conjecturehe concludes a stanza on the delights of mutual love, with these three lines :

"Roll on, ye days of raptur'd influence, shine?
Nor, blind with ecstasy's celestial fire, [pire.'
Shall love behold the spark of earth-born time ex-
The whole twenty-second stanza of the first
part is extremely incorrect; and the three
concluding lines are almost unintelligible.

But where was I when Waldegrave was no
more?

And thou didst pale thy gentle head extend,
In woes, that ev'n the tribe of deserts was thy

friend!'"

If Mr. Campbell had duly considered the primary necessity of perspicuity-especially in compositions which aim only at pleasingwe are persuaded that he would never have left these and some other passages in so very questionable a state. There is still a good deal for him to do, indeed, in a new edition: and working as he must work-in the true

spirit and pattern of what is before him, we hope he will yet be induced to make considerable additions to a work, which will please those most who are most worthy to be pleased; and always seem most beautiful to those who give it the greatest share of their attention.

Of the smaller pieces which fill up the volume, we have scarce left ourselves room to say any thing. The greater part of them have been printed before; and there are probably few readers of English poetry who are not already familiar with the Lochiel and the Hohinlinden-the one by far the most spirited and poetical denunciation of coming woe, since the days of Cassandra; the other the only representation of a modern battle, which possesses either interest or sublimity. The song to "the Mariners of England," is also very generally known. It is a splendid instance of the most magnificent diction adapted to a familiar and even trivial metre. Nothing can be finer than the first and the last stanzas. "Ye mariners of England!

That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle, and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep," &c. p. 101.
"The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceas'd to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceas'd to blow."-pp. 103, 104.

"The Battle of the Baltic," though we think it has been printed before, is much less known. Though written in a strange, and we think an unfortunate metre, it has great force and grandeur, both of conception and expressionthat sort of force and grandeur which results from the simple and concise expression of great events and natural emotions, altogether unassisted by any splendour or amplification of expression. The characteristic merit, indeed, both of this piece and of Hohinlinden, is, that, by the forcible delineation of one or two great circumstances, they give a clear and most energetic representation of events as complicated as they are impressive-and thus impress the mind of the reader with all the terror and sublimity of the subject, while they rescue him from the fatigue and perplexity of its 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 thou
sand stanzas of thunder, shrieks, shouts, tri.
dents, and heroes.

"Hearts of oak,' our captains cried! when
From its adamantine lips
[each gun

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? And her sire, and the people, are called to her bier.

'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear;

"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.
"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.
"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,'
Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and
loud;

And empty that shroud, and that coffin did seem;
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!'
"O! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,
When the shroud was unclos'd, and no lady was

seen;

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 confidence 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.

(January, 1825.)

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

Ir Mr. Campbell's poetry was of a kind those relics to which it excludes the possi that could be forgotten, his long fits of silence bility of any future addition. At all events, would put him fairly in the way of that mis- he has better proof of the permanent interest fortune. But, in truth, he is safe enough; the public take in his productions, than those and has even acquired, by virtue of his ex- ever can have who are more diligent in their emplary laziness, an assurance and pledge of multiplication, and keep themselves in the unmortality which he could scarcely have recollection of their great patron by more freobtained without it. A writer who is still quent intimations of their existence. The fresh in the mind and favour of the public, experiment, too, though not without its haz arter twenty years' intermission, may reason-ards, is advantageous in another respect;-for bly expect to be remembered when death ohal! have finally sealed up the fountains of his inspiration; imposed silence on the cavils of envious rivals, and enhanded the value of

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, idle and occupied world, it is o. all other no living poet, we believe, whose advertise- perhaps the kind of poetry best fitted to win ment excites greater expectation than Mr. on our softer hours, and to sink deep into va Campbell's: and a new poem from him is cant bosoms-unlocking all the sources of waited for with even more eagerness (as it is fond recollection, and leading us gently on certainly for a much longer time) than a new through the mazes of deep and engrossing novel from the author of Waverley. Like all meditation-and thus ministering to a deeper other human felicities, however, this high ex- enchantment and more lasting delight than pectation and prepared homage has its draw-can ever be inspired by the more importunate backs and its dangers. A popular author, as strains of more ambitious authors. we 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 prediet 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 inore 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 long-remembered 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.

There are no doubt peculiar and perhaps insuperable difficulties in the management of themes so delicate, and requiring so fine and so restrained a hand-nor are we prepared to say that Mr. Campbell has on this occasion entirely escaped them. There are passages that are somewhat fade:-there are expressions that are trivial:-But the prevailing character is sweetness and beauty; and it prevails over all that is opposed to it. The story, though abundantly simple, as our readers will immediately see, has two distinct compartments-one relating to the Swiss maiden, the other to the English wife. The former, with all its accompaniments, we think nearly perfect. It is full of tenderness, purity, and pity; and finished with the most exquisite elegance, in few and simple touches. The other, which is the least considerable, has more decided blemishes. The diction is in many places too familiar, and the incidents too common-and the cause of distress has the double misfortune of being unpoetical in its nature, and improbable in its result. But the shortest way is to give our readers a slight account of the poem, with such specimens as may enable them to judge fairly of it for themselves.

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 It opens, poetically, with the description can hardly ever be so splendid and striking as of a fine scene in Switzerland, and of a rustic to make amends for the difficulty. It is en- church-yard; where the friend of the author titled "a Domestic Story"-and it is so-points out to him the flowery grave of a turning upon few incidents-embracing few maiden, who, though gentle and fair, had died characters-dealing in no marvels and no of unrequited love:-and so they proceed, be terrors-displaying no stormy passions. With- tween them, for the matter is left poetically out complication of plot, in short, or hurry of obscure, to her history. Her fancy had been action-with no atrocities to shudder at, or early captivated by the tales of heroic daring feats of noble daring to stir the spirits of the and chivalric pride, with which her country's ambitious-it passes quietly on, through the annals abounded-and she disdained to give shaded paths of private life, conversing with her love to any one who was not graced with gentle natures and patient sufferings-and un- the virtues and glories of those heroic times folding, with serene pity and sober triumph, This exalted mood was unluckily fostered by the pangs which are fated at times to wring her brother's youthful ardour in praise of the the breast of innocence and generosity, and commander under whom he was serving the courage and comfort which generosity and abroad--by whom he was kindly tended when innocence can never fail to bestow. The wounded, and whose picture he brought back taste and the feeling which led to the selec- with him on his return to his paternal home, tion of such topics, could not but impress their to renew, and seemingly to realize, the daycharacter on the style in which they are dreams of his romantic sister. This picture, treated. It is distinguished accordingly by a and the stories her brother told of the noble fine and tender finish, both of thought and of Theodric, completed the poor girl's fascinadiction-by a chastened elegance of words tion. Her heart was kindled by her fancy; and images a mild dignity and tempered and her love was already fixed on a being she pathos in the sentiments, and a general tone had never seen! In the mean time, Theodric, of simplicity and directness in the consuct of who had promised a visit to his young protegé, the story, which, joined to its great brevity, passes over to England, and is betrothed to a tends at first perhaps to disguise both the lady of that country of infinite worth and richness and the force of the genius required amiableness. He then repairs to Switzerland, for its production. But though not calculated where, after a little time he discovers the to strike at once on the dull palled ea of an love of Julia, which he gently, but firmly re

As gay as ever, the laburnum's pride Iglide-
Waves o'er each walk where she was wont to
As lovely blooms, though trode by strangers now.
And still the garden whence she grac'd her brow,
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
Herself descended from the brave in arms,
By mountain-freedom-music-fancy-song,
And conscious of romance-inspiring charms,
Dreamt of Heroic beings; hoped to find
Some extant spirit of chivalric kind;
And scorning wealth, look'd cold ev'n on the claim
Of manly worth, that lack'd the wreath of Fame.'

bukes- returns to England, and is married. | O'er clust'ring trees and terrace-manting vines. His wife has uncomfortable relations-quarrelsome, selfish, and envious; and her peace is sometimes wounded by their dissensions and unkindness. War breaks out anew, too, in Theodric's country; and as he is meditating a journey to that quarter, he is surprised by a visit from Julia's brother, who informs him, that, after a long struggle with her cherished love, her health had at last sunk under it, and that she now prayed only to see him once more before she died! His wife generously urges him to comply with this piteous request. He does so; and arrives, in the midst of wintry tempests, to see this pure victim of too warm an imagination expire, in smiles of speechless gratitude and love. While mourning over her, he is appalled by tidings of the dangerous illness of his beloved Constance-hurries to England-and finds her dead!-her fate having been precipitated, if not occasioned, by the harsh and violent treatment she had met with from her heartless relations. The piece closes with a very touching letter she had left for her husband-and an account of its soothing effects on his mind.

This, we confess, is slight enough, in the way of fable and incident: But it is not in those things that the merit of such poems consists; and what we have given is of course a mere naked outline, or argument rather, intended only to explain and connect our

extracts.

For these, we cannot possibly do better than begin with the beginning.

'Twas sunset, and the Ranz des Vaches was sung,
And lights were o'er th' Helvetian mountains flung,
That gave the glacier tops their richest glow,
And ting'd the lakes like molten gold below.
Warmth flush'd the wonted regions of the storm,
Where, Phoenix-like, you saw the eagle's form,
That high in Heav'ns vermilion wheel'd and soar'd!
Woods nearer frown'd; and cataracts dash'd and
roar'd,

pp. 3-7.

We pass over the animated picture of the brother's campaigns, and of the fame of Theo. dric, 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 check in frantic war's unfinished game,
A curtain-drop between the acts of death-
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 Shreck-
horn,

Though wrapt in clouds, and frowning as in scorn,
Upon a downward world of pastoral charms;
Where, by the very smell of dairy-farms,
And fragrance from the mountain-herbage blown,
Blindfold his native hills he could have known!

"His coming down yon lake-his boat in view From heights brouzed by the bounding bouquetin; The arms spread out for him-the tears that burst― Of windows where love's flutt'ring kerchief flewHerds tinkling roam'd the long-drawn vales be-Twas Julia's, 'twas his sister's met him first :) Their pride to see war's medal at his breast. And all their rapture's greeting, may be guess'd." pp. 12, 13.

tween,

[green.
And hamlets glitter'd white, and gardens flourish'd
'Twas transport to inhale the bright sweet air!
The mountain-bee was revelling in its glare,
And roving with his minstrelsy across
The scented wild weeds, and enamell'd moss.
Earth's features so harmoniously were link'd,
She seem'd one great glad form, with life instinct,
That felt Heav'n's ardent breath, and smil'd below
Its flush of love with consentaneous glow.
A Gothic church was near; the spot around
Was beautiful, ev'n though sepulchral ground;
For there nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom,
But roses blossom'd by each rustic tomb.
Amidst them one of spotless marble shone-
A maiden's grave-and 'twas inscrib'd thereon,
That young and lov'd she died whose dust was
there:

"Yes,' said my comrade, 'young she died, and

fair!

Grace form'd her, and the soul of gladness play'd
Once in the blue eyes of that mountain-maid!
Her fingers witch'd the chords they passed along,
And her lips seem'd to kiss the soul in song:
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.

Her father dwelt where yonder Castle shines

At last the generous warrior appears in per son 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 trod the mountain-sward as they,
And felt his joy make ev'n the young more gay
By yon blue water's breath!-their walks how
How jocund was their breakfast parlour, fann'd

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 twain 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,