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 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, Your glorious standard launch again And sweep through the deep," &c.—p. 101. Till danger's troubled night depart, When the storm has ceas'd to blow; it has been printed before, is much less known. "The Battle of the Baltic," though we think Though written in a strange, and we think an grandeur, both of conception and expressionunfortunate metre, it has great force and that 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, 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. 2 E 2 "Hearts of oak,' our captains cried! when | When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in [each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships! Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. Till a feebler cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back ; Their shots along the deep slowly boom :- As they strike the shatter'd sail; 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. scorn, 'Twas the youth who had lov'd the fair Ellen of Lorn: "I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, "In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground, 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 conthe conviction, that he can do much greater ceptions, which irresistibly impresses us with 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. 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. We (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, idle and occupied world, it is of all others 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 vaCampbell'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 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 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, beterrors-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 conduct 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 ear of an love of Julia, which he gently, but firmly re | bukes-returns to England, and is married. | O'er clust'ring trees and terrace-mantling vines. As gay as ever, the laburnum's pride Lglide- 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, tween, From heights brouzed by the bounding bouquetin; "'Yes.' said my comrade, 'young she died, and fair! Grace form'd her, and the soul of gladness play'd pp. 3-7. We pass over the animated picture of the Though wrapt in clouds, and frowning as in scorn, "His coming down yon lake-his boat in view 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, "Thus, loth to wound their hospitable pride, Fair Julia seem'd her brother's soften'd sprite- Th' unlikely thought could scarcely reach his mind, Symptoms still more unequivocal, however, at last make explanations 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 And Beauty died, and Friendship wept within! 44 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 tidings-by his English messenger Of Constance-brief and terrible they were," &c. pp. 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, how- "And to know her well p. 16. "To paint that being to a grov'ling mind Were like pourtraying pictures to the blind. 'Twas needful ev'n infectiously to feel Her temper's fond, and firm, and gladsome zeal, 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, 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. [side, Our power to baffle! Bear it then, my love! The tone of this tender farewell must remind all our readers of the catastrophe of the charge of some poverty of invention in Gertrude; and certainly exposes the author to 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 |