Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

striking instance of the great minstrel's powers of recollection, which was related to us by Mr. Campbell himself. In 1803 the poet repaired to London, and devoted himself to literature as a profession. He resided for some time with his friend, Mr. Telford, the celebrated engineer. Telford continued his regard for the poet throughout a long life, and remembered him in his will by a legacy of £500.*

[ocr errors]

·

Mr. Campbell wrote several papers for the Edinburgh Encyclopædia-of which Telford had some share-including poetical biographies, an account of the drama, &c. He also compiled Annals of Great Britain from the Accession of George III. to the Peace of Amiens,' in three volumes. Such compilations can only be considered in the light of mental drudgery; but Campbell, like Goldsmith, could sometimes impart grace and interest to task-work. In 1806, through the influence of Mr. Fox, the government granted a pension to the poet-a well-merited tribute to the author of those national strains, Ye Mariners of England,' and the 'Battle of the Baltic.' In 1809 was published his second great poem, 'Gertrude of Wyoming, a Pennsylvania Tale.' The subsequent literary labours of Mr. Campbell were only, as regards his poetical fame, subordinate efforts. The best of them were contributed to the New Monthly Magazine,' which he edited for ten years (from 1820 to 1830); and one of these minor poems, the Last Man,' may be ranked among his greatest conceptions: it is like a sketch by Michael Angelo or Rembrandt. Previous to this time the poet had visited Paris in company with Mrs. Siddons and John Kemble, and enjoyed the sculpture and other works of art in the Louvre with such intensity that they seemed to give his mind a new sense of the harmony of art-a new visual power of enjoying beauty. Every step of approach,' he says, 'to the presence of the Apollo Belvidere, added to my sensations, and all recollections of his name in classic poetry swarmed on my mind as spontaneously as the associations that are conjured up by the sweetest music.' In 1818 he again visited Germany, and on his return the following year he published his 'Specimens of the British Poets,' with biographical and critical notices, in seven volumes. The justness and

A similar amount was bequeathed to Mr. Southey, and, with a good-luck which one would wish to see always attend poets' legacies, the sums were more than doubled in consequence of the testator's estate far exceeding what he believed to be its value. Thomas Telford (1757 1834) was himself a rhymester in his youth. He was born on poetic ground. amidst the scenes of old Scottish song, green hills, and the other adjuncts of a landscape of great sylvan and pastoral beauty. Eksdale, his native district-where he lived till nearly twenty, first as a shepherd, and afterwards as a stone-mason-was also the birthplace of Armstrong and Mickle. Telford wrote a poem descriptive of this classic dale, but it is only a feeble paraphrase of Goldsmith. He addressed an epistle to Burns. part of which is published by Currie. These boyish studies and predilections contrast strangely with the severer pursuits of his after-years as a mathematician and engineer. In his original occupation of a stone-mason, cutting names on tombstones (in which he excelled, as did also Hugh Miller), we can fancy him cheering his solitary labours with visions of literary eminence: but it is difficult to conceive him at the same time dreaming of works like the Menai Br dge or the Pont-cy-sylte aqueduct in Wales. He had, however. received an early architectural or engineering bias by poring over the plates and descriptions in Rollin's history, which he read by his mother's fireside, or in the open air while herding sheep. Telford was a liberal-minded and benevolent man.

beauty of his critical dissertations have been universally admitted; some of them are perfect models of chaste yet animated criticism. In 1820 Mr. Campbell delivered a course of lectures on poetry at the Surrey Institution; in 1824 he published Theodric and other Poems; and, though busy in establishing the London University, he was, in 1827, honoured with the graceful compliment of being elected lord rector of the university of his native city. This distinction was continued and heightened by his re-election the following two years. He afterwards made a voyage to Algiers, of which he published an account; and in 1842 he appeared again as a poet. This work was a slight narrative poem, unworthy of his fame, entitled "The Pilgrim of Glencoe.' Among the literary engagements of his later years, was a 'Life of Mrs. Siddons,' and a Life of Petrarch.' In the summer of 1843, he fixed his residence at Boulougne, but his health was by this time much impaired, and he died the following summer, June 15, 1844. He was interred in Westminster Abbey, his funeral being attended by some of the most eminent noblemen and statesmen of the day, with a numerous body of private friends. In 1849 a selection from his correspondence, with a life of the poet, was published by his affectionate friend and literary executor, Dr. Beattie, himself the author of various works, and of some pleasing and picturesque poetry.

In genius and taste Campbell resembles Gray. He displays the same delicacy and purity of sentiment, the same vivid perception of beauty and ideal loveliness, equal picturesqueness and elevation of imagery, and the same lyrical and concentrated power of expression. The diction of both is elaborately choice and select. Campbell has greater sweetness and gentleness of pathos, springing from deep moral feeling, and a refined sensitiveness of nature. Neither can be termed boldly original or inventive, but they both possess sublimity -Gray in his two magnificent odes, and Campbell in his war-songs or lyrics, which form the richest offering ever made by poetry at the shrine of patriotism. The general tone of his verse is calm, uniform, and mellifluous-a stream of mild harmony and delicious fancy flowing through the bosom-scenes of life, with images scattered separately like flowers on its surface, and beauties of expression interwoven with it-certain words and phrases of magical powerwhich never quit the memory. Campbell is secure, as one of his critics has said, in an immortality of quotation.' Some of his line have become household words-e. g.:

"Tis distance lends enchantment to the view.
But, mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth?
The torrent's smoothness ere it dash below.

'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore,
And coming events cast their shadows before.

And many other short passages might be cited

With all his cl

sic predilections, Campbell was not-as he has himself remarked of Crabbe-a laudator temporis acti, but a decided lover of later times. Age never quenched his zeal for public freedom or for the unchained exercise of the human intellect; and, with equal consistency in tastes as in opinions, he was to the last meditating a work on Greek literature, by which, fifty years before, as a scholar, he first achieved distinction.

Many can date their first love of poetry from their perusal of Campbell. In youth, the Pleasures of Hope' is generally preferred In riper years, when the taste becomes matured,*Gertrude of Wyoming' rises in estimation. Its beautiful home-scenes go more closely to the heart, and its delineation of character and passion evinces a more luxuriant and perfect genius. The portrait of the savage chief Outalissi is finished with inimitable skill and effect:

Far differently the mute Oneyda took
His calumet of peace and cup of joy;
As monumental bronze unchanged his look;
A soul that pity touched, but never shook;
Trained from his tree-rocked cradle to his bier
The fierce extreme of good and ill to brook
Impassive-fearing but the shame of fear-
A stoic of the woods-a man without a tear.

[ocr errors]

The loves of Gertrude and Waldegrave, the patriarchal Albert, and the sketches of rich sequestered Pennsylvanian scenery, also shew the finished art of the poet. The poem of 'O'Connor's Child' is another exquisitely finished and pathetic tale. The rugged and ferocious features of ancient feudal manners and family pride are there displayed in connection with female suffering, love, and beauty, and with the romantic and warlike colouring suited to the country and the times. It is full of antique grace and passionate energythe mingled light and gloom of the wild Celtic character..

·Elegy Written in Mull (June 1795).
The tempest blackens on the dusky moor,
And billows lash the long-resounding shore:
In pensive mood, I roam the desert ground.
And vainly sigh for scenes no longer found.
O whither fled the pleasurable hours

That chased each care and fired the Muse's powers ?—
The classic haunts of youth, for ever gay,

Where mirth and friendship cheered the close of day;

The well-known valleys where I wont to roam⚫
The native sports, the nameless joys of home?

Far different scenes allure my wondering eye-
The white wave foaming to the distant sky;
The cloudy heavens, unblest by summer's smile,
The sounding storm that sweeps the rugged isle-
The chill, bleak summit of eternal snow-
The wide, wild glen-the pathless plains below;
The dark-blue rocks in barren grandeur piled;
The cuckoo sighing to the pensive wild.

Far different these from all that charmed before,
The grassy banks of Clutha's winding shore;

Her sloping vales, with waving forests lined,
Her smooth blue lakes, unruffled by the wind.
Hail, happy Clutha! glad shall I survey
Thy gilded turrets from the distant way!
Thy sight shall cheer the weary traveller's toil,
And joy shall hail me to my native soil.

Picture of Domestic Love.-From the 'Pleasures of Hope.'

Thy pencil traces on the lover's thought

Some cottage-home, from towns and toil remote,
Where love and lore may claim alternate hours,
With peace embosom'd in Idalian bowers!
Remote from busy life's bewildered way.
O'er all his heart shall Taste and Beauty sway!
Free on the sunny slope, or winding shore,
With hermit-steps to wander and adore!
There shall he love, when genial morn appears,
Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears,
To watch the brightening roses of the sky,
And muse on nature with a poet's eye!

And when the sun's last splendour lights the deep
The wood and waves, and murmuring winds asleep,
When fairy harps the Hesperian planet hail,
And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale,
His path shall be where streamy mountains swell
Their shadowy grandeur o'er the narrow dell;
Where moulding piles and forests intervene,
Mingling with darker tints the living green;
No circling hills his ravished eye to bound,
Heaven earth, and ocean blazing all around!
The moon is up-the watch-tower dimly burns-
And down the vale his sober step returns;
But pauses oft, as winding rocks convey
The still sweet fall of music far away;
And oft he lingers from his home awhile,
To watch the dying notes-and start, and smile!
Let winter come! let polar spirits sweep

The darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep!
Though boundless snows the withered heath deform,
And the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm,
Yet shall the smile of social love repay,

With mental light, the melancholy day!

And, when its short and sullen noon is o'er,
The ice-chained waters slumbering on the shore,
How bright the fagots in his little hall

Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall!
How blest he names, in love's familiar tone,
The kind fair friend, by nature marked his own;
And, in the waveless mirror of his mind,
Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind,
Since when her empire o'er his heart began-
Since first he called her his before the holy man!
Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome,
And light the wintry paradise of home;
And let the half-uncurtained window hail
Some wayworn man benighted in the vale!
Now, while the moaning night-wind rages high,
As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled sky,
While fiery hosts in heaven's wide circle play,
And bathe in lurid light the Milky-way;
Safe from the storm, the meteor, and the shower,
Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn hour;

With pathos shall command, with wit beguile,
A generous tear of anguish, or a smile!

Death of Gertrude.

Past was the flight, and welcomed seemed the tower,
That like a giant standard-bearer frowned
Defiance on the roving Indian power.

Beneath, each bold and promontory mound
With embrasure embossed and armour crowned,
And arrowy frise, and wedged ravelin,

Wove like a diadem its tracery round

The lofty summit of that mountain green;

Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene,

A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun,
And blended arms, and white pavilions glow;
And for the business of destruction done,

Its requiem the war-horn seemed to blow:
There, sad spectatress of her country's woe!
The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm,

Had laid her cheek, and clasped her hands of snow
On Waldgrave's shoulder, half within his arm

Inclosed, that felt her heart, and hushed its wild alarm!

But short that contemplation-sad and short
The pause to bid each much-loved scene adieu !
Beneath the very shadow of the fort,

Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners flew;
Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian crew

Was near?-yet there, with lust of murderous deeds,
Gleamed like a basilisk, from woods in view,
The ambushed foeman's eye-his volley speeds,
And Albert, Albert falls! the dear old father bleeds!
And tranced in giddy horror, Gertrude swooned;
Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone,
Say, burst they, borrowed from her father's wound,
These drops? Oh, God! the life-blood is her own i
And faltering, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrown-
'Weep not, O love!' she cries, to see me bleed;
Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone
Heaven's peace commiserate; for scarce I heed

These wounds; yet thee to leave is death, is death indeed!

Clasp me a little longer on the brink

Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress;

And when this heart hath ceased to beat-oh! think,

And let it mitigate thy woe's excess,

That thou hast been to me all tenderness,

And friend to more than human friendship just.

Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,

And by the hopes of an immortal trust,

God shall assuage thy pangs-when I am laid in dust !'

Hushed were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland

And beautiful expression seemed to melt

With love that could not die! and still his hand

She presses to the heart no more that felt.

Ah, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt,

And features yet that spoke a soul more fair.

Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt

Of them that stood encircling his despair

He heard some friendly words; but knew not what they were.

« AnteriorContinuar »