and pursued his profession with the attention and correctness of the sole-devoted sons of trade. Goldsmith was his model, and he labored his lines with ten times his master's care, if not always with his master's success. Perhaps the English language does not afford a more finished composition in regard to language than the "Pleasures of Memory." He wrote because he felt the inspiration, and polished his verse and chastened his language, because he was too scrupulous to give his country a specimen of careless or unfinished poetry. He was born in 1762, and of course is now an old man, and if his muse has lost some of her fire, his heart has lost none of its warmth. It was Rogers who came in to soothe the last pangs of Sheridan as he was drinking the dregs of the cup of his misfortunes and his follies, on his death-bed.

VERSES,

WRITTEN TO BE SPOKEN BY MRS. SIDDONS.

Yes, 'tis the pulse of life! my fears were vain!

I wake, I breathe, and am myself again.
Still in this nether world; no seraph yet!
Nor walks my spirit, when the sun is set,
With troubled step to haunt the fatal board,
Where I died last-by poison or the sword;
Blanching each honest cheek with deeds of night,
Done here so oft by dim and doubtful light.
-To drop all metaphor, that little bell
Call'd back reality, and broke the spell.

No heroine claims your tears with tragic tone;
A very woman-scarce restrains her own!
Can she, with fiction, charm the cheated mind,
When to be grateful is the part assign'd? ·

12

Ah, no! she scorns the trappings of her art,
No theme but truth, no prompter but the heart!
But, ladies, say, must I alone unmask?

Is here no other actress? let me ask.

Believe me, those, who best the heart dissect,
Know every woman studies stage-effect.
She moulds her manners to the part she fills,
As instinct teaches, or as humor wills;
And, as the grave or gay her talent calls,
Acts in the drama, till the curtain falls.

First, how her little breast with triumph swells,
When the red coral rings its golden bells!
To play in pantomime is then the rage,
Along the carpet's many colour'd stage ;
Or lisp her merry thoughts with loud endeavor,
Now here, now there-in noise and mischief ever!
A school-girl next, she curls her hair in papers,
And mimics father's gout, and mother's vapours;
Discards her doll, bribes Betty for romances;
Playful at church, and serious when she dances;
Tramples alike on customs and on toes,
And whispers all she hears to all she knows;
Terror of caps, and wigs, and sober notions!
A romp! that longest of perpetual motions!
-Till tam'd and tortur'd into foreign graces,
She sports her lovely face at public places ;
And with blue, laughing eyes, behind her fan,
First acts her part with that great actor, man.

Too soon a flirt, approach her and she flies! Frowns when pursued, and, when entreated, sighs! Plays with unhappy men as cats with mice, Till fading beauty hints the late advice. Her prudence dictates what her pride disdain'd, And now she sues to slaves herself had chain'd!

Then comes that good old character, a wife,
With all the dear, distracting cares of life;
A thousand cards a day at doors to leave,
And, in return, a thousand cards receive;
Rouge high, play deep, to lead the ton aspire,
With nightly blaze set Portland-place on fire;
Snatch half a glimpse at concert, opera, ball,
A meteor, trac'd by none, tho' seen by all;
And, when her shatter'd nerves forbid to roam,
In very spleen-rehearse the girls at home.

Last the grey dowager, in ancient flounces,
With snuff and spectacles, the age denounces;
Boasts how the sires of this degenerate isle
Knelt for a look, and duell'd for a smile,
The scourge and ridicule of Goth and Vandal,
Her tea she sweetens, as she sips, with scandal;
With modern belles eternal warfare wages,
Like her own birds that clamour from their cages
And shuffles round to bear her tale to all,
Like some old ruin, "nodding to its fall!"

Thus woman makes her entrance and her exit; Not least an actress when she least suspects it. Yet nature oft peeps out and mars the plot, Each lesson lost, each poor pretence forgot; Full oft, with energy that scorns control, At once lights up the features of the soul; Unlocks each thought chain'd down by coward art, And to full day the latent passions start!

-And she, whose first, best wish is your applause, Herself exemplifies the truth she draws. Born on the stage-thro' every shifting scene, Obscure or bright, tempestuous or serene, Still has your smile her trembling spirit fir'd!

And can she act, with thoughts like these inspir'd?
Thus from her mind all artifice she flings,

All skill, all practice, now unmeaning things!
To you, uncheck'd, each genuine feeling flows!
For all that life endears-to you she owes.

Thomas Campbell has filled a great space in English poetry for more than thirty years. He was born in 1777. He was made professor in the royal institute, and gave lectures on poetry which are in print; and if they are not all we might have expected from the author of the Pleasures of Hope, they are learned and smooth, and abound in striking passages. He has also given lectures on Greek literature-a subject of deep interest to the scholar.

He

The "Pleasures of Hope" is a splendid poem. It was written for perpetuity. Its polish is exquisite, its topics felicitously chosen, and its illustrations natural and beautiful. This is poetry, philosophical and plain, but full of imagination. There are no startling paradoxes, no abrupt endings or beginnings in this poem,— it is as pure as day and as sweet as summer. lifts you up to an exceeding high mountain, and you see all nature in her loveliness, and man in the truth of his character, with hope irradiating, cheering, and sustaining him in the numerous ills of life. trude of Wyoming" is preferred by some readers even to his "Pleasures of Hope." It is a sad tale, told with tenderness as well as genius. But if these never had been written his songs would have given him claims as a first rate poet. They cover sea and land. Their spirit stirs the brave whatever may be their field of fame; whether the snow is to be their winding sheet or the

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deep their grave. National songs are of the most difficult production and of the highest value. They are the soul of national feeling and a safeguard of national honor. They are readily impressed on the memory, and never forgotten when acquired. They are fitted to every instrument and every voice. They are on the lips of infants, and are breathed from the dying patriot's breath.

England has not been wanting in patriotic songs, but that composed by Peterborough, and sung by Wolfe on the eve of battle, and many others that have assisted to rouse drooping spirits, are not equal to those of Campbell. "Ye mariners of England" will live as long as there is a timber left of the British navy. The spirit of a great poet not only goes back to what has passed in the affairs of man, but carries with it the hopes of future times,

Campbell not only sung the mighty but unsuccessful struggle of the Poles when Kosciusko fell, but shadowed forth that distinct and awful determination of man which is inherent in his nature, and which time will bring forth sooner or later to put down all oppression, Every great poet is indeed a seer for his country's good, and not that only but for the good of mankind.

"Oh! righteous heaven! ere Freedom found a gráve,
Why slept thy sword, omnipotent to saye?
Where was thine arm, O Vengeance, when thy rod,
That smote the foes of Zion and of God,
That crushed proud Ammon when his iron car
Was yoked in wrath and thundered from afar?
Where was the storm that slumbered till the host
Of blood-stain'd Pharaoh left the trembling coast,