The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think, From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink,

To the life we are clinging too, they too would cling, But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing.

They loved-but their story we cannot unfold.
They scorned-but the heart of the haughty is cola,
They grieved but no wail from their slumbers may come,
They joyed-but the voice of their gladness is dumb.

They died-ay, they died! and we things that are now.
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwelling a transient abode,
Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea; hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together in sunshine and rain;

And the smile, and the tear, and the song, and the dirge,
Still follow each other like surge upon surge.

'Tis the twink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud-
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud!

THOMAS CAMPBELL, LL.D.

1777-1844.

CAMPBELL was the youngest son of a Glasgow merchant, who traced his descent to a distinguished family of Argyleshire. Commercial misfortunes had reduced his father to comparative poverty, but he was able to give his favorite and promising son an education in Glasgow university. Through the classes of that seminary the youth passed with great reputation, especially for Greek literature; and, abandoning his original prospect of church preferment, he came to Edinburgh with some hazy intentions of studying law. Poetical sympathies and want of opportunity fortunately threw his energies in another direction. The publication of the "Pleasures of Hope," in 1799, at the early age of twenty-one, elevated him to the rank of a popular poet. The emolument yielded by his poem enabled him to travel in Germany: he witnessed the battle of Hohenlinden, which he has so nobly commemorated. Ultimately he married his cousin, Miss Matilda Sinclair, and settled in the neighborhood of London. His married life was happy, but the death of one son and the madness of another, cast a dark shadow on Campbell's existence. He continually struggled with narrowness of circumstances, caused in a great measure by his generosity to his destitute mother, sisters, and other relations. His health was seldom vigorous, while his subsistence demanded the incessant exercise of his pen, chiefly in the task-work of compilation. For a number of years (1820-1831) he edited the New Monthly Magazine. He was frequently on the continent, and the death of his wife in 1828, leaving the poet stripped of his last domestic comfort, seemed to give his wandering propensities a wider range; he visited Algiers in 1834. He had the honor

of being thrice elected to the Lord Rectorship of his native university. During his later years, in the enjoyment of a merited pension from government, he resided chiefly in London, engaged in literary pursuits, and enjoying the society of his friends. He died in 1844 at Boulogne, to which he had removed in search of renovated health. He was buried in Westminster Abbey.

Campbell's poetical works consist of the "Pleasures of Hope;" "Gertrude of Wyoming," an affecting tale of an Indian incursion on that Pennsylvania village during the American war;" "Theodoric," a domestic Swiss tale, and many beautiful minor pems. His lyrics are among the noblest in the language.

Chambers gives the following just and beautiful analysis of Campbell's poetry:

"The genius and taste of Campbell resemble those of 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. The general tone of Campbell's 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 power-which never quit the memory. In his highest pulse of excitement, the cadence of his verse becomes deep and strong, without losing its liquid smoothness, the stream expands to a flood, but never overflows the limits prescribed by a correct taste and regulated magnificence."

OUR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lower'd And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,. The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track:
'Twas Autumn,-and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore,

From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.

Stay, stay with us,-rest, thou art weary and worn;
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;-
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.