CAMPBELL.

THERE are two prominent sources of poetry-fantasy and feeling. In a few men of genius they are so equally mingled as scarcely to be distinguished, and their happy combination is doubtless the perfection of the art. It is easy, however, to perceive of late a growing disposition to undervalue vigorous and earnest verse and exalt at its expense the more dreamy and careless effusions of fancy. A certain order of critics go so far as to confine the name of poetry only to the latter. The only bard they recognize is he who throws into rhythmical form the most unconnected and fantastic images he can command-whose sentiment springs from vague musing rather than real emotion, and whose metaphors are ingeniously fanciful. A speculative reverie, a visionary experience like that of the Opium Eater,—an elaborate mysticism seems to origi nate this species of verse. It appears the result of an excess of one poetical element. Imagination is, indeed, an essential of poetry, but with it must blend thought enough to give energy, and feeling sufficient to awaken a human glow, or the result is as coldly brilliant as frost by moonlight.

The mood in which such poetry is conceived is often one of the most fascinating we experience. It is that state which Irving significantly calls day-dreaming. In the pleasing languor of a summer noon, amid the vast monotony of the ocean, or when seated by a lonely fire

side at midnight, we often instinctively yield to a train of thought which soothes by its very waywardness. The mind escapes from its work-day round and expatiates at its own free will. In such lawless excursions many a striking picture is suggested and rare spirit evoked, but it is not to be supposed that they can be indiscriminately transferred to the poet's page with good effect. And yet there are writers who place such a value upon these crude and unorganized products of their fancy as to throw them forth without exercising either taste or reflection. If poetry is an art, not thus is it to be written. German literature and the example of Shelley, Wordsworth and other metaphysical writers, have induced among less gifted spirits, too complete a reliance upon fantasy as the source of poetry. A certain degree of fact and feeling, of clearness of purpose and strength of thought, of direct language and sincere ardour is essential, if not to poetry in general, at least to that poetry which will move the Saxon heart. It is this conviction which enables us to revert with pleasure to that class of poets whose attraction lies in their manliness and enthusiasm-who feel strongly and express themselves with a cheering vivacity. Not always would we be lulled by the minstrel, or led through the mystic windings of a flowery labyrinth. There are times when we love the trumpet's note better than the Æolian harp; when the mountain air is sweeter than the odours of the East-the bard of hope is more welcome than Coleridge or Tennyson.

rous.

The spirit of Campbell's muse is chivalric and geneWe readily understand the quick sensibility he is said to have manifested at any instance of injustice, after communing with his poetry. He seems to have inherited not a little of the brave sympathies of the old clan whose name he bears. With the cause of Freedom his name is nobly identified. His "Song of the Greeks," and the

finest episode of his long poem which so glowingly depicts the fate of Poland, afford thrilling proofs of his attachment to liberty. With the cause of the latter nation his private exertions as well as public appeals have completely and most honourably identified his name. His ardent love of music might have been inferred from his versification, which is often singularly melodious and almost invariably affecting. Campbell must certainly be placed in the rank of fortunate bards. Although no elaborate and frequent, triumphs succeeded his early success, an uncommon proportion of what he has published has been deservedly popular. If his minor and casual literary efforts, during the last forty years, have not added to his laurels they have proved occasions of agreeable occupation and pecuniary advantage. His domestic relations were remarkably happy though early interrupted by death. His social privileges and his opportunities for literary improvement have been great. He has enjoyed the friendship of the gifted in the various walks of intellectual life in England, and his existence has been pleasantly divided between mental application and the enjoyment of Nature and congenial fellowship. It was the rare good fortune of Campbell to break at once upon the world as a poet in the hey-day of youth. His "Pleasures of Hope" have certainly not proved illusive. They immediately won for him the admiration of all classes of readers, and the handsome annuity of two hundred pounds so justly awarded to him on their publication, was continued until his death. Few modern poets have reaped a more bountiful harvest of fame and comfort from their labours, and few have proved themselves more worthy of the distinction.

The direct style and decided tone of the minstrel whose heart is the fountain of his verse, wins him a larger if not so select an audience than belongs to the more refined

and imaginative. He speaks a language of universal import. He gives expression to sentiments not peculiar but general. The obligation under which he places his fellow beings is that of having given “ a local habitation and a name" to feelings deeply enshrined in their breasts, but hitherto wanting an adequate voice

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"What oft was felt, but ne'er so well expressed." The poetry of abstract imagination, the undefined, wild and mystical shapings of thought, have their interest and value, but to appreciate them it is not requisite for us to be insensible to the more clear and artless effusions of the muse. These fix the attention at once, impress the memory and kindle the heart. In such strains would we ever see recorded the lessons of patriotism and the simple overflowing of affection. They occupy the same relation to more fanciful poetry that popular oratory does to philosophical reasoning, the letter of friendship to the studied essay, the household song to the intricate composition. Campbell is a delightful representative of this class of poets. If we should choose a single term to indicate his attractiveness, we would call him spirited. The greater part of his verse is glowing and alive. It bears not the air of vague reverie and listless musing, but of a mind full of its subject. He does not dally with the muse but seeks her favour in a manly and ardent manner. He is not dainty and elaborate, but impassioned and vivid. He seems to be thoroughly in earnest—a quality not less essential than rare. He is moved by a decided sentiment and hence conveys a strong impression. In a word he is one of those poets whose sympathies must be excited before they can write. The mere habit of versification, the passing wish of a moment, or some conventional motive are quite insufficient to elicit the gems of such a bard. Accordingly they are either eminently successful or signally indifferent. Much absurd prejudice with regard to

what is called the poetry of passion has been induced by the numberless critics of Byron. Because his life was irregular and his mind sometimes fevered rather than warmed into action, it has been argued that true poetry is wholly contemplative. As if we were never to be roused as well as soothed, as if stagnation were not equally false to our nature as violence, and as if there were not seasons and subjects which claimed and justified a wholesome and deep enthusiasm. One of Campbell's terse and awakening lines admirably defines the nature of his own poetry: "For song is but the eloquence of truth." He does not dilate with artist-like taste upon the minute graces of nature, he seldom displays a dramatic or picturesque talent, but he gives forcible, bold and moving utterance to sentiments of bravery, moral indignation and devoted love. In the genial animation of friendly converse we are often surprised at a felicity of diction or an effective metaphor. The same unpremeditated touches of beauty or vigour distinguish the writings which proceed from strong feeling. The unusual number of Campbell's lines which have become proverbial illustrates this truth. We scarcely remember, when we use such familiar expressions as "angels' visits, few and far between"—" 't is distance lends enchantment to the view"-" coming events cast their shadows before," that they originated witht Campbell. It would indeed be difficult to name a modern English poet whose works are more closely entwined with our early associations or whose happier efforts linger more pleasantly in the memory.

Campbell is one of the kings of school literature in this country. More dazzling species of fame may reward other minstrels; to be the cherished by the virtuous and meditative like Wordsworth, to be the favourite of social circles like Moore, or the idol of a chosen few like Shelley, is no undesirable destiny for a poet. But to a kindly