THOMAS CAMPBELL was born in Glasgow, in the year 1777. He was educated at the University of that city, into which he entered at twelve years of age, and where he rapidly obtained distinction. From Glasgow he removed to the Scottish metropolis, and cultivated acquaintance with the many celebrated men who, at that period, resided there, and who perceived a kindred spirit in the youthful Poet. Here he published the "Pleasures of Hope,"-a poem which at once achieved the fame that time has not diminished, and which must endure with the language in which it is written. Upwards of twenty years elapsed before Mr. Campbell again essayed a continuous work; but during the interval he produced those immortal odes, the "Battle of the Baltic," "Ye Mariners of England," and "Hohenlinden,"-the field of which, during the battle, he is said to have overlooked from the walls of a neighbouring convent. In 1820, he published "Gertrude of Wyoming,"-a poem sufficient to maintain the high reputation he had acquired, and which, indeed, is by many preferred to the "Pleasures of Hope." In 1824 appeared "Theodoric," a domestic tale; and these, with the exceptions of his MINOR poems-the term can have reference only to their length-comprise the whole of his contributions to English poetry. In the year 1820, Mr. Campbell undertook the Editorship of the "New Monthly Magazine," which he relinquished in 1830; and in the conduct of which Mr. S. C. Hall had the honour to succeed him. Soon afterwards Mr. Campbell undertook a voyage to Algiers, the results of which he communicated to the public. During three successive years he was elected Lord Rector of the University in which he received his education,-a distinction the more marked, inasmuch as his competitors were Sir Walter Scott and Mr. Canning. To Mr. Campbell we are mainly indebted for the establishment of the London University: the plan for its formation originated with him, and was by him matured; although he left its completion in the hands of more active contemporaries.

Mr. Campbell was rather below than above the middle stature. The expression of his countenance indicated the sensitiveness of his mind. His eye was large, and of a deep blue; his manners were peculiarly bland and insinuating: in general society he was exceedingly cheerful, and his conversation abounded in pointed humour. His general appearance was, however, considered to lend force to the supposition that he disliked labour; and was rarely roused to more than momentary exertion. At college he rose to high repute as a scholar; and afterwards took some steps to maintain the character he acquired; his lectures on Greek poetry have been published. It has been a subject of regret that Mr. Campbell has written so little. But those who so express themselves forget that it is far more to their advantage to have a few finished models, than a mass of crude and incomplete formations; and that it is only by long labour in execution, and still longer labour in preparatory thought and arrangement, that perfection can be produced. There is not one of the fine "Odes" of Campbell that would be sacrificed for a volume: it may be even questioned which the world would most willingly permit to perish, the " Pleasures of Hope," or, "Ye Mariners of England.”

The poetry of Campbell is universally felt, and therefore universally appreciated. His appeals are made to those sensations which are common to mankind. While his poetry can bear the test of the severest criticism, it is intelligible to the simplest understanding. As little occurs to dissatisfy the mind as the ear. His conceptions are natural and true; and the language in which he clothes them is graceful and becoming. If he laboured hard-as it is said he always did-to render his verse easy and barmonious, he never led the reader to suspect that his care to produce harmony weakened his original thought. He affords no evidence of fastidiousness in the choice of words; yet they always seem the fittest for his purpose, and are never forced into a service they are not calculated to perform. He combines the qualities so rarely met togetherstrength and smoothness-yet his vigour is never coarse, and his delicacy never effeminate. His subjects have been all skilfully chosen ;- he has sought for themes only where a pure mind seeks them; and turned from the grosser passions, the meaner desires, and the vulgar sentiments of man, as things unfitted for verse, and unworthy of illustration. The Poet has had his reward. His poems will perish only with the memories of mankind. He died at Boulogne, on the 15th June, 1844, and was buried in Westminster Abbey, where there is a worthy monument to his memory. His life has been written by his beloved friend and physician, good Dr. William Beattie.

STAR that bringest home the bee,
And sett'st the weary labourer free
If any star shed peace, 'tis thou,
That send'st it from above;

Appearing when heaven's breath and brow
Are sweet as hers we love.

Come to the luxuriant skies,

Whilst the landscape's odours rise,
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,
And songs, when toil is done,

From cottages, whose smoke unstirr'd
Curls yellow in the sun.

Hinchliff

Star of love's soft interviews,
Parted lovers on thee muse;
Their remembrancer in heaven
Of thrilling vows thou art,-
Too delicious to be riven

By absence from the heart.

TO THE RAINBOW.

TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky
When storms prepare to part,
I ask not proud Philosophy

To teach me what thou art.

Still seem as to my childhood's sight,
A midway station given-

For happy spirits to alight

Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that Optics teach, unfold
Thy form to please me so,
As when I dreamt of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow?

When Science from creation's face
Enchantment's veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws!

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High
Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.

When o'er the green undeluged earth Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's grey fathers forth, To watch thy sacred sign!

And when its yellow lustre smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child,
To bless the bow of God.

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first made anthem rang
On earth, deliver'd from the deep,
And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye
Unraptured greet thy beam;
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet's theme!

The earth to thee her incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,-
When glittering in the freshen'd fields
The snowy mushroom springs.

How glorious is thy girdle cast

O'er mountain, tower, and town;

Or mirror'd in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!

As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.

For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span ;

Nor lets the type grow pale with age,
That first spoke peace to man.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

YE mariners of England!
That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again,
To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy tempests blow :

While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave;

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,-
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow :
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

Britannia needs no bulwark,—
No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,

Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak,

She quells the floods below,

As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy tempests blow:

When the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy tempests blow.

The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn,

Till danger's troubled night depart,

And the star of peace return.

Then, then, ye ocean warriors,
Our song and feast shall flow

To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow :
When the fiery fight is heard no more,

And the storm has ceased to blow.