CHAPTER V. The beginning of the 19th century—the galaxy of poets then anecdotes of Campbell-the lyrics of Eliza Cooke and Mackay. The most remarkable period in the history of Literature and Science, perhaps, ever known, is from the commencement of the 19th century to the present time. For though the astonishing achievements of Science during this period have been such as to give us, in appearance, a strong utilitarian character; yet, it must be admitted, we think, that the progress of poetic literature has kept pace with our mechanical triumphs. The last half century is distinguished, like the Elizabethan era, for the long list of noble poets who adorned it; at the head of whom may be noticed Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey, Byron, Keats, Shelley, Sir Walter Scott, and Campbell, who, in every diversified form, have enriched our literature with the brightest gems of Poesy. But where are now those refulgent stars that once excited our admiration and shed a blaze of glory over the poetic firmament? One by one they have disappeared from amongst us-one by one they have passed "that awful bourne none e'er repassed," and their disappearance has left a blank in the liteworld that has not yet been supplied. rary The poems of these bards are undoubtedly of the highest order; but Wordsworth, Byron, Scott, and Campbell, in this galaxy of genius, can only be considered as lyrical writers. Many of Scott's songs are spirited compositions, which sustain their deserved popularity. The songs by Byron are few, but worthy of his genius. Those by Campbell do not comprise thirty in number, but they can scarcely be excelled for vigour and beauty. His martial songs are the most magnificent effusions in our language. They glow with heroic thoughts expressed with the "eloquence of Truth." Every strain is manly and impassioned, every line energetic, sounding like a trumpetblast on the battle field. Campbell is the bard of modern Chivalry, the William Tell of patriotic lyrists, who gives utterance to sentiments which are enshrined in every bosom animated with a love of Freedom. No poet evinces so strong, so utter a detestation of Slavery and all despotic rulers as Campbell. He bids defiance to them in words of fire. race of poets like him what country wearing a tyrant's fetters would not rise and burst them? How spirited are the following lines from his "Song to the Greeks" when he calls upon them to "burst the tyrant's chain," and prove themselves "heroes descended from heroes" : Again to the battle, Achaians, Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance; With a Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree- The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not! Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, If a coward there be who would slacken Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves Being sprung from and named for the godlike of earth. As heroes descended from heroes." It is rather remarkable that Campbell, though a most acute critic of the poetry of others, should want the necessary judgment to form a correct estimate of his own. Several of our greatest poets were alike faulty in this respect. Milton always thought his "Paradise Regained" far superior to his "Paradise Lost;" but no one ever thought so but himself. Thomson, the gifted author of the "Seasons," considered his long, dry, and prosy poem, "Liberty," as his best production. Campbell, however, not depending on his own judgment, was in the habit of submitting his manuscript poems for approval to his brother, who was an excellent judge of poetry, though no poet. One day Campbell handed to his brother a poem which he had just composed, and requested his opinion of it. His brother having attentively perused the composition shook his head, when Campbell hastily exclaimed, "What is the matter with it? Wont it do? What does it want?" "It wants fire!" replied his brother, and he immediately threw the manuscript into the fire to the great mortification of the poet, who had not another copy. Campbell, when once in conversation with Sir Walter Scott, said, that "he thought nothing of his 'Hohenlinden'-it was too full of trumpet lines," and strange to say, he never saw the beauties in that immortal ode until pointed out to him then by the author of Waverley. And so it was with his poem, "The Last Man," one of the finest imaginative compositions ever produced. He set little value on this beautiful lyric until he heard it sung by Braham at a concert in Edinbro'. But we shall give, in Campbell's own words, his brief relation of this circumstance. He says, that "During a visit to Edinbro' I was induced to accompany a friend one evening to a concert, where, unexpectedly, I heard my own song, "The Last Man." I shall ever remember my feelings whilst listening. I was overpowered with my own conceptions-1 wept-and for the first time I felt that I was a poet!" How simple, yet how touching is this account of Campbell's feelings! He listened to his own song, and overpowered by his conceptions he wept and for the first time felt that he was a poet. Such is the magic power of song. Campbell had an annuity of two hundred pounds awarded to him by government soon after the publication of his "Pleasures of Hope," which he produced at twenty-three years of age. He received this annuity as long as he lived. "Few modern poets," says a popular writer, when speaking of Campbell, "have received a more bountiful harvest of fame and comfort from their labours, and few have proved themselves more worthy of the distinction." Illustration. THE LAST MAN. All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom The sun himself must die, I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep I saw the last of human mould That shall creation's death behold, As Adam saw her prime ! The sun's eye had a sickly glare, Around that lonely man! Some had expired in fight-the brands Still rusted in their bony hands In plague and famine some; Earth's cities had no sound or tread, Yet prophet-like, that lone one stood, That shook the sere leaves from the wood, Saying, "We are twins in death, proud sun; |