Wishing yet wishing not for Love's surceàse;
Shifting to other side for vengeance,

Desires deprived of their esperance,

What now could ever change such ills as these?
Then the fond yearnings for the things gone by,
Pure torment sweet in bitter faculty,

Which from these fiery furies could distill
Sweet tears of Love with pine the soul to thrill?

VIII.

For what excuses lone with self I sought,

When my suave love forfended me to find

Fault in the thing beloved and so loved?
Such were the feignèd cures that forged my mind
In fear of torments that forever taught

Life to support itself by snares approved.
Thus through a goodly part of life I rovèd,
Wherein if ever joyed I aught content
Short-lived, immodest, flaw-full, without heed,
"Twas nothing save the seed

That bare me bitter tortures long unspent.
This course continuous dooming to distress,

These wandering steps that strayed o'er every road,
So wrought, they quencht for me the flamy thirst
I suffered grow in Sprite, in Soul I nurst
With Thoughts enamored for my daily food
Whereby was fed my Nature's tenderness:
And this by habit's long and asperous stress,
Which might of mortals never mote resist,
Was turned to pleasure-taste of being triste.

IX.

Thus fared I Life with other interchanging;
I no, but Destiny showing fere unlove;

Yet even thus for other ne'er I'd change.
Me from my dear-loved patrial nide she drove
Over the broad and boisterous Ocean ranging,

Where Life so often saw her èxtreme range.
Now tempting rages rare and missiles strange

Of Mart, she willèd that my eyes should see
And hands should touch, the bitter fruit he dight:
That on this Shield they sight

In painted semblance fire of enemy,

Then ferforth driven, vagrant, peregrine,

Seeing strange nations, customs, tongues, costumes;

Various heavens, qualities different,

Only to follow, passing-diligent

Thee, giglet Fortune! whose fierce will consumes
Man's age upbuilding aye before his eyne

A Hope with semblance of the diamond's shine:
But, when it falleth out of hand we know,
'Twas fragile glass that showed so glorious show

X.

Failed me the ruth of man, and I descried
Friends to unfriendly changèd and contràyr,

In my first peril; and I lackèd ground,

Whelmed by the second, where my feet could fare;
Air for my breathing was my lot denied,

Time failed me, in fine, and failed me Life's dull round.
What darkling secret, mystery profound

This birth to Life, while Life is doomed withhold
Whate'er the world contain for Life to use!
Yet never Life to lose

Though 'twas already lost times manifold!
In brief my Fortune could no horror make,
Ne certain danger ne ancipitous case

(Injustice dealt by men, whom wild-confused
Misrule, that rights of olden days abused,
O'er neighbor-men upraised to power and place!)
I bore not, lashed to the sturdy stake,

Of my long suffering, which my heart would break
With importuning persecuting harms

Dasht to a thousand bits by forceful arms.

XI.

Number I not so numerous ills as He

Who, 'scaped the wuthering wind and furious flood,
In happy harbor tells his travel-tale;

Yet now, e'en now, my fortune's wavering mood
To so much misery obligeth me

That e'en to pace one forward pace I quail:

No more shirk I what evils may assail;

No more to falsing welfare I pretend;
For human cunning naught can gar me gain.
In fine on sovran Strain

Of Providence divine I now depend:

This thought, this prospect 'tis at times I greet
My sole consoler for dead hopes and fears.
But human weakness when its eyne alight

Upon the things that fleet, and can but sight
The sadding Memories of the long-past years;
What bread such times I break, what drink I drain,
Are bitter tear-floods I can ne'er refrain,

Save by upbuilding castles based on air,
Phantastick painture fair and false as fair.

XII. !

For an it possible were that Time and Tide
Could bend them backward and, like Memory, view

The faded footprints of Life's earlier day:

And, web of olden story weaving new,

In sweetest error could my footsteps guide

'Mid bloom of flowers where wont my youth to stray;
Then would the memories of the long sad way

Deal me a larger store of Life-content;
Viewing fair converse and glad company,

Where this and other key

She had for opening hearts to new intent;
The fields, the frequent stroll, the lovely show,
The view, the snow, the rose, the formosure,
The soft and gracious mien so gravely gay,
The singular friendship casting clean away
All villein longings, earthly and impure,
As one whose Other I can never see;

Ah, vain, vain memories! whither lead ye me
With this weak heart that still must toil and tire
To tame (as tame it should) your vain Desire?

L'ENVOI.

No more, Canzon! no more; for I could prate
Sans compt a thousand years; and if befall

Blame to thine over-large and long-drawn strain
We ne'er shall see (assure who blames) contain
An Ocean's water packt in vase so small,

Nor sing I delicate lines in softest tone

For gust of praise: my song to man makes known

Pure truth wherewith mine own experience teems;

Would God they were the stuff that builds our dreams!

ADIEU TO COIMBRA.

SWEET lucent waters of Mondego-stream,
Of my Remembrance restful jouïssance,

Where far-fet, lingering, traitorous Esperance
Long whiles misled me in a blinding Dream:
Fro' you I part, yea, still I'll ne'er misdeem

That long-drawn Memories which your charms enhance
Forbid me changing and, in every chance,
E'en as I farther speed I nearer seem.
Well may my Fortunes hale this instrument

Of Soul o'er new strange regions wide and side, Offered to winds and watery element:

But hence my spirit, by you 'companied, Borne on the nimble wings that Reverie lent,

Flies home and bathes her, Waters! in your tide.

2253

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THOMAS CAMPBELL, a British poet, critic, and miscellaneous writer, born at Glasgow, Scotland, July 27, 1777; died at Boulogne, France, June 15, 1844. After graduating at the University of Glasgow, he became for a short time a tutor. Then he went to Edinburgh with the design of studying law; but in the meanwhile he had written his poem, "The Pleasures of Hope," which was published in 1799, and was received with extraordinary favor. Campbell - now barely twenty-two- assumed literature as his vocation. He made a trip to the Continent, and on Dec. 3, 1800, had a glimpse of a cavalry charge, an episode preparatory to the famous battle of Hohenlinden. This chance incident gave occasion to one of Campbell's best-known lyrics, beginning "On Linden, when the sun was low." Campbell returned to Scotland in 1801, having in the meantime written several of the most spirited of his minor poems. In 1804 he took up his residence at Sydenham, near London. He married about this time, and, having no adequate income, fell into pecuniary straits; but in 1805 a Government pension of £200 was granted him. In 1809 he put forth "Gertrude of Wyoming," his second considerable poem. From 1820 to 1830 he was the editor of The New Monthly Magazine. In 1819 he put forth "Specimens of the British Poets," and an "Essay on English Poetry." In 1824 he put forth "Theodoric and other Poems." Campbell had by this time fairly broken down under the pressure of some domestic sorrows. Broken in health, physical and mental, he went to Boulogne, hoping to gain recuperation. He died there, and his remains were brought back to England, and laid to rest in Westminster Abbey, with all the honors of a public funeral.

Campbell wrote no little prose during his long literary career. The titles of his chief prose works are: "Annals of Great Britain " (1806); "Lectures on Poetry" (1820); "Life of Mrs. Siddons" (1834); "Letters" from Algiers, etc., originally published in The New Monthly Magazine (1837); "Life and Times of Petrarch" (1841); "Frederick the Great," a mere compilation, to which Campbell furnished little more than an Introduction; a work which, however, furnished a kind of text for one of Macaulay's best essays (1842).