"Men of England! who inherit

Rights that cost your sires their blood!
Men whose undegenerate spirit

Has been proved on land and flood:-
"By the foes ye've fought uncounted,
By the glorious deeds ye've done,
Trophies captur'd-breaches mounted,
Navies conquer'd-kingdoms won!
"Yet, remember, England gathers

Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame,
If the patriotism of your fathers
Glow not in your hearts the same.
"What are monuments of bravery,
Where no public virtues bloom?
What avail in lands of slavery,
Trophied temples, arch and tomb?

Pageants! Let the world revere us
For our people's rights and laws,
And the breasts of civic heroes

Bared in Freedom's holy cause.

"Yours are Hampden's, Russel's glory,
Sydney's matchless shade is yours,—
Martyrs in heroic story,

Worth a hundred Agincourts!

"We're the sons of sires that baffled
Crowned and mitred tyranny:-
They defied the field and scaffold

For their birthrights,-so will we!"

The Song of the Greeks is another instance :"Again to the battle, Achaians!

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;

Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree,

It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free:
For the cross of our faith is replanted,

The pale dying crescent is daunted,

And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves
May be wash'd out in blood from our forefathers' graves.
Their spirits are hovering o'er us,

And the sword shall to glory restore us.

"Ah! what though no succour advances,
Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances

Are stretch'd in our aid,-be the combat our own!
And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone;
For we've sworn, by our Country's assaulters,
By the virgins they've dragg'd from our altars,

66

By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins,
That living, we shall be victorious,

41

Or that dying, our death shall be glorious.

A breath of submission we breathe not;

The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not!
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid,
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.
Earth may hide-waves engulph-fire consume us—
But they shall not to slavery doom us :

If they rule, it shall be o'er our asbes and graves;
But we've smote them already with fire on the waves,
And new triumphs on land are before us,

To the charge!--Heaven's banner is o'er us.

"This day shall ye blush for its story,

Or brighten your lives with its glory.

Our women, Oh, say, shall they shriek in despair,
Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair?
Accursed may his memory blacken,

If a coward there be that would slacken

Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth
Being sprung from and named for the godlike of earth.
Strike home, and the world shall revere us

As heroes descended from heroes.

"Old Greece lightens up with emotion

Her inlands, her isles of the Ocean;

Fanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee ring,

And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's spring:

Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness,

That were cold and extinguish'd in sadness:

Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white-waving arms,
Singing joy to the brave that deliver'd their charms,

When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens

Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens."

If the genius of Rogers combines some of the characteristics of Goldsmith and Shenstone, Campbell is comparable to Gray. The latter is more ambitious and ornate: he is more sanguine, and looks forward, indulging his favourite Pleasures of Hope. Rogers is more dependent on the past, and reposes on his classic reminiscences.

The Pleasures of Hope and the Pleasures of Memory, are both poems of a lower grade than either Akenside's Pleasures of Imagination, or Armstrong's Art of Health*. The didascalic of "Memory" is more elegant, that of "Hope" more

* In the "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," these two poets are distinguished in the following manner :

"Come forth, oh, Campbell! give thy talents scope;

Who dares aspire, if thou must cease to hope?

eloquent. But both of them contain lines, and whole sections, insufferably tame and weak.

After all, the best poet is only admirable in passages. Let him expend his strength on these, and leave the others to their native negligence, if but for the sake of contrast. The good parts will have redeeming splendour for all the rest. It is better to be negligent in the diction than spiritless in the thought. A vigorous conception is good for itself, but words are valueless, except as signs of ideas. A profusion of jewels, and a weight of ornament, even on a fair invalid, are impertinent; but on a corse, they are derisive of the lifelessness which they illustrate and incumber. Sir T. Lawrence appears to empty his pallet on the back-ground of his portraits, and they shew more fleshy in consequence, and display better the exquisite finishing for which he is so remarkable. These observations are but partially applicable to the poets under comparison. Let them not complain that they are

And thou, melodious Rogers! rise at last,
Recall the pleasing memory of the past:
Arise! let blest remembrance still inspire,
And strike to wonted tones thy hallowed lyre;
Restore Apollo to his vacant throne,

Assert thy country's honour, and thine own."

Now we are upon this subject, we would allude to some observations in our article on Lord Byron, by way of critique on the Deformed Transformed, in the first Part of our Review,-first volume.-It seems, that the stanza there quoted, beginning, “Yet if, as holiest men have deemed, there be," was originally written as follows:

"Frown not upon me, churlish priest! that I
Look not for life, where life may never be;
I am no sneerer at thy phantasy;

Thou pitiest me,-alas! I envy thee,
Thou bold discoverer in an unknown sea

Of happy isles and happier tenants there:

I ask thee not to prove a Sadducee,

Still dream of Paradise, thou know'st not where,

But lov'st too well to bid thine erring brother share."

Against this stanza, it appears, his friend, Charles Dallas, upon the publication of the poem, made a decided stand, as intimating a disbelief in a future state. Lord Byron yielded to his intreaties, and substituted, for the objectionable stanza, the beautiful one which we quoted. Whatever was the meaning of the original stanza, the meaning of the present is clear; it was intended to announce a belief in a future state. The critics, therefore, were not justified in taking advantage of an hypothetical expression to infer a different design. The meaning of the stanza is now demonstrated by the singular fact, that it was substituted for one which had a sceptical tendency, and was constructed for the purpose of having a directly opposite inclination. Besides which, there is that in the human spirit which will asseverate the certainty of what many affect to doubt,-but only affect. The truth is substantiated in each man's own existence.

partially applicable. Even Achilles was vulnerable in the heel.

In Rogers' "Human Life," there was an evident change of style. The poet had conformed more to the practice of his contemporaries. The versification overflows in many places, and the sense is continued to the succeeding line. This very circumstance gives a charm to that poem,-a lightness and an airiness, the impression of which we shall not forget

"While Memory holds a seat

In this distracted globe."

Campbell's compositions have always occasionally indulged this licence. We know not that "Theodric" is more pregnant of instances than any former work of his; but instances are frequent in the present poem.

"Theodric" is very inartificial in its plot, and defective in its denouement. It is a domestic tale. True poetry has always taken the colour of its times. Our times are essentially domestic. Still they are not without variety; and more might have been introduced into this poem with advantage.

The subject of the poem is introduced by the following descriptive lines :-

""Twas sunset, and the Ranz des Vaches was sung,
And lights were o'er th' Helvetian mountains flung,
That gave the glacier tops their richest glow,
And tinged the lakes like molten gold below.
Warmth flush'd the wonted regions of the storm,
Where, Phoenix like, you saw the eagle's form,
That high in Heav'n's vermilion wheel'd and soar'd.
Woods nearer frown'd, and cataracts dash'd and roar'd,
From heights brouzed by the bounding bouquetin;
Herds tinkling roam'd the long-drawn vales between,
And hamblets glitter'd white, and gardens flourish'd green.
'Twas transport to inhale the bright sweet air!
The mountain-bee was revelling in its glare,
And roving with his minstrelsy across
The scented wild weeds, and enamell'd moss.
Earth's features so harmoniously were link'd,
She seem'd one great glad form, with life instinct,
That felt Heav'n's ardent breath, and smiled below
Its flush of love, with consentaneous glow.

"A Gothic church was near; the spot around
Was beautiful, ev'n though sepulchral ground;
For there nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom,
But roses blossom'd by each rustic tomb.
Amidst them one of spotless marble shone,-

A maiden's grave, and 'twas inscrib'd thereon,

That young

and loved she died whose dust was there:

"Yes,' said my comrade, young she died and fair!
Grace form'd her, and the soul of gladness play'd
Once in the blue eyes of that mountain maid :
Her fingers witch'd the chords they pass'd along,
And her lips seem'd to kiss the soul in song:
Yet woo'd, and worshipp'd as she was, till few
Aspired to hope, 'twas sadly, strangely true,
That heart, the martyr of its fondness, burn'd
And died of love that could not be returu’d.

"Her father dwelt where yonder castle shines
O'er clust'ring trees and terrace-mantling viues.
As gay as ever, the laburnum's pride

Waves o'er each walk where she was wont to glide,-
And still the garden whence she graced her brow,
As lovely blooms, though trode by strangers now.
How oft, from yonder window o'er the lake,
Her song of wild Helvetian swell and shake,
Has made the rudest fisher bend his ear,
And rest enchanted on his oar to hear!
Thus bright, accomplish'd, spirited, and bland,
Well-born, and wealthy for that simple land,
Why had no gallant native youth the art
To win so warm-so exquisite a heart?

She, midst these rocks, inspired with feelings strong,
mountain-freedom-music-fancy-song,

By

Herself descended from the brave in arms,

And conscious of romance-inspiring charms,
Dreamt of heroic beings; hoped to find

Some extant spirit of chivalric kind;

And, scorning wealth, look'd cold ev'n on the claim

Of manly worth, that lack'd the wreath of fame."

This maiden's name was Julia, and she was the sister of Udolph, who, though only sixteen summers' old,

"Had gone, poor boy! in soldiership to shine,
And bore an Austrian banner on the Rhine.
'Twas when, alas! our Empire's evil star
Shed all the plagues, without the pride of war;
When patriots bled, and bitterer anguish cross'd
Our brave, to die in battles foully lost.

The youth wrote home the rout of many a day;
Yet still he said, and still with truth could say,
One corps had ever made a valiant stand,—
The corps into which he serv'd,-THEODRIC's band.
His fame, forgotten chief, is now gone by,
Eclipsed by brighter orbs in glory's sky;