popular figure in society, and prominent at club meetings and public dinners. In 1834 he went to Algeria, with excellent results to his health. In this renewal of activity he composed his poem of The Pilgrim of Glencoe, and published it in 1842.

It is worth while for the sake of Newr to send a friend live

Liverpool.

rentes

but

mally. Edin

burgh is so grass grown

in town like silent & desolate that

I were to let fire to a few streets of It I could not excite any fuller loent worthy of relating - Forty Norrciates in Medecine have been

but the College

love orpion the publis
Their deeds are to be heard of in other
Society at present
skirmishes with the Night errants

are a

is now

lately let

Shutup they are departed and
The only desserter of

was

might

ве

quarters. gang of dreadful Unknown who have fought some + of the North bridge & bichen among other articles of the pease the head of a worthy writer which before thought im penetratte — thoing the randon history of such Nocturnal events which comes like the vove of one crying in The bootsconess we are all stillness & swvening - Out new town safely cannonanted without Miqes of helling a human being - wiry don't wonde is that _ Tis as the pulse of life stood still " & Nature Grace a pause – I have octurned of rom Mints I believe sime I wrote; difion you - My meat tinter must be spent I believe for Eching - for by the conterual & fpostsects cxpectation of paper falling in prece my book will be delays & fear yet a little longer _— In Fiby - I hope & be in Dantreek — Remember. sincerely & Arts Currie & Mr Wallone & believe me gheat

me must

yours with great y teem
The Campbell

Extract from a Letter of Campbell to Dr. James Currie

No success attended this belated work. at Boulogne, with a niece who now kept of June 1844, and was buried on the Abbey.

VOL. IV.

Campbell grew tired of London and settled house for him. Here he died, on the 15th 3rd of July with great pomp in Westminster

FROM "GERTRUDE OF WYOMING."
O love! in such a wilderness as this,
Where transport and security entwine,
Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss,
And here thou art a god indeed divine,

Here shall no forms abridge, no hours confine
The views, the walks, that boundless joy inspire!
Roll on, ye days of raptured influence, shine!
Nor, blind with ecstasy's celestial fire,

Shall love behold the spark of earth-born time expire.

Three little moons, how short! amidst the grove

And pastoral savannahs they consume!
While she, beside her buskined youth to rove,
Delights, in fancifully wild costume,

Her lovely brow to shade with Indian plume;
And forth in hunter-seeming vest they fare;
But not to chase the deer in forest gloom;
'Tis but the breath of heaven-the blessed air-
And interchange of hearts unknown, unseen to share.
What though the sportive dog oft round them note,
Or fawn, or wild bird bursting on the wing;
Yet who, in love's own presence, would devote
To death those gentle throats that wake the spring,
Or writhing from the brook its victim bring?
No-nor let fear one little warbler rouse ;
But, fed by Gertrude's hand, still let them sing,
Acquaintance of her path, amidst the boughs,

That shade e'en now her love, and witnessed first her vows.

SONG. TO THE EVENING STAR.

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 unstirred
Curls yellow in the sun.

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.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

Our bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain;

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track :
'Twas Autumn-and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;
I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore,

From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart,
"Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn;"
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay-

But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

A still greater force in popularising and fixing the romantic tradition Sir Waiter was Sir WALTER SCOTT

in the poetry of his early middle life- that is to say, from 1799 to 1814. From the dawn. of childhood he had shown an extraordinary passion for listening to chivalrous and adventurous tales, and for composing the like. He was fortunate enough to see and to be greatly moved. by Burns; and as he advanced, the intense Scotticism of his nature was emphasised by the longing to enshrine Scotch prowess and nature in picturesque verse. The mode in which this was to be done had not even dimly occurred to him, when he met with that lodestar of romanticism, the Lenore of Bürger; he translated it, and was led to make

Sir Walter Scott

After the Portrait by Sir Henry Raeburn

fresh eager inroads into German poetry, with which he was much more in sympathy than Wordsworth was, or even Coleridge. Even Goethe,

Scott as a
Poet.

however, did not at this time persuade Scott to make a deep study of literature; he was still far more eager to learn in the open school of experience. He imitated a few German ballads, and he presently began to collect the native songs of his own country; the far-reaching result was the publication of the Scottish Minstrelsy.

Still, nothing showed that Walter Scott was likely to become an original. writer, and he was thirty-four when Europe was electrified with the appear

Sir Walter Scott

ance of the Lay of the Last Minstrel. Then followed Marmion, the Lady of the Lake, and the Lord of the Isles, not to speak of other epical narratives which were not so successful. Meanwhile, the publication of Waverley opened another and a still more splendid door to the genius of Scott, and he bade farewell to the Muses. But from 1805 to 1815 he was by far the most prominent British poet; as Wordsworth put it, Scott was "the whole world's darling," and no one, perhaps, before or since, has approached the width and intensity of his popularity. While Wordsworth distributed a few hundreds of his books, and Coleridge could not induce his to

move at all, Scott's poetry sold in tens of thousands, and gave the tone to society. At the present day something of the charm of Scott's verse-narratives has certainly evaporated; they are read for the story, a fatal thing to confess about poetry. The texture of Scott's prosody is thinner and looser than that of his great contemporaries, nor are his reflections so penetrating or so exquisite as the best of theirs. Nevertheless, the divine freshness and exuberance of Scott are perennial in several of his episodes, and many of his songs are of the highest positive excellence. Perhaps if he had possessed a more delicate ear, a subtler sense of the phases of landscape, something of that mysticism and passion which we unwillingly have to admit that we miss in his poetry, he might not have interpreted so lucidly to millions of readers the principles of the romantic revival. With his noble disregard of self, he bade