The servant's look-the table that reveal'd
His letter sent to CONSTANCE last, still seal'd-
Though speech and hearing left him, told too clear
That he had now to suffer-not to fear.

He felt as if he ne'er should cease to feel—

A wretch live-broken on misfortune's wheel:
Her death's cause-he might make his peace with
Heaven,

Absolved from guilt, but never self-forgiven.
The ocean has its ebbings-so has grief;
'Twas vent to anguish, if 'twas not relief,
To lay his brow ev'n on her death-cold cheek.
Then first he heard her one kind sister speak:
She bade him, in the name of Heaven, forbear
With self-reproach to deepen his despair:

"'Twas blame,' she said, 'I shudder to relate, But none of yours, that caused our darling's fate; Her mother (must I call her such?) foresaw, Should CONSTANCE leave the land, she would withdraw

Our House's charm against the world's neglect—
The only gem that drew it some respect.
Hence, when you went, she came and vainly spoke
To change her purpose-grew incensed, and broke
With execrations from her kneeling child.
Start not! your angel from her knee rose mild,
Fear'd that she should not long the scene outlive,
Yet bade ev'n you th' unnatural one forgive.
Till then her ailment had been slight, or none;
But fast she droop'd, and fatal pains came on:

Foreseeing their event, she dictated
And sign'd these words for you.'

[said

The letter

"THEODRIC, this is destiny above Our power to baffle; bear it then, my love! Rave not to learn the usage I have borne, For one true sister left me not forlorn; And though you 're absent in another land, Sent from me by my own well-meant command, Your soul, I know, as firm is knit to mine As these clasp'd hands in blessing you now join: Shape not imagined horrors in my fateEv'n now my sufferings are not very great; And when your grief's first transports shall subside, I call upon your strength of soul and pride To pay my memory, if 'tis worth the debt, Love's glorying tribute-not forlorn regret: I charge my name with power to conjure up Reflection's balmy, not its bitter cup. My pardoning angel, at the gates of Heaven, Shall look not more regard than you have given To me; and our life's union has been clad In smiles of bliss as sweet as life e'er had. Shall gloom be from such bright remembrance cast? Shall bitterness outflow from sweetness past? No! imaged in the sanctuary of your breast, There let me smile, amidst high thoughts at rest; And let contentment on your spirit shine, As if its peace were still a part of mine: For if you war not proudly with your pain, For you I shall have worse than lived in vain.

But I conjure your manliness to bear
My loss with noble spirit-not despair;
I ask you by our love to promise this,

And kiss these words, where I have left a kiss,-
The latest from my living lips for yours.'—
Words that will solace him while life endures:
For though his spirit from affliction's surge
Could ne'er to life, as life had been, emerge,
Yet still that mind whose harmony elate
Rang sweetness, even beneath the crush of fate,—
That mind in whose regard all things were placed
In views that soften'd them, or lights that graced,
That soul's example could not but dispense
A portion of its own bless'd influence;
Invoking him to peace and that self-sway
Which Fortune cannot give, nor take away:

And though he mourn'd her long, 'twas with such

woe

As if her spirit watch'd him still below."

THIS appears to have originated on the occasion of the poet's visit to Germany in 1820, though the idea remained in embryo until 1824.

In July of that year, Campbell, for the first time, announced to a friend this work in the following terms:-"I have a new poem-Theodric'a very domestic story, finished in about five hundred lines, common heroic rhyme, so-so, I think. I am rather in good heart about it, though not over sanguine." In writing to his sister, he says: "I am sorry there should be any great expectation excited about the poem, which is not of a nature to gratify such expectation. It is truly a domestic and private story. I know very well what will be its fate: there will be an outcry and regret that there is nothing grand or romantic in the poem, and that it is too humble and familiar. But I am prepared for this; and I also know that when it recovers from the first buzz of such criticism, it will attain a steady popularity."

"Theodric" appeared in the month of November, and was received with a coldness which deeply wounded Campbell's sensitiveness, nor did he live to see it attain the popularity he anticipated. It has well been said that "a popular author has no rival so formidable as his former self, and no comparison to sustain half so dangerous as that which is always made between the average merit of his new work and the remembered beauties of his old ones."

"Theodric" is in every way a "domestic story," and has been described by the Edinburgh Review of January, 1825, as an attempt at a very difficult kind of poetry, and one in which the most complete success can hardly ever be so splendid and striking as to make amends for the difficulty.” “It is entitled 'A domestic story,'-and it is so-turning upon few incidents-embracing few characters-dealing in no marvels and no terrors-displaying no stormy passions--without complication of plot, or hurry of action-with no atrocities to shudder at, or feats of noble daring to stir the spirits of the

ambitious, it passes quietly on through the shaded paths of private life, conversing with gentle natures and patient sufferings, and unfolding, with serene pity and sober triumph, the pangs which are fated at times to wring the breast of innocence and generosity, and the courage and comfort which generosity and innocence can never fail to bestow. The taste and the feeling which led to the selection of such topics could not but impress their character on the style in which they are treated. It is distinguished accordingly by a fine and tender finish both of thought and of diction; by a chastened elegance of words and images; a mild dignity and tempered pathos in the sentiments, and a general tone of simplicity and directness in the conduct of the story, which, joined to its great brevity, tends at first perhaps to disguise both the richness and the force of the genius required for its production. But though not calculated to strike at once on the dull pallid ear of an idle and occupied world, it is of all others, perhaps, the kind of poetry best fitted to win on our softer hours, and to sink deep into vacant bosoms, unlocking all the sources of fond recollection, and leading us gently on through the mazes of deep and engrossing meditation, and thus ministering to a deeper enchantment and more lasting delight than can ever be inspired by the louder and more importunate strains of more ambitious authors.

"There are, no doubt, peculiar, and perhaps insuperable, difficulties in the management of themes so delicate, and requiring so fine and so restrained a hand: nor are we prepared to say that Mr. Campbell has on this occasion entirely escaped them. There are passages that are somewhat fade, there are expressions that are trivial; but the prevailing character is sweetness and beauty, and it prevails over all that is opposed to it.”

In judging of this poem, it should not be concealed that it was written during intense anxiety touching the malady which at that time threatened his only surviving child, and though "Theodric" has failed to add another wreath to Campbell's laurels, yet it must be conceded there do shine in it brilliant flashes of genius which relieve its hasty transitions and the simplicity of the subject,