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.

TRANSLATIONS.

[THE following are a few only of Campbell's Translations from the Greek; they were written at the age of sixteen, during his collegiate career, and their beauty and elegance went far to win for him the notice and friendship of the Professors.]

MARTIAL ELEGY.

FROM THE GREEK OF TYRTÆUS.

How glorious fall the valiant, sword in hand,
In front of battle for their native land!
But oh! what ills await the wretch that yields,
A recreant outcast from his country's fields!
The mother whom he loves shall quit her home,
An aged father at his side shall roam;
His little ones shall weeping with him go,
And a young wife participate his woe;
While scorn'd and scowl'd upon by every face,
They pine for food, and beg from place to place.

Stain of his breed! dishonouring manhood's form,

All ills shall cleave to him :-Affliction's storm Shall blind him wandering in the vale of years, Till, lost to all but ignominious fears,

He shall not blush to leave a recreant's name,
And children, like himself, inured to shame.

But we will combat for our fathers' land, And we will drain the life-blood where we stand, To save our children :-fight ye side by side, And serried close, ye men of youthful pride, Disdaining fear, and deeming light the cost Of life itself in glorious battle lost.

Leave not our sires to stem the unequal fight, Whose limbs are nerved no more with buoyant

might;

Nor, lagging backward, let the younger breast
Permit the man of age (a sight unbless'd)
To welter in the combat's foremost thrust,
His hoary head dishevell❜d in the dust,
And venerable bosom bleeding bare.

But youth's fair form, though fallen, is ever fair, And beautiful in death the boy appears, The hero boy, that dies in blooming years: In man's regret he lives, and woman's tears, More sacred than in life, and lovelier far, For having perish'd in the front of war.

SONG OF HYBRIAS THE CRETAN.

My wealth's a burly spear and brand,
And a right good shield of hides untann'd,
Which on my arm I buckle:

With these I plough, I reap, I sow,

With these I make the sweet vintage flow,
And all around me truckle.

But your wights that take no pride to wield
A massy spear and well-made shield,

Nor joy to draw the sword:

Oh, I bring those heartless, hapless drones,
Down in a trice on their marrow-bones,
To call me King and Lord.

FRAGMENT.

FROM THE GREEK OF ALCMAN.

THE mountain summits sleep: glens, cliffs, and

caves

Are silent all the black earth's reptile broodThe bees-the wild beasts of the mountain wood: In depths beneath the dark red ocean's waves Its monsters rest, whilst wrapt in bower and spray [the day. Each bird is hush'd that stretch'd its pinions to

SPECIMENS OF TRANSLATIONS FROM

MEDEA.

Σκαιοὺς δὲ λέγων, κουδέν τι σοφοὺς
Τοὺς πρόσθε βροτοὺς οὐκ ἂν ἅμαρτοις.

Medea, v. 194, p. 33, Glasg. edit.

TELL me, ye bards, whose skill sublime
First charm'd the ear of youthful Time,
With numbers wrapt in heavenly fire,
Who bade delighted Echo swell
The trembling transports of the lyre,
The murmur of the shell-
Why to the burst of Joy alone
Accords sweet Music's soothing tone?
Why can no bard, with magic strain,
In slumbers steep the heart of pain?
While varied tones obey your sweep,
The mild, the plaintive, and the deep,
Bends not despairing Grief to hear
Your golden lute, with ravish'd ear?
Has all your art no power to bind
The fiercer pangs that shake the mind,
And lull the wrath at whose command
Murder bares her gory hand?

When flush'd with joy, the rosy throng

Weave the light dance, ye swell the song !
Cease, ye
vain warblers! cease to charm!
The breast with other raptures warm!
Cease! till your hand with magic strain
In slumbers steep the heart of pain!