Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen No grazing cattle through their prickly round But, as they grow where nothing is to fear, I love to view these things with curious eyes, And in this wisdom of the Holly Tree Can emblems see, Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant ryhmc, One which may profit in the after time. Thus though abroad perchance I might appcar To those, who on my leisure would intrude, Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be, Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree. And should my youth, as youth is apt I know, All vain asperities I day by day Would wear away, Till the smooth temper of my age should be And as when all the summer trees are seen The holly leaves a sober hue display Less bright than they; But, when the bare and wintry woods we sce, So serious should my youth appear among So would seem amid the young and gay That in my age as cheerful I might be THOMAS CAMPBELL was born at Glasgow in the year 1777, and was educated at the University of his native city. At the age of twenty-one, he published a didactic poem entitled "The Pleasures of Hope," which was so favourably received that by the profits arising from its sale he was enabled to undertake a tour in Germany, during which he witnessed the battle of Hohenlinden, which he has so nobly commemorated. Settling in London, he edited "The New Monthly Magazine," from 1820 to 1831. He was three times elected Lord Rector of his University. He died in the year 1844 at Boulogne, whither he had gone to recruit his health; and was buried in the corner sacred to poets in Westminster Abbey. The most favourite productions of Campbell, beside his "Pleasures of Hope," and "Gertrude of Wyoming," are his lyrics devoted to the celebration of the glory and prestige of his native country. The "Battle of the Baltic," and others stir the heart like the sound of the trumpet. But it is in the "Last Man" that he seems to have uttered all the concentrated grandeur of his intellect and imagination. THE LAST MAN. All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom— The Sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality! I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep I saw the last of human mould, The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, Some had expired in fight-the brands Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, That shook the sere leaves from the wood, Saying, "We are twins in death, proud Sun; "Tis mercy bids thee go; For thou, ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears, That shall no longer flow. What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill: And arts that made fire, flood, and earth The vassals of his will? Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, For all those trophied arts, And triumphs that bencath thee sprang Entailed on human hearts. Go, let oblivion's curtain fall Upon the stage of men, Nor with thy rising beams recall Its piteous pageants bring not back, Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred, Even I am weary in yon skies My lips that speak thy dirge of death, To see thou shalt not boast. This spirit shall return to Him And took the sting from death! Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up Or shake his trust in God! 66 WILLIAM KNOX was born at Edinburgh in the year 1789. "His father," says Sir Walter Scott, was a respectable yeoman, and he himself succeeding to good farms under the Duke of Buccleuch, became too soon his own master, and plunged into dissipation and ruin. His talent then showed itself in a fine strain of pensive poetry." It has been remarked that Knox throughout his life kept his domestic affections unimpaired, and that "from the force of early impressions of piety he was able, in the very midst of the most deplorable dissipation, to command his mind at intervals to the composition of verses alive with sacred fire, and breathing of Scriptural simplicity and tenderness." Knox died at Edinburgh, in the year 1825. His chief works are "The Lonely Hearth; Songs of Israel;" and the "Harp of Zion." 99 66 O the wrath of the Lord is a terrible thing! Like the tempest that withers the blossoms of springLike the thunder that bursts on the summer's domainIt fell on the head of the homicide Cain. And lo! like a deer in the fright of the chase, |