THOMAS CAMPBELL. AMPBELL is the familyname of the house of Argyle, in Scotland, and the distinguished poet was of a younger branch of this house. His father was a merchant who was not very well to do, especially as he had to support and bring up a family of ten children. The poet was born in Glasgow on the 27th day of July, 1777, and very early displayed literary aptitudes. He was educated in the University of Glasgow, where he received numerous prizes, especially for his proficiency in Greek. Immediately after his graduation he became a tutor in the Isle of Mull, where the impressive scenery and interesting traditions aroused all the poetry in his nature and impelled him to give it utterance. Unable to settle down to the study of one of the learned professions, he surprised the world and settled his career by the unexpected issue, in 1799, of "The Pleasures of Hope," a descriptive and didactic poem of wonderful beauty. He had just completed his twenty-first year, and the additional marvel was that so young a man could have produced such a poem. It at once became very popular, and was regarded as a promise of many and greater poetic efforts a promise which was not to be completely realized. In December, 1800, he saw, from the roof of a Bavarian monastery, a portion of the celebrated battle of Hohenlinden, between the French and the Austrians, and gave it an additional claim to immortality by the battle-lyric struck off under the electric inspiration "On Linden, when the sun was low." In 1801 he wrote "The Exile of Erin," "Ye Mariners of England" and "Lochiel's Warning," the words of which were soon on everybody's lips, and have been ever since. In 1803 he settled in London as a writer of history and criticism, as well as of poetry, but he earned only a precarious support, until in 1805 he received from the government an annual pension of two hundred pounds. This partial relief was greatly increased by the success of his "Gertrude of Wyoming," which, in addition to its merits of versification, had the charm of telling of the New World, in which English civilization was making head against the scalping-knife and the tomahawk. In 1820, Campbell gave a course of lectures on English literature, which were well received, and in the same year became editor of the New Monthly Magazine-a post which he held for ten years. In 1827 he received the great but merited honor of election as lord-rector of the University of Glasgow. After that he accomplished little. His wife and children died; he became gloomy, melancholy, suspicious of the world; so frightened at his own fame, and so indolent withal, that he was unwilling to do the literary work which the publishers were always ready to offer him. He drank too much; his friends became tired of his repinings and grievances, and he led a long blank remnant of life until 1844, when he died at Boulogne. The high and yet splendid ornaments of the "Pleasures of Hope" have never palled upon the public. If "Gertrude" is an ideal without a model, and "Susquehanna's side a fairy-picture, the tenderness and pathos of the poem are real, human and very touching. But his chief glory, the field in which Campbell has absolutely no rival, is that of his martial lyrics," Linden," "Ye Mariners of England," and, superior to both, "The Battle of the Baltic." To have written that alone would have immortalized him. Entirely sui generis and splendidly sonorous is his "Hallowed Ground." Every stanza is a poem in itself—an embalmed thought; and the whole is a classic, and will be to the latest generations. Having Having written very much less than his poetical contemporaries, he still occupies a very high and secure place among the English poets of all ages, LAST WORDS OF JOHN QUINCY ADAMS, WHA HAT means, then, this abrupt and fearful silence? What unlooked-for calamity has quelled the debates of the Senate and calmed the excitement of the people? An old man whose tongue once, indeed, was eloquent, but now through age had wellnigh lost its cunning, has fallen into the swoon of death. He was not an actor in the drama of conquest, nor had his feeble voice yet mingled in the lofty argument— “A gray-haired sire, whose eye intent In the very act of rising to debate, he fell into the arms of Conscript Fathers of the republic. A long lethargy supervened and oppressed his senses. Nature rallied the wasting powers on the verge of the grave for a brief space. But it was long enough for him. The rekindled eye showed that the re-collected mind was clear, calm and vigorous. His weeping family and his sorrowing compeers were there. He surveyed the scene, and knew at once its fatal import. He had left no duty unperformed; he had no wish unsatisfied, no ambition unattained, no regret, no sorrow, no fear, no remorse. He could not shake off the dews of death that gathered on his brow. He could not pierce the thick shades that rose up before him. But he knew that Eternity lay close by the shores of Time. He knew that his Redeemer lived. Eloquence even in that hour inspired him with his ancient sublimity of utterance. "This," said the dying man this is the end of earth." He paused for a moment, and then added, "I am content." Angels might well draw aside the curtains of the skies to look down on such a scenea scene that approximated even to that scene of unapproachable sublimity not to be recalled without reverence when in mortal agony One who spake as never man spake said, "It is finished!" WILLIAM H. SEWARD. INDUSTRY. prove them; if moderate abilities, inF you have great talents, industry will dustry will supply their deficiency. Nothing is denied to well-directed labor; nothing is ever to be attained without it. SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. THE CHILD OF THE FLAXEN LOCKS. HILD of the flaxen locks | But ever, when thou rovest from his side, and laughing eye, Culling with hasty glee. the flowerets gay, Or chasing with light foot the butterfly, I love to mark thee at But yet 'tis sweet and pleasing so to rave; Near thee I see thy tender 'Tis an enchantment where the reason' father stand; And oft with warning voice and beckoning hand bound, But Paradise is in th' enchanted ground; He checks thy speed and gently draws Is but to send me into misery, Why dost thou meekly yield to his decree? He does not check thy joys from tyranny; own. When worldly lures, in manhood's coming hours, Tempt thee to wander from discretion's way, Oh, grasp not eagerly the offered flowers: Pause if thy heavenly Father bid thee stay And prudence boast, whose cure so much you Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make Pause, and in him revere a Friend and Perpetual day, or let this hour be but Guide A year, a month, a week, a natural day, Who does not willingly thy faults re- That Faustus may repent and save his soul. O lente, lente, currite, noctis equi! prove, The stars move still, time runs, the clock | Or why is this immortal that thou hast? will strike, The devil will come, and Faustus must be damned. Oh, I will leap to heaven who pulls me down? true, This soul should fly from me, and I be changed Into some brutish beast. See where Christ's blood streams in the fir- All beasts are happy; for when they die, mament; Their souls are soon dissolved in elements, One drop of blood will save me. O my But mine must live still to be plagued in Christ Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ, Yet will I call on him. Oh, spare me, Lucifer! Where is it now? Tis gone! hell. Curst be the parents that engendered mẻ: No, Faustus; curse thyself, curse Lucifer, That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven. [The clock strikes twelve. And see! a threatening arm and angry brow. It strikes, it strikes! Now, body, turn to Mountains and hills, come, come, and fall on me, Heaven. air, Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell. And hide me from the heavy wrath of O soul, be changed into small water-drops No? Then I will headlong run into the earth. Gape, earth! Oh no, it will not harbor me. Now draw up Festus like a foggy mist soul mount and ascend to heaven. [The watch strikes. Oh, half the hour is past; 'twill all be past me; Adders and serpents, let me breathe a come not, Lucifer. FIRST SCHOLAR. Come, gentlemen, let us go visit Faustus, For such a dreadful night was never seen Since first the world's creation did begin ; Such fearful shrieks and cries were never heard. Pray Heaven the doctor have escaped the danger. SECOND SCH. Oh, help us, heavens! See, here are Faustus' limbs All torn asunder by the hand of Death. THIRD SCH. The devil whom Festus served hath torn him thus, |