Subsequent to the death of Mrs Campbell, which took place in May 1828, he became unsettled in his domestic habits, evincing a mania for change of residence. In 1834, he proceeded to Algiers, in Africa; and returning by Paris, was presented to King Louis Philippe. On his health failing, some years afterwards, he tried the baths of Wiesbaden, and latterly established his residence at Boulogne. After a prostrating illness of several months, he expired at Boulogne, on the 15th of June 1844, in his 67th year.

Of the poetry of Thomas Campbell, "The Pleasures of Hope" is one of the most finished epics in the language; it is alike faultless in respect of conception and versification. His lyrics are equally sustained in power of thought and loftiness of diction; they have been more frequently quoted than the poems of any other modern author, and are translated into various European languages. Few men evinced more jealousy in regard to their reputation; he was keenly sensitive to criticism, and fastidious in judging of his own composition. As a prose writer, though he wrote with elegance, he is less likely to be remembered. Latterly a native unsteadiness of purpose degenerated into inaction; during the period of his unabated vigour, it prevented his carrying out many literary schemes. A bad money manager, he had under no circ.u.mstances become rich; at one period he was in the receipt of fifteen hundred pounds per annum, yet he felt poverty. He had a strong feeling of independence, and he never received a favour without considering whether he might be able to repay it. He was abundantly charitable, and could not resist the solicitations of indigence. Of slavery and oppression in every form he entertained an abhorrence; his zeal in the cause of liberty led him while a youth to be present in Edinburgh at the trial of Gerard and others, for maintaining liberal opinions, and to support in his maturer years the cause of the Polish refugees. Naturally cheerful, he was subject to moods of despondency, and his temper was ardent in circ.u.mstances of provocation. In personal appearance he was rather under the middle height, and he dressed with precision and neatness. His countenance was pleasing, but was only expressive of power when lit up by congenial conversation. He was fond of society and talked with fluency. His remains rest close by the ashes of Sheridan, in Westminster Abbey, and over them a handsome monument has lately been erected to his memory.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

Ye mariners of England, That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved a thousand years The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe; And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirit of your fathers Shall start from every wave; For the deck it was their field of fame, And ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak, She quells the floods below,-- As they roar on the sh.o.r.e, When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn; Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return.

Then, then, ye ocean warriors!

Our song and feast shall flow, To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.

GLENARA.

Oh! heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?

'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear; And her sire, and the people, are call'd to her bier.

Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud; Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn'd not aloud: Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around; They march'd all in silence, they look'd on the ground.

In silence they reach'd, over mountain and moor, To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and h.o.a.r.

"Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn; Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern.

"And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse!

Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?"

So spake the rude chieftain. No answer is made, But each mantle unfolding, a dagger display'd.

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,"

Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud; "And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem.

Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream."

Oh! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen; When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn-- 'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief; On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem.

Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert reveal'd where his lady was found; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne-- Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!

THE WOUNDED HUSSAR.

Alone to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube, Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er.

"O, whither," she cried, "hast thou wander'd, my lover, Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the sh.o.r.e?

"What voice did I hear? 'twas my Henry that sigh'd!"

All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far, When, bleeding and low, on the heath she descried, By the light of the moon, her poor wounded hussar!

From his bosom, that heaved, the last torrent was streaming, And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar, And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming, That melted in love, and that kindled in war!

How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight!

How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war!

"Hast thou come, my fond love, this last sorrowful night, To cheer the lone heart of your wounded hussar?"

"Thou shalt live," she replied; "Heaven's mercy relieving Each anguishing wound shall forbid me to mourn!"

"Ah, no! the last pang of my bosom is heaving; No light of the morn shall to Henry return!

"Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true!

Ye babes of my love, that await me afar!"

His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu, When he sank in her arms--the poor wounded hussar.

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

Of Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth, All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime, As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death, And the boldest held his breath For a time.

But the might of England flush'd To antic.i.p.ate the scene; And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly s.p.a.ce between.

"Hearts of oak!" our Captain cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back; Their shots along the deep slowly boom; Then ceased, and all is wail, As they strike the shatter'd sail, Or in conflagration pale Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then, As he hail'd them o'er the wave-- "Ye are brothers! ye are men!

And we conquer but to save.

So peace instead of death let us bring; But yield, proud foe! thy fleet, With the crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet To our King."

Then Denmark bless'd our chief That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As Death withdrew his shades from the day.

While the sun look'd smiling bright O'er a wide and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away.

Now joy, Old England, raise!