But Rodrick once had home and wife and child,

A peaceful man, was loving, gentle, mild,
A neighbor kind, a friend without a peer.
Most happy passed his days from year to year
Till foemen came; a fierce, a foreign band
By ruthless war subdued his native land,
His home destroyed, destroyed his child, his

wife,

Naught leaving but his courage and his life.

Deep buried in his inmost soul his woes, With dauntless breast he met his country's foes,

And vengeance dealt on many a battle-day,
In many a struggle fierce and bloody fray.
His comrades true obeyed his every call-
A hero band, his will the law of all;
The rustic patriot loved to sound his fame,
The tyrant trembled when he heard his name.

His faithful comrades, one by one they fell,
By rocky pass, by mountain-stream and dell;

Yet unsubdued remain a valiant few,
Whose dauntless deeds attest what man may

do.

Brave Rodrick! This the hour to vengeance due,

To right thy wrongs and save thy people

too

That sacred hour thou long hast prayed to

see,

Thy country's chain to break, proclaim her free.

What bravest yet may dare thou dar'st to do,

And fighting by thy side are comrades true; For unto thee their trust and lives are given: Thy country's only hope is thee and Heav'n.

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 regard ed 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 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 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.

WHAT

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

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 ing 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!"

IF

WILLIAM H. SEWARD.

INDUSTRY.

in the lofty argument—

"A gray-haired sire, whose eye intent

Was on the visioned future bent."

is denied to well-directed labor; nothing is ever to be attained without it.

SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.