As I recall those hours, thine eyes They shun my glance; they fear to say Which nought can ere restore, The time that I regret, Is the time that is no more. A SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. THOMAS CAMPBELL, the most purely correct and classical poet of the present century, and possessing true lyrical fire and grandeur, was born in the city of Glasgow, July 27th, 1777. Mr. Campbell's father had been an extensive merchant, and was sixty-seven years of age at the time of the poet's birth. The latter was the Benjamin of the family, the youngest of ten children, and was educated with great care. At the age of thirteen he was placed at the University of Glasgow, where he remained six years. In the first session of his college life he gained a bursary for his proficiency in Latin, and took a prize for a translation of the "Clouds" of Aristophanes, pronounced by Prof. Young to be the best exercise which had ever been given in by any student at the university. Two other poems of this period were the "Choice of Paris" and "The Dirge of Wallace." On leaving the University, Campbell resided a year as tutor in a family in Argyleshire. Here he composed his poem on the roofless abode of that sept of the clan Campbell, from which he sprung, and his "Love and Madness,” and a few other poems now neglected by their author. The local celebrity arising from these early fruits of his poetical genius, induced Mr. Campbell to lay aside the study of the law, which he seriously contemplated, and he repaired to Edinburgh. What his expectations were, nobody has told us; but he came with part of a poem in his pocket, and acquiring the friendship of Dr. Robert Anderson, Dugald Stewart, James Grahame, Jeffrey, Brougham, &c., he made bold to lay his poem and expectations before them. Stewart and Anderson were all rapture and suggestion; the poet listened, altered, and enlarged-lopped, pruned, and amended, till the "Pleasures of Hope" grew much as we now see it. The first fourteen lines were the last that were written. Anderson, not pleased with the opening of the poem, pressed the necessity of starting with a picture complete in itself; this roused the full swing of Campbell's genius within him, and he returned the next day with that fine comparison between the beauty of remote objects in a landscape, and those ideal scenes of happiness which imaginative minds promise to themselves with all the certainty of hope fulfilled. "At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow |