THOMAS CAMPBELL. 1777-1844. THE Caroline of this poem was the daughter of a clergyman of Inverary, whom Campbell met at Sunipol, in the Isle of Mull, in the summer of 1795. She was on a visit at the house of one of his relatives, with whom he was then lodging, and being about his own age, young, beautiful, and accomplished, he fell to admiring her, and writing verses in her praise. They spent the summer together pleasantly, and parted early in autumn, each with a memorial of their meeting, she with the manuscript of some of his poems, and he with her image in his fancy. They met again at Inverary in the following summer, but nothing came of it, except the second part of Campbell's poem, which was written at that time. He devoted himself to poetry, and she was shortly after married to a certain Thomas W. Esq., of Sterling. CAROLINE. PART 1. I'll bid the hyacinth to blow, I'll teach my grotto green to be; The holly bower and myrtle tree. There all his wild-wood sweets to bring, The sweet South wind shall wander by, Delight my rustling canopy. Come to my close and clustering bower, Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower, With all thy rural echoes come, Sweet comrade of the rosy day, Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum, Where'er thy morning breath has played, Thou wandering wind of fairy-land. For sure from some enchanted isle, Where Heaven and Love their sabbath hold, Where pure and happy spirits smile, Of beauty's fairest, brightest mould: From some green Eden of the deep, Where Pleasure's sigh alone is heaved, Where tears of rapture lovers weep, From some sweet Paradise afar, Thy music wanders, distant, lost, Where Nature lights her leading star, O gentle gale of Eden bowers, If back thy rosy feet should roam, To revel with the cloudless Hours In Nature's more propitious home, Name to thy loved Elysian groves, That o'er enchanted spirits twine, A fairer form than Cherub loves, And let the name be Caroline. CAROLINE. PART II. TO THE EVENING STAR. Gem of the crimson-coloured Even, So fair thy pensile beauty burns, When soft the tear of twilight flows; So due thy plighted love returns, To chambers brighter than the rose: To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love, So kind a star thou seem'st to be, Sure some enamoured orb above Descends and burns to meet with thee. Thine is the breathing, blushing hour, Chased by the soul-subduing power O sacred to the fall of day, Queen of propitious stars, appear, And early rise, and long delay, When Caroline herself is here! Shine on her chosen green resort, Whose trees the sunward summit crown, And wanton flowers, that well may court Shine on her sweetly-scented road, Thou star of evening's purple dome, That lead'st the nightingale abroad, And guid'st the pilgrim to his home. Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath Where winnowed by the gentle air, And fall upon her brow so fair, Like shadows on the mountain snow. Thus, ever thus, at day's decline, In converse sweet, to wander far, O bring with thee my Caroline, And thou shalt be my Ruling Star. SONG. Withdraw not yet those lips and fingers, Whose touch to mine is rapture's spell; Life's joy for us a moment lingers, And death seems in the word-Farewell. The hour that bids us part and go, It sounds not yet, O no, no, no! Time, whilst I gaze upon thy sweetness, When thou art parted from my soul? Our hearts shall beat, our tears shall flow, But not together, no, no, no! CHARLES LAMB. 1775-1834. THERE were two tragedies in the life of Charles Lamb, neither of which were known in his life-time, except to his dearest friends-the insanity of his sister, and his disappointment in love. We know all about the first, now that the actors have gone-we understand the shadow on his gentle spirit, now that the curtain has fallen-but the last has forever escaped us, melting away like a vapour, or the ghost of a dream at daybreak. We only know that he was in love, in 1795 or '6, and that he suppressed his love, like the brave good man that he was, for the sake of his unfortunate sister, who needed all his care. He affected to consider it a folly, when it was past, and went on his way as if it had never been. Why should he regret it? He had his desk at the India House by day, and at night a cosy fireside and his beloved books. He had Coleridge, whom he revered and loved, and many a night they spent together in the little smoky room at the Salutation and Cat, beguiling the cares of life with poetry. He had Mary too, so cheery and companionable, when she was well, so wretched when she was ill-when she felt her insanity coming on! No, he never regretted it! Dear Charles Lamb! many a man has been sainted ere now, for not a tythe of thy virtues. Methinks how dainty sweet it were, reclined |