Thomas Campbell (poet)

"Τεθνάμεναι γὰρ καλὸν ἐνὶ προμάχοισι πεσόντα ἄνδρ᾿ ἀγαθὸν περὶ ᾗ πατρίδι μαρνάμενον."

"Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art. — Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, A midway station given, For happy spirits to alight, Betwixt the earth and heaven."

"To-morrow let us do or die."

"Oh, how hard it is to find The one just suited to our mind!"

"Drink ye to her that each loves best! And if you nurse a flame That's told but to her mutual breast, We will not ask her name."

"Again to the battle, Achaians! Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance! Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree, It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free."

"Star that bringest home the bee, And sett'st the weary labourer free!"

"Absence! is not the soul torn by it From more than light, or life, or breath? 'Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet,— The pain without the peace of death!"

"All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The Sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume Its Immortality!"

"I saw the last of human mould, That shall Creation's death behold, As Adam saw her prime!"

"Roland, the flower of Chivalry, Expired at Roncevall."

"Can all that optics teach, unfold Thy form to please me so, As when I dreamt of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow? When Science from Creation's face Enchantment's veil withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place To cold material laws! And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, But words of the Most High, Have told why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky."

"When o'er the green undeluged earth Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's grey fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign. And when its yellow lustre smiled O'er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child To bless the bow of God."

"Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, The first-made anthem rang On earth deliver'd from the deep, And the first poet sang. Nor ever shall the Muse's eye Unraptured greet thy beam: Theme of primeval prophecy, Be still the poet's theme!"

"How glorious is thy girdle cast O'er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirror'd in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down! As fresh in yon horizon dark, As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam. For, faithful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thy span, Nor lets the type grow pale with age That first spoke peace to man."

"How glorious fall the valiant, sword in hand, In front of battle for their native land!"

"But youth’s fair form, though fallen, is ever fair, And beautiful in death the boy appears, The hero boy, that dies in blooming years: In man’s regret he lives, and woman’s tears; More sacred than in life, and lovelier far, For having perished in the front of war."

"But your wights that take no pride to wield A massy spear and well-made shield, Nor joy to draw the sword: Oh, I bring those heartless, hapless drones, Down in a trice on their marrow-bones, To call me King and Lord."

"Mr. Campbell may be said to hold a place (among modern poets) between Lord Byron and Mr. Rogers. With much of the glossy splendour, the pointed vigour, and romantic interest of the one, he possesses the fastidious refinement, the classic elegance of the other. … There are those who complain of the little that Mr. Campbell has done in poetry, and who seem to insinuate that he is deterred by his own reputation from making any further or higher attempts. But after having produced two poems that have gone to the heart of a nation, and are gifts to a world, he may surely linger out the rest of his life in a dream of immortality."

"And rustic life and poverty Grow beautiful beneath his touch."

"Whose lines are mottoes of the heart, Whose truths electrify the sage."

"There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill."

"Better be courted and jilted Than never be courted at all."

"An original something, fair maid, you would win me To write — but how shall I begin? For I fear I have nothing original in me — Excepting Original Sin."

"Now Barabbas was a publisher."

"A chieftain to the Highlands bound Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry!""

""Now who be ye would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?" "O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this, Lord Ullin's daughter."

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief "Across this stormy water; And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter! O my daughter!"

"'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue."

"What potent spirit guides the raptur'd eye To pierce the shades of dim futurity? Can Wisdom lend, with all her heav'nly pow'r, The pledge of Joy's anticipated hour? Ah, no! she darkly sees the fate of man— Her dim horizon bounded to a span; Or, if she hold an image to the view, Tis nature pictur'd too severely true."

"With thee, sweet Hope! resides the heav'nly light, That pours remotest rapture on the sight: Thine is the charm of life's bewilder'd way, That calls each slumb'ring passion into play."

"When peace and mercy, banish'd from the plain, Sprung on the viewless winds to Heav'n again; All, all forsook the friendless guilty mind, But Hope, the charmer, linger'd still behind."

"Thus, while Elijah's burning wheels prepare, From Carmel's height, to sweep the fields of air, The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, Dropt on the world — a sacred gift to man."

"Auspicious Hope! in thy sweet garden grow Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe: Won by their sweets, in nature's languid hour, The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower; There, as the wild bee murmurs on the wing, What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring! What viewless forms th' Æolian organ play, And sweep the furrow'd lines of anxious thought away! Angel of life! thy glittering wings explore Earth's loneliest bounds, and Ocean's wildest shore."

"O Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save!"

"Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, And Freedom shrieked—as Kosciusko fell!"

"On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below."

"And rival all but Shakespeare's name below."

"Who hath not owned, with rapture-smitten frame, The power of grace, the magic of a name?"

"Without the smile from partial beauty won, Oh what were man? — a world without a sun."

"The world was sad, the garden was a wild, And man the hermit sigh'd — till woman smiled."

"While Memory watches o'er the sad review Of joys that faded like the morning dew."

"There shall he love when genial morn appears, Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears."

"And muse on Nature with a poet's eye."

"Let Winter come! let polar spirits sweep The darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep! Though boundless snows the withered heath deform, And the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm, Yet shall the smile of social love repay, With mental light, the melancholy day! And, when its short and sullen noon is o'er, The ice-chained waters slumbering on the shore, How bright the fagots in his little hall Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall!"

"What millions died that Caesar might be great!"

"That gems the starry girdle of the year."

"Melt and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll Cimmerian darkness o'er the parting soul!"

"O star-eyed Science! hast thou wandered there, To waft us home the message of despair?"

"But sad as angels for the good man's sin, Weep to record, and blush to give it in."