ively than by his lip. His complaint was of weakness and a morbid sensation of chilliness. The next day he rallied a little, but it was evident that the case was hopeless. At one time, being doubtful if he was conscious of what was said, some one named Hohenlinden, and suggested that the author was a Mr. Robinson. "No," said the poet, calmly and distinctly, "it was one Tom Campbell." On the seventh of June, his respiration was more impeded, and a swelling in his right foot increased. He continued to converse, however, at intervals, in a serene and interesting manner. In reply to the inquiry of Dr. Beattie if his mind was quite easy, he said, with much earnestness and energy, "Yes, I have entire control over my mind ;" adding, after a little pause, "I am quite " The last word was inaudible. He was fully aware of his situation, and, though serious. was placid and composed. No murmur or expression of pain escaped from him during several days which Dr. Beattie passed in his chamber. At last, on its being remarked that he showed great patience under suffering, he said faintly, and for the first time, "I do suffer." A strong religious feeling was now manifested by the poet. Prayers from the Liturgy were read to him at his request, and passages from the Scriptures, which he listened to with deep emotion. A day or two before his death, he was visited by Mr. Moxon, his publisher, and expressed pleasure at seeing him. On the fourteenth of the month, when he seemed sleeping heavily, his lips suddenly moved, and in a slow, distinct whisper he said, "We shall see ** to-morrow," naming a long-departed friend. In the afternoon of the next day he died. When the spirit had left the body his countenance was placid, and fixed in its happiest expression.

While the arrangements required by the laws of France were in progress, the body remained in the drawing-room, the head slightly elevated in the coffin, and crowned with a wreath of laurel and evergreen. This had been placed there by his old English nurse, a soldier's widow, whom Dr. Beattie found sitting by the remains, with the prayer-book in her hand, and Campbell's Poems by her side. The folds of his shroud were scattered with roses, and a bunch of wild-flowers was held in his unconscious grasp. Many of the English residents of Boulogne, friends and strangers, called to give a last look and pay a last tribute of respect to one who had been, for nearly half a century, emphatically the "popular poet" of his country.

On the third of July his body was deposited in the centre of Poet's Corner, in Westminster Abbey. His funeral was most honorably attended. His brother poet, the Rev. Mr. Milman, one of the prebendaries of the church, headed the procession. His old and dear friend Richardson, and the Duke of Argyle, head of his clan, stood by his bier. Sir Robert Peel, then premier, Brougham, Lockhart, Macaulay, Lord Campbell, B. D'Israeli, Horace Smith, Dr. Croly, Thackeray, and many other gentlemen of political and literary distinction, united in rendering the last honors to one whom they admired for his generous and noble qualities as a man no less than for his genius as a poet. A guard of Polish nobles, and a numerous body of private friends and citizens, joined in the sad ceremonies. When the officiating minister arrived at that portion of the ceremony in which dust is consigned to dust, Colonel Szyrma, a member of the Literary Association of Poland, scattered over the coffin of the poet a handful of earth from the grave of Kosciusko, at Cracow. More cordial respect and homage had never marked the obsequies of any literary man, since the Abbey received the ashes of Addison.

The inscription on the coffin was, "Thomas Campbell, LL.D., author of The Pleasures of Hope, aged LXVII."

This event was commemorated by a kindred spirit-Horace Smith -in lines worthy to live in the same volume with the immortal productions of him in whose honor they were written.

CAMPBELL'S FUNERAL.

"T is well to see these accidental great,
Noble by birth, or Fortune's favor blind,
Gracing themselves in adding grace and state
To the more noble eminence of mind;
And doing homage to a bard

Whose breast by Nature's gems was starred,
Whose patent by the hand of God himself was signed.

While monarchs sleep, forgotten, unrevered,

Time trims the lamp of intellectual fame.

The builders of the pyramids, who reared

Mountains of stone, left none to tell their name.

Though Homer's tomb was never known,

A mausoleum of his own,

Long as the world endures, his greatness shall proclaim.

What lauding sepulchre does Campbell want? "Tis his to give, and not derive renown.

What monumental bronze or adamant

Like his own deathless Lays can hand him down?

Poets outlast their tombs: the bust

And statue soon revert to dust;

The dust they represent still wears the laurel crown.

The solid abbey walls that seem time-proof,

Formed to await the final day of doom,

The clustered shafts, and arch-supported roof,

That now enshrine and guard our Campbell's tomb,

Become a ruined, shattered fane,

May fall and bury him again,

Yet still the bard shall live, his fame-wreath still shall bloom. Methought the monumental effigies

Of elder poets, that were grouped around,
Leaned from their pedestals with eager eyes,
To peer into the excavated ground,

Where lay the gifted, good and brave;
While earth from Kosciusko's grave

Fell on his coffin-plate with Freedom-shrieking sound.
And over him the kindred dust was strewed

Of Poet's Corner. O misnomer strange !

The poet's confine is the amplitude

Of the whole earth's illimitable range,
O'er which his spirit flings its flight,

Shedding an intellectual light —

A sun that never sets, a moon that knows no change.

Around his grave in radiant brotherhood,

As if to form a halo o'er his head,

Not few of England's master-spirits stood,
Bards, artists, sages, reverently led
To wave each separating plea

Of sect, clime, party and degree,

All honoring him on whom Nature all honors shed.

To me, the humblest of the mourning band,

Who knew the bard through many a changeful year,

It was a proud, sad privilege to stand

Beside his grave and shed a parting tear.

Seven lustres had he been my friend;
Be that my plea when I suspend

This all-unworthy wreath on such a poet's bier.

CHAPTER VIII.

In his early years Campbell was eminently handsome, and the portraits of him when somewhat advanced in life show that he still retained a countenance of great beauty. "He was a delicate child," says a writer in the Quarterly Review, who seems to have been familiar with his person at various periods of his life, "with a slight form, small, accurate features, a hectic complexion, and eyes such as no one could see and forget; Lawrence's pencil alone could transmit their dark mixture of fire and softness. Many physiologists have noticed the contrast between the organization of the ordinary Gael and that of the aristocracy. Speaking generally, no class of gentry in Europe are above these last, whether you regard the proportions of the frame or the facial lines. Their blood, no doubt, has been largely dashed with intermixtures; and Campbell's countenance, we must own, said more than the heralds have been able to do in support of the story of the 'adventurous Norman' and 'the Lady of the West.'

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Of his personal appearance in his study in his later years, the fulllength etching which accompanies this biographical sketch is said to convey a faithful presentment. It is copied from an outline in Frazer's Magazine, taken while the poet was editor of the New Monthly; and no doubt savors of caricature, notwithstanding the general resemblance. It seems to correspond with the account given by Mr. R. Carruthers, in his Mornings with Campbell. "The poet," says this writer, was breakfasting in his sitting-room, which was filled with books, and had rather a showy appearance. The carpet and tables were littered with stray volumes, letters and papers. At this time, he was, like Charles Lamb, a worshipper of the great plant; and tobacco-pipes were mingled with the miscellaneous literary wares. A large print of the queen hung over the fireplace; he drew my attention to it, and said it had been presented to him by her majesty; he valued it very highly. Money could not buy it from me,' he remarked. He was generally careful as to dress, and had none of Dr. Johnson's indifference to fine linen. always nicely adjusted, and scarcely distinguishable from natural

His wigs were