  Thomas Campbell, author of the "Pleasures of Hope," was descended from a race of landed proprietors in Argyleshire, who claimed ancestry in Macallummore, the great head of clan Campbell, and consequent propinquity to the noble House of Argyle. Alexander Campbell, the poet's father, had carried on a prosperous trade as a Virginian merchant, but had suffered unhappy embarrassments, at the outbreak of the American war. Of his eleven children, Thomas was the youngest. He was born on the 27th July 1777, in his father's house, High Street, Glasgow, and was baptised by the celebrated Dr Thomas Reid, after whom he received his Christian name. The favourite child of his parents, peculiar care was bestowed upon his upbringing; he was taught to read by his eldest sister, who was nineteen years his senior, and had an example of energy set before him by his mother, a woman of remarkable decision. He afforded early indication of genius; as a child, he was fond of ballad poetry, and in his tenth year he wrote verses. At the age of eight he became a pupil in the grammar school, having already made some proficiency in classical learning. During the first session of attendance at the University, he gained two prizes and a bursary on Archbishop Leighton's foundation. As a classical scholar, he acquired rapid distinction; he took especial delight in the dramatic literature of Greece, and his metrical translations from the Greek plays were pronounced excellent specimens of poetical composition. He invoked the muse on many themes, and occasionally printed verses, which were purchased by his comrades. From the commencement of his curriculum he chiefly supported himself by teaching; at the close of his fourth session, he accepted a tutorship in the island of Mull. There he prosecuted verse-making, and continued his translations from the Greek dramatists. He conducted a poetical correspondence with Hamilton Paul; and the following lines addressed to this early friend, and entitled "An Elegy written in Mull," may be quoted in evidence of his poetical talent in his seventeenth year. These lines do not occur in any edition of his works: Air—"Ailen Aroon." Would you be young again?
So would not I—
One tear to memory given,
Onward I 'd hie.
Life's dark flood forded o'er,
All but at rest on shore,
Say, would you plunge once more,
With home so nigh?
If you might, would you now
Retrace your way?
Wander through stormy wilds,
Faint and astray?
Night's gloomy watches fled,
Morning all beaming red,
Hope's smiles around us shed,
Heavenward—away.
Where, then, are those dear ones,
Our joy and delight?
Dear and more dear though now
Hidden from sight.
Where they rejoice to be,
There is the land for me;
Fly, time, fly speedily;
Come, life and light.
REST IS NOT HERE. What 's this vain world to me?
Rest is not here;
False are the smiles I see,
The mirth I hear.
Where is youth's joyful glee?
Where all once dear to me?
Gone, as the shadows flee—
Rest is not here.
Why did the morning shine
Blythely and fair?
Why did those tints so fine
Vanish in air?
Does not the vision say,
Faint, lingering heart, away,
Why in this desert stay—
Dark land of care!
Where souls angelic soar,
Thither repair;
Let this vain world no more
Lull and ensnare.
That heaven I love so well
Still in my heart shall dwell;
All things around me tell
Rest is found there.
HERE'S TO THEM THAT ARE GANE. Air—"Here 's a health to ane I lo'e weel." Here 's to them, to them that are gane;
Here 's to them, to them that are gane;
Here 's to them that were here, the faithful and dear,
That will never be here again—no, never.
But where are they now that are gane?
Oh, where are the faithful and true?
They 're gane to the light that fears not the night,
An' their day of rejoicing shall end—no, never.
Here 's to them, to them that were here;
Here 's to them, to them that were here;
Here 's a tear and a sigh to the bliss that 's gane by,
But 'twas ne'er like what 's coming, to last—for ever.
Oh, bright was their morning sun!
Oh, bright was their morning sun!
Yet, lang ere the gloaming, in clouds it gaed down;
But the storm and the cloud are now past—for ever.
Fareweel, fareweel! parting silence is sad;
Oh, how sad the last parting tear!
But that silence shall break, where no tear on the cheek
Can bedim the bright vision again—no, never.
Then, speed to the wings of old Time,
That waft us where pilgrims would be;
To the regions of rest, to the shores of the blest,
Where the full tide of glory shall flow—for ever.
FAREWEEL, O FAREWEEL! GAELIC AIR. Fareweel, O fareweel!
My heart it is sair;
Fareweel, O fareweel!
I 'll see him nae mair.
Lang, lang was he mine,
Lang, lang—but nae mair;
I mauna repine,
But my heart it is sair.
His staff 's at the wa',
Toom, toom is his chair!
His bannet, an' a'!
An' I maun be here!
But oh! he 's at rest,
Why sud I complain?
Gin my soul be blest,
I 'll meet him again.
Oh, to meet him again,
Where hearts ne'er were sair!
Oh, to meet him again,
To part never mair!
THE DEAD WHO HAVE DIED IN THE LORD.[68] Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament,
Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent;
But weep not for him who is gone to his rest,
Nor mourn for the ransom'd, nor wail for the blest.
The sun is not set, but is risen on high,
Nor long in corruption his body shall lie—
Then let not the tide of thy griefs overflow,
Nor the music of heaven be discord below;
Rather loud be the song, and triumphant the chord,
Let us joy for the dead who have died in the Lord.
Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament,
Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent;
But give to the living thy passion of tears
Who walk in this valley of sadness and fears,
Who are press'd by the combat, in darkness are lost,
By the tempest are beat, on the billows are toss'd.
Oh, weep not for those who shall sorrow no more,
Whose warfare is ended, whose combat is o'er;
Let the song be exalted, be triumphant the chord,
And rejoice for the dead who have died in the Lord.
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