The poet Thomas Campbell, descended from an ancient Highland family,
and born and brought up in Scotland, was, like Scott, an ardent
Scottish patriot; he also felt warm sympathy for Ireland, and, like
Moore, sang her national memories and sorrows; but he combined love
of the two subordinate countries with an ardent and martial British
patriotism.
He was, however, not only a national poet in the sense in which
Wordsworth was one, but also, from his youth to his death, an
enthusiastic lover of liberty. His epic poems and his ballads are not
superior to corresponding productions of Wordsworth's; but he had true
lyric genius. He is the Tyrtæus or Petöfi of the Naturalistic School.
To him the cause of his country and the cause of liberty are one and
the same thing, and in his best verse there is a spirit, a swinging
march time, and a fire, that entitle him, if only for the sake of
half-a-dozen short pieces, to a place among great poets.
His poem _The Battle of the Baltic_ is, naturally, little calculated
to make a favourable impression on Danes. His pride in the victory
Nelson won over a force so much weaker than his own, but which the poem
magnifies into the same size as England's, is the very extravagance of
patriotism. But, side by side with this poem, and written at the same
time, we have _Ye Mariners of England_, a masterpiece, in the rhythm
of which we seem to hear the gale rattling among English sails. Here
the true son of the Queen of the Sea, singing of the British sailor,
celebrates his mother's praises.
Notice the rushing, sweeping force and exultation compressed into the
last four lines of this stanza:--
"Ye Mariners of England!
That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved a thousand years
The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe!
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
And observe the expression of pride in England's sovereignty of the
sea:--
Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below,--
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy winds do blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
Campbell's life was a well regulated and tranquil one. Born in Glasgow
in 1777, he received an excellent education there and in Edinburgh.
At the age of twenty-one he published his _Pleasures of Hope_, which,
though now antiquated, created a sensation on its appearance, and with
the proceeds undertook a tour in Germany, during the course of which
he wrote several poems inspired by the hostilities with Denmark--among
them the two above mentioned. In 1803 he married his cousin and
settled in London. He wrote, lectured, and from 1820 onwards edited a
newspaper. After 1830 his health was precarious and his powers were
enfeebled. He lived, a shadow of himself, until 1844.
It is the same with Campbell as with all the other authors of the group
to which he belonged--his poetic faculty is based upon the freshness
of his receptivity to natural impressions. He has written a poem to
the rainbow which, in spite of a rather prosaic and argumentative
introduction, is a little masterpiece of simplicity and fancy. He
begins by imagining the feelings of "the world's grey fathers" when
they came forth to watch its first appearance:--
"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 delivered 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 mirrored 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."
And one of his latest poems, _The Dead Eagle_, written at Oran in
Africa, bears witness to the same, unenfeebled, receptivity to
all the phenomena of nature as this early one. In the later work
we are conscious of a joy in natural strength and power which is
characteristically English. "True" the poet writes:
"True the carr'd aëronaut can mount as high;
But what's the triumph of his volant art?
A rash intrusion on the realms of air.
His helmless vehicle, a silken toy,
A bubble bursting in the thunder-cloud;
His course has no volition, and he drifts
The passive plaything of the winds. Not such
Was this proud bird: he clove the adverse storm
And cuff'd it with his wings.
He stopp'd his flight
As easily as the Arab reins his steed,
And stood at pleasure 'neath heaven's zenith, like
A lamp suspended from its azure dome,
Whilst underneath him the world's mountains lay
Like molehills, and her streams like lucid threads.
Then downward, faster than a falling star,
He near'd the earth, until his shape distinct
Was blackly shadow'd on the sunny ground;
And deeper terror hush'd the wilderness,
To hear his nearer whoop. Then, up again
He soar'd and wheel'd. There was an air of scorn
In all his movements, whether he threw round
His crested head to look behind him, or
Lay vertical and sportively display'd,
The inside whiteness of his wing declined
In gyres and undulations full of grace.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
He--reckless who was victor, and above
The hearing of their guns--saw fleets engaged
In flaming combat. It was nought to him
What carnage, Moor or Christian, strew'd their decks.
But if his intellect had match'd his wings,
Methinks he would have scorn'd man's vaunted power
To plough the deep; his pinions bore him down
To Algiers the warlike, or the coral groves
That blush beneath the green of Bona's waves;
And traversed in an hour a wider space
Than yonder gallant ship, with all her sails
Wooing the winds, can cross from morn till eve.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . The earthquake's self
Disturb'd not him that memorable day,
When o'er yon table-land, where Spain had built
Cathedrals, cannon'd forts, and palaces,
A palsy-stroke of Nature shook Oran,
Turning her city to a sepulchre,
And strewing into rubbish all her homes."
There is wealth of imagination in this as well as wealth of observation.
But Campbell is greatest in his poetry of freedom, in poems like _Men
of England, Stanzas on the Battle of Navarino, Lines on Poland, the
Power of Russia_, and such noble, profound expressions of spiritual
freedom as that entitled _Hallowed Ground_. In such productions as
these he plainly shows his spiritual superiority to the poets of the
Lake School, who, like him, wrote glorious verse in honour of the
nations who were struggling for their independence. The Lake poets
honoured the struggle only when it was against the tyranny of Napoleon,
England's enemy. Campbell makes no difference of this kind; in the name
of freedom he often exhorts and even rebukes England, whereas to the
other poets she is freedom's very hearth and home.
Note, in _Men of England_, the warmth with which he insists that the
records of valour in war are as nothing compared with the glowing love
of liberty in the breasts of living men, and that the glory of the
martyrs of freedom is worth a hundred Agincourts.
Campbell's joy at the liberation of Greece is as genuine as his grief
over the fall of Poland; but the poem on Poland is more ardent, in its
indignation, its hope, its lament that "England has not heart to throw
the gauntlet down." And the verses on the power of Russia display as
clear an understanding of the danger to civilisation which lies in
the success of Russia, and of the real significance of the defeat of
Poland, as if a statesman had turned poet.
"Were this some common strife of States embroil'd;--
Britannia on the spoiler and the spoil'd
Might calmly look, and, asking time to breathe,
Still honourably wear her olive wreath.
But this is Darkness combating with Light;
Earth's adverse Principles for empire fight."
These are weighty words; and not less pregnant is the line:
"The Polish eagle's fall is big with fate to man."
The poem _Hallowed Ground_ is, in its bold simplicity, a plain
protest against all superstition, whatever name it bears, and a manly
confession of faith in the gospel of liberty as proclaimed by the
eighteenth century. What is hallowed ground? asks Campbell:
"What's hallow'd ground? Has earth a clod
Its Maker meant not should be trod
By man, the image of his God,
Erect and free,
Unscourg'd by superstition's rod
To bow the knee?
That's hallow'd ground--where, mourn'd and miss'd.
The lips repose our love has kiss'd;--
But where's their memory's mansion? Is't
Yon churchyard's bowers?
No! in ourselves their souls exist,
A part of ours.
A kiss can consecrate the ground
Where mated hearts are mutual bound;
The spot where love's first links were wound,
That ne'er were riven,
Is hallow'd down to earth's profound,
And up to heaven!"
And, though the ashes of those who have served mankind may be scattered
to the winds, they themselves, he says, live on in men's hearts as in
consecrated ground; until the high-priesthood of Peace, Independence,
Truth, shall make earth at last _all hallowed ground_.
Campbell cannot be numbered among the greatest poets of the
Naturalistic School; but in his lyrics there is a simple, powerful,
and melodious pathos which reminds us of the old Greek elegiac poets.
Although Scotch by birth, his sympathies were with Ireland, and his
spirit was British. Although, like the poets of the Lake School,
ardently patriotic, he was distinctly the lover and champion of
liberty, and of liberty as a divinity, not as an idol. He forms the
connecting link between the national poets of Scotland and Ireland and
the three great English poet-emigrants of this period.