"See! yonder hill where he was wont to sit,
A cloud doth keep the golden sun from it,
And for his seat, (as teaching us) hath made
A mourning covering with a scowling shade.
The dew in every flower, this morn, hath lain,
Longer than it was wont, this side the plain,
Belike they mean, since my best friend must die,
To shed their silver drops as he goes by.
Not all this day here, nor in coming hither,
Heard I the sweet birds tune their songs together,
Except one nightingale in yonder dell
Sigh'd a sad elegy for Philocel.
Near whom a wood-dove kept no small ado,
To bid me, in her language, '_Do so too_'--
The wether's bell, that leads our flock around,
Yields, as methinks, this day a deader sound.
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The little sparrows which in hedges creep,
Ere I was up did seem to bid me weep.
If these do so, can I have feeling less,
That am more apt to take and to express?
No--let my own tunes be the mandrake's groan,
If now they tend to mirth when all have none."
Both these passages may have been quoted by some of Campbell's
predecessors. This might justify him in not repeating them, but _not_ in
writing the criticism to which I have ventured to object. His work holds a
high rank in English literature--it is taken as a text-book by _the
generality of readers_; for which reasons I think that every dictum it lays
down ought to be examined with more than usual care and attention.