CAMPBELL'S hatred of tyranny, and his exertions in the cause of the oppressed, and particularly the unfortunate Poles, will not lightly pass away from the memory of those who so largely benefited by his labours.

During his lifetime some of the most eminent of the ancient noblesse of Poland expressed a grateful sense of obligation due to him. At his funeral there were not wanting sincere mourners for his loss (some of whom scattered "kindred dust" upon his coffin). After his decease, Lord Dudley Stuart, as Vice-President of the Polish Association, forwarded to Campbell's executors a tribute of condolence, from which the following passage is extracted:

"Nor did Mr. Campbell content himself with a mere abstract feeling of sympathy for the friendless and destitute Poles. No, his purse was open to them with a liberality far more in accordance with his generous nature than with the extent of his means: and early in the year 1832, in conjunction with the Polish poet Niemciewitz and the celebrated Prince Czartoryski, he founded this Association for the purpose of diffusing and keeping alive in the public mind a lively interest for ill-fated Poland. His pathetic, eloquent, and fervid address to our countrymen, throughout the empire, as our first president, on behalf of that unfortunate country, was eminently effective and successful. By imparting a knowledge of the objects of the parent society, he conciliated much powerful support from men of all parties in the state."

A THOUGHT SUGGESTED BY THE NEW

YEAR.

THE more we live, more brief appear

Our life's succeeding stages;

A day to childhood seems a year,
And years like passing ages.

The gladsome current of our youth,
Ere passion yet disorders,

Steals, lingering like a river smooth
Along its
grassy borders.

But, as the care-worn cheek grows wan,
And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,

Ye stars, that measure life to man,
Why seem your courses quicker?

When joys have lost their bloom and breath,
And life itself is vapid,

Why, as we reach the Falls of death,
Feel we its tide more rapid?

It may be strange-yet who would change
Time's course to slower speeding;
When one by one our friends have gone,
And left our bosoms bleeding?

Heaven gives our years of fading strength

Indemnifying fleetness;

And those of Youth, a seeming length,
Proportion'd to their sweetness.

SONG.

How delicious is the winning
Of a kiss at Love's beginning,
When two mutual hearts are sighing
For the knot there's no untying!

Yet, remember, 'midst your wooing,
Love has bliss, but Love has ruing;
Other smiles may make you fickle,
Tears for other charms may trickle.

Love he comes, and Love he tarries,
Just as fate or fancy carries;
Longest stays, when sorest chidden;
Laughs and flies, when press'd and bidden.

Bind the sea to slumber stilly,
Bind its odour to the lily,

Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver,

Then bind Love to last for ever!

Love's a fire that needs renewal

Of fresh beauty for its fuel;

Love's wing moults when caged and captured, Only free, he soars enraptured.

Can you keep the bee from ranging,
Or the ringdove's neck from changing?
No! nor fetter'd Love from dying
In the knot there's no untying.

MARGARET AND DORA.

MARGARET's beauteous-Grecian arts

Ne'er drew form completer,

Yet why, in my heart of hearts,

Hold I Dora's sweeter?

Dora's eyes of heavenly blue

Pass all painting's reach,
Ringdoves' notes are discord to

The music of her speech.

Artists! Margaret's smile receive,

And on canvas show it;

But for perfect worship leave

Dora to her poet.

THE POWER OF RUSSIA.

So all this gallant blood has gush'd in vain! And Poland, by the Northern Condor's beak And talons torn, lies prostrated again.

O British patriots, that were wont to speak Once loudly on this theme, now hush'd or meek!

O heartless men of Europe-Goth and Gaul, Cold, adder-deaf to Poland's dying shriek ;That saw the world's last land of heroes fallThe brand of burning shame is on you all-allall!

But this is not the drama's closing act!
Its tragic curtain must uprise anew.
Nations, mute accessories to the fact!
That Upas-tree of power, whose fostering dew
Was Polish blood, has yet to cast o'er you
The lengthening shadow of its head elate—
A deadly shadow, darkening Nature's hue.
To all that's hallow'd, righteous, pure and

great,

Wo! wo! when they are reach'd by Russia's withering hate.