THE SPECTATORS LIBRARY.

THE volume of Lays from the East is really a volume of poetry, and it is the first which has now for along time come to our hands. We last week made some remarks on the effect of an Indian life on the poetical temperament : they are remarkably confirmed by Mr. CAMPBELL'S productions : they have the Oriental brilliancy of co- louring and the exile's tenderness of feeling. They who have read Sir THOMAS MUNRO'S Life and Correspondence, will remember how beautifillly and how continually he retards to the recollections of his home, his early friends, his native country. Distance and solitude made a poet even of the statesman and soldier. Similar trains of thought are pursued with great felicity by Mr. CAMP- BELL : they form a marked feature in his verse, as in that of all exiles. The following is an example of his recollections of youth.

" Oh ! for the sweet gales of Youth's morning time ! Oh! for the rich breath of the mountain flowers!

Oh! for the forest birds !—the cheerful chime Of village bells, that on the ear, like showers On sultry meadows, fell I-0h ! for the streams That lullabied my infancy,—while dreams, Such as fly far from manhood's slumber-hours. A tissuey veil cast o'er the hidden store Of thoughts, deep bedded then within my bosom's core !

Oh! for the moonlight ramble by the river That to the winking stars its night-chant sung ! Oh! for those waters, gushing on for ever In an eternal freshness,—cool and young.

As when their spring, in by-gone ages, first From the earth's womb in strength and glory burst, With a rich flood, that fertile verdure flung

On many a spot, barren and waste before,

But now with flowers and herbs all Strew'd and sprinkled o'er 1"

".The Ship" is. a little poem which it would be vain to endea- vour to equal in the multitudinous little volumes of the poetasters of the day.

"Our good Ship she bore her white, white sails,

Like the sea-gull's wings in the wintry gales ; And she rear'd her masts, in the sunlight's ray,

Like the antlers a a stag at bay,

Whose pride of heart hath fail'd him not, .Though dark be his weird, and death his lot ! Oh I to see our ship as she scudded away, Gliding like light through that spacious hay ! Oh! to see her as she plough'd the main, With her prow of pride, and her look of disdain; As her keel flung about, with baffling scorn, The dashing waters around it borne; Flashing their white foam all about, As the lion foams till his ire is out !

Oh! to see her, then, in the lark, dark sea, That carried her on in its treachery; Courting.the sunshine, and kissing the breeze That woke 'mid the cordage its harmonies ! Ye would have thought that a thing so fair Had won the blessings of sea and air : But deep in the cloud lurks the lightning's flash, And the sea-snake hides in the billow's dash,— And the viper coils, among rose-leaves hid,— And the mummy rots in the pyramid !- •

And so it is with man,—his sight Is dim as the moleworrifs,—dark as the night ; And his scan pierces not through the veil which Fate Hath woven across his mortal state; And he tracks his way without thought or fear, While his steps are haunted,—for Death is near !

A night hath died,—and a morn arisen, But where are the brave in their wooden prison ?- A morn hath come, and a night hath died, But I see not that thing of beauty glide, Like a spirit of power, o'er the marvellous deep,

For the storm-fiends have broken their treacherous sleep I

Oh! dark fell the night, and red from the cloud Burst the Tempest-King in his lightning shroud !— Ohl dark fell the night, and the sea toss'd high Its rebel billows to cloud and to sky; And the monsters that haunt the oozy bed Where mermen rest, and landsmen lie dead, Held revel fierce on the booming wave, That bath now become the brave ones' grave; For our good ship bath sunk—and never more Shall we hail her masts from the distant shore !"

"The Warrior Returned" is ,entitled to similar praise.

"She hid his sword in the myrtle boughs • That waved o'er the rustic porch ; And, long"ere the summer's sunny close,

You might see, by the glow-worm's torch, A rusted blade, once red with guilt, With pure dew wet; whilst in the hilt

A sparrow had built its tiny nest,

Where the warrior's hand had loved to rest !

She hung his spear 'mid the clustering vines

That clung round the window-sill; And red is its point, and it brightly shines, As if bathed in life's current still.

For round it the ripest grapes twist thick, But they hang so high that none may pick ;—

They have burst in their pride, and their juice runs o'er

The spear that shall glisten with blood no more !

His shield rests now in the cottage room, And his helmet nods on the wall ; But oh ! she hath pilfer'd its painted plume For the sports of the festival And his war-cloak is there,—o'er that basket flung Where his'first-born babe, the slumbering young, Smiles out through his dreams, as free from guile As his father's breast, or his mother's smile!"

As a specimen of the fertility of Mr. CAMPBELL'S fancy, we will adorn our columns with the following imaginative little piece.

"I thought that I rode on a sunbeam, sent Through the heights of the azure firmament ; And I flew through the planets afar, afar, Till I reach'd the largest and brightest star.

And that was the home of a Sylph of air, And her palace was form'd of rubies rare, And she rested her on a topaz throne, Which through the fair planet in splendour shone.

Her crown was a comet all dazzling and bright, Her sceptre a beam of the Northern light; And her footstool was a glorious theft From the rainbox, when Iris her watch had left !

Her ringlets were threads of living gold, But softer far than the silkworm's fold— Her robe was made of the Haleyon's down, And a halo of lightning was over her thrown.

Her sandals were each composed of a ray Stolen from the white of the milky way ;— And round her waist was a glittering zone Made of one brilliant diamond stone !

Oh! that star so fair, with its trees, whose leaves Were emeralds greener than earth e'er gives ; And the juice of whose fruits was far more sweet Than the dews which on roses the nightingales meet.

Oh ! that planet-isle, whose rivers gave Milk, nectar, or honey, in every wave ! Whose every flower was an odorous gem More bright than a regal diadem Oh I that star of joy—that isle of bliss ! Where its Sylph-queen gave me one fervid kiss,

That thrills through-my heart, and throbs through my brain, With a pang that combines both pleasure and pain !"

In a different strain, and as a specimen of a different style, is the following.

"1 care not for the World's Esteem

'Tis false, 'tis worse than false, and given To all who wear the badge of power, To all who boast wealth's glittering dower, While poverty a-door is driven.

—I care not for the world's esteem I I seek not for the Public Praise ;- 'Tis like the wind, inconstant ever; It brushes now the violet's bed, Now fawns around the nettle's head, Then kisses what it next will shiVer.

—I seek not for the public praise!

I court not Beauty's dazzling glance, That, like the lightning, gleams to scorch us ; For Woman's eyes contain the spell That tempted man from heaven to hell ;— Love's bright but sense-subduing torches. —I court not Beauty's dazzling glance !

I dash the Bacchant cup aside, Nor kiss the vase that glows with wine;- 'Tis but the poison-juice that leads

Through flowers to where the serpent breeds,— Like lamps that over dungeons shine. —I dash the Bacchant cup.aside !

The public praise,—the world's esteem,—

Bright beauty's glance,—wine's tempting wealth,- 1 banish from my thoughts away,

As dews that bring, not kill decay—

As charnel-blasts that breathe unhealth.

—I spurn them, but—'Tis when I dream !"

We know nothing of Mr. CAMPBELL; we are ignorant whether he is young or old—a practised versifier or a juvenile poet : but cf this we are sure, that the West at this moment cannot produce so successful a youthful votary of the Muses as this minstrel of the East.