Thomas Campbell

William Henry Ireland, in Scribbleomania (1815) 35-37.

Hope's path, lo! with pleasures a Campbell next strews,
True fancy with lustre enshrining the Muse;
His scenes rapid changing, revolve boundless scope,
Each vision the phantasy nurtur'd of Hope.
As in Comus of Milton bright gems stud each line,
The fire of a Genius ne'er resting supine,
So his vesture our Bard dipp'd in heaven's azure beam,
And Hope seems no longer Delusion's gay dream:
Enchain'd by his number, dark Fate is forgot,
Our passage through life ranks of Angels the lot;
The sunshine of pleasure dispels sorrow's tears,
And the soul seems entranc'd by the choir of the spheres.
Oh! welcome, fond Hope, choicest boon from above,
The balm of affliction and soother of love;
Thy precept enchanting, by Campbell design'd,
'Graves each budding joy on my sensitive mind:
Then live, sweetest soother! my soul's dearest treasure;
The pathway of Peace, and the beacon of Pleasure.