Here, _Hermes_ says Jove, who with Nectar was mellow, Go, fetch me some clay――I will make an odd fellow: Right and wrong shall be jumbled,――much gold and some dross: Without cause be he pleas’d, without cause be he cross; Be sure, as I work to throw in contradictions, A great love of truth, yet, a mind turned to fictions; Now mix these ingredients, which warm’d in the baking, Turn’d to _learning_ and _gaminq_, _religion_ and _raking_. With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste; Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste; That the rake and the poet o’er all may prevail, Set fire to the head, and set fire to the tail; For the joy of each sex, on the world I’ll bestow it, This _Scholar_, _Rake_, _Christian_, _Dupe_, _Gamester_, and _Poet_; Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame, And among brother mortals――be GOLDSMITH his name; When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear, You――_Hermes_――shall fetch him――to make us sport here. [Illustration] Thomas Campbell, _Born July_ 27, 1777. _Died June_ 15, 1844. [Illustration: H]aving already given Parodies of several of the most celebrated English, Irish, and American Poets, it is advisable to turn now to Scotland for an Author, and although, perhaps, the genius and writings of Campbell were not very distinctly Scotch, most of his poems have achieved world-wide fame, and have consequently been very frequently parodied. Thomas Campbell was born and educated in Glasgow, where he achieved remarkable success in his studies; after travelling some time upon the Continent, he came to London, married, and went to reside at Sydenham. His writings soon attracted considerable attention, he was appointed Professor of Poetry to the Royal Institution, and became Editor of the New Monthly Magazine, to which he contributed many interesting articles. But an Act of Parliament should be passed to prohibit men of genius from acting as Editors, the work and worry kill them, and the duties leave no time for original compositions. It is, therefore, not surprising that Campbell was not a prolific poet, and Washington Irving relates that he once expressed his regret to Mrs. Campbell that her husband did not write more verse. “It is unfortunate,” she replied, “that he lives in the same age with Scott and Byron who write so much, and so rapidly. He is apt to undervalue his own works, and to consider his little light put out, whenever they come blazing out with their great torches.” Irving subsequently repeated this to the great Sir Walter, who, with his usual kindness, and good humour, replied, “How can Campbell mistake the matter so much? Poetry goes by quality, not by bulk. My poems are mere cairngorms, wrought up, perhaps, with a cunning hand, but they are mere Scotch pebbles, after all; now Tom Campbell’s are real diamonds, and diamonds of the first water.”