"Maria, now the maid of heavenly charms, Decreed to bliss the youthful monarch's arms; Inflames Augustus with unwonted fires, And in his breast awakens new desires. In love a novice, while his bosom glows With restless heat, the cause he scarcely knows; The rural pastimes suited to his age, His late delight, no more his care engage; No more he wills to give his steed the reins In eager chase, and urge him o'er the plains; No more he joys to bend the twanging bow, To hurl the javeline, or the dart to throw; His alter'd thoughts to other objects rove, To wounds inflicted by the god of love. How oft, expressive of the inward smart, Did groans convulsive issue from his heart! How oft did blushes own the sacred flame, How oft his hand unbidden wrote her name! Now presents worthy of the plighted fair, And nuptial robes his busy train prepare-- Robes wherewith Livia was herself attired, And those bright dames that to the beds aspired Of emperors. Yet the celestial maid Requires no earthly ornamental aid To give her faultless form a single grace, Or add one charm to her bewitching face." The circumstances of the young poets were far from affluent. Campbell particularly felt the pressure of poverty. He came hastily one morning to the lodgings of his friend to request his opinion of some verses; they were immediately printed, and the copies sold to his fellow-students for a halfpenny each. So Paul sometimes told his friends, quoting the following lines as all he could remember of the production:-- "Loud shriek'd afar the angry sprite, That rode upon the storm of night, And loud the waves were heard to roar That lash'd on Jura's rocky shore." After several sessions of attendance at college, Paul became tutor to a family in Argyleshire, and Campbell obtained a similar situation in the island of Mull. They entered into a humorous correspondence in prose and verse. "Your verses on the Unfortunate Lady," writes Campbell to his friend, "I read with sweet pleasure; for there is a joy in grief, when peace dwelleth in the breast of the sad.... Morose as I am in judging of poetry, I could find nothing inelegant in the whole piece. I hope you will in your next (since you are such a master of the plaintive) send me some verses consolatory to a hermit; for my sequestered situation sometimes stamps a firm belief on my mind that I am actually an anchorite. In return for your welcome poetical effusion, I have nothing at present but a chorus of the Jepthes of Buchanan, written soon after my arrival in Mull:-- "Glassy Jordan, smooth meandering Jacob's grassy meads between, Lo! thy waters, gently wandering, Lave thy valleys rich and green. "When the winter, keenly show'ring, Strips fair Salem's holy shade, Then thy current, broader flowing, Lingers 'mid the leafless glade.