r his singular
praise of the Lacedaemonians at the expense of the Athenians, and his
preference of their barbarous laws to the legislation of the latter
people. His lectures on Greek Poetry have appeared, in parts, in the
_New Monthly Magazine_. He has also published _Annals of Great
Britain, from the Accession of George III. to the Peace of Amiens_;
and is the author of several articles on Poetry and Belles Lettres
in the _Edinburgh Encyclopoedia_.

Among his poetical works, the minor pieces display considerably more
energy than those of greater length. The _Pleasures of Hope_ is
entitled to rank as a British classic; and his _Gertrude_ is
perhaps one of the most chaste and delicate poems in the language. His
fugitive pieces are more extensively known. Some of them rouse us like
the notes of a war trumpet, and have become exceedingly popular; which
every one who has heard the deep rolling voice of Braham or Phillips in
_Hohenlinden_, will attest. Neither can we forget the beautiful
_Valedictory Stanzas_ to John Kemble, at the farewell dinner to
that illustrious actor. Another piece, _the Last Man_, is indeed
fine--and worthy of Byron. Of Campbell's attachment to his native
country we have already spoken, but as a finely-wrought specimen of
this amiable passion we subjoin a brief poem:

LINES WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE.

At the silence of twilight's contemplative hour,
I have mused in a sorrowful mood,
On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower,
Where the home of my forefathers stood.
All ruin'd and wild is their roofless abode,
And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree:
And travell'd by few is the grass-cover'd road,
Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode
To his hills that encircle the sea.

Yet wandering I found on my ruinous walk,
By the dial-stone aged and green,
One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk,
To mark where a garden had been.
Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race,
All wild in the silence of nature, it drew,
From each wandering sun-beam, a lonely embrace
For the night-weed and thorn overshadow'd the place,
Where the flower of my forefathers grew.

Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all
That remains in this desolate heart!
The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall,
But patience shall never depart!
Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright,
In the days of delusio