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 delusion by fancy combined With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight, Abandon my soul, like a dream of the night, And leave but a desert behind. Be hush'd, my dark spirit! For wisdom condemns When the faint and the feeble deplore; Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems A thousand wild waves on the shore! Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain, May thy front be unalter'd, thy courage elate! Yea! even the name I have worshipp'd in vain Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again: To bear is to conquer our fate. Of a similar description are his "Lines on revisiting a Scottish River."[6] [6] See MIRROR, No. 257.