Mr Campbell died of apoplexy on the 15th of May 1824, after a life much chequered by misfortune. He left various MSS. on subjects connected with his favourite studies, which have fortunately found their way into the possession of Mr Laing, to whom the history of Scottish poetry is perhaps more indebted than to any other living writer. The poems in this collection, though bearing marks of sufficient elaboration, could not be recommended for publication. Mr Campbell was understood to be a contributor to _The Ghost_, a forgotten periodical, which ran a short career in the year 1790. It was published in Edinburgh twice a week, and reached the forty-sixth number; the first having appeared on the 25th of April, the last on the 16th of November. He published an edition of a book, curious in its way--Donald Mackintosh's "Collection of Gaelic Proverbs, and Familiar Phrases; Englished anew!" Edinburgh, 1819, 12mo. The preface contains a characteristic account of the compiler, who described himself as "a priest of the old Scots Episcopal Church, and last of the non-jurant clergy in Scotland." NOW WINTER'S WIND SWEEPS. Now winter's wind sweeps o'er the mountains, Deeply clad in drifting snow; Soundly sleep the frozen fountains; Ice-bound streams forget to flow: The piercing blast howls loud and long, The leafless forest oaks among. Down the glen, lo! comes a stranger, Wayworn, drooping, all alone;-- Haply, 'tis the deer-haunt Ranger! But alas! his strength is gone! He stoops, he totters on with pain, The hill he 'll never climb again. Age is being's winter season, Fitful, gloomy, piercing cold; Passion weaken'd, yields to reason, Man feels _then_ himself grown old; His senses one by one have fled, His very soul seems almost dead. THE HAWK WHOOPS ON HIGH. The hawk whoops on high, and keen, keen from yon' cliff, Lo! the eagle on watch eyes the stag cold and stiff; The deer-hound, majestic, looks lofty around, While he lists with delight to the harp's distant sound; Is it swept by the gale, as it slow wafts along The heart-soothing tones of an olden times' song? Or is it some Druid who touches, unseen, "The Harp of the North," newly strung now I ween? 'Tis Albyn's own minstrel! and, proud of his name, He proclaims him chief bard, and immortal his fame!-- He gives tongue to those wild lilts that ravish'd of old, And soul to the tales that so oft have been told; Hence Walter the Minstrel shall flourish for aye, Will breathe in sweet airs, and live long as his "Lay;" To ages unnumber'd thus yielding delight, Which will last till the gloaming of Time's endless night. MRS DUGALD STEWART.