And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore, Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania's shore.

The rose of England bloom'd on Gertrude's cheek-
What though these shades had seen her birth, her sire
A Briton's independence taught to seek

Far western worlds; and there his household fire
The light of social love did long inspire,
And many a halcyon day he lived to see,
Unbroken but by one misfortune dire,

When fate had reft his mutual heart-but she

Was gone-and Gertrude climb'd a widow'd father's knee.

A loved bequest,—and I may half impart,
To them that feel the strong paternal tie,
How like a new existence to his heart
That living flower uprose beneath his eye,
Dear as she was from cherub infancy,

From hours when she would round his garden play,
To time when, as the ripening years went by,
Her lovely mind could culture well repay,

And more engaging grew, from pleasing day to day.

I may not paint those thousand infant charms;
(Unconscious fascination, undesign'd!)
The orison repeated in his arms,

For God to bless her sire and all mankind;
The book, the bosom on his knee reclined,

Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con,
(The playmate ere the teacher of her mind :)
All uncompanion'd else her heart had gone,

Till now, in Gertrude's eyes, their ninth blue summer shone.

It seem'd as if those scenes sweet influence had
On Gertrude's soul, and kindness like their own
Inspired those eyes affectionate and glad,
That seem'd to love whate'er they look'd upon;
Whether with Hebe's mirth her features shone,
Or if a shade more pleasing them o'ercast,
(As if for heavenly musing meant alone;)
Yet so becomingly the expression past,

That each succeeding look was lovelier than the last.
Nor guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home,
With all its picturesque and balmy grace,
And fields that were a luxury to roam,
Lost on the soul that look'd from such a face!
Enthusiast of the woods! when years apace
Had bound thy lovely waist with woman's zone,
The sunrise path, at morn, I see thee trace
To hills with high magnolia overgrown,

And joy to breathe the groves, romantic and alone.

The sunrise drew her thoughts to Europe forth,
That thus apostrophized its viewless scene:

*

"Land of my father's love, my mother's birth!
The home of kindred I have never seen!
We know not other-oceans are between:

Yet say! far friendly hearts, from whence we came,
Of us does oft remembrance intervene !

My mother sure-my sire a thought may claim;-
But Gertrude is to you an unregarded name.

"And yet, loved England! when thy name I trace
In many a pilgrim's tale and poet's song,
How can I choose but wish for one embrace
Of them, the dear unknown, to whom belong
My mother's looks-perhaps her likeness strong?
O parent! with what reverential awe
From features of thine own related throng,
An image of thy face my soul could draw!.
And see thee once again whom I too shortly saw!"
Yet deem not Gertrude sigh'd for foreign joy;
To soothe a father's couch her only care,
And keep his reverend head from all annoy;
For this, methinks, her homeward steps repair,
Soon as the morning wreath had bound her hair,
While yet the wild deer trod in spangling dew,
While boatmen caroll'd to the fresh-blown air,
And woods a horizontal shadow threw,
And early fox appear'd in momentary view.

Apart there was a deep untrodden grot,
Where oft the reading hours sweet Gertrude wore ;
Tradition had not named its lonely spot;
But here (methinks) might India's sons explore
Their fathers' dust, or lift, perchance of yore,
Their voice to the great Spirit :-rocks sublime

To human art a sportive semblance bore,
And yellow lichens color'd all the clime,

Like moonlight battlements, and towers decay'd by time.

But high in amphitheatre above,

His arms the everlasting aloes threw:

Breathed but an air of heaven, and all the grove

As with instinct living spirit grew,

Rolling its verdant gulf of every hue;

And now suspended was the pleasing din,
Now from a murmur faint it swell'd anew,
Like the first note of organ heard within
Cathedral aisles-ere yet its symphony begin.

It was in this lone valley she would charm

The lingering noon, where flowers a couch had strewn;
Her cheek reclining, and her snowy arm
On hillock by the palm-tree half-o'ergrown:

And aye that volume on her lap is thrown

It is a custom of the Indian tribes to visit the tombs of their ancestors in the cultivated

parts of America, who have been buried for upward of a century.

1

Which every heart of human mould endears;

With Shakspeare's self she speaks and smiles alone,
And no intruding visitation fears,

To shame the unconscious laugh, or stop her sweetest tears.'

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

Our bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track;
'Twas Autumn-and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;
I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.
Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn;
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay:
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

THE LAST MAN.

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The sun himself must die,

Before this mortal shall assume

Its Immortality!

I saw a vision in my sleep,

That gave my spirit strength to sweep

Adown the gulf of Time!

I saw the last of human mould,
That shall Creation's death behold,

As Adam saw her prime!

"The greatest effort of Campbell's genius was his 'Gertrude of Wyoming;' nor is it likely ever to be excelled in its own peculiar style of excellence. It is superior to the 'Plen sures of Hope' in the only one thing in which that poem could be surpassed-purity of diction; while in pathos and in imaginative power it is no whit inferior."-MOIR.

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!

Some had expired in fight—the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;

In plague and famine some!
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb!

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,

That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As if a storm pass'd by,

Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun,
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
'Tis Mercy bids thee go;

For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill;

And arts that made fire, flood, and earth
The vassals of his will;

Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim, discrowned king of day:

For all these trophied arts

And triumphs, that beneath thee sprang,
Heal'd not a passion or a pang
Entail'd on human hearts.

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall

Upon the stage of men,

Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life's tragedy again.

Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack

Of pain anew to writhe;

Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.

Even I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire.

My lips that speak thy dirge of death-
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.

The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall-
The majesty of darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!

This spirit shall return to Him

Who gave its heavenly spark;

Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recall'd to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robb'd the grave of Victory-
And took the sting from Death!

Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up,
On Nature's awful waste,
To drink this last and bitter cup

Of grief that man shall taste-
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,
On Earth's sepulchral clod,

The darkening universe defy
To quench his immortality,

Or shake his trust in God!

As a specime of Campbell's prose writings, we may take the following-the conclusion of his stimate of the life and genius of

CHATTERTON.

The heart which can peruse the fate of Chatterton without being moved, is little to be envied for its tranquillity; but the intellects of those men must be as deficient as their hearts are uncharitable, who, confounding all shades of moral distinction, have ranked his literary fiction of Rowley in the same class of crimes with pecuniary forgery, and have calculated that if he had not died by his own hand, he would have probably ended his days upon a gallows. This disgusting sentence has been pronounced upon a youth who was exemplary for severe study, temperance, and natural affection. His Rowleian forgery must indeed be pronounced improper by the general law which condemns all falsifications of history; but it deprived no man of his fame, it had no sacrilegious interference with the memory of departed genius, it had not, like Lauder's imposture, any malignant motive, to rob a party or a country of a name which was its pride and ornament.

Setting aside the opinion of those uncharitable biographers whose imaginations have conducted him to the gibbet, it may be owned that his unformed character exhibited strong and conflicting elements of good and evil. Even the momentary project of the infidel boy to become a Methodist preacher, betrays an obliquity of design, and a contempt of human credulity that is not very amiable. But had he been spared, his pride and ambition would have come to flow in their proper channels; his understanding would have taught him the practical value of truth and the dignity of virtue, and he would