in rolling gulfs, or thunder down lofty precipices.  But in the centre, the inmost recesses of our poet’s heart, the pearly dew of sensibility is distilled and collects, like the diamond in the mine, and the structure of his fame rests on the crystal columns of a polished imagination.  We prefer the Gertrude to the Pleasures of Hope, because with perhaps less brilliancy, there is more of tenderness and natural imagery in the former.  In the Pleasures of Hope Mr. Campbell had not completely emancipated himself from the trammels of the more artificial style of poetry—­from epigram, and antithesis, and hyperbole.  The best line in it, in which earthly joys are said to be—­

  “Like angels’ visits, few and far between”—­

is a borrowed one.[A] But in the Gertrude of Wyoming “we perceive a softness coming over the heart of the author, and the scales and crust of formality that fence in his couplets and give them a somewhat glittering and rigid appearance, fall off,” and he has succeeded in engrafting the wild and more expansive interest of the romantic school of poetry on classic elegance and precision.  After the poem we have just named, Mr. Campbell’s SONGS are the happiest efforts of his Muse:—­breathing freshness, blushing like the morn, they seem, like clustering roses, to weave a chaplet for love and liberty; or their bleeding words gush out in mournful and hurried succession, like “ruddy drops that visit the sad heart” of thoughtful Humanity.  The Battle of Hohenlinden is of all modern compositions the most lyrical in spirit and in sound.  To justify this encomium, we need only recall the lines to the reader’s memory.

  “On Linden, when the sun was low,
  All bloodless lay th’ untrodden snow,
  And dark as winter was the flow
  Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

  But Linden saw another sight,
  When the drum beat at dead of night,
  Commanding fires of death to light
  The darkness of her scenery.

  By torch and trumpet fast array’d,
  Each horseman drew his battle blade,
  And furious every charger neigh’d,
  To join the dreadful revelry.

  Then shook the hills with thunder riv’n,
  Then rush’d the steed to battle driv’n,
  And louder than the bolts of heav’n
  Far flash’d the red artillery.

  But redder yet that light shall glow
  On Linden’s hills of stained snow,
  And bloodier yet the torrent flow
  Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

  ’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
  Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling[B] dun,
  Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
  Shout in their sulph’rous canopy.

  The combat deepens.  On, ye brave,
  Who rush to glory, or the grave! 
  Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave! 
  And charge with all thy chivalry!

  Few, few shall part, where many meet! 
  The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
  And every turf beneath their feet
  Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre.”