Campbell, who is, perhaps, on the whole, the best poet of our age, at least among living ones, has lately republished some of his fugitive pieces, together with an original poem, of which Pennsylvania is made the scene. It was a somewhat perilous undertaking to lay the scene in a country to which the writer was a stranger, and of which he was indebted for all his information to hasty and inaccurate travellers. This disadvantage, indeed, exists only to a Pennsylvanian or American reader. The poet's countrymen being as ignorant as himself, will be blind to several defects and incongruities, which are visible enough to our eyes. The following review of this poem is taken from a late number of the Edinburgh Review, and is written with the usual spirit and sagacity by which that publication is remarkably distinguished.