We can only mention the duet by Laniska and Frederica (p. 278), the Chorus of Peasants (pp. 279–80), the song of Sophia (p. 311), and the duet by Sophia and Frederica (p. 313), though each is in the genuine lyrical vein. There is, however, one other song in the Maid of Saxony, which we think we need no apology for transcribing; but with it we must take leave, for the present, of a piece which, if it had been written in Italian, or German, would continue to maintain a high rank in the repertoire of the lyric stage.

"Song-Wedgewood.

"That law's the perfection of reason,

No one in his senses denies;

Yet here is a trial for treason

Will puzzle the wigs of the wise.

The lawyers who bring on the action

On no single point will agree,

Though proved to their own satisfaction
That tweedle-dum's not tweedle-dee !

"To settle disputes, in a fury

The sword from the scabbard we draw ; But reason appeals to a jury,

And settles according to law.

Then hey for the woolsack !-for never
Without it can nations be free;

But trial by jury for ever!

And for tyranny-fiddle-de-dee !'-p. 339.

It is not, our intention to give any opinion of our author's oldest songs; the following lyrics are too well known in Europe, as well as America, to render it necessary that we should do aught more here than to name them: "We were Boys together;" "My Mother's Bible;" "Near the Lake, where drooped the Willow;" "Love me, Dearest;" "Flag of our Union;""Cottager's Welcome;" "Land of Washington;" "When other friends are round thee;" "The Miniature," &c., &c. As for "Woodman, spare that Tree," it would be superfluous even to mention it. But there are some of our author's recent pieces which, with two or three exceptions, are among the best he has written. Of this character is

"Down by the River Side" is but brief, but it is such as finds an echo in every heart that is not a stranger to "the witchery of love":

I.

"Down by the River Side.

"Down by the river side I stray

As twilight shadows close,
And the soft music of the spray
Lulls nature to repose:

Beside the stream a maiden dwells-
My star of eventide !—

Pure as the water-lily bells

Down by the river side.

II.

"Down by the river side I own
A treasure worth the sea,

In one, to all the world unknown,
Who's all the world to me.
Soon, in her early bloom and glow,
She is to be my bride,

Where the sweet water-lilies grow
Down by the river side."

Of a kindred chagacter is the beautiful effusion, "To the Evening Star." Certainly, Beranger has nothing, of its kind, more sweet, tender, or graceful. The closing stanza is particularly melodious and pathetic:

Speaking of the French minstrel, reminds us of that beautiful ode of his in praise of water; and which bears no slight resemblance, in its general tone and spirit, as well as in the charming harmony of its versification, to Morris's "Croton Ode "-written, we perceive, at the request of the Corporation of New York, and sung, near the Park fountain, by · the members of the New York Sacred Music Society, in October, 1842. The whole of either would be too long for our space; but we quote the three first stanzas from each, giving the French lyric at the bottom of the page,* with Prout's translation:

The amount of space now left us is very little, while we have much that claims a place in it. At all events, we will make sure of not omitting the

We must make room for one more tribute to female beauty-one which Petrarch himself might have addressed to his Laura. It is Spanish in its form, and adapted to a Spanish melody; and it may be doubted whether the muse of either Calderon or Camoens can boast a happier effort:

"Words adapted to a Spanish Melody.

Even woman scarcely affords Morris more genuine inspiration than his country. Many of his patriotic songs are as familiar to the whole American people as household words. Some of these we have already alluded to, remarking that it would be superfluous to quote them, especially at the present crisis, when they are in the hands-nay, sunk deep in the hearts-of every true defender of the Union. But there are two, not so widely known, which are more suitable now than any others, and which yield to none in patriotic fervor and melody. These we place side by side, leaving it to the reader to select his choice as a matin song, until the Union is restored, and Northerners and Southerners are once more linked together as brethren, and able to set the combined armies of the world at defiance:

Ah! combien je jouis

Quand la rivière apporte
Des vins de toute sorte
Et de tous les pays!
Ma cave est mon armoire-
A l'instant tout est plein;
C'est l'eau qui nous fait boire
Du vin! du vin! du vin !

Wine by water-carriage

Round the globe is best conveyed;
Then why disparage

A path for old Bacchus made?
When in our docks the cargo lands
Which foreign merchants here consign,
The vine's red empire wide expands-
The vine! the vine the vine!

We have quoted these pieces and expressed our admiration of them in the full consciousness that none of our poets have been subjected to more adverse criticism than Morris. No edition of his works-scarcely a single one of his more recent pieces-has been published, without his being assailed; and those who commend either are attacked with equal asperity. But this is not peculiar to Morris. Moore, too, had his assailants; so had Burns and Beranger. Burns excited least jealousy, because none who could hope to rival him attempted to write, as he did, in the popular dialect of Scotland. But it was different with Moore and Beranger; and accordingly, although there were few more genial or amiable men than either, all that has been published against them would fill volumes. Need we say that this is not the fate of song-writers alone; that all successful poets, nay, all successful authors, have to suffer similar annoyance? Every student of English literature is aware of the virulence with which Pope and Dryden were assailed in turn, by those of their cotemporaries who either aspired to be poets themselves, or were the tools of such as did. Even Goldsmith had to pay the penalty of being famous, as would be sufficiently proved, in the absence of all other evidence-without mentioning the name of his tormentor, Dr. Kendrick-by his cudgelling of the publisher of the St. James's Chronicle behind his own counter. But neither Johnston nor Burke was anything the less ready to bestow the. highest praise on the author of "The Deserted Village," because he was abused by Kendrick and others like him.

Morris, too, has elicited the approbation of the best critics among his cotemporaries at home and abroad, including Everett, Webster, Washing

ton Irving, Fitz-Greene Halleck, Poe, Bryant, &c., &c. But had it been otherwise-had his poems elicited nothing but censure-we should not hesitate, on a careful examination of the volume before us, to place its author at the head of the lyrical poets of his country.

There are those who associate with the name of a song-writer a mean idea, as compared to the author of a long poem; but the best critics of all countries are of opinion that lyrical poetry requires the highest degree of inspiration and intellectual development. The merest tyro in Greek literature is aware that Eschylus, Euripides, or Aristophanes, is nowhere more happy and delightful than in those passages intended to be sung. Longinus tells us, that not only did Homer sing his own pieces from door to door, but that in time they became the songs of all Greece. This, indeed, is disputed by other critics; but they are the same who are of opinion that, after all, the odes of Anacreon have afforded more delight than even the Iliad of Homer; and that the odes of Horace have exercised a more powerful and salutary influence on modern civilization than the Eneid of Virgil. If it be true that song-writers cannot write great poems, it is equally true that even epic poets seldom write great songs. It is only with indifferent success that even Milton has attempted the poetry of song. Scattered through the dramas of Shakespeare, there are charming effusions in the ballad style; but not one of them has laid permanent hold on the popular mind. If the best of them are remembered at all, it is much more on account of the startling scenes and thrilling incidents with which they are associated than any intrinsic merit of their own. Another fact, too apt to be lost sight of, is, that, for every dozen of poets, so called, there is not one song-writer worthy of the name; although there is no poet who has not attempted songs. Thus, modern Italy has many poets; but Petrarch is her only song-writer. Of him, alone, can it be said, in the language of Delille, that, after the lapse of five centuries, the echo of the valley still remembers the sweet name of his mistress.

"Je redemandais Laure à l'écho du vallon,

Et l'écho n'avait point oublié ce doux nom."

.

Several poets have, indeed, written a good song or two. This is true of Dryden, Gay, Scott, Campbell, Molière, Victor Hugo, Longfellow, Halleck, and Bryant; but the same is true of as many who did not pretend to be poets at all. Thus, we see how easy it is to give a long list of poets; but, if we search all the nations of Europe as well as America, how many song-writers, recognized as such at home or abroad, do we find? Are there not more who have written epics? The best reply is, that the only song-writers, properly so called, that can be selected from all the poets of modern times, are Petrarch, Beranger, Burns, Moore, and Morris-each the national bard-the unpaid laureate of his country.

In a brief notice in a former number of this journal, we have spoken of the general characteristics of Morris's poetry. It is needless to repeat the