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relief to such extended compositions. There does, however, seem to be arising a pretty strong ambition to supply this deficiency, which may probably erelong produce a successful effort. After all, the chief merit of poetry must ever consist in sentiments and images, rather than in narrative. Yet we must forewarn our readers, that though the general tone be refined and polished, the imperfections of an early school show themselves from time to time in a hobbling verse, an expression introduced only to complete the measure, or one whose rudeness breaks the harmony of the passage. These blemishes, however, when combined with genuine beauties, will not be severely visited by the candid critic.

Before noticing the present and better race of poets, we must throw back a glance on Joel Barlow, who first aspired to wake the western muses from their deep slumber. Born in 1755, at Reading in Connecticut, he had nearly completed his education at the breaking out of the war; and being graduated in 1778, was employed in the army as a chaplain. He endeavoured to animate the troops by patriotic songs, and commenced the "Vision of Columbus," which formed the germ of his future epic. At the close of the war he endeavoured to earn a subsistence by the law and by his pen; but in both modes with little success. Having settled, however, in Paris, he engaged in some commercial transactions, which proved extremely successful, and enabled him to realize a handsome fortune. He continued working up and improving his Vision, till it was matured into the Columbiad; and being in 1808 splendidly printed in quarto, was ushered into the world with great pomp. Some friendly critics endeavoured to exalt it to a level with the Iliad and Paradise Lost; but in the eyes of the public it quickly sunk. The verse is mechanical, the narrative cold and uninteresting. There breaks forth, however, occasionally a certain grandeur of thought and feeling, particularly in taking a wide survey of the aspects of nature in the new world, the magnificence of which appears

to have deeply impressed his mind. We quote the following description of an ice-island :—

The loosened ice-isles o'er the main advance,
Toss on the surge, and through the concave dance;
Whirled high, conjoined, in crystal mountains driven,
Alp over alp, they build a midway heaven.
Those million mirrors mock the solar ray,
And give condensed the tenfold glare of day:
As toward the south the mass enormous glides,
And brineless rivers furrow down its sides,
The thirsty sailor steals a glad supply,
And sultry trade-winds quaff the boreal sky.

We add the following :—

Now where the lakes, those midland oceans, lie
Columbus turns his heaven-illumined eye.
Ontario's banks, unable to retain

The five great Caspians from the distant main,
Burst with the ponderous mass, and forceful whirled
His Lawrence forth, to balance thus the world.
Above bold Erie's wave sublimely stood,

Looked o'er the cliff, and heaved his headlong flood,
Where dread Niagara bluffs high his brow,
And frowns defiance to the world below,
While clouds of mist expanding o'er him play,
That tinge their skirts in all the beams of day.

It has been conjectured, not improbably, that had he devoted himself to prose composition, he might have been more successful. He seems to have cherished a certain grandeur of aims and conceptions, hoping to make this the first of a series of efforts by which America might give a new direction to poetry, painting, and the other fine arts. They might, he hoped, be rendered the means of implanting in the minds of men true and useful ideas of glory, instead of the false and destructive ones elsewhere prevalent. Neither himself nor his country, however, were then equal to such a task. He wrote also "The Hasty Pudding," a sort of rural effusion, not altogether devoid of humour.

Philip Freneau, whom we have seen the secretary of Jefferson, and the bitter opponent of Washington's government, was a voluminous poet, rising somewhat above mediocrity. The same may be said of Dr Dwight,

who wrote some pieces to animate his countrymen during the revolutionary war. The two following stanzas are really good :

Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise,

The queen of the world, and the child of the skies!
Thy genius commands thee; with rapture behold,
While ages on ages thy splendours unfold.
Thy reign is the last and the noblest of time;
Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime:
Let the crimes of the East ne'er encrimson thy name;
Be freedom, and science, and virtue thy fame.

To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire;
Whelm nations in blood and wrap cities in fire;
Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend,
And triumph pursue them, and glory attend.
A world is thy realm; for a world be thy laws,
Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause;
On freedom's broad basis that empire shall rise,
Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies.

In coming to modern poets, Bryant claims the first attention, being in our apprehension decidedly superior, and even raised to a considerable height above his rivals. Indeed, there are very few to whom we can regard him as second. He combines high original beauties with very few faults; and though the latter merit can in no degree atone for the want of the former, yet when the two are united, the absence of any thing rugged or inharmonious greatly heightens the effect. He was born in 1794, at Cummington in Massachusetts. His father, a respectable physician, seeing early indications of superior genius, studiously promoted his instruction, and guided his taste. He describes his deep early musings, and the devotion with which "he worshipped the visions of verse and of fame;" and, in fact, the display of his talent was singularly precocious. At the age of thirteen, he produced two political pieces, which possessed vigour, and when published drew some attention. At eighteen, Thanatopsis was written, and displayed his powers fully developed; but it was not published till 1821, along with several other pieces

Like most young literary Americans, he applied first to the bar, but had not found the employment, which probably is rougher than in this country, congenial to his temper, complaining of his lot in being obliged

to

-drudge for the dregs of men,

And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen. In 1825, he quitted his practice at Boston, and removed to New York, where he soon obtained an engagement to edit the Evening Post, an established and influential newspaper. He contributed also to some literary periodicals, in conjunction with his friends, Sands, Verplank, and Leggett. These connexions were so prosperous, that, in 1834, he was enabled to visit Europe, and spent some time in Italy and Germany. Early in 1836, however, he was recalled by the death of Leggett, who had undertaken in his absence to conduct the journal. During all this time he has been adding to his pieces of occasional poetry, but without fulfilling the expectation of his admirers that he would produce some work of magnitude.

Bryant has several veins, of which the most striking and original consists in high meditations on the universe and on human destiny, which we have already mentioned as characteristic of the American muse. This is the tenor of Thanatopsis, by which his fame was first established, and that of his country redeemed. It is not perhaps the best of his productions; but being so much noted, an extract of its most striking passage may be agreeable to those who have not met with it. After announcing to every individual his mortal fate, he proceeds :

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone-nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings,
The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers, of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre.-The hills
Rock-ribb'd, and ancient as the sun,-the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between ;
The venerable woods-rivers that move
VOL. III.

In majesty, and the complaining brooks

That make the meadows green; and, pour'd round all,
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes

That slumber in its bosom.

Still we prefer the lines "To the Past," which are at once lofty, tender, and pleasing.

Thou unrelenting Past!

Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain,
And fetters, sure and fast,

Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.

Far in thy realm withdrawn

Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom,

And glorious ages gone

Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb.

Childhood, with all its mirth,

Youth, Manhood, Age, that draws us to the ground,
And last, Man's Life on earth,

Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.

Thou hast my better years,

Thou hast my earlier friends-the good-the kind,
Yielded to thee with tears-

The venerable form-the exalted mind.

My spirit yearns to bring

The lost ones back-yearns with desire intense,
And struggles hard to wring

Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence.

In vain-thy gates deny

All passage, save to those who hence depart;

Nor to the streaming eye

Thou givest them back-nor to the broken heart.

In thy abysses hide

Beauty and excellence unknown-to thee

Earth's wonder and her pride
Are gather'd, as the waters to the sea.

Labours of good to man,
Unpublish'd charity-unbroken faith-
Love, that 'midst grief began,

And grew with years, and falter'd not in death.

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