voting himself entirely to literature. The American critics very generally pronounce him the first of their poets, and bitterly reproach the public with not having appreciated his merits. We confess ourselves rather inclined to take part with the latter, at least to the extent of considering that, though an able and amiable man, he must, as a poet, rank beneath the two already noticed. His serious reflective pieces are the best, yet they want the high imaginative character of those of Bryant, and are rather very good prose turned into verse. The following is generally quoted, and probably with reason, as the most favourable specimen :

O, listen, man!

A voice within us speaks the startling word,
"Man thou shalt never die !" Celestial voices
Hymn it around our souls; according harps,
By angel fingers touch'd when the mild stars
Of morning sang together, sound forth still
The song of our great immortality!

Thick, clustering orbs, and this our fair domain,
The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas,
Join in this solemn, universal song.

-Oh, listen, ye, our spirits! drink it in

From all the air! "Tis in the gentle moonlight;
'Tis floating in day's setting glories; night,
Wrapp'd in her sable robe, with silent step
Comes to our bed and breathes it in our ears;
Night and the dawn, bright day and thoughtful eve,
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse,
As one vast, mystic instrument, are touch'd
By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee :

-The dying hear it; and as sounds of earth
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls
To mingle in this heavenly harmony.

"The Buccaneers" is his longest poem, though even his admirers do not regard it as his best. There are doubtless a number of powerful passages, but the subject is unpleasing, the deep shades have too few lights to relieve them. The most striking machinery is that of a spectre-horse, which is represented as periodically visiting the pirate, and wafting him over the sea, to contemplate the scene of his crimes. The representation

of this man, oppressed at once by remorse and supernatural terrors, is forcibly drawn :

The morning air blows fresh on him:
The waves dance gladly in his sight;
The sea-birds call, and wheel, and skim—
Oh, blessed morning light!

He doth not hear their joyous call; he sees
No beauty in the wave; nor feels the breeze.

For he's accursed from all that's good;
He ne'er must know its healing power;
The sinner on his sins must brood,
And wait, alone, his hour.

A stranger to earth's beauty-human love;
There's here no rest for him, no hope above!

The hot sun beats upon his head;

He stands beneath its broad fierce blaze,
As stiff and cold as one that's dead:
A troubled dreamy maze

Of some unearthly horror, all he knows-
Of some wild horror past, and coming woes.

He walks within the day's full glare
A darken'd man. Where'er he comes,
All shun him. Children peep and stare;
Then frighten'd seek their homes.
Through all the crowd a thrilling horror ran.
They point, and say,-"There goes the wicked man!”

He turns and curses in his wrath

Both man and child; then hastes away
Shoreward, or takes some gloomy path;
But there he cannot stay:

Terror and madness drive him back to men ;
His hate of man to solitude again.

Charles Sprague is certainly one of the most accomplished American poets. Born at Boston in 1791, after passing through a course of school education he entered into mercantile life, and was soon appointed cashier to the Globe Bank, one of the most extensive in Massachusetts. He has always retained and steadily discharged the duties of this responsible situation, while his leisure hours have been employed in study, and in courting the muses. This mode of life has led him to make closer observations on human life than is usual among bards, especially those of his country. The re

sult has been displayed in a poem of some length, entitled
"Curiosity," in which he traces the influence of that prin-
ciple among the different classes of society. We can only
instance what is doubtless a ruling character in that city,
the merchant whose whole mind is devoted to gain :-
Go, seek him out on yon dear Gotham's walk,
Where traffic's venturers meet to trade and talk:
Where Mammon's votaries bend, of each degree,
The hard-eyed lender, and the pale lendee;
Where rogues, insolvent, strut in white-wash'd pride,
And shove the dupes, who trusted them, aside.
How through the buzzing crowd he threads his way,
To catch the flying rumours of the day,—
To learn of changing stocks, of bargains cross'd,
Of breaking merchants, and of cargoes lost;
The thousand ills that traffic's walks invade,
And give the heart-ache to the sons of trade.
How cold he hearkens to some bankrupt's wo,
Nods his wise head, and cries, "I told you so :
The thriftless fellow lived beyond his means,
He must buy brants-I make my folks eat beans,"
What cares he for the knave, the knave's sad wife,
The blighted prospects of an anxious life?
The kindly throbs, that other men control,
Ne'er melt the iron of the miser's soul;

Through life's dark road his sordid way he wends,
An incarnation of fat dividends;

But, when to death he sinks, ungrieved, unsung,
Buoy'd by the blessing of no mortal tongue,-
No worth rewarded, and no want redress'd,
To scatter fragrance round his place of rest,—
What shall that hallow'd epitaph supply-
The universal wo when good men die?
Cold Curiosity shall linger there,

To guess the wealth he leaves his tearless heir.

He is at the same time fully equal to a loftier strain, and has succeeded in producing the ode in a more perfect shape than any other of his countrymen. That to Shakspeare is the most finished and generally admired: the "Centennial Ode," in celebration of the settlement of Boston, is more unequal; but its three first stanzas may be quoted as a very favourable specimen :

Not to the pagan's mount I turn

For inspirations now;
Olympus and its gods I spurn-
Pure One, be with me, Thou!

Thou, in whose awful name,

From suffering and from shame

Our fathers fled, and braved a pathless sea;
Thou, in whose holy fear,

They fix'd an empire here,

And gave it to their children and to Thee.

And You! ye bright-ascended Dead,
Who scorn'd the bigot's yoke,

Come, round this place your influence shed;
Your spirits I invoke.

Come, as ye came of yore,

When on an unknown shore

Your daring hands the flag of faith unfurl'd,
To float sublime,
Through future time

The beacon-banner of another world.

Behold! they come-those sainted forms,
Unshaken through the strife of storms;
Heaven's winter cloud hangs coldly down,
And earth puts on its rudest frown;
But colder, ruder was the hand

That drove them from their own fair land;
Their own fair land-refinement's chosen seat,
Art's trophied dwelling, learning's green retreat;
By valour guarded, and by victory crown'd,

For all, but gentle charity renown'd.

With streaming eye, yet steadfast heart,
Even from that land they dared to part,
And burst each tender tie;

Haunts, where their sunny youth was pass'd,
Homes, where they fondly hoped at last
In peaceful age to die.

Friends, kindred, comfort, all they spurn'd;

Their fathers' hallow'd graves;

And to a world of darkness turn'd,
Beyond a world of waves.

Fitz-Greene Halleck is also a distinguished poet, and a great favourite in the society of New York. Born in 1795, at Guildford in Connecticut, he removed to that city at the age of eighteen. He then engaged in extensive mercantile transactions, and became manager of the affairs of Mr Astor, the celebrated capitalist. Amid these busy occupations, he found means to cultivate the muses with zeal and success. He too, more than the rest of his brethren, is a man of the

world, and, almost alone among them, has attained a reputation for humour; and though he cannot in this quality rank with the great masters of the art in Europe, yet he is by no means devoid of it. His longest poem in this strain, entitled "Fanny," does not appear to have reached this country; but the reader may be pleased with the following extract from "Alnwick Castle," written on a tour through the northern part of our island:

-Alnwick's but a market town,

And this, alas! its market day,

And beasts and borderers throng the way;
Oxen, and bleating lambs in lots,
Northumbrian boors, and plaided Scots;
Men in the coal and cattle line,
From Teviot's bard and hero land,
From royal Berwick's beach of sand,
From Wooler, Morpeth, Hexham, and
Newcastle-upon-Tyne.

These are not the romantic times
So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes,
So dazzling to the dreaming boy:

The Highlander, the bitterest foe
To modern laws, has felt their blow,
Consented to be tax'd, and vote,
And put on pantaloons and coat,
And leave off cattle-stealing:
Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt,
The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt,
The Douglas in red herrings:
And noble name, and cultured land,
Palace, and park, and vassal band,
Are powerless to the notes of hand
Of Rothschild or the Barings.

His powers are at the same time fully equal to more elevated flights, particularly those of a heroic and patriotic character. Even in the midst of the above humorous effusion occur the following lines :

VOL. III.

The Moslem tramples on the Greek,
And on the Cross and altar-stone,
And Christendom looks tamely on,
And hears the Christian maiden shriek,
And sees the Christian father die :
And not a sabre blow is given

For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven,
By Europe's craven chivalry.

K