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anxiety. These productions are in fact a most convincing proof, that whatever disadvantages may retard its developement, there yet are, amongst the Americans, the germs of pure poetical feeling and the capacity of high poetical expression. That these great requisites are united in Mr. Bryant, will not, in all probability, be denied by any one who takes the trouble of studying the following specimens of his powers. He has attempted some bold and lofty flights, and his pinions have sustained him nobly. In the longest of the Poems which follow, he has chosen a subject full of the greatest difficulties, for which he only stands excused by the felicity of the execution. "The Ages" is a masterly sketch, and displays the marks of an eminently poetical mind. But, perhaps, the most remarkable of these Poems, is that entitled "Thanatopsis," the conception of which is singularly grand. Without any intention to overrate the excellence of these lines, it may be confidently as serted that there are few pieces in the works of even the very first of our living poets, which exceed them in sublimity and compass of poetical thought. Nor is it their least excellence, that the spirit which they display is one of a pure and high philosophy. The few descriptions of nature which

Mr. Bryant's smaller pieces contain, are beautiful, rich, and powerful. Dilatory as the Americans are said to be, in affording encouragement to the young poets of their country, it cannot for a moment be doubted that they will have taste sufficient to recognize Mr. Bryant's claims to distinction. Indeed, a very favourable notice of them has appeared in a late Number of the North American Review,' from which we learn that one or two of the smaller poems had previously appeared in that work. If the approving judgment of the English public can add any weight to Mr. Bryant's claims to the admiration of his countrymen, his Poems only require to be known to entitle him to it. 9



WHEN, to the common rest that crowns our days,
Called in the noon of life, the good man goes,
Or full of years, and ripe in wisdom, lays

His silver temples in their last repose;

1 No. VIII. New Series. The many valuable and judicious articles which this number contains, render it bighly creditable to the literature of America.

When, o'er the buds of youth, the death-wind blows,

And blights the fairest, when our bitterest tears Stream, as the eyes of those that love us close; We think on what they were, with many fears

Lest goodness die with them, and leave the coming



And therefore to our hearts, the day's gone by,-. When liv'd the honour'd sage whose death we wept, And the soft virtues beam'd from many an eye

And beat in many a heart that long has slept; Like spots of earth where angel-feet have steptAre holy; and high-dreaming bards have told Of times when worth was crown'd, and faith was kept, Ere friendship grew a snare or love wax'd coldThose pure and happy times-the golden days of old.


Peace to the just man's memory,-let it grow Greener with years, and blossom through the flight Of ages; let the mimic canvas show

His calm benevolent features; let the light Stream on his deeds of love, that shunn'd the sight Of all but Heaven, and in the book of fame,

The glorious record of his virtues write,

And hold it up to men, and bid them claim

A palm like his, and catch from him the hallowed



But oh, despair not of their fate who rise

To dwell upon the earth when we withdraw; Lo! the same shaft, by which the righteous dies, Strikes through the wretch that scoff'd at mercy's law, And trode his brethren down, and felt no awe

Of Him who will avenge them; stainless worth,
Such as the sternest age of virtue saw,

Ripens, meanwhile, till time shall call it forth
From the low modest shade, to light and bless the



Has Nature, in her calm majestic march,

Falter'd with age at last? Does the bright sun Grow dim in heaven? Or, in their far blue arch, Sparkle the crowd of stars, when day is done, Less brightly? When the dew-lipp'd spring comes on, Breathes she with airs less soft, or scents the sky With flowers less fair than when her reign begun? Does prodigal Autumn, to our age, deny

The plenty that once swell'd beneath his sober eye?


Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth
In her fair page; see, every season brings
New change to her, of everlasting youth;
Still the green soil, with joyous living things,


Swarms, the wide air is full of joyous wings,
And myriads, still, are happy in the sleep
Of Ocean's azure gulfs, and where he flings
The restless surge. Eternal love doth keep
In his complacent arms, the earth, the air, the deep.


Will then the merciful One, who stamp'd our race
With his own image, and who gave them sway
O'er earth, and the glad dwellers on her face,
Now that our flourishing nations far away
Are spread, where'er the moist earth drinks the day,
Forget the ancient care that taught and nurs'd
His latest offspring? Will he quench the ray
Infus'd by his own forming smile at first,

And leave a work so fair all blighted and accurs'd?


Oh no! a thousand cheerful omens give

Hope of yet happier days, whose dawn is nigh; He, who has tamed the elements, shall not live The slave of his own passions; he whose eye Unwinds the eternal dances of the sky,

And in the abyss of brightness dares to span The sun's broad circle, rising yet more high,

In God's magnificent works his will shall scan; And love and peace shall make their paradise with


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