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ALLSTON'S SYLPHS OF THE SEASONS.*

It will, perhaps, appear to our readers a late hour in the day for us to take up this volume. But we should be sorry to have it said of us, a few years hence, when these poems shall be more generally read and understood, that we were so wanting in good taste as to pass them by without notice, and that, while we were joining in the common lamentation over the lack of American poetic genius, we were too dull to discern the almost single exception from the cause of our mortification and grief. Though we are not of those who wear home-spun, however coarse, because it is patriotic so to do, yet we trust that we have the common-sense to look at the quality of our garb without caring much whence it came. We think that some good thing may come out from us; and with that confidence with which all reviewers are, or should be, blessed, we are content to venture an opinion upon the works of our own country, without waiting till they have forced their way into notice through the cold indifference of a foreign ‍land.

English in our origin, and owing to that origin most

*From the North American Review for 1817.

The Sylphs of the Seasons, with other Poems. By W. ALLSTON. First American, from the London Edition. Boston: Cummings & Hilliard.

that we have cause to be proud of in our natures; speaking the language of England, and looking upon her literature as our own; boasting of her works of genius in the entire forgetfulness that they were not produced here, and defending them with the same earnestness of partiality as if our own reputation were at stake; -we seem to have been unmindful that it was possible for us to have a literary reputation, and writers of our own to read and admire. We look to England for most of our modern learning and entertainment; our systems of metaphysics and morals are drawn chiefly from her; and for poetry, the common reading of all countries, we naturally, and as of right, enter into the assembly of her bards. This continued dependence upon England has not only turned us away from the observation of what is well done here, but has begotten a distrust of our own judgement and taste. We hesitate at pronouncing an opinion on what has not received judgement there; and dare not confess where we have been offended or pleased, lest her tribunals of criticism should, by and by, come down upon us and tell us we were wrong.

Further than this neglect of our own productions, and timidity of opinion upon their merits, the rank of our authors in society is humbling to minds rightly proud of their powers, and quick and sensitive from culture and native feeling. One generation goes on after another, as if we were here for no other purpose than to do business, as the phrase is. The spirit of gain has taught us to hold other pursuits as mere amusements, and to associate something unmanly and trivial with the character of their followers. If a work of taste comes out, it is made a cause of lament that so much talent should be thus thrown away; and the

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bright and ever-during glory in which it is, in mercy, hiding our dull commonness, is neither seen nor felt. We hold every thing lightly, which is not perceived to go immediately to some practical good, to lessen labour, increase wealth, or add to some homely comfort. It must have an active, business-like air, or it is dreaded as a dangerous symptom of the decay of industry amongst us. To be sure, we read English poetry; but for the same reason that we take a drive out of town, because we are tired down by business, and must amuse ourselves a little, to be refreshed and strengthened for work to-morrow. And, besides, the English, we say, can afford to furnish us with poetry. They are an old, wealthy people, and have a good deal of waste material on hand. And so it comes about, naturally enough, that poets are set down as a sort of intellectual idlers, and sober citizens speak of them with a shake of the head, as they would talk of some clever idler about town, who might have been a useful member of society, but, as to any serious purpose, is now lost to the world.

Little, indeed, do such men see, that the out-ofdoor industry, which leads to wealth and importance, owes much to the poet for its thriving existence; that the poetry of a people elevates their character, and makes them proud of themselves; quickens the growth of the nicer feelings, and tones the higher virtues; that it causes blessings to shoot up round our homes; smooths down the petty roughnesses of domestic life, and softens and lays open the heart to the better affections; that it calls the mind off from the pursuits of the tainted and wearing pleasures of the world, and teaches it to find its amusements in the exercise of its highest and purest powers; that it makes the intellect vivacious,

and gives an interest and stir to the society of the wise; shames us from our follies and crimes, turns us to the love and study of what is good, gives health to the moral system, and brings about what must always go along with the virtue of society, the beauty of order and security. Little, too, do they know of the poet's incessant toil. His eyes and thoughts are ever busy amidst the forms of things. He looks into the intricate machinery of the heart and mind of man, and sees its workings, and tells us to what end it moves. He goes forth with the sun over the earth, and looks upon its vastness and sublimity with him, and searches out with him every lesser thing. His studies end not with the day; but when the splendour of the west has died away, and a sleepy and dusky twilight throws a shadowy veil over all things, and he feels that the spirit which lifted him up and expanded his frame, as he looked forward on the bright glories of the setting sun, has sunk slowly and silently down with them, and that the contemplative light about him has entered into his heart, and the gladness of the day left him, he turns and watches the lighting up of the religious stars, by which he studies in soberer and more intent thought the things that God has made.

The present age abounds in poets, and of a kind to show that a better taste is reviving, and natural feelings coming into free play again, and it is grateful to consider, that close descriptions of mind and heart, which grow up and intertangle with them, are relished and understood. For to love nature, and to have an eye that sees her truly, shows that there is a moral tone in chord with her sounding at the heart, and some pure spots in the mind, on which her images play like young leaves on calm and clear waters. It is well for the

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