And what if cheerful shouts, at noon,
Come from the village sent,

Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,
With fairy laughter blent;
And what if, in the evening light,
Betrothed lovers walk in sight
Of my low monument:

I would the lovely scene around
Might know no sadder sight nor sound.

I know, I know I should not see
The season's glorious show,

Nor would its brightness shine for me,
Nor its wild music flow;

But, if around my place of sleep
The friends I love should come to weep,

They might not haste to go.

Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom,

Should keep them lingering by my tomb."-pp. 152, 153.

eye.

In poetry descriptive of the aspects of nature Mr. Bryant principally excels. He has evidently observed accurately, and with the eye of a genuine lover of natural scenery, and he describes eloquently and unaffectedly what he has seen-selecting happily, using no tumid exaggeration and vain pomp of words, not perplexing us with vague redundancies, but laying before us with graceful simplicity the best features of the individual scene which has been presented to his Nor is he limited in his sphere. Nature, under aspects the most different, seeins alike congenial to his pen." Winter and summerstorm and sunshine-the hurricane and the zephyr-the rivulet and the mighty Hudson-a humble flower and the solemn magnificence of boundless forests-are alike depicted, and with equal beauty. He has much of the descriptive power of Thompson, divested of the mannerism which pervaded that period of our poetry-much of the picturesqueness of touch which shines in the verse of Sir Walter Scott, but ennobled by associations which that great writer did not equally summon to his aidmuch of the fidelity of Wordsworth, but without his minuteness and occasional overstrained and puerile simplicity, yet closely following him in that better characteristic, his power of elevating the humblest objects by connection with some moral truth. In this Mr. Bryant eminently shines. His descriptions of nature are never mere barren descriptions, undignified by association, unproductive of pure and generous feelings, unaccompanied by some great lesson. He fulfils better than many of his predecessors the character imagined by Shakspeare, who finds" books

VOL. X. NO. XIX.

K

in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in every thing." He is singularly happy in touching the relations of inanimate objects to man and his lot, and of all to their Creator. To him the aspect of nature seems ever associated with grateful and religious feelings, and he renders it a means of praise and worship. He treats it, however, not like the sceptic, who deifies nature, that he may exclude revelation and make religion as vague as possible. The view which Mr. Bryant takes of it suggests to us no such idea. This great use to which he applies the aspects of the external world is finely exhibited in his "Forest Hymn," and in many others which we might select. We will give some specimens of that descriptive power which seems to constitute one of Mr. Bryant's chief claims to poetical celebrity. Take the following picture of a summer's day, which Thompson has never exceeded.

"It is a sultry day; the sun has drank

The dew that lay upon the morning grass;
There is no rustling in the lofty elm
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint
And interrupted murmur of the bee,
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again
Instantly on the wing. The plants around
Feel the too potent fervours; the tall maize
Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops
Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms
But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,
With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,
As if the scorching heat and dazzling light
Were but an element they loved."

"For me, I lie

Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf,
Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun,

Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind
That still delays its coming. Why so slow,
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?
Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth
Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves
He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge
The pine is bending his proud top, and now,
Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak
Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes !
Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves!
The deep distressful silence of the scene
Breaks up, with mingling of unnumbered sounds
And universal motion. He is come,

Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs

And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings
Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs,
And sound of swaying branches, and the voice
Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs
Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,
By the road-side and the borders of the brook,
Nod gaily to each other; glossy leaves
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew
Were on them yet; and silver waters break

Into small waves, and sparkle as he comes."-pp. 15, 16. As a contrast to the foregoing, and equal in excellence, take the following extracts from " A Winter Piece."

"When shrieked

The bleak November winds, and smote the woods,
And the brown fields were herbless, and the shades
That met above the merry rivulet

Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still,-they seemed
Like old companions in adversity.

Still there was beauty in my walks; the brook,
Bordered with sparkling frost-work, was as gay
As with its fringe of summer flowers. Afar,
The village with its spires, the path of streams,
And dim receding valleys, hid before
By interposing trees, lay visible

Through the bare grove, and my familiar haunts
Seemed new to me. Nor was I slow to come
Among them, when the clouds, from their still skirts,
Had shaken down on earth the feathery snow,
And all was white. The pure keen air abroad,
Albeit it breathed no scent of herb, nor heard
Love-call of bird nor merry hum of bee,
Was not the air of death. Bright mosses crept
Over the spotted trunks, and the close buds,
That lay along the boughs, instinct with life,
Patient, and waiting the soft breath of Spring,
Feared not the piercing spirit of the North.
The snow-bird twittered on the beechen bough,
And 'neath the hemlock, whose thick branches bent
Beneath its bright cold burden, and kept dry
A circle on the earth, of withered leaves,
The partridge found a shelter. Through the snow
The rabbit sprang away. The lighter track
Of fox and the racoon's broad path were there,
Crossing each other. From his hollow tree
The squirrel was abroad, gathering the nuts
Just fallen, that asked the winter cold, and sway

Of winter blast, to shake them from their hold."--p. 121, 122.

Very good too is this picture of an ice-bound forest.

"Look! the massy trunks

Are cased in the pure crystal; each light spray,
Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven,
Is studded with its trembling water-drops,
That stream with rainbow radiance as they move.
But round the parent stem the long low boughs
Bend, in a glittering ring, and arbours hide.
The grassy floor. Oh! you might deem the spot
The spacious cavern of the virgin mine,

Deep in the womb of earth-where the gems grow,
And diamonds put forth radiant rods, and bud
With amethyst and topaz-and the place
Lit up most royally with the pure beam
That dwells in them; or haply the vast hall
Of fairy palace, that outlasts the night,
And fades not in the glory of the sun;-
Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts
And crossing arches; and fantastic aisles
Wind from the sight in brightness, and are lost
Among the crowded pillars. Raise thine eye,-
Thou seest no cavern roof, no palace vault;
There the blue sky and the white drifting cloud
Look in. Again the wildered fancy dreams
Of spouting fountains, frozen as they rose,
And fixed, with all their branching jets, in air,
And all their sluices sealed. All, all is light-
Light without shade. But all shall pass away
With the next sun. From numberless vast trunks,
Loosened, the crashing ice shall make a sound
Like the far roar of rivers, and the eve

Shall close o'er the brown woods as it was wont."-pp. 122, 123. Here, again, is a good delineation of forest scenery, entitled Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood," and which will tend to exemplify those merits which we have previously pointed out. "Stranger, if thou hast learnt a truth which needs

No school of long experience, that the world
Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen
Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares,
To tire thee of it-enter this wild wood

And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade
Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze
That makes the green leaves dance shall waft a balm
To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here
Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men,
And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse
Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth,
But not in vengeance. God hath yoked to guilt
Her pale tormentor, misery. Hence, these shades

Are still the abodes of gladness, the thick roof
Of green and stirring branches is alive.
And musical with birds, that sing and sport
In wantonness of spirit; while below

The squirrel, with raised paws and form erect,
Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the shade
Try their thin wings, and dance in the warm beam
That waked them into life. Even the green trees
Partake the deep contentment; as they bend
To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky
Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene.
Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy
Existence, than the winged plunderer

That sucks its sweets. The massy rocks themselves,
And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees
That lead from knoll to knoll, a causey rude,
Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots,
With all their earth upon them, twisting high,
Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet
Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed
Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks,
Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice
In its own being. Softly tread the marge,
Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren
That dips her bill in water. The cool wind,
That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee,
Like one that loves thee, nor will let thee pass

Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace."-pp. 134, 135. The longest and one of the best poems in the collection is his first, "The Ages," written in the metre of Childe Harold, reminding us not a little of that great poem, and compensating for inferior power and brilliancy by superior justness of sentiment. It is a rapid and eloquent sketch of the rise and fall of nations, and the vicissitudes of man's condition, written in a strain of hope the grateful" optimism" of a well-attempered mind-and ending with a truly patriotic anticipation of the progressive welfare of his native country. The following are extracts from it.

IX.

"Sit at the feet of History-through the night
Of years the steps of virtue she shall trace,
And show the earlier ages, where her sight
Can pierce the eternal shadows o'er their face ;-
When, from the genial cradle of our race,
Went forth the tribes of men, their pleasant lot

To choose where palm-groves cooled their dwelling-place,
Or freshening rivers rau; and there forgot

The truth of heaven, and kneeled to gods that heard them not.