"The faint old man shall lean his silver head

To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,
And dry the moisten'd curls that overspread

His temples, while his breathing grows more deep;
And they who stand about the sick man's bed,
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,

And softly part his curtains to allow

Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow."

"Go-but the circle of eternal change,

That is the life of Nature, shall restore,
With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more;
Sweet odors in the sea air, sweet and strange,
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore;
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem

He hears the rustling leaf and running stream."

We would be glad to quote Bryant's pieces on the "Death of the Flowers" and " Autumn Woods," but our prescribed limits forbid. We shall be obliged, also, to be more brief in the notices and quotations that follow, in respect to other authors, only adding the fine description given of Bryant, that "he is the translator of the silent language of Nature to the world," and the remark that his poems are valuable, not only for their intrinsic excellence, but for the purifying influence their wide circulation is calculated to exercise on national feelings and manners.

(2.) FITZ-GREENE HALLECK, Connecticut, born 1795, He is author of the beautiful lines in memory of his friend Dr. Drake, the poet, beginning with

"Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days;
None knew thee but to love thee,
None named thee but to praise."

"Fanny,"
," "Alnwick Castle," "Marco Bozzaris," are
the best known of his productions. He is distinguish-
ed by a talent for satire. Says Bryant, "He delights
in ludicrous contrasts. He venerates the past and
laughs at the present. His poetry, whether serious
or sprightly, is remarkable for the melody of the num-
bers; it is not the melody of monotonous and strictly
regular measurement. He understands that the rivu-
let is made musical by obstructions in its channel."

The following sketch of the "Yankees" is taken from an unpublished poem, entitled Connecticul:

"They love their land because it is their own,
And scorn to give aught other reason why;
Would shake hands with a king upon his throne,
And think it kindness to his majesty:

A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none.
Such are they nurtured, such they live and die,
All-but a few apostates, who are meddling

With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling,
Or wandering through southern countries, teaching
The A B C from Webster's Spelling-book:
Gallant and godly, making love and preaching,
And gaining, by what they call 'hook and crook,'
And what moralists call overreaching,

A decent living. The Virginians look
Upon them with as favorable eyes

As Gabriel on the devil in Paradise.

But these are but their outcasts.

View them near

At home, where all their worth and pride are placed : And there their hospitable fires burn clear,

And there the lowliest farm-house hearth is graced

With manly hearts, in piety sincere,

Faithful in love, in honor stern and chaste,

In friendship warm and true, in danger brave,
Beloved in life, and sainted in the grave."

SECTION V

(1.) N. P. WILLIS, Maine, born 1807. In the opinion of Mr. Griswold, "the prose and poetry of Mr. Willis are alike distinguished for exquisite finish and melody. His language is pure, varied, and rich; his imagination brilliant, and his wit of the finest quality. Many of his descriptions of natural scenery are written pictures: and no other author has represented with equal vivacity and truth the manners of the age. His dramatic poems have been the most successful works of their kind produced in America. They exhibit a deep acquaintance with the common sympathies and passions, and are as remarkable as his other writings for affluence of language and imagery, and descriptive power. Willis is more than any other of our best writers the poet of the world, familiar with the secret springs of action in social life, and moved himself by

the same influences which guide his fellows. His pieces are various, presenting strong contrasts, and they are alike excellent;" but he has too generally employed his pen upon light and frivolous topics. His "Scripture Sketches" and "Unwritten Philosophy' prove him capable of the loftiest and strongest efforts of genius. The following is an extract from his "Absalom :"

46

King David's limbs were weary. He had fled
From far Jerusalem, and now he stood
With his faint people for a little rest
Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow
To its refreshing breath; for he had worn
The mourner's covering, and he had not felt
That he could see his people until now.
They gather'd round him on the fresh green bank,
And spoke their kindly words; and as the sun
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
And bow'd his head upon his hands to pray.
Oh! when the heart is full, when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor common words of courtesy
Are such a very mockery, how much

The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
He pray'd for Israel; and his voice went up
Strongly and fervently; he pray'd for those

Whose love had been his shield; and his deep tone
Grew tremulous; but oh! for Absalom!

For his estranged, misguided Absalom

The proud, bright being who had burst away,
In all his princely beauty, to defy

The heart that cherish'd him-for him he pour'd,
In agony that would not be controll'd,
Strong supplication, and forgave him there
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness."

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GIRL.
""Tis difficult to feel that she is dead.
Her presence, like the shadow of a wing
That is just lessening in the upper sky,
Lingers upon us. We can hear her voice,
And for her step we listen, and the eye
Looks for her wonted coming with a strange,
Forgetful earnestness. We can not feel

That she will no more come-that from her cheek
The delicate flush has faded, *

*

*

and on her lip,

*

That was so exquisitely pure, the dew
Of the damp grave has fallen! Who, so love
Is left among the living? Who hath walk'd
The world with such a winning loveliness,
And on its bright brief journey, gather'd up
Such treasures of affection? She was loved
Only as idols are. She was the pride
Of her familiar sphere-the daily joy
Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze,
And in the light and music of her way,
Have a companion's portion. Who could feel,
While looking upon beauty such as hers,
That it would ever perish! It is like

The melting of a star into the sky

While you are gazing on it, or a dream

In its most ravishing sweetness rudely broken."

(2.) MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY, of Connecticut: born in 1797. Her poetical productions are very numerous. Her contributions to periodical works are very frequent, and, in general, excellent; always so in respect to their religious spirit and tendency. She deserves the gratitude of her age for her numerous writings, both in prose and poetry. Among the former stand high in public favor her "Letters to Young Ladies."

In her elegant work, "Pleasant Memoirs of Pleasant Lands," published since her recent visit to England, we find the following notice of the poet Southey, whom she declined going to see on account of his mental derangement:

I thought to see thee in thy lake-girt home,

Thou of creative soul! I thought with thee
Amid thy mountain solitudes to roam,

And hear the voice whose echoes, wild and free,

Had strangely thrill'd me, when my life was new,
With old romantic tales of wondrous lore;
But ah! they told me that thy mind withdrew
Into thy mystic cell-nor evermore

Sat on the lip, in fond, familiar word,

Nor through the speaking eye her love repaid,
Whose heart for thee with ceaseless care is stirr'd,
Both night and day; upon her willow shade
Her sweet harp hung. They told me, and I wept,
As on my pilgrim way o'er England's vales I kept."
A fine critic in the "North American Review"

1835, bears the following just tribute to Mrs. Sigourney:

The excellence of all her poems is quiet and unassuming. They are full of the sweet images and bright associations of domestic life; its unobtrusive happiness, its unchanging affections, and its cares and sorrows; of the feelings naturally inspired by life's vicissitudes, from the cradle to the deathbed; of the hopes that burn, like the unquenched altar-fire, in that chosen dwelling-place of virtue and religion. The light of a pure and unostentatious faith shines around them, blending with her thoughts, and giving a tender coloring to her contemplations, like the melancholy beauty of our own autumnal scenery."

We only add the following beautiful lines on the

MARRIAGE OF THE DEAF AND DUMB.

No word! no sound! But yet a solemn rite
Proceedeth through the festive, lighted hall.
Hearts are in treaty, and the soul doth take
That oath, which, unabsolved, must stand till death,
With icy seal, doth stamp the scroll of life.
No word! no sound! But still yon holy man,
With strong and graceful gesture, doth impose
The irrevocable vow, and with meek prayer
Present it to be register'd in Heaven.

Methinks this silence heavily doth brood
Upon the spirit. Say, thou flower-crown'd bride,
What means the sigh which from that ruby lip
Doth 'scape, as if to seek some element

Which angels breathe?

Mute! mute! 'tis passing strange!
Like necromancy all. And yet, 'tis well;
For the deep trust with which a maiden cast
Her all of earth, perchance her all of heaven,
Into a mortal's hand, the confidence

With which she turns in every thought to him,
Her more than brother, and her next to God,
Hath never yet been shadow'd out in word,
Or told in language.

So, ye voiceless pair,

Pass on in hope. For ye may build as firm

Your silent altar in each others' hearts,

And catch the sunshine through the clouds of time

As cheerily, as though the pomp of speech

Did herald forth the deed. And when ye dwell

BB