An Indian Story is a beautiful ballad, written in the very best manner, and fully equalling any thing of the kind ever composed by Southey, that king of ballad writers. Delicate allusion to the incidents, the interest so well preserved throughout, and the appropriate expressiveness of the diction, entitle it to the highest commendation.

But far in the pine grove, dark and cold,
Where the yellow leaf falls not,
Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold,
There lies a hillock of fresh, dark mould,
In the deepest gloom of the spot.

And the Indian girls that pass that way,
Point out the ravisher's grave;

"And how soon to the bower she loved,"
they say,

Returned the maid that was borne away
From Maquon the fond and the brave.'

The most choice and beautiful images which it is possible for a poet to conceive, are contained in Summer Wind. What a suggestiveness in the line "He comes! Lo where the grassy meadow runs in waves ?"

SUMMER WIND.

It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk
The dew that lay upon the morning grass;
There is 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 growths of woods, silent and
stern,

As if the scorching heat and dazzling light
Were but an element they loved. Bright
clouds,

Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven,Their bases on the mountains-their white tops

Shining in the far ether-fire the air

With a reflected radiance, and make turn
The gazer's eye away. 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

voice

branches, and the

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 gayly 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.

The Prairies is perhaps the finest poem in the book; it combines in the most felicitous manner, beauty of language with deep thoughtfulness and sublimity of conception. How glorious the images, how noble the conception, how vast the reflective spirit! What can be finer than the comparison these lines embody?

Lo! they

In airy undulations, far away,

As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell,

Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed,
And motionless for ever. Motionless?

No, they are all unchained again. The clouds

Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath,
The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye;
Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase
The sunny ridges. Breezes of the South!

Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers,
And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high,
Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not-ye have
Among the palms of Mexico and vines

Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks
That from the fountains of Sonora glide

The hand that built the firmament hath heaved

And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopes
With herbage, planted them with island groves,
And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor
For this magnificent temple of the sky-

With flowers whose glory and whose multitude
Rival the Constellations!

Thoughts of those who may have peopled those wastes in former times crowd upon the poet, and give rise to many beautiful reflections.

As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed,
Among the high rank grass that sweeps his sides,
The hollow beating of his footstep seems

A sacrilegious sound. I think of those

Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here

The dead of other days? and did the dust

Of these fair solitudes once stir with life,

And burn with passion? Let the mighty mounds

That overlook the river, or that rise

In the dim forest crowded with old oaks,

Answer. A race, that long has passed away,

Built them, a disciplined and populous race

Heaped, with long toil, the earth, while yet the Greek
Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms

Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock

The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields
Nourished their harvests, here their herds were fed

When haply by their stalls the bison lowed,

And bowed his maned shoulder to the yoke.

All day this desert murmured with their toils,

'Till twilight blushed, and lovers walked, and wooed

In a forgotten language, and old tunes,

From instruments of uuremembered form,

Gave the soft winds a voice. The red man came-
The roaming hunter tribes, warlike and fierce,
And the mound-builders vanished from the earth.
The solitude of centuries untold

Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolf
Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug den
Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the ground
Where stood their swarming cities. All is gone-
All-save the piles of earth that hold their bones-
The platforms where they worshipped unkuown gods---
The barriers which they builded from the soil

To keep the foe at bay-'till o'er the walls
The wild beleagurers broke, and, one by one,

The strongholds of the plain were forced, and heaped

With corpses. The brown vultures of the wood

Flocked to those vast uncovered sepulchres

And sat, unscared and silent, at their feast,

Haply some solitary fugitive,

Lurking in marsh and forest, 'till the sense

Of desolation and of fear became

Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die.
Man's better nature triumphed then.

The translations of this poet are effected with much grace and spirit. Love and Folly from La Fontaine, may be cited as an instance of the author's power in this department of poetic art. A Hymn to Death is written in a truly philosophic and contented tone; instead of investing death with all those horrors in which poets generally disfigure it, the poet merely

considers its inevitable approach in the light of a blessing, acting as a check on the evil passions of men, preventing the commission of crime, and bringing repose and consolation to the sufferer. Truly does he say, "The wicked but for thee had been too strong for the good; the great of earth had crushed the weak for ever."

The most perfect ballad in the book is The White-footed Deer. The chastity of the language, the simplicity of the narrative, and its exquisite pathos, would almost be sufficient, in themselves, to establish the author's fame.

Mrs. Sigourney is a poetess possessing, in a remarkable degree, those qualities which entitle the possessor to the rank of a first class writer. Her vigorous comprehensiveness, lofty aspirings, brilliant fancy, philosophy, and philanthropic zeal, coupled with her sublime references to Almighty perfection, and the grand moral tendency of her poetry, unite in claiming

for her an amount of admiration which enables her to hold one of the highest places among the poets of her country.

In like manner the patriotism which she has always evinced, her Spartan veneration for virtue, and scathing denunciations of crime; her deep-rooted love of nature, and the elegance, compass, and power of her language, have all had their share in accomplishing that universal success which her writings have obtained. The class of subjects she has chosen to act as the interpreters of her thoughts, are, most fortunately, the very best she could have selected, not merely for the perpetuation of her fame, but for that which is of far greater import, the extension of virtuous principles, and creation of the best incentives to every triumph of virtue. If that peculiar and most enviable capacity were more general, by whose plastic touch what has for ages appeared repulsive and difficult of accomplishment, instantaneously becomes transformed into a seductive and desiderated treasure; and what has hitherto been invested with seeming charms, and the almost irresistible delectations which luxury supposes, not alone "withers and grows dim," but becomes more terrible than Erinnys with her cincture of snakes; if such a gift was common even to the majority of intellectual minds, Sigourney's talents might not demand such emphatic appreciation. It is her almost total isolation in this respect, which brings her more prominently into notice, and it is only necessary to form a superficial acquaintance with her poetry to become convinced of her fearless power in advocating the cause of virtue. Truly her brilliant. talents not only elevate the standard of intellectuality which dignifies her sex, but must naturally inspire its members with expectations, in which their widened influence, and far extended importance as a class, are conspicuously distinguished.

It is exceedingly questionable whether Sigourney would not gain from a comparison with her poetic sister, Felicia Hemans. Many would esteem her an equal in fancy, grace, and rythmical beauty, while in vigor and range of comprehension she is most undoubtedly superior. Oriska, as a narrative is perfect; the beauty of the language which indeed is exquisite, the faithful embodiment of the artlessness of the heroine, the strain of wild, plaintive melody pervading the poem, which is so thoroughly in consonance with the subject, and the melancholy catastrophe it contains; the imprecation uttered by the dying mother of the heroine on her faithless husband, so figura