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tively beautiful! the curse of him “who knoweth where the lightnings hide," the lofty sublimity of Oriska in scorning death, and the abrupt grandeur of the conclusion, unite in constituting it a most lovely poem. How gently falls upon the ear, and enters the very heart, this beautiful description ! Their sweet bower

With silver foot, a frolic fountain stole, Rose like a gem amid the rural scene, Still track'd by deep'ning greenness, while O'er-canopied with trees, where countless birls

The mighty prairie met the bending skies, Carol'd unwearied, the gay squirrel leaped, A sea at rest, whose sleeping waves were And the wild bee went singing to his work, flowers. Satiate with luxury. Through matted grass,

The note which precedes the poem, proves the Bell of the Wreck to have been founded on fact; it is written, as the reader will now observe, with much feeling and beauty. BELL OF THE WRECK.

Toll for the absent sire,

Who to his home drew near, Toll, toll, toll,

To bless a glad expecting group, Thou bell by billows swung

Fond wife, and children dear! And night and day thy warning words

They heap the blazing liearth Repeat with mournfill tongue !

The festal board is spread,
Toll for the queenly boat,

But a fearful guest is at the gate,
Wreck on yon rocky shore ;
Sea weed is in her palace halls,

Room for the sheeted dead !
She rides the surge no more!

Toll for the loved and fair, Toll for the master bold,

The whelm'a bencath the tide, The high-sould and the brave,

The broken harpa around whose strings Who ruled her like a thing of life

The dull sea monsters glide! Amid the crested wave!

Mother and nursling sweet, Toll for the hardly crew,

Reft from the household throng; Sons of the storm and blast,

There's bitter weeping in the nest Who long the tyrant ocean dared,

Where breath'd tireir soul of song. But it vanquished them at last! "Toll for the man of God,

Toll for the hearts that bleed Whose hallowed voice of prayer

'Neath misery's furrowing trace! Rose calm above the stifled groan

Toll for the hapless orphan left Of that intense despair!

The last of all his race! How precious were those tones

Yes, with thy heaviest knell On that sad verge of life,

From surge to rocky shore, Amid the fierce and freezing storm,

Toll for the living, not the dead,

Whoso mortal woes are o'er !
And the mountain-billow's strift!
Toll for the lover lost

Toll, toll, toll,
To the summond bridal train !

O'er breeze and billow free, Bright glows a picture on his breast,

And with thy startling lore instruct Beneath the anfathom'd main.

Each rover of the sea; One from her casement gazeth

Tell bow o'er proudest joys Long o'er the misty sea;

May swift destruction sweep, le cometh not, pale maiden,

And bid him build his hopes on high, His heart is cold to thee!

Lone Teacher of the deep! The Advertisement of a Lost Day, is written in a moral, contemplative, and eminently religious vein, and so as to attract the attention of the most giddy ; they must be truly abandoned, and incapable of reflection, who can read the following lines without deriving benefit from their suggestions.


Set round with three times eight A gem of countless price,

Large diainonds, clear and bright, Cut fiom the living rock,

And each wil istismaliar ones, And graved in Paradise ;

All changeful as the light.

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Lost-where the thoughtless throng

In Fashion's mazes wind, Where tuilleth Folly's song,

Leaving a sting behind;
Yet to my land twas given

A golden harp to buy,
Such as the white-robed choir attune

To deathless minstrelsy.
Lost! lost! lost!

I feel all search is vain; That gem of countless cost

Can ne'er be mine again;

I offer no reward,

For till these heart-strings sever,
I know that Heaven-entrusted gift

Is reft away for ever.
But when the sea and land

Like burning scroll have fled,
I'll see it in His hand

Who judgeth quick and dead;
And when of scath and loss

That man can ne'er repair,
The dread inquiry meets my soul,

What shall it answer there?

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Mrs. Sigourney has given evidence in Niagara, as well as in many other of her poems, of the possession of masculine power, and grasp of thought. How full of vigor, and lofty imagination, this line!

God hath set his rainbow on thy forehead." As an evidence of the power of genius in investing any subject with interest, and also as an example of a well organized mind drawing sublime inferences from apparently the most trivial objects, The Shred of Linen deserves perusal. The Mourning Daughter is another instance of the forcible imagination, original conception, and exalted mind of the authoress. The tale is told with a matchless dignity, and calm simplicity, which bears us along like a majestic stream, mirroring its truth in its transparent beauty.

Napoleon at llelena, is written in a nervous strain of lyric grandeur, evidencing great classic taste, sound judgment, and the same depth of thought, and masculine vigor, which have been already adverted to. As an exhibition of great spirit and national pride, which render it highly interesting, we shall instance Columbia's Ships--a narrative of much interest, and wearing a romantic dress. The Trial of the Dead, can hardly be read without communicating to the reader a portion of the weird and mysterious feeling, which influences its incident and language. For its length, perhaps the prettiest thing that ever was written is, The Death of an Infant ; the ideas are beautiful in the extreme, and follow each other in a most natural way, which leaves an impression on the mind, of excellence not to be surpassed : it is enough to convert an Infidel, and to bring tears into the eyes of the veriest misanthrope that exer lived.

The Rainbow pours forth a fresh flood of her thoughtful, yet energetic, and glowing poetry : how beautifully the poet insinuates that the junction of the smile and the tear-drop, have resulted in the creation of the rainbow. It is an idea worthy of Homer, and heathen mythology has not produced any thing to surpass it. Another talisman, with power to “Ope the sympathetic source of tears,” is The Infant's Prayer. Harold and ļosti, shew the authoress to be in no wise deficient in that simple grace, dramatic power, and spirited method, so essential for the perfection of the ballad. If any other instance of the psychological beauties of Mrs. Sigourney were required, we should find one in her beautiful poem, called Dreams. It is full of superb images, woven in the light of the brightest fancy, yet formed of the essence of the soundest truth : there is a most charming moral conclusion evolved from the consideration of the subject.

Man's Three Guests, is an exquisite ballad, remarkable for its beauty, and appropriateness; it is written in an interesting, yet easily comprehended strain, which might effect more good by leading the mind to the contemplation of its more essential objects, than a thousand homilies, and all the tracts which ever yet issued from Exeter Hall.

An excellent instance of the deep reflection, analytical power, and graphic mode of treatment of the writer, is afforded us, in The Unrifled Cabinet—We present the reader with its contents.


Our stewardship of thought. When shall

it be When shall that time be? When?

That we may hoard for intellect, nor find So many buds The work-day World, or stcalthy Time, a We shelter'd in the garden of our heart,

thief? Yet ere their young sheaths open'd to the Leases of tenements amid the sands sun,

And on the cloud, papers and bonds welad, They curl'd their leaves and died, we shrink

In Earth's handwriting, well endorsed and to fill

seal'd Their vacant places, lest the same sharp By smooth-tongued Hope. grief

They're lost! The lock is forced ! And trouble come upon is. Life doth seem, The casket rified! All our treasures gone! With all its banners of felicity,

And only a brown cobweb in their place, Like the fair alcove of the bard, and seat

Spun by some mocking spider. Illusory, on which we find no rest.

Still, ye say

We may obtain a cabinet, whose hoard In the mind's storehouse, gold we had,

Robber, nor faithless friend, nor rust of and gems

years, Gather'd from many a tome. The key we

Shall e'er invade. gave

When shall that time bo? When? To Memory, and she hath betray'd her trust, When Heaven's pure gate unfoldeth, and For when we ask of her, she saith that years thy soul And sleepless cares disturbed her, till she Glides like a sunbeam through. lost

Then shall it be.

With the following poem, entitled Alice, in Ileaven, to her Family, left on Earth, and but little known in this country, we close our notice of the American Hemans. It is necessary to mention that this poem was composed on the occasion of the death of a highly interesting deaf and dumb young lady; she is here represented as having arrived at the inansions of bliss, and, meeting her father, thus apostrophises those fond objects of her affection, wlion she had left on earth :

SISTERS! there's music here!

From countless liarps it tlows,
Throughout this bright celestial sphere,

Nor pause nor discord knows:
The seal is melted from my ear

By love divine,
And what thro' lifo I pin'd to hear,

Is mine! is mine!
The warbling of an ever-tuneful choir,
And the full deep response of David's sacred lyre.

Did kind earth hide from ino

Her broken harmony,

That thus the melodies of Heaven might roll,
And whelm in deoper tides of bliss, my rapt, my wondering soul?

Joy! I am mute no more;

My sad and silent years,
With all their loneliness, are ofer;

Sweet Sisters! dry your tears.
Listen, at hush of eve-listen at dawn of day-
List at the hour of prayer, Can you not hear my lay?

Untaught, uncheck'il it came,

As light from chaos heamel,
Praising his everlasting name,

Whose blood from Calvary stream'd,
And still it swells that highest strain, the song of the redeem'd.

Brother !--my only one!

Belov'd from childhood's hours,
With whom, beneath the vernal sun,
I wander'd, when our task was done,
To gather early flow 'rs,-

I cannot come to thee,
Though 'twas so sweet to rest
l'pon thy gently guiding arm,
Thy sympathising breast, -
Tis better here to be.

No disappointments shroud

The angel bow‘rs of joy;
Our knowledge hath no cloud,

Our pleasures no alloy ;
The fearful words--to part,

Are never breath'd above;
Heaven hath no broken heart--
Call me not hence--my love.

Oh Mother! He is here,

To whom my soul so grew,
That when Deatli's fatal spear,
Stretched him upon his bier,

I fain must follow too.
Ilis smile my infant griefs restrain'd;

Nis image in my childish dreun,
And o'er my young atfections reign'd,

With gratitude unutter'd and supreme;
But yet, till these refulgent skies burst forth in radiant glow,
I knew not half th' unmeasured debt a daughter's heart doth awe.


Ask ye, if still his heart returns its ar lent glow ?

Ask ye, if filial love

Embodied spirits prove?
Look! 'tis a little space, ere thou shalt rise to know:

I bend to soothe thy woes,

* Huw near," thou canst not see;
I watch thy lone repose-

ALICE doth comfort thee;
To welcome thee I wait-blest Mother, come to me!


The greatest humorist among his poetical brethren is Oliver Wendell Holmes. His humor is of the most quaint and peculiar order, and like all humorous poets of a high rank, he is capable of affecting the most melting pathos. Satire is another vein into which his humor frequently runs, and even in didactic themes he pours forth a rich ingredient of this acceptable spirit. In all his humorous compositions, the most excellent sense and worthy purpose are clearly manifest. Holmes is not merely a huinorist, he has given more than sufficient evidence of his capability in treating contemplative subjects, and when his muse aspires to that species of composition, his language is always the most elegant, and his ideas the most elevated of their kind. He is also, it must be considered, a poet of greater promise than performance, and it would be exceedingly hazardous to venture an opinion as to the degree of fame whieh he may hereafter reach. That humor is his most congenial theme, and the one whose cultivation wlll obtain for him the greatest amount of success, there is no reason to doubt. He is perhaps the only humorist his country has produced, and this in itself might be sufficient to magnify his celebrity; but the great depth of his humorous talent, its variety, and its happy co-existence with the most thrilling pathos, the “Seria mista Iocis” are the solid title-deeds which establish the author's fame. To these it is true one more might be added, which is simply this; that having principally made use of this distinguished talent for the laudable purpose of instructing the poor, and of elevating their tastes, eradicating their vices, and improving their general condition, both moral and physical, as well as for the benefit of deserted youth, in inculcating generous and honorable principles, and in developing their growing tastes, the motive which sanctifies such compositions, independent of their inimitable adaptation to the task, by reason of their attractivo nature, must necessarily insure no inconsiderable amount of respect and admiration to the benefit of him who has given

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