of beauty and sublimity, if he see not therein the impress of Design! Holding communion daily with God, in a temple not made by handsleaning for support upon an invisible arm-he will learn to regard bodily suffering and danger as of little moment. Though tossed upon an angry ocean, or threatened by the avalanche, yet God has made him fearless his cheek blanches not at the approach of death. Then, traveler, wander not through the world alone; think not that all its beauty and throbbing life are the creations of accident; but Believe. See God in every thing. Bow before him in the whirlwind. Join in the many forest-anthems you will listen to. Pray to him in the soft hush of eventide. Then shall you "Find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, THE SONG OF SIGHS. DEDICATED TO THE TUTORS OF YALE. Bubble, bubble-toil and trouble Fire seethe, and chaldron bubble.-MACBETH. ONE poor unfortunate Sophomore wight, Fizzle him tenderly, Bore him with care, See his lip quivering, Falls on his clothing; Frown not so scornfully— Not so reprovingly. Wild and unfortunate, Hear his excuses, His trembling excuses→→→ Ha! that last slip of his Makes him look tearfully See that poor lip of his, Bitten so fearfully! Raise up his spirit, How he came here. Where is his father? Has he a sister? Has he a brother? Alas, for the rarity Under the sun. Oh! it is pitiful— Friend he has none ! Sisterly, motherly, Ties are estranged. Not by lamps quivering, Standeth the wight- Not the bleak winds of March, Could thus urge him to quaking. Maddened by history, Glad from Greek mystery Soon to be whirled, Anywhere, anywhere Out of this world! Here he came boldly, You meet him then; Fizzling, muttering, Stuttering, uttering- Tutor, beware! Speak to him pleasantly, Softly, not painfully Softly and mildly— With pleasant smiles meet him, Cheerfully greet him, Staring so wildly. Vacantly staring, Gone to a surety— Flunking so gloomily, Clasping his book. Owning his weakness, His evil behavior; To thee, as his savior! We trust our readers will not fail to notice the resemblance which the foregoing effusion bears to The Bridge of Sighs—a poem unsurpassed by any late production in vividness and beauty of conception and expression. We are sure that its lamented author would have justified our strange perversion of the beautiful original, had he but experienced a tithe of those misfortunes, of which our College friends are daily cognizant. We are also sure that many of our readers will be overjoyed to find so fitting an expression of those woes and sorrows of which they have had so painful an experience; and will be led to say to us, in the language of an older bard, ἔθιγες ψυχᾶς, ἔθιγες δε φρενῶν. THE COMING AGE-BY LUZERNE RAY. ANOTHER POET? Yes, dear reader, you've guessed it. Old Time has added another grain of sand to the sea-shore, and throned another star in Heaven. One more combatant has spurred his Pegasus into the broad arena of Poesy, and lo! how the gravel flies beneath the iron heels of his courser. Another flower has bloomed in the dim forest of fancy, and the dew-drops of a single night are yet sparkling on its leaves. What a pity that so many wolves are abroad, ready to trample it in the dust! Another Critic? True again, my dear Sir! Another Indian has grasped his tomahawk and scalping knife, to hunt the panther to his den, or follow the trail of the trembling fawn. Another Tiger has crouched in his jungle, ready to join his fangs in the throat of the careless traveler. One more woodman has borne his axe into the forest, to level the proud young trees to the earth. What a pity that his arm is weak and his axe is dull, and the oak, and the cedar, laugh at his puny might! But seriously Well then, seriously, reader, let me introduce to your notice "The Coming Age; a Poem delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Yale College, by Luzerne Ray," and while you are making your obeisance, and shaking hands with the stranger, permit me to whisper in your ear my humble opinion of his merits. To write a good Poem requires something more than a retentive memory, and a well selected library. Originality is the great test, the experimentum crucis" of an author's abilities. And justly too, for in an age of improvement, when Science and Literature are pushing their "advance guard" into the very encampments of Error and Ignorance, we require leaders who will summon us onward; not those who are lingering amid the traces of old battle-fields. And the Poet, who bears the banners and is surrounded by the sweet, but stirring music of the marching host, who sways a powerful sceptre over the hearts and feelings of the soldiery-the Poet, above all others, should lead the van, and not linger in the rear. Mr. Ray marches with the rear-guard. He does not dare to move boldly forward in a new path, searching for fruit and flowers before unknown, but plods slowly along the beaten road, the dusty highway, over which thousands have passed before him. He seems to have conscientious scruples against anything in the shape of an original idea, and certainly though we condemn his scruples, we commend his consistency, for a week's labor amid the sands of his poem has not revealed to us a single diamond. Of the themes which he has condescended to crown with the "garland of poesie," all are common-place, and two are most wretchedly malapropos. The progress of Knowledge, the conflict of Light and Darkness, the student "in his lone chamber," the heroism and fortitude of the Christian Martyrs, all these are subjects which have become exceedingly trite, and as a consequence almost entirely devoid of interest. We look upon them, when they fall in our way, very much as we would upon an old hat, or an antiquated pair of boots; with a feeling of gratitude for their services in the past, but with a strong aversion to a renewal of their acquaintance for the future. The Rose is a fragrant flower, but even its perfume would become disgusting, if it bloomed everywhere. We must condemn, too, Mr. Ray's stanzas on "Slavery," and the "Mexican War," not only because they are subjects of which everybody is heartily sick, but for other and stronger reasons. We say nothing of the good taste displayed in introducing a furious abolition tirade before an audience, some portion of which must have listened with surprise and anger, but we do say that " Slavery" is not a fit subject for the Poet's pen; that it is connected with too much that is sordid and disgusting to awake those pure and lofty emotions which it is the province of Poetry to arouse; we have had enough-quite enough of this gun-cotton preaching, this furious and frenzied declamation about" chains" and "fetters,' ," "sweat and blood," the lash and the dungeon, and we earnestly protest against this fanaticism, which stamps the whole race of our southern brethren as a horde of merciless, unfeeling brutes. Slavery is bad enough in itself, and needs not an exaggeration as contemptible as it is absurd to make us desire-earnestly, and honestly desire-its complete destruction. It is perhaps unnecessary to add, that Mr. Ray has given us no new ideas upon a subject which has been long since exhausted: Nor is he a whit more successful in the phillipic against General Scott and the Mexican War. The hero of Lundy's Lane and Mr. President Polk, will probably survive the attack. But why this abuse of the heroes who have so gallantly periled life in obedience to the mandates of our national government? It is disgusting, this sickly sentimentality, this mawkish philanthropy, which can see no difference between the soldier's sabre and the assassin's dagger--the bomb of the artilleryman and the torch of the incendiary. We have no patience with those who level their arrows at the subaltern for obeying the commands of his superior, who heap curses upon our gallant little army on the plains of Mexico, forgetting that the government at home is alone responsible for its march of blood. A word or two now as So much for the matter of Mr. Ray's poem. to the manner. The measure is too often defective, in some instances painfully so, and betrays a carelessness for which there can be no excuse. In Poetry, as in music, the ear demands perfect harmony. A discord in the one, and a "limping line" in the other are alike to be avoided. A loose versification is the worst fault that can attend a Poet. If it be the result of ignorance, it is contemptible, if of carelessness, it is less disgraceful perhaps, but not less censurable. Not even genius can compensate for an unharmonious metrical arrangement. On the contrary, brilliant thoughts, exquisite comparisons, graceful and appropriate imagery, all are weakened and lost in the rough and jarring movement of the verse, and the whole thing flits through the mind like some strange and hideous nightmare. Thus the measured march of a band of well-trained soldiers, moving in perfect time with their music, and treading the earth as one man, is a pleasant and beautiful sight, because it is an exhibition of harmony, and order, while the careless and disorderly shuffling of an ill-trained militia company is a disagreeable and unpleasant sight, because it is destitute of this harmony. A railroad car is one thing; a lumbering stage-coach quite another. We do not mean to apply these remarks to Mr. Ray, in their full force, for that would be most glaringly unjust. His poem is certainly not jargon, though it is disfigured with quite too many rough and discordant lines. The frequency with which monosyllables naturally short and unaccented are made to supply the place of long syllables, is perhaps its worst faults. Thus, for example, we find at page five, "Dawns already the sure promise;" and here again, at page 6, "Far apart in his lone chamber;" and still again, at page 15, "In the wide field of opinion." Nor have we selected the three lines for quotation, because they are the only defective ones in the poem. They have their relatives on almost every page-all marked by a striking family resemblance. At page 3, we read, Now such poetry as this, to a cultivated ear, is scarcely less than torture, and tempts us to a somewhat vigorous use of our critical axe. But what shall we say of the two following lines, which we have reserved to the last, as a sort of climax? At page 11, at page 6, "Nation thunders against nation;" "Through the glittering star forest." They are beneath criticism. Such glaring inaccuracy would hardly be pardoned in a schoolboy. The war with Mexico has scarcely proved more prolific of limping soldiers, than has this poem of limping lines. Mr. Ray has another fault, which consists in an extravagant fondness for alliteration. Now it is often the case, that the union in a sentence of words beginning with the same letter, produces a good effect, and gives to an expression something of strength and energy; but it is |