The desert and illimitable air,—
Lone wandering, but not lost.

"All day thy wings have fann'd,

At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere; .
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

"And soon that toil shall end,

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend
Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.

"Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.

"He, who, from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright."

There are other American writers who have acquired considerable repute, as lyric poets, and who, did not our limits forbid, might be more extensively noticed here. The lyrics of Sands, Pierpont, Willis, and others of various merit, have found their way into every part of the country,-and as far as this species of composition can establish and perpetuate poetical fame, some of them will not be forgotten.

We were about taking up the volume of Halleck, for the purpose of noticing its contents, when our eye fell upon some stanzas, which we will submit to the reader, as well as a single word in relation to their author.

Many of the lyric poems of Willis G. Clark are characterised by a simplicity and pathos which leave a deep impression upon the heart. A vein of pure and unaffected feeling runs throughout, and the profuseness of beautiful imagery bespeaks the redundant fancy of the poet. Of the longer poems of Clark we cannot speak as approvingly. They appear to have been written with haste; and as the models upon which they are framed are essentially bad, little was to be expected from them. Even good workmanship is of little avail with bad materials. The "Lament," which we give as a specimen of this writer's lyric poems, is altogether perfect of its kind.

"There is a voice, I shall hear no more-
There are tones, whose music for me is o'er;
Sweet as the odours of spring were they,-
Precious and rich-but they died away;
They came like peace to my heart and ear-
Never again will they murmur here;

They have gone like the blush of a summer morn,
Like a crimson cloud through the sunset borne.

up for me,

"There were eyes, that late were lit
Whose kindly glance was a joy to see;
They revealed the thoughts of a trusting heart,
Untouched by sorrow, untaught by art;

Whose affections were fresh as a stream of spring
When birds in the vernal branches sing;

They were filled with love, that hath passed with them,
And my lyre is breathing their requiem.

"I remember a brow, whose serene repose
Seemed to lend a beauty to cheeks of rose:
And lips, I remember, whose dewy smile,
As I mused on their eloquent power the while,
Sent a thrill to my bosom, and bless'd my brain
With raptures, that never may dawn again;
Amidst musical accents, those smiles were shed—
Alas! for the doom of the early dead!

"Alas! for the clod that is resting now

On those slumbering eyes-on that faded brow;
Wo for the cheek that hath ceased to bloom-
For the lips that are dumb, in the noisome tomb;
Their melody broken, their fragrance gone,
Their aspect cold as the Parian stone;
Alas for the hopes that with thee have died-
Oh loved one!-would I were by thy side!

"Yet the joy of grief it is mine to bear;
I hear thy voice in the twilight air;
Thy smile, of sweetness untold, I see
When the visions of evening are borne to me;
Thy kiss on my dreaming lip is warm-
My arm embraceth thy graceful form;

I wake in a world that is sad and drear,
To feel in my bosom-thou art not here.

"Oh! once the summer with thee was bright;
The day, like thine eyes, wore a holy light.
There was bliss in existence when thou wert nigh,
There was balm in the evening's rosy sigh;
Then earth was an Eden, and thou its guest-
A Sabbath of blessings was in my breast;
My heart was full of a sense of love,
Likest of all things to heaven above.

"Now, thou art gone to that voiceless hall,
Where my budding raptures have perished all;
To that tranquil and solemn place of rest,

Where the earth lies damp on the sinless breast;
Thy bright locks all in the vault are hid-
Thy brow is concealed by the coffin lid;--
All that was lovely to me is there-
Mournful is life, and a load to bear!"

Turn we now to the compositions of the first lyric poet of his land-FITZ GREENE HALLECK.

If there be in the English language a phrase that is better fitted than another to convey our sense of the merits of Halleck's verse, we should express as its principal characteristics, a great vigour of language, and a surpassing brilliancy of thought. His poetical images flow with the sweetest melody; he is powerful, even when most harmonious; and evidently is no advocate of the doctrine that sound is an echo to the sense. While his poetry delights the ear with its music, it elevates the spirit by its high-toned sentiment. It provokes in our minds new thoughts, and in our hearts it awakens a world of animated feeling. Every thing that comes from the hand of this admirable poet is replete with chaste and exquisite beauties, reflections from the mirror of nature. Nothing is rough-nothing overstrained, feeble, or misplaced.

We know that this is high praise, and we are aware that unmingled eulogy often excites distrust, because it is so frequently applied to writers who do not deserve it. We turn the reader, however, to one or two selections from Halleck's writings.

The following lines were written in September, 1820, after the death of Joseph Rodman Drake, the intimate friend of our author.

"Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days!
None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.

"Tears fell, when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep,
And long, where thou art lying,
Will tears the cold turf steep.

"When hearts, whose truth was proven
Like thine, are laid in earth,
Then should a wreath be woven
To tell the world their worth.

"And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and wo were thine;

"It should be mine to braid it
Around thy faded brow,
But I've in vain essayed it,
And feel I cannot now.

"While memory bids me weep thee,

Nor thoughts nor words are free,

The grief is fixed too deeply

That mourns a man like thee."

We now give a few stanzas "On Domestic Happiness." They appear in striking contrast with the verses "On the Death of Drake." The one exhibits the simple pathos of which the poet is capable, and the other will serve to show the playfulness of his fancy.

I.

"Beside the nuptial curtain bright,"
The bard of Eden sings,

"Young love his constant lamp will light,
"And wave his purple wings."

But rain-drops from the clouds of care
May bid that lamp be dim,

And the boy Love will pout and swear
'Tis then no place for him.

II.

So mused the lovely Mrs. Dash;
'Tis wrong to mention names;
When for her surly husband's cash
She urged in vain her claims.
"I want a little money, dear,

"For Vandervoort and Flandin
“Their bill, which now has run a year,
"To-morrow mean to hand in."

III.

"More?" cried the husband, half asleep,
"You'll drive me to despair!"

The lady was too proud to weep,

And too polite to swear.

She bit her lips in very spite:

He felt a storm was brewing,

And dreamed of nothing else all night

But brokers, banks, and ruin.

IV.

He thought her pretty once, but dreams
Have sure a wondrous power,

For to his eye the lady seems

Quite altered since that hour

And Love, who on their bridal eve

Had promised long to stay,

Forgot his promise, took French leave-
And bore his lamp away.

The foregoing extracts are not, by any means, the most favourable specimens of Halleck's poems. We have selected them, partly for the purpose of giving an idea of the different styles which mark his compositions; and partly on account of their brevity, the limits of a review not always admitting the insertion of long extracts. "Alnwick Castle," and "Marco Bozzaris," are already too familiar to the reader, to require farther notice from us. They have been circulated widely in VOL. XVIII.-NO. 37.

15

America, and republished in England, and have received the favourable remarks of competent critics in both countries. In the volume before us, there are some poems in the Spenserian stanza-that most beautiful of all measures for narration or description-which would induce us to augur well of an effort by Mr. Halleck, in that branch of poetry. He has, however, never written—at least he has never published-any work of sufficient importance as to length, to establish his fame upon a permanent basis, but seems to be satisfied with a comparatively ephemeral reputation. We regret this, because we believe he is better competent to the execution of such a task, than any other American poet. His general learning may not be so extensive as that of some who might be mentioned, but his judgment is sound and his taste correct; his imagination is exuberant, and withal so well disciplined, that he would not be in danger of involving himself in the labyrinth of mysticism, in which the writings of some of our modern Lakists are inextricably involved. We recommend Mr. Halleck's book to the perusal of our readers.

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE, the author of the second work named at the head of this article, had hardly started into public notice, when, at the early age of twenty-five years, he died.

In 1819, a series of Pindaric odes was published in one of the New York journals, with the signature of Croaker and Co., which excited much public attention. They were full of playful humour; sometimes keenly satirical; and being of that local character which raises individual curiosity, many efforts were made to discover the authors. These exertions were, after a time successful, and the partners composing the firm of Croaker and Co. appeared in propriis personis, under their lawful titles of Fitz Greene Halleck, and Joseph Rodman Drake.

Thus did the merits of the two friends first dawn upon the public, and from that moment we may date the commencement of their poetical reputation. But a short time elapsed from this period until the death of Drake-we believe not more than a year-and it was not until that event that his lyric poems were published in a collected form. It is to such a collection that our attention is now drawn.

The poem which commences the volume before us, is entitled "The Culprit Fay." It is a fairy tale, told with great spirit and playfulness. The following is a brief outline of the story.

The scene is laid at the "Crow Nest," on the Hudson, near West Point; the time midnight, "the dawn of the fairy day." The elfin sentinel sounds upon his bell, a signal to the fairy habitants of the region to meet at their nightly revels; and when they issue from their resting places, in obedience to the summons, the poem tells us—