better characteristics, it is impossible not to feel that this youthful decay, this crude anticipation of the natural period of corruption, must repress every sanguine hope of the future energy and greatness of America."

During his brief sojourn on the green banks of the Schuylkill, the poet produced several choice effusions; but it is to be regretted that these gems are associated with so much that, for his own high reputa tion, had better been "left unsung." In his poem addressed to the Hon. W. R. Spencer, he speaks thus disparagingly of us:

All that creation's varying mass assumes
Of grand or lovely, here aspires and blooms;
Bold rise the mountains, rich the gardens glow,
Bright lakes expand, and conquering rivers flow;
But mind, immortal mind, without whose ray
This world's a wilderness and man but clay;
Mind, mind alone in barren, still repose,
Nor blooms, nor rises, nor expands, nor flows.
Take Christians, Mohawks, Democrats, and all-
From the rude wigwam to the Congress hall-
From man the savage-whether slaved or free,
To man the civilized, less tame than he,-
'Tis one dull chaos, one unfertile strife
Betwixt half-polished, and half-barbarous life;
Where every ill the ancient world could brew
Is mixed with every grossness of the new,-
Where all corrupts, though little can entice,
And naught is known of luxury but its vice.

In his sweeping denunciations of the American character, he spares only the "sacred few" whom he met in Philadelphia:

Yet, yet forgive me, oh ye sacred few,

Whom late by Delaware's green banks I knew;

Whom, known and loved through many a social eve,
"Twas bliss to live with, and 'twas pain to leave.
*
*

*

*

Believe me, Spencer, while I winged the hours

*

Where Schuylkill winds his way through banks of flowers,

Though few the days, the happy evenings few,

So warm with heart, so rich with mind they flew,

That my charmed soul forgot its wish to roam,

And rested there, as in a dream of home.

The following lines purport to have been written on leaving Philadelphia:

Alone by the Schuylkill a wanderer roved,

And bright were its flowery banks to his eye;
But far, very far were the friends that he loved,
And he gazed on its flowery banks with a sigh.
Oh Nature, though blessed and bright are thy rays,
O'er the brow of creation enchantingly thrown,
Yet faint are they all to the lustre that plays

In a smile from the heart that is fondly our own.
Nor long did the soul of the stranger remain

Unblessed by the smile he had languished to meet;
Though scarce did he hope it would soothe him again,
Till the threshold of home had been pressed by his feet.
But the lays of his boyhood had stolen to their ear,

And they loved what they knew of so humble a name;
And they told him, with flattery welcome and dear,

That they found in his heart something better than fame.
Nor did woman-oh woman! whose form and whose soul
Are the spell and the light of each path we pursue;
Whether sunned in the tropics or chilled at the pole,
If woman be there, there is happiness too;-
Nor did she her enamoring magic deny ;-

That magic his heart had relinquished so long,-
Like eyes he had loved was her eloquent eye,
Like them did it soften and weep at his song.

Oh, blessed be the tear, and in memory oft,

May its sparkle be shed o'er the wanderer's dream;
Thrice blessed be that eye, and may passion as soft,

As free from a pang, ever mellow its beam!

The stranger is gone-but he will not forget,

When at home he shall talk of the toils he has known,

To tell, with a sigh, what endearments he met,

As he strayed by the banks of the Schuylkill alone!

It was also during his lonely rambles on the banks of the Schuylkill that the following beautiful ballad stanzas were written-most probably while contemplating some neighboring cottage:

I knew by the smoke, that so gracefully curled
Above the green elms, that a cottage was near;
And I said, "If there's peace to be found in the world,
A heart that was humble might hope for it here!"

It was noon, and on flowers that languished around
In silence reposed the voluptuous bee;

Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound

But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree.
And "Here, in this lone little wood," I exclaimed,

"With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye,
Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed,
How blest could I live, and how calm could I die!"

By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips
In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline,
And to know that I sighed upon innocent lips,

Which had never been sighed on by any but mine!

Whatever may be thought of the justness of Mr. Moore's estimate of our country forty-five years ago, it hardly needs comment now. The poet, then young and inexperienced, lived long enough to form different and more correct opinions. It is but a few months since he died, after lingering, for a considerable time, in a melancholy and imbecile state of mind. Whatever his sentiments may have been, subsequently to his visit to this country, as to the state of American civilization, literature, and the arts, is now perfectly immaterial;for, as a nation and a people, we have lived long enough to learn a little, and have not been without opportunities of illustrating our progress. We have paid our respects to old England in various ways, and at sundry times;-and there can be no doubt but that she knows us. Whatever our progress is, she finds it no child's play to keep up with us, whether on land or sea. As for poor Ireland-she, too, has heard from us, and whether we be "savages," "democrats," or "poets," she probably has a correct idea of the extent of our productive resources, if not of our benevolence. The spirit that can prompt generous feelings in one case, can supply it in all cases. No matter what the bard thought of us, we had a good opinion of him; and the day will never dawn when American hearts will cease to beat to his happy strains.

After leaving the cottage, we pass on to the Falls of Schuylkill, some six miles from the city. On our right, on the other or eastern side of the river, is Laurel Hill Cemetery, one of the most lovely and inviting spots of the kind in this country. So popular has this necropolis of the dead become, that the company has been obliged to increase its area, and several adjacent tracts of land have accord