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Cold is the heart, that not on such a theme
Feels the warm spirit kindle-'tis the sound
Of a gone trumpet rolling on the stream
Of time, and catching still at each rebound,
Deeper and clearer tones to bear its warning round."

There is, perhaps, nothing finer in the whole poem than his apostrophe to the Sun. It calls to mind the opening passages of the 3rd book of Paradise Lost, addressed to "Light," and occasionally rises almost to its sublimity. With a pencil dipt in ether, he paints with the living hues of Heaven. He evidently labors at the start, as if he felt his task too high, but as he moves along, he warms with his subject; and as his inspiration rises, his thoughts flow and his language glitters. No one passage, stript from its context, would give the reader an adequate idea of the whole piece. Indeed, its gems are so arrayed, and set in order, that the halo of light in which they blaze, would lose its lustre by their separation.

"The Suicide" is another poem of this author. In the "vein of imagery, the allusion and turn of phrase," it bears a close resemblance to the Prometheus, though an inferior poem. It has all its defects, without its beauties. Its characteristics of style are so nearly the same, that we forbear to give any extracts.

"The Wreck" is a poem of decided merit. It is a tale of romantic love, full of tender passages; and though the most unstudied, is yet the most graceful and impassioned of all his productions. At times the tone is somewhat subdued, and the writer moves along in easy, measured cadence, when, all at once, a gush of sensibility sweeps away all the artificial restraints of verse, and his language pours itself abroad in wild and beautiful profusion.

The "Setting Sail," and the "Death Scene,” near the close, are both thrillingly affecting and beautiful. We can hardly resist the inclination to transcribe them, though we are assured that they could only be fully appreciated by being read in connexion with the preceding and subsequent passages.

This poem excels the Prometheus and the Suicide, in brilliancy and copiousness of language, but falls behind them both in vigor of thought and purity of diction.

The "Coral Grove" is a perfect gem of its kind, and in diction is as pure as crystal.

There are many of Percival's fugitive pieces that deserve notice, but for want of space we are constrained to pass them over. Indeed, every thing that Percival has written displays genius and poetic talent of a superior order. And we do not think that we go too far in styling him the Byron of America. The same waywardness of thought and richness of fancy,-the same touching allusions to self, and glimpses into their personal history, distinguish the writings of both. Percival

has also much of that intense personal passion for which Byron is so remarkable, though less of his strong, practical thought and pointedness of style. But we forbear to run the parallel farther, lest we be charged with being more of the eulogist than the critic. P. W. R.

Claremont, Va.

THE ANGEL OF THE WEARY HEART.
Not long ago a spell came over me,
That waked a train of strange imaginings,
And pencilled on the tablet of my mind
The pictures of a bright reality.

They came and went, like the flitting phantoms
Of a fev'rish dream, and yet I slept not.
I saw,
but not with eyes material,
Shapes of beauty that haunt me even yet;
And heard, as if with other ears, sweet sounds
That I may never listen to again.

Myself unseen, I could the myst❜ry pierce,
That seemed to exercise such strange control
Over the spirit of the creature, man;
And, as in ignorance, he felt the sway
Of mighty agencies within, I marked
The subtle essence that could loose the thrall
Of suffering humanity, and tinge
Earth's darkest shadows with its glow.

A man I saw, in manhood's early prime-
Life's bitter woes had not yet traced their deep
Unalterable furrows on the brow
Serene; and in the depths of his dark eye
There lingered no expression of distrust,
Or enmity towards the selfish world;
Yet the repinings of a weary heart

Had paled his cheek, and quenched the glowing smile
That erst had wreathed those melancholy lips.
He thought of home; and the deep ocean flood
That rolled between him and his beloved ones,
Seemed a barrier impassable. Months
Had gone by; and expectancy deferred
Still severed the lone wanderer from his babes,
And the gentle one whom they called "mother."-
In a strange land, he lived a stranger; and,
Sick'ning at heart, he strove to hide the tear
That spoke the husband's and the father's love.
Upon the air there shone a tracery
Like the faint shimmer of the rippling stream,
When sunshine glances on it; and a sound,
Like the slight quiver of the aspen leaf
When the Summer breeze has stirred it,
Was to my ear perceptible. I knew,
By a strange consciousness intuitive,
That a spirit lingered near. Tangible
It was not-neither palpable—and yet
I could not doubt the blest reality
Of its ethereal presence; for the clouds
Of grief that hung upon the stranger's brow
Seemed gradually to float away, like mists
Of the valley before the rising sun.
He thought of home-now, not despondingly.
He saw bright visions rise, to chase the gloom
That had o'ershadowed with its sable pall,
The day-dreams of his heart; time and space were

To him annihilated, as he looked

Upon the far-off point that gleaming shone
Like welcome light-house to the mariner;

And heard a "still small voice" in murmurings sweet
Assure him, that they all should meet again.
Yes, as each well remembered lineament
Of wife and children rose to greet his eye,
The day of meeting them, he felt, would soon
Draw near; and in the hallowed sanctity
Of home, the wanderer's heart would be at rest.
I saw a smile irradiate his face,

Upturned, as if in thankfulness and joy-'
And, ere that sunbeam of the soul was gone,
I heard the flutter of those viewless wings,
And the Spirit passed on.

Again-unseen,

I stood at midnight's solitary hour,
Beside a man of lofty intellect.

The stamp of years mature was on his brow,
And mental toil had dimmed, as if with age,
The lustre of his eye. He had explored
With relish keen the mysteries of mind,
And had sounded many an uudiscovered
Depth of intellectual lore. Creations
Of beauty and of glory he had stamped,
In characters undying on the page
Poetic; and philosophy had won
In him a teacher, advocate, and friend.

Yet th' unwelcome spell of the weary heart
Was on him; for unsatisfied desires
Of fame, and disappointments unforeseen,

Had blunted, for a time, the energies
Of his high intellect; and in despair,

He could have torn the jewel from his crown
And have cast it despondingly away.
Ah! is it not a bitter thing to strive
And strive, yet see the object unattained?
To drain by drops the scanty meed of fame
Which only serves t' increase the longing thirst,
And never gives enough to satisfy?

Thus thought the weary man on whom I gazed;
But while the cloud yet lingered on his brow,
I saw again the tracery of light,
And heard the flutter of the viewless wings.
Slowly the shadows faded on that face,
And the faint light of nascent joy illumed

Once more the torch, that he had flung aside
So recklessly. Aye, he would struggle on,
Although far-off and unattainable

Might seem the wished for boon-he still would strive-
And the recompense of fame undying

Would

be his. I saw him tightly clasp

yet The volume he was holding, to his breast;

And while the glow of energy renewed

Still lighted up that glorious countenance,
I felt a waving in the lambent air,

And the Spirit passed on.

Again-unseen, I saw a gentle maiden in her bower; A sweet, secluded spot it was, with vines O'ergrown, and clustering roses here and there Peeped forth to shed their rich perfume. But the maiden's eye was not upon them, As, sad, in listless attitude she sat, And gazed with look intent on vacancy. She was a creature young, and beautiful As early womanhood could be; too young To be with grief acquainted--yet the rose Upon her cheek already had been blanched By sorrows premature; for she had loved, With all the fervency of woman's heart,

One, whom she had deemed worthy of that love.
Still she cherished sweet memories of him
Who seemed to have forgotten her, and clung
With fond tenacity to every thought

That linked the present hour with what had been.
She would not, could not wrong him-yet she felt,
As lone she sat in their sweet trysting-place,
That she was a neglected, blighted thing.
For her, no more life's precious joys could bloom-
No more the magic wand of happy love
Could sway her destiny-for her, no star
Could rise to light her pathway to the tomb.
Ah! the weary heart-its spell was on her-
Youth and beauty might not ward off the blight
Of earth's anxieties; and as she felt

That life's first bitter draught had touched her lips,
She bent her head upon her hands, and wept.
Again, that tracery of silver sheen,
And the faint quiver of the spirit-wings!
Composure gently stole with its soft balm
Into the maiden's breast; and soon there came
Up-springing from the depths of her young heart,
Kind thoughts of him, that shed a glowing
Halo o'er what had been so dark before.

He would return-she knew he would-could she
Doubt him, who was to share earth's mingled cup
With her? Oh, no! By her fond trustfulness-
By her unwavering tenderness-by all
That woman in the darkest hour should be
To man-she would not, could not doubt his love.
As a bright smile illumed that beauteous face,
I heard the waving of the unseen wings,
And the Spirit passed on.

Once more-I stood

Within a darkened chamber, where there lay
The still, cold body of a lifeless child.

The snow white drapery of the shroud was wrapped
Around the form, which a few days before
Had leaped and frolicked in its joyousness;
And she, the mother of that child, now bent
With streaming eyes over the coffin lid,
Where all that God had left to her on earth
Was tenanted. Her husband, children, all
Were gone; and this last unburied one had
Been to her, as the sweet bud of promise
On a blasted tree. No well-spring of joy
Existed in her heart, which found not its
Source in him; and as his dear caresses
Chased the sorrow from her soul, and awoke

The pleasant memories of other years,

She hoped that here, her storm-tost soul might safe At anchor ride, and find the haven of

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Bent her knees in prayer; and as the choking

Sobs seemed wrung from that crushed and breaking heart,
She looked tow'rds Heaven for the needful strength
To live through this, her hour of agony.

Again I saw the tracery of light,

And hues angelic mingled in its glow.

Softly there seemed to steal athwart her brow,

Sweet resignation to the will of Him

Who gave, and had the right to take away.
She strove to see that "all was for the best;"
And as she remembered that her dear one
Was now beyond the reach of earthly care,
She would not call him back again. Oh, no!
She would look forward to a meeting there,
Where father, mother, children, all should share
The joys undying of eternity.

The calm of grief subdued was on her brow,

And the Spirit passed on.

The vision seemed

At last to fade-again, I was alone;

And thought reverted to th' ideal scenes
With which my mind had pregnant been. I saw
That others bore a weight of fretting care;
And that the suff'rings of humanity
Were, in measure, dealt to all. Still, I felt
That my cup had its drops of bitterness,
And that to me, the weariness of heart

Was not unknown. Ah! show me, if you can,
The earthly lot that knows no with'ring blight—
No unexpected loss-no sad reverse-
No disappointed hopes-no galling shame,-
Show me the man that tastes not one of these,
And I will give my boon of life away.
Why unveil the hidden sanctuary
Of human grief? In my desponding hour
I thought, that I alone had been forgot
By Him who sent the budding olive-branch
To man, and spanned his bow of promise on

The cloud. But memories of mercies past
Awoke the dormant trustfulness within;
And truer views, and better prospects came,
As this faint whispering stole upon my ear;

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'Look at the many comforts that are thine-
Home-kindred-friends-shall they not sanctify
And bless thy future lot? Is there not one

Dear countenance, that never meets thine own
But with a smile? And is there not thy child—
Gem of hope and promise! round which the bonds
Of tenderness maternal have been wound,
Until she seems a dearer part of thee?
Shall these not smooth the path of coming years,
And bring earth's purest blessings to thy soul?
Oh! crush the thought desponding, that would dye
Thy future in its gloomy coloring;
And, forward looking, still press on.
And winds adverse thy little bark may toзs,
Still, still press on-it will not be in vain."
While yet the murmuring lingered on my ear.

Tho' storms,

I saw, once more, the tracery of light,
And HOPE, the spirit of my dream, passed on.

A Sketch of the

PROGRESS OF ARCHEOLOGICAL SCIENCE IN AMERICA.

"WHO READS AN AMERICAN BOOK?"

BY THE EDITOR.

1. Ancient Egypt. Her Monuments, Hieroglyphics, History and Archeology, and other subjects connected with Hieroglyphical Literature. By GEORGE R. GLIDDON, Late U. S. Consul, at Cairo. New York, 1843. Baltimore, 1845.

Eight Oral Lectures on the same subjects, delivered in Richmond, Va. By the same. March and April, 1845.

2. Journal of the "American Oriental Society." Vol. I., No. 1, 1843. Containing the Address of JOHN PICKERING, the President, &c.

Do. No. 2, 1844; Containing "A Memoir on the History of Buddhism." Read before the Society, by Edward E. Salisbury, Professor of Arabic and Sanscrit, in Yale College.

3. Crania Egyptiaca; or Observations on Egyptian Ethnography, derived from Anatomy, History, and the Monuments. By SAMUEL GEORGE MORTON, M. D.., Author of " Crania Americana ;" Member of the American Philosophical Society; Vice President of the Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia, etc., etc. From the Transactions of the American Philosophical Society. Philadelphia and London, 1844.

4. Notes on Northern Africa, The Sahara and Soudan; in relation to the Ethnography, Languages, History, Political and Social Condition of the Nations of those Countries. By WILLIAM B. HODG SON, Late Consul of the U. S., near the Regency of Tunis. New York, 1844. 5. Pictorial History of the World. By JOHN FROST, LL. D.

No.'s 1 and 2. Egypt. Philadel

In the June number of the Messenger, was pre-into a suitable form for the Messenger." In ensented to its readers a description of the celebra- deavoring now, in an humble manner, to perform ted "Rosetta Stone," with a translation of its tri-this promise, it must first be confessed, that to give linguar Inscription. This offering from the "Old World," it was thought, would be acceptable to the curious and the intelligent of the "New World."

At the same time, our acknowledgments were tendered to the gentlemen, whose names and works preface this sketch, for the rich materials they had furnished us, and a promise given "to mould them

them a suitable form is beyond our capacity. Even to do them the little justice within our power, would require more extended study and research, than we have leisure or physical ability for, without producing a delay that would deprive them of half their interest. We prefer, therefore, entering upon the subject at once, trusting that the merits of those upon whom we shall touch, will more

than make up for the absence of any improved under circumstances, in reference to the elevated setting forth, which more favorable circumstances pursuits and pleasures of Literature, similar to those might enable us to give them. under which the great body of the American peo

It must be remembered, that it is not the design ple are living, and their situation would be at once of the present article to go deeply into the nume-appreciated by their compatriots, and their defirous subjects, presented by the works which are ciencies would be excused, from their want of faenumerated above; but guided by them, to trace cilities and stimuli; or if they accomplished any the part which America has borne in their investi- thing worthy of applause, they would receive for gation and extension. We shall find, that young, it increased credit. So it should be with us. In busy and practical as our Country is, she has taken whatever was adapted to our condition, we have an honorable part, yea, in some respects, a leading far anticipated the facilities we have enjoyed. position, in labors and researches of Learning, that| Hitherto, we have looked too exclusively to might be supposed to belong exclusively to old and England for Literature and Science ;-led to do so densely populated countries, with Scientific Insti- by our common origin and language, and our comtutions fostered by the munificence of Government, mercial intercourse, as well as by the superior exceland enriched with stores and treasures accumula- lence of her works. But this dependence has ting for ages. Perchance, too, we shall find some produced arrogance and taunting, rather than the of our taunting boasters, across the waters, actually reading American Books, on these abstruse and difficult subjects.

The "Rosetta Stone" may be considered a fruit of war; but we now come to commemorate the fruits of Peace. The civilized world are now at Peace; and, notwithstanding the present rumors of war, we hope it will so continue, for the sake of self interest, of Religion and Science. At this time the only conquerors are Commerce, Science and the "Prince of Peace." In their train blessings and prosperity follow. The Missionary goes forth to Christianise, the man of Science to explore, the merchant to open new fields of commercial enterprise. Each of these is sometimes the pioneer; but they all meet at length, and unite their efforts to extend the empire of knowledge. Every question connected with the history, condition, sentiments and customs of nearly every people on the Globe, is now in progress of solution, by their combined labors and researches.

noble feelings of respect and sympathy, on the part of those who have supplied us. Now, however, the chain of dependence is fast weakening and breaking. The time has arrived, in many parts of our Country, when a native Literature, of no mean order, can be produced and sustained. Science has taken many bold strides a laudable and increasing feeling of Nationality, aided by our open intercourse with other parts of the world, which possess Letters in a very high state of cultivation, has tended to stimulate them beyond their usual natural growth. An increased introduction of European Continental Works has taken place, and from them we have learned that England is not in advance of all the World, in all things. From this important fact, the Savans of America may learn a useful hint. Let them study the progress of Science on the Continent; note where and how it is in advance of England, and therein prosecute it, that they may be able to send even more new discoveries than they have done, to those who ask, "who reads an As we are so young and have so much to do at American Book?" We do not mean, that they home, we might have been contented to wait many should merely adopt and translate the discoveries years, and have left these grand movements to older and improvements of the Continent, and send them nations. And these older nations, appreciating our forth as native productions. Far from it. The peculiar condition and circumstances, might justly independence and activity of our native mind, and have given us credit for the little we were doing, our national pride would not brook this. But a in lines that sprang necessarily from our situation, hint to genius leads often to stupendous results; rather than have measured us by an exaggerated and drawing materials from the Continent, it and inapplicable standard, and proclaimed us want- will reproduce and extend them, and make them ing. Literature and Science are of slow growth, its own. and depend, no less than merchandise, upon a prin

Whatever we may reproduce from English sourciple of supply and demand;-a demand not pro- ces, going back to them in their own language, is duced by trafficking in them, but by the wants at once reclaimed, or underrated. What we reand progress of Society, and the improving tastes produce from Continental sources, coming through and desires of advancing civilization. Any one, a foreign language, which in itself introduces a taking a philosophical view of the History of Arts new element of knowledge, will become more our and Sciences, all the world over, with the circum- own and redound more to the honor of the Science stances requisite for their origin and perfection, of our Country.

will see that in America they have had a prema- We do not wish to be misunderstood, as giving ture birth, and yet possess a full-born health and any countenance to the idea, that our purloinings vigor. Place any number of individuals, though may not be so readily detected, when they have possessed of high intellects, in any old country, to be traced through a foreign language. We only

advocate a close attention to the Scientific move-, lectures, going around reading the cartouches and ments on the Continent, wherever they are in the describing the various scenes and inscriptions. van, with a view to a genuine, bona fide reproduc- Having had occasion to name Mr. Haight, we tion of materials thence derived, and the extension can not forbear to pay a merited tribute, to the libeof enquiries there going on, together with the prose-ral encouragement he affords the cause of science, cution of new ones, suggested by the most recent and its friends. To him, Mr. Gliddon dedicates information that can be obtained. Steam, the press his "Chapters," as 66 a gratifying duty to a gentleand the diffusive spirit of the age, have made Savans man who, by the deep interest he takes in Egypthe citizens of every country. They are soon in pos- tian subjects, has been induced to render manisession of every new movement, or discovery; they fold and indispensable assistance to the Author." can accompany the enterprising traveller to every Before we ever met Mr. Gliddon, we had seen the quarter of the globe, and by the aid of his hints and following handsome acknowledgment, from the footprints, deduce conclusions undreamed of by him. Rev. Dr. Jarvis, author of a very learned "ChronoThus, Morton stretched forth his wand to Egypt, logical Introduction to the History of the Church," opened her mausolea, and made the dumb skulls tell recently published. In returning thanks for the who and whence they were. Thus, Du Ponceau was favors and assistance he had received, at home enabled to put forth" new and original views of the and abroad, he says, "But there is one to whose Chinese written language;" and to give to Euro- open hand and generous heart, an especial tribute peans "the first publication they ever had of a co- is due. Others can bear like testimony for most pious vocabulary of the kindred language of Cochin efficient and vigorous assistance; and indeed there China."* These were no servile imitators, nor is no one, and especially no American, whose larobbers under the disguise of foreign languages; bors tend to promote the cause of learning and and such is the use our Savans should make of science, and who has come within the reach of his materials derived from the continent, together influence, who will not join with the author in this with any that they may be able to procure di- tribute of heartfelt gratitude to Mr. R. K. Haight, rectly from original sources. of New York."

Dr. Morton also says,

A great movement seems to be now making in Europe in reference to the Countries of the East, by Commerce, Politics, Religion and Science. unrestricted use of the first copy of Rosellini's "I have great pleasure in stating, that for the Egypt is exhumed ; China has opened her celestial splendid work which was brought to the United gates, and the Archeologists have seized eagerly upon her language and history; India is revealing her mysteries to French and German students, through the Sanscrit language; and so all the countries in the East are in the hands of learned investigation.

In all these, the Continent takes the lead, and though England has forced open the celestial gates, she has no Chinese scholar who can compare with the celebrated Pauthier. And notwithstanding her large gallery of Egyptian Antiquities, including the "Rosetta Stone" itself, for decyphering which, she would place Dr. Young over the great Champollion, yet as late as the 15th of September, 1844, neither of her great Universities, Oxford nor Cambridge, possessed a copy of Rosellini's magnificent work. Before that time, Mr. R. K. Haight of New York, had imported a copy for his own use, and we ourselves had had the pleasure of examining another, in the Library of Columbia College, South Caro

States, I am indebted to an accomplished traveller, Richard K. Haight, Esq., of New York; a gentleman, who devotes his leisure hours and opulent income to the promotion of archæological knowledge."

If any friend of learning needs any work to assist him in his researches, Mr. Haight imports it however costly, and places it at his disposal. His library comprises many works, which could be published only by the aid of foreign governments. Such an example of munificence and correct application of the bounties of providence, shall never pass us unnoticed, that he who sets it may receive his due reward of grateful praise, and others be encouraged to imitate him. Mr. Haight is a member of several Foreign learned societies, and is now abroad, preparing for future literary labors. His lady is the authoress of a work entitled "Letters from Egypt, Turkey, Palestine, etc., by a lady of New York."

lina. It is highly probable that many a young To return. We have already remarked that American, with the aid of Gliddon's " Chapters" and lectures, could make more intelligent use of the British Gallery, than thousands of those who have had access to it, all their lives. We have heard an amusing anecdote of the surprise created in the gallery of Egyptian Antiquities in London, by a young Bostonian, who had attended Mr. Gliddon's

* Pickering's Address, p. 43.

England is behind the Continent, in Archæological Science and Oriental learning, and is indebted to her solitary stars, such as Prichard and Birch, for whatever of radiance and splendor, she derives from such subjects. Her own Savans admit her deficiency, and lament the little encouragement and sympathy with which they meet. Of this fact, Mr. Pickering gives striking proofs in his learned and instructive Address. But the eagerness with

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