The setting sun flings round his farewell rays;
O'er the broad ocean not a ripple plays.
How eloquent, how awful in its power,
The silent lecture of death's sabbath hour!
One voice that silence breaks-the prayer is said,
And the last rite man pays to man is paid;
The plashing waters mark his resting-place,
And fold him round in one long, cold embrace:
Bright bubbles for a moment sparkle o'er,
Then break, to be, like him, beheld no more;
Down, countless fathoms down, he sinks to sleep,
With all the nameless shapes that haunt the deep.'

None but a man of strong domestic and social atfections could have written thus. Of these affections there may be seen delightful evidence in "The Brothers," and the "Family Meeting;" also in his " Centennial Ode," and "Lines to a Young Mother."

(2.) CARLOS WILCOX, of New-Hampshire, deserves honorable mention. G. B. Cheever, one of the best prose writers in this country, remarks that "Wilcox resembled Cowper in many respects; in the gentleness and tenderness of his sensibilities-in the modest and retiring disposition of his mind-in its fine culture and its original poetica. casi, and not a little in the character of his poetry. It has been said with truth, that if he had given himself to poetry as his chief occupation, he might have been the Cowper of NewEngland.

SECTION V

(1.) WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, of Massachusetts, born in 1794. At ten years of age he began to write poetry for the press. When fourteen years old he published a volume of poems, which was so well received as to attain a second edition in the following year. The North American Review furnishes what seems to be a just criticism upon Bryant as a poet, a part of which is here subjoined. "His poetry has truth, delicacy, and correctness, as well as uncommon vigor and richness; he is always faithful to nature; he selects his groups and images with judgment. Nothing is borrowed, nothing artificial; his pictures have

an air of treshness and originality which could come from the student of nature alone. He is less the poet of artificial life than of nature and the feelings. There is something for the heart as well as for the understanding and fancy, in all he writes; something which touches our sensibility, and awakens deep-toned, sacred reflections."

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Again, he charms us by his simplicity. His pictures are never overcharged. His strains, moreover, are exquisitely finished. Besides, no sentiment or expression ever drops from him which the most rigid moralist would wish to blot."

We

"Thanatopsis" has been already referred to. forbear to quote it, merely because it has been so often copied, and may, perhaps, be familiar. But we hesitate not to say that the language of poetry presents not a sweeter page than that which is occupied with Mr Bryant's address to the "Evening Wind

TO THE EVENING WIND.

"SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day,
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,

Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,

Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee

To the scorch'd land, thou wanderer of the sea!"

"Nor I alone: a thousand bosoms round

Inhale thee in the fullness of delight;

And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound,
Lies the vast inland stretch'd beyond the sight.
Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth,
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth."

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,

Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest,

Summoning from the innumerable boughs

The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast.
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,

And 'twixt the o'ershadowing branches and the grass.

"The faint old man shall lean his silver head

To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,
And dry the moisten'd curls that overspread

His temples, while his breathing grows more deep;
And they who stand about the sick man's bed,
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,

And softly part his curtains to allow

Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow."

"Go-but the circle of eternal change,

'That is the life of Nature, shall restore,
With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more;
Sweet odors in the sea air, sweet and strange,
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore;
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem

He hears the rustling leaf and running stream."

We would be glad to quote Bryant's pieces on the "Death of the Flowers" and "Autumn Woods," but our prescribed limits forbid. We shall be obliged, also, to be more brief in the notices and quotations that follow, in respect to other authors, only adding the fine description given of Bryant, that "he is the translator of the silent language of Nature to the world,” and the remark that his poems are valuable, not only for their intrinsic excellence, but for the purifying influence their wide circulation is calculated to exercise on national feelings and manners.

(2.) FITZ-GREENE HALLECK, Connecticut, born 1795. He is author of the beautiful lines in memory of his friend Dr. Drake, the poet, beginning with

"Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days;
None knew thee but to love thee,
None named thee but to praise."

'Fanny,"
," "Alnwick Castle," "Marco Bozzaris," are
the best known of his productions. He is distinguish-
ed by a talent for satire. Says Bryant, "He delights
in ludicrous contrasts. He venerates the past and
laughs at the present. His poetry, whether serious
or sprightly, is remarkable for the melody of the num-
bers; it is not the melody of monotonous and strictly
regular measurement. He understands that the rivu-
let is made musical by obstructions in its channel."

The following sketch of the "Yankees" is taken from an unpublished poem, entitled Connecticut

"They love their land because it is their own,
And scorn to give aught other reason why,
Would shake hands with a king upon his throne,
And think it kindness to his majesty:

A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none.
Such are they nurtured, such they live and die,
All-but a few apostates, who are meddling

With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling,
Or wandering through southern countries, teaching
The A B C from Webster's Spelling-book:
Gallant and godly, making love and preaching,
And gaining, by what they call hook and crook,'
And what moralists call overreaching,

A decent living. The Virginians look

Upon them with as favorable eyes

As Gabriel on the devil in Paradise.

But these are but their outcasts. View them near
At home, where all their worth and pride are placed :
And there their hospitable fires burn clear,

And there the lowliest farm-house hearth is graced
With manly hearts, in piety sincere,

Faithful in love, in honor stern and chaste,

In friendship warm and true, in danger brave,
Beloved in life, and sainted in the grave."

SECTION V.

(1.) N. P.. WILLIS, Maine, born 1807. In the opin ion of Mr. Griswold, "the prose and poetry of Mr Willis are alike distinguished for exquisite finish and melody. His language is pure, varied, and rich; his imagination brilliant, and his wit of the finest quality Many of his descriptions of natural scenery are written pictures: and no other author has represented with equal vivacity and truth the manners of the age. His dramatic poems have been the most successful works of their kind produced in America. They exhibit a deep acquain ance with the common sympathies and passions, and are as remarkable as his other writings for affluence of language and imagery, and descriptive power. Willis is more than any other of our best writers the poet of the world, familiar with the secret springs of action in social life, and moved himself by

the same influences which guide his fellows. His pieces are various, presenting strong contrasts, and they are alike excellent;" but he has too generally employed his pen upon light and frivolous topics. His Scripture Sketches" and "Unwritten Philosophy" prove him capable of the loftiest and strongest efforts of genius. The following is an extract from his "Absalom :"

"King David's limbs were weary. He had fled
From far Jerusalem, and now he stood
With his faint people for a little rest
Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow
To its refreshing breath; for he had worn
The mourner's covering, and he had not felt
That he could see his people until now.
They gather'd round him on the fresh green bank,
And spoke their kindly words; and as the sur
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
And bow'd his head upon his hands to pray.
Oh! when the heart is full, when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor common words of courtesy
Are such a very mockery, how much

The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
He pray'd for Israel; and his voice went up
Strongly and fervently; he pray'd for those

Whose love had been his shield; and his deep tone
Grew tremulous; but oh! for Absalom!

For his estranged, misguided Absalom

The proud, bright being who had burst away,
In all his princely beauty, to defy

The heart that cherish'd him-for him he pour'd,
In agony that would not be controll'd,
Strong supplication, and forgave him there
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness."

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GIRL

"Tis difficult to feel that she is dead.
Her presence, like the shadow of a wing
That is just lessening in the upper sky,
Lingers upon us. We can hear her voice,

And for her step we listen, and the eye

Looks for her wonted coming with a strange,
Forgetful earnestness. We can not feel

That she will no more come-that from her cheek

The delicate flush has faded, *

*

*

*

and on her lip,

*