Turns into beauty all October's charms

When the dread fever quits us-when the storms
Of the wild Equinox, with all its wet,

Has left the land, as the first deluge left it,
With a bright bow of many colors hung
Upon the forest tops-he had not sigh'd.

The moon stays longest for the hunter now;
The trees cast down their fruitage, and the blithe
And busy squirrel hoards his winter store;
While man enjoys the breeze that sweeps along
The bright blue sky above him, and that bends
Magnificently all the forest's pride,

Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks,

What is there saddening in the autumn leaves?""

(2.) H. W. LONGFELLOW-Maine. The North American Review for 1844, among other remarks, furnishes the following, upon his poems. His great characteristic is that of addressing the moral nature though the imagination, of linking moral truth to intellectual beauty. The best literary artist is he who accommodates his diction to his subject. In this Longfellow is an artist. By learning "to labor and to wait," by steadily brooding ove the chaos in which thought and emotion first appear to the mind, and giving shape and life to both before uttering them in words, he has obtained a singular mastery over expression. By this we do not mean that he has a large command of language. No fallacy is greater than that which confounds fluency with expression. Washerwomen, and boys at debating clubs, often display more fluency than Webster; but his words are to theirs as the rolling thunder to the patter of rain. Felicity, not fluency of language, is a merit.

Longfellow has a perfect command of that expression which results from restraining rather than cultivating fluency, and his manner is adapted to his theme. His words are often pictures of his thought. He selects with great delicacy and precision the exact phrase which best expresses or suggests his idea. He colors his style with the skill of a painter. In that higher department of his art, that of so combining his words and images that they make music to the soul as well as to the ear, and convey not only his feelings and thoughts, but also the very tone and condition of the soul in which they have being, he likewise excels. In "Maidenhood" and "Endymion," this power is admirably displayed. In one of his best poems, "The Skeleton in Arnor," he manages a difficult verse with great skill.

His felicity in addressing the moral nature of man may be discovered in the following lines:

"Lives of great men all remind us,
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time.
Footprints that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again."

This is very different from merely saying that, if we follow the example of the great and good, we shall live a noble life, and that the record of our deeds and struggles will strengthen the breasts of those who come after us, to do and to suffer.

Longfellow's verse occupies a position half way between the poetry of actual life and the poetry of transcendentalism. Like all neutrals, he is liable to attack from the zealots of both parties; but it seems to us that he has hit the exact point, beyond which no poet can at present go, without being neglected or ridiculed. An air of repose, of quiet power, is around his compositions. In "The Spanish Student," the affluence of his imagination in images of grace, grandeur, and beauty, is most strikingly manifested.

SECTION IX.

JOHN G. WHITTIER (says the North American Review) is one of our most characteristic poets. Few excel him in warmth of temperament. There is a rush of passion in his verse, which sweeps every thing along with it. His fancy and imagination can hardly keep pace with their fiery companion. His vehement sensibility will not allow the inven tive faculties to complete what they may have commenced The stormy qualities of his mind, acting at the suggestions of conscience, produce a kind of military morality, which uses all the deadly arms of verbal warfare. His invective is merciless and undistinguishing; he almost screams with rage and indignation. Of late, he has somewhat pruned the rank luxuriance of his style. He has the soul of a great poet, and we should not be surprised if he attained the height of excellence in his art.

SECTION X.

ALFRED B. STREET, of Albany, editor of the Northern Light, is well entitled to a place among American poets, as will be apparent from his description of the Gray Forest Eagle.

THE GRAY FOREST EAGLE.

With storm-daring pinion and sun-gazing eye,
The Gray Forest Eagle is king of the sky!
Oh! little he loves the green valley of flowers,

Where sunshine and song cheer the bright summer hours,
For he hears in those haunts only music, and sees
But rippling of waters and waving of trees;
There the red-robin warbles, the honey-bee hums,
The timid quail whistles, the shy partridge drums;
And if those proud pinions, perchance, sweep along,
There's a shrouding of plumage, a hushing of song;
The sunlight falls stilly on leaf and on moss,
And there's naught but his shadow black gliding across;
But the dark, gloomy gorge, where down plunges the foam
Of the fierce rock-lash'd torrent, he claims as his home;
There he blends his keen shriek with the roar of the flood,
And the many-voiced sounds of the blast-smitten wood;
From the fir's lofty summit, where morn hangs its wreath,
He views the mad waters white writhing beneath :
On a limb of that moss-bearded hemlock far down,
With bright azure mantle and gay mottled crown,
The kingfisher watches, while o'er him his foe,
The fierce hawk, sails circling, each moment more low;
Now poised are those pinions and pointed that beak,
His dread swoop is ready, when hark! with a shriek
His eyeballs red blazing, high bristling his crest,
His snake-like neck arch'd, talons drawn to his breast,
With the rush of the wind-gust, the glancing of light,
The Gray Forest Eagle shoots down in his flight;
One blow of those talons, one plunge of that neck,
The strong hawk hangs lifeless, a blood-dripping wreck;
And as dives the free kingfisher, dart-like on high
With his prey soars the eagle, and melts in the sky.

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The advanced age to which the eagle is supposed to attain is thus beautifully described:

Time whirls round his circle, his years roll away,
But the Gray Forest Eagle minds little his sway:

The child spurns its buds for youth's thorn-hidden bloom,
Seeks manhood's bright phantoms, finds age and a temb

But the eagle's eye dims not, his wing is unbow'd,
Still drinks he the sunshine, still sca es he the cloud.
The green tiny pine shrub points up from the moss,
The wren's foot would cover it, tripping across;
The beechnut down dropping would crush it beneath,

But 'tis warm'd with heaven's sunshine and fann'd by its breath
The seasons fly past it, its head is on high,

Its thick branches challenge each mood of the sky;
On its rough bark the moss a green mantle creates,
And the deer from his antlers the velvet down grates:
Time withers its roots, it lifts sadly in air

A trunk dry and wasted, a top jagged and bare,
Till it rocks in the soft breeze, and crashes to earth,
Its brown fragments strewing the place of its birth.
The eagle has seen it up-struggling to sight,
He has seen it defying the storm in its might,

Then prostrate, soil-blended, with plants sprouting o'er,
But the Gray Forest Eagle is still as of yore.
His flaming eye dims not, his wing is unbow'd,
Still drinks he the sunshine, still scales he the cloud'
He has seen from his. eyrie the forest below,

In bud and in leaf, robed with crimson and snow,
The thickets, deep wolf-lairs, the high crag his throne,
And the shriek of the panther has answer'd his own.
He has seen the wild red man the lord of the shades,
And the smoke of his wigwams curl'd thick in the glades,
He has seen the proud forest melt breath-like away,
And the breast of the earth lying bare to the day:
He sees the green meadow-grass hiding the lair,
And his crag-throne spread naked to sun and to air;
And his shriek is now answer'd, while sweeping along,
By the low of the herd and the husbandman's song;
He has seen the wild red man swept off by his foes,

And he sees dome and roof where those smokes once arose;
But his flaming eye dims not, his wing is unbow'd,
Still drinks he the sunshine, still scales he the cloud!
An emblem of Freedom, stern, haughty, and high,
Is the Gray Forest Eagle, that king of the sky!

It scorns the bright scenes, the gay places of earth-
By the mountain and torrent it springs into birth;
There, rock'd by the whirlwind, baptized in the foam,
It's guarded and cherish'd, and there is its home'

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SECTION XI.

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E. W. B. CANNING, of Stockbridge, Massachusetts has not yet published a volume of poems, but has furnished many valuable contributions to American Doetry, in the weekly periodicals of our state, giving

promise of future productions of rare excellence. The following lines form part of a poem published in the New-York Tribune of August 8th, 1844. The subject is

AHAB.-2 Chronicles, xviii.

A day of splendor dawneth on thy towers,
Princely Samaria! From dome to dome
Leaps the bright flush that heraldeth the sun'
Thy walls, whose frowning battlements are stern
From time and war; thy skyey turrets' tops;
Thy palaces, the pride of Israel

And royal Ahab, and thy massy gates,

Whose lofty fronts are wrought with storied brass,
All lift a pompous welcome to the morn.

The sun of Palestine is still below

The unwaked mountains, yet the gorgeous East
Lighteth the curtains of her glory up

With majesty unutterable. See!

The emulous landscape, from the far-seen vale
Of Jordan on to Lebanon, lifts up

Its thousand hills to catch the golden hues
Of heaven-born beauty as they glow beyond!
There is a murmur as of breaking rest
In the proud capital, and straggling forms
Infrequent pace the ramparts—it may be
Of drowsy sentinels alert again,

As the throng stirs below them, or attempts
Th' unopen'd portals.

Hark! a brazen voice
Swells from the valley, like the clarion

That calls to battle. Skirting all the hills,

Speeds the blithe tone, and wakes an answer up
In rock and forest, till the vale hath talk'd
With all its tongues, and in the fastnesses
Of the far dingle, faint and fainter heard,
Dies the last sullen echo. 'Tis the trump
That breaks the bivouac of an untold host-
Thy warrior sons, O Israel! Lo! their tents
Whiten the green declivities that gird
The royal city; and the gray of dawn
Blends the vast group into a boundless field
Of snowy canvas. Summoning the brave,
A voice hath pass'd from Dan to Beersheba;
The pride of Palestine hath heard-the prince,
The valiant and the mighty, youth and strength,
And veteran age, have burnish'd shield and spear,
And buckled on their armor at the call!

For AHAB warreth-the uncircumcised

Have scoff'd the high-soul'd Hebrew-e'en the bless'd