Unseemly ornament and fitted ill

To the simplicity of heroic times;

Yet even thro' all these shadowings, every eye,
That hath a natural sense, can see the brightness
And beauty, Time can never dim or fade.'

There are still, however, many, to whom these eternal laws of truth are unknown. Our poet proceeds, therefore, to draw a picture of the select few, who have retired from the vulgar herd to indulge the aspirations of their higher powers, in the solitudes of nature, and in communion with her forms. There is great beauty in the more than usual simplicity, with which these sentimental anchorites are described.

In their endeavor.

'They were alone

None to cheer them nigh;
None to speak favorable words of praise.
They charmed their solitude with lofty verse,
And made their hours of exile bright with song.
They had no comforter, and asked for none;
No help, for none they needed. Loneliness
Was their best good; it left them to themselves,
Kept out all vain intrusion, and around them
Spread silently an atmosphere of thought,
A sabbath of devotion, such as never
Hallowed the twilight vaults of ancient minster,
Or filled with many prayers the hermit's cave.
It was the deep devotion of the mind
In all its powers, sending itself abroad
In search of every fair and blessed thing,
And with a winning charm enticing home
All to itself. They came at its command,
Trooping like summer clouds, when the wide air
Is thick with them, and every one is touched
By the full moon to a transparent brightness,
Like heaps of orient pearl. The kindled eye
Ran over them, as lightning sends its flash
Instant through all the billows of the storm,
And took the fairest, and at once they stood
In meet array, as if a temple rose,

Graced with the purest lines of Grecian art,
At the sweet touch of an Apollo's lyre.'

The train of thought in the succeeding passages is not easily traced, until we come to the difficulties, oppositions, wrongs, outrages, against which poets have always been condemned

to struggle, illustrated in the instances of Milton, Dante, Spenser, and Tasso. After this, the scene suddenly changes; and we find ourselves, we do not know how or why, out among the works of nature, surveying the sublime sky, and admiring the beautiful things of earth. The only purpose of this unexpected transmigration, as far as can be discovered, is to create a commodious introduction to a vision, which the poet had a few nights previous, when contemplating such a scene as he describes; which vision, however, though a natural way is thus forcibly opened for it, seems to have no actual relationship with the subject in hand, and can be admitted only on the ground, upon which Cicero claimed the citizenship for Archias, that good poetry has a claim everywhere. And truly we are willing to read verse like this, wherever we may find it. He speaks of poetry.

เ

Though it find much on earth
Suited to its high purpose, yet the sky
Is its peculiar home, and most of all,
When it is shadowed by a shifting veil
Of clouds, like to the curtain of a stage,
Beautiful in itself, and yet concealing
A more exalted beauty. Shapes of air,
Born of the woods and waters, but sublimed
Unto a loftier Being! Ye alone

Are in perpetual change. All other things.
Seem to have times of rest, but ye are passing
With an unwearied flow to newer shapes
Grotesque and wild. Ye too have ever been
The Poet's treasure-house, where he has gathered

A store of metaphors, to deck withal

Gentle or mighty themes. I then may dare
To call ye from your dwellings, and compel ye
To stoop and listen. Who that ever looked
Delighted on the full magnificence

Of a stored Heaven, when all the painted lights
Of morning and of evening are abroad;

Or watched the moon dispensing to the wreaths,
That round her roll, tinctures of pearl and opal-
Who would not pardon me this invocation
To things like clouds?'

There are a great many things in the poem, which need an apology more than this invocation. It has a sadly prosaic effect to come down thus from a high flight.

His vision is of a bright and glorious mountain, on whose top is a throne, upon which sit three persons, who seem to personify three classes of the intellectual operations. This is the Seat of Intellect.' As he gazes upon this-which he does throughout nineteen breathless lines, till we are out of breath ourselves, and are extremely puzzled to know what it is like, it is like so many things, and they are like so many others—

'then as I gazed,

A most majestic sea of rolling clouds

Seemed to surround that throne, and it advanced,
And gradually took form, and I beheld,

Each on his shadowy car, spirits, who told,

By their commanding attitudes, that they
Were wont to rule.'

These spirits were those of distinguished poets, who were disposed in three spheres, according to the three characteristic departments of genius, or the eminence which they had obtained. The highest sphere was occupied by Homer, Milton, Shakspeare, and another poet, whom we should suppose a living one, from the description, were it allowable for him to appear among the spirits of the departed. But the names are not given, and there is such a want of distinctness in the description, that we are fairly put to our guesses, and may have guessed wrong. In the sphere beneath them there were many;' of whom he describes two, but here again with such indistinctness, that we are not quite positive that the first is Virgil; it may be some one else. We do not doubt that the second is Spenser. The lower sphere contained the bards of fierce and wild passion, 'such spirits as have made the world turn pale.' Among them are described certain shadowy forms, which we take to be those of Eschylus, Byron, and Dante. The first is characterized in a strong expression.

He found his pleasure

In planting daggers in the naked heart,
And one by one drawing them out again,
To count the beaded drops, and slowly tell
Each agonizing throb.'

These spectres having past in review before the dreamer, Dante rises from his seat, and invites him, if so inclined, to join the labors and honors of this high fraternity, encouraging him

thereto by a dark picture of the ills he must endure, and the scorn he must encounter, especially in America. What he thought of the old Italian's communications, Mr Percival does not tell us; for here his poem abruptly closes, without even informing us, as is usual in such cases, whether he has ever awaked from his dream. We hope that he has not; for we should be sorry to impute to him in his waking hours, the sentiments which he has put into the mouth of Dante. They might be suited to the times in which that bard flourished, but are certainly out of date in the nineteenth century. For example 'If thy heart

Again.

Feel aught of longing to be one of us,

Be cautious and considerate, ere thou take
The last resolve. If thou canst bear alone
Penury and all its evils, and yet worse
Malevolence, and all its foulmouthed brood
Of slanderers, and if thou canst brook the scorn
And insolence of wealth, the pride of power,
The falsehood of the envious, and the coldness
Of an ungrateful country-then go on

And conquer. Long and arduous is the way
To climb the heights we hold, and thou must bide
Many a pitiless storm, and nerve thyself

To many a painful struggle.'

'Let it not depress thee,

That few will bid thee welcome on thy way,
For 'tis the common lot of all, who choose
The higher path, and with a generous pride
Scorn to consult the popular ear. This land
Is freedom's chosen seat, and all may here
Live in content and bodily comfort, yet
"Tis not the nourishing soil of higher arts,
And loftier wisdom. Wherefore else should He,
Who, had he lived in Leo's brighter age,
Might have commanded princes by the touch
Of a magician's wand, for such it is

That gives a living semblance to a sheet

Of pictured canvass-wherefore should he waste
His precious time in painting valentines,
Or idle shepherds sitting on a bank
Beside a glassy pool, and worst of all
Bringing conceptions, only not divine,

To the scant compass of a parlor piece-
And this to furnish out his daily store,
While he is toiling at the mighty task,
To which he has devoted all his soul

And all his riper years-which, when it comes
To the broad light, shall vindicate his fame
*In front of every foe, and send to ages

His name and power-else wherefore lives he not
Rich in the generous gifts of a glad people,
As he is rich in thought? There is no feeling
Above the common wants and common pleasures
Of calm contented life. So be assured,
If thou hast chosen our companionship,
Thou shalt have solitude enough to please
A hermit, and thy cell may show like his,'

Perhaps it will prove us to have a very prosaic temperament, if we take up these passages seriously; but we must run the risk of this, and say that we hold them to be altogether wrong and mischievous. It is mere cant to talk in this style about the miseries of poets at the present day. They are under no necessity to be miserable, more than other men of genius, except through their own fault. The world, instead of scorning, courts them; instead of slandering, honors them; and if they will but write good verse, suitable to be read, will buy it till they become rich. How far the proverb anciently applied to poets, that they are a genus irritabile, is true in these days, we shall not attempt to decide; but if they choose to be reserved and suspicious, to reject the proffered courtesies of society, and shrink from converse with men, and stubbornly pursue their own fancies, without consulting the taste of the public and the established modes of their art, it is more than probable, that the world will cease to court them, and will leave them to themselves, as it does every other man, who chooses not to mix in its circles upon an equal footing. But this is not peculiar to poets; it applies to every person, whatever his talents, pursuits, or qualities. The courtesies of social intercourse are in their nature reciprocal, and it is vain to expect them long to be continued on one part, where they are neglected or disregarded on the other. No man of worth, poet or not, who seeks the notice and good offices of society, with a willingness to impart what he receives, will fail of his reward in full measure; and it is an unjust reflection on the age, to speak of the ill treatment of men of genius. The VOL. XXII.-No. 51.

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