of nature, which we consider one of his striking charac and which constitutes one point of resemblance betw and Cowper. We add, it is his habit of minute and observation, which renders his pictures so purely. Ar His descriptions have a definite locality. They apply to can scenery, and to no other.

The 'Hymn' is a rich offering of the fancy and hear following are the introductory lines.

The groves were God's first temples. Ere man lear
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,
And spread the roof above them, ere he framed
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back
The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood,
Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down
And offered to the Mightiest, solemn thanks
And supplication. For his simple heart
Might not resist the sacred influences,
That, from the stilly twilight of the place,
And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound
Of the invisible breath that swayed at once
All their green tops, stole o'er him, and bowed
His spirit with the thought of boundless power
And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why
Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect
God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore
Only among the crowd, and under roofs
That our frail hands have raised. Let me, at least,
Here, in the shadow of this aged wood,
Offer one hymn-thrice happy, if it find
Acceptance in his ear. p. 43.

We assure our readers, that much of what Mr Bryan contributed to the present collection, is as good as that we here offered them. We will not undertake to point out pas of the greatest beauty. The true lover of poetry will be loss in discovering them.

Of Mr Percival, who, next to Mr Bryant, is the largest tributor, less needs be said here, as we have in the prece pages of our present number spoken somewhat at length con ing him. He has copiousness, we may say exuberance, of matter and words; a rich and excursive imagination, v delights to revel amid gorgeous and airy forms of beauty; often throws off lines of great vigor and sweetness. He happy moments of inspiration, and with more labor of revision, with greater willingness to reject what serves only to embarrass the sense, and more care in selecting from the wilderness of 'thick coming fancies' only what is adapted to his purpose, he might exert a magic influence over our hearts. His narratives are apt to be overloaded or perplexed. The consequence is, the attention is encumbered or distracted, and the impression weakened. His contributions to this volume, as well as his other works, bear the stamp of true genius, but show too frequent marks of carelessness in the execution.

After all, Mr Percival's poetry is of a fascinating character. Amid his negligent versification, his wildness and redundance, he has strains of surpassing beauty. The pieces he has contributed to the present collection bear the characteristic traits of his genius, though they are not chargeable with all the faults, which disfigure some of his larger productions. Several of them are lofty and beautiful creations.

The Graves of the Patriots, though not altogether faultless in expression, contains bursts of genuine and exalted feeling. The lines on 'Spring' are gay and airy, and the progress of the Zephyr fancifully described. The Desolate City' is fearfully impressive. Of the piece entitled, 'Painting-a Personification,' we give the opening and concluding parts.

One bright sunshiny autumn day,

When the leaves were just beginning to fade,
I saw a gay and laughing maid
Stand by the side of a public way.

There she stood erect and tall;
Her flowery cheek had caught the dyes
Of the earliest dawn-and O! her eyes,
Not a star that shoots or flies,

But those dark eyes outshine them all.
She stood with a long and slender wand,
With a tassel of hair at its pointed tip;
And fast as the dews from a forest drip,
When a summer shower has bathed the land,
So quick a thousand colors came,
Darting along like shapes of flame,
At every turn of her gliding hand.
She gave a form to the bodiless air,
And clear as a mirrored sheet it lay;

And phantoms would come and pass away,
As her magical rod was pointed there.

First, the shape of a budding rose,
Just unfolding its tender leaf;
Then, all unbound its virgin zone,
Full in its pride and beauty blown,
It heavily hangs like a nodding sheaf;
And a cloud of perfume around it flows.

Now for the touch of a master hand-
See! how she poises and waves her wand,
As if in a dream of busy thought
She sought for visions and found them not.
Now it risesand look-what power
Springs to life, as she lifts her rod-
Is it a hero, or visible god,
Or bard in his rapt and gifted hour ?
What a lofty and glorious brow,
Bent like a temple's towering arch,
As if that a wondering world might march
To the altar of mind, and kneel and bow;-
And then what a deep and spirited eye,
Quick as a quivering orb of fire,
Changing and shifting from love to ire,
Like the lights in a summer evening sky;-
Then the living and breathing grace
Sent from the whole of that magic face,
The eloquent play of his lips, the smile
Sporting in sunbeams there awhile,
Then with the throb of passion pressed
Like a shivering leaf that cannot rest,-
And still as a lake when it waits a storm,
That wraps the mountain's giant form,
When they lie in the shade of his awful frown,
And his gathered brows are wrinkled down.
Such the visions that breathe and live,
The playful touch of her wand can give.

pp. 116, 117, 12

The beauty of the above extract is marred by occ slovenliness of execution. We refer particularly to the d tion of the changing expression of the lips, in the last ei ten lines, which is clumsy and perplexed.

Among Mr Percival's other pieces, 'The Last Song Greek Patriot,' and 'Grecian Liberty,' breathe a stern feeling of patriotism, and contain much spirited and glowing description. 'Italy, a Conference,' has some passages of great luxuriance and beauty. But we can afford no more extracts.

Among the contributions furnished to this volume by others, there is much good poetry, and we are gratified with their appearance, not merely as they serve to swell our stock of native poetry, but as they hold out the promise of better things hereafter. There is, in particular, a good deal of poetical feeling and imagery in the pieces contributed by Mr Longfellow. He is generally flowing, manly, and correct; but he occasionally allows a feeble line, or negligent expression, to have place. We do not think that the two lines,

Why comes he not? Alas! I should
Reclaim him still, if weeping could,' p. 114.

are in the best style of versification. The auxiliaries should and could, employed as rhyming words, give the couplet an appearance of poverty and feebleness. We could point to other occasional blemishes, but these weigh little in comparison with the author's prevailing merits. The following stanzas purporting to have been a Hymn of the Moravian Nuns, at the Consecration of Pulaski's Banner,' have been much and justly admired.

When the dying flame of day
Through the chancel shot it ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowled head,
And the censer burning swung,
Where before the altar hung
That proud banner, which with prayer
Had been consecrated there.

And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while,
Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle.

Take thy banner!-may it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave,
When the battle's distant wail
Breaks the sabbath of our vale,-
When the clarion's music thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills,-
When the spear in conflict shakes,
And the strong lance shivering breaks.
Take thy banner !-and beneath
The war cloud's encircling wreath,

Guard it-till our homes are free--
Guard it-God will prosper thee !
In the dark and trying hour,
In the breaking forth of power,
In the rush of steeds and men,
His right hand will shield thee then.
Take thy banner! But when night
Closes round the ghastly fight,
If the vanquished warrior bow,
Spare him!-by our holy vow,
By our prayers and many tears,
By the mercy that endears,
Spare him-he our love hath shared-
Spare him as thou wouldst be spared!
Take thy banner !---and if e'er
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,
And the muffled drum should beat
To the tread of mournful feet,
Then this crimson flag shall be
Martial cloak and shroud for thee!

And the warrior took that banner proud,

And it was his martial cloak and shroud. pp. 58-6

Mr Jones's versification is generally easy and correct, his conceptions sprightly, and sometimes vigorous, His tumnal Hymn of the Husbandman' is characterized by g simplicity of language. Much plainness, and perhaps occasi homeliness of thought and expression, are permitted or requ by the subject. We think, however, that in his attempt to tain the utmost degree of simplicity, this writer has been o sionally betrayed into the use of expressions, which good would modify or reject. As a specimen of Mr Jones's mar we quote the hymn entire.

Now we rest from our toils, Lord, our labors are done,
Our meadows are bared to the kiss of the sun;
We have winnowed the wheat, - well our toil it repays,
And our oxen have eaten the husks of the maize.

We gathered our harvests; with strength in each limb
Toiled the mower; the ripe grass bowed prostrate to him
And the reaper, as nimbly he felled the proud grain,
Was blither than those who wear sceptres and reign.
And the wheat blade was tall, and the full, golden ear
Proclaimed that the months of rejoicing were near;