the stage-the gentlemen of the "sock and buskin," are the best judges of that. We speak of it as a work for the closet exclusively, and we are altogether deceived, if it does not afford an hour or two's most agreeable reading. Of one thing we feel strongly assured, without absolutely knowing the fact, that the author has revealed in the performance itself, the possession of higher capabilities than those he has thought proper to exert. He states in his preface, that it was the composition of "a few leisure hours,”—and, if so, we are confident if he would repeat the effort, and bestow "many" leisure hours upon a new work, he would be amply rewarded for his labor—in the public approbation. We intended to have made some quotations from the book, as specimens of the style-but forbear doing so, on reflection,—because, of all descriptions of writing, the Drama is best judged of as a whole; and least appreciated, if its parts be separately considered. In the execution of his task, the author has faithfully observed the dramatic unities as they are called, of time, place and action. His female characters appear to us to be well sustained; and we were almost as much interested in the bustling, scolding, maternally-affectionate Mrs. Roundtree, as in her sprightly yet sentimental daughter, or, in the noble, high-souled Miss Worthington. Such characters as General Fairweather and Major Roundtree, are often seen in society. We do not say that their portraits have been drawn from actual originals—but we think, that no intelligent reader could study them, without perceiving a strong resemblance to living models. It is probable, that in sketching Supine, the author had Dr. Pangloss in his mind's eye, but we well remember to have seen some pedantic schoolmasters in our own country, very much like him. Upon the whole, we hope the author will pluck up liteary courage, if indeed he lacks it, and delight the public again with some kindred display of his powers. In conclusion-we take the liberty of remarking, with some reluctance and delicacy, that we hope no one will be so uncharitable, as to suppose that the foregoing brief notice of a new native literary work, has been, in any respect, biassed or influenced by the accidental circumstance, that the pamphlet itself issues from our press. When we are mean enough to sacrifice the free and independent expression of our sentiments-it shall be for something,-but not for the contemptible consideration of a very small job-which might have been done elsewhere, and which, no matter where done, should have received the same notice at our hands. As printer and editor, we stand altogether upon different grounds. CEREMONY, EXPERIENCE AND LIFE. Ceremony is the language of respect and the rule is 'De non existentibus et non apparentibus eadem est ratio;' respect which is not expressed is thought not to exist. Experience teaches us that a certain degree of ceremony and etiquette is to be kept up, even between near relatives and intimate friends. Life is a tasselated pavement-dovetailed mosaichere black acre and there white acre,-clouds to-day, sunshine to-morrow ;-it is a series of lessons. Petersburg, Va. C. C. TO THE AMARANTH. BY MRS. SEBA SMITH. Thou art not of earth, thou beautiful thing, A drop of that living dew That nourished thee, when earth was young, Thou art not of earth: no change is thine- Thou art not of earth: thou changest not I deem that Eve, when in sorrow forced "MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN."* [Selected.] Oh! man is like the leaves of spring Like them, youth's passing flowers delight The fates grim-low'ring near him stand, Short lived the fruit.of lusty youth! And when youth's gladsome hours have fled, Oh! many, many are the woes One longs for children :-childless still 'Mid heart-corroding, fell disease, Oh! lives not one whom angry Heaven • Burns. PUBLISHED MONTHLY AT FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM-THOMAS W. WHITE, EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR. VOL. V. RICHMOND, SEPTEMBER, 1839. EDIPUS AT COLONOS. FROM THE CHORAL PIECE OF SOPHOCLES. Thou hast come to the land of the steed! To Colonos, the silvery drest! Hath moved its dark leaves to the gale ;. No. IX. RECENT AMERICAN POETRY.* Thirty years ago, it was an easy task, in our country, to make a poetical reputation. A few metrical compositions, thrown together into a thin mis-shapen volume, were quite sufficient to form a halo, or weave a garland, for the brows of any infatuated young person, who, like Gray's 'moping owl,' took solitary satisfaction in complaining to the moon. In those days there was a plentiful lack of the vision and the faculty divine;' and when, occasionally, it chanced to shine upon the upturned, wondering eyes of mortals, they almost looked Where the sun never shone thro' the groves of the God; to behold the dispenser of fanciful splendors, Nor star shot a wandering beam; Where Bacchus still roves through the blissful abode, Thou hast come where the Narcis, each day, That crowned the fair goddess of old; Thou hast come to the clime where the muse Thou hast come where there groweth a tree, Or the land of the east, hath been sung; 'Tis the fear of our foes,—and shall be Forever the nurse of our young! 'Tis the azure-leaved fountain of oil, Our land is the queen of the sea! Our land is the land of the steed! And such 'tis our glory to be, To the god who gave all, be the meed! For the boast of our song, and our lyre! Highlands of the Hudson, July, 1839. Bestride the lazy-pacing clouds, And sail upon the bosom of the air. To the fact we assert, bear witness the names of many who, never having perpetrated verses enough to eke out a volume, were destined to an immortality of preservation in the amber of Mr. Samuel Kettell's 'Specimens of American Poetry.' Were it not for the existence and assistance of that illustrious compendium, we have some doubt whether we should ever have been aware of the brilliant sparkles which those meteors emitted in their time. Even under the supposition that their glories had burst through the obscurity of our researches, we should hardly have deemed them fixed stars in the firmament of fame, had they not so appeared to the telescopic observation of Mr. Kettell. We have before us a work entitled "The Ruins of Athens; Titania's Banquet, a mask; and other Poems ;" of which we intended to publish a review. But the above article, from the Democratic Review, having fallen under our eye, containing a notice of Mr. Hill's volume, among others, we have concluded to substitute it for the intended review. We do not say that we are prepared to adopt all the opinions of the writer set forth in the above. There will be a difference of opinion, perhaps, among our readers-which will be decided by each individual agreeably to his own taste-as to whether Mr. Bryant is entitled to the topmost seat among our American poets. Of this we are certain, that his Thanatopsis and his Lines to the Evening Wind, are powerful claims to that high honor. We say high honor, for, although, as the reviewer well remarks, "thirty years ago it was an easy task in our country, to make a poetical reputation," and the chief of such poets, then, would, perhaps, now be harping his measures to the dull waters of Lethe-still, at the present day, he who wins the palm must indeed be one of whose work it can be said, that "from the library of English poets it would be difficult to select a more freshly pleasing volume." There are lyres of glorious tone strung all along on the heights of our Parnassus, and twined with wreaths wet with the dews of Helicon, and he who touches the most cunning chord of all, must use a master-hand and draw out all the sweetest music of his instrument. We are gratified to find that Halleck and Sprague are placed so high in the list. But we ask, where is the name of him who wrote the "Coral Grove?" Where is the name of "Percival?" We do not see it among the number. Surely, when our choicest spirits are mentioned he deserves a place? We have already inflicted quite an article upon the reader in the form of a note, and we hasten, therefore, to relieve him of our "talk," by urging him to partake of the banquet culled for him among the rich dainties of the Democratic Review. [Editor So. Lit. Messenger. This gentleman has generously provided us with the proof of a fact which is strikingly evident, we shall names of some hundreds of American poets, and of not undertake to adduce the testimony which is so each one in particular has framed a brief biographical abundantly afforded by many of his long-published notice, which must be extremely consoling to the friends of the departed. Should this resurrectionist of the dry and crumbling remains of defunct poetasters, philanthropically set himself to digging at this day, he would find a hundred subjects where he found one before, all fitted to adorn his museum of decayed specimens. pieces. We have examined this testimony again and again, and always with increased delight. It is rich and copious. From the library of English poets it would be difficult to select a more freshly pleasing volume than Mr. Bryant's. It administers welcome nurture to the contemplative mind. It contains but little to excite the joyous and merry-hearted to louder mirth, but much to soothe and soften the elated spirit into a quietude that more nearly approaches true hap piness. Thanatopsis' is not so sublime as 'Coleridge's Hymn in the Valley of Chamouni,' but its effect on the not so perfect a production as the 'Elegy in a Country Church Yard,' but its strains Eolian sweep through the mind with a power equally subduing, for it breathes the same sad, sweet music of humanity.' Its concluding lines fall upon the ear as if uttered by some warning angel. We fear that we have fallen into a little metaphorical confusion, in expatiating on the labors of Mr. Kettell; but it cannot be greater than that of his 'poets.' If the appellation of poets' were awarded to most of the metre-ballad-mongers, whose twattle has been thus re-imagination of the reader is scarcely less grand. It is suscitated, we are right in the asseveration that the bays of poetic renown must, at no very distant period, have been of facile attainment. At present, it is a task of some magnitude, and we assert this in the face of any merely fictitious reputation which some selfdeceiving rhymer may fancy that he enjoys. Your mere poetaster now is not distinguished from the herd of common men; no one turns to mark his abstracted air, or the fine phrenzy of his rolling eye; he may write i 'till his ink be dry,' and unless he can excel most of the 'specimens,' he must confine his wild love of fame' to the perusers of the journal, through which his sentimental slip-slop is drizzled on to the public. And why is this? What has wrought this change in the public estimation of verse-making and verse-makers? We reply, unhesitatingly, the large quantity of excellent poetry, really, intrinsically excellent, which has been published within these last thirty years. “So live, that when thy summons comes to join Next, scarcely inferior to this, comes the 'Hymn to the Evening Wind.' Either would of itself be enough to stamp its author as a man of high poetical genius. These two, and the 'Song of Marion's Men,' are as It is by no means our intention to attempt, within the judicious boundaries prescribed to a paper in a Demo-common and as popular in the United States as many cratic Review, (where many voices may claim audience) of the oldest lyrics of the British bards. an investigation or exposition of all the good verses which have appeared within the specified period of time. Far from it. We propose simply to set down "A chosen tally of that singular few, 6 Who, gifted with predominating powers," have worthily achieved, and are worthy to bear, the name and fame of poets.' Besides these, we shall confine our remarks to the few authors whose books have been published so lately as to authorize their selection as texts to a cursory dissertation on recent American poetry. We would state fairly in the outset, that we are about to express our own honest opinions, not those of the public; and the reason that we consider these opinions worthy to be expressed is, because they are formed not hastily or with prejudice, but reflectingly and with judgment. We shall not draw rein upon our pen, but let it race freely and merrily over the whole course; thus shall we the more speedily attain the goal, and be watched with more excited gratification by our goodly crowd of spectators. Some of our notions will be found to agree wonderfully well with those entertained by his majesty, the many; while others will differ so entirely, that they will be pronounced queer and paradoxical. We commence our career from one point of general agreement, which is this: Mr. William Cullen Bryant is the best poet in America. As it is quite needless to enter upon the Had Mr. Bryant stopped with the volume which com prises, with many others scarcely less admirable, these three fine poems, we should have been equally free to grant him the place which he now holds by general consent; but we should have done so with less lively gratification than we now experience-arising, as it does, from our appreciation of his late pieces, given to the public in the pages of this Review. The pieces to which we allude are not familiar alone to the readers of this journal; their transfer to the columns of nearly every journal from the disputed territory to the seat of the Florida war has made them equally familiar to our countrymen in general. They have been rightfully designated by a Northern critic as 'not only acquisi tions to American literature but additions to the Eng lish language.' They emanate from the same rich source of genius, which has so abundantly proved that their author is destined to occupy an enduring rank among the authors of the age. There is but one other man in existence who could have created such lines, on such a subject, as those that flow like living streams of beauty from "The Fountain.' No known living poet but Wordsworth could have originated the glorious thought in four lines, which we shall presently quote. They occur in the magnificent stanzas entitled 'The Battle Field,' printed a year since in this magazine. In reading the whole poem, they did not so break away from the entire chain of melody as to produce the single and startling effect which they afterwards did, upon our encountering them casually in Mr. Forrest's oration, on "Truth crush'd to earth, will rise again; To Mr. Halleck, we are willing to assign a rank inferior only to that occupied by Mr. Bryant in the scale of those who have so elevated the standard of American poetry during these latter years. If a man were to be judged by the quantity, not by the quality of his works, then would Mr. Halleck's laurels be few and faded. As it is, "Few have worn a greener wreath, To use an expressive mercantile phrase, he has done a very small business on a large capital. In this respect he excels every modern poet, except Gray. His taste is quite as fastidious as Gray's or Campbell's; there is the same intense polish in his lines, and the same exquisite nicety in his versification. We wish that he had imitated their sobriety. They never indulge in antics or cut pirouettes at the conclusion of a poetical movement, as stately and graceful as a minuet. The fair form of Alnwick Castle' is spoiled by its mean and miserable ending. If this be wit, we beg to be spared its infliction. Mr. Halleck's finest poem are his lines in memory of Burns; they were probably suggested by Wordsworth's Rob Roy, but are none the less attractive on that account. 6 Equal to Mr. Halleck, and superior-in that he has written so much more-is Mr. Charles Sprague. It is curious that both these gentlemen should be the curators of extensive money concerns. That the mind of one at least has received no sordid taint, we may infer from this distich: "The fool who holds it heresy to think, And loves no music but the dollar's clink." Mr. Sprague has wrought rich treasures from every vein that he has struck. He has been so successful in all, that we are doubtful in which he has best succeeded. He displays the same singular felicity in sarcastic, pathetic, and spirited verse. His 'Curiosity' is a noble poem; the language has scarcely a more splendid ic than his Shakspeare Ode, and we know of few rains of deeper tenderness than those on the Death of a Sister, the Family Reunion, and others of the same tone. The arrow that would find a chink in Mr. Sprague's bright armor, must be more adroitly aimed than ours; he is impervious to our criticism. In thus cursorily speaking of three of our best poets, we have sufficiently proved our postulate; as long as they, and others like them, live to write, (we wish that they wrote to live,) there will be little danger of our tolerating that which is in itself indifferent, because it is comparatively good. Before passing, however, to speak of those writers whose more recent works immediately invite our observations, we would name one, to whom may, with singular fidelity, be applied Pope's expressive line: "How sweet an Ovid was in Murray lost!" George D. Prentice, of the Louisville Journal, a rabid opposition paper, has all the richest endowments of genius. He deserted 'the muse's bower,' to fight and scuffle on the dusty arena of politics. He flung aside his golden-voiced lute for the brazen-throated trumpet. Some of his earlier effusions are 'beautiful exceedingly. His lines by his mother's grave, written at the age of fourteen, are more remarkable than any other juvenile production we ever saw. They breathe the very soul of sorrow; nothing could be more irresistibly touching and plaintive. His latter pieces, especially those which tell of love, seem flushed with the rosiest hues of passion, pervaded with a glow like old Anacreon's. His fault is too lavish a profusion of imagery, the use of too many spangling epithets, which despoil his thoughts of their simplicity and beauty. Practice would have amended this-but he has not practicedhe probably never will again practice poetry; he is a politician. Some of the most valuable contributions to American poetry have been made by those who have never yet had ambition enough to collect their scattered effusions into volumes. To convince the reader how sincerely this is to be regretted, we need mention no other names than those of the two last mentioned writers, Sprague and Prentice. We would that they could be persuaded to do so at this time, and we would that every writer upon whose efforts public approval has set its seal could be induced to follow the example. Mr. Dawes''Athenia of Damascus,' Mr. Willis's 'Bianca Visconti,' and Mr. Epes Sargent's 'Velasco'a tragedy which was successfully brought forward at the Park theatre, in New York, and which has met with considerable praise from the periodical presshave all appeared within the last six months. Neither of these dramas have extraordinary merit; that by Mr. Sargent is by far the best as a whole, although those of Mr. Dawes and Mr. Willis contain finer passages of a fanciful description. We shall now speak of these dramas, though not with the particularity to which their defects as well as merits entitle them. That of Mr. Dawes has appeared in a separate form as well as in his volume. It legitimately claims our attention among his other poetical works-which will be last treated in this paper, since they are the most important under notice. We would premise our remarks on the other two dramas, with the mention of the fact, that they are the only native productions of merit, which have been given to the public in readable form, after their representation at the theatre. Dr. Robert M. Bird, of Philadelphia, author of Calavar, The Infidel, &c., was the first of any eminence who came forward as a dramatist. His 'Gladiator,' and 'Broker of Bogota,' never found their way to the publishers, less, as we imagine, through fear of their being submitted to the test of literary criticism, than from apprehension of diminishing their attractiveness on the stage. Mr. Willis has published three dramatic works. The first was the tragedy which lies in a very neat garb before us, and is called 'Bianca Visconti, or the Heart Overtasked.' It was written two years since, with a view to the acting by Miss Clifton of the principal female character. This is the way in which all American writing for the stage has been elicited. Dawes' 'Athenia' was written for a Mrs. George Jones, (a woman, like Miss Clifton, of fine appearance, and Mr. it has been stated of superior histrionic power) and Mr. Sargent's 'Izadore,' the heroine in Velasco,' for Miss Tree. The effect of this must be to direct the author's attention to one bright point, from which he trusts to diffuse a radiance over the whole piece. Other matters are merely auxiliary-and the consequence is an infe rior development of character, and no very skilful management of plot. This criticism applies to Mr. Willis's performances rather than to those of the other two writers. "I remember The fair Giovana in her pride at Naples. bull. "If the rose After the somewhat equivocal success of 'Bianca Visconti,' Mr. Willis was betrayed into the perpetra-quisite, till one endeavors to get at the meaning, and Here is something musical that will be deemed extion of a comedy, which was (to use the common phrase) 'damned' silently on the second night of repre- perceives that it begins with a hypothesis, very like a sentation. It is said to have been so broadly farcical and so outrageously absurd, that it proved impossible, even for an audience fully determined on being delighted, to endure it. Nothing daunted by this rebuff, Mr. Willis steps like a stalwart knight again into the lists. If we were to credit the daily journals, we should believe that he had rent the laurel from Shakspeare's bust to adorn his living temples, and that in 'Tortesa, or the Usurer,' the world beheld a comedy, such as no age since that of good Queen Bess can boast. The truth is, that there is little or no dramatic power displayed in the piece. It is like Bianca Visconti, to which it is decidedly inferior in stage effect-a graceful poem running over with sparkling conceits and glittering fancies, which bubble up and burst on the surface like the air-jewels in a beaker of rosy champagne. Were born a lily, and, by force of heart And eagerness for light, grew tall and fair, 'Twere a true type of the first fiery soul That makes a low name honorable. They Who take it by inheritance aloneAdding no brightness to it-are like stars Seen in the ocean, that were never there But for the bright originals in Heaven!" The finest scene in the piece-and it is, poetically, very beautiful-is that in the fifth act, of an interview between Sforza, the hero, Bianca, and her young brother Giulio. We should like to give it as the fairest specimen of Mr. Willis's dramatic as well as poetie powers; but the limits, to which the number of mat ters treated in this article restrains us, forbid. The final melancholy madness of Bianca is so like Ophelia's, that we are ready to award to it the praise of success ful imitation. lived possession of the stage, but they will maintain a Mr. Willis's dramas will hardly keep even short It has been remarked of the plays of Sheridan Knowles, that in no one of them is there an allusion which would call a blush to the cheek of purity. This is a high degree of praise which cannot be awarded to the dramas of Mr. Willis. There is an indelicacy on the second page of 'Bianca Visconti,' and there are more respectable rank in imaginative literature than several in the comedy of 'Tortesa.' When will authors his formerly published poems. They are less disfilearn that filth is filth, though it be wrapped in a web gured by affectations, and are pervaded by a more woven from the costliest looms of Cashmere? We masculine tone of sentiment. They show that the will not detain the reader with an analysis of the tragedy be the Waller of modern court circles-a preur chersauthor has of late conceived a nobler ambition, than to before us. The plot is poor in incident, but managed lier, a sort of Sir Piercie Shafton, enrapturing the inso as to stimulate and increase the interest of the reader tellects of boarding schools misses with metrical euphuthe more as he approaches toward the catastrophe. It isms and elaborate fooleries. He seems to have learned is tragic enough to suit the taste of one who would 'sup full with horrors.' It hinges upon the high dra-Such reflection may not be so agreeable, but we will to reflect more upon his art, and less upon himself. matic circumstance of a sister being accessory to the murder of a young and innocent brother, who stands in the path of her lover's ambition. But we leave the plot, which we do not like, for the poetry, which we do like-and with which it is our duty to deal in this paper. Here is a beautiful passage, expressive of Bianca's joy at the fruition of her long cherished hopes of happiness with her bridegroom, Sforza-beautiful, though it trenches on the 'isle' in Moore's 'Blue summer ocean far off and alone.'. "Oh, I'll build A home upon some green and flowery isle find it far more beneficial; the famous Greek precept, and Pope's scarcely less famous line, to the contrary notwithstanding. of considerable merit. He writes with scrupulous cor Mr. Sargent is the author of several fugitive poems rectness, rather than remarkable power. He is guided rather by nice taste than bold ambition. He never startles his reader, nor shocks him; he is never vebturesome, never 'in wandering mazes lost;' the path he treads lies smooth, and plain, and verdant before him, and he is sure that he has answerable skill to pick his steps. He never walks blindfold, or with his eyes behind him. Had he been Icarus, he would never have attempted to fly, even had his wings been made of feathers instead of wax. He is not wanting, however, in self-confidence, for he is sure of success by never over estimating his own powers. He will take a perma nent, though not very brilliant, position among our writers. Were he more daring, he might reach a higher |