in the North American Review, his noble poem of Thanatopsis. In 1825 he retired from his profession, and devoted himself to literature. In 1826 he assumed the direction of the Evening Post, of New York, with which he has ever since been connected. "Mr. Bryant," says an American critic, "is a translator to the world of the silent language of the universe. In the meditation of nature he has learned high lessons of philosophy and religion. In his descriptions of nature there is remarkable fidelity. They convey in an extraordinary degree the actual impression of what is grand and beautiful, and peculiar in American scenery; the old and shadowy forests stand as they grew up from the seeds just planted; the sea, like prairies, stretching in airy undulations beyond the eye's extremest vision. The lakes, and mountains, and rivers, he brings before us in pictures warmly coloured with the hues of the imagination, and as truthful as those which the artist depicts on the canvass." This is high praise, but it is deserved. Bryant has been amongst the mountains and plains, and far-stretching prairies, and gigantic rivers of his own fatherland, and has caught something of their inspiration and fire. Our first specimen is one, however, that will not particularly illustrate this remark. It is a fine echo of what Nature proclaims in the contemplation of decay and death. It is as follows:

THANATOPSIS.

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gaver hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware.
When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart ;—
Go forth, under the open sky, and list

To Nature's teachings, while from all around-
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air-
Comes a still voice-Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go

To mix for ever with the elements,

To be a brother to the insensible rock

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place

Shalt thou retire alone-nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down.
With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre.-The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,-the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between ;
The venerable woods-rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks

That make the meadows green; and poured round all,
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.-Take the wings
Of morning—and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings-yet--the dead are there:
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep-the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest-and what if thou withdraw
Unheeded by the living, and no friend
Take note of thy depaature? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come,
And make their bed with thee. As the long train

Of ages glides away, the sons of men,

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,-
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, that moves

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,

Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

Simple, but equally beautiful, is the poem headed To a Water Fowl. It shows the same power of listening to what Nature sings, and reaching it in melodious voice. We believe it has long been familiar with the British public, but we shall be forgiven, we trust, for quoting it again.

TO A WATER FOWL.

WHITHER, 'midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side?

There is a power whose care

Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-
The desert and illimitable air,— .

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fann'd

At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end;

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
Soon, o'er thy shelter'd nest.

Thour't gone; the abyss of heaven

Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone

Will lead my steps aright.

But not only is Mr. Bryant the poet of nature, but of humanity also. He can discern the beautiful and sublime as well in the crowded street, and amidst the busy cares of life, as in the vast solitudes of his own great land, as yet almost untrodden by the foot of man. He has no morbid aversion to his fellows as they toil, and live, and die. He does not scorn, with Byron, our aristocratic poet of cant, the abodes of active life, and the hum of human cities. Amidst these everlasting wars he can discern and utter the majesty and religion they conceal. This is shown in the following rhymes of the city.

HYMN OF THE CITY.

Nor in the solitude

Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see
Only in savage wood

And sunny vale, the present Deity;

Or only hear his voice

Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice.
Even here do I behold

Thy steps, Almighty !—here, amidst the crowd,
Through the great city roll'd,

With everlasting murmur, deep and loud-
Choking the ways that wind

'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind.

Thy golden sunshine comes

From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies,
And lights their inner homes;

For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies,
And givest them the stores

Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores.

Thy Spirit is around,

Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along;
And this eternal sound-

Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng-
Like the resounding sea,

Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of thee.

And when the hours of rest

Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine,
Hushing its billowy breast-
The quiet of that moment too is thine;
It breathes of him who keeps

The vast and helpless city while it sleeps.

Such are a few flowers we have gathered from this volume, which is worthy of a place in every library, and which we cordially commend. Thus is the new world repaying the old. Thus is America aiding in the civilization and progress of the human race. Bryant is one of its first and softest poets, and he is worthy of a cordial welcome in every British home.

The Wrongs of Poland. A Poem in three cantos, comprising the siege of Vienna, with historical notes. By the author of Parental Wisdom." London: Saunders and Otley.

1849.

THE lapse of years cannot obliterate the unredressed wrongs of Poland, nor diminish her claims for justice. Universal is the indignation felt at the cruel policy of the tyrants who have crushed her. For what does not Europe owe to the heroes of Poland, who in the hour of extreme peril became the shield and bulwark of Christendom, repelling the tide of Turkish invasion, and driving back with signal defeat the discomfited hosts of the Crescent? Ingratitude, alas, is all that Poland has reaped for her good service. Basely betrayed by those she served, her cup of misery and degradation has been mingled to overflowing by a cruel despotism, and she has drained it to the dregs.

We strongly recommend to our readers a careful perusal of the handsome little volume, the title of which is prefixed to this notice. Much information, conveyed in a pleasing style, will be found in its pages. The notes are excellent, abounding with historical intelligence and romantic incident. We quote the author's sketch of Kosciusko, and the note upon it :