THE poetical attempts of the Amercans have hitherto been known to us only by their failure, and by the severity with which our critics have attacked them, and, it must be allowed, not without reason, whenever they found a sufficient opportunity. Under all this weight of discouragement, that great nation has been as active in improving her talents and refining her taste, as in advancing her political prosperity; and she may now boast of possessing bards, whom she may present with pride and confidence to their rivals on this side the Atlantic. We are enabled to take a general view of their merits by the publication of an interesting volume, which has just issued from the press, under the title of "Specimens of the American Poets." From a work of this nature, comprising, as it must do, only the most select portions of different authors, we cannot, it is true, decide upon the mass of national literature from which it has been drawn; we are presented with beauties which have, perhaps, been laboriously sought for, and every deformity is as carefully concealed. But we may safely pronounce, that the mine from which so many beautiful and valuable materials have been drawn, must be intrinsically rich; and we feel indebted to the hand which has undertaken to collect its scattered produce, and place it before our eyes in the most advantageous light.

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In point of literary dependence, America seems to be still a British colony, and to draw her supplies in a great degree, from the mother country. She has not yet thrown off the yoke of criticism; but, on the contrary, hum bles herself under it, even to the discouragement of her native genius. is unfashionable to find any merit her homebred aspirants; and a fine taste can only be demonstrated by an exclusive preference of English talent. In the relative state of English and American letters this is certainly a natural inclination; but, as far as regards the English reader, it has an unfortunate tendency. To him the imi

tation of English style and sentiment, to which it inevitably leads, is vapid and uninteresting; and he asks for those demonstrations of natural spirit and character, which would be regard ed by the transatlantic critic with indifference or contempt. One original note is worth all the warblings of the Mocking-Bird, to ears which have been long familiar with his borrowed tunes.

In the immediate extracts which we proceed to give from the Airs of Pales tine, by Mr. Pierpont, we find a very florid and ornamented style, varying from the old school of poetry only in some occasional flourishes, which cannot be considered as an improvement. The composition might pass it off very well for an English University prize poem. Mr. Pierpont exalts the powers of music, and thus, in one instance, exemplifies its effects :

Balanc'd between a reverie and a dream,
While thus the enthusiast roams along the stream,
Backward he springs, and, thro' his bounding heart,
The cold and curdling poison seems to dart:
For in the leaves, beneath a quivering brake,
Spinning his death-note, lies a coiling snake,

Just in the act, with greenly-venom'd fangs,

To strike the foot, that heedless o'er him hangs ;
Bloated with rage, on spiral folds he rides,
His rough scales shiver on his spreading sides;
Dusky and dim his glossy neck becomes,
And freezing poisons thicken on his gums;

His parch'd and hissing throat breathes hot and dry,
A spark of hell lies burning in his eye;
While like a vapour, o'er his writhing rings,
Whirls his light tail, and threatens while it sings.

Soon as dumb fear removes her icy fingers,
From off the heart, where gazing wonder lingers,

The pilgrim, shrinking from a doubtful fight,

Aware of danger too in sudden flight,

From his soft flute throws music's air around,
And meets his foe upon enchanted ground:
Sce! as the plaintive melosty is flung,

The lightning-flash fades off the serpent's tongue;

The uncoiling reptile o'er each shining fold,
Throws changeful clouds of azure, green and gold;
A softer lustre twinkles in his eye;
His neck is burnish'd with a glossier dye,

His slippery scales grow smoother to the sight,
And his relaxing circles roll in light.

Slowly the charm retires; with waving sides,
Along its track the graceful listener glides;

While Music throws her silver cloud around,
And bears her votary off in magic folds of sound.

There is much smoothness and harmony in these verses. Some passages

remind us strongly of the Botanic Garden. Mr. Pierpont, indeed, seems to incline quite as much to Darwin as to Pope, in whose school the editor ranks him.

With one further extract we shall dismiss this portion of the volume, and certainly not without praise, if the admission may be tendered as praise of an American poem, that it might pass undetected for good English currency. In the succeeding lines, Mr. Pierpont rises to the height of his argument, and acquits himself very creditably :

In what rich harmony, what polish'd lays,
Should man address Thy throne, when Nature pays
Her wild, her tuneful tribute to the sky!

Yes, Lord, she sings thee, but she knows not why,
The fountain's gush, the long resounding shore,
The zephyr's whisper, and the tempest's roar,
The rustling leaf in autumn's fading woods,
The wintry storm, the rush of vernal floods,
The summer bower, by cooling breezes fann'd,
The torrent's fall, by dancing rainbows spann'd,
The streamlet, gurgling thro' its rocky glen,
The long grass sighing o'er the graves of men,
The bird that crests yon dew-bespangled tree,
Shakes his bright plumes, and trills his descant free,
The scorching bolt, that from thine armoury burl'd,
Burns its red path, and cleaves a shrinking world;
All these are music to Religion's ear.
Music, thy hand awakes, for man to hear,—
Thy hand invested in their azure robes,
Thy breath made buoyant yonder circling globes,
That bound and blaze along the elastic wires,
That viewless vibrate on celestial lyres,
And in that high and radiant concave tremble,
Beneath whose dome adoring hosts assemble,
To catch the notes from those bright spheres that flows
Which mortals dream of, but which angels know.

The extracts with which the editor next presents us, are from the poem of "the Back Woodsman," by Mr. Paulding, for a full account of which we refer the reader to our Number for October last. Enough is conveyed by the title and subject of this work,

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to convince us that the author is not one who will confine himself to the ancient common forms of European versification; and we therefore gladly follow him into the woods of the west, in the hope of being conducted through their mighty labyrinths by the hand of a spirited and original guide. This expectation will not be disappointed: Mr. Paulding's work is, at all events, characteristic of his country. There is in it a robust energy, which sustains it under many defects. Like a strong traveller, the poet walks manfully on

his way, little solicitous about the elegance of his motions. As an appropriate subject for the exercise of his powers, we shall select his description of a tempest; and we shall subjoin some other lines, none of which were quoted in our article above alluded to:

A distant, half-heard murmur caught the ear,
A dark obscurity spread all around,
And more than twilight seem'd to veil the ground,
While not a leaf e'en of the aspen stirr'd,
And not a sound. but that low moan, was heard ;

Each moment waxing louder and more near;

There is a moment when the boldest heart,
That would not stoop an inch to 'scape Death's dart,
That never shrunk from certain danger here,
Will quail and shiver with an aguish fear;
'Tis when some unknown mischief hovers nigh,
And Heav'n itself seems threat'ning from on high.
Brave was our Basil, as became a man,
Yet still his blood a little cooler ran,
'Twixt fear and wonder, at that murmur drear,
That every moment wax'd more loud and near.
The riddle soon was read-at last it came,
And Nature trembled to her inmost frame;
The forest roar'd, the everlasting oak
In writhing agonies the storm bespoke,
The live leaves scattered wildly every where,

Whirl'd round in madd'ning circles in the air,
The stoutest limbs were scatter'd all around,

The stoutest trees a stouter master found,
Crackling and crashing, down they thund'ring go,
And seem to erush the shrinking rocks below;
Then the thick rain in gathering torrents pour'd,
Higher the river rose and louder roar'd,
And on its dark, quick eddying surface bore
The gather'd spoils of earth along its shore,
While trees that not an hour before had stood
The lofty monarchs of the stately wood,
Now whirling round and round with furious force,
And shiver like a reed by urchin broke
Through idle mischief, or with heedless stroke;
A hundred cataracts, unknown before,
Rush down the mountain's side with fearful roar,
And, as with foaming fury down they go,

Loose the firm rocks, and thunder them below,
Blue lightnings from the dark cloud's bosom sprung,
Like serpents menacing with forked tongue,
While many a sturdy oak that stiffly brav'd
shiver'd beneath its bright resistless flash,

The threat'ning hurricane that round it rav'd,

Came tumbling down amain with fearful crash.
Air, earth and skies, seem'd now to try their power,
And struggle for the mastery of the hour;

Higher the waters rose, and blacker still,

And threaten'd soon the narrow vale to fill.

As a contrast to this picture, we shall give a sketch of a different scene, which will be sufficient to convey an idea of Mr. Paulding's merit. His poetry is consistent with the rest of his character, which stands high for ability. This is the extent of the praise we can bestow upon him; and we are disposed to think that his poetical faculties are not

those of which he has most reason to be proud :

'Twas evening now,-the hour of toil was o'er,
Yet still they durst not seek the fearful shore,
Lest watchful Indian crew should silent creep,
And spring upon, and murder them in sleep;
So thro' the livelong night they held their way,
And 'twas a night might shame the fairest day,-
So still, so bright, so tranquil was its reign,
They car'd not tho' the day ne'er came again;
The moon high wheel'd the distant hills above,
Silver'd the fleecy foliage of the grove,
That as the wooing zephyrs on it fell,
Whisper'd it lov'd the gentle visit well;
That fair-fac'd orb alone to move appear'd,
That zephyr was the only sound they heard ;

exploits and catastrophe are highly romantic and interesting. Of Mr. Bryant it still remains to speak, and we have no hesitation in assigning to him the superiority over all his countrymen of whom we have any knowledge. His poetry, according to the subject, is full of energy and sweetness. From the pieces called, "The Ages," and "Thanatopsis," we could select many proofs of the former quality, but we prefer extracting a short poem, executed with a great degree of grace and facility, and abounding with beautiful imagery, the

No lights upon the shore, or waters play'd,
No loud laugh broke upon the silent air,
To tell the wand'rers man was nestling there;
While even the froward habe in mother's arms,
Lull'd by the scene, suppress'd its loud alarms,
And, yielding to that moment's tranquil sway,
Sunk on the breast, and slept its rage away.
All-all was still-on gliding barque and shore,
As if the earth now slept to wake no more;
Life seem'd extinct, as when the world first smil'd,
Ere Adam was a dupe, or Eve beguil'd.

A light satirical poem follows, written in the manner of Don Juan, and not without effect, entitled "Fanny." It is published anonymously; a precaution for which the writer might have his private reasons within the walls of New-York; and, indeed, we do not know that his name would have been a very powerful accessory, if it made no stronger an impression on English ears than those of Dabney, Maxwell, Bryant, and Eastburn, to whose names we are next introduced. Yet are all these gentlemen respectable practitioners in different departments of their art. Mr. Dabney's peculiar vocation appears to be to the inditing of western battle songs, in which he certainly displays considerable vigour ; but, unquestionably, more in the style of an Indian chief giving the war-whoop, than of Tyrtæus of old, or of our own CampThe genius of Mr. Maxwell is of a more classical turn, and adopts, for the most part, light and epigrammatic subjects. Mr. Eastburn's work is an imitation of Scott's poems. It is called Yamoyden, a Tale of the Wars of King Philip" by which latter appellation our readers must apprehend not the object of their juvenile studies, in the history of Greece, but an unfortunate North-American chieftain, whose

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all that we have said in Mr. Bryant's favour:

The Green River.

When breezes are soft and skies are fair,
I steal an hour from study and care,
And hie me away to the woodland scene,
Where wanders the stream with waters of green,
As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink
Had given their tinge to the wave they drink;
And they, whose meadows it murmurs through,
Have nam'd the stream from its own fair hue.

Yet pure its waters, its shallows are bright,
With colour'd pebbles, and sparkles of light;
And clear the depths where the eddies play,

And dimples deepen and whirl away;

And the plane's speckled arms o'ershoot
The swifter current that mines its root;
Thro' whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill,
The quivering glimmer of sun and rill,
With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown,
Like the ray that streams from the diamond stone.
Oh! loveliest there the spring days come,

With blossoms, and birds, and wild bees' hum;

The flowers of summer are fairest there,
And freshest the breath of the summer air,
And the swimmer comes, in the season of heat,
To bathe in these waters so pure and sweet.
Yet, fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide,
Beautiful stream! by the village side,
But windest away from the haunts of men,

To silent valley and shaded gien ;

Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still;
Lonely-save when, by their rippling tides,
From thicket to thicket the angler glides;
Or the simpler comes, with basket and book,

And forest and meadow, and slope of hill,

For herbs of power on thy bank to look;
Or haply some idle dreamer like me,

To wander-and muse-and gaze on thee.
Still-save the chirp of birds that feed

On the river-cherry and seedy reed...

And thy own wild music-gushing out
From dawn to the blush of another day,
Like traveller singing along his way—
That fairy music I never hear,
Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear-

With mellow murmur, de fairy shout...

Darken'd with shade, or flashing with light:

And mark them winding away from sight...

While o'er thee the vine to the thicket clings,

And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings;
But I wish that fate had left me free
To wander these quiet haunts with thee,

Till the eating cares of earth should depart..

And the peace of the scene pass into my heart;
And I envy thy stream as it glides along,
Through its beautiful banks, in a trance of song.
Tho' fore'd to drudge for the dregs of men...
And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen;
And mingle among the jostling crowd,
Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud;
I sometimes come to this quiet place,
To breathe the air that ruffles thy face,
And gaze upon thee in silent dream ;
For, in thy lonely and lovely stream,
An image of that calm life appears,
That won my heart in my greener years.

We fully agree with the editor in the partiality with which he regards Mr. Bryant's productions; one more of which we are tempted to present to the reader, who, without any commendation of ours, will not fail to do justice to its beauties.

To a Water-Fowl.

Whither, 'midst falling dew...

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far thro' 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 maze of river wide-
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chaf'd 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,
Tho' the dark night is near.

And soon that tail 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.

Thou'rt gone; the abyss of heaven
Hath swallow'd 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 thro' the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.

A variety of fugitive pieces, drawn from different sources, conclude this pleasing epitome of American genius, our opinion of which, after the details already given, it is hardly necessary further to express. Its publication will, we have no doubt, have the effect of redeeming the poetical character of that nation from the neglect, and, we may say, the contempt, with which it has hitherto been treated amongst us; and thus lead the way to more strenuous efforts on their part, and more honorable achievements. Destined as they are to sustain a part of unparalleled interest and dignity in the future annals of the world, we rejoice at every indication of their advancing cultivation and refinement; and we look forward to the time when the lustre of their literary triumphs shall give ample demonstration, that despotic power and courtly associations are as little requisite for the splendour and embellishment of a great country, as they have long since proved them to be for its prosperity and protection.

We may remark in conclusion, that the duties which the editor has prescribed to himself, are performed in a very satisfactory manner. In his preface, and in the remarks prefixed to the different poems, he displays a fair and liberal spirit of criticism; and we feel convinced that the English public, and the stranger bards with whom he has been instrumental in making them acquainted, will esteem themselves mutually indebted to him for this seasonable and agreeable introduction.

Monthly Magazine, May.