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 Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, To Nature's teachings, while from all around- Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim And, lost each human trace, surrendering up To mix for ever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Shalt thou retire alone-nor couldst thou wish That make the meadows green; and poured round all, Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, Of ages glides away, the sons of men, The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes So live, that when thy summons comes to join To that mysterious realm, where each shall take Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 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, Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, There is a power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,- Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fann'd At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere, And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, Thour't gone; the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 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 And sunny vale, the present Deity; Or only hear his voice Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice. Thy steps, Almighty !—here, amidst the crowd, With everlasting murmur, deep and loud- 'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind. Thy golden sunshine comes From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies, For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies, Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores. Thy Spirit is around, Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along; Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng- Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of thee. And when the hours of rest Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine, 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 : |