But the smooth spoon just fitted to the lif
And taught with art the yielding mass to lip,
By frequent journeys to the bowl well stored,
Performs the hasty honors of the board.
Such is thy name, significant and clear,
A name, a sound, to every Yankee dear.'

(5.) A few years later appeared WILLIAM CLIFFTON, of Pennsylvania; ROBERT TREAT PAINE, of Massachusetts; and THOMAS G. FESSENDEN, of New-Hampshire. Their writings form what is called the transitive state of American poetry. Hitherto our poets had imitated too closely Dryden and Pope, but now began to pursue a more original and independent course. Their writings consist generally of short pieces, for the simple reason that poetry was not their business, but their recreation, their time being chiefly devoted to other pursuits. The period is approaching, however, wher poems of a more elaborate and finished character may be expected.

SECTION II.

(1.) JAMES K. PAULDING, better known as a novelist than a poet, has, however, written some good pieces. Among his prose works the most popular have been Salmagundi, which was written by him in connection with Washington Irving; John Bull and Brother Jonathan; The Dutchman's Fireside, and Westward Ho!

(2.) JOHN PIERPONT, of Boston, Massachusetts; a charming writer. He has composed in almost every metre, and many of his hymns, ođes, and other brief poems, are remarkable for melody and spirit. His ear lier poems have generally been composed with more care than the later. Many of them relate to moral and religious enterprises of the present day, of which he has shown himself a most eloquent and powerful advocate. It would be gratifying to multiply extracts from this generous poet; but we must restrict our selves, to a few. The first is from his " Airs of Pales tine," the result of his observations while traveling abroad in 1835 and 1836:

"Greece and her charms I leave for Palestine.

There purer streams through happier valleys flow,
And sweeter flowers on holier mountains blow

I love to breathe where Gilead sheds her balm.
I love to walk on Jordan's bank of palm;

I love to wet my foot in Hermon's dews;
I love the promptings of Isaiah's muse!
In Carmel's holy grots I'll court repose,

And deck my mossy couch with Sharon's deathless rose.'

NAPOLEON AT REST.

"His falchion flash'd along the Nile,

His hosts he led through Alpine snows;
O'er Moscows tower's that blazed the while,
His eagle-flag unroll'd—and froze!

Here sleeps he now, alone! not one
Of all the kings whom crowns he gave
Bends o'er his dust; nor wife nor son
Has ever seen or sought his grave.

*

*

*

Alone he sleeps; the mountain cloud

That night hangs round him, and the breath Of morning scatters, is the shroud

That wraps the conqueror's clay in death.

Pause here! The far-off world at last

Breathes free; the hand that shook its thrones,

And to the earth its mitres cast,

Lies powerless now beneath these stones.

Hark! Comes there from the Pyramids.
And from Siberia's wastes of snow,
And Europe's hills, a voice that bids

The world be awed to mourn him? No;

The only, the perpetual dirge

That's heard there, is the sea-bird's cry— The mournful murmur of the surge,

The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh

OBSEQUIES OF SPURZHEIM.

"STRANGER, there is bending o'er thee
Many an eye with sorrow wet;
All our stricken hearts deplore thee;
Who that knew thee can forget?
Who forget that thou hast spoken?
Who, thine eye, that noble frame?
But that golden bowl is broken,
In the greatness of thy fame.

Autumn's leaves shall fall and wither
On the spot where thou shalt rest;
"Tis in love we bear thee thither,
To thy mourning mother's breast.

The study of such an author by the young must beget noble and virtuous sentiments, and tend to purify the fountains of American literature.

SECTION III. ·

(1.) RICHARD H. DANA, of Massachusetts, has written po ems that are justly pronounced to be characterized by high religious purpose, simple sentiment, profound philosophy, pure and vigorous diction. The Bucaneer is his principal poem. The wretchedness of a depraved heart, the growth and operation of those harassing emotions which prey sometimes in the bosom of the guilty, are portrayed in vivid colors and with strong effect. The "Changes of Home" is of an opposite character. It is a poem of great beauty. Says an admirable critic, G. B. Cheever, "We are disposed to rank Mr. Dana at the head of all the American poets, not excepting Bryant; and we think this is the judgment which posterity will pass upon his writings. Not because he is superior to all others in the eloquence of his language, and in the polished beauty and finish of his compositions; in these respects, Bryant has, in this country, no equal; and Mr. Dana is often careless in the dress of his thoughts. It will be long ere any one breathes forth the soul of poetry in a finer strain than that to the 'Evening Wind,' and Coleridge himself could hardly have written a nobler 'Thanatopsis.' But Mr. Dana has attempted and proved successful in a higher and more difficult range of poetry. He exhibits loftier powers, and his compositions agitate the soul with a deeper emotion. His language, without being so beauti ful and finished, is yet more vivid, concise, and alive, and informed with meaning. His descriptions of natural objects may not pass before the mind with such sweet harmony, but they often present, in a single line, a whole picture before the imagination, with a vividness and power of com. pression which are astonishing. For instance:

'But when the light winds lie at rest,

And on the glassy, heaving sea

The black duck, with her glossy breast
Sits swinging silently"

And again:

The ship works hard; the seas run high
Their white tops, flashing through the night
Give to the eager, straining eye

A wild and shifting light.'

Again, as a more general instance, and a more sublime one; speaking of the prospect of immortality:

"'Tis in the gentle moonlight;

"Tis floating mid day's setting glories; Night,
Wrapp'd in her sable robe, with silent step
Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears.
Night, and the dawn, bright day and thoughtful eve,

All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse,

As one vast mystic instrument, are touch'd
By an unseen living hand, and conscious chords
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee.'

In these respects-in the power of giving in one word, as it were, a whole picture; in his admirable skill in the perspective, and in the faculty of chaining down the vast and the infinite to the mind's observation, he reminds us both of Collins and of Milton. But, above all, we admire Mr. Dana,, more than any other American poet, because he "as aimed not merely to please the imagination, but to house up the soul to a solemn consideration of its future destinies."

(2.) JAMES A. HILLHOUSE, of Boston, born 1789, died 1841. His best poem is "Hadad," a sacred drama, breathing the lofty thoughts and the majestic style of the ancient Hebrew prophets, to the study of which he was ardently devoted. "As a poet," says Griswold, "he possessed qualities seldom found united a masculine strength of mind and a most delicate perception of the beautiful. The grand characteristic of his writings is their classical beauty. Every passage is polished to the utmost; yet there is no exu berance, no sacrifice to false taste."

his

His style may be seen in the following extract from poem, "The Judgment:"

Nearer the mount stood MOSES; in his hand

The rod which blasted with strange plagues the realm
Of Misraim, and from its time-worn channels
Upturn'd the Arabian sea. Fair was his broad,
High front, and forth from his soul-piercing eye

Did legislation look; which full he fix'd
Upon the blazing panoply, undazzled.
No terrors had the scene for him, who oft,
Upon the thunder-shaken hill-top, veil'd

With smoke and lightnings, with Jehovah talk'd,
And from his fiery hand received the law.
Beyond the Jewish ruler, banded close, I saw
The twelve apostles stand. O, with what looks
Of ravishment and joy, what rapturous tears,
What hearts of ecstasy, they gazed again
On their beloved Master! What a tide
Of overwhelming thoughts press'd to their souls,
When now, as He so frequent promised, throned,
And circled by the hosts of heaven, they traced
The well-known lineaments of Him who shared
Their wants and sufferings here! Full many a day
Of fasting spent with Him, and night of prayer,
Rush'd on their swelling hearts.

Turn now, where stood the spotless Virgin: sweet
Her azure eye, and fair her golden ringlets;
But changeful as the hues of infancy

Her face. As on her son, her GoD, she gazed,
Fix'd was her look-earnest and breathless; now
Suffused her glowing cheek; now, changed to pale;
First, round her lip a smile celestial play'd,
Then, fast, fast rain'd the tears. Who can interpret".
Perhaps some thought maternal cross'd her heart,
"That mused on days long. past, when on her breast
he helpless lay, and of His infant smile;

Or on those nights of terror, when, from worse
Than wolves, she hasted with her babe to Egypt."

SECTION IV.

(1) Charles SprAGUE, of Boston, has displayed ex quisite taste in some of his poems. Read the follow ing account of a death and burial at sea.

"Return! alas! he shall return no more,

To bless his own sweet home, his own proua snore.
Look once again-cold in his cabin now,

Death's finger-mark is on his pallid brow;
No wife stood by, her patient watch to keep,
To smile on him, then turn away to weep;
Kind woman's place rough mariners supplied,
And shared the wanderer's blessing when he diea.
Wrapp'd in the raiment that it long must wear,
His body to the deck they slowly bear;
Even there the spirit that I sing is true;
The crew look on with sad, but curious view ·