There is a Mercuriale (the fifteenth) on the firmness required in the judicial function which we would, if we had space enough, transcribe at full length. But we must close this paper with the single observation, that as the defects imputed to the character of D'Aguesseau proceeded from an excess of knowledge and reflection, so his style has no fault except its faultlessness. Le défaut de vôtre discours, (said his father to him on some occasion) est d'être trop beau; il serait moins beau si vous le retouchiez encore. ART. VI.-Poems. By WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. NewYork. E. Bliss. 1832. It seems from the very modest preface of the author, that most of the following Poems have been already printed as occasional pieces. But for this information we should not have been aware of the fact, for although we have often heard Mr. Bryant advantageously spoken of, it has so happened that we have never, until the publication of this little volume, read any thing of his in verse. All that we know of him even now is, that he is an editor of one of the most respectable daily journals in the country, and the author of this pretty collection of poesy-the most faultless, and we think, upon the whole, the best collection of American poetry which we have ever seen. We beg leave to assure him, therefore, that we are extremely desirous to become better acquainted with him. To know more of his past history is within our own power-but it depends upon him whether we shall see as much of him hereafter, as it is undoubtedly his interest that we should. A writer who is capable of what he has done, is capable of a great deal more. The elements of poetical talent-in a certain department of the art-he unquestionably possesses in a high degree. Let him refine them by elaborate cultivation-let him combine them in a work, calculated to display the higher attributes of genius, by sustained invention and unity of purpose, and we predict, with confidence, that he will entwine his name with his land's language and go down to posterity as one of the first, both in time and excellence, of American poets-and that, without the sinister assistance of such an auxiliary as Mr. Kettel. It is not safe, perhaps to judge from mere fugitive pieces like these, in what particular style or class of poetry the author would most excel were he to attempt a longer and more adventurous work. We should think, however, that he were formed rather for the beautiful, than the sublime-rather for pensive tenderness than deep and harrowing pathos-rather for the effusions of fancy and feeling, than for the creations of a bold and fertile imagination. The love of nature in her gentleness and repose-the religion of twilight groves-the fond recollections of childhood, when it sported amid vernal flowers and of youth musing in the quiet of summer evenings, upon the banks of "haunted streams"--the first bloom and melody of spring, the first tinge of autumn upon the blighted foliage of the forests-all that inspires and nurses what the bard of the "Seasons" calls "the spirit of philosophic melancholy"— breathes from the whole face of the volume. We do not see why the author might not produce something worthy to be classed, at least, with Gertrude of Wyoming, and the Deserted Village. We do not mean to intimate that, from these specimens, we are ready to compare Mr. Bryant with Campbell and Goldsmithbut we think that he would most excel in that class of poetry to which the beautiful productions just mentioned belong-and we have no doubt that his excellence in that kind would be of no ordinary stamp. Whether it should be classical and finished, or of a less perfect kind, would depend upon two things about which Mr. Bryant is much better informed than we are-his previous acquirements and his capacity for future effort and excitement. It The diction of these poems is unobjectionable-and that is saying a great deal. It is simple and natural-there is no straining after effect, no meretricious glare, no affected point and brilliancy. It is clear and precise-Mr. Bryant does not seem to think mysticism any element of the true sublime, or the finest poetry at all inconsistent with common sense. is idiomatic and racy-the language of people of this world such as they use when they utter home-bred feelings in conversation with one another around the fireside or the festive board, not the fastidious, diluted, unexpressive jargon used no where but in second-rate books, and called elegant only by critics of the Della Cruscan School. These are nega tive merits, it is true, but not the less solid and important on that account. To say of a writer that his language is simple, natural, precise, idiomatic-and to add of what he writes that it is poetical, is to pronounce him one whom the gods have made a poet and who can make himself what he pleases. This is to us the charm of Mr. Bryant's verses. They flow spontaneously from a heart softened by the most touching sensibilities, and they clothe themselves in the very language which nature has adapted, and as it were consecrated to the expression of those sensibilities. As to that more various, 'elevated, powerful and imaginative diction--itself a creation, and the most dazzling of poetical creations-such as we read in Pindar and the Greek tragedians, especially Eschylus— such as we see in many parts of Shakspear, and in almost every line of Milton-there is none of it here-Ego apis Matinæ more modoque, &c. Although we have pointed out what seem to us the most prominent characteristics of Mr. Bryant's poetry, there are some excellent pieces in this collection, to which the above description does not apply, as will appear when we come to make use of them in our extracts. These latter pieces fall under three distinct classes. The first resembles that of the old heroic ballad, such as abounds most and is to be found in greatest perfection, among the remains of the more ancient Spanish literature. There are some translations from that language that strike us (by analogy, for we do not remember to have read the originals) as admirably well executed. They are full of the life and soul of those spirited and lofty, though simple effusions of a heroic age. Some of Mr. Bryant's own verses, in the same style and measure, are particularly well done. Another set of pieces are in an elegiacal strain-though not properly elegies or monodies. They are the expression of feelings rather deeper than a mere poetical melancholy, and yet not deep enough to be very pathetic or tragical. There are two or three very lively little poems that form a separate and third class. We cannot better express the interest we felt in the perusal of this volume, than by mentioning what occurred to us in preparing the passages we were to use in the way of quotations. This we did by turning down the leaves, but by the time we were at the end of the book, there were so many marks of this kind that they were hardly a means of distinction, and we determined to take at random the pieces that should first present themselves to us. The first specimen that came up, was the following address "To the Past." "Thou unrelenting Past! Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. Far in thy realm withdrawn Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. Childhood, with all its mirth, Youth, Manhood, Age, that draws us to the ground, Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound. Thou hast my better years, Thou hast my earlier friends-the good-the kind, The venerable form-the exalted mind. My spirit yearns to bring The lost ones back-yearns with desire intense, Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence. In vain-thy gates deny All passage save to those who hence depart; Thou givest them back-nor to the broken heart. Beauty and excellence unknown-to thee Earth's wonder and her pride Are gathered, as the waters to the sea. Labors of good to man, Unpublished charity, unbroken faith,- And grew with years, and faltered not in death. Full many a mighty name, Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered, Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared. Thine for a space are they— Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past! All that of good and fair Has gone into thy womb from earliest time, Shall then come forth, to wear They have not perished—no! Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet, And features, the great soul's apparent seat. All shall come back, each tie Of pure affection shall be knit again; And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. And then shall I behold Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung, And her, who, still and cold, Fills the next grave-the beautiful and young." Something in the same vein are lines on "The Rivulet." This little rill that, from the springs List the brown thrasher's vernal hymn, And when the days of boyhood came, Years change thee not. Upon yon hill Yet tell, grandeur of decay, How swift the years have passed away, I wandered in the forest shade. |