us.

And struck with admiration: they had seen
The pomp and power of armies-felt the sheen
Of lance and sword and bayonet cross the sun-
Had stood the shock of battle, and had been
Among the victors when the field was won-
Yet seldom had they seen a deed more daring done.

Now with these samples before us, and with others of the more remarkable effusions that we have recently noticed, what is it that one can hope for, in respect of poetry, for the future? We for ourselves are of opinion, as more than once expressed heretofore, that a new phase must develop itself,-that another, and perhaps a sterner inroad upon the illimitable field of imagination and ideal creation must be inchoated, ere the day-spring from on high of poetic life can set in. Are there any symptoms of the new and the young amongst us that proclaim hope for the muse? Have the exalted, the melting, the honest, the homely unctions been all expended, have they all drifted to other shores? Certainly not. Poetry is not dead within Even in the materialism of modern days, and in spite of the degeneracy of sentiment that generally characterizes society, there may yet be found the moving elements for new inspirations and exhalations. Poetry is essential to, and identical with, man. Its stream may often be lost among brambles, under the weight of muddy moss, or take such devious windings, as only to give us at far-distant spots glimpses of limpid purity, of gushing abundance, or of deepfathomed power. But the faith is strong within us that these spiritual visitations are not for ever gone,-that there will be revivals,-and, indeed, that when the world appears to be most deadened, probably the moment of regeneration is at hand; that when most distracted with selfishness and sectarian animosities, the muse will burst the prison-house which has immured and vitiated the soul, shedding abroad all that is true and beautiful, with a grave, but glorious benignity, to the reconciliation of all men. Probably, we think, it is reserved for poetry to display in its achievements for religion its very grandest triumphs.

But what is the aspect, what are the circumstances of the present, in respect of poetry in England, or over the world? Is it existent and making progress, or stagnant, if not retrogressive? Certainly, if the British muse alone is to be regarded, our poets are doing little more than making efforts to maintain a standing as the mere imitators of the gone, than proving themselves to be the subservients of translated masters. Perhaps the most striking illustration of the imitative, the barren, and the retrogressive spirit of English poetry, is to be found in the effusions of the Anglo-Americans,-of those who, having a birthright with us, have yet been nurtured in a new world. In the service of intellect, even in patriotic magnanimity, our transatlantic brethren appear to

be little men when compared with the pilgrim fathers, or those who lived in the days when Independence was achieved. Assuredly they are growing repulsively material: and as for their poetry, with few exceptions, it is but the echo of the sickened or enfeebled song of England. They but aspire to copy our minors.

These latter observations have been in part suggested by a slight examination of certain portions of a publication that has lately reached England,-viz. that of "The Poets and Poetry of America." This collection, with an historical introduction by Rufus W. Griswood, gives us evidence that since a comparatively recent date of the Independence, the poets of the United States have amounted in number to some hundred or so. In fact, room is found in the volume for specimens of ninety. But how many of them have ever been heard of on this side of the water? Hardly more than one in ten; and not one even of these has a great chance of immortality. The best of these seldom do better than follow in the wake of our Hemanses and our Landons, although they sometimes affect the manner of Wordsworth, a perilous venture. No doubt there are in the collection respectable specimens, as the two to be quoted prove; but as for decided originality, or anything clearly and purely national, there are no signs.

Our two examples are from the pen of Mr. Longfellow; and have a manly sterling spirit in the sentiment as well as in the expression. The first is, "What the Heart of the Young Man said to the Psalmist."

Tell me not in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream!

For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Finds us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still like muffled drums are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, act in the living Present!
Heart within, and GoD o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints that perhaps another
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate:
Still acheiving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.

The Village Blacksmith.

Under a spreading chesnut tree
The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long;
His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat;

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,

Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling-rejoicing-sorrowing-
Onward through life he goes:
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted-something done
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of Life
Our fortunes must be wrought,

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought.

Mr. Griswold's introduction is modest, judicious, and suggestive, The volume is calculated to instruct his fellow citizens as regards their literary poverty as well as their literary scope; while it contains many agreeable pieces.

Should we for a moment turn our eyes to another country with which we maintain a constant intercourse,-viz. to France, which boasts of being once more young, and whose literateurs have for a series of years been making feverish efforts, we shall not find the prospects of poetry more promising than in our own land. It is indeed a remarkable fact, that the French nation, whose earliest associations are so romantic and poetical; which was the birth-place of the Troubadours; and in after-times, not only the most civilized, but, in truth, the most forward in literary progress, should hardly possess any modern poetry. Setting the drama aside, as involving too much of old dispute, and, moreover, conceiving a tragedy may be very effective without being poetical, we must repeat that there is hardly any poetry, properly so called, in France. Spain, Italy, Germany, and England, are the most poetical countries in Europe. The poetry of Spain is the stirring memory of her ancient chivalry, veined with the rich passion and imagery which the Moors have left, like the ruins of the Alhambra, as their trace behind them. poetry of Italy is the inspiration of the fairest earth and heaven,

The

that ever made beauty the element of man's fancy. In Germany and England there is less of ostensible cause; there is no reason of climate or association why they should be more poetical than France; yet no one will deny that they are so. The wonder, however, of those who examine the character of the French will soon cease: their philosophers were wits, their poets epigrammatists, their lovers men of gallantry; all lived with the fear of ridicule ever before their eyes; while the insincerity that prevailed amongst them rears a yet greater barrier to the attainment of poetical eminence. Everything was doubted, nothing believed; sceptics in morals as well as in religion, there was nothing whereon to ground belief; and poetry, like religion, asks faith. Destroy its credence in the finer sympathies, the higher and holier impulses of our nature, and we destroy its existence. The compliment was elegantly turned, the satire was keenly pointed; so much for the higher ranks: and as for the lower, no peasant poet ever made his native valley vocal with his songs, till nature found her way even into palaces. The degraded state of the peasantry made this impossible: the wildest tribe that ever roamed the desert may be poetical, the civilized savage never. Where, in such a state of society, were the excitements or the materials of poetry? for, though devout believers in the original existence of genius, separate and self-supported, as the fire of the volcano, yet we also think there must be a peculiar state of atmosphere to call forth the liquid flame.

These observations may at least apply to the periods preceding the Revolution. That has indeed effected a mighty change; freedom, like pure air, has cleared and lightened wherever it past, and nowhere are its effects more felt than in the mind. It is not in the midst of rible events that people lie down to meditate upon them, but in the after-hours of tranquillity. France is more likely to produce fine poetry now than ever; men's thoughts and feelings have received a new stimulus, old prejudices have been forcibly trodden down, old customs shown to be of no avail, foreign models contemplated, and a new standard of taste introduced. In every work which now issues from the French press, the influence of this renovated spirit is felt. As yet, indeed, no master minstrel has arisen to give his own tone to minor writers (for though we do full justice to the talents of Messrs. Delavigne and Delamartine, yet they are not men who stamp the character of a language); but we do firmly believe there is more of imagination and taste at this present moment in French literature, than would have served the whole Siècle de Louis XIV.

Such is another excursive and desultory glance, ranging over the wide domains of poetry, just as in the preceding paper, we have hastened from land to land in the far East. There are conquests to be yet achieved, and we trust mighty victories won, in behalf of the humanities, in each of the spheres named.