above us.

but the science displayed in jumping down the Falls, is a point There might have been some science in jumping up. "The Worth of Beauty; or a Lover's Journal," is the title of the poem next in place and importance. Of this composition Mr. W. thus speaks in a Note: "The individual to whom the present poem relates, and who had suffered severely all the pains and penalties which arise from the want of those personal charms so much admired by him in others, gave the author, many years since, some fragments of a journal kept in his early days, in which he had bared his heart, and set down all his thoughts and feelings. This prose journal has here been transplanted into the richer soil of verse."

The narrative of the friend of Mr. Flaccus must, originally, have been a very good thing. By "originally," we mean before it had the misfortune to be "transplanted in the richer soil of verse "—which has by no means agreed with its constitution. But, even through the dense fog of our author's rhythm, we can get an occasional glimpse of its merit. It must have been the work of a heart on fire with passion, and the utter abandon of the details, reminds us even of Jean Jacques. But alas for this "richer soil!" Can we venture to present our readers with a specimen ?

Now roses blush, and violets' eyes,
And seas reflect the glance of skies;
And now that frolic pencil streaks
With quaintest tints the tulips' cheeks;
Now jewels bloom in secret worth,
Like blossoms of the inner earth;
Now painted birds are pouring round
The beauty and the wealth of sound;
Now sea-shells glance with quivering ray,
Too rare to seize, too fleet to stay,
And hues out-dazzling all the rest
Are dashed profusely on the west,
While rainbows seem to palettes changed,
Whereon the motley tints are ranged.
But soft the moon that pencil tipped,
As though, in liquid radiance dipped,
A likeness of the sun it drew,
But flattered him with pearlier hue;
Which haply spilling runs astray,
And blots with light the milky way;
While stars besprinkle all the air.
Like spatterings of that pencil there.
VOL. III-7.

All this by way of exalting the subject. The moon is made a painter, and the rainbow a palette. And the moon has a pencil (that pencil!) which she dips, by way of a brush, in the liquid. radiance (the colors on a palette are not liquid,) and then draws (not paints) a likeness of the sun; but, in the attempt, plasters him too "pearly," puts it on too thick; the consequence of which is that some of the paint is spilt, and " runs astray" and besmears the milky way, and "spatters" the rest of the sky with stars! We can only say that a very singular picture was spoilt in the making.

The versification of the "Worth of Beauty" proceeds much after this fashion; we select a fair example of the whole from page 43.

Yes! pangs have cut my soul with grief
So keen that gashes were relief,
And racks have rung my spirit-frame
To which the strain of joints were tame
And battle strife itself were nought

Beside the inner fight I've fought. etc., etc.

Nor do we regard any portion of it (so far as rhythm is concerned) as at all comparable to some of the better ditties of William Slater. Here, for example, from his Psalms, published in

1642:

The righteous shall his sorrow scan
And laugh at him, and say "behold
What hath become of this here man
That on his riches was so bold."

And here, again, are lines from the edition of the same Psalms, by Archbishop Parker, which we most decidedly prefer:

Who sticketh to God in sable trust
As Sion's mount he stands full just,
Which moveth no whit nor yet can reel,
But standeth forever as stiff as steel.

"The Martyr" and the "Retreat of Seventy-Six" are merely Revolutionary incidents "done into verse," and spoilt in the doing. "The Retreat" begins with the remarkable line,

Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp!

which is elsewhere introduced into the poem. We look in vain, here, for anything worth even qualified commendation.

"The Diary" is a record of events occurring to the author during a voyage from New York to Havre. Of these events a fit of sea-sickness is the chief. Mr. Ward, we believe, is the first

of the genus irritabile who has ventured to treat so delicate a subject with that grave dignity which is its due:

Rejoice! rejoice! already on my sight

Bright shores, gray towers, and coming wonders reel;
My brain grows giddy-is it with delight?

A swimming faintness, such as one might feel
When stabbed and dying, gathers on my sense-

It weighs me down-and now-help!-horror!

But the "horror," and indeed all that ensues, we must leave to the fancy of the poetical.

Some pieces entitled "Humorous " next succeed, and one or two of them (for example, "The Graham System" and "The Bachelor's Lament") are not so very contemptible in their way, but the way itself is beneath even contempt.

"To an Infant in Heaven" embodies some striking thoughts, and, although feeble as a whole, and terminating lamely, may be cited as the best composition in the volume. We quote two or

three of the opening stanzas:

Thou bright and star-like spirit!
That in my visions wild

I see 'mid heaven's seraphic host-
Oh! canst thou be my child?
My grief is quenched in wonder,
And pride arrests my sighs;
A branch from this unworthy stock
Now blossoms in the skies.

Our hopes of thee were lofty,

But have we cause to grieve?

Oh! could our fondest, proudest wish
A nobler fate conceive?

The little weeper tearless!

The sinner snatched from sin!

The babe to more than manhood grown,
Ere childhood did begin!

And I, thy earthly teacher,

Would blush thy powers to see!

Thou art to me a parent now,

And I a child to thee!

There are several other pieces in the book-but it is needless to speak of them in detail. Among them we note one or two political effusions, and one or two which are (satirically?) termed satirical. All are worthless.

Mr. Ward's imagery, at detached points, has occasional vigor and appropriateness; we may go so far as to say that, at times,

it is strikingly beautiful-by accident of course. At page 53 we read

few instances.

At page 91

At page 92

O! happy day!-earth, sky is fair,
And fragrance floats along the air;
For all the bloomy orchards glow
As with a fall of rosy snow.

How flashed the overloaded flowers
With gems, a present from the showers!

No! there is danger; all the night
I saw her like a starry light

More lovely in my visions lone

Than in my day-dreams truth she shone.
'Tis naught when on the sun we gaze
If only dazzled by his rays,

But when our eyes his form retain
Some wound to vision must remain.

Let us cite

And again, at page 234, speaking of a slight shock of an earthquake, the earth is said to tremble

As if some wing of passing angel, bound

From sphere to sphere, had brushed the golden chain
That hangs our planet to the throne of God.

This latter passage, however, is, perhaps, not altogether original with Mr. Ward. In a poem now lying before us, entitled "Al Aaraaf," the composition of a gentleman of Philadelphia, we find what follows:

A dome by link'd light from heaven let down
Sat gently on these columns as a crown;
A window of one circular diamond there
Looked out above into the purple air,

And rays from God shot down that meteor chain
And hallow'd all the beauty twice again,

Save when, between th' Empyrean and that ring,

Some eager spirit flapped his dusky wing.

But if Mr. Ward's imagery is, indeed, at rare intervals, good, it must be granted, on the other hand, that, in general, it is atrociously inappropriate, or low. For example:

Thou gaping chasm! whose wide devouring throat
Swallows a river, while the gulping note

Of monstrous deglutition gurgles loud, etc. Page 24.
Bright Beauty! child of starry birth,

The grace, the gem, the flower of earth,

The damask livery of Heaven!

Page 44.

Here the mind wavers between gems, and stars, and taffetybetween footmen and flowers. Again, at page 46—

All thornless flowers of wit, all chaste
And delicate essays of taste,
All playful fancies, winged wiles,
That from their pinions scatter smiles,
All prompt resource in stress or pain,
Leap ready-armed from woman's brain.

The idea of "thornless flowers," etc., leaping "ready-armed" could have entered few brains except those of Mr. Ward.

Of the most ineffable bad taste we have instances without number. For example-page 183

And, straining, fastens on her lips a kiss

That seemed to suck the life-blood from her heart!

And here, very gravely, at page 25

Again he's rous'd, first cramming in his cheek

The weed, though vile, that props the nerves when weak.

Here again, at page 33

Full well he knew where food does not refresh,
The shrivel'd soul sinks inward with the flesh-
That he's best armed for danger's rash career,
Who's crammed so full there is no room for fear.

But we doubt if the whole world of literature, poetical or prosaic, can afford a picture more utterly disgusting than the following, which we quote from page 177:

But most of all good eating cheers the brain,
Where other joys are rarely met—at sea-
Unless, indeed, we lose as soon as gain-

Ay, there's the rub, so baffling oft to me.

Boiled, roast, and baked-what precious choice of dishes

My generous throat has shared among the fishes!

'Tis sweet to leave, in each forsaken spot,

Our foot-prints there-if only in the sand;

"T is sweet to feel we are not all forgot,

That some will weep our flight from every land; And sweet the knowledge, when the seas I cross, My briny messmates! ye will mourn my loss. This passage alone should damn the book-ay, damn a dozen such.

Of what may be termed the niaiseries-the sillinesses-of the volume, there is no end. Under this head we might quote two thirds of the work. For example:

Now lightning, with convulsive spasm
Splits heaven in many a fearful chasm...

It takes the high trees by the hair
And, as with besoms, sweeps the air.....