THE CASTLE OF IMAGINATION.*

JUST in the centre of that wood was rear'd
Her castle, all of marble, smooth and white;
Above the thick young trees, its top appear'd
Among the naked trunks of towering height;
And here at morn and eve it glitter'd bright,
As often by the far-off traveller seen
In level sunbeams, or at dead of night,
When the low moon shot in her rays between
That wide-spread roof and floor of solid foliage

green.

Through this wide interval the roving eye From turrets proud might trace the waving line Where meet the mountains green and azure sky, And view the deep when sun-gilt billows shine; Fair bounds to sight, that never thought confine, But tempt it far beyond, till by the charm Of some sweet wood-note or some whispering pine Call'd home again, or by the soft alarm Of Love's approaching step, and her encircling arm.

Through this wide interval, the mountain side
Show'd many a sylvan slope and rocky steep:
Here roaring torrents in dark forests hide;
There silver streamlets rush to view, and leap
Unheard from lofty cliffs to valleys deep:
Here rugged peaks look smooth in sunset glow,
Along the clear horizon's western sweep;
There from some eastern summit moonbeams flow
Along o'er level wood, far down to plains below.

Now stretch'd a blue, and now a golden zone
Round that horizon; now o'er mountains proud
Dim vapours rest, or bright ones move alone:
An ebon wall, a smooth, portentous cloud,
First muttering low, anon with thunder loud,
Now rises quick, and brings a sweeping wind
O'er all that wood in waves before it bow'd;
And now a rainbow, with its top behind

A spangled veil of leaves, seems heaven and earth to bind.

Above the canopy, so thick and green, And spread so high o'er that enchanted vale, Through scatter'd openings oft were glimpses seen Of fleecy clouds, that, link'd together, sail In moonlight clear before the gentle gale: Sometimes a shooting meteor draws a glance; Sometimes a twinkling star, or planet pale, Long holds the lighted eye, as in a trance; And oft the milky-way gleams through the white

expanse.

That castle's open windows, though half-hid With flowering vines, show'd many a vision fair: A face all bloom, or light young forms, that thrid Some maze within, or lonely ones that wear The garb of joy with sorrow's thoughtful air, Oft caught the eye a moment: and the sound Of low, sweet music often issued there, And by its magic held the listener bound, And seem'd to hold the winds and forests far around.

This and the two extracts which follow are from "The Religion of Taste."

Within, the queen of all, in pomp or mirth, While glad attendants at her glance unfold Their shining wings, and fly through heaven and

earth,

Oft took her throne of burning gems and gold, Adorn'd with emblems that of empire told, And rising in the midst of trophies bright, That bring her memory from the days of old, And help prolong her reign, and with the flight Of every year increase the wonders of her might. In all her dwelling, tales of wild romance, Of terror, love, and mystery dark or gay, Were scatter'd thick to catch the wandering glance, And stop the dreamer on his unknown way; There, too, was every sweet and lofty lay, The sacred, classic, and romantic, sung As that enchantress moved in might or play; And there was many a harp but newly strung, Yet with its fearless notes the whole wide valley

rung.

There, from all lands and ages of her fame, Were marble forms, array'd in order due, In groups and single, all of proudest name; In them the high, the fair, and tender grew To life intense in love's impassion'd view, And from each air and feature, bend and swell, Each shapely neck, and lip, and forehead threw O'er each enamour'd sense so deep a spell, The thoughts but with the past or bright ideal dwell. The walls around told all the pencil's power; There proud creations of each mighty hand Shone with their hues and lines, as in the hour When the last touch was given at the command Of the same genius that at first had plann'd, Exulting in its great and glowing thought: Bright scenes of peace and war, of sea and land, Of love and glory, to new life were wrought, From history, from fable, and from nature brought.

With these were others all divine, drawn all From ground where oft, with signs and accents dread,

The lonely prophet doom'd to sudden fall Proud kings and cities, and with gentle tread Bore life's quick triumph to the humble dead, And where strong angels flew to blast or save, Where martyr'd hosts of old, and youthful bled, And where their mighty LORD o'er land and wave Spread life and peace till death, then spread them through the grave.

From these fix'd visions of the hallow'd eye, Some kindling gleams of their ethereal glow, Would ofttimes fall, as from the opening sky, On eyes delighted, glancing to and fro, Or fasten'd till their orbs dilated grow; Then would the proudest seem with joy to learn Truths they had fear'd or felt ashamed to know; The skeptic would believe, the lost return; And all the cold and low would seem to rise and burn. Theirs was devotion kindled by the vast, The beautiful, impassion'd, and refined ; And in the deep enchantment o'er them east, They look'd from earth, and soar'd above their kind

To the bless'd calm of an abstracted mind,
And its communion with things all its own,
Its forms sublime and lovely; as the blind,
Mid earthly scenes, forgotten, or unknown,
Live in ideal worlds, and wander there alone.

Such were the lone enthusiasts, wont to dwell
With all whom that enchantress held subdued,
As in the holiest circle of her spell,
Where meaner spirits never dare intrude,
They dwelt in calm and silent solitude,

Rapt in the love of all the high and sweet,
In thought, and art, and nature, and imbued
With its devotion to life's inmost seat,

As drawn from all the charms which in that valley meet.

In stripes drawn parallel with order rare, As of some temple vast or colonnade, While on green turf, made smooth without his care, He wander'd o'er its stripes of light and shade And heard the dying day-breeze all the boughs | pervade.

"T was thus in nature's bloom and solitude He nursed his grief till nothing could assuage; 'T was thus his tender spirit was subdued, Till in life's toils it could no more engage; And his had been a useless pilgrimage, Had he been gifted with no sacred power, To send his thoughts to every future age; But he is gone where grief will not devour, Where beauty will not fade, and skies will never lower.

ROUSSEAU AND COWPER.

ROUSSEAU Could weep-yes, with a heart of stone
The impious sophist could recline beside
The pure and peaceful lake, and muse alone
On all its loveliness at eventide :

On its small running waves, in purple dyed
Beneath bright clouds, or all the glowing sky,
On the white sails that o'er its bosom glide,
And on surrounding mountains wild and high,
Till tears unbidden gush'd from his enchanted eye.
But his were not the tears of feeling fine,
Of grief or love; at fancy's flash they flow'd,
Like burning drops from some proud, lonely pine,
By lightning fired; his heart with passion glow'd
Till it consumed his life, and yet he show'd
A chilling coldness both to friend and foe,
As Etna, with its centre an abode

Of wasting fire, chills with the icy snow
Of all its desert brow the living world below.

Was he but justly wretched from his crimes?
Then why was COWPER's anguish oft as keen,
With all the heaven-born virtue that sublimes
Genius and feeling, and to things unseen
Lifts the pure heart through clouds that roll be-

tween

The earth and skies, to darken human hope?
Or wherefore did those clouds thus intervene
To render vain faith's lifted telescope,

And leave him in thick gloom his weary way to grope?

He, too, could give himself to musing deep; By the calm lake at evening he could stand, Lonely and sad, to see the moonlight sleep On all its breast, by not an insect fann'd, And hear low voices on the far-off strand, Or through the still and dewy atmosphere The pipe's soft tones waked by some gentle hand, From fronting shore and woody island near In echoes quick return'd more mellow and more clear.

And he could cherish wild and mournful dreams, In the pine grove, when low the full moon fair Shot under lofty tops her level beams, Stretching the shades of trunks erect and bare,

THE CURE OF MELANCHOLY.

AND thou, to whom long worshipp'd nature lends No strength to fly from grief or bear its weight, Stop not to rail at foes or fickle friends, Nor set the world at naught, nor spurn at fate; None seek thy misery, none thy being hate; Break from thy former self, thy life begin; Do thou the good thy thoughts oft meditate, And thou shalt feel the good man's peace within, And at thy dying day his wreath of glory win. With deeds of virtue to embalm his name, He dies in triumph or serene delight; Weaker and weaker grows his mortal frame At every breath, but in immortal might His spirit grows, preparing for its flight: The world recedes and fades like clouds of even, But heaven comes nearer fast, and grows more

bright,

All intervening mists far off are driven; The world will vanish soon, and all will soon be heaven.

Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief? Or is thy heart oppress'd with woes untold? Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief? Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold: "Tis when the rose is wrapp'd in many a fold Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there Its life and beauty; not when, all unroll'd, Leaf after leaf, its bosom rich and fair Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the ambient air.

Wake, thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers, Lest these lost years should haunt thee on the night

When death is waiting for thy number'd hours
To take their swift and everlasting flight;
Wake ere the earthborn charm unnerve thee quite,
And be thy thoughts to work divine address'd;
Do something-do it soon-with all thy might;
An angel's wing would droop if long at rest,
And God himself inactive were no longer bless'd.

Some high or humble enterprise of good
Contemplate till it shall possess thy mind,

Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food,
And kindle in thy heart a flame refined;
Pray Heaven with firmness thy whole soul to bind
To this thy purpose-to begin, pursue,
With thoughts all fix'd and feelings purely kind,
Strength to complete, and with delight review,
And grace to give the praise where all is ever due.

No good of worth sublime will Heaven permit
To light on man as from the passing air;
The lamp of genius, though by nature lit,
If not protected, pruned, and fed with care,
Soon dies, or runs to waste with fitful glare;
And learning is a plant that spreads and towers
Slow as Columbia's aloe, proudly rare,

That, mid gay thousands, with the suns and showers

Of half a century, grows alone before it flowers.

Has immortality of name been given
To them that idly worship hills and groves,
And burn sweet incense to the queen of heaven?
Did NEWTON learn from fancy, as it roves,
To measure worlds, and follow where each moves?
Did HOWARD gain renown that shall not cease,
By wanderings wild that nature's pilgrim loves?
Or did PAUL gain heaven's glory and its peace,
By musing o'er the bright and tranquil isles of
Greece?

Beware lest thou, from sloth, that would appear
But lowliness of mind, with joy proclaim
Thy want of worth; a charge thou couldst not hear
From other lips, without a blush of shame,
Or pride indignant; then be thine the blame,
And make thyself of worth; and thus enlist
The smiles of all the good, the dear to fame;
'Tis infamy to die and not be miss'd,

Or let all soon forget that thou didst e'er exist.

Rouse to some work of high and holy love, And thou an angel's happiness shalt know,Shalt bless the earth while in the world above; The good begun by thee shall onward flow In many a branching stream, and wider grow; The seed that, in these few and fleeting hours, Thy hands unsparing and unwearied sow,› Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers, And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal bowers.

SIGHTS AND SOUNDS OF THE NIGHT.

ERE long the clouds were gone, the moon was set;
When deeply blue without a shade of gray,
The sky was fill'd with stars that almost met,
Their points prolong'd and sharpen'd to one ray;
Through their transparent air the milky-way
Seem'd one broad flame of pure resplendent white,
As if some globe on fire, turn'd far astray,
Had cross'd the wide arch with so swift a flight,
That for a moment shone its whole long track of
light.

At length in northern skies, at first but small, A sheet of light meteorous begun

To spread on either hand, and rise and full In waves, that slowly first, then quickly run Along its edge, set thick but one by one With spiry beams, that all at once shot high, Like those through vapours from the setting sun; Then sidelong as before the wind they fly, Like streaking rain from clouds that fit along the sky.

Now all the mountain-tops and gulfs between Seem'd one dark plain; from forests, caves profound,

And rushing waters far below unseen, Rose a deep roar in one united sound, Alike pervading all the air around, And seeming e'en the azure dome to fill, And from it through soft ether to resound In low vibrations, sending a sweet thrill To every finger's end from rapture deep and still.

LIVE FOR ETERNITY.

A BRIGHT or dark eternity in view, With all its fix'd, unutterable things, What madness in the living to pursue, As their chief portion, with the speed of wings, The joys that death-beds always turn to stings! Infatuated man, on earth's smooth waste To dance along the path that always brings Quick to an end, from which with tenfold haste Back would he gladly fly till all should be retraced'

Our life is like the hurrying on the eve Before we start, on some long journey bound, When fit preparing to the last we leave, Then run to every room the dwelling round, And sigh that nothing needed can be found; Yet go we must, and soon as day shall break; We snatch an hour's repose, when loud the sound For our departure calls; we rise and take A quick and sad farewell, and go ere well awake.

Rear'd in the sunshine, blasted by the storms Of changing time, scarce asking why or whence, Men come and go like vegetable forms, Though heaven appoints for them a work immense, Demanding constant thought and zeal intense, Awaked by hopes and fears that leave no room For rest to mortals in the dread suspense, While yet they know not if beyond the tomb A long, long life of bliss or wo shall be their doom.

What matter whether pain or pleasures fill The swelling heart one little moment here? From both alike how vain is every thrill, While an untried eternity is near! Think not of rest, fond man, in life's career; The joys and grief that meet thee, dash aside Like bubbles, and thy bark right onward steer Through calm and tempest, till it cross the tide, Shoot into port in triumph, or serenely glide.

66

MR. NEAL is a native of Portland. In 1815 he went to Baltimore, and was there associated several years with JoHN PIERPONT in mercantile transactions; but these resulting disastrously, he turned his attention to literature, commencing his career by writing for "The Portico," a monthly magazine, a series of critical essays on the works of BYRON. In 1818, he published Keep Cool," a novel, and in the following year "The Battle of Niagara, Goldau the Maniac Harper, and other Poems, by Jehu O'Cataract,' ," and "Otho," a tragedy. He also wrote a large portion of ALLEN'S History of the American Revolution," which appeared early in 1821. In 1822 he published in Philadelphia a second novel, entitled "Logan," which was reprinted soon after in London. This was followed in 1823 by "Seventy-six," the most popular of his fictions; Randolph," a story which attracted considerable attention at the time by the notices it contained of the most prominent politicians, authors, and artists then in the country; and Errata, or the Works of Will Adams."

66

Near the close of the last-mentioned year Mr. NEAL went abroad. Soon after his arrival in London he became a contributor to various periodicals, for which he wrote, chiefly under the guise of an Englishman, numerous articles to correct erroneous opinions which prevailed in regard to the social and political condition of the United States. He made his first appearance in Blackwood's Magazine, in "Sketches of the Five American Presidents and the Five Candidates for the Presidency," a paper which was widely republished, and, with others, led to his introduction to many eminent persons, among whom was JEREMY BENTHAM, who continued until his death to be Mr. NEAL'S warm personal friend.

After passing four years in Great Britain and on the continent, in which time appeared his "Brother Jonathan," a novel, Mr. NEAL came back to his

"JEHU O'CATARACT" was a name given to NEAL by the Delphian Club of Baltimore, of which PAUL ALLEN, Gen. BYND, Rev. JoHN PIERPONT, Judge BRECKENRIDGE, NEAL, and other distinguished men, were then members. The second edition of the Battle of Niagara was published in 1819, and for " JEHU O'CATARACT" was substituted the real name of the author.

In this edition of "The Poets and Poetry of America" I have quoted from the "Battle of Niagara" as it appeared with the "last additions and corrections.” I had seen only the first impression of it when this work was originally prepared for the press.

In a note in Blackwood's Magazine, Mr. NEAL says he wrote "Randolph" in thirty-six days, with an interval of about a week between the two volumes, in which he wrote nothing; "Errata" in less than thirty-nine days; and "Seventy-six" in twenty-seven days. During this time he was engaged in professional business.

native city of Portland, where he now resides. Since his return he has published « Rachel Dyer,” "Authorship," "The Down Easters," and "Ruth Elder;" edited "The Yankee," a weekly gazette, two years, and contributed largely to other periodicals.

Mr. NEAL's novels contain numerous passages marked by brilliancy of sentiment and expression, and occasional scenes which show that he possesses dramatic ability. They are original; they are written from the impulses of his heart, and are pervaded by the peculiarities of his character; but most of them were produced rapidly and carelessly, and are without unity, aim, or continuous interest.

His poems have the unquestionable stamp of genius. He possesses imagination in a degree of sensibility and energy hardly surpassed in this age. The elements of poetry are poured forth in his verses with a prodigality and power altogether astonishing. But he is deficient in the constructive faculty. He has no just sense of proportion. No one with so rich and abundant materials had ever less skill in using them. Instead of bringing the fancy to adorn the structures of the imagination, he reverses the poetical law, giving to the imagination the secondary office, so that the points illustrated are quite forgotten in the accumulation and splendour of the imagery. The "Battle of Niagara," with its rapid and slow, gay and solemn movement, falls on the ear as if it were composed to martial music. It is marred, however, by his customary faults. The isthmus which bounds the beautiful is as narrow as that upon the borders of the sublime, and he crosses both without hesitation. Passages in it would be magnificent but for lines or single words which, if the reader were not confident that he had before him the author's own edition, he would think had been thrown in by some burlesquing enemy.

I have heard an anecdote which illustrates the rapidity with which he writes. When he lived in Baltimore, he went one evening to the rooms of PIERPONT, and read to him a poem which he had just completed. The author of " Airs of Palestine" was always a nice critic, and he frankly pointed out the faults of the performance. NEAL promised to revise it, and submit it again on the following morning. At the appointed time he repaired to the apartment of his friend, and read to him a new poem, of three or four hundred lines. He had tried to improve his first, but failing to do so, had chosen a new subject, a new measure, and produced an entirely new work, before retiring to sleep.

In the last edition of his Poems, Mr NEAL presents some specimens of an intended epic on the conquest of Peru; and he has written many lyrical pieces, not included in his collections, which have been popular.

FROM THE CONQUEST OF PERU.

INVOCATION TO THE DEITY.

O THOU, from whom the rebel angels fled,
When thou didst rend thine everlasting veil,
And show thy countenance in wrath! O Thou,
Before whose brow, unclothed in light-put forth
In awful revelation-they that stood
Erect in heaven, they that walk'd sublime,
E'en in thy presence, Lord! and they that shone
Most glorious 'mid the host of glorious ones,
With Lucifer the Morning Star, the Terrible,
The chief of old immortals-with the sight
Were suddenly consumed! Almighty! Thou,
Whose face but shone upon the rebel host
Of warring constellations, and their crowns
Were quench'd for ever! and the mightiest fell,
And lo! innumerable wings went up,
And gather'd round about the Eternal's throne,
And all the solitudes of air were fill'd
With thunders and with voices! and the war

Fled from thy presence! And thy wrath was o'er,
And heaven again in peace!......

O Thou-our Inspiration-Thou, O God!
To whom the prophets and the crowned kings,
The bards of many years, who caught from Thee
Their blazing of the spirit! Thou, to whom
The Jewish monarchs, on their ivory thrones,
Flaming with jewelry, have fallen down
And rung their golden harps, age after age!
O Thou, to whom the gifted men of old,
Who stood among the mysteries of heaven,
Read the thick stars, and listened to the wind,
Interpreted the thunder, told the voice
Of Ocean tumbling in his caves, explained
The everlasting characters of flame
That burn upon the firmament, and saw
The face of him that sitteth in the sun,
And read the writing there, that comes and goes,
Revealing to the eyes the fate of men,

Of monarchs, and of empires!-men who stood
Amid the solitudes of heaven and earth, and heard
From the high mountain-top the silent Night
Give out her uninterpreted decrees!-
The venerable men! the old, and mighty,
Prophets and bards and kings, whose souls were fill'd
With immortality, and visions, till

Their hearts have ached with weary supplication;
Till all the Future, rushing o'er their strings,
In tempest and in light, hath drown'd their prayers,
And left their mighty harps all ringing loud
With prophecy and wo! O Thou, to whom
Innumerable suns, and moons, and worlds,
The glorious elevations of the sky,
The choirs of cherubim and seraphim-
Immortal multitudes, that worship round
Thine echoing throne-upon their golden harps
And silver trumps, and organs of the air,
Pour everlasting melody! O Thou, to whom
All this hath been familiar from the hour

Sublime and confident, and woman, up
From the sunshine of the Eternal rose,
All intellect and love! and all the hills
And all the vales were green, and all the trees in flower.
-O, bless our trembling harp!

FROM THE BATTLE OF NIAGARA.

A CAVALCADE SEEN AT SUNSET THROUGH A GORGE.

Aн, now let us gaze! what a wonderful sky! How the robe of the god, in its flame-colored dye, Goes ruddily, flushingly, sweepingly by!.... Nay, speak! did you ever behold such a night? While the winds blew about, and the waters were The sun rolling home in an ocean of light! [bright, But hush! there is music away in the sky; Some creatures of magic are charioting by; [wild Now it comes what a sound! 't is as cheerful and As the echo of caves to the laugh of a child; Ah yes, they are here! See, away to your left, Where the sun has gone down, where the mountains are cleft,

A troop of tall horsemen! How fearless they ride! "Tis a perilous path o'er that steep mountain's side; Careering they come, like a band of young knights, That the trumpet of morn to the tilting invites; With high-nodding plumes, and with sun-shiny vests; With wide-tossing manes, and with mail-cover'd breasts;

With arching of necks, and the plunge and the pride
Of their high-mettled steeds, as they galloping ride,
In glitter and pomp; with their housings of gold,
With their scarlet and blue, as their squadrons unfold
Flashing changeable light, like a banner unroll'd!
Now they burst on the eye in their martial array
And now they have gone, like a vision of day.
In a streaming of splendour they came-but they
wheel'd;

As if 't were a tournament held in the sky,
And instantly all the bright show was conceal'd-
Betray'd by some light passing suddenly by;
Some band by the flashing of torches reveal'd,
As it fell o'er the boss of an uplifted shield,
Or banners and blades in the darkness conceal'd

Of many thunders, pealing thy decree, Creation sprang to light, when time began And all the boundless sky was full of suns, Rolling in symphony, and man was made

The lustre-crown'd peaks, while they dazzled the eye,
Seem'd loosen'd and passing away in the sky,
And the far-distant hills, in their tremulous blue,
But baffled the eye, as it dwelt on their hue.