Thou poor old Earth! no more, no more Shall I draw speech from thee, Nor dare thy crypts of legendary lore: [shore. Let silence learn no tongue; let night fold every Yet I have something left-the will, That Mont Blanc of the soul, is towering still. The storm, the old heroic chain; Pluck wisdom from my torture, and give back I do believe the wrong'd alone can know 'Tis plain as a white statue on a tall, dark steep. Oh, suffering bards! oh, spirits black Like stars into a cloud withdrawn- In dried-up fountains-like a stricken dawn I hear the bolts around us falling, Or from our fellows did the torture spring? Oh, know ye not 'tis victory but to live? With many waters rising like a voice. And thou for His great sake hadst being: Oh, yet thou shalt be a majestic creature, New moons on high, thy plains continuous bowers, Upon the rocks beside the frozen fountains, The avalanches of Gon's judgments roll'd With stately motion and far thunder down Eternity's old mountains: We hear, and calmly smile Amid the mist on this our rocky pile." Oh, suffering but heroic souls! Your voices come to me like muffled rolls Of brave but mournful thunders at their goals: And, gaining strength, once more I cry aloud From mine own stormy peak and clinging shroud, Still, still rejoice, with harp and voice! I know not what our fate may be: I only know that he who hath a time One billow proves and gives a whole wide sea. And not on mountain-dust, Or murmuring woods, or starlit clime, Or ocean with melodious chime, Or sunset glories in the western sky: No tempest heralded the orient light; Amid the darkness shed some joyous tears; The Stars look'd from their palaces, whose spires Gemm'd sceptres with a thunderous sound Ah! sick at soul-but they, the bards, And each, with an eager, fond look, stirr'd While the startled tempest-bearing bird, "Ye cannot leave your throned spheres, Though faith is o'er, And a mightier ONE than JOVE appears Slowly the daring words went trampling through the balls "Not in the earth, nor hell, nor sky, "Still, Jove, sublime, shall wrap Sweep through the corridors of the ancient sky With smouldering fires that stir in cavern'd eyes That earth holds up for her in marble fountains: And where the conflict reels, Urge through the swaying lines his crashing wheels; "And HE the trident-wielder still shall see Saturn was banished to Italy. To their hid window-tops above, And thon, ah, thou, Born of the white sea-foam That dreams a-troubled still around thy home- Where waters murmur and the dim leaves bow: At midnight's pallid noon Shall still be charm'd from his dewy sleep By the foolish, lovesick Moon, Who thrills to find him in some lovely vale Before her silver lamp may fail: And PAN shall play his pleasant reed And fauns shall prank the sward amid 66 Nor absent sHE whose eyes of azure throw* Truth's sunburst on the world below: Still shall she calmly watch the choral years Circling fast the beamy spheres That tremble as she marches through their plains, While momently rolls out a sullen sound From Error's hoary mountains tumbling round— That his immortal spirit still can mock, In the grand quiet of his own great thought: Thou, PSYCHE, glory-cinctured shalt be seen, Like far-off stars that glimmer in a cloud, Long as the dim robes of the ages trail Though time and storm your calm old temples rend, "Thou, Pallas, Wisdom's blue-eyed queen !” According to the Greek mythology, Promethens stole fire from heaven and created man, for which Jove pun ished him. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. [Born, 1819] MR. LOWELL is a native of Boston, where his father is an eminent Congregational clergyman. He completed his education at Harvard College when about twenty years of age, and subsequently studied the law, but I believe with no intention of entering the courts. His first appearance as an author was in 1839, when he printed a class poem recited at Cambridge. It was a composition in heroic verse, which, though it betrayed marks of haste, contained many strokes of vigorous satire, much sharp wit, and occasional bursts of feeling. Two years afterward he published a volume of miscellaneous poems, under the title of " A Year's Life." This bore no relationship to his first production. It illustrated entirely different thoughts, feelings, and habits. It not only evinced a change of heart, but so entire a revolution in his mode of thinking as to seem the production of a different mind. The staple of one forms the satire of the other. Not more unlike are CARLYLE'S "Life of SCHILLER" and his "Sartor Resartus." Though "A Year's Life" was by no means deficient in merit, it had so many weak points as to be easily accessible to satirical criticism. The author's language was not pure. When he would "wreak his thoughts upon expression," in the absence of allowable words, he corrupted such as came nearest his meaning into terms which had an intelligible sound, but would not bear a close scrutiny. With all its faults, however, the book had gleams and flashes of genius, which justified warm praises and sanguine expectations. The new poet, it was evident, had an observing eye, and a suggestive imagination; he had caught the tone and spirit of the new and mystical philosophy; he had a large heart; and he aimed, not altogether unsuccessfully, to make Nature the representative and minister of his feelings and desires. If he failed in attempts to put thin abstractions and ever-fleeting shades of thought and emotion into palpable forms, the signs, in A Year's Life," of the struggling of a larger nature than appeared in defined outlines, made for the author a watchful and hopeful audience. In 1844 Mr. LOWELL published a new volume, evincing very decided advancement in thought, and feeling, and execution. The longest of its contents, "A Legend of Brittany," is without any of the striking faults of his previous compositions, and in imagination and artistic finish is the best poem he has yet printed. A knight loves and betrays a maiden, and, to conceal his crime, murders her, and places her corpse for temporary concealment behind the altar of his church, whence he is prevented by a mysterious awe from removing it. Meanwhile a festival is held there, and when the people are all assembled, and the organ sounds, the temp'ar hears the voice of the wronged spirit, complaining that she has no rest in heaven because of the state of the unbaptized infant in her womb, for which she implores the sacrament. Her prayer is granted, and the repentant lover dies of remorse. The illustration of this story gives occasion for the finest of Mr. LowELL's exhibitions of love, and the poem is in all respects beautiful and complete. In the same volume appeared the author's "Prometheus," "Rhocus," and some of his most admired shorter pieces. He put forth in it his best powers, and though it embraced occasional redundancies, and he was sometimes so illsatisfied with his poem as to give in its conclusion a versified exposition of its meaning in the form of a moral, it secured the general consent to his admission into the company of men of genius. In 1845 appeared his "Conversations on some of the Old Poets," consisting of a series of criticisms and relevant discussions which evince careful study, delicate perception, and a generous catholicity of taste; but the book does not contain the best specimens of his criticism or of his prose diction. He gave to the public a third collection of his poems in 1848. In this there is no improvement of versification, no finer fancy, or braver imagination, than in the preceding volume; but it illustrates a deeper interest in affairs, and a warm partisanship for the philanthropists and progressists of all classes. Among his subjects are "The Present Crisis," "Anti-Texas," "The Capture of Fugitive Slaves," "Hunger and Cold," "The Landlord," &c. He gives here the first examples of a peculiar humour, which he has since cultivated with success, and many passages of finished declamation and powerful invective. He had been married, in 1844, to Miss MARIA WHITE, whose abilities are shown in a graceful composition included in this volume, and by others which I have quoted in the "Female Poets of America." In the same year Mr. LowELL published "A Fable for Critics, or a Glance at a Few of our Literary Progenies," a rhymed essay, critical and satirical, upon the principal living writers of the country. It abounds in ingenious turns of expression, and felicitous sketches of character; it is witty and humorous, and for the most part in a spirit of genial appreciation; but in a few instances the judgments indicate too narrow a range of sympathies, and the caustic severity of others has been attributed to desires of retaliation. TheFable for Critics" was soon followed by The Biglow Papers," a collection of verses in the dialect of New England, with an introduction and notes, written in the character of a pedantic but sharp-witted and patriotic country parson. | The book is a satire upon the defences of our recent war against Mexico, and it exhibits in various forms of indigenous and homely humour the indignation with which the contest was regarded by the best sort of people in the eastern states. The sectional peculiarities of idiom are perhaps exaggerated, but the entire work has an appearance of genuineness. About the same time appeared Mr. LOWELL'S "Vision of Sir Launfal," a poem founded upon the legend of the search for the Holy Grail, (the cup out of which our Lord drank with his disci ples at the last supper.) This is one of his longest and most beautiful poems, but an objection to it is poetically as well as metaphysically just, that the actions of Sir Launfal are induced by convictions of duty rather than by simple love. Besides these works, Mr. LoWELL has written much for the periodicals. He edited several months a monthly miscellany called "The Pioneer," and he is now an associate editor of the Anti-Slavery Standard." He is the author of some of the best papers in the “North American Review," and under various disguises is a contributor to other magazines and journals. TO THE DANDELION. DEAR common flower, that grow'st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of b'ithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold, High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they An Eldorado in the grass have found, Which not the rich earth's ample round May match in wealth-thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, Nor wrinkled the lean brow Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease; 'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, Though most hearts never understand Are in the heart, and heed not space or time; In the white lily's breezy tint, Where, as the breezes pass, The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways- That from the distance sparkle through My childhood's earliest thoughts are link'd with The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, [thee; Who, from the dark old tree Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, With news from heaven, which he did bring How like a prodigal doth Nature scem, More sacredly of every human heart, TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS HOOD. ANOTHER star 'neath Time's horizon dropp'd, To gleam o'er unknown lands and seas! Another heart that beat for freedom stopp'd: What mournful words are these! Oh! Love divine, thou claspest our tired earth, And lullest it upon thy heart, Thou knowest how much a gentle soul is worth, To teach men what thou art. His was a spirit that to all thy poor Was kind as slumber after pain: Freedom needs all her poets: it is they Her wild imaginings. Yet thou hast call'd him, nor art thou unkind, Let laureli'd marbles weigh on other tombs, His epitaph shall mock the short-lived stone, "Here lies a poet: stranger, if to thee His claim to memory be obscure, If thou wouldst learn how truly great was he, Go, ask it of the poor." SONNETS. I. TO. THROUGH suffering and sorrow thou hast pass'd Whose strength gives warrant of good fruit at last; Tus hungry flame hath never yet been hot If they may tread the path where Jesus went, III. I ASK not for those thoughts, that sudden leap Where, mid tall palms, the cane-roof'd home is seen, IV. TO, ON HER BIRTH-DAY. MAIDEN, when such a soul as thine is born, The morning-stars their ancient music make, And, joyful, once again their song awake, Long silent now with melancholy scorn; And thou, not mindless of so blest a morn, By no least deed its harmony shalt break, But shalt to that high chime thy footsteps take, Through life's most darksome passes, unforlorn; Therefore from thy pure faith thou shalt not fall, Therefore shalt thou be ever fair and free, And, in thine every motion, musical As summer air, majestic as the sea, A mystery to those who creep and crawl Through Time, and part it from Eternity. V. TO THE SAME. My Love, I have no fear that thou shouldst die; We live and love, well knowing that there is more, That they who love are but one step from Heaven. IV. TO THE SPIRIT OF KEATS. GREAT Soul thou sittest with me in my room, VII. TO. OUR love is not a fading, earthly flower; And makes the body's dark and narrow grate VIII. IN ABSENCE. THESE rugged, wintry days I scarce could bear, Bid my heart bloom, and sing, and break all care: |