"Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines,
Shrines to no code or creed confined,-
The Delphian vales, the Palestines,
The Meccas of the mind.

"Sages, with wisdom's garland wreathed,
Crowned kings, and mitred priests of power,
And warriors with their bright swords sheathed,
The mightiest of the hour;

"And lowlier names, whose humble home
Is lit by Fortune's dimmer star,

Are there-o'er wave and mountain come,
From countries near and far;

"Pilgrims whose wandering feet have prest
The Switzer's snow, the Arab's sand,
Or trod the piled leaves of the West,
My own green forest-land.

"All ask the cottage of his birth,

Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung,
And gather feelings not of earth
His fields and streams among.

"They linger by the Doon's low trees,
And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr,
And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries!
The Poet's tomb is there.

"But what to them the sculptor's art,

His funeral columns, wreaths, and urns?—
Wear they not, graven on the heart,
The name of Robert Burns ?"

There is a good deal of spirit about the poem of Wyoming, and some delicious rural description-but in the abrupt, parenthetical dashes, and vicissitudes of style, which it contains, we recognise a residuum or leaven from Croaker and Company's peculiar passion; and we must be permitted to say, that we look upon it as the offspring of bad taste. Every one knows that Campbell's Gertrude was painted couleur de rose; yet the fair Wyoming, or the banks of the fair Susquehanna, never came palpably within the scope of his corporeal eye. He looked at them merely, through the glass of his imagination. But we confess we had rather see his heroine as the bard of Hope has painted her, than to scrutinize her proportions, hoeing corn, sans hose and shoon. We do not affect this blending of styles. One at a time is sufficient; and there is an infelicity about the commingling of two or more, at the very best. Abrupt transitions, such as we find in Don Juan, are amusing, it is true, but then they are utterly devoid of dignity: without which, pathos is a poor gawd, and the virtues, pitiful ministers

to the burlesque. We really think that Mr. Halleck should eschew this propensity henceforth, whenever he writes gravely. Wit he has, and humour, in abundance; but let him not present them in compositions that might move, as with the wand of a prophet, the sacred fountains of sympathy or tears. We are aware of his versatility; but it should be evinced in the separate, rather than in the collected variety of his performances. Olla-podridas of the kind may have told well in Matthews' amusing rehearsals--but they are not defensible in a bard like Halleck.

Passing over the elegiac effusion on the death of JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE, which is familiar to every admirer of our author, we reach the ensuing lines entitled "Twilight." There is about them a holy music, which rings at the portals of our spiritual ear, like the breathings of some enchanting lute. As we read it, all our visions of the tender and the lovely throng up in glittering array before the eye of reminiscence. We see the sunlight playing again on the vernal landscapes of our early youth; a momentary glimpse is given us of the sheen of waters, that can never flash so blue and bright as in other days; hallowed hours, spell-bound moments, are hurrying by upon the wings of remembrance; and, convening again around us, in sweet communion, the distant and the dead, we go back with rapture to the times when, to our unpractised eyes, there was a newness of lustre in the brave evening firmament, fretted with dazzling fires; and when the mere boon of existence sufficed us, while we could look upon the folded lily, as it rested in humble modesty on the margin of the water-brook, and "rocked to sleep a world of insect life in its golden cradle." These of course were childish affections; and when we come to be men, we put away childish things; but a strain like "Twilight" re-presents them anew.

TWILIGHT.

"There is an evening twilight of the heart,
When its wild passion-waves are lulled to rest,
And the eye sees life's fairy scenes depart,
As fades the day-beam in the rosy west.

'Tis with a nameless feeling of regret

We gaze upon them as they melt away,
And fondly would we bid them linger yet,
But hope is round us with her angel lay,
Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour;

Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early power.
"In youth the cheek was crimsoned with her glow;
Her smile was loveliest then; her matin song
Was heaven's own music, and the note of wo
Was all unheard her sunny bowers among.

'Outre-Mer.

Life's little world of bliss was newly born;

We knew not, cared not, it was born to die;
Flushed with the cool breeze and the dews of morn,
With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky,
And mocked the passing clouds that dimmed its blue,
Like our own sorrows then-as fleeting and as few.
"And manhood felt her sway too-on the eye,

Half realised, her early dreams burst bright,
Her promised bower of happiness seemed nigh,
Its days of joy, its vigils of delight;

And though at times might lour the thunder storm,
And the red lightnings threaten, still the air
Was balmy with her breath, and her loved form,
The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there.

'Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen,

Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer green.

"But though less dazzling in her twilight dress,

There's more of heaven's pure beam about her now;
That angel-smile of tranquil loveliness,

Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow;

That smile shall brighten the dim evening star
That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart

Till the faint light of life is fled afar,

And hushed the last deep beating of the heart;
The meteor-bearer of our parting breath,

A moon-beam in the midnight cloud of death.”

The moral idea of this poem is as charming as its execution. The subject is common enough; but it is the treatment which gives it unction and acceptance. One naturally loves to contemplate the setting sun, when, after describing one of his long summer-arches, his red forehead plunges adown the west, and gorgeous companies of clouds, "contextured in the loom of heaven," begirt him round, waiting in painted liveries about his royal throne. Heaven seems nearer at hand; the creeping murmurs of the dark appear preparing to stir from their caverns; the twilight breeze is lifting its wings from the white crests of the ocean, and poising them for a rush over the interminable inland; and the crescent moon, with the largest stars burning in her train, hangs herself in the dark depths of heaven, dividing with the farewell light of day that aerial abyss. At an hour like this, we cannot help exclaiming, with the tranquillizing Glück

"Methinks it were no pain to die
On such an eve, when such a sky
O'ercanopies the west;
To gaze my fill on yon calm deep,
And, like an infant, sink to sleep
On earth, my mother's breast.
"There's peace and welcome in yon sea
Of endless, blue tranquillity-

Those clouds are living things;

I trace their veins of liquid gold-
I see them solemnly unfold

Their soft and fleecy wings.

"These be the angels, that convey
Us, weary pilgrims of a day,

Life's tedious nothings o'er,

Where neither cares can come, nor woes,
To vex the genius of repose,

On death's majestic shore."

"The Field of the Grounded Arms, Saratoga," is a production which has all the spirit, without any of the poetry, of music around or within it. We are surprised that one so accustomed, both by practice and the habitudes of his thought, to harmonious numbers, as Mr. Halleck is, should have written verses like these, which halt so tediously away. Had he treated his theme in blank verse, all would have been well; but as the piece now stands, it is a truly amphibious and hermaphrodite composition. The sentiment is stirring and patriotic; the conceptions, fine; but the construction is a species of composite order, whose constituents it would be difficult indeed to explain or trace home. We copy one quotation as an illustration.

We may be prejudiced against this nondescript sort of quantity; but the mode strikes us as very nearly akin to the annexed specimen of a verse which we offer with the aid of an indiscriminate memory, from an effusion of Warren, or Day and Martin-a polished press-gang, who are famous for compelling the Nine into their service:

"Sixpence a pot, we

Axes for our best jet-
Blacking; but if you
Takes back the pot, we
Makes a deduction."

The reader will bear in mind that we may not quote the foregoing verbatim; but we have preserved the pauses and the system. With respect to structure and motive power, the parallel is almost complete.

It gives us pleasure to continue our course through Mr. Halleck's volume, and to find that a weakened gust for one poem, may be succeeded by the strongest admiration for another. Red Jacket is one of those lofty and fervid effusions, that one reads to remember. The author's humorous propensity creeps out in it occasionally; but, as a whole, it is

magnificently done. There is a pathetic under-song in this production, which leaves its echo in the heart. The author has represented Red Jacket very much to the life; though the transatlantic allusions might have been well dispensed with. That noble old chief had a spice of the philosopher about him, which would have done honour to the wiliest potentate that ever bent the million to his beck, or swayed a party with his nod. There was a natural grandeur about him, forest-born; the air that circulates over interminable wildernesses, and sweeps in freedom across inland seas, was the vital aliment for which his free nostrils thirsted; the perfume that goes up to the sky from vast reservations, as it went from the flowery tops of Carmel in the olden time, was his chosen element of respiration; the anthem for his ear was the voice of Niagara. We can readily believe that he admired his own untrammeled way of life; revered Manitou; and, perhaps, loved the fire-water which drowned the memory of his wrongs. In a part of his tenets, he had wisdom on his side. The man who chooses to run wild in woods, a noble savage, can find many enlightened wights in the purlieus of Christendom to bear him out in his partialities. The dress of Red Jacket, in his primitive condition, was of the simplest kind. He was not in the straitened, tailor-owing condition of many at the present day. "I have thatched myself over," says a modern European writer, perhaps in the predicament just hinted at," with the dead fleeces of sheep, the bark of vegetables, the entrails of worms, the hides of oxen or seals, the entrails of furred beasts, and walk abroad a moving rag-screen, overheaped with shreds and tatters, raked from the charnel-house of nature." In his best days, Red Jacket had no fancy for integuments like these: and his bard should not have stooped to compare his dress at any time with that of "George the Fourth, at Brighton;" for Halleck is a man who cannot easily conceal from himself the fact that there are noblemen of nature, and that a drawing-room, whether of the British monarch, or of le Roi Citoyen, "is simply a section of infinite space, where so many God-created souls do for the time meet together." But we keep the reader from our quotation.

"Is strength a monarch's merit, like a whaler's?
Thou art as tall, as sinewy, and as strong
As earth's first kings-the Argo's gallant sailors,
Heroes in history, and gods in song.

"Is beauty ?-Thine has with thy youth departed;
But the love-legends of thy manhood's years,
And she who perished, young and broken-hearted,
Are-but I rhyme for smiles and not for tears.