the True, the Just, with Humanity and with Nature.

The first poem in the volume which heads our rubric, is exceedingly beautiful. Consisting of only thirty lines, it would furnish ample scope for the employment of the happiest pencil that ever produced a landscape. The sweet, constant sound of the brook, comes musically upon the ear, its glancing course, now in shade and now in sunshine,-the gliding thrush,-the unstartled fawn,-all awaken images of varied, quiet, harmonious Nature, as grateful to the imagination as they are soothing to the spirit; and the exquisite termination, likening the prattling streamlet in its course onward till lost in the broad glare of sunlight, to the advancing life of childhood from the quiet, defined seclusion of the home-world, to the great, undistinguishing all-absorbing glare of the wide world-life, is a fitting termination, admirably concealing, but clearly suggesting a moral lesson. There are almost as many beauties as there are lines in the poem, and all so naturally linked together, that it would mar its harmony and completeness to make extracts: we must quote it entire.

THE BROOKLET.

A little farther on, there is a brook

Where the breeze lingers idly. The high trees
Have roofed it with their crowding limbs and leaves,
So that the sun drinks not from its sweet fount,
And the shade cools it. You may hear it now,
A low, faint beating, as, upon the leaves
That lie beneath its rapids, it descends,
In a fine showery rain, that keeps one tune,
And 'tis a sweet one, still of constancy.
Beside its banks, thro' the whole live long day,
Ere yet I noted much the speed of time,
And knew him but in songs and ballad-books,
Nor cared to know him better, I have lain ;
With thought unchid by harsher din than came
From the quick thrush, that, gliding through the copse,
Hurried above me; or the timid fawn

That came down to the brooklet's edge to drink,
And sauntered through its shade, cropping the grass,
Even where I lay, having a quiet mood,
And not disturbing, while surveying mine.

Thou smil'st-and on thy lip a straying thought
Says I have trifled-calls my hours misspent,
And looks a solemn warning! A true thought,—
And so my errant mood were well rebuked!--
Yet there was pleasant sadness that became
Meetly the gentle heart and pliant sense,
In that same idlesse--gazing on that brook
So pebbly and so clear,-prattling away,
Like a young child, all thoughtless, till it goes
From shadow into sunlight, and is lost.

There is a soft haze hanging on yon hill
Tinged with a purple light. How beautiful,
And yet how cold! 'Tis the first robe put on
By sad October. Well may he repine,
His dowry is decay :-decay though bright,
And desolate, though bounteous. The sweet green,
The summer flush of love,-the golden bloom,
That came with flow'rs in April-all are gone.
The green is pallid;-the warm, virgin flush,
That was a maiden glory on the cheek
And in the eye of summer, shrinks away,
To gather on the hill-tops ;-wooing in vain,
The last embrace to sorrowful twilight given,
By the down-vanishing sun :--and the sweet airs
Wail heavily through the branches, while the leaves,
Saddest of mourners! flung on summer's grave,
Lament her in the silence of true grief!

Both of these poems have been retouched and enlarged in the volume containing the "Cassique of Accabee.”

66 The Brooklet" is enriched

with additional pictures, which add greatly to its beauty and effect. The "Autumn Twilight" in

its second form, contains additional lines, which we should be sorry to have lost. In any collection of Mr. Simms' poems we should think it expedient to choose the later recension of the former poem for insertion; but we should be glad to see the first seventeen lines of "Autumn Twilight" given separately, as they originally stand, and the whole of the poem inserted, also, as it is given in its more recent form.

"The Young Mother" is another finely drawn picture, of tenderness and grace. There is one blemish in it,the fourth line,-which the author will doubtless correct (it needs but a single touch of his pencil,) should he ever re-publish the sketch. But how natural and truthful is the following passage,-one of those simple. familiar scenes ever recurring, never losing their universal interest:

And while it slept, the tears Of the sweet mother fell upon its cheekTears, such as fall from April skies, and bring The sunlight after. They were tears of joy; And the true heart of that young mother then Grew lighter, and she sang unconsciously, The silliest ballad song that ever yet Subdued the nursery's voices, and brought sleep To fold her Sabbath wings above its couch.

The truth that our moral changes are projected upon the Nature which surrounds us, and that we thus subjectively represent the same external phenomena, under aspects varied only by our own internal changes;-a truth well enough known, but too little regarded in all of its bearings upon our conduct and happiness,-is thus tersely expressed in another poem, the whole of which is a fine specimen of thought and feeling in condensed, and at the same time, highly lucid

-Thus, our change,

Brings a worse change on nature. She will bloom,
To bless a kindred spirit; but she flies
The home that yields no worship. She is seen
Through the sweet medium of our sympathies,
And has no life beside.

The influence of Nature, voiceful in solitude to the understanding ear, deserves to be quoted, from the poem entitled "Mental Solitude :"

That is no desert, where the heart is free
To its own spirit-worship ;-where the soul,
Untainted by the breath of busy life,
Converses with the elements, and grows
To a familiar notion of the skies,
Which are its portion. That is liberty!
And the sweet quiet of the waving woods,
The solemn song of ocean-the blue skies,
That hang like canopies above the plain,
And lend their richest hues to the fresh flow'rs
That carpet its broad bosom,-are most full
Of solace and the sweetest company!

I love those teeming worlds,-their voiceless woods,
So full of truest teaching. God is there,
Walking beside me, as, in elder times,

He walked beside the shepherds, and gave ear
To the first whispered doubts of early thought,
And prompted it aright. Such wilds to me
Seem full of friends and teachers. In the trees,
The never-ceasing billows, winds and leaves,
Feathered and finny tribes,-all that I see,
All that I hear and fancy,-I have friends,
That soothe my heart to meekness, lift my soul
To loftiest hope, and, to my toiling mind,
Impart just thoughts and safest principles.
They have a language I can understand,
When man is voiceless, or with vexing words
Offends my judgment. They have melodies
That soothe my heart to peace, even as the dame
Soothes her young infant with a song of sounds
That have no meaning for the older ear,
And mock the seeming wise.

We have been beguiled into making a longer quotation than we had designed, and can only add a single word about this poem, to mark the fine metaphor occurring in it

"making fetters of the folding thoughts,
That crush into my heart, and canker there."

In vain I look upon the pensive night,
That hangs her silver crescent in the sky,
Gather'd on fleecy folds, that edge the blue
Of her vast, wild, pavilion'd canopy,
And wears it, as a warrior does his shield,
Unstained by dark device, or mortal dint,
And pure and spotless as a vestal's heart,
Upon the hour she gives herself to God!

To which may be well added the following from "Evening at Sea," a poem in the last volume of our rubric:

-But anon

Comes forth the maiden Moon,-her sickle bent
For service in these fields; a glorious blade
Of silver, that subdues them at a stroke,
Leaving the keen reflection of its edge,
On every heaving hillock as she goes!
How rare the hush that follows? Not a wave
Lifts its rebellious head; but lawn'd in light,
Subdues itself, most willing, to the embrace
Of that perfecting beauty which makes all
Her tribute objects precious, though obscure!
How sudden sinks the wind, that, but awhile,
Took a capricious play upon its vans,

And shook our streamers out. The heavenly things
Seem brooding o'er our path; the great abyss,
Of deep and sky, flush'd with intelligent forms,
The herd of eyes, the numerous flocking stars,
Gazing in wonder on the serene march.

And we can not omit, from "Night Watching," the following description of the creeping in of the star-light:

And now a silvery train is drawn afar,
Like a faint thread upon the utmost verge
Of the dun sky-as if it would unite

The earth I wake on, and the heaven I watch.

We can not help turning back for a single moment to "Mental Solitude," to recall an image of which this general subject of evening reminds us, where, if we may be pardoned the expression, it is Shakspearianly said,

ties. And we admire the contrast so well introduced by the alighting of the butterfly,

"that travelling all day, has counted climes
Only by flowers,"-

upon the cayman's brow: a little incident which only a familiar observer of Nature would have thought of, and only a poet have seized for his picture.

In "Night Watching," the fine personification of Night with her clear shield, is inferior to few of the countless things poets have forever been uttering about the eternal moon:

bric;

-I will forth

And gaze upon the stars-the uncounted stars-
Holding high watch in Heaven.

-There's no change
In all their virgin glory. Clouds that roll,
And congregate in the azure deeps of heaven,
In wild debate and darkness, pass away,
Leaving them bright in the same beauty still,
Defying, in the progress of the years,
All change; and rising ever from the night,
In soft and dewy splendor as at first,
When, golden foot-prints of the Eternal steps,
They paved the walks of heaven, and grew to eyes
Beckoning the feet of man.

There is much grandeur in certain lines and conceptions in the poem entitled " Silence;" some extracts we must attempt:

He is the saddest despot, and his realm
Is older even than time, for he was born,
And had full sway, and all the attributes
Of most unlimited rule, ere time was born,
And he shall sway, when, from the tomb of time,
The universal consciousness shall spring,
In which time is not. 'Till that dawning hour,
No voice shall speak for his secluded realm,
Or yield a tongue to that abundant life

That's now locked up in shadow-deep in groves,
Pale groves,
that sleep in mystery secure,
Still guarded by our fears.

The personification of the Despot following, is in the highest degree bold;-the effects of his rising, his finding utterless voice, mysterious and full of power,—are marked not only by poetical, but original conception:

But, rising then,

A moving thing of wonder and of life,
Bright in the place of the decaying sun,

He shall have language, and his lips shall break

The spell that seals them down. His song shall wake
Ten thousand songs beside, and then shall be
The second birth of light. The truth revealed
Shall speak with myriad voices, yet cold ears
Shall drink no sounds-shall hear no breathing words,
Such as are uttered from elaborate lips
And by the violent spirit. In his sway,
The soul shall find its happiest harmonies,
And, such the symmetry of his perfect tones,

Our dreames shall have a life, and eyes shall drink
Knowledge from other eyes. A worship now,
In this secluded forest, shall impart
Dim shadowings of that empire, and the light
That makes his kingdom. Hither, when I rove,
At twilight, do the glimmerings lead me on,
And, in a moment's consciousness, that seems
Most like a spirit's whisper, do I feel

The embodied silence, which still beckons me,
'Till the thick woods grow round me like a wall,
And the o'erclosing trees become a roof,
And so, my temple.

From "The Shipwreck," we must quote for their striking force and condensation, a line or two from many:

-Hope, that linger'd long,

Flies shrieking with the winds,—and down she sinks, That shatter'd barque, as one, who, long fatigued By aimless struggle, yields at last to fate.

*

The glories that are growing in his heart, And kindling up his fancy into flame. We can only add,

Ideal worlds,

Where spirits of departed myriads roam, Are in the poet's fancy. He surveys,

In every leaf, each waving tree and bush,
Wild ocean, or still brooklet, rippling down,
Through twigs and bending osiers, night and day,
The form of some enjoyment-some true word,
From never swerving teachers, building up
The moral of his faith into a pile,

Its apex in the heavens.

The conception so spiritedly embodied in "The New Moon," may more than excuse its quotation entire :

Bend thy bow, Dian! shoot thy silver shaft
Through the dark bosom of yon murky cloud,
That like a shroud,

Hangs heavy o'er the dwelling of sweet night!"
And the sky laugh'd,

Even as I spake the words; and, in the west,
The columns of her mansion shone out bright!
A glory hung above Eve's visible brow,
The maiden empress!-and she glided forth
In beauty, looking down on the tranced earth,
So fondly, that its rivulets below,

Gushed out to hail her, as if then first bless'd
With the soft motion of their voiceless birth-
A sudden burst of brightness o'er me broke-
The rugged crags of the dull cloud were cleft
By her sharp arrow, and the edges left,-
How sweetly wounded-silver'd with the stroke,
Thus making a fit pathway for her march,
Through the blue arch!

But our limits compel us to restrain our gladly copying pen, and do little more than allude to the abundant treasures, which we have, as yet, barely indicated as existing in these volumes. "The Lost Pleiad" has been long and very extensively known and admired. We can do no more here than allude to that peculiarly happy and pregnant line, in which the lone, long, weary vigil of the stars is told

When the stars turn to watchers, and do sleep.

God; what a cry was that! a living death Spoke in it, and the roaring winds grow stillAnd cower in silence while passes by.

his vocation, who

Like the warm painter, of his own bright hues Enamored-would impart to things around,

-the murderer's brain grew wild, For still he heard forevermore, The cryings of a child.

The cryings of a child he heard,

And a voice of innocence

Then a pleading note, and a prayer of doom

To the awful providence.

The story of "Albert and Rosalie," is calculated to strike deep chords in many-many hearts; and it is no less valuable for its lesson, than beautiful and pathetic as a poem.

Our prescribed limits are narrowing, and yet we have given but a faint shadow of the poetry which glows in these little volumes. From the many beautiful songs in "Areytos," we can give but a specimen. They are conceived in the true spirit of the troubadour," and will find, (as we doubt not they have found already,) many an echo in young and gentle hearts. Here is a beautiful song, full of music and feeling :

Awake, awake, dear Lady,

Why wouldst thou lose these hours,

When the moon grows bright in the balmy east,
With hail of the incense flowers;

The breeze like the spirit-bird comes on,
O'er the waves of the drowsy sea,

And a voice goes forth through the air, that soon
Will glide into melody.

For thee, for thee,

These murmurs rise and fall;

With me, with me,

On love and thee they call;

Wake from the sleep that brings,

No rapture on its wings,-
Wake to delight, that bears

Its blesséd tribute to thy heart in tears.

Awake, awake, dear Lady,

And hark the passionate song. That, taught by love in his wildest mood, 'Neath thy lattice I now prolong. O! let me not mourn a planet lost,

Nor longer thus cold, delay to shine, But, like a sweet star to the tempest tost, Look down on this heart of mine.¡

For thee, for thee,

These tribute flowers unfold;

With me, with me,

They murmur, thou art cold;
Thine is the crowning part,

That beauty seeks from heart;

Thine the sweet boon to bless,

When passion first implores and triumphs through distress. The troubadour gives a salutary lesson to wooers in the following:

Hear the tale of a boyish heart,

Hear and be wise when you go to woo;
Ever with boldness play your part,
Nor weakly sigh, nor timidly sue;—
Hear the tale of a boyish heart!
As I drew near to my lady's bower,

I sung her a song that might win a flower;
Song so gentle and sweet to hear,

It had suited well in a fairy's ear;
Lowly and soft at first it rose,

And touching the sigh at its dying close.

Hear the tale of a boyish heart,-
Vainly I sung to my lady's ear;

A minstrel came with a bolder art,
And he carol'd in accent loud and clear-
But, no tale of a boyish heart!

His spirit was high and his soul was proud,
His song was eager, and wild, and loud,-
And, O! methought, how worse than vain,
The chorus strong and the swelling strain,-
Song so stormy and wild to hear,
Will never suit for a lady's ear.

Hear the tale of a boyish heart

Never you sing in your lady's ear,
As if your soul were about to part,
And you stood on the edge of a mortal fear-
Tell the tale of a manly heart!-

A maid is a woman and not a flower,
And she loves in her lover the proofs of power-
His eye must be ardent, his spirit high-
For her the soft note and the tender sigh-
She may be timid and tremulous still,

But he must be one who must have his will.

The spirited "Song in March," we are tempted to quote:

Now are the winds about us in their glee,
Tossing the slender tree;

Whirling the sands about his furious car,
March cometh from afar;

Breaks the sealed magic of old winter's dreams,

And rends his glassy streams;

Chafing with potent airs, he fiercely takes,

Their fetters from the lakes,

And, with a power, by queenly Spring supplied,
Wakens the slumbering tide.

With a wild love he seeks young Summer's charms,

And clasps her to his arms;

Lifting his shield between, he drives away

Old Winter from his prey ;

The ancient tyrant whom he boldly braves,
Goes howling to his caves;

And, to his northern realm compelled to fly,
Yields up the victory;

Melted are all his bands, o'erthrown his tow'rs,
And March comes bringing flow'rs.

The Sonnets entitled "Grouped Thoughts," contain much that we ought, perhaps, in justice to the author have selected for quotation rather than some of the passages we have extracted. If this paper should ever meet the eye of the author, we hope he will forgive us this omission, for the sake of the opinion which we now express, that those Sonnets will truly repay the thoughtful perusal of the philosophical mind, the deep heart, and the cultivated taste and imagination. There are among them some of the very best specimens of the sonnet to be found in any language; and this is saying much, when we consider how terse, condensed, and pregnant, the nature of the sonnet requires it to be, in order to win the praise of excellence. How noble is the following conception of the majestic mountains, in one of these sonnets:

How calm the silent mountains, that, around, Bend their blue summits, as if grouped to hear

Some high ambassador from foreign ground,-
To hearken, and, most probably, confound.

Two of the sonnets, which are connected, we must make room to introduce, for the sake of the strikingly beautiful, and Platonical conception, which they so originally and philosophically present:

The thought but whisper'd, rises up a spirit,
Wing'd and from thence immortal. The sweet tone,
Freed by thy skill from prisoning wood or stone,
Doth thence, for thine, a tribute soul inherit!
When from the genius speaking in thy mind,
Thou hast evolved the godlike shrine or tower,
That moment does thy matchless art unbind

A spirit born for earth, and armed with power,
The fabric of thy love to watch and keep

From utter desecration. It may fall,

Thy structure, and its gray stones topple all,—
But he who treads its portals, feels how deep
A presence is upon him,-and his word

Grows hush'd, as if a shape, unseen, beside him heard.

At every whisper we endow with life

A being of good or evil,-who must, thence,
Allegiance yield to that intelligence,
Which, calling into birth, decreed the strife,
Which he must seek forever! The good thought,
Is born a blessed angel, that goes forth,
In ministry of gladness, through the earth,
Still teaching what is love, by love still taught!
The evil joins the numerous ranks of ill,

And born of curses, through the endless years,
"Till Time shall be no more, and human tears
Dried up in judgment-must his curse fulfil!
Dream'st thou of what is blessing or unblest,
Thou tak'st a God or Demon to thy breast!

The "Cassique of Accabee." while beautiful and of well sustained interest as a story, is, in our estimation, also particularly remarkable for its psychological display of the characters introduced. We can, however, only snatch in passing the following beautiful thought:

But soon a shadow rose above his brow;
That shadow, born of doubt,
Which finds love's secret out,

And, o'er its sunniest bower, still spans an arch of tears.

Other pieces in the volume are of a still higher character; but only one more extract, of a truly lofty grandeur, are we permitted to make,—it is from Heads of the Poets":

66

The master of a single instrument,

But that the Cathedral Organ, Milton sings
With drooping spheres about him, and his eye
Fixed steadily upward. through its mortal cloud
Seeing the glories of Eternity!

The sense of the invisible and the true
Still present to his soul; and in his song,
The consciousness of duration through all time,
Of work in each condition, and of hopes
Ineffable, that well sustain through life,
Encouraging through danger and in death,

Cheering, as with a promise rich in wings!
A godlike voice, that, through cathedral towers,
Still rolls, prolong'd in echoes, whose deep tones
Seem born of thunder, that, subdued to music,
Soothe when they startle most! A Prophet Bard,
With utt'rance equal to his mission of power,
And harmonies, that not unworthy heaven,
Might well lift earth to equal worthiness.

We have given no idea of the variety contained in these volumes, both of subject and versification. Nor in seeking to do justice to the Poet, have we exercised our critical prerogative of fault-finding; not because we are such indiscriminate admirers as to be unable to point out inferiorities amidst such a large and varied collection of pieces, and even, we venture to say, some faults in passages which we have quoted in this article; but because the beauties and the poetry are infinitely greater than an occasional inaccuracy or carelessness of expression, and especially, because the world is ever ready enough to believe itself eagle-eyed in detecting faults, while it is, alas! but too often strangely dimvisioned to the ready and generous perception of contemporary genius.

But we must conclude by expressing our surprise that no edition of Mr. Simms' selected poems has ever appeared under the auspices of a Southern publisher, in a style worthy of the subject; for every triumph which he wins, is an accession to the laurels with which the genius and intellect of her sons have already so nobly crowned the Land of the South.

SONNET.

METASTASIO.

"Leggiadra rosa le cue pure foglie."

Ah lovely rose, whose tender leaves the dew,
At early dawn, with sparkling gem-drops laved,
And the sweet summer winds so gently waved,
'Till each fair roseate tint still brighter grew,
Now heaven's provident hand has claimed its due,
And bore thee hence, to thine immortal rest;
Spoiled of the thorns that tore thy aching breast,
Thy better part shall spring forever new!
'Tis thine sweet flower, now, never more, to bear,
The rains, the storms, the frost, the mocking glare
Of this unstable, scornful, fleeting earth;
But, 'neath the mightier hand that tends thee there,
In never-fading peace thine ills have birth,
To bloom in beauty, and perfume, forever fair!

Philadelphia.

W.