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Thy parent sun who bade thee view

Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, Has bathed thee in his own bright hue, And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,

And earthward bent thy gentle eye, Unapt the passing view to meet,

When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh. ft, in the sunless April day,

Thy early smile has stayed my walk;

But midst the gorgeous blooms of May, I passed thee on thy humble stalk. So they who climb to wealth, forget The friends in darker fortunes tried, I copied them-but I regret

That I should ape the ways of pride. And when again the genial hour

Awakes the painted tribes of light, I'll not o'erlook the modest flower That made the woods of April bright.

An Indian Story is a beautiful ballad, written in the very best manner, and fully equalling any thing of the kind ever composed by Southey, that king of ballad writers. Delicate allusion to the incidents, the interest so well preserved throughout, and the appropriate expressiveness of the diction, entitle it to the highest commendation.


"I know where the timid fawn abides

In the depths of the shaded dell, Where the leaves are broad and the thicket hides,

With its many stems and its tangled sides, From the eye of the hunter well.

"I know where the young May violet grows, In its lone and lowly nook,

On the mossy bank, where the larch tree throws

Its broad dark boughs, in solemn repose,
Far over the silent brook.

"And that timid fawn starts not with fear,
When I steal to her secret bower;
And that young May violet to me is dear,
And I visit the silent streamlet near,
To look on the lovely flower."

Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks
To the hunting ground on the hills;

'Tis a song of his maid of the woods and rocks,

With her bright black eyes and long black locks,

And voice like the music of rills.

He goes to the chase-but evil eyes

Are at watch in the thicker shades; For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs; And he bore, from a hundred lovers, his prize,

The flower of the forest maids.

The boughs in the morning wind are stirred,
And the woods their song renew,
With the early carol of many a bird,
And the quickened tune of the streamlet

Where the hazels trickle with dew.

And Maquon has promised his dark-haired maid,

Ere eve shall redden the sky,

A good red deer from the forest shade, That bounds with the herd through grove and glade,

At her cabin door shall lie.

The hollow woods, in the setting sun,
Ring shrill with the fire-bird's lay;
And Maquon's sylvan labours are done,
And his shafts are spent, but the spoil
they won

He bears on his homeward way.

He stops near his bower-his eye perceives Strange traces along the ground

At once to the earth his burden he heaves, He breaks through the veil of boughs and leaves,

And gains its door with a bound.

But the vines are torn on its walls that leant,

And all from the young shrubs there By struggling hands have the leaves been rent,

And there hangs on the sassafras, broken and bent,

One tress of the well-known hair.

But where is she who, at this calm hour
Ever watched his coming to see?

She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower;
He calls-but he only hears on the flower
The hum of the laden bee.

It is not a time for idle grief,
Nor a time for tears to flow;

The horror that freezes his limbs is brief-
He grasps his war-axe and bow, and a sheaf
Of darts made sharp for the foe.

And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet,

Where he bore the maiden away; And he darts on the fatal path more fleet Than the blast that hurries the vapour and sleet

O'er the wild November day.

'Twas early summer when Maquon's bride Was stolen away from his door;

But at length the maples in crimson are dyed,

And the grape is black on the cabin side,

And she smiles at his hearth once more.

But far in the pine grove, dark and cold,
Where the yellow leaf falls not,
Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold,
There lies a hillock of fresh, dark mould,
In the deepest gloom of the spot.

And the Indian girls that pass that way,
Point out the ravisher's grave;

"And how soon to the bower she loved,"
they say,

Returned the maid that was borne away
From Maquon the fond and the brave.'

The most choice and beautiful images which it is possible for a poet to conceive, are contained in Summer Wind. What a suggestiveness in the line "He comes! Lo where the grassy meadow runs in waves ?"


It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk
The dew that lay upon the morning grass;
There is rustling in the lofty elm

That canopies my dwelling, and its shade
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint
And interrupted murmur of the bee,
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again
Instantly on the wing. The plants around
Feel the too potent fervours: the tall maize
Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover

Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.
But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,
With all their growths of woods, silent and

As if the scorching heat and dazzling light
Were but an element they loved. Bright

Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven,Their bases on the mountains-their white tops

Shining in the far ether-fire the air

With a reflected radiance, and make turn
The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie
Languidly in the shade, where the thick

Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun,
Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind
That still delays its coming. Why so slow,

Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?
Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting

Coolness. and life. Is it that in his caves
He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,
The pine is bending his proud top, and now
Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak
Are tossing their green boughs about. He

Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves!
The deep distressful silence of the scene
Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered

And universal motion. He is come,
Shaking a shower of blossoms from the

And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings

Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs,

And sound of swaying


branches, and the

Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs
Are stirring in his breath; a thousand


By the road side and the borders of the

Nod gayly to each other; glossy leaves
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew
Were on them yet, and silver waters break
Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.

The Prairies is perhaps the finest poem in the book; it combines in the most felicitous manner, beauty of language with deep thoughtfulness and sublimity of conception. How glorious the images, how noble the conception, how vast the reflective spirit! What can be finer than the comparison these lines embody?

Lo! they

In airy undulations, far away,

As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell,

Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed,
And motionless for ever. Motionless?

No, they are all unchained again. The clouds

Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath,
The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye;
Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase
The sunny ridges. Breezes of the South!

Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers,
And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high,
Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not-ye have
Among the palms of Mexico and vines

Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks
That from the fountains of Sonora glide

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The hand that built the firmament hath heaved

And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopes
With herbage, planted them with island groves,
And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor
For this magnificent temple of the sky-

With flowers whose glory and whose multitude
Rival the Constellations!

Thoughts of those who may have peopled those wastes in former times crowd upon the poet, and give rise to many beautiful reflections.

As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed,
Among the high rank grass that sweeps his sides,
The hollow beating of his footstep seems

A sacrilegious sound. I think of those

Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here

The dead of other days? and did the dust

Of these fair solitudes once stir with life,

And burn with passion? Let the mighty mounds

That overlook the river, or that rise

In the dim forest crowded with old oaks,

Answer. A race, that long has passed away,

Built them, a disciplined and populous race

Heaped, with long toil, the earth, while yet the Greek
Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms

Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock

The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields
Nourished their harvests, here their herds were fed

When haply by their stalls the bison lowed,

And bowed his maned shoulder to the yoke.

All day this desert murmured with their toils,

'Till twilight blushed, and lovers walked, and wooed

In a forgotten language, and old tunes,

From instruments of uuremembered form,

Gave the soft winds a voice. The red man came-
The roaming hunter tribes, warlike and fierce,
And the mound-builders vanished from the earth.
The solitude of centuries untold

Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolf
Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug den
Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the ground
Where stood their swarming cities. All is gone-
All-save the piles of earth that hold their bones-
The platforms where they worshipped unkuown gods---
The barriers which they builded from the soil

To keep the foe at bay-'till o'er the walls
The wild beleagurers broke, and, one by one,

The strongholds of the plain were forced, and heaped

With corpses. The brown vultures of the wood

Flocked to those vast uncovered sepulchres

And sat, unscared and silent, at their feast,

Haply some solitary fugitive,

Lurking in marsh and forest, 'till the sense

Of desolation and of fear became

Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die.
Man's better nature triumphed then.

The translations of this poet are effected with much grace and spirit. Love and Folly from La Fontaine, may be cited as an instance of the author's power in this department of poetic art. A Hymn to Death is written in a truly philosophic and contented tone; instead of investing death with all those horrors in which poets generally disfigure it, the poet merely

considers its inevitable approach in the light of a blessing, acting as a check on the evil passions of men, preventing the commission of crime, and bringing repose and consolation to the sufferer. Truly does he say, "The wicked but for thee had been too strong for the good; the great of earth had crushed the weak for ever."

The most perfect ballad in the book is The White-footed Deer. The chastity of the language, the simplicity of the narrative, and its exquisite pathos, would almost be sufficient, in themselves, to establish the author's fame.


It was a hundred years ago,
When, by the woodland ways,
The traveller saw the wild deer drink,
Or crop the birchen sprays.
Peneath a hill, whose rocky side
O'erbrowed a grassy mead,

And fenced a cottage from the wind,
A deer was wont to feed.

She only came when on the cliffs
The evening moonlight lay,
And no man knew the secret haunts

In which she walked by day.

White were her feet, her forehead showed
A spot of silvery white,

That seemed to glimmer like a star
In autumn's hazy night.

And here, when sang the whippoorwill,
She cropped the sprouting leaves,
And here her rustling steps were heard
On still October eves.

But when the broad midsummer moon
Rose o'er that grassy lawn,
Beside the silver-footed deer

There grazed a spotted fawn.
The cottage dame forbade her son
To aim the rifle here;

"It were a sin," she said, "to harm
Or fright that friendly deer.
"This spot has been my pleasant home
Ten peaceful years and more;
And ever when the moonlight shines,
She feeds before our door.

"The red men say that here she walked
A thousand moons ago;
They never raise the war-whoop here,
And never twang the bow.

"I love to watch her as she feeds,
And think that all is well,
While such a gentle creature haunts
The place in which we dwell."

The youth obeyed, and sought for game
In forests far away,

Where, deep in silence and in moss,
The ancient woodland lay.

But once, in autumn's golden time,
He ranged the wild in vain,

Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer,
And wandered home again.

The crescent moon and crimson eve
Shone with a mingling light;
The deer, upon the grassy mead,
Was feeding full in sight.

He raised the rifle to his eye,
And from the cliffs around
A sudden echo, shrill and sharp,
Gave back its deadly sound.

Away into the neighbouring wood
The startled creature flew,
And crimson drops at morning lay

Amid the glimmering dew.

Next evening shone the waxing moon
As sweetly as before;

The deer upon the grassy mead
Was seen again no more.

But ere that crescent moon was old,
By night the red men came,
And burnt the cottage to the ground,
And slew the youth and dame.

Now woods have overgrown the mead,
And hid the cliffs from sight;
There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon,
And prowls the fox at night.

Mrs. Sigourney is a poetess possessing, in a remarkable degree, those qualities which entitle the possessor to the rank of a first class writer. Her vigorous comprehensiveness, lofty aspirings, brilliant fancy, philosophy, and philanthropic zeal, coupled with her sublime references to Almighty perfection, and the grand moral tendency of her poetry, unite in claiming

for her an amount of admiration which enables her to hold one of the highest places among the poets of her country.

In like manner the patriotism which she has always evinced, her Spartan veneration for virtue, and scathing denunciations of crime; her deep-rooted love of nature, and the elegance, compass, and power of her language, have all had their share in accomplishing that universal success which her writings have obtained. The class of subjects she has chosen to act as the interpreters of her thoughts, are, most fortunately, the very best she could have selected, not merely for the perpetuation of her fame, but for that which is of far greater import, the extension of virtuous principles, and creation of the best incentives to every triumph of virtue. If that peculiar and most enviable capacity were more general, by whose plastic touch what has for ages appeared repulsive and difficult of accomplishment, instantaneously becomes transformed into a seductive and desiderated treasure; and what has hitherto been invested with seeming charms, and the almost irresistible delectations which luxury supposes, not alone "withers and grows dim," but becomes more terrible than Erinnys with her cincture of snakes; if such a gift was common even to the majority of intellectual minds, Sigourney's talents might not demand such emphatic appreciation. It is her almost total isolation in this respect, which brings her more prominently into notice, and it is only necessary to form a superficial acquaintance with her poetry to become convinced of her fearless power in advocating the cause of virtue. Truly her brilliant. talents not only elevate the standard of intellectuality which dignifies her sex, but must naturally inspire its members with expectations, in which their widened influence, and far extended importance as a class, are conspicuously distinguished.

It is exceedingly questionable whether Sigourney would not gain from a comparison with her poetic sister, Felicia Hemans. Many would esteem her an equal in fancy, grace, and rythmical beauty, while in vigor and range of comprehension she is most undoubtedly superior. Oriska, as a narrative is perfect; the beauty of the language which indeed is exquisite, the faithful embodiment of the artlessness of the heroine, the strain of wild, plaintive melody pervading the poem, which is so thoroughly in consonance with the subject, and the melancholy catastrophe it contains; the imprecation uttered by the dying mother of the heroine on her faithless husband, so figura

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