NIGHT. "Tis dark abroad. The majesty of Night Bows down superbly from her utmost height, Stretches her starless plumes across the world, And all the banners of the wind are furl'd. How heavily we breathe amid such gloom, As if we slumber'd in creation's tomb. It is the noon of that tremendous hour When life is helpless, and the dead have power; When solitudes are peopled; when the sky Is swept by shady wings that, sailing by, Proclaim their watch is set; when hidden rills Are chirping on their course, and all the hills Are bright with armour; when the starry vests, And glittering plumes, and fiery twinkling crests Of moon-light sentinels are sparkling round, And all the air is one rich floating sound; When countless voices, in the day unheard, Are piping from their haunts, and every bird That loves the leafy wood and blooming bower And echoing cave, is singing to her flower; When every lovely, every lonely place, Is ringing to the light and sandal'd pace Of twinkling feet; and all about, the flow Of new-born fountains, murmuring as they go; When watery tunes are richest, and the call Of wandering streamlets, as they part and fall In foaming melody, is all around, Like fairy harps beneath enchanted groundSweet, drowsy, distant music! like the breath Of airy flutes that blow before an infant's death. It is that hour when listening ones will weep And know not why; when we would gladly sleep Our last, last sleep, and feel no touch of fear, Unconscious where we are, or what is near, Till we are startled by a falling tear, That unexpected gather'd in our eye, While we were panting for yon blessed sky; That hour of gratitude, of whispering prayer, When we can hear a worship in the air; When we are lifted from the earth, and feel Light fanning wings around us faintly wheel, And o'er our lids and brow a blessing steal; And then, as if our sins were all forgiven, And all our tears were wiped, and we in heaven! ONTARIO. No sound is on the ear, no boatman's oar Drops its dull signal to the watchful shore; But all is listening, as it were to hear Some seraph harper stooping from her sphere And calling on the desert to express Its sense of Silence in her loveliness. What holy dreaming comes in nights like these, When, like yon wave, unruffled by a breeze, The mirrors of the memory all are spread And fanning pinions sail around your head; When all that man may love, alive or dead, Come murmuring sweet, unutterable things, And nestle on his heart with their young wings, And all perchance may come, that he may fear, And mutter doubtful curses in his ear; Hang on his loaded soul, and fill his brain With indistinct forebodings, dim, and vain.... The moon goes lightly up her thronging way, And shadowy things are brightening into day; And cliff and shrub and bank and tree and stone Now move upon the eye, and now are gone. A dazzling tapestry is hung around, A gorgeous carpeting bestrews the ground; The willows glitter in the passing beam And shake their tangling lustres o'er the stream; And all the full rich foliage of the shore Seems with a quick enchantment frosted o'er, And dances at the faintest breath of night, And trembles like a plume of spangles in the light!.... This dark cool wave is bluer than the deep, Where sailors, children of the tempest, sleep; And dropp'd with lights as pure, as still, as those The wide-drawn hangings of the skies disclose, Far lovelier than the dim and broken ray, That Ocean's flashing surges send astray.... This is the mirror of dim Solitude, On which unholy things may ne'er intrude; TREES. THE heave, the wave and bend Of everlasting trees, whose busy leaves INVASION OF THE SETTLER. WHERE now fresh streamlets answer to the hues Of passing seraph-wings; and fiery dews In yonder faint, mysterious scenery, WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. [Born, 1794.] Mr. BRYANT was born in Cummington, Massachusetts, on the third day of November, 1794. At a very early age he gave indications of superior genius, and his father, an eminent physician, distinguished for erudition and taste as well as for extensive and thorough knowledge of science, watched with deep interest the development of his faculties under the most careful and judicious instruction. At ten years of age he made very creditable translations from some of the Latin poets, which were printed in a newspaper at Northampton, and during the vehement controversies between the Federalists and Democrats, which marked the period of Jefferson's administration, he wrote "The Embargo," a political satire, which was printed in Boston in 1808. Tasso when nine years of age wrote some lines to his mother which have been praised, CowLEY at ten finished his "Tragical History of Pyramus and Thisbe," POPE when twelve his "Ode to Solitude," and "the wondrous boy CHATTERTON," at the same age, some verses entitled "A Hymn for Christmas Day;" but none of these pieces are superior to that which gave a title to the volume of our precocious American. The satire was directed against President JEFFERSON and his party, and has recently been quoted to prove the author an inconsistent politician, the last forty years having furnished no ground, it may be supposed, for such an accusation. The description of a caucus, in the following extract, shows that there has been little change in the character of such assemblies, and it will be confessed that the lines are remarkably spirited and graphic for so young an author: "E'en while I sing, see Faction urge her claim, Mislead with falsehood, and with zeal inflame; Lift her black banner, spread her empire wide, And stalk triumphant with a Fury's stride. She blows her brazen trump, and, at the sound, A motley throng, obedient, flock around; A mist of changing hue o'er all she flings, And darkness perches on all her dragon wings! "Oh, might some patriot rise, the gloom dispel, Chase Error's mist, and break her magic spell! But vain the wish, for, hark! the murmuring meed Of hoarse applause from yonder shed proceed; Enter, and view the thronging concourse there, Intent, with gaping mouth and stupid stare; While, in the midst, their supple leader stands, Harangues aloud, and flourishes his hands; To adulation tunes his servile throat, And sues, successful, for each blockhead's vote." Some of the democrats affected to believe that Master BRYANT was older than was confessed, or that another person had written "The Embargo;" but the book was eagerly read, and in a few months a second edition appeared, with some additional pieces. To this was prefixed the following advertisement: "A doubt having been intimated in the Monthly Anthology of June last, whether a youth of thirteen years could have been the author of this poemin justice to his merits the friends of the writer feel obliged to certify the fact from their personal knowledge of himself and his family, as well as his literary improvement and extraordinary talents. They would premise, that they do not come uncalled before the public to bear this testimony. They would prefer that he should be judged by his works, without favour or affection. As the doubt has been suggested, they deem it merely an act of justice to remove it, after which they leave him a candidate for favour in common with other literary adventurers. They therefore assure the public that Mr. BRYANT, the author, is a native of Cummington, in the county of Hampshire, and in the month of November last arrived at the age of fourteen years. These facts can be authenticated by many of the inhabitants of that place, as well as by several of his friends, who give this notice; and if it be deemed worthy of further inquiry, the printer is enabled to disclose their names and places of residence." In the sixteenth year of his age, BRYANT entered an advanced class of Williams College, in which he soon became distinguished for his attainments generally, and especially for his proficiency in classical learning. In 1812 he obtained from the faculty an honourable discharge, for the purpose of entering upon the study of the law, and in 1815 he was admitted to the bar, and commenced the practice of his profession in the village of Great Barrington, where he was soon after married. When but little more than eighteen years of age he had written his noble poem of "Thanatopsis," which was published in the North American Review for 1816.* In 1821 he delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard College his longest poem, "The Ages," in which, from a survey of the past eras of the world, and of the successive advances of mankind in knowledge, virtue, and happiness, he endeavours to justify and confirm the hopes of the philanthropist for the future destinies of man. It is in the stanza of SPENSER, and in its versification is not inferior to with its fellows in exquisite harmony. His manner is on all occasions fitly chosen for his subject. His verse is solemn and impressive, or airy and playful, as suits his purpose. His beautiful imagery is appropriate, and has that air of freshness which from his own observations of life and nature rather than from books. with a friend, established "The New York Review and Atheneum Magazine," in which he published several of his finest poems, and in "The Hymn to Death" paid a touching tribute to the memory of his father, who died in that year. In 1826 he assumed the chief direction of the "Even-distinguishes the productions of an author writing ing Post," one of the oldest and most influential political and commercial gazettes in this country, with which he has ever since been connected. In 1827, 1828, and 1829, he was associated with Mr. VERPLANCK and Mr. SANDS in the production of "The Talisman," an annual; and he wrote two or three of the "Tales of Glauber Spa," to which, besides himself, Miss Sedgwick, Mr. Paulding, Mr. Leggett, and Mr. Sands were contributors. An intimate friendship subsisted between him and Mr. SANDS, and when that brilliant writer died, in 1832, he assisted Mr. VERPLANCK in editing his works. In the summer of 1834, Mr. BRYANT visited Europe, with his family, intending to devote a few years to literary studies, and to the education of his children. He travelled through France, Germany, and Italy, and resided several months in each of the cities of Florence, Pisa, Munich, and Heidelberg. The dangerous illness of his partner and associate, the late WILLIAM LEGGETT, compelled him to return hastily in the early part of 1836. The summer of 1840 he passed in Florida and the Valley of the Mississippi, and in 1844 he revisited Europe. He resides still in the city of New York, and continues to devote the chief part of his time to the editorship of the Evening Post, which has been for many years the leading journal of the democratic party. In 1832 a collection of all the poems Mr. BRYANT had then written was published in New York; it was soon after reprinted in Boston, and a copy of it reaching WASHINGTON IRVING, who was then in England, he caused it to be published in London, where it has since passed through several editions. In 1842 he published "The Fountain and other Poems;" in 1844 "The White-Footed Deer and other Poems," and in 1846 a splendid edition of his complete Poetical Works, illustrated with engravings from pictures by Leutze, has been published in Philadelphia by Carey & Hart. No volume has issued from the American press, of which the country should be more proud. We may send it abroad as a representative of our literature, and as a proof of our proficiency in the arts. The many and high excellencies of Mr. BRYANT have been almost universally recognised. With men of every variety of tastes he is a favourite. His works abound with passages of profound reflection which the philosopher meditates in his closet, and with others of such simple beauty and obvious intention as please the most illiterate. In his pages are illustrated all the common definitions of poetry, yet they are pervaded by a single purpose and spirit. Of the essential but inferior characteristics of poetry, which make it an art, he has a perfect mastery. Very few, equal him in grace and power of expression. Every line has compactness, precision, and elegance, and flows Mr. BRYANT is a translator to the world of the silent language of the universe. He "conforms his life to the beautiful order of God's works." In the meditation of nature he has learned high les sons of philosophy and religion. With no other poet does the subject spring so naturally from the object; the moral, the sentiment, from the contemplation of the things about him. There is nothing forced in his inductions. By a genuine carnest ness he wins the sympathy of his reader, and prepares him to anticipate his thought. By an imperceptible influence he carries him from the beginning to the end of a poem, and leaves him infused with the very spirit in which it is conceived. In his descriptions of nature there is remarkable fidelity. They convey in an extraordinary degree the actual impression of what is grand and beautiful and peculiar in our scenery. The old and shadowy forests stand as they grew up from the seeds God planted, the sea-like prairies stretching in airy undulations beyond the eye's extremest vision, our lakes and mountains and rivers, he brings before us in pictures warmly coloured with the hues of the imagination, and as truthful as those which COLE puts on the canvas. It has been complained that there is very little sentiment, very little of the blending of passion with philosophy, in BRYANT's poetry; that his antique and dignified simplicity is never warmed with human sympathy. This is true in a degree, but in many of his poems are passages of touching pathos, and his interest in his race appears, contrary to the general experience, to increase with his age. It has been denied by some persons, reasoning from our descent, education, language, and manners, identifying us so closely with another people, that we can have a distinctive national literature. But there are very few of BRYANT's poems that could have been written in any country but our own. They breathe the very spirit of our young and vigorous life. He feels not more sensibly the grandeur and beauty of creation as manifested only in our own land, than he does the elevating influences of that freedom and power which is enjoyed by none but the citizens of this republic. To the thoughtful critic every thing in his verse belongs to America, and is as different from what marks the poetry of England as it is from that which most distinguishes the poetry of Germany or France. Mr. BRYANT is still in the meridian of his life; among the most recent of his productions are some of the finest he has written; and we may look with confidence to an increase of the bases of his high reputation, second now to that of no contem. porary who writes in our language. ין 1 THE PRAIRIES. THESE are the gardens of the desert, these The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, For which the speech of England has no name-The prairies. I behold them for the first, And my heart swells, while the dilated sight Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo! they stretch In airy undulations, far away, As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell, Stood still, with all his rounded billows fix'd, Of Texas, and have crisp'd the limpid brooks With herbage, planted them with island groves, Than that which bends above the eastern hills. [Greek Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolf The barriers which they builded from the soil Lurking in marsh and forest, till the sense Thus change the forms of being. Thus arise Still this great solitude is quick with life. Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice THANATOPSIS. To him who in the love of nature holds Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, To Nature's teachings, while from all around- Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, So shalt thou rest,-and what if thou withdraw His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave FOREST HYMN. THE groves were God's first temples. Ere man learn'd To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, Father, thy hand Hath rear'd these venerable columns, thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose [down All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow, Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died | Among their branches; till, at last, they stood, As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults, These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride Report not. No fantastic carvings show, The boast of our vain race, to change the form Of thy fair works. But thou art here-thou fill'st The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds, That run along the summit of these trees In music;-thou art in the cooler breath, |