mules, and singing cheerily some lines of a popular song of his race, of which the following is a specimen : "De Lord he make de bee, an' de bee he make de honey,- De brackman make de cotton, and de white shabe de money-" At this point of his song he was interrupted, and induced to stop his team, by some salute or other from some one at the roadside, and in another moment Henry heard the following question shouted in a voice which was most indubitably, the property f the little man of Scriven: "Look a-hem, buck, 'll you play a little game of seven-up?" SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. BY ISAAC CLARKE PRAY. BRAINARD. BRAINARD'S poems have been very popular, not for any displays of remarkable genius, but for their sort of "throw-off" easiness and unstudied grace and delicacy of sentiment. They seem to rise, like the fabled goddess who was born of the oceanfoam. They are gentle in their excitements-like the flowing of the under currents of some small lake, where the surface is a quiet mirror, only broken, at times, by the skimming beak of some domesticated, golden-pinioned songster. His poetry is not of a lofty order. It contains not the strong, wild breathings of a soul whose poetic ardour is like tameless fire. We love his little pieces. They are the companions whom we would keep by us on the bank of a small stream, in an afternoon of June, when all is quiet, except the low dull singing of the hidden insects and the slight shiver of the tree-tops. He has no great claims to the regard of posterity; yet we would not be deprived of his works, for they impart, better than the productions of any other American poet, that soothing and holy influence to the ocean-like mind, which comes gratefully and pleasantly at all seasons, and, especially at that time when we feel injured or forgotten by those ruling powers which grasp with blind ignorance of our nature, our unyielding and uncomplaining spirits. BRYANT. He has been ranked by some as the first of our poets-but the number is small who really think that he merits such rank. More poetical master-spirits are on the north and south of him. His flights are like those of the swallow, seldom resembling the fearless darings of the eagle. He gives much beauty to his productions-the offspring of care; he has much correctness-the emanation of taste: he writes but short articles, thereby displaying the weakness of his genius, and the fear of losing his reputation. The poetry of his blank verse is more exalted than that of his rhyme, and he owns some of the richest and most unique specimens of that kind of writing which can be found in modern poetry. It is well known that the little nautilus lives in the depths of the waters, and in fair weather mounts to the surface, throws up its gossamer sail, and is wafted along in perfect safety; but, in prospect of a storm, furls its sail, and sinks to the bottom. So it is with Bryant. He comes slowly to his task-trusts not to his powers to bear up against a sea of criticism, but makes safety even before danger, and is contented to live in his little sonnets and occasional verses. His claim is small on us, and to rank him too near the first poet is doing him too much injustice. He can no more stand by the side of some of his contemporaries than the nautilus can equal the majestic and storm-braving ship. DANA. WE are disposed to be favourable to Dana, but yet we will not esteem him, as many do, the most energetic of our poets. In sooth, we cannot tell who holds, or who is likely to hold, such a situation. We can see no reason for giving Dana the place, and we should, if it were demanded of us to decide, hand over our vote to that effect. His productions resemble more than anything we can think of, some of those dark, old paintings of the early masters. There is a blackness without a gloom scattered over them, and you will often discover a slight dash which is brilliant, or a rich colouring whose beauty forms a pleasing contrast to the surrounding darkness. We esteem "The Buccaneer" one of the best modern poems that has been published. It is full of power and is remarkably concise. It works on our emotions with tremendous force, and excites in the mind some of our best feelings. As to the prose of this writer, it may be said to be full of poetry, which is quiet and still, unbroken by harshness, and only at times awakens us by some sudden gorgeous or dazzling splendour. Dana resembles Wordsworth in many respects. He exhibits much love for the nature of man, and would awake in the mind of others that respect for the soul which leads it on to discover the joys of its contemplation, and the ennobling principles which it excites when under proper observation. FAIRFIELD. HE exhibited his great poetical mind in his early productions. There was a vast poetic daring in them; but now that age has mellowed, greatly, his taste, he writes better and with more power. He has improved wonderfully—and this is saying what can be said of but very few. He ascends the "spirit's-ladder" even to the starry world, and fearlessly presses toward the portals of the temple of poetry. He is encinctured by more of the hallowed fire than any of his associates, excepting Percival, and his soul leads him on with such ardour that he has not time for perfection. His mind is wrapt up in the enthusiastic love of his art. He has a good portion of the spirit of ancient poetry, and with a little more simplicity, his writings would become still more popular than they are at present. His genius is unquestionable. It is wild to extravagance oftentimes. Like a powerful spirit, he will carry us away to sights of frightful sublimity, or will lead us through scenes of quietness and joy; but too often to the former. The progress of his genius may be likened to the broad stream of Niagara, pouring over into the abyss which it is bewildering to behold—but where is sent up a bright and beautiful mist, converted into a bow of beauty and glory and magnificence. HALLECK. THIS writer has very little of what may be called Miltonic fire; and since we have but one notion with respect to genuine poetry, we class him among those poets who only aim to please. Compared with Milton, what is he? Compared with Byron, what? Place him with Burns, is he equal? How does he appear with Coleridge, or Cowper, or Wordsworth, or Wilson, or Moore, or Hogg? With our own Percival how does he compare? Is the construction of his mind as poetical as that of Dana's? In comparison with these he is insignificant, and yet only in comparison with these can his merits as a true poet be tested. If you place him with those who, for amusement, write poetry occasionally, he towers above them-he stands high; but whether he will be esteemed highly by posterity is a question easily answered. He has, like others of the New York Phalanx, written a very little, and that little has been well finished and on local subjects, so that we are pleased with his writings. We would commend them as pearls of value, but we cannot compare them with the gems of greater worth. There is nothing which can so well give an idea of his powers as the reading of his "Alnwick Castle." He is in it, throughout the whole. Indeed, it strikes us, now that his poetry resembles a castle, not as we may imagine it to have been in the days of romance and chivalry-but as the time-worn, moss-covered relic of departed glory glorious only in reality, as it is filled with the trophies and equipments of former times, and surrounded by beautiful objects, which are associated with many things which all love and admire. HILLHOUSE. WHATEVER this person has done in poetry, has been correctly and well executed. It is of the nicest and most chastened species. His works are pages of beauty and propriety, and of rich and exalted poetry. He has not thrown out upon the world, as so many feathers, fugitive pieces, which light on one newspaper to be puffed off by another-but his works are full, finished poems, like those productions of the great masters who wrote "Whilome in Albion, happy isle !" This author is scarcely seen in his works; and we only think of him, after we have come away from his writings. There is a reason for this. Of his three principal productions and of these "Hadad" is the best-two are written in the dramatic form which precludes the author's appearance. He is not present to give us descriptions of personal feelings, but his creatures pass before us like the pictures of a dream, or as imaginings of our own fancy. As to the dramatic form of composition, we think it is the best mode for the poet to present truths, since he is lost for a time, while the characters he has created sustain the whole business, and free him from much with which he might be charged to his inconvenience, and, perhaps, with some detriment to his reputation. Hillhouse is remarkable for his confined brevity-for his perfectness and delicacy. His productions resemble angels of beautiful forms, whose appearance stands out before us in just symmetry, their wings poised with majestic grace, and altogether free from impurities. So well proportioned are they that nothing can be imagined which placed by them would add to their glory or perfection. This author's works, like those of others who are of great merit, are only in the memory of a few. But the praise of the few is far preferable to the acclamations of a thoughtless rabble; and to be held in esteem by them is an earnest of that glory which time places on the growing, budding, and imperishable crown of the true poet. LONGFELLOW. THIS poet has not written a great quantity; and that which he has written, although it defies criticism, does not in our estimation, render him what some have declared him to be-the best poet. We hold it that a fair reputation among our acquaintances is not glory with posterity; and this is what we believe Longfellow possesses. We judge that if posterity call his name as a poet, it will be only to remark that in viewing American scenery his poetical eye is an exact and perfect mirror. As a descriptive poet, Longfellow stands in an elevated station-and we would be pleased, as well as others of his friends, if he could deliver over, for the press, more of his productions. We know of very few productions which, in the summer months or in the close room in winter, read and please so well as his-especially, when they are most descriptive. Longfellow is a capital painter of all that is beautiful. We have not in our mind a single startling picture which he has created. Any writhings of agony-any passionate exclamations, except such as have been refined by the contemplative soul, -we have never beheld. His pictures are all soft-hued. He paints, to use his own words,― The sylvan pomp of woods-the golden sun- Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in- There is very little running, apposite sentiment interwoven with his descriptions. He does not seem to see, when he is describing a scene, anything palpable, corresponding to it in the mind or in the moral world. What, it occurs to us, makes descriptive poetry of real moral utility is to have every scene with its shadow of sentiment or thought, not confused and thrown up in a mass, at the end, but defined and distinct, and attached to its proper object, so that the soul may catch it at once, and be hallowed by its power. PEABODY. لت THERE has been very little calm, devotional, poetry written in America. We wonder that there is not more of it, since we have so many divines, whose pens flow with remarkable ease and grace. Every one knows the delight which the mind takes in religious musings; and that it is equally pleased with poetry founded on the same spirit, cannot be questioned. Peabody has admirably succeeded in this department. A silvery line of pure religion, fresh from the heart, vibrates throughout, and girds all his pieces. His poems are the repositories of holiness and goodness-having a pervading spirit which turns man to the contemplation of himself and his God. Yet Peabody has no lofty genius. He is tame, except so far as his subject is concerned. There are no strong, brilliant flashings of inherent poetry, which display an imagination wholly and deeply poetical. They are quiet musings, freely and pleasantly written, but remarkable for nothing but the true fervour of religion. There is a class of readers, however, to whom he is peculiarly acceptable-they are not those who make nice demands for genuine poetry, but such as love religion, as it exists in the mind without the instructions of revelation. There is nothing very original in his productions. An acquaintance with the best writers has purified his taste, and has given a poetical cast to his thoughts. Yet his productions are worthy of repeated perusal, and his reputation has been well acquired. May he live to write more, and to enjoy his reputation, unmolested by satire or cavilling. PERCIVAL. PERCIVAL is the most learned poet of America; indeed, it may be doubted whether there can be found in the world, a more learned man, whose poetical rank is as high. Of that vast number whose names have been, and are, before the public, no one will be held in higher estimation, perhaps, by posterity, than this writer; and to whomsoever shall fall the task of recording this man's character, there will rest on him a responsibility such as has hitherto fallen upon no American biographer. Percival's productions are so numerous that to mention his peculiar characteristic as a poet is almost impossible. Power is visible, however, throughout all his works. His imagination is free, almost unbounded, and he seems to soar with enthusiasm amid the elements of poetry-not totally heedless whither he goes, but hazarding too much, sometimes, by boldness. His descriptive verse is generally rich and delightful-always American where it is not solely imaginative; and his preception of the beauties of nature is great-greater than that of any one of our poets who has gone before him, or who is a contemporary. His sentimental poetry, though it be less evident in some pieces than in others, is simple and dignified, though sometimes morose and solitary in its principle. We are unable to tell to what Percival's poetry can be likened. Perhaps the best thing which can shadow out its character, is a river, one of whose sources is a brook, over which willows hang silently, but which, as we move downward and onward, spreads out into a stream of brightness and beauty, till it at last empties itself into the ocean. PIER PONT. THIS writer we do not place among the chief poets of America because he is a very popular poet, but because he is a better poet of his order than any one who can be found in the country. We mean the couplet-writers, or those followers of Pope's school, whose writings are, generally, sensible prose pieces dressed up in rhyme. Pierpont does not belong to this school entirely. He has some better qualities than most of its writers. He is concise in his poems, and has considerable strength, and merits, as he receives, the commendation of the public. It is, however, owing to his occasional pieces that he is popular. He has written several of the best odes that have appeared in America. These will stand in comparison by the side of the compositions of the best ode writers of England. He is American in spirit. His odes are so, also; and no person who can read his verses will deny to him praise for the correctness of his style, and for the spirit which breathes and burns through his writings. "The Airs of Palestine" is the poem by which he first distinguished himself. This is a pretty production, and falls upon us like a strain of music when twilight is gathering her shades; we have read it often with great pleasure, and hope always to have it by us through the summer evenings, to cheer us at our open window. PIKE. WE may be excused some time or other for introducing a name which has been, like the writings of this author, but little circulated. Pike has a poetical mind of lofty order-his writings are free out-pourings of a glorious imagination, and he does not labour upon his compositions. Of his fame he is wholly careless, and almost every production of his pen has been given to us in the way of friendship, and, otherwise, might never have been placed before the public. "The Hymns to the Gods," which were published through our agency in Blackwood's Magazine, in the spring of 1839, are proofs of his genius, and will remind the reader of Shelley and Keats. Our desk is filled with his gifts, and we present one as a specimen : Come, sit upon the hills, And bid the waking streams leap down their side, And green the vales with their slight-sounding rills; And when the stars upon the sky shall glide, And crescent Dian ride, I too will breathe of thy delicious thrills On grassy hills. Alas! bright spring-not long Shall I enjoy thy pleasant influence; For thou shalt die the summer heat among, Sublimed to vapour in his fire intense; And gone for ever hence, Exist no more-no more to earth belong, Except in song. |