came from his pen, without revision, or the slightest alteration. There is no nicety exhibited in the selection of words; no suppression of the redundance of images. Every thought that is presented to his mind is written, and all that is written is published. This hurried style of composition has many disadvantages; but in the case of Percival it is the carelessness of a man who feels confident that his genius will not betray him. We wish to refer more especially, however, to the lyrics of Percival; and in these, it will be seen, that he shines forth in the character of a true poet. We give the following serenade as an instance. It is simple, touching, and beautiful. "Softly the moonlight Is shed on the lake, Cool is the summer nightWake! oh awake! Faintly the curfew

Is heard from afar,

List ye! O list

To the lively guitar.

"Trees cast a mellow shade
Over the vale,
Sweetly the serenade
Breathes in the gale
Softly and tenderly
Over the lake,
Gaily and cheerily-
Wake! oh awake!

"See, the light pinnace
Draws nigh to the shore,
Swiftly it glides

At the heave of the oar; Cheerily plays

On its buoyant car, Nearer and nearer The lively guitar.

"Now the wind rises
And ruffles the pine,
Ripples, foam-crested,

Like diamonds shine,
They flash, where the waters
The white pebbles lave,
In the wake of the moon,
As it crosses the wave.
Bounding from billow
To billow, the boat
Like a wild swan is seen
On the waters to float;
And the light dipping oars
Bear it smoothly along,
In time to the air

Of the gondolier's song.

"And high on the stern

Stands the young and the brave,
As love-led he crosses

The star-spangled wave,
And blends with the murmur
Of water and grove
The tones of the night,

That are sacred to love.

"His gold-hilted sword

At his bright belt is hung,
His mantle of silk

On his shoulder is flung,
And high waves the feather,
That dances and plays
On his cap, where the buckle
And rosary blaze.

"The maid from the lattice
Looks down on the lake,
To see the foam sparkle,

The bright billow break;
And to hear, in his boat,

Where he shines like a star,
Her lover so tenderly
Touch his guitar.

"She opens the lattice,
And sits in the glow

Of the moonlight and starlight,
A statue of snow;

And she sings in a voice

That is broken with sighs,
And she darts on her lover
The light of her eyes.

"His love-speaking pantomime
Tells her his soul-

How wild in that sunny clime,
Hearts and eyes roll.

She waves, with her white hand,
Her white fazzolette;
And her burning thoughts flash
From her eyes' living jet.

"The moonlight is hid
In a vapour of snow;
Her voice and his rebeck
Alternately flow;

Re-echoed, they swell

From the rock on the hill,
They sing their farewell,
And the music is still."

We are not quite satisfied with the stanza which precedes the last, our own experience will not enable us to say, whether the passion of love causes such revolutionary movements in the hearts and eyes of lovers as our author speaks of, but to us the expression seems to border closely on the burlesque. This is a fault, however, to which want of care will subject any writer. Space will not allow us to give further instances from the lyrics of this excellent poet; and, therefore, merely referring to his beautiful lines "On Spring," as well as to those “On Consumption," we pass on to William Cullen Bryant. The greater part of Bryant's poetry belongs also to the Lake school, yet it appears to us far less misty and confused than that of most poets of his class. It is written with much more care; and, therefore, is more polished than the compositions of Percival, and is more easy and graceful, because more regular. No startling and abrupt images are employed, for the purpose of surprising the reader into admiration; but the images which are used are judiciously chosen, and skilfully introduced. There is more depth of feeling and lofty sentiment, and fewer glaring faults than in the poetry of Percival, but there is also less boldness and excursiveness of fancy; and, as it were, a certain timidity which marks a less original genius.

The lyric poems of Bryant are distinguished by delicacy and richness, and their unvarying fidelity to nature. They contain no violations of good taste, by overstrained or feeble comparisons; and no daring flights or bold digressions, but he speaks to the heart of man in the eloquent language of feeling. An unpretending beauty marks the following lines, "To a Waterfowl."

"Whither, 'midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?

"Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.

"Seek'st thou the plashy brink

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side?

"There is a power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-

The desert and illimitable air,—
Lone wandering, but not lost.

"All day thy wings have fann'd,
At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere;
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

"And soon that toil shall end,

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend
Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.

"Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.

"He, who, from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright."

There are other American writers who have acquired considerable repute, as lyric poets, and who, did not our limits forbid, might be more extensively noticed here. The lyrics of Sands, Pierpont, Willis, and others of various merit, have found their way into every part of the country,—and as far as this species of composition can establish and perpetuate poetical fame, some of them will not be forgotten.

We were about taking up the volume of Halleck, for the purpose of noticing its contents, when our eye fell upon some stanzas, which we will submit to the reader, as well as a single word in relation to their author.

Many of the lyric poems of Willis G. Clark are charactérised by a simplicity and pathos which leave a deep impression upon the heart. A vein of pure and unaffected feeling runs throughout, and the profuseness of beautiful imagery bespeaks the redundant fancy of the poet. Of the longer poems of Clark we cannot speak as approvingly. They appear to have been written with haste; and as the models upon which they are framed are essentially bad, little was to be expected from them. Even good workmanship is of little avail with bad materials. The "Lament," which we give as a specimen of this writer's lyric poems, is altogether perfect of its kind.

"There is a voice, I shall hear no more-
There are tones, whose music for me is o'er;
Sweet as the odours of spring were they,-
Precious and rich-but they died away;
They came like peace to my heart and ear-
Never again will they murmur here;

They have gone like the blush of a summer morn,
Like a crimson cloud through the sunset borne.

"There were eyes, that late were lit up for me,
Whose kindly glance was a joy to see;
They revealed the thoughts of a trusting heart,
Untouched by sorrow, untaught by art;

Whose affections were fresh as a stream of spring
When birds in the vernal branches sing;

They were filled with love, that hath passed with them,
And my lyre is breathing their requiem.

"I remember a brow, whose serene repose
Seemed to lend a beauty to cheeks of rose:
And lips, I remember, whose dewy smile,
As I mused on their eloquent power the while,
Sent a thrill to my bosom, and bless'd my brain
With raptures, that never may dawn again;
Amidst musical accents, those smiles were shed-
Alas! for the doom of the early dead!

"Alas! for the clod that is resting now

On those slumbering eyes-on that faded brow;
Wo for the cheek that hath ceased to bloom-
For the lips that are dumb, in the noisome tomb;
Their melody broken, their fragrance gone,
Their aspect cold as the Parian stone;
Alas for the hopes that with thee have died-
Oh loved one!-would I were by thy side!

"Yet the joy of grief it is mine to bear;
I hear thy voice in the twilight air;
Thy smile, of sweetness untold, I see
When the visions of evening are borne to me;
Thy kiss on my dreaming lip is warm-
My arm embraceth thy graceful form;
I wake in a world that is sad and drear,
To feel in my bosom-thou art not here.

"Oh! once the summer with thee was bright;
The day, like thine eyes, wore a holy light.
There was bliss in existence when thou wert nigh,
There was balm in the evening's rosy sigh;
Then earth was an Eden, and thou its guest-
A Sabbath of blessings was in my breast;
My heart was full of a sense of love,
Likest of all things to heaven above.

"Now, thou art gone to that voiceless hall,
Where my budding raptures have perished all;
To that tranquil and solemn place of rest,
Where the earth lies damp on the sinless breast;
Thy bright locks all in the vault are hid-
Thy brow is concealed by the coffin lid ;--
All that was lovely to me is there-
Mournful is life, and a load to bear!"

Turn we now to the compositions of the first lyric poet of his land-FITZ GREENE HALLECK.

If there be in the English language a phrase that is better fitted than another to convey our sense of the merits of Halleck's verse, we should express as its principal characteristics, a great vigour of language, and a surpassing brilliancy of thought. His poetical images flow with the sweetest melody; he is powerful, even when most harmonious; and evidently is no advocate of the doctrine that sound is an echo to the sense. While his poetry delights the ear with its music, it elevates the spirit by its high-toned sentiment. It provokes in our minds new thoughts, and in our hearts it awakens a world of animated feeling. Every thing that comes from the hand of this admirable poet is replete with chaste and exquisite beauties, reflections from the mirror of nature. Nothing is rough—nothing overstrained, feeble, or misplaced.

We know that this is high praise, and we are aware that unmingled eulogy often excites distrust, because it is so frequently applied to writers who do not deserve it. We turn the reader, however, to one or two selections from Halleck's writings.

The following lines were written in September, 1820, after the death of Joseph Rodman Drake, the intimate friend of our author.

"Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days!
None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.

"Tears fell, when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep,
And long, where thou art lying,
Will tears the cold turf steep.

"When hearts, whose truth was proven
Like thine, are laid in earth,
Then should a wreath be woven
To tell the world their worth.
"And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and wo were thine;

"It should be mine to braid it
Around thy faded brow,
But I've in vain essayed it,
And feel I cannot now.

"While memory bids me weep thee,

Nor thoughts nor words are free,

The grief is fixed too deeply

That mourns a man like thee."