"Ah! who can tell the triumphs of the mind, By truth illumin'd, and by taste refin'd?

When age has quench'd the eye and clos'd the ear,
Still nerv'd for action in her native sphere,
Oft will she rise-with searching glance pursue
Some long-lov'd image vanish'd from her view;
Dart thro' the deep recesses of the past,
O'er dusky forms in chains of slumber cast;
With giant-grasp fling back the folds of night,
And snatch the faithless fugitive to light.

"Hail, MEMORY, hail! in thy exhaustless mine
From age to age unnumber'd treasures shine!
Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey,
And Place and Time are subject to thy sway!
Thy pleasures most we feel, when most alone;
The only pleasures we can call our own.
Lighter than air, Hope's summer-visions die,
If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky;

If but a beam of sober Reason play,
Lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away?
But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power,
Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour?
These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight,
Pour round her path a stream of living light;
And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest,
Where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest!"

X

ON A TEAR.

"Oh! that the Chemist's magic art Could crystallize this sacred treasure! Long should it glitter near my heart, A secret source of pensive pleasure.

The little brilliant, ere it fell,

Its lustre caught from CHLOE's eye;
Then, trembling, left its coral cell-
The spring of Sensibility!

Sweet drop of pure and pearly light!
In thee the rays of Virtue shine;
More calmly clear, more mildly bright,
Than any gem that gilds the mine.

Benign restorer of the soul!
Who ever fly'st to bring relief,

When first we feel the rude control

Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief.

The sage's and the poet's theme,

In every clime, in every age;
Thou charm'st in Fancy's idle dream,

In Reason's philosophic page.

That very law* which moulds a tear,
And bids it trickle from its source,
That law preserves the earth a sphere,

And guides the planets in their course."

TO THE BUTTERFLY.

"CHILD of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight,
Mingling with her thou lov'st in fields of light;
And where the flowers of paradise unfold,
Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold.
There shall thy wings, rich as an evening-sky,
Expand and shut with silent ecstacy!

-Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept
On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept !
And such is man; soon from his cell of clay

To burst a seraph in the blaze of day!"

"The Epistle to a Friend" is an exquisite piece; quite equal, in general style, to Horace or Pope. The Poem on "Human Life" is very inferior to his former productions. We had the cream first. Two passages, however, deserve to be pointed out as peculiarly beautiful, one on marriage, the other on death:

66

-Across the threshold led,

And every tear kissed off as soon as shed,
His house she enters, there to be a light
Shining within, when all without is night;

*The law of Gravitation.

A guardian-angel o'er his life presiding,
Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing;
Winning him back, when mingling in the throng,
Back from a world we love, alas, too long,
To fire-side happiness, to hours of ease
Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.
How oft her eyes read his; her gentle mind
To all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined;
Still subject-ever on the watch to borrow
Mirth of his mirth, and sorrow of his sorrow.
The soul of music slumbers in the shell,

Till waked and kindled by the master's spell;
And feeling hearts-touch them but rightly-pour
A thousand melodies unheard before!”

"When by a good man's grave I muse alone,
Methinks an angel sits upon the stone;

Like those of old, on that thrice-hallowed night,
Who sate and watched in raiment heavenly-bright;

And, with a voice inspiring joy not fear,

Says, pointing upward, that he is not here,
That he is risen !"

Page 24.

"Accomplish'd Campbell, with enchanted wing."

The conspicuous place which Mr. Campbell sustains as an arbiter on the subject of Poetry, and the valuable Lectures with which he has enriched the Belles Lettres of this country, rende

praise valueless, and criticism nugatory. His merit has been duly appreciated and acknowledged; and therefore any observations in this place will be unable to exalt him to a greater elevation. His "Pleasures of Hope" are quite equal, if not superior to Mr. Rogers' "Pleasures of Memory." His Muse seems to travel in a loftier region, and his imagery to possess more of that ardour and pathos which distinguish essential poetry. To select beauties from his Poem, is to choose brilliants from the treasures of the Lapidary; you pause in the centre of rival loveliness, and brightening lustres. He has ventured upon the work of personification with a boldness which can scarcely be equalled. The mountain of the Andes is "a giant looking down from his throne of clouds o'er half the world;"-the comet, is "a fiery giant careering on bickering wheels, and adamantine car, whirling thro' realms beyond the reach of thought, till he curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun;"-the Avenging Deity of India, is a personage of tremendous magnitude and power, "shaking a sunless sky, riding the horse of heaven's fire, pawing the clouds, and galloping upon the storm, with arms glowing like summer suns; shaking the earth, and the trembling islands, and causing all nature to rock beneath his tread."-His poetry glows with some of the most vivid conceptions; such as, "the starless night of désolation"-" the gentle gale stunn'd with the cries of death"-"the verdure of the vale bathed in blood”- kingdoms peopled with despair"-" sounds rolling on the azure paths of the wind"-"heaven bursting her starry gates," &c. Other modes of expression are exquisitely touching:-" the shadowy forms of uncreated joy"-" the wintry paradise of home"-" life's