But in the case of England and America, and in that case alone, we can approach the point of divergence, and watch the process of separation from its commencement. Mankind will eventually have an opportu nity of examining by proof all those nice and refined questions which only an argument of remotion was before able to solve for us; it has the process going on under its eyes, and it may test by actual experiment all that was hitherto but theory and deduction.

In general, the point of divergence of two languages originally one, is concealed in the obscurity of unapproachable antiquity. That ramifications have taken place naturally, since the miracle of Babel, we For all the efforts of America to preserve have every reason to believe-but we only an identity of language with us (the only discover the streams where they are far thing she seems to wish to follow us in) apart, and it is a work of difficulty and un- will not avail to resist the immutable law certainty to trace them up to their original which ordains that nations removed shall diffluence. There are many curious cir- not be identical in any one particular; and cumstances which must strike even the even from her literature she will not long most superficial philologist in returning up be able to exclude the elements of change, these streams. The few parent-fountains which in the volume before us begin to forming the miraculous origin of each great make a show, and give an exotic tint to family of tongues, preserve their distinctive the blossoms-and there are many bright characteristics through endless combina- ones-with which it is overspread. The tions, and tend to imprint on their deriva- vulgar tongue it is, however, which will no tives corresponding varieties of character doubt be the first to alter, as may be exand expression, according to their combi-pected, it being there that the process is nation and arrangement. For it is of such left to itself, and in it we could, if we were materials that a spoken language is com- so disposed, and that our space and subject. posed, and from such materials alone it can admitted of it, even now exhibit very rebe modified and inflected. No power of markable variations, not only in words, but taste, custom, or circumstances can do in idioms and forms of expression. Amermore than qualify one language by the ad-ican literature has hence a double interest mixture or extraction of other known ones; nor can the utmost ingenuity of man create new elements out of which to supply, enrich, or strengthen the current media of expression. But, subordinate to these great distinctions, there are wide differences where we can trace an original unity at a period more recent than the confusion of tongues, and in which the divarication has been caused by natural circumstances, such as the migration of tribes, colonization, conquest, geographical position, or the long-continued friendship or hostility of neighboring nations. To apply our selves to the examination of such matters can never be unprofitable, even in the uncertainty in which they are wrapped-we say uncertainty, for we have only the internal evidence of a language as it is, for our guide; as in geology we are unable to discover any authentic history to assist our independence of expression as well as of researches. Man in his earlier state was as utterly unconscious of the philosophy of his language as of that of his mind; and hence we must be content to meet with those difficulties by which observation upon the casual relics of unobserved changes will ever be accompanied.

with Englishmen. For a philological inquiry mixes itself with it, and urges attention as a matter of duty, where inclination would have already recommended it. It is not our part, however, to point out examples of what we have been noticing, either directly or by the selection of our quotations. It is enough to denote the commencing existence of such changes, and recommend it as a subject worthy of national observation.

The endeavor to hold strictly to English in literature has had its cramping effect on the powers of American poets. In prose the restraint is not equally felt, or at least does not so severely cramp the author; and accordingly their prose compositions are many of them bold, natural, and rich. But in verse it is essential that there should be an entire freedom from restraint-an

thought; nor has any poet ever been able to show a bold and vigorous originality who has been obliged to watch his expressions as they arose in his mind, and square his words when written according to an unfamiliar vocabulary. Hence there is timidity and restraint in all their poetical

efforts they are laboriously correct, but But after all it will be better to give the undaring and tame; and a general absence reader an opportunity of judging for himof forcible metaphor, novel and striking self. And we purpose, in doing so, to use metre, startling eccentricity, and success-all possible impartiality in the selection, ful innovation, mark the uneasy anxiety which must after all be but a scanty gleanafter English which guided their composi-ing from such a field. It was about the tions. Of course, in so voluminous a mis- close of the seventeenth century that the cellany as that before us, this assertion will shell was first sounded beyond the Atlantic be qualified with exceptions-one must be by bards of English descent. For, quaint obvious, that of Maria Brooks's poetry, and grotesque as were the productions of (Maria Del' Occidente,) of which wild and those worthies, Folger, Mathew, and Wigreckless vigor is one of the high charac-glesworth, the circumstance of their being teristics. It must be remembered, how- published in America does not in itself conever, that she, like Irving, was a long resi- stitute them American poetry-the authors dent in England, and benefited moreover were English born, and would probably by the critical care, advice, and assistance have put forward their absurdities at home, of Southey, in whose house she was for a if they could have found a printer-with considerable time domesticated. this difference, that their names and books would have been already in the tomb of all the Capulets." The true commencement of American song is with Benjamin Thompson, "y renowned poet of New England." He was born at Quincy, in 1640, and wrote an astounding epic, entitled "New England's Crisis," about the year 1676. Besides this "great epic," "he wrote," says the editor of the collection before us, "three shorter poems, neither of which have much merit."

In these higher qualifications, then, we are bound to record American deficiency," Genius, the transfiguration of the beautiful into the sublime, the wings upon the head and feet, the magic wand of inspiration, are not there. Like elegant translations, or accurate copies, these writings please and satisfy, but do not move us-we admire and approve, but must refuse homage; and delightedly admit them to the shelves of our library, while we must exclude them from the sanctuary of our hearts. In such It is attempted to be proved in this vola position, however, they stand becoming-ume, that very little poetry worthy of prely-they have many claims on our regard, servation was produced in America before and in one or two points, we are bound to the period of the revolution; in fact, till confess, put to shame our own modern the spirit of freedom began to influence the school. A healthy and wholesome spirit national character. "The POETRY OF THE of thought and morality uniformly pervades COLONIES," says the editor, "was without their pages a simple and safe tone of feel-originality, energy, feeling, or correctness ing is caught, we trust, from the tastes of of diction." Nothing is more easy to make their readers, and conventionally purifies than such an assertion-nothing more easy their lays; there is little that is false or afto prove. A little judicious selection in fected in sentiment, much less of what is both periods will make it all plain; but, pernicious or demoralizing, in the large even giving him credit for making a fair collection they have sent over to us in this selection from the colonial bards, will the volume; or if the former admission is too specimens he produces support the implied strong, we may safely allow it as far as assumption that the "spirit of liberty" has morbid and unhealthy sentiment is con- begotten "originality, energy, and freecerned. There is also an absence of per- dom" in the later bards of his country? sonal and political acrimony, singular We hesitate in replying to the question. enough in a people, who in plain prose At least we are unable to observe the must be admitted to possess a national tal-strong demarcation between the two perient for invective, whetted by constant practice, and which either argues the cautious and rigid selection of the editor, or else how completely the bards of America keep in their minds the identity of poetry and fiction; and we have a right to thank them that on such ground at least they can lay aside inveterate habits, and allow their imagination to give practical efficacy to the precept "Peace, good will towards

men."

VOL. III. No. III. 21

ods which he would have us recognize.

Philip Frenneau was the most distinguished poet of the revolutionary time. Out of his voluminous compositions, the editor has been able to extract a few detached scraps, fit to be ranked in a "select" collection. The equivocal merit of his verse makes us the more regret not being indulged with a little of his prose, which, as Mr. Thomas modestly remarks, " combined the beauty and smoothness of Addi

are some stanzas:

:

son with the simplicity of Cobbett !" Here | Thou hold'st me by a spell; and on thy beach I feel all soul and thoughts unmeasured reach Far back beyond all date. And, O! how old Thou art to me. For countless years thou bast rolled.

At Eutaw Springs the valiant died;
Their limbs with dust are covered o'er-
Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide;
How many heroes are no more!

If, in this wreck of ruin, they

Can yet be thought to claim the tear, O smite your gentle breast, and say,

The friends of freedom slumber here! Stranger, their humble graves adorn; You too may fall, and ask a tear, etc.

Before an ear did hear thee, thou didst mourn,
Prophet of sorrows, o'er a race unborn;
Waiting, thou mighty minister of death,
Lonely thy work, ere man had drawn his breath.
At last thou didst it well! The dread command
Came, and thou swept'st to death the breathing
land;

And then once more, unto the silent heaven
Thy lone and melancholy voice was given.

And though the land is thronged again, O Sea!
Strange sadness touches all that goes with thee.
The small bird's plaining note, the wild, sharp call,
Share thy own spirit: it is sadness all!
Yonder tall cliff-he with the iron crown.
How dark and stern upon thy waves looks down
And see! those sable pines along the steep,
Are come to join thy requiem, gloomy deep!
Like stoled monks they stand and chant the dirge
Over the dead, with thy low beating surge.

The

Wohin, woher,"

But we would willingly, out of the selected specimens, ourselves select the best, although it would be perhaps only fair, since the country has itself passed favorable judgment on what is here given us, to scan them strictly, or at least take them indiscriminately. Dana is one of the few names which has reached this country, and it deservedly holds a high place on the roll Coleridge's style, is his principal poem, "The Buccaneer," a clever imitation of of American genius. Dana is, we are in- and it gains, perhaps, as much as his other formed, of a fair English descent; William Dana, Esq., having been sheriff of Middle- poems lose, by being less wild and extrav sex, during the reign of Queen Elizabeth, in such a piece as the following, we look agant than what it is modelled upon; but and the republican editor adds, "Thus it in vain for the true picturesque-it is near will be seen our author has good blood in being pretty, almost good-no more. his veins an honor which no one pretends little German ballad, to despise, who is confident that his grandcomes nearest to it :father was not a felon or a boor." He, like all the other literary men of America, was a magazine writer and editor, though he has escaped, more completely than most of them, the faults of style, diction, and sentiment, which such an occupation must have a tendency to create. There is a sustained feeling through his compositions, which do not seem to be thrown at the public in fragments, in order that they may stick the more readily and immediately. But there is wanting, too, the bold and fierce energy, the hardihood of thought and language, which constitute at once the faults and the interest of a vigorous mind. Take, for instance, the following good lines from "Factitious Life," which are only a weakened reflection of the more burning thoughts of another poet :

Ho! how the giant heaves himself, and strains
And flings to break his strong and viewless chains:
Foams in his wrath; and at his prison doors,
Hark! hear him! how he beats and tugs and roars,
As if he would break forth again and sweep
Each living thing within his lowest deep.
Type of the infinite! I look away

Over thy billows, and I cannot stay
My thought upon a resting-place, or make
A shore beyond my vision, where they break;
But on my spirit stretches, till it's pain

To think; then rests, and then puts forth again.

THE LITTLE BEACH BIRD.

Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea,
Why takest thou its melancholy voice?
And with that boding cry
Along the waves dost fly?
rather, bird, with me
Through the fair land rejoice!

O!

Thy flitting form comes ghastly dim and pale,
As driven by a beating storm at sea;

The

Thy cry is weak and scared,
doom of us; Thy wail-
As if thy mates had shared

What doth it bring to me?

Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge,

Restless and sad as if in strange accord
With the motion and the roar

One

spirit did ye urge

Of waves that drive to shore,

The Mystery-the Word.

Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight
Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring
Thy spirit never more.

Come, quit with me the shore,
For gladness and the light

Where birds of summer sing.

William Cullen Bryant, the most popular of American poets, somewhere about the year 1821 presented his principal poem, "Thanatopsis," for insertion in The North American Review," while Dana was one of its managers. It was agreed by the whole directory that the unknown author

"could not be an American," the poem was so good. He was, however; and to show that now at least the nation appreciates the powers of its author, we need only extract from the notice prefixed to the extracts the following passage

Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once

Of Sabbath worshippers. The low of herds
Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain
A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream,
And I am in the wilderness alone.

Here we are perpetually getting sight of Lord Byron. There is ever and anon an approximation, and then off again at a tangent; and then close again, like the buz. zing of a bee about our ears: and we have no doubt that all this is a merit in America, though she cannot of course expect that we

"This (The Ages, a poem) is the only poem he has written in the stanza of Spenser. In its versification it is not inferior to the best passages of the 'Fairie Queene' or 'Childe Harold,' and its splendid imagery and pure philosophy are as remarkable as the power it displays over language:"should feel any very lively emotions of inthat is, in versification it is equal to the best parts of the best poems of this class that have ever been written, and in every thing else vastly superior. But it really is good, in spite of this fulsome stuff; and indeed "Thanatopsis" may vie with poems Still this great solitude is quick with lifeof a very high class in English literature." A populous solitude of bees and birds," The tone is solemn, sustained, and digni- Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers, "And fairy-formed and many-colored things." fied-not so much thought as Young, but less of epigrammatic quaintness. The folThen again (of the bee)— lowing is a fine admonition :-—

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, that moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave, at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one that draws the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

Yet even in this fine poem, and in the other compositions of Bryant, are to be detected constant imitations of what has gone before-a want of originality and independence. We only admit such resemblances where the ancient classics are drawn upon. In America we can plainly see that English poetry of every age is admittedly set up for modelling from, and that it pleases instead of offends a trans-Atlantic ear to perceive that the (in another sense) fontes remotos mix with the julep of their verse.

Take as an instance part of a description of the prairies

Still this great solitude is quick with life.
Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers
They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds,

And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of man,
Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground,
Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer
Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee,
A more adventurous colonist than man,
With whom he came across the eastern deep,
Fills the savannas with his murmurings,
And hides his sweets, as in the golden age,
Within the hollow oak. I listen long
To his domestic hum, and think I hear
The sound of that advancing multitude
Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the ground
Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice
Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn

terest when we find that what its shores are ringing with is only the echo of what shook our ears at home long ago. Observe in the passage we have extracted the expressions

I listen long

To his domestic hum. From the ground
Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice
Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn, etc.
"The hum

Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds,
The lisp of children, and their earliest words."

Here are the disjecta verba poetæ ; and, be it remembered, the passage is not selected, but simply adduced. There are plenty of other similarities, bearing the in English poetry; and we should find it same shadowy resemblance to archetypes difficult to show a passage quite original in any one of this author's poems. We wish to offer the best specimens of this the best of American poets-so we give the following pretty piece entire :—

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

The melancholy days are come,
The saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods,
And meadows brown and sear.
Heap'd in the hollows of the grove,
The wither'd leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust,
And to the rabbit's tread.

The robin and the wren are flown,

And from the shrubs the jay,

And from the wood-top calls the crow,
Through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers,
That lately sprang and stood

In brighter light and softer air,

A beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves;
The gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds,
With the fair and good of ours.