modern Titan! see his broad swart face, off which the hair is tossed, his countenance well realizing the mythological idea of unearthly power, as it glares and nods behind a cloud of flying sparks, which occasionally conceal the mysterious vision altogether from our eyes.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat, and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!

Longfellow's beautiful lines on the River Charles, flow on with as much stately splendor as the Mississippi, or the Amazon. We are wrapt in astonishment as we behold the deep sincerity, and unaffected grace in which he addresses his native River. His thoughts "Bathed in the purple light of love," are inspired by devotion of the most elevated and passionate kind.

There is a sublime simplicity about Excelsior, which all must observe; not a word too much, not an idea irrelevant, it is to this species of Poetry, what Goldsmith's Hermit is to the ballad; in addition to the e excellencies, the subject is remarkably fine, and breathes nothing but true nobility of purpose, and virtuous aspirings.

The Day is Done, resembles in beauty of idea, his own charming comparison to "the benediction that follows after prayer," but in nowise realizes his no less happy allusion to

The tents of the Arabs," inasmuch as it is too exquisitely impressive to be ever absent from the memory of him, who thoroughly appreciates its worth. Who can gainsay the naturalness of the wishes breathed through these graceful lines?

Who can deny to the Poet, that vivid power of condensation, and felicitous command of expressive materials, which can convey in the compass of a line, a thought which sends us wandering from the present day through all the epochs of the world, and all the eventful records which individualize them, to that moment when, "God said, let there be light, and there was light?" Yes, they are the incarnation of suggestiveness, those "corridors of time."

In the passionate love of nature which it manifests, and also in the high religious tendency of its reflections, and aspirations, Autumn, reminds us of Thompson; indeed, Thompson could not have written anything more graceful, or more earnest. We experience a thrill of admiration passing through us, when we contemplate the beauty of that inimitable image, "Morn on the Mountain," &c., and again, when we arrive at that most appropriate, and poetical personification, "Where Autumn," &c.

AUTUMN.

With what a glory comes and goes the year; The buds of Spring, those beautiful harbingers

Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy
Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread
out;

And when the silver habit of the clouds
Comes down upon the utumn sun, and with
A sober gladness the old year takes up
His bright inheritance of golden fruits,
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.
There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees,
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
Pouring new glory on the Autumn woods,
And dipping in warm light the pillared
clouds.

Morn on the mountain, like a Summer bird,
Lifts up her purple wing; and in the vales
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate

wooer,

Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life. Within the solemn woods of ash deep crimsoned,

And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,

Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits
down

By the way side a-weary. Through the trees
The golden robin moves. The purple finch,
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,
A winter bird, comes with its plaintive
whistle,

And pecks by the witch-hazel; whilst aloud
From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird
sings;

And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.

O, what a glory doth this world put on
For him who, with a fervent heart, goes
forth

Under the bright and glorious sky, and
looks

On duties well performed, and days well spent!

For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves,
Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent
teachings,

He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that
Death

Has lifted up for all, that he shall go
To his long resting place without a tear.

We cannot award too much praise, or conceive too great. admiration for The Slave's Dream; the noble independence. which it breathes, the magnificence of the language, the appropriateness of the individualities, and the sublime abruptness of the conclusion, mark it out as an inspiring lyric, fit to vie with the Scots wha ha'e of Burns, the address to Caledonia of Sir Walter Scott, or "the Isles of Greece" of Lord Byron. Could they but appreciate the beauty of its import, it would be

sufficient to arouse the whole brotherhood to arms, and to nerve them with power to snap their chains asunder like withes

of straw.

The Spanish Student is a spirited composition, well conceived and abounding in pretty passages; the first part of the first scene embodies an excellent satire on many of the insipid comedies of the present time; and the frequent erudite allusion to Spanish songs, fables, and authors, which are made throughout its pages, furnish abundant evidence of the author's great familiarity with Spanish literature. The plot is interesting, and many of the incideuts shew much ingenuity, but it is not adapted to the stage, being deficient in many of the essential requisites necessary to make it palatable as an acting drama. Longfellow's translations from the German, Swedish, Spanish, French, Danish, Italian and Anglo Saxon, possess in a very high degree, that elegance of diction, and thoroughly classical coloring, for which all his other poems are remarkable. King Christian and The Elected Knight from the Danish, the Children of the Lord's Supper from the Swedish, Coplas de Manrique from the Spanish, which is in truth a lovely poem, and The Blind Girl of Castel-cuille by Jasmin, the bard of the South of France, which is effected in a most masterly manner, as the great impression made upon the mind of the reader attests, are sufficient to illustrate the spirit and grace of the translations, and the great research of the author, united to his wonderful power of adapting metres, and also to his harmonious versification. To say that they do not resemble translations so much as originals is to pay an high, but by no means an unmerited compliment to Longfellow.

Among the poems included in the Sea Side Collection appears The Building of the Ship. It is a specimen, and an exceedingly brilliant specimen, of rapid descriptive narration. The quick and spirited fluency of the metre is not more calculated to win our praise than the Homeric minuteness with which each spar of the new ship is traced-the country which produced it, the hands that felled it, and the oxen that bore it from its native forest.

There is another beautiful composition in this collection called Resignation, distinguished by true pathos, lofty faith and incomparable elegance. Evangeline, as almost all our readers are aware, is one of the most pathetic and beautiful poetical narrations which has ever enriched our language.

The pastoral scenes are life-like daguerreotypes; there is an originality about the story of the lovers, and an appropriate solemnity of language throughout the whole piece, which added to the beautiful descriptions which lie scattered among its pages, and the apposite comparisons which stud them, render it a truly fascinating if not enchanting poem. The most remarkable tale of passionate and constant love must "pale its ineffectual fires" at the recital of the devotion of Evangeline, and the heroic constancy of her lover; Sir Edwin Landseer may well envy the ensuing pastoral sketch.

"Under the sycamore tree were hives overhung by a penthouse,

Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the road side,

Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.

Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown

Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.

Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm yard. There stood the broad-wheeled wains, and the antique ploughs, and the harrows; There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio,

Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock with the self-same

Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.

Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one

Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase

Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn loft.
There, too, the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates
Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezes,
Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation."

In search of her exiled lover Evangeline, herself an exile, explores the pathless woods and boundless forests, through the long vigils of the night, "over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens." After years of unavailing grief and untiring search she finds him, but alas! upon his death-bed, and life leaves him almost ere she has time to address him.

"On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man.
Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his temples;
But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment
Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood;

So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying.
Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever,

As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals,
That the Angel of death might see the sign, and pass over.
Motionless, senseless, dying he lay, and his spirit exhausted
Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness,
Darkness of slumber and death, for ever sinking and sinking.
Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations,
Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded
Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like,

"Gabriel! O my beloved!" and died away into silence.

Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood;

Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them,

Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under the shadow,

As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision.

Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids,

Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside.
Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered

Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken.
Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him,

Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom.

Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness,
As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement."

Her divine resignation is as divinely drawn :—

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow.
All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing,
All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience
And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom,

Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, Father, I thank thee !'"

We should be inclined to consider Bryant, the most philosophical of the American Poets; his writings are all distinguished by much refinement of thought, richness of fancy, and beautiful contemplative imaginings. His command of language is surprisingly great, and he neither allows his subjects to master him, nor does he on the other hand veil his subjects from our eyes by the impertinence of egotism, or the mystifications of supersubtlety. To do good, is the noble object which seems to have established its throne in the bosom of this beautiful Poet, and though he seldom wields the thunderbolts of passion, or kindles the luminous lightnings of the intellect, which almost scorch us with their brilliancy, the kindly nature of his genius, ever pouring forth its treasures in a calm transparent tide of true expression, leaves a longer and more satisfactory impression on the mind, by reason of the delicate medium in which their wisdom is conveyed; thus resembling "the sun in its evening declination," which, "retains all its splendor, though it has lost its intensity, and pleases more because it dazzles less."-Eminently philosophical, it is cheering to learn that Bryant has not identified himself with the ridiculous doctrines of the transcendental school, which is extending its poisonous ramifications through so many walks of Art and Science in America. Full of the most profound reverence for Omnipotence, possessing a peaceful spirit, and having a heart alive to every sympathy and generous impulse, he beholds the wisdom of God in all the works of his hands, and his mind labors to extract wholesome knowledge, and useful lessons, from "every flower that blows."

There are many British Poets whom he may be said to resemble, but perhaps none more than Wordsworth, in his great love of nature, his minute observation, and the charming beauty of his reflections, which the meanest productions of nature can elicit. It is evident that the works of such a Poet are calculated to improve the minds of a people whose national tastes are so positively opposed to the cultivation of any species