promise of future productions of rare excellence. The following lines form part of a poem published in the New-York Tribune of August 8th, 1844. The subject is

AHAB.-2 Chronicles, xviii.

A day of splendor dawneth on thy towers,
Princely Samaria! From dome to dome
Leaps the bright flush that heraldeth the sun!
Thy walls, whose frowning battlements are stern
From time and war; thy skyey turrets' tops;
Thy palaces, the pride of Israel

And royal Ahab, and thy massy gates,

Whose lofty fronts are wrought with storied brass,
All lift a pompous welcome to the morn.

The sun of Palestine is still below

The unwaked mountains, yet the gorgeous East
Lighteth the curtains of her glory up
With majesty unutterable. See!

The emulous landscape, from the far-seen vale
Of Jordan on to Lebanon, lifts up

Its thousand hills to catch the golden hues
Of heaven-born beauty as they glow beyond!
There is a murmur as of breaking rest
In the proud capital, and straggling forms
Infrequent pace the ramparts-it may be
Of drowsy sentinels alert again,

As the throng stirs below them, or attempts
Th' unopen'd portals.

Hark! a brazen voice
Swells from the valley, like the clarion
That calls to battle. Skirting all the hills,

Speeds the blithe tone, and wakes an answer up
In rock and forest, till the vale hath talk'd
With all its tongues, and in the fastnesses
Of the far dingle, faint and fainter heard,
Dies the last sullen echo. 'Tis the trump
That breaks the bivouac of an untold host-
Thy warrior sons, O Israel! Lo! their tents
Whiten the green declivities that gird
The royal city; and the gray of dawn
Blends the vast group into a boundless field
Of snowy canvas. Summoning the brave,
A voice hath pass'd from Dan to Beersheba;
The pride of Palestine hath heard-the prince,
The valiant and the mighty, youth and strength,
And veteran age, have burnish'd shield and spear,
And buckled on their armor at the call!

For AHAB warreth-the uncircumcised

Have scoff'd the high-soul'd Hebrew-e'en the bless'd

Jehoshaphat hath sworn to help, and leagued
His people with idolaters to fight

The haughty Syrian.

Morning's eye hath oped. And the sun seeks the zenith. Oh! the sight His splendor looks on in this favor'd land, Whereon, though grievous are its sins, the curse Of the Almighty lingereth to fall!

Oh! who, to see the glory of its hills,

Its streams, its pastures, and its plains, where now
A matchless verdure smiles; its ancient groves;
Its cities wall'd, and towers of strength; its sons,
Countless as flocks that sport in happiness
Mid the green beauty of the fields, could dream
The Gentile's sword should mar its gorgeousness,
And spread its ashes to the winds of heaven!

*

*

*

*

*

Now goes the royal mandate forth-"To arms!" Samaria's length and breadth, wall, streets, and gates, Bustle with warriors. Iron-girded men

In fast-form'd ranks haste downward to the plain.

The palace swarms with officers who wait

The monarch's orders; while through the throng'd ways, Steeds, with the speed of wind, and breath of fire,

Hurl the dun chariot with thunder on.

The shouts of legion'd myriads, and the clang
Of thousand battle trumpets, rend the air;

For the leagued kings are to the hosts gone down.

Another bright day's sunset bathes the hills
That gird Samaria. Their green and gold
Sleep in their soft, unsullied lustre still,
As though earth knew no grief for evermore.
Ah! that is not the voice of joy that comes
From the wall'd capital. It is the wail

Of lone bereavement; for all Israel mourns.

*

See, straggling o'er the mountain's back, the wrecks
Of yestermorn's illustrious hosts of war,

Inglorious, fugitive, ashamed, alone,

And soil'd with battle, dust, defeat, and blood.
'Neath Ephraim's vines the voice of minstrelsy
And mirth is hush'd, and sorrowing maidens lift
The loud lament-"How are the mighty fallen!
Husbands, and sires, and sons, and brothers went
To the leagued slaughter forth with pride and song;
But ah! there dawns no light on their return'
And the eye aches with weeping as it looks
Toward fatal Gilead's fields whereon they lie.
Weep, for the sword of the uncircumcised

Hath thinn'd the chosen people! Trail'd and torn

Are Israel's banners, and the Syrian

Hath trodden down her plumes! Weep, for the throne
Hath lost its monarch, and the kingless tribes
Mourn valiant Ahab, who shall war no more-
Samaria's pool hath drunk his royal blood!"

SECTION XII.

CONCLUDING REMARKS ON AMERICAN POETS.

There are many other poetical writers of whom our country may be allowed to boast, whom we have not room to notice. The books already referred to as containing selections from their writings must be consulted and read carefully before a just idea can be formed of the variety and extent of poetical talent among us. It should be considered, however, that most of our distinguished authors are engaged in pursuits generally considered unfavorable to the efforts of genius. We have noticed only a few of the most prominent, leaving many other honored names to be sought for in the books from which we have had the privilege of quoting both specimens and criticisms. There is one gratification (says the N. Y. Evang.) in reading our best American poets-and this is emphatically true of Bryant we mean the purity of thought and sentiment which they maintain. How different from the poetry which emanated from some of the most celebrated of the British poets. From the days of Shakspeare, Dryden, and Pope, down to those of Byron and Shelley, much profaneness and vulgarity was intermingled. Milton, Cowper, Montgomery, and Wordsworth, with other names, are exceptions. Look at the new novels and magazines which every steamer introduces. How deeply and sadly polluted! Beside these, place the volumes of Bryant. What an honor to our country! What a noble testimony to the influence of our Puritan religion! When we contemplate the manner in which we are exposed to corrupt foreign literature, we beseech our countrymen not only to be careful what they purchase from abroad, but to encourage most ardently the efforts of our own writers, who so well deserve our confidence as the author of these poems (Bryant).

CHAPTER II.

SECTION I.

SKETCH OF AMERICAN LITERATURE SINCE 1815.

THE reasons why American literature has, until within the last twenty-five or thirty years, been comparatively so scanty and generally inferior, are fully set forth by the North American Review for 1840, in the following manner: The period just referred to " has been one of much greater activity than any that preceded it. It was divided by only one generation from the time when the American States were, as to productions of the intellect, in the helpless and sluggish condition almost inseparable from a condition of colonial dependence, and they had established their political existence at a cost which it required the undivided attention of at least one generation to repair. The first business of the citizen, in his private walk, was to contrive to get rid of his debts, and to make some provision for his family; while his less selfish thoughts were employed in watching, and helping the experiment of a new government. First came great prosperity; a uniform currency; commercial confidence; profitable applications of inventive talent; vast demand for the products of an inexhaustible soil; the carrying trade of the world. Then followed terrible reverses: embargo; non-intercourse; war. The wheel of fortune was stopped with a crash, when its momentum was greatest; and it was not till after the peace of 1815 that things settled down into such a state, that a portion of the community could be spared for the laborious leisure of study, or even that individuals in active life, though of liberal tastes, could be expected to feel much inclination in themselves, or impulse from others, to the tasks of authorship.

"Under such circumstances, the question of our learned Edinburgh brethren, Who reads an American book? was really no more reasonable than it was courteous. It was not a thing to be fairly expected that America should have become a book-mart for the

world. And especially was it not to be expected so soon, when, if effected at all, it would necessarily be effected in the face of other, serious, and permanent disadvantages. A nation which produces genius and excitements for it, will sooner or later, no doubt, produce a literature also. But those early and lower ef forts, which lead to the higher, must suffer great discouragements, when, in consequence of community of language, they are brought at once into comparison with the best productions of another highly-cultivated society; and when, from the same cause, there is an ample foreign supply, the excitements to literary labor (we speak not of those of a sordid kind, but of every kind whatever) must be materially diminished.

"Within the last few years, however, there is great difficulty found by our reviews in keeping up with the numerous issues of the American press. Even England has become a great market for our books, particularly our school books, many of which are rapidly supplanting those of English manufacture on the same subjects. With the exception of a few books published in England, children's books, also, by American authors, must be considered to possess superior value for their moral and intellectual adaptations to the young mind. In this department the Messrs. Abbot have gained a distinguished and just reputation.

"Next to books of education, devotional, biblical and theological works of American origin, have perhaps, as a class, obtained the widest circulation in England. Professor Stuart, Dr. Hodge, Dr. Robinson, Professor Bush, Mr. Barnes, Mr. Norton, Dr. Noyes, Dr. Harris, Dr. Channing, and Dr. W. B. Sprague, have produced works that stand in high repute abroad, as well as at home. No living English writer of philosophical and critical essays enjoys a popularity equal to the late Dr. Channing. As to specimens of forensic, deliberative, and demonstrative eloquence, there is no collection of works of any contem porary English orator which, for a combination of al the attributes of high oratory, logic, fullness of facts richness of illustration, pathos, wit, and chasteness Сс