The Angels passed, with JACOB, arrayed in Glory's dies,
Their shining wings half folded, and quivering for the skies;
The prophet JEREMIAH as he stood sublime of old,
And the Destruction of Jerusalem to aged BARUCH told.

Fair REBECCA from the well, whose tears were streaming fast,
With the imperial MIRIAM, who glided slowly past;

And darkly strode BELSHAZZAR, for now his Feast was done,
With terror on his curling lip and fear upon his tongue!

They gathered round the yawning grave, a group of Shadows wild,

And pour'd their tears of incense o'er Columbia's gifted child;

The night wind blew a solemn dirge, and bright stars twinkled dim-
'He rested from his labors, and his works did follow him.'

We can scarcely praise too highly the care of the new and enterprising publishers in the matter of typography and paper. Both are excellent.

THE POEMS OF ALFRED B. STREET. First complete Edition. In one volume, octavo. New-York: CLARK AND AUSTIN.

We were about to indite a short review of our esteemed friend and correspondent's very beautiful volume, when the following notice of the same work, from the capable pen of Mr. C. F. HOFFMAN, in ‘Excelsior,' (a most gentlemanly journal, 'too early lost,') met our eye, and we at once decided that we could do nothing half so felicitous as to say 'ditto to Mr. BURKE,' and make the notice ours by adoption:" 'Mr. STREET is the TENIERS of American poets. Perfect in his limited and peculiar range of art, as is LONGFELLOW in his more extended and higher sphere, STREET is the very daguerreotype of external nature. And yet his portraits are not mere mechanical copies of her features, so much feeling as well as truth is there in his microscopic delineations. He has not indeed the fervid minstrel power of WHITTIER; the high meditative philosophy of BRYANT; the fine lyric inspiration of HALLECK; the beautiful and luminous sentiment of LONGFELLOW; nor is there the vivid creative power, the sparkling fancy and impassioned grace, which divided among some of our female poets, is as yet blended upon the page of neither sex, in our still nursing literature. Yet that characteristic still remains to him, without which all these others are as nothing; and which, possessed to the full degree in which it fills the soul of Street, makes him a true poet; namely, feeling—an intense feeling and appreciation of his subject; a devotion like that of a lover to his mistress; a love for nature unaffected, enthusiastic, unceasing; a love vigilant as a mother's for her offspring; reverential as that of a child for its parent. He watches her every look and feature, with no end save the tender delight of thus watching; he worships her every expression, with no motive save the gratification of his full feeling of homage. And if the issues of social life chance at times to blend with the accidents of his theme, the flow of inspiration from such sources is wholly subordinate to the natural tides of his song. With the pedantic or superficial reader, STREET might still be left as the maker of mere descriptive verses, which had no merit save a kind of Chinese fidelity to purely physical realities; but he who, impelled by the true love of Nature, shall look more curiously into his song, will find STREET's poetry, like the face of the divinity herself, full of suggestiveness. As an instance of this, we may mention that we have before us an illustrated London publication, in which one of his poems (regarded by matter-of-fact people here as characteristically matter-of-fact,) has suggested to a spirited artist two of the most striking sketches that the season has produced.'

THE THEATRICAL APPRENTICESHIP AND ANECDOTICAL RECOLLECTIONS OF SOL. SMITH, Comedian, Attorney-at-Law, etc., etc.; with Sketches of Adventures in after years. In one volume. Phila delphia: CAREY AND HART. New-York: BURGESS AND STRINGER.

BUCKTHORNE, the poor-devil actor and author, under the facile hand of WASHINGTON IRVING, became a very renowned personage; and we doubt not that Old SoL. SMITH,' (so-called, we suppose, because he is still a young man,) in attempting his own life,' will make his 'travel's history' equally famous. But comparison apart, we have here a very pleasant book; full of amusing and evidently truthful gossip, comprising adventure and incident sufficient to supply any six volumes of those wordy native novelists' (novelists by courtesy,) who cover large slices of bread with uncommonly small pieces of butter. We hardly remember to have seen the haphazard existence of a strolling player so graphically depicted as in this little work. Here to-day and gone to-morrow; now with a well-filled purse, the result of accident or unforeseen good-luck; anon, despairing of a shilling, and with no hope of even compassing that current coin; to-day harried by the officers of the law; to-morrow free as air, and happy as a tinker. By-the-by, the descriptions of the manner in which that necessary evil, a sheriff, was occasionally done' by our actor-author in his dark days, are among the pleasantest reading in the book. Observe how he 'sold' a functionary in this kind one Saturday evening, at Wellsburgh, Virginia:

6

'PAYING was out of the question. I could not think of going to prison. Outwitting the sheriff was my only chance. It was Saturday night. I directed the door-keeper to invite Mr. Sheriff to take a seat among the auditors, and I would attend to him as soon as our performance should conclude. This was satisfactory to the officer. He seated himself and enjoyed the entertainment very much. By introducing a few additional songs, I contrived that the curtain should not fall until after twelve o'clock. The good-natured sheriff was then invited behind the scenes, and he proceeded to execute the writ, apologizing for the necessity which compelled him to perform the disagreeable duty. My dear Sir,' said I, leisurely proceeding with my undressing arrangements, 'don't apologize; these things must be done; but why did you not serve your writ some minutes ago? You are now too late.' Too late! How so? Why, my dear Sir, it is Sunday, and I make it a rule never to transact business, particularly law business, on the Sabbath.' The sheriff here consulted his watch, and found he had been overreached. 'Sure enough, it is past twelve, I do believe, and I do n't think I can touch you. Well, curse me if I can be angry with you, Mr. DARBY. Come, all hands, and take a drink.' On Monday morning we were in Ohio, where Old Virginia could not reach us.'

On another occasion, our hero, being dogged even to the stage, made his escape by falling through a 'vampyre-trap' in the boards, while a theatrical accomplice put the officers upon a false scent. But reduced though he often was, and sometimes almost beyond the pale of hope, the star of Old SoL.' was in the end always in the ascendant. It was otherwise with many of his Thespian associates; some of whom, after a life of trial and vicissitude, met with an untimely death. One was eaten up by wolves while camping out at night in one of the everglades of Florida; leaving no vestige behind save a few tickets of admission and some wigs and stage properties, torn into small pieces.' While at Cincinnati, in 1822, receiving applications as manager for engagements with him, FORREST, who was then performing in the small towns of Ohio, with no success,' applied to him for a situation in his company, which, for reasons not connected with the professional merits of our distinguished tragedian, was declined. An amusing incident arose out of this; for, in a pet with our author, FORREST repaired to a neighboring circus, and hired himself to the proprietors' as a rider and tumbler for a year!' Mr. SMITH called upon him and found him surrounded by riders, tumblers and grooms; and on remonstrating with him, FORREST convinced him of his ability to sustain his new rôle,' by turning a couple of flip-flaps on the spot! But we are at the end of our rope; having only room to add, that Mr. SMITH'S work is profusely and admirably illustrated by DARLEY. Success to it!

EDITOR'S TABLE.

A VISIT TO THE GRAVE OF GRAY, IN HIS COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.' -We have been sitting to-night for a full hour, by the mantle-clock of our goodly sanctum, listening to the February snow-storm raging and howling without, and doing nothing else,' save to gaze upon so simple a thing as an English daisy, pressed between the leaves of a manuscript memorandum-journal, kept by an old and congenial friend, lately returned from a fruitful rather than the usual' European tour. We said we had been doing nothing else;' but we should correct the expression and the impression. We have been repeating, verse by verse of matchless melody, GRAY'S Elegy in a Country Church-Yard,' looking stedfastly the while upon a daisy, plucked in the leafy month of June last from the very 'lap of earth' on which the world-renowned poet laid down his honored head in its last repose. Sacred ever to us will be the little ' eye of day,' or 'day's-eye,' kindly given to us by our friend; and pleasant, to the reader as to ourselves, will be the admirable record of the occasion which transferred it to the journal before us :

'A SMART drive of half an hour on the Great Western Railway brought us to Slough, the station-house of Eton and Windsor, distant twenty miles from London, and about two from Windsor Castle, the turrets and walls of which are distinctly visible on the left. 'The crowd' hurry to the castle, to 'gaze and wonder as they gaze' upon this gorgeous pile, surrounded and filled as it is with all that is picturesque in nature and beautiful in art — the magnificent summer retreat of the QUEEN and Royal Family. We did not follow the crowd; but turning to the left, sought out a ' neglected spot,' and one more congenial to our taste and feelings, consecrated to genius and immortality—the 'Country Church-Yard' of GRAY, where he composed his Elegy,' and where repose his ashes. It was an incense-breathing morn,' and we pursued our way, for a mile or more, through green lanes decked with daisies, and hawthorn-hedges scattering abroad their ambrosial sweets, (would that they were perennial, and that we could walk and breathe among them for ever!) when a sudden turn in the road brought us in full view of the modest little church of Stoke-Pogis, with its neatly-tapering spire. It is the misfortune of most travellers that their imagination invests scenes and men with characteristics and attributes that on intimate acquaintance they are found not to possess. Such however was not the case on the present occasion. My imagination could not have drawn a picture more like to truth than this; so retired, so shut out from the busy world around me, that I felt as if I were capable of

writing an Elegy' there myself! We entered through a gate that swung slowly upon its hinges. GRAY had come and gone through that same gate: we walked along the narrow pebbled path leading to the portal; GRAY had often trod the same path; we fancied we could almost see the impress of his footsteps. We passed the portal; how many times had he passed through the same portal!—how many happy little urchins and laughing girls had he chucked under the chin, and bade them a‘Good Morning' or a 'God bless you! We entered the church, antique and curious in its fittings and furnishings, and carefully preserved in its original simplicity. That,' said the old lady, whom we found busily engaged in dusting,' was the pew where he used to sit.' 'She knows our business,' thought I, without our telling it. Does she see it in our faces?' I saw 'the shilling' plain enough in her's. Alas! that the Elegy' should also be turned to pence! To what base uses may we come at last!' But she was n't the worst of the tribe. And here he used to sit! Whether from being tired, or from some feeling of sympathy, I could not choose but sit me down just where he used to sit.' 'Well, my good woman, show me where he is buried.' 'I will, Sir; but there is the stone.' I looked up, and saw a small tablet inserted in the wall, with an inscription certifying, that in the adjoining yard were deposited the remains of THOMAS GRAY, author of the Elegy in a Country Church-Yard.' The old body had told me all she knew, and I had no desire farther to 'molest her ancient solitary reign.' She had told her brief story, all she had,' and obtained 'the shilling.'

·

'We sauntered into the yard. The rooks tenanted the rugged elms,' and the 'yew-trees' shade' was as grateful to us as had been the shade of the same trees to GRAY. There they stood, in their primeval strength and beauty; and there too

HEAVES the turf in many a mouldering heap;

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.'

Immediately in the rear of the church, and beside his mother, over whose grave the tender poet had erected a fitting monument, lie the remains of the illustrious dead. A stone inserted in the wall of the church, with an appropriate and short inscription, only marks the spot. I plucked some daisies from his grave, and lingering around, busied myself in deciphering the inscriptions on the tomb-stones; and although many were overgrown with moss, and illegible through age, yet there were some that bore date previous to the composition of the 'Elegy,' and were within the compass of GRAY'S eye when he wrote it. The surrounding country, in picturesqueness and beauty, is just such as would inspire the sentiments of the Elegy.' The place' (we were told by a man cutting grass in the yard) is not much visited; so that it is indeed 'a neglected spot' in which reposes the dust of the immortal author. A neighboring park, within a stone's throw of the church, contains a lofty cenotaph erected by the proprietor of the grounds, commemorative of the poet, and on either side are appropriate verses from the Elegy.' Flowers adorn its base; and hastily plucking a few, and casting a longing lingering look behind,' we bade adieu to the village church of StokePogis.'

We are glad to be enabled to promise our readers the gratification of perusing hereafter other passages from the same blotter-journal,' as our friend designates it, whence we have derived the foregoing interesting 'single-entry.' We have had occasion to see, in glancing hastily over its leaves, that many scenes and incidents which your common-place traveller would have passed as un-noteworthy, are recorded in the true spirit of one who travels to observe,' and who knows how' to.

CHALDEAN CHRONICLES OF GOTHAM.'-The oyster-cellar of AMBROSE in 'Auld Reekie' was made famous by the Noctes' of CHRISTOPHER NORTH, in BLACKWOOD'S Magazine; and we verily believe that a tithe of the literary commentaries, the felicitous sayings, the scientific discussions and the poetical flights; the racy anecdotes, sprightly burlesques and trenchant satires, which are heard in the course of a month at our AMBROSE's, would compose a fund of entertainment that would be hard to beat.' Some wag, with whom' upon a time' we must have forgathered at the cavern of the man whose name is as the Wind that bloweth where it listeth, and as the dust of the earth,' has sent us the subjoined Chaldean Chronicle of Gotham,' which hits off, in a style closely resembling the Chaldean manuscripts of the earlier BLACKWOOD, some of the personal characteristics of certain eminent legal functionaries and others among us, who sometimes snatch a hasty repast at the place aforesaid.' Listen to the words which are written:

AND there dwelt in the city of Gotham a man

whose habitation was in a cavern, in which were many mansions, and whose name was like unto the storms of heaven.

2 For the name of this man was as the Wind that bloweth where it listeth, and as the dust of the earth.

3¶ And he dealt in the good things of this life: 4 And strong drink.

5 Aud in the cavern of this man was an upper chamber, in which much people did congregate. 6 And they did eat, drink, and were merry; for they did not know but that on the morrow they might die.

And the chief of these men sat in high places; yet nevertheless he cast off his robes, and became as one of the people; yea, and he was comely to look upon.

8 And this man was fair of speech, and in his tongue was the law of kindness.

9 And the widows and the virgins, yea, even the married women of the city of Gotham, worshipped him:

10 And worshipped he them.

11 And after him there came to the mansion of the man whose name was like unto the storms of heaven, a citizen of short stature, and whose countenance was like unto the cherubim and the seraphim, whose heads are engrafted on the tombstones of the ancients.

12 But he preached unto the multitude in an unknown tongue :

4 And the LORD prospered him, for he loved his fellow men.

5 But he wrangled with the man whose face I was like unto the cherubim on the tomb-stones of the ancients.

6 And after they had disputed for a long space, the one said, 'I have conquered.'

7 But the other answered and said, 'Lo! I have conquered thee, this day.'

8 Nevertheless they remained steadfast in their friendship, and they did eat and drink together, as before.

9 And the words which they uttered passed for nought.

10 And yet another man came into the upper chamber, who was well-favored.

11 And all the men of Gotham, yea, and likewise the women thereof, turned their hearts toward him; for he also was fair to look upon.

12 And this man delivered unto the people from time to time, even once every full moon, a book of surpassing wisdom.

13 For in it was engraven the wisdom of the wise in all the region round about.

14 And the name of this book was like unto the Great Enemy's, and the color of the covering thereof was as the firmament of heaven.

15 And the young men and maidens of Gotham yearned for the book, for great was their admiration thereof.

CHAP. III.

ND it came to pass that while these men were

13 Because they did not understand the wisdom A making merry in an upper chamber, there

of the words which he uttered.

14 Howbeit, when he asked of them concerning their understanding of the words which he preached, they answered and said unto him, Yea, verily, we do understand the wisdom of thy words:"

15 But they lied in their throats.

16 Nevertheless this man was upright in the face of the LORD, and he remembered the widow and the fatherless, and forgat them not.

came a sound like unto an horseman horsing upon his horse.

2 And there appeared in their midst a scribe, of a countenance like unto the sun in the brightness of his rising, and of much learning in the law.

3 And when he looked around, and saw the loaves, and the fishes, and the fowls of the air spread before him, and likewise the hidden treasures of the sand, he pronounced them good.

4 Because he was an hungered or athirst continually, and greatly coveted the companionship of his brother-scribes.

5 Howbeit, he was a friend to the poor, and to him that cried in the highways of the city. 6 Moreover, when even was come, he played a strain upon a wind-instrument.

7 Now it came to pass that when the man who was a scribe, and a man of much learning in the law, beheld the fowls of the air, the fishes of the sea, and the hidden treasures of the sand, he did laugh in his heart.