matter.

We believe that this kind of evidence for the truth of Christianity, while it may not entirely supersede, will with many minds, far outweigh that which is historical. To assist us in our meditation upon this subject, we esteem the two volumes of Moore's Life of Lord Byron a rich store-house of illustration; and as we lay them by, for this purpose, we experience an unaffected melancholy, in the thought, that in turning them to such a use, we deduce good from that which is in itself evil, and cause the wickedness of man to praise God.

ARTICLE VII.

BRYANT'S POEMS.

Poems. By William Cullen Bryant. Boston: Russell, Odiorne and Metcalf, 1834. pp. 240.

POETRY is as various as the characters and passions of men, and the aspects of nature. A definition can no more comprehend it, than a single form can shut up the spirit of life. All criticism founded on a theory must be imperfect and partial. Wherever a being exists, actuated by the thoughts and passions of man; wherever a spreading landscape, or the mighty and mysterious ocean, or the blue vault of heaven, or the stars or the clouds, are to be seen; wherever the west wind whispers, or the storm roars, or the birds sing—there are the elements of poetry. Whoever has an eye to see, and a soul to feel them-that man has the spirit of poetry. Whoever has, besides, the gift of apt and harmonious expression that man has the poetic genius, and is the true poet. Thus poetry appears under an infinite variety of forms, and poets are naturally divided into an infinite variety of corresponding classes. The sympathies of some are stirred up only by the sight of human feelings, or by scenes in which human passions are the mighty agents; and these men delight in witnessing the collision of mind with mind, and in portraying the energies called into action by struggle

and conflict. They conceive a character, identify themselves with it for the time, place it in contact with other characters, and by the mere force of sympathy and imagination, give it the same power over other men's sympathies and imaginations, that a living man would possess under the like circumstances. This kind of talent is the most essential element of dramatic genius. There are others who delight in taking a single passion, and tracing it through all its turns and windings. They present glowing pictures of feelings or states of mind, but care little for action or dramatic representation. They are fond of speculation, and perhaps run occasionally into metaphysical obscurity. Their poetry will be more likely to reflect their own thoughts, than the images of characters which surround them. It will be more intensely individual, and narrower in the range of its themes, than the poetry of the former class. It will be less popular, but more exciting to minds of a serious cast. It will furnish food for meditation and introspective examination. It will fall in better with the humor of a mind given to solitary musings, and will be likely to cherish a sobered romance of thought, in direct hostility to the gaiety of tonish life and fashionable talk. Such poetry may be more or less liked, but it is no less genuine poetry. There are again others, whose genius is excited by odd traits of character. These are hit off by them with admirable truth, and are generally very attractive to the reader's mind. They form a class that may be designated as the humorists. They have not the severity of satire, but gain their object by lively sallies and playful exaggeration. They are poets, for they give one view of human life, by combining the scattered gleams of oddity and frolicsomeness, that glance here and there upon the surface of human existence, like occasional inbreaks of sunlight amidst the showers of an April day.

Then as to the general manner or style of handling subjects, there are great diversities. The minds of some are tuned to harmony, and all subjects accommodate themselves to harmonic laws. All the phenomena of nature are described in smooth and flowing numbers. Human passions lay aside their intense exclamations, their broken expressions, their startling vehemence, and soften themselves down to the music of the poet's mind. Distorted attitudes are turned by his plastic genius into grace and dignity. The face, wrinkled and furrowed by the strong workings of stormy emotions

appears no more, but in its place rises up the smooth and classic countenance, the serene brow and the waving locks of Apollo. Then come the opposite class, with whom every thing is strong, or connected with strong emotion. The feelings and passions, in their representations, spread into gigantic proportions. Language becomes nervous, bold, and sometimes harsh, under their vigorous handling. Characters are sketched rather than finished, and assume a certain vastness and grandeur, rather than a well defined outline and an expression intelligible to all because speaking sentiments common to all. These are the Michael Angelos of poetry. They do not give pleasure to the common throng, but they inspire awe, and sometimes fill a cold and fastidious taste with disgust. Yet these are poets, and in the highest class.

There are yet others, whose taste leads them aside from the walks of men, to the contemplation of the works of nature. The seasons in their succession, night and day, the sky, the winds murmuring in the branches, the verdure of fields, the many-tinted flowers, have for them a language, inspire them with the feeling of poetry, and dictate a musical flow of 66 numerous verse." They look upon the inanimate works of God as on the faces of familiar friends. In the compositions of such poets there is generally a regularity of structure, a calmness and repose breathed over the sentiments, and a beautiful selectness' in the language, which make them the favorites of tasteful and gentle spirits. Such, in its general character, is the genius of Bryant. His natural turn is for the calm, the subdued, the elegant. A flower is to him an animated being. He communes with it as if it had the language of consolation, encouragement, and hope. The primeval forests of our country fill him with reverence. Their solemn shades are sanctified to his mind by the presence of the Eternal Spirit. He connects them with ancient worship, and describes man as choosing them for places of prayer before the Almighty was adored in temples built by human hands. The mountains, brooks and rivers are alike his companions. Hence springs the peculiarly delightful effect of his poetry. It brings the mind to the same pleasurable state that nature herself inspires. If we ascend a hill-top, towards the close of a summer day, and look abroad over the outspread landscape, the distant village, the blue mountains in the back-ground, softened by the aerial perspective, the variety of lawn and woodland and

cultivated field, the occasional glance of a winding stream as it comes out into the view, and if we listen to the vague sounds that murmur around us-the whole scene being illuminated by the rich light of a golden sunset-our minds are filled with an image of surpassing beauty, our passions are hushed by a consciousness that the time and place are holy, and our whole being is full of calm and complacent happiness. Precisely such is the effect of a large proportion of Mr. Bryant's poetry. A walk over Mount Auburn, among the groves of everlasting green, with here and there a monument of the dead around us, and a view of the abodes of the living before us, offers the most striking commentary on that inimitable poem the Thanatopsis.

Bryant's poetry is cheerful. He looks on the bright side of things, and considers man as advancing towards a state of higher cultivation and purity.

If he ever approaches to sadness, it is the sadness, the chastised feeling of a thoughtful, not of a sorrowing spirit. A subdued gladness, a beautiful contentment, is the prevailing expression of his mind. From this inward calm flows a general good-will to mankind, which finds frequent utterance in his works. Wherever human sufferings exist, wherever tyranny is felt, thither his sympathies are drawn. A mild philanthropy, an universal kindliness of feeling breathe from every page. The tendency of all his poetry is to pure and virtuous sentiments, to encouraging and hopeful views, to a rational cheerfulness of spirit, and to a gentle and religious temper. To illustrate what we have said, we proceed to examine the character and structure of several pieces in the volume before us. The first poem is that well known production called "The Ages." This has already become a classic in our language, and it may be thought superfluous to say any thing about it. But we believe the oftener public attention is called to such pure and exalted strains, the better for public morals and private taste. The aim of this poem is to gather from the past history of the world encouraging views of "the future destinies of the human race."—And this aim illustrates what we have above said concerning the traits of Mr. Bryant's poetical character. In the hand of a man of a different temper, of a less cheerful thinker, the train of thought would have been opposite, and the conclusion just the reverse of Mr. Bryant's. The poem consists of a series of pictures, wrought up from elements found in

historic records, in the finest style of polished composition. The impression of each is on the whole favorable to the hopes of the philanthropist, though in some the prevailing color is sombre. Yet in these the poet has thrown a redeeming light, which, like the rainbow, gives an earnest of a coming serenity in the moral atmosphere. We quote the conclusion of the poem.

"Oh, sweetly the returning muses' strain

Swelled over that famed stream, whose gentle tide
In their bright lap the Etrurian vales detain,
Sweet, as when winter storms have ceased to chide,
And all the new leaved woods, resounding wide,
Send out wild hymns upon the scented air.
Lo! to the smiling Arno's classic side

The emulous nations of the west repair,

And kindle their quenched urns, and drink fresh spirit there.

Still, heaven deferred the hour ordained to rend
From saintly rottenness the sacred stole ;
And cowl and worshipped shrine could still defend
The wretch with felon stains upon his soul;
And crimes were set to sale, and hard his dole
Who could not bribe a passage to the skies;
And vice beneath the mitre's kind control,
Sinned gaily on, and grew to giant size,

Shielded by priestly power, and watched by priestly eyes.

At last the earthquake came-the shock, that hurled
To dust, in many fragments dashed and strown,
The throne, whose roots were in another world,
And whose far stretching shadow awed our own.
From many a proud monastic pile, o'erthrown,
Fear-struck, the hooded inmates rushed and fled;
The web, that for a thousand years had grown
O'er prostrate Europe, in that day of dread
Crumbled and fell, as fire dissolves the flaxen thread.

The spirit of that day is still awake,

And spreads himself, and shall not sleep again; But through the idle mesh of power shall break, Like billows o'er the Asian monarch's chain; Till men are filled with him, and feel how vain, Instead of the pure heart and innocent hands, Are all the proud and pompous modes to gain The smile of heaven ;-till a new age expands Its white and holy wings above the peaceful lands.