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And hence it comes, he leaves his friends and home,
Mid distant wilds and dangers drear to roam,
To seek a competence, or find a grave,
Rather than live a hireling or a slave.
As the bright waving harvest field he sees,
Like sunny ocean rippling in the breeze,
And hears the lowing herd, the lambkins' bleat,
Fall on his ear in mingled concert sweet,

His heart sits lightly on its rustic throne,

The fields, the herds, the flocks are all his own.'

While suffering under the evils of rheumatic agonies,' Basil hears of that land of plenty and happiness to which so many pilgrims have adventured, and resolves to seek a refuge there. It was spring, and he soon felt its potent influence upon his frame.

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'Who can resist the coaxing voice of Spring,

When flowers put forth and sprightly songsters sing?
He is no honest son of mother Earth,

And shames the holy dame that gave him birth;

We are her children, and when forth she bies,

Dress'd in her wedding suit of varied dyes,
Beshrew the churl that does not feel her charms,
And love to nestle in her blooming arms;
He has no heart, or such a heart as I

Would not possess for all beneath the sky.'

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Every thing being in readiness, the cavalcade leaves the birth place of the wanderers, and the second canto opens with their 'travel's history.' It was the dawn of day:

'Dark was the early dawn, dun vapours chill,
Cover'd the earth and hid the distant hill,
A veil of mist obscur'd the struggling day,
That seemed to grope its slow uncertain way;
No insect chirp'd, or wakeful twitt'ring bird,
Within the copse, or briery dingle stirr❜d.
Anon, far in the East light streaks of red
O'er the gray mists a tint of morning shed,
Brighter and still more bright their hues unfold,
Till all the sky was fring'd with burnish'd gold;
Up rose the gallant Sun! the mists away
Vanish'd, like spectres, at the dawn of day;
No silence now was in the waken'd groves,
For every bird began to chant his loves,
And all the liveried rabble insect crew,
That crawl'd upon the jewell'd earth, or flew,
Muster'd their merry notes and frisk'd away,
In many colour'd vestments-who but they!"

They pass down the banks of the Hudson, by that romantic Scenery which the events of the revolution have made celebrated. 'Here mid the piling mountains scatter'd round,

His winding way majestic Hudson found,
And as he swept the frowning ridge's base,
In the pure mirror of his morning face,

A lovelier landscape caught the gazer's view,
Softer than nature, yet to nature true.
Now might be seen, reposing in stern pride,
Against the mountain's steep and rugged side,
High Putnam's battlements, like tow'r of old,
Haunt of night-robbing baron, stout and bold,
Scourge of his neighbour, Nimrod of the chase,
Slave of his king, and tyrant of his race.
Beneath its frowning brow, and far below,
The weltering waves, unheard, were seen to flow
Round West Point's rude and adamantine base,
That call'd to mind old Arnold's deep disgrace,
Andre's hard fate, lamented, though deserv'd,
And men, who from their duty never swerv'd—
The honest three-the pride of yeomen bold,
Who sav'd the country which they might have sold;
Refus'd the proffer'd bribe, and, sternly true,

Did what the man that doubts them ne'er would do.'

We have then an eloquent and indignant invective against the man who attempted to erase one of the fairest passages in his country's history, and the narrative proceeds with Basil's journey through Jersey to the Delaware, at its junction with the Lehigh, when we meet with the following graceful comparison:

'Twas just where rambling Lehigh-pleasant stream!
Fit haunt for bard to wander and to dream-

Ev'n like a gentle, all confiding maid,

By true Affection's fondest impulse sway'd,
Glides into Delaware's encircling arms,
And silently surrenders all her charms,
Gives up her very being evermore,

And that sweet virgin name of old she bore.'

The poet now leads his hero' through Pennsylvanian landscapes, rich and gay,' till they reach the heights of the immense Allegheny. Here we have a highly poetic description of the scenery of these mountains, which we have no room to copy, and at the conclusion of the second canto, the travellers arrive at Pittsburgh. The third book opens with a spirited denial of the blunders of Fortune, who

'Plays the tyrant only with the fool.'

We then embark with our pilgrims on the broad surface of the Ohio, and their voyage is described so faithfully, and with so much of the true soul of poetry, that long as is the passage, we cannot refrain from copying it.

'As down Ohio's ever ebbing tide,

Oarless and sailless silently they glide,

How still the scene, how lifeless, yet how fair,
Was the lone land that met the strangers there!
No smiling villages, or curling smoke,
The busy haunts of busy men bespoke,

VOL. XII.

58

No solitary hut, the banks along,

Sent forth blithe Labour's homely rustic song,
No urchin gambol'd on the smooth white sand,
Or hurl'd the skipping-stone with playful hand,
While playmate dog plung'd in the clear blue wave,
And swam, in vain, the sinking prize to save.
Where now are seen along the river's side,
Young busy towns, in buxom painted pride,
And fleets of gliding boats with riches crown'd,
To distant Orleans or St. Louis bound,
Nothing appear'd, but Nature unsubdu'd,
One endless, noiseless, woodland solitude,
Or boundless prairie, that aye seem'd to be
As level, and as lifeless as the sea;

They seem'd to breathe in this wide world alone,
Heirs of the Earth-the land was all their own!
'Twas Evening now-the hour of toil was o'er,
Yet still they durst not seek the fearful shore,
Lest watchful Indian crew should silent creep,
And spring upon, and murder them in sleep;
So through the livelong night they held their way,
And 'twas a night might shame the fairest day,
So still, so bright, so tranquil was its reign,
They car'd not though the day ne'er came again.
The Moon high wheel'd the distant hills above,
Silver'd the fleecy foliage of the grove,
That as the wooing zephyrs on it fell,
Whisper'd it lov'd the gentle visit well-
That fair-fac'd orb alone to move appear'd,
That zephyr was the only sound they heard.
No deep-mouth'd hound the hunter's haunt betray'd,
No lights upon the shore, or waters play'd,
No loud laugh broke upon the silent air,
To tell the wand'rers man was nestling there,
While even the froward babe in mother's arms,
Lull'd by the scene suppress'd its loud alarms,
And yielding to that moment's tranquil sway,
Sunk on the breast, and slept its rage away.
All, all was still, on gliding barque and shore,
As if the Earth now slept to wake no more;
Life seem'd extinct, as when the World first smil'd,
Ere Adam was a dupe, or Eve beguil'd.'

They at length arrive at their destined home, and the labours of the new settler commence. Time and industry add to his wealth and comforts, his children grow apace, and in his hours of leisure he recounts to them the virtues and exploits of their countrymen. 'Of virtuous Greene, whose cherish'd name shall be

As everlasting as thy hills, Santee,

And borne on Fame's untir'd, earth-circling wings,
Rise pure and limpid as his Eutaw springs:

Of Marion, by his country not half known.'

Of the hardships and courage of the soldiers of the revolution, of whom

Not one betray'd his suffering Country's cause,
Not one deserted to the conq'ring band,
Or sold his comrades, or his native land:
Still to their glorious leader bravely true,
The war's vicissitudes they struggled through,
Sav'd this good land, and when the tug was o'er,

Begg'd their way home, at every scoundrel's door.'

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Then follows an eloquent eulogium on the spotless character of him who surpassed all Greek all Roman fame.' The canto ends with a description and vindication of the life of the frontier settlers, and here we lose sight of Basil till the conclusion of the poem. In the fourth canto the author has introduced the celebrated Prophet, by whose intrigues the war of 1812 was stirred up among the Indians. His character is drawn in a bold and masterly style, and his harangues and the war feasts of the savages communicate great interest to this part of the poem. The beginning of the fifth canto describes the preparations on both sides for hostilities, between the English and their Indian allies on one part, and the western republicans on the other. This unholy alliance between the christian and the savage, is adverted to with becoming censure and indignation; the rest of the canto is occupied with a dialogue between the Prophet and an aged pilgrim, in which the author has evinced great power and pathos. The defeat of the allied forces, the restoration of security to the American frontier, and the final happiness and prosperity of the west, are the themes of the last book. We have already made such copious selections, that we have but little room left for passages from this, which upon the whole we are inclined to think is the most striking part of the poem. The outrages committed by the British and their allies during the war of 1812, and the disinclination to defence manifested in one part of the union, call forth from the author the following animated and spirited lines:

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'Could men, whose eyes first saw the blessed day,
In this good land, at home like women stay,
Plead conscience to escape the coming fight,
And skulk behind some vile pretence of right?

There have been such oblivion shield their name,
Better forgot, their story and their shame.
Who would not battle bravely, heart and haud,
In any cause for this dear buxom land;
O, never may the heartless recreant know
The joys from conscious rectitude that flow;
Nor ever, for one fleeting moment, prove
Man's dear respect, or woman's dearer love;
Ne'er may he hold high converse with the brave,
But live with slaves, and be himself a slave;
Ne'er may he know the sober waking bliss,
Of living in a freeman's home like this,

The poor man's long-sought, new-found, promis'd land
Where gen'rous Plenty, with a lavish hand,
Pays honest Labour from her boundless store,
And each day makes him richer than before.
Ne'er may the dastard know such biding place,
Nor such a country stain with deep disgrace;
But pine on abject Afric's scorching sand,
Or banish'd to old Europe's dotard land,
Grovel beneath some tottering tyrant's throne,
Nor dare to call his worthless soul his own.'

After some striking passages on the alliance between danger and glory, we meet with a strong and earnest and feeling eulogium on the private soldiery, the peasantry who fight their country's battles: Not in the hope of glory or of gold,

Not in the hope their story will be told
In lofty rhyme, or high historic page,

To challenge wonder in some distant age.'

And then a lofty and contemptuous vindication of the capacity and power of these for self-government. But for this and many other beautiful passages we have no room. We must conclude our extracts with a description of the march of the militia against the British and Indians.

The nodding plume that shades the brow of war,
And hides the deep trench of the warrior's scar,
The gilded gorget, sparkling in the sun,.
The beamy splendours of the vet'ran's gun,
The shoulder'd epaulette, the prancing steed,
The flashing sword, that does the bloody deed,
And all the funʼral pomp of human strife,
That makes the very coward scorn his life,
And the seam'd visage of rough War appear
A glorious angel-all was absent here;
'Twas the scarr'd front of bloody baleful strife,
In all the naked lineaments of life.

No rattling drum its far-heard music made,
No piping fife, the noiseless march betray'd;

Each step they take, they pause with watchful care,
The forest warriors swift and wily are,

They come like foxes, like gaunt tigers fight,
And when they flee outstrip the pigeon's flight;
Silence and Care that never shuts his eyes,
Alone can guard against their quick surprise.

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What we have already said is sufficient to show the estimation in which we hold this admirable performance. We consider it as one of the greatest accessions our poetry has received, whether we regard the pure taste, the sound political principles, or the descriptive talents of its author, and we hope that the success with which he has met in this work, will encourage him to other and higher exertions. To be the popular poet of a nation like this, is no mean distinction, and to direct the national taste to a source at

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