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The little piece called Serenade is uncommonly graceful and airy; and though rather too long, we will extract it entire.

Softly the moonlight
Is shed on the lake,
Cool is the summer night-
Wake! O awake!
Faintly the curfew
Is heard from afar,
List ye! O list
To the lively guitar.
Trees cast a mellow shade
Over the vale,
Sweetly the serenade
Breathes in the gale,
Softly and tenderly
Over the lake,
Gaily and cheerily-
Wake! O awake!
See the light pinnace
Draws nigh to the shore,
Swiftly it glides
At the heave of the oar,
Cheerily plays
On its buoyant car,
Nearer and nearer
The lively guitar.
Now the wind rises
And ruffles the pine,
Ripples foam-crested
Like diamonds shine,
They flash where the waters
The white pebbles lave,
In the wake of the moon,
As it crosses the wave.
Bounding from billow
To billow, the boat
Like a wild swan is seen
On the waters to float;
And the light dipping oars
Bear it smoothly along
In time to the air
of the gondolier's song.

And high on the stern Stands the young and the brave, As love-led he crosses The star-spangled wave, And blends with the murmur Of water and grove The tones of the night, That are sacred to love. His gold-hilted sword At his bright belt is hung, His mantle of silk On his shoulder is flung, And high waves the feather, That dances and plays On his cap where the buckle And rosary blaze. The maid from her lattice Looks down on the lake, To see the foam sparkle, The bright billow break, And to hear in his boat, Where he shines like a star, Her lover so tenderly Touch his guitar. She opens her lattice, And sits in the glow Of the moonlight and star-light, A statue of snow; And she sings in a voice, That is broken with sighs, And she darts on her lover The light of her eyes. His love-speaking pantomime Tells her his soulHow wild in that sunny clime Hearts and eyes roll. She waves with her white hand Her white fazzolet, And her burning thoughts flash From her eyes' living jet. The moonlight is hid In a vapour of snow!

Her voice and his rebeck
Alternately flow;
Re-echoed they swell
From the rock on the hill;
They sing their farewell,

And the music is still.' Our limits do not permit us to make a farther selection of the smaller pieces. Besides them, the volume contains the tragedy, of which we have already spoken; some miscellaneous poems in a more sustained and elevated character; and Prometheus, a discursive and philosophical poem, in a hundred and sixty two stanzas of the Spenserian measure. This seems to us—though highly unequal-the most vigorous and powerful poetry which the volume contains. Not a few of these verses have all the dark sententiousness of Byron, clothed in an uncommonly easy versification. The following will, we think, justify the remark:

“The past is gone-it can return no more,
The dew of life exhaled, its glory set;
It has no other goods for me in store,
It is a dreary wilderness, and yet
I fondly look and linger. In the net
of pleasure, all the breathings of my soul, ,
The burning thoughts alone on learning set

In tender childhood, pointed to the goal,
Where bards and sages aimed, in youth blind leaders stole,

• And vile companions rifled, and they left
My heart dispirited and sunk and poor,
of all its highest hopes and wants bereft,
A pinnace on the waves with naught to moor
Or bind it to the safe bank; from the shore,
Where my best powers stood weeping o'er the deep,
Tossing and madly heaving, wild winds bore

My dark, distracted being where fiends keep
Their orgies, and the worm, that gnaws, will never sleep.

There is no hope—ten years the winds have blown,
That bore me to my ruin, and the waves
Roll in my wake like mountains-joy has flown;
And left behind the lonely turfless graves

Of early fond attachments. Like the slaves
Bound fettered to the galley, at the oar
Still must I toil uncheered, or in the caves,

Where not a ray of hope comes, I must pour
Tears, bitter tears, that well from the heart's bleeding core.


The soul, that had its hone with me, was bright,
Its early promise as the flowers of spring,
Profuse in richness as the dawning light,
When the gay rosy-footed hours take wing,
And from the glowing east the coursers spring,
That bear the car of day along its road,
And o’er a waking world their radiance fling-

So bright the stream of mind within me flowed,
It had one only wish-to scale the high abode.


Where Truth has reared her awful throne, and pure
Platonic Beauty sits, a smiling bride,
The Majesty that bows, and to allure,
The winning charms of Virtue by his side-
Cursed be the drawling pedants, who divide
The monarch from his lovely queen, and sink
The soul in stupid awe, too soon to hide

Its coward head in pleasure's lap and drink
Her tempting fiery draughts—Stop! ye are on the brink


Of endless woe and ruin


To feel a heart within thee, tender, flowing
In tears at others' pain, and racked with thine;
A soul, that longs for high attainments, glowing
For all that can ennoble, raise, refine,
Whose dearest longings seem almost divine,
The insatiate grasp for knowledge, and the aim
Of tireless, fearless virtue, then to pine,

Unknown, unvalued, and to quench the flame Of mind in some low slough, and bid farewell to fame :' &c. The Prometheus, like most of the other pieces, breathes a melancholy spirit too deep not to be real. We should sincerely regret that powers, so fine as Mr Percival evidently posses

ses, should want that self-consciousness, which they ought to inspire, or should feel a doubt of that public favour, they so truly deserve : and though he probably does not rely on any thing he has yet written, as giving him a fair title to the rank of a classical American poet, yet we feel no hesitation in saying, that he shares with few the gifts, which might make

him one.

6. Everett,


Art. II.–Views of Society and Manners in America; in a

series of letters from that country to a friend in England, during the years 1818, 1819 and 1820. By an English

From the first London edition, with additions and corrections by the author. 8vo, pp. 387. New York, 1821.

This work has been so extensively read in America, that a review of it, at the present time, may seem unnecessary. As it forms, however, in many respects a contrast with other works of the same class, and is distinguished for its flattering tone toward our country, it might seem a failure in respect to so courteous a foreigner, to allow her work to pass unnoticed. We cannot, at the same time, but feel ourselves under much embarrassment in speaking of it. Like all human productions, it has, of course, its imperfections ; but as American critics, it would seem a piece of rudeness to be at pains to gather up these, from the pages in which our character, manners, and institutions are so advantageously portrayed. On the other hand, our country, not to say our own poor labours, is so handsomely eulogized by this polite stranger, that we should be thought perhaps to speak under prepossession, if we were very forward in maintaining the merits of her book.

We know not, in fact, a less enviable task than that of the traveller, who uedertakes to publish an account of a short visit to a foreign country, and feels at all concerned for the reception his book may meet with in that country. It is impossible in a short visit, or even in a long visit, to become so thoroughly acquainted with a country, considerably different in character from your own, as not to be constantly exposed to mistakes in detailed statements of its peculiarities. Then the traveller, who is well received, falls into some circle, which has its local or political party; he becomes imbued with their feelings, and

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