laureat that he has "slumbered for ages." But before we can well digest this giant story, up rides the little trumpeter, who flatly contradicts the poet, maintaining that Spain is not like a giant, but like Ajax, who being a brave man, and true muddy-brained hero, desperately rushes forth from his cell-(how he got there the Lord knows)-determined to "die in the face of the day," on purpose, I suppose, that people might see what a handsome corpse he would make. We were at first in pain least this dispute might occasion a breach between the poet and the trumpeter; but our fears soon subsided on seeing the former fly off at a tangent, in pursuit of a “standard," which," like a comet," is to "consume while it lightens the neighbouring sky." Candour, however, and a high respect for well-born and legitimate comparison, oblige us to declare, that both the trumpeter and poet are mistaken in supposing that Spain is either "like a giant" or "like Ajax." We think we see her rise up indignant at this disgraceful charge, and exclaim in the language of Glumdalca, "We are no giant, we are a GIANTESS!" As to her being like Ajax, the resemblance is nought, unless it can be proved that in imitation of that valiant blockhead, she has exchanged garments with the redoubted Hector Bonaparte, and is now vapouring about in a pair of his breechesa thing as impossible as for the aforesaid Glumdalca to wear the breeches of Tommy Thumb.

The poet, it would seem, having drawn a little more inspiration from the oracular bottle, seizes the little trumpeter by the leg, and probably in revenge for daring to differ with him, fairly oversets him in the dirt, so that we hear no more of him, through the whole course of the poem. The poet then mounts the Canada poney, buries his spurs in his side, and scrambles to the very crack-sculled top of Parnassus, where he beholds such sights as baffle all the wonders of Mahomet's dream, or the vision of Don Quixote in Montesino's cave.

"O'er her hills see the DAYSTAR OF GLORY advance!
Its beams warm her CLIFFS, and unfetter her fountains !
But A PESTILENT PLANET it blazes on FRANCE!

A METEOR Of BLOOD, through the MIST of the MOUNTAINS
Like a DREAM in the AIR,

See the PYRENEES glare!

A CASTLE OF FIRE-on a ROCK blear and bare!"

་

As we never yet suspected Mr. Paine, or indeed any other Eastern luminary, of writing what neither he, or any body else, could possibly understand, we took uncommon pains to discover the mystic meaning of this alarming verse. But alas! for us, it was a perfect terra incognita, that eluded all our circumnavigations and we resigned it with a

sigh of bitter despondency to the unconquerable industry of some future Dutch commentator, who being born in the region of fogs, may perhaps be able to grope through a mist, that to us is impenetrable. Such a medley of metaphorical confusion-such a desperate conflict of "stars," "planets," "meteors," and "castles of fire," each striving for the mastery of the poet's imagination, doubtless never yet was seen in literary warfare. Would that he had contented himself with his single DAYSTAR," which is as much as one man can cleverly manage. He might then perhaps have kept his sanity a little longer, and saved us all the bitter yearnings we felt, on beholding the desolation of his brain by this intestine commotion of rebellious metaphors.

Notwithstanding the ever to be lamented obscurity that pervades this gigantic, and enormous little ode, we do the author the justice to believe he would have made it more clear if he could. Indeed he has spared no pains to eke out his struggling meaning, with dashes, pauses, italics, black-letter, and capitals of all dimensions; not to mention a profusion of upstart notes of admiration, that, like little militia corporals, flank his lines, and strut about with enormous feathers in their hats. We are always sad, when we see a hapless author under the necessity of dizening out his Muse with such vulgar ornaments; and when we first beheld the multitude of these lights thrown cut to illuminate or to allure, we could not help auguring that the reader would fare like the traveller who is cheered with the sight of a house of entertainment at a distance, but approaching, finds it empty and unfurnished, as the poet's lodging, or the politician's brain.

We shall quote one more specimen, not because it is much more unintelligible than the rest, but merely to show that what has been already selected, is not the accidental nodding of Homer, or the sudden frenzy of a combustible imagination, hurried for a moment by uncontrolable impulse beyond the sober meridian of reason, but the regular flow of the poet's genius, running through and pervading the whole poem.

"Bright Day of the WORLD-dart thy lustre afar!

Fire the NORTH with thy heat-gild the SOUTH with thy splendor!
With thy glance light the TORCH of REDINTEGRANT WAR,
Till the dismember'd EARTH effervesce and RE-GENDER!
Through each zone may'st thou roll,

"Till thy beams at the pole,

Melt PHILOSOPHY'S ICE in the SEA of the SOUL!

Bless us-what a volcanic verse we have here! and what a quantity of ashes, and pumice-stones, our poet heaves out of the crater of his imagination! Who, but fancies he beholds Mount Etna vomiting

fire, and pouring from a dozen new openings, as many rivers of red hot lava-as hot indeed as that same "bright day of the world," which, among other unheard of achievements, is to "melt Philosophy's Ice in the Sea of the Soul." Heaven preserve the well-scoured pewter dishes of our good housewives-we fear many a one will rue that day! Whether there is any connexion between the volcanic eruption of the poet, and that which happened at Mount Etna, sometime in March last, must be left to the curious in these matters, for our parts, we seriously advise Mr. Paine, who seems to contain a prodigious quantity of positive electricity, never in summer time, to be without a lightning rod fastened to his cap-and if it happens that he wears a cocked hat, by all means to have one erected on each

corner.

The poet, as might reasonably be expected, goes out, almost immediately after this tremendous explosion, sufficient in all conscience to exhaust the bowels of any volcano in the whole world, not excepting Etna, Hecla, or Robert Treat Paine. He writes but one more verse, at the end of which, being quite consumed, he quietly ascends to the clouds, like the caput mortuum of an old newspaper, or a dry leaf in a whirlwind.

Several reasons have prompted us to pay more than ordinary attention to this little production, which is secured to the author by copy-right. Of course he has a right to all we can say on the subject. In addition to this, Mr. Paine is a gentleman of considerable reputation, at least in the enlightened east, which being the quarter whence the sun rises, is certainly a very respectable portion of the Union. His example, may therefore be in the highest degree dangerous to the youth of America, and his volcanic explosions, occasion many mischievous imitations, to the great annoyance of the good citizens of the United States. In the happy and most enlightened city of New-York, there is a law, which is, however, never enforced, preventing the letting off of all manner of fireworks, the explosion of powder, and the firing of pop-guns; yet no sooner doth the famous Mr. De La Croix, exhibit at Vauxhall Garden his burning suns, brimstone stars, hissing serpents, and crackling skyrockets, but all the little urchins in the town, straightway expend their pocket money in powder, and what with blowing up of hats, and other scurvy devices, occasion much mischief by frightening old women, horses and militia officers. Thus, peradventure, might it have fared with the good citizens of Boston, who, seduced into an imitation of Mr. Paine's sublime eruptions of fancy, and fireworks, would henceforward have groaned under the dominion of those direful evils which desolate the fertile fields of classic Italy, and at length been buried like Herculaneum, under the burning lava of his

brain, had we not thus opportunely stepped forward to warn them against so dire a misfortune.

Thus far, with the greatest good humour, and without a particle of prejudice against our poet, have we made ourselves merry with the tumid style of one of his most hasty effusions, which, we are confident, Mr. P. by no means considers as the only pledge of his power. He has written variously, and he has often written well, with much of the ardor of patriotism and much of the enthusiasm of poetry. Our object is to warn him against the liberal use of that style, which, unhappily, is too fashionable among our brethren of New England. Let him invest some of his bold conceptions in the language of simplicity, perspicuity, and grace, and he need not shrink from the scrutiny of Criticism.`

AMERICAN LITERATURE.

In the Boston Patriot, a gazette, published in the capital of New England, a column, withdrawn from Politics, is sometimes lent to Literature. The following animated ode, with the exception of an occasional obscurity, appears to merit the favourable regard of the patriotic public. The introduction, in terms warmly encomiastic, is the production of a friend, whose genius and taste demand that he should be regarded in any light but that of a mere flatterer. Mr. Paine is unquestionably a man of genius, and had he been educated at Oxford, or Edinburg, even his enemies would not have carped at his Muse. But, in his juvenile days at least, fustian was the fashion in the Eastern schools, and his fine talents have been injured, in the opinion of the fastidious, by an absurd and erroneous discipline, and the study of spurious models. But it is in his power amply to vindicate his Fame, and break all the shackles, which the Genius Loci has formed.-Editor.

The FAUSTUS ASSOCIATION celebrated its anniversary at the Exchange Coffeehouse. An appropriate ode was composed for the occasion by R. T. PAINE, jun. Esq.

"THE celebrity of Mr. Paine, cannot be augmented by any praise of ours. When the founders of the Federal-street theatre, to incite the genius of the nation, proposed a medal for a prologue; Mr. Paine, al

though a stripling, entered the lists and bore away the palm. The gentlemen selected for arbiters and who unanimously awarded the prize, possessed a pure and refined taste and impartial and enlightened minds. Since that signal triumph of his muse, he has occasionally written and published odes, songs, and poems, whose general success has been wholly unrivalled in America. He is now revising and enlarging what is already in the hands of the public, and is adding some new pieces of great merit; the whole of which will be shortly issued from the press of Mr. Belcher in an octavo volume. Mr. Paine is now solely devoted to his books and his muse, and if his feeble constitution does not prematurely yield, he will raise a monument to our national glory, whose splendor will dissipate the Baotian darkness which has hitherto so generally shrouded the genius of our literature.

"The present ode was written at the request of the Faustus Association, upon a short notice. It flashed from the poet's pen at a single heat. But it is nevertheless pregnant with the history of the art which it celebrates; with allusions and illustrations vigorously bold, and classically beautiful; and notwithstanding the shackles of writing to music, the style is masculine and poetic.

"The great stages of the art are poetically described in the three first verses; to each of which there is an appropriate chorus. Printing upon blocks with immovable types was invented by the descendants of Noah, "on the tent-plains of Shinah," and was nearly coeval with the first rude essays at agriculture. But the art remained in this state of imperfection, till "father Faust broke her tablet of wood," and invented the movable type. In succeeding generations the art received various improvements, prior to the era of Franklin, who first united the genius of philosophy to the art of the mechanic.

"How would Antiquity hide her diminished head, could she burst her cearments, and survey the comforts and elegances, which flow from the art and science of modern life? Her heroes and sages would shed

"Tears of blood on the spot where the world they had led,"

at their limited means of greatness; but they would with holy aspirations bless the "genius of type," which had so widely diffused their glory and so permanently embalmed their fame.

"The concluding verse impresses a salutary lesson and conveys a noble moral. We fervently hope that neither the lesson, nor the moral will pass unregarded by the conductors of literary and political Journals; for they stand at the fountains of public opinion and direct the course of its torrents." Boston Patriot.