natural and strained portraits of nature, which some of our best modern poets have presented; we have only sketched the probable stages in the progress of a mind, sensitive to the least rudeness, irritated by slight neglects, and magnifying those neglects, till the smart and the pain had become habitual. It is no inconsiderable merit, that Percival, with all the incitements to this poetical delirium, which his temperament and a momentary approbation of the public encouraged, checked his melancholy before it hardened into hate, and overgrew the boundaries of vice and

virtue.

Most of his poetry is lyrical. It pulsates with feeling. Philosophy it contains, but it is philosophy that throbs with emotion -colored and vivified in its passage through a glowing mind. To this alchemy, we are continually conscious, every thing has been submitted. Every where we feel the presence and the power of the poet. The tones, now swelling and lifting the soul to heaven -now thrilling it with lively rapture, and again soft, and melodious, and whispery, as the kiss of the waves upon a pebbled beach, come not, like Montgomery's, from an invisible source. The performer, sits a Timotheus, full before us, and

"To his breathing lute,
And sounding lyre,

Now swells the soul to rage, or kindles soft desire."

Nor are these the only chords that he touches. He calls up within us the stirring passion of war, and makes us pant to battle with the Turk. The cheek tingles and the eye flashes as if the gathering cry, "To the rescue," was shouted. The Greeks, if they have not already, should learn to couple the name of Percival with those of Byron and Halleck; for he, like these, has wedded to verse, which the world "will not willingly let die," the story of their noble and heroic struggle. Forever consecrated be the lyres that caught the last notes of liberty in Greece, and prolonged the echoes to our own land-a land, around which they may bound cheerily, unbroken by mouldering and ruined fanes that tell where Freedom once was, and is not! They should be preserved, like the sacred trumpets of Joshua and the ancile of the Romans, objects of patriotic remembrance and pledges of freedom's success. For who shall measure the strength of that State whose citizens cherish, in the inner sanctuary of their souls, the glow of feeling which lights up their martial songs?

Percival's path is most successful among the higher feelings of our nature-among the generous attributes and free energies of the soul. Whenever he essays the primrose way of Anacreon Moore, we feel that he has no communion with the objects which court his attention. The heart of the wassailer, the voluptuous

ease and grace which float, like a wavy robe, over the person, and the abandon to all the delicious influences of wine and woman -these are not his. Moore looks at home, when surrounded by a choir of nymphs, their heads garlanded with roses, and their feet moving to the soft measures of harp and lute. He flings himself down upon a scented carpet of flowers, and calls for Bacchus and Cupid with all the nonchalance of a familiar. Percival cannot conceal a little surprise at the luxury which his own imagination has spread out; and amid the festooned bowers and the delicious bands with which his fancy has peopled them, he stands with a suppressed moral upon his lips.

Nor is his success abroad among the fresh and green things of nature. He has none of the picturesque beauty-the delicate touches, which invest with life. Bryant and Dana hallow every spot that they visit, and breathe a charm over many a familiar object. We read them and forget to pencil passages-but we go forth, and then comes the gush of admiration, the lingering among woods and brooks, the truant ramble after wild flowers. Let any one read, by way of comparison, the "Buccaneer" of Dana, and "The Wreck" of Percival, and we have little fear that we shall be accused of captiousness. Percival is distinguished for the gorgeousness of his painting: he sweeps into one view so many points, that the eye, delighted with the stintless variety and richness of the range, refuses to rest on the distinct lineaments of the picture. Nature, with all her liberality, rarely flings together such a luxuriance and unending richness of landscape, as are accumulated in the vast and glittering panoramic views that he opens upon us. To furnish out these, all the stores of his mind contribute. Imagery borrowed from an unexampled extent of reading and research, classical reference, the brilliancy of Oriental, and the barbaric pomp of Gothic, customs and manners, antiquarian traditions, science and arts, are here drawn out, and almost bewilder the sense by their combined effect. Yet all of these cannot atone for the want of that fresh, child-like observation, which can alone win us for any length of time. To find this, we must go to his moral sketches; for here, as we before intimated, is his true power. As a specimen of tender and heart-felt description, "Consumption" will be often quoted. No one who has seen the stealthy attack of that disease upon a loved friendand who has not?-will ever forget the unearthly lustre of the eye, the languid smile, the bright red hectic. "The Broken Heart" is worthy to be read along with the poetic prose sketch of Irving; they are both too touching and deep, to come from any thing except personal experience.

In conclusion, we are sure, that we speak but the common voice of this, his Alma Mater, under whose care were developed the first germs of his genius, when we join our wishes to those which have

been expressed by the public at large, that he would break the long silence which he has maintained with the poetical world. The appearance of the volume, from which we have lately refreshed our memory-soiled, and worn, and pencilled-asks loudly to be relieved from its incessant duty by an ally. "Throw physic to the dogs," seems to be the one desire of the public in regard to Mr. Percival. There are M. D's. enough to deluge the land; and 'pills' any one can manufacture from receipts, or have almost for the asking. But the soul of poetry-"the fine frenzy" -the power to make men feel that they are linked with heaven, cannot be transferred. Lent to a few, it struggles for an exercise that only increases its force. Its reach is beyond one generation; its field-not strata and fossils-but the wide empire of feeling and intellect.

THE MARTYR BARD.

Fabiorumque anno, universa gens, puero quia nondum arma gererat, excepto uno, Cremeræ a Samnitibus occisa.

The tradition respecting the slaughter of the whole Fabian family, with the exception of one male, left at home from extreme youth, rests in undoubted testimony.-Niebuhr.

FORTH from the council hall,

Forth from the quiet home,
And leave ye the lofty festival,
For Rome's defenders come.

A shout swells to the sky,

A trampling shakes the land,
And at the shrine of Jove most high
Three hundred warriors stand.

By that fierce flaming eye,
That lion port and pride,
In name, in beauty, every tie,
Brothers are there allied.

One hand is raised to heaven,

One grasps the naked steel,

The oath is sworn, the pledge is given

Then forward and farewell.

Twine ye no victor's wreath,

Sound ye no trumpet peal,

Strew the dark cypress type of death,

And wake the trumpet's wail.

FAIR beamed the night in the fairest of earth's climes-the lovely Phrygia. The stars-golden sparks on heaven's sapphire ground-glowed clear and steadily; the sheen of the moonlight streamed tremulously over all things; mountain peaks and forest tops glittered in radiance, and the shadows fell dark and deep across the silent valleys.

High on a hillside, resting his head upon the snowy fleece of one of a reposing flock, reclined a fair youth. Jetty ringlets clustered around his temples, streaming in profusion across his ivory neck, down to his swelling shoulder, and beneath the delicate arch of his brows, long lashes swept the cheek that glowed with a faint flush like the tinge staining the inner lip of an Indian shell. The down of early youth scarce mantled his chin and short curled lip-and the negligence of his position displayed to full advantage the symmetry of his form. He might have been mistaken for the elder brother of Cupid, or the younger one of Apollo. From the distance glanced the lights and swelled the murmur of a vast city. The mellow moonbeams floated around the fair sleeper like a silver veil, and the soft sighing of the wind in the forest boughs lulled his repose.

CHAPTER II.

"Descende cœlo."-Hor.

"Beautiful night," said Jupiter, giving his empty cup to Mer cury, and sauntering towards a window. "Juno, my love, send for your bonnet, and let us take a little promenade on earth." The queen of heaven stared at the unusual condescension of the father of gods and men. Apollo sank back upon the sofa, and vowed "pon his soul, 'twas the most amusing thing he had heard of for a long time; and were it not for this delicious 'eau de mille fleurs," "pressing his perfumed handkerchief to his face -"he believed, 'pon honor, he should have expired with laughter. As it was, he must request Hebe to relieve his exhaustion with a glass of eau sucre." Venus raised her languishing eyes, and entreated them to wait until she had sealed a note to be dropped into the post office at Paphos. Minerva hoped, as she tossed her head with a sneer, that Juno would not be permitted to form any improper acquaintances upon earth. Jupiter coolly drew on his gloves, and commenced caressing Dian's pet lap dog. At this instant, Hebe, tripping down stairs with Juno's bonnet and walking shoes, relieved the Thunderer from his somewhat unpleasant situation. Respect for their sovereign kept the gods quiet for a time; but Hermes, who followed the divine promenaders, affirmed that he distinctly heard repeated bursts of laughter at Jove's unfashionably domestic conduct, as they passed along the terrace under the windows of the celestial saloon.

To

Arrived on earth, Jupiter sent back the carriage, remarking that they would walk home; and drawing Juno's arm within his, they proceeded slowly onward. It is not at all remarkable that Jove should have been a little embarrassed in his novel situation. say the truth, that celestial gentleman was usually so much absorbed in his own dignified avocations, as to allow him but little leisure for mingling in the world, and acquiring that ultrafashionable polish which hardens into impassiveness what it heightens in brilliancy: and he was, in consequence, so ignorant of the usages of society, as to be in most cases sincere and undissembling. His fair partner, with woman's tact, perceived his confusion, and with woman's mischievousness, enjoyed and heightened it by talking coolly and carelessly of the beauty of the scenery, and the fragrance of the wild flowers, whose buds her companion was impatiently switching off with the head of his cane. They were in that beautiful delta formed by the confluence of the Xanthus and Scamander, and within a short distance of the suburbs of Troy, when Juno suddenly stopped, and fixed her gaze upon a little islet that rose, like a fairy creation, from the