With peace and plenty flowing from her hand,
She strips the forest from the smiling land.
The trees, though stubborn, to her mandates yield,
And wolves resign to playful lambs the field.

At her approach the scythes and sickles glance,
And through the soil the clumsy ploughshares dance;
While useful arts, which laurel wreaths entwine,
Make ev'ry workshop in each village shine.
Science shall give community a glow,

And kindle smiles 'mid scenes of want and wo;
Instead of dark and dismal shades, shall rise
More pleasing scenes to greet the stranger's eyes.
Ceres shall cheer each solitary plain,

And throw around her fruitful showers of grain;
Rich fields of harvest rise within the vales,
And breathe their fragrance to the western gales.
Each well stor'd mansion with an open door,
Receive the wand'rer and the foodless poor.
O'er Indian mounds the Christian temples rise,
And lift their spiral grandeur to the skies.
Tall waving poplars grace the green retreat,
And drooping willows shade the rural seat.'
'In lone retreats of solitude appear
The hand of God, in every object near;

The earth's green verdure and the dew-drop's glow,
His power, his skill and omnipresence show.
'Tis he who makes night's portals wide expand,
And pours a flood of day o'er sea and land.
And when the sun meridian heights regains,

And spreads effulgence through the etherial plains;
'Mid all his works our rolling orb of day
With dazzling charms is but one feeble ray.
When light but faintly lingers in the West,

And weariness invites us all to rest,

By his decrees the evening gently throws,
Her sable curtains o'er our soft repose.

'When waves on waves in wild commotion rise,

And flash the foaming surges to the skies;

Or when the storms are hush'd, the waves uncurl'd
Spread a smooth surface o'er the wat❜ry world,
All nature rul'd by universal laws,

Declare a God is the eternal cause,
Of all that move in ocean, earth, or air;
That life proceeds from his creative pow'r;
And that to him belong our grateful praise,
From love-warm'd hearts and unaffected lays.

'Where heav'n-built battlements of rocks arise, And point their glittering summits in the skies, Columbia's Genius of celestial grace,

O'er realms below has fixed her resting place;
She looks on Europe with compassion's gaze,
And to the world repeats her welcome lays.
"Come here, ye needy; see what treasures lie,
In shady worlds beneath the western sky.
From where drear winter chills the lap of May,
And icy lakes reflect the face of day,
To blooming shores, fann'd by the tropic gales,
Where o'er the land eternal spring prevails,

My empire lies. From where th' Atlantic roars,
I stretch my regions to the western shores.
The mountains, plains, the lakes and rivers fair,
Are all the subjects of my guardian care.
Where states are form'd, my splendid cities rise,
And lofty structures penetrate the skies;
I've led my children to the scenes of war,
And shower'd them laurels upon victory's car;
Freedom's celestial flame taught them to fan,
And guard from tyranny the rights of man;
The rights of conscience to them all I've given,
Free as the air they breathe, or light of heav'n.
My hardy subjects, generous, bold, and free,
Now wave my banners over every sea;
My commerce rolls to every distant shore,
And kings and despots dread my rising pow'r.”
High o'er the land, with wings of light unfurl'd,
Thus speaks the Genius of the western world;
And beckoning with her bright celestial wand,
Invites the pilgrims to her happy land,
Where nature's gifts with moral bounties join,
To make with comfort every cottage shine.

'Ye landscapes of the west, what charms are yours!
Green waving forests, and wide wastes of flow'rs,

In wild luxuriance beautify the vales,

And lend sweet exhalations to the gales.'

The Frontier Maid, unlike the others, is sent forth anonymously; it is an imitation professedly of the style of Walter Scott, and its subject is the melancholy fate of the settlement at Wyoming, already the theme of more than one poet. The author has done himself injustice by allowing his poem to be printed in a very coarse and unhandsome style. He was not aware of the vast advantage of typographical elegance, nor how much indifferent poetry on thin foolscap is made better by being transferred to hotpressed and wire wove paper.

We cannot say quite so much in direct praise of this poem as of those we have spoken of, yet as a tale it possesses no little interest. But of the poetry let the reader judge for himself, by am

extract.

'Oh, who, amid the passions' strife
Has clasp'd the heart's first stake in life,
With interchange of hopes and fears,
And holy vows, and prayers, and tears,
And will not say, 'tis heavenly sweet
When lovers in their sorrows meet?

Yes, the lov'd voice, whose accents mild
Have had, for years, the magic power

To thrill the heart with throbbings wild,
In such a drear and sacred hour,
Gives to each hope it would employ
A touch of heavenly light and joy!
And though the heart in softness melt,
With joys and griefs before unknown;
Yet then are glory's breathings felt
And feeling takes its loftiest tone;

་

For spurning grov'ling cares control,
Glowing, and bright, and pure, the soul
To noble acts, in such an hour,
Will spring with more than mortal pow'r.
'Ah! few and swift the moments seem
That sport o'er love's delightful dream!
The clock in ancient Leslon's hall
Has told the hour-'tis duty's call-
And Howard has his rifle grasp'd,
And oft his weeping love has clasp'd
To calin her heaving sigh;
But vainly does the chief essay
To kiss her falling tears away;

Their fountain swells too high-
And she abroad perforce will stray,
To marshal him upon his way.

'Oh 'tis an hour when weeping love
Might smile amid its wo:

The Heav'ns are all in peace above,
And all seems calm below.-

"Return, belov'd," the warrior said,
"And oh, those tears restrain;

Nor let me think thy heart dismay'd
By terrors weak and vain;

For sure, this mild and beauteous night,
Thou hast no cause for pain;

While o'er the hills I speed my flight,
With bounding step, and heart as light,

To meet my gallant train.".

"Nay, why this haste? Indeed 'tis soon,"

The weeper murmur'd still,

"Oh rest, but till the waning moon

Looks o'er the eastern hill:

For fearful now is hill and glen,

So desolate and drear;

But sweet will be the moonlight then,

Thy lonely path to cheer."

"Dear Edith, 'tis our hour to part," The warrior mildly said, &c.

The Battle of Niagara' was before the public in its first edition with every possible disadvantage which its worst enemies, or the enemies of its author, if he have any, could have devised. It was worse than anonymous, for a ridiculous name was attached to it, together with a ridiculous motto-as if on purpose to deter every one from reading the poem. It was, however, evident to all that had, notwithstanding, curiosity to look into the work, that it was the production of a mind gifted with a considerable share of poetic talent. And it indicated such ease in versifying, or rather such an unwillingness to refrain from versifying, even at the expense of frequent repetition of the same idea, that we did not doubt the writer would soon appear again, and probably to more advantage as his first essay was rather a proof of the possession of powers than of their exertion.

• en

Accordingly, we have now before us the second edition larged-and otherwise much improved, with the poet's real name

annexed the motto changed-and a preface, in which he, with great good humour, acquaints us with part of his own history, and the history of this poem. His palinode is very candid. The first edition, he says, 'was crowded and disfigured with innumerable errors-chiefly typographical, however; though in some cases, whole lines were left out, by myself, I dare say, in copying my manuscript for the press; and, from a long process of continual interpolation and refinement, whenever the whim seized me, the repetitions and extravagancies were about as numerous, as all the rest of the blunders together.'

The title page too he acknowledges has been universally, indignantly, and I must say, justly censured. The plain truth of the matter is this. I am ashamed of it: I was ashamed of it, from the first moment it was written; but having been much excited, where I had no business to be, under circumstances, which cannot be explained in this place,-I abandoned my first purpose, which was to print it with a modest title, under a fictitious name; and adopted the rascally burlesque, which now disgraces the volume. It was severely censured when I began to blush for it; but then I had too much obstinacy to acknowledge my folly, or to atone for it.'

'I have been baited too, for disingenuousness, as others have chosen to call it―-but, as it really is, for falsehood-lying-in the preface. I deserved it. I did wrong. Yet, as it was anonymous, mostly true, and, as I then thought, though I now think differently, innocent, because not malicious, my conscience did not reproach me-or I would have burnt the book, and the hand that wrote it too, before I would have been guilty of such a thing. To show the sincerity of my compunction, with the hope that the former preface will be forgotten, I shall put my real name in black and white, at the bottom of this, and thereby, hold myself responsible for its truth.'

He is very much displeased with the Port Folio and the Analectic Magazine for not having reviewed his poem, and with the inhabitants of Philadelphia, because they would not come to the Washington Hall to hear him recite it—but if his strictures were at all likely to excite the smallest disposition to speak of him less favourably, another part of his preface would more than counterbalance the effect, and incline us to treat him with the utmost respect and good will. We mean the disclosure that he is a particular and intimate friend of the Rev. Mr. Pierpoint, author of the Airs of Palestine'-and that he was instigated by that gentleman to undertake the Battle of Niagara.'

Of Mr. Pierpoint, and any one whom he distinguishes by his friendship and approbation, we shall always have great pleasure in speaking in terms of unqualified respect. His Airs of Palestine' have not received even justice at the hands of his countryWe say it the more freely, because this Journal, under other auspices, was accessary in exciting an unreasonable prejudice against that work, which contains as much good poetry, to say the

men.

least, as is to be found in the productions of any living American poet. We trust he will accept our amende, which is perfectly disinterested and sincere.

The Battle of Niagara' is entirely without plot;-as far as we can understand it (for it is exceedingly mysterious, and all that') —indeed the author scorns plots, and thinks them as ill placed in descriptive poems as in a song. We may therefore seek any where for a specimen-the following is among the best parts:'Hark! that sweet song!-how full of tenderness!

O, who would breathe in this voluptuous press
Of lulling thoughts!-so soothing and so low;
Like singing fountains in their faintest flow-
It is as if some holy-lovely thing,
Within our very hearts were murmuring,
The soldier listens, and his arms are prest
In thankfulness, and trembling on his breast:
Now-on the very window where he stands,
Are seen a clambering infant's rosy hands:
And now-ah heaven!-blessings on that smile!—
Stay, soldier stay-O, linger yet awhile!
An airy vision now appears, with eyes-
As tender as the blue of weeping skies:
Yet sunny in their radiance, as that blue,
When sunset glitters on its falling dew;

With form-all joy and dance-as bright and free
As youthful nymph of mountain Liberty:
Or naked angels dreamt by poesy:

A blooming infant to her heart is prest;
And ab- -a mother's song is lulling it to rest!
A youthful mother! God of heaven! is there
A thing beneath the skies, so holy or so fair!

'A single bound!-our chief is standing by,
Trembling from head to foot with ecstasy-
'Bless thee!' at last he murmured-bless thee, love!
'My wife!-my boy;'-Their eyes are raised above.
His soldier's tread of sounding strength is gone;

A choking transport drowns his manly tone;
He sees the closing of a mild, blue eye,

His bosom echoes to a faint low cry;

His glorious boy springs freshly from its sleep;
Shakes his thin sun-curls, while his eye-beams leap,
As half in fear-along the stranger's dress-
Then-half advancing-yields to his caress;-
Then peers beneath his locks, and seeks his eye,
With the clear look of radiant infancy,

The cherub smile of love, the azure of the sky.

'The stranger now, is kneeling by the side
Of that young mother;-watching for the tide
Of her returning life;-it comes a glow
Goes-faintly slowly-o'er her cheek and brow;
A rising of the gause that lightly shrouds

A snowy breast-like twilight's melting clouds-
In nature's pure, still eloquence, betrays

The feelings of the heart that reels beneath his gaze.
'She lives! she lives-see how her feelings speak,
Through what transparency of eye and cheek!