at many of the strong and largely cultivated minds which we know by biography and their own works, and note how large and precious an element of strength is their studious love of poetry. Where could we find a man of more earnest, energetic, practical cast of character than Arnold?-eminent as an historian, and in other the gravest departments of thought and learning, active in the cause of education, zealous in matters of ecclesiastical, political, or social reform; right or wrong, always intensely practical and single-hearted in his honest zeal; a champion for truth, whether in the history of ancient politics. or present questions of modern society; and, with all, never suffering the love of poetry to be extinguished in his heart, or to be crowded out of it, but turning it perpetually to wise uses, bringing the poetic truths of Shakspeare and of Wordsworth to the help of the cause of truth; his enthusiasm for the poets breaking forth, when he exclaims: "What a treat it would be to teach Shakspeare to a good class of young Greeks in regenerate Athens; to dwell upon him line by line and word by word, and so to get all his pictures and thoughts leisurely into one's mind, till I verily think one would, after a time, almost give out light in the dark, after having been steeped, as it were, in such an atmosphere of brilliance."

TRAGIC POETRY,

Tragic poetry has been well described as "poetry in its deepest earnest." The upper air of poetry is the atmosphere of sorrow. This is a truth attested by every department of art, the poetry of words, of music, of the canvas, and of marble. It is so, because poetry is a reflection of life; and when a man weeps, the passions that are stirring within him are mightier than the feelings which prompt to cheerfulness or merriment. The smile plays on the countenance; the laugh is a momentary and noisy impulse; but the tear rises slowly and silently from the deep places of the heart. It is at once the symbol and the relief of an o'ermastering grief, it is the language of emotions to which words cannot give utterance: passions, whose very might and depth give them a sanctity we instinctively recognize by veiling them from the common gaze. In childhood, indeed, when its little griefs and joys are blended with that

Arnold's Life, p. 284 (American edition), in a letter to Mr. Justice Coleridge.

absence of self-anxiousness which is both the bliss and the beauty of its innocence, tears are shed without restraint or disguise but when the self-consciousness of manhood has taught us that tears are the expression of emotions too sacred for exposure, the heart will often break rather than violate this instinct of our nature. Tragic poetry, in dramatic, or epic, or what form soever, has its original, its archetype in the sorrows which float like clouds over the days of human existence. Afflictions travel across the earth on errands mysterious, but merciful, could we but understand them; and the poet, fashioning the likeness of them in some sad story, teaches the imaginative lesson of their influences upon the heart.

JAMES GATES PERCIVAL, 1795-1856.

THIS distinguished scholar, philosopher, and poet was born at Berlin, Connecticut, September 15th, 1795, and graduated at Yale College, in 1815, with high honor. After leaving college, he entered the medical school connected with the same, and received the degree of M. D. He did not, however, engage in practice; but devoted himself chiefly to the cultivation of his poetical powers, and to the pursuits of science and literature. In 1820, he published his first volume of poems; and in 1822, another volume, under the name of "Clio." In 1824, he was for a short time in the service of the United States, as Professor of Chemistry in the Military Academy at West Point, and subsequently, as a surgeon connected with the recruiting station at Boston. But his tastes lay in a different direction, and he gave himself to the Muses, and to historical, philological, and scientific pursuits. In 1827 he was employed to revise the manuscript of Dr. Webster's large Dictionary, and not long after this he published a corrected translation of MalteBrun's Geography. In 1835, he was appointed, in connection with Professor C. A. Shepard, to make a survey of the Geology and Mineralogy of the State of Connecticut. Dr. Percival took charge of the Geological part, and his report thereon was published in 1842. In 1843, appeared, at New Haven, his last published volume of miscellaneous poetry, entitled "The Dream of Day and other Poems." In 1854, he was appointed State Geologist of Wisconsin, and his first Report on that survey was published in January, 1855. The larger part of this

year he spent in the field. While preparing his second report, his health gave way, and after a gentle decline, he expired on the 2d of May, 1856, at Hazel Green, Wisconsin.

However much distinguished Mr. Percival is for his classical learning, and for his varied attainments in philology and general science, he will be chiefly known to posterity as one of the most eminent of our poets, for the richness of his fancy, the copiousness and beauty of his language, his life like descriptions, his sweet and touching pathos, as well as, at times, his spirited and soul-stirring measures. The following selections will give a just idea of his various styles :

ODE.-LIBERTY TO ATHENS.1

The flag of freedom floats once more
Around the lofty Parthenon;

It waves, as waved the palm of yore,
In days departed long and gone;

As bright a glory, from the skies,

Pours down its light around those towers,
And once again the Greeks arise,

As in their country's noblest hours;
Their swords are girt in virtue's cause,
Minerva's sacred hill is free-

O may she keep her equal laws,

While man shall live, and time shall be.
The pride of all her shrines went down;
The Goth, the Frank, the Turk had reft
The laurel from her civic crown;

Her helm by many a sword was cleft:
She lay among her ruins low-

Where grew the palm, the cypress rose,
And crushed and bruised by many a blow,
She cowered beneath her savage foes:
But now again she springs from earth,
Her loud, awakening trumpet speaks;
She rises in a brighter birth,

And sounds redemption to the Greeks.

It is the classic jubilee

Their servile years have rolled away;
The clouds that hovered o'er them flee,

They hail the dawn of freedom's day;

"In this crowded, classical, and animated picture, the occasional resemblance to Lord Byron ought not to be called an imitation so much as a successful attempt at rivalry." Read articles on his poetry, in the 16th and 22d volumes of North American Review.

From Heaven the golden light descends,
The times of old are on the wing,
And glory there her pinion bends,

And beauty wakes a fairer spring;
The hills of Greece, her rocks, her waves,
Are all in triumph's pomp arrayed;
A light that points their tyrants' graves
Plays round each bold Athenian's blade.
The Parthenon, the sacred shrine,

Where wisdom held her pure abode :
The hill of Mars, where light divine
Proclaimed the true, but unknown God;
Where justice held unyielding sway,
And trampled all corruption down,
And onward took her lofty way

To reach at truth's unfading crown:
The rock, where liberty was full,

Where eloquence her torrents rolled,
And loud, against the despot's rule,
A knell the patriot's fury tolled:
The stage, whereon the drama spake

In tones that seemed the words of Heaven,
Which made the wretch in terror shake,
As by avenging furies driven:

The groves and gardens, where the fire
Of wisdom, as a fountain, burned,
And every eye, that dared aspire

To truth, has long in worship turned:
The halls and porticos, where trod
The moral sage, severe, unstained,
And where the intellectual God

In all the light of science reigned:
The schools, where rose in symmetry
The simple, but majestic pile,
Where marble threw its roughness by,

To glow, to frown, to weep, to smile, Where colors made the canvas live, Where music rolled her flood along, And all the charms, that art can give, Were blent with beauty, love, and song: The port, from whose capacious womb Her navies took their conquering road: The heralds of an awful doom

To all, who would not kiss her rod :On these a dawn of glory springs,

These trophies of her brightest fame; Away the long-chained city flings

Her weeds, her shackles, and her shame; Again her ancient souls awake,

Harmodius bears anew his sword; Her sons in wrath their fetters break, And freedom is their only lord.

THE SERENADE.