Mr. Sprague has wrought rich treasures from every vein that he has struck. He has been so successful in all, that we are doubtful in which he has best succeeded. He displays the same singular felicity in sarcastic, pathetic, and spirited verse. His "Curiosity" is a noble poem; the language has scarcely a more splendid lyric than his Shakspeare Ode, and we know of few strains of deeper tenderness than those on the Death of a Sister, the Family Reunion, and others of the same tone. The arrow that would find a chink in Mr. Sprague's bright armor, must be more adroitly aimed than ours; he is impervious to our criticism.

In thus cursorily speaking of three of our best poets, we have sufficiently proved our postulate; as long as they, and others like them live to write, (we wish that they wrote to live,) the standard of refined taste in native poetry will be kept alive, and there will be little danger of our tolerating that which is in itself indifferent, because it is comparatively good. Before passing, however, to speak of those writers, whose more recent works immediately invite our observations, we would name one, to whom may, with singular fidelity, be applied Pope's expressive line:

"How sweet an Ovid was in Murray lost!"

George D. Prentice, of the Louisville Journal, a rabid opposition paper, has all the richest endowments of genius. He deserted "the muses' bower," to fight and scuffle on the dusty arena of politics. He flung aside his golden-voiced lute for the brazen-throated trumpet. Some of his earlier effusions are "beautiful exceedingly." His lines by his mother's grave, written at the age of fourteen, are more remarkable than any other juvenile production we ever saw. They breathe the very soul of sorrow; nothing could be more irresistibly touching and plaintive. His later pieces, especially those which tell of love, seem flushed with the rosiest hues of passion, pervaded with a glow like old Anacreon's. His fault is too lavish a profusion of imagery, the use of too many spangling epithets, which despoil his thoughts of their simplicity and beauty. Practice would have amended this, but he has not practised, he probably never will again practise poetry; he is a politician. Some of the most valuable contributions to American poetry have been made by those who have never yet had ambition enough to collect their scattered effusions into volumes. To convince the reader how sincerely this is to be regretted, we need mention no other names than those of the two last mentioned writers, Sprague and Prentice. We would that they could be persuaded to do so at this time, and we would that every writer upon whose efforts public approval has set its seal could be induced to follow the example.

Mr. Dawes' "Athenia of Damascus," Mr. Willis's "Bianca Visconti," and Mr. Epes Sargent's "Velasco"-a tragedy which was successfully brought forward at the Park Theatre, in New

York, and which has met with considerable praise from the periodical press-have all appeared within the last six months. Neither of these dramas have extraordinary merit; that by Mr. Sargent is by far the best as a whole, although those of Mr. Dawes and Mr. Willis contain finer passages of a fanciful description. We shall now speak of these dramas, though not with the particularity to which their defects as well as merits entitle them. That of Mr. Dawes has appeared in a separate form as well as in his volume. It legitimately claims our attention among his other poetical works which will be last treated in this paper, since they are the most important under notice. We would premise our remarks on the other two dramas, with the mention of the fact that they are the only native productions of merit, which have been given to the public in readable form, after their representation at the theatre. Dr. Robert M. Bird, of Philadelphia, author of Calavar, the Infidel, &c., was the first of any eminence who came forward as a dramatist. His "Gladiator," and "Broker of Bogota," never found their way to the publishers, less, as we imagine, through fear of their being submitted to the test of literary criticism, than from apprehension of diminishing their attractiveness on the stage.

Mr. Willis has published three dramatic works. The first was the tragedy which lies in a very neat garb before us, and is called "Bianca Visconti, or the Heart overtasked." It was written two years since, with a view to the acting by Miss Clifton of the principal female character. This is the way in which all American writing for the stage has been elicited. Mr. Dawes' "Athenia was written for a Mrs. George Jones, (a woman, like Miss Clifton, of fine appearance, and it has been stated of superior histrionic power,) and Mr. Sargent's "Izadore," the heroine in "Velasco," for Miss Tree. The effect of this must be to direct the author's attention to one bright point, from which he trusts to diffuse a radiance over the whole piece. Other matters are simply auxiliary-and the consequence is an inferior development of character, and no very skilful management of plot. This criticism applies to Mr. Willis's performances rather than to those of the other two writers.

After the somewhat equivocal success of "Bianca Visconti," Mr. Willis was betrayed into the perpetration of a comedy, which was (to use the common phraze) "damned" silently on the second night of representation. It is said to have been so broadly farcical, and so outrageously absurd, that it proved impossible, even for an audience fully determined on being delighted, to endure it. Nothing daunted by this rebuff, Mr. Willis steps like a stalwart knight again into the lists. If we were to credit the daily journals, we should believe that he had rent the laurel from Shakspeare's bust to adore his living temples, and that in "Tortesa, or the Usurer," the world beheld a comedy, such as no age since that of good Queen

Bess can boast. The truth is, that there is little or no dramatic power displayed in the piece. It is like Bianca Visconti, to which it is decidedly inferior in stage effect-a graceful poem running over with sparkling conceits and glittering fancies, which bubble up and burst on the surface like the air-jewels in a beaker of rosy champaigne.

It has been remarked of the plays of Sheridan Knowles, that in no one of them is there an allusion which would call a blush to the cheek of purity. This is a high degree of praise which cannot be awarded to the dramas of Mr. Willis. There is an indelicacy on the second page of "Bianca Visconti," and there are several in the comedy of "Tortesa." When will authors learn that filth is filth, though it be wrapped in a web woven from the costliest looms of Cashmere. We will not detain the reader with an analysis of the tragedy before us. The plot is poor in incident, but managed so as to stimulate, and increase the interest of the reader the more as he approaches toward the catastrophe. It is tragic enough to suit the taste of one who would "sup full with horrors." It hinges upon the high dramatic circumstance of a sister being accessory to the murder of a young and innocent brother, who stands in the path of her lover's ambition. But we leave the plot which we do not like for the poetry, which we do like, and with which it is our duty to deal in this paper. Here is a beautiful passage, expressive of Bianca's joy at the fruition of her long cherished hopes of happiness with her bridegroom, Sforza-beautiful, though it trenches on the “isle" in Moore's “Blue summer ocean far off and alone." "Oh, I'll build

A home upon some green and flowery isle

In the lone lakes, where we will use our empire

Only to keep away the gazing world.

The purple mountains and the glassy waters
Shall make a hush'd pavilion with the sky,

And we two in the midst will live alone,

Counting the hours by stars and waking birds,
And jealous but of sleep!"

Here are glowing lines of descriptive verse, though signally exemplifying that vicious exaggeration which results from the impotence of the true poetic imagination, and which his fine taste and the rare, natural strength of Mr. Willis's faculty render unpardonable in him.

" I remember

The fair Giovana in her pride at Naples.
Gods! what a light enveloped her! She left

Little to shine in history-but her beauty

Was of that order that the universe

Seem'd govern'd by her motion. Men look'd on her

As if her next step would arrest the world;

And as the sea-bird seems to rule the wave,

He rides so buoyantly; all things around her—

The glittering army, the spread gonfalon,

The pomp, the music, the bright sun in heaven

Seem'd glorious by her leave."

Here is something musical that will be deemed exquisite, till one endeavours to get at the meaning, and perceives that it begins with an hypothesis, very like a bull.

"If the rose

Were born a lily, and, by force of heart

And eagerness for light, grew tall and fair,
'Twere a true type of the first fiery soul
That makes a low name honorable. They
Who take it by inheritance alone-

Adding no brightness to it—are like stars
Seen in the ocean, that were never there

But for the bright originals in Heaven!"

The finest scene in the piece-and it is, poetically, very beautiful-is that in the fifth act, of an interview between Sforza, the hero, Bianca, and her young brother Giulio. We should like to give it as the fairest specimen of Mr. Willis's dramatic as well as poetic powers; but the limits, to which the number of matters treated in this article restrains us, forbid. The final melancholy madness of Bianca is so like Ophelia's, that we are ready to award it the praise of successful imitation.

Mr. Willis's dramas will hardly keep even short-lived possession of the stage, but they will maintain a more respectable rank in imaginative literature than his formerly published poems. They are less disfigured by affectations, and are pervaded by a more masculine tone of sentiment. They show that the author has of late conceived a nobler ambition, than to be the Waller of modern court circles— a preux chevalier, a sort of Sir Piercie Shafton, enrapturing the intellects of boarding school misses with metrical euphuisms and elaborate fooleries. He seems to have learned to reflect more upon his art, and less upon himself. Such reflection may not be so agreeable, but he will find it far more beneficial; the famous Greek precept, and Pope's scarcely less famous line, to the contrary notwithstanding.

Mr. Sargent is the author of several fugitive poems of considerable merit. He writes with scrupulous correctness, rather than remarkable power. He is guided rather by nice taste than bold ambition. He never startles his reader, and never shocks him; he is never venturesome, never "in wandering mazes lost;" the path he treads lies smooth, and plain, and verdant before him, and he is sure that he has answerable skill to pick his steps. He never walks blindfold, or with his eyes behind him. Had he been Icarus, he would never have attempted to fly, even had his wings been made of

feathers instead of wax. He is not wanting, however, in self-confidence, for he is sure of success by never over-estimating his own powers. He will take a permanent though not very brilliant position among our writers. Were he more daring, he might reach a higher point; but as there is no danger of his aiming beyond his reach, so there is none of his not reaching his aim. Of this we are certain ;— in his future course he will culminate, and not decline. His modesty, no less than his abilities, entitles him to our most favorable consideration. His play "Velasco," was quietly issued from the prolific press of the Harpers with little or no flourish of trumpets. It was read and liked. It was acted, and succeeded. The newspapers puffed it as they do every thing else, ad nauseam.

This set the author's

fame afloat, and a strong voice of judicious approval has kept it sailing on bravely ever since. We shall not swell the gale, but keep it blowing.

Since to Mr. Sargent has been accorded the praise of being the best dramatist in the country-a praise it would be difficult to gainsay we should be glad to exhibit his pretensions by liberal quotations. This would also prove the justice of our other remarks; but we must rest content with simply showing, from this play, that he is a poet of no inferior merit. We could do this, more efficiently, from his first dramatic attempt, called "The Genoese." It has not been published; but should be, were it unredeemed, except by certain beautiful passages. Though it was horribly mangled at the Park theatre, we saw and heard enough to make us prefer its story, plot, and incidents, to those of "Velasco." In the play before us we regard the choice of all these as unfortunate; the melo-dramatic termination of the third act is decidedly bad. But to the poetry. Here is a subject for the pencil of Weir

"Our routed troops were flying in dismay

Before the turban'd Moors, when from the gloom
Of a green thicket rush'd a mounted knight!
His charger, white as snow-his battle-axe
Poised in his right hand, while his left uprear'd

The Christian ensign blazoning the cross!"

Here is an exquisite figure-the last line is eminently good, and brings to mind that incomparable line of Campbell's:

"And in her eye, the tenth blue summer smiled."

"Oh! ne'er did mariner, long toss'd at sea,

With no benignant star to point his course,

Hail with more rapture the first gleam of land,

Than I from War's seam'd visage and wild glance,

Turn to the blue eyes of maternal peace!"

These words of parting between a brother and sister, when the latter is about to be wedded, remind us, by their pathos, of certain touches in "Ion :"