And what shall assuage his dark despair, Kneel down at the couch of departing faith, A voice to sustain, to soothe, and to cheer. In giant masses graced the walls above, And dungeons yawn'd below. Yet ivy there and moss their garlands wove, Grave, silent chroniclers of time's protracted flow Bursting on my steadfast gaze, See, within, a sudden blaze! So small at first, the zephyr's slightest swelt The feeble fluttering of that flame would quell. Waving, rushing, fierce, and red- From wall to wall, from tower to tower, Till every fervent pillar glow'd, And every stone seem'd burning coal, Like streaming radiance from the kindled pole Silent as death, I saw the fabric stand. At length a crackling sound began; Till now in rattling thunder-peals it grew, Like blazing comets through the troubled sky Nor even its ruins met my wondering eye. And eyes with heaven's own brightness beamRose a fair, majestic form, As the mild rainbow from the storm. I mark'd her smile, I knew her eye; How truly it unlock'd the world of fate! That fervent energy must spread, Till despotism's towers be overthrown; And in their stead, Liberty stands alone! Hasten the day, just Heaven! And let the blessings thou hast freely given Till equal rights be equally enjoy'd JOHN NEAL. [Born about 1794.] MR. NEAL is a native of Portland. In 1815 he went to Baltimore, and was there associated several years with JoHN PIERPONT in mercantile transactions; but these resulting disastrously, he turned his attention to literature, commencing his career by writing for "The Portico," a monthly magazine, a series of critical essays on the works of BYRON. In 1818, he published "Keep Cool," a novel, and in the following year "The Battle of Niagara, Goldau the Maniac Harper, and other Poems, by Jehu O'Cataract,' ," and "Otho," a tragedy. He also wrote a large portion of ALLEN'S History of the American Revolution," which appeared early in 1821. In 1822 he published in Philadelphia a second novel, entitled "Logan," which was reprinted soon after in London. This was followed in 1823 by "Seventy-six," the most popular of his fictions; Randolph," a story which attracted considerable attention at the time by the notices it contained of the most prominent politicians, authors, and artists then in the country; and Errata, or the Works of Will Adams." Near the close of the last-mentioned year Mr. NEAL went abroad. Soon after his arrival in London he became a contributor to various periodicals, for which he wrote, chiefly under the guise of an Englishman, numerous articles to correct erroneous opinions which prevailed in regard to the social and political condition of the United States. He made his first appearance in Blackwood's Magazine, in "Sketches of the Five American Presidents and the Five Candidates for the Presidency," a paper which was widely republished, and, with others, led to his introduction to many eminent persons, among whom was JEREMY BENTHAM, who continued until his death to be Mr. NEAL'S warm personal friend. After passing four years in Great Britain and on the continent, in which time appeared his "Brother Jonathan," a novel, Mr. NEAL came back to his "JEHU O'CATARACT" was a name given to NEAL by the Delphian Club of Baltimore, of which PAUL ALLEN, Gen. WINDER, REV. JOHN PIERPONT, Judge BRECKENRIDGE. NEAL, and other distinguished men, were then members. The second edition of the Battle of Niagara was published in 1819, and for "JEHU O'CATARACT" was substituted the real name of the author. In this edition of " The Poets and Poetry of America" I have quoted from the "Battle of Niagara" as it appeared with the "last additions and corrections." I had seen only the first impression of it when this work was originally prepared for the press. In a note in Blackwood's Magazine, Mr. NEAL says he wrote "Randolph" in thirty-six days, with an interval of about a week between the two volumes, in which he wrote nothing; "Errata" in less than thirty-nine days; and "Seventy-six" in twenty-seven days. During this time he was engaged in professional business native city of Portland, where he now resides Since his return he has published « Rachel Dyer," "Authorship,' ,""The Down Easters," and "Ruth Elder;" edited "The Yankee," a weekly gazette, two years, and contributed largely to other periodicals. Mr. NEAL's novels contain numerous passages marked by brilliancy of sentiment and expression, and occasional scenes which show that he possesses dramatic ability. They are original; they are written from the impulses of his heart, and are pervaded by the peculiarities of his character; but most of them were produced rapidly and carelessly, and are without unity, aim, or continuous interest. His poems have the unquestionable stamp of genius. He possesses imagination in a degree of sensibility and energy hardly surpassed in this age. The elements of poetry are poured forth in his verses with a prodigality and power altogether astonishing. But he is deficient in the constructive faculty. He has no just sense of proportion. No one with so rich and abundant materials had ever less skill in using them. Instead of bringing the fancy to adorn the structures of the imagination, he reverses the poetical law, giving to the imagination the secondary office, so that the points illustrated are quite forgotten in the accumulation and splendour of the imagery. The Battle of Niagara," with its rapid and slow, gay and solemn movement, falls on the ear as if it were composed to martial music. It is marred, however, by his customary faults. The isthmus which bounds the beautiful is as narrow as that upon the borders of the sublime, and he crosses both without hesitation. Passages in it would be very fine but for lines or single words which, if the reader were not confident that he had before him the author's own edition, he would think had been thrown in by some burlesquing enemy. I have heard an anecdote which illustrates the rapidity with which he writes. When he lived in Baltimore, he went one evening to the rooms of PIERPONT, and read to him a poem which he had just completed. The author of " Airs of Palestine" was always a nice critic, and he frankly pointed out the faults of the performance. NEAL promised to revise it, and submit it again on the following morning. At the appointed time he repaired to the apartment of his friend, and read to him a new poem, of three or four hundred lines. He had tried to improve his first, but failing to do so, had chosen a new subject, a new measure, and produced an entirely new work, before retiring to sleep. In the last edition of his Poems, Mr. NEAL presents some specimens of an intended epic on the conquest of Peru; and he has written many lyrical pieces, not included in his collections, which have been popular. FROM THE CONQUEST OF PERU. INVOCATION TO THE DEITY. O THOU, from whom the rebel angels fled, When thou didst rend thine everlasting veil, And show thy countenance in wrath! O Thou, Before whose brow, unclothed in light-put forth In awful revelation-they that stood Erect in heaven, they that walk'd sublime, E'en in thy presence, Lord! and they that shone Most glorious 'mid the host of glorious ones, With Lucifer-the Morning Star, the Terrible, The chief of old immortals-with the sight Were suddenly consumed! Almighty! Thou, Whose face but shone upon the rebel host Of warring constellations, and their crowns Were quench'd for ever! and the mightiest fell, And lo innumerable wings went up, And gather'd round about the Eternal's throne, And all the solitudes of air were fill'd With thunders and with voices! and the war Fled from thy presence! And thy wrath was o'er, And heaven again in peace!...... O Thou-our Inspiration-Thou, O God! Of monarchs, and of empires!-men who stood Their hearts have ached with weary supplication; Sublime and confident, and woman, up FROM THE BATTLE OF NIAGARA. A CAVALCADE SEEN AT SUNSET THROUGH A GORGE. Ан, now let us gaze! what a wonderful sky! How the robe of the god, in its flame-colored dye, Goes ruddily, flushingly, sweepingly by!.... Nay, speak! did you ever behold such a night? While the winds blew about, and the waters were The sun rolling home in an ocean of light! [bright, But hush! there is music away in the sky; Some creatures of magic are charioting by; [wild Now it comes what a sound! 't is as cheerful and As the echo of caves to the laugh of a child; Ah yes, they are here! See, away to your left, Where the sun has gone down, where the mountains are cleft, A troop of tall horsemen! How fearless they ride! 'Tis a perilous path o'er that steep mountain's side; Careering they come, like a band of young knights, That the trumpet of morn to the tilting invites; With high-nodding plumes, and with sun-shiny vests; With wide-tossing manes, and with mail-cover'd breasts; With arching of necks, and the plunge and the pride And instantly all the bright show was conceal d- APPROACH OF EVENING. A GLOW, like enchantment, is seen o'er the lake, When thou didst bow the heavens, and, at the sound But it lies the more steady and firm in the sight Of many thunders, pealing thy decree, Creation sprang to light, when time began And all the boundless sky was full of suns, Rolling in symphony, and man was made The lustre-crown'd peaks, while they dazzled the eye The light of the hill, and the wave, and the sky Grow fainter, and fainter:-The wonders all die! The visions have gone! they have vanish'd away, Unobserved in their change, like the bliss of a day. The rainbows of heaven were bent in our sight, And fountains were gushing like wine in its light, And scraphs were wheeling around in their flight A moment and all was enveloped in night! "Tis thus with the dreams of the high-heaving heart: They come but to blaze, and they blaze to depart― Their gossamer wings are too thin to abide The chilling of sorrow, or burning of prideThey come, but to brush o'er its young gallant swell, Like bright birds over ocean-but never to dwell. MOVEMENTS OF TROOPS AT NIGHT. OBSERVED ye the cloud on that mountain's dim So heavily hanging?-as if it had been [green The tent of the Thunderer-the chariot of one O'er the thunder-reft mount-on its ruggedest side; Like the warriors of air, that are seen in our sleep; | Your heart would lie still till it number'd the last; And your breath would be held till the rear horsemen pass'd, [tent. So swiftly, so mutely, so darkly they went, For be they the horsemen of earth, or of heaven, No blast that the trumpet of Slaughter hath given, No roll of the drum, and no cry of the fife, aches With its measureless thought, is more dreadful by far, AN INDIAN APOLLO. Nor like the airy god of moulded light, Just stepping from his chariot on the sight; Poising his beauties on a rolling cloud, With outstretch'd arm and bowstring twanging loud And arrows singing as they pierce the air; With tinkling sandals, and with flaming hair As if he paused upon his bounding way, And loosen'd his fierce arrows-all in play; But like that angry god, in blazing ligh. Bursting from space, and standing in his might- Of dainty Poesy-and boyishly supreme! Of silver bow and woman's nerveless limb- MORNING AFTER A BATTLE. WHO thinks of battle now? The stirring sounds Spring lightly from the trumpet, yet who bounds On this sad, still, and melancholy morn, As he was wont to bound, when the fresh horn Came dancing on the winds, and peal'd to heaven, In gone-by hours, before the battle even? The very horses move with halting pace; No more they heave their manes with fiery grace, With plunge, and reach, and step that leaves no trace; No more they spurn the bit, and sudden fling Their light hoofs on the air. The bugles sing, And yet the meteor mane and rolling eye Lighten no longer at their minstrelsy; No more their housings blaze, no more the gold Or purple flashes from the opening fold; No rich-wrought stars are glittering in their pride Of changing hues; all, all, is crimson-dyed. They move with slow, far step; they hear the tread That measures out the tombing of the dead The cannon speaks, but now no longer rolls In heavy thunders to the answering poles; But bursting suddenly, it calls, and flies, Less stately in his strength, less lordly in his pride. MUSIC OF THE NIGHT. THERE are harps that complain to the presence of night, To the presence of night alone In a near and unchangeable tone- Like a conqueror, shaking his brilliant hair On the clouds that unfold, Breaking onward in flame, while an ocean divides On his right and his left-So the Thunderer rides. When he cuts a bright path through the heaving tides Rolling on, and erect, in a charioting throne! Yes! strings that lie still in the gushing of day, That awake, all alive, to the breezes of night. In one sweet dreamy tone, For ever and for ever. The live-long night ye hear the sound, |