most splendid production" that ever came before him, he says

-We can produce passages from 'Crystalina' which have not been surpassed in our language. SPENSER himself, who seemed to have condensed all the radiance of fairy-land upon his starry page, never dreamed of more exquisitely fanciful scenery than that which our bard has sometimes painted.... Had this poet written before SKAKSPEARE and SPENSER, he would have been acknowledged the child of fancy..... Had he dared to think for himself to blot out some passages, which his judgment, we are sure. could not have approved-the remainder would have done credit to any poet, living or dead.... It is not our intention to run a parallel between the author of 'Crystalina' and the SHAKSPEARE, SPENSER, OF MILTON, of another country.... He moves in a different creation, but he moves in as radiant a circle, and at as elevated a point, in his limited sphere, as any whom we have mentioned."

66

“Crysta•

I cannot quite agree with Mr. NEAL. lina" does not seem to me very much superior to his own "Battle of Niagara." It however evinces decided poetical power, and if carefully revised, by a man of even very inferior talents, if of a more cultivated taste and greater skill in the uses of language, it might be rendered one of the most attractive productions in its class. The precept of HORACE, that a poet should construct his fable from events generally believed to be true, is justified by the fact that so few works in which the characters are impossible, and the incidents altogether incredible, have been successful in modern times. DRAKE's Culprit Fay" is undoubtedly a finer poem than MORRIS's "Woodman, spare that Tree," but it will never be half as popular. That Dr. HARNEY had an original and poetical fancy will be sufficiently evident from a few examples:

-Thrice had yon moon her pearly chariot driven Across the starry wilderness of heaven,

In lonely grandeur; thrice the morning star
Danced on the eastern hills before Hyperion's car."
Deep silence reigned, so still, so deep, and dread,
That they might hear the fairy's lightest tread,
Might hear the spider as he wove his snare,
From rock to rock."

"The mountain tops, oak-crowned
Tossed in the storm, and echoed to the sound
Of trees uptorn, and thunders rolling round."
"The prowlers of the wood

Fled to their caves, or crouching with alarm,
Howled at the passing spirits of the storm;
Eye-blasting spectres and bleached skeletons,
With snow-white raiment, and disjointed bones,
Before them strode, and meteors flickering dire,
Around them trailed their scintillating fire."
...."The fearless songsters sing,

And round me flutter with familiar wing,
Or mid the flowers, like sunbeams glance about,
Sipping, with slender tongues, the dainty nectar out."
"Morn, ascending from the sparkling main,
Unlocked her golden magazi 3 of light,

....

And on the sea, and heaven's cerulean plain,
Showered liquid rubies, while retreating Night
In other climes her starred pavilion spread."

After the publication of" Crystalina," Dr. HARNEY commenced an epic poem, of which fragments were found, with numerous shorter compositions, among his papers, after he died. Mr. GALLAGHER, who examined some of his manuscripts, says they were worthier than Crystalina' of his genius and acquirements;" but nearly all of them disappeared, through the negligence or the jealous care of his friends. Among his latest productions was The Fever Dream," which was written at Savannah, after he had himself been a sufferer from the disease he so vividly describes. In a lighter vein is the ingenious bagatelle entitled "Echo and the Lover," which, as well as "The Fever Dream," was first published after the poet's death.

EXTRACTS FROM "CRYSTALINA.”

SYLPHS, BATHING.

THE shores with reclamations rung,
As in the flood the playful damsels sprung:
Upon their beauteous bodies, with delight,
The billows lept. Oh, 't was a pleasant sight,
To see the waters dimple round, for joy,

Climb their white necks, and on their bosoms toy :
Like snowy swans they vex'd the sparkling tide,
Till little rainbows danced on every side.
Some swam, some floated, some on pearly feet
Stood sidelong, smiling, exquisitely sweet.

TITANIA'S CONCERT.

IN robes of green, fresh youths the concert led, Measuring the while, with nice, emphatic tread Of tinkling sandals, the melodious sound Of smitten timbrels; some, with myrtles crown'd, Pour the smooth current of sweet melody, Through ivory tubes; some blow the bugle free, And some, at happy intervals, around,

With trumps sonorous swell the tide of sound; Some, bending raptured o'er their golden lyres,

With cunning fingers fret the tuneful wires;
With rosy lips, some press the syren shell,
And, through its crimson labyrinths, impel
Mellifluous breath, with artful sink and swell.
Some blow the mellow, melancholy horn,
Which, save the knight, no man of woman born,
E'er heard and fell not senseless to the ground,
With viewless fetters of enchantment bound.

ON A FRIEND.

DEVOUT, yet cheerful; pious, not austere; To others lenient, to himself severe; Though honored, modest; diffident, though praised The proud he humbled, and the humble raised; Studious, yet social; though polite, yet plain; No man more learnéd, yet no man less vain. His fame would universal envy move, But envy's lost in universal love. That he has faults, it may be bold to doubt, Yet certain 't is we ne'er have found them out. If faults he has, (as man, 't is said, must have,) They are the only faults he ne'er forgave.

I flatter not: absurd to flatter where

Just praise is fulsome, and offends the ear.

THE FEVER DREAM.

A FEVER Scorched my body, fired my brain;
Like lava in Vesuvius, boiled my blood
Within the glowing caverns of my heart;
I raged with thirst, and begged a cold, clear draught
Of fountain water. "T was, with tears, denied.
I drank a nauseous febrifuge, and slept,

But rested not-harassed with horrid dreams
Of burning deserts, and of dusty plains,
Mountains disgorging flames, forests on fire,
Steam, sunshine, smoke, and ever-boiling lakes-
Hills of hot sand, and glowing stones, that seemed
Embers and ashes of a burnt-up world.
Thirst raged within me. I sought the deepest vale,
And called on all the rocks and caves for water;-
I climbed a mountain, and from cliff to cliff,
Pursued a flying cloud, howling for water;-
I crushed the withered herbs, and gnawed dry roots,
Still crying, "Water!" while the cliffs and caves,
In horrid mockery, re-echoed "Water!"
Below the mountain gleamed a city, red
With solar flame, upon the sandy bank
Of a broad river. Soon, oh soon," I cried,

I'll cool my burning body in that flood,

And quaff my fill!" Iran; I reached the shore;
The river was dried up; its oozy bed
Was dust; and on its arid rocks I saw
The scaly myriads fry beneath the sun;
Where sank the channel deepest, I beheld
A stirring multitude of human forms,
And heard a faint, wild, lamentable wail.
Thither I sped, and joined the general cry
Of Water!" They had delved a spacious pit
In search of hidden fountains: sad, sad sight!
I saw them rend the rocks up in their rage,
With mad impatience calling on the earth
To open and yield up her cooling springs. [gaze,
Meanwhile the skies, on which they dared not
Stood o'er them like a canopy of brass-
Undimmed by moisture; the red dog-star raged,
And Phoebus from the house of Virgo shot
His scorching shafts. The thirsty multitude
Grew still more frantic. Those who dug the earth
Fell lifeless on the rocks they strained to upheave,
And filled again, with their own carcasses,
The pits they made-undoing their own work.
Despair at length drove out the laborers,
At sight of whom a general groan announced
The death of hope. Ah! now no more was heard
The cry of Water!" To the city next,
Howling we ran-all hurrying without aim:-
Thence to the woods. The baked plain gaped
for moisture,

And from its arid breast heaved smoke, that seemed
Breath of a furnace-fierce, volcanic fire,
Or hot monsoon, that raises Syrian sands
To clouds. Amid the forests we espied
A faint and bleating herd. Suddenly, shrill
And horrid shouts arose of "Blood! blood! blood!"
We fell upon them with a tiger's thirst,
And drank up all the blood that was not human;
We were all dyed in blood. Despair returned;
The cry was hushed and dumb confusion reigned.
Even then, when hope was dead, and all past hope,

I heard a laugh, and saw a wretched man
Rip madly his own veins, and bleeding drink
With eager joy. The example seized on all;
Each fell upon himself, tearing his veins
Fiercely in search of blood. And some there were.
Who having emptied their own veins, did seize
Their neighbors' arms, and slay them for their blood.
Oh! happy then were mothers who gave suck.
They dashed their little infants from their breasts
And their shrunk bosoms tortured, to extract
The balmy juice, oh! exquisitely sweet [gone!
To their parched tongues! "Tis done! now all is
Blood, water, and the bosom's nectar!-all!

66

Rend, oh, ye lightnings! the sealed firmament, And flood a burning world. Rain! rain! pour! pour! Open, ye windows of high heaven! and pour The mighty deluge! Let us drown and drink Luxurious death! Yeearthquakes split the globe, The solid, rock-ribbed globe-and lay all bare Its subterranean rivers and fresh seas!"

Thus raged the multitude. And many fell In fierce convulsions; many slew themselves. And now I saw the city all in flamesThe forest burning-earth itself on fire! I saw the mountains open with a roar, Loud as the seven apocalyptic thunders, And seas of lava rolling headlong down, Through crackling forests, fierce, and hot as hellDown to the plain. I turned to fly-and waked!

ECHO AND THE LOVER.

Lover. ECHO! mysterious nymph, declare
Of what you 're made and what you are-
Echo.
"Air !"
Lover. 'Mid airy cliffs, and places high,
Sweet Echo! listening, love, you lie
Echo.
"You lie!"
Lover. You but resuscitate dead sounds--
Hark! how my voice revives, resounds'
Echo.
Zounds!"
Lover. I'll question you before I go-
Come, answer me more apropos!
Echo.
"Poh! poh!"
Lover. Tell me fair nymph, if e'er you saw
So sweet a girl as Phoebe Shaw?
Echo.
"Pshaw!"
Lover. Say, what will win that frisking coney
Into the toils of matrimony?

Echo.
Money!"
Lover. Has Phoebe not a heavenly brow?
Is it not white as pearl-as snow?
Echo.
"Ass, no!"
Lover. Her eyes! Was ever such a pair!
Are the stars brighter than they are?
Echo.
"They are!"
Lover. Echo, you lie, but can't deceive me;
Her eyes eclipse the stars, believe me-
Echo.
"Leave me."
Lover. But come, you saucy, pert romancer,
Who is as fair as Phoebe ? answer.
"Ann. sir."

ALEXANDER HILL EVERETT, one of the most learned and respectable of our public characters, is best known as a writer by his various, numerous and able productions in prose; but is entitled to notice in a revicwal of American poetry by the volume of original and translated “Poems," which he published in Boston in 1845. He was a son of the Reverend OLIVER EVERETT, of Dorchester, and an elder brother of EDWARD EVERETT, and was born on the nineteenth of March, 1790. He was graduated, with the highest honours, at Harvard College, at the early age of sixteen; the following year was a teacher in the Exeter Academy; and afterwards a student in the law office of JOHN QUINCY ADAMS, whom in 1809 he accompanied to Russia, as his private secretary. In St. Petersburgh he passed two years in the assiduous study of languages and politics, and returning to this country was appointed secretary of legation to the Netherlands, in 1813, and in 1818 became chargé d'affaires at that post, and in 182:

THE PORTRESS.

L'ENVOI, TO M. L.

FAIR Saint! who, in thy brightest day Of life's meridian joys,

Hast turn'd thy serious thoughts away

From fashion's fleeting toys,
And fasten'd them with lofty view
Upon the Only Good and True,
Come, listen to me while I tell
A tale of holy miracle.

Come fly with me on fancy's wing
To that far, sea-girt strand,

The clime of sunshine, love, and spring,
Thy favorite Spanish land!
And lo! before our curious eyes
An ancient city's turrets rise,
And circled by its moss-grown wall,
There stands a vast, baronial hall.
And opposite, a convent pile

Its massy structure rears,
And in the chapel's vaulted aisle
A holy shrine appears:
And at the shrine devoutly bent,
There kneels a lovely penitent,
In sable vesture, sadly fair,
Come-listen with me to her prayer

BALLAD.

"Blest shrines! from which in evil hour My erring footsteps stray'd,

Oh grant your kind protecting power! To a repentant maid!

minister to Spain. He came home in 1829, and in the same year undertook the editorship of " The North American Review." He was subsequently an active but not a very successful politician, several years, and in 1845, after having for a short time been president of the University of Louisiana, was appointed minister plenipotentiary to China, and sailed for Canton in a national ship, but was compelled by ill health to return, after having proceeded as far as Rio Janeiro. The next year, however, he was able to attempt the voyage a second time, and he succeeded in reaching Canton, but to die there just after his arrival, the twenty-ninth of June, 1847.

The principal works of Mr. EVERETT are described in "The Prose Writers of America." His poems consist of translations from the Greek. Latin, Norse, German, French and Spanish, with a few original pieces, more wise, perhaps than poetical. Some of the translations are exe. cuted with remarkable grace and spirit.

Sweet Virgin! if in other days

I sang thee hymns of love and praise,
And plaited garlands for thy brow,
Oh! listen to thy votary now!
"The robe, in which thy form is drest,
These patient fingers wrought;
The flowers that bloom upon thy breast
With loving zeal I brought;
That holy cross, of diamond clear,
I often wash'd with many a tear,
And dried again in pious bliss,
Sweet Virgin! with a burning kiss
"And when by cruel arts betray'd,
My wayward course began,
And I forsook thy holy shade,

With that false-hearted man,

I breathed to thee my parting prayer
And gave me to thy gentle care;
Sweet Virgin! hear thy votary's vow,
And grant her thy protection now!"
Unhappy Margaret! she had been

The fairest and the best,
In pious zeal and modest mien
Outshining all the rest;
And was so diligent withal,

That she had won the trust of all,

And by superior order sate

As Portress at the convent gate.

And well she watch'd that entrance o'er ;-
Ah! had she known the art

To guard as faithfully the door
Of her own virgin heart.

But when the glozing tempter came With honied words of sin and shame, She broke her order's sacred bands, And follow'd him to distant lands. And there, in that delicious clime

Of song, romance, and flowers, While guilty love was in its prime, They dream'd away the hours; But soon possession's touch of snow Subdued his passion's fiery glow, Converting love to scorn and hate, And he has left her desolate.

And she from Madrid's courtly bowers
A weary way has gone,

To seek in old Palencia's towers
False-hearted ALARCON

His hall is vacant: not a beam
Is from the windows seen to gleam,
Nor sound of life is heard to pour
From balcony or open door.

But lo! where in the cool moonligh
Her home of former years,
The well-known convent opposite
Its massy structure rears:
And open stands the chapel door,
Saying, with mute language, to the poor,
The heavy-laden, and distrest,

Come in! and I will give you rest!"

And she has enter'd, and has knelt
Before the blessed shrine,
And stealing o'er her senses felt

An influence divine;

And the false world's corrupt control No more can subjugate her soul, Where thoughts of innocence again With undivided empire reign.

Again she sees her quiet cell,

And the trim garden there;
Again she hears the matin bell,
That summons her to prayer;
Again she joins, in chorus high,
The strain of midnight minstrelsy,
That lifts her with each thrilling tone,
In transport to the eternal throne.

"Ah! who will give me back?" she said,
With hotly-gushing tears,
"The blameless heart, the guiltless head
Of my departed years?
What heavenly power can turn aside
The course of time's unchanging tide,
And make the Penitent again

The Pure one, that she might have been!"

While musing thus, around the dome,
She casts a vacant glance;
She sees, emerging from the gloom,
A graceful form advance.
Proceeding forth with noiseless feet,
From a far chapel's dim retreat,
The figure, clad in nun's array,
Along the pavement took her way.

A lantern in her hand she bore,
The shade upon her face;
And MARGARET vainly scann'd it o'er,
Familiar lines to trace;

Then murmur'd, fearing to intrude,
"She is not of the sisterhood-
Perhaps a novice, who has come,

Since MARGARET left her convent bome."

From shrine to shrine with measured pace,
The figure went in turn,

And placed the flowers, and trimm'd the dress,
And made the tapers burn:

Nor ever rested to look back:

And MARGARET follow'd in her track,
Though far behind: a charm unknown
With secret impulse led her on.

Fair sight it was, I ween, but dread
And strange as well as fair,
To see how as she visited

Each separate altar there,

A wondrous flame around it play'd,
So soft it scarcely broke the shade,
But glow'd with lustre cold and white,
Like fleecy clouds of boreal light.

Save only where around the nun
A warmer blaze it threw;
For there the bright suffusion shone
With tints of various hue;
Pale azure, clear as seraph's eyes,
Mix'd with the rose's blushing dyes,
And gathering to a halo, spread
In rainbow circles round her head.

And every flower her touch beneath
Renew'd its former bloom,

And from its bell of odorous breath,

Sent forth a sweet perfume;
And though no voice the silence stirr'd,
A low, sweet melody was heard,
That fell in tones subdued but clear,
Like heavenly music on the ear
Entranced, in ecstacies of awe,

And joy that none can tell,
The Penitent at distance saw

The beauteous miracle;
And scarce can trust the evidence

That pours in floods through every sense;
And thinks, so strange the vision seems,
That she is in the land of dreams.

At length, each altar duly dight,
And all her labors o'er,

The wondrous nun resumed the light,
And cross'd the minster floor;
Returning to the chapel shade,
From which her entrance she had made,
Along the aisle where MARGARET stood,
And, passing, brush'd the maiden's bood.

Then she the stranger's mantle caught,
And something she would say,
But on her lips the unutter'd thought
In silence died away,

"It is the same with mine." "Thy office, maiden?" "Lady dear! For years I was a sister here; And by superior order sate

As Portress at the convent gate."

"I too," the nun replied, "as one
Among the sisters wait,

And am to all the convent known,
As Portress at the gate."
Then first, entranced in wild amaze,
Her downcast eyes did MARGARET raise
And fix them earnestly upon

The stranger's face;-it was her own!

Reflected in that glorious nun,

She sees herself appear:
The air, the lineaments, her own,
In form and character:

The dress the same that she has worn;
The keys the same that she has borne;
Herself in person, habit, name,
At once another and the same.

Struck down with speechless ecstasy,
Astonished MARGARET fell:
"Rise!" spake the vision, "I am she,
Whom thou hast served so well;
And when thou forfeitedst thy vows,
To be a perjured traitor's spouse,
And mad'st to me thy parting prayer
For my protecting love and care:

"I heard and granted thy request,
And to conceal thy shame,

I left the mansion of the blest

And took thy humble name,
Thy features, person, office, dress;
And did the duty of thy place,
And daily made report of all
In order to the principal.

"Behold! where still at every shrine
The votive taper stands;

The dress that once thou wor'st is thine,

The keys are in thy hands:

Thy fame is clear, thy trial o'er :
Then, gentle maiden! sin no more!
And think on her, who faithfully
In hours of danger thought on thee!"

A lightning flash!-a thunder peal!-
And parting o'er their heads,
The church's vaulted pinnacle
An ample passage spreads;
And lo! descending angels come
To guard their queen in triumph home,

The while the echoing minster rings
With sweetest notes from heavenly strings."

Then up, on cherub pinions borne,

The Virgin-Mother passed;

And as she rose, on the forlorn

A radiant smile she cast;

And MARGARET saw, with streaming eyes
Of grateful joy, the vision rise,

And watched it till, from earthly view,
It vanished in the depths of blue.

THE YOUNG AMERICAN.

SCION of a mighty stock! Hands of iron,-hearts of oak,— Follow with unflinching tread Where the noble fathers led.

Craft and subtle treachery,
Gallant youth! are not for thee:
Follow thou in word and deeds
Where the God within thee leads.

Honesty with steady eye,
Truth and pure simplicity,
Love that gently winneth hearts,
These shall be thy only arts,-

Prudent in the council train,
Dauntless on the battle plain,
Ready at the country's need
For her glorious cause to bleed.

Where the dews of night distil Upon Vernon's holy hill; Where above it, gleaming far, Freedom lights her guiding star,—

Thither turn the steady eye,
Flashing with a purpose high;
Thither with devotion meet
Often turn the pilgrim feet.

Let thy noble motto be
GOD, the COUNTRY,-LIBERTY!
Planted on Religion's rock,
Thou shalt stand in every shock.

Laugh at danger far or near;
Spurn at baseness,-spurn at fear;
Still with persevering might,
Speak the truth, and do the right.

So shall peace, a charming guest, Dove-like in thy bosom rest, So shall honor's steady blaze Beam upon thy closing days.

Happy if celestial favor Smile upon the high endeavor. Happy if it be thy call

In the holy cause to fall.