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geance. We always thought, that the supporting of publishers was a matter altogether incidental to the great work of advancing intelligence, and that the credit of writing a sound book took the precedence of the printing it. However it is one of the improvements of the age. We’ll wager our poet any thing that we can pick out the very pieces inserted to swell the volume. What right have “La Grisette,” “A Souvenir,’ ‘My Companions,’ ‘The proud Pedestrian,’ and ‘Evening, by a tailor'—what right have these by the side of the splendid opening on the fourth page, “The last Reader,’ ‘The last Leaf,’ ‘To a Katydid,’ ‘The dying Seneca,’ and twenty others we could mention ? There never was such a coupling since the days of Job. It may be said, a man has a right to do what he likes with his own—we deny it totally and forever. A man who can write good poetry, has no more business to write bad, than a man whose character is up for truth telling, gets a charter thereby to lie when he chooses. The man who professes to be good, and the man who has written a good book, have both committed themselves; and by the very necessity of the case, become thereupon the more amenable to exact criticism. Every deviation for the wrong, subtracts just so much from the sum total of the right; and the literary man will be just so far degrade in public opinion, as the adjunct of just so much good writing had listed him. Besides, a man owes the public civility at least; and, in our opinion, he fails as far who gives you a bad book as if he spit in your face. However, these remarks apply to every poet in the country—one excepted—therefore let our poet forget not that he suffers in good company. The truth of it is, we like Mr. Holmes; like his manner and method, and that too exceedingly, therefore we don't like to see him make himself unlikeable. We would have all our poets as fastidious as Halleck is: sor if a man has written well, though he write no more, there will always be supposed the ability remaining; and we believe mind is valued generally as we value good land, rather by its capability to produce than the quantity of production. Mr. Holmes has done well in this—his first volume we believe— and we hope soon to see him in another. His fresh and manly style of writing, we hesitate not in saying is very creditable to our literature, and will help refute the notion so vigorously cried up by a class of us, that this country is no place for poetry. We cannot sorbear indulging in a few reflections here on the present state of our poetry in this particular. As to the charge that we have no poetry—that our country cannot produce it—that the elements of it are not here—that we must have ruined temples, dilapidated towers, and a dark and dim antiquity to back them—as to all this, we oppose the answer;-go up among our loftiest mountains— among their caves, and crags, and precipices—seat yourself on the ruggedest peak of the huge Allegany—see the long sweep of wide and rolling forest tops around you—mark their knotted arms twisted up in many a wild convolution—think of that long and mighty line of dead warriors slumbering beneath them—imagine to yourself the wars and blood-shed, strifes and commotions also, before the axe of the white man came among them—then send your eye away beyond these forests—see our mighty lakes flashing here, our sweeping prairies and lone savannas stretching there—hear our mountain streams, our cataracts, and the fearful dash of the ocean as it breaks against our country—look at all these, and then if you can, say we lack the elements of poetry. The truth of it is, there is no lack of matter, if we had the spirit to give it life—there is no lack of material, if we only had the power to mould it into beauty. The sanes and crumbling palaces of Europe—grassed as they are and matted with the vines of centuries—rendered sacred by a splendid ancestry—and aided by that rich and solemn awe which tradition flings about them—with all these, they cannot boast the fire and sorce and freedom, which burst upon us in our own country—which burst upon us in our scenery— which burst upon us in our history—which burst upon us in our liberty—which burst upon us in our great and glorious institutions— which, by the consent of all, are the wonder of mankind. We admit they were fitted for other days—we admit that the mind, slumbering under the darkness and despotism of a galling superstition, must be fired at such altars—but we will not admit, that in a day of freedom like this, and in a country of freedom like this—in a day and in a country of social, moral, and political freedom, beyond what the world has known—that in such a day, and under such circumstances, our poetry must be trammeled likewise—and that the human mind can find nothing to feed on, but the poor dust and ashes of a besotted by-gone age. There is a class of minds who are always wrong—there is a class of minds who are always in darkness— there is a class of minds who are always clinging to the ignorance of the past—who can see nothing in the wonders and improvements of the age, beyond a useless innovation—the evidence rather of the imbecility than the glory of mankind. But the march of the great maSS o: onward in spite of them—the mind will wake up though it be settered like Prometheus—that living something, that yearning hope, that undefined mystery in us which speaks of immortality, will struggle and struggle upward—till at length having emerged from the superstition of ages, it will claim its splendid birth-right. Then shall begin that glorious period of the world—then shall begin a school more brilliant than the past—then shall the lyre find a hand that can sweep it like a master—and a brighter congregation of stars may then bend over our hemisphere, than the world has yet known. Let us hurl back then the charge of our literary imbecility—let us not tamely bear these jests as they come venomed from a foreign press; but let us, feeling our strength, boldly march to the conflict, and trust we may yet stand as high in a literary point of view, as we now stand renowned for our patriotic virtue. Yale College,

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CONTENTMENT.

Sweet Contentment, power divine,
Lowly I bend before thy shrine,
And dedicate myself to thee,
For time and for eternity.
From thy calm and guileless way,
Never let my footsteps stray;
Take, oh take me to thy breast,
Sooth my troubled soul to rest.
Dwell'st thou only in the skies,
Far removed from mortal eyes,
Amid the blissful realms of light,
Diffusing blessings infinite
Or dost thou, lovely seraph, deign,
Here on mortal ground to reign 7 -
If thou dost, oh tell me then
Where dwell'st thou 'mid the sons of men 3
Dost thou, enthroned in regal state,
On Glory's glittering pageant wait?
Or will the warrior own thy charms,
"Mid battle's rage and war's alarms ?
Say, dost thou with ambition dwell,
Or in the hermit's sainted cell ?
Art thou to wealth and pomp allied ?
Is luxury ever at thy side?
Dost thou the rosy garland throw
O'er ruling pleasure's burning brow?
Join in the bacchanal's loud laugh,
And wine from brimming beakers quaff?
Angel, blessing, ever blessed,
Com'st thou the lonely student's guest,
His midnight vigils to beguile
With thy soft and soothing smile,
And when his eyes, too fiercely bright,
Beam with a wild, unearthly light,
And o'er his cheek false roses bloom,
Sad presage of an early tomb,
Dost thou then distance time's swift wing,
The future to the present bring,
And show to Learning's martyr'd son
The victories that his mind has won,
And bid him triumph in that praise
Which lives not till his frame decays,
All voiceless, while his listening ear
Would sain its thrilling accents hear,
But tuneful as the Syren's songs,
When all to gloomy death belongs?

I ceased: responsive to my prayer,
A voice came floating through the air,
Soft as the breeze that lulls to rest,
The billows round the halcyon's nest,
So blandly sweet, so heavenly mild,
Methought the very accents smiled:
List, mortal, list; a docile mind
In me a friend shall always find,
To keep it from the guilty ways
Of this bad world's deceitful maze.
In every scene of life I dwell,
In regal court or sainted cell;
I bless the peasant's homely fare,
And in the lordly banquet share;
The lowly thatch, the bannered hall—
I pour the balm of peace on all.
But neither peasant's homely fare,
Nor lordly banquet that I share,
Nor regal court, nor sainted cell,
One moment tempts me there to dwell,
If love of duty does not guide, -
And over every deed preside;
For true contentment's only found
Where wisdom is with virtue crown'd—
Wisdom, your duty plain to show,
Virtue, to practice what you know.

RETIREMENT.

The pleasures of retirement, whether real or imaginary, have always found admirers, and received the tribute of repeated praise. The philosopher and the hoary headed sage have never ceased to regard tranquillity as essential to happiness, and to esteem both as connected with some degree of seclusion. Confiding in the sentiments of philosophy and experience, and guided by their own desires, many, while immersed in the cares of active life, long for retirement, and on this center their summum bonum of human happiness. As they retreat for the first time from the hurry of business, and give themselves up to relaxation, the novelty of the change produces a transient pleasure, and they thence hastily conclude, that here may be experienced joys equal to those of social lise, embittered by none of its sorrows. But as time passes on, and first impressions fade away, disappointment too often usurps the throne of happiness, and it is found that the fancied good is unsubstantial and momentary. Thus many, after a voluntary banishment from society, have returned, again to pursue its pleasures and mingle in its follies. Yet solitude to numbers continues to afford pure enjoyment, and to open sountains of wisdom and instruction. These results at once lead us to investigate the causes which have formed such a diversity of opinions with respect to retirement, to learn its natural effect upon mankind, and to decide how far it may become a source of happiness. Does it have a tendency to render the heart more susceptible, and to strengthen the ties of friendship 2 does it cultivate the moral feelings, and give tone and vigor to the character? does it smooth the brow of care, and sweeten the cup of sorrow 2 or have all these been creations in the ideal world of the visionary, and the extravagant assertions of the enthusiast? Who are those that complain of weariness in solitude, and forsake more tranquil pleasures for the mirth and hilarity of the crowded circle 2 Are they men of cultivated intellect, and energy of mind; men who have accustomed themselves to independence of thought and action ? or are they not rather those deficient in both mental and moral qualities 2 Whatever may be the situation of man, his mind must be active, or his happiness is at an end. Fetter the movements of the body, allow the blood to stagnate which courses through the veins, and you cannot fail to weaken and undermine the system. Retard the operations of the mind, stay the current of thought which passes through the soul, and in like manner by this mental stagnation, you entwine wretchedness around your existence. The majority of men, when deprived of society, are deprived of their vigor of intellect, their activity of mind, their all save the sad consciousness of their loss; accustomed to be led by others, they have no power over themselves, no faculty of self-communion, no world within their own bosoms. Some follow with timid obsequiousness in the footsteps of the great. The opinions, the feelings, nay, almost the very thoughts of these men, are from a foreign mint. Others worship the goddess, Fashion. There are few whom her tyranny does not reach, her sceptre does not control. Her’s is the shrine to which they bow, and the idol to which they pay their homage. They are busy, but accomplish nothing. Like butterflies, they flutter about with gilded wings, sporting in the sunbeams. But let all their vanities be swept away; let the objects of their pursuit vanish, their sunshine be exchanged for darkness, the gay circle in which they lately moved for seclusion, and happiness too has derted. Whither now, Solitude, have thy charms fled 2 The soul, eft to retire within itself, finds a vacancy which it is unable to fill. The pleasures of solitude—it sickens at the thought. There is a thirst which it cannot quench, a panting aster something which it cannot find. Conscious that within itself are implanted no seeds of

happiness, it searches abroad, but society is gone, nor can a substitute be sound.

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