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but the Indian cabin, the Indian sepulchre, the Indian's wrongs, shall be the theme of many an unborn song. We have many a Wyoming, many a vale, many a fount, to awaken the slumbering, and release from their icy chains the fountains of feeling. The sunny skies of the South, the "snow capped" mounts of the North, the hunting grounds of the West, and the vine-clad hills of the East, are themes to melt the coldest heart. Bright land of beauty! thy sons shall honor, thy daughters shall cherish thee, and Poetry shall weave around each spot of loveliness, a spell whose potency shall defy the rude breath of the world. Fain would we linger yet a while, but time forbids we should longer descant upon the praises of Poesy.

PELHAM.

ESSAYIST.

No. I.

"Brevis esse laboro."-Hor.

A LONG life, a long credit, and a long purse, are, no doubt, very desirable. But a long essay, a long speech, and a long sermon, are generally severe taxes on patience. A long essay is long and flat; a long speech, long and dry; a long sermon, long and dull; or to reduce the propositions to their lowest forms, a long essay is flat, a long speech is dry, a long sermon is dull. Length does not imply strength, and the hour hand is not an index of a man's genius.

On the other hand, a short life, a short credit, and a purse that often "falls short," are blessings we only wish for our enemies. But a short essay is generally short and pithy; a short speech, short and admired; a short sermon is short and to the point; or, in other words, a short essay is pithy, a short speech is admired, a short sermon is to the point.

Brevity is the soul of wit," says one. "Short and sweet," says another. Therefore an essayist should choose for his motto,

"Brevis esse laboro."

BRYANT'S POETRY.

There are moods of mind when common circumstances produce an uncommon effect. The sailor may have crossed the ocean so often as to forget the number of his voyages, without once thinking of the abyss of waters over which he sails, that

"Far down in the green and glassy brine,"

there is many a

coral grove,

Where the purple mullet and goldfish rove,"

and that huge monsters are sporting one above another, like birds in the air, for miles beneath him. All this may have escaped his thoughts, until a sleepless hour, or the calm consciousness that follows a startling dream, has caused him to think almost to agony, of the single plank that separated him from the abyss.

In another mood, every object in nature affords some mark of beauty. Familiar sights attract our attention and fix our gaze, from pleasing appearances which had before escaped our notice. In such a mood, even that from which we had once turned away in disgust, has destroyed our unpleasant associations, as if by a charm. We forget the loathsome form of the toad, that "ugly, venomous animal," and gaze with admiration on the changing hues of the "jewel in its head." The child who flies with the eagerness of fear from the serpent itself, is fascinated by the fatal splendors of its eye, when it shines from the bramble. The painter and the lover, though from different motives, catch some graceful position, some pleasing expression, and commit them to canvass, or the "tablets of memory.' Thus it is with Bryant; as a painter, as a lover, as one completely fascinated by the charms of nature, he wanders amid her solitudes; not only birds, but rivulets, and evening winds attend his summer walks with music. The delicate tinge of a flower delights his eye, but it waves on its stem, secure in his presence. The peculiar shade of a leaf turns aside his steps. Even a drop of dew, a flake of snow, or a crystal of frost, he does not deem unworthy his attention. The "glazed and gleaming snow" of winter, the evening wind of summer, that "rocks the little wood-bird in its nest," and "curls the still waters bright with stars," the "dropping foliage" and "leaf-choked fountain" of autumn, all attest his intimate acquaintance with nature, and his minute observation of her works.

It has been observed by some old writer," that poesy is of so subtile a spirit that in the pouring out of one language into another, it will evaporate." This may be true in relation to the translations of Italian sonnets and French quartrains, but Bryant is an exception to a rule so general. He has not only retained all the fire and spirit of the Spanish original, but has thrown around it a new charm, by his singularly felicitous expression, and the exquisite melody of his versification. The Mæonian and Mantuan bards have ample cause to regret the loss of spirit from their works, in the "pouring out" of the Greek and Latin language into English. But Villegas, Luis Ponce De Leon, Leonardo De Argensola, have reason to rejoice that their verses have taken flight to immortality on plumage far fairer than they originally possessed.*

JAM SATIS.

* Does the writer consider Mr. Bryant so vastly superior to the mighty names in Spanish literature?-EDS. MAG.

"OUR MAGAZINE."

READER, we are not given to perpetrating verse. Pardon this present offense— guilt is its own tormentor. We repent-we promise to reform. However, as the following lines, either 'by hook or by crook,' have got into our hands, we even venture to print them. No further apologies-so here goes

Since wine is all vetoed, and men may not drink it,

And merry red bumpers no longer are known,

We'll drink, though a whim the good people may think it,
The health of our friends in a mode of our own;
We'll drink to our friends in a mode of our own,

Though it may be a whim, or a manifest sin;
We'll drink to our friends for the spirit they've shown
In regard to our bantling, the Yale Magazine.

So then, for subscribers who pay in due season,

The richest hot coffee our bumper shall crown;
But for those who neglect it without any reason,
A laudanum bumper our sorrows to drown;
A laudanum bumper-of coffee another-

A curse and a boon-which are never akin-
So drink we to each, whether foeman or brother,
As touching our bantling, the Yale Magazine.

A vinegar bumper we drink to the critics,

So snarlingly captious and crabbedly sour;
A snake-root decoction to mere analytics,

Who nothing can relish but roots of a power;
And a bumper of oil to the Lexicon heroes,

Whose deep veneration Greece only can win-
So drink we to those who with hearts like a Nero's,
Would murder our bantling, the Yale Magazine.

And now for our writers-we drink to the prosers
The fullest milk-bumpers that ever were poured-
To wearisome, empty-brained essay-composers,
The lac asininum we freely afford;

But to men who by merit have gained approbation,
The richest lac bubulum empty we in-
So drink we to these, for whate'er reputation
They give to our bantling, the Yale Magazine.

To sinners in rhyme-irritabile genus

An aqueous bumper we'll drink, if you please—
To those ever singing of Cupid and Venus,
With water just heated one hundred degrees—

But to those who exhibit the true inspiration,

With bumper Byronic-his soda we mean-
So toast we the rhymers, whate'er be their station,
Who sing for our bantling, the Yale Magazine.

Again, for the sighing and soft-sentimental,
Let water well sweetened go merrily round;
But poets in prose, à la mode Oriental,

For them milk and water can only be found.
And lastly, the few who their jewels have thrown us

We'd toast, were we able, like Egypt's fair queen,
With a bumper of gems for the favor they've shown us,
In aiding our bantling, the Yale Magazine.

Nor would we neglect the unfortunate lovers,
Incipient poets, philosophers, wits-

The 'mighty rejected' who shine on our covers-
That tomb of ambition, where Death ever sits-
For these, in a gush of the purest compassion,

Let bumpers lethean our sympathies win-
So toast we the writers who scatter their trash on
The robe of our bantling, the Yale Magazine.

THE EDITORS TO THE READER.

WHEN the project of publishing another magazine was first started, its most enthusiastic supporters by no means felt assured that they were not about to add one more to the list of short-lived periodicals, which the history of our college exhibits, while many and 'frosty-spirited knaves' foretold, and while foretelling wished, its speedy termination.

More than a year and a day' has elapsed, reader, since we penned our initial address-twelve numbers of "The Yale Literary Magazine" have seen the light of your countenance our promise is redeemed-your doubts and misgivings, if ever you harbored any, are resolved-and we might roll ourselves into an abstraction, into an 'Ilium fuit,' without another word between us.

But we take an interest in this child of many fathers, to which we have so long stood sponsors, whose honor we have preferred to our own ease, and for whose nourishment we have not scrupled to ransack each nook and corner of this literary realm; and now that, in the order of things, we are to be thrust from our seats, by those who are for the coming year, to be to you, and to our protegé, in our stead, who shall blame us if we offer a word of parting to you, of counsel to them, of mingled gratulation and regret, in respect of ourselves.

The office of the 'Editors' is no sinecure. How much soever matter contributors may furnish, and however few pages they may reserve for themselves, still upon their energy and their devotion to its interests, the tone and spirit of the Magazine will mainly depend. Relying upon so fickle, procrastinating, irresponsible a set of beings, as students proverbially are, exigencies are constantly occurring, which they must be able promptly to meet. Add to this the labors of revision, the annoyances of complaining contributors and subscribers, the vexations of the press, and the interruption of private occupations, and the life of an editor is not all 'a gilded show.'

The apathy and indolence of many of those who are best able to render the pages of the Magazine entertaining and useful, and the persecutions of those who have none of these gifts, are two things most trying to an editor's temper. To incite the former without sacrificing his own independence, and to curb the luxuriance of the latter, without giving offense, in this consists all art.-Hic labor est, hoc opus.

Our opinion of the advantages resulting to the institution from such a publication, has undergone no change. So long as its proper scope and province are well observed-so long as it is sustained with unanimity and vigor, it will be an honor and a service to our community-but should it ever be allowed to transgress the modesty, which our years and station enjoin, should its management ever be made an object of party strife, should it begin to languish, or vibrate from energy to depression, its beauty and utility are at once destroyed.

That our successors may meet with the same kindness and forbearance, from within and without, which have ever been shown to us; that they may learn from our errors and our shortcomings, what is suitable and necessary to the discharge of their duties; and that the class which gave them their authority, may as fully and unanimously sustain them in its exercise, as ours has done with us, is our earnest wish.

To contributors, pleased or disappointed-to critics, severe or indulgent to readers, cynical or good natured

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