Mr BRYANT was born in Cummington, Masrachusetts, on the third day of November, 1794. At a very early age he gave indications of superior genius, and his father, an eminent physician, distinguished for erudition and taste as well as for extensive and thorough knowledge of science, watched with deep interest the development of his faculties under the most careful and judicious instruction At ten years of age he made very creditable translations from some of the Latin poets, which were printed in a newspaper at Northampton, and during the vehement controversies between the Federalists and Democrats, which marked the period of Jefferson's administration, he wrote "The Embargo," a political satire, which was printed in Boston in 1808. TASSO when nine years of age wrote some lines to his mother which have been praised, CowLEY at ten finished his Tragical History of Pyramus and Thisbe," POPE when twelve his "Ode to Solitude," and "the wondrous boy CHATTERTON," at the same age, some verses entitled "A Hymn for Christmas Day;" but none of these pieces are superior to that which gave a title to the volume of our precocious American. The satire was directed against President JEFFERSON and his party, and has recently been quoted to prove the author an inconsistent politician, the last forty years having furnished no ground, it may be supposed, for such an accusation. The description of a caucus, in the following extract, shows that there has been little change in the character of such assemblies, and it will be confessed that the lines are remarkably spirited and graphic for so young an author:

"E'en while I sing, see Faction urge her claim, Mislead with falsehood, and with zeal inflame; Lift her black banner, spread her empire wide, And stalk triumphant with a Fury's stride. She blows her brazen trump, and, at the sound, A motley throng, obedient, flock around; A mist of changing hue o'er all she flings, And darkness perches on all her dragon wings! "Oh, might some patriot rise, the gloom dispel, Chase Error's mist, and break her magic spell! But vain the wish, for, hark! the murmuring meed Of hoarse applause from yonder shed proceed; Enter, and view the thronging concourse there, Intent, with gaping mouth and stupid stare; While, in the midst, their supple leader stands, Harangues aloud, and flourishes his hands; To adulation tunes his servile throat,

And sues, successful, for each blockhead's vote." Some of the democrats affected to believe that Master BRYANT was older than was confessed, or that another person had written "The Embargo;" but the book was eagerly read, and in a few months a second edition appeared, with some additional pieces. To this was prefixed the following advertisement;

"A doubt having been intimated in the Monthly Anthology of June last, whether a youth of thirteen years could have been the author of this poem-in justice to his merits the friends of the writer feel obliged to certify the fact from their personal knowledge of himself and his family, as well as his literary improvement and extraordinary talents. They would premise, that they do not come uncalled before the public to bear this testimony. They would prefer that he should be judged by his works, without favour or affection. As the doubt has been suggested, they deem it merely an act of justice to remove it, after which they leave him a candidate for favour in common with other literary adventurers. They therefore assure the public that Mr. BRYANT, the author, is a native of Cummington, in the county of Hampshire, and in the month of November last arrived at the age of fourteen years. These facts can be authenticated by many of the inhabitants of that place, as well as by several of his friends, who give this notice; and if it be deemed worthy of further inquiry, the printer is enabled to disclose their names and places of residence."

In the sixteenth year of his age, BRYANT entered an advanced class of Williams College, in which he soon became distinguished for his attainments generally, and especially for his proficiency in classical learning. In 1812 he obtained from the faculty an honourable discharge, for the purpose of entering upon the study of the law, and in 1815 he was admitted to the bar, and commenced the practice of his profession in the village of Great Barrington, where he was soon after married.

When but little more than eighteen years of age he had written his noble poem of "Thanatopsis," which was published in the North American Review for 1816.* In 1821 he delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard College his longest poem, The Ages," in which, from a survey of the past eras of the world, and of the successive advances of mankind in knowledge, virtue, and happiness, he endeavours to justify and confirm the hopes of the philanthropist for the future destinies of man. It is in the stanza of SPENSER, and in its versification is not inferior to "The Faerie Queene." "To a Waterfowl,"« Inscription for an entrance to a Wood," and several other pieces of nearly as great merit were likewise written during his residence at Great Barrington.

Having passed ten years in successful practice in the courts, he determined to abandon the uncongenial business of a lawyer, and devote his attention more exclusively to literature. With this view, in 1825, he removed to the city of New York, and

See note on page 111.

In

with a friend, established "The New York Review and Atheneum Magazine," in which he published several of his finest poems, and in "The Hymn to Death" paid a touching tribute to the memory of his father, who died in that year. 1826 he assumed the chief direction of the "EvenIng Post," one of the oldest and most influential political and commercial gazettes in this country, with which he has ever since been connected. In 1827, 1828, and 1829, he was associated with Mr. VERPLANCK and Mr. SANDS in the production of "The Talisman," an annual; and he wrote two or three of the "Tales of Glauber Spa," to which, besides himself. Miss Sedgwick, Mr. Paulding, Mr. Leggett, and Mr. Sands were contributors. An intimate friendship subsisted between him and Mr. SANDS, and when that brilliant writer died, in 1832, he assisted Mr. VERPLANCK in editing his works.

In the summer of 1834, Mr. BRYANT visited Europe, with his family, intending to devote a few years to literary studies, and to the education of his children. He travelled through France, Germany, and Italy, and resided several months in each of the cities of Florence, Pisa, Munich, and Heidelberg. The dangerous illness of his partner and associate, the late WILLIAM LEGGETT, compelled him to return hastily in the early part of 1836.

The summer of 1840 he passed in Florida and the Valley of the Mississippi, and in 1844 he revisited Europ He resides still in the city of New York, and continues to devote the chief part of his time to the editorship of the Evening Post, which has been for many years the leading journal of the democratic party.

In 1832 a collection of all the poems Mr. BRYANT had then written was published in New York; it was soon after reprinted in Boston, and a copy of it reaching WASHINGTON IRVING, who was then in England, he caused it to be published in London, where it has since passed through several editions. In 1842 he published "The Fountain and other Poems;" in 1844 "The White-Footed Deer and other Poems;" in 1846 an edition of his complete Poetical Works, illustrated with engravings from pictures by Leutze; and in 1855 another edition, containing his later poems, in two volumes. In prose his most recent publication is entitled "Letters of a Traveller;" this appeared in 1852; and he has since revisited Europe and made a journey through Egypt and the Holy Land.

The many and high excellencies of Mr. BRYANT have been almost universally recognised. With men of every variety of tastes he is a favourite. His works abound with passages of profound reflection which the philosopher meditates in his closet, and with others of such simple beauty and obvious intention as please the most illiterate. In his pages are illustrated all the common definitions of poetry, yet they are pervaded by a single purpose and spirit. Of the essential but inferior characteristics of poetry, which make it an art, he has a perfect mastery. Very few equal him in grace and power of expression. Every line has compactness, precision, and elegance, and flows

with its fellows in exquisite harmony. His man ner is on all occasions fitly chosen for his subject. His verse is solemn and impressive, or airy and playful, as suits his purpose. His beautiful imagery is appropriate, and has that air of freshness which distinguishes the productions of an author writing from his own observations of life and nature rather than from books.

Mr. BRYANT is a translator to the world of the silent language of the universe. He conforme his life to the beautiful order of God's works." Ir the meditation of nature he has learned high les sons of philosophy and religion. With no othe. poet does the subject spring so naturally from the object; the moral, the sentiment, from the contemplation of the things about him. There is nothing forced in his inductions. By a genuine carnestness he wins the sympathy of his reader, and prepares him to anticipate his thought. By an imperceptible influence he carries him from the beginning to the end of a poem, and leaves hin infused with the very spirit in which it is conceived.

In his descriptions of nature there is remarkable fidelity. They convey in an extraordinary degree the actual impression of what is grand and beautiful and peculiar in our scenery. The old and shadowy forests stand as they grew up from the seeds God planted, the sea-like prairies stretching in airy undulations beyond the eye's extremest vision, our lakes and mountains and rivers, he brings before us in pictures warmly coloured with the hues of the imagination, and as truthful as those which COLE puts on the canvas.

It has been complained that there is very little sentiment, very little of the blending of passion with philosophy, in BRYANT's poetry; that his antique and dignified simplicity is never warmed with human sympathy. This is true in a degree, but in many of his poems are passages of touching pathos, and his interest in his race appears, contrary to the general experience, to increase with

his age.

own.

It has been denied by some persons, reasoning from our descent, education, language, and manners, identifying us so closely with another people, that we can have a distinctive national literature. But there are very few of BRYANT's poems that could have been written in any country but our They breathe the very spirit of our young and vigorous life. He feels not more sensibly the grandeur and beauty of creation as manifested only in our own land, than he does the elevating influences of that freedom and power which is enjoyed by none but the citizens of this republic. To the thoughtful critic every thing in his verse belongs to America, and is as different from what marks the poetry of England as it is from that which most distinguishes the poetry of Germany or France.

Mr. BRYANT is still in the meridian of his life; among the most recent of his productions are some of the finest he has written; and we may look with confidence to an increase of the l'ases of his high reputation, second now to that of no conter porary who writes in our language.

THE PRAIRIES.

THESE are the gardens of the desert, these The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, For which the speech of England has no name-The prairies. I behold them for the first, And my heart swells, while the dilated sight Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo! they stretch In airy undulations, far away,

As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell,

Stood still, with all his rounded billows fix'd,
And motionless forever.-Motionless?-
No-they are all unchain'd again. The clouds
Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath,
The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye;
Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase
The sunny ridges. Breezes of the south!
Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers,
And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high,
Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not ye have
Among the palms of Mexico and vines [play'd

Of Texas, and have crisp'd the limpid brooks
That from the fountains of Sonora glide
Into the calm l'acific-have ye fann'd
A nobler or a lovelier scene than this?
Man hath no part in all this glorious work:
The hand that built the firmament hath heaved
And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their
slopes

With herbage, planted them with island groves,
And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor
For this magnificent temple of the sky-
With flowers whose glory and whose multitude
Rival the constellations! The great heavens
Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love,-
A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue,

Than that which bends above the eastern hills.
As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed,
Among the high, rank grass that sweeps his sides,
The hollow beating of his footstep seems
A sacrilegious sound. I think of those
Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here-
The dead of other days?-and did the dust
Of these fair solitudes once stir with life
And burn with passion? Let the mighty mounds
That overlook the rivers, or that rise
In the dim forest, crowded with old oaks,
Answer. A race, that long has pass'd away,
Built them; a disciplined and populous race
Heap'd, with long toil, the earth, while yet the
Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms
Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock
The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields
Nourish'd their harvests; here their herds were fed,
When haply by their stalls the bison low'd,
And bow'd his maned shoulder to the yoke.
All day this desert murmur'd with their toils,
Till twilight blush'd, and lovers walk'd, and woo'd
In a forgotten language, and old tunes,
From instruments of unremember'd form,
Gave the soft winds a voice. The red man came-
The roaming hunter-tribes, warlike and fierce,
And the mound-builders vanish'd from the earth
The solitude of centuries untold.

[Greek

Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolf
Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug den
Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the ground
Where stood their swarming cities. All is gone→→→
All-save the piles of earth that hold their bones--
The platforms where they worshipp'd unknown
gods-

The barriers which they builded from the soil
To keep the foe at bay-till o'er the walls
The wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by one,
The strongholds of the plain were forced, and heap'd
With corpses. The brown vultures of the wood
Flock'd to those vast, uncover'd sepulchres,
And sat, unscared and silent, at their feast.
Haply some solitary fugitive,

Lurking in marsh and forest, till the sens
Of desolation and of fear became
Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die.
Man's better nature triumph'd. Kindly words
Welcomed and soothed him; the rude conquerora
Seated the captive with their chiefs; he chose
A bride among their maidens, and at length
Seem'd to forget,-yet ne'er forgot,-the wife
Of his first love, and her sweet little ones
Butcher'd, amid their shrieks, with all his race.

Thus change the forms of being. Thus arise
Races of living things, glorious in strength,
And perish, as the quickening breath of GoD
Fills them, or is withdrawn. The red man, too-
Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long,
And, nearer to the Rocky Mountains, sought
A wider hunting-ground. The beaver builds
No longer by these streams, but far away,
On waters whose blue surface ne'er gave back
The white man's face-among Missouri's springs,
And pools whose issues swell the Oregon,
He rears his little Venice. In these plains
The bison feeds no more. Twice twenty leagueɛ
Beyond remotest smoke of hunter's camp,
Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shake
The eart. with thundering steps-yet here I meet
His ancient footprints stamp'd beside the pool.

Still this great solitude is quick with life. Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds, And birds, that scarce have learn'd the fear of man, Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground, Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee, A more adventurous colonist than man, With whom he came across the eastern deep, Fills the savannas with his murmurings, And hides his sweets, as in the golden age, Within the hollow oak. I listen long To his domestic hum, and think I hear The sound of that advancing multitude Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the ground

Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn Of Sabbath worshippers. The low of herds Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream | And I am in the wilderness alone.

THANATOPSIS.

To him who in the love of nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;-
Go forth, under the open sky, and list

To Nature's teachings, while from all around-
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air-
Comes a still voice-Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form is laid with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourish'd thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements,--
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone-nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers, of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre.—The hills
Rock-ribb'd, and ancient as the sun,-the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods-rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, pour'd round
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,- [all,
Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe, are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.-Take the wings
Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his own dashings-yet the dead are there;
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their ast sleep-the dead there reign alone.

So shalt thou rest,-and what if thou withdraw
Unheeded by the living--and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will snare thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase

His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,-
Shall one by one be gather'd to thy side,
By those who, in their turn, shall follow them.
So live, that, when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, that moves

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave, at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustain'd and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one that draws the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

FOREST HYMN.

THE groves were God's first temples. Ere man
learn'd

To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,
And spread the roof above them,-ere he framed
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back
The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood,
Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down,
And offer'd to the Mightiest solemn thanks,
And supplication. For his simple heart
Might not resist the sacred influences,
Which, from the stilly twilight of the place,
And from the gray old trunks, that high in heaver
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound
Of the invisible breath, that sway'd at once
All their green tops, stole over him, and bow'd
His spirit with the thought of boundless power,
And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why
Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect
Gon's ancient sanctuaries, and adore
Only among the crowd, and under roofs
That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least
Here, in the shadow of this aged wood,
Offer one hymn-thrice happy, if it find
Acceptance in his ear.

Father, thy hand
Hath rear'd these venerable columns, thou
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look
Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose [down
All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun,
Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze
And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died
Among their branches; till, at last, they stood,
As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark,
Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold
Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults,
These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride
Report not. No fantastic carvings show,
The boast of our vain race, to change the form
Of thy fair works. But thou art here-thou fill's
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds,
That run along the summit of these trees
Ir music;-thou art in the cooler breath,