When it was discovered that Bryant was not its author, those journals which had been most bountiful in their encomiums upon its merit, felt much chagrined, while others laughed at the joke. In justice to the innocent author, whom many have censured for this deception, unmeaningly committed, we will explain its publication. It was originally a part of a poem delivered some years ago by Mr. Weston before the Phi Beta Kappa of Bowdoin College, and which consisted entirely of imitations of the most distinguished American poets. How well he succeeded in his imitations, A Vision of Immortality,' will show to the reader. A better imitation of Bryant could not, we venture to say, be made. The poem was published as a 'Sequel to Thanatopsis,' with the consent of the poet Bryant, by Mr. Weston personally obtained. It matters not, as far as its literary merit is concerned, whether it was written by the one or the other, and those editors who so foolishly revoked their flattering notices when a more humble name claimed its authorship, done themselves but little credit. As the production of Mr. Weston, it is a perfect imitation, while as that of Mr. Bryant, it would be nothing more than his old familiar style of writing. Mr. Weston is now, and has been for some time past, an assistant editor of the Eclectic,' a popular literary weekly journal, published at Portland. He is a man of fine talents, a superior teacher, and a gentlemen of high standing in private life. He is married, and resides in the town of Gorham, where his flourishing school is situated. Although a man of abundant talent, he has written nothing of any great length by which to acquire a reputation outside of our own State, except A Vision of Immortality,' which, with Lines written at the Falls of the Passaic,' and the 'Two Hands,' we consider the finest specimens of his poetic talent that we have seen. A VISION OF IMMORTALITY: A SEQUEL TOTHANATOPSIS' AND 'THE HYMN TO DEATH.' I, WHO essayed to sing in earlier days The Thanatopsis and The Hymn to Death, Wake now the Hymn to Immortality. Yet once again, O man, come forth and view The haunts of Nature, walk the waving fields, The depths of the untrodden wilderness, Thou hast learned before One lesson; and her Hymn of Death has fallen And she shall teach thee that the dead have slept And the mystery of the seed's decay The flowers that spring above their last year's grave Yet not alone shall flower and forest raise The voice of triumph and the hymn of life. each painted wing. That flutters in the sunshine, broke but now From the close cerements of a worm's own shroud, Is telling, as it flies, how life may spring In its glad beauty from the gloom of death. Where the crushed mould beneath the sunken foot Seems but the sepulchre of old decay, Turn thou a keener glance, and thou shalt find The gathered myriads of a mimic world. Raise then the Hymn to Immortality! Kings that lay down in state, and earth's poor slaves, The white-haired patriarch and the tender babe, Archon and priest, and the poor common crowd, - Aye, learn the lesson. Though the worm shall be And all shall pass, humble and proud and gay Yet the Immortal is thy heritage! The Then mourn not when thou markest the decay That other voice, with its rejoicing tones, Breaks from the mould with every bursting flower. O grave! thy victory!' And thou, O man, Thy narrow heritage, lift up thy head. The dear departed that have passed away And thou that gloriest to lie down with kings, So live, that when the mighty caravan, |