314 
sought for, and every deformity is as 
carefully concealed. But we may 
safely pronounce, that the mihe from 
which so many beautiful and valuable 
materials have been’ drawn, must be 
intrinsically rich ; and we feel indebted 
to the hand which has undertaken to 
collect its scattered produce, and place 
it before our eyes in the most advan- 
tageous light. 
In point of literary dependence, 
America seems to be still a British 
colony, and to draw her supplies, in a 
great degree, from the mother country. 
She has not yet thrown off tho yoko of 
criticism; but, on the contrary, hum- 
bles herself under it, even to the dis- 
couragement of her native genius. It 
is unfashionable to find any merit in 
her homebred aspirants; and a fine 
taste can only be demonstrated by an 
exclusive preference of Enelish talent. 
In the relative state of English and 
American letters this is certainly a 
natural inclination; but, as far as re- 
gards the English reader, it has an 
unfortunate tendency. To him the 
imitation of English style and senti- 
ment, to which it inevitably leads, is 
vapid and uninteresting; and he asks 
for those demonstrations of national 
spirit and character, which would be 
regarded by the transatlantic critic 
with indifference or contempt. One 
original note is worth all the warblings 
of the Mocking-Bird, to ears which 
have been long familiar with his bor- 
rowed tunes. 
In the immediate extracts which 
we proceed to give from the Airs of 
Palestine, by Mr. Pierpont, we find a 
very florid and ornamental style, vary- 
ing from the old school of poetry only 
iD some occasional flourishes, which 
cannot be considered as an improve- 
ment. The composition might pass it 
off very well for an English University 
prize pocm. Mr. Pierpont exalts the 
powers of music, and thus, in one in- 
stance, exemplifies its effects :— 
‘While thus the enthusiast roams along the stream, 
Balane?d between a reverie and a dream, 
res et pe springs, and, through his bounding 
leart, 
The cold and curdling poison seems to dart; 
For in the leaves, beneath a quivering brake, 
Spinning his death-note, lies a coiling snake, 
Just in the act, with greenly-venom’d fangs, 
To strike the foot, that heedless o’er him hangs; 
Bloated with rage, on spiral folds he rides 
His rongh scales shiver on his spreading sides; 
Dusky and dim his glossy neck becomes, 
And freezing poisons thicken on his gums; 
His parch?d and hissing throat breathes hot and dry, 
A spark of hell lies barning in his eye; 
While like a vapour, o’er his writhing rings, 
Whirls his light tail, and threatens while it sings, 
Soon as dumb fear removes her‘cy fingers, 
From off the heart, where gazing wonder lingers, 
News'from Parnassus—No. XVII. 
[May T, 
The pilgrim, shrinking from a doubfful fight, 
Aware of danger, too, in sudden flight, 
From his soft Aute throws niusic’s air around, 
And meets his foe upon enchanted g10und : 
See! as the plaintive melody is flung, 
The lightning-flash fades on the serpent?s tongue ; 
The uncojling reptile o’er each shining fold, 
Throws changeful clouds of azure, green; and gold; 
A softer lustre twinkles in lis eye; Poy 
His neck is burnish’d with a glossier dye, 
His slippery scales grow smoother to the sight, 
And his relaxing circles roll in lights.4,,. 
Slowly the charm retires: with waving sides, 
Along its track the graceful listener glides; 
While Music throws her silver cloud around, 
And bears her votary off in magic folds of sound. 
There is much smoothness and har- 
mony in these verses. Some passages 
remind us: strongly of -the «Botanic 
Garden. Mr. Pierpont, indeed, seems 
to incline quite as much to Darwin’ as 
to Pope, in whose school the editor 
ranks him. ; 
With one further extract we shall 
dismiss this portion of the volume; and 
certainly not without praise, if the. ad- 
mission may be tendered as praiso of 
an American poem, that it might pass 
undetected for good English currency. 
In the succeeding lines, Mr. Pier- 
pont rises to the height of his argu- 
ment, and acquits himself very. ere- 
ditably :— 
In what rich harmony, what polish’d lays, 
Should man address Thy throne, when Nature pays 
Her wild, her tuneful tribute to the sky! f 
Yes, Lord, she sings thee, but she knows not. why. 
The fountain’s gush, the long resounding shore, 
The zephyr’s whisper, and the tempest’s: roar, 
The rustling leaf in autumn’s fading woods,’ t 
The wintry storm, the rush of vernal floods, 
The summer bower, by cooling breezes fann’d, 
The torrent’s fall, by dancing rainbows spanid, 
The streamlet, gurgling thro’ its rocky glen, 
The long grass sighing o’er the grares of men, 
The bird that crests a dew-bespangled VEO, | 
Shakes his bright plumes, and trills his. descant 
free 
The scorching bolt, that from thine armoury hurl’d, 
Burus its red path, and cleaves a shrinking world; 
All these are music to Religion’s ear. 
Music, thy hand awakes, for man to hear,— 
Thy hand invested in their azure robes, 
Thy breath made buoyant yonder circling globes, 
That bound and blaze along the elastic wires, 
That viewless vibrate on celestial lyres, 
Andin that high and radiant concave tremble, 
Beneath whose dome adoring hosts assemble, 
To catch the notes from those bright spheres that 
flow. 
Which mortals dream of, but which angels know. 
The extracts with which the- editor 
next presents us, are from the poem of 
“the Back Woodsman,” by Mr. Paul- 
ding, for a full account of which we 
refer the reader to our Number for 
October last. Enough is conveyed by 
the very title and subject of this work, 
to convince us that the author is not 
one who will confine himself to. the 
ancient common forms of European 
versification ; and we therefore gladly 
follow him into the woods of the west, 
in the hope of being conducted through 
their mighty labyrinths by the hand of 
a spirited and original guide. This 
expectation 
