thrown aside, and a snatch of pure song comes out. The Song of Wooing is gaily done; it is a double pleasure to meet Mr. Bryant in these moods:

"Dost thou idly ask to hear

At what gentle seasons

Nymphs relent, when lovers near,
Press the tenderest reasons?
Ah, they give their faith too oft
To the careless wooer;
Maidens' hearts are always soft,

Would that men's were truer !

"Woo the fair one, when around
Early birds are singing;

When, o'er all the fragrant ground

Early herbs are springing:

When the brookside, bank, and grove,

All with blossoms laden,

Shine with beauty, breathe of love,

Woo the timid maiden.

"Woo her when, with rosy blush,

Summer eve is sinking;

When, on rills that softly gush,

Stars are softly winking;

When, through boughs that knit the bower,

Moonlight gleams are stealing;

Woo her, till the gentle hour

Wake a gentler feeling.

"Woo her, when autumnal dyes

Tinge the woody mountain;

When the dropping foliage lies

In the weedy fountain;

Let the scene, that tells how fast

Youth is passing over,

Warn her, ere her bloom is past,

To secure her lover.

"Woo her, when the north winds call
At the lattice nightly;

When, within the cheerful hall,

Blaze the fagots brightly;

While the wintry tempest round
Sweeps the landscape hoary,
Sweeter in her ear shall sound

Love's delightful story."

We feel sure no better plan can be laid for testing the powers of a poet than by comparing him with some brother bard. Let our readers study Bryant's "Address to a Cloud," commencing

"Beautiful cloud! with folds so soft and fair,

Swimming in the pure quiet air!

Thy fleeces bathed in sunlight, while below
Thy shadow o'er the vale moves slow;
Where, midst their labor, pause the reaper train
As cool it comes along the grain.

Beautiful cloud! I would I were with thee

In thy calm way o'er land and sea:
To rest on thy unrolling skirts, and look
On Earth as on an open book;

On streams that tie her realms with silver bands,
And the long ways that seam her lands;

And hear her humming cities and the sound
Of the great ocean breaking round.
Ay-I would sail upon thy air-borne car
To blooming regions distant far,
To where the sun of Andalusia shines

On his own olive-groves and vines,
Or the soft lights of Italy's bright sky
In smiles upon her ruins lie."

From this cloud let them step to Shelley's poem beginning

“I bring fresh showers to the fainting flowers."

This is, however, too well known to require quotation. Let our readers turn to it and judge for themselves. Let it, however, be fully borne in mind, once for all, that we never institute a comparison with any poet with an invidious intention; we despise that method of detraction. We merely do it to call out the idiosyncrasy of one poet by contrasting him with another. Indeed, they are intended as contrasts, and not as comparisons, in the strict sense of the word. Nature remains the same great and unchangeable being, while every poet is a mirror which flashes a different light upon this grand object.

The arrogant assumption of the world ignores or despises the existence of a single human being. We read the birth of this, and the death of that, with a composure perfectly icy. But the man of thought or feeling regards it in a very different light. With every babe born is its accompanying universe; to every man dead the universe as it seemed to him has passed away like a forgotten dream. We defy the veriest fool to overrate a birth or a death. The disappearance of a star or the advent of

a comet is considered as an object of special wonder; what would be said if we were told that all the stars of heaven had flashed their last, and that one peculiar aspect of creation had perished! In no two men has nature had the same voice, and the same look. She has a tone and a glance exclusive to every one, from Adam to the last of his birth; like a fascinating beauty she has her crowd of lovers; each is received into her secret bower-each is deluded she is his own, and under this delusion the poet, philosopher, peer, ploughboy, and felon dies. All know that she smiles on all. Yet to every one is given the belief that she prizes him as her own beloved one. This is the egotism of man. On that consoling pillow he gathers strength in the dark night of the world's reproach, to baffle his enemies on the morrow.

The veriest tyro in logic will at once perceive that our estimate of a poet is somewhat analogous to the old idea of a prophet, for if we place so great a numeral value on a man, it is evident our reverence for the sublimation of a man is great in proportion.

To Mr. Bryant, therefore, we assign the position of a mirror in which all history and humanity, as well as physical nature, are reflected as they appear to him. Thus we claim for every man as important a vocation in time, as we are taught by Christ to demand for him in Eternity. That divine teacher has said, “What shall it profit a man though he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?" And then he confirms all by saying, “What shall a man give in exchange for his soul?” As the soul of every one includes the whole universe, the importance is at once self-evident.

In The Lapse of Time," Bryant seems to take for granted

part of our theory, for he says:

"Lament who will, in fruitless tears,

The speed with which our moments fly:

I sigh not over vanished years,

But watch the years that hasten by.

"The future!cruel were the power,

Whose doom would tear thee from my heart.
Thou sweetener of the present hour!

We cannot-no-we will not part!"

In the "Forest Hymn," we see a better system at work. Instead of a needless introduction, the poet at once opens boldly and truly into the subject.

"The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned

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,
Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down,

And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks
And supplication. For his simple heart
Might not resist the sacred influences