Bryant has created nothing great; his voice is feeble, melodious, somewhat vague; but pure, colemn, and not imitative.

More philosophic then picturesque, the expression of melancholy sensations, born of forest and lake, finds a sweet echo in his verse. The sublime is not his territory; his peculiar charm is a chaste and pensive sadness, which associates itself with natural objects and the beings of the creation; he loves them, and the modest picty mingled with this affection, breathes a pathetic grace upon his verse. Christian and English poet, the gentle solemnity of his poetry emanates from his religious conviction. If he set his foot in the forest, he sees God there.

"Come when the rains

Have glazed the sno:7, and clothed the trees with ioe;
While the slant sun of February pours

Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach
The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps,
And the broad arching fortals of the grove
Welcome thy entering. Look! the massy trunk
Are cased in the pure crystal; each light spray,
Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven,
Is studded with its trembling water-drops,
That stream with rainbow radiance as they move.
But round the parent stem the long low boughs

Bend, in a glittering ring, and arbors hide
The glassy floor. Oh! you might deem the spot
The spacious cavern of some virgin mine,

Deep in the womb of earth-where the gems grow,

And diamonds put forth radiant rods and bud
With amethyst and topaz-and the place
Lit up, most royally, with the pure beam
That dwells in them. Or haply the vast hall
Of fairy palace, that outlasts the night,
And fades not in the glory of the sun;-
Where crystal columns send forth slender shafte
And crossing arches; and fantastic aisles

Wind from the sight in brightness, and are lost
Among the crowded pillars."

Sometimes the souvenir of the Indian, destroyed by civilization, gives a more vivid interest to his poems. We can cite, as chefs d'œuvre of pathos, "The Indian Girl's Lament," "An Indian at the Burial Place of his Fathers." Disinterred Warrior," and "Monument Mountain."

THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR.

Gather him to his grave again,
And solemnly and softly lay,
Beneath the verdure of the plain,

The warrior's scattered bones away.
Pay the deep reverence taught of old,
The homage of man's heart to death;

Nor dare to trifle with the mould

Once hallowed by the Almighty's breath.

The soul hath quickened every part-
That remnant of a martial brow,
Those ribs that held the mighty heart,
That strong arm-strong no longer now.
Spare them, each mouldering relic spare,
Of God's own image; let them rest,
Till not a trace shall speak of where
The awful likeness was impressed,

"The

For he was fresher from the hand
That formed of earth the human face,
And to the elements did stand

In nearer kindred than our race.
In many a flood to madness tossed,
In many a storm has been his path;
He hid him not from heat or frost,

But met them, and defied their wrath.

Then they were kind-the forests here,
Rivers, and stiller waters, paid

A tribute to the net and spear

Of the red ruler of the shade.
Fruits on the woodland branches lay,
Roots in the shaded soil below,
The stars looked forth to teach his way,
The still earth warned him of the foe.

A noble race! but they are gone,

With their old forests wide and deep,
And we have built our homes upon
Fields where their generations sleep.
Their fountains slake our thirst at noon,
Upon their fields our harvests wave,
Our lovers woo beneath their moon-

Then let us spare, at least their grave.

The Ages, a poem in the style of Childe Harold, contains still more remarkable fragment.

Late, from this western shore, that morning chased
The deep and ancient night, that threw its shroud
O'er the green land of groves, the beautiful waste,
Nurse of full streams, and lifter-up of proud
Sky mingling mountains that o'erlook the cloud.
Erewhile, where yon gay spires their brightness rear,
Trees waved, and the brown hunter's shouts were loud

Amid the forest; and the bounding deer

Fled at the glancing plume, and the gaunt wolf yelled near.

And where his willing waves yon bright blue bay

Sends up, to kiss his decorated brim,

And cradles, in his soft embrace, the gay
Young group of grassy islands born of him,
And crowding nigh, or in the distance dim,
Lifts the white throng of sails, that bear or bring
The commerce of the world,-with tawny limb,
And belt and beads in sunlight glistoning,

The savage urged his skiff like wild bird on the wing.

Then all this youthful paradise around,

And all the broad and boundless mainland, lay
Cooled by the interminable wood, that frowned
O'er mount and vale, where never summer ray
Glanced, till the strong tornado broke his way
Through the gray giants of the sylvan wild;
Yet many a sheltered glade, with blossoms gay,
Beneath the showery sky and sunshine mild,
Within the shaggy arms of that dark forest smiled.

There stood the Indian hamlet, there the lake
Spread its blue sheet that flashed with many an oar,
Where the brown otter plunged him from the brake,
And the deer drank: as the light gale flew o'er,
The twinkling maize-field rustled on the shore,
And while that spot, so wild, and lone, and fair,
A look of glad and guiltless beauty wore,
And peace was on the earth and in the air,
The warrior lit the pile, and bound his captive there:

Not unavenged-the foeman, from the wood,
Beheld the deed, and when the midnight shade
Was stillest, gorged his battle-axe with blood;
All died-the wailing babe-the shrieking maid➡
And in the flood of fire that scathed the glade,
The roofs went down; but deep the silence grew,

When on the dewy woods the day-beam played; No more the cabin smokes rose wreathed and blue, And ever by their lake, lay moored the light canoe.

Look now abroad-another race has filled

These populous borders-wide the wood recedes, And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are tilled : The land is full of harvests and green meads; Streams numberless that many a fountain feeds. Shine, disembowered, and give to sun and breeze Their virgin waters; the full region leads

New colonies forth, that toward the western seas Spread, like a rapid flame among the autumnal trees.

Here the free spirit of mankind, at length,
Throws its last-fetters off; and who shall place
A limit to the giant's unchained strength,

Or curb his swiftness in the forward race!
Far, like the comet's way, through infinite space,
Stretches the long untravelled path of light,
Into the depths of ages: we may trace,
Distant, the brightening glory of its flight,
Till the receding rays are lost to human sight.

Europe is given a prey to sterner fates,

And writhes in shackles; strong the arms that chain
To earth her struggling multitude of states.;

She too is strong, and might not chafe in vain
Against them, but might cast to earth the train
That trample her, and break their iron net.
Yes, she shall look on brighter days and gain
The meed of worthier deeds; the moment set
To rescue and raise up, draws near-but is not yet.

But thou, my country, thou shalt never fall, ́
Save with thy children-thy maternal care,
Thy lavish love, thy blessings showered on all-
These are thy fetters-seas and stormy air
Are the wide barrier of thy borders, where,