And then shall I behold

Him by whose kind paternal side I sprung,
And her who, still and cold,

Fills the next grave,-the beautiful and young.1

THE EVENING WIND.

Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day!
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,
Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,

Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray,
And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee
To the scorch'd land, thou wanderer of the sea!

Nor I alone, a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
And languishing to hear thy grateful sound,

Lies the vast inland, stretch'd beyond the sight.
Go forth, into the gathering shade; go forth,-
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!
Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,

Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse
The wide, old wood from his majestic rest,

Summoning, from the innumerable boughs,
The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast:
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,
And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass.
The faint old man shall lean his silver head

To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,

And dry the moisten'd curls that overspread

His temples, while his breathing grows more deep;
And they who stand about the sick man's bed
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,

And softly part his curtains to allow

Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.

Go-but the circle of eternal change,

Which is the life of nature, shall restore,

With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more;
Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange,

Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore;

"No poet in our country-we might perhaps add, in any country—is so exquisite in rhythm, so classically pure and accurate in language, so appropriate in diction, phrase, simile, metaphor, as Bryant. He dips his pen in words as an endowed painter his pencil in colors. His vein is deep, his chosen themes serious, and generally tinged with a not unpleasing melancholy; but pathos is his pre-eminent endowment."-Knickerbocker, i. 318.

And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem
He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armed hands
Encounter'd in the battle-cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget

How gush'd the life-blood of her brave,-
Gush'd, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still,
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,

And bell of wandering kine, are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by

The black-mouth'd gun and staggering wain;
Men start not at the battle-cry:

Oh, be it never heard again!

Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year;
A wild and many-weapon'd throng
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,

And blench not at thy chosen lot;

The timid good may stand aloof,

The sage may frown-yet faint thou not,

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;
For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crush'd to earth, shall rise again;
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,
And dies among his worshippers.1

1 Of this verse an English critic thus writes:-"Mr. Bryant has certainly the rare merit of having written a stanza which will bear comparison with any four lines in our recollection. It has always read to us as one of the noblest in the English language. The thought is complete, the expression perfect. A poem of a dozen such verses would be like a row of pearls, each above a king's ransom."

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who help'd thee flee in fear,
Die full of hope and manly trust,

Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield,
Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet's mouth is peal'd
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM.

O FREEDOM! thou art not, as, poets dream,
A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs,
And wavy tresses gushing from the cap

With which the Roman master crown'd his slave
When he took off the gyves. A bearded man,
Arm'd to the teeth, art thou; one mailed hand
Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow,
Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarr'd

With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs

Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launch'd His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee;

They could not quench the life thou hast from heaven. Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep,

And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires,

Have forged thy chain; yet, while he deems thee bound,
The links are shiver'd, and the prison-walls
Fall outward: terribly thou springest forth,
As springs the flame above a burning pile,
And shoutest to the nations, who return
Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies.

Thy birthright was not given by human hands:
Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields,
While yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him,
To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars,
And teach the reed to utter simple airs.
Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood,
Didst war upon the panther and the wolf,
His only foes; and thou with him didst draw
The earliest furrow on the mountain-side,
Soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself,
Thy enemy, although of reverend look,
Hoary with many years, and far obey'd,
Is later born than thou; and as he meets
The grave defiance of thine elder eye,
The usurper trembles in his fastnesses.

Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years,
But he shall fade into a feebler age;

Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his snares,
And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap
His wither'd hands, and from their ambush call
His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send

Quaint maskers, wearing fair and gallant forms,
To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words
To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by stealth,
Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread
That grow to fetters; or bind down thy arms
With chains conceal'd in chaplets. Oh! not yet
Mayst thou unbrace thy corslet, nor lay by
Thy sword; nor yet, O Freedom! close thy lids
In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps,
And thou must watch and combat till the day
Of the new earth and heaven.

JOHN NEAL.

JOHN NEAL was born in Portland, Maine, October 25, 1793. In 1818, he went to Baltimore, and engaged in the dry-goods business with John Pierpont; but, being unsuccessful, he turned his attention to literature, and commenced his career by writing for the "Portico" a series of critical essays on the works of Byron. In 1818, he published his first novel, Keep Cool, written, as he says, "chiefly for the discouragement of duelling." The Battle of Niagara, with other Poems; Otho, a tragedy in five acts; and Goldau, the Maniac Harper, successively followed. He also wrote a large part of "The History of the American Revolution, by Paul Allen," as Allen had announced it, received subscriptions for it, and was too lazy to finish it. Four novels, Logan, Randolph, Errata, Seventy-Six, followed in rapid succession. Written in haste, and with but little care, they are now neglected; though at the time they made so favorable an impression that some of them were republished in England. This induced the writer to embark for that country, where he arrived in January, 1824. He very soon became a contributor to various periodicals, making his first appearance in "Blackwood's Magazine," for which he wrote a series of interesting and piquant articles on American writers. He also published, while abroad, his novel Brother Jonathan.

After remaining three years in Great Britain, he returned to his native city, and soon commenced the publication of a weekly newspaper, called "The Yankee," which, not meeting with much encouragement, was, in about a year, merged in "The New England Galaxy." In 1828, he published Rachel Dyer, a story, the subject of which is "Salem Witchcraft." This was followed by Authorship, by a New-Englander over the Sea; The Down-Easters; and Ruth Elder. In all these works there is great power and much originality; but, setting all method and style at defiance, they will not survive the life of the author.2 Some of his occasional essays, however, as well as a few pieces of poetry written for the magazines, possess great merit, and ought to be preserved. A volume of

1 See page 225. Life of Joseph T. Buckingham.

2" John Neal's forces are multitudinous, and fire briskly at every thing. They occupy all the provinces of letters, and are nearly useless from being spread over too much ground."— Whipple's Essays.

selections from his works might be made that would be a valuable contribution to our literature. Mr. Neal now (1859) resides in Portland.

CHILDREN-WHAT ARE THEY?

What are children? Step to the window with me. The street is full of them. Yonder a school is let loose, and here, just within reach of our observation, are two or three noisy little fellows, and there another party mustering for play. Some are whispering together, and plotting so loudly and so earnestly as to attract everybody's attention, while others are holding themselves aloof, with their satchels gaping so as to betray a part of their plans for tomorrow afternoon, or laying their heads together in pairs for a trip to the islands. Look at them, weigh the question I have put you, and then answer it as it deserves to be answered:- What are children?

to

To which you reply at once, without any sort of hesitation, perhaps,-"Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclined;" or, " Men are but children of a larger growth;" or, peradventure, "The child is father of the man." And then perhaps you leave me, perfectly satisfied with yourself and with your answer, having "plucked out the heart of the mystery," and uttered, without knowing it, a string of glorious truths. * * *

Among the children who are now playing together, like birds among the blossoms of earth, haunting all the green shadowy places thereof, and rejoicing in the bright air, happy and beautiful creatures, and as changeable as happy, with eyes brimful of joy and with hearts playing upon their little faces like sunshine upon clear waters; among those who are now idling together on that slope, or pursuing butterflies together on the edge of that wood, a wilderness of roses, you would see not only the gifted and the powerful, the wise and the eloquent, the ambitious and the renowned, the long-lived and the long-to-be-lamented of another age; but the wicked and the treacherous, the liar and the thief, the abandoned profligate and the faithless husband, the gambler and the drunkard, the robber, the burglar, the ravisher, the murderer, and the betrayer of his country. The child is father of the man.

Among them and that other little troop just appearing, children with yet happier faces and pleasanter eyes, the blossoms of the future, the mothers of nations, you would see the founders of states and the destroyers of their country, the steadfast and the weak, the judge and the criminal, the murderer and the executioner, the exalted and the lowly, the unfaithful wife and the