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disposed to think that the great outcry that has been raised against this country, in these particulars, is in a measure unmeaning. We confess as yet little has been done, and it was perhaps natural that it should be so. And yet the American mind has not been altogether idle, nor have we so great reason for shame as many of our own and foreign writers have been disposed to think. Among the fugitive poems that have appeared during the last twenty years, we have many that shine as gems in our infant literature, and that have not been surpassed by any which have been put forth in England during the same period. We have seen no specimens of English blank verse for several years, that in fineness of moulding, in ease and gracefulness of flow, and in beauty and strength of diction, can rank above some that have appeared on this side of the water. In lyric poetry our literature is rich. Few finer things have ever been composed, than some of those little morsels of song that are now circulating among us. But it is the fate of this kind of poetry, that it does not receive its due honor. It is too fragmentary. The mind is confused by the multiplicity of objects. As in some large and beautiful garden, we are hurried from flower to flower, until the mind becomes distracted amid the variety, and we retain only a general impression of beauty, without remembering distinctly the forms in which it was embodied. Hence it is that a nation seldom gains any reputation for literature from these fragmentary productions alone. The cultivation and taste necessary to originate them, are not duly appeciated. It is not until they group themselves around some larger and bolder work, that their position and value are felt. There must be something that shall of itself arrest and hold the attention of men. Hence a few great poems, scattered along the line of a Vol. I. 8

nation's literature, serve as resting places for the memory, whence it may survey the field around.

The appearance of the poem whose title heads our article, is an event of no small importance in our literary history. No poem of equal length has for a long time appeared among us; and we are confident that no American poem, at all corresponding to this in extent, has ever appeared, bearing in itself so much life and energy, and such earnest of success. We may say in general, it is modeled after the poems of Scott, though it contains nine instead of six cantos. The time occupied by the poem is long, much longer than is common in poems of this class. Scott's "Marmion" fills a period of about forty days. The

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Lady of the Lake" covers only the space of six days, while the "Lay of the Last Minstrel" is wholly embraced in three days and nights. The poem before us spreads over an extent of about two years. But when we mark the unity of the plan, and reflect too that this plan in its great outline is not fictitious but historical, we do not see how the time could well have been shortened. In a smaller space it would have been necessary either to have set at work a train of operations without following them to their legitimate results, or to have described results without showing their causes. the whole the time seems to have been necessarily chosen as it was. If any one is disposed to object to this feature of the poem, let him reflect how undesirable it was to the author-how gladly he would have had it otherwise, could he have done so without a sacrifice. It is no easy task to spread the incidents of a poem like this over the space of two years, so as to leave no wide and barren intervals. There is another reason for this length of time, that has been finely noticed in the preface. The scene is in the wilderness, where all movements must be

comparatively slow. The actors are at first far apart. The tribes that are to be bound together by the eloquence of Tecumseh, are living in places widely remote from each other. Time is requisite that plans may be matured, and that the influences that are to act in the closing scenes, may be drawn towards a center and combined. We have no cause to regret that the time was thus extended. This circumstance has afforded opportunity for rich and varied description. We have the wilderness in all its seasons-its winter gloom, its springing beauty, its summer glory, and its autumnal decay. We have the savage before us in all the circumstances of his life-threading the primeval forests in a night of darkness and storm-sleeping alone by the great lake under the clear full moon, with no noise save the ceaseless stir of waters or musing among the falling leaves in the dreamy Indian summer. To us, these glances into old forests, along the far sounding lakes, and into quiet mountain dells, slumbering in their unbroken solitude, are among the best features of the poem. We would most gladly, (did space permit,) give an abstract of the entire poem. But we must content ourselves with a brief analysis of the first canto. Yet from this, some idea may be gained of the fineness of plot, and the beauty and variety of incident, that mark the whole. The scene opens on an autumnal day. An Indian warrior is standing upon the banks of the Ohio, with three scalps hanging in his belt. He draws back under the shade of trees, and lies concealed until the evening. Then launching a light canoe, he leads into it a grief-worn captive girl. Two others enter with him-one a younger brother of the warrior, the other a villainous white. We leave them dropping down the Ohio in the quiet moonlight. The poem then goes back in an episode to a time anterior to its commence.

ment, and describes the early dwelling place of the captive maiden. She lived in her father's house on the pleasant banks of the Connecticut. cut. Moray, a youth of Scottish descent, dwelt near her, and grew up with her in love. De Vere, a polished knave, seeks to supplant him in his hopes, but is scorned and rejected, and vows revenge. By reverses of fortune, to which De Vere is accessory, Mary's father is stripped of his possessions. Joining a band of pioneers, he seeks the far West, and settles in a beautiful spot upon the banks of the Miami. Her home, her forest life, her thoughts of Moray and of love, are all finely described. Moray remains for a season at his home, but his thoughts are with Mary in the West. He takes the dress of a hunter, and plunges into the forest, passes by the Catskill mountains, traverses the Mohawk, hears the roar of Niagara, till at length he stands in sight of the cottage of Mary. It is silent and solitary. He enters, and be holds three lifeless trunks. We remember the three scalps in the belt of the warrior. We return again to the boat upon the Ohio. The captive girl, worn with grief and toil, is sleeping. Ooloora, the brother of the warrior, of kind and generous heart, bends over her, and sings to soothe her slumbers. Suddenly a shot is heard from the rocky shore, and Ooloora leaps wildly, and falls dead in the stream. Kenhatawa, the warrior, is on the point of slaying the captive Mary in re venge. De Vere intercedes, and stays his hand. We leave them still passing down the Ohio, cau tiously creeping under the shade of the rocks.

Such is the outline of the first canto; and we have no fear that it will not commend itself to the read. er. The moonlight scene on the Ohio will linger long in many minds. We shall only glance at some of the more important points, spread along

through the remainder of the poem. In the second canto, we have the conversation of Tecumseh with his brother Elswatawa the Prophet, the motley Indian camp, the meeting of Mary and Moray in the camp, Moray's running for his life, and the prairie on fire. The third canto shows us Tecumseh standing by his father's grave, in a lone spot upon the Mississippi. Thence he sets out upon his tour. He passes among the tribes dwelling upon the Missouri and its tributary streams, turns south and crosses the Mississippi, visits the nations on the Gulf and along the rivers flowing into it, returns and crosses the great river again at a lower point, pushes up along the base of the Rocky Mountains, and among the Black Hills, crosses the Mississippi again near its source, and reaches Lake Superior in the spring. Wearied, he rests himself by night upon its rocky shore, and in that unbroken solitude the scenes of his past life rise before him in dreams. In the fourth canto we have the battle of the Wabash. It opens with an eulogy on Harrison, in eight Spenserian verses. Moray is wounded in the battle, and remains during the follow ing winter in the hut of a settler. This is described in the fifth canto. In the same we have the beginning of the wanderings of Moray, in company with Owaola, in search of Mary, and the courting scene of Tecumseh and Omena. In the sixth we follow Moray and Owaola through the forests and across the Lake.

In this canto, we find the story of the broken-hearted captive girl. The seventh carries us up to the region lying north of Lake Superior, where Moray and Owaola spend the second winter. Nearly a year and a half have now passed since the opening of the poem, and events are verging towards the close. The eighth canto contains the battle of Erie. The ninth embraces the Indian council, the parting of Mo

ray from Tecumseh and Owaola, the last meeting of Tecumseh and Omena, the battle of the Thames, where Tecumseh fell, the death of De Vere, and the meeting of Moray and Mary. We stand at last by the lonely tomb of Tecumseh.

In this brief article we cannot un⚫ dertake an examination of the individual portions of this plot. Whatever minor defects there may be in it, no one can deny that its general structure is admirable. Whoever has tried the labor of invention, knows how difficult it is to take a subject like this in its chaotic state, and fashion it into order and per fect consistency. Questions might be raised, and probably will be, upon the propriety of bringing the heroine into the battle of Erie, or of forcing Tecumseh to make so great a sacrifice as he did, to save the life of Moray. It may well be urged in favor of the latter, that it shows the abiding strength of an Indian's gratitude. Moray had saved the life of Omena, whom Tecumseh loved. But as Moray need not have been brought into such difficulties by any thing inherent in the original plan, we incline to the opinion, that this scene should have been omitted.

The verse is mainly octosyllabic, gliding occasionally into the anapestic and pentameter. This change of measure has often a fine effect upon the ear. When the feelings become enlivened by some pleasing and happy narration, the rapid and dancing motion of the anapest seems exactly suited to their expression. We love to feel ourselves borne along as upon wings. On the other hand, when the feelings become saddened by the previous story, the more slow and solemn movement of the pentameter meets us agreeably. A fine instance of this latter change occurs in the sixth book, after the mournful tale of the captive girl. It fills the ear like some sweet, low voice of consolation in the house of mourning. A few Spenserian verses

Tecumseh.

open each canto, and the whole is diversified with songs. There are fewer weak lines in the book than we might have expected, considering the youth and inexperience of the author, and yet they are not unfrequent. Some one has well remarked that "the faults of this book are such as belong to a young writer, while the excellencies are those of but few older ones." There is too much inversion of thought. The subject of a sentence is oftentimes so wrapped up in the body of it, that we are at loss where to find it.

In some cases too the presence of a tame and commonplace word in a line, degrades and stupefies the whole. But to those who are disposed to judge harshly of the poem for reasons like these, we think it may safely be said, that there can

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not be found in it a line so weak as some that occur in Marmion, whose author has been regarded as the ing, moreover, that charitable style great master of this verse. Adoptof criticism, which judges of a book by its merits, rather than its defects, death, we are but little disposed to as we judge of men after their linger among these faults, when pure and excellent. In the main there is so much around us that is then, the versification is easy, flowing, and withal spirited and stirring.

book itself, and give some speciBut it is time that we turn to the poem. The description of Moray mens of the style and matter of the and Mary, in their early homes, when the world looked sweet before them, has a fine passage-their thoughts of God and the infinite.

"That wondrous world within, their being,
Watched by that Life, unseen, all-seeing,
The mind, that can nor sleep nor die,
Became unto their souls instead
A deeper mystery and a dread;
And feelings, infinite and lone,
Stirred their still spirits with a tone
Like harpings of eternity,
Till they became each unto each,
As two that on the ocean's beach,
All lonely, hear the mighty roar

Of waters rolling evermore,

And feel their minds, their beings one.

Around them earth-heaven, God, above;

Their thoughts were pure, their souls were love;
And Nature with continual voice,

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Whispered their hearts, rejoice! rejoice!'

The whole episode, from which we have made this extract, has a most happy effect upon the reader. It adds a powerful interest to our minds, to know that those whom we follow through these scenes of danger, toil, and grief, have once lived this quiet, happy life, dreaming only

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of happiness and rest. We have before this alluded to the beautiful picture presented to the mind in the moonlight scene on the Ohio-the canoe gliding quietly along under shores. The first canto closes with the full moon, between high rocky these lines.

"Warned by the shot thus hostile sent.
From that primeval battlement,
They hastened where the opposing side
Flung deeper shadows o'er the tide.
The moon sank down yet hour by hour,
As drawn by some invisible power,

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Through the dim stillness on they sped,
Like fabled spirits of the dead,

In shadow borne, and silence lone
Along the lake of Acheron.'

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While sat beneath the green leaves fading,
Young maids, their chequered baskets braiding,
Whose merry laugh or silvery call

Oft rang most strange and musical;

Whose glancing black eyes often stole
To view the worshipped of their soul :
And ever in th' invisible breeze,
Waved solemnly those tall old trees,
And fleecy clouds, above the prairies flying,
Led the light shadows, chasing, chased, and dying.

We know of but few finer pieces of description than this, in our language. It is all the mind asks. We see not how it could be more highly perfected. We might go on multiplying passages to any extent. It is difficult, among so many

that might be taken, to seize upon
those that are best for our purpose.
We must, however, give one sam-
ple of the Spenserian. From many
which might be employed, we take
the following-one of the eight in
honor of Harrison.

"The storm swept by, and Peace, with soft fair fingers,
Folded the banners of red-handed war;
Where broad Ohio's bending beauty lingers,
The chief reposed beneath the evening star.
Calm was the life he led, till, near and far,

The breath of millions bore his name along,
Through praise, and censure, and continual jar:
But lo! the Capitol's rejoicing throng!

And envoys from all lands approach with greeting tongue!"
There are few things in the poet's
art, that require more care, and
taste, and nice adjustment, than the
fashioning of a Spenserian verse.
But when well done, nothing has a
finer effect upon the ear. Beattie,
in his preface to the "Minstrel,"
says, "To those who may be dispo-
sed to ask, what could induce me
to write in so difficult a measure, I
can only answer, that it pleases my
ear, and seems from its Gothic
structure and original, to bear some
relation to the subject and spirit of
It admits both simplicity

the poem.

and magnificence of sound and of language, beyond any other stanza that I am acquainted with." We have only five or six poems in our language, of any considerable note, in this measure. It is so difficult, that it has been avoided. If we attend to its construction, we shall find that every verse should be but the expansion of a single thought. The little argument goes on evolving and evolving itself, until the last line, long and stately, brings out the grand conclusion. We are inclined to think that the author has

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