POEMS. By William Cullen Bryant. London. Andrews, 1832.

Our reasons for noticing and recommending this volume to our readers are manifold. It is beautiful in itself; it is written by an American; it is one of the 135best specimens we have seen of the poetical genius of our transatlantic brethren; it is edited by Washington Irving, the most accomplished prose writer of America; and is by him dedicated or rather addressed to Samuel Rogers, the author of the ‘Pleasures of Memory,’ and who, at an advanced period of life, preserves all the generous glow of youth for letters and for arts, and for every thing connected with the intellectual improvement of mankind.

The exhibition of actual specimens of American taste and literature will tend to counteract the mischievous effects of those caricatures of American life and manners with which some authors have of late amused the spleen and prejudice of the British public. It is important to remove the illusion produced by writers of talent, who, professing to delineate national peculiarities truly, exaggerate and misrepresent them; regardless, and perhaps unconscious, that by using ridicule and sarcasm on such subjects they are renewing antipathies which never had a rational existence, and which years of friendly intercourse had almost annihilated; and are detaching from us the sympathies of those who by descent, community of free institutions (though differently modified), and identity of language, must naturally be well disposed towards us.

“During an intimacy of some years’ standing,” says Washington Irving to Samuel Rogers, “I have uniformly remarked a liberal interest on your part in the rising character and fortunes of my country, and a kind disposition to promote the success of American talent, whether engaged in literature or the arts. I am induced, therefore, as a tribute of gratitude, as well as a general testimonial of respect and friendship, to lay before you the present volume, in which, for the first time, are collected together the fugitive productions of one of our living poets, whose writings are deservedly popular throughout the United States.”

This is all as it should be, in relation both to Mr. Rogers and his friend. And we confess we augur most favourably of the taste of a country, throughout which, poetry so refined in sentiment, and so pure in execution and ornament, as that contained in the volume before us, enjoys popularity.

We began by recommending Mr. Bryant’s Poems. A perusal of the following specimen, as well as of one or two that we have lately printed separately, will justify our so doing, and there are many pieces in the volume of equal originality and beauty. A warm admiration of the works of nature, strong religious feeling towards the great Author of these works, a singular happiness of description, and a power of clothing his descriptions “with moral associations that make them speak to the heart,” “an independent spirit, and the buoyant aspirations incident to a youthful, a free, and a rising country^[3],” are among the charming characteristics of this American poet. We will only add, that the whole, while written in a style elegant enough to please the most fastidious, is simple and intelligible enough for the commonest reader.

TO A WATERFOWL.

Whither, midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,

Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue

Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler’s eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,

As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seek’st thou thy plashy brink

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,

Or where the rocking billows rise and sink

On the chafed ocean-side?

There is a Power whose care

Teaches thy way along that pathless coast—

The desert and illimitable air—

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,

At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,

Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,

Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end,

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest

And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend

Soon o’er thy sheltered nest.

Thou’rt gone—the abyss of heaven

Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart

Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,

And shall not soon depart.

He, who, from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,

In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.