You will not fail to pardon as you break

The blushing seal that bears the well-known crest; And every line, however rude, shall wake

Kind thoughts of him who wanders in the West.

But never hope (with so refined a sense

Of what is well conceived and ably wrought,)

To find my verse retain its old pretence

To the smooth utterance of an easy thought.

For who can sing amid this roar of streets,

This crash of engines and discordant mills? Where ev'n in Solitude's most hushed retreats Machinery drowns the music of the rills?

True, Nature here hath donned her gala robe, Drest in all charms-wild, savage, and sublime; Within one realm enfolding half the globe,

Flowers of all soils, and fruits of every clime.

Yet nothing here conveys the musing mind
Beyond the landmarks of the present hour,
Since every impulse is of sordid kind,

Among this race, that moves the Fancy's power.

No mighty bard, with consecrating touch,
Hath made the scene a nobler mood inspire;

The sullen Puritan, the sensual Dutch,

Proved but a barren fosterage for the lyre.

Beauty should speak: however fair the shore,

With balmy groves which all the coast perfume,

Until his eloquence the minstrel pour

Over the landscape, vainly must it bloom.

E'en thy dear Italy, whose ashes now,
Albeit feebly, warm our Saxon strains,
Was once, ere yet her vallies felt the plough,
Fameless and voiceless as Iowa's plains.

Imagine old notria as she stood

In Saturn's reign, before the stranger came; Ere yet the stillness of the trackless wood Had heard the echoes of a Trojan's name.

Young Latium then, as now Missouri's waste,
Was dumb in story, soulless and unsung:
Whatever deeds her savage annals graced
Died soon, as lacking some harmonious tongue.

Up her dark streams the first explorers found
Only one dim, interminable shade;

Cliffs with the growth of awful ages crowned,
Amid whose gloom the wolf and wild-boar preyed.

Afar, perchance, on some sky-piercing height,
Nigh the last limit of the eagle's road,
Some stray Pelasgians had assumed a site
To pitch their proud, impregnable abode.

Pent in their airy dens, the builders reared
Turrets, fanes, altars fed with daily flame;
But with their walls their memory disappeared:
Their meanest implements outlive their name.

What race of giants piled yon rocks so high?

Who cut those hidden channels for the rills? Drained the deep lake, and sucked the marshes dry, Or hollowed into sepulchres the hills?

These, in the time of Romulus, were old;

Even then as now conjecture could but err; In prose or verse no chronicler hath told

Whence the tribes came, and who their heroes were.

A few rough sculptures and funereal urns,
Which still are mocked by unimproving Art,
Perplex the mind till tired reflection turns
To the great people dearer to her heart.

Soon as they rose— -the Capitolian lords-
The land grew sacred and beloved of GOD;
Where'er they brandished their triumphant swords
Glory sprang forth and sanctified the sod.

Ev'n yet their tombs, though dateless and decayed,
Allure the northern pilgrim from afar;

Still Contemplation's orisons are paid
Where any fragments of their trophies are.

Nay, whether wandering by the swollen Rhone,
Or by the Thames, we mark the Cæsar's tracks,
Wondering how far, from their Tarpeian flown,
The ambitious eagles bore the praetor's axe;

Those toga'd kings, the fathers and the knights,
Are still our masters, and within us reign;
Born though we were by Alleghany's heights,
Beyond the desolation of the main.

For while the music of their language lasts,
They shall not perish like the painted men
(Brief-lived in memory as the winter's blasts)

Who here once held the hill-top and the glen.

These had their passions, had their virtues, too;
Were valiant, proud, indomitably free;
But who recalls them with delight, or who

Their coarse mementos with esteem can see?

From them and their's with cold regard we turn,
The wreck of polished nations to survey,

Nor care the savage attributes to learn

Of souls that struggled with barbarian clay.

With what emotion on a coin we trace

Vespasian's brow, or Trajan's chastened smile, But view with heedless eye the murderous mace And chequered lance of Zealand's warrior-isle.

Here, by the ploughman, as with daily tread
He tracks the furrows of his fertile ground,
Dark locks of hair, and thigh-bones of the dead,
Spear-heads, and skulls, and arrows oft are found.

On such memorials unconcerned we gaze;
No trace remaining of the glow divine,
Wherewith, dear WALTER! in our Eton days
We eyed a fragment from the Palatine.

LITERARY NOTICES.

ANNALS AND OCCURRENCES OF NEW-YORK CITY AND STATE IN THE OLDEN TIME. BY JOHN F. WATSON, Esq. NEW-YORK: BAKER AND CRANE.

HERE is a new work touching the KNICKERBOCKERS, which we are especially bound to notice; and this we do with the more satisfaction, that we can heartily commend it to the notice of our readers, or what is the same thing, to the public at large.' We perceive by a few pages of the work which have been laid before us, that this is an enlargement of a former edition, favorably known to the reading public, entitled' Historic Tales of Olden Time concerning New-York. It now notices the rise and progress of the inland country and towns, relates much concerning the pioneer settlers, and details the hostilities and ravages of their Indian neighbors. It is in fact a complete history of a buried age; and brings up to the imagination, for its contemplation and entertainment, a picture of things as they were in the days of rustic simplicity, so wholly unlike the present display of fashion, pomp, and splendor. It is easy to perceive that Mr. WATSON gathers facts and writes con amore; not for profit, in this book-making age, but because he feels and sees our wonderfully rapid advancement from small things to great. I have written,' he says, 'for New-York and State; not for money, but for patriotism. I felt it due to the country, to tell its tale of wonder; and due to GOD, for His gracious and signal providence, in so settling and prospering our Anglo-Saxon race, in this new field of His exercise. To quote the warm language of one of our contemporaries: This is in truth a work without example for its imitation; and with equal truth, it is in execution a work sui generis. It is a museum that will never cease to attract. Its annals and statistics will have snatched from oblivion valuable reminiscences of the early youth of our country; and will furnish the historian, biographer, and the patriotic orator with matter to adorn and beautify their productions. He deserves the gratitude of his country, and the patronage of the reading community. Wherefore, no American that can read and can afford to purchase, should be without a copy of this valuable contribution to the memoirs of early American history.' We venture to predict that the aged will be delighted to be thus reminded of things which they have heard of, or perhaps witnessed; and the young will be surprised to find such a lively picture of the doings of their forefathers. Among the many subjects considered, are the first settlements and primitive incidents connected with New-York, Albany, Schenectady, Rochester, Brooklyn, etc.; notices of the early Dutch times; manners and customs; dress, furniture, and equipage; local changes; ancient memorials, and curious facts. Much is said of the Indians; of the local incidents connected with the revolutionary war; of ancient edifices and buildings ; in short, of every thing calculated to bring back scenes and occurrences of by-gone times. These matters too are related in a style peculiar to the author; they are matters moreover only to have been perceived and scanned by a mind so constituted as his own. The work is undertaken by Messrs. BAKER AND CRANE, a young and enterprising metro48

VOL. XXII.

politan house, and will be completed in one octavo volume of about five hundred pages; illustrated with thirty new pictorial embellishments; and furnished to subscribers at the low rate of two dollars per copy, payable on delivery. Among the engravings, which are to be executed in the best manner on wood, will be two views of New-York City; one of New-Amsterdam in 1659, one of New-Orange in 1673; a map of the city, as it appeared in 1729; pictures of the old Federal Hall, in 1789; the Walton and Provost Houses; Trinity church, now numbered in the catalogue of things that have been; the Merchants' Exchange, destroyed by the great fire' of '35; beside numerous other edifices, of interest to the antiquary; and also views of HUDSON's arrival at Sandy-Hook; the Erie Canal, Niagara Falls, the Conflagration of Schenectady, etc., etc.; and 'last, though not least,' a fac simile of the head and signature of the good old governor, renowned in KNICKERBOCKER'S annals as 'PETER the Headstrong,' or ' HARD-KOPPING PIET. Finally, brethren,' let every KNICKERBOCKER who feels an affectionate attachment to the home of his fathers, or veneration for the memory of their fathers, secure at once for himself a knowledge of all manner of curious things inseparable from our history, from one who has been called the HoMER of his class, and in archeology, peerless.' Subscription-lists are open at the office of the KNICKERBOCKER, at the store of the publishers, number 158 Pearl-street, and at the rooms of the Mercantile Library Association.

LETTERS FROM NEW-YORK. By L. MARIA CHILD, Author of 'The Mother's own Book,' The Girl's Book,' etc. In one volume. pp. 276. New-York: C. S. FRANCIS AND COMPANY. Boston: JAMES MONROE AND COMPANY.

In the dedication of this volume, the writer alludes to its being 'deeply tinged with romance and mysticism;' but to our conception, its pages exhibit a far greater amount of truth, undeniable, and of deep import to society at large, and to our own metropolitan community especially. Here is a woman who knows how to observe;' and we cannot do a better service to thousands in our city, who walk its streets and thoroughfares, and visit the hundred-and-one places of resort in its vicinity, without appreciating or enjoying the objects of interest or instruction by which they are surrounded, than to call their attention to the records of the volume under notice. And having done this, we shall proceed to illustrate the reason for the faith that is in us that they will thank us for this recommendation, by presenting a few desultory extracts. Let us commence them with a remarkable case of instinctive knowledge in birds, related by the writer's grandfather, who saw the fact with his own eyes:

The

'He was attracted to the door, one summer day, by a troubled twittering, indicating distress and terror. A bird, who had built her nest in a tree near the door, was flying back and forth with the utmost speed, uttering wailing cries as she went. He was at first at a loss to account for her strange movements; but they were soon explained by the sight of a snake slowly winding up the tree. Animal magnetism was then unheard of; and whosoever had dared to mention it, would doubtless have been hung on Witch's Hill, without benefit of clergy. Nevertheless, marvellous and altogether unaccountable stories had been told of the snake's power to charm birds. The popular belief was, that the serpent charmed the bird by looking steadily at it; and that such a sympathy was thereby established, that if the snake were struck, the bird felt the blow, and writhed under it. These traditions excited my grandfather's curiosity to watch the progress of things; but, being a humane man, he resolved to kill the snake before he had a chance to despoil the nest. distressed mother meanwhile continued her rapid movements and troubled cries; and he soon discovered that she went and came continually, with something in her bill, from one particular tree a white ash. The snake wound his way up; but the instant his head came near the nest, his folds relaxed, and he fell to the ground, rigid and apparently lifeless. My grandfather made sure of his death by cutting off his head, and then mounted the tree to examine into the mystery. The snug little nest was filled with eggs, and covered with leaves of the white-ash! That little bird knew, if my readers do not, that contact with the white-ash is deadly to a snake. This is no idle superstition, but a veritable fact in natural history. The Indians are aware of it, and twist garlands of white-ash leaves about their ankles, as a protection against rattlesnakes. Slaves often take the same precaution when they travel through swamps and forests, guided by the north star; or to the cabin of some poor white man, who teaches them to read and write by the light of pine splinters, and receives his pay in massa's' corn or tobacco.

'I have never heard any explanation of the effect produced by the white-ash; but I know that