and animates the people in their vast commercial achievements, unrivalled moral institutions, and also of those deep philanthropic principles, which agitate the great heart of the nation. His Poetry is often deficient in grace and terseness, it is true, but these negative imperfections are completely lost sight of in the noble simplicity, and masculine energy which it never ceases to evince. To the present generation of readers, whose mental appetites are wofully impaired by the constant supply of unintelligible matter which is served up to them, it is delightfully refreshing to listen to the manly tones of this delicious Poet, whose invigorating poetry, like the spray that rises on the rocks of Niagara, communicates its exhilarating essence to the spirits of the gazer. With what marvellous, and apparently superhuman power, he makes us listen to the roaring of the cataract, the singing of the forest bird, the chirp of the squirrel, or the stealthy tread of the Indian? It is seldom that Whittier enters into subjects of an abstractedly, philosophical, or purely speculative nature, but when he does, it is invariably for the purpose of demonstrating the infinite beauty of virtue, and the omnipotence of God. America rejoices in the bard who is so admirably capacitated to chaunt her glories, and to feed the lamp of her patriotism with such nourishing oil who can so accurately direct the thunders of her wrath, and so skilfully develop her vast philanthropic desiderations.

:

“As rolls the river into ocean

In sable torrent wildly streaming,"

so rolls along the noble current of Whittier's verse, and "the lightnings" of its glories, flash upon the mind, until it becomes completely absorbed by their force and brilliancy.

Nevertheless, this Poet is still (and the compliment is a great one) a man of much greater promise, than actual performance, and should his future achievements in verse, realize the conceptions which his early works permit us to entertain, he will evidently obtain one of the first places in that temple, which his country may consecrate to those gifted children, who have devoted their genius, and their lives, to sing her praises, and extend her literary fame. But this celebrity will depend upon the fulfilment of a very important condition, which is, the utter repudiation of sectarian bitterness,-an error as much at variance with justice and enlightenment, as it is beneath the diguity of a Poet.

There is another vitally important reason for the abandonment of such a futile weapon, which more immediately concerns an American; and if the subject of our observations sufficiently appreciates, and resolutely adopts the conduct it suggests, his fame will be wonderfully increased. All those who understand the present state of America, will easily grant, that her future eminent position as a nation, will very much depend upon the complete cessation of that religious rancour, from whose lamentable existence the people of the United States have suffered, and are still suffering so extensively. It is therefore an incontrovertible fact, that neither Poet, Historian, Philosopher, or any other person, distinguished in the various branches of literature or science, who supports a system so fatal to the interests of his country, can ever be associated with its glory while it is equally as plain, that all great intellectual efforts which are embued with the opposite spirit, must be more firmly consolidated, and fully tenfold enhanced.

In taking up the little volume of Whittier, "The Bridal of Pennacook" is the first poem that meets the eye: it is also one of the longest, and many will consider it the best. It opens with a very animated and graceful description of the River Merrimack, and goes on to describe the scenery surrounding the wigwam of the heroine. The portrait of Passaconaway is pencilled with much art and power. Who would meet, "in desert wilds," the awful being of whom we hear, that

"Tales of him the grey squaw told,
When the winter night-wind cold
Pierced her blankets' thickest fold,
And the fire burned low and small,

Till the very child a-bed,
Drew its bear skin over head,
Shrinking from the pale lights shed
On the trembling wall."

Yet this dreaded and mysterious being is not altogether insensible to feeling. The record of his life unfolds one chord in that iron heart, which awakens to the touch of sympathy. He loves his daughter, and—

"As sometimes the tempest-smitten tree receives

From one small root the sap which climbs Its topmost spray and crowning leaves,

She is a true type of her race.

"Child of the forest!-strong and free,
Slight robed, with loosely flowing hair,
She swam the lake or climbed the tree;
Or struck the flying bird in air.

So from his child the sachem drew
A life of Love and Hope, and felt

His cold and rugged nature through
The soltness and the warmth of her young
being melt."

O'er the heaped drifts of winter's moon,
Her snow-shoes tracked the hunter's way,
And dazzling in the summer noon,

The blade of her light oar threw off its
shower of spray!"

It is not possible that such a being could fail in fascinating the heart of the Indian hunter, and the great chief" Winnepuckit," alias George Sachem of Sangus, pays his addresses and is accepted. The wedding feast is described in a graphic way, and with the greatest minuteness, as these passages may serve to show :

"Steaks of the brown bear fat and large
From the rocky slopes of the Kearsarge;
Delicate trout from the Babboosuck brook,
And salmon spear'd in the Contoocook;
Squirrels which fed where nuts fell thick
In the gravelly bed of Otternic, .

And small wild hens in reed-snares caught
From the banks of Sondagardee brought;
Pike and perch from the Suacook taken,
Nuts from the trees of the Black Hills
shaken,

Cranberries picked in the Squamscot bog,
And grapes from the vines of Piscataquog."

What beautiful imagery the following lines display :

"Her heart had formed a home; and freshly

all

Its beautiful affections overgrew Their rugged prop. As o'er some granite wall

Soft vine leaves open to the moistening dew

And warm bright sun, the love of that young wife

Found on a hard, cold breast, the dew and warmth of life."

Some time elapses, and the old chief regretting his separation from his daughter, and anxious for her return, even for a short time, signifies his wish to Winnepuckit, who accedes, and sends her back to her father, protected by a goodly band of his followers. When the time appointed for her return has arrived, no little wonder is created in the household of Passaconaway, by the non-appearance of Winnepucket, who vows at last that he will receive his wife on no other condition than that she be sent back again to him with the same form, and attended with a retinue as numerous as that which accompanied her on her departure.

"If now no more a mat for her is found,
Of all which line her father's wigwam round,

Let Pennacook call out his warrior train And send her back with wampum gifts again."

The old chief waxes indignant at such a proposal, and solemnly declares.

And again

"No more

Shall child of mine sit on his wigwam floor."

"May his scalp dry black

In Mohawk smoke, before I send her back."

Constant however to her attachment, and full of the most etherial devotion for her spouse, Weetamoo resolves on returning to him. In pursuance of this generous determination, she commences her voyage in a frail boat, unaccompanied even by a single attendant. The catastrophe now ensues. She is drowned! and her kindred mourn her untimely fate in the following beautiful and touching lines:

"The Dark eye has left us,

The Spring bird has flown, On the pathway of spirits

She wanders alone.

The song of the wood dove has died on our shore,

Mat Worck Kunna Monee! we hear it no more!

Oh, dark water spirit!

We cast on thy wave

These furs which may never

Hang over her grave;

Bear down to the lost one the robes that she wore;

Mat Wonck Kunna Monee! we see her no more!

Of the strange land she walks in

No Powah has told,

It may burn with the sunshine,
Or freeze with the cold.

Let us give to our lost one the robes that she wore;

Mat Wonck Kunna Monee! we see her no
more!

The path she is treading
Shall soon be our own;
Each gliding in shadow
Unseen and alone!

In vain shall we call on the souls gone
before:

Mat Wonck Kunna Monee! they hear us no more!

Oh, mighty Sowanna!

Thy gateways unfold,

From thy wigwam of sunset

Lift curtains of gold!

Take home the poor spirit whose journey is o'er;

Mat Wonck Kunna Monee! we see her no more."

"Mogg Megone," the longest poem in the collection, abounds in fine dramatic passages, and beautiful descriptions; it is not, however, a perfect composition, though there are passages therein, which, for vigor and beauty, have never been surpassed by the author. Its imperfection, as a composition, is mainly attributable to the great space which intervenes between the completion of the tragic, incident and the conclu sion of the poem; and in like manner to the lengthy descriptions which inundate its pages. However, it is to be held in mind that the author's professed object in undertaking this production was, to describe the scenery of New England, and its early inhabitants, and it is impossible to avoid seeing how faithfully this object is realized.

"Mogg Megone," forcibly reminds us of the poetry of Sir Walter Scott; the same vigorous flow of thought, spirited narrative, dramatic colouring, and glorious descriptive power, which have delighted us, in "Marmion," or the "Lay of the last Minstrel," we here behold again in the plenitude of their power. The following description of an Indian warrior's costume has never been surpassed even by Cooper—

"The moonlight through the open bough Of the gnarl'd becch, whose nakedroot Coils like a serpent at his foot,

Falls, chequered, on the Indian's brow. His head is bare, save only where Waves in the wind one lock of hair,

Reserved for him, whoe'er he be, More mighty than Megone in strife,

When breast to breast, and knee to knee,
Above the fallen warrior's life

Gleams, quick and keen, the scalping knife.
Megone hath his knife and hatchet and gun,
And his gaudy and tasseled blanket on;

His knife hath a handle with gold inlaid,
And magic words on its polished blade-
'Twas the gift of Castine to Mogg Mezone,
For a scalp or twain from the Yengees torn;
His gun was the gift of the Tarrantine,

And Modocawando's wives had strung The brass and the beads, which tinkle and shine

On the polished breech, and broad bright line

Of beaded wampum around it hung."

The outlaw Bonython is thus ushered before us

"What seeks Megone? His foes are near

Grey Jocelyn's eye is never sleeping,
And the garrison lights are burning clear,
When Phillips' men their watch are
keeping.

Let him hie him away through the dark
river fog,

Never rustling the boughs nor displacing the rocks,

For the eyes and the cars that are watching

for Mogg,

Are keener than those of the wolf or the fox

He starts-there's a rustle among the leaves;
Another-the click of his gun is heard!

A footstep-is it the step of Cleaves,
With Indian blood on his English sword?

Steals Harmon down from the lands of York,
With hands of iron and foot of cork?
Has Scammon, versed in Indian wile,
For vengeance left his vine-hung isle?
Hark! at that whistle, soft and low,

How lights the eye of Mogg Megone!
A smile gleams o'er his dusky brow-
Boon welcome, Johnny Bonython!'

Out steps, with cautious foot and slow,
And quick, keen glances to and fo,
The hunted outlaw, Bonython !
A low, leaf, swarthy man is he,
With blanket garb and buskined knee,

And nought of English fashion on;
For he hates the race from whence he sprung,
And he couches his words In the Indian
tongue."

Mogg Megone and Bonython proceed together to the cottage of the latter; whose daughter's hand is about to be given to the savage as a reward for his having slain her seducer. While they proceed, the poet seizes the opportunity of presenting us this choice descriptive sketch

"Hark! is that the angry howl Of the wolf, the hills among?Or the hooting of the owl,

On his leafy cradle swung?
Quickly glancing, to and fro,
Listening to each sound they go:
Round the columns of the pine,

Indistinct, in shadow seeming
Like some old and pillared shrine;
With the soft and white moonshine,
Round the foliage-tracery shed
Of each column's branching head,
For its lamps of worship gleaming!

And the sounds awakened there,
In the pine leaves fine and small,
Soft and sweetly musical,

By the fingers of the air,
For the anthem's dying fall

Lingering round some temple's wall!-
Niche aud cornice round and round
Wailing like the ghost of sound!
Is not Nature's worship thus
Ceaseless ever, going on?
Hath it not a voice for us,

In the thunder, or the tone
Of the leaf-harp, faint and small,
Speaking to the unsealed car
Words of blended love and fear,
Of the mighty soul of all?"

Having reached Bonython's hut, his daughter is introduced.

Tall and erect the maiden stands,

Like some young priestess of the wood, The free-born child of Solitude,

And bearing still the wild and rude,
Yet noble trace of Nature's hands.

Her dark brown cheek hath caught its stain
More from the sunshine than the rain;
Yet, where her long, fair hair is parting,
A pure white brow into light is starting;

And, where the folds of her blanket sever,
Are a neck and bosom as white as ever
The foam-wreaths rise on the leaping river.
But, in the convulsive quiver and grip
Of the muscles around her bloodless lip,

There is something painful and sad to see;
And her eye has a glance more sternly wild
Than even that of a forest child

In its fearless and untamed freedom should be."

Actuated by that undying attachment for one who has once been the object of her affection, in which she only exhibits one of the truest characteristics of her sex, Ruth repents the short-lived anger which prompted her to consent to the destruction of her seducer, and when the bloody scalp of him she once cherished with all the passionate fervor of her young