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side of the Atlantic. Although many of the prose writings of the Americans are well known in this country, we seem to have been deterred from the perusal of their poetical compositions, perhaps by the severe castigation which an unfortunate Columbian Bard received from one of our most celebrated Journals. It is for the purpose of giving an opportunity of judging whether it be fair to allow this sweeping censure to involve all the poets of America, that the present selections are offered to the public. They have been collected from such sources as were accessible to the editor, and they will probably be found to contain all the most interesting specimens of American genius which have yet been published. Of their merits various opinions will be formed: it would be ridiculous to arrogate for them more than is due; but it may be safely affirmed, without fear of contradiction, that of the pieces here presented to the English reader, all are interesting and pleasing, and many of them highly poetical.

In a selection like the present, several volumes have been examined, portions of which, though individually possessing very considerable claims to attention, have necessarily been omitted.

THE

AIRS OF PALESTINE;

BY

JOHN PIERPONT, ESQ.

THE "Airs of Palestine" is not entirely unknown to the English reader. It has been noticed with various comments in the pages of our periodical criticism, and has attracted some attention in other quarters. It seems also, from the circumstance of its having passed through three editions, to have excited a considerable interest in America. It was written, we are told, in the cause of charity, and it was intended that the recitation of it should form a part of the performances of an Evening Concert of Sacred Music, for the benefit of the poor. Upon its style and merits many observations need not be made. Mr. Pierpont is evidently a faithful scholar of the school of Pope, and there is certainly very considerable harmony in his versification. One innovation, however, he has indulged in the pretty frequent use of double rhymes,

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which, when skilfully introduced, undoubtedly relieve the tediousness of the heroic verse; but, in some instances, the author of the "Airs of Palestine" has employed them, where they are unfortunately little adapted to the solemnity of the subject. Upon the whole, Mr. Pierpont is perhaps one of the most correct of all the American poets, and if he does not attempt so much as his compeers, he generally displays more taste and judgment. The whole of the "Airs of Palestine" is given. The title of the work is as follows: "Airs of Palestine, a Poem, by John Pierpont, Esq., Third Edition, revised, 12mo. Boston, 1817."

AT the dun cloud that, slowly rising, holds
The Summer tempest in its gloomy folds,
Though o'er the ridges of its thundering breast,
The King of Terrors rides, and shakes his lightning crest,
Fearless we gaze, when those dark folds we find
Fring'd with the golden light that glows behind.
So, when one language bound the human race,
On Shinar's plain, round Babel's mighty base,
Gloomily rose the minister of wrath;

Dark was his frown, destructive was his path;

That tower was blasted by the touch of Heaven;
That bond was burst-that race asunder driven :
Yet, round the Avenger's brow, that frown'd above,
Play'd Mercy's beams-the lambent light of Love.
All was not lost, though busy Discord flung
Repulsive accents from each jarring tongue;
All was not lost; for Love one tie had twin'd,
And Mercy dropp'd it, to connect mankind:
One tie, whose airy filaments invest,

!

Like Beauty's zone, the calm or stormy breast;
Wake that to action, rule of this the strife,
And, through the mazy labyrinths of life,
Supply a faithful clue, to lead the lone
And weary wanderer to his Father's throne.
That tie is MUSIC. How supreme her sway
How lovely is the Power that all obey!
Dumb matter trembles at her thrilling shock;
Her voice is echo'd by the desert rock;
For her, the asp withholds the sting of death,
And bares his fangs but to inhale her breath;
The royal lion leaves his desert lair,
And, crouching, listens when she treads the air;
And man, by wilder impulse driven to ill,
Is tamed, and led by this Enchantress still.
Who ne'er has felt her hand assuasive steal
Along his heart-That heart will never feel.
'Tis hers to chain the passions, soothe the soul,
To snatch the dagger, and to dash the bowl

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