'If earth must change as on we go,
If life, and loveliness, and truth
Must pass from every thing below,
With the delightful days of youth?

'Alas, alas, as we move on,

If thus the heart from bliss must sever,
Better were manhood not begun
Better we children be for ever!'

It

The only thing like Wordsworth here, is that it is poetry. would be well for some of the writer's critics, if they were tinctured' with a little of the same folly.

We give Mr. Bacon great credit, likewise, for the vividness and power of his imagination. We would select the last half of Thanatos,' a poem of much power and beauty, and the 'Vision of War,' as undeniable proofs of his claims, in this regard, to general admiration.

We give Mr. Bacon credit, also, for that which is the best test of poetic genius; power of description. Here he must speak for himself. The following is from A Forest Noon Scene :'

'This is indeed a sacred solitude,

And beautiful as sacred. Here no sound,
Save such as breathes a soft tranquillity,
Falls on the ear; and all around, the eye

Meets nought but hath a moral. These deep shades,
With here and there an upright trunk of ash,

Or beech, or nut, whose branches interlaced
O'ercanopy us, and, shutting out the day,

A twilight make- they press upon the heart
With force amazing and unutterable.

These trunks enormous, from the mountain side
Ripp'd roots and all by whirlwinds; those vast pines
Athwart the ravine's melancholy gloom

Transversely cast; these monarchs of the wood,
Dark, gnarl'd, centennial oaks, that throw their arms
So proudly up; those monstrous ribs of rock
That, shiver'd by the thunder-stroke, and hurl'd

From yonder cliff, their bed for centuries,

Here crushed and wedged; all by their massiveness,
And silent strength, impress us with a sense

Of Deity. And here are wanted not

More delicate forms of beauty. Numerous tribes
Of natural flowrets blossom in these shades,

Meet for the scene alone. At ev'ry step,
Some beauteous combination of soft hues,
Less brilliant though than those that deck the field,
The eye attracts. Mosses of softest green,
Creep round the trunks of the decayed trees;
And mosses, hueless as the mountain snow,
Inlay the turf. Here, softly peeping forth,
The eye detects the little violet,

Such as the city boasts - of paler hue,

Yet fragrant more. The simple forest flower,
And that pied gem, the wind-flower, sweetly named,
Here greet the cautious search; while, bending down
Right o'er the forest walk, the wild syringa

Displays its long and tufted flower, and swings
In the soft breeze. And these soft delicate forms,
And breaths of perfume, send th' unwilling heart

And all its aspirations to the source

Of life and light. Nor woodland sounds are wanting,
Such as the mind to that soft melancholy

The poet feels, lull soothingly. The winds
Are playing with the forest tops in glee,

And music make. Sweet rivulets

Slip here and there from out the crevices

Of rifted rocks, and, welling 'mid the roots
Of prostrate trees, or blocks transversely cast,
Form jets of driven snow. The housing bee,
The plunderer of the uplands, has come out
Into these cooler haunts, and sweetly fills
The void air with his murmurings. Soft symphonies
Of birds unseen, on every side swell out,
As if the spirit of the wood complained,
Harmonious and most prodigal of sound;
And these can woo the spirit with such power,
And tune it to a mood so exquisite,

That the enthusiast heart forgets the world,
Its strifes and follies, and seeks only here
To satisfy its thirst for happiness.'

The following passage from A Fragment of an Epistle,' we offer with unaffected pleasure. There is painting by words in it, which will win all suffrages :

'I sat me where the window threw
The distant landscape into view.
The snow was on each living thing,
The birds were mute nor moved a wing,
And 'neath a garment clear and cold,
Each flower slept locked in frozen mould.
Here long drawn vales in silver white
Glistening, were offered to the sight.
Where ran the hedge, or old stone wall,
The icy sheet had covered all,
And all along the rails and hung
Downward, the icicles were strung,

And, as the flashing sun rose bright,
They seemed like crystals in the light.
Where wound the maple colonnade,
The leafless boughs still cast a shade,
Curious, for on the crust of snow
They vipers seemed toss'd to and fro.
Where ran the rill in early spring,
Beneath those maples glittering,
Singing and dancing as the wave
Went bickering o'er its sandy pave,
And catching on it, shadows dim
Of violets along its brim,

Or lily fair or water-cress,
That stooped its cheek for a caress,
Now o'er that gentle stream was cast
The snow ridge by the mountain blast,
Till all the valley level seemed
Save here and there the ice-bridge gleamed.
But farther down that valley glen,
The brook burst up to light again;
For there, pitch'd from its dizzy edge,
The wave shot down a rocky ledge, [brake,
And foamed and thundered through the
Until its waters joined the lake.
And there, no Faëry in her cell
Had dreamed or fancied half so well,
Or half so beautiful a thing,
Or given it teint and coloring,
As that wild brook had fancied there,
And fashion'd in the frosty air.
That brook had flung on either side,
Its fairy frost-work far and wide,
Till upward 'mid the rocks appeared,

One extract more, and we have done. The public have received this book as the work of a young man.

We suppose it is such; and

yet we may err here. There is a maturity of thought in some of these poems, not common with young men. Take, for example, the following from Thoughts in Solitude:

'But there's a half way virtue in the world
Which is the world's worst enemy its bane,
Its withering curse. It cheats it with a show-
But offers naught of substance, when is sought
Its peaceful fruits. It suffers men in power
To let the young aspirant rise or fall,

As chance directs. The rich man fosters it,
And for the favor, it shuts up his ears
Against the cry of virtuous penury;

Or bids him dole out with a miserly hand,

A farthing, where a thousand should be thrown,
And proffer'd kindly. The lone orphan's cries,
The widow's wail in impotence, perchance
Secure a few unmeaning tears, but not
The pity which administers relief.
Words flow, as freely as a parrot talks,
At tales of suffering; and tears may fall
As Niobe's; but not a sacrifice

The heart accepts, nor pleasure is forgone,
Which marks the principle of virtue there,
Or such as finds acceptance in the skies.
Who pays with pity, all my debt of love,
Who weeps for me, yet never sees my lack,
Who says be clothed, yet never proffers aught,
He's not my fellow, nor deserves the name.

A feeble virtue is a vice, adorn'd
In virtue's semblance. 'Tis a negative
And useless quality. It exempts from wo
Insufferable, yet grudges perfect bliss;
And he but tricks him in a knave's attire,
Who boasts no other. He's but half the man,
Who, when temptation stares him in the face,
Assents, yet trembles to be overcome!
Such men do things by halves, and never do
Aught with an earnest soul. They fool away
A life, in which the good and evil mix

So equal, that the sum is neutralized;
And Justice on their sepulchres inscribes

No sterner truth, than when she writes- a blank.

Why linger then betwixt the two extremes
The passive puppet of each circumstance?
Why pure and dev'lish-mortal and immortal -
Too good for earth, and yet unfit for Heaven?
Why not at once dispel these baneful mists,
Thrust from our paths the arts and blandishments
Which win to wickedness and rise at once
With a proud, moral freedom, until we

Can stand upon the stars, and see to Heaven?'

The reader will agree with us when we say, that if this is the work of a boy, he is a promising child.

་

We cannot extract farther; although Other Days,'' Life,' the 'Lines to a Little Boy,' 'Morning,' 'Fanny Willoughby,' and 'Lines in Dejection,' are well worthy to be transplanted. But we leave the rest to the reader.

To sum up our notions of Mr. Bacon, we are deceived if his talents do not secure for him a prominent place among our future poets; and we cannot forbear thinking, that the specimens we have given, take from this remark every appearance of extravagance. We do not think there has been a first work presented by any of our young poets, of fairer promise than this; and though we do not assert that this volume raises the writer at once to the front rank, yet we do assert, and will maintain, that there are poems in it worthy to place him in a station of honor, among his contemporaries. His language has strength and simplicity; his style clearness and force. His thoughts are elevated; his habits are those of serious contemplation; and for these we award him praise. In a day when we have so many vicious models, it seems to us a proof that a man must have something superior in himself, who steers clear of them. Of his susceptibility to beauty, and of the correctness of his taste, we have not heard a dissenting voice; and, moreover, Mr. Bacon is a Christian.

Before we close, we have a word to say, lest our notice lose its authority. We do not think the volume without faults. There are inequalities in it. The metre is sometimes faulty; the author does not, in some instances, refine and polish enough; and his own judgment will no doubt suggest these things in a future collection, should he make one. But faults were to be expected in a first work; and nothing surely can be more unbecoming a judicious critic, than to seize on an initial effort, and attempt, by exaggerating its faults, to throw contempt upon the whole. This we think has been done, in some instances, with Mr. Bacon; and this is the reason we have stepped forward to do him justice, and cordially offer him the hand of encouragement, O. P. Q

SONNET.

WRITTEN UPON SEEING THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY, PAINTED BY C. G. THOMPSON.

THERE is a sweetness in those up-turned eyes,

A tearful lustre such as fancy lends
To the Madonna- and a soft surprise,
As if they saw strange beauty in the air;
Perchance a bird, whose little pinion bends
To the same breeze that lifts that flowing hair.
And, O, that lip, and cheek, and forehead fair,
Reposing on the canvass! - that bright smile,
Casting a mellow radiance over all!

Say, didst thou strive, young artist, to beguile
The gazer of his reason, and to thrall

His every sense in meshes of delight?

When thou, unconscious, made this phantom bright?
Sure nothing real lives, which thus can charm the sight!

New-York, December, 1837.

NAVAL SKETCHES.

BY THE AUTHOR OF SHIP AND SHORE,' 'CONSTANTINOPLE AND ATHENS,' ETC.

P. B.

THE winter had passed -the time of the singing of birds had come, and the voice of the turtle was heard in the land. - when we, as if obeying these awakening instincts of nature, weighed our anchors from the safe bed in which they had long been planted, and in company with the flag-ship which had first caught the moving infection, floated quietly from the harbor of Mahon, with recollections that endeared the past, and anticipations that brightened the future. The last voice I heard was that of a bird singing from a tree that shades an extreme cliff, and where it would seem as if the little warbler had come to give us his parting cheer. I admired that bird for several reasons; for its plumage it was gay as hope; for its voice — it was full of sweetest melody; for its courage—it was one of the few that had escaped the shot and snares of our wicked pastimes; for its spirit of forgiveness we had been all winter picking the bones of its fellows, and perhaps had deprived it of its vernal mate; yet it came forth to breathe its farewell, with the forgiving, clinging affection of the female heart for the one no longer worthy of her love and confidence. If the doctrine of the Samian sage be true, I would ask that at death my spirit may pass into the form of such a beautiful bird as this not that I would, in that event, sing to those who had plotted my death; but I would fly to the convent of Santa Clara, and perching close to the grated window of the imprisoned Maria, relieve with my notes the solitude of her cell; and so sweet and impassioned should be the strain I would sing, that the wondering nun should every night murmur in her very dreams :

'A lovely bird with azure wings,
And song that says a thousand things,
And seems to say them all for me!'