There's a voice that is heard in the depth of the sky,
Where nothing is seen, but the blue-tinted Heaven;
That voice with the wind rolls its mellowness by,
And a few notes alone to our fond ears are given:
The spirit, who sings it, still hastens away,

He is doom'd round the wide earth for ever to roam,
He may settle a moment, but never will stay,
For he ne er found and will never find here a home.

O! that voice is the dirge, that for ever is sung
O'er the wreck and the ruin of beauty and love,
But in ears that are deaf, is its melody flung,
There are none, who will listen, but pure ones above:
O! Earth is no place for the spirit, who feels

Every wound of the heart with the pang of despair,
He will mourn and be never at home, till he steals

To the skies, and the bright world, that welcomes him there.

There are hours, there are minutes, which memory brings

Like blossoms of Eden, to twine round the heart;
And as time rushes by on the might of his wings,
They may darken awhile, but they never depart:
O! these hallowed remembrances cannot decay,
But they come on the soul with a magical thrill,
And in days that are darkest, they kindly will stay,
And the heart in its last throb will beat with them still.

My heart was a mirror, that showed every treasure
Of beauty and lovliness life can display;
It reflected each beautiful blossom of pleasure,
But turned from the dark looks of bigots away;
It was living and moving with lovliest creatures,
In smiles or in tears as the soft spirit chose;
Now shining with brightest and ruddiest features,
Now pale as the snow of the dwarf mountain rose.

These visions of sweetness forever were playing,
Like butterflies fanning the still Summer air;
Some sported a moment, some never decaying,
In deep hues of love are still lingering there;
At times some fair spirit descending from Heaven,
Would shroud all the rest in the blaze of its light;
Then woodnymphs and fays, o'er the mirror were driven,
Like the fire-swarms that kindle the darkness at night.

But the winds and the storms broke the mirror and severed,
Full many a beautiful angel in t⚫ ain;

And the tempest raged on till the fragments were shiver'd
And scattered, like dust as it rolls o'er the plain:
One piece which the storm in its madness neglected
Away, on the wings of the whirlwind to bear,
One fragment was left, and that fragment reflected
All the beauty that MARY threw carelessly there.

Our eagle shall rise 'mid the whirlwinds of war,
And dart through the dun cloud of battle his eye-
Shall spread his wide wings o'er the tempest afar
O'er spirits of valour that conquer or die.
And ne'er shall the rage of the conflict be o'er,
And ne'er shall the worm blood of life cease to flow
And still 'mid the smoke of the battle shall soar
Our Eagle-till scattered and fled be the foe.
When peace shall disarm war's dar brow of its frown,
And roses shall bloom on the soldier's rude grave-
Then honour shall weave of the laurel a crown,

That Beauty shall bind on the brow of the brave.

It was the appearance of such effusions as these in the public prints of the Union, that deservedly gained for Percival a poetical reputation which the contents of this volume will by no means exalt. We are solicitous for the poetic fame of America, and we think that Percival possesses powers which, under the regulation of good taste, would not fail to raise it to an envied height. He has a vivid imagination, a brilliant fancy, and a warm and feeling heart. He possesses, also, a readiness of conception, and an evident rectitude of moral principle of which many of our present writers cannot boast. These qualities, if combined with a classical taste and brought to the task of poetic composition, could not fail to produce strains which would delight the world and render their author's fame as immortal as literature itself. We seriously wish that Percival would render himself master of the ten syllable couplet of Dryden and Pope. Let him explore the causes of its varied and never-tiring harmony, its sweetness of cadence, and its majesty of movement; and he will become convinced that it is the most appropriate of all English verses for subjects of length and dignity. Let him also endeavour to be

less metaphysical and sombre in his ideas; and discipline his muse to perspicuity, ease and melody of diction. He will then delight all his readers. We could then wish him to select some important subject of universal interest in the annals of his country, on which to employ his pen; and while he is working at it, let him not disdain to alter, to condense, to polish and refine; let him not he ashamed to exhibit in his manuscripts the variæ lectiones, for which, in the preface already mentioned, he affects to sneer at Pope-and he will then, we have not the smallest doubt, produce a standard poem, no matter whether it be called an epic or not, (although it would add to our gratification if it deserved that title,) which will remain an everlasting monument both to his own and his country's honour.

FOR THE AMERICAN MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

THE DUELLIST.

Hurt honour, in an evil-cursed hour,

Drove me to murder

My honesty-sweet peace of mind-all-all!

Are bartered for a name!

COLMAN, JR.

Some months ago, I paid a visit to the seat of my friend Henry Howard, whom I had not seen for several years; and during the short time that I spent with him, many a pleasing hour was passed in recalling the recollection of departed days, and in conjuring up the occurrences of other years. Circumstances

which had then recently transpired, introduced in the course of conversation, the subject of Duelling, and as the relation, which my friend then gave me, was of a very interesting nature I take the liberty to repeat it in detail.

"I was once" said he "on the eve of becoming a participator in this deplorable practice. An acquaintance had challenged me on some trifling occasion, and being then young, thoughtless and spirited, I deemed I could not as a man of honour refuse the call. I had accordingly sat down in the height of my anger, to write an acceptance, when the letter which I now hold was brought me by a servant. It was sent to me by a friend, who

had been bitterly taught in the school of experience, and who having casually heard of my quarrel, considered it a duty to prevent what might have been the fatal consequences. To it I owe the change of my views-my peace-my happiness-perhaps my life. I shall therefore read it to you without further preface."

"I heard, my young friend, that you have received a challenge, and I have further understood that your intention is to accept it. Permit me to request, before the die is cast, that you will pause one moment, and listen to the story of one, who like you was once happy, and might still have been so had the voice of friendly admonition been sounded before him. How miserable he has been, how wretched he now is, tongue cannot tell.

"It is not my intention to enter into argument with you on the subject. Objections to duelling have been often repeated, and your own good sense will suggest them all; I shall merely offer you a recital of my sorrows and sufferings, and leave you to feel for yourself.

One of my earliest friends and associates, was Albert Harding. We had known each other from infancy-we had conned our tasks, and played our games, and shared our grievances together, and we had grown up like two twin trees, that cling closer as they advanced in size. Many is the hour of unalloyed bliss that winged its unobserved flight over us, in that sweet season of innocence, when our sports had no pleasure, unless they were mutually partaken. Would that I had sunk into death at that blessed period, for then I should have been spared the pain of that dreadful reverse, which I have since experienced! But I must not dwell upon that period; for it makes my heart ache, and my eyes tearful, whenever I look back into the past, and see those happy days, like a bright constellation, shining through the darkness of succeeding years. Suffice it to say, that our childhood passed serenely away, amidst the interchange of more than fraternal affections, till at length the lapse of eighteen years. gave us the signal of approach to manhood. We now both entered into the world-but it was not capable of changing our hearts; we had not indeed the opportunity of meeting so frequently as we had before done, but our frindship remained unbroken. At length, however, an incident occurred, which was destined to mar our peace for ever.

I had casually discovered that Albert was attached to an amiable young lady in our vicinity, with whom I also had some acquaintance but I did not then know that his affections were so deeply engaged, as I had afterward reason to believe they were. I undertook to rally him on the subject, and at first he bore with VOL. I.—No. III.

32

me calmly and patiently. I was in a most mischievous humour at the time, and pursued my raillery with little mercy. Still he continued to take my impertinence in good part. I urged the seige, until at leugth I fairly ran down his good nature, and he lost his equanimity, denouncing me in round terms as an absolute fool." I told him that was an expression I had not expected from him, but still I continued to teaze him, and left little unsaid that could make him and the object of his attentions appear ridiculous. All this was done in a spirit of good humour on my part, but I ought to have known that it was trifling too much with an easy and pliant temper. One bitter word led to another, till we both became fairly irritated, and forgot what we owed to each other as fellow creatures and as friends. A vague and hasty insinuation against my character, which he threw out in the height of his anger, I considered as an unpardonable of fence. I told him fiercely that he should repent the words he had uttered, and flung from him full of the inspiration of revenge.

"I immediately went home, and in the extacy of my rage, wrote and despatched him a challenge to meet me the next morning. It was briefly answered in the course of a few hours. with the expression of a perfect willingness on his part to give me all the satisfaction my rage could desire, and concluding with a taunting threat, that I should meet the chastisement my lence deserved."

"I did not sleep much that night; for I must confess I had begun to repent somewhat of my rashness. I saw that I had effected a fearful change in my condition. I had made my bosom friend my open enemy; I had turned myself in burning wrath against him, whom I had before loved with the warmest affection; in short, I had, through my own imprudence, lost the playmate of my childhood, the companion of my riper years, my best and only confident. Conscience loudly declared that an apology might restore him, and that it was no more than my duty, under all the circumstances of the case, to make one; but pride stepped in and whispered that I had been insulted -that an apology on my part would be degradation-and that now I had entered upon the business, there was no retreating with honour, and I must go on. So I discharged conscience from her duty, and deliberately resolved to murder my dearest friend!

"After a night of restless agitation, the fatal morning came; and though it arose in its usual brightness, with all its dewy softness and beauty, yet it was a morning of gloom to me for I was going to the commission of a deed, which my heart could not warrant, nor my conscience approve. I dressed myself