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Cold ia the heart, that not on such a theme
Feels the warm spirit kindle—'ris the sound

Of a gone trumpet rolling on the stream
Of time, and catching still at each rebound,
Deeper and clearer tones to bear its warning round."

There is, perhaps, nothing finer in the whole poem than his apostrophe to the Sun. It calls to mind the opening passages of the 3rd book of Paradise Lost, addressed to "Light," and occasionally rises almost to its sublimity. With a pencil dipt in ether, he paints with the living hues of Heaven. He evidently labors at the start, as if he felt his task too high, but as he moves along, he warms with his subject; and as his inspiration rises, his thoughts flow and his language glitters. No one passage, stript from its context, would give the reader an adequate idea of the whole piece. Indeed, its gems are so arrayed, and set in order, that the halo of light in which they blaze, would lose its lustre by their separation.

"The Suicide" is another poem of this author. In the " vein of imagery, the allusion and turn of phrase," it bears a close resemblance to the Prometheus, though an inferior poem. It has all its defects, without its beauties. Its characteristics of style are so nearly the same, that we forbear to give any extracts.

"The Wreck" is a poem of decided merit. It is a tale of romantic love, full of tender passages; and though the most unstudied, is yet the most graceful and impassioned of all his productions. At times the tone is somewhat subdued, and the writer moves along in easy, measured cadence, when, all at once, a gush of sensibility sweeps away all the artificial restraints of verse, and his language pours itself abroad in wild and beautiful profusion.

The "Setting Sail," and the " Death Scene," near the close, are both thrillingly affecting and beautiful. We can hardly resist the inclination to transcribe them, though we are assured that they could only be fully appreciated by being read in connexion with the preceding and subsequent passages.

This poem excels the Prometheus and the Suicide, in brilliancy and copiousness of language, but falls behind them both in vigor of thought and purity of diction.

The "Coral Grove" is a perfect gem of its kind, and in diction is as pure as crystal.

There are many of Percival's fugitive pieces that deserve notice, but for want of space we are constrained to pass them over. Indeed, every thing that Percival has written displays genius and poetic talent of a superior order. And we do not think that we go too far in styling him the Byron of America. The same waywardness of thought and richness of fancy,—the same touching allusions to self, and glimpses into their personal history, distinguish the writings of both. Percival

has also much of that intense personal passion lot which Byron is so remarkable, though less of his strong, practical thought and pointedness of style. But we forbear to run the parallel farther, lest we be charged with being more of the eulogist than the critic.

P. W. R.

Claremont, Va.

THE ANGEL OF THE WEARY HEART.

Not long ago a spell came over me,

That waked a train of strange imaginings,

And pencilled on the tablet of my mind

The pictures of a bright reality.

They came and went, like the flitting phantoms

Of a fev'rish dream, and yet I slept not.

1 saw, but not with eyes material.

Shapes of beauty that haunt me even yet;

And heard, as if with other ears, sweet sounds

That I may never listen to again.

Myself unseen, I could the myst'ry pierce,

That seemed to exercise such strange control

Over the spirit of the creature, man;

And, as in ignorance, he fell the sway

Of mighty agencies within, I marked

The subtle essence that could loose the thrall

Of suffering humanity, and tinge

Earth's darkest shadows with its glow.

A man 1 3aw, in manhood's early prime— Life's bitter woes had not yet traced their deep

Unalteiable furrows on the brow Serene; and in the depths of his dark eye There lingered no expression of distrust, Or enmity towards the selfish world;Yet the repinings of a weary heart Had paled his cheek, and quenched the glowing smile That erst had wreathed those melancholy lips.

Ho thought of home; and the deep ocean flood That rolled between him and his beloved ones, Seemed a barrier impassable. Months

Hod gone by; and expectancy deferred Still severed the lone wanderer from his babes, And the gentle one whom they called " mother."— In a strange land, he lived a stranger; and, Sick'ning at heart, he strove to hide the tear That spoke the husband's and the father's lore.

Upon the air there shone a tracery Like the faint shimmer of the rippling stream, When sunshine glances on it; and a sound, Like the slight quiver of the aspen leaf When the Summer breeze has stirred it, Was to my ear perceptible. I knew, By a strange consciousness intuitive, That a spirit lingered near. Tangible It was not—neither palpable—and yet I could not doubt the blest reality Of its ethereal presence; for the clouils Of grief that hung upon the stranger's brow Seemed gradually to float away, like mists Of the valley before the rising sun. He thought of home—now, not despondingly. He saw bright visions rise, to chase the jtloora

That had o'ershadowed with its sable pall, The day-dreams of his heart; time and space were

To him annihilated, as he looked

Upon the far-off point that gleaming shone

Like welcome light-house to the marinei;

And heard a "still small voice" in murmurings sweet

Assure him, that they all should meet again.

Yes, as each well remembered lineament

Of wife and children rose to greet his eye,

The day of meeting them, he felt, would soon

Draw near; and in the hallowed sanctity

Of home, the wanderer'3 heart would be at rest.

I saw a smile irradiate his face,

Upturned, as if in thankfulness and joy—'

And, ere that sunbeam of the soul was gone,

I heard the flutter of those viewless wings,

And the Spirit passed on.

Again—unseen,
I stood at midnight's solitary hour,
Beside a man of lofty intellect.
The stamp of years mature was on his brow,
And mental toil had dimmed, as if with age,
The lustre of his eye. He had explored
With relish keen the mysteries of mind,
And had sounded many an undiscovered
Depth of intellectual lore. Creations
Of beauty and of glory he had stamped.
In characters undying on the page
Poetic; and philosophy had won
In him a teacher, advocate, and friend,
let th' unwelcome spell of the weary heart
Was on him; for unsatisfied desires
Of fame, and disappointments unforeseen,
Had blunted, for a time, the energies
Of his high intellect; and in despair,
He could have torn the jewel from his crown
And have cast it despondingly away.
Ah! is it not a bitter thing to strive
And strive, yet see the object unattained?
To drain by drops the scanty meed of fame
Which only serves t' increase the longing thirst.
And never gives enough to satisfy?
Thus thought the weary man on whom I gazed;
But while the cloud yet lingered on his brow,
I saw again the tracery of light,
And heard the flutter of the viewless wings.
Slowly the shadows faded on that face,
And the faint light of nascent joy illumed
Once more the torch, that he had flung aside
So recklessly. Aye, he would struggle on,
Although far-off and unattainable Might seem the wished for boon—he still would strive-
Andthe recompense of fame undying
Would yet be his. I saw him tightly clasp
The volume he was holding, to his breast;And while the glow of energy renewed
Still lighted up that glorious countenance,
I felt a waving in the lambent air,
And the Spirit passed on.

Again—unseen,
I saw a gentle maiden in her bower;
A sweet, secluded spot it was, with vines
O'ergrown, and clustering roses here and there
Peeped forth to shed their rich perfume.
But the maiden's eye was not upon them,
As, sad, in listless attitude she sat,
And gazed with look intent on vacancy.
She was a creature young, and beautiful
As early womanhood could be; too young
To be with grief acquainted—yet the rose
Upon her cheek already had been blanched
By sorrows premature; for she had loved,
«M« »U the fervency of woman's heart,

One, whom she had deemed worthy of that love.

Still she cherished sweet memories of him

Who seemed to have forgotten her, and clung

With fond tenacity to every thought

That linked the present hour with what had been.

She would not, could not wrong him—yet she felt,

As lone she sat in their sweet trysting-place,

That she was a neglected, blighted thing.

For her, no more life's precious joys could bloom—

No more the magic wand of happy love

Could sway her destiny—for her, no star

Could rise to light her pathway to the tomb.

Ah! the weary heart—its spell was on her—

Youth and beauty might not ward off the blight

Of earth's anxieties; and as she felt

That life's first bitter draught had touched her lips,

She bent her head upon her hands, and wept.

Again, that tracery of silver sheen,

And the faint quiver of the spirit-wings!

Composure gently stole with its soft balm

Into the maiden's breast; and soon there came

Up-springing from the depths of her young heart.

Kind thoughts of him, that shed a glowing

Halo o'er what had been so dark before.

He would return—she knew he would—could she

Doubt him, who was to share earth's mingled cup

With her? Oh, no! By her fond trustfulness—

By her unwavering tenderness—by all

That woman in the darkest hour should be

To man—she would not, could not doubt his love.

As a bright smile illumed that beauteous face,

I heard the waving of the unseen wings,

And the Spirit passed on.

Once more—I stood
Within a darkened chamber, where there lay
The still, cold body of a lifeless child.
The snow white drapery of the shroud was wrapped
Around the form, which a few days before
Had leaped and frolicked in its joyousness;
And she, the mother of that child, now bent
With streaming eyes over the coffin lid,
Where all that God had left to her on earth
Was tenanted. Her husband, children, all
Were gone; and this last unburied one had
Been to her, as the sweet bud of promise
On a blasted tree. No well-spring of joy
Existed in her heart, which found not its
Source in him; and as his dear caresses
Chased the sorrow from her soul, and awoke
The pleasant memories of other years,
She hoped that here, her storm-tost soul might safe
At anchor ride, and find the haven of
Repose at last. * * * * *

* * * The widowed mother Bent her knees in prayer; and as the choking Sobs seemed wrung from that crushed and breaking heart, She looked tow'rds Heaven for the needful strength To live through this, her hour of agony. Again I Raw the tracery of light, And hues angelic mingled in its glow. Softly there seemed to steal athwart her brow, Sweet resignation to the will of Him Who gave, and had the right to take away. She strove to see that " all was for the best;" And as she remembered that her dear one Was now beyond the reach of earthly care, She would not call him back again. Oh, no!She would look forward to a meeting there, Where father, mother, children, all should share The joys undying of eternity.

The calm of grief subdued was on her brow,
And the Spirit passed on.

The vision seemed
At last to fade—again, I was alone;
An J thought reverted to th' ideal scenes
With which my mind had pregnant been. I saw
That others bore a weight of fretting care;
And that the suff'rings of humanity
Were, in measure, dealt to all. Still, 1 felt
That my cup had its drops of bitterness,
And that to me, the weariness of heart
Was not unknown. Ah! show me, if you can,
The earthly lot that knows no with'ring blight—
No unexpected loss—no sad reverse—
No disappointed hopes—no galling shame,—
Show me the man that tastes not one of these,
And I will give my boon of life away.
Why unveil the hidden sanctuary
Of human grief? In my desponding hour
I thought, that I alone had been forgot
By Him who sent the budding olive-branch
To man, and spanned his bow of promise on

The cloud. But memories of mercies past
Awoke the dormant trustfulness within;
And truer views, and better prospects came,
As this faint whispering stole upon my ear;
"Look at the many comforts that are thine—
Home—kindred—friends—shall they not sanctify
And bless thy future lot? Is there not one
Dear countenance, that never meets thine own
But with a smile? And is there not thy child-
Gem of hope and promise! round which the bonds
Of tenderness maternal have been wound,
Until she seems a dearer part of thee?
Shall these not smooth the path of coming years,
And bring earth's purest blessings to thy soul?
Oh! crush the thought desponding, that would dye
Thy future in its gloomy coloring;
And, forward looking, still press on. Tho* storms,
And winds adverse thy little bark may Loss,
Still, still press on—it will not be in vain."
While yet the murmuring lingered on my ear.
I saw, once more, the tracery of light.
And Hope, the spirit of my dream, passed on.

3££ftetcf> of tfje

PROGRESS OF ARCHAEOLOGICAL SCIENCE IN AMERICA.

'WHO REAPS AN AMERICAN BOOK?"

BY THE EDITOR.

1. Ancient Egypt.

nected with Hieroglyphical Literature. New York, 1843. Baltimore, 1845

Her Monuments, Hieroglyphics, History and Archeology, and other subjects eon-
By George R. Gliddon, Late U. S. Consul, at Cairo.

By the same. March end
Containing the Aiirta

Eight Oral Lectures on the same subjects, delivered in Richmond, Va.
April, 1845.

2. Journal of the " American Oriental Society." Vol. I., No. 1, 1843.
of John Pickering, the President, dj-c.

Do. No. 2, 1844; Containing " A Memoir on the History of Buddhism." Read before the Society, by Edward E. Salisbury, Professor of Arabic and Sanscrit, in Yale College.

3. Crania JEgyptiaca; or Observations on Egyptian Ethnography, derived from Anatomy, History, and the Monuments. By Samuel George Morton, M. D.., Author of " Crania Americana;" Member of the American Philosophical Society; Vice President of the Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia, etc., etc. From the Transactions of the American Philosophical SocietyPhiladelphia and London, 1844.

4. Notes on Northern Africa, The Sahara and Soudan; in relation to the Ethnography, Languages, History, Political and Social Condition of the Nations of those Countries. By William B. Uod&Box,Late Consul of the U. S., near the Regency of Tunis. New York, 1844.

5. Pictorial History of the World. By John Frost, LL. D. No.'s 1 and 2. Egypt. Philadel-

In the June number of the Messenger, was presented to its readers a description of the celebrated " Rnselta Stone," with a translation of its trilinguar Inscription. This offering from the "Old World," it was thought, would be acceptable to the curious and the intelligent of the "New World."

At the same time, our acknowledgments were tendered to the gentlemen, whose names and works preface this sketch, for the rich materials they had furnished us, and a promise given " to mould them

into a suitable form for the Messenger." In endeavoring now, in an humble manner, to perform this promise, it must first be confessed, that to p*e them a suitable form is beyond our capacity. E»en to do them the little justice within our power, would require more extended study and research, than we have leisure or physical ability for, without producing a delay that would deprive them of half their interest. We prefer, therefore, enteris? upon the subject at once, trusting that the merits of those upon whom we shall touch, will more

thsn make up for the absence of any improved selling forth, which more favorable circumstances iju;lit enable us to give them.

It must be remembered, that it is not the design of the present article to go deeply into the nomerogs .subjects, presented by the works which are enumerated above: but guided by them, to trace the part which America has borne in their investigation and extension. We shall find, that young, busy and practical as our Country is, she has taken 10 honorable part, yea, in some respects, a leading position, in labors and researches of Learning, that might be supposed to belong exclusively to old and densely populated countries, with Scientific Institutions fostered by the munificence of Government, and enriched with stores and treasures accumulating for ages. Perchance, too, we shall find some of onr taunting boasters, across the waters, actually reading American Books, on these abstruse and difficult subjects.

The "Rosetla Stone" may be considered a fruit of war; but we now come to commemorate the fruits of Peace. The civilized world are now at Peace; and, notwithstanding the present rumors of war, we hope it will so continue, for the sake of self interest, of Religion and Science. At this time the only conquerors are Commerce, Science and the " Prince of Peace." In their train blessings and prosperity follow. The Missionary goes forth to Christianise, the man of Science to explore, the merchant to open new fields of commercial enterprise. Each of these is sometimes the pioneer; but they all meet at length, and unite their efforts to extend the empire of knowledge. Every question connected with the history, condition, sentiments and customs of nearly every people on the Globe, is now in progress of solution, by their combined labors and researches.

As we are so young and have so much to do at home, we might have been contented to wait many years, and have left these grand movements to older nations. And these older nations, appreciating our peculiar condition and circumstances, might justly hare given us credit for the little we were doing, in lines that sprang necessarily from our situation, rather than have measured us by an exaggerated and inapplicable standard, and proclaimed us want|n?- Literature and Science are of slow growth, and depend, no less than merchandise, upon a principle of supply and demand;—a demand not produced by trafficking in them, but by the wants and progress of Society, and the improving tastes and desires of advancing civilization. Any one, taking a philosophical view of the History of Arts and Sciences, all the world over, with the circumstances requisite for their origin and perfection, will see that in America they have had a premature birth, and yet possess a full-born health and "gor. Place any number of individuals, though possessed of high intellects, in any old country,

under circumstances, in reference to the elevated pursuits and pleasures of Literature, similar to those under which the great body of the American people are living, and their situation would be at once appreciated by their compatriots, and their deficiencies would be excused, from their want of facilities and stimuli; or if they accomplished any thing worthy of applause, they would receive for it increased credit. So it should be with us. In whatever was adapted to our condition, we have far anticipated the facilities we have enjoyed.

Hitherto, we have looked too exclusively to England for Literature and Science ;—led to do so by our common origin and language, and our commercial intercourse, as well as by the superior excellence of her works. But this dependence has produced arrogance and taunting, rather than the noble feelings of respect and sympathy, on the part of those who have supplied us. Now, however, the chain of dependence is fast weakening and breaking. The time has arrived, in many parts of our Country, when a native Literature, of no mean order, can be produced and sustained. Science has taken many bold strides: a laudable and increasing feeling of Nationality, aided by our open intercourse with other parts of the world, which possess Letters in a very high state of cultivation, has tended to stimulate them beyond their usual natural growth. An increased introduction of European Continental Works has taken place, and from them we have learned that England is not in advance of all the World, in all things. From this important fact, the Savans of America may learn a useful hint. Let them study the progress of Science on the Continent; note where and how it is in advance of England, and therein prosecute it, that they may be able to send even more new discoveries than they have done, to those who ask, " who reads an American Bonk 1" We do not mean, that they should merely adopt and translate the discoveries and improvements of the Continent, and send them forth as native productions. Far from it. The independence and activity of our native mind, and our national pride would not brook this. But a hint to genius leads often to stupendous results; and drawing materials from the Continent, it will reproduce and extend them, and make them its own.

Whatever we may reproduce from English sources, going back to them in their own language, is at once reclaimed, or underrated. What we reproduce from Continental sources, coming through a foreign language, which in itself introduces a new element of knowledge, will become more our own and redound more to the honor of the Science of our Country.

We do not wish to be misunderstood, as giving any countenance to the idea, that our purloinings may not be so readily detected, when they have to be traced through a foreign language. We only advocate a close attention to the Scientific movements on the Continent, wherever they are in the van, with a view to a genuine, bona fide reproduction of materials thence derived, and the extension of enquiries there going on, together with the prosecution of new ones, suggested by the most recent information that can be obtained. Steam, the press and the diffusive spirit of the age, have made Savans the citizens of every country. They are soon in possession of every new movement, or discovery; they can accompany the enterprising traveller to every quarter of the globe, and by the aid of his hints and footprints, deduce conclusions undreamed of by him. Thus, Morton stretched forth his wand to Egypt, opened her mausolea, and made the dumb skulls tell who and whence they were. Thus, Du Ponceau was enabled to put forth " new and original views of the Chinese written language;" and to give to Europeans " the first publication they ever had of a copious vocabulary of the kindred language of Cochin China."* These were no servile imitators, nor robbers under the disguise of foreign languages; and such is the use our Savans should make of materials derived from the continent, together with any that they may be able to procure directly from original sources.

A great movement seems to be now making in Europe in reference to the Countries of the East, by Commerce, Politics, Religion and Science. Egypt is exhumed ; China has opened her celestial gates, and the Archaeologists have seized eagerly upon her language and history; India is revealing her mysteries to French and German students, through the Sanscrit language; and so all the countries in the East are in the hands of learned investigation.

In all these, the Continent takes the lead, and though England has forced open the celestial gates, she has no Chinese scholar who can compare with the celebrated Pauthier. And notwithstanding her large gallery of Egyptian Antiquities, including the "Rosetta Stone" itself, for decyphering which, she would place Dr. Young over the great Champollion, yet as late as the 15th of September, 1844, neither of her great Universities, Oxford nor Cambridge, possessed a copy of Rosellini's magnificent work. Before that time, Mr. R. K. Haight of New York, had imported a copy for his own use, and we ourselves had had the pleasure of examining another, in the Library of Columbia College, South Carolina. It is highly probable that many a young American, with the aid of Gliddon's "Chapters" and lectures, could make more intelligent use of the British Gallery, than thousands of those who have had access to it, all their lives. We have heard an amusing anecdote of the surprise created in the gallery of Egyptian Antiquities in London, by a young Bostonian, who had attended Mr. Gliddon's

* Pickering's Address, p. 43.

lectures, going around reading the cartouches and describing the various scenes and inscriptions.

Having had occasion to name Mr. Haight, we can not forbear to pay a merited tribute, to the liberal encouragement he affords the cause of science, and its friends. To him, Mr. Gliddon dedicates his " Chapters," as " a gratifying duty to a gentleman who, by the deep interest he takes in Egyptian subjects, has been induced to render manifold and indispensable assistance to the Author." Before we ever met Mr. Gliddon, we had seen the following handsome acknowledgment, from the Rev. Dr. Jarvis, author of a very learned "Chronological Introduction to the History of the Church," recently published. In returning thanks for the favors and assistance he had received, at home and abroad, he says, " But there is one to whose open hand and generous heart, an especial tribute is due. Others can bear like testimony for most efficient and vigorous assistance; and indeed there is no one, and especially no American, whose labors tend to promote the cause of learning and science, and who has come within the reach of his influence, who will not join with the author in this tribute of heartfelt gratitude to Mr. R. K. Haight, of New York."

Dr. Morion also says,

"I have great pleasure in stating, that for the unrestricted use of the first copy of Rosellini's splendid work which was brought to the United States, I am indebted to an accomplished traveller, Richard K. Haight, Esq., of New York; a gentleman, who devotes his leisure hours and opulent income to the promotion of archaeological knowledge."

If any friend of learning needs any work to assist him in his researches, Mr. Haight imports it however costly, and places it at his disposal. His library comprises many works, which could be published only by the aid of foreign governments. Such an example of munificence and correct application of the bounties of providence, shall neter pass us unnoticed, that he who sets it may recede his due reward of grateful praise, and others be encouraged to imitate him. Mr. Haight is a member of several Foreign learned societies, and is now abroad, preparing for future literary labors. His lady is the authoress of a work entitled "Letters from Egypt, Turkey, Palestine, etc., by a lady of New York."

To return. We have already remarked that England is behind the Continent, in Archaeological Science and Oriental learning, and is indebted to her solitary stars, such as Prichard and Birch, for whatever of radiance and splendor, she demw from such subjects. Her own Savans admit her deficiency, and lament the little encouragement and sympathy with which they meet. Of this fact, Mr. Pickering gives striking proofs in his learned and instructive Address. But the eagerness with

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