THE ACADEMIC GROVE. BY MRS. SIGOURNEY. Hail, hallowed grove! where attic genius, fired, Still steals thy voice in murmurs deep and clear While fickle Athens, spurning at his creed Filled the dire hemlock-cup, then shuddering mourn'd her deed. Lo! round yon tombs what stately spectres glide, The boastful Sophist with his wildered gaze, The Stoic band, who rend in proud disdain, The crown from Pleasure, and the scourge from Pain; The Sceptic, doubtful of his trembling breath, The churlish Cynic, frowning even in Death All, all from drear Oblivion's realm return, And throng their leader's venerated urn. Fair Trees! beneath whose graceful shadows rose Tell how the storm of Rome's unsparing wrath, Reft your green honours in its awful path, Your arms unfilial 'gainst your native soil.* Rise, humbled Athens! from thy lot severe; With dauntless breast confront the Moslem spear; Snatch victories palm, as on Platæa's day ; And with fond tears restore the grove of Academe. It is a matter of no small astonishment a- | fancies, who neither writes or thinks like odmong the literati, that Mr. Goodrich, who er people. Wondering what this title could has evidently drank deeply of the sacred mean, reminded us of a man who having writfountain, should for so long a time have in- ten a novel, requested a friend to suggest such dulged his inspirations in secret. His "Sea a title as would make it sell well. Call it Bird's Tale" is full of originality and poetic a Jug with forty handles,” replied he, “no beauty-also "The Dream Fulfilled," is a matter what the subject may be, I will insure delicate and fanciful morceau, exactly adap-its sale." "But what's a name?" whoever ted to this work. Otter Bag? heaven preserve us! what a name-but it sounds like one of John Neal's may chance to open upon this story, though even at the "noon of night" will witness the dawn of day, ere he would close the book. Sylla employed the beautiful trees from the Academic grove to construct machines, with which to batter and destroy the city of Athens when besieged by him, 87 years before Christ. with a new forest, and overshadowed by a deep perpetual darkness, or covered far and wide with a sea of weltering herbage, the frightful vegetation of death! no places that have been sanctified by song or story-age after age, with beautiful tradition or fierce poetry, save here and there a small spot of earth shut in by the great rocks, where the red man withstood the white man, while the noise and the flash of the terrible weapons with which the latter shot fire into the hearts of the former, appeared to the savage to be that very noise and brightness, which he had seen set fire to the woods about his path-tear up the earth under his feet, and shatter the very sky over his head. Or some other shadowy quiet place, or smooth hill-top where the men of the revolution made war upon their fathers and brothers,-upon the most powerful nation of the earth-while her on the march in every quarter of the ships covered and her armies were Barbarian architecture, each a wilderglobe. There may be no piles of ness of turrets, towers, and battlements, rocking to the sea breeze, or overshadowing the high places of No half buried Power in America. before the "Tale is said." There is more of nationality in this one article,than can be found in all the rest of the volume; true, the author hurries from narrative to history, and from sentiment to philosophy, with a rapidity and power that at once astonishes, and fascinates his readers; still all is in perfect keeping with the object which he has in view-he is a very "Yankee," in the true sense of the word, and always knows "what he is about," notwith-hills, or fortified by the everlasting standing his digressive flights. Mr. Neal has undoubtedly a greater knowledge of the Aboriginal character, and is more thoroughly acquainted with every event of importance relative to American history, than any other writer of the age, (Irving and Cooper not excepted,) and has done more towards establishing the character of belle-lettres literature in Europe, than any other American scholar who has yet crossed the Atlantic. We never saw a national sketch of his, either of this or any other country, which was not, so far as we may judge, "to the life." He has the power, in an uncommon degree of reconciling apparent impossibilities with truth, so as to satisfy the mind, which is by no means the case with many of our best writers; he always succeeds in exciting a strong interest in every character which he introduces, and often claims your admiration, even when your judgment might condemn; this is the secret witchery of novel writing-and this, in an eminent degree he possesses. Both his prose and poetry, remind us of a bold rich landscape, where the grandeur of art and the sub-city, like the pillared and sculptured limity of nature, alternately awaken our de- treasuries of art which encumber the light and enthusiasm-where we may turn earth, and choke up the rivers of the from the wild rush of the mountain cascade and old world, or come and go with the repose the eyes upon the polished temple, or tide-appear and disappear, day after the classic statue embosomed in shade and day, along the sea-shore of states that quiet..... But to return to "Otter Bag." We have perished forever-cities buried did not read this tale with the intention of by the volcano or the earthquake, "reviewing" it, or even noticing publicly its overthrown by the savage, swept over plot' or 'circumstance'-every body will re- by the sea, or swallowed up by the view it, & of course will judge for themselves. sand of the desart; yet crowded with Still, we would remark, that it strikes us rath- strange beauty and full of glorious er as a dramatic composition-in short, any wreck-no prodigies of the mist of thing but a common story; his Yankee dia- that beautiful dim vapour, the twilect is admirably hit off. No doubt it will light of another world; the atmohave a good effect. Ridiculing absurdities sphere of tradition through which the often produces amendment. Notwithstanding bannered places, the rocky fortresses, our circumscribed limits, we cannot resist and the haughty piles of Europe loom the wish of giving our readers a specimen of with a most unearthly grandeur. But the style of this story. if there are no such things in America, there are things which are to be found no where else now-the live wreck of a prodigious empire, that has departed from before our face within the memory of man-the last of a people who have no history, and who but the other day were in possession of a quarter of the whole earth." "There may be no such ruins in America as are found in Europe or Asia, or in Africa, but other ruins there are the ruins of a mighty people! there may be no places of pilgrimage in America, unless it be some lonely battle ground, already forgotten by the neighborhood, overgrown "RUINS," by Mr. Pickering-we must take the whole of this poem, in order to give a perfect idea of its beauties. These rude remains of a poor peasant's cot Some mournful tale of woes remembered not, For those long gone, the sometimes dwellers here. Is storied clear; and grief was not less keen, For where Love enters there too will be Death- of our hopes; if on the other hand, we calmly resolve to derive some beneficial result either of profit or pleasure from every situation or scene in which we may be destined to act, without expecting perfect happiness in either; we shall find our portion of earthly enjoyments greatly augmented. It would puzzle a Philadelphia lawyer to keep the thread of this sonnet. First, we find the poet straying among the "remains of a poor peasant's cot"-" as if it were a memorable spot," from which we may infer that he knew nothing about the former "dwellers." Yet in the second verse he intimates that if he could but remember some "mournful tale of woes," he would certainly weep at it. How strange! that amid the ruins of a hut, no "conqueror's track," no "realm where heap-ment, that "Mr. Caldwell" was announced ed up cities sleep" is seen-" Yet all that can "For where love enters, there too will be death." We observed by the Commercial Gazette. of Tuesday last, in a theatrical advertise cellent!" we should think a "learned critito appear in the character of "DufTM” ***• cism" might have been written upon this per formance. TO CORRESPONDENTS We have received a long string of Co nundrums from a "friend,” which are severtheless inadmissible, we advise him to make them over to Billy Black of the Tremon Theatre. We hate conundrums-they are at best an impertinent apology for wit MARRIED In Portland, John Neal, Esq. senior editar of the Yankee and B. L. Gazette, and Barrier Journal, to Miss Eleanor, daughter of Mr. Juel The above, the "Condor of Anges," and “Abraham's return,” are perhaps the most exceptionable among the poetic speciminsmany of the rest have answered our highest expectations. Among the prose, the "Italian Boulevard," and the " Seaman's widow have pleased us much; the rest we have not yet read. In the engraving of Chan'rey's Washington there is an obvious defect in the In Watertown, on Sunday evening last, Danie hand that holds the scroll; also that which Lee Child, Esq. Editor of the Massachusetts.or supports the drapery is of yeoman-like di-nal, to Miss Lydia Maria Francis, editor of the meusions. SCRAPS FROM A PORT FOLIO. Alas! "where are they?"-elbowed out Hall. In this city, on Monday evening last, Mr. James Hooton to Miss Mary E. Bean, daughter of the late Horace Bean, M. D. Juvenile Miscellany. In Providence, Mr. William A. Brown, pab lisher of the Toilet, to Miss Charlotte, daughter of Mr. Charles Nichols, formerly of Nantucási. of the nook editorial this week, to make room THE BOWER OF TASTE, edited by MRS. KATRI for more important personages. When we wait with anxiety, the arrival of any event, or circumstance, from which we anticipate extraordinary gratification, we are almost always disappointed in the fruition RINE A. WARE, is published by Derros and tion of this Work. All literary communications should be, as form erly, directed to the Editor. L must be post-paid. Original Poetry. TO S**** "Take back the ring-take back the ring," I would not that the fragile thing, The gem is rayless now, and dead, Its former lustre, all is fled, On Friendship's hand, I once believed LINES, TO MARY ON HER MARRIAGE. Thy youthful heart is beating high Thy fond and faithful heart will now And thy calm, fair and beauteous brow For he, thy loved and chosen one, His faithful breast shall be thy home, From every adverse wind that's blown And shield thee from the storm. Oh! if there's joy on earth combined, A. "Tis when two faithful hearts are joined Such then, dear girl, is now thy lot: And may your lives glide sweetly by May many long and happy years And when you leave this vale of tears, THE RISE OF GENIUS. In ancient days when first Brittania's muse, Which fell when Shakspeare slept-but not in death! See now in our own clime where bright as spring, Above the sun-tinged clouds would proudly soar Thus the bold youth, elings like a bright rain-drop Which yawns beneath life's towering precipice! ELLEN. R. J. |