should crowd all kinds of beautiful ornaments on the exterior of one building? It is equally a mistake in the poet to use his means too lavishly. It argues not so much the abundance which can venture

to be lavish, as it does the want of discre-
tion and taste to manage that abundance
wisely, so as to produce the best effects.
Take an example, where images are piled
on images, till the mind is weary:
"Then my thoughts,

Now freed from their dark burdens, took a flight
Into a fonder region, and they went

Back to remembered days, when summer smiled,
Not only in the blue sky and the fields

Ripe for the harvest, but more sweetly smiled
In my young heart, and in its livery dressed
All forms that moved around me, and endowed
The lovely with a spirit's loveliness,
And made them so divinely beautiful,

I lived in beauty, and it was the sum

Of all my thoughts and feelings, and it threw
Its mantle o'er all creatures, and it gave

An all-pervading color to my life,

And happiness alone was centered in

The contemplation of the fairest things;

And whether it were forms, or hues, or sounds,
Or looks that speak the heart, and shadow out
The workings of the faculty within,
Which images all nature, and anew
Shapes it to fresh creations of a post
More lofty, and an attitude and air

More kindred to its tastes and tendencies;
Whether it was in things that have n› life,
The sports of Nature's handy-work, or those
Eternal statues, where the soul of man
Stands fixed in immortality-in flowers
Or leaves light-dancing, or in waving woods
Poised in luxuriant majesty aloft

On the uplifted mountain-in the wing,
That glided through the yielding element
In every curve of gracefulness, and swept
Proudly, the deepest bosom of the air,
And rode in light triumphant-in the forms,
That bounding scoured the meadow, tense with life,
And nerved to trembling buoyancy-or those
Who are like us in shape, in look and soul,
Only more beautiful, and nicely tuned

To a far softer harmony:--where'er
Nature was in its being, there my eye

Drank nothing in but BEAUTY, and my thoughts
Were hidden in a tide of loveliness,
And with the delicate motion of young life,
My senses were one ecstacy, one thrill,
Which was not hushed, but heightened in my

The
passage is such as none but a gifted
poet could have written. We selected it,
as one more full of mind than any which
would serve to illustrate our meaning.
Still it is a toil to read poetry, where,
page after page, the ideas are expanded

dreams."

other passage he compares the look of a fine woman to the "unclouded beauty of an April eve," and straightway we have a long description of a moonlight scene, extending so far as to thrust the lady entirely out of mind. The description be

with such a talent for amplification, and ing at an end, the poet proceeds: the book is closed in weariness. In an

"Thus she seemed,

And fairer in my fancy, and where'er

My eye roved in its wandering through dark shades,
Down close embowered dells, where brooklets steal
Their steps o'er glossy pebbles and bright sands-
Where'er my quick eye wandered, she was still
The spirit of the beauty it beheld,

The living thing that animates the wild,
The nymph of the still waters, and the woods
Uttering unnumbered whisperings of joy
In their soft rustling leaves, the Deity
That consecrates the valley and the lake
To her peculiar worship,-so her fair
And tranquil features, and her sylph-like form
Wrought in a purer world, and o'er-informed
With the quick life of feeling,-so she filled
Nature with her dear presence, and alone
Adorned the rudest landscape, and embraced
The desert with an atmosphere of love,
And lent my hours of utter solitude
A fellowship of fondest thoughts, too bright
To be aught else than momentary gleams
Of unsubstantial pleasure."

The last part of this description is feelingly expressed; and, but for the defect of style, which pervades the piece, is of high beauty. Passing over a number of

poems of unequal merit, let us, by way of contrast, quote three stanzas from a poem entitled "Home."

My place is in the quiet vale,

The chosen haunt of simple thought;
I seek not fortune's flattering gale,
I better love the peaceful lot.

I leave the world of noise and show,
To wander by my native brook;

I ask, in life's unruffled flow,

No treasure but my friend and book.

Fancy can charm and feeling bless
With sweeter hours than fashion knows;
There is no calmer quietness,
Than home around the bosom throws."

We read this little poem, so remarkable for simplicity, with perfect astonishment. In the poem entitled "Clouds," there is much splendid diction, and still more in the "Morning among the Hills. The "Conference" in Italy, shows well how far the mere delights of climate are unable to satisfy or to soothe the mind that is disquieted by the sufferings to which moral life is exposed. Many of Percival's pieces have too little direct purpose. They are fine sketches, full of rich language and lavish amplification, but they do not charm us. The "Dreams" have no attraction for us, though we acknowledge them to bear marks of the poet's power.

They neither terrify nor interest. Of his Sonnets, several are highly wrought, and of great delicacy. Among the smaller pieces, there are not a few that seem to us to be of very great merit. What can be more beautiful of the kind than the "Reign of May," a poem which we should quote entire, but that it has already been printed so often; and which is written in the true spirit of one that intimately communes with nature and understands her beauties.

One other short piece we will select, "The Last Days of Autumn," and as we esteem it one of the most pleasing of Percival's poems, we give it entire.

"Now the growing year is over,
And the shepherd's tinkling bell
Faintly from its winter cover
Rings a low farewell:

TOM SAXON.

BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

Tom Saxon, of Fluvanna,

Here seated at the board

Where humor mates with sentiment
And wit with wine is poured,-
Here, while this honest bowl I drain,
The past comes over me again,
And fondness, in a gentle rain,
Bedews my soul, Tom Saxon.

Tom Saxon, of Fluvanna,
To see your eyes on mine
Bent with such noble confidence,
Outjoys this cup of wine-
Yet this is of a vintage which
Has lain within the dusky niche
Wherein it slumbered and grew rich
For many years, Tom Saxon.

Tom Saxon, of Fluvanna,

On yon piano's keys,

My daughter's fingers often rain
The sweetest melodies;

But never fair musician brought

From those, by art and genius taught, Such tones, with dainty rhythm wrought, As leave your lips, Tom Saxon.

Tom Saxon, of Fluvanna,

I press your manly hand,
And many pleasant thoughts arise

As face to face we stand.

For we have shared both smiles and tears, Have halved each other's hopes and fears,

And side by side, for thirty years,

Have fought the world, Tom Saxon.

Tom Saxon, of Fluvanna,

Just fifteen years ago,

The schooner passed through Norfolk bay And flecked its way with snow.

I fell while gazing on the wave,

And would have found an ocean-grave,

Had not your courage come to save

My life that day, Tom Saxon.

Tom Saxon, of Fluvanna,
When evil tongues assailed,
And evil hearts bred evil words,

Your friendship never failed.
You bade me scorn to flee or cower,
You raised me in that bitter hour,
You made me well assert the power
Which else had sunk, Tom Saxon.

Tom Saxon, of Fluvanna,

When want around me fell,

Your pulse was mine, your counsel mine,
Your sympathy as well.

Yours was the gold redeemed my land,
Yours was the voice that bade me stand,'

Yours was the pressure of the hand

That soothed my pride, Tom Saxon.

Tom Saxon, of Fluvanna,

Your foes would crush you now,
The tongue of slander wound the soul,
That force had failed to bow;

The reptile want is at your door,

It soils your hearth and slimes your floor
May Fate do thus to me, and more,

If I prove false, Tom Saxon.

Tom Saxon, of Fluvanna,

God bless you from His throne,
And give you kindly ripening
As you have nobly grown.

Your hand in mine-one goblet more!
The sky may frown, the tempest roar,
Woe flies from out the open door

Of our one heart, Tom Saxon.

Tom Saxon, of Fluvanna,

Think not abroad to roam

To seek for gold in other climes,
But bide with us at home.

Beneath this roof, beside this hearth,

With those who know and prize your worth,

Rest, till we both shall pass from earth,
My dear, old friend, Tom Saxon.