"Know'st thou the land which lovers ought to choose!
Like blessings there descend the sparkling dews ·
In gleaming streams the crystal rivers run,

The purple vintage clusters in the sun;

Odours of flowers haunt the balmy breeze,

Rich fruits hang high upon the vernant trees;

trait (as we suspect) which her husband spirit; and the first and third stanzas pos has drawn in the two exquisite poems, sess such rare excellence that we cannot called a Picture Song, and the Health. forbear copying them: In the following year, the volume of poems which bears his name was published in Baltimore, by Joseph Robinson. Rodolph, the only poem of any great length in the collection, had been previously before the public, printed separately and anonymously; but as only a very small edition was struck off, few had an opportunity of deciding on its merits. The opinions of such, however, as did peruse it, were highly favourable, and induced the author to consent to another edition being printed, with several additional shorter pieces, some of which are rich in beauties of a peculiar nature, and are not surpassed by any productions, of a similar character, in the English language.

Rodolph, the principal poem, contains many undeniable evidences of a fine genius and a cultivated mind; but it is also disfigured with many faults, both in sentiment and execution. Were this our only criterion of Mr. Pinkney's poetic merits, we should still be inclined to award to him a high rank among the eminent poets of this country; but we could not accord to him that unmixed praise which his other effusions deserve. The story is neither novel, interesting, nor moral; and the meaning of the language is often obscured by an affected use of obsolete expressions, when such as are in frequent use would not only have been better understood, but also more appropriate. It commences beautifully-and

And vivid blossoms gem the shady groves,
Where bright-plumed birds discourse their careless loves
Beloved!-speed we from this sullen strand

Until thy light feet press that green shore's yellow sand

It looks a dimple on the face of earth,
The seal of beauty and the shrine of mirth;
Nature is delicate and graceful there,
The place's genius, feminine and fair :
The winds are awed, nor dare to breathe aloud;
The air seems never to have borne a cloud,
Save where volcanoes send to heav'n their curled
And solemn smokes, like altars of the world.
Thrice beautiful!-to that delightful spot
Carry our married hearts, and be all pain forgot.”

Who has ever read a more animated and this? But it will not answer for us to poetical description of a lovely female than occupy our space by quoting the beauties of Mr. Pinkney's volume; for, did we once here we are led to remark the author's commence the task, we should scarcely be happy and original fertility in illustrations, able to leave it, without extracting nearly which abound on every page of the work, and yet are always so apt and so new, that in no single instance are we fatigued by them. His use of classical allusions, too, is remarkably felicitous, showing that he has attentively read and properly appreciated the ancient authors for himself, and not drawn his resources from a Lempriere's Dictionary, or the hackneyed quotations of

others.

all its contents. We sincerely hope that another edition of it will shortly be put to press, so that the many who are still unfur nished, may have it in their power to obtain if it were enlarged with a few more effua copy; and we should be still better pleased sions from a mind well capable of advancing, by its single effort, the literary reputation of this country to a still higher elevation.

The poem, entitled Italy, written after the manner of Goethe's Kennst du das Lund, is a production of uncommon sweetness and Baltimore.

Edward Coate Pinkney died in 1/828, at

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