What guide had then the lettered pilgrim led
Where Plato moralized; where Cæsar bled?
What page had told, in lasting record wrought,
The world who butchered, or the world who taught?
Thine was the mighty power, immortal sage!

To burst the cerements of each buried age.
Through the drear sepulchre of sunless Time,
Rich with the trophied wrecks of many a clime,
Thy daring genius broke the pathless way,

And brought the glorious relics forth to day." P. 165.

Of the lyrical poetry of Mr. P. we can but give the same mixed opinion. It sometimes comes near being very fine, at other times is bombastic, and too often is obscure by far-fetched metaphors. The enthusiasm, which is the life and spirit of this kind of poetry, certainly allows great license to the imagination, and permits the poet to use bolder figures and stronger exaggerations than any other species of serious composition; but he should be wary that he be not carried too far by the fervour of his feelings, and that he run not into obscurity and extravagance. In listening to lyrical poetry, we have to depend entirely on the ear to comprehend the subject; and as verse follows verse without allowing time for meditation, it is next to impossible for the auditor to extricate the meaning, if it be entangled in metaphor. The thoughts, therefore, should be clear and striking, and the figures, however lofty and magnificent, yet of that simple kind that flash at once upon the mind.

The following stanza is one of those that come near being extremely beautiful. The versification is swelling and melodious, and captivates the ear with the luxury of sound; the imagery is sublime, but the meaning a little obscure.

"The sea is valour's charter,

A nation's wealthiest mine :

His foaming caves when ocean bares,
Not pearls, but heroes shine;

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Aloft they mount the midnight surge,
Where shipwrecked spirits roam,
And oft the knell is heard to swell,
Where bursting billows foam.
Each storm a race of heroes rears,

To guard their native home." P. 275.

The ode entitled "Rise Columbia," possesses more simplicity than most of his poems. Several of the verses are deserving of much praise, both for the sentiment and the composition.

"Remote from realms of rival fame,

Thy bulwark is thy mound of waves;
The sea, thy birthright, thou must claim,
Or, subject, yield the soil it laves.
Nor yet, though skilled, delight in arms;

Peace and, her offspring, Arts be thine;
The face of Freedom scarce has charms,
When on her cheeks no dimples shine.
While Fame, for thee, her wreath entwines,
To bless, thy nobler triumph prove;
And, though the eagle haunts thy pines,
Beneath thy willows shield the dove.

Revered in arms, in peace humane,

No shore, nor realm shall bound thy sway;
While all the virtues own thy reign,

And subject elements obey!"

The ode of "Spain, Commerce and Freedom," is a mere conflagration of fancy. What shall we say to such a “melting hot-hissing hot" stanza as the following:

"Bright Day of the world! dart thy lustre afar!

Fire the north with thy heat! gild the south with thy
splendour!

With thy glance light the torch of redintegrant war,
Till the dismembered earth effervesce and regender!
Through each zone may'st thou roll,

"Till thy beams at the Pole,

Melt Philosophy's Ice in the sea of the soul!

We have unwarily exceeded our intended limits in this article, and must now bring it to a conclusion. From the examination which we have given Mr. Paine's writings, we can by no means concur in the opinion, that he is an author on whom the nation should venture its poetic claims. His natural requisites were undoubtedly great, and had they been skilfully managed, might have raised him to an enviable eminence. He possessed a brilliant imagination, but not great powers of reflection. He thinks often acutely, seldom profoundly-indeed, there was such a constant wish to be ingenious and pungent, that he was impatient of the regular flow of thought and feeling, and seemed dissatisfied with every line that did not contain a paradox, a simile, or an apothegm. There appears also to have been an indistinctness in his conceptions: his mind teemed with vague ideas; with shadows of thought, which he could not accurately embody, and the consequence was a frequent want of precision in his writings. He had read much, and miscellaneously; and having a tenacious memory, was enabled to illustrate his thoughts by a thousand analogies and similies, drawn from books; and often to enrich his poems with the thoughts of others. Indeed, his acquired treasures were often a disadvantage; not having a simple discriminating taste, he could not select from among them; and being a little ostentatious of his wealth, was too apt to pour it in glittering profusion upon his page.

If we have been too severe in our animadversions on this author's faults, we can only say, that the high encomiums of his biographers, and the high assumptions of the author himself, which are evident from the style of his writings, obliged us to judge of him by an elevated standard. Mr. P. ventured in the lofty walks of composition, and appears continually to have been measuring himself with the masters of the art. His biographers have even hinted at placing him "on the same shelf with the prince of English rhyme," and thus, in a manner, have invited a less indulgent examination than, perhaps, might otherwise have been given.

If, however, we are unjust in our censures, a little while will decide their futility. To the living every hour of repu

tation is important, as adding one hour of enjoyment to exVOL. I. New Series.

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istence; but the fame of the dead, to be valuable, must be permanent; and it is in nowise impaired, if for a year or two the misrepresentations of criticism becloud its lustre.

We assure the biographers of Mr. Paine, that we heartily concur with them in the wish to see one of our native poets rising to equal excellence with the immortal bards of Great Britain; but we do not feel any restless anxiety on the subject. We wait with hope, but we wait with patience. Of all writers a great poet is the rarest. Britain, with all her patronage of literature, with her standing army of authors, has, through a series of ages, produced but a very, very few who deserve the name. Can it, then, be a matter of surprise, or should it be of humiliation, that, in our country, where the literary ranks are so scanty, the incitements so small, and the advantages so inconsiderable, we should not yet have produced a master in the art? Let us rest satisfied-as far as the intellect of the nation has been exercised, we have furnished our full proportion of ordinary poets, and some that have even risen above mediocrity; but a really great poet is the production of a century.

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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE

OF

CAPTAIN ISAAC HULL.

THERE are few employments more pleasing and useful than that of paying a just tribute to those who have honourably distinguished themselves in the service of their country. It is pleasing, because it gives opportunity for the indulgence of merited admiration; and useful, inasmuch as it serves to stimulate others to similar exertions, that they may obtain similar distinctions. To those, too, who are capable of meriting either praise or gratitude, praise honestly bestowed, and gratitude expressed without exaggeration, are the most pleasing and heartfelt rewards that a people can ever bestow.

Titles may for a while give a short-lived gratification, by attracting the wondering gaze of vulgar admiration; but the purest, the noblest, and the most lasting reward of virtuous heroism is to be found in the applauding tongues, and grateful hearts of our countrymen.

Public curiosity with regard to the lives of individuals who have distinguished themselves in honourable pursuits, is a sort of indirect praise; for we seldom feel a disposition to inquire into the character and actions of any man, until he has performed something that excites our admiration. This uni versal curiosity, when called forth by praiseworthy achievements, is an honourable testimony to the merit of him who excites it, and as such ought to be gratified.

We therefore feel much pleasure in offering to our readers such particulars of the gallant officer whose portrait accompanies the present number, as have come to our knowledge, regretting, at the same time, that our information is not more ample.

Captain ISAAC HULL was born at Derby, a small town in the state of Connecticut, about ten miles from New-Haven. He is a son of the gentleman who distinguished himself in the capture of some whale-boats in the Sound during the late war. Choosing the sea for the exercise of his profession, he entered, soon after leaving school, on board a merchant vessel, and in due course became master of a ship. He was in this situation at the first establishment of the navy, and, at that time, received the appointment of a lieutenant. In this capacity he always ranked high as an excellent seaman; an attentive and vigilant officer. The situation of the United States for some years past, it is well known, afforded little opportunity for the acquisition of either naval or military reputation; or to obtain any other distinction than that which arises from an attentive discharge of an officer's daily duties. It is only, therefore, since the declaration of war with Great Britain, that Captain HULL has become an object of public attention, by two brilliant exploits; the one exhibiting an instance of admirable skill as a seaman, and the other, of his gallantry as an officer.

Leaving Chesapeake Bay on the 12th of July last, in the