Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men :
Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then.

But calm, low voices, words of grace
Now slowly fall upon the ear;
A quiet look is in each face,
Subdued and holy fear;

Each motion's gentle; all is kindly done-
Come listen how from crime this isle was won.

JAMES G. PERCIVAL

Is one of the most learned of the American writers; this has not always been of advantage to his poetry, for it has made him deal out similes and illustrations in such profusion, that the entireness of the impression is lost. He is said to write with great rapidity, and to dislike the labour of revision,-a circumstance that has tended greatly to injure his reputation; for bad lines occur even in the most beautiful of his poems.

THE CORAL GROVE.

DEEP in the wave is a coral grove,

Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove,
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue,
That never are wet with falling dew,

But in bright and changeful beauty shine,
Far down in the green and glassy brine,

The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift,
And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow;
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift

Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow;
The water is calm and still below,

For the winds and waves are absent there,

And the sands are bright as the stars that glow
In the motionless fields of upper air;

There with its waving blade of green,

The sea-flag streams through the silent-water,
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen
To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter:
There with a slight and easy motion,
The fan coral sweeps through the clear deep sea;
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean
Are bending like corn on the upland lea:

And life, in rare and beautiful forms, Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,

And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms Has made the top of the waves his own: And when the ship from its fury flies, When the myriad voices of ocean roar,

When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies, And demons are waiting the wreck on shore; Then far below in the peaceful sea

The purple mullet and gold fish rove,
Where the waters murmur tranquilly
Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.

TO THE EAGLE.

BIRD of the broad and sweeping wing,
Thy home is high in heaven,

Where wide the storms their banners fling,
And the tempest clouds are driven.
Thy throne is on the mountain-top;
Thy fields the boundless air;
And hoary peaks that proudly prop
The skies thy dwellings are.

Thou sittest like a thing of light,
Amid the noontide blaze:
The mid-day sun is clear and bright;
It cannot dim thy gaze.

Thy pinions to the rushing blast,

O'er the bursting billow, spread,

Where the vessel plunges, hurry past,

Like an angel of the dead.

Thou art perched aloft on the beetling crag,

And the waves are white below,

And on, with a haste that cannot lag,
They rush in an endless flow,

Again thou hast plumed thy wing for flight,

To lands beyond the sea,

And away like a spirit wreathed in light,

Thou hurriest, wild and free.

Thou hurriest over the myriad waves,

And thou leavest them all behind:

Thou sweepest that place of unknown graves,
Fleet as the tempest wind.

When the night storm gathers dim and dark
With a shrill and boding scream,
Thou rushest by the foundering bark,
Quick as a passing dream.

Lord of the boundless realm of air,
In thy imperial name,

The arts of the bold and ardent dare
The dangerous path of fame.
Beneath the shade of thy golden wings,
The Roman legions bore,

From the river of Egypt's cloudy springs,
Their pride to the polar shore.

For thee they fought, for thee they fell,
And their oath was on thee laid;
To thee the clarions raised their swell,
And the dying warrior prayed.

Thou wert, through an age of death and fears,
The image of pride and power,

Till the gathered rage of a thousand years
Burst forth in one awful hour.

And then a deluge of wrath it came,

And the nations shook with dread;

And it swept the earth till its fields were flame,
And piled with the mingled dead.
Kings were rolled in the wasteful flood,
With the low and crouching slave;
And together lay in a shroud of blood
The coward and the brave.

And where was then thy fearless flight?
"O'er the dark, mysterious sea,

To the lands that caught the setting light,
The cradle of Liberty!

There on the silent and lonely shore,

For ages I watched alone,

And the world, in its darkness, asked no more

Where the glorious bird had flown.

"But then came a bold and a hardy few,

And they breasted the unknown wave!

I caught afar the wandering crew,

And I knew they were high and brave.
I wheeled around the welcome bark,
As it sought the desolate shore,
And up to heaven, like a joyous lark,
My quivering pinions bore.

"And now that bold and hardy few Are a nation wide and strong;

And danger and doubt I have led them through,
And they worship me in song;

And over their bright and glancing arms,
On field, and lake, and sea,

With an eye that fires, and a spell that charms,
I guide them to victory!"

THE GRAVE OF THE INDIAN CHIEF.

THEY laid the corse of the wild and brave
On the sweet, fresh earth of the new-dug grave,
On the gentle hill, where the wild weeds wave,
And flowers and grass were flourishing.

They laid within the peaceful bed,
Close by the Indian chieftain's head,
His bow and arrows; and they said,
That he had found new hunting-grounds,

Where bounteous Nature only tills
The willing soil; and o'er whose hills,
And down beside the shady rills,
The hero roams eternally.

And these fair isles to the westward lie,
Beneath a golden sun-set sky,
Where youth and beauty never die,

And song and dance move endlessly.

They told of the feats of the dog and gun,
They told of the deeds his arm had done,
They sung the battles lost and won,

And so they paid his eulogy.

And o'er his arms, and o'er his bones,
They raised a simple pile of stones;
Which, hallowed by their tears and moans,
Was all the Indian's monument.

And since the chieftain here has slept,
Full many a winter's winds have swept,
And many an age has softly crept

Over his humble sepulchre.

JOHN NEAL

HAS been a very voluminous writer: he possesses great poetic powers, sadly depraved by bad taste. No one of his larger poems commands approbation as a whole; but there are in them all occasional passages of great force and beauty.

DAY-BREAK.

AND now the daylight comes: slowly it rides,
In ridgy lustre o'er the cloudy tides,

Like the soft foam upon the billow's breast,

Or feathery light upon a shadowy crest;

The morning breezes from their slumbers wake,
And o'er the distant hill-tops cheerly shake

Their dewy locks, and plume themselves and poise
Their rosy wings, and listen to the noise
Of echoes wandering from the world below:
The distant lake, rejoicing in its flow:
The bugles' ready cry: the labouring drum:
The neigh of steeds-and the incessant hum
That the bright tenants of the forest send:
The sunrise gun: the heave-the wave-and bend
Of everlasting trees, whose busy leaves

Rustle their song of praise, while ruin weaves
A robe of verdure for their yielding bark:
While mossy garlands-rich, and full, and dark,
Creep slowly round them. Monarchs of the wood!
Whose mighty spectres sway the mountain-brood!
Whose aged bosoms, in their last decay,
Shelter the winged idolaters of day,
Who, 'mid the desert wild, sublimely stand,
And grapple with the storm-god hand to hand!
Then drop like weary pyramids away;
Stupendous monuments of calm decay!
As yet the warring thunders have not rent
The swimming clouds, the brightening firmament,
The lovely mists that float around the sky-
Ruddy and rich with fresh and glorious dye,
Like hovering seraph wings-or robe of poesy!

Now comes the sun forth! not in blaze of fire
With rainbow-harnessed coursers, that respire
An atmosphere of flame. No chariot whirls
O'er reddening clouds. No sunny flag unfurls
O'er rushing smoke. No chargers in array
Scatter through heaven and earth their fiery spray.