In saying this we mean what we say. We intend no joke. Were it possible, we would quote the whole poem in support of our opinion. But as this is _not_ possible, and moreover, as we presume Mr. Mathews has not been so negligent as to omit securing his valuable property by a copyright, we must be contented with a few extracts here and there at random, with a few comments equally so. But we have already hinted that there were really one or two words to be said of this effusion in the way of commendation, and these one or two words might as well be said now as hereafter. The poem thus commences— The moon ascends the vaulted sky to-night; With a slow motion full of pomp ascends, But, mightier than the Moon that o’er it bends, A form is dwelling on the mountain height That boldly intercepts the struggling light With darkness nobler than the planet’s fire,— A gloom and dreadful grandeur that aspire To match the cheerful Heaven’s far-shining might. If we were to shut our eyes to the repetition of “might,” (which, in its various inflections, is a pet word with our author, and lugged in upon all occasions) and to the obvious imitation of Longfellow’s Hymn to the Night in the second line of this stanza, we should be justified in calling it _good_. The “darkness nobler than the planet’s fire” is _certainly_ good. The general conception of the colossal figure on the mountain summit, relieved against the full moon, would be unquestionably _grand_ were it not for the _bullish_ phraseology by which the conception is rendered, in a great measure, abortive. The moon is described as “ascending,” and its “motion” is referred to, while we have the standing figure continuously intercepting its light. That the orb would soon pass from behind the figure, is a physical fact which the purpose of the poet required to be left out of sight, and which scarcely any other language than that which he has actually employed would have succeeded in forcing upon the reader’s attention. With all these defects, however, the passage, especially as an opening passage, is one of high merit. Looking carefully for something else to be commended we find at length the lines— Lo! where our foe up through these vales ascends, Fresh from the embraces of the swelling sea, A glorious, white and shining Deity. Upon our strength his deep blue eye he bends, With threatenings full of thought and steadfast ends; _While desolation from his nostril breathes_ _His glittering rage he scornfully unsheathes_ _And to the startled air its splendor lends._