They would have him, like Wordsworth, to whom he is in this respect only second, sing more “Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love and Hope— And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith; Of blessed consolations in distress; Of moral strength and intellectual power; Of joy in widest commonalty spread; Of the individual Mind that keeps her own Inviolate retirement, subject them To conscience only, and the law supreme Of that Intelligence which governs all.” We say that they would have him treat more frequently of such themes; let us add that their wishes are in a fair way of being gratified. We find, on comparing the present volume with Mr. Bryant’s former one, that his thoughts have already taken the direction to which we refer. Indeed, we have before remarked, that of late years his mind had been coming into closer contact with human sympathies. The last poem of his first volume—The Battle Field—so full of the highest truth, so inspiring and consolatory, may be ranked with the best lyrics of the language. In the volume before us, the larger number of poems are of a similar character. Where is there a finer or a loftier hymn than the following? THE FUTURE LIFE. How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps The disembodied spirits of the dead, When all of thee that time could wither sleeps And perishes among the dust we tread? For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain If there I meet thy gentle presence not; Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again In thy serenest eyes the tender thought. Will not thy own meek heart demand me there? That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given? My name on earth was ever in thy prayer, Shall it be banished from thy tongue in heaven? In meadows fanned by heaven’s life-breathing wind, In the resplendence of that glorious sphere, And larger movements of the unfettered mind, Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here? The love that lived through all the stormy past And meekly with my harsher nature bore And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last, Shall it expire with life, and be no more? A happier lot than mine, and larger light, Await thee there; for thou hast bowed thy will In cheerful homage to the rule of right, And lovest all, and renderest good for ill. For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell, Shrink and consume the heart, as heat the scroll; And wrath hath left its scar—that fire of hell Has left its frightful scar upon my soul. Yet, though thou wear’st the glory of the sky, Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name, The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye, Lovelier in heaven’s sweet climate, yet the same?