Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home, The wisdom that I learned so ill in this— The wisdom which is love—till I become Thy fit companion in that land of bliss? Whoever can read this without feeling his affections expand, or his whole nature grow better, has less than the sensibility of humanity. We should be glad to present other pieces to our readers, of the same character;[2] and particularly to quote the noble poem entitled “The Antiquity of Freedom,” in which liberty is so nobly impersonated, but we have not room for further extracts, and can only indulge in one or two closing remarks. It appears to be a common regret with those who speak or write of Mr. Bryant, that he has not, as they express it, written a “great” poem. Be it observed, that by a _great_ poem is here meant a _long_ poem—a poem that in print will form a quarto! This kind of critic measures poems as the Dutch are said formerly to have gauged the merits of books—by their size. Perhaps of no author is there less reason for the lamentation that he has not written a great poem; for, in truth, he has written not only one, but nearly two dozen works of this description. He has written a series of lyrics, each perfect in itself, manifesting the highest excellence of that department of art, and destined to an existence as indestructible as the richest treasures of the English tongue. Indeed, we may safely say of him, that he has written a larger number of excellent poems than any other English author. So uniform is this excellence that it is difficult to make a selection between his various compositions. As some one has said of Shakspeare’s plays, the best one is that which you read last. The cause of this is, that Mr. Bryant writes as an _artist_. He does not, with the multitude of our poetasters, throw off lines as a patent printing press does newspapers, five thousand an hour. He feels like a true artist, and composes with the labor and spirit of one who is confident that his works will live. ----- [1] We should, perhaps, except in the “Green Mountain Boys” the badly sounding line near the close— “The _towers_ and the lake are _ours_.” [2] The touching poem entitled _The Maiden’s Sorrow_, on another page of this number, illustrates what we have said above of Mr. Bryant’s most recent effusions. It was written by him for this Magazine since the preparation of his volume. * * * * * _The Official and other Papers of the late Maj. Gen. Alexander Hamilton: Compiled chiefly from the Originals in the possession of Mrs. Hamilton. Vol. I. 8vo. Pp. 496. New York and London: Wiley & Putnam. Philadelphia: Carey & Hart._