that would have delighted Green, (author of the Spleen,) and much after his manner; and that must gratify every rational man, as well as lover of fine verse; and the exquisite lines To my Daughter on her Marriage, the equally admirable address to Southey, which, with the fine poems to the Poet's Children and Wife, we have referred to before, emphatically stamp: our poet's mastery of the pathetic, in domestic scenes. The parallel may seem strained, but we are apt to compare these rare gems with such a poem as Cowper's Address to his. Mother's Picture; and we think our bard loses not a whit by the comparison. With Goldsmith, our poet is a model of simplicity and natural grace, which shine out in the lightest. copy of verses. A few of the pieces in this volume of this kind and exactly suited to the occasion that produced them, may not be adequately appreciated by the common reader, but none can fail to be impressed (who have a heart to feel. or a taste sufficiently cultivated to appreciate our author's. delicacy) with the poems we have mentioned above. They are, truly, classical poems.

VI.

AMERICAN VERSE.-RALPH HOYT.

WHAT is true, generally, of the best poets, holds with regard to our own writers of verse: they are almost invariably the briefest. Brevity is the essence of wit in its widest acceptation; of passion and imagination no less than of epigrammatic smartness. The very highest flights of Fancy cannot

be long sustained; the most brilliant flashes of genius are

the most evanescent.

This has ever been the case, from the days of the Hebrew Bards to the present epoch. And where great poets have written long poems, how few of these are fairly endenizened in the national heart, and have taken a firm hold on the popular feeling. Few, very few, great, long poems survive a very limited period; and even the classic national epics, which can be counted on the fingers, are by no means perfect throughout. In the grandest of epics, Paradise Lost, how much there is one could willingly let die. Many fine poets of the second rank assume that position from their perfect short pieces, not from mediocre long ones.

But a short effort must be complete and finished, in itself, to be valuable. It is, as in statuary: the critic demands perfection; whereas, in architecture, one is necessarily more lenient. Or, as in painting, an historical picture may be deficient in parts, while a portrait ought to reflect the living features. Yet, one shall often find the poet priding himself on his elaborate and longer productions, and contemning, as slight and worthless, those fugitive, occasional effusions which alone stamp him with immortality.

The length of the performances of our poets is in an inverse ratio to their intrinsic merits. Thus far, the longest are superlatively meagre and valueless, and fill single volumes, any one of which would probably contain the Gems of American Verse.

We need an American anthology, which should bring together many delicate blossoms, mostly reared in hot-houses, and which can ill bear the rude air of common criticism or the chilling breezes of neglect. Our Parnassus is a garden of exotics chiefly; we have no forest trees yet growing upon

it. The soil is not hardy and vigorous enough for the towering oak or majestic elm: it produces, instead, the ever-sweet rose, the graceful lily, the variegated tulip, and the exquisite mignionette.

We have no cedars of Lebanon, but beautiful japonicas. The cactus is a true type of our poetical flowers. It is a foreigner; it is raised and developed with care and pains; and its flower is delicately fair.

Critically, the American poets fall within the class of minor poets. They do not as a class-none of those whose verse will last-write at length, or in the highest walks of the epic and tragic muse. Yet, their efforts may be and often are excellent. And we have thus far at least a score, but surely not over two hundred, as one collector affirmed, of true poets, whose works will maintain a desirable place in all select collections of poetry.

Of this nature, and belonging to this class, are the charming effusions of Mr. Hoyt's genius, who is not a great poet, because he does not attempt the highest walks of poetry, but who is a pure and sweet one, with judgment to boot, in not venturing upon flights without his reach, or wasting his powers on unattainable objects.

He has happily opened an original vein in these sketches, which display true pathos, and a delicate talent for satiric irony; descriptive skill and a fine ear, attuned to the nice management of his peculiar measures. A pleasing pastoral tenderness-a pure tone of domestic feeling runs through the verses of Mr. Hoyt, whose landscape is enveloped in an atmosphere of sentiment.

We remember some years since having read one morning a delicate piece of criticism in one of the morning papers (the News, a democratic journal, since defunct,) on a poetical

brochure, by the Rev. Ralph Hoyt, then a new name in the American Parnassus. Certain stanzas from Snow were extracted, containing one of the very finest pieces of rural painting we ever read. It was a genuine transcript from nature, seen through the poetic medium, and exccuted with the happiest skill. Since that time Mr. Hoyt has produced a few more poetic blossoms, to endure as a permanent literary wreath. He has, in plain English, gained his place, which we run little hazard in predicting will be firm and undisturbed.

His aim is not lofty, his views are not extravagant: he has no prejudices to combat nor taste to create. He is a disciple, with individuality and independence, of the pure school of Goldsmith, and Campbell, and Beattie. He is no copyist, yet his spirit, subjects, and diction are those of the "approved good masters" of sterling English verse. Description, faithful, original, fresh, and spirited; a pleasing, narrative style; fine touches of good humored satiric wit, with a true vein of mild and gentle pathos, just and delicate sentiment, all couched in a style of transparent clearness, of limpid beauty, constitute the poetic capital of our poet..

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Mr. Hoyt is to be considered chiefly as a rural, descriptive poet, and a domestic painter. He is at home in. the fields. and by the fireside. No grand,no brilliant, no profound bard is he, but peculiarly sweet and agreeable. He might be ranked, perhaps, with Parnell, (their lives are different, to be sure, but the sum total, to speak mathematically of his poetical traits and talents, might be accounted as nearly equal to those of the Queen Anne's poet,) who stands among the lesser lights, the Dii Minores of the poetical firmament.

Altogether, Mr. Hoyt has published very little; two very thin pamphlets, previously to his last collection, which includes the best things in the earlier publications, as well as

his more recent efforts. But they "are choicely good,” as Walton says of Marlow and Raleigh, better than most of "the strong lines in this critical age." Lovers of simplicity, of meditative reflection, of polish, sentiment, and purity of style, will admire the verses of Mr. Hoyt; but the majority of poetical readers will think him wanting in passion and excitement. Indeed he eschews passion, dramatic effect, and "exciting" topics altogether. His favorite topics are domestic scenes of fireside happiness, the joys of innocence and home, the heaven of childhood, the beautiful serenity of virtuous age.

Nor is he deficient in touches of ironical humor, without bitterness, and instinct with wisdom. He has a manly vein of satire and eloquence, as in World Sale and New. Snow and Rain are universally admitted to be finished landscapes ; and, indeed, we agree with Mr. Hoyt's critic in the American Review, (we believe the late Mr. Colton,) that these are the best specimens of idyllic verse, or rural painting, that American poetry can show. Other names may be mentioned more brilliant, of more varied resources, of more profound philosophy: we have had lyrists and moralists in verse of the first class; but, perhaps, no one, who, in his peculiar sphere, has surpassed Mr. Hoyt. His sphere is limited; it is the province of the domestic poet and pastoral bard; its range is narrow, yet in it he is a master.

The peculiar measure of Mr. Hoyt's poetical efforts strikes us most agreeably, though they have affected other critics differently. The returning strain, the recurrence of a har monious line, add, to our ear, to the rhythmical beauty. Yet it is a mannerism, and might become monotonous. Most of these poems have passed through a number of editions and meet a ready sale. Their popularity affords proof that an uncontaminated poetical taste still remains.