—It is very unfortunate for what is often called American literature, that almost all attempts to treat any part of our history poetically or dramatically are miserable failures. Among the verse books before us two are of this kind; one by Mr. George L. Raymond,[24] who has written in what he supposes is the ballad form some things which are not at all ballad-like, and which are dreary stuff under whatever name; and the other a thing which Mr. Martin F. Tupper[25] seems to suppose is a drama in blank verse upon the events of our war of independence. A more stupid and ridiculous performance we have rarely seen. That it should be read through by any one seems to us quite insupposable. And yet, although he has written this and "Proverbial Philosophy," Mr. Tupper is a D. C. L. of Oxford and an F. R. S.
—Something of a far higher quality than this is Mr. Bayard Taylor's "National Ode" written for the Centennial celebration. It is to be regretted, we think, that Mr. Taylor was not able to give himself up entirely to poetical composition. He has the poetic faculty, and his verse is nervous and manly, far better, we think, than his prose. Had he been a poet only, he might have taken a still higher place in contemporary literature. This poem, well known to the public, is one of his finest and most spirited efforts. The present edition[26] is very handsomely illustrated and printed.
—Charles Sprague is an "American" poet of the last generation, who is almost forgotten, and indeed quite unknown to readers of the present day. He has something of Campbell in his style—Campbell in his calm and serious moods. It may have been desirable to reprint his poems and essays in an attractive volume,[27] with his portrait; but we fear that he belongs to the class of middling writers of prose and verse who were much talked of by our fathers chiefly because they were "American."
—One of the best of the many volumes of verse upon our table is the collection of poems by Mrs. S. M. B. Piatt.[28] Mrs. Piatt's muse is often thoughtful, but in all that she has given us, of which much is attractive in form and suggestive in substance, these lines that follow are the most valuable. They refer to the altar which Paul found at Athens "To the Unknown God":
Because my life was hollow with a pain
As old as death: because my eyes were dry
As the fierce tropics after months of rain,
Because my restless voice said, "Why?" and "Why?"
Wounded and worn, I knelt within the night
As blind as darkness—Praying? And to Whom?—
When yond' cold crescent cut my folded sight,
And showed a phantom Altar in my room.
It was the Altar Paul at Athens saw.
The Greek bowed there, but not the Greek alone!
The ghosts of nations gathered, wan with awe,
And laid their offerings on that shadowy stone.
The Egyptian worshipped there the crocodile;
There they of Nineveh the bull with wings;
The Persian there with swart, sun-lifted smile
Felt in his soul the writhing fire's bright stings.
There the weird Druid held his mistletoe;
There, for the scorched son of the sand, coiled bright,
The torrid snake was hissing sharp and low;
And there the Western savage paid his rite.
"Allah," the Moslem darkly muttered there;
"Brahma," the jewelled Indies of the East
Sighed through their spices with a languid prayer;
"Christ?" faintly questioned many a paler priest.