kick knocked out the lecherous old fellow's remaining eye, and the second, delivered in the breast, laid him on the ground. A third, our author thinks, would have terminated, at once, the troubles of the hack and the falls of the bachelor. The poor bachelor beholding the prostrate animal, and thinking that he is about to expire, gives vent to his grief, in sighs and groans, lamenting his mishap, rebuking himself for having taken so little care of a precious jewel,” and cursing the day and the hour in which he left town. Cervantes essays to console him, reminds him of a like adventure of Rozinante with the mares, in Don Quixote, and bids him, now and forever, to dismiss his skepticism. At this, he becomes only the more enraged and wishes himself and almost every body else to the devil. He tries to raise his blind and battered hack, but all in vain; a slight motion of a leg, at the jerking of the bridle by his disconsolate master, being the only sign which he gives of life. Cervantes beholding his wretched plight, and perceiving that it is growing late, bids adieu to the bachelor— who is so occupied with his effort to raise his horse, and so clamorous in cursing his evil stars, that he neither sees nor hears him, and mounting his “honest mule,” is soon lodged with a friend in Toledo, when he resolves to write out this adventure with the bachelor, “for the purpose of undeceiving many who see in the valiant knight Don Quixote, what the valiant knight Don Quixote is not.” J. L. R.


1. I&hymes of Travel, Ballads and other Poems; by BayARD TAYLoR, author of “Views a-foot,” etc. Second edition. New-York: George P. Putnam. 1849.

2. Sketches of Life and Landscape; by Rev. RALPH Hoyt. New edition, enlarged. New-York : Geo. P. Putnam. 1849.

3. Orta- Undis, and other Poems ; by J. M. LEGARE. Boston : William D. Ticknor & Co. 1849.

4. Poems by a South-Carolinian. Charleston: Saml. Hart, Senr. 1848.

WE had designed, under this head, in the present number of our periodical, to indulge in some copious considerations, in regard to the prospects and promises of American poetry; but the space left us for this purpose will barely suffice to acknowledge and briefly comment upon the volumes whose titles are above mentioned. We must reserve our generalizations, accordingly, for future issues; assured that the fecundity of the native muse will always afford us the necessary justification for undertaking the task at any period. Every day provides us with slender volumes, such as these before us; not always equal in merit, perhaps ; but, whether for praise or blame, requiring to be heard and examined. In the instances before us, the task will not be difficult, and we hold ourselves particularly fortunate, in not being required to put on the more rigorous aspects of the law as in dealing with old offenders. These are all young writers. These are almost their first sins of publication. They have not acquired that degree of hardihood in crime, which renders it necessary that the punishment should be exemplary; and there are certain redeeming features in their offences, which will commend them to forgiveness, if not to favor. They show modesty and misgiving in their performances. They speak, as if they were already half ashamed of what they have done; and, perhaps, if we treat them with lenity, they may atone for the past by better performances hereafter. At all events, let us try the experiment. Their indictments shall be as brief as is consistent with a due understanding of their offences, and the charge to the jury will be abridged to the dimensions of the offenders.


Bahard Taylor is somewhat known by a tour which he made on foot through a portion of the continent of Europe. His sketchy and modest letters, written at the time, and since gathered into a volume, were calculated to recommend him to the indulgent favor of the public. They showed considerable powers of observation and reflection, were marked by good sense, and written with grace and spirit. A portion of his present volume owes its origin to the experience of his foreign travel. He embodies his sentiments on the objects which he sees—where these are particularly remarkable or impressive—wherever they happen to be grand or venerable—picturesquely, and in the form of verse. These verses are marked by an easy and energetic flow ; by manly and becoming thoughts; by consideable powers of description, and by a lively and eager fancy. They exhibit no profound emotions, no deep thinking, and no peculiarly vigorous imaginings. They are graceful always—sometimes strong—and mostly pleasing—developments of a well balanced mind and judgment, grateful tastes, and just and generous emotions. And here we might pause in our estimate, satisfied that we had bestowed sufficient praise;—but for certain picturesque “ballads of California,” which exhibit other and superior characteristics in the possession of Mr. Taylor's muse. It would be difficult to deny to the author of “El Canalo,” the possession of a warm imagination, which delights in the picturesque, and quickens into a passionate song at what. ever appeals to her sense of external nature and eager action and emotion. We give this poem as a specimen of the American ballad, to which it would be difficult—in its class—to find an equally happy sample in the verses of any recent writer. Nothing can be more free and musical than the strain, and no array of the external agencies of poetry, could be rendered more pleasing and impressive.


Now saddle El Canalo–the freshening wind of morn
Down in the flowery vega, is stirring through the corn;
The thin smoke of the ranches grows red with coming day,
And the steed's impatient stamping is eager for the way !

My glossy-limbed Canalo, thy neck is curved in pride,
Thy slender ears pricked forward, thy nostril straining wide;
And as thy quick neigh greets me, and I catch thee by the mane,
I'm off with the winds of morning—the chieftain of the plain :

I feel the swift air whirring, and see along our track,
From the flinty-paved sierra, the sparks go streaming back;
And I clutch my rifle closer, as we seek the dark defile,
Where the led guerilla watches for many a lonely mile !

They reach not El Canalo; with the swiftness of a dream
We've passed the bleak Nevada, and Tulé's icy stream;
But where, on sweeping gallop, my bullet backward sped,
The keen-eyed mountain vultures will circle o'er the dead :

On 1 on, my brave Canalo! we've dashed the sand and snow
From peaks upholding heaven, from deserts far below—
We've thundered through the forest, while the crackling branches rang,
And trooping elks, affrighted, from lair and covert sprang!

We've swum the swollen torrent—we've distanced in the race
The baying wolves of Pinos, that parted with the chase;
And still thy mane streams backward, at every thrilling bound !
And still thy measured hoof-stroke beats with its morning sound !

The seaward winds are wailing through Santa Barbara's pines,
And like a sheathless sabre, the far Pacific shines;
Hold to thy speed, my arrow ! at nightfall thou shalt lave
Thy hot and smoking haunches beneath his silver wave :

My head upon thy shoulder, along the sloping sand,
We'll sleep as trusty brothers, from out the mountain land;
The pines will sound in answer to the surges on the shore,
And in our dreams, Canalo, we'll make the journey o'er

The “flight of Passo del Mar,” is less original in its topic, and less finished in its diction ; but still very striking and impressive. “Rio Sacramento” belongs to the same family, but is quite inferior. We should like greatly to detach for our pages “The Eagle Hunter,” and the “Bison Track,” as singularly well written specimens of earnest energetic verse—betraying a fine ear for those peculiar combinations of sound, in which the strength contributes to the harmony, and the harmony takes nothing from the strength;-but we are reminded of other poets awaiting us, and of the brief space which we are suffered to accord to them. We must content ourselves with commending to the reader the examination of this volume of Mr. Taylor, for himself. He will find that we have by no means exaggerated the merits of the writer.

The Reverend Ralph Hoyt is a writer of pastorals. He describes rural scenes, and domestic emotions. He is con

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templative and musing, with a delicate attribute of fancy, which renders the atmosphere of his song as persuasive as a field of clover at the flowering season. He has no passionate phrensies, deals in no tumults, never excites you, and never hurries you below his depths or your own. His merits are all of a soothing nature, calm, gentle and decorous, lulling you into a musing mood, as the “Shower” such as he describes might be apt to do. We give this poem as a fair sample of the manner of the author, though a just judgment would not by any means rank it among his more elaborate pieces.


In a valley that I know,
Happy scene :
There are meadows sloping low,
There the fairest flowers blow,
And the brightest waters flow,
All serene ;
But the sweetest thing to see,
If you ask the dripping tree,
Or the harvest-hoping swain,
ls the Rain |

Ah, the dwellers of the town,
How they sigh,
How ungratefully they frown
When the cloud-king shakes his crown,
And the pearls come pouring down
From the sky
They descry no charm at all
Where the sparkling jewels fall,
And each moment of the shower,
Seems an hour.

Yet there’s something very sweet
In the sight,
When the crystal currents meet,
In the dry and dusty street,
And they wrestle with the heat,
In their might !
While they seem to hold a talk
With the stones along the walk,
And remind them of the rule,
To “keep cool "

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