the ancient. In allusion to an exercise with which he often delighted his friends, he says:

"In my view, the proper analytical study of other languages is one of the best means of giving copiousness and richness to one's own. Let care be taken to put everything in genuine English, which will come the natural way, from good conversation and reading, and, as the only vehicle of thought, will, like a snow-ball, be constantly rolling itself up by inflection, let the exact and nicest shades of meaning be gathered from analysis, and let these shades be embodied in our own idioms,— and one will come out from such a reading of Homer, for instance, with a world of English conquered. So I practised in reading Homer; and if I have truly possessed any freedom and copiousness of diction, as has been allowed me, I believe I am as much indebted for it to such a mode of studying language, as to any other cause."

The result of his labors is far from being equal to his knowledge. He has left, in a complete form, an extensive series of imitations of the verse of different languages, under the title of "Studies in Verse," in the Preface to which he writes: "I do not claim for these imitations anything like an exact correspondence with the original metre, but they may serve to show, perhaps, that our language is not entirely destitute of that almost universal musical flexibility which has been claimed for the German." These "Studies are in imitation of the following languages, Sanscrit, Persian, Greek, Italian, French, German, Gaelic, Welsh, Danish, Swedish, Scottish, Norse, Flemish, Finnish, Bohemian, Servian, and Russian. He also composed frequently in German, Italian, and Danish, and Dr. Follen, who saw his German poetry, said that many stanzas were perfect, and that there were few mistakes of idiom. He wrote many Germanic odes in the Wisconsin papers, and was very popular with the Germans in that State; but perhaps his Danish ode to Ole Bull is best known. It was eight stanzas in length, and was written after hearing Ole Bull at a concert in New Haven, June 10, 1844. He also published an extended series of translations from the Slavonic, Germanic, and Romanic languages, with elaborate notes, in the New Haven papers, and at one time printed many translations from the older Greek and Latin lyric poets; but perhaps his best translations are yet unpublished, especially that of Prome

theus, which he once told a friend was the best thing he ever wrote, and of which he has himself written as follows: "In July, 1823, I wrote out a rough sketch of the Prometheus Bound of Æschylus. I wrote down my version as fast as I proceeded in the interpretation, and then put it by unreviewed, in scriniis, where it has remained till now [1833]; consequently, beyond the legitimate period of nine years. I did not aim to give a refined or embellished translation, nor one closely literal, but by a somewhat free, yet faithful, and what seemed to me no unfitting paraphrase, to give, plainly and boldly, the Titanic force and majesty of the original." As a transfusion of the tragedy, bringing out the very spirit and presence of the original characters, and touching the sympathy of the reader, it has perhaps no superior in English literature. Percival imparted to his translations the soul of the original, and some of his translations from the leading German poets are as fine as any.

Percival's purity of diction even as compared with that of his contemporaries was remarkable; and few have ever had such a gift of writing in pictures. His imagination, though without the condensed vigor of Dana's, could yet sustain a loftier flight, and his fancy had a tireless activity. He imparted to his poetry those minute touches which reveal the man of science, and that pure ecstasy of being which arises from close communion with nature. He had the rare ability of consecrating the familiar, by the magic of poetic coloring, and is surpassed by none in his paintings of natural scenery. But he is not merely a painter,- he throws his own soul into his soliloquies with Nature. While Wordsworth awakens a feeling of grandeur, and ever hears "the still sad music of humanity" amid his holiest contemplations, Percival feels a kind of childlike delight, and love and beauty not the murmur of the world he has left attend and inspire him in his woodland meditations. He brings our choicest feelings into sympathy with natural beauty, and by his love of Nature reveals to us those mysteries of the soul, which, in some hidden way, have connection with it. His more earnest and individual poems are full of spiritual meaning. He held that poetry was closely allied to religion, "that it should live only in those feelings

and imaginations which are above this world, and are the anticipations of a brighter and better being," and so abstracted it from the realities of common life, that few without a kindred nature can enter deeply into its spirit. He wrote to express his own emotions and thoughts; he longed to grasp that ideal of beauty, goodness, and truth, which ever beckoned him on in its pursuit. His poetry is often the creation of purely Platonic beauty; while under its spell, we lose all consciousness of passion, and live in an atmosphere of purity and love. One who has once caught its spirit will thence date the possession of higher thoughts, and far deeper, purer sensibility. His glowing eye, at times flashing out a strange meaning, was but the outward token of that inward sight whose readings he could impart through poetry alone. His sonnets, full of condensed meaning, far surpassing those of Wordsworth in grace and beauty, and subdued by the "sweet, silent thought" which welled out from his inner life, give us a clear insight into the nature of one, who, as he truly calls himself, was a

"Lone reader of the woods, the waters, and the skies.”

In his descriptions of natural scenery, he succeeds in giving voice to those peculiar feelings which, from very joy, we are always unable to express. In his pictures of the clouds, we read the secrets of the skies, translated into common speech. Language, indeed, was ever plastic in his hands; and except Coleridge and Shelley, we know of no poet in the language who had more melody in his soul. The comparison with Coleridge holds in more points than one. If he were the first of our poets in creative power, he was Coleridge's rival in carelessness of completing what he worked upon. He saw so much in a subject, that, unless it were of the smallest compass, he always left it incomplete. Except his lyrics, there is hardly a poem which has the orderly arrangement and careful finish of inferior men. He himself wrote, in 1823: "In all the mass of poetry that I have written, there is not a single article that was not written hastily, and published without anything like a careful revision, some of them almost exactly word for word as they were first conceived." Amid his constant poverty and inward struggles, although he often de

signed it, he had no chance leisurely to conceive and execute a work in which all his powers could be brought into play. Hence much of his poetry has the defect of impromptu writing, and, with all its brilliant succession of ever-varying imagery, its "linked sweetness long drawn out," and its firm energy and simplicity of language, often leaves but a confused impression upon the mind.

Percival is often spoken of as a most eccentric man, and the flying stories relating to the more tragic passages of his life gave him no slight annoyance. He had a native melancholy, which imparted to his character a gentle, and at times deep sadness. In early life this was increased by unusual power of feeling. So keen was his enjoyment, and so bitter his grief, that he never found those to whom he dared to disclose the emotions of his boyhood, and he once told an intimate friend that he knew only two women before he entered college,his mother and a domestic in the family. As he grew up, conscious of higher thoughts than ruled the lives of others, and bearing with ill grace the sight of depravity, his feelings withdrew him still more from intercourse with men. The forest, the flowers, and all animate nature were more congenial to his thoughts; his sensitive nature showed itself in a passionate love of beauty and truth; and we need only read his early musings and poetic pictures of the working of love in character, to see the fiery energy of feeling within his own breast. For woman, he had all a poet's love, but no common woman could hope to reach his ideal; he sought those who would sympathize with his inner life, but found them not; no doubt many of his lyrics were the record of actual experience, but the current stories about his disappointment are false. Manhood, though shaded by faults, was ever uppermost in his character, and he did not give way to unrequited love. Had he met with one who united strength of mind with delicacy of feeling, he would have been a far different man; the repression of those sympathies which reach their full in love, was doubtless the hardest trial he ever endured. But his seclusion was determined still more by his love of scholarly pursuits. His wealth of feeling spent itself in a most passionate devotion to study. He delighted to amass literary treas

ures, and used all his available funds in enriching his library. This was very miscellaneous, containing curious and quaint works in all languages, and especially full in books on philology and theology. It would seem that he bought every singular theological treatise he could lay hands on. There were also numerous geological reports, works on geography, and the leading poets in all languages. But he had read so widely and with such distinct impressions, that his library was chiefly filled with those works which made good the gaps in his own knowledge. He hardly cut the leaves of his books, and it is curious to find his Greek tragedies-books often in his hands-just as they came from the press. He read faster. than another could count the lines upon the page, and did not need to look at a book the second time. But perhaps his wide range of information, taken in connection with his freedom from worldly cares and amazing memory, is not surprising. He worked as often during the night as in the day, and took sleep only when nature imperatively demanded it. While writing he had a habit of biting his nails, and was so sensitive to noise that at one time a fiddling Frenchman, at another, the pounding of shoemakers, drove him from his room. Though he shunned society, in the company of friends few were more talkative and genial. He was seldom seen in the streets except before sunrise and at early twilight. This habit reminds us of the frequency with which pictures of the rising and setting sun appear in his poetry. Though he put on a certain calmness and dignity in the crowd, and was looked up to as one who had intellectual secrets apart from his fellows, his simplicity and modesty gained the respect of those who knew him only by sight.

He had a strong love of country, and his national sympathy easily kindled into a flame. In the election of General Harrison he was intensely active. His Whig songs were written under full inspiration, and have more than a local worth; even now they glow with fiery feeling. In his interest in the campaign, he forgot his reserve; was seldom absent from the meetings; and after the election, at a party ovation, where he was lustily cheered for his songs, he made a short speech, which he said was the first he ever made in his life. But his