Closed on the ear, nor e'en by it remembered,
Will still its silent agency prolong

Upon the spirit, with a hoarded sweetness
Tempering the after-mood; e'en so did'st Thou
Waft the bland influence of thy dawning presence
Over the onward hours.

"Yet, thou sphered Vestal!
If mine it were to choose me when to bend
Before thy high-hung lamp; and venerate
Thy mysteries; and feel, not hear, the voice
Of thy mute admonition; let it be

At holy vesper-tide, when nature all

Whispers of peace;

More soothing still.

if solemn less than night's,
Such season of the soul
Obeys Thee best. For as the unwrinkled pool,
Stilled o'er by stirless eve, will dimple under
The tiniest brushing of an insect's wing;
So, at that hour, do human hearts respond
To every touch of finer thought.

"Such eve, Such blessed eve was ours, when last we stood Beside the storied shore of Gaëta,

Breathing its citroned air. Silence more strict
Was never. The small wave, or ripple rather,
Scarce lisping up the sand, crept to the ear

Sole sound; nor did we break the calm with movement, Or sacrilege of word; but stayed in peace,

Of Thee expectant. And what need had been

Of voiced language, when the silent eye,

And silent pressure of each linked arm,

Spoke more than utterance? Nay, whose tongue might tell
What hues were garlanding the western sky
To welcome thy approaching! Purple hues
With orange wove, and many a floating lake
Crimson or rose, with that last tender green
Which best relieves thy beauty. Who may paint
How glowed those hills, with depth of ruddy light
Translucified, and half ethereal made,

For thy white feet to tread on? and, ere long,
E'er yet those hues had left or sky or hill,
One peak with pearling top confess'd thy coming.
There didst thou pause awhile, as inly musing
O'er realm so fair! And, first, thy rays fell partial
On many a scattered object, here and there:
Edging or tipping, with fantastic gleam,

The sword-like aloe, or the tent-roofed pine,
Or adding a yet paler pensiveness

To the pale olive-tree; or, yet more near us,
Were flickering back from wall reticulate'
Of ruin old. But when that orb of Thine
Had clomb to the mid-concave, then broad light
Was flung around o'er all those girding cliffs,
And groves, and villages, and fortress towers,
And the far circle of that lake-like sea,
Till the whole grew to one expanded sense
Of peacefulness, one atmosphere of love,

Where the Soul breathed as native, and mere Body
Sublimed to Spirit.

She, too, stood beside us,

Our human type of Thee; the Pure, the Peaceful,
The Gentle, potent in her gentleness!

And, as she raised her eyes to thy meek glory,
In the fond aspiration of a heart,

Which prized all beauty and all sanctity;
We saw, and loved to see, thy sainting ray
Fall, as in fondness, on her upturned brow,
Serene, like it. Alas! in how brief space
Coldly to glitter on her marble tomb!

-

"She lies in her own land; far from the scene
Of that fair eve; but Thou, its fairer part,

Thou Moon! art here; and now we gaze on Thee
To think on Her; if still in sorrow, yet

Not without hope; and, for the time to come,
Though dear to us thy light hath ever been,
Shall love Thee yet the more for her sweet sake."

pp. 19-25.

There is an unusual charm in Mr. Kenyon's versification, that occasionally suggests recollections of some one of our favorite English bards, as Milton, and Cowper more particularly, not in the way of imitation, which is always disagreeable, but by some resemblance of poetic nature, a transient suggestion, in the same manner as a passing melody, or the sweet fragrance of some wayside flower, may call to mind the scenes of earlier, and perhaps happier days. He has read Nature with his own eyes, but through the beautiful medium of a highly cultivated mind.

In

The next poem is on "Pretence," a satire; if satire that can be called, which has no sting, or rather no venom. deed, those who insist on seeing a reputation die at every

sally, will be disappointed in Mr. Kenyon's satire, which is aimed, in the true feeling of a noble nature, at vices, not at individuals. We have no room, however, for specimens of the polished raillery which the ephemeral topics of the poem call forth; but must close our extracts with one of the fugitive pieces, that form the latter half of the volume.

THE BROKEN APPOINTMENT.

"I sought at morn the beechen bower,
Thy verdant grot;

It came, it went, - the promised hour,

I found thee not.

Light zephyrs from the quivering boughs
Soon brushed the transient dew;
Then first I feared, that Love's own vows
Were transient too!

"At eve I sought the well-known stream
Where, wont to rove,

We breathed so oft, by twilight gleam,
Our vows of love;

I stopped upon the pleasant brink,
And saw the wave glide past;
Ah me! I could not help but think
Love glides as fast.

"Oh! I had culled for thee a wreath
Of blossoms rare ;

But now each flowret droops beneath
The chill night-air.

'Tis past,

- long past, our latest hour, And yet thou art not nigh;

Oh! Love, thou art indeed a flower

Born but to die!"

-p. 41.

53

Mr. Kenyon, in his Preface, expresses the natural longing after immortality, intimated by the "Non omnis moriar" of Horace; a natural desire, indeed, but one that we do not see often uttered in our day, or even in modern times. Milton, it is true, consoled himself under disappointment and disgrace, with the generous confidence, that he had given birth to something, that "after-times would not willingly let die." But how few, like the blind poet of "Paradise Lost," would be content, had they his genius, to spurn delights, and live laborious days, for the guerdon of immortality! How few, who do not rather thrust the sickly blossoms of their fancy into the world, crude and half-opened, without vitality to outlast a summer!

What is the reason, that this generous solicitude for an undying name should have been felt, or, at least, expressed, so much more earnestly by the ancients than the moderns? Is it, that the former, in their philosophical skepticism as to another world, sought some compensation from prolonged existence in this? Or that something of the same generous spirit which led the individual of that day to merge his existence, as it were, in that of the public, also suggested to him the desire to blend his being, as far as possible, with the intelligences of after ages? Or, finally, that the narrow sphere, which circumscribed a reputation, previously to the rapid and boundless multiplication of copies by the art of printing, induced the poet of antiquity, in his ambition of a wider theatre, to fix his gaze more steadily on the dark, distant, interminable future? In our own day, the immense audience thrown open to the popular poet, the rapid and almost simultaneous vibrations which, now that the press affords the means, attest his power, in the most distant parts of the community, and last, not least, his solid golden gains, all combine to satisfy his desires, shutting out the delusive thoughts of the dim and uncertain future. The English author, from his little speck of an island, scarcely visible on the map, sends forth his voice on the wings of the wind, and it is heard by his countrymen, almost simultaneously, in every region of the globe, in islands and continents unknown to antiquity; empires, which the arms and the arts of his nation have subdued; and countries which, if independent of her rule, still speak her language, and resort to the well of English undefiled, as the perennial spring of their own literature.

And is not this a theatre vast enough for ambition? Yet, the "Non omnis moriar" feeling, the dread of annihilation, will recur, the fond hope, that the thought now fluttering into being, shall find its way down, and mingle with the souls of the good and the wise of future generations. It is impossible to predict what may be the fate of a writer with this same Posterity. Or rather, it is very possible to predict, with the comfortable assurance, that such prediction cannot be discredited in our own day. We cannot but think, that Jupiter will listen to one half of our author's prayer, should he give the other to the winds; and that there are poems in this collection, of too much excellence for "after-times" (to quote again the words of the blind old bard) to "willingly let die."

ART. V.1. Traité complet sur le Sucre Européen de Betteraves, Traduction abrégée de M. ACHARD; par M. D. ANGAR. Précédé d'une Introduction et accompagné de Notes et Observations; par CH. DEROSNE. Paris, 1812.

2. Mémoires sur le Sucre de Betteraves; par M. le Comte CHAPTAL. 3° édit. Paris, 1822.

3. Traité complet de la Fabrication du Sucre de Betteraves, par DUBRUNFAUT. Paris, 1825.

4. Faits et Observations sur la Fabrication du Sucre de Betteraves, et sur la Distillation des Mélasses; par C. J. A. MATHIEU DE DOMBASLE.

5. Traité de la Fabrication et du Raffinage des Sucres de Cannes et de Betteraves; par M. PAYEN. Paris, 1832. 6. Notice sur la Fabrication du Noir Animal; par J. S. CLÉMONDAT. Paris, 1832.

7. Bulletin du Procédé de Macération pour la Fabrication du Sucre de Betteraves; par C. J. A. MATHIEU DE DOMBASLE. Paris, 1832.

8. Manuel du Fabricant et du Raffineur de Sucre de Cannes et de Betteraves; par MM. BLANCHETTE et ZOEGA. 2 édit., augmentée et enrichie de Planches; par M. JULIA DE FONTENELLE. Paris, 1833.

9. Rapport fait au Nom de la Commission, chargée d'ex