walls of a college, it was revised and finished by one of years and discretion, who had been long familiar with the groves of Academus, and the fountains of sweet song, and long versed in the ways of the world; by one who had been a scholar and a teacher, a chaplain in the tented field, a politician in the halls of legislation, and a pastor in the quiet country.

Greenfield Hill is rather a collection of poems than one connected work. For though the several parts have a slight relation to the general title, each part is in itself a separate performance. Portions of it were written expressly in imitation of the manner of some popular British poets. Thus "The Prospect," imitates Thomson; "The Flourishing Village" is a beautiful counterpart to the masterpiece of Goldsmith; "The Destruction of the Pequods," in versification and style, is modeled after the "Minstrel " of Beattie; and "The Clergyman's advice to the Villagers ". '—one of the simplest and truest, and most beautiful of ethical poems-is in the manner of Edward Moore. In every part of the work, we see not only maturity and strength of mind, superadded to melody of verse and power of imagination, but every proof that the author feels himself at home, and is employed in just that class of subjects in which his genius is best fitted to excel.

The "Triumph of Infidelity," is a satire occasioned by the publication of Dr Chauncey's work on Universal Salvation. In its style it resembles the strong and hearty invective of Juvenal, more than the playful ridicule of Horace. It is not without obvious faults. Its topics of sarcasm are sometimes trite, and it occasionally expresses, perhaps too freely, the author's contempt of individuals. This poem was published anonymously, and has not been numbered with his works in any biography of the author hitherto published.

His edition of Watts contains thirtythree psalms written by himself. Some of these are superior and favorite specimens of a kind of poetry in which true excellence is uncom

mon.

Respecting the poems of Dwight generally, it may be said, that while they cannot claim for him the praise which is ren

dered only to a few exalted names, they rise in merit far above the average level of that mass of compositions which constitutes as a body, the poetry of the English language.

THE DESTRUCTION OF THE PEQUODS.

Ан me! while up the long, long vale of time,
Reflection wanders towards the eternal vast,
How starts the eye, at many a change sublime,
Unbosom'd dimly by the ages pass'd!

What mausoleums crowd the mournful waste!
The tombs of empires fallen! and nations gone!
Each, once inscribed, in gold, with "Aye to last,"
Sate as a queen; proclaim'd the world her own,
And proudly cried, "By me no sorrows shall be known."

Soon fleets the sunbright form, by man adored.
Soon fell the head of gold, to time a prey;
The arms, the trunk, his cankering tooth devour'd;
And whirlwinds biew the iron dust away.
Where dwelt imperial Timur ?-far astray,
Some lonely-musing pilgrim now inquires;
And, rack'd by storms, and hastening to decay,
Mohammed's mosque foresees its final fires;
And Rome's more lordly temple day by day expires.

As o'er proud Asían realms the traveller winds,
His manly spirit, hush'd by terror, falls;
When some deceased town's lost site he finds,
Where ruin wild his pondering eye appals;
Where silence swims along the moulder'd walls,
And broods upon departed grandeur's tomb.
Through the lone, hollow aisles sad echo calls,
At each low step; deep sighs the breathing gloom,
And weeping fields, around, bewail their Empress's doom.

Where o'er an hundred realms, the throne uprose,
The screech-owl nests, the panther builds his home;
Sleep the dull newts, the lazy adders doze,
Where pomp and luxury danced the golden room.
Low lies in dust the sky-resembled dome;
Tall grass around the broken column waves;
And brambles climb, and lonely thistles bloom:

The moulder'd arch the weedy streamlet laves,
And low resound beneath, unnumber'd sunken graves.

- Soon fleets the sun-bright form, by man adored;
And soon man's demon chiefs from memory fade.
In musty volume, now must be explored,
Where dwelt imperial nations, long decay'd.
The brightest meteors angry clouds invade;
And where the wonders glitter'd, none explain.

Where Carthage, with proud hand, the trident sway'd,
Now mud-wall'd cots sit sullen on the plain,

And wandering, fierce, and wild, sequester'd Arabs reign.

In thee, O Albion! queen of nations, live
Whatever splendors earth's wide realms have known;
In thee proud Persia sees her pomp revive ;

And Greece her arts; and Rome her lordly throne:
By every wind, thy Tyrian fleets are blown;
Supreme, on fame's dread roll, thy heroes stand;
All ocean's realms thy naval sceptre own;
Of bards, of sages, how august thy band!

And one rich Eden blooms around thy garden'd land.

But O how vast thy crimes! through heaven's great year,
When few centurial suns have traced their way;
When southern Europe, worn by feuds severe;
Weak, doting, fallen, has bow'd to Russian sway;
And setting glory beam'd her farewell ray;
To waste, perchance, thy brilliant fields shall turn;
In dust, thy temples, towers, and towns decay;
The forest howl, where London's turrets burn;
And all thy garlands deck thy sad, funereal urn.

Some land, scarce glimmering in the light of fame,
Sceptred with arts, and arms (if I divine)
Some unknown wild, some shore without a name,
In all thy pomp, shall then majestic shine.

As silver-headed Time's slow years decline,

Not ruins only meet the inquiring eye:

Where round yon mouldering oak vain brambles twine, The filial stem, already towering high,

Ere long shall stretch his arms, and nod in yonder sky.

Where late resounded the wild woodland roar,
Now heaves the palace, now the temple smiles;
Where frown'd the rude rock, and the desert shore,

Now pleasure sports, and business want beguiles,
And commerce wings her flight to thousand isles;
Culture walks forth; gay laugh the loaded fields;
And jocund labor plays his harmless wiles;

Glad science brightens; art her mansion builds;
And peace uplifts her wand, and heaven his blessing yields.

O'er these sweet fields, so lovely now, and gay,
Where modest nature finds each want supplied,
Where home-born happiness delights to play,
And counts her little flock, with household pride,
Long frown'd, from age to age, a forest wide :
Here hung the slumbering bat; the serpent dire
Nested his brood, and drank the impoison'd tide;
Wolves peal'd, the dark drear night, in hideous choir;
Nor shrank the unmeasured howl from Sol's terrific fire.

No charming cot imbank'd the pebbly stream;

No mansion tower'd, nor garden teem'd with good;
No lawn expanded to the April beam;

Nor mellow harvest hung its bending load;

Nor science dawn'd; nor life with beauty glow'd;
Nor temple whiten'd, in the enchanting dell;

In clusters wild, the sluggish wigwam stood;
And, borne in snaky paths the Indian fell

Now aim'd the death unseen, now scream'd the tiger-yell.

E'en now, perhaps, on human dust I tread,

Pondering, with solemn pause, the wrecks of time;
Here sleeps, perchance, among the vulgar dead,
Some chief, the lofty theme of Indian rhyme,
Who loved ambition's cloudy steep to climb,
And smiled, death, dangers, rivals, to engage;
Who roused his followers' souls to deeds sublime,
Kindling to furnace heat vindictive rage,

And soar'd Cæsarean heights, the Phoenix of his age.

In yon small field, that dimly steals from sight,
(From yon small field these meditations grow,)
Turning the sluggish soil, from morn to night,
The plodding hind, laborious, drives his plough,
Nor dreams, a nation sleeps his foot below.
There, undisturbed by the roaring wave,
Released from war, and far from deadly foe,
Lies down, in endless rest, a nation brave,
And trains, in tempests born, there find a quiet grave.

Oft have I heard the tale, when matron sere
Sung to my infant ear the song
of wo;

Of maiden meek, consumed with pining care,
Around whose tomb the wild-rose loved to blow:
Or told, with swimming eyes, how, long ago,
Remorseless Indians, all in midnight dire,
The little, sleeping village, did o'erthrow,
Bidding the cruel flames to heaven aspire,

And scalp'd the hoary head, and burn'd the babe with fire

Then, fancy-fired, her memory wing'd its flight,
To long-forgotten wars, and dread alarms,

To chiefs obscure, but terrible in fight,

Who mock'd each foe, and laugh'd at deadliest harms,
Sydneys in zeal, and Washingtons in arms.

By instinct tender to the woes of man,

My heart bewildering with sweet pity's charms, Through solemn scenes, with nature's step, she ran, And hush'd her audience small, and thus the tale began.

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Through verdant banks where Thames's branches glide, Long held the Pequods an extensive sway;

Bold, savage, fierce, of arms the glorious pride,

And bidding all the circling realms obey.

Jealous, they saw the tribes, beyond the sea,

Plant in their climes; and towns, and cities, rise;
Ascending castles foreign flags display;

Mysterious art new scenes of life devise;

And steeds insult the plains, and cannon rend the skies.”

"The rising clouds the savage chief descried,
And, round the forest, bade his heroes arm;
To arms the painted warriors proudly hied,
And through surrounding nations rung the alarm.
The nations heard; but smiled, to see the storm,
With ruin fraught, o'er Pequod mountains driven
And felt infernal joy the bosom warm,

To see their light hang o'er the skirts of even,
And other suns arise, to gild a kinder heaven."

"Swift to the Pequod fortress Mason sped,
Far in the wildering wood's impervious gloom;
A lonely castle, brown with twilight dread;
Where oft the embowel'd captive met his doom,
And frequent heaved, around the hollow tomb,

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