traveller's attention. The Siste Viator of the sepulchre is the "open sesame "to the attention of the world.

We have thought it necessary to make these preliminary remarks, lest our estimate of so popular an author as Mr. Willis should be considered harsh or unjust. It will be seen we try our American men of genius by the highest standard. It is no child's plaything that they have to bend, but the Bow of Ulysses; and we feel sure, upon a little consideration, they will consider it as a compliment rather than a detraction or reproach. We want them to be fellow-laborers with Marlow, Shakspeare, Milton, and Halley, and men of that calibre, and not the playfellows of the minnesinger and the troubadour.

To quote the verse of Watts:

"Were I so tall as reach the pole,

And grasp the ocean with a span,

I would be measured by my soul,
That is the standard of the man."

It is not his popularity by which we must measure the author, but the intellect he puts forth. This is a perpetual landmark not washed away by every strong tide of opinion, always ebbing and flowing, but unmoved and visible to all.

Intellect is even more unvarying than faith. Plato, Euclid, Aristotle, and the Greek dramatists, remain undiminished, like the pyramids. Time consolidates the achievements of poetry, philosophy, and mathematics. All minds, even now, bow to the masters of thought; but the religious faith of these great

men is now too childish for even the boy, and we read it now, and regard it, as a fable or an absurdity.

This fact will lead us to a better estimate of our living authors than we shall attain without keeping it fully in view. We are aware there is a certain instinct in our nature, which seems to forbid or modify any admiration of one with whom we are in the habit of frequent intercourse. Our egotism steps in and places before the brightness of their inner mind, the blinding or intercepting screen of those personal infirmities or necessities which are part and parcel of human nature, and the absence of which places a man out of the pale of humanity itself. All see and feel the palpable injustice of this mode of judging, but inevitably fall into it. The poet felt this when he said:

"Let fame, which all hunt after in their lives,

Live registered upon their brazen tombs."

The grave seems to be the only pedestal on which a man shows to advantage.

Mr. Willis first became popular with a class on account of his sacred poems. These are still much admired. Our first impression was with his admirers, but our more matured judgment is bound to state that they lack the very soul of sacred poetry, simplicity and earnestness. They are too elegant to be sublime, and breathe more of the perfumer's shop than the fragrant incense of the altar.

A few quotations will illustrate our meaning, and we hope establish our judgment; at all events, it will enable the reader to decide upon either our discretion or our candor.

We select a passage from "The Healing of the Daughter of Jairus." The touching simplicity of this is known to every reader of the Bible. Mr. Willis thus renders it:

"They passed in.

The spice lamps in the alabaster urns

Burned dimly, and the white and fragrant smoke
Curled indolently on the chamber walls.

The silken curtains slumbered in their folds

Not e'en a tassel stirring in the air—

And as the Saviour stood beside the bed,
And prayed inaudible, the RULER heard
The quickening division of his breath
As he grew earnest inwardly. There came
A gradual brightness o'er his calm, sad face:
And drawing nearer to the bed, he moved
The silken curtains silently apart,

And looked upon the maiden."

This short passage displays almost every peculiarity which sacred poetry should not possess. It is pretty, very pretty; but as far from truth and nature as a French milliner is from the Venus de Medicis. We have italicized a few of the most glaring violations of propriety.

We give one more extract to complete the picture: it immediately follows the previous quotation.

"Like a form

Of matchless sculpture in her sleep she lay

The linen vesture folded on her breast,

And over it her white transparent hands,

The blood still rosy in their tapering nails.
A line of pearl ran through her parted lips,
And in her nostrils, spiritually thin,

The breathing curve was mockingly like life
And round beneath the faintly tinted skin,
Ran the light branches of the azure veins,
And on her cheek the jet lash o'erlay,
Matching the arches pencilled on her brow,-
Her hair had been unbound, and falling loose
Upon her pillow, hid her small round ears

In curls of glossy blackness, and about

Her polished neck, scarce touching it, they hung,
Like airy shadows floating as they slept.

"T was heavenly beautiful.”

With this crowning climax we close this attempt to diminish into mere prettiness the sublime simplicity of this gospel narrative.

We need hardly point out, to the most casual reader, the singular taste which has dictated the selection of the images and epithets of this piece of sacred verse.

As a curious specimen of scriptural vocabulary we may quote the following:

66

Spice lamps;""alabaster urns;" "white and fragrant smoke;" "curled indolently;" "silken curtains slumbered in their folds;" "silken curtains,"

repeated in a few lines further down the page.

The description of the dead maiden, in the next quotation, is

rather an anatomical auctioneer Robins cataloguing her limbs, than a fine picture of death, sketched by the hand of a poet.

Our readers must pardon our placing in juxtaposition to this elegant elaboration, a passage from Byron. However well known these lines may be, their reiteration now will do more to show the difference between false and true poetry than a volume of critical analysis.

"He who hath bent him o'er the dead,

Ere the first day of death is fled,

The first dark day of nothingness,

The last of danger and distress;
Before decay's effacing fingers

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,
And marked the mild, angelic air,

The rapture of repose that's there,

The fixed yet tender traits that streak

The languor of that pallid cheek ;

And but for that sad, shrouded eye,

That fires not, wins not, weeps not now,
And but for that chill, changeless brow,
Where 'cold obstruction's' apathy
Appals the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it would impart

The doom he dreads yet dwells upon,-
Some moments, aye, a treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power,
So fair, so calm, so softly sealed,

The first, last look by death revealed."

Although these vices of style pervade to a great extent