ORIGINAL POETRY.

THE DAMSEL OF PERU.

WHERE olive leaves were twinkling in every wind that blew,
There sat beneath the pleasant shade a damsel of Peru:
Betwixt the slender boughs, as they opened to the air,
Came glimpses of her snowy arm and of her glossy hair;
And sweetly rang her silver voice amid that shady nook,
As from the shrubby glen is heard the sound of hidden brook.

"T is a song of love and valor, in the noble Spanish tongue,
That once upon the sunny plains of Old Castile was sung,
When, from their mountain holds, on the Moorish rout below,
Had rushed the Christians like a flood, and swept away the foe.
Awhile the melody is still, and then breaks forth anew
A wilder rhyme, a livelier note, of freedom and Peru.

For she has bound the sword to a youthful lover's side,

And sent him to the war, the day she should have been his bride,
And bade him bear a faithful heart to battle for the right,
And held the fountains of her eyes till he was out of sight;
Since the parting kiss was given six weary months are fled,
And yet the foe is in the land, and blood must yet be shed.

A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks forth,
And bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly toward the north;-
Thou lookest in vain, sweet maiden, the sharpest sight would fail
To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the vale;

For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams fiercely beat,
And the silent hills and forest tops seem reeling in the heat.

That white hand is withdrawn, that fair sad face is gone,
But the music of that silver voice is flowing sweetly on,—
Not, as of late, with cheerful tones, but mournfully and low-

A ballad of a tender maid heart-broken long ago,

Of him who died in battle, the youthful and the brave,
And her who died of sorrow upon his early grave.

But see, along that rugged path, a fiery horseman ride,

See the torn plume, the tarnished belt, the sabre at his side;
His spurs are in his horse's sides, his hand casts loose the rein,
There's sweat upon the streaming flank, and foam upon the mane;
He speeds toward that olive bower, along the shaded hill,
God shield the hapless maiden there, if he should mean her ill.

And suddenly the song has ceased, and suddenly I hear
A shriek sent up amid the shade—a shriek—but not of fear;
For tender accents follow, and tenderer pauses speak
The overflow of gladness when words are all too weak:
"I lay my good sword at thy feet, for now Peru is free,
And I am come to dwell beside the olive grove with thee."

THE SEAMAN'S BURIAL.

THE wind is hushed; the summer sun
Still lingers in the golden West,
As if it loved to look upon

A scene so calm, so blest;
The untired wave sweeps on its way
Unbroken in the sunset ray.

The tall ship rests a silent thing

Upon the ocean tide;

So calm, the sea-mew dips its wing,
Close to its wave-worn side.

The sea-boy's song is hushed, as slow
That noiseless ship rocks to and fro.

Sweet as from ocean's coral bed,

Hark! sounds of mourning come;

And warriors march with measured tread,
To beat of muffled drum.

And faintly now uprising there,

The funeral dirge steals on the air.

B.

The prayer is hushed; the solemn stave
In silence dies o'er that stern crowd;
As slowly through the clear blue wave,
Girt in his snow-white shroud,
The pallid corse is seen to glide
Far, far adown beneath the tide.

He sleeps! but o'er his ocean grave
Long peals the minute gun;
The thundering requiem of the brave
When their bright course is done.

And night winds oft shall whisper there,-
Peace to the wave-tossed mariner !

F. M.

BE HUMBLE.

TRIUMPH not, frail man; thou art
Too weak a thing to boast;
Thou hast a sad and foolish heart,

Misdeeds are all thou dost.

Thou seem'st most proud of thine offence, Thou sinn'st e'en where thou want'st pretence.

Triumph not, though nothing warns

Of vigor waning fast; Remember roses fade, but thorns

Survive the wintry blast.

A pleasant morn, a sultry noon,
Foretell the tempest rising soon.

Triumph not, though fortune sends
The riches of the mine;

If then thou countest many friends,
It is good luck of thine.

But triumph not; that gold may go,
And friends will fly in hour of woe.

And thou may'st love a smooth, soft cheek,
And woo a tender eye;

But triumph not, a single week,

And cold those lips may lie,

Or worse, that trusted heart may rove,

And leave thee for another love.

But triumph, if thy soul feels firm
In faith, and leans on God;
If woe bids flourish love's warm germ,
And thou can'st kiss the rod;
Then triumph, man, for this alone
Is cause for an exulting tone.

J.

CRITICAL NOTICES.

The Atlantic Souvenir, a Christmas and New Year's Offering. 1827. Philadelphia. H. C. Carey and I. Lea. 12mo. pp. 360.

THIS book would be well deserving of notice were it only for the uncommon beauty of its typography and embellishments. In the latter of these respects it is superior to its predecessor of last year, and quite equal in our opinion to any of the similar publications which have issued from the English presses, and which have been so much sought after in this country.

There is a numerous class of readers in this country who are not rich; there is also a considerable class of rich men who do not read. These latter, however, are not generally insensible to the pleasures of show;-they fill their houses with splendid furniture, and if they do not lay out their money in the purchase of books, it is because such an expense gratifies none of their tastes. Messrs. Carey and Lea have taken the proper method of recommending the literature of our country to the patronage of these worthy people. A book got up like the one before us, with splendid binding, beautiful type, fine paper, and elegant engravings, filled with tales and poems, furnished by the most popular writers of our country, solicits their attention as a pretty object

for a parlour window or a dressing-table. The first experiment of the publishers in this way has been completely successful; we understand that the whole impression of the last year's Atlantic Souvenir was quickly disposed of, and the present one seems likely, to say the least, to meet with an equally favorable reception. The first of the prose articles in this collection, is a tale entitled "Modern Chivalry," by the author of Redwood. We remember that some years since, a book in which there was a good deal of drollery, not always of the most delicate kind, was published in the United States with this very title, and it is rather odd that it should now be chosen as the name of a very serious and affecting story. It is a narrative of the services rendered by an American seaman to a beautiful and noble young lady of England, and is told with that power of exciting interest, and that sagacity in the delineation of character, which the author never loses. The principal incidents are said to have actually taken place about the period of the American Revolution, and are worthy of being recorded and embellished by the pen of so successful a writer.

"The White Indian," by Paulding, one of the most voluminous and popular of American authors, is written with his usual talent, and in that pure idiomatic English for which he is so distinguished, and which presents so striking a contrast to the affectations of style, the hard words, pompous sentences, and foreign idioms, which prevail too much among us. There is exquisite truth and beauty in the following description. It sets us at once amidst the coolness, darkness, and silence of the thick old forests of our country, which never felt the axe.

"By degrees, as custom reconciled me more and more to fasting and long rambles, I extended my excursions farther from home, and sometimes remained out all day without tasting food or resting myself, except for a few minutes upon the trunk of some decayed old tree or moss-covered rock. The country, though in a great degree in its native state of wildness, was full of romantic beauties. The Mohawk is one of the most charming of rivers, sometimes brawling among ragged rocks, or darting swiftly through long narrow reaches, and here and there, as at the Little Falls, and again at the Cohoes, darting down high perpendicular rocks in sheets of milk white foam, but its general character is that of repose and quiet. It is no where so broad, but that rural objects and rural sounds may be seen and heard distinctly from one side to the other and in many places the banks on either hand are composed of rich meadows or flats, as they were denominated by the early Dutch settlers, so nearly on a level with the surface of the water 19

VOL. I.