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THE SONG WRITERS OF AMERICA.

POESY is the daughter of the gods. The divinest faculty ofman is the gift of song. Ifthere is any thing that links us to the angels it is our longing for supernal beauty-a longing which we seek to gratify in music, in painting, in earthly loveliness, but most of all in poetry. To appease this wild thirst for things brighter than are afforded by our present state of existence, we invest mortal beings with the attributes of the celestial world, surrounding them with a beauty which is a part of the cherubims, and dignifying them with a purity that blooms only by the rivers of Paradise. To the eye of the poet the commonest things of life have a loveliness greater than the loveliest things of earth to the eye of the uninspired. His own glorious spirit bathes every thing he looks upon in an effulgence like that which the archangel's countenance sheds around whatever he beholds. There is not a leaf that rustles in the wood, nor a wave that sparkles in the sun, nor a bird that sings in the thicket, nor a flower that lifts its face to the summer sky and smiles, but is not to the poet more beautiful than the most glorious visions are to the mere " hewer of wood and drawer of water" of earth. A ripple, a dew-drop, the tinkle of a waterfall, the song of a child at play in the woods, a star, a passing bird, whatever there is of this world to gladden the heart of man with glimpses ofsupernal beauty, stirs ten thousand fine chords in the bosom of the poet, and makes all time tremulous with a strain that vibrates throughout nature, and for aught we know, may reach into eternity itself. He, who has the faculty of song, carries with him a safeguard against the ills of this life. He has wings given to him to soar above all that is mean in earth, and, it is his own fault if ever he soils his plumage, or fails to drink, far up in the illimitable ether, the dew wept by the stars. God made man for immortality, and though he has allotted us our first home here, it is only that we may deserve our heritage by spurning the dross of earth and winging our way above. And Poesy is our mistress to bid us fix our eyes on heaven, and plume ourselves for the flight.

Where are the poets of old ? Their mortal bodies sleep by the shores of Greece, on the hills of Italy, in the quiet minsters of our fatherland ; but their souls are still with us, in those immortal works, which they have left behind. Hear you not the blind old man of Scio, as he was heard of yore in the cities of Greece, speaking in the self same tones as when he thrilled the sons of acides with their ancestors' deeds ? Underneath the his loved foliage have we sat for hours with the Bard of Mantua, listening to the silver melody of his pipe, as he recited the sacking of Illium, or lamented over the melancholy love of Dido. Oh ! have you not heard Petrarch sing of Laura ? Have you not felt with Dante the

shaggy sides of Lucifer ? You have walked with Milton hand in hand along the flowery banks of Eden, or gazed breathlessly down into the lake of fire where writhed Satan and his hosts. With Rosalind we have roamed the forest of Ardennes. We have seen the unspotted Imogen asleep in her chamber which her holy breath perfumed. We have heard the midnight terrors of Richard, have seen the horror-struck Macbeth, have spoken as Hamlet spoke with a visitant from the tomb. We have soared with Ariel to the skies. And with the blind old man we have heard the harps before the eternal throne, and seen the gleaming of the white wings of angels, and the robes of the redeemed : and long ages after we are dead the world will still hear the divine music of the poets, and catch glimpses of Paradise from the calm, ineffable faces of these prophets of God. Poesy comes from the skies and is eternal. The song-writer is as much a poet as the composer of an epic, and, in his peculiar department, may evince an equal genius. The nobility of sentiment, the beauty of the imagery, the finish and purity of the style which constitute the merits of the epic are essential to the song ; and the true poet will infuse them into the lyric as fully and triumphantly as into a longer poem. Genius bathes whatever it touches with glory. It matters not whether Apollo sweeps his own celestial lyre, or touches the rude fibres of the shell on the sea-shore ; he brings music alike from either ; for it is the fingers of the god and not the instrument in which the harmony resides. In judging of a song, therefore, we must not abate one whit the rigid canons by which we judge an epic : indeed if either requires the higher polish it is the song, just as in painting, the lines of a miniature ought to be more exquisitely pencilled than those of a full length portrait. The great old masters have left us nothing which is not as elaborately finished in its detail as it is simple in its general effect. The song-writers of our country are but little, if at all inferior to those of England. We have no Shakspeare, nor Milton, nor Spencer ; but we have our Herrick and our Waller. We number among our sons many who have asserted for themselves a high station in the sacerdotal throng, and who have waited at the altar in robes only less resplendent than those of the high priests of Poesy. Noble and worthy are these children of our common country, and long shall they be held in remembrance among us. To some have been given the highest powers of song, and sweetly have they sung far up and out of sight in heaven. On others a less beatific inspiration has descended, and they have warbled their lays along the hedge-rows, and by the sedgy margins of streams. But all have had more or less of the divine faculty, have given us brighter or dimmer glimpses of Paradise, have lifted our souls above the littlenesses and sorrows ofthis world, and thrilled it with celestial sights