MR. PERCIVAL was born in Berlin, near Hartford, in Connecticut, on the fifteenth of September, 1795. His father, an intelligent physician, died in 1807, and he was committed to the care of a guardian. His instruction continued to be carefully attended to, however, and when fifteen years of age he entered Yale College. The condition of his health, which had been impaired by too close application to study, rendered necessary a temporary removal from New Haven, but after an absence of about a year he returned, and in 1815 graduated with the reputation of being the first scholar of his class. He subsequently entered the Yale Medical School, and in 1820 received the degree of Doctor of Medicine.

He began to write verses at an early age, and in his fourteenth year is said to have produced a satire in aim and execution not unlike Mr. BRYANT'S "Embargo." In the last year of his college life he composed a dramatic piece to be spoken by some of the students at the annual commencement, which was afterwards enlarged and printed under the title of "Zamor, a Tragedy." He did not appear as an author before the public, however, until 1821, when he published at New Haven, with some minor poems, the first part of his "Prometheus," which attracted considerable attention, and was favourably noticed in an article by Mr. EDWARD EVERETT, in the North American Review.

In 1822 he published two volumes of miscellaneous poems and prose writings under the title of Clio," the first at Charleston, South Carolina, and the second at New Haven. They contain "Consumption," "The Coral Grove," and other pieces which have been regarded as among the finest of his works. In the same year they were followed by an oration, previously delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Yale College, "On Some of the Moral and Political truths Derivable from History," and the second part of "Prometheus." The whole of this poem contains nearly four hundred stanzas in the Spenserian measure. An edition of his principal poetical writings, embracing a few original pieces, appeared soon after in New York and was reprinted in London.

In 1824 Dr. PERCIVAL was appointed an assistant-surgeon in the army, and stationed at West Point with orders to act as Professor of Chemistry in the Military Academy. He had supposed that the duties of the office were so light as to allow him abundant leisure for the pursuit of his favourite studies, and when undeceived by the experience of a few months, he resigned his commission and went to Boston, where he passed in various literary avocations the greater portion of the year 1825. In this period he wrote his poem on the mind, in which

he intimates that its highest office is the creation of beauty, and that there are certain unchanging principles of taste, to which all works of art, all "linked sounds of most elaborate music," must be conformable, to give more than a feeble and transient pleasure.

Early in 1827 he published in New York the third volume of "Clio," and was afterwards engaged nearly two years in superintending the printing of the first quarto edition of Dr. WEBSTER'S American Dictionary, a service for which he was eminently qualified by an extensive and critical acquaintance with ancient and modern languages. His next work was a new translation of MALTEBRUN's Geography, from the French, which was not completed until 1843.

From his boyhood Dr. PERCIVAL has been an earnest and constant student, and there are few branches of learning with which he is not familiar. Perhaps there is not in the country a man of more thorough and comprehensive scholarship. In 1835 he was employed by the government of Connecti. cut to make a geological survey of that state, which he had already very carefully explored on his own account. His Report on the subject, which is very able and elaborate, was printed in an octavo volume of nearly five hundred pages, in 1842. While engaged in these duties he published poetical translations from the Polish, Russian, Servian, Bohemian, German, Dutch, Danish, Swedish, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese languages, and wrote a considerable portion of "The Dream of Day and other Poems," which appeared at New Haven in 1843. This is his last volume; it embraces more than one hundred and fifty varieties of measure, and its contents generally show his familiar acquaintance with the poetical art, which in his preface he observes, "equires a mastery of the riches and niceties of a language; a full knowledge of the science of versification, not only in its own peculiar principles of rhythm and melody, but in its relation to elocution and music, with that delicate natural perception and that facile execution which render the composition of verse hardly less easy than that of prose; a deep and quick insight into the nature of man, in all his varied faculties, intellectual and emotive; a clear and full perception of the power and beauty of nature, and of all its various harmonies with our own thoughts and feelings; and, to gain a high rank in the present age, wide and exact attainments in literature and art in general. Nor is the possession of such faculties and attainments all that is necessary; but such a sustained and self-collected state of mind as gives one the mastery of his genius, and at the same time presents to him the ideal as an immediate reality, not as a remote conception."

219

There are few men who possess these high qualities in a more eminent degree than PERCIVAL; but with the natural qualities of a great poet, and his comprehensive and thorough learning, he lacks the executive skill, or declines the labour, without which few authors gain immortality. He has considerable imagination, remarkable command of language, and writes with a facility rarely equalled; but when his thoughts are once committed to the page, he shrinks from the labour of revising,

correcting, and condensing. He remarks in one of his prefaces, that his verse is very far from bearing the marks of the file and the burnisher," and that he likes to see "poetry in the full ebullition of feeling and fancy, foaming up with the spirit of life, and glowing with the rainbows of a glad inspiration." If by this he means that a poet should reject the slow and laborious process by which a polished excellence is attained, very few who have acquired good reputations will agree with him

Lone pilgrim through life's gloom," thus spake the shade,

"Hold on with steady will along thy way: Thou, by a kindly favouring hand wert madeHard though thy lot, yet thine what can repay Long years of bitter toil-the holy aid

Of spirit aye is thine, be that thy stay:
Thine to behold the true, to feel the pure,
To know the good and lovely-these endure.
Hold on-thou hast in thee thy best reward;

Poor are the largest stores of sordid gain,
If from the heaven of thought thy soul is barr'd,
If the high spirit's bliss is sought in vain :
Think not thy lonely lot is cold or hard,

The world has never bound thee with its chain; Free as the birds of heaven thy heart can soar, Thou canst create new worlds-what wouldst thou more?

The future age will know thee-yea, even now
Hearts beat and tremble at thy bidding, tears
Flow as thou movest thy wand, thy word can bow
Even ruder natures, the dull soul uprears
As thou thy trumpet blast attunest-thou

Speakest, and each remotest valley hears:
Thou hast the gift of song-a wealth is thine,
Richer than all the treasures of the mine.
Hold on, glad spirits company thy path-

They minister to thee, though all unseen :
Even when the tempest lifts its voice in wrath,

Thou joyest in its strength; the orient sheen Gladdens thee with its beauty; winter hath

A holy charm that soothes thee, like the green Of infant May-all nature is thy friend, All seasons to thy life enchantment lend. Man, too, thou know'st and feelest-all the springs That wake his smile and tear, his joy and sorrow, All that uplifts him on emotion's wings,

Each longing for a fair and blest to-morrow, Each tone that soothes or saddens, all that rings Joyously to him, thou canst fitly borrow From thy own breast, and blend it in a strain, To which each human heart beats back again. Thine the unfetter'd thought, alone controll'd

By nature's truth; thine the wide-seeing eye, Catching the delicate shades, yet apt to hold

The whole in its embrace-before it lie Pictured in fairest light, as chart unroll'd,

Fields of the present and of destiny: The voice of truth amid the senseless throng May now be lost; 'tis heard and felt ere long. Hold on-live for the world-live for all timeRise in thy conscious power, but gently bear Thy form among thy fellows; sternly climb

The spirit's alpine peaks; mid snow towers there Nurse the pure thought, but yet accordant chime

With lowlier hearts in valleys green and fair,— Sustain thyself-yield to no meaner hand, Even though he rule awhile thy own dear land. Brief is his power, oblivion waits the churl

Bound to his own poor self; his form decays, But sooner fades his name. Thou shalt unfurl Thy standard to the winds of future daysWell mayest thou in thy soul defiance hurl

On such who would subdue thee; thou shalt raise Thy name, when they are dust, and nothing more Hold on-in earnest hope still look before.

Nerved to a stern resolve, fulfil thy lot

Reveal the secrets nature has unveil'd thee; All higher gifts by toil intense are boughtHas thy firm will in action ever fail'd thee? Only on distant summits fame is sought

Sorrow and gloom thy nature has entail'd thee. But bright thy present joys, and brighter far The hope that draws thee like a heavenly star." The voice was still-its tone in distance dying

Breathed in my ear, like harp faint heard at even,

Soft as the autumn wind through sere leaves s ighing When flaky clouds athwart the moon are driven F'ar through the viewless gloom the spirit flying,

Wing'd his high passage to his native heaven, But o'er me still he seem'd in kindness bending, Fresh hope and firmer purpose to me lending.

Spirit of life! rather aloft, where on the crest of the mountain,

Clear blow the winds, fresh from the north, sparkles and dashes the fountain,

Lead me along, hot in the chase, still 'mid the storm high glowing

Only we live-only, when life, like the wild torrent, is flowing.

THE POET.

DEEP sunk in thought, he sat beside the riverIts wave in liquid lapses glided by,

Nor watch'd, in crystal depth, his vacant eye The willow's high o'er-arching foliage quiver. From dream to shadowy dream returning ever, He sat, like statue, on the grassy verge; His thoughts, a phantom train, in airy surge Stream'd visionary onward, pausing never. As autumn wind, in mountain forest weaving Its wondrous tapestry of leaf and bower, O'ermastering the night's resplendent flower With tints, like hues of heaven, the eye deceivingSo, lost in labyrinthine maze, he wove A wreath of flowers; the golden thread was love.

NIGHT.

Am I not all alone?-The world is still
In passionless slumber-not a tree but feels
The far-pervading hush, and softer steals
The misty river by.-Yon broad bare hill
Looks coldly up to heaven, and all the stars

Seem eyes deep fix'd in silence, as if bound By some unearthly spell-no other sound But the owl's unfrequent moan.-Their airy cars The winds have station'd on the mountain peaks. Am I not all alone?-A spirit speaks

From the abyss of night, "Not all aloneNature is round thee with her banded powers, And ancient genius haunts thee in these hoursMind and its kingdom now are all thy own."

CHORIAMBIC MELODY.

BEAR me afar o'er the wave, far to the sacred islands,

Where ever bright blossoms the plain, where no cloud hangs on the highlands

There be my heart ever at rest, stirr'd by no wild emotion:

There on the earth only repose, halcyon calm on the

ocean.

Lay me along, pillow'd on flowers, where steals in silence for ever

Over its sands, still as at noon, far the oblivious river.

Scarce through the grass whispers it by; deep in

its wave you may number

Pebble and shell, and image of flower, folded and bent in slumber.

SAPPHO.

SHE stands in act to fall-her garland torr., Its wither'd rose-leaves round the rock are blowing; Loose to the winds her locks dishevell'd flowing Tell of the many sorrows she has borne.

Her eye, up-turn'd to heaven, has lost its fireOne hand is press'd to feel her bosom's beating, And mark her lingering pulses back retreatingThe other wanders o'er her silent lyre.

Clear rolls the midway sun-she knows it not; Vainly the winds waft by the flower's perfume; To her the sky is hung in deepest gloom

She only feels the noon-beam burning hot.
What to the broken heart the dancing waves,
The air all kindling-what a sounding name?
O! what a mockery, to dream of fame--
It only lures us on to make us slaves.
And Love-O! what art thou with all thy light!
Ineffable joy is round thee, till we know,

Thou art but as a vision of the night-
And then the bursting heart, how deep its wo.

THE FESTIVE EVENING. CHEERFUL glows the festive chamber; In the circle pleasure smiles: Mounts the flame, like wreaths of amber;

Bright as love, its warmth beguiles. Glad the heart with joy is lighted: Hand with hand, in faith, is plighted, As around the goblet flows. Fill-fill-fill, and quaff the liquid rose! Bright it glows

O! how bright the bosom glows.

Pure as light, our social meeting:

Here no passion dares invade.
Joys we know, not light and flecting:

Flowers we twine, that never fade.
Ours are links, not time can sever:
Brighter still they glow for ever—
Glow in yon eternal day.
No-no-no, ye will not pass away-
Ye will stay-

Social joys, for ever stav'

THE SUN.

CENTRE of light and energy! thy way

Is through the unknown void; thou hast thy throne,

Morning, and evening, and at noon of day,

Far in the blue, untended and alone:

Ere the first-waken'd airs of earth had blown, On thou didst march, triumphant in thy light;

Then thou didst send thy glance, which still hath flown

Wide through the never-ending worlds of night, And yet thy full orb burns with flash as keen and bright.

We call thee Lord of Day, and thou dost give

To earth the fire that animates her crust, And wakens all the forms that move and live, From the fine, viewless mould which lurks in dust,

To him who looks to heaven, and on his bust Bears stamp'd the seal of Gon, who gathers there Lines of deep thought, high feeling, daring trust In his own center'd powers, who aims to share In all his soul can frame of wide, and great, and fair.

Thy path is high in heaven; we cannot gaze
On the intense of light that girds thy car;
'There is a crown of glory in thy rays,

Which bears thy pure divinity afar,
To mingle with the equal light of star,-
For thou, so vast to us, art in the whole

One of the sparks of night that fire the air,
And, as around thy centre planets roll,
So thou, too, hast thy path around the central soul.

I am no fond idolater to thee,

One of the countless multitude, who burn, As lamps, around the one Eternity,

In whose contending forces systems turn Their circles round that seat of life, the urn Where all must sleep, if matter ever dies:

Sight fails me here, but fancy can discern
With the wide glance of her all-seeing eyes,
Where, in the heart of worlds, the ruling Spirit lies.

And thou, too, hast thy world, and unto thee
We are as nothing; thou goest forth alone,
And movest through the wide, aerial sea,

Glad as a conqueror resting on his throne
From a new victory, where he late had shown
Wider his power to nations; so thy light
Comes with new pomp, as if thy strength had

grown

With each revolving day, or thou, at night,
Had lit again thy fires, and thus renew'd thy might.
Age o'er thee has no power: thou bring'st the same
Light to renew the morning, as when first,
If not eternal, thou, with front of flame,

On the dark face of earth in glory burst,
And warm'd the seas, and in their bosom nursed
The earliest things of life, the worm and shell;
Till, through the sinking ocean, mountains
Fierced,

And then came forth the land whereon we dwell, Rear'd, like a magic fane, above the watery swell.

And there thy searching heat awoke the seeds
Of all that gives a charm to earth, and lends
An energy to nature; all that feeds

On the rich mould, and then, in bearing, bends
Its fruits again to earth, wherein it blends
The last and first of life; of all who bear

Their forms in motion, where the spirit tends, Instinctive, in their common good to share, Which lies in things that breathe, or late were living there.

They live in thee: without thee, all were dead And dark; no beam had lighted on the waste, But one eternal night around had spread

Funereal gloom, and coldly thus defaced This Eden, which thy fairy hand hath graced With such uncounted beauty; all that blows

In the fresh air of spring, and, growing, braced Its form to manhood, when it stands and glows In the full-temper'd beam, that gladdens as it goes.

Thou lookest on the earth, and then it smiles;

Thy light is hid, and all things droop and mourn Laughs the wide sea around her budding isles, When through their heaven thy changing car is borne ;

Thou wheel'st away thy flight, the woods are shorn

Of all their waving locks, and storms awake;
All, that was once so beautiful, is torn
By the wild winds which plough the lonely lake,
And, in their maddening rush, the crested moun-
tains shake.

The earth lies buried in a shroud of snow;

Life lingers, and would die, but thy return Gives to their gladden'd hearts an overflow Of all the power that brooded in the urn Of their chill'd frames, and then they proudly spurn

All bands that would confine, and give to air

Hues, fragrance, shapes of beauty, till they burn,
When, on a dewy morn, thou dartest there
Rich waves of gold to wreathe with fairer light the
fair.

The vales are thine; and when the touch of spring
Thrills them, and gives them gladness, in thy light
They glitter, as the glancing swallow's wing
Dashes the water in his winding flight,
And leaves behind a wave that crinkles bright,
And widens outward to the pebbled shore,-

The vales are thine; and when they wake from

night,

The dews that bend the grass-tips, twinkling o'er Their soft and oozy beds, look upward, and adore.

The hills are thine: they catch thy newest beam,

And gladden in thy parting, where the wood Flames out in every leaf, and drinks the stream, That flows from out thy fulness, as a flood Bursts from an unknown land, and rolls the food Of nations in its waters: so thy rays

Flow and give brighter tints than ever bud, When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blaze Of many twinkling gems, as every gloss'd bough plays.