POEMS. By S. G. Bulfinch. 1 vol. 18mo. James S. Burges, Charleston.

A NEAT little volume, put forth without pretence or ostentation, in Charleston, South Carolina. The collection is small, and consists of a poem, in irregular measure, called. "Chivalry," of some three hundred lines, and a variety of smaller pieces, chiefly devotional in their character. Mr. Bulfinch is a teacher of the gospel, and is the pastor of a church in Augusta, Georgia. He is already well known to the strictly religious public as the author of one or two small works in prose, of a moral nature. Among his flock he is highly esteemed, and although a very young man, has done much towards securing their respect and veneration. This much of the man, and now for the author. The work is introduced to us without preface and with so little pretension, that criticism of a severe aspect would scarcely be legitimate. The first poem in the collection opens gracefully, and imposingly, and gives us a brief picture of the ancient ceremony of conferring the spurs and the honor of knighthood upon the youthful squire. He has been watching the shield, the helm, and banner, in the solemn aisles of the old minster, through the dim hours of the night preceding the day when he is to obtain their possession, and assume their use. Next comes the fair array, and amidst music and high discourse,

"Speaking of valor, faithfulness, and truth,
And warning in the holiest name,
The chosen and adopted youth,

Onward to press to virtue and to fame,"

beauty is required to bind upon his heel the golden spur, the badge of his newly acquired distinction. This is the introductory picture, and it is one gracefully drawn and sufficiently imposing. The author proceeds then to enlarge upon the various forms of chivalry, the nature of its exercises, and the different regions through which, at some one or another time, it has invariably past and dwelt. He speaks of its transitions, and the variety of its shapes and guises, but denies that the spirit has utterly departed. He tells us, in spite of the vehement denunciation of Burke, that,

"Though its ancient forms have gone,
The SOUL of chivalry lives on."

And we doubt not the truth of the position. The soul of chivalry is the principle of patriotism, whether developed by the martyr or the warrior— in the battle field or upon the cross. This is the proposition upon which Mr. Bulfinch dilates in a style of verse, not passionate, not fiery, perhaps seldom even strong; but with phrase and diction eminently harmonious, and with a perspicuity and simple earnestness full of relief in an age so abundant in ornate expression, and tinsel superfluity of language. The

following tribute to the German warrior-poet, Körner, is just and pathetic, and will give a fair idea of the usual manner of our author:

Amid that brother-band was one

O'er whom the circling sun

Scarce two and twenty years his course had told.
Loved was he of the Muses, and the fire

Of patriot feeling floated round his lyre.
High was his name on Glory's page enrolled,
And deep Devotion had inspired his lay.

Love beamed upon his path, and Fortune's kindest ray.
O, consecrated Bard! how swelled thy breast,

When in the ancient church, with thine own strains
Yet echoing, hand in hand

Thy brethren swore to save their Fatherland,
Or upon Freedom's battle plains,

Sink to their glorious rest!

How burst thy song in Nature's hour of pain,
When wounded, helpless, and alone,

Upon the forest foliage thrown,

The form to which thy young heart beat so high

Shone, seraph-like, before thy glazing eye,

And the dull-beating pulse was thrilled with joy again.
Rest, rest thee with thy Sword, thy Bride,

Wed on thy dying day!

True hearts shall beat to thee,
Warm tears shall flow for thee,

Thy name shall be thy country's pride,

Thy memory her guiding ray!

Among the smaller pieces in this little collection, we find many remarkable for perspicuity and grace-thoughts befitting the subject—and a purity of spirit, according happily with the general modes of expression belonging to the writer. Here for example is a Hymn for the Fourth of July, which is better than nine-tenths of similar performances, having this advantage, too, over the majority in the same proportion, that the moral is pure and peaceful, and while sufficiently honoring the warlike achievements of the patriot soldier, at the same time urging the holier charities which bring peace and pleasure, not strife, into society. This little hymn might form an excellent portion of church service on the great day which it commemorates.

HYMN FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY.

God of armies, when the powers

Of Assyria's monarch came,

And their course to Salem's towers

Mark'd with wasting sword and flame

Nerveless lay the mailed hand;

Broke the shield and snapp'd the bow;

Vanquish'd was th' invading band,

Death-struck by no mortal foe.

Then the hymn of triumph swell'd
From Moriah's rescued fane;

For the haughty foe repell'd,

And Judea free again.

Thus, O Father, now to thee

Flows a grateful nation's song,

And the voices of the free

Each exulting note prolong.

Yet a nobler conquest gain,
Vanquish, Lord! our moral foes:
Burst each tyrant passion's chain,
And the reign of error close.
Save from each unworthy thought,
Sordid wish or view confin'd;
Grant the freedom Jesus brought,
Freedom of th' immortal mind.

From our lips a louder song
Then shall burst of love and praise,
And our lives their course along
Shall a nobler anthem raise :

Then another strain shall wake,

Heard alone by thee above,

While our hearts sweet music make

To the theme, Eternal Love!

With the verses on "True Freedom," a subject very imperfectly understood in this, not less than in all other nations of the earth, we conclude our extracts. The gentleness and sweet morality of the thoughts will speak for themselves, while they also sufficiently commend the character of their author.

TRUE FREEDOM.

Who is the truly free?

The Monarch on his throne?
The Chief adorned with victory,
And spoils by valor won?

No!

Passion's force can shake

The soul in danger tried;

And he who bars of steel can break

May be the slave of Pride.

Who is the truly blest?

The man of wealth untold?

In robes of Eastern splendor dressed,
And served in plate of gold?

No! vain his rich attire
To ease the laboring breath;

And vain his gold to quench the fire,
The fever-flame of death.

That man is free, O Lord!
To whom thy name is dear;
Who fearing thee, performs thy word,
And knows no other fear.

From passion, pride, remorse,

Thy care his path shall guard,

And lead him on, in virtue's course,

To his divine reward.

Thy love protects his way;

To thee his thanks are given;

Thy smile shall gild life's evening ray,

And light the morn of heaven.

Our selections have been free enough-more so than our limits can well afford-but we are deceived if our readers will not regard them with favor, for more reasons than one. They are graceful and sweet in themselves, and they emanate from a region whence we seldom hear the sounds of the living lyre. We know too little of southern poetry, and should like

to be indulged with more, and more frequently. Some of its notes have been lofty and beautiful enough. Wilde, another gentleman of Georgia, now a distinguished statesman, has given us one copy of verses, which have only inspired the public to wonder that he should have been satisfied with giving so little. Another poet, Wm. H. Simmons, of St. Augustine, having powers of description not excelled by any poet of America, is a recluse in the bosom of Florida. His Onea, an Indian tale, published, we believe, in Carolina, of which he is a native, is one of the most beautiful of American poems-yet it has never, we believe, been read or even seen, beyond the region in which it was originally published. Might we suggest to those persons who are in the habit of getting up selections, misnamed, of" American poetry," we should send them South for a season to look about them, and in doing justly the duties they voluntarily assume, give a place to those achievements of the Southern Muse, which, we are sure, would sometimes charm us with a note as various, as wild, and not less sweet than that of the wayward puck of the songster tribe-its own mocking bird.

one.

MY BROTHER FRANK.

FROM THE KNAPSACK OF THOMAS SINGULARITY.

WHEN my brother Frank attained his twentieth year he was the favorite of all the girls of the village, because he was tall, well made, and had white teeth and curly hair. Nor was he less popular with the men; as he was good-natured, kind-hearted, and had a smile and a joke for every The shoemaker, the blacksmith, the cooper, the carpenter, and the very shoe-black, shouted him a good morning as far as they could see him, which he returned most heartily, giving a handful of his hand right and left to all within reach. A few of the prudent old folks might now and then sigh out, "Poor Frank, he is nobody's enemy but his own; 'tis a pity he is not a little more steady;" yet they would have taken his part, had a soul breathed a word against him. Now I do not mean to say that he was very wild, after all. Study he could not, and would not; but when he had nothing else to do, he was fond of reading; and between whiles, had skimmed over a good many books. There was, however, no end to his gaiety and volatility. He needed constant excitement. Never was there a race but he was at it, and had even now and then ridden one himself. He was the head man at the balls and fairs; visited every wedding among the peasantry, where he joined merrily in the dance, and acted as fiddler rather than miss sport, for he played on the violin with taste and skill. Among his other accomplishments, he was deep in the sciences of cudgelplaying and boxing. Nay, twice he had actually the honor of being bottle-holder in the regular set-tos of the fancy. In his pockets he usually carried a pair of gaffs, a small saw, a quantity of waxed thread, and in short, a whole establishment for heeling fighting-cocks; and not an old bird, game or dunghill, within a mile round, but was occasionally seen with his eyes bunged up, and a goodly number of flesh wounds. The horses fared as badly; for even the mettle of the cart and plough horses was often tried under whip and spur.

My brother's education was completed, and he had reached his one-andtwentieth year without choosing a vocation, though often urged to it by his parents. As my father's fortune was but moderate, he at last assured Frank that it was absolutely necessary to make a choice, and try to shift for himself. They discussed, as well as they could, law and physic-theology you may well suppose was out of the question. I say as well as they could, for it was impossible to make Frank discuss any thing either seriously or long. Neither of those professions would do. He hated writing, and never could endure the odor of doctor's stuff. Merchandize! this pleased him rather more, and my father luckily had a relative who wished just then to retire from a flourishing mercer's business. My brother was no great accountant, nor had very businesslike habits, but he promised to