of poetry.—The poet's eye catches even the most minute tracery of nature's works and the most rapidly fleeting of her aspects, and depicts them in verse with startling distinctness."

2. The critic Tuckerman's judgment of Mr. Lowell is, that "he unites in his most effective power the dreamy suggestive character of the transcendental bards with the philosophic simplicity of Wordsworth.-He reminds us often of Tennyson in the sentiment and construction of his verse. Imagination and philanthropy are the dominant elements in his writings, some of which are marked by a graceful flow and earnest tone, and many unite with these attractions that of high finish."

CHAPTER LXXXIX.-BAYARD TAYLOR.-1825-1878.

I.-Biographical.

1. Bayard Taylor was born at Kennet Square, Chester County, Pennsylvania; was brought up a printer; travelled two years in Europe, at an expense of only five hundred dollars; was an editor in Phoenixville, in his native State; in 1849 he became connected with the New York Tribune as part proprietor and one of its associate editors, which relationship he retained to the end of his life. In 1862 he was Secretary of the American Legation at St. Petersburg, and died at Berlin, while United States Ambassador at the German Court.

2. Mr. Taylor was a great traveller, and in one adventurc of two years he passed over more than fifty thousand miles, through the Eastern Continent. His writings comprise essays; books of travel and romance; the translation of Goethe's Faust, which, to an unusual degree, preserves the metrical peculiarities of the original German; and poems, of which Edgar Poe said, "His sonorous and well

balanced rhythm puts me often in mind of Campbell." Dr. Griswold remarks, "Eminent as he is as a writer of travels, his highest and most enduring distinction will be from his poetry."

3. The characteristics of Mr. Taylor's writings," says a discriminating critic, "are, in his poems, ease of expres sion, with a careful selection of poetic capabilities, a full, animated style, with a growing attention to art and condensation. His prose is equable and clear, in the flowing style; the narrative of a genial, healthy observer of the many manners of the world, which he has seen in the most remarkable portions of its four quarters."

4. In Mr. Taylor's poem entitled Hylas, we have a careful equivalent of heroic Greek verse, and a faithful reproduction of a Greek legend, both in theme and spirit, in which sound and cadence are beautifully modulated to the thought. The legend is that Hylas, a son of the king of Mysia, accompanied by Hercules, sailed in the ship Argo with Jason, for Colchis, on the Argonautic expedition. On the coast of Mysia the Argonauts stopped to obtain a supply of water, and there Hylas, having gone out alone with an urn for the same purpose, and having taken the opportunity to bathe in the river Scamander, under the shadows of Mount Ida, throws his purple chlamys, or cloak, over the urn, and wades in. Here he is seized by the nymphs of the stream, and in spite of his struggles and entreaties is borne by them, "down from the noonday brightness, to their dark caves in the depths below." We give sufficient extracts from the poem to show the style in which it is written.

II.-Hylas.

1. Storm-wearied Argo slept upon the water.
No cloud was seen: on blue and craggy Ida
The hot noon lay, and on the plains enamel ;
Cool, in his bed, alone, the swift Scamander.

"Why should I haste?" said young and rosy Hylas:
"The seas are rough, and long the way from Colchis.
Beneath the snow-white awning slumbers Jason,
Pillowed upon his tame Thessalian panther;
The shields are piled, the listless oars suspended
On the black thwarts, and all the hairy bondsmen
Doze on the benches. They may wait for water,
Till I have bathed in mountain-born Scamander."

2. He saw his glorious limbs reversely mirrored
In the still wave, and stretched his foot to press it
On the smooth sole that answered at the surface:
Alas! the shape dissolved in glittering fragments.
Then, timidly at first, he dipped, and catching
Quick breath, with tingling shudder, as the waters
Swirled round his limbs, and deeper, slowly deeper,
Till on his breast the river's check was pillowed,
And deeper still, till every shoreward ripple
Talked in his ear, and like a cygnet's bosom
His white, round shoulder shed the dripping crystal.

3. There, as he floated, with a rapturous motion,
The lucid coolness folding close around him,
The lily-cradling ripples murmured, “Hylas !”
He shook from off his ears the hyacinthine
Curls, that had lain unwet upon the water,

And still the ripples murmured, "Hylas! Hylas !"
He thought, "The voices are but ear-born music.
Pan dwells not here, and Echo still is calling
From some high cliff that tops a Thracian valley ;
So long mine ears, on tumbling Hellespontus,
Have heard the sea-waves hammer Argo's forehead,
That I misdeem the fluting of this current

For some lost nymph"-Again the murmur "Hylas!"

4. The sound, that seemed to come from the lilies, was

that of the sea-nymphs calling to him to go with them where they wander

"Down beneath the green translucent ceiling—
Where on the sandy bed of old Scamander
With cool white buds we braid our purple tresses,
Lulled by the bubbling waves around us stealing."

5. To all their entreaties Hylas exclaims,

"Leave me, naiads!

Leave me!" he cried; "the day to me is dearer
Than all your caves deep-spread in ocean's quiet.
I would not change this flexile, warm existence,
Though swept by storms, and shocked by Jove's dread
thunder,

To be a king beneath the dark-green waters.

6. "Let me return the wind comes down from Ida,
And soon the galley, stirring from her slumber,
Will fret to ride where Pelion's twilight shadow
Falls o'er the towers of Jason's sea-girt city
I am not yours-I cannot braid the lilies

In your wet hair, nor on your argent bosoms
Close my drowsed eyes to hear your rippling voices.
Hateful to me your sweet, cold, crystal being,-
Your world of watery quiet. Help, Apollo!"

7. But the remonstrances and struggles of Hylas are unavailing ;

The boy's blue eyes, upturned, looked through the water,

Pleading for help; but heaven's immortal archer

Was swathed in cloud. The ripples hid his forehead;
And last, the thick, bright curls a moment floated,
So warm and silky that the stream upbore them,
Closing reluctant, as he sank forever.

8. The sunset died behind the crags of Imbros.
Argo was tugging at her chain; for freshly
Blew the swift breeze, and leaped the restless billows.
The voice of Jason roused the dozing sailors,
And up the mast was heaved the snowy canvas.
But mighty Hercules, the Jove-begotten,
Unmindful stood, beside the cool Scamander,
Leaning upon his club. A purple chlamys
Tossed o'er an urn was all that lay before him:
And when he called, expectant, "Hylas! Hylas!"
The empty echoes made him answer_“ Hylas!”

The single work that will perhaps best perpetuate the literary reputation of Mr. Taylor, is his translation of Goethe's Faust, first published in 1871. Although a brief extract from this wonderful and weird production of the great German writer will give no idea of the scope and character of the work itself, yet it will show something of the manner in which the translation has been made. It has been said of Mr. Taylor's translation, that "The tones of Goethe's lyre are here echoed in the same sweet and sublime manner which he drew from its harmonious chords. Not only the mighty thoughts of the inspired artist, but the subtle melodies of his verse are clothed in forms that correspond to the rhythmical proportions in which they took shape in the spontaneous outflowings of his genius."

III. From Goethe's Faust.-Second Part.