VOICES OF THE NIGHT. BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. In one volume. pp. 144. Cambridge: JOHN OWEN.

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PERHAPS it will be considered altogether a work of supererogation, that we should invite the attention of our readers to a volume of poems from the pen of Professor LONGFELLow, from whom they have heard so often, and never without delight; and we confess there seems something worth heeding in the objection: yet we cannot avoid saying, that beside the several 'Psalms of Life' (not inappropriately named, in another sense than that of the writer, for they will live,) — there are numerous earlier poems and translations of the author, among which we find several of the most finished productions of his pen. Such, especially, are the ode from the Spanish of DON JORGE MANRIQUE, one of the most solemn and pathetic dirges we have ever read in any language, 'An April Day,' and the lines to 'Autumn,' all of which have become thoroughly domiciliated in the national heart. Although we may well doubt whether these pages will meet the eye of a single reader who is not familiar with the easy flow of Professor LONGFELLOW'S verse, and his fine ear for its music, yet we cannot resist the inclination to transcribe the first six stanzas of the 'Prelude' to the volume under notice:

PLEASANT it was, when woods were green,

And winds were soft and low,

To lie amid some sylvan scene,

Where, the long drooping boughs between,
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen,

Alternate come and go:

Or where the denser grove receives
No sunlight from above,
But the dark foliage interweaves,
In one unbroken roof of leaves,
Underneath whose sloping eaves,
The shadows hardly move.

Beneath some patriarchal tree
I lay upon the ground;
His hoary arms up-lifted he,
And all the broad leaves over me
Clapped their little hands in glee,

With one continuous sound:

A slumberous sound - a sound that brings
The feelings of a dream—

As of innumerable wings,
As, when a bell no longer swings,
Faint the hollow murmur rings

O'er meadow, lake, and stream.

And dreams of that which cannot die,
Bright visions, came to me,
As lapped in thought I used to lie,
And gaze into the summer sky,
Where the sailing clouds went by,
Like ships upon the sea:

Dreams, that the soul of youth engage,
Ere Fancy has been quelled;
Old legends of the monkish page,
Traditions of the saint and sage,
Tales that have the rime of age,
And chronicles of Eld.

The same evidences of an attentive perusal of the volume of nature, that 'universal and public manuscript, that lies expansed unto the eyes of all,' may be traced throughout the book before us: nor should we do the author justice, did we omit to add, that his passing records of human cares, affections, and aspirations, are not less life-like and striking. Let no modern bardling, who fancies that he soars high, because he is out of sight in a mist, imagine that in the occasional figurative, German-like passages of Mr. LONGFELLOW, he discerns a precedent for turning his own intellectual tread-mill, which, having nothing to act upon, grinds the wind. The reader needs but the mood, to appreciate every shade of thought and feeling which is here developed. And we cannot better close our brief and imperfect notice, than by remarking of this very beautiful volume, as of its predecessor, 'Hyperion,' in the language of an old English worthy, that 'a book is little worth, if it deserves to be perused but once. As the same landscape appears differently at different seasons of the year, at morning and at evening, in bright weather and in cloudy, by moonlight and at noon-day, so does the same book produce a very different effect upon the same reader at different times, and under different circumstances.' Most cordially do we commend these 'Voices of the Night' to the imaginations and hearts of our readers. They will find them full of

'bright images of life and beauty,

That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues

The stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds
When the sun sets,'

EDITORS' TABLE.

JANUARY.

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The same imaginative friend who somewhile since invaded the presencechamber, and left behind him that earnest remonstrance with surly December, (administering a gentle kick, in his declining fortunes, to assist him down hill,) which graced our last number, has again been tampering with our grey-hound; for on entering the sanctum, on the first morning that rose upon this present year when but for you, good reader, we should have been giving and receiving, and enjoying with wonted zest, the customary congratulations and hilarity of the season -- we found our graceful iron quadruped 'holding on,' with characteristic tenacity, to the annexed, which we endorse, and complacently set forth on the road to posterity: "The town-clock, like a faithful chronicler, had just begun to syllable the last hour of the year, when that respectable ancient, TIME, summoned a cabinet council. It was a bitter and gloomy December night. Old Boreas had marshalled in the skies a dark phalanx of angry clouds, which he had recruited to his banner in Labrador, and other outlandish regions; and a kinsman of his, whose realm is in the north-west, near the Lake of the Woods, and who ruleth even to the arctic seas, added a reinforcement of heavy battalions, in black Russian caps. Indeed, there was that night a fearful gathering and mighty strife of the elements; and Ocean, joining in the universal din, called forth his hosts of waves from their briny caverns, and sent them up, hissing defiance to the winds of heaven. In this dark and boisterous midnight, on the verge of the blackest cloud that overhangs the wild and stormy Cape Hatteras, old Time sits in council, with 'hooded clouds for a pavilion round about him,' saying 'mass for the dying year.' The shrieks of drowning mariners, which he drinks in with a grim smile, is the only music of that vast and solemn cathedral. The restless old tyrant, who gives himself no leisure for repose or debate, strides into the assembly of his ministers, with the perspiration freezing upon his wrinkled brow, and stiffening his hoary locks; and with his huge scythe, reeking with the blood of thousands, and greedy for more victims, hastily slung over his broad shoulders, and awkwardly encumbering his person, as if unused to such idle conclaves. His ministers, the Months, are around him, with their various emblems of office. Turning to DECEMBER, who at the moment held the keys of authority, and the reins of the elements, he saith, somewhat sternly: 'Faithful, yet too zealous servant! wherefore dost thou suffer thy slaves, the elements, to lash the earth with such inconsiderate fury? It is not our will that it be totally annihilated, nor its sinful inhabitants reduced to utter despair. Time is not their enemy, but punisheth only for their abuse of his favors. We destroy the blossom, but we spare the seed; we cut down the stem, but we protect the root. We delight not in destruction for its own sake, but only to make room and aliment for new life and beauty, throughout the earth. Our scythe is not the instrument of Hate, but of Love; and we cherish and protect the bud and blossom of the rose, with the same care that we gather its falling and withered leaves. Stern as we are, we know and rejoice, while we lay low the pride and glory of the earth, that its desolation is but temporary. Restrain thy wrath, therefore, and moderate this fierce extremity of the elements; or rather since thou art perhaps too much flushed with victory to control thy temper, it is

our decree that thou instantly deliver up the reins of government to our minister, JANUARY, who, with his double face, can exercise double vigilance in correcting the evils thou hast brought on the earth, and gradually and not too hastily restore order and peace in my path over its broad and fair domains.' So saying, the scythe-king instantly changed the ministration of his power, and dissolved the council. Hail to

thy softened though still stern reign, thou Son of Janus, the Double-faced! What sweet duplicity, to cheat us into the hope of returning serenity and peace, as thou sendest forth the bright sun in the clear east, and spreadest for his course an expanse of the deepest blue! How glorious, even if delusive, to step forth upon the crisp snow, that rings out clear beneath the feet like tiny bells; to inhale the fresh, dry, frosty air, that gives its own elasticity to the spirits; to inark the smoke from thousands of happy fire-sides, curling with gentle gyrations far up the pure blue sky, whitening as it advances, as if to grow more pure, to mingle in that pure element; and to look from some little eminence across the calm, bright waters, upon the curving bay and swelling bank, sleeping sweetly in the sunshine and the haze; while, in the blue distance, the undulating outline of wooded upland and swelling hill reposes as soft and tranquil upon the glowing horizon, as when summer clothed them in her richest verdure and her brightest sunbeams! If by such charming delusions, O January! thou provest thy lineage, we could almost wish that thy power should be perpetual, at least while TIME reigneth. But no! changeful satrap of a stern tyrant! While one face is beaming with smiles, dark frowns are gathering on the other. We dare not trust thee. We are not Romans enough to worship thee, nor build thee a temple; and we bid thee God-speed, with all our hearts!'

THE NEW-YORK REVIEW, for the January quarter, well sustains its reputation for scholarship and critical acumen. Its first article is a very long and very able review of HALLAM'S 'Introduction to the Literature of Europe.' Its merits would insure a ready perusal, but for its unreasonable length. Fifty pages are too much for a continuous paper; and if the subjects were too weighty, as they were, to be treated in less space, two numbers should have been devoted to the work. 'Politics and the Puritans,'' France and the Argentine Republic,' 'Prison Discipline in New-York and Pennsylvania,' follow next, and are succeeded by a paper upon English and French Travellers in America,' embracing reviews of MARRYAT's Diary, MURRAY's Travels, DE TOCQUEVILLE'S Democracy in America,' and CHEVALIER's 'Lettres sur l' Amerique du Nord.' This is a capital article, and inferior to none in the number. We can help the reviewer, let us inform him, in passing, to one or two older diaries than that of the 'respectable Mr. JOSSELYN,' over which he gloats with such exceeding great unction. The papers upon ' MILLER'S Rural Sketches,' and the Oxford Tracts, we have not found leisure to read. Some score of brief reviews, under the general head of 'Critical Notices,' close the number. Among these, is a notice, not very flattering, of Mr. WILLIAM THOMPSON BACON's poems. The reviewer charges the author with numerous and gross grammatical errors, and with frequent violations of common metrical rules. Moreover, as we ventured recently to fear would be the case, he accuses Mr. BACON of plagiarism. 'We cannot say,' observes the reviewer, 'that the poems display an originality in their general tone and thought, such as might make up for these particular faults. Here we bow to HALLECK, there to BRYANT; now to BYRON, (no poet, according to Mr. Bacon,) now to YOUNG, presently to TALFOURD, and during the intervals, chiefly to WORDSWORTH. We must do the author the justice, however, to observe, that he admits these thefts, in a most gentleman-like manner, in his notes!'... 'What is chiefly commendable in the book, is the amiable and correct moral spirit in which the author seems to have composed it; beside which, there is a good deal of genuine feeling for nature, such as, with more cultivation, may become the basis of creative excellence.'

INTERNATIONAL COPY-RIGHT LAW. - We have great pleasure in commending the subjoined letter to the attention of the public; and are glad of an opportunity to communicate to our readers, what we have for many months known, that an international copy-right law the advocacy of which originated in, and has been strenuously urged from time to time by, this Magazine - has found a warm and disinterested supporter in Mr. IRVING. We say 'disinterested,' because there will not be wanting really interested parties, who will bring against GEOFFREY CRAYON the charge of self-interest in this matter; since, being the most popular author of our country, on both sides of the Atlantic, he may naturally be supposed to have an eye to his own literary rewards. But independent of the declaration, in the annexed 'confession of faith,' touching a matter of duty, our readers will remember the writer's abdication, near a twelvemonth since, of the veritable author's throne, in the first paper in which he introduced himself as a permanent contributor to these pages: 'I have hitherto sought,' says he, 'to ease off a plethora of the mind, or surcharge of the intellect, by means of my pen; and hence have inflicted divers gossipping volumes upon the patience of the public. I am tired, however, of writing volumes; they do not afford exactly the relief I require. There is too much preparation, arrangement, and parade, in this set form of coming before the public. I am growing too indolent and unambitious, for any thing that requires labor or display.' Hence it was, the reader will remember, that he 'secured a snug corner' in this periodical, 'where, during the remainder of his literary career, he might, as it were, loll at ease in his elbowchair, and chat sociably with the public, as with an old friend, on any chance subject that might pop into his brain.' But we are keeping the reader from the letter.

то THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.

SIR: Having seen it stated, more than once, in the public papers, that I declined subscribing my name to the petition, presented to Congress during a former session, for an act of international copy-right, I beg leave, through your pages, to say, in explanation, that I declined, not from any hostility or indifference to the object of the petition, in favor of which my sentiments have always been openly expressed, but merely because I did not relish the phraseology of the petition, and because I expected to see the measure pressed from another quarter. I wrote about the same time, however, to members of Congress in support of the application.

As no other petition has been sent to me for signature, and as silence on my part may be misconstrued, I now, as far as my name may be thought of any value, enrol it among those who pray most earnestly to Congress for this act of international equity. I consider it due, not merely to foreign authors, to whose lucubrations we are so deeply indebted for constant instruction and delight, but to our own native authors, who are implicated in the effects of the wrong done by our present laws.

For myself, my literary career, as an author, is drawing to a close, and cannot be much affected by any disposition of this question; but we have a young literature springing up, and daily unfolding itself with wonderful energy and luxuriance, which, as it promises to shed a grace and lustre upon the nation, deserves all its fostering care. How much this growing literature may be retarded by the present state of our copy-right law, I had recently an instance, in the cavalier treatment of a work of merit, written by an American, who had not yet established a commanding name in the literary market. I undertook, as a friend, to dispose of it for him, but found it impossible to get an offer from any of our principal publishers. They even declined to publish it at the author's cost, alleging that it was not worth their while to trouble themselves about native works, of doubtful success, while they could pick and choose among the successful works daily poured out by the British press, for which they had nothing to pay for copy-right. This simple fact spoke volumes to me, as I trust it will do to all who peruse these

lines. I do not mean to enter into the discussion of a subject that has already been treated so voluminously. I will barely observe, that I have seen few arguments advanced against the proposed act, that ought to weigh with intelligent and high-minded men ; while I have noticed some that have been urged, so sordid and selfish in their nature, and so narrow in the scope of their policy, as almost to be insulting to those to whom they are addressed.

I trust that, whenever this question comes before Congress, it will at once receive an action prompt and decided; and will be carried by an overwhelming, if not unanimous, vote, worthy of an enlightened, a just, and a generous nation.

Your ob. Servt.,

WASHINGTON IRVING.

LAMENT OF THE Bereaved. The following lines, from one who only occasionally throws a faltering and unpractised hand across the lyre, will commend themselves to the susceptible reader, by their fervor and pure affection. They were written at two o'clock of a stormy morning in November, while the author was sitting by his lonely fire-side, thinking of his wife and two children, then upon the sea.' 'We have seen,' says he, in a note to the editor, seven of our little cherubs go down, one by one, to the voiceless grave; and all that are left of a dear family of nine, are now upon the ocean wave. None but A MOTHER Would have had the courage and fortitude to brave the dangers of the sea, in a voyage of two thousand miles, with the faint hope of recovering the failing health of a darling child.'