of God is manifested
as he appeared to his disciples; transfigured upon Tabor, they see him
in the radiant light conversing with the prophets of the ancient law. Do
you prostrate humanity in the place of the disciples and the astonished
crowd at the foot of the mountain, then you have an idea of the life of
the religious faiths more and more adopted in America. But the torments
of the Divine agony--the cross of Golgotha, and all the tragedy in the
Saviour's history upon earth, which the nations of the middle ages and
the ancient Christians held in precious remembrance, are almost
forgotten. We mention the fact as being one which the religious and
philosophic of our times may reflect upon with profit. It is the symptom
of an imminent crisis in Protestantism, and sooner or later, will not
fail of attracting discussion. This theistic sentiment, which is the
foundation of the writings of Channing and Theodore Parker, makes itself
felt continually in the verses of this collection which by manner or
subject relate to religion.

The descriptions of nature, oddly enough, never strike, as one would
expect, by their novelty. Far away we see pleasantly the names of palms,
cotton-trees, cocoa trees, and the botanic names of flowers unknown to
us, but it is no matter whether we exchange all these trees and exotic
plants for poplars, oaks, and birches, or the modern plants of our
Europe. We feel very little, in any poetry, the particular sentiment of
an original nature. In the midst of the woods and forests of the new
world, one can readily believe himself among those of France or England;
he will remark only a more lively picture of verdure and waters. Have
you ever seen the landscapes of Theodore Rousseau? The grass is greener
and the yellow leaves are yellower than in the paintings of any other
artist. But the presence of nature is not there. Such is the effect upon
us of the descriptions given by these female poets. Here, in support of
our assertion, is a picture by Mrs. Frances Green.

Stillness of summer noontide over hill,
And deep embowering wood, and rock, and stream,
Spread forth her downy pinions, scattering sleep
Upon the drooping eyelids of the air.
No wind breathed through the forest that could stir
The lightest foliage. If a rustling sound
Escaped the trees, it might be nestling bird,
Or else the polished leaves were turning back
To their own natural places, whence the wind