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As the dew

And now I may pass the bright portals
Glearning through

That open into a realm divine!
The half-unfolded eglantine,

I have drunk it through mine ears
Long ago, Long ago!

In the ecstasy of song,
But I feel that I am only

When mine eyes would fill with tears
Yet more sad, and yet more lonely!

That its life were not more long;
Then I turn to blue-eyed Hope,

I have drunk it through mine eyes
And beg of her that she will ope

In beauty's every shape,
Her golden gates for me;

And now around my soul it lies,
She is fair and sull of grace,

No juice of earthly grape!
But she hath the form and face

Wings! wings are given to me,
Of her mother Memory ;

I can flutter, I can rise ;
Clear as air her glad voice ringeth,

Like a new life gushing through me,
Joyous are the songs she singeth,

Sweep the heavenly harmonies !
Yet I hear them mournfully ;-

and they will wonder how true to their hearts is every line. They are songs her mother taught her,

The choice similes, always true, expressive, each er-
Crooning to her infant daughter,
As she lay upon her knee.

actly fitted for its office, delight us. The beautiful sight Many little ones she bore me.

of children in their play, roguishly restraining the gush of Woe is me! in by-gone hours,

water from a pump, shouting merrily, with their rosy fares, Who danced along and sang before me,

came before us in a lovely group, as we read the Soncet to Scattering the way with flowers ;

Caroline, all so nicely applicable to her checked minh
One by one
They are gone,

The twinkling of her eyes was seen with an effect far be
And their silent graves are seen,

yond the power of Painting, the first-born of Poetry, to be Shining fresh with mosses green,

stow. They are all artistically interworen,-the portraits Where the rising sunbeams slope

all drawn with a power we are accustomed to allow to O'er the dewy land of Hope.

Painting alone. We give Caroline as our first-love, though
But when sweet Memory faileth,
And hope looks strange and cold;

our heart may now incline to the more matronly Adde. When youth no more availeth,

A staidness sobers o'er her pretty face,
And Grief grows over bold ;-

Which something but ill-hidden in her eyes,
When softest winds are dreary,

And a quaint look about her lips denies;
And Summer sunlight weary,

A lingering love of girlhood you can trace
And sweetest things uncheery,

In her checked laugh and half-restrained pace ;
We know not why ;-

And, when she bears herself most womanly,
When the crown of our desires

It seems as if a watchful mother's eye
Weighs upon the brow and tires,

Kept down with sobering glance her childish grace ;
And we would die,

Yet ostentimes, her nature gushes free
Die for, ah! we know not what ;

As water long held back by little hands,
Something we seem to have forgot,

Within a pump, and let forth suddenly,
Something we had, and now have not ;

Until, her task remembering, she stands
When the present is a weight

A moment silent, smiling doubtfully,
And the future seems our foe,

Then laughs aloud and scorns her bated bands.
And with sbrieking eyes we wait,

The style of the Book, partaking of the quaintness of the As one who dreads a sudden blow

purest wells of English found in our old Poets, so lamen. In the dark, he knows not whence ; When Love at last his bright eye closes,

tably disregarded at the present day, seems finely bued to And the bloom upon his face,

the tenor of the author's thoughts. It does our soul good That lends bim such a living grace,

to see the noble old Saxon tongue, for which we hare so Is a shadow from the roses

vast a reverence, and which can boast of so much beauty, Wherewith we have decked his bier,

whose antiquity should insure it respect, chosen, s bea so Because he once was passing dear ;When we feel a leaden sense

many of us are losing this affection. We are glad to see Of nothingness and impotence,

Spenser and his companions, Shakspeare, Websier, and Till we grow mad,

the “golden-mouthed" Taylor, called upon for draughts Then the body saith,

from the sweet waters of their never-failing fountains. “ There's but one true faith ;

These men we love, and he who goes to them for bis All things are sad !"

standard, opens an avenue to our heart,-or rather posts Thus he speaks to us, words we have felt without the one already open and paved. Beside this delightful attire, power of utierance. The heart burnings, and writhings of a mellow light is shed over the whole book, breaking out the soul when weighed down with thoughts, which we find now and then into brilliant flashes. He who has done bis no vent for, no word-sostenings like the tear-softenings of duty as a moral creature, must feel that he should bave had grief,- when we feel how

these thoughts, so pure and true, himself; and the beautiful “Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopped,

trait in the character of lanthe, of whom he says Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is,"

Early and late, at her soul's gate, find here a sure relief. In the beautiful simplicity of the

Sits chastity in warder wise, style, we feel that all these emotions we have experienced, No thought unchallenged, small or great, are clothed for us sweetly,-and brought home to our hearts,

Goes thence into ber eyes; like little children welcomed from their wanderings. Let

Nor may a low, unworthy thought

Beyond that virgin warder win, the mother read in Threnodia, the beautiful lesson her de.

Nor one, whose pass-word is not “ought" parted child has taught ;-let him whose soul has been

May go without or enter in, stirred by music, see its different workings in each chang. is apparently, a ruling principle with the author bimself. ing verse of “ Music,”—now soothed and lying with droop

When we think how many of the mighty multitude of ing eyes,—now borne on with the rolling thunder,—now writers among us, daily increasing, must necessarily siak charmed, fearing to speak, fearing to move,

into oblivion, although much merit may go with many this “Lest I should break the spell I love,"

fated, as time rolls on, we indulge a hope that this lite now merrily floating on the bright waves of soug, listening book will still go on its mission, aided in its work by stiil to the ripples at the prow,-now feeling

further products from the same mind. That the author iecis I have drunk of the drink of immortals,

the holiness of the Poet's work, we have evidence so strong I have drunk of the life-giving wine,

that, in hoping thus, we do it without trembling and fear.

BY MRS. E. J. EAMES.

LINES.

a ravishing beauty. There must be expressions of coun

tenance which the European pencil has never portrayed, WRITTEN IN SICKNESS.

as there are certain passions and social relations unknown at the West. All ought to be summed up in the head of

Mahomet. What pleasure there would be in reviving him Wearisome nights, and long, long, lonely days,

again! in painting him in the different circumstances of Hare by the chast'ner been to me appointed-

his life, as Jesus has been pai ed. I will go into SyriaHealth's balmy oil, that erst my head anointed,

into Egypt--into the Yemen! I will study the countenanBarns low in life's frail lamp; and Mind essays

ces of the inhabitants, particularly those of the Arabs; and In rain, to lift Thought's weak and fluttering pinion,

I will find there the glorious face of the husband of Aicha. Above this world's dominion!

Mary, the mother of the Redeemer, is in Europe the type Dim shadows, born of loneliness and pain,

of woman; I will create Fatma, the daughter of the ProRound my low couch and darken'd chamber hover;

phet. She shall be the type of the women of the East! And O, how far acquaintance, friend, and lover,

Filled with these ideas, Eugene Gallois was at Cairo, enAre from me put. My heart must yearn in vain

gaged in drawing all that struck his fancy, in human forms, For your kind voices, Father and tender Mother, or monuments of art. Not far from the gate of Bab-elSister, and dearest Brother!

Nasr, he had commenced drawing a very beautiful mosque

He went, day after day, to the little square, accompanied Yes! parted far from the dear household hand;

by a servant bearing the different implements of his proLonely and sad on the sick bed I languish-

session, in order to finish the undertaking, wbich required Weary and faint, and worn with mental anguish

many sittings, on account of the details of architecture No cheering voice-no soft supporting hand

and ornament. He had taken his seat one afternoon, and Aideth the bruised reed that fast is breaking

was alone, absorbed in his task, (for his servant had gone With none to heed its aching!

to pray in the mosque) when, from a neighboring dwelling, With none, my Soul ? O where is then thy God?

a small child ran towards him, carrying in his delicate hand His countenance is never from thee hidden

a bouquet of flowers. Eugene raised his head, and found Then rourmour not-but do as thou art bidden,

the child so pretty, that he was about to lay down his penAnd neekly pass under the scourging rod.

cil, to take him upon his knees and caress him; but the Taou hast felt the peace this sentence giveth

little creature fled as swiftly as though he possessed the “I know that my Redeemer liveth !"

wings of the classical Cupid, leaving him the bouquet, and Father in Heaven, submissively I bow.

entered the house from which he had corne. Eugene If all that I have known of grief and sickness,

gazed for a long time, with eyes fixed on the door of the Bat puniy my heart-perfect my strength in weakness, dwelling. At length, perceiving his servant resuming his Tien not in vain this aching heart and brow!

slippers at the entrance of the mosque, he made a sign for O strengthen Thou! and guide Thought's drooping pinion him to approach. Above this world's dominion !

“What means this bouquet," said he, "which a beautiEames's Place, April, 1841.

ful child has just brought to me?"

That seems to thec a bouquet," replied the servant, " but it is a letter."

“ And who can write to me thus with flowers ?"

“It is probably a woman, for women are very skilful in

this kind of writing.” Then, inspecting the bouquet, the THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.*

servant added—“Master! this may tell thee very agreeable In the East the men care little for flowers of rhetoric; things." tat, on the other hand, the women are well versed in the Eugene felt intensely anxious to read the bouquet, and stftoric of flowers. A bouquet is a discourse with its ex- cursed the universities of Europe for not having dreamed, ordum and its peroration ; each flower is a Ciceronian pe- in the midst of their scholastic trash, of establishing a riod. The most delicate shades of sentiment, the most course of rhetoric of flowers. “They made us learn,” sattle ideas of the heart's metaphysics, can all be express- said he to himself, at great pains, dying and dead languaed in the language of flowers. In the midst of a parterre, ges, whilst they treated the unchangeable language of nathe women of the East find a library. In a bouquet, they ture with neglect. Oh that I could only understand the can tell all which has been written in the old romances of mysterious alphabet of this embalmed language! or even chiralry, or the modern romances of our time. The form, find an interpreter to translate this bouquet!" perfume, and color of flowers, constitute the grammatical

His ignorance, and his embarrassment were noticed by trinity of this language of love. The endless combination his servant, who said to him—“Master, I see thou underof these three elements, forms a syntax which the women standest better the writing of the pen, than that of flowers. readily understand; but the men are not so quick in com- As to myself, I can read neither one nor the other. But prehending the ingenuity of this colored language, or the there is an old woman in Cairo, who thoroughly underbold figures of this perfumed rhetoric.

stands this art, and will tell thee all that is written in this Eugene Gallois bad gone to Egypt with a great love for bouquet.” the arts. He had studied painting and sculpture in France,

“Let us seek her at once,” replied Eugene, as he closed Spain, and Italy; but looking upon the catholic art as

his box of crayons. merely a dead body which they vainly attempted to gal

They were soon at the dwelling of the old woman, a Fanize, and on that which was springing up as a feeble imi confidential translator of the language of flowers. Eugene talion of the past, he had come to seek in the East a new had hidden the bouquet in his bosom, as a lover conceals iespiration. The moral East, said he to himself, has been the letter of his mistress. Deither painted nor sculptured ; denied to art by the Pro- “I rely upon your discretion," said he to her, prezenting phet, the human form must, there, have acquired in nature

the bouquet.

“What canst thou fear ?" asked she, “these letters are * Translated from the French for the Southern Literary never signed; for there is no signature in the language of Messenger, by Esther Wetherald, of Baltimore, Md. flowers."

Vol. VII-49

Bid the sweet fountains flow:

sea.

His hope was crushed, his after-sate untold in martial alting the poetry of Mrs. Hemans. From the

strain,His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain. sentimental character of her muse, results the With how true a sympathy does she trace the pri

sameness of which some readers complain in peson musings of Arabella Stuart, portray the strife rusing her works. This apparent monotory only of the heart in the Greek bride, and the fidelity of strikes us when we attempt to read several poems woman in the wife soothing her husband's dying

consecutively. But such is not the manner in

which we should treat a poetess who so exclusive. agonies on the wheel! What a pathetic charm breathes in the pleadings of the Adopted Child, and ly addresses our feelings. Like Petrarch's sonthe Meeting of Tasso and his Sister. How well nets, her productions delight most when separately she understood the hopelessness of ideal love !

enjoyed. Her careful study of poetry as an art, O ask not, hope thou not too much

and her truly conscientious care in choosing her Of sympathy below

language and forming her verse, could not, even Few are the hearts whence one same touch

if it were desirable, prevent the formation of a Few and by still conflicting powers

certain style. It is obvious, also, that her efforts Forbidden here to meet

are unequal. The gems, however, are more proSuch ties would make this world of ours Too fair for aught so ficet.

fusely scattered, than through the same amount of Nor is it alone in mere sensibility that the poetess writing by almost any modern poet. The deportexcels. The loftiness and the dignity of her sex ment of her muse was a high and sacred one. has few nobler interpreters. What can be finer The path she pursued was one especially heroie

, in its kind than the Swiss wife's appeal to her hus- inasmuch as her efforts imply the exertion of great band's patriotism ? Her poems abound in the wor- enthusiasm. Such lyrics as we admire in her thiest appeals to woman's faith :

pages are “fresh from the fount of feeling." They Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep,

have stirred the blood of thousands. They have And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, kindled innumerable hearts on both sides of the And suinless riches from Affection's deep, To pour on broken reeds-a wasted shower!

They have strown imperishable flowers And to make idols, and to find them clay,

around the homes and the graves of two nations. And to bewail their worship, therefore pray!

They lift the thoughts, like an organ's peal, to a To depict the parting grief of the Hebrew mother, “ better land,” and quicken the purest sympathies the repentant tears of Cæur de Lion at his father's of the soul into a truer life and more poetic beauty

. bier, the home-associations of the Eastern stranger

The taste of Mrs. Hemans was singularly eleat the sight of a palm-tree-these, and such as these, were congenial themes to Mrs. Hemans. There is a remarkable fondness for splendid con

gant. She delighted in the gorgeous and imposing, Joyous as is her welcome to Spring, thoughts of bination, warlike pomp and knightly pageantry be the departed solemnize its beauty. She invokes trayed in her writings. Her fancy seems hathat the Ocean not for its gems and buried gold, but for the true and brave that sleep in its bosom. The descent in the very flow and imagery of her verse,

in a Southern atmosphere. We trace her Italian bleak arrival of the New-England Pilgrims, and There is far less of Saxon boldness of design, and the evening devotion of the Italian peasant-girl

, simplicity of outline, than of the rich coloring are equally consecrated by her muse.

and luxuriant grouping of a warmer clime. Alia there is profound love, exalted patriotism, or

to this trait was her passion for Art. She used faith touching all things with hues of Heaven," to say that Music was part of her life. In fact

, there she rejoiced to expatiate. Fair as Elysium the mind of the poetess was essentially romaette appeared to her fancy, she celebrates its splendor Her muse was not so easily awakened by the scient only to reproach its rejection of the lowly and the of a beautiful object, as by the records of noble atloved :

Her interest was chiefly excited by the For the most loved are they, Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice

brave and touching in human experience. Nature In regal halls ! the shades o'erhung their way,

attracted her rather from its associations with God The vale with its deep fountain is their choice,

and humanity, than on account of its abstract and And gentle hearts rejoice Around their steps ! till silenily they die,

absolute qualities.

This forms the great distin As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye.

tion between her poetry and that of Wordswarih.

In the midst of the fine scenery of Wales, her irNot then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled ! Yet these are they that on the souls of men

fant faculties unfolded. There began her acq??!! Come back, when night her folding veil hath spread, ance with life and books. We are told of hat

The long remembered dead! But not with thee might auyht save glory dwell- great facility in acquiring languages, her relisk of Fade, fade away, thou shore of Asphodel !

Shakspeare at the age of six, and her extraordinary It was the opinion of Dr. Spurzheim, an accu- memory. It is not difficult to understand how her rate and benevolent observer of life, that suffering ardent feelings and rich imagination developed was essential to the rich development of female with peculiar individuality under such circunstar character. It is interesting to trace the influence ces.

Knightly legends, tales of martial enterof disappointment and trial in deepening and ex-prize-the poetry of courage and devotion, fascia

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nated her from the first. But when her deeper / secret springs of man's heart, and delineating the various feelings were called into play, and the latent sen- effects of their machinery upon the character, are so marked, sibilities of her nature sprung to conscious action,

30 preëminent, that we find here the author almost sole ocmuch of this native romance was transferred to the cupant of this guest-chamber in the Temple;

---juvat ire jugis quà nulla priorum scenes of real life, and the struggles of the heart. Castaliam molli devertitur orbita clivo."

The earlier and most elaborate of her poems We trembled at first, with light flutterings, lest Ianthe, Irenė, are, in a great measure, experimental. It seems as Isabel, and the sonnets on names might have a repeated idea, if a casual fancy for the poetic art gradually matured a corresponding trait, a point of union somewhere, which into a devoted love. Mrs. Hemans drew her power

should render them parallel; but, though all were lovely,

none were alike. Out of them might grow as true a woless from perception than sympathy. Enthusiasm,

man as the world ever saw. To imagine such an one, is rather than graphic talent, is displayed in her verse. worth living for. “ Earth's noblest thing,--a woman perWe shall look in vain for any remarkable pictures fected,” might here find rules of conduct, which evidently of the outward world. Her great aim was not so arise from deep wisdom, and pure thought. With all this much to describe as to move. We discover few we remark, from its surpassingly beautiful dedication to

the plaintive pleadings of “ L'Euvoy," a spirit of tender. scenes drawn by her pen, which strike us as won

ness towards woman, with which man may feel proud to derfully true to physical fact. She does not make be stimulated in these case-hardening days. us see so much as feel. Compared with most great Some of these have already appeared in our former numpoets, she saw but little of the world. The great-bers, and we are happy to add further proofs to the position er part of her life was passed in retirement. Her we have taken. knowledge of distant lands was derived from books. Her's is a spirit deep and crystal-clear;

Calmly beneath her earnest face it lies, Hence she makes little pretension to the poetry of Free without boldness, meek without a fear, observation. Sketches copied directly from the

Quicker to look than speak its sympathies;

Far down into her large and patient eyes visible universe, are barely encountered in her

I gaze, deep-drinking of the infinile, works. For such portraiture her mind was not As, in the mid-walch of a clear, still nighi, remarkably adapted. There was another process

I look into the fathomless blue skies. far more congenial to her—the personation of Exceeding pleasant to mine eyes is she : feeling. She loved to sing of inciting events, to

Like a lone star through riven storm-clouds seen

By sailors, tempest-tost upon the sea, contemplate her race in an heroic attitude, to ex- Telling of rest and peaceful heavens nigh, plore the depths of the soul, and, amid the shadows Unto my soul her star-like soul hath been,

Her sight as full of hope and calm to me;of despair and the tumult of passion, point out For she unto herself hath builded high some element of love or faith unquenched by the A home serene, wherein to lay her head,

Earth's noblest thing,-a Woman perfected. storm. Her strength lay in earnestness of soul.

We find here also precepts of wisdom, and a trust in Her best verses glow with emotion. When once moral strength to guide our lives, a delightful freedom from truly interested in a subject, she cast over it such all repining, shed like dew upon sunburnt flowers, over the an air of feeling that our sympathies are won at hearts of world-stricken men. Our“ weary packs” grow Once. We cannot but catch the same vivid im- light, and we go with the poet, (for he has wondrous power pression ; and if we draw from her pages no great in leading us wheresoever he listeth, and that too without number of definite images, we cannot but imbibe apparent art,) beggars through the world, joyously culling

virtues from nature's various works. He shows the spirit what is more valuablethe warmth and the life

of an “ alchemist who would extract from dust and ashes, of pure, lofty and earnest sentiment.

the essence of perpetual youth, tempt coy truth in many light and airy forms from the bottom of her well, and discover one crumb of comfort, or one grain of good, in the commonest and least regarded matter, that passes through

his crucible.” For his sake we would respect the Beggar LOWELL'S POEMS.*

clothed with a moral sublimity. That confiding trust of We have here a volume of Poems, of a loftier rank has read the Book of Nature, as opened both in earth and

which we have spoken and the evident skill with which he throughout

, performing more truly the Poet's duty, whereby man, out of which lesson this trust may grow, show us how ke speaks to men's conditions, showing fresher sympathies thorough a thinker he is, and how surely he has and more tender sensibilities, than any we have witnessed these many long days. In fact we find in it, beauties, and

“held high converse with the godlike few,

Who to th' enraptured beart, and ear, and eye, associations peculiar to the writer himself; beauties, which

Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love and melody." with all our Poets we have never seen before, which as it And even when all things are sad” he shows why, in the has fallen to the lot of none other to afford us, and as they following exquisite song. find not their counterparts, except of another nature, bring

SONG, their author to eminence by a road hitherto almost untravelled. We have been told that a country like ours, with its

All things are sad :-

I go and ask of Memory, mighty works of nature, could not but inspire some of us,

That she tell sweet tales to me and give birth to a nation of Poets. The path, thus point

To make me glad; ed out, has been worn smooth, and it is a relief when we

And she takes me by the hand, "character-writers" too, are among us.

The nice

Leadeth to old places, discrimination shown in this chaste volume, in reaching the

Showeth the old faces

In her bazy mirage-land; * A Year’s Life. By James Russell Lowell. Boston: C.

O, her voice is sweet and low, C. Liule & J. Brown, 12mo. pp. 182.

And her eyes are fresh to mine

say,

one

As the dew

And now I may pass the bright portals
Gleaming through

That open into a realm divine!
The half-unfolded eglantine,

I have drunk it through mine ears
Long ago, Long ago!

In the ecstasy of song,
But I feel that I am only

When mine eyes would fill with tears
Yet more sad, and yet more lonely!

That its life were not more long ;
Then I turn to blue-eyed Hope,

I have drunk it through mine eyes
And beg of her that she will ope

In beauty's every shape,
Her golden gates for me ;

And now around my soul it lies,
She is fair and full of grace,

No juice of eartbly grape !
But she hath the form and face

Wings! wings are given to me,
Of her mother Memory ;

I can flutter, I can rise;
Clear as air her glad voice ringeth,

Like a new life gushing through me,
Joyous are the songs she singeth,

Sweep the heavenly harmonies !
Yet I hear them mournfully ;-

and they will wonder how true to their hearts is every line, They are songs her mother taught her,

The choice similes, always true, expressive, each er. Crooning to her insant daughter,

actly fitted for its office, delight us. The beautiful sigti As she lay upon her knee. Many little ones she bore me,

of cbildren in their play, roguishly restraining the gush e Woe is me! in by-gone hours,

water from a pump, shouting merrily, with their rosy fares, Who danced along and sang before me,

came before us in a lovely group, as we read the Suaget to Scattering the way with flowers;

Caroline, all so nicely applicable to her checked mirth
One by
They are gone,

The twinkling of her eyes was seen with an effert far be-
And their silent graves are seen,

yond the power of Painting, the first-born of Poetry, to be Shining fresh with mosses green,

stow. They are all artistically interwoven,-the portraits Where the rising sunbeams slope

all drawn with a power we are accustomed to allow to O'er the dewy land of Hope.

Painting alone. We give Caroline as our first-love, though But when sweet Memory faileth,

our heart may now incline to the more matronly Anne.
And hope looks strange and cold;
When youth no more availeth,

A staidness sobers o'er her pretty face,
And Grief grows over bold;-

Which something but ill-hidden in her eyes,
When softest winds are dreary,

And a quaint look about her lips denies;
And Summer sunlight weary,

A lingering love of girlhood you can trace
And sweetest things uncheery,

In her checked laugh and halt-restrained pace;
We know not why ;-

And, when ahe bears herself most womanly,
When the crown of our desires

It seems as if a watchful mother's eye
Weighs upon the brow and tires,

Kept down with sobering glance her childish grace:
And we would die,

Yei oftentimes, her nature gushes free
Die for, ah! we know not what ;

As water long held back by little hands,
Something we seem to have forgot,

Within a pump, and let forth suddenly,
Something we had, and now have not ;

Until, her task remembering, she stands
When the present is a weight

A moment silent, smiling doubtfully,
And the future seems our foe,

Then laughs aloud and scorns her bated bands.
And with shrieking eyes we wait,

The style of the Book, partaking of the quaintness of the As one who dreads a sudden blow

purest wells of English found in our old Poets, so lankee In the dark, he knows not whence When Love at last bis bright eye closes,

tably disregarded at the present day, seems finely bited ta And the bloom upon his face,

the tenor of the author's thoughts. It does our soo good That lends him such a living grace,

to see the noble old Saxon tongue, for which we have se Is a shadow from the roses

vast a reverence, and which can boast of so much beauty, Wherewith we have decked his bier,

whose antiquity should insure it respect, chosen, wtea sa Because he once was passing dear;When we feel a leaden sense

many of us are losing this affection. We are glad to me Of nothingness and impotence,

Spenser and his companions, Shakspeare, Webster, ad Till we grow mad,

the “golden-mouthed" Taylor, called upon for draugas Then the body saith,

from the sweet waters of their never-sailing fountain “There's but one true faith;

These men we love, and be who goes to them for bis All things are sad !"

standard, opens an avenue to our heart,-or raiber futs Thus he speaks to us, words we have felt without the one already open and paved. Beside this delightful asuirt, power of utterance. The heart burnings, and writhings of a mellow light is shed over the whole book, breaking 06: the soul when weighed down with thoughts, which we find now and then into brilliant flashes. He who has dose Lise no vent for, no word-softenings like the tear-softenings of duty as a moral creature, must feel that he should bare had gries,- when we feel how

these thoughts, so pure and true, himself; and the beacuta! “Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopped,

trait in the character of lanthe, of whom he says Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is,"

Early and late, at her soul's gate, find here a sure relief. In the beautiful simplicity of the

Sits chastity in warder wise, style, we feel that all these emotions we have experienced, No thought unchallenged, small or great, are clothed for us sweetly,—and brought home to our hearts,

Goes thence into her eyes; like little children welcomed from their wanderings. Let

Nor may a low, unworthy thought

Beyond that virgin warder win, the mother read in Threnodia, the beautiful lesson her de

Nor one, whose pass-word is not “ought" parted child has taught ;-let him whose soul has been

May go without or enter in, stirred by music, see its different workings in each chango is apparently, a ruling principle with the author himself ing verse of “Music,”—now soothed and lying with droop.

When we think how many of the mighty multitude of ing eyes,-now borne on with the rolling thunder,-now writers among us, daily increasing, must necessarily s.lk charmed, fearing to speak, searing to move,

into oblivion, although much merit may go with many bus “ Lest I should break the spell I love,"

fated, as time rolls on, we indulge a hope that this link now merrily floating on the bright waves of soug, listening book will still go on its mission, aided in its work by su.. to the ripples at the prown-now feeling

further products from the same mind. That the author fees I have drunk of the drink of immortals,

the holiness of the Poet's work, we have evidence so strong, I have drunk of the life-giving wine,

that, in hoping thus, we do it without trembling and fea.

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