truth and loveliness will be noticed and felt wherever such a heart may throb. His ear may be dull, his heart cold in death, but his

ΤΟ

The loved-oh! gently, peacefully
She passed from earth away—
So vanishes from fount and flower
The farewell flush of day,

So fades from view in upward light
A bird of radiant hue,

And so a lingering star is lost

From morning's heaven of blue.

Mourner-thou of the tearful eye!
Oh! break that spell of gloom,
E'en though the sister of thy love
Lies cold within the tomb.
Think of her happy home above,

The soul's high triumph there,
And say if thou wouldst call her back
Earth's weary lot to bear.

NEW BOOKS.

MEM.

To care for none but new books is a mark of intellectual weakness; but to neglect them entirely, in an excess of veneration for the "good old standards" is a folly no less great. In one respect it is certainly worse, because it always savors strongly of affectation, and literary dandyism. One might as reasonably refuse to inhabit the comfortable lath-and-plaster mansion of the present day, because we cannot all tenant Pyramids.

That we do love them, tomes, that so long As soon would we -as abate one jot or

Far be it from us to undervalue old books. bear witness ye well thumbed, much-pencilled have been the household gods of our study-room! forget our old friends,―aye, even our old purse,tittle of the love we bear you for the pleasant hours past, and the many we hope to spend in future over your familiar pages! Yet a

new book hath great charms for us! It is a sort of lottery-ticket. Sometimes it brings a prize,-not often a capital one, we own, but yet worth the trifle of time or money it has cost,-and even if it be but a blank, good for nothing but to be cast to the winds, it will at least tell us which way the wind blows,-in what direction is setting the current of thought.

Here especially, in quiet little Amherst, we have few greater enjoyments than new books bring. When our daily lessons are all conned, or on a summer afternoon, too hot for exercise and almost for thought, it is right pleasant to set cosily down, paper-knife in hand, and wile away an hour or so over the pages of some new poem, just come in maiden-like purity from Putnam's or Ticknor's press. Even now, thanks to our well-beloved Henry,-him of the Post Office,is a rich feast before us. Let us but first take the proper attitude,so,—our back supported by one chair arm, our nether limbs dangling gracefully over the other,―now, have at them with you, Reader!

HAROLD, the last of the Saxons, by Sir E. Bulwer Lytton, Bart., etc."

By their covers ye shall know them. Those portly, brown-coated pamphlets from Harper & Brothers will be sure to give you for a mere trifle, the contents of some costly English fiction. Even that trifle, we confess, is often more than the real value; but not always. This is Bulwer's last. Some pleasant hours we have spent over it already, and we strongly advise you to do "that same." The noble author has chosen for his theme one of the most interesting, and at the same time least understood epochs of English history; and we rejoice that he has redeemed it so well from the grasp of dull annalists and mouldy antiquaries. In his pages we have vividly before our eyes those wild times that ushered in the chivalry of the Middle ages: romantic to us, simply because they differ from all our own experiences. No history of state events can give us just ideas of life so unlike that of the present day. It shows us only the skeleton: or at most, in the hands of philosophical historians, a galvanised corpse, spasmodically moving in obedience to the particular whim or theory of him who pulls the wires. A well-written historical novel restores the natural life, with all its proper workings. True, if this life be not supported by the skeleton,-if the fiction be not consistent with the real facts so far as they go,—we have a distorted figure: but such as these are not well-written. The one before us, in our humble judgment, really is: the author has succeeded in adhering faithfully

to the skeleton, and at the same time clothing it, from the stores of a chaste and cultivated imagination, with life-like form. The crafty, ambitious conqueror, the brave but unsteady Harold are the same that we find in the dullest history; but they cease to be mere names, and come into our presence as living men.

As a novel, Harold is not a work of extraordinary merit. The plot has neither beginning, middle, nor end: it adheres too closely to the truth for this it is simply a series of scenes drawn from the fortunes of a single historical personage. In this it contrasts strongly with the completeness and finish by which most of Bulwer's plots are marked.

Those who look with distrust upon his moral influence will be glad to miss, along with these, much of the peculiar tone of his purely fictitious works. We recognize indeed but few features of Bulwer, except his masterly power of delineation, and his almost perfect style. His most rigid judges can hardly deny that this book at least is, as he has avowedly aimed to make it, one that may be put without danger, and even with great benefit, into the hands of the young.

But we will delay no longer here: for yonder modest little volumes, in their neat covers of stone-colored paper, are among the most tempting morsels that the press sends forth. "The physiognomy of a book" is in truth a matter of no little moment. Our young poets owe a debt of gratitude to the publishers, whose taste presents them to the world in the inviting garb so current of late.

"ENDYMION: A Tale of Greece, by Henry B. Hirst."

Of the author of "Endymion" we know only what we have learned from his modest preface: that he is a young lawyer of Philadelphia, and that he has published, previously to this, a volume of Miscellaneous Poems: of which more anon. But his poem has told us, as we think it will tell every one who gives it careful reading, that amid the whole host of young American poets,—and verily their name is legion, there is not one gifted with higher powers, or giving promise of so great future excellence. In this "Tale of Greece," Mr. Hirst has succeeded in one of the most difficult tasks that a young poet could attempt: the embodying in modern poetry one of the most beautiful Grecian myths. So well has he done this, that though not only all the scenes but much of the plot is the offspring of his own fertile fancy, we detect no incongruity throughout. The beautiful fable seems only more perfect by these daring accessions, like a precious gem exquisitely set.

The most striking feature of the poem, is the exuberant and glowing imagination it displays. This throws over the whole a rich warm glow, that reminds us of what we see in one of Titian's paintings. There is a tendency to anthropomorphism too, in Mr. Hirst's mind, that seems to fit him particularly to be a revivifier of Grecian fable. He has little of the abstraction and spirituality that characterize modern religion and poetry, but all is hidden under a veil of outward and sensual beauty; the question may be asked whether this is not after all the poet's proper field? But it is one we can not discuss here.

Perhaps to a taste more rigid and mature than that of a college student, the profuse ornament of this author's style would amount to a fault. Tropes and metaphors, and all the offspring of a teeming fancy are scattered with lavish hand through the book: and though there are but few of these to which the most delicate taste can object as strained or inelegant, one becomes almost wearied at last with the profusion of sweets. From this however we are saved by the exquisite beauty of the plot. This we intended to sketch in the present article, but found it impossible to do it the slightest justice within our prescribed limits. The same must be our apology for selecting but one beautiful stanza to adorn our pages with; though where all is so beautiful, it is no easy task to choose.

"Yet he was faint-faint with fatigue and drooping,

Through the long day unwearied he had kept

Watch, while his cattle slept.

And now the Sun was like a faleon stooping

Down the red West; and Night from out her cave

Walk'd, Christ-like, o'er the wave.*

To the poem itself we commend our readers, with the assurance that if they be true lovers of true poetry, they will rarely find, among new books, a richer treat.

"THE COMING OF THE MAMMOTH, AND CTHER POEMS, by Henry B. Hirst."

It was not till after we had read Endymion, that our attention was drawn to this volume of Miscellaneous Poems, by the same author, though published two or three years ago. We have since read them, with no little pleasure. They are just what we expect the early writings of a true poet to be; filled with many beauties, and some glaring faults. In Endymion, we see these diminishing, and those grad

*This beautiful metre is new, to us at least. We wish some other of our young poets would take example thereby, and not deem it a mark of inspiratien to vent their thoughts in forms destitute alike of taste and prosody.