that although States rise and fall, temples are upreared, and topple to their bases, an earthquake may render useless a "century's toil," Poetry can make a name reverberate through the world during its existence. Terpsichore, contains much wit, humour, and sound judgment. It is written in a strictly classical spirit. A Rhymed Lesson, commences in a humorous vein, and goes on to show that God brought us into the world, not that he might tyrannize over us, but that we might possess the world for our enjoyment, having evinced our gratitude to him by our obedience to his laws, thus giving us an opportunity of working out our welfare.

The poem is especially intended for the uneducated poor, whom it instructs in those essential moral principles, and social virtues, with which, from their utter ignorance, they are necessarily unacquainted; it points out the necessity of holding our passions in check, inculcates christian toleration, and recommends dispassionate judgment: it winds up with a patriotic eulogium on America, well adapted to the poor and uneducated youth. The instruction is given in a vein, semi serious and semi comic, and is consequently most likely to be generally read.

How beautifully Holmes can indite a ballad, may be judged from,

THE STAR AND THE WATER LILY.

The sun stepped down from his golden throne,

And lay in the silent sea,

And the Lily had folded her satin leaves,
For a sleepy thing was she;
What is the Lily dreaming of?
Why crisp the waters blue?

See, see, she is lifting her varnished lid!
ller white leaves are glistening through!
The Rose is cooling his burning check
In the lap of the breathless tide;--
The Lily hath sisters fresh and fair,

That would lie by the Rose's side;

He would love her better than all the rest,
And he would be fond and true;-
But the lily unfolded her weary lids,
And looked at the sky so blue.
Remember, remember, thou silly one,
How fast will thy summer glide,
And wilt thou wither a virgin pale,
Or flourish a blooming bride?

"Oh the Rose is old, and thorny, and cold,
And he lives on earth," said she;

"But the Star is fair and he lives in the air, And he shall my bridegroom be."

But what if the stormy cloud should come,
And ruffle the silver sea?

Would he turn his eye from the distant sky,
Ts smile on a thing like thee?

O no, fair Lily, he will not send

One ray from his far-off throne; The winds shall blow and the waves shall flow,

And thou wilt be left alone.

There is not a leaf on the mountain top,
Nor a drop of evening dew,
Nor a golden sand on the sparkling shore,
Nor a pearl in the waters blue,

That he has not cheered with his fickle sunile
And warmed with his faithless beam,-
And will he be true to a pallid flower,
That floats on the quiet stream?

Alas for the Lily! she would not heed,
But turned to the skies afar,
And bared her breast to the trembling ray
That shot from the rising Star;

The cloud came over the darkened sky,
And over the waters wide:

She looked in vain through the beating rain,
And sank in the stormy tide.

The Last Leaf, is decidedly the oddest of his productions,

and the one perhaps which is most calculated to display his idiosyncrasies: we here insert it :—

THE LAST LEAF.

I saw him once before,
As he passed by the door,

And again

The pavement stones resound,
As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.

They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning knife of Time
Cut him down,

Not a better man was found
By the crier on his round

Through the town.

But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets
Sad and wan,

And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said
"They are gone."

The mossy marbles rest

On the lips that he had pressed
In their bloom,

And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year

On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said,-
Poor old lady, she is dead
Long ago,-

That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow.

But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff,

And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.

I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin
At him here;

But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that
Are so queer!

And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring,

Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.

Exquisite satire, and marvellous fidelity, are evidenced in the following:

MY AUNT.

My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt!
Long years have o'er her flown;
Yet still she strains the aching clasp
That binds her virgin zone;

I know it hurts her,-though she looks
As cheerful as she can;

Her waist is ampler than her life,
For life is but a span.

My aunt! my poor deluded aunt!
Her hair is almost grey;
Why will she train that winter curl
In such a spring-like way?
How can she lay her glasses down,
And say she reads as well,
When through a double convex lens,
She just makes out to spell?
Her father;-grandpapa! forgive
This erring lip its smiles,-
Vowed she should make the finest girl
Within a hundred miles;

He sent her to a stylish school;

"Twas in her thirteenth June ; And with her, as the rules required, "Two towels and a spoon."

They braced my aunt against a board,
To make her straight and tall;
They laced her up, they starved her down,
To make her light and small;
They pinched her feet, they singed her hair,
They screwed it up with pins;

O never mortal suffered more
In penauce for her sins.

So, when my precious aunt was done,
My grandsire brought her back;
(By daylight, lest some rabid youth
Might follow on the track ;)

"Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shook
Some powder in his pan,
"What could this lovely creature do
Against a desperate man!"

Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche,
Nor bandit cavalcade,

Tore from the trembling father's arms,
His all accomplished maid.
For her how happy had it been!
And Heaven had spared to me
To see one sad, ungathered rose
On my ancestral tree.

In the next quotation, we are furnished with a most extraordinary instance of appropriate imagery: we are astonished at the happy manner in which every line bears reference to the Tailor's calling, and by the wonderful facility with which all external objects, be they great or small, are compared to the humble technicalities which characterize his profession.

The following is in Holmes' best style :

THE STETHOSCOPE SONG.
There was a young man in Boston town,
He bought him a Stethoscope nice and

The bruit de rape and the bruit de scie
And the bruit de diable all are combined;
How happy Bouilland would be,

If he a case like this could find!

Now, when the neighbouring doctors found
A case so rare had been descried,
They every day her ribs did pound
In squads of twenty; so she died.
Then six young damsels, slight and frail,
Received this kind young Doctor's cares;
They all were getting slim and pale,

And short of breath on mounting stairs. They all made rhymes with "sighs" and "skies,

And loathed their puddings and buttered rolls,

And dicted, much to their friends' surprise,
On pickles, and pencils, and chalk, and
coals.

So fast their little hearts did bound,
The frightened insects buzzed the more;
So over all their chests he found
The rale sifflant, and rale sonore.

He shook his head;-there's grave disease,
I greatly fear you all must die;
A slight post-mortem, if you please,
Surviving friends would gratify.

The six young damsels wept alond,
Which so prevailed on six young men,
That each his honest love avowed,
Whereat they all got well again.

This poor young man was all aghast;
The price of Stethoscopes came down!
And so he was reduced at last

To practise in a country town.
The Doctors being very sore,

A Stethoscope they did devise,
That had a rammer to clear the bore,
With a knob at the end to kill the flies.

Now use your ears, all you that can,
But don't forget to mind your eyes.
Or you may be cheated like this young man,
By a couple of silly abnormal flies.

We close this first paper on American Poets, and our second, and concluding, portion, shall be devoted to a review of the works of Dana, Willis, Lowell, Poe, Whittier, and Read. We have not in this, our present division of the subject, written critically of the poets specially noticed, or of the probable effects which their productions may have upon the literature of America; we consider that such a disquisition belongs to the concluding section of our paper.

ART. II.-JOHN BANIM.

PART V.

COMPOSITION OF

COM

ANXIETY FOR FAME AS A DRAMATIC POET.
HIS TRAGEDY "SYLLA." HISTORY OF THE TRAGEDY.
PARISON OF IT WITH THE SYLLA OF DEKKER AND JOUY.
EXTRACTS FROM IT. LETTERS. PROPOSED VISIT TO THE SOUTH
OF ENGLAND. RESTORED HEALTH. FRIENDSHIP OF JOHN
STIRLING. VISIT TO CAMBRIDGE. RESTORED HEALTH OF MRS.
BANIM. URGING MICHAEL BANIM ΤΟ CONTINUE JOINT
AUTHORSHIP. LETTERS. BUOYANT SPIRITS AND NEW PRO-
JECTS. REMOVAL TO EASTBOURNE. OPINION OF MICHAEL'S
TALE, THE CROPPY." ACCOUNT OF ITS COMPOSITION.
DAUGHTER BORN TO JOHN BANIM. CORRESPONDENCE WITH
GERALD GRIFFIN. REMOVAL TO SEVEN OAKS. ADMIRABLE
LETTER TO MICHAEL UPON THE COMPOSITION OF A NOVEL
AND THE SELECTION OF CHARACTERS. INCIDENTS SUGGESTED

A

AND OLD STORIES RECALLED. THE BEAUTIES AND ART OF
GREAT NOVELISTS DISPLAYED. LETTER FROM MICHAEL
SHOWING RESULT OF THIS ADVICE IN THE PRODUCTION OF
"THE GHOST HUNTER." ILLNESS. LETTER TO MICHAEL.
LITERARY OCCUPATIONS DESCRIBED. BEAUTIFUL ACCOUNT
OF HIS HOME LIFE-HIS CONDITION, THE BODY RACKED BUT
THE MIND GLOWING. DELIGHT AT RENEWED FRIENDSHIP OF
GERALD GRIFFIN.
THEIR LETTERS TO EACH OTHER. REMOVAL
TO BLACKHEATH.
ILLNESS AND PROSTRATION OF STRENGTH.

REMOVAL TO THE FRENCH COAST ADVISED BY PHYSICIANS.
ANOTHER SERIES OF 66 TALES BY THE O'HARA FAMILY" HUR-
RIEDLY WRITTEN BY JOHN BANIM AND PUBLISHED UNDER THE
TITLE OF THE DENOUNCED." REMOVAL TO FRANCE.

It will have been remarked by the attentive student of Banim's mind, as exhibited in his letters, that the old love of poetry and of dramatic composition, recurs frequently in evident forms. It was indeed never entirely lost, and he seems to have cherished hopes of brilliant and steady success in that most difficult of all literary labors, the production of a really poetical,

original drama.

He was ever, in his leisure hours, and these, truly, were few, engaged in poetic composition; he had no pleasures, save