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"The cock's shrill trump that tells of scattered corn,

Passed breezily on by all his flapping mates, Faint and more faint, from barn to barn is borne,

Southward, perhaps to far Magellan's straits;

Dimly I catch the throb of distant flails. Silently over head the henhawk sails, With watchful, measuring eye, and for his quarry waits.

The sobered robin, hunger- silent now, Seeks cedar-berries blue, his Autumn cheer; The squirrel on the shingly shagbank's bough,

Now saws, now lists with downward eye and ear,

Then drops his nut, and, with a chipping bound,

Whisks to his winding fastness underground:

The clouds like swans drift down the streaming atmosphere,

O'er yon bare knoll the pointed cedar shadows

Drowse on the crisp, gray moss; the ploughman's call

Creeps faint as smoke from black, fresh furrowed meadows;

The single crow a single caw lets fall;

And all around me every bust and tree SayAutumn's here and Winter soon will be, Who snows his soft white sleep and silence over all."

Blessings on the poet, whose power of observation enables him to present us so constantly fresh objects for admiration, and consequently fresh motives for thanksgiving and gratitude to the Lord of all. Even the humble blackberry is not for gotten; see with what inimitable accuracy its retreat is sketched and its growth described.

"O'er yon low wall, which guards one unkempt zone,

Where vines, and weeds, and scrub-oaks intertwine

Safe from the plough, whose rough discordant stone

Is massed to one soft gray by lichens fine, The tangled blackberry, crossed and recrossed, weaves

A prickly net-work of ensanguin'd leaves: Hard by, with coral beads, the prim black alders shine."

The same lulling, overpowering inclination to apathetic ease and luxurious repose, which is so apparent in the "Lotus Eaters" of Tennyson, is strongly perceptible in the lines which immediately ensue.

"All round upon the river's slippery edge, Witching to deeper calm the drowsy tide, Whispers and leans the breeze entangling sedge;

Through emerald glooms the lingering waters slide,

Or, sometimes wavering, throw back the

sun,

And the stiff banks in eddies melt and run Of dimpling light, and with the current seem to glide."

Again, how beautifully the effect of winter is contrasted with the bloom of summer.

"Another change subdues them in the Fall, But saddens not; they still show merrier tints,

Though sober russet seems to cover all; Then the first sunshine through their dew drops glints,

Look how the yellow clearness, streamed across,

Redeems with rarer hues the season's loss,

As Dawn's feet there had touched and left their rosy prints."

It would be difficult to select two stanzas more full of fresh

and ingenious imagery than the

"Then, every morn, the river's banks shine

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following:

'Gainst which the lances of the sun prevail, Giving a pretty emblem of the day When guiltier arms in light shall melt

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And now those waterfalls the ebbing river
Twice every day creates on either side,
Tinkle, as through their fresh-sparred
grots they shiver,

In grass arch'd channels to the sun de-
nied;

High flaps in sparkling blue the farheard crow,

The silvered flats gleam frostily below, Suddenly drops the gull, and breaks the glassy tide."

We come now to one of the prettiest poems in the book, namely, the ode "To the Dandelion"; no impartial person capable of distinguishing merit, will read this gem of poetical art unmoved, or willingly deny the title of Poet to the author of its sunny imagery, graceful language, and original conception.

"Studies for two Heads" is graphic, and the portraits are taken in that spirit of analysis, and with that great knowledge of human nature, which Lowell constantly evinces. Metaphysical beauty, religious confidence, and philanthropy, lend their important influence in adorning the "Elegy Elegy on the Death of Dr. Channing," and the "Fable for Critics" establishes the author's right to membership in that awful association. We shall now present the reader with "The Changeling," the last and perhaps the most beautiful of all the extracts we have taken from Lowell's poetry. It is truly a charming piece, highly imaginative, simple and pathetic, and invested with a nameless grace and etherial fascination.

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In N. P. Willis, the author of "Pencillings by the Way," we have another Poet, who, like Longfellow, possesses elegance and beauty of expression to such a degree, that all his other qualifications as a Poet, become overshadowed by their pre-eminence; and we are furnished by him with another potent argument against the insinuations of those who cannot behold. anything in America which bears the slightest resemblance to refinement. This artistic elaboration is no where more apparent than in his Scriptural Poems, which are particularly remarkable for high polish, and incomparable smoothness. Willis is, however, deficient in originality, by which he is debarred from rivalling some of his more creative brethren in the arena of thought. If a palm should be allotted for elegant taste, and rythmical excellence, it may not be too much to say that this author would enter the lists, with a fair prospect of becoming the successful competitor for the prize. Wit of a very refined and elevated order, is another peculiarity of this Poet. His "Lady Jane," (which has a marked resemblance to "Don Juan,") has many brilliant passages, pregnant with satirical humour. Added to these, Willis possesses a fine imagination, great taste, and a sound judgment. In common with all the transatlantic bards, he is somewhat diffuse, but " the wheat is much more plentiful than the tares," and the fault is easily pardoned for the sake of his many beauties. "The healing of the Daughter of Jairus," is written in a strain of chaste and exquisite melody, displaying to very great perfection the rich and wide imagination of the author, his consummate taste and fluency. The lines which follow have all the "faint exquisite music of a dream."

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"The Leper" is another instance of this easy flowing grace and rich melody; the language is exquisite and beautiful.

The same may be said of the Sacrifice of Abraham, which is characterized by a certain dignity, nearly akin to sublimity. These extracts will serve to exemplify another valuable peculiarity of this author, which is, the very great power he can exercise in eliciting our sympathies. He makes us enamoured of whatever he pleases, and invests his subjects with marvellous fascinations; "Thoughts while making the Grave of a new-born Child," will be generally received as an admirable example of the most exquisite tenderness, united with moral beauty of an exalted kind; true and deep love of nature are evident in all its passages; it merits introduction.

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Drawing me after thee! And so, farewell! 'Tis a harsh world, in which affection knows No place to treasure up its loved and lost, But the foul grave! Thou who so late wast sleeping,

Warm in the close fold of a mother's heart, Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving,

But it was sent thee with some tender
thought,

How can I leave thee here! Alas. for man!
The herb in its humility may fall

And waste into the bright and genial air,
While we-by hands that minister'd in life
Nothing but love to us-are thrust away-
The earth flung in upon our just cold
bosoms,

And the warm sunshine trodden out for
ever!

Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child,
A bank where I have lain in summer hours,
And thought how little it would seem like
death

To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook,
Tripping with laughter down the rocky
steps

That lead up to thy bed, would still trip on,
Breaking the dead hush of the mourners

gone;

The birds are never silent that build here,
Trying to sing down the more vocal waters:
The slope is beautiful with moss and
flowers,

And far below, seen under arching leaves,
Glitters the warm sun on the village spire,
Pointing the living after thee. And this
Seems like a comfort; and, replacing now
The flowers that have made room for thee,

I go

To whisper the same peace to her who lies, Robb'd of her child and lonely. 'Tis the work

Of many a dark hour, and of many a prayer.
To bring the heart back from an infant
gone,

Hope must give o'er, and busy fancy blot
The images from all the silent rooms,
And every sight and sound familiar to her,
Undo its sweetest link-and so at last
The fountain-that, once struck, must flow
for ever-

Will hide and waste in silence. When the
smile

Steals to her pallid lip again, and spring
Wakens the buds above thee, we will come,
And, standing by thy music-haunted grave,
Look on each other cheerfully, and say:-
A child that we have loved is gone to heaven,
And by this gate of flowers she pass'd away!"

"Parrhasius," a poem too long for insertion, is written in a picturesque and graphic way; eminently dramatic, it places. the Captive before our eyes; we behold his agonized features, and listen with horror to his groans. Added to these it affords us an admirable instance of the fearful exaggerations which follow an ill-directed ambition. The rich and cultivated imagination of Willis, his melody, delicate, and glowing colouring, and earnestness pervading all, are most happily associated in his beautiful Poem "To Ermengarde."

The charming lines called "Spirit-Whispers," are very classical in their allegorical meaning, and chaste beauty.

"SPIRIT-WHISPERS.

Wake! poet, wake!-the moon has burst

Through gates of stars and dew,
And, wing'd by prayer since evening nurs'd,
Has fled to kiss the steeples first,

And now stoops low to you!
Oh, poet of the loving eye,

For you is dress'd this morning sky!

Oh, poet of the pen enchanted!

A lady sits beneath a tree!

At last the flood for which she panted-
The wild words for her anguish wanted,
Have gushed in song to thee!

Her dark curls sweep her knees to pray:-
God bless the poet far away!

King of the heart's deep mysteries!

Your words have wings like lightning
Wove!

This hour, o'er hills and distant seas,
They fly like flower-seeds on the breeze,
And sow the world with love!
King of a realm without a throne,
Ruled by resistless tears alone!"

Our next quotation conveys the expression of the effect produced on the bard by the memory of his mother; it is delineated with a gigantic force which seems like inspiration mingled withal with child-like tenderness.

"BETTER MOMENTS.

My mother's voice! how often creep
Its accents on my lonely hours!
Like healing sent on wings of sleep,

Or dew to the unconscious flowers.
I can forget her melting prayer
While leaping pulses madly fly,
But in the still unbroken air,

Her gentle tone comes stealing by--
And years, and sin, and folly flee,
And leave me at my mother's knee.

The evening hours, the birds, the flowers,
The starlight, moonlight-all that's meet
For heav'n in this lost world of ours-

Remind me of her teachings sweet.
My heart is harder, and perhaps

My thoughtlessness hath drunk up tears,
And there's a mildew in the lapse

Of a few swift and chequer'd years-
But nature's book is even yet
With all my mother's lessons writ.

I have been out at eventide

Beneath a moonlight sky of spring,
When earth was garnish'd like a bride,
And night had on her silver wing-
When bursting leaves, and diamond grass,
And waters leaping to the light,
And all that make the pulses pass
With wilder fleetness, throng'd the
night-

When all was beauty-then have I

With friends on whom my love is flung, Like myrrh on winds of Araby,

Gazed up where evening's lamp is hung:

And when the beautiful spirit there
Flung over me its golden chain,
My mother's voice came on the air
Like the light dropping of the rain,
And resting on some silver star,

The spirit of a bended knee,
I've poured out low and fervent prayer
That our eternity might be

To rise in heaven, like stars at night,
And tread a living path of light.

I have been on the dewy hills,

When night was stealing from the dawn,
And mist was on the waking rills,

And tints were delicately drawn
In the grey East-when birds were waking
With a low murmur in the trees,
And melody by fits was breaking

Upon the whisper of the breeze-
And this when I was forth, perchance
As a worn reveller from the dance-

And when the sun sprang gloriously
And freely up, and hill and river

Were watching upon wave and tree
The arrows from his subtle quiver-
I say a voice has thrill'd me then,
Heard on the still and rushing light,
Or, creeping from the silent glen,
Like words from the departing night,
Hath stricken me, and I have press'd
On the wet grass my fever'd brow,
And pouring forth the earliest
First prayer, with which I learn'd to bow,
Have felt my mother's spirit rush
Upon me as in by-past years,
And, yielding to the blessed gush
Of my ungovernable tears,

Have risen up-the gay, the wild-
Subdued and humble as a child."

In the pretty Lyric which immediately ensues, we are furnished with a terse and elegant specimen of descriptive beauty, characterized by comprehensiveness of expression: it conveys

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