The Dying Child.-CARLOS WILCOX.

THUS happily they lived,
Till, in their arms, a second pleasant babe,
With a faint smile, intelligent, began
To answer theirs, and with a brighter that
Of its fond sister, standing by their side,
With frequent kisses prattling in its face;
While in its features, with parental joy,
And love connubial, they began to mark
Theirs intermingled ;-when, with sudden stroke,
The blooming infant faded, and expired.
And soon its lonely sister, doubly dear
Now in their grief, was in like manner torn
From their united grasp. With patience far
Beyond her years, the little sufferer bore
Her sharp distemper, while she could behold
Both parents by her side; but, when from sleep,
Transient and troubled, waking, wept aloud,
As terrified, if either were not there.
To hear their voices singing of the love
Of her Redeemer, in her favorite hymn,
And praying for his mercy, oft she asked
With eagerness, and seemed the while at ease.
When came the final struggle, with the look
Of a grieved child, and with its mournful cry,
But still with something of her wonted tone
Of confidence in danger, as for help
She called on them, on both alternately,
As if by turns expecting that relief

From each the other had grown slow to yield;
At which their calmness, undisturbed till then,
Gave way to agitation past control.

A few heart-rending moments, and her voice
Sunk to a weak and inarticulate moan,
Then in a whisper ended; and with that
Her features grew composed and fixed in death;
At sight of which their lost tranquillity

At once returned. 'Twas evening; and the lamp,
Set near, shone full upon her placid face,
Its snowy white illuming, while they stood
Gazing as on her loveliness in sleep,
The enfeebled mother on the father's arm

Heavily hanging, like the slender flower
On its firm prop, when loaded down with rain
Or morning dew.

To a Musquito.-NEW YORK REVIEW.

FAIR insect, that, with thread-like legs spread out,
And blood-extracting bill, and filmy wing,
Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail'st about,

In pitiless ears, full many a plaintive thing,
And tell'st how little our large veins should bleed,
Would we but yield them freely to thy need;

I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween,

Has not the honor of so proud a birth;

Thou com'st from Jersey meadows, broad and green,
The offspring of the gods, though born on earth.

At length thy pinions fluttered in Broadway-
Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed
By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray

Shone through the snowy veils like stars through mist!
And, fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin,
Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin.

O, these were sights to touch an anchorite!-
What, do I hear thy slender voice complain?
Thou wailest, when I talk of beauty's light,
As if it brought the memory of pain:

Thou art a wayward being-well, come near,
And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear.

What say'st thou, slanderer? "Rouge makes thee sick,
And China bloom at best is sorry food;

And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick,

Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood?"
Go, 'twas a just reward that met thy crime-
But shun the sacrilege another time.

That bloom was made to look at, not to touch,

To worship, not approach, that radiant white;

And well might sudden vengeance light on such
As dared, like thee, most impiously, to bite.
Thou should'st have gazed at distance, and admired,
Murmured thy adoration, and retired

Thou'rt welcome to the town; but why come here
To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee?
Alas! the little blood I have is dear,

And thin will be the banquet drawn from me.
Look round-the pale-eyed sisters, in my cell,
Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell.

Try some plump alderman; and suck the blood
Enriched with generous wine and costly meat,
In well filled skins, soft as thy native mud,

Fix thy light pump, and raise thy freckled feet.
Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls,
The oyster breeds, and the green turtle sprawls.

There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows,
To fill the swelling veins for thee; and now
The ruddy cheek, and now the ruddier nose,
Shall tempt thee as thou flittest round the brow
And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings,
No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings.

Earth, with her thousand Voices, praises God.—
LONGFELLOW.*

WHEN first, in ancient time, from Jubal's tongue,
The tuneful anthem filled the morning air,
To sacred hymnings and Elysian song

His music-breathing shell the minstrel woke.

*Most of Mr. Longfellow's poetry—indeed, we believe nearly all that has been published-appeared, during his college life, in the United States' Literary Gazette. It displays a very refined taste, and a very pure vein of poetical feeling. It possesses what has been a rare quality in the American poets-simplicity of expression, without any attempt to startle the reader, or to produce an effect by far-sought epithets. There is much sweetness in nis imagery and language; and sometimes he is hardly excelled by any one for the quiet accuracy exhibited in his pictures of natural objects. His poetry will not easily be forgotten; some of it will be remembered with that of Dana and Bryant.-ED.

Devotion breathed aloud from every chord;—
The voice of praise was heard in every tone,
And prayer, and thanks to Him, the Eternal One,-
To Him, that, with bright inspiration, touched
The high and gifted lyre of heavenly song,
And warmed the soul with new vitality.
A stirring energy through nature breathed;—
The voice of adoration from her broke,
Swelling aloud in every breeze, and heard
Long in the sullen waterfall,-what time
Soft Spring or hoary Autumn threw on earth
Its bloom or blighting,-when the Summer smiled,
Or Winter o'er the year's sepulchre mourned.
The Deity was there!-a nameless spirit
Moved in the hearts of men to do him homage;
And when the Morning smiled, or Evening, pale,
Hung weeping o'er the melancholy urn,
They came beneath the broad o'erarching trees,
And in their tremulous shadow worshipped oft,
Where the pale vine clung round their simple altars,
And gray moss mantling hung. Above was heard
The melody of winds, breathed out as the green trees
Bowed to their quivering touch in living beauty,
And birds sang forth their cheerful hymns. Below,
The bright and widely-wandering rivulet
Struggled and gushed amongst the tangled roots,
That choked its reedy fountain-and dark rocks,
Worn smooth by the constant current. Even there
The listless wave, that stole, with mellow voice,
Where reeds grew rank upon the rushy brink,
And to the wandering wind the green sedge bent,
Sang a sweet song of fixed tranquillity.

Men felt the heavenly influence; and it stole
Like balm into their hearts, till all was peace;

And even the air they breathed,-the light they saw,-
Became religion;-for the ethereal spirit,

That to soft music wakes the chords of feeling,
And mellows every thing to beauty, moved
With cheering energy within their breasts,
And made all holy there-for all was love.
The morning stars, that sweetly sang together—
The moon, that hung at night in the mid-sky-
Dayspring-and eventide-and all the fair
And beautiful forms of nature, had a voice
Of eloquent worship. Ocean, with its tide,

Swelling and deep, where low the infant storm
Hung on his dun, dark cloud, and heavily beat
The pulses of the sea, sent forth a voice
Of awful adoration to the Spirit,

That, wrapped in darkness, moved upon its face.
And when the bow of evening arched the east,
Or, in the moonlight pale, the gentle wave

Kissed, with a sweet embrace, the sea-worn beach,
And the wild song of winds came o'er the waters,
The mingled melody of wind and wave
Touched like a heavenly anthem on the ear;
For it arose a tuneful hymn of worship.

And have our hearts grown cold? Are there on earth
No pure reflections caught from heavenly love?
Have our mute lips no hymn--our souls no song?
Let him, that, in the summer-day of youth,
Keeps pure the holy fount of youthful feeling,
And him, that, in the nightfall of his years,
Lies down in his last sleep, and shuts in peace
His weary eyes on life's short wayfaring,
Praise Him that rules the destiny of man.

The Blind Man's Lament.-JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN.

O WHERE are the visions of ecstasy bright,
That can burst o'er the darkness, and banish the night?
O where are the charms that the day can unfold
To the heart and the eye that their glories can hold?
Deep, deep in the silence of sorrow I mourn;
For no visions of beauty for me shall e'er burn!
They have told me of sweet purple hues of the west,
Of the rich tints that sparkle on Ocean's wide breast;
They have told me of stars that are burning on high,
When the night is careering along the vast sky;
But, alas! there remains, wheresoever I flee,
Nor beauty, nor lustre, nor brightness for me!

But yet, to my lone, gloomy couch there is given
A ray to my heart that is kindled in heaven;
It soothes the dark path through this valley of tears;
It enlivens my heart, and my sorrow it cheers;
For it tells of a morn when this night shall pass by,
And my spirit shall dwell where the days do not die.