It sparkled on the belfry's spire, Each soul with sense of duty fraught; Around Thy throne, O Christ divine. [lonesome After all, now that we read them again-having copied them,we admit there is something in them of merit, and feel inclined to say G. W. D. may "try again"! So many exquisitely beautiful poems have been written on the snowdrop, that we are inclined to admire "Zeta's" temerity in venturing on such a theme; sweetly inviting, it is true; but great is the difficulty of adequately rivalling the graceful simplicity of the "vegetating snow. We have found it necessary to correct in one or two instances the orthography of the following lines, which are among the first attempts of our correspondent, who is toilingly educating himself: ON A FADING SNOWDROP. Downward, from thy spiky blade, From thy sister flowerets reft, [down-bent come [deft; round thee [crushing comes [cheerless Were it not for the possible pun and its associations, we would recommend a complete inversion of this last stanza. It seems to us that it would read better thus: Nurseling of the virgin year, Buried in the whirling drift, By a sharp transition we pass now from the tyrant season, in which poets have found so much as well as so many (di)versified delights, to the gentler time of spring. On this subject H. M. has composed some fairy verses, although occasionally sacrificing sense to sound, and reason to rhyme. SPRING. Spring, we hail thee, time of gladness! Joy broad-casting day by day. Every little bird rejoices In its zephyr-haunted vale ; Nature, with ten thousand voices- Varied notes, melodious swelling, Fill at morn the balmy air : 'Spring is come"-each note is telling ; See! from flower to flower rapid Darts the nectar-sucking bee! Spring to life inspired by thee. Leaflets, long in darkness sleeping, High the joyous skylark soaring, Sweetly greets the new-born day; Woodlands are with music ringing ; With thy sunshine flowers develop; Send thy dewy raindrops free; In green drapery envelop Hill and dale and bush and tree. [o'er life's Leach [sipping [by sunshine gladdened, happied [Wakening [Rises still, and [lyric [Raptured gladness [bank It seems, however, that H. M. is not to be the only laureate of the spring. Here is another to the already thousandfold claimants to that title and renown. Spring has been sung by many poets, but who can exhaust the wondrous variety of her charms and the emotions with which she charges the soul? N. C. has scarcely succeeded in connecting his "Lesson" directly with the several elements brought into the verses as premises. He seems to have forgotten that there is a logic of emotion as well as of thought, and that the sequences of poetry must be as carefully elaborated as those of severer exercises of reflection. There are good things in the lines, but the general feeling left on us when reading them was one of heaviness. The rhythm has not been always correctly kept up. A LESSON FROM SPRING. The sun's resistless smile, the vapours drear And twittering birds salute the rise of day; They flutter in the glade, all tenanted With nestling young, or eggs, mottled but fair. In rain-swollen stream; while little buds- The tree-roots circle, 'mid long grass hide flowers; With subtle life from sunshine and from showers; [mead's fresh The same objection as to confusedness of idea appears even more applicable to the lines of "Diamond," a nom de plume which, before all things, suggests clearness and brilliancy as well as purity. The sacredness of the theme, and the tone of fervent piety which characterizes the piece, disincline us to be severe in our strictures. We think the lines much less objectionable on the score of their aim than of their execution. The gravest error we have to condemn, in by far the larger proportion of verses sent to us, is the possession of the idea by the authors that a first draft will ever provide a faultless poem. This scarcely ever occurs. Constant, careful, laborious revision is requisite above all things in poetry. It is the perfection of the facets that gives its distinct value to the diamond. True poetry, like the diamond, takes on elaborate work, and is all the better for the pains taken in its setting. Let us counsel our young writers not to send us "the first attempts they have ever made in poetical expression," with hopes that we may on that account excuse the errors they contain." Let them give rather careful reconsideration to every word and phrase, and to the general outline of the topic. They may rest assured that though poetry is the product of genius, it is always of genius in partnership with industry. But here are Diamond's" verses : 66 I LOVE TO PRAY AND WEEP. "Enter into thy closet." I love to pray and weep beside my bed, Ere I repose in sleep and seem as dead : I love to pray and weep with none around, And pleasures come and stay from Him on high; How sweet to pray and weep! my thoughts above, Of the two poems J. S. sends us, we give "The Preference" to "The Prospect "-which is a fair one. J. S. has lyric talent, and gives music to thought. He possesses, apparently, a fluency of rhyme which injures the value of his verses by not enforcing compression. Poetry which allows of a larger number of words to be used in the expression of the ideas than would be required in prose -unless it be redeemed by some peculiar excellence in phraseology -is faulty. This, indeed, is a fact in criticism to which versemakers should give heed and credence; for too many expand the expression so much that the idea is scarcely observable in the midst of the verbosity. J. S. has a facility which seems to be likely to lead to a mistake of that sort. We cannot say that any such fault is committed in these lines; but we think that some compression might have been employed advantageously in the former of those two pieces which we are about to quote. On the former we have endeavoured to suggest a few verbal alterations, but the latter we like " excellently well" as it is. [Sore-toiling, scant While others, gnawed by want and care, Can hardly gain their bread; Nor couch of down my lordly frame In balmy slumbers press, While thousands pine in haunts of shame And squalid wretchedness. No raptured bard, in numbers free, May celebrate my praise, Or drop a fadeless leaf for me From his immortal bays! Nor wealth, nor rank, nor kingly state, Their dazzling lustre shed Along my path, or scintillate In glory round my head. For me no amaranth wreath may bloom, Nor Fame her trumpet blow; Nor sculptured marble grace the tomb The prize I fondly would secure, The gold which glitters but to lure, 'Tis that I may from grateful hearts, For deeds of kindness done, Receive the laurels love imparts, In peaceful conquest won. [Their glories [Which I repose [Praise, |