It sparkled on the belfry's spire,
And on the dial cast its fire.
To life's activity it brought

Each soul with sense of duty fraught;
But on the lowly graveyard's green
Its brightest gleams at morn were seen.
But ah! no sunshine to the hearts
That lie beneath, joy's gleam imparts;
To them no more can come again
The thoughts that glad the lives of men.
Daybreak's bright hues sleep on the clods,
O may their spirits all be God's;
And may their lives for ever shine

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,
Hangeth out thy silken bell,
Tiny Snowdrop! Winter fell
Revels in the sunless glade.
On thy joyless, lonesome bed,
Freezing gales unkindly beat,
While the chilling, drizzly sleet
Drippeth from thy downy head,
Round Thy pale and fragile form,
Ne'er shall summer's kindling ray,
Ne'er shall zephyrs deftly play.
Crushed beneath the ruthless storm;
Prostrate on thy snowy bier,

From thy sister flowerets reft,
Buried in the whirling drift,
Nurseling of the virgin year.

[down-bent
[slim

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,
From thy sister flowerets reft,
Low thou'rt laid on cheerless bier!

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!
Chasing winter's gloom away,
Dissipating nature's sadness,

Joy broad-casting day by day.

Every little bird rejoices

In its zephyr-haunted vale ;

Nature, with ten thousand voices-
All things animate-thee hail!

Varied notes, melodious swelling,

Fill at morn the balmy air :

'Spring is come"-each note is telling ;
"Beauteous spring, so sweet and fair!"

See! from flower to flower rapid

Darts the nectar-sucking bee!
Flowers, so lately hid and vapid,

Spring to life inspired by thee.

Leaflets, long in darkness sleeping,
Wakened, venture into light;
Streamlets warbling, flowerets peeping,
Soothe the ear, and charm the sight.

High the joyous skylark soaring,

Sweetly greets the new-born day;
As he rises, still is pouring
Forth his rich, supernal lay.

Woodlands are with music ringing ;
Blackbirds yield their lofty strains;
Throstles in each bush are singing;
Joy ecstatic fills the plains.

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
[purling
[our; our

[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
Of night's dull mists have chased away :
The glory of the morn 'gins reappear,

And twittering birds salute the rise of day;
Unprisoned now their fan-like wings they spread;
Their music fills the scented air;

They flutter in the glade, all tenanted

With nestling young, or eggs, mottled but fair.
The pale leaves of the willow-wand are dipt

In rain-swollen stream; while little buds-
That long 'neath winter's icy sway have slept-
Green all the branches of the wavy woods.

The tree-roots circle, 'mid long grass hide flowers;
The meadow hedges seem astir

With subtle life from sunshine and from showers;
The violet springs beside the slender fir;

[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 :
The work-worn spirits rest and live again,
As swiftly links my breast a golden chain
Of rich, full joy, and clean-a treasure new,
Secured by hands unseen, but good and true.
I love to pray and weep, the spirit bowed
Before the Unknown Deep; to see the shroud
Of happy visions tossed and rudely torn;
And ambition false, lost as soon as born;
And strife and envy, dead, in hearses pass
From me beside my bed, to join their class.
I love to pray and weep, silent, alone,
And holy vigils keep before God's throne:
Gladly I loose my hold of withering sin,
And realize, untold, the love within-
The love without ;-thus all a blessing seems
To me, and I recall my boyhood's dreams.

I love to pray and weep with none around,
Save those who never sleep, or dead are found;
Then passions flee away or slowly die,

And pleasures come and stay from Him on high;
Then anxious care decays, with quickening blight,
And blooms the flower of praise, bathed in His light.

How sweet to pray and weep! my thoughts above,
Thinking how true, how deep, is God-like love!
Thus, kneeling would I pray, with solemn awe,
Till scenes should greet the day like those John saw.
False world, away! begone! Jesus, come and stay
Till Thou and I are one, now and for aye! DIAMOND.

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
Of him who sleeps below.

The prize I fondly would secure,
In worth surpasses far

The gold which glitters but to lure,
Or sceptre, crown, or star:

'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,