And inland rests the green, warm dell; the brook comes tinkling down its side; From out the trees the Sabbath bell rings cheerful, far and wide, Mingling its sound with bleatings of the flocks, That feed about the vale among the rocks: Nor holy bell, nor pastoral bleat, in former days within the vale * ; Dana's Little Beach-Bird may be indicated as one of his happiest efforts : Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice? And with that boding cry o'er the waves dost thou fly? Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, Thy cry is weak and scared, as if thy mates had shared PERCIVAL thus interprets to us The Language of Flowers : In Eastern lands they talk in flowers, And they tell in a garland their loves and cares; The Rose is a sign of joy and love Young blushing love in its earliest dawn; Innocence shines in the Lily's bell, Pure as the light in its native heaven; Fame's bright star and glory's swell, In the glossy leaf of the Bay are given. The silent, soft, and humble heart, In the Violet's hidden sweetness breathes; And the tender soul that cannot part, A twine of Evergreen fondly wreathes. The Cypress, that daily shades the grave, Speaks in thy blue leaves, Forget-me-Not. Then gather a wreath from the garden bowers, And tell the wish of thy heart in flowers. Deep in the wave is a coral grove, Where the purple mullet and the gold-fish rove; Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, But in bright and changeful beauty shine The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift, Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow; For the winds and waves are absent there, The sea-flag streams through the silent water, To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter. MRS. SIGOURNEY'S productions, mostly didactic, have long enjoyed a deserved popularity. Her lines, To an early Blue-Bird, form a pleasing picture : Clouds are sweeping o'er the sky, Hath he not a nose of blue? Tell me, birdling, tell me true. There are some beautiful and pathetic lines by PIERPONT, entitled Passing Away, commencing: Was it the chime of a tiny bell, That came so sweet to my dreaming ear, Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell That he winds on the beach so mellow and clear, And he his notes, as silvery quite, While the boatman listens and ships his oar, Are set to words: as they float, they say, His lines on the loss of his Child are full of natural pathos : I cannot make him dead! His fair, sunshiny head Yet, when my eyes grow dim with tears, I turn to him, I walk my parlour floor, and, through the open door, I'm stepping toward the hall to give the boy a call; And then bethink me that he is not there! I cannot make him dead! When passing by the bed, My spirit and my eye seek him inquiringly, Before the thought comes that he is not there! DRAKE has enriched American literature by a remarkable poem, The Culprit Fay; which discovers exquisite fancy and rare poetic beauty. The scene is laid in the Highlands of the Hudson, and the subject is a fairy story, decked with all the dainty accessories of Fairyland and forest scenery. The origin of the poem is traced to a conversation with Cooper, the novelist, and Halleck, the poet, who, speaking of the Scottish streams and their romantic associations, insisted that our own rivers were unsusceptible of the like poetic uses. Drake thought otherwise, and, to make his position good, produced, in three days after, this exquisite fairy tale. The opening passage of the poem is a description of moonlight on the Highlands of the Hudson : 'Tis the middle watch of a summer's night- But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky, A river of light on the welkin blue. The moon looks down on old Crónest, She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast, |