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
Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet; curses were on the gale;
Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men;
Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then.

*

;

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?
O! rather, bird, with me through the fair land rejoice!

Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale,
As driven by a beating storm at sea;

Thy cry is weak and scared, as if thy mates had shared
The doom of us: thy wail-what does it bring to me?

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;
Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers,
On its leaves a mystic language bears.

The Rose is a sign of joy and love

Young blushing love in its earliest dawn;
And the mildness that suits the gentle dove,
From the Myrtle's snowy flower is drawn.

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,
Is sorrow that mourns her bitter lot;
And Faith, that a thousand ills can brave,

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,
That never are wet with falling dew,

But in bright and changeful beauty shine
Far down in the green and glassy brine.

The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift,
And the pearl-shells spangle the Ainty snow;
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift

Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow;
The water is calm and still below,

For the winds and waves are absent there,
And the sands are bright as the stars that glow
In the motionless fields of the upper air.
There, with its waving blade of green,

The sea-flag streams through the silent water,
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen

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,
With a black and threatening eye;
Urchins, by the frozen rill,
Wrap their mantles closer still;
Yon poor man, with doublet old,
Doth he shiver at the cold?

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,
When the winds and the waves lie together asleep,
And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep,
She dispensing her silvery light,

And he his notes, as silvery quite,

While the boatman listens and ships his oar,
To catch the music that comes from the shore ?-
Hark! the notes, on my ear that play,

Are set to words: as they float, they say,
"Passing away! passing away!"

His lines on the loss of his Child are full of natural pathos :

I cannot make him dead! His fair, sunshiny head
Is ever bounding round my study chair:

Yet, when my eyes grow dim with tears, I turn to him,
The vision vanishes-he is not there!

I walk my parlour floor, and, through the open door,
I hear a foot-fall on my chamber stair;

I'm stepping toward the hall to give the boy a call;

And then bethink me that he is not there!
I thread the crowded street; a satchelled lad I meet,
With the same beaming eyes and coloured hair:
And, as he's running by, follow him with my eye,
Scarcely believing that he is not there!

I cannot make him dead! When passing by the bed,
So long watched over with parental care,

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-
The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright:
Naught is seen in the vault on high

But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky,
And the flood which rolls its milky hue,

A river of light on the welkin blue.

The moon looks down on old Crónest,

She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast,