And seems his huge gray form to throw
In a silver cone on the wave below:
His sides are broken by spots of shade,
By the walnut-bough and the cedar made :
And through their clustering branches dark,
Glimmers and dies the fire-fly's spark,—
Like starry twinkles that momently break
Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack!

The stars are on the moving stream,
And fling, as its ripples gently flow,
A burnished length of wavy beam
In an eel-like, spiral line below;
The winds are whist, and the owl is still,
The bat in the shelvy rock is hid,

And naught is heard on the lonely hill
But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill

Of the gauze-winged katy-did;

And the plaint of the wailing whip-poor-will,
Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings

Ever a note of wail and woe,

Till morning spreads her rosy wings,
And earth and sky in her glances glow.

Here we have introduced to us the Fairy culprit :—

Thither he ran, and he bent him low,

He heaved at the stern and he heaved at the bow,
And he pushed her over the yielding sand,
Till he came to the verge of the haunted land.
She was as lovely a pleasure-boat

As ever fairy had paddled in,

For she glowed with purple paint without,
And shone with silvery pearl within;

A sculler's notch in the stern he made,

An oar he shaped of the bootle-blade;

Then sprung to his seat with a lightsome leap,

And launched afar, on the calm, blue deep!

No American can forget that to Drake we are indebted for our National Ode, which commences,

When Freedom, from her mountain height,

Unfurled her standard to the air,

She tore the azure robe of night,

And set the stars of glory there!

She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,
And striped its pure, celestial white
With streakings of the morning light;
Then, from his mansion in the sun,
She called her eagle bearer down,
And gave into his mighty hand

The symbol of her chosen land.

Another of our American bards, SPRAGUE, has given us the following sweet bird-song: suggested by seeing two swallows flying into a church in Boston:

Gay, guiltless pair, what seek ye from the fields of heaven?
Ye have no need of prayer, ye have no sins to be forgiven.
Why perch ye here, where mortals to their Maker bend?
Can your pure spirits fear the God ye never could offend?
Ye never knew the crimes for which we come to weep.
Penance is not for you, bless'd wanderers of the upper deep.
To you 'tis given to wake sweet nature's untaught lays;
Beneath the arch of heaven to chirp away a life of praise.

The poem by which this author is most known, entitled Curiosity, has a singular history. Griswold states that it was published in Calcutta a few years ago as an original production by a British officer, with no other alterations than the omission of a few American names, and the insertion of others in their places; and in this form it was reprinted in London, where it was much praised.

Now listen to the following song :

:

Day, in melting purple dying,
Blossoms, all around me, sighing,
Fragrance, from the lilies straying,
Zephyr, with my ringlets playing,
Ye but waken my distress;

I am sick of loneliness.

*

Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure,
All I ask is friendship's pleasure;
Let the shining ore lie darkling,
Bring no gems in lustre sparkling :
Gifts and gold are naught to me,
I would only look on thee!

Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling,
Ecstasy but in revealing :

Paint to thee the deep sensation,

Rapture in participation,

Yet but torture, if comprest

In a lone, unfriended breast.

These glowing stanzas, from MRS. BROOKS's Zophiel,—an exquiShe story of a Jewish exiled maiden and her lovers, exhibit the style of the authoress, whom Southey designated, in The Doctor, as "the most impassioned and imaginative of poetesses."

Turn we for a moment to a sweet, familiar ditty-known to all lovers of lyric verse,-'tis about the little sanctuary of Home:

'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home:
A charm from the skies seems to hallow it there,
Which, go through the world, you'll not meet elsewhere.
Home, home, sweet home!

Every person knows that sweet household lyric; but it is not every one who has heard the life-story of its author. That immortal song, so brim-full of tender pathos and natural feeling, would cause many to drop a tear of sympathy over the sad fate of its author, HOWARD PAYNE, were they to be told that,-an American adventurer in the heart of Paris, Vienna, and London, while hearing

hallow us there.