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Listen to his rhythmical lines to Home Happiness:
Oh, there's a power to make each hour as sweet as Heaven designed it;
Nor need we roam to bring it home, though few there be that find it ;
We seek too high for things close by, and lose what nature found us! For life hath here no charm so dear as Home and friends around us! We oft destroy the present joy for future hopes-and praise them; Whilst flowers as sweet bloom at our feet, if we'd but stoop to raise them.
For things afar still sweetest are, when youth's bright spell hath bound us;
But soon we're taught that earth hath naught like Home and friends
Listen to our poet's delicate analysis of the Tender Passion ;—
Love? I will tell thee what it is to love!
It is to build with human thoughts a shrine,
Where Time seems young, and Life a thing divine.
To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss.
Around, the streams their flowery margins kiss;
And if there's heaven on earth, that heaven is surely this.
Yes, this is Love; the steadfast and the true;
The immortal glory which hath never set;
The best, the brightest boon the heart e'er knew;
Of all Life's sweets, the very sweetest yet!
To breathe, in some green walk, their first young vow?
And winds sighed soft around the mountain's brow,
The Quarterly Review, referring to CAROLINE NORTON, styles her the Byron of our modern poetesses, as she evinces much of that intense personal passion by which his poetry is distinguished. This is seen in her beautiful stanzas To the Duchess of Sutherland, although they discover none of that poet's misanthropy. Here is a passage:
Thou gav'st me that the poor do give the poor,-
And blunted Slander's dart with their indignant scorn.
For they who credit crime, are they who feel
Their own hearts weak to unresisted sin;
Most readily by those who have themselves deceived.
Great delicacy of fancy and feeling characterizes the verses of T. K. HARVEY. In his lines on a Convict Ship, we have the following:
'Tis thus with our life, while it passes along,
All gladness and glory, to wandering eyes,
As the smiles we put on just to cover our tears;
And the withering thoughts which the world cannot know,
Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate shore
Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er!
As specimens of the muse of our poet and essayist, TUCKERMAN, we submit his beautiful lines To the Eve, of Powers :
Ah, thine is not the woe of love forlorn,
That Niobe's maternal anguish wears,
Canova's Magdalen so gently bears:
To unborn millions, with their life to blend;
So radiant with hope, and love's dear spell,
Shall know the tear, the shadow, and the knell;
The following fine sonnet was suggested by a proposition, on the part of the New York Historical Society, that a new poetical name should be given to North America :-—
Worthy the patriot's thought and poet's lyre,
To consecrate anew her manhood's fire,
By a true watchword all of mountain-birth;
And their proud name should designate the free;
That when its echoes through the land are rung,
Art called to raise Truth's lonely banner high; 'Tis fit a noble title grace thy brow,
Born of thy race, beneath thy matchless sky, And Alps and Apennines resign their fame,
When thrills the world's deep heart with Alleghania's name!
BOWLES, whose poetry enjoys the distinction of "having delighted and inspired the genius of Coleridge,"-thus portrays, with "Dutch minuteness and perspicacity of colouring," South American Scenery :
Beneath aërial cliffs and glittering snows,
There, through the trunks, with moss and lichens white,