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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

around us!




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 Hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove;

Where Time seems young, and Life a thing divine.
All tastes, all pleasures, all desires combine

To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss.
Above, the stars in cloudless beauty shine;

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!
O! who but can recall the eve they met

To breathe, in some green walk, their first young vow?
While summer flowers with moonlight dews were wet,

And winds sighed soft around the mountain's brow,
And all was rapture then, which is but memory now!

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,-
Kind words, and holy wishes, and true tears;
The loved, the near of kin could do no more,
Who changed not with the gloom of varying years,
But clung the closer when I stood forlorn,

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;
Memory, not judgment, prompts the thoughts which steal
O'er minds like these, an easy faith to win;
And tales of broken truth are still believed

Most readily by those who have themselves deceived.



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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,
Like a vessel at sea, amidst sunshine and song!
Gayly we glide, in the gaze of the world,
With streamers afloat, and with canvas unfurled;

All gladness and glory, to wandering eyes,
Yet chartered by sorrow, and freighted with sighs:
Fading and false is the aspect it wears,

As the smiles we put on just to cover our tears;

And the withering thoughts which the world cannot know,
Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below:

Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate shore

Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er!

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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,
Nor yet the grief of sin, remorseful born,

Canova's Magdalen so gently bears:
But the sad consciousness that through a wrong
Conceived in self, and for a selfish end,
Immeasurable pain will now belong

To unborn millions, with their life to blend;
A heritage whereby sweet nature's face,

So radiant with hope, and love's dear spell,
And all on earth that breathes of joy and grace,

Shall know the tear, the shadow, and the knell;
O Mother of our race!-Art does but image Fate
In thee, so fair and fond, and yet disconsolate.

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,
This second baptism of our native earth,

To consecrate anew her manhood's fire,

By a true watchword all of mountain-birth;
For to the hills has Freedom ever clung,

And their proud name should designate the free;


That when its echoes through the land are rung,
Her children's breasts may warm to liberty!
My country! in the van of nations thou

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,
The rush-roof of an aged warrior rose,
Chief of the mountain-tribes; high overhead
The Andes, wild and desolate, were spread,
Where cold Sierras shot their icy spires,
And Chillan trailed its smoke and smouldering fires
A glen beneath a lonely spot of rest→
Hung, scarce discovered, like an eagle's nest.
Summer was in its prime; the parrot-flocks
Darkened the passing sunshine on the rocks;
The chrysomel and purple butterfly,
Amid the clear blue light, are wandering by ;
The humming-bird, along the myrtle bowers,
With twinkling wing, is spinning o'er the flowers;
The wood-pecker is heard with busy bill,
The mock-bird sings-and all beside is still.
And look, the cataract, that bursts so high
As not to mar the deep tranquillity,
The tumult of its dashing fall suspends,
And, stealing drop by drop, in mist descends;
Through whose illumined spray and sprinkling dews
Shine to the adverse sun the broken rainbow hues.
Checkering, with partial shade, the beams of noon,
And arching the gray rock with wild festoon,
Here its gay network and fantastic twine
The purple cogul threads from pine to pine,
And oft as the fresh airs of morning breathe,
Dips its long tendrils in the stream beneath.

There, through the trunks, with moss and lichens white,
The sunshine darts its interrupted light,

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