She sleeps on either side upswells the gold-fringed pillow lightly pressed; She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells a perfect form in perfect rest. Take another instance of his power of condensation-that of The Dead Warrior :: Home they brought her warrior dead: she nor swooned nor uttered cry: All her maidens, watching, said "She must weep, or she will die." As a specimen of his grand heroic verse, his Charge of the Light Brigade is an instance too well known to require comment. R. H. STODDARD, of New York, has contributed many graceful and beautiful lyrics; the following are from his pen : The wild November comes at last Beneath a veil of rain; The night-wind blows its folds aside, Her face is full of pain. The latest of her race, she takes The Autumn's vacant throne: A barren realm of withered fields; There are gains for all our losses, there are balms for all our pain; hearts, And it never comes again. We are stronger, and are better, under manhood's sterner reign: Something beautiful is vanished, and we sigh for it in vain; But it never comes again. STEDMAN, of New York, who wields an artistic pen, thus indites a song to the Summer Rain :— Yestermorn the air was dry As the winds of Araby, While the sun, with pitiless heat, And the meadow fountains sealed, Till the people everywhere, and the cattle in the field, For at sunset, overhead, Sailing from the gorgeous West, Yellow, violet, crimson, blue, In that hallowed Patmian isle, Their skyey pennons wore; and, while Then diverging far and wide, C. P. CRANCH, one of our American bards, thus philosophizes: Thought is deeper than all speech, feeling deeper than all thought; Souls to souls can never teach what unto themselves was taught. We are spirits clad in veils; man by man was never seen; All our deep communing fails to remove the shadowy screen. Like the stars that gem the sky, far apart, though seeming near, The Ivy-Green of DICKENS is a gem of the purest water : Oh! a dainty plant is the Ivy-green, that creepeth o'er ruins old! Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, in his cell so lone and cold. The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed, to pleasure his dainty whim; thom the Donstep. A cloud passed Mindly overhead, The moon was slyly peeping through it "ex hid its face, as if it said, 無 Come, now on liever! do it! do it!" My lips tito Her had only brown Perhaps thus boyish love you sitio. O listless woman, weaky lover To fiel once more that fresh, wild thrill Fol give _ his who can live youth over? give Gillmand Corence Promane |