fferings shall be rewarded, our
forbearance repaid. Then shall gay streamers, pendent from rejuvenated
bonnets, float, as of yore, across our promenades, and on the
shoulders of Earth's fairest daughters the variegated mantle be again
displayed. The streets, now deserted by the fair, will ere long
glitter with the brilliant throng, and our sidewalks be swept once
more by the gracefully flowing silk. Taper fingers shall
condescendingly be extended to us, the smile of beauty beam on us, and
witty speech banish our resentful remembrance of incomprehensible
jargon.

TO JENNY LIND,

ON HEARING HER SING THE ARIA "ON MIGHTY PENS," FROM "THE CREATION."

When Haydn first conceived that air divine,
The voice that thrilled his inward ear was thine.
The Lark, that even now to heaven's gate springs,
And near the sky her earth-born carol sings,
Poured on his ear a higher, purer note,
And heavenly rapture seemed to swell her throat.
To him, from groves of Paradise, the Dove
Breathed Eden's innocence and Eden's love;
And seraph-taught seemed the enchanting lay
The Nightingale poured forth at close of day;
For yet nor sin nor sorrow had its birth,
To touch, as now, the sweetest sounds of earth.
Yes! as upon his inner sense was borne
The melody of that primeval morn,
And all his soul was music,--O, to him
The voice of Nature was an angel's hymn!
But was there, _then_, one human voice that brought
Unto his outward ear his own rapt thought,
In tones, interpreting in worthy guise
The varied notes of Eden's melodies?--
O, happier we! for unto us 'tis given
To hear, through thee, the strains he caught from heaven.

December 1, 1851.

MY HERBARIUM.

Poor, dry, musty flowers! Who would believe you ever danced in the
wind, drank in the evening dews, and spread sweet fragrance on the
air? A touch now breaks your brittle leaves. Your odors are like attic
herbs, or green tea, or mouldy books. Your forms are bent and
flattened into every ugly and distorted shape. Your lovely colors are
faded,--white changed to black, yellow to dirty white, gorgeous
scarlet to brick color, purple to muddy brown. Poor things! Who drew
you from your native woods and brooks, to press you flat, and dry your
moisture up, and paste you down helplessly upon your backs, such
mocking shadows of your former grace and beauty?

Ah! sorrowfully do I confess it! It was I. In my early years I
searched th