e city, the city's my home,
Yet oft in the country with pleasure I roam;
For _there_, I confess, the heart finds repose
In its pleasures and sorrows, which _here_ it ne'er knows.

_There_ no fashion, no nonsense, intrude on your walk,
But rational moments of rational talk,
Asserting that soiries, with jewels and dress,
Make a very small part of life's happiness.
Ah! this I believe, most _sincerely_ I do,
And sympathize freely, most truly with you.
Now Kossuth is coming, pray what's to be done?
No pageant to welcome, to children no fun?
Some "turn a cold shoulder," and look with disdain,
Yet many there'll be who will follow his train.
He's "sure missed a figure," and "bit his own nose,"
Ah, many the thorn he'll find 'mid life's rose.

Then we've concerts, fine readings, museum and halls,
With disputes, and debates, in legislative halls,
Ethiopian Minstrels, Shakesperian plays;
And yet, my dear friend, I'm told in these days,
Religion's blessed joys are most faithfully felt,
With devotion's pure prayers the proud heart to melt;
That many have turned to the straight narrow road,
Which leadeth to peace and communion with God.
To _you_ this assurance a welcome will find,
A subject of vital concern to the mind.

When hither you come, do enter our door,
I'll give you my hand, perhaps something more.
Let me urge, if inclined, to this you'll reply,
I'll again do my best, yes, surely I'll try;
The fair one who brings it ought sure to inspire
Some poetical lay from Genius' sweet lyre.
But Genius repels me, she "turns a deaf ear,"
And frowns on me scornful, the year after year;
Perhaps if I sue, in the "sere yellow leaf,"
She'll open her heart, and yield me relief.
But wayward my pen, I must now bid adieu,
My friendship, dear madam, I offer to you,
And beg with your friends, you'll please place my name,
The privilege grant me of doing the same.

S. NICHOLSON.
Boston, April 16, 1862.

REJOINDER TO THE FOREGOING REPLY.

Many, many thanks my friend,
For those sweet verses thou didst send,
So good they were and witty;
And now I will confess to thee,
Mixed up with bad, much good I see
Within the crowded city.

Boston, "with all thy faults I love
Thee still," though much I disapprove--
See much in thee to blame;
Yet to be candid, I'll allow
Thy equal no one can me show
From Mexico to Maine.

It is my boast, perhaps my pride,
To be to English blood allied,
Warm in my veins it's flowi