e unsaleable belongs then to a certain
grade of poetry which ought never to have strayed out of the album in
which it was first written, except for the benefit of the stationer,
printer, and the newspapers. Nearly all the poetry of this description is
too _bizarre_, and wants the pathos and deep feeling which uniformly
characterize true poetry, and have a lasting impression on the reader:
whereas, all the "initial" celebrity, the honied sweetness, lasts but for
a few months, and then drops into oblivion.

The story of the Sorrows of Rosalie (there's music in the name) is not of
uncommon occurrence; would to heaven it were more rare. Rosalie, won by
her omnipotent lover, Arthur, leaves her aged father; is deceived by
promises of marriage, and at length deserted by her seducer. She seeks
her betrayer in London, (where the many-headed monster, vice, may best
conceal herself,) is repulsed, and after enduring all the bitterness of
cruelty, hunger, and remorse, she returns to her father's house; but
nothing of him and his remains but his memory and his tomb. She is then
driven to dishonesty to supply the cravings of her child--is tried and
acquitted. During her imprisonment, the child dies; distress brings on
her temporary insanity; but she at length flies to a secluded part of the
country, and there seeks a solace for her miseries in making peace with
her offended Maker.

We can only detach a few portions of the poem, just to show the intensity
with which even common scenes and occurrences are worked up. Here is a
picture of Rosalie's happy home:

Home of my childhood! quiet, peaceful home!
Where innocence sat smiling on my brow,
Why did I leave thee, willingly to roam,
Lured by a traitor's vainly-trusted vow?
Could they, the fond and happy, see me _now_,
Who knew me when life's early summer smiled,
They would not know 'twas I, or marvel how
The laughing thing, half woman and half child,
Could e'er be changed to form so squalid, wan, and wild.

I _was_ most happy--witness it, ye skies,
That watched the slumbers of my peaceful night!
Till each succeeding morning saw me rise
With cheerful song, and heart for ever light;
No heavy gems--no jewel, sparkling bright,
Cumbered the tresses nature's self had twined;
Nor festive torches glared before my sight;
Unknowing and unknown, with peaceful mind,
Blest in the lot I knew, none else I wished to find.

I _had_ a father--a gray-haired o