feeling with the most picturesque imagery, we select one
of his lightest touches--'Forgetfulness:'

There is a haven of sure rest
From the loud world's bewildering stress:
As a bird dreaming on her nest,
As dew hid in a rose's breast,
As Hesper in the glowing West;
So the heart sleeps
In thy calm deeps,
Serene Forgetfulness!

No sorrow in that place may be,
The noise of life grows less and less:
As moss far down within the sea,
As, in white lily caves, a bee,
As life in a hazy reverie;
So the heart's wave
In thy dim cave,
Hushes, Forgetfulness!

Duty and care fade far away,
What toil may be we cannot guess:
As a ship anchored in a bay,
As a cloud at summer-noon astray,
As water-blooms in a breezeless day;
So, 'neath thine eyes,
The full heart lies,
And dreams, Forgetfulness!

'The Shepherd of King Admetus' is exceedingly graceful and delicate, but
it is too long to be quoted entire, and too perfect to be disjointed. We
must reluctantly skip 'Fatherland,' 'The Inheritance,' 'The Moon,'
'Rhoecus,' and other favorites, until we come to 'L'Envoi,' where our
author once more throws his arms aloft, free from the incumbrance of
rhyme. This poem is inscribed to 'M. W.,' his heart's idol. The warm
affection which radiates from its lines, it is not to be mistaken, is an
out-flowing of pure human love. Among these personal feelings, touching
which we have 'said our say,' we find the following; which in _one_
respect so forcibly illustrates what we have written within these two
weeks to a western correspondent, that we cannot forbear to quote it here:

Thou art not of those niggard souls, who deem
That poesy is but to jingle words,
To string sweet sorrows for apologies
To hide the barrenness of unfurnished hearts,
To prate about the surfaces of things,
And make more thread-bare what was quite worn out:
Our common thoughts are deepest, and to give
Such beauteous tones to these, as needs must take
Men's hearts their captives to the end of time,
So that who hath not the choice gift of words
Takes these into his soul, as welcome friends,
To make sweet music of his joys and woes,
And be all Beauty's swift interpreter,
Links of bright gold 'twixt Nature and his heart
This is the errand high of Poesy.

* * * * *

They tell us that our land was made for song,