The moonbeams rest upon the white
And shadowed coverlet ;
The dusky flakes of bluish light
Are crossed, like work of net,
Depicting plain

Each diamonded casement-pane ;—

In cautious mood

They seem to peer around, ere further they intrude.

And through the glistening misty glass,

The Moon, the curious elf,

Its barrier half-inclined to pass,
Is peeping in herself!

She seems to wait

Till those fair beams report the state

Of all within,

And tell when, unperceived, herself may entrance win.

And though detected now, lest more

Suspicion she excite,

She keeps the look she had before,
Unchanging-stirless quite !

So when the rest

Of watchful Spider you molest,

In shrunken shape

He boldly mimics death, your notice to escape.

What is this strange bright thing, which draws
So near at dead of night?

Its growing presence almost awes
With meekest, mutest might!

It fills my room—

In living thought absorbs the gloom—
Its silence rife

With Spirit seems,-intense with conscious, creeping Life!

Why does its lonely softness flow

So sadly on the heart,

And whence the bright the tearful woe

It does to all impart ?

That look so worn

Whence is it, wanderer most forlorn?

Or why dost keep

Weak watch, and go thy rounds, when all the strong ones sleep?

Would'st tell of slight unkind—of dire
Neglect, that thou dost break

My chamber's gloom?—will none admire ?
Oh is not love awake?

Then I full fain

Will bless thee in a simple strain;

And soothly say

Thy light is sweeter far than gaudy glare of Day!"

Of a lighter description is the Elegy on the death of Frisk, a favorite poodle-we quote a few stanzas.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF FRISK.

"Come, every Muse of saddest vein,
From her who prompted David's strain,
When Brother Jonathan' was slain,
To her, whose sob

Wrung speeches from the Corporal's brain
O'er Master Bob!

Come thou who came at Milton's wish,
When Lycidas was food for fish;

Who wept o'er Keats with Percy Bysshe-
Inspired Marc Antony

When Brutus carved the God's a dish'

They scarce could want on high!

Come every Muse who mournfully

Doth harp or Hurdigurdy ply;

Who stirred up Byron's burning sigh
When Thyrza fell,

Or bade Ben Battle pipe his eye'
For faithless Nell!

Come all who turn, nor turn in vain
That cistern's cock, in which the rain
Of human tears is gathered-deign
Your aid to apply!

Grief is the cock through which you drain
The salt floods dry!"

We conclude our illustrations of Domett with a poem which appeals strongly to the loftiest sympathies of our nature.

A CHRISTMAS HYMN.

"It was the calm and silent night!
Seven hundred years and fifty-three
Had Rome been growing up to might,
And now was queen of land and sea.
No sound was heard of clashing wars,-
Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain :
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars

Held undisturbed their ancient reign,
In the solemn midnight,

Centuries ago.

"Twas in the calm and silent night,
The senator of haughty Rome
Impatient urged his chariot's flight,
From lordly revel rolling home:
Triumphal arches gleaming swell

His breast with thoughts of boundless sway;
What recked the Roman what befell

A paltry province far away,

In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago?

Within that province far away,

Went plodding home a weary boor;

A streak of light before him lay,

Fallen through a half shut stable-door
Across his path. He passed,-for naught
Told what was going on within ;

How keen the stars, his only thought,-
The air, how calm, and cold, and thin,
In the solemn midnight,

Centuries ago!

O, strange indifference! low and high

Drowsed over common joys and cares;
The earth was still,-but knew not why
The world was listening,-unawares.
How calm a moment may precede

One that shall thrill the world for ever!
To that still moment, none would heed,
Man's doom was linked no more to sever,
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago!

It is the calm and solemn night!

A thousand bells ring out, and throw
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite

The darkness,-charmed and holy now!
The night that erst no shame had worn,
To it a happy name is given;

For in that stable lay, new-born,

The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven,
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago!"

This fine hymn first appeared in "Blackwood's Magazine," and was introduced by Professor Longfellow to the American public, in his beautiful collection of fugitive poetry, entitled "The Waif." It was considered so admirable a composition that the critics paid it the compliment of considering it a production of the accomplished Editor of the little volume in question. It has accordingly gone the rounds of the press, and has been much admired. We are not surprised at many persons attributing it to the pen of the elegant author of "Evangeline," for it possesses many characteristics of his style. It breathes a finish and simplicity which are perfectly in keeping with the subject, and the refrain at the end of each verse is striking and natural.

Some also of Domett's best poems remind us strongly of Mr. Willis' muse, and evidence a close affinity with the poetical spirit of this distinguished American Poet.

The verses entitled "The Sea Side Calm meaning

will illustrate our

"The morning air was pure and cool,

Asleep the silver bay;

Each object on the shining sands,

In shade reflected lay.

The giant cliffs in long array

Were drawn up by the sea,

Their heads thrown back with lofty pride,

In musing majesty.

The sea, methought, did woo the earth,

In low fond tones of love,

The silent sky hung stooping o'er,

And listened from above.

The herds of clouds were lying down,
The hunting winds were gone;
Their angry bark was heard no more,
The weary chase was done.

A calm ambrosial consciousness
Did nature's bosom steep,
A stillness not so stern as death,

And more profound than sleep.

"Twas music mute, and voiceless speech,

A quiet creeping spell,―

Repose without forgetfulness,

And silence audible."

There is a great similarity existing between a peculiar band of poets in England, and some of the most popular of their brethren in America. They almost seem to belong to the same