She sleeps on either side upswells the gold-fringed pillow lightly

pressed;

She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells a perfect form in perfect rest.

Take another instance of his power of condensation-that of The Dead Warrior ::

Home they brought her warrior dead: she nor swooned nor uttered

cry:

All her maidens, watching, said "She must weep, or she will die."
Then they praised him, soft and low, called him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe; yet she neither spoke nor moved.
Stole a maiden from her place, lightly to the warrior stepped,
Took the face-cloth from the face; yet she neither moved nor wept.
Rose a nurse of ninety years, set his child upon her knee-
Like summer-tempest came her tears-" Sweet my child, I live for
thee."

As a specimen of his grand heroic verse, his Charge of the Light Brigade is an instance too well known to require comment.

R. H. STODDARD, of New York, has contributed many graceful and beautiful lyrics; the following are from his pen :

The wild November comes at last

Beneath a veil of rain;

The night-wind blows its folds aside,

Her face is full of pain.

The latest of her race, she takes

The Autumn's vacant throne:
She has but one short month to live,
And she must live alone.

A barren realm of withered fields;
Bleak woods of fallen leaves;

There are gains for all our losses, there are balms for all our pain;
But when youth-the dream-departs, it takes something from our

hearts,

And it never comes again.

We are stronger, and are better, under manhood's sterner reign:
Still we feel that something sweet followed youth with flying feet,
And will never come again.

Something beautiful is vanished, and we sigh for it in vain;
We behold it everywhere, on the earth and in the air,

But it never comes again.

STEDMAN, of New York, who wields an artistic pen, thus indites a song to the Summer Rain :—

Yestermorn the air was dry

As the winds of Araby,

While the sun, with pitiless heat,
Glared upon the glaring street,

And the meadow fountains sealed,

Till the people everywhere, and the cattle in the field,
And the birds in middle air, and the thirsty little flowers,
Sent to heaven a fainting prayer for the blessed summer showers.
Not in vain the prayer was said;

For at sunset, overhead,

Sailing from the gorgeous West,
Came the pioneers, abreast,
Of a wondrous argosy-
The Armada of the sky!
Far along I saw them sail,
Wafted by an upper gale;
Saw them, on their lustrous route,
Fling a thousand banners out:

Yellow, violet, crimson, blue,
Orange, sapphire,—every hue
That the gates of heaven put on,
To the sainted eyes of John,

In that hallowed Patmian isle,

Their skyey pennons wore; and, while
I drank the glory of the sight,
Sunset faded into night.

Then diverging far and wide,
To the dim horizon's side,

C. P. CRANCH, one of our American bards, thus philosophizes:

Thought is deeper than all speech, feeling deeper than all thought; Souls to souls can never teach what unto themselves was taught. We are spirits clad in veils; man by man was never seen;

All our deep communing fails to remove the shadowy screen.

Like the stars that gem the sky, far apart, though seeming near,
In our light we scattered lie; all is thus but starlight here.
What is social company but a babbling summer stream?
What our wise philosophy but the glancing of a dream?
Only when the sun of love melts the scattered stars of thought,
Only when we live above what the dim-eyed world hath taught,
Only when our souls are fed by the fount which gave them birth,
And by inspiration led which they never drew from earth,—
We, like parted drops of rain, swelling till they meet and run,
Shall be all absorbed again,—melting, flowing into one.

The Ivy-Green of DICKENS is a gem of the purest water :

Oh! a dainty plant is the Ivy-green, that creepeth o'er ruins old! Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, in his cell so lone and cold.

The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed, to pleasure his

dainty whim;

thom the Donstep.

A cloud passed Mindly overhead,

The moon was slyly peeping through it

"ex hid its face, as if it said,

無

Come, now on liever! do it! do it!"

My lips tito Her had only brown
the hiss of mother and of sister,
But somehow, full upon her own
Sweet, razy, darking monk. _ Thissed her!

Perhaps thus boyish love you sitio.

O listless woman, weaky lover To fiel once more that fresh, wild thrill Fol give _ his who can live youth over? give

Gillmand Corence Promane