Yet he will come and chide, and I shall weep; And he will wake my infant from its sleep, To blend its feeble wailing with my tears; O, how I love a mother's watch to keep Over those sleeping eyes, that smile that cheers My heart, though sunk in sorrow fixed and deep. I had a husband once who loved me; now He ever wears a frown upon his brow, And feeds his passion on a wanton's lip, As bees from laurel flowers a poison sip. But yet I cannot hate-O! there were hours When I could hang for ever on his eye;

And time, who stole with silent swiftness by, Strewed, as he hurried on, his path with flowers. I loved him then; he loved me too; my heart Still finds its fondness kindle if he smileThe memory of our loves will ne'er depart.'

THE GRAVE OF THE INDIAN CHIEF.

They laid the corse of the wild and brave
On the sweet, fresh earth of the new-day grave,
On the gentle hill, where wild weeds waved,
And flowers and grass were flourishing.

V

And since the chieftain here has slept,
Full many a winter's winds have swept,
And many an age has softly crept
Over his humble sepulchre.'

Passing over the poems of Lydia Sigourney, which, though pleasing and breathing a fine strain of devotional feeling, are not peculiarly striking, we come to the following Winter Piece, by a poet whom we do not recollect having before heard of-H. W. Longfellow, ( Phœbus, what a name'!) which seems to us remarkably graphic. Its accumulation of American winter imagery, produces a feeling like Shakspeare's When icicles hang on the wall,' till we almost begin with Hob to blow the nail."

WOODS IN WINTER.

When winter winds are piercing chill,

And through the whitethorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill,

That overbrows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away,

Through the long reach of desert woods,
The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
And gladden these deep solitudes.

On the gray maple's crested bark
Its tender shoots the hoar frost nips;
Whilst in the frozen fountain-hark!-
His piercing beak the bittern dips.

Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke-
The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from the frozen runs, mute springs
Pour out the river's gradual tide,

Shrilly the skater's iron rings,

And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
Where birds sang out their mellow lay;
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
And the song ceased not with the day!

But still wild music is abroad,
Pale, desert woods, within your crowd;
And gathered winds, in hoarse accord,
Amidst the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs, and wintry winds, my ear
Has grown familiar with your scag;

I hear it in the opening year

I listen, ard it cheers me long.'

As a pendant to this Winter Piece from inanimate nature, take the little poem by Willis, entitled,—

SATURDAY AFTERNOON.

• I love to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,

And persuade myself that I am not oud,
And my locks are not yet gray;
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,
And it makes his pulses fly,

To catch the thrill of a happy voice,

And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walked the world for foursocre years;
And they say that I am old,

And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,
And my years are wellnigh toll.

It is very true; it is very true;

I'm old, and I 'bide my time;"
But my heart will leap at a scene like this,
And I half renew my prime.

◄ Play on, play on; I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.
I hide with you in the fragrant Lay,
And I whoop the smothered call,
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fail.

I am willing to die when my time shall come,
And I shall be glad to go;

For the world, at best, is a weary place,
And my pulse is getting low:

But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail
In treading its gloomy way;

And it wiles my heart from its dreariness,

To see the young so gay.'

It is to us truly inconceivable how the author of these natural and touching lines, which bring together in such vivid juxtaposition the associations of childhood and age, could have written any thing so unfortunate, both in conception and execution, as

'Parrhasius;' and equally so that any one who takes upon himself the responsible office of introducing the poets of the new world to the 'reading public' of the old, should have thought of quoting, as a favourable specimen, a production so utterly unworthy of its companions. Parrhasius, a painter of Athens, amongst 'those Olynthian captives Philip of Macedon brought home to 'sell, bought one very old man; and when he had him at his 'house, put him to death, with extreme torture and torment, the better, by his example, to express the pains and passions of his 'Prometheus, whom he was about to paint.' So says quaint old Burton, in his Anatomy of Melancholy. A most felicitous subject certainly for a lyrical composition, the tortures of this poor old man afford, which are set forth with anatomical precision through a dozen stanzas ! Is this poetry we would ask?

Ha! bind him on his back!

Look! as Prometheus in my picture here-
Quick

or he faints! stand with the convict near !
Now-bend him to the rack!

Press down the poisoned links into his flesh!
And tear agape that healing wound afresh !

So-let him writhe! How long

Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now!
What a fine agony works on his brow,' &c.-

The whole production is precisely such an effusion as might be supposed to emanate from a poetical butcher-in Bedlam.

We turn to another of a very different character, and we are sorry that this selection must be our last. It is a composition of great tenderness and beauty, by Flint, a poet with whom we were already partially acquainted, though we had not met with any thing from his hand, of so great promise as

LINES ON PASSING THE GRAVE OF MY SISTER.

'On yonder shore, on yonder shore,

Now verdant with the depth of shade,
Beneath the white-armed sycamore,

There is a little infant laid.

Forgive this tear.- A brother weeps.—
'Tis there the faded flowret sleeps.

She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone,
And summer's forests o'er her wave;
And sighing winds at autumn moan
Around the little stranger's grave,
As though they murmur'd at the fate
Of one so lone and desolate.