The rain and sunshine are my caterers, "Then Rhœcus, with a flutter at the heart, "Now, in those days of simpleness and faith, Men did not think that happy things were dreams Because they overstepped the narrow bourne Of likelihood, but reverently deemed Nothing too wondrous or too beautiful To be the guerdon of a daring heart. So Rhocus made no doubt that he was blest, And all along unto the city's gate Earth seemed to spring beneath him as he walked, The clear, broad sky looked bluer than its wont, And he could scarce believe he had not wings, Such sunshine seemed to glitter through his veins Instead of blood, so light he felt and strange. "Young Rhœcus had a faithful heart enough, Some comrades who were playing at the dice, "The dice were rattling at the merriest, And Rhocus, who had met but sorry luck, Just laughed in triumph at a happy throw, When through the room there hummed a yellow bee That buzzed about his ear with down-dropped legs As if to light. And Rhacus laughed and said, Feeling how red and flushed he was with loss, · By Venus! does he take me for a rose ?' And brushed him off with rough, impatient hand. But still the bee came back, and thrice again Rhocus did beat him off with growing wrath. Then through the window flew the wounded bee, And Rhocus, tracking him with angry eyes, Saw a sharp mountain-peak of Thessaly Against the red disc of the setting sun, And instantly the blood sank from his heart, As if its very walls had caved away. Without a word he turned, and, rushing forth, Ran madly through the city and the gate, And o'er the plain, which now the wood's long shade, By the low sun thrown forward broad and dim, Darkened wellnigh unto the city's wall. 6 "Quite spent and out of breath he reached the tree, And, listening fearfully, he heard once more The low voice murmur Rhocus!' close at hand: Whereat he looked around him, but could see Nought but the deepening glooms beneath the oak. Then sighed the voice, O, Rhocus! nevermore Shalt thou behold me or by day or night, . Me, who would fain have blest thee with a love We ever ask an undivided love, And he who scorns the least of Nature's works "Then Rhocus beat his breast, and groaned aloud, And cried,' Be pitiful! forgive me yet Not I unmerciful; I can forgive, But from that eve he was alone on earth." "A Glance behind the Curtain" is excellent in is a terribly protracted glance. parts, but The "Chippewa Legend" is very good, except the improvement, which has no other fault but that of being unnecessary. One cant expression in the poem should be blotted out in the next edition; "Old lies and shams.” The affected writers have repeated the word sham so often, that no respectable author can use it safely for the next hundred years. We have no great fondness for sentimentality in type. Much of this in the present volume would have been better omitted. Subjective feelings, to use the jargon of philosophical criticism, should be but rarely and reservedly expressed in books. The sonnets are the least successful pieces; especially those addressed to Wordsworth, which, so far as they have any meaning at all, have an assuming one. We close our extracts with the fine poem called "The Heritage.' "" "THE rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, And tender flesh that fears the cold, "The rich man's son inherits cares; The bank may break, the factory burn, And soft, white hands could hardly earn One scarce would wish to hold in fee. "The rich man's son inherits wants, His stomach craves for dainty fare; With sated heart, he hears the pants Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, And wearies in his easychair; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. "What doth the poor man's son inherit? A heritage, it seems to me, "What doth the poor man's son inherit ? A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. "What doth the poor man's son inherit ? To make the outcast bless his door; A heritage, it seems to me, "O, rich man's son! there is a toil, That with all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil, But only whiten, soft, white hands, A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being rich to hold in fee. "O, poor man's son! scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great; Toil only gives the soul to shine, "Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last; We have endeavoured to do justice to the merits of this young and gifted poet, while we have pointed out, with perfect candor, the faults that still inhere in his poetical manner, and the dangerous influences to which his poetical genius is exposed. That he will soar above the spirit of coteries; that he will reject the bad taste of cultivating singularities in thought and expression, and descend from the clouds of vague philosophy and Utopian reforms; that he will brace his mind with strengthening knowledge in science, history, and social life; and that he will thus create a noble sphere for the exercise of his fine powers, and give additional lustre to a name already crowned with the honors of professional, literary, and mercantile eminence; is what we not only hope, but, in the faith of achievements already performed, confidently predict and believe. ART. III. Report of the Land Agent of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, laid before the Legislature, January 10th, 1844. By GEORGE W. COFFIN. 8vo. pp. 12. IN a former number of this Journal,* we devoted some attention to the forest trees of America, and took a passing notice of the lumberer; † we propose, now, to give a brief *N. A. Review, Number XCV. The necessity of introducing new words into a language grows out of the changes effected from time to time in the circumstances and pursuits of men. The use of the word lumber and its derivatives is peculiar to this |