She hath not shrunk from evils of this life,
But hath gone calmly forth into the strife,
And all its sins and sorrows hath withstood
With lofty strength of patient womanhood;
For this I love her great soul more than all,
That, being bound, like us, with earthly
thrall,

She walks so bright and heav'n-like therein,
Too wise, too meek, too womanly, to sin.

Like a lone star through riven storm-clouds

seen

By sailors, tempest-toss'd upon the sea,
Telling of rest and peaceful havens nigh
Unto my soul her star-like soul hath been,
Her sight as full of hope and calm to me;-
For she unto herself hath builded high,
A home serene, wherein to lay her head,
Earth's noblest thing, a Woman perfected."

Written in a bold, yet thoughtful manner, "Prometheus” contains many fine passages, remarkable for their philosophical import, and magnificent imagery: pregnant with majestic warning, these lines roll on, like the ominous pealing of

Like all true poets, Lowell "Touched each key of the lyre, and was master of all." His flexible and comprehensive genius can create, not only the massive master-piece of intellectual origin, but in like manner can revel in the dazzling and sportive regions of fancy: "The Fountain" serves as an excellent specimen of his lyric power.

"THE FOUNTAIN.
Into the sunshine,
Full of the light,
Leaping and flashing
From morn till night!
Into the moonlight
Whiter than snow,
Waving so flower-like
When the winds blow!

Into the starlight,
Rushing in spray,
Happy at midnight,
Happy by day!

Ever in motion,

Blithesome and cheery,

Still climbing heavenward,

Never a-weary ;

Glad of all weathers,

Still seeming best,
Upward or downward,
Motion thy rest;-

Full of a nature

Nothing can tame,
Changed every moment,
Ever the same.

Ceaseless aspiring,
Ceaseless content,
Darkness or sunshine,
The element;-

Glorious fountain!

Let my heart be
Fresh, changeful, constant,
Upward, like thee!"

In "An Incident in a Railway Car," we are supplied with an instance of the poet's wisdom, truthful teaching, deep philosophical and investigating mind. "To Perdita singing", is

a charming effusion, and establishes the lyric power of the author on an irrefutable basis.

An excellent satire on the great short-comings in some branches of our modern poetry, is contained in "An Ode," page 87; it takes a most comprehensive, and apparently prophetic view of the poetry which after ages will bring forth: the passionate aspirations for the, extension of philanthropy which it manifests, the rugged energy of the language, with its masterly analysis of things, speaks volumes for the future achievements of its author. Equally with the former, the energetic and hopefully thoughtful poem of "Columbus," sustains the high character of Lowell: it contains some magnificent passages. With what sublimity Columbus exclaims,

"Here am I, with no friend but the sad sea,

The beating heart of this great enterprise."

And then he relates the history of the hope that encouraged him :

"I know not when this hope enthralled me
first,

But from my boyhood up, I loved to hear
The tall pine forests of the Apennine
Murmur their hoary legends of the sea,
Which hearing, I in vision clear beheld
The sudden dark of tropic night shut down
O'er the huge whisper of great watery wastes,
The while, a pair of herons trailingly
Flapped inland, where some league-wide
river hurled

The yellow spoil of unconjectured realms
Far through a gulf's green silence, never
scarred

By any but the north wind's hurrying keels.
And not the pines alone; all sights and

sounds,

To my world-seeking heart paid fealty,
And catered for it as the Cretan bees

Brought honey to the baby Jupiter,
Who, in his soft hand crushed a violet,
God-like foremusing the rough thunder's

gripe;

Then did I entertain the poet's song,
My great ideas guest, and passing o'er
That iron bridge the Tuscan built to hell,
I heard Ulysses tell of mountain-chains
Whose adamantine links, his manacles,
The western main shook growling, and still
gnawed;

I brooded on the wise Athenian's tale
Of happy Atlantis, and heard Bjorne's keel
Crunch the gray pebbles of the vinland
shore;

For I believed the poets; it is they
Who utter wisdom from the central deep,
And, listening to the inner flow of things,
Speak to the age out of eternity."

It would be almost impossible for any poet to evince more gigantic power of description than Lowell has compressed into his "Summer Storm," a masterly production of its kind, and replete with wonderful energy and truthfulness. As it is particularly characterized by much minute sketchings of natural objects, hitherto untouched by either the pen of the poet or the brush of the painter, it would be high treason against good taste to pass over unnoticed "The Indian Summer Reverie." The great analytic power, and the poetical obser vation it manifests, with the appropriate beauty of the language, render it befitting that the reader should have an opportunity of beholding a few instances of these beauties.

"The cock's shrill trump that tells of scattered corn,

Passed breezily on by all his flapping mates, Faint and more faint, from barn to barn is borne,

Southward, perhaps to far Magellan's straits;

Dimly I catch the throb of distant flails. Silently over head the henhawk sails, With watchful, measuring eye, and for his quarry waits.

The sobered robin, hunger-silent now, Seeks cedar-berries blue, his Autumn cheer; The squirrel on the shingly shagbank's bough,

Now saws, now lists with downward eye and car,

Blessings on the poet, whose power of observation enables him to present us so constantly fresh objects for admiration, and consequently fresh motives for thanksgiving and gratitude to the Lord of all. Even the humble blackberry is not forgotten; see with what inimitable accuracy its retreat is sketched and its growth described.

"O'er yon low wall, which guards one unkempt zone,

Where vines, and weeds, and scrub-oaks intertwine

Safe from the plough, whose rough discordant stone

Is massed to one soft gray by lichens fine,
The tangled blackberry, crossed and re-

crossed, weaves

A prickly net-work of ensanguin'd leaves; Hard by, with coral beads, the prim black alders shine."

The same lulling, overpowering inclination to apathetic ease and luxurious repose, which is so apparent in the "Lotus Eaters" of Tennyson, is strongly perceptible in the lines which immediately ensue.

"All round upon the river's slippery edge, Witching to deeper calm the drowsy tide, Whispers and leans the breeze entangling sedge;

Through emerald glooms the lingering waters slide,

Or, sometimes wavering, throw back the

sun,

And the stiff banks in eddies melt and run Of dimpling light, and with the current seem to glide."

Again, how beautifully the effect of winter is contrasted with the bloom of summer.

"Another change subdues them in the Fall, But saddens not; they still show merrier tints,

Though sober russet seems to cover all;

Look how the yellow clearness, streamed across,

Redeems with rarer hues the season's loss,

Then the first sunshine through their As Dawn's feet there had touched and left dew drops glints, their rosy prints."

It would be difficult to select two stanzas more full of fresh

and ingenious imagery than the following:

"Then, every morn, the river's banks shine

bright

'Gainst which the lances of the sun prevail, Giving a pretty emblem of the day When guiltier arms in light shall melt

away,

And states shall move free-limbed, loosed from War's cramping mail.

And now those waterfalls the ebbing river
Twice every day creates on either side,
Tinkle, as through their fresh-sparred
grots they shiver,

In grass arch'd channels to the sun de-
nied;

High flaps in sparkling blue the farheard crow,

The silvered flats gleam frostily below, Suddenly drops the gull, and breaks the glassy tide."

We come now to one of the prettiest poems in the book, namely, the ode "To the Dandelion"; no impartial person capable of distinguishing merit, will read this gem of poetical art unmoved, or willingly deny the title of Poet to the author of its sunny imagery, graceful language, and original concep

tion.

"Studies for two Heads" is graphic, and the portraits are taken in that spirit of analysis, and with that great knowledge of human nature, which Lowell constantly evinces. Metaphysical beauty, religious confidence, and philanthropy, lend their important influence in adorning the "Elegy on the Death of Dr. Channing," and the "Fable for Critics" establishes the author's right to membership in that awful association. We shall now present the reader with "The Changeling," the last and perhaps the most beautiful of all the extracts we have taken from Lowell's poetry. It is truly a charming piece, highly imaginative, simple and pathetic, and invested with a nameless grace and etherial fascination.

In N. P. Willis, the author of "Pencillings by the Way," we have another Poet, who, like Longfellow, possesses elegance and beauty of expression to such a degree, that all his other qualifications as a Poet, become overshadowed by their pre-eminence; and we are furnished by him with another potent argument against the insinuations of those who cannot behold anything in America which bears the slightest resemblance to refinement. This artistic elaboration is no where more apparent than in his Scriptural Poems, which are particularly remarkable for high polish, and incomparable smoothness. Willis is, however, deficient in originality, by which he is debarred from rivalling some of his more creative brethren in the arena of thought. If a palm should be allotted for elegant taste, and rythmical excellence, it may not be too much to say that this author would enter the lists, with a fair prospect of becoming the successful competitor for the prize. Wit of a very refined and elevated order, is another peculiarity of this Poet. His "Lady Jane," (which has a marked resemblance to "Don Juan,") has many brilliant passages, pregnant with satirical humour. Added to these, Willis possesses a fine imagination, great taste, and a sound judgment. In common with all the transatlantic bards, he is somewhat diffuse, but "the wheat is much more plentiful than the tares," and the fault is easily pardoned for the sake of his many beauties. "The healing of the Daughter of Jairus," is written in a strain of chaste and exquisite melody, displaying to very great perfection the rich and wide imagination of the author, his consummate taste and fluency. The lines which follow have all the "faint exquisite music of a dream."

"The Leper" is another instance of this easy flowing grace and rich melody; the language is exquisite and beautiful.