He evinces great affluence of poetic beauty and grandeur of thought in the following passage :

Sunset is burning like the seal of God

Upon the close of day. This very hour

Night mounts her chariot in the eastern glooms,
To chase the flying Sun, whose flight has left
Foot-prints of glory in the clouded west :
Swift is she hailed by winged swimming steeds,
Whose cloudy manes are wet with heavy dews,
And dews are drizzling from her chariot-wheels
Brainful of dreams, as summer hive with bees.
And round her, in the pale and spectral light,
Flock bats and grizzly owls on noiseless wings.
The flying Sun goes down the burning west,
Vast Night comes noiseless up the eastern slope,
And so the eternal chase goes round the world.

SAXE, our American humorist, is worthy of his wide fame listen to his premonitory indications of senescence:

My days pass pleasantly away;

My nights are blest with sweetest sleep;

I feel no symptoms of decay;

I have no cause to mourn or weep;

My foes are impotent and shy;

My friends are neither false nor cold;

And yet, of late, I often sigh—
I'm growing old!

My growing talk of olden times,

My growing thirst for early news,

My growing apathy to rhymes,
My growing love of easy shoes,

;

The following fine lines, entitled Love's Impress, are by E. HINX

MAN :'

Her light foot on a noble heart she set,
And went again upon her heedless way,
Vain idol of so steadfast a regret

As never but with life could pass away.

Youth, and youth's easy virtues, made her fair;
Triumphant through the sunny hours she ranged,
Then came the winter-bleak, unlovely, bare,
Still ruled her image over one unchanged.

So, where some trivial creature played of old,
The warm, soft clay received the tiny dint;
We cleave the deep rock's bosom, and behold,
Sapped in its core, the immemorial print.

'Fraser's Magazine.

Men marvel such frail record should outlive

The vanished forests and the hills o'er-hurled,
But high-souled Love can keep a type alive

Which has no living answer in the world.

CHARLES KINGSLEY'S poem, the Three Fishers, is a fine picture :

Three fishers went sailing down to the west,

Away to the west, as the sun went down;

Each thought of the woman who loved him the best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town:
For men must work, and women must weep,
And here's little to earn, and many to keep,

Though the harbour bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,

And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;

And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,
While the night rack came rolling up, ragged and brown :

For men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden and waters deep,
And the harbour bar be moaning.

Three corpses lie out on the shining sands,

In the morning gleam, as the tide went down,
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands,
For those who will never come home to the town.

For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep,
And good-by to the bar and its moaning.

We all remember his quaint lines in Alton Locke, commencing:

O Mary, go and call the cattle home, and call the cattle home across the Sands o' Dee;

The western wind was wild and dark wi' foam, and all alone went she.

Let us then read his fine Song of the River, which is equally characteristic and beautiful :

Clear and cool, clear and cool,

By laughing shallow and dreaming pool:
Cool and clear, cool and clear,

By shining shingle and foaming wear;

Under the crag where the ouzel sings,

And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings,
Undefiled, for the undefiled;

Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.

Dank and foul, dank and foul,

By the smoke-grimed town in its murky cowl:
Foul and dank, foul and dank,

By wharf, and sewer, and slimy bank;
Darker and darker the further I go,

Baser and baser the richer I grow ;

Who dare sport with the sin-defiled?

Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child.

Strong and free, strong and free,

The flood-gates are open, away to the sea:

Free and strong, free and strong,

Cleansing my streams as I hurry along

To the golden sands and the leaping bar,

And the taintless tide that awaits me afar,

As I lose myself in the infinite main,

Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again,

Undefiled, for the undefiled;

Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.

Here is another poetic gem from his pen :

The world goes up, and the world goes down,
And the sunshine follows the rain;

And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown
Can never come over again,

Sweet wife, can never come over again.
For woman is warm, though man be cold,
And the night will hallow the day;

Till the heart which at even was weary and old,

Can rise in the morning gay,

Sweet wife, can rise in the morning gay.

Here is a beautiful little waif, on the Press, by BAYARD TAYLOR:

Oh! the click of the type as it falls into line,
And the clank of the press, make a music divine!
'Tis the audible footfall of thought on the page-
The articulate beat of the heart of the age!

As the ebbing of ocean leaves granite walls bare,

And reveals to the world its great autograph there!

From the same popular writer we have another fine poem, The Phantom :

Again I sit within the mansion, in the old, familiar seat;

And shade and sunshine chase each other o'er the carpet at my feet; But the sweet-brier's arms have wrestled upward in the summers

that are past,

-

And the willow trails its branches lower than when I saw them last.
They strive to shut the sunshine wholly from out the haunted room,—
To fill the house that once was joyful, with silence and with gloom.
And many kind, remembered faces within the doorway come,-
Voices that wake the sweeter music of one that now is dumb.
They sing, in tones as glad as ever, the songs she loved to hear;
They braid the rose in summer garlands, whose flowers to her were
dear.

And still her footsteps in the passage, her blushes at the door,

Her timid words of maiden welcome, come back to me once more.