heavens, face to face, and angels bending down, are whispering that I may yet be happy, Poor, poor fool! Happy for another hour, perhaps another day, and then Why, then the sun will rise again, and all the world be glad, but I shall not know it; and every tone that to the common world is sweetest music, and every look and smile that are unlike thee; the song not thine; the book not read by thee; and every beautiful and lovely thing, that hath not caught some parted grace of thine, shall be to me a half formed thing, lacking the tint that's loveliest, the form that 's dearest to my heart; a thing unfinished, as Heaven were interrupted in the making, or lost the trick, not having thee to copy! But now, the dashing of my heart is like the seas that clap their hands in gladness. My GoD, I thank Thee for that joy forever!' Those words have mingled with my spirit, quickening it to lightning; and if I get a home above, and have a power in Heaven, I'll build a world whose sky shall light it with those burning words! Ah, how the time goes on! I miss it not, for I am happy, and it brings no change. The sun has set, and night has come with countless stars, as glowing. beautiful, and bright, as each one were a separate joy of mine; a heaven all full, as is my brimming heart. Well; you will laugh at all this rhapsody, and chide me for a foolish boy. I only say, 'My HEART is talking to you, not my HEAD... But we must part; and then, if angels, strayed from home, may note that scene, touched by the love of one so beautiful, it will be written down in Heaven, that two souls made to match, have gone apart forever. Farewell! I only ask of you, that when a warm thought flutters at your heart, just fancy (t will be true) that I have come to nestle there, and give it welcome. And when the night comes. and you rest alone with your own beauty and the sentinel stars, oh, clasp the little rascal to your heart, and think of your dream in the morning!'

6

OUR impression is-'we may be wrong, but that is our opinion'—that the young gentleman who penned the foregoing rhapsody is hankering after some young woman. Ah! well; though his style is not over-pellucid, there is much truth in his sentences. There is a communion between the heart of Nature and the hearts of lovers; and with gentle affections and pure thoughts, her face is always beautiful. With the same mail which brought us the Thing of Beauty' aforesaid, came the following, copied in the neatest of all crow-quill chirography, bearing the Saratoga post-mark, and a French-gray seal, with two loving doves. It struck us, on a first perusal, that possibly it might proceed from some young lady in love with some young gentleman! It has that look: '

A world of the young heart's creation, bright
And brilliant as 't is false and fleeting, where
All seems a beauteous fairy-land; to mark
No varied season and no right of time,
Save in the weary absence of the loved one;
To live but in the atmosphere he breathes,
To gaze upon his eyes as on the light

That beacons us to bliss, the only sun

Of our unreal world; in the sad hours

Of absence to be filled with thousand thoughts

Of tenderness, that to repeat we deem

Will make the hours of meeting more delicious:
Yet when that time is come, to feel they are
Unutterable; then to court the moments,
And watch his coming as the early dawn
Of an untried existence; (is not love

A new existence ?) yet when he is come.
To feel that deep, oppressive sense of bliss
Weighing upon the heart, that we could wish
To find our joy less perfect This is love!'

No sneers, if you please, gentlemen bachelors of the incorrigible class; no 'pshaws!' ye 'paired but not matched' people, at encountering here these tender tributes of the heart; for the lover, where is he not? 'Wherever parents look round upon their children, there he has been; wherever children are at play together, there he soon will be; wherever there are roofs under which men dwell, wherever there is an atmosphere vibrating with human voices, there is the lover, and there is his lofty worship going on. True love continues and will continue to send up its homage amidst the meditations of every eventide, and the busy hum of noon, and the song of the morning stars.'... IF the unhappy young man who has recently filled the journals of the metropolis with the details of his folly and crime could, before yielding to temptation, have looked in upon the state-prisoners at Sing-Sing, as we did the other day, surely he would have shrunk back from the vortex before him. Poor wretches, in their best estate! How narrow their cells; how ceaseless their toil; what a negation of comfort their whole condition! It was a sweltering August day, breathless and oppressive; but there was no rest for the eight hundred unhappy convicts who plied their never-ending tasks within those walls. Stealthy glances from halfraised eyes; pale countenances, stamped with meek submission, or gleaming with powerless hate or impotent malignity; and hard labor' in the fullest sense, were the main features of the still-life scene, as we passed through the several work-shops. But what a picture was presented as their occupants came swarming into the open court-yard at sound of the bell, to proceed to their cells with their dinner! From the thick atmosphere of the carpet and rug-shops, leaving the

The leathery seed with its rough coating o'er,
Freezes its ardent currents ere they spring
Into ephemeral being, and thus yields

Unto a small and leaden speck, a power
Of life perpetual, and from dull clay
Maintains a breathing world.'

'A ducat to a beggarly denier' that we saw the same ocean, glowing under the same glorious summer-evening light, as is described in the lines which ensue. We have never compared notes with our author; but it seems impossible that the kindred scene in which we revelled on a memorable occasion at the Telegraph station, by the Narrows, should not have extended to Fire-Island; the locale, we cannot help inferring, of this picture:

(The pearl, and flame, and amethyst, and gold,
The shadowy vermeil flush, the purple light,
The amber-tinted streak, and banner'd clouds,
Like incense streaming up from Evening's
shrine,

OFT hath the man who loveth Nature's ways,
Musing, gone forth alone by Ocean's tide,
And, gazing on that amaranthine plain,
Hath marked the rich beams of descending day
Shoot slanting o'er the light and feathery waves,
Until the sea, by burning passion moved,
Through all its depths, turns into liquid gold,
And heaves and thrills beneath those ardent rays,
With love too strong for mortal minds to know,
With love too deep for mortal hearts to feel.
Then, from that glorious main, his soul-lit eye
Hath wander'd strait to heaven, and in one view The land of Paradise.

Wafted by gentle gales along the sky,
The beauty, brightness, majesty, and pomp,
The gorgeous splendor of the imperial West,
Burst on his raptured sight! He, happy then,
While Fancy's spirit-form smiles o'er his head,
Deems it the lovely sky that canopies

Here is a wider reach of more varied scenery, yet not less forcible than the more 'thin compositions,' to use the painter's phrase:

FIRST, as they look'd, there rose upon the sight
Long, waving chains of happy-smiling hills,
Uprising gently from the sloping vales,
As if to woo the rustling noontide winds:
Next, wide-expansive, music-making seas,
Across whose placid, soft-suspiring tides
The playful breezes fly, on tireless wings.

The Desert's thirsty plains gemm'd with their

green

And cool oases, bright mid barren sands;
Rivers whose pearly tides stretch'd far away
Through fertile lands to Ocean's emerald brink;
And lakes that seem'd, in their transparent depths,
The crystal eyes of Earth. Here mountains, hills,

Then, 'neath their wond'ring eyes at once dis- And winding dales, fair seas, and shining lakes, play'd,

Behold, in one far-sweeping, lovely view,

The broad green vesture of the quick'ning sod
Trembling with heat, and glowing into life
Under the warın sun's vivifying beams:

And silvery streams, gay-blooming boughs, and
flowery turf,

Conspire, in all their loveliest power, to make
The warm, the fresh, the pure, and beauteous form
Of this enamell'd world."

Lovers of flowers; gentle maidens, scarcely less fragile and fair; and ye of the 'sterner sex,' who are not ashamed to praise heaven and earth; we ask you if the ensuing lines are not 'beautiful exceedingly :'

The red Rose, blushing in its virgin pride,
Hangs lightly on its green and briery stalk,
And kisses from its pale-cheek'd sister's brow,
With trembling lip, the pearly tear away.

Here Violets, that spring by stealth at night,
Of rarer scents and sweeter shapes than those
Pluck'd by the village maiden in the vale,

Ere yet the sun hath touch'd their dewy leaves,
Mingle their balmiest odors and their hues
With the soft-nectar'd sighs
Of wind-flowers, pansies, hyacinths, oxlips,
And sun-striped tulips tall,
Until the freighted airs themselves grow faint,
And on their weary way sink down to sleep
Among the silent wild-flowers watching there.

We have purposely abstained from a detailed review or analysis of the poem under notice; preferring that the reader should derive his impression of the performance from such portions of it, taken almost at random, as we could command space to present; leaving him to seek in the volume itself that gratification of which we are sure our extracts will give him a foretaste. It was our intention to have animadverted upon the use of certain words and compounds which struck us as being infelicitous; but we can only transcribe a few of them, without comment, from our pencilled copy: 'JEHOVAH'S fadeless arms;' 'frost-enmirror'd;' 'sun-bedazzled ;''ornamentless curves; 'rich-rubied rays,' etc. To conclude:' we consider the present poem a manifest improvement upon 'Ahasuerus,' which was noticed at length in these pages. The author is now well in harness,' and moves on without incumbrance. Once more we welcome him to the quiet walks of literature, which he treads so pleasantly; and again we greet him with 'Macte virtute!'

EXERCISES OF THE ALUMNE OF THE ALBANY FEMALE ACADEMY, on their Second Anniversary, July 20, 1843. Albany: C. VAN BENTHUYSEN AND COMPANY.

АH! young ladies! we wish you could 'realize' how greatly gratified we are to find you so much improved! We say 'improved,' because it can scarcely be possible that you could have written such charming compositions, before you had experienced the benefits of the system of instruction pursued at the institution upon which you reflect so much honor. We say this in no vain spirit of compliment, but in all candor. The address of the President, Miss M. ROBINSON, of this city, is not only excellent in its inculcations and tendency, but is written with great perspicuity and freedom. The prize poem by Miss ELIZA WHITNEY of Philadelphia, has many of the elements of true poetry, while its trifling defects are merely mechanical. The committee who awarded the prize, one of whom we observe was Mrs. SIGOURNEY, seem to have hesitated in their choice between this and three or four other poems of kindred excellence. 'MARY GRAFTON' need not have sheltered herself under a pseudonyme. Her essay on 'What should be the intellectual education of Woman, to fit her for the duties of life,' is worthy of a strong and disciplined mind and a practised pen. The honor of the best essay in French was assigned to Miss M'CORMICK of Oswego, in this State; yet the committee selected it in preference to three others, only because they were forced to choose;' a fact which precludes the idea of 'rejection.' The capital tale entitled Home Education,' by Miss MARY E. FIELD, of Haddam, (Conn.,) must certainly have deserved the honor which it won among its rivals. We have rarely seen a story, the lessons of which were so valuable, in a national point of view, kept up with so much spirit, and eliciting so much interest, in the narrative. On the whole, so favorably are we impressed with these 'exercises' of the alumnæ of the Albany Female Academy, that we begin to peer into the 'onward distance,' and to see our own little people winning honors in that popular institution. 'So mote it be!'

THE CROWNING HOUR, AND OTHER POEMS. By CHARLES JAMES CANNON, Author of 'The Poet's Quest,' etc. With a Portrait of the Author. In one volume. pp. 132. New-York: EDWARD DUNIGAN.

THUS is entitled a neat little volume which we find on our table. Without being a 'great gun' in literature, or destined to make much noise in the world, Mr. CANNON is yet a clever versifier, and occasionally 'goes off' with good thoughts very agreeably; while 'the habit of wishing to discover the good and the beautiful in all that meets and surrounds him' is quite apparent in his compositions. The crowning hour' is the period when COLUMBUS first discovers land from the quarter deck of his vessel. Certain incidents of the voyage, and the emotions of the 'world-seeking Genoese,' form the staple of the main poem; but the prose of IRVING is far better poetry than the verse which here records them. The remainder of the volume is devoted to the republication of several minor effusions from certain periodicals of these times, and from a previous volume of the author. The Dogberryotype' portrait of Mr. CANNON, in the opening of his book, strikes us as being in bad taste. We are loath to interfere with such an exhibition of harmless vanity; but the picture being what is negatively termed 'no beauty,' we must adopt the advice of HOLMES to the plain gentleman whose portrait graced the Athenæum exhibition: Do n't let it be there any longer! Take it home, and hush the matter up!' It is but justice to add, however, that the portrait which fronts the volume under notice does not do justice to the features of its author. Engravings from Daguerreotype miniatures have never impressed us favorably, either as faithful likenesses, or specimens of pictorial art.

EDITOR'S TABLE.

'THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.'- A 'friend and fellow-citizen' of ours has translated, so far as published, a serial novel, just now making a great noise in the literary circles of the French capital, entitled' Les Mysteries de Paris,' by EUGENE SUE. Premising that our readers will soon have an opportunity of perusing in an English translation some of the most striking of the very remarkable sketches of this DICKENS of France, we shall content ourselves for the present with a single extract, embodying a simple, but as it strikes us, a very touching and impressive scene. The RODOLPHE of the passage below is a German prince, who has come to Paris, and who goes forth in disguise to seek out worthy objects of benevolence. He encounters in La Cité,' a quarter of the town occupied by the most abandoned classes, a girl of a beautiful, melancholy countenance, called in the peculiar language of the inhabitants, La Goualeuse,' or ' Fleur-deMarie,' who turns out, in the subsequent progress of the story, to be a child of his own, whom he supposed to be dead, but who had in fact been left in the streets by her nurses. He proposes to take her into the country with him; and the effect which rural objects produce upon her mind is very beautifully described in the little episode of 'The Rosebush,' which will be found in the opening of the story. The whole tale forcibly illustrates what a French metropolitan contemporary terms the 'inépuisable imagination' of EUGENE SUE:

'I BELIEVE you, and I thank you; but answer me frankly: is it equally agreeable what part of the country we go to?'

'Oh, it is all the same to me, Monsieur Rodolphe, as long as it is the country; it is so pleasant; the pure air is so good to breathe! Do you know that for five months I have been no farther than the flower market, and if the ogresse ever allowed me to go out of the Cité, it was because she had confidence in me?'

'And when you came to this market, was it to buy flowers?'

'Oh, no: I had no money; I only came to see them; to inhale their rich perfume. For the half hour that the ogresse allowed me to pass on the quai during market-days, I was so happy that I forgot all.'

'And when you returned to the ogresse-to those horrid streets?'

'I came back more sorrowful than when I set out. I choked down my tears, that I might not receive a beating. I tell you what it was at the market which made me envious, oh! very envious; it was to see the little ouvrières,' so neatly clad, going off so gaily with a fine pot of flowers in their arms!'

'I am sure if you had only had some flowers in your window, they would have been companions for you.'

'It is very true what you say, Monsieur Rodolphe. Imagine: one day the ogresse at her fête, knowing my love for flowers, gave me a little rose-bush. If you could only know how happy I was! I was no longer lonesome! I could not keep from looking at my rose-bush. I amused myself in counting its leaves, its flowers. But the air is so bad in La Cité that at the end

of two days it began to fade. . . . But you'll laugh at me, Monsieur Rodolphe?'

'No, no! Go on! go on!'

'Well then, I asked permission from the ogresse to take my bush out for an airing; yes, as I would have taken out a child. I brought it to the quai: I thought to myself, that being in company with other flowers, in this fine and balmy air, would do it good. I moistened its poor withered leaves with the pure water of the fountain, and then I warmed it awhile in the sun. Dear little rose-tree! it never saw the sun in La Cité for in our street it comes no lower than the roof. At length I returned; and I assure you, Monsieur Rodolphe, that my rose-bush lived perhaps ten days longer than it would have done without the airings.'

'I believe it; but when it died! - that must have been a great loss for you.'

'I wept for it; I was very sorry. . . . one can love flowers, I can tell it to you. laughing at me!'

Beside, Monsieur Rodolphe, since you understand how
Well, I felt grateful to it. Ah! now this time you are

'No, no! I love, I adore flowers; and thus I can comprehend all the foolish things they cause one to commit, or which they inspire.'

"Eh bien!' I felt grateful to this poor rose-bush, for having flowered so prettily for me - such a one as me!' The goualeuse held down her head and became purple with shame.

'Poor child! with this consciousness of your horrible position, you must have often 'Had a wish to put an end to it? Is it not so, Monsieur Rodolphe?' said la Goualense, interrupting her companion. Oh! yes; more than once I have looked at the Seine from the parapet. But then I turned to the flowers, the sun, and I said to myself, The river will always be there I am only sixteen. . . who knows?'

'When you said, Who knows?' you had a hope?'

'Yes.'

And what did you hope for?'

'I do not know. I hoped-yes, I hoped,' malgré moi. At those moments, it seemed to me that my fate was not merited; that there was some good left in me. I said to myself, I have been very much troubled, but at least, I have never harmed any one... if I had only had some one to counsel me, I should not be where I am. That dissipated my sorrow a little. After all, I must confess that these thoughts occurred oftener after the loss of my rose-bush,' added la Goualeuse, in a solemn manner, which made Rodolphe smile.

'Yes; look here!'- and la Goualeuse drew from her pocket a little packet, carefully tied with a pink favor.

'You have preserved it?'

'I think so! It is all I possess in the world.'

'How! have you nothing you can call your own?'

'Nothing.'

'But this coral necklace?'

'It belongs to the ogresse.'

'How! do you not own a rag? - a hat, a handkerchief?'

'No, nothing; nothing but the dry leaves of my withered rose-bush; it is on this account I prize it so much.'

'At each word the astonishment of Rodolphe was redoubled. He could not comprehend this frightful slavery, this horrible sale of soul and body for a wretched shelter, a few tattered clothes, and impure nourishment.

"They arrived at the 'Quai aux Fleurs. A carriage was in waiting. Rodolphe assisted his companion to get in, and after placing himself at her side, said to the coachman :

To Saint-Denis; I will tell you directly which road to take.'

'The horses started; the sun was radiant; the sky without a cloud; but the cold was a little sharp, and the air circulated briskly through the open windows of the carriage.

Ar this moment they drew near to Saint-Ouen, at the juncture of the road to Saint-Denis and the Chemin de la Revolte.

"Notwithstanding the monotonous appearance of the country, Fleur-de-Marie was so delighted at seeing the fields, that forgetting the thoughts which sad recollections had awakened in her mind, her charming face brightened up; she leaned out of the window, and cried:

'Monsieur Rodolphe! what delight!.. Fields! and thickets! If you would only let me alight! The weather is so fine! I would like so much to run in the meadows!'

'We will take a run, my child. Coachman, stop!'

'How you also, Monsieur Rodolphe ?'