I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon ;
To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air, 'tis less of earth than heaven.
Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning birds,
And something more than melody dwells ever in her words ;
The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each Aows
As one may see the burthened bee forth issue from the rose.
Affections are as thoughts to her, the measures of her hours ;
Her feelings have the fragrancy—the freshness of young flowers.

Her health! and would on earth there stood some more of such a

frame, That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name !

CUTTER, cne of the poets of the West, is the author of this striking poem, entitled The Song of Steam :

Harness me down with your iron bands,

Be sure of your curb and rein,
For I scorn the power of your puny hands,

As the tempest scorns a chain.
How I laughed, as I lay concealed from sight

For many a countless hour,
At the childish boast of human might,

And the pride of human power!
When I saw an army upon the land,
A navy upon

the
Creeping along, a snail-like band,

Or waiting the wayward breeze ;
When I marked the peasant faintly reel

With the toil which he daily bore,
As he feebly turned the tardy wheel,
Or tugged at the weary oar ;

seas,

When I measured the panting courser's speed,

The Aight of the carrier-dove,
As they bore the law a king decreed,

Or the lines of impatient love ;-
I could but think how the world would feel,

As these were outstripped afar,
When I should be bound to the rushing keel,

Or chained to the Aying car.

Ha, ha, ha! they found me at last,

They invited me forth at length ;
And I rushed to my throne with a thunder-blast,

And laughed in my iron strength.

*

The following graceful little melody is from the pen of George D. PRENTICE :

In Southern seas there is an isle,
Where earth and sky forever smile ;
Where storms cast not their sombre hue
Upon the welkin's holy blue;
Where clouds of blessed incense rise
From myriad Alowers of myriad dves,
And strange bright birds glance through the bowers,
Like mingled stars, or mingled Aowers.

Oh, dear one! would it were our lot
To dwell upon that lovely spot,
To stray through woods with blossoms starred,
Bright as the dreams of seer or bard;
To hear each other's whispered words
Mid the wild notes of tropic birds,
And deem our lives, in those bright bowers,
One glorious dream of love and flowers !

These pleasing lines, on Olden Memories, are by Cist, of Cincinnati :

They are jewels of the mind; they are tendrils of the heart,
That with our being are entwined-of our very selves a part.
They the records are of youth, kept to read in after-years :
They are manhood's well of truth, filled with childhood's early tears.
Like the low and plaintive moan of the night-wind through the trees,
Sweet to hear, though sad and lone, are those olden memories !

*

And oft beneath the sun or moon their swift and eager falchions

glow, While, like a storm-vexed wind, the rune comes chafing through

some beard of snow. And when the far North Aashes up with fires of mingled red and

gold, They know that many a blazing cup is brimming to the absent

bold.

Up signal there, and let us hail yon looming phantom as we pass ! Note all her fashion, hull and sail, within the compass of your glass. See at her mast the steadfast glow of that one star of Odin's

throne; Up with our fag, and let us show the Constellation on our own.

No answer, but the sullen flow of ocean heaving long and vast;
An argosy of ice and snow, the voiceless North swings proudly past.

Very sweet and refreshing are his liquid lines to the Wayside Spring :

Fair dweller by the dusty way--bright saint within a mossy shrine,
The tribute of a heart to-day, weary and worn, is thine.
The earliest blossoms of the year, the sweet-brier and the violet,
The pious hand of Spring has here upon thy altar set,
And not alone to thee is given the homage of the pilgrim's knee,
But of the sweetest birds of heaven glide down and sing to thee.
Here daily from his beechen cell the hermit squirrel steals to drink,
And Aocks, which cluster to their bell, recline along thy brink.

*