Take also the following, as examples of his style : Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) An Angel writing in a book of gold : And to the Presence in the room he said— "What writest thou?" The vision raised its head, Answered "The names of those who love the Lord." Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low, The Angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. May: May, thou month of rosy beauty, Month when pleasure is a duty; Month of bees and month of flowers, Month of blossom-laden bowers; Than it seems as though it heard, If the rains that do us wrong Where they keep thee green for ages; She has old and modern nooks, Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves, But come, rather, thou, good weather, One evening Leigh Hunt was the bearer of some good news to Carlyle, when the wife of the latter, who was also present, was so delighted, that she impulsively sprang from her chair and kissed the poet. The following morning he sent to her a bouquet of flowers, with these lines :— Jenny kissed me when we met, jumping from the chair she sat in; Time, you thief! who love to get sweets into your book,-put that in: Say I'm weary -say I'm sad-say that health and wealth have missed me, Say I'm growing old—but add, Jenny kissed me! AMELIA WELBY, of Kentucky, is the author of the following sweet lines:— Sweet warblers of the sunny hours, forever on the wing, I love them as I love the flowers, the sunlight, and the Spring. And when their holy anthems come pealing through the air, Like shadowy spirits seen at eve, among the tombs they glide, Where sweet pale forms, for which we grieve, lie sleeping side by side. They break with song the solemn hush where peace reclines her head, And link their lays with mournful thoughts that cluster round the dead. * Another poetess, MRS. NICHOLLS, of Cincinnati, thus beautifully moralizes on Indian Summer : It is the Indian Summer-time, the days of mist, and haze, and glory, And on the leaves, in hues sublime, the Autumn paints poor Sum mer's story: "She died in beauty," sing the hours, “and left on earth a glorious shadow;" "She died in beauty, like her flowers," is painted on each wood and meadow; She perished like bright human hopes, that blaze awhile upon life's altar ; And o'er her green and sunny slopes the plaintive winds her dirges falter. It is the Indian Summer-time! the crimson leaves like coals are gleaming, The brightest tints of every clime are o'er our Western forests streaming; How bright the hours! yet o'er their close the moments sigh in mournful duty, And redder light around them glows, like hectic on the cheek of beauty! MADAME BOTTA's fine lines, On a Library, will form a fitting peroration to our Fourth Evening with the Minstrels : Speak low-tread softly through these halls,-here Genius lives enshrined! Here reign, in silent majesty, the monarchs of the mind! 234 |