Sweet, 'mid the tresses of the bride,
Blooms the virgin coronal,
When merry bells ring far and wide
Kind welcome to the festival.
Ah, that life's fairest festive day
Fades with the blossom of our May!
That when the veil and cestus fall,
The sweet illusions vanish, all !-
The passion,-it flies,

The love must endure:

The blossom,-it dies,

The fruit must mature.

Forth the husband must wend
To the combat of life;
Plunge in turmoil and strife.

Must plant, and must plan;
Gain get as he can.

Hazard all, all importune,

To woo and win fortune.

Then streams, like a spring-flood, his wealth without measure,
And his granaries groan with the weight of their treasure;
And his farm-yards increase, and his mansion expands.

The poem goes on, describing the different processes with singular graphic beauty, and giving episodes of real life which are suggested by the uses of the Bell. We will extract the closing passage.

Come all come all!

Close your ranks, in order settle ;
Baptize we now the hallow'd metal :
"Concordia!"-Such her name we call.

To harmony, to heartfelt union,

It gathers in the blest communion.
Be this henceforward its vocation;
For this I watch'd o'er its creation,.
That while our life goes lowly under,

The Bell, 'mid yon blue heav'n's expansion,
Should soar, the neighbor of the thunder,
And border on the starry mansion.

Its voice from yon aerial height

Shall seem the music of the sphere,
That rolling lauds its Maker's might,
And leads along the crowned year:
To solemn and eternal things

Alone shall consecrate its chime,
And hourly, as it swiftly swings,
O'ertake the flying wing of time:

Shall lend to Fate its iron tongue,

Heartless itself, nor formed to feel,
Shall follow life's mix'd scenes among,
Each turn of fortune's fickle wheel-
And, as its echo on the gale

Dies off, though long and loud the tone,
Shall teach that all on earth shall fail,
All pass away-save God alone.
Now, with the rope's unweary'd might,
From its dark womb weigh up the Bell,
That it may gain th' aerial height,
And in the realm of Echo dwell.
Draw! draw!-it swings;

Hark! hark!-it rings.

Joy to this town be heard around!

Peace unto all, the Bell's first sound!

We have exhausted our room, and have only to mention several smaller books:-Mr. Ray's ANIMAL ECONOMY, a well digested manual, with no fault except that technical words are used with too little explanation-COULOMB'S INTRODUCTEUR FRANCAIS, a condensed and improved French Grammar adopted in Yale College and spoken well of by the Professors of that Institution-and IRVING'S COLUMBUS ABRIDGED, by the Author, and of course authentic-a neat edition from the press of the Carvills. We have omitted several new books rather than pass over them in this hasty manner, and we trust their authors will, for the present, excuse us.

We have received volumes of manuscript poetry-some good, some bad, and a great deal indifferent. From the good we have selected that which we present this month to our readers, the bad lies in our drawer, subject to the command of the perpetrators, and from the indifferent we can pick here and there a fine passage or a musical line which makes us regret its total rejection. We often wish we had the author of such contributions by us, that we might whisper in his ear some of those secrets of trade which are only learned behind the editorial curtain, and which assist wonderfully in hitting the popular palate. There is many a fine thought lost to the world, like many a fine spirit, for the want of a modish dress. We cannot be responsible always for their reception, however we may think them sans reproche" and it is often very much against our will that we condemn them to obscurity. Here, for instance, is the long story of Joseph and his brethren, blank versed in some hundreds of lines, and covering twice the space which it does in the affecting and inimitable prose of the Bible. The handwriting has a pretty Italian grace about it, and

the frequent apostrophes and digressions to sentiment mark it as the production of a lady. The descriptions of Joseph are beautiful, and the opening which we quote below is in a sweet vein of pastoral philosophy, but the narrative is stiff and a failure. There is nothing more difficult, or which tests the powers more severely, than descriptive poetry, and we would suggest to our fair correspondent, with all deference, the propriety of deferring farther attempts in it till her style is more mature. It requires the most elaborate and patient skill to run into each other gracefully the little circumstances which compose description. But here is an extract, and we see nothing in it which need discourage the writer from a fair promise.

THERE was a time

When pastoral life was not a fable; when
The sons of men dwelt in the "liberal air,"
Or 'neath a tent found shelter from the heat;
When the shrill pipe ringing among the hills
Beguiled the lagging hours of shepherd life;
When 'neath the arch of heav'n as night distill'd
"The tears of love" upon "fair nature's breast,"
Men, hardy men, guarded the peaceful fold,
And, as the lazy hours crept wearily,

They turn'd their eyes and thoughts to those far worlds
That gem the brow of night. And oh! what thoughts
Would fill their glowing minds, unhackney'd yet

In that scholastic lore, which dims the fire
Of fancy, and restrains the buoyant wing

Of young imagination, and perverts

The mind, that else would see alone a God

In those bright heav'ns, his fairest workmanship,
With systems falsely wise, and theories

That darken while they seem to light the soul !
Who, uninspired, shall tell the glowing thoughts
That rose in their untutored hearts, unsought,
When, on those silent plains, vast, wild and lone,
Fresh in their new creation, and so still
The flutt'ring leaf was heard to quiver ere

It loft the bough, and overhead the stars

Looked from their thousand chambers, and appear'd
So near, man almost held his breath to hear
Their choral symphonies-those shepherds sat,
And inspiration drank into their hearts,

'Till rose the mighty mind, and seemed to swell
With its high thoughts unearthly; and within
Its cage, the imprison'd soul flutter'd, and strove
To try its pinions in a higher sphere.

In the really beautiful stanzas which follow we recognize the hand of a certain poetical editor. We thank him cordially. He could have given us no higher evidence of his good opinion of ourselves and our periodical than to commit to us jewels, which, we presume, (as we have never seen them equalled in his own paper) he thinks too fine for his own wearing. We have read few better things of late than

STANZAS WRITTEN BY MOONLIGHT.

SILENCE has come down and cast

Her spell o'er all the sleeping world;
From where the mountains veil their heads,
Amid thin ether flags unfurled,

Across the forests dense and wide,
O'er-reaching plain and far hill side,

Through deep-down glens where breezes sleep,
And darkened waters slowly creep;

Where flowers lift up their drooping heads,
To drink the gently falling dew,
Which fairies, in a noiseless shower,

Are pouring from their home of blue;
When every bud, and blade of grass
Drink beauty from the gales that pass,
And o'er the breast of Nature fling
The rich and lovely robe of Spring.

The sounds that stirr'd the city air,
And on the lightly passing gale
Were wafted to the forest shades

So like a troubled spirit's wail,
Are voiceless now. And o'er the spires
Which point to yonder quenchless fires,
Silence, from her azure height,

Sits musing on a cloud of light.

And now, when evening's spreading shades
Have deepened darkly into night,

And through the wide cerulean,

The stars of heaven are burning bright,

I love to make the turf my seat,

To spend an hour in musings sweet,
And let my roaming fancy free,
Among the myriad stars to flee.

Imagination soars afar

Thro' wide, wide ether realms I sail,
Upon a cloud's frail gossamer,

That flits along the dancing gale;
And changing forms of love and light,
Come floating to my raptured sight,
Arrayed in all the robes of love
We dream have fallen from above.

In such a silent hour as this,

I picture visions on the sky,
Fleeting, and bright, and shadowless,

As the frail clouds on which they lie;
And when I turn from all these bright
Illusions that so charm the sight,
Those gorgeous realms of castle building,
Glowing with Fancy's brilliant gilding;

Tis falling from a lofty height

To these dull joyless views of earth;

Tis all so cold and comfortless;

And there is such an utter dearth

Of scenes which make our bosoms glow,
And all that makes our pulses flow,

That I could wish I dwelt among

Those cheating scenes in mid air hung.

FELIX.

It is the fashion to abuse such poetry as that which follows-to call it puerile and girlish. It is not exactly the popular thing, therefore, to publish it. But we confess to a pleasure in such things-sometimes, and in a limited degree. We like to change our hobby, as the knights of old changed theirs. We like the palfrey after the warhorse. We are willing to laugh upon good occasion-to trifle when we are moved to it-to poise the jereed, (borrowing an Orientalism) after hurling the javelin. We believe there is refreshment and relief in changing from the grave to the gay-that we are no more effeminate for putting off our armor for the dance-that we may use the gifts of gracefulness and mirth which are given us by Him who does all things with proportion, without diminishing the noble strength or the graver caution. He must have a bad heart or a weak mind who fears the exposure of such moments. He must have a wearisome life who never relaxes from his main endeavor. He must have little of that "loving humanity" which distinguishes the noble and just, who pretends to look upon such things with scorn, or takes them as the measure of him