General Morris has recently published a volume of lyrical effusions, called “The Deserted Bride, and other Poems.” Many of them have been written among the fairy beauties of Undercliff, and under the inspiration of that true poetic feeling which such enchanting scenes are so likely to elicit. Where so many gems of genius enrich a work, it becomes difficult to decide upon that most worthy of selection. It is not our province or intention to review the volume, but we cannot resist the inclination to make a few extracts, because they seem as beautiful accessories to the subject, and create an added interest in the engraving. Where scenes are so replete with the poetry of nature, they are best illustrated by the poetry of numbers; but we were particularly delighted with the following lines, addressed to his young daughter. The natural simplicity of the subject is well expressed by the purity of its poetic images, and breathes the refinement of paternal affection. IDA. “Where Hudson’s wave, o’er silvery sands, Winds through the hills afar, Old Cro’nest like a monarch stands, Crowned with a single star: And there, amid the billowy swells Of rock-ribbed, cloud-capt earth, My fair and gentle IDA dwells, A nymph of mountain birth. “The snow-curl that the cliff receives, The diamonds of the showers, Spring’s tender blossoms, buds and leaves, The sisterhood of flowers: Morn’s early beam, eve’s balmy breeze, Her purity define; But IDA’S dearer far than these, To this fond breast of mine. “My heart is on the hills. The shades Of night are on my brow: Ye pleasant haunts and silent glades, My soul is with you now! I bless the star-crowned islands where My IDA’S footsteps roam: Oh for a falcon’s wing to bear Me onward to my home!”—MORRIS. General Morris is not less successful in the lighter and livelier freaks of poetic fancy, as we hope to prove by a quotation from “The New York Mirror,” in which the moral of the lines is not their least merit. The melodies of the various birds which roost among the wild recesses of the rocks, or haunt the mountain forest, or sweep along the waters, are sent forth hourly in sounds of “unwritten music.” But the cry “most musical, most melancholy,” comes at the twilight hour from the clear throat of the whip-poor-will, at intervals, through the summer’s night: nor is it ever heard or seen by day; it may be called the sad unknown. The words, “whip-poor-will,” are divided into three shrill, distinct notes, and express the sounds as perfectly as if uttered by the human voice. The poetry annexed, is equally expressive of the melancholy mystery which seems to mark the mourning burden of its lonely song. TO THE WHIP-POOR-WILL. “Why dost thou come at set of sun, Those pensive words to say? Why whip poor Will?—What has he done? And who is Will, I pray?