We have named the opening poem, which is an exquisitely pathetic soliloquy of Sarah Curran, a year after the death of her betrothed, young Robert Emmet--a nobler tribute to the memory of our great orator's daughter than either Moore's verse or Washington Irving's prose. But the metrical interlacing of the stanzas, and the elevation and refinement of the poetic diction, require a thoughtful perusal to bring out the perfections of this poem, which, therefore, lends itself less readily to quotation. We shall rather begin by giving one shorter poem in full, taken almost at random. Let it be "Wilfulness and Patience," as it teaches a lesson which it would be well for many to take to heart and to learn by heart:-- I said I am going into the garden, Into the flush of the sweetness of life; I can stay in the wilderness no longer, Where sorrow and sickness and pain are so rife; So I shod my feet in their golden sandals, And I looped my gown with a ribbon of blue, And into the garden went I singing, The birds in the boughs fell a-singing too. Just at the wicket I met with Patience, Grave was her face, and pure and kind, But oh, I loved not her ashen mantle, Such sober looks were not to my mind. Said Patience, "Go not into the garden, But come with me by the difficult ways, Over the wastes and the wilderness mountains, To the higher levels of love and praise!" Gaily I laughed as I opened the wicket, And Patience, pitying, flitted away. The garden glory was full of the morning-- The morning changed to the glamor of day. O sweet were the winds among my tresses, And sweet the flowers that bent at my knees; Ripe were the fruits that fell at my wishing, But sated soon was my soul with these. And would I were hand in hand with Patience; Tracking her feet on the difficult ways, Over the wastes and the wilderness mountains, To the higher level of love and praise! The salutary lesson that the singer wants to impress on the young heart, is here taught plainly and directly even by the very name of the piece. But here is another very delicious melody, of which the name and the purport are somewhat more mysterious. It is called "Perdita." I dipped my hand in the sea, Wantonly-- The sun shone red o'er castle and cave; Dreaming, I rocked on the sleepy wave;-- I drew a pearl from the sea. Wonderingly. There in my hand it lay: Who could say How from the depths of the ocean calm It rose, and slid itself into my palm? I smiled at finding there Pearl so fair. I kissed the beautiful thing, Marvelling. Poor till now I had grown to be The wealthiest maiden on land or sea, A priceless gem was mine, Pure, divine!