The “Poetical Remains” of this young creature, who perished (of consumption) in her sixteenth year, occupy about two hundred pages of a somewhat closely printed octavo. The longest poem is called “Lenore,” and consists of some two thousand lines, varying in metre from the ordinary octo-syllabic, to the four-footed, or twelve-syllabled iambic. The story, which is a romantic love-tale, not ill-conceived in its incidents, is told with a skill which might put more practised bards to the blush, and with occasional bursts of the truest poetic fire. But although as indicative of her future power, it is the most important, as it is the longest of her productions, yet as a whole it is not equal to some of her shorter compositions. It was written not long before her death, at the age of fifteen, and (as we glean from the biography) after patient reflection, with much care, and with a high resolve to do something for fame. As the work of so mere a child, it is unquestionably wonderful. Its _length_, viewed in connection with its keeping, its unity, its adaptation, and completeness, will impress the metaphysician most forcibly, when surveying the capacities of its author. Powers are here brought into play which are the last to be matured. For fancy we might have looked, and for the lower evidences of skill in a perfect versification and the like, but hardly for what we see in Lenore. Yet remarkable as this production is, from the pen of a girl of fifteen, it is by no means so incomprehensible as are some of the shorter pieces. We have known instances—rarely, to be sure—but still we have known instances when finer poems in every respect than Lenore have been written by children of as immature age—but we look around us in vain for anything composed at eight years, which can bear comparison with the lines subjoined— “TO MAMMA. “Farewell, dear mother, for a while I must resign thy plaintive smile; May angels watch thy couch of wo, And joys unceasing round thee flow. “May the almighty Father spread His sheltering wings above thy head. It is not long that we must part, Then cheer thy downcast drooping heart. “Remember, oh! remember me, Unceasing is my love for thee! When death shall sever earthly ties, When thy loved form all senseless lies, “Oh! that my form with thine could flee, And roam through wide eternity; Could tread with thee the courts of heaven, And count the brilliant stars of even.” Nor are these stanzas, written at ten, in any degree less remarkable— “MY NATIVE LAKE. “Thy verdant banks, thy lucid stream, Lit by the sun’s resplendent beam, Reflect each bending tree so light Upon thy bounding bosom bright. Could I but see thee once again, My own, my beautiful Champlain!