Faint and afar his heavy burden bearing, No smile, no word, no look from thee can cheer; Once all his cares were lighter for thy sharing, Once all his joys, for thee, were doubly dear. Oh, weep for him! there is no consolation; He liveth, but for thee his life is o’er; Count the slow years with weary annotation, The mocking years shall bring him back no more. Sit by thy hearth-stone in the silence grieving, Take from the past its sweet yet faded flowers; For thee no tree of hope has spring-time’s leaving, The song is silent in thy pleasant bowers. From all thy future him thou must dissever, Poor broken heart! in vain must thou deplore; His feet from that far land shall seek thee never, He shall return no more—to thee no more. * * * * * =REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.= _Lillian and Other Poems. By William Mackworth Praed. Now first Collected. New York: Redfield. 1 vol. 12mo._ Praed, one of the most brilliant, fanciful and peculiar poets of the century, has met with singular ill-luck in his native land in not finding either an editor or a public for the chance-offsprings of his sparkling muse. To Dr. Griswold belongs the credit of rescuing his pieces from oblivion, of collecting them in a permanent form, and of introducing them with a preface which presents, with condensed felicity of expression, the leading incidents of Praed’s life, and the subtle peculiarities of his genius. Poet, scholar, and politician, Praed was also a most popular and accomplished man of society, and not a little of the raciness of his poems consists in their curious combination of the romantic and the worldly. They suggest one of those modern parlors opening on one side into a greenhouse, with a strange blending in the atmosphere of musk and sweet-briar, _eau de cologne_ and lilies. In such a forced union of the ideal and the conventional we are, of course, all the more piquantly reminded of their essential contrast. With all this clever deviltry, however, in the instinctive action of Praed’s mind, he has still given us some poems which indicate that a stout English heart beats beneath the embroidered waistcoat of the man of fashion, and will sometimes gush out in natural tenderness or passion. But his exquisitely nice perception of the falsehood of cultivated and conventual life, combined with a laughing charity for its pleasant hypocricies, commonly interferes with his poetic faith; and he is continually provoking sentimental readers by raising their serious sympathies only to give the greater force to the flush of sarcasm which dissolves them. This peculiarity springs, perhaps, from a deeper source than mere intellectual mischievousness, and refers to a humorous sadness of mood