The joys of former years are like The last sweet notes of music, when Upon your ear they faintly strike, You know they’ll ne’er be heard again The breaking harp, last sweetest strain, Ne’er woke by hand or harp again. The joys of former years when past, Seem like a poet’s dream of bliss; Too brightly beautiful to last In such a changing world as this: Where stern reality destroys Life’s poetry, and all its joys. The joys of former years expire, As each loved one is from us torn; The dying flame of life’s last fire, Then lights us to their grave to mourn; Where joy entomb’d for ever, lies, Hope still may from that grave arise. Swedesboro’, N. J. 1841. * * * * * POETRY: THE UNCERTAINTY OF ITS APPRECIATION. BY JOSEPH EVANS SNODGRASS. There is nothing more uncertain than the nature of the reception a Poet’s productions, and particularly his shortest pieces, are destined to meet. Especially is this true with respect to the more egotistical sort of versifications—such as sonnets, and the like—in which one’s own feelings find vent in verses penned, perhaps, for an album, or intended for the perusal of the immediate circle in which the writer moves. Now, the appreciation of sentiments thus embodied, when they come to be _volume-ized_, depends entirely upon the mood of mind in which they find the reader. Such is, indeed, the case with _personal_ thoughts, even when they appear amid the popular literature of the day—but is more strikingly so under the circumstances named. If a sonnet, for example, which has been addressed to some real or fancied idol of the heart, falls into the hands of one who is under the influence of the tender passion, it is sure to be fully appreciated, and pronounced “beautiful.” To such an one, nothing is too sentimental.[5] Anything which tells of the “trials of the heart”—of “true love”—of a “broken heart”—is doubly welcome. If it have a sprinkle of star-and-moon-sentiment about it, all the better. But place a piece of poetry headed, “Sonnet to the Moon,” or “To Mary,” before a heartless old bachelor, or an unsentimental matron, and the exclamation would be—“what nonsense—what stuff!”