The minor poems of Heine, like most of his prose writings, are but a portrait of himself. The same melancholy tone,—the same endless sigh,—pervades them. Though they possess the highest lyric merit they are for the most part fragmentary;—expressions of some momentary state of feeling,—sudden ejaculations of pain or pleasure, of restlessness, impatience, regret, longing, love. They profess to be songs, and as songs must they be judged, and as German Songs. Then these imperfect expressions of feeling,—these mere suggestions of thought,—this “luminous mist,” that half reveals, half hides the sense,—this selection of topics from scenes of every day life, and in fine this prevailing tone of sentimental sadness, will not seem affected, misplaced nor exaggerated. At the same time it must be confessed that the trivial and common-place recur too frequently in these songs. Here, likewise, as in the prose of Heine, the lofty aim is wanting; we listen in vain for the spirit-stirring note—for the word of power—for those ancestral melodies, which, amid the uproar of the world, breathe in our ears forever-more the voices of consolation, encouragement and warning. Heine is not sufficiently in earnest to be a great poet. * * * * * TO ONE DEPARTED. BY EDGAR A. POE. Seraph! thy memory is to me Like some enchanted far-off isle In some tumultuous sea— Some ocean vexed as it may be With storms; but where, meanwhile, Serenest skies continually Just o’er that one bright island smile. For ’mid the earnest cares and woes That crowd around my earthly path, (Sad path, alas, where grows Not even one lonely rose!) My soul at least a solace hath In dreams of _thee_; and therein knows An Eden of bland repose. * * * * * [Illustration: _DRAWN BY T. HAYTER_, _ENGRAVED BY H. S. SADD, N.Y._ _THE YOUNG WIDOW._ _Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine_] * * * * * THE YOUNG WIDOW. LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A MINIATURE. By the splendor of thine eyes, Flashing in their ebon light As a star across the skies On the sable noon of night! By the glory of that brow, In its calm sublimity,— With thee, or away, as now, I worship thee! Sorrow has been thine, alas! Once thou wert a happy bride; Joy is like a brittle glass: It was shivered at thy side. Shall I love thee less for this? Only be as true to me, And I’ll glory in the bliss, The bliss of thee!