Or were you pressed here by two lovers Who seemed to read these verses rare, But found between the antique covers What Spenser could not prison there: Songs which his glorious soul had heard, But his dull pen could never write, Which flew, like some gold-winged bird, Through the blue heaven out of sight? My heart is with them as they sit, I see the rose-bud in her breast, I see her small hand taking it From out its odorous, snowy nest; I hear him swear that he will keep it, In memory of that blessed day, To smile on it or over-weep it When she and spring are far away. Ah me! I needs must droop my head, And brush away a happy tear, For they are gone, and, dry and dead, The rose-bud lies before me here. Yet is it in no stranger’s hand, For I will guard it tenderly, And it shall be a magic wand To bring mine own true love to me. My heart runs o’er with sweet surmises, The while my fancy weaves her rhyme, Kind hopes and musical surprises Throng round me from the olden time. I do not care to know who prest you: Enough for me to feel and know That some heart’s love and longing blest you, Knitting to-day with long-ago. * * * * * IMAGINATION.[2] It is so long a time since a poem of any serious pretensions has made its appearance before the British or American public, that we have almost ceased to look for new metrical productions, divided into books or cantos. We have been contented with the light, fugitive strains of the periodicals, and have not asked for grand overtures—such as used to absorb the whole interest of the reading public, twenty, thirty, fifty and more years ago. In the middle of the last century, a man, to be recognised as a poet, was required to issue some single work of a thousand lines. Quantity was more considered than quality; intellectual labor was judged of rather by the amount of its achievements than by their kind.