As some fond dove unto her own mate sings, So sang she unto me, in my unrest— Who lay beneath the shadow of her wings— Of heaven, wherein she told me she was blest. My spirit had been longing here for years To know if that dear creature was at rest; When, just as my poor heart lost all its tears, She came from heaven to tell me she was blest. I then grew happy—for with mine own eyes I had beheld that being whom my breast Had pillowed here for years—fresh from the skies— Who came from heaven to tell me she was blest. I wept no more—from that sad day to this, I have been longing for the same sweet rest, When my fond soul shall dwell with her in bliss, Who came from heaven to tell me she was blest. * * * * * MRS. WARE’S POEMS.[1] Averse, as we have declared ourselves, to any severe criticisms upon the productions of female poets, we are constrained, in the case before us, to speak with a plainness, savoring less of gallantry than truth. If only “_some_ female errors” fell to the lot of Mrs. Katharine Augusta Ware, we might, perhaps, “look in her face” and “forget them all;” but so many are the faults of which she is guilty, that she must have a face as beautiful as Raphael’s Fornarina, to cause us to forget or forgive a tithe of the number. The lady, however, is neither beautiful nor juvenile; she goes so far in her preface as to confess that she cannot plead “_youthful_ diffidence” for her indiscretion in writing and publishing a volume of verses. That she is not beautiful, we state on positive intelligence. On this score, therefore, her sins of metrical commission cannot be pardoned any more than because of her juvenility—an excuse which she so magnanimously disclaims.