How little reck we of the toil of mind! The inward strain some sparkling thought to find— The hollow cheek—the fever-thrilling brain— And worse than all, when venal is the strain, And the poor author toils alone for gain! Not such, pale wooer of the solemn night, Not such thy fate. The far and dazzling light That leads thee on, is that which Death nor Time Can wholly quench—the towering light sublime, That burns in Fame’s high temple—the strong fire That flashed when Milton struck his mighty lyre! The radiant Future dawns upon thy sight, And all thy being maddens with delight— The dust that forms thy fragile body now, May shrink and fade, as melts the early snow— And where the blue veins course throughout thy form, The things of death may revel with the worm— But oh! wild vision—thought o’er mastering death, Thy name shall brighten with thy parting breath— Beings as yet unborn shall give thee praise— And Glory’s hand shall bind thy brow with bays! For this—for this—thine hours are given to toil, For this alone thou burn’st the midnight oil— Thou see’st the Future radiant with thy name, And yield’st thy life in sacrifice for Fame! * * * * * THE ZANONI GALLOP. COMPOSED FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. [Illustration: musical score] * * * * * REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. _The Fountain and other Poems. By William C. Bryant. One vol. 12mo. New York: Wiley & Putnam, 1842._ It will give pleasure to the lovers of elegant literature to learn that Mr. Bryant has prepared a second volume of poems. Many, if not all of them, have before appeared in the magazines; but the book will not be welcomed the less warmly for that reason. Indeed, no one reads a poem by this author without desiring to possess it in the most agreeable and permanent form. His admirers will be gratified, therefore, that he has so far overcome his singular feeling of modesty as to make a collection of his scattered gems, and present them in a casket to the public.