The differences of decision arose simply from those of application; and from such variety in the applied, rather than in the conceived idea, sprang, undoubtedly, the absurd distinctions of the “schools.” “_Geraldine_” is the title of the first and longest poem in the volume before us. It embraces some three hundred and fifty stanzas—the whole being a most servile imitation of the “Don Juan” of Lord Byron. The outrageous absurdity of the systematic _digression_ in the British original, was so managed as to form not a little portion of its infinite interest and humor; and the fine discrimination of the writer pointed out to him a limit beyond which he never ventured with this tantalizing species of drollery. “Geraldine” may be regarded, however, as a simple embodiment of the whole soul of digression. It is a mere mass of irrelevancy, amid the mad _farrago_ of which we detect with difficulty even the faintest vestige of a narrative, and where the continuous lapse from impertinence to impertinence is seldom justified by any shadow of appositeness or even of the commonest relation. To afford the reader any proper conception of the _story_ is of course a matter of difficulty; we must content ourselves with a mere outline of the general conduct. This we shall endeavor to give without indulgence in those feelings of risibility stirred up in us by the primitive perusal. We shall rigorously avoid every species of exaggeration, and confine ourselves, with perfect honesty, to the conveyance of a distinct image. “Geraldine,” then, opens with some four or five stanzas descriptive of a sylvan scene in America. We could, perhaps, render Mr. Dawes’ poetical reputation no greater service than by the quotation of these simple verses in full. I know a spot where poets fain would dwell, To gather flowers and food for after thought, As bees draw honey from the rose’s cell, To hive among the treasures they have wrought; And there a cottage from a sylvan screen Sent up a curling smoke amidst the green. Around that hermit home of quietude The elm trees whispered with the summer air, And nothing ever ventured to intrude But happy birds that caroled wildly there, Or honey-laden harvesters that flew Humming away to drink the morning dew. Around the door the honey-suckle climbed And Multa-flora spread her countless roses, And never poet sang nor minstrel rhymed Romantic scene where happiness reposes, Sweeter to sense than that enchanting dell Where home-sick memory fondly loves to dwell. Beneath a mountain’s brow the cottage stood, Hard by a shelving lake whose pebbled bed Was skirted by the drapery of a wood That hung its festoon foliage over head, Where wild deer came at eve unharmed, to drink, While moonlight threw their shadows from the brink.