form he will derive from a nobler time; nay, from beyond all time, from the absolute unchanging unity of his own nature.” But enough of this. Our complaint is already out of all proportion to our discontent. Carlyle’s works, it is true, have not the stereotyped success which we call classic. They are a rich but inexpensive entertainment, at which we are not concerned lest the host has strained or impoverished himself to feed his guests. It is not the most lasting word, nor the loftiest wisdom, but rather the word which comes last. For his genius it was reserved to give expression to the thoughts which were throbbing in a million breasts. He has plucked the ripest fruit in the public garden; but this fruit already least concerned the tree that bore it, which was rather perfecting the bud at the foot of the leaf stalk. His works are not to be studied, but read with a swift satisfaction. Their flavor and gust is like what poets tell of the froth of wine, which can only be tasted once and hastily. On a review we can never find the pages we had read. The first impression is the truest and the deepest, and there is no reprint, no _double entendre_, so to speak, for the alert reader. Yet they are in some degree true natural products in this respect. All things are but once, and never repeated. The first faint blushes of the morning, gilding the mountain tops, the pale phosphor and saffron-colored clouds do verily transport us to the morning of creation; but what avails it to travel eastward, or look again there an hour hence? We should be as far in the day ourselves, mounting toward our meridian. These works were designed for such complete success that they serve but for a single occasion. It is the luxury of art, when its own instrument is manufactured for each particular and present use. The knife which slices the bread of Jove ceases to be a knife when this service is rendered. [_Conclusion in our next._ * * * * * SONG. BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. These prairies glow with flowers, These groves are tall and fair; The mocking-bird with music fills The fragrant morning air. And yet I pine to see My native hill once more, And hear the sparrow’s friendly chirp Beside its cottage door. And he for whom I left My native hill and brook, Alas! I sometimes think I trace A coldness in his look. If I have lost his love, I know my heart will break; And haply they I left for him Will sorrow for my sake. * * * * * THE MIDSHIPMAN’S FAREWELL. BY MRS. CORNELIA DA PONTE.