The sun is loveliest as he sinks to rest; The leaves of Autumn smile when fading fast; The swan's last song is sweetest--and the best Of Meigs's speeches, doubtless, was his last. In a mocking attempt to prove that New York exceeded Greece in the Fine Arts, we have the following convincing arguments: In sculpture we've a grace the Grecian master, Blushing, had owned his purest model lacks; We've Mr. Bogart in the best of plaster, The Witch of Endor in the best of wax, Beside the head of Franklin on the roof Of Mr. Lang, both jest and weather-proof. * * * * * In painting we have Trumbull's proud _chef d'oeuvre_, Blending in one the funny and the fine; His independence will endure forever-- And so will Mr. Allen's lottery sign; And all that grace the Academy of Arts, From Dr. Hosack's face to Bonaparte's. In physic, we have Francis and McNeven, Famed for long heads, short lectures, and long bills; And Quackenboss, and others, who from heaven _Were rained upon us in a shower of pills._ It would be impossible to give a notion of the genial satire of the Croakers by extracts. The following, from the epistle to the Recorder, is unmatched for felicity and exquisite contrast: The Cæsar passed the Rubicon With helm, and shield, and breast-plate on, Dashing his war-horse through the waters; The R*d*r would have built a barge, Or steamboat, at the city's charge, And passed it with his wife and daughters. In the same piece occurs the following fine tribute to Bryant: Bryant, whose songs are thoughts that bless The heart, its teachers, and its joy, As mothers blend with their caress Lessons of truth and gentleness, And virtue for the listening boy. Spring's lovelier flowers for many a day Have blossomed on his wandering way, Beings of beauty and decay, They slumber in their autumn tomb; But those that graced his own Green River, And wreathed the lattice of his home, Charmed by his song from mortal doom, Bloom on, and will bloom on forever. Pope has become famous for his divine compliments, but certainly no poet ever celebrated the genius of another with more felicity and sweetness than in the above beautiful passage. It would be impossible to notice all the striking poems in this volume--and they are too favorably known to need it. There is one piece, however, which deserves especial commendation, and its merits do not appear to have called forth the eulogy which has been bountifully lavished on many others. We allude to his exquisite translation from Goethe, on the eighty-third page--the invocation to the ideal world, which precedes Faust. It is one of the gems of the volume.