The hallowed lilies of the field In glory are arrayed, And timid, blue-eyed violets yield Their fragrance to the shade; Nor do the way-side flowers conceal Those modest charms that sometimes steal Upon the weary traveler's eyes Like angels, spreading for his feet A carpet, filled with odors sweet, And decked with heavenly dyes. Thus let the affluent Soul of Song-- That all with flowers adorns-- Strew life's uneven path along, And hide its thousand thorns: Oh, many a sad and weary heart, That treads a noiseless way apart, Has blessed the humble poet's name, For fellowship, refined and free, In meek wild-flowers of poesy, That asked no higher fame! And pleasant as the water-fall To one by deserts bound-- Making the air all musical With cool, inviting sound-- Is oft some unpretending strain Of rural song, to him whose brain Is fevered in the sordid strife That Avarice breeds 'twixt man and man, While moving on, in caravan, Across the sands of Life. Yet, not for these alone he sings; The poet's breast is stirred As by the spirit that takes wings And carols in the bird! He thinks not of a future name, Nor whence his inspiration came Nor whither goes his warbled song; As Joy itself delights in joy-- His soul finds life in its employ, And grows by utterance strong. A PARTING. (AN EXTRACT.) BY HENRY S. HAGERT. And now, farewell--and if the warm tear start Unbidden to your eye, oh! do not blush To own it, for it speaks the gen'rous heart, Full to o'erflowing with the fervent gush Of its sweet waters. Hark! I hear the rush Of many feet, and dark-browed Mem'ry brings Her tales of by-gone pleasure but to crush The reed already bending--now, there sings The syren voice of Hope--her of the rainbow wings. Ah! well-a-day! Ceased is the witching strain-- Fled are they all--and back the senses turn To this dark hour of anguish and of pain-- Of rending heart-chords--agony too stern For words to picture it--of thoughts that burn And wither up the heart. I need not tell What now I feel, or if my bosom yearn With love for you at parting--there's a spell To conjure up despair in that wild word--Farewell REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. _Historical and Select Memoirs of the Empress Josephine, (Marie Rose Tacher de la Pagerie,) First Wife of Napoleon Bonaparte. By M'lle. M. A. Le Normand, Authoress "Des Souvenirs Prophetiques," &c. Translated from the French by Jacob M. Howard, Esq. Philada.: Carey & Hart._