The volume before us, as the title imports, is chiefly composed of lyrical poems; but there are also two or three articles in blank verse, whose exceeding merit awaken a desire to see a further exertion of the author’s talents in this unfettered mode of versification. The power which he evinces in “the Alchemist’s Daughter” and “A Vision of Death,” prove the existence of resources for which the friends of his former volume scarcely gave him credit. We own ourselves astonished at the versatility of Mr. Read’s genius, at the ease with which he passes from lyrical to the highest order of poetry, with the scope of thought which is shown in his unveilings of man’s inner nature, and with the dramatic variety and intensity of his diction. We scarcely recognize the same hand in the lyrical and dramatic poems; both are beautiful, but of widely different orders of beauty. The former are characterized by a purity of thought and sentiment, a delicate refinement and nicety in the choice of phrases, a brilliant and constant play of fancy in figures the most apt and glowing, a striking spirit of individuality, and a versification the most varied and harmonious. The transition from the lyrical to the dramatic pieces is at the same time both delightful and startling. The style changes at once, the author vanishes from sight, and is lost in our sympathy for the imaginary creatures of his mind. In the dramatic compositions the language is vigorous, passionate and condensed, dealing rather in the bold metaphor than in the more ornate but less difficult simile, and seeking effect rather by force and earnestness than by beauty and delicacy of expression. This is as it should be, and proves our author the possessor of powers which must eventually place him in the very first rank of poets. But we must leave general criticism, and proceed to substantiate our high opinions by the text before us. The volume opens with a poem replete with the most picturesque and striking imagery. There is a beautiful contrast between the desolate, frozen appearance of nature— “When old Winter, through his fingers numb, Blows till his breathings on the windows gleam; And when the mill-wheel, spiked with ice, is dumb Within the neighboring stream;” and the fervent feeling which appears to have dictated this friendly tribute to one whose presence can at all seasons make “A summer in the heart.”