His shame at his tattered appearance, at his companions, and at his base mode of life, are singularly beautiful and truthful strokes. That a soul so aroused should struggle for and reach the first ranks of fame is nothing strange, and that he should wed his deliverer is strict poetical justice. From “The Deserted Road” we clip the following felicitous local touches:— “Here I stroll along the village, As in youth’s departed morn, But I miss the crowded coaches, And the driver’s bugle-horn; “Miss the crowd of jovial teamsters, Filling buckets at the wells, With their wains from Conestoga, _And their orchestras of bells_.” “The Alchemist’s Daughter,” amid a host of stirring lines, contains the following beautiful passages. Lorenzo, speaking of the marriage of his young mistress— “Her mother died long years ago, and took One half the blessed sunshine from our house, _The other half was married off last night_.” This is genuine poetry, and we recognize it at once. Again, describing the rising moon,— “Mark how the moon, as by some unseen arm, Is thrust toward heaven like a bloody shield.” The following noble burst should go far to cheer those whose labors appear to produce no immediate results:— “Are there no wrongs but what a nation feels— No heroes but among the martial throng? Nay, there are patriot souls who never grasped A sword, or heard a crowd applaud their names— Who lived and labored, died, and were forgot; And after them the world came out and reapt The field, and never questioned who had sown.” From this garden of dainty devices let us, before leaving, cull a few choice flowers. From “The New Village” we would fain extract the whole stanza, describing the forest-life of the Indian maids, which concludes thus— “The daisies kiss their foot-falls in the grass, _And little streams stand still to paint them in their glass_.” In “A Vision of Death,” the flowers over the grave of a beautiful maiden, are thus invoked:— “Bloom, bloom, Ye little blossoms! _and if beauty can,_ _Like other purest essences, exhale_ _And penetrate the mould, your flowers shall be_ _Of rarest hue and perfume_.” From “The Realm of Dreams,” we extract this exquisite couplet: “And where the spring-time sun had longest shone And violet looked up, _and found itself alone_.” The above has a positive fragrance, that unexplainable odor which at once distinguishes genuine poetry, however disguised, from all imitations, however ingenious. No one but a true poet could have written this passage, which, for its suggestive delicacy, is scarcely rivaled in our language. From the same poem we extract this simile, describing the unruffled quiet of a small mountain lake:—