The great critic of the North, who sat so many years on the Bench of Literature before he occupied the Bench of Civil Justice, from which death has recently called him, thus pronounced his opinion of Cowper: “The great variety and truth of his descriptions; the sterling weight and sense of most of his observations, and, above all, the great appearance of facility with which every thing is executed, and the happy use he has so often made of the most ordinary language, all concur to stamp upon his poems the character of original genius, and remind us of the merits that have secured immortality to Shakspeare.” Little need be added concerning his prose. It is known to have been eminently easy and natural. His letters especially are models. It is sufficient praise to say, that Robert Hall, that master of the art of composition, thus speaks of Cowper: “I have always considered his letters as the finest specimens of the epistolary style in our language. To an air of inimitable ease and negligence, they unite a high degree of correctness, such as could result only from the clearest intellect, combined with the most finished taste. I have scarcely found a single word which is capable of being exchanged for a better. Literary errors I can discern none. The selection of the words, and the structure of the periods are inimitable; they present as striking a contrast as can well be conceived to the turgid verbosity which passes at present for fine writing, and which bears a great resemblance to the degeneracy which marks the style of Ammianus Marcellinus, as compared to that of Cicero and Livy. A perpetual effort and struggle is made to supply the place of vigor; garish and dazzling colors are substituted for chaste ornament, and the hideous distortions of weakness for native strength. In my humble opinion, the study of Cowper’s prose may on this account be as useful in forming the taste of young people as his poetry.” * * * * * EVENING. J. R. BARRICK. HOW sweet to me the evening hour, When Nature sinks to rest, And like a warrior in his pride The sun goes down the west. As evening stars, like diamonds bright, Come peeping through the sky, Ah! what a thing of joy ’twould be From earth to fade and die. * * * * * THE QUEEN OF THE WOODS. MY “LIDA.” BY “L’INCONNUE.” THE spring-time is waking to beauty and bloom, The storm-clouds are breaking, and bright through the gloom The blue heaven flashes like gleams of thine eye, Through the dark silken lashes, which deepen its dye, ’Tis a glance full of tenderness, blended with pride, Like thine own azure eye-beam, my sweet sister Lide!