The poem entitled “Christmas,” has considerable merit, the versification is smoother, and the measure not so irregular as most of his poems, while at the same time it is characterized by the same warmth of devotional feeling, that is manifested in all. The shepherds sing, and shall I silent be? My God, no hymn for thee? My soul’s a shepherd, too; a flock it feeds Of thoughts, and words, and deeds. The pasture is thy word, the streams thy grace, Enriching all the place. Shepherd and flock shall sing, and all my powers Outsing the daylight hours. The little poem entitled “Jesu,” although it has neither the merit of smoothness, or any poetical beauty, is strongly illustrative of the purely saint-like piety of its author. Dr. Sanderson was enraptured with this little production, and used to style it, “a gem of rare conceit.” We see nothing in it, however, to warrant such praise; it certainly has no poetic merit, and the conceit embodied in it, appears to be rude and far-fetched. JESU. Jesu is in my heart, his sacred name Is deeply carved there, but th’ other week, A great affliction broke the little frame, Ev’n all to pieces; which I went to seek; And first I found the corner where was I, After where es, and next where u was graved. When I had got these parcels, instantly I sat me down to spell them, and perceived That to my broken heart, he was I ease you, And to my whole is Jesu. Space will not permit us to make further extracts from these poems of Herbert’s. Those that we have given, illustrate the pious ardor of the subject of our sketch, while at the same time they give evidence of some claim to take position with the minor poets of his day. His prose compositions undoubtedly possess more merit than his poetical, and clearly entitle him to rank with the best of his contemporaries. The beautiful simplicity of the character of our poet, has never been surpassed in any age. His disposition was of the most sweet and engaging nature, adorned with all the graces of a most saint-like piety. “He lived like a saint,” says his enthusiastic biographer, old Walton, “and like a saint did he die.” The Sunday before his death, raising himself from his bed, he called for his instrument, and having tuned it, played and sung that verse from his poems, commencing, The Sundays of man’s life Threaded together on time’s string, Make bracelets to adorn the wife Of the eternal, glorious king. Like the dying swan, As death darkened his eye and unplumed his wings, His sweetest song was the last he sings. * * * * * THE GIFT OF A ROSE. BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE.