Dr. O. Wendell Holmes has cleverly conjectured what a tailor, poetically given, might say of the beauties that cluster about the closing day; and he has thus described Evening. BY A TAILOR. “Day hath put on his jacket, and around His burning bosom button’d it with stars. Here will I lay me on the velvet grass, That is like padding to earth’s meagre ribs, And hold communion with the things about me. Ah me! how lovely is the golden braid That binds the skirt of night’s descending robe! The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads, Do make a music like to rustling satin, As the light breezes smooth their downy nap. “Ha! what is this that rises to my touch, So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage? It is; it is that deeply-injured flower Which boys do flout us with;—but yet I love thee, Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout. Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright As these, thy puny brethren; and thy breath Sweeten’d the fragrance of her spicy air; But now, thou seemest like a bankrupt beau Stripp’d of his gaudy hues and essences, And growing portly in his sober garments. “Is that a swan that rides upon the water? Oh no! it is that other gentle bird, Which is the patron of our noble calling. I well remember, in my early years, When these young hands first closed upon a goose; I have a scar upon my thimble-finger, Which chronicles the hour of young ambition. My father was a tailor, and his father, And my sire’s grandsire,—all of them were tailors; They had an ancient goose,—it was an heirloom From some remoter tailor of our race. It happen’d I did see it on a time When none was near, and I did deal with it, And it did burn me,—oh, most fearfully! “It is a joy to straighten out one’s limbs, And leap elastic from the level counter, Leaving the petty grievances of earth, The breaking thread, the din of clashing shears, And all the needles that do wound the spirit, For such an hour of soothing silence. Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress, Lays bare her shady bosom; I can feel With all around me; I can hail the flowers That sprig earth’s mantle; and yon quiet bird, That rides the stream, is to me as a brother. The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets, Where Nature stows away her loveliness.— But this unnatural posture of the legs Cramps my extended calves, and I must go Where I can coil them in their wonted fashion.” To conclude: the poets have been quite as guilty of petty larceny as ever was poor tailor. Pope stole from Pascal, and Addison from Pope; and Churchill’s line in his Rosciad, to the effect that “Common sense stood trembling at the door,”