“If we copied into our Journal all the complimentary notices that are bestowed upon us, it would contain hardly anything besides; the following done into poetry is probably the only one of the kind that we shall receive, and we extract it from our neighbour, the New World, for the sake of its uniqueness.” Then with step sedate and stately, as if thrones had borne him lately, Came a bold and daring warrior up the distant echoing floor; As he passed the COURIER’S Colonel, then I saw THE BROADWAY JOURNAL, In a character supernal, on his gallant front he bore, And with stately step and solemn marched he proudly through the door, As if he pondered, evermore. With his keen sardonic smiling, every other care beguiling, Right and left he bravely wielded a double-edged and broad claymore, And with gallant presence dashing, ’mid his confreres stoutly clashing, He unpityingly went slashing, as he keenly scanned them o’er, And with eye and mien undaunted, such a gallant presence bore, As might awe them, evermore. Neither rank nor station heeding, with his foes around him bleeding, Sternly, singly and alone, his course he kept upon that floor; While the countless foes attacking, neither strength nor valor lacking, On his goodly armor hacking, wrought no change his visage o’er, As with high and honest aim, he still his falchion proudly bore, Resisting error, evermore. ―――――――― C. C. Cooke, a young Virginian poet, who died at a very early age, also wrote “The Gazelle,” a poem of which Poe said “Although professedly an imitation, has a very great deal of original power.” This was headed:―― “The following, from our new-found boy poet of fifteen years of age, shows a most happy faculty of imitation”:―― THE GAZELLE. (_After the manner of Poe’s “Raven.”_) Far from friends and kindred wandering, in my sick and sad soul pondering, Of the changing chimes that float, from Old Time’s ever-swinging bell, While I lingered on the mountain, while I knelt me by the fountain, By the clear and crystal fountain, trickling through the quiet dell; Suddenly I heard a whisper, but from whence I could not tell, Merely whispering, “Fare thee well.” From my grassy seat uprising, dimly in my soul surmising, Whence that voice so gently murmuring, like a faintly sounded knell, Nought I saw while gazing round me, while that voice so spell-like bound me, While that voice so spell-like bound me――searching in that tranquil dell, Like hushed hymn of holy hermit, heard from his dimly-lighted cell, Merely whispering, “Fare thee well!”