Will you tell it, Katie, never? Must it still a secret be? And forever and forever From the tree, Will that answer shrill and lonely Mock us with the secret hid, With these accents varied only-- Katie did, Katie didn't, Yes, she did, No, she didn't, Katie did? Somewhat more thoughtful but scarcely less charming is the little lyric "Just Twenty-Two," which closes with the plea, "Leave me immortal at sweet twenty-two." With "The Neophyte" in 1851, the supernatural and mysterious elements, traceable perhaps to Coleridge and to Poe, began to appear in his poems, and became conspicuous in "The Burning Casque," "The Phantom Train," and "The Ride of the Ku-Klux." At places in these, the breath comes short and quick, and the nerves grow unsteady in the presence of grotesque phantoms and direful mysteries. Few pass a real train without a pause and look of mingled awe and admiration. A momentary glance at "The Phantom Train" should certainly be taken: On the track stood the engine cold and still, For throttle and valve had ceased to thrill With the giant power of the wizard steam. I saw the track, by the lantern's gleam, Far on the night, till it seemed to meet In a point at the dim horizon's feet, And there in the distance, faint and far, Glimmered a blue and ghostly star. Nearer and nearer it came and grew, 'Till it gleamed in a circle of ghastly hue. * * * * * By the Holy Saints! 'twas a gruesome sight As ever came from the womb of night-- A spectral train that, nigher and nigher, Was whirled on its silent wheels of fire. "The Ride of the Ku-Klux" is even more gruesome and fantastic, but the appearance of those terrible night regulators cannot satisfactorily be shown by a brief extract. Several poems of personal character deserve notice for both their merit and the associations connected with them. The noble lines to George Peabody may be found in Harpel's "Poets and Poetry of Printerdom," to which reference has been made. In it, too, are published "The Blue and the Gray," "The Frosted Pane," and "The Ride of the Ku-Klux." It is unfortunate that a poem which elicited the following interesting note cannot be designated, perhaps is lost: New York, March 11, 1872. Dear Sir: I thank you for the privilege of reading your beautiful poem, and regret that I could not have been its inspiration. I wrote once a poem for the Atlantic entitled "The Heart of the War," but never one with the title of yours. You will pardon me, I am sure, for relieving you of the burden of a mistake which was very complimentary to me. Yours very truly, J. G. HOLLAND.