gaiety of the affectionate Percy, Branwell depicts, in some sort, his own disposition, though it has never been charged against him that he was beguiled by 'syren smiles,' or seduced by the delights of 'play.' It seems to me that Branwell's poetical genius is as much higher than that of his sister Emily as hers was superior to the talents of Charlotte and Anne, in their versified productions. Beautiful, wild, and touching, like strains from the harp of Æolus, as are the emanations of Emily's poetical inspiration, they lack the force, depth, and breadth of Branwell's more expansive power of imagination, as displayed in his best productions; though even Branwell's poetical remains contain rather the evidence of power than the full expression of it. PERCY HALL. 'The westering sunbeams smiled on Percy Hall, And green leaves glittered o'er the ancient wall Where Mary sat, to feel the summer breeze, And hear its music mingling 'mid the trees. There she had rested in her quiet bower Through June's long afternoon, while hour on hour Stole, sweetly shining past her, till the shades, Scarce noticed, lengthened o'er the grassy glades; But yet she sat, as if she knew not how Her time wore on, with Heaven-directed brow, And eyes that only seemed awake, whene'er Her face was fanned by summer evening's air. All day her limbs a weariness would feel, As if a slumber o'er her frame would steal; Nor could she wake her drowsy thoughts to care For day, or hour, or what she was, or where: Thus--lost in dreams, although debarred from sleep, While through her limbs a feverish heat would creep, A weariness, a listlessness, that hung About her vigour, and Life's powers unstrung-- She did not feel the iron gripe of pain, But _thought_ felt irksome to her heated brain; Sometimes the stately woods would float before her, Commingled with the cloud-piles brightening o'er her, Then change to scenes for ever lost to view, Or mock with phantoms which she never knew: Sometimes her soul seemed brooding on to-day, And then it wildly wandered far away, Snatching short glimpses of her infancy, Or lost in day-dreams of what yet might be. 'Yes--through the labyrinth-like course of thought-- Whate'er might be remembered or forgot, Howe'er diseased the dream might be, or dim, Still seemed the _Future_ through each change to swim, All indefinable, but pointing on To what should welcome her when Life was gone; She felt as if--to all she knew so well-- Its voice was whispering her to say "farewell;" Was bidding her forget her happy home; Was farther fleeting still--still beckoning her to come.