It is a great disadvantage to these beautiful little poems to be thus taken from their frames, thereby losing their emblematic and retaining only their intrinsic beauty. But even so, there are two more which we fearlessly present on the merit of their own unaided charms. Here is the first: Brow-bound with myrtle and with gold, Spring, sacred now from blasts and blights, Lifts in a firm, untrembling hold Her chalice of fulfilled delights. Confirmed around her queenly lip The smile late wavering, on she moves; And seems through deepening tides to step Of steadier joys and larger loves. The stony Ash itself _relents, Into the blue embrace of May Sinking, like old impenitents Heart-touched at last;_ and, far away, _The long wave yearns along the coast_ With sob suppressed, like that which thrills (While o'er the altar mounts the Host) Some chapel on the Irish hills. We scarcely know which to admire most, the precise, clear-cut elegance of the opening personification, the beauty of the third verse, or the melody (how the first line matches the sense!) and admirable comparison in the last one. Only, if the poet had ever waded among the waves of bloom of our western prairies, he would have found a better expression than the awkward one of "deepening tides," which is out of character with the rest. {83} But the last one we give is the finest. We had put it in the first rank ourselves before finding that it had also struck the fine ear of Mr. Landor. It is a Claude Lorraine done into verse: Pleasant the swarm about the bough; The meadow-whisper round the woods; And for their coolness pleasant now The murmur of the falling floods. Pleasant beneath the thorn to lie, And let a summer fancy loose; To hear the cuckoo's double cry; To make the noon-tide sloth's excuse. Panting, but pleased, the cattle stand Knee-deep in water-weed and sedge, And scarcely crop the greener band Of osiers round the river's edge. But hark! Far off the south wind sweeps The golden-foliaged groves among, Renewed or lulled, with rests and leaps-- Ah! how it makes the spirit long To drop its earthly weight, and drift Like yon white cloud, on pinions free, Beyond that mountain's purple rift, And o'er that scintillating sea! We do not think we can say anything that will add to this.