Recently a series of noticeable poems has from time to time appeared in the _Tribune_, without any name or clue to their authorship except the enigmatical initials O. O. They are by Mr. Charles Weldon; he is still a young man, and the poems below, we have been told, are the first that he wrote. Their niceties of rhythm in many cases would reflect credit on the recognized masters of the poetic art. In this respect they are remarkable; but perhaps their greatest charm is a certain kind of subtle but masculine thought. They embody what most men feel, but lack words to express; strange facts of impression and consciousness, half-formed philosophies, and those glimpses of truth which are revealed to the mind in certain moods, as stray rays of the moon on a cloudy night. In this respect they resemble the best pieces of Emerson, who seems to be a favorite with Mr. Weldon. In others they remind us of the simplicity of "In Memoriam." By this we intend a compliment rather than a charge of imitation. Mr. Weldon's thoughts are too peculiar to come from any one but himself, and too original to be cast in other moulds. We shall watch his progress with interest, and are mistaken if he does not do something worthy to be long remembered. Mysterious interpreter, Dear Aid that God has given to me! Instruct me, for I meanly err; Inform me, for I dimly see. I know thee not: How can I know?-- I sought thee long, and lately found, Wearing the sable weeds of wo, A figure cast upon the ground. _Thou_ wert that figure. Face to face We have not stood: I dare not see Thy features. We did once embrace, And all my being went to thee. Henceforward never more apart We wander. All thy steps are mine. Thou hast my brain: thou hast my heart: Thou hast my soul. And I am thine. ...*...*...*...* The Sun has his appointed place, He never rests, and never tires; And ever in serenest space Burn the celestial, upper fires. They shine into the soul of man-- Good works of God, but not the best-- And he adores them as he can, Cherishing a supremer guest. He does not know the alphabet Of angel-language, who aspires Against the sky his tube to set, And spell them into worlds, those fires. ...*...*...*...* The Petrel, bird of storms, is found Five hundred leagues from any ground: He dwells upon the ocean-wave; He screams above the sailor's grave. How many tens of centuries Ere mankind built their theories, Skimming the foamy tracks of whales, Did he outride the stoutest gales, Upon three thousand miles of sea From land to land perpetually Rolling; and not a wave could stay, From day to night, from night to day, Without an anthem? Where are gone The anthem, and the sea-bird's moan? Where is the splendor of the morn That rose on seas, ere man was born?