The poem referred to was so beautiful that we asked and obtained permission to put it in Graham's Magazine, of which we were at that time editor. The author's name was not given, and it excited much curiosity, as but two or three of our poets were thought capable of such a performance, and there was no reason why one of them should print any thing anonymously. It was most commonly, however, attributed to Mr. Willis, at which Mr. Cooke was highly gratified. The piece, which was entitled "Emily," contained about three hundred lines, and was a feigned history of the composition of tales designed to follow it, exquisitely told, and sprinkled all along with gems that could have come from only a mine of surpassing richness. For examples: Young Emily has temples fair Caress'd by locks of dark brown hair. A thousand sweet humanities Speak wisely from her hazel eyes. Her speech is ignorant of command, And yet can lead you like a hand. Her white teeth sparkle, when the eclipse Is laughter-moved, of her red lips. She moves, all grace, with gliding limbs As a white-breasted cygnet swims. I know some wilds, where tulip trees, Full of the singing toil of bees, Depend their loving branches over Great rocks, which honeysuckles cover In rich and liberal overflow. In the dear time of long ago When I had woo'd young Emily, And she had told her love to me, I often found her in these bowers, Quite rapt away in meditation, Or giving earnest contemplation To leaf, or bird, or wild-wood flowers; And once I heard the maiden singing, Until the very woods were ringing---- Singing an old song to the hours! One jocund morn: I found her where a flowering tree Gave odors and cool shade. Her cheek A little rested on her hand; Her rustic skill had made a band Of rare device which garlanded The beauty of her bending head; Some maiden thoughts most kind and wise Were dimly burning in her eyes. When I beheld her--form and face So lithe, so fair--the spirit race, Of whom the better poets dream'd, Came to my thought, and I half deem'd My earth-born mistress, pure and good, Was some such lady of the wood, As she who work'd at spell, and snare, With Huon of the dusky hair, And fled, in likeness of a doe, Before the fleet youth Angelo. But these infirm imaginings Flew quite away on instant wings. I call'd her name. A swift surprise Came whitely to her face, but soon It fled before some daintier dyes, And, laughing like a brook in June, With sweet accost she welcomed me. It was a golden day to me, And its great bliss is with me yet, Warming like wine my inmost heart---- For memories of happy hours Are like the cordials press'd from flowers, And madden sweetly. Then the poet recited ancient lays which tell some natural tales; and then: