distrust the reception of our monthly salmagundi, since one good producer and critic may be held as in some sort an epitome of the public; and especially, since any one subsection of our hurried Gossip, should it chance to be dull, or void of interest, may be soon exhausted, or easily skipped. . . . WE observed lately, in the pages of a monthly contemporary, an elaborate notice of the poems of ALFRED TENNYSON, who has written many somewhat affected and several very heartful and exquisite verses; and were not a little surprised to find no reference to two of the most beautiful poems in his collection; namely, the 'New-Year's Eve,' and its 'Conclusion.' The first embodies the reflections of a young maiden, sinking gradually under that fell destroyer, CONSUMPTION. It is new-year's eve, and she implores her mother to 'call her early,' that she may see the sun rise upon the glad new year, the last that she shall ever see. How touchingly the associations of nature are depicted in these stanzas: To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind; And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see The blossom on the black thorn, the leaf upon the tree. There's not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on the pane: I only wish to live till the snow-drops come again: I wish the snow would melt, and the sun come out on high; I long to see a flower so before the day I die. The building rook will caw from the windy tall elm-tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, And the swallow will come back again with summer o'er the wave. But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, In the early, early morning the summer sun will shine; Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the world is still. When the flowers shall come again, mother, beneath the waning light, You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night: When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool, On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, And you'll come sometimes and see me, where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now; You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow; Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild, You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place; Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say, And be often, often with you, when you think I'm far away.