[1] 'APOPLEXY--TIGHT BOOTS.--A physician of New-York says, that he has recently attended four cases of apoplexy, caused by wearing tight boots. Many a grown-up man is now grieving over the effects of this folly of his dandyism, in earlier years. Corns, toes cramped in a heap, and tenderness of the whole foot, are the penalty which manhood has to pay for this sin of youth.' THE POET. * * * 'LE poéte est homme par les sens Homme par la douleur! * * * L'argile périssable où tant d'âme palpite, Se façonne plus belle, et se brise plus vite; Le nectar est divin, mais le vase est mortel; C'est un Dieu dont le poids doit écraser l'autel; C'est un souffle trop plein du soin ou de l'aurore, Qui fait chanter le vent dans un roseau sonore, Mais, qui brisé de son, le jette au bord de l'eau, Comme un chaume séché battu sous le fléau!' LAMARTINE. * * * * * THOU dark-eyed, pensive, passionate child of song! Enthusiast! dreamer! worshipper of things By the world's crowd unnoticed, 'mid the throng Of beautiful creations, Nature flings The sunlight of existence o'er! The wings Of the rude tempest are not half so strong As thy proud hopes--thy wild imaginings: Stop! ere their bold and sacrilegious flight Reach a too-dazzling height! Venturing sunward, till the flashing eye Of reason, grown deliriously bright, Kindle to madness, and to idiocy; And, from excessive light To hideous blindness fall, and tenfold night! Stop! melancholy youth! Though bright and sparkling be the tide of song, And many a sunbeam o'er its waters dance Meanderingly along-- Though it be heaven to quaff of--yet, in truth, A deadlier venom taints its gay expanse, More deep, more strong, Than to the subtlest poison doth belong! A very demon haunts its foetid air, Infatuating with its serpent glance The wanderer there; And, with a sad but most bewitching smile, Luring the credulous one to its desire: Stirring new feelings, passions, hopes awhile, And burning thoughts, whose mad, unholy fire, With its own strength illumes its own funereal pyre! Stop, if thou'dst live!--or hath life left for thee No charms, that thou its last terrific scene Shouldst with such passion worship? Can it be, That the world nothing hath thou'dst care to win? No gem, no flower, no loveliness, unseen? No wonder unexplored? no mystery, Still undeveloped to the eagle eye Of Genius, or of Poësy?