'Yet it matters not much, when the bloom is fled, And the light is gone from the lustrous eye, And the sensitive heart is cold and dead, Where the mouldering ashes are left to lie: It matters not much, if the soaring mind, Like the flower's perfume, is exhaled to heaven, That its earthly shroud should be cast behind, To decay, wherever a place is given.' Mr. BRIGHT, under the signature of 'VIATOR,' has contributed many gems of pure feeling, imbued with the true spirit of poetry, to the fugitive literature of the day. The 'Albany Argus' gave to the world many of his choicest effusions, previous to his appearance before our readers. Of his later efforts, it is unnecessary to speak. They will recommend themselves to every affectionate and sympathetic heart, not less by the graces of composition, than the spirit which pervades them. When the depressing influences which have so seriously affected the book-market shall cease to be operative, we hope to see a volume of poetry collated from the literary remains of Mr. BRIGHT; and we cannot doubt that it will be well received by the public at large, as it will certainly be most acceptable to his numerous friends and admirers. We are confident that Mr. BRIGHT was capable of even higher and more sustained flights than characterize any of the fine productions which he has given to the public. There was promise of _varied_ endowments, too, of which we had scarcely deemed him possessed. Parts of the 'Vision of Death,' published in these pages, would have done no discredit to our best poets. The reader will recall its wild, German-like air, from the opening stanzas: 'The moon rode high in the Autumn sky, The stars waned cold and dim, While hoarsely the mighty Oregon Pealed his eternal hymn; And the prairie-grass bent its seedy heads Far over the river's brim. 'An impulse I might not defy, Constrained my footsteps there; When through the gloom a red eye burned With a fixed and steady glare, And a huge misshapen form of mist Loom'd in the midnight air.' * * * * * Upon what tender filaments the fabric of existence hangs! Death, an unseen spectre, walked by the far-travelling poet's side; and when he deemed the journey of life but just begun, '_Siste Viator!_' rang in his dying ear. Well did Sir Thomas Browne exclaim, 'Our life is indeed but short, a very dream; and while we look about, eternity is at hand!' Mr. BRIGHT has left an amiable and accomplished wife, with two pledges of an affectionate union. May the blessing of the widow and the fatherless be theirs, in full fruition!--and may consolation in bereavement be found in the reflection, that, to use the beautiful language of the dear departed, 'Though his bowed head be with Death's blossoms decked, Warm in the smile of God his spirit walks erect.' THE DEBUT OF MISS HILDRETH.