'Still from the lake swell up these walls, Fronting the morning's sheen; And still their storm-stained capitals Preserve their lichens green; And still upon the ledge I view The gentian's eye of stainless blue. 'And far along in funeral lines, Sheer to the higher grounds, Touch'd by the finger of the winds, The pines give out their sounds; And far below, the waters lie, Quietly looking to the sky. 'And still, a vale of softest green Th' embracing prospect fills; And still the river winds between The parting of the hills; The sky still blue, the flowers still found, Just bursting from the moist spring ground. 'So was it many years ago, As on this spot I stood, And heard the waters lave below The edges of the wood, And thought, while music fill'd the air, The fairies held their revel there. * * * * * 'I ask these scenes to give me back My fresh, glad thoughts again; Alas, they lie along the track Which I have trod with men! The flowers I gather'd here, a child, I pluck'd, it seems, to deck a wild.' A very young writer, capable of lines like these, is met with scarce a word of encouragement, but contrariwise, forced satire and second-hand denunciation; and this often from critics unable to produce any thing half so creditable as many of the effusions in the volume in question. * * * * *