'No verdure smiles; no crystal fountains play, To quench the arrows of the god of day; No breezy lawns, no cool, meandering streams, Allay the fervor of his torrid beams; No whispering zephyrs fan the glowing skies, But o'er long tracts the mournful siroc sighs. Whose desolating march, whose withering breath, Sweeps through the caravan with instant death. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ''Tis night: but here the sparkling heavens diffuse No genial showers, no soft distilling dews: In the hot sky, the stars of lustre shorn, Burn o'er the pathway of the wanderer lorn, And the red moon from Babelmandel's strand Looks, as she climbs through pyramids of sand, That, whirled aloft, and gilded by her light, Blaze the lone beacons of the desert night!' A CORRESPONDENT, well known to our readers, in a note to the Editor, remarks as follows, upon the passage of our May 'Gossip' which touched upon COLERIDGE and his conversations: 'I am glad of your remarks on COLERIDGE and WORDSWORTH. I have been for years sick of the interminable cant about those two men. Their admirers have too long exalted them above all that is human. And would you know the reason? In discovering more depth, and pure humanity, and high inspiration, in _their_ school of the prophets than the _rest_ of the world have seen, they think the world will give them credit for deep penetration, high and refined sense, and a large share of the same or a kindred humanity and inspiration. Witness a sixty pages' laudation of WORDSWORTH, opening a number of the 'New-York Review,' by a writer who doubtless thought his own fame was thereby planted like an eternal light-house on the rock of his idol. Now I hope I am Christian enough to admire greatly the genius of COLERIDGE; and I am yet to find any thing in English or elsewhere more movingly and musically beautiful than 'Genevieve,' or more wizard-like and solemn than the 'Rime of the Antient Mariner.' I also plead not guilty to a contempt of 'Christabel' and 'Wallenstein.' Nor am I such a rebel to reason, or heretic in taste, as not to see surpassing beauty in many of WORDSWORTH's minor poems, and lofty grandeur in his 'Ode to Childhood,' and 'Stanzas on the Power of Sound,' and a high, philosophical, and musing mind in his great 'Excursion.' I have read him twice in the last two years, and my admiration has not at all diminished. But I choose to deny that he or COLERIDGE _invented_ poetry, or carried it farther, or as far, as some others before and with them. I choose to deny that they have struck the great chord of humanity, unstruck before, or have sympathized more deeply or more sweetly with the joys and sorrows of the lowly million, than the great poets before them have done. I choose to assert, what has been abundantly proven, that they were both great egotists, eaten up by self, which the great poets have rarely been; and that