“And these the lips Where, till this hour, the sad and holy kiss Of parting linger'd, as the fragrance left By ANGELS when they touch the earth and vanish.” NORMAN. “Hark! she has blessed her son! I bid ye witness, Ye listening heavens--thou circumambient air: The ocean sighs it back--and with the murmur Rustle the happy leaves. All nature breathes Aloud--aloft--to the Great Parent's ear, The blessing of the mother on her child.” NORMAN. “I dream of love, enduring faith, a heart Mingled with mine--a deathless heritage, Which I can take unsullied to the STARS, When the Great Father calls his children home.” NORMAN. “The blue air, breathless in the STARRY peace, After long silence hushed as heaven, but filled With happy thoughts as heaven with ANGELS.” NORMAN. “Till one calm night, when over earth and wave Heaven looked its love from all its numberless STARS.” NORMAN. “Those eyes, the guiding STARS by which I steered.” NORMAN. “That great mother (The only parent I have known), whose face Is bright with gazing ever on the STARS-- The mother-sea.” NORMAN. “My bark shall be our home; The STARS that light the ANGEL palaces Of air, our lamps.” NORMAN. “A name that glitters, like a STAR, amidst The galaxy of England's loftiest born.” LADY ARUNDEL. “And see him princeliest of the lion tribe, Whose swords and coronals gleam around the throne, The guardian STARS of the imperial isle.” The fust spissymen has been going the round of all the papers, as real, reglar poatry. Those wickid critix! they must have been laffing in their sleafs when they quoted it. Malody, suckling round and uppards from the bows, like a happy soul released, hangs in the air, and from invizable plumes shakes sweetness down. Mighty fine, truly! but let mortial man tell the meannink of the passidge. Is it MUSICKLE sweetniss that Malody shakes down from its plumes--its wings, that is, or tail--or some pekewliar scent that proceeds from happy souls released, and which they shake down from the trees when they are suckling round and uppards? IS this poatry, Barnet? Lay your hand on your busm, and speak out boldly: Is it poatry, or sheer windy humbugg, that sounds a little melojous, and won't bear the commanest test of comman sence?