The poem entitled _The Pholas_, at page 105, has the following introductory prose sentence: "It is a fact familiar to Conchologists, that the genus Pholas possesses the property of phosphorescence. It has been asserted that this may be restored, even when the animal is in a dried state, by the application of _water_, but is extinguished by the least quantity of _brandy_." This odd fact in Natural History is precisely what Cowley would have seized with avidity for the purpose of preaching therefrom a poetical homily on Temperance. But that Mrs. Sigourney should have thought herself justifiable in using it for such purpose, is what we cannot understand. What business has her good taste with so palpable and so ludicrous a _conceit_? Let us now turn to a more pleasing task. In the _Friends of Man_, (a poem originally published in our own Messenger,) the versification throughout is of the first order of excellence. We select an example. {115} The youth at midnight sought his bed, But ere he closed his eyes, Two forms drew near with gentle tread, In meek and saintly guise; One struck a lyre of wondrous power, With thrilling music fraught, That chained the flying summer hour, And charmed the listener's thought-- For still would its tender cadence be Follow me! follow me! And every morn a smile shall bring, Sweet as the merry lay I sing. The lines entitled _Filial Grief_, at page 199, are worthy of high praise. Their commencement is chaste, simple, and altogether exquisite. The verse italicized contains _an unjust metaphor_, but we are forced to pardon it for the sonorous beauty of its expression. The love that blest our infant dream, That dried our earliest tear, The tender voice, the winning smile, That made our home so dear, The hand that urged our youthful thought O'er low delights to soar, _Whose pencil wrote upon our souls_, Alas, is ours no more. We will conclude our extracts with "_Poetry_" from page 57. The burden of the song finds a ready echo in our bosoms. Morn on her rosy couch awoke, Enchantment led the hour, And Mirth and Music drank the dews That freshened Beauty's flower-- Then from her bower of deep delight I heard a young girl sing, "Oh, speak no ill of Poetry, For 'tis a holy thing!" The sun in noon-day heat rose high, And on with heaving breast I saw a weary pilgrim toil, Unpitied and unblest-- Yet still in trembling measures flow'd Forth from a broken string, "Oh, speak no ill of Poetry, For 'tis a holy thing!" 'Twas night, and Death the curtains drew, Mid agony severe, While there a willing spirit went Home to a glorious sphere-- Yet still it sighed, even when was spread The waiting Angel's wing, "Oh, speak no ill of Poetry, For 'tis a holy thing!"