We now bid adieu to Mrs. Sigourney--yet we trust only for a time. We shall behold her again. When that period arrives, having thrown aside the petty shackles which have hitherto enchained her, she will assume, at once, that highest station among the poets of our land which her noble talents so well qualify her for attaining. * * * * * The remarks which we made in the beginning of our critique on Mrs. Sigourney, will apply, in an equal degree, to Miss Gould. Her reputation has been greatly assisted by the _frequency_ of her appeals to the attention of the public. The poems (one hundred and seventeen in number,) included in the volume now before us have all, we believe, appeared, from time to time, in the periodicals of the day. Yet in no other point of view, can we trace the remotest similarity between the two poetesses. We have already pointed out the prevailing characteristics of Mrs. Sigourney. In Miss Gould we recognize, first, a disposition, like that of Wordsworth, to seek beauty where it is not usually sought--in the _homelinesses_ (if we may be permitted the word,) and in the most familiar realities of existence--secondly _abandon_ of manner--thirdly a phraseology sparkling with antithesis, yet, strange to say, perfectly simple and unaffected. Without Mrs. Sigourney's high reach of thought, Miss Gould surpasses her rival in the mere vehicle of thought--expression. "Words, words, words," are the true secret of her strength. _Words_ are her kingdom--and in the realm of language, she rules with equal despotism and _nonchalance_. Yet we do not mean to deny her abilities of a higher order than any which a mere _logocracy_ can imply. Her powers of imagination are great, and she has a faculty of inestimable worth, when considered in relation to effect--the faculty of holding ordinary ideas in so novel, and sometimes in so fantastic a light, as to give them all of the appearance, and much of the value, of originality. Miss Gould will, of course, be the favorite with the multitude--Mrs. Sigourney with the few. We can think of no better manner of exemplifying these few observations, than by extracting part of Miss G's little poem, _The Great Refiner_. 'Tis sweet to feel that he, who tries The silver, takes his seat Beside the fire that purifies; Lest too intense a heat, Raised to consume the base alloy, The precious metal too destroy. 'Tis good to think how well he knows The silver's power to bear The _or_deal to which it goes; And that with skill and care, He'll take it from the fire, when fit For his own hand to polish it. 'Tis blessedness to know that he The piece he has begun Will not forsake, till he can see, To prove the work well done, An image by its brightness shown The perfect likeness of his own.