The mind which could conceive the _subject_ of this poem, and find poetic appropriateness in a forced analogy between a refiner of silver, over his crucible, and the Great Father of all things, occupied in the mysteries of redeeming Grace, we cannot believe a mind adapted to the loftier breathings of the lyre. On the other hand, the delicate _finish_ of the illustration, the perfect fitness of one portion for another, the epigrammatic nicety and point of the language, give evidence of a taste exquisitely alive to the _prettinesses_ of the Muse. It is possible that Miss Gould has been led astray in her conception of this poem by the scriptural expression, "He shall sit as a refiner and purifier of silver." From the apparently harsh strictures we have thought it our duty to make upon the poetry of Miss Gould, must be excepted one exquisite little _morceau_ at page 59 of the volume now under review. It is entitled _The Dying Storm_. We will quote it in full. {116} _I am feeble, pale and weary,_ _And my wings are nearly furled;_ I have caused a scene so dreary, I am glad to quit the world! With bitterness I'm thinking On the evil I have done, _And to my caverns sinking_ _From the coming of the sun._ The heart of man will sicken In that pure and holy light, When he feels the hopes I've stricken With an everlasting blight! For widely, in my madness, Have I poured abroad my wrath, And changing joy to sadness, Scattered ruin on my path. _Earth shuddered at my motion,_ And my power in silence owns; _But the deep and troubled ocean_ _O'er my deeds of horror moans!_ I have sunk the brightest treasure-- I've destroyed the fairest form-- _I have sadly filled my measure,_ _And am now a dying storm._ We have much difficulty in recognizing these verses as from the pen of Miss Gould. They do not contain a single trace of her manner, and still less of the prevailing features of her thought. Setting aside the flippancy of the metre, ill adapted to the sense, we have no fault to find. All is full, forcible, and free from artificiality. The personification of the storm, in its perfect simplicity, is of a high order of poetic excellence--the images contained in the lines italicized, all of the _very highest_. * * * * *