Dust on thy mantle! dust, Bright Summer, on thy livery of green! A tarnish, as of rust, Dimmeth thy brilliant sheen: And thy young glories—leaf, and bud, and flower— Change cometh over them with every hour. Thee hath the August sun Looked on with hot, and fierce, and brassy face: And still and lazily run, Scarce whispering in their pace, The half-dried rivulets, that lately sent A shout of gladness up, as on they went. Flame-like, the long mid-day— With not so much of sweet air as hath stirr'd The down upon the spray, Where rests the panting bird, Dozing away the hot and tedious noon, With fitful twitter, sadly out of tune. Seeds in the sultry air, And gossamer web-work on the sleeping trees! E'en the tall pines, that rear Their plumes to catch the breeze, The slightest breeze from the unfruitful West, Partake the general languor, and deep rest. LIFE ON THE LAKES. _Life on the Lakes: Being Tales and Sketches collected during a Trip to the Pictured Rocks of Lake Superior. By the author of “Legends of a Log Cabin.” New York: Published by George Dearborn._ The name of this book is in shockingly bad taste. After being inundated with the burlesque in the shape of Life in London, Life in Paris, Life at Crockford's, Life in Philadelphia, and a variety of other _Lives_, all partaking of _caricatura_, it is not easy to imagine a title more sadly out of keeping than one embracing on the same page this so travestied word _Life_ and the—Pictured Rocks of Lake Superior. We have other faults to find with the work. It contains some ill-mannered and grossly ignorant sneers at Daniel O'Connell, calling him “the great pensioner on the poverty of his countrymen,” and making him speak in a brogue only used by the lowest of the Irish, about “_the finest pisantry in the world_.” The two lithographs, (Picture Rocks and La Chapelle) the joint work of Messieurs Burford and Bufford, are abominable in every respect, and should not have been suffered to disgrace the well printed and otherwise handsome volumes. In the manner of the narrative, too, there is a rawness, a certain air of foppery and ill-sustained pretension—a species of abrupt, frisky, and self-complacent Paul Ulricism, which will cause nine-tenths of the well educated men who take up the book, to throw it aside in disgust, after perusing the initial chapter. Yet if we can overlook these difficulties, _Life on the Lakes_ will be found a very amusing performance. We quote from the close of volume the first, the following piquant Indian Story, narrated by an Indian. As our adventures are thus brought, for the day, to a premature close, suppose I give you an Indian story. If any body asks you who told it me, say you do not know.