‘I crept up to the bier and laid my cold face down to hers, and moaned in all my heart brokenness of sorrow. I kissed her--I shrieked her name--I stamped--I threw myself upon her corse. There was no Promethean heat that could reanimate it--and I _felt_ I was alone. ‘Had I heard her say, ‘I forgive--I bless thee, child’--life were tolerable, and I would have breasted the forceful waves of misery as they came tumbling in upon me, like a man. This was denied me, and in its place is blazed in shapes of fire--That one offence.’ * * * * * The evening wore away, what with the reading of the manuscript and my many inquiries concerning the stranger, and my host now showing me to my room, where with many expressions of his happiness to wait upon me, &c. &c. he bade me good night, I jumped into bed. In the morning I met him again and tried my hand with him at a good, honest, hearty, New Hampshire breakfast; afterwards I shook hands with his family, mounted my horse, and continued my journey--and such was my ‘Night at the Farm House.’ SONNET. ADDRESSED TO A LADY SINGING, AND WRITTEN ON THE BACK OF HER MUSIC BOOK. It hath been said that music is a dream, A soft creation and a witchery Made for earth’s happier climes, where peacefully Men’s thoughts go by as goes a pleasant stream:-- It hath been said too, that the favored And bright ones who so sing us into bliss, And witch out from our souls unquietness, And place a Sabbath softness in its stead-- It hath been said that these not mortal be, But are of the same nature with the sky-- Ethereal, volatile, as clouds that play About the sinking sun at shut of day:-- _But sure they lie--for this soft hand in mine_, _And this soft strain I hear--why, both are thine!_ * REVIEW. _The Culprit Fay, and other Poems_; by Joseph Rodman Drake. New York: George Dearborn, Publisher. 1835.