The volume, whose title we have placed at the commencement of this article, and whose merits we propose to examine with our readers, is a beautiful memorial of departed genius. The perusal of its pages has naturally led us to indulge in those reflections we have hitherto pursued. The memory of Drake--his early and untimely grave--has tended to associate with his, the same sad fate of others. We have thought of Sands, of Wilcox, and of Brainerd. Of the former, it is true, we know but little--nothing more than a few casual examinations of their works afford us. Of the latter, we know more. We delight to speak of him, not only as a poet--and as such he had few equals--but still farther, as a friend. In the first of these characters he has now been long before the public, and has gained from their decisions a conspicuous distinction--a rank higher we believe than his own expectations, although one of strictest justice and commensurate with merit. To us it is a matter of no slight regret, that a mind so richly-gifted, should have garnered up its beauties, and have been so very sparing of its splendid treasures. Brainerd was distrustful of his own abilities. The hope of approbation, was with him no motive to exertion. He cared not to lay bare the workings of a heart, perhaps too warm and sensitive, or to send abroad those finer feelings which might meet no kindred sympathies, and return to him companionless from contact with the world. It was only in those moments given up to the full flow of friendship--to the interchange of sentiments with more intimate associates--that the noblest of his qualities became developed. As a poet, he reminds us forcibly of Burns. His was the same appreciation of the charms of nature--the same exquisitely tempered sensibility--a like generosity of disposition, and as much of poignant wit and versatility. The tribute paid to the memory of Burns, may with equal justice be applied to Brainerd. “His is that language of the heart, In which the answering heart would speak-- Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light the cheek. And his that music to whose tone The common pulse of man keeps time, In cot or castle’s mirth or moan, In cold or sunny clime.”