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that he may come, in time, to have some portion in the last bequest of Thomas Hood.

Passing from these productions as being widely known of late, and (for the same reason) from The DREAM OF EuGENE ARAM, THE HAUNTED House, and THE GOLDEN LEGEND OF Miss KILLMANSEGG (all of extraordinary merit), we will confine our extracts to two minor pieces, with which our readers may be less acquainted. There is, in the first, a sentiment so touching and so universal, that there will probably be no collection of poems in the English tongue for centuries to come, in which it will not find a place :


Farewell Life! my senses swim,
And the world is growing dim:
Thronging shadows cloud the light,
Like the advent of the night-
Colder, colder, colder still,
Upward steals a vapor chill;
Strong the earthy odor grows-
I smell the mould above the rose !,

Welcome Life! the Spirit strives !
Strength returns and hope revives ;
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn
Fly like shadows at the morn,-
O’er the earth there comes a bloom ;
Sunny light for sullen gloom,
Warm perfume for vapor cold-
I smell the rose above the mould !

April, 1845.

“The next (the Ode on A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY) is of a different class, but who has not this poem in his mind and his experience ?

“ The preface, from which we have already quoted, expresses a hope that in any future recital of the names of writers who have contributed to the stock of genuine English poetry, Thomas Hood will find honorable mention.' Before it can be otherwise, not only must the character of genuine English poetry be altogether changed, but with it the recollections, fancies, affections, and very nature of men.

“ We may be allowed to add one parting word ; not of the Author, but the deceased friend. That he was a man of a most free and noble spirit, who harbored none of the grudging jealousies too often attendant on the pursuit of literature; who found no detraction from his own merits in the success and praise of another ; who, beset by great infirmity of body, and many sharp anxieties of mind, could travel far out of his way to swell, with his generous pen, the triumph of a young writer, with whom he had, at that time, little or no acquaintance, saving through his works ;no one living should know better, than the writer of this faltering tribute to his memory.”

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