The silent, soft, and humble heart,

In the Violet's hidden sweetness breathes ;
And the tender soul that cannot part,

A twine of Evergreen fondly wreathes.

The Cypress, that daily shades the grave,

Is sorrow that mourns her bitter lot ;
And Faith, that a thousand ills can brave,

Speaks in thy blue leaves, Forget-me-Not.
Then gather a wreath from the garden bowers,
And tell the wish of thy heart in Aowers.

Here is the commencement of his fine poem, The Coral Grove :

Deep in the wave is a coral grove,
Where the purple mullet and the gold-fish rove;

Where the sea-Aower spreads its leaves of blue,
That never are wet with falling dew,
But in bright and changeful beauty shine
Far down in the green and glassy brine.

The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift,

And the pearl-shells spangle the Ainty snow ;
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift

Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow;
The water is calm and still below,

For the winds and waves are absent there,
And the sands are bright as the stars that glow

In the motionless fields of the upper air.
There, with its waving blade of green,

The sea-Aag streams through the silent water,
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen

To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter.

Mrs. SIGOURNEY's productions, mostly didactic, have long enjoyed a deserved popularity. Her lines, To an early Blue-Bird, form a pleasing picture :

Blue-bird ! on yon leafless tree,
Dost thou carol thus to me,
“ Spring is coming-Spring is here?”
Say'st thou so, my birdie dear?
What is that in misty shroud
Stealing from the darkened cloud ?
Lo, the snow-fake's gathering mound
Settles o'er the whitened ground,
Yet thou singest blithe and clear,

Spring is coming—Spring is here !"
Strik'st thou not too bold strain ?
Winds are piping o'er the plain,

a

Clouds are sweeping o'er the sky,
With a black and threatening eye;
Urchins, by the frozen rill,
Wrap their mantles closer still ;
Yon poor man, with doublet old,
Doth he shiver at the cold?
Hath he not a nose of blue ?
Tell me, birdling, tell me true.

There are some beautiful and pathetic lines by PIERPONT, entitled Passing Away, commencing :

Was it the chime of a tiny bell,

That came so sweet to my dreaming ear,
Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell

That he winds on the beach so mellow and clear,
When the winds and the waves lie together asleep,
And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep,

She dispensing her silvery light,

And he his notes, as silvery quite,
While the boatman listens and ships his oar,
To catch the music that comes from the shore ? -

Hark! the notes, on my ear that play,
Are set to words: as they Aoat, they say,

“Passing away! passing away !”

*

His lines on the loss of his Child are full of natural pathos :

I cannot make him dead! His fair, sunshiny head

Is ever bounding round my study chair :
Yet, when my eyes grow dim with tears, I turn to him,

The vision vanishes-he is not there!
I walk my parlour foor, and, through the open door,

I hear a foot-fall on my chamber stair ;

I'm stepping toward the hall to give the boy a call;

And then bethink me that—he is not there! I thread the crowded street ; a satchelled lad I meet,

With the same beaming eyes and coloured hair : And, as he's running by, follow him with my eye, Scarcely believing that-he is not there! *

* I cannot make him dead! When passing by the bed,

*

And seems his huge gray form to throw
In a silver cone on the wave below :
His sides are broken by spots of shade,
By the walnut-bough and the cedar made :
And through their clustering branches dark,
Glimmers and dies the fire-fly's spark,-
Like starry twinkles that momently break
Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack!

The stars are on the moving stream,

And Aing, as its ripples gently Aow,
A burnished length of wavy beam

In an eel-like, spiral line below;
The winds are whist, and the owl is still,

The bat in the shelvy rock is hid,
And naught is heard on the lonely hill
But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill

Of the gauze-winged katy-did ;
And the plaint of the wailing whip-poor-will,

Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings
Ever a note of wail and woe,

Till morning spreads her rosy wings, And earth and sky in her glances glow.