The sweet Lilac pensively hung down her head,
And a soft tear-drop fell while with blushes she said,
"Friend Mallow, who told you this pitiless tale
And gave you a cue against Primrose to rail?
Poor Primrose, sweet Primrose, so gentle and lone,
For one fault how dearly they make thee atone!
It is true, I admit, in her spring's early days
That the Primrose did list to the Nightingale's lays;
That she loved, and her love was so tender and true
That it won all his heart and he worshipped her too;
That she stole out at eve, when the flowers all slept,
And only her lover his fond vigil kept,

To listen to vows which no bud might disclaim,

Nor a fully blown flower need mention with shame.
They were breathed forth in tones so plaintive and clear,
And fell so enchantingly soft on the ear-

I am not surprised that the Primrose was won,

And I've heard but few blame her for what she has done.

To be sure she was cut by an old maid or two,

But the young can excuse her-dear Mallow can't you?"

"Oh of course," said the Mallow, "although my heart grieves"— And she looked with a smirk on her withering leaves

"Although, as I said, it is painful to know

That one among us, should be talked about so;

Yet I hope the old flowers before they condemn

Will remember that time has wrought changes in them."

"Well then, since you think so," the Lilac replied,

"I will not conceal what has happened beside.
It is true that Queen Flora discovered the pair,
And her anger was kindled at finding them there;
And, alas for the lovers! she sent him away,
Ere the moonlight had paled at the advent of day.

It is true that he grieved when he left her fond side-
Alas! must I say, it is true that he died?

He died; and the Elves as they watched him depart,
Brought back his last note to the bud of his heart.
Then, Flora repenting, decreed that afar

His soul should be shrined in the bright evening star.

And she mourned with poor Primrose and begged she would live If but for her sake, if but to forgive.

But Primrose was stricken, and ne'er since that night

Has she ever been seen to unfold in the light.
No more at the gala her presence is hailed.
The nun among flowers, all hooded and veiled,
She waits till the day-god has sunk to his rest,
And the shrine of her lover is lit in the west,
Then she softly steals out in the deepening gloom,
And unclasps every band from her delicate bloom,
And unfurls her sweet leaves, till they catch from afar,
Like the winglets of fairies, the beams of her star;
And her bosom's sweet casket, her incense so rare,
So hoarded by day light, is offered up there.
And Night, as she passes, treads softly around
And hushes still deeper, each murmuring sound,

For she will not have any rude uproar to jar

On the hour when the Primrose communes with the star!" Baltimore, 1848,

THE GENIUS OF COWPER.

REV J. N. DANFORTH.

THERE are some names that instantly awaken a train of thought and association, the very passage of which through the mind leaves a fragrance, that refreshes all its faculties.

Such a name is that of Cowper, the poet, less of the imagination than of the heart; the painter, not of gorgeous scenes, that dazzle the fancies of men, not of glaring pictures, that bewilder them, but of the sober, the serene, the true in life, whether that life be the interior, hidden experience of the heart, or the outward and visible course of action or suffering. Cowper studied nature, studied men, and above all studied himself. In contemplating the choice productions of his mind, we are constantly inclined to blend them with the history of the man. The undisguised simplicity of his portraits is but a deep and clear reflection from his own heart. In his views of domestic life, of "homeborn happiness," no artificial coloring can be discerned, nor, dark and dreary as his individual thoughts often were, does he ever dip his pencil in the gall of misanthropy. His

mind was like an opaque diamond, giving out in its own nature the reflected rays of beauty. He could not help indeed an occasional sally of satire, but it was never tinged with bitterness, though it might be accompanied with a sigh.

Not so did Byron treat the follies of men, in the strange and severe tones of whose muse the ear so often detected the hiss of the serpent.

Cowper, too, uniformly respects the delicacy and dignity of woman, while Byron in the midst of his beautiful delineations of the traits of the tender sex, seems incapable of avoiding a fling at female virtue. With an unsurpassed sensibility to the various forms of beauty, physical and moral, he seems to regard them as naturally fitted to minister to the baser passions of the human heart.

Cowper was content to leave the walks of fiction to those more imaginative spirits, who preferred to revel in their luxuriance, and confine himself to truth and nature. The domestic hearth-the garden-the alcove-the field -the wood furnished sufficient materials to awaken the genius, which, beset with gloom, was ever struggling to delight itself in those objects the Creator had set before it. "He impresses us with the idea of a being, whose fine spirit had been long enough in the mixed society of the world to be polished by its intercourse, and yet withdrawn so soon as to retain an unworldly degree of purity and simplicity."

It has been said that the quality of SINCERITY is a fundamental constituent in the composition of a perfect

orator. It may be thought unpoetic to require this feature in a true bard, but who can doubt that it adds greatly to the value of genius? Is not this exemplified in Milton, in Herbert, in Wordsworth, in Montgomery, and above all in the Hebrew poets, whose immortal strains will be transmitted through the Scriptures, to the latest posterity? Time, that destroys so many things, will but embalm these, because they are worthy to be embalmed. The fine disquisitions of the poet Campbell on the poetry of the Scriptures have set the doctrine of permanency in its true light.

Now there are men, who, however delighted with the waters of Helicon, cannot be satisfied with these, but must ascend from the Pierian spring to a loftier height, and imbibe inspiration from that

"Siloa's brook, that flowed

Fast by the oracle of God."

Such an one was Cowper, and hence the deep religious philosophy that mingles itself with the spirit of his poetry, imparting an additional charm to the effusions of his imagination, and deepening that tone of sincerity, which was a part of his nature. If he has invented no character in fable, or in the drama, if he has written neither comedies nor tragedies, he has given us in forms best suited to his genius, and, it may be added, best suited to an immense and increasing class of readers, the strong convictions of a mind deeply imbued with the love of truth and beauty, and profoundly conversant with the