The next specimen we shall give is certainly a startling contrast to the foregoing piece, but this is, perhaps, the truest way of ascertaining the real vein of an author. The critics, coldblooded and calculating too often, oppose this plan on the argument that the violent reaction prevents the palate from regaining its natural taste. In despite of this we shall give the following city lyric:

"Come out, love, the night is enchanting,

The moon hangs just over Broadway,
The stars are all lighted and panting
(Hot weather up there, I dare say).
"T is seldom that coolness entices,

And love is no better for chilling,
But come up to Thompson's for ices,
And cool your warm heart for a shilling.

For six days we list to the band.
The sermon may dwell on the future,
The organ your pulses may calm,
When-past-that remembered cachuca,
Upsets both the sermon and psalm.
Oh! pity the love that must utter

While goes a swift omnibus by,
Though sweet is I scream, when the flutter
of fans shows thermometer's high.

But if what I bawl, or I mutter,

Falls into your eye but to die,

Oh! the dew that falls into the gutter,
Is not more unhappy than I."

We think our readers will agree that Mr. Willis is not very successful as a comic writer in verse. We will, however, give him one more trial before we decide that point.

"TO THE LADY IN THE CHEMISETTE WITH BLACK BUTTONS.

"I know not who thou art, thou lovely one.

Thine eyes were drooped, thy lips half sorrowful,
Yet thou didst eloquently smile on me,

While handing up thy sixpence through the hole
Of that o'er-freighted omnibus !—Ah, me !—
The world is full of meetings such as this;
A thrill-a voiceless challenge and reply,
And sudden partings after-we may pass,
And know not of each other's nearness now.
Thou in the Knickerbocker Line, and I
Lone in the Waverley! Oh! life of pain,

And even should I pass where thou dost dwell,

Nay, see thee in the basement taking tea,

So cold is this inexorable world,

I must glide on.

dare not feast mine eye,

I dare not make articulate my love,

Nor o'er the iron rails that hem thee in,

Venture to throw to thee my innocent card,

Not knowing thy papa."

Mr. Willis seems to be fond of the mock-heroic style of verse, for we have another copy of verses to "The Lady in the White Dress whom I helped into the Omnibus." We shall, however, not quote any portion of this, as it is in a similar strain to the other; our readers will decide as to what amount of humor there is displayed in these pieces. In another phase of banter,

we think Mr. Willis shows considerable cleverness; there is an elegance about his frivolity which lends a grace to the effort not otherwise belonging to it.

But give me a sly flirtation,

By the light of a chandelier,
With music to play in the pauses,
And nobody very near.

Or a seat on a silken sofa,

With a glass of pure old wine,
And mamma too blind to discover
The small white hand in mine.
Your love in a cottage is hungry,
Your vine is a nest for flies,
Your milkmaid shocks the graces,

And simplicity talks of pies.

These verses are highly characteristic of the writer's genius. Nature is pronounced somewhat vulgar and inconvenient, and the elegances of life are considered as the pure Ideal. But we mightily object to Mr. Willis's definition of elegance; the true elegance is the ideal of human nature; the elegance of the fop is as far removed from this as are the poles asunder. The Arcadia of our poet very much depends upon the upholsterer, the milliner, and the jeweller. His nature is artificial, and, instead of grassy meads, with heaven's dew glistening on them, they are covered with Turkey carpets; the shady banks are removed, and velvet couches placed in their stead; the murmuring brooks are muffled, and the birds driven away to make room for an Italian Opera. This may be civilization in a very high degree, but it is not the natural elegance of man; one of the old dramatists has admirably touched upon the Ideal and the Conventional in those celebrated lines alluding to our Saviour, as,

"The first true gentleman that e'er wore

Earth about him."

We may mention as a singular proof of the artificiality of Mr. Willis's style, the curious fact that his bantering or mockheroic verses are scarcely distinguishable from his scriptural poems. We give part of "The Declaration" as evidence of our statement.

""T was late, and the gay company was gone,
And light lay soft on the deserted room
From alabaster vases, and a scent

Of orange leaves and sweet verbena came

Through the unshuttered window on the air,
And the rich pictures, with their dark old tints,
Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things
Seemed hushed into a slumber. Isabel,

The dark-eyed, spiritual Isabel,

Was leaning on her harp, and I had stayed

To whisper what I could not, when the crowd
Hung on her look like worshippers-

Her forehead from its resting place, and looked
Earnestly on me. She had been asleep.”

This is very heavy trifling.

But the chief test of how far Mr. Willis is a humorous writer is to be decided by his "Lady Jane, a Humorous Novel in Rhyme." Here there can be no mistake in the matter. He himself avows boldly his deliberate and determined intention to be funny. It is not left in doubt, as was the intention of the farce which was performed some time since at Burton's Theatre. After a few nights it was withdrawn by the author, who declared that the actors and audience had certainly mistaken the nature of the piece: he had intended it for a farce, but they had actually considered it as a serious drama. Had the author followed Mr. Willis's advice he would have prevented the dilemma.

To return to the humorous novel in verse. description of the heroine is very felicitous:

"Yet there was fire within her soft grey eye,
And room for pressure on her lips of rose;
And few who saw her gracefully move by,

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