tans, great stature

yards we past,

Thought the world went from bad to worst fearfully fast;

Let us glance for a moment, 't is well worth the pains,

And note what an average graveyard contains;

There lie levellers levelled, duns done up themselves,

There are booksellers finally laid on their shelves,

Horizontally there lie upright politicians,

Dose-a-dose with their patients sleep faultless physicians,

There are slave-drivers quietly whipped underground,

There bookbinders, done up in boards,

in his case,

lessly go on;

To come to the point, I may safely assert you

Will find in each yard every cardinal virtue ;*

Each has six truest patriots: four discoverers of ether,

Who never had thought on 't nor mentioned it either;

Ten poets, the greatest who ever wrote rhyme :

Two hundred and forty first men of their time:

One person whose portrait just gave the least hint

Its original had a most horrible squint : One critic, most (what do they call it?) reflective, | Who never had used the phrase ob- or subjective:

Forty fathers of Freedom, of whom twenty bred

Their

sons for the rice-swamps, at so much a head,

And their daughters for-faugh! thirty mothers of Gracchi :

Non-resistants who gave many a spiritual black-eye:

Eight true friends of their kind, one of whom was a jailer:

Four captains almost as astounding as Taylor:

Two dozen of Italy's exiles who shoot us his

Kaisership daily, stern pen-and-ink Brutuses,

Who, in Yankee back-parlors, with crucified smile,†

Mount serenely their country's funereal pile:

Ninety-nine Irish heroes, ferocious rebellers

'Gainst the Saxon in cis-marine garrets and cellars,

take

Whenever it gives them a chance at a steak:

Sixty-two second Washingtons: two or three Jacksons:

And so many everythings-else that it racks one's

So, musing a moment, he turned to the crowd,

And, clearing his voice, spoke as follows aloud:

"My friends, in the happier days of the muse,

We were luckily free from such things as reviews ;

Then naught came between with its fog to make clearer

The heart of the poet to that of his hearer;

Then the poet brought heaven to the people, and they

Felt that they, too, were poets in hear ing his lay;

Then the poet was prophet, the past in his soul

Precreated the future, both parts of one whole;

Then for him there was nothing too great or too small,

For one natural deity sanctified all; Then the bard owned no clipper and meter of moods

Save the spirit of silence that hovers and broods

O'er the seas and the mountains, the rivers and woods;

He

asked not earth's verdict, forgetting

the clods,

His soul soared and sang to an audience of gods;

'T was for them that he measured the thought and the line,

And shaped for their vision the perfect design,

With as glorious a foresight, a balance as true,

As

swung out the worlds in the infinite blue;

tenance glistening, Eurydice stood like a beacon unfired, Which, once touched with flame, will leap heav'nward inspired

And waited with answering kindle to mark

The first gleam of Orpheus that pained the red Dark.

Then painting, song, sculpture did more

than relieve

out Taboo!

And while he is wondering what he shall do,

Since each suggests opposite topics for song,

They all shout together you're right! and you're wrong!

"Nature fits all her children with something to do,

surely review,

Can set up a small booth as critic and sell us his

Petty conceit and his pettier jealousies; Thus a lawyer's apprentice, just out of his teens,

Will do for the Jeffrey of six magazines ;

Having read Johnson's lives of the poets half through,

There's nothing on earth he's not competent to;

He reviews with as much nonchalance as he whistles,

He goes through a book and just picks out the thistles;

It matters not whether he blame or commend,

If he's bad as a foe, he's far worse as a friend:

Let an author but write what's above his poor scope,

He goes to work gravely and twists up a

DEAR M.

December, 1846.

By way of saving time, I'll do this letter up in rhyme, Whose slim stream through four pages flows

Ere one is packed with tight-screwed prose,

Threading the tube of an epistle, Smooth as a child's breath through whistle.

The great attraction now of all Is the "Bazaar" at Faneuil Hall, Where swarm the anti-slavery folks As thick, dear Miller, as your jokes. There's GARRISON, his features very Benign for an incendiary, Beaming forth sunshine through his glasses

On the surrounding lads and lasses,
(No bee could blither be, or brisker,) –
A Pickwick somehow turned John Ziska,
His bump of firmness swelling up
Like a rye cupcake from its cup.
And there, too, was his English tea-set,
Which in his ear a kind of flea set,
His Uncle Samuel for its beauty
Demanding sixty dollars duty,
('Twas natural Sam should serve his
trunk ill,

For G., you know, has cut his uncle,)
Whereas, had he but once made tea in 't,
His uncle's ear had had the flea in 't,
There being not a cent of duty
On any pot that ever drew tea.†

There was MARIA CHAPMAN, too,

* Mr. James Miller McKim.

When Mr. Garrison visited Edinburgh in 1846, a handsome silver tea-set was presented to him by his friends in that city. On the arrival of this gift at the Boston custom-house, it was charged with an enormous entrance duty which would have been remitted if the articles had

For every shaft a shining mark.

And there, too, was ELIZA FOLLEN,
Who scatters fruit-creating pollen
Where'er a blossom she can find
Hardy enough for Truth's north wind,
Each several point of all her face
Tremblingly bright with the inward

grace,

As if all motion gave it light
Like phosphorescent seas at night.

There jokes our EDMUND,‡ plainly son
Of him who bearded Jefferson,
A non-resistant by conviction,
But with a bump in contradiction,
So that whene'er it gets a chance
His pen delights to play the lance,
And-you may doubt it, or believe it-
Full at the head of Joshua Leavitt
The very calumet he'd launch,
And scourge him with the olive branch.
A master with the foils of wit,
'Tis natural he should love a hit;
A gentleman, withal, and scholar,
Only base things excite his choler,

ever been used. It was supposed that if the owner had not been the leader of the unpopular abolitionists, this heavy impost would not have been laid on a friendly British tribute to an emi

nent American.

+ Edmund Quincy.