Genre Poetry. Page - 1

n examined by some of the best Judges, and is thought qualified to write them.His Excellency THOMAS HUTCHINSON, Governor. The Hon. ANDREW OLIVER, Lieutenant-Governor. The Hon. Thomas Hubbard, | The Rev. Charles Chauncey, D. D.The Hon. John Erving, | The Rev. Mather Byles, D. D. The Hon. James Pitts, | The Rev. Ed. Pemberton, D. D. The Hon. Harrison Gray, | The Rev. Andrew Elliot, D. D. The Hon. James Bowdoin, | The Rev. Samuel Cooper, D. D. John Hancock, Esq; | The Rev. Mr. Saumel Mather,

nder cover that wanted light-- pears wadded in cloth, protected from the frost, melons, almost ripe, smothered in straw?Why not let the pears cling to the empty branch? All your coaxing will only make a bitter fruit-- let them cling, ripen of themselves, test their own worth, nipped, shrivelled by the frost, to fall at last but fair with a russet coat. Or the melon-- let it bleach yellow in the winter light, even tart to the taste-- it is better to taste of frost-- the exquisite frost-- than of

e one sentence, and is generally read at onesitting. Sir Joshua Reynolds, meeting it in a country inn, began toread it while standing with his arm leaning on a chimney-piece, andwas not able to lay it aside till he had finished it, when he foundhis arm totally benumbed. In 1745, Johnson issued proposals for a newedition of Shakspeare, but laid them aside for a time, owing to thegreat expectations entertained of the edition then promised byWarburton.For several years, except a few trifles in the

o! my songs have crossed the ocean But the voice of my emotion finds no word. SEE? If one proves weak who you fancied strong, Or false who you fancied true, Just ease the smart of your wounded heart By the thought that it is not you! If many forget a promise made, And your faith falls into the dust, Then look meanwhile in your mirror and smile, And say, '_I_ am one to trust!' If you search in vain for an ageing face Unharrowed by fretful fears, Then make right now (and keep) a vow To grow in

onant college revellers, who call him "a prig," and seek to annoy him. Long mornings of study, and nights feverish from ill-health, are spent in those chambers; he is often listless and in low spirits; yet his natural temper is not desponding, and he delights in employment. He has always something to learn or to communicate--some sally of humour or quiet stroke of satire for his friends and correspondents--some note on natural history to enter in his journal--some passage of Plato to

or Child. It is to be hoped that some pupil of his maycomplete the task in his sense, if, indeed, he has left it unfinished.Ballad: Sir Patrick Spens (Border Minstrelsy.) The king sits in Dunfermline town, Drinking the blude-red wine o: "O whare will I get a skeely skipper To sail this new ship of mine o?" O up and spake an eldern-knight, Sat at the king's right knee: "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever saild the sea." Our king has written a braid letter, And

paved the way for the Reformation. Brandt's fools are represented as contemptible and loathsome rather than _foolish_, and what he calls follies might be more correctly described as sins and vices."The 'Ship of Fools' is written in the dialect of Swabia, and consists of vigorous, resonant, and rhyming iambic quadrameters. It is divided into 113 sections, each of which, with the exception of a short introduction and two concluding pieces, treats independently of a certain class of fools or

ty wheresoever in life itchooses to turn the light of its gaze. So, also, in "Andrea delSarto," the easy cleverness of the unaspiring craftsman is notembodied apart from the abject relationship which made his very soula bond- slave to the gross mandates of "the Cousin's whistle." Yetin all three poems the biographic and historic conditions contributing toward the individualizing of each artist are sounobtrusively epitomized and vitally blended, that, while scarcelyany item

hile life as a whole, history, character, and destiny are objects unfit for imagination to dwell on, and repellent to poetic art? I cannot think so. If it be a fact, as it often is, that we find little things pleasing and great things arid and formless, and if we are better poets in a line than in an epic, that is simply due to lack of faculty on our part, lack of imagination and memory, and above all to lack of discipline.This might be shown, I think, by psychological analysis, if we cared to