Let tradition tell our story

As we fade in cloudless glory,

As we seek the land of rest

Beyond the borders of the west,

No

eye

but ours may look upon

WE ARE THe children OF THE SUN !

LINES TO A POET.

How sweet the cadence of thy lyre!

What melody of words!

They strike a pulse within the heart

Like songs of forest birds,

Or tinkling of the shepherd's bell
Among the mountain herds.

Thy mind's a cultured garden,
Where Nature's hand has sown

The flower-seeds of poësy—

And they have freshly grown, Imbued with beauty and perfume, To other plants unknown.

A bright career's before thee

All tonges pronounce thy praise;

All hearts thy inspiration feel,

And will in after days;

For genius breathes in

every line

Of thy soul-thrilling lays.

A nameless grace is round thee-
A something, too refined

To be described, yet must be felt

By all of human kind.

Thine is the rainbow of the heart,

That cannot be defined.

Then blessings on thee, minstrel-
Thy faults let others scan:
There may be spots upon the sun,
Which those may view that can;
I see them not-yet know thee well
A POET AND A MAN.

THE SONNET.

I MET an odd engraving the other day in the print-stores. Quite a simple affair-a garden-a bower-a lady-that's all. She is, of course, holding a letter in her hand, which, it is pretty evident, she has just been reading. The artist has entitled that print "THE SONNET," but why or wherefore does not appear. He has given no farther explanation of what he intended-an omission which vexed me not a little, as I am always curious about such matters, and like to discover, if I can, at least the meaning of any composition I may have spent my time in examining. Both the drawing and the engraving are exceedingly well done. Oh, the opaque darkness," said I to myself, as I laid the print aside, and left the store, "that rests upon that sonnet! What can it mean?" I was sadly puzzled, and did not get entirely rid of the subject until I was rid of the following verses. I think I have hit the artist's intention, and, therefore publish the lines for the benefit of all poor wights who may be similarly situated with myself, while scrutinizing the print I have attempted to describe.

Fanny, in her bower seated,
By the rosy zephyrs fann'd,
To herself these words repeated,

Edward's letter in her hand:

"Hang the fellow !-fie upon

What am I to do or say?

it!

Here this silly, saucy sonnet,

Bids me name the marriage-day!"

H

Then she sigh'd, and pluck'd a flower,

Tore its leaves apart, and then

Nothing said, for near an hour,

Save "Heigho!-these men-these men!" Bridal bells—the pastor's mission

Friends and kindred-hopes and fears— Crowded on her mental vision,

Till her heart dissolved in tears!

Simple girl!—but see, she raises

Her sweet face-all sunshine now;

Marvel not at lover's praises

Gaze upon that heavenly brow! Now she parts her flowing tresses,

Smiles, and reads the letter o'er,

To the winds her love confesses,

Which she ne'er has done before.

List! she speaks again!—and hear her: "Edward I am all thine own!

Can a passion be sincerer

Than that breathed for thee alone?"