distinguished, has, in the judgment of some critics, been constituted a fault-as if the artifice of occasional harshness possessed a peculiar merit. Variety is undoubtedly a characteristic of excellence in verse. But the question is, what variety? Not, surely, that which is produced by so cheap an expedient as shifting the pauses or throwing in occasionally a sudden break, nor that which arises from an arbitrary change of rhythm, in the fac-simile style of imitation, displayed in so many popular pieces in the manner, "so called," of Byron or of Scott. All true variety must spring from the modulations of feeling and emotion: all other is mock variety.

The fault complained of lies, as far as it does exist, not in the structure of the verse, not in the ear of the poet, but in the prevalence of certain moods of soul. The metre will always be found true to the passion which is uttered. The question whether the melody is not too frequently struck on the same key, is a different thing, and a fair topic of criticism.

Besides, it should never be forgotten, that many of the sweetest of our author's pieces were composed with express reference to the character and purpose of song; and in all such their adaptation to music depended on that faultless rhythm which is the ground of animadversion.

The mournful and melting cadences of her metre often linger on the ear like the soft thrill of the flute quivering on the air of a summer evening, or the mellow breathings of a distant horn over moonlight waters; and oftener still they vibrate like the wild echoes of the minstrel's harp through the halls of chivalry.

The prevailing sadness of her lays, is, after all, the only just cause of complaint, in relation to the poetry of Mrs. Hemans. But, for one who had drunk so deeply of the bitter waters of grief, how was it possible to avoid a tendency to plaintiveness? Take away the characteristic pathos of her poetry, and though much of its beauty may remain, its peculiar sway over the heart will be gone.

Let us form our judgments on a broader scale. Let us project ourselves into the far future, and anticipate the judgment of posterity. When the literature of the exciting period in which Mrs. Hemans lived comes to be passed in review by our childrens' chil dren, they will turn for their illustrations of truth and pathetic tenderness to her pages; they will compare her, not with her contem. poraries singly, but in the mass; they will judge with an eye on the proportion of pathos in our whole literature; they will study her poetry, not in quest of qualities which it does not exemplify, but of those which it does; and they will confirm all that is favour. able in our decision, and abate much that is otherwise. For the effect produced on the mind by her genius is not that of sudden

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and violent impressions, which overbear the judgment and dazzle the fancy for a time, and perhaps subside into comparative indifference. The poetry of Mrs. Hemans is a genuine strain of the eternal voice of nature, which "sinks down into the ear" and reaches the heart, and has the power there to awaken an "echo which shall never sleep."

THE WRECK OF THE BARQUE MEXICO.*

(WHICH OCCURRED ON HEMPSTEAD BEACH, JANUARY 2ND, 1837.)

BY ELEAZAR PARMLY.

STERN Winter sat upon the deck
And ruled the waves below,
When to our shores a vessel came,
The fated Mexico.

A hundred joyous souls she bore

Across the dark blue sea;

Nor deem'd they, that their gallant barque
Their wintry grave would be.

Two days on Pilot-ground they lay,

(All anxious fears allay'd),

Two days with signals waving high,

Implored the Pilot's aid.

But piercing was the winter wind,

And cold the salt-sea-foam,

So every wary pilot kept

His holiday at home.

And when the evening sun had set,
The sea was lull'd to rest,
And every eye then glad with hope
Gazed on the brilliant west.

And every heart beat high with joy
Among that happy band,
Assured the morning's early rays

Would light them to the land.

* In justice to the author of this beautiful ballad, who might be otherwise suspected of catching his inspiration from some fine lines upon the same subject in the last number of the Knickerbocker, we ought to mention that the present copy of verses is a deferred article from our February number.-Eds. Am. Mon.

Delusive hope! The tempest came
Before the welcome day,

And mid the darkness of the night
The vessel lost her way.

The storm impell'd her far beyond
The aid of mortal hand,
And ere the morning broke, she lay
A wreck upon the strand.

Ah! who can paint the anguish now
That in each breast did lie,

When they were summon'd to the deck
To learn they soon must die!

And oh! what thoughts of home afar,
Of love and friendships there,
Came with its thousand memories
To deepen their despair.

While Death, in icy winding-sheet,
Came shivering on the waves,
And tempests sung their funeral dirge
Around their watery graves.

Then parents and their children dear,
Fast to each other clung;

And wives upon their husbands' necks
In speechless anguish hung.

While every ocean surge received
Some mortal's dying breath,
As on that vessel's deck was kept
The carnival of death.

The frantic sister, too, has sought
A brother's fond embrace;
'Till frozen there, the sufferer finds
Her final resting-place.

And when amid the foaming surge
Their forms the stranger finds;
Those arms which fond affection bound,
Cold death the closer binds.

Behold that mother's lifeless form,

To whose unconscious breast

Her babe, in death's deep slumbers hush'd, Maternal love has press'd :

And tell me, is there ought in life,
More precious or more fair,

Than that warm throb of tender love

Which death has silenc'd there?

ALL the world admires "REJECTED ADDRESSES, OR THE NEW THEATRUM POETARUM ;" and therefore, under the title above chosen we shall be very anonymous. If a man wishes to be strictly incognito at a fancy ball or a masquerade, let him not assume the garb of any character, such as a "Jew Pedlar," "Edward, the Black Prince," "Major Jack Downing," "a grand Dervish," or "a dandy of the fifteenth century;" for his own individuality will, somehow or another, peep through the "gaberdine" of the first, the sable helmet of the second, the "go-to-meeting cut" of the third, the descending beard of the fourth, and the satin superfluities of the fifth, so that his least intimate acquaintance will recognize him; but let him go habilimented (a new word for Noah Webster) like the multitude, in a plain mask and domino, and, ten to one, his bosom.

crony will pass him by unheeded. him by unheeded. Desiring to be most peculiarly unknown as the author of these "Hits," we, therefore, profiting by our experience in fashionable life, call ourselves simply one of a great crowd: "an admirer of Rejected Addresses."

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Some beautiful young miss, just slipped out of the thraldom of a boarding-school into the freedom of a drawing-room, may, through ignorance, misinterpret our meaning, and remark with a simper"probably the writer has had such experience in rejected addresses as to learn how to admire them; but that young gentlemen in gene. ral share in his admiration, I, for one, do not believe." Spare your censure, Miss Amelia Sophia, and reserve your judgment, which, in pity of your lack of edification, we elucidate the point that the rejected addresses" to which we refer, are not those of lovers, (from which Cupid defend us!) but those of Smiths. Not blacksmiths, nor whitesmiths, nor goldsmiths, nor silversmiths, nor that more numerous class, Johnsmiths; but James Smith and Horace Smith, whose portraits are admirably engraved in the little volume before us. "Oh, it is a volume then, which you admire!" Yes, Miss, a volume; a rare volume, a most witty and humourous volume-which, golden-haired syren that you are! we shall be happy to read from, to your "small, round ears," seated pensively at your "dainty feet," any rainy afternoon this winter, when you will send for us.

"Thank you, kindly, sir, she said!" But, as to send us a mes sage, you must know something concerning us, we will put aside our anonymy so as to confess that we are a bachelor! in the same unhappy predicament with one of the Smiths, the authors abovementioned of this little volume, who wittily wrote in his niece's albuin

Having been sufficiently egotistical to show that we are "a poet" as well as "a single gentleman," we proceed with our introduction. We use "we" instead of "I," in speaking of ourselves, as the plural number is more anonymous than the singular, as well as more dignified; and always assumed and monopolized by kings, emperors, and editors.

We like a long introduction; for it argues wisdom on the part of the writer, and shows that he entertains a just appreciation of the brilliant productions with which he is about to dumb-founder the public. We also like frequent digression; for, besides manifesting