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I* O E T R Y. LINES from t. moore's new melodies. If thou would'st have me sing and play As once I played and sung. First take this time worn lute away, And bring one freshly strung. * Call back the time w hen Pleasure’s sigh First brea hed among the s’rings; And time himself, in flitting by, Made music with his wings. Take, take the worn out lute away, And bring one newly strung, If thou would’st have me sing and play As once I played and sung. But how is this ? though new the lute, And shining fresh the chords, Beneath this hand they slumber mute, Or speak but dreamy words. In vain I seek the soul that dwelt, Within that once sweet shell, Which told so warmly what it felt, And felt, w hat nought could tell. Oh ask not then, for passion’s lay From lute so coldly strung ; With this I ne’r can sing or play As once I played and sung. No! bring that long loved lute again, Though chilled by years it be, If thou wilt call the slumbering strain ’Twill wake again for thee. Though time have frozen the tuneful stream Os thoughts that gush along, One look from thee, like summer's beam, Will thaw them into song. Then give, oh give that wakening ray, And, once more blithe and young, Thy bard again will sing and play As once he played and sung. From the New-Yorker. I’D DIE ’MID SOFT MUSIC. words to von weber’s last waltz. I’d die 'mid soft music; and whispering the lay, I’d breathe, in sweet singing, my spirit away. Bend o’er me, though weeping, thou beautiful one, With thy long flowing tresses, till sinks my life’s sun ; Then round me, ye lonely, sigh sad to the lute. And warble your sorrow, whilst breathes the soft flute. I'd die 'mid soft music, Ac. I’ve lived 'mid the lovely, and, dying, I'd hear The voice of the lovely sound last on mine ear ! In life and in blooming I’ve loved the soft lyre, And't is meet it should sooth me till faint I expire : Till Earth’s music failing, I join as I rise, The far fading echoes that float from the skies. I'd die 'mid soft music, Ac. MIS CEIsL AN Y . Front Backwood’s Magazine. POCOCURANTE. I do not care a farthing about any man, wo man, or child, in the world. You think that lam joking, Jemmy; but you are mistaken. Waal! you look at me again with those hon est eyes of yours staring with wonder, and ma king ademi-puthetic, deminngry appeal lor an exception in your favor. Well. Jemmy, Ido cure about you, my honest fellow, so uncork the other bottle. Did you ever see me out of humor in your Ife for the tenth part of a second ? Never, so 1 alp me, heaven ! Did you ever hear me speak i! of another ? I might, perhaps, have crack cla joke—indeed, 1 have cracked a good tnti i y such in my time—at a man’s expense be h ad his back ; but never have I said any tiling which 1 would not say to his face, or what I w mid not take f.omhim with treble hardness of receil, if it so pleated him to return it; hut nil bona file evil-spcaking was never uttered by me. 1 never quarreled with tiny one. You are going to put me in mind of my duel With Captain Maxwell. 1 acknowledge 1 fought it, and fired three shots. What then ? Could 1 avoid it? 1 was no more angry with him, when I sent the message, than I was at the mo ment of my birth. Duelling is an absurd cus tom of the country, wliicli I must comply with wh n occasion requires. The occasion had turned up, and 1 fougat of course. Never was 1 happier than wnen I felt tae blood trickling over my shoulders—for the wise laws ofhonor were satisfied, and I was rid of die cuised lrouble. I was sick of the puppyism of punc tilio, and the booby legislation of the seconds, and was glad to escape from it by a scratch. I made tup with Muvwell, who was an hon> st. though a not-Ileaded and obstinate man—and you know I wasexei utorto his will. Indeed, he dined with me the very day-week idler the duel. Yet, spite of this equanimity, I rcqieiit it, that I do not cate tor any human being on earth, (the present company always being ex. copied,) more than I care tor one of those til berts wnich you are cracking with sucii lauda ble assiduity. Ye—it is true—l have borne myself to wards my family ouexccptioriably, as tiie world has it. I married oir my sisters, sent my brot erstothe colleges, and did what was fair for my mother. Bui I shall not be hypocrite enougii to pretend to high motives for so doing. My lather’s death left tliein entirely to me, and wlia! could Ido with them ? Turn them out ? Tnat would be absurd, and just as altsurd to re tain them at home without treating them prop erly. They were mv family. My ow n com forts would have been materially invaded by any ot'ner line of conduct. 1 therefore cxecu ted tlie filial and fraternal affections in a man ner which will be a fine topic of panegvri* for my obituary. Heaven help the idiots win write such things ! Tliey, to talk of motives and feelings, and the impulses that sway th. human heart! They, whose highest ambit io; it is to furnish provender, at so much a lira for magazine or newspaper. Yet from the , 6hai! 1-receive tl»e tribute of a tear. The wor shall be unformed in due time, and 1 care n«, how soon, that “ Died at his house, etc. etc a gentleman, exemplary in every relation ■ f life, wlietlier we consider him as a son, a brott er, a friend, or a citizen. His lieart,” ands on to the end of tlie fiddle fuddle. The win* ing up of my fhrnily affairs, you know, is, th I Usve (rot rid of them all; that I pay tlie goo_ people a visit once a month, and ask them to a humdrum dinner on my birth day, which you are per.taps aware occurs but once a year. lam alone. 1 feel that lam alone. Mv politics—what then ? I am, externally at least, a tory. a toute out ranee, because my father and my grandfather (and I cannot trace my genealogy any higher) were so be lb re me. Resides, I think every gentleman should be a tory; there is an easiness, a suavity of mind, i engendered by toryism, which it is vain for yon -to expect from fretful whiggery, or bawi fng radicalism, and such should lie. a strong distinctive feature in evCi'v* gs fitlefhari’s Char acter. -And I ajdniit, that in my youth 1 did i many queer tin igs, and said many violent and nonsensical matters. But taut fervor is gone. I tun still outside the same ; hut inside how different ! I laugh to scorn the nonsense 1 hear vented about me in the clubs wlnch I fre quent. The zeal about nothings, the bustle about stuff, the fears and tlie precautions a gaiusl fancied dangers, tlie indignation against writings which no decent man thinks of read ing. or against speeclies which are but the es sence of stupidity ; in short, the whole tempest in a tea-pot ap|»ears to me to be ineffably lu dicrous, I join now and then, nay very often, in these discussions; why should not I ? Am I no' possessed of the undoubted liberties of a Briton, inves.ed with the full privilege of talk ing nonsense ? And if any of my associates laugh inside at me, why, I think them quite right. But I have dirtied my fingers with ink, you say, and daubed other people’s fiices witlrthem. I admit it. My pen has been guilty of various political jeux d'esprit, but let me whisper it, Jemmy, on both sides. Don’t start, it is not worth while. My tory quizzes lam suspect ed of; suspected I say, for I am not such a goose as to let them beany more than mere matters of suspicion ; but of quizzes against tories I am no more tluaught guilty than lam of petty larceny. YSsuch is the case. I write with no ill fee^Bf; public men or people who thrust thenisCTTOs before the public in any way. I just look on as phantoms of the imagination, as tilings to throw off common places about. You know bow l assassinated Jack ****, j>i the song winch you transcribed for me ; how it spread in thousands, to his great annoyance. Well, on Wednesday last, he and I supped tete-a-tete, and a jocular fel low he is. It was an accidental rencounter— he was sulky at first, but I laughed mid sung him into good humor. W hen the second bot tle Imd loosened his tongue, he looked at me most sympathetically, and said, “ May I ask you a question?” “A thousand,” I replied. “ provided you do not expect me to answer them.” “ Ah,” lie cried, “it was a sh: me for you to abuse me the way you did, and all for nothing ; but, hang it, let bygones be bygones —you are too pleasant a fellow to quarrel with.” 1 told him he appeared to lie under a mistake—tie shook his head—emptied his bot tle, mid we staggered home in gient concord. In point off ict, men of sense think not ofsuch things, and mingle freely in society as if they never occurred. Why, then, should Ibe sup posed to have any feeling whatever, whether of anger or pleasure about them ? My friends ! Where are they ? Ay. Jem my, I do understand what that pressure of my hand means. Bat where is the other ? No. wh re! Acquaintances I have in hundreds —boon companions in dozens—fellows to whom I make myself as agreeable as I can, and whose sue ety gives me pleasure. There’s Jack Meggot—the best joker in the world— Will Thompson—an unexceptionable ten-bot tle-man— John Mortimer, a.singer of most re nowned social qualities—there’s—but what need I enlarge the catalogue ? You know the men I mean. I live witn them, and that right gaily, but Would on of them crack a joke tlie less, drink a lass tlie less, sing a song the less, if I died before morning ? Not one—nor do I blame them. for. if they were ingulfed in Tartarus, I should just go through my usually daily round—ke p moving in tlie suite mono tonous tread-mill of life, with other compan ions to help me through, as steadily as l do now. The friends of my boyhood are gone— ay—all—all gone! I have lost the old familiar laces, and shall not try for others to replace them. I am now happy v ith a mail-coach compan on, whom I icver saw before, and ne ver will see again. My cronies come like shadows, to depart. Do you remember tlie ‘tory of Abon Hassnn, in someoftlie Oriental tiles? lie was squandering a fine property on some hollow friends, when he was advised to try their friendship by pretending poverty, and asking their assistance. It was refused, and he determined in ver to see them more— never to make a friend—n ly, not even an ac quniutancc ; lint to sit, according to the cus tom of the East, by the way-side, and inv;te to his board the three first p tssers-by, with whom lie spent the night in festive debauchery. making it a rule never to ask the same per sons a second time. My life is almost the same—true it is that I know the exterior eo - foi mation. and the peculiar habits of those with whom I associate, hut our hearts are ignorant of one another. They vibrate not together ; they are ready to enter into the same commu nication, with any passer-by. Nay, perhaps, Ilassan’s plan was more social. He was re lieved from inquiries as to the character of his table-mates. Be they fair, be they foul, they were nothing to him. lam tormented out of my life by such punctilios as 1 daily must sub mit to. “ I wonder you keep company” says a friend—friend! well, no matter—“ wi'h R. He is a scoundrel—he is suspected of having cheated fifteen years ago at play, he drinks ale le fought shy in a duel business, he is a whig —a radical, a muggletonian, a jumper, a mod rate man, a jacobin ; he asked twice for soup e wrote a liiiel, his fattier was a low attorney obody knows him in good society, ” etc. etc. Why, what is it to me ? I care not whcthei >e broke every commandment in the deca ■igue. provided he lie a pleasant fellow, am nit lam not mixed up with his offences. Bn le world will so mix me up in spite of myself, i surns used to say, tlie best company he was j >er ill, was the company of professed black uards. Perhaps lie was right. I dare no r y. My early companions I did care for an here are they ? Poor Tom Benson, he wa v' class-fellow at scliool; we occupied tin me rooms in college, we shared our s'udie-, ! jar amusements, our flirtations, our follies, oui TIIE SOUTHERN POST. dissipations together. A more honorable or upright creature never existed. Well, sir, lie had an uncle, lieutenant-colonel of a cavalry regiment, and at his request Tom bought a cornetcy in tlie corps. I remember the grand looking fellow strutting about in the full splen dor of his yet unspotted regimentals, the cyn osureof the bright eyes of tlie country town in winch he resided. He came to Loudon, nnd then joined his regiment. All was well for a while ; but lie had always an unfortunate ilch for play. In on little circle it did him no great harm ; but his new companions played high, and far too skilfully for Tom—perhaps there was roguery, or perhaps there was not — I never inquired. At all events, he lost all his ready money. He then drew liberally on his family ; lie lost that too ; in short, poor Tom at last staked his commission, and lost it with the re.-t. This, of course, could not be concealed from the uncle, who gave him a se vere lecture, hut procured him a commission in an infantry regiment destined for Spain. He was to join it without delay ; but the in fatuated fellow again risked himself, and lost the infantry commission also. He now was ashamed or afraid to face his uncle, and enlist ed (for he was a splendid looking young man, and was instantly accepted,) as a private sol dier in the twenty-sixth foot. I suppose that he found his habits were too refined and too firmly fixed to allow him to be satisfied with the scanty pay, and coarse food, and low com pany, of an infantry soldier. It is certain, that fie deserted in a fortnight after enlistment.— The measure of poor Tom’s degradation was not yet fil ed up. He had not a farthing when he left the twenty-sixth. He went to his un cle’s at an hour when he knew that he would not be at home, and was with difficulty admit ted by the servant, who recognised him. He persuaded him a* last that he meant to throw himself on tlie mercy of his uncle, and the man, who loved him—every bodv of all de grees wiio knew him loved Inm —consented to his admission. I am almost ashamed to go on. He broke open his uncle’sescritoir, and took from it vvliatever money it contained—a bundled pounds or thereabouts—and slunk out of the house. Heavens! what were ny feel ings when I heard this—when I saw him pro claimed in the newspapers as a desertei, and ; a thief! A thief! Tom Benson a thief! I , could not credit the intelligence of my eyes or my ears. He whom I knew only five months ' before, for so brief had his career been, would have turn and with scorn and disgust from any action deviating a hair’s-breadth from the high est honor. How he spent the next six mouths of his life, 1 know not; but about the end of that period a letter was left at my door by a messenger, who immediately disappeared. It was from him. It was couched in terms of the most abject self-condemnation, and the bit terest remorse. He declared tie was a ruined may in character, in fortune, in happiness, in every thing, and conjured me, for tha sake of j former friendship, to let him have five guineas, | which he said would take him to a place of j safety. Prom the description of the messen ger, who, Tom told me in his note, would re turn in an hour, I guessed it was himself.— When the time came, which he had put off to a moment of almost complete darkness. I opened the door to his fearful rap. It was he, 1 knew him at a glance, as the lamp flashed over his face, and, uncertain as was the light, it was bright enough to let me see that lie was | squalid,and in rags; that a fearful and fero cious suspicion, which spoke volumes, as to tlie life he had lately led, lurked in his side-looking eyes ; those eyes that a year before spoke no thing but joy and courage, and that a prema ture gruyness had covered with pie-bald patch es the once glossy black locks which straggled over his unwashed face, or through his tatter ed hat. I had that he asked, perhaps more, in a pa per in my hand. I put it into his. I had barely time to say “ O Tom !” when he caught my hand, kissed it with burning lips, exclaim-! ed, “ Don’t speak to me, I am a wretch !” and, bursting from the grasp with which I wished to detain him, fled with the speed of an arrow down the street, and vanished into a lane. Pursuit was hopeless. Many years elapsed, and I heard not of him, no one heard of him. But about two years ago, I was at a coffee ; house in the Strand, when an officer of what tl ey called the Patriots of South America, staggered into the room. lie was very drunk. Ilis tawdry and tarnished uniform proclaimed the service to which he belonged, and all doubt on the subject was removed by his conversa tion. It was nothing but a tissue of curses on Bolivar and his associates, who, he asserted, had seduced him from his country, ruined his prospects, robbed him, cheated him, and insult ed him. How true these reproaches might have been 1 knew not, nor do I care, but a thought struck me that Tom might have been of this army, and I inquired, as, indeed, I did of everybody coming from a foreign country, if he knew any thing of a man of the name of Benson. “Do you ?” stammered out the drunken patriot, “ I do,” was mv reply. “Do vou care about him ?” again asked the officer. “ I did, I do.” again I retorted. “ Why then,” said he “ take a short stick in your hand, nnd step across to Valparaiso, tliere you will find him two feet under ground, strongly wrapi ed up in a blanket. 1 was his sexton myself, and bad no time to dig him a deeper grave, and no way ofgetting a stou’er coffin. It will just do all as well. Poor fellow, it was all the clothes he had for many a day before.” I was shocked at the recital, but Holmes was too much intoxicated to pursue the subject anv far ther. I called on him in the morning, and learned that Benson had joined as a private soldier in this desperate service, under the name of Maberly, that he speedily rose to a com mand, was distinguished for doing desperate ictions, in which he seemed quite reckless of ife, had, however, been treated with consider thle ingratitude, never was paid a dollar, had ost his baggage, was compelled to part wit! dniost all his wearing apparel for subsistence ! aid had just made his way to the sea-side •imposing to escape to Jamaica, when he sunk ivercome by hunger and fatigue. He kept tin ecret of his name till the last moment, who •e confided it, and a part of his unhappy his i ory, to Holmes. Such was the end of Ben <in, a man born to high expectations, of culti ited mind, considerable genius, generou e.srt, qnri honorable purposes. Jack Dallas I became acquainted with at Brazen Nose. There waa a time that I tho’t I would have died for him. and, I believe, that his feelings towards me were equally warm. Ten tearsngo we were tlie Damon and Pyth. ias, the Pylades and tlie Orestes of our day. Y'et I lost him by a jest. He was wooing most desperately a very pretty girl, equal to him in rank, but ratlier meagre in tlie purse. He kept it, however, a profound secret from his friends. By accident I found it out, and when 1 next saw him, 1 began to quiz him. He was surprised at the discovery, and very sore at the quizzing. He answered so testi ly, that I proceeded to annoy him. He be came mote and more sour, I more and more vexatious in my jokes. It was quite wrong on my part; but heaven knows 1 meant nothing by it. I did not know that he had just part ed with his father, who bad refused all consent to the match, adding injurious insinuations a bout the mercenary motives of the young lady. Dallas Imd been defending her, but in vain ; and then, while in this mood, did I choose him as the butt of my silly witticisms. At last some thing I said, some mere pieces of nonsense, nettled him so much, that he made a blow at me. I arrested his arm, and cried, “Jack, you would linvj been vi ry sorry had you put your intentions into effect.” He colored as if ashamed of his violence, but remained -alien and silent fora moment, and then left the room. 1 W e never have spoke since. He shortly after went abroad, and we were thus kept from meeting and explaining. On his return, we joined different coteries, and were of different j sides in politics. In fact, I did not see him for nearly seven years until last Monday, when lie j passed me, with his wife—a different jierson I from his early passion, the girl on account of! whom we quarreled, on his arm. I looked at him, bui he bent down bis eyes, pre- j tending to speak to Mrs. Dallas. So lie it. Then there was my brother—my own poor brother, one year younger than myself. The! verdict, commonly a matter of course, must have been true in bis case. What an inward revolution that must have been, which could j have lient that gav and free spirit, that joyous and buoyant soul, to think of self-destruction. But I c nnot speak of poor Arthur. These l were my chief friends, and I lost the last of them about ten year- ago ; and since that time I know no one, the present company excepted, for whom 1 care a farthing. Perhaps, if they had lived with me as well as my other compan ions, I would have been as careless about them, as lam about Will Thomson, Jack Megget, or my younger brothers. lam often inclined to think, that my feelings towards them are hut wanned by the remember* and fervor of boy hood, and made romantic by distance of time. lain pretty sure, indeed, that it is so. And, if we could call up Benson innocent from the mould of South America, could restore poor, dear Arthur, make Dallas forget his folly, and let them live together again in my society, I should be speedily indifferent about them too. My mind is as if slumbering, quite wrapped up in itself, and never wakes but to act a part. I rise in the moreing, to eat, drink, talk, to say whai I do not think, to advocate questions wliic i I care not for, to join companions whom j I value not, to indulge in sensual pleasures which I despise, to waste my hours in trifling I j amusements, or more trifling business, and to retire to my bed perfectly in ifferent as to whether I am ever again to see the shining of the sun. Yet, is my outside gay, and my cor. ! versation sprightly. Within I generally stag : nate, but sometimes there comes a twinge short indeed, but bitter. Then it is that I |am, to all appearance, most volatile, most ea ger in dissipation ; but could you lift thecov eriug which shrouds the secrets of my bosom, you would see that, like the inmates of the hid jof r.blis, my very heart was fire. Ha—ha—ha ! say it again, Jemmy—say it ag tin. man—do not be afraid. Ha —ha—ha! too good—too good, upon honor. I wascros. i sell in love! lin love. Y'ou make me laugh —excuse my rude ess—lia—ha—ha! No no, thank heaven, though 1 committed follies of various kinds, I escaped that foolery. I see my prosing has infected you, lias made you dull. Quick, umvire tlie champagne—let us drive spirits into us by its generous tide. !We are growing muddy over the claret. I in love! Ba fish all gloomy thoughts, “ A light heart and a thin pair of breeches Goes through the world, my brave boys.” What say you to that ? We should drown all care in the bowl—fie on the plebeian world, we should dispel it by the sparkling bubbles of wine, fit to be drai k by the gods ; that is y. >ur only true philosophy. “ Let us drink and lie merry, Dance, laugh and rejoice, With claret and sherry, Theorbo and voice. This changeable world To our joys is unjust; All pleasure's uncertain, So down with your dust. In pleasure dispose Your pounds, shillings, and pence, For we all shall be nothing A hundred years hence.” What, not another ? Only one more ! Do not be so obstinate. Well, if you must, why, all 1 can say is, good night. ******* He is gone. A kind animal, but a fool; ex actly what is called the best creature in tiie world. I have that affection for him that I have for old Towler, and I believe his feelings towards me are like Towler’s, an animal love of one whom he looks up to. An eating, drinking, good-humored, good-natured v.irlet, who laughs at my jokes, when I tell him they are to lie laughed at, sees things exactly in the ight that I see them in, backs me in my as sertions, and bets on meat whist. I had rath er than ten thousand pounds be in singleness •if soul, in thoughtlessness of brain, in honesty if intention, in solid contented ignorance, such is Jemmy Musgravc. That 1 cannot be N'imparte. Booby as he is. he did hit a string which I nought had lost its vibration, had become in 'urate like all my other feelings. Pish ! It s well that lam alone. Surely the claret has nade me maudlin, and the wine is oozing out tmy eyes. Pish! What nonsense. Ay, Margaret, it is exactly ten years ago. I was •en twenty, and a fool. No. not a fool for oving you. By heavens, I have lost my wits .o talk this stuff! the wine has done its office, and lam maundering. Wh, did I love you ? It was all my own jierverse stupidity. I W as, am. and ever will be, a blockhead, an idiot of tiie first water. And such a match for her to be driven into. Site certainly should have let me know more of her intentions than she did. Indeed ! Way should site ? Was she to ca per after my whims, to sacrifice her h ippiucss to my caprices, to my devotions of to-day, and i my sulkinesses, or. still worse, my-levities of to-merrow ? No, no, Margaret: never—ne ver—never, even in thought, let me accuse you, model of gentleness, of kindness, of good ness, as well as of lien ity. 1 am to blame myself, and myself alone. I can see her now, can talk to her without passion, can put up with her husband,anil lon dle her children. I have repressed that emo tion, and, in doing so. all others. With that tkrob lost, went all the rest. lam now a mere card in the pack, shuffled about eternally with the set. but passive and senseless. I care no more for my neighbor, than the king ofdia-i mi nds cares for him of clubs. Dear, dear Margaret, there is a lock of your hair enclosed unknown to you inn little ease which lies over my heart. I seldom dare look at it. Let me kiss its auburn folds once more, and remember the evening I took it. But lam growing more and more absurd. I drink your health then, and retire. Here’s a health to thee, Margaret, Here’s a health to thee ; The drinkers are gone, And I am alone, So here’s a healih to thee. Dear, dear Margaret. NIAGARA. The correspondent of the New.York Ex press in his “Journal of a Tour to the West,” lias the following notice of the cataract of Niagara: Alone at midnight I have returned to mv hotel, from a lonely and solemn walk along the shores of Niagara. From my window, by the pale light of tiie stars, I can almost see the foam that whitens tlie rocky shores beneath me. The roar of the cataract is still ringing in my ears. All else is hushed in midnight sleep. The earth has veiled the sun in its mantle of darkness, and the moon sheds not now even its dimmest lustre upon the little speck of earth we inhabit. Tlie stars alone mingle their feeble rays of light with the thick dampness of night. Ali is still, solemn, and awful, save, perhaps, the active sense if man and the power of conscience. In such a place as this, at such an hour as this, why may not the living have communion with tlie dead—we who people the earth with tlie angelic hosts who dwell in the heavens above us ? Life here at such a time seems but “ a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage. And then is heard no more; as a ta'e Told by an idiot; full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.” So majestic is Nature, and so homeless does man now seem compared with Natun. both in the over-banging firmament above, “ fretted witn golden fire ;” and in the deep beneath, rumbling unceasing thundcs, that liciea man, hi spite efhimself, must forget himself-—all that le lias been, all that he is, and all that he hopes. Ilis nothingness seems written as with a pen if iron upon all around him, and if ever a feel, mg of humility bowed him to the dust, it will he it a place and at a time like this. Thought is ict've and becomes as food and raiment lor ne body. Fancy, contemplation, solicitude, ■t”re, reflection, so to speak, every fibre of thought, becomes a living and an active princi ple. Sublimity is here felt and realized by the fullest man, who has lever before opened his eves to see, or his ears to hear, of tlie wonders of Nature. Before him, and all around him. s a fit and striking emblem of eternity. Un ceasingly since the seven days wnen tlie Great Je.ovah “divided the waters which were un fertile firmament,” the same omnipotent pow er lias poured out, as from tlie palms of His minis, seas upon seas, and oceans upon oceans, without the least diminution of power. 1 know not, hut as I read, wlmt have been the conceptions of others as for the first time t iey have gazed upon a scene like this. In truth and sotierness, I hardly know my own feelings, for all that I see here is unlike all that I have seen elsewhere. There is but one Niagara upon tlie broad surface of the crea ted world ! No man wiio has seen this will question either its unity or its power. The waterfall here speaks in tones of thunder, and its voice night nor day is hushed. In the storm there is but one Niagara In the beau ty of the sunshine arched with rainbows that charm tiie eye and take captive the imagina tion, there is but one Niagara. In the still ness ot nigiit, when the heavens are clothed with darkness, tliere is but one Niagara. In the morning, at noon, or at eventide, at sun rise, at twilight, or in the bustle of mid-day, there is but one Niagara. I shall not, for I cannot even attempt a descri, tion of the Fulls of Niagara. In the almost overpowering re flections that take possession of tiie visiter and carry away captive Ins judgement, you may form some faint idea of ttie grandeur nnd pow er of this waterfall. Stand at the foot of Etna or Vesuvius, with the earth trembling beneath your feet, and the crater of the volcano aboxe you polling forth its smoke and fire, burying the villages bei eath in ashes and ruins, and you see a sight less grand and imposing than Niagara. Stand upon one of the vast prairies of ttie West, and there look upward and see the wi idows of heaven rolling down as in floods rivers of water from the height abo e, and even then you paint but a poor picture o! the I" alls of Niagara. As soon almost would I assume the attitude of the inspired prophets and, like St. John of old, draw a likeness o the new heaven and the new earth of the celes tial city. He who attempts such likeness mars the beauty of the great original. True, I migli' perhaps give some faint likeness of some few of the many beauties ot this striking repre sentation of the power of Deity. But to real ize the scene presented to the visiter, it mus lie seen and heard and felt. Reflection, too must do its part to contribute to tlie naturtd effect of a piece of work like this. Here “ deep callcth unto deep,” nnd, in gazing ujku the faint picture now, with midnight before mi and in hearing the waves “ That break and whisper of their Maker’s might -•• I am with Brainard, ready to apostrophe Niagara, and say, with him, it seems “ As if God p Hir’d thee from his hollow hand, And hung His bow upon ihy awful front. And spoke in that loud voice which seemed to hi* Who dwelt in Patinos for his Saviour's sake ' ‘The sound of many waters ;’ and had bade The flood to chronicle the ages back. And notch His centuries in the eternal rocks.” 1 am inclined, deai reader, to serve vou • a guide-book, should you ever visit the Seventh wonder of the world, t 0 take you hy the hand cross from the American shore to Goat or' Iris Island, covered with tall trees and hu«e rocks, notched w ith the initials of the names of millions of visitors, and scattered over with a rich variety of flowers, and from this f ar fumed spot, which gives you a magnificent view of the Rapids of both Falls, go with V0l) to the numerous places of attraction upon both sides of the river. My mind is made up again to weary you. patience. Adieu, there, sere for tlie present. MODERN POETS. Wordsworth. Wordsworth, if he stood alone, would vindicate the imn ortality of his art. He has, in his works, built up a'leck of defence for his species, which will resist the mightiest tides of demoralizing luxury. Set. ting aside the varied and majestic harmony of his verse—the freshness and the grandeur of his descriptions—the exquisite softness of his delineations of character, and the high and rapturous spirit of his choral songs—we may produce his ‘divine philosophy’ as unequalled by any preceding bard. And surely it is no small proof of the infinity of the resources of genius, that, in this late age of the world, the first of all philosophic poets should have arisen, to open anew vein of sentiment and thou»htj < cejier and richer than yet had b en laid bare to mortal eyes. His rural pictures are as fresh and as lively as those of Cowper, yet how much lovelier is the pi-etic light which is shed over them! His exhibition of gentle pecu. liurities ol character, and dear immunities of heart, is is true and as genial as that of Gold, smith, yet how much is its interest heightened by its intimate connection, as by golden chords, with the noblest and most universal truths! His little pieces of tranquil beauty are as holy and as sweet as those of Collins, and yet, while we feel the calm of the elder poet gliding into our souls, we catch farther glimpses through the luxuriant boughs into ‘tlie highest heaven of invention.’ His soul mantles as high w ith love and joy, as that of Burns, but yet ‘ how bright, how solemn, how serene,’ is the brinn mg and lucid stream! Ilis poetry not only and scovers, within the heart, new faculties, hut awakens within its untried powers, to comprehend and to enjoy its beau ty and its wisdom. Coleridge. —Coleridge, by a strange error, has been usually regarded ns belo ging to the ame school with Wordsworth, partaking of the same peculiarities, and upholding the same doctrines. Instead, like Wordsworth,of seeking the sources of sublimity and of lieauty m the simplest elements of humanity, he ranges through nil history and science, inves tigating all that has really existed, and all that really existed, and all that Isas had foundation only in the strongest and wildest minds, com. hitting, condensing, developing, and multiply ing the rich products of his research with mar vellous facility and skill; now pondering fond ly over some piece of exquisite loveliness, brought from a wild and unknown recess; now tracing out the hidden germ of the eldest and most barbaric theories; and now calling fantastic spirits from the vasty deep, where they have slept since the dawn of reason. The term, ‘myriad-minded,’ which lie has happily applied to Shukspeare, is truly descriptive of himself. He is not one, hut Legion—‘rich with the spoils of time,’ richer in his own glo rious imagination and sportive fantasy. There is nothing more wonderful than the facile ma jesty of his images, or rather, of his world of imagery, which, even in bis poetry or his prose, start up before us self raised and all perfect, like the palace of \ laddin. Ile ascends to the sublimest truths, by a winding track of of sparkling glory, which can only be des cribed in bis own language— “ The spirit’s ladder, That from this gross and visible world of du«t, Even to the starry world, with thousand rounds Builds itself up; on which the unseen powers Move up and down on heavenly ministries — The circles in the circles, that approach The central sun, with ever-narrowing orbit.” In various beauty of versification, he has never licen exceeded. Sliakspeare, doubtless has surpassed him in linked sweetness and ex quisite continuity, and Milton in pure majesty and classic grace—but this is in ones: ecies of verse only—and, taking all his trials of va rious metres, the swelling harmony of his blank verse, the sweet breathing of his gentler otles, and the sybil-hke flutter alternate with the murmuring charm of his wizard spells, we doubt if even those great masters have so f.dly developed the music of * the English tongue. Lamb. —Charles Lamb is as original as Wordsworth or Coleridge, within the smaller circle which he has chosen. We know not of any writer, living or dead, to whom we can fitly liken him. The exceeding delicacy of his fancy, the keenness of his perceptions of truth and beauty, the sweetness and the wisdom of his hum< r, and the fine interchange and sportive combination of all these, so fre quent in his works, are entirely and peculiarly his own. As it has been said of Swift, that his better genius was his spleen, it may be as serted of Lamb, that his kindliness is his in spiration. With how nice an eye does he de tect the least hitherto unnoticed indication of goodness, and with how true and gentle a touch does he bring it out to do good to our natures! How new and strange do some of his more fantastical ebullities seem, yet how invariably do they come home to the very core, and smile at the heart ? He makes the majesties of imagination seem familiar, and gives to familiar things a pathetic beauty* ora venerable air. Instead of finding that every thing in his writings is made the most of, we always feel that the tide of sentiment and of thought is pent in, and that the airy and