What humanity is robbed of,
Ne'er to be restored again?

What we lose because we honor
Overmuch the mighty dead,

And dispirit living merit,
Heaping scorn upon its head?

Or perchance, when kinder grown,
Leaving it to die-alone?

LITTLE AT FIRSI—BUI GREAT AT LAST

A TRAVELLER through a dusty road,

Strewed acorns on the lea,

And one took root and sprouted up,

And grew into a tree.

Love sought its shade at evening time,

To breathe its early vows,

And Age was pleased, in heats of noon,
To bask beneath its boughs:

The dormouse loved its dangling twigs,
The birds sweet music bore ;

It stood a glory in its place,
A blessing evermore !

A little spring had lost its way
Amid the grass and fern;

A passing stranger scoop'd a well,
Where weary men might turn;
He wall'd it in, and hung with care
A ladle at the brink-

He thought not of the deed he did,
But judg'd that toil might drink.
He pass'd again-and lo! the well,
By summers never dried,

Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues,

And saved a life beside!

A dreamer dropp'd a random thought; "Twas old, and yet was new

A simple fancy of the brain,
But strong in being true;

It shone upon a genial mind,
And lo! its light became

A lamp of life, a beacon ray,
A monitory flame.

The thought was small-its issue great:

A watch-fire on the hill,

It sheds its radiance far adown,
And cheers the valley still!

A nameless man, amid a crowd
That throng'd the daily mart,

Let fall a word of Hope and Love,
Unstudied, from the heart;

A whisper on the tumult thrown-
A transitory breath-

It raised a brother from the dust,
It saved a soul from death.

O germ! O fount! O word of love!
O thought at random cast!
Ye were but little at the first,

But mighty at the last!

ALEXANDER SMITH.

As this volume was going through the press, a new and brilliant star in the poetical firmament has appeared, one, too, which fairly dazzles with its brightness. Smith (dubious name) is, we understand, a clerk in a mercantile house in Glasgow, but it is not likely that a person of such marked genius will long continue a business man. The volume now published consists of one long poem, full of passages of rare beauty, entitled the "Drama of Life," and a few short poems and sonnets. The press, both of Britain and America, have been enthusiastic in its praise. The London "Leader," in a recent number, says:

"Our readers know the chariness with which we use the terms genius and poet, terms so prodigally scattered through the periodicals of the day that they almost lose their significance-like an old piece of money fingered through miscellaneous commerce till the effigies be scarcely traceable—when, therefore, we say that Alexander Smith is a poet and a man of unmistakable genius, we are giving praise beyond the power of epithets. That he has many faults and shortcomings we admit; but these are so obvious, they lie so on the surface of his writing, that we do not care to dwell on them; and we shall better consult the reader's pleasure by reserving our space for extracts that will display the luxuriant imagery and exquisite felicity of expression which herald in him the great poet he will be when age and ripe experience lend their graver accents to his verse.

"At present the subjects he delights to paint are the stars, the sea, the rivulets, and boyish love. Full as his poems are of love, however, the love is only that of young desire quickened by an aesthetic sense of beauty; companionship of spirits he does not yet conceive. This it is

which the young poet sings of, because this, and this only has he felt. He is but one-and-twenty!

"One cannot say much for the substance of his poems; but their form is exquisitely poetical. He has nothing to sing of but Nature and his own emotions. He makes his Muse a harpsichord whereon he plays fragments of melody, practising his hand till some great symphony of song be born within him'"