,
To know, when its fountain shall gush no more,
That those it so fondly has yearn'd for will come,
To plant the first wild-flower of spring on my tomb.
Let me lie where lov'd ones can weep over me--
Bury me not in the deep, deep sea!

And there is another, her tears would be shed
For him who lays far in an ocean bed;
In hours that it pains me to think of now,
She has twin'd these locks and kiss'd this brow--
In this hair she has wreathed shall the sea-snake hiss?
The brow she has press'd shall the cold wave kiss?
For the sake of that bright one that wails for me,
Bury me not in the deep, deep sea!

"She hath been in my dreams"--his voice failed short,
They gave no heed to his dying prayer.--
They have lowered him o'er the vessel's side--
Above him hath closed the solemn tide.
Where to dip her wing the wild fowl rests--
Where the blue waves dance with their foamy crests--
Where the billows bound and the winds sport free,
They have buried him there, in the deep, deep sea.

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Calaynos: A Tragedy. By George H. Boker, E. H. Butler
& Co. Philadelphia, pp. 218._

The spirit of English poetry has been for years eminently lyric; the
few attempts at the epic or dramatic having been laid aside, if not
permanently, at least for a time. The age has been too busy in working
out, with machinery and steam, its own great epic thought, to find
leisure to listen to any thing longer than a single bugle-blast
encouraging its advancement. We cannot but believe, however, if we may
be allowed an analogical inference, that the age is fast approaching
the climax of its utilitarian inventions, and that man, instead of
chasing through unknown regions every will-o-wisp of his brain, in the
hope of bringing it a captive to the Patent-office, will sit modestly
down to apply to their various uses the discoveries already made. Then
will the healthy feast of literature once more begin, and the public
cease to be surfeited by the watery hash which has been daily set
steaming before them. In the volume under consideration we think we
can discern the promise of the return of the good old spirit of
English poetry--of solid honest thought expressed in straight forward
Saxon. The story, which is one of the chivalrous days of Spain, while
it is devoid of trick is full of thrilling interest, and its style,
while it is eminently