tual' Flowers; it was
given to the first American specimens by those who produced them, and it
has since become so general as to be everywhere understood and accepted
as their most appropriate name. Referring to the process by which these
flowers are prepared, a Christian friend beautifully used them as
emblems of the Resurrection, and as illustrating the ideas--'Sown a
natural body, raised a spiritual body,' and, 'This corruptible must put
on incorruption, and this mortal immortality.''

All who practise this beautiful and _lucrative_ art with any hope of
success, should purchase 'Phantom Flowers,' the result of _five years'_
industrious and intelligent effort.

POEMS: With Translations from the German of Geibel and Others. By
_Lucy Hamilton Hooper_. Philadelphia: Frederick Leypoldt.

These translations are of far more than ordinary merit. From his
exceeding and tender simplicity, Geibel is very difficult to render
aright: a word too much will frequently ruin the stanza in which it may
have been introduced almost necessarily to fill up the rhythm or
consummate the rhyme; a single injudicious ornament will spoil the whole
effect of the cadenced emotions of which his poems consist. We have
tried Geibel, and the songs of Heine, and know the difficulties; we
heartily congratulate our authoress on her success. Nor are her own
poems less beautiful. Musically rhythmed, delicately worded, and purely
felt, they commend themselves to the reader. They do not soar into the
region of abstract thought; they are without pretension, mysticism, or
effort. She challenges no crown, her range is limited, but our hearts
swell and throb with the emotions she sings. A single specimen will best
elucidate our meaning:

BABY LILY.

She was a purer, fairer bud
Than summer's sun uncloses;
Spring brought her with the violets;
She left us with the roses.

A little pillow, where the print
Of her small head yet lingers;
A silver coral, tarnished o'er
With clasp of tiny fingers;

A mound, the rose bush at the head
Were all too long to measure;--
And this is _all_ that Heaven has left
Of her, our little treasure.

O human pearl, so pale and pure!
0 little lily blossom!
The angels lent a little space
To grace a mortal bosom.

The azure heavens bend above,
Unpitying and cruel;
A casket all too cold and vast
To shrine our little jewel.

We cannot picture her t