aw it glide,
That stream had flowed and gurgled on forever.
Yes, on the day when JOSHUA passed the flood
Of ancient Jordan; when across the Nile
CAESAR swam (hardly, doubtless, through the mud,)
Yet kept his Commentaries dry the while,
This little Kuhbach, like Siloa's rill,
Or Tiber's Tide, assiduous and serene,
Ev'n then, the same as now, was murmuring still
Across the wilderness, unnamed, unseen.
Art's but a mushroom--only Nature's old;
In yon grey crag six thousand years behold!

From the same chapter of the same book we venture one more extract. It is
where the Professor is full of grief and reminiscences; where, reflecting
on his first experience of wo in the death of Father ANDREAS, he becomes
once more spirit-clad in quite inexpressible melancholy, and says, 'I have
now pitched my tent under a cypress-tree,' etc.:

SONNET IV.--BLISS IN GRIEF.

Under a cypress-tree I pitch my tent:
The tomb shall be my fortress; at its gate
I sit and watch each hostile armament,
And all the pains and penalties of Fate.
And oh ye loved ones! that already sleep,
Hushed in the noiseless bed of endless rest,
For whom, while living, I could only weep,
But never help in all your sore distress,
And ye who still your lonely burthen bear,
Spilling your blood beneath life's bitter thrall,
A little while and we shall all meet _there_,
And one kind Mother's bosom screen us all;
Oppression's harness will no longer tire
Or gall us there, nor Sorrow's whip of fire.

But we are borrowing too much from our embryo volume. Patience, dear
Public! until we can find a publisher. In the mean time, examine the
specimens we have presented to you. Can any one tell us where to look for
sonnets, more satisfactory than these? We congratulate our country on the
prospect of our soon having an American literature. Let our industrious
young aspirants try a work in which they may succeed in producing
something of sterling value. A year or two will suffice to turn half the
plodding prose writers of Britain into original poets. Every brilliant
article that appears in the Quarterly might here renascent spring forth
like Arethusa, in a new and more melodious voice; bubbling up in a pretty
epic or stormy lyric. See, for example, how easily SIDNEY SMITH might be
done into rhyme:

SONNET V.

I never meet at any public dinner
A Pennsylvanian, but my fingers itch
To pluck his borrowed plumage from the