lly
finished, but it is remarkably pure, so that there is in the literature
of this country not a specimen of more genuine English. In this respect
the work of one of the most highly and variously educated women of our
time, to whom the languages of the politest nations were through all her
youth familiar in their courts, may be well compared with the
compositions which "literary ladies" with Phrase Books make half French
or half Italian.

GEORGE W. DEWEY.

[Illustration]

Of our younger and minor poets no one has more natural grace and
tenderness than GEORGE W. DEWEY. The son of a painter, and himself the
Secretary of the Philadelphia Art Union, it may be supposed that he is
well instructed in the principles upon which effect depends; but while
native genius, as it is called, is of little value without art, no man
was ever made a poet by art alone, and it is impossible to read "Blind
Louise," "A Memory," or "A Blighted May," without perceiving that Mr.
Dewey's commission has both the sign and the countersign, in due form,
so that his right to the title of poet is in every respect
unquestionable. He has not written much, but whatever he has given to
the public is written well, and all his compositions have the signs of a
genuineness that never fails to please. There is no collection of his
poems, but from the journals to which he contributes we have selected
the following specimens:

A MEMORY.

It was a bright October day--
Ah, well do I remember!
One rose yet bore the bloom of May,
Down toward the dark December.

One rose that near the lattice grew,
With fragrance floating round it:
Incarnardined, it blooms anew
In dreams of her who found it.

Pale, withered rose, bereft and shorn
Of all thy primal glory,
All leafless now, thy piercing thorn
Reveals a sadder story.

It was a dreary winter day;
Too well do I remember!
They bore her frozen form away,
And gave her to December!

There were no perfumes on the air,
No bridal blossoms round her,
Save one pale lily in her hair
To tell how pure Death found her.

The thistle on the summer air
Hath shed its iris glory,
And thrice the willows weeping there
Have told the seasons' story,

Since she, who bore the blush of May,
Down towards the dark December
Pass'd like the thorn-tree's bloom away,
A pale, reluc