Some critics have contended that this poem is deficient in sympathetic consistency, inasmuch as the latter part differs from the commencement, and consequently jars that fine artistic sense which is inseparable from the pure poetic mind.

This is, however, a hypercriticism we shall not venture into, and we merely name it as a critical problem for the reader's entertainment. We well remember the first time we read these verses many years ago, and they became a part of the heart's household from that very hour.

Had Mr. Willis often written in this style criticism would have been needless, for they would have at once settled the question by seizing upon the hearts of all readers.

We think it the unalienable right of every writer to be judged by his whole case: yet how frequently is an author condemned for failure in one branch of literature, while his triumph in other and loftier departments is forgotten or neglected! We think in this we perceive a great difference between American and English criticism. In the latter country an author's reputation generally remains where it was before the publication of the unsuccessful work; if he gains nothing, he loses nothing, except possibly a portion of that prestige which always accompanies success-he has a corps de reserve to retire upon. But in America a writer may lose all on account of one failure, and be well abused into the bargain. There is a monomaniacal spirit of detraction in their critical press which is truly astounding, and would be ludicrous were it not for the injurious tendency it has upon the literature of the country. Agreeably to this view, we not only wish to consider Mr. Willis as a poet, but also to test his powers in the

various branches of that divine art. We have already weighed him in the scale of sacred descriptive poetry, and found him wanting, and have likewise expressed our admiration of his occasional verses; we now present him in another light, as a writer of devotional impulse, and as a proof quote the "Dedication Hymn," sung at the consecration of Hanover Street Church, Boston.

"The perfect world by Adam trod,
Was the first temple, built by God:
His fiat laid the corner-stone,

And reared his pillars one by one.
He hung its starry roof on high-
The broad illimitable sky;

He spread its pavements, green and bright,
And curtained it with morning light.

"The mountains in their places stood-
The sea-the sky-and all was good:
And when its first pure praises rang,
The morning stars together sang-
Lord, 't is not ours to make the sea,
And earth, and sky, a house for thee:
But in thy sight our offering stands,
A humbler temple made with hands."

This is certainly better than the descriptive poetry on sacred subjects, but the same defect spoils this, although in a lesser degree; the hymn is very pretty, and herein the failure consists.

The next specimen we shall give is certainly a startling contrast to the foregoing piece, but this is, perhaps, the truest way of ascertaining the real vein of an author. The critics, coldblooded and calculating too often, oppose this plan on the argument that the violent reaction prevents the palate from regaining its natural taste. In despite of this we shall give the following city lyric:

"Come out, love, the night is enchanting,

The moon hangs just over Broadway,
The stars are all lighted and panting
(Hot weather up there, I dare say).
"T is seldom that coolness entices,
And love is no better for chilling,
But come up to Thompson's for ices,
And cool your warm heart for a shilling.

For six days we list to the band.
The sermon may dwell on the future,
The organ your pulses may calm,
When-past-that remembered cachuca,
Upsets both the sermon and psalm.
Oh! pity the love that must utter
While goes a swift omnibus by,
Though sweet is I scream, when the flutter
Of fans shows thermometer's high.

But if what I bawl, or I mutter,

Falls into your eye but to die,

Oh! the dew that falls into the gutter,
Is not more unhappy than I."

We think our readers will agree that Mr. Willis is not very successful as a comic writer in verse. We will, however, give him one more trial before we decide that point.

66 TO THE LADY IN THE CHEMISETTE WITH BLACK BUTTONS.

66

"I know not who thou art, thou lovely one.

Thine eyes were drooped, thy lips half sorrowful,

Yet thou didst eloquently smile on me,

While handing up thy sixpence through the hole
Of that o'er-freighted omnibus !—Ah, me !—
The world is full of meetings such as this;
A thrill-a voiceless challenge and reply,
And sudden partings after-we may pass,
And know not of each other's nearness now.
Thou in the Knickerbocker Line, and I
Lone in the Waverley! Oh! life of pain,

And even should I pass where thou dost dwell,
Nay, see thee in the basement taking tea,

So cold is this inexorable world,

I must glide on.

I dare not feast mine eye,

I dare not make articulate my love,

Nor o'er the iron rails that hem thee in,

Venture to throw to thee my innocent card,

Not knowing thy papa."

Mr. Willis seems to be fond of the mock-heroic style of verse, for we have another copy of verses to "The Lady in the White Dress whom I helped into the Omnibus." We shall, however, not quote any portion of this, as it is in a similar strain to the other; our readers will decide as to what amount of humor there is displayed in these pieces. In another phase of banter,

we think Mr. Willis shows considerable cleverness; there is an elegance about his frivolity which lends a grace to the effort not otherwise belonging to it.

But give me a sly flirtation,

By the light of a chandelier,
With music to play in the pauses,
And nobody very near.

Or a seat on a silken sofa,

With a glass of pure old wine,
And mamma too blind to discover
The small white hand in mine.
Your love in a cottage is hungry,
Your vine is a nest for flies,

Your milkmaid shocks the graces,

And simplicity talks of pies.