Notes of patience."

"Sad seems the sea as it moans

With ceaseless sob on the sand,

All day, all night, as it beats

Its heart away on the land."

The false ring in these lines makes them foolish. It is a common thing for all poetry of this kind to be written about the sea, until in truth, it becomes all "endless sea" to the reader. No poetry is so easy to write as this ; no poetry is so utterly worthless when written. The most remarkable verse we have met, one which expresses the feelings the sea stirred up in the poet, and in which the author seems to be in a sort of ecstasy of grief and woe while giving one the impression that he was "born tired," is the following :

"Slowly beating, lowly moaning, sweetly speakest thou to me,

And my weary soul is eager, evermore at rest to be.

Sorrows crowd upon me thickly, life is like a gloomy night-

Ocean ! in thy depths I'll hide me, in oblivion find delight !

O boundless, endless sea !

Suicide would seem to be the only thing left for the unfortunate writer as "sorrows crowd upon him thickly," and his "life is like a gloomy night." Again we have the false ring, bringing with it as a matter of course, ridicule. Sincerity is of value in any thing under heaven, but nowhere more than in poetry of any decent kind. This is a point the "ridiculous poets" always forget.

It is with a mixed sort of feeling that one listens to the following shriek from the sepulchre. One scarcely knows whether to laugh, or to merely pity the writer :

"ORO ! Oro ! Oro ! Oro !

The ghost-horse on the mount doth go ;