and has a habit of demanding "proof" upon assertion, which makes it advisable, before introducing to him an hypothesis, to ascertain that it has legs to stand on. During a cursory discussion upon Milton, I meekly ventured to hint how fair a field might Moore have found in Paradise, prior to our Ancestors' ejectment: the pen that reported the Loves of the Angels, would not its current have crystallised, and flowed in irishues, as it told of the Garden, when, as with the yet-lingering pressure of the Creator's hand, it was pronounced "good," and was blissful as are all things which are born of GOD. 'Twas an evening lovely as that we just now witnessed, when my ancient ally was with me; and the beautiful time so forcibly suggested the primeval vesper-hour, ere Danger frowned through the darkness to agitate Dread, and when, by gentle graduation brooded over by the silver-winged Silence, the young world sunk, in the languor of long happiness to rest, in order to recruit its capacity of enjoyment for the repletion of the morrow;-in all the grandeur of its serenity, the time, I say, so much impressed me, that when my companion left, unused, albeit, to "spend my prodigal wits in bootless rhymes," I could not abstain from lamely chasing the idea of

THE APPROACH OF NIGHT IN EDEN.

To tranquillise the ecstatic Hours,
A soothing umber-shade was given,
Which Day eterne hath not in heaven--
Nor lent to Earth, unless that powers
Not infinite might wearied be

By o'er-prolonged felicity.

But who may paint-what accents tell

The infant Sun's sublime farewell?
The splendor of day were palor now
To the fulgency of his fiery brow,
As like a god, with radiance drest,
Whose glory gilds his couch of rest,
He sunk within the crimsoned West.

And now, the ruddy day-beams fleetly failing,
Night falls on Eden as a spirit's wing,
Fresh fragrance all th' odorous bowers exhaling,
Inspiring which their quires forget to sing:

The shadow spreads--a soft narcotic shield-
And flowers breathe, in downy slumber sealed ;-
Fair children all, yet one supremely sweet,

With whom, on wakening from its first repose, An amorous Sunbeam, raptured, chanced to meet, And kissed the blushing flowret to a Rose.

And streamlets rilled a softer tune

As o'er their ripples shed the Moon

A paler, scarce less lucid ray,

Than that which burnished them by day;
And while each bliss-o'erburdened sense
Was hushed in quietude intense,

There issued from a viewless clime,
Such strains as when, in quires sublime,
To gushing harps, the ardent hymn
Bursts from the bright-eyed cherubim ;
While high above and from afar
Streamed melody from many a star:-
O, had those stars been Luna's daughters,
They might have paused in their career—
Perchance have left their stellar sphere-
To linger over Eden's waters,

Where, mirrored, shone each pearly gem
That glistened in Night's diadem,
Each lovely in the bright emblazoned sky
As Vestal fair to Beauty's crown aspiring,

Seen by the light of her own jetty eye,

Ere dimmed by tears-or too devout admiring.

Night reigned: soft Zephyrs that by day
Did now in sportive dalliance stray
Where'er a new Perfume bad birth,
Would then in fragrance flee away
To tempt the mighty Sea to play.

The exulting Main, in giant mirth
And joyous unison with Earth,
Tossed high, in ecstasy, his spray.
But Rapture lulled itself to rest
When Phoebus Paradise had blest,
And Eden donned her night-array;
Then hushed grew Ocean, placid Sleep
In starlit slumber stilled the Deep

"Twas an exquisite hour, that reign of Night,
So blissful and dreamy in its delight

That Earth might have longed for none other light;

Yet silence seemed a state forlorn

When, from the roseate East, the Morn
Roused, and redecked, that vernal scene

To vivid joy, in sparkling sheen ;
Till Eden wore so glad a smile,
It might e'en seraphim beguile.

C.-The notion of the stars being daughters of the moon, would hardly pass unscathed by the goodhumoured satire of your logical friend, I should think; nor would you escape censure from le beau sexe, for the imputation of vanity conveyed under a figure (you will excuse my candour,) rather difficult of digestion.

E-When I " showed" to the quaint comrade of my youth this " wandering"* of my old age, he fixed on that identical figure for jocular criticism, remarking, "Your making the moon a mother of the stars suggests the application of a popular phrase to comets, if you include them in the number of Luna's children; and nothing can be easier to conceive, than the virtuous astonishment of the better-behaved members of the starry family at the wild ways of their erratic sisters. I fancy I see the pale and prudish planets, looking at a comet in its disorderly courses, like a maid from the backwoods beholding the passing of a rail-train— half-frighted, half-amazed; and senses so rarified as yours are, might, I dare say, hear the cold virgins, as the blazing comet swept rudely by them, making inquiries as to the moon-mother's knowledge of its whereabouts." And then I was ungratefully attacked by the bairn whose rearing I have superintended from babyhood, (and whose quibble you curiously re-echo,) touching the offensive insinuation of vanity aux dames. But I am able to repel your accusation, that the figure is outré, unless you similarly impeach great

"O! where have I been all this time?-how tended, That none, for pity, show'd me how I wandered?" Beaumont and Fletcher.