ALEXANDER SMITH.

As this volume was going through the press, a new and brilliant star in the poetical firmament has appeared, one, too, which fairly dazzles with its brightness. Smith (dubious name) is, we understand, a clerk in a mercantile house in Glasgow, but it is not likely that a person of such marked genius will long continue a business man. The volume now published consists of one long poem, full of passages of rare beauty, entitled the "Drama of Life," and a few short poems and sonnets. The press, both of Britain and America, have been enthusiastic in its praise. The London "Leader," in a recent number, says:

"Our readers know the chariness with which we use the terms genius and poet, terms so prodigally scattered through the periodicals of the day that they almost lose their significance-like an old piece of money fingered through miscellaneous commerce till the effigies be scarcely traceable-when, therefore, we say that Alexander Smith is a poet and a man of unmistakable genius, we are giving praise beyond the power of epithets. That he has many faults and shortcomings we admit; but these are so obvious, they lie so on the surface of his writing, that we do not care to dwell on them; and we shall better consult the reader's pleasure by reserving our space for extracts that will display the luxuriant imagery and exquisite felicity of expression which herald in him the great poet he will be when age and ripe experience lend their graver accents to his verse.

At present the subjects he delights to paint are the stars, the sea, the rivulets, and boyish love. Full as his poems are of love, however, the love is only that of young desire quickened by an aesthetic sense of beauty; companionship of spirits he does not yet conceive. This it is

which the young poet sings of, because this, and this only has he felt. He is but one-and-twenty!

"One cannot say much for the substance of his poems; but their form is exquisitely poetical. He has nothing to sing of but Nature and his own emotions. He makes his Muse a harpsichord whereon he plays fragments of melody, practising his hand till some great 'symphony of song be born within him'"

LOVE.

THE fierce exulting worlds, the motes in rays,
The churlish thistles, scented briars,

The wind-swept blue-bells on the sunny braes,
Down to the central fires,

Exist alike in Love. Love is a sea,
Filling all the abysses dim

Of lornest space, in whose deeps regally
Suns and their bright broods swim.

This mighty sea of Love, with wondrous tides,
Is sternly just to sun and grain;

'Tis laving at this moment Saturn's sides,—
'Tis in my blood and brain.

All things have something more than barren use;

There is a scent upon the briar,

A tremulous splendor in the autumn dews,

Cold morns are fringed with fire;

The clodded earth goes up in sweet breathed flowers:

In music dies poor human speech,

And into beauty blow those hearts of ours,

When Love is born in each.

Life is transfigured in the soft and tender
Light of Love, as a volume dun

Of rolling smoke becomes a wreathed splendor
In the declining sun.

Driven from cities by his restless moods,
In incense glooms and secret nooks,
A miser o'er his gold-the lover broods
O'er vague words, earnest looks.

Oft is he startled on the sweetest lip:

Across his midnight sea of mind

A thought comes streaming, like a blazing ship Upon a mighty wind.

A Terror and a Glory! shocked with light,
His boundless being glares aghast;

Then slowly settles down the wonted night,
All desolate and vast.

Daisies are white upon the churchyard sod,
Sweet tears, the clouds lean down and give.
This world is very lovely. O my God,
I thank Thee that I live!

Ringed with his flaming guards of many kinds,

The proud Sun stoops his golden head,

Gray Eve sobs crazed with grief; to her the winds Shriek out, "The Day is dead."

I gave this beggar Day no alms, this Night
Has seen nor work accomplished, planned,
Yet this poor Day shall soon in Memory's light
A Summer rainbow stand!

There is no evil in this present strife;
From the shivering Seals low moans,

Up through the shining tiers and ranks of life;
To stars upon their thrones.

The seeming ills are Loves in dim disguise;
Dark moral knots, that pose the seer,

If we are lovers, in our wider eyes

Shall hang like dew-drops clear.

Ye are my menials, ye thick crowding years!
Ha! yet with a triumphant shout

My spirit shall take captive all the spheres,

And wring their riches out.

God! what a glorious future gleans on me,
With nobler senses, nobler peers,