ROBINSON'S SUMMER'S-DAY DREAM.'

"How softly springs the turf to meet the step ! And, as I pass, the flow'rets brush me by, And, shaking all their sorrows to the ground, Breathe salutation from their scented lips. On every side the meadows rise so fresh. And greenly paved, that I could well nigh think All through the night some elfin tribe had worked, Fresh carpeting the earth. From leaf and hedge In trembling globes the dew-drops clustering hang, And, at the slightest touch come showering down, Spangling the grass like stars, as if to show 'Twos here the fairies revelled through the night, And, in their haste to vanish with the moon, Their watery gems toylike threw all aside. The stream comes murmuring through the silent fields, Like music in a desert, and leaps on As fresh this morn as if it just had left Its mountain home, and withits current bore Some merry tale down to a lonely sea. Along the banks the graceful poplars nod Fannliarly like friends; the willow-trees Glass their long leaves, and in the coming breeze, Bend gently down, until their branches seem To kiss the rippling surface, and thus make Their rustic toilette for the opening day. • A Summer's-Day Dream, with other Poems. By Henry Fronds Robinson. Pub- lished by Pickering. No sound but song is in the tranquil skies ; And there the lark, leaving his still warm nest, .

Skims through the airy seas. In the far East I, i , The cold gray light perceptibly has warmed 4, A Into a richer hue; the long black clouds, That in the bosom of the night had slept, ' t).1':// .61113 '- Have one by one left sullenly the skies, .. (11 ;II32111(11 '

like warriors a lost field : a single star, Audit,/ i. Butt to Like a lone watch-fire, glimmers for awhile, ..1! 4 [,,,, Then vanishes away : not yet the sun Dares show his golden forehead to the wor/d,-- As if, ere venturing on his full, bright course, He would first see what mischief the long night And ugly dreams had done; but soon a gleam Of bolder light shoots from tho watchful East, Belting the dark horizon with pure gold, And, like a flaming courier, signals on

The travelling of Hay. One minute more— The sun appears resplendent like a god."

This, or we much mistake, is the best purely descriptive poetry

that has appeared for some time. The following is in another vein,

but appropriate to the image that suggests it.

" But yet, alas ! how ninny through this day, That dawns so sweetly for the world at large, Will never feel its outward influence!

Whose pallid cheeks never will this breeze, That blows so freely on all else beside, Fan to the tint of health; whose tearful eyes, Sunken with toil, never will this sun, And all the glorious firramentaround, Dazzle with beauty ! and whose shrunken limbs, Wasted with long confinement, never once Throughout the long, long hours of this day, This idle summer's day, may be released

To roam through Nature's garden, and there sport

In all the joyous consciousness of health, In all th' elastic liberty of youth.

Alas ! for these poor outcasts of the world— These youthkss children of our factories—

Whose life is one long dark imprisonment! Whose tender years should have been guarded round With all sweet childhood's incidental care, And yet who've never known what childhood is! Ye mortal legislators of the worlds Who talk of education till the words Glide glibly from your lips—whose boast it is To guide intact the vessel of the state

Through all the maze of politics diverse—

kid all your schemes of speculative good, Your weight of business, or your fancied cares, Here lies your sphere of action and of use! These are the orphans of the state whom you 'Should first provide for, ere,you would amend Their hapless morals ; whom you should let breathe The sweet fresh air without, ere they can draw This breadrin thankfulness ; and unto whom You should reveal the God whom we adore, In all the beauty of his glorious works, In all the lore he manifests abroad, Ere their young souls can to that God aspire. These are the victims of triumphant art!

These the worst fruits of civilization!

Beneath whose progress irresistible, As underneath some Indian Juggernaut, Earth's humbler sons are helplessly crush'd down! For whose sad sake, who claim no other Share In all the produce of this world's vast wealth, Than the bare sustenance of a abort-span life, Ye guides and leaders in this destined march Of human intellect in the van of time, Should show some mercy while ye reap their toil!"

Notwithstanding the evident possession of poetical power, Mr. Robinson is yet very far from the production of a complete poem. In the first extract we have quoted there is a slight tendency to re- duudance, shown in secondary similes, or in the further pursuit of a simile which has answered its purpose. This exuberance is con- tinually displayed in the poem, and in forms more fatal to in- terest. What necessity is there for a summary account of the au- thor's Old Testament reading? and though the retrospective glance upon his boyhood is more appropriate, yet, considering that de- scription and reflection pushed into reverie are the staple topics of the piece, that and other personal passages might have, been spared as encumbrances. The reflections themselves often verge upon the commonplace in subject. Perhaps, too, the sameness of subjects is a defect. More of rustic occupation and life than can be contained in, passing allusions, with some rural legends or stories, would have given greater interest to the poem and relieved .the mere description. It is true that this mode is obvious and col tional ; but conventional features are better than no features at I A good many occasional poems follow the Summer's- Dream, They are scarcely equal to that piece, but they e :1 display the same characteristics, as if Mr. Robinson's hazy ": one unchanging theme." His " Kenilworth Castle " might 437, been inserted in his larger poem. Many of the. Nieces , terseness, life, and variety of subject and treatment. If Mr: binson is to bring out the power that is in him, he must mai** condensation both of thought and diction, and consider that theie is much more in this world than the fornis of things and the thoughts they suggest to him and thousands of others.