Of which the wine might boast.

"Not drink the sparkling wine with me!"

In sweetest tones she said;

And raised the tiny goblet,

Crystal clear and ruby red.

Ah! 't was a noble sight to see

Such worth of mind revealed,

When youth and beauty meet, and youth

Doth not to beauty yield!

"I cannot touch the wine," again

He said, in conscious power;

I never like to mix my drinks, -

Bring me a 'whiskey sour.'"

Ham. Lit. Monthly.THE Yale Courant is pleased to be severely sarcastic regarding our poetry. It is mortifying enough to meet with criticism at all from a paper whose columns are the receptacle of such wretched doggerel as the Courant affords. But in addition to this, to be wilfully misquoted is a little too much for good nature. Fair play, Courant, if you please.

THE Tripod opens with a poem called "The Elms." If it were written with some attention to metre, and did not abound in vague similes and mysterious metaphors, it might possibly repay perusal. Under the circumstances, we will only call attention to the striking resemblance between its first lines and those of the poem beginning, -

"The noble trees of England, how beautiful they stand," etc.

The editors have also coolly appropriated "The Heathen Passee."