'JEANIE MORRISON.'--This beautiful and touching ballad of the gentle MOTHERWELL has been set to music by 'DEMPSTER, the true-blue Scot,' as BURNS called his namesake, and dedicated to his friend JAMES T. FIELDS, Esq., Boston. The music, as we gather from capable judges, is in good keeping with the feeling and sweet simplicity of the verse; and surely higher praise need not be awarded to it. The poem itself would have done honor to BURNS, and a nearer approach to his style we scarcely remember ever to have seen. How fervent, how natural, this retrospect of a first, fresh boyish love:
'MY head runs round and round about, My heart flows like a sea, As one by one the thoughts rush back O' spring-time and o' thee. O morning life! O morning love! O lightsome days and lang. When honied hopes around our hearts Like simmer blossoms sprang!
O, mind ye, love, how oft we left The deavin,' dinsome town. To wander by the green burnside, And hear its waters croon? The simmer leaves hung o'er our heads, The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wood The throstle whistled sweet.'
The publisher of 'JEANIE MORRISON' is Mr. Oliver Ditson, Boston; but we infer that it is also for sale at the principal music-stores in this city.
POEMS BY BARRY CORNWALL.--Messrs. WILLIAM D. TICKNOR AND COMPANY, Boston, have just given to the public a neatly-executed volume, containing 'English Songs and other Poems,' by BARRY CORNWALL. It will be an acceptable offering to American readers. PROCTER is a very charming, _heart-full_ writer. To adopt the language of another, there is an intense and passionate beauty, a depth of affection, in his little dramatic poems, which appear even in the affectionate triflings of his gentle characters. 'He illustrates that holiest of human emotions, which, while it will twine itself with the frailest twig, or dally with the most evanescent shadow of creation, wasting its excess of kindliness on all around it, is yet able to 'look on tempests and be never shaken.' Love is gently omnipotent in his poems; accident and death itself are but passing clouds, which scarcely vex and which cannot harm it. The lover seems to breathe out his life in the arms of his mistress, as calmly as the infant sinks into its softest slumber. The fair blossoms of his genius, though light and trembling at the breeze, spring from a wide, and deep, and robust stock, which will sustain far taller branches without being exhausted.'