Among the varied elements which constituted Irving’s popularity, one of them might have been the beauty of his name, whose secret is revealed by the laws of prosody.  Washington is a stately dactyl; Irving is a sweet and mellow spondee, and thus we have a combination which poets in ancient and modern days have sought with sedulous care, and which should close every line of hexameter verse.  Hence a measure such, as that found in ‘Washington Irving’ terminates every line in Evangeline, or the works of Virgil, thus: 

    ’Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the mission,
    When, over green ways, by long and perilous marches,
    She had attained at length the depth of the Michigan forest.’

or

    ’Supplicia hausorem ecopulis:  et nomine Dido,
    Et recidiva manu posuissem Pergama vetis.’

It will be readily perceived that the name of the American author can be substituted for the feet italicized above, without injuring the measure, while in some of Moore’s finest stansas beautifully alternates the same verse, thus: 

    ’Oh! fair as the sea-flower, close to thee growing,
      How light was thy heart till love’s witchery came! 
    Like the wind of the South, o’er a summer lute blowing,
      And hushed all its music, and withered its flame.’

At the close of his last great work, Mr. Irving sought for rest.  He laid aside his pen, even from correspondence, and felt that his work was done.  When in New-York, he was often to be found at the Astor Library, of which he was a trustee; but his visits to the city became few, and he seemed to realize that his time was come.  To one who kindly remarked, ’I hope you will soon be better,’ He calmly replied, in an earnest tone:  ’I shall never be better.’  The words came true too soon, and amid an unequaled pomp of unaffected sorrow, they bore him to a place of rest, by the side of his parents and all of his kin who had gone before him.

BYRONIC MISANTHROPY.

  He has a grief he can not speak;
    He wears his hat awry;
  He blacks his boots but once a week;
    And says he wants to die!

NEW-ENGLAND’S ADVANCE.

  Hurrah! for our New-England,
    When she rose up firm and grand,
  In her calm, terrific beauty,
    With the stout sword in her hand;
  When she raised her arm undaunted,
    In the sacred cause of Right,
  Like a crowned queen of valor,
    Strong in her faith and might.

  Hurrah! for our New-England! 
    When the war-cry shook the breeze,
  She wore the garb of glory,
    And quaffed the cup of ease;
  But I saw a look of daring
    On her proud features rise,
  And the fire of will was flashing
    Through the calm light of her eyes.

  From her brow serene, majestic,
    The wreath of peace she took,
  And war’s red rose sprang blooming,
    And its bloody petals shook
  On her heaving, beating bosom;
    And with forehead crowned with light,
  Transfigured, she presented
    Her proud form to the fight.