MACHINE POETRY.
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"My hand is like the roses

 Nv teeth as black as jet;

 My boots they pinch my iOeses,

 And my lips have never met.

 My footsteps have no lightness,

 For am parrot-tOed,

 never rode horse but once,

 And that time was throwec." The above sentimental and truly poetical eifusion was manxfactured by the New York Mechanic. We know nothing which can at all compare with it. un- less perhaps it be the following from unknown au- thor: First Israel with his gun he shot him, He laid it down and went away Then Isaac with his axe he chopp'd Until there were no signs of life remaining 0s they

 could perceive ,"