THE 
 
 FEMALE POETS 
 
 OF 
 
 AMERICA. 
 
 BY KUFUS WLLMOT GRISWOLD. 
 
 WITH ADDITIONS BY R. H. STODDARD. 
 
 I AM OBNOXIOUS TO EACH CARPING TONGUE 
 
 THAT SAYS MY HAND A NEEDLE BETTER FITS ; 
 
 A POET S PEN ALL SCORN I THUS SHOULD WRONG, 
 
 FOR SUCH DESPITE THEY CAST ON FEMALE WITS. 
 
 * * * BUT SURE THE ANTIQUE GREEKS WERE FAR MORE MILD, 
 
 ELSE OF OUR SEX WHY FEIGNED THEY THOSE NINE, 
 
 AND POESY MADE CALLIOPE S OWN CHILD ? 
 
 SO MONGST THE REST THEY PLACED THE ARTS DIVINE. 
 
 THE FOUR ELKMBNTS: By Anne Bradstreet, Boston, 1640. 
 
 CAREFULLY REVISED, MUCH ENLARGED, AND CONTINUED TO THE PRESENT TIME. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 JAMES MILLER, PUBLISHER, 67 BROADWAY. 
 
 1874 
 
ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS, IN THE YEAR 1843, BY CAREY & HART, IN THE OFFICE OF 
 THE CLERK OF THE DISTRICT COURT OF THE EASTERN DISTRICT OF PENNSYLVANIA. 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by 
 
 JAMES MILLER, 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
 LANGE, LITTLE & Co., 
 
 PRINTERS, ELKCTR.OTYPERS AND STEREOTYPERS, 
 
 108 TO 114 WOOSTER STREET, N Y. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 IT is less easy to be assured of the genuineness of literary ability in women 
 than in men. The moral nature of women, in its finest and richest develop 
 ment, partakes of some of the qualities of genius ; it assumes, at least, the simili 
 tude of that which in men is the characteristic or accompaniment of the highest 
 grade of mental inspiration. We are in danger, therefore, of mistaking for the 
 efflorescent energy of creative intelligence, that which is only the exuberance 
 of personal " feelings unemployed." We may confound the vivid dreamings of 
 an unsatisfied heart, with the aspirations of a mind impatient of the fetters of 
 time, and matter, and mortality. That may seem to us the abstract imagining 
 of a soul rapt into sympathy with a purer beauty and a higher truth than earth 
 and space exhibit, which in fact shall be only the natural craving of affections, 
 undefined and wandering. The most exquisite susceptibility of the spirit, and 
 the capacity to mirror in dazzling variety the effects which circumstances or 
 surrounding minds work upon it, may be accompanied by no power to origi 
 nate, nor even, in any proper sense, to reproduce. It does not follow, because 
 the most essential genius in men is marked by qualities which we may call 
 feminine, that such qualities when found in female writers have any certain or 
 just relation to mental superiority. The conditions of a3sthetic ability in the 
 two sexes are probably distinct, or even opposite. Among men, we recognise 
 his nature as the most thoroughly artist-like, whose most abstract thoughts still 
 retain a sensuous cast, whose mind is the most completely transfused and in 
 corporated into his feelings. Perhaps the reverse should be considered the 
 test of true art in woman, and we should deem her the truest poet, whose emo 
 tions are most refined by reason, whose force of passion is most expanded and 
 controlled into lofty and impersonal forms of imagination. Coming to the duty 
 of criticism, however, with something of this antecedent skepticism, I have 
 reviewed the collection of works which my task brought before me, with fre 
 quent admiration and surprise ; and leaving to others the less welcome task of 
 rejecting pretensions, which must inspire interest, if they can not command 
 acquiescence, I content myself with expressing, affirmatively, my own con 
 viction, that the writings of Mrs. Maria Brooks, Mrs. Oakes-Smith, Mrs. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Osgood, Mrs. Whitman, and some others here quoted, illustrate as high and 
 sustained a range of poetic art, as the female genius of any age or country can 
 display. The most striking quality of that civilization which is evolving itself 
 in America, is the deference felt for women. As a point in social manners, it 
 is so pervading and so peculiar, as to amount to a national characteristic ; and 
 it ought to be valued and vaunted as the pride of our freedom, and the brightest 
 hope of our history. It indicates a more exalted appreciation of an influence 
 that never can be felt too deeply, for it never is exerted but for good. In the 
 aosence from us of those great visible and formal institutions by which Europe 
 has been educated, it seems as if Nature had designed that resources of her own 
 providing should guide us onward to the maturity of civil refinement. The in 
 creased degree in which women among us are taking a leading part in literature, 
 is one of the circumstances of this augmented distinction and control on their 
 part. The proportion of female writers at this moment in America, far exceeds 
 that which the present or any other age in England exhibits. It is in the West, 
 too, where we look for what is most thoroughly native and essential in American 
 character, that we are principally struck with the number of youthful female 
 voices that soften and enrich the tumult of enterprise, and action, by the inter- 
 blended music of a calmer and loftier sphere. Those who cherish a belief that 
 the progress of society in this country is destined to develop a school of art, 
 original and special, will perhaps find more decided indications of the infusion 
 of our domestic spirit and temper into literature, in the poetry of our female 
 authors, than in that of our men. It has been suggested by foreign critics, that 
 our citizens are too much devoted to business and politics to feel interest in 
 pursuits which adorn but do not profit, and which beautify existence but do not 
 consolidate power : feminine genius is perhaps destined to retrieve our public 
 character in this respect, and our shores may yet be far resplendent with a 
 temple of art which, while it is a glory of our land, may be a monument to the 
 honor of the sex. 
 
 The American people have been thought deficient in that warmth and deli 
 cacy of taste, without which there can be no genuine poetic sensibility. Were 
 it true, it were much to be regretted that we should be wanting in that noble 
 capacity to receive pleasure from what is beautiful in nature or exquisite in 
 art in that venerating sense that prophetic recognition that quick, intense 
 perception, which sees the divine relations of all things that delight the eye or 
 kindle the imagination. One endowed with an apprehension like this, becomes 
 purer and more elevated, in sentiment and aspiration, after viewing an embodi- 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 ment of any such conception as that specimen of genius materialized, the Bel- 
 videre Apollo, " at the aspect of which," says Winckelmann, "I forget all the 
 universe : I involuntarily assume the most noble attribute of my being in order 
 to be worthy of its presence." I shall not inquire into the causes of the denial 
 that this fine instinct exists among us. The earlier speculations upon the sub 
 ject, by Depaw and others, were deemed of sufficient importance to be an 
 swered by the two of our presidents who have been most distinguished in 
 literature and philosophy : but they have been repeated, in substance, by De 
 Tocqueville, who had seen, or might have seen, the works of Dana, Bryant, 
 Halleck, Longfellow, and Whittier ; of Irving, Cooper, Kennedy, Hawthorne, 
 and Willis ; of Webster, C banning, Prescott, Bancroft, and Legare ; of Allston, 
 Leslie, Leutze, Huntington, and Cole ; of Powers, Greenough, Crawford, 
 Clevenger, and Brown. Such prejudices, which could not be dispelled by the 
 creations of these men, will be little affected by anything that could be offered 
 here : yet to an understanding guided by candor, the additional display of a 
 body of literature like the present, exhibiting so pervading an aspiration after 
 the beautiful under circumstances, in many cases, so little propitious to its 
 action and in a sex which in earlier ages has contributed so sparingly to high 
 art will come with the weight of cumulative testimony. 
 
 Several persons are mentioned in this volume whose lives have been no 
 holydays of leisure : those, indeed, who have not in some way been active in 
 practical duties, are exceptions to the common rule. One was a slave one a 
 domestic servant one a factory girl: and there are many in the list who had 
 no other time to give to the pursuits of literature but such as was stolen from 
 a frugal and industrious housewifery, from the exhausting cares of teaching, or 
 the fitful repose of sickness. These illustrations of the truth, that the muse is 
 no respecter of conditions, are especially interesting in a country where, though 
 equality is an axiom, it is not a reality, and where prejudice reverses in the 
 application all that theory has affirmed in words. The propriety of bringing 
 before the world compositions produced amid humble and laborious occupa 
 tions, has been vindicated by Bishop Potter, with so much force and elegance, 
 in his introduction to the Poems of Maria James, that I regret that the limits 
 of this preface forbid my copying what I should wish every reader of this book 
 to be acquainted with. 
 
 When I completed " The Poets and Poetry of America," a work of which 
 the public approval has been illustrated in the sale of ten large editions, I 
 determined upon the preparation of the present volume, the appearance of 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 which has been delayed by my interrupted health. I must be permitted, how 
 ever, to congratulate with the public, that since my intention was announced 
 and known, others have relieved me from the responsibility of singly executing 
 that which I had been hardy enough singly to plan and propose. Their merits 
 may compensate for my deficiencies. The first volume of this nature which 
 appeared in this country, was printed in Philadelphia in 1S44, under the title 
 of "Gems from American Female Poets, with brief biographies, by Rufus W. 
 Griswold." As Mr. T. B. Read, in his " Female Poets of America," (it is 
 Mr. Read s publisher who declares, in the advertisement to this work, that "the 
 biographical notices which it contains have been prepared in every instance from 
 facts either within his personal knowledge, or communicated to him directly by 
 the authors or their friends,") and Miss C. May, in her "American Female 
 Poets," (in the preface to which she acknowledges a resort to " printed authori 
 ties,") have done me the honor to copy that slight performance with only a too 
 faithful closeness, I owe them apologies for having led them into some errors of 
 fact. Both of them, transcribing from the " Gems," speak of Mrs. Mowatt as 
 the daughter of " the late" Mr. Samuel Gouverneur Ogden : I am happy to con 
 tradict the record, by staling that Mr. Ogden still enjoys in health and vigor the 
 honors of living excellence. Mr. Read, reproducing my early mistake, has 
 given Mrs. Hall the Christian name of Elizabeth, and the birthplace of Boston. 
 Nothing but the extraordinary haste with which the trifling volume of 1844 was 
 put together, could excuse my ignorance that the name of the authoress of 
 "Miriam" was Louisa Jane, and that she was a native of Newburyport. In 
 one or the other of these volumes are many more errors, for which I confess 
 myself solely responsible: but it would be tedious to point them out, while it 
 would be scarcely necessary to do so, as they will undoubtedly be corrected, 
 from the present work, should the volumes referred to attain to second editions. 
 
 It is proper to state that a large number of the poems in this volume are now 
 for the first time printed. Many authors, with a confidence and kindness which 
 are justly appreciated, not only placed at my disposal their entire printed works, 
 but gave me permission to examine and make use of their literary M8S. without 
 limitation. 
 
 FEW YORK, December, 1848. 
 
PREFACE TO THIS EDITION. 
 
 twenty-five years have passed since the first publication of " THE 
 FEMALE POETS OF AMEKICA," of which a new and enlarged edition is here 
 presented to the reader. Many who figured in its pages then have passed 
 away, and others who remain have passed out of the remembrance of their 
 contemporaries. It might almost be said that a new school of poetry has 
 arisen, and a new race of female poets come into existence since this col 
 lection was first made. There is little or no similarity between the writers 
 whom I have added to it, arid those whom Dr. Griswold delighted to honor, 
 and from whose writings he selected so lavishly. If he were alive now I 
 have no doubt but that he would prefer the latter to the former, but he 
 would hardly be able to bring his readers to his way of thinking. We have 
 outgrown such singers of spontaneous verse as Mrs. Hemans and Miss Lan- 
 don, and we insist that our songstresses shall outgrow them, too. If they 
 must reflect other minds, those minds must be of a larger order than their 
 own, or we will none of them at second-hand. There is, if I am not mis 
 taken, more force and more originality in other words, more genius in 
 the living female poets of America than in all their predecessors, from Mis 
 tress Anne Bradstreet down. At any rate there is a wider range of 
 thought in their verse, and infinitely more art. 
 
 I have not meddled with Dr. Griswold s selections, which are not in all 
 cases, perhaps, such as I should have chosen, and I have, of course, let his 
 criticisms stand for what they are worth: they are generally generous, 
 never, I believe, severe. I have been obliged, however, to alter his text in 
 several instances, either because the ladies to whom it referred have mar 
 ried, or died, or both, since it was first written. I have endeavored to 
 
PREFACE TO THIS EDITION. 
 
 state with accuracy the dates of birth and death, but have not been able to 
 do so in a number of instances, owing to the usual sins of omission in 
 American biographical works. Dr. Griswold appears to have shrunk from 
 fulfilling this part of his task, at least so far as the dates of birth were con 
 cerned, for reasons which may be conjectured, as I have myself. If I may 
 allude to so delicate a matter as a lady s age, the age of no lady whose poe 
 try is included in the additions which I have made will ever be known 
 through any indiscretion of mine. I have to thank these ladies for infor 
 mation furnished with regard to their poems, as well as their publishers for 
 permission to select what I chose from their works ; especially Messrs. J. R. 
 Osgood & Co., by whom the greater number are published. 
 
 R. H. STODDAKD. 
 
 NEW YOKE, July 23, 1873. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 IW MWDtTCTrOS PAOB O 
 
 MRS. ANNE BRADSTREET. 
 
 A Contemporary of Spenser and Shakspere 17 
 
 Editions of her Poems published in Boston and London 17 
 
 John Woodbridge s Account of her and her Works 17 
 
 Du Bartas the Fashionable Poet of the Age 18 
 
 Verses to her, and Notices of her, by Nath. Ward, B. Wood- 
 bridge, John Norton, Cotton Mather, and President Rogers. IS 
 
 Extracts from her Poems addressed to her Husband 19 
 
 An Elegy upon the Death of her Grandchild 19 
 
 Verses in her old Age upon the Death of her Daughter-in-law. 19 
 
 Her Death, Character, and Descendants 19 
 
 Extract from the Prologue to the Four Elements 19 
 
 Extract from Contemplations 20 
 
 MRS. MERCY WARREN. 
 
 Social Position and Connexion with Public Affairs 21 
 
 Notice of her Satire entitled The Group, with Extracts 21 
 
 Notices of her Tragedies, The Sack of Rome, and The Ladies 
 
 of Castile, with Extracts 22 
 
 Extracts from other Poe.ns 22 
 
 Things necessary to the Life of a Woman 23 
 
 Acquaintance with John Adams and Washington 23 
 
 History of the American Revolution 23 
 
 Character, and Rochefoucault s Opinion of her 23 
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH GRAEME FERGUSON. 
 
 Society in Philadelphia before the Revolution 24 
 
 Mrs. Ferguson s Family Disappo ntment in Love Voyage to 
 
 Europe Acquaintance with Laurence Sterne, &c 24 
 
 Her Marriage, and Relations with the Whigs and Tories 25 
 
 Connexion with Dr. Duche, and Affair of General Reed 25 
 
 Her later Years 25 
 
 Character of her Poems and Translations 25 
 
 Invocation to Wisdom 26 
 
 fri 
 
 Telemachi. 
 
 26 
 
 The Procession of Calypso 2fi 
 
 Apollo with the Flocks of King Admctus 27 
 
 The Invasion of Love 27 
 
 MRS. ANNE ELIZA BLEECKER. 
 
 Early Years, Marriage, and Removal to Tomhanick 28 
 
 Extract from a Poem descriptive of her Home 28 
 
 Extracts from Verses addressed to Mr. Bleecker 28 
 
 Flight from Tomhanick on the Approach of the British Army.. 28 
 
 Lines written on this Event 28 
 
 Visit to New York, last Return to Tomhanick, and Death 29 
 
 MRS. PHILLIS WHEATLEY PETERS. 
 
 Purchased while a Child, in the Boston Slave Market 30 
 
 Her early Acquirements and the Interest they excited .30 
 
 Visits London, and is introduced to Lady Huntingdon 30 
 
 Curious Address to the Public respecting her, by the Governor 
 
 of Massach usetts, and Others SO 
 
 Loses her Master, and marries fora Home 30 
 
 The Abbe Gregoire s Account of her 30 
 
 Her Husband a " handsome Man and a Gentleman" 31 
 
 She quarrels with him without good Reason 31 
 
 General Washington s Letter to her 31 
 
 Her inedited MSS. now in Philadelphia 31 
 
 Mr. Jefferson compares her to the Heroes of the Dunriad 31 
 
 Opinions respecting her by Gregoire, Clarkson, and others 31 
 
 On the Death of the Rev. Mr. George Whitefield 32 
 
 Extract from a Poem On the Imagination 32 
 
 A Farewell to America 32 
 
 MRS. SUSANNAH ROWSON. 
 
 Her Father a British Officer in New England 33 
 
 Her Marriage in London and Literary Life there 33 
 
 Great Sale of her Charlotte Temple 33 
 
 Her Character and Career as an Actress 3:3 
 
 Retires from the Stage, and establishes a School in Boston 33 
 
 Account of her Works - 33 
 
 America, Commerce, and Freedom 34 
 
 Kiss the Brim, and Let it Pass 34 
 
 Thanksgivixg 34 
 
 MRS. MARG/vRETTA V. FAUGERES. 
 
 A Daughter of Mrs. Bleeoker 35 
 
 Unfo 
 
 ,ofh 
 
 SB 
 
 Review of her Belisarhtt, a. Tragedy 35 
 
 Extract from her Poem on The Hudson 37 
 
 Vtrtt addressed to the Members of the Cincinnati 37 
 
 MISS ELIZA TOWNSEND. 
 
 Mr. Nicholas Biddle s Opinion of her Prize Ode r*o 38 
 
 She is educated during a Period of singular Excitement 33 
 
 Southey s Ode on Napoleon, written in 1814, like hers of 1809.. 38 
 
 Dr. Cheever s Commendation of one of her Poems 38 
 
 An Occasional Ode, written in June, 1809 39 
 
 Poem To Robert Smtthey, wiitten in 1812 41 
 
 The Incomprehensibility of God 42 
 
 Another " Castle in the Air" 43 
 
 Extract from a Poem On the Death of C has. Brockdcn Brotvti. 43 
 
 MRS. LAVINIA STODDARD. 
 
 Her History and Character 44 
 
 The Sours Dejiance 44 
 
 Sons 44 
 
 MISS HANNAH F. GOULD. 
 
 Her Father 45 
 
 Sprightliness and Individuality of ber Genius 45 
 
 A Name in the Sand 45 
 
 Changes on the Deep 48 
 
 The Scar of Lexington 47 
 
 The Snow Flake 47 
 
 The Winds 48 
 
 The Frost 48 
 
 The Waterfall 43 
 
 The Moon upon the Spire 49 
 
 The Robe 49 
 
 The Consignment 49 
 
 The Winter Burial 60 
 
 The Pebble and the Acorn 60 
 
 The Ship is Ready 50 
 
 The Child on the Beach 51 
 
 The Midnight Mail 61 
 
 MRS. CAROLINE OILMAN. 
 
 Marries Dr. Gilman, and resides in South Carolina 52 
 
 Notices of her Prose Writings and Poems . 52 
 
 Rosalie 52 
 
 The Plantation 54 
 
 Music on the Canal 55 
 
 The Congressional Burying-Ground 65 
 
 To the Ursulines 56 
 
 Return to Massachusetts 66 
 
 Annie in the Graveyard 66 
 
 MRS. SARAH JOSEPHA HALE. 
 
 Her Marriage and subsequent Literary Studies 57 
 
 Publishes The Genius of Oblivion and other Poems 67 
 
 Character of Northwood and her other Prose Works 67 
 
 Editor of The Ladies 1 Magazine, the Lady s Book, &c 57 
 
 Publishes Three Hours, or the Vigil of Love, and other Poems.. 57 
 
 Her Ormond Grosrenor, Harry Guy, and other Poems 58 
 
 Extent of her Writings, and their Character 58 
 
 The Mississippi. f>9 
 
 The Ftnir-Leoved Clover 60 
 
 Description of Alice Ray 60 
 
 Iron 61 
 
 The Watcher 61 
 
 I Sing to Him 63 
 
 The Light (if Home 62 
 
 The Two Maidens 64 
 
 MRS. ANNA MARIA WELLS. 
 
 Her Husband an Author 63 
 
 Publication of her Poems, in 1830 63 
 
 *<* 
 
 The Tamed Eagle 63 
 
 The Old Elm-Tree 64 
 
 Anna 64 
 
 The Future 64 
 
 The White Hare & 
 
 The Sea-Bird 65 
 
 MISS MARIA JAMES. 
 
 Her Poems published by Bishop Potter 66 
 
 Her own Account of her Life 66 
 
 Ode for the Fourth of July 67 
 
 The Pilgrims 67 
 
 The Soldier s Grave <* 
 
 Too Singing-Bird 6 
 
 Good Friday - ^ 
 
10 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 MRS. MARIA BROOKS, (Maria del Occidents) 
 
 Her Early Life passed in the Vicinity of Boston PAGE 69 
 
 Changs of Fortune described, in an Extract from Idomen 69 
 
 Publishes Judith, Esther, unit other Poems 69 
 
 :>f this Voli 
 
 TO 
 
 Cvpidtkt Runaway, from the Greek of Moschus 70 
 
 Death of her Husband, Residence in Cuba, and Travels 70 
 
 Mr. Southey superintends the 1 ublication of Zophiel 70 
 
 Verses addressed to him 70 
 
 Review of /.ophiel, with Extracts 71 
 
 Creative Energy. Passion, and Delicacy, exhibited in it 79 
 
 Its Publication in Huston 79 
 
 Opini .us D| it by .Sunthey, Cluirles Lamb, and others, (Note,).. 79 
 
 Mrs. Brookf l Residence at West Point and Fort Columbus... 79 
 
 Prints Id-mien, for Private Circulation 79 
 
 Her Lifeund Character illustrated in tliat Work 80 
 
 Visits her Estate in Cuba 80 
 
 Extru-ts from her Letters 80 
 
 Her Death 80 
 
 Further Extracts from Zop/iiel 8L 
 
 Ode ott Revisiting Cu/ia 83 
 
 Ode to the Depai ted 84 
 
 Hymn 6 
 
 The Moon of Flowers 86 
 
 Tothe River St. Lawrence 87 
 
 To Niagara 88 
 
 Verses Written on Seeing Pharamond 88 
 
 Prayer 88 
 
 Song 89 
 
 Friendt/t ij> 89 
 
 Farewell to Cuba 89 
 
 IRS. JULIA RUSH WARD. 
 
 Marries .Samuel Ward, the Banker 90 
 
 Literary Society in New York at this Period 90 
 
 "Sije te perd, je suis perdu" ^ 9U 
 
 MRS. LYDIA HUNTLEY S1GOURNEY. 
 
 Her Early Life 91 
 
 Publication of her Moral Pieces, in Prose and Verse HI 
 
 Marries Mr. Charles Sigourney 91 
 
 Keview of Traits of the Aborigines 91 
 
 Works in Prose and Verse, for Twenty Years 9-2 
 
 SI 
 
 Review of I ocahontas 9-2 
 
 Her Pleasant Memorief of Pleasant Lands, &c 92 
 
 Her P 
 
 .ud Mt 
 
 Mr. Alexander H. Everett s Opinion of her Poems 93 
 
 The Western Emigrant 94 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers 94 
 
 W*>ie- 95 
 
 Niagara 95 
 
 The Alpme Flowers 95 
 
 Napoleon s Epitaph 96 
 
 The Death if an Infant 96 
 
 M tio,/,, on Mrs. Hemant 97 
 
 The Mother of Washington 97 
 
 The Country Church 98 
 
 Solitude 98 
 
 Sunset on the Allegany 98 
 
 The Indian Girl s Burial 99 
 
 Indian Names 99 
 
 A Butterfly on a Child s Grave 9<j 
 
 Monody on the late Daniel Wadsworth ] 00 
 
 Advertisement of a Lost Day 1 00 
 
 Farewell to a Rural Residence 101 
 
 A Widow at her Daughter s Bridal. - 101 
 
 MRS. KATHARINE A. WARE. 
 
 Edits T/ie fioiver(f Taste 102 
 
 Hesi.lence abroad, and Death, in Paris 102 
 
 Her Power ->f the Passions, and other Poems m-i 
 
 Loss of the First- Born u>2 
 
 Madness 103 
 
 A New Year s Wish c ." 1 0:j 
 
 Ma rks of Time 1 03 
 
 MRS. JANE L. OKAY. 
 
 Her Residence on the Forks of the Delaware 104 
 
 James Montgomery s Opinion of a Poem by her 104 
 
 Two Hundred Years .Igo 104 
 
 SaMialh Reminiscence! J 05 
 
 Morn 10(3 
 
 MRS. SOPHIA L. LITTLE. 
 
 A Daughter of the Jurist and Statesman Ashnr Rohl.ins 107 
 
 Notices of he Works .....107 
 
 Tht Pot: 10? 
 
 Thanksgiving 108 
 
 URS. LYD1A MARIA CHILD 
 
 On"! of our most brilliant Pn.se Writers 110 
 
 Man.ts amid the Ruins of Carthage 110 
 
 Litiri c* hearing a Buy mock the Soundofa Clock no 
 
 MRS. LOUISA J. HALL. 
 
 Educated by Dr. Park, her Father 
 
 Her feeble Constitution 
 
 Circumstances under which Miriam was written.. 
 
 Her Joanna of Naples, and other Works 
 
 Review of Miriam, with Extracts 
 
 Character of the Work 
 
 Justice and Mercy 
 
 A Dramatic Fragment 
 
 MRS. ELIZA L. FOLLEV. 
 
 Death of her Husband, Professor Charles Follen. 
 
 Her Writings 
 
 Sachem , Hill ."I!... "". ..... 
 
 Winter Scene in the Country I". ..... 
 
 Evening 
 
 MRS. FRANCES H. GREEN. 
 
 The Misfortunes of her Father 
 
 She writes a Memoir of Eleanor Elbricige, Ac 
 
 The Mechanic, by her, commended by Mr. Brownsi 
 
 Notice of Nanuntenoo 
 
 P1G1 III 
 
 Ill 
 
 Ill 
 
 Ill 
 
 11J 
 
 117 
 
 ..lid 
 
 .. 21 
 ..111 
 ..ill 
 ..123 
 
 ..122 
 
 Her Songt of the Winds, and other Poems 
 Opinions in Philosophy and Religion 
 New England Summer in the Ancient Time 
 A Sarragansett Sachem 
 
 Songofthe North Wind 
 
 Song of the East Wind 
 
 Song of Winter 
 
 The Ch ickadee s Song 
 
 The Honey- Bee s Song 
 
 MRS. JESSIE G. McCARTEE. 
 
 A Descendant of Isabella Graham 
 
 Character of her Poems 
 
 The Indian Mother s Lament 
 
 T/te Eagle of the Falls 
 
 Death-Song of Moses 
 
 How Beautiful is Sleep 
 
 MISS CYNTHIA TAGGART. 
 
 H er interesting H istory 
 
 Letter from Dr. John VV. Francis respecting her. 
 
 Merit of her Writings 
 
 Ode to the Poppy 
 
 Invocation to Health.... 
 
 On a Storm 
 
 MRS. FRANCESCA PASCALIS CANF1ELD. 
 
 The Scientific Labors of her Father 
 
 Dr. Mitchill s Valentine to her 
 
 Her Learning ami Accomplishments 
 
 Unfortunate Marriage, and Death 
 
 Verses To Dr. Mitchill 
 
 Edith 
 
 MISS ELIZABETH BOGART. 
 
 Writings under the Signature of " Estelle" 
 
 An Autumn View, from my Window 
 
 Retrospection. 
 
 Forgerf, finest 
 
 He Came too Late 
 
 MRS. MARY E. BROOKS. 
 
 Marriage with James G. 75rooks 
 
 Publishes The Rivals of Ette, and other Poems... 
 
 Death of Mr. Brooks 
 
 The Close of the Year 
 
 A Pledge to the Dying Year 
 
 " Weep not for the Dead" 
 
 Dream of Life 
 
 MRS. MARGARET ST. LEON LOUD. 
 
 Her KesMence in the South 
 
 Mr. Poe s Opinion of her Writings 
 
 A Dream of the Lonely Isle 
 
 The Deserted Homestead 
 
 Pra <ier for an Absent Husband 
 
 Rest in the Grave.... 
 
 ..123 
 ..123 
 ..123 
 .123 
 ..123 
 ,.123 
 .124 
 .124 
 .125 
 .127 
 .128 
 .129 
 .130 
 .130 
 
 .131 
 .131 
 .131 
 .131 
 
 -. 132 
 .132 
 
 .133 
 .133 
 .133 
 .133 
 .134 
 .134 
 .134 
 
 ..137 
 ..137 
 
 MR?. EMMA C. EMBURY. 
 
 Publishes Guido and other Poems 
 
 Character of her Tales 
 
 Her Nature s Gems, and other Worns 
 
 Two I ortraitf. from Life 
 
 Tlie Duke of Reichstadt 
 
 Sympathy 
 
 Autumn Evening 
 
 Harp.. 
 
 The .Kolin 
 
 Unrest 
 
 T!ie Old Man s Lame, 
 The American River.. 
 Tht English River... , 
 
 .139 
 .139 
 .140 
 .140 
 .140 
 
 .141 
 .141 
 .141 
 .142 
 .14-7 
 .14-] 
 
 .143 
 .143 
 .143 
 .143 
 .144 
 .144 
 .144 
 .i4S 
 .145 
 .14.1 
 .145 
 .145 
 .146 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 11 
 
 MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY, (CONTINUED.) 
 
 BcMa J. 
 
 Cheerfulness 
 
 The Widwft Woo<r 
 
 Madame de Sluel 
 
 Heart Questionings 
 
 Never Forg et 
 
 PAGE 147 
 
 147 
 
 147 
 
 148 
 
 148 
 
 148 
 
 MISS ELIZABETH MARGARET CHANDLER. 
 
 A Member of tlie Society of Friends 149 
 
 Removal to Michigan, and Death there 149 
 
 Her Works 149 
 
 The I) e cote d. 149 
 
 T/te Battle- Field 150 
 
 A Revolutionary Soldier s Prayer 150 
 
 The Brandt/wine 151 
 
 MISSES LUCRETIA AND MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Their Genius and Interesting Character 152 
 
 The First Compositions of Lucretia Davidson 152 
 
 Verses on the Grave of Wa>hingion 153 
 
 Visits Canada 1 53 
 
 Lines to her Infant Sister 153 
 
 Writes Amir Khan 153 
 
 Her Death 153 
 
 Memoirs of her by Mr. Morse and Miss Sedgwick 153 
 
 Her Poem addressed to Mrs. Townsend 153 
 
 To a Slur 153 
 
 A Prophecy 1 54 
 
 Auction Extraordinary 154 
 
 Address to her Mother 154 
 
 On the Fear uf Madness lr,5 
 
 Effect ofher Death upon Margaret Davidson 155 
 
 Margaret s Education , , 155 
 
 Verses, " / would Jiy from the City" 155 
 
 Changes of Residence 155 
 
 Her Death 156 
 
 Lenore to the Spirit of Lticretia 156 
 
 Stanzas tn her Mother 156 
 
 The Writings of M rs. Davidson 156 
 
 MRS. MARY E. STEBBINS. 
 
 Poems under the Signature of " lone 1 157 
 
 Publishes Songs of our Land, and other Poems 157 
 
 Character of her Poerns 157 
 
 The Songs of our Land 157 
 
 The Two Voices 158 
 
 The Axe of the Settler 158 
 
 A Thought of the Pilgrims 159 
 
 The City by the Sea 169 
 
 1\e Sunflower to the Sim 160 
 
 The Last Chant of Corinne 160 
 
 Green Places in the City 160 
 
 Cameos 160 
 
 A Yarn 161 
 
 Imitation of Sappho 161 
 
 Love s Pleading 16-2 
 
 The Hearth of Home 162 
 
 The Launch 162 
 
 The Ode of Harold the Valiant 163 
 
 Lay 163 
 
 MRS. SUSAN R. A. BARNES. 
 
 Characteristics of her Works 164 
 
 The Army of the Cross lt,5 
 
 Penitence 1 55 
 
 MRS. SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 
 
 Descended from a Companion of Roger Williams 166 
 
 The Career and Death of her Husband Ifi6 
 
 Her Acquirements, and Writings in Prose 166 
 
 Her Fairy Tales 166 
 
 Remarkable Merits of her Poems 166 
 
 The Sleeping Beauty 167 
 
 Line* irrilten in November 169 
 
 A Still Day in Autumn 169 
 
 " A Green and Silvery Spot among the Hills" 170 
 
 The Waking of the Heart 170 
 
 A Day of the Indian Summer 171 
 
 Translation of The Lost Church 172 
 
 The Past 172 
 
 A September Day on the Banks of the Moshassitck 173 
 
 Summer s Invitation to the Orphan 173 
 
 Bridal Ring. 
 
 Stt 
 
 "She Blooms no more" 174 
 
 The Maiden s Dream . 174 
 
 Poem before the Rhode Island Hist. Soc., upon Roger Williams.. 176 
 
 "Hoio softly comes the Summer Wind" 175 
 
 A Smis of Spring 176 
 
 On a Statue of David ...176 
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 
 
 Her Descent from the Pilgrims PAG E 177 
 
 Her Marriage 177 
 
 Circumstances under which she has written 177 
 
 Remarks on The Sinless Child, with Extracts 178 
 
 Her D ramas 1 79 
 
 Review of The Roman Tribute, with Extracts 180 
 
 Review of Jam/, Leisler, a Tragedy 18-J 
 
 Scene from Jacob Leisler 183 
 
 Her Prose Works 183 
 
 Writings nnder the Name of" Ernest Helfenstein" 183 
 
 H>r Hank among the Female Poets 183 
 
 Tim Acorn 1^4 
 
 The Drowned Mariner 1 86 
 
 Totlu Hudson i*} 
 
 Sonnets- 1^7 
 
 I- Poesy lift 
 
 II. The Bard 187 
 
 III. An Incident 187 
 
 IV. The Unattained 187 
 
 V. The Wife W7 
 
 VI. Religion 187 
 
 VII. The Dream 1*7 
 
 VIII. Wayfarers ..".I W 
 
 1 X., X. Heloise to Abelard 188 
 
 XI. Despondency )8 
 
 XII. Love 188 
 
 XIII. "Look not behindThee" 188 
 
 XI V. Charity in Despair of Justice 188 
 
 XV. The Great Aim 1 88 
 
 XVI. Midnight 188 
 
 XVII. Jealousy 189 
 
 Ecce Homo 189 
 
 Ode to Sappho 189 
 
 Love Dead 190 
 
 Stanzas 190 
 
 Endurance 190 
 
 Ministering Spirits 19] 
 
 The Recall, or Soul Melody 191 
 
 The Water ;..... 191 
 
 The Brook 191 
 
 The Cou-.ry Maiden 193 
 
 Ttie April Rain 19C 
 
 Atheism >93 
 
 Let Me be a Fantasy 194 
 
 Strength from the Hills 194 
 
 Eros and Anteros 194 
 
 The Poet 19* 
 
 MRS. E. C. KINNEY. 
 
 Account of her Writings 190 
 
 Characterized, by a Correspondent 195 
 
 To the Eagle 195 
 
 Ode : To the Moon 196 
 
 The Spirit of Song 197 
 
 Extract from The Quakeress Bride 197 
 
 Sonnets: 198 
 
 I. Cultivation 198 
 
 II. Encouragement 198 
 
 III. Fading Autumn 198 
 
 I V. A Winter Nighj 198 
 
 V. To the. Greek Slave 11V 
 
 VI. To Arabella 19? 
 
 The Woodman 194 
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 
 
 Hei Domestic Connexions 19S 
 
 Translates Euphemia of Messina 199 
 
 Production of her Teresa Conrarini 199 
 
 Papers in the Reviews 199 
 
 Her Characters of Schiller, Joanna of Sicily, and other Works . . 199 
 
 Characteristics ofher Poems 1W 
 
 Snsqnehannah 200 
 
 Lake Ontario 201 
 
 The Delaware Water-Gap 201 
 
 Insensibility 201 
 
 Love, in Youth and Age 201 
 
 SodusBay 202 
 
 "O er the Wild Waste" 202 
 
 Song 202 
 
 The old Love - 2l )3 
 
 The Sea-Kings 203 
 
 Venice 
 
 Sonnetti 204 
 
 I. Mary Magdalen 204 
 
 II. Tlie* Good Shepherd 204 
 
 III. "Oh, Weary Heart" ** 
 
 " Abide with Us" 2 04 
 
 The Persexaed 20 
 
 A Dirge 2* 
 
 TheBuriil. * 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 .MKS. JCI.IA H. SCOTT. 
 
 Her Early Lite and lie.iutif.il Char< ter 
 II T M;irri:i-f, Mini Death 
 U.-r PotlM pnbtt h.-d by Mis- K i- irti.n 
 7V 7Vo <7rai> 
 
 ./>/./ c/i,/,/ 
 
 rum in I nflry 
 MRS. ANNA I EYKF. MINNIES. 
 
 Mrs. l!:,i,. s AfiCOMrtofhei Marriage 
 Sin- writ.-* under tli.- BJflMtttn of " Moin;t" 
 Publish.- 7V l l<,ri.il IVar 
 If -ddrd Lm-e 
 
 toi 205 
 
 206 
 
 ....206 
 
 206 
 
 207 
 
 . . . . 207 
 
 203 
 208 
 
 ;., /,/,-,< .................................................... 209 
 
 7V 7V r Ballad - : f a H;,Hderrr ............................. 20!) 
 
 MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS. 
 
 The Spi.it .ind Poj.ulaiity of her Prose Writings .............. 210 
 
 7V 01,1 .-/,)/,/< Tree ....................................... 210 
 
 MRS. V. K ST. .JOHN. 
 
 E\t.-nt of her Productions ................................... 211 
 
 Medusa, fr <m tin .Iniiijne Cameo ............................. 211 
 
 MRS. 3ARAI! I.iiClSA P. SMITH. 
 
 A (iranddauihrerofr.eneral Hull ............................ 212 
 
 I miiel .Jenks Smith .......................... 212 
 
 .-I Etteidmee, :..id Literary ArUvity ................. 212 
 
 II. r Death. and the Character of her Poems ................. 212 
 
 T:,f Ihima .................................................. 212 
 
 White Roses ................................................. 212 
 
 Xl.mz,,* ..................................................... 2J3 
 
 We Fall of 11 anaw ........................................ 213 
 
 MR.-. SOPHIA HKI.K.N OLIVER. 
 
 Herl oem* .................................................. 214 
 
 " / murk the I fours that S/tine" ............................... 21 4 
 
 Tl.e Cloud Ship .............................................. 214 
 
 The Shadows ................................................ 215 
 
 .17. nistrrins Spirits ..................... .................... 215 
 
 MISS MARY E. I.KK. 
 
 H.-r P.alhd-t and other Poems ................................ 216 
 
 The Potts ................................................... 216 
 
 A>i F.asfcrn Lore-Kong ...................................... 216 
 
 The Last Place of Sleep ...................................... 216 
 
 MRS CATHERINE H. ESL1NG. 
 
 r. Come Home" ..................................... 217 
 
 //, KMJ our Puttier s Darling" ............................. 217 
 
 MRS. CAROM NT. M. S A \\ V K II. 
 
 Her Early Education ........................................ 218 
 
 Acquaintance with Foreign Literatures ....................... 218 
 
 Disadvantageous Channels of Publication ..................... 218 
 
 ............................................ 218 
 
 Intidr/itii iiinl Religion .. . .................................... 21!) 
 
 The J alley of Pence ......................................... 219 
 
 Tht Boy and hit .hi-^i ...................................... 220 
 
 Tfie Laihi t>f Lurid .......................................... 2-iI 
 
 /- II /:.. >n. itrnnre .................................... 221 
 
 M / .S-,V,y.,,,- Clti/ilrt-n ....................................... ?22 
 
 *l,it,t,j>,ic .............................................. 223 
 
 The ll tirri i- s Dirge ........................................ 224 
 
 Kenyan .......... . ......................................... 224 
 
 I ebblei ..................................................... 224 
 
 MRS- MXKCiARKT L. ItAII.EY. 
 
 Her Editorial Labors ........................................ 2C5 
 
 H. -i Poem .................................................. 225 
 
 .............................................. 225 
 
 Thr J tii ii, r ( lulil s liiirinl, .................................. 225 
 
 MemM-ui .................................................... 226 
 
 .1 i;, , ,! , 1 ........................................... 226 
 
 MKS. I.U K \ M. TUUKSTON. 
 
 1,,-r in Indiana ............................... 227 
 
 Munface, tnd D**tt ........................................ 227 
 
 Vida" ....................... 227 
 
 7V Orttn l/,/ : - if my r,ith,rlnml" ........................ 2:7 
 
 ....................... 227 
 
 
 
 Miss MARTHA n \V. 
 
 H.-r Utomy R.-ni.,inMiubli>hed by Prof.-sor Kii.--l.-y 2:8 
 
 H;.n - - * 
 
 // 228 
 
 miss -i \I;Y iH H \NMKK DODD. 
 
 Her Litt-rary As>... iitinus 229 
 
 rubll-atiMii f li.-r PoeiiM 2:9 
 
 i,,, t ,tnt 229 
 
 7Vi, M.,i,rn, r 22 
 
 io ., CHdM 2:10 
 
 //,, IH-ramer 2:50 
 
 fVif Dort t I ifit 231 
 
 231 
 
 MKS. ANNE O. BOTTA. 
 
 H.-i Katlier one of the United Irishmen *o 232 
 
 H.-r Ediu-atiori 232 
 
 Literary Soirees 2;5i 
 
 Chara.-teristirs of her Poems 232 
 
 7V Ideal 233 
 
 The Me,il Found 2*1 
 
 Tht Image Uroken 8$J 
 
 Tli, Untile tif Life 234 
 
 Tlfni^ iits In n Lihi ani - 35 
 
 Hngar ** 
 
 To the Memory of Channing 235 
 
 A Thought lui the Seashore 236 
 
 The Jhnnh Creation -236 
 
 The Wounded V,:lture 238 
 
 F.rni 237 
 
 To ,in Obscurity 2;5 7 
 
 To , with Flnwert 2.17 
 
 0,i 1 icture of llarccy Birch 2:57 
 
 Sotmeti: 238 
 
 I. Love + 238 
 
 II. The L,,ke and the Star 238 
 
 III. A Remembrance 238 
 
 I V. The Sun and Storm 238 
 
 V. To 238 
 
 VI. The Honey- Bee 238 
 
 VII. Aspiration 238 
 
 VIII. To the Savior 238 
 
 IX. Faith 2:s9 
 
 Kones in the Desert -~....SW 
 
 Chriil Betrayed 239 
 
 Tlte Wasted Fountain* 240 
 
 I m il I reaching- at Athens 240 
 
 SIRS. EMILY JUDSON. 
 
 Her Wriiiiigs tiuderthe Pseudonym of" Fanny Forester 11 241 
 
 Publication of Alderbrook 241 
 
 Marriage to the Missionary Judson 241 
 
 Goes to India 24-1 
 
 H.T .Ittarogn, the Maid of the Rock, in Four Cantos 242 
 
 The Weaver 242 
 
 Miniitcring Angels 543 
 
 To my Mother 243 
 
 To Spring 244 
 
 Death 244 
 
 L, -his t/nd Shades 244 
 
 to Earth 245 
 
 Aspiring to Heaven 245 
 
 The lluds ,f the Sarimac 245 
 
 My Bird 245 
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH JESUP EAMES. 
 
 Contributions to the Periodicals 246 
 
 Cr*mi*fSPr**k 246 
 
 Tlie Death of Pan 247 
 
 Cleopatra 247 
 
 MyMothtr 247 
 
 Sonnett: 248 
 
 1. Milton 24U 
 
 1 1 . Drtiden 248 
 
 III. Addisim 243 
 
 IV. T,io 243 
 
 V., VI. 7V Author of " The Sinless Child" 248 
 
 VII. Tiie I nst 84 8 
 
 VIII. Diem I erdidi 249 
 
 1 X . , X . Ho ,,ks 249 
 
 On the / iftnre of a Departed Peetefs 249 
 
 r 
 
 .9 i .i 
 
 Flairers in n S,ck-R,iom }4S 
 
 MR^. I MKI.I.NK S. SMITH. 
 
 Publication of Tlte Fai -y , Search, and other Poem* 250 
 
 Hymn to the Deity, in the Contemplation of Nature 260 
 
 " We ve h,iti our Xht.re of Bliss, Beloved" 2oC 
 
 MAI:; VIJKT I-TLLKK, MAIUMIIONKSS D OSSOLI. 
 
 Her Rank amonj; the Writ.-rs of her Sex 251 
 
 Governor Everett receiving the Indian C/iiefs, Sic 251 
 
 Thr Sin-red Marriage 253 
 
 Sonnets : 252 
 
 I. Orjiheut 25J 
 
 II. Instrumental Music 253 
 
 III. Beethoven , 253 
 
 IV. Mo-.art 253 
 
 V. T, ll iifhin-ton Alhtim t Picture, " The Bride" 2/%3 
 
 To Kdith, on her Birthday 2,53 
 
 Lin,s it-ritten in Illinois 253 
 
 On Leaving the Wett 2.54 
 
 Ganymede to his Ea git 234 
 
 Life a Temple 255 
 
 Kw.inraeemeiU 256 
 
 GunhiUlu 36J 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 13 
 
 MUS. LYDIA JANE PEIRSON. 
 
 Her Early History ................................. Pics 256 
 
 Anecdote of Mrs. Peirson and Thaddeus Stevens ........... 256 
 
 Her Purest Minstrel, and Purest Leaves ...................... 256 
 
 NX Song .................................................... 256 
 
 MH Muse .................................................... 257 
 
 To an &olinn Harp ......................................... 257 
 
 To the Wood Robin .......................................... 258 
 
 The mid mood Home ......................................... 258 
 
 Isabella ..................................................... 258 
 
 Sunset in the Forest .................... . .................... 259 
 
 Tlte last Pale Flowers ....................................... 259 
 
 To t/te Woods ............................................... 259 
 
 MRS. JAXK TAYLOR WORTH1NGTON. 
 
 Her Connexion* in Virginia .................................. 260 
 
 Marriage, Writings, Death ................................... 260 
 
 TvthePeakofQtttr ......................................... MO 
 
 Lines, to One who will wide, stand Them ...................... 260 
 
 Moonlight on the Grave ...................................... 261 
 
 The Child ! Grave ........................................... 261 
 
 The Poor ................................................... 261 
 
 Sleep ........................................................ 262 
 
 To Twilight ................................................. 262 
 
 Tlte Withered Leaves ........................................ 262 
 
 MRS. SARAH ANNA LEWIS. 
 
 Publishes Records of the Heart ............................... 263 
 
 Tfie forsaken, by her, compared with a Poem by Motherwell. .263 
 Review .,f her Child of the Sea, with Extracts ................ 264 
 
 Extract from Isabelle, or the Broken Heart .................... 265 
 
 Lament of La I cga, in Captivity ............................ 266 
 
 Una ........................................................ 266 
 
 The Dead ................................................... 266 
 
 MRS. ANNA CORA MO WATT RITCHIE. 
 
 Notice of her Father .................................. ....... 267 
 
 Her IJirth and Education, abroad ............................. 267 
 
 Early Predilection fur the Stage .......... . ................... 267 
 
 Story of her Marriage ....................................... 267 
 
 Publishes Pelayo, or the Cavern ofCoeadonga ................ 267 
 
 Residence in Europe ........................................ 267 
 
 Publishes Evelyn, Fashion, and other Works ................. 267 
 
 Her Theatrical Career ....................................... 267 
 
 Visit to England ............................................. 268 
 
 The Raising of J aims Daughter ............................ 268 
 
 My Life .................................................... 269 
 
 Love ........................................................ 2K9 
 
 269 
 
 Tlty Will be done 
 
 On a Lock of my Mother s Hair 
 
 MRS. MARY NOEL MEIGS, (McDONALD.) 
 
 Publishes TVenwty M.N.M. ................................ 270 
 
 j,, ne ........................................................ 270 
 
 The Spells of Memory ....................................... 271 
 
 lane s Aspirations ........................................... 271 
 
 MRS. FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 
 
 Literary Abilities in her Family ............................... 272 
 
 Writings under the Signature of" Florence" .................. 272 
 
 Marriage to Mr. O->good the Painter .......................... 272 
 
 ____ 272 
 
 Reside 
 
 i in Londc 
 
 Publishes A Wreath of Wild Flowers from New England 272 
 
 Her later Works 272 
 
 Her Genius, 273 
 
 Farewell too Happy Day 273 
 
 "Had we but met" 273 
 
 To the Spirit of Poetry 274 
 
 Rejections 274 
 
 Ltnare 274 
 
 The Cocoa -Nut Tree 275 
 
 A Mother s Prayer in Illness 275 
 
 Little Children 276 
 
 A Sermon 276 
 
 To a Child Playing with a Watch 276 
 
 Labor 277 
 
 Garden Gossip 277 
 
 To a Friend 277 
 
 Kurydice 278 
 
 Lady Jane 278 
 
 Ida s Farewell 279 
 
 To a Dear little Truant, n-ho wouldn t come. Home 279 
 
 The Unexpected Declaration 279 
 
 Slan-.a,i for Music -^ 
 
 Tlte F/ovjer Love Letter 280 
 
 A Weed 281 
 
 Tn Sleep 281 
 
 Silent hove - - ^^ 
 
 Beauty s Prayer 281 
 
 Dream-Music, or the Spirit Flute 282 
 
 New En S lanfi Mountain- Child 283 
 
 Ashes of Rosei *** 
 
 Xtng , " Its, lower to the level" 2SS 
 
 MRS. FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD, (COSTISUED.) 
 
 The Soil s Lament for Home PACK 285 
 
 Song, " She loves Him yet".. . 
 
 No; 
 
 Song, " Should all who throng" 
 
 "Hois Tan Sung, Beaumanoir" 
 
 Caprice 
 
 Song, " I loved an Ideal" 
 
 Aspirations 
 
 MISS LUCY HOOPER. 
 
 Writings und.r the Signature of " L. H." 
 
 Lines written o. visiting Newburyport 
 
 Her Works in Prose 
 
 Lettei upon her Death, from Dr. John W. Francis 
 
 Poem on the same Subject, by J. G. Whittier 
 
 Sonnet to her Memory, by H^ T. Tuckerman 
 
 Publication of her Literary Remains 
 
 The Summons of Death 
 
 Time, Faith, Energy 
 
 Last Hours of a Young Poeteit 
 
 The Turquoise Ring 
 
 " Give me Armnr of Proof " 
 
 The Cavalier s last Hours 
 
 The Daughter of Hcrodias 
 
 Evening Thoughts 
 
 Linen 
 
 The Old Days we Remember 
 
 Lines suggested by a Scene in "Master Humphrey s Clock"... 
 
 Life and Death 
 
 Legends of Flowers 
 
 Osceola 
 
 MRS. SARAH EDGARTON MAYO. 
 
 Her Life arid Writings 
 
 The Supremacy of God 
 
 The last Lay 
 
 The fieggar s Death-Scene 
 
 Types of Heaven 
 
 The Shadow Child 
 
 Udollo 
 
 Crossing the Moor 
 
 MISS SARAH L. JACOBS. 
 
 Ttie Changeless World 
 
 Ilenedelta 
 
 A } csper 
 
 " Ul,i Amor, Ibi Fides" 
 
 MRS. LUELLA J. B. CASE. 
 
 The Indian Relic 
 
 Energy in Adversity 
 
 La Revenante 
 
 A Death- Scene 
 
 Death leading Age to Repose 
 
 MRS. SARAH T. BOLTON. 
 
 Lines suggested l>y an Anecdote of S. F. B. Marie 
 
 TheSpiraof Truth 
 
 Kentucky s Dead 
 
 MISS HANNAH J. WOODMAN. 
 
 The Annunciation 
 
 " When n-i/t tliou love Me?" 
 
 MISS SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. 
 
 Compared with Jarne 
 Variety of her Abiliti* 
 
 My Sister - 
 
 Tlu: Sea- Shell 
 
 MRS. RKHECCA S. NICHOLS. 
 
 Publishes lin-nice, and other Poems 
 
 To my Boy in Heaven 
 
 My Sixter Ellen 
 
 Farewell of the Soul to the Body 
 
 Lament of the Old Year 
 
 The Isle <f Dreams 
 
 Tlte Shadow 
 
 Little Nell 
 
 The little Flock 
 
 Ml 
 
 .HI 
 .SM 
 
 .< ; 
 
 Mu 
 
 .811 
 
 i 7 
 
 111 
 
 H 
 
 .311 
 
 .319 
 
 .. i 
 
 M 
 
 . BQ 
 
 MRS. JULIA WARD HOWE. 
 
 Extract from the Lifeof Schlesinger.byher Brother, Sam. Ward 
 The Beauty of her Poems 
 The Burial of Schlesinger 
 Wordsworth 
 
 To a Beautiful Statue 
 
 Lees from the r.up of Life 
 
 " Sptak, for thy Servant heareth" 
 
 A Mother s Fears. 
 
11 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 MRS AM KM. A I! WKI.IiV. 
 
 \v, i-i,._. no ;, r UK -,_i:unre of " Amelm 
 
 Publi.itj.Mi ,,f her rot-Mi* 
 
 Tli -ir Cli-ini ler 
 
 7V /:,>, 
 
 / //> r J,,,,,ienre 
 
 On l-:nten,, K tl,e .M,,mm,*h Cave 
 
 Lore 
 
 7V Old .M,,id 
 
 o 325 
 
 326 
 
 :;n 
 
 :;.s 
 
 328 
 
 329 
 
 To a Srn-Shell 329 
 
 7V Laxt Interview 3:50 
 
 My Sifter* 3:50 
 
 TII, I. .n if St,]> Son 
 The I moire of Had 
 
 331 
 332 
 
 MRS. CATH. VVAHK1KM) ANM) M IIS. ELEANOR T.KE. 
 
 Tlie H .fr ,,/ \. r m, fcc., by " Two <i,ter- of tlie We.st" ....... 333 
 
 The India,, Clta ,/,; and ot/irr J ocmt ....................... 3.53 
 
 Tl ...... Work. . n!i. i<ed ...................................... 333 
 
 Their ..tlier Writings ........................................ 333 
 
 ..................................................... 334 
 
 It,, nk ,,n the 1 rairie ........................................ 335 
 
 Lr,,,d of the Italian Chamber ............................... 3:57 
 
 " Sl,e nnuft tii Me" ......................................... 3:59 
 
 "lira/kin Dream, nf 1 octry" ............................... 340 
 
 ..................................................... 340 
 
 Tltf lS,rdal H 
 
 The Deserted rloutt..., 
 HISS SUSAK IMNDAK. 
 
 The Lady Lcnnorc . 
 Laiiralie 
 
 . . . 343 
 ...343 
 ...344 
 
 Thmighti tn Sfirins-Time 
 
 MISS CAROLINE MAY. 
 
 H-i Po*m, tc , 
 
 The Sahhath at the Year 
 
 T-i a Student 
 
 Semteut 
 
 1. On a i-arm Nm-emlier l)iy.. 
 II. On th, t/ijirani-h of Winter. . 
 
 III. Thought 
 
 IV. ll>i/ie 
 
 V. Memnry 
 
 Lilie* 
 
 Ta Nature.... 
 
 ..... 346 
 ..... 3-46 
 ..... 346 
 ..... 347 
 _____ 347 
 ..... 347 
 ..... 347 
 ..... 347 
 
 .347 
 
 AI.H K ;. IIAVKX. 
 
 Write* uncl^i Hi-- Si-nature of "Alice G. Lee" 349 
 
 K.IlN Ntafl Saturday Ga-.ette 349 
 
 The llrid, s t unt xxion 340 
 
 Miilniihi ami Dnyhreuk 341) 
 
 Tlie < It itrr/t 3^9 
 
 H" t :ioO 
 
 A M,- in in- ii 35j 
 
 WltS CAROI.INK H. CUANDr.KH. 
 
 Tn mi, Ural her 353 
 
 MISS KM/A I.. S1MIOAT. 
 
 Tlie /V,.,,,,,,- ,- f v.iW 353 
 
 A i en Sinni Xnnlitiim* 353 
 
 . ."-".".". 384 
 
 MIJS. 1IAKKIKT I. IS/.T, (WINSLOW.) 
 
 ll /ii, tins I.,., i 3g 4 
 
 MliS. .MM II T M. I.. CAMIM5KI.L. 
 
 II r I , uly Culture 355 
 
 . 3S-> 
 
 356 
 
 . - / .VI/H r, -e 366 
 
 Ml-- M.I-K .M - I ]\i: ] . \VAKD. 
 
 Horn ..I" :tn Hi-torir:il K:in,ily 3;>7 
 
 II, T NVri i.,--, Mini II.T Alpihli.-H 357 
 
 A I- ,,,,,,;, I Chant / , iltt 01,1 \;,,r :;.- )7 
 
 -i Old 1 inna 3,-,S 
 
 Si " " ""I / """. / 3.r, 8 
 
 Thf .V,,i and the Sovereign 
 
 . :lt .. - )( J 
 
 HISS I.ITY I.\|;<-(1M. 
 
 A K.I -torv (iirl ;it I.owcll O^Q 
 
 K\tr:n I bum .1. (i. \Vhiiti.-r, r,--j,,-, tj,,; i.er .:w 
 
 r .h-l,,, and li,f ttmgti " " 360 
 
 vv /;,-;, /v,,,,,, .....".".".".981 
 
 EDITH M \V." 
 
 She wntc- ini lfr ;i \,n,imr tie J lnme 3f;.-, 
 
 Tlie Clrir.n li-r ol IIIT li -nim 3 
 
 "" 
 
 EDITH MAY," (ros 
 // \tnrm at Tn-ili^ht . 
 
 W.) 
 
 Juliette. . 
 
 Summer 
 
 A F u-fft Srs.ne. 
 A J oet t Love.. 
 
 A Son _ fin- Ant 
 
 364 
 .364 
 .366 
 
 A True Story of ,i Fawn ............................. 
 
 MISSES FRANCES A. AND MKTTA V. FULLER. 
 Tlieir Writin-s for the " Home Journal" .............. 
 
 .3f>7 
 . 367 
 
 The Old Ma,, * Favorite .............................. 
 
 (II.) The I fift/ioy t Sung ................................. 
 
 Midn ight _____ ......................................... 
 
 T)u Silent .Ship ....................................... 
 
 The Spirit of my Song ................................ 
 
 MISSES ALICE AND PHfEBE CAREY. 
 
 Circiinr<trtT)ce.s unfavorable to their Development ...... 
 
 Extract from a Letter by Alice Carey ................. 
 
 Poems of A lice and Phcehf Carey contrasted ........... 
 
 (1.) Ilie Handmaid ...................................... 
 
 llinnn of the New Man .............................. 
 
 Palestine ............................................. 
 
 OldSloriet ............................... ! ........... 
 
 1 irtnre* of Mem,**, .................................. 
 
 The Tiro Msslonat ies ................... 
 
 n*in, of Light ...................... . ................ 
 
 }fe/v,, ................................................ 
 
 The Time to be ....................................... 
 
 ..oro 
 
 ..370 
 -.371 
 
 ..372 
 . . 372 
 . . 372 
 . . 372 
 ..373 
 ..373 
 -.373 
 ..374 
 ...374 
 . . 374 
 
 A Legend of St. Mary , 
 
 Watching 
 
 An Evening Tale 
 
 George Biirrogh* 
 
 Light, of Geniuf 
 
 Death s Ferryman 
 
 Sailor * Song 
 
 To the Evening Zephyr 
 
 Minings hy Three Grave* 
 
 (II.) The Lorcri; 
 
 Beat-in* Life * Burdens 
 
 Resotrcs 
 
 Light in Darknert 
 
 The Wife of Beitierei . . . .". . . . 
 
 Tfte FoUotem of Christ 
 
 Sympathy "" 
 
 .Son -r a f the Heart 
 
 Tlie 1 isoncr i Last fright 
 
 Mtmin-ie.* .." 
 
 Eijitalto Either Fortune 
 
 Caming /fame "..." 
 
 The Christian Woman 
 
 Death Scene ...". 
 
 Lyre at tlie Grave 
 
 MISS MARY LOCKHART LAWSON. 
 
 Lncien IJonapaite .s Opinion oflier Father 
 
 Her English and Scotti.-li Poems 
 
 The lianixhed Lover ." 
 
 Believe it _" 
 
 The Haunted Heart 
 
 -.375 
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 MRS. MARIA I.OWKI.L. 
 
 Ordinal nrid Translated Poems 
 
 J,-sn.i and the Dove 
 
 The Maiden s Hanest . . . . .". . . . " 
 
 Sng, " Oh, /linl, thnu dartett to the Sim" 
 
 Tlie Morning-Glory 
 
 MI .S. SAKA J. LIIM INCOTT. 
 
 Karly Residence in K<x:liester 
 
 Writings under tl.e Signature of " Grace Greenwood""" 
 
 II -r (;.-mn8 
 
 sfriadne 
 
 Dreamt 
 
 The Last ^</(- ....!."".!."!"".""" " 
 
 A l*>rer to his Faithlett Miftret* ".. 
 
 Hen-eii ta Nina 
 
 "Can<t T/,,,1, /,.,,;" .....I.J"""I!!!""* 
 
 Ini-ifinion t" M>ih,r F.artli 
 
 " There wa* a A -wc" " " 
 
 T,,e .V, ,,/ ; ,/ rV Lore , 
 
 .390 
 .391 
 .392 
 .393 
 .393 
 .394 
 .394 
 .395 
 
 A Dr.aiit. 
 
 Darkened Hour* . . . . . . .". . . . 
 
 L,>i-r and During 
 
 t W nHHf li.de 
 
 MISS \NNK H. I HILI.IPS. 
 
 Writes nn.ler the N;,,,,e of" Helen Irvj n " 
 
 .900 
 .9M 
 .397 
 
 -:i9S 
 .3M 
 
 Lore a, i,t Fam:. 
 Kina to Kieii-.i. . 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 15 
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN. 
 
 Labi/hood PACK 401 
 
 Going to Sleep 401 
 
 Loft Behind 401 
 
 Endurance 402 
 
 Singing in the Rain 402 
 
 A Spring Love Song 403 
 
 The Amber Rosary 403 
 
 October 403 
 
 AtLast 404 
 
 La*t 404 
 
 Forgotten 404 
 
 In an Attic 405 
 
 October to May 405 
 
 Erening 405 
 
 Prophecy 405 
 
 " My Pearling " 406 
 
 When the Leaves are Turning Broirn 406 
 
 Consolation 406 
 
 A Dream 407 
 
 Answer Me 407 
 
 The Sparrow at Sea 408 
 
 Rock Me to Sleep 408 
 
 MRS. ROLLIN COOKE, "ROSE TERRY." 
 
 Done For 409 
 
 After the Camanches 409 
 
 Doubt 409 
 
 Cain 410 
 
 " Che Sara Sara" 410 
 
 Midnight 410 
 
 At Last 411 
 
 December XXXI . . 411 
 
 New Moon 411 
 
 Indolence 411 
 
 Nemesis 412 
 
 Truths 412 
 
 A Ch HVs Wish 41 2 
 
 The Tu-o Villages 413 
 
 Blue Beard s Closet 413 
 
 The Iconoclast 413 
 
 Semde 414 
 
 Departing 414 
 
 La, Coquette 414 
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH STODDARD. 
 
 The Chimney-Swallow 8 Idyl 415 
 
 Before the Mirror 415 
 
 November .415 
 
 " Hallo, my Fancy , whither wilt thou go?" 416 
 
 On my Bed of a Winter Night 416 
 
 The House Inj the Sea, , 416 
 
 You Left Me 416 
 
 The Poet s Secret 416 
 
 A Summer Night 417 
 
 The House of Youth 417 
 
 The Shadows on the Water Reach 417 
 
 Exile 417 
 
 A Sea-Side Idyl 418 
 
 Unreturning 419 
 
 The Colonel s Shield 419 
 
 Mercedes 419 
 
 The Bull-Fight 420 
 
 El Capitano 420 
 
 On the Campagna 420 
 
 Christmas Comes Again 420 
 
 Last Days 421 
 
 Memory is Immortal 421 
 
 The Message 422 
 
 MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR. 
 
 Over the Wall 423 
 
 Earth to Earth " 423 
 
 Yesterday and To- Day 424 
 
 Agnes 424 
 
 Under the Palm Trees 424 
 
 The La*t of Six 425 
 
 Waiting for Letters 426 
 
 Coming Home 426 
 
 MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR, (CONTINUED.) 
 
 
 Hidden Away 
 
 PAGE 427 
 
 Then and Now 
 
 427 
 
 MRS. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 
 
 
 The Old Psalm Tune 
 
 428 
 
 The Other World 
 
 428 
 
 The Secret 
 
 429 
 
 Think not all is Over 
 
 429 
 
 The Crocus 
 
 429 
 
 " Only a Year " 
 
 429 
 
 Midnight 
 
 430 
 
 Second Hour 
 
 430 
 
 A Day in the Pamfili Doria 
 
 430 
 
 The Gardens of the Vatican 
 
 431 
 
 MRS. MARY E. BRADLEY. 
 
 
 Peartsease . 
 
 432 
 
 Miqnonnette 
 
 432 
 
 Winter-green 
 
 433 
 
 Beside the Sea 
 
 433 
 
 A Rhyme of the Rain 
 
 434 
 
 IntlieNiyht 
 
 434 
 
 Song 
 
 435 
 
 The Four-leaved Clover 
 
 436 
 
 Irrewtmlle 
 
 436 
 
 Ashet of Roses 
 
 436 
 
 MISS KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD. 
 
 
 
 437 
 
 Under the Maple 
 
 437 
 
 The Soid s Quest 
 
 438 
 
 Jimmy 
 
 438 
 
 By the Apple Tree 
 
 439 
 
 Marguerite 
 
 439 
 
 Mother MicJx.ud 
 
 439 
 
 In the Set"! 
 
 440 
 
 
 440 
 
 A Childish Fancy 
 
 441 
 
 Sixteen and Sixty 
 
 441 
 
 Awakened 
 
 441 
 
 
 442 
 
 Sawdust 
 
 
 In Clover 
 
 442 
 
 MRS. S. M. B. PIATT. 
 
 
 The Fancy Ball 
 
 ^43 
 
 Twelve Hours Apart 
 
 443 
 
 To-Day 
 
 443 
 
 Meeting a Mirror 
 
 443 
 
 Earth in Heaven 
 
 444 
 
 Last Words 
 
 444 
 
 The End of the Rainboip 
 
 444 
 
 Two Blush Roses 
 
 445 
 
 Of a Parting 
 
 445 
 
 A Disenchantment 
 
 445 
 
 Questions of the Hour 
 
 446 
 
 A Walk to my own Grave 
 
 446 
 
 On a Wedding Day 
 
 446 
 
 MRS. LOUI>E CHANDLER MOULTON. 
 
 
 The Song of a Summer 
 
 447 
 
 To my Hea rt 
 
 447 
 
 The Spring is Late 
 
 447 
 
 A Woman s Waiting 
 
 
 The Singer 
 
 ....44S 
 
 A Weed 
 
 449 
 
 How Long ? ..-. 
 
 449 
 
 A Problem 
 
 449 
 
 May-Flowers 
 
 449 
 
 MRS. CELIA THAXTER. 
 
 
 Expectation 
 
 450 
 
 The Sandpiper 
 
 450 
 
 The Minute-Guns 
 
 450 
 
 Rock Weeds 
 
 451 
 
 A. Sumnvr Day 
 
 451 
 
 November 
 
 452 
 
 Yellow-Bird 
 
 . ...453 
 
 MRS. ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY. 
 
 
 Per Tenebras, Lamina 
 
 453 
 
16 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 MRS. ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY (CONTINUKD). 
 
 BtMndtkt Mink ............... ................. PAGK453 
 
 ................................................ 452 
 
 An, thrust ............................................. 454 
 
 Released ............................................. 4;->4 
 
 };< i uty for Ashfs ..................................... 454 
 
 Th,- Three Light* .................................... 454 
 
 Sunlight nnd Starlight .................................. 455 
 
 Jfenrth-Glow ........................................... 455 
 
 / ............... ............................... 455 
 
 Up in the Wild ....................................... 456 
 
 /"/ ........... ............................... 456 
 
 The Second Motherhood ................................. 456 
 
 The Last Reality ....................................... 455 
 
 MRS. HELEN HUNT. 
 
 Spinning....^ ....................................... 457 
 
 The Prince is Dead .................................... 457 
 
 " Spoken " ............................. . .............. 457 
 
 Amreetri Wine ......................................... 453 
 
 Coronation ............................................. 453 
 
 Tryst .................................................. 458 
 
 My Strawberry ............................ ........... 459 
 
 " Down to Sleep" ...................................... 459 
 
 ............................. 459 
 
 MRS. MARGARET J. PRESTON. 
 
 i ino at Supper ................................... 460 
 
 A ndrea s Mistake ..................................... 460 
 
 Donna Margherita. .................................... 461 
 
 Dorothea s Roses ....................................... 462 
 
 In an Eastern Bazaar .................................. 4g3 
 
 St. Gregory s Supper ............. ................... 463 
 
 The Open Gate .......................................... 454 
 
 God s Patience ......................... 464 
 
 MISS NORA PERRY. 
 
 In June .................................... _^ 465 
 
 That Waltz of Von Weber s ............................ 465 
 
 Riding Down .................................... " " 406 
 
 My Lad .y .............................................. 466 
 
 .1 nnthrr Year .......................................... 457 
 
 After the Ball .......................................... 457 
 
 MISS LAURA C. REDDEN. 
 
 .Disarmed ............................... 463 
 
 Brolcen Off ............................................ 453 
 
 !( / ,< Out ............................................. 4gg 
 
 A Lore. Song of Sorrento ................................ 459 
 
 An Empty Ni*t ....................................... 4(59 
 
 The Fiellt are Gray with Immortelles .. ............. 470 
 
 Xntretfout. 
 
 .470 
 
 MISS HARRIET McEWEN KIMBALL. 
 
 I i i Dolorosa 471 
 
 My Knowledge 47! 
 
 Praying in Sjiirit 471 
 
 Humble Service _ _ 47! 
 
 MISS HARRIET McEWEN KIMBALL (CONTINUED). 
 
 My Friend ....................................... PAGE 472 
 
 The Bell in the Tower ................................... 472 
 
 AW* Well ............................................. 472 
 
 TheGue*t ............................................. 472 
 
 MISS EMMA LAZARUS. 
 
 In the Jewish Synagogue at Newport ................... 473 
 
 On a Tuft of Grass ...................................... 473 
 
 Drtams ................................................ 474 
 
 Exultation ............................................. 474 
 
 Sonnet .................................................. 474 
 
 MISS MARIAN DOUGLAS. 
 
 My Winter Friend ..................................... 475 
 
 Politics ............................................... 475 
 
 Wailing .for the May ................................. 475 
 
 tfiimney-Top* .......................................... 476 
 
 The Yellow Cloud ....................................... 476 
 
 The Rope Dancer ....................................... 476 
 
 Ant Hills ............................................... 477 
 
 The Lost Flowers ............ ........................... 477 
 
 One Saturday ........................................... 477 
 
 The Song of the Bee .................................... 478 
 
 The Year a Last Flower ................................ 478 
 
 * Two Pictures ....... .................................... 478 
 
 MRS. LUCY HAMILTON HOOPER. 
 
 Revelry ........................... ................... 479 
 
 The Duel ................................................ 479 
 
 Re-United ............................................. 479 
 
 TheKing sRide ...................................... 480 
 
 At the Ball MaUlle ..................................... 480 
 
 Touch Not ............................................... 480 
 
 MRS. HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. 
 
 A Lovers Garden 
 At Twilight 
 Vanity 
 
 481 
 481 
 
 Flower Songs ....... .................................... 482 
 
 Peace ..... .......................................... 483 
 
 Music in the Night ..................... ............... 483 
 
 Hereafter .................. .......................... 433 
 
 Daybreak .............................................. 483 
 
 Nocturne ............................................... 484 
 
 Magdalen ............................................. 434 
 
 A Sigh ................................................ 484 
 
 Alive ............ . .................................. 484 
 
 MISS MARY N. PRESCOTT. 
 
 A Lullahy ................................ . ............. 435 
 
 Rock. Little Nest ....................................... 435 
 
 A Tear .......................... .................... 435 
 
 To-Day ................................................ 435 
 
 Song ............. . ..................................... 435 
 
 Two Moods .......................................... 486 
 
 A Song ............................................... 435 
 
 Asleep ................................ .................. 486 
 
 The Brook ............................. ____ 435 
 
ANNE BRADSTREET. 
 
 (Born 1013-Died 1672). 
 
 IN the works of Mrs. ANNE BRADSTREET, 
 wife of one and daughter of another of the ear 
 ly governors of Massachusetts, we have illus 
 trations of a genius suitable to grace a dis 
 tant province while the splendid creations 
 of Spenser and Shakspere were delighting 
 the metropolis. A comparison of the pro 
 ductions of this celebrated person with those 
 of Lady Juliana Berners, Elizabeth Melvill, 
 the Countess of Pembroke, and her other pred 
 ecessors or contemporaries, will convince the 
 judicious critic that she was superior to any 
 poet of her sex who wrote in the English 
 language before the close of the seventeenth 
 century. 
 
 She was born in 1613, while her father, 
 Thomas Dudley who had been educated in 
 the family of the Earl of Northampton, and 
 had served creditably with the army in Flan 
 ders was steward to the Earl of Lincoln, in 
 which situation he remained with a brief in 
 terruption from twelve to sixteen years, and 
 in which he appears to have been succeeded 
 by Mr. Simon Bradstreet, of Emanuel Col 
 legesubsequently for a short time steward 
 to the Countess of Warwick who in 1629 
 married the future poetess, then about six 
 teen years of age, and in the following year 
 came with the Dudley family and other non 
 conformists to New England. 
 
 It does not appear that Mrs. Bradstreet 
 had written anything, which has been print 
 ed, before her arrival in America. Here was 
 completed her education, under the care of her 
 husband, and his friends among the learned 
 men who then presided over the society of 
 Cambridge and Boston ; and by her experi 
 ence and observation in this country nearly 
 all her poems seem to have been suggested. 
 The first collection of them was printed at 
 Boston, in 1640, under the title of "Several 
 Poems, compiled with great variety of Wit 
 and Learning, full of delight ; wherein espe 
 cially is contained a compleat Discourse and 
 Description of the Four Elements, Constitu 
 tions, Ages of Man, and Seasons of the Year, 
 together with an exact Epitome of the Three 
 First Monarchies, viz., the Assyrian, Persian, 
 
 and Grecian ; and the beginning of the Roman 
 Commonwealth to the end of their last King ; 
 with divers other Pleasant and Serious Po 
 ems : By a Gentlewoman of New England." 
 In 1650 this volume was reprinted in Lon 
 don, with the additional title of " The Tenth 
 Muse, lately sprung up in America ;" and in 
 1678 a second American edition came from 
 the press of John Foster, of Boston, " cor 
 rected by the author, and enlarged by the 
 addition of several other poems found among 
 her papers after her death." 
 
 The writer of the preface to the first edi 
 tion, who was probably her brother-in-law, 
 John Woodbridge, of Andover, says : " Had 
 I opportunity but to borrow some of the au 
 thor s wit, tis possible I might so trim this 
 curious work with sucn quaint expressions 
 as that the preface might bespeak thy fur 
 ther perusal ; but I fear twill be a shame for 
 a man that can speak so little, to be seen in 
 the titlepage of this woman s book, lest by 
 comparing the one with the other the reader 
 should pass his sentence that it is the gift of 
 the woman not only to speak most but to 
 speak best. I shall have therefore to com 
 mend that, which with any ingenious reader 
 will too much commend the a\ithor, unless 
 men turn more peevish than women and 
 envy the inferior sex. I doubt not but the 
 reader will quickly find more than I can say, 
 and the worst effect of his reading will be un 
 belief, which will make him question wheth 
 er it can be a woman s work, and ask, Is 
 it possible V If any do, take this as an an 
 swer, from him that dares avow it : It is the 
 work of a woman, honored and esteemed 
 where she lives, for her gracious demeanor, 
 her eminent parts, her pious conversation, 
 her courteous disposition, her exact dili 
 gence in her place, and discreet managing 
 of her family occasions : and more than so. 
 these poems are the fruit but of some few 
 hours, curtailed from her sleep and other re 
 freshments. . . . This only I shall annex : 1 
 fear the displeasure of no person in publish 
 ing these poems, but the author, without 
 whose knowledge and contrary to %yhoseei 
 
A.NXE BRADSTREET. 
 
 pectation I have presun-ed to bring to pub 
 lic view what she resolved in such a manner 
 should never see the sun." 
 
 It is evident, from some lines upon it by 
 Mrs. Bradsireet, that Spenser s Faery Queen 
 wa> not unknown in Massachusetts, but the 
 fashionable poet of that period was Du Bar 
 tas,* translations of whose works, in cum- 
 bn .n.- quartos and folios, were read by every 
 person in the country pretending to taste or 
 pie.\ . ill. ii-h they seem to have evinced little 
 genm-. and still less religion. Among the 
 verses prefixed to Mrs. Bradsireet s volume 
 are some by Nathaniel Ward, of Ipswich, 
 the witty author of The Simple Cobbler of 
 Aga warn, who, puzzled by a comparison of 
 his heroine with the recognised model of 
 the age, declares that 
 
 Mercury showed Apollo Bartas book, 
 Minerva this, and wished him well to look 
 And tell uprightly which did which excel : 
 Jle viewed and viewed, and vowed he could not tell. 
 
 But .Airs. Bradstreet herself was more mod 
 est, and, in the prologue to r-ne of her longer 
 
 piece:-, says 
 
 But when my wondering eyes and envious heart 
 (I real Bartas sugared lines do but read o er, 
 
 Tool ! I do grudge the muses did not part 
 "J wivt him and me their overfluent store. 
 
 A Bartas can do what a Bartas will 
 
 But simple I, according to my skill. 
 
 The "copies of verses" which are prefixed 
 to these poems are curious, not only as indi- 
 c.aiing the position of the author and her as 
 sociations, but as illustrative of the taste and 
 culture of the time in the city which still 
 claims to be our literary capital. Benjamin 
 Wondbridge, the first graduate of Harvard 
 college, exclaims 
 
 Now 1 believe Tradition, which doth call 
 The muses, virtues, graces, females all ; 
 Only they are not nine, eleven, nor three 
 Our authoress proves them but one unity. 
 
 And further on, to his own sex 
 
 In your own arts confess yourselves outdone 
 
 The moon doth totally eclipse the sun : 
 Mot with her sable mantle muflling him, 
 But her bright silver makes his -old look dim. 
 
 William de_ Salluste dn liartas the mor-f ceiehrated 
 
 F i- nch poet of his a-c. was Lorn n l.M-l. and died in 
 .. r >!U>. He was the friend and n 
 H -nri IV., and wrote a canticle upoi 
 
 His works were nearly nil. hy vin-ji 
 into Kn-lish. HIM one of theni. (in! 
 
 ii, Hebdornas "etc., pas.-ed through 
 
 lions in MX years. The translation which was p rohahiv 
 
 ) st kno-n in tins country is that of Sylveate :. published 
 
 in London, in a thick folio, in 
 
 ip.-inirii in arms of 
 his victory of Vvri. 
 us hands, translated 
 elnii Sallu-ti llartas- 
 nore than thirty edi- 
 
 iviiicii was probably 
 Sylveate :. published 
 
 The learned and pious John Norton, who 
 declared this "peerless gentlewoman" to be 
 " the mirror of her age and glory of her sex," 
 said in a funeral ode that could Virgil hear 
 her works he would condemn his own to the 
 fire, and that 
 
 Praise her who list, yet he shall be a debtor, 
 For art ne er feigned, nor nature formed, a better . 
 Her virtues were so great, that they do raise 
 A work to trouble Fame, astonish Praise ; 
 When, as her name doth but salute the ear, 
 Men think that they Perfection s abstract hear. 
 Her breast was a brave palace, a broad street, 
 Where all heroic, ample thoughts did meet; 
 Where Nature such a tenement had ta en 
 That other souls to hers dwelt in a lane. 
 Beneath her feet pale Envy bites the chain, 
 And poisoned Malice whets her sting in vain. 
 Let every laurel, every myrtle bough, 
 Be stripped for leaves t adorn and load her brow 
 Victorious wreaths, which, for they never fade, 
 Wise elder times for kings and poets made. 
 J.et not her happy memory e er lack 
 Its worth in Fame s eternal almanac, 
 Which none shall read but straight their loss deplore 
 And blame their fates they were not born before. 
 Do not old men rejoice their dates did last, 
 And infants too that theirs did make such haste, 
 In such a welcome time to bring them forth 
 That they might be a witness to her worth 1 
 
 Dr. Cotton Mather in the Magnalia alludes 
 to her works as a "monument to her mem 
 ory beyond the stateliest marble ;" and John 
 Rogers, one of the presidents of Harvard col 
 lege, addressed to her one of the finest poems 
 written in this country before the Revolution, 
 in which he says: 
 
 Your only hand those poesies did compose ; [flow ; 
 
 Your head, the source whence all those springs did 
 Your voice, whence change s sweetest notes arose ; 
 ^ Your feet, that kept the dance alone, I trow ; 
 Then veil your bonnets, poetasters, all : 
 Strike lower amain, and at these humbly fall, 
 And deem yourselves advanced to be her pedestal 
 Should all with lowly congees laurels bring, 
 
 Waste Flora s magazine to find a wreath, 
 Or Pineus banks, twere too mean offering. 
 
 Your muse a fairer garland doth bequeath 
 To guard your fairer front; here tis your name 
 
 Shall stand im marbled ; this your little frame 
 
 Shall great Colossus be to your eternal fame. 
 
 These praises run into hyperbole, and prove, 
 perhaps, that their authors were more gal 
 hint than critical ; but we perceive from Mrs. 
 Bradstreet s poems that they are not desti 
 tute of imagination, and that she was thor 
 oughly instructed in the best learning of her 
 acre : and from the general and profound re 
 gret manifested on the occasion of her death, 
 
ANNE BRADSTREET. 
 
 we may believe she was personally deserv 
 ing of unusual respect. 
 
 Her Husband was frequently absent from 
 his home, upon official duties, and several 
 poems which she addressed to him in these 
 periods have the fervor and simplicity of the 
 sincerest passion. In one of them she says : 
 If ever two were one, then surely we ; 
 If ever man were loved by wife, then thee ; 
 If ever wife were happy in a man, 
 Compare with me, ye women, if ye can. 
 
 In another, apostrophizing the sun : 
 Phoebus, make haste the day s too long begone ! 
 The silent night s the fittest time for moan. 
 But stay, this once unto my suit give ear 
 And tell my griefs in either hemisphere: 
 If in thy swift career thou canst ma-ke stay, 
 I crave this boon, this errand, by the way : 
 Commend me to the man, more loved than life : 
 Show him the sorrows of his widowed wife ; 
 And if he love, how can he there abide ] 
 My interest s more than all the world beside. . . . 
 Tell him the countless steps that thou dost trace 
 That once a day thy spouse thou mayst embrace, 
 And when thou canst not meet by loving mouth, 
 Thy rays afar salute her from the south ; 
 But for one month, I see no day, poor soul ! 
 Like those far situate beneath the pole, 
 Which day by day long wait for thy arise 
 
 how they joy when thou dost light the skies ! 
 Tell him I would say more, but can not well ; 
 Oppress J d minds abruptest tales do tell. 
 
 Now part with double speed, mark what I say, 
 By all our loves conjure him not to stay ! 
 
 In the prospect of death : 
 How soon, my dear, death may my steps attend, 
 How soon t may be thy lot to lose thy friend, 
 We both are ignorant ; yet love bids me 
 These farewell lines to recommend to thee, 
 That when that knot s untied that made us one, 
 
 1 may seem thine, who in effect am none. 
 And if I see not half my days that s due, 
 What Nature would, God grant to yours and you ; 
 The many faults that well you know I have, 
 
 Let be interred in my oblivious grave ; 
 
 If any worth or virtue is in me, 
 
 Let that live freshly in my memory ; 
 
 And when thou feel st no grief, as I no harms, 
 
 Yet love thy dead, who long lay in thine arms ; 
 
 And when thy loss shall be repaid, with gains, 
 
 Look to my little babes, my dear remains, 
 
 And if thou lovest thyself or lovest me, 
 These oh protect from stepdame s injury ! 
 And if chance to thine eyes doth bring this verse, 
 With some sad sighs honor my absent hearse, 
 And kiss this paper, for thy love s dear sake. 
 Who with salt tears this last farewell doth take. 
 
 Some of her elegies are marked by similar 
 beauties as this, upon a grandchild who 
 died in 1665: 
 Farewell, dear child, my heart s too much content, 
 
 Farewell, sweet babe, the pleasure of mine eye, 
 Farewell, fair flower, that for a space was lent, 
 
 Then ta en away into eternity. 
 Blest babe, why should I once bewail thy fate, 
 Or sigh, the days so soon were terminate, 
 Sith thou art settled in an everlasting state 1 
 
 By nature, trees do rot when they are grown, 
 
 And plums and apples thoroughly ripe do fall, 
 And corn and grass are in their season mown, 
 
 And time brings down what is both strong and tall. 
 But plants new set, to be eradicate, 
 And buds new blown, to have so short a date, 
 Is by His hand alone, that nature guides, and fate. 
 
 And some verges upon the death of a daugh 
 ter-in-law, in 1669, from which the follow 
 ing is an extract : 
 And live I still, to see relations gone, 
 And yet survive, to sound this wailing tone t 
 Ah, wo is me, to write thy funeral song 
 Who might in reason yet have lived so long ! 
 I saw the branches lopped, the tree now fall ; 
 I stood so nigh, it crushed me down withal ; 
 My bruised heart lies sobbing at the root, 
 That thou, dear son, hast lost both tree and fruit; 
 Thou, then on seas, sailing on foreign coast, 
 Wast ignorant what riches thou hadst lost, 
 But oh, too soon those heavy tidings fly, 
 To strike thee with amazing misery ! 
 Mrs. Brads reet died on the 16ih of Septem 
 ber, 1672, in the sixtieth year of her age. 
 Her husband afterward married a sister of 
 Sir George Dunning, and lived to be called 
 the Nestor of New England, dying at Salem 
 in 1697, when he was nearly a century old. 
 Many of Mrs. Bradstreet s descendants 
 have been conspicuous for their abilities. 
 Among them is the noble poet Dana, Avho 
 traces his lineage through one of the signers 
 of the Declaration of Independence. 
 
 FROM THE PROLOGUE TO THE FOUR 
 ELEMENTS. 
 
 I AM obnoxious to each carping tongue 
 That says my hand a needle better fits ; 
 
 A poet s pen all scorn I should thus wrong, 
 For such despite they cast on female wits ; 
 
 If what I do prove well, it won t advance- - 
 They ll say, It s stolen, or else it was by chance 
 
 But sure, the antique Greeks were far more mild , 
 Else of our sex why feigned they those Nine, 
 
 And Poesy made Calliop > s own child 
 So, mongst the rest, they placed the arts divine. 
 
20 
 
 ANXE BRAUSTREET. 
 
 But tliis weak knot they will full soon untie 
 The (Jp eks diil naught but play the fool and lie. 
 
 Let (J reeks l>e Greeks, and women what they are ; 
 
 Men have precedency, and still excel ; 
 t is but vain unjustly to wage war, 
 
 Men can do best, and women know it well; 
 Pre-eminence in each and all is yours, 
 Vet tyrant some small acknowledgment of ours. 
 
 And oh, ye high-flown quills that soar the skit s, 
 And ever with your prey .still catch your praise, 
 
 If e er you deign these lowly lines your eyes, 
 (ii\c tiiMiic or parsley wreath: I ask no bays; 
 
 This mean and unrefined ore of mine 
 
 Will make your glistering gold but more to shine. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM CONTKMPL ATIONS. 
 
 TIxitr.it the cooling shadow of a stately elm, 
 
 Close sat I by a goodly river s side, 
 Where gliding streams the rocks did overwhelm ; 
 
 A lonely place, with pleasures dignified. 
 I, once that loved the shady woods so well, 
 .Vow thought the rivers did the trees excel, [dwell. 
 And if the sun would ever shine, there would I 
 
 While on the stealing stream I fixed mine eye, 
 Which to the longed-for ocean held its course, 
 
 I marked nor crooks nor rubs that there did lie, 
 Could hinder aught, but still augment its force. 
 
 " O happy flood," quoth I, that holdst thy race 
 
 Till thou arrive at thy beloved place, 
 
 Nor is it rocks or shoals that can obstruct thy pace. 
 
 "Nor is t enough that thou alone may st slide, 
 But hundred brooks in thy clear waves do meet: 
 
 Si; hand in hand along with thee they glide 
 To Thetis house, where all embrace and greet. 
 
 Thou emblem true of what I count the best 
 
 () could I leave my rivulets to rest! 
 
 So may we press to that vast mansion ever blest. 
 
 " Ye fish which in this liquid region bide. 
 
 That for each season have your habitation, 
 Now salt, now fresh, when you think best to glide, 
 
 To unknown coasts to give a visitation, 
 In lakes and ponds you leave your numerous fry : 
 So .Nature taught, and yet you know not why 
 You wat ry folk that know not your felicity ! 
 
 Look how the wantons frisk to taste the air, 
 
 Then to the colder bottom straight they dive, 
 Eft soon to .Veptunc s glassy h;dl repair" 
 To see what trade the threat ones there do drive, 
 Who t oni jv o er the spacious sea-irreen field. 
 And take their trembling prey before it yield, 
 Whose armor is their scales, their spreading fins 
 their shield. 
 
 While musinnr thus with contemplation fed. 
 And thousand fancies bu/./.in^ in mv brain, 
 
 r l h sweet toiiLrued Philomel perch :-d o er my head, 
 And chanted forth a most melodious strain, 
 
 Which rapt me so with wonder and delight, 
 I judged my hearing better than my sight, 
 And wished me wings with her a while to lake 
 my flight. 
 
 " merry bird," said I, " that fears no snares ; 
 
 That neither toils nor hoards up in thy barn ; 
 Feels no sad thoughts, nor cruciating cares 
 
 To gain more good, or shun what might thee harm : 
 Thy clothes ne er wear, thy meat is everywhere, 
 Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water clear, [fear 
 Reminds not what is past, nor what s to come dost 
 
 " The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent* 
 
 Sets hundred notes unto thy feathered crew ; 
 So each one tunes his pretty instrument, 
 And warbling out the old, begins anew, 
 And thus they pass their youth in summer season, 
 Then follow thee into a better region, 
 Where winter s never felt by that sweet airy legion." 
 
 Man s at the best a creature frail and vain, 
 
 In knowledge ignorant, in strength but weak ; 
 Subject to sorrows, losses, sickness, pain, 
 
 Each storm his state, his mind, his body break : 
 From some of these he never finds cessation, 
 But day or night, within, without, vexation, 
 Troubles from foes, from friends, from dearest, 
 near st relations. 
 
 And yet this sinful creature, frail and vain, 
 
 This lump of wretchedness, of sin and sorrow, 
 This weather-beaten vessel racked with pain, 
 Joys not in hope of an eternal morrow ; 
 Nor all his losses, crosses, and vexation, 
 In weight, in frequency, and long duration, 
 Can make him deeply groan for that divine trans 
 lation. 
 
 The mariner that on smooth waves doth glide, 
 
 Sin ITS merrily, and steers his bark with ease, 
 As if he had command of wind and tide, 
 
 And were become great master of the seas; 
 But suddenly a storm spoils all the sport, 
 And makes him long for a more quiet port, 
 Which gainst all adverse winds may serve for fort. 
 
 So he that saileth in this world of pleasure, 
 ^ Feeding on sweets, that never bit of the sour, 
 
 That s full of friends, of honor, and of treasure 
 
 Fond fool ! he takes this earth e en for heaven s 
 
 bower. 
 
 But sad alHiction comes, and makes him see 
 Here s neither honor, wealth, nor safety: 
 Only above is found all with security. 
 
 O Time, the fatal wrack of mortal things, 
 
 That draws Oblivion s curtains over kings 
 
 TJieir sumptuous monuments men know them not, 
 Their names without a record are forgot, [dust 
 Their parts, their ports, their pomps, all laid i the 
 Nor wit, nor -,ro!d, nor l)iiildinirs, scape Time s rust 
 But be whose name is graved in the white stone, 
 Shall last and shine when all. of these are gone! 
 
 That is, anticipate. 
 
MERCY WARREN. 
 
 (Born 1728 -Died 1815). 
 
 THIS woman, once so well known as a 
 poet, and whose historical writings are still 
 consulted as among the most valuable au 
 thorities relating to our revolutionary age, 
 was a sister of the celebrated James Otis and 
 the wife of James Warren, for many years 
 honorably conspicuous in public affairs. She 
 was born in Barnstable, of a family which 
 had been nearly a century in the Plymouth 
 colony, on the 25th of September, 1728. Her 
 youth was passed in retirement, but in hab 
 its and duties suitable for the eldest daugh 
 ter of a gentleman of the first rank in the co 
 lonial society. Her education was directed 
 first by the minister of the parish, and after 
 ward by her brother James, who graduated 
 at Harvard in 1743, and was a thoroughly 
 accomplished scholar. When about twenty- 
 six years of age she was married to Mr. War 
 ren," then a merchant at Plymouth, and it was 
 while residing with him and her children, 
 in after years, near that town, at a place to 
 which she gave the name of Clifford, that 
 she wrote the greater part of her dramatic 
 and miscellaneous poems. 
 
 The popular excitement which preceded 
 the separation from England, and the rela 
 tions sustained by her brother and her hus 
 band to the great parties by which the coun 
 try was divided, had a quick and powerful 
 influence upon her ardent and sympathetic 
 spirit, and perhaps nothing would give us a 
 more just impression of the feelings of the 
 time than her eloquent and terse correspon 
 dence with the Adamses, with Jefferson, 
 Dickinson, Gerry, Knox, and other leading 
 characters, upon the aspects and prospects 
 of affairs. Her intercourse with the remark 
 able women who seconded so earnestly the 
 movements of the fathers of the republic, 
 was more intimate, and probably would ad 
 mit us yet further into the secrets and pas 
 sions of the youthful heart of the nation. 
 Her intelligence and patriotism are recog 
 nised by Mrs. Adams, who, in a letter to 
 her written in 1773, remarks: "You are so 
 sincere a lover of your country, and so hearty 
 a mourner in all her misfo:tu:ies, that it will 
 
 greatly aggravate your anxiety to hear how 
 much she is now oppressed and insulted. 
 To you, who have so thoroughly looked 
 through the deeds of men, and developed the 
 dark designs of a * Rapatio soul, no action, 
 however base or sordid, no measure, how 
 ever cruel and villanous, will be a matter 
 of surprise." By " Rapatio" is meant Gov 
 ernor Hutchinson, who is thus designated in 
 The Group, a satirical drama, in two acts, 
 which Mrs. Warren had published, and to 
 which much influence is ascribed in contem 
 porary letters. In the first scene of the sec 
 ond act, in describing the royal governor, 
 she says: 
 
 But mark the traitor ! his high crime glossed o er 
 Conceals the tender feelings of the man, 
 The social ties that bind the human heart : 
 He strikes a bargain with his country s foes, 
 And joins to wrap America in flames, 
 Yet, with feigned pity and satanic grin, 
 As if more deep to fix the keen insult, 
 Or make his life a farce still more complete, 
 He sends a groan across the broad Atlantic, 
 And with a phiz of crococlilean stamp, 
 Can weep and writhe, still hoping to deceive. 
 He cries, The gathering clouds hang thick about her, 
 But laughs within then sobs, Alas, my country ! 
 
 And in another place, alluding to the de 
 struction of the tea in Boston harbor : 
 
 India s poisonous weed, 
 Long since a sacrifice to Thetis, made 
 A rich" resale. Now all the watery dames 
 May snuff souchong, and sip, in flowing bowls, 
 The higher-flavored choice hysonian stream. 
 And leave their nectar to old Homer s gods. 
 
 There is certainly very little poetry in these 
 extracts, or in the piece from which they are 
 taken ; but as reflexions of the common feel 
 ing her satires received the best applause of 
 the day. 
 
 Mrs. Warren s residence was changed du 
 ring the Revolution to Milton, Watertown, 
 and other places ; Washington, Lee, Gates, 
 and D Estaing, were among her occasional 
 guests ; and many of the leading statesmen 
 of New England by her fireside formed plans 
 of the execution of which she subsequently 
 became the historian. Her tragedies were 
 written for amusement, in the solitary hours 
 
MERCY WARREN. 
 
 in which her friends wen- sihnuid, and the) 
 :ire :is deeply imbued wilh tin- general spiri 
 as if their characters were acting in thedaili 
 i-xpi-rieiice of the country. They have Hull 
 drainaiie or poetic merit, but m-my passages 
 
 are smoothly and some vigorously written 
 
 as the fallowing, from The Sack of Rome: 
 
 S f S P I C I O N . 
 
 I tli ink some latent mischief lies concealed 
 ISeneath the vi/ard of a fair pretence; 
 My In-art ill brooked the errand of the day, 
 Yet I obeyed though a strange horror seized 
 My Bloomy mind, and shook my frame 
 As if the moment murdered all my joys, 
 n KM on SK. 
 
 The bird of death that nightly pecks the roof, 
 Or shrieks beside the caverns of the dead ; 
 Or paler spectres that infest the tombs 
 Of guilt and darkness, horror or despair, 
 Are far more welcome to a wretch like me 
 Than yon bight rays that deck the opening morn. 
 
 FORTUNE. 
 
 The wheel of fortune, rapid in its flight, 
 La-* not for man, when on its swift routine; 
 Nor does the goddess ponder unresolved: 
 She wafts at once and on her lofty car 
 Lifts up her puppet mounts him to the skies, 
 Or from the pinnacle hurls headlong down 
 The steep abyss of disappointed hope. 
 
 AUDKLIA. 
 
 She was, for innocence and truth, 
 For elegance, true dignity, and grace, 
 The fairest sample of that ancient worth 
 Th illustrious matrons boasted to the world 
 When Kome was famed for every glorious deed. 
 
 m.CLIXK OF PUBLIC VIUTUK. 
 
 That dignity the gods themselves inspired, 
 When Home, inflamed with patriotic zeal, 
 Louir taught the world to tremble and admire, 
 Lies (hint and languid in the wane of fame, 
 And must expire in Luxury s lewd lap 
 It not supported by some vigorous arm. 
 Or these, from The Ladies of Castile: 
 
 CITIl WAII. 
 
 M.mirst. all the ills that hover o er mankind, 
 Unfeigned, or fabled in the poet s pajre. 
 The blackest scrawl the sister furies hold, 
 For red-e\ed \Vralh or .Malice to (ill up, 
 Is incomplete to sum up human wo, 
 Till Civil Discord, still a darker fiend. 
 Stalks forth unmasked from his infernal den, 
 With mad Alecto torch in his right hand. 
 TIIK ecu HAM: or VIIITIK. 
 
 ^ A soul, inspired by freedom s Denial warmth, 
 hxpands, grows firm, and by resistance, strong; 
 The most successful prince that offers life, 
 \nd 1 iils me live upon ignoble terms, 
 Shall learn from me that virtue seldom fears. 
 Death kindly opes a tnmisand friendly gates, 
 
 tad Freedom waits to guard her votaries through 
 
 Appended to her tragedies are several 
 miscellaneous poems, generally in a flowing 
 verse, but frequently marked by bad taste, 
 and rarely evincing any real poetical power 
 or feeling. The following lines are from the 
 beginning of an epistle to a young gentleman 
 educated in Europe : 
 
 SUPKHSTIT1OX, 
 
 When ancient Britons piped the rustic lays, 
 And tuned to Woden notes of vocal praise, 
 The dismal dirges caught the listening throng 
 And ruder gestures joined the antique song. 
 Then the gray druid s grave, majestic air, 
 The frantic priestess, with dishevelled hair 
 And flaming torch, spoke Superstition s reign : 
 While elfin damsels dancing o er the plain, 
 Allured the vulgar by the mystic scene, 
 To keep long vigils on the sacred green. 
 
 In A Political Revery, written before the 
 commencement of the war, she gives a view 
 of the future glory of America, and the pun 
 ishment of her oppressors. After a sketch 
 of the first history of the country, she says : 
 
 Here a bright form, with soft majestic grace, 
 Beckoned me on through vast unmeasured space 
 Beside the margin of the vast profound, 
 Wild echoes played and cataracts did bound ; 
 Beyond the heights of nature s wide expanse, 
 \V here moved superb the planetary dance. 
 Light burst on light, and suns o er suns displayed 
 The system perfect Nature s God had laid. 
 
 And here the fate of nations is revealed to 
 her. In The Squabble of the Sea-Nymphs 
 is celebrated the destruction of tea in 1774 
 The following are the concluding lines: 
 
 The virtuous daughters of the neighb ring mead 
 In graceful smiles approved the glorious deed 
 (And though the syrens left their coral beds, 
 Just o er the surface lifted up their heads, 
 And sung soft paeans to the brave and fair, 
 Till almost caught in the delusive snare 
 To sink securely in a golden dream, 
 And taste the sweet, inebriating stream); 
 J hey saw delighted from the inland rocks, 
 > er the broad deep poured out Pandora s box 
 1 hey jomed, and fair Salacia s triumph sun--- 
 VV ild echo o er the bounding ocean run" 
 Hie sea-nymphs heard, and all the sportive tram 
 n shaggy tressefl danced around the main 
 rom southern lakes down to the northern rills 
 And spread confusion round N hiu s . 
 
 Tin- 1 incs to the Hon. John Winthrop, who 
 on the determination in 1774 to suspend all 
 trade with England except for the real "ne- 
 
 cessaries of life," requested a list of articles 
 
 |l ladies might comprise under that head 
 
 are in the author s happiest vein of satire 
 
MERCY WARREN. 
 
 THIXGS NECESSARY TO THE LIFE OF A WOXAX. 
 
 An inventory clear 
 Of all she needs, Lamira offers here ; 
 Nor does she fear a rigid Cato s frown, 
 When she lays by the rich embroidered gown, 
 And modestly compounds for just enough 
 Perhaps some dozens of mere flighty stuff: 
 With lawns and lustrings, blond, and mecklin lace.3, 
 Fringes and jewels, fans and tweezer-cases ; 
 Gay cloaks and hats, of every shape and size, 
 Scarfs, cardinals, and ribands, of all dyes ; 
 With ruffles stamped, and aprons of tambour, 
 Tippets and handkerchiefs at least threescore ; 
 With finest muslins that fair India boasts, 
 And the choice herbage from Chinesan coasts. 
 Add feathers, furs, rich satins, and ducapes, 
 And head-dresses in pyramidial shapes ; 
 Sideboards of plate, and porcelain profuse, 
 With fifty dittoes that the ladies use ; 
 If my poor, treach rous memory has missed, 
 
 Ingenious T 1 shall complete the list. 
 
 So weak Lamira, and her wants so few, 
 Who can refuse 1 they re but the sex s due. 
 Yet Clara quits the more dressed negligee, 
 And substitutes the careless Polanee, 
 Until some fair one from Britannia s court 
 Some jaunty dress or newer taste import ; 
 This sweet temptation could not be withstood, 
 Though for the purchase s paid her father s blood ; 
 Though earthquakes rattle, or volcanoes roar, 
 Indulge this trifle and she asks no more : 
 Can the stern patriot Clara s suit deny 1 
 Tis Beauty asks, and Reason must comply. 
 
 John Adams was perhaps a better oiator 
 than critic. He writes to Mrs. Warren, up 
 on the publication of her poems : " However 
 foolishly some European writers may have 
 sported with American reputation for genius, 
 literature, and science, I know not where 
 they will find a female poet of their own to 
 prefer to the ingenious author of these com 
 positions." 
 
 In the dedication of her poems to Wash 
 ington, she says : " Feeling much for the 
 distresses of America in the dark days of her 
 affliction, a faithful record has been kept of 
 the most material transactions, through a 
 period that has engaged the attention both 
 of the philosopher and the politician ; and, 
 if life is spared, a just trait of the most dis 
 tinguished characters, either for valor, vir- 
 *ue, or patriotism, for perfidy, intrigue, in 
 
 consistency, or ingratitude, shall be faithful 
 ly transmitted to posterity." The work thus 
 announced was published in three octavo vol 
 umes in 1805, under the title of " The His 
 tory of the Rise, Progress, and Termination 
 of the American Revolution, interspersed 
 with Biographical, Political, and Moral Ob 
 servations." It will always be consulted as 
 one of the most interesting original authori 
 ties upon f he revolution. It is written with 
 care, an;l in a spirit of independence which 
 is illustrated by her notice of the character 
 of her friend Mr. Adarns, which was so un 
 favorable as to cause a temporary interrup 
 tion of the relations between the two fami 
 lies ; but Mrs. Adams in this case, as in that 
 of her husband s quairel with Mr. Jefferson, 
 finally brought about a reconciliation, which 
 was sealed with a ring which she sent to the 
 historian, containing her own and her hus 
 band s hair. 
 
 Mrs. Warren continued to the close of her 
 life to feel a lively interest in affairs, and she 
 was intelligent and honest enough to be al 
 ways a partisan. Though sometimes wrong, 
 as she clearly was in her active opposition 
 to the federal constitution, it was delightful 
 to see even in a woman a contempt for that 
 neutrality in regard to public measures which 
 under a democratic government is invariably 
 the sign of a feeble understanding or of time 
 serving wickedness. The duke de Roche- 
 foucault, in his entertaining Travels in the 
 United States, speaks of her extensive and 
 varied reading, and declares that at seventy 
 she had "lost neither the activity of her 
 mind nor the graces of her person." In her 
 old age she was blind, but she bore the mis 
 fortune with cheerfulness, and continued her 
 intercourse with society. She died in her 
 eighty-seventh year, on the 19th of October, 
 1814. 
 
 There is a portrait of Mrs. Warren, by 
 Copley, in the possession of her family, and 
 an excellent life of her is contained in Mrs 
 Ellens recently published "Women of the 
 Revolution." 
 
ELIZABETH GRAEME FERGUSON. 
 
 (Born 1739-Died 1801). 
 
 THE most polite and elegant society m this 
 country before the Revolution was probably 
 that of Philadelphia, with its connexions in 
 the southeastern part of the colony, and in 
 Delaware and New Jersey. There were " sol 
 id men" in Boston, there was much real re 
 spectability in New York, and good families 
 were scattered through New England and 
 along the Old Dominion and the Carolinas : 
 but in Philadelphia the distinction of classes 
 was more marked, and the coteries of fash 
 ion larger and more exclusive, than else 
 where in America. Of the first rank here 
 were the Grames, of Grame Park, who by 
 blood, fortune, abilities, and character, were 
 alike entitled to consideration among the pro 
 vincial gentry. Dr. Thomas Grame was a 
 native of Scotland. He was a physician of 
 large acquirements, and the respectability of 
 his origin, his popular manners, and success 
 in the practice of his profession, made him 
 an eligible match for the daughter of Sir 
 William Keith; and his alliance with the 
 governor led to his appointment to the col- 
 lectorship of the customs, which he held for 
 many years. 
 
 ELIZABETH GRJEME, the youngest of the 
 four children of Thomas Grame and Anne 
 Keith, was born in Philadelphia in 1739. 
 At an early age she evinced uncommon abil 
 ities, and the chief care of her mother was 
 to educate her mind and heart so that she 
 should illustrate by her intelligence and vir 
 tue th.- highest grade of female character. 
 Much of her youth was passed at Grceme 
 Park, a beautiful country residence, twenty 
 miles from the city, where she was frequent 
 ly visited by her friends, and where her nat 
 urally feeble constitution was so improved, 
 that u-hen she appeared in society, at six 
 teen, the charms of her person were scarcely 
 less distinguished than the u-it and learning 
 which made her a particular star in the me^ 
 tropolitan society. In her seventeenth year 
 she \vas addressed by a young gentleman of 
 tne city, and engaged to be married to him 
 upon his return from London, whither he 
 soon afcer proceeded to complete his educa- 
 
 [ tion in the law. This contract for some rea- 
 i son was never fulfilled. To divert ner attea- 
 | tion from the disappointment. Miss Grame 
 | undertook the translation of Fenelon s Te- 
 j lemachus mtc English heroic verse ; and she 
 completed the work, in three years. In 
 an introduction, written in 1769, she ob 
 serves that " she is sensible the translation 
 has little merit," but that " it is sufficient 
 for her that it amused her in a period that 
 would have been pensive and solitary with 
 out a pursuit." 
 
 It appears, however, that her health rap 
 idly declined ; and it was determined by her 
 father,* after conferences upon the subject 
 with other physicians, that she should seek 
 its restoration by a sea-voyage and a tempo 
 rary residence in England. She sailed for 
 London under the care of the Rev. Dr. Rich 
 ard Peters, a gentleman of polished manners 
 and elevated character, whose connexions 
 enabled him to secure her introduction to the 
 most eminent persons and to the first circles 
 in the kingdom. She was particularly no 
 ticed by George III. ; she became acquainted 
 with Laurence Sterne and other celebrated 
 wits and men of letters ; and she formed an 
 intimacy with the well-known Dr. Fother- 
 gill, which was maintained by correspon 
 dence until his death. She remained in 
 England a year, during which period she 
 kept a journal, in which she described, with 
 happy vivacity, manners and persons, and the 
 contrasts between English and colonial so 
 ciety. 
 
 After her return to Philadelphia she occu 
 pied the place of her mother in her father s 
 family. Every Saturday evening for several 
 years was set apart for the reception of com 
 pany, and on these occasions her pleasino- 
 manners and brilliant conversation were 
 : ises ,.f never-ending admiration to the in- 
 
 * It is ivlatcd that her mother ;iss,-nted to Mf^Trw^Tr 
 
 from hii: LlShtf 0t * Piehcd 10r ** so"s ?o a <; 
 
 24 
 
ELIZABETH GR.EME FERGUSON. 
 
 telligent society of the city and to the stran 
 gers whose positions or abilities secured for 
 them a presentation at Dr. Graeme s house. 
 At one of these parties she became acquaint 
 ed with Mr. Hugh Henry Ferguson, a young 
 gentleman who had recently arrived in the 
 country from Scotland ; and though he was 
 ten years younger, her personal attractions 
 and the congeniality of their tastes soon led 
 to their marriage. Her father died in a few 
 weeks after, and they retired to Gramme Park ; 
 but the approach of the Revolution, and the 
 adhesion of Mr. Ferguson to the British par 
 ty, in 1775, induced a speedy and perpetual 
 separation. 
 
 Mrs. Ferguson s position made her an ob 
 ject of respectful consideration to individuals 
 of both parties during the war. Her domes 
 tic relations were principally with the ene 
 my, but she was by birth a Pennsylvanian, 
 and her old friends, some of whom were 
 leading patriots, treated her wiih kindness. 
 She appears in the public history of the time 
 as the bearer of an extraordinary letter from 
 the celebrated Dr. Duche to General Wash 
 ington, and as the agent by whom Governor 
 Johnstone made those overtures to General 
 Joseph Reed which were answered by the 
 famous declaration "My influence is but 
 small, but were it as great as Governor John- 
 stone would insinuate, the king of Great Brit 
 ain has nothing in his gift that would tempt 
 me."* 
 
 The remainder of Mrs. Ferguson s life was 
 passed chiefly at Graeme Park, in the pur 
 suits of literature, in domestic avocations, 
 and in offices of friendship. Her income was 
 greatly reduced, but her charities were never 
 interrupted, nor was she ever known to mur 
 mur at the changed and comparatively deso 
 late condition of her later years. She cher 
 ished an unhesitating faith in the Christian 
 religion, and was familiar with the masters 
 of divinity. It is related that she transcribed 
 the whole Bible, to impress its contents more 
 deeply in her memory. 
 
 More than twenty years after the comple- 
 
 * Sparks * Washington, v. 95, 476 ; William B. Reed s 
 Life of President Reed, i., 381 ; American Remembrancer, 
 
 tion of her translation oi Telemachus, she 
 rewrote the four volumes, adding occasional 
 notes and observations. In some memoranda 
 dated at Graeme Park, May 20, 1788, she 
 says of the copy which received her last cor 
 rections: "This is meant for a particular 
 friend, but if I live I intend to give a more 
 correct version, and perhaps, if I meet with 
 encouragement, shall have it printed. I am 
 now quite undetermined as to all my plans 
 in life. I have little reason to think I am 
 to remain here long ; but at present I am at 
 this place with only my old and fai:hful friend 
 Eliza Stedman." "She lived until the 23d of 
 February, 1801, but it does not appear that 
 she ever again revised the work, and it has 
 not yet been printed. 
 
 She endeavored to make the translation as 
 literal as the poetical form and the genius of 
 our language would permit ; it is, however, 
 somewhat diffuse, the twenty-four books ma 
 king twenty-nine thousand and six hundred 
 lines. I have read Mrs. Ferguson s manu 
 script (which has been deposited by her heirs 
 in the library of the Philadelphia Libraiy 
 Company), and have compared parts of it 
 with the original and with other translations. 
 She had command of a fine poetical diction, 
 and all the learning necessary for the just 
 apprehension and successful illustration of 
 her author ; and it appears to me that Fene- 
 lon has not been presented in a more correct 
 or pleasing English dress. 
 
 Some of the minor poems, and a consider 
 able number of the letters and other composi 
 tions of Mrs. Ferguson, have been published, 
 and they all evince a delicate and vigorous 
 understanding, and an honorable character. 
 
 A talent for versification was at that pe 
 riod not uncommon among the educated wo 
 men of the country, but it was principally 
 exercised in the expression of private feeling 
 or for the amusement of particular circles. 
 Some verses by Mrs. Stockton, welcoming 
 Washington to New Jersey, have been pre 
 served by Marshall, and in the monthly mag 
 azines of Philadelphia, New York, and Bos 
 ton, appeared many anonymous poems, evi 
 dently by female authors, which were emi 
 nently creditable to their literary abilities. 
 
ELIZABETH GR^ME FERGUSON. 
 
 INVOCATION TO WISDOM. 
 
 PREFIXED TO THK AUTHOR S TRAX-S NATION OF THE 
 ADVENTURES OF TELE.MACHUS. 
 
 GRAVE WISDOM, guardian of the modest youth, 
 Thou soul of knowledge and thou source of truth, 
 Inspire my muse, and animate her lays, 
 That she harmonious may chant thy praiso 
 
 O could a spark of that celestial fire, 
 Which did thy favored Ft mMon inspire, 
 Light on the periods of my fettered theme, 
 And dart one radiant, one illumined heam, 
 Then struggling Passion might its portrait view. 
 And learn from thence its tumults to subdue. 
 This was the pious prelate s great design : 
 As rays converged to one bright point combine, 
 So do the fable and the tale unite 
 The path of Truth by Fancy s torch to light ; 
 Each to one noble, generous aim aspires, 
 And the rich galaxy at once conspires 
 To catch the fluttering mind and fix the sense 
 The end can justify the fine pretence, 
 For youthful spirits abstract reasonings shun, 
 And from grave precept void of life they run. 
 Though heathen gods are introduced to si gut, 
 T is one Great Being radiates every light : 
 Seen through the medium of ^ lesser ^uide, 
 From one pure fount is each small rill supplied ; 
 Then, rigid Christian, be not too severe, 
 Nor think groat Cambray in an error here. 
 
 In parable the holy Jesus taught 
 Unwound the clue with mystic knowledge fraught. 
 He knew the frailties of man s earthly lot, 
 That truths important were too soon forgot; 
 He screened his purpose in the pleasing tale, 
 Then tore aside the heavenly-woven veil, 
 Showed his design the perfect, sacred plan - 
 And raised to angel what he found but man ; 
 By nice gradation in this scale divine 
 The glorious meaning did illustrious shine. 
 Like his mvat Master, pious Cambray taught, 
 And all the good of all mankind he sought: 
 Through his Telemachus he points to view 
 What youth should fly from and what youth pursue. 
 He makes pure. Wisdom leave the realms above 
 To screen a mortal from bewitching love, 
 To lead him through the thorny ways below, 
 And all those arts of false refinement show 
 Which end in fleeting joy and lasting wo ; 
 lie paints uay Venus in tumultuous rage, 
 Yet shows her baflled by the guardian sage, 
 Who draws his pupil from Idalian groves, 
 From blooming Cyprus and from melting loves. 
 Passion and Wisdom hold perpetual strife 
 
 Through the strange mazes of man s chequered life 
 
 Of all the evils our trail nature knows, 
 
 The most acute from Love s emotions flows. 
 
 The utmost ellorts of the brave are seen, 
 
 To ehe-k the transports of the Paphian queen; 
 
 Ylinerva >;i\es an energy of soul 
 
 Which does the tide of Passion s rage control, 
 
 Nor damps that fire which generous youth should 
 
 But only tempers the hi-jh-finished steel: [feel, 
 
 For metal softened, polished, and refined, 
 
 Is like th opening of the ductile mind, 
 
 Moulded by flame, made pliant to the hand, 
 Turned in the furnace to each just command : 
 This fire is disappointment, grief, and pain, 
 Which, if the soul with fortitude sustain, 
 The furnace of affliction makes more bright; 
 Yet higher burnished in Jehovah s sight, 
 And it at last shall joyfully survey 
 The tangled path to where perfection lay, 
 And bless the briers of life s thorny road 
 That led to peace, to happiness, and God ! 
 
 THE PROCESSION OF CALYPSO. 
 
 FKO.M THE FIRST BOOK OF TELEMACHI79 
 
 SHE moved along 
 
 Environed by a beauteous female throng. 
 As some tall oak, the wonder of the wood, 
 That long the glory of the grove has stood, 
 Raises its head superb above the rest, 
 Of the green forest stands the pride confest, 
 So does Calypso tower in state supreme, 
 And darts around her an illumined beam. 
 The royal youth doth her soft charms admire, 
 And the rich lustre of her gay attire. 
 Her purple robes hung negligent behind, 
 Her hair in careless ringlets met the wind, 
 Her sparkling eyes shone with a vivid fire, 
 Yet showed no unsubdued, impure desire. 
 With modest silence the young prince pursued 
 At awful distance, cautious to intrude ; 
 With downcast eyes the reverend sage came last : 
 Thus the procession through the green grove past, 
 
 At length they reached the rural goddess grot, 
 And as they entered the delightful spot, 
 Telemachus was much amazed to find 
 How Nature s beauty could allure the mind. 
 An elegant simplicity here reigned, 
 Which all the rules of studied art disdained : 
 No massy gold, no polished silver, glowed, 
 No stone that life in all its passions showed, 
 No lively tints spread vigor o er a face 
 And spoke the picture s animating grace ; 
 No Doric pillars, no Corinthian style, 
 Rose in the turrets of a lofty pile. 
 Scooped from a rock the concave grotto lay, 
 Where Nature s touches thousand freaks display ; 
 There shells and pebbles the rough sides adorned 
 That ruid method and dull order scorned; 
 A vine luxuriant round its tendrils flung; 
 Beneath its foliage ladoned branches hung. 
 This vernal tapestry careless seemed to hide 
 The craggy roughness of its rocky side; 
 The softest /ephyrs made meridian suns 
 Cool as when JSol his morning progress runs; 
 Meandering fountains stole along the green. 
 And amaranths adorned the sprightly scene; 
 The purple violet shed a richness round, 
 And strewed its beauties on the chequered ground , 
 The flowery rha plots wreath around the lake, 
 And in small basins mimic baths they make; 
 The (lowers that spring and glowing summer yield, 
 In gay profusion ornament the field. 
 
 Not very distant from the grotto stood 
 A tufted grove of fragrant vernal wood ; 
 
ELIZABETH GR^ME FERGUSON. 
 
 2 s . 
 
 The tempting fruit shone rich like burnished gold, 
 A dazzling lustre charming to hchold : 
 The blossoms white as pure untrodden snow, 
 Their edges shining with the scarlet s glow ; 
 They bloom perpetual, and perpetual bear, 
 And waft their incense to the yielding air. 
 So close their branches, and so near entwined, 
 They scarcely trembled to the active wind ; 
 No piercing sunbeams could their shades annoy, 
 No busy eye their sacred peace destroy ; 
 No sounds were heard but sprightly birds that sing, 
 And the fleet skylark mounting early wing; 
 A tumbling cascade, in which broken falls 
 Gushed down in torrents from the rocks sharp walls, 
 But softly gliding ere it met the green, 
 Smooth as a mirror, painted back the scene. 
 
 Not on the mountain s top the grot was placed, 
 Nor yet too lowly at its feet debased ; 
 From, all extremes the charming cave was free, 
 At a small distance from the briny sea, 
 Where oft you viewed it, softened, calm, and clear, 
 Like the lulled bosom when no danger s near; 
 Sometimes enraged, its angry waves were found 
 Dashing the rocks and bursting every bound. 
 
 Your eyes you turn, and from the other side 
 You see a river roll its ample tide. 
 There scattered islands rose to charm the sight, 
 And by the change of novelty delight ; 
 Lindens fall, blooming, ladencd flowers sustain, 
 And raise their heads in lofty, high disdain ; 
 In wanton circles the smooth fountains run, 
 And gayly glistered in the midday sun ; 
 In rapid motion some their streams unfurled, 
 While others gently with ihe zephyrs curled 
 By various windings met their former track, 
 And slowly murmuring, crept all lazy back. 
 Then in a distant view in groups were seen 
 Blue, misty mounts, and hills of doubtful green ; 
 Their lofty summits lost above the skies, 
 And like the clouds deluded wandering eyes, 
 As pleasing fancy changed its different mode 
 And whim and caprice did each object robe. 
 
 The neighboring mountains were more highly 
 
 graced : 
 
 There liberal Nature clustering vines had placed ; 
 In noble branches the grand bunches hung, 
 And purple raisins burst beneath the sun ; 
 The foliage sought their lovely charge to hide, 
 Yet the rich grapes shone through in gorgeous pride. 
 Then low beneath, mixed with the golden grain, 
 The fig and olive overspread the plain ; 
 Its tempting fruit the pomegranate displayed, 
 And globes of gold burst through the vernal shade : 
 The wkole retreat was a delightful grove, 
 A soft recess for friendship s sweets or love. 
 
 APOLLO WITH THE FLOCKS OF KING 
 ADMETUS. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 BENEATH the shady elms, where fountains played, 
 The listening shepherds here his rest invade ; 
 Th informing song new polished every soul, 
 But be ii^a^i , ir passions in a soft control. . . . 
 
 Swiftly the music and the theme would change 
 To vivid meads where sparkling fountains range, 
 Whose glittering waters the gay plains adorn, 
 And all the rules of art-drawn channels scorn ; 
 Winding they sport : the meadows seem to smile, 
 Their verdure heightened, and enriched their soil, 
 Hence the enraptured swains began to know 
 That joys serene from moral pleasures flow ; 
 The happy rustic pitied now the king, 
 That could not, like the cheerful shepherd, sing ; 
 Their lowly roofs began the great to draw 
 To view the cottage humbly thatched with straw 
 Courtiers too oft are strangers to delight : 
 They rise unhappy from the restless night ; 
 But here the graces sweetly were arrayed, 
 Here lovely females every charm displayed 
 Soft Innocence and ever-blooming Health, 
 That cheerful triumph o er the slaves of wealth ; 
 No torturing envy here the peace invades 
 Of the mild shepherd in the greenwood shades ; 
 Each day superior shone with new delight, 
 And gentle slumbers crowned the sportive wight , 
 The fluttering birds put forth their liveliest notes, 
 And stretched to music their expanded throats ; 
 The fragrant zephyrs undulate the trees, 
 And fan to music the enamored breeze ; 
 The rills pellucid murmured to the sound, 
 And floating harmony rolled all around ; 
 The muses band, the sacred virgin train, 
 Inspired the numbers of the tuneful swain : 
 But not supine they dwell in idle joys; 
 An active vigor, too, their limbs employs : 
 To run, to wrestle, to obtain the prize, 
 And chase the stag as he o er mountains flies, 
 Was oft the business of a vacant day, 
 As through the green grove they betook their way 
 The gods looked down from great Olympus height, 
 And almost envied man s supreme delight. 
 
 THE INVASION OF LOVE. 
 
 FROM THE SEVENTH BOOK OF TELEMACHUS. 
 
 CALYPSO dwelt on Cupid s blooming face, 
 And clasped him to her in a fond embrace ; 
 Though goddess born, she feels love s soft alarms 
 As c ose she strains him in her circling arms 
 
 The thoughtless nymphs all felt the subtle flame, 
 But for the strange sensation knew no name, 
 Yet innate modesty and latent fear 
 Whispered some power of wondrous force was near. 
 In si ence they the newborn blaze conceded, 
 And, b ushing, dreaded it mi?ht be revea ed , 
 The spreading fire a latent heat imparts 
 And flings its influence o er their tender hearts. ^ 
 
 The princely youth, most careless, too, surveyed 
 The jocund sweetness which in Cupid played, 
 Saw all his little freaks with fond surprise, 
 His thou^ht ess frolics, and his laughing eyes. 
 With pleasing transport his fine features trace,!, 
 And on his knees the little urchin placed, 
 Views a 1 ! the changes in his boyish charm", 
 Nor feels suspicion of impending harms. 
 
ANNE ELIZA BLEECKER. 
 
 MRS. ANNE ELIZA BLEECKER, a daughter 
 of Brandt Schuyler, of New York, was born 
 in that city in 1752, and when seventeen 
 years of age was married to John J. Bleecker 
 of New Rochelle. After residing about two 
 years in Poughkeepsie, Mr. Bleecker removed 
 to Tomhanick, a secluded little village eigh 
 teen miles from Albany, where five years 
 were passed in uninterrupted happiness. 
 Mrs. Bleecker s mother, and her half-sister, 
 Miss Ten Eyck, passed much of the time with 
 her, and her husband saw the fruition of his 
 hopes in the success of plans which had drawn 
 him from the more populous parts of the 
 colony. It w^as in this period that Mrs. 
 Bleecker wrote most of her poems which 
 have been preserved. Before her marriage, 
 her playful or serious verses had amused or 
 charmed the circle in which she moved 
 o ie of the most intelligent and accomplished 
 then in America and she now found a sol 
 ace for the absence of society in the indul 
 gence of a taste for literature. The follow 
 ing extract from one of her poems not only 
 illustrates her style, but gives us a glimpse 
 if her situation : 
 
 From yon grove the woodcock rises, 
 
 Mark her progress by her notes ; 
 Hi.^li in air her wings she poises, 
 
 Then like lightning down she shoots. 
 INow the whip-poor-will beginning / 
 
 Clamorous on a pointed rail, 
 Drowns the more melodious singing 
 
 Of the cat-bird, thrush, and quail. 
 Cast, your eyes beyond this meadow, 
 
 Painted by a hand divine, 
 And observe the ample shadow 
 Of that solemn ridge of pine. 
 Here a trickling rill depending, 
 
 Glitters through the artless bower; 
 And the silver dew descending, 
 Doubly radiates every flower. 
 While I speak, the sun is vanished, 
 
 All the gilded clouds are lied, 
 Ah.sie from the groves is banished, 
 i\ ox ions vapors round us spread. 
 Knnil toil is now suspended. 
 
 Sleep inv;i,l,. s the peasant s eyes, 
 Each diurnal task is ended, 
 
 Wlulo soft Luna climbs the skies. 
 Some lines addressed to Mr. Bleecker while 
 on a voyage down the Hudson, suggest the 
 
 (Born 1752-Died 1783). 
 
 changes of three quarters of a century in the 
 
 ~j ,_ j __ 
 
 travel and cuhure a ong the most beautiful 
 of rivers. She says: 
 
 Methinks I see the broad, majestic sheet 
 Swell to the wind ; the flying shores retreat: 
 I see the banks, with varied foliage gay, 
 Inhale the misty sun s reluctant ray ; 
 The lofty groves, stripped of their verdure, rise 
 To the inclemencc of autumnal skies. [wooda 
 Rough mountains now appear, while pendant 
 Hang o er the gloomy steep and shade the floods ; 
 Slow moves the vessel, while each distant sound 
 The caverned echoes doubly loud rebound. 
 It was a custom for the lazy sloops occasion 
 ally to rest by the hunting-grounds or in the 
 highlands, but she implores her husband not 
 to tempt 
 
 Fate, on those stupendous rocks 
 Where never shepherd led his timid flocks, 
 
 and dreams that instead of the musket-shot, 
 she can hear 
 
 The melting flute s melodious sound, 
 Which dying zephyrs waft alternate round ; 
 While rocks, in notes responsive, soft complain, 
 And think Amphion strikes his lyre again. 
 Ah ! tis my Bleecker breathes our mutual loves, 
 And sends the trembling airs through vocal groves. 
 The approach of the British army under Gen 
 eral Burgoyne, in 1777, was the first event 
 to disturb this repose. Mr. Bleecker left 
 Tomhanick to make arrangements for the re 
 moval of his family to Albany ; but while he 
 was gone, hearing that the enemy was but 
 two miles distant, she hastily started for the 
 city, bearing her youngest child in her arms, 
 and leading the other, who was but four years 
 of age, by the hand. A single domestic ac 
 companied her, and they rested at night in 
 a garret, after a dreary and most exhausting 
 walk through the wilderness. The next 
 morning they met Mr. Bleecker coming from 
 Albany, and returned with him to the city. 
 The youngest of the children died a few days 
 after, and within a month Mrs. Bleecker s 
 mother expired in her arms, at Redhook. 
 The death of her child is commemorated in 
 the following lines, which evince genuine 
 feeling, and are in a very natural style: 
 
 WR1TTKX OX THE IIKTIIKAT FIIOX BURUOYXE. 
 
 Was it for this, with thee, a pleasing load, 
 
 _ sadly wandered through the hostile wood . 
 
 When I thought Fortune s spite could do no more, 
 
ANNE ELIZA BLEECKER. 
 
 To see thee perish on a foreign shore 1 
 
 Oh my loved babe ! my treasures left behind 
 
 Ne er sunk a cloud of grief upon my mind; 
 
 Rich in my children, on my arms I bore 
 
 My living treasures from the scalper s power: 
 
 When I sat down to rest, beneath some shade, 
 
 On the soft grass how innocent she played, 
 
 While her sweet sister from the fragrant wild 
 
 Collects the flowers lo please my precious child, 
 
 Unconscious of her danger, laughing roves, 
 
 Nor dreads the painted savage in the groves ! 
 
 Soon as -the spires of Albany appeared, 
 With fallacies my rising grief I cheered : 
 " Resign^ I bear," said I, < Heaven s just reproof, 
 Content to dwell beneath a stranger s roof- 
 Content my babes should eat dependent bread, 
 Or by the labor of my hands be fed. 
 What though my houses, lands, and goods, are gone, 
 My babes remain these I can call my own !" 
 But soon my loved Abella hung her head 
 From her soft cheek the bright carnation fled ; 
 Her smooth, transparent skin too plainly showed 
 How fierce through every vein tne fever glowed. 
 In bitter anguish o er her limbs I hung, 
 I wept and sighed, but sorrow chained my tongue ; 
 At length her languid eyes closed from the day, 
 The idol of my soul was torn away ; 
 Her spirit fled and left me ghastly clay ! 
 
 Then then my soul rejected all relief, 
 Comfort I wished not, for I loved my grief: 
 " Hear, my Abella," cried I, " hear me mourn ! 
 For one short moment, oh, my child ! return ; 
 Let my complaint detain thee from the skies, 
 Though troops of angels urge thee on to rise".... 
 My friends press round me with officious care, 
 Bid me suppress my sighs, nor drop a tear; 
 Of resignation talked passions subdued 
 Of souls serene, and Christian fortitude 
 Bade me be calm, nor murmur at my loss, 
 But unrepining bear each heavy cross. 
 
 " Go !" cried I, raging, " stoic bosoms, go ! 
 Whose hearts vibrate not to the sound of wo ; 
 Go from the sweet society of men, 
 Seek some unfeeling tiger s savage den, 
 There, calm, alone, of resignation preach 
 My Christ s examples better precepts teach." 
 Where the cold limbs of gentle Lazarus lay, 
 I find him weeping o er the humid clay ; 
 His spirit groaned, while the beholders said, 
 With gushing eyes, " See how he loved the dead !" 
 Yes, tis my boast to harbor in my breast 
 The sensibilities by God exprest ; 
 Nor shall the mollifying hand of Time, 
 Which wipes off common sorrows, cancel mine. 
 
 From this time a pensive melancholy took 
 the place of the quiet gayety that had pre 
 viously distinguished her manners; but her 
 life was not marked by any event of partic 
 ular interest until the summer of 1781, when 
 her husband was taken prisoner by a party 
 of tories, and her sensitive spirit was crushed 
 in despair. She fled to Albany, where he re 
 joined her at the end of a week ; but his sud 
 
 den restoration produced an excitement even 
 deeper than that occasioned by his supposed 
 death, and she never regained hei health, no* 
 scarcely her composure. She returned to 
 Tonihanick, and in the spring of 1783 revis 
 ited New York, in the hope that a change 
 of scene and the society of her early friends 
 would restore something of her strength ar.d 
 happiness ; but war had changed the pleas 
 ant places she remembered, and her dearest 
 friends were dead. She went back with her 
 husband to Tonihanick, where she died on 
 the 23d of the following .November. Her 
 last return to her home is commemorated in 
 these pleasing verses: 
 
 Hail, happy shades ! though clad with heavy 
 At sight of you with joy my bosom glows ; [snows, 
 Ye arching pines that bow with every breeze, 
 Ye poplars, elms, all hail, my well-known trees ! 
 And now my peaceful mansion strikes my eye, 
 And now the tinkling rivulet I spy ; 
 My little garden, Flora, hast thou keptj 
 And watched my pinks and lilies while I wept ? 
 Ah me ! that spot with blooms so lately graced, 
 W T ith storms and driving snows is now defaced : 
 Sharp icicles from every bush depend, 
 And frosts all dazzling o er the beds extend ; 
 Yet soon fair spring shall give another scene, 
 And yellow cowslips gild the level green ; 
 My little orchard, sprouting at each bough, 
 Fragrant with clustering blossoms deep shall glow : 
 Oh ! then t is sweet the tufted grass to tread, 
 But sweeter slumb ring in the balmy shade ; 
 The rapid humming-bird, with ruby breast, 
 Seeks the parterre with early blue-bells drest, 
 Drinks deep the honeysuckle dew, or drives 
 The lab ring bee to her domestic hives ; 
 Then shines the lupin bright with morning gems, 
 And sleepy poppies nod upon their stems ; 
 The humble violet and the dulcet rose, 
 The stately lily then, and tulip, blows. . . . 
 
 But when the vernal breezes pass away, 
 And loftier Phoebus darts a fiercer ray, 
 The spiky corn then rattles all around, 
 And dashing cascades give a pleasing sounc 7 ! ; 
 Shrill sings the locust with prolonged note, 
 The cricket chirps familiar in each cot ; 
 The village children, rambling o er yon hill, 
 With berries all their painted baskets fill : 
 They rob the squirrels little walnut store, 
 And climb the half-exhausted tree for more. 
 Or else to fields of maize nocturnal hie, 
 Where hid, th elusive watermelons lie 
 Then load their tender shoulders with the prey, 
 And laughing bear the bulky fruit away. 
 
 Mrs. Bleecker possessed considerable beau- 
 tv, and she was much admired in society. A 
 collection of her posthumous works, in prose 
 and verse, was published in 1793, and again 
 in 1809, with a notice of her life by her 
 daughter, Mrs Marietta V. Faugeres. 
 
PHILLIS WHEATLEY PETERS. 
 
 (Born 1754 Died 1794). 
 
 THIS "daughter of the murky Senega], 
 as she is styled by an admiring con:emporar 
 critic, we suppose may be considered as a 
 Americai , since she was but six years of ag 
 when brought to Boston and sold in the slave 
 market of that city, in 1761. If not so grea 
 a poet as the abbe Gregoire contended, sh 
 was certainly a remarkable phenomenon, anc 
 her name is entitled to a place in the histo 
 ries of her race, of her sex, and of our liter 
 alure. 
 
 She was purchased by the wife of Mr 
 John Wheatley, a respectable merchant o: 
 Boston, Who was anxious to superintend the 
 education of a domestic to attend upon her 
 person in the approaching period of old age 
 This amiable woman on visiting the market 
 was attracted by the modest demeanor of a 
 little child, in a sort of "fillibeg," who hac 
 just arrived, and taking her home, confided 
 her instruction in part to a daughter, who, 
 pleased with her good behavior and quick 
 apprehension, determined to teach her to 
 read and write. The readiness with which 
 she acquired knowledge surprised as much 
 us it pleased her mistress, and it is probable 
 that but few of the white children of Boston 
 were brought up under circumstances better 
 calculated for the full development of their nat 
 ural abilities. Her ambition was stimulated : 
 she became acquainted with grammar, histo 
 ry , ancien t and modern geography, and astron 
 omy, and studied Latin so as to read Horace 
 with such ease and enjoyment that her French 
 biographer supposes the great Roman had 
 
 considerable influence upon her literary tastes 
 
 and the choice of her subjects of composition. 
 A general interest was felt in the sooty prodi- 
 g\ ; the best libraries were open to her : and 
 she had opportunities for conversation with 
 ihr most accomplished and distinguished per 
 sons in the city. 
 
 Nhe appears to have had but an indifferent 
 physical constitution, and when a son of Mr. 
 Wheatley visited England, in 1772, it was 
 
 iecided by the advice of the family physician 
 that Phillis should accompany him for the 
 benefit of i he sea-voyage. In London she 
 
 was treated with nearly as much considera 
 tion as more recently has been awarded to 
 Mr. Frederick Douglass. She was intro-? 
 duced to many of the nobility and gentry, 
 and would have been received at court but 
 for the absence of (he royal family from the 
 metropolis. Her poems were published un 
 der the patronage of the Countess of Hun 
 tingdon, wi.h a letter from her master, and 
 the following curious attestation of their gen 
 uineness : 
 
 "To THK PUBLIC. As it has been repeatedly sug 
 gested to the publisher, by persons who have seen 
 the manuscript, that numbers would be ready to sus 
 pect they were not really the writings of Phillis, he 
 has procured the following attestation from the most 
 respectable characters in Boston, that none might 
 have the least ground for disputing their original : 
 \Vc, whose names are underwritten, do assure the 
 vorld that the poems specified in the following page* 
 vere (as we verily believe) written by Phillis, a 
 ounur negro-girl, who was, but a few years since, 
 .mm-lit an uncultivated barbarian from* Africa, and 
 las ever since been, and now is, under the disadvan- 
 ;age of serving as a slave in a family in this town. 
 She has been examined by some of the best judges, 
 and is thought qualified to write them. 
 
 HU Excellency THOMAS HI-TOTIIHOX, Governor. 
 The Hon. A.VDRKW OLIVER Lieut Governor 
 
 The Hon. Thorn;,, Hnl.hard, The Rev. Cha*. Chnumev. ri. D., 
 I he Hon. John KrviMg, The Rev. Mather IHl,-. j). 1)., 
 
 7 he Hon.. Ja.ne- I .tts. The Rev. Edvv d I emhertor., I). D., 
 
 1 he Hon. Hanson Giay. The Rev. Andrew Klhot, ]). I)., 
 Hon. James Howdoin, The Rev. Samuel Cooper, B. I)., 
 Hancock, Ksq., The Rev. Mr. Samuel Mather, 
 
 Jo eph fiicru. K<(j., 
 Hi -hard Carry, K-q ., 
 
 The Kev. Mr. John Moorhend 
 Mr. John Wheatiey (her tr.asier). 1 
 
 In 1774 the year after the return of Phil 
 is to Boston her mistress died ; she soon 
 ost her master, and her younger mistress, 
 
 his daughter : and the son having married 
 nd settled in England, she was left without 
 protector or a home. The events which 
 mmediately preceded the Revolution now 
 ngrossed the attention of those acquaintan- 
 es who in more peaceful and prosperous 
 mes would have been her friends: and 
 lough she took an apartment and attempt- 
 
 d in some way to support herself, she saw 
 
 vith fears the approach of poverty, and at 
 st, in despair, resorted to marriage as the 
 ily alternative of destitution. 
 
 , who derived his information 
 
 rom M. Giraud, the French consul at Bos- 
 n in 1805, states that her husband, in the 
 
 I^^^".^lowin* imge- Allude to the content 
 
 30 
 
PHILLIS WHEATLEY PETERS. 
 
 31 
 
 superiority of his understanding to that of 
 other negroes, was also a kind of phenome 
 non ; that he " became a lawyer, under the 
 name of Doctor Peters, and plead before the 
 tribunals the cause of the blacks ;" and that 
 " the reputation he enjoyed procured him a 
 fortune."* But a later biographer! of Phil- 
 lis declares that Peters " kept a grocery, in 
 Court street, and was a man of handsome 
 person and manners, wearing a wig, carry 
 ing a cane, and quite acting the gentleman ;" 
 that " he proved utterly unworthy of the dis 
 tinguished woman who honored him with 
 her alliance;" that he was unsuccessful in 
 business, failing soon after their marriage, 
 and " was too proud and too indolent to ap 
 ply himself to any occupation below his fan 
 cied dignity." Whether Peters practised 
 physic and law or not, it appears pretty cer 
 tain that he did not make a fortune, and that 
 the match was a very unhappy one, though 
 we think the author last quoted, who is one 
 of the family, shows an undue partiality for 
 his maternal ancestor. Peters in his adver 
 sity was not very unreasonable in demand 
 ing that his wife should attend to domestic 
 affairs that she should cook his breakfast 
 and darn his stockings ; but she too had cer 
 tain notions of "dignity," and regarded as 
 altogether beneath her such unpoetical oc 
 cupations. During the war they lived at 
 Wilmington, in the interior of Massachu 
 setts, and in this period Phillis became the 
 mother of three children. After the peace, 
 they returned to Boston, and continued to 
 live there, most of the time i-n wretched pov 
 erty, till the death of Phillis, on tne 5th of 
 December, 1794. 
 
 Besides the poems included in the editions 
 of 1 773 and 1835, she wrote numerous pieces 
 which have not been printed, one of which 
 is referred to in the following letter from 
 Washington : 
 
 "CAMBRIDGE, February 28, 1776. 
 "Miss PHILLIS: Your favor of the 26th of October 
 did not reach my hands till the middle of December. 
 Time enough, you will say, to have given an answer 
 ere this. Granted. But a variety of important occur 
 rences, continually interposing to distract the mind 
 
 and withdraw the attention, I hope will apologise for 
 the delay, and plead my excuse for the seeming but 
 not real neglect. 1 thank you most sincerely for your 
 polite notice of me, in the elegant lines you enclosed ; 
 and however undeserving I may be of such encomi 
 um and panegyric, the style and manner exhibit a 
 striking proof of your poetical talents ; in honor of 
 
 which, and as a tr 1 "- "- 1 -- J "~ " " 1J 
 
 have published the 
 
 aULlXiK uruui Ui ^uui JJUCLUJCU LeiirjiiLo , tu nuinji \JL 
 
 -hich, and as a tribute justly due to you, 1 would 
 nave published the poem, had I not been apprehen 
 sive that, while I only meant to give the world this 
 
 * An Inquiry concerning the Intellectual and Moral Fac 
 ulties and Literature of Nesrroes, followed with an Account 
 of the Lives and Works of Fifteen Ne-roes and Mulattoes, 
 distinguished in Science, Literature, and the Arts : By H. 
 Grfigoire, formerly Bishop of Blois. Member ot the Con 
 servative Senate, of the Institute of France, <fec., <fcc. Trans 
 lated by D. B. Warden, Secretary of Legation, &c. Brook 
 lyn, 16 10 
 
 t See memoir prefixed to the edition of her poems pub 
 lished by Light & Ilorton. Boston, W35. 
 
 sivt; iimu wniic i Miuj in<_-c*ni/ IA^ ft i *- mv^ 
 
 new instance of your genius, I might have incurred 
 the imputation of vanity. This, and nothing else, de 
 termined me not to give it place in the public prints 
 If you should ever come to Cambridge, or near head 
 quarters, 1 shall be happy to see a person so favored 
 by the muses, and to whom Nature has been so lib 
 eral and beneficent in her dispensations. I am, with 
 great respect, your obedient, humble servant, 
 
 "GKOHGE WASHINGTON." 
 
 In a note to the memoir of Phillis pub 
 lished by one of her descendants, it is stated 
 that after her death, her papers, which had 
 been confided to an acquaintance, were de 
 manded by Peters, and yielded to his impor 
 tunity ; and that Peters subsequently went 
 to the south, carrying with him these papers, 
 which were never afterward heard of. The 
 MSS., however, are still in existence: they 
 are owned by an accomplished citizen of 
 Philadelphia, whose mother was one of the 
 patrons of the author. I learn from this gen 
 tleman that Phillis wrote with singular flu 
 ency, and that she excelled particularly in 
 acrostics and in other equally difficult tricks 
 of literary dexterity. 
 
 The intellectual character of Phillis Wheat- 
 ley Peters has been much discussed, but chief 
 ly by partisans. On one hand, Mr. Jefferson 
 declares that " the pieces published under her 
 name are below the dignity of criticism," and 
 that " the heroes of the Dunciad are to her 
 as Hercules to the author of that poem ;" and 
 on the other hand, the abbe Gregoire, Mr. 
 Clarkson, and many more, see in her works 
 the signs of a genuine poetical inspiration. 
 They seem to me to be quite equal to much 
 of the contemporary verse that is admitted 
 to be poetry by Phillis s severest judges ; 
 though her odes, elegies, and other compo 
 sitions, are but harmonious commonplace, ii 
 would be difficult to find in the productions 
 of American women, for the hundred and fif 
 ty years that had elapsed since the death of 
 Mrs. Bradstreet, anything superior in senti 
 ment, fancy, or diction. 
 
 In a portrait of Phillis, prefixed to her 
 poems and declared to be an extraordinary 
 likeness, she is represented as of a rather 
 pretty and intelligent appearance. It is from 
 a picture painted while she was in Lone 
 
32 
 
 PHILLIS WHEATLEY PETERS. 
 
 ON TIIK DKATH OF THE REV. MR. 
 
 <;KOJ;K \VHITK FIELD. ITTO. 
 
 Hui.. happy saint! on thine immortal throne, 
 Possessed of glory, life, and bliss unknown: 
 ^ !" " no more the music of thv tongue; 
 Thy wonted auditories cease to throng. 
 Thy sermons in unequalled accents flowed, 
 And every bosom with devotion glowed; 
 Thou didst, in strains of eloquence refined, 
 Inflame the heart, and captivate the mind. 
 Unhappy, we the setting sun deplore, 
 Sj glorious once, but ah ! it shines no more. 
 Behold the prophet in his towering flight! 
 He leaves the earth for heaven s unmeasured height, 
 And worl-ls unknown rece vc him from our sight. 
 There Whitefield win-rswith rapid course his way, 
 And sails to Zirm through vast seas of day. 
 Thy prayers, great saint, and thine incessant cries, 
 Have pierced the bosom of thy native skies. 
 Thou, moon, hast seen, and all the stars of light, 
 How hi- 1: is wrestled with his God by night. 
 He prayel that -race in every heart might dwell ; 
 He loiued to see America excel; 
 He charged its youth that every grace divine 
 Should with full lustre in their conduct shine. 
 That Savior, which his soul did first receive, 
 The greatest gift that even a God can give, 
 He freely olll-red to the numerous throng 
 That on his lips with list ning pleasure hung. 
 
 " Take him, ye wretched, for your only good, 
 Take him, ye starving sinners, for your food; 
 Ye thirsty, come to this life-giving stream, 
 Ye preachers, take him for your joyful theme; 
 Take hi:n, my dear Americans." he said, 
 ^Be your c -mplaints ,, his kind bosom laid: 
 Take him. ye Africans, he longs for you; 
 Impartial Savior, is his title due: 
 Washed in the fount. (in of redeeming blood, 
 lou shall he sons, and kinns. and priests to God." 
 
 ^But though arrested by the hand of death, 
 WhitefieW no more exerts his lab rin- breath, 
 YtA let us view him in the eternal skies, 
 Let every heart to this bright vision rise; 
 While the t >mb safe retains its sacred trust, 
 Till life divine reanimates his dust 
 
 FANCY. 
 
 FM,M A POEM ON THK IMAGINATION. 
 
 THOUGH Winter frowns, t, Fancy s raptured 
 The fields may flourish, an. I -ay scenes arise; [eyes 
 The tru/cii derps may burst their iron bands, 
 And r|d their waters murmur o er the sands. 
 Fair Flor.i m:iy resume her fra-rant rei-n, 
 Ar.d with h-.-r flowery riches de--]< the plain; 
 
 Showers ma) descend, and dews their gems disclose, 
 
 And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose. . . . 
 
 Fancy mi-lit , 10U - ],,, r s i|| v , >n pinions try 
 To rise from ,.;irth. and sweep the expans - on } u Vh ; 
 From Tithon s bed now might Aurora rise, 
 Her cheeks all plowing with celestial dyi-. 
 While a pure stream of li-ht o erflows the skies. 
 The mniiar.-h of the day I mLdit heliold. 
 And all the mountains tipped with radiant gold, 
 
 But I reluctant leave the pleasing views, 
 Which Fancy dresses to delight the muse; 
 Winter austere forbids me to aspire. 
 And northern tempests damp the rising fire : 
 
 They chill the tides of P ancy s flowing sea 
 
 Onse, then, my song, cease then the unequio l 
 
 A FAREWELL TO AMERICA. 
 
 TO MRS. S. W. 
 
 AIIIKU, New England s smiling meads, 
 
 Adieu, the flowery plain ; 
 I leave thine opening charms, O Spring 
 
 And tempt the roaring main. 
 In vain for me the flow rets rise, 
 And boast their gaudy pride, 
 While here beneath the northern skies 
 
 I mourn for health denied. 
 Celestial maid of rosy hue, 
 Oh let me feel thy reign ! 
 I languish till thy face I view, 
 
 Thy vanished joys regain. 
 Susannah mourns, nor can I bear 
 
 To see the crystal shower, 
 Or mark the tender falling teat, 
 
 At sad departure s hour; 
 Nor unregarding can I see 
 
 Her soul with grief opprest , 
 But let no sighs, no groans for me, 
 
 Steal from its pensive breast. 
 In vain the feathered warblers sing, 
 
 In vain the garden blooms, 
 And on the bosom of the spring 
 
 Breathes out her sweet perfumes, 
 While for Britannia s distant shore 
 
 We sweep the liquid plain, 
 And with astonished eyes explore 
 
 The wide-extended main. 
 Lo J Health appears, celestial dame ! 
 
 Complacent and serene, 
 With Hebe s mantle o er her frame, 
 
 With soul-delighting mien. 
 To mark the vale where London lies, 
 
 With i-iisty vapors crowned, 
 Which cloud Aurora s thousand dyes, 
 
 And veil her charms around. 
 Why, Pluebus, moves thy car so slow 
 
 So slow thy rising ray ? 
 Give us the famous town to view, 
 
 Thou glorious king of day ! 
 For thee, Britannia, I resign 
 
 New En-land s smiling fields; 
 To view narain her charms divine, 
 What joy the prospect yields ! 
 But thou. Temptation, hence away, 
 
 AVith all thy fatal train, 
 Nor once seduce my soul away, 
 
 By thine enchanting strain. 
 Thrice happy they, whose heavenly shield 
 
 Secures their soul from harms, 
 And fell Temptation on the field 
 Of all its power disarms 
 
SUSANNAH ROW SON. 
 
 (Born 1762-Died 1824). 
 
 SCPANNAH HASWELL, a daughter of Lieu 
 tenant William Haswell of the British navy, 
 was about seven y ears of age when her father, 
 then a widower, was sent to the New Eng 
 land station, in 1769. After being wrecked 
 on Lovell s island, the family, consisting of 
 the lieutenant, his daughter, and her nurse, 
 were settled at Nantasket, where Haswell 
 married a native of the colony, and resided 
 at the beginning of the Revolution, when, 
 being a half-pay officer, he was considered a 
 prisoner of war, and sent into the interior, and 
 subsequently, by cartel, to Halifax, whence 
 he proceeded to London. His other children 
 were two soris, who became officers in the 
 American navy, in which they were honor 
 ably distinguished. 
 
 Miss Haswell, while a child, in Massa 
 chusetts, was often in the company of James 
 Otis, and his sister, Mrs. Warren, who were 
 pleased with her precocity, and careful edu 
 cation, and she won then many encomiums 
 from the great orator, which were remem 
 bered in after years with more delight than 
 all the plaudits of the dress circle or the 
 praises of the critics. She arrived in London 
 about the year 1784, and in 1786 was married 
 there to William Rowson, who was probably 
 in some way connected with the theatre. In 
 the same year she published her first novel, 
 Victoria, which was dedicated to Georgiana, 
 Duchess of Devonshire, who became her pa 
 troness and introduced her to the Prince of 
 Wales, through whom she obtained a pen 
 sion for her father. She next edited Mary or 
 the Test of Honor, a novel, published in 1785, 
 and wrote, in quick succession, A Trip to Par 
 nassus, A Critique of Authors and Perform 
 ers, The Fille de Chambre, The Inquisitor, 
 Mentoria, and Charlotte Temple, the tale by 
 which she is now chiefly known, of which 
 more than twenty-five thousand copies were 
 sold in a few years. 
 
 In 1793 Mrs. Rowson returned to the Uni 
 ted States, and was for three years engaged 
 as an actress, in the Philadelphia theatre. 
 She was pretty and graceful, and was a fa 
 vorite in genteel comedy, but while attentive 
 
 to her professional duties, she was still in 
 dustrious as an author, and wrote The Trials 
 of the Heart, a novel ; Slaves in Algiers, 
 an opera; The Female Patriot, a comedy; 
 ar.d The Volunteers, a farce relating to the 
 whiskey insurrection in Pennsylvania. In 
 1795, while temporarily in Baltimore, she 
 wrote The Standard of Liberty, a poetical 
 address to the armies of the United States, 
 which was recited from the stage by Mrs. 
 Whiilock, one of the most accomplished ac 
 tresses of the day, before all the uniformed 
 companies of the city, in full dress. In 1796 
 she w r as engaged at the Federal-street theatre 
 in Boston, where, at the end of a season, she 
 closed her histrionic career, by appearing at 
 her benefit, in her own comedy of The Amer 
 icans in England. 
 
 She now opened a school for young wo 
 men, which soon became very popular, so that 
 it was thronged from the West Indies, the 
 British provinces, and all the states of the 
 Union. It was continued at Medford, New 
 ton, and Boston, many years, with uniform 
 success. But the business of instruction did 
 not engross her attention, since she found 
 time to compile a Dictionary and several 
 other school books, and to write Reuben 
 and Rachel, an American novel ; Biblical 
 Dialogues, a work evincing considerable re 
 search and reflection, and a volume of poems, 
 and for two years to sustain a weekly ga 
 zette chiefly by her own contributions. She 
 died in Boston, on the second of March, 1824, 
 in the sixty-second year of her age. 
 
 Mrs. Rowson translated several of the oaes 
 of Horace and the tenth Eclogue of Virgil, 
 and she wrote many original songs and other 
 short pieces, of which the most ambiticUo 
 was an irregular poem On the Birth of Ge 
 nius, whicn was once much admired. On ly 
 a few of her -songs are now remembered, 
 and these less for any poetical qualities than 
 for a certain social and patriotic spirit. Ilei 
 " America, Commerce, and Freedom," is 
 one of our few national songs. It would not 
 dishonor a Dibdin, but it bears no marks o* 
 a feminine genius. 
 
SUSANNAH ROWSON. 
 
 AMERICA, COMMERCE, AND FREEDOM. 
 
 How blest a life a sailor leads, 
 
 From clime to clime still ranging ; 
 For as the calm the storm succeeds, 
 The scene delights by changing! 
 When tempests howl along the main, 
 
 Some object will remind us, 
 And cheer with hopes to meet again 
 
 Those friends we ve left behind us. 
 Then, under snug sail, we laugh at the gale, 
 
 And though landsmen look pale, never heed em ; 
 But to-;s oiF a glass to a favorite lass, 
 To America, commerce, and freedom ! 
 
 And when arrived in sight of land, 
 
 Or safe in port rejoicing, 
 Our ship we moor, our sails we hand, 
 
 Whilst out the boat is hoisting. 
 With eager haste the shore we reach, 
 
 Our friends delighted greet us ; 
 And, tripping lightly o er the beach, 
 
 The pretty lasses meet us. 
 When the full-flowing bowl has enlivened the soul, 
 
 To foot it we merrily lead em, 
 And each bonny lass will drink off a glass 
 To America, commerce, and freedom ! 
 
 Our cargo sold, the chink we share, 
 
 And gladly we receive it ; 
 And if we meet a brother tar 
 
 Who wants, we freely give it. 
 No freeborn sailor yet had store, 
 But cheerfully would lend it; 
 And when tis gone, to sea for more 
 
 We earn it but to spend it. 
 
 Then drink round, my boys, tis the first of our joys 
 To relieve the distressed, clothe and feed em : 
 Tis a task which we share with the brave and the fair 
 In this land of commerce and freedom ! 
 
 KISS THE BRIM, AND BID IT PASS. 
 
 WHEX Columbia s shores, receding, 
 
 Lessen to the gazing eye, 
 Cape nor island intervening 
 
 Break th expanse of sea and sky ; 
 When the evening shades, descending, 
 
 Shed a softness o er the mind, 
 When the yearning heart will wander 
 
 To the circle left behind 
 
 Ah, then to Friendship fill the glass, 
 Kiss the brim, and bid it pass. 
 
 When, the social board surrounding, 
 
 At the evening s slight repast, 
 Often will our bosoms tremble 
 
 As we listen to the blast ; 
 ( i a/ing on the moon s pale lustre, 
 
 Fervent shall our prayers arise 
 For thy peace, thy health, thy safety, 
 
 Unto Him who formed the skies : 
 To Friendship oft we ll fill the glass, 
 K ff me brim, and bid it pass. 
 
 When in India s sultry climate, 
 
 Mid the burning torrid zone, 
 Will not oft thy fancy wander 
 
 From her bowers to thine own 1 
 W T hen, her richest fruits partaking, 
 
 Thy unvitiated taste 
 Oft shall sigh for dear Columbia, 
 
 And her frugal, neat repast: 
 
 Ah, then to Friendship fill the glass, 
 Kiss the brim, and bid it pass ! 
 
 When the gentle eastern breezes 
 
 Fill the homebound vessel s sails, 
 Undulating soft the ocean, 
 
 Oh, propitious be the gales ! 
 Then, when every danger s over, 
 
 Rapture shall each heart expand ; 
 Tears of unmixed joy shall bid thee 
 
 Welcome to thy native land : 
 
 To Friendship, then, we ll fill the glass, 
 Kiss the brim, and bid it pass. 
 
 THANKSGIVING. 
 
 AuTtTMW, receding, throws aside 
 
 Her robe of many a varied dye, 
 And Winter in majestic pride 
 
 Advances in the lowering- sky. 
 The laborer in his granary stores 
 
 The golden sheaves all safe from spoil, 
 While from her horn gay Plenty pours 
 
 Her treasures to reward his toil. 
 To solemn temples let us now repair, 
 And bow in grateful adoration there ; 
 Bid the full strain in hallelujahs rise, 
 To waft the sacred incense to the skies. 
 
 Now the hospitable board 
 
 Groans beneath the rich repast 
 All that luxury can afford 
 
 Grateful to the eye or taste ; 
 While the orchard s sparkling juice 
 
 And the vintage join their powers; 
 All that nature can produce, 
 
 Bounteous Heaven bids be ours. 
 Let us give thanks : Yes, yes, be sure, 
 Send for the widow and the orphan poor ; 
 Give them wherewith to purchase clothes and food 
 This the best way to prove our gratitude. 
 
 On the hearth high flames the fire, 
 Sparkling tapers lend their light, 
 Wit and Genius now aspire 
 
 On Fancy s gay and rapid flight ; 
 Now the viol s sprightly lay, 
 
 As the moments light advance, 
 Bids us revel, sport, and play, 
 
 Raise the song, or lead the dance. 
 Come, sportive Love, and sacred Friendship come, 
 Help us to celebrate our harvest home ; 
 In vain the year its annual tribute pours, [hours. 
 Unless you grace the scene, and lead the laughing 
 
MARGARETTA V. FAUGERES. 
 
 (Born 1771-Died 18)1). 
 
 MARGARETTA V. BLEECKER was a daugh 
 ter of Mrs. Anne Eliza Bleecker, of whose 
 life and writings a notice has been given in 
 the preceding pages.* She was born at Tom- 
 hanick in 1771, and was about twelve years 
 of age when her mother died. Her educa 
 tion, which had thus far been conducted with 
 care and judgment, was continued under the 
 best teachers of New York, where she made 
 her appearance in society, soon after the close 
 of the Revolution, as a highly accomplished 
 girl, of the best connexions, and a liberal for 
 tune. Her home was thronged with suitors, 
 but, with a perversity which is often paral 
 leled, she preferred the least deserving, one 
 Dr. Peter Faugeres, an adventurer who shone 
 in drawing rooms in the flimsy and worn-cut 
 costume of French infidelity, and him, in op 
 position to the wishes of her faiher, she mar 
 ried. Mr. Bleecker died in 1795, and Fau- 
 geres squandered the estate, and treated his 
 wife in a scandalous manner, until 1798, when 
 she was relieved of his presence by the yellow 
 fever. It seems, from some allusions in her 
 poems to the wretch Thomas Pamelas well 
 as from her admiration of Faugeres, that she 
 had a deeper sympathy with the vulgar skep 
 ticism of the time than was possible fora 
 woman who united much capacity with vir 
 tue ; bu observation of its tendencies had 
 perhaps led her to reflection, and she now 
 came to believe that an inquiring and trust 
 ing spirit is quite as profound as one that 
 doubts and despises. She became a teacher 
 in an academy at New Brunswick, but her 
 constitution was broken and her mind enfee 
 bled by her misfortunes, and she died, in the 
 twenty-ninth year of her age, in Brooklyn, 
 on the ninth of January, 1801. 
 
 Mrs. Faugeres in 1793 edited the posthu 
 mous works of her mother, to which she ap 
 pended several of her own compositions, in 
 prose and verse. In 1795 she published 
 Belisarius, a tragedy, in five acts, which is 
 spoken of in the preface as her " first dramat 
 ic performance," as if she contemplated the 
 
 *Ante, p. 28. 
 
 devotion of her attention to this kind of liter 
 ature ; and in the third number of the New 
 York Weekly Magazine, for the same year, 
 is an extract from a MS. comedy by her, but 
 this appears never to have been printed. 
 
 Belisarius* was evidently suggested by the 
 fine romance of Marmontel, but Mrs. Fau 
 geres combines the tradition of the putting 
 out of the eyes of the great Byzantine, with 
 that of Theophanes and Malala, that after a 
 short imprisonment he was restored to his 
 honors. Though unsuited to the stage, this 
 tragedy has considerable merit, and is much 
 superior to the earlier compositions of the 
 author. The style is generally dignified and 
 correct, and free from the extravagant decla 
 mation into which the subject would have 
 seduced a writer of less taste and judgment. 
 We have but a glimpse of the private in 
 trigues that are revealed in the secret his 
 tory by Procopius. Some time after the mar 
 riage of Belisarius to Antonina, they are re 
 ferred to in conversation between Arsaces, 
 a Bulgarian noble, and Julia, the niece of 
 Justinian, of whom Belisarius had been a 
 lover : 
 
 Arsaces. My darling Julia, drop these vain regrets, 
 For B disarms is no longer thine : 
 Is he not wedded 1 
 
 Julia. Too sure he is, and therefore I will weep, 
 For he was mine, and naught but wicked craft 
 E er rent him from my bosom. Oh, my love! 
 Oh, my betrothed love ! how are we severed ! 
 Cursed be the monsters of iniquity 
 Who thus have burst the tenderest bonds asunder 
 Affection ever knew ! Thou art betrayed : 
 Dungeons, and poverty, and shame, are thine 
 And everlasting blindness ; while I, deserted, 
 
 Roam round the world 
 
 In the second act Belisarius appears, accord 
 ing to the narrative of Tzetzes, in the char- 
 
 * Of BelisHrius there were probably printed only enough 
 copies for subscriber.*, and it is now anioiiu the rarest ot 
 American books. While making a collection of nearly 
 eteht hundred volumes of pot- try and verses written in 
 this country. I never saw it : mid Unnlap, who was a very 
 indHStrJnu- collector of plays, alludes to it in his History 
 of the American Theatre, as a work which had eluclec 
 his research. It is not in any of our public libraries 
 which indeed, are amoni. the last places to be examined 
 for American literature and the only copy I have een 
 the one now before me is from the curious collecr-.a ct 
 Henry A. Brady, Esq. 
 
36 
 
 MARGARETTA V. FAUGERES. 
 
 aeter of a beggar, and in wandering through 
 the country he is thus introduced to Gelimer, 
 the captive king of Carthage, whom he him 
 self had long before brought in triumph to 
 Byzantium : 
 
 Gehnier, at daybreak, in a gar.lf-n. Enter Amala, Ins wife. 
 
 A mala. T is yet too soon to labor, love ; come, sit. 
 This air Mows fresh, and those sweet, bending flow- 
 Heavy with dew, shed such a fragrance round, [ers, 
 And so melodious sings the early lark, 
 T would be a pity not to enjoy the hour. 
 Come, sit upon this sod. See, the mom breaks 
 In streams of quivering light upon the hills, 
 And the loose clouds, in changeful colors gay, 
 Now tinged with crimson, and with amber now, 
 Sail slow along the brightening horizon. 
 
 Gelimer. Yes, my Amala, t is a lovely morn, 
 And might inspire me with these calm ideas, 
 But that my thoughts are dwelling on the stranger, 
 Who claimed your hospitality, last night. 
 
 You said he was a soldier old, and poor 
 
 And that excites compassion ; for I grieve 
 To see a veteran, who has spent his strength 
 In the big perils of uncertain war, 
 Far from his home, his country, and his friends ; 
 Who oft has slept upon the frozen earth, 
 And suffered grievous vvant....That he, whose age 
 Has made him bald, and chilled his sickly veins, 
 And rendered him quite useless to himself, 
 Should be turned out upon the world, adrift, 
 To seek a scanty sustenance from alms !.... 
 T is much to be lamented. 
 
 In the following scene the degraded chiefs 
 recognise each other, and Belisarius relates 
 the story of his barbarous punishment: 
 
 Bel. When I first heard it my full heart beat slow, 
 My wonted fortitude forsook me; and when I thought 
 It was Juxtinian. that urged the blow, 
 Casting my hopeless eyes to yon bright heaven, 
 As twere to take a lasting leave of light, 
 lining my hands, and bathed me in my tears. 
 The executioner, touched with my sorrows, 
 Sank on the ground and cried, You are undone ! 
 \\ retched old man. why does your heart not break, 
 And Lrivc you a release from such a wo!" 
 But it is past, and, tranquil as the flood 
 When gently kissed by Twilight s softliest gale, 
 My spirit rests, and scarce consents to weep 
 When Memory would the piteous tale recall. 
 
 That most striking virtue of Belisarius, 
 which appeared to Gibbon "above or below 
 the character i.f a man," is happily illustra 
 ted, though by incidents that would seem 
 very extraordinary were the historians upon 
 ibis point less explicit and particular. The 
 Prince i.-f Bulgaria en<Wvors to enlist the 
 blind old -eneral against the By/aiitinrs, 
 and causes his proposals to be accompanied 
 with a flourish of martial instruments, to 
 enow in him 
 
 the memory of past scenes, 
 
 When his proud steed, champing his golden bit, 
 fiore him o er heaps of slaughtered enemies, 
 While vanquished thousands at his presence knelt 
 And kissed the dust o er which the conqueror rode. 
 
 Belisarius says, declining 
 
 Shall I now 
 
 Sully the glories of a long life s toil, 
 And justify the cruelty of my foes 1 
 
 And then 
 
 Music, such as lulls my wayward cares, 
 Is often heard within the peasant s hamlet, 
 What time gray Twilight veils the eastern sky, 
 When the blithe maiden carols rustic songs 
 To soothe the infirmities of peevish age, 
 Or, when the moon shines on the dew-gemm d plain, 
 Attunes her voice to chant some lightsome air 
 For those who dance upon the tufted green. 
 Such are the strains I love, and such as float 
 On the cool gale from a far mountain s side, 
 Where some lc:ie shepherd fills his simple pipe, 
 Calling the echoes from their dewy beds, 
 To chase mute sleep away. Ah ! blessed is he 
 If bis choice melody be ne er disturbed 
 By the death-breathing trumpet s woful tone. 
 
 Prince. If thou wert ever thus averse to war, 
 General, why didst thou fight ] 
 
 Bel. To purchase peace, not to extend dominion. 
 Peace was the crown of conquest. 
 
 The heroine of the piece is the empress The- 
 odosia, who in the third act inquires of her 
 creature Barsames the result of his last ef 
 forts to detect a conspiracy : 
 
 Theouosia. Did you see Phsedrus ] 
 
 Barsames. Yes : but he did not know me. 
 He sat upon a heap of mouldering bones 
 With his shrunk hands, thus, folded on his breast ; 
 And his sunk eyes were fixed on the ground 
 Half shut, and o er his bosom streamed his beard, 
 Hoary and long. I twice accosted him 
 Ere he regarded me ; then, looking up, 
 He eyed me with a vague and senseless gaze, 
 And heaving a most lamentable sigh, 
 Dropped his pale face upon his breast again. 
 
 T/teo. I 11 go myself, this moment, and give ordera 
 For his removal to some cheerful place, 
 Where kind attendance, and my best physician, 
 
 May woo his scattered senses back again 
 
 When Reason rises cloudless in his brain, 
 Embracing courteous Hope, then I will go 
 
 And break the vain enchantment 
 
 This will be sweet revenge ! Then let him try 
 If tlie bright wit that jeered a woman s foibles 
 Will light the dungeon where her fury dwells ! 
 
 After the publication of Belisarius, Mrs. 
 Failures was an occasional contributor to 
 the New York Monthly Magazine, and some 
 other periodicals. She appears to have been 
 a favorite among her literary acquaintances, 
 and is frequently referred to in their pub 
 lished poems in terms of sympathy and ad 
 miration. 
 
MARGARETTA V. FAUGERES. 
 
 THE HUDSON. 
 
 FROM A POE.M PUBLISHED IN 1793. 
 
 NILE S beauteous waves and Tiber s swelling tide 
 
 Have been recorded by the hand of Fame, 
 A ad various floods, which through earth s channels 
 glide, 
 
 From some enraptured bard have gained a name : 
 E en Thames and Wye have been the poet s theme, 
 
 And to their charms has many a harp been strung, 
 Whilst, oh ! hoar Genius of old Hudson s stream, 
 
 Thy mighty river never has been sung ! 
 Say, shall a female string her trembling lyre, 
 
 And to thy praise devote the adventurous song 1 
 Fired with the theme, her genius shall aspire, 
 
 And the notes sweeten as they float along 
 
 Through many a blooming wild and woodland green 
 
 The Hudson s sleeping waters winding stray ; 
 Now mongst the hills its silvery waves are seen, 
 
 Through arching willows now they steal away : 
 Now more majestic rolls the ample tide, 
 
 Tall waving elms its clovery borders shade, 
 And many a stately dome, in ancient pride 
 
 And hoary grandeur, there exalts its head. 
 There trace the marks of Culture s sunburnt hand, 
 
 The honeyed buckwheat s clustering blossoms 
 
 view 
 Dripping rich odors, mark the beard-grain bland, 
 
 The loaded orchard, and the flax-field blue ; 
 The grassy hill, the quivering poplar grove, 
 
 The copse of hazel, and the tufted bank, 
 The long green valley where the white flocks rove, 
 
 The jutting rock, o erhung with ivy dank : 
 The tall pines waving on the mountain s brow, 
 
 Whose lofty spires catch day s last lingering beam ; 
 
 The bending willow weeping o er the stream, 
 The brook s soft gurglings, and the garden s glow. 
 
 Low sunk between the Alleganian hills, 
 
 For many a league the sullen waters glide, 
 
 And the deep murmur of the crowded tide 
 With pleasing awe the wondering voyager fills. 
 On the green summit of yon lofty clift 
 
 A peaceful runnel gurgles clear and slow, 
 Then down the craggy steep-side dashing swift, 
 
 Tumultuous falls in the white surge below. 
 Here spreads a clovery lawn its verdure far, 
 
 Beyond it mountains vast their forests rear, 
 And long ere Day hath left her burnished car, 
 
 The dews of night have shed their odors there. 
 There hangs a lowering rock across the deep ; 
 
 Hoarse roar the waves its broken base around ; 
 Through its dark caverns noisy whirlwinds sweep, 
 
 While Horror startles at the fearful sound. 
 The shivering, sails that cut the fluttering breeze, 
 
 Glide through these winding rocks with airy 
 
 sweep, 
 Beneath the cooling glooms of waving tre<js, 
 
 And sloping pastures specked with fleecy sheep. 
 
 VERSES 
 
 ADDRESSED TO THF MK.M I! F.RS OF THE CT.VCISN \ 1 1 
 OF THE STATE OF NEW YORK ON THE 4TH OF JULY 
 
 COME, round Freedom s sacred shrine, 
 Flowery garlands let us twine ; 
 And while we our tribute bring, 
 Grateful paeans let us sing : 
 Sons of Freedom, join the lay 
 Tis Columbia s natal day ! 
 
 Banish all the plagues of life, 
 Fretful Care and restless Strife , 
 Let the memory of your woes 
 Sink this day in sweet repose ; 
 Even let Grief itself be gay 
 On Columbia s na:al day. 
 
 Late a despot s cruel hand 
 Sent oppression through your land ; 
 Piteous plaints and tearful moan 
 Found not access to his throne ; 
 Or if heard, the poor,. forlorn, 
 Met but with reproach and scorn. 
 
 Paine, with eager virtue, then 
 Snatched from Truth her diamond pen 
 Bade the slaves of tyranny 
 Spurn their bonds, and dare be free. 
 Glad they burst their chains away : 
 Twas Columbia s natal day ! 
 
 Vengeance, who had slept too long, 
 Waked to vindicate our wrong ; 
 Led her veterans to the field, 
 Sworn to perish ere to yield : 
 Weeping Memory yet can tell 
 How they fought and how they fell ! 
 
 Lured by virtuous Washington 
 Liberty s most favored son 
 Victory gave your sword a sheath, 
 Binding on your brows a wreath 
 Which can never know decay 
 While you hail this blissful day. 
 
 Ever be its name revered ; 
 
 Let the shouts of joy be heard 
 
 From where Hampshire s bleak winds blow, 
 
 Down to Georgia s fervid glow ; 
 
 Let them all in this agree : 
 
 " Hail the day which made us free !" 
 
 Bond your eyes toward that shore 
 Where Bellona s thunders roar : 
 There your Gallic brethren see 
 Struggling, bleeding to be free ! 
 Oh ! unite your prayers that they 
 May soon announce their natal day. 
 
 O thou Power ! to whom we owe 
 All the blessings that we kuow, 
 Strengthen thou our rising youth, 
 Teach them wisdom, virtue, truth 
 That when we are sunk in clay, 
 They may keep this glorious day ! 
 
ELIZA TOWN SEND. 
 
 (Born 1789-Died 1854). 
 
 ELIZA TOWNSEND, descended from a stock 
 that for two centuries lias occupied a distin 
 guished and honorable position in American 
 society, was the first native poet of her sex 
 whose writings commanded the applause of 
 judicious critics; the first whose poems 
 evinced any real inspiration, or rose from 
 the merely mechanical into the domain of 
 art. The late Mr. Nicholas Biddle, whose 
 judgment in literature was frequently illus 
 trated by the most admirable criticisms, once 
 mentioned to me that a pri/e ode which Miss 
 Towrfsend wrote for the Port Folio while he 
 himself was editor of that miscellany, soon 
 after the death of Dennie, was in his opinion 
 the finest poem of its kind which at that 
 time had been written in ihis country, and 
 many of her other pieces received the best 
 approval of the period, but, as she kept her 
 authorship a secret, without securing for her 
 any personal reputation. 
 
 She was born in Boston, and her youth 
 was passed in the troubled times which suc 
 ceeded the Revolution, when our own coun 
 try was distracted by the strifes of parties, 
 and Europe was convulsed with the tumult 
 uous overthrows of governments whose sub 
 jects had caught from us the spirit of liberty. 
 She sympathized with the feelings which 
 weie popular in New England, in regard 
 both to our own and to foreign affairs, as is 
 shown by her Occasional Ode, written in June, 
 1809, in which Napoleon is denounced- with 
 a vehemence mid power which remind us of 
 the celebrated ode of Soul hey, written nearly 
 five years afterward, during the negotiations 
 of 181 1. This poem was first printed in the 
 seventh volume of the Monthly Anthology, 
 and though it hears the marks of hash com 
 position, in some minute defects, it is alto- 
 gether a line performance. The splendid ge 
 nius of Napoleon was not yet revealed in all 
 its magnificence even to those who were the 
 immediate instruments of his will, but to all 
 mankind his name \\ a> a word of division, 
 and in this country those whose opinions 
 were fruits of anything else th/m passion 
 were commonly led by a conser alive spirit 
 
 to distrusl the man and to credit the worst 
 views of his actions. This was most true 
 in Boston, where, at the beginning of Mr. 
 Madison s administration, Miss Townsend s 
 ode was probably deemed noi less just than 
 poetical. 
 
 Among the pieces which she published 
 about this time was Another Castle in the 
 Air, suggested by Professor Frisbie s agree 
 able poem referred to in its title ; Stanzas 
 commemorative of Charles Brockden Brown ; 
 Lines on the Burning of the Richmond The 
 atre ; and a poem to Southey, upon the ap 
 pearance of his Curse of Kehama. At a later 
 period she published several poems of a more 
 religious cast, by one of which, The Incom 
 prehensibility of God, she is best known. Of 
 this, the Rev. Dr. Cheever remarks, that " it 
 is equal in grandeur to the Thanatopsis of 
 Bryant," and that " it will not suffer by com 
 parison with the most sublime pieces of 
 Wordsworth or of Coleridge." 
 
 Miss Townsend has not written, at least 
 for the public, in many years, and there has 
 been no collection of the poems with which, 
 in the earlier part of this cenlury, she en 
 riched The Monthly Anthology, The Port 
 Folio, The Unitarian Miscellany, and other 
 periodicals which were then supported by the 
 contributions of the youthful Adams. Allston. 
 Buckminster, Webster, Ticknor, Greenwood, 
 Edward Channing, Alexander Everett, and 
 others of whose early hopes the fulfilment is 
 written in our intellectual history. Such a 
 collection would undoubtedly be well re 
 ceived. 
 
 There is a religious and poetical dignity, 
 with all the evidences of a fine and richly- 
 cultivated understanding, in most of the po 
 ems of Miss Townsend, which entitle her 
 to be ranked among the distinguished liter 
 ary women who were her contemporaries, 
 and in advance of all who in her own coun 
 try preceded her. 
 
 She is still living, in a secluded manner, 
 with her sister, also maiden, in the old fam 
 ily mansion in Boston. They are the last of 
 their race. 
 
 38 
 
ELIZA TOWNSEND. 
 
 AN OCCASIONAL ODE. 
 
 WRITTEN IN JUNE, 1809 
 
 FIRST of all created things, 
 
 God s eldest born, oh tell me, Time ! 
 E er since within that car of thine, 
 Drawn by those steeds, whose speed divine, 
 Through every state and every clime, 
 
 Nor pause nor rest has known, 
 Mongst all the scenes long since gone by 
 Since first thou opedst thy closeless eye, 
 Did its scared glances ever rest 
 Upon a vision so unblest, 
 So fearful, as our own 1 
 If thus thou start st in wild affright 
 At what thyself hast brought to light, 
 Oh yet relent ! nor still unclose 
 New volumes vast of human woes. 
 Thy bright and bounteous brother, yonder Sun, 
 Whose course coeval still with thine doth run, 
 Sickening at the sights unholy, 
 Frightful crime, and frantic folly, 
 By thee, presumptuous ! with delight 
 Forced upon his awful sight, 
 Abandons half his regal right, 
 And yields the hated world to night. 
 And even when through the honored day 
 He still benignly deigns to sway, 
 High o er the horizon prints his burnished tread, 
 Oft calls his clouds, 
 With sable shrouds, 
 To hide his glorious head ! 
 And Luna, of yet purer view, 
 His sister and his regent too, 
 Beneath whose mild and sacred reign 
 Thou darest display thy deeds profane, 
 Pale and appalled, has frowned her fears, 
 Or veiled her brightness in her tears ; 
 While all her starry court, attendant near, 
 Only glance, and disappear. 
 But thou, relentless ! not in thee 
 These horrors wake humanity : 
 Though sun, and moon, and stars combined, 
 Ne er did it change thy fatal mind, 
 Nor e er thy wayward steps retrace, 
 Nor e er restrain thy coursers race, 
 Nor e er efface the blood thou dst shed, 
 Nor raise to life the murdered dead. 
 Is t not enough, thou spoiler, tell ! 
 That, subject to thy stern behest, 
 
 The might of ancient empire fell, 
 And sunk to drear and endless rest 7 
 Fallen is the Roman eagle s flight, 
 The Grecian glory sunk in night, 
 And prostrate arts and arms no more withstand : 
 Those own thy Vandal flame and these thy conq ring 
 Then be Destruction s sable banner furled, [hand. 
 Nor wave its shadows o er the modern world ! 
 In vain the prayer. Still opens wide, 
 Renewed, each former tragic scene 
 Of Time s dark drama ; while beside 
 Grief and Despair their vigils keep, 
 And Memory only lives to weep 
 
 The mouldering dust of what has been. 
 
 How nameless now the once-famed earth, 
 That gave to Kosciuszko birth 
 The pillared realm that proudly stood, 
 Propped by his worth, cemented by his blood! 
 
 As towers the lion of the wood 
 O er all surrounding living things, 
 So, mid the herd of vulgar kings, 
 
 The dauntless Dalecarlian stood. 
 " Pillowed by flint, by damps enclosed," 
 Upon the mine s cold lap reposed, 
 
 Yet firm he followed Freedom s plan; 
 " Dared with eternal night reside, 
 And threw inclemency aside," . 
 
 Conqu ror of nature as of man ! 
 And earned by toils unknown before, 
 Of Blood and Death, the crown he wore. 
 That radiant crown, whose flood of light 
 Illumined once a nation s sight 
 Spirit of Vasa ! this its doom 1 
 Gleams in a dungeon s living tomb ! 
 
 Where er the frightened mind can fly, 
 But nearer ruins meet her eye. 
 
 Ah ! not Arcadia s pictured scene 
 Could more the poet s dream engage, 
 
 Nor manners more befitting seem 
 The vision of a golden age, 
 Than where the chamois loved to roam 
 Through old Helvetia s rugged home, 
 Where Uri s echoes loved to swell 
 To kindred rocks the name of Tell, 
 And pastoral girls and rustic swains 
 Were simple as their native plains. 
 Nor mild alone, but bold the mind, 
 The soldier and the shepherd joined 
 The Roman heraldry restored, 
 The crook was quartered with the sword. 
 Their seedtime cheerful labor stored, 
 Plenty piled their vintage board, 
 Peace loved, their daily fold to keep, 
 Contentment tranquillized their sleep 
 Till through those giant Guards of Stone,* 
 Where Freedom fixed her " mountain-throne, 
 Battle s bloodhounds forced their way 
 And made the human flock their prey ! 
 
 Is it Fact, or Fancy tells, 
 
 That now another mandate s gone ] 
 Hark ! even now those fated wheels 
 
 Roll the rapid ruin on ! 
 Lo, where the generous and the good, 
 
 The heart to feel, the hand to dare : 
 Iberia pours her noblest blood, 
 
 Iberia lifts her holiest prayer ! 
 The while from all her rocks and vales 
 
 Her peasant bands by thousands rise . 
 Their altar is their native plains, 
 
 Themselves the willing sacrifice. 
 While UK, the strangest birth of time, 
 Red with gore, arid grim with crime, 
 Whose fate more prodigies attend, 
 And in whose course mire terrors blend, 
 And o er whose birth more portents lowei, 
 Than ever crowned, 
 In lore renowned, 
 
 * The Alps. 
 
40 
 
 ELIZA TOWNSEND. 
 
 The Macedonian s natal hour! 
 
 IS ow here, now there, he takes his stand, 
 
 The rtabiished earth his footsteps jar; 
 Goads l> the lii^ht his vassal band, 
 M hile ebbs or Hows, at his command, 
 
 The torrent of the war ! 
 
 Could the hard, whose powers suhlime 
 
 Scaled the heights of epic glory, 
 \nd rendered in immortal rhyme 
 
 Of Rome s disgrace the hlushing story 
 Where, formed of treason and of woes, 
 Pharsalia s gory genius rose 
 Might he again 
 Renew the strain 
 
 That once his truant muse had charmed, 
 Each foreign tone 
 
 Unwaked had lain ; 
 And patriot Spain 
 
 And Spain, alone 
 The Spaniard s patriot heart had warmed ! 
 
 Then had the chords proclaimed no more 
 His deeds, his death, renowned of yore ; 
 Who,* when each lingering hope was slain, 
 And Freedom fought with Fate in vain, 
 Lone in the city, and reft of all, 
 While Usurpation stormed the wall, 
 The tyrant s entrance scorned to see 
 But died, with dying Liberty. 
 
 Those chords had raised the local strain ; 
 That hard a filial flight had ta en ; 
 Forgot all else : The ancient past, 
 Thick in Ohlivion s mists o ercast, 
 Or past and present both combined 
 Within the graspings of his mind ; 
 In what now is, viewed what hath been ; 
 The dead within the living seen : 
 Owned transmigration s strange control, 
 In Spaniards owned the Cato soul ; 
 And wailed in tones of martial grief 
 The valiant band and hero chief, 
 Who shared in Saragossa s doom, 
 ^nd made their Utica their tomb ! 
 Bright be the amaranth of their fame ! 
 May Palafox a Lucan claim ! 
 That bard no more had filled his rhymes 
 With Cajsar s greatness. ( a>sar s crimes: 
 Another Cajsur waked the string, 
 Alike usurper, traitor, king. 
 Another ( \vsar ! rashly said ! 
 Forgive the falsehood, mighty shade! 
 Molest Julius treasons, still we know 
 The faithful friend, the generous foe; 
 And even enmityt could see 
 Some virtues of humanity. 
 
 But thou ! by what, accurs d name 
 Shall we denote thy features here? 
 
 In records of infernal fame 
 
 When- shall we find thy black compeer ? 
 
 Then, whose perfidious might of mind 
 
 Nor pity moves nor faith can bind, 
 
 * In 1 younger Cnto. 
 
 " I lis enemies confess 
 bw virtues of humanity are Cigar s." AD. CATO. 
 
 Whose friends, whose followers vainly crave 
 That trust which should reward the brave; 
 Whose foes, mid tenfold war s alarms, 
 Dread more thy treachery than thine arms : 
 The Ishmaelite, mid deserts bred, 
 Who robs at last whom first he fe.l, 
 The midnight murderer of the guest 
 With whom lie shared the morning s feast 
 This Arab wretch, compared with thee, 
 Is honor and humanity ! 
 
 And shall that proud, that ancient land, 
 
 In treasure rich, in pageant grand, 
 
 Land of romance, where sprang of old 
 
 Adventures strange, and champions bold, 
 
 Of holy faith, and gallant fight, 
 
 And bannered hall, and armored knight, 
 
 And tournament, and minstrelsy, 
 
 The native land of chivalry ! 
 
 Shall all these " blushing honors" bloom 
 
 For Corsica s detested son ] 
 
 These ancient worthies own his sway 
 
 The upstart fiend of yesterday 1 
 
 Oh, for the kingly sword and shield 
 
 That once the victor monarch sped, 
 What time from Pavia s trophied Held 
 
 The royal Frank was captive led ! 
 May Charles s laurels, gained for you, 
 
 Ne er, Spaniards, on your brows expire 
 Nor the degenerate sons subdue 
 
 The conqu rors of their nobler sire ! 
 None higher mid the zodiac line 
 
 Of sovereigns and of saints you claim, 
 Than fair Castilia s star could shine, 
 
 And brighten down the sky of fame. 
 Wise, magnanimous, refined, 
 Accomplished friend of human kind, 
 Wlio first the Genoese sail unfurled 
 The mighty mother of an infant world, 
 Illustrious Isabel ! shall thine, 
 Thy children, kneel at Gallia s shrine] 
 
 No ! rise, thou venerated shade, 
 
 In Heaven s own armor bright arrayed, 
 
 Like Pallas to her Grecian band ; 
 
 Nerve every heart and every hand ; 
 
 Pervious or not to mortal sight, 
 
 Still guard thy gallant offspring s right, 
 
 Display thine aegis from afar, 
 
 And lend a thunderbolt to war ! 
 
 God of battles ! from thy throne, 
 God of vengeance, aid their cause : 
 
 Make it, conqu ring One, thine own ! 
 
 Tis faith, and liberty, and laws. * 
 
 T is for these they pour their blood 
 
 The cause of man. the cause of God! 
 
 Not now avenge. All-righteous Power, 
 
 Penivia s red and ruined hour: 
 
 Nor man-led Montezuma s head, 
 
 ^or Gunfamo/iifs burning bed, 
 
 "Nor uive the guiltless up to fate 
 
 For Cort s crimes, Pizarro s hate! 
 
 Thou, who beholdst, enthroned afar, 
 
 Beyond the vision of the keenest star, 
 
 Far through creation s ample round, 
 
 The universe s utmost bound : 
 
ELIZA TOWNSENL). 
 
 41 
 
 Where war in other shape appears, 
 The destined plague of other spheres, 
 Other Napoleons arise 
 To stain the earth and cloud the skies ; 
 And other realms in martial ranks succeed, 
 Fight like Iberians, like Iberians bleed. 
 If an end is e er designed 
 The dire destroyers of mankind, 
 Oh, be some seraphim assigned 
 To breathe it to the patriot mind. 
 What Brutus bright in arms arrayed, 
 What Corde bares the righteous blade ! 
 Or, if the vengeance, not our own, 
 Be sacred to thine arm alone, 
 When shall be signed the blest release 
 And wearied worlds refreshed with peace 
 Oh, could the muse but dare to rise 
 Far o er these low and clouded skies, 
 Above the threefold heavens to soar, 
 And in thy very sight implore ! 
 
 In vain while angels veil them there, 
 
 While Faith half fears to lift her prayer, 
 The glance profane shall Fancy dare 1 
 Yet there around, a fearful band, 
 Thy ministers of vengeance stand : . 
 
 Lo, at thy bidding stalks the storm ; 
 The lightning takes a local form; 
 The floods erect their hydra head ; 
 The pestilence forsakes his bed ; 
 Intolerable light appears to wait, 
 And far-off darkness stands in awful state ! 
 
 For thee, O Time ! 
 
 If still thou speedst thy march of crime 
 Gainst all that s beauteous or sublime, 
 Still provest thyself the sworn ally 
 And author of mortality 
 
 Infuriate Earth, too long supine, 
 Whilst demon-like thou lovedst to ride, 
 Ending every work beside, 
 
 Shall live to see the end of thine 
 Her great revenge shall see ! 
 By prayer shall move th Almighty power 
 To antedate that final hour 
 When the Archangel firm shall stand 
 Upon the ocean and the land 
 His crown a radiant rainbow sphere, 
 His echoes seven-fold thunders near 
 The last dread fiat to proclaim : 
 Shall swear by His tremendous name, 
 Who formed the earth, the heavens and sea, 
 TIME shall no longer be ! 
 
 TO ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 VVHITTEN IN 181-2. 
 
 O THOTT, whom we have known so long, so well, 
 Thou who didst hymn the Maid of Arc, and framed 
 Of Thalaba the wild and wondrous song ; 
 And in thy later tale of Times of Old, 
 Remindest us of our own patriarch fathers, 
 The Madocs of their age, who planted here 
 The cross of Christ and liberty and peace ! 
 Minstrel of other climes, of higher hopes, 
 And holier inspirations, who hast ne er 
 
 From her high birth debased the goddess Muse, 
 
 To grovel in the dirt of earthly things ; 
 
 But learned to mingle with her human tones 
 
 Some breathings of the harmonies of heaven ! 
 
 Joyful to meet thee yet again, we hail 
 
 Thy last, thy loftiest lay ; nor chief we thank thee 
 
 For every form of beauty, every light 
 
 Bestowed by brilliancy, and every grace 
 
 That fancy could invent and taste dispose. 
 
 Or that creating, consummating power, 
 
 Pervading fervor, and mysterious finish, 
 
 That something occult, indefinable. 
 
 By mortals genius named ; the parent sun 
 
 W T hence all those rays proceed ; the constant foum 
 
 To feed those streams of mind ; th informing soul 
 
 Whose infl lence all are conscious of, but none 
 
 Could e er describe ; whose fine and subtle nature 
 
 Seems like th aerial forms, which legends say 
 
 Greeted the gifted eye of saint or seer, 
 
 Yet ever mocked the fond inquirer s aim 
 
 To scan their essence ! 
 
 Such alone, we greet not. 
 Since genius oft (so oft, the tale is trite) 
 Employs its golden art to varnish vice, 
 And bleach depravity, till it shall wear 
 The whiteness of the robes of Innocence t 
 And Fancy s self forsakes her truest trade, 
 The lapidary for the scavenger ; 
 And Taste, regardful of but half her province, 
 Self-sentenced to a partial blindness, turns 
 Her notice from the semblance of perfection, 
 To fix its hoodwinked gaze on faults alone 
 And like the owl, sees only in the night, 
 Not like the eagle, soars to meet the day. 
 
 Oblivion to all such ! For thee, we joy 
 Thou hast not misapplied the gifts of God, 
 Nor yielded up thy powers, illustrious captives, 
 To grace the triumph of licentious Wit. 
 
 Once more a female is thy chosen theme ; 
 And Kailyal lives a lesson to the sex, 
 How more than woman s loveliness may blend 
 With all of woman s worth ; with chastened love, 
 Magnanimous exertion, patient piety, 
 And pure intelligence. Lo ! from thy wand 
 Even faith, and hope, and charity, receive 
 Something more filial and more feminine. 
 
 Proud praise enough were this ; yet is there more : 
 That neath thy splendid Indian canopy, 
 By fairy fingers woven, of gorgeous threads, 
 And gold and precious stones, thou hast enwrapped 
 Stupendous themes that Truth divine revealed, 
 And answering Reason owned : naught more sub- 
 Beauteous, or useful, e er was charactered [lime, 
 On Hermes mystic pillars Egypt s boast, 
 And more, Pythagoras lesson, when the ma/e 
 Of hieroglyphic meaning awed the world ! 
 
 Could Music s potent charm, as some believed 
 Have warmth to animate the slumbering dead, 
 And lap them in Elysium," second only 
 To that which shall await in other worlds, 
 How would the native sons of ancient India 
 Unclose on thee that wondering, dubious eye, 
 Where admiration wars with incredulity ! 
 Sons of the morning ! first-born of creation . 
 What w >uld they think of thee thee, one of us 
 
ELIZA TO vVNSEND. 
 
 Sprung fro :M ;i Liter race, on whom the ends 
 
 Of ihisour world have come, that thou shouldstpen 
 
 What \ aranasi s* venerable towers 
 
 In all their pride and plenitude of power, 
 
 Ere Conquest spread her bloody banner o er them, 
 
 Or Ruin trod upon their hallowed walls, 
 
 Could ne er excel, though stored with ethic wisdom, 
 
 And epic minstrelsy, and sacred lore ! 
 
 For there, Philosophy s Gantamif first 
 
 Taught man to measure mind ; there Valmic hymn d 
 
 The conquering armsof heaven-descended Rama ; 
 
 And Calidasa and Vyasa there, 
 
 At dillerent periods, but with powers the same, 
 
 The Sanscrit song prolonged of Nature s works, 
 
 Of human woes, and sacred Chrishna s ways. 
 
 That it should e er be thine, of Europe born, 
 
 To sing of Asia ! that Hindostan s palms 
 
 Should bloom on Albion s hills, and Brama sVedasJ 
 
 Meet unconverted eyes, yet unprofaned ! 
 
 And those same brows the classic Thames had bath d 
 
 Be laved by holy Ganges ! while the lotus, 
 
 Fig-tree, and cusa, of its healing banks, 
 
 Should, with their derva s vegetable rubies, 
 
 Be painted to the life !. ...Not truer touches, 
 
 On plane-tree arch above, or roseate carpet, 
 
 Spread out beneath, were ever yet employed 
 
 When their own vale of Cashmere was the subject, 
 
 Sketched by its own Abdalh, i ! 
 
 He, || too, of thine own land, who long since found 
 A refuge in his final sanctuary, 
 From regal bigotry could thy voice reach him, 
 His awful shade might greet thee as a brother 
 In sentiment and song ; that epic genius, 
 From whom the sight of outward things was taken 
 By Heaven in mercy that the orb of vision 
 Might totally turn inward there concentred 
 On objects else perhaps invisible, 
 Requiring and exhausting all its rays; 
 Who (like Tiresias, of prophetic fame) 
 Talked with Futurity ! that patriot poet, 
 Poet of paradise, whose daring eve 
 Explored "the living throne, the sapphire blaze," 
 " But blasted with excess of light," retired, 
 And left to thce to compass other heavens 
 And other scenes of being ! 
 
 Bard beloved 
 
 Of all who virtue love revered by all 
 That genius reverence SOUTHET ! if thou art 
 "Gentle as bard beseems," and if thy life 
 Be lovely as thy lay, thou wilt not scorn 
 This rustic, wreath; albeit twas entwined 
 Beyond the western waters, where I sit 
 And bid the \\inds that wait upon their surges, 
 Bear it across them to thine island-home. 
 Thou wilt not. scorn the simple leaves, though culled 
 Fiom that traduced, insulted spot of earth, 
 Of which thy contumelious brethren oft 
 Frame fables, full as monstrous in their kind 
 As e er M michausen knew with all his falsehood, 
 Guiltless o" all his wit! Not such art thou 
 Surely thou art not, if, as Rumor tells, 
 Thyself in the high hour of hopeful youth 
 
 * The folK ur of Hcnaivs 
 
 t Supposed iht: earliest founder of a philosophic school 
 
 Sacred books of the Hindoos. || .Milton. 
 
 Had cherished nightly visions of delight, 
 And day-dreams of desire, that lured thee on 
 To see these sister states, and painted to thee 
 Our frowning mountains and our laughing vales 
 The countless beauties of our varied lakes, 
 The dim recesses of our endless woods, 
 Fit haunt for sylvan deities ; and whispered 
 How sweet it were in such deep solitude, 
 Where human foot ne er trod, to raise thy hut, 
 To talk to Nature, but to think of man. 
 Then thou, perchance, like Scotia s darling son, 
 Hadst sung our Pennsylvanian villages, 
 Our bold Oneidas, and our tender Gertrudes, 
 And sung, like him, thy listeners into tears. 
 Such were thy early musings : other thoughts, 
 And happier, doubtless, have concurred to fix thee 
 On Britain s venerated shore ; yet still 
 Must that young thought be tenderly remembered, 
 Even as romantic minds are sometimes said 
 To cherish their first love not that twas wisest, 
 
 But that twas earliest If that morning dream 
 
 Still lingers to thy noon of life, remember, 
 And for its own dear sake, when thou shalt hear 
 (As oft, alas ! thou wilt) those gossip tales, 
 By Jazy Ignorance or inventive Spleen, 
 Related of the vast, the varied country, 
 We proudly call our own oh ! then refute them 
 By the just consciousness that still this land 
 Has turned no adder s ear toward thy Muse 
 That charms so wisely ; that whene er her tones, 
 Mellowed by distance, o er the waters come, 
 They meet a band of listeners those who hear 
 W 7 ith breath-suspending eagerness, and feel 
 With feverish interest. Be this their praise, 
 And sure they 11 need no other ! Such there are, 
 Who, from the centre of an honest heart, 
 Bless thee for ministering to the purest pleasure 
 That man, whilst breathing earthly atmosphere, 
 In this minority of being, knows 
 That of contemplating immortal verse, 
 In fit communion with immortal Truth ! 
 
 THE INCOMPREHENSIBILITY OF GOD. 
 
 WHERE art thou ? THOU ! source and support 
 That is or seen or felt ; thyself unseen, [of all 
 Unfelt, unknown alas, unknowable ! 
 I look abroad among thy works the sky, 
 Vast, distant, glorious with its world of suns 
 Life-giving earth, and ever-moving main, 
 And speaking winds and ask if these are thee! 
 The stars that twinkle on, the eternal hills, 
 The restless tide s outgoing and return, 
 The omnipresent and deep-breathing air 
 Though hailed as gods of old, and only less, 
 Are not the Power I seek; are thine, not thee! 
 I ask thee from the past : if, in the years, 
 Since first intelligence could search its source, 
 Or in some former unremembered being, 
 (If such, perchance, were mine), did they behold 
 And next interrogate Futurity, rthee 1 
 
 So fondly tenanted with better things 
 Than e er experience owned but both are muto , 
 And Past and Future, vocal on all else, 
 
ELIZA TOWNSEND. 
 
 48 
 
 So full of memories and phantasies, 
 Are deaf and speechless here ! Fatigued, I turn 
 From all vain parley with the elements, [ward 
 And close mine eyes, and bid the thought turn in- 
 From each material thing its anxious guest, 
 If, in the stillness of the waiting soul, 
 He may vouchsafe himself Spirit to spirit ! 
 Thou, at once most dreaded and desired, 
 Pavilioned still in darkness, wilt thou hide thee 1 
 What though the rash request be fraught with fate, 
 Nor human eye may look on thine and live 1 
 Welcome the penalty ! let that come now, 
 Which soon or late must come. For light like this 
 Who would not dare to die ] 
 
 Peace, my proud aim, 
 
 And hush the wish that knows not what it asks. 
 Await His will, who hath appointed this, 
 W ith every other trial. Be that will 
 Done now, as ever. For thy curious search, 
 And unprepared solicitude to gaze 
 On Him the Unrevealed learn hence, instead, 
 To temper highest hope with humbleness. 
 Pass thy novitiate in these outer courts, 
 Till rent the veil, no longer separating 
 The Holiest of all as erst, disclosing 
 A brighter disponsation ; whose results 
 Ineffable, interminable, tend 
 Even to the perfecting thyself thy kind 
 Till meet for that sublime beatitude, 
 By the firm promise of a voice from heaven 
 Pledged to the pure in heart ! 
 
 ANOTHER "CASTLE IN THE AIR." 
 
 To ME, like Phidias, were it given 
 To form from clay the man sublime, 
 
 And, like Prometheus, steal from heaven 
 The animating spark divine !" 
 
 Thus once in rhapsody you cried : 
 As for complexion, form, and air, 
 
 No matter what, if thought preside, 
 And fire and feeling mantle there. 
 
 Deep on the tablets of his mind 
 
 Be learning, science, taste, imprest ; 
 
 Let piety a refuge find 
 
 Within the foldings of his breast. 
 
 Let him have suffered much since we, 
 Alas ! are early doomed to know, 
 
 A.11 human virtue we can see 
 Is only perfected through wo. 
 
 Purer the ensuing breeze we find 
 
 When whirlwinds first the skies deform , 
 
 And hardier grows the mountain hind 
 Bleaching beneath the wintry storm. 
 
 But, above all, may Heaven impart 
 
 That talent which completes the whole 
 The finest and the rarest art 
 
 To analyze a woman s soul. 
 Woman that happy, wretched being, 
 
 Of causeless smile, of nameless sigh, 
 So oft whose joys unbidden spring, 
 
 So oft who weeps, she knows not why ! 
 
 Her piteous griefs, her joys so gay, 
 All that afflicts and all that cheers ; 
 
 All her erratic fancy s play, 
 
 Her fluttering hopes, her trembling fears. 
 
 With passions chastened, not subdued, 
 
 Let dull inaction stupid reign ; 
 Be his the ardor of the good, 
 
 Their loftier thought and nobler aim. 
 
 Firm as the towering bird of Jove, 
 The mightiest shocks of life to beu* ; 
 
 Yet gentle as the captive dove, 
 In social suffering to share. 
 
 If such there .be, to such alone 
 
 Would I thy worth, beloved, resign ; 
 
 Secure, each bliss that time hath known 
 Would consummate a lot like thine. 
 
 But if this gilded human scheme 
 Be but the pageant of the brain. 
 
 Of such slight " stuff" as forms our " dream. 
 Which, waking, we must seek in vain. 
 
 Each gift of nature and of art 
 
 Still lives within thyself enshrined ; 
 
 Thine are the blossoms of the heart, 
 And thine the scions of the mind ! 
 
 And if the matchless wreath shall blend 
 With foliage other than its own, 
 
 Or, destined not its sweets to lend, 
 Shall flourish for thyself alone 
 
 Still cultivate the plants with care ; 
 
 From weeds, from thorns, oh keep them free 
 Till, ripened for a purer air, 
 
 They bloom in immortality ! 
 
 AMERICAN SCENERY. 
 
 FROM A POEM ON THE DKATH OF CHARLES 
 BHOCKDEN BKOWX. 
 
 THOUGH Nature, with unsparing hand, 
 Has scattered round thy favored land ^ 
 Those gifts that prompt the aspiring aim, 
 And fan the latent spark to flame : 
 Such awful shade of blackening woods, 
 Such roaring voice of giant floods, 
 Cliffs, which the dizzied eagles flee, 
 Such cataracts, tumbling to the sea, 
 That in this lone and wild retreat 
 A Collins might have fixed his scat, 
 Called Horror from the mountain s brow, 
 Or Danger from the depths below 
 And then, for those of milder mood, 
 Heedless of forest, rock, or flood, 
 Gay fields, bedecked with golden grain, 
 Rich orchards, bending to the plain, 
 Where Sydney s fairy pen had foiled, 
 Which Mantuan Maro s muse had hailml 
 Yet, midst this luxury of scone, 
 These varied charms, this graceful mien 
 Canst thou no hearts, no voices, raise, 
 Those charms to feel, those charms to praise 
 
LAVINIA STODDARD. 
 
 (Born 1787-Died 1820). 
 
 LAVIXIA STONE, a daughter of Mr. Elijah 
 Stone, was born in Guilford, Connecticut, 
 on the twenty-ninth of June, 1787. While 
 she was an infant her father removed to Pat- 
 erson, in New Jersey, and here she received, 
 besides the careful instructions of an intelli 
 gent and judicious mother, such education 
 in the schools as was at the time common to 
 the children of farmers. In 1811 she was 
 married to Dr. William Stoddard, a man of 
 taste and liberal culture, of Stratford, in 
 Connecticut, and in the then flourishing vil 
 lage of Troy, on the Hudson, they established 
 an academy, which they conducted success 
 fully for several years. Mrs. Stoddard was 
 attacked with consumption, and about the 
 year 1S18 she removed with her family to 
 Blakeley, in Alabama, where Dr. Stoddard 
 soon after died, leaving her among strangers 
 
 and in poverty. Partially recovering her 
 own health, she revisited Troy ; but the se 
 verity of the climate induced her to return to 
 Blakeley, where she died in 1820. 
 
 Mrs. Stoddard wrote many poems, which 
 were printed anonymously in the public jour 
 nals, or addressed privately to her acquaint 
 ances. She was a woman of piety, benevo 
 lence, and an independent temper; and the 
 fine poem entitled The Soul s Defiance, her 
 brother has informed me, " was interesting 
 to her immediate friends for the truthfulness 
 with which it portrayed her own experience 
 and her indomitable spirit, which never 
 quailed under any circumstances." This was 
 written in a period of suffering and with a 
 sense of injury. It is the last of her compo 
 sitions, and perhaps the best. It is worthy 
 of George Herbert. 
 
 THE SOUL S DEFIANCE. 
 
 F SAID to Sorrow s awful storm, 
 
 That beat against my b east, 
 Ratio on thou mnyst destroy this form, 
 
 And lay it low at rest; 
 But still the spirit that now brooks 
 
 Thy tempest, raging high, 
 Uudaunted on its fury looks, 
 
 With steadfast eye. 
 
 I said to Penury s meagre train, 
 
 Come on your threats I brave ; 
 My last poor life-drop you may drain, 
 
 And crush me to the grave ; 
 Yet still the spirit that endures 
 
 Shall mock your force the while, 
 And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours 
 
 With hitter smile. 
 
 I paid to cold Neglect and Scorn, 
 
 Pass on I heed you not ; 
 Yc may pursue me till my form 
 
 And being are forgot ; 
 Vet still the spirit, which you see 
 
 Undaunted by your wiles, 
 Draws from its own nobility 
 
 Its highborn smiles. 
 
 I said to Friendship s menaced blow, 
 Strike deep my heart shall bear; 
 
 Thou canst but add one bitter wo 
 To those already there ; 
 
 Yet still the spirit that sustains 
 
 This last severe distress, 
 Shall smile upon its keenest pains, 
 
 And scorn redress. 
 I said to Death s uplifted dart, 
 
 Aim sure oh, why delay T 
 Thou wilt not find a fearful heart 
 
 A weak, reluctant prey ; 
 For still the spirit, firm and free, 
 
 Unruffled by this last dismay, 
 Wrapt in its own eternity, 
 
 Shall pass away. 
 
 SOXQ. 
 
 ASK not from me the sportive jest, 
 
 The mirthful jibe, the gay reflection , 
 These social baubles fly the breast 
 
 That owns the sway of pale Dejection. 
 Ask not from me the changing smile, 
 
 Hope s sunny glow, Joy s glittering token, 
 It can not now my griefs beguile 
 
 My soul is dark, my heart is broken ! 
 Wit can not cheat my heart of wo, 
 
 Flattery wakes no exultation, 
 And Fancy s flash but serves to show 
 
 The darkness of my desolation. 
 By me no more in masking guise 
 
 Shall thoughtless repartee be spoken ; 
 My mind a hopeless ruin lies 
 
 My soul is dark, my heart is broken ! 
 44 
 
HANNAH F. GOULD. 
 
 (Born 1788-Died 1865). 
 
 Miss GOULD is a native of Lancaster, in 
 the southern part of Vermont. Her father 
 was one of the small company who fought 
 m the first battle of the Revolution, and in 
 the face of all the privations and discourage 
 ments of that long and of.en hopeless Avar 
 remained in the army until it was disbanded. 
 In The Scar of Lexington, The Revolution 
 ary Soldier s Request, The Veteran and the 
 Child, and several other pieces, we suppose 
 she has referred to him ; and it is probably 
 but a versification of a family incident in 
 which an old man, relating the story of his 
 weary campaigns, says to a child 
 " I carried my musket, as one that must be 
 But loosed from the hold of the dead, or the free. 
 And fearless I lifted my good, trusty sword, 
 In the hand of a mortal, the strength of the Lord." 
 
 Miss Gould s history is in a peculiar degree 
 and in a most honorable manner identified 
 with her father s. In her youth he removed 
 to Newburyport, near Boston, and for many 
 years before his death, (for the touching 
 poem entitled My Lost Father, in the last 
 volume of her writings, we presume had 
 reference to that went,) she was his house 
 keeper, his constant companion, and the 
 chief source of his happiness. 
 
 Miss Gould s poems are short, but they 
 are frequently nearly perfect in their kind. 
 Nearly all of them appeared originally in 
 annuals, magazines, and other miscellanies, 
 and their popularity has been shown by the 
 
 subsequent sale of several collective editions. 
 The first volume she published came out in 
 1832, the second in 1835, and the third in 
 1841 ; and a new edition, embracing many 
 new poems, is now (1848) in preparation. 
 
 Her most distinguishing characteristic is 
 sprightliness. Her poetical vein seldom 
 rises above the fanciful, but in her vivacity 
 there is both wit and cheerfulness. She 
 needs apparently but the provocation of a 
 wider social inspiration to become very cle 
 ver and apt in jcux d esprit and epigrams, 
 as a few specimens which have found their 
 way into the journals amply indicate. It 
 is however in such pieces as Jack Frost, 
 The Pebble and the Acorn, and other effu 
 sions devoted to graceful details of nature, 
 or suggestive incidents in life, that we rec 
 ognise the graceful play of her muse. Often 
 by a dainty touch, or lively prelude, the gen 
 tle raillery of her sex most charmingly re 
 veals itself, and in this respect Miss Gould 
 manifests a decided individuality of genius. 
 
 Miss Gould seems as fond as JEsop or La 
 Fontaine of investing every thing in nature 
 with a human intelligence It is surprising 
 to see how frequently and how happily the 
 birds, the insects, the trees and flowers and 
 pebbles are made her colloquists. Her poems 
 could be illustrated only by some such in 
 genious artists as those who have recently 
 amused Paris with Scenes dela ViePubliqiie 
 et Privee des Animaux. 
 
 A NAME IN THE SAND. 
 
 ALOXE I walked the ocean strand ; 
 A pearly shell was in my hand : 
 I stooped and wrote upon the sanJ 
 
 My name the year the day. 
 As onward from the spot I passed, 
 One lingering look behind I cast- 
 A wave came rolling high and fast. 
 
 And washed my lines away. 
 
 And so, methought, twill shortly be 
 With every mark on earth from me : 
 A wave of dark Oblivion s sea 
 
 Will sweep across the place 
 Where I have trod the sandy shore 
 Of Time, and been to be no more, 
 Of me my day the name I bore, 
 
 To leave nor track nor trace. 
 
 And yet, with Him who counts the sands, 
 And holds the waters in his hands, 
 I know a lasting record stands, 
 
 Inscribed against my name, 
 Of all this mortal part has wrought , 
 Ot all this thinking soul has thought . 
 A .d from these fleeting moments caugi f 
 
 For glory or for shame. 
 
 45 
 
4fi 
 
 HANNAH F. GOULD. 
 
 CHANGES ON THE DEEP. 
 
 A GALLANT ship ! and trim and tight 
 Across the deep she speeds away, 
 
 While mant ed with the golden light 
 The sun throws hack at close of day 
 
 And who, that sees that stately ship 
 
 Her haughty stern in ocean dip, 
 
 H:i^ ever seen a prouder one 
 
 Il. umincd hy a setting sun] 
 
 The hreath of summer, sweet and soft, 
 Her canvass swells, while, wide and fair, 
 
 And floating from her mast aloft, 
 Her flag pi ays off on gent e air. 
 
 And, as her steady prow divides 
 
 The waters to her even sides, 
 
 She passes, like a bird, between 
 
 The peaceful deep and sky serene. 
 
 And now gray twilight s tender veil 
 
 The moon wi h shafts of silver rends; 
 And down on billow, deck, and sail, 
 
 Her placid lustre gently sends. 
 The stars, as if the arch of blue 
 Were pierced to let the glory through, 
 From their bright world look out and win 
 The thoughts of man to enter in. 
 
 And many a heart that s warm and true 
 
 That noble ship bears on with pride ; 
 While, mid the many forms, are two 
 
 Of passing beauty, side by side. 
 A fair young mother, standing by 
 Her bosom s lord, has fixed her eye, 
 With his, upon the blessed star 
 That points them to their home afar. 
 Their thoughts fly foi th to those, who there 
 
 Are waiting now, with joy to hail 
 The moment that shall grant their prayer, 
 
 And heave in sight their coming sail. 
 For, many a time the changeful queen 
 Of night has vanished, and been seen, 
 Since, o er a foreign shore to roam, 
 They passed from that dear, native home. 
 The lube, that on its father s breast 
 
 Has let its little eyelids close, 
 The mother bears below to rest, 
 
 And sinks with it in sweet repose. 
 The while a sailor climbs the shroud, 
 And in the distance spies a cloud: 
 Low, like a swelling seed, it lies, 
 From which the towering storm shall rise. 
 The powers of air are now about 
 
 To muster from their hidden caves ; 
 The winds, unchained, come rushing out, 
 
 And into mountains heap the waves. 
 Upon t .io sky tho darkness spreads! 
 rin- Tempest on the Ocean treads; 
 And yawning caverns are its track 
 Amid the waters wild and black. 
 Its ,-oice but who shall give the sounds 
 
 Of that dread voice I The ship is dashed 
 In roaring depths and now she bounds 
 
 On high, hy foaming surges lashed. 
 
 And how is she the storm to bide ? 
 Its sweeping win^s are strong and wide ! 
 The hand of man has lost control 
 O er her his work is for the soul ! 
 
 She s in a scene of Nature s war : 
 
 The \\ inds and waters are at strife ; 
 And both with her contending for 
 The brittle thread of human life 
 That she contains ; while sail and shroud 
 Have yielded, and her head is bowed. 
 Then who that slender thread shall keep 
 But He whose finger moves the deep ? 
 
 A moment and the angry blast 
 
 Has done its work and hurried on. 
 With parted cables, shivered mast 
 With riven sides, and anchor gone, 
 Behold the ship in ruin lie ; 
 While from the waves a piercing cry 
 Surmounts the tumult high and wild, 
 And shouts to heaven, " My child ! my child !" 
 
 The mother in the whelming surge 
 
 Lifts up her infant o er the sea, 
 While lying on the awful verge 
 
 Where time unveils eternity 
 And calls to Mercy, from the. skies 
 To come and rescue, while she dies, 
 The gift that, with her fleeting breath, 
 She offers from the gates of death. 
 
 It is a call for Heaven to hear. 
 
 Maternal fondness sends above 
 A voice, that in her Father s ear 
 
 Shall enter quick, for God is love. 
 In such a moment, hands like these 
 Their Maker with their offering sees ; 
 And for the faith of such a breast 
 He will the blow of death arrest ! 
 
 The moon looks pale from out the cloud, 
 
 While Mercy s angel takes the form 
 Of him, who, mounted on the shroud, 
 
 W as first to see the coming storm. 
 The sailor has a ready arm 
 To bring relief, and cope with harm ; 
 Though rough his hand, and nerved with steel, 
 His heart is warm and quick to feel. 
 
 And see him, as he braves the frown 
 That sky and sea each other give ! 
 
 Behold him where he plunges down, 
 That child and mother yet may live, 
 
 And plucks them from a closing grave ! 
 
 They re saved ! they re saved ! the maddened 
 wave 
 
 Leaps foaming up, to find its prey 
 
 Snatched from its mouth and borne away. 
 
 They re saved ! they re saved ! but where is he, 
 Who lulled his fearless babe to sleep ! 
 
 A floating plank on that wild sea 
 Has now his vital spark to keep ! 
 
 But, by the wan, affrighted moon, 
 
 Help comes to him ; and he is soon 
 
 Upon the deck with living men 
 
 To clasp that smiling boy again. 
 
HANNAH F. GOULD. 
 
 47 
 
 And now can He, who only knows 
 Each human breast, behold alone 
 
 What pure and grateful incense goes 
 From that sad wreck to his high throne. 
 
 The twain, whose hearts are truly one, 
 
 Wi 1 early teach their prattling son 
 
 Upon his little heart to bear 
 
 The sailor to his God, in prayer : 
 
 " O Thou, who in thy hand dost hold 
 
 The winds and waves, that wake or sleep, 
 Thy tender arms of mercy fold 
 
 Around the seamen on the deep ! 
 And, when their voyage of life is o er, 
 May they be welcomed to the shore 
 Whose peaceful streets with gold are paved, 
 And angels sing, They re saved! they re 
 saved ! " 
 
 THE SCAR OF LEXINGTON. 
 
 WITH cherub smile, the prattling boy, 
 Who on the veteran s breast reclines, 
 
 Has thrown aside his favorite toy, 
 And round his tender finger twines 
 
 Those scattered locks, that, with the flight 
 
 Of fourscore years, are snowy white ; 
 
 And, as a scar arrests his view, 
 
 He cries, " Grandpa, what wounded you 1 ?" 
 
 " My child, t is five-and-fifty years 
 This very day, this very hour, 
 
 Since, from a scene of blood and tears, 
 Where valor fell by hostile power, 
 
 I saw retire the setting sun 
 
 Behind the hills of Lexington ; 
 
 While pale and lifeless on the plain 
 
 My brothers lay, for freedom slain ! 
 
 " And ere that fight, the first that spoke 
 In thunder to our land, was o er, 
 
 Amid the clouds of fire and smoke, 
 I felt my garments wet with gore ! 
 
 Tis since that dread and wild affray, 
 
 That trying, dark, eventful day, 
 
 From this calm April eve so far, 
 
 I wear upon my cheek the scar. 
 
 " When thou to manhood shalt be grown, 
 
 And I am gone in dust to sleep, 
 May freedom s rights be still thine own, 
 
 And thou and thine in quiet reap 
 The unb .ighted product of the toil 
 In which my blood bedewed the soil ! 
 And, while those fruits thou shalt enjoy, 
 Bethink thee of this scar, my boy. 
 
 " But, should thy country s voice be heard 
 
 To bid her children fly to arms, 
 Gird on thy grandsire s trusty sword : 
 And, undismayed by war s alarms, 
 Remember, on the battle field, 
 I made the hand of GOD my shield: 
 And be thou spared, like me, to tell 
 What bore thee up, while others fell !" 
 
 THE SNOWFLAKE. 
 
 " Now, if I fall, will it be my lot 
 
 To be cast in some lone and lowly spot, 
 
 To melt, and to sink unseen, or forgot ? 
 
 And there will my course be ended 1" 
 T was this a feathery Snowflake said, 
 As down through measureless space it strayed, 
 Or as, half by dalliance, half afraid, 
 
 It seemed in mid air suspended. 
 
 " Oh, no !" said the Earth, " thou shalt not lie 
 Neglected and lone on my lap to die, 
 Thou pure and delicate child of the sky ! 
 
 For thou wilt be safe in my keeping. 
 But, then, I must give thee a lovelier form 
 Thou wilt not be a part of the wintry storm, 
 But revive, when the sunbeams are yellow and 
 warm, 
 
 And the flowers from my bosom are peeping ! 
 
 " And then thou shalt have thy choice, to be 
 Restored in the lily that decks the lea, 
 In the jessamine bloom, the anemone, 
 
 Or aught of thy spotless whiteness-, 
 To melt, and be cast in a glittering bead 
 With the pearls that the night scatters over the 
 
 mead, 
 In the cup where the bee and the firefly feed, 
 
 Regaining thy dazzling brightness. 
 
 "I ll let thee awake from thy transient sleep, 
 When Viola s mild blue eye shall weep, 
 In a tremulous tear ; or, a diamond, leap 
 
 In a drop from the unlocked fountain ; 
 Or, leaving the valley, the meadow, and heath, 
 The streamlet, the flowers, and all beneath, 
 Go up and be wove in the silvery wreath 
 
 Encircling the brow of the mountain. 
 
 " Or wouldst thou return to a home in the skies, 
 To shine in the Iris I 11 let thee arise, 
 And appear in the many and glorious dyes 
 
 A pencil of sunbeams is blending ! 
 But true, fair thing, as my name is Earth, 
 I 11 give thee a new and vernal birth, 
 When thou shalt recover thy primal worth, 
 
 And never regret descending !" 
 
 Then I will drop," said the trusting Flake , 
 " But, bear it in mind, that the choice I make 
 Is not in the flowers nor the dew to wake ; 
 
 Nor the mist, that shall pass with the morning 
 For, things of thyself, they will die with thee ; 
 But those that are lent from on high, like me, 
 Must rise, and will live, from thy dust set free, 
 
 To the regions at^ve returning. 
 
 " And if true to thy word and just thou art. 
 Like the spirit that dwells in the holiest heart. 
 Unsullied by thee, thou wilt let me depart, 
 
 And return to my native heaven. 
 For I would be placed in the beautiful bow 
 From time to time, in thy sight to glow ; 
 So thou mayst remember the Flake of Snow 
 
 By the promise that GOD hath (riven !" 
 
HANNAH F. GOULD. 
 
 THE WINDS. 
 
 WK come ! we come ! and ye feel our might, 
 As we re hastening on in our boundless flight, 
 And over the mountains and over the deep 
 Our broad, invisible pinions sweep, 
 Like the spirit of Liberty, wild and free ! 
 And ye look on our works, and own tis we; 
 Ye call us the Winds: but can ye tell 
 Whither we go, or where we dwell 1 
 
 Ye mark, as we vary our forms of power, 
 And fell the forests, or fan the flower, 
 When the harebell moves, and the rush is bent, 
 When the tower s o erthrown, and the oak is rent 
 As we wait the bark o er the slumbering wave, 
 Or hurry its crew to a watery grave ; 
 And ye say it is we ! but can ye trace 
 The wandering winds to their secret place 1 
 
 And, whether our breath be loud or high, 
 Or come in a soft and balmy sigh, 
 Our tlireatenings fill the soul with fear, 
 Or our gent e whisperings woo the ear 
 With music aerial, still tis we. 
 And ye list and ye look ; but what do ye see ? 
 Can ye hush one sound of our voice to peace, 
 Or waken one note when our numbers cease ] 
 
 4 ur dwelling is in the Almighty s hand ; 
 We come and we go at his command. 
 Though joy or sorrow may mark our track, 
 His will is our guide, and we look not back: 
 And if, in our wrath ye would turn us away, 
 Or win us in gentle airs to play, 
 Then lift up your hearts to Him who binds 
 Or frees, as he will, the obedient winds. 
 
 THE FROST. 
 
 THE Frost looked forth one still, clear night, 
 And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight: 
 So, through the valley, and over the height, 
 
 In silence I ll take my way. 
 I will not go on like that blustering train 
 The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain 
 Who make s > much bustle and noise in vain; 
 
 But I ll be as busy as they." 
 
 Then he lli-w to the mountain and powder d its crest; 
 He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest 
 In diamond heads; and over the breast 
 
 Of the (]uivering lake he spread 
 A coat of mail, that it need not fear 
 The downward point of many a spear 
 That he hung on its margin, far and near, 
 
 Where a rock could rear its head. 
 
 He went to the windows of those who slept, 
 And over e:ieh pane, like a fairy, crept; 
 \Vherev.-r he breathed, wherever he slept, 
 
 By the light of the morn, were seen 
 Mos*t beautiful things: there were flowers and trees; 
 There weie bevies of birds, and swarms of bees; 
 There were cities, with temples and towers and 
 
 All pictured in silver sheen ! [these 
 
 But he did one thing that was hardly fair: 
 He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there 
 That all had forgotten for him to prepare 
 
 " Now, just to set them a-thinking, 
 I ll bite this basket of fruit," said he, 
 " This costly pitcher I 11 burst in three ; 
 And the glass of water they ve left for me 
 
 Shall tchick ! to tell them I m drinking." 
 
 THE WATERFALL. 
 
 YE mighty waters, that have joined your forces, 
 .Roaring and dashing with this awful sound, 
 
 Here are ye mingled ; but the distant sources 
 Whence ye have issued where shall they be 
 found ] 
 
 Who may retrace the ways that ye have taken, 
 Ye streams and drops ] who separate you all, 
 
 And find the many places ye ve forsaken, 
 To come and rush together down the fall 1 
 
 Through thousand, thousand paths have ye been 
 roaming, 
 
 In earth and air, who now each other urge 
 To the last point ! and then, so madly foaming, 
 
 Leap down at once from this stupendous verge 
 
 Some in the lowering cloud a while were centred. 
 
 That in the stream beheld its sable face, 
 And melted into tears, that, falling, entered 
 
 With sister waters on this sudden race- 
 Others, to light that beamed upon the fountain, 
 
 Have from the vitals of the rock been freed, 
 In silver threads, that, shining down the mountain, 
 
 Twined off among the verdure of the mead. 
 
 And many a flower that bowed beside the river, 
 In opening beauty, ere the dew was dried, 
 
 Stirred by the breeze, has been an early giver 
 Of her pure offering to the rolling tide. 
 
 Thus, from the veins, through earth s dark bosom 
 
 pouring, 
 
 Many have flowed in tributary streams ; 
 Some, in the bow that bent, the sun adoring, 
 
 Have shone in colors borrowed from his beams. 
 But He, who holds the ocean in the hollow 
 Of his strong hand, can separate you all ! 
 His searching eye the secret way will follow 
 
 Of every drop that hurries to the fall ! 
 We are, like you, in mighty torrents mingled, 
 _ And speeding downward to one common home ; 
 Yet there s an Eye that every drop hath singled, 
 And marked the winding ways through which 
 we come. 
 
 Those who have here adored the Sun of heaven, 
 
 And shown the world their brightness drawn 
 
 from him, 
 Again before him, though their hues be seven, 
 
 Shall blend their beauty, never to grow dim 
 We bless the promise, as we thus are tending 
 
 Down to the tomb, that gives us hope to rise 
 Before the Power to whom we now are bending, 
 
 To stand his bow of glory in the skies ! 
 
HANNAH F. GOULD. 
 
 THE MOON UPON THE SPIRE. 
 
 THE full orbed moon has reached no higher 
 Than yon old church s mossy spire, 
 And seems, as gliding up the air, 
 She saw the fane ; and, pausing there, 
 Would worship, in the tranquil night, 
 The Prince of Peace the Source of light, 
 Where man for GOD prepared the place, 
 And GOD to man unveils his face. 
 
 Her tribute all around is seen ; 
 She bends, and worships like a queen ! 
 Her robe of light and beaming crown 
 In silence she is casting down ; 
 And, as a creature of the earth, 
 She feels her lowliness of birth 
 Her weakness and inconstancy 
 Before unchanging purity ! 
 
 Pale traveller, on thy lonely way, 
 Tis well thine homage thus to pay; 
 To reverence that ancient pile, 
 And spread thy silver o er the aisle 
 Which many a pious foot has trod, 
 That now is dust beneath the sod ; 
 Where many a sacred tear was wept 
 From eyes that long in death have slept ! 
 
 The temple s builders where are they ] 
 
 The worshippers] a l passed away, 
 
 W T ho came the first, to offer there 
 
 The song of praise, the heart of prayer ! 
 
 Man s generation passes soon ; 
 
 It wanes and changes like the moon. 
 
 He raises the perishable wall, 
 
 But, ere it crumbles, he must fall ! 
 
 And does he sink to rise no more 1 
 Has he no part to triumph o er 
 The pallid king? no spark, to save 
 From darkness, ashes, and the grave 1 
 Thou holy place, the answer, wrought 
 In thy firm structure, bars the thought ! 
 The Spirit that established thee 
 Nor death nor darkness e er shall see ! 
 
 THE ROBE. 
 
 T WAS not the robe of state 
 Which the high and the haughty wear, 
 That my busy hand, as the lamp burned late, 
 Was hastening to prepare. 
 
 It had no clasp of gold, 
 No diamond s dazzling blaze, 
 For the festive board ; nor the graceful fold 
 To float in the dance s maze. 
 
 Twas not to wrap the breast 
 With gladness light and warm ; 
 For the bride s attire for the joyous guest, 
 Nor to clothe the sufferer s form. 
 
 Twas not the garb of wo 
 We wear o er an aching heart, 
 When our eyes with bitter tears o erflow, 
 And our dearest ones depart. 
 4 
 
 T was what we all must bear 
 To the cold, the lonely bed ! 
 Twas the spotless uniform they wear 
 In the chambers of the dead ! 
 I saw the fair young maid 
 In the snowy vesture drest ; 
 So pure, she looked as one arrayed 
 For the mansions of the blest. 
 
 A smile had left its trace 
 On her lip at the parting breath, 
 And the beauty in that lovely face 
 Was fixed with the seal of death ! 
 
 THE CONSIGNMENT. 
 
 FIRE, my hand is on the key, 
 
 And the cabinet must ope ! 
 I shall now consign to thee 
 
 Things of grief, of joy, of hope. 
 Treasured secrets of the heart 
 
 To thy care I hence intrust : 
 Not a word must thou impart, 
 
 But reduce them all to dust. 
 This in childhood s rosy morn, 
 
 This was gayly filled and sent. 
 Childhood is for ever gone : 
 
 Here, devouring element ! 
 This was Friendship s cherished pledsre . 
 
 Friendship took a colder form : 
 Creeping on its gilded edge, 
 
 May the blaz e be bright and warm ! 
 
 These the letter and the token, 
 
 Never more shall meet my view ! 
 When the faith has once been broken, 
 
 Let the memory perish too ! 
 This twas penned while purest joy 
 
 Warmed the heart, and lit the eye . 
 Fate that peace did soon destroy, 
 
 And its transcript now will I ! 
 
 This must go ! for, on the seal 
 
 When I broke the solemn yew, 
 Keener was the pang than steel ; 
 
 T was a heart string breaking, too I 
 Here comes up the blotted leaf, 
 
 Blistered o er by many a tear. 
 Hence ! thou waking shade of grief ( 
 
 Go, for ever disappear ! 
 This is his, who seemed to be 
 
 High as heaven, and fair as light : 
 But the visor rose, and he 
 
 Spare, Memory, spare the sight 
 Of the face that frowned beneath 
 
 While I take it, hand and name, 
 And entwine it with a wreath 
 
 Of the purifying flame ! 
 These the hand is in the grave, 
 
 And the soul is in the skies, 
 Whence they came. . Tis pain to savu 
 
 Cold remains of sundered tie? ! 
 Go together, all, and burn, 
 
 Once the treasures of my heart ! 
 Still, my breast shall be an urn 
 
 To preserve your better part! 
 
DO 
 
 HANNAH F. GOULD. 
 
 THE WINTER BURIAL. 
 
 THE deep toned bell peals long and low 
 
 On the keen, midwinter air; 
 A sorrowing train moves sad and slow 
 
 From the solemn place of prayer. 
 
 The earth is in a winding sheet, 
 
 And nature wrapped in gloom; 
 Cold, cold the path which the mourners feet 
 
 Pursue to the waiting tomb. 
 
 They follow one who calmly goes 
 From her own loved mansion door, 
 
 Nor shrinks from the way through gathered snows, 
 To return to her home no more. 
 
 A sable line, to the drift crowned h :i . 
 
 The narrow pass they wind ; 
 And here, where all is drear and chill, 
 
 Their friend they leave behind. 
 
 The silent grave they re bending o er, 
 
 A long farewell to take ; 
 One last, last look, and then, no more 
 
 Ti.l the dead shall all awake ! 
 
 THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN. 
 
 " I AM a Pebble ! and yield to none !" 
 Were the swelling words of a tiny stone 
 " Nor time nor seasons can alter me ; 
 f am abiding, while ages flee. 
 The pelting hail and the drizzling rain 
 Have tried to soften me, long, in vain ; 
 And the tender dew has sought to melt 
 Or touch my heart ; but it was not felt. 
 There s none that can tell about my birth, 
 For I m as old as the big, round earth. 
 The chi dren of men arise, and pass 
 Out of the world, like the blades of grass ; 
 And many a foot on me has trod, 
 That s gone from sight, and under the sod. 
 I am a Pebble ! but who art thou, 
 Rattling along from the restless bough 1" 
 
 The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute, 
 And lay for a moment abashed and mute; 
 She never before had been so near 
 This uravelly ball, the mundane sphere; 
 And she felt for a time at a loss to know 
 How to answer a thing so coarse and low. 
 But to ive reproof of a nobler sort 
 Than the angry look, or the keen retort, 
 At lenirth she s;iid, in a gentle tone, 
 " Since it is happened that I am thrown 
 Fro n the lighter element whore I grew, 
 Down to another so hard and new, 
 And hcside a personage so august, 
 Abased, I will cover my head with dust, 
 And quickly retire from the sight of one 
 Whom time, nor season, nor storm, nor sun, 
 Nor Me gentle dew, nor the grinding heel, 
 Has ever subdued, or made to feel !" 
 And soon in the earth she sank away 
 From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay. 
 
 But it was not long ere the soil was broke 
 Bv .h/r peering head of an infant oak! 
 
 And, as it arose, and its branches spread, 
 
 The Pebble looked up, and, wondering, said, 
 
 " A modest Acorn never to tell 
 
 What was enclosed in its simple shell 
 
 That the pride of the forest was fo ded up 
 
 In the narrow space of its little cup ! 
 
 And meekly to sink in the darksome earth, 
 
 Which proves that nothing could hide her worth 
 
 And, oh ! how many will tread on me, 
 
 To come and admire the beautiful tree, 
 
 Whose head is towering toward the sky, 
 
 Above such a worthless thing as I ! 
 
 Useless and vain, a cumberer here, 
 
 I have been idling from year to year. 
 
 But never from this, shall a vaunting woid 
 
 From the humbled Pebble again be heard, 
 
 Till something without me or within 
 
 Shall show the purpose for which I ve been " 
 
 The Pebble its vow could not forget, 
 
 And it lies there wrapped in silence yet. 
 
 THE SHIP IS READY. 
 
 FARE thee well ! the ship is ready, 
 And the breeze is fresh and steady. 
 Hands are fast the anchor weighing; 
 High in air the streamer s playing. 
 Spread the sails the waves are swelling 
 Proudly round thy buoyant dwelling. 
 Fare thee well ! and when at sea, 
 Think of those who sigh for thee. 
 
 When from land and home receding, 
 And from hearts that ache to bleeding, 
 Think of those behind, who love thee, 
 While the sun is bright above thee ! 
 Then, as, down to ocean glancing, 
 In the waves his rays are dancing, 
 Think how long the night will be 
 To the eyes that weep for thee ! 
 
 When the lonely night watch keeping 
 All below thee still and sleeping 
 As the needle points the quarter 
 O er the wide and trackless water, 
 Let thy vigils ever find thee 
 Mindful of the friends behind thee ! 
 Let thy bosom s magnet be 
 Turned to those who wake for thee ! 
 
 When, with slow and gentle motion 
 Heaves the bosom of the ocean 
 While in peace thy bark is riding, 
 And the silver moon is gliding 
 O er the sky with tranquil splendor, 
 Where the shining hosts attend her: 
 Let the brightest visions be 
 Country, home, and friends, to thee ! 
 When the tempest hovers o er thee, 
 Danger, wreck, and death, before thee, 
 While the sword of fire is gleaming. 
 Wild the winds, the torrent streaming, 
 Then, a pious ?uppliant bending, 
 Let thy thoughts, to Heaven ascending, 
 Reach the mercy scat, to be 
 Met by prayers that rise for thee ! 
 
HANNAH F. GOULD. 
 
 51 
 
 THE CHILD ON THE BEACH. 
 
 MAHY, a beautiful, artless child, 
 
 Came down on the beach to me, 
 Where I sat, and a pensive hour beguiled 
 
 By watching the restless sea. 
 never had seen her face before, 
 
 And mine was to her unknown ; 
 But we each rejoiced on that peaceful shore 
 
 The other to meet alone. 
 Her cheek was the rose s opening bud, 
 
 Her brow of an ivory white ; 
 Her eyes were bright as the stars that stud 
 
 The sky of a cloudless night. 
 To reach my side as she gayly sped, 
 
 With the step of a bounding fawn, 
 The pebbles scarce moved beneath her tread, 
 
 Ere the little light foot was gone. 
 With the love of a holier world than this 
 
 Her innocent heart seemed warm ; 
 While the glad young spirit looked out with bliss 
 
 From its shrine in her sylphlike form. 
 Her soul seemed spreading the scene to span 
 
 That opened before her view, 
 And longing for power to look the plan 
 
 Of the universe fairly through. 
 She climbed and stood on the rocky steep, 
 
 Like a bird that would mount and fly 
 Far over the waves, where the broad, blue deep 
 
 Rolled up to the bending sky. 
 She placed her lips to the spiral shell, 
 
 And breathed through every fold ; 
 She looked for the depth of its pearly cell, 
 
 As a miser would look for gold. 
 Her small, white fingers were spread to toss 
 
 The foam, as it reached the strand : 
 She ran them along in the purple moss, 
 
 And over the sparkling sand. 
 The green sea egg, by its tenant left, 
 
 And formed to an ocean cup, 
 She he .d by its sides, of their spears bereft, 
 
 To fill, as the waves rolled up. 
 But the hour went round, and she knew the space 
 
 Her mother s soft word assigned ; 
 While she seemed to look with a saddening face 
 
 On all she must leave behind. 
 She searched mid the pebbles, and, finding one 
 
 Smooth, clear, and of amber dye, 
 She held it up to the morning sun, 
 
 And over her own mild eye. 
 Then, " Here," said she, " I will give you this, 
 
 That you may remember me !" 
 And she sealed her gift with a parting kiss, 
 
 And fled from beside the sea. 
 Mary, thy token is by me yet : 
 
 To me tis a dearer gem 
 Than ever was brought from the mine, or set 
 
 In the loftiest diadem. 
 It carries me back to the far off deep, 
 
 And places me on the shore, 
 Where the beauteous child, who bade me keep 
 Her pebble, 1 meet once more. 
 
 And all that is lovely, pure, and bright, 
 
 In a soul that is young, and free 
 From the stain of guile, and the deadly blight 
 
 Of sorrow, I find in thee. 
 I wonder if ever thy tender heart 
 
 In memory meets me there, 
 W T here thy soft, quick sigh, as we had to part, 
 
 W T as caught by the ocean air. 
 Blest one ! over Time s rude shore, on thee 
 
 May an angel guard attend, 
 And " a white stone bearing a new name," be 
 
 Thy passport when time shall end ! 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MAIL. 
 
 Tis midnight all is peace profound! 
 But, lo ! upon the murmuring ground, 
 The lonely, swelling, hurrying sound 
 
 Of distant wheels is heard ! 
 They come they pause a moment when. 
 Their charge resigned, they start, and then 
 Are gone, and all is hushed again, 
 
 As not a leaf had stirred. 
 Hast thou a parent far away, 
 A beauteous child, to be thy stay 
 In life s decline or sisters, they 
 
 Who shared thine infant glee ] 
 A brother on a foreign shore 1 
 Is he whose breast thy token bore, 
 Or are thy treasures wandering o er 
 
 A wide, tumultuous seal 
 If aught like these, then thou must feel 
 The rattling of that reckless wheel, 
 That brings the bright or boding seal 
 
 On every trembling thread 
 That strings thy heart, till morn appears, 
 To crown thy hopes, or end thy fears, 
 To light thy smile, or draw thy tears, 
 
 As line on line is read. 
 Perhaps thy treasure s in the deep, 
 Thy lover in a dreamless sleep, 
 Thy brother where thou canst not weep 
 
 Upon his distant grave ! 
 Thy parent s hoary head no more 
 May shed a silver lustre o er 
 His children grouped nor death restore 
 
 Thy son from out the wave ! 
 Thy prattler s tongue, perhaps, is stilled. 
 Thy sister s lip is pale and chilled, 
 Thy blooming bride, perchance, has filled 
 
 Her corner of the tomb. 
 May be, the home where all thy sweet 
 And tender recollections meet, 
 Has shown its flaming winding-sheet 
 
 In midnight s awful gloom ! 
 And while, alternate, o er my soul 
 Those cold or burning wheels will roll 
 Their ohill or heat, beyond control. 
 
 Till morn shall bring relief 
 Father in heaven, whate er may be 
 The cup which thou hast sent for me, 
 I know tis good, prepare! by thee. 
 
 Though filled with joy >r e.ri-A * 
 
CAROLINE OILMAN. 
 
 (Born 1794). 
 
 CAROLINE HOWARD was born in Boston, in 
 1794, and in 1819 was married to the Rev. 
 Samuel Oilman, one of the most accom 
 plished scholars of the Unitarian church, 
 who is known as an author by his very clever 
 work entitled Memoirs of a New England 
 Yjllage Choir, and by numerous elegant pa 
 pers in the reviews. Soon ai er their mar 
 riage they removed to Charleston, South Car 
 olina, where Dr. Gil man has ever since been 
 actively engaged in the duties of his pro 
 fession. 
 
 Mrs. Oilman is best known as a writer of 
 prose, and her works will long be valued for 
 the spirit and fidelity with which she has 
 painted rural and domestic life in the north 
 ern and in the southern states. Her Recol 
 lections of a New England Housekeeper, 
 and Recollections of a Southern Matron, are 
 equally happy, and both show habits of mi 
 nute observation, skill in character-writing, 
 
 and an artist-like power of grouping; they 
 are also pervaded by a genial tone, and a love 
 of nature, and good sense. Her other works 
 are, Love s Progress, a Tale ; The Poetry of 
 | Travelling in the United States ; Tales and 
 Ballads; Stories and Poems for Children; 
 and Verses of a Lifetime. She edited for 
 several years, in Charleston, a literary ga 
 zette called The Southern Rose ; published a 
 collection of the Letters of Eliza Wilkinson, 
 a heroine of the Revolution ; and illustrated 
 the extent of her reading in poetical liter 
 ature, by two ingenious volumes, entitled 
 Oracles from the Poets, and The Sybil. 
 
 The poems of Mrs. Oilman are nearly 
 all contained in Verses of a Lifetime, just 
 issued (at the close of the year 1848) by 
 James Munroe & Company, of Boston. They 
 abound in expressions of wise, womanly feel 
 ing, and are frequently marked by a graceful 
 elegance of manner. 
 
 ROSALIE. 
 
 T^is fearful to watch by a dying friend, 
 
 Though luxury glistens null; 
 Though the pillow of down be softly spread 
 
 Where the throbbing temples lie 
 Though the loom s pure fabric enfold the form, 
 
 ^ Though the shadowy curtains flow, 
 Though the feet on sumptuous carpets tread 
 
 As " lightly as snow on snow" 
 
 Though the perfumed air as a garden teems 
 
 With flowers of healthy bloom, 
 And the feathery fan just stirs the breeze 
 
 In the cool and guarded room 
 
 Though the costly cup for the fevered lip 
 
 With grateful cordial flows, 
 While the watching eye and the warning hand 
 
 1 reserve the snatched repose. 
 Yes, even with these appliances, 
 ^Fmin wealth s unmeasured store, 
 Tii fearful to watch the spirit s flight 
 
 To its dim and distant shore. 
 But oh, when the f,,r.n that we love is laid 
 
 On Poverty s chilly bed, 
 When roughly the blast to the shivering limbs 
 
 I urough crevice and pane is sped 
 Whon the noonday sun comes streaming in 
 
 Un HIP dun or burning eye, 
 
 And the heartless laugh and the worldly tread 
 Is heard from the passers by 
 
 When the sickly lip for a pleasant draught 
 
 To us in vain upturns, 
 And the aching head on a pillow hard 
 
 In restless fever burns 
 
 When night rolls on, and we gaze in wo 
 
 On the candle s lessening ray, 
 And grope about in the midnight gloom, 
 
 And long for the breaking day 
 
 Or bless the moon as her silver torch 
 Sheds light on our doubtful hand, 
 
 When pouring the drug which a moment wresta 
 1 he soul from the spirit-land 
 
 When we know that sickness of soul and heart 
 
 W nich sensitive bosoms feel 
 When helpless, hopeless, we needs must gaze 
 
 Un woes we can not heal : 
 
 This, this is the crown of bitterness ! 
 
 And we pray, as the loved one dies, 
 That our breath may pass with their waning pulse, 
 
 And with theirs close our aching eyes. 
 My story tells of sweet Rosalie, 
 
 Once a maiden of joy and delight, 
 A ray of love, from her girlish days, 
 
 To her parents devoted sight. 
 52 
 
CAROLINE OILMAN. 
 
 The girl was free as the river wave 
 
 That dances to ocean s rest, 
 And life looked down like a summer s sun 
 
 On her pure and gentle breast. 
 
 She saw young Arthur their happy hearts 
 Like two young streamlets shone, 
 
 That leap along on their mountain path, 
 Then mingle their waters as one. 
 
 They parted : he roved to western wilds 
 
 To seek for his bird a nest, 
 And Rosalie dwelt in her father s halls, 
 
 And folded her wings to rest. 
 
 But her father died, and a fearful blight 
 O er his child and his widow fell 
 
 They sunk from that day in the gloomy abys.? 
 Where sorrow and poverty dwell. 
 
 Consumption came, and he whispered low 
 
 To the widow of early death ; 
 He hastened the beat of her constant pulse, 
 
 And baffled the coming breath. 
 
 He preyed on the bloom of her still soft cheek, 
 And shrivelled her hand of snow ; 
 
 He checked her step in its easy glide, 
 And her eye beamed a restless glow. 
 
 He choked her voice in its morning song, 
 
 And stifled its evening lay, 
 And husky and coarse rose her midnight hymn 
 
 As she lay on her pillow to pray. 
 
 Poor Rosalie rose by the dawning light, 
 
 And sat by the midnight oil ; 
 But the pittance was fearfully small that came 
 
 By her morning and evening toil. 
 
 T was then in her lodging the night-wind came 
 Through crevice and broken pane ; 
 
 Twas there that the early sunbeam burst 
 With its glaring and burning train. 
 
 When Rosalie sat by her mother s side, 
 She smothered her heart s affright, 
 
 And essayed to smile, though the monster Want 
 Stood haggard and wan in her sight. 
 
 She pressed her feet on the cold damp floor, 
 And crushed her hands on her heart, 
 
 Or stood like a statue so still and pale, 
 Lest a tear or a cry should start. 
 
 Her household goods went one by one 
 
 To purchase their scanty fare; 
 And even the little mirror was sold 
 
 Where she parted her glossy hair. 
 
 Then hunger glared in her full blue eye, 
 And was heard in her tremulous tone; 
 
 And she longed for the crust that the beggar eats, 
 As he sits by the wayside stone. 
 
 The neighbors gave of their scanty store, 
 But their jealous children scowled ; 
 
 And the eager dog, that guarded the street, 
 Looked on the morsel and howled. 
 
 Then her mother died twas a blessed thing J 
 For the last faint embers had gone 
 
 On the chilly hearth, and the candle was out 
 As Rosalie watched for the dawn. 
 
 Twas a blessed exchange from thisdark,co .d earth 
 To those bright and blossoming bowers, 
 
 Where the spirit roves in its robes of light 
 And gathers immortal flowers ! 
 
 Poor Rosalie lay on her mother s breast, 
 Though its fluttering breath was o er. 
 
 And eagerly pressed her passive hand. 
 Which returned the pressure no more. 
 
 In darkness she closed the fixing eyes, 
 And saw not the deathly glare 
 
 Then straightened the warm and flaccid limbs 
 With a wild and fearful care. 
 
 And ere the dawn of the morrow broke 
 On the night that her mother died, 
 
 Poor Rosalie sank from her long, long watch, 
 In sleep by her mother s side. 
 
 T was a sorrowful sight for the neighbors to see, 
 (When they woke from their kindlier rest,) 
 
 The beautiful girl, with her innocent face, 
 Asleep on the corpse s breast. 
 
 Her hair flowed about by her mother s side, 
 And her hand on the dead hand fell ; 
 
 Yet her breathing was light as the lily s roll, 
 When waved by the ripple s swell. 
 
 There was surely a vision of heaven s delight 
 
 Haunting her exquisite rest, 
 For she smiled in her sleep such a heavenly smile 
 
 As could only beam out from the blest. 
 
 T was fearful as beautiful : and as they gazed, 
 The neighbors stood whispering low, [dead, 
 
 Nor dared they remove her white arm from the 
 Where it seemed in its fondness to grow. 
 
 Life is not always a darkling dream : 
 
 God loves our sad waking to bless 
 More brightly, perchance, for the dreary shade 
 
 That heralds our happiness. 
 A stranger stands by that humble door, 
 
 A youth in the flush of life, 
 And sudden hope in his thoughtful glance 
 
 Seems with sorrow and care at strife. 
 Manly beauty and soul-formed grace 
 
 Stand forth in each movement fair, 
 And speak in the turn of his well-timed step, 
 
 And shine in his wavy hair. 
 With travel and watchfulness worn was he, 
 
 Yet there beamed on his open brow 
 Traces of faith and integrity, 
 
 Where conscience had stamped her vow. 
 T was Arthur : he gazed on those two pale forms, 
 
 Soon one was clasped to his heart ; 
 In piercing accents he called her name 
 
 That voice made the life-blood start ! 
 Not on the dead doth she ope her eves 
 
 Life, love, spread their living wings ; 
 And she rests on her lover s breast as a child 
 
 To its nursing mother clings. 
 A pure white tomb in the near graveyard 
 
 Betokens the widow s rest, 
 But Arthur has gone to his fort-home, 
 
 And shelters his dove in his nebt. 
 
CAROLINE OILMAN. 
 
 THE PLANTATION. 
 
 FAUKWKLL, awhile, the city s hum, 
 
 Where busy footsteps fall, 
 And welcome fo inv \ve:irv eye 
 
 The planter s friendly hall. 
 
 Here let me rise at early dawn, 
 And list the mockbird s lay, 
 
 That, warbling ii(>ar our lowland home, 
 Sits on the waving spray. 
 
 Then tread the shading avenue 
 
 Beneath tin- cedar s ulooin, 
 Or gum tree, with its flickered shade, 
 
 Or chinq uapen s perfume. 
 
 The myrtle tree, the orange wild, 
 
 The cypress flexile bough, 
 The holly with its polished leaves, 
 
 Are all before me now. 
 
 There, towering with imperial pride, 
 
 The rich magnolia stands, 
 And here, in softer loveliness, 
 
 The white-bloomed bay expands. 
 
 The long gray moss hangs gracefully, 
 
 Idly I twine its wreaths, 
 Or stop to catch the fragrant air 
 
 The frequent blossom breathes. 
 
 Life wakes around the red bird darts 
 Like flame from tree to tree ; 
 
 The whip-poor-will complains alone, 
 The robin whistles free. 
 
 The frightened hare scuds by my path, 
 And seeks the thicket nigh ; 
 
 The squirrel climbs the hickory bough, 
 Thence peeps with careful eye. 
 
 The hummingbird, with busy wing, 
 
 In rainbow beauty moves, 
 Above the trumpet-blossom floats, 
 
 And sips the tube he loves. 
 
 Triumphant to yon withered pine 
 
 The soaring eagle flies, 
 There builds her eyrv mid the clouds, 
 
 And man and heaven defies. 
 The hunter s bugle echoes near, 
 
 And see his weary train, 
 With mingled bowlings, scent the woods 
 
 Or scour the open plain. 
 
 Yon skiff is darting from the cove, 
 
 And list the negro s song 
 The theme, his owner and his boat 
 
 While glide the crew along. 
 
 And when the leading voice is lost, 
 
 Receding from the shore, 
 His brother boatmen swell the strain, 
 
 In chorus with the oar. 
 
 There stands the dairy on the stream, 
 Within the broad oak s shade; 
 
 The white pails glitter in the sun, 
 In rustic pomp arrayed. 
 
 ADI! she stands smiling at the door, 
 Who "minds" that titilki/ way 
 
 She smooths her apron as I pass, 
 And loves the praise I pay. 
 
 Welcome to me her sable hands, 
 When in the noontide heat, 
 
 Within the polished calibash, 
 She pours the pearly treat. 
 
 The poulterer s feathered, tender charge, 
 
 Feed on the grassy plain ; 
 Her Afric brow lights up with smiles, 
 
 Proud of her noisy train. 
 
 Nor does the herdman view his flock 
 
 With unadmiring gaze, 
 Significant are all their names, 
 
 Won by their varying ways. 
 
 Forth from the negroes humble huts 
 The laborers now have gone ; 
 
 But some remain, diseased and old 
 Do they repine alone 1 
 
 Ah, no : the nurse, with practised skill, 
 That sometimes shames the wise, 
 
 Prepares the herb of potent power, 
 And healing aid applies. 
 
 On sunny banks the children play, 
 
 Or wind the fisher s line, 
 Or, with the dexterous fancy braid, 
 
 The willow baskets twine. 
 
 Long ere the sloping sun departs 
 
 The laborers quit the field, 
 And, housed within their sheltering huts 
 
 To careless quiet yield. 
 
 But see yon wild and lurid clouds, 
 
 That rush in contact strong, 
 And hear the thunder, peal on peal, 
 
 Reverberate along. 
 The cattle stand and mutely gaze, 
 
 The birds instinctive fly, 
 While forked flashes rend the air, 
 
 And light the troubled sky. 
 Behold yon sturdy forest pine, 
 
 Whose green top points to heaven 
 A flash ! its firm, encasing bark 
 
 By that red shock is riven. 
 But we, the children of the South, 
 
 Shrink not with trembling fears ; 
 The storm, familiar to our youth, 
 
 Will spare our ripened years. 
 We know its fresh, reviving charm, 
 
 And, like the flower and bird, 
 Our looks and voices, in each pause, 
 
 With grateful joy are stirred. 
 And now the tender rice upshoots, 
 
 Fresh in its hue of green, 
 Spreading its emerald carpet far, 
 
 Beneath the sunny sheen ; 
 Though when the softer, ripened hue 
 
 Of autumn s changes rise, 
 The rustling spires instinctive lift 
 
 Their gold seeds to the skies. 
 
 There the young cotton-plant unfolds 
 Its leaves of sickly hue, 
 
CAROLINE OILMAN. 
 
 But soon advancing to its growth, 
 Looks up with beauty too. 
 
 And, as midsummer suns prevail, 
 
 Upon its blossoms glow 
 Commingling hues, like sunset rays 
 
 Then bursts its sheeted snow. 
 
 How shall we fly this lovely spot, 
 
 Where rural joys prevail 
 The social board, the eager chase, 
 
 Gay dance, and rnerry tale 1 
 
 Alas ! our youth must leave their sports, 
 When spring-time ushers May ; 
 
 Our maidens quit the planted flower, 
 Just blushing into day 
 
 Or, all beneath yon rural mound, 
 Where rest th ancestral dead, 
 
 By mourning friends, with severed hearts, 
 Unconscious w^ill be led. 
 
 Oh, southern summer, false and fair ! 
 
 Why, from thy loaded wing, 
 Blent with rich flowers and fruitage rare, 
 
 The seeds of sorrow fling 1 
 
 MUSIC ON THE CANAL. 
 
 I WAS weary with the daylight, 
 
 I was weary with the shade, 
 And my heart became still sadder 
 
 As the stars their light betrayed ; 
 I sickened at the ripple, 
 
 As the lazy boat went on, 
 And felt as though a friend was lost, 
 
 When the twilight ray was gone. 
 
 The meadows, in a firefly glow, 
 Looked gay to happy eyes : 
 
 To me they beamed but mournfully, 
 My heart was cold with sighs. 
 
 They seemed, indeed, like summer friends- 
 Alas ! no warmth had they ; 
 
 I turned in sorrow from their glare, 
 Impatient turned away. 
 
 And tear-drops gathered in my eyes, 
 
 And rolled upon my cheek, 
 And when the voice of mirth was heard, 
 
 I had no heart to speak : 
 I longed to press my children 
 
 To my sad and homesick breast, 
 And feel the constant hand of love 
 
 Caressing and caressed. 
 
 And slowly went my languid pulse, 
 
 As the slow canal-boat goes, 
 And I felt the pain of weariness, 
 
 And sighed for home s repose ; 
 And laughter seemed a mockery, 
 
 And joy a fleeting breath, 
 And life a dark, volcanic crust, 
 
 That crumbles over death. 
 
 But a strain of sweetest melody 
 
 Arose upon my ear, 
 The blessed sound of woman s voice^, 
 
 That angels love to hear ! 
 
 And manly strains of tenderness 
 Were mingled with the song 
 
 A father s with his daughter s notes, 
 The gentle with the strong. 
 
 And my thoughts began to soften, 
 
 Like snows when waters fall, 
 And open as the frost-closed buds, 
 
 When spring s young breezes call ; 
 While to my faint and weary soul 
 
 A better hope was given, 
 And all once more was bright with faith, 
 
 Twixt heart, and earth, and Heaven. 
 
 THE CONGRESSIONAL BURYIXG-GROUND 
 
 THE pomp of death was there 
 The lettered urn, the classic marble rose, 
 And coldly, in magnificent repose, 
 
 Stood out the column fair. 
 
 The hand of art was seen 
 
 Throwing the wild flowers from the gravelled walk, 
 The sweet wild flowers, that hold their quiet talk 
 
 Upon the uncultured green. 
 
 And now perchance, a bird, 
 Hiding amid the trained and scattered trees, 
 Sent forth his carol on the scentless breeze 
 
 But they were few I heard. 
 
 Did my heart s pulses beat ] 
 And did mine eye o erflow with sudden tears, 
 Such as gush up mid memories of years, 
 
 When humbler graves we meet 1 
 
 An humbler grave I met, 
 On the Potomac s leafy banks, when May, 
 Weaving spring flowers, stood out in colors gay, 
 
 With her young coronet : 
 
 A lonely, nameless grave, 
 
 Stretching its length beneath th o erarching trees, 
 Which told a plaintive story, as the breeze 
 
 Came their new buds to wave. 
 
 But the lone turf was green 
 As that which gathers o er more honored forms ; 
 Nor with more harshness had the wintry stonns 
 
 Swept o er that woodland scene. 
 
 The flower and springing blade 
 Looked upward with their young and shining i-yes, 
 And met the sunlight of the happy skies, 
 
 And that low turf arrayed. 
 
 And unchecked birds sang out 
 The chorus of their spring-time jubilee 
 And gentle happiness it was to me, 
 
 To list their music-shout. 
 
 And to that stranger-grave 
 The tribute of enkindling thoughts the free 
 And unbought power of natural sympathy 
 
 Passing, I sadly gave. 
 
 And a religious spell 
 
 On that lone mound, by man deserted, rose 
 A conscious presence from on high, which glows 
 
 Not where the worldly dwell. 
 
56 
 
 CAROLINE OILMAN. 
 
 TO THE URSUL1NE3. 
 
 OH, pure and gentle ones, within your ark 
 
 Securely rest ! 
 Blue be the sky above your quiet bark 
 
 By soft winds blest ! 
 
 Still toil in duty, and commune with Heaven, 
 
 World-weaned and free ; 
 God to his humblest creatures room has given 
 
 And space to be. 
 
 Space for the eagle in the vaulted sky 
 
 To plume his wing 
 Space for the ringdove by her young to lie, 
 
 And softly sing. 
 
 Space for the sunflower, bright with yellow glow, 
 
 To court the sky 
 Space for the violet, where the wild woods grow, 
 
 To live and die. 
 
 Space for the ocean, in its giant might, 
 
 To swell and rave 
 Space for the river, tinged with rosy light, 
 
 Where green banks wave. 
 
 Space for the sun to tread his path in might 
 
 And golden pride 
 Space for the glow-worm, calling, by her light, 
 
 Love to her side. 
 
 Then, pure and gentle ones, within your ark 
 
 Securely rest ! 
 Blue be the skies above, and your still bark 
 
 By kind winds blest. 
 
 RETURN TO MASSACHUSETTS. 
 
 THE martin s nest the simple nest ! 
 
 I see it swinging high, 
 Just as it stood in distant years, 
 
 Above my gazing eye ; 
 But many a bird has plumed its wing, 
 
 And lightly flown away, 
 Or drooped his little head in death, 
 
 Since that my youthful day ! 
 
 The woodland stream the pebbly stream ! 
 
 It gayly flows along, 
 As once it did when by its side 
 
 I sang my merry sonu:: 
 But many a wave has rolled afar, 
 
 Beneath the summer cloud, 
 Since by its bank I idly poured 
 
 My childish song aloud. 
 
 The sweet-brier rose the wayside rose, 
 
 Still spreads its fragrant arms, 
 Where graciously lo passing eyes 
 
 It gave its simple charms ; 
 But many a perfumed breeze has passed, 
 
 And many a blossom fair, 
 Since with a careless heart I twined 
 
 Its green wreaths in my hair. 
 
 The barberry bush the poor man s bush ! 
 
 Its yellow blossoms hang, 
 As erst, where by the grassy lane 
 
 Along I lightly sprang ; 
 But many a flower has come and gone, 
 
 And scarlet berry shone, 
 Since I, a school-girl in its path, 
 
 In rustic dance have flown. 
 
 ANNIE IN THE GRAVEYARD. 
 
 SHE bounded o er the graves, 
 With a buoyant step of mirth ; 
 She bounded o er the graves, 
 Where the weeping willow waves, 
 Like a creature not of earth. 
 
 Her hair was blown aside, 
 
 And her eyes were glittering bright; 
 
 Her hair was blown aside, 
 
 And her little hands spread wide, 
 
 With an innocent delight. 
 
 She spelt the lettered word 
 That registers the dead ; 
 She spelt the lettered word, 
 And her busy thoughts were stirred 
 With pleasure as she read. 
 
 She stopped and culled a leaf 
 Left fluttering on a rose ; 
 She stopped and culled a leaf, 
 Sweet monument of grief, 
 That in our churchyard grows. 
 
 She culled it with a smile 
 T was near her sister s mound : 
 She culled it with a smile, 
 And played with it awhile, 
 Then scattered it around. 
 
 I did not chill her heart, 
 Nor turn its gush to tears ; 
 I did not chill her heart 
 Oh, bitter drops will start 
 Full soon in coming years. 
 
SARAH J. HALE. 
 
 (Born 17 
 
 SARAH JOSEPHA BCJELL, now Mrs. HALE, | 
 was born in 1795 at Newport in New Hamp- | 
 shire, whither her parents had removed soon 
 after the close of the Revolution, from Say- 
 brook in Connecticut. There were then few j 
 schools in that part of the country, and per- | 
 haps none from which the parents of Miss Bu- 
 ell would have sought for her more than the 
 most elementary instruction. Her mother, 
 however, was a woman of considerable cul 
 tivation, and of a fine understanding ; she at 
 tended carefully to the education of her chil 
 dren, and the studies of our author which she 
 could not direct were afterward guided by a 
 brother, who graduated at Dartmouth college 
 in 1809, and was a good classical and gen 
 eral scholar. But the completion t)f her ed 
 ucation was deferred until af.er her marriage, 
 which took place about the year 1814. Her 
 husband, Mr. David Hale, was an accom 
 plished lawyer, well read in the best litera 
 ture, and anxious for the thorough develop 
 ment of her abilities, of which he had formed 
 a high estimate. "We commenced, "writes 
 Mrs. Hale, " immediately after our marriage, 
 a system of study, which we pursued togeth 
 er, with few interruptions, and these una 
 voidable, during his life. The hours we 
 allotted for this purpose were from eight 
 o clock in the evening till ten. In this man 
 ner we studied French, botany then almost 
 a new science in this country, but for which 
 my husband had an uncommon taste and 
 obtained some knowledge of mineralogy, ge 
 ology, &c., besides pursuing a long and in 
 structive course of miscellaneous reading." 
 
 Mr. Hale died suddenly in September, 1822, 
 having been married about eight years, du 
 ring which he had been eminently successful 
 in attaining to professional eminence, but 
 without having yet secured even the basis 
 of a fortune. Mrs. Hale was a Avidow and 
 was poor, and after the strongest feelings of 
 sorrow had subsided, and the affairs of her de 
 ceased husband had been settled, she formed 
 plans for tbe support and education of hei 
 family, which she subsequently executed 
 with an energy and perseverance which 
 
 command admiration, and which with her 
 powers could not fail of success. Literature, 
 which had hitherto been cultivated for its 
 own reward, became now her profession and 
 only means of support. 
 
 The first publication of Mrs. Hale was 
 The Genius of Oblivion, and other Original 
 Poems, printed at Concord in 1823. The 
 Genius of Oblivion is a descriptive story in 
 about fifteen hundred octosyllabic lines- 
 founded upon a tradition of the aboriginal 
 settlement of this country. At the close of 
 the poem is an intimation of a half-formed 
 design to write a sequel to it. She says : 
 
 And hence Columbia s first inhabitants 
 The authors of these Monuments of Old : 
 
 And their destruction, I may sing, perchance, 
 If haply this, my tale, so featly told, 
 
 Escape Medusan critics withering glance, 
 And in my country s favor live enrolled, 
 
 As not unworthy of her smile : but this, 
 A hope I may but cherish, or dismiss. 
 Her next work, hoAvever, was Northwood, 
 a Tale of New England, in two volumes, 
 published in Boston in 1827. Her object in 
 this novel is to illustrate common life among 
 the descendants of the Puritans, and she un 
 doubtedly succeeded in sketching with spirit 
 and singular fidelity the forms of society with 
 which she was acquainted by observation. 
 The doctor, the deacon, the family of the 
 squire, and other village characters, are most 
 natural and truthful delineations-. But North- 
 wood evinces little of the constructive fac 
 ulty, and only its portraitures that have been 
 referred to can be much commended. 
 
 In 1828 Mrs. Hale removed to Boston to 
 conduct the American Ladies Magazine, a 
 monthly miscellany established at that lime, 
 and edited by her for about nine years. IL 
 this work were originally published many 
 of the prose compositions which were sub 
 sequently issued in two separate volumes 
 under the titles of Sketches of American 
 Character, and Traits of American Life In 
 the same period she published Flora s Inter 
 preter, The Lady s Wreath, and several srnalJ 
 books for children. She remained in Boston 
 until 1838, when she removed to Philncl*" 
 
SARAH J. HALE. 
 
 phia ? where she has since resided, as edito 
 of the Lady s Book, one of the most popula. 
 and widely-circulated literary periodicals in 
 the English language. 
 
 In 1846 Mrs. Hale published a poem more 
 remarkable than any other she has written 
 for a certain delicacy of fancy and expres 
 sion, under the name of Alice Ray ; and in 
 1848 appeared her Three Hours, or the Vigii 
 of Love, and other Poems, a collection in 
 which Alice Ray is included, and upon which 
 altogether must rest her best literary repu 
 tation. Three Hours, or the Vigil of Love, 
 is very much in the style of some of the more 
 fantastic stories of Winthrop Mack worth 
 Praed. The heroine has fled with her lover, 
 an escaped slate prisoner, from England to 
 Boston, and the interest of the poem arises 
 from the effective manner in which, while 
 she is waiting his return, in a stormy night, 
 her fears are awakened, and by. a vivid rec 
 ollection of tales of horror heightened to an 
 indescribable dread. 
 
 It was two hundred years ago, 
 
 When moved the world so very slow, 
 
 And when the wide Atlantic sea 
 
 Appeared like an eternity. 
 
 The following scene, from ghostly stories 
 she heard in childhood, is among the phan 
 tasms by which she is haunted, and it ex 
 hibits in a favorable light Mrs. Kale s ca 
 pabilities in this line of art: 
 Once a holy man was set 
 Watching where the witches met. 
 Open Bible, naked sword 
 And three candles on the board 
 There the godly man was set 
 Watching whore the witches met ; 
 Knowing well his dreadful doom, 
 Should they drive him from the room. 
 
 The candles three were burning bright, 
 The sword was (lashing back the light, 
 As it struck the deep midnight; 
 While the holy book he read, 
 And all was still as are the dead. 
 
 Suddenly there came a roar 
 Like breakers on a rocky shore, 
 When the ocean s thundering boom 
 Knells the mariner to his tomb. 
 The good man felt the struggling strife, 
 As the ship went down with its load of life ! 
 His seat was shaken by the roar, 
 And upward seemed to rise the floor! 
 While round and round, as eddies hurl, 
 The room and table seemed to whirl ! 
 Yet still the holy book read he, 
 And /.raved for tnose who sail the sea. 
 
 Then came a shrieking, wild and high, 
 As when flames are bursting nigh, 
 And their blood has stained the sky ! 
 " Fly ! fly ! fly !" in a strangling cry, 
 Was hoarsely rattled on his ear 
 While the crackling flames came near ! 
 And sti.l the holy book read he, 
 And prayed for those where fires might be. 
 
 And then appeared a sight of dread: 
 The roof was opened above his head ; 
 He saw, in the far-off, dusky view, 
 A bloody hand and an arm come through ! 
 The lady seemed to see them too. 
 
 At the close of the third hour the husband 
 is restored, and all these fearful shadows are 
 dispelled. The plot is simple and the exe 
 cution of the poem generally finished ; but 
 its effect is marred by the introduction of 
 some needless reflections and by occasional 
 changes of the rhythm. 
 
 Among the published works of Mrs. Hale 
 is Ormond Grosvenor, a Tragedy, in Five 
 Acts, founded upon the celebrated case of 
 Colonel Isaac Hayne, the revolutionary mar 
 tyr of South Carolina. This Avas printed in 
 1838, but it has since heen partly re- written 
 and very much improved. In 1848 she gave 
 to the public Harry Guy, a Story of the Sea, 
 in nearly three thousand lines of most com 
 pact versification. Her long and elabora te po 
 ems entitled Felicia, and The Rhime of Life, 
 appear from some extracts that have been 
 printed, to possess more impassioned earnest 
 ness than her other compositions, and they 
 contain perhaps the clearest expressions of 
 ler intellectual and social character. 
 
 Mrs. Hale has a ready command of pure 
 .nd idiomatic English, and her style has fre 
 quently a masculine strength and energy. 
 She has not much creative power, but she 
 excels in the aggregation and artistical dis 
 position of common and appropriate image- 
 y. She has evidently been all her life a 
 tudent, and there has been a perceptible 
 ind constant improvement in her writings 
 :ver since her first appearance as an author. 
 Besides her works that have been pub- 
 ished in separate volumes, she has written 
 very large number of tales, sketches, es- 
 ays, criticisms, poems, and other composi- 
 ions, which are scattered through the vari- 
 us periodicals with which she has been con- 
 ected. They are all indicative of sound 
 rinciples, and of kindness, knowledge, and 
 udgment. 
 
SARAH J. HALE. 
 
 THE MISSISSIPPI. 
 
 MONAUCH of rivers in the wide domain 
 Where Freedom writes her signature in stars, 
 And bids her eagle bear the blazing scroll 
 To usher in the reign of peace and love, 
 Thou mighty Mississippi ! may my song 
 Swell with thy power, and though an humble rill, 
 Roll, like thy current, through the sea of time, 
 Bearing thy name, as tribute from my soul 
 Of fervent gratitude and holy praise, 
 To Him who poured thy multitude of waves. 
 
 Shadowed beneath these awful piles of stone, 
 Where liberty has found a Pisgah height, 
 O erlooking all the land she loves to bless, 
 The jagged rocks and icy towers her guard, 
 Whose splintered summits seize the warring clouds, 
 And roll them, broken, like a host o erthrown, 
 Adown the mountain s side, scattering their wealth 
 Of powdered pearl and liquid diamond drops 
 There is thy source, great river of the west ! 
 
 Slowly, like youthful Titan gathering strength 
 To war with Heaven and win himself a name, 
 The stream moves onward through the dark ravines, 
 Rending the roots of over-arching trees, 
 To form its narrow channel, where the star, 
 That fain would bathe its beauty in the wave, 
 Like lover s glance steals trembling through the 
 That veil the waters with a vestal s care : [leaves 
 And few of human form have ventured there, 
 Save the swart savage in his bark canoe. 
 
 But now it deepens, struggles, rushes on; 
 Like goaded war-horse, bounding o er the foe, 
 It clears the rocks it may not spurn aside, 
 Leaping, as Curtius leaped adown the gulf, 
 And rising, like Antaeus from the fall, 
 Its course majestic through the land pursues, 
 And the broad river o er the valley reigns ! 
 
 It reigns alone : the tributary streams 
 Are humble vassals, yielding to its sway; 
 And when the wild Missouri fain would join 
 A rival in the race as Jacob seized 
 On his red brother s birthright even so 
 The swelling Mississippi grasps that wave, 
 And, rebaptizing, makes the waters one. 
 
 It reigns alone and earth the sceptre feels : 
 Her ancient trees are bowed beneath the wave, 
 Or, rent like reeds before the whirlwind s swoop, 
 Toss on the bosom of the maddened flood, 
 A floating forest, till the waters, calmed, 
 Like slumbering anaconda gorged with prey, 
 Open a haven to the moving mass, 
 Or form an island in the dark abyss. 
 
 It reigns alone : old Nile would ne er bedew 
 The lands it blesses with ils fertile tide. 
 Even sacred Ganges, joined with Egypt s flood, 
 Would shrink beside this wonder of the west ! 
 Ay, gather Europe s royal rivers all 
 The snow-swelled Neva, with an empire s weight 
 On her broad breast, she yet may overwhelm ; 
 Dark Danube, hurrying, as by foe pursued, 
 Through shaggy forests and from palace walls, 
 To hide its terrors in a sea of gloom ; 
 The castled Rhine,whose vine-crowned waters flow, 
 The fount of fable and t ;e source of song ; 
 
 The rushing Rhone, in whose cerulean depths 
 The loving sky seems wedded with the wave ; 
 The yellow Tiber, choked with Roman spoils, 
 A dying miser shrinking neath his gold ; 
 And Seine, where Fashion glasses fairest forms ; 
 And Thames, that bears the riches of the world : 
 Gather their waters in one ocean mass 
 Our Mississippi, rolling proudly on, 
 Would sweep them from its path, or swallow up, 
 Like Aaron s rod, these streams of fame and song ! 
 
 And thus the peoples, from the many lands, 
 Where these old streams are household memories, 
 Mingle beside our river, and are one 
 And join to swell the strength of Freedom s tide, 
 That from the fount of Truth is flowing on, 
 To sweep earth s thousand tyrannies away. 
 
 How wise, how wonderful the works of God ! 
 And, hallowed by his goodness, all are good. 
 The creeping glow-worm, the careering sun, 
 Are kindled from the effluence of his light ; 
 The ocean and the acorn-cup are filled 
 By gushings from the fountain of his love. 
 He poured the Mississippi s torrent forth, 
 And heaved its tide above the trembling land 
 Grand type how Freedom lifts the citizen 
 Above the subject masses of the world 
 And marked the limits it may never pass. 
 Trust in his promises, and bless his power, 
 Ye dwellers on its banks, and be at peace. 
 
 And ye, whose way is on this warrior wave, 
 When the swoln waters heave with ocean s might, 
 And storms and darkness close the gate of heaven, 
 And the frail bark, fire-driven, bounds quivering on, 
 As though it rent the iron shroud of night, 
 And struggled with the demons of the flood 
 Fear nothing ! He who shields the folded flower, 
 W hen tempests rage, is ever present here. 
 Lean on " our Father s" breast in faith and prsyer 
 And sleep his arm of love is strong to save. 
 
 Great Source of being, beauty, light, and love 
 Creator Lord the waters worship thee ! 
 Ere thy creative smile had sown the flowers 
 Ere the glad hills leaped upward, or the earth, 
 W T ith swelling bosom, waited for her child 
 Before eternal Love had lit the sun, 
 Or Time had traced his dial-plate in stars, 
 The joyful anthem of the waters flowed : 
 And Chaos like a frightened felon fled, 
 While on the deep the Holy Spirit moved. 
 
 And evermore the deep has worshipped God; 
 And bards and prophets tune their mystic lyres. 
 While listening to the music of the floods. 
 Oh, could I catch this harmony of sounds, 
 As borne on dewy wings they float to heaven, 
 And blend their meaning with my closing strain . 
 
 Hark ! as a reed-harp thrilled by whispering winds, 
 Or naiad murmurs from a pearl-lipped shell, 
 It comes the melody of many waves ! 
 And loud, with Freedom s world-awaking note, 
 The deep-toned Mississippi leads the choir. 
 The pure, sweet fountains chant of heavenly hope 
 The chorus of the nfis is household love ; 
 The rivers roll their song of social joy ; 
 And ocean s organ voice is sounding forth 
 The hymn of Universal Brotherhood ! 
 
fiO 
 
 SARAH J. HALE. 
 
 Till-: FOUR-LEAVED CLOVER. 
 
 vigdniu i 
 
 teachings would we heed." 
 
 THKHE knelt beneath the tulip tree 
 
 A maiden fair and young; 
 The flowers overhead bloomed gorgeously, 
 
 As though by rainbows flung, 
 And all around were daisies bright, 
 And pansies with their eyes of light; 
 Like gold the sun-kissed crocus shone, 
 With Beauty s smiles the earth seemed strown, 
 And Love s warm incense filled the air, 
 While the fair girl was kneeling there. 
 
 In vain the flowers may woo around 
 
 Their charms she does not see, 
 For she a dearer prize has found 
 
 Beneath the tulip tree : 
 A little four-leaved clover, green 
 As robes that grace the fairy queen, 
 And fresh as hopes of early youth, 
 When life is love, and love is truth 
 A talisman of constant love 
 This humble clover sure will prove ! 
 And on her heart that gentle maid 
 The severed leaves has pressed, 
 Which through the coming night s dark shade 
 Beneath her cheek will rest : 
 
 Then precious dreams of one will rise, 
 
 Like Love s own star in morning skies, 
 
 So sweetly bright, we would the day 
 
 His glowing chariot might delay. 
 What tones of pure and tender thought 
 
 Those simple leaves to her have taught 
 
 Of old the sacred misletoe 
 The Druid s altar bound ; 
 
 The Roman hero s haughty brow 
 The fadeless laurel crowned. 
 
 Dark superstition s sway is past, 
 
 And war s red star is waning fast, 
 
 Nor misletoe nor laurel hold 
 
 The mystic language breathed of old ; 
 
 For nature s life no power can give, 
 
 To bid the false and selfish live. 
 
 But still the olive-leaf imparts, 
 As when, dove-borne, at first, 
 
 It taught heaven s lore to human hearts 
 
 Its hope, and joy, and trust ; 
 
 Nor deem the faith from folly springs, 
 
 Which innocent enjoyment brings; 
 
 Better from earth root every flower, 
 
 Than crush imagination s power, 
 
 fn true and loving minds, to raise 
 
 An Eden for their coming days. 
 
 As on each rock, where plants can cling, 
 
 he sunshine will be shed 
 
 As from the tiniest star-lit spring 
 
 The ocean s depth s are fed 
 
 Thus hopes will rise, if love s clear ray 
 Keep warm and bright life s rock-strewn way 
 And from small, daily joys, distilled, 
 The heart s deep fount of peace is filled : 
 Oh, blest when Fancy s ray is given, 
 Like the ethereal spark, from Heaven ! 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF ALICE RAY. 
 
 THE birds their love-notes warble 
 
 Among the blossomed trees; 
 The flowers are sighing forth their sweeta 
 
 To wooing honeybees ; 
 The glad brook o er a pebbly floor 
 
 Goes dancing on its way 
 But not a thing is so like spring 
 
 As happy Alice Ray. 
 
 An only child was Alice, 
 
 And, like the blest above, 
 The gentle maid had ever breathed 
 
 An atmosphere of love ; 
 Her father s smile like sunshine came, 
 
 Like dew her mother s kiss ; 
 Their love and goodness made her home, 
 
 Like heaven, the place of bliss. 
 
 Beneath such lender training 
 
 The joyous child had sprung, 
 Like one bright flower, in wild-wood bower 
 
 And gladness round her flung ; 
 And all who met her blessed her, 
 
 And turned again to pray, 
 That grief and care might ever spare 
 
 The happy Alice Rray. 
 
 The gift that made her charming 
 
 Was not from Venus caught; 
 Nor was it, Pallas-like, derived 
 
 From majesty of thought : 
 Her healthful cheek was tinged with brown, 
 
 Her hair without a curl 
 But then her eyes were love-lit stars, 
 
 Her teeth as pure as pearl. 
 
 And when in merry laughter 
 
 Her sweet, clear voice was heard, 
 It welled from out her happy heart 
 
 Like carol of a bird ; 
 And all who heard were moved to smiles, 
 
 As at some mirthful lay, 
 And, to the stranger s look, replied, 
 
 " Tis that dear Alice Ray." 
 
 And so she came, like sunbeams 
 
 That bring the April green 
 As type of nature s royalty, 
 
 They called her " Woodburn s queen !" 
 A sweet, heart-lifting cheerfulness, 
 
 Like springtime of the year, 
 Seemed ever on her steps to wait 
 
 No wonder she was dear. 
 
 Her world was ever joyous 
 
 She thought of grief and pain 
 As giants of the olden time, 
 
 That ne er would come again ; 
 The seasons all had charms for her, 
 
 She welcomed each with joy 
 
 The charm that in her spirit lived 
 
 No changes could destroy. 
 Her love made all things lovely, 
 
 For in the heart must live 
 The ^feeling that imparts the charm 
 
 We gain by what we give. 
 
SARAH J. HALE. 
 
 IRON. 
 
 " Truth shall spring out of the earth." Psalm Ixxxv. 11. 
 
 A.S, in lonely thought, I pondered 
 
 On the marv lous things of earth, 
 And, in fancy s dreaming, wondered 
 
 At their beauty, power, and worth, 
 Came, like words of prayer, the feeling 
 
 Oh ! that God would make me know, 
 Through the spirit s clear revealing, 
 
 What, of all his works below, 
 Is to man a boon the greatest, 
 
 Brightening on from age to age, 
 Serving truest, earliest, latest, 
 
 Through the world s long pilgrimage. 
 
 Soon vast mountains rose before me, 
 
 Shaggy, desolate, and lone, 
 Their scarred heads were threat ning o er me, 
 
 Their dark shadows round me thrown ; 
 Then a voice, from out the mountains, 
 
 As an earthquake shook the ground, 
 And like frightened fawns the fountains, 
 
 Leaping, fled before the sound ; 
 And the Anak oaks bowed lowly, 
 
 Quivering, aspen-like, with fear 
 While the deep response came slowly, 
 
 Or it must have crashed mine ear ! 
 
 "Iron! iron! iron!" crashing, 
 
 Like the battle-axe and shield ! 
 Or the sword on helmet clashing, 
 
 Through a bloody battle-field : 
 " Iron ! iron ! iron !" rolling, 
 
 Like the far-off cannon s boom ; 
 Or the death-knell, slowly tolling, 
 
 Through a dungeon s charnel gloom ! 
 " Iron ! iron ! iron !" swinging, 
 
 Like the summer winds at play; 
 Or as bells of Time were ringing 
 
 In the blest millennial day ! 
 
 Then the clouds of ancient fable 
 
 Cleared away before mine eyes; 
 Truth could tread a footing stable 
 
 O er the gulf of mysteries ! 
 Words, the prophet-bards had uttered, 
 
 Signs, the oracle foretold, 
 Spells, the weird-like sybil muttered, 
 
 Through the twilight days of old, 
 Rightly read, beneath the splendor. 
 
 Shining now on history s page, 
 All their faithful witness render 
 
 All portend a better age. 
 
 Sisyphus, for ever toiling, 
 
 Was the type of toiling men, 
 While the stone of power, recoiling, 
 
 Crushed them back to earth again ! 
 Stern Prometheus, bound and bleeding, 
 
 Imaged man in mental chain, 
 While the vultures, on him feeding, 
 
 Were the passions vengeful reign ; 
 Still a ray of mercy tarried 
 
 On the cloud, a white-winged dove, 
 For this mystic faith had married 
 
 Vulcan to the queen of love f 
 
 Rugged strength and radiant beauty 
 
 These were one in nature s plan ; 
 Humble toil and heavenward duty 
 
 These will form the perfect man ! 
 Darkly was this doctrine taught us 
 
 By the gods of heathendom ; 
 But the living light was brought us, 
 
 When the gospel morn had come ! 
 How the glorious change, expected, 
 
 Could be wrought, was then made free 
 Of the earthly, when perfected, 
 
 Rugged iron forms the key ! 
 
 " Truth from out the earth shall flourish," 
 
 This the Word of God makes known 
 Thence are harvests men to nourish 
 
 There let iron s power be shown. 
 Of the swords, from slaughter gory, 
 
 Ploughshares forge to break the soil ; 
 Then will Mind attain its glory, 
 
 Then will Labor reap the spoil 
 Error cease the soul to wilder, 
 
 Crime be checked by simple good, 
 As the little coral-builder 
 
 Forces back the furious flood. 
 
 While our faith in good grows stronger, 
 
 Means of greater good increase ; 
 Iron, slave of war no longer, 
 
 Leads the onward march of peace ; 
 Still new modes of service finding, 
 
 Ocean, earth, and air, it moves, 
 And the distant nations binding, 
 
 Like the kindred tie it proves ; 
 W T ith its Atlas-shoulder sharing 
 
 Loads of human toil and care ; 
 On its wing of lightning bearing 
 
 Thought s swift mission through the air 
 
 As the rivers, farthest flowing. 
 
 In the highest hills have birth ; 
 As the banyan, broadest growing, 
 
 Oftenest bows its head to earth 
 So the noblest minds press onward, 
 
 Channels far of good to trace ; 
 So the largest hearts bend downward, 
 
 Circling all the human race ; 
 Thus, by iron s aid, pursuing 
 
 Through the earth their plans of love, 
 Men our Father s will are doing, 
 
 Here, as angels do above ! 
 
 THE WATCHER. 
 
 THE night was dark and fearful, 
 
 The blast swept wailing by ; 
 A watcher, pale and tearful, 
 
 Looked forth with anxious eye : 
 POW wistfully she gazes 
 
 No gleam of morn is there ! 
 And then her heart upraises 
 
 Its agony of prayer ! 
 
 Within that dwelling lonely, 
 
 Where want and darkness reigu. 
 
 Her precious child, her only, 
 Lay moaning in his pain ; 
 
SARAH J. HALE. 
 
 And death alone can free him 
 She feels that this must be: 
 
 " But oh ! for morn to see him 
 Smile once again on me !" 
 
 A hundred lights are glancing 
 
 In yonder mansion fair, 
 And merry feet are dancing 
 
 They heed not morning there : 
 Oh ! young and lovely creatures, 
 
 One lamp, from out your store, 
 Would give that poor boy s features 
 
 To her fond gaze once more ! 
 
 The morning sun is shining 
 
 She heedeth not its ray ; 
 Beside her dead, reclining, 
 
 That pale, dead mother lay ! 
 A smile her lip was wreathing, 
 
 A smile of hope and love, 
 As though she still were breathing 
 
 " There s light for us above !" 
 
 I SING TO HIM 
 
 to him ! I dream he hears 
 
 The song he used to love, 
 And oft that blessed fancy cheers 
 
 And bears my thoughts above. 
 Ye say tis idle thus to dream 
 
 But why believe it so ? 
 It is the spirit s meteor gleam 
 
 To soothe the pang of wo. 
 
 Love gives to nature s voice a tone 
 
 That true hearts understand 
 The sky, the earth, the forest lone, 
 
 Are peopled by his wand ; 
 Sweet fancies all our pulses thrill 
 
 While {razing on a flower, 
 And from the gently whisp ring rill 
 
 Is heard the words of power. 
 
 I breathe the dear and cherished name, 
 
 And long-lost scenes arise; 
 Life s glowing landscape spreads the same ; 
 
 The same hope s kindling skies ; 
 The violet-bank, the muss-fringed seat 
 
 Beneath the drooping tree, 
 The clock that chimed the hour to meet, 
 
 My buried love, with thee 
 
 0, these are all before me, when 
 
 In fancy s realms I rove ; 
 Why urge me to the world again \ 
 
 ^ Why say the ties of love, 
 That death s cold, cruel grasp has riven, 
 
 Unite no more below 1 
 I ll sing to him for though in heaven, 
 
 He surely heed* my wo ! 
 
 THE LIGHT OF HOME. 
 
 Mr son, thou wilt dream the world is fair, 
 
 And thy spirit will sigh to roam, 
 And thou must go ; but never, when there, 
 
 Forget the light of home ! 
 
 Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright, 
 
 It dazzles to lead astray ; 
 Like the meteor s flash, twill deepen the night 
 
 When treading thy lonely way: 
 
 But the hearth of home has a constant flame, 
 
 And pure as vestal fire ; 
 Twill burn, twill burn for ever the same, 
 
 For nature feeds the pyre. 
 
 The sea of ambition is tempest-tossed, 
 And thy hopes may vanish like foam : 
 
 When sails are shivered and compass lost, 
 Then look to the light of home ! 
 
 And there, like a star through the midnight cloud, 
 
 Thou shalt see the beacon bright, 
 For never, till shining on thy shroud, 
 
 Can be quenched its holy light. 
 The sun of fame may gild the name, 
 
 But the heart ne er felt its ray ; 
 And fashion s smiles that rich ones claim, 
 
 Are beams of a wintry day : 
 
 How cold and dim those beams would be, 
 Should life s poor wanderer come ! 
 
 My son, when the world is dark to thee, 
 Then turn to the light of home. 
 
 THE TWO MAIDENS. 
 
 OXE came with light and laughing air, 
 And cheek like opening blossom 
 
 Bright gems were twined amid her hair, 
 And glittered on her bosom, 
 
 And pearls and costly diamonds deck 
 
 Her round, white arms arid lovely neck. 
 
 Like summer s sky, with stars bcdight, 
 The jewelled robe around her, 
 
 And dazzling as the noontide light 
 The radiant zone that bound her 
 
 And pride and joy were in her eye, 
 
 And mortals bowed as she passed by. 
 
 Another came : o er her sweet face 
 A pensive shade was stealing ; 
 
 Yet there no grief of earth we trace 
 But the heaven-hallowed feeling 
 
 Which mourns the heart should ever stray 
 
 From the pure fount of truth away. 
 
 Around her brow, as snowdrop fair, 
 
 The glossy tresses cluster, 
 Nor pearl nor ornament was there, 
 
 Save the meek spirit s lustre ; 
 And faith and hope beamed in her eye, 
 Am angels bowed as she passed bv. 
 
ANNA MARIA WELLS. 
 
 (Born 1797). 
 
 MRS. WELLS, formerly Miss FOSTER, was 
 Dorn ia Gloucester, Massachusetts. Her fa 
 ther died while she was an infant, and her 
 mother, in a few years, married Mr. Locke, 
 of Boston, the father of Mrs. Osgood. She 
 began to write verses when very young, but 
 published little until her marriage, in 1829, 
 with Mr. Thomas Wells, of the United States 
 revenue service, who was also an author of 
 considerable merit, as is evident from some 
 pieces by him quoted in Mr. KettelPs Speci 
 mens of American Poetry. 
 
 In 1830 Mrs. Wells published a small vol 
 
 ume entitled Poems and Juvenile Sketches, 
 and she has since been an occasional contri 
 butor to several periodicals that have been 
 edited by her personal friends. The poems 
 of Mrs. Wells are characterized by womanly 
 feeling and a tasteful simplicity of diction. 
 Her range is limited, and she has the good 
 sense to enter only the fields to which she is 
 invited by her affections and the natural fan 
 cies which are their children. While there 
 fore her successes have not been brilliant they 
 have been honorable, and she has to regret 
 no failures. 
 
 ASCUTNEY. 
 
 IN a low, white-washed cottage, overrun 
 With mantling vines, and sheltered from the sun 
 By rows of maple trees, that gently moved 
 Their graceful limbs to the mild breeze they loved, 
 Oft have I lingered idle it might seem, 
 But that the heart was busy ; and I deem 
 Those minutes not misspent, when silently 
 The soul communes with nature, and is free. 
 
 O erlooking this low cottage, stately stood 
 The huge Ascutney : there, in thoughtful mood, 
 I loved to hold with her gigantic form 
 Deep converse not articulate, but warm 
 With feeling s noiseless eloquence, and fit 
 The soul of nature with man s soul to knit. 
 
 In various aspect, frowning on the day, 
 Or touched with morning twilight s silvery gray, 
 Or darkly mantled in the dusky night, 
 Or by the moonbeams bathed in showers of light 
 In each, in all, a glory still was there, 
 A spirit of sublimity ; but ne er 
 Had such a might of loveliness and power 
 The mountain wrapt, as when, at midnight hour, 
 I saw the tempest gather rounJ her head : 
 It was an hour of joy, yet tinged with dread. 
 As the deep thunder rolled from cloud to cloud, 
 From all her hidden caves she cried aloud : 
 Wood, cliff, and valley, with the echo rung; 
 From rock and crag darting, with forked tongue 
 The lightning glanced, a moment laying bare 
 Her naked brow, then silence darkness there ! 
 And straight again the tumult, as if rocks 
 Had split, and headlong rolled. But nature mocks 
 All language: these are scenes I ne er again 
 May look upon but precious thoughts remain 
 On memory s page ; and ever in my heart, 
 A raid all other claims, that mountain hath a part. 
 
 THE TAMED EAGLE. 
 
 HE sat upon his humble perch, nor flew 
 
 At my approach ; 
 
 But as I nearer drew, 
 Looked on me, as I fancied, with reproach, 
 
 And sadness too : 
 And something still his native pride proclaimed, 
 
 Despite his wo ; 
 
 Which, when I marked ashamed 
 To see a noble creature brought so low 
 
 My heart exclaimed : 
 Where is the fire that lit thy fearless eye, 
 
 Child of the storm, 
 
 When from thy home on high, 
 Yon craggy-breasted rock, I saw thy form 
 
 Cleaving the sky 1 
 " It grieveth me to see thy spirit tamed 
 
 Gone out the light 
 
 That in thine eyeball flamed, 
 When to the midday sun thy steady flight 
 
 Was proudly aimed ! 
 " Like a young dove forsaken, is the look 
 
 Of thy sad eye, 
 
 Who, in some lonely nook, 
 Mourns on the willow bough her destiny, 
 
 Beside the brook. 
 " Oh, let not me insult thy fallen dignity, 
 
 Thou monarch bird, 
 
 Gazing with vulgar eye 
 Upon thy ruin ; for my heart is stirred 
 
 To hear thy cry. 
 " Yet, something sterner in thy downward gaze 
 
 Doth seem to lower, 
 
 And deep disdain betrays, 
 As if thou cursed man s poorly-acted power, 
 
 And scorned his praise." 
 63 
 
ANNA MARIA WELLS. 
 
 THE OLD ELM THEE. 
 
 EACH morning, when my waking eyes first see, 
 
 Through the wreathed lattice, gol len day appear, 
 
 There sits a robin on the old elm tree, 
 
 And with such stirring music liils my ear, 
 
 I iniiiht forget that life had pain or fear, 
 
 And fee! again as I was wont to do, [new. 
 
 When hope was young, and joy and life itself were 
 
 No miser, o er his heaps of hoarded gold, 
 
 Nor monarch, in the plenitude of power, 
 
 Nor lover, f rrr the chaste maid to enfold 
 
 Who ne er hath owned her love till that blest hour, 
 
 Nor poet, couched in rocky nook or bower, 
 
 Knoweth more heartfelt happiness than he, 
 
 That never tiring warbler of the old elm tree. 
 
 From even the poorest of Heaven s creatures, such 
 
 As know no rule but impulse, we may draw 
 
 Lemons of sweet humility, and much 
 
 Of apt instruction in the homely law 
 
 Of nature : and the time hath been, I saw 
 
 Naught, beautiful or mean, but had for me [tree. 
 
 Some charm, even like the warbler of the old elm 
 
 And listening to his joy inspiring lay, 
 
 Some sweet reflections are engendered thence : 
 
 As half in tears, unto myself I say, 
 
 God, who hath given this creature sources whence 
 
 He such delight may gather and dispense, 
 
 Hath in my heart joy s living fountain placed, 
 
 More free to flow, the oftener of its waves I taste. 
 
 ANNA. 
 
 WITH the first ray of morning light 
 ^ Her face is close to mine her face all smiles : 
 She hovers round my pillow like a sprite 
 Mingling with tenderness her playful wiles. 
 All the long day 
 She s at some busy play ; 
 Or twixt her tiny fingers 
 The scissors or the needle speeds ; 
 Or some sweet story-book she reads, 
 
 And o er it serious lingers. 
 She stops like some glad creature of the air, 
 
 As if she read her fate, and knew it fair 
 
 In truth, for tlite at all she hath no care. 
 Yet hath she tears as well as gladness: 
 
 A butterfly in pain 
 Will make her weep for sadness, 
 But straight she ll smile again. 
 And lately she hath pressed the couch of pain 
 
 Sickness hath dimmed her eye, 
 And on her tender spirit Iain, 
 And brought her near to die. 
 But like the flower 
 That droops at evening hour, 
 And opens gayly in the morning, 
 Again her quick eye glows, 
 And health s fresh rose 
 Her soft cheek is adorning. 
 Hushed was her childish lay: 
 Like some sweet bird did sickness hold her in a net ; 
 
 And when she broke away, 
 And shook her wings in the bright day, 
 Her recent capture she did quite forget. 
 What joy again to hear her blessed voice ! 
 My heart, lie still, but in thy quietness rejoice ! 
 Again, along the floor and on the stair, 
 
 Coming and going, I hear her rapid feet ; 
 Again her little, simple, earnest prayer, 
 
 Hear her, at bedtime, in low voice repeat. 
 Again, at table, and the fire beside, 
 
 Her dear head rises, smiling with the rest ; 
 Again her heart and rnind are open wide 
 
 To yield and to receive bless and be blest 
 Pliant and teachable, and oft revealing 
 Thoughts that must ripen into higher feeling. 
 Oh, sweet maturity ! the gentle mood 
 Raised to the intellectual and the good ; 
 The bright, affectionate, and happy child 
 The woman, pure, intelligent, and mild ! 
 It must be so : they can not waste on air 
 A mother s labor and a mother s prayer. 
 
 THE FUTURE. 
 
 THE flowers, the many flowers, 
 That all along the smiling valley grew, 
 
 While the sun lay for hours, 
 Kissing from off their drooping lids the dew ; 
 
 They, to the summer air 
 No longer prodigal, their sweet breath yield : 
 
 Vainly, to bind her hair, 
 The village maiden seeks them in the field. 
 
 The breeze, the gentle breeze, 
 That wandered like a frolic child at play, 
 
 Loitering mid blossomed trees, 
 Trailing their stolen sweets along its way, 
 
 No more adventuresome, 
 Its whispered love is to the violet given ; 
 
 The boisterous North has come, 
 And scared the sportive trifler back to heaven. 
 
 The brook, the limpid brook, 
 That prattled of its coolness, as it went 
 
 Forth from its rocky nook, 
 Leaping with joy to be no longer pent 
 
 Its pleasant song is hushed : 
 The sun no more looks down upon its play 
 
 Freely, where once it gushed, 
 The mountain torrent drives its noisy way. 
 
 The hours, the youthful hours, 
 When in the cool shade we were wont to lie, 
 
 Idling with fresh culled flowers, 
 In dreams that ne er could know reality : 
 
 Fond hours, but half enjoyed, 
 Like the sweet summer breeze they passed away, 
 
 And dear hopes were destroyed, 
 Like buds that die before the noon of day. 
 
 Young life, young turbulent life, 
 If, like the stream, it take a wayward course, 
 
 Tis lost mid folly s strife 
 
 O erwhelmed at length by passion s curbless force : 
 
 Nor deem youth s buoyant hours 
 For idle hopes or useless musings given 
 
 Who dreams away his powers, 
 The reckless slumberer shall not wake to heaven. 
 
ANNA MARIA WELLS. 
 
 THE WHITE HARE. 
 
 IT was the sabbath eve we went, 
 My Geraldine and I, intent 
 
 The twi ight hour to pass, 
 Where we might hear the water flow, 
 And scent the freighted winds that blow 
 
 Athwart the vernal grass. 
 
 In darker grandeur as the day 
 Stole scarce perceptibly away 
 
 The purple mountain stood, 
 Wearing the young moon as a crest: 
 The sun, half sunk in the far west, 
 
 Seemed mingling with the flood. 
 
 The cooling dews their balm distilled ; 
 A holy joy our bosoms thrilled ; 
 
 Our thoughts were free as air ; 
 And, by one impulse moved, did we 
 Together pour instinctively 
 
 Our songs of gladness there. 
 
 The green wood waved its shade hard by, 
 W T hile thus we wove our harmony : 
 
 Lured by the mystic strain, 
 A snow-white hare, that long had been 
 Peering from forth her covert green, 
 
 Came bounding o er the plain. 
 
 Her beauty, twas a joy to note 
 The pureness of her downy coat, 
 
 Her wild yet gentle eye 
 The pleasure that, despite her fear, 
 Had led the timid thing so near 
 
 To list our minstrelsy. 
 
 All motionless, with head inclined, 
 ^She stood, as if her heart divined 
 
 The impulses of ours 
 Till the last note had died and then 
 Turned half reluctantly again, 
 
 Back to her greenwood bowers. 
 
 Once more the magic sounds we tried 
 Again the hare was seen to glide 
 
 From out her sylvan shade ; 
 Again, as joy had given her wings, 
 Fleet as a bird she forward springs 
 
 Along the dewy glade. 
 
 Go, happy thing ! disport at will 
 Take thy delight o er vale and hill, 
 
 Or rest in leafy bower : 
 The harrier may beset thy way, 
 The cruel snare thy feet betray 
 
 Enjoy thy little hour ! 
 
 We know not, and we ne er may know 
 The hidden springs of joy and wo, 
 That deep within^ do lie : 
 
 The silent workings of thy heart 
 Do almost seem to have a part 
 With our humanity ! 
 
 THE SEA-BIRD. 
 
 SEA-BTTU> ! haunter of the wave, 
 
 Delighting o er its crest to hover ; 
 Half engulfed where yawns the cave 
 
 The billow forms in rolling over; 
 Sea-bird ! seeker of the storm ! 
 
 In its shriek thou dost rejoice ; 
 Sending from thy bosom warm 
 
 Answer shriller than its voice. 
 
 Bird, of nervous winged flight, 
 
 Flashing silvery to the sun, 
 Sporting with the sea-foam white 
 
 When will thy wild course be done * 
 Whither tends it 1 Has the shore 
 
 No alluring haunt for thee ] 
 Nook, with tangled vines grown o er, 
 
 Scented shrub, or leafy tree 1 
 
 Is the purple seaweed rarer 
 
 Than the violet of the spring 1 
 Is the snowy foam-wreath fairer 
 
 Than the apple s blossoming ] 
 Shady grove and sunny slope 
 
 Seek but these, and thou shalt meet 
 Birds not born with storm to cope, 
 
 Hermits of retirement sweet 
 
 Where no winds too rudely swell, 
 
 But in whispers, as they pass, 
 Of the fragrant flow ret tell, 
 
 Hidden in the tender grass. 
 There the mockbird sings of love ; 
 
 There the robin builds his nest ; 
 There the gentle-hearted dove, 
 
 Brooding, takes her blissful rest. 
 
 Sea-bird, stay thy rapid flight : 
 
 Gone ! where dark waves foam and dash. 
 Like a lone star on the night 
 
 Far I see his white wing flash. 
 He obeyeth God s behest, 
 
 All their destiny fulfil : 
 Tempests some are born to breast 
 
 Some to worship and be still. 
 
 If to struggle with the storm 
 
 On life s ever-changing sea, 
 Where cold mists enwrap the form, 
 
 My harsh destiny must be 
 Sea-bird ! thus may I abide 
 
 Cheerful the allotment given, 
 And, rising o er the ruffled tide, 
 
 Escape at last, like thee, to heaven t 
 
MARIA JAMES. 
 
 (Born 1795). 
 
 IN 1S33, Bishop Potter, then one of the 
 professors in Union College, was shown by 
 his wife, who had just returned from a visit 
 to Rhinebeck on the Hudson, the Ode for the 
 Fourth of July which is quoted on the next 
 page, and informed that it was the production 
 of a young woman at service in the family 
 of a friend there, whom he had often noticed 
 on account of her retiring and modest man 
 ners, and who had been in that capacity more 
 than twenty years. When further advised 
 that these lines had been thrown off with 
 great rapidity and apparent ease, and that 
 the writer had been accustomed almost from 
 childhood to find pleasure in similar efforts, 
 the information awakened a lively interest, 
 and led him to examine other pieces from 
 the same hand, and finally to introduce them 
 to the public notice, in a preface over his 
 signature to the volume entitled Wales and 
 other Poems, by MARIA JAMES, published in 
 1839. 
 
 MARIA JAMES is the daughter of poor but 
 pious parents who emigrated to this country 
 from Wales, near the beginning of the pres 
 ent century, and settled near the slate quar 
 ries in the northern part of New York. Her 
 remaining history is told in an interesting 
 manner in the following extracts from a let 
 ter wnich she addressed to Mrs. Potter: 
 
 " Toward the completion of my seventh year, I 
 found myself on ship-hoard, surrounded hy men, wo- 
 nii-ii ;md children, whose friers \veiv unknown to me. 
 Jt wsis here, perhaps, Hint I first began to learn in a 
 particular manner from observation soon discovering 
 that, thus*- children who were handsome or smartly 
 dressed received much more attention than myself) 
 wK> had neither of these recommendations: how 
 ever, instead of giving way to feehn-s of envy and 
 jealousy, my imagination was revelling among 1 the 
 fruits and (lowers which I expected to find in the 
 land to which we wen; hound. I also had an oppor 
 tunity to learn a littl" Kn-lisli during the voyage, as 
 Take care, and (Jet out of the way, seemed reit 
 erated from land s end to land s end. 
 
 " After our family were settled in some measure, 
 1 was sent to school, my father bavin- commenced 
 teaching me at home some time previous. I think 
 there was no particular aptness to learn about me. 
 Aft.T I could read, I rwk much delL-ht in John 
 Rogers ! last advice to his children, with all the 
 excellent et cameras to he found in the old Kn-rlish 
 Primer. I was also fond of reading the common 
 liymnhook. The New Testament was my only 
 cliool-hook. Tims accomplished, I happened one 
 
 day to hear a young woman read Add icon s inimita 
 ble paraphrases of the twenty-third psalm : 1 1 stened 
 as to the voice of an angel. Those who know the 
 power of good reading or good speaking, need not 
 be told that, where there is an ear for sound, the 
 manner in which either is done will make every pos 
 sible difference. This, probably, was the first time 
 that I ever heard a good reader. 
 
 " My parents again removing, I found myself in a 
 school where the elder children used the American 
 P receptor. I listened in transport as they read 
 DwL ht s Columbia, which must have been merely 
 fr< m the smoothness of its sound, as 1 could have had 
 but very little knowledge of its meaning. 1 was now 
 ten years of age, and as an opportunity offered which 
 my parents saw fit to embrace, 1 entered the family 
 in which I now reside, where, besides learninir many 
 useful household occupations, that care and attention 
 was paid to my words and actions as is seldom to be 
 met with in such situations. I had before me some 
 of the best models for good reading and cood speak 
 ing; and any child, with a natural ear for the beauti 
 ful in language, will notice these thiii-:s, and though 
 their conversation may not differ materially from that 
 of others in their line of life, they will almost invari 
 able think in the style of their admiration. 
 
 " The Bible here, as in my father s house, was the 
 book of books, the heads of the family constantly im 
 pressing on all, that the fear of the. Lord is the be 
 ginning of wisdom, and that to depart from iniquity 
 is understanding. There is scarcely anything that 
 can affect the mind of young persons like those les 
 sons of wisdom which fall from lips they love and re 
 spect. 
 
 " Besides frequent opportunities of hearing instruc 
 tive books read, 1113 leisure hours were often devoted 
 to one or the other of these works : first, the Female 
 Mentor, comprising within itself a little epitome of 
 elegant literature; two odd volumes of the Adven 
 turer; Miss Hannah More s Cheap Repository; and 
 Pilgrim s Progress. During a period of nearly seven 
 years which I spent in this family, the newspapers 
 were more or less filled with the wars and fightings 
 of our European neighbors. My imagination took 
 fire, and I lent an ear to the whispers of the muse. 
 "Twas then that first she pruned the wing; 
 
 Twas then she first essayed to sing. 
 But the wing was powerless, and the sonir without 
 melody. As I advanced toward womanhood, I shrunk 
 from the nickname of poet, which had been awarded 
 me : the very idea seemed the height of presump 
 tion. In my seventeenth year I left this situation to 
 learn dressmaking. I sewed neatly, but too slow to 
 insure success. My failure in this was always a sub 
 ject of regret. After this, I lived some time in dif 
 ferent situations, my employment beiiiLT principally 
 in the nursery. In each of these different families I 
 had access to those who spoke the purest English, 
 also frequent opportunities of hearing correct and 
 elegant readers at least I believed them such by 
 the effect produced on my feelings; and althougu 
 nineteen years have nearly passed away since my 
 return to the home of my early life, 1 have not ceased 
 to remember with gratitude the kind treatment re 
 ceived from different persons at this period, while 
 my attachment to their children has not been oblit 
 erated by time nor by absence, and is likely to con 
 tinue till death 
 
 " With respect to the few poems which you have 
 66 
 
MARIA JAMES. 
 
 67 
 
 been so kind as to overlook, I can hardly say myself 
 how they came to be written. I recollect, many 
 years ago, of trying something- in this way for the 
 amusement of a little boy who was very dear to me; 
 except this, with a very few other pieces, long for 
 gotten, no attempt of the kind was made until The 
 Mother s Lament, and Elijah, with a number of epi 
 taphs, which were written previous to those which 
 have been produced within the last six years. The 
 subject of the Hummingbird, (the oldest of these,) 
 was taken captive by my own hand. The Adven 
 ture is described just as it happened. Wales is a 
 
 kind of retrospect of the days of childhood Of 
 
 Ambition, permit me, dear madam, to call your at 
 tention to the summer of 1832, when yourself) with 
 the other ladies of this family, were reading Bourn- 
 enne s Life of Napoleon Bonaparte : 1 hud opportu 
 nities of hearing a little sometimes, which brought 
 forcibly to my mind certain conversations which I 
 heard in the* early part of my life respecting this 
 wonderful man. The poem was produced the fol 
 lowing summer. In the year 1819, The American 
 Flag appeared in the New York American, signed 
 Croaker & Co. : this kindled up the poetic fires in 
 my breast, which, however, did not find utterance 
 until fourteen years afterward, in the Ode on the 
 Fourth of July, 1833. This appearing in print, some 
 
 who did not know me very well inquired of others, 
 Do you suppose she ever wrote it ? Being an 
 swered in the affirmative, it was imagined she must 
 have had help. These remarks gave rise to the ques 
 tion, What is poetry ? The Album was begun and 
 carried through without previous arrangement or 
 design, laid aside when the mind was weary, and 
 taken up again just as the subject happened to pre 
 sent itself. Friendship was produced in the same 
 way. Many of the pieces are written from impres 
 sions received in youth, particularly the Whip-poor- 
 will, the Meadow Lark, the Firefly, &c." 
 
 In the Introduction to her poems Bishop 
 Potter vindicates in an admirable manner, 
 against the sneers of Johnson, the propriety 
 of recognising the abilities of the humblest 
 classes. It will be seen that the poems of 
 Maria James will bear a very favorable com 
 parison with the compositions uf any of the 
 "uneducated poets" whose names are cele 
 brated in Mr. Southey s fine essay upon this 
 subject. 
 
 ODE, 
 
 WRITTEN FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1833. 
 
 [ SEE that banner proudly wave 
 
 Yes, proudly waving yet ; 
 Not a stripe is torn from the broad array, 
 
 Not a single star is set; 
 And the eagle, with unruffled plume, 
 Is soaring aloft in the welkin dome. 
 
 Not a leaf is plucked from the branch he bears; 
 
 From his grasp not an arrow has flown ; 
 The mist that obstructed his vision is past, 
 
 And the murmur of discord is gone : 
 For he sees,with a glance over mountain and plain, 
 The Union unbroken, from Georgia to Maine. 
 
 Far southward, in that sunny clime, 
 
 Where bright magnolias bloom, 
 And the orange with the lime tree vies 
 
 In shedding rich perfume, 
 A sound was heard like the ocean s roar, 
 As its surges break on the rocky shore. 
 
 Was it the voice of the tempest loud, 
 
 As it felled some lofty tree, 
 Or a sudden flash from a passing storm 
 
 Of heaven s artillery 1 
 Butjt died away, and the sound of doves 
 Is heard again in the scented groves. 
 
 The links are all united still 
 
 That form the golden chain, 
 And peace and plenty smile around, 
 
 Throughout the wide domain : 
 How feeble is language, how cold is the lay, 
 Compared with the joy of this festival day 
 
 To see that banner waving yet 
 
 Ay, waving proud and high 
 No rent in all its ample folds, 
 
 No stain of crimson dye : 
 And the eagle spreads his pinions fair, 
 And mounts aloft in the fields of air. 
 
 THE PILGRIMS. 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 WE met as pilgrims meet, 
 
 Who are bound to a distant shrine, 
 Who spend the hours in converse sweet 
 
 From noon to the day s decline 
 Soul mingling with soul, as they tell of their fears 
 And their hopes, as they pass thro the valley of tears. 
 
 And still they commune with delight, 
 
 Of pleasures or toils by the way, 
 The winds of the desert that chill them by night, 
 
 Or heat that oppresses by day : 
 For one to the faithful is ever at hand, 
 As the shade of a rock in a weary land. 
 We met as soldiers meet, 
 
 Ere yet the fight is won 
 Ere joyful at their captain s feet 
 
 Is laid their armor down : 
 Each strengthens his fellow to do and to bear, 
 In hope of the crown which the victors wear. 
 
 Though daily the strife they renew, 
 
 And their foe his thousands o ercome, 
 Yet the promise unfailing is ever in view 
 
 Of safety, protection, and home : [conferred, 
 Where they knew that their sovereign such favor 
 " As eye hath not seen, as the ear hath not heard." 
 
 We met as seamen meet, 
 
 On ocean s watery plain, 
 Where billows rise and tempests beat, 
 
 Ere the destined port they gain : 
 But tempests they baffle, and billows they brave, 
 Assured that their pilot is mighty to save. 
 They dwell on the scenes which have past, 
 
 Of perils they still may endure 
 The haven of rest, where they anchor at Ia?\ 
 
 Where bliss is complete and secure 
 Till its towers and spires arise from afar, 
 (To the eye of faith,^ as some radiant star, 
 
MARIA JAMES. 
 
 We met as brethren meet, 
 
 Who are cast on a foreign strand, 
 Whose hearts arc cheered as they hasten to greet 
 
 And commune of their native land 
 Of their Father s house in that world above, 
 Of his tender care and his boundless love. 
 The city so fair to behold, 
 
 The redeemed in their vestments of white 
 In those mansions of rest, where, mid pleasures un- 
 
 They finally hope to unite : [told, 
 
 Where ceaseless ascriptions of praise shall ascend 
 To God and the Lamb in a world without end. 
 
 THE SOLDIER S GRAVE.* 
 
 IN Gallia s sunny fields, 
 
 Where blooms the eglantine, 
 
 And where luxuriant clusters bend 
 The fruitful vine 
 
 The youth to manhood rose, 
 
 ( Tis fancy tells the tale :) 
 His step was swift as mountain deer 
 
 That skims the vale. 
 
 And his eagle glance, 
 
 Which told perception keen, 
 " Of will to do and soul to dare," 
 
 Deep fixed within. 
 
 Perchance a mother s love, 
 
 A father s tender care, 
 With every kindly household bond, 
 
 Were his to share. 
 
 Perchance the darling one, 
 
 The best beloved was he, 
 Of all that gathered round the hearth 
 
 From infancy. 
 
 How fair life s morn to him ! 
 
 The world was blithe and gay 
 Hope, beckoning with an angel s smile, 
 
 Led on the way. 
 
 He left his native plain, 
 
 He bade his home farewell 
 
 And she, the idol of his heart, 
 The fair Adele. 
 
 Though sad the parting hour, 
 
 What ardor fixed his breast, 
 To view the streams, to iread the soil, 
 
 Far in the West ! 
 
 From where the Huron s wave 
 
 First greets the ruddy light, 
 To where Superior, in its glow, 
 
 Lies calm and bright 
 
 Where rose the forest deep, 
 
 Where stretched the giant shore, 
 From Del Fuego s utmost bound 
 To Labrador. 
 
 * The (jrave here spoken of was pointed out to the wri 
 ter us hr tunl resting place ,,f a French officer-a single 
 mound, without a stone to murk the spot, in Rutland coun 
 ty Vermont. 
 
 How many a gallant ship 
 
 Since then has crossed the sea, 
 
 Deep freighted from the western world 
 But where is he ] 
 
 Oh, ne er beside that hearth 
 The unbroken ring shall meet, 
 
 To tell th adventurous tale, or join 
 In converse sweet ! 
 
 For in that stranger-land 
 
 His lonely grave is seen, 
 Where northern mountains lift their heads 
 
 In fadeless green. 
 
 TO A SINGING BIRD. 
 
 HUSH, hush that lay of gladness, 
 
 It fills my heart with pain, 
 But touch some note of sadness, 
 
 Some melancholy strain, 
 That tells of days departed, 
 
 Of hopes for ever flown 
 Some golden dream of other years, 
 
 To riper age unknown. 
 
 The captive, bowed in sadness, 
 
 Impatient to be free, 
 Might call that lay of gladness 
 
 The voice of liberty : 
 Again the joyous carol, 
 
 Warm gushing, peals along, 
 As if thy very latest breath 
 
 Would spend itself in song. 
 
 Oft as I hear those tones of thine 
 
 Will thoughts like these intrude 
 "If once compared, thy lot with mine, 
 
 How cold my gratitude ; 
 Though gloom 01 sunshine mark the hours, 
 
 Thy bosom, ne ertheless, 
 Will pour, as from its inmost fount, 
 
 The tide of thankfulness." 
 
 GOOD FRIDAY. 
 
 THE scene is fresh before us, 
 
 When Jesus drained the cup, 
 As new the day comes o er us 
 
 When he was offered up 
 The veil in sunder rending, 
 
 The type s and shadows flee, 
 W^hile heaven and earth are bending 
 
 Their gaze on Calvary. 
 
 Should mortal dare in numbers, 
 
 Where angels, trembling, stand 
 Or wake the harp that slumbers 
 
 In flaming seraph s hand ] 
 Then tell the wondrous story 
 
 Where rolls Salvation s wave, 
 And give Him all the glory, 
 
 Who came the lost to save. 
 
MARIA BROOKS. 
 
 (Born 17S5 Died 1845). 
 
 IT may be doubted whether, in the long 
 catalogue of those whose works illustrate 
 and vindicate the intellectual character and 
 position of woman, there are many names 
 that will shine with a clearer, steadier, and 
 more enduring lustre, than that of MARIA 
 
 DEL OCCIDENTE. 
 
 MARIA GOWEN, afterward Mrs. BROOKS, 
 upon whom this title was conferred origin 
 ally, I believe, by the poet Southey, was de 
 scended from a Welsh family that settled in 
 Charlestown, near Boston, sometime before 
 the Revolution. A considerable portion of 
 the liberal fortune of her grandfather was 
 lost by the burning of that city in 1775, and 
 he soon afterward removed to Medford, 
 across the Mystic river, where Maria Gowen 
 was born about the year 1795. Her father 
 was a man of education, and among his inti 
 mate friends were several of the professors 
 of Harvard college, whose occasional visits 
 varied the pleasures of a rural life. From 
 this society she derived, at an early period, 
 a taste for letters and learning. Before the 
 completion of her ninth year, she had com 
 mitted to memory many passages from the 
 best poets ; and her conversation excited 
 special wonder by its elegance, variety, and 
 wisdom. She grew in beauty, too, as she 
 grew in years, and when her father died, a 
 bankrupt, before she had attained the age of 
 fourteen, she was betrothed to a merchant 
 of Boston, who undertook the completion of 
 her education, and as soon as she quitted the 
 school was married to her. Her early wo 
 manhood was passed in commercial afflu 
 ence ; but the loss of several vessels at sea 
 in which her husband was interested was 
 followed by other losses on land, and years 
 were spent in comparative indigence. In 
 that remarkable book, Idomen, or The Vale 
 of Yumuri, she says, referring fc this period : 
 " Our table had been hospitaule, our doors 
 open to many ; but to part with our well- 
 garnished dwelling had now become inevit 
 able. We retired, with one servant, to a re 
 mote house of meaner dimensions, and Avere 
 
 sought no longer by those who had come m 
 our wealth. I looked earnestly around me ; 
 the present was cheerless, the future daik 
 and fearful. My parents were dead, my few 
 relatives in distant countries, where they 
 thought perhaps but little of my happiness. 
 Burleigh I had never loved other than as a 
 father and protector ; but he had been the 
 benefactor to my fallen family, and to him I 
 owed comfort, education, and every ray of 
 pleasure that had glanced before me in this 
 world. Bat the sun of his energies was set 
 ting, and the faults which had balanced his 
 virtues increased as his fortune declined. He 
 might live through many years of misery, 
 and to be devoted to him was my duty while a 
 spark of his life remained. I strove to nerve 
 my heart for the worst. Still there were mo 
 ments when fortitude became faint with en 
 durance, and visions of happiness that might 
 have been mine came smiling to my ima 
 gination. I wept and prayed in agony." 
 
 In this period, poetry was resorted to for 
 amusement arid consolation. At nineteen 
 she wrote a metrical romance, in seven can 
 tos, but it was never published. It was fol 
 lowed by many shorter lyrical pieces, which 
 were printed anonymously ; and in 1820, 
 afcer favorable judgments of it had been ex 
 pressed by some literary friends,* she gave 
 to the public a small volume entitled Judith, 
 Esther, ar,d other Poems, by a Lover of the 
 Fine Arts. It contained many fine passages, 
 and gave promise of the powers of which 
 
 * One of the friend? here alluded to was the late Dr. 
 
 Kirklaml president of Harvard college On a blank leaf 
 of the first copy of the volume that she receive,], she wroto 
 the following lines, which have not before been printed. 
 
 Should e er my haK-iled-ed mn.-e at cam the height 
 
 She TieuibJini;- I .ajs. jet (ears- to tempt ii" more, 
 Still will she bless, thoiii-h wounded in ber flight, 
 
 Th.- ,-ene.ons hand that gave her stve.n-th to soar. 
 I .nt should resistless tempests lierr-l.v meet. 
 
 .,,,( | .,. . vi struggling, " " whelming wave, 
 Eve , tl," n one tender, patoBil pulse shall beat 
 
 In her" torn heart, for l.ini who strove to sav 
 
 Writing to me in L842, Mrs. Krooks enclose,) these vor-> 
 and observed : M n-call then, after an nuervalo twen y 
 ve ir< Thev have meaning and siticen!> m tnem , Ml 
 
 Laving during that time extended my acquaintance with 
 muw? and an-els, I can not now bear to see either ol 
 m represented with pluma-e rti rheir wings. ><>me 
 of Ae most celebrated painters have, however, set tfc. 
 example." ,. , 
 
70 
 
 MARIA BROOKS. 
 
 the maturity is illustrated by Zophiiil. The 
 Volume was dedicated to a friend 
 
 who cheered her first faint lays 
 With the hope-kindling breath of timely praise, 
 
 in the following verses : 
 
 Lady, I ve woven for thee a wreath 
 Though pale the buds that gem it, 
 
 Think of the gloom they grew beneath, 
 A or utterly contemn it. 
 
 Scarce in my cradle was I laid, 
 Ere Fate relentless bound me, 
 
 Deep in a narrow vale of shade, 
 
 Where prisoning rocks surround me. 
 
 Lady, I ve culled a wreath for you, 
 
 From the lew llowers that grow there. 
 
 Because twas all that I could do 
 To lull the sense of wo there. 
 
 Yet, lady, I have known delight 
 The heart witli bliss overilowing, 
 
 Endearing forms have blest my sight 
 With soul and beauty glowing. 
 
 For Hope came all arrayed in light, 
 
 And pitying stood before me, 
 Smiled on each flinty barrier s height, 
 
 And to its summit bore me. 
 
 She showed many a scene divine 
 She told me and descended 
 
 Of joys that never must be mine 
 And then her power was ended. 
 
 Oh, pleasures dead as soon as born, 
 
 To be forgotten never ! 
 Oh, moments fleeting, few, and gone, 
 
 To be regretted ever ! 
 
 A few sweet waves of glowing light 
 
 Upon Time s dreary ocean, 
 Light gales that wake the dead, calm night 
 
 To momentary motion ; 
 
 Bright beams that in their beauty bless 
 
 A dark and desert plain, 
 To show its fearful loneliness, 
 
 And disappear again. 
 
 Yet oft she hovers o er me now, 
 
 Each soothing effort making : 
 So mothers kiss the infant s brow, 
 
 But can not cure its aching. 
 
 Then, lady, oil, accept my wreath, 
 Though all besides condemn it ; 
 
 Think of the gloom it grew beneath, 
 Nor utterly contemn it. 
 
 In the two principal poems are presented char 
 acters entirely different in mind and person, 
 but equally entitled to admiration. In Judith 
 are exhibited prudence, fortitude, and decis 
 ion, softened by a feminine sensibility; in 
 listher a soul painfully alive to every tender 
 emotion, and a noble elevation of mind strug 
 gling with constitutional softness and timid 
 ity. Many passages remind us of her ma- 
 
 turest style, as this description of the slayer 
 of the Assyrian : 
 
 With even step, in mourning garb arrayed, 
 
 Fair Judith walked, and grandeur marked her air 
 Though humble dust, in pious sprinklings laid, 
 
 Soiled the dark tresses of her copious hair. 
 And this picture of a boy : 
 Softly supine his rosy limbs reposed, 
 
 His locks curled high, leaving the forehead bar* 
 And o : er his eyes the light lids gentlv closed, 
 
 As they had feared to hide the brilliance there. 
 
 And this description of the preparations of 
 
 Esther to appear before Ahasuerus: 
 
 " Take ye, my maids, this mournful garb away ; 
 
 Bring all my glowing gems and garments fair ; 
 A nation s fate impending hangs to-day 
 
 But on my beauty and your duteous care." 
 
 Prompt to obey, her ivory form they lave ; 
 
 Some comb and braid her hair of wavy gold ; 
 Some softly wipe away the limpid wave [rolled. 
 
 That o er her dimply limbs in drops of fragrance 
 
 Refreshed and faultless from their hands she came 
 Like form celestial clad in raiment bright; 
 
 O er all her garb rich India s treasures flame, 
 In mingling beams of rainbow-colored light. 
 
 Graceful she entered the forbidden court, 
 
 Her bosom throbbing with her purpose high ; 
 
 Slow were her steps, and unassured her port, 
 While hope just trembled in her azure eye. 
 
 Light on the marble fell her ermine tread, 
 
 And when the king, reclined in musing mood, 
 
 Lifts, at the gentle sound, his stately head, 
 Low at his feet the sweet intruder stood. 
 
 Among the shorter poems are several that 
 are marked by fancy and feeling, and a grace 
 ful versification, of one of which, an elegy, 
 these are the opening verses: 
 
 Lone in the desert, drear and deep, 
 Beneath the forest s whispering shade, 
 
 Where brambles twine and mosses creep, 
 The lovely Charlotte s grave is made. 
 
 But though no breathing marble there 
 Shall gleam in beauty through the gloom, 
 
 The turf that hides her golden hair 
 
 With sweetest desert-flowers shall bloom. 
 
 And while the moon her tender light 
 Upon the hallowed scene shall fling, 
 
 The mocking-bird shall sit all night 
 Among the dewy leaves, and sing. 
 
 The following clever translation of tne 
 Greek of Moschus, from this volume, was 
 made in the author s seventeenth year : 
 
 CUPID THE KUXAWAT. 
 
 LTSTKX, listen, softly, clear 
 Venus accents woo the ear ! 
 " Gentle stranger, hast thou seen," 
 Thus begins the beauteous queen : 
 " Hast thou seen my Cupid stray, 
 Lurking, near the public way 1 
 
MARIA BROOKS. 
 
 71 
 
 Briii- him back and tlnu slv.ilt sip 
 A kiss at least from Venus lip. 
 T is a boy of well-known name, 
 Thou canst know him by his fame : 
 Fair his face, but overspread, 
 Cheek and brow, with rosy red ; 
 And his eyes of azure bright 
 Sparkle with a fiery light. 
 Small and snowy are his hands, 
 But their tender power commands 
 Even Pluto s empire wide; 
 Acheron s polluted tide 
 Loses at their gentle waving 
 Half the terror of its raving. 
 At his dimpled shoulders move 
 Plumy pinions like a dove, 
 And or youth or maiden meeting, 
 When among the flowers he s flitting, 
 Like a swallow swift he darts, 
 Perching on their beating hearts. 
 From his back a quiver fair, 
 Golden like his curly hair, 
 Pendent falls in purple ties, 
 Scattering radiance as he flies. 
 He the slender dart can throw, 
 Singing from his polished bow, 
 Far as heaven : nor will he spare 
 Even me, his mother, there. 
 And whene er a victim bleeds, 
 Laughing, glorying in his deeds, 
 Still with added fires to scorch, 
 He, a little hidden torch, 
 Deeming not his mischief done, 
 Kindles at the glowing sun. 
 If the urchin thou shouldst find, 
 Let not pity move thy mind ; 
 Suffer not his tears to grieve thee, 
 They but trickle to deceive thee. 
 If he smile upon thee, haste, 
 Heed him not, but bind him fast. 
 Should he pout his lips to kiss, 
 Oh ! avoid the treacherous bliss ! 
 Turn thy head, nor dare to meet 
 Of his breath the poison sweet. 
 Should he ply his potent charms, 
 And presenting thee his arms, 
 Graceful kneel, and sweetly say, 
 Take my proffered gif s, I pray, 
 Do not touch them still disdain 
 All are fraught with venorned pain." 
 
 In the summer ol 1823 Mr. Brooks died, 
 and a paternal uncle soon afier invited the 
 poetess to Cuba, for which island she sailed 
 on the 20th of the following O: ober. Here, 
 in 1824, she completed the first canto of Zo- 
 phiel, or The Bride of Seven, which had been 
 planned and nearly written before she left 
 Boston, and it was published in that city in 
 1825. The second canto was finished in Cu 
 ba in the opening of 1827 ; the third, fourth, 
 and fifth, in 1828, and the sixth in the be 
 ginning of 1829. The uncle of Mrs. Brooks 
 
 was now dead, arid he had left to ner his 
 coffee plantation and other property, which 
 afforded her a liberal income. She returned 
 asrain to the United States, and resided more 
 than a year in the vicinity of Dartmouth Col 
 lege, where her son was pursuing his stud 
 ies ; and in. the autumn of 1830, in company 
 with her only surviving brother, Mr. Ham 
 mond Gowen, of Quebec, she went to Paris, 
 where she passed the following winter. The 
 curious and learned notes to Zophiel were 
 written in various places some in Cuba, 
 some in Hanover, some in Canada (which she 
 visited during her residence at Hanover), 
 some at Paris, and the rest at Keswick, in 
 England, the home of Robert Southey, where 
 she passed the spring of 1831. When she 
 quitted the hospitable home of this much 
 honored and much attached friend, she left 
 with him the completed work, which he sub 
 sequently saw through the press, correcting 
 the proofsheets himself, previous to its ap 
 pearance in London, in 1833. On leaving 
 Keswick, Mrs. Brooks addressed to Southey 
 the following poem ; and the subsequent cor 
 respondence between the two poets, which I 
 have seen, shows that the promise of con 
 tinued regard was fulfilled : 
 
 TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, T.S 4.. 
 
 On ! laureled bard, how can I part, 
 Those cheering smiles no more to see, 
 
 Until my soothed and solaced heart 
 Pours forth one grateful lay to thee ? 
 
 Fair virtue tuned thy youthful breath, 
 And peace and pleasure bless thee now ; 
 
 For love and beauty guard the wreath 
 That blooms upon thy manly brow. 
 
 The Indian, leaning on his bow, 
 
 On hostile cliff, in desert drear, 
 Cast with less joy his glance below. 
 
 When came some friendly warrior near ; 
 
 The native dove of that warm isle 
 
 Where oft, with flowers, my lyrt, was drest. 
 Sees with less joy the sun a while 
 
 When vertic rains have drenched her nest, 
 Than I, a stranger, first beheld 
 
 Thine eye s harmonious welcome given 
 With gentle word, which, as it swelled, 
 
 Came to my heart benign as heaven. 
 
 Soft be thy sleep as mists that rest 
 
 On Skiddaw s top at summer morn ; 
 Smooth be thy days as Derwent s bivnst 
 
 When summer light is almost gone . 
 And yet, for thee why breathe a prayer 7 
 
 I deem thy fate is -jiven in trust 
 To seraphs, "who by d lily care 
 
 Would prove that Hc:ivcn is not unjust 
 
MARIA BROOKS. 
 
 And treasured shall thine ima^e be 
 In Memory s purest, holiest shrine, 
 
 While truth and honor glow in thee, 
 Or life s warm, quivering pulse is mine. 
 
 The materials of Zophiel are universal 
 that is, such as may be appropriated by even 
 polished nation. In all the most beautifu 
 oriental systems of religion, including ou; 
 own, may be found such beings as its char 
 acters. The early fathers of Christianity no 
 only believed in them, but wrote cumbrous 
 iblios upon their nature and attributes. It is 
 a fact deserving cf notice, that they never 
 doubted the existence and the power of the 
 Grecian and Roman gods, but supposed them 
 to be fallen angels, who had caused them 
 selves to be worshipped under particular 
 forms and for particular characteristics. To 
 what an extent and to how very late a period 
 this belief has prevailed, may be learned from 
 a remarkable little work of Fontenelle,* in 
 which that pleasing writer endeavors serious 
 ly to disprove that any preternatural power 
 was illustrated in the responses of the ancient 
 oracles. The Christian belief in good and evil 
 angels is too beautiful to be laid aside. Their 
 actual and present existence can be disproved 
 neither by analogy, philosophy, nor theolo 
 gy, nor can it be questioned wi thout casting a 
 doubt also upon the whole system of our reli 
 gion. This religion, by many a fanciful skep 
 tic, has been called barren and gloomy ; but 
 setting aside all the legends of the Jews, and 
 confining ourselves entirely to the generally 
 received Scriptures, there will be found suffi 
 cient food for an imagination warm as that of 
 Homer, Apelles, or Praxiteles. It is astonish 
 ing that such rich materials for poetry should 
 for so many centuries have been so little re 
 garded, appropriated, or even perceived. 
 
 Tin- story of Zophiel, though accompanied 
 by many notes, is simple and easily followed. 
 Reduced to prose, and a child, or any person 
 of the commonest apprehension, would read 
 it with satisfaction. It is in six cantos, and 
 is supposed to occupy the time of nine months: 
 iVnin the blooming of roses at Echatana to the 
 coming in of spices at Babylon. Of this time 
 the greater part is supposed to elapse be- 
 tvvfcii the second and third cantos, where 
 Zophiel thus speaks of Egla to Phraerion: 
 
 ^et still she bloomed uninjured, innocent 
 
 Though now for seven sweet moons by Zophiel 
 watched and wooed. 
 
 * H:t )i-c des Oracles. 
 
 The king of Medea, introduced in the sec 
 ond canto, is an ideal personage ; but the his 
 tory of that country, near the time of the 
 second captivity, is very confused, and more 
 than one young prince like Sardius might 
 have reigned and died without a record. So 
 much of the main story, however, as relates 
 to human life is based upon sacred or profane 
 history ; and we have sufficient authority for 
 the legend of an angel s passion for one of 
 the fair daughters of our own world. It was 
 a custom in the early ages to style heroes, to 
 raise to the rank of demigods, men who were 
 distinguished for great abilities, qualities, or 
 actions. Above such men the angels who 
 are supposed to have visited the earth, were 
 but one grade exalted, and they were capable 
 of participating in human pains and pleas 
 ures. Zophiel is described as one of those 
 who fell with Lucifer, not from ambition or 
 turbulence, but from friendship and excessive 
 admiration of the chief disturber of the tran 
 quillity of heaven: as he declares, when 
 thwarted by his betrayer, in the fourth canto : 
 Though the first seraph formed, how could I tell 
 The ways of guile ? What marvels I believed 
 When cold ambition mimicked love so well 
 That half the sons of heaven looked on deceived ! 
 
 During the whole interview in which this 
 stanza occurs, the deceiver of men and an 
 gels exhibits his alleged power of inflicting 
 pain. He says to Zophiel, after arresting his 
 course: 
 
 " Sublime Intelligence ! 
 
 Once chosen for my friend and worthy me : 
 Not so wouldst thou have labored to be hence, 
 
 Had my emprise been crowned with victory. 
 When I was bright in heaven, thy seraph eyes 
 
 Sought only mine. But he who every power 
 Beside, while hope allured him, could despise, 
 
 Changed and forsook me in misfortune s hour." 
 
 To which Zophiel replies : 
 
 : Changed, and forsook thee ? this from thee to me 1 
 
 Once noble spirit ! Oh ! had not too much 
 My o erfond heart adored thy fallacy, 
 
 I had not now been here to bear thy keen reproach ; 
 
 "orsook thee in misfortune ? at thy side 
 
 I closer fought as perils thickened round, 
 Watched o er thee fallen : the light of heav n denied, 
 
 But proved my love more fervent and profound. 
 
 rone as thou wert, had I been mortal horn, 
 
 And owned as many lives as leaves there be, 
 v rom all Hyrcania by his tempest torn 
 
 I had lost, one by one, and given the last for thee 
 Oh ! had thy plighted pact of faith been kept, 
 
 Still unaccomplished were the curse of sin; 
 Mid all the woes thy ruined followers wept, 
 
 Had friendship lingered, hell could nothave been." 
 
MARIA BROOKS, 
 
 Phraerion, another fallen angel, but of a 
 nature gentler than that of Zophiel, is thus 
 introduced : 
 Harmless Phraorion, formed to dwell on high, 
 
 Retained the looks that had been his above ; 
 And his harmonious lip, and sweet blue eye, 
 
 Soothed the fallen seraph s heart, and changed his 
 ]N o soul creative in this being bom, [scorn to love ; 
 
 Its restless, daring, fond aspirings hid ; 
 Within the vortex of rebellion drawn, 
 
 He joined the shining ranks as others did. 
 Success but little had advanced ; defeat 
 
 He thought so little, scarce to him were worse ; 
 And, as he held in heaven inferior seat, 
 
 Less was his bliss, and lighter was his curse. 
 He formed no plans for happiness content 
 
 To curl the tendril, fold the bud ; his pain 
 So light, he scarcely felt his banishment. 
 
 Zophiel, perchance, had held him in disdain ; 
 But, formed for friendship, from his o erfrauaht soul 
 
 T was such relief his burning thoughts to pour 
 In other ears, that oft the strong control [more. 
 
 Of pride he felt them burst, and could restrain no 
 Zophisl was soft, but yet all flame ; by turns 
 
 Love, grief, remorse, shame, pity, jealousy, 
 Each boundless in his breast, impels or burns : 
 
 His joy was bliss, his pain was agony. 
 
 Such are the principal preterhuman char 
 acters in the poem. Egla, the heroine, is a 
 Hebress, of perfect beauty, who lives with 
 her parents not far from the city of Ecbatana, 
 and has been saved by stratagem from a gen 
 eral massacre of captives under a former king 
 of Medea. Being brought before the reign 
 ing monarch to answer for the supposed 
 murder of Meles, she exclaims : 
 
 Sad from my birth, nay, born upon that day 
 When perished all my race, my infant ears 
 
 Were opened first with groans ; and the first ray 
 I saw, came dimly through my mother s tears. 
 
 Zophiel is described throughout the poem 
 as burning with the admiration of virtue, yet 
 frequently betrayed into crime by the pursuit 
 of pleasure. Straying accidentally to the 
 grove of Egla, he is struck with her beauty, 
 and finds consolation in her presence. Hi s first 
 appearance to her is beautifully described : 
 in the dusky room, where she mourned her 
 destiny, is suddenly a light, then something 
 like a silvery cloud : 
 
 The form it hid 
 Modest emerged, as might a youth beseem ; 
 
 Save a slight scarf, his beauty bare, and white 
 As cygnet s bosom on some silver stream; 
 
 Or youno: Narcissus, when to woo the light 
 Of iis first morn, that floweret open springs ; 
 
 And near the maid he comes with timid gaze, 
 And gently fans her with his full-spread wings, 
 
 Transparent as the cooling gush that plays 
 
 From ivory fount. Each bright prismatic tint 
 
 Still vanishing, returning, blending, changing 
 About their tender mystic texture glint, 
 
 Like colors o er the fullblown bubble ranging, 
 That pretty urchins launch upon the air, 
 
 And laugh to see it vanish ; yet, sr bright, 
 More like and even that were laint compare 
 
 As shaped from some new rainbow. Rosy light, 
 Like that which pagans say the dewy car 
 
 Precedes of their Aurora, clipped him round, 
 Retiring as he moved ; and evening s star 
 
 Shamed not the diamond coronal that bound 
 His curly locks. And still to teach kis face 
 
 Expression dear to her he wooed, he sought ; 
 And in his hand he held a little vase 
 
 Of virgin gold, in strange devices wrought. 
 
 He appears however at an unfortunate mo 
 ment, for the fair Judean has just yielded to 
 the entreaties of her mother and assented to 
 proposals offered by Meles, a noble of the 
 country ; but Zophiel causes his rival to ex 
 pire suddenly on entering the bridal apart 
 ment, and his previous life at Babylon, as 
 revealed in the fifth canto, shows that he was 
 not undeserving of his doom. Despite her 
 extreme sensibility, Egla has much strength 
 of character ; she is conscientious and cau 
 tious, and she regards the advances of Zo 
 phiel with distrust and apprehension. Meles 
 being missed, she is brought to court to an 
 swer for his murder. Her sole fear is for her 
 parents, who are the only Hebrews in the 
 kingdom, and are suffered to live but through 
 the clemency of Sardius, a young prince who 
 has lately come to the throne, and who, like 
 many oriental monarchs, reserves to himself 
 the privilege of decreeing death. The king 
 is convinced of her innocence, and, struck 
 with her extraordinary beauty and character, 
 resolves suddenly to make her his queen. 
 We know of nothing in its way finer than 
 the description which follows, of her intro 
 duction, in the simple costume of her coun 
 try, to a gorgeous banqueting hall in which 
 he sits with his assembled chiefs : 
 With unassured yet graceful step advancing, 
 
 The light vermilion of her cheek more warm 
 For doubtful modesty ; while all were glancing 
 
 Over the strange attire that well became such form. 
 To lend her space the admiring band gave way ; 
 
 The sandals on her silvery feet were blue ; 
 Of saffron tint her robe, as when young day 
 
 Spreads softly o er the heavens, and tints the 
 
 trembling dew. 
 Light was that robe as mist ; and not a gem 
 
 Or ornament impedes its wavy fold, 
 Long and profuse, save that, above its hem, 
 
 Twas broidered with pomegranate wreath, m 
 gold. 
 
71 
 
 MARIA BROOKS. 
 
 And, hv a silken cincture, broad and blue, 
 
 In shapely guise about the waist confined, 
 
 Blent with the .curls that, of a lighter hue, 
 
 Halt floated, waving in their length behind; 
 
 The other halt, in braided tresses twined, 
 
 Was decked \\ iih rows of pearls, and sapphire s az- 
 Arranged with curious skill to imitate [ure too. 
 
 The sweet acacia s blossoms ; just as live 
 And droop those tender flowers in natural state , 
 
 And so the trembling gems seemed sensitive, 
 And pendent, sometimes touch her neck ; and there 
 
 Seemed shrinking from its softness as alive. 
 And round her arms, flour-white and round and fair, 
 
 Slight bandelets were twined of colors five, 
 Like little rainbows seemly on those arms ; 
 
 None of that court had seen the like before, 
 Soft, fragrant, bright so much like heaven her 
 
 It scarce could seem idolatry to adore, [charms, 
 He who beheld her hand forgot her face ; 
 
 Yet in that face was all beside forgot; 
 And he who, as she went, beheld her pace, 
 
 And locks profuse, had said, " Nay, turn thee not." 
 Placed on a banquet couch beside the king, 
 
 Mid many a sparkling guest no eye forbore ; 
 But, like their darts, the warrior princes fling 
 
 Such looks as seemed to pierce, and scan her o er 
 Nor met alone the glare of lip and eye [and o er; 
 
 Charms, but not rare : the gazr-r stern and cool, 
 Who sought but faults, nor fault or spot could spy ; 
 
 In every limb, joint, vein, the maid was beautiful, 
 Save that her lip, like some bud-bursting flower, 
 
 Just scorned the bounds of symmetry, perchance, 
 But by its rashness gained an added power, 
 
 Heightening perfection to luxuriance. 
 But that was only when she smiled, and when 
 
 Dissolved the intense expression of her eye ; 
 And had her spirit love first seen her then, 
 
 He had not doubted her mortality. 
 
 Idaspes, the Medean vizier, or prime min 
 ister, has reflected on the maiden s story, and 
 is alarmed for the safety of his youthful sov 
 ereign, who consents to some delay and ex 
 periment, but will not be dissuaded from his 
 design until five inmates of his palace have 
 fallen dead in the captive s apartment. The 
 last of these is Altheetor, a favorite of the 
 king (whose Greek name is intended to ex 
 press his qualities), and the circumstances of 
 his death, and the consequent grief of Egla 
 and despair of Zophiel, are painted with a 
 beauty, power, and passion, scarcely sur 
 passed : 
 
 Touching his golden harp to prelude sweet, 
 
 Entered the youth, so pensive, pale, and fair; 
 Advanced respectful to the virgin s feet, [there. 
 
 And, lowly bending down, made tuneful parlance 
 Like perfume, soft his gentle accents rose, 
 
 \nd sweetly thrilled the gilded roof along; 
 Mis \\;inu, devoted soul no terror knows, 
 
 And trutn and love lend fervor to his song. 
 She hides her face upon her couch, that there 
 
 She nvi? not see him die. No groan she springs 
 
 Frantic between a hope beam and despair, 
 
 And twines her long hair round him as he sings 
 Then thus : " Oh ! being, who unseen, but near 
 
 Art hovering now, behold and pity me ! 
 For love, hope, beauty, music all that s dear, 
 
 Look, look on me, and spare my agony ! 
 Spirit ! in mercy make not me the cause, 
 
 The hateful cause, of this kind being s death ! 
 In pity kill me first ! He lives he draws 
 
 Thou wilt not blast! he draws his harmless breath!" 
 
 Still lives Altheetor; still unguarded strays 
 
 One hand o er his fallen "tyre; but all his soul 
 Is lost given up. He fain would turn to gaze, 
 
 But can not turn, so twined. Now all that stole 
 Through every vein and thrilled each separate nerve, 
 
 Himself could not have told, all wound and clasped 
 In her white arms and hair. Ah ! can they serve 
 
 To save him 1 " What a sea of sweets !" he gasped, 
 But t was delight, sound, fragrance, all,were breath 
 ing. 
 
 Still swell d the transport: "Let me look and thank, 
 He sighed, (celestial smiles his lips enwreathing ;) 
 
 " I die but ask no more," he said, and sank 
 Still by her arms supported lower lower 
 
 As by soft sleep oppressed ; so calm, so fair, 
 He rested on the purple tapestried floor, 
 
 It seemed an angel lay reposing there. 
 
 Ar>d Zophiel exclaims 
 
 " He died of love, of the o erperfect joy 
 
 Of being pitied prayed for pressed by thee ! 
 Oh, for the fate of that devoted boy 
 
 I d sell my birthright to eternity. 
 I m not the cause of this, thy last distress. 
 
 Nay ! look upon thy spirit ere he flies ! 
 Look on me once, and learn to hate me less !" 
 
 He said, and tears fell fast from his immortal eyes. 
 
 Beloved and admired at first, Egla becomes 
 an object of hatred and fear ; for Zophiel be 
 ing invisible to others, her story is discred 
 ited, and she is suspected of murdering by 
 some baleful art all who have died in her 
 presence. She is, however, sent safely to 
 her home, and lives, as usual, in retirement 
 with her parents. The visits of Zophiel are 
 now unimpeded. He instructs the young 
 Jewess in music and poetry ; his admiration 
 and affection grow with the hours ; and he 
 exerts his immortal energies to preserve her 
 from the least pain or sorrow, but selfishly 
 confines her as much as possible to solitude, 
 and permits for her only such amusements 
 as he himself can minister. Her confidence 
 in him increases, and in her gentle society 
 he almost fjrgets his fall and banishment. 
 
 But the difference in their natures causes 
 him continual anxiety ; knowing her mortali 
 ty, he is always in fear that death or sudden 
 blight will deprivs him of her ; and he con 
 sults with Phrae. ion on the best means of 
 
MARIA 13 ROOKS. 
 
 /.I 
 
 saving her from the perils of human exist 
 ence. One evening, 
 
 Round Phraiirion, nearer drawn, 
 One beauteous arm he flung : " First to my love ! 
 
 We 11 see her safe ; then to our task till dawn." 
 Well pleased, Phraerion answered that embrace ; 
 
 All balmy he with thousand breathing sweets, 
 From thousand dewy flowers. " But to what place," 
 
 He said, " will Zophiel go ] who danger greets 
 As if twere peace. The palace of the gnome, 
 
 Tahathyam, for our purpose most were meet ; 
 But then, the wave, so cold and fierce, the gloom, 
 
 The whirlpools, rocks, that guard that deep retreat ! 
 Yet there are fountains which no sunny ray 
 
 E er danced upon, and drops come there at last, 
 Which, for whole ages, filtering all the way, 
 
 Through all the veins of earth, in winding maze 
 
 have past. 
 
 These take from mortal beauty every stain, 
 And smooth the unseemly lines of age and pain, 
 
 With every wondrous efficacy rife ; 
 Nay, once a spirit whispered of a draught, 
 Of which a drop, by any mortal quaffed, [life. 
 
 Would save, for terms of years, his feeble, flickering 
 Tahathyam is the son of a fallen angel, and 
 lives concealed in the bosom of the earth, 
 guarding in his possession a vase of the elixir 
 of life, bequeathed to him by a father whom 
 he is not permitted to see. The visit of Zo 
 phiel and Phraerion to this beautiful but un 
 happy creature will remind the reader of the 
 splendid creations of Dante : 
 The soft flower spirit shuddered, looked on high, 
 
 And from his bolder brother would have fled ; 
 But then the anger kindling in that eye 
 
 He could not bear. So to fair Egla s bed [dread, 
 
 Followed and looked ; then shuddering all with 
 
 To wondrous realms, unknown to men, he led ; 
 Continuing long in sunset course his flight, 
 
 Until for flowery Sicily he bent ; 
 Then, where Italia smiled upon the night, [scent. 
 
 Between their nearest shores chose midway his de- 
 The sea was calm, and the reflected moon 
 
 Still trembled on its surface ; not a breath 
 Curled the broad mirror : night had passed her noon ; 
 
 How soft the air ! how cold the depths beneath ! 
 The spirits hover o er that surface smooth, 
 
 Zophiel s white arm around PhraSrion s twined, 
 In fond caress, his tender cares to soothe, [hind. 
 
 While either s nearer wing the other s crossed be- 
 Well pleased, Phraerion half forgot his dread, 
 
 And first, with foot as white as lotus leaf, 
 The sleepy surface of the waves essayed ; [grief. 
 
 But then his smile of love gave place to drops of 
 How could he for that fluid, dense and chill, 
 
 Change the sweet floods of air they floated on 1 
 E en at the touch his shrinking fibres thrill ; 
 
 But ardent Zophicl, panting, hurries on, 
 And (catching his mild brother s tears, with lip 
 
 That whispered courage twixt each glowing kiss) 
 
 Persuades to plunge : limbs, wings, and locks, they 
 dip; 
 
 Whate er the other s pains, the lover felt but bliss. 
 
 Quicklv he draws Phraerion on, his toil 
 
 Even lighter than he hoped ; some power benign 
 Seems to restrain the surges, while they boil 
 
 Mid crags and caverns, as of his design 
 Respectful. That black, bitter element, 
 
 As if obedient to his wish, gave way ; 
 So, comforting Phraerion, on he went, 
 
 And a high, craggy arch they reach at dawn of day, 
 Upon the upper world ; and forced them through 
 
 That arch, the thick, cold floods, with such a roar, 
 That the bold sprite receded, and would view 
 
 The cave before he ventured to explore. 
 Then, fearful lest his frighted guide might part 
 
 And not be missed amid such strife and din, 
 He strained him closer to his burning heart, 
 
 And, trusting to his strength, rushed fiercely in. 
 On, on, for many a weary mile they fare ; 
 
 Till thinner grew the floods, long dark and dense, 
 From nearness to earth s core ; and now, a glare 
 
 Of grateful light relieved their piercing sense ; 
 As when, above, the sun his genial streams 
 
 Of warmth and light darts mingling with the waves 
 Whole fathoms down ; while, amorous of his beams, 
 
 Each scaly, monstrous thing leaps from its slimy 
 And now, Phraerion, with a tender cry, [caves. 
 
 Far sweeter than the landlord s note, afar 
 Heard through the azure arches of the sky, 
 
 By the long baffled, storm worn mariner : 
 " Hold, Zophiol ! rest thec now our task is done, 
 
 Tahathyam s realms alone can give this light ! 
 Oh ! though tis not the life awakening sun, 
 
 How sweet to see it break upon such fearful night!" 
 Clear grew the wave, and thin ; a substance white 
 
 The wide expanding cavern floors and flanks ; 
 Could one have looked from high, how fair the sight ! 
 
 Like these, the dolphin, on Bahaman banks, 
 Cleaves the warm fluid, in his rainbow tints, 
 
 While even his shadow on the sands below 
 Is seen, as through the wave he glides and glints, 
 
 Where lies the polished shell, and branching corals 
 No massive gate impedes ; the wave in vain [grow. 
 
 Might strive against the air to break or fall ; 
 And, at the portal of that strange domain, 
 
 A clear, bright curtain seemed, or crystal wall. 
 The spirits pass its bounds, but would not far 
 
 Tread its slant pavement, like unbidden guest ; 
 The while, on either side, a bower of spar 
 
 Gave invitation for a moment s rest. 
 And, deep in either bower, a little throne 
 
 Looked so fantastic, it were hard to know 
 If busy Nature fashioned it alone, 
 
 Or found some curious artist bore below. 
 Soon spoke Phra-rion : " Come, Tahathyam, come. 
 
 Thou knowest me well I saw theo once, to love, 
 And bring a guest to view thy sparkling dome 
 
 Who comes full fraught with tidings from above." 
 Those gentle tones, nngolicully rlenr, 
 
 Passed from his lips, in m;v/.y depths retreating, 
 (As if that bower had been the cavern s ear.) 
 
 Full many a stadia far; and kept repeating, 
 As through the perforated rock they pass, 
 
 Echo to echo guiding them ; their tone 
 (As just from the sweet spirit s lip) at lat 
 
 Tahathyam heard : where on a glittering throna 
 he solitary sat. 
 
i tj 
 
 MARIA BROOKS. 
 
 Sending through the rock an answering 
 strain, to give the spirits welcome, the gnome 
 prepares to meet them at his palace door : 
 
 He sat upon a car (and the large pearl, 
 
 Once cradled in it, glimmered now without), 
 Bound midway on two serpents backs, that curl 
 
 In silent swiftness as he glides about. 
 A shell, twas first in liquid amber wet, 
 
 Thru, ere the fragrant cement hardened round, 
 All o er with large and precious stones twas set 
 
 By skilful Tsavaven, or made or found. 
 The reins seemed pliant crystal, (but their strength 
 
 Had matched his earthly mother s silken band), 
 And. flecked with rubies, flowed in ample length, 
 
 Like sparkles o er Tahathyam s beauteous hand. 
 The reptiles, in their fearful beauty, drew. 
 
 As if from love, like steeds of Araby; 
 Like blood of lady s lip their scarlet hue ; [to see. 
 
 Their scales so bright and sleek, twas pleasure but 
 With open mouths, as proud to show the bit, [eye 
 
 They raise their heads and arch their necks (with 
 As bright as if with meteor fire twere lit) ; 
 
 And dart their barbed tongues twixt fangs of ivory. 
 These, when the quick advancing sprites they saw 
 
 Furi their swift wings, and tread with angel grace 
 The smooth, fair pavement, check"- 1 their speed in 
 
 And glided far aside as if to give thiMi space, [awe. 
 
 The errand of the angels is made known 
 to the sovereign of this interior and resplen 
 dent world, and upon conditions the precious 
 elixir is promised ; but first Zophiel and Phra- 
 cjrion are ushered through sparry portals to a 
 banquet : 
 
 High towered the palace, and its massive pile, 
 
 Made dubious if of nature or of art, 
 So wild and so uncouth ; yet, all the while, 
 
 Shaped to strange grace in every varying part. 
 And proves adorned it, green in hue, and bright, 
 
 As icicles about a laurel tree ; 
 And danced about their twigs a wondrous light; 
 
 Whence came that light so far beneath the sea 1 
 Zophiel looked up to know, and to his view 
 
 Tlu van t scarce seemed less vast than that of day ; 
 No rocky roof was seen ; a tender blue 
 
 Appeared, as of the sky, and clouds about it play : 
 And, in the midst, an orb looked as twere meant 
 
 To shame the sun, it mimicked him so well. 
 But ah! no quickening, grateful warmth it sent; 
 
 Cold as the rock beneath, the paly radiance fell. 
 Within, from thousand lamps, the lustre strays, 
 
 Reflected back from gems about the wall ; 
 And from twelve dolphin shapes a fountain plays, 
 
 Just in the centre of a spacious hall ; 
 But whether in the sunbeam formed to sport, 
 
 Tin-so shapes once lived in suppleness and pride, 
 And then, to decorate this wondrous court, 
 
 Were s o en from the waves and petrified ; 
 Or, moulded by some imitative gnome, 
 
 And sru ed aU o er with gems, they were but stone, 
 Ciistinir their showers and rainbows neath the dome, 
 
 To nun. or auge.i s eye might not be known. 
 \o snowy fleece in these sad realms was found, 
 
 Nor si ken ball bv maiden loved so well ; 
 But, ranged in lightest garniture around, 
 
 In seemly fo ds, a shining tapestry fell. 
 And fibres of asbestos, bleached in fire, 
 
 And all with pearls and sparkling gems o erflecked, 
 Of that strange court composed the rich attire, 
 
 And such the cold, fair form of sad Tahathyam 
 decked. 
 
 Gified with every pleasing endowment, in 
 possession of an elixir of which a drop per 
 petuates life and youth, surrounded by friends 
 of his own choice, who are all axious to please 
 and amuse him, the gnome feels himself in 
 ferior in happiness to the lowest of mortals. 
 His sphere is confined, his high powers use 
 less, for he is without the " last, best gift of 
 God to man," and there is no object on which 
 he can exercise his benevolence. The feast 
 is described with the terse beauty which 
 marks all the canto, and at its close 
 The banquet cups, of many a hue and shape, 
 
 Bossed o er with gems, were beautiful to view ; 
 But, for the madness of the vaunted grape, 
 
 Their only draught was a pure, limpid dew. 
 The spirits while they sat in social guise, 
 
 Pledging each goblet with an answering kiss, 
 Marked many a gnome conceal his bursting sighs ; 
 
 And thought death happier than a life like this. 
 But they had music : at one ample side 
 
 Of the vast area of that sparkling hall, 
 Fringed round with gems, that all the rest outvied, 
 
 In form of canopy, was seen to fall 
 The stony tapestry, over what, at first, 
 
 An altar to some deity appeared ; 
 But it had cost full many a year to adjust 
 
 The limpid crystal tubes that neath upreared 
 Their different lucid lengths ; and so complete 
 
 Their w r ondrous rangement, that a tuneful gnome 
 Drew from them sounds more varied, clear, and 
 sweet, 
 
 Than ever yet had rung in any earthly dome. 
 Loud, shrilly, liquid, soft ; at that quick touch 
 
 Such modulation wooed his an<;el ears, 
 That Zophiel wondered, started from his couch, 
 
 And thought upon the music of the spheres. 
 
 But Zophiel lingers with ill dissembled 
 impatience, and Tahathyam leads the way 
 to where the elixir of life is to be surren 
 dered: 
 
 Soon through the rock they wind ; the draught di 
 vine 
 
 Was hidden by a -veil the king alone might lift. 
 Cephroniel s son, with half averted face 
 
 And fe taring band, that curtain drew, and showed, 
 Of solid diamond formed, a lucid vase; 
 
 And warm within the pure elixir glowed ; 
 Bright red, like flame, and blood (could they so meet) 
 
 Ascending, sparkling, dancing, whirling, ever 
 In quick, perpetual movement ; and of heat 
 So hiirh, the rock was warm beneath their feet, 
 
 (Yet heat in its intenseness hurtful never,) 
 
MARIA BROOKS. 
 
 77 
 
 Even to the entrance of the long arcade 
 
 Which led to that deep shrine, in the rock s hreast 
 As far as if the ha t-ange! were afraid 
 
 To know the secret he himse f possessed. 
 Tahathyam fi led a s ip of spar, with dread, 
 
 As if stood hy and frowned some power divine ; 
 Then trembling, as he turned to Zophiel, said, 
 
 " But for one service sha t thou call it thine ; 
 Bring me a wife ; as I have named the way 
 
 (I will not risk destruction save for love !) 
 Fair-haired and beauteous, like my mother; say 
 
 P jght me this pact ; so sha t thou bear above, 
 For thine own purpose, what has here been kept 
 
 Since b .oomed the second age, to angels dear. 
 Bursting from earth s dark womb, the fierce wave 
 swept 
 
 Off every form that lived and loved, while here, 
 Deep hidden here, I still lived on and wept." 
 
 Great pains have evidently been taken to 
 have everything throughout the work in 
 keeping. Most of the names have been 
 selected for their particular meaning. Ta 
 hathyam and his retinue appear to have been 
 settled in their submarine dominion before 
 the great deluge that changed the face of the 
 earth, as is intimated in the-lines last quoted ; 
 and as the accounts of that judgment and of 
 the visits and communications of angels con 
 nected with it are chiefly in Hebrew, they 
 have names from that language. It would 
 have been better perhaps not to have called 
 the persons of the third canto gnomes, as at 
 this word one is reminded of all the varieties 
 of the Rosicrucian system, of which Pope has 
 so well availed himself in the Rape of the 
 Lock, which sprightly production has been 
 said to be derived, though remotely, from 
 Jewish legends of fallen angels. Tahathyam 
 can be called gnome only on account of the 
 retreat to which his erring father has con 
 signed him. 
 
 The spirits leave the cavern, and Zophiel 
 exults a moment, as if restored to perfect 
 happiness. But there is no way of bearing 
 his prize to the earth except through the 
 moKt dangerous depths of the sea. 
 
 Zophiel, with toil severe, 
 But bliss in view, through the thrice murky night, 
 
 Sped swiftly on. A treasure now more dear 
 He had to guard, than boldest hope had dared 
 
 To breathe for years ; but rougher grew the way ; 
 And soft Phraerion, shrinking back and scared [day, 
 
 ^t every whirling depth, wept for his flowers and 
 Shivered, and pained, and shrieking, as the waves 
 
 Wildly impel them gainst the jutting rocks; 
 Not all the care and strength of Zophiel saves 
 
 His tender guide from half the wi dering shocks 
 He bore. The calm, which favored their descent, 
 
 And bade them look upon their task as o er, 
 
 W;is past; and now the inmost earth seemed rent 
 
 With such fierce storms as never raged before. 
 Of a long mortal life had the whole pain 
 
 Essenced in one consummate pang, been borne, 
 Known, and survived, it still would be in vain 
 
 To try to paint the pains felt by these sprites forli rn 
 The precious drop closed in its hollow spar, 
 
 Between his lips Zophiel in triumph bore. 
 Now, earth and sea seem shaken ! Dashed afar 
 
 He feels it part; tis dropped : the waters roar, 
 He sees it in a sable vortex whirling, 
 
 Formed by a cavern vast, that neath the sea 
 Sucks the fierce torrent in. 
 
 The furious storm has been raised by the 
 power of his betrayer and persecutor, and in 
 gloomy desperation Zophiel rises with the 
 frail Phraerion to the upper air: 
 
 Black clouds, in mass deform, 
 Were frowning ; yet a moment s ca m was there, 
 
 As it had stopped to breathe a while the storm. 
 Their white feet press the desert sod ; they shook 
 
 From their bright locks the briny drops ; nor stayed 
 Zophiil on ills, present or past, to look. 
 
 But his flight toward Medea is stayed by a 
 
 renewal of the tempest : 
 
 Loud and more loud the blast ; in mingled gyre 
 
 Flew lesves and stones, and with a deafening crash 
 Fell the uprooted trees ; heaven seemed on fire 
 
 Not, as tis wont, with intermitting flash, 
 But, like an ocean all of liquid flame, 
 
 The who e br.oad arch gave one continuous glare, 
 While through the red light from their prowling 
 came 
 
 The frighted beasts, and ran, but could not find a 
 
 lair. 
 
 At length comes a shock, as if the earth 
 crashed against some other planet, and they 
 are thrown amazed and prostrate upon the 
 
 heath. Zophiel 
 
 in a mood 
 
 Too fierce for fear, uprose ; yet ere for flight 
 Served his torn wings, a form before him stood 
 
 In gloomy majesty. Like starless night, 
 A sable mantle fell in cloudy fold 
 
 From its stupendous breast ; and as it trod, 
 The pale and lurid light at distance rolled 
 
 Before its princely feet, receding on the sod. 
 
 The interview between the bland spirit and 
 the prime cause of his guilt is full of the en 
 ergy of passion, and the rhetoric of the con 
 versation has a masculine beauty of which 
 Mrs. Brooks alone of all the poets of her sex 
 was capable. 
 
 Zophiel returns to Medea and the drama 
 draws to a close, which is painted with con 
 jummate art. Egla wanders alone at t\vi 
 lighf in th shadowy vistas of a grove, won 
 dering and sighing at the continued ansence 
 of the enamored angel, who approaches .in 
 
MARIA BROOKS. 
 
 seen while she sings a strain that he had 
 taught her. 
 
 His wings were folded o er his eyes ; severe 
 
 As was the pain he d borne from wave arid wind, 
 The dubious warning of that being drear, 
 
 Who met him in the lightning, to his mind 
 Was torture worse ; a dark presentiment 
 
 Came o er his soul with paralyzing chill, 
 As when Fate vaguely whispers her intent 
 
 To poison mortal joy with sense of coming ill. 
 He searched about the grove with all the care 
 
 Of tremb.ing jealousy, as if to trace 
 By track or wounded flower some rival there ; 
 
 And scarcely dared to look upon the face 
 Of her he loved, lest it some tale might tell 
 
 To make the only hope that soothed him vain : 
 He hears her notes in numbers die and swell, 
 
 But a most fears to listen to the strain 
 Himse f had taught her, lest some hated name 
 
 Had been with that dear gentle air enwreathed, 
 While he was far ; she sighed he nearer came 
 
 Oh, transport ! Zophiel was the name she breathed. 
 He saw her but 
 
 Paused, ere he would advance, for very bliss. 
 The joy of a who .e mortal life he felt 
 
 In that one moment. Now, too long unseen, 
 He fain had shown his beauteous form, and knelt, 
 
 But while he still delayed, a mortal rush d between. 
 
 This scene is in the sixth canto. In the 
 fifth, which is occupied almost entirely by 
 mortals, and bears a closer relation than the 
 others to the chief works in narrative and 
 dramatic poetry, are related the adventures 
 of Zameia, which, with the story of her death, 
 following the last extract, would make a fine 
 tragedy. Her misfortunes are simply told by 
 an aged attendant who had fled with her in 
 pursuit of Meles, whom she had seen and 
 loved in Babylon. At the feast of Venus 
 Mylitta, 
 
 Full in the midst, and taller than the rest, 
 
 Zameia stood distinct, and not a sigh 
 Disturbed the gem that sparkled on her breast; 
 
 Her oval cheek was heightened to a dye 
 Th.it shamed the mellow vermeil of the wreath 
 
 Which in her jetty locks became her well, 
 And mingled fragrance with her sweeter breath, 
 
 The uhi e her haughty lips more beautifully swell 
 With consciousness of every charm s excess ; 
 
 ^While with becoming scorn she turned her face 
 From every eye that darted its caress, 
 
 As if some god a .one might hope for her embrace. 
 Ai^ain she is discovered, sleeping, by the 
 rvky margin of a river: 
 Pa Mid and worn, but beautiful and young, [trace; 
 
 Though marked her charms by wildest passion s 
 Her long round arms, over a fragment flung, 
 From pillow all too rude protect a face 
 Whose dark and high arched brows gave to the 
 thought 
 
 To deem what radiance once they towered above 
 But all its proudly beauteous outline taught 
 That anger there had shared the throne of love. 
 
 It was Zameia that rushed between Zophiel 
 and Egla, and that now with quivering lip, 
 disordered hair, and eye gleaming with 
 phrensy, seized her arm, reproached her with 
 the murder of Meles, and attempted to kill 
 her. But as her dagger touches the white 
 robe of the maiden, her arm is arrested by 
 some unseen power, and she falls dead at 
 Egla s feet. Reproached by her own hand 
 maid and by the aged attendant of the prin 
 cess, Egla feels all the horrors of despair, 
 and, beset with evil influences, she seeks to 
 end her own life, but is prevented by the 
 timely appearance of Raphael, in the char 
 acter of a traveller s guide, leading Helon, a 
 young man of her own nation and kindred 
 who has been living unknown at Babylon, 
 p r otected by the same angel, and destined to 
 be her husband ; and to the mere idea of 
 whose existence, imparted to her in a mys 
 terious and vague manner by Raphael, she 
 has remained faithful from her childhood. 
 
 Zophiel, who by the power of Lucifer has 
 been detained struggling in the grove, is suf 
 fered once more to enter the presence of the 
 object of his affection. He sees her support 
 ed in the arms of Helon, whom he makes one 
 futile effort to destroy, and then is banished 
 for ever. The emissaries of his immortal en 
 emy pursue the baffled seraph to his place 
 of exile, and by their derision endeavor to 
 augment his misery : 
 
 And when they fled, he hid him in a cave [there, 
 Strewn with the bones of some sad wretch who 
 
 Apart from men, had sought a desert grave, 
 And yielded to the demon of despair. 
 
 There beauteous Zophiel, shrinking from the day, 
 Envying the wretch that so his life had ended, 
 
 Wailed his eternity ; 
 
 but, at last, is visited by Raphael, who gives 
 him hopes of restoration to his original rank 
 in heaven. 
 
 The concluding canto is entitled The Bridal 
 of Helon, and in the following lines it con 
 tains much of the author s philosophy of life: 
 The bard has sung, God never formed a soul 
 
 Without its ow r n pecu iar mate, to meet 
 Its wandering half, when ripe to crown the whole 
 
 Brnhtplan of bliss, most heavenly, most complete ! 
 But thousand evil things there are that hate 
 
 To look on happiness ; these hurt, impede, [fate, 
 And, leagued with time, space, circumstance, and 
 
 Keep kindred heart from heart, to pine, and pant, 
 and bleed. 
 
MARIA BROOKS. 
 
 And as the dove to far Palmyra flying, 
 
 From where her native founts of Antioch beam, 
 Weary, exhausted, longing, panting, sighing, 
 
 Lights sadly at the desert s bitter stream 
 So many a soul, o er life s drear desert faring, 
 
 Love s pure, congenial spring unfound, unquafFed, 
 Suffers, recoils then thirsty and despairing 
 
 Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest 
 draught. 
 
 On consulting Zophiel, it will readily be 
 seen that the passages here extracted have 
 not. been chosen for their superior poetical 
 merit. It has simply been attempted by quo 
 tations and a running commentary to convey 
 a just impression of the scope and charactei 
 of the work. There is not perhaps in the 
 English language a poem containing a greater 
 variety of thought, description, and incident, 
 and though the author did not possess in an 
 eminent degree the constructive faculty, there 
 are few narratives that are conducted with 
 more regard to unities, or with more sim 
 plicity and perspicuity. 
 
 Though characterized by force and even 
 freedom of expression, it does not contain an 
 impure or irreligious sentiment. Every page 
 is full of passion, but passion subdued and 
 chas;ened by refinement and delicacy. Sev 
 eral of the characters are original and splen 
 did creations. Zophiel seems to us the finest 
 fallen angel that has come from the hand of 
 a poet. Milton s outcasts from heaven are 
 u.terly depraved and abraded of their glory; 
 bui Zuphiel has traces of his original virtue 
 and beauty, and a lingering hope of restora 
 tion to the presence of the Divinity. De 
 ceived by the specious fallacies of an immor 
 tal like himself, and his superior in rank, he 
 encounters the blackest perfidy in him for 
 whom so much had been forfeited, and the 
 blight of every prospect that had lured his 
 fancy or ambition. Egla, though one of the 
 most important characters in the poem, is 
 much less interesting. She is represented as 
 heroically cc nsistent, except when given over 
 for a moment to the malice of infernal emis 
 saries. In her immediate reception of Helon 
 as a husband, she is constant to a long cher 
 ished idea, and fulfils the design of her guard 
 ian spirit, or it would excite some wonder 
 that Zophiel was worsted in such competi 
 tion. It will be perceived upon a careful 
 examination that the work is in admirable 
 keeping, and that the entire conduct of its 
 several persons bears a just relation to their 
 characters and positions. 
 
 Mrs. Brooks returned to the United States, 
 and her son being now a student in the mil 
 itary academy, she took up her residence in 
 the vicinity of West Point, where, with oc 
 casional intermissions in which she visited 
 her plantation in Cuba or travelled in the 
 United States, she remained until 1839. Her 
 marked individuality, the variety, beauty, and 
 occasional splendor of her conversation, made 
 her house a favorite resort of the officers of 
 the academy, and of the most accomplished 
 persons who frequented that romantic neigh 
 borhood, by many of whom she will long be 
 remembered with mingled affection and ad 
 miration. 
 
 In 1834 she caused to be published in Bos 
 ton an edition of Zophiel, for the benefit of 
 the Polish exiles who were thronging to this 
 country after their then recent struggle for 
 freedom. There were at that time too few 
 readers among us of sufficiently cultivated 
 and independent taste to appreciate a work 
 of art which time or accident had not com 
 mended to the popular applause, and Zophiel 
 scarcely anywhere excited any interest or 
 attracted any attention. At the end of a 
 month but about twenty copies had been sold, 
 and, in a moment of disappointment, Mrs. 
 Brooks caused the remainder of the impres 
 sion to be withdrawn from the market. The 
 poem has therefore been little read in this 
 country, and even the title of it would have 
 remained unknown to the common reader of 
 elegant literature but for occasional allusions 
 to it by Southey and other foreign critics.* 
 
 In the summer of 1843, while Mrs. Brooks 
 was residing at Fort Columbus, in the bay of 
 New York a military post at which her 
 son, Captain Horace Brooks, was stationed 
 several years she had printed for private 
 circulation the remarkable little work to 
 which allusion has already been made, enti 
 tled Idomen, or The Vale of the Yumuri. It 
 is in the style of a romance, but contains lit 
 tle that is fictitious except the names of the 
 characters. The account which Idomen gives 
 of her own history is literally true, except in 
 
 * Mnria del Occidente is styled in "The Doc-tor &c, 
 "the most impassioned and most imnginntive ol (01 ppel 
 ees " And without taking into account 9 u*fta*i ardenti 
 Scattered here and thrre throughout her smirnh.r poein. 
 AerSundoubtedly .round tor the.tirst Han,, am . -th 
 the more accurate substitution of "fanciful lor ima r 
 Sve" for the whole of the eulogy. It is altogether an ex 
 traordinary performance. London Quarterly lieview. 
 
 Which [Zophiel] he [Southey] says ;s by some Yank*- 
 woman, as if there ever had been a womau capable o. 
 anything so great ! Charles Lamb 
 
MARIA BROOKS. 
 
 ri-la ion to an excursion to Niagara, which 
 occurred in a different period of the author s 
 life. It is impossible to read these interest 
 ing "confessions" without feeling a profound 
 interest in the character which they illus 
 trate ; a character of singular strength, dig- 
 niiy, and delicacy, subjected to the severest 
 tests, and exposed to the most curious and 
 easy analyses. " To see the inmost soul of 
 one who bore all the impulse and torture of 
 self-murder without perishing, is what can 
 seldom be done : very few have memories 
 strong enough to retain a distinct impression 
 of past suffering, and few, though possessed 
 of such memories, have the power of so de 
 scribing their sensations as to make them ap 
 parent to another." Idomen will possess an 
 interest and value as a psychological study, 
 independent of that which belongs to it as a 
 record of the experience of so eminent a poet. 
 
 Mrs. Brooks was anxious to have published 
 an edition of all her writings, including Ido 
 men, before leaving New York, and she au 
 thorized me to offer gratuitously her copy 
 rights to an eminent publishing house for that 
 purpose. In the existing condition of the 
 copyright laws, which should have been en 
 titled acts for the discouragement of a native 
 literature, she was not surprised that the of 
 fer was declined, though indignant that the 
 reason assigned should have been that they 
 were "of too elevated a character to sell." 
 Writing to me soon afterward she observed: 
 "I do not think anything from my humble 
 imagination can be too elevated, or ele 
 vated enough, for the public as it really is 
 
 in these North American states In the 
 
 words of poor Spurzheim, (uttered to me a 
 short time before his death, in Boston,) I sol 
 ace myself by saying, Stupidity ! stupidity! 
 the knott-li dge of that alone has saved me 
 from misanthropy. " 
 
 In December, 1843, Mrs. Brooks sailed the 
 last time from her native country for the 
 island of Cuba. There, on her coffee estate, 
 Hcrmita, she renewed for a while her litera 
 ry labors. The small stone building, smooth 
 ly plastered, with a flight of steps leading to 
 its entrance, in which she wrote some of the 
 cantos of Zophiel, is described by a recent 
 traveller* as surrounded by alleys of "palms, 
 cocoas, and oranges, interspersed with the 
 tamarind, the pomegranate, the mangoe, and 
 
 * The author of " Note* on Cuba." Boston, 1844. 
 
 the rose-apple, with a back ground of coffee 
 and plantains covering every portion of the 
 soil with their luxuriant verdure. I have 
 often passed it," he observes, "in the still 
 night, when the moon was shining brightly, 
 and the leaves of the cocoa and palm threw 
 fringe-like shadows on the walls and the floor, 
 and the elfin lamps of the cocullos swept 
 through the windows and door, casting their 
 lurid, mysterious light on every object, while 
 the air was laden with mingled perfume from 
 the coffee and orange, and the tube-rose and 
 night-blooming ceres, and have thought that 
 no fitter birthplace could be found for the 
 images she has created." 
 
 Her habits of composition were peculiar. 
 With an almost unconquerable aversion to 
 the use of tjie pen, especially in her later 
 years, it was her custom to finish her shorter 
 pieces, and entire cantos of longer poems, be 
 fore committing a word of them to paper. 
 She had long meditated, and had partly com 
 posed, an epic under the title of Beatriz, the 
 Beloved of Columbus, and when transmit 
 ting to me the manuscript of The Departed, 
 in August, 1844, she remarked : " When I 
 have written out my Vistas del Infierno and 
 one other short poem, I hope to begin the 
 penning of the epic I have so often spoken 
 to you of: but when or whether it will ever 
 be finished, Heaven alone can tell." I have 
 not learned whether this poem was written, 
 but when I heard her repeat passages of it, 
 I thought it would be a nobler work than 
 Zophiel. 
 
 But little will be said here of the minor po 
 ems of Mrs. Brooks. They evince the same 
 power and passion the imagination, fancy, 
 command of poetical language, and intense 
 feeling, which are so apparent in her chief 
 work. Many of them were written under the 
 pressure of extraordinary circumstances, and 
 these breathe of the fresh and deep emotions 
 by which they were occasioned. Others are 
 in a more eminent degree works of art, com 
 posed for the mere love of giving form to the 
 lights and shadows, and vague creations, of a 
 mind teeming with beauty. One of her latest 
 productions is the Ode to the Departed. She 
 wrote to me on the seventeenth of August, 
 1844, "I send you a poem which may possi 
 bly please you, as I remember your appro 
 val of a hymn of mine not dissimilar. On 
 the seventeenth of last April it was con 
 ceived and partly executed in the midst of a 
 
MARIA BROOKS. 
 
 8! 
 
 dearih such as had not for many years been 
 known in the island of Cuba. A late attempt 
 at insurrection had been followed by such 
 scenes and events as could not fail to call 
 forth thoughts and hopes of a future exist 
 ence, even if private sorrow had not before 
 awakened them." This poem, one written 
 about the same time under the title of Con 
 
 Vistas dd ////zerno, another To the Departed, 
 one on Revisiting Cuba, one to Painting, and 
 an Invocation to Poetry, are all that have 
 appeared in this stanza which was invented 
 by Mrs. Brooks, and was admirably suited to 
 the tone of her la er compositions. 
 
 Mrs. Brooks died at Matanzas, in Cuba, 
 on the eleventh of November, 1845. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM ZOPHIEL. 
 
 MOHXING. 
 
 How beauteous art thou, thou morning sun ! 
 
 The old man, feebly tottering forth, admires 
 As much thv beauty, now life s dream is done, 
 
 As when he moved exulting in his fires. 
 The infant strains his little arms to catch 
 
 The rays that glance about bis silken hair; 
 And L uxury hangs her amber lamps, to match [fair. 
 
 Thv face, when turned away from bower and palace 
 Sweet to the lip the draught, the blushing fruit ; 
 
 Music and perfumes mingle with the soul ; 
 How thrills the kiss, when feeling s voice is mute ! 
 
 And light and beauty s tints enhance the whole. 
 Yet each keen sense were dulness but. for tbee : 
 
 Thy ray to joy, love, virtue, genius, warms ; 
 Thou never weariest ; no inconstancy 
 
 But comes to pay new homage to thy charms. 
 How many lips have sung thy praise, how long ! 
 
 Yet, when his slumbering harp he feels tbee woo, 
 The pleasured bard pours forth another song, 
 
 And finds in tbee, like love, a theme for ever new. 
 Thy dark eyed daughters come in beauty forth, 
 
 In thy near realms ; and, like their snowwreaths fair, 
 The bright haired youths and maidens of the north 
 
 Smile in thy colors when thou art not there. 
 Tis there tbou bidst a deeper ardor glow, 
 
 And higher, purer reveries completes! ; 
 As drops that farthest from the ocean flow, 
 
 Refining all the way, from springs the sweetest. 
 Haply, sometimes, spent with the sleepless night, 
 
 Some wretch, impassioned, from sweet morning s 
 
 breath, 
 Turns bis hot btow, and sickens at thy light ; 
 
 But Nature, <;\ r er kind, soon heals or gives him 
 death. 
 
 VIRTUE. 
 
 Virtue ! how many as a lowly thing, 
 
 Born of weak folly, scorn thee ! but thy name 
 Alone they know ; upon thy soaring wing 
 
 They d fear to mount ; nor could thy sacred flame 
 Burn in their baser hearts : the biting thorn, 
 
 The flinty crag, flowers hiding, strew thy field ; 
 Yet blest is be whose daring bides the scorn 
 
 Of the frail, easy herd, and buckles on thy shield. 
 Who says thy ways are bliss, trolls but a lay 
 
 To lure the infant : if thy paths, to view, 
 Were always pleasant, Crime s worst sons would lay 
 
 Their da-jgers at thy feet, and, from mere sloth. 
 pu rsue. 
 
 6 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 What bliss for her who lives her little day, 
 
 In blest obedience, like to those divine, 
 Who to her loved, her earthly lord, can say, 
 
 " God is thy law, most just, and thou art min3." 
 To every blast she bends in beauty meek : 
 
 Let the storm beat his arms her shelter kind 
 And feels no need to blanch her rosy cheek 
 *W r ith thoughts befitting his superior mind. 
 Who only sorrows when she sees him pained, 
 
 Then knows to pluck away Pain s keenest dart ; 
 Or bid Love catch it ere its goal be gained, 
 
 And steal its venom ere it reach his heart. 
 T is the soul s food : the fervid must adore. 
 
 For this the heathen, unsufficed with thought, 
 Moulds him an idol of the glittering ore, 
 
 And shrines his smiling goddess, marble wrought 
 What bliss for her, even in this world of wo, 
 
 Oh, Sire ! who makest yon orbstrewn arch thy 
 That sees thee in thy noblest work below [throne ; 
 
 Shine undefaced, adored, and all her own ! 
 This I had hoped ; but hope, too dear, too great, 
 
 Go to thy grave ! I feel thee blasted, now. 
 Give me Fate s sovereign, well to bear the fate 
 
 Thy pleasure sends : this, my sole prayer, allow ! 
 
 LANGUAGE OF GEMS. 
 
 Look ! here s a ruby ; drinking solar rays, 
 
 I saw it redden on a mountain tip ; 
 Now on thy snowy bosom let it blaze : 
 
 T will blush still deeper to behold thy lip ! 
 Here s for thy hair a garland : every flower 
 
 That spreads its blossoms, watered by the tear 
 Of the sad slave in Babylonian bower, 
 
 Might sec its frail bright hues perpetuate here. 
 For morn s light bell, this changeful amethyst 
 
 A sapphire for the violet s tender blue ; 
 Large opals, for the queenrose zephyr kist ; 
 
 And here are emeralds of every hue, 
 For folded bud and leaflet, dropped with dew 
 And here s a diamond, culled from Indian mine, 
 
 To gift a haughty queen : it might not be ; 
 I knew a worthier brow, sister divine, 
 
 And brought the gem ; for well I deem for tbee 
 The "arch cbymic sun" in earth s dark Inborn 
 wrought 
 
 To prison thus a ray, that when dull Night 
 Frowns o er her realms, and Nature s all seem* 
 naught, 
 
 She whom be grieves to leave may still behold his 
 light. 
 
82 
 
 MARIA BROOKS. 
 
 AMIITTlOy. 
 
 Wo to thce, wild Ambition ! I employ 
 
 Despair s low notes thy dread effects to tell ; 
 Born in high hea% en, her peace thou couldst destroy ; 
 
 And, but for thce, there had not been a hell. 
 Through the celestial domes thy clarion pealed ; 
 
 Angels, entranced, beneath thy banners ranged, 
 And straight were fiends ; hurled from the shrinking 
 
 They waked in agony to wail the change. [field, 
 Darting through all her veins the subtle fire, 
 
 Trie world s fair mistress first inhaled thy breath ; 
 To lot of higher beings learned to aspire ; 
 
 Dared to attempt, and doomed the world to death. 
 The thousand wild desires, that still torment 
 
 The fiercely struggling soul where peace once dwelt, 
 But perished ; feverish hope ; drear discontent, 
 
 Impoisoning all possessed oh ! I have felt 
 As spirits feel yet not for man we moan : 
 
 Scarce o er the silly bird in state were he, 
 That builds his nest, loves, sings the morn s return, 
 
 And sleeps at evening, save by aid of thee. 
 Fame ne er had roused, nor Song her records kept ; 
 
 The gem, the ore, the marble breathing life, 
 The pencil s colors, all in earth had slept, 
 
 Now see them mark with death his victim s strife. 
 Man found thee, Death : but Death and dull Decay, 
 
 Baffling, by aid of thee, his mastery proves ; 
 By mighty works he swells his narrow day, 
 
 And reigns, for ages, on the world he loves. 
 Yet what the price 1 With stings that never cease 
 
 Thou goadst him on ; and when too keen the smart, 
 His highest dole he d barter but for peace 
 
 Food thou wilt have, or feast upon his heart. 
 
 MELES AXD EGLA CONTRASTED. 
 
 She meekly stood. He fastened round her arms 
 
 Rings of refulgent ore ; low and apart 
 Murmuring, "So, beauteous captive, shall thy charms 
 
 For ever thrall and clasp thy captive s heart." 
 The air s li<rht touch seemed softer as she moved, 
 
 In languid resignation ; his quick eye 
 Spoke in black glances how she was approved, 
 
 Who shrank reluctant from its ardency. 
 Twas sweet to look upon the goodly pair 
 
 In their contrasted loveliness : her height 
 Might almost vie with his, but heavenly fair, 
 
 Of soil- proportion she, and sunny hair; [night. 
 He cast in manliest mould, with ringlets murk as 
 And oft. her drooping and resigned blue eye 
 
 She d wistful raise to read his radiant face; 
 But then, why shrunk her heart? a secret sigh 
 
 Told her it most required what there it couldnot 
 trace. 
 
 EGLA RECLIXTXG. 
 
 Lone in the still retreat, 
 
 Wounding the (lowers to sweetness more intense, 
 Sue sank. Thus kindly Nature lets our wo 
 
 Swell till it bursts forth from the o erfraught breast ; 
 Then draws an opiate from the bitter flow, 
 
 And lays her sorrowing child soft in the lap of Rest. 
 Now all the mortal maid lies-indolent 
 
 save one sweet cheek, which the cool velvet turf 
 Had touched too rude, though all with blooms be 
 sprent. 
 
 One soft arm pillowed. Whiter than the surf 
 That foams against the sea rock looked her neck 
 
 By the dark, glossy, odorous shrubs relieved, 
 That close inclining o er her, seemed to reck 
 
 What t was they canopied ; and quickly heaveii 
 Beneath her robe s white folds and azure zone, 
 
 Her heart yet incom posed ; a fillet through 
 Peeped softly azure, while with tender moan, 
 
 As if of bliss, Zephyr her ringlets blew 
 Sportive : about her neck their gold he twined 
 
 Kissed the soft violet on her temples warm, 
 And eyebrow just so dark might well define 
 
 Its flexile arch throne of expression 9 charm. 
 As the vexed Caspian, though its rage be past, 
 
 And the blue smiling heavens swell o er in peace, 
 Shook to the centre by the recent blast, [cease ; 
 
 Heaves on tumultuous still, and hath n^t power to 
 So still each little pulse was seen to throb, 
 
 Though passion and its pain were lulled to rest ; 
 And ever and anon a piteous sob 
 
 Shook the pure arch expansive o er her breast. 
 
 AX ARCHER. 
 
 Rememberest thou 
 
 When to the altar, by thy father reared, 
 As we went forth with sacrifice and vow, 
 
 A victim dove escaped, and there appeared 
 A stranger ? Quickly from his shrilly string 
 
 He let an arrow glance ; and to a tree 
 Nailed last the little truant, by the wing, 
 
 And brought it. scarcely bleeding, back to thee. 
 His voice, his mien, the lustre of his eye, 
 
 And pretty deed he d done, were theme of praise; 
 Though blent with fear that stranger should espy 
 
 Thy lonely haunts. When, in the sunny rays 
 He turned and went, with black locks clustering 
 
 Around his pillar neck " T is pity he," [bright 
 Thou saidst, " in all the comeliness and might 
 
 Of perfect man, tis pity he should be 
 But an idolator ! How nobly sweet 
 
 He tempers pride with courtesy ! A flow-er 
 Drops honey when he speaks. His sandaled feet 
 
 Are light as antelope s. He stands, a tower." 
 
 EGLA S COURAGE. 
 
 Despite of all, the starting tear, 
 
 The melting tone, the blood suffusive, proved 
 The soul that in them spoke could spurn at fear 
 
 Of death or danger ; and had those she loved 
 Required it at their need, she could have stood, 
 
 Unmoved, as some fair sculptured statue, while 
 The dome that guards it, earth s convulsions rude 
 
 Are shivering, meeting ruin with a smile. 
 
 SIGHIXG FOR THE V X ATTAIXA B Li.. 
 
 Tis as a vine of Galilee should say, 
 " Culturer, I reck not thy support, I sigh 
 
 For a young palm tree of Euphrates; nay, 
 Or let me him entwine, or in my blossom die." 
 
 LOVE S SURGERY. 
 
 He who would gain 
 A fond, full heart in love s soft surgery skilled, 
 
 Should seek it when tis sore ; allay its pain 
 With balm by pity prest : tis all his own so healed 
 
MARIA BROOKS. 
 
 ODE ON REVISITING CUBA. 
 
 ISLE of eternal spring, thou rt desolate 
 To me ; thy limpid seas, thy fragrant shores, 
 Whither I ve sighed to come 
 And make a tranquil home, 
 
 Have lost to me their charm ; my heart deplores, 
 Vainly, of two it loved the melancholy doom. 
 
 Well may I weep you, gentle souls, that, while 
 On earth, responded to the love of mine, 
 Through eyes of heavenly blue, 
 More deeply, fondly true, 
 Haply, than He, who lent his breath divine, 
 May give again on earth to cheer me with their 
 
 smile. 
 
 Mv George, if thcu hadst faults, they only were 
 That, thou wert gifted ill for this poor sphere 
 Where first he faints who spares 
 Earth s selfish, sordid cares ; 
 And what might fau ts to baser eyes appear, 
 When ta en where angels dwell, must be bright vir 
 tues there. 
 
 Men toil, betray, nay, even kill, for gold ; 
 But had some wretch pressed by misfortune sore 
 Asked thy last piece of thee 
 To ease his misery, 
 
 When thou couldst only look to Heaven for more, 
 That last piece had been given, and thine own safety 
 
 sold. 
 
 Oft when the noisome streams of pestilence 
 Poisoned the air around thee, hast thou stayed 
 By friends, while thirsty Death 
 Lurked near, to quaff their breath ; 
 And soothed and saved while others were afraid, 
 And hardier hearts and hands than thine rushed 
 wildly thence. 
 
 Oh, could I find thee in some palm leaf cot, 
 Still for this earth, with thy sweet brothers too, 
 Though scarce our worldly hoard 
 Sufficed a frugal board, 
 
 Hope should beguile no more : I d live for you, 
 Disclaim all other love and sing, and bless my lot. 
 
 All other love ? what love for me was e er, 
 My Edgar, oh, my first born ! like to thine 1 
 Too faithful for thy state 
 Thou wert too passionate 
 Too vehement devoted Powers benign ! 
 That thy last pain should pass, and I not by to 
 
 share ! 
 
 Love speaks, tis said, but what eiitones his voice 1 
 Avarice, ambition, vanity, or oft 
 Sensations such as wake 
 Blind mole and mottled snake ; 
 Fierce with the cruel, gentle with the soft 
 Promiscuous in their aim, indifferent in their 
 
 choice. 
 
 Haply more often but the common wants, 
 That man with every mortal creature feels, 
 And satisfaction finds 
 Tn mantK as it binds 
 
 His neck, when cold ; or in those daily meals 
 Sufficing all the life lhat coldness leads or vaunts. 
 
 If one be lost, another serves as well ; 
 Another mantle, or another fair, 
 As well may be his own 
 If one dies his alone 
 
 He sighs not long ; enter his home, and there, 
 When past one little year, another fair will dwell. 
 
 Or see yon smiling Creole her b .ack hair 
 Braided and glittering, with one lover s gold. 
 Ere the quick flower has grown 
 O er where he sleeps alone, 
 Already to some other lover so d, 
 Or given, what both call love, and he s content to 
 
 share. 
 
 Better for those who love this world, to be 
 Even as such : a pure, pure flame, intense, 
 Edgar, as thine, consumes 
 The cheek its light illumes ; [hence, 
 
 And he whose heart enshrines such flame, must 
 And join with it, betimes, its own eternity. 
 For masculine or feminine gave naught 
 Of fuel to the hallowed fire, that burned 
 And urged thee on, of life. 
 Reckless, amid the strife 
 
 For worldly wealth, that better had been spurned : 
 Thy happiness and love, alas ! were all I sought. 
 How could I kneel and kiss the hand of Fate, 
 Were it but mine to decorate some hall 
 Here, where the soil I tread 
 Colors my feet with red 
 Far down these isles, to hear your voices call, 
 Then haste to hear and tell what happ d while sep 
 arate ! 
 
 Beautiful isles ! beneath the sunset skies 
 Tall si ver shafted palm trees rise between 
 Full orange trees that shade 
 The living colonnade ; 
 Alas ! how sad, how sickening is the scene 
 That were ye at my side would be a paradise ! 
 E en one of those cool caves which, light and dry, 
 In many a leafy hillside, near this spot, 
 Seem as by Nature made 
 For shelter and for shade 
 To such as bear a homeless wanderer s lot, 
 Were home enough for me, could those I mourn 
 
 be nigh. 
 
 Pa 1 ace or cave (where neath the blossom and lime 
 Winter lies hid with wreaths) alike may be, 
 If love and taste unite, 
 A dwelling for delight, 
 
 And kings might leave their silken courts, to see 
 O er such wild, garnished grot, the grandiflora climb. 
 Thus, thus, doth quick eyed Fancy fondly wait 
 The pauses of my deep remorse between ; 
 Before my anxious eyes 
 T is thus her pictures rise ; 
 
 They show what is not, yet what might have been , 
 Angels, why came I not ! why have I come too 
 
 late ! 
 The coolin b Severage strengthening draught as 
 
 craved 
 
 The needs of both, could but these hands hao 
 given ; 
 
MARIA BROOKS. 
 
 Could I have watched tlie glow 
 The pulse, too quick, ( or slow 
 My earnest, fond, reiterate prayers to Heaven, 
 Some angel might have come, besought, returned, 
 and saved. 
 
 To stay was imbecility nay, more [see 
 
 T was crime how yearned my panting heart to 
 When, by mere words de ayed, 
 Gainst the strong wish, I stayed, 
 (Trifling with that which in y spoke to me,) 
 And longed, and hoped, and feared, till all I feared 
 was o er ! 
 
 Mi d, pitying George, when map e leaves were red 
 O er Ladaiianna* in his much loved north, 
 Breathed here his last farewell 
 And when the tears that fell 
 From April, caLed Mohecan sf violets forth, 
 Edgar, as following his, thy friend y spirit fled. 
 
 Now, side by side, neath cross and tablet white 
 Is laid, sweet brothers, all of you that s left; 
 Yet. ail the tropic dew 
 Can damp, would seem not you : 
 Your finer particles from earth are reft, 
 Haply, (and so I il hope,) for lovelier forms of light. 
 
 Myriads of beings, (for the whole that s known 
 In all this world s combined philosophy,) 
 The eternal will obeyed, 
 To finish what was made, [and sea 
 
 When, warm with new breathed life, new earth 
 Returned the smile of Him who blessed them from 
 his throne. 
 
 Such beings, haply, hovering round us now, 
 When flesh or flowers in beauty fade or fall, 
 Gather each precious tint 
 Once seen to glow and glint, 
 With fond economy to gladden all : 
 Heaven s hands, howe er profuse, no atom s loss 
 allow. 
 
 Yet, brothers, spirits, loiter if ye may 
 A little while, and look on all I do 
 Oh ! loiter for my sake, 
 Ere other tasks ye take, 
 Toward all I should do influence my view. 
 Then haste, to hear the spheres chime with heaven s 
 favorite lay. 
 
 Go, hand in hand, to regions new and fair, 
 In shapes and colors for the scene arrayed 
 With looks as bland and dear 
 As charms, bv glimpses, here. 
 Receive divine commissions; follow aid 
 Those legions formed in heaven for many a guardian 
 care. 
 
 By every sigh, and throb, and painful throe, 
 Remembered but to heighten the delight 
 That crowns the advancing state 
 Of sou s emancipate 
 Oh ! as I think of you, at lonely night, 
 Say to my heart, ye re blest, and I can bear my wo. 
 
 Island of Cubu-Cafetel Hermitu, May 7, 1S-JO. 
 
 * I.RdRuanna. the aboriginal name of the St. Lawrence. 
 1 Mohecan, the aboriginal luune of the Hudson. 
 
 ODE TO THE DEPARTED. 
 
 "Con I ittat del Cic/o." 
 
 THE dearth is sore: the orange leaf is curled, 
 There s dust upon the marble o er thy tomb. 
 My Edgar, fair and dear ; 
 Though the fifth sorrowing year 
 Hath past, since first I knew thine early doom, 
 I see thee still, though death thy being hence hath 
 hurled. 
 
 I could not bear my lot, now thou art gone 
 With heart o ersoftened by the many tears 
 Remorse and grief have drawn 
 Save that a gleam, a dawn, 
 
 \ Haply, of that -which lights thee now,) appears,, 
 To unveil a few fair scenes of life s next coming 
 morn. 
 
 What where is heaven 1 (earth s sweetest lips ex- 
 In all the holiest seers have writ or said, [claim ;) 
 Blurred are the pictures given: 
 We know not what is heaven, 
 Save by those views, mysteriously spread, 
 When the soul looks afar by light of her own flame. 
 
 Yet all our spirits, while on earth so faint, 
 By glimpses dim, discern, conceive, or know, 
 The Eternal Power can mould 
 Real as fruits or gold 
 
 Bid the celestial, roseate matter glow, [paint. 
 And forms more perfect smile than artists carve or 
 
 To realize every creed, conceived 
 In mortal brain, by love and beauty charmed, 
 Even like the ivory maid 
 Who, as Pygmalion prayed, 
 Oped her white arms, to life and feeling warmed, 
 Would lightly task the power of life s great Chief 
 believed. 
 
 If Grecian Phidias, in stone like this, 
 Thy tomb, could do so much, what can not he 
 Who from the cold, coarse clod, 
 By reckless laborer trod, 
 Can call such tints as meeting seraphs see, 
 And give them breath and warmth like true love s 
 soulfelt kiss 1 
 
 Wild fears of dark annihilation, go ! 
 Be warm, ye veins, now blackening with despair ! 
 Years o er thee have revolved, 
 My firstborn thou rt dissolved 
 All every tint save a few ringlets fair 
 Still, if thou didst not live, how could I love thee so? 
 
 Quick as the warmth which darts from breast to 
 When lovers, from afar, each other see, [breast, 
 Haply, thy spirit went, 
 Where mine would fain be sent, 
 To take a heavenly form, designed to be 
 Meet dwelling for the soul thine azure eye exprest 
 
 Thy deep blue eye ! say, can heaven s bliss exceed 
 The joy of some brief moments tasted here 1 
 Ah ! could I taste again 
 Is there a mode of pain 
 
 Which, for such guerdon, could be deemed severe 1 
 Be ours the forms of heaven, and let rne bend an-1 
 bleed ! 
 
MARIA BROOKS. 
 
 To be in place, even like some spots on earth, 
 in those sweet moments when no ill comes near ; 
 Where perfumes round us wreathe, 
 And the pure air we breathe 
 Nerves and exhilarates ; while all we hear 
 60 tells content and love, we sigh and bless our birth. 
 
 To clasp thee, Edgar, in a fragrant shape 
 Of fair perfection, after death s sad hour, 
 Known as the same 1 ve prest, 
 Erst, to this aching breast 
 The same but finished by a kind, bland Power, 
 Which only stopped thy heart to let thy soul es 
 cape 
 
 Oh ! every pain that vexed thy mortal life, 
 Nay, even the lives of all who round thee lie : 
 Be this one bliss my share, 
 The whole condensed I 11 bear 
 Bless the benign creative hand and sigh, 
 And kneel, to ask again the expiatory strife ! 
 
 Strife, for the hope of making others blest, 
 Who trespassed only that they were not brave 
 Enough to hear or take 
 Pains, even for pity s sake ; 
 Strife, for the hope to wake, incite, and save, 
 Even those who, dull with crime, know not fair 
 honor s zest, 
 
 If, in the pauses of my agony, 
 (Be it or flame, stab, scourge, or pestilence,) 
 If, fresh and blest, as dear, 
 Thou It come in beauty, near 
 Speak, and with looks of love charm my keen sense, 
 I 11 deem it heaven enough even thus to feel and 
 
 see! 
 
 To feel my hand wrenched, as with mortal rack ; 
 Then see it healed, and ta en, and kindly prest ; 
 And fair as blossoms white 
 Of cerea in the night ; 
 
 While tears, that fall upon thy spotless breast, 
 Are sweet as drops from flowers touched in thy 
 heavenly track ! 
 
 In form to bear nor stain nor scar designed 
 Yes ! let me kneel to agonize again : 
 Ask every torment o er 
 More poignant than before ; 
 Of a whole world the price of a whole pain, 
 Were small for such blest gifts of matter and of mind ! 
 
 Comes a cold doubt that still thou art alive, 
 Edgar, my heart tells while these numbers thrill. 
 Yet of a bliss so dear, 
 And as death s portal s near, 
 I feel mt- too unworthy : dreary Time 
 I fear must bear his part ere Hope her plight fulfil ! 
 
 Time, time was meet (so many a sacred scroll 
 Has told and tells) ere light was bid to smile ; 
 Ere yet the spheres, revealed, 
 Gave music, as they wheeled ; 
 Warm, rife, eternal love-*-a time a while 
 Brooded and charmed, and ranged till chaos gloomed 
 
 no more. 
 
 As time was needful ere a world could bloom 
 With forms of flowers and flesh, haply must wait 
 
 Some spirits ; and lingering still, 
 Of deeds both good and ill 
 
 Mark the effect in intermediate state, [tomb. 
 
 And think, and pause, and weep, even over their own 
 
 Be it so : if thin as fragrance, light, or heat, 
 Thine essence, floating on the ambient air, 
 Can, with freed intellect, 
 View every deed s effect, 
 Read, even my heart, in all its pantings bare : 
 When denser pulses cease, how sweet, even thus, 
 
 to meet ! 
 
 To roam those deep green aisles, crowned with tall 
 And weep for all who tire of toil and ill, [palms., 
 While moons of winter bring 
 Their blossoms fair as spring ; 
 To move unseen by all we ve left, and will 
 Such influence to their souls as half their pain be 
 calms ; 
 
 On deep Mohccan s mounts to view the spot 
 Where, as these arms were oped to clasp thee, came 
 The tidings, dread and cold, 
 I never more might hold 
 Thy pulsing form, nor meet the gentle flame 
 Of thy lair eyes, till mine for those of earth were not; 
 
 On precipice where the gray citadel 
 Hangs over Ladaiianna s billows clear, 
 How sweet to pause and view, 
 As erst, the far canoe ; 
 
 To glide by friends, who know not we are near, 
 And hear them of ourselves in tender memory tell ; 
 
 Or where Niagara with maddening roar 
 Shakes the worn cliff, haply to flit, and ken 
 Some angel, as he sighs 
 With pleasure at the dyes 
 Of the wild depth, while to the eyes of men 
 Invisible we speak by signs unknown before ; 
 Or, far from this wild western world, where dwelt 
 That brow whose laurels bore a leaf for mine, 
 W hen, strong in sympathy, 
 Thy sprite shall roam with me, 
 Edgar, mid Derwent s flowers, one soul benign 
 May to thy soul impart the joy I there have felt ! 
 What though " imprisoned in the viewless winds," 
 Mid storms and rocks, like earthly ship, were 
 Unsevcred while we re blent, [dashed 
 
 We 11 bear in sweet content 
 The shock of falling bolt or forest craohed, 
 While thoughts of hope and love nerve well oui 
 
 mystic minds. 
 
 Wafted or wandering thus, souls may be found 
 Or ripe for forms of heaven, or for that state 
 Of which, when angels think, 
 Or saints, they weep and shrink ; 
 And oft, to draw, 01 save from such dread f;ite, 
 Are fain their beauteous heads to dash gainst blood 
 stained ground. 
 
 Freed from their earthly gyves, if spirits laugh 
 And shriek with horrid joy, when victims bleeil 
 Or suffer, as we view 
 Mortals in vileness do, 
 
 The Eternal and his court may keep their meed 
 Of joy : far other cups fell thirsty Guilt must quaff 
 
Qfl 
 
 MARIA BROOKS. 
 
 Oh, Edgar ! spirit, or on earth or air, 
 Seen, or impalpable to artist s sketch, 
 In essence, or in form, 
 In bliss, pain, calm, or storm. 
 Let us, wherever met a suffering wretch, 
 Task every power to shield and save him from de 
 spair ! 
 
 Nature hath secrets mortals ne er suspect : 
 At s:nc we glance, while some are sealed in night ; 
 The optician, by his skill, 
 Even now can show, at will, 
 Long absent pheers, in shapes of moving light: 
 If man so much can do, what can no- Heaven ef 
 fect ! 
 
 Shade, image, manes, all the ancient priest 
 Told to his votarists in fraud or zeal, 
 May be, and might have been, 
 By means and arts we ween 
 No more of, in this age : for wo or weal 
 Of man, full much foreknown to this late race hath 
 
 ceased. 
 
 That souls may take ambrosial forms in heaven, 
 A dawning science half assures the hope: 
 These forms may sleep and smile 
 Midst heaven s fresh roses, while 
 Their spirits, free, roam o er this world s whole scope 
 For pleasure and for good, Heaven s full permission 
 
 I have not sung of meeting those we ve loved, 
 Or known, and listening to then- accents meek, 
 While, pitying all they ve pained 
 On earth, while passion reigned, 
 To wreak redress upon themselves they seek, 
 And bless, for each stern deed, the pain they now 
 have proved. 
 
 I have not sung of the first, fairest court, 
 Of all those mansions ; of the heavenly home, 
 Of which the best hath told 
 Who e er trod earthly mould ; 
 To courts of earthly kings the fairest come, 
 Haply, to show faint types of this supreme resort ! 
 Haply, the Sire of sires may take a form 
 And give an audience to each set unfurled 
 With bands of sympathy, 
 Wreathen in mystery,^ 
 Round those who ve known each other in this 
 
 world, 
 Perfecting all the rest, and breathing beauty warm. 
 
 Kssence. ]i< ht. heat, form, throbbing arteries 
 
 To deem each possible, enough I see ! 
 Ed^ar, thou knowest I wait: 
 Guard my expectant state 
 
 Console me, as I bend in prayers for thee 
 
 Aid me, even as thou mayst, both Heaven and thee 
 to pi. 
 
 This song to thee alone ! though he who shares 
 Thy bed of stone, shared well my love with thee ; 
 Vet. in bis noble heart 
 Another bore a part, 
 
 Whilst thou bailst never other love than me: 
 Sprites, brothers, manes, shades, present my tears 
 
 and prayers ! 
 IV.riei- isliiml of Cuba, July 24. 1644. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 SIRK, Maker, Spirit, who alone cans know 
 
 My soul and all the deep remorse that s there 
 I ask no mitigation of my wo ; 
 
 Yet pity me, and give me strength to bear ! 
 Remorse ? ah ! not for ill designedly done : 
 
 To look on pain, to me is pain severe ; 
 Yet, yet, dear forms which Death from me hath won, 
 Had Love been Wisdom, haply ye were here ! 
 Much have I suffered ; yet this form, unscathed, 
 
 Declares thy kind protection, by its thrift : 
 With secret dews the wounded plant is bathed ; 
 
 My ills are my desert, my good thy gift. 
 Three years are flown since my sore heart bereft 
 
 Hath mourned for two, ta en by the powers on high, 
 Nor tint nor atom that is fair is left 
 
 Beneath the marble where their relics He. 
 Yet no oblivious veil is o er them cast : 
 
 Blent with my blood, the sympathetic glow 
 Burns brighter now their mortal lives yre past, 
 Than when, on earth, I felt their joy and wo. 
 Oh ! may their spirits, disembodied, come, 
 
 And strong though secret influence dispense 
 Pitying the sorrows of an earthly doom, 
 
 And smoothing pain with sweet beneficence. 
 Oh ! cover them with forms so made to meet 
 
 The models of their souls, that, when they see, 
 They cast themselves in beauty at thy feet, 
 
 In all the heaven of grateful ecstasy. 
 Methinks I see them, side by side, in love, 
 
 Like brothers of the zodiac, all around 
 Diffusing light and fragrance, as thev move 
 Harmonious as the spheric music s sound. 
 And may these forms in warm and rosy sleep, 
 
 (In some fair dwelling for such forms assigned,) 
 Lie, Wiiilc o er air, earth, sea, their spirits sweep, 
 
 Quick as the changeful glance of thought and mind. 
 This fond ideal which my grief relieves, 
 
 Father, beneath thy throne may live, may be : 
 For more than all my feeble sense conceives, 
 
 Thy hand can give in blest reality. 
 Sire, Maker, Spirit! source of all that s fair! 
 Howe er my poor words be unworthy theo, 
 Oh ! be not weary of the imperfect prayer 
 Breathed from the fervor of a wretch like me ! 
 
 THE MOON OF FLOWERS. 
 
 On, moon of flowers ! sweet moon of flowers !* 
 
 Why dost thou mind me of the hours 
 
 Which flew so softly on that night 
 
 When last I saw and felt thy light 1 
 
 Oh, moon of flowers! thou moon cf flowers! 
 
 Would thou couldst give me back those houra 
 
 Since which a dull, cold year has fled, 
 
 Or show me those with whom they sped ! 
 
 Oh, moon of flowers ! oh, moon of flowers ! 
 
 fn scenes afar were passed those hours, 
 
 Which still with fond regret I see, 
 
 And wish my heart could change like thee ! 
 
 * The ?nva>;38 of the northern part of America some 
 times count bj moons. May theycnll the moon of flowers 
 
MARIA BROOKS. 
 
 TO THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 THE first time I beheld thee, beauteous stream, 
 How pure, how smooth,ho w broad thy bosom heav d ! 
 
 What feelings rushed upon my heart ! a gleam 
 As of another life my kindling soul received. 
 
 Fair was the day, and o er the crowded deck 
 Joy shone in many a smile ; light clouds, in hue 
 
 As silvery as the new fledged cygnet s neck, 
 Cast, as they moved, faint shadows on the blue, 
 
 Soft, deep, and distant, of the mountain chain, 
 Wreathing and blending, tint with tint, and traced 
 
 So gently on the smiling sky. In vain 
 Time, scene, has changed : t will never be effaced. 
 
 Now o er thy tranquil breast the moonbeams quiver : 
 How calm the air, how still the hour how bright ! 
 
 Would thouwert doom d to be my grave, sweet river ! 
 How blends my soul with thy pure breath to-night ! 
 
 The dearest hours that soul has ever known 
 Have been upon thy brink : would it could wait, 
 
 And, parted, watch thce still ! to stay and moan 
 With thee, were better than my promised fate. 
 
 Ladaiianna ! monarch of the north ! 
 
 Father of streams unsung, be sung by me ! 
 Receive a lay that flows resistless forth ! 
 
 Oh, quench the fervor that consumes, in thee ! 
 
 I ve seen more beauty on thy banks, more bliss, 
 
 Than I had deemed were ever seen below ; 
 Dew falls not on a happier land than this ; 
 
 Fruits spring from desert wilds, and love sits thron d 
 
 on snow; 
 Snows that drive warmth to shelter in the heart ; 
 
 Snows that conceal, beneath their moonlit heaps, 
 Plenty s rich embryo; fruits and flowers that start 
 
 To meet their full grown Spring, as strong to earth 
 
 he leaps. 
 How many grades of life thou view st ! thy wave 
 
 Bears the dark daughter of the woods, as light 
 She springs to her canoe, and wildly grave 
 
 Views the Great Spirit mid the fires of night. 
 
 A hardy race, sprung from the Gaul, and gay, 
 Frame their wild songs and sing them to the oar ; 
 
 And think to chase the forest fiends away, 
 W T here yet no mass bell tink .es from the shore. 
 
 The pensive nun throws back the veil that hides 
 Her calm, chaste eyes; straining them long, to mark 
 
 When the mist thickens, if perchance there bides 
 The peril, wildering on, some little bark : 
 
 And trims her lamp and hangs it in her tower; 
 
 Not as the priestess did of old ; (she s driven 
 To do that deed by no fierce passion s power,) 
 
 But kind y, ca mly, for the love of Heaven. 
 
 Who had been lost, what heart from breaking saved, 
 She knows not, thinks not ; guided by her star, 
 
 Some being leaps to shore : twas all she craved ; 
 She makes the holy sign, and blesses him from far. 
 
 The plaided so dier, in his mountain pride 
 Exulting, as he treads with statelier pace, 
 
 Views his white limbs reflected in thy tide, 
 While wave the sable plumes that shade his manly 
 face. 
 
 The song of Ossian mingles with thy gale, 
 The harp of Carolan s remembered here; 
 
 The bright haired son of Erin tells his tale, 
 Dreams of his misty isle, and drops for her a tear 
 
 Thon st seen the trophies of that deathless day, 
 Whosename brightglancefromev ry Briton brings, 
 
 When half the world was marshalled in array, 
 And fell the great, self nurtured " king of kings. " 
 
 Youthful Columbia, ply thy useful arts; 
 
 Rear the strong nursling that thy mother bore, 
 Ca led Liberty. Thy boundless fields, thy marts. 
 
 Enough for thee : tempt these brown rocks no more ; 
 
 Or leave them to that few, who, blind to gold, 
 And scorning pleasure, brave with higher zest 
 
 A doubtful path ; mid pain, want, censure, bold 
 To pant one fevered hour on Genius breast. 
 
 Nature s best loved, thine own, thy virtuous West 
 Chose for his pencil a Canadian sky : 
 
 Bade Death recede, who the fallen victor prest, 
 And made perpetuate his latest sigh.* 
 
 Sully, of tender tints transparent, fain 
 I would thy skill a while ; for Memory s showing 
 
 To prove thy hand the purest of thy train, 
 A native beauty from thy pencil glowing. 
 
 Or he who sketched the Cretan : gone her Greek, 
 
 She, all unconscious that he s false or flying, 
 Sleeps, while the light blood revels in her cheek 
 
 So rosy warm, we listen for her sighing.t 
 Could he paint beauty, warmth, light, happiness, 
 
 Diffused around like fragrance from a flower 
 And melody all that sense can bless, 
 
 Or soul concentrate in one form his power 
 
 I d ask. But Nat\*e, Nature, when thou wilt, 
 
 Thou canst enough to make all art despair; 
 Guard well the wondrous model thou hast built, 
 
 Which these, thy nectared waves, reflect and love 
 
 to bear. 
 Nature, all powerful Nature, thine are ties 
 
 That seldom break : though the heart beat so cold, 
 That Love and Fancy s fairest garland dies 
 
 Though false, though light as air thy bonds may 
 
 hold. 
 The mother loves her child ; the brother yet 
 
 Thinks of his sister, though for years unseen ; 
 And seldom doth the bridegroom quite forget 
 
 Her who ha%. Ablest him once, though seas may 
 
 roll between. 
 But can a friendship, pure and rapture wrought, 
 
 Endure without such bonds ? I ll deem it may. 
 And bless the hope it nurtures : beauteous thought 
 
 Howe er fantastic ! dear illusion stay ! 
 Oh stream, oh country of my heart, farewell ! 
 
 Say, shall I e er return? shall I once more 
 Ere close these eyes that looked to love ah, foil 
 
 Say, shall I tread again thy fertile shore ? 
 Else, how endure my weary lot the strife 
 
 To gain content when far the burning sigh*- 
 The asking wish the aching void ? Oh, life ! 
 
 Thou art, and hast been, one long sacrifice ! 
 
 * In allu-ion to \\Vst .* celebrated picture. "The PMtb 
 of Wolfe." t Vuiderlyn eee his picture of "Ariadne 
 
MARIA BROOKS. 
 
 TO NIAGARA. 
 
 SPHUT of Homer! thou whose so:rj: has rung 
 From thine own Greece to this supreme abode 
 Of Nature this great f a nc of Nature s God 
 
 Breathe on my brain ! oh, touch the fervid tongue 
 Of a fond votaress kneeling on the sod ! 
 
 Sublime and Beautiful! your chapel s here 
 Here, nealh the a/.ure dome of heaven, ye re wed; 
 Here, on this rock, which trembles as I tread, 
 
 Your blended sorcery claims both pulse and tear, 
 Controls life s source and reigns o er heart and head. 
 
 Terrific, but, oh, beautiful abyss! 
 
 If I should trust my fascinated eye, 
 
 Or hearken to thy maddening melody, [ki?s, 
 Sense, form, would spring to meet thy white foam s 
 
 Be lapped in thy soft rainbows once, and die ! 
 
 Color, depth, height, extension all unite 
 To chain the spirit by a look intense ! 
 The dolphin in his clearest seas, or thence 
 
 Ta en, for some queen, to deck of ivory white, 
 Dies not in changeful tints more delicately bright. 
 
 Look, look ! there comes, o er yon pale green ex- 
 Bevond the curtain of this altar vast, [panse, 
 A glad young swan ; the smiling beams that cast 
 
 Light from her plumes, have lured her soft advance ; 
 She nears the fatal brink : her graceful life has past ! 
 
 Look up ! nor her fond, foolish fate disdain : 
 An eagle rests upon the wind s sweet breath ; 
 Feels he the charm 1 woos he the scene beneath 1 
 
 He eyes the sun; nerves his dark wing again; 
 Remembers clouds and storms, yet flies the lovely 
 death. 
 
 " Niagara ! wonder of this western world, 
 And half the world beside ! hail, beauteous queen 
 Of cataracts !" an angel, who had been [furled, 
 
 O er heaven and earth, spoke thus, his bright wings 
 And knelt to Nature first, on this wild cliff unseen. 
 
 WRITTEN ON SEEING PHARAMOND. 
 
 HAD the blest fair, who gave thee birth, 
 
 Lived where ^Egean waves are swelling, 
 Ere \et calm Reason came to earth, 
 
 Warm Fancy s lovelier reign dispelling, 
 Tbe Sire of heaven, she had believed, 
 
 T<> stamp thy form had ta en another,* 
 And all who saw had been deceived, 
 
 And given the Delphic god a brother. 
 And many a classic page had told 
 
 Ofnymphi and goddesses admiring: 
 Altars, libations, harps of gold, 
 
 And milkwhite hecatombs expiring. 
 And oh ! perchance there had remained 
 
 Some Pbidian wonder still, still breathing 
 Love, life, and charms past, but retained 
 
 And warmth and bliss had still seemed wreathing 
 Softly around the heaven touched stone, 
 
 As now a light seems from thee beaming; 
 While thought, sense, lost in looks alone, 
 
 Grow dubious if awake or dreaming. 
 
 * In allusion to the fable of Jupiter and Alcmena. 
 
 And must thou pass 1 nor picture show, 
 
 Nor sculpture, what my lyre is telling, 
 Too feeble lyre ! as mom s bright glow 
 
 Fades o er the river near thy dwelling ! 
 Spirit of Titian ! hear and come, 
 
 If come thou may st, a moment hither ; 
 Leave thy loved Italy, thy home 
 
 Oh ! let but one acanthus wither 
 Round her loved ruins, while thou stayest ; 
 
 Come to these solitudes, and view them : 
 Must Genius ne er their beauties taste, 
 
 Nor tear of rapture ever dew them] 
 View the dark rock, the melting blue 
 
 Of mount and sky so soft embracing ; 
 The bright, broad stream : But beauty, hue, 
 
 Life, form, are here all else effacing. 
 Nature, to mock the forms of bliss 
 
 Which fervid mortals have created, 
 From their own souls excess, made this, 
 
 And gazed at her own powers elated. 
 
 Fragrant o er all the western groves 
 
 The tall magnolia towers unshaded, 
 But soon no more the gale he loves 
 
 Faints on his ivory flowers ; they re faded. 
 The fullblown rose, mid dewy sweets, 
 
 Most perfect dies ; but, soon returning, 
 The next born year another greets, 
 
 When summer fires again are burning. 
 Another rose may bloom as sweet, 
 
 Other magnolias ope in whiteness 
 But who again fair scenes shall meet 
 
 The like of him who lends you brightness 1 
 Come, then, my lyre ere yet ajrain 
 
 Fade these fresh fields I shall forsake them ; 
 But some fond ear may hear thy strain, 
 
 When all is cold which thus can wake them. 
 
 PRAYER. 
 
 SIRE of the universe and me 
 
 Dost thou reject my midnight prayer ! 
 Dost thou withhold me even from thee, 
 
 Thus writhing, struggling gainst despair ! 
 Thou knowest the source of feeling s gush, 
 
 Thou knowest the end for which it flows : 
 Then, if thou bidst the tempest rush, 
 
 Ah ! heed the fragile bark it throws ! 
 
 Fain would my heaving heart be still 
 
 But Pain and Tumult mock at rest : 
 Fain would I meekly meet thy will, 
 
 And kiss the barb that tears my breast 
 Weak I am formed, I can no more 
 
 Weary I strive, but find not aid ; 
 Prone on thy threshold I deplore, 
 
 But ah ! thy succor is delayed. 
 
 The burning, beauteous orb of day, 
 
 Amid its circling host upborne, 
 Smiles, as life quickens in its ray : 
 
 What would it, were thy hand withdrawn !- 
 Scorch devastate the teeming whole 
 
 Now glowing with its warmth divine ! 
 Spirit, whose powers of peace control 
 
 Great Nature s heart, oh ! pity mine ! 
 
MARIA BROOKS. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 DAT, in melting purple dying, 
 Blossoms, all around me sighing, 
 Fragrance, from the lilies straying, 
 Zephyr, with my ringlets playing, 
 
 Ye hut waken my distress ; 
 
 I am sick of loneliness 
 
 Thou, to whom I love to hearken, 
 Come, ere night around me darken ; 
 Though thy softness but deceive me, 
 Say thoti rt true, and I ll believe thee; 
 Veil, if ill, thy soul s intent 
 Let me think it innocent ! 
 
 Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure : 
 All I ask is friendship s pleasure ; 
 Let the shining ore lie darkling, 
 Bring no gem in lustre sparkling : 
 
 Gifts and gold are naught to me ; 
 
 I would only look on thee ! 
 
 Tell to thee the high wrought feeling, 
 
 Ecstasy but in revealing ; 
 
 Paint to thee the deep sensation, 
 
 Rapture in participation, 
 
 Yet but torture, if comprest 
 In a lone, unfriended breast. 
 
 Absent still ! Ah ! come and bless me ! 
 
 Let these eyes again caress thee ; 
 
 Once, in caution, I could fly thee : 
 
 Now, I nothing could deny thee ; 
 In a look if death there be, 
 Come, and I will gaze on thee ! 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 To MEET a friendship such as mine, 
 Such feelings must thy soul refine 
 As are not oft of mortal birth : 
 Tis love without a stain of earth, 
 Fratello del mio cor. 
 
 Looks are its food, its nectar sighs, 
 Its couch the lips, its throne the eyes, 
 The soul its breath : and so possest, 
 Heaven s raptures reign in mortal breast, 
 Fratello del mio cor. 
 
 Though Friendship be its earthly name, 
 Purely from highest heaven it came ; 
 T is seldom felt for more than one, 
 And scorns to dwell with Venus son, 
 Fratello efe/ mio cor. 
 
 Him let it view not, or it dies 
 Like tender hues of morning skies, 
 Or morn s sweet flower of purple glov , 
 When sunny beams too ardent grow, 
 Fratello del mio cor. 
 
 A charm o er every object plays ; 
 All looks so lovely, while it stays, 
 
 So softly forth in rosier tides 
 
 The vital flood ecstatic glides, 
 
 Fratello del mio cor, 
 
 That, wrung by grief to see it part, 
 A very life drop leaves the heart : 
 Such drop, I need not tell thee, fell, 
 While bidding it, for thee, farewell ! 
 ^ra. t eih^ del mio cor. 
 
 FAREWELL TO CUBA. 
 
 ADIEU, fair isle ! I love thy bowers, 
 I love thy dark eyed daughters there , 
 
 The cool pomegranate s scarlet flowers 
 Look brighter in their jetty hair. 
 
 They praised my forehead s stainless white 
 And when I thirsted, gave a draught 
 
 From the full clustering cocoa s height, 
 And smiling, blessed me as I quaffed. 
 
 Well pleased, the kind return I gave. 
 
 And clasped in their embraces twine, 
 Felt the soft breeze, like Lethe s wave, 
 
 Becalm this beating heart of mine. 
 
 Why will my heart so wildly beat ? 
 
 Say, seraphs, is my lot too blest, 
 That thus a fitful, feverish heat 
 
 Must rifle me of health and resi 1 
 
 Alas ! I fear my native snows 
 
 A clime too cold, a heart too warm- 
 Alternate chills, alternate glows 
 
 Too fiercely threat my flower like form. 
 
 The orange tree has fruit and flowers ; 
 
 The grendilla, in its bloom, 
 Hangs o er its high, luxuriant bowers, 
 
 Like fringes from a Tyrian loom. 
 When the white coffee blossoms swell, 
 
 The fair moon full, the evening long, 
 I love to hear the warbling bell, 
 
 And sunburnt peasant s wayward song- 
 Drive gently on, dark muleteer, 
 
 And the light seguidilla frame ; 
 Fain would I listen still, to hear 
 
 At every close thy mistress name. 
 
 Adieu, fair isle ! the waving palm 
 Is pencilled on thy purest sky ; 
 
 Warm sleeps the bay, the air is balm, 
 And, soothed to languor, scarce a sigk 
 
 Escapes for those I love so well, 
 
 For those I ve loved and left so long ; 
 On me their fondest musings dwell, 
 
 To them alone my sighs belong. 
 On, on, my bark ! blow, southern Dieeze . 
 
 No longer would I lingering stay ; 
 T were better far to die with these 
 
 Than live in pleasure far away 
 
JULIA RUSH WARD. 
 
 (Born 1796 -Died 1824). 
 
 Miss JULIA RUSH CUTLER, the daughter 
 of the late Mr. B. C. Cutler, of Boston, was 
 born in that city on the fifth of January, 1796. 
 Her maternal ancestors were of South Caro- 
 li ia, and her grandmother was the only sis- 
 t -r of the famous partisan leader, General 
 Francis Marion. Miss Cutler was married 
 on the ninth of October, 1812, when she was 
 ;n the seventeenth year of her age, to the late 
 Mi. Samuel Ward, of New York, whose name 
 was lung conspicuous for his relations with 
 the commercial world, and who in private 
 I ll- was eminent for all the virtues that 
 dignify human nature. Mrs. Ward came to 
 .New York to reside at a time when Irving, 
 Paulding, Cooper, and others, were making 
 
 their first an.1 most brilliant essays in litera 
 ture, and hor fine abilities, improved by the 
 best culture, brought into her circle the wits 
 and men of genius in the city, who soon 
 perceived that she needed but provocation to 
 claim rank as a star of mild but pervading 
 lustre in their brightest constellations. 
 
 The compositions of Mrs. Ward are of the 
 class called occasional poems, written with 
 grace and sincerity, with a sort of impromptu 
 ease, and from a heart full of truth and a 
 mind to which beauty was familiar as the air. 
 
 She died on the ninth of November, 1824, 
 leaving the inheritance of her genius to her 
 daughter, whose literary character is exhib 
 ited in another part of this volume. 
 
 "SI JE TE PERDS, JE SUIS PERDU."* 
 
 THK tempest howls, the waves swell high, 
 
 Upward I cast my anxious eye, 
 
 And fix my gaze, amidst the storm, 
 
 I "poii thy bright and heavenly form. 
 
 Angel of mercy ! beam to save ; 
 
 See. tossing OM the furious wave, 
 
 My litte bark is sorely prest : 
 
 ( )!i, guide me to some port of rest; 
 
 Shine on, and all my fears subdue, 
 
 Hi jr. ff perdu, je suis perdu. 
 
 To catch the ray, my aching sight 
 
 Shall pierce the gloomy mists of night; 
 
 But it , amidst the driving storm, 
 
 Dark clouds should hide thy glittering form, 
 
 In vain each swelling wave I breast, 
 
 Which rushes on with foaming crest 
 
 Mid the wild breakers furious roar, 
 
 O envhelmed, I sink to rise no more. 
 
 Shine out to meet my troubled view, 
 
 N/ je te perds, je suis perdu. 
 
 Then if T catch the faintest gleam, 
 
 Onward I ll rush beneath the beam, 
 
 And fast the wingrd waves shall bear 
 
 My form upon the midnight air, 
 
 \or know my breast one anxious fear 
 
 For 1 am safe if thou art near. 
 
 * Written on st-dini the device on a seal, of a man 
 piidinir a small boat, with his eye fixed on a star, and 
 this uiottc- : t>i je te perds. je suis perdu." 
 
 Lead onward, then, while I pursue, 
 Si je te perds, je suis perdu. 
 
 50 may the Star of Bethlehem s beam 
 With holy lustre mildly gleam, 
 
 To guide my soul with sacred light 
 Amidst the gloom of error s night ; 
 Its cheering ray shall courage give 
 Midst seas of doubt my hope shall live ; 
 Though dark and guilty fears may storrn, 
 Bright peers above its radiant form : 
 Though seen by al 1 , yet sought by few, 
 
 51 je te perds, je suis perdu. 
 
 Within my heart the needle lies, 
 
 That upward points me to the skies : 
 
 The tides may swell, the breakers roar, 
 
 And threaten soon to whelm me o er 
 
 Their wildest fury I defy : 
 
 While on that Star I keep my eye, 
 
 My tremb ing bark shall hold her way, 
 
 Still guided by its sacred ray, 
 
 To whose bright beam is homage due, 
 
 Si je fe perds, je suis perdu. 
 
 Soon to illume those threatening skies, 
 The Sun of Righteousness shall rise, 
 And on my soul his glories pour: 
 Securely then my bark I ll moor 
 Within that port where all are blest 
 The haven of eternal rest. 
 Shine onward, then, and guide me through 
 Sije te perds, je suis perdu. 
 90 
 
LYDIA H. S1GOURNEY. 
 
 (Born 1791-Diecl 1865). 
 
 LYDIA HTJNTLEY, now Mrs. SIGOURNEY, 
 was born on the first of September, 1791, in 
 Norwich, Connecticut, a town of which she 
 has furnished an agreeable picture in her 
 Sketch of Connecticut Forty Years Since, 
 and of which she says in one of her poems, 
 
 Sweetly wild 
 
 Were the scenes that charmed me when a child : 
 Rocks, gray rocks, with their caverns dark, 
 Leaping rills, like the diamond spark, 
 Torrent voices thundering by 
 When the pride of the vernal floods swelled high, 
 And quiet roofs like the hanging nest 
 Mid cliffs, by the feathery foliage drest. 
 
 Almost from infancy she was remarkable 
 for a love of knowledge, and facility in its 
 acquisition. She read with fluency when 
 but three years of age, and at eight she wrote 
 verses which attracted attention among the 
 acquaintances of her family. After comple 
 ting her education, at a boarding school in 
 Hartford, she associated herself with Miss 
 Hyde, (of whose literary remains she was 
 subsequently the editor,) and opened a school 
 for girls at Norwich, which was continued 
 successfully two years. At the end of this 
 period she removed to Hartford, where she 
 also pursued the business of teaching. Some 
 of her early contributions to the journals hav 
 ing attracted the attention of the late Daniel 
 Wadsworth,* a wealthy and intelligent gen 
 tleman of that city, he induced her to collect 
 and publish them in a volume, which ap 
 peared in 1815, under the modest title of 
 Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse, which very 
 well indicates its general character. None 
 of i ts contents are deserving of special com 
 mendation, but they are all respectable, and 
 the volume procured her an accession of rep 
 utation whic. was probably of much indirect 
 advantage. 
 
 In 1819 Miss Huntle\ was married to Mr. 
 Charles Sigourney, a reputable merchant and 
 hanker of Hartford, and she did not appear 
 
 * Mr. Wadsworth, to whose early perception nn 1 libe- 
 erai encouragement of the abilities of Miss Huntiey \ve 
 me perhaps indebted for their successful devotion to lit 
 erature, died at Hartford on the 28th of July, 1848 since 
 the above paragraphs were written. The Wadsworth Ath- 
 rrittmm and the Wadswortb Tower are pleasing incmori- 
 1s to the people of Hartford of his taste and liberality. 
 
 again as an author until 1822, when she pub 
 lished in Cambridge her Traits of the Abo 
 rigines of America, a descriptive, historical, 
 and didactic poem, in five cantos. It is a 
 sort of poetical discourse upon the discovery 
 and settlement of this continent, and the du 
 ties of its present masters toward the abo 
 rigines, but it is too discursive to produce 
 the deep impression which might have been 
 made with such a display of abilities, learn 
 ing, and just opinions. Its tone is dignified 
 and sustained, and it contains passages of 
 considerable power and beauty, though few 
 that can be separated from their contexts 
 without some injustice to the author. The 
 condition of the Indian before the invasion 
 of the European is thus forcibly sketched in 
 the beginning of the first canto : 
 
 O er the vast regions of that western world, 
 Whose lofty mountains hiding in the clouds, 
 Concealed their grandeur and their wealth so long 
 From European eyes, the Indian roved 
 Free and unconquercd. From those frigid plains 
 Struck with the torpor of the arctic pole, 
 To where Magellan lifts his torch to light 
 The meeting of the waters ; from the shore 
 Whose smooth green line the broad Atlantic laves, 
 To the rude borders of that rocky strait 
 Where haughty Asia seems to stand and gaze 
 On the new continent, the Indian reigned 
 Majestic and alone. Fearless he rose, 
 Firm as his mountains ; like his rivers, wild ; 
 Bold as those lakes whose wondrous chain controls 
 His northern coast. The forest and the wave 
 Gave him his food ; the slight constructed hut 
 Furnished his shelter, and its doors spread wide 
 To every wandering stranger. There his cup, 
 His simple meal, his lowly couch of skins. 
 Were hospitably shared. Rude were his toils, 
 And rash his daring, when he head Ion? rushed 
 Down the steep precipice to seize his prey ; 
 Strong was his arm to bend the stubborn bow, 
 And keen his arrow. This the bison knew, 
 The spotted panther, the rough, shaggy bear, 
 The wolf dark prowling, tin- eye piercing lynx, 
 The wild deer bounding through the shadowy glade, 
 And the swift eagle, soaring high to make 
 His nest among the stars. Clothed in their spoils 
 He dared the elements: with eye sedate. 
 Breasted the wintry winds ; o er the white heads 
 Of angry torrents steered his rapid bark 
 Light as their foam ; mounted with tireless speed 
 Those slippery dirts, where everlasting snows 
 Weave their dense robes ; or laid him down to sl<*^- 
 
 91 
 
LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 Whore the dread thunder of the cataract lulled 
 His drowsy sense. The dangerous toils of war 
 He sought and loved. Traditions, and proud tales 
 Of other days, exploits of chieftains bold, 
 Dauntless and terrible, the warrior s song, 
 The victor s triumph all conspired to raise 
 
 The martial spirit 
 
 Oft the rude, wandering tribes 
 Rushed on to battle. Their aspiring chiefs, 
 Lofty and iron framed, with native hue 
 S rangely disguised in wild and glaring tints, 
 Frowned like some Pictish king. The conflict raged 
 Fearless and fierce, mid shouts and disarray, 
 As the swift lightning urges its dire shafts [blasts 
 Through clouds and darkness, when the warring 
 Awaken midnight. O er the captive foe 
 T nsated vengeance stormed : flame and slow wounds 
 Racked the strong bonds of life ; but the firm soul 
 Smiled in its fortitude to mock the rage 
 Of its tormentors ; when the crisping nerves 
 Were broken, still exulting o er its pain, 
 To rise unmurmuring to its father s shades, 
 Where in delightful bowers the brave and just 
 
 Rest and rejoice 
 
 Yet those untutored tribes 
 
 Bound with their stern resolves and savage deeds 
 Some gentle virtues ; as beneath the gloom 
 Of overshadowing forests sweet -.- springs 
 
 The unexpected flower Their uncultured hearts 
 
 (ia\e a strong soil for friendship, that bold growth 
 
 Of generous affection, changeless, pure, 
 
 Self sacrificing, counting losses light, 
 
 And yielding life with gladness. By its side, 
 
 Like sister plant, sprang ardent Gratitude, 
 
 Vivid, perennial, braving winter s frost 
 
 And summer s heat ; while nursed by the same dews, 
 
 Unbounded reverence for the form of age 
 
 Struck its deep root spontaneous With pioui awe 
 
 Their eyes up ifted sought the hidden path 
 )f the Great Spirit. The loud midnight storm, 
 The rush of mighty waters, the deep roll 
 Of thunder, gave his voice ; the golden sun, 
 The soft einj gence of the purple morn, 
 The gentle rain distilling, was his smile, 
 Dispensing good to alL.lln various forms arose 
 Their superstitious homage. Some with blood 
 Of human sacrifices sought to appease 
 That aimer which in pestilence, or dearth, 
 Or famine, stalked; and their astonished vales, 
 Like Carthaginian altars, frequent drank 
 The Irorrib e libation. Some, with fruits, 
 Sweet flowers, and incense of their choicest herbs, 
 Sought to propitiate Him whose powerful hand 
 Unseen sustained them. Some with mystic, rites, 
 The ark, the orison, the paschal feast, 
 Through dimmerin^ tradition seemed to bear, 
 .As in s,,me broken vase, the smothered coals 
 Scattered from Jewish altars. 
 
 Oft hi- nylons which first greeted the Scan 
 dinavian discoverer she says: 
 
 There Winter frames 
 
 1 he boldest architecture, rears strong towers 
 Of rugged frostwork, and deep laboring throws 
 A glas-sv ] v ivement o er rude tossing floods. 
 
 Long near this coast he lingered, half illumed 
 By the red gleaming of those fitful flames 
 Which wrathful Hecla through her veil of snows 
 Darts on the ebon night. Oft he recalled, 
 Pensive, his simple home, ere the New World, 
 Enwrapped in po ar robes, with frigid eye 
 Received him, and in rude winds hoarsely hailed 
 Her earliest guest. Thus the stern king of storms, 
 Swart Eolus, bade his imprisoned blasts 
 Breathe dissonant welcome to the restless queen, 
 Consort of Jove, whose unaccustomed step 
 Invaded his retreat. The pilgrim band 
 Amazed beheld those mountain ramparts float 
 Around their coast, where hoary Time had toiled, 
 Even from his infancy, to point sublime 
 Their pyramids, and strike their awful base 
 Deep neath the main. Say, Darwin, Fancy s son ! 
 What armor shall he choose who dares complete 
 Thine embassy to the dire kings who frown 
 Upon those thrones of frost 1 what force compel 
 Their abdication of their favored realm 
 And rightful royalty ? what pilot s eye, 
 Unglazed by death, direct their devious course 
 (Tremendous navigation !) to allay 
 The fervor of the tropics ] Proudly gleam 
 Their sparkling masses, shaming the brief dome 
 Which Russia s empress queen bade the chill boor 
 Quench life s frail lamp to rear. Now they assume 
 The front of old cathedral gray with years; 
 Anon their castellated turrets glow 
 In high baronial pomp ; then the tall mast 
 Of lofty frigate, peering o er the cloud, 
 Attracts the eye ; or some fair island spreads 
 Towns, towers, and mountains, cradled in a flood 
 Of rainbow lustre, changeful as the web 
 From fairy loom, and wild as fabled tales 
 Of Araby. 
 
 At the close of the poem is a large body of 
 curious and entertaining notes, scarcely ne 
 cessary for its illustration, but welcome as 
 a collection of well written and instructive 
 miscellanies upon the various subjects inci 
 dentally suggested or referred to in it. 
 
 In 1824 Mrs. Sigourney published in prose 
 A Sketch of Connecticut Forty Years Since ; 
 in 1827, Poems by the author of Moral Pieces; 
 in 1833, Poetry for Children ; in 1 834, Sketch 
 es, a collection of prose tales and essays; in 
 1835, Zinzindorf and other Poems; in 1836, 
 Letters to Young Ladies : and, in 1838, Let 
 ters to Mothers. In the summer of 1840 she 
 went to Europe, and after visiting many of 
 the most interesting places in England, Scot 
 land, and France, and publishing a collection 
 of her works in London, she returned in the 
 following April to Hartford. 
 
 In 1841 appeared her Select Poems, em 
 bracing those which best satisfied her own 
 judgment in previous volumes, and in the 
 same year, with many other pieces, Poca- 
 hontas, the best of her long poems, and much 
 
LYDIA H. SIGOURNE\. 
 
 the best of the many poetical compositions 
 of which the famous daughter of Powhatan 
 has been the subject. Pucahontas is in the 
 Spenserian measure, which is used with con 
 siderable felicity, as will be seen from the 
 following description of the heroine in early 
 womanhood, while the thoughtful beauty for 
 which she is celebrated is ripening to its most 
 controlling splendor: 
 On sped the seasons, and the forest child 
 Was rounded to the symmetry of youth ; 
 While o er her features stole, serenely mild, 
 The tremb.ing sanctity of woman s truth, 
 Her modesty, and simpleness, and grace : 
 Yet those who deeper scan the human face, 
 Amid the trial hour of fear or ruth, 
 Might clearly read, upon its heaven writ scroll, 
 That high and firm reso.ve which nerved the Roman 
 
 soul. 
 
 The simple sports th at charm dher childhood s way, 
 Her greenwood gambols mid the matted vines, 
 The curious glance of wild and searching ray, 
 Where innocence with ignorance combines, 
 Were changed for deeper thought s persuasive air, 
 Or that high port a princess well might wear : 
 So fades the doubtful star when morning shines ; 
 So melts the young dawn at the enkindling ray, 
 And on the crimson cloud casts off its mantle gray. 
 
 Though Pocahontas is the most sustained of 
 Mrs. Sigourney s poems, the contents of this 
 volume do not altogether exhibit any deeper 
 thought, or finer fancy, or larger command 
 of poetical language, than some of her pro 
 ductions that had been many years before the 
 public. 
 
 In 1842 she published Pleasant Memories 
 of Pleasant Lands, the records, in prose and 
 verse, of impressions made during her tour 
 in Europe. Two years af.erward this was 
 followed by a similar work under the title of 
 Scenes in my Native Land; and in 1846, by 
 Mvrti*, with other Etchings and Sketchings. 
 The most complete and elegant edition of her 
 poems was published by Carey and Hart, with 
 illustrations by Darley, in 1848. 
 
 Mrs. Sigourney has acquired a wider and 
 more pervading reputation than many women 
 will receive in this country. The times have 
 been favorable for her, and the tone of her 
 works such as is most likely to be accepta 
 ble in a primitive and pious community. 
 Though possessing but little constructive 
 power, she has a ready expression, and an 
 ear naiurally so sensitive to harmony that it 
 lias scarcely been necessary for her to study 
 the principles of versification in order to 
 produce some of its finest, effects. She sings 
 
 impulsively from an atmosphere of affection 
 ate, pious, and elevated sentiment, rather 
 than from the consciousness of subjective 
 ability. In this respect she is not to be com 
 pared with some of our female poets, who 
 exhibit an affluence of diction, a soundness 
 of understanding, and a strength of imagina 
 tion, that justify the belief of their capability 
 for the highest attainments in those fields of 
 poetical art in which women have yet been 
 distinguished. Whether there is in her na 
 ture the latent energy and exquisite suscep 
 tibility that, under favorable circumstances, 
 might have \varmed her sentiment into pas 
 sion, and her fancy into imagination ; or 
 whether the absence of any deep emotion 
 and creative power is to be attributed to a 
 quietness of life and satisfaction of desires 
 that forbade the development of the full force 
 of her being ; or whether benevolence and 
 adoration have had the mastery of her life, 
 as might seem, and led her other faculties 
 in captivity, we know too little of her secret 
 experiences to form an opinion : but the abil 
 ities displayed in Napoleon s Epitaph and 
 some other pieces in her works, suggest that 
 it is only because the flower has not been 
 crushed that we have not a richer perfume. 
 The late Mr. Alexander H. Everett, in a 
 reviewal of the works of- Mrs. Sigourney, 
 published a short time before his departure 
 for China, observes that " they express with 
 great purity and evident sincerity the tender 
 affections which are so natural to the female 
 heart, and the lofty aspirations after a higher 
 and better state of being which constitute the 
 truly ennoblingtind elevating principle in art 
 as well as nature. Love and religion are the 
 unvarying elements of her song.. ..If her pow 
 ers of expression were equal to the purity and 
 elevation of her habits of thought and feeling, 
 she would be a female Milton or a Christian 
 Pindar. But though she does not inherit 
 
 The force and :xm]ile pinion that the TUeban eagles bear, 
 Sailing with supreme dominion through the liquid vaults of air, 
 
 she nevertheless manages language with ease 
 and elegance, and often with much of the 
 curiosa felicitas, that refined felicity of 
 expression, which is, after all, the principal 
 charm in poetry. In blank verse she is very 
 successful. The poems that she has written 
 in this measure have not unfrequently much 
 of the manner of Wordsworth, and may be 
 nearly or quite as highly relished by his ad 
 mirers." 
 
LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 THE WESTERN EMIGRANT. 
 
 Ax axe rang sharply mid those forest shades 
 Which from creation toward the sky had towered 
 In unshorn beauty. There, with vigorous arm, 
 Wrought a bold emigrant, and by his side 
 His little son, with question and response, 
 Bejuiled the toil. " Boy, thou hast never seen 
 Such glorious trees. Hark, when their giant trunks 
 Fall how the linn earth groans ! Remcrnberest thou 
 The miglitv river, on whose breast we sailed 
 So many d.iys, on toward the setting sun ] 
 Our own Connecticut, compared to that, 
 Was but a creeping stream." " Father, the brook 
 That by our door went sinking, where I launched 
 My tiny boat, with my young playmates round 
 Whe.i school was o er, is dearer far to me 
 Thau al t .iese bold, broad waters. To my eye 
 Tuey are as strangers. And those little trees 
 My mother nurtured in the garden bound 
 Of our first homo, from whence the fragrant peach 
 Hung in its ripening go d, were fairer, sure, 
 Than this dark forest, shutting out the day." 
 " What, ho ! my little girl," and with light step 
 A fairy creature hasted toward her sire, 
 And, setting down the basket that contained 
 His noon repast, looked upward to his face 
 With sweet, confiding smi e. See, dearest, see, 
 That bright winged paroquet, and hear the song 
 Of yon gay red bird, echoing through the trees, 
 Making rich music. Didst thou ever hear, 
 In far New England, such a mellow tone?" 
 " I had a robin that did take the crumbs 
 Each night arid morning, and his chirping voice 
 Did make me joyful as I went to tend 
 My snowdrops. I was always laughing then 
 In that first home. I should be happier now, 
 Methinks, if I cou d find among these dells 
 The same fresh violets." Slow night drew on, 
 And round the rude hut of the emigrant 
 The wrathful spirit of the rising storm 
 Spake bitter things. His weary children slept, 
 And lie, with head declined, sat listening long 
 To the swollen waters of the Illinois, 
 Dashing against their shores. Starting, he spake : 
 << Wife did I see thee brush away a tear] 
 T was oven so. Thy heart was with the halls 
 Of thy nativity. Their sparkling lights, 
 Carpets and sofas, and admiring guests, 
 LYlit thee better than these rugged walls 
 Of sha;,ele>s logs, and this lone, hermit home." 
 No, no. All was so still around, methought 
 Upon mine ear that echoed hymn did steal, 
 Which mid the church, where erst we paid ourvows, 
 So tuneful pea Yd. But tenderly thy voice 
 Dissolved the i.Iusion." And the gentle smile 
 Lighting her brow, the fond caress that soothed 
 Her wakin-r infant, reassured his soul 
 That, whoresoe er our best affections dwell, 
 And strike a healthful root, is happiness. 
 Content and placid, to his rest he sank ; 
 But driMms. tho-v wi d magicians, that do play 
 Such pranks when reason slumbers, tireless wrought 
 Their will with him. Up rose the thronging mart 
 If his own native city roof and spire, 
 
 All glittering bright, in fancy s frostwork ray. 
 The steed his boyhood nurtured proudly neighed, 
 The favorite dog came frisking round his feet 
 With shrill and joyous bark; familiar doors 
 Flew open ; greeting hands with his were linked 
 In friendship s grasp ; he heard the keen debate 
 From congregated haunts, where mind with minu 
 Doth blend and brighten : and till morning roved 
 Mid the loved scenery of his native land. 
 
 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 
 
 How slow yon lonely vessel ploughs the main ! 
 Amid the heavy billows now she seems 
 A toi.ing atom ; then from wave to wave 
 Leaps madly, by the tempest lashed, or reels [wane, 
 Half wrecked thro gulfs profound. Moons wax and 
 But still that patient traveller treads the deep. 
 I see an icebound coast toward which she steers 
 With such a tardy movement, that it seems 
 Stern Winter s hand hath turned her keel to stone, 
 And sealed his victory on her slippery shrouds. 
 They land ! they land ! not like the Genoese, 
 With glittering sword, and gaudy train, and eye 
 Kindling with golden fancies. Forth they come 
 From their long prison, hardy forms that brave 
 The world s unkindness, men of hoary hair, 
 Maidens of fearless heart, and matrons grave, 
 Who hush the wailing infant with a g ance. 
 B eak Nature s desolation wraps them round, 
 Eternal forests, and unyielding earth, 
 And savage men, who through the thickets peer 
 With vengeful arrow. What could lure their steps 
 To this drear desert 1 Ask of him who left 
 His father s home to roam through Haran s wilds, 
 Distrusting not the guide who called him forth, 
 Nor doubting, though a stranger, that his seed 
 Shou d be as ocean s sands. But yon lone bark 
 Hatli spread her parting sail ; they crowd the strand, 
 Those few, lone pilgrims. Can ye scan the wo 
 That wrings their bosoms, as the last frail link, 
 Binding to man and habitable earth, 
 Is severed 1 Can ye tell what pangs were there, 
 With keen regrets; what sickness of the heart, 
 What yearnings o er their forfeit land of birth, 
 Their distant dear ones ] Long, with straining eve, 
 They watch the lessening speck. Heard ye no shriek 
 Of anguish, when that bitter lone iness 
 Sank down into their bosoms ? No ! they turn 
 Back to their dreary, famished huts, and pray ! 
 Pray, and the ills that haunt this transient life 
 Fade into air. Up in each girded breast 
 There sprang a rooted and mysterious strength, 
 A loftiness to face a world in arms, 
 To strip the pomp from sceptres, and to lay 
 On Duty s sacred a tar the warm blood 
 Of s ain affections, should they rise between 
 The soul and GOD. ye, who proudly boast, 
 In your free veins, the blood of sires like these, 
 Look to their lineaments. Dread lest ye lose 
 Their likeness in your sons. Shou d Mammon cling 
 Too close around your heart, or wealth beget 
 That bloated luxury which eats the core 
 From manly virtue, or the tempting world 
 
LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 95 
 
 Make faint the Christian purpose in your soul, 
 Turn ye to Plymouth rock, and where they knelt 
 Kneel, and renew the vow they breathed to God. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 I DEEM thee not unlovely, though thou comest 
 With a stern visage. To the tuneful bird, 
 The blushing floweret, the rejoicing stream, 
 Thy discipline is harsh. But unto man 
 Mcthinks thou hast a kindlier ministry. 
 Thy lengthened eve is full of fireside joys, 
 And deathless linking of warm heart to heart, 
 So that the hoarse storm passes by unheard. 
 Earth, robed in white, a peaceful sabbath holds, 
 And keepeth si ence at her Maker s feet. 
 She ceaseth from the harrowing of the plough, 
 And from the harvest shouting. Man should rest 
 Thus from his fevered passions, and exhale 
 The unbreathed carbon of his festering thought, 
 And drink in holy hea th. As the tossed bark 
 Doth seek the shelter of some quiet bay 
 To trim its scattered cordage, and restore 
 Its riven sai s so should the toilworn mind 
 Refit for Time s rough voyage. Man, perchance, 
 Soured by the world s sharp commerce, or impaired 
 By the wild wanderings of his summer way, 
 Turns like a truant scholar to his home, 
 And yields his nature to sweet influences 
 That purify and save. The ruddy boy [sport, 
 Comes with his shouting schoolmates from their 
 On the smooth, frozen lake, as the first star 
 Hangs, pure and cold, its twinkling cresset forth, 
 And, throwing off his skates with boisterous glee, 
 Hastes to his mother s side. Her tender hand 
 Doth shake the snowflakes from his glossy curls, 
 And draw him nearer, and with gentle voice 
 Asks of his lessons, while her lifted heart 
 Solicits silently the Sire of heaven 
 To " b ess the lad." The timid infant learns 
 Better to love its sire, and longer sits 
 Upon his knee, and with a velvet lip 
 Prints on his brow such language as the tongue 
 Hath never spoken. Come thou to life s feast 
 With dove eyed Meekness, and b and Charity, 
 And thou shalt find even Winter s rugged blasts 
 The minstrel teacher of thy well tuned soul, 
 And when the last drop of its cup is drained 
 Arising with a song of praise go up 
 To the eternal banquet. 
 
 NIAGARA. 
 
 FLOW on, for ever, in thy glorious robe 
 Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on 
 Unfathomed and resistless. God hath set 
 His rainbow on thv forehead, and the cloud 
 Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give 
 Thy voice of thunder power to speak of him 
 Eternal y bidding the lip of man 
 Keep silence and upon thy rocky altar pour 
 Incense of awe struck praise. Ah ! who can dare 
 To lift the insect trump of earthly hope, 
 Or love, or sorrow, mid the peal sublime 
 
 Of thy tremendous hymn 1 Even Ocean shrinks 
 
 Back from thy brotherhood : and all his waves 
 
 Retire abashed. For he doth sometimes seem 
 
 To sleep like a spent laborer, and recall 
 
 His wearied billows from their vexing play, 
 
 And lull them to a cradle calm: but thou, 
 
 With everlasting, undecaying tide, 
 
 Dost rest not, night or day. The morning stars, 
 
 When first they sang o er young Creation s birth. 
 
 Heard thy deep anthem ; and those wrecking fires, 
 
 That wait the archangel s signal to dissolve 
 
 This solid earth, shall find JEHOVAH S name 
 
 Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears, 
 
 Of thine unending volume. Every leaf, 
 
 That lifts itself within thy wide domain, 
 
 Doth gather greenness from thy living spray, 
 
 Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo ! yon birds 
 
 Do boldly venture near, and bathe their wing 
 
 Amid thy mist and foam. T is meet for them 
 
 To touch thy garment s hem, and lightly stir 
 
 The snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath, 
 
 For they may sport unharmed amid the cloud, 
 
 Or listen at the echoing gate of heaven, 
 
 Without reproof. But as for us, it seems 
 
 Scarce lawful, with our broken tones, to speak 
 
 Famr iarly of thee. Methinks, to tint 
 
 Thy glorious features with our pencil s point, 
 
 Or woo thee to the tablet of a song, 
 
 Were profanation. Thou dost make the soul 
 
 A wondering witness of thy majesty, 
 
 But as it presses with delirious joy 
 
 To pierce thy vestibule, dost chain its step, 
 
 And tame its rapture, with the humbling view 
 
 Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand 
 
 In the dread presence of the Invisible, 
 
 As if to answer to its God through thee. 
 
 THE ALPINE FLOWERS. 
 
 MEEK dwellers mid yon terror stricken cliffs ! 
 With brows so pure, and incense breathing lips, 
 Whence are ye 1 Did some white winged messenger 
 On Mercy s missions trust your timid germ 
 To the cold cradle of eternal snows 1 
 Or, breathing on the callous icicles, 
 Did them with tear drops nurse ye ? 
 
 Tree nor shrub 
 
 Dare that drear atmosphere ; no polar pine 
 Uprears a veteran front ; yet there ye stand, 
 Leaning your cheeks against the thick ribbed ice, 
 And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him 
 Who bids you bloom unblanched amid the waste 
 Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils 
 O er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge 
 Of yawning gulfs, o er which the headlong plunge- 
 Is to eternity, looks shuddering up, 
 And marks ye in your placid -loveliness 
 Fearless, yet frail and, clasping his chill hand?, 
 Blesses your pencilled beauty. Mid the pomp 
 Of mountain summits rushing on the sky, 
 And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe, 
 He bows to bind you drooping to his breast, 
 Inhales your spirit from the frost winged gale 
 Anl freer dreams of heaven. 
 
LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 N A V ( ) L K O X S E P I T APR. 
 
 sh .no out, and there we .nw tl.e face of 
 in-, eliaracterl**. unintcribttl." 
 
 A vii who shall write thine epitaph, thou man 
 Of mystery and might ! Shall orphan hands 
 Inscribe it with their father s broken swords ? 
 Or the wa m trickling of the widow s tear 
 Channel it slowly mid the rugged rock, 
 As the keen torture of the water drop [ghosts 
 Doth wear the sentenced hr.iin 1 Shall countless 
 Arise I .-.MII hade-;, and in luri.l flame 
 With shad nvy linger trace thine effigy, 
 Who s , iit the.rn to their audit unannealed, 
 \nd with hut that brief space fir shrift of prayer 
 Given at tin- cannon s mouth 1 Thou, who didst sit 
 Like eag!e on the apex of the globe, 
 And bear the murmur of its conquered tribes, 
 As chirp the weak voiced nations of the grass, 
 Why art thou sepulchred in yon far isle, 
 1 on little speck, which scarce the mariner 
 Descries mid ocean s foam 1 Thou, who didst hew 
 A pathway for thy host above the cloud, 
 Guiding their footsteps o er the frostwork crown 
 Ot the throned Alps, why dost thou sleep unmarked, 
 Even by such slight memento as the hind 
 Carves on his own coarse tombstone 1 Bid the 
 
 throng 
 
 W T ho poured thee incense, as Olympian Jove, 
 And breathed thy thunders on the battle field, 
 Return, and rear thy monument. Those forms 
 O er the wide valleys of red slaughter spread, 
 From pole to tropic, and from zone to zone, 
 Heed n >t thy clarion call. But should they rise, 
 As in the vision that the prophet saw, 
 And each dry bone its severed fellow find, 
 Piling their pillared dust as erst they gave 
 Their souls for thee, the wondering stars mightdeem 
 A second time the puny pride of man 
 Did creep by stealth upon its Babel stairs, 
 To dwe l with them. But here unwept thou art, 
 Like a dead lion in his thicket lair, 
 With neither living man nor spirit condemned 
 To write thine epitaph. Invoke the climes, 
 Who served as playthings in thy desperate game 
 Of mad ambition, or their treasures strewed 
 Till meagre Famine on their vitals preved, 
 To pay the reckoning. France! who gave so free 
 Thy life stream t his cup of wine, and saw 
 That purple vintage shed over ha f the earth, 
 Wn /r the first lint ., if than tmxt blond to spare. 
 Thou, too, whose pride did deck dead Caesar s tomb, 
 And rh-iiit high requiem o er the tyrant hand 
 Who had their birth with thee, lend us thine arts 
 Of sculpture and of classic eloquence, 
 To grace his obsequies at whose dark frown 
 Thin* ancient spirit ((nailed, and to the list 
 )f mutilated kings, who gleaned their meat 
 TVeath A -.jug s table, add the name of Rome. 
 - Turn. Austria! iron browed and stern of heart, 
 And on his monument, to whom thou gavest 
 In anger, battle, and in craft a bride, 
 Grave - Auster itz," and fiercely turn away. 
 As the reined war h:)rse snulls the trumpet blast, 
 Rouse Prussia fijtii hr trance with Jena s name 
 
 And bid her witness to that fame which soars 
 O er him of Macedon, and shames the vaunt 
 Of Scandinavia s madman. From the shades 
 Of lettered ease, oh, Germany ! come forth 
 With pen of fire, and from thy troubled scroll, 
 Such as thou spreadst at Leipsic, gather tints 
 Of deeper character than bold Romance 
 Hath ever imaged in her wildest dream. 
 Or History trusted to her sybil leaves. 
 Hail, lotus crowned ! in thy green childhood fed 
 By stiff necked Pharaoh and the shepherd kings, 
 Hast thou no tale of him who drenched thy sands 
 At Jaffa and Aboukir ! when the flight 
 Of rushing souls went up so strange and strong 
 To the accusing Spirit ? Glorious isle ! 
 Whose thrice enwreathed chain, Promethean like, 
 Did bind him to the fatal rock, we ask 
 Thy deep memento for this marble tomb. 
 Ho ! fur clad Russia ! with thy spear of frost, 
 Or with thy winter mocking Cossack s lance, 
 Stir the cold memories of thy vengeful brain, 
 And give the last line of our epitaph. 
 But there was silence : for no sceptred hand 
 Received the challenge. From the misty deep, 
 Rise, island spirits ! like those sisters three 
 Who spin and cut the trembling thread of life 
 Rise on your coral pedestals, and write 
 That eulogy which haughtier climes deny. 
 Come, for ye lulled him in your matron arms, 
 And cheered his exile with the name of king, 
 And spread that curtained couch which none disturb, 
 Come, twine some trait of househo d tenderness, 
 Some tender leaflet, nursed with Nature s tears, 
 Around this urn. But Corsica, who rocked 
 His cradle at Ajaccio, turned awuy ; 
 And tiny E ba in the Tuscan wave 
 Threw her slight annal with the haste of feu r; 
 And rude Helena, sick at heart, and gray 
 Neath the Atlantic s smiting, bade the moon, 
 With silent finger, point the traveller s gaze 
 To an unhonored tomb. Then Earth arose, 
 That blind old empress, on her crumb ing throno, 
 And to the echoed question, " Who shall write 
 NAPOLEOV S epitaph 1" as one who broods 
 O er unforgiven injuries, answered, " None ! 
 
 DEATH OF AN INFANT. 
 
 DEATH found strange beauty on that polished 
 
 brow, 
 
 And dashed it out. There was a tint of rose 
 On cheek and lip. He touched the veins with ice, 
 And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes 
 There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt 
 Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence 
 Alone may wear. With ruthless haste he bound 
 The silken fringes of those curtaining lids 
 For ever. There had been a murmuring sound 
 With which the babe would claim its mother s ear, 
 Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set 
 The seal of si .ence. But there beamed a smile, 
 So fixed, so holy, from that, cherub brow, 
 Death gazed, and left it there. He dared not steal 
 The signet ring of Heaven. 
 
LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 MONODY ON MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 N \ T i- u K doth mourn for thec. There comes a voice 
 From her far so:itudes, as though the winds 
 Murmured low dirges, or the waves complained. 
 Even the meek plant, that never sang hefore, 
 Save one brief requiem, when its b ossoms fell, 
 Seems through its drooping leaves to sigh for thee, 
 As for a florist dead. The ivy, wreathed 
 Round the gray turrets of a buried race, 
 And the proud palm trees, that like princes rear 
 Their diadems neath Asia s sultry sky, 
 Blend with their ancient lore thy hallowed name. 
 Thy music, like baptismal dew, did make 
 Whate er it touched more holy. The pure shell, 
 Pressing its pearly lip to Ocean s floor ; 
 The cloistered chambers, where the seagods sleep ; 
 And the unfathomed, melancholy Main, 
 Lament for thee through all the sounding deeps. 
 Hark ! from sky piercing Himmaleh, to where 
 Snowdon doth weave his coronet of cloud 
 From the scathed pine tree, near the red man s hut, 
 To where the everlasting Banian builds 
 Its vast columnar temple, comes a wail 
 For her who o er the dim cathedral s arch, 
 The quivering sunbeam on the cottage wall, 
 Or the sere desert, poured the lofty chant 
 And ritual of the muse : who found the link 
 That joins mute Nature to ethereal mind, 
 And make that link a me ody. The vales 
 Of glorious Albion heard thy tuneful fame, [hards 
 And those green cliffs, where erst the Cambrian 
 Swept their indignant lyres, exulting tell 
 How oft thy fairy foot in childhood climbed 
 Their rude, romantic heights. Yet was the couch 
 Of thy last s umber in yon verdant isle 
 Of song, and eloquence, and ardent soul 
 Which, loved of lavish skies, though banned by fate, 
 Seemed as a type of thine own varied lot, 
 The crowned of Genius, and the child of Wo. 
 For at thy breast the ever pointed thorn 
 Did gird itself in secret, mid the gush 
 Of such unstained, sublime, impassioned song, 
 That angels, poising on some silver c oud, 
 Might listen mid the errands of the skies, 
 And linger all unblamed. How tenderly 
 Dolh Nature draw her curtain round thy rest, 
 And, like a nurse, with finger on her lip, 
 Watch that no step disturb thee, and no hand 
 Profane thy sacred harp. Methinks she waits 
 Thy wakina, as some cheated mother hangs 
 O er the pale babe, whose spirit Death hath stolen, 
 And laid it dreaming on the lap of Heaven. 
 Said we that thou art dead ! We dare not. No. 
 For every mountain, stream, or shady dell, 
 Where thy rich echoes linger, claim thee still, 
 Their own undying one. To thee was known 
 Alike the language of the fragile flower 
 And of the burning stars. God taught it thee. 
 So, from thy living intercourse with man, 
 Thou sha t not pass, until the weary earth 
 Drops her last gem into the doomsday flame. 
 Thou hast but taken thy seat with that blest choir, 
 Whose harmonies thy spirit learned so well 
 Through this low, darkened casement, and so long 
 
 Interpreted for us. Why should we say 
 Farewell to t .iee, since every unborn age 
 Shall mix thee with its household charities ? 
 The hoary sire shall bow his deafened ear, 
 And greet thy sweet words with his henison 
 The mother shrine thee -as a vestal flame 
 In the lone temple of her sanctity ; 
 And the young child who takes thee by the hand, 
 Shall travel with a surer step to heaven. 
 
 THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON.* 
 
 LONG hast thou slept unnoted. Nature stole 
 In her soft ministry around thy bed, 
 Spreading her vernal tissue, violet gemmed, 
 And pearled with dews. 
 
 She bade bright Summer bring 
 Gifts of frankincense, with sweet song of birds, 
 And Autumn cast his reaper s coronet 
 Down at thy feet, and stormy Winter speak 
 Stern y of man s neglect. But now we come 
 To do thee homage mother of our chief! 
 Fit homage such as honoreth him who pays. 
 
 Methinks we see thee as in olden time 
 Simple in garb majestic and serene, 
 Unmoved by pomp or circumstance in truth 
 Inflexible, and with a Spartan zeal 
 Repressing vice and making folly grave. 
 Thou didst not deem it woman s part to waste 
 Life in inglorious sloth to sport a while 
 Amid the flowers, or on the summer wave; 
 Then fleet, like the ephemeron, away, 
 Building no temple in her children s hearts, 
 Save to the vanity and pride of life 
 Which she had worshipped. 
 
 For the might that clothed 
 The Pater Patrire" for the glorious deeds 
 That make Mount Vernon s tomb a Mecca shrine 
 For all the earth what thanks to thee are due, 
 Who, mid his elements of being, wrought, 
 We know not Heaven can tell ! 
 
 Rise, sculptured pile f 
 And show a race unborn who rests below, 
 And say to mothers what a ho y charge 
 Is theirs with what a kingly power their love 
 Might rule the fountains of the newborn mind. 
 Warn thorn to wake at early dawn, and sow 
 Good seed before the World hath sown her tares ; 
 Nor in their toil decline that angel bands 
 May put the sickle in, and reap for God, 
 And gather to his garner. Ye, who stand, 
 With thril ing breast, to view her trophied praise, 
 Who nobly reared Virginia s godlike chief 
 Ye, whose last thought upon your nightly couch, 
 Whose first at waking, is your cradled son, 
 What though no high ambition prompts to rear 
 A second WASHINGTON, or leave your name 
 Wrought out in marble with a nation s tears 
 Of deathless gratitude yet may you raise 
 A monument above the stars a soul 
 Led by your teachings and your prayers to God 
 
 * On laying the comer stone of her monument at Fred- 
 
 i ericksburg, Virginia. 
 
LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 
 
 IT stood among the chestnuts its white spire 
 And slender turrets pointing where man s heart 
 Should oftener turn. Up went the wooded cliffs, 
 Abruptly beautiful, ahove its head, 
 Shutting with verdant screen the waters out, 
 That just beyond, in deep sequestered vale, 
 Wrought out their rocky passage. Clustering roofs 
 And varying sounds of village industry 
 
 Swelled from its margin 
 
 But all around 
 
 The solitary dell, where meekly rose 
 That consecrated church, there was no voice 
 Save what still Nature in her worship breathes, 
 And that unspoken lore with which the dead 
 
 Do commune with the living And methought 
 
 How sweet it were, so near the sacred house 
 Where we had heard of Christ, and taken his yoke, 
 And sabbath after sabbath gathered strength 
 To do his will, thus to lie down and rest, 
 Close neath the shadow of its peaceful walls ; 
 And when the hand doth moulder, to lift up 
 Our simple tombstone witness to that faith 
 Which can not die. 
 
 Heaven bless thee, lonely church, 
 And daily mayst thou warn a pilgrim-band 
 From toil, from cumbrance, and from strife to flee, 
 And drink the waters of eternal life : 
 Still in sweet fellowship with trees and skies, 
 Friend both of earth and heaven, devoutly stand 
 To guide the living and to guard the dead. 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 
 DEEP solitude I sought. There was a dell 
 Where woven shades shut out the eye of day, 
 While, towering near, the rugged mountains made 
 Dark background gainst the sky. Thither I went, 
 And bade my spirit taste that lonely fount. 
 For which it long had thirsted mid the strife 
 And fever of the world. I thought to be 
 There without witness : but the violet s eye 
 Looked up to greet me, the fresh wild rose smiled, 
 A nd the young pendent vine flower kissed my cheek. 
 There were glad voices too : the garrulous brook, 
 Untiring, to the patient pebbles told 
 Its history. Up came the singing breeze, 
 And the broad leaves of the cool poplar spake 
 Responsive, every one. Even busy life 
 Woke in that dell : the dexterous spider threw 
 From spray to spray the silver-tissued snare. 
 The thrifty ant, whose curving pincers pierced 
 The rifled grain, toiled toward her citadel. 
 To her sweet hive went forth the loaded bee, 
 While, from her. wind-rocked nest, the mother-bird 
 Sang to her nurslings. 
 
 Yet I strangely thought 
 To be alone and silent in thy realm, 
 Spirit of life and love ! It might not be : 
 There is no solitude in thy domains, 
 Save what man makes, when in his selfish breast 
 He locks his joy, and shuts out others grief. 
 Thou hast not left thyself in this wide world 
 Without a witness : even the desert place 
 
 Speaketh thy name ; the simple flowers and streams 
 Are social and benevolent, and he 
 Who holdeth converse in their language pure, 
 Roaming among them at the cool of day, 
 Shall find, like him who Eden s garden dressed, 
 His Maker there, to teach his listening heart. 
 
 SUNSET ON THE ALLEGANY. 
 
 I WAS a pensive pilgrim at the foot 
 Of the crowned Allegany, when he wrapped 
 His purple mantle gloriously around, 
 And took the homage of the princely hills, 
 And ancient forests, as they bowed them down, 
 Each in his order of nobility. 
 And then, in glorious pomp, the sun retired 
 Behind that solemn shadow : and his train 
 Of crimson, and of azure, and of gold, 
 Went floating up the zenith, tint on tint, 
 And ray on ray, till all the concave caught 
 His parting benediction. 
 
 But the glow 
 
 Faded to twilight, and dim evening sank 
 In deeper shade, and there that mountain stood 
 In awful state, like dread embassador [severe 
 Tween earth and heaven. Methought it frowned 
 Upon the world beneath, and lifted up 
 The accusing forehead sternly toward the sky, 
 To witness gainst its sins : and is it meet 
 For thee, swoln out in cloud-capped pinnacle, 
 To scorn thine own original, the dust 
 That, feebly eddying on the angry winds, 
 Doth sweep thy base 1 Say, is it meet for thee, 
 Robing thyself in mystery, to impeach 
 This nether sphere, from whence thy rocky root 
 Draws depth and nutriment ? 
 
 But lo ! a star, 
 
 The first meek herald of advancing night, 
 Doth peer above thy summit, as some babe 
 Might gaze with brow of timid innocence 
 Over a giant s shoulder. Hail, lone star ! 
 Thou friendly watcher o er an erring world, 
 Thine uncondemning glance doth aptly teach 
 Of that untiring mercy, which vouchsafes 
 Thee light, and man salvation. 
 
 Not to mark 
 
 And treasure up his follies, or recount 
 Their secret record in the court of Heaven, 
 Thou com st. Methinks thy tenderness would 
 With trembling mantle, his infirmities, [shroud 
 The purest natures are most pitiful ; 
 But they who feel corruption strong within 
 Do launch their darts most fiercely at the trace 
 Of their own image, in another s breast. 
 So the wild bull, that in some mirror spies 
 His own mad visage, furiously destroys 
 The frail reflector. But thou, stainless star! 
 Shalt stand a watchman on Creation s walls, 
 While race on race their little circles mark, 
 And slumber in the tomb. Still point to all, 
 Who through this evening scene may wander on 
 And from yon mountain s cold magnificence 
 Turn to thy milder beauty point to all, 
 The eternal love that nightly sends thee forth, 
 A silent teacher of its boundless love. 
 
LYDIA H. 8IGOURNEY. 
 
 99 
 
 THE INDIAN GIRL S BURIAL. 
 
 A VOICE upon the prairies, - 
 
 A cry of woman s wo, 
 That mingleth with the autumn blast 
 
 All fitfully and low ; 
 It is a mother s wailing : 
 
 Hath earth another tone 
 Like that with which a mother mourns 
 
 Her lost, her only one ! 
 
 Pale faces gather round her, 
 
 They marked the storm swell high 
 That rends and wrecks the tossing soul, 
 
 But their cold, blue eyes are dry. 
 Pale faces gaze upon her, 
 
 As the wild winds caught her moan, 
 But she was an Indian mother, 
 
 So she wept her tears alone. 
 
 Long o er that wasted idol 
 
 She watched, and toiled, and prayed, 
 Though every dreary dawn revealed 
 
 Some ravage death had made, 
 Till the fleshless sinews started, 
 
 And hope no opiate gave, 
 And hoarse and hollow grew her voice, 
 
 An echo from the grave. 
 
 She was a gentle creature, 
 
 Of raven eye and tress ; 
 And dovelike were the tones that breathed 
 
 Her bosom s tenderness, 
 Save when some quick emotion 
 
 The warm blood strongly sent, 
 To revel in her olive cheek, 
 
 So richly eloquent. 
 
 I said Consumption smote her, 
 
 And the healer s art was vain, 
 But she was an Indian maiden, 
 
 So none deplored her pain ; 
 None, save that widowed mother, 
 
 Who now. by her open tomb, 
 Is writhing, like the. smitten wretch 
 
 Whom judgment marks for doom. 
 
 Alas ! that lowly cabin, 
 
 That bed beside the wall, 
 That seat beneath the mantling vine, 
 
 They re lone and empty all. 
 What hand shall pluck the tall green corn, 
 
 That ripeneth on the plain ] 
 Since she for whom the board was spread 
 
 Must ne er return again. 
 
 Rest, rest, thou Indian maiden, 
 
 Nor let thy murmuring shade 
 Grieve that those pale browed ones with scorn 
 
 Thy burial rite surveyed ; 
 There s many a king whose funeral 
 
 A black robed realm shall see, 
 For whom no tear of grief is shed 
 
 Like that which falls for thee. 
 
 Yea, rest thee, forest maiden, 
 
 Beneath thy native tree ! 
 The proud may boast their little day, 
 
 Then sink to dust like thee : 
 
 But there s many a one whose funeral 
 With nodding plumes may be, 
 
 Whom Nature nor affection mourn 
 As here they mourn for thee. 
 
 INDIAN NAMES. 
 
 YE say they all have passed away, 
 
 That noble race and brave ; 
 That their light canoes have vanished 
 
 From off the crested wave ; 
 That, mid the forests where they roamed, 
 
 There rings no hunter s shout: 
 But their name is on your waters 
 
 Ye may not wash it out. 
 
 T is where Ontario s billow 
 
 Like Ocean s surge is curled ; 
 Where strong Niagara s thunders wake 
 
 The echo of the world ; 
 Where red Missouri bringeth 
 
 Rich tribute from the west ; 
 And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps 
 
 On green Virginia s breast. 
 
 Ye say their conelike cabins, 
 
 That clustered o er the vale, 
 Have disappeared, as withered leaves 
 
 Before the autumn s gale : 
 But their memory liveth on your hills, 
 
 Their baptism on your shore, 
 Your everlasting rivers speak 
 
 Their dialect of yore. 
 
 Old Massachusetts wears it 
 
 Within her lordly crown, 
 And broad Ohio bears it 
 
 Amid her young renown ; 
 Connecticut has wreathed it 
 
 Where her quiet foliage waves, 
 And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse 
 
 Through all her ancient caves. 
 
 Wachusett hides its lingering voice 
 
 Within its rocky heart, 
 And Allegany graves its tone 
 
 Throughout his tofty chart. 
 Monadnock, on his forehead hoar, 
 
 Doth seal the sacred trust : 
 Your mountains build their monument, 
 
 Though ye destroy their dust. 
 
 A BUTTERFLY ON A CHILD S GRA\E. 
 
 A BUTTERFLY basked on a baby s grave, 
 
 Where a lily had chanced to grow : 
 " Why art thou here, with thy gaudy dye, 
 When she of the blue and sparkling eye 
 
 Must sleep in the churchyard low ?" 
 Then it lightly soared through the sunny air. 
 
 And spoke from its shining track : 
 I was a worm till I won my wings, 
 And she whom thou mourn st, like a seraph sings 
 
 Wouldst thou call the blest one back 1 " 
 
100 
 
 LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 MONODY ON THE LATE DANIEL WADS- 
 WORTH. 
 
 Tnor, of a noble name, 
 That gave in days of old 
 Shepherds to Zion s fold, 
 And chiefs of power and fame, 
 When Washington in times of peril drew [true 
 Forth in their country s cause the valiant and the 
 Thou, who so many a lonely home didst cheer, 
 
 Counting thy wealth a sacred trust 
 With shuddering heart the knell we hear 
 That tells us thou art dust. 
 
 Friend ! we have let thee fall 
 Into the grave, and have not gathered all 
 The wisdom thou didst love to pour 
 From a full mind s exhaustless store: 
 
 Ah, we were slow of heart, 
 To reap the rapid moments ere their flight 
 Or thou, perchance, to us hadst taught the art 
 Heaven s gifts to use aright 
 
 Amid infirmity and pain 
 
 Time s golden sands to save ; 
 W T ith upright heart the truth maintain.; 
 To frown on wiles the life that stain, 
 
 Making the soul their slave ; 
 To joy in all things beautiful, and trace [face. 
 The slightest smile, or shade, that mantled Nature s 
 
 Yes, we were slow of heart, and dreamed 
 
 To see thee still at wintry tide, [beside, 
 
 With page of knowledge spread, thy pleasant hearth 
 When to thy clearer sight there gleamed 
 The beckoning hand, the waiting eye, 
 The smile of welcome through the sky, 
 Of her who was thine angel here below, [to go. 
 And unto whom twas meet that thou shouldst long 
 
 Friend ! thou didst give command 
 To him who dealt thy soul its hallowed bread, 
 As by thy suffering bed 
 He took his faithful stand, 
 
 Not to pronounce thy praise when thou wert dead : 
 So, though impulsive promptings came, 
 Warm o er his lips like rushing flame, 
 He struggled and o ercarne. 
 
 Even when, in sad array, 
 
 From thy lone home, where summer roses twined, 
 The funeral weepers held their way 
 
 Thy sahle hearse behind : 
 When in the holy house, where thou so long 
 Hadst worshipped with the sabbath throng, 
 
 Thy venerated form was laid, 
 While mournful dirges rose, and solemn prayers 
 were made. 
 
 Oh friend ! thou didst o ermaster well 
 The pride of wealth, and multiply 
 Good deeds not done for the good word of men, 
 But for Heaven s judging pen, 
 And clear, omniscient eye; 
 And surely where the "just made perfect" dwell, 
 
 Earth s voice of highest eulogy 
 Is like the bubble of the far-off sea 
 
 A sigh upon the grave, [wave. 
 
 Scarce moving the frail flowers that o er its surface 
 
 Yet think not, friend revered, 
 
 Oblivion o er thy name shall sweep, 
 While the fair domes that thou hast reared 
 
 Their faithful witness keep. 
 The fairy cottage in its robe of flowers 
 The classic turrets, where the stranger strays 
 Amid the pencil s tints and scrolls of other days, 
 And yon gray tower on Montevideo s crest, 
 Where, mid Elysian haunts and bowers, 
 Thou didst rejoice to see all people blest : 
 
 These chronicle thy name 
 And ah, in many a darkened cot 
 Thou hast a tear-embalmed fame 
 That can not be forgot ! 
 
 But were all dumb beside, 
 The lyre that thou didst wake, the lone heart thou 
 
 didst guide, 
 
 In early youth, with fostering care 
 These may not in cold silence bide: 
 For were it so, the stones on which we tread 
 Would find a tongue to chide 
 
 Ingratitude so dread ! 
 
 No till the fading gleam of memory s fires 
 From the warm altar of the heart expires, 
 Leave thou the much indebted free 
 
 To speak what truth inspires, 
 And fondly mourn for thee. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT OF A LOST DAY. 
 
 LOST ! lost ! lost ! 
 
 A gem of countless price, 
 Cut from the living rock, 
 
 And graved in paradise : 
 Set round with three times eight 
 
 Large diamonds, clear and bright, 
 And each with sixty smaller ones, 
 
 All changeful as the light. 
 
 Lost where the thoughtless throng 
 
 In Fashion s mazes wind, 
 Where trilleth Folly s song, 
 
 Leaving a sting behind : 
 Yet to my hand twas given 
 
 A golden harp to buy, 
 Such as the white-robed choir attune 
 
 To deathless minstrelsy. 
 
 Lost ! lost ! lost ! 
 
 I feel all search is vain ; 
 That gem of countless cost 
 
 Can ne er be mine again : 
 I offer no reward 
 
 For till these heart-strings sever, 
 I know that Heaven-entrusted gift 
 
 Is reft away for ever. 
 
 But when the sea and land 
 
 Like burning scroll have fled, 
 I ll see it in His hand 
 
 Who judgeth quick and dead, 
 And when of scathe and loss 
 
 That man can ne er repair, 
 The dread inquiry meets my soul, 
 
 What shall it answei there 1 
 
LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY 
 
 101 
 
 FAREWELL TO A RURAL RESIDENCE. 
 
 How beautiful it stands, 
 
 Behind its elm tree s screen, 
 With simple attic cornice crowned, 
 
 All graceful and serene ! 
 Most sweet, yet sad, it is 
 
 Upon yon scene to gaze, 
 And list its inborn melody, 
 
 The voice of other days : 
 
 For there, as many a year 
 
 Its varied chart unrolled, 
 I hid me in those quiet shades, 
 
 And called the joys of old ; 
 I called them, and they came 
 
 When vernal buds appeared, 
 Or whore the vine clad summer bower 
 
 Its temple roof upreared, 
 
 Or where the o erarching grove 
 
 Spread forth its copses green, 
 While eyebright and asclepias reared 
 
 Their untrained stalks between ; 
 And the squirrel from the boughs 
 
 His broken nuts let fall, 
 And the merry, merry little birds 
 
 Sing at his festival. 
 
 Yon old forsaken nests 
 
 Returning spring shall cheer, 
 And thence the unfledged robin breathe 
 
 His greeting wild and clear ; 
 And from yon clustering vine, 
 
 That wreathes the casement round, 
 The humming-birds unresting wing 
 
 Send forth a whirring sound ; 
 
 And where alternate springs 
 
 The lilach s purple spire 
 Fast by its snowy sister s side ; 
 
 Or where, with wing of fire, 
 The kingly oriole glancing went 
 
 Amid the foliage rare, 
 Shall many a group of children tread, 
 
 But mine will not be there. 
 
 Fain would I know what forms 
 
 The mastery here shall keep, 
 What mother in yon nursery fair 
 
 Rock her young babes to sleep : 
 Yet blessings on the hallowed spot, 
 
 Though here no more I stray, 
 And blessings on the stranger babes 
 
 Who in those halls shall play. 
 
 Heaven bless you, too, my plants, 
 
 And every parent bird 
 That here, among the woven boughs, 
 
 Above its young hath stirred. 
 I kiss your trunks, ye ancient trees, 
 
 That often o er my head 
 The blossoms of your flowery spring 
 
 In fragrant showers have shed. 
 
 Thou, too, of changeful mood, 
 
 I thank thee, sounding stream. 
 That blent thine echo with my thought. 
 
 Or woke my musing dream. 
 I kneel upon the verdant turf, 
 
 For sure my thanks are due 
 To moss-cup and to clover leaf, 
 
 That gave me draughts of dew. 
 
 To each perennial flower, 
 
 Old tenants of the spot, 
 The broad leafed lily of the vale, 
 
 And the meek forget-me-not ; 
 To every daisy s dappled brow, 
 
 To every violet blue, 
 Thanks ! thanks ! may each returning year 
 
 Your changeless bloom renew. 
 
 Praise to our Father-God, 
 
 High praise, in solemn lay, 
 Alike for what his hand hath given, 
 
 And what it takes away : 
 And to some other loving heart 
 
 May all this beauty be 
 The dear retreat, the Eden home, 
 
 That it hath been to me ! 
 
 WIDOW AT HER DAUGHTER S BRIDAL 
 
 DEAL gently thou, whose hand hath won 
 
 The young bird from its nest away, 
 Where careless, neath a vernal sun, 
 
 She gayly carolled, day by day ; 
 The haunt is lone, the heart must grieve, 
 
 From whence her timid wing doth soar, 
 They pensive list at hush of eve, 
 
 Yet hear her gushing song no more. 
 
 Deal gently with her ; thou art dear, 
 
 Beyond what vestal lips have told, 
 And, like a lamb from fountains clear, 
 
 She turns confiding to thy fold ; 
 She, round thy sweet domestic bower 
 
 The wreaths of changeless love shall twine, 
 Watch for thy step at vesper hour, 
 
 And blend her holiest prayer with thine. 
 
 Deal gently thou, when, far away, 
 
 Mid stranger scenes her foot shall rove, 
 Nor let thy tender care decay 
 
 The soul of woman lives in love : 
 And shouldst thou, wondering, mark a tear, 
 
 Unconscious, from her eyelids break, 
 Be pitiful, and soothe the fear 
 
 That man s strong heart may ne er partake, 
 
 A mother yields her gem to thee, 
 
 On thy -true breast to sparkle rare ; 
 She places neath thy household tree 
 
 The idol of her fondest care : 
 And by thy trust to be forgiven, 
 
 When Judgment wakes in terror wild. 
 By all thy treasured hopes of heaven, 
 
 Deal gently with the widow s child ! 
 
KATHERINE A. WARE 
 
 (Born 1797-Died 1813.) 
 
 KATHERINE AUGUSTA RHODES was born in 
 J797 at Quincy, in Massachusetts, where her 
 father Avas a physician. She was remarkable 
 in childhood for a love of reading, and for 
 a justness of taste much beyond her years. 
 She wrote verses at a very early age, and a 
 poem at fifteen, upon the death of her kins 
 man, Robert Treat Paine, which possessed 
 sufficient merit to be included in the collec 
 tion of that author s works. In 1819 she 
 was married to Mr. Charles A. Ware, of the 
 Navy, and in the next few years she ap 
 peared frequently as a writer of odes for 
 public occasions and as a contributor to lit 
 erary journals. Among her odes was one 
 addressed to Lafayette and presented to him 
 in the ceremony of his reception in Boston, 
 by her eldest child, then five years old ; and 
 another, in honor of Governor De Witt Clin 
 ton, which was recited at the great Canal 
 Celebration in New York. 
 
 In 1828 Mrs. Ware commenced in Boston 
 the publication of a literary periodical, enti 
 tled The Bower of Taste, which was con 
 tinued several years. She subsequently re 
 sided in New York, and in 1839 went to Eu 
 rope, where she remained until her death, in 
 Paris in 1843. 
 
 A few months before she died, Mrs. Ware 
 published, in London, a selection from her 
 writings, under the title of The Power of the 
 Passions and other Poems. The composition 
 from which the volume has its principal title 
 was originally printed in the Knickerbocker 
 Magazine, for April in the same year. This, 
 though the longest, is scarcely the best of her 
 
 productions, but it has passages of consider 
 able strength and boldness, and some felici 
 ties of expression. She describes a public 
 dancer, as 
 
 Moving as if her element were air, 
 And music was the echo of her step ; 
 
 and there are many other lines noticable for 
 a picturesque beauty or a fine cadence. In 
 other poems, also, are parts which are much 
 superior to their contexts, as if written in 
 moments of inspiration, and added to in la 
 borious leisure: as the following, from The 
 Diamond Island, which refers to a beautiful 
 place in Lake George: 
 
 How sweet to stray along thy flowery shore, 
 Where crystals sparkle in the sunny ray ; 
 
 While the red boatman plies his silvery oar 
 To the wild measure of some rustic lay ! 
 
 and these lines, from an allusion to Athens: 
 Views the broad stadium where th e gymnic art 
 Nerved the young arm and energized the heart. 
 
 or this apostrophe to sculpture, from Musings 
 in St. James s Cemetery : 
 
 Sculpture, oh, what a triumph o er the grave 
 Hath thy proud art ! thy powerful hand can save 
 From the destroyers grasp the noble form, 
 As if the spirit dwelt, still thrilling, warm, 
 In every line and feature of the face, 
 The air majestic, and the simple grace 
 Of flowing robes, which shade, but not conceal, 
 All that -the classic chisel would reveal. 
 
 These inequalities are characteristic of the 
 larger number of Mrs. Ware s poems, but 
 there are in her works some pieces marked 
 by a sustained elegance, and deserving of 
 praise for their fancy and feeling as well as 
 for an artist-like finish. 
 
 LOSS OF THE FIRST BORN. 
 
 I SAW a pale young mother bending o er 
 
 Her first-born hope. Its soft blue eyes wore closed, 
 Not in the balmy dream of downy rest : 
 
 In Dentil s embrace the shrouded babe reposed ; 
 It slept the dreamless sleep that wakes no more. 
 
 A low sigh struggled in her heavinir breast. 
 But yet she \vept not : hers was the deep grief 
 
 The .icsirt, in its dark desolation, feels; 
 Which breathes not in impassioned accents wild, 
 
 But slowly the warm pulse of life congeals; 
 A grief which from the world seeks no relief 
 
 A mother s sorrow o er her first-born child. 
 She gazed upon it with a steadfast eye, [thee ! ? 
 
 Which seemed to say, " Oh, would I were with 
 As if her every earthly hope were fled 
 
 With that departed cherub. Even he [sigh 
 Her young heart s choice, who breathed a father s 
 
 Of bitter anguish o er the unconscious dead 
 Felt not, while weeping by its funeral bier, 
 One pang so deep as hers, who shed no tear. 
 102 
 
KATHERINE A. WARE. 
 
 103 
 
 MADNESS. 
 
 I VK seen the wreck of loveliest things : I ve wept 
 
 O er youthful Beauty in her snowy shroud, 
 All cold and pale, as when the moon hath slept 
 
 In the white foldings of a wintry cloud 
 
 I ve seen the wreck of glorious things : I ve sighed 
 
 O er sculptured temples in prostration laid ; 
 Towers which the blast of ages had defied, 
 
 Now mouldering beneath the ivy s shade. 
 Yet oh ! there is a scene of deeper wo, 
 
 To which the soul can never be resigned : 
 Tis Phrensy s triumph, Reason s overthrow 
 
 The ruined structure of the human mind ! 
 Yes! tis a sight of paralyzing dread, 
 
 To mark the rolling of the maniac s eye 
 From which the spark of intellect hath fled 
 
 The laugh convulsive, and the deep-drawn sigh ; 
 To see Ambition, with his moonlight helm, 
 
 Armed with the fancied panoply of war, 
 The mimic sovereign of a powerful realm 
 
 His shield a shadow, and his spear a straw ; 
 To see pale Beauty raise her dewy eyes. 
 
 Toss her white arms, and beckon things of air, 
 As if she held communion with the skies, 
 
 And all she loved and all she sought were there ; 
 To list the warring of unearthly sounds, 
 
 Which wildly rise, like Ocean s distant swell, 
 Or spirits shrieking o er enchanted grounds, 
 
 Forth rushing from dark Magic s secret cell. 
 Oh, never, never may such fate be mine ! 
 
 I d rather dwell in earth s remotest cave, 
 So I my spirit calmly might resign 
 
 To Him who Reason s glorious blessing gave. 
 
 A NEW-YEAR WISH. 
 
 TO A CHILD AGED FIVE YEARS. 
 
 DEAR one, while bending o er thy couch of rest, 
 
 I ve looked on thee as thou wert calmly sleeping, 
 And wished Oh, couldst thou ever be as blest 
 
 As now, when haply all thy cause of weeping 
 Is for a truant bird, or faded rose ! 
 
 Though these light griefs call forth the ready tear, 
 They cast no shadow o er thy soft repose 
 
 No trace of care or sorrow lingers here. 
 With rosy check upon the pillow prest, 
 
 To me thou seem st a cherub pure and fair, 
 With thy sweet smile and gently heaving breast, 
 
 And the bright ringlets of thy clustering hair. 
 What shall I wish thee, little one ? Smile on 
 
 Thro childhood s morn thro life s gay spring 
 For oh, too soon will those bright hours be gone ! 
 
 In youth time flies upon a silken wing. 
 May thy young mind, beneath the bland control 
 
 Of education, lasting worth acquire; 
 May Virtue stamp her signet on thy soul, 
 
 Direct thy steps, and every thought inspire ! 
 Thy parents earliest hope be it their care 
 
 To guide thee through youth s path of shade and 
 
 flowers, 
 And teach thee to avoid -false pleasure s snare 
 
 Be thine, to smile upon their evening hours. 
 
 MARKS OF TIME. 
 
 AN infant boy was playing among flowers 
 Old Time, that unbribed register of hours, 
 Came hobbling on, but smoothed his wrinkled face, 
 To mark the artless joy and blooming grace 
 Of the young cherub, on whose cheek so fair 
 He smiled, and left a rosy dimple there. 
 
 Next Boyhood followed, with his shout of glee, 
 Elastic step, and spirit wi d and free 
 As the young fawn that scales the mountain height. 
 Or new-fledged eaglet in his sunward flight: 
 Time cast a glance upon the care ess boy, 
 Who frolicked onward with a bound of joy. f eyo 
 
 Then Youth came forward : his bright-glancing 
 Seemed a reflection of the cloud ess sky ! 
 The dawn of passion, in its purest glow, 
 Crimsoned his cheek, and beamed upon his brow, 
 Giving expression to his blooming face, 
 And to his fragile form a manly grace ; 
 His voice was harmony, his speech was truth 
 Time lightly laid his hand upon the youth. 
 
 Manhood next followed, in the sunny prime 
 Of life s meridian bloom : all the sublime 
 And beautiful of nature met his view, 
 Brightened by Hope, whose radiant pencil drew 
 The rich perspective of a scene as fair 
 As that which smiled on Eden s sinless pair ; 
 Love, fame, and glory, with alternate sway, 
 Thri led his warm heart, and with electric ray 
 Illumed his eye ; yet still a shade of care, 
 Like a li^ht cloud that floats in summer air, 
 Would shed at times a transitory gloom, 
 But shadowed not one grace of manly bloom. 
 Time sighed, as on his polished brow he wrought 
 The first impressive lines of care and thought. 
 
 Man in his grave maturity came next : 
 A bold review of life, from the broad text 
 Of Nature s ample volume ! He had scanned 
 Her varied page, and a high course had planned ; 
 Humbled ambition, wealth s deceitful smile, 
 The loss of friends, disease, and mental toil, 
 Had blanched his cheek and dimmed his ardent eye. 
 But spared his noble spirit s energy ! 
 God s proudest stamp of intellectual grace 
 Still shone unclouded on his careworn face ! 
 On his high brow still sate the firm resolve 
 Of judgment deep, whose issue might involve 
 A nation s fate. Yet thoughts of milder glow 
 Would oft, like sunbeams o er a mount of snow, 
 Upon his cheek their genial influence cast, 
 While musing o er the bright or shadowy past : 
 Time, as he marked his noblest victim, shed 
 The frost of years upon his honored head. 
 
 Last came, with trembling limbs and bending 
 
 form. 
 
 Like the old oak scathed by the wintry storm. 
 Man, in the closing stage of human life 
 Nigh passed his every scene of peace or strife, 
 Reason s proud triumph, Passion s wild control. 
 No more dispute for mastery, o er his soul , 
 As rest the billows on the sea-beat shore, 
 The war of rivalry is heard no more ; 
 Faith s steady light alone illumes his eye, 
 F>r Time is pointing to Eternity ! 
 
JANE L. GRAY. 
 
 (Born 1800). 
 
 Mus. J. L. GRAY is a daughter of William 
 Lewcrs, Esquire, of Castle Clayney, in the 
 north of Ireland. She was educated at the 
 celebrated Moravian seminary of Gracehill, 
 near Belfast, was married at an early age, 
 and has resided nearly all her lifetime at Eas- 
 ton, in Pennsylvania, where her husband, the 
 Rev. John Gray, D. D., is pastor of the First 
 Presbyterian Church. In this beautiful, ro 
 mantic, and classical spot the veritable 
 " Forks of the Delaware, "consecrated by the 
 labors of Brainard, and celebrated in poetry 
 and romance as in history Mrs. Gray has 
 written all her pieces which have been given 
 to the public. Her life has been one of re 
 
 tiring, domestic quietude, such as Christian 
 women spend in the midst of a numerous 
 family to whom they are devoted with ma 
 ternal solicitude. Her Sabbath Reminiscen 
 ces are descriptive of real scenes and events 
 connected with the church of which her fa 
 ther was an elder. The poem entitled Morn, 
 having been attributed by some review r er to 
 Mr. Montgomery, that poet observes, in a 
 published letter, that the author of the mis 
 take " did him honor." It is certainly a fine 
 poem,- though scarcely equal, perhaps, to 
 some pieces which Mrs. Gray has written 
 from the more independent suggestions of 
 her own mind. 
 
 TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO. 
 
 AN OPE, 
 
 Written for the bi-rentennial celebration of the illustrious Wesminster 
 \-st-iiiliIv <>i J)iviiie.-<, by whom the standards of the Presbyterian 
 Church were formed. 
 
 Two hundred years, two hundred years, our bark 
 
 o er billowy seas 
 
 Has onward kept her steady course, through hur 
 ricane and breeze ; 
 Her Captain was the Mighty One, she braved the 
 
 stormy foe, 
 And still he guides who guided her two hundred 
 
 years ago ! 
 Her chart was God s unerring word, by which 
 
 her course to steer ; 
 Her helmsman was the risen Lord, a helper ever 
 
 near : 
 Though many a beauteous boat has sunk the 
 
 treacherous waves below, 
 Yet ours is sound as she was built, two hundred 
 
 years ago! 
 The wind that filled her swelling sheet from many 
 
 a point has blown, 
 Still urging her unchanging course, through shoals 
 
 and breakers, on 
 ITo.r fluttering pennant still the same, whatever 
 
 l,i. r/.e might blow 
 It pointed, as it does, to heaven, two hundred 
 
 years ago ! 
 
 \V ben first our gallant ship was launched, although 
 
 her hands were few, 
 Yet dauntless was each bosom found, and every 
 
 heart was true ; 
 And still, though in her mighty hull unnumbered 
 
 bosoms glow, 
 
 Her crew is faithful as it was two hundred years 
 ago! 
 
 True, some have left this noble craft, to sail the 
 seas alone, 
 
 And made them, in their hour of pride, a vessel 
 of their own ; 
 
 Ah me ! when clouds portentous rise, when threat 
 ening tempests blow, 
 
 They 11 wish for that old vessel built two hundred 
 years ago ! 
 
 For onward rides our gallant bark, with all her 
 canvass set, 
 
 In many a nation still unknown to plant her 
 standard yet ; 
 
 Her flag shall float where er the breeze of Free 
 dom s breath shall blow, 
 
 And millions bless the boat that sailed two hun 
 dred years ago ! 
 
 On Scotia s coast, in days of yore, she lay almost 
 a wreck 
 
 Her mainmast gone, her rigging torn, the boarders 
 on her deck ! 
 
 There Cameron, Cargill, Cochran, fell ; there Ren- 
 wick s blood did flow, 
 
 Defending our good vessel built two hundred years 
 ago! 
 
 Ah ! many a martyr s blood was shed we may 
 not name them all 
 
 They tore the peasant from his hut, the noble from 
 his hall ; 
 
 Then, brave Argyle, thy father s blood for faith did 
 freely flow : 
 
 And pure the stream, as was the fount, two hun 
 dred years ago ! 
 
 104 
 
JANE L. GRAY. 
 
 105 
 
 Yet onward still our vessel pressed, and weathered 
 
 out the gale ; 
 She cleared the wreck, and spliced the mast, and 
 
 mended every sail, 
 And swifter, stancher, mightier far, upon her cruise 
 
 did go 
 
 Strong hands and gallant hearts had she, two hun 
 dred years ago ! 
 And see her now on her beam ends cast, beneath 
 
 a northwest storm : 
 Heave overboard the very bread, to keep the ship 
 
 from harm ! 
 She rights ! she rides ! hark ! how they cheer 
 
 All s well, above, below !" 
 
 She s tight as when she left the stocks, two hun 
 dred years ago ! 
 
 True to that guiding star which led to Israel s cra 
 dled hope, 
 Her steady needle pointeth yet to Calvary s bloody 
 
 top! 
 Yes, there she floats, that good old ship, from mast 
 
 to keel below, 
 Sea-worthy still, as erst she was, two hundred years 
 
 ago! 
 Not unto us, not unto us, be praise or glory 
 
 given, 
 But unto Him who watch and ward hath kept for 
 
 her in heaven ; 
 
 Who quelled the whirlwind in its wrath, bade tem 
 pests cease to blow 
 That God who launched our vessel forth, two hun 
 
 dred years ago ! 
 Then onward speed thee, brave old bark, speed 
 
 onward in thy pride, 
 O er sunny seas and billows dark, Jehovah stil 
 
 thy guide ; 
 And sacred be each plank and spar, unchanged by 
 
 friend or foe, 
 
 Just as she left Old Westminster, two hundred 
 years ago ! 
 
 SABBATH REMINISCENCES. 
 
 I REMEMBER, I remember, when sabbath mornin 
 
 * OSC S 
 We changed, for garments neat and clean, our soile 
 
 week-day clothes ; 
 And yet no gaudy finery, nor brooch nor jewe 
 
 rare, 
 Bat hands and faces looking bright, and smoothly 
 
 parted hair. 
 T was not the decking of the head, my father use 
 
 to say, 
 But careful clothing of the heart, that graced tha 
 
 holy day 
 T was not the bonnet nor the dress ; and I believe 
 
 it true : 
 But these were very simple times, and I was sim 
 
 pie too. 
 I remember, I remember, the parlor where w 
 
 met; 
 Its papered wall, its polished floor, and mantle blac 
 
 as jet ; 
 
 1 was there we raised our morning hymn, melo 
 dious, sweet, and clear, 
 nd joined in prayer with that loved voice which 
 
 we no more may hear, 
 ur morning sacrifice thus made, then to the house 
 
 of God 
 How solemnly, and silently, and cheerfully, we 
 
 trod ! 
 see e en now its low, thatched roof, its floor of 
 
 trodden clay, 
 And our old pastor s timeworn face, an I wig of 
 
 silver gray, 
 remember, I remember, how hushed and mute we 
 
 were, 
 While he led our spirits up to God in heartfelt, 
 
 melting prayer ; 
 grace his action or his voice, no studied charm 
 
 was lent : 
 Pure, fervent, glowing from the heart, so to the heart 
 
 it went. 
 Then came the sermon, long and quaint, but full 
 
 of gospel truth ; 
 Ah me ! I was no judge of that, for I was then in 
 
 youth ; 
 But I have heard my father say, and well my father 
 
 knew, 
 In it was meat for full-grown men, and milk for 
 
 children too. 
 
 I remember, I remember, as twere but yesterday, 
 The psalms in Rouse s Version sung, a rude but 
 
 lovely lay ; 
 Nor yet though Fashion s hand has tried to train 
 
 my wayward ear, 
 Can I find aught in modern verse so holy or so 
 
 dear ! 
 And well do I remember, too, our old preceptor s 
 
 face, 
 As he read out and sung the line with patriarchal 
 
 Though rudely rustic was the sound, I m sure that 
 God was praised 
 
 When David s words to David s tune* five hun 
 dred voices raised ! 
 
 I remember, I remember, the morning sermon 
 done, . 
 
 An hour of intermission came we wandei 
 the sun ; 
 
 How hoary farmers sat them down upon the daisy 
 
 And talked of bounteous Nature s stores, ^nd Na 
 ture s bounteous God ; 
 
 And matrons talked, as matrons will, of sickness 
 and of health 
 
 Of births, and deaths, and marriages, of poverty 
 and wealth ; 
 
 And youths and maidens stole apart, withm It 
 shady grove, 
 
 And whispered neath its spreading bough, per 
 chance some tale of love ! 
 
 * m David s was one of the few tunes used by the coo 
 gregation to which I have allusion. 
 
206 
 
 JANE L. GRAY. 
 
 I remember, I remember, how in the churchyard 
 
 lone 
 I ve stolen away and sat me down beside the rude 
 
 gravestone, 
 Or read the names of those who slept beneath the 
 
 clay -cold clod, 
 And thought of spirits glittering bright before the 
 
 throne of God ! 
 
 Or where the little rivulets danced sportively and 
 
 bright, 
 Receiving on its limpid breast the sun s meridian 
 
 light, 
 I ve wandered forth, and thought if hearts were 
 
 pure like this sweet stream, 
 How fair to heaven they might reflect heaven s 
 
 uncreated beam ! 
 
 I remember, I remember, the second sermon o er, 
 We turned our faces once again to our paternal 
 
 door; 
 
 And round the well-filled, ample board sat no re 
 luctant guest, 
 For exercise gave appetite, and loved ones shared 
 
 the feast ! 
 Then, ere the sunset hour arrived, as we were 
 
 wont to do, 
 The catechism s well conned page, we said it 
 
 through and through ; 
 And childhood s faltering tongue was heard to lisp 
 
 the holy word, 
 And older voices read aloud the message of the 
 
 Lord. 
 Away back in those days of yore perhaps the 
 
 fault was mine 
 I used to think the sabbath day, dear Lord, was 
 
 wholly thine ; 
 When it behooved to keep the heart and bridle 
 
 fast the tongue : 
 But these were very simple times, and I was very 
 
 young. 
 
 The world has grown much older since these sun- 
 bright sabbath days 
 The world has grown much older since, and she 
 
 has changed her ways : 
 Some say that she has wiser grown ; ah me ! it 
 
 may be true, 
 As wisdom comes by length of years, but so does 
 
 dotage, too. 
 
 Oh ! happy, happy years of truth, how beautiful, 
 how fair, 
 
 To Memory s retrospective eye, your trodden path 
 ways are ! 
 
 The thorns forgot remembered still the fragrance 
 and the flowers 
 
 The loved companions of my youth, and sunny 
 sabbath hours ! 
 
 And onward, onward, onward still, successive sab 
 baths <*otne, 
 
 As guides to lead us on the road to our eternal 
 home ; 
 
 Or like the visioned ladder once to slumbering 
 Jacob given, 
 
 From heaven descending to the earth, lead back 
 from earth to heaven ! 
 
 MORN. 
 
 IN IMITATION OF "NIGHT," BY JAMES MONTGOMERT 
 
 Mo UN is the time to wake 
 
 The eyelids to unclose 
 Spring from the arms of Sleep, and break 
 
 The fetters of repose ; 
 Walk at the dewy dawn abroad, 
 And ho!d sweet fellowship with God. 
 
 Morn is the time to pray: 
 
 How lovely and how meet 
 To send our earliest thoughts away 
 
 Up to the mercy seat ! 
 Ambassadors, for us to claim 
 A blessing in our Master s name. 
 Morn is the time to sing : 
 
 How charming t is to hear 
 The mingling notes of Nature ring 
 
 In the delighted ear ! 
 And with that swelling anthem raise 
 The soul s fresh matin song of praise ! 
 Morn is the time to sow 
 
 The seeds of heavenly truth, 
 While balmy breezes softly blow 
 
 Upon the soil of youth ; 
 And look to thee, nor look in vain, 
 Our God, for sunshine and for rain. 
 
 Morn is the time to love : 
 
 As tendrils of the vine, 
 The young affections fondly rove, 
 
 And seek them where to twine. 
 Around thyself, in thine embrace, 
 Lord, let them find their resting place. 
 
 Morn is the time to shine, 
 
 When skies are clear and blue 
 Reflect the rays of light divine 
 As morning dewdrops do : 
 Like early stars, be early bright, 
 And melt away like them in light. 
 
 Morn is the time to weep 
 
 O er morning hours misspent : 
 Alas ! how oft from peaceful sleep 
 
 On folly madly bent, 
 We ve left the strait and narrow road, 
 And wandered from our guardian God ! 
 Morn is the time to think, 
 
 While thoughts are fresh and free, 
 Of life just balanced on the brink 
 
 Of dark eternity ! 
 
 And ask our souls if they are meet 
 To stand before the judgment seat. 
 Morn is the time to die, 
 
 Just at the dawn of day 
 When stars are fading in the sky, 
 
 To fade like them away : 
 But lost in light more brilliant far 
 Than ever merged the morning star. 
 Morn is the time to rise, 
 
 The resurrection morn 
 Upspringing to the glorious skies, 
 
 On new-found pinions borne, 
 To meet a Savior s smile divine : 
 Be sii3h ecstatic rising mine ! 
 
SOPHIA L. LITTLE. 
 
 (Born 1799). 
 
 MRS. LITTLE was born at Newport, in the 
 year 1799. She is the second daughter of the 
 late eminent jurist and statesman Asher Rob- 
 bins, who for fourteen years was a senator 
 of the state of Rhode Island in the national 
 Congress. She inherits much of her father s 
 genius and love of letters, and she displayed 
 from early childhood, under the advantages 
 of his judicious culture, the strong imagina 
 tion, ready fancy, and chastened taste, which 
 in him were united to an uncommon capaci 
 ty for analysis and a vigorous and far reach 
 ing logic. 
 
 In 1824 she was married to Mr. William 
 Little, junior, of Boston, a gentleman of con 
 genial tastes, whose principles of criticism, 
 more severe and exacting than her own, 
 contributed very much to the discipline and 
 growth of her poetical abilities. She had 
 occasionally written verses for the amuse 
 ment of her friends, and had published in the 
 
 journals a few pieces, under the s gnature 
 of Ro WEN A, previous to 1828, when her po 
 em entitled Thanksgiving appeared in The 
 Token, an annual souvenir edited for many 
 years by Mr. S. G. Goodrich, Thanksgiving 
 is a natural and striking picture of the New 
 England autumn festival : it has an odor of 
 nationality about it ; and it will live, both 
 for its fidelity and its felicity, as one of the 
 finest memorials of an institution which in 
 later years has lost much of its primitive 
 character and attractiveness. 
 
 Besides many shorter poems which have 
 appeared in periodicals, Mrs. Little has since 
 published : in 1839, The Last Days of Jesus ; 
 in 1842, The Annunciation and Birth of Je 
 sus, and The Resurrection ; and in 1844, The 
 Betrothed, and The Branded Hand. In 1843 
 she also published a small work in prose, 
 entitled The Pilgrim s Progress in the Last 
 Days, in imitation of Bunyan. 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 HE is happy : not that fame 
 Givelh him a glorious name ; 
 For the world s applause is vain, 
 Lost and won with little pain : 
 But a sense is in his spirit 
 Which no vulgar minds inherit 
 A second sight of soul which sees 
 Into Nature s mysteries. 
 
 Place him by the ocean s side, 
 When the waters dash with pride : 
 With their wild and awful roll 
 Deep communes his lifted soul. 
 Now let the sudden tempest come 
 From its cloudy eastern home ; 
 Let the thunder s fearful shocks 
 Break among the dark, rough rocks, 
 And lightning, as the waves aspire, 
 Crown him with a wreath of fire ; 
 Let the wind with sullen breath 
 Seem to breathe a dirge of death : 
 Thou mayst feel thy cheek turn pale ; 
 But he that looks within the veil, 
 The bard, high priest at Nature s shrine, 
 Trembles with a warmth divine. 
 His heaving breast, his kindling eye, 
 His brow s expanded majesty, 
 
 Show that the spirit of his thought 
 Hath Nature s inspiration caught. 
 
 Now place him in a gentle scene, 
 Neath an autumn sky serene ; 
 Let some hamlet skirt his way, 
 Gleaming in the fading day ; 
 Let him hear the distant low 
 Of the herds that homeward go ; 
 Let him catch, as o er it floats, 
 The music of the robin s notes, 
 As softly sinks upon its nest 
 He, of birds the kindliest ; 
 Let him catch from yonder nook 
 The murmur of the minstrel brook ; 
 The stones that fain would check its way 
 It leapcth o er with purpose gay, 
 Or only lingereth for a time, 
 To draw from them a merrier chime ; 
 E en as a gay and gentle mind, 
 Though rough breaks in life it find, 
 Passe th by as twere not so, 
 Or draws sweet uses out of wo ; 
 The scene doth on his soul impress 
 Its glory and its loveliness. 
 
 Now place him in some festal hall 
 The merry band of minstrels call, 
 Banish sorrow, pain, and care, 
 Let graceful, sprightly youth be there 
 
108 
 
 SOPHIA L. LITTLE. 
 
 Beauty, with her jewelled zone 
 And sparkling draperv round her thrown , 
 Beauty, who surest aims her glance 
 When the free motion of the dance 
 All her varied charms hath stirred, 
 As the plumage of a hird 
 Shows brightest when in air he springs, 
 Spreading forth his sunny wings. 
 Place the bard in scenes like this, 
 E en here he knows no common bliss. 
 Beauty, mirth, and music, twined, 
 Shed b and witchery o er hi.s mind. 
 Yet not alone these charm his eyes 
 In fancy other sights he spies: 
 The ancient feats of chivalry, 
 Of war s and beauty s rivalry. 
 
 That hall becomes an open space, 
 Where knights contend for ladies grace. 
 He sees a creature far more fair 
 Than any forms around him are ; 
 One love glance of her radiant eyes, 
 The boon for which the valiant dies. 
 He sees the armored knights advance, 
 He hears the shiver of the lance, 
 And then the shout when tourney s done 
 That greets the conquering champion, 
 While, kneeling at his lady s feet, 
 The victor s heart doth scarcely beat, 
 As, blushing like a newborn rose, 
 His chosen queen the prize bestows. 
 
 But would you know the season when 
 He triumphs most o er other men, 
 See him when heart, pulse, and brain, 
 Are bound in Love s mysterious chain. 
 Behold him then beside the maid : 
 There s not one curl hath thrown its shade 
 In vain upon that bosom s swell ; 
 All are secrets of the spell 
 That holds the visionary boy 
 Breathless in his trance of joy. 
 And yet no definite desire 
 Does that strong sense of bliss inspire ; 
 But sweetly vague and undefined 
 The feeling that enthralls his mind 
 An indistinct, deep dream of heaven, 
 Her melting, shadowy eye hath given. 
 
 These the poet s p easures are ; 
 These the dull world can not share ; 
 These make fame so poor a prize 
 [n his heaven enlightened eyes. 
 What is poetry but this 
 A glimpse of our lost state of bliss; 
 A noble reaching of the mind 
 
 For that for which it was designed 
 
 A si^n to lofty spirits given, 
 
 To show them they were born for heaven ; 
 
 Light from above, quenched when it falls 
 
 Whore the gross earth with darkness palls 
 
 The fallen soul content to be 
 
 Wt-<l to its sad degeneracy ; 
 
 But when, like light on crystal streams, 
 
 On a pure mind its effluence beams, 
 
 How brightly in such spirit lins 
 
 An image of the far off sKies ! 
 
 THANKSGIVING. 
 
 IT is thanksgiving morn tis cold and clear; 
 The bells for church ring forth a merry sound ; 
 The maidens, in their gaudy winter gear, 
 Rival the many tinted woods around ; 
 The rosy children skip along the ground, 
 Save where the matrojj reins their eager pace, 
 Pointing to him who with a look profound 
 Moves with his people toward the sacred place 
 Where duly he bestows the manna crumbs of 
 grace. 
 
 Of the deep learning in the schools of yore 
 The reverend pastor hath a golden stock : 
 Yet, with a vain display of useless lore, 
 Or sapless doctrine, never will he mock 
 The better cravings of his simple flock ; 
 But faithfully their humble shepherd guides 
 Where streams eternal gush from Calvary s rock ; 
 For well he knows, not Learning s purest tides 
 Can quench the immortal thirst that in the soul 
 abides. 
 
 The anthem swells ; the heart s high thanks are 
 
 given : 
 
 Then, mildly, as the dews on Hermon fall, 
 Begins the holy minister of heaven. 
 And though not his the burning zeal of Paul, 
 Yet a persuasive power is in his call : 
 So earnest, though so kindly, is his mood, 
 So tenderly he longs to save them all, 
 No bird more fondly flutters o er her brood 
 When the dark vulture screams above their native 
 wood. 
 
 " For all His bounties, dearest charge," he cries, 
 " Your hearts are the best thanks ; no more refrain ; 
 Your yielded hearts he asks in sacrifice. 
 Almighty Lover ! shalt thou love in vain, 
 And vainly woo thy wanderers home again ? 
 How thy soft mercy with the sinner pleads ! 
 Behold ! thy harvest loads the ample plain ; 
 And the same goodness lives in all thy deeds, 
 From the least drop of rain, to those that Jesus 
 bleeds." 
 
 Much more he spake, with growing ardor fired : 
 Oh, that my lay were worthy to record 
 The moving eloquence his theme inspired ! 
 For like a free and copious stream, outpoured 
 His love to man and man s indulgent lord. 
 All were subdued; the stoutest, sternest men, 
 Heart melted, hung on every precious word : 
 And as he uttered forth his full amen, 
 A thousand mingling sobs reechoed it again. 
 
 Behold that ancient house on yonder lawn, 
 Close by whose rustic porch an elm is seen : 
 Lo ! now has past the service of the morn ; 
 A joyous group are hastening o er the green, 
 Led by an aged sire of gracious mien, 
 Whose gay descendants are all met to hold 
 Their glad thanksgiving in that sylvan scene, 
 That once enclosed them in one happy fold, 
 Ere waves of time and change had o er them 
 rolled. 
 
SOPHIA L. LITTLE. 
 
 109 
 
 The hospitable doors are open thrown ; 
 The bright wooil fire burns cheerly in the hall; 
 And, gathering in, a busy hum makes known 
 The spirit of free mirth that moves them all. 
 There, a youth hears a lovely cousin s call, 
 And ilies alertly to unclasp the cloak; 
 And she, the while, with merry laugh lets fall 
 Upon his awkwardness some lively joke, 
 Not pitying the blush her bantering has woke. 
 
 And there the grandam sits, in placid ease, 
 A gentle brightness o er her features spread : 
 Her children s children cluster round her knees, 
 Or on her bosorn fondly rest their head. 
 Oh, happy sight, to see such blossoms shed 
 Their sweet young fragrance o er such ag d tree ! 
 How vain to say, that, when short youth has fled, 
 Our dearest of enjoyments cease to be, 
 When hoary eld is loved but the more tenderly ! 
 
 And there the manly farmers scan the news ; 
 (Strong is their sense, though plain the garb it 
 
 wears ;) 
 
 Or, while their pipes a lulling smoke diffuse, 
 They look important from their elbow chairs, 
 And gravely ponder on the nation s cares. 
 The matrons of the morning sermon speak, 
 And each its passing excellence declares; 
 While tears of pious rapture, pure and meek, 
 Course in soft beauty down the Christian mother s 
 
 cheek. 
 
 Then, just at on-e, the full thanksgiving feast, 
 Rich with the bounties of the closing year, 
 Is spread ; and, from the greatest to the least, 
 All crowd the table, and enjoy the cheer. 
 The list of dainties will not now appear 
 Save one I can not pass unheeded by, 
 One dish, already to the muses dear, 
 One dish, that wakens Memory s longing sigh 
 The genuine far famed Yankee pumpkin pie ! 
 
 Who e er has seen thee in thy flaky crust 
 Display the yellow richness of thy breast, 
 But, as the si^ht awoke his keenest gust, 
 Has owned th.ee of all cates the choicest, best ? 
 Ambrosia were a fool, to thee compared, 
 Even by the ruby hand of Hebe drest 
 Thee, pumpkin pie, by country maids prepared, 
 With their white, rounded arms above the elbow 
 oared ! 
 
 Now to the kitchen come a vacant train, 
 The plenteous fragments of the feast to share. 
 The old lame fiddler wakes a merry strain, 
 For his mulled cider and his pleasant fare 
 Reclining in that ancient wicker chair. 
 A veteran soldier he, of those proud times 
 When first our Freedom s banner kissed the air : 
 His battles oft he sings in untaught rhymes, 
 When wakening Memory his ag. d heart sublimes. 
 
 But who is this, whose scarlet cloak has known 
 Full oft the pelting of the winter storm ? 
 Through its fringed hood a strong, wild face is 
 
 shown 
 Tall, gaunt, and bent with years, the beldame s 
 
 form : 
 
 There s none of all these youth, with vigor warm, 
 "Who dare by slightest word her anger stir. 
 So dark the frown that does her face deform, 
 That half the frighted villagers aver 
 The very de il himself incarnate is in her ! 
 
 Yet now the sybil wears her mildest mood ; 
 And round her see the anxious, silent band. 
 Falls from her straggling locks the antique hood, 
 As close she peers in that fair maiden s hand, 
 W 7 ho scarce the struggles in her heart can stand ; 
 Affection s strength hath made her nature weak 
 She of her lo\ 7 ely looks hath lost command : 
 The fleckered red and white within her cheek 
 Oh, all her love doth there most eloquently speak ! 
 
 Thy doting faith, fond maid, may envied be, 
 And half excused the superstitious art. 
 Now, when the sybii s mystic words to thee 
 The happier fortunes of thy love impart, 
 Thrilling tny soul in its most vital part, 
 How does the throb of inward ecstasy 
 Send the luxuriant blushes from thy heart 
 All o er thy varying cheek, like some clear sea 
 Where the red morning glow falls full but trem 
 blingly ! 
 
 T is evening, and the rural balls begin : 
 The fairy call of music all obey ; 
 The circles round domestic hearths grow thin ; 
 All, at the joyful signal, hie away 
 To yonder hall, with lights and garlands gay. 
 There, with elastic step, young belles are seen 
 Entering, all conscious of their coming sway : 
 Not oft their fancies underrate, I ween, 
 The spoils and glories of this festal scene. 
 
 New England s daughters need not envy those 
 Who in a monarch s court their jewels wear : 
 More lovely they, when but a simple rose 
 Glows through the golden clusters of their hair. 
 Could light of diamonds make her look more fair, 
 Who moves in beauty through the mazy dance, 
 W ith buoyant feet that seem to skim the air, 
 And eyes that speak, in each impassioned glance, 
 The poetry of youth, love s sweet and short ro 
 mance 1 
 
 He thinks not so, that young enamored boy, 
 Who through the whirls her graceful steps doth 
 
 guide, 
 
 While his heart swells with the deep pulse of joy. 
 Oh, no : by Nature taught, unlearned in pride, 
 He sees her in her loveliness arrayed, 
 All blushing for the love she can not hide, 
 And feels that gaudy Art could only shade 
 The brightness Nature gave to his unrivalled 
 
 maid. 
 
 Gay bands, move on ; your draught of pleasure 
 I love to listen to your joyous din ; [qiuff; 
 
 The lad s light joke, the maiden s mellow laugh, 
 And the brisk music of the violin. 
 How blithe to see the sprightly dance begin ! 
 Entwining hands, they seem to float along, 
 With native rustic grace that well might win 
 The happiest praises of a sweeter song, 
 From a more gifted lyre than doth to me belong. 
 
liO 
 
 LYDIA M. CHILD. 
 
 While these enjoy the mirth that suits their years, 
 Round the home fires their peaceful elders meet. 
 A gentler mirth their friendly converse cheers ; 
 And yet, though calm their pleasures, they are 
 
 sweet : 
 
 Through the cold shadows of the autumn day 
 Oft hreaks the sunshine with as genial heat 
 As o er the soft and sapphire skies of May, 
 Though Nature then be young and exquisitely gay. 
 
 On the white wings of peace their days have flown, 
 Nor wholly were they thralled hy earthly cares ; 
 Bui from their hearts to Heaven s paternal throne 
 Arose the daily incense of their prayers. 
 And now, as low the sun of being wears, 
 
 The God to whom their morning vows were paid, 
 Each grateful offering in remembrance bears ; 
 And cheering beams of mercy are displayed, 
 To gild with heavenly hopes their evening s pensive 
 shade. 
 
 But now, farewell to thee, Thanksgiving Day ! 
 Thou angel of the year ! one bounteous hand 
 The horn of deep abundance doth display, 
 Raining its rich profusion o er the land ; 
 The other arm, outstretched with gesture grand, 
 Pointing its upraised finger to the sky, 
 Doth the warm tribute of our thanks demand 
 For him, the Father God, who from on high 
 Sheds gleams of purest joy o er man s dark destiny 
 
 LYDIA M. CHILD, 
 
 (Born 1802). 
 
 Miss FRANCIS, now Mrs. DAVID L. CHILD, 
 is a native of Massachusetts, and a sister of 
 the Rev. Dr. Conyers Francis, of Harvard 
 University. She is one of the most able and 
 brilliant authors of the country, as is shown 
 by her Philothea, Letters from New York, 
 
 and other works, of which an account is 
 given in the Prose Writers of America. Most 
 of her poems are contained in a small vol 
 ume which she published many years ago, 
 under the title of The Coronal. She resides 
 in New York. 
 
 MARIUS. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A PAINTING BY VANDERLYN, OF MA- 
 (11 US SKATED AMONG THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE. 
 
 PILLARS are falling at thy feet, 
 
 Fanes quiver in the air, 
 \ prostrate city is thy seat 
 
 And thou alone art there. 
 
 No change comes o er thy noble brow, 
 
 Though ruin is around thee 
 Thine eye-beam burns as proudly now, 
 
 As when the laurel crowned thee. 
 
 It can not bend thy lofty soul, 
 Though friends and fame depart; 
 
 The car of fate may o er thee roll, 
 Nor crush thy Roman heart. 
 
 And Genius hath electric power, 
 
 Which earth can never 1 tame ; 
 Bright suns may scorch, and dark clouds lower 
 
 Its flash is still the same 
 
 The dreams we loved in early life 
 
 May molt like mist away ; 
 rliijh thoughts may seem, mid passion s strife, 
 
 Like Carthage in decay. 
 
 And proud hopes in the human heart 
 
 May be to ruin hurled, 
 Like mouldering monuments of art 
 
 lU-api-d on a sleeping world. 
 
 Vet then 1 is something will not die, 
 
 Where life hath once been fair: 
 ^criM 1 towering thoughts still rear on high, 
 
 S-ime Roman lingers there ! 
 
 LINES, 
 
 ON HEARING A BOY MOCK THE SOUND OF A CLOCK 
 IN A CHURCH-STEEPLE, AS IT RUNG AT MIDDAY. 
 
 AY, ring thy shout to the merry hours : 
 
 Well may ye part in glee ; 
 From their sunny wings they scatter flowers, 
 
 And, laughing, look on thee. 
 
 Thy thrilling voice has started tears : 
 
 It brings to mind the day 
 When I chased butterflies and years 
 
 And both flew fast away. 
 
 Then my glad thoughts were few and free : 
 
 They came but to depart, 
 And did not ask where heaven could be 
 
 Twas in my little heart. 
 
 I since have sought the meteor crown, 
 
 Which fame bestows on men : 
 How gladly would I throw it down, 
 
 To be so gay again ! 
 
 But youthful joy has gone away : 
 
 In vain tis now pursued ; 
 Such rainbow glories only stay 
 
 Around the simple good. 
 I know too much, to be as blessed 
 
 As when I was like thee ; 
 My spirit, reasoned into rest, 
 
 Has lost its buoyancy. 
 
 Yet still I love the winged hours : 
 
 \Ve often part in glee 
 And sometimes, too, are fragrant flowers 
 
 Their fart^ell gifts to me. 
 
LOUISA J. HALL. 
 
 (Born 1802). 
 
 LOUISA JANE PARK, now Mrs. HALL, was 
 burn in Newburyport, Massachusetts, on the 
 seventh of February, 1802. Her father was 
 a physician, but when she was about two 
 years of age he abandoned his profession to 
 remove to Boston, for the purpose of editing 
 The Repertory, a leading political journal of 
 the Federal party. In a few years he be 
 came weary of the conflict, then waged with 
 so much violence, and, urged to do so by some 
 of the most intelligent citizens, opened a 
 school for young women, in which a more 
 thorough education might be received than 
 was common in that period. His daugh 
 ter was then in her tenth year ; he had al 
 ready made her familiar with Milton and 
 Shakspere ; and it was partly with the view 
 of exe uJng his plans for her education that 
 he decided to become a public teacher. His 
 school was opened in the spring of 1811 , and 
 for twenty years was eminently successful. 
 His daughter, except when her studies were 
 interrupted by ill health, was eight years his 
 pupil. She early showed symptoms of a sus 
 ceptible constitution, and her experience, of 
 a spirit ever prompting action, and a body 
 incapable of fulfilling its commands without 
 suffering, has been perpetual. 
 
 Her wri tings show that her mind was wise 
 ly as well as carefully disciplined, and prob 
 ably her habiis of composition were formed 
 at an early period. She published nothing, 
 however, until she was twenty years of age, 
 and then anonymously, in the Literary Ga 
 zette, and the newspapers. She wrote Mir 
 iam only for amusement, as she did many 
 little poems and tales which she destroyed. 
 The first half of this drama, written in 1 825, 
 was read at a small literary party in Boston. 
 The author, not being known, was present, 
 and was encouraged by the remarks it occa 
 sioned to finish it in the following summer, 
 her father forbade her design to burn it ; it 
 was read, as completed, in the winter of 1826, 
 and the authorship disclosed ; but she had 
 not courage to publish it for several years, 
 bne saw its defects more distinctly than be 
 fore, when it appeared in print, and resolved 
 
 never again to attempt anything so long in 
 the form of poetry. Her eyesight failed for 
 j four or five years, during which time she was 
 almost entirely deprived of the use of books, 
 the pen, arid what she says she most regret 
 ted, the needle. 
 
 Previously to this, however, in 1831, her 
 father had retired to Worcester, carrying with 
 him a library of some three thousand volumes, 
 containing many valuable works in Latin, 
 French, and Italian. During her partial blind 
 ness, he read to her several hours every day, 
 and assisted her in collecting the materials 
 for her tale of Joanna of Naples, and for a 
 biographical notice of Elizabeth Carter, the 
 English authoress. 
 
 On the first of October, 1 840, she was mar 
 ried to the Rev. Edward B. Hall, of Provi 
 dence, Rhode Island, where she still resides, 
 too much interested in domestic affairs, and 
 in the duties which grow out of her relation 
 to her husband s society, to bestow much 
 further attention upon literature. 
 
 Miriam was published in 1837. It re 
 ceived the best approval of contemporary 
 criticism, and a second edition, with such 
 revision as the condition of the author s eyes 
 had previously forbidden, appeared in the 
 following year. Mrs. Hall had not proposed 
 to herself to write a tragedy, but a dramatic 
 poem, and the result was an instance of the 
 successful accomplishment of a design, in 
 which failure would have been but a repeti 
 tion of the experiences of genius. The sub 
 ject is one of the finest in the annals of the 
 human race, but one which has never been 
 treated with a more just appreciation of its 
 nature and capacities. It is the first great 
 conflict of the Master s kingdom, after its 
 full establishment, with the kingdoms of this 
 world. It is Christianity struggling with the 
 first persecution of power, philosophy, and 
 the intei ests of society. Milman had attempt 
 ed its illustration in his brilliant and stately 
 tragedy of The Martyr of Antioch; Bulwei 
 had laid upon it his familiar hands in The 
 Last Days of Pompeii ; and since, our coun 
 tryman, William Ware, has exhibited it wi;h 
 
 in 
 
112 
 
 LOUISA J. HALL. 
 
 prnver and splendor in his masterly romance 
 t.f The Fall of Rome ; but no one has yet ap 
 proached more nearly its just delineation 
 and analysis than Mrs. Hall in this beautiful 
 poem. 
 
 The plot is single, easily understood, and 
 s eadily progressive in interest and in action. 
 Thrar-eno, a Christian exile from Judea, 
 dwells with his family in Rome. He has 
 two children, Euphas, and a daughter of re 
 markable beauty and a heart and mind in 
 which are blended the highest attributes of 
 her sex and her religion. She is seen and 
 loved by Paulus, a young nobleman, whose 
 father, Piso, had in his youth served in the 
 armies in Palestine. The passion is mutu 
 al, but secret ; and having failed to win the 
 Roman to her faith, the Christian maiden 
 resolves to part from him for ever. The 
 family are summoned to the funeral of an 
 aged friend, but she excuses herself for not 
 going, and the agitation of her countenance 
 arrests attention and leads to the most af 
 fectionate inquiries from Thraseno and Eu 
 phas. She replies : 
 
 My father ! I am ill. 
 A weight is on my spirits, and I feel 
 The fountain of existence drying up, 
 Shrinking I know not where, like waters lost 
 Amid the desert sands. Nay ! grow riot pale ! 
 I have felt thus, and thought each secret spring 
 Of life was failing fast within me. Then 
 In saddest willingness I could have died. 
 There have been hours I would have quitted you, 
 And all that life hath dear and beautiful, 
 Without one wish to linger in its smiles : 
 My summons would have called a weary soul 
 Out of a heavy bondage. But this day 
 A better hope hath dawned upon my mind. 
 A high and pure resolve is nourished there, 
 And even now it sheds upon my breast 
 That holy peace it hath not known so long. 
 This night ay ! in a few brief hours, perchance. 
 It will know calm once more (or break at once !) 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 This is unsatisfactory ; their suspicions are 
 excited, and they urge her to dispel the mys 
 tery that invests her conduct. She says: 
 
 I can not can not yet. 
 Have I not told you that a starlike gleam 
 Was rising on my darkened mind ] When Hope 
 Shall sit upon the tossing waves of thought, 
 As broods the halcyon on the troubled deep, 
 Then, if my spirit be not blighted, wrecked, 
 ( rushed, by the storm, I will unfold my griefs. 
 But until then and long it will not be ! 
 Yet in that brief, brief time my soul must bear 
 A fiercer, deadlier struggle still ! Ye dear ones ! 
 Look not upon me thus but in your thoughts, 
 
 When ye go forth unto your evening prayers, 
 Oh, bear me up to heaven with all my grief: 
 Pray that my holy courage may not fail ! 
 
 They renew their entreaties that she should 
 go with them to the funeral of their friend ; 
 but she will carry no " troubled soul" to the 
 "good man s obsequies," and answers to 
 Thraseno s inquiry where would she seek 
 for peace ? 
 
 Within these mighty walls of sceptred Rome 
 A thousand temples rise unto her gods, 
 Bearing their lofty domes unto the skies, 
 Grac d with the proudest pomp of earth ; their shrines 
 Glittering with gems, their stately colonnades, 
 Their dreams of genius wrought into bright forms, 
 Instinct with grace and godlike majesty, 
 Their ever smoking altars, white robed priests, 
 And all the pride of gorgeous sacrifice. [ascend 
 And yet these things are naught. Rome s prayers 
 To greet th unconscious skies, in the blue void 
 Lost like the floating breath of frankincense, 
 And find no hearing or acceptance there. 
 And yet there is an Eye that ever marks 
 Where its own people pay their simple vows, 
 Though to the rocks, the caves, the wilderness, 
 Scourged by a stern and ever watchful foe ! 
 There is an Ear that hears the voice of prayer 
 Rising from lonely spots where Christians meet, 
 Although it stir not more the sleeping air 
 Than the soft waterfall, or forest breeze. 
 Think st thou, my father, this benignant God 
 Will close his ear, and turn in wrath away 
 From the poor sinful creature of his hand, 
 Who breathes in solitude her humble prayer ? 
 Think st thou he will not hear me, should I kneel 
 Here in the dust beneath his starry sky, 
 And strive to raise my voiceless thoughts to him, 
 Making an altar of my broken heart 1 
 
 They are at length persuaded to leave her, 
 and they are scarcely gone when Paulus en 
 ters, with expressions of confidence and love, 
 which are quickly checked by the changed 
 expression of her countenance: 
 
 Paulus. Never, except in dreams, have I beheld 
 Such deep and dreadful meaning in thine eye, 
 Such agony upon thy quivering lip ! 
 Speak, Miriam! breathe one blessed word of life; 
 For in the middle watch of yesternight 
 Even thus I saw a dim and shadowy ghost 
 Standing beneath the moon s uncertain light, 
 So mute so motionless so changed and yet 
 So like to thee ! 
 
 Miriam. My Paulus ! 
 
 Paul. T is thy voice! 
 
 Praised be the gods! it never seemed so sweet. 
 Say on ! my spirit hangs upon thy words. 
 What blight hath stricken thee since last we met! 
 
 1//V. A blight that is contagious, and will fall 
 Perchance upon thy fairest, dearest hopes, 
 With no less deadly violence than now 
 It hath on mine. Paulus ! is there no word 
 
LOUISA J. HALL. 
 
 113 
 
 These lips can utter, that may make thee wish 
 Eternal silence there had stamped her seal! 
 Paul. I know not, love ! thou startlest me ! 
 
 no ! none ! 
 
 Unless it be of hatred change or death ! 
 And these it can be none of these ! 
 Mir. Why not ] 
 
 Paul. Ye gods, my Miriam ! look not on me thus ! 
 My blood runs cold. " Why not," saidst thou 1 Be- 
 Thou art too young, too good, too beautiful, ["cause 
 To die; and as for change or hatred, love, 
 Not ti 1 I see yon clear and starry skies 
 R lining down fire and pestilence on man, 
 Turning the beauteous earth whereon we stand 
 Into an arid, scathed, and blackening waste, 
 Miriam, will I believe that thou canst change. 
 
 Mir. Oh, thou art right ! the anguish of my soul, 
 My spirit s deep and rending agony, 
 Tell me that though this heart may surely break, 
 There is no change within it! and through life, 
 Fondly and wildly though most hopelessly 
 With all its strong affections will it cleave 
 To him for whom it nearly yielded all 
 That makes life precious peace and self esteem, 
 Friends upon earth, and hopes in heaven above ! 
 Paul. Mean st thou I know not what. My 
 
 mind grows dark 
 
 Amid a thousand wildering mazes lost. 
 There is a wild and dreadful mystery 7 
 Even in thy words of love I can not solve. 
 
 Mir. Hear me : for with the holy faith that erst 
 Made strong the shuddering patriarch s heart and 
 
 hand, 
 
 When meek below the glittering knife lay stretched 
 The boy whose smiles were sunshine to his age, 
 This night I offer up a sacrifice 
 Of life s best hopes to the One Living God ! 
 Yes, from this night, my Paulus, never more 
 Mine eyes shall look upon thy form, mine ears 
 Drink in the tones of thy belov. d voice. 
 
 Paul. \ e gods ! ye cruel gods ! let me awake 
 A.nd find this but a dream ! 
 
 Mir. Is it then said ] 
 
 God ! the words so fraught with bitterness 
 So soon are uttered and thy servant lives ! 
 Ay, Paulus ; ever from that hour, when first 
 My spirit knew that thine was wholly lost, 
 And to its superstitions wedded fast, 
 Shrouded in dark-icss, blind to every beam 
 Streaming from Zion s hill athwart the night 
 That broods in horror o er a heathen world, 
 Even from that hour my shuddering soul beheld 
 A dark and fathom ess abyss yawn wide 
 Between us two; and o er it gleamed alone 
 One pale, dim twink ing star ! the lingering hope 
 That grace descending from the Throne of Light 
 Might foil in gent e dews upon that heart, 
 And melt it into humlVe piety. 
 A 1 as ! that hope hath faded ; and I see 
 The fatal gu f of separation still 
 Between us, love, and stretching on for aye 
 Beyond the grave in which I feel that soon 
 This clay with all its sorrows shall lie down. 
 Union for us is none, in yonder sky : 
 Then how on earth ? so in my inmost soul, 
 
 Nurtured with midnight tears, with blighted hopes. 
 
 With si ent watchings and incessant prayers, 
 
 A holy resolution- hath ta en root, 
 
 And in its might at last springs proudly up. 
 
 We part, my Paulus ! not in hate, but love, 
 
 Yielding unto a stern necessity. 
 
 And I along my sad, short pilgrimage, 
 
 Will bear the memory of our sinless love 
 
 As mothers wear the image of the babe 
 
 That died upon their bosom ere the world 
 
 Had stamped its spotless soul with good or ill, 
 
 Pictured in infant loveliness and smiles, 
 
 Close to the heart s fond core, to be drawr. forth 
 
 Ever in solitude, and bathed in tears. 
 
 But how ! with such unmanly grief struck down, 
 
 Withered, thou Roman knight! 
 
 Paul. My brain is pierced ! 
 
 Mine eyes with blindness smitten ! and mine ear 
 Rings faintly with the echo of thy words ! 
 Henceforth what man shall ever build his faith 
 On woman s love, on woman s constancy ? 
 Maiden, look up ! I would but gaze once more 
 Upon that open brow and clear, dark eye, 
 To read what aspect Perjury may wear, 
 What garb of loveliness may Falsehood use. 
 To lure the eye of guileless, manly love ! 
 Cruel, coM blooded, fickle that thou art, 
 Dost thou not quail beneath thy lover s eye 1 
 How ! there is light within thy lofty glance, 
 A flush upon thy cheek, a settled calm 
 Upon thy lip and brow ! 
 
 Mir. Ay, even so. 
 
 A light a flush a calm not of this earth ! 
 For in this hour of bitterness and wo, 
 The grace of God is falling on my soul 
 Like dews upon the withering grass which late 
 Red scorching flames have seared. Again 
 The consciousness of faith, of sins forgiven, 
 Of wrath appeased, of heavy guilt thrown off, 
 Sheds on my breast its long forgotten peace, 
 And shining steadfast as the noonday sun, 
 Lights me along the path that duty marks. 
 Lover too dearly loved ! a long farewell ! 
 The bannered field, the glancing spear, the shout 
 That bears the victor s name unto the skies 
 The laurelled brow be thine 
 
 Before the conclusion of this scene, which is 
 full of natural pathos and the illustrations of 
 a passionate fancy, they are interrupted by 
 Euphas, who suddenly returns to inform his 
 sister that the funeral party had been sur 
 prised by a band of Roman soldiers, some 
 slain, and others, among whom was their 
 father, borne to prison. The indignation of 
 Euphas is excited by finding Paulus with 
 Miriam, and she answers to hi" reproaches 
 
 Stay, stay, rash boy ! Alas ! 
 The thickening horrors of this awful nigni 
 Have flung, methinks, a spell upon my soul. 
 I tell thee, Euphas, thou hast far more cause, 
 Proudly to clasp my breaking heart to thine, 
 And bless me with a loving brother s praise 
 Than thus to stand with sad but angry eye. 
 
1.14 
 
 LOUISA J. HALL. 
 
 Hurling thy hasty scorn upon a brow 
 
 As sinless *s thine own breaking the reed 
 
 But newly bruised pouring coals of fire 
 
 Upon my fresh and bleeding wounds ! Oh, tell me, 
 
 What hath befallen my father ] Say he lives, 
 
 Or let me lay my head upon thy breast, 
 
 And die at once ! 
 
 Euphas answers harshly, nrd by the aid of a 
 body of Christians, armed for the emergency, 
 he seizes Paulus as a hostage, and gjes to 
 the palace of Piso to claim the liberation of 
 Thraseno. Miriam, who had fainted during 
 this scene, on her recovery follows him on 
 his hopeless errand ; and we are next intro 
 duced to the palace, where the young Chris 
 tian is urging, on the ground of humanity, 
 the release of his father, in a manner finely 
 contrasted with the contemptuous fierceness 
 of the hardhearted magistrate. Piso is in 
 exorable, and Euphas reminds him of his son, 
 tells him that he is a hostage, and discloses 
 his love for Miriam. The Roman exclaims : 
 
 Knowest thou not 
 
 Thou hast but sealed thy fate 1 His life had been 
 More precious to me than the air I breathe ; 
 And cheerfully I would have vielded up 
 A thousand Christian dogs from yonder dens 
 To .SIYC one hair upon his head. But now 
 A Christian maid ! W ere there none other 1 Gods ! 
 Shame and a shameful death be his, and thine ! 
 
 l ]\i i>ft. It is the will of God. My hopes burnt dim 
 Even from the first, and are extinguished now. 
 The thirst of blood hath rudely choked at last 
 The one ailection which thy dark breast knew, 
 And thou art man no more. Let me but die 
 First of thy victims 
 
 Piso* Would that she among them 
 
 Where is the sorceress ] I fain would see 
 
 The beauty that hath witched Rome s noblest youth. 
 
 J ln/>/i. Hers is a face thou never wilt behold. 
 
 JV.vo. I will. On her shall fall my worst revenge; 
 And I will know what foul and magic arts 
 
 Here Miriam glides in, and changes the whole 
 current of Piso s feelings, by her extraordina 
 ry resemblance to a Jewess whom he had 
 loved in youth and never ceased to lament. 
 He addresses her as the spirit of the object 
 of his early passion : 
 
 Beautiful shadow ! in this hour of wrath, 
 What dost thou here 1 In life thou wert too meek, 
 Too gentle for a lover stern as I. 
 And, since 1 saw thee last, my days have been 
 I ).<>[> stepped in sill and blood What seekest thou ? 
 I have g.mvn old in strife, and hast thou come, 
 With thy dark eyes and their soul searching glance, 
 To look me into peace? It can not be. 
 Go back, fair spirit, to thine own dim realms! 
 He wuose young love thou didst reject on earth. 
 May tremble at this visitation strange, 
 Hut never can know peace or virtue more ! 
 
 Thou wert a Christian, and a Christian dog 
 Did win thy precious love. I have good cause 
 To hate and scorn the whole detested race; 
 And till I meet that man, whom most of all 
 My soul abhors, will I go on and slay ! 
 Fade, vanish, shadow bright ! In vain that look, 
 That sweet, sad look ! My lot is cast in b!ood ! 
 
 Mir. Oh, say not so ! 
 
 Piso. The voice that won me first! 
 Ob, what a tide of recollections rush 
 Upon my drowning soul ! my own wild love 
 Thy scorn the long, long days of blood and guilt 
 That since have left their footprints on my fate i 
 The dark, lark nights of fevered agony, 
 When, mid the strife and struggling of my dreams. 
 The gods sent thee at times to hover round, 
 Bringing the memory of those peaceful davs 
 When I behe d thee first ! But never yei 
 Before my waking eyes hast thou appeared 
 Distinct and visible as now. Fair spirit ! 
 What wouldst thou have ? 
 
 Mir. Oh, man of guilt and wo . 
 Thine own dark fantasies are busy now, 
 Lending unearthly seeming to a thing 
 Of earth, as thou art. 
 
 Piso. How ! Art thou not she ! 
 I know that face ! I never yet beheld 
 One like to it among earth s loveliest. 
 Why dost thou wear that semblance, if thou art 
 A thing of mortal mould 1 Oh. better meet 
 The wailing ghosts of those whose b!ood doth clog 
 My midnight dreams, than that half pitying eye ! 
 
 Mir. Thou art a wretched man ! and I do feel 
 Pity even for the suffering guilt hath brought. 
 But from the quiet grave I have not come. 
 Nor from the shadowy confines of the world 
 Where spirits dwell, to haunt thy midnight hour 
 The disembodied should be passionless, 
 And wear not eyes that swim in earthborn tears, 
 As mine do now. Look up, thou conscience struck ! 
 
 Piso. Off! off! She touched me with her damp 
 
 cold hand, 
 
 But twas a hand of flesh and blood ! Away ! 
 Come thou not near me till I study thee. 
 
 Mir. Why are thine eyes so fixed and wild 1 
 
 thy lips 
 
 Convulsed and ghastly white 1 Thine own dark 
 Vexing thy soul, have clad me in a form [sina, 
 Thou darest not look upon I know not why. 
 But I must speak to thee. Mid thy remorse, 
 And the unwonted terrors of thy soul, 
 I must be heard, for God hath sent me here. 
 
 PifO. Who, who hath sent thee here 1 
 
 Mir. The Christian s God, 
 The God thou knowest not. 
 
 7V.w. Thou art of earth ! 
 I see the rose tint on thy pallid cheek, 
 Which was not there at first: it kindles fast! 
 Say on. Although I dare not meet that eye, 
 I hear thee. 
 
 Mir. HK hath given me strength, 
 And led me safely through the broad, lone streets 
 Even at the midnight hour. My heart sunk not 
 My noiseless foot paced on unfaltering 
 Through the long colonnades, where stood aloft 
 
LOUISA J. HALL. 
 
 Pa e gods and goddesses on either hand, 
 Bending their sightless eyes on me ! by founts, 
 Waking with ceaseless plash the midnight air! 
 Through moonlit squares, where, ever and anon, 
 Flashed from some dusky nook the red torchlight, 
 Flung on my path by passing reveller. 
 And HK hath brought me here before thy face ; 
 And it was HE who smote thee even now 
 With a strange, nameless fear. 
 
 Piso. Girl ! name it not. 
 
 I dee. ned I looked on one whose bright young face 
 First glanced on me mid the shining leaves 
 Of a green bower in sunny Palestine, 
 In my youth s prime. I knew the dust, 
 The grave s corroding dust, had soiled 
 That spotless brow long since. A shadow fell 
 Upon the soul that never yet knew fear. 
 But it is past. Earth holds not what I dread ; 
 And what the gods did make me, am I now. 
 What soekest thou 1 
 
 Euph. Miriam ! go thou hence. 
 Why shouldst thou die ] 
 
 Mr. Brother! 
 
 Piso. Ha ! is this so 1 
 
 Now, by the gods ! Bar, bar the gates, ye slaves ! 
 If they escape me now Why, this is good ! 
 I had not deemed of hap so glorious. 
 She that beguiled my son ! his sister ! 
 
 Mir. Peace ! 
 Na-ne not, with tongue unhallowed, love like ours. 
 
 Pro. Thou art her image; and the mystery 
 Confounds my purposes. Take other form, 
 Foul sorceress, and I will baffle thee ! 
 
 Mir. I have no other form than this God gave ; 
 And he alrcidy hath stretched forth his hand, 
 And touched it for the grave. 
 
 Piso. It is most strange. 
 Is not the air around her full of spells? 
 Give me the son thou hast seduced ! 
 
 M r. Hear, Piso ! 
 
 Th ; sjn hath seen me, loved me, and hath won 
 A h?art too prone to worship nob .e things, 
 Although of earth; and he, alas! was earth s. 
 I strove, I prayed in vain. In a I things else 
 I might have stirred his soul s best purposes ; 
 But for the pure and cheering faith of Christ, 
 The:e was no entrance in that iron soul. 
 And I amid such hopes, despair arose, 
 And laid a withering hand upon my heart. 
 I feel it yet ! We parted. Ay, this night 
 We met to meet no more. 
 
 E\if)h. Sister ! my tears 
 They choke my words else 
 
 Mir. Euphas, thou wert wroth 
 When there was litt e cause ; I loved thee more. 
 Thy very frowns in such a holy cause 
 Were beautiful. The scorn of virtuous youth, 
 Looking on fancied sin, is noble. 
 
 Pi*u. Maid! 
 
 Hath, then, my son withstood thy witchery, 
 And on this ground ye parted ] 
 
 Mr. It is so. 
 Alas ! that I rejoice to tell it thee. 
 
 Pffo. IN ay, 
 Well thou mayst, foi it hath wrought his pardon. 
 
 That he had loved thee would have been a sin 
 
 Too full of degradation infamy, 
 
 Had not these cold and ag d eyes themselves 
 
 Beheld thee in thy loveliness ! And yet, bold girl ! 
 
 Think not thy Jewish beauty is the spell 
 
 That works on one grown old in deeds of blood. 
 
 I have looked calmly on when eyes as bright 
 
 Were drowned in tears of hitter agony, 
 
 When forms as full of grace and pride, perchance, 
 
 Were, writhing in the sharpness of their pain, 
 
 And cheeks as fair were mangled 
 
 Euph. Tyrant ! cease. 
 
 Wert thou a fiend, such brutal boasts as these 
 Were not for ears like hers ! 
 
 Mir. I tremble not. 
 
 He spake of pardon for his guiltless son, 
 And that includeth life for those I love. 
 What need I more 1 
 
 Euph. Let us go hence at once. Piso ! 
 Bid thou thy myrmidons unbar the gates, 
 That shut our friends from light and air. 
 
 Piso. Not yet, 
 
 My haughty boy, for we have much to say 
 Ere you two pretty birds go free. Chafe not ! 
 Ye are caged close, and can but flutter here 
 Till I am satisfied. 
 
 Mir. How ! hast thou changed 
 
 PifO. Nay ; but I must detain ye till I ask 
 
 Mir. Detain us if thou wilt. But look 
 
 Pifo. At what 1 
 
 Mir. There, through yon western arch ! the 
 
 moon sinks low. 
 
 The mists already tinge her orb with blood. - 
 Methinks I feel the breeze of morn e en now. 
 Knowest thou the hour 1 
 
 Piso. I do ; but one thing more 
 I fain would know ; for, after this wild night, 
 Let me no more behold you. Why didst thou, 
 Bold, dark-haired boy, wear in those pleading eyes, 
 When thou didst name thy boon, an earnest look 
 That fell familiar on my soul 1 And thou, 
 The lofty, calm, and oh, most beautiful ! 
 Why are not only that soul-searching glance, 
 But e en thy features and thy silver voice, 
 So like to hers I loved long years ago, 
 Beneath Judea s palms ? Whence do ye come ? 
 Mir. For me, I bear my own dear mother s brow ; 
 Her eye, her form, her very voice, are mine. 
 So, in his tears, my father oft hath said. 
 We lived beneath Judea s shady palms, 
 Until that saintlike mother faded, drooped, 
 And died. Then hither came we o er the waves, 
 And till this night have worshipped faithfully 
 The one, true, living God, in secret peace. 
 
 Piso. Thou art her child ! I could not harm theo 
 Oh, wonderful ! that things so long forgot [now. 
 A love I thouzht so crushed and trodden down, 
 E en by the iron tread of passions wild 
 Ambition, pride, and, worst of all, revenge 
 Revenue, that hath shed seas of Christian blood ! 
 To think this heart was once so waxen soft, 
 And then congealed so hard, that naught of ill 
 Which hath been since could ever have the powei 
 To wear away the image of that girl 
 That fair young Christian girl ! T was a wild love 
 
116 
 
 LOUISA J. HALL. 
 
 But I was young, a soldier in strange lands, 
 And she, in very gentleness, said nay 
 So timidly, I hoped until, ye gods ! 
 She loved another ! Yet I slew him not ! 
 I fled. Oh, had I met him since ! 
 
 A ;/////. Come, sister ! 
 The hours wear on. 
 
 Piso. Ye shall go forth in joy 
 And take with you you prisoners. Send my son, 
 Him whom she did not hear home to these arms, 
 And gj ye out of Rome with all your train. 
 I will shed hlood no more ; for I have known 
 What sort of peace deep glutted vengeance brings. 
 My son is brave, but of a gentler mind 
 Than I have been. His eyes shall never more 
 Be grieved with sight of sin ess blood poured forth 
 From tortured veins. Go forth, ye gentle two ! 
 Children of her who might perhaps have poured 
 Her own meek spirit o er my nature stern, 
 Since the bare image of her buried charms, 
 Soft gleaming from your youthful brows, hath power 
 To stir my spirit thus ! But go ye forth ! 
 Ye leave an altered and a milder man 
 Than* him ye sought. Tell Paulus this, 
 To quicken his young steps. 
 
 Mir. Now may the peace 
 That follows just and worthy deeds, he thine ! 
 And may deep truths be born, mid thy remorse, 
 In the recesses of thy soul, to make 
 That soul even yet a shrine of holiness. 
 
 Euph. Piso, how shall we passyon steelclad men, 
 Keeping stern vigil round the dungeon gate 1 
 
 Piso. Take ye my well known ring and here, 
 
 the list 
 Ay, this is it, methinks : show these Great gods ! 
 
 Euph. What is there on yon scroll which shakes 
 him thus ] 
 
 Mir. A name, at which he points with stiffening 
 And eyeballs full of wrath ! Alas! alas! [hand, 
 I guess loo well. My brother, droop thou not. 
 
 Piso. Your father, did ye say ] Was it his life 
 Ye came to beg ] 
 
 Mir. His life ; but not alone 
 Tlu- life so dear to us; for he hath friends 
 Sharing his fetters and his final doom. 
 
 Piso. Little reck I of them. Tell me his name. ! 
 
 [ A pause. 
 Speak, boy, or I will tear thee piecemeal ! 
 
 Mir. Stay, 
 
 Stern son of violence ! the name thou askest 
 Is is Thraseno ! 
 
 Piso. Well I knew it, girl ! 
 Now, by the gods, had I not been entranced, 
 I sooner had conjectured this. Foul name ! 
 Thus do I tear thee out, and even thus 
 Rend with my teeth ! Oh, rage ! she wedded him, 
 And ever since that hated name hath been 
 
 The voice of serpents in mine ear ! But now 
 
 Why go ye not? Here is your list: and all, 
 Ay, every one whose name is here set down, 
 Will my good guards forthwith release you. 
 
 Mir. Piso! 
 
 In mercy mock us not! children of her 
 Whom thou didst love 
 
 Piso. Ay, maid, but ye are his 
 
 \ Whom 1 do hate ! That chord is broken now 
 Its music hushed. Is she not in her grave, 
 And he within my grasp 1 
 
 Mir. Where is thy peace, 
 Thy penitence ] 
 
 Pi,so. Fled all a moonbeam brief 
 Upon a stormy sea. That magic name 
 Hath roused the wild, loud winds again. Begone ! 
 Save whom ye may. 
 
 M!.r. Piso ! I go not hence 
 Until rny father s name be on this scroll. 
 
 Puo. Take root, then, where thou art ! for by 
 I swear [dark Styx 
 
 Mir. Nay, swear thou not, till I am heard. 
 Hast thou forgot thy son 1 
 
 Piso. No ! let him die, 
 So that I have my long deferred revenge. 
 Thy lip grows pale ! Art thou not answered now ? 
 
 Mir. Deep horror falls upon me ! Can it be 
 Such demon spirits dwell on earth 1 
 
 Piso. Bold maiden, 
 
 While thou art safe, go hence ; for in his might 
 The tiger wakes within me ! 
 
 Mir. Be it so. 
 
 He can but rend me where I stand. And here, 
 Living or dying, will I raise my voice 
 In a firm hope ! The God that brought me here 
 Is round me in the silent air. On me 
 Falleth the, influence of an unseen eye ! 
 And in the strength of secret, earnest prayer, 
 This awful consciousness doth nerve my frame. 
 Thou man of evil and ungoverned soul ! 
 My father thou mayst slay ! Flames will not fall 
 From heaven to scorch and wither thee ! The earth 
 Will gape not underneath thy feet ! and peace, 
 Mock, hollow, seeming peace, may shadow still 
 Thy home and hearth ! B ut deep within thy breast 
 A fierce, consuming fire shall ever dwell. 
 Each night shall ope a gulf of horrid dreams 
 To swallow up thy soul. The livelong day 
 That soul shall yearn for peace and quietness, 
 As the hart panteth for the water brooks, 
 And know that even in death is no repose ! 
 And this shall be thy life. Then a dark hour 
 Will surely come 
 
 Piso. Maiden, be warned ! All this 
 I know. It moves me not. 
 
 Mir. Nay, one thing more 
 
 Thou knowest not. There is on all this earth 
 Full as it is of young and gentle hearts 
 One man alone that loves a wretch like thee ; 
 And he, thou sayest, must die ! All other eyes 
 Do greet thee with a cold or wrathful look, 
 Or, in the baseness of their fear, shun thine ! 
 And he whose loving glance alone spake peace, 
 Thou say st must die in youth ! Thou know st not 
 The deep and bitter sense of loneliness, [yet 
 
 The throes and uchings of a childless heart, 
 Which yet will all be thine ! Thou know st not yet 
 What tis to wander mid thy spacious halls, 
 And find them desolate ! wildly to start 
 From thy deep musings at the distant sound 
 Of voice or step like his, and sink back sick 
 Ay, sick at heart with dark remembrances ! 
 To dream thou seest him as in years fjone by 
 
LOUISA J. HALL. 
 
 11? 
 
 When in his bright and joyous infancy, 
 His laughing eyes amid thick curls sought thine, 
 And his soft arms were twined around thy neck, 
 And his twin rosebud lips just lisped thy name 
 Yet feel in agony tis but a dream ! 
 Thou knowest not yet what tis to lead the van 
 Of armies hurrying on to victory, 
 Yet, in the pomp and glory of that hour, 
 /Sadly to miss the we .l known snowy plume, 
 Whereon thine eyes were ever proudly iixed 
 In battle field ! to sit, at midnight deep, 
 Alone within thy tent all shuddering 
 When, as the curtained door lets in the breeze, 
 Thy fancy conjures up the gleaming arms 
 And bright young hero face of him who once 
 Had been most welcome there ! and worst of all 
 
 Pi&o. It is enough ! The gift of prophecy 
 Is on thee, maid ! A power that is not thine 
 Looks out from that dilated, awful form 
 Those eyes deep flashing with unearthly light 
 And stills my soul. My Paulus must not die ! 
 And yet to give up thus the boon ! 
 
 Mir. What boon? 
 
 A boon of blood ? To him, the good old man, 
 Death is not terrible, but only seems 
 A dark, short passage to a land of light, 
 Where, mid high ecstasy, he shall behold 
 Th unshrouded glories of his Maker s face, 
 And learn all mysteries, and gaze at last 
 Upon th ascended Prince, and never more 
 Know grief or pain, or part from those he loves ! 
 Yet will his blood cry loudly from the dust, 
 And bring deep vengeance on his murderer ! 
 
 Piso. My Paulus must not die! Let me revolve : 
 Maiden, thy words have sunk into my soul ; 
 Yet would I ponder ere I thus lay down 
 A purpose cherished in my inmost heart, 
 That which hath been my dream by night by day 
 My life s sole aim. Have I not deeply sworn, 
 Long years ere thou wert born, that should the gods 
 E er give him to my rage and yet I pause 1 
 
 Shall Christian vipers sting mine only son, 
 And I not crush them into nothingness 1 
 Am I so pinioned, vain, and powerless 1 
 Work, busy brain ! thy cunning must not fail. 
 
 [Retires. 
 
 The tyrant promises to restore Thraseno to 
 his children, and the scene changes to where 
 Paulus is awaiting the result. The long so 
 liloquy in which he expresses his varying 
 moods reminds us somewhat too much of 
 the sombre reveries of Manfred, though its 
 original conceptions illustrate a power equal 
 to its independent composition. 
 
 Piso but keeps the word of his last prom 
 ise, for only the dead body of Thraseno is 
 restored to Euphas and Miriam. Paulus, in 
 horror, renounces his parent and his religion, 
 and, while a dirge is sung over the martyr, 
 Miriam dies. 
 
 The fine and poetical spirit which pervades 
 the poem is sufficiently apparent in these ex 
 tracts. There is in parts a slight want of 
 keeping, and it may be that the tone is gen 
 erally too oratorical, though the incidents 
 justify almost throughout the work a certain 
 dignity of expression, and the youthful ages 
 of the chief characters make appropriate a 
 more ornate style than would befit a greater 
 maturity of life. 
 
 Among the minor poems of Mrs. Hall per 
 haps the best is a Dramatic Sketch, in The 
 Token, for 1839. There has been no collec 
 tion of her fugitive pieces, and it is probable 
 that I have seen too few of them to form an 
 intelligent estimate of their character. 
 
 JUSTICE AND MERCY. 
 
 I SAW in my dream a countless throng 
 By a mighty whirlwind hurried along, 
 
 Hurried along through boundless space 
 W T ith a fearful, onward, rushing sweep, 
 Looking like beings roused from sleep, 
 
 Till they met their Maker face to face. 
 
 Then, consciousness waked in each dark eye, 
 The mercy seat shone above on high, 
 
 And a timid, wild, but hopeful gaze 
 Those wandering spirits upward cast, 
 As it they had cause of joy at last, 
 
 When they saw the throne of judgment blaze. 
 
 "Justice!" they cried, with sound so clear, 
 The stars of the universe needs must hear ; 
 
 "Justice!" ag:iin, again rang out, 
 As of those who felt the hour had come 
 \\ hen earth-choked lips should no more be dumb, 
 
 An.l all God s worlds must hear their shout. 
 
 They were the souls of myriad men 
 
 Who had died, and none cared how or when, 
 
 Who had dwelt on earth as slaves as slaves ! 
 They were the men by death set free, 
 
 And flocking they came from their million graves, 
 They who on earth had scarce dared be, 
 
 Shaking the bonds from their half-crushed souls, 
 
 Uttering a cry that rent the poles, 
 For they knew that God would hear them then. 
 
 And afar I beheld a smaller band, 
 
 With hands claspt-d over their downcast eyes, 
 For before the blaze they could not stand. 
 
 And away had fallen their robes of lies. 
 Naked, affrighted, pierced with light, 
 
 They knew themselves and their deeds at las< 
 From their quivering lips to the throne of Right 
 
 A faint low cry of " Mercy !" passed. 
 
 Justice and Mercy ! hear them both 
 Bondman and master both are here ; 
 
 Each asketh that he needeth most. 
 
 Now pass from my soul, thou dream of feai i 
 
H8 
 
 LOUISA J. HALL. 
 
 A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 KING HENKYTHK SKVK.VTH. 
 I.AHV CATUKIUNK. the K i/1- <jf 1 erkia Warheck. 
 Cr,AKA, her AlUinlunt. 
 SIK FI.OIUAN, n l- r,f,,,l "f 1 ,-rkin Wurheck. 
 
 I Catttt n, t ik, SeaeooM, in Cornwall. 
 Ttine. T/tc Autumn of the year 1499. 
 
 r.ADY CATHKKINE and CLARA. 
 
 Lad// C. OPEX that casement toward the sea, 
 I gaze in vain along the hilly waste, [my Clara. 
 Watching the lone and solitary road 
 Until mine eyes are strained. The dull day wanes, 
 The sad November day and yet there come 
 No ridings from niv lord ! Ay, that is well ! 
 Sit thou where I have sat these many hours 
 In patience sorrowful ; and summon me 
 \Vit!i a most joyous cry, if thy kind watch 
 Be more successful. Sea ! for ever tossing, 
 Thv very motion is so beautiful, 
 So wild and spirit-stirring, as I turn 
 From the bleait, changeless moor, a 1 desolate, 
 I b ess each wave that breaks against yon cliff. 
 Oh, mighty ocean ! thou art free art free ! 
 Dash high, thou foamy-crested billow, high ! 
 That was a leap, whica sent the snowy spray 
 Up to yon overhanging crag, and forth 
 The screaming sea-bird sprang rejoicingly. 
 Clara, do not forget thy watch. 
 
 Clara. Nay, lady, 
 
 Return not yet ; thou shalt have warning swift, 
 If but a lonely traveller tread the heath. 
 
 Ludy C Yes : I will trust thee, and again look 
 Upon the glorious sea. In my youth s prime [forth 
 Is it not strange I thus should love to gaze 
 On a \vi;d ocean-view and frowning skv ] 
 Oh, sorrow, fear, and dark suspense, what change 
 Ye work in brief brief space on careless hearts ! 
 Methinka it was not many months ago 
 Childhood was round me with its rainbow dreams; 
 Then came the glittering vision of a court, 
 Dear Scut aim s court, where on my bridal hour 
 A uracious monarch smiled, and silently 
 Time stole the wings of love. My husband ! dearest! 
 Our happy hours were few. The echoes still 
 Rang back the harp s sweet nuptial melody, 
 When came a fearful voice, I scarce knew whence 
 But terrible, oh terrible it was! 
 The dew scarce dry upon the snowy rose 
 I wore that morn, when it was wet afresh 
 With tears of parting ! T was but for a time, 
 He said, and we should meet again. My heart 
 (Min ITS to the promise sweet " We meet again ;" 
 But when, oh when ] Ye vain remembrances! 
 Depart. Let me survey the heath once more. 
 The ocean hvc/.r lias fanned the pain away 
 From my hot brow, and now it wearies me 
 To look upon those restless waves. Their roar 
 Comes faintly up from yonder wet. black rocks, 
 Monotonous uiul hoarse; the mighty clouds 
 Sweep endless o er the heavens ; I am sad, 
 And all things saddi-M me. They 1! s,-t him free, 
 They sure y will, my Clara! thou hast said it 
 Full twenty times this day, and yet again 
 I fair, would hear such empty words of cheer. 
 
 What is yon speck upon the dusky neatn? 
 Look look ! 
 
 Clara. I have been watching it, dear lady : 
 T is but a lonely tree. 
 
 Lady C. No, no, it moves. 
 My heart s so.icitude doth give me sight 
 Keener than thine : it moves ; it comes this way. 
 What may its form and bearing be 1 It nears 
 Yon pile of rocks. Clara, such speed denotes 
 A horseman fleet. Peace, heart ! throb not so fast 
 
 Clara. The gray rnist settles down and mocka 
 It is a peasant, toiling through the furze, [thine eye. 
 
 Lady C. Nay, tis a mounted knight ! yon hil- 
 Thou wilt descry him plain. [lock passed, 
 
 Clara. T is so ! he rides 
 He rides for life. Is t not the jet-black steed 
 Sir Floriari mounts ] 
 
 Lady C. It is my husband s friend ! 
 T is he that rushes on with such mad haste. 
 Tidings at last oh, Clara, I am faint. [comes 
 
 Clara. Be calm, my much-tried mistress ; joy still 
 Close upon apprehension. 
 
 Lady C. Is it so 1 
 I can not tell. Would bad news spur him thus 1 
 
 Cl tra. Believe me, no. Be calm. 
 
 Lady C. I will I will. 
 Is he not here 1 he s wondrous slow, methinks. 
 
 Clara. The noble charger s spent ; his smoking 
 Are flecked with foam, and every gallant leap [sides 
 Seems as twould be his last. Why doth his rider 
 Cast back such troubled glances o er the moor 1 
 Now to the ground he springs; the brave steed drops 
 Lady, look up ! Sir Florian is at hand. 
 
 Sir F. Where is the lady Catherine ? Oh, away ! 
 Fly for your life ! 
 
 Lady C. Fly 1 and from whom ? or why 1 
 
 Sir F. Question me not : I do conjure you, fly ! 
 The danger s imminent; moments are precious; 
 Down to the beach : take boat without delay. 
 It is your husband s bidding. 
 
 Lady C. Oh, thank Heaven 
 For those two words ! Am I to meet him, then 1 
 
 Sir F. No, ladv, no ! but I have been delayed, 
 Crossed, intercepted, and well nigh cut off, 
 Till on a moment s grace your life depends. 
 The king pursues. 
 
 Lady C. The king ! in mercy say, 
 Where is my husband ] 
 
 Sir F. London Tower held still 
 The princely wanderer, when the rumor came 
 That Henry s wrath burnt hot gainst thee, sweet 
 A nd that the p ace of thy retreat was known, [lady, 
 Fly ! t is thy husband s word. 
 
 Lady C. Imprisoned still ! 
 Take rne to London, noble Florian. Nay, 
 How can I live but in that same dark Tower, 
 Where they have pinioned down my gallant lord, 
 My noble, much-wronged lord 1 Not yet set free . 
 He hath been pardoned once, if men told true. 
 
 Sir F. Come, fair and most unhappy ! 
 
 Luili/ C. I have heard 
 Such fearful tales of bloody murders done 
 In the mysterious circuit of those walls ! 
 What, didst thou leave him well ? 
 
LOUISA J. HALL. 
 
 Sir F. In truth I did, 
 
 Though somewhat wan and wasted ; anxious, too, 
 For thy most precious life. Come, I conjure thee ! 
 
 Cla. There is a strange and hollow sound abroad. 
 T is not the sea ! 
 
 Sir F. No, nor the sweeping wind. 
 It is the tramp of steeds fast galloping ! [now 
 
 Cla. They come ! like mounted giants looming 
 Through the dim mist. 
 
 Sir F. She s lost ! Why lingered 1 1 [now 
 
 Cla. Quick ! there is time ; our startled menials 
 Bar fast the outer doors : yon staircase leads 
 Down through a vaulted passage to the shore. 
 Sti.l motionless, sweet mistress] 
 
 Lady C. Was he worn 
 And pale, saidst thou 1 Truly I do rejoice 
 The king draws nigh, for on my bended knees 
 Will I entreat to share my husband s cell. 
 
 Cla. She is distraught. 
 
 Sir F. Most gracious lady, list ! 
 It is your blood this haughty monarch seeks 
 And with a vow against the innocent 
 His soul is burdened; do not wildly dream 
 That he will pity thee : and for thy lord 
 
 Lady C. Pause not ; I do conjure thee, speak ! 
 
 Sir F. He hath been tried, condemned 
 
 Lady C. And slain ] 
 
 Cla. That shriek 
 Doth guide them hither. 
 
 Sir F. Nay, he lives as yet, 
 But vainly 
 
 Lady C. Oh, God bless thee for that word ! 
 He lives ! Monarch of England, come ! 
 
 Cla. Hark, hark ! 
 That crash the doors are burst ! 
 
 Sir F. Her doom is sealed. 
 
 Enter KING HENRY unit Atte.ndtnas. 
 
 K. Hen. We are in time : the bird hath riot es 
 caped. 
 
 Those hoof-tracks made me fear some traitor fleet 
 Had warned her from the nest. Ha, frowning youth, 
 Whence comest thou 1 What may thine errand be, 
 That brought thee hither in such furious haste 1 
 
 SirF. Thou well mightst guess: twas from thy 
 
 bloody fangs 
 
 I vainly hoped one victim to withdraw. 
 She chose to trust thy clemency alas ! [tongue 
 
 K. Hen. Alas, indeed ! bold heart is thine, and 
 As bold. But garb so travel-stained, fair sir, 
 Fits not a lady s bower; and thou It not love, 
 Perchance, to fix that pity-beaming eye 
 Upon my deeds of clemency. Take hence 
 This youthful rebel, and let manacles 
 Bind those officious hands. 
 
 [Exit SIR F LORI AX with two Officers. 
 
 Now for our work. 
 
 We will survey this far-famed Scottish lily, 
 
 Ere the sharp steel do crop its drooping head. 
 
 Indeed, she s wondrous fair ! Hast thou no voice, 
 
 Pale suppliant 1 Its music must be rich, 
 
 And e en more eloquent than those clasped hands, 
 
 That sweet, imploring face. Speak, for thy moments 
 
 Flit into nothingness, and if thou hast 
 
 One last petition for thy dying hour 
 
 Lady C. My husband, gracious king ! 
 
 K. Hen. What, art thou mad 1 [hence 
 
 Lady C. Let me but see his face ! oh, drag me 
 With scorn and vio ence to share his doom, 
 And I will bless thy name. 
 
 K. Hen. She hath gone wild 
 With sudden terror. He s condemned, sweet lady 
 To die a shameful death,- and thou this hour 
 This very hour must perish in thy youth. 
 So bids my needful policy. Thinkest thou 
 Of aught but precious life, with such a fate 
 Darkening around thee, fair one ] Now, ask aught 
 But life 
 
 Lady C. Life, life, mere breath ! and what is that] 
 Take it, my sovereign ! He who gave it me 
 Will call my spirit home to heaven and peace, 
 When this poor dust lies low. I have no prayer 
 To offer for my wretched life, if joy 
 Lie dead and buried in my husband s grave. 
 Is there no mercy for my gallant lord ] 
 Crowned monarch, speak ! what can thy mightiness 
 Grant thee beyond the holy power to bless ] 
 
 K. Hen. I must be stern in words as well as deeds. 
 I charge thee, if thou hast a last request 
 A dying message to the noble house 
 Whence thou art sprung 
 
 Lady C. My home forsaken home ! 
 It was for him I left the heathy hills 
 Of my own Scotland ; there we had not perished 
 Thus in life s early bloom. May blessings rest 
 On the old quiet castle, and each head 
 Its gray roof shelters ! How those ancient halls 
 Will ring a wild lament, when comes the tale 
 That England s broken faith had widowed me, 
 And laid me, all unmourned, in English dust ! 
 Thy fame, proud king, thy fame 
 
 K. Hen. Ha ! dost thou dare 
 Breathe such reproach 1 Hear, then, unthinking girl, 
 Since thou dost stir my wrath. Dost thou not know, 
 Daughter of Gordon s stainless house, that thou 
 Art to a mean and base impostor linked ? 
 Duped and beguiled by crafty words, thy king 
 Gave with his own pledged faith thy maiden hand 
 To Margaret s lowborn tool ; and he hath lied 
 Lied his own life away, and stained his soul 
 With foulest perjury to steal the crown 
 Of glorious England from her lawful king. 
 The fraud is plain ; the forfeit, his mean life, 
 And men with eyes amazed shrink back from him 
 They followed in a dream. Awake thou, too ; 
 Die not in thy delusion. 
 
 Lad i/ C. Now be still, 
 
 My swelling heart ! speak calmly, quivering lips ! 
 Man I will call thee monarch now no more, 
 While ring thy words of insult in mine ear. 
 Thou dost defame the husband I adore, 
 And, in mine hour of fear and agony, 
 With cruel calumnies dost strive to rend 
 The one true heart that loves him yet. Enough . 
 Unkingly words were thine ; but I depart 
 Where earthly slanders can not reach mine ear. 
 Give orders : let me die. 
 
 K. Hen. Nay, it is past ; 
 It was a flash of momentary heat, 
 For of a fiery race I came. Alas ! I mourn 
 That in cold blood, fair lady, I must doom 
 
LOUISA J. HALL. 
 
 A creature young and innocent as thou 
 To an untimely grave. And, if I gaze 
 Longer upon that brow ingenuous, 
 My purposes will surely melt. Farewell. 
 
 Lady C. Stay, stay! hear but a few brief words 
 Not for inyse.f I plead, not of my life, [my king 
 My worthless life, would speak ; but fame, his fame 
 Dearer than kingdoms to his noble heart, 
 Claiais of his wife one burst of warm defence, 
 [f royal bio id flow not within the veins 
 Of him I loved and wedded, that deceit 
 Was never his. The artful may have played 
 Upon his open nature, and have lured 
 Their victim to the toils for purposes 
 
 They dared not own ; and now they may forsake 
 
 Oh, God of heaven ! /never will desert 
 
 My mocked and much wronged husband, though 
 
 Shrink from him as a serpent. I may die [false men 
 
 A bloody death, but with my last, last breath, 
 
 Will still avow my trusting love, and sue 
 
 For mercy on his innocence. 
 
 K. Hen. Now, lady 
 
 Lady C. Oh, peace unless I read thy restless 
 
 eye aright. 
 Wilt thou not look on me 1 
 
 Doth thy heart swell 
 
 With an unwonted fulness 1 Ha ! the vest 
 Heaves glittering on thy breast ! thou then art 
 And, if tears choke me not, I will dare plead [moved, 
 Even for him him whom I may not name. 
 
 K. Hen. Loosen my robe : away ; I will not hear. 
 
 Lady C. Thou must, thou wilt: though slander 
 ous tongues do say 
 
 Thy heart is steel, I will believe it not, 
 While on that gracious face I gaze. Thou It hear me. 
 His trust in flattering tongues for ever cured, 
 His wild hopes mock d,his young ambition quench d, 
 His wisdom ripened by adversity, 
 Forth from his prison will my husband come 
 A subject true and faithful to thy sway. 
 And I will lead him far away from courts, 
 Into the heart of lonely Scottish hills ; 
 There by some quiet lake his home shall be, 
 So still and happy, that his stormy youth, 
 With all its perilous follies, will but seem 
 As a dim memory of some former state, 
 In some forgotten world. He shall grow old 
 Holing my simple vassals with such power 
 As a brave hand and gentle heart may use ; 
 And never, never ask again, what b ood 
 Flows in his veins; nor dream one idle dream 
 Of courtiers, palaces, and sparkling crowns, 
 While these fond lips can whisper winning words, 
 And woman s ever-busy love can weave 
 Ties strong but viewless round his manly heart. 
 Thou It hear it not, but in that blessed home 
 How will I murmur in my nightly prayers 
 The name of England s kiriLr ! 
 
 He s free he s pardoned ! 
 J hat tearful smile all graciously declares 
 I am not widowed in my wretched youth ! 
 I shall behold his noble face again. 
 
 God bless tl.ee, generous prince, and give thee power 
 Through long, longyears, to bind up bleeding hearts, 
 And use thy sceptre as a wand of peace ! 
 My tears they flowed not when I prayed but now 
 The grateful gush declares, when language fails, 
 The ecstasy of joy ! 
 
 Enter a .1 /..vwx ;;, w/tn presents a packet ti 
 <}>, n, ,ind, <ifur ciiiUii- Itia ,:ije over it, t 
 
 the Kii,. tie breaks 
 tr/ts away abruptly. 
 
 C/a. The king is troubled. 
 
 K. Hen. {After a pause.} My sweet petitionei 
 look up ! 
 
 Lady C. Alas ! 
 I dare not. 
 
 K. Hen. Nay, why now such sudden fear 7 
 What sawest thou mirrored in my face ? 
 
 Lady C. A nameless terror robs me of all strength 
 That packet ! oh, these quick and dread forebodings ! 
 Speak ! it were mercy should thine accents kill. 
 
 K. He?i, Thou hast a noble spirit : rouse it now 
 Daughter of Gordon. 
 
 Lady C. King ! say on say all. 
 
 K. Hen. Art thou prepared ] 
 
 Lady C. What matters it ] speak, speak ! 
 Prepared ? what, with this dizzy, whirling brain 1 
 Comes fortitude amid such fierce suspense ] 
 Tell me the worst and show thy pity so. 
 
 K. Hen. Blanched, gasping, but angelic still ! 
 
 What words 
 Can sheathe the piercing news 1 Thy suit 
 Was all too late, true wife ! He is in heaven. 
 
 [LADY CATHERINE faints 
 
 Pale rose of England !" men have named thee 
 well. 
 
 What brought me hither 1 what 1 to murder thee ] 
 Oh, purpose horrible ! I can not think 
 
 This bosom ever harbored scheme so fierce. 
 
 )ark, bloody policy ! it is dissolved 
 
 Beneath the gentle light of innocence, 
 
 Melted by woman s true and faithful love, 
 Conquered by grief it is not mine to heal. 
 
 e dead may not return but she may live ! 
 Quit not the broken-hearted ! weeping maid. 
 She hath been true till death. And I will give 
 Shelter to sorrow such as these stern eyes 
 Ne er saw till now. To my own gentle queen 
 
 Vill I consign the victim of harsh times, [rose ! 
 
 ^hou shouldst have bloomed in sunshine, blighted 
 And ne er have been transplanted from thy bower 
 To waste such fragrant virtues mid the storm. 
 
 j TE ~ In the rel:n of Heni T VI - of Knaland. a pro 
 ender to the crown appeared in the person of I erkit. 
 Varbeck, a youth who declared himself to be Richard, 
 uke of York, second son of Kdward IV. He was sup 
 ported l.y Margaret of York, the Duke of Burmindv and 
 Other powerful friends; and tin- ytmnz kin- of Scotland 
 went so l;,r as to hestow on him the hand of the lady 
 Catherine Gordon, nearly allied to the royal family, and 
 celebrated tor her beauty. Sh- remained fondly attached 
 to him through his reverses, when all England" had for- 
 Bdken him : and it is said that the cold hrart of Henry was 
 so softened by her loveliness, constancy, and sorrow for 
 her hn-hand. that he relented in his bloody purpo-e and 
 instead of takin- her life, as he had intended, placed her 
 honorably :n his queen s household. Wa^-heck had adopt 
 ed the title of the - 1 ale Rose of Kn-1 did ;" hut the people 
 tran.-lrnvd it to her. Sec .Maekimo.-Us History of Sag 
 land, Philadelphia ed., p. 197. 
 
ELIZA L. FOLLEN. 
 
 (Born 1797-Died 1859). 
 
 ELIZA LEE CABOT, a native of Boston, was 
 married on the fifteenth of September, 1828, 
 to the amiable and learned Charles. Pollen, 
 J. U. D., of Germany, then of the Divinity 
 School at Cambridge, and soon afterward 
 professor of the German language and liter 
 ature in Harvard College. This union was 
 eminently happy, and it continued more than 
 eleven years. Dr. Follen perished in the 
 conflagration of the steamer Lexington, on 
 
 the night of the thirteenth of January, 1840. 
 Mrs. Follen is the author of several works 
 in prose, of which the most important are 
 Sketches of Married Life, The Skeptic, and 
 a Life of Charles Follen, in one volume, pub 
 lished in Boston in 1844. She has also ed 
 ited the works of her husband, in four vol 
 umes. The larger part of her poems are 
 contained in a volume published in Boston, 
 in 1839. 
 
 SACHEM S HILL. 
 
 HERE, from this little hillock, 
 
 In days long since gone by, 
 Glanced over hill and valley 
 
 The sachem s eagle eye : 
 His were the pathless forests, 
 
 And his the hills so blue, 
 And on the restless ocean 
 
 Danced only his canoe. 
 
 Here stood the aged chieftain, 
 
 Rejoicing in his glory : 
 How deep the shade of sadness 
 
 That rests upon his story ! 
 For the white man came with power, 
 
 Like brethren here they met 
 But the Indian fires went out, 
 
 And the Indian sun has set. 
 
 And the chieftain has departed, 
 
 Gone is his hunting-ground, 
 And the twanging of his bowstring 
 
 Is a forgotten sound : 
 Where dwelleth yesterday and 
 
 Where is echo s cell 1 
 Where has the rainbow vanished ] 
 
 There does the Indian dwell. 
 
 But in the land of spirits 
 
 The Indian has a place, 
 And there, midst saints and angels, 
 
 He sees his Maker s face : 
 There from all earthly passions 
 
 His heart may be refined, 
 And the mists that once enshrouded 
 
 Be lifted from his mind. 
 
 And should his freeborn spirit 
 
 Descend again to earth, 
 And here, unseen, revisit 
 
 The spot that gave him birth, 
 Would not his altered nature 
 
 Rejoice with rapture high, 
 
 At the changed and glorious prospect 
 
 That now would meet his eye ] 
 Where nodded pathless forests, 
 
 There now are stately domes; 
 Where hungry wolves were prowling, 
 
 Are quiet, happy homes ; 
 Where rose the savage warwhoop, 
 
 Are heard sweet village bells, 
 And many a gleaming spire 
 
 Of faith in Jesus tells. 
 And he feels his soul is changed 
 
 T is there a vision glows 
 Of more surpassing beauty 
 
 Than earthly scenes disclose ; 
 For the heart that felt revenge, 
 
 With boundless love is filled, 
 And the restless tide of passion 
 
 To a holy calm is stilled. 
 Here, to my mental vision, 
 
 The Indian chief appears, 
 And all my eager questions 
 
 Fancy believes he hears : 
 Oh, speak, thou unseen being, 
 
 And the mighty secrets tell 
 Of the land of deathless glories, 
 
 Where the departed dwell ! 
 I can not dread a spirit 
 
 For I would gladly see 
 The veil uplifted round us, 
 
 And know that such things be : 
 The things we see are fleeting, 
 
 Like summer flowers decay 
 The things unseen are real, 
 
 And do not pass away. 
 The friends we love so dearly 
 
 Smile on us, and are gone, 
 And all is silent in their place, 
 
 And we are left alone ; 
 But the joy " that passeth show," 
 
 And the love no arm can sever 
 And all the treasures of their souls. 
 
 Shall be with us for ever. 
 121 
 
122 
 
 ELIZA L. FOLLEN. 
 
 WINTER SCENES IX THE COUNTRY. 
 
 TIIK short, dull, rainy day drew to a close; 
 No gleam hurst forth upon the western hills, 
 With smiling promise of a brighter day, 
 Dressing the leafless woods with golden light; 
 But the dense fog hung its dark curtain round, 
 And the unceasing rain poured like a torrent on. 
 The weaned inmates of the house draw near 
 The cheerful (ire; the shutters all are closed; 
 A brightening look spreads round, that seems to say, 
 INow let the darkness and the rain prevail 
 Here all is bright ! How beautiful is the sound 
 Of the descending rain ; how soft the wind 
 Through the wet branches of the drooping elms: 
 But hark ! far oil* beyond the sheltering hills, 
 Is heard the gathering tempest s distant swell, 
 Threatening the peaceful valley ere it comes. 
 The stream that glided through its pebbly wav, 
 To its own sweet music, now roars hoarsely on ; 
 The woods send forth a deep and heavy sigh ; 
 The gentle south has ceased; the rude northwest, 
 Rejoicing in his strength, comes rushing forth: 
 The rain is changed into a driving sleet, 
 And when the fitful wind a moment lulls, 
 The feathery snow, almost inaudible, 
 Falls on the window-panes as soft and still 
 As the light brnshings of an angel s wings, 
 Or the sweet visitings of quiet thoughts 
 Midst the wild tumult of this stormy life. 
 The tightened strings of nature s ceaseless harp 
 Send forth a shrill and piercing melody, 
 As the full swell returns. The night comes on, 
 And sleep, upon this little world of ours, 
 Spreads out her sheltering, healing wings ; and man, 
 The heaven-inspired soul of this fair earth 
 The bold interpreter of Nature s voice, 
 (Jivinu: a language even to the stars 
 Unconscious of the th robbings of his heart, 
 Is still : and all unheeded is the storm, 
 Save by the wakeful few who love the night 
 Those pure and active spirits that are placed 
 As guards o er wayward man they who showforth 
 God s holy image on the soul impressed 
 They listen to the music of the storm, 
 And ho d high converse with the unseen world: 
 They wake, and watch, and pray, while others sleep. 
 The stormy nin lit has passed ; the eastern clouds 
 (ilow with the morning s ray: but who shall tell 
 The peerless glories of this winter day 1 
 Nature has put her jewels on one blaze 
 Of sparkling liyht and ever-varying hues 
 Bursts on the enraptured sight. 
 The smallest twi^ w ith brilliants hangs its head; 
 The graceful elm and all the forest trees 
 Have on a crystal coat of mail, and seem 
 All decked and tricked out for a holyday, 
 And every stone shines in its wreath of gems. 
 The pert, familiar robin, as he flies 
 From spray to spray, showers diamonds around, 
 
 And moves in rainbow light where er he goes 
 The universe looks glad : hut words are vain 
 To paint the wonders of the splendid show. 
 The heart exults with uncontrolled delight: 
 The glorious pageant slowlv moves away, 
 As the sun sinks behind the western hi. Is. 
 So fancy, for a short and fleeting day. 
 May shed uprm the cold and barren earth 
 Her bright enchantments and her dazzling hues, 
 And thus they melt and fade away, and leave 
 A cold and dull rea ity behind. 
 
 But see where, in the clear, unclouded sky, 
 The crescent moon, with calm and sweet rebuke 
 Doth charm away the spirit of complaint: 
 Her tender light falls on the snow-clad hills, 
 Like the pure thoughts that angels might bestow 
 Upon this world of beauty and of sin, 
 That mingle not with that whereon they rest: 
 So should immortal spirits dwell below. 
 There is a holy influence in the moon, 
 And in the countless hosts of silent stars, 
 The heart can not resist: its passions sleep, 
 And all is still, save that which shall awake 
 When all this vast and fair creation sleeps. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 THE sun is set, the day is o er. 
 And labor s voice is heard no more ; 
 On high the silver moon is hung ; 
 The birds their vesper hvmns have sung, 
 Save one, who oft breaks forth anew, 
 To chant another sweet adieu 
 To all the glories of the day, 
 And all its pleasures past away. 
 Her twilight robe all nature wears. 
 And evening sheds her fragrant tears, 
 Which every thirsty plant receives, 
 Whi e silence trembles on its leaves: 
 From every tree and every bush 
 There seems to breathe a soothing hush, 
 While every transient sound but shows 
 How deep and still is the repose. 
 Thus calm and fair may all things be, 
 When life s last sun has set with me; 
 And may the lamp of memory shine 
 As sweetly on my day s decline 
 As yon pale crescent, pure and fair, 
 That hangs so safelv in the air, 
 And pours her mild, reflected light, 
 To soothe and bless the weary sight : 
 And may my spirit often wake 
 Like thine, sweet bird, and, singing, take 
 Another farewell of the sun 
 Of pleasures past, of labors done. 
 See, where the glorious sun has set, 
 A line of light is lingering yet : 
 Oh, thus may love awhile illume 
 The silent darkness of mv tomb! 
 
FRANCES H. GREEN. 
 
 FRANCES HARRIET WHIFFLE, now Mrs. 
 GREEN, was born in Smithfield, Rhode Is 
 land, and is descended from two or the oldest 
 and most honorable families of that state. 
 While she was very young, her father, Mr. 
 George Whipple, lost by various misfortunes 
 his estate, and she was therefore leit to her 
 own resources for support and for the culti 
 vation of her fine understanding, of which 
 some of the earliest fruits were poems print 
 ed in the gazettes from 1830 to 1835. Her 
 first volume was Memoirs of Eleanor El- 
 bridge, a colored woman, of which there 
 were sold more than thirty thousand copies. 
 In 1841 she published The Mechanic, a book 
 addressed to the operatives of the country, 
 which was much commended in Mr. Brown- 
 son s Boston Quarterly Review. In 1844 she 
 gave to the public Might and Right, a histo 
 ry of the attempted revolution in Rhode Is 
 land, known as the Dorr Insurrection. Dur 
 ing a part of the year 1842 she conducted 
 The Wampanoag, a journal designed for the 
 elevation of the laboring portion of the com 
 munity, and she has since been a large con 
 tributor to what are called "reform periodi 
 cals," pariicularly The Nineteenth Century, 
 a quarterly miscellany, and The Univercoe- 
 lum and Spiritual Philosopher, a paper " de 
 voted to philosophico-theology, and an expo 
 sition and inculcation of the principles of 
 Nature, in their application to individual and 
 social life." In the autumn of 1848 she be 
 came editress of The Young People s Journal 
 of Science, Literature, and Art, a monthly 
 magazine of an attractive character, printed 
 in New York. 
 
 One of the best known of Mrs. Green s po 
 ems is The Dwarf s Story, a gloomy but pas 
 sionate and powerful composition, which ap 
 peared in The Rhode Island Book, in 1841. 
 The longest and most carefully finished is 
 Nanuntenoo, a Legend of the Narragansetts, 
 in six cantos, of which the first, second and 
 third were published in Philadelphia in 1848. 
 This is a work of decided and various merit. 
 We have few good poems upon aboriginal 
 superstition, tradition, or history. The best 
 
 are Yamoyden, by Sands and Eastburn, Mogg 
 Megone, by Whittier, the Legend of the An- 
 dirondach Mountains, by Hoffman, Yonondio, 
 by Hosmer, Nemahmin, bv Louis L. Noble, 
 and Mrs. Green s Nanuntenoo, with which, 
 though it is not yet published may be 
 classed Mr. Street s admirable romance of 
 Frontenac. In Nanuntenoo are shown de 
 scriptive powers scarcely inferior to those 
 of Bryant and Carlos Wilcox, who have been 
 most successful in painting the grand, beau 
 tiful, and peculiar scenery of New England. 
 The rhythm is harmonious, and the style gen 
 erally elegant and poetically ornate. In the 
 delineations of Indian character and adven 
 ture, we see fruits of an intelligent study of 
 the colonial annals, and a nice apprehension 
 of the influences of external nature in psycho 
 logical development. It is a production that 
 will gratify attention by the richness of its 
 fancy, the justness of its reflection, and its 
 dramatic interest. 
 
 The minor poems of Mrs. Green are nu 
 merous, and they are marked by idiosyncra- 
 cies which prove them fruits of a genuine 
 inspiration. Her Songs of the Winds, and 
 sketches of Indian life, from both of which 
 series specimens are given in the following 
 pages, are frequently characterized by a mas 
 culine energy of expression, and a minute 
 observation of nature. Though occasionally 
 difluse, and illustrated by epithets or images 
 that will not be approved, perhaps, by the 
 most fastidious tastes, they have meaning in 
 them, and the reader is not often permitted 
 to fonjet the presence of the power and deli 
 cacy of the poetical faculty. 
 
 31 rs. Green has perhaps entered more 
 largely than any of her countrywomen into 
 discussions of religion, philosophy, and pol 
 itics. Her views are frequently original and 
 ingenious, and they are nearly always stated 
 with clearness and maintained with force of 
 logic and fitlicity of illustration. A consid 
 eration of them would be inure appropriate in 
 a reviewal of her prose-writings. Their pe 
 culiarities are not disclosed in her poems, of 
 
 which the only law is the sense of beauty. 
 J 1-23 
 
121: 
 
 FRANCES H. GREEX. 
 
 NEW ENGLAND SUMMER IN THE AN 
 CIENT TIME. 
 
 FROM THE FIRST CANTO OF "NANUNTENOO." 
 
 STILLNESS of summer noontide over hill, 
 And deep embowering wood, and rock, and stream, 
 Spread forth her downy pinions, scattering sleep 
 Upon the drooping eyelids of the air. 
 No wind breathed through the forest, that could stir 
 The lightest foliage. If a rustling sound 
 Escaped the trees, it might be nestling bird, 
 Or else the po islied leaves were turning back 
 To their own natural places, whence the wind 
 Of the last hour had flung them. From afar 
 Came the deep roar of waters, vet subdued 
 To a melodious murmur, like the chant 
 Of naiads, ere they take their noontide rest. 
 A tremulous motion stirred the aspen leaves, 
 And from their shivering steins an utterance came, 
 So delicate and spirit-like, it seemed 
 The soul of music breathed, without a voice. 
 The anemone bent low her drooping head, 
 Mourning the absence of her truant love, 
 Till the soft languor closed her sleepy eye, 
 To dream of zephyrs from the fragrant south, 
 Coming to wake her with renewed life. 
 The eglantine breathed perfume ; and the rose 
 Cherished her reddening buds, that drank the light, 
 Fair as the vermil on the cheek of Hope. 
 Where er in sheltered nook or quiet dell, 
 The waters, like enamored lovers, found 
 A thousand sweet excuses for delay, 
 The clustering lilies bloomed upon their breast, 
 Love-tokens from the naiads, when they came 
 To trifle with the deep, impassioned waves. 
 
 The wild bee, hovering on voluptuous wing, 
 Scarce murmured to the blossom, drawing thence 
 Slumber with honey; then in the purpling cup, 
 As if oppressed with sweetness, sank to sleep. 
 The wood-dove tenderly caressed his mate; 
 Each looked within the other s drowsy eyes, 
 Till outward objects melted into dreams. 
 
 The rich vermilion of the tanager, 
 Or summer red-bird, flashed amid the green, 
 Like rubies set in richest emerald. 
 On some tall maple sat the oriole, 
 In black and orange, by his pendent nest, 
 To cheer his brooding mate with whispered songs; 
 Whilo high amid the loftiest hickory 
 Perched the loquacious jay, his turquoise crest 
 Low drooping, as he plumed his shining coat, 
 Rich with the changeful blue of Nazareth. 
 And higher yet, amid a towering pine, 
 Stood the fierce hawk, half-slumbering, half-awake, 
 His keen eye flickering in his dark unrest, 
 As if he sought for plunder in his dreams. 
 
 The scaly snake crawled lazily abroad, 
 To revel in the sunshine ; and the hare 
 Stole from her leafy couch, with ears erect 
 Against the soft air-current; then she crept, 
 With a light, velvet footfall, through the ferns. 
 The squirrel stayed his gambols ; and the songs 
 Which late through all the forest arches rang, 
 Were graduated to a harmony 
 Of rudiniiMital music, href .hing low, 
 Making the soft wind richer as the notes 
 
 Had been dissolved, and mingled with the air. 
 Pawtucket almost slumbered, for his waves 
 Were lulled by their own chanting : breathing low 
 With a just-audible murmur, as the soul 
 Is stirred in visions with a thought of love, 
 He whispered back the whisper tenderly 
 Of the fair willows bending over him, 
 With a light hush upon their stirring leaves, 
 Blest watchers o er his day-dreams. Not a sign 
 Of man or his abode met ear or eye, 
 But one great wilderness of living wood, 
 O er hill, and cliff, and valley, swelled and waved, 
 An ocean of deep verdure. By the rock 
 Which bound and strengthen d all their massive roots 
 Stood the great oak and giant sycamore; 
 Along the water-courses and the glades 
 Rose the fair maple and the hickory; 
 And on the loftier heights the towering pine 
 Strong guardians of the forest standing there, 
 On the old ramparts, sentinels of Time, 
 To watch the flight of ages. Indian hordes, 
 The patriarchs of Nature, wandered free ; 
 W hile every form of being spake to them 
 Of the Great Spirit that pervaded all, 
 And curbed their fiery nature with a law- 
 Written in light upon the shadowy soil 
 Bowing their sturdy hearts in reverence 
 Before the Great Unseen yet Ever FELT ! 
 The very site where villages and towns, 
 As if called forth by magic, have uprisen; 
 W T here now the anvils echo, hammers clank, 
 The hum of voices in the stirring mart, 
 And roar of dashing wheels, create a din 
 That almost rivals the old cataract 
 As if its thunder had grown tired and hoarse 
 In striving to be heard above the din 
 Two centuries gone, was one unbroken wild, 
 Where the fierce wolf, the panther, and the snake 
 A forest aristocracy, scarce feared 
 The monarch man, and shared his common lot 
 To hunger, plunder from the weak, and slay ; 
 To wake a sudden terror ; then lie down, 
 To be unnamed unknown for evermore. 
 
 A NARRAGANSETT SACHEM, 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 A FOOTFALL broke the silence, as along 
 Pawtucket s bank an Indian warrior passed. 
 Awed by the solemn stillness, he had paused 
 In deep, reflecting mood. A nobler brow 
 Ne er won allegiance from Roman hosts, 
 Than his black plume half shaded ; nor a form 
 Of kinglier bearing, moulded perfectly, 
 E er flashed on day-dreams of Praxiteles. 
 The mantle that o er one broad shoulder hung, 
 Was broidered with such trophies as are worn 
 By sachems only. Ghastly rows of teeth 
 Glistened amid the wampum. On the edge 
 A lace of woven scalp-locks was inwrought, 
 Where the soft, glossy brown of white man s hail 
 Mingled with Indian tresses, dark and harsh. 
 The wampum-be. t, of various hues inwrought, 
 Graced well his manly bosom ; and below, 
 His taper limbs met the rich moccasin. 
 
FRANCES H. GREEN. 
 
 125 
 
 SASSACUS.* 
 
 THE orient sun was coming pioudly up, 
 And looking o er the Atlantic gloriously ; 
 Old Ocean s bosom felt the living rays ; 
 A rich smile flashed up from his hoary cheek, 
 Subduing pride with beauty, as he turned, 
 In each clear wave, a mirror to the sky ; 
 And Earth was beautifu , as when, of erst, 
 In the young freshness of her vestal morn, 
 She wore the dew-gems in her bridal crown, 
 And met, and won, the exulting lord of Day. 
 
 The beauty-loving Mystic wound a ong 
 Throiuh the green meadows, as if led by Taste, 
 That knew and sought the purest emerald, 
 And had the art of finding fairest flowers; 
 While his young brother, Thames, enrobed in light, 
 Lingered with sparkling eddies round the shore. 
 The sea-bird s snowy wing was tinged with gold, 
 And scarcely wafted on the ambient air, 
 As, lightly poised, she hung above the deep, 
 And looked beneath its crystal. With a scream 
 Of wild delight at all the wealth she saw, 
 Down like a flake of living snow she plunged ; 
 Then, momently upgleaming, like a burst 
 Of winged light from the waters, shaking off 
 The liquid pearls from all her downy plumes, 
 She soared in triumph to her wave-girt nest. 
 
 The spirit of the morning over all 
 Went with a quickening presence, fair and free, 
 Till every beetling crag, and steri e rock, 
 And swamp, and wilderness, and desert ground, 
 W 7 ere instinct with her glory. Moss and fern, 
 And clinging vine, and all unnumbered trees, 
 That make the woods a paradise, were stirred 
 By whispering zephyrs, and shook off the dew ; 
 While fragrance rose, like incense, to the skies. 
 The soft May wind was breathing through the wood, 
 Calling the sluggish buds to light and life 
 As, stealing softly through the silken bonds, 
 It freed the infant leaf, and gently held 
 Its trembling greenness in his lambent arms. 
 The eagle from his cloud-wreathed eyry sprang, 
 Soaring aloft, as he had grown in love, 
 Aspiring to the lovely Morning-Star, 
 That lately vanished mid the kindling depths 
 Of saffron-azure ; and the smaller birds 
 Plumed the bright wing with sweetest carolings, 
 Instinctive breath of joy, and love, and praise. 
 
 No sound of hostile legions marred the scene ; 
 Trumpet and war-cry, sword and battle-axe, 
 With all their horrid din, were far away, 
 And gentle Peace sat, queenlike Was it so 1 
 
 * On a morning of May, 1637, the English, under Major 
 John Mason, attacked the fort of Mystic, one of the strong 
 holds of Sassacus. The Indians, believing the enemy afar, 
 had sung and danced till midnight ; and the depth of their 
 morning slumbers made them an easy prey. " The resist- 
 bnce," says Thatcher, was manly and desperate, but the 
 work of destruction was completed in little more than an 
 hour. 1 And again, "Seventy wigwams were burnt, and 
 five or six hundred Pequots killed. Parent and child alike, 
 the sanop and squaw, the gray-haired man and the babe, 
 were buried in one promiscuous ruin." Sassacus, flushed 
 with conquest, with his followers returned just in time to 
 witness the expiring flames. After this, the fortunes of 
 the sachem rapidly declined ; and when his own hatchets 
 were turned against him, he fled with Mononotto to the 
 Mohawks, by whom he was treacherously murdered. 
 
 Behold yon smouldering ruin ! Lo. yon height ! 
 The Pequot there his simple fortress reared. 
 And there he slept in peace but yester-eve, 
 And his fair dreams spake not of coming death! 
 Where are the hundred dwellers of this spot 
 The parents, children, and the household charm;;, 
 That woke a soft, familiar magic here 1 
 The crackling cinders one chaotic mass 
 Of death and ruin utter all the wrong, 
 In their deep, voicefu! silence. Fire and sword, 
 Sped by the Yengees hate, have only left 
 The ashes of the beautiful; or, worse, 
 The mangled type of each familiar form, 
 Looks grimly through the horrid mask of death ! 
 
 There slumbers all that woke a thrill of love 
 In the firm warrior s bosom. Death stole on, 
 Swift in the track of Gladness; and young hearts, 
 Yet quick with rapture, in the halcyon dreams 
 Of youth, and love, and hope, awoke -to die. 
 They grappled with the subtile element, 
 Then rushed on lance, and spear, and naked sword, 
 To quench with their hot blood the torturing flames. 
 The few strong warriors had grown desperate ; 
 But desperation could not long avail 
 And nerveless valor fall beside the weak. 
 Mothers and children, aged men and strong, 
 Bore the fierce tortures of dissolving life, 
 And all consumed together; till, at last, 
 The feeble wail of dying infancy 
 A muttering curse a groan but half respired 
 A prayer for vengeance on the subtle foe 
 Were lost amid the wildly-crackling flames : 
 Then the mute smoke went upward. All was still, 
 Save the sweet harmonies that Nature woke, 
 Careless of man s destruction, or his pangs. 
 
 But hark ! the tramp of warriors ! They come ! 
 Their loving thoughts, winged heralds, sent before 
 To dear ones clustering in their wigwams shade, 
 That wooing them from the memory of their toils, 
 To watch their soft repose with eyes of love ; 
 While sweet anticipation sketches forth 
 One sunny hour of joy encircling all 
 The rainbow-blessing of their clouded life 
 More bright, more heavenly, for the gloom it gilds 
 
 But is there joy in that wildly piercing cry ] 
 The agonizing consciousness of wrong, 
 Not graduated, but with one fell scath, 
 Blasts now, like sudden lightning ; and the fire 
 Awakes the latent sulphur of the soul ! 
 The horrid truth, in all its length, and breadth, 
 And height, and depth, before them lies revealed, 
 An utter desolation. They are mad : 
 Or more or less than man might not be so. 
 
 Great Sassacus draws nigh. The panther-skin 
 Parts from his bosom, and the tomahawk 
 Is flung off, with the quiver and the bow. 
 No word he utters ; for the marble lip 
 May give to sound no passage; but his eye 
 Looks forth in horror : all its liquid fires 
 Shoot out a crystal gleam, like icicles 
 And not a single nerve is stirring now 
 In the still features, frozen with their pride , 
 But, neath the brawny folding of his arms, 
 The seamed and scarry chest is heaving up. 
 Like a disturbed volcano. All he loved 
 
120 
 
 FRANCES H. GREEN. 
 
 Sleep in the arms of Ruin. There they lie. 
 
 He knew that he was reverenced as a god 
 
 That ori the roll of heroes, prouder name, 
 
 Or clothed with mightier majesty, was not, 
 
 Than iSassacus the Terrible. That name 
 
 The bronz d cheek of the warrior would blanch ; 
 
 There was a magic in its very sound 
 
 That made the bravest blood tun: pale as milk. 
 
 And curdle in its passage. SASSACUS ! 
 
 When those dire syllables were uttered loud, 
 
 The vulture clapped her wings, and gave a scream. 
 
 By instinct scenting the far field of Death. 
 
 At his fell war-cry down the eagle came, 
 
 To perch upon some overhanging clilf, 
 
 And glory in bis glory. Her response 
 
 Echoed afar the thrilling call to strife, 
 
 As on her lofty battlements she sat, 
 
 Like some wild spirit of a kindred power. 
 
 Such was the fame that burnished his dark crest, 
 
 Such were the signs that marked the chief a god. 
 
 Had UK a weakness that could yield to grief, 
 
 The strong the mighty the invincible! 
 
 May he not rend affection from his heart, 
 
 Or trifle with his passions ! 
 
 On he went 
 
 With half-averted eye as what he sought 
 Among those mangled forms he durst not find. 
 Sudden there came a shadow o er his brow 
 An awful spirit to his flaming eye: 
 He stood before his threshold. Stretched across, 
 As the last horrid blow had checked her flight, 
 Lay his weak, gray-haired mother. Just below, 
 A pair of round arms, clinging to her knees, 
 Alone were left to tell him of his babe. 
 With one long, earnest, agonizing thought, 
 He gazed to gather strength for fiercer pangs ; 
 Then faltering step sped onward ; but again 
 Abruptly pauses, for his form is fixed, 
 Like some dark granite statue of Despair. 
 
 The delicate proportions, fair and soft, 
 Of his young wife, came suddenly to view 
 Unmarred, as if to aggravate the more, 
 Save by one cruel wound beneath her hair 
 Upon the upturned forehead. Can it be 
 The gay young creature he but left at eve, 
 So very beautiful, is sleeping thus 
 Cold cold in death irrevocably gone ] 
 Remeinbereth not that shadowy maze of hair 
 How dotingly he wreathed i*. yesterday ] 
 Or that fair, ruby lip the tender kiss 
 That won him back, when he had turned away, 
 With all its tempting sweetness 1 She is dead ; 
 And all her garments and her flowing hair 
 Are dink and heavy with the waste of blood ! 
 Her arms are folded on her marble breast, 
 A lovely, but an ineffectual shield; 
 The lids are lifted, and the parting lips 
 Are curved lieseeehingh , as when they sued 
 For meivv from tin- murderer in vain! 
 
 He looked upon her, as if life would burst 
 In one long, agonizing, phrensied gaze; 
 The Muslin..- sight was madness: then he laughed, 
 In utter desperation, utter scorn! 
 He knew that Fate herself might never crush 
 A soul that could endure such pangs, and live ! 
 
 Why starts he, as some yet-untroubled nerve 
 Had quickened for the torture 1 ? Hush ! a wail 
 From yonder dying child ! Can that arrest 
 A pride that seemed to glory in its pangs? 
 ! Oh, gracious God ! his first-born, darling child, 
 Whom he had nurtured with a chieftain s pride, 
 And doated on with all a father s love, 
 Lies at his feet though mangled, living still. 
 A rapturous pang of momentary joy, 
 That this one, dearest treasure, yet might be 
 Spared to his bosom, shot through heart and soul 
 The struggling hope, in bitter mockery, 
 A meteor on the midnight of despair, 
 Lived for an instant quivered vanished died- - 
 Leaving more utter blackness. Ere he bent 
 To lift the little sufferer in his arms, 
 The livid type of death was on his brow. 
 One look of recognition, full of power 
 The agonizing power of love in death 
 Sped from the dying. With a piteous moan, 
 As if to show how much he had endured, 
 He lifted up his little mangled arm, [died : 
 
 And murmuring, " Father !" struggled, gasped, and 
 And Sassacus was martyred o er again ! 
 
 He breathed no prayer, he spoke no malison 
 But one hand lifted up the mangled boy 
 With the firm grasp of madness nerved to steel; 
 And in the other his sharp battle-axe 
 He swung above him with a dizzening whirl, 
 And thundered out the war-cry ! Then they turned 
 To the fell work of vengeance and of death. 
 
 Again I marked the warrior. He stood 
 Among the scenes of early triumph, where 
 His soul first wedded Glory on the spot 
 Where, on his high hereditary throne, 
 He poised a sceptre that could sway the free : 
 Was yonder broken-hearted man a king] 
 Forsaken, wretched, desolate, and crushed 
 Hunted through all his fair paternal woods 
 His own knives turned by Treason to his breast ! 
 In the wide earth without a single friend, 
 Alone he standeth like the blasted oak, 
 Mocked by the greenness that was once his own ; 
 A mighty ruin in a pleasant place 
 A ruin, storm, or tempest, could not bow, 
 And waiting for the earthquake ! It shall come. 
 
 Where are his kindred 1 Yonder ashy mound 
 Looks forth at once their tomb and their epitaph. 
 His followers ? They are fallen, or fled, or slaves. 
 His land ] He has none. And his peaceful home"? 
 The mighty outcast is denied a grave ! 
 His fathers land his own contains no spot 
 Where he of right may lay his body down 
 To the long sleep his broken nature craves ! 
 The white man s voice is echoing on his hills ; 
 The white man s axe is ringing through his woods; 
 And he is banished ah ! he recks not where. 
 
 His step hath lost its firm, elastic tone, 
 But it hath caught a majesty from wo, 
 Such as would crush to atoms meaner hearts ! 
 His features are like granite ; but hib brow, 
 Like the rude cliff on the volcano s front, 
 Is haggard with the conflict written o er 
 With the fell history of his burning wrongs. 
 The snow is falling ; but he heedeth not 
 
FRANCES H. GREEN. 
 
 127 
 
 [t is not colder than his stricken heart. 
 
 Behold him clinging to that little mound, 
 
 As if the senseless earth, that covers o er 
 
 The ashes of the beautiful, might feel 
 
 The last strong heart-throbs that are beating there 
 
 Against its icy bosom. Doth he weep ? 
 
 A few hot tears, yet freezing as they fall, 
 
 Are mingling with the hail-drops. It is o er 
 
 His first, last weakness. Yonder rigid form 
 
 T is Mononotto beckons him away. 
 
 SONG OF THE NORTH WIND. 
 
 FROX the home of Thor, and the land of Hun, 
 
 Where the valiant frost-king defies the- sun, 
 
 Till he, like a coward, slinks away 
 
 With the spectral glare of his meager day 
 
 And throned in beauty, peerless Night, 
 
 In her robe of snow and her crown of light, 
 
 Sits queenlike on her icy throne, 
 
 With frost-flowers in her pearly zone 
 
 And the fair Aurora floating free, 
 
 Round her form of matchless symmetry 
 
 An iriscd mantle of roseate hue, 
 
 W 7 ith the gold and hyacinth melting through ; 
 
 And from her forehead, beaming far, 
 
 Looks forth her own true polar star. 
 
 From the land we love our native home 
 
 On a mission of wrath we come, we come ! 
 
 Away, away, over earth and sea ! 
 
 Unchained, and chainless, we are free ! 
 
 As we fly, our strong wings gather force, 
 To rush on our overwhelming course : 
 We have swept the mountain and walked the main, 
 And now, in our strength, we are here again ; 
 To beguile the stay of this wintry hour, 
 We are chanting our anthem of pride and power; 
 And the listening earth turns deadly pale 
 Like a sheeted corse, the silent vale 
 Looks forth in its robe of ghastly white, 
 As now we rehearse our deeds of might. 
 The strongest of God s sons are we 
 Unchained, and chainless, ever free ! 
 
 We have looked on Hecla s burning brow, 
 And seen the pines of Norland bow 
 In cadence to our deafening roar, 
 On the craggy steep of the Arctic shore ; [flood, 
 We have waltzed with the maelstrom s whirling 
 And curdled the current of human blood, 
 As nearer, nearer, nearer, drew 
 The struggling bark to the boiling blue 
 Till, resistless, urged to the cold death-clasp, 
 It writhes in the hideous monster s grasp 
 A moment and then the fragments go 
 Down, down, to the fearful depths below ! 
 But away, away, over land and sea 
 Unchained, and chainless, we are free ! 
 
 We have startled the poising avalanche, 
 And seen the cheek of the mountain bianco, 
 As down the giant Ruin came, 
 With a step of wrath arid an eye of flame 
 Hurling destruction, death, and wo, 
 On all around and all below, 
 Till the piling rocks and the prostrate wood 
 
 Conceal the spot where the village stood ; 
 And the choking waters vainly try 
 From their strong prison-hold to fly ! 
 We haste away, for our breath is rife 
 With the groans of expiring human life ! 
 Of that hour of horror we only may tell . 
 As we chant the dirge and we ring the knell, 
 Away, away, over land and sea 
 Unchained and chainless WP are free ! 
 
 Full often we catch, as we hurry along, 
 The clear-ringing notes of the La^ lander s song, 
 As, borne by his reindeer, he dashes away 
 Through the night of the North, more refulgent 
 
 than day ! 
 
 W T e have traversed the land where the dark Es 
 quimaux 
 
 Looks out on the gloom from his cottage of snow ; 
 Where in silence sits brooding the large milk-white 
 
 owl, 
 And the sea-monsters roar, and the famished wolves 
 
 howl ; 
 
 And the white polar bear her grim paramour hails, 
 As she hies to her tryste through throse crystalline 
 
 vales, 
 Where the Ice-Mountain stands, with his feet in 
 
 the deep, 
 
 That around him the petrified waters may sleep; 
 And light in a flood of refulgence comes down, 
 As the lunar beams glance from his shadowlesa 
 
 crown. 
 We have looked in the hut the Kamschatkan hatli 
 
 reared, 
 
 And taken old Behring himself by the beard, 
 Where he sits like a giant in gloomy unrest, 
 Ever driving asunder the East and the West. 
 But we hasten away, over mountain and sea, 
 With a wing ever chainless, a thought ever free ! 
 
 From the parent soil we have rent the oak 
 His strong arms splintered, his sceptre broke : 
 For centuries he has defied our power, 
 But we plucked him forth like a fragile flower, 
 And to the wondering Earth brought down 
 The haughty strength of his hoary crown. 
 Away, away, over land and sea 
 Unchained and chainless we are free ! 
 
 We have roused the Storm from his pillow of air, 
 And driven the Thunder-King forth from his lair; 
 We have torn the rock from the dizzoning steep. 
 And awakened the wilds from their ancient sleep, 
 We have howled o er Russia s desolate plains, 
 Where death-cold silence ever reigns, 
 Until we come, with our trumpet breath, 
 To chant our anthem of fear and death ! 
 The strongest of God s sons are we 
 Unchained and chainless ever free ! 
 
 We have hurled the glacier from his rest 
 Upon Chamouni s treacherous breast; 
 And we scatter the product of human pride, 
 As forth on the wing of the Storm we ride, 
 To visit with tokens of fearful power 
 The lofty arch and the beetling tower ; 
 And we utter defiance, deep and bud, 
 To the taunting voice of the bursting cloud; 
 And we laugh with scorn at the ruin we see 
 Then away we hasten for we are fre? t 
 
12S 
 
 FRANCES H. GREEN. 
 
 Old Neptune we call from his ocean-caves 
 When for pastime we dance on the crested waves ; 
 And we heap the struggling billows high 
 Against the deep gloom of the sky ; 
 Then we plunge in the yawning depths beneath, 
 And there on the heaving surges breathe, 
 Till they toss the proud ship like a feather, 
 And I,i^ht and Hope expire together; 
 And the bravest cheek turns deadly pale 
 At the cracking mast and the rending sail, 
 As down, with headlong furv borne, 
 Of ail her strength and honors shorn, 
 The good ship struggles to the last 
 With the raging waters and howling blast. 
 W T e hurry the waves to their final crash, 
 And the foaming floods to phrensv lash ; 
 Then we pour our requiem on the billow, 
 As the dead go down to their ocean pillow 
 Down far down to the depths below, 
 Where the pearls repose and the sea-gems glow ; 
 Mid the coral groves, where the sea-fan waves 
 Its palmy wand o er a thousand graves, 
 And the insect weaves her stony shroud, 
 Alike o er the humble and the proud, 
 What can be mightier than we, 
 The strong, the chainless, ever free ! 
 
 Now away to our home in the sparkling North, 
 For the Spring from her South-land is looking forth. 
 Away, away, to our arctic zone, 
 Where the Frost-King sits on his flashing throne, 
 With his icebergs piled up mountain high, 
 A wall of gems against the sky 
 vVhere the stars look forth like wells of light, 
 And the gleaming snow-crust sparkles bright ! 
 We are fainting now for the breath of home ; 
 Our journey is finished we come, we come ! 
 Away, away, over land and sea 
 Unchained and chainless ever free! 
 
 SONG OF THE EAST WIND. 
 
 FROM the border of the Ganges 
 Where the gentle Hindoo laves, 
 
 And the sacred cow is grazing 
 By the holy Indian waves, 
 
 W e have hastened to enrol us 
 
 In thy royal train, ^Eolus ! 
 
 We have stirred the soul of Brahma, 
 Bathed the brow of Juggernaut, 
 
 Filled the self-devoted widow 
 
 With a high and holy thought 
 
 And sweet words of comfort spoken, 
 
 Ere the earth-wrought tie was broken ! 
 
 We have nursed a thousand blossoms 
 In that land of light and flowers, 
 
 Till we fainted with the perfume 
 
 That oppressed the slumbering Hours 
 
 Dallied with the vestal tresses 
 
 Which no mortal hand caresses ! 
 
 \\ e have traced the wall of China 
 
 To the farthest orient sea ; 
 Ulessed the grave of old Confucius 
 
 With our sweetest minstrelsy ; 
 
 Swelled the bosom of the Lama 
 To enact his priestly drama. 
 
 We have hurried off the monsoons 
 
 To far islands of the deep, 
 Where, oppressed with richest spices, 
 
 All the native breezes sleep; 
 And in Ophir s desert olden 
 Stirred the sands all bright and goldei. 
 
 On the brow of Chumularee, 
 
 Loftiest summit of the world, 
 We have set a crown of vapor, 
 
 And the radiant snow-wreath furled 
 Bid the gem-lit waters flow 
 From the mines of Borneo. 
 Sighing through the groves of banyan 
 
 W 7 e have blessed the holy shade, 
 W T here the sunbeams of the zenith 
 
 To a moonlike lustre fade ; 
 There the fearful anaconda 
 And the dark chimpanzee wander! 
 
 We have roused the sleeping jackal 
 From his stealthy noontide rest ; 
 
 Swelled the volume of deep thunder 
 In the lion s tawny breast, 
 
 Till all meaner beasts fled quaking 
 
 At the desert-monarch s waking. 
 
 O er the sacred land of Yemen, 
 Where the first apostles trod, 
 
 And the patriarch and prophet 
 Stood before the face of God 
 
 Vital with the deepest thought, 
 
 Holy memories we have brought. 
 
 We have bowed the stately cedar 
 
 On the brow of Lebanon, 
 And on Sinai s hoary forehead 
 
 Turned the gray moss to the sun ; 
 Paused where Horeb s shade reposes, 
 Rifled Sharon s crown of roses. 
 
 We have blessed the chosen city 
 
 From the brow of Olivet, 
 Where the meek and holy Jesus 
 
 With his tears the cold earth wet 
 Conquering all the hosts infernal 
 With those blessed drops fraternal. 
 
 We have gathered sacred legends 
 
 From the tide of Galilee ; 
 Lingered where the waves of Jordan 
 
 Meet the dark, unconscious sea ; 
 Murmured round the Hsemian mountains, 
 Stirred Bethulia s placid fountains. 
 
 On thy sod, Gethsemane, 
 
 We have nursed the passion-flower, 
 Stained with all the fearful conflict 
 
 Of the Savior s darkest hour ; 
 Stirred the shadows dense and deep 
 Over Calvary s awful steep. 
 
 We have breathed upon Parnassus, 
 Till his softening lip of snow 
 
 Bent to kiss the fair Castalia, 
 That lay murmuring below 
 
 Then, mid flowers, went sighing on 
 
 Through the groves of Helicon. 
 
FRANCES H. GREEN. 
 
 129 
 
 We have touched the lone acacia 
 With the utterance of a sigh ; 
 
 Tossed the dark, umbrageous palm-crown 
 Up against the cloudless sky ; 
 
 And along the sunny slope 
 
 Chased the bright-eyed antelope. 
 
 We have kissed the cheek of Beauty 
 
 In the harem s guarded bowers. 
 Where, amid their splendor sighing, 
 
 Droop the love iest human flowers 
 And the victim of brute passion 
 Languishes the fair Circassian. 
 
 We K*ve summoned from the desert 
 
 Giant messengers of Death, 
 Treading with a solemn cadence 
 
 To the purple simoom s breath 
 Wearing in their awful ire 
 Crown of gold and robe of fire. 
 
 We have traversed mighty ruins 
 Where the splendors of the Past, 
 
 In their solitary grandeur, 
 
 Shadows o er the Present cast 
 
 Voiceful with the sculptured story 
 
 Of Egypta s ancient glory. 
 
 We have struck the harp of Memnon 
 
 With melodious unrest, 
 When the tuneful sunbeams glancing, 
 
 Warmed the statue s marble breast ; 
 And Aurora bent with blessing, 
 Her own sacred son caressing. 
 
 Through the stately halls of Carnac, 
 Where the mouldering fragments chime 
 
 On the thrilling chords of Ruin, 
 To the silent march of Time, 
 
 We have swept the dust away 
 
 From the features of Decay. 
 
 We have sighed a mournful requiem 
 Through the cities of the Dead, 
 
 Where, in all the Theban mountains, 
 Couches of the tomb are spread ; 
 
 Farmed the Nile ; and roused the tiger 
 
 From his lair beyond the Niger. 
 
 W T e have strayed from ancient Memphis, 
 Where the Sphinx, with gentle brow, 
 
 Seems to bind the Past and Future 
 Into one eternal Now ; 
 
 But we hear a deep voice calling 
 
 And the Pyramids are falling ! 
 
 Even the wondrous pile of Ghirzeh 
 
 Can not keep its royal dead, 
 For the sleep of ages yieldeth 
 
 To the busy plunderer s tread : 
 Atom after atom all 
 At the feet of Time must fall ! 
 
 Prostrate thus we bend before thee, 
 
 Mighty sovereign of the Air, 
 While from all the teeming Orient 
 
 Stories of the past we bear : 
 Thou, great sire, wilt ever cherish 
 Memories which can not perish ! 
 9 
 
 A SONG OF WINTER. 
 
 His gathering mantle of fleecy snow 
 The winter-king wrapped around him ; 
 
 And flashing with ice-wrought gems below 
 Was the regal zone that bound him : 
 
 He went abroad in his kingly state, 
 
 By the poor man s door by the palace-gato. 
 
 Then his minstrel winds, on either hand, 
 
 The music of frost-days humming, 
 Flew fast before him through all the land, 
 
 Crying. " Winter Winter is coming!" 
 And they sang a song in their deep, loud voice, 
 That made the heart of their king rejoice ; 
 For it spake of strength, and it told of power, 
 
 And the mighty will that moved him ; 
 Of all the joys of the fireside hour, 
 
 A: d the gentle hearts that loved him; 
 Of aiFections sweetly interwrought 
 With the play of wit and the flow of thought. 
 
 He has left his home in the starry North, 
 
 On a mission high and holy ; 
 And now in his pride he is going forth, 
 
 To strengthen the weak and lowly 
 While his vigorous breath is on the breeze, 
 And he lifts up Health from wan Disease. 
 
 We bow to his sceptre s supreme behest ; 
 
 He is rough, but never unfeeling; 
 And a voice comes up from his icy breast, 
 
 To our kindness ever appealing : 
 By the comfortless hut, on the desolate moor, 
 He is pleading earnestly for the poor. 
 While deep in his bosom the heart lies warm, 
 
 And there the future LIFE he cherisheth ; 
 Nor clinging root, nor seedling form, 
 
 Its genial depths embracing, perisheth ; 
 But safely and tenderly he will keep 
 The delicate flower-gems while they sleep. 
 
 The Mountain heard the sounding blast 
 Of the winds from their wild horn blowing, 
 
 And his rough cheek paled as on they passed, 
 And the River checked his flowing; 
 
 Then, with ringing laugh and echoing shout, 
 
 The merry schoolboys all came out. 
 
 And see them now, as away they go, 
 With the long, bright plane before them, 
 
 In its sparkling girdle of silvery snow, 
 And the blue arch bending o er them; 
 
 While every bright cheek brighter grows, 
 
 Blooming with hea th our winter rose ! 
 
 The shrub looked up, and the tree looked down, 
 For with ice-gems each was crested ; 
 
 And flashing diamonds lit the crown 
 That on the old oak rested ; 
 
 And the forest shone in gorgeous array, 
 
 For the spirits of winter kept holyday. 
 
 So on the joyous skaters fly, 
 
 With no thought of a coming sorrow. 
 For never a brightly-beaming eye 
 
 Has dreamed of the tears of to-morrow . 
 Be free and be happy, then, while ye may, 
 And rejoice in the blessing of to-day. 
 
130 
 
 FRANCES H. GREEN. 
 
 THE CHICKADEE S SONG. 
 
 O?f its downy wing, the snow, 
 Hovering, flyeth to and fro 
 And the merry schoo boy s shout, 
 Rich with joy, is ringing out: 
 So we gather, in our glee, 
 To the snow-drifts Chickadee ! 
 
 Poets sing in measures bold 
 Of the glorious gods of old, 
 And the nectar that they quaffed, 
 When their jewelled goblets laughed 
 But the snow-cups best love we, 
 Gemmed with sunbeams Chickadee 
 
 They who choose, abroad may go, 
 Where the southern waters flow, 
 And the flowers are never sere 
 In the garland of the year; 
 But we love the breezes free 
 Of our north-land Chickadee ! 
 
 To the cottage-yard we fly, 
 With its old trees waving high, 
 And the little ones peep out, 
 Just to know what we re about ; 
 For they dearly love to see 
 Birds in winter Chickadee ! 
 
 Every little feathered form 
 Has a nest of mosses warm ; 
 There our heavenly Father s eye 
 Looketh on us fiom the sky ; 
 And he knoweth where we be 
 And he heareth Chickadee! 
 
 There we sit the whole night long, 
 Dreaming that a spirit-song 
 Whispereth in the silent snow ; 
 For it has a voice we know, 
 And it weaves our drapery, 
 Soft as ermine Chickadee! 
 
 All the strong winds, as they fly, 
 Rock us with their lullaby 
 Rock us till the shadowy Night 
 Spreads her downy wings in flight: 
 Then we hasten, fresh and free, 
 To the snow-fields Chickadee ! 
 
 Where our harvest sparkles bright 
 In the pleasant morning light, 
 Every little feathery flake 
 Will a choice confection make 
 Each globule a nectary be, 
 And we ll drain it Chickadee! 
 
 So we never know a fear 
 In this season cold and drear ; 
 For to us a share will fall 
 Of the love that blesseth all : 
 
 And our Father s smile we see 
 On the snow-crust Chickadee ! 
 
 THE HONEY-BEE S SONG, 
 
 AWAKE, and up! our own bright star 
 
 In the saffron east is fading, 
 And the brimming honey-cups near and faj 
 
 Their sweets are fast unlading ; 
 Softly, pleasantly, murmur our song, 
 With joyful hearts, as we speed along! 
 
 Off to the bank where the wild thyme blows, 
 And the fragrant bazil is growing; 
 
 We ll drink from the heart of the virgin rose 
 The nectar that now is flowing ; 
 
 Sing, for the joy of the early dawn ! 
 
 Murmur in praise of the beautiful morn ! 
 
 Away, over orchard and garden fair, 
 With the choicest sweets all laden, 
 
 Away ! or before us she will be there, 
 Our favorite blue-eyed maiden, 
 
 Winning with Beauty s magic power 
 
 Rich guerdon from the morning hour. 
 
 Her cheek will catch the rose s blush, 
 Her eye the sunbeam s brightness; 
 
 Her voice the music of the thrush, 
 Her heart the vapor s lightness; 
 
 And the pure, fresh spirit of the whole 
 
 Shall fill her quick, expanding soul. 
 
 Joy, for our queen is forth to-day ! 
 
 Brave hearts rally about her; 
 Guard her well on her flowery way, 
 
 For we could not live without her ! 
 Now drink to the health of our lady true 
 In a crystal beaker of morning dew ! 
 
 She will sit near by in the bending brake, 
 So pleasant, and tall, and shady ; 
 
 And the sweetest honey for her we 11 make 
 Our own right-royal lady! 
 
 We 11 gather rich stores from th e flowering vine^ 
 
 And the golden horns of the columbine. 
 
 We heed not the nettle-king s bristling spear, 
 Though we linger not there the longest ; 
 
 We extract his honey without a fear, 
 For Love can disarm the strongest ; 
 
 In the rank cicuta s poison-cell 
 
 We know where the drops of nectar dwell! 
 
 Our Father has planted naught in vain 
 Though in some the honey is weaker ; 
 
 Yet a drop in the worst may sti!l be found 
 To comfort the earnest seeker. 
 
 Praise Him who giveth our daily food 
 
 And the Love that findeth all lungs good ! 
 
JESSIE G. McCARTEE. 
 
 JESSIE G. BETHUNE, a granddaughter of the 
 celebrated Isabella Graham a daughter of 
 DivieBethune, a New York merchant, whose 
 life was a series of illustrations of the dignity 
 and beauty of human nature and a sister 
 of the Rev. Dr. George W. Bethune, so well 
 known as one of our most eloquent preach 
 ers and accomplished authors was married 
 at an early age to the Rev. Dr. McCartee, 
 
 who for many years has been minister of the 
 Reformed Dutch Church in Goshen, in the 
 county of Orange, on the Hudson. She has 
 published a few poems in the religious peri 
 odicals, and has written many more, for the 
 joy the heavenly art yields to those who wor 
 thily cultivate it. All her compositions that 
 we have read breathe of beauty, piety, and 
 content. 
 
 THE INDIAN MOTHER S LAMENT. 
 
 ALL sad amid the forest wild 
 
 An Indian mother wept, 
 And fondly gazed upon her child 
 
 In death who coldly slept. 
 
 She decked its limbs with trembling hand, 
 
 And sang in accents low : 
 "Alone, alone, to the spirit-land, 
 
 My darling, thou must go ! 
 
 " I would that I might be thy guide 
 
 To that bright isle of rest 
 To bear thee o er the swelling tide, 
 
 Clasped to my loving breast ! 
 
 "I ve wrapped thee with the beaver s skin, 
 
 To shield thee from the storm, 
 And placed thy little feet within 
 
 Thy snow-shoes soft and warm. 
 " I ve given tbee milk to cheer thy way, 
 
 Mixed with the tears I weep ; 
 Thy cradle, too, where thou must lay 
 
 Thy weary head to sleep. 
 
 " I place the paddle near thy hand, 
 
 To guide where waters flow; 
 For alone, alone, to the spirit s land, 
 
 My darling, thou must go. 
 
 " There bounding through the forests green, 
 
 Thy fathers chase the deer, 
 Or on the crystal lakes are seen 
 
 The sleeping fish to spear. 
 
 " And thou some chieftain s bride may be, 
 
 My loved departing one : 
 Say, wilt thou never think of me, 
 
 So desolate and lone 1 
 "I ll keep one lock of raven hair 
 
 Cul!ed from thy still, cold brow 
 That when I, too, shall travel there, 
 
 My daughter I may know. 
 
 " But go ! to join that happy band ; 
 
 Vain is my fruitless wo ; 
 For alone, alone, to the spirit s land, 
 
 My darling, thou must go !" 
 
 THE EAGLE OF THE FALLS 
 
 EMPRESS of the broad Missouri! 
 
 Towering in thy storm-rocked nest, 
 Gazing on the wild waves fury - 
 
 Wondrous is thy place of rest. 
 Lofty trees thy throne embowering, 
 
 Gloomy gulf around thine isle, 
 Mists and spray above thee showering, 
 
 Guard thee from the hunter s wile. 
 Walls of snow-white foarn surround it, 
 
 Crowned with rainbows pure and bright. 
 While the flinty rocks that bound it 
 
 Guard thy mansion day and night. 
 No Alhambra s royal splendor, 
 
 Palaces of G.eece or Rome, 
 E er could boast of hues so tender, 
 
 Or of walls of snow-white foam. 
 Yet this lofty scene of wonder 
 
 Ne er disturbs thine eagle gaze, 
 Nor its mighty voice of thunder 
 
 Tis the music of thy days. 
 
 Of its voice thou art not weary, 
 
 Of its waters dost not tire ; 
 Ancient as thine own loved eyry, 
 
 T was the chorus of thy sire. 
 
 Songs of rapture loudly swelling 
 Laud the monarch on his throne, 
 
 But the music of thy dwelling 
 Chants the praise of God alone 
 
 Let sultanas boast their fountains, 
 Gardens decked with costly flowers 
 
 Twas the Hand that buil.t the mountain* 
 Formed for thee thy forest bowers. 
 
 Queens may boast their halls of lightness, 
 Blazing with the taper s rays 
 
 Crystal lamps of colored brightness, 
 Dazzling to their feeble gaze : 
 
 He who made the moon so lovely, 
 Called the stars forth every one, 
 
 Spread thine azure dome above thee, 
 Radiant with its pet-rless sun ! 
 
 131 
 
132 
 
 JESSIE G. MtCARTEE. 
 
 Empress eagle ! spread thy pinions, 
 
 Bathe thy hreast in heaven s own light, 
 
 Yet forsake not thy dominions 
 God himself has made them bright. 
 
 THE DEATH OF MOSES. 
 
 LED by his God, on Pisgah s height 
 
 The pilgrim-prophet stood 
 When first fair Canaan blessed his sight, 
 
 And Jordan s crystal flood. 
 
 Behind him lay the desert ground 
 
 His weary feet had trod ; 
 While Israel s host encamped around, 
 
 Still guarded by their God. 
 
 With joy the aged Moses smiled 
 
 On all his wanderings past, 
 While thus he poured his accents mild 
 
 Upon the mountain-blast : 
 
 " I see them all before me now 
 
 The city and the plain, 
 From where bright Jordan s waters flow, 
 
 To yonder boundless main. 
 
 " Oh ! there the lovely promised land 
 
 With milk and honey flows ; 
 Now, now my weary, murmuring band 
 
 Shall find their sweet repose. 
 
 " There groves of palm and myrtle spread 
 
 O er valleys fair and wide ; 
 The lofty cedar rears its head 
 
 On every mountain-side. 
 
 " For them the rose of Sharon flings 
 
 Her fragrance on the gale ; 
 And there the golden lily springs, 
 
 The lily of the vale. 
 
 "Amid the olive s fruitful boughs 
 
 Is heard a song of love, 
 For there doth build and breathe her vows 
 
 The gentle turtle-dove. 
 
 " For them shall bloom the clustering vine, 
 The fig-tree shed her flowers, 
 
 The citron s golden treasures shine 
 From out her greenest bowers. 
 
 " For them, for them, but not for me 
 
 Their fruits I may not eat ; 
 Not Jordan s stream, nor yon bright sea, 
 
 Shall lave my pilgrim feet. 
 
 Tis well, tis well, my task is done, 
 
 Since Israel s sons are blest : 
 Father, receive thy dying one 
 
 To thine eternal rest !" 
 
 Alone he bade the world farewell, 
 
 To God his spirit fled. 
 Now to your tents, O Israel, 
 
 And mourn your prophet dead ! 
 
 HOW BEAUTIFUL IS SLEEP! 
 
 How beautiful is sleep ! 
 Upon its mother s breast, 
 How sweet the infant s rest ! 
 And who but she can tell how dear 
 Her first-born s breathings tis to hear? 
 
 Gentle babe, prolong thy s! umbers, 
 
 When the moon her light doth shed ; 
 
 Still she rocks thy cradle-bed, 
 Singing in melodious numbers, 
 
 Lulling thee with prayer or hymn, 
 
 When all other eyes are dim. 
 
 How beautiful is sleep ! 
 
 Behold the merry boy : 
 
 His dreams are full of joy; 
 
 He breaks the stillness of the night 
 
 With tuneful laugh of wild delight. 
 E en in sleep his sports pursuing 
 \ Through the woodland s leafy wild, 
 
 Now he roams a happy child, 
 Flowrets all his pathway strewing; 
 
 And the morning s balmy air 
 
 Brings to him no toil or care. 
 
 How beautiful is sleep ! 
 Where youthful Jacob slept, 
 Angels their bright watch kept, 
 And visions to his soul were given 
 That led him to the gate of heaven. 
 
 Exiled pilgrim, many a morrow, 
 
 When thine earthly schemes were crossed^ 
 Mourning o er thy loved and lost, 
 
 Thou didst sigh with holy sorrow 
 For that blessed hour of prayer, 
 And exclaim, " God met me there !" 
 
 How blessed was that sleep 
 The sinless Savior knew ! 
 In vain the storm-winds blew, 
 Till he awoke to others woes, 
 And hushed the billows to repose. 
 
 Why did ye the Master waken ] 
 
 Faithless ones ! there came an hour, 
 When, alone in mountain bower, 
 
 By his loved ones all forsaken, 
 He was left to pray and weep, 
 When ye all were wrapped in sleep. 
 
 How beautiful is sleep 
 The sleep that Christians know ! 
 Ye mourners, cease your wo, 
 While soft upon his Savior s breast 
 The righteous sinks to endless rest. 
 
 Let him go : the day is breaking ! 
 
 Watch no more around his bed, 
 
 For his parted soul hath fled. 
 Bright will be his heavenly waking, 
 
 And the morn that greets his sight 
 
 Never ends in death or night 
 
CYNTHIA TAGGART. 
 
 (Born 1801-Died 1849). 
 
 THE painfully in. cresting history of this 
 unfortunate woman has been vvritten by the 
 Rev. James C. Richmond, in a little work 
 entitled The Rhode Island Cottage, and in a 
 brief autobiography prefixed to the editions 
 of her poems published in 1834 and 1848. 
 She is the daughter of a soldier, whose prop 
 erty was destroyed during the Revolution, 
 and who died in old age and poverty at a 
 place near the seashore, about six miles from 
 Newport, where he had lived in pious resig 
 nation amid trials that would have wrecked 
 a less vigorous and trustful nature. Miss 
 Taggart s education was very slight, and un 
 til sickness deprived her of all other occupa 
 tion, about the year 1822, when she was nine 
 teen years of age, she appears never to have 
 thought of literary composition. My friend 
 Dr. John W. Francis writes to me of her : 
 "An intimate acquaintance, derived from 
 professional observation, has long rendered 
 me well informed of the remarkable circum 
 stances connected with the severe chronic 
 infirmities of CYNTHIA TAGGART. From her 
 early infancy, during the period of her ado 
 lescence, and indeed through the whole dura 
 tion of her life, she has been the victim of 
 almost, unrecorded anguish. The annals of 
 medical philosophy may be searched in vain 
 for a more striking example than the case 
 of this lady affords of that distinctive twofold 
 state of vitality with which we are endowed, 
 
 the intellectual and the physical being. The 
 precarious tenure by which they have con 
 tinued so long united in so frail a tenement, 
 must remain matter of astonishment to ev 
 ery beholder ; and when reflection is sum 
 moned to the contemplation of the extraor 
 dinary manifestations of thought which un 
 der such a state of protracted and incurable 
 suffering she often exhibits, psychological 
 science encounters a problem of most dif 
 ficult solution. Mind seems independent 
 of matter, and intellectual triumphs appear 
 to be within the reach of efforts unaided by 
 the ordinary resources of corporeal organiza 
 tion. That this condition must ere long ter 
 minate disastrously is certain ; yet the phe 
 nomena of mind amid the ruins of the body 
 constitute a subject of commanding interest 
 to every philanthropist. Churchill has truly 
 said, in his epistle to Hogarth: 
 
 With curious art the brain too finely wrought, 
 Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought. " 
 
 Miss Taggart and a widowed sister, who 
 is also an invalid, still live in their paternal 
 home by the seashore, and they await with 
 pious resignation the only change that can 
 free them from suffering. The poems that 
 are here quoted have sufficient merit to in 
 terest the reader of taste, though he forget 
 the extraordinary circumstances under which 
 they were produced. Miss Taggart s poems 
 have passed through three editions. 
 
 ODE TO THE POPPY. 
 
 THOUGH varied wreaths of myriad hues, 
 
 As beams of mingling light, 
 Sparkle replete with pearly dews, 
 Waving their tinted leaves profuse, 
 
 To captivate the sight ; 
 Though fragrance, sweet exhaling, blend 
 
 With the soft, balmy air, 
 And gentle zephyrs, wafting wide 
 Their spicy odors bear ; 
 While to the eye, 
 Delightingly, 
 
 Each floweret laughing blooms, 
 And o er the fields 
 Prolific, yields 
 
 Its increase of perfumes; 
 Yet one alone o er all the plain, 
 
 With lingering eye, I view ; 
 Hasty I pass the brightest bower, 
 Heedless of each attractive flower, 
 
 Its brilliance to pursue. 
 
 No odors svveev proclaim the spot 
 Where its soft leaves unfold ; 
 Nor mingled hues of beauty bright 
 Charm and allure the captive sight 
 With forms and tints untold. 
 
 One simple hue the plant portrays 
 Of glowing radiance rare, 
 
 Fresh as the roseate morn displays, 
 And seeming sweet and fair. 
 133 
 
CYNTHIA TAGGART. 
 
 But closer pressed, an odorous breath 
 
 Repels the rover gay ; 
 And from her hand witli eager haste 
 
 T is careless thrown away ; 
 And thoughtless that in evil hour 
 Disease may happiness devour, 
 And her fairy form, elastic now, 
 To Misery s wand may helpless how. 
 
 Then Reason leads wan Sorrow forth 
 
 To seek the lonely flower; 
 And blest Experience kindly proves 
 
 Its mitigating power. 
 
 Then its bright hue the sight can trace, 
 
 The brilliance of its bloom; 
 Though misery veil the weeping eyes, 
 Though sorrow choke the breath with sighs, 
 
 And life deplore its doom. 
 
 This magic flower 
 In desperate hour 
 A balsam mild shall yield, 
 
 When the sad, sinking heart 
 Feels every aid depart, 
 And every gate of hope for ever sealed. 
 
 Then still its potent charm 
 
 Each agony disarm, 
 And its all-healing power shall respite give : 
 
 The frantic sufferer, then, 
 
 Convulsed and wild with pain, 
 Shall own the sovereign remedy, and live. 
 
 The dews of slumber now 
 
 Rest on her aching brow, 
 And o er the languid lids balsamic fall; 
 
 While fainting Nature hears, 
 
 With dissipated fears, 
 The lowly accents of soft Somnus call. 
 
 Then will Affection twine 
 Around this kindly flower; 
 
 And grateful Memory keep 
 
 How, in the arms of Sleep, 
 Affliction lost its power. 
 
 INVOCATION TO HEALTH. 
 
 O HEALTH, thy succoring aid extend 
 While low with bleeding heart I bend, 
 And on thine every means attend, 
 
 And sue with streaming eyes; 
 But more remote thou fliest away, 
 The humbler I thine influence pray : 
 
 And expectation dies. 
 Twice three long years of life have gone, 
 Since thy loved presence was withdrawn, 
 
 And I to grief resigned; 
 Laid on a couch of lingering pain, 
 W r here stern Disease s torturing chain 
 
 Has every limb confined 
 
 Oh bathe my burning temples now, 
 And cool the scorching of my brow, 
 
 And light the rayless eye; 
 My strength revive with thine own might, 
 *nd with thy footsteps firm and light 
 
 Oh bear me to thy radiant height, 
 
 W hcre, soft reposing, lie 
 Mild peace, and happiness, and joy, 
 And Nature s sweets that never cloy, 
 Unmixed with any dire alloy 
 
 Leave me not thus to die ! 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 Now Autumn tints the scene 
 With sallow hues serene ; 
 
 And o er the sky 
 
 Fast hurrying, fly 
 Dark, sombre clouds, that pour 
 From far the roaring din ; 
 The rattling rain and hail, . 
 With the deep-sounding wail 
 Of wild and warring melodies, begin. 
 
 The wind flies fitful through the forest-trees 
 M ith hollow howlings and in wrathful mood ; 
 As when some maniac fierce, disdaining ease. 
 Tears with convulsive power, 
 In horrid Fury s hour, 
 His locks dishevelled ; and a chilling moan 
 Breathes from his tortured breast, with dread anJ 
 dismal tone. 
 
 Thus the impetuous blast 
 Doth from the woodlands tear 
 The leaves, when Summer s reign is past, 
 And sings aloud the requiem of Despair ; 
 Pours ceaseless the reverberated sigh, 
 W T hile past the honors of the forest fly, 
 Kiss the low ground, and flutter, shrink, and die 
 
 ON A STORM. 
 
 THE harsh, terrific howling Storm, 
 With its wild, dreadful, dire alarm, 
 
 Turns pale the cheek of Mirth ; 
 And low it bows the lofty trees, 
 And their tall branches bend with ease 
 
 To kiss their parent Earth. 
 
 The rain and hail in torrents pour ; 
 The furious winds impetuous roar 
 
 In hollow murmurs clash. 
 The shore adjacent joins the sound, 
 And angry surges deep resound, 
 
 And foaming billows dash. 
 
 Yet ocean doth no fear impart, 
 
 But soothes my anguish-swollen heart, 
 
 And calms my feverish brain ; 
 It seems a sympathizing friend, 
 That doth with mine its troubles blend, 
 
 To mitigate my pain. 
 
 In all the varying shades of wo, 
 The night relief did ne er bestow, 
 
 Nor have I respite seen : 
 Then welcome, Storm, loud, wild, and rude 
 To me thou art more kind and good 
 
 Than aught that is serena. 
 
FRANCESCA CANFIELD. 
 
 (Born 1803-Died 1823). 
 
 FRANCESCA ANNA PASCALIS, a daughter of 
 Dr. FeJix Pascalis, an Italian physician and 
 scholar, who had married a native of Phila 
 delphia, and resided several years in that city, 
 was born in August, 1803. While she was 
 a child her parents removed to New York, 
 where Dr. Pascalis was conspicuous not only 
 for his professional abilities, but for his wri 
 tings upon various curious and abstruse sub 
 jects in philosophy, and was intimate with 
 many eminent persons, among whom was 
 Dr. Samuel L. Mitchill, who was so pleased 
 with Francesca, that in 1815, when she was 
 in the twelfth year of her age, he addressed 
 to her the following playful and characteris 
 tic Valentine : 
 
 Descending snows the earth o erspread, 
 Keen blows the northern blast ; 
 
 Condensing clouds scowl over head, 
 The tempest gathers fast. 
 
 But soon the icy mass shall melt, 
 
 The winter end his reign, 
 The sun s reviving warmth be felt, 
 
 And nature smile again. 
 
 The plants from torpid sleep shall wake, 
 And, nursed by vernal showers, 
 
 Their yearly exhibition make 
 Of foliage and of flowers. 
 
 So you an opening bud appear, 
 Whose bloom and verdure shoot, 
 
 To load Francesca s growing year 
 With intellectual fruit. 
 
 The feathered tribes shall flit along, 
 
 And thicken on the trees, 
 Till air shall undulate with song, 
 
 Till music stir the breeze. 
 
 Thus, like a charming bird, your lay 
 
 The listening ear shall greet, 
 And render social circles gay, 
 
 Or make retirement sweet. 
 
 Then warblers chirp, and roses ope, 
 
 To entertain my fair, 
 Till nobler themes engage her hope, 
 
 And occupy her care. 
 
 In school Miss Pascalis was particularly 
 distinguished for the facility with which she 
 acquired languages. At an early period she 
 translated with ease and elegance from the 
 French, Italian, Spanish, and. Portuguese, 
 and her instinctive appreciation of the har 
 
 monies of her native tongut was fee delicate 
 that her English compositions, in both prose 
 and verse, were singularly musical as well 
 as expressive and correct. The version of a 
 French song, " Quand revcrrai-je en un jour," 
 etc. is among the memorials of her fourteenth 
 year, and though much less compact than the 
 original, it is interesting as an illustration ol 
 her own fine and precocious powers. 
 
 While yet at school Miss Pascalis trans 
 lated for a friend a volume from Lavater, and 
 soon afterward she made a beautiful English 
 version of the Roman Nights from Le Notti 
 Romane al Sepolcro Dei Scipioni of Ales- 
 sandro Verri. She also translated The Soli 
 tary and The Vine Dresser from the French, 
 and wrote some original poems in Italian 
 which were much praised by judicious critics. 
 She was a frequent contributor, under vari 
 ous signatures, to the literary journals ; and 
 among her pieces for this period that are 
 preserved in Mr. Knapp s biography, is an 
 address to her friend Mitchill, which pur 
 ported to be from Le Brun. 
 
 A " marriage of convenience" was arranged 
 for Miss Pascalis with Mr. Canfield, a broker, 
 who after a few months became a bankrupt, 
 and could never retrieve his fortunes. She 
 bore her disappointments without complain- 
 in o-, and when her husband establi shed a finan 
 cial and commercial gazette, she labored in 
 dustriously to make it attractive by literature; 
 but there was a poor opportunity among ta 
 bles of currency and trade fur the display of 
 her graceful abilities, and her writings prob 
 ably attracted little attention. She was a 
 good pianist, and she painted with such skill 
 that some of her copies of old masters de 
 ceived clever artists. Her accomplishments 
 however failed to invest with happiness a 
 life of which the ambitious flowers had been 
 so early blighted, and yielding to consump 
 tion, which can scarcely enter the home of 
 a cheerful spirit, she died on the twenty- 
 eighth of May, 1823, before completing the 
 twentieth year of her age. 
 
 Dr. Pascalis, whose chief hopes wei cen 
 tred in his daughter, abandoned his pursuits. 
 
136 
 
 FRANCESCA CANFIELD. 
 
 and after lingering through ten disconsolate 
 years, died in the summer of 1833 ; and the 
 death of her husband, in the following au 
 
 tumn, prevented the publication of an edition 
 of her works, which he had prepared for thai 
 purpose. 
 
 TO DR. M1TCHILL. 
 
 WRITTEN IN HER SEVENTEENTH YEAR. 
 
 MITCHILL, although the envious frown, 
 
 Their idle wrath disdain ! 
 Upon thy bright and pure renown, 
 
 They can not cast a stain. 
 Ida, the heaven-crowned, feels the storm 
 Rave fiercely round her towering form, 
 
 Her brow it can not gain, 
 Calm, sonny, in majestic pride, 
 It marks the powerless blast subside. 
 
 And didst thou ever hope to stand 
 
 So glorious and so high, 
 Receive all honor and command, 
 
 Nor meet a jealous eye ! 
 No, thou must expiate thy fame, 
 Thy noble, thy exalted name ; 
 
 Yet pass thou proudly by ! 
 The torrent may with vagrant force 
 Disturb, but can not change thy course. 
 
 Or, shou .dst thou dread the threats to brave 
 
 Of malice, wilful, dire, 
 Break thou the sceptre genius gave, 
 
 And quench thy spirit s fire ; 
 Down from thy heights of soul descend, 
 Thy flaming pinions earthward bend, 
 
 Fulfil thy foe s desire; 
 Thy immortality contemn, 
 And walk in common ways with them. 
 The lighter tasks of wit and mind 
 
 Let fickle Taste adore ; 
 But Genius flight is unconfined 
 
 O er prostrate time to soar. 
 How glows he, when Ambition tears 
 The veil from gone and coming years ; 
 
 While ages past before, 
 To him their future being trust, 
 Though empires crumble into dust. 
 
 Without this magic, which the crowd 
 
 Nor comprehend, nor feel, 
 Cou .d Genius son have ever vowed 
 
 His ductile heart to steel, 
 Gainst ail that leads the human breast, 
 To turn to Indo ence and rest; 
 
 From Science haunts to steal, 
 To beauty, wealth, and ease, and cheer- 
 All that delight the senses here 1 
 And thus he earns a meed of praise 
 
 From nations yet unborn ; 
 Still he, whom present pomp repays, 
 
 His arduous toil may scorn; 
 But wiser, sure, than hoard the rose, 
 Which low for each way fare! blows, 
 
 And lives a summer morn, 
 To climb me rocky mountain way 
 And gather the unfading bay. 
 
 Yet wo for him whose mental worth 
 Fame s thousand tongues resound ! 
 While living, every worm of earth 
 
 Seems privileged to wound. 
 His victory not the less secure, 
 Let him the strife with nerve endure, 
 
 In death his triumph found ; 
 Then worlds shall with each other vie, 
 To spread the name that can not die. 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 Bv those blue eyes that shine 
 Dovelike and innocent, 
 Yet with a lustre to their softness lent 
 
 By the chaste fire of guileless purity, 
 
 And by the rounded temple s symmetry; 
 
 And by the auburn locks, disposed apart, 
 (Like Virgin Mary s pictured o er the shrine,) 
 
 In simple negligence of art ; 
 
 By the young smile on lips whose accents fall 
 
 With dulcet music, bland to all, 
 
 Like downward floating blossoms from the trees 
 
 Detached in silver showers by playful breeze ; 
 
 And by thy cheek, ever so purely pale, 
 
 Save when thy heart with livelier kindness glows; 
 By its then tender bloom, whose delicate hue, 
 
 Is like the morning s tincture of the rose, 
 The snowy veils of the gossamer mist seen through; 
 
 And by the flowing outline s grace, 
 Around thy features like a halo thrown, 
 
 Reminding of that noble race [known, 
 
 Beneath a lovelier heaven in .kindlier climates 
 Whose beauty, both the moral and the mortal, 
 Stood at perfection s portal 
 
 And still doth hold a rank surpassing all compare 
 By the divinely meek and placid air 
 Which witnesseth so well that all the charms 
 
 It lights and warms, 
 
 Though but the finer fashion of the clay 
 Deserve to be adored, since they 
 Are emanations from a soul allowed 
 
 Thus radiantly to glorify its dwelling 
 That goodness like a visible thing avowed, 
 May awe and win, and temper and prevail : 
 
 And by all these combined ! 
 I call upon thy form ideal, 
 
 So deeply in my memory shrined, 
 To rise before my vision, like the real, 
 
 Whenever passion s tides are swelling, 
 )r vanity misleads, or discontent 
 lages with wishes, vain and impotent. 
 Then, while the tumults of my heart increase, 
 I call upon thy image then to rise 
 n sweet and solemn beauty, like the moon, 
 Resplendent in the firmament of June, 
 Through the still hours of night to lonely eyes. 
 
 gaie and muse thereon, and tempests cease 
 
 4nd round me falls an atmosphere of peace. 
 
ELIZABETH BOGART. 
 
 Miss ELIZABETH BOGART, descended from 
 a Huguenot family distinguished in the mer- 
 camile and social history of New York, and 
 a daughter of the late Rev. David S. Bogart, 
 one of the most accomplished divines of the 
 last generation, was born in the city of New 
 York. Her father was shortly afterward set 
 tled as a minister of the Presbyterian Church 
 at Southampton, on Long Island. In 1813 
 his connexion with that congregation was 
 dissolved, and he removed to North Hemp- 
 stead, where he was installed in the Re 
 formed Dutch Church, in which he had been 
 educated. In 1826, he removed again to 
 New York, where his family have since re 
 sided. 
 
 About the year 1825 Miss Bogart began to 
 write, under the signature of "Estelle," for 
 
 the New York Mirror, then recently estab 
 lished ; and her contributions, in prose and 
 verse, to this and other periodicals, would 
 fill several volumes. Among tbem are two 
 prize stories The Effect of a Single Folly, 
 and The Forged Note which evince a con 
 structive ability that would not, perhaps, be 
 inferred from her other compositions, many 
 of which are of a very desultory character. 
 Miss Bogart has ease, force, and a degree 
 of fervor, which might have placed her in 
 the front rank of our female authors ; but al 
 most everything she has given to the public 
 has an impromptu air, which shows that lit 
 erature has scarcely been cultivated by her 
 as an art, while it has constantly been re 
 sorted to for the utterance of feelings which 
 could find no other suitable expression. 
 
 AN AUTUMN VIEW, FROM MY WINDOW. 
 
 I GAZE with raptured eyes 
 Upon the lovely landscape, as it lies 
 
 Outstretched before my window: even now 
 The mist is sailing from the mountain s brow, 
 For it is early morning, and the sun 
 His course has just begun. 
 
 How beautiful the scene 
 Of hill on hill arising, while between 
 The river like a Silvery streak appears, 
 And rugged rocks, the monuments of years, 
 Resemble the old castles on the Rhine, 
 Which look down on the vine. 
 
 No clustering grapes, tis true, 
 Hang from these mountain-sides to meet the view; 
 But fairer than the vineyards is the sight 
 Of our luxuriant forests, which, despite 
 The change of nations, hold their ancient place, 
 Lost to the Indian race. 
 Untiring I survey 
 
 The prospect from my window, day by day : 
 Something forgotten, though just seen before, 
 Something of novelty or beauty more 
 Than yet discovered, ever charms my eyes, 
 And wakes a fresh surprise. 
 
 And thus, when o er my heart 
 A weary thought is stealing, while apart 
 From friends and the gay world I sit alone, 
 With life s dark veil upon the future thrown, 
 I look from out my window, and there find 
 A solace for the mind. 
 
 The Indian Summer s breath 
 Sighs gently o er the fallen leaflet s death, 
 And bids the frost-king linger on his way 
 Till Autumn s tints have brightened o er decay. 
 What other clime can such rich painting show 1 
 Tell us, if any know ! 
 
 RETROSPECTION. 
 
 AN EXTRACT. 
 
 I M weary with thinking! with visions that pass 
 So thickly and gloomily over my brain, 
 
 In which are reflected through Memory s glass 
 The lost scenes of youth which return not again. 
 
 Oh ! now I look back and remember the hours 
 When I wished that a time of sweet leisure might 
 
 come, 
 When, freed from employments and studies, tlie 
 
 powers 
 Of thought were all loosened, in fancy to roam. 
 
 That time has arrived. Care nor business conspire 
 To restrain the mind s freedom, nor press on the 
 heart; 
 
 No stern prohibition hangs over the lyre, 
 
 To bid all its bright inspirations depart. 
 
 But how has it tutne 1 Oh ! by breaking the ties 
 
 Of affection and kindred, and snatching away 
 The beloved from around me, whose praise was the 
 
 prize 
 
 Which lured me in Poesy s pathway to stray. 
 137 
 
138 
 
 ELIZABETH BOGART. 
 
 FORGETFULNESS. 
 
 WE parted ! Friendship s dream had cast 
 
 Deep interest o er the brief farewell, 
 And left upon the shadowy past 
 
 Full many a thought on which to dwell: 
 Such thoughts as come in early youth, 
 
 And live in fellowship with hope; 
 Robed in the brilliant hues of truth, 
 
 Unfitted with the world to cope. 
 
 We parted. He went o er the sea, 
 
 And deeper solitude was mine ; 
 Yet there remained in memory 
 
 For feeling still a sacred shrine : 
 And Thought and Hope were offered up 
 
 Till their ethereal essence fled, 
 And Disappointment from the cup 
 
 Its dark libations poured instead. 
 
 We parted. T was an idle dream 
 
 That thus we e er should meet again ; 
 For who that knew man s heart, would deem 
 
 That it could long unchanged remain 1 
 He sought a foreign clime, and learned 
 
 Another language, which expressed 
 To strangers the rich thoughts that burned 
 
 With unquenched power within his breast. 
 
 And soon he better loved to speak 
 
 In those new accents than his own ; 
 His native tongue seemed cold and weak 
 
 To breathe the wakened passions tone. 
 He wandered far, and lingered long, 
 
 And drank so deep of Lethe s stream, 
 That each new feeling grew more strong, 
 
 And all the past was like a dream. 
 
 We met a few glad words were spoken, 
 
 A few kind glances were exchanged ; 
 But friendship s first romance was broken 
 
 His had been from me estranged. 
 I felt it all we met no more 
 
 .My heart was true, but it was proud; 
 Life s early confidence was o er, 
 
 And hope had set beneath a cloud. 
 
 We met no more for neither sought 
 
 To reunite the severed chain 
 Of social intercourse ; for naught 
 
 Could join its parted links again. 
 Too much of the wide world had been 
 
 Between us for too long a time, 
 And he had looked on many a scene, 
 
 The beautiful and the sublime. 
 
 And he had themes on which to dwell, 
 
 And memories that were not mine, 
 Which formed a separating spell, 
 
 And drew a mystic boundary line. 
 His thoughts were wanderers and the things 
 
 Which brought back friendship s joys to me, 
 To him were but the spirit s wings 
 
 Which bore him o er the distant sea. 
 
 For he had seen the evening star 
 
 Glancing its rays o er ocean s waves, 
 And marked the moonbeams from afar, 
 
 Lighting the Grecian heroes graves ; 
 And he had gazed on trees and flowers 
 
 Beneath Italia s sunny skies, 
 And listened, in fair ladies bowers, 
 
 To Genius words and Beauty s sighs. 
 
 His steps had echoed through the halls 
 
 Of grandeur, long left desolate ; 
 And he had climbed the crumbling walls, 
 
 Or oped perforce the hingeless gate ; 
 And mused o er many an ancient pile, 
 
 In ruin still magnificent, 
 Whose histories could the hours beguile 
 
 With dreams, before to Fancy lent. 
 
 Such recollections come to him, 
 
 With moon, and stars, and summer flowers 
 To me they bring the shadows dim 
 
 Of earlier and of happier hours. 
 I would those shadows darker fell 
 
 For life, with its best powers to bless, 
 Has but few memories loved as well 
 
 Or welcome as forgetfulness ! 
 
 HE CAME TOO LATE. 
 
 HE came too late ! Neglect had tried 
 
 Her constancy too long ; 
 Her love had yielded to her pride, 
 
 And the deep sense of wrong. 
 She scorned the offering of a heart 
 
 Which lingered on its way, 
 Till it could no delight impart, 
 
 Nor spread one cheering ray. 
 
 He came too late ! At once he felt 
 
 That all his power was o er : 
 Indifference in her calm smile dwelt . 
 
 She thought of him no more. 
 Anger and grief had passed away, 
 
 Her heart and thoughts were free ; 
 She met him, and her words were gay 
 
 No spell had Memory. 
 
 He came too late ! The subtle chords 
 
 Of love were all unbound. 
 Not by offence of spoken words, 
 
 But by the slights that wound. 
 She knew that life held nothing now 
 
 That could the past repay, 
 Yet she disdained his tardy vow, 
 
 And coldly turned away. 
 
 He came too late ! Her countless dreams 
 
 Of hope had long since flown ; 
 No charms dwelt in his chosen themes, 
 
 Nor in his whispered tone. 
 And when, with word and smile, he tried 
 
 Affection still to prove, 
 She nerved her heart with woman s pride, 
 
 And spurned his fickle love. 
 
MARY E. BROOKS. 
 
 Miss MARY E. AIKEN, a native of New 
 York, was for several years a contributor to 
 the Mirror and other periodicals, under the 
 signature of "Norna," her sister, during the 
 same period, writing under the pseudonyme 
 of "Hinda." In 1828 she was married to 
 Mr. James G. Brooks, a gentleman of fine 
 abilities, who was well known as the author 
 of many graceful pieces, in prose and verse, 
 signed " Florio." In the following year ap 
 peared a volume entitled The Rivals of Este 
 and other Poems, by James G. and Mary E 
 Brooks. The leading composition, from 
 which* the collection had its name, is by 
 
 Mrs. Brooks. It is a stcry of passion, and the 
 principal characters are of the ducal house 
 of Ferrara. Her Hebrew Melodies, and other 
 short poems, in the same volume, are written 
 with more care, and have much more merit. 
 Mr. Brooks was at this time connected 
 with one of the New York journals ; but in 
 1830 he removed to Winchester, in Virginia, 
 where he was for several years editor of a 
 political and literary gazette. In 1838 he 
 returned to New York, and established him 
 self in Albany, where he remained until his 
 death, in February, 1841, from which time 
 Mrs. Brooks has resided in New York. 
 
 THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR. 
 
 " The everlasting to be which halli been 
 Hath taught u* naught or little." 
 
 FROM the deep and stirring tone, 
 Ever on the midnight breaking, 
 
 Came a whisper thrill and lone 
 O er my silent vigil waking : 
 
 " Come to me ! the dreamy hour 
 
 Fades before the spoiler s power ! 
 
 Come ! the passing tide is strong, 
 
 A= it bears thy life along ; 
 
 Soon another seal for thee 
 
 Stamps the stern Futurity. 
 
 Bow thee bend thee to the light 
 
 Stealing on thy spirit sight, 
 
 From the bygone s faded bloom, 
 
 From the shadow and the gloom, 
 
 From each strange and changeful scene 
 
 Which amid thy path has been ; 
 
 And oh, let it wake for thee, 
 
 Beacon of the days to be !" 
 
 Soft before my sight was spreading 
 Many a sweet and sunny flower; 
 Pleasure bright, her promise shedding, 
 
 Gilded o er each fairy bower : 
 Oh, it was a laughing glee, 
 Hanging o er Futurity ; 
 Blisses mid young beauties blooming 
 Hopes, no sullen griefs entombing 
 Loves that vowed to link for ever, 
 Cold or blighted, never never; 
 Not a shadow on the dome 
 Fancy reared for days to come 
 Not a dream of sleeping ill 
 There her rushing tide to chill ; 
 Gayly lay each glittering morrow : 
 And I turned me half in sorrow, 
 
 As that phantom beckoned back, 
 To retrace Life s fading track. 
 Sinking in the broad dim ocean, 
 
 Shadows blending o er its bier, 
 Slow from being s wild commotion, 
 
 Saw I pass another year. 
 There was but a misty cloud 
 Bending o er a silent shroud ; 
 Hope, fame, rapture loved and gay 
 Tell, oh tell me, where were they 1 
 Idols once in sunlight glancing, 
 
 Ay, that claimed each starting sigh, 
 With the green-leafed promise dancing 
 
 Round the heart so merrily 
 Where was now the waking blossom 
 Should be wreathing round the bosom ] 
 Only lay a mist far spreading, 
 Dim and dimmer twilight shedding, 
 Like to fever s fitful gleam, 
 Like to sleeper s troubled dream ; 
 In the cold and perished Past 
 Lay the mighty strife at last. 
 Oft that dim and visioned treading, 
 
 Where the frail and fair decay, 
 Comes upon my bosom, shedding 
 
 Light through many a rising day. 
 Phantoms now in beauty ranging, 
 Dreaming ne er of chill or changing, 
 Bright and gay and flashing all, 
 How their voiceless shadows fall ! 
 Go the weeper s heart is weary ; 
 Go the widow s wail is dreary : 
 Thousand-toned the agony 
 On each night-breeze sweeping by : 
 Go and for each little flower 
 Wreathed about the blighted bower, 
 Bright, when suns and stars have set, 
 Will a flow ret blossom yet. 
 
140 
 
 MARY E. BROOKS. 
 
 A PLEDGE TO THE DYING YEAR. 
 
 FILL to the brim ! one pledge to the past, 
 
 As it sinks on its shadowy bier ; 
 Fill to the brim ! tis the saddest and last 
 
 We pour to the grave of the year : 
 Wake, the light phantoms of beauty that won us 
 
 To linger awhile in those bowers; 
 And flash the bright daybeams of promise upon us, 
 
 That gilded life s earlier hours. 
 
 Here s to the love though it flitted away, 
 
 W T e can never, no, never forget ! 
 Through the gathering darkness of many a day, 
 
 One pledge will we pour to it yet. 
 Oh, frail as the vision, that witching and tender, 
 
 And bright on the wanderer broke, 
 \\ hen Irem s own beauty in shadowless splendor, 
 
 Along the wild desert awoke.* 
 
 Fill to the brim ! one pledge to the glow 
 
 Of the heart in its purity warm ! 
 Ere sorrow had sullied the fountain below, 
 
 Or darkness enveloped the form : 
 Fill to that life-tide ! oh, warm was its rushing 
 
 Through Adens of arrowy light, 
 And yet like the wave in the wilderness gushing, 
 
 Twill g adden the wine cup to-night. 
 
 Fill to the past ! from its dim distant sphere 
 
 Wild voices in melody come ; 
 The strains of the bygone, deep echoing here, 
 
 We pledge to their shadowy tomb ; 
 And like the bright orb, that in sinking flings back 
 
 One gleam o er the cloud-covered dome, 
 May the dreams of the past, on futurity track 
 
 The hope of a holier home ! 
 
 "WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD." 
 
 OH, weep not for the dead ! 
 Rather, oh rather give the tear 
 To those who darkly linger here, 
 
 When all besides are fled : 
 Weep for the spirit withering 
 In its cold, cheerless sorrowing ; 
 Weep for the young and lovely one 
 That ruin darkly revels on, 
 
 But never be a tear-drop shed 
 
 For them, the pure enfranchised dead. 
 
 Oh, weep not for the dead ! 
 No more for them the blighting chill, 
 The thousand shades of earthly ill, 
 
 The thousand thorns we tread ; 
 Weep for the life-charm early flown, 
 The spirit broken, bleeding, lone ; 
 Weep for the death pangs of the heart, 
 Ere being from the bosom part ; 
 
 But never be a tear-urop given 
 
 To those that rest in yon blue heaven. 
 
 * Irem, one of the gardens described by Mohammed 
 planted, as the commentators of the Koran say by a kin" 
 named Shedad, once seen by an Arabian, who wandered 
 Very far into the desert in search of a lost camel : a gar- 
 
 DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 I BEAUT) the music of the wave, 
 
 As it rippled to the shore, 
 And saw the willow branches lave, 
 
 As light winds swept them o er 
 The music of the golden bow 
 
 That did the torrent span ; 
 But I heard a sweeter music flow 
 
 From the youthful heart of man. 
 
 The wave rushed on the hues of heaven 
 
 Fainter and fainter grew, 
 And deeper melodies were given 
 
 As swift the changes flew : 
 Then came a shadow on my sigh ; 
 
 The golden bow was dim 
 And he that laughed beneath its light, 
 
 What was the change to him 1 
 
 I saw him not : only a throng 
 
 Like the swell of troubled ocean, 
 Rising, sinking, swept along 
 
 In the tempest s wild commotion : 
 Sleeping, dreaming, waking then, 
 
 Cnains to link or sever 
 Turning to the dream again, 
 
 Fain to clasp it ever. 
 
 There was a rush upon my brain, 
 
 A darkness on mine eye ; 
 And when I turned to gaze again, 
 
 The mingled forms were nigh : 
 In shadowy mass a mighty hall 
 
 Rose on the fitful scene ; 
 Flowers, music, gems, were flung o er all, 
 
 Not such as once had been. 
 
 Then in its mist, far, far away, 
 A phantom seemed to be ; 
 
 The something of a bvgone day 
 But oh, how changed was he ! 
 
 He rose beside the festal board, 
 W r here sat the merry throng ; 
 
 And as the purple juice he poured, 
 Thus woke his wassail song : 
 
 SONG. 
 COME ! while with wine the goblets flow, 
 
 For wine they say has power to bless ; 
 And flowers, too not roses, no ! 
 
 Bring poppies, bring forgetfulness ! 
 A lethc for departed bliss, 
 
 And each too well remembered scene : 
 Earth has no sweeter draught than this, 
 
 Which drowns the thought of what has been 
 Here s to the heart s cold iciness, 
 
 Which can not smile, but will not sigh : 
 If wine can bring a chill like this, 
 
 Come, fill for me the goblet high. 
 Come and the cold, the false, the dead, 
 
 Shall never cross our revelry ; 
 We ll kiss the wine cup sparkling red, 
 
 And snap the chain of memory. 
 
 den no less celebrated (says Sir W. Jones) by the Asiatic 
 poets, than that of the He=perides by the Greeks. 
 
M. ST. LEON LOUD. 
 
 MARGUERITE ST. LEON BARSTOW was born j 
 in the rural town of Wysox, among the wind 
 ings of the Susquehannah, in Bradford coun 
 ty, Pennsylvania. In 1824 she was married 
 to Mr. Loud, of Philadelphia ; and, except 
 during a short period passed in the South, 
 has since resided in that city. Her poems 
 have for the most part appeared in the Uni 
 ted States Gazette and in the Philadelphia 
 
 monthly magazines. Mr. Edgar A. Poe, in 
 his Autography, says of Mrs. Loud, that she 
 "has imagination of no common order, and, 
 unlike many of her sex, is not 
 
 Content to dwell in decencies forever. 
 While she can, upon occasion, compose the 
 ordinary singsong with all the decorous pro 
 prieties which are in fashion, she yet ventures 
 very frequently into a more ethereal region." 
 
 A DREAM OF THE LONELY ISLE. 
 
 THKRE is an isle in the far South sea, 
 Sunny and bright as an isle can be ; 
 Sweet is the sound of the ocean wave, 
 As its sparkling waters the green shores lave ; 
 And from the shell that upon the strand 
 Lies half buried in golden sand 
 A thrilling tone through the still air rings, 
 Like music trembling on fairy strings. 
 Flowers like those which the Peris find 
 In the bowers of their paradise, and bind 
 In the flowing tresses, are blooming there, 
 And gay birds glance through the scented air. 
 Gems and pearls are strewed on the earth 
 Untouched there are known to know their worih ; 
 And that fair island Death comes not nigh : 
 Why should he come 1 there are none to die. 
 
 My heart had grown, like the misanthrope s, 
 Cold and dead to ail human hopes; 
 Fame and fortune alike had proved 
 Baseless dreams, and the friends I loved 
 Vanished away, like the flowers that fade 
 In the deadly blight of the Upas shade. 
 I longed upon that green isle to be, 
 Far away o er the sounding sea, 
 Where no human voice, with its words of pain, 
 Could ever fall on rny ear again. 
 Life seemed a desert waste to me, 
 And I sought in slumber from care to flee. 
 
 Away, away, o er the waters blue, 
 Light as a sea-bird the vessel flew. 
 Deep ocean-furrows her timbers plough, 
 As the waves are parted before her prow ; 
 And the foaming billows close o er her path, 
 Hissing and roaring, as if in wrath. 
 But swiftly onward, through foam and spray, 
 .To the lonely island she steers her way : 
 The heavens above wore their brightest smile, 
 As the bark was moored by that fairy isle ; 
 The sails were furled, the voyage was o er ; 
 I should buffet the waves of the world no more \ 
 I looked to the ocean the bark was gone, 
 
 And I stood on that beautiful isle alone. 
 
 My wish was granted, and I was blest; 
 
 My spirit revelled in perfect rest 
 
 A Dead sea calm even Thought reposed 
 
 Like a weary dove with its pinions closed. 
 
 Beauty was round me : bright roses hung 
 
 Their blushing wreaths o er my head, and flung 
 
 Fragance abroad on the gale to me 
 
 Sweeter than odors of Araby ; 
 
 Wealth was mine, for the yellow gold 
 
 Lay before me in heaps untold. 
 
 Death to that island knew not the way, 
 
 But life was mine for ever and aye, 
 
 Till Love again made my heart its throne, 
 
 And I ceased to dwell on the isle alone. 
 
 Long did my footsteps delighted range 
 My peaceful home, but there came a change : 
 My heart grew sad, and I looked with pain 
 On all I had bartered life s ties to gain. 
 A chilling weight on my spirits fell, 
 As the low, soft wail of the ocean shell 
 Or the bee s faint hum in the flowery wood, 
 Was all that broke on mv solitude. 
 Oh ! then I felt, in my loneliness, 
 That earth had no power the heart to bless, 
 Unwarmed by affection s holy ray ; 
 And hope was withered, as day by day 
 I watched for the bark, but in vain in vain ; 
 She never sought that green isle again ! 
 
 I stretched my arms o er the heaving sea, 
 And prayed aloud, in my agony, 
 That Love s pure spirit might with me dwell. 
 Then rose the waves with a murmuring swell, 
 Higher and higher, till naught was seen , 
 Where slept in beauty that islet green. 
 The waters passed o er me the spell was bioke; 
 From the dream of the lonely isle I woke, 
 With a heart redeemed from its selfish stain, 
 To mingle in scenes of the world again 
 With cheerful spirit and rather share 
 The pains and sorrows which mortals bear, 
 Than dwell where no shade on my path is tin own, 
 Mid fadeless flowers and bright gems alone. 
 141 
 
112 
 
 M. ST. LEON LOUD. 
 
 THE DESERTED HOMESTEAD. 
 
 THERE is a lonely homestead 
 
 In a green and quiet vale, 
 "With its tall trees sighing mournfully 
 
 To every passing gale ; 
 There are many mansions round it, 
 
 In the sunlight gleaming fair ; 
 But moss-grown is that ancient roof, 
 
 Its walls are gray and hare. 
 Where once glad voices sounded 
 
 Of children in their mirth, 
 No whisper breaks the solitude 
 
 By that deserted hearth. 
 The swallow from her dwelling 
 
 In the low eaves hath flown ; 
 And all night long, the whip-poor-will 
 
 Sings by the threshold stone. 
 No hand above the window 
 
 Ties up the trailing -vines; 
 And through the broken casement-panes 
 
 The moon at midnight shines. 
 And many a solemn shadow 
 
 Seems starting from the gloom; 
 Like forms of long-departed ones 
 
 Peopling that dim o d room. 
 No furrow for the harvest 
 
 Is drawn upon the ] lain, 
 And in the pastures green and fair 
 
 No herds or flocks remain. 
 Why is that beauteous homestead 
 
 Thus standing bare and lone, 
 While all the worshipped household gods 
 
 In dust lie overthrown. 
 And where are they whose voices 
 
 Rang out o er hill and dale ] 
 Gone and their mournful history 
 
 Is but an oft-told tale. 
 There smiles no lovelier valley 
 
 Beneath the summer sun, 
 Yet they who dwelt together there, 
 
 Departed one by one. 
 Some to the quiet churchyard, 
 
 And some beyond the sea ; 
 To meet no more, as once they met, 
 
 Beneath that old roof-tree. 
 Like forest-birds forsaking 
 
 Their sheltering native nest, 
 The young to life s wild scenes went forth, 
 
 The agrd to their rest. 
 Fame and ambition lured them 
 
 From that green vale to roam, 
 But as their dazzling dreams depart, 
 
 Regretful memories come 
 Of the valley and the homestead 
 
 Of their childhood pure and free 
 Till each world-weary spirit pines 
 
 That spot once more to see. 
 Oh ! blest are they who linger 
 
 Mid old familiar things, 
 Where every object o er the heart 
 
 A hallowed influence flings. 
 Though won are wealth and honors 
 
 Though reached fame s lofty dome 
 There are no joys like those which dwell 
 
 Within our childhood s home. 
 
 PRAYER FOR AN ABSENT HUSBAND. 
 
 FATHER in heaven ! 
 Behold, he whom I love is daily treading 
 
 The path of life in heaviness of soul. 
 With the thick darkness now around him spreading 
 
 He long hath striven 
 Oh, thou most kind ! break not the golden bowl. 
 
 Father in heaven ! 
 
 Thou who so oft hast healed the broken-hearted 
 And raised the weary spirit bowed with care, 
 Let him not say his joy hath all departed, 
 
 Lest he be driven 
 Down to the deep abyss of dark despair. 
 
 Father in heaven ! 
 Oh, grant to his most cherished hopes a blessing 
 
 Let peace and rest descend upon his head, 
 That his torn heart, thy holy love possessing, 
 
 May not be riven 
 Let guardian angels watch his lonely bed. 
 
 Father in heaven ! 
 Oh, may his heart be stayed or, thee ! each feeling 
 
 Still lifted up in gratitude and love ; 
 And may that faith the joys of heaven revealing 
 
 To him be given, 
 Till he shall praise thy name in realms above. 
 
 REST IN THE GRAVE. 
 
 OH, peaceful grave ! how blest 
 Are they who in thy quiet chambers rest, 
 
 After the feverish strife 
 The wild, dark, turbulent career of life ! 
 
 There shall the throbbing brain, 
 The heart with its wild hopes and longings vain, 
 
 Find undisturbed repose 
 No more to struggle with its weight of woes. 
 
 No passionate desires 
 
 For some bright goal to which the soul aspires 
 Foreverunattained consume like quenchless firea 
 
 Oh ! for a dreamless sleep, 
 
 A slumber calm and deep, 
 A long and silent midnight in the tomb, 
 Where no dim visions of the past may come ; 
 
 No haunting memories no tears, 
 Nor voices which the startled spirit hears, 
 Whispering mysteriously of ill in coming years. 
 
 Peace peace unbroken dwells, 
 
 Oh grave ! in thy lone cells. 
 
 And yet not lone, for they 
 
 Who ve passed from earth away, 
 People thy realms the beautiful, the young, 
 The kindred who around my pathway flung 
 All that earth had of brightness and the tomb 
 
 Is robbed of all its gloom. 
 
 There would I rest, O Grave ! 
 
 Till thy unstormy wave 
 
 Hath overswept the whole of life s bleak shore; 
 In thy deep stream of calm forgetfulness 
 
 My soul would sink no more 
 To brave within a frail, unanchored bark, 
 Life s tossing billows and its tempests dark, 
 
EMMA C. EMBURY. 
 
 (Born 1806-Died 1863). 
 
 THIS graceful and popular authoress the 
 Milford of our country to whom we are in 
 so large a degree indebted for redeeming the 
 " ladies magazines," so called, from the re 
 proach of frivolity and sickly sentiment, is 
 a daughter of Dr. James R. Manley, for many 
 years one of the most eminent physicians of 
 New York, from whom she inherits all the 
 peculiar pride and prejudice that make up 
 the genuine Knickerbocker. She was mar 
 ried, it appears from the New York Mirror 
 of the following Saturday, on the tenth of 
 May, 1828, to Mr. Daniel Embury, now of 
 Brooklyn, a gentleman of liberal fortune, who 
 is well known for his taste and scholarly ac 
 quirements. 
 
 Mrs. Embury s native interest in literature 
 was manifested by an early appreciation of 
 the works of genius, and her poetical talents 
 were soon recognised and admired. Under 
 the signature of " lanthe," she gave to the 
 public numerous effusions, which were dis 
 tinguished for vigor of language and genuine 
 depth of feeling. A volume of these youthful 
 but most promising compositions was select 
 ed and published, under the title of Guido and 
 other Poems. Since her marriage, she has 
 given to the public more prose than verse, 
 but the former is characterized by the same 
 romantic spirit which is the essential beauty 
 of poetry. Many of her tales are founded 
 upon a just observation of life, although not 
 a few are equally remarkable for attractive 
 
 invention. In point of style, they often pos 
 sess the merit of graceful and pointed dic 
 tion, and the lessons they inculcate are inva 
 riably of a pure moral tendency. Constance 
 Latimer, or The Blind Girl, is perhaps better 
 known than any other of her single produc 
 tions ; and this, as well as her Pictures of 
 Early Life, has passed through a large num 
 ber of editions. In 1845 she published, in a 
 beautiful quarto volume, with pictorial illus 
 trations, Nature s Gems, or American Wild 
 Flowers, a work which contains some of 
 the finest specimens of her writings, in both 
 prose and verse. In 1846 she gave to the 
 public a collection of graceful poems, under 
 the title of Love s Token Flowers ; and, in 
 1848, The Waldorf Family, or Grandfather s 
 Legends, a little volume in which she has 
 happily adapted the romantic and poetical 
 legendary of Brittany to the tastes of our own 
 country and the present age ; and a work 
 entitled Glimpses of Home Life, in which 
 many of the beautiful fictions she had writ 
 ten for the magazines, having a unity and 
 completeness of design, are reproduced, to 
 run anew the career of popularity through 
 which they passed on their first and separate 
 publication. The tales and sketches by Mrs. 
 Embury are very numerous, probably not less 
 than one hundred and fifty ; and several such 
 delightful series, evincing throughout the 
 same true cultivation and refinement of taste 
 and feeling, might be made from them. 
 
 TWO PORTRAITS FROM LIFE. 
 
 i. 
 On, what a timid watch young Love was keeping 
 
 When thou wert fashioned in such gentle guise ! 
 
 How was thy nature nursed with secret sighs ! 
 What bitter tears thy mother s heart were steeping ! 
 
 Within the crystal depths of thy blue eyes 
 A world of troubled tenderness lies sleeping, 
 
 And on thy full and glowing lip there lies 
 A shadow that portends thee future weeping. 
 Tender and self-distrustful doubting still 
 
 Thyself, but trusting all the world beside, 
 Tremblingly sensitive to coming ill, 
 
 Blending with woman s softness manhood s pride, 
 How wilt thou all life s future conflicts bear, 
 And fearless suffer all that man must do and dare 1 
 
 Pnoun,self-sustained and fearless! dreading naught 
 Save falsehood loving everything but sin 
 How glorious is the light that from within 
 
 Illumes thy boyish face with lofty thought ! 
 
 A child thou art but thy deep eyes are fraught 
 With that mysterious light by genius shed, 
 
 And in thine aspect is a glory caught 
 From the high dreams that cluster round thy head. 
 
 I know not what thy future lot may be, 
 But, when men gather to a new crusade 
 
 Against earth e falsehood, wrong, and tyranny, ^ 
 Thou wilt be there with all thy strength dif 
 played 
 
 Thy voice clear-ringing mid the conflict s roar, 
 
 And on thy banner, writ in stars, " Excelsior !" 
 143 
 
141 
 
 EMMA C. EMBURY. 
 
 THE DUKE OF RE1CHSTADT. 
 
 HKITI of that name 
 
 W hich shook with sudden terror the far earth 
 Child of strange destinies e en from thy birth, 
 
 When kings and princes round thy cradle came, 
 And avr tiu-ir crowns, as playthings, to thy hand 
 Thine heritage the spoils of many a land ! 
 
 How were the schemes 
 Of human foresight haftled in thy fate, 
 Thou victim of a parent s lofty state ! 
 
 What glorious visions filled thy father s dreams, 
 When first he gazed upon thy infant face, 
 And deemed himself the Rodolph of his race ! 
 
 Scarce had thine eyes 
 
 Beheld the light of day, when thou wert bound 
 With power s vain symbols, and thy young brow 
 
 crowned 
 
 With Rome s imperial diadem the prize 
 From priestly princes by thy proud sire won, 
 To deck the pillow of his cradled son. 
 
 Yet where is now 
 
 The sword that flashed as with a meteor light, 
 And led on half the world to stirring fight, 
 
 Bidding whole seas of blood and carnage flow ] 
 Alas ! when foiled on his last battle-plain, 
 Its shattered fragments forged thy father s chain. 
 
 Far worse thy fate 
 
 Than that which doomed him to the barren rock ; 
 Through half the universe was felt the shock, 
 When down he toppled from his high estate ; 
 And the proud thought of still acknowledged power 
 Could cheer him e en in that disastrous hour. 
 
 But thou, poor boy ! 
 
 Hadst no such dreams to cheat the lagging hours; 
 Thy chains still galled, though wreathed with fairest 
 Thou hadst no images of bygone joy, [flowers; 
 No visions of anticipated fame, 
 To bear thee through a life of sloth and shame. 
 
 And where was she, 
 
 W 7 hose proudest title was Napoleon s wife ? 
 She who first gave, and should have watched thy 
 Treb ing a mother s tenderness for thee, [life, 
 Despoiled heir of empire ] On her breast 
 Did thy young heart repose in its unrest \ 
 
 No ! round her heart 
 
 Children of humbler, happier lineage twined : 
 Thou couldst but bring dark memories to mind 
 Of pageants where she bore a heartless part ; 
 She who shared not her monarch-husband s doom 
 Cared little for her first-born s living tomb. 
 
 Thou art at rest : 
 
 Child of Ambition s martyr ! life had been 
 To thee no blessing, but a dreary scene 
 
 Of doubt, and dread, and suffering at the best ; 
 For thou wert one whose path, in these dark times, 
 Would lead to sorrows it may be to crimes ! 
 
 Thou art at rest : 
 
 The idle sword hath worn its sheath away ; 
 The spirit has consumed its bonds of clay; 
 
 And they, who with vain tyranny comprest 
 Thy soul s high yearnings, now forget their fear, 
 And fling ambition s purple o er thy bier ! 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 LIKE the sweet melody which faintly lingers 
 Upon the windharp s strings at close of day, 
 
 When gently touched by evening s dewy fingers 
 It breathes a low and melancholy lay : 
 
 So the calm voice of sympathy meseemeth ; 
 
 And while its magic spell is round me cast, 
 My spirit in its cloistered silence dreameth, 
 
 And vaguely blends the future with the past. 
 
 But vain such dreams while pain my bosom thrilleth. 
 And mournful memories around me move ; 
 
 E en friendship s alchemy no balm distilleth, 
 To soothe th immedicable wound of love. 
 
 Alas, alas ! passion too soon exhaieth 
 The dewy freshness of the heart s young flowers; 
 
 We water them with tears, but naught availeth 
 They wither on through all life s later hours. 
 
 AUTUMN EVENING. 
 
 " And Isaac went out hi the field to meditate at eventide." 
 
 Go forth at morning s birth, 
 When the glad sun, exulting in his might. 
 Comes from the dusky-curtained tents of night, 
 
 Shedding his gifts of beauty o er the earth ; 
 When sounds of busy life are on the air, 
 And man awakes to labor and to care, 
 Then hie thee forth : go out amid thy kind, 
 Thy daily tasks to do, thy harvest-sheaves to bind. 
 
 Go forth at noontide hour, 
 Beneath the heat and burden of the day 
 Pursue the labors of thine onward way, 
 
 Nor murmur if thou miss life s morning flower; 
 Where er the footsteps of mankind are found 
 Thou may st discern some spot of hallowed ground, 
 Where duty blossoms even as the rose, [enclose. 
 Though sharp and stinging thorns the beauteousbud 
 
 Go forth at eventide, 
 
 When sounds of toil no more the soft air fill, 
 When e en the hum of insect life is still, 
 
 And the bird s song on evening s breeze has died ; 
 Go forth, as did the patriarch of old, [told, 
 
 And commune with thy heart s deep thoughts un- 
 Fathom thy spirit s hidden depths, and learn 
 The mysteries of life, the fires that inly burn. 
 
 Go forth at eventide, 
 The eventide of summer, when the trees 
 Yield their frail honors to the passing breeze, 
 
 And woodland paths with autumn tints are dyed ; 
 When the mild sun his paling lustre shrouds 
 In gorgeous draperies of golden clouds, 
 Then wander forth, mid beauty and decay, 
 To meditate alone alone to watch and pray. 
 
 Go forth at eventide, 
 
 Commune with thine own bosom, and be still 
 Check the wild impulses of wayward will, 
 
 And learn the nothingness of human pride: 
 Morn is the time to act, noon to endure ; 
 But, oh, if thou wouldst keep thy spirit pure, 
 Turn from the beaten path by worldlings trod, 
 Go forth at eventide, ii: heart to walk with God 
 
EMMA C. EMBURY. 
 
 145 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 i. sock l - er not in marl) o balls of pride, 
 Where pushing fountains fliiu their silver tide, 
 
 Their wea th of freshness toward the summer sky ; 
 The ec ioos of a palace are too loud 
 They hut give hack the footsteps of the crowd 
 
 That throng ahout some idol throned on high, 
 Whose er mined robe and pomp of rich array 
 But serve tu hide the fa se one s feet of clay. 
 Nor seek her form in poverty s low va e, [pale, 
 Where, touched by want, the bright cheek waxes 
 
 And the heart faints, with sordid cares opprest, 
 Where pining discontent has left its trace 
 Deep and abiding in each haggard face. 
 
 Not there, not there Peace builds her halcyon nest : 
 Wild revel scares her from wealth s towering dome, 
 And misery frights her from the poor man s home. 
 
 Nor dwells she in the cloister, where the sage 
 Ponders the mystery of some time-stained page, 
 
 Delving, with feeble hand, the classic mine ; 
 Oh, who can teli the restless hope of fame, 
 The bitter yearnings for a deathless name, 
 
 That round the student s heart like serpents twine! 
 Ambition s fever burns within his breast, 
 Can Peace, sweet Peace, abide with such a guest ? 
 
 Search not within the city s crowded mart, 
 Where the low-whispered music of the heart 
 
 Is all unheard amid the clang of go d ; 
 Oh, never yet did Peace her chaplet twine 
 To lay upon base mammon s sordid shrine, [sold ; 
 
 Where earth s most precious things are bought and 
 Thrown on that pile, the pearl of price would be 
 Despised, because unfit for merchantry. 
 
 Go ! hie thee to God s altar kneeling there, 
 List to the ming ed voice of fervent prayer 
 
 That swells around thee in the sacred fane ; 
 Or catch the solemn organ s pealing note, 
 When grateful praises on the still air float, 
 
 And the freed soul forgets earth s heavy chain : 
 There learn that Peace, sweet Peace, is ever found 
 In her eternal home, on holy ground. 
 
 THE EOLIAN HARP. 
 
 HARP of the winds ! how vainly art thou swelling 
 Thv diapason on the heedless blast ; 
 
 How idly, too, thy gentler chords are telling 
 A tale of sorrow as the breeze sweeps past : 
 
 Why dost thou waste in loneliness the strain 
 
 Which were not heard by human ears in vain ? 
 
 And the Harp answered,Though the winds are bear- 
 My soul of sweetness on their viewless wings, [ing 
 
 Yet one faint tone may reach some sou! despairing, 
 And rouse its energies to happier things : 
 
 Oh, not in vain my song, if it but gives 
 
 One moment s joy to anything that lives. 
 
 Oh heart of mine ! canst thou not, here discerning 
 An emblem of thyself, some solace find ] [irrg. 
 
 Thou ah earth may never quench thy life-long yearn- 
 Yet give thyself like music to the wind : 
 
 Thy wandering thought may teach thy love and 
 And waken sympathy when thou art dust, [trust. 
 JO 
 
 UNREST. 
 
 HKATIT, weary Heart! what means thy wild Unrest 1 
 
 Hast thou not tasted of earth s every p easurel 
 With all that morta s seek thy lot is blest ; 
 
 Yet dost thou ever chant in mournful measure 
 
 " Something beyond !" 
 Heart, weary Heart ! canst thou not find repose 
 
 In the sweet calm of friendship s pure devotion ? 
 Amid the peace whic.h sympathy bestows, 
 
 Still dost thou murmur with repressed emotion, 
 
 " Something beyond !" 
 Heart, weary Heart ! too idly hast thou poured 
 
 Thy music and thy perfume on the blast ; 
 Now, beggared in affection s treasured hoard, 
 
 Thy cry is still thy saddest and thy last 
 
 " Something beyond !" 
 Heart, weary Heart ! oh, cease thy wild unrest 
 
 Earth can not satisfy thy bitter yearning : 
 Then onward, upward speed thy lonely quest, 
 
 And hope to find, where Heaven s pure stars are 
 burning, " Something beyond !" 
 
 THE OLD MAN S LAMENT. 
 
 0;i, for one draught of those sweet waters now 
 
 That shed such freshness o er my early life ! 
 Oh that I could but bathe my fevered brow 
 
 To wash away the dust of worldly strife, 
 And be a simple-hearted child once more, 
 As if I ne er had known this world s pernicious lore ! 
 My heart is weary, and my spirit pants 
 
 Beneath the heat and burden of the day ; 
 Would that I could regain those shady haunts 
 
 Where once, with Hope, I dreamed the hours 
 Giving my thoughts to tales of old romance, [away, 
 And yielding up my soul to youth s delicious trance ! 
 Vain are such wishes : I no more may tread 
 
 With lingering step and slow the green hili-side , 
 Before me now life s shortening path is spread, 
 
 And I must onward, whatsoe er betide : 
 The pleasant nooks of youth are passed for aye, 
 And sober scenes now meet the traveller on his way. 
 Alas ! the dust which clogs my weary feet 
 
 Glitters with fragments of each ruined shrine, 
 Where once my spirit worshipped, when, with sweet 
 
 And passionless devotion, it could twine 
 Its strong affections round earth s earthliest things, 
 Yet bear away no stain upon its snowy wings. 
 
 What though some flowers have scaped the tem 
 pest s wrath ] 
 
 Daily they droop by nature s swift decay : 
 What though the setting sun. still lights my path! 
 
 Morn s dewy freshness long has passed away. 
 Oh, give me back life s newly-budded flowers- - 
 Let me once more inhale the breath of morning s 
 hours ! 
 
 My youth, my youth ! oh, give me back my youth ! 
 
 Not the unfurrowed brow and blooming cheek, 
 But childhood s sunny thoughts, its perfect truth, 
 
 And youth s unworldly feelings these I seek 
 Ah, who could e er be sinless and yet sage 1 [page . 
 Would that I might forget Time s dark and blotted 
 
146 
 
 EMMA C. EMBURY. 
 
 THE AMERICAN RIVER. 
 
 A KKMK.MHKANCK. 
 
 IT rusheth on with fearful might, 
 
 That river of the west, 
 Through forests dense, where seldom light 
 
 Of sunbeam gilds its breast: 
 Anon it dashes wildly past 
 The widespread prairie ,one and vast, 
 Without a shadow on its tide, 
 Save the long grass that skirts its side ; 
 Again its angry currents sweep 
 Beneath some tall and rocky steep, 
 Which frowns above the darkened stream, 
 Till doubly deep its waters seem. 
 No rugged cliff may check its way, 
 No gent.e mead invite its stay 
 Still with resistless, maddened force, 
 Following its wild and devious course, 
 
 The river rusheth on. 
 It rusheth on the rocks are stirred, 
 
 And echoing far and wide, 
 Through the dim forest aisles, is heard 
 
 The thunder of its tide ; 
 No other sound strikes on the ear, 
 Save when, beside its waters clear, 
 Crashing o er branches dry and sear, 
 Comes bounding forth the antlered deer ; 
 Or when, perchance, the woods give back 
 The arrow whizzing on its track, 
 Or deadlier rifle s vengeful crack: 
 No hum of busy life is near, 
 And still uncurbed in its career 
 
 The river rusheth on. 
 It rusheth on no firebark leaves 
 
 Its dark and smoking trail 
 O er the pure wave, which only heaves 
 
 The bateau light and frail ; 
 Long, long ago the rude canoe 
 Across its sparkling waters flew ; 
 Long, long ago the Indian brave 
 In the clear stream his brow might lave : 
 But seldom has the white man stood 
 Within that trackless solitude, 
 Where onward, onward dashing still, 
 With all the force of untamed will, 
 
 The river rusheth on. 
 It rusheth on no changes mark 
 
 How many years have sped 
 Since to its banks, through forests dark, 
 
 Some chance the hunter led ; 
 Though many a season has passed o er 
 The giant tree* that gird its shore 
 Though the soft limestone mass, imprest 
 By naked footstep on its breast, 
 Now hardened into rock appears, 
 B\ work of indurating years, 
 Yet tis by grander strength alone 
 That Nature s age is ever known. 
 While crumbling turrets tell the tale 
 Hf man s vain pomp and projects frail, 
 Time, in the wilderness displays 
 Th ennobling power of length of days, 
 And in the forest s pathless bound, 
 Type of Etenrty, is found 
 
 The river rushing on. 
 
 THE ENGLISH RIVER. 
 
 A FANTASY. 
 
 IT floweth on with pleasant sound 
 
 A vague and dreamlike measure, 
 And singeth to the flowers around 
 
 A song of quiet pleasure ; 
 No rugged cliff obstructs the way 
 Where the glad waters leap and play, 
 Or, if a tiny rock look down 
 In the calm stream with mimic frown, 
 The waves a sweeter music make, 
 As at its base they flash and break : 
 It speedeth on, like joy s bright hours, 
 Traced but by verdure and by flowers ; 
 And whether sunbeams on it rest, 
 Or storm-clouds hover o er its breast, 
 Still in that green and shady glen, 
 Beside the busy haunts of men, 
 
 The river singeth on. 
 It floweth on, past tree and flower, 
 
 Until the stream is laving 
 The ruins of some ancient tower, 
 
 With ivy banners waving : 
 Methinks the river s pleasant chime 
 Now tells a tale of olden time, 
 W 7 hen mail-clad knights were often seen 
 Upon its banks of living green, 
 And gentle dames of lineage high 
 Lingered to hear Love s thrilling sigh; 
 Haply some squire, whose humble name 
 Was yet unheralded by fame, 
 Here wove ambition s earliest dreams : 
 While then, as now, neath sunset gleams, 
 The river singeth on. 
 It floweth on that gentle stream 
 
 And seems to tell the story 
 Of old-world heroes, and their dream 
 
 Of fame and martial glory ; 
 The war-cry on its banks has pealed, 
 Blent with the clang of lance and shield 
 Waked to new life by war s alarms, 
 Bold knights, and squires, and men-at-arms, 
 Have sallied forth in proud array, 
 Wit .i hearts impatient for the fray : 
 Though nature s voice is little heard, 
 When pulses are thus madly stirred, 
 Yet, while in brightness it gives back 
 The glittering sheen that marks their uack. 
 
 The river singeth on. 
 Yet, as above the sunniest fate 
 
 Hangs the dark cloud of sorrow, 
 So sadder scenes the fancy wait, 
 
 Since dreams from truth we borrow : 
 A well-worn path, now grass-o ergrown 
 And hid by many a fallen stone, 
 To yonder roofless chapel led 
 Where sleep the castle s honored dead ; 
 Full often that pure stream has glassed 
 The funeral train, as slow it passed ; 
 Hark ! as the barefoot monks repeat 
 The " Requiescat," wild and sweet, 
 
 The river singeth ou. 
 The vision fades, the phantoms flee. 
 
 And naught of all remaineth ; 
 The river runneth fast and free, 
 
EMMA C. EMBURY. 
 
 147 
 
 The wind through ruins plaineth : 
 The feudal lord and belted knight, 
 And spurless squire and lady bright, 
 Long since have shared the common lot 
 All, save their haughty name, forgot. 
 The ivy wreathes the ruined shrine, 
 Flaunting beneath the glad sunshine; 
 The fallen fortress, ruined wall, 
 And crumbling battlement, are all 
 That still are left to tell the tale 
 Of those who ruled that fairy vale : 
 But Nature still upholds her sway, 
 And flowers and music mark the way 
 
 The river singeth on. 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 THE maiden sat at her busy wheel, 
 
 Her heart was light and free, 
 And ever in cheerful song broke forth 
 
 Her bosom s harmless glee : 
 Her song was in mockery of Love, 
 
 And oft I heard her say, 
 " The gathered rose and the stolen heart 
 
 Can charm but for a day." 
 
 I looked on the maiden s rosy cheek, 
 
 And her lip so full and bright, 
 And I sighed to think that the traitor Love 
 
 Should conquer a heart so light: 
 But she thought not of future days of wo, 
 
 While she carolled in tones so gay 
 " The gathered rose and the stolen heart 
 
 Can charm but for a day." 
 
 A year passed on, and again I stood 
 
 By the humble cottage door ; 
 The maid sat at her busy wheel, 
 
 But her look was blithe no more ; 
 The big tear stood in her downcast eye, 
 
 And with sighs I heard her say, 
 " The gathered rose and the stolen heart 
 
 Can charm but for a day." 
 
 Oh, well I knew what had dimmed her eye, 
 
 And made her cheek so pale : 
 The maid had forgotten her early song, 
 
 While she listened to Love s soft tale ; 
 She had tasted the sweets of his poisoned cup, 
 
 It had wasted her life away 
 And the stolen heart, like the gathered rose, 
 
 Had charmed but for a day. 
 
 CHEERFULNESS. 
 
 A GEXTLE heritage is mine, 
 
 A life of quiet p easure : 
 My heaviest cares are but to twine 
 Fresh votive garlands for the shrine 
 
 Where bides my bosom s treasure ; 
 I am not merry, nor yet sad, 
 My thoughts are more serene than glad. 
 
 I have outlived youth s feverish mirth, 
 
 And all its causeless sorrow : 
 My joys are now of nobler birth, 
 
 My sorrows too have holier birth 
 
 And heavenly solace Dorrow ; 
 So, from my green and shady nook, 
 Back on my by-past life I look. 
 
 The past has memories sad and sweet, 
 
 Memories still fondly cherished, 
 Of love that blossomed at my feet, 
 Whose odors still my senses greet, 
 
 E en though the flowers have perished : 
 Visions of pleasures passed away 
 That charmed me in life s earlier day. 
 
 The future, Isis-like, sits veiled, 
 
 And none her mystery learneth ; 
 Yet why should the bright cheek be paled, 
 For sorrows that may be bewailed 
 W hen time our hopes inure th ] 
 Come when it will grief comes too soon 
 Why dread the night at highest noon ] 
 
 I wou d not pierce the mist that hides 
 Life s coming joy or sorrow ; 
 
 If sweet content with me abides 
 
 While onward still the present glides, 
 I think not of the morrow ; 
 
 It may bring griefs enough for me 
 
 The quiet joy I feel and see. 
 
 THE WIDOW S WOOER. 
 
 HE woos me with those honeyed words 
 
 That women love to hear, 
 Those gentle flatteries that fall 
 
 So sweet on every ear : 
 He tells me that my face is fair, 
 
 Too fair for grief to shade ; 
 My cheek, he says, was never meant 
 
 In sorrow s gloom to fade. 
 
 He stands beside me when I sing 
 
 The songs of other days, 
 And whispers, in love s thrilling tonta, 
 
 The words of heartfelt praise ; 
 And often in my eyes he looks, 
 
 Some answering love to see ; 
 In vain he there can only read 
 
 The faith of memory. 
 
 He little knows what thoughts awake 
 
 With every gentle word ; 
 How, by his looks and tones, the foun s 
 
 Of tenderness are stirred : 
 The visions of my youth return. 
 
 Joys far too bright to last, 
 And while he speaks of future bliss, 
 
 I think but of the past. 
 
 Like lamps in eastern sepulchres. 
 
 Amid my heart s deep gloom. 
 Affection sheds its holiest light 
 
 Upon my husband s tomb . 
 And is those lamps, if brought once moi 
 
 To upper air grow dim, 
 So my soul s love is cold and dead. 
 
 Unless it glow for him. 
 
148 
 
 EMMA C. EMBURY. 
 
 MADAME DE STAEL. 
 
 THKTIE was no beauty on thy brow, 
 
 No softness in thine eye ; 
 Thy cheek wore not the rose s glow, 
 
 Thy lip the ruby s dye ; 
 The charms that make a woman s pride 
 
 Had never been thine own 
 For Heaven to thee those gifts denied 
 
 In which eatth s bright ones shone. 
 
 But brighter, holier spells were thine, 
 
 For mental wealth was given, 
 Till thou wert as a sacred shrine 
 
 Where men might worship Heaven. 
 Yes, woman as thou wert, thy word 
 
 Could make the tyrant start, 
 And thy tongue s witchery has stirred 
 
 Ambition s iron heart. 
 
 The charm of eloquence the skill 
 
 To wake each secret string, 
 And from the bosom s chords, at will, 
 
 Life s mournful music bring ; 
 The o ermastering strength of mind, which sways 
 
 The haughty and the free, 
 Whose might earth s mightiest one obeys 
 
 These these were given to thee. 
 
 Thou hadst a prophet s eye to pierce 
 
 The depths of man s dark soul, 
 For thou couldst tell of passions fierce 
 
 O er which its wild waves roll ; 
 And all too deeply hadst thou learned 
 
 The lore of woman s heart 
 The thoughts in thine own breast that burned 
 
 Taught thee that mournful part. 
 
 Thine never was a woman s dower 
 
 Of tenderness and love, 
 Thou, who couldst chain the eagle s power, 
 
 Cou d never tame the dove ; 
 Oh, Love is not for such as thee : 
 
 The gentle and the mild, 
 The beautiful thus blest may be, 
 
 But never Fame s proud child 
 
 When mid the hal!s of state, alone, 
 
 In queenly pride of place, 
 The majesty of mind thy throne, 
 
 Thy sceptre mental grace 
 Then was thy glory felt, and thou 
 
 Didst triumph in that hour 
 When men could turn from beauty s brow 
 
 In tribute to thy power. 
 
 And yet a woman s heart was thine 
 
 No dream of fame could fill 
 The bosom which must vainly pine 
 
 For sweet affection still ; 
 And oh. what pangs thv spirit wrung, 
 
 E en in thy hour of pride, 
 \Vhen all could list Love s wooing tongue 
 
 Save thee, bright Glory s bride. 
 
 Curinna ! thine own hand has traced 
 
 Thy melancholy fate, 
 
 Though by earth s noblest triumphs graced, 
 waits not on the grea : 
 
 Only in lowly places sleep 
 
 Life s flowers of sweet perfume, 
 
 And they who climb Fame s mountain-steep 
 Must mourn their own high doom. 
 
 HEART QUESTIONINGS. 
 
 WHEN Life s false oracles, no more replying 
 
 To baffled hope, shall mock my weary quest, 
 When in the grave s cold shadow calmly lying, 
 This heart at last has found its earthly rest, 
 
 How will ye think of me ] 
 Oh, gentle friends, how wiil ye think of me 1 
 Perhaps the wayside flowers around ye springing 
 WastingjUrrmarked. their fragrance and their bloom, 
 Or some fresh fountain, through the forest singing, 
 Unheard, unheeded, may recall mv doom : 
 
 Will ye thus think of me 1 
 May not the daybeam glancing o er the ocean, 
 
 Picture my restless heart, which, like yon wave, 
 Reflected doubly, in its wild commotion, 
 Each ray of light that pleasure s sunshine gave 1 
 
 Will ye thus think of me 1 
 
 Wiil ye bring back, by Memory s art, the gladness 
 That sent my fancies forth, like summer birds ] 
 Or will ye list that undertone of sadness, 
 Whose music seldom shaped itself in words ] 
 
 Will ye thus think of me 1 
 Remember not how dreams, around me thronging, 
 
 Enticed me ever from life s lowly way, 
 But oh ! still hearken to the deep soul longing, 
 Whose mournful tones pervade the poet s lay : 
 
 Will ye thus think of me 1 
 And then, forgetting every wayward feeling, 
 
 Bethink ye only that I loved ye well, 
 Till o er your souls that " late remorse" is stealing, 
 Whose voiceless anguish only tears can tell. 
 
 Will ye thus think of me 1 
 Oh, gentle friends ! will ye thus think of me 7 
 
 NEVP:R FORGET. 
 
 NETKR forget the hour of our first meeting, 
 When, mid the sounds of revelry and song, 
 Only thy soul could know that mine was greeting 
 Its idol, wished for, waited for, so long. 
 
 Never forget. 
 Never forget the joy of that revealment, 
 
 Centring an age of bliss in one sweet hour, 
 When Love broke forth from friendship s frail con 
 cealment, 
 And stood confest to us in godlike power : 
 
 Never forget. 
 Never forget my heart s intense devotion, 
 
 Its wealth of freshness at thy feet flung free 
 
 Its golden hopes, whelmed in that boundless ocean, 
 
 Which merged all wishes, all desires, save thee: 
 
 Never forget. 
 Never forget the moment when we parted 
 
 When from life s summer-cloud thebolt was hurled 
 That drove us, scathed in soul and broken hearted, 
 Alone to wander through this desert world 
 
 Never forget. 
 
ELIZABETH M. CHANDLER. 
 
 (Bom 1807 Died 1834). 
 
 ELIZABETH MARGARET CHANDLER was born j 
 near Wilmington, in Delaware, on the twen- | 
 ty-fourth of December, 1807. Her father, an j 
 exemplary member of the society of Friends, | 
 after leaving college had become a physician, 
 but at this period he was a farmer, in easy 
 circumstances, and he continued his agricul 
 tural pursuits until the death of his wife, 
 when he removed to Philadelphia and re 
 sumed the practice of his profession. He 
 died in 1816, leaving two sons and a daugh 
 ter to the caie of their maternal grandmo 
 ther, in Burlington, New Jersey. Elizabeth, 
 the youngest of his children, was placed at 
 one of the schools of the society, in Philadel 
 phia, where she remained until about thir 
 teen years of age. She was remarkable, when 
 very young, for a love of books, and for a 
 habit of writing verses, and in iier seven 
 teenth year she began to send- pieces to the 
 journals. For a poem entitled The Slave- 
 Ship, written at eighteen, she received a 
 prize offered by the publishers of The Cas 
 ket, a monthly magazine, and this led to her 
 acquain tance with Mr. Benjamin Lundy, then 
 
 editor of The Genius of Universa^ Emanci 
 pation, to which paper she became from that 
 time a frequent contributor. She continued 
 in Philadelphia until the summer of 1830, 
 when, her health having failed, she accom 
 panied her brother to a rural town in Lena- 
 wee county, Michigan, where, at a place 
 which she named Hazlebank, she remained, 
 in intimate correspondence with a few friends, 
 and ia the occasional indulgence of her taste 
 for literary composition, until her death, on 
 the second of November, 1834. 
 
 The Poetical Works of Miss Chandler, 
 with a Memoir of her Life an<J Character, 
 and a collection of her Essays, Philanthropic 
 and Moral, principally relating to the Aboli 
 tion of Slavery, were published in Philadel 
 phia in 1836. These volumes are altogether 
 creditable to her principles and her abilities. 
 Her style and feelings were influenced by her 
 religious and social relations, and her wri 
 tings exhibit but little scope or variety ; but 
 the pieces that are here quoted, show how 
 well she might have succeeded, with a wider 
 experience and inspiration. 
 
 THE DEVOTED. 
 
 STERN faces were around her bent, 
 
 And eyes of vengeful ire, 
 And fearful were the words they spake, 
 
 Of torture, stake, and fire : 
 Yvi calmly in the midst she stood, 
 
 With eye undimmed and clear, 
 And though her lip and cheek were white, 
 
 She wore no signs of fear. 
 
 " Where is thy traitor spouse 1" they said ; 
 
 A half-formed smile of scorn, 
 That curled upon her haughty lip, 
 
 Was back for answer borne ; 
 "Where is thy traitor spouse V again, 
 
 In fiercer tones, they said, 
 And sternly pointed to the rack, 
 
 All rusted o er with red ! 
 
 Her heart and pulse beat firm and free 
 
 But in a crimson flood, 
 O er pallid lip, and cheek, and brow, 
 
 Rushed up the burning blood ; 
 She spake, but proudly rose her tones, 
 
 As when in hall or bower, 
 The haughtiest chief that round her stood 
 
 Had meekly owned their power. 
 
 " My noble lord is placed within 
 
 A safe and sure retreat" 
 " Now tell us where, thou lady bright, 
 
 As thou wouldst mercy meet, 
 Nor deem thy life can purchase his ; 
 
 He can not scape our wrath, 
 For many a warrior s watchful eye 
 
 Is placed o er every path. 
 
 "But thou mayst win his broad estates, 
 
 To grace thine infant heir, 
 And life and honor to thyself, 
 
 So thou his haunts declare." 
 She laid her hand upon her heart ; 
 
 Her eye flashed proud and clear, 
 And firmer grew her haughty tread 
 
 " My lord is hidden here ! 
 
 " And if ye seek to view his form, 
 
 Ye first must tear away. 
 From round his secret dwelling-place. 
 
 These walls of living clay !" 
 They quailed beneath her haughty glance 
 
 They silent turned aside, 
 And left her all unharmed amidst 
 
 Her loveliness and pride ! 
 149 
 
150 
 
 ELIZABETH M. CHANDLER. 
 
 THE BATTLE FIELD. 
 
 THE last fading sunbeam has sunk in the ocean, 
 And darkness has shrouded the fore.st and hill ; 
 The scenes that late rang with the battle s commotion 
 Now sleep neath the moonbeams serenely and still 
 Yet light misty vapors above them sti 1 hover, 
 And dimly the pale beaming crescent discover, 
 Though all the stern clangor of conflict is over, 
 And hushed the wild trump-note that echoed so 
 shrill. 
 
 Around me the steed and the rider are lying, 
 To wake at the bugle s loud summons no more 
 And here is the banner that o er them was flying, 
 Torn, trampled, and sullied, with earth and with 
 
 gore. 
 With morn where the conflict the wildest was roar 
 
 ing, 
 Where sabres were clashing, and death -shot were 
 
 pouring, 
 
 That banner was proudest and loftiest soaring 
 Now standard and bearer alike are no more ! 
 
 All hushed ! not a breathing of life from the numbers 
 
 That, scattered around me, so heavily sleep 
 Hath the cup of red wine lent its fumes to their 
 
 slumbers, 
 And stained their bright garments with crimson so 
 
 deep! 
 
 Ah no ! these are not like gay revellers sleeping, 
 The nightwirids, unfeit, o er their bosoms are sweep 
 
 ing, 
 Ignobly their plumes o er the damp ground are creep 
 
 ing, 
 
 And dews, all uncared for, their bright falchions 
 steep. 
 
 Bright are they 1 at morning they were ay, at 
 
 morning 
 Yon forms were proud warriors, with hearts beat 
 
 ing high ; 
 
 The smiles of stern valor their lips were adorning, 
 And triumph flashed out from the glance of their 
 
 eye ! 
 
 But now : sadly altered the evening hath found them, 
 They care not for conquest, disgrace can not wound 
 
 them, 
 Distinct but in name, from the earth spread around 
 
 them, 
 Beside their red broadswords unconscious they lie. 
 
 How still is the scene ! save when dismally whooping, 
 
 The nightbird afar hails the gathering gloom, [ing 
 
 Or a heavy sound tells that their comrades are scoop- 
 
 A couch, where the sleepers may rest in the tomb. 
 
 .Mas! ere yon planet again shall be lighted, 
 
 "What hearts shall be broken, what hopes will be 
 
 blighted, 
 How many, midst sorrow s dark storm-clouds be 
 
 nighted, 
 Shall envy, e en while they lament, for thy doom. 
 
 Oh war! when thou rt clothed in the garments of 
 
 , 
 
 When Freedom has lighted thy torch at her shrine, 
 And proudly thy deeds are emblazoned in story, 
 W e think nut, we feel not, what horrors are thine. 
 
 B ut oh,when the victors and vanquish d have parted, 
 
 When onely we stand on the war ground deserted, 
 
 And (hinicof the dead, and of those broken hearted, 
 
 Thy blood-sprinkled laurel wreath ceases to shine. 
 
 A REVOLUTIONARY SOLDIER S PRAYER. 
 
 I CAUK not for the hurried march 
 
 Through August s burning noon, 
 Nor for the long cold ward at night, 
 
 Beneath the dewy moon ; 
 I ve calmly felt the winter s storms 
 
 O er my unsheltered head, 
 And trod the snow with naked foot, 
 
 Till every track was red ! 
 
 My soldier s fare is poor and scant 
 
 Tis what my comrades share, 
 Yon heaven my only canopy 
 
 But that I well can bear; 
 A dull and feverish weight of pain 
 
 Is pressing on my brow, 
 And I am faint with recent wounds 
 
 For that I care not now. 
 
 But oh, I long once more to view 
 
 My childhood s dwelling-place, 
 To clasp my mother to my heart 
 
 To see my father s face ! 
 To list each well-remembered tone, 
 
 To gaze on every eye 
 That met my ear, or thrilled my heart, 
 
 In moments long gone by. 
 
 In vain with long and frequent draught 
 
 Of every wave I sip 
 A quenchless and consuming thirst 
 
 Is ever on my lip ! 
 The very air that fans my cheek 
 
 No blessed coolness brings 
 A burning heat or chilling damp 
 
 Is ever on its wings. 
 
 Oh ! let me seek my home once more 
 
 For but a little while 
 But once above my couch to see 
 
 My mother s gentle smile ; 
 It haunts me in my waking hours 
 
 T is ever in my dreams, 
 With all the pleasant paths of home, 
 
 Rocks, woods, and shaded streams. 
 There is a fount I know it well 
 
 It springs beneath a rock, 
 Oh, how its coolness and its light, 
 
 My feverish fancies mock ! 
 I pine to lay me by its side, 
 
 And bathe my lips and brow, 
 T would give new fervor to the heart 
 
 That beats so languid now. 
 I may not I must linger here 
 
 Perchance it may be just ! 
 But well I know this yearning soon 
 
 Will scorch my heart to dust ; 
 One breathing of my native air 
 
 Had called me back to life 
 But I must die must waste away 
 
 Beneath this inward strife ! 
 
ELIZABETH M. CHANDLER. 
 
 151 
 
 THE BRANDYWINE 
 
 MY foot has climbed the rocky summit s height, 
 And in mute rapture from its lofty brow 
 Mine eye is gazing round me with delight 
 On all of beautiful, above, below: 
 The fleecy smoke-wreath upward curling slow, 
 
 The silvery waves half hid with bowering green, 
 
 That far beiK-ath in gentle murmurs flow, 
 
 Or on ward dash in foam or sparkling sheen : [scene. 
 
 While rocks and forest-boughs hide ha f the distant 
 In sooth, from this bright wilderness tis sweet 
 To look through loopholes formed bv forest boughs, 
 And view t.,e landscape far beneath the feet, 
 Where cultivation all its aid bestows, 
 And o er the scene an added beauty throws; 
 The busy harvest group, the distant mill, 
 Tht- quiet cattle stretched in calm repose, 
 Thn cot, ha f seen behind the sloping hill 
 
 A I minted in one scene with most enchanting skill 
 The very air that breathes around rny cheek 
 T.ie summer fragrance of my native hil.s 
 See. us with t .e voice of other times to speak, 
 And, while it each unquiet feeling stills, ,- 
 Mv pensive sou 1 with hallowed memories fills: 
 My fathers hall is there ; their feet have pressed 
 Tli > il nver-gemnied margin of these gushing rills, 
 When lightly on the water s dimpled breast [rest. 
 
 Their own light bark beside the frail canoe would 
 r i he rj;/k was once your dwel ing-place, my sires ! 
 Or cavern scooped within the green hih s side; 
 The pr Avling wolf fled far your beacon fires, 
 And tae kind Indian half your wants supplied; 
 While round \ our necks the wampum-belt he tied, 
 He bade you on his lands in peace abide, 
 Nor dread the wakening of the midnight brand, 
 
 Oraught of broken faith to loose the peacebelt s band. 
 Oh ! if there is in beautiful and fair 
 A potency to charm, a power to bless ; 
 If bright blue skies and music-breathing air, 
 And nature in her every varied dress 
 Of peaceful beauty and wi d loveliness, 
 Can shed across the heart one sunshine ray, 
 J hen others, too, sweet stream, with only less 
 Th in mine own joy, shall gaze. and bear away [day 
 
 So.ne cherished thought of thee for many a coining 
 But yet not utterly obscure thy hanks, 
 N >r all unknown to history s page thy name; 
 For there wi d war hath poured his battle ranks, 
 And stamped in characters of blood and flame, 
 Thine annals in the chronicles of fame. 
 The wave t lat ripples on, so calm and still, 
 Hath trembled at the war-cry s loud acclaim, 
 T.ie cannon s voice hath rolled from hill to hill, 
 
 And midst thy echoing vales the trump hath sounded 
 
 shrill. 
 
 My country s standard waved on yonder height, 
 Her red cross banner England there displayed, 
 And there the German, who, for foreign fight, 
 Had left his own domestic hearth, and made 
 War, with its horrors and its blood, a trade, 
 Amidst the battle stood ; and all the day, 
 The bursting bomb, the furious cannonade, 
 The bugle s martial notes, the musket s play, 
 
 In mingled uproar wild, resounded far away. 
 
 Thick clouds of smoke obscured the clear bright 
 And hung above them like a funeral pall, [sky, 
 Shrouding both friend and foe, so soon to lie 
 Like brethren slumbering in one father s hall : 
 The work of death went on, and when the fall 
 Of night came onward silently, and shed . 
 A dreary hush, where late was uproar all, 
 How many a brother s heart in anguish bled [dead. 
 
 O er cherished ones, who there lay resting with the 
 Unshrouded and uncoffined they were laid 
 Within the soldier s grave e en where they fell: 
 At noon they proudly trod the field the spado 
 At night dug out their resting-place ; and well 
 And calmly did they slumber, though no bell 
 Pea ed over them its solemn music slow : 
 The night winds sung their only dirge their knell 
 Was but the owlet s boding cry of wo, [ters flow. 
 
 The flap of nighthawk s wing, and murmuring wa- 
 But it is over now the plough hath rased 
 All trace of where War s wasting hand hath been : 
 No vestige of the battle may be traced, 
 Save where the share, in passing o er the scene, 
 Turns up some rusted ball ; the maize is green 
 On what was once the death-bed of the brave ; 
 The waters have resumed their wonted sheen, 
 The wild bird sings in cadence with the wave, 
 
 And naught remains to show the sleeping soldier s 
 
 grave. 
 
 A pebble-stone that on the war-field lay, 
 And a wild rose that blossomed brightly there, 
 Were all the relics that I bore away, 
 To tell that I had trod the scene of war, 
 When I had turned my footsteps homeward far 
 These may seem childish things to some ; to me 
 They shall he treasured ones and, like the stai 
 That guides the sailor o er the pathless sea, 
 
 They shall lead back my thoughts, loved Brandy- 
 wine, to thee ! 
 
 SUMMER MORNING. 
 
 T is beautiful, when first the dewy light 
 Breaks on the earth ! while yet the scented air 
 Is breathing the cool freshness of the night, 
 
 And the bright clouds a tint of crimson wear 
 
 When every leafy chalice holds a draught 
 Of nightly dew, for the hot sun to drink, [laughed 
 When streams gush sportively, as though they 
 For very joyousness, and seemed to shrink 
 In playful terror from the rocky brink 
 Of some, s ight precipice then with quick leap 
 Bound lightly o er the barrier, and sink 
 In their own whirling eddy, and then sweep 
 With rippling music on, or in their channels sleep ! 
 
 While lights and shades play on them with each 
 
 breath 
 
 That moves the calm, still waters; when the fly 
 Skims o er the surface, and all things beneath 
 Gleam brightly through the flood, and fish glanco 
 With a quick flash of beauty , vhen the sky [by 
 Wears a deep azure brightness, and the song 
 Of matin gladness lifts its voice on h(gh, 
 And mingled harmony and perfume throng 
 On every whispering breeze that lightly floats along 
 
THE DAVIDSONS. 
 
 THE lives of LUCRETIA MARIA and MAR- 
 SARET MILLER DAVIDSON, which ii is impos 
 sible to contemplate without emotions of 
 admiration and sadness, have been illustra 
 ted at home by Professor Morse, by Wash 
 ington Irving-, and by Miss Sedgwick, and 
 abroad by Mr. Southey and several other 
 authors of well-deserved eminence in the 
 literary world. An attempt to invest them 
 with any new interest would therefore be 
 in vain. It is duubtful whether the annals 
 of literary composition can show anything, 
 produced at the same age, finer than some 
 of their poems ; and the beauty of their char 
 acters, which appear to have had in them 
 something of angelic holiness, fitted them as 
 well to shine in heaven, as their genius to 
 win the applauses of the w^orld. 
 
 Those who are familiar with our literary 
 history may remember that a remarkable 
 precocity of intellect has been frequently ex 
 hibited in this country. The cases of Lu- 
 cretia and Margaret Davidson are perhaps 
 more interesting than any which have re 
 ceived the general attention ; but they are 
 not the most wonderful that have been known 
 here. A few years ago I was shown, by one 
 of the house of Harper and Brothers, the 
 publishers, some verses by a girl but eight 
 years of age the daughter of a gentleman 
 in Connecticut that seemed nut inferior to 
 any composed by the Davidsons ; and other 
 prodigies of the same kind are at this time 
 exciting the hopes of more than one family. 
 Greatness is not often developed in child 
 hood, and where a strange precocity is ob 
 servable, it is generally but an early and 
 complete maturity of the mind. We can 
 not always decide, to even our own satisfac 
 tion, whether it is so, but as the writings of 
 i!i -r children, when they were from nine to 
 lifer;! years of age, exhibited no advance 
 ment, it is reasonable to suppose that, like 
 the wonderful boy Zerah Colburn, of Ver 
 mont, whose arithmetical calculations many 
 years ago astonished the world, they would 
 have possessed in their physical maturity no 
 high or peculiar intellectual qualities. 
 
 The father of Lucretia and Margaret Da 
 vidson was a physician. Their mother s 
 maiden name was Margaret Miller. She 
 was a woman of an ardent temperament and 
 an affectionate disposition, and had been care- 
 | fully educated. Lucretia was born in the 
 village of Plattsburg, in New York, on the 
 twenty-seventh of September, 1808. In her 
 infancy she was exceedingly fragile, but she 
 grew stronger when about eighteen months 
 old, and though less vigorous than most chil 
 dren of her age, suffered little for several 
 years from sickness. She learned the al 
 phabet in her third year, and at four was. 
 sent to a public school, where she was taught 
 to read and to form letters in sand, after the 
 Lancasterian system. As soon as she could 
 read, her time was devoted to the little books 
 that were given to her, and to composition. 
 Her mother, at one time, wishing to write a 
 letter, found that a quire or more of paper 
 had disappeared from the place where wri 
 ting implements were kept, and when she 
 made inquiries in regard to it, the child came 
 forward and acknowledged that she had 
 " used it." As Mrs. Davidson knew she had 
 not been taught to write, she was surprised, 
 and inquired in what manner it had been 
 destroyed. Lucretia burst into tears, and 
 replied that she did not like to tell. The 
 question was not urged. The paper contin 
 ued to disappear, and she was frequently 
 observed with little blank books, and pens, 
 arid ink, sedulously shunning observation. 
 At length, when she was about six years old, 
 her mother found hidden in a closet, rarely 
 opened, a parcel of papers which proved to 
 be her manuscript books. On one side of 
 each leaf was an artfully sketched picture, 
 and on the other, in rudely formed letters, 
 were poetical explanations. 
 
 From this time she acquired knowledge 
 very rapidly, studying intensely at school, 
 and reading in every leisure moment at home. 
 When about twelve years of age she accom 
 panied her father to a celebration of the 
 birth-night of Washington. She had stud 
 ied the history of the father of his country. 
 152 
 
THE DAVIDSONS. 
 
 and the scene awakened her enthusiasm. 
 The next day an older sister found her ab 
 sorbed in writing. She had drawn an urn, 
 and written two stanzas beneath it. They 
 were shown to her mother, who expressed 
 her delight with such animation that the 
 child immediately added the concluding ver 
 ses, and returned with the poem as it is 
 printed in her Remains : 
 
 And does a hero s dust lie here 1 
 Columbia ! gaze and drop a tear ! 
 His country s and the orphan s friend, 
 See thousands o er his ashes bend ! 
 
 Among the heroes of the age, 
 He was the warrior and the sage : 
 He left a train of glory bright, 
 Which never will be hid in night. 
 
 The toils of war and danger past, 
 
 He reaps a rich reward at last ; 
 
 His pure soul mounts on cherub s wings, 
 
 And now with saints and angels sings. 
 
 The brightest on the list of fame, 
 
 In golden letters shines his name ; 
 
 Her trump shall sound it through the world, 
 
 And the striped banner ne er be furled ! 
 
 And every sex, and every age, 
 From lisping boy to learned sage, 
 The widow, and her orphan son, 
 Revere the name of Washington. 
 
 She continued to write with much indus 
 try from this period. In the summer of 1823, 
 her health being very feeble, she was with 
 drawn from school, and sent on a visit to 
 some friends in Canada. In Montreal she 
 was delighted with the public buildings, mar 
 tial parades, pictures, and other novel sights, 
 and she returned to Plattsburg with renova 
 ted health. Her sister Margaret was born 
 on the twenty-sixth of March, 1823, and a 
 few days afterward, while holding the infant 
 in her lap, she wrote the following lines: 
 
 Sweet babe ! I can not hope that thou It be freed 
 From woes, to all since earliest time decreed ; 
 But may st thou be with resignation blessed, 
 To bear each evil howsoe er distressed. 
 
 May Hope her anchor lend amid the storm, 
 And o er the tempest rear her angel form ; 
 May sweet Benevolence, whose words are peace, 
 To the rude whirlwind softly whisper cease ! 
 
 And may Religion, Heaven s own darling child, 
 Teach tbee at human cares and griefs to smile 
 Teach thee to look beyond that world of wo, 
 To Heaven s high fount whence mercies ever flow. 
 And when this vale of years is safely passed, 
 When Death s dark curtain shuts the scene at last, 
 May thy freed spirit leave this earthly sod, 
 And fly to seek the bosom of thy God. 
 
 In the summer of 1824 she finished her 
 longest poem, Amir Khan, and in the autumn 
 of the same year was sent to the seminary of 
 Mrs. Willard, at Troy, where she remained 
 during the winter. In May, 1825, after 
 spending several weeks at home, she was 
 transferred to a boarding-school at Albany, 
 and here her health, which had before been 
 slightly affected, rapidly declined. In com 
 pany with her mother, and Mr. Moss Kent, 
 a gentleman of fortune, who- had undertaken 
 to defray the costs of her education, she re 
 turned to Plattsburg in July, and died there 
 on the twenty-seventh of August, one month 
 before her seventeenth birthday. She re 
 tained, until her death, the purity and sim 
 plicity of childhood, and died in the confident 
 hope of immortal happiness. 
 
 Soon after her death, her poems and prose 
 writings were published, with a memoir by 
 Mr. S. F. B. Morse, of New York, and an 
 elaborate biography of her life and character 
 has since been written by Miss C. M. Sedg- 
 wick, the author of Hope Leslie, etc. The 
 following verses are among the most perfect 
 she produced. They were addressed to her 
 sister, Mrs. Townsend, in her fifteenth year : 
 
 When evening spreads her shades around, 
 
 And darkness fills the arch of heaven ; 
 W r hen not a murmur, not a sound, 
 
 To Fancy s sportive ear is given ; 
 When the broad orb of heaven is bright, 
 
 And looks around with golden eye ; 
 When Nature, softened by her light, 
 
 Seems calmly, solemnly to lie ; 
 
 Then, when our thoughts are raised above 
 This world, and all this world can give : 
 
 Oh, sister, sing the song I love, 
 And tears of gratitude receive. 
 
 The song which thrills my bosom s core, 
 
 And hovering, trembles, half afraid, 
 Oh, sister, sing the song once more 
 
 Which ne er for mortal ear was made. 
 T were almost sacrilege to sing 
 
 Those notes amid the glare of day 
 Notes borne by angels purest wing, 
 
 And wafted by their breath away. 
 
 When sleeping in my grass-grown bed, 
 Shouldst thou still linger here above, 
 
 Wilt thou not kneel beside my head, 
 And, sister, sing the song I love 1 
 
 At the same age she wrote these lines To a 
 
 Star : 
 
 Thou brightly glittering star of even, 
 Thou gem upon the brow of heaven. 
 Oh ! were this fluttering spirit free, 
 How quick t would spread its wings to th3. 
 
lf)4 
 
 THE DAVIDSONS. 
 
 How ca rnly, brightly, dost thou shine, 
 Like the pure lamp in Virtue s shrine : 
 Sure the fair world which thou may st boast 
 Was never ransomed, never lost. 
 
 There, beings pure as heaven s own air, 
 Their hopes, their joys, together share ; 
 While hovering angels touch the string, 
 And seraphs spread the sheltering wing. 
 
 There, cloudless days and brilliant nights, 
 Illumed by Heaven s refulgent lights 
 There seasons, years, unnoticed roll, 
 And unregretted by the soul. 
 
 Thou little sparkling star of even, 
 Thou gem upon an azure heaven, 
 How swiftly will I soar to thee, 
 When this imprisoned soul is free. 
 
 In her sixteenth year she wrote Three 
 Prophecies, of which the following is one : 
 
 Let- me gaze awhile on that marble brow, 
 On that full, dark eye, on that cheek s warm glow ; 
 Let. me gaze for a moment, that, ere I die, 
 I may read thee, maiden, a prophecy. 
 That brow may beam in glory awhile ; 
 That cheek may bloom, and that lip may smile ; 
 That full, dark eye may brightly beam 
 In life s gay morn, in hope s young dream ; 
 But clouds shall darken that brow of snow, 
 And sorrow bright thy bosom s glow. 
 I know by that spirit so haughty and high, 
 I know by that brightly flashing eye, 
 That, maiden, there s that within thy breast 
 Which hath marked thee out for a soul unblessed: 
 The strife of love with pride shall wring 
 Thy youthful bosom s tenderest string; 
 And the cup of sorrow, mingled for thee, 
 Shall be drained to the dregs in agony. 
 5Tes, maiden, yes, I read in thine eye 
 A dark and a doubtful prophecy : 
 Thou shall love, and that love shall be thy curse ; 
 Thou wilt need no heavier, thou shalt feel no worse. 
 I see the cloud and the tempest near ; 
 The voice of the troubled tide I hear ; 
 The torrent of sorrow, the sea of grief, 
 The rushing waves of a wretched life : 
 Thy bosom s bark on the surge I see, 
 And, maiden, thy loved one is there with thee. 
 Not a star in the heavens, not a light on the wave : 
 Maiden, I ve gazed on thine early grave. 
 When I am cold, and the hand of Death 
 Hath crowned my brow with an icy wreath ; 
 When the dew hangs damp on this motionless lip; 
 When this eye is closed in its long, last sleep : 
 Then, maiden, pause, when thy heart beats high, 
 And think on my last sad prophecy. 
 
 In a more sportive vein is the piece enti 
 tled Auction Extraordinary, written about the 
 same period : 
 
 I dreamed a dream in the midst of my slumbers, 
 And as fast as I dreamed it, it came into numbers ; 
 My thoughts ran along w such beautiful me*re, 
 I in sure I ne er saw any poetry sweeter: 
 
 It seemed that a law had been recently made, 
 That a tax on old bachelors pates should be laid 
 And in order to make them all willing to marry, 
 The tax was as large as a man cou d well carry 
 The bachelors grumbled, and said twas no use 
 Twas horrid injustice, and horrid abuse, 
 And declared that to save their own hearts blooc 
 
 from spilling, 
 
 Of such a vi e tax they would not pay a shilling 
 But the rulers determined them still to pursue, 
 So they set all the old bachelors up at vendue: 
 A crier was sent through the town to and fro, 
 To rattle his bell, and his trumpet to blow, 
 And to call out to all he might meet in his way, 
 " Ho ! forty o d bachelors sold here to-day :" 
 And presently all the o d maids in the town, 
 Each in her very best bonnet and gown, 
 From thirty to sixt\, fair, plain, red, and pale, 
 Of every description, all flocked to the sale. 
 The auctioneer then in his labor began, 
 And called out aloud, as he held up a man, 
 " How much for a bachelor ? who wants to buy ? 
 In a twink, every maiden responded, " I, I." 
 In short, at a highly extravagant price, 
 The bachelors all were sold off in a trice : 
 And forty old maidens, some younger, some older, 
 Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder. 
 
 A few months hefore her death she wrote 
 this address to her mo Jier : 
 
 Oh thou whose care sustained my infant years, 
 
 And taught my prattling lip each note of love ; 
 Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears, 
 
 And round my brow hope s brightest garland wove: 
 To thee my lay is due, the simplest song, 
 
 Which Nature gave me at life s opening day ; 
 To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong, 
 
 Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay. 
 Oh say, amid this wilderness of life, [me ? 
 
 What boso;n would have throbbed like thine for 
 W T ho would have smiled responsive 1 who in grief 
 
 Would e er have felt,and,feeang, grieved like thee? 
 
 Who would have guarded, with a falcon eye, 
 Each trembling footstep or each sport of fear? 
 
 Who would have marked my bosom bounding high, 
 And clasped me to her heart,with love s bright tear? 
 
 Who would have hung around my sleepless couch, 
 And fanned, with anxious hand, my burning brow? 
 
 Who would have fondly pressed my fevered lip, 
 In all the agony of love and wo ? 
 
 Vone but a mother none but one like thee, 
 
 W T hose bloom has faded in the midnight watch ; 
 Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery ; 
 
 Whose form has felt disease s mildew touch. 
 Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life, 
 
 By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom 
 Yes, thou hast wept so oft o er every grief. 
 
 That wo hath traced thy brow with marks of gloom. 
 Oh, then, to thee this rude and simple song, 
 
 Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee, 
 To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong, 
 
 Whose life is spent in toil and care for me. 
 
THE DAVIDSONS. 
 
 155 
 
 She died with her " singing robes" about 
 her, having composed, while confined to her 
 bed in her last illness, these verses, expres 
 sive of her fear of madness : 
 
 There is a something which I dread, 
 
 It is a dark, a fearful thing ; 
 It steals along with withering tread, 
 Or sweeps on wild destruction s wing. 
 
 That thought comes o er me in the hour 
 Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness : 
 
 Tis not the dread of death tis more, 
 It is the dread of madness. 
 
 Oh ! may these throbbing pulses pause, 
 Forgetful of their feverish course ; 
 
 May this hot brain, which burning, glows 
 With all a fiery whirlpool s forcr 
 
 Be cold, and motionless, and still 
 
 A tenant of its lowly bed ; 
 But let not dark delirium steal 
 
 The poem is unfinished, and it is the last 
 she wrote. 
 
 MARGARET DAVIDSON, at the time of the 
 death of Lucretia, was not quite two years 
 old. The event made a deep and lasting 
 impression on her mind. She loved, when 
 but three years old, to sit on a cushion at her 
 mother s feet, listening to anecdotes of her 
 sister s life, and details of the events which 
 preceded her death, and would often exclaim, 
 while her face beamed with mingled emo 
 tions, "Oh, I will try to fill her place teach 
 me to be like her !" She needed little teach 
 ing. In intelligence, delicacy, and suscep 
 tibility, she surpassed Lucretia. When in 
 her sixth year, she could read with fluency, 
 and would sit by the bedside of her sick 
 mother, reading, with enthusiastic delight 
 and appropriate emphasis, the poetry of 
 Milton, Cowper, Thomson, and other great 
 authors, and marking, with discrimination, 
 the passages with which she was most 
 pleased. Between the sixth and seventh 
 years of her age, she entered on a general 
 course of education, studying grammar, ge 
 ography, history, and rhetoric ; but her con 
 stitution had already begun to show symp 
 toms of decay, which rendered it expedient 
 to check her application. In her seventh 
 summer she was taken to the springs of 
 Saratoga, the waters of which seemed to 
 have a beneficial effect, and she afterward 
 accompanied her parents to New York, with 
 which city she was highly delighted. On 
 her return to Plattsburg, her strength was 
 much increased, and she resumed her stud 
 ies with great assiduity. In the autumn 
 
 of 1830, however, her health began to fail 
 again, and it was thought proper for her and 
 her mother to join Mrs. Townsend, an elder 
 sister, in an inland town of Canada. She 
 remained here until 1833, when she had a 
 severe attack of scarlet fever, and on her 
 slow recovery it was determined to go again 
 to New York. Her residence in the city was 
 protracted until the summer heat became 
 oppressive, and she expressed her yearnings 
 for the banks of the Saranac, in the following 
 lines, which are probably equal to any ever 
 written by so young an author : 
 
 I would fly from the city, would fly from its care, 
 To my own native plants and my flowerets so fair, 
 To the cool grassy shade and the rivulet bright, 
 Which reflects the pale moon in its bosom of light: 
 Again would I view the old cottage so dear, 
 Where I sported, a babe, without sorrow or fear: 
 I would leave this great city, so brilliant and gay, 
 For a peep at my home on this- fair summer-day. 
 I have friends whom I love, and would leave with 
 
 regret, 
 
 But the love of my home, oh, tis tenderer yet; 
 There a sister reposes unconscious in death, 
 T was there she first drew, and there yielded her 
 A father I love is away from me now [breath. 
 Oh, could I but print a sweet kiss on his brow, 
 Or smooth the gray locks to my fond heart so dear, 
 How quick y would vanish each trace of a tear: 
 Attentive I listen to Pleasure s gay call, 
 But my own happy home, it is dearer than all. 
 
 The family soon after became temporary 
 residents of the village of Ballston, near Sa- 
 ratoga,and,intheau;umn of 1835, of Rure- 
 mont, on the sound, or East river, about four 
 miles from New York. Here they remained, 
 except at short intervals, until the summer 
 of 1837, when they returned 4o Ballston. In 
 the last two years, Margaret had suffered 
 much from illness herself, and had lost by 
 death her sister Mrs. Townsend and two 
 brothers ; and now her mother became alarm 
 ingly ill. As the season advanced, however, 
 health seemed to revisit all the surviving 
 members of the family, and Margaret was 
 as happy as at any period of her life. Early 
 in 1838, Dr. Davidson took a house in Sara 
 toga, to which he removed on the first of 
 May. Here she had an attack of bleeding 
 at the lungs, but recovered, and when her 
 brothers visited home from New York, she 
 returned with them to the city, and remained 
 there several weeks. She reached Saratoga 
 again in July ; the bloom had for the last 
 time left her cheeks ; and she decayed grad 
 ually until the twenty-fifth of November 
 
156 
 
 THE DAVIDSONS. 
 
 when her spirit returned to God. She was 
 then but fifteen years and eight months old. 
 She was aware of her approaching change, 
 and in the preceding September she wrote a 
 short poem, characterized by much beauty of 
 thought and tenderness of feeling, to her bro 
 ther, a young officer in the army, stationed 
 at a frontier post in the west, in which an 
 allusion lo the fading verdure, and falling 
 leaf, and gathering melancholy, and lifeless 
 quiet of the season, as typical of her own 
 b.i .jilted youth and approaching dissolution, 
 is pointed out by Mr. Irving as having in it 
 s^moJiing peculiarly solemn and affecting. 
 " Bu when," she says: 
 
 " But when, in the s .iadc of the autumn wood, 
 
 i nv wandering footsteps stray ; 
 When yel ow leaves and perishing buds 
 
 Are scattered in ti.y way ; 
 When all around thce breathes of rest, 
 
 And sad.ioss and decay 
 With the drooping tbwer, and the fallen tree, 
 Oh, brother, b.end thy thoughts of me !" 
 
 Her later poems do not seern to me supe 
 rior to some written in her eleventh year, 
 and the prose compositions included in the 
 volume of her Remains, edited by Mr. Irving, 
 are not better than those of many girls of 
 her age. One cf her latest and most perfect 
 pieces is the dedication of a poem entitled 
 Leonore to the spirit of her sister Lucretia: 
 Oh, thou, so early lost, so long deplored ! 
 
 Pure spirit of my sister, be thou near ! 
 And while I t.iuch this hallowed harp of thine, 
 
 Bend from the skies, sweet sister, bend and hear. 
 For thee I pour this unaffected lay ; 
 
 To thee these simple numbers all belong: 
 For though thine earthly form has passed away, 
 
 Thy memory still inspires my childish song. 
 Take, then, this feeble tribute tis thine own 
 
 Thy fingers sweep my trembling heart-strings o er, 
 Arouse to harmony each buried tone, 
 
 And bid its wakened music sleep no more ! 
 
 LOIU has thy voice been silent, and thy lyre 
 
 Hung o er thy grave, in death s unbroken rest; 
 But when its last sweet tones were borne away, 
 
 One answering echo lingered in my breast 
 Oh, thou pure spirit ! if thou hoverest near, 
 
 Accept these lines, unworthy though they be, 
 Faint echoes from thy fount of song divine, 
 
 By thee inspired, and dedicate to thee ! 
 
 Leonore is the longest of her poems, and 
 it was commenced after much reflection, and 
 written with care and a resolution to do 
 something that should serve as the measure 
 }( her genius, and carry her name into the 
 
 future. It is a story of romantic love, hap 
 pily conceived, and illustrated with some 
 fine touches of sentiment and fancy. It is 
 a creditable production, arid would entitle 
 a much older author to consideration ; but 
 its best passages scarcely equal some of her 
 earlier and less elaborate performances. 
 
 The following lines addressed to her mo 
 ther, a few days before her death, are the 
 last she ever wrote : 
 
 Oh, mother, would the power were mine 
 To wake the strain thou lovest to hear, 
 
 And breathe each trembling new-born thought 
 Within thy fondly listening ear, 
 
 As when, in days of health and glee, 
 
 My hopes and fancies wandered free. 
 
 But, mother, now a shade hath passed 
 Athwart my brightest visions here ; 
 
 A cloud of darkest gloom hath wrapped 
 The remnant of my brief career: 
 
 No song, no echo can I win, 
 
 The sparkling fount hath dried within. 
 
 The torch of earthly hope burns dim, 
 
 And fancy spreads her wings no more, 
 And oh, how vain and trivial seem 
 
 The pleasures that I prized before ; 
 My soul, with trembling steps and slow, 
 
 Is struggling on through doubt and strife ; 
 Oh, may it prove, as time rolls on, 
 
 The pathway to eternal life ! 
 Then, when my cares and fears are o er, 
 I 11 sing thee as in " days of yore." 
 
 I said that Hope had passed from earth 
 T was but to fold her wings in heaven, 
 
 To whisper of the soul s new birth, 
 Of sinners saved and sins forgiven: 
 
 When mine are washed in tears away, 
 
 Then sha;l my spirit swell the lay. 
 
 When God shall guide my soul above, 
 By the soft chords of heavenly love 
 When the vain cares of earth depart, 
 And tuneful voices swell mv heart, 
 Then shall each word, each note I raise, 
 Burst forth in pealing hymns of praise: 
 And all not offered at his sbrine, 
 Dear mother, I will place on thine. 
 
 In 1843, a volume entitled Selections from 
 the Writings of Mrs. Margaret M. Davidson, 
 the mother of Lucretia Maria and Margaret 
 Miller Davidson, was published, with a pref 
 ace by Miss Sedgwick. There is nothing in 
 the book to arrest attention. Mrs. Davidson 
 has some command of language and a know 
 ledge of versification, and the chief produc 
 tion of her industry in this line is a para 
 phrase of six books of Fingal. Her writings 
 are interesting only as indexes to the early 
 culture of her daughters. 
 
MAEY E. STEBBINS. 
 
 THE maiden name of Mrs. STEBBINS was 
 MARY ELIZABETH MOORE, and she is a na 
 tive of Maiden, a country town about five 
 miles from Boston, in which city she re 
 sided until her removal to New York, in 
 1829, about two years after her marriage 
 with Mr. James L. Hewitt. 
 
 Mrs. Stebbins earlier poems appeared in 
 The Knickerbocker Magazine and other pe 
 riodicals, under the signature of "lone," 
 and in 1 845 she published in Boston a vol 
 ume entitled Songs of our Land and other 
 Poems, which confirmed the high opinions 
 
 which had been formed of her abilities from 
 the fugitive pieces that had been popularly 
 attributed to her. Her compositions in this 
 collection show that she has a fine and 
 well-cultivated understanding, informed 
 with womanly feeling and a graceful fancy, 
 and they are distinguished in an unusual 
 degree for lyrical power and harmony as 
 well as for sweetness of versification. 
 
 Among the more recent productions of 
 Mrs. Stebbins are some pure translations, 
 which illustrate her taste and learning 
 and fine command of language. 
 
 THE SONGS OF OUR LAND. 
 
 YK say we sing no household songs, 
 
 To children round our hearths at p ay ; 
 No minstrelsy to us belongs, 
 
 No legend of a bygone day 
 No old tradition of the hil s 
 Our giant land no memory fills : 
 
 We have no proud heroic lay. 
 Ye ask the time-worn storied page 
 Ye ask the lore of other age, 
 
 From us, a race of yesterday ! 
 
 Of yore, in Britain s feudal halls, 
 
 Where manv a storied trophy hung 
 With shield and banner on the walls, 
 
 The Bard s high harp was sternly strung 
 In praise of war its fierce delights 
 To " heroes of a hundred fights." 
 
 The lofty sounding shell outrung ! 
 Gone is the ancient Bardic race : 
 Their song hath found perpetual place 
 
 Their country s proud arphives among. 
 
 The stirring Scottish border tale 
 
 Pealed from the chords in chieftain s hall, 
 The wild traditions of the Gael 
 
 The wandering harper s lays recall. 
 Bold themes, Germania, fire thy strings; 
 And when the Marseillaise outrings, 
 
 With patriot ardor thrills the Gaul : 
 All have their legend and their song, 
 Records of glory, feud, and wrong 
 
 Of conquest wrought, and foeman s fall. 
 Fond thought the Switzer s bosom fills 
 
 When sounds the " Rans des Vaches" on high. ; 
 A race as ancient as their hills 
 
 Still echoes that wild mountain cry. 
 He springs along the rocky height, 
 He marks the lamriergeyer s flight. 
 
 The startled chamois bounding by ; 
 He snuffs the mountain breeze of morn ; 
 He winds again the mountain horn, 
 
 And loud the wakened Alps reply ! 
 
 Our fathers bore from Albion s isle 
 . No stories of her sounding lyres : 
 They left the old baronial pile 
 
 They left the harp of ringing wires. 
 Ours are the legends still rehearsed, 
 Ours are the songs that g adsome burst 
 
 By a l your cot and palace fires : 
 Each tree that in your soft wind stirs, 
 Waves o er our ancient sepulchres, 
 
 The sleeping ashes of our sires ! 
 
 They left the gladsome Christmas chime, 
 
 The yule fire, and the misletoe ; 
 They left the vain, ungodly rhyme, 
 
 For hymns the solemn paced and slow ; 
 They left the mass, the stoled priest, 
 The scarlet woman and the beast, 
 
 For worship rude and altars low : 
 Their land, with its dear memories fraught, 
 They left for liberty of thought 
 
 For stranger clime and savage foe. 
 
 And forth they went nerved to forsake 
 
 Home, and the chain they might not wear 
 And woman s heart was strong to break 
 
 The links of love that bound her there : 
 Here, free to worship and believe, 
 From many a log-built hut at eve 
 
 Went up the suppliant voice of prayer. 
 Is it not writ on history s page, 
 That the strong hand grasped our heritage * 
 
 Of the lion claimed his forest lair ! 
 
 Our people raised no loud war songs, 
 The shouted no fierce battle cry 
 
 A bumng memory of their wrongs 
 Lit up their path to victory 
 157 
 
if) 9 
 
 MARY E. ST EBB INS. 
 
 With prayer to God to aid the right, 
 The yeoman girded him for fight, 
 
 To free the land he tilled, or die. 
 They bore no proud escutcheoned shield, 
 No blazoned banners to the field 
 
 Naught but their watchword " Liberty !" 
 
 Their sons when after-years shall fling 
 
 O er these, romance when time hath cast 
 The mighty shadow of his wing 
 
 Between them and the storied past 
 Will tell of foul oppression s heel, 
 Of hands that bore the avenging steel, 
 
 And battled sternly to the last 
 By their hearth-fires on the free hill-side : 
 So shall our songs, o er every tide, 
 
 Swell forth triumphant on the blast ! 
 
 E en now the word that roused our land 
 
 Is calling o er the wave, " Awake !" 
 And pealing on from strand to strand, 
 
 Wherever ocean s surges break : 
 Up to the quickened ear of toil 
 It rises from the teeming soil, 
 
 And bids the slave his bonds forsake. 
 Hark ! from the mountains to the sea, 
 The old world echoes " Liberty !" 
 
 Till thrones to their foundations shake. 
 And ye who idly set at naught 
 
 The sacred boon in suffering won, 
 Read o er our page with glory fraught, 
 
 Nor scoff that we no more have done : 
 Read how the nation of the free 
 Hath carved her deeds in history, 
 
 Nor count them bootless every one 
 Deeds of our mighty men of old, 
 Whose names stand evermore enrolled 
 
 Beneath the name of Washington ! 
 Oh, mine own fair and glorious land ! 
 
 Did I not hold such faith in thee, 
 As did the honored patriot band 
 
 That bled to make thce great and free 
 Did I not look to hear thee sung, 
 To hear thy lyre yet proudly strung, 
 
 Thou ne er had waked my minstrelsy : 
 Arid I shall hear thy song resound, 
 Till from his shackles man shall bound, 
 
 And shout, exultant, " Liberty !" 
 
 THE TWO VOICES. 
 
 A VOICK went forth throughout the land, 
 
 And an answering voice replied 
 From the rock-piled mountain fastnesses 
 
 To the surging ocean tide. 
 And far the blazing headlands gleamed 
 
 With their land-awakening fires ; 
 A rid the hill-tops kindled, peak and height, 
 
 With a hundred answering pyres. 
 The quick youth snatrhed his father s sword, 
 
 And the yeoman rose in might ; 
 And the aged grandsire nerved him there 
 
 For the stormy field of fight : 
 And the hillmen left their grass-grown steeps, 
 
 And their flocks and herds unkept ; 
 
 And the ploughshare of the husbandman 
 In the half-turned furrow slept. 
 
 They wore no steel-wrought panoply, 
 Nor shield nor morion gleamed ; 
 
 Nor the flaunt of bannered blazonry 
 In the morning sunlight streamed. 
 
 They bore no marshalled, firm array 
 
 Like a torrent on they poured, 
 With the fire ock, and the mower s scythe, 
 
 And the old forefathers sword. 
 And again a voice went sounding on, 
 
 And the bonfires streamed on high ; 
 And the hill-tops rang to the headlands back, 
 
 With the shout of victory ! 
 
 So the land redeemed her heritage, 
 By the free hand mailed in right, 
 
 From the war-shod, hireling foeman s tread, 
 And the ruthless grasp of might. 
 
 THE AXE OF THE SETTLER. 
 
 THOU conqueror of the wilderness, 
 
 With keen and bloodless edge 
 Hail ! to the sturdy artisan 
 
 Who welded thee, bold wedge ! 
 Though the warrior deem the weapon 
 
 Fashioned only for the slave, 
 Yet the settler knows thee mightier 
 
 Than the tried Damascus glaive. 
 While desolation marketh 
 
 The course of foeman s brand, 
 Thy strong blow scatters plenty 
 
 And gladness through the land: 
 Thou opest the soil to culture, 
 
 To the sunlight and the dew ; 
 And the village spire thou plantest 
 
 Where of old the forest grew. 
 
 When the broad sea rolled between them 
 
 And their own far native land, 
 Thou wert the faithful ally 
 
 Of the hardy pilgrim band. 
 They bore no warlike eagles, 
 
 No banners swept the sky ; 
 Nor the clarion, like a tempest, 
 
 Swelled its fearful notes on high. 
 But the ringing wild reechoed 
 
 Thy bold, resistless stroke, 
 Where, like incense, on the morning 
 
 Went up the cabin smoke : 
 The tall oaks bowed before thee, 
 
 Like reeds before, the blast ; 
 And the earth put forth in gladness 
 
 Where the axe in triumph passed. 
 Then hail ! thou noble conqueror, 
 
 That, when tyranny oppressed, 
 Hewed for our tathers from the wild 
 
 A land wherein to rest : 
 Hail, to the power that giveth 
 
 The bounty of the soil, 
 And freedom, and an honored name, 
 
 To the hardy sons of toil ! 
 
MARY E. STEBBINS. 
 
 159 
 
 A THOUGHT OF THE PILGRIMS. 
 
 How beauteous in the morning light, 
 
 Bright glittering in her pride, 
 Trimountain,* from her ancient height, 
 
 Looks down upon the tide : 
 The fond wind woos her from the sea, 
 And ocean clasps her lovingly, 
 
 As bridegroom clasps his bride. 
 
 And out across the waters dark, 
 
 Careering on their way, 
 Full many a gal ant, home-bound bark 
 
 Conies dashing up the bay : 
 Their pennons float on morning s gale, 
 The sun ight gilds each swelling sail, 
 
 And flashes on the spray. 
 
 Not thus toward fair New Eng and s coastj 
 
 With eager-hearted crew, 
 The pil rim-freighted, tempest-tost, 
 
 And lonely May Flower drew : 
 There was no hand outstretched to bless, 
 No we come from the wilderness, 
 
 To cheer her hardy few. 
 
 But onward drove the winter clouds 
 
 Athwart the darkening sky, 
 And hoarsely through the stiffened shrouds 
 
 The wind swept stormily ; 
 While shrill from out the beetling rock, 
 1 hat seemed the billows force to mock, 
 
 Broke f rth the sea-gull s cry. 
 
 God s blessing on their memories ! 
 
 Those sturdy men and bo d, 
 Who girt their hearts in righteousness, 
 
 Like martyr saints of o d ; 
 And mid oppression sternly sought, 
 To hold the sacred boon of Thought 
 
 In freedom uncontrolled. 
 
 They left the old, ancestral hall 
 The creed they might not own ; 
 
 They left home, kindred, fortune, all 
 Left glory and renown : 
 
 For what to them was pride of birth, 
 
 Or vv iat to them the pomp of earth, 
 Who sought a heavenly crown 1 
 
 Strong armed in faith they crossed the flood : 
 
 Here, mid the forest fair, 
 With axe and mattock, from the wood 
 
 They laid broad pastures bare ; 
 And with the ploughshare turned the plain, 
 And p anted fields of yellow grain 
 
 And built their dwc lings there. 
 
 The pilgrim sires ! How from the night 
 
 Of centuries dim and vast, 
 It comes o er every hi 1 arid height 
 
 That watchword from the past ! 
 And old men s pulses quicker bound, 
 And young hearts leap to hear the sound, 
 
 As at the trumpet s blast. 
 
 * Boston built upon three hill? was originallj named, 
 by tin- early settlorc, "Trimountain." 
 
 And though the Pilgrim s day hath set. 
 
 Its glorious light remains 
 Its beam refulgent lingers yet 
 
 O er all New England s plains. 
 Dear land ! though doomed from thee to part, 
 The blood that warmed the Pilgrim s heart 
 
 Swells proudly in my veins ! 
 
 Go to the islands of the sea, 
 
 Wherever man may dare 
 Wherever pagan bows the knee, 
 
 Or Christian bends in prayer 
 To every shore that bounds the main, 
 Wherever keel on strand hath lain 
 
 New England s sons are there. 
 
 Toil they for wealth on distant coast, 
 
 Roam they from sea to sea : 
 Self-exiled, still her children boast 
 
 Their birthplace mong the free ; 
 Or seek they fame on glory s track, 
 Their hearts, like mine, turn ever back, 
 
 New England, unto thee ! 
 
 THE CITY BY THE SEA. 
 
 CROWNED with the hoar of centuries, 
 
 There, by the eternal sea, 
 High on her misty cape she sits, 
 
 Like an eagle fearless, free. 
 
 And thus in olden time she sat, 
 
 On that morn of long ago ; 
 Mid the roar of Freedom s armament, 
 
 And the war-bolts of her foe. 
 
 Old Time hath reared her pillared walls, 
 
 Her domes and turrets high : 
 W T ith her hundred tall and tapering aspires, 
 
 All flashing to the sky. 
 
 Shall I not sing of thee, beloved 1 
 
 My beautiful, my pride ! 
 Thou that towerest in thy queenly grace, 
 
 By the tributary tide. 
 
 There, swan-like crestest thou the waves 
 That, enamored, round thee swell 
 
 Fairer than Aphrodit , couched 
 On her foam-wreathed ocean shell. 
 
 Oh, ever, mid this restless hum 
 
 Resounding from the street, 
 Of the thronging, hurrying multitude, 
 
 And the tread of stranger feet 
 
 My heart turns back to thee mine own ! 
 
 My beautiful, my pride ! 
 W 7 ith thought of thy free ocean wind, 
 
 And the clasping, fond old tide 
 
 W T ith all thy kindred household smokes, 
 
 Upwreathing far away ; 
 And the merry bells that pealed as now 
 
 On my grandsire s wedding-day : 
 
 To those green graves and truthful heart* 
 
 Oh, city by the sea ! 
 My heritage, and priceless dower, 
 
 My beautiful,. J n thee ! 
 
MARY E. STEBBIXS. 
 
 TUB SUNFLOWER TO THE SUN. 
 
 HVMKTTTS hees are out on filmy wing, 
 
 Dim Phosphor slowly fades adown the west, 
 And Earth awakes. Shine on me, oh my king! 
 
 For I with dew am laden and oppressed. 
 Long through the misty clouds of morning gray 
 
 The flowers have watched to hail thee from yon 
 Sad Asphodel, that pines to meet thy ray, [sea: 
 
 And Juno s roses, pale for love of thee. 
 Perchance thou dalliest with the Morning Hour, 
 
 Whose blush is reddening now the eastern wave ; 
 Or to Lie c.oud for ever leav st thy flower, 
 
 Wiled by the glance white-footed Thetis gave. 
 
 I was a proud Chaldean monarch s child !* 
 
 Euphrates waters told me I was fair 
 And thou, Thessa ia s shepherd, on me smiled, 
 
 And likened to thine own my amber hair. 
 Thou art my life sustain er of my spirit ! 
 
 Leave me not then in darkness here to pine; 
 Other hearts love thee, yet do they inherit 
 
 A passionate devotedness like mine ] 
 
 But lo ! thou lift st thy shield o er yonder tide : 
 
 The gray clouds fly before the conquering Sun ; 
 Thou like a monarch up the heavens dost ride 
 
 And, joy ! thou beamst on me, celestial one ! 
 On me, thy worshipper, thy poor Parsee, 
 
 Whose brow adoring types thy face divine 
 God of my burning heart s idolatry, 
 
 Take root like me, or give me life like thine ! 
 
 THE LAST CHANT OF CORINNE. 
 
 BY that mysterious sympathy which chaineth 
 
 For evermore my spirit unto thine ; 
 And by the memory, that alone remaineth, 
 
 Of that sweet hope that now no more is mine; 
 And by the love my trembling heart betrayeth, 
 
 That, born of thy soft gaze, within me lies; 
 As the lone desert-bird, the Arab sayeth, 
 
 Warms her young brood to life with her fond eyes : 
 Hoar me, adored one ! though the world divide us, 
 
 Though never more my hand in thine be pressed, 
 Though t > commingle thought be here denied us, 
 
 Till our high hearts shall beat themselves to rest ; 
 Forget me not, forget me not ! oh, ever 
 
 J his one, one prayer, my spirit pours to thee ; 
 Ti!l every memory from earth shall sever, 
 
 Remember, oh, beloved ! remember me ! 
 And when the light within mine eye is shaded, 
 
 When I, o erwearied, sleep the sleep profound, 
 And like that nymph of yore who drooped and faded, 
 
 And pined for love, till she became a sound ; 
 My song, perchance, awhile to earth remaining, 
 
 Shall come in murmured melody to thee: 
 Then let my lyre s deep, passionate complaining, 
 
 Cry to thy heart, beloved" Remember me !" 
 
 *( !y -la, .hm-hrer of Orchnmus kin- of Babvlon, w 
 l.e )v,.,l l,y Apollo; but the eod deserting her she nii 
 away !, c- .nnnually .azuu on tl, ,un. and was 
 
 "" which mr 
 
 GREEN PLACES IN THE CITY. 
 
 YE fill my heart with gladness, verdant places, 
 
 That mid the city greet me where I pass ; 
 Methinks I see of angel-steps the traces 
 
 Where er upon my pathway springs the grass. 
 I pause before your gates at early morning, 
 
 When lies the sward with glittering sheen o er- 
 
 spread ; 
 And think the dewdrops there each blade adorning, 
 
 Are angels tears for mortal frailty shed. 
 
 And ye, earth s firstlings, here in beauty springing, 
 
 Erst in your cells by careful Winter nursed 
 And to the morning heaven your incense flinging, 
 
 As at His smile ye forth in gladness burst 
 How do ye cheer with hope my lonely hour, 
 
 W T hen on my way I tread despondingly, 
 With thought that He who careth for the flower, 
 
 Will, in his mercy, still remember me ! 
 
 Breath of our nostrils Thou ! whose love embraces, 
 
 Whose light shall never from our souls depart, 
 Beneath thy touch hath sprung a green oasis 
 
 Amid the arid desert of my heart. 
 Thy sun and rain call forth the bud of promise, 
 
 And with fresh leaves in spring-time deck the tree ; 
 That where man s hand hath shut out Nature from 
 
 We, by these glimpses, may remember Thee ! [us, 
 
 CAMEOS. 
 
 HEKCULES AXD OMPHALE. 
 
 RECLINED enervate on the couch of ease, 
 No more he pants for deeds of high emprise ; 
 For Pleasure holds in soft, voluptuous ties 
 
 Enthralled, great Jove-descended Hercules. 
 
 The hand that bound the Erymanthian boar, 
 Hesperia s dragon slew, with bold intent 
 That from his quivering side in triumph rent 
 
 The skin the Cieonsean lion wore, 
 
 Holds forth the goblet while the Lydian queen, 
 Rob d like a nymph, her browenvvreath d with vine, 
 Lifts high the amphora, brimmed with rosy wine, 
 
 Arid pours the draught the crowned cup within. 
 
 And thus the soul, abased to sensual sway, 
 
 Its worth forsakes its might forgoes for aye. 
 
 TITTOS CHATXED IX TARTARUS. 
 
 OH, wondrous marvel of the sculptor s art! 
 Whatcumiinghand hath cull d thee from themine. 
 And carved thee into life, with skill divine ! 
 How claims in thee Humanity a part 
 Seems from the gem the form enchained to start, 
 While thus with fiery eye, and outspread wings, 
 The ruthless vulture to his victim clings, 
 With whetted beak deep in the quivering heart. 
 Oh, thou embodied meaning, master-wrought ! 
 Thus taught the sage, how, sunk in crime and sin, 
 The soul a prey to conscience, writhes within 
 Its fleshly bonds enslaved : thus ever, Thought, 
 The breast s keen torturer, remorseful tears 
 At life, the hell whose chain the soul in anguish 
 wears ! 
 
MARY E. STEBBIXS. 
 
 1G1 
 
 A YARN. 
 
 u Tis Saturday night, and our watch be^w 
 What heed we, boys, how the breezes blow, 
 While our cans are brimmed with the spark ing flow: 
 Come, Jack uncoil, as we pass the grog, 
 And spin us a yarn from memory s log." 
 
 Jack s brawny chest like the broad sea heaved, 
 While his loving lip to the beaker cleaved; 
 And he drew his tarred and well-saved sleeve 
 Across his mouth, as he drained the can, 
 And thus to his listening mates began : 
 
 When I sailed a boy. in the schooner Mike, 
 No bigger, I trow, than a marlinspike 
 But I ve to d ye the tale ere now, belike ?" 
 "Go on !" each voice reechoed, 
 And the tar thrice hemmed, and thus he said : 
 
 "A stanch-built craft as the waves e er bore 
 We had loosed our sails for home once more, 
 Freighted full deep from Labrador, 
 When a cloud one night rose on our lee, 
 That the heart of the stoutest quailed to see. 
 
 And voices wild with the winds were blent, 
 As our bark her prow to the waters bent ; 
 And the seamen muttered their discontent 
 Muttered and nodded ominously 
 But the mate, right carelessly whistled he. 
 
 1 Our bark may never outride the ga 1 ^ 
 
 Tis a pitiless night ! the pattering hail 
 
 Hath coated each spar as t were in mail ; 
 
 And our sails are riven before the breeze, 
 
 While our cordage and shrouds into icicles freeze ! 
 
 Thus spake the skipper beside the mast, 
 While the arrowy s eet fell thick and fast ; 
 And our bark drove onward before the blast 
 That goaded the waves, till the angry main 
 Rose up and strove with the hurricane. 
 
 Up spake the mate, and his tone was gay 
 Shall we at this hour to fear give way ] 
 We must labor, in sooth, as well as pray : 
 Out, shipmates, and grapple home yonder sail, 
 That flutters in ribands before the gale ! 
 
 Loud swelled the tempest, and rose the shriek 
 Save, save ! we are sinking ! A leak ! a leak ! 
 And the hale old skipper s tawny cheek 
 Was cold, as twere sculptured in marble there, 
 And white as the foam, or his own white hair. 
 
 The wind piped shrilly, the wind piped loud 
 It shrieked mong the cordage, it howled in the 
 
 shroud ; 
 
 And the sleet fell thick from the cold, dun cloud : 
 But hi_rh over all, in tones of glee, 
 The voice of the mate rang cheerily 
 
 Now, men, for your wives and your sweethearts 
 
 sakes ! 
 
 Choer, messmates, cheer ! quick ! man the brakes ! 
 We ll gain on the leak ere the skipper wakes; 
 And though our peril your hearts appal, 
 Ere dawns the morrow we 11 laugh at the 
 
 squall. 
 
 He railed at the tempest, he laughed at its threats, 
 He played with his fingers like castanets: 
 Yet think not that he, in his mirth, forgets 
 That the plank he is riding this hour at sea, 
 May launch him the next to eternity ! 
 
 The white-haired skipper turned away, 
 And lifted his hands, as it were to pray ; 
 But his look spoke plainly as look could say, 
 The boastful thought of the Pharisee 
 Thank God, I m not hardened as others be ! 
 
 But the morning dawned, and the waves sank low, 
 And the winds, o erwearied, forbore to blow ; 
 And our bark lay there in the golden glow 
 Flashing she lay in the bright sunshine, 
 An ice-sheathed hulk on the cold, still brine. 
 
 Well, shipmates, my yarn is almost spun 
 The cold and the tempest their work had done, 
 And I was the last, lone, living one, 
 Clinging, benumbed, to that wave-girt wreck, 
 W T hile the dead around me bestrewed the deck. 
 
 Yea, the dead were round me every whet e ! 
 The skipper gray, in the sunlight there, 
 Still lifted his paralyzed hands in prayer ; [leapt, 
 And the mate, whose tones through the darkness 
 In the silent hush of the morning, slept. 
 
 Oh, bravely he perished who sought to save 
 Our storm-tossed bark from the pitiless wave, 
 And her crew from a yawning and fathomless grave : 
 Crying, Messmates cheer ! with a bright,glad smile, 
 And praying, Be merciful, God ! the while. 
 
 True to his trust, to his last chill gasp, 
 The helm lay clutched in his stiff, cold grasp 
 You might scarcely in death undo the clasp : 
 And his crisp, brown locks were dank and thin, 
 And the icicles hung from his bearded chin. 
 
 My timbers have weathered, since, many a gale 
 And when life s tempests this hulk assail, 
 And the binnacle lamp in my breast burns pale, 
 Cheer, messmates, cheer to my heart I say, 
 < We must labor, in sooth, as well as pray ! " 
 
 IMITATION OF SAPPHO. 
 
 IF to repeat thy name when none may hear me, 
 To find thy thought with all my thoughts inwove, 
 
 To languish where thou rt not to sigh when neai 
 Oh, if this be to love thee, 1 do love ! [thee : 
 
 If when thou utterest low words of greeting, 
 To feel through every vein the torrent pour; 
 
 Then back again the hot tide swift retreating, 
 Leave me all powerless, silent as before : 
 
 If to list breathless to thine accents falling, 
 Almost to pain, upon my eager ear 
 
 And fondly when alone to be recalling 
 The words that I would die again to hear : 
 
 If neath thy glance my heart all strength forsaking, 
 Pant in my breast as pants the frighted dove 
 
 If to think on thee ever, keeping waking- 
 Oh ! if this be to love thee. I do love 
 
162 
 
 MARY E. STEBBIXS. 
 
 LOVE S PLEADING. 
 
 SPKAK tender words, mine own beloved, to me 
 
 Call me thy lily thy imperial one, 
 That, like the Persian, breathes adoringly 
 
 Its train-ant worship ever to the sun. 
 
 Speak tender words, lest doubt with me prevail : 
 
 Call me thy rose thy queen rose ! throned apart, 
 That all unheedful of the nightingale, 
 
 Fo ds close the dew within her burning heart. 
 For thou rt the sun that makes my heaven fair, 
 
 Thy love, the blest dew that sustains me here; 
 A IK! like the plant that hath its root in air, 
 
 I only live within thy atmosphere. 
 
 L -ok on me with those soul-illumined eyes, 
 
 And murmur low in love s entrancing tone 
 Methinks the angel-lute of paradise 
 
 Had never voice so thri ling as thine own ! 
 Say I am dearer to thee than renown, 
 
 My praise more treasured than the world s acclaim: 
 Ca:l me thy laure thy victorious crown, 
 
 Wreathed in unfading g ory round thy name. 
 Breathe low to me each pure, enraptured thought, 
 
 While thus thy arms my trusting heart entwine : 
 Call me by all fond meanings love hath wrought, 
 
 But oh, Ian this, ever call me thine ! 
 
 THE HEARTH OF HOME. 
 
 THE storm around my dwelling sweeps, 
 And while the boughs it fiercely reaps, 
 My heart within a vigil keeps, 
 
 The warm and cheering hearth beside; 
 And as I mark the kind. ing glow 
 Bright y o er a l its radiance throw, 
 Back to the years my memories flow, 
 
 When Rome sat or, her hills in pride ; 
 When every stream, and grove, and tree, 
 And fountain, had its deity. 
 
 The hearth was then, mong low and great, 
 
 Unto the Lares consecrate : 
 
 The youth, arrived to man s estate, 
 
 There offered up his golden heart ; 
 Thither, when overwhelmed with dread, 
 The stranger still for refuge fled 
 Was kindly cheered, and warmed, and fed, 
 
 Till he might fearless thence depart: 
 And there the slave, a slave no more, 
 Hung reverent up the chain he wore. 
 Full many a change the hearth hath known; 
 The Druid fire, the curfew s tone, 
 The log that bright at yule-tide shone, 
 
 The merry sports of Hallow-e en: 
 Yft sti.l where er a home is found, 
 Gather the warm affections round, 
 And there the notes of mirth resound 
 
 The voice of wisdom heard between : 
 And welcomed there with words of grace, 
 The stranger finds a resting place. 
 Oh, wheresoe er our feet may roam, 
 Still sacred is the hearth of home ; 
 
 Whether beneath the princely dome, 
 
 Or peasant s lowly roof it be, 
 For home the wanderer ever yearns ; 
 Backward to where its hearth-fire burns, 
 Like to the wife of old, he turns 
 
 Fondly the eyes of memory : 
 Back where his heart he offered first 
 Back where his fair, young hopes he nursed. 
 
 My humble hearth though all disdain, 
 Here may I cast aside the chain 
 The world hath coldly on me lain 
 
 Here to my Lares offer up 
 The warm prayer of a grateful heart : 
 Thou that my household Guardian art, 
 That dost to me thine aid impart, 
 
 And with thy mercy fill st my cup 
 Strengthen the hope within my soul, 
 Till I in faith may reach the goal ! 
 
 THE LAUNCH. 
 
 A SOUND through old Trimountain went, 
 
 A voice to great and small, 
 That told of feast and merriment, 
 
 And welcome kind to all : 
 And there was gathering in the hall, 
 
 And gathering on the strand ; 
 And many a heart beat anxiously 
 
 That morning, on the sand : 
 
 For tis the morn when ocean tide, 
 
 An hundred tongues record, 
 Shall wed the daughter of the oak 
 
 The mighty forest lord. 
 
 They dressed the bride in streamers gay, 
 
 Her beauty to enhance ; 
 And o er her hung Columbia s stars, 
 
 And the tri-fold flag of France ; 
 They decked her prow with rare device 
 
 With wealth of carving good ; 
 And they girt her with a golden zone, 
 
 The maiden of the wood. 
 
 The gay tones of the artisan 
 
 Fell lightly on the ear, 
 And sound of vigorous hammer stroke 
 
 Rang loudly out and clear ; 
 And stout arms swayed the ponderous sledge, 
 
 While a shout the hills awoke, 
 As forth to meet the bridegroom flood 
 
 Swept the daughter of the oak. 
 
 And bending to the jewelled spray 
 
 That rose her step to greet, 
 She dashed aside the vesty waves 
 
 That gathered round her feet; 
 And down her path right gracefully, 
 
 The queenly maiden pressed, 
 Till the royal ocean clasped her form 
 
 To his broad and heaving breast. 
 
 God guide thee o er the trackless deep, 
 
 My brother brave and true ; 
 God speed the good Damascus well, 
 
 And shield her daring crew ! 
 
MARY E. STEBBIXS. 
 
 163 
 
 THE ODE OF HAROLD THE VALIANT. 
 
 I Min the hills was horn, 
 
 Where the skilled bowmen 
 Send, with unerring shaft, 
 
 Death to the foemen. 
 But I love to steer my bark 
 
 To fear a stranger 
 Over the Maelstrom s edge, 
 
 Daring the danger ; 
 And where the mariner 
 
 Paleth affrighted, 
 Over the sunken rocks 
 I dash on delighted. 
 
 The far waters know my keel 
 
 No tide restrains me ; 
 But ah ! a Russian maid 
 Coldly disdains me. 
 
 Once to Sicilia s isle 
 
 Voyaged T, unfearing: 
 Conflict was on my prow, 
 
 Glory was steering. 
 Where fled the stranger-ship 
 
 Wildly before me, 
 Down, like the hungry hawk, 
 
 My vessel bore me ; 
 We carved on the craven s deck 
 
 The red runes of slaughter: 
 When my bird whets her beak, 
 
 Our spears give no quarter ! 
 
 The far waters know my keel, &c. 
 
 Countless, like spears of grain, 
 
 Were the warriors of Drontheim, 
 When like the hurricane 
 
 I swept down upon them ! 
 Like chaff beneath the flail 
 
 They fell in their numbers 
 Their king with the golden hair 
 
 I sent to his slumbers. 
 
 I love the combat fierce, &c. 
 
 Once o er the Baltic sea 
 
 Swift we were dashing ; 
 Bright on our twenty spears 
 
 Sunlight was flashing ; 
 When through the Skagerack 
 
 The storm-wind was driven, 
 And from our bending mast 
 
 The broad sail was riven : 
 Then, while the angry brine 
 
 Foamed like a flagon, 
 Brim full the yesty rhime 
 
 Filled our brown dragon; 
 But I, with sinewy hand, 
 
 Strengthened in slaughter, 
 Forth from the straining ship 
 
 Bailed the dun water : 
 
 I love the combat fierce, <fec 
 
 Firmly I curb my steed, 
 
 As e er Thracian horseman ; 
 
 My hand throws the javelin true, 
 Pride of the Norseman ; 
 
 And the bold skaiter marks, 
 While his lips quiver, 
 
 Where o er the bending ice 
 
 I skim the strong river. 
 Forth to my rapid oar 
 
 The boat swiftly springeth 
 Springs like the mettled steed 
 When the spur stingeth. 
 Valiant I am in fight, 
 
 No fear restrains me, &c, 
 
 Saith she, the maiden fair, 
 
 The Norsemen are cravens? 
 I in the Southland gave 
 
 A feast to the ravens ! 
 Green lay the sward outspread, 
 
 The bright sun was o er us, 
 When the strong fighting men 
 
 Rushed down before us. 
 Midway to meet the shock 
 
 My fleet courser bore me, 
 And like Thor s hammer crashed 
 
 My strong hand before me ! 
 Left we their maids in tears, 
 
 Their city in embers: 
 The sound of the Viking s spears 
 
 The Southland remembers ! 
 I love the combat fierce, &c. 
 
 LAY. 
 
 A LAY of love ! ask yonder sea 
 
 For wealth its waves have closed upon 
 A song from stern Thermopylae 
 A battle-shout from Marathon ! 
 Look on my brow ! Reveals it naught 1 
 
 It hideth deep rememberings, 
 Enduring as the records wrought 
 
 Within the tombs of Egypt s kings! 
 Take thou the harp I may not sing 
 
 Awake the Teian lay divine, 
 Till fire from every glowing string 
 Shall mingle with the flashing wine! 
 
 The Theban lyre but to the sun 
 
 Gave forth at morn its answering tone : 
 So mine but echoed when the one, 
 
 One sunlit glance was o er it thrown. 
 The Memnon sounds no more ! my lyre 
 
 A veil upon thy strings is flung: 
 I may not wake the chords of fire 
 The words that burn upon my tongue. 
 Fill high the cup ! I may not sing 
 
 My hands the crowning buds will twine 
 Pour till the wreath I o er it fling 
 Shall mingle with the rosy wine. 
 
 No lay of love ! the lava-stream 
 
 Hath left its trace on heart and brain ! 
 No more no more ! the maddening theme 
 
 Will wake the slumbering fires again ! 
 Fling back the shroud on buried years 
 
 Hail, to the ever-blooming hours! 
 We ll fill Time s glass with ruby tears, 
 
 And twine his bald, old brow with flowers! 
 Fill high ! fill high ! I may not sing 
 
 Strike forth the Teian lay divine, 
 Till fire from every glowing string 
 Shall mingle with the flashing wine! 
 
SUSAN R. A. BARNES. 
 
 Miss SUSAN REBECCA AYER, now Mrs. 
 BARNES, is a daughter of the Hon. Richard 
 H. Aver, of the city of Manchester, in New 
 Hampshire. Her family has furnished sev 
 eral names distinguished in public affairs and 
 in literature. Mr. John Greene, the banker, 
 of Paris, is her maternal uncle, and the ac 
 complished scholar and writer, Mr. Nathan 
 iel Greene, of Boston, is nearly related to her. 
 
 Her associations have therefore been preemi 
 nently favorable to the cultivation of her abil 
 ities. Her poems are marked by many feli 
 cities of expression ; and they frequently cc m- 
 bine a masculine vigor of style with tender 
 ness and a passionate earnestness of feeling. 
 Mrs. Barnes now resides with her father, in 
 Manchester. Her native place is Hooksett, 
 in the same state. 
 
 IMALEE: 
 
 AN EASTERN LEGEND 
 
 SHRINED in the bosom of the Indian sea, 
 Where ceaseless Summer smiles perpetually, 
 A festal glory o er the tropic thrown, 
 To other lands and other climes unknown 
 By friends untrodden, un profaned by foes, 
 The bright isle of the Indian god arose. 
 There waving mid a wilderness of green, 
 The palm-tree spread its leaf of glossy sheen ; 
 The tamarind blossom floating on the gale, 
 Bore breathing odors to the passing sail; 
 The banyan s broad, interminable shade 
 A bower of bright, perennial beauty made ; 
 And from the rock s deep cleft, by Nature nurst, 
 The tropic s floral wealth in sp endor burst. 
 It seemed that Nature, revelling in bloom, 
 Here claimed exemption from the general doom : 
 Perpetual verdure o er the seasons reigned, 
 Perpetual beauty every sense enchained ; 
 And here the Indian, Nature s untaught child, 
 The simple savage of a sunny wild, 
 Deemed that the spirit whom he worshipped dwelt, 
 And here at eve in adoration knelt 
 The Indian maiden sacred to the power 
 So deeply reverenced, day s departing hour 
 
 The shadows deepen o er the summer sea, 
 The breeze is up the ripple murmurs free ; 
 A single sail in the dim distance holds 
 Its onward course, though twilight s darkening folds, 
 Descending, deepening, veil the lessening prow; 
 And now it nears the sacred isle, and now 
 A single, solitary form is seen 
 A fearless foot hath pressed the yielding green ! 
 And Ima!ee, the dark-browed Indian maid, 
 At this dim hour, unshrinking, undismayed, 
 With step that borrows firmness from despair 
 With eye that tells what woman s soul will dare, 
 When wars the spirit in its prisoned home, 
 Till Keason yielding, trembles on her throne 
 Hath sought the shrine, unmindful of the hour, 
 To hold dark commune with an unknown power. 
 
 Around, a paradise of bloom is shed ; 
 The cocoa breathes its blossoms o er her head ; 
 The scarlet bombex clusters at her feet, 
 And bloom and fragrance unregarded meet ; 
 While heavy with the glittering dews of night, 
 The leaf is greener and the flower more bright. 
 
 The maiden hung her wreath upon the shrine, 
 An offering to the power she deemed divine, 
 When soft and low a breathing whisper came 
 That thrilled through every fibre of her frame; 
 That spirit-voice all tremulous she hears 
 " Within thy wreath a withered rose appears !" 
 
 " There is there is fit emblem of my heart ; 
 Oh, Power benign ! thine influence impart 
 To raise, restore, and renovate for me, 
 That withered flower, or bid its memory flee ! 
 I flung it from me in an idle hour, 
 In the first dream of conscious maiden power : 
 That dream is o er, and I have lived to wake, 
 To wish my bursting heart indeed might break !" 
 
 Again that voice is stealing on her ear, 
 That spirit-voice, but not in tones of fear ; 
 It murmurs in a soft, familiar tone, 
 It thrills he; heart, but why, she dares not own : 
 Her head is raised, her cheek like sunset glows ; 
 Again it breathes, " Wilt thou restore the. rose T* 
 And mid the waving foliage s deepening green 
 A well remembered form is dimly seen. 
 
 That eve it had been hers unmoved to mark 
 The shadows deepening round her lonely bark ; 
 A darker shadow brooded o er her rest, 
 A deeper desolation veiled her breast ; 
 And she who had in tearless sadness sought 
 The haunted shade where godsand demons wrought, 
 And there unmoved her fearful vigil kept, 
 Now bowed her head, and like an infant wept. 
 
 Abroad once more upon the starlit sea, 
 The sounding surge is musical to thee ; 
 The deepening shadows lose their ghastly gloom, 
 The distant shades are redolent of bloom ; 
 The sky is cloudless and the air is balm, 
 The tropic night s pecu iar, breathing calm 
 Bright Irnalee, tis thine once more to own, 
 Abroad upon the wave BUT XOT ALOXE. 
 164 
 
SUSAN R. A. BARNES. 
 
 J65 
 
 THE ARMY OF THE CROSS. 
 
 IT must have been a glorious sight, 
 
 And one which to behold 
 Would stir the sternest spirit s depths, 
 
 Those armed bands of old ! 
 The glittering panoply of proof, 
 
 The helmet and the shield, 
 The spear and ponderous battle-axe, 
 
 Which only they could wield ! 
 
 The knightly daring high resolve, 
 
 Engraven on each brow, 
 The manly form of iron mould 
 
 Methinks I see them now, 
 As fresh and vividly they rise, 
 
 To bid the bosom glow, 
 As when they burst upon the eye 
 
 A thousand years ago ! 
 
 And neath that burning Syrian sun, 
 
 Far as the eye can measure, 
 Prepared to pour like water forth 
 
 Their life-blood and their treasure 
 Those banded legions pressing on, 
 
 The red-cross banner flying, 
 And thousands seeking neath that sign 
 
 The glorious need of dying! 
 
 Oh holy, pure, and heartfelt zeal, 
 
 Misguided though thou be, 
 There still is something heavenly bright 
 
 And beautiful in thee ! 
 And He who judges not as man, 
 
 Tis his alone to try thee, 
 And thou wilt meet that grace from him 
 
 Thy brother would deny thee. 
 
 Assailed without, begirt within 
 
 By those who hate and fear thee, 
 Though Danger lurks within thy path, 
 
 And Death is busy near thee 
 As reckless of continual toil 
 
 As if that frame were iron, 
 A glorious destiny is thine, 
 
 Undaunted Coeur de Lion ! 
 
 God speed thee on thine enterprise, 
 
 Lord of the lion heart ; 
 Go mid " the rapture of the strife" 
 
 Enact thy princely part : 
 Do battle with the infidel, 
 
 And smite his haughty brow, 
 And plant the standard of the cross 
 
 Where waves the crescent now ! 
 
 The blood of the Plantagenets 
 
 Is bounding in thy veins, 
 The soul of the Plantagenets 
 
 Within thy bosom reigns ; 
 And deeds that breathe of future fame, 
 
 And deathless meed assign, 
 Desires not conquest e en can tame, 
 
 And beauty s smile, are thine ! 
 
 The story of thy knightly faith, 
 
 As ages roll along, 
 Shall brighten o er the poet s page, 
 
 And wake the minstrel s song : 
 
 Ay to the tale of high emprise, 
 The daring deed and bold, 
 
 The spirit leaps as wildly now 
 As in those davs of old ! 
 
 PENITENCE. 
 
 THOU art not penitent, although 
 
 There rages in thy brain 
 A scorching madness undefined, 
 
 Whose very breath is flame. 
 Thou art not penitent : alas ! 
 
 The world hath wounded thee, 
 And thou in anguish ill concealed 
 
 Art fain to turn and flee. 
 
 Thou hast in Pleasure s maddening cup 
 
 That cup too deeply quaffed 
 The pearl of thy existence thrown, 
 
 And drained it at a draught ! 
 Unmourned and unrepressed, behold 
 
 Life s energies decline 
 Worn, wasted in unholy fires : 
 
 And what reward is thine ! 
 
 The world, once worshipped, spurns thee now 
 
 Rejects thee casts thee hence 
 And thou art nursing injured pride, 
 
 And dreamst of penitence ! 
 Let but the temptress smile again, 
 
 Thou wouldst her influence own, 
 Forgetting in that charmed embrace 
 
 The evil thou hadst known. 
 
 Thou bringest not a broken heart 
 
 To offer at the throne 
 Of Him who has in love declared 
 
 The broken heart his own. 
 Thy heart is hard thou who hast long 
 
 The path of error trod ; 
 Deemst thou that weak and wicked thing 
 
 An offering meet for God 1 
 Go, if thou canst, when Flattery s voice 
 
 Is stealing on thine ear 
 In tones so sweet, an angel might, 
 
 Forgetting, turn to hear 
 Go, rather list the voice within, 
 
 And bow beneath the rod, 
 And recognise with soul subdued 
 
 The chastening of thy God ! 
 Go to the wretch who may have wrought 
 
 Irreparable ill, 
 To thee, or those more deeply dear, 
 
 More fondly cherished still ; 
 Approach, though it may seem like death 
 
 To look on him, and live, 
 And while Revenge is wooing thee, 
 
 Say firmly, " I forgive." 
 Go, when to deep idolatry 
 
 Thy heart is darkly prone 
 That heart whose steadfast hope should still 
 
 Be fixed on God alone : 
 Go, rend the image from its shrine, 
 
 And hurl the idol hence, 
 And bring it bleeding back to Him r 
 
 This this is penitence I 
 
SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 
 
 (Born 1813). 
 
 MRS, WHITMAN is a native of Providence. 
 Her father., the late Mr. Nicholas Power, a 
 merchant of that city, was a lineal descend 
 ant of that Nicholas Power who accompanied 
 Roger Williams in his banishment, and as 
 sisted him in establishing the first of govern 
 ments which claimed no authority over the 
 conscience. The founder of her family in 
 Rhode Island appears to have been worthy of 
 his fraternity with the new Baptist, preaching 
 the gospel of liberty in the wilderness, and the 
 Massachusetts General Court made him feel 
 the weight of its displeasure for advancing so 
 much faster than itself in civilization. 
 
 Miss Power married at an early age Mr. 
 John Winslow Whitman, a son of Mr. Kil- 
 born Whitman, an eminent citizen of Mas 
 sachusetts, and a descendant from Edward 
 WinslovA, the first governor of Plymouth. 
 Mr. Whitman s childhood was passed with 
 his grandfather, Dr. Isaac Winslow, upon 
 the only estate which at that time remained 
 by uninterrupted transmission in the families 
 of the Pilgrims. Mrs. Whitman has pub 
 lished an interesting account of a visit to the 
 old mansion, soon after the death of Dr. Wins- 
 low, while it was still graced with the rich 
 ly-carved oaken chairs and massive tables 
 brought over in the May Flower, and its ven 
 erable walls were decorated with the family 
 portraits, that have since been deposited in 
 the halls of the Antiquarian and Historical 
 Societies of Massachusetts. 
 
 Mr. Whitman was graduated at Brown 
 University, and, after completing his studies 
 in the law, began to practise in the courts of 
 Boston, where his fine abilities gave promise 
 of a brilliant career ; but a lingering illness 
 s )on compelled him to abandon his profes 
 sion, and after a brief union his wife re 
 turned, a widow, to the house of her mother, 
 iu her native city. 
 
 From this period she has devoted her time 
 chiefly to literary studies. To a knowledge 
 of the best English authors she has added a 
 familiarity with the languages and literatures 
 of (lermany, Italy, and France. Shehasgiv- 
 nn her most loving attention to the poets, 
 critic? and philosophers, of the first of these 
 
 countries, who have in a larger degree tha 
 any others formed her own tastes and opin 
 ions. These are exhibited in several striking 
 and brilliant papers in the periodicals ; and 
 particularly in her article on Goethe s Con 
 versations with Eckermann, in the Boston 
 Quarterly Review, for January, 1840, and in 
 her notice of Emerson s Essays, in the Dem 
 ocratic Review, for June, 1845. 
 
 Of the poems of Mrs. Whitman, one enti 
 tied Hours of Life contains probably the finest 
 passages, though it is perhaps somewhat too 
 mystical and metaphysical to be very popular. 
 This has not been printed. The most care 
 fully elaborated of her published poems are 
 three Fairy Ballads The Golden Ball, The 
 Sleeping Beauty, and Cinderilla in the com 
 position of which she has been assisted by 
 her sister, Miss Anna Marsh Power. To 
 these are prefixed the lines of Burns: 
 
 " Full oft the Muse, as frugal housewives do, 
 Gars auld claes look amaist us wool as new." 
 
 Nothingcan be finer in its way than the Sleep 
 ing Beauty of Tennyson, but that brilliant po 
 et has given only an episode of the beautiful 
 legend, which is here presented with so much 
 clearness of narrative, propriety of illustra 
 tion, and splendor of coloring. Cinderilla is 
 longer than the Sleeping Beauty, to the som 
 bre character of which its polished and glow 
 ing vivacity presents a pleasing contrast. 
 
 Mrs. Whitman s poems all betray the lux 
 uriant delight with which she abandons her 
 self to her inspirations. The silvery sweet 
 ness and clearness of her versification, the 
 varied modulations of emphasis and cadence, 
 the many nice adaptations of sound to sense, 
 would alone entitle her poems to lank among 
 our most exquisite lyrics ; but these subtle 
 intertwinings and linked harmonies of her 
 style are ennobled by thoughts full of origi 
 nality and beauty, and enriched by illustra 
 tions drawn from a wide range of literary cul 
 ture. She has not only the artist eye which 
 sees at a glance all that outline and color can 
 express, but she gives us the breathing per 
 fumes, the atmospheric effects, and the spir 
 itual character, of the scenes that live in her 
 numbers. lgg 
 
y 
 
SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 
 
 167 
 
 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY: 
 
 A TALE OF FORESTS AND ENCHANTMENTS DREAR. 
 
 // PctiScrM.,. 
 Si-ter, tis the noon of night ! 
 
 Lei us, in tlie web of thought. 
 We ive the threads of ancient song, 
 
 From the realms of F.iiiie.s brought. 
 Thou shall stain the dusky warp 
 
 In niglit.-hiide wet with 
 
 t dew: 
 
 I, with streaks of morning -old, 
 Will strike tlie fabric Uiraufb and through. * 
 
 WHKHE a lone castle by the sea 
 
 Upreared its dark and mouldering pile, 
 Far seen, with all its frowning towers, 
 
 For many and many a weary mile ; 
 The wild waves beat the castle walls, 
 
 And bathed the rock with ceaseless showery 
 The winds roared fiercely round the pile, 
 
 And moaned along its mouldering towers. 
 Within those wide and echoing halls, 
 
 To guard her fro.n a fatal spell, 
 A maid of noble lineage born 
 
 Was doomed in solitude to dwell. 
 Five fairies graced the infant s birth 
 
 With fame and beauty, wealth and power; 
 The sixth , by one fell stroke, reversed 
 
 The lavish splendors of her dower. 
 Whene er the orphan s lily hand 
 
 A spindle s shining point should pierce, 
 She swore upon her magic wand, 
 
 The maid shou d sleep a hundred years. 
 The wild waves beat the east e wall, 
 
 And bathed the rock with ceaseless showers ; 
 Dark, heaving billows plunge and fall 
 
 In whitening foam beneath the towers. 
 There, rocked by winds and lulled by waves, 
 
 In youthful grace the maiden grew, 
 And from her so itary dreams 
 
 A sweet and pensive pleasure drew. 
 Yet often, from her lattice high, 
 
 She gazed athwart the gathering night, 
 To mark the sea-gulls wheeling by, 
 
 And longed to follow in their flight. 
 One winter night, beside the hearth 
 
 She sat and watched the smouldering fire, 
 While now the tempests seemed to lull, 
 
 And now the winds rose high and higher 
 Strange sounds are heard along the wall, 
 
 Dim faces glimmer through the gloom 
 And still mysterious voices call, 
 
 And shadows flit from room to room 
 Till, bending o er the dying brands, 
 
 She chanced a sudden gleam to see : 
 She turned the sparkling embers o er, 
 
 And lo ! she finds a golden key ! 
 Lured on, as by an unseen hand, 
 
 She roamed the castie o er and o er 
 Through many a darkling chamber sped, 
 
 And many a dusky corridor : 
 And still, through unknown, winding ways 
 
 She wandered on for many an hour, 
 For gallery still to gallery leads, 
 
 Arid tower succeeds to tower. 
 Oft, wearied with the steep ascent, 
 
 She lingered on her lonely way, 
 And paused beside the pictured walls, 
 
 * This is a joint production of Mrs. Whitman and her sis 
 ter, Miss Tower. ;is before stated. 
 
 Their countless wonders to survey. 
 At length, upon a narrow stair 
 
 That wound within a turret high, 
 She saw a little low-browed door, 
 
 And turned, her golden key to try : 
 Slowly, beneath her trembling hand, 
 
 The bolts recede, and, backward flung, 
 With harsh recoil and sullen clang 
 
 The door upon its hinges swung. 
 There, in a little moonlit room, 
 
 She sees a weird and withered crone, 
 \V ho sat and spun amid the gloom, 
 
 And turned her wheel with drowsy drone 
 With mute amaze and wondering awe, 
 
 A passing moment stood the maid, 
 Then, entering at the narrow door, 
 
 More near the mystic task surveyed. 
 She saw her twine the flaxen fleece, 
 
 She saw her draw the flaxen thread, 
 She viewed the spind e s shining point, 
 
 And, pleased, the novel task surveyed. 
 A sudden longing seized her breast 
 
 To twine the fleece, to turn the wheel : 
 She stretched her lily hand, and pierced 
 
 Her finger with the shining steel ! 
 Slowly her heavy eyelids close, 
 
 She feels a drowsy torpor creep 
 From limb to limb, till every sense 
 
 Is locked in an enchanted sleep. 
 A dreamless slumber, deep as night. 
 
 In deathly trance her senses locked 
 At once through all its massive vaults 
 
 And gloomy towers the castle rocked: 
 The beldame roused her from her lair, 
 
 And raised on high a mournful wail 
 A shrilly scream that seemed to float 
 
 A requiem on the dying gale. 
 "A hundred years shall pass," she said, 
 
 "Ere those blue eyes behold the morn, 
 Ere these deserted halls and towers 
 
 Shall echo to a bugle-horn. 
 A hundred Norland winters pass, 
 
 While drenching rains and drifting snows 
 Shall beat against the castle walls, 
 
 Nor wake thee from thy long repose. 
 A hundred times the golden grain 
 
 Shall wave beneath the harvest moon, 
 Twelve hundred moons shall wax and wane 
 
 Ere yet thine eyes behold the sun !" 
 She ceased : but still the mystic rhyme 
 
 The long-resounding aisles prolong, 
 And a!I the castle s echoes chime 
 
 In answering cadence to her song. 
 She bore the maiden to her bower, 
 
 An ancient chamber wide and low, 
 Where golden sconces from the wall 
 
 A faint and trembling lustre throw ; 
 A silent chamber, far apart, 
 
 Where strange and antique arras hung, 
 That waved along the mouldering walls, 
 
 And in the gusty night wind swung 
 She laid her on her ivory bed, 
 
 And gently smoothed each snowy limb, 
 Then drew the curtain s dusky fold 
 
 To make the entering daylight dim. 
 
168 
 
 SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 
 
 P.ART II. 
 
 And all around, on every side, 
 Throughout the castle s precincts wide, 
 
 In every bower and hall, 
 All slept: the warder in the court, 
 The figures on the arra.* wrought, 
 
 The steed within his stall. 
 No more the watchdog hayed the moon, 
 The owlet ceased her boding tune, 
 
 The raven on his tower, 
 All hushed in slumber still and deep, 
 Enthralled in an enchanted sleep, 
 
 Await the appointed hour. 
 A pathless forest, wild and wide, 
 Engirt the castle s inland side, 
 
 And stretched for many a mile ; 
 So thick its deep, impervious screen, 
 The castle towers were dimly seen 
 
 Above the mouldering pile. 
 So high the ancient cedars sprung, 
 So far aloft tlieir branches flung, 
 
 So close the covert grew, 
 No foot its si!ence could invade, 
 No eye could pierce its depths of shade, 
 
 Or see the welkin through. 
 Yet oft, as from some distant mound 
 The traveller cast his eyes around, 
 
 O er wold and woodland gray, 
 .He saw, athwart the glimmering light 
 Of moonbeams, on a misty night, 
 
 A castle far away. 
 
 A hundred Norland winters passed, 
 
 While drenching rains and drifting snows 
 Beat loud against the castle walls, 
 
 Nor broke the maiden s long repose. 
 A hundred times on vale and hill 
 
 The reapers bound the golden corn 
 And now the ancient halls and towers 
 
 Reecho to a bugle-horn ! 
 
 A warrior from a distant land, 
 
 With helm and hauberk, spear and brand. 
 
 And high, untarnished crest, 
 By visions of enchantment led, 
 Hath vowed, before the morning s red, 
 
 To break her charmed rest. 
 From torrid clime beyond the main 
 He comes the costly prize to gain, 
 
 O er deserts waste and wide. 
 No dangers daunt, no toils can tire; 
 With throbbing heart and soul on fire 
 
 He seeks his sleeping bride. 
 He gains the old, enchanted wood, 
 Where never mortal footsteps trod, 
 
 He pierced its tangled gloom ; 
 A dullness loads the lurid air, 
 Where baleful swamp-fires gleam and glare, 
 
 His pathway to illume. 
 Weil might the warrior s courage fail, 
 Well might his lofty spirit quail, 
 
 On that enchanted ground ; 
 No opHii foemun meets him there, 
 Bui, borne upon the murky air, 
 
 Strange horror broods around 
 At everv turn nis footsteps sank 
 
 Mid tangled boughs and mosses dank, 
 
 For long and weary hours 
 Till issuing from the dangerous wood, 
 The castle full before him stood, 
 
 With all its flanking towers! 
 The moon a paly lustre sheds; 
 Resolved, the grass-grown court he treads, 
 
 The g oomy portal gained 
 He crossed the threshold s magic hound, 
 He paced the hall, where all around 
 
 A deathly silence reigned. 
 No fears his venturous course could stay 
 Darkling he groped his dreary way 
 
 Up the wide staircase sprang. 
 It echoed to his mailed heel; 
 With clang of arms and clash of steel 
 
 The silent chambers rang. 
 He sees a glimmering taper gleam 
 Far off, with faint and trembling beam, 
 
 Athwart the midnight gloom : 
 Then first he felt the touch of fear, 
 As with slow footsteps drawing near, 
 
 He gained the lighted room. 
 And now the waning moon was low, 
 The perfumed tapers faintly glow, 
 
 And, by their dying gleam, 
 He raised the curtain s dusky fold, 
 And lo ! his charmed eyes behold 
 
 The lady of his dream ! 
 As violets peep from wintry snows, 
 Slowly her heavy lids unclose, 
 
 And gently heaves her breast; 
 But all unconscious was her gaze, 
 Her eye with listless languor strays 
 
 From brand to plumy crest : 
 A rising blush begins to dawn 
 Like that which steals at early morn 
 
 Across the eastern sky ; 
 And slowly, as the morning broke, 
 The maiden from her trance awoke 
 
 Beneath his ardent eye ! 
 As the first kindling sunbeams threw 
 Their level light athwart the dew, 
 
 And tipped the hills with flame, 
 The silent forest-boughs were stirred 
 With music, as from bee and bird 
 
 A mingling murmur came. 
 From out its depths of tangled gloom 
 There came a breath of dewy bloom, 
 
 And from the valleys dim 
 A cloud of fragrant incense stole, 
 As if each violet breathed its soul 
 
 Into that floral hymn. 
 Loud neighed the steed within his stall, 
 The cock crowed on the castle wall, 
 
 The warder wound his horn ; 
 The linnet sang in leafy bower, 
 The swallows, twittering from the tower, 
 
 Salute the rosy morn. 
 But fresher than the rosy morn, 
 And blither than the bugle-horn, 
 
 The maiden s heart doth prove, 
 Who, as her beaming eyes awake, 
 Beholds a double morning break 
 
 The dawn of light and love! 
 
SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 
 
 169 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER. 
 
 FAREWELL the forest shade, the twilight grove, 
 The turfy path with fern and flowers inwove, 
 Where through long summer days I wandered far, 
 Till warned of evening by her " folding star." 
 No more I linger by the fountain s play 
 Where arching boughs shut out the sultry ray. 
 Making at noontide hours a dewy gloom [bloom, 
 O er the moist marge where weeds and wild flowers 
 Til! from the western sun a glancing flood 
 Of arrowy radiance filled the twilight wood, 
 Glinting athwart each leafy, verdant fold, 
 And flecking all the turf with drops of gold. 
 
 Sweet sang the wild bird on the waving bough 
 Where cold November winds are wailing now ; 
 The chirp of insects on the sunny lea, 
 And the wild music of the wandering bee, 
 Are silent a 1 closed is their vesper lay, 
 Borne by the breeze of autumn far away : 
 Yet still the withered heath I love to rove, 
 The bare, brown meadow, and the leafless grove ; 
 Still love to tread the bleak hill s rocky side, 
 Where nodding asters wave in purple pride, 
 Or from its summit listen to the flow 
 Of the dark waters booming far below. 
 Still through the tangling, pathless copse I stray 
 Where sere and rustling leaves obstruct the way, 
 To find the last pale blossom of the year, 
 That strangely blooms when a 1 is dark and drear: 
 The wild, witch hazel, fraught with mystic power 
 To ban or bless, as sorcery rules the hour. 
 Then, homeward wending thro the dusky vale 
 Where winding rills their evening damps exhale, 
 Pause by the dark pool in whose sleeping wave 
 Pale Dian loves her golden locks to lave 
 In the hushed fountain s heart, serene and cold, 
 Glassing her glorious image as of old, 
 When first she stole upon Endymion s rest, 
 And his young dreams with heavenly beauty blest. 
 
 And thou, " stern ruler of the inverted year," 
 Cold, cheerless Winter, hath thy wild career 
 No sweet, peculiar pleasures for the heart, 
 That can ideal worth to rudest forms impart] 
 When, through thy long, dark nights, cold sleet and 
 Patter and plash against the frosty pane, [rain 
 Warm curtained from the storm, I love to lie 
 Wakeful, and listening to the lullaby 
 Of fitful winds, that, as they rise and fall, 
 Send hollow murmurs through the echoing hall. 
 
 Oft by the blazing hearth at eventide 
 I love to mark the changing shadows glide 
 In flickering motion o er the umbered wall, 
 Till Slumber s honey dew my senses thrall. 
 Then, while in dreamy consciousness I lie 
 Twixt sleep and waking, fairy Fantasy 
 Cul s from the golden past a treasured store, 
 And weaves a dream so sweet, Hope could not ask 
 for more. 
 
 In the cold splendor of a frosty night, 
 When blazing stars burn with intenser light 
 Through the blue vault of heaven ; when cold and 
 
 clear 
 
 The air through which yon tall cliffs rise severe ; 
 Or when the shrouded earth in solemn trance 
 
 Sleeps neath the wan moon s melancholy glance, 
 I love to mark earth s sister planets rise, 
 And in pale beauty tread the midnight skies, 
 Where, like lone pilgrims, constant as the night, 
 They fill their dark urns from the fount of light. 
 
 I lo\<* the JBorealis flames that fly 
 Fitful and wild athwart the northern sky 
 The storied constellation, like a page 
 Fraught with the wonders of a former age, 
 Where monsters grim, gorgons, and hydras, rise, 
 And " gods and heroes blaze along the skies." 
 
 Thus Nature s music, various as the hour, 
 Solemn or sweet, hath ever mystic power 
 Still to preserve the unperverted heart 
 Awake to love and beauty to impart 
 Treasures of thought and feeling pure and deep, 
 That aid the doubting soul its heavenward course 
 to keep. 
 
 A STILL DAY IN AUTUMN. 
 
 I LOVE to wander through the woodlands hoary 
 In the soft light of an autumnal day, 
 
 When Summer gathers up her robes of glory, 
 And like a dream of beauty glides away. 
 
 How through each loved, familiar path she lingers, 
 Serenely smiling through the golden mist, 
 
 Tinting the wild grape with her dewy fingers 
 Till the cool emerald turns to amethyst : 
 
 Kindling the faint stars of the hazel, shining 
 To light the gloom of Autumn s mouldering halls 
 
 With hoary plumes the clematis entwining 
 Where o er the rock her withered garland falls. 
 
 Warm lights are on the sleepy uplands waning 
 
 Beneath soft clouds along the horizon rolled, 
 Till the slant sunbeams through their fringes raining 
 
 Bathe all the hills in melancholy gold. 
 The moist windsbreathe of crisped leaves and flowers 
 
 In the damp hollows of the woodland sown, 
 Mingling the freshness of autumnal showers 
 
 With spicy airs from cedarn alleys blown. 
 
 Beside the brook and on the umbered meadow, 
 
 Where yellow fern-tufts fleck the faded ground, 
 With folded lids beneath their palmy shadow 
 
 The gentian nods in dewy slumbers bound. 
 Upon those soft, fringed lids the bee sits brooding, 
 
 Like a fond lover loath to say farewell, 
 Or with shut wings, through silken folds intruding, 
 
 Creeps near her heart his drowsy tale to tell. 
 
 The little birds upon the hil side lonely 
 Flit noiselessly along from from spray to spray, 
 
 Silent as a sweet wandering thought that only 
 Shows its bright wings and softly glides away. 
 
 The scentless flowers in the warm sunlight dream- 
 Forget to breathe their fullness of delight, [ing, 
 
 And through the tranced woods soft airs are stream- 
 Still as the dewfall of the summer night. [ing, 
 
 So, in my heart a sweet, unwonted feeling, 
 Stirs like the wind in ocean s hollow shell 
 
 Through all its secret chambers sadly stealing, 
 Yet finds no word its mystic charm to tell. 
 
170 
 
 SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 
 
 A GREEN AND SILENT SPOT AMONG | 
 THE HILLS." 
 
 IN the soft gloom of summer s balmy eve, 
 When from the lingering glances of the . 5 un 
 The sad Earth turns away her blushing cheek, 
 Mant ing its glow in twilight s shadowy .eil, 
 Oft mid the falling dews I love to stray 
 Onward and onward through the pleasant fields, 
 Far up the lilied borders of the stream, 
 To this "green, silent spot among tl^e hi Is," 
 Endeared by thronging memories of the past. 
 
 Oft have I lingered on this rustic bridge 
 To view the limpid waters winding on 
 Under dim vaulted woods, whose woven boughs 
 Of beech, and maple, and broad sycamore, 
 Throw their soft, moving shadows o er the wave, 
 While blossoaied vines, dropped to the water s brim, 
 Hang idly swaying in the summer wind. 
 
 The birds that wander through the twilight heaven 
 Are mirrored far beneath me, and young leaves 
 That tremble on the birch tree s silver boughs, 
 In the cool wave reflected, gleam below 
 Like twinkling stars athwart the verdant gloom. 
 
 A sound of rippling waters rises sweet 
 Amid the silence ; and the western breeze, 
 Sighing through sedges and low meadow blooms, 
 Comes wafting gentle though tsfrom Memory s land, 
 And wakes the long hushed music of the heart. 
 
 Oft dewy Spring hath brimmed the brook with 
 
 showers ; 
 
 Oft hath the long, bright Summer fringed its banks 
 With breathing blossoms; and the Autumn sun 
 Shed mellow hues o er all its wooded shores, 
 Since first I trod these paths in youth s sweet prime, 
 With loved ones whom Time s desolating wave 
 Hath wafted now for ever from my side. 
 The living stream still lingers on its way 
 In idle dalliance with the dew lipped flowers 
 That toss their pretty heads at its caress, 
 Or trembling listen to its silver voice ; 
 While through yon rifted boughs the evening star 
 Is seen above the hilltop, beautiful 
 As when on many a balmy summer night, 
 Lapped in sweet dreams, in " holy passion hushed," 
 I saw its ray slant through the tremb ing pines. 
 
 Long years have passed : and by the unchanging 
 Bereft and sorrow taught, alone I stand, [stream, 
 Listening the hollow music of the wind. 
 Alone alone ! the stars are far away, 
 And frequent clouds shut out the summer heaven, 
 But still the calm Earth keeps her constant course, 
 And whispershope through all hcrbreathingflowers. 
 
 Not all in vain the vision of our youth 
 The apocalypse of beauty and of love 
 Thr, stag! ike heart of hope : life s mystic dream 
 The soul shall yet interpret to our prayer 
 The, Isis veil be lifted though we pine 
 E en mid the ungathered roses of our youth, 
 Pierced with strange pangs and longings infinite, 
 As if earth s fairest flowers served but to wake 
 Sad, haunting memories of our Eden home, 
 Not all in vain. Meantime, in patient trust 
 Rest we on Nature s bosom from her eye 
 Serene and still, drinking in faith and love, 
 
 To her calm pu se attempering the heart 
 That throbs too wildly for ideal bliss. 
 
 Oh, gentle mother ! heal me, for I faint 
 Upon life s arid pathway, and " my feet 
 On the dark mountains stumble." Near thy heart 
 In childlike trust, close nestling, let me lie, 
 And let thy breath fall cool upon my cheek 
 As in those unworn ages, ere pale Thought 
 Forestalled life s parent harvest. Give me strength 
 In generous abandonment of heart 
 To fo low wheresoe er o er the world s waste 
 The cloudv pillar movcth, till at last 
 It guide to p easant va es and pastures green 
 By the sti.l waters of eternal life. 
 
 THE WAKING OF THE HEART. 
 
 " Pleasure sits in the flower cups, and breathes itselfout in ftagnince, 
 Rake I. 
 
 As the fabled stone into music woke 
 When the morning sun o er the marble broke, 
 So wakes the heart from its stern repose ; 
 As o er brow and bosom the spring wind blows, 
 So it stirs and trembles as each low sigh 
 Of the breezy south comes murmuring by 
 Murmuring by like a voice of love, 
 Wooing us forth amid flowers to rove, 
 Breathing of meadow-paths thickly sown 
 With pearls from the blossoming fruit trees blown, 
 And of banks that slope to the southern sky 
 Where languid violets love to lie. 
 
 No foliage droops o er the woodpath now, 
 No dark vines swinging from bough to bough ; 
 But a trembling shadow of silvery green 
 Falls through the young leaf s tender screen, 
 Like the hue that borders the snowdrop s bell, 
 Or lines the lid of an Indian shell ; 
 And a fairy light, like the firefly s glow, 
 Flickers and fades on the grass below. 
 
 There the pale Anemone lifts her eye 
 To look at the clouds as they wander by, 
 Or lurks in the shade of a palmy fern 
 To gather fresh dews in her waxen urn. [breast, 
 Where the moss lies thick on the brown earth s 
 The shy little Mayflower weaves her nest, 
 But the south wind sighs o er the fragrant loam, 
 And betrays the path to her woodland home. 
 
 Already the green budding birchen spray 
 Winnows the balm from the breath of May, 
 And the aspen thrills to a low, sweet tone 
 From the reedy bugle of Faunus blown. 
 
 In the tangled coppice the dwarf oak weaves 
 Her fringelike b ossoms and crimson leaves; 
 The sallows their delicate buds unfold 
 Into downy feathers bedropped with gold ; 
 While, thick as the stars in the midnight sky, 
 In the dark, wet meadows the cowslips lie. 
 
 A love tint flushes the wind-flower s cheek, 
 Rich melodies gush from the violet s beak, 
 On the rifts of the rock the wild columbines grow, 
 Their heavy honey-cups bending low 
 As a neart which vague, sweet thoughts oppress, 
 Droops neath its burden of happiness. [wells, 
 
 There the waters drip from their moss rimmed 
 With a sound like the tinkling of silver bells, 
 
SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 
 
 171 
 
 Or fall with a mellow and flutclike flow 
 Through the channels and clefts of the rock below. 
 
 Soft music gushes in every tone, 
 And perfume in every breeze is blown ; 
 The flower in fragrance, the bird in song, 
 The glittering wave as it glides along 
 All breathe the incense of boundless bliss, 
 The eloquent music of happiness. 
 
 And the soul as it sheds o er the sunbright hour 
 The unto d wealth of its mystic dower, 
 Linked to all nature by chords of love, 
 Lifted by faith to bright worlds above 
 How, with the passion of beauty fraught, 
 Shall it utter its burden of blissful thought ! 
 Yet sad would the springtime of nature seem 
 To the soul that wanders mid life s dark dream 
 Its glory a meteor that sweeps the sky, 
 A blossom that floats on the storm-wind by, 
 If it woke no thought of that starry clime 
 That lies on the desolate shores of Time, 
 If it nurtured no delicate flowers to blow 
 On the hills where the palm and the amaranth grow. 
 
 A DAY OF THE INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 "Yet one more smile, departing distant sun 
 Ere o er the frozen earth the loud winds run 
 And snows are sifted o er the meadows baie." Bryant. 
 
 A DAY of golden beauty ! Through the night 
 
 The hoar-frost gathered o er each leaf and spray 
 
 Weaving its filmy network, thin and bright 
 
 And shimmering like silver in the ray 
 
 Of the soft, sunny morning turf and tree 
 
 Pranked in its de.icate embroidery, 
 
 And every withered stump and mossy stone, 
 
 With gems encrusted and with seed-pearl sown ; 
 
 While in the hedge the frosted berries glow, 
 
 The scarlet holly and the purple sloe, 
 
 And all is gorgeous, fairy-like and frail, 
 
 As the famed gardens of the Arabian tale. 
 
 How soft and still the varied landscape lies, 
 Calmly outspread beneath the smiling skies, 
 As if the earth in prodigal array 
 Of gems and broidered robes kept holyday ; 
 Her harvest yielded and her work all done 
 Basking in beauty neath the autumn sun ! 
 
 Yet once more through the soft and balmy day 
 Up the brown hill-side, o er the sunny brae, 
 Far let us rove or, through lone solitudes [woods," 
 Where " autumn s smile beams through the yellow 
 Fondly retracing each sweet, summer haunt 
 And sylvan pathway where the sunbeams slant 
 Through yonder copse, tinging the saffron stars 
 Of the witch-hazel with their golden bars, 
 Or, lingering down this dim and shadowy lane 
 Where still the damp sod wears an emerald stain, 
 Though ripe brown nuts hang clustering in the 
 And the rude barberry o er yon rocky ledge [hedge, 
 Droops with its pendent corals. When the showers 
 Of April clothed this winding path with flowers, 
 Here oft we sought the violet, as it lay 
 Buried in beds of moss and lichens gray ; 
 And still the aster greets us as we pass 
 
 With her faint smile among the withered grass 
 Beside the way, lingering as loath of heart, 
 Like me, from these sweet solitudes to part. 
 
 Now seek we the dank borders of the stream 
 Where the ta I fern-tufts shed a ruby gleam 
 Over the water from their crimsoned plumes, 
 And clustering near the modest gentian blooms 
 Lonely around hallowed by sweetest song, 
 The last and loveliest of the floral throng. 
 Yet here we may not linger, for behold. 
 Where the stream widens, like a sea of gold 
 Outspreading far before us all around 
 Steep wooded heights and sloping uplands bound 
 The sheltered scene along the distant shore 
 Through colored woods the glinting sunbeams pour, 
 Touching their foliage with a thousand shades 
 And hues of beauty, as the red light fades 
 Upon the hill-side neath yon floating shroud, 
 Or, from the silvery edges of the cloud 
 Pours down a brighter gleam. Gray willows lave 
 Their pendent branches in the crystal wave, 
 And slender birch trees o er its banks incline, 
 Whose tall, slight stems across the water shine 
 Like shafts of silver there the tawny elm, 
 The fairest subject of the sylvan realm, 
 The tufted pine tree and the cedar dark, 
 And the young chestnut, its smooth polished bark 
 Gleaming like porphyry in the yellow light, 
 The dark brown oak and the rich maple dight 
 In robes of scarlet, all are standing there 
 So still, so cairn in the soft misty air, 
 That not a leaf is stirring nor a sound 
 Startles the deep repose that broods around, 
 Save when the robin s melancholy song 
 Is heard from yonder coppice, and along 
 The sunny side of that low, moss-grown wall 
 That skirts our path, the cricket s chirping call, 
 Or, the fond murmur of the drowsy bee 
 O er some lone flow ret on the sunny lea, 
 And, heard at intervals, a pattering sound 
 Of ripened acorns rustling to the ground [all, 
 Through the crisp, withered leaves. How lonely 
 How calmly beautiful ! Long shadows fall 
 More darkly o er the wave as day declines, 
 Yet from the west a deeper glory shines, 
 While every crested hi 1 and rocky height 
 Each moment varies in the kindling light 
 To some new form of beauty changing through 
 All shades and colors of the rainbow s hue, 
 " The last still loveliest" till the gorgeous day 
 Melts in a flood of golden light away, 
 And a l is o er. Before to-morrow s sun 
 Cold winds may rise and shrouding shadows dun 
 Obscure the scene vet shall these fading hues 
 Arid fleeting forms their loveliness transfuse 
 Into the mind and memory shall burn 
 The painting in on her enamelled urn 
 In undecaying colors. When the Ivast 
 Rages around and snows are gathering fast, 
 When musing sadly by the twilight hearth 
 Or lonely wandering through life s crowded path 
 Its quiet beauty rising through the gloom 
 Shall sooth the languid spirits and illume 
 The droo ing fancy winning back the soul [rrol 
 To cheei il thoughts through nature s sweet COTJ 
 
172 
 
 SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 
 
 THE LOST CHURCH. 
 
 FROM THK GERMAN OF UHLAND. 
 
 Is yonder dim and pathless wood 
 
 Strange sounds are heard at twilight hour, 
 A.nd peals of solemn music swell 
 
 As from some minster s lofty tower, 
 From age to age those sounds are heard, 
 
 Borne on the breeze at twilight hour ; 
 From age to age no foot hat .i found 
 
 A pathway to the minster s tower ! 
 
 Late, wandering in that ancient wood, 
 
 As onward through the gloom I trod, 
 From all the woes and wrongs of earth 
 
 My soul ascended to its God. 
 When lo, in the hushed wilderness 
 
 I heard, for off, that solemn bell : 
 Still heavenward as my spirit soared, 
 
 Wi der arid sweeter rang the knell. 
 
 While thus in holy musings rapt, 
 
 My mind from outward sense withdrawn, 
 Some power had caught me from the earth, 
 
 And far into the heavens upborne 
 Methought a hundred years had passed 
 
 In mystic visions as I lay, 
 When suddenly the parting clouds 
 
 Seemed opening wide and far away. 
 
 No midday sun its glory shed, 
 
 The stars were shrouded from my sight, 
 And lo ! majestic o er my head 
 
 A minster shone in solemn light. 
 High through the lurid heavens it seemed 
 
 Aloft on cloudy wings to rise, 
 Till all its pointed turrets gleamed 
 
 Far flaming through the vaulted skies ! 
 
 The bell with full resounding peal 
 
 Rang booming through the rocking tower: 
 No hand had stirred its iron tongue, 
 
 Slow swaying to the storm-wind s power. 
 My bosom beating like a bark 
 
 Dashed by the surging ocean s foam, 
 I trod with faltering, fearful joy 
 
 The mazes of the mighty dome. 
 
 A soft light through the oriel streamed 
 
 Like summer moonlight s go den gloom, 
 Far through the dusky arches gleamed, 
 
 And filled with glory all the room. 
 Pale sculptures of the sainted dead 
 
 Seemed waking from their icy thrall, 
 And many a glory circled head 
 
 Smiled sadly from the storied wall. 
 Low at the altar s foot I knelt, 
 
 Transfixed with awe, and dumb with dread, 
 For blazoned on the vaulted roof 
 
 Were heaven s fiercest glories spread. 
 Vet when I raised my eyes once more, 
 
 The vaulted roof itself was gone ; 
 Wide open was heaven s lofty door, 
 
 And every cloudy veil withdrawn ! 
 What visions burst upon my soul, 
 
 What joys unutterable there 
 fn wuves on waves for ever roll 
 
 Like music through the pulseless air 
 
 These never mortal tongue may tell : 
 
 Let him who fain would prove their power, 
 
 Pause when he hears that solemn knell 
 Float on the breeze at twilight hour. 
 
 THE PAST. 
 
 " So near yet oh, how IUr!" Goetfie e Helena. 
 
 THICK darkness broodeth o er the world: 
 
 The raven pinions of the, Night 
 Close on her silent bosom furled, 
 
 Reflecf no gleam of orient light. 
 E en the vild norland fires, that mocked 
 
 The faint bloom of the eastern sky, 
 Now leave me, in close darkness locked, 
 
 To night s weird realm of fantasy. 
 Borne from pa e shadow-lands remote, 
 
 A Morphean music, wildly sweet, 
 Seems on the starless gloom to float 
 
 Like the white pinioned Paraclete. 
 Softly into my dream it flows, 
 
 Then faints into the silence drear, 
 While from the hollow dark outgrows 
 
 The phantom Past, pale gliding near. 
 The visioned Past so strangely fair ! 
 
 So veiled in shadowy, soft regrets, 
 So steeped in sadness, like the air 
 
 That lingers when the daystar sets ! 
 Ah ! could I fold it to my heart, 
 
 On its cold lip my kisses press, 
 This waste of aching life impart 
 
 To win it back from nothingness ! 
 I loathe the purple light of dav, 
 
 And shun the morning s golden star, 
 Beside that shadowy form to stray 
 
 For ever near, yet oh how far ! 
 Thin as a cloud of summer even, 
 
 All beauty from my gaze it bars ; 
 Shuts out the silver cope of heaven, 
 
 And glooms athwart the dying stars. 
 Cold, sad, and spectral, by my side 
 
 It breathes of love s ethereal bloom 
 Of bridal memories long affied 
 
 To the dread silence of the tomb. 
 Sweet cloistered memories, that the heart 
 
 Shuts close within its chalice cold, 
 Faint perfumes that no more dispart 
 
 From the bruised lily s floral fold. 
 " My soul is weary of her life ;" 
 
 My heart sinks with a slow despair 
 The solemn, starlit hours are rife 
 
 With fantasy the noontide glare, 
 And the cool morning, " fancy free," 
 
 Are false with shadows, for the day 
 Brings no blithe sense of verity, 
 
 Nor wins from twilight thoughts away 
 Oh, bathe me in the Lethean stream, 
 
 And feed me pn the lotus flowers ; 
 Shut out this false, bewildering gleam, 
 
 The dreamlight of departed hours ! 
 The Future can no charm confer, 
 
 My heart s deep solitudes to break 
 No angel s foot again shall stir 
 
 The waters of that silent lake. 
 
SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 
 
 I wander in pale dreams siway, 
 
 And shun the morning s golden star, 
 To follow still that tailing ray 
 
 For ever near, yet oh how far ! 
 Then bathe me in the Lel,hean stream, 
 
 And feed me on the lotus flowers ; 
 Nor leave one late arid lingering beam, 
 
 One memory of departed hours ! 
 
 A SEPTEMBER EVENING ON THE BANKS 
 OF THE MOSHASSUCK. 
 
 " Now to the sessions of sweet, silent thought, 
 1 summon up remembrance of tilings past." 
 
 S/talapirv i Sw.nets. 
 
 AGAIX September s golden day 
 
 Serenely still, intensely bright, 
 Fades on the umbered hills away 
 
 And melts into the coming night. 
 Again Moshassuck s silver tide 
 Reflects each green herb on its side, 
 Each tasselled wreath and tangling vine, 
 Whose tendrils o er its margin twine. 
 
 And standing on its velvet shore 
 
 Where yesternight with thee I stood, 
 I trace its devious course once more 
 
 Far winding on through vale and wood. 
 Now glimmering through yon golden mist, 
 By the last glinting sunbeams kissed, 
 Now lost where lengthening shadows fall 
 From hazel copse and moss-fringed wall. 
 
 Near where yon rocks the stream inurn 
 
 The lonely gentian blossoms still, 
 Still wave the star-flower and the fern 
 
 O er the soft outline of the hill ; 
 Wliile far aloft where pine trees throw 
 Their shade athwart the sunset glow, 
 Thin vapors cloud the illumined air 
 And parting da v light lingers there. 
 
 But ah, no longer fhou art near 
 
 This varied loveliness to see, 
 And I, though fondly lingering here 
 
 To-night can only think on thee 
 The flowers thy gentle hand caressed 
 Still lie un withered on my breast, 
 And still thy footsteps print the shore 
 Where thou and I may rove no more. 
 
 Again I hear the murmuring fall 
 Of water from some distant dell, 
 
 The beetle s hum, the cricket s call, 
 And, far away, that evening bell 
 
 Again, again those sounds I hear, 
 
 But oh, how desolate and drear 
 
 They seem to-night how like a knell 
 
 The music of that evening bell. 
 
 Again the new moon in the west, 
 Scarce seen upon yon golden sky, 
 
 Hangs o er the mountain s purple crest 
 With one pale planet trembling nigh, 
 
 And beautiful her pearly light 
 
 As when we blessed its beams last night, 
 
 But thou art on the far blue sea, 
 
 And I can only think on thee. 
 
 SUMMER S INVITATION TO THE ORPHAN 
 
 THE summer skies are darkly blue, 
 
 The days are still and bright, 
 And Evening trails her robes of gold 
 
 Through the dim halls of night. 
 Then, when the little orphan wakes, 
 
 A low voice whispers, " Come, 
 And all day wander at thy will 
 
 Beneath my azure dome. 
 " Beneath my vaulted azure dome, 
 
 Through all my flowery lands, 
 No higher than the lowly thatch 
 
 The roval palace stands. 
 " I 11 fill lay little longing arms 
 
 With fruits and wilding flowers, 
 And tell thee tales of fairy land 
 
 In the long twilight hours." 
 The orphan hears that wooing voice : 
 
 A while he softly broods 
 Then hastens down the sunny slopes 
 
 Into the twilight, woods. 
 There all things whisper pleasure: 
 
 The tree has fruits, the grass has flowers, 
 And the little birds are singing 
 
 In the dim and leafy bowers. 
 The brook stays him at the crossing 
 
 In its waters cool and sweet, 
 And the pebb es leap around him 
 
 And frolic at his feet. 
 At night no cruel hostess 
 
 Receives him with a frown ; 
 He sleeps where all the quiet stars 
 
 Are ca mly looking down. 
 The Moon comes gliding through the tieeh, 
 
 And softly stoops to spread 
 Her dainty silver kirtle 
 
 Upon his grassy bed. 
 The drowsy night wind murmuring 
 
 Its quaint old tunes the while, 
 Till Morning wakes him with a song, 
 
 And greets him with a smile. 
 
 STANZAS WITH A BRIDAL RINd 
 
 THE young Moon hides her virgin heart 
 
 Within a ring of gold ; 
 So doth this little circlet, all 
 
 My bosom s love infold, 
 And tell the tale that from my lips 
 
 Seems ever half untold, 
 Like the rich legend of the east 
 
 That never finds a close, 
 But winds in linked sweetness on 
 
 And lengthens as it goes, 
 Or like this little cycle still 
 
 Returneth whence it flows. 
 And still as in the elfin ring 
 
 Where fairies dance by night, 
 Shall the green places of the heart 
 
 Be kept for ever bright, 
 And hope within this magic round 
 
 Still blossom in delight. 
 
174 
 
 SARAH HELEN WHI1MAN. 
 
 SHE BLOOMS NO MORE. 
 
 "Oh jirimavera, gioventu dell anno, 
 Itelht miulivdi liori 
 Tu tiinii ben, ma teco 
 Xori tnrnani i -ereni 
 K tortiinati di delle mi gioge." Gttarini. 
 
 to see the summer sun 
 Come glowing up the sky, 
 And early pansies, one by one, 
 Opening the violet eye. 
 
 The choral melody of June, 
 
 The perfumed breath of heaven, 
 
 The dewy morn, the radiant noon, 
 The lingering light of even 
 
 These, which so charmed my careless heart 
 
 In happy days gone by. 
 A deeper sadness now impart 
 
 To Memory s thoughtful eye. 
 
 They speak of one who sleeps in death, 
 
 Her race untimely o er 
 Who ne er shall taste Spring s honeyed breath, 
 
 Nor see her glories more : 
 
 Of one who shared with me in youth 
 
 Life s sunshine and its flowers, 
 And kept unchanged her bosom s truth 
 
 Through all its darker hours. 
 
 Slip faded when the leaves were sere, 
 And wailed the autumnal blast; 
 
 With all the glories of the year, 
 From earth her spirit passed. 
 
 Again the fair azalia bows 
 
 Beneath its snowy crest ; 
 In yonder hedge the hawthorn blows, 
 
 The robin builds her nest ; 
 
 The tulips lift their proud tiars, 
 
 The lilac waves her plumes, 
 And peeping through my lattice-bars 
 
 The rose-acacia blooms. 
 
 Bieathe but one word, ye starry flowers! 
 
 One litt e word to tell, 
 If in that far off shadow-land 
 
 Love and Remembrance dwell. 
 
 For she can bloom on earth no more, 
 
 Whose early doom I mourn ; 
 Nor Spring nor Summer can restore 
 
 Our flower, untimely shorn. 
 
 Now dim as folded vio ets 
 
 Her eyes of dewy light, 
 And her rosy lips have mournfully 
 
 Breathed out their last good-night! 
 She ne er shall hear again the song 
 
 Of merry birds in spring, 
 Nor roam the flowery braes among 
 
 In the year s young blossoming ; 
 
 \or longer in the lingering light 
 
 Of summer s eve shall we, 
 Locked hand in hand, together sit 
 
 Beneath the greenwood tree. 
 T is therefore that I dread to see 
 
 The glowing summer sun, 
 
 And balmy blossoms on the tree 
 Unfo ding one by one. 
 
 They speak of hings that once 1 have been, 
 
 But never more can be : 
 And earth all decked in smiles again 
 
 Is still a waste to rne. 
 
 THE MAIDEN S DREAM. 
 
 1 Tlirire hallowed lie tlia 
 c ln-ek Mill l)lu>he* at tb 
 thoughts." Jean Pmil. 
 
 beautiful dawn of love when tlie maiden t 
 conscious vfetness of lie. ovrn inr.ocent 
 
 ASK not if she loves, but look 
 In the blue depths of her eye, 
 
 Where the maiden s spirit seems 
 Tranced in happy dreams to lie. 
 
 All the blisses of her dream, 
 
 All she may not, must not speak, 
 
 Read them in her clouded eye, 
 
 Read them on her conscious cheek. 
 
 See that cheek of virgin snow 
 
 Damasked with love s rosy bloom ; 
 
 Mark the lambent thoughts that glow 
 Mid her blue eye s tender gloom. 
 
 As if in a cool, deep well, 
 
 Veiled by shadows of the night, 
 
 Slanting through, a starbeam fell, 
 Filling all its depths with light. 
 
 Something mournful and profound 
 Saddens all her beauty now, 
 
 Weds her dark eye to the ground 
 Fling s a shadow o er her brow. 
 
 Hath her love-illumined soul 
 
 Raised the veil of coming years- 
 
 Read upon life s mystic scroll 
 Its doom of agony and tears 1 
 
 Tears of tender sadness fall 
 From her soft and lovelit eye, 
 
 As the night dews heavily 
 
 Fall from summer s cloudless sky. 
 
 Still she sitteth coyly drooping 
 Her white lids in virgin pride, 
 
 Like a languid lily stooping 
 Low her folded blooms to hide. 
 
 Starting now in soft surprise 
 
 From the tangled web of thought, 
 
 Lo, her heart a captive lies, 
 
 In its own sweet fancies caught 
 
 Ah ! bethink thee, maiden yet, 
 Ere to passion s doom betrayed ; 
 
 Hearts where Love his seal has set, 
 Sorrow s fiercest pangs invade. 
 
 Let that young heart s umber still, 
 
 Like a bird within its nest ; 
 Life can ne er its dreams fulfil 
 
 Love but yield thee long unrest. 
 
 Ah ! in vain the dovelet tries 
 
 To break the web of tender thought 
 The little heart a captive lies, 
 
 In its own sweet fancies caught 
 
SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 
 
 175 
 
 KOGER WILLIAMS. 
 
 WRITTEN FOR AV ANNIVERSARY OF THE IIHODE 
 ISLAND HISTORICAL SOCIETY. 
 
 Now, wlii e the echoing cannon s roar 
 
 Rocks our i ar frontal towers, 
 And bu_>;le blast and trumpet s blare 
 
 Float o er the " Land of Flowers ;" 
 While our bo d ea^le spreads his wing, 
 
 No more in lofty pride, 
 But sorrowing sinks, as if from Heaven 
 
 The ensanguined field to hide: 
 Turn we from War s bewildering blaze, 
 
 And Conquest s choral song, 
 To the still voice of other days, 
 
 Long heard forgotten long. 
 
 Listen to his rich words, intoned 
 
 To " songs of lofty cheer," 
 Who, in the " howling wilderness," 
 
 When only God could hear, 
 Breathed not of exile, nor of wrong, 
 
 Through the long winter nights, 
 But uttered, in exulting song, 
 
 The soul s unchartered rights. 
 
 Who opened wide the guarded doors 
 
 Where Conscience reigned alone, 
 And bade the nations own her laws, 
 
 And tremble round her throne ; 
 Who sought the oracles of God 
 
 Within her veiled shrine, 
 Nor asked the monarch nor the priest 
 
 Her sacred laws to sign. 
 
 The brave, high heart, that would not yield 
 
 Its liberty of thought, 
 Far o er the melancholy main, 
 
 Through bitter trials brought ; 
 But, to a double exile doomed, 
 
 By Faith s pure guidance led 
 Through the dark labyrinth of life, 
 
 Held fast her golden thread. 
 
 Listen ! the music of his dream 
 
 Perchance may linger still 
 In trie old familiar places 
 
 Beneath the emerald hill. 
 The waveworn rock still breasts the storm 
 
 On Seekonk s lonely side, 
 Where the dusk natives hailed the bark 
 
 That bore their gentle guide. 
 
 The spring that gushed, arnid the wild, 
 In music on his ear, 
 
 Still pours its waters undefiled, 
 The fainting heart to cheer. 
 
 But the fair cove, that slept so calm- 
 Beneath o ershadowing hills, 
 
 And bore the pilgrim s evening psalm 
 Far up its flowery rills 
 
 The tide that parted to receive 
 
 The stranger s light canoe, 
 As if an angel s balmy wing 
 
 Had swept its waters blue 
 When, to the healing of its wave, 
 
 We come in pensive thought, 
 Through all its pleasant borders 
 
 A dreary change is wrought ! 
 
 The fire-winged courser s breath has swept 
 
 Across its cooling tide : 
 Lo ! where he plants his iron heel, 
 
 How fast the wave has dried ! 
 Unlike the fabled Pegasus, 
 
 Whose proud hoof, where he trode 
 Earth s flinty bosom, oped a fount 
 
 Whence living waters flowed. 
 
 Or, turn we to the green hill s side : 
 
 There, with the spring-time showers, 
 The white thorn, o er a nameless grave, 
 
 Rains its pale, silver flowers. 
 Yet Memory lingers with the past, 
 
 Nor vainly seeks to trace 
 His footprints on a rock, whence time 
 
 Nor tempests can efface ; 
 
 Whereon he planted, fast and deep, 
 
 The roof tree of a home 
 Wide as the wings of Love may sweep, 
 
 Free as her thoughts may roam ; 
 Where through all time the saints may dwell 
 
 And from pure fountains draw 
 That peace which passeth human thought, 
 
 In liberty and law. 
 
 When heavenward, up the silver stair 
 
 Of silence drawn, we tread 
 The visioned mount that looks beyond 
 
 The valley of the dead 
 Oh, may we gather to our hearts 
 
 The deeds our fathers wrought, 
 And feed the perfumed lamp of Love 
 
 In the cool air of Thought. 
 While Hope shall on her anchoi lean, 
 
 May Memory fondly turn, 
 To wreathe the amaranth and the palm 
 
 Around their funeral urn ! 
 
 HOW SOFTLY COMES THE SUMMER 
 WIND. 
 
 " And henceforth all that once was ffiir, 
 Grew fairer." 
 
 How softly comes the summer wind 
 
 At evening, o er the hill 
 For ever murmuring of thee 
 
 When busy crowds are still ; 
 The wayside flowers seem to guess 
 And whisper of my happiness. 
 
 While, in the dusk and dewy hours, 
 
 The silent stars above 
 Seem leaning from their airy towers 
 
 To gaze on me in love ; 
 And clouds of silver wander by, 
 Like missioned doves athwart the sky 
 
 Till Dian lulls the throbbing stars 
 
 Into elysian dreams, 
 And, rippling through my lattice-bai->, 
 
 A brooding glory streams 
 Around me, like the golden shower 
 That rained through Danae s guarded tower 
 
 A low, bewildering melody 
 
 Is murmuring in my ar 
 Tones such as in the twilight wood 
 
170 
 
 SAKAH HELEN WHITMAN. 
 
 The aspen thrills to hear, 
 When Faunus slumbers on the hill, 
 And all the tranct-d boughs are still. 
 
 The jasmine twines her snowy stars 
 
 Into a fairer wreath ; 
 The lily, through my lattice-bars, 
 
 Exhales a sweeter breath; 
 And, gazing on Night s starry cope, 
 I dwell with " Beauty, which is Hope." 
 
 A SONG OF SPRING. 
 
 Jx April s dim and showery nights, 
 When music melts along the air, 
 
 And Memory wakens at the kiss 
 
 Of wandering perfumes, faint and rare 
 
 Sweet springtime perfumes, such as won 
 Proserpina from realms of gloom 
 
 1 o bathe her bright locks in the sun, 
 Or bind them with the pansy s bloom , 
 
 When light winds rift the fragrant bowers 
 Where orchards shed their floral wreath, 
 
 Strewing the turf with starry flowers, 
 And dropping pearls at every breath ; 
 
 When all night long the boughs are stirred 
 With fitful warblings from the nest, 
 
 And the heart flutters like a bird 
 With its sweet, passionate unrest 
 
 Oh ! then, beloved, I think on thee, 
 And on that life, so strangely fair, 
 
 Ere yet one cloud of memory 
 
 Had gathered in hope s golden air. 
 
 I think on thee and thy lone grave 
 On the green hillside far away ; 
 
 1 see the wilding flowers that wave 
 
 Around thee as the night winds sway ; 
 
 And still, though only clouds remain 
 On life s horizon, cold and drear, 
 
 The dream of youth returns again 
 With the sweet promise of the year. 
 
 [ linger ti 1 night s waning stars 
 
 Have ceased to tremble through the gloom, 
 Till through the orient s cloudy bars 
 
 I see the rose of morning bloom ! 
 
 All flushed and radiant with delight, 
 It opens through earth s stormy skies, 
 
 Divine y beautiful and bright 
 As on the hills of paradise. 
 
 Lo ! like a dewdrop on its breast 
 
 The morning star of youth and love, 
 
 Melting within the rosy east, 
 Exhales to azure depths above. 
 
 My spirit, soaring like a lark, 
 Would follow on its airy flight, 
 
 And, like yon little diamond spark, 
 Dissolve into the realms of light. 
 
 Sweet-missioned star ! thy silver beams 
 
 Foretell a fairer life to come, 
 And through the golden gate of dreams 
 
 Allurp the wandering spirit home. 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 SUGGASTEI) BY A STATUE: 
 
 Ar, this is he the bold and gentle boy, 
 
 That in lone pastures by the mountain s side 
 Guarded his fold, and through the midnight sky 
 
 Saw on the blast the God of battles ride ; 
 Beheld his bannered armies on the height, 
 And heard their clarion sound through all the stormy 
 
 night. 
 The va iant boy that o er the twilight wold 
 
 Tracked the dark lion and ensanguined bear; 
 Following their bloody footsteps from the fold 
 
 Far down the gorges to their lonely lair 
 This the stout heart, that from the lion s jaw 
 Back o er the shuddering waste the bleeding victim 
 
 bore. 
 Though his fair locks lie all unshorn and bare 
 
 To the bold toying of the mountain wind, 
 A conscious glory haunts the o ershadowing air, 
 
 And waits with glittering coil his brows to bind, 
 While his proud temples bend superbly down, 
 As if they felt e en now the burden of a crown. 
 
 Though a stern sorrow slumbers in his eyes, 
 
 As if his prophet glance foresaw the day 
 When the dark waters o er his soul should rise, 
 
 And friends and lovers wander far away 
 Yet the graced impress of that floral mouth 
 Breathes of love s golden dream and the voluptuous 
 
 south. 
 Peerless in beauty as the prophet star, 
 
 That in the dewy trances of the dawn 
 Floats o er the solitary hills afar, 
 
 And brings sweet tidings of the lingering morn ; 
 Or weary at the day-god s loitering wane, 
 Strikes on the harp of light a soft prelusive strain. 
 
 So his wild harp with psaltery and shawm 
 Awoke the nations in thick darkness furled, 
 
 While mystic winds from Gilead s groves of balm 
 Wafted its sweet hosannas through the world 
 
 So when the Dayspring from on high he sang, 
 
 With joy the ancient hills and lone y valleys rang. 
 
 Ay, this is he the minstrel, prophet, king, 
 Before whose arm princes and warriors sank ; 
 
 Who dwelt beneath Jehovah s mighty wing, 
 And from the " river of his pleasures" drank ; 
 
 Or through the rent pavilions of the storm 
 
 Beheld the cloud of fire that veiled his awful form. 
 
 Antl now he stands as when in Elah s vale, 
 Where warriors set the battle in array, 
 
 He met the Titan in his ponderous mail, 
 
 Whose haughty chal enge many a summer s day 
 
 Rang through the border hills, whi e all the host 
 
 Of faithless Israel heard and trembled at his boast. 
 
 Till the slight stripling from the mountain fold 
 Stood, all unarmed, amid their sounding shields, 
 
 And in his youth s first bloom, devout y bold, 
 Dared the grim champion of a thousand fields : 
 
 So stands he now, as in Jehovah s might 
 
 Glorying, he met the foe and won the immortal fight. 
 
 * This fine statue, executed by Thomas F. Hoppin, of 
 Providence, R. I., represents the young champion of Is 
 rael a* he stands prepared to attack the Philistine 
 
ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH 
 
 (Born 1806). 
 
 THIS accomplished and popular author was 
 born in a pleasant country town about twelve 
 miles from the city of Portland, in Maine. 
 Descended on her father s side from Thomas 
 Prince, one of the early Puritan governors of 
 the Plymouth colony, and claiming through 
 the Oakeses, on her mother s side, the same 
 early identification with the first European 
 planters .of our soil, Mrs. OAKES-SMITH may 
 readily be supposed to have that characteris 
 tic which is so rarely found among us, Amer 
 icanism ; and her writings in their depart 
 ment may be regarded as the genuine expres 
 sion of an American mind. 
 
 At the early age of sixteen, Miss Prince 
 was married to Mr. Seba Smith, at that, time 
 editor of the leading political journal of his 
 native state, and since then well known to 
 his countrymen as the original "Jack Down 
 ing," whose great popularity has been attest 
 ed by a score of imitators. The embarrassed 
 affairs of Mr. Smith (who, himself a poet, 
 partook with a poet s sanguineness of tem 
 per in that noted attempt to settle the wild 
 lands of Maine, which proved so disastrous a 
 speculation to some of the wealthiest families 
 of the state) first impelled Mrs. Oakes-Smith 
 to take up her pen to aid in the support of 
 her children. She had before that period, 
 indeed, given utterance to her poetic sensi 
 bilities in several anonymous pieces, which 
 are still much admired. But a shrinking and 
 sensitive modesty forbade her appearing as 
 an author ; and though, in her altered cir 
 cumstances, when she found that her talents 
 might be made available, she did not hesitate, 
 like a true woman, to sacrifice feeling to duty, 
 yet some of her most beautiful prose writings 
 still continue to appear under nommes des 
 plumes, with which her truly feminine spirit 
 avoids identification. 
 
 Seeking expression, yet shrinking from no 
 toriety ; and with a full share of that respect 
 for a just fame and appreciation which be 
 longs to every high-toned mind, yet oppressed 
 by its shadow when circumstance is the im 
 pelling motive of publication, the writings of 
 
 Mrs. Oakes-Smith might well be supposed to 
 betray great inequality ; still in her many con 
 tributions to the magazines, it is remarkable 
 how few of her pieces display the usual care 
 lessness and haste of magazine articles. As 
 an essayist especially , while graceful and live 
 ly, she is compact and vigorous ; while through 
 poems, essays, tales, and criticisms, (for her 
 industrious pen seems equally skilful and hap 
 py in each of these depatments of literature,) 
 through all her manifold writings, indeed, 
 there runs the same beautiful vein of philoso 
 phy, viz. : that truth and goodness of them 
 selves impart a holy light to the mind, which 
 gives it a power tar above mere intellectu 
 ality ; that the highest order of human in 
 telligence springs from the moral and not 
 the reasoning faculties. 
 
 One of her most popular poems is The 
 Acorn, which, thougli inferior in high inspi 
 ration to The Sinless Child, is by many pre 
 ferred for its happy play of fancy and proper 
 finish. Her sonnets, oi which she has writ 
 ten many, have not been as much admired 
 as The April Rain, The Brook, and other fu 
 gitive pieces, which we find in many popu 
 lar collections. I doubt, indeed, whether they 
 will ever attain the popularity of these "un- 
 considered trifles," though they indicate con 
 centrated poetical power of a very high, pos 
 sibly of the very highest order. Not so, how 
 ever, with The Sinless Child. Works of bad 
 taste will often captivate the uncultivated 
 many ; works of mere taste as often delight 
 the cultivated few ; but works of genius ap 
 peal to the uniA ersal mind. 
 
 The simplicity of diction, and pervading 
 beauty and elevation of thought, which are 
 the chief/characteristics of The Sinless Child, 
 bring it undoubtedly within the last category. 
 And why do such writings seize at once on 
 the feelings of every class ? Wherein lies 
 this power of genius to wake a response in 
 society ? Is it the force of a high will, fusing 
 feeble natures, and stamping them for the 
 moment with an impress of its own ? or i? 
 it that in every heart, unless thoroughly ( :or- 
 
 177 
 
178 
 
 ELIZABETH O A KES-SMITH. 
 
 rupted by the world in every mind, unless 
 completely encrusted by cant, there lurks an 
 inward sense of the simple, the beautiful, and 
 the true; an instinctive perception of excel 
 lence which is both more unerring and more 
 universal than that of mere intellect. Such 
 is the cheering view of humanity enforced in 
 The Sinless Child, and the reception of it is 
 evidence of the truth of the doctrine it so 
 finely shadows forth. " It is a work," says a 
 dis riminating critic, " which demands more 
 in its composition than mere imagination or 
 intellect could supply :" and I may add that 
 the writer, in unconsciously picturing the 
 actual graces of her own mind, has made an 
 irresistible appeal to the ideal of soul-loveli 
 ness in the minds of her readers. She comes 
 before us like the florist in Arabian story, 
 whose magic vase produced a plant of such 
 simple, yet perfect beauty, that the multitude 
 were in raptures from the familiar field as 
 sociations of childhood which it called forth, 
 while the skill of the learned alone detected 
 the unique rarity of the enchanting flower. 
 An analysis of The Sinless Child will not 
 be attempted here, but a few passages are 
 quoted to exhibit its graceful play of fancy 
 and the pure vein of poetical sentiment by 
 which it is pervaded. And first, the episode 
 of the Step-Mother : 
 
 You speak of Robert s second wife, 
 
 A lofty dame and hold : 
 I like not her forbiding air, 
 
 And forehead high and cold. 
 The orphans have no cause for grief, 
 
 She dare not give it now, 
 Though nothing hut a ghostly fear 
 
 Her heart of pride could bow. 
 One night the boy his mother called : 
 
 They heard him weeping say 
 " Sweet mother, kiss poor Eddy s cheek, 
 
 And wipe his tears away !" 
 Red grew the lady s brow with rage, 
 
 And yet she feels a strife 
 Of anger and of terror too, 
 
 At thought of that dead wife. 
 Wild roars the wind, the lights burn blue, 
 
 The watch-dog howls with fear ; 
 Loud neighs the steed from out the stall : 
 
 What form is gliding near ! 
 No latch is raised, no step is heard, 
 
 But a phantom fills the SJIHOB 
 A sheeted spectre from the dead, 
 
 With cold and leaden face ! 
 What boots it that no other eye 
 
 Beheld the shade appear] 
 The guilty lady s guilty soul 
 
 Beheld it plain and clear ! 
 
 It slowly glides within the room, 
 
 And sadly looks around 
 And stooping, kissed her daughter s cheek 
 
 With lips tha^ gave no sound ! 
 Then softly on the stepdame s arm 
 
 She laid a death-cold hand, 
 Yet it hath scorched within the flesh 
 
 Like to a burning brand ; 
 And gliding on with noiseless foot, 
 
 O er winding stair and hall, 
 She nears the chamber where is heard 
 
 Her infant s trembling call. 
 She smoothed the pillow where he lay, 
 
 She warmly tucked the bed, 
 She wiped his tears, and stroked the curls 
 
 That clustered round his read. 
 The child, caressed, unknowing fear, 
 
 Hath nestled him to rest ; 
 The mother folds her wings beside 
 
 The mother from the blest ! 
 
 It is commonly difficult to select from a po 
 em of which the parts make one harmonious 
 whole ; but the history of The Sinless Child 
 is illustrated all through with cabinet pic 
 tures which are scarcely less effective when 
 separated from their series than when com 
 bined, and the reader will be gratified with a 
 few of those which best exhibit the author s 
 manner and feeling : 
 
 GUARUIAX ANGELS. ^ 
 
 With downy pinion they enfold 
 
 The heart surcharged with wo, 
 And fan with balmy wing the eye 
 
 Whence floods of sorrow flow ; 
 They bear, in golden censers up, 
 
 That sacred gift, a tear 
 By which is registered the griefs 
 
 Hearts may have suffered here. 
 No inward pang, no yearning love 
 
 Is lost to human hearts 
 No anguish that the spirit feels, 
 
 When bright-winged Hope departs. 
 Though in the mystery of life 
 
 Discordant powers prevail ; 
 That life itself be weariness, 
 
 And sympathy may fail : 
 Yet all becomes a discipline, 
 
 To lure us to the sky ; 
 And angels bear the good it brings 
 
 With fostering care on high. 
 Though human hearts may weary grow, 
 
 And sink to toil-spent sleep, 
 And we are left in solitude 
 
 And agony to weep : 
 Yet they with ministering zeal 
 
 The cup of healing bring, 
 And bear our love and gratitude 
 
 Away, on heavenward wing ; 
 And thus the inner life is wrought, 
 
 The blending earth and heaven 
 The love more earnest in its glow 
 
 Where much has been forgiven ! 
 
ELIZABETH O A KES-SMITH. 
 
 179 
 
 FIELD KLVES. 
 
 The tender violets bent in smiles 
 
 To elves that sported nigh, 
 Tossing the drops of fragrant dew 
 
 To scent the evening sky. 
 They kissed the rose in love and mirth, 
 
 And its peta .s fairer grew ; 
 A shower of pearly dust they brought, 
 
 And o er the lily threw. 
 
 A host flew round the mowing field, 
 
 And they were showering down 
 The cooling spray on the early grass, 
 
 Like diamonds o er it thrown ; 
 They gemmed each leaf and quivering spear 
 
 With pearls of liquid dew, 
 And bathed the state y forest tree 
 
 Till his robe was fresh and new. 
 
 SUPERSTITION". 
 
 For oft her mother sought the child 
 
 Amid the forest glade, 
 And marvelled that in darksome glen 
 
 So tranquilly she stayed. 
 For every jagg; d limb to her 
 
 A shadowy semblance hath 
 Of spectres and distorted shapes, 
 
 That frown upon her path, 
 And mock her with their hideous eyes ; 
 
 For when the soul is blind 
 To freedom, truth, and inward light, 
 
 Vague fears debase the mind. 
 
 MIDSUMMER. 
 
 T is the summer prime, when the noiseless air 
 
 In perfumed chalice lies, 
 And the bee goes by with a lazy hum, 
 
 Beneath the sleeping skies : 
 When the brook is low, and the ripples bright, 
 
 As down the stream they go, 
 The pebbles are dry on the upper side, 
 
 And dark and wet below. 
 The tree that stood where the soil s athirst, 
 
 And the mulleins first appear, 
 Hath a dry and rusty -colored bark, 
 
 And its leaves are curled and sere ; 
 But the dogwood and the hazel-bush 
 
 Have clustered round the brook 
 Their roots have stricken deep beneath, 
 
 And they have a verdant look. 
 To the juicy leaf the grasshopper clings, 
 
 And he gnaws it like a file ; 
 The naked stalks are withering by, 
 
 Where he has been erewhile. 
 The cricket hops on the glistering rock, 
 
 Or pipes in the faded grass ; 
 The beetle s wing is folded mute, 
 
 Where the steps of the idler pass. 
 
 CONSCIENCE. 
 
 " Dear mother ! in ourselves is hid 
 
 The ho!y spirit-land, 
 Where Thought, the flaming cherub, stands 
 
 With its relentless brand : 
 We feel the pang when that dread sword 
 
 Inscribes the hidden sin, 
 And turneth everywhere to guard 
 
 The paradise within." 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 Each tiny leaf became a scroll 
 
 Inscribed with holy truth, 
 A lesson that around the heart 
 
 Shou d keep the dew of youth ; 
 Bright missals from angelic throngs 
 
 In every by-way left 
 How were the earth of glory shorn, 
 
 Were it of flowers bereft ! 
 
 They tremble <tn the Alpine height; 
 
 The fissured rock they press ; 
 The desert wild, with heat and sand, 
 
 Shares, too, their blessedness : 
 And wheresoe er the weary heart 
 
 Turns in its dim despair, 
 The meek-eyed blossom upward looks, 
 
 Inviting it to prayer. 
 
 INFANT SLUMBER. 
 
 A holy smile was on her lip 
 
 Whenever sleep was there; 
 She slept, as sleeps the blossom, hushed 
 
 Amid the silent air. 
 
 Recently Mrs. Smith has turned her at 
 tention to the field which next to the epic is 
 highest in the domain of literary art, and it 
 is anticipated by those who have examined 
 her tragedies that her success as a dramatic 
 poet will secure for her a fame not promised 
 by any of her previous achievements. The 
 Roman Tribute, in five acts, refers to a fa 
 miliar period in the history of Constantinople 
 when Theodosius saved the city from being 
 sacked by paying its price to the victorious 
 Attila; and the subject suggests some admi 
 rable contrasts of rude integrity with treach 
 erous courtesy, of pagan piety with the craft 
 of a nominal Christianity, still pervaded by 
 heathen prejudice while uncontrolled by hea 
 then principle. The play opens with the 
 spectacle of the frivolous monarch jesting 
 with his court at their uncouth enemies, and 
 exulting at the happy thought of buying them 
 off with money. Then appears Anthemius, 
 who had been absent, raising levies for the 
 defence of the city, indignant at the coward 
 ly peace which makes the Roman tributary 
 to the Hun, and a soldier, a statesman, and 
 a patriot he determines to retrieve the na 
 tional honor. Perplexed as to the best means 
 of doing this, he sees that the whole govern 
 ment must be recast. Hitherto Theodosius 
 and his sister had between them sustained 
 its administration, with Anthemius as prime 
 minister. The princess had conceived for 
 him an attachment, and would have thrown 
 herself and the purple into his arms; but he 
 has no sympathy with her passion, and is in 
 tent only upon the emancipation of the em 
 
:so 
 
 ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 
 
 pire by placing her alone in possession of 
 the crown, and sacrificing Eudocia, the wife 
 of Theodosius, who is rapidly growing in the 
 popular favor. Outraged as a woman a":d a 
 queen, Pulcheria offers to adjust state affairs 
 by marrying the barbarian Attila, and An- 
 themius seemingly accedes to the plan, re 
 solving to destroy the Hun at the bridal. But 
 Attila rejects the proposal, and his answer is 
 thus reported by An hemius to his mistress: 
 The Hun strade up and down his tent, and swore 
 The plan was worthy Atti a himself 
 Then laid his finger to his brow, arid, thus 
 Gods what a progeny might spring such veins con 
 joined ! 
 
 But she, like Attila, loves pomp and power 
 She, with her line y trained and haughty blood, 
 Mine, with a kingly but barbaric flow: 
 She, keen in mystery of subtle thought, 
 I, making records with the sword and blood. 
 
 Anthemius, influenced entirely by consid 
 erations of a public nature, at first resolves 
 upon the destruction of Eudocia, but dis 
 gusted with the masculine energy and cruel 
 craft of Pulcheria, as well as subdued by the 
 gentler virtues of the suffering queen, tries to 
 save her life and place her upon the throne. 
 He is persevering in the one purpose of 
 saving the empire, and to accomplish this, 
 proceeds to the camp of Attila, with the 
 design of slaying him in the midst of his 
 followers ; but the plot is betrayed by Hele 
 na, who trembles for the life of her lover 
 Manlius, the friend and companion of An 
 themius ; and disappointed here, he next 
 resolves that he shall die at the banquet 
 prepared by the court, ostensibly in honor 
 of the barbarian king, but in reality to poison 
 him. The generous nature of Anthemius is 
 touched by the hardy simplicity and truthful 
 magnanimity of the rude warrior, and he 
 dashes the poisoned chalice aside and dares 
 him to single combat, in which the brave 
 and patriotic minister is killed. The fol 
 lowing extract gives a portion of the last 
 scene : 
 
 Anthemius. Bear with me : we have fallen upon 
 
 evil times. 
 
 Attila, thou art a soldier, bred in the camp 
 For idle pastime hunting the wild boar, 
 With n.mnd and spear and sound of bugle-horn ; 
 In wantonness you march to Rome, or here: 
 Thy palace by the Danube bravely shows 
 With recking rafters, horns, and skins, and shields. 
 
 Altila, (interniptiii jr him.} And men, stout men, 
 true, and a thousand strong. 
 
 Ant. I do believe them true, and strong, and bold. 
 B hold our blazoned walls purple and gold ! 
 
 Wine not from tusk of boar, or horn of deer, 
 But blushing golden in the golden vase 
 
 Alt. (scornfully.*) A fair picture, proud Roman 
 
 goodly walls, 
 With hollow faith men, curled and perfumed ! 
 
 Ant. Attila, we have fallen upon evil times: 
 Listen ! In that rude wooden home of thine [hound 
 There s not the meanest serf would wrong his 
 By mixing poison with his food there s not 
 
 Att. No, by the eternal gods ! thou rt worthy, 
 Roman, to be one of us. 
 
 Ant. (waving his hand.} The most useless, the 
 
 most old and outworn beast 
 That human hand hath trifled with in love, 
 Receives his death by honorable wound, 
 JNor dies like a poor reptile in his hole. 
 
 [JJimlies lite cupj i-om him ami draws /its sirot 
 
 If thou rt God s Fate, show thy credentials now . 
 Honor to thy rude service : thy barbaric faith 
 Here stand thou for thy skin-clad hordes, and I 
 For Rome ! 
 
 There is a striking and not unnatural con 
 trast in the character of the two queens. 
 Pulcheria is haughty, revengeful, intelligent, 
 and imaginative. Remorseless in the pur 
 suit of an object, and unflinching in the most 
 daring action, she is yet so much a woman 
 as to love passionately almost tenderly 
 and when evil follows her policy, haunted 
 in secret by shapes of conscience, which, to 
 her excited and powerful imagination, take 
 tangible forms and beset her path, she med 
 itates the death of Eudocia: 
 It seemed I heard a dirge, a sound of wo 
 Wo, wo ! it said. Was it Eudocia s voice 1 
 How my heart beats, and its perturbed play 
 Hath conjured sounds too wildly like its own 
 
 KU DOC I A tut >,-. unofotrnrd, tnulpromotutce* , itr nam s ,///y 
 
 Who called ? the slightest sound grows fearful to 
 Ay, thus it is, that we in our poor pride fme ! 
 By our earth-serving senses are beguiled ; 
 Our overweening self shapes any sound 
 To invocation of our name, and we 
 Recoil as twere a summons from the dead. 
 Eudocia, (w/%.) The child starts from his in- 
 
 nocent pillow 
 
 And answers with a smile, for he believes 
 The angels called him with their sweet rose lips. 
 
 [KUDOCIA retires. 
 
 Pul. She is gone, and with her my good angel, 
 I shall be haunted by the blackest fiends. 
 We have sat embowered in friendly converse : 
 Avaunt ! what dost thou say, thou gibbering imp 
 Hark ! I have slumbered with thee until now 
 A nameless, shapeless, wingless, couchant thing, 
 Within the filmy vesture of the soul, 
 Until thy evil hour evoked me forth. 
 Oh God ! I dare not pray, and this within : 
 She lives ! no sheeted ghost hath leave to walk, 
 And curdle up my blood with its dead stare. 
 
 Fearful to sacrifice Eudocia at once, she 
 entangles her in the meshes of court craft 
 till she is finally destroyed, and Pulcheria 
 
ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 
 
 181 
 
 lives to enjoy her state alone. Eudocia is 
 the reverse of the empress, gentle, affection 
 ate, and trustful ; the force of her character 
 is evolved solely through her tenderness for 
 her child. Beloved by Theodosius, she is 
 disgusted at his imbecile sensuality, while 
 her graces have won upon the barbarian heart 
 of Bleda, the brother of Attila, who would 
 gladly win her to himself and usurp the 
 throne. Eudocia is a woman, but one steady 
 in her devotion to duty. Through this par 
 tiality of Bleda, Pulcheria is able to work the 
 downfall of the queen. She has gone to the 
 house of her father, Leontius, who is a philos 
 opher, where Bleda has also gone to learn the 
 usages and philosophy of a more polite people. 
 Here he is taken ill, and Eudocia, partly in 
 waywardness and partly in admiration for 
 his character, insists upon playing the leech. 
 Pulcheria brings Theodosius, who finds her 
 kneeling by the couch. She is thrown into 
 prison ; thence she escapes to the chamber 
 of her husband, designing to kill him in re 
 venge for her wrongs, but, overcome with 
 pity, she turns away, and dies of overwrought 
 grief in the arms of Anthemius, who has tried 
 in vain to save her. The following is a part 
 of her interview with Bleda: 
 
 End, Perchance the priest would best become 
 thy case. 
 
 Ble. A priest ! I do abhor the murmuring tribe. 
 Thine air bespeaks thee gentle as thy sex : 
 Art thou not one of those, once sacred held 
 As priestess of a shrine 1 The ancient gods 
 Whom our forefathers worshipped in their strength, 
 It is not well to spurn : if such art thou, 
 A secret will be held most sacred by thee. 
 
 End. Nay, mistake me not. [office. 
 
 Ble. Thou needst not fear ; I do respect thine 
 
 End. It is enough ; thy leech is unknown to thee. 
 
 Ble. (starting and taking hold of her veil.} By 
 the gods that voice ! 
 
 End. Our art is learned by dames of gentle blood, 
 Who sit with patient toil and lips contract, 
 If so they may relieve one human pang. 
 The ghastly wound appals us not, nor yet 
 The raging fury of the moonstruck brain ; 
 Not wrinkled hags are we, with corded veins, 
 Croaking with spells the midnight watches through, 
 But some are fair as she, the vestal mother. 
 
 Ble. And such art thou, might I but cast aside 
 This envious veil ; thy voice is crystalline, 
 Like water moss-incrusted in its flow ! [befit 
 
 End. I will hear thee, prince such tale as may 
 A woman s ear. 
 
 Ble. (aside.} Now, Bleda, shape thy speech : 
 Power and love both urge thee to the goal ! 
 [7b EUDOCIA.] I have made my way with trusty 
 
 sword and shield, 
 Nor falsehood known there is no other crime. 
 
 But thou, all passionless, cold, and serene 
 Thy truth, like drops preserved in cubes of stone. 
 For drinking of the gods, can know no change. 
 
 Eud. (aside.} Thanks, thanks, for words so high. 
 
 Ble. I am sick of love love of a dame 
 Whose dovelike eyes have robbed me of all rest. 
 The world is in the market, and all bid : 
 Then whv not Bleda, urged less by pride than love ? 
 I would become a Christian ; the meanest knight 
 Who doth her service, should his office yield 
 To me a prince, might I but win one smile. 
 The fair Eudocia [talkest treason ! 
 
 Eud. (starting} Lift not thy aspect there ; thou 
 
 Ble. (aside} She listens. I can hear the beating 
 This can not, must not be a dream ! [of her heart ; 
 [To EUDOCIA.] Eudocia loathes the sensual, weak 
 ling, dotard 
 
 Emperor of Rome : she should cast the bondage off, 
 And for herself and child assure the reins, [hence. 
 
 End. (aside.} lean not lift my knees, or I would 
 [To BLKDA.] Thy ta .e I must away. 
 
 Ble. Tis told: I love Eudocia! and thou 
 
 Eud. Thy words are madness ! [Aside.] And yet 
 
 they steal 
 
 Like dew into the parched bud, and lure 
 My aching, vacant heart to maddening bliss. 
 
 Ble. Eudocia must be saved, and who but Bleda 
 W T ill lift a finger for the rescue 1 [dead ! 
 
 Eud. Nothing can be done ; she and Rome are 
 
 Ble. Is human will so impotent and vain ] 
 Shall we see the wolf with fang upon the lamb, 
 Nor stir to aid 1 the vulture tear the dove, 
 And we forbear the shaft 1 No, by the fates ! 
 
 Eud. (faintly.} Such are God s children: tis 
 their doom, my lord. 
 
 Ble. And we are made avengers of their doom. 
 
 [EUDOCIA points to a ring on the finger of the J riiice. 
 
 Such ills admit of no redemption none! 
 Behold this circlet: lightly worn as tis, 
 It hath not failed to leave its scar behind. 
 We can not raze the traces of the past ; 
 Heal up the jagged wound, and leave no seam ; 
 Tread down the burning ploughshare with our feet> 
 And feel ourselves unscathed : it is our doom, 
 And we by patient sufferance keep our souls. 
 
 Then follows the surprise of the court, in 
 which she defends herself with gentle dig 
 nity, but is disgraced and imprisoned. Pul 
 cheria visits her and leaves a dagger, and 
 the rooms ajar ; and she proceeds to the cham 
 ber of Theodosjus, determined to revenge her 
 wrongs : 
 
 Eud. The stillness of this room is most terrible ! 
 I wish that he would move. 
 
 [*SVw lifts the citi^^cr utul appt ouches the c^ntch 
 
 Oh, the long, long, eternal sleep ! He stirs ! now 
 No, he sleeps. Tis pitiful: the jaw adovvn ; 
 The loose brown flesh impending round the chu 
 The eyes, like sunken and encas d balls, 
 Shut in from speculation ; the thin locks, 
 All wantoned by the wind, do mock at them ! 
 Helpless and sleeping with his folded hands 
 
 [She [urns IH-U.J 
 
 Oh, I am glad to mark there is no line 
 
ELIZABETH CAKES-SMITH. 
 
 To win on human love nor any shows 
 
 Nor prints of grand old worth to plead for him ; 
 
 No imperial majestv is there 
 
 No lion-like rebuke, uncurbed by s eep, 
 
 To shame me for the deed that I will do. 
 
 arm mi i lioi.tt wet- Aim. 
 
 A haggard, pal. id, weak, bad man asleep! 
 Oh, weakness ! thou hast thy power : a pity grows 
 Too terrible upon me ; it shields thee [locks ! 
 More than love ; it pleads amid these whitening 
 
 Then follows her interview with her child, 
 and final burst of feeling, in which she ex 
 pires. To her child she says : 
 
 Boy, thou wilt be a man anon, and learn 
 Hard, cruel, manlike ways : thou wilt break hearts, 
 And think it brave pastime ; thou wilt rule men, 
 And for the pleasure of thy petty will 
 Make pools of blood, and top thy pikes with heads ; 
 Burn cities, and condemn tbe little ones 
 To bleed and die within their mother s arms ! 
 
 Child, (weeping.} I will never be so vile ; I will 
 And merciful as thou hast taught me. [be brave 
 
 End. (fondly.} Wilt thou, pretty dear ! Thou 
 
 art a brave boy. 
 
 Wilt always love me ! Look here into mine eyes : 
 My own brave boy, when men shall evil speak, 
 Defame and curse me, wilt thou forget to love ] 
 
 Child. Never! 
 
 Eud. Never, my brave boy ; and when evil tongues 
 Shall make thy mother s name a blush, wilt thou, 
 Mine own dear child, wilt thou believe ? 
 
 Child. Never! 
 
 Eud. My boy, dost thou remember thy poor dove, 
 Thy white-winged dove, which the fell hawk pur- 
 And sprinkled all the marble with his blood 1 [sued, 
 
 Child, (sobbing.} My poor, dear dove ! 
 
 Eud. Ay, thine innocent dove ! 
 Listen, child ! In the long hereafter years, 
 Wilt thou remember me as that poor dove, 
 Hawked down and done to death by cruel hands ] 
 Think this, and God himself will bless thee ! 
 To Anthemius, who urges her to speak the 
 word, and he will avenge her and raise her 
 to the throne, she says : 
 
 That little word would yawn a gulf beneath my 
 No more : that ready dagger told its bad tale, [feet. 
 
 But I have closed the well of blackness up 
 
 Have seen the pitying angel pleading 
 
 In the locks of him, the weak and unloved one, 
 
 Till my uplifted dagger fell. I wept 
 
 Tears of unmingled pity aching tears! 
 
 Empire has long since 1 faded from my thought: 
 
 The nearer view of an eternal world 
 
 Makes my poor, injured name a nothingness; 
 
 A mother s love alone survives the wreck. 
 
 The reverse of these painful scenes is the 
 love of Manlius and Helena, in which sim 
 ple affections and every-day perceptions take 
 the piace of more profound emotions. The 
 character of Petrus gives opportunity for 
 nunint humor as well as efficient advance- 
 incut of the plot. 
 
 Mrs. Oakes-JSmi th s next work was Jacob 
 Leisler, a Tragedy. Its general character 
 will be inferred from its title. There is not 
 perhaps in American history a finer subject 
 for dramatic illustration than the revolution 
 in New York in 1680, but hitherto it had 
 failed of attention from any author of ade 
 quate abilities. The story is in some re 
 spects like that of Massaniello, but Leisler 
 was a gentleman, and was never, like the 
 Neapolitan, made "drunk with power,"but 
 was all through the important scenes of his 
 elevation, administration, and overthrow, a 
 calm, sagacious, and brave man, equal to 
 anything within the scope of lawful action 
 or experience-suggesting probabilities that 
 might be demanded for the common welfare. 
 The interest of the play turns largely upon 
 a striking underplot of domestic life which 
 much affects and hastens the political de 
 nouement. The heroine, Elizabeth Howard, 
 is an original and noble creation, and the vi 
 cissitudes of her life give occasion for dis 
 plays of lofty sentiment and careful analysis 
 of the heart, in scenes where tenderness be 
 comes pathos, devotion sublimity, and the 
 illustrations of a passionate fancy kindle up 
 on the confines of imagination. In England 
 she has been married to a man named Slough- 
 ter, from whom, for reasons developed in the 
 play, she has separated and fled to America, 
 where she keeps the secret of her early his 
 tory, and has been for some time happily 
 married to Leisler, when he meantime 
 having become the people s governor she 
 hears that tSloughter has arrived on the coast 
 to demand the seals of the province for the 
 crown. The following scene here succeeds, 
 an interview between Elizabeth and an old . 
 and confidential servant: 
 
 ELIZABETH and HANN AH. 
 
 Eliz. Nay, it must be told : he might hear of it 
 In the market-place, or on the battle-field. 
 Leave me, my good Hannah. 
 
 Hun. Oh, dearest madam ! you are so still 
 Eliz. Leave me it were best. [Exit HANNAH. 
 How mournfully, how yearningly have I 
 Longed for thy presence, velvet-footed Peace ! 
 The drudging housewife singing at her toil 
 I have most envied; and the market dame, 
 Content with her small gains, and with the chcei 
 Homely but hearty of the wayside boor, 
 Provokes me to a spleen. Oh, thou lowly [morn, 
 Common flesh, braced by the rosy, sweet-breathed 
 Could yet but see the ruby-girdled heart, 
 How would ye shrink with dread, and bless the lol 
 
 Of honest toil ! 
 
 I do forget the secret of my grief. 
 
ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 
 
 Enter LKISr.F.ll, htirri-d t/. 
 
 Leis. Mv sweet wife, them art fit to wear a crown ! 
 I ll give thee what is better: thou dost rule 
 Him who rules the people by their own free choice. 
 Look up, dearest ! I am the people s king 
 Not king nay, God forbid, in this great land ! 
 But what ails thee, sweet 1 these times oppress thee. 
 
 [.Vre* the letter. 
 
 A letter ? well, put it by I II none of it ; 
 I shall be much abroad shall see thee less 
 So we will seize the present bliss as sure. 
 How beautiful thou art, and yet so pale, 
 So very sad ! What is it, love ? 
 
 Eliz. The vase of life is rarely garland-crowned. 
 
 Leis. Nay, dearest, thou dost think me ambitious, 
 And tremblest lest the household a tar dim. 
 
 Eliz. Nay, fill thee wuh great thoughts, and me 
 forget. 
 
 Leis. Thou dost reproach me, love ; it can not be. 
 
 Eliz. Dost love me, Leisler ? 
 
 Leis. Love thee, Bess ] To doatingness, to mad 
 ness ! 
 
 Eliz. Because that I am fair, and true, and good 1 
 
 Leis. A very ange, ; nay, better, an all, all wo 
 man 1 
 
 Eliz. Dost love me, Leisler 1 
 
 Leis. My own wife, thou knowest I do love thee. 
 
 Eliz. I love to hear thee say it : I will remember. 
 
 Leis. Thou art ill ; thy hands cold thy cheek so 
 
 pale ! 
 These times are too much for thee. 
 
 Eliz. Dost love me, Leisler ] 
 
 Leis. Ah, Bess, dear Bess, thou art ill . Dost 
 love me 1 
 
 Eliz. Love thee 1 words have no meaning to my 
 
 deep love ! 
 
 It hath purged me from the weakness of my sex, 
 And made me new create in thee. Love thee 1 
 I had not lived until I knew thee ! 
 
 Love thee 1 Oh Oh Oh ! [ Throws herself into Ids arms. 
 
 Leis. My wife, my love, what has moved thee 
 thus 1 
 
 Eliz. Ah, the letter! shall I tell it thee] 
 
 Leis. Yes let me know the worst. 
 
 Eliz. The worst 1 
 
 Leis. Yes, the worst : it can not touch our love. 
 
 Eliz. Touch our love 1 
 
 Leis. Nay, the letter 
 
 Eliz. I have a friend, who was once exceeding 
 
 fair. 
 
 They tell me she is wan and changed now. 
 Poor thing ! she broke the heart of him she loved : 
 And she did love so wel! as I love thee ! \weep*. 
 
 Leis. My poor Bess ! do not tell it now. 
 
 Eliz. I must tell it thee. Well, she was wedded, 
 A simple child, with childhood s vacant heart. 
 The days wore on ; the night succeeded day ; 
 And she did loathe him in her very soul, 
 And loathed herself to such vile bondage held. 
 She left him ! 
 
 Leis. The tale should not be in thy mouth, sweet 
 wife. 
 
 Eliz. She did not love another 
 
 Leis. Had she not felt the stirring of a life 
 Within her own 1 small, pleading, upward hands, 
 Or piping voice steal to a mother s heart 1 
 
 Eliz. Oh, never, never ! I did know her wM! . 
 She would have died sooner than leave her chi d 
 To stranger hands; nay, more than this, had lived 
 In bitterness had cherished life for it ; 
 Not all the deadening miseries that wait 
 On constrained love not all the tortures felt 
 By th recoiling nerve and shrinking sense 
 Not all the blight and famine of the soul 
 Had moved her to forget a mother s love. 
 
 Leis. Tis a sad tale, Bess ; think no more of it, 
 
 Eliz. This is not all. Years passed, and she did 
 love 
 
 Leis. Talk no more of her ; we can but pity. 
 
 Eliz. (drawing back.} This is not all : she buried 
 
 up the past ; 
 She loved and was beloved, and held the secret still. 
 
 Leis. She was infamously perjured. 
 
 Eliz. She married him she loved 
 
 Leis. No more of the vile adultress ! 
 
 Eliz. Leisler, Leisler, I am that woman ! 
 
 Leis. (tenderly?) Alas ! she has gone mad ! 
 My fond wife ! 
 
 Eliz. Would to God it were madness, but tis 
 
 true ! 
 
 [T^KISf.KH staggers to one side ; 
 
 tlirmes herself at hi 
 
 Oh, I have killed thee killed thee ! Speak to me, 
 Curse me stab me to the heart but look not thus ! 
 See here ! [ Opens her bosom. ] To die by thy hand 
 
 were joy indeed ^ 
 
 I ll kiss the dagger s point, and kiss thy hand 
 And forfeit heaven itself, if, ere I die, 
 Thou wilt but smile and kiss me once again ! 
 
 There are in this tragedy several scenes 
 of great power, among which are that in 
 which Elizabeth poisons her child, and that 
 in which she discovers herself to the hus 
 band whom she had abandoned, to plead for 
 the life of the husband by whom she has her 
 self been cast off, abhorred and contemned. 
 
 The prose writings of Mrs. Oakes-Smith 
 for the most part printed in magazines 
 and other miscellanies are characterized 
 by qualities similar to those which mark 
 her poetry. Her most elaborate performan 
 ces are The Western Captive, a novel, pub 
 lished in 1842, and her last work, recently 
 issued by Putnam, with illustrations by Dar- 
 ley, entitled The Salamander, a Legend for 
 Christmas, purporting to be by " Ernest Hel- 
 fenstein," a name under which she has fre 
 quently written. 
 
 The great and peculiar merits of Mia 
 Oakes-Smith are so fully illustrated in what 
 has been remarked in ihe preceding pages, 
 and in the liberal extracts that are here given 
 from her works, that little remains to be ad 
 ded upon the subject. In the drama, in the 
 sonnet, and in miscellaneous poems of im 
 agination and fancy, she has vindicated her 
 right to a place among the first poets of her sex. 
 
184 
 
 ELIZABETH () A K E S - S M I T H. 
 
 THK ACORN". 
 
 LONG years ago, when our headlands hroke 
 
 The silent wave below, 
 And bird-song then the morn awoke 
 
 Where towers a city now ; 
 When the red man saw on every cliff, 
 
 Half seen and half in shade, 
 A tiny form, or a pearly skiff, 
 
 That sought the forest glade 
 
 An acorn fell from an old oak-tree, 
 
 And lay on the frosty ground : 
 " Oh, what shall the fate of the acorn be 1" 
 
 Was whispered al! around, 
 By low-toned voices, chiming sweet, 
 
 Like a floweret s bell when swung 
 And grasshopper steeds were gathering fleet, 
 
 And the beetle s hoofs uprung; 
 
 For the woodland Fays came sweeping past 
 
 In the pale autumnal ray, 
 Where the forest-leaves were falling fast, 
 
 And the acorn quivering lay ; 
 They came to tell what its fate should be, 
 
 Though life was unrevealed ; 
 For life is a ho y mystery, 
 
 W r here er it is concealed. 
 
 They came with gifts that should life bestow: 
 
 The dew and the living air 
 The bane that should work it deadly wo 
 
 The little men had there. 
 In the gray moss-cup was the mildew brought, 
 
 The worm in a rose-leaf rolled, 
 And many things with destruction fraught, 
 
 That its doom were quickly told. 
 But it needed not ; for a bless : d fate 
 
 Was the acorn s meant to be : 
 The spirits of earth should its birth-time wait, 
 
 And watch o er its destiny. 
 To Hor OF THE SHELL was the task assigned 
 
 To bury the acorn deep, 
 Away from the frost and searching wind, 
 
 When they through the forest sweep. 
 Twas a dainty sight, the small thing s toil, 
 
 As. bowed beneath the s\ ade, 
 He balanced his gossamer wings the while 
 
 To peep in the pit he made. 
 A thimble s depth it was scarcely deep, 
 
 When the spade aside he threw, 
 And rolled the acorn away to sleep 
 
 In the hush of dropping dew. 
 The spring-time came with its fresh, warm air, 
 
 And gush of woodland song; 
 The dew came down, and the rain was there, 
 
 And the sunshine rested long: 
 Then softly the black earth turned aside, 
 
 The old leaf arching o er, 
 And up, where the last year s leaf was dried, 
 
 Came the acorn-shell once more. 
 With coiled stem, and a pale-green hue, 
 
 It looked but a feeble thing; 
 Then deeply its root abroad it threw, 
 
 Its strength from the earth to bring. 
 The woodland sprites are gathering round, 
 
 Rejoiced that the task is done 
 
 That another life from the noisome ground 
 Is up to the pleasant sun. 
 
 The young child passed with a careless tread, 
 
 And the germ had well nigh crushed ; 
 But a spider, launched on her airy thread, 
 
 The cheek of the stripling brushed. 
 He little knew, as he started back, 
 
 How the acorn s fate was hung 
 On the very point in the spider s track 
 
 Where the web on his cheek was flung. 
 
 The autumn came it stood alone, 
 
 And bowed as the wind passed by 
 The wind that uttered its dirgelike moan 
 
 In the old oak sere and dry ; 
 The hollow branches creaked and swayed, 
 
 But they bent not to the blast, 
 For the stout oak-tree, where centuries played, 
 
 Was sturdy to the last. 
 
 But the sapling had no strength as yet 
 
 Such peril to abide, 
 And a thousand guards were round it set 
 
 To evil turn aside. 
 A hunter boy beheld the shoot, 
 
 And an idle prompting grew 
 To sever the sta k from the spreading root, 
 
 And his knife at once he drew. 
 
 His hand was stayed ; he knew not why : 
 
 Twas a presence breathed around 
 A pleading from the deep-blue sky, 
 
 And up from the teeming ground. 
 It told of the care that had lavished been 
 
 In sunshine and in dew 
 Of the many things that had wrought a screen 
 
 When peril around it grew. 
 
 It to d of the oak that once had bowed, 
 
 As feeble a thing to see ; 
 But now, when the storm was raging loud, 
 
 It wrestled mightily. 
 There s a deeper thought on the hunter s brow, 
 
 A new love at his heart ; 
 And he ponders much, as with footsteps slow 
 
 He turns him to depart. 
 
 Up grew the twig, with a vigor bold, 
 
 In the shape of the parent tree, 
 And the old oak knew that his doom was told, 
 
 When the sapling sprang so free. 
 Then the fierce winds came, and they raging tore 
 
 The hollow limbs away ; 
 And the damp moss crept from the earthy floor 
 
 Round the trunk, time worn and gray. 
 The young oak grew, and proudly grew, 
 
 For its roots were deep and strong; 
 And a shadow broad on the earth it threw, 
 
 And the sunshine lingered long 
 On its glossy leaf, where the flickering light 
 
 Was flung to the evening sky ; 
 And the wild bird sought to its airy height, 
 
 And taught her young to fly/ 
 In acorn-time came the truant boy, 
 
 With a wild and eager look, 
 And he marked the tree with a wondering joy, 
 
 As the wind the great limbs shook. 
 
ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 
 
 185 
 
 He looked where the moss on the north side grew, 
 
 The gnarled arms outspread, 
 The solemn shadow the huge tree threw, 
 
 As it towered above his head : 
 
 Arid vaguc-like fears the boy surround, 
 
 In the shadow of that tree ; 
 So growing up from the darksome ground, 
 
 Like a giant mystery. 
 His heart beats quick to the squirrel s tread 
 
 On the withered leaf and dry, 
 And he lifts not up his awe-struck head 
 
 As the eddying wind sweeps by. 
 
 All regally the stout oak stood, 
 
 In its vigor and its pride ; 
 A monarch owned in the solemn wood, 
 
 With a sceptre spreading wide 
 No more in the wintry blast to bow, 
 
 Or rock in the summer breeze ; 
 But draped in green, or starlike snow, 
 
 Reign king of the forest trees. 
 
 A thousand years it firmly grew, 
 
 A thousand blasts defied ; 
 And, mighty in strength, its broad arms threw 
 
 A shadow dense and wide. 
 Change came to the mighty things of earth 
 
 Old empires passed away ; 
 Of the generations that had birth, 
 
 O Death ! where, where are they 1 
 
 Yet fresh and green the brave oak stood, 
 
 Nor dreamed it of decay, 
 Though a thousand times in the autumn wood 
 
 Its leaves on the pale earth lay. 
 It grew where the rocks were bursting out 
 
 From the thin and heaving soil 
 Where the ocean s roar and the sailor s shout 
 
 Were mingled in wild turmoil ; 
 
 Where the far-off sound of the restless deep 
 
 Came up with a booming swell ; 
 And the white foam dashed to the rocky steep, 
 
 But it loved the tumult well. 
 Then its huge limbs creaked in the midnight air, 
 
 And joined in the rude uproar ; 
 For it loved the storm and the lightning s glare, 
 
 And the wave-lashed iron shore. 
 
 The bleaching bones of the sea-bird s prey 
 
 Were heaped on the rocks below ; 
 And the bald-head eagle, fierce and gray, 
 
 Looked off from its topmost bough. 
 Where the shadow lay on the quiet wave 
 
 The light boat often swung, 
 And the stout ship, saved from the ocean-grave, 
 
 Her cable round it flung. 
 
 A sound comes down in the forest trees, 
 
 And echoing from the hill ; 
 It floats far off on the summer breeze, 
 
 And the shore resounds it shrill. 
 Lo ! the monarch tree no more shall stand 
 
 Like a watchtower of the main 
 A giant mark of a giant land 
 
 That may not come again. 
 
 The stout old oak! Twas a worthy tree. 
 And the builder marked it out ; 
 
 He smiled its angled limbs to see, 
 
 As he measured the trunk about. 
 
 Already to him was a gallant bark 
 Careering the rolling deep, 
 
 And in sunshine, calm, or tempest dark, 
 Her way she will proudly keep. 
 
 The chisel clicks, and the hammer rings, 
 
 The merry jest goes round ; 
 While he who longest and loudest sings 
 
 Is the stoutest workman found. 
 With jointed rib and trunnelled plank 
 
 The work goes gayly on, 
 And light-spoke oaths, when the glass they drank, 
 
 Are heard till the task is done. 
 
 She sits on the stocks, the skeleton ship, 
 
 With her oaken ribs all bare, 
 And the child looks up with parted lip, 
 
 As it gathers fuel there : 
 With brimless hat, the barefoot bov 
 
 Looks round with strange amaze, 
 And dreams of a sailor s life of joy 
 
 Are mingling in that gaze. 
 
 With graceful waist and carvings brave 
 
 The trim hull waits the sea 
 She proudly stoops to the crested wave, 
 
 While round go the cheerings three. 
 Her prow swells up from the yesty deep, 
 
 Where it plunged in foam and spray: 
 And the glad waves gathering round her sweep 
 
 And buoy her in their play. 
 
 Thou wert nobly reared, heart of oak ! 
 
 In the sound of the ocean roar, 
 Where the surging wave o er the rough rock broke, 
 
 And bellowed along the shore : 
 And how wilt thou in the storm rejoice, 
 
 With the wind through spar and shroud, 
 To hear a sound like the forest voice, 
 
 When the blast was raging loud ! 
 
 With snow-white sail, and streamer gay, 
 
 She sits like an ocean-sprite, 
 Careering on her trackless way, 
 
 In sunshine or midnight : 
 Her course is laid with fearless skill, 
 
 For brave hearts man the helm ; 
 And the joyous winds her canvass fill : 
 
 Shall the wave the stout ship whelm 1 
 
 On, on she goes, where icebergs roll, 
 
 Like floating cities by ; 
 Where meteors flash by the northern pole, 
 
 And the merry dancers fly ; 
 Where the glittering light is backward flung 
 
 From icy tower and dome, 
 And the frozen shrouds are gayly hung 
 
 With gems from the ocean foam. 
 On the Birman sea was her shadow cast, 
 
 As it lay like molten gold, 
 And her pendent shroud and towering mast 
 
 Seemed twice on the waters told. 
 The idle canvass slowly swung 
 
 As the spicy breeze went by, 
 And strange, rare music around her rung 
 
 From the palm-tree growing nigh- 
 
180 
 
 ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 
 
 ^n, gallant ship, thou didst bear with thee 
 
 The gay and the hreaking heart, 
 And weeping eyes looked out to see 
 
 Thy white-spread sails depart. 
 And when the rattling casement told 
 
 Of many a perilled ship, 
 The anxious wife her babes would fold, 
 
 And pray with trembling lip. 
 The petrel whee ed in her stormy flight , 
 
 The wind piped shrill and high ; 
 On the topmast sat a pale-blue light, 
 
 That flickered not to the eye : 
 The black cloud came like a banner down, 
 
 And down came the shrieking blast ; 
 The quivering ship on her beams is thrown, 
 
 And gone are helm and mast! 
 Helmless, but on before the gale, 
 
 She ploughs the deep-troughed wave : 
 A gurgling sound a phrensied wail 
 
 And the ship hath found a grave ! 
 And thus is the fate of the acorn told, 
 
 That fell from the old oak-tree, 
 And HE OF THE SHELL in the frosty mould 
 
 Preserved for its destiny. 
 
 THE DROWNED MARINER. 
 
 A MAKIXER sat on the shrouds one night, 
 
 The wind was piping free ; 
 
 Now bright, now dimmed was the moonlight pale, 
 And the phosphor gleamed in the wake of the whale, 
 
 As he floundered in the sea ; 
 The scud was flying athwart the sky, 
 The gathering winds went whistling by, 
 And the wave as it towered, then fell hi spray, 
 Looked an emerald wall in the moonlight ray. 
 The mariner swayed and rocked on the mast, 
 
 But the tumult pleased him well; 
 Down the yawning wave his eye he cast, 
 And the monsters watched as they hurried past, 
 
 Or lightly rose and fell ; 
 
 For their broad, damp fins were under the tide, 
 And they lashed as they passed the vessel s side, 
 And their filmy eyes, all huge and grim, 
 Glared fiercely up, and they glared at him. 
 Now freshens the gale, and the brave ship goes 
 
 Like an uncurbed steed along, 
 A sheet of flame is the spray she throws, 
 As her gallant prow the water ploughs 
 
 But the ship is fleet and strong: 
 The topsails are reefed and the sails are furled, 
 And onward she sweeps o er the watery world, 
 And dippeth her spars in the surging flood ; 
 But fhrre came no chill to the mariner s blood. 
 Wildly she rocks, but he swinge th at ease, 
 
 And holds him by the shroud ; 
 And as she careens to the crowding breeze, 
 The gaping deep the mariner sees, 
 
 And the surging heareth loud. 
 Was that a face, looking up at him, 
 With its pallid cheek and its cold eyes dim ? 
 Did it beckon him down ] did it call his name ] 
 Now rolleth the ship the way whence it came. 
 
 The mariner looked, and he saw with dread, 
 
 A face he knew too well ; 
 
 And the cold eyes glared, the eyes of the dead, 
 And" its long hair out on the wave was spread, 
 
 Was there a ta e to tell ? 
 The stout ship rocked with a reeling speed, 
 And the mariner groaned, as well he need, 
 For ever down, as she plunged on her side, 
 The dead face gleamed from the briny tide. 
 Bethink thee, manner, well of the past, 
 
 A voice ,alls loud for thee 
 There s a stifled prayer, the first, the last, 
 The plunging ship on her beam is cast, 
 
 Oh, where shall thy burial be ? 
 Bethink thee of oaths that were lightly spoken, 
 Bethink thee of vows that were lightly broken, 
 Bethink thee of all that is dear to thee 
 For thou art alone on the raging sea : 
 Alone in the dark, alone on the wave, 
 
 To buffet the storm alone 
 To struggle aghast at thy watery grave, 
 
 To struggle, and feel there is none to sa\e 
 
 God shield thee, helpless one ! 
 The stout limbs yield, for their strength is past, 
 The tremb ing hands on the deep are cast, 
 The white brow gleams a moment more, 
 Then slowly sinks the struggle is o er. 
 Down, down where the storm is hushed to sleep, 
 
 Where the sea its dirge shall swell, 
 Where the amber drops for thee shall weep, 
 And the rose-lipped shell her music keep, 
 
 There thou shalt slumber well. 
 The gern and the pearl lie heaped at thy side, 
 They fell from the neck of the beautiful bride, 
 From the strong man s lrand,from the maiden s brow, 
 As they slowly sunk to the wave below. 
 A peopled home is the ocean bed, 
 
 The mother and child are there 
 j The fervent youth and the hoary head, 
 The maid, with her floating locks outspread, 
 
 The babe with its silken hair, 
 As the water moveth they lightly sway, 
 And the tranquil lights on their features play ; 
 And there is each cherished and beautiful form, 
 Away from decay, and away from the storm. 
 
 TO THE HUDSON. 
 
 OH, river ! gently as a wayward child 
 
 I saw thee mifl the moonlight hills at rest ; 
 Capricious thing, with thine own beauty wild, 
 
 How didst thou still the throbbings of thy breast! 
 Rude headlands were about thee, stooping round, 
 
 As if amid the hills to hold thy stav ; 
 But thou didst hear the far-off ocean sound, 
 
 Inviting thee from hill and vale away, 
 To mingle thy deep waters with its own ; 
 
 And, at that voice, thy steps did onward glide, 
 Onward from echoing hill and valley lone. 
 
 Like thine, oh, be my course nor turned aside, 
 While listing to the soundings of a land, 
 That like the ocean call invites me to its strand. 
 
ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 
 
 is: 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 I. POEST. 
 
 WITH no fond, sickly thirst for fame, I kneel 
 
 goddess of the high-born art, to thee ; 
 Not unto thee with semblance of a zeal 
 
 1 come, pure and heaven-eyed Poesy ! 
 Thou art to me a spirit and a love, 
 
 Felt ever from the time when first the earth, 
 In its green beauty, and the sky above 
 
 Informed my soul with joy too deep for mirth. 
 I was a child of thine before my tongue 
 
 Could lisp its infant utterance unto thee, 
 And now, albeit from my harp are flung 
 
 Discordant numbers, and the song may be 
 That which I would not, yet I know that thou 
 
 The offering wilt not spurn,while th us to thee I bow. 
 
 II. THE BAUD. 
 
 IT can not be, the baffled heart, in vain, 
 May seek, amid the crowd, its throbs to hide ; 
 Ten thousand other kindred pangs may bide, 
 
 Yet not the less will our own griefs complain. 
 
 Chained to our rock, the vulture s gory stain 
 And tearing beak is every moment rife, 
 Renewing pangs that end but with our life. 
 
 Thence bursteth forth the gushing voice of song, 
 The- soul s deep anguish thence an utterance finds, 
 Appealing to all hearts : and human minds 
 
 Bow down in awe : thence doth the Bard belong 
 
 Unto all times : the laurel steeped in wrong 
 
 Unsought is his : his soul demanded bread, [stead. 
 
 And ye, charmed with the voice, gave but a stone in- 
 ^ 
 
 III. AX IXCIDEXT. 
 
 A SIMPLE thing, yet chancing as it did, 
 
 When life was bright with its illusive dreams, 
 A pledge and promise seemed beneath it hid ; 
 
 The ocean lay before me, tinged with beams 
 That lingering draped the west, a wavering stir, 
 
 And at my feet down fell a worn, gray quill ; 
 An eagle, high above the darkling fir, 
 
 With steady flight, seemed there to take his fill 
 Of that pure ether breathed by him alone. 
 ^ O nob:e bird ! why didst thou loose for me 
 Thy eagle plume ? still unessayed, unknown 
 
 Must be that pathway fearless winged by thee ; 
 I ask it not, no lofty flight be mine, 
 I would not soar like thee, in loneliness to pine ! 
 
 IV. THE UXATTA1XED. 
 
 Axn is this life? and are we born for this 1 
 To follow phantoms that elude the grasp, 
 Or whatsoe er secured, within our clasp, 
 
 To withering lie, as if each earth y kiss [meet. 
 Were doomed Death s shuddering touch alone to 
 
 O Life ! hast thou reserved no cup of bliss ? 
 Must still THE UVATTAIXEI) beguile our feet? 
 
 The UXATTAIXEII with yearnings fill the breast, 
 
 That rob, for ay, the spirit of its rest ? 
 Yes, this is Life ; and everywhere we meet, 
 Not victor crowns, but wailings of defeat ; 
 
 ^ et faint thou not, thou dost apply a test 
 That shall incite thee onward, upward still, 
 The present can not sate nor e er thy spirit fill. 
 
 V. THE WIFE. 
 
 ALL day, like some sweet bird, content to sing 
 
 In its small cage, she moveth to and fro 
 And ever and anon will upward spring 
 
 To her sweet lips, fresh from the fount below, 
 The murmured melody of pleasant thought, 
 
 Unconscious uttered, gentle-toned and low. 
 Light household duties, evermore inwrought 
 
 With placid fancies of one trusting heart 
 That lives but in her smile, and turns 
 
 From life s cold seeming and the busy mart, 
 With tenderness, that heavenward ever yearns 
 To be refreshed where one pure altar burns. 
 
 Shut out from hence, the mockery of life, [wife. 
 
 Thus liveth she content, the meek, fond, trusting 
 
 VI. RELIGIOX. 
 
 ALOXE, yet not alone, the heart doth brood 
 With a sad fondness o er its hidden grief ; 
 
 B -oods with a miser s joy, wherein relief 
 Jomes with a semblance of its own quaint mood. 
 
 How many hearts this point of life have passed ! 
 
 And some a train of light behind have cast, 
 To show us what hath been, and what may be ; 
 
 That thus have suffered all the wise and good, 
 
 Thus wept and prayed, thus struggled and were free. 
 So doth the pilot, trackless through the deep, 
 Unswerving by the stars his reckoning keep, 
 
 He moves a highway not untried before, 
 And thence he courage gains, and joy doth reap, 
 
 Unfaltering lays his course, and leaves behind the 
 shore. 
 
 VI T. THE DREAM. 
 
 I niiKAMKi) last night, that I myself did lay 
 
 Within the grave, and after stood and wept, 
 
 My spirit sorrowed where its ashes s ept ! 
 T was a strange dream, and yet methinks it may 
 
 Prefigure that which is akin to truth. 
 
 How sorrow we o er perished dreams of youth, 
 High hopes and aspirations doomed to be 
 Crushed and o ermastered by earth s destiny ! 
 
 Fame, that the spirit loathing turns to ruth 
 And that deluding faith so loath to part, 
 That earth will shrine for us one kindred heart ! 
 
 Oh, tis the ashes of such things that wring 
 Tears from the eyes hopes like to these depart, 
 
 And we bow down in dread, o ershadowed by 
 Death s wing ! 
 
 VIII. WAYFARERS. 
 
 EARTH careth for her own the fox lies down 
 
 In her warm bosom, and it asks no more. 
 The bird, content, broods in its lowly nest, 
 Or its fine essence stirred, with wing outflown, 
 
 Circ es in airy rounds to heaven s own door, 
 And folds again its plume upon her breast, 
 
 Ye, too, for whom her palaces arise, 
 Whose Ty rian vestments sweep the kindred ground, 
 
 Whose golden chalice Ivy-Bacchus dies, 
 
 She, kindly Mother, liveth in your eyes, 
 And no strange anguish may your lives astound. 
 
 But ye, O pale lone watchers for the true, 
 She knoweth not. In Her ve have not found 
 
 Place for your stricken head, wet with the mitl 
 night dew. 
 
IS8 
 
 ELIZABETH O ARE S-SMITH. 
 
 IX. HELOISE TO ARELARI). 
 
 MUST I not love thee ] when the heart would leap 
 With all its stirring pulses unto thee, 
 Must it be staved 1 is not the spirit free 7 
 
 Can human bonds or bars its essence keep ? 
 
 Or drills and banes hold love in deathful sleep! 
 Love thee I. must yet I content will be, 
 Like the pale victim, who, on bended knee, 
 
 Presents the cha ice which his blood must steep, 
 And prostrate on the altar falls to die : 
 
 So let me knee! a guilt e*s votary sink 
 
 Prayer o.i rny lip, and love within my heart: 
 Thus from these willing eyes recede the sky 
 
 Thus let these sighs my ebbing life-blood drink, 
 May I but love thee still, but feel how dear thou art ! 
 
 X. IIKLOISE TO ABELAttD, (CONTINUED.) 
 
 shouldst thou hold thy tenderness aside 
 From all thv lavishmcnt of other gifts ] 
 As if thou wouldst resort to means and shifts, 
 Thy dearest, noblest attribute to hide 
 From her, thy soul s sequestered, nun-made bride 1 
 Thou hast enshrined her, like the star that drifts 
 Alone in space the worshipper who lifts 
 His adoration, stayetli not the tide [thou 1 
 
 Of his full heart ah ! wherefore then shouldst 
 We do our natures unto those attune, 
 Most prodigal of greatness and we feel 
 That they do us with nobleness endow, 
 As did the lavish moon Endyrnion : [ous zeal 1 
 Then wherefore starve the heart with thrift of jeal- 
 
 XI. DESPONDENCY. 
 
 WURN thou didst leave me Hope, why didst thou 
 In place of thy sweet presence, leave Despair, ("not, 
 With her grim visage and disordered hair ? 
 
 The past, the future, then had been forgot 
 
 The soul, concentred on its blasted lot, 
 Had rested mute and desolate of care 
 Had ceased to question where its treasures were, 
 
 And roamed no more the melancholy spot : 
 But now, too much remembering of the past ; 
 
 So huge the weight of gloom around me spread, 
 That I, like one within a charnel cast, 
 
 Hear but the dirges ringing for the dead 
 Feel all the pangs of life, and thought, arid breath, 
 Yet walk I all the time with hand in hand of Death. 
 
 XII. LOVE. 
 
 THERE may be death or peril grief and shame 
 Cold, hollow human bonds ; and stony walls, 
 And stonier hearts ; and solemn hackwood calls, 
 
 Heard in the midnight silence, when our name 
 
 < omes to the startled car in cadenced blame : 
 Friends may fall, as the dried leaf in autumn falls: 
 We, in blanched moonlight stand, in desolate halls, 
 
 H.-arinjf dead branches grate the window frame, 
 Under the pressure of the winter wind 
 
 Y el Love will dare a l these, and more : ah ! more 
 
 Outlive the changed look, wrench back despair, 
 Knd in his dim, deserted chambers find 
 
 The wherewithal to comfort to restore [there. 
 God s manna find left by Archangel footprints 
 
 XIII. "LOOK NOT BEHIND THEE. 
 
 MKSEKMED, as I did walk a crystal wall, 
 Translucent in the hue of rosy morn, 
 And saw Eurydice, from Orpheus torn, 
 
 Lift her white brow from out its heavy pall, 
 
 With sweet lips echoing his melodious call, 
 And following him, love-led and music-borne, 
 A sharp and broken cry and she was gone : 
 
 Thou fairest grief thou saddest tvpe of all 
 Our sorrowing kind, oh, lost Eurydice ! 
 
 Thy deathful cry thrilled in mine every vein, 
 When Orpheus turned him back, thus losing thee 
 
 His broken lute and melancholy plain 
 All time prolongs the still unceasing flow 
 Of unavailing grief and a regretful wo. 
 
 XIV. CHAIUTT, IN DESPAIR OF JUSTICE. 
 
 OUTWEARIED with the littleness and spite 
 The falsehood and the treachery of men, 
 I cried, " Give me but justice" thinking then 
 
 I meekly craved a common boon, which might 
 
 Most easily be granted : soon the light 
 Of deeper truth grew on my wandering ken, 
 (Escaped the baneful damps of stagnant fen,) 
 
 And then I saw that, in my pride bedight, 
 I claimed from weak-eyed man the gift of Heaven : 
 
 God s own great vested right ! and I grew calm, 
 W 7 ith folded hands, like stone to Patience given, 
 
 And pityings of meek love-distilling balm 
 And now I wait in hopeful trust to be 
 All known to God, and ask of man sweet charity 
 
 XV. THE GREAT AI3I. 
 
 EARTH beareth many pangs of guilt and wrong, 
 Hunger, and chains, and nakedness, all cry 
 From out the ground to Him whose searching eye 
 
 Sees blood, like slinking serpents, steal along 
 
 The dusty way, rank grass, and flowers among 
 Histhedread voice," Where is thy brother?" Why 
 
 Sit we here, weaving our common griefs to song, 
 When that eternal call forth bids us fly 
 
 From self, and wake to human good 1 the near. 
 The humble it may be, yet God-appointed : 
 
 If greatly girded, go unknowing fear 
 With solemn trust, thou missioned and anointed. 
 
 Oh, glorious task ! made free from petty strife, 
 
 Thy Truth become an Act thy Aspiration, Life. 
 
 XVI. MIDNIGHT. 
 
 AFAH in this deep dell, by the seashore, 
 So, resteth all things from the summer heat, 
 That I the Naiads hear from limber feet 
 
 Let fall the crystal as in days of yore : 
 
 Old sea-gods lean upon the rock, and pour 
 The waves adown ; the light-winged zephyrs greet 
 The tittering nymphs, that from their green retreat 
 
 With pearl-shells play and listen to their roar: 
 Endymion sure on yonder headland sleeps, 
 
 Where Dian s veil floats out a silver sheen 
 And large-eyed Pan amid the lotus peeps, 
 
 Where glea?ns an ivory arm the leaves between. 
 Nor stirs a restless hoof, lest his bit; heart, 
 O erfilled with love, should si umbering Echo start. 
 
ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 
 
 189 
 
 XVII. JEALOUSY. 
 
 ALAS ! for he who loves too oft may be 
 
 Like one who- hath a precious treasure sealed, 
 Whereto another hath obtained the key : 
 
 And he, poor soul ! who there his a .l concealed, 
 Lives blindly on, nor knows that mite by mite 
 
 It dvvindleth from his grasp ; or if a thought 
 That something hath been lost his mind affright. 
 
 He puts it by as evil fancy wrought. 
 Yet will there sometimes come -a ghostly dread, 
 
 From which the soul recoils ; but he will sleep 
 Av, sleep and when he wakes, all, all is fled. 
 
 Thus we may " garner up" our hearts, and keep 
 A more than human trust, and yet be left 
 Despoiled of all of hope, of faith, of love bereft ! 
 
 ECCK HOMO. 
 
 THE WORSHIP AND THE WAY. 
 
 WHETIE the great woods their dusky shadows spread, 
 Where the co .d mountain-top in silence stood 
 
 What time the stars hung dark. ing overhead, 
 Or came the red sun forth a beaming god, 
 
 There, dimly groping, yet for truth athirst, 
 
 Before the heavenly hosts in worship first, 
 
 Ecce Homo ! 
 
 The sylvan god hid in the rude, worn stone, 
 
 The fire with wreaths of smoke to heaven ascending 
 From out the consecrated dell, are gone ; 
 
 The Parsee on the mount no more is bending, 
 But in a shapely temple, with the rites 
 Of priest, and victim, and the burning lights, 
 
 Ecce Homo ! 
 Ah, struggling soul ! crushed and impeded, yet 
 
 In form alone thou couldst riot rest content ; 
 These were but symbols : thou couldst not forget 
 
 Truth dwells within the veil, which must be rent ; 
 And once again, mid earthquakes, doubt, and dread, 
 And darkness o er the earth, and o er all worship 
 
 spread Ecce Homo ! 
 
 Where hath the lowly been, to point the path 
 
 To all the strugglers for the good and true 1 
 In peril and in scorn from earthborn wrath, 
 
 His locks all covered with tae midnight dew 
 The sweat of b.ood, the agony, the prayer 
 Oh, dark Gethsemane, behold him there ! 
 
 Ecce Homo ! 
 Wayworn with toil, and sorrowful of heart, 
 
 Amid earth s multitude despised and poor, 
 W T ho, save their trust in God, have little art 
 
 Their strength the strength that teaches to endure : 
 To comfort such, and in the outcast s ear 
 Great words to whisper of consoling cheer 
 
 Ecce Homo ! 
 W T here is the Priest, and where the altar now * 
 
 Where is the reeking blood., and victim slain 1 
 Tranquil is upward raised a heavenly brow 
 
 " Do this in love until I come again" 
 
 And mystic wine poured forth, and lowly bread, 
 Earth s best and common gifts before him spread, 
 
 Ecce Homo ! 
 
 Not as the martyr dies with the great stamp 
 
 Of Truth upon his brow, him to uphold ; 
 
 But o er the suffering forehead, cold and lamp, 
 
 Th A record of imposture three times told 
 The outcast and the felon side by side 
 " Without the walls," where all men may deride 
 
 Ecce Homo ! 
 Thou fainting bearer of the thorn and cross, 
 
 Despised, rejected of thy brother here 
 Sighing for lack of bread the wayside moss 
 
 Thine only pillow cast aside thy fear ! 
 Fill up thy human heart unto the brim 
 Let the thorn pierce thee, as it pierced Him 
 
 Ecce Homo! 
 
 ODE TO SAPPHO. 
 
 BRIGHT, glowing Sappho ! child of love and song ! 
 
 Adown the blueness of long-distant years 
 Beams forth thy glorious shape, and steal along 
 Thy melting tones, beguiling us to tears. 
 Thou priestess of great hearts, 
 
 Thrilled with the secret fire 
 By which a god imparts 
 
 The anguish of desire 
 For meaner souls be mean content 
 Thine was a higher element. 
 Over Leucadia s rock thou leanest yet, 
 
 With thy wild song, and all thy locks outspread ; 
 The stars are in thine eyes, the moon hath set 
 The night dew falls upon thy radiant head ; 
 And thy resounding lyre 
 Ah ! not so wildly sway : 
 Thy soulful lips inspire 
 
 And steal our hearts away ! 
 Swanlike and beautiful, thy dirge 
 Still moans along the ^Egean surge. 
 No unrequited love filled thy lone heart, 
 But thine infinitude did on thee weigh, 
 And all the wildness of despair impart, 
 Stealing the down from Hope s own wing away. 
 Couldst thou not suffer on, 
 Bearing the direful pang, 
 While thy melodious tone 
 
 Through wondering cities rang? 
 Couldst thou not bear thy godlike grief] 
 In godlike utterance find relief! 
 Devotion, fervor, might upon thee wait : 
 
 But what were these to thine 1 all cold and chill, 
 And left thy burning heart but desolate ; 
 Thy wondrou? beauty with despair might fill 
 The worshipper who bent 
 
 Entranced at thy feet : 
 Too affluent the dower lent 
 
 Where song and beauty meet ! 
 Consumed by a Promethean fire 
 Wert thou, O daughter .of the lyre ! 
 Alone, above Leucadia s wave art thou, 
 Most beautiful, most gifted, yet alone ! 
 Ah ! what to thee the crown from Pindar s brow e 
 What the loud plaudit and the garlands tluown 
 By the enraptured throng, 
 
 When thou in matchless grace 
 Didst move with lyre and song, 
 
 And monarchs gave thee place 1 
 What hast thou left, proud one ? what token ? 
 Alas ! a lyre and heart uotli broken ! 
 
ELIZABETH OAKES-SMTTH. 
 
 LOVE DEAD. 
 
 Th* lady sent liim an ima.se of Cupid, one wins veiling Ins face. He 
 was pit-use,! tli>-rt-at, thinkin- it to be Low >|.-.-piii^, and betokened 
 lie tendermM ot (lie sentiment. He looked again, and caw it 
 Love dead, and laid upon his biet. 
 
 THIS morn with trembling I awoke, 
 Just as the dawn my slumber broke : 
 Flapping came a heavy wing sounding pinions o er 
 
 my head, 
 
 Beating down the b .essed air with a weight of chil 
 ling dread ; 
 
 Felt I then the presence of a doom 
 That an Evil occupied the room : 
 And I dared not round the bower, 
 
 Chi.ly in the grayish dawning 
 Dared not face the evil power, 
 
 With its voice of inward warning. 
 Vain with weakness we may palter 
 Vainly may the fond heart falter: 
 Came there then upon my soul, dropping down 
 
 like leaden weight, 
 Burning pang or freezing pang, which I know not, 
 
 twas so great ! 
 
 Life hath its moments black unnumbered, 
 I knew not if mine eyes had slumbered, 
 Yet I little thought such pain 
 Ever to have known again : 
 Love dies, too, when Faith is dead 
 Yesternight Faith perished ! 
 I knew that Love could never change - 
 That Love should die seems yet more strange ; 
 Lifting up the downy veil, screening Love within 
 
 my heart, 
 
 Beating there as beat my pulse, moving like my 
 self a part 
 
 I had kept him cherished there so deep, 
 Heart-rocked kept him in his balmy sleep, 
 That till now I never knew 
 How his fibres round me grew 
 Could not know how deep the sorrow 
 Where Hope bringeth no to-morrow. 
 I struggled, knowing we must part ; 
 I grieved to lift him from my heart: 
 Grieving much and struggling much, forth I brought 
 
 him sorrowing ; 
 Drooping hung his fainting head, all adown his 
 
 dainty wing ! 
 
 Shrieked I with a wild and dark surprise, 
 For I saw the marble in Love s eyes ; 
 Yet I hoped his soul would wait 
 ^s he oft had waited there, 
 Hovering, though at heaven s gate 
 Could he leave me to despair ] 
 Unfolded they the crystal door, 
 W here Love shall languish never more. 
 "VV eeping Love, thy days are o er. Lo ! I lay thee 
 
 on thy bier, 
 Wiping thus from thy dead cheek every vestige of 
 
 a tear. 
 
 Love has perished : hist, hist, how they tell, 
 Beating pulse of mine, his funeral knell ! 
 Lo\e is dead ay, dead and gone! 
 Why should I be living on ? 
 Why be in this chamber sitting, 
 With but phantoms round me flitting? 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 I PASS before them cold and lone; 
 I ask no smile, I claim no tear; 
 And like some chiselled form of stone, 
 
 Doomed none save mocking words to hear, 
 To meet no eyes with Love s own ray, 
 
 No touch that might the life-pulse wake, 
 No tone emotion to betray, 
 
 No self forgotten for its sake ! 
 So pass they all, and it is well ! 
 
 I would not such should read the mind 
 Where hidden tenderness may dwell, 
 
 Like gem in icy cave confined ; 
 I would not every eye should read 
 
 What one alone should ever know 
 One, only one, by Fate decreed 
 
 To bid these icy fetters flow ! 
 They deem that changeful, struggling still, 
 
 For that nor time nor earth can give ; 
 Misled by Fancy s aimless will, 
 
 I in the cold ideal live. 
 Oh, it is well ! thence holier far 
 
 Is all I cherish thus apart 
 Pure as the brightness of a star, 
 
 Deep as the fountains of the heart ! 
 
 ENDURANCE. 
 
 1 She turned to him sorrowfully, saying, Thou art free! Tl.en P<at 
 did ho feel how deep is the bondage of love." 
 
 I HAVE loosed every bond from thy uneasy heart, 
 
 Have given thee back every pledge that was dear ; 
 I have bidden thee go, yet thou wilt not depart 
 
 I have prompted away, yet still thou art here. 
 I knew that thy freedom would be but in vain, 
 
 Thy bondage the same, though absent the token : 
 The chain may be reft, yet the scar will remain ; 
 
 The weight will be felt, though the links are all 
 broken. 
 
 [ shed not a tear when I bade thee depart 
 
 My lip curled with pride, but nothing with scorn ; 
 [f the pang or the aching were felt at the heart, 
 
 Thou couldst not divine that it nourished the 
 
 thorn. 
 [ dreamed not of comfort, I prayed not for bliss ; 
 
 In loving I knew was the wreck of my life : 
 [n silence I bowed and asked but for this 
 
 Thou ever the same in my darkness and strife ! 
 The prayer hath been mocked, it is well that we part ; 
 
 Yet it grieves me a will so unfettered as thine 
 Should wrestle in vain with the bonds of the heart, 
 
 A captive unwilling in jesses of mine. 
 
 would send thee away with fetterless wing, 
 
 W ith eye that nor dimness nor sorrow hath known; 
 
 The free airs of heaven around thee should sing, 
 And I bear the shaft and the anguish alone, 
 have learned to endure, I have hugged my despair, 
 I scourge back the madness that else would invade ; 
 
 On my brain falls the drop after drop, yet I bear, 
 Lest thou shouldst discover the wreck thou hast 
 made ! 
 
ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 
 
 191 
 
 MINISTERING SPIRITS. 
 
 WHITE-WIXGED angels meet the child 
 
 On the vestibule of life, 
 And they offer to his lips 
 
 All that cup of mingled strife 
 Mingled drops of smiles and tears, 
 Human hopes, and human fears, 
 Joy and sorrow, love and wo, 
 Which the future heart must know. 
 
 Sad the smile the spirits wear, 
 Sad the fanning of their wings, 
 
 As in their exceeding love 
 
 Each a cup of promise hrings : 
 
 In the coming strife and care, 
 
 They have promised to be there ; 
 
 Bowed by weariness or grief, 
 
 They will minister relief. 
 
 Lady, could the infant look 
 
 In that deep and bitter cup, 
 All its hidden perils know, 
 
 Would it quaff life s waters up ? 
 Lady, yes for in the vase 
 Upward beams an angel face ; 
 Deep and anguished though the sigh, 
 There is comfort lurking nigh 
 Times of joy, and times of wo, 
 Each an angel-presence know. 
 
 THE RECALL, OR SOUL MELODY. 
 
 NOTI dulcimer nor harp shall hreathe 
 
 Their melody for me ; 
 Within my secret soul be wrought 
 
 A holier minstrelsy ! 
 Descend into thy depths, oh soul ! 
 And every sense in me control. 
 
 Thou hast no voice for outward mirth, 
 
 Whose purer strains arise 
 From those that steal from crystal gates, 
 
 The hymnings of the skies ; 
 And well may earth s cold jarrings cease, 
 When such have soothed thee unto peace. 
 
 Within thy secret chamher rest, 
 
 And back each sense recall, 
 That seeketh mid the tranquil stars 
 
 Where melody shall fall ; 
 Call home the wanderer from the vale, 
 From mountain and the moonlight pale. 
 
 Within the leafy wood, the sound 
 
 Of dropping rain may ring, 
 Which, rolling from the trembling leaf, 
 
 Falls on the sparrow s wing ; 
 And music round the waking flower 
 May breathe in every star-lit bower : 
 
 Yet, come away ! nor stay to hear 
 
 The breathings of a voice 
 Whose subtle tones awake a thrill 
 
 To make thee to rejoice, 
 And vibrate on the listening ear 
 Too deep, too earnest ah, too dear. 
 Yes, come away, and inward turn 
 
 Each thought and every sense, 
 
 For srrrow lingers from without 
 Th( u canst not charm it thence ; 
 But a l attuned the soul may be, 
 Unto a deathless melody. 
 
 THE WATER. 
 
 How beautiful the water is ! 
 
 Didst ever think of it, 
 When down it tumbles from the skies, 
 
 As in a merry fit ? 
 It jostles, ringing as it falls, 
 
 On all that s in its way 
 I hear it dancing on the roof, 
 
 Like some wild thing at play. 
 
 Tis rushing now adown the spout, 
 
 And gushing out below, 
 Half frantic in its joyousness, 
 
 And wild in eager flow. 
 The earth is dried and parched with heat, 
 
 And it hath longed to be 
 Released from out the selfish cloud, 
 
 To cool the thirsty tree. 
 
 It washes, rather rudely too, 
 
 The flow rets simple grace, 
 As if to chide the pretty thing 
 
 For dust upon its face : 
 It showers the tree till every leaf 
 
 Is free from dust or stain, 
 Then waits till leaf and branch are stilleil. 
 
 And showers them o er again. 
 
 Drop after drop is tinkling down, 
 
 To kiss the stirring brook, 
 The water dimples from beneath 
 
 With its own joyous look : 
 And then the kindred drops embrace, 
 
 And singing on they go, 
 To dance beneath the willow tree, 
 
 And glad the vale below. 
 
 How beautiful the water is ! 
 
 It loves to come at night, 
 To make us wonder in the morn 
 
 To find the earth so bright 
 To see a youthful gloss is spread 
 
 On every shrub and tree, 
 And flowerets breathing on the ail 
 
 Their odors pure and free. 
 
 A dainty thing the water is 
 
 It loves the blossom s cup, 
 To nestle mid the odors there, 
 
 And fill the petals up ; 
 It hangs its gems on every leaf, 
 
 Like diamonds in the sun ; 
 And then the water wins the smile 
 
 The floweret should have won. 
 
 How beautiful the water is ! 
 
 To me tis wondrous fair 
 No spot can ever lonely be, 
 
 If water sparkle there ; 
 It hath a thousand tongues of mirtb. 
 
 Of grandeur, or delight, 
 And every heart is gladder made 
 
 When water greets the sight 
 
l J2 
 
 ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 
 
 THE BROOK. 
 
 " WHITHKTI awav, thou merry Brook, 
 
 Whither away so fast, 
 With dainty feet through the meadow green, 
 
 And a srni!e as you hurry past?" 
 The Brook leaped on in idle mirth, 
 
 And dimpled with saucy glee; 
 The daisy kissed in lovingness, 
 
 And made with the wil.ow free. 
 
 I heard its lau^h adown the glen, 
 
 And over the rocky steep, 
 Away where the old tree s roots were bare 
 
 In the waters dark and deep ; 
 The sunshine flashed upon its face, 
 
 And played with flickering leaf 
 Well pleased to dally in its path, 
 
 Though the tarrying were brief. 
 
 " Now stay thy feet, oh restless one, 
 
 Where droops the spreading tree, 
 And let thy liquid voice reveal 
 
 Thy story unto me." 
 The flashing pebbles lightly rung, 
 
 As the gushing music fell, 
 The chiming music of the brook, 
 
 From out the woody dell. 
 
 " My mountain home was bleak and high, 
 
 A rugged spot s.nd drear, 
 With searching wind and raging storm, 
 
 And moonlight cold and clear. 
 I longed for a greeting cheery as mine, 
 
 For a fond and answering look 
 But none were in that solitude 
 
 To bless the little brook. 
 
 " The blended hum of pleasant sounds 
 
 Came up from the vale below, 
 And I wished that mine were a lowly lot, 
 
 To lapse, and sing as I go ; 
 That gentle things, with loving eyes, 
 
 Along my path should glide, 
 And blossoms in their loveliness 
 
 Come nestling to my side. 
 
 " I leaped me down : my rainbow robe 
 
 Hung shivering to the sight, 
 And the thrill of freedom gave to me 
 
 New impulse of delight. 
 A joyous welcome the sunshine gave, 
 
 The bird and the swaying tree ; 
 The spear-like grass and blossom start 
 
 With joy at sight of me. 
 
 " The swallow comes with its bit of clay, 
 
 When the busy Spring is here, 
 And twittering hears the moistened gift 
 
 A nest on the eaves to rear; 
 The twinkling feet of flock and herd 
 
 Have trodden a path to me, 
 And the fox and the squirrel come to drink 
 
 In the shade of the alder-tree. 
 
 " The surinurnt child, with its rounded foo 
 
 Comes hither with me to play, 
 And I feel the thrill of his lightsome heart 
 
 As he dashes the merry spray. 
 
 I turn the mill with answering glee, 
 As the merry spokes go round, 
 
 And the gray rock takes the echo up, 
 Rejoicing in the sound. 
 
 " The old man bathes his scattered locks, 
 
 And drops me a silent tear 
 For he sees a wrinkled, careworn face 
 
 Look up from the waters clear. 
 Then I sing in his ear the very song 
 
 He heard in years gone by ; 
 The old man s heart is glad again, 
 
 And a joy lights up his eye." 
 
 Enough, enough, thou homily brook ! 
 
 I ll treasure thy teachings well, 
 And I will yield a heartfelt tear 
 
 Thy crystal drops to swell ; 
 Will bear like thee a kindly love 
 
 For the lowly things of earth, 
 Remembering still that high and pure 
 
 Is the home of the spirit s birth. 
 
 THE COUNTRY MAIDEN. 
 
 I had rather have one kisse, 
 Cliilde waters of thy mouth, 
 
 Than 1 woulde have Cheshire and Lancashire both* 
 That lye by north and south. Old Ballad. 
 
 I CAME to thee in workday dress 
 
 And hair but plainly kempt, 
 For life is not all holyday, 
 
 From toil and care exempt ; 
 
 I met thee oft with glowing cheek 
 
 Thus love its tale will tell ; 
 Though oft its after paleness told 
 
 Of hidden grief as well. 
 
 Mine eyes that drooped beneath thy glance 
 
 To hide their sense of bliss, 
 Let fall too oft the tears that tell 
 
 Of secret tenderness. 
 
 I sought for no bewildering lure 
 
 Thy senses to beguile, 
 But checked the woman-playfulness, 
 
 The witching tone and smile. 
 
 With household look and household word. 
 
 And frank as maidens meet, 
 I dared with earnest, homely truth, 
 
 Thy manliness to greet. 
 
 For oh ! so much of truth was mine, 
 
 So much of love beside, 
 I wished in simple maidenhood 
 
 To be thy chosen bride. 
 
 Alas ! the russet robe no more 
 
 Of humble life may tell, 
 And thou dost say the velvet gear 
 
 Becomes my beauty well. 
 
 Twas thy dear hand upon my brow 
 That bound each sparkling gem, 
 
 But dearer far its slightest touch 
 Than all the wealth of them. 
 
 Oh ! tell me not of gorgeous robes, 
 Nor bind the jewel there ; 
 
ELIZABETH CAKES-SMITH. 
 
 193 
 
 And teil me not with those cold eyes 
 
 That 1 am wondrous fair. 
 I will not chide, I will not blame, 
 
 And vet the thought is here, 
 The thought so fraught with bitterness 
 
 It yieldeth rne no tear. 
 I gave thee tenderness too deep 
 
 Too deep for aught but tears ; 
 And thou wouldst teach the world s cold rule, 
 
 Which learned, the heart but seres. 
 
 I gave Ihee all the soul s deep trust 
 
 Its truth by sorrow tried ; 
 Nay, start not thou ! what hast thou given 1 
 
 Alas ! tis but thy pride. 
 Give back, give back the tenderness 
 
 That blessed my simple love, 
 And call me, as in those dear days, 
 
 Thine own, thy gentle dove ! 
 
 THE APRIL RAIN. 
 
 THE April rain the April rain 
 
 I hear the pleasant sound ; 
 Now soft and still, like little dew, 
 
 Now drenching all the ground. 
 Pray tell me why an April shower 
 
 Is pleasanter to see 
 Than falling drops of other rain? 
 
 I m sure it is to me. 
 
 I wonder if tis really so 
 
 Or only hope the while, 
 That tells of swelling buds and flowers, 
 
 And Summer s coming smile. 
 Whate er it is, the April shower 
 
 Makes me a child again ; 
 I feel a rush of youthful blood 
 
 Come with the April rain. 
 
 And sure, were I a little bulb 
 
 Within the darksome ground, 
 I should love to hear the April rain 
 
 So gently falling round ; 
 Or any tiny flower were I, 
 
 By Nature swaddled up, 
 How pleasantly the April shower 
 
 Would bathe my hidden cup ! 
 
 The small brown seed, that rattled down 
 
 On the cold autumnal earth, 
 Is bursting from its cerements forth, 
 
 Rejoicing in its birth. 
 The slender spears of pale green grass 
 
 Are smiling in the light, 
 The clover opes its folded leaves 
 
 As if it felt delight. 
 
 The robin sings on the leafless tree, 
 
 Ana upward turns his eye, 
 As loving much to see the drops 
 
 Come filtering from the sky ; 
 No doubt he longs the bright green leaves 
 
 About his home to see, 
 And feel the swaying summer winds 
 
 Play in the full-robed tree. 
 13 
 
 The cottage door is open wide, 
 
 And cheerful sounds are heard , 
 The younjr girl sings at the merry wheel 
 
 A song like the wilding bird; 
 The creeping child by the old, worn sill 
 
 Peers out with winking eye, 
 And his ringlets rubs with chubby hand, 
 
 As the drops come pattering by. 
 
 With bounding heart beneath the ky, 
 
 The truant boy is out, 
 And hoop and ball are da-rting by 
 
 With many a merry shout. 
 Ay, sport away, ye joyous throng 
 
 For yours is the April day ; 
 I love to see your spirits dance V 
 
 In your pure and healthful pla} r . 
 
 ATHEISM. 
 
 FAITH. 
 
 BE WARE of doubt faith is the subtle chain 
 
 Which binds us to the Infinite : the voice 
 Of a deep life within, that will remain 
 
 Until we crowd it thence. We may rejoice 
 With an exceeding joy, and make our life, 
 
 Ay, this external life, become a part 
 Of that which is within, o erwrought and rife 
 
 With faith, that childlike blessedness of heart. 
 The order and the harmony inborn 
 
 With a perpetual hymning crown our way, 
 Till callousness, and selfishness, and scorn, [play. 
 
 Shall pass as clouds where scatheless lightning!/ 
 Cling to thy faith tis higher than the thought 
 That questions of thy faith, the cold external doubt. 
 
 REASON. 
 
 THE Infinite speaks in our silent hearts, 
 
 And draws our being to himself, as deep 
 Calleth unto deep. He, who all thought imparts, 
 
 Demands the pledge., the bond of soul to keep ; 
 But reason, wandering from its fount afar, 
 
 And stooping downward, breaks the subtle chain 
 That binds it to itself, like star to star, 
 
 And sun to sun, upward to God again : 
 Doubt, once confirmed, tolls the dead spirit s knell, 
 
 And man is but a clod of earth, to die 
 Like the poor beast that in his shambles fell 
 
 More miserable doom than that, to lie 
 In trembling torture, like believing ghosts, [Hosts*. 
 Who, though divorced from good, bow to the Lord of 
 
 AXXIHI1ATIOX. 
 
 DOUBT, cypress crowned, upon a ruined arch 
 
 Amid the shapely temple overthrown, 
 Exultant, stays at length her onward march: 
 
 Her victim, all with earthliness o ergrown, 
 Hath sunk himself to earth to perish there; 
 
 His thoughts are outward, all his love a blight. 
 Dying, deluding, are his hopes, though t uir 
 
 And death, the spirit s everlasting night. 
 Thus, midnight travellers, on some mountain steep. 
 
 Hear far above the avalanche boom down, 
 Starting the glacier echoes from their sleep, 
 
 And lost in glens to human foot unknown 
 The death-plunge of. the lost come to their ear, 
 And silence claims again her region cold and dreai. 
 
194 
 
 ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 
 
 LET ME BE A FANTASY. 
 
 LIKE the faint breathing of a distant lute 
 
 Heard in the hush of evening still and low, 
 For which we lingering listen, though ? tis mute, 
 
 I would be unto thee, and nothing moe 
 Oh, nothing moe 
 Or like the wind-harp trembling to its pain 
 
 With music-joy, which must perforce touch wo 
 Ere it shall sing itself to sleep again, 
 
 80 I would pass to thee, and be no moe 
 
 A breath, no moe ! 
 Like lustre of a stone, that wakens thought 
 
 Pure as the cold, far-gleaming mountain snow 
 Like water to its crystal beauty wrought 
 
 Like all sweet Fancy dreams, but nothing moe 
 
 A dream, no moe ! 
 Like gleams of better worlds and better truth, 
 
 Which our lone hours of aspiration know, 
 I would renew to thee the dew of youth 
 
 Touch thy good-angel wing oh, nothing moe 
 Oh, nothing moe ! 
 
 STRENGTH FROM THE HILLS. 
 
 COME up unto the hills thy strength is there. 
 
 Oh, thou hast tarried long, 
 Too long, amid the bowers and blossoms fair, 
 
 With notes of summer song. 
 Why dost thou tarry there 1 what though the bird 
 
 Pipes matin in the vale 
 The plough-boy whistles to the loitering herd, 
 
 As the red daylights fail 
 
 Yet come unto the hills, the old strong hills, 
 
 And leave the stagnant plain ; 
 Come to the gushing of the newborn rills, 
 
 As sing they to the main ; 
 And thou with denizens of power shalt dwell, 
 
 Beyond demeaning care ; 
 Composed upon his rock, mid storm and fell, 
 
 The eagle shall be there. 
 
 Come up unto the hills : the shattered tree 
 
 Still clings unto the rock, 
 And flingeth out his branches wild and free, 
 
 To dare again the shock. 
 Come where no fear is known : the seabird s nest 
 
 On the old hemlock swings, 
 And thou shalt taste the gladness of unrest, 
 
 And mount upon thy wings. 
 
 t Jome up unto the hills. The men of old, 
 
 They of undaunted wills, 
 Grew jubilant of heart, and strong, and bold, 
 
 On the enduring hills 
 Where came the soundings of the sea afar, 
 
 Borne upward to the ear, 
 And nearer grew the moon and midnight star, 
 
 And God himself more near. 
 
 EROS AND ANTEROS. 
 
 T is said sweet Psyche gazed one night 
 
 On Cupid s sleeping face 
 Gazed in her fondness on the wight 
 
 In his unstudied grace : 
 But he, bewildered by the glare 
 
 Of light at such a time, 
 Fled from the side of Psyche there 
 
 As from a thing of crime. 
 
 Ay, weak the fable false the ground 
 
 Sweet Psyche veiled her face 
 Well knowing Love, if ever found, 
 
 Will never leave his place. 
 Un found as yet, and weary grown, 
 
 She had mistook another : 
 T was but Love s semblance she had founi 
 
 Not Eros, but his brother ! 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 NON VOX SED VOTUM. 
 
 It is the belief of the vulgar that when the nightingale sings, she U 
 her breast upon a thorn. 
 
 , sing Poet, sing ! 
 With the thorn beneath thy breast, 
 Robbing thee of all thy rest ; 
 Hidden thorn for ever thine, 
 Therefore dost thou sit and twine 
 
 Lays of sorrowing 
 Lays that wake a mighty gladness, 
 Spite of all their mournful sadness. 
 
 Sing, sing Poet sing ! 
 It doth ease thee of thy sorrow 
 " Darkling" singing till the morrow ; 
 Never weary of thy trust, 
 Hoping, loving as thou must, 
 
 Let thy music ring; 
 Noble cheer it doth impart, 
 Strength of will and strength of heart. 
 
 Sing, sing Poet, sing ! 
 Thou art made a human voice ; 
 Wherefore shouldst thou not rejoice 
 That the tears of thy mute brother 
 Bearing pangs he may not smother, 
 
 Through thee are flowing 
 For his dim, unuttered grief 
 Through thy song hath found relief I 
 
 Sing, sing Poet, sing ! 
 Join the music of the stars, 
 Wheeling on their sounding cars ; 
 Each responsive in its place 
 To the choral hymn of space 
 
 Lift, oh lift thy wing 
 And the thorn beneath thv breast, 
 Though it pierce, shall give thee rest 
 
E. C. KIN NET. 
 
 THIS fine poet is the daughter of an old 
 and respected merchant, Mr. J)avid L. Dodge, 
 who retired from business many years ago. 
 She was born, and chiefly educated, in the 
 city of New York, where most of her life 
 has been passed, in the pursuit of favorite 
 s udies, and the intercourse of a large circle 
 of friends. A few years ago she was mar 
 ried to Mr. William B. Kinney, of the New 
 ark Daily Advertiser, one of the most able, 
 accomplished, and honorable of the men who 
 preserve to journalism its proper rank, in a 
 republic, of the first of professions. With a 
 modesty equal to her genius, and an adequate 
 sense of their function, she never deemed her 
 self of the company of poets. Possessing in 
 a remarkable degree the "fatal facility," she 
 has written verse from childhood, but never 
 with any of the usual incentives, except the 
 desire of utterance, and the gratification of 
 friends. The Spirit of Song, one of her latest 
 pieces, is but a simple expression of her 
 habitual feelings on the subject. The idea 
 
 of publication always brought a seme of con 
 straint, and her early improvisations, pro 
 duced under this embarrassment, for the 
 Knickerbocker, Graham s Magazine, and 
 other periodicals, at " Cedar Brook," her fa 
 ther s country residence, in the vicinity of 
 Newai k, appeared under the name of Sted- 
 man. One of her friends, whose opportuni 
 ties to know are as great as his acknowledged 
 sagacity of criticism to judge, observes, in a 
 letter to me, that "decidedly the most free, 
 salient, and characteristic effusions of her 
 buoyant spirit, have been thrown off, cur- 
 rente calamo, in correspondence and inter 
 course with her friends." 
 
 It will gratify the reader, who can appre 
 ciate the delicacy and strength and melodi 
 ous cadences, of the illustrations of her abil 
 ities that are here quoted, to learn that Mrs. 
 Kinney is turning her attention more and 
 more to composition, and that she is medi 
 tating an elaborate poem, which will serve 
 as the just measure of her powers. 
 
 TO THE EAGLE. i 
 
 IMPERIAL bird! that soarest to the sky, [way j 
 Cleaving through clouds and storms thine upward 
 
 Or, fixing steadfastly that dauntless eye, 
 Dost face the great, effulgent god of day ! 
 
 Proud monarch of the feathery tribes of air ! 
 My soul exulting marks thy bold career, 
 
 Up, through the azure fields, to regions fair, 
 Where bathed in light thy pinions disappear. 
 
 Thou with the gods upon Olympus dwelt, 
 The emblem and the favorite bird of Jove 
 
 And godlike power in thy broad wings hast felt 
 Since first they spread o er land and sea to rove: 
 
 From Ida s top the Thunderer s piercing sight 
 Flashed on the hosts which Ilium did defy ; 
 
 So from thy eyry on the beetling height 
 Shoot down the lightning-glances of thine eye ! 
 
 From his Olympian throne Jove stooped to earth 
 For ends inglorious in the god of gods! 
 
 Leaving the beauty of celestial birth, 
 To rob Humanity s less fair abodes : 
 
 Oh, passion more rapacious than divine, 
 That stole the peace of innocence away ! 
 
 So, when descend those tireless wings of thine, 
 They stoop to make defencelessness their prey. 
 
 Lo ! where thou comest from the realms afar ! 
 Thy strong wings whir like some huge bellows 
 breath ; 
 
 Swift falls thy fiery eyeball, like a star, 
 And dark thy shadow as the pall of death ! 
 
 But thou hast marked a tall and reverend tree, 
 And now thy talons clinch yon leafless limb; 
 
 Before thee stretch the sandv shore and sea, 
 And sails, like ghosts, move in the distance dim. 
 
 Fair is the scene ! Yet thy voracious eye 
 
 Drinks not its beauty ; but with bloody glare 
 Watches the wild fowl idly floating by, 
 
 Or snow-white sea-gull winnowing the air : 
 Oh, pitiless is thine unerring beak ! 
 
 Quick as the wings of Thought thy pinions fall- 
 Then bear their victim to the mountain-peak 
 
 Where clamorous eag ets flutter at thy call. 
 
 Seaward again thou turn st to chase the storm 
 M here winds and waters furiously roar! 
 
 Above the doomed ship thy boding form 
 Is coming Fate s dark shadow cast before ! 
 
 The billows that engulf man s sturdy frame 
 As sport to thy careering pinions seem; 
 
 And though to silence sinks the sailor s nainn, 
 H:? end is told in thy relentless scream, 
 195 
 
196 
 
 C. KINNEY. 
 
 Where the great cataract sends up to heaven 
 Its spray ey incense in perpetual cloud, 
 
 Thy wings in twain the sacred bow have riven, 
 And onward sailed irreverently proud. 
 
 Unflinching bird ! no frigid clime congeals 
 The fervid blood that riots in thy veins ; 
 
 No torrid sun thine upborne nature feels 
 The north, the south, alike are thy domains. 
 
 Emblem of all that can endure or dare, 
 Art thou, bold eagle, in thy hardihood ! 
 
 Emblem of Freedom, when thou cleav st the air 
 Emblem of Tyranny, when bathed in blood ! 
 
 Thou wert the genius of Rome s sanguine wars : 
 Heroes have fought and freely b ed for thee ; 
 
 And here, above our glorious " stripes and stars," 
 We hail thy signal wings of Liberty ! 
 
 The poet sees in thee a type sublime 
 Of his far-reaching, high-aspiring art ! 
 
 His fancy seeks with thee each starry clime, 
 And thou art on the signet of his heart. 
 
 Be still the symbol of a spirit free, 
 Imperial bird ! to unborn ages given 
 
 And to my soul, that it may soar like thee, 
 Steadfastly looking in the eye of Heaven ! 
 
 ODE: TO THE MOON. 
 
 MYRIADS have sung thy praise, 
 Fair Dian, virgin goddess of the skies ! 
 
 And myriads will raise 
 Their songs, while time yet onward flies, 
 To thee, chaste prompter of the lover s sighs, 
 
 And of the minstrel s lays ; 
 But still exhaustless as a theme 
 Shall be thy name 
 While lives immortal Fame 
 As when, to people the first poet s dream, 
 Thy inspiration came. 
 
 None ever lived, or loved, 
 Who hath not thine oblivious influence felt 
 As if a silver veil hid outward things, 
 While some bright spirit s wings 
 
 Mysteriously moved 
 
 The world of fancies that within him dwelt. 
 Kegent of height, what is this charm in thee, 
 That sways the human soul, like potent witchery 1 
 
 When first the infant learns to look on high 
 While twilight s drapery his heart appals 
 Thy full-orbed presence captivates his eye ; 
 Or when, mid shadows grim upon the walls, 
 Are sent thy pallid rays, 
 T is awe his bosom fills, 
 And trembling joy that thrills 
 His tiny frame, and fastens his young gaze : 
 Thy spell is on that heart, 
 And childhood may depart, 
 But it shall gather strength with youthful days; 
 For oft as thou, capricious moon, 
 
 Shalt wax and wane, 
 He now perchance a lovesick swain 
 Will watch thee at night s stilly noon, 
 Pouring his passion in an amorous strain : 
 
 Or, with the mistress of his soul, 
 Lighted by thy love-whispering beams, 
 
 In some secluded garden stroll, 
 Bewildered in ambrosial dreams; 
 Nor once suspect, while his full pulses move, [love. 
 That thou, whom tides obey, mayst turn the tide of 
 
 The watcher on the deep, 
 Though weary be his eye, 
 
 Forgets even downy sleep, 
 
 When thou art in the sky ; 
 For with thine image on the silvery sea, 
 A thousand forms of memory 
 
 Whirl in a mazy dance ; 
 And when he upward looks to thee, 
 
 In thy far-reaching glance 
 There is a sacred bond of sympathy 
 
 Twixt sea and land ; 
 
 Yes, on his native strand 
 That glance awakens kindred souls 
 
 To kindred thought ; 
 And though the deep between them rolls, 
 
 Hearts are together brought ; 
 While tears that fall from eyes at home, 
 
 And those that wet the sailor s cheek, 
 From the same holy fountains come, 
 
 The same emotion speak. 
 
 The watcher on the land, 
 Who holds the burning hand 
 Of one whom scorching fever wastes, 
 
 Beholds thee, orient Moon, 
 With reddened face expanded, in the east, 
 Till superstition chills his breast, 
 
 While tremulous he hastes 
 To draw the curtains as thou journeyest on; 
 But vhen the far-spent night 
 Is streaked with dawning light, 
 Again, to look on thee, 
 He lifts the drapery, 
 And hope divine now triumphs over fear, 
 
 As in the zenith far, 
 A pale, small orb thou dost appear, 
 While eastward rises morn s resplendent star; 
 And Fancy sees the parting soul ascend 
 Where thy mild glories with the azure blend. 
 
 Even on the face of Death thou tookest calm. 
 Fair Dian, as when watchful thou didst keep 
 Love s holy vigils o er Endymion s sleep, 
 Drinking the breath of youth s perpetual balm : 
 Thy beams are kissing now 
 The icy brow 
 Of many a youth in slumber deep, 
 
 Who can not yield to thee 
 The incense of Love s perfumed breath 
 For no response gives death. 
 Ah, tis a fearful thing to see 
 Thy lustre shine 
 Upon " the human face divine," 
 From which the spark Promethean has fled ! 
 As when, oh, melancholy Moon, 
 
 Thy light is shed 
 Upon the marble cold 
 Of that famed ruin old 
 The grand but silent Parthenon. 
 Dian, enchantress of all hearts ! 
 
E. C. KINNEY. 
 
 107 
 
 While mine in song now worships tbee, 
 From thy far-reaching bow the silver darts 
 Fall thick and fast on me. 
 
 Oh, beautiful in light and shade 
 By thee is this fair landscape made ! 
 Gems sparkle on the river s breast, 
 Now covered by an icy vest ; 
 Ijpon the frozen hills 
 
 A regal glory shines, 
 And all the scene, as Fancy wills, 
 
 Shifts into new designs : 
 Yet night is still as Death s unbroken realms, 
 And solemnly thy beams, wan orb, are cast 
 Through the arched branches of these reverend elms, 
 As though they through the gothic windows past 
 Of some old abbey or cathedral vast. 
 In awe my spirit kneels, 
 
 And seems before a hallowed shrine ; 
 Yet not the majesty of art it feels, 
 
 But Nature s law divine 
 The presence of her mighty Architect, 
 
 Who piled these pyramidic hills sublime, 
 That stiil, fair Moon, thy radiance will reflect, 
 And still defy the crumbling touch of Time ; 
 Who buiit this temple of gigantic trees, 
 Where Nature s worshippers repair 
 To pray the heart s unuttered prayer 
 That veil( d thought which the Omniscient sees. 
 Oh, I could muse, and still adore 
 
 Religious Night, and thee, her queen ! 
 Till golden Phoebus should restore 
 
 His splendor to the scene : 
 But natural laws thy motions sway, 
 
 And these must guide the poet s will ; 
 Thus, while the soul may tireless stray, 
 
 This actual life must weary still : 
 Then oh, inspirer of my song ! 
 
 As close these eyes upon thy beams, 
 Watching amid thy starry throng, 
 Be thou the goddess of my dreams. 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF SONG. 
 
 ETKHXAL Fame ! thy great rewards, 
 
 Throughout all time, shall be 
 The right of those old master bards 
 
 Of Greece and Italy ; 
 And of fair Albion s favored isle, 
 Where Poesy s celestial smile 
 
 Hath shone for ages, gilding bright 
 Her rocky cliffs and ancient towers, 
 And cheering this New World of ours 
 
 With a reflected light. 
 Yet, though there be no path untrod 
 
 By that immortal race 
 Who walked with Nature as with God, 
 
 And saw her face to face 
 No living truth by them unsung, 
 No thought that hath not found a tongue 
 
 In some strong lyre of olden time ^ 
 Must every tuneful lute be still 
 That may not give the world a thrill 
 
 Of their great harp sublime ] 
 Oh, not while beating hearts rejoice 
 
 In music s simplest tone, 
 
 And hear in Nature s every voice 
 
 An echo to their own ! 
 Not till these scorn the little rill 
 That runs rejoicing from the hill, 
 
 Or the soft, melancholy glide 
 Of some deep stream through glen and glada 
 Because tis not the thunder made 
 
 By ocean s heaving tide ! 
 
 The hallowed lilies of the field 
 
 In glory are arrayed, 
 And timid, blue-eyed violets yield 
 
 Their fragrance to the shade ; 
 Nor do the wayside flowers conceal 
 Those modest charms that sometimes steal 
 
 Upon the weary traveller s eyes 
 Like angels, spreading for his feet 
 A carpet, filled with odors sweet, 
 
 And decked with heavenly dyes. 
 
 Thus let the affluent soul of Song 
 
 That all with flowers adorns 
 Strew life s uneven path along, 
 
 And hide its thousand thorns : 
 Oh, many a sad and weary heart, 
 That treads a noiseless way apart, 
 
 Has blessed the humble poet s name 
 For fellowship, refined and free, 
 In meek wild-flowers of poesy, 
 
 That asked no higher fame ! 
 
 And pleasant as the waterfall 
 
 To one by deserts bound, 
 Making the air all musical 
 
 With cool, inviting sound 
 Is oft some unpretending strain 
 Of rural song, to him whose brain 
 
 Is fevered in the sordid strife 
 That Avarice breeds twixt man and man, 
 W T hile moving on, in caravan, 
 
 Across the sands of Life. 
 
 Yet not for these alone he sings : 
 
 The poet s breast is stirred 
 As by the spirit that takes wings 
 
 And carols in the bird ! 
 He thinks not of a future name, 
 Nor whence his inspiration came, 
 
 Nor whither goes his warbled song : 
 As Joy itself delights in joy, 
 His soul finds life in its employ, 
 
 And grows by utterance strong. 
 
 THE QUAKERESS BRIDE. 
 
 (AN EXTRACT.) 
 
 THE building was humble, yet sacred to One 
 Who heeds the deep worship that utters no tone; 
 Whose presence is not to the temple confined, 
 But dwells with the contrite and lowly of mind. 
 Twas there all unveiled, save by modesty, stood 
 The Quakeress bride in her pure satin hood ; 
 Her charms unadorned by the garland or gem, 
 Yet fair as the lily just plucked from its stem. 
 A tear glistened bright in her dark, shaded eye, 
 And her bosom half uttered a tremulous sigh, 
 As the hand she had pledged was confidingly giver. 
 And the low-murmured accents recorded in heaven. 
 
.93 
 
 E. C. KINNEY. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 I. CULTIVATION. 
 
 WEE us grow unasked, and even some sweet flowers 
 Spontaneous give their fragrance to the air, 
 And bloom on hills, in va es. and everywhere 
 
 As shines the sun, or fall the summer showers 
 But wither while our lips pronounce them fair! 
 Flowers of more worth repay alone the care, 
 
 The nurture, and the hopes, of watchful hours ; 
 
 While plants most cultured have most lasting pow- 
 So, flowers of genius that will longest live, [ers. 
 
 Spring not in Mind s uncultivated soil, 
 
 But are the birth of time, and mental toil, 
 And all the culture Learning s hand can give : 
 
 Fancies like wild flowers, in a night may grow ; 
 
 But thoughts are plants whose stately growth is slow. 
 
 II. ENCOURAfiE^EXT. 
 
 WHEX first peeps out from earth the modest vine, 
 
 Asking but little space to live and grow, 
 How easily some step, without design, 
 
 May crush the being from a thing so low ! 
 
 But let the hand that doth delight to show 
 Support to feebleness, the tendril twine 
 
 Around some lattice-work, and twill bestow 
 Its thanks in fragrance, and with blossoms shine : 
 
 And thus, when Genius first puts forth its shoot, 
 So timid, that it scarce dare ask to live 
 
 The tender germ, if trodden under foot, 
 
 Shrinks back again to its undying root; 
 While kindly training bids it upward strive, 
 And to the future flowers immortal give. 
 
 III. FADIXG AUTUMX. 
 
 TH autumnal glories all have passed away ! 
 
 The forest leaves no more in hectic red 
 Give glowing tokens of their brief decay, 
 
 But scattered lie, or rustle to the tread, 
 
 Like whisper d warnings from the mouldering dead. 
 The naked trees stretch out their arms all day, 
 
 And each bald hilltop lifts its reverend head" 
 As if for some new covering to pray. 
 
 Come Winter, then, and spread thy robe of white 
 Above the desolation of this scene , 
 
 And when the sun with gems shall make it bright, 
 Or, when its snowy folds by midnight s queen 
 
 Are silvered o er with a serener lisjht, 
 We ll cease to sigh for Summer s living green. 
 
 IV. A WINTER XI OUT. 
 
 How calm, how solemn, how sublime the scene! 
 The moon in full-orbed glory sails above, 
 And stars in myriads around her move; 
 
 Each looking down with watchful eye serene 
 On earth, which in a snowy shroud arrayed, 
 And still, as in a dreamless sleep twere laid, 
 
 Saddens the spirit with its deathlike mien : 
 Yet doth it charm the eye its gaze still hold; 
 Ji^st as the face of one we loved, when cold, 
 
 And pale, and lovely e en in death, tis seen, 
 Will fix the mourner s eye, though trembling fears 
 Fill all his soul, and frequent fall his tears. 
 
 < )h. I could watch, till morn shou d change the sight, 
 
 Tins cold this beautiful, this mournful winter night. 
 
 T. TO THE GREEK SLAVE. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL model of creative art! 
 
 My spirit feels the reverence for thee, 
 
 That felt the ancients for a deity : 
 Ana did the sculptor shape thee, part by part, 
 Fair, as if whole from Genius mighty heart 
 
 Thou dst sprung, like Venus from the foaming sea? 
 Ah ! not for show, in a disgraceful mart, 
 
 Is that calm look of conscious purity ; 
 Nor should unhallowed eye presume to steal 
 A sensual glance, where holy minds would kneel, 
 
 As to some goddess in her virgin youth. 
 But who could shame in thy pure presence feel, 
 
 Save those who, false themselves, must shrink, for- 
 
 From the mild lustre of ungarnished truth 1 [sooth, 
 
 VI. TO ARABELLA. 
 
 THERE is a pathos in those azure eyes, 
 
 Touching, and beautiful, and strange, fair child ! 
 
 When the fringed lids upturn, such radiance mild 
 Beams out as in some brimming lakelet lies, 
 Which undisturbed reflects the cloudless skies : 
 
 No tokens glitter there of passion wild, 
 That into ecstasy with time shall rise ; 
 
 But in the deep of those clear orbs are signs 
 
 Which Poesy s prophetic eye divines 
 Of woman s love, enduring, undefiled ! 
 If, like the lake at rest, through life we see 
 
 Thy face reflect the heaven that in it shines, 
 No idol to thy worshippers thou It be, 
 
 For he will worship Heaven who worships thee , 
 
 THE WOODMAN. 
 
 HE shoulders his axe for the woods, and away 
 Hies over the fields at the dawn of the day, 
 And merrily whistles some tune as he goes, 
 So heartily trudging along through the snows. 
 
 His dog scents his track, and pursues to a mark, 
 Now sending afar the shrill tones of his bark 
 Then answering the echo that comes back again 
 Through the clear air of morn, over valley and plain. 
 
 And now in the forest the woodman doth stand: 
 His eye marks the victims to fall by his hand, 
 While true to its aim is the ready axe found, [sound 
 And quick do its blows through the woodland re- 
 
 The proud tree low bendeth its vigorous form, [storm: 
 Whose freshness and strength have braved many a 
 And the sturdy oak shakes that never trembled before 
 Though the years of its glory outnumber threescore. 
 
 They fall side by side just as man in his prime 
 Lies down with the locks that are whitened by time : 
 The trees which are felled into ashes will burn, 
 As man, by Death s blow, unto dust must return. 
 
 But twilight approaches: the woodman and dog 
 Come plodding together through snowdrift and bog, 
 The axe, again shouldered, its day s work hath done ; 
 The woodman is hungry the dog wants his bone. 
 
 Oh, home is then sweet, and the evening repast ! 
 But the brow of the woodman with thought is o er 
 He is conning a truth to be tested by all [cast 
 That man, like the trees of the forest, must fall. 
 
ELIZABETH F. E L L E T. 
 
 (Born 1818). 
 
 MRS. ELLET S father was Dr. William A. 
 Lummis, a pupil and friend of Dr. Benjamin 
 Rush, whom in person he strikingly resem 
 bled. He resided several years in Woodbu- 
 ry, New Jersey ; but afterward, giving up the 
 practice of his profession, removed to Sodus 
 Bay, on Lake Ontario, in the state of New 
 York, where he purchased lands and spent 
 his fortune in improving them. He died ma 
 ny years ago, eminently respected for his abil 
 ities and honorable character. His second 
 wife, the mother of Mrs. Ellet, was Sarah 
 Maxwell, a daughter of John Maxwell, a rev 
 olutionary officer, and niece of General Wil 
 liam Maxwell, who served in the army with 
 distinction from Braddock s campaign until 
 near the close of the war of independence, 
 when an unjust system of promotions in 
 duced him with many others to surrender 
 his commission. 
 
 Miss Lummis was married, when about 
 seventeen years of age, to Dr. William H. 
 Ellet, then professor of chymistry in Colum 
 bia College, in New York, and since one of 
 the professors in the college at Columbia, in 
 South Carolina, where she resided several 
 years. 
 
 Mrs. Ellet began to write for the maga 
 zines in 1833, and in the following year ap 
 peared her translation of Euphemia of Mes 
 sina, by Silvio Pellico. In the spring of 
 1835 her tragedy of Teresa Contarini was 
 successfully represented in New York and 
 in some of the western cities. It is founded 
 on Nicolini s Antonio Foscarini, which illus 
 trates one of the darkest periods in Venetian 
 history, when the decrees of the senate and 
 the judgments of the inquisitors were made 
 most subservient to private purposes. The 
 play is of the classic school, and it is too de 
 ficient in action to retain a place upon the 
 stage. In the autumn of the same year she 
 published in Philadelphia a volume entitled 
 Poems, Translated and Original. 
 
 From this period until it ceased to be pub 
 lished, Mrs. Eilet was a frequent contributor 
 to the American Quarterly Review, for which 
 she wrote papers on Italian Tragedy, The 
 
 Italian Lyric Poets, Lamartine s Poems, Hu 
 go s Dramas, The Troubadours, Andreini s 
 Adam, (the work which suggested to Milton 
 the idea of his Paradise Lost,) &c. 
 
 In 1841 she published The Character of 
 Schiller, an analysis and criticism of tbeprin 
 cipal persons in Schiller s plays, with trans 
 lated extracts, and an essay on Schiller s ge 
 nius. Her next work was Joanna of Sicily, 
 a series of passages in the life of tht queen 
 of Naples, a blending of fact and fiction, with 
 a coloring of the manners of the middle ages. 
 This was followed by Country Rambles, a 
 volume designed for juvenile readers, and de 
 scriptive of scenery in various parts of the 
 United States. -^ 
 
 The last production of Mrs. Ellet, The 
 Women of the American Revolution, in two 
 volumes, was published in New York in 
 the autumn of 1848. Her object was to il 
 lustrate the action and influence of her sex 
 in the achievement of our national indepen 
 dence ; to exhibit something of the character 
 and feeling of our heroic age, in the domestic 
 side of the picture ; and with the assistance 
 of a few gentlemen more familiar than her 
 self with our public and domestic experi 
 ence, she has made a valuable and interest 
 ing work. 
 
 From time to time Mrs. Ellet has also pub 
 lished papers in the North American Review, 
 the Southern Quarterly Review, and several 
 of the monthly magazines, upon many sub 
 jects of literature, art, and history, which 
 evince considerable scholarship and literary 
 dexterity. 
 
 The poems of Mrs. Ellet do not perhaps 
 evince much of the inspiration of genius, nor 
 have they the freshness which distinguishes 
 much verse that is very inferior in execution ; 
 but while we rarely perceive in them any 
 thing that is striking, they, as well as her 
 prose works, are uniformly respectable. The 
 most creditable illustrations of her abilities 
 seem to be her translations from me French 
 and Italian languages, in which she has oc 
 casionally been remarkably successful. 
 
 Mrs. Ellet now resides in New "YorK 
 
 199 
 
200 
 
 ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 
 
 SUSQ.UE HANNAH. 
 
 SOFTLY the blended light of evening rests 
 Upon thce, lovely stream ! Thy gentle tide, 
 Picturing the gorgeous heautv of the sky, 
 Onward, unhroken by the ruffling wind, 
 Majestically flows. Oh, by thy side, 
 Far from the tumults and the throng of men, 
 And tie vain cares that vex poor human life, 
 Twcre happiness to dwell, alone with thee, 
 And the wide, so emn grandeur of the scene. 
 From thy green shores, the mountains that enclose 
 In their vast sweep the beauties of the plain, 
 Slowly receding, toward the skies ascend, 
 Enrobed with clustering woods, o er which the smile 
 Of Autumn in his loveliness hath passed, 
 Touching their foliage with his brilliant hues, 
 And flinging o er the lowliest leaf and shrub 
 His golden livery. On the distant heights 
 Soil clouds, earth-based, repose, and stretch afar 
 Their burnished summits in the clear, blue heaven, 
 Flooded with splendor, that the dazzled eye 
 Turns drooping from the sight. Nature is here 
 Like a throned sovereign, and thy voice doth tell, 
 In music never silent, of her power. 
 Nor are thy tones unanswered, where she bui ds 
 Such monuments of regal sway. These wide, 
 Untrodden forests eloquently speak, 
 Whether the breath of summer stir their depths, 
 Or the hoarse moaning of November s blast 
 Strip from the boughs their covering. All the air 
 Is now instinct with life. The merry hum 
 Of the returning bee, and the blithe song 
 Of fluttering bird, mocking the solitude, 
 Swell upward; and the play of dashing streams 
 From the green mountain-side is faintly heard. 
 The wild swan swims the waters azure breast 
 With graceful sweep, or, startled, soars away, 
 Cleaving with mounting wing the clear, bright air. 
 
 Oh, in the boasted lands beyond the deep, 
 Where Beauty hath a birthright, where each mound 
 And mouldering ruin tells of ages past 
 And every breeze, as with a spirit s tone, 
 Doth waft the voices of Oblivion back, 
 Waking the soul to lofty memories, 
 Is there a scene whose loveliness could fill 
 The heart with peace more pure ? Nor yet art thou, 
 Proud stream ! without thy records graven deep 
 On von eternal hills, which shall endure 
 Long as their summits breast the wintry storm, 
 Or smile in the warm sunshine. They have been 
 The chroniclers of centuries gone by : 
 Of a stransre race, who trod perchance their sides, 
 Ere these gray woods had sprouted from the earth 
 Which now they shade. Here onward swept thy 
 
 waves, 
 
 When tones now silent mingled with their sound, 
 And the wide shore was vocal with the song 
 Of hunter chief, or lover s gentle strain. 
 Those passed away forgotten as they passed; 
 But holier recollections dwell with thee : 
 Here hath immortal Freedom built her proud 
 And solemn monuments. The mighty dust 
 Of heroes in her cause of glory fallen* 
 Hath mingled with the soil and hallowed it. 
 Thy waters in tneir brilliant path have seen 
 
 The desperate strife that won a rescued world 
 The deeds of men who live in grateful hearts, 
 And hymned their requiem. Far beyond this vale, 
 That sends to heaven its incense of lone flowers, 
 Gay village spires ascend and the glad voice 
 Of industry is heard. So in the lapse 
 Of future years these ancient woods shall bow 
 Beneath the levelling axe and man s abodes 
 Displace their sylvan honors. They will pass 
 In turn away ; yet, heedless of all change, 
 Surviving all, thou still wilt murmur on, 
 Lessoning the fleeting race that look on thee 
 To mark the wrecks of time, and read their doom. 
 
 LAKE ONTARIO. 
 
 DEKP thoughts o ershade my spirit while I gaze 
 
 Upon the blue depths of thy mighty breast; 
 Thy glassy face is bright with sunset rays, 
 
 And thy far-stretching waters are at rest, 
 Save the small wave that on thy margin plays, 
 
 Lifting to summer airs its flashing crest : 
 While the fleet hues across thy surface driven, 
 Ming e afar in the embrace of heaven. 
 Thy smile is glorious when the morning s spring 
 
 Gives ha f its glowing beauty to the deep ; 
 When the dusk swallow dips his drooping wing, 
 
 And the gay winds that o er thy bosom sweep 
 Tribute from dewy woods and violets bring, 
 
 Thy restless billows in their gifts to steep. 
 Thou t beautiful when evening moonbeams shine, 
 And the soft hour of night and stars is thine. 
 Thou hast thy tempests, too ; the lightning s home 
 
 Is near thee, though unseen ; thy peaceful shore, 
 When storms have lashed these waters into foam, 
 
 Echoes fu .l oft the pealing thunder s roar. 
 Thou hast dark trophies: the unhonored tomb 
 
 Of those now sought and wept on earth no more : 
 Full many a goodly form, the loved and brave, 
 Lies whelmed and still beneath thy sullen wave. 
 The world was young with thee : this swelling flood 
 
 As proudly swelled, as purely met the sky, 
 When sound of life roused not the ancient wood, 
 
 Save the wild eagle s scream, or panther s cry : 
 Here on this verdant bank the savage stood. 
 
 And shook his dart and battle-axe on high, 
 While hues of slaughter tinged thy billows blue, 
 As deeper and more close the conflict grew. 
 
 Here, too, at early morn, the hunter s song 
 Was heard from wooded isle and grassy glade 
 
 And here, at eve, these clustered bowers among, 
 The low, sweet carol of the Indian maid, 
 
 Chiding the slumbering breeze and shadows long, 
 That kept her lingering lover from the shade, 
 
 While, scarcely seen, thy willing waters o er, 
 
 Sped the light bark that bore him to the shore. 
 
 Those scenes are past. The spirit of changing years 
 Has breathed on all around, save thee alone. 
 
 More faintly the receding woodland hears 
 Thy voice, once full and joyous as its own. 
 
 Nations have gone from earth, nor trace appears 
 To tell their tale forgotten or unknown : 
 
 Yet here, unchanged, untamed, thy waters lie. 
 
 Azure, and clear, and boundless as the sky. 
 
ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 
 
 20 
 
 THE DELAWARE WATER-GAP. 
 
 OUR western land can boast no lovelier spot. 
 The hills which in their ancient grandeur stand, 
 Piled to the frowning clouds, the bulwarks seem 
 Of this wild scene, resolved that none but Heaven 
 Shall look upon its beauty. Round their breast 
 A curtained fringe depends, of golden mist, 
 Touched by the slanting sunbeams ; while below 
 The silent river, with majestic sweep, 
 Pursues his shadowed way his glassy face 
 Unbroken, save when stoops the lone wild swan 
 To float in pride, or dip his ruffled wing. 
 Talk ye of solitude 1 It is not here. 
 Nor silence. Low, deep murmurs are abroad. 
 Those towering hills hold converse with the sky 
 That smiles upon their summits ; and the wind 
 Which stirs their wooded sides, whispers of life, 
 And bears the burden sweet from leaf to leaf, 
 Bidding the stately forest-boughs look bright, 
 And nod to greet his coming ! And the brook, 
 That with its silvery gleam comes leaping down 
 From the hillside, has, too, a tale to tell ; 
 The wild bird s music mingles with its chime ; 
 And gay young flowers, that blossom in its path, 
 Send forth their perfume as an a*dded gift. 
 The river utters, too, a solemn voice, 
 And tells of deeds long past, in ages gone, 
 When not a sound was heard along his shores, 
 Save the wild tread of savage feet, or shriek 
 Of some expiring captive and no bark 
 E er cleft his gloomy waters. Now, his waves 
 Are vocal often with the hunter s song ; 
 Now visit, in their glad and onward course, 
 The abodes of happy men, gardens and fields, 
 And cultured plains still bearing, as they pass, 
 Fertility renewed and fresh delights. 
 
 The time has been so Indian legends say 
 When here the mighty Delaware poured not 
 His ancient waters through, but turned aside 
 Through yonder dell and washed those shaded vales. 
 Then, too, these riven cliffs were one smooth hill, 
 Which smiled in the warm sunbeams, and displayed 
 The wea th of summer on its graceful slope. 
 Thither the hunter-chieftains oft repaired 
 To light their council-fires ; while its dim height, 
 For ever veiled in mist, no mortal dared, 
 T is said, to scale ; save one white-haired old man, 
 Who there held commune with the Indian s God, 
 And thence brought down to men his high com 
 mands. 
 
 Years passed away : the gifted seer had lived 
 Beyond life s natural term, and bent no more 
 His weary limbs to seek the mountain s summit. 
 New tribes had filled the land, of fiercer mien, 
 Who strove against each other. Blood and death 
 Filled those green shades where all before was peace, 
 And the stern warrior scalped his dying captive 
 E en on the precincts of that holy spot [mourned 
 Where the Great Spirit had been. Some few, who 
 The unnatural slaughter, urged the aged priest 
 Again to seek the consecrated height, 
 Succor from Heaven, and mercy to implore. 
 They watched him from afar. He labored slowly 
 High up the steep ascent, and vanished soon 
 
 Behind the folded clouds, which clustered dark 
 As the last hues of sunset passed away. 
 The night fell heavily ; and soon were heard 
 Low tones of thunder from the mountain-top, 
 Muttering, and echoed from the distant hills _ 
 In deep and solemn peal ; while lurid flashes 
 Of lightning rent anon the gathering gloom. 
 Then, wilder and more loud, a fearful crash 
 Burst on the startled ear : the earth, convulsed, 
 Groaned from its solid centre ; forests shook 
 For leagues around ; and, by the sudden gleam 
 Which flung a fitful radiance on the spot, 
 A sight of dread was seen. The mount was rent 
 From top to base; and where so late had smiled 
 Green boughs and blossoms, yawned a frightful 
 
 chasm, 
 
 Filled with unnatural darkness. From afar 
 The distant roar of waters then was heard : 
 They came, with gathering sweep, o erwhelming all 
 That checked their headlong course ; the rich maize 
 The low-roofed hut, its sleeping inmates all [field, 
 Were swept in speedy, undistinguished ruin ! 
 Morn looked upon the desolated scene 
 Of the Great Spirit s anger, and beheld 
 Strange waters passing through the cloven rocks ; 
 And men looked on in silence arid in fear, 
 And far removed their dwellings from the spot, 
 Where now no more the hunter chased his prey, 
 Or the war-whoop was heard. Thus years went on : 
 Each trace of desolation vanished fast; 
 Those bare and blackened cliffs were overspread 
 With fresh, green foliage, and the swelling earth 
 Yielded her stores of flowers to deck their sides. 
 The river passed majestically on 
 Through his new channel; verdure graced his banks; 
 The wild bird murmured sweetly as before 
 In its beloved woods ; and naught remained, 
 Save the wild tales which hoary chieftains told, 
 To mark the change celestial vengeance wrought. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM TERESA CONTARINI. 
 
 INSENSIBILITY. 
 
 My heart is senseless. It is cold cold cold! 
 Steeled in an apathy more deep than wo, 
 Which even keen Thought can never pierce again. 
 What nights of feverish unrest I ve borne, 
 What days of weeping and of bitterness, 
 When I have schooled me to a mocking calmness, 
 While my heart ached within ! But all is past! 
 My spirit is a waste o er which hath raged 
 The desolating fire, to leave its trace 
 In blackened ruins. I can feel no more ! 
 Would that I could ! I d rather bear the gnawing 
 Of anguish, than this dull, dead, frozen void, 
 In which all sense is buried. 
 
 LOTE, IX YOUTH AXD ARE. 
 
 How doth Youth 
 
 Wear his soft yoke 1 More lightly than he wears 
 The pageant plume, which every fickle wind 
 Stirs at its will, to be thrown careless by, 
 When he shall weary of its pride ! To youth 
 Love is the shallow rill that mocks the sunshine, 
 Wasting its strength in idle foam away , 
 
ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 
 
 To age, the rivor. silort, broad, and deep 
 Hiding the wealth of years within its breast 
 Baffling the vain eye that would read its depths 
 Broader and deeper growing, as the channel 
 Of life wears on ! 
 
 SODUS BAY. 
 
 I BLESS thee, native shore ! 
 Thy woodlands gay, and waters sparkling clear ! 
 
 Tis like a dream once more 
 The music of thy thousand waves to hear, 
 
 As, murmuring up the sand, 
 With kisses bright they lave the sloping land. 
 
 The gorgeous sun looks down, 
 Bathing thee gladly in his noontide ray ; 
 
 And o er thy headlands brown 
 With loving light the tints of evening play : 
 
 Thy whispering breezes fear 
 To break the calm so softly hallowed here. 
 
 Here, in her green domain, 
 The stamp of Nature s sovereignty is found ; 
 
 With scarce disputed reign 
 She dwells in all the solitude around : 
 
 And here she loves to wear 
 The regal garb that suits a queen so fair. 
 
 Full oft my heart hath yearned 
 For thy sweet shades and vales of sunny rest ; 
 
 Even as the swan returned. 
 Stoops to repose upon thy azure breast, 
 
 I greet each welcome spot 
 Forsaken long but ne er, ah, ne er forgot. 
 
 Twas here that memory grew [left; 
 T was here that childhood s hopes and cares were 
 
 Its early freshness, too 
 Ere droops the soul, of her best joys bereft : 
 
 Where are they ? o er the track 
 Of cold years, I would call the wanderers back ! 
 
 They must be with thee still : 
 Thou art unchanged as bright the sunbeams play: 
 
 From not a tree or hill 
 Hath time one hue of beauty snatched away 
 
 Unchanged alike should be 
 The blessed things so late resigned to thee. 
 
 Give back, oh, smiling deep, 
 T ne heart s fair sunshine, and the dreams of youth 
 
 That in thy bosom sleep 
 Life s April innocence, and trustful truth ! 
 
 The tones that breathed of yore 
 In thy lone murmurs, once again restore. 
 
 Where have they vanished all ? 
 
 l uly the heedless winds in answer sigh ; 
 
 Still rushing at thy call, 
 With reckless sweep the streamlet flashes by ! 
 
 And idle as the air, 
 Ur fleeting stream, my soul s insatiate prayer. 
 
 Home of sweet thoughts farewell ! 
 Where er through changeful life my lot may be, 
 
 A deep and hallowed spell " 
 I* on thy waters and thy woods for me : 
 
 Though vainly fancy craves 
 Its childhood with the music of thy waves. 
 
 O ER THE WILD WASTE. 
 
 O ER the wild waste where flowers of hope lay dead, 
 
 And wan rays struggled faintly through the gloom, 
 Like starbeams on the midnight waters shed 
 
 Thou hast brought back the sunshineand thebloom 
 Like the free bird at heaven s blue portal singing, 
 
 Thy coming heralded the auspicious morn ; 
 And go den songs, and airy shapes upspringirig, 
 
 In answering joy from night s dark breast were boni. 
 Thou art the flower, whence zephyrs balm is stealing: 
 
 The fountain, sparkling in the smile of day : 
 The sunwrought iris, in the cloud revealing 
 
 More tints than on the radiant sunset play. 
 Blessings be with thee, oh, thou happy hearted ! 
 
 For thoughts of beauty, fresh, and glad, and wild 
 For visions of enchantment long departed, 
 
 Bright as when first they dawned on Fancy s child 
 The Beautiful, that from life s sky had faded, 
 
 Fleet dream of joy ere passed the morning ray, 
 Shines forth, by sorrow s wing no longer shaded, 
 
 And pours again a sunshine on my way. 
 No rainbow lustre to thy life s sweet dreaming, 
 
 No gifts like thine, alas ! can she impart, [ing 
 Whose trust, lone dove o er darkened waters gleam- 
 Comes home to nestle in her pining heart ! 
 Yet go thy way, blest evermore and blessing! [prayer; 
 
 Heaven scorns not, nor wilt thou, one deep heart s 
 And mine shall be, that earth s best joys possessing, 
 
 God s love may guard thee his peculiar care ! 
 
 SONG. 
 COME, fill a pledge to sorrow, 
 
 The song of mirth is o er, 
 And if there s sunshine in our hearts, 
 
 T will light our theme the more : 
 And pledge we dull life s changes, 
 
 As round the swift hours pass 
 Too kind were fate, if none but gems 
 
 Should sparkle in Time s glass. 
 The dregs and foam together 
 
 Unite to crown the cup, 
 And well we know the weal and wo 
 
 That fill life s chalice up ! 
 Life s sickly revellers perish 
 
 The goblet scarcely drained : 
 Then lightly quaff, nor lose the sweets 
 
 Which may not be retained. 
 W T hat reck we that unequal 
 
 Its varying currents swell 
 The tide that bears our pleasures down, 
 
 Buries our griefs as well ; 
 And if the swift-winged tempest 
 
 Have crossed our changeful day, 
 The wind that tossed our bark has swept 
 
 Full many a cloud away. 
 Then grieve not that naught mortal 
 
 Endures through passing years : 
 Did life one changeless tenor keep, 
 
 Twere cause, indeed, for tears. 
 And fill we, ere our parting, 
 
 A mantling pledge to sorrow : 
 The pang that wrings the heart to-dar 
 
 Time s touch will lisal to-morrow ! 
 
ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 
 
 203 
 
 THE OLD LOVE. 
 
 THE old love the old love 
 
 It hath a master spell, 
 And in its home the human heart 
 
 It worketh strong and well : 
 Ay, well and sure it worketh, 
 
 And casteth out amain 
 Intrusive shapes of evil 
 
 A sullen, spectral train : 
 The serpent, Pride, is crested, 
 
 And Hate hath lips of gall ; 
 But the old love the old love 
 
 T is stronger than them all ! 
 
 Years, weary years have vanished, 
 
 Lady, since whisperers wrought 
 The work that sundered you and me, 
 
 With words that poison thought : 
 Ah ! lasting is the sorrow 
 
 Of a deep and hidden wound, 
 When with the coming morrow 
 
 No healing balm is found ; 
 And easy tis with words to hide 
 
 The stricken spirit s yearning, 
 And wear a look of icy pride 
 
 When the heart within is burning ! 
 
 Oh, tis a bitter, bitter thing, 
 
 Beneath God s holy sky, 
 To fill that sentient thing, the heart, 
 
 With strife and enmity ! 
 Yea, wo to those who plant the seed 
 
 That yieldeth naught but dole 
 To those who thus do murder 
 
 God s image in the soul ! 
 Yet silently and softly 
 
 The dews of mercy fall : 
 And the old love the old love 
 
 It triumphs over all. 
 
 It was but yestereven 
 
 A vision light and free, 
 From the old and happy dreamland, 
 
 Came gliding down to me : 
 A vision, lady, of the past, 
 
 The cottage far away, 
 Where you and I together 
 
 Oft sat at close of day 
 Where you and I together 
 
 Oft watched the starlit skies, 
 And the soul of gentle kindness 
 
 Beamed on me from your eyes : 
 
 And there were gentle voices, 
 
 Like some remembered song, 
 And there were hovering shadows, 
 
 A pale and beauteous throng ! 
 They seemed like blessed angels, 
 
 Those kindly memories 
 That floated on their beaming wings, 
 
 To steep the soiil in peace 
 They smiled upon me softly, 
 
 Though ne er a word was spo ice 
 And then the golden past came back, 
 
 And then my proud heart broke ! 
 
 And, lady, from the vision 
 
 I wistful rose to pray, 
 That unto ruling love might be 
 
 The victory alway : 
 Oh, many are its cruel foes 
 
 A host well armed and strong, 
 And that fair garnished chamber 
 
 Hath been their duelling long : 
 But the old love the old love 
 
 It hath a master spell, 
 And in its home the human heart 
 
 It worketh sure and well ! 
 
 THE SEA-KINGS. 
 
 1 They are rightly named sea-kings," says the author of the Ingli-igm- 
 saga, who never seek shelter under a roof, and never dram their 
 drinking-horn at a cottage fire." 
 
 Oun realm is mighty Ocean, 
 
 The broad and sea-green wave 
 That ever hails our greeting gaze 
 
 Our dwelling-place and grave ! 
 For us the paths of glory lie 
 
 Far on the swelling deep ; 
 And, brothers to the Tempest, 
 
 We shrink not at his sweep ! 
 
 Our music is the storm-blast 
 
 In fierceness revelling nigh, 
 When on our graven bucklers gleam 
 
 His lightnings glancing by. 
 Yet most the flash cf war-steel keen 
 
 Is welcome in our sight, 
 When flies the startled foeman 
 
 Before our falchions light. 
 We ask no peasant s shelter, 
 
 We seek no noble s bowers ; 
 Yet they must yield us tribute meet, 
 
 For all they boast is ours. 
 No cast ed prince his wide domain 
 
 Dares from our yoke to free ; 
 Arid, like mysterious Odin, 
 
 W T e rule the land and sea ! 
 
 Rear high the blood-red banner ! 
 
 Its folds in triumph wave 
 And long unsullied may it stream 
 
 The standard of the brave ! 
 Our swords outspec-u the meteor s glance : 
 
 The world their might shall know, 
 So long as iieaven snines o er us, 
 
 Or ocean roils below ! 
 
 VENICE. 
 
 From afar 
 
 The surgelike tone of multitudes, the hum 
 Of glad, familiar voices, and the wild 
 Faint music of the happy gondolier, 
 Float up in Mended murmurs. Queen of cities 
 Goddess of ocean ! with the beauty crowned 
 Of Aphrodite from her parent deep ! 
 If thine Ausonian heaven denies the strength 
 That nerves a mountain race of sterner mould, 
 It gives thee charms whose very softness wins 
 All hearts to worship ! 
 
204 
 
 ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 MAIIT MAGIIALKX. 
 
 , tho grief and shame o erflow thine eyes; 
 
 Blessed, though scoffed at by the gazing crowd: 
 
 He unto whom thou kneelst rebukes the proud, 
 And bids thee now the child of Heaven arise. 
 Hath he rot said, that where the bramble grew 
 
 The myrtle should come up ? the sweet fir tree 
 
 Replace the thorn, and grass abundantly 
 Wave where the desert land no moisture knew 1 
 
 But see the bleak and lonely wilderness 
 With fragrant roses, like a garden bloom 
 
 The perished tree revive, again to bless ! 
 See, fed with streams, the thirsty land rejoice 
 And hear the waste lift up its gladsome voice, 
 
 " To taste his fruits, let my Beloved come." 
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHKHI). 
 
 SHEPHERD, with meek brow wreathed with blossoms 
 sweet, 
 
 Who guardst thy timid flock with tenderest care, 
 Who guid st in sunny paths their wandering feet, 
 
 And the young lambs dost in thy bosom bear; 
 
 Who leadst thy happy Hock to pastures fair, 
 And by still waters at the noon of day 
 
 Charming with lute divine the silent air, 
 What time they linger on the verdant way : 
 
 Good Shepherd ! might one gentle, distant strain 
 Of that immortal melody sink deep 
 Into my heart, and pierce its careless sleep, 
 
 And melt by powerful love its sevenfo d chain: 
 Oh, then my soul thv voice should know, and flee 
 To mingle with thy flock, and ever follow Thee ! 
 
 OH, WEARY HEART. 
 
 OH, weary heart, there is a rest for thee ! 
 
 Oh truant heart, there is a blessed home 
 An is e of gladness on life s wayward sea, 
 
 Where storms that vex the waters never come; 
 There trees perennial yield their balmy shade, 
 
 There flower-wreathed hi Is in sun.it beauty sleep, 
 There meek streams murmur thro the verdant glade, 
 
 There heaven bends smiling o er the placid deep. 
 Winnowed by wings immortal that fair isle; 
 
 Vocal its air with music from above : 
 There meets the exiie eve a vve coming smile; 
 
 There ever speaks a summoning voice of love 
 Unto the heavy-laden and distressed, 
 " Come unto me, and I will give you rest." 
 
 "ABIDE WITH US." 
 
 ABIDE with us ! The evening hour draws on ; 
 And pleasant at the daylight s fading close 
 
 The traveller s repose ! 
 
 A nd as at morn s approach the shades are gone, 
 Thy words, oh, blessed stranger, have dispelled 
 The midnight gloom in which our souls were held. 
 
 Sad \\-ereoursouls, and quenched hope s latest ray, 
 But thou to us hast words of comfort given 
 
 Of Him who came from heaven ! 
 How burned our hearts within us on the way, 
 While thou the sacred scripture didst unfold, 
 And bad st us trust the promise given of old. 
 
 Abide with us : let us not lose thee yet ! 
 Lest unto us the cloud of fear return, 
 
 When we are left to mourn 
 That Israel s Hope his better Sun is set ! 
 Oh, teach us more of what we long to know, 
 That new-born joy may chide our faithless wo." 
 
 Thus in their sorrow the disciples prayed, 
 And knew not He was walking by their side 
 
 Who on the cross had died ! 
 But when he broke the consecrated bread, 
 Then saw they who had deigned to bless their board, 
 And in the stranger hailed their risen Lord. 
 
 "Abide with us !" Thus the believer prays, 
 Compassed with doubt and bitterness and dread 
 
 W hen, as life from the dead, 
 The bow of mercy breaks upon his gaze : 
 He trusts the word, yet fears lest from his heart 
 He whose discourse is peace too soon depart. 
 
 Open, thou trembling one, the portal wide, 
 And to the inmost chamber of thy breast 
 
 Take home the heavenly guest ! 
 He for the famished shall a feast provide 
 And thou shalt taste the bread of life, and so? 
 The Lord of angels come to sup with thee. 
 
 Belovi d who for us with care hast sought 
 Say, shall we hear thy voice, and let thee wait 
 
 All night before the gate 
 
 W 7 et with the dews nor greet thee as we ought 1 
 Oh, strike the fetters from the hand of pride, 
 And, that we perish not, with us, O Lord, abide ! 
 
 THE PERSECUTED. 
 
 Oh angel! tl 
 
 be threefold bliss in lieaven, 
 ilark earth hast inner, ibrgive 
 
 IT was a bitter pain 
 That pierced her gentle heart; 
 For barbed bv malice was the dart, 
 And sped with treachery s deadliest art, 
 
 The shaft ne er sped in vain. 
 That trusting heart, so true, 
 (For guile it never knew !) 
 The tender heart, that ever clung 
 Where its wild wreath of love was flung 
 Tue proud, high heart, that could have borne 
 Ail, save that false, unrighteous scorn 
 It writhed beneath the stroke 
 
 Of that strange, cruel wrong : 
 Yet not not then it broke 
 
 For brave it was and strong ! 
 T was like the startled dove, 
 
 Scared from her woody nest 
 Her sheltered home of love, 
 
 Deep in the mountain s breast : 
 When first she mounts, the caverns ring 
 To the wild flapping of her wing; 
 But once aloft, she cleaves the light, 
 And floats in calm, unruffled flight. 
 Thus struggling o er the wo to rise, 
 The stricken, heart-distempered flies 
 Thus soars at last, its pain and peril o er, 
 Serene in tranquil pride, to fear the shaft no more 
 
ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 
 
 205 
 
 A DIRGE.* 
 
 HE is gone ! Though mournfully 
 Comes the deep, heart-heaved sigh, 
 
 Though your tears do fall like rain, 
 Though no outward sign could show 
 All the bosom s wordless wo 
 
 All is in vain : 
 
 He, for whom ye, stricken, mourn, 
 He, the lost one, shall return 
 
 Never again ! 
 
 To the grave in silence down, 
 
 To the sullen, rayless gloom 
 
 In the chambers of the tomb, 
 
 He now is gone ! 
 With his trustful, generous truth, 
 In his guileless, joyous youth 
 
 In his gentle constancy, 
 
 In his young heart s purity ; 
 Wearing life s wreath blooming, bright, 
 That had known no touch of blight ; 
 
 With the genius God had given, 
 
 In the very smile of Heaven ; 
 Smiling all around, above him, 
 Knowing none who did not love him 
 He hath passed away ! 
 
 Ye who strove his flight to stay, 
 Well ye know that he you mourn 
 
 Never caused your hearts a pain, 
 Till he left you, to return 
 Never again ! 
 
 Pass with measured pace and slow, 
 Hide the faces pale with wo ; 
 Solemn music, sad and low, 
 
 Fill the hallowed aisle ! 
 Let the the darkly-folded pall 
 Like a shadow o er him fall 
 
 Him your joy e erwhile ; 
 Let the slowly sounding bell 
 Peal its deep-voiced, warning knell : 
 To the earth, with words of trust, 
 Then commit him dust to dust ! 
 Weep now for the lonely morrow, 
 
 For the hearth light cold 
 In your dark and silent sorrow, 
 
 Hearts with grief grown old : 
 Ye have trod the vintage dread, 
 
 Till no purple drops remain ; 
 Till no more its wine is shed 
 
 Ye have drained the cup of pain. 
 And ye know, as years go on, 
 And are numbered one by one, 
 This same grief shall have its rest 
 In the worn and wounded breast ; 
 
 Ye shall look and long in vain, 
 Following still in thought the track 
 He has passed, who will come back 
 Never again ! 
 
 Friends of youth, too, he left, 
 
 When he departed : 
 They are weeping now, bereft 
 
 They, the true hearted. 
 
 * In style and measure, this is an imitation of a poem by 
 an English author, entitled The Flight of Youth. 
 
 Desolate is now the place 
 Where so late they saw his face, 
 And a darkness seems to brood 
 On the sudden solitude. 
 Soon the places that of yore 
 Knew, shall know the lost no more ; 
 Soon forgotten he shall be, 
 
 He who all so happy made 
 With his smile so light and free, 
 
 Bringing sunshine to the shade. 
 Ay, between those hearts and him 
 Lies a gulf so dark and dim, 
 Eyes of flesh look not upon 
 
 That strange distant shore, 
 Whither the lost friend is gone 
 
 To return no more ! 
 
 Alas ! tis even so : 
 Yet from that unknown land, 
 That house not made with mortal hand, 
 Can not the parted soul command 
 Some balm for earthly wo 1 
 
 Blessed the dead, the Spirit saith, 
 
 Who life s beguiling path have trod 
 Obedient to the law of faith, 
 
 With heart still fixed on God. 
 Eye hath not seen that world above ; 
 Ear hath not heard that hymn of love : 
 Oh, if but once were rent away 
 The veil which hides that heavenly day, 
 On this cold earth we would not stay ! 
 Heard we the harpings of that sphere, 
 We would not linger here ! 
 Yea, we would spurn this darksome earth, 
 
 And stretch our eager wings, and fly 
 To claim our heritage by birth 
 
 Heaven and Eternity ! 
 Nor marvel in that glorious land, 
 Who taste the joys at God s right hand, 
 
 Where love divine doth reign . 
 Who Heaven s own praises learn 
 To this sad earth return 
 Never again ! 
 
 THE BURIAL. 
 
 WE laid her in the hallowed place 
 
 Beside the solemn deep, 
 Where the old woods by Greenwood s shorp 
 
 Keep watch o er those who sleep : 
 
 We laid her there the young and fair, 
 
 The guileless, cherished one 
 As if a part of life itself 
 
 With her we loved were gone. 
 
 Like to the flowers she lived and bloomed, 
 
 As bright and pure as they ; 
 And like a flower the blight had touched, 
 
 She early passed away. 
 
 Oh, none might know her but to love, 
 
 Nor name her but to praise, 
 Who only love for others knew 
 
 Through life s brief vernal days 
 
JULIA H. SCOTT. 
 
 (Born 1809-Died 1842). 
 
 THE late Mrs. Mayo describes the life of 
 Mrs. SCOTT as having been "commenced in 
 Dne of the quietest mountain valleys, and, 
 with one or two brief episodes only, matured 
 and finished not a dozen miles from where it 
 was begun." In such a career there could 
 have been little to interest the public, and 
 ner friend appropriately confided the me 
 moir prefixed to her poems as much as pos 
 sible to the growth and product of her mind. 
 Mrs. Scott s maiden name was JULIA H. KIN- 
 NET, and she was born on the fourth of No 
 vember, 1809, in the beautiful valley of She- 
 shequin, in northern Pennsylvania. Her pa 
 rents were in humble circumstances, and as 
 the eldest of a large family she seems to have 
 lived the patient Griselda, beautifully fulfil 
 ling all the duties of her condition, while she 
 availed herself of every opportunity to en 
 large her knowledge and improve her tastes. 
 She wrote verses with some point and har 
 mony when but twelve years of age, and 
 when sixteen or seventeen began to publish 
 
 ! in a village newspaper essays and poems that 
 evinced a fine fancy and earnest feeling. She 
 afterward wrote for The Casket, a monthly 
 magazine published in Philadelphia, for The 
 New-Yorker, and for the Universalist reli 
 gious journals. In May, 1835, she was mar 
 ried to Dr. David L. Scott, of Towanda, the 
 principal village of the county, which from 
 this period became her home. In 1838 she 
 visited Boston, and she made some other ex 
 cursions for the improvement of her health, 
 but consumption had wasted the singularly 
 fine person and blanched the beautiful face 
 which I remember to have seen in their me 
 ridian, and in the last year of her life she had 
 no hope of restoration. She died at Towan 
 da on the fifth of March, 1842. 
 
 The poems of Mrs. Scott, with a memoir 
 by Miss S. C. Edgarton, (afterward Mrs. 
 Mayo,) were published in Boston, in 1843. 
 The volume contains an excellent portrait 
 of her by S. A. Mount, and several commem 
 orative poems by her friends. 
 
 THE TWO GRAVES. 
 
 THEY sweetly slumber, side by side, 
 Upon the green and pleasant hill 
 
 Where the young morning s sunny title 
 First wakes the shadows, dark and still, 
 
 And where gray twilight s breeze goes by 
 
 Laden with woodland melody, 
 
 And Heaven s own tireless watchmen keep 
 
 A vigil o er their slumbers deep. 
 
 They sleep together but their graves 
 Are marked by no sepulchral stone ; 
 
 Above their heads no willow waves, 
 
 No cypress shade is o er them thrown: 
 
 The only record of their deeds 
 
 Is that where silent Memory leads, 
 
 Their only monument of fame 
 
 Is found in each belovi d name. 
 
 Oh. theirs was not the course which seals 
 
 The iavor of a fickle world, 
 They did not raise the warring steel, 
 
 Their hands no bloody flag unfurled , 
 They came not with a cup of wrath, 
 To drench with gall life s thorny path, 
 But, day and night, they strove to win, 
 Uy love, the palsied soiii iroin sin. 
 
 Like two bright stars at eventide, 
 
 They shone with undiminished ray ; 
 And! though clouds gathered far and wide, 
 
 Still held they on their upward way, 
 And still unheeded swept them by 
 The threatening! of this lower sky 
 For they had built upon the Rock, 
 Defying tide and tempest s shock. 
 
 To them the vanities of life 
 
 Were but as bubbles of the sea : 
 
 They shunned the boisterous swell of strife ; 
 From Pride s low thrall their souls were 
 free. 
 
 They only sought by Christ to show 
 
 The Father s love for all below ; 
 
 They only strove through Christ to raise 
 
 The wandering mind from error s maze. 
 
 But now they sleep and oh, may ne er 
 One careless footstep press the sod 
 
 Where moulder those we held so dear, 
 The friends of man, the friends of God ! 
 
 And let alone warm feeling twine 
 
 An offering at their lowly shrine ; 
 
 While all who knew them humbly try 
 
 Like them to live, like them to die. 
 906 
 
JULIA H. SCOTT. 
 
 207 
 
 MY CHILD. 
 
 " There is one who has loved me debarred from the day." 
 
 THE foot of Spring is on yon blue-topped mountain, 
 
 Leaving its green prints neath each spreading tree ; 
 Her voice is heard beside the swelling fountain, 
 
 Giving sweet tones to its wild melody. 
 From the warm south she brings unnumbered roses, 
 
 To greet with smiles the eye of grief and care : 
 Her balmy breath on the worn hrow reposes, 
 
 And her rich gifts are scattered everywhere ; 
 I heed them not, my child. 
 
 In the low vale the snow-white daisy springeth, 
 
 The golden dandelion by its side ; 
 The eglantine a dewy fragrance flingeth 
 
 To the soft breeze that wanders far and wide. 
 The hyacinth and polyanthus render, 
 
 From their deep hearts, an offering of love ; 
 And fresh May-pinks and half-blown lilacs tender 
 
 Their grateful homage to the skies above ; 
 I heed them not, my child. 
 
 In the clear brook are springing water-cresses, 
 
 And pale green rushes, and fair, nameless flowers; 
 While o er them dip the willow s verdant tresses, 
 
 Dimpling the surface with their mimic showers. 
 The honeysuckle stealthily is creeping 
 
 Round the low porch and mossy cottage-eaves ; 
 Oh ! Spring hath fairy treasures in her keeping, 
 
 And lovely are the landscapes that she weaves ; 
 T is naught to me, my child. 
 
 Down the green lane come peals of heartfelt laughter; 
 
 The school hath sent its eldest inmates forth ; 
 And now a smaller band comes dancing after, 
 
 Filling the air with shouts of infant mirth. 
 At the rude gate the anxious dame is bending, 
 
 To clasp her rosy darlings to her breast ; 
 Joy, pride, and hope, are in her bosom blending ; 
 
 Ah ! peace with her is no unusual guest ; 
 Not so with me, my child. 
 
 All the day long I listen to the singing 
 
 Of the gay birds and winds among the trees ; 
 But a sad under-strain is ever ringing 
 
 A tale of death and its dread mysteries. 
 Nature to me the letter is, that killeth 
 
 The spirit of her charms has passed away ; 
 A fount of bliss no more my bosom filleth 
 
 Slumbers its idol in unconscious clay ; 
 
 Thou rt in t\\e grave, my child. 
 
 For thy glad voice my spirit inly pineth, 
 
 I languish for thy blue eyes holy light : 
 Vainly for me the glorious sunbeam shineth ; 
 
 Vainly the blessed stars come forth at night. 
 I walk in darkness, with the tomb before me, 
 
 Longing to lay my dust beside thine own; 
 Oh cast the mantle of thy presence o er me ! 
 
 Beloved, leave me not so deeply lone ; 
 
 Come back to me, my child ! 
 
 Upon that breast of pitying love thou leanest, 
 Which oft on earth did pillow such as thou, 
 
 Nor turned away petitioner the meanest : 
 Pray to Him, sinless he will hear thce now. 
 
 Plead for thy weak and broken-hearted mother ; 
 
 Pray that thy voice may whisper words of peace : 
 Her ear is deaf, and can discern no other ; 
 
 Speak, and her bitter sorrowings shall cease ; 
 Come back to me, my child ! 
 
 Come but in dreams let me once more behold thee, 
 
 As in thy hours of buoyancy and glee, 
 And one brief moment in my arms enfold thee 
 
 Beloved, I will not ask thy stay with me. 
 Leave but the impress of thy dovelike beauty, 
 
 Which Memory strives so vainly to recall, 
 And I will onward in the path of duty, 
 
 Restraining tears that ever fain would fall ; 
 
 Come but in dreams, my child ! 
 
 INVOCATION TO POETRY. 
 
 1 1 said to the spirit of poesy, Come back; thou art my comforter. 
 
 COME back, come back, sweet spirit, 
 
 I miss thee in my dreams ; 
 I miss thee in the laughing bowers 
 
 And by the gushing streams. 
 The sunshine hath no gladness, 
 
 The harp no joyous tone 
 Oh, darkly glide the moments by 
 
 Since thy soft light has flown. 
 
 Come back, come back, sweet spirit, 
 
 As in the glorious past, 
 When the halo of a brighter world 
 
 Was round my being cast ; 
 When midnight had no darkness, 
 
 When sorrow smiled through tears, 
 And life s blue sky seemed bowed in love, 
 
 To bless the coming years. 
 
 Come back, come back, sweet spirit, 
 
 Like the glowing flowers of spring, 
 Ere Time hath snatched the last pure wreath 
 
 From Fancy s glittering wing ; 
 Ere the heart s increasing shadows 
 
 Refuse to pass away, 
 And the silver cords wax thin which bind 
 
 To heaven the weary clay. 
 
 Come back, thou art my comforter : 
 
 What is the world to me ] 
 Its cares that live, its hopes that die, 
 
 Its heartless revelry ? 
 Mine, mine, oh blessed spirit ! 
 
 The inspiring draught-be mine, 
 Though words may ne er reveal how ueep 
 
 My worship at thy shrine. 
 
 Come back, thou holy spirit, 
 
 By the b!iss thou mayst impart, 
 Or by the pain thine absence gives 
 
 A deeply stricken heart. 
 Come back, as comes the sunshine 
 
 Upon the sobbing sea, 
 And every roaming thought shall vow 
 
 Allegiance to thee. 
 
ANNA PEYRE DINNIES. 
 
 MRS. DINNIES is a daughter of Mr. Justice 
 Shacklefurd, of South Carolina, and was edu 
 cated at a school in Charleston conducted by 
 the daughters of Dr. Ramsay, the historian. 
 ]n 1830 she was married to Mr. John C. Din- 
 nies, then of St. Louis, where she resided 
 until the recent removal of Mr. Dinnies to 
 New Orleans. Mrs. Hale, in her Ladies 
 Wreath, states that she became engaged in 
 a literary correspondence with Mr. Dinnies 
 more than four years before their union, and 
 that they never met until one week before 
 their marriage. " The contract was made 
 solely from sympathy and congeniality of 
 
 mind and taste ; and that in their estimate 
 of each other they were not disappointed, 
 may be inferred from the tone of her songs." 
 The greater part of the poems of Mrs. Din 
 nies appeared originally in various maga 
 zines under the signature of "Moina." In 
 1846 she published in a richly illustrated vol 
 ume entitled The Floral Year, one hundred 
 compositions, arranged in twelve groups, to 
 illustrate that number of bouquets, gathered 
 in the different months. Her pieces celebra 
 ting the domestic affections are marked by 
 unusual grace and tenderness, and some of 
 them are worthy of the most elegant poets. 
 
 WEDDED LOVE. 
 
 COME, rouse thee, dearest! tis not well 
 
 To let the spirit brood 
 Thus darkly o er the cares that swell 
 
 Life s current to a flood. 
 As bro >ks, and torrents, rivers, all 
 Increase the gulf in which they fall, 
 Such thoughts, by gathering up the rills 
 Of lesser griefs, spread real ills, 
 And with their gloomy shades conceal 
 The landmarks Hope would else reveal. 
 
 Come, rouse thee, now : I know thy mind, 
 And would its strength awaken ; 
 
 Proud, gifted, noble, ardent, kind 
 
 Strange thou shouldst be thus shaken ! 
 
 But rouse afresh each energy, 
 
 And be what Heaven intended thee ; 
 
 Throw from thy thoughts this wearying weight, 
 
 And prove thy spirit firmly great: 
 
 I would not see thee bend below 
 
 The angry storms of earthly wo. 
 
 Full well I know the generous soul 
 Which warms thee into life 
 Each spring which can its powers control, 
 
 Familiar to thy wife ; 
 For deemst thou she had stooped to bind 
 Her fate unto a common mind! 
 The eagle-like ambition, nursed 
 From childhood in her heart, had first 
 Consumed, with its Promethean flame, 
 The shrine then sunk her soul to shame. 
 
 Then rouse thee, dearest, from the dream 
 
 That fetters now thy powers : 
 Shake off this gloom Hope sheds a beam 
 
 To gild eacli cloud which lowers ; 
 And though at present seems so far 
 The wished-for goal a guiding star, 
 With peaceful ray, would light thee on, 
 
 Until its utmost bounds be won : 
 That quenchless ray thou It ever prove 
 In fond, undying wedded love. 
 
 THE WIFE. 
 
 I COULD have stemmed misfortune s tide, 
 
 And borne the rich one s sneer, 
 Have braved the haughty glance of pride, 
 
 Nor shed a single tear ; 
 I could have smiled on every blow 
 
 From life s full quiver thrown, 
 While I might gaze on thee, and know 
 
 I should not be alone." 
 I C ould I think I could have brooked, 
 
 E en for a time, that thou 
 Upon my fading face hadst looked 
 
 With less of love than now ; 
 For then I should at least have felt 
 
 The sweet hope still my own 
 To win thee back, and, whilst I dwelt 
 
 On earth, not been " alone." 
 
 But thus to see, from day to day, 
 
 Thy brightening eye and cheek, 
 And watch thy life-sands waste away, 
 
 Unnumbered, slowly, meek; 
 To meet thy smiles of tenderness, 
 
 And catch the feeble tone 
 Of kindness, ever breathed to bless, 
 
 And feel, I 11 be " alone ;" 
 To mark thy strength each hour decay, 
 
 And yet thy hopes grow stronger, 
 As, filled with heavenward trust, they say 
 
 "Earth may not claim thee longer;" 
 Nay, dearest, tis too much this heart 
 
 Must break when thou art gono ; 
 It must not be ; we may not part : 
 
 I could not live " alone " 
 
ANNA PEYRE DINNIES. 
 
 209 
 
 EMBLEMS. 
 
 Finsr take a feather, and lay it upon 
 
 The stream that is rippling by : 
 With the current, behold, in a moment tis gone, 
 
 Unimpressive and light as a sigh ; 
 Then take thee a clear and precious stone. 
 
 And on the same stream place it : 
 Oh ! mark how the water on which it is thrown, 
 
 In its bosom will quickly encase it ! 
 Or take a crystal, or stainless glass ; 
 
 With a crayon upon it then trace 
 A sentence, or line, and watch how twill pass 
 
 A breath will its beauty efface; 
 Then take a diamond, as pure as tis bright, 
 
 And write some modest token : 
 Mid heat or cold, in shade, in light, 
 
 Twill last till the crystal is broken. 
 And thus with the tablet of woman s pure heart, 
 
 W T hen the vain and the idle may try 
 To leave their impressions, they swiftly depart, 
 
 Like the feather, the scroll, and the sigh ; 
 But once be inscribed on that tablet a name, 
 
 And an image of genius and worth, 
 Through the changes of life it will still be the same, 
 
 Till that heart is removed from the earth. 
 
 THE TRUE BALLAD OF THE WANDERER. 
 
 A MAIDEN* in a southern bower 
 
 Of fragrant vines and citron-trees, 
 To charm the pensive twilight hour, 
 
 Flung wild her thoughts upon the breeze; 
 To Cupid s ear unconscious telling 
 The fitful dream her bosom swelling, 
 Till Echo softly on it dwelling, 
 Revealed the urchin, bold and free, 
 Repealing thus her minstrelsy : 
 " Away, away ! by brook and fountain, 
 
 Where the wild deer wanders free, 
 O er sloping dale and swelling mountain, 
 Still my fancy follows thee ; 
 
 Where the lake its bosom spreading, 
 Where the breeze its sweets is shedding, 
 Where thy buoyant steps are treading, 
 There where er the spot may be 
 There my thoughts are following thee ! 
 " In the forest s dark recesses, 
 
 Where the fawn may fearless stray ; 
 In the cave no sunbeam blesses 
 With its first or parting ray ; 
 
 Where the birds are blithely singing, 
 Where the flowers are gayly springing, 
 Where the bee its course is winging, 
 There, if there thou now mayst be, 
 Anxious Thought is following thee ! 
 " In the lowly peasant s cot, 
 Quiet refuge of content ; 
 In the sheltered, grass-grown spot, 
 Resting, when with travel spent, 
 Where the vine its tendrils curling, 
 Where the trees their boughs are furling, 
 Where the streamlet clear is purling, 
 There, if there thou now mayst be, 
 There my spirit follows thee ! 
 
 " In the city s busy mart, 
 
 Mingling with its restless crowd ; 
 Mid the miracles of art, 
 
 Classic pile, and column proud , 
 O er the ancient ruin sighing, 
 When the sun s last ray is dying, 
 Or to fashion s vortex flying, 
 Even there, if thou mayst be, 
 There my thoughts must follow thee 
 
 " In the revel in the dance 
 
 W ith the firm, familiar friend 
 Or where Thespian arts entrance, 
 Making mirth and sadness blend ; 
 Where the living pageant glowing, 
 O er thy heart its spell is throwing, 
 Mimic life in alto showing, 
 There, beloved, if thou mayst be, 
 There, still there, I follow thee ! 
 
 " When the weary day is over, 
 
 And thine eyes in slumber close, 
 Still, oh ! still, inconstant rover, 
 Do I charm thee to repose ; 
 
 With the shades of night descending 
 With thy guardian spirits blending, 
 To thy sleep sweet visions lending, 
 There, e en there, true love may be, 
 There and thus am I with thee !" 
 
 Months and seasons rolled away, 
 
 And the maiden s cheek was pale ; 
 When, as bloomed the buds of May, 
 Cupid thus resumed the tale : 
 " Over land and sea returning, 
 Wealth, and power, and beauty spurning. 
 Love within his true heart burning, 
 Comes the wanderer wild and free, 
 Faithful maiden, back to thee !" 
 
 LOVE S MESSENGERS. 
 
 YE little Stars, that twinkle high 
 
 In the dark vault of heaven, 
 Like spangles on the deep blue sky, 
 Perhaps to you tis given 
 
 To shed your lucid radiance now 
 Upon my absent loved one s brow 
 
 Ye fleecy Clouds, that swiftly glide 
 
 O er Earth s oft-darkened way, 
 Floating along in grace and pride, 
 Perhaps your shadows stray 
 
 E en now across the starry light 
 That guides my wanderer forth to-night 
 
 Ye balmy Breezes sweeping by, 
 
 And shedding freshness round, 
 Ye, too, may haply as ye fly, 
 
 With health and fragrance crowned, 
 
 Linger a moment, soft and light, 
 
 To sport amid his tresses bright 7 
 
 Then Stars, and Clouds, and Breezes, bear 
 
 My heart s best wish to him ; 
 And say the feelings glowing there 
 Nor time nor change can dim ; 
 That be success or grief his share, 
 My love still brightening shall appear. 
 
ANN S. STEPHENS. 
 
 (Born 1813). 
 
 MRS. STEPHENS is well known as one of 
 tne most spirited and popular of our maga- 
 zinists. She was born in Derby, Connecti 
 cut, in 1811, and in 1831 was married to Mr. 
 Edward Stephens, of Portland, who in 1835 
 commenced the publication of the Portland 
 Magazine, of which she was two years the 
 editress. In 1837 she removed to New York, 
 and she has since been a writer for The La 
 
 dies Companion, Graham s Magazine, The 
 Ladies National Magazine. The Columbian 
 Magazine, and other periodicals of the same 
 character. Her tales and sketches would 
 probably fill a dozen common duodecimo vol 
 umes. Her longest poem, entitled The Po 
 lish Boy, was first published in 1839. There 
 has been no collectiDn either of her poems or 
 of her prose writings. 
 
 THE OLD APPLE-TREE. 
 
 I AM thinking of the homestead, 
 
 With its low and sloping roof, 
 And the maple boughs that shadowed it 
 
 With a green and leafy woof; 
 I am thinking of the lilac-trees, 
 
 That shook their purple plumes, 
 And, when the sash was open, 
 
 Shed fragrance through the rooms. 
 
 I am thinking of the rivulet, 
 
 With its cool and silvery flow, 
 Of the old gray rock that shadowed it, 
 
 And the peppermint below. 
 I am not sad nor sorrowful, 
 
 But memories will come; 
 So leave me to my solitude, 
 
 And let me think of home. 
 There was not around my birthplace 
 
 A thicket or a flower, 
 But childish game or friendly face 
 
 Has given it a power 
 To haunt me in my after-life, 
 
 And be with me again 
 A sweet and pleasant memory 
 
 Of mingled joy and pain. 
 But the old and knotted apple-tree, 
 
 That stood beneath the hill, 
 My heart can never turn to it 
 
 But with a pleasant thrill. 
 Oh, what a dreamy life I led 
 
 Beneath its old green shade, 
 Whore the daisies and the butter-cups 
 
 A pleasant carpet made ! 
 Twas a rough old tree in spring-time, 
 
 When, with a blustering sound, 
 The wind came hoarsely sweeping 
 
 Along the frosty ground. 
 15 ut. when there rose a rivalry 
 
 Tween clouds and pleasant weather, 
 Till the sunshine anil the raindrops 
 
 Came laughing down together ; 
 
 That patriarch old apple-tree 
 
 Enjoyed the lovely strife; 
 The sap sprang lightly through its veins, 
 
 And circled into life: 
 A cloud of pale and tender buds 
 
 Burst o er each rugged bough; 
 And amid the starting verdure 
 
 The robins made their vow. 
 
 That tree was very beautiful 
 
 When all its leaves were green, 
 And rosy buds lay opening 
 
 Amid their tender sheen : 
 When the bright, translucent dewdrops 
 
 Shed blossoms as they fell, 
 And melted in their fragrance 
 
 Like music in a shell. 
 
 It was greenest in the summer-time, 
 
 When cheerful sunlight wove 
 Amid its thrifty leafiness 
 
 A warm and glowing love ; 
 When swelling fruit blushed ruddily 
 
 To Summer s balmy breath, 
 And the laden boughs drooped heavily 
 
 To the greensward underneath. 
 
 Twas brightest in a rainy day, 
 
 When all the purple west 
 Was piled with fleecy storm-clouds 
 
 That never seemed at rest ; 
 When a cool and lulling melody 
 
 Fell from the dripping eaves, 
 And soft, warm drops came pattering 
 
 Upon the restless leaves. 
 
 But oh, the scene was glorious 
 
 When clouds were lightly riven, 
 Arid there above my valley home 
 
 Came out the bow of heaven 
 And in its fitful brilliancy 
 
 Hung quivering on high, 
 Like a jewelled arch of paradise 
 
 Reflected through the sky. 
 210 
 
A. R. ST. JOHN. 
 
 211 
 
 I am thinking of the footpath 
 
 My constant visits made, 
 Between the dear old homestead 
 
 And that leafy apple shade ; 
 Where the flow of distant waters 
 
 Came with a tinkling sound, 
 Like the revels of a fairy band, 
 
 Beneath the fragrant ground. 
 
 I haunted it at eventide, 
 
 And dreamily would lie * 
 And watch the crimson twilight 
 
 Come stealing o er the sky ; 
 Twas sweet to see its dying gold 
 
 Wake up the dusky leaves 
 To hear the swallows twittering 
 
 Beneath the distant eaves. 
 
 I have listened to the music 
 
 A low, sweet minstrelsy, 
 Breathed by a lonely night-bird 
 
 That haunted that old tree 
 Till my heart has swelled with feelings 
 
 For which it had no name 
 A yearning love of poesy, 
 
 A thirsting after fame. 
 
 I kave gazed up through the foliage 
 
 With dim and tearful eyes, 
 And with a holy reverence 
 
 Dwelt on the changing skies, 
 Till the burning stars were peopled 
 
 With forms of spirit birth, 
 And I ve almost heard their harp-strings 
 
 Reverberate on earth. 
 
 A. R. ST. JOHN. 
 
 MRS. ST. JOHN, formerly Miss MUNROE, 
 was bom in the vicinity of Boston, and in 
 1826 was married to Mr. J. R. St. John. She 
 has for several years resided in Brooklyn, 
 
 New York. She is said to be a voluminous 
 writer, and she has been a contributor, under 
 her name, to the Democratic Review and oth 
 er literary miscellanies. 
 
 MEDUSA. 
 
 FROM AN ANTIQUE GEM. 
 
 FATED sister of the three ! 
 Mortal, though a deity ; 
 Superhuman beauty thine, 
 Demon goddess, power divine ! 
 Thou a mortal life didst share, 
 Thou a human death didst bear; 
 Yet thy soul supremely free 
 Shrank not from its destiny : 
 And the life-drops from thy head, 
 On Libyan sands which Perseus shed, 
 Sprang, a scourging race, from thee, 
 Fell types of artful mystery. 
 Thou wast the victim of dire rage, 
 Minerva s vengeance to assuage, 
 And thy locks like molten gold, 
 Sheltering love in every fold, 
 Transformed into the serpent s lair 
 Tnat writhe and hiss in thy despair. 
 
 Fatal beauty, thou dost seem 
 The phantom of some fearful dream ; 
 Extremes of horror and of love 
 Alternate o er our senses move, 
 As, wrapt and spell-bound, we survey 
 The fearful coils which round thee play, 
 And mark thy mild, enduring smile, 
 Lit by no mortal fire the while. 
 
 Formed to attract all eyes to thee, 
 And yet their withering light to be, 
 With some mysterious, powerful charm 
 
 That can the sternest will disarm, 
 
 The color from the warm cheek steal, 
 
 The life-blood in the heart congeal, 
 
 Or petrify with wild dismay 
 
 The boldest gazer s human clay 
 
 This is a terrible ministry 
 
 For one with such a destiny. 
 
 Oh couldst thou unto mortals give 
 Thy strength to suffer, grace to live, 
 Teach them with ever-heavenward eye 
 The direst chances to defy, 
 Wrapt in the grandeur of a soul 
 To meet the finite and control 
 This thy dread mission would unseal 
 This thy mysterious self reveal. 
 
 In vain we wonder what thou art 
 Whether thou hast a human heart ; 
 Whether thou feelest scorpion stings 
 From shadowy troops Repentance brings 
 In never still or slumbering bands 
 Upon the spirit s arid sands; 
 Whether Regret s more gentle forms, 
 Long brooding, come at length in storms; 
 Whether the taunts of flying Hope 
 Doom thee without the gates to grope 
 We know not we shall never know 
 Night hides in gloom thy cause of wo. 
 But if no voice of thine complains 
 While braving all such human pains, 
 Just is thy claim with gods to be 
 Their aegis and dread mystery. 
 
SARAH LOUISA P. SMITH. 
 
 (Born 1811 Died 1842). 
 
 Miss HICKMAN, afterward Mrs. SMITH, was 
 born in Detroit on the thirtieth of June, 1811, 
 at which time her grandfather, Major-Gen- 
 eral Hull whose patriotism and misfortunes 
 are at leng:h beginning to be justly appreci 
 ated by the people was governor of Michi 
 gan. While a child she accompanied her 
 nuther to the home of her funily, in New 
 ton, Massachusetts, where she was carefully 
 educa ed. She cc^uired knowledge with ex 
 traordinary facility, and when but thirteen 
 year> of age her compositions were compared 
 to those of Kirke White and others whose 
 e..rly maturity is the subject of some of the 
 most interesting chapters in literary history. 
 1 i her eighteenth year she was married to 
 Mr. Samuel Jenks Smith, then editor of a 
 periidical in Providence, where he soon af- 
 t.T published a collection of her poems, in a 
 volume of two hundred and fifty duodecimo 
 
 pages, many of the pieces in which were 
 written as it was passing through the press. 
 In 1829 Mr. and Mrs. Smith removed to Cin 
 cinnati, where they resided nearly two years, 
 and here she continued to write, with a sort 
 of improvisatorial ease, but with increasing 
 elegance and a constantly deepening tone of 
 reflection, until her health was too much de 
 cayed, and then she returned to New York, 
 where, on the twelfth of February, 1832, she 
 died, in the twenty-first year of her age. Her 
 husband was for several years connected with 
 the press in this city, and died while on a 
 voyage to Europe in 1842. 
 
 The poems of Mrs. Smith are interesting 
 chiefly as the productions of a very youthful 
 author. She wrote with grace and spright- 
 liness, and sometimes with feeling ; but there 
 is little in her writings that would survive 
 its connexion with her history. 
 
 THE HUMA* 
 
 FLY on ! nor touch thy wing, bright bird, 
 
 Too near our shaded earth, 
 Or the warbling, now so sweetly heard, 
 
 May lose its note of mirth. 
 Fly on nor seek a place of rest 
 
 In the home of "care-worn things;" 
 T would dim the light of thy shining crest 
 
 And thy brightly burnished wings, 
 To dip them where the waters glide 
 That flow from a troubled earthly tide. 
 
 The fields of upper air are thine, 
 
 Thy place where stars shine free ; 
 I would thy home, bright one, were mine, 
 
 Ab >ve life s stormy sea ! 
 [ would never wander, bird, like thee, 
 
 So near this place again, 
 With wing and spirit once light and free 
 
 They should wear no more the chain 
 With which thev are bound and fettered here, 
 For ever struggling for skies more clear. 
 
 There are many things like thee, bright bird, 
 
 Hopes as thy plumage gay ; 
 Our air is with them for ever stirred, 
 
 But still in air they stay. 
 And happiness, like thee, fair one, 
 
 * A bird peculiar to the Ea=t. Tt i* supposed to fly con 
 stantly in the air, and never tou h the ground. 
 
 Ts ever hovering o er, 
 But rests in a land of brighter sun, 
 
 On a waveless, peaceful shore, 
 And stoops to lave her weary wings 
 Where the fount of " living waters" springs. 
 
 WHITE ROSES. 
 
 THEY were gathered for a bridal : 
 
 I knew it by their hue 
 Fair as the summer moonlight 
 
 Upon the sleeping dew. 
 From their fair and fairy sisters 
 
 They were borne, without a sigh, 
 For one remembered evening 
 
 To blossom and to die. 
 
 They were gathered for a bridal, 
 
 And fastened in a wreath ; 
 But purer were the roses 
 
 Than the heart that lay beneath ; 
 Yet the beaming eye was lovely, 
 
 And the coral lip was fair, 
 And the gazer looked and asked not 
 
 For the secret hidden there. 
 
 They were gathered for a bridal, 
 
 Where a thousand torches glistened, 
 
 When the holy words were spoken, 
 And the false and faithless listened 
 212 
 
 
SARAH LOUISA P. SMITH. 
 
 213 
 
 And answered to the vow 
 
 Which another heart had taken : 
 Yet he was present then 
 
 The once loved, the forsaken ! 
 
 They were gathered for a bridal, 
 
 And now, now they are dying, 
 And young Love at the altar 
 
 Of" broken faith is sighing. 
 Their summer life was stainless, 
 
 And not like hers who wore them 
 They are faded, and the farewell 
 
 Of beauty lingers o er them ! 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 I WOULD not have thee deem my heart 
 
 Unmindful of those higher joys, 
 Regardless of that better part 
 
 Which earthly passion ne er alloys. 
 I would not have thee think I live 
 
 Within heaven s pure and blessed light, 
 Nor feeling nor affection give 
 
 To Him who makes my pathway bright. 
 
 I would not chain to mystic creeds 
 
 A spirit fetterless and free ; 
 The beauteous path to heaven that leads 
 
 Is dimmed by earthly bigotry : 
 And yet, for all that earth can give, 
 
 And all it e er can take away, 
 I would not have that spirit rove 
 
 One moment from its heavenward way. 
 
 1 would not that my heart were cold 
 
 And void of gratitude to Him 
 Who makes those blessings to unfold 
 
 Which by our waywardness grow dim. 
 I would not lose the cherished trust 
 
 Of things within the world to come 
 The thoughts, that when their joys are dust, 
 
 The weary have a peaceful home. 
 
 For 1 have left the dearly loved, 
 
 The home, the hopes of other years, 
 And early in its pathway proved 
 
 Life s rainbow hues were formed of tears. 
 I shall not meet them here again, 
 
 Those loved, and lost, and cherished ones, 
 Bright links in young Affection s chain, 
 
 In Memory s sky unsetting suns. 
 
 But perfect in the world above, 
 
 Through suffering, wo, and trial here, 
 Shall glow the undiminished love 
 
 Which clouds and distance failed to sere : 
 But I have lingered all too long, 
 
 Thy kind remembrance to engage 
 And woven but a mournful song, 
 
 Wherewith to dim thy page. 
 
 THE FALL OF WARSAW. 
 
 THROUGH Warsaw there is weeping, 
 
 And a voice of sorrow now, 
 For the hero who is sleeping 
 
 With death upon his brow ; 
 The trumpet-tone will waken 
 No more his martial tread, 
 Nor the battle-ground be shaken 
 When his banner is outspread ! 
 Now let our hymn 
 
 Float through the aisle, 
 Faintly and dim, 
 
 Where moonbeams smile ; 
 Sisters, let our solemn strain 
 Breathe a blessing o er the slain. 
 
 There s a voice of grief in Warsaw 
 
 The mourning of the brave 
 O er the chieftain who is gathered 
 
 Unto his honored grave ! 
 Who now will face the foeman ? 
 Who break the tyrant s chain 1 
 Their bravest one lies fallen, 
 And sleeping with the slain. 
 Now let our hymn 
 
 Float through the aisle, 
 Faintly and dim, 
 
 Where moonbeams smile ; 
 Sisters, let our dirge be said 
 Slowly o er the sainted dead ! 
 
 There s a voice of woman weeping, 
 
 In Warsaw heard to-night, 
 And eyes close not in sleeping, 
 
 That late with joy were bright ; 
 No festal torch is lighted, 
 
 No notes of music swell ; 
 Their country s hope was blighted 
 When that son of Freedom fell ! 
 Now let our hymn 
 
 Float through the aisle, 
 Faintly and dim, 
 
 Where moonbeams smile ; 
 Sisters, let our hymn arise 
 Sadly to the midnight skies ! 
 
 And a voice of love undying, 
 
 From the tomb of other years, 
 Like the west wind s summer sighing, 
 
 It blends with manhood s tears : 
 It whispers not of glory, 
 
 Nor fame s unfading youth, 
 But lingers o er a story 
 Of young affection s truth. 
 Now let our hymn 
 
 Float through the aisle, 
 Faintly and dim, 
 
 Where moonbeams smile , 
 Sisters, let our solemn strain 
 Breathe a blessing o er the slain 
 
SOPHIA HELEN OLIVER. 
 
 (Born 1811). 
 
 THIS author was born in Lexington, Ken 
 tucky, in 1811, and in 1837 was married to 
 Dr. J. H. Oliver. The next year she removed 
 to Louisville, whence after a short time she 
 returned to Lexington, and in 1842 she went 
 
 to reside permanently in Cincinnati, in one 
 of the medical colleges of which city her hus 
 band is a professor. Her poems are spirited 
 and fanciful, but are sometimes imperfect in 
 rhythm and have other signs of carelessness. 
 
 "I MARK THE HOURS THAT SHINE." 
 
 Ix fair Italia s lovely land, 
 
 Deep in a garden bower, 
 A dial marks with shadowy hand 
 
 Each sun-illumined hour; 
 And on its fair, unsullied face 
 
 Is carved this flowing line, 
 (Some wandering bard has paused to trace :) 
 
 " 1 mark the hours that shine." 
 Oh ye who in a friend s fair face 
 
 Mark the defects alone, 
 Where many a sweet redeeming grace 
 
 Doth for each fault atone 
 Go, from the speaking dial learn 
 
 A lesson all divine 
 From faults that wound your fancy turn, 
 
 And " mark the hours that shine." 
 When bending o er the glowing page 
 
 Traced by a godlike mind, 
 Whose burning thoughts from age to age 
 
 Shall light and bless mankind 
 Why will ye seek mid gleaming gold 
 
 For dross in every line, 
 Dark spots upon the sun behold, 
 
 Nor " mark the hours that shine ]" 
 Oh ye who bask in Fortune s light, 
 
 Whose cups are flowing o er, 
 Yet through the weary day and night 
 
 Still pine and sigh for more 
 W T hy will ye, when so richly blest, 
 
 Ungratefully repine. 
 Why sigh for joys still unpossessed, 
 
 Nor " mark the hours that shine ] 
 And ye who toil from morn till night 
 
 To earn your scanty bread, 
 Are there no blessings rich and bright 
 
 Around your pathway spread 1 
 The conscience clear, the cheerful heart, 
 
 The trust in love divine, 
 All bid desponding care depart; 
 
 And " mark the hours that shine." 
 And ye who bend o er Friendship s tomb 
 
 In deep and voiceless wo, 
 Who sad y feel no second bloom 
 
 \ our b ighted hearts can know 
 Why will ye mourn o er severed ties 
 
 Whiln friends around vou twine ] 
 
 Go ! yield your lost one to the skies, 
 And " mark the hours that shine." 
 
 Deep in the garden of each heart 
 
 There stands a dial fair, 
 And often is its snowy chart 
 
 Dark with the clouds of care. 
 Then go, and every shadow chase 
 
 That dims its light divine, 
 And write upon its gleaming face 
 
 " I mark the hours that shine." 
 
 THE CLOUD-SHIP. 
 
 Lo ! over Ether s glorious realm 
 
 A cloud ship sails with favoring breeze ; 
 
 A bright form stands beside the helm, 
 And guides it o er the ethereal seas. 
 
 Far streams on air its banner white, 
 Its swanlike pinions kiss the gale, 
 
 And now a beam of heaven s light 
 With glory gems the snowy sail 
 
 Perchance, bright bark, your snowy breast 
 And silver-tissued pinions wide, 
 
 Bear onward to some isle of rest 
 Pure spirits in life s furnace tried. 
 
 Oh ! could we stay each swelling sail 
 Of spotless radiance o er thee hung, 
 
 And lift the bright, mysterious veil 
 O er forms of seraph beauty flung 
 
 How would our spirits long to mount 
 And float along the ethereal way, 
 
 To drink of life s unfailing fount, 
 
 And bathe in heaven s resplendent day ! 
 
 But lo! the gold-tiara d West 
 
 Unfolds her sapphire gates of light ; 
 
 While Day s proud monarch bows his crest, 
 And bids the sighing world Good-night. 
 
 And now the cloud ship flies along, 
 
 Her wings with gorgeous colors dressed, 
 
 And Fancy hears triumphant song 
 Swell from her light-encircled breast 
 
 As to the wide unfolded gate, 
 The brilliant portal of the skies, 
 
 She bears her bright, immortal freight, 
 The glorious soul that never dies ! 
 214 
 
 - 
 
SOPHIA HELEN OLIVER. 
 
 215 
 
 THE SHADOWS. 
 
 THEY are gliding, they are gliding, 
 
 O er the meadows green and gay ; 
 Like a fairy troop they re riding 
 
 Through the breezy woods away ; 
 On the mountain-tops they linger 
 
 When the sun is sinking low, 
 And they point with giant finger 
 
 To the sleeping vale below. 
 
 They are flitting, they are flitting, 
 
 O er the waving corn and rye, 
 And now they re calmly sitting 
 
 Neath the oak-tree s branches high 
 And where the tired reaper 
 
 Hath sought the sheltering tree, 
 They dance above the sleeper 
 
 In light fantastic glee. 
 
 They are creeping, they are creeping, 
 
 Over valley, hill, and stream, 
 Like the thousand fancies sweeping 
 
 Through a youthful poet s dream. 
 Now they mount on noiseless pinions 
 
 With the eagle to the sky 
 Soar along those broad dominions 
 
 Where the stars in beauty lie. 
 
 They are dancing, they are dancing, 
 
 Where our country s banner bright 
 In the morning beam is glancing 
 
 With its stars and stripes of light ; 
 And where the glorious prairies 
 
 Spread out like garden bowers, 
 They fly along like fairies, 
 
 Or sleep beneath the flowers. 
 
 They are leaping, they are leaping, 
 
 Where a cloud beneath the moon 
 O er the lake s soft breast is sleeping, 
 
 Lulled by a pleasant tune ; 
 And where the fire is glancing 
 
 At twilight through the hall, 
 Tall spectre forms are dancing 
 
 Upon the lofty wall. 
 
 They are lying, they are lying, 
 
 Where the solemn yew-tree waves, 
 And the evening winds are sighing 
 
 In the lonely place of graves; 
 And their noiseless feet are creeping 
 
 With slow and stealthy tread, 
 Where the ancient church is keeping 
 
 Its watch above the dead. 
 
 Lo, they follow ! lo, they follow, 
 
 Or before flit to and fro 
 By mountain, stream, or hollow, 
 
 Wherever man may go ! 
 And never for another 
 
 Will the shadow leave his side 
 More faithful than a brother, 
 
 Or all the world beside. 
 
 Ye remind me, ye remind me, 
 
 Shadows pale and cold ! 
 
 That friends to earth did bind me, 
 
 Now sleeping in the mould ; 
 
 The young, the loved, the cherished, 
 Whose mission early done, 
 
 In life s bright noontide perished 
 Like shadows in the sun. 
 
 The departed, the departed 
 
 I greet them with my tears ; 
 The true and gentle-hearted, 
 
 The friends of earlier years. 
 Their wings like shadows o er me 
 
 Methinks are spread for aye, 
 Around, behind, before me, 
 
 To guard the devious way. 
 
 MINISTERING SPIRITS. 
 
 THEY are winging, they are winging, 
 
 Through the thin blue air their way ; 
 Unseen harps are softly ringing 
 
 Round about us, night and day. 
 Could we pierce the shadows o er us, 
 
 And behold that seraph band, 
 Long-lost friends would bright before ua 
 
 In angelic beauty stand. 
 
 Lo ! the dim blue mist is sweeping 
 
 Slowly from my longing eyes, 
 And my heart is upward leaping 
 
 With a deep and glad surprise. 
 I behold them close beside me, 
 
 Dwellers of the spirit-land ; 
 Mists and shades alone divide me 
 
 From that glorious seraph band. 
 
 Though life never can restore me 
 
 My sad bosom s nestling dove, 
 Yet my blue-eyed babe bends o er me 
 
 With her own sweet smile of love; 
 And the brother, long departed, 
 
 Who in being s summer died 
 Warm, and true, and gentle-hearted 
 
 Folds his pinions by my side. 
 
 Last called from us, loved and dearest 
 
 Thou the faultless, tried, and true, 
 Of all earthly friends sincerest, 
 
 Mother I behold thee too ! 
 Lo ! celestial light is gleaming 
 
 Round thy forehead pure and mild, 
 And thine eyes with love are beaming 
 
 On thy sad, heart-broken child! 
 Gentle sisters there are bending, 
 
 Blossoms culled from life s parterre; 
 And my father s voice ascending, 
 
 Floats along the charmed air. 
 Hark ! those thrilling tones Elysian 
 
 Faint and fainter die away, 
 And the bright seraphic vision 
 
 Fades upon my sight for aye. 
 But I know they hover round rm- 
 
 In the morning s rosy light, 
 And their unseen forms surround me 
 
 All the deep and solemn night. 
 Yes, they re winging yes, they re winding 
 
 Through the thin blue air their way : 
 Spirit-harps are softly ringing 
 
 Round about us night and uay. 
 
MARY E. LEE. 
 
 (Born 1813 Died 1849.) 
 
 Miss MART E. LEE, a daughter of Mr. 
 William Lee, and niece of the late Judge 
 Thomas Lee, of Charleston, South Carolina, 
 has been for many years a frequent contribu 
 tor to the literary miscellanies, in both prose 
 and verse. Among her best compositions 
 are several poems, in ihe ballad style, found 
 
 ed on southern traditions, in which she has 
 shown dramatic skill, and considerable abil 
 ity in description. One of the best of these 
 is the Indian s Revenge, a Legend of Toccoa, 
 in Four Parts, printed in the Southern Lit 
 erary Messenger for 1846. Miss Lee is also 
 the author of some spirited translations. 
 
 THE POKTS. 
 
 THE poets the poets 
 
 Those giants of the earth : 
 In mighty strength they tower above 
 
 The men of common birth 
 A noble race they mingle not 
 
 Among the motley throng, 
 But move, with slow and measured steps, 
 
 To music-notes along. 
 
 The poets the poets 
 
 What conquests they can boast ! 
 Without one drop of life-blood spilt, 
 
 They rule a world s wide host ; 
 Their stainless banner floats unharmed 
 
 From age to lengthened age ; 
 And history records their deeds 
 
 Upon her proudest page. 
 
 The poets the poets 
 
 How endless is their fame ! 
 Death, like a thin mist, comes, yet leaves 
 
 No shadow on each name ; 
 But as yon starry gems that gleam 
 
 In evening s crystal sky, 
 So have they won, in memory s depths, 
 
 An immortality. 
 
 The poets the poets 
 
 Who doth not linger o er 
 The glorious volumes that contain 
 
 Their bright and spotless lore ! 
 They charm us in the saddest hours, 
 
 Our richest joys they feed ; 
 And love for them has grown to be 
 
 A universal creed. 
 
 The poets the poets 
 
 Those kingly minstrels dead, 
 Well may we twine a votive wreath 
 
 Around each honored head : 
 No tribute is too high to give 
 
 Those crowned ones among men. 
 The pools ! the true poets ! 
 
 Thanks be to God for them ! 
 
 AN EASTERN LOVE-SONG. 
 
 AWAKE, my silver lute; 
 
 String all thy plaintive wires, 
 And as the fountain gushes free, 
 So let thy memory chant for me 
 
 The theme that never tires. 
 
 Awake, my liquid voice ; 
 
 Like yonder timorous bird, 
 Why dost thou sing in trembling fear, 
 As if by some obtrusive ear 
 
 Thy secret should be heard 1 
 
 Awake, my heart yet no ! 
 
 As Cedron s golden rill, 
 Whose changeless echo singeth o er 
 Notes it had heard long years before, 
 
 So thou art never still. 
 
 My voice! my lute! my heart! 
 
 Spring joyously above 
 The feeble notes of lower earth, 
 And let thy richest tones have birth 
 
 Beneath the touch of love. 
 
 THE LAST PLACE OF SLEEP. 
 
 LAY me not in green wood lone, 
 Where the sad wind maketh moan, 
 Where the sun hath never shone, 
 
 Save as if in sadness ; 
 Nor, I pray tbee, let me be 
 Buried neath the chill, cold sea, 
 Where the waves, tumultuous, free, 
 
 Chafe themselves to madness. 
 
 But in yon enclosure small, 
 
 Near the churchyard s mossy wall, 
 
 W T here the dew and sunlight fall, 
 
 I would have my dwelling ; 
 Sure there are some friends, I wot, 
 Who would make that narrow spot 
 Lovely as a garden plot, 
 
 With rich perfumes swelling. 
 216 
 
CATHERINE H. ESLING. 
 
 217 
 
 Let no costly stone be brought, 
 Where a stranger s hand hath wrought 
 Vain inscription, speaking naught 
 
 To the true affections ; 
 But, above the quiet bed, 
 Where I rest my weary head, 
 Plant those buds whose perfumes shed 
 
 Tenderest recollections. 
 
 Then, as every year the tide 
 Of strong death bears to my side 
 Those who were by love allied 
 
 As the flowers of summer 
 Sweet to think, that from the mould 
 Of my body, long since cold. 
 Plants of beauty shall enfold 
 
 Every dear new comer. 
 
 CATHERINE H. ESLING. 
 
 (Born 1812). 
 
 Miss CATHERINE H. WATERMAN was born 
 in Philadelphia, in 1812 ; and under her mai 
 den name she became known as an author by 
 
 many graceful and tender effusions in the 
 periodicals. In 1840 she was married tc 
 Mr. Esling, a shipmaster of her native city 
 
 BROTHER, COME HOME. 
 
 COME home 
 
 Would I could send my spirit o er the deep, 
 Would I could wing it like a bird to thee, 
 To commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep 
 With these unwearying words of melody : 
 Brother, come home. 
 
 Come home 
 Come to the hearts that love thee, to the eyes 
 
 That beam in brightness but to gladden thine ; 
 Come where fond thoughts like holiest incense rise, 
 Where cherished memory rears her altar s shrine. 
 Brother, come home. 
 
 Come home 
 Come to the hearth-stone of thy earlier days, 
 
 Come to the ark, like the o erwearied dove ; 
 Come with the sunlight of thy heart s warm rays, 
 Come to the fireside circle of thy love : 
 Brother, come home. 
 
 Come home 
 It is not home without thee : the lone seat 
 
 Is st.ill unclaimed where thou were wont to be, 
 In every echo of returning feet, 
 
 In vain we list for what should herald thee : 
 Brother, come home. 
 
 Come home 
 
 We ve nursed for thee the sunny buds of spring, 
 Watched every germ the full-blown flowers rear, 
 Seen o er their bloom the chilly winter bring 
 Its icy garlands, and thou art not here : 
 Brother, come home. 
 
 Come home 
 Would I could send my spirk o er the deep, 
 
 Would I could wing it like a bird to thee 
 To commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep 
 With these unwearying words of melody : 
 Brother, come home ! 
 
 HE WAS OUR FATHER S DARLING 
 
 HE was our father s darling, 
 
 A bright and happy boy 
 His life was like a summer s day 
 
 Of innocence and joy ; 
 His voice, like singing waters, 
 
 Fell softly on the ear, 
 So sweet, that hurrying echo 
 
 Might linger long to hear. 
 
 He was our mother s cherub, 
 
 Her life s untarnished light 
 Her blessed joy by morning, 
 
 Her visioned hope by night ; 
 His eyes were like the daybeams 
 
 That brighten all below ; 
 His ringlets like the gathered gold 
 
 Of sunset s gorgeous glow. 
 
 He was our sister s plaything, 
 
 A very child of glee, 
 That frolicked on the parlor floor, 
 
 Scarce higher than our knee ; 
 His joyous bursts of pleasure 
 
 Were wild as mountain wind ; 
 His laugh, the free, unfettered laugh 
 
 Of childhood s chainless mind. 
 
 He was our brothers treasure, 
 
 Their bosom s only pride 
 A fair depending blossom 
 
 By their protecting side : 
 A thing to watch and cherish, 
 
 With varying hopes and fears 
 To make the slender, trembling reed 
 
 Their staff for future years. 
 
 He is a blessed angel. 
 
 His home is in the sky ; 
 He shines among those living lights, 
 
 Beneath his Maker s eye : 
 A freshly gathered lily. 
 
 A bud of eaily doom, 
 Hath beeii transplanted from the earth. 
 
 To bloom beyond the tomb. 
 
CAROLINE M. SAWYER. 
 
 (Born 1812). 
 
 CAROLINE M. FISHER, now Mrs. SAWYER, 
 was born at the close of the year 1812, in 
 Newton, Massachusetts, where she resided 
 until her marriage with the Rev. T. J. Saw 
 yer one of the most eminent scholars and 
 divines of the Universalist denomination in 
 September, 1832, when she removed to the 
 city of New York. At the end of about fif 
 teen years Mr. Sawyer was chosen presi 
 dent of the Universalist seminary at Clinton 
 in Oneida county, and of this pleasant vil 
 lage he became a resident, upon his assump 
 tion of the office. 
 
 Mrs. Sawyer was very carefully and thor 
 oughly educated at home, under the care of 
 an invalid uncle whose life had been passed 
 in pursuits of science and literature. With 
 aim she became a favorite, and to his early 
 apprehension of her abilities and anxiety for 
 their full development she is indebted for her 
 line taste and large knowledge, particularly 
 in foreign languages and their most celebra 
 
 ted authors. She commenced the composi 
 tion of verse at an early age, but published 
 little until after her marriage. Since then 
 she has written much for various reviews 
 and other miscellanies, besides several vol 
 umes of tales, sketches, and essays, for chil 
 dren and youth, which would probably have 
 been much more generally known if they 
 had not come before the public through de 
 nominational channels of publication. She 
 has also made numerous translations from 
 the best German literature, in prose and verse, 
 in which she has evinced a delicate appreci 
 ation of the originals and a fine command of 
 her native language. 
 
 The poems of Mrs. Sawyer are numerous 
 sufficient for several volumes though 
 there has been published no collection of 
 them. They are serious and of a fresh and 
 vigorous cast of thought, occasionally em 
 bodied in forms of the imagination or illus 
 trated by a chaste and elegant fancy. 
 
 THE BLIND GIRL. 
 
 CROWN her with garlands! mid her sunny hair 
 
 Twine the rich blossoms of the laughing May, 
 The lily, snowdrop, and the violet fair, 
 
 And queenly rose, that blossoms for a day. 
 Haste, maidens, haste ! the hour brooks no delay 
 
 The bridal veil of soft transparence bring ; 
 And as ye wreathe the gleaming locks away, 
 
 O er their rich wealth its folds of beauty fling 
 
 She seeth now ! 
 Bring forth the lyre of sweet and solemn sound, 
 
 Let its rich music be no longer still ; 
 Wake its full chords, till, sweetly floating round, 
 
 Its thrilling echoes all our spirits fill. 
 Joy for the lovely ! that her lips no more 
 
 To notes of sorrow tune their trembling breath ; 
 Joy for the young, whose starless course is o er ; 
 
 16 ! sing paeans for the bride of Death ! 
 
 She seeth now ! 
 She has been dark ; through all the weary years, 
 
 Since first her spirit into being woke, 
 Through those dim orbs that ever swam ii_ tears, 
 
 No ray of sunlight ever yet hath broke. 
 Silent and dark ! herself the sweetest fiowei 
 
 That ever blossomed in an earthly home, 
 Un uttered yearnings ever were her dower, [come. 
 
 And voiceless prayers that light at length might 
 She seeth now ! 
 
 A lonely lot ! yet oftentimes a sad 
 
 And mournful pleasure filled her heart and brain, 
 And beamed in smiles e er sweet, but never glad, 
 
 As Sorrow smiles when mourning winds complain. 
 Nature s great voice had ever for her soul 
 
 A thrilling power the sightless only know; 
 While deeper yearnings through her being stole, 
 
 For light to gild that being s darkened flow. 
 
 She seeth now! 
 Strike the soft harp, then ! for the cloud hath past, 
 
 With all its darkness, from her sight away ; 
 Beauty hath met her waiting eyes at last, 
 
 And light is hers within the land of day. 
 Neath the cool shadows of the tree of life, 
 
 Where bright the fount of youth immortal springs, 
 Far from this earth, with all its weary strife, 
 
 Her pale brow fanned by shining seraphs wings, 
 
 She seeth now ! 
 Ah, yes, she seeth ! through yon misty veil, 
 
 Methinks e en now her angel-eyes look down, 
 While round me falls a light all soft and pale 
 
 The moonlight lustre of her starry crown ; 
 And to my heart, as earthly sounds retire, 
 
 Come the low echoes of celestial words, 
 Like sudden music from some haunted lyre, 
 
 That strangely swells when none awake its chorda 
 But, hush ! tis past; the light, the sound, are o er* 
 Joy for the maiden ! she is dark no more ! 
 
 She seeth now ! 
 218 
 
CAROLINE M. SAWYER. 
 
 219 
 
 INFIDELITY AND RELIGION. 
 
 Two Spirits o er an open grave were bending, 
 Their gaze far down its gloomy chamber sending. 
 One, with a brow of stern and cold despair, 
 And sable weeds and cypress in his hair, 
 Turned not his eyes, so fixed and dark with wo, 
 From the cold pit, which fearful yawned below. 
 The other stood with garments pure and white 
 As deck the dwellers of the land of light: 
 Her placid brow was as an angel s fair, 
 While ca m and joyous was her gentle air; 
 And though within the grave she dropped a tear, 
 Her upturned eye was still serene and clear. 
 
 " Life !" said the Spirit with the brow of gloom, 
 His arm outstretching o er the gaping tomb 
 " "Pis a deep and sullen river, 
 
 Ro.ling slowly to the sea, 
 There to be engu fed for ever 
 In a dark eternity !" 
 
 " Nay," said the shining one, with upturned eye, 
 And smile so clear it mirrored back the sky 
 "Tis a sunny streamlet gliding 
 
 Gently on to seek its goal ; 
 There in God s own bosom hiding 
 
 Bright and pure, a white-robed soul." 
 But the dark Spirit s gloomy voice again 
 Doled out in slow and melancholy strain : 
 u T is a mournful weed, that groweth 
 
 Lone and friend less in the world, 
 Which a ghastly reaper moweth, 
 And tis to oblivion hurled!" 
 
 " Nay," the bright, gentle one replied once more, 
 And softer still the holy smile she wore 
 " Tis a starry flower upraising 
 
 Through a.l ill-s a trusting eye, 
 Evermore its Maker praising 
 
 Fading here to bloom on high !" 
 Slowly the dark one sunk his gloomy brow, 
 As once again he murmured sad and low : 
 " T is a storm, for ever sweeping 
 O er a bleak and barren heath ; 
 Tossing, surging, never sleeping, 
 Till it lull in endless death !" 
 
 " Nay !" and the hoping Spirit s hands were prest 
 In meek and holy rapture to her breast 
 " T is a friendly rain, that showers 
 
 On a fair and pleasant land, 
 Where the darkest cloud that lowers 
 By the rainbow still is spanned!" 
 Stern was the gaze of sorrow and despair 
 That now was fixed upon the Spirit fair, 
 As, a last time, the hopeless waiter s burst 
 Of anguish came more drear than e en at first : 
 " Tis a haunting vision, blended 
 Evermore with tears and pain : 
 T is a dream, that best were ended ; 
 
 Life is false, and life is vain !" 
 Ceased the dark Spirit and a sable cloud 
 O er his set features folded like a shroud ; 
 Then slowly sank, as sinks the dying wave, 
 In the dark chambers of the yawning grave. 
 
 Silently closed the damp turf o er his head, 
 And the stern Spirit, like the mortal dead, 
 Came not again from out his gloomy bed ! 
 
 " Life !" said the shining one, as, stretching forth 
 Her long, fair arms, she blessed the teeming earth 
 " Life is true, and life is real ! 
 
 Life has worthy deeds for all ; 
 Tis no vain and false ideal, 
 
 Ending with the shroud and pall. 
 Up and do, then, dreaming mortal ! 
 
 With a strong heart toil away ; 
 Earth has cares, but heaven a portal 
 
 Opening up to endless day !" 
 
 She paused, and o er her pure and spotless breast 
 Drew the soft drapery of her snowy vest ; 
 Her long, fair arms extended yet once more 
 To bless the earth she oft had blessed before ; 
 Then turned away to pour her heavenly light 
 In genial floods where all were else but night. 
 
 Still dwells she here, that child of heavenly birth 
 Soothing the sorrows of the sons of earth ; 
 Drying the tears that dim the mourner s eye ; 
 Gently subduing Grief s desponding sigh ; 
 Winging with rapture e en the parting breath, 
 And wreathing smiles around the lips of Death ! 
 
 Blest be her path along life s rugged way ! 
 Blest be her smiles which light the darkest day ! 
 And blest the tears that, trusting still, she weeps, 
 Where the dark Spirit yet in silence sleeps ! 
 
 THE VALLEY OF PEACE. 
 
 It was a beautiful conception of tlie Moravians togiv to rural cemeto- 
 
 OH, come, let us go to the Valley of Peace ! 
 
 There earth s weary cares to perplex us shall cease ; 
 
 W T e will stray through its solemn and far-spreading 
 shades, 
 
 Till twiligbt s last ray from each green hillock fades. 
 
 There s .umber the friends whom we long must re 
 gret 
 
 The forms whose mild beauty we can not forget ; 
 
 We will seek the low mounds where so softly they 
 sleep, 
 
 And will sit down and muse on the idols we weep : 
 
 But we will not repine that they re hid from our 
 eyes, 
 
 For we know they still live in a home in the skies ; 
 
 But we ll pray that, when life s weary journey 
 shall cease, 
 
 We may slumber with them in the Valley of Peace ! 
 
 Oh, sad were our path through this valley of tears 
 If, when weary and wasted with toil and with years 
 No home were prepared where the pilgrim miurht 
 Mortality s cumbering vestments away ! [lay 
 
 But sadder, and deeper, a;id darker the gloom, 
 That would close o er our way as we speed to tho 
 If Faith pointed not to that heavenly goal, [tomb, 
 Where the Sun of eternity beams on the soul ! 
 Oh, who, mid the sorrows and changes of time. 
 E er dreamed of that holier, that happier clime. 
 
220 
 
 CAROLINE M. SAWYER. 
 
 But yearned for the hour of the spirit s release 
 For a pillow of rest in the Valley of Peace ! 
 Oh come, thou pale mourner, whose sorrowing gaze 
 Seems fixed on the shadows of long-vanished days, 
 Sad, sad is thy tale of bereavement and wo, 
 And thy spirit is weary of life s garish show ! 
 Come here : I will show thee a haven of rest, 
 Where sorrow no longer invades the calm breast; 
 Where the spirit throws off its dull mantle of care, 
 And the robe is ne er folded o er secret despair ! 
 Yet the dwelling is lonely, and silent, and cold, 
 And the soul may shrink back as its portals unfold ; 
 But a bright Star has dawned through the shades 
 
 of the east. 
 That will light up with beauty the Valley of Peace ! 
 
 Thou frail child of error ! come hither and say, 
 Has the world yet a charm that can lure thee to 
 Ah, no ! in thine aspect are anguish and wo, [stay ] 
 And deep shame has written its name on thy brow. 
 Pooi outcast ! too long hast thou wandered forlorn, 
 In a path where thy feet are all gored with the thorn ; 
 Where thy breast by the fang of the serpent is stung, 
 And scorn on thy head by a cold world is flung ! 
 Come here, and find rest from thy guilt and thy tears, 
 And a sleep sweet as that of thine innocent years ; 
 We will spread thee a couch where thy woes shall 
 
 all cease : 
 Oh, come and lie down in the Valley of Peace ! 
 
 The grave, ah, the grave ! tis a mighty stronghold, 
 The weak, the oppressed, all are safe in its fold : 
 There Penury s toil-wasted children may come, 
 And the helpless, the houseless, at last find a home. 
 What myriads unnumbered have sought its repose, 
 Since the day when the sun on creation first rose ; 
 And there, till earth s latest, dread morning shall 
 
 break, 
 
 Shall its wide generations their last dwelling make : 
 But beyond is a world how resplendently bright ! 
 And all that have lived shall be bathed in its light. 
 We shall rise we shall soar where earth s sorrows 
 
 shall cease. 
 Though our mortal clay rests in the Valley of 
 
 Peace ! 
 
 THE BOY AND HIS ANGEL. 
 
 " OH, mother, I ve been with an angel to-day ! 
 I was out, all alone, in the forest at play, 
 Chasing after the butterflies, watching the bees, 
 And hearing the woodpecker tapping the trees; 
 So I played, and I played, till, so weary I grew, 
 I sat down to rest in the shade of a yew, 
 While the birds sang so sweetly high up on its top, 
 I held my breath, mother, for fear they would stop. 
 Thus a long while I sat, looking up to the sky, 
 And watching the clouds that went hurrying by, 
 When I heard a voice calling just over my head, 
 That sounded as if Come, oh brother ! it said ; 
 And there, right over the top of the tree, 
 O mother, an angel was beckoning to me ! 
 
 "And, Brother, once more, come, oh brother! 
 
 he cried, 
 And flew on light pinions close down by my side ; 
 
 And mother, oh, never was being so bright 
 As the one which then beamed on my wondering 
 His face was as fair as the de icate shell, [sight ! 
 His hair down his shoulders in fair ringlets fell, 
 While his eyes resting on me, so melting with love, 
 Were as soft and as mild as the eyes of a dove. 
 And somehow, dear mother, I felt not afraid, 
 As his hand on my brow he caressingly laid, 
 And murmured so softly and gently to me, 
 Come, brother, the angels are waiting for thee ! 
 " And then on my forehead he tenderly pressed 
 Such kisses oh, mother, they thrilled through my 
 
 breast, 
 
 As swiftly as lightning leaps down from on high, 
 When the chariot of God rolls along the black sky ; 
 While his breath, floating round me, was soft as 
 
 the breeze 
 
 That played in my tresses, and rustled the trees ; 
 At last on my head a deep blessing he poured, 
 Then plumed his bright pinions and upward he 
 
 soared 
 
 And up, up he went, through the blue sky, so far, 
 He seemed to float there like a glittering star, 
 Yet still my eyes followed his radiant flight, 
 Till, lost in the azure, he passed from my sight. 
 Then, oh how I feared, as I caught the last gleam 
 Of his vanishing form, it was only a dream 
 When soft voicesmurmured once more from the tree, 
 Come, brother, the angels are waiting for thee ! " 
 
 Oh, pale grew that mother, and heavy her heart, 
 For she knew her fair boy from this world must 
 
 depart ; 
 That his bright locks must fade in the dust of the 
 
 tomb, 
 Ere the autumn winds withered the summer s rich 
 
 bloom. 
 Oh, how his young footsteps she watched, day by 
 
 day, 
 
 As his delicate form wasted slowly away, 
 Till the soft light of heaven seemed shed o er his face, 
 And he crept up to die in her loving embrace ! 
 " Oh, clasp me, dear mother, close, close to your 
 On that gentle pillow again let me rest ; [breast ; 
 Let me once more gaze up to that dear, loving eye, 
 And then, oh, methinks, I can willingly die. 
 Now kiss me, dear mother oh, quickly for see, 
 The bright, blessed angels are waiting for me !" 
 
 Oh, wild was the anguish that swept through her 
 
 breast, 
 
 As the long, frantic kiss on his pale lips she pressed, 
 And felt the vain search for his soft, pleading eye, 
 As it strove to meet hers ere the fair boy could die. 
 " I see you not, mother, for darkness and night 
 Are hiding your dear, loving face from my sight ; 
 But I hear your low sobbings : dear mother, good 
 The angels are ready to bear me on high. [by ! 
 I will wait for you there ; but, oh, tarry not long, 
 Lest grief at your absence should sadden my song !" 
 He ceased, and his hands meekly clasped on hia 
 
 breast, 
 While his sweet face sank down on its pillow of 
 
 rest; 
 
 Then closing his eyes, now all rayless and dim, 
 W T cnt up with the angels that waited for him. 
 
CAROLINE M. SAWYER 
 
 221 
 
 THE LADY OF LURLEI.* 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE RHINE. 
 
 ! *SKKST thou the lad} 7 on yonder steep, 
 
 Whose crags beetle over the billowy deep ? 
 
 Her robes of the sea-green waves are wove, 
 
 And her eyes are blue as the skies above : 
 
 Her golden tresses, like sunlight, roam 
 
 O er a neck more pure than the wreathing foam, 
 
 As her long white arms on the breeze she flings, 
 
 And in sweet, low, silvery accents sings 
 
 To the sti l, gray morning her strange wi d lay 
 
 Away, to the lady, good boatman, away !" 
 
 A film crept over the boatman s sight, 
 
 And his arm grew weak, and his cheek grew white, 
 
 As he saw the lady poised high in air, 
 
 With her sea-green robes and her flowing hair ! 
 
 "Sir knight, twould peril our lives to ride, 
 
 In the stanchest boat, o er this surging tide, 
 
 When yon wild lady at morn is seen 
 
 On Luriei s cliff, with her robes of green ! 
 
 Beware ! for evil befalls the knight 
 
 Who dares to wish for a nearer sight !" 
 
 " Go, preach thy fears to the timid girl, 
 Or the craven coward, thou tremb ing churl ! 
 The knight who the shock of an hundred fields 
 Has borne, to no fancied danger yields : 
 Then over the waves, with thy bounding skiff, 
 To the strange bright lady of Lurlei s c .iff ; 
 And take, as thy guerdon, this golden chain 
 For me, none peril their lives in vain !" 
 
 He took the chain, and he spake no more, 
 
 But his strong arm shook, as he grasped the oar, 
 
 And gave his bark to the rolling deep, 
 
 To ferry the knight to the fatal steep ! 
 
 The skies grew black, and the winds blew high, 
 
 And ominous birds flew shrieking by, 
 
 And roaring surges piled up the strand 
 
 With a terrible wall as they nearcd the land. 
 
 " Back, back !" the boatman with white lips cried, 
 
 " Nor dare thus madly this fearful tide !" 
 
 But the brave knight turned with a dauntless brow, 
 
 And, bo!d y spurning the graceful prow, 
 
 Plunged fearlessly over the light skiff s side, 
 
 And eagerly breasted the foaming tide ! 
 
 Strange faces arose to his troubled eye, 
 
 As the whiriing waters swept wildly by 
 
 Fierce voices hissed in his failing ear, 
 
 And his stout frame trembled, but not with fear, 
 
 For his breath he held and his arm he strained, 
 
 Till the waves were passed and the shore was gained. 
 
 Then, swiftly scaling the steep ascent, 
 
 Before the lady he breathless bent ! 
 
 He laid his head on her bosom fair, 
 
 His fingers toyed with her golden hair 
 
 Whi e " Mine for ever," she wildly sung, 
 
 As round him her long white arms she flung ! 
 
 " Bold knight, come down in the sunless deep, 
 
 Where peris warble and naiads sleep 
 
 Come down and dwell with the ocean-maid, 
 
 Where the blight ne er falls and the flowers ne er 
 
 fade !" 
 
 * Lurlei is the name of a rocky cliff on the shores of 
 the Rhine. 
 
 She pressed her lips to his glowing cheek, 
 She lured him along the dangerous peak 
 One moment they stood on the dizzy verge 
 The next, sank down neath the sounding surge 
 
 The winds were hushed, and the waves were laid, 
 And insects small in the sunbeams played 
 The boat returned to the distant shore, 
 But the knight and the lady were seen no more ! 
 
 THE WIFE S REMONSTRANCE. 
 
 OH, why are you sad when all others are gay 
 
 Is earth darker now than in life s early day ? 
 
 Is the kind hand withdrawn that upheld us of 
 
 yore, 
 Or the bright, laughing sunshine around us no 
 
 more ? 
 
 No : earth is still smiling, and nature is clad 
 In all her old beauty then why art thou sad ] 
 
 True, some friends, grown faithless, seem cold and 
 
 estranged, 
 
 But others are left us whose love is unchanged 
 Whose hearts, through all seasons of good and 
 
 of ill, 
 
 Like the ivy around us cling faithfully still : 
 Let us cherish them deep in our hearts, and be 
 
 glad, 
 For oh, with such blessings how can we be sad ! 
 
 You say we are poor ! ah, I have not forgot 
 That to struggle with fortune is ofttimes our lot; 
 But think you that we are less happy than they 
 Who drag on mid splendor their wearisome day ? 
 For their wealth would you barter the bliss we 
 
 have had ] 
 Oh no ! then what need have our hearts to be sad ] 
 
 Why fear for the future ? for nine years or more 
 We have managed to keep the gaunt wolf from 
 
 our door ; 
 And why, in the days yet to come, should our 
 
 state, 
 
 Though humble, be marked by a gloomier fate ? 
 Let us give God our thanks for the past, and be 
 
 glad- 
 How much more need have others, than we, to be 
 
 sad ! 
 
 I know there are seasons when, strive as we will; 
 Presentiment whispers for ever of ill ; 
 There are dark-boding visions of trouble and pain, 
 That lurk in the heart till they madden the brain ! 
 Wo, wo for that bosom ! it can not be glad 
 Oh God, shield us well from such cause to be 
 sad! 
 
 Let us humbly hope on and if dark be our way, 
 Remember that night is e er followed by day ; 
 Though tempests and whirlwinds may rage through 
 
 the skies, 
 They will pass, and the sunbeams again meet our 
 
 eyes : 
 Let our hearts and our brows, then, in sunshine 
 
 be clad, 
 For God made us not to be gloomy and sad ! 
 
222 
 
 CAROLINE M. SAWYER. 
 
 MY SLEEPING CHILDREN. 
 
 YE sleep, ray children ! On your soft, blue eyes 
 Those eyes that once, like summer sunlight glancing, 
 From rnorn till eve with joy seemed ever dancing, 
 A mournful slumber lies ! 
 
 Ye sleep, but I I wake to watch your rest ; 
 Yet not as erst, when, round your temples wreathing, 
 The light locks stirred at every gentle breathing 
 From your lull, quiet breast. 
 
 No more my finger on my lips I lay, 
 Lest so;ne rude soundjSome sudden footstep jarring 
 Your litt.e couch, and the hushed stillness marring 
 Shou.d chase your sleep away. 
 
 Ah, no ! the winds go moaning o er your heads, 
 And the sweet dryads of the valley, winging 
 In airy circles, wild, shrill strains are singing 
 Above your grassy beds ! 
 
 But ye awake not they disturb not now: 
 And a vain gush of childlike grief comes o er me, 
 As the dread memory, sudden sweeps before me, 
 That death is on your brow ! 
 
 Oh, precious ones ! that seemed too fair to die 
 My soft-eyed Mary, child of seraph sweetness : 
 Bright vision, vanished with a shadow s fleetness 
 Why hast thou left me 1 why ] 
 
 Wcrl weary, gentle dove, of this cold world 1 
 And didst thou long to rest thy little pinions 
 Far in those bright and beautiful dominions, 
 
 Where they at last are furled ] 
 Wert homesick, darling ] Could thy little heart 
 Yearn for a love more tender than we bore thee 
 Yearn for a watch more fond and faithful o er thee, 
 That thou shouldst hence depart ? 
 
 That thou shouldst hence,and leave rnehere behind 
 To fold thy little robes in silent anguish 
 To dry my tears, then weep again to languish 
 For what I can not find ! 
 
 Had my low cradle-song no longer charms 
 That cradle-song whose soft and plaintive numbers 
 Lulled thee each evening to thy peaceful slumbers 
 To keep thee in my arms 
 
 And thou, my boy ! my beautiful my own ! 
 Twin cherub of the one who stands beside rne, 
 Grieving that we within the earth should hide thee, 
 
 And leave thee all alone 
 Grieving that thou canst play with him no more ; 
 That, though his tears upon thy grave are falling, 
 
 Thy voice replies not to his mournful calling 
 
 Unheeded ne er before ! 
 
 Did the sweet cup of life already cloy, 
 That from thy lips, ere scarcely it was tasted 
 Ere from its brim one sparkling gleam was wasted, 
 Thou laidst it down, my boy 1 
 
 J\ ay, wherefore question ? To my pleading vain, 
 
 No voice to still my spirit s restless yearning 
 
 No sweet rep y, to soothe my heart s deep burning, 
 Comes from your graves again ! 
 
 Ve were ye art not ! Thus earth s bloom decays : 
 I watch the flowers neath Autumn s footstep dying, 
 
 Yet know the spring-breath, through the valleys 
 Each from its tomb will raise ! [sighing, 
 
 But ye oh ye ! though soft the vernal rain, 
 The sweet spring showers stern winter s chain dis 
 solving 
 
 May round you fall earth s loveliest flowers evolving, 
 Ye will not bloom again ! 
 
 Though by the streams, and all the meadows o er, 
 Mid woods and dells, the south s gay clarion ringing, 
 May peal, till life is everywhere upspringing, 
 Ye ye will wake no more ! 
 
 Nay, ye will wake ! not here, not here but there, 
 In heaven ! Oh, there ye bloom e en now where 
 
 never 
 Falls the chill blight, and each sweet flower for ever 
 
 Lives beautiful and fair ! 
 
 There shall I find you stainless, pure, and bright, 
 As the pure seraph-eyes, whose myriad numbers 
 Are watching now, above your peaceful slumbers, 
 From the far zenith s height : 
 
 There shall I clasp you to my heart once more, 
 And feel your cheeks mine own with rapture pres 
 sing, 
 
 Till all my being thrills with your caressing, 
 And all its pain is o er ! 
 
 Dear ones, sleep on ! A low, mysterious tone, 
 Solemn yet sweet, my spirit s ear is filling 
 Each wilder grief within my bosom stilling, 
 And hushing sorrow s moan. 
 
 It tells me that, no shadow on your brow, 
 Far from the clouds that closely round me gather, 
 Clasped on the bosom of the Good All-Father, 
 Ye re blest and happy now. 
 
 Ay, blest and happy ! never more shall tears 
 Dim those sweet eyes; temptation ne er shall round 
 
 you 
 Wind its dark coils, nor guilt nor falsehood wound 
 
 Through all your endless years. [you, 
 
 Farewell awhile ! Ye were my heart s delight 
 Ye were sweet stars, my spirit s clouds dissolving, 
 Round which my heart was evermore revolving, 
 
 Like some fond satellite. 
 Ah, well I loved you but I yield you up, 
 Without one murmur, at my Father s calling . 
 With childlike trust, though fast my tears are falling, 
 I drink the bitter cup. 
 
 I drink for He, whom angels did sustain 
 In the dread hour when mortal anguish met him, 
 When friends forgot, and deadly foes beset him, 
 Stands by to soothe my pain. 
 
 I drink for thou, God, preparedst the draught 
 Which to my lips thy Father-hand is pressing . 
 I know neath ills oft lurks the deepest blessing 
 Father, the cup is quaffed ! 
 
 Tis quaffed and now, O Father, I restore 
 The little children thou in mercy sent me : 
 Sweet blessings were they, for a season lent me 
 Take back thine own once more ! 
 
 Yet, oh, forget not, Lord, thy child is weak : 
 The dregs are bitter which my lips are draining, 
 
CAROLINE M. SAWYER. 
 
 223 
 
 And my faint heart hath need of thy sustaining 
 Father, thy child is weak ! 
 
 Yet, take thine own ! their souls are innocent 
 Their little lives were beautiful and blameless : 
 I bring them back to thee, pure, white, and stainless, 
 E en as when they were lent. 
 
 Keep them, and make them each a shining gem 
 Mid the bright things which fill the bovvers of heaven, 
 Till my soul, too, shall soar, earth s fetters riven, 
 Home home, to thee and them ! 
 
 LAKE MAHOPAC 
 
 LAKE of the soft and sunny hills, 
 
 What loveliness is thine ! 
 Around thy fair, romantic shore, 
 
 What countless beauties shine ! 
 Shrined in their deep and hollow urn, 
 
 Thy silver waters lie 
 A mirror set in waving gems 
 
 Of many a regal dye. 
 
 Like angel faces in a dream, 
 
 Bright isles upon thy breast, 
 Veiled in soft robes of hazy light, 
 
 In such sweet silence rest 
 The rustle of a bird s light wing, 
 
 The shiver of the trees, 
 The chime of waves are all the sounds 
 
 That freight the summer breeze. 
 
 Oh. beautiful it is along 
 
 Thy silver wave to glide, 
 And watch the ripples as they kiss 
 
 Our tiny vessel s side ; 
 While ever round the dipping oar 
 
 White curls the feathery spray, 
 Or, from its bright suspended point, 
 
 Drips tinklingly away. 
 
 And pleasant to the heart it is 
 
 In those fair isles to stray, 
 Or Fancy s idle visions weave 
 
 Through all the golden day, 
 Where dark old trees, around whose stems 
 
 Caressing woodbines cling, 
 O er mossy, flower-enamel ed banks, 
 
 Their trembling shadows fling. 
 
 Oh, he who in his daily paths 
 
 A weary spirit bears, 
 Here in these peaceful solitudes 
 
 May he lay down his cares : 
 No echo from the restless world 
 
 Shall his repose invade, 
 Where the spectres of the haunted heart 
 
 By Nature s self are laid. 
 
 I stood upon thy shore, fair lake ! 
 
 Long parted was the day, 
 And shadows of the eventide 
 
 Upon the waters lay ; 
 But from the sky the silver moon, 
 
 All radiant and serene, 
 Attended by eve s dewy star, 
 
 Smiled sweetly o er the scene. 
 
 The earth was mute no sound, save mine 
 
 Own beating heart, I heard, 
 When suddenly the listening air 
 
 With melody was stirred : 
 The low, faint chime of lapsing waves, 
 
 The voice of whispering boughs, 
 Waked by the night-winds gentle touch, 
 
 In mingled sweetness rose. 
 Oh, dear and hallowed was that hour : 
 
 O er being s troubled tide 
 Still waters of eternal peace 
 
 Seemed solemnly to glide, 
 Whose anthems, deep, subdued, and low, 
 
 Through all my throbbing soul, 
 Like breathings from a brighter world, 
 
 In pleading murmurs stole. 
 Oh, dear and hallowed was the hour ! 
 
 Along life s mazy track, 
 An angel from the paths of ill 
 
 Hath ofttimes lured me back ; 
 It watched above me at my birth, 
 
 It led me when a child, 
 And here, beside the moonlit waves, 
 
 Once more upon me smiled. 
 Lake of the hills ! around me yet 
 
 I feel thy magic spell 
 Still, still by Fancy led, I pace 
 
 Thy dreamy island dell ; 
 The sere leaves, rustling to my tread, 
 
 Are heaped upon the ground, 
 And the graves of long, long centuries 
 
 Lie thickly clustering round. 
 T was hither, old traditions tell, 
 
 The Indian of yore 
 Forth from the peopled haunts of life 
 
 His dead in silence bore, 
 And, trenching reverently the sod, 
 
 Within earth s loving breast, 
 With his bow and arrows by his side, 
 
 Here laid him down to rest. 
 Fit place of sepulture ! tall trees 
 
 In columned arches rise, 
 Through whose thick-woven boughs steal down 
 
 Soft glimpses of the skies. 
 Amid their leaves, like spirit strains, 
 
 ^Eolian sounds awake, 
 And o er the long-forgotten dead 
 
 A solemn requiem make. 
 Ah, peace ! while on this rocky seat 
 
 Myself once more I cast, 
 And people all the island shades 
 
 With phantoms of the past, 
 Till from the grand old beetling rocks, 
 
 That far above me frown, 
 A thousand dusky faces gaze 
 
 In ;nournful silence down. 
 They gaze while in their troubled hearts 
 
 Wild memories seem to lie, 
 And fearful meanings darkly flit 
 
 O er many a burning eye ; 
 Pale warriors lift their folded hands 
 
 In mute, appealing prayer, 
 Then clasp them o er their snent breasts 
 
 In deep and stil despair ! 
 
CAROLINE M. SAWYER. 
 
 B |f , see those sternly-lifted brows! 
 
 Quick change comes o er my dream: 
 Each phantom form is flashing now 
 
 With strange and sudden gleam; 
 Swift feathery arrows cleave the air, 
 
 From coppice, trees, and rocks, 
 And the wild glen hisses to the paths 
 
 Of hurtling tomahawks ! 
 
 I start - I clutch the air and lo ! 
 
 My fearful dream is o er ; 
 Kind human voices call me back 
 
 To the bright world once more 
 Kind, faithful hands, that grasp mine own, 
 
 Conduct me from the dell : 
 One last, one lingering gaze on thee 
 
 Thou p ace of graves, farewell ! 
 
 Lake of the hills ! my song has ceased ; 
 
 But should my feet no more 
 Thread thy fair island glades, or pace 
 
 Thy richly varving shore, 
 A memory lives within my breast, 
 
 That, wheresoe er I be, 
 As the heavens are mirrored by thy wave, 
 
 Will ever mirror thee ! 
 
 THE WARRIOR S DIRGE. 
 
 WARRIOR, rest : thy toils are ended 
 
 Life s last fearful strife is o er ; 
 Clarion calls, with death-notes blended, 
 
 Shall disturb thine ear no more. 
 Peaceful is thy dreamless slumber 
 
 Peaceful but how cold and stern ! 
 Thou hast joined that silent number 
 
 In the land whence none return. 
 
 Warrior, rest : thy banner o er thee 
 
 Hangs in many a drooping fold ; 
 Many a manly cheek before thee 
 
 Stained with tear-drops we behold. 
 Thine was not a hand to falter, 
 
 When thy sword shou d leave its sheath ; 
 Thine was not a cheek to alter, 
 
 Though thy duty led to death. 
 
 Warrior, rest: a dirge is knelling 
 
 Solemnly from shore to shore ; 
 Tis a nation s tribute, telling 
 
 That a patriot is no more. 
 Thou, where Freedom s sons have striven, 
 
 Firm and bold, didst foremost stand ; 
 Free y was thy life-blood given 
 
 For thy home and fatherland. 
 
 Warrior, rest : our star is vanished 
 
 That to victory led the way, 
 And from one lone hearth is banished 
 
 All that cheered life s weary day ; 
 There thy young bride weeps in sorrow 
 
 Tnat no more she hears thy tread 
 That the night which knows no morrow 
 
 Darkly veils thy laurelled head. 
 
 Warrior, rest : we smooth thy pillow 
 For thy last, long earthly sleep ; 
 
 Oh, beneath yon verdant willow 
 
 Storms unheard will o er thee sweep. 
 
 There, t is done ! thy couch awaits thee 
 Softly down thy head we lay; 
 
 Here repose, till God translates thee 
 From the dust to endless day ! 
 
 REUNION. 
 
 NAY, pause not yet ! another strain 
 
 A strain to bid the spirit start 
 Glad songs for those who meet again, 
 
 And blend together heart with heart ! 
 Give to the winds each anxious thought 
 
 Which o er our bliss a shade might cast; 
 These hours, by weary absence bought, 
 
 Should be all sunshine to the last. 
 
 What though we part again to-morrow, 
 
 For years, perhaps, no more to meet ? 
 We will not of the future borrow 
 
 One pang to mar an hour so sweet. 
 Swell high the strain, then ! let our souls 
 
 W ith mirth and gayety be filled, 
 And brightly, as each moment rolls, 
 
 Be drops of ecstasy distilled ! 
 
 Hush, hark ! amid our rapture now, 
 
 What strange, low, sorrowing tone comesnear? 
 Why steals a shadow o er each brow, 
 
 And through each mirthful smile a tear ! 
 Alas ! the spirit can not brook 
 
 The voice of careless glee to-day, 
 But, from each thoughtless word and look, 
 
 Turns, sick and shuddering, away. 
 
 Oh, hush the song ! lest feeling s tide 
 
 Grow mightier than may be controlled : 
 Then calmly seated, side .by side, 
 
 Each other s hand we ll fondly hold. 
 Linger a little longer yet, 
 
 And breathe your sweet words o er mine ear; 
 Oh, I can die but ne er forget 
 
 This hour, so beautiful and dear ! 
 
 i PEBBLES. 
 
 GTTE me the pebble, little one, that I 
 To yon bright pool may hurtle it away : 
 Look! how t has changed the azure wave to gray, 
 
 And blotted out the image of the sky ! 
 
 So, when our spirits calm and placid lie 
 When all the passions of the bosom sleep, 
 And from its stirless and unruffled deep 
 
 Beams up a heaven as bright as that on high, 
 Some pebble envy, jealousy, misdoubt 
 
 Dashed in our bosom s slumbering waves to jar, 
 Will cloud the mirrored surface of the soul, 
 And blot its heaven of joy and beauty out. 
 
 Sin ! fling no pebble in my soul, to mar 
 Its solemn depths, and o er it clouds to roll ! 
 
MARGARET L. BAILEY. 
 
 (Born 1812). 
 
 MRS. BAILEY is a daughter of the Rev. 
 Thomas Shands, and was born in Sussex 
 county, Virginia, on the twelfth of Decem 
 ber, 1812. When she was about six years 
 of age, her father removed to theAVest ; and 
 in 1833 she Avas married to Mr. G. Bailey, 
 junior, subsequently editor of the Cincinnati 
 Philanthropist, then of the Cincinnati Morn 
 ing Herald, and now of the National Era, at 
 Washington. In March, 1844, Mrs. Bailey 
 became editress of The Youth s Monthly 
 Visiter, at Cincinnati, and conducted it, with 
 a circulation which arose to some three thou- 
 
 ! sand copies, until her removal to the District 
 of Columbia, near the close of 1840. This 
 
 | periodical was perhaps the first of its class 
 ever published in the country, and its con 
 tents justify the critical opinion of Mr. Wil 
 liam D. Gallagher, that Mrs. Bailey is one 
 of the ablest women of the age. 
 
 The poems of Mrs. Bailey have appeared 
 in the journals edited by herself and her 
 husband, and there has been no collected edi 
 tion of them. They have less individuality 
 than her prose, but they are informed with 
 
 i fancy and a just understanding. 
 
 LIFE S CHANGES. 
 
 A LITTLE child on a sunny day, 
 Sat on a flowery bank at play ; 
 The gentle breath of the summer air 
 Waved the curls of her golden hair, 
 And ever her voice rang merrily out 
 In a careless laugh or a joyous shout. 
 
 Beautiful was she as early morn, 
 When the dew is fresh on the blossoming thorn; 
 And methought as I looked on her fair young face, 
 Beaming with beauty and truth and grace, 
 How cold and heartless the world must be, 
 That could su!ly such spotless purity ! 
 
 Years ro led by : in her maiden pride 
 She stood, a gentle and trusting bride 
 How beautiful still ! though a softening shade 
 O er the dazzling hue of that beauty played, 
 Whi e the tender glance of her soft blue eye 
 Told of a love that could not die : 
 And I prayed as T gazed on her placid brow, 
 Pure as a wreath of new-fallen snow, 
 That sorrow, the sorrow that comes to all, 
 Light y and gently on her might fall. 
 
 Again I saw her: Time had been there, 
 Tipping with silver her golden hair; 
 He had breathed on her cheek, and its rosy hue 
 Was gone, but her heart was pure and true, 
 As when first I met her a budding flower, 
 Or a gentle maid in her bridal hour. 
 As mother and wife she bad borne her part, 
 With the faith and hope of a loving heart ; 
 And now when nature, with years opprest, 
 Looks and longs for her quiet rest, 
 With holy trust in her Father s love, 
 Awaiting a summons from above, 
 She lingers with us, as if to show 
 To the faint and weary ones below, 
 How oft to the faithful soul ^t is given 
 To taste on earth of the joys of heaven. 
 15 
 
 THE PAUPER CHILD S BURIAL. 
 
 STRETCHED on a rude plank the dead pauper lay: 
 No weeping friends gathered to bear him away ; 
 His white, slender fingers were clasped on his breast 
 The pauper child meekly lay taking his rest. 
 
 The hair on his forehead was carelessly parted ; 
 No one cared for him, the desolate hearted : 
 In life none had loved him his pathway, all sear 
 Had not one sweet blossom its sadness to cheer. 
 
 No fond, gentle mother had ever caressed him, 
 In tones of affection and tenderness blessed him ; 
 For ere his eye greeted the light of the day, 
 His mother had passed in her anguish away. 
 
 Poor litt e one ! often thy meek eyes have sought 
 The smile of affection, of kindness unbought, 
 And wistfully gazing, in wondering surprise, 
 That no one beheld thee with pitying eyes. 
 
 And when in strange gladness thy young voice was 
 
 heard, 
 
 As in winter s stern sadness the song of a bird, 
 Harsh voices rebuked thee, and, cowering in fear, 
 Thy glad song was hushed in a sob and a tear. 
 
 And when the last pang rent thy heartstrings in 
 
 twain, 
 
 And burst from thy bosom the last sign of pain, 
 No gentle one soothed thee, in love s melting tone, 
 With fond arm around thee in tenderness thrown. 
 
 Stern voices and cold mingled strange in thine ear 
 With the songs of the angels the dying may hear; 
 And thrillingly tender, amid Death s alarms, 
 Was thy mother s voice welcoming thee to her arms. 
 
 Thy fragile form, wrapped in its coarse snioud 
 
 reposes . 
 
 In slumbers as sweet as if pillowed on roses 
 And while on thy coffin the rude clods are pressed, 
 The good Shepherd folds the shorn lamb to his r>roat 
 225 
 
MARGARET L. BAILEY. 
 
 MEMORIES. 
 
 On, pleasant are the memories 
 
 Of childhood s forest home, 
 And oft, amid the toil* of lifn, 
 
 Like bless(:d dreams they come : 
 
 Of sunset hours when I lay entranced, 
 
 Mid shadows cool and green, 
 Watching the winged insects glance, 
 
 In summer s golden sheen : 
 
 Theii drowsy hum was a lullaby 
 
 To Nature s quiet sleeping, 
 While o er the meadow s dewy breast 
 
 The evening winds were creeping : 
 
 The ploughman s whistle heard afar, 
 To his humb e home returning ; 
 
 And faintly in the gathering shade 
 The firefly s lamp was burning. 
 
 Up in the old oak s pleasant shade, 
 
 Where mossy branches swing, 
 With gentle twitterings, soft and low, 
 
 Nestling with fluttering wing 
 
 Were summer birds their tender notes 
 Like love s own fond caressing, 
 
 When a mother folds her little flock, 
 With a whispered prayer and blessing. 
 
 The cricket chirps from the hollow tree, 
 
 To the music of the rill, 
 And plaintively echoes through the wood 
 
 The song of the whip-poor-will. 
 
 Tinged with the last faint light of day, 
 
 A white cloud in the west 
 Floats in the azure sea above, 
 
 Like a ship on ocean s breast. 
 
 The evening star as a beacon shines 
 
 On the far horizon s verge, 
 And the wind moans through the distanl pines, 
 
 Like Ihe troubled ocean s surge. 
 
 From lowly va es the rising mist 
 
 Curls up the hillside green, 
 And its summit, twixt the earth and sky, 
 
 Like a fairy isle is seen. 
 
 Away in the depths of ether shine 
 
 The stars serenely bright 
 Gems in the glorious diadem, 
 
 Circling the brow of night. 
 
 Our Father ! if thy meaner works 
 
 Thus beautiful appear, 
 If such revealings of thy love 
 
 Enkindle rapture here 
 
 If to our mortal sense thou dost 
 
 Thy treasures thus unfold, 
 When death shall rend this earthly veil, 
 
 How shall our eyes behold 
 
 Thy glory when the spirit soars 
 
 Beyond the. starry zone 
 And in thy presence folds her wing, 
 
 And bows before thy throne 
 
 ENDURANCE. 
 
 W T HE:V, upon wings of rainbow hues, 
 
 Hope flits across thy pathway here, 
 And gently as the morning breeze 
 
 Her waving pinion dries thy tear, 
 Oh, yield not all thy soul to joy, 
 
 Let not her blandishments allure : 
 Life s greenest spot hath withered flowers 
 
 Whate er thy lot, thou must endure. 
 
 If, on the mountain s topmost cliff, 
 
 The flag of victory seems unfurled, 
 And Faith, exulting, sees afar 
 
 Earth s idol, Error, downward hurled, 
 Deem not the triumph thou shall share 
 
 God keeps his chosen vessels pure ; 
 The final reckoning is on high, 
 
 On earth thy meed is to endure. 
 W 7 ith chastened heart, in humble faith, 
 
 Thy labor earnestly pursue, 
 As one who fears to such frail deeds 
 
 No recompense is due : 
 Wax not faint-hearted while thou toil st, 
 
 Thy bread and water shall be sure ; 
 Leaving all else to God, be thou 
 
 Patient in all things to endure. 
 
 DUTY AND REWARD. 
 
 EVERY day hath toil and trouble, 
 
 Every heart hath care : 
 Meekly bear thine own full measure, 
 
 And thy brother s share. 
 Fear not, shrink not, though the burden 
 
 Heavy to thee prove ; 
 God shall fill thy mouth with gladness, 
 
 And thy heart with love. 
 Patiently enduring, ever 
 
 Let thy spirit be 
 Bound by links, that can not sever, 
 
 To humanity. 
 Labor wait ! thy Master perished 
 
 Ere his task was done ; 
 Count not lost thy fleeting moments, 
 
 Life hath but begun. 
 
 Labor ! and the seed thou sowest 
 
 Water with thy tears ; 
 God is faithful he will give thee 
 
 Answer to thy prayers. 
 
 Wait in hope ! though yet no verdure 
 
 Glad thy longing eyes, 
 Thou shall see the ripened harvest 
 
 Garnered in the skies. 
 Labor wait ! though midnight shadows 
 
 Gather round thee here, 
 And the storms above Ihee lowering 
 
 Fill Ihy hearl wilh fear 
 
 Wait in hope : the morning dawneth 
 
 When the night is gone, 
 And a peaceful rest awaits thee 
 
 W hcu thy \\ ork is done. 
 
LAURA M. THURSTON. 
 
 (Born 1812-Died 1842). 
 
 LAURA M. HAWLEY, afterward Mrs. THURS 
 TON, was born in Norfolk, Connecticut, in De 
 cember, 1812. She completed her education 
 in the Hartford Female Seminary, and sub 
 sequently was a teacher in Hartford and New 
 Milford, Connecticut, in Philadelphia, and in 
 New Albany, Indiana. In the latter place 
 she was married, in September, 1839, to Mr. 
 Franklin Thurston, a merchant ; and surren 
 
 dering- the school of which she had been the 
 principal, to other hands, she resided there 
 until her death, which occurred on the twen 
 ty-first of July, 1842. Under the signature 
 of " Viola ; Mrs. Thurston had made herself 
 known by many productions marked by feel 
 ing and a melodious versification, which were 
 fjr the most part originally published in the 
 Louisville Journal. 
 
 THE GREEN HILLS OF MY FATHERLAND. 
 
 THE green hills of my fatherland 
 
 In dreams sti .l greet my view : 
 I see once more the wave-girt strand, 
 
 The ocean depth of blue ; 
 The sky, the glorious sky, outspread 
 
 Above their calm repose ; 
 The river, o er its rocky bed 
 
 Still singing as it flows ; 
 The stillness of the sabbath hours, 
 
 When men go up to pray ; 
 The sunlight resting on the flowers, 
 The birds that sing among the bowers 
 
 Through all the summer day. 
 
 Land of my birth mine early love 
 
 Once more thine airs I breathe : 
 I see thy proud hills tower above, 
 
 Thy green vales sleep beneath ; 
 Thy groves, thy rocks, thy murmuring rills, 
 
 All rise before mine eyes ; 
 The dawn of morning on thy hills, 
 
 Thy gorgeous sunset skies; 
 Thy forests, from whose deep recess 
 
 A thousand streams have birth, 
 Gladdening the lonely wi derness, 
 Ami filling the green silentness 
 
 With melody and mirth. 
 
 (. wonder if my home would seem 
 
 As lovely as of yore ; 
 I wonder if the mountain stream 
 
 Goes singing by the door ; 
 And if the flowers still bloom as fair, 
 
 And if the woodbines climb, 
 As when I used to train them there, 
 
 In the dear olden time ; 
 I wonder if the birds still sing 
 
 Upon the garden tree, 
 As sweetly as in that sweet spring 
 Whose golden memories gently bring 
 
 So many dreams to me. 
 
 I know that there hath been a change, 
 
 A change o er hall and hearth 
 Faces and footsteps new and strange 
 
 About my place of birth : 
 The heavens above are still as bright 
 
 As in the days gone by, 
 But vanished is the beacon light 
 
 That cheered my morning sky ; 
 And hill, and vale, and woodland glen, 
 
 And rock, and murmuring stream, 
 That wore such glorious beauty then, 
 Wou d seem, should I return again. 
 
 The record of a dream. 
 
 I mourn not for my childhood s hours, 
 
 Since, in the far-off west, 
 Neath sunnier skies, in greener bowers, 
 
 My heart hath found its rest. 
 I mourn not for the hills and streams 
 
 That chained my steps so long, 
 Yet still I see thee in my dreams, 
 
 And hail them in my song; 
 And often by the hearth-fire s blaze, 
 
 When winter eves shall come, 
 W e ll sit and talk of other days, 
 And sing the well-remembered lays 
 
 Of my green mountain home. 
 
 CROSSING THE ALLEGANIES. 
 
 THE broad, the bright, the glorious Wesl, 
 
 Is spread before me now ! 
 Where the gray mists of morning rest 
 
 Beneath yon mountain s brow! 
 The bound is past, the goal is won , 
 The region of the setting sun 
 
 Is open to my view : 
 Land of the valiant and the free 
 Mv own Green Mountain land to the* 
 
 And thine a long adieu ! 
 227 
 
228 
 
 MARTHA DAY. 
 
 I hail thce, Valley of the West, 
 
 For what thou yet shall be ; 
 I hail thee for the hopes that rest 
 
 Upon thy destiny ! 
 
 Here, from this mountain height, I see 
 Thv bright waves floating to the sea, 
 
 Thine emerald fields outspread ; 
 And feel that, in the book of fame, 
 Proudly shall thy recorded name 
 
 In later days be read. 
 
 Yet, while I gaze upon thee now, 
 
 All glorious as thou art, 
 A cloud is resting on my brow, 
 
 A weight upon my heart. 
 To me, in all thy youthful pride, 
 Thou art a land of cares untried 
 
 Of untold hopes and fears ; 
 Thou art yet not for thee I grieve ; 
 But, for the far-off land I leave, 
 
 I look on thee with tears. 
 
 Oh ! brightly, brightly glow thy skies 
 
 In Summer s sunny hours! 
 The green earth seems a paradise 
 
 Arrayed in summer flowers ! 
 But oh ! there is a land afar, 
 Whose skies to me are brighter far, 
 
 Along the Atlantic shore ! 
 For eyes beneath their radiant shrine 
 In kindlier glances answered mine: 
 
 Can these their light restore ] 
 
 Upon the lofty bound I stand 
 
 That parts the East and West; 
 Before me lies a fairy land 
 
 Behind, a home of rest ! 
 Here, Hope her wild enchantment flings, 
 Portrays all bright and lovely things 
 
 My footsteps to allure ; 
 But there, in Memory s light, I see 
 All that was once most dear to me 
 
 My young heart s cynosure ! 
 
 MARTHA DAY. 
 
 (Born 1813 
 
 Miss DAY was a daughter of the late emi 
 nent president of Yale College, and was born 
 in New Haven on the thirteenth of Febru 
 ary, 1813. She was educated at the best 
 schools in Connecticut, and was particularly 
 distinguished for her acquirements in math 
 ematics and languages. She died suddenly, 
 when but twenty years of age, on the second 
 of December, 1833, and in the following year 
 
 -Died 1833). 
 
 a collection of her Literary Remains, with 
 Memorials of her Life and Character, was 
 published at New Haven by her friend and 
 relative. Prof. Kingsley. Her poems were 
 buds of promise, which justified the anticipa 
 tions that were entertained of her eminence 
 in literature. The following hymn was de 
 signed to be inserted in an unwritten drama, 
 suggested by an incident in the life of David. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 FATHER Almighty! 
 From thy high seat thou watchest and controllest 
 
 The insects that upon thy footstool creep, 
 While, with a never-wearied hand, thou rollest 
 
 Millions of worlds along the boundless deep. 
 O Father ! now the clouds hang blackening o ? er us, 
 
 And the dark, boiling deeps beneath as yawn : 
 Scatter the tempests, quell the waves before us ; 
 
 To the wild, fearful night send thou a bless -d dawn. 
 
 Father All Holy ! 
 When thou shalt sit upon thy throne of glory, 
 
 Thi; steadfast earth, the strong, untiring sea, 
 Their verdant isles, their mountains high and hoary, 
 
 With awe and fear shall from thy presence flee. 
 Then shalt thou sit a Judge, the guilty dooming 
 
 To adamantine chains and endless lire: 
 Oh, Father ! how may we abide thy coming 1 
 
 Where find a shelter from the pure Jehovah s ire 1 
 
 Father All Merciful ! 
 Still 7iiay the guilty come in peace before thee, 
 
 Bathing thy feet with tears of love and wo; 
 And while for pardon only we implore thee, 
 
 Blessings divine unnumbered, o er us flow. 
 
 Father, her heart from all her idols tearing, 
 Thine erring child again would turn to thee ; 
 
 To thee she bends, trembling, yet not despairing : 
 From fear, remorse, and sin, Father ! set her free. 
 
 LINES ON PSALM CII. 
 
 THK boundless universe, 
 All that it hath of splendor and of life, 
 The living, moving worlds, in their bright robes 
 Of blooming lands and heaving, glittering watery 
 Even the still and holy depths of heaven, 
 Where the glad planets bathe in floods of light, 
 For ever pouring from a thousand suns, 
 All, all are but the garments of our Gon, 
 Yea, the dark foldings of his outmost skirts ! 
 Mortal ! who with a trembling, longing heart, 
 Watchest in silence the few rays that steal, 
 In their kind dimness, to thy feeble sight 
 Watch on, in silence, till within thy soul, 
 Bearing away each taint of sin and death, 
 Springs the hid fountain of immortal life ! 
 Then shall the mighty veil asunder rend, 
 And o er the spirit living, strong, and pure 
 Shall the full glories of the Godhead flow ! 
 
MARY ANN HANMER DODD, 
 
 (Born 1813). 
 
 Miss DOFD is a daughter of Mr. Elisha 
 Dodd, of Hartford, Connecticut, and was born 
 in ISIS. Her first appearance as an author 
 was in 1834 when she contributed a few 
 poems to The Hermenethean, a miscellany 
 conducted by the students of Washington 
 (now Trinity) College. She has since writ 
 ten frequently for the Ladies Repository, a 
 monthly magazine, and The Rose of Sharon, 
 an annual, edited for several years by her 
 friend the late Mrs. Mayo. A collection of 
 
 her poems was published at Hartford in 1843, 
 Miss Dodd writes with taste and feeling, and 
 her writings would have been known more 
 generally and perhaps more favorably if she 
 had not confined herself so much to denomi 
 national channels of publication. Like Mrs. 
 Scott, Mrs. Mayo, Mrs. Sawyer, Mrs. Case, 
 the Careys, and some others who are quoted 
 in this volume, she is of the Universalist 
 church, though her religious compositions are 
 all addressed to universal sympathies. 
 
 LAMENT. 
 
 SCMMKR departs! the golden hours are dying! 
 
 In the green glade its minstrelsy is still ; 
 A purple haze, like a thin veil, is lying 
 
 On the calm waters and the distant hill. 
 Cooler the breeze that waits upon the morning; 
 
 Paled is the sp endor of the noontide ray ; 
 Fewer the flowers the forest path adorning; 
 
 Earlier the Iwi ight fades in gloom away. 
 
 Summer departs, and thou, too, hast departed ! 
 
 Thou, who wert joy and sunshine to thy friends ; 
 What have thev now, the lonely and sad-hearted, 
 
 But the low mound which o er thy slumber bends] 
 The Power that pales the season as its closes, 
 
 And folds the brightness in the blossom s breast, 
 Bade Death go forth among the fading roses, 
 
 And bear thy spirit to its promised rest. 
 
 Summer, sweet Summer! saddened in thy waning, 
 
 A shadow falleth on thy garlands gay ; 
 A deeper gloom is on thy path remaining, 
 
 Since one beloved hath with thee passed away ! 
 Thou wilt come back; but when thy skies are burn- 
 
 And thy fair presence gladdens all the plain, [ing, 
 How can we ever joy in thy returning 1 
 
 How can we welcome thee with smiles again 1 
 
 Thou wi!t not wake the dead, in silence sleeping, 
 
 Who vanished from us with thy long, bright days ; 
 Thou wilt not call the form the grave is keeping, 
 
 Once more to meet and bless our lingering gaze. 
 So is it best thou friend, returning never! 
 
 Thou, the true-hearted, generous, and kind ! 
 For thee tis best: when kindred spirits sever, 
 
 They only suffer who remain behind. 
 
 Thou art secure from ill. Life s toil is ended; 
 
 Finished, for thee, its feverishness and strife ; 
 Its discords in one harmony are blended ; 
 
 Its seeming gloom is all with brightnes- rife. 
 Oh ! in that glorious land the good inherit, 
 
 Canst thou the anguish of a mourner see, 
 Who finds the only spell that soothes her spirit 
 
 In weaving thus a sad lament for thee ! 
 
 THE MOURNER. 
 
 THOU weepesv for a sister ! In the bloom 
 
 And spring-time of her years to Death a prey, 
 Shrouded from love by the remorseless tomb, 
 
 Taken from all life s joys and griefs away. 
 Tis hard to part with one so sudden called, 
 
 So young, so happy, and so dearly loved ; 
 To see the arrow at our idol hurled, 
 
 And vainly pray the shaft may be removed. 
 
 Young, loving, and beloved ! O cruel Death ! 
 
 Couldst thou not spare the treasure for a while 1 
 There are warm hearts that wait to yield their breath, 
 
 And aged eyes that can no longer smile. 
 W T hy pass the weary pilgrims on their way 
 
 Bowed down with toil, and sighing for relief; 
 To make the blossom in its pride thy prey, 
 
 Whose joyous heart had never tasted grief] 
 
 Sad sister, turn not hopelessly away ; 
 
 Nor longer at the will of Heaven repine ; 
 Fold not thy hands in agony and say, 
 
 " There is no sorrow in the world like mine." 
 Oh ! could my numbers soothe the sinking soul, 
 
 Or one hope waken with the wreath I twine, 
 Soft sounds of sympathy should round thee roll 
 
 Warm from a heart that knows such pain as thine. 
 
 I, too, have been a mourner. Sorrow deep 
 
 Its lava-tide around my pathway rolled ; 
 And sable weeds a hue could never keep, 
 
 Sad as the heart they hid beneath their fold. 
 All joy grew dim before my tearful eye, 
 
 Which but the shadow of t.he grave could see; 
 There was no brightness in the earth or sky, 
 
 There was no sunshine in the world for me. 
 
 Oh ! bitter was the draught from Sorrow s cup, 
 
 And stern the anguish which rny spirit wrung, 
 When I was called to give mine idol up, 
 
 And bend a mourner o er the loved and young 
 And for the lost to weep is still my choice : 
 
 I ask for one whose pilgrimage is o er, 
 And vainly listen for a vanished voice, 
 
 Whose p .easant tones shall greet my ear n-> rr.ory 
 229 
 
230 
 
 MARY A. H. DODD. 
 
 There is a spell around my spirit cast, 
 
 A shadow where the sanbeam smiled before; 
 Tis grief, but all its bitterness is past; 
 
 Tis sorrow, but its nmrmurings are o er. 
 Within my soul, which to the storm was bowed, 
 
 Now the white wing of Peace is folded deep; 
 And I have found, I trust, behind the cloud, 
 
 The blessing promised to the eyes that weep. 
 
 So thou wilt fmd relief. For deepest wo 
 
 A fount of healing in our pathway springs ; 
 Like Lethe s stream, that silver fountain s flow 
 
 A soothing draught unto the sufferer brings. 
 A Father chastened thee ! oh, look to Him, 
 
 And his dear love in all thy trials see ; 
 Look with the eye of faith through shadows dim, 
 
 And he will send the Comforter to thee. 
 
 TO A CRICKET. 
 
 CEASE, cricket! cease thy melancholy song! 
 Its chiming cadence falls upon mine ear 
 With such a saddening influence all day long, 
 I can not bear those mournful notes to hear; 
 Notes that will often start the unbidden tear, 
 And wake the heart to memories of old days, 
 When life knew not a sorrow or a fear : 
 For ever basking in the sunny rays 
 
 Which seem so passing bright to youth s all-trustful 
 
 gaze. 
 
 Once more my steps are stayed at eventide, 
 Beneath the fairest moon that ever shone ; 
 Where the old oak threw out its branches wide 
 Over the low roof of mine early home ; 
 Ere yet my bosom knew a wish to roam 
 From the broad shelter of that ancient tree, 
 Or dreamed of other lands beside our own, 
 Beyond the boundary of that flowery lea ; 
 
 For the green valley there was world enough for me. 
 
 A group are gathered round the household hearth, 
 Where chilly Autumn bids the bright flame play ; 
 And social converse sweet, and childhood s mirth, 
 Swiftly beguile the lengthened eve away : 
 A laughing girl shakes back her tresses gay, 
 With a half-doubtful look and wondering tone 
 
 Hark ! there is music ! do you hear the lay 1 
 Mother, what is it singing in the stone 1 
 some luckless fairy wight imprison d there alone?"... 
 
 Wake not remembrance thus ! for stern the fate 
 That marks my pathway with a weary doom ; 
 And to a heart so worn and desolate, 
 Thy boding voice may add a deeper gloom. 
 Though few the clouds which o er the blue sky 
 A nd green the livery of our forest bowers, [roam, 
 To warn us of a sure decay ye come, 
 In sable guise, trailing the faded flowers, 
 Singing the death-song sad of Summer s waning 
 
 hours ! 
 
 Those emerald robes will change to russet brown, 
 Which Summer over vale and hillside cast; 
 To other skies, that know no wintry frown, 
 Bright birds shall wing their weary way at last; 
 And Autumn s hectic hues which fade so fast 
 
 Will make the dark old woods awhile look gay; 
 But Death must come when the rare show is past: 
 Then cease thy chant, dark prophet of decay ! 
 I can not bear to hear thy melancholy lay ! 
 
 THE DREAMER. 
 
 "A dark, cold calm, whidi nothing now ran break, 
 
 Or warm, or brighten; like that Syrian Like. 
 surface Morn ami Summer shed 
 in vain, for all beneath is dead!" 
 
 Upon wl 
 Their 
 
 HKAKT of mine, why art thou dreaming! 
 
 Dreaming through the weary day, 
 While life s precious hours are wasting, 
 
 Fast and unimproved away 1 
 
 With a world of beauty round me, 
 Lone and sad I dwell apart; 
 
 Changing scenes can bring no pleasure 
 To this wrecked and worn-out heart 
 
 Now I tempt the quiet Ocean 
 W 7 hile the sky is bright above, 
 
 And the sunlight rests around me, 
 Like the beaming smile of Love. 
 
 Or by streamlet softly flowing 
 
 Through the vale I wander now 7 ; 
 
 And the balmy breath of Summer 
 Fans my cheek and cools my brow. 
 
 But as well, to me, might darken 
 Over all the gloom of night ; 
 
 For no quick and sweet sensations 
 Fill my soul with new delight. 
 
 In the grass-grown, silent churchyard, 
 
 With a listless step I rove ; 
 And I shed no tear of sorrow 
 
 By the graves of those I love. 
 
 Could I weep, the spell might vanish 
 Tears would bring my heart relief 
 
 Heart so sealed to all emotion, 
 Dead alike to joy and grief. 
 
 When the storm that shook my spirit 
 Left its mission finished there, 
 
 Then a calm more fearful followed 
 Than the wildness of despair. 
 
 Whence the spell that chills my being 
 Bidding every passion cease, 
 
 Closing every fount of feeling ? 
 Say, my spjrit, is it peace 1 
 
 Wake, oh spell-bound Soul ! awaken 
 
 Bid this sad delusion flee: 
 Such a lengthened dream is fearful : 
 
 Such a peace is not for thee. 
 
 Life is thine, and " life is earnest," 
 Toil and grief thou canst not shun ; 
 
 But be hopeful and believing, 
 Till the prize of faith is won. 
 
 Then the peace thou shalt inherit 
 By the Savior promised free ; 
 
 Peace the world destroyeth never 
 Father, give that peace to me ! 
 
MARY A. H. DODD. 
 
 231 
 
 THE DOVE S VISIT. 
 
 WHY dr> thy pinions their motion cease ? 
 
 Wouklst thou listen to my sighing? 
 Art thou come with the olive-branch of ^eace . 
 
 Thou dove to my window flying ! 
 
 Thy breast is white as a snowv wreath 
 
 And thine eye is softly beaming; 
 Dost thou bear a message thy win? beneath, 
 
 For maid of her lover dreaming? 
 
 Has thy flight been far ? thy plumage gleams, 
 
 Unsoi ed and unworn with using : 
 Thou art mute, fair dove, but thy soft eye seems 
 
 To answer my id e musing. 
 
 Oh, thou, thou hast been where I fain would be, 
 Where my th oughts are ever straying, 
 
 Where the balmiest breeze of spring blows free, 
 With the early blossoms playing ! 
 
 Thou hast rested on the casement white, 
 Which the lilac-boughs are shading, 
 
 Where I greeted the morning s rosy light, 
 Or looked on the sunset fading. 
 
 Tell me, thou bird with the snowy breast! 
 
 Of a spot beloved for ever, 
 Of the pleasant walks which my steps have pressed, 
 
 Where now they may linger never. 
 
 With thee would I gladly hasten there, 
 
 If wings to my wish were granted, [care, 
 
 To tlie flowers that bloomed neath my mother s 
 And the trees my father planted. 
 
 For dearer the simplest blossom there, 
 Its sweets to the morning throwing, 
 
 Than the choicest flower that perfumes the air, 
 In a kingly garden growing. 
 
 Vainly I strive to restrain the tear, 
 The grief like a spring-tide swelling, 
 
 When my thoughts return to the home so dear 
 That is now a stranger s dwelling. 
 
 And while I turn me away to weep, 
 
 A host of memories waken, 
 Like the circle spreading upon the deep, 
 
 Or dropped from the foliage shaken 
 
 Shou d fate, where affection clings so strong, 
 
 A heart from its Eden banish 7 
 Should it surfer a scene to charm so long, 
 
 And then like a vision vanish 1 
 
 I read reproach in that glance of thine, 
 
 For words of repining spoken ; 
 When my brow with the olive thou wouldst twine, 
 
 I reject the peaceful token. 
 
 Oh, how can a heart be still so weak, 
 
 Though ever for strength beseeching, 
 That from each event woald some lesson seek, 
 
 And scorn not the humblest teaching ! 
 Waiting, and trustful like thee, sweet dove, 
 
 To the watchful care of Heaven 
 With unshaken faith in a Father s love 
 
 Be the future wholly given. 
 I will bid my heart s vain yearnings cease ; 
 
 I will hush this useless sighing ; 
 
 Thy visit hath brought to my spirit peace, 
 Thou dove to my win-low flying ! 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 THE sunset hues are fading fast 
 From the fair western sky away, 
 
 And floating clouds which gathered round 
 Have vanished with their colors gay. 
 
 All, save one streak that lingers there, 
 
 Retaining still a rosy hue, 
 Bright at the verge, but pale above, 
 
 Soft blending with celestial blue. 
 
 So lovely were those brilliant clouds 
 
 Which floated in the evening air, 
 It well might seem that angel-forms 
 
 Such fabrics for their robes would wear. 
 But, like the dreams that Fancy weaves, 
 
 Their beauty quickly passed away ; 
 And where their gorgeous tints were seen, 
 
 Soft twilight reigns with shadows gray. 
 
 One star, one bright and quiet star, 
 
 Kindles its steady light above, 
 Over the hushed and resting earth 
 
 Still watching like the eye of Love. 
 The birds that woke such joyous strains, 
 
 With folded pinions seek repose; 
 All, save the minstrel sad who sings 
 
 His plaintive love-lay to the rose. 
 
 The weary bees have reached the hive. 
 
 Rejoicing over labor done ; 
 And blossoms close their fragrant cups, 
 
 Which opened to the morning sun. 
 
 The winds are hushed that music made 
 
 The leafy-laden boughs between, 
 And scarce the lightest zephyr s breath 
 
 IVow dallies with the foliage green. 
 This is the hour so loved by all 
 
 Whose thoughts are lingering with the past, 
 When scenes and forms to memory dear 
 
 Gather around us dim and fast. 
 Childhood s bright days, youth s short romance, 
 
 And manhood s dreams of power and fame, 
 Again come back to cheat the heart 
 
 So changed by time, yet still the same. 
 The mingling tones of voices gone 
 
 Are breathing round us sweet and low, 
 And eyes are beaming once again, 
 
 That smiled upon us long ago. 
 We gaze upon those loving eyes, 
 
 Which never coldly turn away ; 
 We clasp the hand and press the lip 
 
 Of forms that but in memory stay. 
 We feel the influence of a spell, 
 
 And wake to smiles or melt to tears, 
 As pass before the dreaming eye 
 
 The light and shade of other years. 
 Oh, pleasant is the dewy morn ! 
 
 And golden noon is fair to see 
 But sweeter far the closing day, 
 
 Dearer the twilight hour to me. 
 
ANNE C. BOTTA. 
 
 MRS. ANNE CHARLOTTE BOTTA is a native 
 of Bennington, in Vermont. Her mother is 
 descended from the Fays and Robinsons, 
 conspicuous in the early history of that state, 
 and is a daughter of Colonel Gray, of the 
 Connecticut line in the Revolutionary army. 
 Her lather was one of the United Irishmen, 
 and in that celebrated body there were few 
 more heroic and constant. He was but six 
 teen when he joined in the rebellion of 98, 
 ard soon after his arrest, on account of his 
 youth and chivalrous character, he was of 
 fered liberty and a commission in the British 
 army if he would take the oath of allegiance 
 to the government. He refused, and -after 
 being four years a state prisoner, was, at the 
 age of twenty, banished for life. With Em 
 met, McNeven, and others, he came to Amer 
 ica, where he married ; and while his daugh 
 ter was a child, he died ii>Cuba, whither he 
 had gone in search qf health. 
 
 Mrs. Botta was educated at a popular 
 female seminary in Albany, where her class 
 compositions attracted much attention by a 
 strength and earnestness unusual in perform 
 ances of this description. She was a loving 
 reader of Childe Harold, and caught the tone 
 of this immortal poem, which is echoed in 
 several of her earlier pieces, that still have 
 sufficient individuality to justify the expec 
 tations then formed of her rnaturer abilities. 
 She soon outgrew imitation, and her occa 
 sional contributions to literary journals be 
 came more and more the voices of her own 
 life and nature. 
 
 After leaving school, Mrs. Botta passed 
 some time in Providence ; and her knowl 
 edge and tast in literature are illustrated in 
 a volume which she published in that city, 
 in 1841, under the title of The Rhode-Island 
 Book a selection of prose ard verse from 
 the writers of that state, including several 
 fine poems of her own. For five or six years 
 she has resided in New York, where her 
 house is known for the wo kly assemblies 
 there of persons ?onnected vith literature 
 
 and the arts. 1 have sometimes attended 
 these agreeable parties, and have met at 
 them probably the larger number of the liv 
 ing poets whose works are reviewed in this 
 volume, with many distinguished men of 
 letters, painters, sculptors, singers, and am 
 ateurs, among whom our author is held in as 
 much esteem for her amiable social quali 
 ties, as respect for her intellectual accom 
 plishments. 
 
 The poems of Mrs. Botta are marked by 
 depth of feeling and grace of expression. 
 They are the natural and generally unpre 
 meditated effusions of a nature extremely 
 sensitive, but made strong by experience and 
 knowledge, and elevated into a divine repose 
 by the ever active sense of beauty. Though 
 for the most part very complete, they are 
 short, and in many cases may be regarded as 
 improvisations upon the occasions by which 
 they were suggested. We have nothing in 
 them that may be regarded as a fair illustra 
 tion of her powers. 
 
 The prose writings of Mrs. Botta are 
 graceful, elegant, and full of fine reflection. 
 They evince a genial and hopeful but not 
 joyous spirit a waiting for the fulure rather 
 than a satisfaction with the present. She 
 has a large acquaintance with literature, and 
 her criticisms, scattered through many des 
 ultory compositions, are discriminating, and 
 illustrated, from a wide observation and a 
 ready fancy, with uniform judgment and taste. 
 The long chapter entitled Leaves from the 
 Diary of a Reel use, in The Gift for MDCCCXLV, 
 is characteristic of her manner, while for a 
 brief period it admits us to the contemplation 
 of her life. 
 
 A collection of the Poems of Mrs. Botta, 
 with engravings after original designs by her 
 friends Durand,Huntington,Cheney,Darley, 
 Brown, Cushman, Rossiter, Rothermel, and 
 Winner, appeared in 1848. It is a beautiful 
 book of art, and so demonstrative of her po 
 etical abilities that it will secure her a posi 
 tion she has not before occupied as an author 
 
ANNE C. BOTTA. 
 
 233 
 
 THE IDEAL. 
 
 " La vie est un sommeil 1 amour en eet la reve." 
 
 A SAD, sweet dream ! It fell upon my soul 
 When song and thought first woke their echoes 
 
 Swaying my spirit to its wild control, [there, 
 
 And with the shadow of a fond despair, 
 
 Darkening the fountain of my young life s stream. 
 
 It haunts me still, and yet I know tis but a dream. 
 
 Whence art thou, shadowy presence, that canst hide 
 From my charmed sight the glorious things oi 
 
 A mirage o er life s desert dost thou glide 1 [earth . 
 Or with those g immerings of a former birth, 
 
 A " trailing cloud of glory," hast thou come [home 7 
 
 From some bright world afar, our unremembered 
 
 I know thou dwell st not in this dull, cold Real, 
 1 know thy home is in some brighter sphere ; 
 
 I know I shall not meet thee, my Ideal, 
 In the dark wanderings that await me here : 
 
 Why comes thy gentle image then, to me, 
 
 Wasting my night of life in one long dream of thee ] 
 
 The city s peopled solitude, the glare 
 
 Of festal halls, moonlight, and music s tone, 
 All breathe the sad refrain thou are not there ! 
 
 And even with Nature I am still alone : 
 With joy I see her summer bloom depart ; 
 I love drear winter s reign t is winter in my heart. 
 And if I sigh upon my brow to see 
 
 The deep ning shadow of Time s restless wing, 
 T is for the youth I might not give to thee, 
 
 The vanished brightness of my first sweet spring; 
 That I might give thee not the joyous form 
 Unworn by tears and cares, unblighted by the storm. 
 
 And when the hearts I should be proud to win, 
 Breathe, in those tones that woman holds so dear, 
 
 Words of impassioned homage unto mine, 
 Coldly and harsh they fall upon my ear ; 
 
 And as I listen to the fervent vow, 
 
 My weary heart replies, Alas ! it is not thou." 
 
 And when the thoughts within my spirit glow, 
 
 That would outpour themselves in words of fire, 
 If some kind influence bade the music flow, 
 
 Like that which woke the notes of Memnon s lyre, 
 Thou, sunlight of my life, wak st not the lay, 
 And song within my heart, unuttered, dies away. 
 Depart, oh shadow ! fatal dream, depart ! 
 
 Go! I conjure thee leave me this poor life, 
 And I will meet with firm, heroic heart, 
 
 Its threat ning storms and its tumultuous strife, 
 And with the poet-seer will see thee stand 
 To welcome my approach to thine own spirit-land. 
 
 THE IDEAL FOUND. 
 
 I VE met thee, whom I dared not hope to meet, 
 Save in th enchanted land of my day dreams : 
 
 Yes, in this common world, this waking state, 
 Thy living presence on my vision beams 
 
 Life s dream embodied in reality ! 
 
 And in thine eyes I read indifference to me ! 
 
 Yes. in those star-like eyes I read my fate, 
 My horoscope is written in their gaze ; 
 
 My " house of life" henceforth is desolate : 
 But the dark aspect my firm heart surveys, 
 
 Nor faints nor falters even for thy sake : [break ! 
 
 T is calm and nerved and strong : no, no, it shall not 
 
 For I am of that mood that will defy 
 That does not cower before the gathering storm ; 
 
 That face to face will meet its destiny, 
 And undismayed confront its darkest form. 
 
 Wild energies awaken in this strife, 
 
 This conflict of the soul with the grim phantom Life. 
 
 But ah ! if thou hadst loved me had I been 
 
 All to thy dreams that to mine own thou art 
 Had those dark eyes beamed eloquent on mine, 
 
 Pressed for one moment to that noble heart 
 In the full consciousness of faith unspoken, 
 Life could have given no more then had my proud 
 
 heart broken ! 
 The Alpine glacier from its height may mock 
 
 The clouds and lightnings of the winter skv, 
 And from the tempest and the thunder s shock 
 
 Gather new strength to lift its summit high ; 
 But kissed by sunbeams of the summer day, 
 It bows its icy crest and weeps itself away. 
 
 Thou know st the fable of the Grecian maid 
 
 W^ooed by the veiled immortal from the skies, 
 How in his full perfections, once she prayed, 
 
 That he would stand before her longing eyes, 
 And how that brightness, too intense to bless, [cess. 
 Consumed her o erwrought heart with its divine ex- 
 To me there is a meaning in the tale. 
 
 I have not prayed to meet thee : I can brook 
 That thou shouldst wear tr me that icy veil ; 
 
 I can give back thy cold ai.d careless look : 
 Yet shrined within my heart, still thou shalt seem 
 W 7 hat there thou ever wert, a beautiful, brightdream! 
 
 THE IMAGE BROKEN. 
 
 TWAS but a dream, a fond and foolish Jream 
 
 The calenture of a delirious brain, 
 Whose fever-thirst creates the rushing stream. 
 
 Now to the actual I awake again ; 
 The vision, to my gaze one moment granted, 
 Fades in its light away and leaves me disenchanted 
 
 The image that my glowing fancy wrought, 
 Now to the dust with ruthless hand I cast, 
 
 Thus I renounce the worship that I sought, 
 Of my own idol the iconoclast. 
 
 The echo of Eureka ! I have found !" 
 
 Falls back upon my heart a vain and empty sound 
 
 Oh, disembodied being of my mind, 
 So wildly loved, so fervently adored ! 
 
 In whom all high and glorious gifts I shrined, 
 And my heart s incense on the altar poured 
 
 Now do I know that, clad in mortal guise, 
 
 Ne er on this earth wilt thou upon my vision risn 
 
 That only in the vague, cold realm of Thought 
 Shall I meet thee whom here I seek in vain 
 
 And like Egyptian Isis, when she sought 
 The scattered fragments of Osiris slain. 
 
234 
 
 AXXE C. BOTTA. 
 
 Now do I know that henceforth I shall find 
 But fragments of thy soul within earth s clay en 
 shrined. 
 Thou whom I have not seen and shall not see 
 
 Till the sad drama of this life he o er! 
 Yet do I not renounce my faith in thee : 
 
 Thou still art mine I thine for evermore ; 
 And this hi lief shall lie the funeral pyre 
 Of a!l K i ss noble love, of all less high desire. 
 
 Here, like the Hindoo widow, I will bring 
 Hope, youth, and all that woman prizes most 
 
 The glow of summer and the bloom of spring, 
 And on thine altar lay the holocaust: 
 
 And, in my faith exulting, I will see 
 
 The sacrifice consume I consecrate to thee. 
 
 To Love s sweet tones my heart shall never thrill ; 
 
 Nor, as the tardy years their circles roll, 
 Shall they the ardor of its pulses chill. 
 
 Thus will I live in widowhood of soul, 
 Until, at last, my lingering exile o er, 
 Upon some lovelier star, too blest, we meet once more. 
 Oh. tell me not that now indeed I dream ; 
 
 That these aspirings mocked at last will be ! 
 Gleams o f a higher life to me they seem 
 
 A sacred pledge of immortality. 
 Tell not the yearning heart it shall not find : [kind ! 
 Love, thou art too strong ! O God, thou art too 
 
 THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 
 
 THETIS are countless fields the green earth o er 
 
 Where the verdant turf has been dyed with gore ; 
 
 Where hostile ranks, in their grim array, 
 
 With the battle s smoke have obscured the day; 
 
 Where hate was stamped on each rigid face, 
 
 As foe met foe in the death embrace; 
 
 Whore the groans of the wounded and dying rose, 
 
 Till the heart of the listener with horror froze, 
 
 And the wide expanse of the crimsoned plain 
 
 Was piled with its heaps of uncounted slain: 
 
 But a fiercer combat, a deadlier strife, 
 
 Ts that which is waged in the battle of life. 
 
 The hero that wars on the tented field, 
 With his shining sword and his burnished shield, 
 Goes not alone with his faithful brand ; 
 Friends and comrades around him stand, 
 The trumpets sound and the war-steeds neigh 
 To join in the shock of the coming fray 
 And he flies to the onset, he charges the foe, 
 Where the bayonets gleam and the red tides flow ; 
 And be bears his part in the conflict dire 
 With an arm all nerve and a heart all fire. 
 What though he fall at the battle s close, 
 In the flush of thr victory won he goes, 
 With martial music and waving plume, 
 From a field of fame to a laurelled tomb. 
 But the hero who wars in the battle of life, 
 Must st ind alone in the fearful strife ; 
 Alone in his weakness or strength must go. 
 Hero or craven, to meet the fo? : 
 He may not fly on that fated field 
 ffe must win or lose, he must conquer or yield. 
 
 Warrior, who comest to this battle now 
 
 With a careless step and a thoughtless brow, 
 As if the field were already won 
 Pause and gird all thine armor on ; 
 Myriads have come to this battle ground 
 With a valiant arm and a name renowned, 
 And have fallen vanquished to rise no more, 
 Ere the sun was set or the day half o er. 
 Dost thou bring with thee hither a dauntless will, 
 An ardent soul that no blast can chill ? 
 Thy shield of Faith hast thou tried and proved 
 Canst thou say to the mountain, " Be thou moved 1" 
 In thy hand does the sword of Truth flame bright? 
 Is thy banner emblazoned, " For God and the riu;ht ]" 
 In the mia;ht of prayer dost thou strive and plead 1 
 Never had warrior greater need ! 
 Unseen foes in thy pathway hide ; 
 Thou art encompassed on every side. 
 There Pleasure waits with her siren train, 
 Her poison flowers and her hidden chain ; 
 Hope with hei Dead-sea fruits is there ; 
 Sin is spreading her gilded snare ; 
 Flattery counts with her hollow smiles, 
 Passion ^:th silvery tone beguiles ; 
 Love anJ Friendship their charmed spells weave : 
 Trust not too deeply they may deceive ! 
 Disease with her ruthless hand would smite, 
 And Care spread o er thee a wiiucr::^ blight ; 
 Hate and Envy with visage black, 
 And the serpent Slander, are on thy track. 
 Guilt and Fa sehood, Remorse and Pride, 
 Doubt and Despair, in thy pathway glide ; 
 Haggard Want in her demon joy 
 Waits to degrade thee and then destroy ; 
 Palsied Age in the distance lies, 
 And watches his victim with ray less eyes; 
 And Death the insatiate is hovering near, 
 To snatch from thy grasp all thou boldest dear. 
 No skill may avail and no ambush hide : 
 In the open field must the champion bide, 
 And face to face and hand to hand 
 Alone in his valor confront that band. 
 In war with these phantoms that gird him round, 
 No limbs dissevered may strew the ground ; 
 No blood may flow, and no mortal ear 
 The groans of the wounded heart may hear, 
 As it struggles and writhes in their dread control, 
 As the iron enters the riven soul : 
 But the youthful form grows wasted and weak, 
 And sunken and wan is the rounded cheek ; 
 The brow is furrowed, but not with years ; 
 The eye is dimmed with its secret tears, 
 And streaked with white is the raven hair 
 These are the tokens of conflict there. 
 
 The battle is over : the hero goes, 
 Scarred and worn, to his last repose ,- 
 He has won the day, he has conquered Doom, 
 He has sunk unknown to his nameless tomb ; 
 For the victor s glory no voices plead ; 
 Fame has no echo and earth no meed; 
 But the guardian angels are hovering near: 
 They have watched unseen o er the conflict here, 
 And they bear him now on their wings away 
 To a realm of peace, to a cloudless day. 
 Ended now is the earthly strife, 
 And his brow is crowned with the crown of life! 
 
AXNE C. BOTTA. 
 
 235 
 
 THOUGHTS IN A LIBRARY. 
 
 SPF.AK low tread softly through these halls; 
 
 tlere Genius lives enshrined ; 
 Here reign, in silent majesty, 
 
 The monarchs of the mind. 
 
 A mighty spirit-host they come, 
 
 From every age and clime ; 
 Above the buried wrecks of years, 
 
 They breast ihe tide of Time. 
 
 And in their presence-chamber here 
 
 They hold their regal state, 
 And round them throng a noble train, 
 
 The gifted and the great. 
 Oh, child of Earth ! when round thy path 
 
 The storms of life arise, 
 And when thy brothers pass thee by 
 
 With stern, unloving eyes 
 
 Here shall the poets chant for thee 
 
 Their sweetest, loftiest lays; 
 And prophets wait to guide thy steps 
 
 In wisdom s pleasant ways. 
 
 Come, with these God-anointed kings 
 
 Be thou companion here; 
 And in the mighty realm of mind 
 
 Thou shall go forth a peer ! 
 
 HAGAR. 
 
 UXTRODDKX, drear, and lone, 
 Stretched many a league away, 
 
 Beneath a burning, noonday sun, 
 The Syrian desert lay. 
 
 The scorching rays that beat 
 
 Upon that herbless plain, 
 The dazzling sands, with fiercer heat, 
 
 Reflected back again. 
 
 O er that dry ocean strayed 
 No wandering breath of air, 
 
 No palm-trees cast their cooling shade, 
 No water murmured there. 
 
 And thither, bowed with shame, 
 Spurned from her master s side, 
 
 The dark-browed child of Egypt came 
 Her wo and shame to hide. 
 
 Drooping and travel-worn, 
 
 The boy upon her hung, 
 "Who from his father s tent that morn 
 
 Like a gazelle had sprung. 
 
 His ebbing breath failed fast, 
 Glazed was his flashing eye ; 
 
 And in that fearful, desert waste, 
 She laid him down to die. 
 
 But when, in wild despair, 
 * She left him to his lot, 
 A. voice that filled that breathless air 
 Said, " Hagar, fear thou not." 
 
 Then o er the hot sands flowed 
 
 A cooling, crystal stream, 
 And angels left their high abode 
 
 And ministered to them-. 
 
 Oft, when drear wastes surround 
 
 My faltering footsteps here, 
 I ve thought I, too, heard that blest sound 
 
 Of " Wanderer, do not fear." 
 
 And then, to light my path 
 
 On through the evil land, 
 Have the twin angels, Hope and Faith, 
 
 W T aIked with me, hand to hand. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF CHAXXIXG. 
 
 " The prophets, do they live for ever?" Zecfi. i. a. 
 
 THOSE spirits God ordained, 
 To stand the watchmen on the outer wall, 
 Upon whose souls the beams of truth first fall, 
 
 They who reveal the ideal, the unattained, 
 And to their age, in stirring tones and high, 
 Speak out for God, truth, man, and liberty 
 
 Such prophets, do they die 1 
 
 When dust to dust returns, 
 And the freed spirit seeks again its God 
 To those with whom the blessed ones have trod, 
 
 Are they then lost 1 No ! still their spirit burns 
 And quickens in the race ; the life they give, 
 Humanity receives, and they survive 
 
 While hope and virtue live. 
 
 The landmarks of their age. 
 High-priests, kings of the realm of mind, are they 
 A realm unbounded as posterity ; 
 
 The hopeful future is their heritage ; 
 Their words of truth, of love, and faith sublime, 
 To a dark world of doubt, despair, and crime, 
 
 Reecho through all time. 
 
 Such kindling words are thine, 
 Thou, o er whose tomb the requiem soundeth still, 
 Thou from whose lips the silvery tones yet thrill 
 
 In many a bosom, waking life divine; 
 And since thy Master to the world gave token 
 That for Love s faith the creed of Fear was broken, 
 
 None higher have been spoken. 
 
 Thy reverent eye could see, 
 Though sinful, weak, and wedded to the clod, 
 The angel-soul still as the child of God, 
 
 Heir of his love, born to high destiny : 
 Not for thy country, creed, or sect, speakest thou, 
 But him who bears God s image on his brow, 
 
 Thy brother, high or low. 
 
 Great teachers formed thy youth, 
 As thou didst stand upon triy native shore, 
 In the calm sunshine, in the ocean s roar; 
 
 Nature and God spoke with thee, and the truth, 
 That o er thy spirit then in radiance streamed, 
 And in thy life so calmly, brightly beamed, 
 
 Shall still shine on undirnmed. 
 
 Ages agone, like thee 
 
 The famed Greek with kindling aspect stood, 
 And blent his eloquence witli wind and flood, 
 
 By the blue waters of the JEgean sea ; 
 But he heard not their everlasting hymn : 
 His lofty soul with Error s cloud was dim, 
 
 And thy great teachers spake not unto him 
 
AXXE C. BOTTA. 
 
 A THOUGHT BY THE SEASHORE. 
 
 BURY me by the sea. 
 
 When on my heart the hand of Death is prest, 
 If the soul lingereth ere she join the blest, 
 
 And haunts awhile her clay, 
 Then mid the forest shades I would not lie, 
 For the green leaves like me would droop and die. 
 
 Nor mid the homes of men, 
 The haunts of busy life, would I be laid : 
 There ever was I lone, and my vexed shade 
 
 Would sleep unquiet then; 
 The surging tide of life might overwhelm 
 The shadowy boundaries of the silent realm. 
 
 No sculptured marble pile 
 To bear my name be reared upon my breast 
 Beneath its weight my free sou! would not rest; 
 
 But let the blue sky smile, 
 The changeless stars look lovingly on me, 
 And let me sleep beside this sounding sea : 
 
 This ever-beating heart 
 
 Of the great Universe ! here would the soul 
 Plume her soiled pinions for the final goal, 
 
 Ere she shou d thence depart 
 Here wou d she fit her for the high abode 
 Here by the sea, she wou d be nearer God. 
 
 I feel his presence now : 
 Thou mightiest of his vassals, as I stand 
 And watch beside thee on the sparkling sand, 
 
 Thy crested billows bow ; 
 
 And as thy solemn chant swells through the air, 
 My spirit, awed, joins in thy ceaseless prayer. 
 
 Life s fitful fever o er, 
 Here then would I repose, majestic sea ; 
 E en now faint glimpses of eternity 
 
 Come o er me on thy shore : 
 My thoughts from thee to highest themes are given, 
 As thy deep distant blue is lost in Heaven. 
 
 THE DUMB CREATION. 
 
 DEAL kindly with those speechless ones, 
 
 That throng our gladsome earth ; 
 Say not the bounteous gift of life 
 
 Alone is nothing worth. 
 What though with mournful memories 
 
 They sigh not for the past 1 
 What though their ever joyous Now 
 
 No future overcast 1 
 No aspirations fill their breast 
 
 With longings undefined ; 
 They live, they love, and they are blest, 
 
 For what they seek they find. 
 They see no mystery in the stars, 
 
 No wonder in the plain, 
 And Life s enigma wakes in them 
 
 No questions dark and vain. 
 To them earth is a final home, 
 
 A bright and blest abode ; 
 Their lives unconsciously flow on 
 
 In harmony with God. 
 To this fair world our human hearts 
 
 Their hopes and longings bring, 
 
 And o er its beauty and its bloom 
 Their own dark shadows fling. 
 
 Between the future and the past 
 
 In wild unrest we stand, 
 And ever as our feet advance, 
 
 Retreats the promised land. 
 
 And though Love, Fame, and Wealth and Power, 
 
 Bind in their gilded band, 
 We pine to grasp the unattained 
 
 The something still beyond. 
 
 And, beating on their prison bars, 
 
 Our spirits ask more room, 
 And with unanswered questionings, 
 
 They pierce beyond the tomb. 
 
 Then say thou not, oh, doubtful heart ! 
 
 There is no life to come : 
 That in some tearless, cloudless land, 
 
 Thou shalt not find thy home. 
 
 THE WOUNDED VULTURE. 
 
 A KIXGLY vulture sat alone, 
 
 Lord of the ruin round, 
 Where Egypt s ancient monuments 
 
 Upon the desert frowned. 
 A hunter s eager eye had marked 
 
 The form of that proud bird, 
 And through the voiceless solitude 
 
 His ringing shot was heard. 
 It rent that vulture s plumed breast, 
 
 Aimed with unerring hand, 
 And his life-blood gushed warm and red 
 
 Upon the yellow sand. 
 No struggle marked the deadly wound, 
 
 He gave no piercing cry, 
 But calmly spread his giant wings, 
 
 And sought the upper sky. 
 In vain with swift pursuing shot 
 
 The hunter seeks his prey, 
 Circling and circling upward still 
 
 On his majestic way. 
 Up to the blue empyrean 
 
 He wings his steady flight, 
 Till his receding form is lost 
 
 In the full flood of light. 
 Oh, wounded heart ! oh, suffering soul ! 
 
 Sit not with folded wing, 
 Where broken dreams and ruined hopes 
 
 Their mournful shadows fling. 
 Outspread thy pinions like that bird, 
 
 Take thou the path sublime, 
 Beyong the flying shafts of Fate, 
 
 Beyond the wounds of Time. 
 Mount upward ! brave the clouds and storms? 
 
 Above life s desert plain 
 There is a calmer, purer air, 
 
 A heaven thou, too, may st gain. 
 And as that dim, ascending form 
 
 Was lost in day s broad light, 
 So shall thine earthly sorrrows fade, 
 
 Lost in the Infinite. 
 
ANNE C. BOTTA. 
 
 EROS. 
 
 As when, untaught and blind, 
 To the mute stone the pagan bows his knee, 
 Spirit of Love, phantom of my own mind, 
 
 So have I worshipped thee ! 
 
 When first a laughing child, 
 I gazed on Nature with a wondering eye, 
 I learned of her, in calm and tempest wild, 
 
 This thirst for sympathy. 
 
 I saw the flowers appear, 
 And spread their petals out to meet the sun, 
 The dewdrops on their glistening leaves draw near 
 
 And mingle into one. 
 
 And if a harp was stirred 
 By the soft pulses of some wandering sound, 
 Attuned to the same key, then I have heard 
 
 Its chords untouched respond. 
 
 Fast through the vaulted sky, 
 Giving no sound or light, when storms were loud, 
 I saw the electric cloud in silence fly, 
 
 Seeking its sister cloud. 
 
 I saw the winds, and sea, 
 And all the hosts of heaven in bright array, 
 Governed by this sweet law of sympathy, 
 
 Roll on their destined way. 
 
 And then my spirit pined, 
 And, like the sea-shell for its parent sea, 
 Moaned for those kindred souls it could not find, 
 
 And panted to be free. 
 
 And then came wild Despair, 
 And laid her palsying hand upon my soul, 
 And her dread ministers were with her there 
 
 The dagger and the bowl- 
 
 O God of life and light, 
 
 Thou who didst stay my hand in that dread hour, 
 Thou who didst save me in that fearful night 
 
 Of maddening Passion s power 
 
 Before thv throne I bow : 
 
 I tear my worshipped idols from their shrine;* 
 I give to thee, though bruised and aching now, 
 
 This heart oh ! make it thine. 
 
 I ve sought to fill in vain 
 Its lonely, silent depths with human love : 
 Help me to cast away each earthly chain, 
 
 And rise to thee above. 
 
 TO , IX OBSCURITY. 
 
 IN- full-orbed splendor now the queen of Night 
 Among the stars walks in her pride of place, 
 
 And now again we miss that flood of light 
 That overflowed the azure fields of space. 
 
 But though her brightness meets no more the gaze, 
 As in her wonted orbit she declines, 
 
 i r et not extinguished are her silver rays 
 She shines in shadow, but not less she shines. 
 
 Soon will she rise again upon the sight, 
 
 Passing the darkened shape that bids her wane ; 
 
 Then shall we see her, in unclouded light, 
 T^k ; her own place among the stirs again. 
 
 ON A PICTURE OF HARVEY BIRCH. 
 
 FROM COOPER S "STY." 
 
 I KNOW not if thy noble worth 
 
 My country s annals claim, 
 For in her brief, bright history 
 
 I have not read thy name. 
 
 I know not if thou e er didst live, 
 
 Save in the vivid thought 
 Of him who chronicled thy life, . 
 
 With silent suffering fraught. 
 
 Yet in thy history I see 
 
 Full many a great soul s lot, 
 Who joins that martyr-army s ranks, 
 
 That the world knoweth not ; 
 
 Who can not weep " melodious tears" 
 
 For fame or sympathy, 
 But who in silence bear their doom 
 
 To suffer and to die ; 
 
 For whom no poet s harp is struck, 
 
 No laurel wreath is twined ; 
 Who pass unheard, unknown away, 
 
 And leave no trace behind ; 
 
 Who, but for their unwavering trust 
 
 In Justice, Truth, and God. 
 Would faint upon their weary way, 
 
 And perish by the road. 
 
 Truth, Justice, God ! oh, mighty faith, 
 
 To bear us up unharmed ; 
 The gates of hell may not prevail 
 
 Against a soul so armed. 
 
 TO 
 
 -, WITH FLOWERS. 
 
 Go, ye sweet messengers, 
 
 To that dim-lighted room, 
 Where lettered wisdom from the walls 
 Sheds a delightful gloom ; 
 
 Where sits in thought profound 
 
 One in the noon of life, 
 Whose flashing eye and fevered brovr 
 Tell of the inward strife ; 
 
 Who in those wells of lore 
 
 Seeks for the pearls of truth, 
 And to Ambition s fever dream 
 Gives his repose and youth. 
 
 To him, sweet ministers, 
 
 Ye shall a lesson teach ; 
 Go in your fleeting loveliness, 
 More eloquent than speech. 
 
 Tell him in laurel wreaths 
 
 No perfume e er is found, 
 And that upon a crown of thorns 
 Those leaves are ever bound. 
 
 Thoughts fresh as your own hues 
 
 Bear ye to that abode 
 Speak of the sunshine and the sky, 
 Of Nature and of God. 
 
ANNE C. BOTTA. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 I. LOVE. 
 
 Go forth in life, oh, friend ! not seeking love, 
 A mendicant that with imploring eye 
 And outstretched hand asks of the passers-by 
 
 The alms his strong necessities may move. 
 
 For such poor love, to pity near allied, 
 Thy generous spirit may not stoop and wait, 
 
 A suppliant whose prayer may be denied 
 Like a spurned beggar s at a palace-gate : 
 
 But thy heart s affluence lavish uncontrolled 
 1 he largess of thy love give full and free, 
 
 As monarchs in their progress scatter gold ; 
 And be thy Iv.-art like the exhaust ess sea, 
 
 That must its wealth of c!oud and dew.bestow, 
 
 Though tributary streams or ebb or flow. 
 
 II. THE LAKE AND STAR. 
 
 THE mountain lake, o ershadowed by the hills, 
 May still gaze heavenward on the evening star 
 
 Whose distant light its dark recesses fills, 
 Though boundless distance must divide them far; 
 
 Still may the lake the star s bright image bear, 
 Sti.I may the star from its b ue ether dome 
 Shower down its silver beams across the gloom, 
 
 And light the wave that wanders darkly there. 
 
 Star of my life ! thus do I turn to thee 
 Amid the shadows that above me roll ; 
 
 Thus from thy distant sphere thou shinest on me, 
 Thus does thine image float upon my soul, 
 
 Through the wide space that must our lives dissever 
 
 Far as the lake and star, ah me, for ever ! 
 
 III. A II KM EM BR AST E. 
 
 Ps LOHT closes round me, and wild threatening forms 
 Clasp me with icy arms and chain me down, 
 And bind upon my brow a cypress crown 
 Dewy with tears, and Heaven frowns dark with 
 But the one glorious memory of thee [storms : 
 Rises upon my path to guide and bless, 
 The bright Shekinah of the wilderness 
 The po ar star upon a trackless soa, 
 The beaming Pharos of the unreached shore 
 It spans the clouds that gather o er my way, 
 The rainbow of my life s tempestuous day. 
 Oh, bless d thought ! stay with me evermore, 
 And shed thy lustrous beams where midnight glooms, 
 As fragatit lamps burned in the ancient tombs. 
 
 IV. THE SUN AND STREAM. 
 
 As some dark stream within a. cavern s breast 
 Flows murmuring, moaning for the distant sun, 
 
 So ere I met thee, murmuring its unrest, 
 Did my life s current coldly, darkly run. 
 
 And as that stream beneath the sun s full gaze 
 Its separate course and life no more maintains, 
 But now absorbed, transfused far o er the plains, 
 
 It floats ethereulized in those warm rays, 
 So in the sunlight of thy fervid love 
 
 My heart, so long to earth s dark channels given, 
 Now soars all pain, all i 1, all doubt above, 
 
 And breathes the ether of the upper heaven : 
 
 So tliy hi_!;h spirit holds arid governs mine, 
 
 So is my lift, my being lost in thine , 
 
 V. TO . 
 
 AH no ! my love knows no vain jealousy : 
 The rose that blooms and lives but in the sun, 
 Asks not what other flowers he shines upon, 
 
 If he but shine on her. Enough for me 
 Thus in thy light to dwell, and thus to share 
 The sunshine of thy smile with all things fair 
 
 I know thou rt vowed to Beauty, not to Love : 
 I would not stay thy footsteps from one shrine, 
 Nor would I bind thee by a sigh to mine. 
 
 For me I have no lingering wish to rove ; 
 For though I worship all things fair, like thee, 
 Of outward grace, of soul-nobility, 
 
 Happier than thou, I find them all in one, 
 
 And I would worship at thy shrine alone ! 
 
 VI. THE HONEY-BEE. 
 
 THE honey-bee that wanders a l day long 
 The field, the woodland, and the garden o er, 
 To g ither in his fragrant winter store, 
 Humming in calm content his quiet song, 
 Seeks not alone the rose s glowing breast, 
 The lily s dainty cup, the violet s lips 
 But from all rank and noxious weeds he sips 
 The single drop of sweetness closely prest 
 Within the poison chalice. Thus if we 
 Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet 
 In all the varied human flowers we meet, 
 In the wide garden of humanitv, 
 And, like the bee, if home the spoil we bear, 
 Hived in our hearts it turns the nectar there. 
 
 VII. ASPIRATION. 
 
 THE planted seed, consigned to common earth, 
 Disdains to moulder with the baser clay, 
 But rises up to meet the light of day, 
 Spreads all its leaves, and flowers, and tendrils forth 
 
 And, bathed and ripened in the genial ray, 
 Pours out its perfume on the wandering gales, 
 Till in that fragrant breath its life exhales. 
 So this immortal germ within my breast 
 Wou d strive to pierce the du l, dark clod of sense , 
 With aspirations, wing d and intense, 
 Would so stretch upward, in its tireless quest, 
 To meet the Central Soul, its source, its rest : 
 So in the fragrance of the immortal flower, [pour 
 High thoughts and noble deeds, its life it would out- 
 
 VITI. TO THE SAVIOR. 
 
 OH thou who once on earth, beneath the weight 
 Of our mortality didst live and move, 
 The in irnation of profoundest love ; 
 
 Who on t .ie Cross that love didst consummate 
 Whose deep and ample fulness could embrace 
 The poorest, meanest of our fallen race : 
 
 How shall we e er that boundless debt repay ? 
 Bv long loud prayers in gorgeous temples said ? 
 By rich ob ations on thine a , tars laid 1 
 
 Ah, no ! not thus thou didst appoint the way: 
 When thou wast bowed our human wo beneath, 
 Then as a legacy thou didst bequeath 
 
 Earth s sorrowing children to our ministry 
 
 And as we do to them, we do to thee. 
 
ANNE C. BOTTA. 
 
 IX. FAITH. 
 
 SECURELY cahinod in the ship below, [sea, 
 
 Through darkness and through storm I cross the 
 A path ess wilderness of waves to me : 
 
 But yet I do not fear, because I know 
 That he who guides the good ship o er that waste 
 Sees in the stars her shining pathway traced. 
 
 Blindfold I walk this life s bewildering maze, 
 Up flinty steep, through frozen mountain pass, 
 Through thornset barren and through deep morass, 
 
 But strong in faith I tread the uneven ways, 
 And bare my head unshrinking to the b:ast, 
 Because my Father s arm is round me cast ; 
 
 And if the way seems rough, I only clasp 
 
 The hand that leads me with a firmer grasp. 
 
 BONKS IN THE DESERT. 
 
 WHERE pilgrims seek the Prophet s toml 
 
 Across the Arabian waste, 
 Upon the ever-shifting sands 
 
 A fearful path is traced. 
 Far up to the horizon s verge, 
 
 The traveller sees it rise 
 A line of ghastly bones that bleach 
 
 Beneath those burning skies. 
 Across it, tempest and simoom 
 
 The desert-sands have strewed, 
 But still that line of spectral white 
 
 For ever is renewed. 
 For while along that burning track 
 
 The caravans nove on, 
 Still do the wayworn pilgrims fall 
 
 Ere ypt the shrine be won. 
 There the tired camel lays him down 
 
 And shuts his gentle eves ; 
 And there the fiery rider droops, 
 
 Toward Mecca looks, and dies. 
 They fall unheeded from the ranks : 
 
 On sweeps the endless train ; 
 But there, to mark the desert path, 
 
 Their whitening bones remain. 
 As thus I read the mournful tale 
 
 Upon the traveller s page, 
 I thought how like the march of life 
 
 Is this sad pilgrimage. 
 
 For every heart hath some fair dream, 
 
 Some object unattained, 
 And far off in the distance lies 
 
 Some Mecca to be gained. 
 
 But beauty, manhood, love, and power, 
 
 Go in their morning down, 
 And longing eyes and outstretched arms 
 
 Tell of the goal unvvon. 
 
 The mighty caravan of life 
 Above their dust may sweep, 
 
 Nor shout nor tramp ing feet shall break 
 The rest of those who sleep. 
 
 Oh, fountains that I have not reached, 
 
 That gush far off e en now, 
 When shall I quench my spirit s thirst 
 
 Where your sweet waters flow ! 
 
 Oh, Mecca of my lifelong dreams, 
 
 Cloud palaces that rise 
 In that far distance pierced by hope, 
 
 When will ye greet mine eyes ! 
 The shadows lengthen toward the east 
 
 From the declining sun, 
 And the pilgrim, as ye still recede, 
 
 Sighs for the journey done ! 
 
 CHRIST BETRAYED. 
 
 EIGHTEEN hundred years agone 
 Was that deed of darkness done 
 Was that sacred, thorn-crowned head 
 To a shameful death betrayed, 
 And Iscariot s traitor name 
 Blazoned in eternal shame. 
 Thou, disciple of our time, 
 Follower of the faith sublime, 
 W T ho with high and holy scorn 
 Of that traitorous deed dost burn, 
 Though the years may never more 
 To our earth that form restore, 
 The Christ-Spirit ever lives 
 Ever in thy heart he strives. 
 W T hen pale Misery mutely calls, 
 When thy tempted brother falls, 
 When thy gentle words may chain 
 Hate, and Anger, and Disdain, 
 Or thy loving smile impart 
 Courage to some sinking heart : 
 When within thy troubled breast 
 Good and evil thoughts contest, 
 Though unconscious thou may st be. 
 The Christ-Spirit strives with thee. 
 
 When he trod the Holy Land, 
 With his small disciple band, 
 And the fated hour had come 
 For that august martyrdom 
 When the man, the human love, 
 And the God within him strove 
 As in Gethsemane he wept, 
 They, the faithless watchers, slept : 
 W T hile for them he wept and prayed, 
 One denied and one betrayed ! 
 
 If to-day thou turn st aside 
 In thy luxury and pride, 
 Wrapped within thyself and blind 
 To the sorrows of thy kind, 
 Thou a faithless watch dost keep 
 Thou art one of those who sleep; 
 Or, if waking thou dost see 
 Nothing of Divinity 
 In our fallen, struggling race 
 If in them thou seest no trace 
 Of a glory dimmed, not gone, 
 Of a Future to be won, 
 Of a Future, hopeful, high, 
 Thou, like Peter, dost deny : 
 But if, seeing, thou believest, 
 If the Evangel thou receivest, 
 Yet, if thou art bound to Sin, 
 False to the Ideal within, 
 Slave of Ease or slave of Gold, 
 Thou the Son of God hast sold ! 
 
SMO 
 
 AXXE C. BOTTA. 
 
 THE WASTED FOUNTAINS. 
 
 And their nobles have sent their htlle ones to tlie waters; they rame 
 to the nits and ibiind no wnter; they returned with their vessels 
 empty. Jtremiult xiv. 3. 
 
 WHEX the youthful fever of the soul 
 
 Is awakened in thee first, 
 And thou goest like Judah s children forth 
 
 To s!ake tlie burning thirst; 
 
 And when dry and wasted, like the springs 
 
 Sought by that little band, 
 Before thee in their emptiness 
 
 Life s broken cisterns stand ; 
 
 When the golden fruits that tempted 
 
 7 urn to ashes on the taste, 
 And thine early visions fade and pass 
 
 Like the mirage of the waste ; 
 
 When faith darkens and hopes vanish 
 
 In the shade of coming years, 
 And the urn thou bearest is empty, 
 
 Or o erflovving with thy tears ; 
 
 Though the transient springs have failed thee, 
 Though the founts of youth are dried, 
 
 Wilt thou among the mouldering stones 
 In weariness abide 1 
 
 Wilt thou sit among the ruins, 
 
 With all words of cheer unspoken, 
 
 Till the silver cord is loosened, 
 Till the golden bowl is broken 7 
 
 Up and onward ! toward the east 
 
 Green oases thou shalt find 
 Streams that rise from higher sources 
 
 Than the pools thou leavest behind. 
 
 Life has import more inspiring 
 
 Than the fancies of thy youth ; 
 It has hopes as high as heaven ; 
 
 It has labor, it has truth ; 
 
 It has wrongs that may be righted, 
 
 Noble deeds that may be done, 
 Its great battles are unfought, 
 
 Its great triumphs are unwon. 
 
 Therf is rising from its troubled deeps 
 
 A low, unceasing moan ; 
 There are aching, there are breaking 
 
 Other hearts beside thine own. 
 
 From strong limbs that should be chainless, 
 
 There are fetters to unbind ; 
 There are words to raise the fallen; 
 
 There is light to give the blind ; 
 
 There are crushed and broken spirits 
 
 That electric thoughts may thrill; 
 Lofty dreams to be embodied 
 
 By the might of one strong will. 
 
 There are God and peace above thee : 
 
 Wilt thou languish in despair 1 
 Tread thy griefs beneath thy feet, 
 
 Scale the walls of heaven by prayer - 
 
 T is the key of the apostle 
 
 That opens heaven from below ; 
 
 Tis the ladder of the patriarch, 
 Whereon angels come and go ! 
 
 PAUL PREACHING AT ATHENS 
 
 GREECE ! hear that joyful sound ! 
 A stranger s voice upon thy sacred hill, 
 Whose tones shall bid the slumbering nations roun 1 
 
 Wake with convulsive thrill. 
 Athenians ! gather there, he brings you words 
 Brighter than all your boasted lore affords. 
 
 He brings you news of One 
 Above Olympian Jove; One in whose light 
 Your gods shall fade like stars before the sun. 
 
 On your bewildered night 
 
 That UNKNOWN GOD of whom ye darkly drearr 
 In all his burning radiance shall beam. 
 
 Behold, he bids you rise 
 
 From your dark worship round that idol shrine ; 
 He points to Him who reared your starry skies, 
 
 And bade your Phoebus shine. 
 Lift up your souls from where in dust ye how ; 
 That God of gods commands your homage now. 
 
 But, brighter tidings still ! 
 
 He tells of One whose precious blood was spilt 
 In lavish streams upon Judea s hill, 
 
 A ransom for your guilt ; 
 
 Who triumphed o er the grave, and br^>ke its chain ; 
 Who conquered Death and Hell, and rose again. 
 
 Sages of Greece ! come near ; 
 Spirits of daring thought and giant mould, 
 Ye questioners of Time and Nature, hear 
 
 Mysteries before untold ! 
 Immortal life revealed ! light for which ye 
 Have tasked in vain your proud philosophy. 
 
 Searchers for some First Cause 
 Through doubt and darkness lo ! he points to One 
 Where all your vaunted reason lost must pause, 
 
 Too vast to think upon : 
 That was from everlasting that shall be 
 To everlasting still, eternally ! 
 
 Ye followers of him 
 Who deemed his soul a spark of Deity ! 
 Your fancies fade your master s dreams grow 
 
 To this reality. 
 
 Stoic ! unbend that brow, drink in that sound. 
 Skeptic ! dispel those doubts, the truth is found. 
 
 Greece ! though thy sculptured wa Is 
 Have with thy triumphs and thy glories rung, 
 And through thy temples and thy pillared halls 
 
 Immortal poets sung 
 
 No sounds like these have rent your startled air : 
 They open realms of light and bid you enter there. 
 
EMILY JUDSON. 
 
 (Born 1817-Died 1854). 
 
 Miss EMILY CHUBBUCK, who under the 
 graceful pseuclonyme of Fanny Forester be 
 came known as one of the most ingenious and 
 brilliant female writers of the country, is a 
 native of central New York ; and af er being 
 thoroughly educated in the sciences suitable 
 to her sex, and making herself familiar with 
 the best literature by a loving and critical 
 study of those au:hors who are the standards 
 of thought a;id diction, she became a teacher 
 in a female seminary at Utica, where she was 
 residing when she made her first essays as a 
 writer some poetical contributions to the 
 Knickerbocker Magazine, and several small 
 volumes illustrative of practical religion, is 
 sued by the American Baptist Publication So- 
 cie y. Early in June, 1844, while visiting 
 the ci:y of New York, she wrote a hasty 
 baga.elle for the New Mirror, then recent 
 ly established by Gen. Morris and Mr. N. P. 
 Willis, scarcely thinking or caring that it 
 would for a moment receive their attention. 
 But Mr. Willis s perception of beauty is in- 
 stinc ive: he saw at a glance that his corre 
 spondent was possessed of extreme clever- 
 ne:>s perhaps of genius and his liberal 
 bir perfecjy sincere applause led Miss Chub- 
 buc c to thai career of literature which soon 
 made her no in de plume as familiar as the 
 names of the most popular authors. The 
 first paper under the signature of " Fanny 
 Fores er" was published on ihe twenty-ninth 
 of June in the New Mirror, and it was fol 
 lowed rapidly by all those sketches, essays, 
 and poems, which, two years af erward, when 
 she was on the eve of sailing for India, were 
 reprinted under the title of Alderbrook. 
 
 In 184b , the missionary Judson after a 
 long career of usefulness and true glory in 
 the East returned to America, where he 
 was received by the churches in a manner 
 worthy of the greatness of his services to re 
 ligion and civilization. " Fanny Forester," 
 on account of impaired health, sought the ge 
 nial climate of Philadelphia for the succeed 
 ing winter, and here he came to visit her and 
 persuade her to write the mortal history of 
 one who had joined the angels, leaving him 
 
 16 
 
 alone in the ship m which they had started to 
 gether to revisit their native country. When 
 the apostle of theBurmans described in sen 
 tences glowing with his fine enthusiasm, the 
 condition of the missionary field, white with 
 the harvests which so few were reaping, she 
 kindled at the recital, and forgetting the bril 
 liant prospects of success in letters, the dear 
 est ties of home affections, determined to 
 twine for the laurel which she cast aside, a 
 wreath from these fields in the Orient, the 
 grains in which should be stars to circle her 
 brows forever, and by their radiance to make 
 more glorious the looked-for triumph of the 
 Harvester of the world. 
 
 Early in the spring she returned to the 
 home of her childhood, to bid a last farewell 
 to all its inmates. Then she wrote "My 
 heart is heavy with sorrow. The cup at my 
 lips is very bitter. Heaven help me ! White 
 hairs are bending in submissive grief, and 
 age-dimmed eyes are dimmer with tears ; 
 young spirits have lost their joyousness, 
 young lips forget to smile, and bounding 
 hearts and bounding feet are stilled. Oh, 
 the rending of ties, knitted at the first open 
 ing of the infant eye, and strengthened by 
 numberless acts of love, is a sorrowful thing ! 
 To make the grave the only door to a meet 
 ing with those in whose bosoms we nestled, 
 in whose hearts we trusted long before we 
 knew how precious was such love and trust, 
 brings wilh it an overpowering weight of 
 solemnity. But a grave is yawning for each 
 one of us; and is it much to choose whether 
 we sever the tie that binds us here to-dav, or 
 lie down on the morrow ? Ah, the weaver s 
 shuttle is flying ; the flower of the grass is 
 withering; the space is almost measured; 
 the tale nearly told ; the dark valley is close 
 before us tread we with care ! My mother 
 we may neither of us close the other s dark 
 ened eyes, and fold the cold hands upon the 
 bosom ; we may neither of us watch, the soJ 
 greening and withering above the other s 
 ashes: but there are duties for us even more 
 sacred than these. But a few steps, mothei 
 difficult the path may be, but very bri<rhi 
 
 241 
 
212 
 
 EMILY JUDSON. 
 
 and then we put on the rohe of immortali 
 ty, and meet to part never more. And we 
 shall not be apart even on earih. There is 
 an electric chain passing from heart to heart 
 through the throne of the Eternal, and we 
 may k<-q> its links all brightly burnished by 
 the breath of prayer. Still pray for me, 
 mother, as in days gone by. Thou bidst rne 
 iro. The smile comes again to thy lip, and 
 ihe light to thine eye, fur thou hast pleasure 
 ia the sacrifice. Thy blessing ! Farewell, 
 my mother, and ye loved ones of the same 
 hearthstone!" 
 
 She was married to Dr. Judson, and in 
 July sailed with him on his return to India, 
 where she is now occupied with the duties 
 of her mission. Soon after her arrival, the 
 barbarians robbed her of all the gifts and sou 
 venirs, all the dresses, and all -the cherished 
 books, that she carried from America ; and 
 
 other trials of her faith came but none will 
 ever make her look back with regret from 
 the task set before her: and her life yet to 
 be lived, it is trusted, will sometime, many 
 years from now, fill the brightest pages in 
 our missionary history. 
 
 The longest of Mrs. Judson s poems is As- 
 taroga, or the Maid of the Rock, in four can 
 tos, containing altogether about one hundred 
 and fifty verses of the Spenserian measure. 
 This was written in 1844, and it is inferior 
 to several of her later compositions, though 
 there is spirit and grace in some of its de 
 scriptions of scenery and of Indian life.- Her 
 largest prose work, except Alderbrook, is a 
 very beautiful memoir of Mrs. Sarah Judson, 
 published in New York in 1848. Among the 
 latest of her poems is the little piece entitled 
 My Bird, of which the biographical signifi 
 cance is sufficiently apparent. 
 
 THE WEAVER. 
 
 A WKAVKR sat by the side of his loom, 
 
 A -flinging his shuttle fast ; 
 And a thread that would wear till the hour of doom 
 
 Was added at every cast. 
 
 His warp had been by the angels spun, 
 And his weft was bright and new. 
 
 Like threads which the morning unhraids from the 
 
 sun, 
 All jewelled over with dew. 
 
 And fresh-lipped, bright-eyed, beautiful flowers 
 In the rich, soft web were bedded ; 
 
 And b ithe to the weaver sped onward the hours: 
 Not yet were Time s feet leaded ! 
 
 But something there came slow stea ing by, 
 
 And a shade on the fabric fell ; 
 And 1 saw that the shuttle less blithely did fly 
 
 For thought hath a wearisome spell! 
 
 And a thread that next o er the warp was lain, 
 
 Was of melancholy gray ; 
 And anon I marked there a tear-drop s stain, 
 
 Where the flowers had fallen away. 
 
 But still the weaver kept weaving on, 
 
 Though the fabric all was gray ; 
 And the flowers, and the buds, and the leaves, were 
 gone, 
 
 And the gold threads cankered lay. 
 
 And dark and still darker and darker grew 
 
 Each newly-woven thread ; 
 And some there were of a death-mocking hue,* 
 
 And some of a bloody red. 
 
 And things all strange were woven in, 
 
 Sighs, and down-crushed hopes, and fears ; 
 
 And the web was broken, and poor, and thin, 
 And i dripped with living tears. 
 
 And the weaver fain would have flung it aside, 
 
 But he knew it would be a sin ; 
 So in light and in gloom the shuttle he plied, 
 
 A-weaving these life-cords in. 
 
 And as he wove, and, weeping, still wove, 
 
 A tempter stole him nigh ; 
 And, with glozing words, he to win him strove 
 
 But the weaver turned his eye. 
 
 He upward turned his eye to heaven, 
 
 And still wove on on on ! 
 Till the last, last cord from his heart was riven, 
 
 And the tissue strange was done. 
 Then he threw it about his shoulders bowed, 
 
 And about his grizzled head ; 
 And gathering close the folds of his shroud, 
 
 Lav him down among the dead. 
 
 And I after saw, in a robe of l. : ghf, 
 
 The weaver in the sky : 
 The angels wings were not more bright, 
 
 And the stars grew pa e it ni^h. 
 
 And I saw, mid the folds, all the iris-hued flowers 
 That beneath his touch had sprung; 
 
 More beautiful far than these stray ones of ours, 
 Which the angels have to us flung. 
 
 And wherever a tear run! fallen down, 
 
 Gleamed out a diamond rare ; 
 And jewels befitting a monarch s crown 
 
 Were the footprints left by Care. 
 
 And wherever had swept the breath of a sigh, 
 
 Was left a rich perfume ; 
 And with light from the fountain of bliss in the sky 
 
 Shone the labor of Sorrow and Gloom. 
 And then I prayed, " When my last work is done, 
 
 And the silver life-cord riven, 
 Be the stain of Sorrow the deepest one 
 
 That I bear with me to heaven !" 
 
EMILY JUDSON. 
 
 .MINISTERING ANGELS- 
 
 MOTHF.H, has the dove that nestled 
 
 Lovingly upon thy breast, 
 Folded up his little pinion, 
 
 And in darkness gone to rest] 
 Nav, the grave is dark and dreary, 
 
 Bit- the lost one is not there; 
 Hear st thou not its gentle whisper, 
 
 Floating on the ambient air 1 
 It is near thee, gentle mother, 
 
 Near thee at the evening hour; 
 Its soft kiss is in the zephyr, 
 
 It looks up from every flower. 
 A.nd when, Night s dark shadows fleeing, 
 
 Low thou bendest thee in prayer, 
 And thy heart feels nearest heaven, 
 
 Then thy angel babe is there ! 
 
 Maiden, has thy noble brother, 
 
 On whose manly form thine eye 
 Loved fu 1 oft in pride to linger, 
 
 On whose heart thou couldst rely, 
 Though all other hearts deceived thee, 
 
 All proved hol ow, earth grew drear, 
 Whose protection, ever o er thee, 
 
 Hid thee from the cold world s sneer 
 H.is he left thee here to struggle. 
 
 All unaided on thy way 1 
 Nay ; he still can cuide and guard thee, 
 
 Still thy faltering steps can stay: 
 Still, when danger hovers o er thee, 
 
 He than danger is more near; 
 When in grief thou st none to pity, 
 
 He, the sainted, marks each tear. 
 
 Lover, is the light extinguished 
 
 Of the iiem that, in thy heart 
 Hidden dee, ly, to thy being 
 
 All its sunshine cou d impart] 
 Look above ! t is burning brighter 
 
 Than the very stars in heaven ; 
 And to light thy dangerous pathway, 
 
 All its new-found g ory s given. 
 With the sons of earth commingling, 
 
 Thou the loved one mayst forget ; 
 Bright eyes flashing, tresses waving, 
 
 May have pjwer to win thee yet; 
 But e en then that guardian spirit 
 
 Oft will whisper in thine ear, 
 And in silence, and at midnight, 
 
 Tnou wilt know she hovers near. 
 
 Orphan, thou most sorely stricken 
 
 Of t .ie mourners thronging earth, 
 Clouds half veil thy brightest sunshine, 
 
 Sadness mingles with thy mirth. 
 Vet, although that gentle bosom, 
 
 Which has pillowed oft thy head, 
 Now is cold, thy mother s spirit 
 
 Can not rest among the dead. 
 Still her watchful eye is o er thee 
 
 Through the day, and still at night 
 Hers the eye that guards thy slumber, 
 
 Making thy young dreams so bright. 
 Oh! the friends, the friends we ve cherished, 
 
 How we weep to see them die ! 
 
 All unthinking they re the angels 
 That will guide us to the sky ! 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER A SHORT ABSENCE. 
 
 GIVE me my old seat, mother, 
 
 With my head upon thy knee ; 
 I ve passed through many a changing scene. 
 
 Since thus I sat by thee. 
 Oh ! let me look into thine eyes : 
 
 Their mef k, soft, loving light 
 Falls like a gleam of holiness 
 
 Upon my heart to-night. 
 
 T ve not been long away, mother ; 
 
 Few suns have rose and set, 
 Since last the tear-drop on thy cheek 
 
 My lips in kisses met; 
 Tis but a little time, I know, 
 
 But very long it seems, 
 Though every night I come to thee, 
 
 Dear mother, in my dreams. 
 
 The world has kindly dealt, mother, 
 
 By the chi d thou lovest so well ; 
 Thy prayers have circled round her path, 
 
 And twas their ho y spell 
 W 7 hich made that path so clearly bright, 
 
 Which strewed the roses there ; 
 W r hich gave the light, and cast the balm 
 
 On every breath of air. 
 
 I bear a happy heart, mother 
 
 A happier never beat ; 
 And even now new buds of hope 
 
 Are bursting at my feet. 
 Oh, mother ! life may be " a dream," 
 
 But if such dreams are given, 
 While at the portal thus we stand, 
 
 What are the truths of heaven 1 
 
 I bear a happy heart, mother; 
 
 Yet, when fond eyes I see, 
 And hear soft tones and winning words, 
 
 I ever think of thee. 
 And then, the tear my spirit weeps 
 
 Unbidden fills my eye ; 
 And like a homeless dove, I long 
 
 Unto thy breast to fly. 
 
 Then, I am very sad, mother, 
 
 I m very sad and lone ; 
 Oh ! there s no heart whose inmost fold 
 
 Opes to me like thine own ! 
 Though sunny smi es wreathe blooming lip.- 
 
 While love-tones meet my ear 
 My mother, one fond glance of thine 
 
 Were thousand times more dear. 
 
 Then, with a closer clasp, mother, 
 
 Now hold me to thy heart ; 
 I d feel it beating gainst my own 
 
 Once more before we part. 
 And, mother, to this lovelit spoi, 
 
 When I am far away, 
 Come oft too oft thou canst not come !-^ 
 
 An 1 for thy darling pray. 
 
244 
 
 EMILY JUD ON. 
 
 TO SPRING. 
 
 A WKT.COMK, pretty maiden 
 
 Dainty -footed Spring! 
 Thou, with the treasures laden 
 
 No other hand can bring. 
 While onward thou art tripping, 
 Children all around are skipping, 
 \nd the low brown eaves are dripping 
 
 With the gladsomest of tears. 
 
 From mossed old trees are bursting 
 
 The tiny specks of green ; 
 Long have their pores been thirsting 
 
 For the gushing sap, I ween ; 
 With scarce a shade molesting, 
 The laughing light is resting 
 On the slender group that s cresting 
 
 Yon fresh, green hillock s brow. 
 
 At the timid flower it glances, 
 Beneath the maple s shade ; 
 
 And foiled, it lightly dances 
 
 With the bars the boughs have made 
 
 On the waters of the river, 
 
 Still in a winter s shiver, 
 
 Its golden streamers quiver, 
 O er-brimmed with lusty life. 
 
 The folded buds are blushing 
 
 On the gnarled apple-tree ; 
 While, the small grass-blades a-crushing, 
 
 Children gather them to see ; 
 And the bee, thus early coming, 
 All around the clusters humming, 
 Upon the bland air thrumming, 
 
 Piunges to the nectared sweets. 
 
 Life, life, the fields is flushing ! 
 
 Joy springs up from the ground ; 
 And joyous strains are gushing 
 
 From the wood and all around ; 
 From birds on wild wings wheeling, 
 Up from the cottage stealing, 
 Fro n the full-voiced woodman pealing, 
 
 Ring out the tones of joy. 
 
 Thrice welcome, pretty maiden ! 
 
 With thy kiss upon my cheek, 
 Howo er with care o erladen, 
 
 Of care I could not speak ; 
 Now, I 11 make a truce with sorrow, 
 And not one cloud will borrow 
 
 the dark, unsunned morrow ; 
 
 I will be a child with thee. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 WHEX day is dying in the west, 
 Each flickering ray of crimson light, 
 
 The sky, in gold and purple dressed, 
 The cloud, with glory all bedight, 
 And every shade that ushers night, 
 
 And each cool breeze that comes to weave 
 
 Its dampness with my curls all leave 
 A lesson sad ! 
 
 Last night I plucked a half-shut flower, 
 Which blushed and nodded on its stem; 
 
 A thing to grace a Peri s bower; 
 
 It seemed to me some priceless gem, 
 
 Dropped from an angel s diadem ; 
 But soon the blossom drooping lay, 
 And, as it withered, seemed to say, 
 
 " We re passing all !" 
 I loved a fair-haired, gentle boy, 
 
 (A bud of brightness ah, too rare !) 
 I loved him, and I saw with joy 
 
 Heaven s purity all centred there : 
 
 But he went up, that heaven to share; 
 And, as his spirit from him stole, 
 His last look graved upon my soul, 
 
 " Learn thus to die !" 
 I ve seen the star that glowed in heaven, 
 
 W hen other stars seemed half asleep, 
 As though from its proud station driven, 
 
 Go rushing down the azure steep, 
 
 Through space unmeasured, dark, and deep ; 
 And, as it vanished far in night, 
 I read by its departing light, 
 
 " Thus perish all !" 
 I ve, in its dotage, seen the year, 
 
 Worn out and weary, struggling on, 
 Till falling prostrate on its bier, 
 
 Time marked another cycle gone ; 
 
 And, as I heard the dying moan, 
 Upon my trembling heart there fell 
 The awful words, as by a spell, 
 
 " Death, death to all !" 
 They come on every breath of air, 
 
 W r hich sighs its feeble life away f 
 They re whispered by each blossom fair, 
 
 Which folds a lid at close of day ; 
 
 There s naught ef earth, or sad or gay, 
 There s naught below the starlit skies, 
 But leaves one lesson as it flies 
 
 " Thou too must die !" 
 And numberless those silvery chords, 
 
 Dissevered by the spoiler s hand, 
 But each in breaking still affords 
 
 A tone to say we all are banned ; 
 
 And on each brow by death-damps spanned, 
 The pall, the slowly moving hearse, 
 Is traced the burden of my verse 
 
 " Death, death to man !" 
 
 LIGHTS AND SHADES. 
 
 IF there be light upon my being s cloud, 
 
 I ll cast o er other hearts its cheering ray; 
 
 T will add new brightness to my toilsome way 
 But when my spirit s sadness doth enshroud 
 
 Hope s coruscations, Pleasure s meteor gleam, 
 And darkness settles down upon my heart, 
 And Care exerts her blighting, cankering art, 
 
 Then, then, what I am not I ll strive to seem 
 Wo has no right her burden to divide, 
 To cast her shadows o er a sunny soul : 
 So, though my bark rock on the troubled tide, 
 
 Or lie, half wrecked, upon the hidden shoal, 
 The flowers of Hope shall garland it the while, 
 Though plucked from out her urn in death t,o smil 
 
EMILY JUDSON. 
 
 245 
 
 CLINGING TO EARTH. 
 
 OH, do not let me die ! the earth is bright, 
 
 And I am earthly, so I love it well ; 
 Though heaven is holier, and all full of light, 
 
 Yet I am frail, and with frail things would dwell. 
 
 [ can not die ! the flowers of earthly love 
 
 Shed their rich fragrance on a kindred heart ; 
 There may be purer, brighter flowers above, 
 
 Yet with these ones t would be too hard to part. 
 I dream of heaven, and well I love these dreams, 
 
 They scatter sunlight on my varying way ; 
 But mid the clouds of earth are priceless gleams 
 
 Of brightness, and on earth oh let me stay. 
 
 It is not that my lot is void of gloom, 
 That sadness never circles round my heart ; 
 
 Nor that I fear the darkness of the tomb, 
 That I would never from the earth depart. 
 
 T is that I love the world its cares, its sorrows, 
 Its bounding hopes, its feelings fresh and warm, 
 
 Each cloud it wears, and every light it borrows 
 Loves, wishes, fears, the sunshine and the storm ; 
 
 I love them all : but closer still the loving 
 
 Twine with my being s cords and make m} life ; 
 And while within this sunlight I am moving, 
 
 I well can bide the storms of worldly strife. 
 Then do not let me die ! for earth is bright, 
 
 And I am earthly, so I love it well ; 
 Heaven is a land of holiness and light, 
 
 But I am frail, and with the frail would dwell. 
 
 ASPIRING TO HEAVEN. 
 
 YES, let me die ! Am I of spirit-birth, 
 And shall I linger here where spirits fell, 
 
 Loving the stain they cast on all of earth ] 
 Oh make me pure, with pure ones e er to dwell ! 
 
 Tis sweet to die ! The flowers of earthly love 
 (Fair, frail, spring blossoms) early droop and die ; 
 
 But all their fragrance is exhaled above, 
 Upon our spirits evermore to lie. 
 
 Life is a dream, a bright but fleeting dream, 
 I can but love ; but then my soul awakes, 
 
 And from the mist of earthliness a gleam 
 Of heavenly light, of truth immortal, breaks. 
 
 [ shrink not from the shadows Sorrow flings 
 Aeross my pathway ; nor from cares that rise 
 
 [n every footprint ; for each shadow brings 
 Sunshine and rainbow as it glooms and flies. 
 
 But heaven is dearer. There I have my treasure ; 
 
 There angels fold in love their snowy wings ; 
 There sainted lips chant in celestial measure, 
 
 And spirit fingers stray o er heav n-wrought strings 
 
 There loving eyes are to the portals straying ; 
 
 There arms extend, a wanderer to fold ; 
 There waits a dearer, holier One, arraying 
 
 His own in spotless robes and crowns of gold. 
 
 Then let me die ! My spirit longs for heaven, 
 In that pure bosom evermore to rest ; 
 
 But, if to labor longer here be given, 
 " Father, thy wU be done !" and I am blest. 
 
 THE BUDS OF THE SARANAC* 
 
 Ax angel breathed upon a budding flower, 
 
 And on that breath the bud went up to heaven, 
 Yet left a fragrance in the little bower 
 
 To which its first warm blushes had been given , 
 And, by that fragrance nursed, another grew, 
 
 And so they both had being in the last, 
 And on this one distilled heaven s choicest dew, 
 
 And rays of glorious light wefe on it cast, 
 Until the floweret claimed a higher birth, 
 
 And would not open on a scene so drear, 
 For it was more of paradise than earth, 
 
 And strains from thence came ever floating near ; 
 And so it passed, and long ere noontide s hour, 
 The buds of earth had oped, a heaven-born flower. 
 
 MY BIRD. 
 
 ERE last years moon had left the sky, 
 A birdling sought my Indian nest, 
 
 And folded, oh ! so lovingly, 
 Its tiny wings upon my breast. 
 
 From morn till evening s purple tinge, 
 In winsome helplessness she lies ; 
 
 Two rose-leaves, with a silken fringe, 
 Shut softly on her starry eyes. 
 
 There s not in Ind a lovelier bird ; 
 
 Broad earth owns not a happier nest; 
 God, thou hast a fountain stirred, 
 
 Whose waters never more shall rest ! 
 
 This beautiful, mysterious thing, 
 This seeming visitant from Heaven, 
 
 This bird with the immortal wing, 
 To me to me, thy hand has given. 
 
 The pulse first caught its tiny stroke, 
 The blood its crimson hue, from mine : 
 
 This life, which I have dared invoke, 
 Henceforth is parallel with thine. 
 
 A silent aw,e is in my room 
 I tremble with delicious fear; 
 
 The future, with its light and gloom, 
 Time and eternity are here. 
 
 Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise ; 
 
 Hear, oh my God ! one earnest prayei 
 Room for my bird in paradise, 
 
 And give her angel plumage there ! 
 
 Maulmain,(hidia,) January, 1848. 
 
 * Lucretia and Margaret Davidson. 
 
ELIZABETH J. EAMES. 
 
 MRS. EAMES, whose maiden name was 
 jsup,.is a native of the state of New York, 
 ,.>nd her early years were passed on the banks 
 of the Hudson. In 1837 she was married to 
 Mr. W. S. Eames, and removed to New Hart 
 ford, near Utic*, where she has since resi 
 ded. Mrs. Eames was for several years a 
 contributor to Mr. Greeley s New Yorker, 
 and she now writes frequently for The Tri 
 
 bune ; but many of her more carefully fin 
 ished poems have appeared in Graham s 
 Magazine and the Southern Literary Mes 
 senger. She writes with feeling ; but she re 
 gards poetry as an art, and to the cultivation 
 of it she brings her best powers. While 
 thoughtful and earnest, therefore, her pieces 
 are for the most part distinguished for a 
 tasteful elegance. 
 
 CROWNING OF PETRARCH. 
 
 ARRAYED in a monarch s royal robes, 
 
 With go d and purple gleaming, 
 And the broidered banners of the proud 
 
 Colonna o er him streaming 
 With the gorgeous pomp and pageantry 
 
 Of the Anjouite s court attended, 
 He came, that princely son of song : 
 
 And the haughtiest nobles rendered 
 Adoring homage to the laureate bard, [starred. 
 Whose sky was luminous with fame and glory 
 And following his triumphal car, 
 
 Rome s youthful sons came singing 
 His passion kindled melodies, 
 
 With the silver clarion ringing 
 A prouder music harp, and lute, 
 
 And lyre, all sweet sounds blending 
 And the orient sun-god on his way 
 
 In dazz ing lustre bending : 
 
 And radiant flowers their gem-like splendor shed 
 O er the proud march that to the Eternal City led! 
 In all its ancient grandeur was 
 
 That sceptred city drest, 
 And pealing notes and plaudits rang 
 
 For him its sovereign guest : 
 The voice of the Seven Hills went up 
 
 From kingly hall and bower, 
 And throngs with laurel boughs poured forth 
 
 To grace that triumph hour; 
 While censers wafted rich perfume around, 
 And the glowing air with mirth and melody was 
 
 crowned ! 
 On, onward to the Capitol, 
 
 Italia s children crowded 
 Over three hundred triumphs there 
 
 The sun had sat unclouded : 
 T or crowned kings and couqucrors haught 
 
 Had irod that path to glory, 
 And poets won bright wreaths and names 
 
 To live in song and story 
 Hut ne er before, king, bard, 01 victor came, 
 Winning such honors for his name and poet-fame. 
 
 The glittering gates are passed, and he 
 
 Hath gained the imperial summit, 
 And deep rich strains of harmony 
 
 Are proudly floating from it : 
 Incense sunshine and the swelling 
 
 Shout of a nation s heart beneath him, 
 Go up to his glorious place of pride, 
 
 While the kingly Orsos wreathe him! 
 Well may the bard s enraptured heart beat high, 
 Filled with the exulting thought of his gift s bright 
 
 victory. 
 Crowned one of Rome ! from that lofty height 
 
 Thou wear *t a conqueror s seeming 
 Thy dark, deep eye with the radiance 
 
 Of inspiration beaming ; 
 Thou st won the living wreath for which 
 
 .Thy young ambition panted ; 
 Thy aspiring dream is realized : 
 
 Hast thou one wish ungranted ? 
 Kings bow to the might of thy genius-gifted mind : 
 Hast thou one unattained hope, in the deep heart 
 enshrined ? 
 
 Oh, wreathed lord of the lyre of song ! 
 
 Even then thy heart was haunted 
 With one wild and passionate wish to lay 
 
 That crown, a gift enchanted, 
 Low at her feet, whose smile was more 
 
 Than glory, fame, or power 
 For whose dear sake was won. and worn, 
 
 The glittering laurel flower ! 
 Oh, little worth thy bright renown to thee, 
 Unshared by her, the star of thy idolatry ! 
 
 Thanks to thy lyre ! she liveth yet. 
 
 Oh poet, in thy numbers 
 The peerless star of Avignon, 
 
 Who shone o er all thy slumbers : 
 Entire and sole idolatry 
 
 At Laura s shrine was given, 
 Yet was her life-lot severed far 
 
 From thine as earth and heaven ! 
 And thou,the crowned of Rome gifted and great 
 Stood in thy glory still alone and desolate 
 246 
 
ELIZABETH J. EAMES 
 
 THE DEATH OF PAN. 
 
 FROM the Ionian sea a voice came sighing 
 
 A voice of mournful sweetness and strange power, 
 Borne on the scented breeze when day was dying, 
 
 Through fair Arcadie s sylvan groves and bowers, 
 Along her thousand sunny colored rills 
 
 Her fairy peopled vales and haunted fountains 
 Along her glens, and grots, and antique hills, 
 
 And o er her vine-hung, purp e tinted mountains, 
 Was heard that piercing, haunting voice,which said, 
 The God of Song, the once great Pan. is dead ! 
 The old Sileni in their sparry caves [cesses 
 
 The fauns and wood nymphs in their green re- 
 The lovely naiads by the whispering waves 
 
 The oriads, through all their mountain passes, 
 Wept when that voice thrilled on the silent air : 
 
 The stately shepherd, and the soft eyed maiden, 
 Who dwelt in Arcadie the famed and fair 
 
 Wept for that moaning voice, with sorrow laden, 
 Told that the sylvan king, with his gay court, 
 Would join no more their song and greenwood sport. 
 
 Died he in Thessaly, that land enchanted ] 
 
 In Tempi s ever rich, romantic vale 1 
 By c ear Peneus, whose classic tide is haunted 1 
 
 Or did Olympus listen to the wail 
 Of all his satyrs 1 Died he where 
 
 His infancy to Sinoe s care was given, 
 When first his flute-tones melted on the air, 
 
 And filled with music Grecia s glorious heaven . 
 Where many a wild and long remembered strain 
 He poured for shepherdess and rustic swain ] 
 Ah yes ! he died in Arcadie, and never 
 
 Unto his favorite haunts did mirth return : 
 The voice of song was hushed by wood and river, 
 
 Long did his children for his presence yearn 
 But never more by old Alpheus shore 
 
 Was heard the^song-voice of the god of gladness : 
 His tuneful reed its numbers poured no more 
 
 Where Dian and her oriads roved in sadness ; 
 The soul of love and melody had fled 
 Far from Arcadie the great Pan was dead ! 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 E. \CIIANTU ESS queen ! whose empire of the heart 
 
 With sovereign sway o er sea and land extended, 
 Whose peerless, haunting charms, and siren art, 
 
 Won from the imperial Caesar conquests splendid : 
 Rome sent her thousands forth, and foreign powers 
 
 Poured in thy woman s hand an empire s treasures. 
 Was Fate beside thee in those gorgeous hours 
 
 When monarchs knelt, slaves to thy merest pleas- 
 When but a gesture of thy royal hand [ures 1 
 Was to the proud triumvirs a command. 
 Oh, bright Egyptian queen ! thy day is past 
 
 With the young Caesar lo ! the spell is broken 
 That thy all radiant beauty o er him cast ; 
 
 Kis eye is cold wo for thy grief unspoken ! 
 Yet thy proud features wear a mask, which tells 
 
 How true thou art to thy commanding nat ire : 
 Once more, in all thy wild, bewildering spells, [ture ; 
 
 Thou standest robed and crowned, imperial crea- 
 
 Thy royal barge is on the sunny sea 
 
 Oh, sceptred queen ! goest thou victoriously ? 
 
 But hark ! a trumpet s thrilling call to arms 
 
 O er the soft sounds of lute and lyre ringeth ! 
 Doubt not thy matchless sovereignty of charms, 
 
 But haste the victor of Philippi bringeth 
 His shielded warriors and lords renowned ; [theo, 
 
 With spear and prince y crest they come to meet 
 Arrayed for triumph, and witli laurels crowned : 
 
 How will their stern and haughty leader treat thee 1 
 He comes to conquer lo ! on bended knee 
 The spell-bound Roman pleads, and yields to thee . 
 
 Once more the world is thine : exultingly 
 
 Thy beautiful and stately head is lifted. 
 He lives but in thv srni e proud Antony, 
 
 The crowned of empire he, the grand y gifted. 
 The spoi s of nations at thy feet are laid 
 
 The wealth of kingdoms for thy favor scattered : 
 O!i, siren of the Nile ! thy love has made 
 
 The royal Roman s ruin ! crowns were shattered 
 And kingdoms lost : fame, honor, glory, power, 
 Were playthings given to grace thy triumph-hot" 1 
 
 Another change ! the last for thee, doomed queen, 
 
 Now calmly on thine ivory couch reclining 
 The impassioned glow hath left thy marble mien, 
 
 And from thy night-black eyeshath past the shining. 
 But still a queen ! that brow, so icy cold, 
 
 Its diadem of starry jewels beareth : 
 Robed in the royal purple, and the gold, 
 
 No conqueror s chain that form imperial beareth. 
 To grace Death s triumph was but left for thee, 
 Daughter of Afric, by the asp set free ! 
 
 MY MOTHER. 
 
 Mr mother ! oft as thy dear name I mention, 
 Or trace thine image in my musing dream, 
 
 How strain my heart nerves to their fullest tension ; 
 How swells and bounds, like an imprisoned stream, 
 
 My restless spirit to go forth to thee, 
 
 Whose dear, dear face, I in each nightly vision see. 
 
 Dear mother, of the thousand strings which waker 
 The s eeping harp within the human heart, 
 
 The longest kept in tune, though oft forsaken, 
 Is that in which the mother s voice bears part: 
 
 Her still, small voice, which e en the careless ear 
 
 Turneth with deep reverence and pure delight to 
 hear 
 
 But once, kind mother, might this aching forehead 
 Feel the soft pressure of thy gentle hand - 
 
 Could this poor heart, that so hath pined and sor 
 rowed, 
 Yet once more feel its pulse of hope expand 
 
 At thy dear presence oh, mother, might this be, 
 
 I could die blessing God, for one last look at thee ! 
 
 For one last word alas ! that I should ever 
 
 E en carelessly have caused thy heart a pain I 
 How oft, amid my late life s " fitful fever," 
 
 Thy many acts of kindness rise again- 
 Unheeded then, but well remembered now . 
 Oh for thy blessing said once more above my brow { 
 
248 
 
 ELIZABETH J. EAMES. 
 
 Fond wish, hut vain ! and I am weak to smother 
 The human yearnings that my bosom fill ; 
 
 Thou canst hut hope and pray, dear distant mother, 
 That the All-pitying may aid me still 
 
 Aid thy frail chi d to lift, in lowly trust, 
 
 The burden of her heart above this trembling dust. 
 
 And pray that as the shadowy hour draws nearer, 
 
 God may irradiate and purify 
 My spirit s inmost vision, to see clearer 
 
 Through Death s dim veil the pathway to the sky ! 
 Mother beloved ! oh let this comfort thee, 
 That in yon blissful heaven shall no more part 
 ings be. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 I. MILTON". 
 
 LKAHXED and illustrious of all poets thou, 
 
 Whose Titan intellect sublimely bore 
 The weight of years unbent thou, on whose brow 
 
 Flourished the blossom of all human lore : 
 How dost thou take us back, as twere bv vision, 
 
 To the grave learning of the Sanhedrim ; 
 And we behold in visitings Elysian, 
 
 Where waved the white wings of the cherubim ; 
 But, through thy "Paradise Lost," and " Regained," 
 
 We might, enchanted, wander evermore. 
 Of all the genius-gifted thou hast reigned 
 
 King of our hearts; and till upon the shore 
 Of the Eternal dies the voice of Time, [sublime. 
 Thy name shal 1 mightiest stand pure, brilliant, and 
 
 II. T)RYI)EX. 
 
 NOT dearer to the scholar s eye than mine, 
 
 (Albeit unlearned in ancient classic lore,) 
 
 The daintie poesie of days of yore 
 The choice o d English rhyme and over thine, 
 
 Oh, "glorious John," delightedly I pore : 
 Keen, vigorous, chaste, and full of harmony, 
 
 Deep in the soil of our humanity 
 
 It taketh root, until the goodly tree 
 Of poesy puts forth green branch and bough, [gloom 
 
 With bud and blossom sweet. Through the rich 
 Of one embowered haunt I sec thee now, [bloom. 
 
 Where neath thy hand the " Flower and Leaflet" 
 That hand to dust hath mouldered long ago, 
 Yet its creations with immortal life still glow. 
 
 III. ADDISOY. 
 
 THOU, too, art worthy of all praise, whose pen, 
 
 " In thoughts that breathe, and words that burn," 
 did sued 
 
 A noontide glory over Milton s head 
 
 He, " prince of poets" thou, the prince of men : 
 
 Blessings on theu, and on the honored dead ! 
 How dost thou charm for us the touching story 
 
 Of the lost children in the gloomy wood 
 
 Haunting dim memory with the early glory 
 
 That in youth s golden years our hearts imbued. 
 From the fine world of olden poetry, 
 
 Lifelike and fresh, thou bringest forth again 
 
 The gallant heroes of an earlier reign, 
 And blend them in our minds with thoughts of thee, 
 Whose name is ever shrined in old-world memory. 
 
 IV. TASSO. 
 
 A HOVE thy golden verse I bent me late, 
 And read of bright Sophronia s lover young 
 
 Of fair Erminia s flight Clorinda s fate : 
 While over Godfrey s deeds enwrapt I hung 
 And Tancred s, told in soft Italia s tongue ! 
 
 Thou who didst tune thy harp for Salem s shrine 
 Thou the renowned and gifted among men 
 Tasso, superior with the sword and pen : 
 
 Oh, poet-heir ! vain was the dower divine 
 To still the unrest of thy human heart ! 
 
 Lonely and cold did Glory s star-beam shine 
 For him who saw a lovelier light depart ! 
 
 Oh, master of the lyre ! did not thy touch [much. 
 
 Tell how the heart may break,that Love has troubled 
 
 V. TO THE AUTHORESS OF THE S1XLESS CHILD. 
 
 OFT as I bend o er thy sweet " sinless child," 
 
 I pause to think of thee, oh, ladye fair ! 
 
 And fancy conjures up a vision rare 
 Of grace ethereal and beauty mild : 
 
 I picture thee with soft and glearny hair, 
 Down shape .y shoulders floating goldenly 
 
 W T ith Eva s eye, and brow, and spiritual air, 
 And purest lip tis thus I picture thee. 
 
 I know not if this shadowy ideal 
 
 Do justice to the animated real. 
 I ne er have looked upon thy form of face, 
 
 Albeit they tell me thou art passing fair ; 
 
 I know but of the Intellectual there, 
 And shape from thence all loveliness and grace. 
 
 VI. TO THE AUTHORESS OF THE SIXLESS CHILD. 
 (CONTINUED.) 
 
 LADY ! less easy were it now to tell 
 How the soft radiance of thy dove-like eyes 
 
 Won me to love thee, by its mingled sprll 
 Of tenderness and graceful majesty 
 And how thy voice, the "ever soft and low," 
 
 Like music strains returns to haunt me now. 
 
 Thine, too, is the far higher charm, which hath 
 Its pure source in the spirit depth bel.vv: 
 
 For thou hast dallied in no idle path, 
 
 But, in the free aspiring of thy soul, 
 Hast gloriously disproved the common faith, 
 That man alone may reach the mental goal. 
 
 Oh, lady dear ! still on thine honored head [shed. 
 
 Blessings of heaven and earth a thousand fold be 
 
 VI I. THE PAST. 
 
 IY her strange, shadowy coronet she weareth 
 
 The faded jewels of an earlier time ; 
 An ancient sceptre in her hand she beareth 
 
 The purple of her robe is past its prime. 
 Through her thin silvery locks still dimly shineth 
 
 The (lower wreath woven by pale Mem ry s fingers 
 Her heart is withered yet it strangely shrineth 
 
 In its lone urn a light that fitful lingers. 
 With her low, muffled voice of mystery, [pages; 
 
 She reads old legends from Time s mouldering 
 She telleth the present the recorded history 
 
 And change perpetual of bygone ages : 
 Her pilgrim feet still seek the haunted sod [trod. 
 Once ours,butnowby naught but memory s footsteps 
 
ELIZABETH J. EAMES. 
 
 249 
 
 VIII. DIEM PERDIDI. 
 
 When the Emperor Titus remembered, at night, that he had done no 
 thing beneficial during theday.he used to exclaim, 1 have lost a day 1 
 
 O GHEATLY wise ! thou of the crown and rod, 
 
 Robed in the purple majesty of kings 
 Power was thine own where er thy footsteps trod, 
 
 Yet didst thou mourn if Time on idle wings 
 Went by for thee ! Deep sunk in thought wert 
 
 And sadness rested on thy noble brow, [thou 
 If, when the dying day closed o er thy head, 
 
 Thou hadst no knowledge gained, no good con 
 ferred : 
 
 Diem Perdidi" was the thought that stirred 
 Thy conscious soul, when night her curtain spread. 
 
 Oh emperor, greatly wise ! could we so deal 
 With misspent hours, and win thy faith sublime, 
 
 We should not be (mid the soul s mute appeal) 
 Such triflers with the solemn trust of Time ! 
 
 IX., X. BOOKS. 
 
 " Of making many books there is no end ; and much study is a weari 
 ness of the flesh." Solomon. 
 
 " OF making many books there is no end," 
 
 Said the wise monarch of the olden time ; 
 
 Yet, through all ages and in every clime 
 Doth the pale seeker o er his studies bend, 
 The intellectual Numen to obey, 
 
 Eager and anxious still : still doth he toil 
 (Making the night familiar as the day) 
 
 To find the clew to loose the ravelled coil 
 To pierce the depth of things that hidden lie 
 
 The oil of life consumeth : this he knoweth, 
 Yet, with a feverish brow and streaming eye, 
 
 He seeks to find and patiently bestoweth 
 His midnight laborings in Wisdom s mine, [shine. 
 To win for earth the gems that midst its darkness 
 
 " Much study is a weariness. The sage 
 Who gave his mind, to seek and search until 
 
 He knew all wisdom, found that on the page 
 Knowledge and GrieTwere vow d companions still. 
 
 And so the students of a later day 
 Sit down among the records of old Time 
 To hold high commune with the thoughts sublime 
 
 Of minds long gone ; so they too pass away, 
 And leave us what? their course, to toil, reflect, 
 
 To feel the thorn pierce through ourgathered flowers, 
 Still midst the leaves the earth-worm to detect. 
 
 And this is knowledge : wisdom is not ours. 
 Oh ! well the Preacher bids his son admonished be, 
 That all the days of man s short life are vanity ! 
 
 THE PICTURE OF A DEPARTED POETESS. 
 
 THIS still, clear, radiant face ! doth it resemble 
 
 In each fair, faultless lineament thine own 1 
 Methinks on that enchanting lip doth tremble 
 
 The soul that breathes thy lyre s melodious tone. 
 The soul of music, oh ! ethereal spirit, 
 
 Fills the dream-haunted sadness of thine eyes ; 
 Sweet poetess ! thou surely didst inherit 
 
 Thy gifts celestial from the upper skies. 
 Clear on the expansion of that snow-white forehead 
 
 Sits intellectual beauty, meekly throned; 
 
 Yet oh, the expression tells that thou hast sorrowed, 
 And in thy yearning, human heart, atoned 
 
 For thy soul s lofty gifts ! on earth, oh never 
 Was the deep thirsting of thy bosom stilled ! 
 
 The " aching void" followed thce here for ever 
 The better land thy dream of love fulfilled. 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 ALL stainless in the holy white 
 
 Of her broad mantle, lo ! the maiden cometh 
 
 Lip, cheek, and brow, serenely bright, 
 
 With that calm look of deep delight. 
 
 Beautiful ! on the mountain-top she roameth. 
 
 " The soft gray of the brooding dove" 
 With melting radiance in her eye she weareth , 
 
 Her heart is full of trust and love- - 
 
 For an angel mission from above, 
 In tranquil beauty, o er the earth she beareth. 
 
 The music of humanity 
 Flows from her tuneful lips in sweetest numbers; 
 
 Of all life s pleasant ministries 
 
 Of universal harmonies 
 She sings : no care her mind encumbers. 
 
 Glad tidings doth she ever sound 
 Good will to man throughout the world is sending; 
 Blessings and gifts she scatters round : 
 Peace to her name, with whom is found 
 The olive branch, in holy beauty bending. 
 
 FLOWERS IN A SfCK ROOM. 
 
 YE are welcome to my darkened room, 
 
 meek and lonely wildwood flowers ! 
 Ye are welcome, as light amid the gloom 
 
 That hangs upon rny weary hours. 
 Here by my lowly couch of languishment and sorrow 
 Your station take, that I may from your presence bor- 
 Lessons of hope, and lowly trust, [row 
 
 That He whose touch revived youi bloom 
 Hath the same power o er this poor dust, 
 
 To raise it from the shadowy tomb ! 
 Thanks for your presence ! for ye bring 
 
 Back to the aching heart and eye 
 Bright visions of the festal Spring, 
 
 Its blossoms, birds, and azure sky. [tranged, 
 Now, far from each green haunt and sunny nook es- 
 Fading and faint, I lie ; yet in my heart unchanged 
 Glows the same love for you, fair flowers, 
 
 As when my unchained footsteps trod 
 Lightly amidst your forest bowers, 
 
 And plucked ye from the dewy sod ! 
 And THOU, who gavest these grateful flowers, 
 
 1 bless thee for thy thought of me ! 
 And that through long and painful hours 
 
 My vigils have been shared by thee. [faltered, 
 
 I bless thee for the kindness and care which ne er have 
 
 For the noble, loving heart that through ill remains 
 
 A little while, companion dear, [unaltered ! 
 
 And e en thy watchful care shall cease : 
 Oh, grieve not when the hour draws near. 
 But thank Heaven that it brlngeth peace ! 
 
EMELINE S. SMITH. 
 
 (Born 1X23). 
 
 Miss EMELINE SHERMAN, now MRS. SMITH, 
 was born in New Baltimore, Greene county, 
 New York, and in 1836 was married to Mr. 
 James M. Smith, of the New York bar. Mrs. 
 Smith has been a contributor to several of 
 the leading literary journals, and in 1847 
 she published a volume entitled The Fairy s 
 
 Search, and other Poems, in which she has 
 evinced considerable fancy, and a poetical 
 vein of sentiment. Her distinguishing char 
 acteristics are a religious delight in nature, 
 and a contentment with home affec;ions and 
 pleasures, which in one form or another aro 
 the materiel of the finest poetry of women 
 
 HYMN TO THE DEITY, 
 IN THE CONTEMPLATION OF NATURE. 
 
 TII or Giver of all earthly good 
 
 Thou wonder-working Power, 
 Whose spirit smiles in every star, 
 
 And breathes in every flower : 
 How gratefully we speak thy name 
 
 How gladly own thy sway ! 
 How thrillingly thy presence feel, 
 
 When mid thy works we stray ! 
 
 We may forget thee for a time, 
 
 In scenes with tumult rife, 
 Where worldly cares or pleasures claim 
 
 Too large a share of life ; 
 But not in Nature s sweet domain, 
 
 Where everything we see, 
 From loftiest mount to lowliest flower, 
 
 Is eloquent of thee. 
 
 Where waves lift up their tuneful voice, 
 
 And solemn anthems chime ; 
 Where winds through echoing forests peal 
 
 Their melodies sublime; 
 Where e en insensate objects breathe 
 
 Devotion s grateful lays 
 Man can not choose but join the choir 
 
 That hymns his Maker s praise. 
 
 Beneath the city s gilded domes, 
 
 In temples decked with care, 
 Where Art and Splendor vie to make 
 
 Thine earthly mansions fair, 
 Our forms mav lowly bend, our lips 
 
 May breathe a formal lay, 
 The whilst our wayward hearts refuse 
 
 These holy rites to pay. 
 
 But in that grander temple, reared 
 
 By thine Almighty band, 
 Where glorious beauty bids the mind s 
 
 Diviner powers expand, 
 ~)ur thoughts, like grateful vassals, give 
 
 An homage glad and free ; 
 
 Our souls in adoration bow, 
 And mutely reverence Thee. 
 
 WE VE HAD OUR SHARE OF BLISS 
 BELOVED. 
 
 WK VK had our share of bliss, beloved, 
 
 We ve had our share of bliss ; 
 And mid the varying scenes of life, 
 
 Let us remember this. 
 If sorrows come, from vanished joy 
 
 We ll borrow such a light 
 As the departed sun bestows 
 
 Upon the queen of night : 
 And thus, by Memory s moonbeams cheered, 
 
 Hope s sun we shall not miss, 
 But tread life s path as gay as when 
 
 We had our share of bliss. 
 
 Tis true our sky hath had its clouds, 
 
 Our spring its stormy hours 
 When we have mourned, as all must mourn, 
 
 O er blighted buds and flowers ; 
 And true, our bark hath sometimes neared 
 
 Despair s most desert shore, 
 When gloomy looked the waves around, 
 
 And dark the land before : 
 But Love was ever at the helm 
 
 He could not go amiss, 
 So Ion 2; as two fond spirits sang, 
 
 " We ve had our share of bliss." 
 
 These holy watchwords of the Past 
 
 Shall be the Future s stay 
 For by their magic aid we 11 keep 
 
 A host of i.ls at bay. 
 Our happv hearts, like tireless bees, 
 
 Have revelled mid the. flowers, 
 And hived a store of summer sweets 
 
 To cheer life s wintry hours : 
 While Memory lives, and Love remains, 
 
 We ll ask no more than this - 
 But ever sing, in grateful strains, 
 
 " We ve had our share of bliss." 
 2.10 
 
MAEGAEET FULLEE, MAECHIONESS D OSSOLL 
 
 (Born 1810-Died 1850). 
 
 THE MARCHIONESS D OSSOLT is known as a 
 prose writer. Her Woman in the Nineteenth 
 Century, Papers on Literature and Art, Sum 
 mer on the Lakes, etc., entitle her undoubt 
 edly to be ranked among the first authors of 
 her sex. I have recently re-read these works, 
 incited to do so by the apparent candor and 
 decided sagacity displayed in the Letters she 
 has written to The Tribune during her resi 
 dence in Europe ; and I confess some change 
 
 of opinion in her favor since writing the 
 article upon her in The Prose Writers of 
 America. Few can boast so wide a range 
 of liierary culture ; perhaps none Avrite so 
 well with as much facility ; and there is 
 marked individuality in all her productions. 
 As a poet, we have few illustrations of her 
 abilities ; but what we have are equal to her 
 reputation. She is said to have written much 
 more poetry than she has published. 
 
 GOVERNOR EVERETT RECEIVING THE 
 INDIAN CHIEFS, NOVEMBER, 1837. 
 
 WHO says that poesy is on the wane, 
 And that the Muses tune their lyres in vain 7 
 Mid all the treasures of romantic story, 
 When thought was fresh and fancy in her glory, 
 Has ever Art found out a richer theme, 
 More dark a shadow, or mo-re soft a gleam, 
 Than fall upon the scene, sketched carelessly, 
 In the newspaper column of to-day 1 
 
 American romance is somewhat stale. 
 Talk of the hatchet, and the faces pale, 
 Wampum and calumets, and forests dreary, 
 Once so attractive, now begins to weary. 
 Uncas and Magawisca please us still 
 Unreal, yet idealized with skill ; 
 But every poetaster, scribbling witling, 
 From the majestic oak his stylus whittling, 
 Has helped to tire us, and to make us fear 
 The monotone in which so much we hear 
 Of " stoics of the wood," and " men without a tear." 
 
 Yet Nature, ever buoyant, ever young, 
 If let alone, will sing as erst she sung : 
 The course of circumstance gives back again 
 The picturesque, erewhile pursued in vain 
 Shows us the fount of romance is not wasted, 
 The lights and shades of contrast not exhausted. 
 
 Shorn of his strength, the Samson now must sue 
 For fragments from the feast his fathers gave ; 
 The Indian dare not claim what is his due, . 
 But as a boon his heritage must crave : 
 His stately form shall soon be seen no more 
 Through all his father s land, th Atlantic shore; 
 Beneath the sun, to us so kind, they melt 
 More heavily each day our rule is felt : 
 The tale is old we do as mortals must ; 
 Might makes right here, but God and Time are just. 
 
 So near the drama hastens to its close, 
 On this last scene awhi e your eyes repose: 
 The polished Greek and Scythian meet again, 
 The ancient life is lived by modern men 
 
 The savage through our busy cities walks 
 He in his untouched grandeur silent stalks ! 
 Unmoved by all our gayeties and shows, 
 Wonder nor shame can touch him as he goes: 
 He gazes on the marvels we have wrought, 
 But knows the models from whence all was brought 
 In God s first temples he has stood so oft, 
 And listened to the natural organ loft [heard, 
 Has watched the eagle s fhght,the muttering thunder 
 Art can not move him to a wondering word: 
 Perhaps he sees that all this luxury 
 Brings less food to the mind than to the eye ; 
 Perhaps a simple sentiment has brought 
 More to him than your arts had ever taught. 
 What are the petty triumphs Art has given, 
 To eyes familiar with the naked heaven ? 
 
 All has been seen dock, railroad, and canal, 
 Fort, market, bridge, college, and arsenal, 
 Asylum, hospital, and cotton-mill. 
 The theatre, the lighthouse, and the jail. 
 The Braves each novelty, reflecting, saw, 
 And now and then growled out the earnest yaw ; 
 And now the time is come, tis understood, 
 When, having seen and thought so much, a talk 
 
 may do some good. 
 
 Awelldressed mobhavethrongedthesiijht togreet, 
 And motley figures throng the spacious street; 
 Majestical and calm through a!l they stride, 
 Wearing the blanket with a monarch s pride ; 
 The gazers stare and shrug, but can t deny 
 Their noble forms and blameless symmetry 
 If the Great Spirit their morale has slighted. 
 And wigwam smoke their mental culture blighted, 
 Yet the physique, at least, perfection reaches, 
 In wilds where neither Combe nor Spurzheim 
 
 teaches 
 
 Where whispering trees invite man to the chase, 
 And bounding deer allure him to the race. 
 
 Would thou hadst seen it ! That dark, stately 
 Whose ancestors enjoyed all this fair land, [band, 
 Whence they, by force or fraud, were made to flee, 
 Are brought, the whiN* man s victory to ee 
 251 
 
252 
 
 MARGARET FULLER, MARCHIONESS D OSSOLI. 
 
 Can kind emotions in their proud hearts glow, 
 As through these realms, now decked by art, the} 7 go? 
 The church, the school, the railroad, and the mart 
 Can these a pleasure to their minds impart 1 
 All once, was theirs earth, ocean, forest, sky 
 How can they joy in what now meets the eye ] 
 Not yet Re igion has unlocked the soul, 
 Nor each has learned to glory in the whole ! 
 
 Must they not think, so strange and sad their lot, 
 That they by the Great Spirit are forgot ] 
 From the far border to which they are driven, 
 They might look up in trust to the clear heaven ; 
 But here what tales doth every object tell 
 Where Massasoit sleeps where Philip fell ! 
 
 We take our turn, and the philosopher 
 Sees through the clouds a hand which can not err, 
 An unimproving race, with all their graces 
 And all their vices, must resign their places; 
 And human culture rolls its onward flood 
 Over the broad plains steeped in Indian blood. 
 Such thoughts steady our faith yet there will rise 
 Some natural tears into the calmest eyes 
 Which gaze where forest princes haughty go, 
 Made for a gaping crowd a raree show. 
 
 But this a scene seems where, in courtesy, 
 The pale face with the forest prince could vie, 
 For One presided who, for tact and grace, 
 In any age had held an honored place 
 In Beauty s own dear day, had shone a polished 
 
 Phidian vase ! 
 
 Oft have I listened to his accents bland, 
 And owned the magic of his silvery voice, 
 In all the graces which life s arts demand, 
 Delighted by the justness of his choice. 
 Not his the stream of lavish, fervid thought 
 The rhetoric by passion s magic wrought; 
 Not his the massive style, the lion port, 
 Which with the granite class of mind assort; 
 But, in a range of excellence his own, 
 With all the charms to soft persuasion known, 
 Amid our busy people we admire him "elegant 
 
 and lone." 
 
 He scarce needs words, so exquisite the skill 
 Which modulates the tones to do his will, 
 That the mere sound enough would charm the ear, 
 And lap in its Eiysium all who hear. 
 The intellectual paleness of his cheek, 
 
 The heavy eyelids, and slow, tranquil smile, 
 The well cut lips from which the graces speak, 
 
 Fit him alike to win or to beguile ; 
 Then those words so well chosen, fit, though few, 
 Their linked sweetness as our thoughts pursue, 
 We deem them spoken pearls, or radiant diamond 
 
 dew. 
 
 And never yet did I admire the power 
 Winch makes so lustrous every threadbare theme 
 Which won for Lafayette one other hour, 
 And e en on July fourth could cast a gleam 
 As now, when I beho .d him play the host 
 W r ith all the dignity which red men boast 
 With all the courtesy the whites have lost : 
 Assume the very hue of savage mind, 
 
 Yet in rude accents show the thought refined 
 
 Assume the naivete of infant age, 
 
 A nd in such prattle seem still more a sage , 
 
 The golden mean with tact unerring seized, 
 
 A courtly critic shone, a simple savage pleased; 
 
 The stoic of the woods his skill confessed, 
 
 As all the Father answered in his breast, 
 
 To the sure mark the silver arrow sped, 
 
 The man without a tear a tear has shed : 
 
 And thou hadst wept, had thou been there, to see 
 
 How true one sentiment must ever be, 
 
 In court or camp, the city or the wild, [child. 
 
 To rouse the father s heart, you need but name his 
 
 T was a fair scene and acted well by all : 
 So here s a health to Indian braves so tall 
 Our governor and Boston people all ! 
 
 THE SACRED MARRIAGE. 
 
 AXD has another s life as large a scope 1 
 It may give due fulfilment to thy hope, 
 And every portal to the unknown may ope. 
 If, near this other life, thy inmost feeling 
 Trembles with fateful prescience of revealing 
 The future Deity, time is still concealing : 
 If thou feel thy whole force drawn more and more 
 To launch that other bark on seas without a shore, 
 And no still secret must be kept in store 
 If meannesses that dim each temporal deed, 
 The dull decay that mars the fleshly weed, [seed 
 And flower of love that seems to fall and leave no 
 Hide never the full presence from thy sight 
 Of mutnal aims and tasks, ideals bright, [blight. 
 Which feed their roots to-day on all this seeming 
 Twin stars that mutual circle in the heaven, 
 Two parts for spiritual concord given 
 Twin sabbaths that inlock the sacred seven- 
 Still looking to the centre for the cause, 
 Mutual light giving to draw out the powers, 
 And learning all the other groups by cognizance of 
 
 one another s laws : 
 
 The parent love the wedded love includes, 
 The one permits the two their mutual moods, 
 The two each other know mid myriad multitudes; 
 With childlike intellect discerning love, 
 And mutual action energizing love, 
 In myriad forms affiliating love. 
 A world whose seasons bloom from pole to pole, 
 A force which knows both starting-point and goal. 
 A home in heaven the union in the soul. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 I. ORPHEUS. 
 
 EACH Orpheus must to the depths descend, 
 
 For only thus the poet can be wise, 
 Must make the sad Persephone his friend, 
 
 And buried love to second life arise ; 
 Again his love must lose through too much love 
 
 Must lose his life by living life too true, 
 For what he sought below is passed above, 
 
 Already done is all that he would do; 
 Must tune all being with his single lyre, 
 
 Must melt all rocks free from their primal pain, 
 Must search all Nature with his one soul s fire, 
 
 Must bind anew all forms in heavenly chain. 
 If he already sees what he must do, 
 "N Veil may he shade his eyes from the far-shining view 
 
MARGARET FULLER, MARCHIONESS D OSSOLI. 
 
 253 
 
 TI. INSTRUMENTAL MUSIC. 
 
 THK charms of melody, in simple airs, 
 
 By human voices sung, are always felt; 
 
 With thoughts responsive careless hearers melt, 
 Of secret ills, which our frail nature bears. 
 
 We listen, weep, forget. But when the throng 
 Of a great master s thoughts, above the reach 
 Of words or colors, wire and wood can teach 
 
 By laws which to the spirit-world belong 
 When several parts, to te I one mood combined, 
 
 Flash meaning on us we can ne er express, 
 Giving to matter subtlest powers of mind, 
 
 Superior joys attentive souls confess: 
 The harmony which suns and stars obey, [day. 
 Blesses our earthbound state with visions of supernal 
 
 III. BEETHOVEX. 
 
 MOST intellectual master of the art, 
 Which, best of all, teaches the mind of man 
 The universe in all its varied plan 
 
 What strangely mingled thoughts thy strains impart! 
 
 Here the faint tenor thrills the inmost heart, 
 There the rich bass the Reason s balance shows ; 
 Here breathes the softest sigh that Love e er knows; 
 
 There sudden fancies, seeming without chart, 
 Float into widest breezy interludes; 
 
 The ; ast is all forgot hopes sweetly breathe, 
 
 And our whole being glows when lo ! beneath 
 The flowery brink, Despair s deep sob concludes ! 
 
 Startled, we strive to free us from the chain 
 
 Notes of high triumph swell, and we are thine again ! 
 
 IV. MOZART. 
 
 IF to the intellect and passions strong 
 Beethoven speak, with such resistless power, 
 Making us share the full creative hour, 
 
 When his wand fixed wild Fancy s mystic throng, 
 
 Oh, Nature s finest lyre ! to thee belong 
 The deepest, softest tones of tenderness, 
 Whose purity the listening angels bless, 
 
 With silvery clearness of seraphic song. 
 
 Sad are those chords, oh heavenward striving soul ! 
 A love, which never found its home on earth, 
 Pensively vibrates, even in thy mirth, 
 
 And gentle laws thy lightest notes control ; 
 
 Yet dear that sadness ! spheral concords felt 
 
 Purify most those hearts which most they melt. 
 
 v. TO ALLSTON S PICTURE, "THE BRIDE." 
 
 NOT long enough we gaze upon that face, 
 
 Not pure enough the life with which we live, 
 To be full tranced by that softest grace, 
 
 To win all pearls those lucid depths can give ; 
 Here Fantasy has borrowed wings of Even, 
 
 And stolen Twilight s latest, sacred hues, 
 A soul has visited the woman s heaven, 
 
 Where palest lights a silver sheen diffuse. 
 To see aright the vision which he saw, 
 
 We must ascend as high upon the stair 
 Which leads the human thought to heavenly law, 
 
 And see the flower bloom in its natal air ; 
 Thus might we read aright the lip and brow, 
 Where Thought and Love beam too su! Juing for 
 our senses now. 
 
 TO EDITH, ON HER BIRTHDAY. 
 
 IF the same star our fates together bind, 
 
 W^hy are we thus divided, mind from mind 1 
 
 If the same law one grief to both impart, 
 
 How couldst thou grieve a trusting mother s heart 1 
 
 Our aspiration seeks a common aim, 
 
 Why were we tempered of such differing fratii ? 
 
 But tis too late to turn this wrong to right; 
 
 Too cold, too damp, too deep, has fallen the night ! 
 
 And yet, the angel of my life replies 
 
 " Upon that night a Morning Star shall rise, 
 
 Fairer than *hat which ruled the temporal birth, 
 
 Undimmed by vapors of the dreamy earth." 
 
 It says, that, where a heart thy claim denies, 
 
 Genius shall read its secret ere it flies; 
 
 The earthly form may vanish from thy side, 
 
 Pure love will make thee still the Spirit s bride. 
 
 And thou, ungentle, yet much-loving child, 
 
 Whose heart still shows the untamed haggard wild, 
 
 A heart which justly makes the highest claim, 
 
 Too easily is checked by transient blame; 
 
 Ere such an orb can ascertain its sphere, 
 
 The ordeal must be various and severe ; 
 
 My prayers attend thee, though the feet may fly, 
 
 I hear thy music in the silent sky. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN" IN ILLINOIS. 
 
 FAMILIAR to the chi dish mind were tales 
 
 Of rock-girt isles amid a desert sea, 
 Where unexpected stretch the flowery vales 
 
 To soothe the shipwrecked sailor s misery. 
 Fainting, he lay upon a sandy shore, 
 And fancied that all hope of life was o er ; 
 But let him patient climb the frowning wall, 
 Within, the orange glows beneath the palm tree tall, 
 And all that Eden boasted waits his call. 
 Almost these tales seem rea ized to-day, 
 When the long dullness of the sultry way, 
 Where independent settlers careless cheer 
 Made us indeed feel we were strangers here, 
 Is cheered by sudden sight of this fair spot, 
 On which improvement yet has made no blot, 
 But Nature all astonished stands, to find 
 Her plan protected by the human mind. 
 Blest be the kindly genius of the scene : 
 
 The river, bending in unbroken grace, 
 The stately thickets, with their pathways green, 
 
 Fair lonely trees, each in its fittest place. 
 Those thickets haunted by the deer and fawn ; 
 Those cloudlike flights of birds across the lawn; 
 The gentlest breezes here delight to blow, [the show. 
 And sun and shower and star are emulous to deck 
 Wondering, as Crusoe, we survey the land 
 Happier than Crusoe we, a friendly band : 
 Blest be the hand that reared this friendly homt., 
 The heart and mind of him to whom we owe 
 Hours of pure peace such as few mortals know, 
 May he find such, should he be led to roam 
 Be tended by such ministering sprites 
 Enjoy such gayly childish days, such hopeful nights 
 And yet, amid the goods to mortals given, 
 To give those goods again is most like Heaven 
 
254 
 
 MARGARET FULLER, MARCHIONESS D OSSOLI. 
 
 ON LEAVING THE WEST. 
 
 t.r,, ye soft and sumptuous solitudes ! 
 Ye fairy distances, ye lordly woods, 
 Haunted by paths like those that Poussin knew, 
 When after his all gazers eyes he drew: 
 I go and if I never more may steep 
 An eager heart in your enchantments deep, 
 Yet ever to itself that heart may say, 
 Be not exacting thou hast lived one day 
 Hast looked on that which matches with thy mood, 
 Impassioned sweetness of full being s flood, 
 Where nothing checked the bold yet gentle wave, 
 Where naught repelled the lavish love that gave. 
 A tender blessing lingers o er the scene, 
 Like some young mother s thought, fond, yet serene, 
 And through its life new born our lives have been. 
 Once more farewell a sad, a sweet farewell; 
 And if I never must behold you more, 
 In other worlds I will not cease to tell 
 The rosary I here have numbered o er; 
 And bright-haired Hope will lend a gladdened ear, 
 And Love will free him from the grasp of Fear, 
 And Gorgon critics, while the tale they hear, 
 Shall dew their stony glances with a tear, 
 If I but catch one echo from your spell : 
 And so farewell a grateful, sad farewell ! 
 
 GANYMEDE TO HIS EAGLE* 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A WORK OF THORWAI.DSEN S. 
 
 UPON- the rocky mountain stood the boy, 
 
 A goblet of pure water in his hand, 
 His face and form spoke him one made for joy, 
 
 A willing servant to sweet love s command ; 
 But a strange pain was written on his brow, 
 And thrilled throughout his silver accents now: 
 
 " My bird." he cries, " my destined brother friend, 
 
 Oh whither fleets to-day thy wayward flight ] 
 Hast thou forgotten that I here attend, 
 
 From the full noon until this sad twilight 1 
 A hundred times, at least, from the clear spring, 
 
 Since the full noon o er hill and valley glowed, 
 I ve filled the vase which our Olympian king 
 
 Upon my care for thy sole use bestowed ; 
 That, at the moment when thou shouldst descend, 
 A pure refreshment might thy thirst attend. 
 
 Hast th->u forgotten earth forgotten me, 
 
 Thy fellow bondsman in a royal cause, 
 Who, from the sadness of infinity, 
 
 Only with thee can know that peaceful pause 
 In which we catch the flowing strain of love 
 Which binds our dim fates to the throne of Jove 1 
 Before I saw thee I was like the May, 
 
 Longing for summer that must mar its bloom, 
 Or like the morning star that calls the day, 
 
 Whose glories to its promise are the tomb; 
 And as the eager fountain rises higher, 
 
 To throw itself more strongly back to earth, 
 Still, as more sweet and full rose my desire, 
 
 More fondly it reverted to its birth ; 
 
 Composed on the height called the Engle s NCR, Ore 
 gon. Rock River, July 4, 1813. 
 
 For, what the rosebud seeks tells not the rase 
 The meaning foretold by the boy the man can not 
 
 disclose. 
 I was all spring, for in my being dwelt 
 
 Eternal youth, where flowers are the fruit; 
 Full feeling was the thought of what was fel* 
 
 Its music was the meaning of the lute : 
 But heaven and earth such life will still deny, 
 For earth, divorced from heaven, still asks the ques 
 
 tion, Why 1 
 Upon the highest mountains my young feet 
 
 Ached, that no pinions from their lightness grew 
 My starlike eyes the stars would fondly greet, 
 
 Yet win no greeting from the circling blue ; 
 Fair, self-subsi.stent each in its own sphere, 
 
 They had no care that there was none for me : 
 Alike to them that I was far or near, 
 
 Alike to them, time and eternity. 
 But, from the violet of lower air, 
 
 Sometimes an answer to my wishing came, 
 Those lightning births my nature seemed to share, 
 
 They told the secrets of its fiery frame 
 The sudden messengers of hate and love, 
 The thunderbolts that arm the hand of Jove, 
 And strike sometimes the sacred spire, and strike 
 
 the sacred grove. 
 
 Come in a moment, in a moment gone, 
 They answered me, then left me still more lone ; 
 They told me that the thought which ruled the world 
 As yet no sail upon its course had furled, 
 That the creation was but just begun, 
 New leaves still leaving from the primal one, 
 But spoke not of the goal to which my rapid wheels 
 
 would run. 
 
 Still, still my eyes, though tearfully, I strained 
 To the far future which my heart contained, 
 And no dull doubt my proper hope profaned. 
 At last, oh bliss, thy living form I spied, 
 
 Then a mere speck upon a distant sky ; 
 Yet my keen glance discerned its noble pride, 
 
 And the full answer of that sun-filled eye : 
 I knew it was the wing that must upbear 
 My earthlier form into the realms of air. 
 Thou knovvest how we gained that beauteous height, 
 Where dwells the monarch of the sons of light, 
 Thou knowest he declared us two to be 
 The chosen servants of his ministry 
 Thou as his messenger, a sacred sign 
 Of conquest, or with omen more benign, 
 To give its due weight to the righteous cause, 
 To express the verdict of Olympian laws. 
 And I wait upon the lonely spring, 
 
 Which slakes the thirst of bards to whom tis given 
 The destined dues of hopes divine to sing, 
 
 And weave the needed chain to bind to heaven 
 Only from such could be obtained a draught 
 For him who in his early home from JoveV own 
 
 cup has quaffed. 
 
 To wait, to wait, but not to wait too long, 
 Till heavy grows the burthen of a song; 
 Oh bird ! too long hast thou been gone to-day, 
 My feet are weary of their frequent way 
 The spell that opes the spring my tongue no more 
 
MARGARET FULLER, MARCHIONESS D OSSOLI. 
 
 255 
 
 ff soon thou com st not, night will fall around, 
 My head with a sad slumber will be bound, 
 And the pure draught be spilt upon the ground. 
 Remember that I am not yet divine, 
 Long years of service to the fatal Nine 
 Are yet to make a Delphian vigor mine. 
 Oh, make them not too hard, thou bird of Jove, 
 Answer the stripling s hope, confirm his love, 
 Receive the service in which he delights, 
 And bear him often to the serene heights, 
 Where hands that were so prompt in serving thee, 
 Shall be allowed the highest ministry, 
 And Rapture live with bright Fide.ity. 
 
 LIFE A TEMPLE. 
 
 THE temple round 
 Spread green the pleasant ground ; 
 
 The fair colonnade 
 Be of pure marble pillars made ; 
 Strong to sustain the roof, 
 
 Time and tempest proof, 
 Yet amid which the lightest breese 
 Can play as it please : 
 The audience hall 
 Be free to all 
 Who revere 
 
 The Power worshipped here, 
 Sole guide of youth, 
 Unswerving Truth : 
 In the inmost shrine 
 Stands the image divine, 
 
 Only seen 
 By those whose deeds have worthy been 
 
 Priestlike clean. 
 Those, who initiated are, 
 Declare, 
 As the hours 
 
 Usher in varying hopes and powers ; 
 It changes its face, 
 It changes its age 
 Now a young beaming grace, 
 Now Nestorian sage : 
 But, to the pure in heart, 
 This shape of primal art 
 In age is fair, 
 In youth seems wise, 
 Beyond compare, 
 Above surprise : 
 What it teaches native seems, 
 
 Its new lore our ancient dreams ; 
 Incense rises from the ground, 
 
 Music flows around ; 
 
 Firm rest the feet below, clear gaze the eyes above, 
 When Truth to point the way through life assumes 
 
 the wand of Love ; 
 
 But. if she cast aside the robe of green, 
 Winter s silver sheen, 
 White, pure as light, 
 
 Makes gentle shroud- as worthy weed as bridal 
 robe had been. 
 
 ENCOURAGEMENT. 
 
 Foil the Power to whom we bow 
 Has given its pledge that, if not now, 
 They of pure and steadfast mind, 
 By faith exalted, truth refined, 
 Shall hear all music loud and clear, 
 Whose first notes they ventured here. 
 Then fear not thou to wind the horn, 
 Though elf and gnome thy courage scorn 
 Ask for the castle s king and queen 
 Though rabble rout may rush between, 
 Beat thee senseless to the ground, 
 in the dark beset thee round 
 Persist to ask and it will come, 
 Seek not for rest in humbler home : 
 So shalt thou see what few have seen, 
 The palace home of King and Queen. 
 
 GUNHILDA. 
 
 A MATHER bat beneath the tree, 
 Tear-bedewed her pale cheeks be 
 And she sigheth heavily. 
 
 From forth the wood into the light 
 A hunter strides with carol light, 
 And a glance so bold and bright. 
 
 He careless stopped and eyed the maid 
 " Why weepest thou!" he gently said, 
 " I love thee well be not afraid." 
 
 He takes her hand, and leads her on ; 
 She should have waited there alone, 
 For he was not her chosen one. 
 
 He leans her head upon his breast : 
 She knew twas not her home of rest, 
 But ah ! she had been sore distressed. 
 
 The sacred stars looked sadly down ; 
 The parting moon appeared to frown, 
 To see thus dimmed the diamond crown. 
 
 Then from the thicket starts a deer: 
 The huntsman, seizing on his spear, 
 Cries, " Maiden, wait thou for me here." 
 
 She sees him vanish into night, 
 
 She starts from sleep in deep affright, 
 
 For it was not her own true knight ! 
 
 Though but in dream Gunhilda failed, 
 Though but a fancied ill assailed, 
 Though she but fancied fault bewailed 
 Yet thought of day makes dream of night 
 She is not worthy of the knight. 
 The inmost altar burns not bright. 
 If loneliness thou canst not bear, 
 Can not the dragon s venom dare, 
 Of the pure meed thou shouldst despair. 
 Now sadder that lone maiden sighs, 
 Far bitterer tears profane her eyes,, 
 Crushed in the dust her heart s flower lie*. 
 
LYDIA JANE PE1RSON. 
 
 LYKTA JANE WHEELER, now Mrs. PEIR- 
 SON, was born in Middletown, Connecticut, 
 and when sixteen years of age removed with 
 her pa rents to Canandaigua, New York, where 
 she was soon after married. Her husband 
 purchased a tract of land in Liberty, Tioga 
 county, one of the wildest districts of north 
 ern Pennsylvania, and commenced there his 
 career as a pioneer farmer, five miles from 
 any other habitation, and nearly twenty from 
 any village. Mrs. Peirson appears to have 
 been ill fitted for such a life, but the solitude 
 of the forest was cheered by the presence of 
 the Muse, and for several years her contri 
 butions appeared frequently in The New- 
 Yorker, The Southern Literary Messenger, 
 and other periodicals. A pleasing incident 
 in her history is related in the following com 
 munication from a correspondent : " At a pe 
 riod when the best abilities of Pennsylvania 
 were active in recommending plans for the 
 general education of the people, Mr. Thad- 
 deus Stevens, now a member of Congress, 
 but then a representative in the state legis 
 lature, made a masterly speech upon the sub 
 ject, which was seconded by a spirited and 
 elegant poem that attracted general atten 
 tion. Judge Ellis Lewis, so well known as 
 one of our most accomplished jurists, was 
 deeply interested in the movement, and ac 
 
 tively engaged in efforts to induce its suc 
 cess. Pleased with the poem, he made in 
 quiries respecting its author, and learned that 
 her husband, by a series of misfortunes, had 
 been reduced to a condition of extreme pe 
 cuniary embarrassment, and that his family 
 was without a home. Meeting Mr. Stevens, 
 who is scarcely less known for his generosity 
 than for those splendid powers which have 
 raised him to so high a rank in his profes 
 sion and among the managers of affairs, he 
 communicated to him the circumstances, and 
 suggested that something should he done for 
 the relief of the poetess. Mr. Stevens au 
 thorized the judge to consult with Mrs. Peir 
 son, purchase for her such a farm as she 
 miijfht select, and draw on him for the cost. 
 Neither Judge Lewis nor Mr. Stevens had 
 ever seen her, but the former apprized her 
 of his commission, and the design was exe 
 cuted. She chose a beautiful little estate 
 which chanced to be in the market ; it was 
 purchased by Judge Lewis ; the deed, drawn 
 to Thaddeus Stevens in trust for Lydia Jane 
 Peirson and her heirs and assigns, was sent 
 to her ; and she now lives upon it in pleasant 
 independence." 
 
 Mrs. Peirson has published two volumes 
 of poems Forest Leaves, in 1845, and The 
 Forest Minstrel, in 1847. 
 
 MY SONG. 
 
 Tis not for fame 
 That I awaken with my simple lay 
 The echoes of the forest. I but sing 
 As sings the bird, that pours her native strain, 
 Because her soul is made of melody ; 
 And lingering in the bowers, her warblings seem 
 To gather round her all the tuneful forms [flowers, 
 Whose bright wings shook rich incense from the 
 And balmy verdure of the sweet young Spring, 
 O er which the glad Day shed his brightest smile, 
 And Night her purest tears. I do but sing 
 Like that sad bird who in her loneliness 
 Pours out in song the treasures of her soul, 
 Wbichelse would burst herbosom,which hasnaught 
 On which to lavish the warm streams that gush 
 Up fioin her trembling heart, and pours them foi h 
 Up<>u the sighing winds in fitful strains. 
 
 Perchance one pensive spirit loves the song, 
 And lingers in the twilight near the wood 
 To list her plaintive sonnet, which unlocks 
 The sealed fountain of a hidden grief. 
 That pensive listener, or some playful child, 
 May miss the lone bird s song, what time her wings 
 Are folded in the calm and silent sleep, 
 Above her broken heart. Then, though they weep 
 In her deserted bower, and hang rich wreaths 
 Of ever-living flowers upon her grave, 
 What will it profit her who would have slept 
 As deep and sweet without them ? 
 
 Oh ! how vain 
 
 With promised garlands for the sepulchre, 
 To think to cheer the soul, whose daily prayer 
 Is but for bread and peace ! whose trembling hopes 
 For immortality ask one green leaf 
 From off the healing trees that grow beside 
 The pure, bright river of Eternal Life. 
 255 
 
LVDIA JANE PEIRSON. 
 
 257 
 
 MY MUSE. 
 
 BORN of the sunlight and the dew, 
 
 That met amongst the flowers, 
 That on the river margin grew 
 
 Beneath the willow bowers ; 
 Her earliest pillow was a wreath 
 
 Of violets newly blown, 
 And the meek incense of their breath 
 
 At once became her own. 
 
 Her cradle-hymn the river sung, 
 
 In that same liquid tone 
 With which it gave, when Earth was young, 
 
 Praise to the Living One. 
 The breeze that lay upon its breast 
 
 Responded with a sigh ; 
 And there the ring-dove built her nest 
 
 And sung her lullaby. 
 
 The only nurse she ever knew 
 
 W T as Nature, free and wild : 
 Such was her birth, and so she grew 
 
 A moody, wayward child, 
 W T ho loved to climb the rocky steep, 
 
 To ford the mountain-stream, 
 To lie beside the sounding deep, 
 
 And weave the magic drearn. 
 
 She loved the path with shadows dim, 
 
 Beneath the dark-leaved trees, 
 Where Nature s winged poets sing 
 
 Their sweetest melodies ; 
 To dance amongst the pensile stems 
 
 Where blossoms bright and sweet 
 Threw diamonds from their diadems 
 
 Upon her fairy feet. 
 
 She loved to watch the day-star float 
 
 Upon the aerial sea, 
 Till Morning sunk his pearly boat 
 
 In floods of radiancy ; 
 To see the angel of the storm 
 
 Upon his wind-winged car, 
 With dark clouds wrapped around his form, 
 
 Come shouting from afar ; 
 
 And pouring treasures rich and free, 
 
 The pure, refreshing rain, 
 Till every weed and forest-tree 
 
 Could boast its diamond chain : 
 Then rising, with the hymn of praise, 
 
 That swelled from hill and dale, 
 Display the rainbow, sign of peace, 
 
 Upon its misty veil. 
 
 She loved the waves deep utterings 
 
 And gazed with phrensied eye 
 When Night shook lightning from his wings, 
 
 And winds went sobbing by. 
 Full oft I chid the wayward child, 
 
 Her wanderings to restrain ; 
 And sought her airy limbs to bind 
 
 With Caution s worldly chain. 
 
 I bade her stay within my cot, 
 
 And plv the housewife s art: 
 She heard me, but she heeded not 
 
 Oh, who can bind the heart ! 
 17 
 
 I told her she had none to guide 
 
 Her inexperienced feet 
 To where, through Tempe s valley, glide 
 
 Castalia s waters sweet ; 
 
 No son of Fame, to take her hand 
 
 And lead her blushing forth, 
 Proclaiming to the laurelled band 
 
 A youthful sister s worth ; 
 That there were none to help her climb 
 
 The steep and toilsome way, 
 To where, above the mists of Time, 
 
 Shines Genius living ray ; 
 
 W 7 here, wreathed with never-fading flowers, 
 
 The harp immortal lies, 
 Filling the souls that reach those bowers 
 
 With heavenly melodies. 
 I warned her of the cruel foes 
 
 That throng that rugged path, 
 Where many a thorn of misery grows, 
 
 And tempests wreak their wrath. 
 
 I told her of the serpents dread, 
 
 With malice-pointed fangs, 
 Of yellow-blossomed weeds that shed 
 
 Derision s maddening pangs ; 
 And of the broken* mouldering lyres 
 
 Thrown carelessly aside, 
 Telling the winds, with shivering wires, 
 
 How noble spirits died ! 
 
 I said, her sandals were not meet 
 
 Such journey to essay 
 (There should be gold beneath the feet 
 
 That tempt Fame s toilsome way :) 
 But while I spoke, her burning eye 
 
 Was flashing in the light 
 That shone upon that mountain high, 
 
 Insufferably b ight. 
 
 While streaming from the Eternal Lyre, 
 
 Like distant echoes came 
 A strain that wrapped her soul in fire, 
 
 And thrilled her trembling frame. 
 She sprang away, that wayward child 
 
 " The harp ! the harp !" she cried ; 
 And still she climbs and warbles wild 
 
 Along the mountain-side. 
 
 TO AN AEOLIAN HARP. 
 
 THOU Vr like my heart, thou shivering string 
 
 Of wild and plaintive tone; 
 Thrilled by the slightest zephyr s wing, 
 
 That over thee is thrown ; 
 Replying with melodious wail 
 
 To every passing sigh, 
 And pouring to the fitful gale 
 
 Wild bursts of harmony. 
 Still by the tempest s torturing power 
 
 Thy loftiest notes are rung, 
 And in the stormy midnight horn 
 
 Thy holiest hymns are sung. 
 Thou rt like my heart, thou trembling string 
 
 That lovest the gentle breeze 
 Yet yieldest to the tempest-king 
 
 Thy loftiest melodies. 
 
258 
 
 LYDIA JANE PEIRSOA. 
 
 TO THE WOOD RORIX. 
 
 Bnu) of the twilight hour! 
 
 My soul goes forth to mingle with thy hvmn, 
 Which floats like slum her round each closing flower, 
 
 And weaves sweet visions through the forest dim. 
 
 Where Day s sweet warblers rest, 
 
 Each gently rocking on the waving spray, 
 
 Or hovering the dear fledglings in the nest 
 Without one care-pang for the coming day. 
 
 Oh, holy bird, and sweet 
 
 Angel of this dark forest, whose rich notes 
 Gush like a fountain in the still retreat, 
 
 O er which a world of mirrored beauty floats : 
 
 My spirit drinks the stream, 
 
 Till human caves and passions fade away ; 
 And all my soul is wrapped in one sweet dream 
 
 Of blended love, and peace, and melody. 
 
 Sweet bird ! that wakest alone 
 
 The moonlight echoes of the flowery dells, 
 When every other winged lute is flown, 
 
 And insects sleeping all in nodding bells; 
 I bow my aching head, 
 
 And wait the unction of thy voice of love : 
 I feel it o er my weary spirit shed, 
 
 Like dew from balmy flowers that bloom above. 
 Oh ! when the loves of earth 
 
 Are silent birds, at close of life s long day, 
 May some pure seraphim of heavenly birth 
 
 Bear on its holy hymn my soul away ! 
 
 THE WILD-WOOD HOME. 
 
 On, show me a place like the wild-wood home, 
 
 Where the air is fragrant and free, 
 And the first pure breathings of morning come 
 
 In a gush of melody. 
 She lifts the soft fringe from her dark-blue eye 
 
 With a radiant smile of love, 
 And the diamonds that o er her bosom lie 
 
 Are bright as the gems above ; 
 
 Whore Noon lies down in the breezy shade 
 
 Of the glorious forest bowers, 
 And the beautiful birds from the sunny glades 
 
 Sit nodding amongst the flowers, 
 W T hile the holy child of the mountain-spring 
 
 Steals past with a murmured song, 
 And the honey-bees sleep in the bells that swing 
 
 Its garlanded banks along ; 
 
 Where Day steals away with a young bride s blush, 
 
 To the soft green couch of Night, 
 And the Moon throws o er with a ho y hush 
 
 Her curtain of gossamer light; 
 And the seraph that sings in the hemlock dell, 
 
 Oh, sweetest of birds is she, 
 Fills the dewy breeze with a trancing swell 
 
 Of melody rich and free. 
 
 Theie are sumptuous mansions with marble wails, 
 
 Surmounted by glittering towers, 
 When- fountains play in the perfumed halls 
 
 .Amongst exotic flowers. 
 
 They are suitable homes for the haughty in mind, 
 Yet a wild-wood home for me, [wind, 
 
 Where the pure bright streams, and the mountain- 
 And the bounding heart, are free ! 
 
 ISABELLA. 
 
 FROM "OCKAN MELODIES." 
 
 I* what fair grotto of the deep-green sea 
 
 Where rich festoons of sea-flowers darkly wave, 
 From trees of brilliant coral, that enwreathe 
 
 Their priceless branches through the marble cave; 
 Where rings for evermore the solemn knell 
 Of tinkling waters in the tuneful shell; 
 Where pensive sea-maids come in groups to weep, 
 Dost thou, my precious Isabella, sleep ] 
 Thou beautiful enchantment! thou wert like 
 
 A delicately wrought transparency, 
 Through which all angel-forms of tenderness 
 
 Shone in the light of maiden purity ; 
 Thy cheek was Love s pure altar, where he laid 
 With playful hand his roses pale and red, 
 While bathing in thine eyes of liquid blue, 
 By full-fringed curtains half concealed from view. 
 Spring has no blossom fairer than thy form ; 
 
 Winter no snow-wreath purer than thy mind ; 
 The dewdrop trembling to the morning beam 
 
 Is like thy smile, pure, transient, heaven-refined : 
 But ever o er thy soul a shadow lay, 
 Stiil more apparent in the sunniest day ; 
 And ever when to bliss thy heart beat high, 
 The swell subsided in a plaintive sigh. 
 When I would speak of bliss, thou wouldst reply, 
 
 " Hush ! for I feel that all our hopes are vain ; 
 Some spirit whispers that I soon must die, 
 
 And every thrill of hope is mixed with pain." 
 At length fhy drooping form did prove too well 
 That there was poison in life s failing well ; 
 And then we sought youth s freshness to renew 
 Beneath a sky of softer sun and dew. 
 We journeyed with thee many a mournful day, 
 
 Till thou wert weary of the fruitless toil, 
 And prayed that we would take our homeward way 
 
 That thou mightst slumber in thy native soil. 
 I knelt and clasped thee in a wild embrace, 
 Concealing in thy robes my anguished face; 
 Yet sti.l thy snowy shoulder felt my tears, 
 And still thine ^Eolian voice was in mine ears. 
 I felt thy presence and the veil of life 
 
 Was still between the coffin-scene and me ; 
 And Hope and Skill maintained their anxious strife, 
 
 Contending strongly with stern Destinv. 
 But when I saw thee dead, and felt the chill 
 Of thy white hand, so nerveless and so still, 
 When as my tears fell on thy lovely face 
 There was no voice, no smile, no consciousness ! 
 And when I saw thy form so fair, so pure, 
 
 So dear, so precious cast into the sea, 
 God of mercy how did I endure 
 
 The torture of that fearful agony ? 
 Oh, peerless sleeper ! down in the deep sea 
 My heart is in that billowy world with thee; 
 And still my spirit lingers on the wave 
 That rolls between my bosom and thy grave, 
 
LYDIA JANE PEIRSON. 
 
 259 
 
 SUNSET IN THE FOREST. 
 
 COME now unto the forest, and enjoy 
 The loveliness of Nature. Look abroad 
 And note the tender beauty and repose 
 Of the magnificent in earth and sky. 
 See what a radiant smile of golden light 
 O erspreads the face of heaven ; while the west 
 Bums like a living ruby in the ring 
 Of the deep green horizon. Now the shades 
 Are deepening round the feet of the tall trees, 
 Bending the head of the pale blossoms down 
 Upon their mother s bosom, where the breeze 
 Comes with a low, sweet hymn and balmy kiss, 
 To lull them to repose. Look now, and see 
 How every mountain, with its leafy plume, 
 Or rocky helm, with crest of gianl pine, 
 Is veiled with floating amber, and gives back 
 The loving smile of the departing sun, 
 And nods a calm adieu. Hark ! from the dell 
 "Where sombre hemlocks sigh unto the streams, 
 Which with its everlasting harmony 
 Returns each tender whisper, what a gush 
 Of liquid melody, like soft, rich tones 
 Of flute and viol, mingling in sweet strains 
 Of love and rapture, float away toward heaven ! 
 T is the ^Edoleo, from her sweet place 
 Singing to Nature s God the perfect hymn 
 Of Nature s innocence. Does it not seem 
 That Earth is listening to that evening song 1 
 There s such a hush on mountain, plain, and streams. 
 Seems not the Sun to linger in his bower 
 On yonder leafy summit, pouring forth 
 His glowing adoration unto God, 
 Blent with that evening hymn, while every flower 
 Bows gracefully, and mingles with the strain 
 Its balmy breathing ? Have you looked on aught 
 In all the panoply and bustling pride 
 Of the dense city with its worldly throng, 
 So soothing, so delicious to the soul, 
 So like the ante-chamber of high heaven, 
 As this old forest, with the emerald crown 
 Which it has worn for ages, glittering 
 With the bright halo of departing day. 
 While from its bosom living seraphim 
 Are hymning gratitude and love to God 1 
 
 THE LAST PALE FLOWERS. 
 
 TiiE last pale flowers are drooping on the stems, 
 
 The last sere leaves fall fluttering from the tree, 
 The latest groups of Summer s flying gems 
 
 Are hymning forth a parting melody. 
 The wings are heavy-winged and linger by, 
 
 W T hispering to every pale and sighing leaf; 
 The sunlight fal s all dim and tremblingly, 
 
 Like love s fond farewell through the mist of grief. 
 There is a dreamy presence everywhere, 
 
 As if of spirits passing to and fro ; 
 We almost hear their voices in the air, 
 
 And feel their balmy pinions touch the brow. 
 We feel as if a breath might put aside 
 
 The shadowy curtains of the spirit-land, 
 Revealing all the loved and glorified 
 
 That Death has taken from Affection s band. 
 
 We call their names, and listen for the sound 
 
 Of their sweet voices tender melodies ; 
 We look almost expectantly around 
 
 For those dear faces with the loving eyes. 
 We feel them near us, and spread out the scroll 
 
 Of hearts whose feelings they were wont to share, 
 That they may read the constancy of soul 
 
 And all the high, pure motives written there. 
 And then we weep, as if our cheek were pressed 
 
 To Friendship s holy, unsuspecting heart, 
 Which understands our own. Oh, vision blest 
 
 Alas, that such illusions should depart! 
 I oft have prayed that Death may come to me 
 
 In such a spiritual, autumnal day ; 
 For surely it would be no agony 
 
 With all the beautiful to pass away. 
 
 TO THE \VOODS. 
 
 CO>TE to the woods in June 
 
 Tis happiness to rove 
 When Nature s lyres are all in tune, 
 
 And life all full of love 
 
 While from the dewy dells, 
 
 And every wildwood bower, 
 A thousand little feathered bells 
 
 Ring out the matin hour. 
 
 Come when the sun is high, 
 
 And earth all full in bloom, 
 When every passing summer sigh 
 
 Is languid with perfume ; 
 When by the mountain-brook 
 
 The watchful red-deer lies, 
 And spotted fawns in mossy nook 
 
 Have closed their wild, bright eyes , 
 While from the giant tree, 
 
 Arid fairy of the sod, 
 A dreamy wind-harp melody 
 
 Speaks to the soul of God 
 Whose beauteous gifts of love 
 
 The passing hours unfold, 
 Till e en the sombre hemlock-boughs 
 
 Are tipped with fringe of gold. 
 
 Come when the sun is set, 
 
 And see along the west 
 Heaven s glory streaming through the gate 
 
 By which he passed to rest; 
 While brooklets, as they flow 
 
 Beneath the cool, sweet bowers, 
 Sing fairy legends soft and low 
 
 To groups of listening flowers ; 
 And creeping, formless shades 
 
 Make distance strange and dim, 
 And with the daylight softly fades 
 
 The wild-bird s evening hymn. 
 
 Come when the woods are dark, 
 
 And winds go fluttering by, 
 While here and there a phantom bark 
 
 Floats in the deep blue sky; 
 While gleaming far away 
 
 Bevond the aerial flood, 
 Lies in its starry majesty 
 
 The city of our God. 
 
JANE T. WORT KING TON. 
 
 (Pied 1*47). 
 
 JANE TAYLOE LOMAX, a daughter of the 
 late Colonel Lomax of the United States 
 army, was a native of Virginia, and was con 
 nected with several of the most distinguished 
 families of that state. She was educated in 
 different parts of the country, as the exigen 
 cies of the military service led to changes 
 of residence by her father, and her large op 
 portunities were improved by a genial inter 
 course with various society, and a minute 
 and loving observation of nature. Her affec 
 tions, however, always centred in the "Old 
 Dominion," and nearly all her productions 
 appeared in the Southern Literary Messen 
 
 ger, which was edited by a personal friend, at 
 Richmond. She excelled most in the essay, 
 and there are few better illustrations of wo 
 manly feeling and intelligence than may be 
 found in her numerous compositions of this 
 kind, which were written in the four or five 
 years of her literary life. Her poems, sim 
 ple, graceful, and earnest, are reflections of 
 a character eminently truthful, refined, and 
 pleasing. She was married, in 1843, to F. 
 A.Worthington, M. D., of Ohio, and she died, 
 lamented by a wide circle of literary and per 
 sonal friends, in 1847. No collection of her 
 works has been published. 
 
 TO THE PEAKS OF OTTER. 
 
 FAIR are the sunset hues, thy dark brow blessing, 
 
 Oh mountain, with their gift of golden rays ; 
 And the few floating clouds, thy crest caressing, 
 
 Seem guardian angels to my raptured gaze : 
 [ have looked on thee through the saddest tears 
 
 That ever human sorrow taught to flow, 
 And thou wilt come, in life s recalling years, 
 
 Linked with the memory of my deepest wo. 
 
 Yet well I love thee, in thy silent mystery, 
 
 Thy purple shadows and thy glowing light 
 Thou art to me a most poetic history 
 
 Of stillest beauty and of stormiest might : 
 I owe thee, oh, sublime and solemn mountain, 
 
 For many hours of vision and of thought, 
 Forpleasantdraughtsfrom fancy s gushing fountain, 
 
 For bright illusions by thy presence brought. 
 
 And more I thank thee, for the deeper learning 
 
 That soothes my spirit as I look on thee, 
 For thou hast laid upon my soul s wild yearning 
 
 The holy spell of thy tranquillity : 
 I shall recall thee with a long regretting, 
 
 And often pine to see thy brow, in vain, 
 While Thought, returning, fond and unforgetting, 
 
 Will trace thy form in glory-tints again. 
 
 And thou, in thine experience, all material, 
 
 Wilt never know how worshipped thou hast been ; 
 No glimpses of the life that is ethereal 
 
 Shadow thy face, eternally serene ! 
 Thou hasl not felt the impulse of resistance 
 
 Thy lot has linked thee with the earth alone: 
 Thou art no traveller to a new existence, 
 
 Thou hast no future to be lost or won. 
 
 The past for thee contains no bitter fountain 
 Thou bast no onward mission to fulfil : 
 
 And I would learn from thee, oh silent mountain, 
 All things enduring, to be tranquil still ! 
 
 And now, with that fond reverence of feeling 
 We owe whatever wakes our loftiest thought, 
 
 I can but offer thee, in faint revealing, 
 These idle thanks for all that thou hast brought. 
 
 LINES 
 
 TO ONE WHO WILL UNDERSTAND THEM. 
 
 I HAVE been reading, tearfully and sadly, 
 
 The lines we read together long ago, 
 When our experience glided on so gladly, 
 
 We loved to linger o er poetic wo. 
 \Ve both have changed : our souls at last are finding 
 
 Their destiny in silence to endure ; 
 And the strong ties, our best affections binding, 
 
 Are not the dreamlike ones our hearts once wore. 
 
 We live no longer in a world elysian, 
 
 With life s deep sorrowing still a thing to test; 
 And we have laid aside a vanished vision 
 
 The hope once wildly treasured as our best. 
 Yet though the tie that then our thoughts united 
 
 Lies severed now, a bright but broken chain 
 Though other love hath lavishly requited 
 
 That early one, so passionate and vain 
 
 Still, as I read the lines we read together, 
 
 Now hallowed by our parting s bitter tears, 
 As mournfully my spirit questions, Whither 
 
 Have gone the sweet illusions of those years ! 
 I close the book, such vain remembrance bringing 
 
 Of all that now twere wiser to forget : 
 Say, are your thoughts, like mine, still idly clinging 
 
 To those old times of rapture and regret I 
 
JANE T. WORTHINGTON. 
 
 2fil 
 
 MOONLIGHT ON THE GRAVE. 
 
 IT shineth on the quiet graves 
 
 Where weary ones have gone, 
 It watcheth with angelic gaze 
 
 Where the dead are left alone ; 
 And not a sound of busy life 
 
 To the still graveyard comes, 
 But peacefully the sleepers lie 
 
 Down in their silent homes. 
 
 All silently and solemnly 
 
 It throweth shadows round, 
 And every gravestone hath a trace 
 
 In darkness on the ground : 
 It looketh on the tiny mound 
 
 Where a little child is laid, 
 And it lighteth up the marble pile 
 
 Which human pride hath made. 
 
 It falleth with unaltered ray 
 
 On the simple and the stern, 
 And it showeth with a solemn light 
 
 The sorrows we must learn ; 
 It telleth of divided ties 
 
 On which its beam hath shone, 
 It whispereth of heavy hearts 
 
 Which " brokenly live on." 
 
 It gleameth where devoted ones 
 
 Are sleeping side by side, 
 It looketh where the maiden rests 
 
 Who in her beauty died. 
 There is no grave in all the earth 
 
 That moonlight hath not seen ; 
 It gazeth cold and passionless 
 
 Where agony hath been. 
 
 Yet it is well : that changeless ray 
 
 A deeper thought should throw, 
 When mortal love pours forth the tide 
 
 Of unavailing wo ; 
 It teacheth us no shade of grief 
 
 Can touch the starry sky, 
 That all our sorrow liveth here 
 
 The glory is on high ! 
 
 THE CHILD S GRAVE. 
 
 IT is a place where tender thought 
 
 Its voiceless vigil keepeth ; 
 It is a place where kneeling love, 
 
 Mid all its hope, still weepeth : 
 The vanished light of all a life 
 
 That tiny spot encloseth, 
 Where, followed by a thousand dreams. 
 
 The little one reposeth. 
 
 It is a place where thankfulness 
 
 A tearful tribute giveth : 
 That one so pure hath left a world 
 
 Where so much sorrow liveth 
 Where trial, to the heavy heart, 
 
 Its constant cross presenteth, 
 And every hour some trace retains 
 
 For which the soul reperiteth. 
 
 It is a place for Hope to rise, 
 
 While other brightness waneth, 
 And from the darkness of the grave 
 
 To learn the gift it gaineth 
 From Him who wept, as on the earth 
 
 Undying love still weepeth 
 From Him who spoke the blessed words, 
 
 " She is not dead, but sleepeth." 
 
 THE POOR. 
 
 HAVE pity on them ! for their life 
 
 Is full of grief and care : 
 You do not know one half the woes 
 
 The very poor must bear; 
 You do not see the silent tears 
 
 By many a mother shed, 
 As childhood offers up the prayer, 
 
 " Give us our daily bread." 
 
 And sick at heart, she turns away 
 
 From the small face, wan with pain, 
 And feels that prayer has long been said 
 
 By those young lips in vain. 
 You do not see the pallid cheeks 
 
 Of those whose years are few, 
 But who are old in all the griefs 
 
 The poor must struggle through. 
 
 Their lot is made of misery 
 
 More hopeless day by day, 
 And through the long cold winter nights 
 
 Nor light nor fire have they ; 
 But little children, shivering, crouch 
 
 Around the cheerless hearth, 
 Their young hearts weary with the want 
 
 That drags the soul to earth. 
 
 Oh, when with faint and languid voice 
 
 The poor implore your aid, 
 It matters not how, step by step, 
 
 Their misery was made ; 
 It matters not, if shame had left 
 
 Its shadow on their brow 
 It is enough for you to see 
 
 That they are suffering now. 
 
 Deal gently with these wretched ones, 
 
 Whatever wrought their wo, 
 For the poor have much to tempt and test 
 
 That you can never know : 
 Then judge them not, for hard indeed 
 
 Is their dark lot of care ; 
 Let Heaven condemn, but human hearts 
 
 With human faults should bear. 
 
 And when within your happy homes 
 
 You hear the voice of mirth, 
 W r hen smiling faces brighten round 
 
 The warm and cheerful hearth, 
 Let charitable thoughts go forth 
 
 For the sad and homeless one, 
 And your own lot more blest will be, 
 
 For every kind deed done. 
 Now is the time the very poor 
 
 Most often meet your gaze 
 Have mercy on them, in these cold 
 
 And melancholy days. 
 
262 
 
 JANE T. WORTHINGTON. 
 
 SLEEP. 
 
 " He giveth liis beloved sleep." 
 
 IT visitelh the desolate, 
 
 Who hath no friend beside, 
 And bringeth peace to saddened souls 
 
 Whose hope, deferred, had died : 
 It layeth its caressing hand 
 
 Upon the brow of care, 
 And calleth to the faded lips 
 
 The smile they used to wear. 
 
 And lovely is the angel light 
 
 Of a little child s repose, 
 The holiest and the sweetest rest 
 
 Our human nature knows 
 Such rest as can not close the eyes 
 
 Grown old with many tears, 
 That never soothes the pilgrim path 
 
 Of life s dejected years. 
 
 " He giveth his beloved sleep !" 
 
 All thanks for such a boon, 
 And thanks, too, for the deeper sleep 
 
 That will be with us soon 
 From which our long o erladen hearts 
 
 Shall wake to pain no more, 
 But find fulfilled the fairest thoughts 
 
 They only dreamed before ! 
 
 TO TWILIGHT. 
 
 PALE Memory s favored child thou art, 
 And many dreams are thine ; 
 
 With thine existence, all the past 
 Returning seems to twine. 
 
 Thou bringest to the souls bereaved 
 The look and tone they miss; 
 
 Thou callest from another world 
 The best beloved of this. 
 
 Thou comest like a veilr-d nun, 
 With footstep sad and slow ; 
 Thou summonest the solemn prayer 
 From heart and lip to flow. 
 
 Thou givest to fantastic things 
 
 A real shape and hue, 
 And thou canst, like a poet s dream, 
 
 Idealize the true. 
 
 Oh, if thy coining thus recalls 
 
 The past upon our sight, 
 How must the guilty shrink from thee, 
 
 Thou sad and solemn -light ! 
 
 How must the hard and hopeless heart 
 
 Thy mystic power repel 
 What fearful fantasies must fill 
 
 The convict s haunted cell ! 
 
 How must his young and better days 
 
 Upon his visions dawn 
 How bitterly that ruined soul 
 
 Must mourn its brightness gone ! 
 
 Oh, often at thy thoughtful hour, 
 
 Beside the happy hearth, 
 My busy fancy flies to these, 
 
 The lost ones of the earth. 
 
 A voice amid their solitude 
 
 Is sounding evermore 
 God help them in that loneliness 
 
 So fearful to endure ! 
 
 THE WITHERED LEAVES. 
 
 THEY are falling thick and rapidly, 
 
 Before the autumn breeze, 
 And a sudden sound of mournfulness 
 
 Is heard among the trees, 
 Like a wailing for the scattered leaves, 
 
 So beautiful and bright, 
 Thus dying in their sunny hues 
 
 Of loveliness and light. 
 
 The wind that wafts them to their doom 
 
 Is the same that swept along 
 In the freshness of their summer-time, 
 
 And blessed them with its song : 
 That voice is still the merry one 
 
 That mid the sunshine fell 
 Ye are not missed, ye glowing leave*, 
 
 By the friend ye loved so well. 
 
 But yet, no fearful fate is yours, 
 
 No shuddering at decay, 
 No shrinking from the blighting gust 
 
 That bears your life away : 
 The spring-tide, with its singing birds*, 
 
 Hath long ago gone by 
 Ye had your time to bloom and live, 
 
 Ye have your time to die. 
 
 Oh, would that we, the sadder ones, 
 
 Who linger on the earth, 
 Like ye might wither when our lives 
 
 Had parted with their mirth : 
 Ye glow with beauty to the last, 
 
 And brighten with decay, 
 Ye know not of the mental war 
 
 That wears the heart away. 
 
 Ye have no memories to recall, 
 
 No sorrows to lament, 
 No secret weariness of soul 
 
 With all your pleasures blent: 
 To us alone the lot is cast, 
 
 To think, to love, to feel 
 Alas ! how much of human wo 
 
 Those few brief words reveal ! 
 
SARAH ANNA LEWIS. 
 
 (Born 1824). 
 
 Mrss ROBINSON, now Mrs. LEWIS, is a na 
 tive of Baltimore. She inherits from her 
 fatner, who was a Cuban, of English and 
 Spanish parentage, and a man of liberal for 
 tune and cultivated understanding, the mel 
 ancholy temperament which is illustrated in 
 the greater part of her writings. After be 
 ing carefully educated in part at the cele 
 brated school of Mrs. Willard, in Troy she 
 was married to Mr. L. D. Lewis, an attorney 
 and counsellor, wrn soon after removed to 
 Brooklyn, where they have since resided. 
 
 The earliest writings of Mrs. Lewis ap 
 peared in the Family Magazine, edited by 
 the well-known Solomon Suuthwick, of Al 
 bany. She came more prominently before 
 the public in Records of the Heart, published 
 in New York in 1844. The principal poems 
 in this volume Florence, Zenel, Melpome 
 ne, and Laone are of considerable length, 
 and of a more rrmbitious design than most of 
 the compositions of our female poets. That 
 they evince fancy and an ear sensitive to har 
 mony, will be understood from the following 
 lines of Florence : 
 
 The waves are smooth, the wind is calm ; 
 
 Onward the golden stream is gliding, 
 Amid the myrtle and ihe palm, 
 
 And ilices its margin hiding; 
 Now sweeps it o er the jutting shoals 
 In murmurs like despairing souls; 
 Now deeply, softly, flows along 
 Like ancient minstrels warbled song; 
 Then slowlv, darkly, thoughtfully, 
 Loses itself in the mighty sea. 
 The sky is clear, the stars are bright, 
 The moon reposes on her light ; 
 On many a budding, fairy blossom, 
 
 Are glittering Evening s dewy tears, 
 As gleam the gems on Beauty s bosom 
 
 When she in festal garb appears. 
 
 Among the minor poems in this collection 
 is the following, which is quoted here for its 
 merits and for the praises it has received from 
 the acute critic Mr. Edgar A. Foe, who de 
 scribes it as "inexpressibly beautiful: 
 
 THE FORSAKEN. 
 It hath been said, for all who die 
 There is a tear ; 
 pining, bleeding heart to si^h 
 O er every bier : 
 
 But in that hour of pain and dreail 
 
 Who will draw near 
 Around my humble couch, and shed 
 
 One farewell tearl 
 
 Who watch life s last, departing ray 
 
 In deep despair, 
 And soothe my spirit on its way 
 
 With holy prayer] 
 Wha/. mourner round my tier will come 
 
 1 In weeds of wo," 
 And follow me to my long home 
 
 Solemn and slow ] 
 When lying on my clayey bed, 
 
 In icy sleep, 
 Who there by pure affection led 
 
 Will come and weep 
 By the pale moon implant the rose 
 
 Upon my breast, 
 And bid it cheer my dark repose, 
 
 My lowly rest] 
 
 Could I but know when I am sleeping 
 
 Low in the ground, 
 One faithful heart would there be keeping 
 
 Watch all night round, 
 As if some gem lay shrined beneath 
 
 That sod s cold gloom, 
 T would mitigate the pangs of death 
 
 And light the tomb. 
 
 Yes, in that hour if I could feel 
 
 From halls of glee 
 And Beauty s presence one would steal 
 
 In secrecy, 
 And come and sit and weep by me 
 
 In night s deep noon 
 Oh ! I would ask of Memory 
 
 No other boon. 
 But ah ! a lonelier fate is mine 
 
 A deeper wo : 
 From all I love in youth s sweet time 
 
 I soon must go 
 Draw round me mv cold robes of white, 
 
 In a dark spot 
 To sleep through Death s long, dreamless night, 
 
 Lone and forgot. 
 
 There is a very fine poem by Mother- 
 well, by which this may have been suggest 
 ed, though if Mrs. Lewis had read it, it was 
 of course forgotten by her when she coin 
 posed The Forsaken. The following verses* 
 are from the piece by Motherwell : 
 " When I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping. 
 
 Life s fever o er. 
 
 Will there for me be any bright eye weeping. 
 That I m no more ] 
 
204 
 
 SARA H A X N A L b W I S. 
 
 Will there l>c any heart si ill memory keeping 
 Of heretofore ! 
 
 " When the bright sun upon that spot is shining 
 With purest ray, [twining, 
 
 And the small flowers their hiuls and blossoms 
 Burst through that clay, 
 
 Will there he one still on that spot repining 
 Lost hopes all day ? 
 
 " When no star twinkles with its eye of glory 
 
 On that low mound, 
 And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary 
 
 Its loneness crowned, 
 Will there be then one versed in Misery s story 
 
 Pacing it round !" 
 
 In the four years which succeeded the pub 
 lication of The Records of the Heart, Mrs. 
 Lewis was an occasional contributor to the 
 Democratic Review, the American Review, 
 and The Spirit of the Nineteenth Century. 
 In the autumn of 1848 she published a sec 
 ond volume, entitled The Child of the Sea, 
 and Other Poems. The Child of the Sea is 
 her best production. It is an interesting sto 
 ry, in a finely modulated rhythm, and with 
 many tasteful and happy expressions. It 
 evinces passion, fancy, and a degree of im 
 agination. The design is partly unfolded in 
 the opening line? : 
 
 Where blooms the myrtle, and the olive flings 
 
 Its aromatic breath upon the air ; 
 
 Where the sad bird of night for ever sings 
 
 Meet anthems for the children of despair, 
 
 Who silently, with wi d, dishevelled hair, 
 
 Stray through those val evs of perpetual bloom ; 
 
 Where hideous War and Murder from their lair 
 
 Stalk forth in awful and terrific gloom ; 
 Rapine and Vice disport on Glory s gilded tomb : 
 
 My fancy pensive pictures youthful Love, 
 
 Ill-starred, yet trustful, truthful, and sublime, 
 
 As ever angels chronicled above ; 
 
 The sorrowings of Beauty in her prime ; 
 
 Virtue s reward; the punishment of Crime; 
 
 The dark, inscrutable decrees of Fate; 
 
 Despair, untold before in prose or rhyme; 
 
 The wrong, the agony, the sleepless hate , 
 That mad the soul and make the bosom desolate. 
 
 Sunset upon the bay of Gibraltar is thus 
 happily described : 
 
 Fresh blows the breeze on Tarick s burnished bay, 
 The silent sea-mews bend them through the spray ; 
 The beauty-freighted barges bound afhr 
 
 To the soft music of the gay guitar 
 
 The sentry peal salutes the setting sun, 
 The haven s hum and busy din are done, 
 And weary sailors room along the strand, 
 Or stretoh their brawny limbs upon the sand ; 
 Feast, revel, game, engage in sage dispute, 
 Unthread the story, sound the tuneful lute; 
 )r bumming some rude n.r that stirs the heart, 
 Clue up the sails, or sprtad them to depart. 
 
 The hero of the poem is introduced: 
 On his high brow and glossy locks of jet. 
 The cap that decks the noble Greek is set ; 
 Folded his arms across his sable vest, 
 As if to keep the heart within his breast. 
 Lone are the thoughts that crowd upon his mind 
 And vainly strive in speech a vent to find ; 
 They writhe, they chafe, against restraint rebel, 
 Then powerless shrink within their silent cell. 
 His bosom pines for what it never knew 
 
 Some soft, fair hcing to its beating true 
 
 A loveliness round which the soul may cling 
 
 As fades from earth the last soft smile of Day, 
 lie turns his melancholy steps away, 
 With eyes bent down, across the Vega strides, 
 Nor notes the fawn that tamely by him gJides, 
 The violets lifting up their azure eyes, 
 Like timid virgins when Love s steps surprise ; 
 His heavy heart forebodes some danger near, 
 And throbs alternately with joy and feai. 
 
 Night: 
 
 Sleep chains the earth : the bright stars glide on high 
 Filling with one effulgent smile the sky ; 
 And all is hushed so still, so silent there, 
 That one might hear an angel wing the air. 
 
 Delirium : 
 
 At last, I felt me borne as in a dream, 
 And wafted down some softly-gliding stream, 
 And heard the creaking cordage over head, 
 The sailor s merry song and nimble tread ; 
 Then backward sank to mental night again 
 Delirium s world of fantasy and pain, 
 Where hung the fiery moon, and stars of blood 
 And phantom-ships rolled on the rolling flood. 
 
 Knowledge : 
 
 My mind by Grief was ripened ere its time, 
 And knowledge came spontaneous as a chime, 
 That flows into the soul unhid, unsought; 
 On earth, and air, and heaven, I fed my thought 
 
 On Ocean s teachings Etna s lava-tears 
 
 Ruins and wrecks, and nameless sepulchres. 
 
 The Holy Land : 
 God ! it is a melancholy sight 
 To see that land whence sprung all sacred light ; 
 Delight of men, and most beloved of God ; 
 Where, happy first, our primal parents trod; 
 Where Hagar mourned, and Judah s minstrel sung, 
 With the dark pal! of desolation hung! 
 No band of warriors crowd the royal <jate, 
 No suppliant millions in the temples wait, 
 No prophet-minstrel swells the tide of song, 
 No mighty seer enchains the breathless throng; 
 But from the Jordan to the ^gean tide, 
 From Ganges to Euphrates fertile side, 
 From Mecca s plains to lofty Lebanon, 
 The ashes of departed worlds are strown. 
 On CarmcPs heights, on Pisgah s tops I stood, 
 And paced Epirus savage solitude; 
 Before the sepulchre of Jesus knelt, 
 And bv the Galilean waters dwelt; 
 Wandered among Assyria s ruins vast, 
 Feeding my mute thoughts on the silent past- 
 Pride, splendor, glory, deso ation, crime, 
 And the deep mystery of the birth of Time. 
 
. SARAH ANNA LEWIS. 
 
 265 
 
 Sleep : 
 
 The oblivious world of Sleep 
 That rayless realm where Fancy never beams 
 That nothingness beyond the land of dreams. 
 
 Indifference : 
 
 There are times when the sick soul 
 Lies calm amid the storms that round it roll, 
 Indifferent to Fate, or to what haven 
 By the terrific tempest it is driven. 
 
 Greece : 
 
 Shrine of the Gods ! mine own eternal Greece ! 
 When shall thy weeds be doffed, thy mourning cease, 
 The gyves that bind thy beauty rent, in twain, 
 And thou be living, breathing Greece again ? 
 Grave of the mighty hero, poet, sage 
 Whose deeds are guiding stars to every age ! 
 Land unsurpassed in glory and despair, 
 Still in thy desolation thou art fair. 
 Low in sepulchral dust lies Pallas shrine 
 Low in sepulchral dust thy fanes divine, 
 And all thy visible self yet, o er thy clay, 
 Soul, beauty, linger, hallowing decay. 
 Not all the ills that vvir entailed on thee, 
 Not a.l the blood that stained Thennopyla, 
 Not a 1 the desolation traitors wrought, 
 Not all the wo and want invaders brought, 
 Not all the tears that slavery could wring 
 Frjin out thy heart of patient suffering, 
 Not all that drapes thy loveliness in night, 
 Can quench thy spirit s never-dying light ; 
 But hovering o er the dust of gods enshrined, 
 It beams a beacon to the marc .i of mind 
 An oasis to sa^e and bard forlorn 
 A guiding light to centuries unborn. 
 
 For thee I mourn ; thy blood is in my veins : 
 To thee by consanguinity s strong chains 
 I m bound, and fain would die to make thee free; 
 But oh, there is no liberty for thee ! 
 Not all the wisdom of thy greatest one 
 Not all the bravejy of Thetis son 
 Not all the weight of mighty Phoebus ire- 
 Not all the magic of the Athenian s lyre, 
 Can ever bid thv tears or mourning cease, 
 Or rend one gyve that binds thee, lovely Greece ! 
 
 Zarn?n and Mynera : 
 
 And they were wed : Love chased their tears away, 
 As mists are driven before the smile of Day, 
 Gave softer radiance to both earth and sky, 
 And made each lovelier in the other s eye. 
 No discord rose to mar their happiness 
 Each morning brought to them untasted bliss; 
 No panj,s, no sorrows came with varying years; 
 No cold distrust, no faithlessness, no tears : 
 But hand in hand, as Eve and Adam trod 
 Eden, they walked beneath the smile of God. 
 At morn they wandered through the dewy bowers, 
 Tended the birds, or trained the garden flowers ; 
 Or, weary of these health-inspiring arts, 
 With music and sweet song refreshed their hearts ; 
 Then all day seated in the colonnade, 
 Or where the myrtle made a genial shade, 
 They pored above the *omes of other days 
 Cervantes wit, and Oman s sounding lays; 
 
 And Dante s dreams, and Petrarch s deathless love ; 
 All that mad Tasso into numbers wove ; 
 Shakspere s deep harp, and Milton s loftier songr 
 From all creations of the minstrel throng, 
 Statues and busts by Grecian chisels wrought, 
 They drew the nutriment of Love and Thought. 
 Then, moved by Genius, Zamen swept his lyre, 
 And, like a meteor, flashed its latent fire 
 Upon the world, and thrilled its inmost heart: 
 All that his soul had gleaned from beauty, art, 
 Love, ruin, melancholy, anguish, wrong, 
 Hevenge, he wove into harmonious song, 
 And to his country and to lasting fame 
 Bequeathed a cherished and a spotless name. 
 
 Isabelle, or the Broken Heart, is a passion 
 ate story, with many passages of spirited de 
 scription and narration. In the following 
 passage the heroine a wandering minstrel 
 girl who has deserted a noble home to follow 
 a false lover goes to the confessional : 
 
 Wan the mournful maiden now 
 
 Across the balmy valley flies, 
 The cold, damp dew upon her brow, 
 
 The hot tears trickling from her eyes 
 The last that Fate can ever wring 
 From her young bosom s troubled spring. 
 Swiftly beneath the myrtle she 
 Glides onward o er the moonlit lea ; 
 By many a mausoleum speeds, 
 And tomb amidst the tuneful reeds, 
 Yet falters not she feels no dread 
 When in the presence of the dead 
 Alas ! what awe have sepulchres 
 For hearts that have been dead for years 
 Dead unto all external things 
 Dead unto Hope s sweet offerings. 
 While with its lofty pinions furled, 
 The spirit floats in neither world ! 
 
 She gains at length the holy fane, 
 Where death and solemn silence reign; 
 Hurries along the shadowy aisles, 
 
 Up to the altar where blest tapers 
 Burn dimly, and the Virgin smiles, 
 
 Midst rising clouds of incense vapors; 
 There kneels by the confession chair, 
 Where waits the friar with fervent prayer, 
 To soothe the children of despair. 
 
 Her hands are clasped, her eyes upraised, 
 Meek, beautiful, though coldly glazed, 
 
 And her pale cheeks are paling faster; 
 From under her simple hat of straw, 
 Over her neck her tresses flow, 
 
 Like threads of jet o er alabaster 
 From which the constant dews of night 
 Have stolen half their glossy light. 
 
 It is difficult to give a just impression of 
 any narrative poem by a selection of speci 
 mens. But the character and force of the 
 abilities of Mrs. Lewis will perhaps be bet 
 ter understood from these fragment? than 
 from a critical description. 
 
266 
 
 SARAH ANNA LEWIS.. 
 
 LAMENT OF LA VEGA IN CAPTIVITY. 
 
 O patria atnada! a ti suspira y llora 
 Ksta en sii carrel alma pereg-ima, 
 Llevadii errando de uno, eii otro instante." 
 
 I AM a captive on a hostile shore, 
 Caged, like the falcon from his native skies, 
 
 And doomed by agonizing grief to pour 
 In futile lamentations, tears, and sighs, 
 And feed the gaze of fools whom I despise. 
 
 Daily they taunt my heart with bitter sneers 
 They prate of liberty, deeds great and wise, 
 
 And fill the air with patriotic cheers, [ears. 
 
 While human shackles clank around their listless 
 
 Hark ! hear ye not, mid those triumphal cries, 
 The clanking of tb.e Ethiopian s chains ? 
 
 His smothered curses from the ricefields ris ! 
 The loud, indignant beating of his veins, 
 Stirred by the lava hell that in him reigns 
 
 Hear st him not writhe against the dark decree 
 That gyves the soul for it brute-rank maintains ? 
 
 The impetuous rushings of his heart, when he 
 
 Watches the eagle soar into the heavens all free 1 
 
 My soul, appalled, shrinks from hypocrisy, 
 And whatsoever bears deceptious name 
 
 Under thy banner heaven-born Liberty ! 
 The fiends of war, inflated with acclaim, 
 Revel in crime and virtue put to shame : 
 
 They slaughter babes and wives without a cause, 
 And, holding up their reeking blades, exclaim, 
 
 "A victory !" demolish homes, rights, laws, 
 
 And o er the wreck send up to heaven their proud 
 hurrahs. 
 
 I am a captive while my country bleeds 
 For Retribution loudly cries to Heaven, 
 
 And for the presence of her warriors pleads, 
 Till from her far the ruthless foe is driven :" 
 God, O God ! hast thou my country given 
 
 To direful fate ? Must I lie cooped up here, 
 While she by desecrating hands is riven ] 
 
 The sobs of Age, arid Beauty s shrieks of fear, 
 
 Like funeral knells afar are tolling in my ear ! 
 
 And thou, ethereal one ! my spirit s bride, 
 My star, my sun, my universe the beam 
 
 That lit my youthful feet mid ways untried 
 Within me woke each high ambitious scheme, 
 And here dost hover o er me in my dream, 
 
 Pressing thy lips to mine until I feel 
 Our quick hearts ebbing into one soft stream 
 
 Of holy love ah, who will guard thy weal, 
 
 And from thy breast avert the dark marauder s steel 1 
 
 Oh, my distracted country ! child of pain 
 And anarchy ! thee shall I see no more 
 
 Till thou art struggling in the tyrant s chain, 
 Oppressed by insult and by sorrow sore, 
 And steeping in thy children s sacred gore ] 
 
 Must thy dim star of glory set for aye 1 
 Must thou become the poet s Mecca 1 lore 
 
 For antiquaries 1 temple of decay ? 
 
 Wilt thou survive no more, my beautiful Monterey 1 
 
 Spirit of Cortos Montezuma rise ! 
 
 Let not the foe your cherished lajd enslave ! 
 Let her not fall a bloody sacrifice ! 
 
 And thou, eternal Ci( who from the grave 
 
 Didst wake to lead to victory the brave !* 
 Heroes who fell in Rone svalles vale, 
 
 And ye who fought by Darro s golden wave/f 
 From the Red VegaJ drove the Moslem pale, 
 Hear, in the spirit-land, my country s doleful wail, 
 
 UNA. 
 
 THEHK is but little on this earth 
 To fill the soul of lofty birth; 
 At best it much must feel the dearth 
 Of genial showers. 
 
 It binds Nepenthe to its lips, 
 Arid at life s sparking goblet sips, 
 While in the waters fennel dips 
 Its bitter flowers. 
 
 But Una, round thy heart s blest shrine, 
 No bitter fennel-blossoms twine : 
 By odor-breathing flowers divine 
 It is embalmed. 
 
 Sere lies my heart, and sere its world, 
 Since thou wert from its altars hurled ; 
 My spirit s pinions have been furled, 
 Dike sails becalmed. 
 
 Love on my heart thy form did stamp, 
 Thy beauty, like a vestal lamp, 
 Within my soul s cell, dark and damp, 
 For ever burns. 
 
 And unto thee, as to its goal, 
 Gazes athirst the stranded soul ; 
 As points the magnet to the pole, 
 My sick heart turns. 
 
 THE DEAD. 
 
 THK dead, the dead ah, where are they] 
 What distant planet do they tread ? 
 
 What stars illume their blissful way 1 
 
 What suns their light around them shed ] 
 
 Do they look through the mystic veil 
 That hides them from our mortal eyes, 
 
 And catch the mourner s plaintive wail 
 That o er their sepulchres doth rise 1 
 
 Do they the bitter pinings know 
 
 Of friends that hold their memory dear 
 The many sighs the tears that flow 
 
 Because they dwell no longer here ? 
 
 Oh, if they do, tis meed enough 
 For all the tears that we must shed : 
 
 The chains of wo we can not doff 
 Till we are numbered with the dead ! 
 
 * Cid Campeador, after death, was dressed in his war 
 apparel, placed on his richly caparisoned steed, and led 
 forth from the walls of Valencia toward the Moorish 
 camp ; at the sight of whom, and the great number of his 
 followers, the Moors, in all sixty thousand, lied toward the 
 sea. Souf key s Chronicles of the Cid. 
 
 t The Darro is a small stream running through the city 
 of Grenada. ?\nd containing in its bed particles of gold. 
 
 J The plan surrounding Grenada, and the scene of ac 
 tion between the Moors and the ChrUtians. 
 
ANJS T A CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 
 
 (Born 1820-Died 1870). 
 
 ANNA COEA OGDEN, a daughter of Mr. Sam 
 uel Gouverneur Ogden, now of the city of 
 New York, was born in Bordeaux during a 
 temporary residence of her parents in France. 
 Her father s family has long been distin 
 guished in the social and commercial history 
 of New York, and her mother was descend 
 ed from Francis Lewis, one of the signers of 
 the Declaration of Independence. Mr. Ogden 
 had lost the principal portion of a large for 
 tune in Miranda s celebrated expedition in 
 to South America, and his residence at Bor 
 deaux was occasioned by mercantile affairs 
 which in a few years secured for him a sec 
 ond time rank among the great merchants 
 and capitalists of his native city. 
 
 A melancholy interest was thrown around 
 Mr. Ogden s return, by the loss of two sons, 
 who were swept overboard in a storm dur 
 ing the voyage ; but the surviving members 
 of the family settled in his old home, and for 
 several years the education of the daughters 
 occupied and rewarded his best attention. In 
 the chateau in which they had lived near 
 Bordeaux, they had passed the holydays and 
 domestic anniversaries in masques and pri 
 vate theatricals, and there Anna Cora Ogden 
 gave, in the abandon with which she enact 
 ed childish characters, the first indications 
 of that histrionic genius for which she is now 
 distinguished. At thirteen she read with de 
 light the plays of Voltaire, and the next year 
 she personated the heroine of Alzire on her 
 mother s birthday. She had previously be 
 come acquainted with Mr. Mowatt, a young 
 lawyer of good family and nattering pros 
 pects, who then became a suitor for her hand, 
 and as her parents, to whom the marriage 
 was not objectionable, demanded its post 
 ponement until she should be seventeen years 
 of age, they eloped and were privately mar 
 ried by one of the French clergymen of the 
 cily. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Mowatt resided several years 
 near the city of New York, and in this period 
 she wrote Pelayo, or the Cavern of Covadon- 
 ga, a poetical romance, in six cantos, which 
 was published anonymously by the Harpers 
 
 in 1836. Mr. Mowatt s health having de 
 clined, they seized the occasion of the mar 
 riage of a younger daughter of Mr. Ogden to 
 visit Europe. They resided in Germany and 
 France a year and a half, and in Paris Mrs. 
 Mowatt wrote Gulzare, the Persian Slave, 
 a five act play, which was printed in New 
 York soon after their return, in 1841. The 
 interruption of his business caused by this 
 visit to Europe, and the infirm condition of 
 his health, induced Mr. Mowatt to abandon 
 the profession of the law and to embark in 
 trade, and in the period of commercial dis 
 asters which followed, he lost nearly all his 
 property. Mr. Ogden had also suffered new 
 misfortunes, and these reverses led Mrs. 
 Mowatt to the first public display of her abil 
 ities. The dramatic readings of Mr. Van- 
 denhofThad been eminently successful in the 
 chief cities of the Union, and, confident of 
 her powers, she determined to follow his ex 
 ample. She had already acquired some rep 
 utation in literature, which secured for her 
 a favorable reception on her first appearance, 
 of which the results more than justified her 
 sanguine anticipations. Her readings from 
 the poets were repeated to large and applaud 
 ing audiences in Boston, Providence, and 
 New York. Mr. Mowatt having become a 
 partner in a publishing house, she turned her 
 attention again to literary composition, and 
 produced in quick succession several vol 
 umes, among which were Sketches of Cele 
 brated Persons, and the Fortune Hunter, a 
 Novel. In 1844 she wrote Evelyn, or the 
 Heart Unmasked, a Tale of Fashionable Life, 
 which is the last and in some respects the 
 best of her works of this description. It is 
 spirited and witty, but unequal, and was writ 
 ten too hastily and carelessly to be justly re 
 garded as the measure of her talents. 
 
 Her next work was Fashion, a Comedy, 
 which was successfully acted in the theatres 
 of New York and Philadelphia in the spiing 
 of 1845 ; and in the following autumn she 
 made her brilliant first appearance as an ac 
 tress, at the Park Theatre. She afierward 
 made two theatrical tours of the principal 
 
 267 
 
2C8 
 
 AXXA COKA MOWATT RITCHIE. 
 
 cities of the United Suites, a;;d in the spring 
 of 1847 she brought out in New York her 
 third five act play, Arrnand, or the Child of 
 the People. In November of the same year 
 she sailed with her husband for England, and 
 she has since played in Manchester and Lon 
 don a wide range of characters, in many of 
 which she has won high praises from the 
 most judicious critics. 
 
 The poems of Mrs. Mowatt, except Peiayo 
 
 and her dramatic pieces, are brief and fugi 
 tive, and generally wanting in that anislic 
 finish of which she has frequently shown her 
 self to be capable. 
 
 Mr. Mowatt dying abroad, Mrs. Mowatt 
 returned to the United States, and after 
 playing in all our principal cities, slie took 
 leave of the stage in 1831, on marrying 
 Mr. W. F. Ritchie, the editor of the 
 Richmond Enquirer. 
 
 THE RAISING OF JAIRUS DAUGHTER. 
 
 WITH ix the darkened chamber sat 
 
 A proud but stricken form ; 
 Upon her vigil-wasted cheeks 
 
 The grief-wrung tears were warm ; 
 And faster streamed they as she bent 
 
 Above the couch of pain, 
 Where lay a withering flower that wooed 
 
 Those fond eyes freshening rain. 
 
 The raven tress on that young brow 
 
 Was damp with dews of death; 
 And glassier grew her upraised eye 
 
 With every fluttering breath. 
 Coldly her slender fingers lay 
 
 Within the mourner s grasp; 
 Lightly they pressed that fostering hand, 
 
 And stiffened in its grasp. 
 
 Then low the mother bent her knee, 
 
 And cried in fervent prayer 
 " Hear me, O God ! mine own, my child, 
 
 Oh, holy Father, spare ! 
 My loved, my last, mine only one 
 
 Tear her not yet away ; 
 Leave this crushed heart its best, sole joy : 
 
 Be merciful, I pray !" 
 A radiance lit the maiden s face, 
 
 Though fixed in death her eye ; 
 A smile had met the angel s kiss 
 
 That stole her parting sigh ! 
 And round her cold lips still that smile 
 
 A holy brightness shed, 
 As though she joyed her sinless soul 
 
 To Him who gave had fled. 
 The mother clasped the senseless form, 
 
 And shrieked in wild despair, 
 And kissed the icy lips and cheek, 
 
 And touched the dewy hair. 
 " No warmth no life my child, my child ! 
 
 Oh for one parting word, 
 One murmur of that lutelike voice, 
 
 Though but an instant heard ! 
 " She is not dead she could not die 
 
 So young, so fair, so pure ; 
 Spare mp, in pity spare this blow ! 
 
 Ah else I can endure. 
 Take hope, take peace, this blighted hear 
 
 Strike with thy heaviest rod ; 
 But leave me this, thy sweetest boon, 
 
 Give back mv child, God !" 
 
 The suppliant ceased ; her tears were staved 
 
 Hushed were those wailings loud ; 
 A hallowed peace crept o er her soul ; 
 
 Her head to earth was bowed 
 Low as her knee ; for as she knelt, 
 
 About her, lo ! a flood 
 Of soft, celestial lustre fell 
 
 A form beside her stood. 
 
 And slowly then her awe-struck face 
 
 And frighted eyes she raised ; 
 Her heart leaped high : those clouded orbs 
 
 Grew brighter as she gazed ; 
 For oh ! they rested on a shape 
 
 Majestic yet so mild, 
 Imperial dignity seemed blent 
 
 With sweetness of a child. 
 
 It spake not, but that saintlike smile 
 
 Was full of mercy s light, 
 And power and pity from those eyes 
 
 Looked forth in gentle might; 
 Those angel looks, that lofty mien, 
 
 Have breathed without a word 
 " Trust, and thy faith shall win thee all : 
 
 Behold, I am thy Lord !" 
 
 He turns, and on that beauteous clay 
 
 His godlike glances rest; 
 Commandingly the pallid brow 
 
 His potent fingers pressed : 
 The frozen current flows anew 
 
 Beneath that quickening hand ; 
 The pale lips, softly panting, move ; 
 
 She breathes at his command ! 
 
 The spirit in its kindred realm 
 
 Has heard its Master s call ; 
 And back returning at that voice, 
 
 Resumes its earthly thrall. 
 And now from neath those snowy lids 
 
 It shines with meeker light, 
 As though twere chastened, purified, 
 
 By even that transient flight. 
 
 Loud swells the mother s cry of joy : 
 
 To Him how passing sweet ! 
 Her child she snatches to her breast, 
 
 And sinks at Jesus feet 
 " Glory to thee, Almighty God ! 
 
 Who spared my heart this blow ; 
 And glory to thine only Son 
 
 My Savior s hand I know !" 
 
ANNA CORA MO WATT RITCHIE. 
 
 MY LIFE. 
 
 Mr life is a fairy s guy dream, 
 
 And thou art the genii, whose wand 
 Tints all things around with the beam, 
 
 The bloom of Titania s bright land. 
 A wish to my lips never sprung, 
 
 A hope in mine eyes never shone, 
 But, ere it was breathed by my tongue, 
 
 To grant it thy footsteps have flown. 
 Thy joys, they have ever been mine, 
 
 Thy sorrows, too often thine own ; 
 The sun that on me still would shine, 
 
 O er thee threw its shadows alone. 
 Life s garland then let us divide, 
 
 Its roses I d fain see thee wear, 
 For one but I know thou wilt chide 
 
 Ah ! leave me its thorns, love, to bear ! 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 THOU conqueror s conqueror, mighty Love ! to thee 
 
 Their crowns, their laurels, kings and heroes yield ; 
 Lo ! at thy shrine great Antony bows the knee, 
 
 Disdains his victor wreath, and flies the field ! 
 From woman s lips Alcides lists thy tone, 
 
 And grasps the inglorious distaff for his sword. 
 An eastern sceptre at thy feet is thrown, 
 
 A nation s worshipped idol owns thee lord ; 
 And well fair Noorjehan his throne became, 
 When erst she ruled his empire in thy name. 
 
 The sorcerer Jarchas could to age restore 
 
 Youth s faded bloom or childhood s vanished glee ; 
 Magician Love ! canst thou not yet do more 1 
 
 Is not the faithful heart kept young by thee? 
 But ne er that, traitor-b >som formed to stray, 
 
 Those perjured lips which twice thy vows have 
 
 breathed, 
 Can know the raptures of thy magic sway, 
 
 Or find the balsam in thy garland wreathed ; 
 Fancy or Folly may his breast have moved, 
 But he who wanders never truly loved. 
 
 TIME. 
 
 NAT, rail not at Time, though a tyrant he be, 
 \nd say not he cometh, colossal in might, 
 Our beauty to ravish, put Pleasure to flight, [tree ; 
 
 And pluck away friends, e en as leaves from the 
 And say not Love s torch, which like Vesta s should 
 
 burn, 
 The cold breath of Time soon to ashes will turn. 
 
 You call Time a robber ? Nay, he is not so : 
 While Beauty s fair temple he rudely despoils, 
 The mind to enrich with its plunder he toils; 
 
 And, sowed in his furrows, doth wisdom not grow ? 
 The magnet mid stars points the north still to view ; 
 So Time mong our friends e er discloses the true. 
 
 Tho cares then should gather, as pleasures flee by, 
 Tho Time from thy features the charm steal away, 
 He ll dim too mine eye, lest it sv them decay; 
 
 And sorrows we ve shared will kni; closer love s tie: 
 Then I II laugh at old Time, and at all he can do, 
 For he "1 rob me in vain, if he leave me but you ! 
 
 THY WILL BE DONE. 
 
 THY will be done ! O heavenly King, 
 
 I bow my head to thy decree ; 
 Albeit my soul not yet may wing 
 
 Its upward flight, great God, to thee ! 
 Though I must still on earth abide, 
 
 To toil, and groan, and suffer here, 
 To seek for peace on sorrow s tide, 
 
 And meet the world s unfeeling jeer. 
 When heaven seemed dawning on my view 
 
 And I rejoiced my race was run, 
 Thy righteous hand the bliss withdrew ; 
 
 AnJ still I say, " Thy will be done !" 
 And though the world can never more 
 
 A world of sunshine be to me, 
 Though all my fairy dreams are o er, 
 
 And Care pursues where er I flee ; 
 Though friends I loved the dearest best, 
 
 Were scattered by the storm away, 
 And scarce a hand I warmly pressed 
 
 As fondly presses mine to-day : 
 Yet must I live must live for those 
 
 Who mourn the shadow on my brow, 
 Who feel my hand can soothe their woes. 
 
 Whose faithful hearts I gladden now. 
 Yes, I will live live to fulfil % 
 
 The nob e mission scarce begun, 
 And pressed with grief to murmur still, 
 
 All Wise ! All Just ! Thy will be done ! 
 
 ON A LOCK OF MY MOTHER S HAIR 
 
 WHOSK the eyes thou erst didst shade, 
 Down what bosom hast thou rolled, 
 
 O er what cheek unchidden played, 
 Tress of mingled brown and gold ! 
 
 Round what brow, say, didst thou twine ? 
 
 Angel-mother, it was thine ! 
 
 Cold the brow that wore this braid, 
 
 Pale the cheek this bright lock pressed, 
 
 Dim the eyes it loved to shade, 
 Still the ever-gentle breast 
 
 All that bosom s struggles past, 
 
 When it held this ringlet last. 
 
 In that happy home above, 
 
 Where all perfect joy hath birth, 
 Thou dispensest good and love, 
 
 Mother, as thou didst on earth. 
 And though distant seems that sphere, 
 Still I feel thee ever near. 
 Though my longing eye now views 
 
 Thy angelic mien no more, 
 Still thy spirit can infuse 
 
 Good in mine, unknown before. 
 Still the voice, from childhood dear, 
 Steals upon my raptured ear 
 Chiding every wayward deed, 
 
 Fondly praising every just, 
 Whispering soft, when strength I need, 
 
 " Loved one ! place in God thy trust " 
 Oh, tis more than joy to feel 
 Thou art watching o er my weal ! 
 
MARY NOEL MEIGS. 
 
 THE father of Miss BLEECKER (now Mrs. 
 MKIGS) was of the Bleecker family so long 
 distinguished in the annals of New York, 
 and among her paternal connexions were 
 Mrs. Anne Eliza Bleecker and Mrs. Fau- 
 geres, whose poems have been commented 
 upon in an earlier part of this volume. Her 
 maternal grandfather was the late Major Wil- 
 liarr Popham, the last survivor of the staff 
 
 of Washington. In 1834 Miss Bleecker wag 
 married to Mr. Pierre E. F. McDonald, who 
 died at the end of ten years. In 1845 she 
 published an octavo volume entitled Poems 
 by M. N. M., and she has since written many 
 poems an4 prose essays for the magazines, 
 besides several volumes of stories for chil 
 dren, &c. In the autumn of 1848 she was 
 married to Mr. Henry Meigs, of New York. 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 LAUGHINGLY thou comest, 
 
 Rosy June, 
 
 With thy light and tripping feet, 
 And thy garlands fresh and sweet, 
 
 A iid thy waters all in tune ; 
 With thy gift of buds and bells 
 For the uplands and the dells, 
 With the wild-bird and the bee 
 On the blossom or the tree, 
 And my heart leaps forth to meet thee, 
 With a joyous thrill to greet thee, 
 
 Rosy June ; 
 
 And I love the flashing ray 
 Of the rivulets at play, 
 As they sparkle into day, 
 
 Rosy June ! 
 
 Most lovely do I call thee, 
 Laughing June ! 
 
 For thy skies are bright and blue, 
 As a sapphire s brilliant hue, 
 
 And the heats of summer noon, 
 Made cooler by thy breath 
 O er the clover-scented heath, 
 
 Which the scythe must sweep so soon: 
 And tliou fan st the fevered cheek 
 With thy softest gales of balm, 
 Till the pulse so low and weak 
 
 Beateth stronger and more calm. 
 Kind physician, thou dost lend 
 Like a tried and faithful friend, 
 To the suffering and the weary every blessing thou 
 
 canst bring; 
 
 By the sick man s couch of pain, 
 Like an angel, once again 
 
 Thou hast shed a gift of healing from the perfume- 
 laden wing ; 
 
 And the students listless ear, 
 As a dreamy sound and dear, 
 Hath Caught a pleasant murmur of the insect s busy 
 
 bum, 
 
 Where arching branches meet 
 O er the turf beneath his feet, 
 
 And a thousand summer fancies with the melody 
 have come ; 
 
 And be turneth from the page 
 
 Of the prophet or the sage, 
 And forgetteth all the wisdom of his books; 
 
 For his heart is roving free 
 
 With the butterfly and bee, 
 And chimeth with the music of the brooks, 
 
 Singing still their merry tune 
 
 In the flashing light of noon, 
 One chord of thy sweet lyre, laughing June ! 
 
 I have heart-aches many a one, 
 
 Rosy June ! 
 And I sometimes long to fly 
 
 To a world of love and light, 
 Where the flowerets never die, 
 
 Nor the day gives place to night; 
 Where the weariness and pain 
 
 Of this mortal life are o er, 
 And we fondly clasp again 
 
 All the loved ones gone before : 
 And I think, to lay my head 
 On some green and sheltered bed, 
 
 Where, at dawning or at noon, 
 Come the birds with liquid note 
 In each tender, warbling throat, 
 
 Or the breeze with mournful tune 
 To sigh above my grave 
 Would be all that I should crave, 
 
 Rosy June ! 
 But when thou art o er the earth, 
 
 With thy blue and tranquil skies, 
 
 And thy gushing melodies, 
 And thy many tones of mirth 
 When thy flowers perfume the air, 
 
 And thy garlands wreatbe the bough, 
 
 And thy birthplace even now 
 Seems an Eden bright and fair 
 How my spirit shrinks away 
 
 From the darkness of the tomb, 
 
 And I shudder at its gloom 
 W T hile so beautiful the day. 
 Yet I know the skies are bright 
 In that land of love and liffht, 
 270 
 
MARY NOEL MEIGS. 
 
 271 
 
 Brighter, fairer than thine own, lovely June ! 
 
 No shadow dims the ray, 
 
 No night obscures the day, 
 But ever, ever reigneth high eternal noon. 
 
 A glimpse thou art of heaven, 
 
 Lovely June ! 
 Type of a purer clime 
 Beyond the flight of time, 
 Where the amaranth flowers are rife 
 By the placid stream of life, 
 For ever gently flowing ; 
 Where the beauty of the rose 
 In that land of soft repose 
 Nor blight nor fading knows, 
 
 In immortal fragrance blowing. 
 And my prayer is still to see, 
 In thy blessed ministry, 
 A transient gleam of regions that are all divinely 
 
 fair ; 
 
 A foretaste of the bliss 
 In a holier world than this, 
 
 And a place beside the loved ones who are safely 
 gathered there. 
 
 THE SPELLS OF MEMORY. 
 
 IT was but the note of a summer bird, 
 But a dream of the past in my heart it stirred, 
 And wafted me far to a breezy spot, 
 Where blossomed the blue forget-me-not. 
 A nd the broad, green boughs gave a checkered gleam 
 To the dancing waves of a mountain-stream, 
 And there, in the heat of a summer day, 
 Again on the velvet turf I lay, 
 And saw bright shapes in the floating clouds, 
 And reared fair domes mid their fleecy shrouds, 
 As I looked aloft to the azure sky, 
 And longed for a bird s soft plumes to fly, 
 Till lost in its depths of purity. 
 
 Alas ! I have waked from that early dream : 
 Far, far away is the mountain-stream; 
 And the dewy turf, where so oft I lay, 
 And the woodland flowers, they are far away ; 
 And the skies that once were to me so blue, 
 Now bend above with a darker hue : 
 And yet I may wander in fancy back 
 At Memory s call to my childhood s track, 
 And the fount of thought hath been deeply stirred 
 By the passing note of a summer bird. 
 
 It was but the rush of the autumn wind, 
 But it left a spell of the past behind, 
 And I was abroad with my brothers twain 
 In the tangled paths of the wood again : 
 Whore the leaves were rustling beneath our feet, 
 And the merry shout of our gleesome mood 
 Was echoed far in the solitude, 
 As we caught the prize which a kindly breeze 
 Sent down in a shower from the chestnut-trees. 
 
 Oh ! a weary time hath passed away 
 Since my brothers were out by my side at play ; 
 A weary time, with its weight of care, 
 And its toil in the city s crowded air, 
 And its pining wish for the hilltops high ; 
 For Ihn laughing stream and the clear blue sky ; 
 
 For the shaded de 1 .!, and the leafy halls 
 
 Of the old green wood where the sunlight falls. 
 
 But I see the haunts of my early days 
 The old green wood where the sunshine plays, 
 And the flashing stream in its course of light, 
 And the hilltops high, and the sky so bright, 
 And the silent depths of the shaded dell, 
 Where the twilight shadows at noonday fell : 
 And the mighty charm which hath conquered these 
 Is naught, save a rush of the autumn breeze. 
 
 It was but a violet s faint perfume, 
 But it bore me back to a quiet room, 
 Where a gentle girl in the spring-time gay 
 Was breathing her fair young life away, 
 Whose light through the rose-hued curtains fell, 
 And tinted her cheek like the ocean-shell ; 
 And the southern breeze on its fragrant wings 
 Stole in with its tale of all lovely things ; [hours, 
 Where Love watched on through the long, long 
 And Friendship came with its gift of flowers; 
 And Death drew near with a stealthy tread, 
 And lightly pillowed in dusl her head, 
 And sealed up gently the lids so fair, 
 And damped the brow with its clustering hair, 
 And left the maiden in slumber deep, 
 To waken no more from that tranquil sleep. 
 
 Then we laid the flower her hand had pressed 
 To wither and die on her gentle breast ; 
 And back to the shade of that quiet room 
 I go withjhe violet s faint perfume. 
 
 LOVE S ASPIRATION. 
 
 WHAT shall I ask for thee, 
 Beloved, when at the silent eve or golden morn 
 I seek the Eternal Throne on bended knee, 
 And to the God of Love my soul is borne, 
 
 Ascending through the angel-guarded air, 
 On the swift wings of Prayer 1 
 
 W 7 hat shall I ask ? the bliss 
 
 Of earth s poor votaries I pleasures that must fade 
 As dew from summer blossom 1 Oh ! for this 
 Thy fresh young spirit, dear one, was not made : 
 
 Purer and holier must its blessings be 
 I ask not this for thee 
 
 For thee, fair child, for thee, 
 In thy fresh, budding girlhood, shall my prayer 
 Go up unceasing, that the witchery 
 Of earthly tones alluring may not snare 
 
 Thy heart from purer things ; but God s own hand 
 Lead to the better land. 
 
 Ever shall Love for thee 
 Implore Heaven s best and holiest benison, 
 Its perfect peace that peace which can not be 
 The gift of Earth ; for this when upward borne 
 
 My soul grows earnest, angel-lips of flame 
 May echo thy sweet name. 
 
 Ay, in their world of light 
 Immortal voices catch a mother s praye- 
 And while I kneel, some waiting seraph bngn 
 Swift on expanded wing, the boon may bear 
 
 And, soft as falling dewdrops, kindly shed 
 Heaven s peace o er thy young head. 
 

FRANCES S. () S G O U D. 
 
 appears the poet, and the affectionate and 
 enthusiastic woman. Cf none of our wri 
 ters has the excellence been more steadily 
 progressive. Every month her powers have 
 seemed to expand and her sympathies to 
 deepen. With an ear delicately susceptible 
 to the harmonies of language, and a light 
 and pleasing fancy, she always wrote musi 
 cally and ofien with elegance ; but her later 
 
 poems are marked by a freedom of style, a 
 tenderness of feeling, and a wisdom of ap 
 prehension, and are informed with a grace, so 
 undefinable, but so pervading and attractive, 
 that the consideration to which she is enti 
 tled is altogether different in kind, as well as 
 in degree, from that which was awarded to 
 the playful, piquant, and capricious impro 
 visatrice of former years. 
 
 A FAREWELL TO A HAPPY DAY. 
 
 GOOH-RY, good-by, t.hou gracious, golden day: 
 Through luminous tears thou smilest, far away 
 In the blue heaven, thy sweet farewell to me, 
 And I, through my tears, gaze and smile with thee. 
 I see the last faint, glowing amber gleam 
 Of thy rich pinion, like a lovely dream, 
 Whose floating glory melts within the sky, 
 And now thou rt passed for ever from mine eye ! 
 Were we not friends best friends my cherished 
 Did I not treasure every eloquent ray [day 1 
 
 Of golden light arid love thou gavest me 1 
 And have f not been true most true to thee 1 
 And thcu thou earnest like a joyous bird, 
 Whose sacred wings by heaven s own air were 
 And lowly sang me all the happy time [stirred, 
 Dear, soothing stories of that blissful clime ! 
 And more, oh ! more than this, there came with thee, 
 From Heaven, a stranger, rare and bright to me 
 A new, sweet JOY a smiling angel guest, 
 That softly asked a home within my breast. 
 For talking sadly with my soul alone, 
 I heard far off and faint a music tone : 
 It seemed a spirit s call so soft it stole 
 On fairy wings into my waiting soul. 
 I knew it summoned me to something sweet, 
 And so I followed it with faltering feet 
 And found what I had prayed for with wild tears 
 A rest, that soothed the lingering grief of years ! 
 So for that deep, perpetual joy, my day ! 
 And for all lovely things that came to play 
 In thy glad smile the pure and pleading flowers 
 That crowned with their frail bloom thy flying hours : 
 The sunlit clouds the pleasant air that played 
 Its low lute-music mid the leafy shade 
 . Arid, dearer far, the tenderness that taught 
 My soul a new and richer thrill of thought : 
 For these for all bear ihou to Heaven for me 
 The grateful thanks with which I mission thee ! 
 Then should thy sisters, wasted, wronged, upbraid, 
 Speak thou for me for thou wert not betrayed ! 
 Twas little, true, I could to thee impart 
 1, with my simple, frail, and wayward heart ; 
 But that I strove the diamond sands to light, 
 In Life s rich hour-glass, with Love s rainbow flight : 
 And that one generous spirit owed to me 
 A moment of exulting ecstasy ; 
 A.nd that I won o er wrong a queenly sway 
 For this, thou It smile for me in Heaven, my Day ! i 
 18 
 
 HAD WE BUT MET. 
 
 HAH we but met in life s delicious spring, 
 
 Ere wrong and falsehood taught me doubt and fear, 
 Ere hope came back with worn and wounded wing, 
 
 To die upon the heart she could not cheer : 
 Ere I love s precious pearl had vainly lavished, 
 
 Pledging an idol deaf to my despair 
 Ere one by one the buds and blooms were ravished 
 
 From life s rich garland by the clasp of Care. 
 Ah, had we then but met ! I dare not listen 
 
 To the wild whispers of my fancy now ! 
 My full heart beats my sad, drooped lashee glisten 
 
 I hear the music of thy boyhood s vow ! 
 I see thy dark eyes lustrous with love s meaning, 
 
 I feel thy dear hand softly clasp my own ; 
 Thy noble form is fond y o er me leaning 
 
 It is too much but ah ! the dream has flown I 
 How had I poured this passionate heart s devotion 
 
 In voiceless rapture on thy manly breast; 
 How had I hushed each sorrowful emotion, 
 
 Lulled by thy love to sweet, untroubled re&t ! 
 How had I knelt hour after hour beside thee, 
 
 When from thy lips the rare, scholastic lore 
 Fell on the soul that all but deified thee, 
 
 While at each pause, I. childlike, prayed for n.ore 
 How had I watched the shadow of each feeling 
 
 That moved thy soul, glance o er that radiant face, 
 "Taming my wild heart" to that dear revealiiig, 
 
 And glorying in thy genius and thy grace : 
 Then hadst thou loved me with a love abiding, 
 
 And I had now been less unworthy thee ; 
 For I was generous, gui eless, and confiding 
 
 A frank enthusiast buoyant, fresh, and free. 
 But now, my loftiest aspirations perished, 
 
 My holiest hopes a jest for lips profane- 
 The tenderest yearnings of my soul uncherisned 
 
 A sou -worn slave in Custom s iron chain : 
 Checked by those tics that make my lightest sign, 
 
 My faintest blush, at thought of thee, a crime 
 How must I still my heart, and school my eye, 
 
 And count in vain the slow, dull steps of Timt ! 
 W ilt thou come back 1 Ah ! what avails to ask thee, 
 
 Since Honor, Faith, forbid thee to return 1 
 Yet to forgetfulncss I dare not task tbee, 
 
 Lest thou too soon that easy lesson leani 
 Ah, come not back, love ! even through memory s eai 
 
 Thy tone s melodious murmur thrills my heart: 
 Come not with that fond smile, so frank, so dear- 
 While yet we may, let us for ever part ! 
 
274 
 
 FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 
 
 TO THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 
 
 LE A.VK me not yet ! Leave me not cold and lonely, 
 
 Thou dear ideal of rny pining heart! 
 Thou art the friend the beautiful the only, 
 
 Whom I would keep, though a 1 the world depart. 
 Thou, that dost veil the frailest flower with glory, 
 
 Spirit of light, and loveliness, and truth ! 
 Thou that didst tell me a sweet, fairy story, 
 
 Of the dim future, in my wistful youth ; 
 Thou, who canst weave a halo round the spirit, 
 
 Through which naught mean or evil dare intrude, 
 Re>ume not yet the gift, which I inherit 
 
 From Heaven and : thee, that dearest, holiest good ! 
 Leave me not now ! Leave me not cold and lonely, 
 
 Thou starry prophet of my pining heart ! 
 Thou art the friend the tenderest the only, 
 
 With whom, of all, twould be despair to part. 
 
 Thou that cam st to me in my dreaming childhood, 
 
 Shaping the changeful clouds to pageants rare, 
 Peopling the smiling vale and shaded wildwood 
 
 With airy beings, faint yet strangely fair ; 
 Telling me ah the seaborn breeze was saying, 
 
 While it went whispering thro the willing leaves, 
 Bidding me listen to the light rain playing 
 
 Its pleasant tune about the household eaves ; 
 Tuning the low, sweet ripp .e of the river, 
 
 Ti .l its melodious murmur seemed a song, 
 A tender and sad chant, repeated ever, 
 
 A sweet, impassioned plaint of love and wrong- 
 Leave me not yet ! Leave me not cold and lonely, 
 
 Thou star of promise o er my clouded path ! 
 Leave not the life that borrows from thee only 
 
 All of delight and beauty that it hath. 
 
 Thou, that when others knew not how to love me, 
 
 Nor cared to fathom half my yearning soul, 
 Didst wreathe thy flowers of light around, above me, 
 
 To woo and win me from my grief s control : 
 By all my dreams, the passionate and holy, 
 
 When thou hast sung love s lullaby to me, 
 By all the childlike worship, fond and lowly, 
 
 Which I have lavished upon thine and thee ; 
 By all the lays my simple lute was learning, 
 
 To echo from thy voice, stay with me still ! 
 Once flown a as! for thee there s no returning : 
 
 The charm will die o er valley, wood, and hill. 
 Tell me not Time, whose wing my brow has shaded, 
 
 Has wither d spring ssweet bloom within my heart: 
 Ah. no ! ilie rose of love is yet unfaded, 
 
 Though hope an4 joy. its sister flowers, depart. 
 Well do I know that I have wronged thine altar 
 
 With the light offerings of an idler s mind. 
 And thus, with shame, my pleading prayer I falter, 
 
 Leave me not, spirit ! deaf, and dumb, and blind : 
 Deaf to the mystic harmony of Nature, 
 
 Blind to t .ie beauty of her stars and flowers; 
 Leave rne not, heavenly yet hirnan teacher, 
 
 Lonely and lost in this cold world of ours. 
 Heaven knows I need thy music and thy beauty 
 
 Still to beguile me on my weary way, 
 To lighten to my soul the cares of duty, 
 
 And b ess with radiant dreams the darkened day : 
 To cnarm my wild heart in the worldly revel, 
 
 L*est J, too, join the aimless, false, and vain; 
 
 Let me not lower to the soulless level 
 Of those whom now I pity and disdain. 
 
 Leave me not yet leave me not cold and pining, 
 Thou bird of paradise, whose plumes of light. 
 
 Where er they rested, left a glory sinning ; 
 Fly not to heaven, or let me share thy flight. 
 
 REFLECTIONS. 
 
 ASK why the holy starlight, or the blush 
 Of summer blossoms, or the balm that floats 
 From yonder lily like an angel s breath, 
 Is lavished on such men ! God gives them all 
 For some high end ; and thus the seeming waste 
 Of her rich soul its starlight purity, 
 Its every feeling delicate as a flower, 
 Its tender trust, its generous confidence, 
 Its wondering disdain of littleness 
 These, by the coarser sense of those around her 
 U ncomprehended, may not all be vain : 
 But win them they unwitting of the spell 
 Bv ties unfelt, to nobler, loftier life. 
 And they dare blame her ! they whose every thought, 
 Look, utterance, act, has more of evil in t, 
 Than e er she dreamed of or could understand ; 
 And she must blush before them, with a heart 
 Whose lightest throb is worth their all of life ! 
 They boast their charity : oh, idle boast ! 
 They give the poor, forsooth, food, fuel, shelter; 
 Faint, chill d, and worn, her ?oul imp ored a pittance, 
 Her soul asked alms of theirs and was denied ! 
 
 It was not much it came a-begging for, 
 A simple boon, only a gent e thought, 
 A kindly judgment of such deeds of hers 
 As passed their understanding, but to her 
 Seemed natural as the blooming of a flower : 
 For God taught her but they had learned of men 
 Their meagre task of how to mete out love, 
 A selfish, sensual love, most unlike hers. 
 God taught the tendril where to cling, and she 
 Learned the same lovely lesson, with the same 
 Unquestioning and pliant trust in Him. 
 
 And yet that He should let a lyre of heaven 
 Be played on by such hands, with touch so rude, 
 Might wake a doubt in less than perfect faith, 
 Perfect as mine, in his beneficence. 
 
 LENORE. 
 
 On ! fragi e and fair, as the delicate cha ices, 
 W T rought with so rare and subtle a skill, 
 
 Bright relics, that tell of the pomp of those palaces, 
 Venice the sea-goddess glories in still. 
 
 Whose exquisite texture, transparent and tender, 
 A pure blush a one from the ruby wine takes; 
 
 Yet ah ! if some fa se hand, profaning its splendor, 
 Dares but to tain it with poison it breaks ! 
 
 So when Love poured through thy pure heart hia 
 lightning, 
 
 On thy pale cheek the soft rose-hues awoke 
 So when wild Passion, that timid heart frightening 
 
 Poisoned the treasure it trembled and broke ! 
 
FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 
 
 THE COCOA-NUT TREE. 
 
 On, the green and the graceful the cocoa-nut tree ! 
 The lone and the lofty it loves like me 
 The flash, the foam of the heaving sea, 
 And the sound of the surging waves 
 In the shore s unfathorned caves : 
 With its state y shaft, and its verdant crown, 
 And its fruit in clusters drooping down 
 Some of a soft and tender green, 
 And some all ripe and brown between, 
 And flowers, loo, blending their lovelier grace 
 Like a blush through the tresses on Beauty s face. 
 Oh, the lovely, the free, 
 The cocoa-nut tree, 
 Is the tree of a!l trees for me ! 
 
 The willow, it waves with a tenderer motion, 
 The oak and the elm with more majesty rise ; 
 
 But give me the cocoa, that loves the wild, ocean, 
 And shadows the hut where the is and-girl lies. 
 
 In the Nicobar islands, each cottage you see, 
 Is built of the trunk of the cocoa-nut tree, 
 While its leaves matted thickly, and many times o er, 
 Make a thatch for its roof and a mat for its floor; 
 Its shel s the dark islander s beverage hold 
 "fis a goblet as pure as a goblet of gold. 
 
 Oh, the cocoa-nut tree, 
 
 That blooms by the sea, 
 Is the tree of all trees for me ! 
 
 In the Nicobar isles of the cocoa-nut tree, 
 They build the light shallop the wild, the free ; 
 They weave of its fibres so firm a sail. 
 It will weather the rudest southern gale ; 
 They fill it with oil, and with coarse jaggree 
 With arrack and coir, from the cocoa-nut tree. 
 
 The lone, the free, 
 
 That dwells in the roar 
 
 Of the echoing shore 
 Oh, the cocoa-nut tree for me ! 
 Rich is the cocoa-nut s milk and meat, 
 And its wine, the pure palm-wine, is sweet; 
 It is like the bright spirits we sometimes meet 
 
 The wine of the cocoa-nut tree : 
 For they tie up the embryo bud s soft wing, 
 From which the Irossoms and nuts would spring ; 
 And thus forbidden to bless with bloom 
 Its native air, and with soft perfume, 
 The subtle spirit that struggles there 
 Distils an essence more rich and rare, 
 And instead of a blossom and fruitage birth, 
 The delicate palm-wine oozes forth. 
 
 Ah, thus to the child of genius, too, 
 
 The rose of beauty is oft denied ; 
 But a l the richer, that high heart, through 
 
 The torrent of feeling pours its tide, 
 And purer and fonder, and far more true, 
 Is that passionate sou! in its lonely pride. 
 Oh, the fresh, the free, 
 The cocoa-nut tree, 
 Is the tree of all trees for me ! 
 The glowing sky of the Indian isles, 
 Lovingly over the cocoa-nut smiles, 
 And the Indian maiden lies below, 
 \V hero its leaves their graceful shadow throw : 
 
 She weaves a wreath of the rosy shelh 
 
 That gem the beach where the cocoa dwells ; 
 
 She binds them into her long black hair, 
 
 And they b .ush in the braids like rosebuds there; 
 
 Her soft brown arm, and her graceful neck, 
 
 With those ocean-blooms she joys to deck. 
 
 Oh, wherever you see 
 
 The cocoa-nut tree, 
 There will a picture of beauty be ! 
 
 A MOTHER S PRAYER IN ILLNESS. 
 
 YKS, take them first, my Father ! Let my doves 
 Fold their white wings in heaven, safe on thy breast, 
 Ere I am called away : I dare not leave [hearts! 
 Their young hearts here, their innocent, thoughtless 
 Ah, how the shadowy train of future ills 
 Comes sweeping down life s vista as I gaze ! 
 
 My May ! my careless, ardent-tempered May 
 My frank and frolic child, in whose blue eyes 
 Wild joy and passionate wo alternate rise ; 
 Whose cheek the morning in her soul illumes; 
 Whose little, loving heart a word, a glance, 
 Can sway to grief or glee ; who leaves her play, 
 And puts up her sweet mouth and dimpled arms 
 Each moment for a kiss, and softly asks, 
 W 7 ith her clear, flutelike voice, " Do you love me 1" 
 Ah, let me stay ! ah, let me still be by, 
 To answer her and meet her warm caress ! 
 For I away, how oft in this rough world 
 That earnest question will be asked in vain ! 
 How oft that eager, passionate, petted heart, 
 Will shrink abashed and chilled, to learn at length 
 The hateful, withering lesson of distrust ! 
 Ah ! let her nestle still upon this breast, 
 In which each shade that dims her darling face 
 Is felt and answered, as the lake reflects 
 The clouds that cross yon smiling heaven ! andthou, 
 My modest Ellen tender, thoughtful, true; 
 Thy soul attuned to all sweet harmonies : 
 My pure, proud, noble Ellen ! with thy gifts 
 Of genius, grace, and loveliness, half hidden 
 Neath the soft veil of innate modesty, 
 How will the world s wi d discord reach thy heart 
 To startle and appal ! Thy generous scorn 
 Of all things base and mean thy quick, keen taste, 
 Dainty and delicate thy instinctive fear 
 Of those unworthy of a soul so pure, 
 Thy rare, unchildlike dignity of mien, 
 All they will all bring pain to thee, my child ! 
 And oh, if even their grace and goodness meet 
 Cold looks and careless greetings, how will all 
 The latent evil yet undisciplined 
 In their young, timid souls, forgiveness find ? 
 Forgiveness, and forbearance, and soft chiding*, 
 W T hich I, their mother, learned of Love to give ! 
 Ah, let me stay ! albeit my heart is weary, 
 Weary and worn, tired of its own sad beat, 
 That finds no echo in this busy world 
 Which can not pause to answer tired alike 
 Of joy and sorrow, of the day and night : 
 Ah, take them first, my Father, and then me I 
 And for their sakes, for their sweet sakes, my Father 
 Lei me find rest beside them, at thy feet ! 
 
FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 
 
 LITTLE CHILDREN. 
 
 "Of sv.rh is the kingdom of heaven." 
 
 A xi) yet we check and chide 
 The airy angels as they float about us, 
 With rules of so-called wisdom, till they grow 
 The same tarne slaves to custom and the world. 
 And day by day the fresh frank soul that looked 
 Out of those wistful eyes, and smiling played 
 With the wild roses of that changing cheek, 
 And modulated a l those earnest tones, 
 And danced in those light foot-falls to a tune 
 Heart-heard by them, inaudible to us, 
 Folds closer its pure wings, whereon the hues 
 They caught in heaven already pale and pine, 
 And shrinks amazed and scared back from our gaze. 
 And so the evil grows. The graceful flower 
 May have its own sweet way in bud and bloom 
 May drink, and dare with upturned gaze the light, 
 Or nest e neath the guardian leaf, or wave 
 Tts fragrant be ls to every roving breeze, 
 Or wreathe with b ushinT grace the fragile spray 
 In bashful loveliness. The wild wood-bird 
 May p ume at will his wings, and soir or sing ; 
 The mountain brook may wind where er it would, 
 Dash in wild music down the deep ravine, 
 Or, ripp ing drowsily in forest haunts, 
 Dream of the floating cloud, the waving flower, 
 And murmur to itse f sweet lulling words 
 In broken tones so like the faltering speech 
 Of early childhood : but our human flowers, 
 Our soul-birds, caged and pining they must sing 
 And grow, not as their own but our caprice 
 Suggests, and so the blos^on and the lay 
 Are but half bloom and music at the best. 
 And if by chance some brave and buoyant soul, 
 More bold or less forgetful of the lessons 
 God taught them first, disdain the rule the bar 
 And, wildly beautiful, rebellious rise, 
 How the hard world, half startled from itself, 
 Frowns the bright wanderer down, or turns away, 
 And leaves her lonely in her upward path. 
 Thank God ! to such his smile is not denied. 
 
 A SERMON. 
 
 Tnou discord in this choral harmony ! 
 That dost profane the loveliest light and air 
 God ever gave : be still, and look, and listen . 
 Canst see yon fair cloud floating in the sun, 
 And blush not, watching its serener life ? 
 Canst hear the fragrant grass grow up toward God, 
 With low, perpetual chant of praise and prayer, 
 Nor grieve that your soul grows the other way 1 
 Forego that tone, made harsh by a hard heart, 
 And hearken, if you re not afraid to hearken, 
 Yon robin s careless carol, glad and sweet, 
 Mockn.g the sunshine with his merry trill : 
 Suppose you try to chord your voice with his 
 13<it first, learn love and wisdom of him, lady ! 
 
 How dare you bring your inharmonious heart 
 To such a scene 1 How dare you let your voice 
 Tulk out ot tune so with the voice of God 
 In oarti and sky 1 The balmy air about ycxi 
 
 Is Heaven s great gift, vouchsafed to you to make 
 Vocal with all melodious truths, and you 
 Fret it with false words, from a falser soul, 
 And poison it with the breath of calumny ! 
 Learn reverence, bold one, for true Nature s heart, 
 If not for that your sister woman bears ! 
 For Nature s heart, p eading in every wave, 
 That wastes its wistfu 1 music at your feet. 
 
 Take back your cold, inane, and carping mind 
 Into the world you came from and belong to 
 The world of common cares and sordid aims : 
 These happy haunts can spare ycu, little one ! 
 The dew-fed grass will grow as well without you, 
 The woodland choirs will scarce require your voice, 
 The starlit wave without your smile will g isien, 
 The proud patrician trees will miss you not. 
 
 Go, waste God s glorious boon of summer hours 
 Among your mates, as sha low, in sma l talk 
 Of dress, or weather, or the last elopement ! 
 Go, mar the canvass with distorted face 
 Of dog or cat; or worse, profanely mock, 
 With gaudy beads, the pure light-painted flower ! 
 Go. trim your cap, embroider your visite, 
 Crocher a purse, do any petty thing : 
 But, in the name of truth, religion, beauty, 
 Let Nature s marvellous mystery alone, 
 Nor ask such airs, such skies, to waste the wealth 
 They keep for nobler beings, upon you ! 
 Or stay, and learn of every bird and bloom, 
 That sends its heart to Heaven in song or sigh, 
 The lesson that you need the law of love ! 
 
 THE CHILD PLAYING WITH A WATCH. 
 
 ART thou playing with Time in thv sweet baby- 
 glee ? 
 
 W T ill he pause on his pinions to frolic with thee 7 
 Oh, show him those shadowless, innocent eves, 
 That smile of bewi dered and beaming surprise ; 
 Let him look on that cheek where thy rich hair 
 
 * reposes, 
 
 Where dimples are play ing " bopeep" with the roses: 
 His wrinkled brow press with light kisses and warm, 
 And clasp his rough neck with thy soft wreathing 
 
 arm. 
 
 Perhaps thy bewitching and infantine sweetness 
 May win him, for once, to delay in his fleetness 
 To pause, ere he rifle, relent ess in flight, 
 A blossom so glowing of bloom and of light : 
 Then, then would I keep thee, my beautiful child, 
 With thy blue eyes unshadowed, thy blush unde- 
 
 filed 
 
 With thy innocence only to guard thee from ill, 
 In life s sunny dawning, a lily-bud still ! 
 Laugh on, my own Ellen ! that voice, which to mo 
 Gives a warning so solemn, makes music for thee 
 And while I at those sounds feel the idler s annoy, 
 Thou hear st but the tick of the pretty gold toy ; 
 Thou seest but a smile on the brow of the churl- 
 May his frown never awe thee, my own baby-girl. 
 And oh, may his step, as he wanders with thee, 
 Light and soft as thine own little fairy tread be ! 
 While still in all seasons, in storms and fair weather. 
 May Time and my Ellen be playmates together. 
 
FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 
 
 277 
 
 LABOR. 
 
 PATS:-: not to dream of the future before us: 
 Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o er us; 
 Hark, how Creation s deep, musical chorus, 
 
 Unintermitting, goes up into Heaven ! 
 Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing; 
 Never the little seed stops in its growing ; 
 More and more richly the Rosehcart keeps glowing, 
 
 Ti 1 from its nourishing stem it is riven. 
 
 " Labor is worship !" the robin is singing : 
 " Labor is worship !" the wild bee is ringing : 
 Listen ! that eloquent whisper upspringing 
 
 Speaks to thy soul from out nature s great heart. 
 From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower; 
 From the rough sod blows the soft breathing flower ; 
 From the small insect, the rich coral bower ; 
 
 Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part. 
 
 Labor is life ! T is the still water faileth; 
 
 Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ; 
 
 Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth ! 
 
 Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. 
 Labor is gory ! the flying cloud lightens; 
 On y the waving wing changes and brightens ; 
 Idle hearts only the dark future frightens : [tune ! 
 
 Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in 
 
 Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us ; 
 Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, 
 Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us, 
 
 Rest from world-syrens that lure us to ill. 
 Work and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow ; 
 Work thou shalt ride over Care s coming billow; 
 Lie not down wearied neath Wo s weeping willow ! 
 
 Work with a stout heart and resolute will ! 
 
 Labor is health Lo ! the husbandman reaping, 
 How through his veins goes the life-current leaping ! 
 How his strong arm in its stalwart pride sweeping, 
 
 True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides. 
 Labor is wealth in the sea the pearl groweth ; 
 Rich the queen s robe from the frail cocoon floweth ; 
 From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth ; 
 
 Temple and statue the marble block hides. 
 
 Droop not tho shame,sin and anguish are round thee! 
 Bravely fliiTg off the cold chain that hath bound thee ! 
 Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee : 
 
 Rest not content in thy darkness a clod ! 
 Work for some good, be it ever so slowly ; 
 Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly : 
 Labor ! all labor is noble and holy : 
 
 Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God. 
 
 GARDEN GOSSIP, 
 
 ACCOUNTING FOR THE COOLNESS BETWEEN THE 
 LILY AND VIOLET. 
 
 "T WILL tell you a secret," the honeybee said, 
 To a violet drooping her dew-laden head ; 
 " The lily s in love ! for she listened last night, 
 While her sisters all slept in the holy moonlight, 
 To a zephyr that just had been rocking the rose, 
 Where, hidden, I hearkened in seeming repose. 
 
 I would not betray her to any but you ; 
 But the secret is safe with a spirit so true 
 It will rest in your bosom in silence profound." 
 The violet bent her blue eye to the ground : 
 A tear and a smile in her loving look lav, . 
 While the light-wingt d gossip went whirring away. 
 
 " I will tell you a secret," the honeybee said, 
 And the young lily lifted her beautiful head 
 " The vio et thinks, with her timid blue eye, 
 To pass for a blossom enchantingly shy ; 
 But for all her sweet manners, so modest and pure, 
 She gossips with every gay bird that sings to her. 
 
 " Now let me advise you, sweet flower, as a frieru 1 ., 
 Oh, ne er to such beings your confidence lend ; 
 It grieves me to see one, all guileless like you, 
 Thus wronging a spirit so trustful and true : 
 But not for the world, love, my secret betray !" 
 And the little light gossip went buzzing away. 
 
 A blush in the li y s cheek trembled and fled : 
 " I m sorry he told me," she tenderly said ; 
 If T mayn t trust the vio et. pure as she seems, 
 I must fold in my own heart my beautiful dreams." 
 Was the mischief well managed ! fair lady is t true! 
 Did the light garden gossip take lessons of you, ! 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 OH, no ! never deem her less worthy of love, 
 That once she has trusted, and trusted in vain ! 
 
 Could you turn from the timid and innocent dove, 
 If it flew to your breast from a savage s chain ] 
 
 She, too, is a dove, in her guileless affection, 
 A child in confiding and worshipping truth ; 
 
 Half broken in heart, she has flown for protection 
 To you : will you chill the sweet promise of youth 1 
 
 To a being so fragile, affection is life : 
 A rosebud, unblessed by a smile from above, 
 
 W r hen with bloom and with fragrance its bosom is 
 
 rife 
 A bee without sweets she must perish or love ! 
 
 You have heard of those magical circles of flowers, 
 Which in places laid waste by the lightning are 
 
 found ; 
 Where they say that the fairies have charmed the 
 
 night bouts. 
 
 With their luminous footsteps enriching the 
 ground. 
 
 Believe me the passion she^ cherished of yore, 
 That brought, like the storm-flash, at once on its 
 wing 
 
 Destruction and splendor, like that hurried o er, 
 And left in its track but the wild fairy-ring- 
 
 All rife with fair blossoms of fancy, and feeling. 
 And hope, that spring forth from the desolate 
 
 gloom. 
 And whose breath in rich incense is softly up 
 
 Btea ing, 
 To brighten your pathway with beauty and bloom. 
 
FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 
 
 KUllYDICE. 
 
 WITH heart that thri led to every earnest line, 
 
 I had been reading o er that antique story, 
 Wherein tin- youth halt human, half divine, 
 
 Of a 1 love-lore the Kidolun and jjory, 
 Child of tlie Sun, with Music s pleading spell, 
 [n Pluto s palace swept, for love, his golden shell ! 
 
 And in the wi. d, sweet legend, dimly traced, 
 
 My own heart s history unfo ded seemed: 
 Ah, lost one ! by thy iover-min.strel graced 
 
 With homage pure as ever woman dreamed, 
 
 Too fondly worshipped, since such fate befell, 
 
 Was it not sweet to die- because beloved too well ? 
 
 The scene is round me. Throned amid the gloom, 
 
 As a flower smiles on ^Etna s fatal breast, 
 Young Proserpine beside her lord doth bloom; 
 
 And near of Orpheus soul, oh, idol blest! 
 Whi e low for thec he tunes his lyre of light, 
 I see thy meek, fair form dawn through that lurid 
 night ! 
 
 I see the glorious buy his dark locks wreathing 
 
 Wildly the wan and spiritual brow ; 
 His sweet, curved lip the soul of music breathing ; 
 His blue Greek eyes, that speak Love s loyal vo w ; 
 I see him bend on thee that eloquent glance, 
 The while those wondrous notes the realm of terror 
 trance. 
 
 I see his face, with more than mortal heauty 
 Kindling, as, armed with that sweet lyre alone, 
 
 Pledged to a holy and heroic duty, 
 He stands serene before the awful throne, 
 
 And looks on Hades horrors with c ear eyes, 
 Since thou, his own adored Eurydice, art nigh ! 
 
 Now soft and low a prelude sweet uprings, 
 
 As if a prisoned ange! pleading there 
 For life and love were fettered neath the strings, 
 
 And poured his passionate soul upon the air! 
 Anon it clangs with wild, exultant swell, 
 Till the full pajan peals triumphantly through hell ! 
 
 And thou, thy pa 1 e hands meekly lock d before thee, 
 Thy sal eves drinking life from his dear gaze 
 
 Thy lips apart thy hair a halo o er thee, 
 Trailing around thy throat its golden maze 
 
 Thus, with all words in passionate silence dying, 
 Within thy soul I hear Love s eager voice replying : 
 
 " Play on, mine Orpheus ! Lo ! while these are 
 gazing, 
 
 Charmed into statues hy thy God-taught strain, 
 I I alone, to thy dear face upraising 
 
 My tearful glance, the life of life regain ; 
 For every tone that steals into my heart 
 Doth to its worn, weak pulse a mighty power impart. 
 
 Play on, mine Orpheus ! while thy music floats 
 Through the dread realm, divine with truth and 
 
 grace, 
 See, dear one, how the chain of linked notes 
 
 Mas fettered every spirit in its place ! 
 Even Death, beside rue, still and helpless lies; 
 AJK! strives in vain to chill my frame with his cold 
 
 I Still, mine own Orpheus, sweep the golden lyre 
 
 Ah ! dost thou mark how gent e Proserpine, 
 With clasp d hands, and eyes whose azure fire 
 G. earns through quick tears, thrilled hy thy lay 
 
 doth lean 
 
 Her graceful head upon her stern lord s hreast, 
 Like an overwearied child, whom music lulls to rest ? 
 
 Play, my proud minstrel ; strike the chords again ; 
 
 Lo ! victory crowns at last thy heavenly skill : 
 For Pluto turns relenting to the strain 
 
 He waves his hand he speaks his awful will ; 
 My glorious Greek, lead on; but ah ! still lend 
 Thy soul to thy sweet lyre, lest yet thou lose thy 
 friend. 
 
 Think not of me : think rather of the time, 
 
 When moved by thy resistless melody, 
 To the strange magic of a song sublime, 
 
 Thy argo grandly glided to the sea ; 
 And in the majesty Minerva gave, 
 The graceful gaLey swept with joy the sounding 
 wave. 
 
 Or see, in Fancy s dream, thy Thracian trees, 
 
 Their proud heads bent submissive to the sound. 
 Swayed by a tuneful and enchanted breeze, 
 
 March to slow music o er th astonished ground 
 Grove after grove descending from the hills, 
 While round thee weave their dance the glad, har 
 monious rills. 
 
 Think not of me. Ha ! hy thy mighty sire. 
 
 My lord, my king, recall the dread behest ; 
 Turn not ah ! turn not hack those eyes of fire. 
 
 Oh, lost, for ever lost undone unblest 
 I faint, I die ! the serpent s fang once more 
 Is here ! Nay, grieve not thus : life but not love 
 
 LADY JANE. 
 
 On ! saw ye e er creature so queenly, so fine, 
 As this dainty, aerial darling of mine ; 
 With a toss of her mane that is glossy as jet, 
 With a dance and a prance, and a sportive curvet, 
 She is off she is stepping superbly away, 
 Her dark, speaking eyes full of pride and of play. 
 Oh! she spurns the dull earth with a graceful disdain, 
 My fearless, my peerless, my loved Lady Jane. 
 Her silken ears lifted when danger is nigh, 
 How kindles the night in her reso .ute eye; 
 Now stately she paces, as if to the sound 
 Of a proud, martial melody pealing around 
 Now pauses at once, mid a light caracole, 
 To turn on her master a lo:>k full of soul 
 Now, fleet as a fairy, she speeds o er the plain, 
 My dashing, my darling, my own Lady Jane. 
 
 Give her rein let her go ! like a shaft from the bow 
 Like a bird on the wing she is glancing, I trow, 
 Light of heart, lithe of limb, with a spirit all fire, 
 Yet swayed and subdued to my idlest desire ; 
 Though daring, yet docile and sportive, but true, 
 Her nature s the noblest that ever I knew : 
 Oh ! she scorns the dull earth, in her joyous disdain, 
 My beauty, my glory, my gay Lady Jane 
 
FRANCES S. OSGOOB. 
 
 279 
 
 IDA S FAREWELL. 
 
 WE part for ever !" Silent be our parting ; 
 
 Let not a word its sacred grief profane ! 
 Heart pressed to heart, with not a tear upstarting 
 
 An age of anguish in that moment s pain ! 
 T is just and right. It is our " crown of sorrow ;" 
 
 Bravely we ll meet it as becomes our love 
 A love so strong, so pure, it well may borrow 
 
 Bright wings to waft it to the joy above. 
 We part for ever ! o er my soul in sadness 
 
 No more the music of thy voice shall glide 
 Low with deep feeling, till a passionate gladness 
 
 Thrilled to each tone, and in wild tears replied. 
 No more thy light caressing touch shall calm me, 
 
 With its dear magic on my lifted brow ; 
 No more thy pen of lire shall pour to charm me, 
 
 The poet-passion of thy fervent vow ! 
 We part for ever ! Proud shall be the story 
 
 Of hearts that hid affection fond as ours 
 The joy that veiled the universe in glory 
 
 Fades with thy presence from her skies and flowers. 
 The soul that answered, like the sun-touched lyre, 
 
 To thy dear smile to every tone of thine, 
 Henceforth is hushed, with all its faith its fire, 
 
 Till thou rewaken it in realms divine ! 
 
 We part for ever ! Ah, this world s for ever 
 What is its fleetness unto hearts so strong ] 
 
 Here in our worldless agony we sever : 
 There we shall meet where love will be no wrong. 
 
 "In paradise !" Dost thou e er dream as I, love, 
 
 Of that sweet life when all the truth the grace 
 All the soft melodies, in our souls that sigh, love, 
 
 Shall make the light and beauty of the place 1 
 We meet for ever ! Tenderly lamenting 
 
 The wild dear weakness of our earthly day, 
 Beneath the passionate tears of that repenting, 
 
 What luminous flowers shall spring to bless our 
 
 way ! 
 And for all tuneful tones our love revealing, 
 
 Some bird or rill shall wake in sweet reply ; 
 And every sigh of pity or of feeling 
 
 Shall call a cloud of rose-light from the sky. 
 
 To thy rare, gorgeous fantasies responding, 
 Rich palaces, mid wondrous scenes shall rise ; 
 
 To thy proud harp s impassioned tones resounding, 
 The minstrel wind shall play its wild replies. 
 
 Visions of unimagined grace and splendor, 
 For ever changing round thy rapturous way, [der, 
 
 Now beauteous sculpture bathed in moonlight ten- 
 Now radiant paintings to thy wish shall play. 
 
 But I will speak a fair bower into being, 
 With tender, timid, wistful words and low, 
 
 And tune my soul until, with Heaven agreeing, 
 It chords with music to which blossoms grow. 
 
 And they the flowers, anJ I will pray together, 
 While thou, for" Love s sweet sake, sha 1 join the 
 prayer, 
 
 Ti 1 all sweet influences of balmy weather 
 And lovely scenery make us good and fair. 
 
 And ever to our purer aspirationsy 
 
 A lovelier light and bloom the- flowers sha l take; 
 With rarer grace shall glow our soul s creations. 
 
 With mellower music every echo wake. 
 
 " We meet in paradise !" To hallowed duty, 
 
 Here with a loyal and heroic heart, 
 Bind we our lives that so divinest beauty [part 
 
 May bless that heaven, where naught our souls can 
 
 TO A DEAR LITTLE TRUANT, 
 
 WHO WOULDN T COME HO.MK. 
 
 WHEX are you coming] the flowers have come: 
 Bees in the balmy air happily hum ; 
 In the dim woods where the cool mosses are, 
 Gleams the anemone s little, light star ; 
 Tenderly, timidly, down in the dell, 
 Sighs the sweet violet, droops the harebell ; 
 Soil in the wavy grass lightens the dew ; 
 Spring keeps her promises: why do not you? 
 Up in the blue air the clouds are at play 
 You are more graceful and lovely than they ; 
 Birds in the branches sing all the day long, 
 When are you coming to join in their scng ] 
 Fairer than flowers, and fresher than dew ! 
 Other sweetenings are here why are not you? 
 Why do n t you come ] we have welcomed the rose \ 
 Every light zephyr, as gayly it goes, 
 Whispers of other flowers, met on its way : 
 Why has it nothing of you, love, to say 1 
 Why does it tell us of music and dew ! 
 Rose of the south, we are waiting for you. 
 Do not delay, darling, mid the dark trees, 
 Like a lute murmurs the musical breeze ; 
 Sometimes the brook, as it trips by the flowers, 
 Hushes its warb e to listen for yours. 
 Pure as the rivulet, lovely and true 
 Spring should have waited till she could bring you 
 
 THE UNEXPECTED DECLARATION. 
 
 " AZURE-EYED Eloise, beauty is thine, 
 Passion kneels to thee, and calls thee divine ; 
 Minstrels awaken the lute with thy name ; 
 Poets have gladdened the world with thy fame 
 Painters, half holy, thy loved image keep , 
 Beautiful Eloise, why do you weep]" 
 Still bows the lady her light tresses low 
 Fast the warm tears from her veiled eyes flow. 
 " Sunny-haired Eloise, wealth is tnine own ; 
 Rich is thy silken robe bright is thy zone ; 
 Proudly the jewel illumines thy way ; 
 Clear rubies rival thy ruddy lip s play ; 
 Diamonds like stardrops thy si ken braids deck ; 
 Pearls waste their snow on thy lovelier neck; 
 Luxury softens thy pillow for slccj. ; 
 Angels watch over it : why do you weep !" 
 Bows the fair lady her light tresses low 
 Faster the tears from her veiled eyes flow 
 " Gifted and worshipped one, genius and gr;ic* 
 Play in each motion, and *>eam in thy face: 
 When from thy rosy lip rises the song, 
 Hearts that adore thee the echo prolong ; 
 
2SO 
 
 FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 
 
 Ne er in the festival shone an eye brighter, 
 Ne er in the mazy dance fell a foot lighter. 
 One only spirit thou st failed to bring down 
 Exquisite Eloise, why do you frown ]" 
 Swift o er her forehead a dark shadow stole, 
 Sent from the tempest of pride in her soul. 
 
 Touched by thy sweetness, in love with thy grace, 
 Charmed by the magic of mind in thy face, 
 Bi-witched by thy beauty, e en his haughty strength, 
 The strength of the stoic, is conquered at length : 
 Lo ! at thy feet see him kneeling the while 
 Eioise, Eloise, why do you smi.e 1" 
 The hand was withdrawn from her happy blue eyes, 
 She gazed en her lover with laughing surprise ; 
 While the dimple and blush, stealing soft to her 
 
 cheek, 
 Told the tale that her tongue was too timid to speak. 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 BELIEVE me, tis no pang of jealous pride 
 That brings these tears I know not how to hide ; 
 I only grieve because because I see 
 Thou lind st not all thy heart demands in me. 
 
 I only grieve that others, who care less 
 For thy dear love, thy lightest wish may bless ; 
 Tnat while to them thou rt nothing all to me 
 They may a moment minister to thee ! 
 
 Ah ! if a fairy s magic might were mine, 
 
 I d joy to change with each new wish of thine ; 
 
 Nothing to all the world beside I d be, 
 
 And everything thou lovest, in turn to thee ! 
 
 Pliant as clouds, that haunt the sun-god still, 
 [ d catch each ray of thy prismatic will; 
 I d be a flower a wild, sweet flower I d be 
 And sigh my verv life away for thee ! 
 
 I d be a ge:n, and drink light from the sun, 
 To glad thee with, if gems thy fancy won ; 
 Were birds thy joy, I d light with docile glee 
 Upon thy hand, and shut my wings for thee ! 
 
 Could a wild wave thy glance of pleasure meet, 
 I d lay my crown of spray-prarls at thy feet; 
 Or could a star delight thy heart, I d be 
 The happiest star that ever looked on thee ! 
 
 If music lured thy spirit, I would take 
 A tune s a rial beauty for thy sake; 
 And float into thy soul, so I could see 
 How to become all melody to thee. 
 
 The weed, that by the garden blossom grows, 
 Would, if it could, be glorious as the rose : 
 It tries to bloom its soul to light aspires ; 
 The love of beauty every fibre fires. 
 
 And I -no luminous c oud floats by above, 
 But wins at once my envy and my love 
 So passionately wild this thirst in me, 
 Tc be a I beauty and all grace to thee ! 
 A as! I am but woman, fond and weak, 
 Without even power my proud, pure love to speak ; 
 But oh ! by all I fail in, love n >t me 
 For what i am, but what I wish to be ! 
 
 THE FLOWER LOVE-LETTER. 
 
 B .USHIXG and smiling! do ye so, 
 Delicious flowers, because you know 
 To whose dear heart you soon shall go ? 
 Ah, give my message well and true, 
 And such a smile shall guerdon you ! 
 His smile within whose luminous glow, 
 As in the sun, you ought to grow ! 
 
 Rose ! tell him what /dared not tell, 
 When last we met how wildly well 
 I love him how my glad heart glows, 
 Recalling every word he spake, 
 (Remember that, thou radiant Rose !) 
 In that sweet bower beside the lake. 
 
 Be sure you blush and speak full low, 
 Else you ll seem over bo d I trow; 
 Then hide you thus, with winsome grace, 
 Behind those leaves your glowing face ; 
 But through them send a perfumed sigh, 
 That to his very heart sha 1 fly. 
 
 And thou, my fragrant Lotos-flower, 
 \Vith balmy whisper seek his bower, 
 And say, " Zuleika sends in me 
 A spirit kiss a seal to bind 
 Thy favored lips to secrecy ; 
 Oh, hide the heart she has resigned, 
 Nor let the world, with jibe or scorn, 
 Cloud her young Love s effu gent morn." 
 
 Then, Lily, shrink in silence meek, 
 And let my glorious Tulip speak ! 
 And speak thou, bright one, brave and bold, 
 Lest my Rose show me over weak ; 
 W ith stately grace around thee fold 
 Thy royal robe of g earning gold, 
 And tell him I, the Emir s child 
 With frame so slight, and heart so wild, 
 Still treasure, neath this gemmed cymar, 
 Proud honor s gem a stainless star, 
 And pure as Heaven, his soul must be, 
 And true as Truth, who d mate with me. 
 
 And if he answer as he will 
 My faith on that " I seek her still," 
 Then do thou ring, my blue-bell flower, 
 Thy joyous peal, and softly say, 
 " Oh, wreathe with bridal bloom the bower ! 
 For by to-morrow s earliest ray, 
 From tyrant s cage a bird set free, 
 Zuleika flies and flies to thee !" 
 
 But if you mark, in those proud eyes, 
 A shade the least of scorn arise, 
 Or even doubt, the faintest hue 
 Ah, Heaven ! you will not ! if you do, 
 Shrink, wither, perish, in his sight, 
 And murmur, ere you perish quite, 
 " T is we the flower-sylphs here we dwell, 
 Each in her own light painted cell 
 Tis we who made this idle tale ! 
 At us at us oh, false one, rail ! 
 The Emir s child would rather die, 
 Than breathe for thee one burning sigh ; 
 She scorns thy suit and bids us say, 
 The eaglet holds, alone, her way"- 
 Then wither, perish in his suht, 
 And leave me to my starless night ! 
 
FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 
 
 281 
 
 A WEED. 
 
 WHKX from our northern woods pale sum mer,fly ing, 
 
 Breathes her lastfragrant sigh her low farewell 
 While her sad wild flowers dewy eyes, in dying, 
 
 Plead for her stay, in every nook and dell, 
 A heart, that loved too tenderly and truly, 
 
 Will break at last and in some dim, sweet shade, 
 They 11 smooth the sod o er her you prized unduly, 
 
 And leave her to the rest for which she prayed. 
 Ah ! trustfully, not mournfully, they 11 leave her, 
 
 Assured that deep repose is welcomed well ; 
 The pure, glad breeze can whisper naught to grieve 
 her, 
 
 The brook s low voice no wrongful tale can tell. 
 
 They ll hide her where no false one s footstep, steal 
 ing, 
 
 Can mar the chastened meekness of her sleep ; 
 t)nly to Love and Grief her grave revea ing, 
 
 And they will hush their chiding- then to weep ! 
 And some for though too oft she erred, too blindly, 
 
 She was beloved, how fondly and how well ! 
 Some few, with faltering feet, will linger kindly, 
 
 And plant dear flowers within that silent dell. 
 I know whose fragile hand will bring the bloom 
 
 Best loved by both the violet to that bower ; 
 And one will bid white lilies bless the gloom ; 
 
 And one, perchance, will plant the passion-flower ! 
 Then do thou come, when all the rest have parted 
 
 Thou, who alone dost know her soul s deep gloom, 
 And wreathe above the lost, the broken-hearted, 
 
 Some idle weed that knew not how to bloom. 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 E to me, angel of the weary hearted, 
 Since they my loved ones, breathed upon by thee, 
 Unto thy realms unreal have departed, 
 I, too, may rest even I : ah ! haste to me. 
 
 I dare not bid thy darker, colder brother 
 
 With his more welcome offering appear, 
 For those sweet li ps, at m orn,wil 1 m urmur, Mother, 
 
 And who shall soothe them if I be not near. 
 Bring me no dream, dear Sleep, though visions 
 glowing 
 
 With hues of heaven thy wand enchanted shows ; 
 I ask no glorious boon of thy bestowing, 
 
 Save that most true, most beautiful repose. 
 
 I have no heart to rove in realms of Faery 
 
 To folow Fancy at her elfin call : 
 I am too wretched too soul-worn and weary ; 
 
 Give me but rest, for rest to me is all. 
 
 Paint not the future to my fainting spirit, 
 Though it were starred with glory like the skies; 
 
 There is no gift immortals may inherit, 
 That could rekindle hope in these cold eyes. 
 
 And for the Past the fearful Past ah ! never 
 Be Memory s downcast gaze unveiled by thee : 
 
 Wou d thou couldst bring oblivion for ever 
 Of all that is, that has been, and will be ! 
 
 SILENT LOVE. 
 
 AH ! let our love be still a folded flower, 
 A pure, moss rosebud, blushing to be seen, 
 
 Hoarding its balm and beauty for that hour 
 When souls may meet without the clay between ! 
 
 Let not a breath of passion dare to blow 
 Its tender, timid, clinging leaves apart; 
 
 Let not the sunbeam, with too ardent glow, 
 Profane the dewy freshness at its heart ! 
 
 Ah ! keep it folded like a sacred thing [nurse; 
 
 With tears and smiles its bloom and fragrance 
 Still let the modest veil around it cling, 
 
 Nor with rude touch its pleading sweetness curse. 
 
 Be thou content, as I, to know, not see, 
 The glowing life, the treasured wealth within 
 
 To feel our spirit flower still fresh and free, 
 And guard its blush, its smile, from shame and sin ! 
 
 Ah, keep it holy ! once the veil withdrawn 
 Once the rose blooms its balmy soul will fly, 
 
 As fled of old in sadness, yet in scorn, 
 Th awakened god from Psyche s daring eye . 
 
 BEAUTY S PRAYER. 
 
 ROUND great Jove his lightnings shone, 
 Rolled the universe before him, 
 
 Stars, for gems, lit up his throne, 
 
 Clouds, for banners, floated o er him. 
 
 With her tresses all untied, 
 
 Touched with gleams of golden glory, 
 Beauty came, and blushed, and sighed, 
 
 While she told her piteous story. 
 
 " Hear ! oh, Jupiter ! thy child : 
 
 Right my wrong, if thou dost love me ! 
 
 Beast and bird, and savage wild, 
 All are placed in power above me. 
 
 " Each his weapon thou hast given, 
 
 Each the strength and skill to wield it : 
 
 Why bestow Supreme in heaven ! 
 Bloom on me with naught to shield it 1 
 
 "Even the rose the wild-wood rose, 
 Fair and frail as I, thy daughter, 
 
 Safely yields to soft repose, 
 
 With her lifeguard thorns about her." 
 
 As she spake in music wild, 
 
 Tears within her blue eyes glistened, 
 Yet her red lip dimpling smiled, 
 
 For the god benignly listened. 
 
 Child of Heaven !" he kindly said, 
 " Try the weapons Nature gave thee i 
 
 And if danger near thee tread, 
 
 Proudly trust to them to save thee. 
 
 " Lance and talon, thorn and spear : 
 Thou art armed with triple power, 
 
 In that blush, and smile, and tear! 
 Fearless go, my fragile flower. 
 
 " Yet dost thou, with all thy charmts, 
 Still for something more beseech mo 7 - 
 
 Skill to use thy magic arms ? 
 
 Ask of Love and Love wul teach thee J 
 
292 
 
 FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 
 
 DREAM-MUSIC, OR THE SPIRIT-FLUTE. 
 
 TnfcRE, pearl of beauty ! lightly press, 
 With yielding form, the yielding sand; 
 
 And whi e you sift the rosy shells 
 Within your dear and dainty hand, 
 
 Or toss them to the heedless waves, 
 
 That reck not how your treasures shine, 
 
 As oft you waste on careless hearts 
 
 Your fancies, touched with light divine 
 
 I ll sing a lay, more wild than gay 
 
 The story of a magic flute : 
 And as I sing, the waves shall play 
 
 An ordered tune, the song to suit. 
 
 In silence flowed our grand old Rhine 
 For on his breast a picture burned, 
 
 The loveliest of all scenes that shine, 
 Where er his glorious course has turned. 
 
 That radiant morn the peasants saw 
 
 A wondrous vision rise in light, 
 They gazed, with blended joy and awe 
 
 A castle crowned the beetling height. 
 
 Far up amid the amber mist, 
 
 That softly wreathes each mountain-spire, 
 The sky its clustered columns kissed, 
 
 And touched their snow with golden fire : 
 
 The vapor parts against the skies, 
 
 In delicate tracery on the blue,- 
 Those graceful turrets lightly rise, 
 
 As if to music there they grew ! 
 
 And issuing from its portal fair, 
 
 A youth descends the dizzy steeps ; 
 The sunrise gilds his waving hair, 
 
 From rock to rock he lightly leaps : 
 He comes the radiant angel boy ! 
 
 He moves with more than human grace; 
 His eyes are filled with earnest joy, 
 
 And heaven is in his beauteous face. 
 
 And whether bred the stars among, 
 
 Or in that luminous palace born, 
 Around his airy footsteps hung 
 
 The light of an immortal morn. 
 From steep to steep he fearless springs, 
 
 And now he glides the throng amid, 
 So light, as if still played the wings 
 
 That neath his tunic sure are hid. 
 A fairy flute is in his hand 
 
 He parts his bright, disordered hair, 
 And smiles upon the wondering band 
 
 A strange, sweet smile, with tranquil air. 
 Anon, his blue, celestial eyes 
 
 He bent upon a youthful maid, 
 Whose looks met his in still surprise, 
 
 The while a low, glad tune he played. 
 Her heart beat wildly in her face 
 
 The lovely rose-light went and came ; 
 She clasped her hands with timid grace, 
 
 In mute appeal, in joy and shame. 
 Then slow he turned more wildly breathed 
 
 The pleading flute, and by the sound 
 
 Through all the throng her steps she wreathed, 
 As. if a chain were o er her wound. 
 
 All mute and still the group remained, 
 Arid watched the chann, with lips apart. 
 
 While in those linked nuies enchained, 
 The girl was led, with listening heart. 
 
 The youth ascends the rocks again, 
 And in his steps the maiden stole, 
 
 While softer, ho ier grew the strain, 
 Till rapture thrilled her yearning soul ! 
 
 And fainter fe l that fairy tune; 
 
 Its low, melodious cadence wound, 
 Most like a rippling rill at noon, 
 
 Through delicate lights and shades of sound: 
 
 And with the music, gliding slow, 
 
 Far up the steep their garments gleam ; 
 
 Now through the palace-gate they go, 
 And now it vanished like a dream ! 
 
 Still frowns above thy waves, oh Rhine ! 
 
 The mountain s wild terrific height, 
 But where has fled the work divine 
 
 That lent its brow a halo light 1 
 
 Ah ! springing arch and pillar pale 
 
 Had melted in the azure air; 
 And she the darling of the dale 
 
 She too had gone but how, and where 1 ..... 
 
 Long years rolled by, and lo ! one morn, 
 Again o er regal Rhine it came 
 
 That picture from the dream-land borne, 
 That palace built of frost and flame. 
 
 Beho d ! within its portal gleams 
 
 A heavenly shape oh, rapturous sight ! 
 
 For lovely as the light of dreamy 
 
 She g.ides adown the mountain height ! 
 
 She comes the loved, the long-lost maid ! 
 
 And in her hand the charm d flute; 
 But ere its mystic tune was played, 
 
 She spake the peasants listened mute : 
 
 She told how in that instrument 
 
 Was chained a world of winged dreams; 
 
 And how the notes that from it went 
 
 Revealed them as with lightning gleams 
 
 And how its music s magic braid 
 
 O er the unwary heart it threw, 
 Till he or she whose dream it played 
 
 Was forced to follow where it drew. 
 She to d how on that marvellous day 
 
 Within its changing tune she heard 
 A forest fountain s plaintive play, 
 
 A silver trill from far-off bird 
 
 And how the sweet tones, in her heart, 
 
 Had changed to promises as sweet, 
 That if she dared with them depart, 
 
 Each lovely hope its heaven should meet. 
 And then she played a joyous lay, 
 
 And to her side a fair child springs, 
 And wildly cries, " Oh, where are they, 
 
 Those singing birds, with diamond wings ?** 
 Anon a loftier strain is heard 
 
 A princely youth beholds his dream, 
 
FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 
 
 And, by the thrilling cadence stirred, 
 Would follow where its wonders gleam. 
 
 Still played the maid and from the throng, 
 
 Receding slow, the music drew 
 A choice and lovely band along 
 
 The brave, the beautiful, the true ! 
 
 The sordid, worldly, cold, remained, 
 To watch that radiant troop ascend 
 
 To hear the fading fairy strain 
 
 To see with heaven the vision blend ! 
 
 And ne er again, o er glorious Rhine, 
 
 That sculptured dream rose calm and mute ; 
 
 Ah, would that now once more twould shine, 
 And I could play the fairy flute ! 
 
 I d play, Marie, the dream I see, 
 
 Deep in those changeful eyes of thine, 
 
 And thou perforce shouldst follow me 
 Up up where life is all divine ! 
 
 TO MY PEN. 
 
 DOST know, my iittle vagrant pen, 
 
 That wanderest lightly down the paper, 
 
 Without a thought how critic men 
 May carp at every careless caper 1 
 
 Dost know, twice twenty thousand eyes, 
 
 If publishers report them tru y, 
 Each month may mark the sportive lies 
 
 That track, oh shame ! thy steps unruly 1 
 Now list to me, my fairy pen, 
 
 And con the lessons gravely over ; 
 Be never wild or false again, 
 
 But " mind your Ps and Qs," you rover ! 
 While tripping gayly to and fro. 
 
 Let not a thought escape you lightly, 
 But challenge all before they go, 
 
 And see them fairly robed and rightly. 
 
 You know that words but dress the frame, 
 
 And thought s the soul of verse, my fairy ! 
 So drape not spirits dull and tame 
 
 In gorgeous robes or garments airy. 
 [ would not have my pen pursue 
 
 The " beaten track" a slave for ever ; 
 No ! roam as thou wert wont to do, 
 
 In author-land, by rock and river. 
 Be like the sunbeam s burning wing, 
 
 Be like the wand in Cinderella 
 And if you touch a common thing, 
 
 Ah, change to gold the pumpkin yellow ! 
 May grace come fluttering round your steps, 
 
 W T hene er, my bird, you light on paper, 
 And music murmur at your lips, 
 
 And truth restrain each truant caper. 
 Let hope paint pictures in your way, 
 
 And love his seraph-lesson teach you ; 
 And rather calm with reason stray, 
 
 Than dance with folly I beseech you ! 
 fn Faith s pure fountain lave your wing, 
 
 And quaff from feeling s glowing chalice 
 
 But touch not falsehood s fatal spring, 
 And shun the poisoned weeds of malice. 
 
 Firm be the web you lightly spin, 
 
 From leaf to leaf, though frail in seeming, 
 
 While Fancy s fairy dew-gems win 
 
 The sunbeam Truth to keep them gleaming, 
 
 And shrink not thou when tyrant wrong 
 O er humble suffering dares deride thee : 
 
 With lightning step and c arion song, 
 
 Go ! take the field, with Heaven beside thee. 
 
 Be tuned to tenderest music when 
 
 Of sin and shame thou rt sadly singing; 
 
 But diamond be thy point, my pen, 
 
 When folly s bells are round thee ringing ! 
 
 And so, where er you stay your flight, 
 
 To plume your wing or dance your measure, 
 
 May gems and flowers your pathway light, 
 For those who track your tread, my treasure ! 
 
 But what is this 1 you ve tripped about, 
 While I the mentor grave was playing; 
 
 And here you ve written boldly out 
 The very words that I was saying ! 
 
 And here, as usual, on you ve flown 
 
 From right to left flown fast and faster, 
 
 Till even while you wrote it down, 
 
 You ve missed the task you ought to master, 
 
 NEW ENGLAND S MOUNTAIN CHILD. 
 
 WHEUK foams the fall a tameless storm 
 
 Through Nature s wild and rich arcade, 
 Which forest trees, entwining, form, 
 
 There trips the mountain maid. 
 She binds not her luxuriant hair 
 
 With dazz ing gem or costly plume, 
 But gayly wreathes a rosebud there, 
 
 To match her maiden bloom. 
 
 She clasps no golden zone of pride 
 
 Her fair and simple robe around; 
 By flowing riband, lightly tied, 
 
 Its graceful folds are bound. 
 And thus attired a sportive thing, 
 
 Pure, loving, guileless, bright, and wild- 
 Proud Fashion ! match me in your ring, 
 
 New England s mountain child ! 
 She scorns to se l her rich, warm heart 
 
 For paltry gold or haughty rank, 
 But gives her love, untaught by art, 
 
 Confiding, free, and frank. 
 And, once bestowed, no fortune change 
 
 That high and generous faith can alter; 
 Through grief and pain, too pure to range, 
 
 She will not fly or falter. 
 Her foot will bound as light and free 
 
 In lowly hut as palace hall; 
 Her sunny smile as warm will be, 
 
 For love to her is all. 
 Hast seen where in our woodland gloon; 
 
 The rich magnolia proudly smiled 1 
 So brightly doth she bud and bloom, 
 
 New England s mountain child ! 
 
284 
 
 FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 
 
 "ASHES OF ROSES." 
 
 that God would take my child 
 
 I could not bear to see 
 The look of suffering, str.mge -ind wild, 
 
 With which she gazed on me : 
 I prayed that God would take her back, 
 
 But ah ! f did not know 
 VVli.it agony at last twould be 
 
 To let my darling go. 
 
 She fa-led faded in my arms, 
 
 And with a faint, slow sigh, 
 Her fair young spirit went away. 
 
 Ah God ! I felt her die ! 
 But oh ! so lightly to her form 
 
 Death s kindly angel came, 
 It only seemed a zephyr passed 
 
 And quenched a taper s flame; 
 A litt e flower might so have died 
 
 So tranquilly she closed 
 Her lovelv mouth, and on my breast 
 
 Her helpless head reposed. 
 
 Where er I go, I hear her low 
 
 And plaintive murmur ring ; 
 I feel her little fairy clasp 
 
 Around my finger cling, 
 For oh ! it seemed the darling dreamed, 
 
 That while she clung to me, 
 Safe from all harm of Death or pain 
 
 She could not help but be, 
 That I, who watched in helpless grief, 
 
 My flower fade away, 
 That I ah, Heaven ! had life arid strength 
 
 To keep her from decay ! 
 
 She clung there to the very last 
 
 I knew that all was o er, 
 Only because that dear, dear hand, 
 
 Could press mine own no more. 
 Oh God ! give back, give back my child ! 
 
 But one, one hour, that I 
 May tell her all my passionate love 
 
 Before I let her die ! 
 Call not the prayer an impious one, 
 
 For THOU didst fill my soul 
 With this fond, yearning tenderness, 
 
 That nothing can control ! 
 But say instead, " Beside thy bed 
 
 Thy child s sweet spirit glides, 
 For pitying Love has heard the prayer 
 
 Which heavenly wisdom chides !" 
 
 I know, I know that she is blest : 
 
 But oh ! I pine to see 
 Once more the pretty, pleading smile 
 
 She used to give to me ; 
 I pine to hear that low, sweet trill 
 
 With which, where er I came, 
 Hr little, soft voice welcomed me, 
 
 Half welcome and half blame ! 
 
 I know her little heart is glad 
 
 Some gentle angel guides 
 My loved one on her joyous way, 
 
 VVVjrc er in heaven she glides, 
 
 Some angel far more wisely kind 
 
 Than ever I could be, 
 With all my blind, wild mother-love, 
 
 My Fanny, tends on thee ; 
 And every sweet want of thy heart 
 
 Her care benign fulfils, 
 And every whispered wish for me, 
 
 W ith lulling love she stills. 
 
 Upborne by its own purity, 
 
 Thy light form floats away, 
 And heaven s fair children round it throng, 
 
 And woo thee to their play, 
 Where flowers of wondrous beauty rise, 
 
 And birds of splendor rare, 
 And balm and bloom and melody 
 
 Divinely fill the air. 
 
 I hush my heart, I hide my teais, 
 
 Lest he my grief should guess 
 Wlio watched thee, darling, day and night, 
 
 With patient tenderness ; 
 T would grieve his generous soul to see 
 
 This anguish, wild and vain, 
 And he would deem it sin in me 
 
 To wish thee back again ; 
 But oh ! when I am all alone, 
 
 I can not calm my grief, 
 I think of all thy touching ways 
 
 And find a sweet relief: 
 Thv dark blue, wishful eyes look up 
 
 Once more into my own, 
 Thy faint soft smile one moment plays 
 
 One moment thrills thy tone : 
 The next the vision vanishes, 
 
 And all is still and cold ; 
 I see thy little, tender form 
 
 Oh misery ! in the mould ! 
 I shut my eyes, and pitying Heaven 
 
 A happier vision gives, 
 Thy spirit dawns upon rny dream 
 
 I know my treasure lives. 
 
 No, no, I must not wish thee back, 
 
 But might I go to thee ! 
 Were there no other loved ones here 
 
 Who need my love and me ; 
 I am so weary of the world- 
 
 Its falsehood and its strife 
 So weary of the wrong and ruth 
 
 That mar our human life ! 
 Where thou art. Fanny, all is love 
 
 And peace and pure delight ; 
 The soul that here must hide its face, 
 
 There lives serene in right ; 
 And ever, in its lovely path, 
 
 Some new, great truth divine, 
 Like a clear star that dawns in heaven, 
 
 Undyingly doth shine. 
 My child, while joy and wisdom go 
 
 Through that calm sphere with thee, 
 Oh, wilt thou not sometimes look back, 
 
 My pining heart to see ? 
 For now a strange fear chills my soul 
 
 A feeling like despair, 
 Lest thou forget me mid those scenes 
 
 Thou dost not need me there ! 
 
FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 
 
 285 
 
 
 Ah, no : the spirit-love, that looked 
 
 From those dear eyes of thine, 
 Was not of earth it could not die ! 
 
 Tt stil! responds to mine ! 
 And it may be (how thrills the hope 
 
 Through all my soul again !) 
 That I may tend my chid in heaven, 
 
 Since here my watch was vain ! 
 
 YKS! LOWER TO THE LEVEL. 
 
 YES ! " lower to the level" 
 
 Of those who laud thee now; 
 Go, join the joyous revel, 
 
 And pledge the heartless vow ; 
 Go, dim the soulhorn beauty 
 
 That lights that lofty brow ; 
 Fil , fill the bowl : let burning wine 
 Drown, in thy soul, Love s dream divine. 
 
 Yet when the laugh is lightest, 
 When wildest goes the jest, 
 When gleams the goblet brightest, 
 And proudest heaves thy breast, 
 And thou art madly pledging 
 
 Each gay and jovial guest 
 A ghost shall glide amid the flowers 
 The shade of Love s departed hours. 
 And thou sha .t shrink in sadness 
 
 From all the splendor there, 
 And curse the revel s gladness, 
 
 And hate the banquet s glare, 
 And pine, mid Passion s madness, 
 
 For true Love s purer air, 
 And feel thou dst give their wildest glee 
 For one unsul ied sigh from me ! 
 
 Yet deem not this my prayer, love : 
 
 Ah ! no ; if I could keep 
 Thy altered heart from care, love, 
 
 And charm its grief to sleep, 
 Mine only should despair, love, 
 
 I I alone would weep ! 
 I I alone wou d mourn the flowers 
 That fade in Love s deserted bowers ! 
 
 THE SOUL S LAMENT FOR HOME. 
 
 As plains the homesick ocean-shell 
 
 Far from its own remembered sea, 
 Repeating, like a fairy spell 
 
 Of love, the charm d melody 
 It learned within that whispering wave, 
 
 Whose wondrous and mysterious tone 
 Still wildly haunts its winding cave 
 
 Of pearl, with softest music-moan 
 So asks my homesick soul below, 
 
 For something loved, yet undefined ; 
 So mourns to mingle with the flow 
 
 Of music, from the Eternal Mind ; 
 So murmurs, with its child-like sigh, 
 
 The melody it learned above, 
 To which no echo may reply, 
 
 Save from thy voice, Celestial Love ! 
 
 BIANCA. 
 
 A WHISPEH woke the air, 
 
 A soft, light tone, and low, 
 
 Yet barbed with shame and wo. 
 Ah ! mi-rht it only perish there, 
 
 Nor farther go ! 
 But no ! a quick and eager ear 
 
 Caught up the little, meaning sound 
 Another voice has breathed it clear- 
 
 And so it wandered round 
 From ear to lip, from lip to ear, 
 Until it reached a gentle heart 
 That throbbed from all the world apart, 
 
 And that it broke ! 
 It was the only heart it found 
 The only heart twas meant to find, 
 
 When first its accents woke. 
 It reached that gentle heart at last, 
 
 And that it broke ! 
 Low as it seemed to other ears, 
 It came a thunder-crash to hers 
 That fragile girl, so fair and gay. 
 Tis said, a lovely humming-bird, 
 That dreaming in a lily lay, 
 Was ki.led but by the gun s report 
 Some idle boy had fired in sport ; 
 So exquisitely frail its frame, 
 The very sound a death-blow came : 
 And thus her heart, unused to shame, 
 
 Shrined in its li ; y, too 
 
 (For who the maid that knew, 
 But owned the delicate, flower-like grace 
 Of her young form and face ]) 
 Her light and happy heart, that beat 
 With love and hope so fast and sweet, 
 When first that cruel word it heard, 
 It fluttered like a frightened bird 
 Then shut its wings and sighed, 
 And with a silent shudder died ! 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 THE Father spake ! In grand reverberations 
 Through space rolled on the mighty music-tide, 
 
 While to its low, majestic modulations, 
 The clouds of chaos slowly swept aside. 
 
 The Father spake a dream, that had been lying 
 Hushed from eternity in silence there, 
 
 Heard the pure melody and low replying, 
 Grew to that music in the wondering an- 
 
 Grew to that music slowly, grandly waking, 
 Till bathed in beauty it became a world ! 
 
 Led by his voice, its spheric pathway taking, 
 While glorious clouds their wings around it furled. 
 
 Nor yet has ceased that sound his love revealing 
 Though, in response, a universe moves by ! 
 
 Throughout eternity, its echo pealing 
 World after world awakes in glad reply ! 
 
 And wheresoever, in his rich creation, 
 Sweet music breathes in wave, or bird, or soul 
 
 Tis but the faint and for reverberation 
 Of that great tune to which the planets roll 
 
FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 
 
 "SHE LOVES HIM YET." 
 
 SHK loves him yet ! 
 I know by the blush that rises 
 
 Beneath the curls 
 That shadow her soul-lit cheek : 
 
 She loves him yet ! 
 Through all Love s sweet disguises 
 
 In timid girls, 
 A blush will be sure to speak. 
 
 But deeper signs 
 Than the radiant blush of beauty, 
 
 The maiden finds, 
 Whenever his name is heard 
 
 Her young heart thrills, 
 Forgetting herself her duty ; 
 
 Her dark eye fills, 
 And her pulse with hope is stirred. 
 
 She loves him yet ! 
 The flower the false one gave her, 
 
 When last he came, 
 Is still with her wild tears wet. 
 
 She ll ne r er forget, 
 Howe er his faith may waver, 
 
 Through grief and shame, 
 Believe it- -she loves him yet ! 
 
 His favorite songs 
 She will sing she heeds no other: 
 
 With all her wrongs 
 Her life on his love is set. 
 
 Oh, doubt no more ! 
 She never can wed another : 
 
 Till life be o er, 
 She loves she will love him yet ! 
 
 NO! 
 
 IF the dew have fed the flower, 
 Shall she therefore, from that hour, 
 Live on nothing else but dew 1 
 Ask no more, from dawn of day 
 Never heed the sunny ray, 
 Though it come, a glittering fay, 
 
 To her bower ? 
 
 Though upon her soul it play, 
 Must she coldly turn away, 
 And refuse the life it brings, 
 Burning in its golden wings 
 Meekly lingering in the night, 
 
 To herself untrue ? 
 Though the humming-bird have stole, 
 Floating on his plumes of glory, 
 Softly to her glowing soul, 
 Telling his impassioned story 
 If the soaring lark she capture, 
 In diviner love and rapture, 
 Pouring music wild and clear, 
 Round her till she thrills to hear 
 Shu l she shut her spirit s ear 1 
 Shall the lesson wasted be, 
 Of that heavenly harmony 1 
 !Vo ! by all the inner bloom, 
 That the sunbeam may illume, 
 
 But that else the stealing chill 
 Of the early dawn might kill : 
 No ! by all the leaves of beauty, 
 Leaves that, in their vestal duty, 
 Guard the shrined and rosy light 
 Hidden in her "heart of heart," 
 Till that music bids them part : 
 No ! by all the perfume rare, 
 Delicate as a fairy s sigh. 
 Shut within and wasting there, 
 That would else enchant the air 
 Incense that must soar or die ! 
 That divine, pure soul of flowers, 
 Captive held, that pines to fly, 
 Asking for unfading bowers, 
 Learning from the bird and ray 
 All the lore they bring away 
 From the skies in love and play, 
 Where they linger every morn, 
 Till to this sad world of ours 
 Day in golden pomp is borne 
 By that soul, which else might glow 
 An immortal flower : No ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 SHOULD all who throng, with gift and song, 
 And for my favor bend, the knee, 
 
 Forsake the shrine they deem divine, 
 I would riot stoop my soul to thee ! 
 
 The lips, that breathe the burning vow, 
 By falsehood base unstained must be; 
 
 The heart, to which mine own shall bow, 
 Must worship Honor more than me. 
 
 The monarch of a world wert thou, 
 And I a slave on bended knee, 
 
 Though tyrant chains my form might bow, 
 My soul should never stoop to thee ! 
 
 L T ntil its hour shall come, my heart 
 I will possess, serene and free ; 
 
 Though snared to ruin by thine art, 
 
 T would sooner break than bend to thee ! 
 
 "BOIS TON SANG, BEAUMANOIR." 
 
 Fi ETICE raged the combat the foemen pressed nigh, 
 When from young Beaurnanoir rose the wild cry, 
 Beaumanoir, mid them all, bravest and first 
 "Give me to drink, for I perish of thirst!" 
 Hark ! at his side., in the deep tones of ire, 
 " Bois ton SAXG, Beaumanoir!" shouted his sire. 
 
 Deep had it pierced him the foemen s swift sword, 
 Deeper his soul felt the wound of that word : 
 Back to the battle, with forehead all flushed, 
 Stung to wild fury, the noble youth rushed ! 
 Scorn in his dark eyes his spirit on fire 
 Deeds were his answer that dav to his sire. 
 Still where triumphant the you in hero came,, 
 Glory s bright garland encircled his name: 
 But in her bower, to beautv a slave, 
 Dearer the guerdon his lady-love gave, 
 While on his shield, that no shame had defaced, 
 " Bois ton sang, Beaumanoir !" proudly she traced. 
 
FHANCES S. OSGOOD. 
 
 287 
 
 
 RKPHOVE me not that still I change 
 
 With every changing hour, 
 For glorious Nature gives me leave 
 
 In wave, and cloud, and flower. 
 
 And you and all the world would do 
 
 If a 1 but dared the same ; 
 True to myself if false to you, 
 
 Why should I reck your blame . 
 Then cease yojir carping, cousiu mine, 
 
 Your vain reproaches cease ; 
 I revel in my right divine 
 
 I glory in caprice ! 
 
 Yon soft, light cloud, at morning hour, 
 Looked dark and full of tears: 
 
 At noon it seemed a rosy flower 
 Now, gorgeous gold appears. 
 
 So yield I to the deepening light 
 That dawns around my way : 
 
 Because you linger with the night, 
 Shall I my noon delay 1 
 
 No ! cease your carping, cousin mine 
 
 Your co .d reproaches cease ; 
 The chariot of the cloud be mine 
 
 Take thou the reins, Caprice ! 
 
 Tis true you played on Feeling s lyre 
 
 A pleasant tune or two, 
 And oft beneath your minstrel fire 
 
 The hours in music flew ; 
 
 But when a hand more skilled to sweep 
 
 The harp, its soul allures, 
 Shu 1 it iu su ten silence sleep 
 
 Because not touched by yours 1 
 Oh, there are rapturous tones in mine 
 
 That mutely pray re ease; 
 They wait the master-hand divine 
 
 So tune the chords, Caprice ! 
 Go strive the sea-wave to control ; 
 
 Or, wouldst thou keep me thine, 
 Be thou all being to my soul, 
 
 And fiJ each want divine : 
 Play every string in Love s sweet lyre 
 
 Set all its music flowing ; 
 Be air, and dew, and light, and fire, 
 
 To keep the soul-flower growing : 
 Be less thou art n > love of mine, 
 
 So leave my love in peace ; 
 Tis helpless woman s right divine 
 
 Her only right caprice ! 
 And I wiL mount her opal car, 
 
 Vnd draw the rainbow reins, 
 And gayly go from star to star, 
 
 Till not a ray remains ; 
 And we will find all fairy flowers 
 
 That are to morta s given, 
 And wreathe the radiant, changing hours, 
 
 With those " sweet hints" of heaven. 
 Her humming-birds are harness* I there 
 
 Oh ! leave their wings in peace ; 
 Like " flying gems" they "lance in air 
 
 We ll chase the light, Caprice ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I IOVED an ideal I sought it in thee; 
 I found it unreal as stars in the sea. 
 
 And shall I, disdaining an instinct divine 
 
 By falsehood profaning that pure hope of mine 
 
 Shall I stoop from my vision so lofty, so true 
 From the light al. Eiysian that round me it threw 1 
 
 Oh ! guilt unforgiven, if false I could be 
 
 To myself and to Heaven, while constant to tliee 
 
 Ah no ! though all lonely on earth be my lot, 
 I 11 brave it, if only that trust fail rne not 
 
 The trust that, in keeping all pure from control 
 The love that lies sleeping and dreams in my soul, 
 
 It may wake in some better and holier sphere, 
 Unbound by the fetter Fate hung on it here. 
 
 ASPIRATIONS. 
 
 I WASTE no more in idle dreams 
 
 My life, my soul away ; 
 I wake to know my better self 
 
 I wake to watch and pray. 
 Thought, feeling, time, on idols vain, 
 
 I ve lavished all too long: 
 Henceforth to holier purposes 
 
 I pledge myself, my song ! 
 
 Oh ! still within the inner veil, 
 
 Upon the spirit s shrine, 
 Still unprofaned by evil, burns 
 
 The one pure spark divine, 
 Which God has kindled in us all, 
 
 And be it mine to tend 
 Henceforth, with vestal thought and care, 
 
 The light that lamp may lend. 
 
 I shut mine eyes in grief and shame 
 
 Upon the dreary past 
 My heart, my soul poured recklessly 
 
 On dreams that could not last : 
 My bark was drifted down the stream, 
 
 At will of wind or wave 
 An idle, light, and fragile thing, 
 
 That few had cared to save. 
 
 Henceforth the tiller Truth shall hold, 
 
 And steer as Conscience tells, 
 And I will brave the storms of Fate, 
 
 Though wild the ocpan swells. 
 I know my sou! is strong and high, 
 
 If once I give it sway ; 
 I feel a glorious power within, 
 
 Though light I seem and gay. 
 
 Oh, laggard Soul ! unclose thine eyes* 
 
 No more in luxury soft 
 Of joy ideal waste thyself: 
 
 Awake, and soar aloft ! 
 Unfurl this hour thase falcon wings 
 
 Which thou dost fold too long; 
 Raise to the skies thy lightning gaze. 
 
 And sing thy loftiest song ? 
 
LUCY HOOPER 
 
 (Born 181&-Died 1841). 
 
 THFRE have been in our literary history 
 few more interesting characters than LUCY 
 HOOIM:R. She died at an early age, but not 
 until her acquaintances had seen developed 
 in her a nature that was all truth and gentle 
 ness, nor until the Avorid had recognised in 
 her writings the signs of a rare and delicate 
 genius, that wrought in modesty, but in re 
 pose, in the garden of the affections and in 
 ihe light of religion. 
 
 She was born in Newburyport, in Massa 
 chusetts, on the fourth of February, 1816, 
 and was the daughter of Mr. Joseph Hooper, 
 a respectable merchant, who saw with anx 
 ious pride the unfolding of her abilities, and 
 attended sedulously and judiciously to their 
 cultivation. After his death, and when Miss 
 Hooper was in her fifteenth year, the survi 
 ving members of the family removed to Brook 
 lyn, on Long Island ; and in this city she 
 passed the remainder of her life. Her health, 
 from childhood, war, precarious, and it is pos 
 sible that the ever-fatal disease of which she 
 died had already affected her physical ener 
 gies, while it quickened her intellectual fac 
 ulties and made them accessaries to her de 
 cay. Her rnind was delicately susceptible of 
 impressions of beauty, and she delighted most 
 in nature, particularly in flowers, the study 
 and cultivation of which were among her 
 dearest pleasures. 
 
 Her first poems that were published ap 
 peared in The Long Island Star, a Brooklyn 
 journal, under the signature of her initials. 
 Her you:h would have protected her compo 
 sitions from criticism, but they needed no 
 such protection. Beyond the limited circle 
 of her acquaintances, no one knew the mean 
 ing of " L. tl. ;" but these letters were soon 
 as familiar through all the country as the 
 names of favorite poets. For several years she 
 was a contributor to The New-Yorker, the 
 editor of which, Mr. Greeley one of the first 
 justly to appreciate her merits became an 
 intimate personal as well as literary friend. 
 In midsummer, 1839, Miss Hooper revis 
 ited her native village, and upon leaving it, 
 the lasi time, she wrote the following lines, 
 
 which have a biographical interest, though 
 they are scarcely equal to the average of her 
 productions in literary merit: 
 
 LINES VVF1TTEN AFTER VISITING NEWBURYPORT, 
 AUGUST 23, 18S3. 
 
 SWKE .--iv. ne the airs of home, when first their breath 
 Came to the wanderer, as her gladdened eye 
 Met the rich verdure of her native hills, 
 And the clear, glancing waters brought again 
 A thousand dreams of childhood to the heart 
 That had so pined amid the city s hum 
 For the glad breath of home, the waving trees, 
 And the fair flowers that in the olden time 
 Blew freshly mid the rocky cliffs. 
 
 All these 
 
 Had seemed but Fancy s picture, and the hues 
 Of Memory s pencil, fainter day by day, 
 Gave back the tracery 5 in the crowded mart 
 There were no green paths where the buds of home 
 Might blow unchecked, and a forgotten thing 
 Were Spring s first violets to the wanderer s heart, 
 Till once again amid those welcome haunts 
 The faded lines grew vivid, and the flowers 
 The fresh, pure flowers of youth, brought back again 
 The bloom of early thoughts. 
 
 Oh ! bright.lv glanced 
 
 Thy waters, river of my heart, and dreams 
 Sweeter than childhood conneth came anew 
 With my first sight of thee, bright memories linked 
 With thy familiar music, sparkling tide! 
 The rocks and hills all smiled a welcome back, 
 And Memory s pencil hath a fadeless green 
 For that one hour by thee. 
 
 Oh, gentle home ! 
 
 Comes with thy name fair visions, kindly tones, 
 Warm greetings from the heart, and eyes whose light 
 Hath smiled upon my dreams. 
 
 Yet golden links 
 
 Were strangely parted, music tones had past, 
 And ties unloosed, that unto many a heart 
 W 7 ere bound with life ; the musing child no more 
 Might watch the glancing of the distant sails, 
 And dream of one whose glad returning step 
 Made ever the fair sunshine of her home ; 
 The sister s heart might no more thrill to meet 
 One voice, that in the silence of the grave 
 Is hushed for ever, and whose eye s soft light 
 Come with its starry radiance, when her soul 
 Pines in the silent hour, and there waves 
 O er the last resting place of one whose name 
 Is music to the ear of love, the green 
 And pensive willow, bending low its head 
 As it would weep the loss of that fair flower 
 Which, far removed from her own native clime, 
 Drooped in a land of strangers. 
 
 Home, sweet home 
 
 Thire are sad memories with thee ; earth hath not 
 283 
 
LUCY HOOPER. 
 
 A place where change ne er eometh, and where death 
 Doth cast no shadow ! yet the moonlight lieth 
 Soft y in all thy still and shaded streets, 
 And the deep stars of midnight purely shine, 
 Bringing a thought of that far world where Love 
 Bindeth again his lost and treasured gems, 
 And in whose " many mansions" there may be 
 A home where change ne er eometh, and where death 
 May leave no trace upon the pure in heart, 
 Who bend before their Father s throne in heaven ! 
 
 In 1840, Miss Hooper published an Essay 
 on Domestic Happiness, and a volume enti 
 tled Scenes from Real Life ; and in these, as 
 we! as in other prose writings, are shown 
 the sensibility and natural grace which are 
 the charm of her poetry. It was about the 
 same time that she wrote The Last Hours 
 of a Young Poetess, a poem which has some 
 times been referred to as an illustration of 
 her own history. 
 
 The excellent Dr. JohnW. Francis, of whom 
 with a slight variation we may use the lan 
 guage of Coleridge respecting Sir Humphrey 
 Davy, that had he not become one of the first 
 physician? he would have been among the 
 most eminent literary men of his age, is ad 
 mirably fitted, as well by his intimate obser 
 vation of the influence of mental action upon 
 health, as by his general professional skill 
 and gpnial sympathies, to watch over and 
 protect so fragile and delicate a being, hap 
 pily attended Miss Hooper in her illness ; 
 and in a letter which, soon after her death, 
 he addressed to Mr. Keese, the editor of her 
 works, we have an interesting account of the 
 close of her life : 
 
 " For a period of many years," he says, 
 "the cultivation of her mind was little in 
 terrupted ; and though her corporeal suffering 
 was often an obstacle to continuous ^effort, 
 she sustained with unabated ardor her stud 
 ies in the ancient and modern languages, in 
 polite literature, in botany, and in several 
 of the other branches of natural science. 
 Doubtless the extent of her reading and her 
 acquisitions in varied knowledge contributed 
 to cherish in her family the delusive expec 
 tation that her constitution was destined for 
 a longer career of active exertion than fell to 
 her lot. Mental effort may in some instances 
 protract the duration of those energies which 
 at length it consumes. But the hopes cher 
 ished by her too ardent friends never for a 
 moment deceived herself. For the last four 
 months of her existence, her physical pow- 
 prs were yielding to the combined influence 
 
 19 
 
 of disease and intellectual action ; and after 
 a few days of aggravated suffering, painful 
 evidences were manifest of the fatality which 
 was impending. Her disorder Avas pulmo 
 nary consumption ; and the insidious peculi 
 arities of that treacherous malady were con 
 spicuous in her case in an eminent degree. 
 Within three days of her dissolution she was 
 occupied, with intervals of serious reflection, 
 in her literary labors, and conversed freely 
 on her projected plan of a series of moral 
 tales, her book on flowers, and other works. 
 Her life and habits of thought had long pre- 
 | pared her for the final event: severe exam 
 ination and inquiry contributed to strengthen 
 the consolation of religion. In her death, 
 which was without pain and without a strug 
 gle, she bequeathed to her friends triumphant 
 evidences of that hope which animates the 
 expiring Christian." 
 
 She died in Brooklyn, on the first of Au 
 gust, 1841. I happened at this time to be in 
 Boston, and a few days after, Mr. Whittier, 
 who was one of her intimate friends, sent 
 me from his place in Amesbury the following 
 beautiful and touching tribute to her memory, 
 which I had published in one of the papers 
 of that city: 
 
 "ON THE r>K\TH OF LUCY HOOPER. 
 
 " They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead 
 That all of thee we loved and cherished 
 Has with thy summer roses perished; 
 And left, as its young beauty fled, 
 An ashen memory in its stead ! 
 Cold twilight of a parted day. 
 That true and loving heart that gift 
 Of a mind earnest, clear, profound, 
 Bestowing, with a glad unthrift, 
 Its sunny light on all around, 
 Affinities which only could 
 Cleave to the beautiful and good 
 And sympathies which found no rest 
 Save with the loveliest and the best 
 Of them, of thee, remains there naught 
 But sorrow in the mourner s breast 
 A shadow in the land of Thought ] 
 " No ! Even my weak and trembling faitb 
 Can lift for thee the veil which doubt 
 And human fear have drawn about 
 The all-awaiting scene of death. 
 Even as thou wast I see thee still ; 
 And, save the absence of all ill, 
 And pain, and weariness, which here 
 Summoned the sigh or wrung the tear, 
 The same as when two summers back, 
 Beside our childhood s Merrimack, 
 I saw thy dark eye wander o er 
 Stream, sunny upland, rocky shore, 
 And heard thy low, soft voice alone 
 Midst lapse of waters, and the tone 
 
290 
 
 LUC Y HOOPER. 
 
 Of sere leaves by the west-wind b own. 
 There s not a charm of soul or brow, 
 
 Of all we knew and loved in thee, 
 But lives in ho ier beauty now, 
 
 Baptized in immortality ! 
 Not mine the sad and freezing dream 
 
 Of souls that with their earthly mould 
 
 Cast off the loves and joys of old 
 Unbodied like a pale moonbeam, 
 
 As pure, as passionless, and cold ; 
 Nor mine the hope of Indra s son, 
 
 Of slumbering in ob ivion s rest, 
 Lile s myriads blending into one, 
 
 In bhtnk annihilation blest; 
 Dust-atoms of the infinite 
 Sparks scattered from the central light, 
 And winning back, through mortal pain, 
 Their old unconsciousness again ! 
 No ! I have friends in spirit-land, 
 Not shadows in a shadowy band, 
 
 Not others, but themse.ves, are they. 
 And still I think of them the same 
 As when the Master s summons came ; 
 Their change, t.,e holy morn-light breaking 
 rpun the dream-worn sleeper, waking 
 
 A change from twilight into day ! 
 They ve laid thee midst the household graves, 
 
 Wnere father, brother, sister, lie ; 
 Below thee sweep the dark blue waves, 
 
 Above thee bends the summer sky ; 
 Thy own loved church in sadness read 
 Her solemn ritual o er thy head, 
 And blessed and hallowed with her prayer 
 The turf laid 1 ghtly o er thee there : 
 That church, whose rites and liturgy, 
 Sublime and o d, were truth to thee, 
 Undoubted, to thy bosom taken 
 As symbols of a faith unshaken. 
 Even I, of simpler views, could feel 
 The beauty of thy trust and zeal ; 
 And, owning not thy creed, could see 
 How lifelike it must seem to thee, 
 And how thy fervent heart had thrown 
 O er all a coloring of its own, 
 And kindled up intense and warm 
 A life in every rite and form ; 
 As, when on Chebar s banks of old 
 The Hebrew s gorgeous vision rolled, 
 A spirit iilled the vast machine 
 A life within the wheels was seen ! 
 " Farewell ! a little time, and we 
 
 Who knew thee well, and loved thee here, 
 One after one shall follow thee, 
 
 As pilgrims through the gate of Fear 
 Which opens on Eternity. 
 Yet we shall cherish not the less 
 
 AH that is left our hearts meanwhile ; 
 The memory of thy loveliness 
 
 Shall round our weary pathway smile, 
 Like moon ight, when the sun has set 
 A sweet and tender radiance yet. 
 Thoughts of thy clear-eyed sense of duty, 
 
 Thy generous scorn of all things wrong; 
 The trulh, the strength, the graceful beauty, 
 
 Which blended in thy song; 
 
 All lovely things by thee beloved 
 
 Shall whisper to our hearts of thee : 
 These green hills where thy childhood roved 
 
 Yon river winding to the sea; 
 The sunset light of Autumn eves 
 
 Reflecting on the deep, still floods ; 
 Cloud, crimson sky, and trembling leaves 
 
 Of rainbow-tinted woods 
 These in our view shall henceforth take 
 A tenderer meaning for thy sake. 
 And all thou lovedst of earth and sky 
 Seem sacred to thy memory." 
 
 The general regret at her death was shown 
 j ia many such feeling tributes. Another is 
 I quoted here, not so much for its own beauty, 
 as for the opinions it embodies of one of our 
 most accomplished critics respecting her ge 
 nius and character : 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MISS LUCY HOOPER. 
 HI H. T. TUCKKKMAN. 
 
 " And thou art gone ! sweet daughter of the lyre, 
 
 Whose strains we hoped to hear thee waken long , 
 Gone as the stars in morning s light expire, 
 
 Gone like the rapture of a passing song ; 
 Gone from a circle who thy gifts have cherished, 
 
 With genial fondness and devoted care, 
 W hose dearest hopes with thee have sadly perished, 
 
 And now can find no solace but in prayer ; 
 Prayer to be like thee, in so meeklv bearing 
 
 Both joy and sorrow from thy Maker s hand ; 
 Prayer to put on the white robes thou art wearing, 
 
 And join thy anthem in the better land." 
 
 Miss Hooper s life was singularly indus 
 trious, considering the feebleness of her con- 
 sti ution. She seemed to be sensible that her 
 abilities were a trust which imposed respon 
 sibilities, and she never suffered time to pass 
 unimproved. Some of her last days were 
 devoted to the preparation of a work entitled 
 The Poetry of Flowers, which was published 
 soon after her death. She had in anticipa 
 tion also another work in prose similar to 
 her Scenes from Domestic Life, and her in 
 clination had led her to undertake a long 
 poem, upon some historical subject. It is to 
 be regretted that death prevented ibis project 
 from being realized. 
 
 In 1842 Mr. John Keese collected and ar 
 ranged the Literary Remains of Miss Hoop 
 er, which he published with a graceful and 
 affectionate memoir of her life and genius. 
 No one knew her more intimately, and there 
 are few whose appreciation of personal char 
 acter and poetical merit would have enabled 
 them so well to perform this mournfully pleas 
 ing duty. In the present year (1848) a new 
 and considerably enlarged edition of her Po 
 etical Works has appeared from the press of 
 Mr. D. Fanshaw. 
 
LUCY HOOPER. 
 
 291 
 
 THE SUMMONS OF DEATH.* 
 
 A VOICE is on mine ear a solemn voice 
 
 I come, I come, it calls me to my rest ; 
 Faint not rny yearning heart, rejoice, rejoice, 
 
 Soon shalt thou reach the gardens of the blest : 
 On the bright waters there, the living streams, 
 
 Soon shalt thou launch in peace thy weary bark, 
 Waked by rude waves no more from gentle dreams, 
 
 Sadly to feel that earth to thee is dark 
 Not bright as once ; oh vain, vain memories, cease, 
 I cast your burden down I strive for peace. 
 
 A voice is on mine ear a welcome tone : 
 
 1 hear its summons in a stranger land, 
 Tt cal s me hence, to die amid mine own, 
 
 Where first my forehead, by the wild breeze fanned, 
 Lost the fair tracery of youth, and wore 
 
 A deeper signet, in my manhood s prime 
 To lay me down with those who wake no more, 
 
 It calls me those 1 loved, their couch be mine : 
 I hear sweet voices from my childhood s home, 
 And from my father s grave T come, I come ! 
 
 Blest be the warning sound : my mother s eyes 
 
 Dwell on my memory yet, her parting tears, 
 And from the grave where my young sister lies, 
 
 Who perished in the glory of her years, 
 I hear a gentle call, " Return, return !" 
 
 So be it : let me greet the village spires 
 Once more. I come t is wilding youth may spurn, 
 
 When far, the burial-places of his sires ; 
 But oh. when strength is gone, and hope is past, 
 There turns the wearied man his thoughts at last. 
 
 So do we change ! I hear a warning tone 
 
 Yea, T, whose thoughts were all of bypast times, 
 Of ancient glories, and from visions lone, 
 
 I come to list once more the sabbath chimes 
 Of my own home to feel the gentle air 
 
 Steal o er my brow again to greet the sun 
 In the okl places where he shone so fair, 
 
 The while each wandering brook in music ran, 
 Answering to Youth s sweet thoughts, but all are 
 I come, my home, I come to join thy dead ! [fled 
 
 I heed the warning voice : oh, spurn me not, 
 
 My early friends ; let the bruised heart go free : 
 Mine were high fancies, but a wayward lot 
 
 Hath made my youthful dreams in sadness flee ; 
 Then chide not, I would linger yet awhile, 
 
 Thinking o er wasted hours, a weary train, 
 Cheered by the moon s soft light the sun s glad smile, 
 
 Watching the blue sky o er my path of pain, 
 Waiting my summons : whose shall be the eye 
 To glance unkindly I have come to die ! 
 
 Sweet words to die ! oh p easant. pleasant sounds, 
 What bright revealings to my heart they bring; 
 
 * And -hould they a^k the cau-e of my return. I will 
 tell th. in that a m;m may TO far and tarry long away, if 
 Bbhfhlth he <:ood and hi- Imp. s hi-li, hut that when llesh 
 an. I spirit br^in to tail, lu- rem-mber- his bi> thplace mid 
 Inn o d burial ground, and hears a voice callinir him to 
 come home to hi.- tiither and mother. They will know 
 i>\ n,y wasted frame and feeble ,-tep. that I have heard 
 the -linmions and obeyed; and, the first jrreetinsrs over. 
 f hey \\-ili !,.[ me walk among them unnoticed, and linger 
 in Hie. sunshine while I may, and ste^ into my grave" in 
 ftmct?.- Journal of a Solitary Man. 
 
 W T hat melody, unheard in earth s dull rounds, 
 And floating from the land of glorious Spring 
 
 The eternal home ! my weary thoughts revive, 
 Fresh flowers my mind puts forth, and buds of love, 
 
 Gentle and kindly thoughts for all that live, 
 Fanned by soft breezes from the world above : 
 
 And passing not, I hasten to my rest 
 
 Again, oh gentle summons, thou art blest ! 
 
 "TIME, FAITH, ENERGY."* 
 
 HIGH words and hopeful ! fold them to thy heart 
 Time, Faith, and Energy, are gifts sublime ; 
 If thy lone bark the threatening waves surround 
 Make them of all thy silent thoughts a part. 
 When thou wouldst cast thy pilgrim staff away, 
 Breathe to thy soul their high, mysterious sound, 
 And faint not in the noontide of thy day : 
 Wait thou for Time ! 
 
 Wait thou for Time : the slow-unfolding flower 
 Chides man s impatient haste with long delay ; 
 The harvest ripening in the autumnal sun ; 
 The golden fruit of Suffering s weighty power 
 Within the soul like soft bells siivery chime 
 Repeat the tones, if fame may not be won, 
 Or if the heart where thou shouldst find a shrina, 
 
 Breathe forth no blessing on thy lonely way- 
 Wait Ihou for Time : it hath a sorcerer s power 
 To dim life s mockeries that gaylv shine, 
 To lift the veil of seeming from the real, 
 Bring to thy soul a rich or fearful dower, 
 Write golden tracery on the sands of life, 
 And raise the drooping heart from scenes ideal 
 To a high purpose in the world of strife : 
 
 W T ait thou for Time ! 
 
 Yea, wait for Time, but to thy heart take Faith, 
 Soft beacon-light upon a stormy sea ; 
 A mantle for the pure in heart, to pass 
 Through a dim world, untouched by living death, 
 A cheerful watcher through the spirit s night, 
 Soothing the grief from which she may not flee 
 A herald of glad news a seraph bright, 
 
 Pointing to sheltering havens yet to be. 
 
 Yea, Faith and Time and thou that through the 
 Of the lone night hast nerved the feeble hand, [hour 
 Kindled the weary heart with sudden fire, 
 (Jilted the drooping soul with living power, 
 Immortal Energy ! shalt thou not be 
 M hile the old tales our wayward thoughts inspire, 
 Linked with each vision of high destiny, 
 
 Till on the fadeless borders of that land 
 
 Where all is known we find our certain way, 
 And lose ye, mid its pure, effulgent light ] 
 Kind ministers, who cheered us in our gloom, 
 Seraphs who lightened griefs with guiding ray, 
 Whispering through tears of cloudless glory dawn- 
 Say, in the gardens of eternal bloom [ing 
 Will not our hearts, when breaks the cloudless 
 
 morning, 
 Joy that ye led us through the drooping nigh I 
 
 * Suggested by a passage in Bulwer s Night and Morn 
 
LUCY HOOPER. 
 
 LAST HOURS OF A YOUNG POETESS. 
 
 " Alas , our young affection* run to waste 
 Or water but tire desert, whence arise 
 Hut weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of baste, 
 Hank at the < ore, but tempting to the eyes, 
 Flowers whose wild odur.-> breathe hut agonies. 
 And trees whose iui)s are poison: snoli tire fruits 
 Which spun:: beneath her steps, as Passion Hies 
 
 ilde 
 
 ly pants 
 
 () .!- the w ilil wild. -i ness. an. I vainly pants 
 For some i elestial fruit, forbidden to our wants ."Byron. 
 
 Tiutow up the window! that the earnest eyes 
 Of the young devotee at Nature s shrine 
 May catch a last glimpse of this breathing world 
 From which she is removing. 
 
 Men will say 
 
 This is an early death, and they will write 
 The record of her few and changeful years 
 W r ith wonder on the marble, and then turn 
 Away with thoughtful brows from the green sod, 
 Yet pass to daily business, for the griefs 
 That press on busy spirits may not turn 
 Their steps aside from the worn paths of life, 
 Or bear upon the memory when the quick 
 And selfish course of daily care sweeps by. 
 Yet, when they speak of that lost one, twill be 
 With tones of passionate marvel, for they watched 
 Her bright career as they would watch a star 
 Of dazzling brilliancy, and mourn to see 
 Its glory quenched, and wonder while ye mourned 
 How the thick pall of darkness could be thrown 
 O er such a radiant thing. 
 
 Is this the end 
 
 Of all thy glorious visions, young Estelle ] 
 Hath thy last hours drawn on, and will thy life 
 Pass by as quickly as the perfumed breath 
 Of some fair flower upon the zephyr s wings ! 
 And will they lay thee in the quiet grave, 
 And never know how fervently thy heart 
 Panted for its repose ] Oh ! let the peace 
 Of this sweet hour be hers; let her gaze forth 
 Now on the face of Nature for the last, 
 While the bright sunbeam trembles in the air 
 Of the meek-coming twilight : it will soothe 
 Her spirit as a spell, and waken up 
 Impassioned thoughts, and kindle burning dreams, 
 And call back glorious visions. 
 
 Marvel not 
 
 To see her color pass, and view the tears 
 Fast gathering to her eyes, and see her bend 
 In very weakness at the fearful shrine 
 Of Memory, when the glory of the past 
 Js gone for ever. Gaze not on her now 
 Her spirit is a delicate instrument, 
 Nor can ye know its measure. How unlike 
 That wearied one to the bright, gifted girl, 
 Who knelt a worshipper at the deep shrine 
 Of Poetry, and, mid the fairest things, 
 Pined for lone solitude to read the clouds 
 With none to watch her, and dream pleasant things 
 Of after-life, and sec in every flower 
 The mysteries of Nature, and behold 
 In every star the herald and the sign 
 Of immortality, till she almost shrank 
 To feel the secret and expanding might 
 Of her own mind ! and thus amid the flowers 
 Of a glad home grew beautiful. Away 
 With praises upon Time ! with hollow tones 
 
 That te l the blessedness of after-years! 
 
 They take the fragrance from the soul ; they rob 
 
 Life of its gloss, its poetry, its charm, 
 
 Till the heart sickens, and the mental wing 
 
 Droops wearily : and thus it was with her, 
 
 The gifted and the lovely. Oh, how much 
 
 The world will envy those whose hearts are filled 
 
 With secret or unchanging grief, if fame 
 
 Or outward splendor gilds them ! Who among 
 
 The throngs that sung thy praises, young Estelle, 
 
 Or crowned thy brow with laurels, ever reckeJ 
 
 That, wearier of thy chaplet than the slave 
 
 May be with daily toil, thy hand would cast 
 
 The laurel by with loathing, but the pride 
 
 Of woman s heart withheld thee ! 
 
 Oh, how praise 
 
 Falls on the sorrowing mind ; how cold the voice 
 Of Flattery, when the spirit is bowed down 
 Before its mockery, and the heart is sick ; 
 Praise for the gift of genius for the grace 
 Of outward form when the soul pines to hear 
 One kindly tone and true ! What bitter jest 
 It makcth of the enthusiast, to whom 
 One star alone can shine, one voice be heard 
 In tones of blessedness, to know that crowds 
 Of earth s light-hearted ones are treasuring up 
 Against their day of sorrow the deep words 
 Of wretchedness and misery which burst 
 From an o erburdened spirit, and that minds 
 Which may not rise to heaven on the wings 
 Of an inspired fancy, yet can list 
 With raptured ear to the ethereal dreams 
 Of a high-soaring genius. For this end 
 Didst thou seek fame, Estelle ; and hast thou 
 The atmosphere of poetry, till life [breathed 
 
 With its dull toil grew wearisome and lone] 
 
 Her brow grewquickly pale, and murmured words 
 That not in life dwelt on that gentle lip, 
 Are spoken in the recklessness of death. 
 They tell of early dreams of cherished hopes 
 That faded into bitterness ere Fame 
 Became the spirit s idol, of lost tones 
 Of music, and of well-remembered words 
 That thrill the spirit yet. Again it comes, 
 That half-reproachful voice that she hath spent 
 Her life at Passion s shrine, and patient thero 
 Hath sacrificed, and offered incense to 
 An absent idol that she might not see, 
 Even in death and then again the strength 
 Of a high soul sustains her, and she joys, 
 Yea, triumphs in her fame, that he may hear 
 Her name with honor, when the dark shades fall 
 Around her, and she sleeps in still repose: 
 If some faint tone should reach him at the last 
 Of her devotedness, he will not spurn 
 The memory from him, but his soul may thrill 
 To think of her, the fervent-hearted girl, 
 Who turned from flattering tones, and idly cast 
 The treasures of her spirit on the winds, 
 And f,)und no answering voice ! 
 
 Then prayed for death, 
 
 Since life s sweet spells had vanished, and her hopes 
 Had melted in thin air : and laying down 
 Her head upon her pillow, sought her rest, 
 And thought to meet him in the land of dreams ! 
 
LUCY HOOPER. 
 
 29:* 
 
 THE TURQUOISE KING* 
 
 THE turquoise ring! twas a gift of power, 
 Guarding her heart in that weary hour, 
 As a magic spell, as a gem of light, 
 As a pure, pure star amidst clouds of night, 
 Bringing back to the pa e, pale cheek its bloom, 
 St engthening the heart in that hour of doom ; 
 There was hope, there was trust with its living hue. 
 The gem was bright, and the lover true, 
 As a sign to her heart, as a sign to her eye, 
 The one bright gleam of a troubled sky. 
 The turquoise, ring! oh, the olden time 
 Hath many a magic tale and si^n, 
 Bright gifts of treasure on land and on sea, 
 But naught for the heart or the memory ; 
 For what might the fairy lamp of old 
 Yield to its owner but gems and gold 1 
 And to her who sat in that lonely hall 
 The turquoise ring was worth them all; 
 For the heart hath a dearer wealth than lies 
 In the earth s wide ha Is and argosies ; 
 And its hopes are more precious than stores of gold 
 When richest and rarest by miser told, 
 For what had been gems that brightly shone, 
 To her who sat in her grief alone ] 
 
 Oh, the turquoise ring had a spell of power! 
 This was a gift for the weary hour, 
 Linking the future to all the past, 
 Breathing of moments too bright to last, 
 Till they came in the light of their bliss, 
 To soothe, to gladden an hour like this. 
 Oh ! Love hath wings, they have said who knew, 
 And that Love hath wings is a story true, 
 But there lingers a bloom on his early hours, 
 When his wings are folded mid opening flowers, 
 Wiien the streams are bright, and the sky is fair, 
 And the hearts too happy that trust him there ; 
 There lingers a bloom, and there rests a glow, 
 A charm that the earth not again may know ! 
 And when from that resting-place he flies, 
 Oil ! linked with a thousand memories, 
 Each bud and each leaf by our fond tears wet, 
 May breathe of his sweetness and beauty yet! 
 Bo with the past, and its holy love 
 Sj with its hopes, that soared above 
 With the visions that came to her nightly rest, 
 Was the turquoise ring to her finger pressed : 
 Oil ! beautiful to her its light, 
 Cou d she forget that pleasant night 
 When first her finger s s ender round 
 Was with the golden circlet bound, 
 And Hushed r/ne not to see it shine, 
 But at the low tone, " Love, be mine !" 
 
 Since then, since then, unchanged its hue, 
 Her hope, her trust, alike were true ; 
 But pale at times that cheek so bright, 
 And dimmed those eyes of living light, 
 For dreams were hers of pain and dread, 
 
 * 1 1 Miss Martineau s novel of Deerbrook. the heroine 
 
 is in id,. K, piv.-rrvu vv.th ureat care a turquoise ring, 
 which he> lover had iriven i, er j n tne ear ] y ( }. iys O f t i,,.f,. 
 atachment. and during a lonir period of doubt and es- 
 taiugemeiit, to "believe that while its lines continued un- 
 aimrned. his laith remained to her unbroken. ,So poetic 
 and iervent a belief met with its appropriate reward: the 
 turquoise ring remained bright, and the lover returned. 
 
 Yet still the ring its lustre shed ; 
 They met and parted, as of yore 
 Fond hearts have met, and chilled before, 
 And coldness, sadness, fear, had been 
 Like cloud upon the sunny scene. 
 
 Yet woman s love will always strive, 
 And woman s faith through all things live, 
 And beautiful the maiden s truth, 
 And beautiful her trusting youth; 
 Through all, through all, the turquoise ring 
 A hope, a dream, a joy could bring; 
 And still, if clear and bright its hue, 
 Her faith was firm, her lover true ! 
 
 Oh, gift of power ! it brought at last 
 A bright, bright future for the past ! 
 Oh, gift of power ! that cheek once more 
 Wore the rich bloom that blushed of yore ! 
 Oh, gift of power ! who would not sing 
 " For me, for me, the turquoise ring; 
 For me, for me, when living faith 
 Faints in a world of change and death; 
 When sick with fear the heart may be, 
 And sad, oh ! sad the memory ; 
 When dimly, dimly, dimly glow 
 The hopes, the trusts, that cling below 
 Then give me, give the turquoise rii-o. 
 Or the pure faith, a better thing ! 
 
 GIVE ME ARMOR OF PROOF. 
 
 GIVE me armor of proof, I must ride to the plain ; 
 Give me armor of proof, ere the trump sound again : 
 To the halls of my childhood no more am I known, 
 And the nettle must rise where the myrtle hath 
 Till the conflict is over, the battle is past, [blown ! 
 Give me armor of proof I am true to the 1 ast ! 
 Give me armor of proof, bring me helmet and spear ; 
 Away ! shall the warrior s cheek own a tear 1 
 Bring the steel of Milan tis the firmest and best, 
 And bind o er my bosom its closely-linked vest, 
 Where the head of a loved one in fondness hath lain, 
 Whose tears fell at parting like warm summer rain ! 
 Give me armor of proof: I have torn from my heart 
 Each soft tie and true that forbade me to part ; 
 Bring the sword of Damascus its blade cold ai?.d 
 
 bright, 
 
 That bends not in conflict, but gleams in the fight ; 
 And stay let me fasten yon scarf on my breast, 
 Love s light pledge and true I will answer the rest ! 
 Give me armor of proof : shall the cry be in vain, 
 When to life s sternest conflicts we rush forth 
 
 amain 1 
 
 The knight clad in armor the battle may bide, 
 But wo to the heedless when bendeth the triod, 
 And wo to youth s morn, when we rode forth ulono, 
 To the conflict unguarded, its gladness hath flown ! 
 
 Give us armor of proof our hopes were all high, 
 But they passed like the meteor lights from the sky i 
 Our hearts trust was firm, but Life s waves swept 
 
 away 
 
 One by one the frail ties which were shelter and stay: 
 And true was our love, but its bonds broke in twain 
 Give me armor of proof, ere we ride forth again. 
 
201 
 
 LUCY" HOOPER. 
 
 Give me armor of proof: we would turn from the j 
 Of a wor d th;it is fading to our that is true ; [view 
 We would lift up each thought from this earth- 
 shaded light, 
 
 To the regions above, where there stealeth ir> h i :ht ; 
 And with Faith s chosen shie d by no dark tempests 
 
 riven, 
 
 We would gaze from earth s storms on the bright 
 ness of heaven. 
 
 THE CAVALIKR S LAST HOURS. 
 
 A DIRGE, a dirge for the young renown 
 
 Of the reckless cavalier, 
 Who passed in his youth and glory down 
 
 To the grave without a fear, 
 The smile on his lip, and the light in his eye 
 Oh ! say, was it thus that the brave should die ] 
 
 Midst the morning s pomp and flowers, 
 
 By fierce and ruffian bands, 
 In sight of his own ancestral towers, 
 
 And his father s sweeping lands : 
 W T ell that his mother lay still and low, 
 Ere the cold clods pressed on her son s bright brow ! 
 
 Oh, the tide of grief swelled high 
 
 In hi.s heart that dawn of day, 
 As he looked his last on the glorious sky, 
 
 And the scenes that round him lay ; 
 But he trod the green earth in that moment of fear 
 With a statelier bearing, the doomed cavalier ! 
 
 For fearless his spirit then, 
 
 And bravely he met his fate, 
 Till the brows of those iron-hearted men 
 
 Grew dark in their utter hate 
 Of the gallant victim, who met his hour 
 With a song on his lips for his lady s bower. 
 
 The light of the festive hall, 
 
 The bravest in battle array 
 Was it thus that the star of his fate should fall, 
 
 Was it thus he should pass away 1 
 A dirge, a dirge for his hopes of fame ; 
 The grave will close o er the noble name ! 
 
 And the tide of life flow on 
 
 In its dull, deep current, as ever, 
 Till every trace of his fate is gone 
 
 From its dark and ceaseless river. 
 But one may remember, oh young cavalier 
 Couldst thou gaze but once on the sleeper near! 
 
 That bright and fairy girl, 
 
 With no shadow on her brow, 
 
 Save the b!ue vein s trace and the golden curl 
 
 She is dreaming of thee now. 
 She whispers thy name in her gentle rest; 
 But how \Vill she wake from that slumber blest! 
 
 A. dirge, a dirge for the young renown 
 
 Of the reckless cavalier ! [around, 
 
 He hath waved for the last his plumed bonnet 
 And his parting words they hear, [cry 
 
 " (rod save King Charles !" a shriek : a woman s 
 ingled with the martial sounds that rent the 
 earth and sky ! 
 
 THK DAUGHTER OF HERODIA3.* 
 
 MOTH Kit ! I bring thy gift; 
 Take from mv hand the dreaded boon I pray 
 Take it; the sti.l, pale sorrow of the face 
 Hath left upon my soul its living trace, 
 
 Never to pass away, 
 
 Since from these lips one word of idle breath 
 Blanched that calm face. Oh, mother, this is death ! 
 
 What is it that I see 
 
 From al! the pure and settled features gleaming ? 
 Reproach ! reproach ! My dreams are strange and 
 Mother ! hadst thou no pity on thy child ? [wild. 
 
 Lo ! a celestial smile seems softly beaming 
 On the hushed lips ; my mother, canst thou brook 
 Longer upon thy victim s face to look 1 
 
 Alas ! at yester morn 
 
 My heart was light, and to the viol s sound 
 I gay !y danced, while crowned with summer flowers, 
 And swiftly by me sped the flying hours; 
 
 And all was joy around 
 
 Not death. Oh, mother! could I say thee nay] 
 Take from thy daughter s hand thy boon away ! 
 
 Take it : mv heart is sad, 
 And the pure forehead hath an icy chill. 
 I dare not touch it, for avenging Heaven 
 Hath shuddering visions to my fancy given ; 
 
 And the pale face appals me, cold and still, 
 With the closed lips. Oh, tell me, could I know 
 That the pale features of the dead were so ] 
 
 I may not turn away [name 
 
 From the charmed brow ; and I have heard his 
 Even as a prophet by his people spoken ; 
 And that high brow in death bears seal and token 
 
 Of one whose words were flame. 
 Oh, holy teacher, couldst thou rise and live, 
 Would not these hushed lips whisper, " I forgive !" 
 
 Away with lute and harp 
 With the glad heart for ever, and the dance 
 Never again shall tabret sound for me. 
 Oh, fearful mother, I have brought to thee 
 
 The silent dead with his rebuking glance, 
 And the crushed heart of one to whom are given 
 Wild dreams of judgment and offended Heaven! 
 
 EVENING THOUGHTS. 
 
 THOU quiet moon, above the hill-tops shining, 
 
 How do I revel in thy glances bright, 
 How does my heart, cured of its vain repining, 
 
 Take note of those who wait and watch thy light: 
 The student o er his lonely volume bending, 
 
 The pale enthusiast, joying in thy ray, 
 And ever and anon his dim thoughts sending 
 
 Up to the regions of eternal day ! 
 Nor these alone the pure and radiant eyes 
 
 Of youth and hope look up to thee with love ; 
 Would it were thine, meek dweller of the skies, 
 
 * Written after seeing, nmoiiff a collection of beautiful 
 paintings, (copies from the old musters, recently sent to 
 New Yurk from Italy,) one representing thf daughter of 
 Herodias bearing the head of John the Baptist on a char 
 ger. ;nul vvciiriiiii upon her countenance an expression, not 
 of triumph, as one might suppose, hut rather of .-oft ;u:d 
 sorrowful remorse, as she looks upon the calm and beau 
 tiful features of her victim. 
 
LUCY HOOPER. 
 
 To save from tears ! but no too far above 
 This dim cold earth thou shinest, richly flinging 
 
 Thy soft light down on all who watch thy beam, 
 And Lo the heart of sorrow gently bringing 
 
 The glories pictured in life s morning stream, 
 As a loved presence back : oh, shine to me, 
 As to the voyagers on the faithless sea ! 
 Joy s beacon light ! I know that trembling Care, 
 
 Warned by thy coining, hies him to repose, 
 And on his pillow laid, serenely there, 
 
 Forgets his calling, that at day s dull close 
 Meek age and rosy childhood sink to rest, 
 
 And Passion lays her fever dreams aside, 
 And the unquiet thought in every breast 
 
 Loses its selfish fervor and its pride, [ing, 
 
 With thoughts of thee the while their vigil keep- 
 The quiet stars hold watch o er beauty sleeping ! 
 But unto me, thou still and solemn li^ht, [trust 
 
 What mayst thou bring ? high hope, unwavering 
 In Him who, for the watches of the night, 
 
 Ordained thy coming, and on things of dust 
 Hath poured a gift of power on wings to rise 
 
 From the low earth and its surrounding gloom 
 To higher spheres, tU as the shaded skies 
 
 Are lighted by thv glories, gentle moon. 
 So are life s lonely hours and dark despair 
 *... ered by the star of faith, the torch of prayer. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 SAY, have I left thee, wild but gt. .tie lyre, 
 
 That on the willow thou hast hung so long 1 
 Oh, do not still my unbidden thoughts aspire 
 
 From my heart s fount ? flows not the gush of song, 
 Though heavily upon the spirit s wing 
 Lies earthly care a dull, corroding thing ] 
 
 Must it be ever so, 
 
 That in the shadow and the gloom my path 
 Is destined ] shall the high heart always bow ] 
 
 Father, may it not pass, this cup of wrath 
 Shall not at last the kindled flame bum free 
 On my soul s altar, consecate to thee 1 
 
 Say, in my bosom s urn 
 Shall feelings glow for ever unexpressed, 
 And lonely, fervent thoughts unheeded burn, 
 
 And passion linger on, a hidden guest ? 
 Hath the warm sky no token for my heart 
 In my green, early years shall Hope depart ] 
 Peace at this quiet hour 
 And holy thoughts be given. Let me soar 
 From life s dim air and shadowy skies that lower 
 
 Around me, and with thrilling heart adore 
 Thy mercy, Father ! who can soothe the wild, 
 Forgetful murmurings of thine erring child. 
 Ay, by the bitter dreams, 
 The fervor wasted ere my spirit s prime, 
 
 The few brief sunny gleams 
 
 Ripening the heart s wild flowers, that ere their time 
 Blew brightly and were crushed by all the tears 
 That quenched the fiery thoughts of early years 
 V es ! by each phantom shade that memory brings, 
 Voices whose tone my heart remembers yet, 
 Names that no more shall thrill departed things 
 
 That I would fain forget 
 By the past weakness and the coming trust, 
 
 Father, I lay my fore iead in the dust, 
 Meeklv adoring \ielding up my care 
 
 To Thee, v. ho through the stormy past hath tried 
 A wayward mind, which else had deemed too fair 
 
 This fleeting wor d, and wandered far and wide 
 Astray and worshipped still, forgetting Thee, 
 The one bright star of its ido atry. 
 
 Nor be these thoughts in vain 
 
 To aid me in this rude word s ruder strife, 
 When a high soul doth struggle with its chain, . 
 
 And turn away in bitterness from life 
 Strengthen me, guide me, till in realms above 
 I taste the untroubled waters of thy love. 
 
 THE OLD DAYS WE REMEMBER 
 
 THK old days we remember, 
 How softly did they glide, 
 While all untouched by worldly care 
 
 We wandered side by side ! 
 In those pleasant days, when the sun s last rays 
 
 Just lingered on the hill, 
 
 Or the moon s pale light with the coming night 
 Shone o er our pathway still. 
 The old days we remember 
 
 Oh ! there s nothing like them now, 
 The glow has faded from our hearts, 
 
 The blossom from the bough ; 
 In the chill of care, midst worldly air, 
 
 Perchance we are colder grown, 
 For stormy weather, since we roamed together, 
 The hearts of both have known. 
 The old days we remember 
 Oh ! clearer shone the sun, 
 And every star looked brighter far 
 
 Than they ever since have done ! 
 On the very streams there lingered gleams 
 
 Of light ne er seen before, 
 And the running brook a music took 
 Our souls can hear no more. 
 The old days we remember 
 Oh ! could we but go back 
 To their quiet hours, and tread once more 
 
 Their bright, familiar track 
 Could we picture again what we pictured then, 
 
 Of the sunny world that lay 
 From the green hillside, and the waters wide. 
 And our glad hearts far away ! 
 The old days we remember, 
 
 When we never dreamed of guile, 
 Nor knew that the heart could be cold below, 
 
 While the lip still wore its smile ! 
 Oh, we may not forget, for those hours come jut 
 
 They visit us in sleep, 
 
 While far and wide, o er life s changing 1 tide, 
 Our barks asunder keep. 
 Still, still we must remember 
 
 Life s first and brightest days, 
 And a passing tribute render 
 
 As we tread the busy maze , 
 A bitter sigh for the hours gone by, 
 
 The dreams that might not last. 
 The friends deemed true when our hopes were ne v 
 And the glorious visions past ! 
 
LUCY HOOPER. 
 
 LINES SUGGESTED BY A SCENE IN 
 "MAS IKK HUMPHREY S CLUCK."* 
 
 BKAUTIFUL child ; my lot is cast 
 
 Hope from my path hath for ever past; 
 
 Nothing the future can bring to me 
 
 Hath ever been shadowed in dreams to thee , 
 
 The warp is \voven, the arrow sped, 
 
 My brain hath throbbed, but my heart is dead : 
 
 Te 1 ye my tale, then, for love or go d 1 
 
 Years have passed by since that tale was told. 
 
 God keep thee, child, with thine angel brow, 
 Ever as sinless and bright as now; 
 Fresh as the roses of earliest spring, 
 The fair, pure buds it is thine to bring. 
 A\ ou!d that the bloom of the soul could be, 
 Beautiful spirit ! caught from thee ; 
 Would that thy gift could anew impart 
 The roses that bloom for the pure in heart. 
 
 Beautiful child ! mayst thou never hear 
 Tones of reproach in thy sorrowing ear ; 
 Beautiful child ! may that cheek ne er glow 
 With a warmer tint from the heart below : 
 Beautiful child ! mayst thou never bear 
 The clinging weight of a cold despair 
 A heart, whose madness each hope hath crossed, 
 Which hath thrown one die, and the stake hath lost. 
 
 Beautiful child ! why shouldst thou stay ] 
 
 There is danger near thee away, away ! 
 
 Away ! in thy spotless purity : 
 
 Nothing can here be a type of thee; 
 
 The very air, as it fans thy brow, 
 
 May leave a trace on its stainless snow : 
 
 Lo ! spirits of evil haunt the bowers, 
 
 And the serpent glides from the trembling flowers. 
 
 Beautiful child ! alas, to see 
 A fount in the desert gush forth for thee, 
 Where the queenly lilies should faintly gleam, 
 And thy life flow on as its silent stream 
 Afar from the world of doubt and sin 
 This weary world thou must wander in : 
 Such a home was once to my vision given 
 It comes to my heart as a type of heaven. 
 
 Beautiful child ! let the weary in heart 
 
 Whisper thee once, ere again we part; 
 
 Tell thee that want, and tell thee that pain 
 
 Never can thrill in the throbbing braiu, 
 
 Till a sadder story that brain hath learned 
 
 Till a fiercer fire hath in it burned : 
 
 God keep thee sinless and undefiled, 
 
 Though poor, and wretched, and sad, my child ! 
 
 Beautiful being ! away, away ! 
 
 The angels above be thy help and stay, 
 
 Save thee from sorrow, and save thee from sin, 
 
 Guard thee from danger without and within. 
 
 Pure be thy spirit, and breathe for me 
 
 A sigh or a prayer when thy heart is free ; 
 
 In the crowded mart, by the lone wayside, 
 
 Beautiful child ! be thy God thy guide. 
 
 "Nelly bore upon her arm the little basket with her 
 flowers, and sometimes stopped, with timid and modest 
 looks, to nfiVr tb:in at some gay carnage There 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH. 
 
 La mort eat le seul dieu qtie J c 
 
 nploier. 
 
 NOT unto thee, oh pale and radiant Death ! 
 Not unto thee, though every hope be past, 
 Through Life s first, sweetest stars may shine na 
 
 more, 
 
 Nor earth again one cherished dream restore, 
 Or from the bright urn of the future cast 
 Aught, aught of joy on me. 
 
 Yet unto thee, oh monarch ! robed and crowned, 
 And beautiful in all thy sad array, 
 I bring no incense, though the heart be chill, 
 And to the eyes, that tears alone may fill, 
 
 Shines not as once the wonted light of day, 
 Still upon another shrine my vows 
 
 Shall all be duly paid; and though thy voice 
 Is full of music to the pining heart, 
 And woos one to that pillow of calm rest, 
 Where all Life s dull and restless thoughts depart, 
 Still, not to thee, oh Death ! 
 
 I pay my vows ; though now to me thy brow 
 Seems crowned with roses of the summer prime, 
 And to the aching sense thy voice would be, 
 Oh Death ! oh Death ! of softest melody, 
 And gentle ministries alone were thine, 
 Still I implore thee not. 
 
 But thou, oh Life ! oh Life ! the searching test 
 Of the weak heart ! to thee, to thee I bow ; 
 And if the fire upon the altar shrine 
 Descend, and scathe each glowing hope of mine, 
 Still may my heart, as now, 
 Turn not from that dread test. 
 
 But let me pay my vows to thee, oh Life ! 
 And let me hope that from that glowing fire 
 There yet may be redeemed a gold more pure 
 And bright, and eagle thoughts to mount and soar 
 
 Their flight the higher, 
 Released from earthly hope or earthly fear. 
 
 This, this, oh Life ! be mine. 
 Let others strive thy glowing wreaths to bind 
 Let others seek thy false and dazzling gleams: 
 For me their light went out on early streams, 
 And faded were thy roses in my grasp, 
 No more, no more to bloom. 
 Yet as the stars, the holy stars of night, 
 
 Shine out when all is dark, 
 
 So would I, cheered by hopes more purely bright, 
 Tread still the thorny path whose close is light, 
 If, but at last, the tossed and weary bark 
 Gains the sure haven of her final rest. 
 
 was but one lady who seemed to understand the child, 
 and >he was one who sat alone in a handsome carriage, 
 while two younir men in dashing ciotbes, who had just 
 d;8mounted from it. talked and laughed loudly at a little 
 distance, appearing to forjret her quite. There were many 
 ladies all around, but they turned their backs, or looked 
 another way, or at the two young men, (not unfavorably 
 at thi-jjt.} and left her to herself/ .^he motioned away a 
 gipsy-woman, urgent to tell her fortune, sayinir. that it 
 was told already, and had been for some years, but called 
 the child toward her, and taking her flowers, put money 
 into her trembling hand, and bade her go home, and keep 
 at home, for God s sake " 
 
LUCY HOOPER. 
 
 297 
 
 LEGENDS OF FLOWERS* 1 
 
 OH, gorgeous tales in clays of old 
 
 Were linked with opening flowers, 
 As if in their fairy urns of gold 
 
 Beat human hearts like ours ; 
 The nuns in their cloister, sad and pale, 
 
 As they watched soft buds expand, 
 On their glowing petals traced a tale 
 
 Or legend of holy land. 
 Brightly to them did thy snowy leaves 
 
 For the sainted Mary shine, 
 As they twined for her forehead vestal wreaths 
 
 Of thy white buds, cardamine ! 
 
 The crocus shone, when the fields were bare, 
 
 W ith a gay, rejoicing smile ; 
 But the hearts that answered Love s tender prayer 
 
 Grew brightened with joy the while. 
 Of the coming spring and the summer s light, 
 
 To others that flower might say, 
 But the lover welcomed the herald bright 
 
 Of the glad St. Valentine s day. 
 The crocus was hailed as a happy flower, 
 
 And the holy saint that day 
 Poured out on the earth their golden shower 
 
 To light his votaries way. 
 
 On the day of St. George, the brave St. George, 
 
 To merry Eng and dear, 
 By field and by fell, and by mountain gorge, 
 
 Shone hyacinths blue and clear : 
 Lovely and prized was their purple light, 
 
 And twas said in ancient story, 
 That their fairy bells rung out at night 
 
 A peal to old England s glory ; 
 And sages read in the azure hue 
 
 Of the flowers so widely known, 
 That by white sail spread over ocean s blue, 
 
 Should the empire s right be shown. 
 
 And thou of faithful memory, 
 
 St. John, thou " shining light," 
 Beams nc.t a burning torch for thee, 
 
 The scarlet lychnis bright? 
 While holy Mary, at thy shrine, 
 
 Another pure flower blooms, 
 Welcome to thee with news divine, 
 
 The lily s faint perfumes ; 
 Proudly its stately head it rears, 
 
 Arrayed in virgin white 
 So Truth, amid a world of tears, 
 
 Doth shine with vestal light. 
 
 And thou, whose opening buds were shown, 
 
 A Savior s cross beside, 
 We hail thee, passion flower alone, 
 
 Sacred to Christ, who died. 
 No image of a mortal love, 
 
 May thy bright blossoms be 
 Linked with a passion far above 
 
 A Savior s agony. 
 
 * Tlirs<> lines refer to some of the old fanciful ideas at- 
 
 ached to the opening of flowers. In the RomUh church 
 
 tt events were carefully noted down, and every flower 
 
 wsommg on a saint s day was considered to bloom in 
 
 Honor ot that saint. 
 
 All other flowers are pale and dim, 
 
 All other gifts are loss, 
 We twine thy matchless buds for him 
 
 Who died on holy cross. 
 
 OSCEOLA. 
 
 NOT on the battle-plain, 
 As when thy thousand warriors joyed to meet tlioc. 
 
 Sounding the fierce war-cry, 
 
 Leading them forth to die : 
 Not thus not thus we greet thee. 
 
 But in a hostile camp, 
 Lonely amid thy foes 
 
 Thine arrows spent, 
 
 Thy brow unbent, 
 Yet wearing record of thy people s woes. 
 
 Chief! for thy memories now, 
 While the tall palm against this quiet sky 
 
 Her branches waves, 
 
 And the soft river laves 
 The green and flower-crowned banks it wanders by 
 
 W hile in this golden sun 
 The burnished rifle gleameth with strange light, 
 
 And sword and spear 
 
 Rest harmless here, 
 Yet flash with startling radiance on the sight ; 
 
 Wake they thy glance of scorn, 
 Thou of the folded arms and aspect stern 1 
 
 Thou of the soft, deep tone,* 
 
 For whose rich music gone, 
 Kindred and tribe full soon may vainly yearn ! 
 
 Wo for the trusting hour ! 
 Oh, kingly stag, no hand hath brought thee down : 
 
 T was with a patriot s heart, 
 
 W 7 here fear usurped no part, 
 Thou earnest, a noble offering and alone ! 
 
 For vain yon army s might, 
 While for thy band the wide plain owned a tree, 
 
 And the wild vine s tangled shoots 
 
 On the gnarled oak s mossy roots 
 Their trysting-place might be. 
 
 Wo for thy hapless fate ! 
 Wo for thine evil times and lot, brave chief! 
 
 Thy sadly -closing story, 
 
 Thy quickly-vanished glory, 
 Thy high but hopeless struggle, brave and brief. 
 
 Wo for the bitter stain 
 That from our country s banner may not part ! 
 
 Wo for the captive wo ! 
 
 For bitter pains and slow 
 Are his who dieth of the fevered heart 
 
 Oh, in that spirit-land, 
 Where never yet the oppressor s foot hath passed . 
 
 Chief! by those sparkling streams 
 
 Whose beauty mocks our dreams, 
 May that high heart have won its rest at last 
 
 * Osceola was remarkable for a soft and tlutelike voico. 
 The above poem was written upon seeing a picture o1 
 him by Captain Vinton, U. S. A., representing him as be 
 appeared in the American camp. 
 
SARAH EDO ART ON MAYO. 
 
 (Born 1818 Died 1848). 
 
 Miss SARAH C. EDGARTON, who in 1846 
 became the wife of the Rev. A. D. MAYO, 
 minister of the Universal ist Church in Glou 
 cester, Massachusetts, was born in Shirley, 
 in that state, in 1819. When about seven 
 teen years of age she began to write for the 
 literary and religious journals, and in 1838 
 she edited the first volume of The Rose of 
 Sharon, an annual, of which nine other vol 
 umes were afterward issued under her direc 
 tion. She also edited for several years The 
 Ladies Repository, a monthly magazine of 
 religion and letters, published in Boston. Be 
 
 sides her numerous contributions to The New- 
 Yorker, The New World, The Tribune, The 
 Knickerbocker, andother periodicals,she pub 
 lished, in the ten years from 1838 to 1848, 
 The Palfreys, ,J!eii Clifford or the Genius 
 of Reform, The Poetry of Woman, Spring 
 Flowers, Memoir and Poems of Mrs. Julia 
 H.Scott, The Flower Vase, Fables of Flora, 
 and The Floral Fortune-Teller. These are 
 small volumes, and two or three of them con 
 sist in part of extracts ; but they are all illus 
 trative of a delicate apprehension of beauty 
 and truth. She died on the ninth of July, 1848. 
 
 THE SUPREMACY OF GOD. 
 
 THE clouds broke solemnly apart, and, mass 
 By mass, their heavy darkness bore away 
 With sullen mutterings, leaving mountain-pass 
 And rocky defile open to the day. 
 The pinnacles of Zion glittering lay 
 In the rich splendor of Jehovah s light, 
 Which, pouring down with a meridian sway, 
 Bathed mouldering tower and barricaded height 
 
 In floods of dazzling rays, bewildering to the sight ! 
 God shone upon the nations. In the West 
 The owl-like Druid saw the brightening rays, 
 And muffling his gray robes across his breast, 
 Strode like a phantom from the coining blaze. 
 Old Odin, throned amid the polar haze, 
 Heard the shrill cry of Vala on the blast, 
 And glancing southward with a wild amaze, 
 Saw God s bright banner o er the nations cast, 
 
 Then to his dim old halls retreated far and fast. 
 But nearer yet, and quivering in the blaze 
 That wrapped Olympus with a shroud of glory, 
 Great Jove rose up, the pride of Rome s proud days, 
 His awful head with centuries grown hoary. 
 His sceptre reeking and his mantle gory ! 
 Great Jove, the dread of each inferior god, 
 Renowned in song, immortalized in story, 
 No longer shook Olympus with his nod, [trod. 
 
 But shivering like a ghost, down, down to hades 
 Egyptian Isis, from the mystic rites 
 Of her voluptuous priesthood shrank in awe, 
 Mazed by the splendor throned on Zion s heights, 
 More dreadful than the flame which Israel saw 
 Break forth from Sinai when God gave the law ! 
 To her more dreadful, for beneath its sway 
 She saw, with prophet gaze, how soon her power 
 Must, liKe the brooding night-haze, melt away, 
 And leave her where the mists of ages lower 
 
 The grim ghosts of a dream mocked in the noon- 
 t de hour. 
 
 And gentler deities the spirits bright 
 That haunted mountain glen and woodland shade, 
 That watched o er sleeping shepherds thro the night 
 And blest at early dawn the bright-eyed maid 
 The nymphs and dryads of the fount and glade, 
 The best divinities of home and hearth, 
 These, with an exile footstep, slowly strayed, 
 And lingered by each haunt of olden mirth, 
 
 Till their bright forms grew dim, and vanished from 
 
 the earth. 
 
 Now Gon is Goo ! The Alpine summit rings 
 With the loud echoes of Jehovah s praise; 
 And from the valley where the cow-boy sings, 
 Go up to God alone his votive lays. 
 To him the mariner at midnight prays ; 
 To him uplifts the yearnings of his soul ; 
 And where the day-beam on the snow-peak plays, 
 And where the thunders o er the. desert roll, 
 
 His praise goes swelling up, and rings from pole 
 to pole. 
 
 His Spirit animates the lowliest flower, 
 And nerves the sinews of the loftiest sphere, 
 In every globule of the falling shower, 
 In each transition of the varied year, 
 Its life, and light, and wondrous power appear; 
 It burns all-glorious in the noonday sun, 
 And from the moonbeams forth serenely clear; 
 Or, when the day is o er, and eve begun, 
 Flin-s forth the radiant flag no other god hath won. 
 
 All hail, Jehovah ! Hail, supremest God ! 
 Where er the whirlwind stalks upon the seas, 
 Where er the giant thunderbolt hath trod, 
 Or turned a furrow for the summer breeze, 
 Where liquid cities round Spitzbergen freeze, 
 And lift their ice-spires to the electric light, 
 Or soft Italian skies and flowering trees 
 Their balmy odors and bright hues unite 
 There art thou, LOUD of LOVE, unrivalled in thy 
 might. 
 
SARAH E. MAYO. 
 
 Praise, praise to thee from every breathing thing, 
 And from the temples of adoring hearts 
 Science to thee her sky-reaped fruits shall bring, 
 And Commerce rear thine altars in her marts. 
 Thou shalt be worshipped of the glorious Arts, 
 And sought by Wisdom in her dim retreat ; 
 The student, brooding o er his mystic charts, 
 Shall mark the track of thy starsandalled feet, [seat, 
 Till, through the zodiac traced, it mounts thy mercy, j 
 
 Praise,praise to Jliee from peaceful home and hearth, 
 From -hearts of humble hope and meek desire; 
 Praise from the lowly and the high of earth, 
 From palace-hall and frugal cottage-fire. 
 We can not lift our spirit-yearnings higher, 
 Nor speed them upward to a loftier goal : 
 Then let us each with fervent thoughts aspire 
 To cast aside the chain of earth s control, [soul. 
 And stand in. God s own light, communers with God s 
 
 THE LAST LAY. 
 
 Tis the last touch the last! and never more 
 
 By the low-singing stream, or violet dell, 
 Never beside the blue pond s grassy shore, 
 
 Nor in the woodlands where the fountains swell, 
 Oh, never more shall this wild harp resound 
 
 To the light touches of impulsive Thought! 
 No longer, echoed on the winds around, 
 
 Shall float those strains with hum an passion fraught; 
 
 Never, oh, never more ! 
 Tis the last touch ! Oh, mighty Thought, return 
 
 To thy deep, hidden fountains, and draw thence 
 Wordsthatthro all the heart slonedepthsshall burn; 
 
 Words, that inwrought with hope and love intense, 
 Shall thrill and shake the soul, as God s own voice 
 
 Shakes the high heavens and thrills the silent earth. 
 Bring forth proud words of triumph, and rejoice 
 
 That thy dear gift of song a holier birth 
 
 Shall find, when this is o er ! 
 Too much in earlier days, departing soul, 
 
 Thy song hath been of weakness and of tears; 
 Too much it yielded to the wild control 
 
 Of Love s unuttered dreams and shadowy fears ; 
 And yet some strains of triumph have been heard, 
 
 Some words of faith and hope that reached high 
 As the low warble of the summer bird, [Heaven ; 
 
 Singing away the hours of golden even, 
 
 Blends with the cascade s roar ! 
 Let it be loftier now ! a strain to cleave 
 
 The vaulted arch above; a hymn of hope, 
 Of joy, of deathless faith, for those who grieve; 
 
 High words of trust to fearful hearts that grope 
 Through clouds and darkness to a midnight tomb. 
 
 Father of Love, thine energy impart 
 To a frail spirit hovering o er its doom ! 
 
 Nerve with o ermasteriug faith this weary heart 
 
 Thy mysteries to explore. 
 If T have suffered in the mournful past ; 
 
 If withered hopes were on my spirit laid ; 
 If love, the beautiful, the bright, were cast 
 
 Along my pathway but to droop and fade ; 
 If the chill shadows of the grave were hung 
 
 In life s young morning o er my sunny way 
 I thank thee, O my God, that I have clung 
 
 To those eternal things that ne er decay ; 
 
 E en to thy love and truth ! 
 
 Now on the threshold of the grave I stand, 
 
 One lingering look alone cast back to earth ; 
 
 One lingering look to that beloved land 
 W T here human feeling had its tearful birth ; 
 
 There stand the loved, with earnest eyes and words, 
 
 Calling me back to life s sweet gushing streams ; 
 They stand amid the flowers and singing birds, 
 
 And where the fountai n o er the bright moss gleams, 
 All flushed with buoyant youth. 
 They woo me back. I see their soft eyes melt 
 
 W^ith a beseeching love that speaks in tears; 
 Deeply their sorrowing kindness have I felt, 
 
 And hid my pangs, that I might soothe their fears. 
 But now the seal is set they can not save; 
 
 In vain they hover round this wasting frame: 
 Let me rest, loved ones, in the peaceful grave, 
 
 And leave to earth the little it may claim ; 
 It can not claim the soul ! 
 Nay, gentle friends, earth can not claim the soul 
 
 Upward arid onward its bold flight shall be; 
 The bosom of Eternal Love its goal, 
 
 And light its crown, and bliss its destiny. 
 As the bright meteor darts along the sky, 
 
 Leaving a trail of beauty on its way, 
 So, winged with energy that can not die, 
 
 My soul shall reach the gates of endless day, 
 And bid them backward roll. 
 In vain, Death, thine iron grasp is set 
 
 On nerves that quiver with delirious pain ; 
 Claim not thy triumph o er the spirit yet, 
 
 For thou shalt die, but that shall live again. 
 And thou, Sorrow, that with whetted beak 
 
 Hast torn the fibres of a fervent heart, 
 Thy final doom is riot for me to speak, 
 
 Yet thou, too, from thy carnage must depart, 
 
 For God recalls his own. 
 His OWN ! O Father, mid the budding flowers 
 
 And glittering dews of life s unclouded morn, 
 Where there is thrilling music in the hours 
 
 Of gentle hopes and young affections born, 
 Through all its wanderings from thy holy throne, 
 
 Through all its loiterings mid the haunts of Joy, 
 Hath my frail spirit been indeed thine own, 
 
 By ties that Time nor Death can e er destroy 
 
 Thine, Father, thine alone ! 
 Shall it not still be thine, more nobly thine, 
 
 When from the ruins of young Hope it soars, 
 And, entering into life and peace divine, 
 
 Feels the full worth of what it now deplores? 
 No sorrows there shall stain its gushing springs ; 
 
 No human frai ties cloud its joyous way; 
 The bird that soars on renovated wings, 
 
 And bathes its crest where dawns the golden day, 
 
 Shall be less tree and pure. 
 And more than this: with vision all serene, 
 
 Undimmed by tears, and bounded not by clouds, 
 With naught thy goodness and its gaze between, 
 
 And where no mystery thy purpose shrouds, 
 The soul, the glorious soul, in works of IOVK, 
 
 Shall seek, and only seek, to do thy will ; 
 Highborn and holy shall its efforts prove, 
 
 Thy bright designs and glory to fulfil, 
 
 While thou and thine endure 
 
300 
 
 SARAH E. MAYO. 
 
 THE BEGGAR S DEATH-SCENE. 
 
 OXK parting glance the weary day-god throws ; 
 
 See how along the mountain ridge it glows, 
 
 Shoots through the forest aisles, transmutes the rills, 
 
 And kindles up the old rock-crested hills ! 
 
 It falls upon a peaceful woodland scene 
 
 It lights the moaning hrook and banks of green, 
 
 Streams o er the beggar s long, loose, silvery hair, 
 
 Who, dying, lies upon the greensward there ! 
 
 All day in weakness, weariness, and pain, 
 The old man neath those drooping boughs hath lain ; 
 The birds above him singing, and the breeze 
 Hustling the abundant foliage of the trees; 
 The wild-flowers o er him bending, and the air 
 Stroking with gentle touch his long white hair ; 
 The bees around him murmuring, and the stream 
 Mingling its music with his dying dream 
 
 A vision blessed him ! Through his silver hair 
 He felt the touch of fingers, soft and fair, 
 And o er him flowed the glory of an eye 
 Outshining all the b!ueness of the sky. 
 " Sweet, sainted One! and dost thou love me yet 1 
 I knew, I knew thou couldst not quite forget ! 
 I knew, I knew that thou wouldst come at last, 
 To kiss my lips and tell me all is past !" 
 
 A glow of tiarisport lit his closing eye; 
 He raised his arms exulting toward the sky; 
 A rosy tint like morning s earliest streak 
 Flushed in celestial softness o er his ch^ek, 
 Then paled away ; the sunbeam, too, that shone 
 Upon his reverend head, had softly gone. 
 Then stooped the Vision, clasped him to her breast, 
 And bore his spirit up to endless rest 
 
 TYPES OF HEAVEN. 
 
 WHY love I the lily-bell 
 Swinging in the scented dell? 
 Why love I the wood-notes wild, 
 Where the sun hath faintly smiled ] 
 Daises, in their beds secure, 
 Gazing out so meek and pure ] 
 
 Why love I the evening dew 
 In the violet s bell of blue] 
 Why love I the vesper star, 
 Trembling in its shrine afar ? 
 Why love I the summer night 
 Softly weeping drops of light ] 
 
 Why to me do woodland springs 
 Whisper sweet and holy things] 
 Why does every bed of moss 
 Tell me of my Savior s cross] 
 Why in every dimpled wave 
 Smiles the light from o er the grave 1 
 Why do rainbows, seen at even, 
 Seem the glorious paths to heaven 1 
 Why are gushing streamlets fraught 
 With the notes from angels caught] 
 Uan ye tell me why the wind 
 Uringeth seraphs to mv mind ] 
 
 Is it not that faith hath bound 
 Beauties of all form and sound 
 To the dreams that have been jjiven 
 Of the holy things of heaven ] 
 Are they not bright links that bind 
 Sinful souls to Sinless Mind ] 
 
 From the lowly violet sod, 
 Links are lengthened unto God. 
 All of holy stainless sweet 
 That on earth we hear or meet, 
 Are but tvpes of that pure love 
 Brightly realized above. 
 
 THE SHADOW-CHILD. 
 
 WHENCE came this little phantom 
 
 That flits about my room 
 That s here from early morning 
 
 Until the twilight gloom ] 
 For ever dancing, dancing, 
 
 She haunts the wall and floor, 
 And frolics in the sunshine 
 
 Around the open door. 
 The ceiling by the table 
 
 She makes her choice retreat 
 For there a little human girl 
 
 Is wont to have her seat. 
 They take a dance together 
 
 A crazy little jig; 
 And sure two baby witches 
 
 Ne er ran so wild a rig ! 
 
 They pat their hands together 
 
 With frantic jumps and springs, 
 Until you almost fancy 
 
 You catch the gleam of wings. 
 Shrill shrieks the human baby 
 
 In the madness of delight, 
 And back return loud echoes 
 
 From the little shadow sprite. 
 
 At morning by my bedside 
 
 When first the birdies sing, 
 Up starts the little phantom 
 
 With a merry laugh and spring. 
 She woos me from my pillow 
 
 With her little coaxing arms ; 
 I go where er she beckons 
 
 A victim to her charms. 
 
 At night I still am haunted 
 
 By glimpses of her face; 
 Her features on my pillow 
 
 By moonlight I can trace. 
 Whence came this shadow-baby 
 
 That haunts my heart and home 1 
 What kindly hand hath sent her, 
 
 And wherefore hath she come I 
 
 Long be her dancing image 
 
 Our guest by night and day. 
 For lonely were our dwelling 
 
 If she were now away. 
 Far happier hath our home been, 
 
 More blest than e er before, 
 Since first that little shadow 
 
 Came gliding through our door. 
 
SARAH C. MAYO. 
 
 301 
 
 UDOLLO. 
 
 So sweet the fount of Thura sings, 
 
 T is said below a maid there is, 
 Who strikes a lyre of silver strings 
 
 To spirit symphonies. 
 
 A youth once sought that fountain s sidf 
 
 Udollo, of the golden hair ; 
 He cast a garland in the tide. 
 
 And thus invoked the maiden there: 
 
 " Oh, maid of Thura ! from thy halls 
 
 Of gleaming crystal deign to rise ! 
 The golden-haired Udollo calls, 
 
 And yearns to gaze within thine eyes 
 Fain would he touch that magic lyre 
 
 Whose echoes he has heard above, 
 And kindle every dulcet wire 
 
 With an adoring, burning love. 
 Come, maid of Thura, from thy halls; 
 The golden-haired Udollo calls !" 
 
 " Youth of the flaming, lucent eye, 
 Youth of the lily hand and brow, 
 
 Udollo ! I have heard thy cry ; 
 I rise before thee now !" 
 
 " Oh, maid with eyes of river-blue, 
 
 With amber tresses dropped with gold, 
 With foam-white bosom veiled from view 
 
 Too close y by the rainbow s fold, 
 Oh, maid of Thura ! let my hand 
 
 Receive from thine the silver lyre ; 
 Athwart thy white arm, Tris-spanned, 
 
 1 see one glittering, trembling wire ! 
 That trembling wire I would invoke, 
 
 Ere to thy touch it cease to quiver ; 
 The strain by thy sweet fingers woke 
 
 I would prolong for ever!" 
 
 " Udollo, heed ! The mortal hand 
 
 That o er that lone chord dare to stray, 
 Shall light a flaming, quenchless brand, 
 
 To burn his very heart away. 
 Yet take the lyre ! and I thy flowers 
 
 Will wear upon my heart for ever; 
 That heart henceforth through long, lone hours, 
 
 In silent wo must bleed and quiver! 
 Enough if thou, oh, beauteous love, 
 
 Shalt find delight in Thura s lyre ; 
 Thy hand mid all its strings may rove, 
 
 But ah ! wake not the fatal wire !" 
 
 The youth, whose eye with rapture glowed, 
 
 Quick seized the lyre from Thura s hand ; 
 How silent at that moment flowed 
 
 The fountain o er the listening sand ! 
 Upon his coal-black steed he leaped, 
 
 Struck gayly through the ringing wood, 
 And, as he went, he boldly swept 
 
 His lyre to every passing mood. 
 But hark ! A low, sweet symphony 
 
 Rose softly from the charmed wire ; 
 Unlike all mortal harmony, 
 
 Unlike all human fire! 
 Hope, eager hope love, burning love 
 
 Desire, the pure, the high desire 
 And joy, and all the thoughts that move, 
 
 Gushed wildly from that lyre ! 
 And as Udollo s music died 
 
 Amid the columned aisles away, 
 That wondrous chord swelled far and wide 
 
 Its sweet and ravishing lay. 
 Still grew, at last, the trembling string 
 
 Its wandering echoes back returned, 
 And round the lone chord gathering 
 
 In visible glory burned. 
 
 But in Udollo s soul died not 
 
 The echoes of the golden strain : 
 A love a wo he knew not what, 
 
 Flamed up within his brain ; 
 But never more his hand could wake, 
 
 By roving mid its sister wires, 
 The string whose symphony could shake 
 
 His spirit to its central fires. 
 
 But sometimes when, all calm above, 
 
 The moon bent o er its gleaming strings, 
 A strain of soft, entrancing love 
 
 Waved o er him, like a seraph s wings ; 
 And sometimes when the midnight gloom 
 
 Allowed no wandering ray of light, 
 A deep, low music filled the room, 
 
 And almost flamed upon his sight. 
 
 And for this rare and fitful strain 
 
 He waited with intense desire ; 
 There centred, in delirious pain, 
 
 His spirit s all-devouring fire. 
 As round one glowing point on high, 
 
 We sometimes mark the electric light, 
 From the whole bosom of the sky, 
 
 In one bright, flaming crown unite, 
 So round that inward, fixed desire, 
 
 Concentred all Udollo s life ; 
 His dark eye glowed like molten fire, 
 
 Beneath the fevered strife. 
 
 One night, when long the lyre had slept, 
 
 Udollo s passion, like a sea 
 Of red-hot lava, madly swept 
 
 His soul on to its destiny. 
 In the deep blackness of that hour 
 
 When spectres walk, he seized the lyre, 
 And with a seraph s tuneful power 
 
 Awoke the tuneful wire ! 
 Oh, Thura s maid ! where wert thou then, 
 
 When mortal hand presumed to strike 
 The chords that only gods, not men, 
 
 Have power to waken as they like ? 
 
 A fire shot through Udollo s frame 
 
 As shoots the lightning s forked dart ; 
 It lit a hot and smothered flame 
 
 Within his deepest heart. 
 He felt it in its slow, sure path, 
 
 Consume his quivering nerves away ; 
 Oh, could he but have checked its wrath, 
 
 Or ceased that fearful strain to play ! 
 His fingers, cleaving to the wire, 
 
 Had lost communion with his will; 
 Within him burnt the immortal fire, 
 
 The heart, the life destroyer still 
 
 ^ays, weeks, and months, whirled on and on 
 No hope by day, nor rest by night 
 
302 
 
 SARAH C. MAYO. 
 
 Only the same wild, frantic tone, 
 
 Increasing in its woful might. 
 Intensely still, like lonely stars 
 
 Far off in some black crypt of sky, 
 Like Sirius, or like fiery Mars, 
 
 Glowed wild Udollo s eye. 
 His form to shadowy hue and line 
 
 Slow shrunk and faded, day by day ; 
 He seemed like some corroded shrine, 
 
 Eaten by liquid fire away. 
 
 At last, in utter wreck and wo, 
 
 Back to the fountain s brink he crept; 
 
 His golden hair, now white as snow, 
 Far down his bosom swept. 
 
 Silent the clouded waters flowed ; 
 
 The silver sand was washed away ; 
 No lily on its borders blowed ; 
 
 In lonely gloom it lay. 
 
 " Oh, maid of Thura ! hear my cry ; 
 
 Back to thy hands thy lyre I bring : 
 Take it, oh, take it, ere I (lie, 
 
 For heart and soul are perishing !" 
 
 No form uprose, no murmur stole 
 
 Responsive from the gloomy tide ; 
 Hoarsely he heard the waters roll ; 
 
 Faintly the low winds sighed. 
 He sank upon the fountain s brink; 
 
 His hand fell listless on the wave ; 
 He heard the lyre, slow bubbling, sink 
 
 Deej) in its liquid grave. 
 
 The fire went out within his breast; 
 
 The tremor of his nerves was still ; 
 As peacefully he sank to rest 
 
 As a tired infant will. 
 
 A radiant bow of sun and dew, 
 
 Of blended vapors, white and red, 
 Up from the fountain s bosom flew, 
 
 And hung its beauty o er his head. 
 And from the waves a strain uprose, 
 
 Delicious as an angel s song ; 
 And this the burden at its close : 
 " How sweet such dreamless, deep repose 
 
 To him who sins and suffers Ion"- !" 
 
 CROSSING THE MOOR. 
 
 I AM thinking of the glen, Johnny, 
 
 And the little gushing brook 
 Of the birds upon the hazel copsej 
 
 And violets in the nook. 
 I am thinking how we met, Johnny, 
 
 Upon the little bridge : 
 \ ou had a garland on your arm 
 
 Of flag-flowera and of sedge. 
 Vou placed it in my hand, Johnny, 
 
 And held my hand in yours; 
 tfou only thought of that, Johnny, 
 
 But talked about the flower;-. 
 We lingered Ions a one, Johnny, 
 
 Above mat shaded stream; 
 We stood as though we were entranced 
 
 In some delicious drea;n. 
 
 It was not all a dream, Johnny, 
 
 The love we thought of then, 
 For it hath been our life and light 
 
 For threescore years and ten. 
 But ah ! we dared not speak it, 
 
 Though it lit our cheeks and eyes; 
 So we talked about the news, Johnny, 
 
 The weather, and the skies. 
 At last I said, " Good night, Johnny !" 
 
 And turned to cross the bridge, 
 Still holding in my trembling hand 
 
 The pretty wreath of sedge. 
 But you ca:i.e on behind, Johnny, 
 
 And drew my arm in yours, 
 And said, You must not go alone 
 
 Across the barren moors." 
 Oh, had they been all flowers, Johnny, 
 
 And fu l of singing birds, 
 They could not have seemed fairer 
 
 Than when listening to those words ! 
 The new moon shone above, Johnny, 
 . The sun was nearly set ; 
 The grass that crisped beneath our feet 
 
 The dew had slightly wet : 
 One robin, late abroad, Johnny, 
 
 Was winging to its nest ; 
 I seem to see it now, Johnny, 
 
 The sunshine on its breast. 
 You put your arm around me, 
 
 You clasped my hand in yours, 
 You said, " So let me guard you 
 
 Across these lonely moors." 
 At length we reached the field, Johnny, 
 
 In sight of father s door ; 
 We felt that we must part there ; 
 
 Our eyes were brimming o er; 
 You saw the tears in mine, Johnny, 
 
 I saw the tears in yours : 
 "You ve been a faithful guard, Johnny," 
 
 I said, "across the moors." 
 Then you broke forth in a gush, Johnny, 
 
 Of pure and honest love, 
 While the moon looked down upon you 
 
 From her holy throne above, 
 And you said, " We need a guide, Ellen, 
 
 To lead us o er life s moors ; 
 I ve chosen you for mine, Ellen, 
 
 Oh, wou d that I were yours !" 
 We parted with a kiss, Johnny, 
 
 The first, but not the last ; 
 I feel the rapture of it, yet. 
 
 Though threescore years have passed; 
 And you kissed my golden curls, Johnny, 
 
 That now are si: very gray, 
 And whispered, \Vc are one, Ellen, 
 
 Until our dying day !" 
 That dying day is near, Johnny, 
 
 But we are not dismayed ; 
 W T e have but one dark moor to cross, 
 
 We need we be afraid ? 
 We ve had a hard life s row. Johnny, 
 
 But our heavenly rest is sure; 
 And sweet the love that waits us there, 
 
 When we have crossed the moor ! 
 
SARAH S. JACOBS. 
 
 Miss JACOBS is a native of Rhode Island, 
 and is a daughter of the late Rev. Bela Ja 
 cobs, a prominent Baptist clergyman. She 
 has recently resided at Cambridgeport, in 
 Massachusetts. Her poems are serious and 
 
 fanciful, and evince cultivation and taste. 
 Benedetta is one of her happiest composi 
 tions, and it is characteristic of her most 
 usual tone and manner. There is no collec 
 tion of her writings. 
 
 THE CHANGELESS WORLD. 
 
 of old ti 
 
 " Solomo 
 
 It hath been already 
 
 that this world changes not; that still 
 
 Its beauty and its sorrows are the same ; 
 Ever the torrent seems to wear the hill, 
 
 And the sun dries the torrent But I came 
 The hill was there, nor was the torrent tame, 
 But, sparkling cooler down the mountain-side, 
 
 For that it scorned the great sun s thirsty flame, 
 Its eager tusk continually it plied, 
 While swelled the lofty hill in unabated pride. 
 The forest-trees are transient things and frail ; 
 
 (So the book to .d me, ere I closed the page ;) 
 Last year the willow-leaves were wan and pale : 
 
 I 11 make to their last place a pilgrimage, 
 
 And changed, dead trees shall read a lesson sage 
 Of change and death. No paler than before 
 
 I found the willow-leaves, nor sign of age 
 Within t .ie woods ; immortal green they wore, 
 And the strong, mighty roots the giant trunks up 
 
 bore. 
 The rock endureth with its mantle mossy, 
 
 Nature s soft velvet for the poor man s tread ; 
 The grass abideth tapering and g ossy. 
 
 And from the butterfly you thought was dead, 
 
 Lo ! not a grain of shining dust is fled. 
 But clouds, and snows, and subtle harmonies, 
 
 And western winds with dewy perfumes fed, 
 And shadows and their twins, realities, 
 And fickle human hearts sure there is change in 
 
 these. 
 The gentle air fanned Sappho s fevered cheek, 
 
 That seems its virgin kiss to breathe on mine ; 
 That cloud is not new-born : its roseate streak 
 
 Decked a sweet sunset in fair Palestine, 
 
 When Abram s Sarah neath the shadowing pine, 
 Watching its glories, showed them to her lord, 
 
 That night the beaming messengers divine 
 Came dawn, and Heaven sat at earthly board, 
 Gladdening the patriarch s heart with high prophetic 
 
 word. 
 Wears not the sky the vaulted majesty 
 
 That greatly circled greater Homer s brow] 
 And the soft murmurs of the sleepy sea 
 
 Soothed Dante s soul of storms. The heavens 
 allow 
 
 No novel splendors. Every star that now 
 Looks miracles of beauty, in intense 
 
 And steely radiance, saw the Chaldee bow; 
 The princely, poet heart, whose finer sense 
 Thrilled nightly the Pleiades sweet influence. 
 
 But sun, and cloud, river, and tree, and stream, 
 
 Rock, wind, and mountain earth, and sea, and 
 Ephemeral things, and perishable seem [heaven, 
 
 To the strong human nature God has given. 
 
 The breast that fired man first the wondrous 
 
 leaven 
 That makes " red clay" lord of its kindred earth, 
 
 Immortal in its essence, lasteth even 
 As He lasts whose great impulse sent it forth : 
 There is no change in man since the first man had 
 birth. 
 
 For youthful lovers still in paradise 
 
 Walk hand in hand, like those of early day; 
 Till the stern-missioned angel shall arise, 
 
 The vision and the music pass away. 
 
 The heart s short summer gone, no effort may 
 In festive pomp of dewy fruit and flowers 
 
 The frost-struck and the faded world array. 
 Self-exiled are we, too, from Eden s bowers, 
 And Adam s wanderings and Eve s woes are 
 ours. 
 
 Still for her infant children Rachel weeps ; 
 
 Still sighs sad Ruth " amid the alien corn ;" 
 Still Aiah s daughter generous vigils keeps; 
 
 The sire still hails his prodigal s return ; 
 
 Still Peter s soul with penitence is torn. 
 Humanity has lost no grief nor joy : 
 
 Partings are painful now as on the morn. 
 When Hector bade, upon the walls of Troy, 
 Andromache farewell, and kissed his blooming 
 boy. 
 
 To meet is bliss, as when, beside old Nile, 
 
 Joseph his soul of tenderness outpoured ; 
 Still Stephen dies with calm, forgiving smile, 
 
 Still radiant Esther braves her tvrant lord. 
 
 No change, no change ! Upon the self-same cnoul 
 Life s overture is played ; life s pattern wrought 
 
 In the same figures wearisome, abhorred. 
 "Butwe shall allbechang d." Such sounds Icaught. 
 And blessed both Tarsus and Damascus in my 
 thought 
 
 30.T 
 
304 
 
 SARAH S. JACOBS. 
 
 BENEDETTA. 
 
 Br an old fountain once at day s decline 
 We stood. The winged breezes made 
 
 Short flights melodious through the lowering vine, 
 The lindens flung a golden, glimmering shade, 
 
 And the old fountain played. 
 
 I a stern stranger a sweet maiden she, 
 
 And beautiful as her own Italy. 
 
 At length she smiled ; her smile the silence broke, 
 
 And my heart finding language, thus it spoke ; 
 
 " Whenever Benedetta moves, 
 
 Motion then all Nature loves 
 W T hen Benedetta is at rest, 
 
 Quietness appeareth best. 
 She makes me dream of pleasant things, 
 
 Of the young corn growing; 
 Of butterflies transparent wings 
 
 In the sunbeams rowing ; 
 Of the summer dawn 
 
 Into daylight sliding; 
 Of Dian s favorite fawn 
 
 Among laurels hiding; 
 Of a movement in the tops 
 
 Of the most impulsive trees; 
 Of cool, glittering drops 
 
 God s gracious rainbow sees ; 
 Of pale moons ; of saints 
 
 Chanting anthems holy ; 
 Of a cloud that faints 
 
 In evening slowly ; 
 Of a bird s song in a grove , 
 
 Of a rosebud s love ; 
 Of a lily s stem and leaf; 
 
 Of dew-silvered meadows; 
 Of a child s first grief; 
 
 Of soft-floating shadows ; 
 Of the violet s breath 
 
 To the moist wind given ; 
 Of early death 
 
 And heaven." 
 
 I ceased : the maiden did not stir, 
 
 Nor speak, nor raise her bended head ; 
 And the green vines enfoliaged her, 
 
 And the old fountain played. 
 Then from the church beyond the trees 
 
 Chimed the bells to evening prayer : 
 
 Fervent the devotions were 
 Of Benedetta on her knees ; 
 And when her prayer was over, 
 
 A most spiritual air 
 
 Her whole form invested, 
 
 As if God did love her, 
 And his smile still rested 
 
 On her white robe and flesh, 
 
 So innocent and fresh 
 
 Touching where er it fell 
 
 With a glory visible. 
 
 She smiled, and crossed horself, and smiled again 
 Upor< the heretic s sincere " Amen !" 
 
 " Buona notte," soft she said or sung 
 
 ft was the same on that sweet southern tongue 
 And passed. I blessed the faultless face, 
 All m composed gentleness arrayed; 
 
 Then took farewell of the secluded place : 
 
 And the tall lindens flung a glimmering shade, 
 And the old fountain played. 
 
 And this was spring. In the autumnal weather, 
 One golden afternoon I wandered thither; 
 And to the vineyards, as I passed along, 
 Murmured this fragment of a broken song: 
 " I know a peasant girl serene 
 
 What though her home doth lowly lie ! 
 The woods do homage to their queen, 
 The streams flow reverently nigh 
 Benedetta, Benedetta ! 
 
 " Her eyes the deep, delicious blue 
 The stars and I love to look through ; 
 Her voice the low, bewildering tone, 
 Soft winds and she have made their own 
 Benedetta, Benedetta !" 
 
 She was not by the fountain but a band 
 Of the fair daughters of that sunny land. 
 Weeping they were, and as they wept they threw 
 Flowers on a grave. Then suddenly I knew 
 Of Benedetta dead : 
 
 And, weeping too 
 
 O er beauty perished, 
 
 Awhile with her companions there I stood, 
 Then turned and went back to my solitude ; 
 And the tall lindens flung a glimmering shade. 
 
 And the old fountain played. 
 
 A VESPER. 
 
 SEREXEST Evening ! whether fall 
 
 In arrowy gold thy sunset beams, 
 Or dimmer radiance maketh all 
 
 Like landscapes seen in dreams. 
 I joy apart with thee to walk, 
 I joy alone with thee to talk. 
 W r ith speech is thy clear blue endowed, 
 Thine archipelagoes of cloud ; 
 Of sweetest music and most rare 
 I hear the utterances there, 
 And nightly does my" being rise 
 To fonder converse with thy skies. 
 Then from thy mists my home I date, 
 Or, with thy tires incorporate, 
 Am lightly to the zenith swinging, 
 
 Or pouring glory on the woods, 
 Or through some cottage window flinging 
 
 The sunset s blessed floods. 
 Mine is the beauty of the hour 
 All mine if I confess its power. 
 
 Behold the vast an iy of tents 
 
 For me to sentinel to-night ! 
 An instant this magnificence 
 
 Has faded out of sight. 
 The tents are struck, the warriors march 
 Subsides along the stately arch. 
 I saw the sword their leader drew 
 
 Beneath the banner s crimson edge : 
 T was lightning to the common view, 
 
 To me a solemn pledge 
 Unbroken as the smile of Him 
 Who rules those cloudy cherubim. 
 
SARAH S. JACOBS. 
 
 The sun, his mirrored smile, not yet 
 
 Upon the loving earth has set. 
 
 Happy in his caressing fb d, 
 
 The cottage roofs are domes of gold. 
 
 To sip the misty surf he stoops ; 
 
 OnUirios of light he scoops 
 
 In sombrest turf, and still for me 
 
 .Alone his shining seems to be : 
 
 Aline are his thousand rays that hum, 
 
 I love and I appropriate ; 
 Who loves enough creates reiurn, 
 
 Nor can be isolate. 
 
 UBI AMOR, 1BI FIDES. 
 
 " ALL faith from human hearts is fled," 
 
 I to that gentle lady said ; 
 
 " Faith is an idle dream, I see, 
 
 I ll trust in none, none trusteth me!" 
 
 And I was moody, she was still ; 
 
 Our souls were out of tune, 
 Because I spoke such words of ill 
 
 That summer afternoon. 
 My lonely heart felt sick and weak 
 The gentle lady did not speak. 
 
 So silently the path we took 
 Along the common, by the brook, 
 And walked together on the shore, 
 As we had often walked before ; 
 The sky was fair, the sands were white- 
 Smooth flowed the silvery sea : 
 I watched the snowy sea-gulls flight, 
 
 And so perhaps did she, 
 As in the sunshine s parting glow 
 The fair things sparkled to and fro. 
 
 Methought I heard the ocean moan, 
 In sorrow to be left alone ; 
 And I rejoiced that sea and sky 
 Should be bereaved as well as I. 
 Our homeward path we could not miss, 
 
 Along a narrow ledge. 
 And by a beetling precipice 
 
 Close to the water s edge 
 A hoary eminence and gray, 
 Familiar with the ocean s spray. 
 The ocean s spray that o er it dashed, 
 By strong east winds to madness lashed, 
 Striving to reach the wintry stars. 
 Kind Summer sought to hide the scars 
 Of the huge rock s misshapen side 
 
 With light fern s feathery nod, 
 With yellow co .t s-foot simple pride, 
 
 And wealth of golden-rod. 
 I liked in that stern cliff to see 
 A brother-scorn and savagery ! 
 Thus went we in the evening holy, 
 Atang the sea-line pacing slowly," 
 When sudden, as from heaven sent, 
 And free from earthly element, 
 Stood on the crag a creature fair, 
 
 Of bearing free and bold, 
 Like wings o f angels on the air 
 
 His curls of shining gold, 
 20 
 
 And God had given to the face 
 A beautiful and perfect grace. 
 
 Nothing so beautiful before 
 
 I saw, and shall see nevermore ; 
 
 And I were loath to hear again. 
 
 A to ie -o full of stifled pain 
 
 As when her eyes the lady raised, 
 
 Her hand her forehead shading, 
 And under that fair screening gazed 
 
 Upon the sunset s fading, 
 And knew between us and the sun 
 That glorious child, her own her one. 
 
 His gaze was on the distance fixed, 
 Where skies and seas their azure mixed , 
 Perchance his stainless childhood s thought 
 The meaning of the ocean caught, 
 Arid revelations never given 
 
 When the world s vapors dim 
 Have floated between us and heaven, 
 
 Were present then with him. 
 Plain spoke the sea s majestic roll 
 In the white chambers of his soul. 
 
 Safe stood he, while no downward glance 
 Broke the glad tenor of his trance ; 
 For lofty thoughts are angel-bands 
 With charge to bear us in their hands. 
 T is sense of self that peril flings 
 
 Around life s lonely peak, 
 And causes mortal shudderings 
 
 As in that infant weak. 
 No more the seer the angel bright 
 A child is on that dizzy height. 
 
 Then rang the lady s silvery tone: 
 " Mamma will come, my love, my own ! 
 Look up and see the sky s bright hue, 
 Until mamma can see it too." 
 Alas ! ere we the summit gain, 
 
 The boy will lose his hold ; 
 The chilling fingers of the Main 
 
 Uncurl those locks of gold ; 
 And Death will kiss the eyelids fair 
 Where late a mother s kisses were ! 
 
 She saw that I could climb no more, 
 So far the hoar crag jutted o er; 
 Her look grew strange with agony, 
 And hope died in her fading eye. 
 Still the white lips spoke mild and clear 
 
 " Stand now upright, and spring !" 
 The boy, without one pause of fear, 
 
 Or single questioning, 
 Leaped downward to her glad embrace, 
 And in her bosom hid his face ! 
 
 Wounded against the rocks I found her, 
 A happy paleness breathing round her, 
 Half like a woman dear and faint, 
 Half with the look of some sweet saint 
 Fondly she clasped her boy the while. 
 
 Glad tears were in her eyes ; 
 Then unto me with gentle smile 
 
 She said, reproachful-wise, 
 And closer clasped that cooing dove 
 " They dwell together, Faith oml Lov * 
 
LUELLA J. B. CASE. 
 
 Miss BARTLETT, a daughter of the late 
 Hon. Lev; Bartlett, and a grand-daughter of 
 the revolutionary patriot, Josiah Bartlett, 
 was born in Kingston, New Hampshire, and 
 in 1333 was married to Mr. E. Case, then 
 
 of Lowell, and more recently of Portland, 
 Maine, and Cincinnati, Ohio. Her poems 
 and prose writings have nearly all been pub 
 lished in miscellanies edited by her friend, 
 the late Mrs. Edgerton Mayo. 
 
 THE INDIAN RELIC. 
 
 YEARS ago was made thy grave 
 By the Ohio s languid wave, 
 When primeval forests dim 
 Echoed to the wild bird s hymn ; 
 From that lone and quiet bed, 
 Rel c of the unknown dead, 
 Why art thou, a mouldering thing, 
 Here amongst the bloom of spring 1 
 
 Violets gem the fresh, young grass, 
 Softest breezes o er thee pass ; 
 Nature s voice, in tree and flower, 
 Whispers of a waking hour ; 
 Village sounds below are ringing, 
 Birds around thee joyous singing 
 Thou, upon this height alone, 
 No reviving power hast known. 
 
 Yet wert thou of human form, 
 Once with all life s instincts warm 
 Quailing at, the storm of grief 
 Like the frailest forest leaf: 
 With a bounding pulse an eye 
 Brightening o er its loved ones nigh, 
 Till beneath this cairn of trust, 
 Dust was laid to blend with dust. 
 
 When the red man ruled the wood, 
 And his frail canoe yon flood, 
 Hast thou held the unerring bow 
 That the antlered head laid low 1 
 Avid in battle s fearful strife, 
 Swung the keen, remorseless knife 1 
 Or. with woman s loving arm, 
 Shielded helplessness from harm 1 
 Silent sik-nt ! Naught below 
 O er thy past a gleam can throw : 
 Or, in frame of sinewy chief, 
 Woman, born for love and grief- 
 Thankless toil, or haughty sway 
 Sped life s brief and fitful day. 
 Like the autumn s sapless bough 
 Crumbling o er thee, thou art now. 
 Rest ! A yoi)U<T. organic world, 
 Into sudden ruin hurled, 
 Casts its fragments o er thy tomb, 
 Midst the woodland s softened gloom 
 Diod those frail things long ago, 
 But the soul no death can know: 
 
 Rest ! thy grave, with silent preaching, 
 Humble Hope and Faith is teaching. 
 
 Rest ! Thy warrior tribes so bold 
 Roam no more their forests old, 
 And the thundering fire-canoe 
 Sweeps their placid waters through : 
 Science rules where Nature smiled, 
 Art is toiling in the wild ; 
 And their mouldering cairns alone 
 Tell the tale of races gone. 
 
 Thus, o er Time s mysterious sea, 
 Being moves perpetually : 
 Crowds of swift, advancing waves 
 Roll o er vanished nation s graves ; 
 But immor al treasures sweep 
 Still unharmed that solemn deep : 
 Progress holds a tireless way 
 Mind asserts her deathless swav. 
 
 ENERGY IN ADVERSITY. 
 
 Hath earth s ceaseless change 
 
 Trampled on thy heart 1 
 Faint not, for that restless range 
 
 Soon will heal the smart. 
 Trust the future: time will prove 
 Earth hath stronger, truer love. 
 
 Bless thy God the heart is not 
 
 An abandoned urn, 
 Where, all lonely and forgot, 
 
 Dust and ashes mourn : 
 Bless him, that his mercy brings 
 Joy from out its withered things. 
 
 Onward, for the truths of God 
 
 Onward, for the right ! 
 Firmly let the field be trod, 
 
 In life s coming fight: 
 Heaven s own hand, will lead thee on, 
 Guard thee till thy task is done ! 
 
 Then will brighter, sweeter flowers 
 
 Blossom round thy way, 
 Than ere sprung in Hope s glad boweib, 
 
 In thine early day : 
 And the rolling years shall briniz 
 Strength and h-a ing on their wing. 
 306 
 
LUELLA J. B. CASE. 
 
 307 
 
 LA REVENANTE. 
 
 OH, look on me, dear one, with love and not fear : 
 It is quenchless affection alone brings me here. 
 Look on me ! I come not in mystery and gloom, 
 "With the pale winding-sheet and the hue of the tomb. 
 The mould of the grave casts no stain on my brow, 
 With the poor, sleeping ashes, my home is not now. 
 Look on me, thou dear one ! the light of my eye 
 Is loving and kind as in days long gone by, 
 When, weeping and weary, thy head on my breast 
 Was trustingly laid with its sorrows to rest. 
 Then turn not away, for my face is the same 
 That oft to thy bedside in infancy came, 
 And a kiss was its welcome : now what can there be 
 To make it so fearful and dreadful to thee ] 
 Doth the life of the spirit, so pure and so high, [eye, 
 Steal the smile from the cheek, or the love from the 
 That the mortal must shrink with such pa sying fear, 
 To know that the holy and death ess are near ! 
 Oh, a far keener pang than what doomed us to part, 
 Is to feel that my presence sends chill to thy heart ! 
 Though blissful my life as a spirit s can be, [thee; 
 Its bright hours are swept by fond yearnings for 
 Soft, musical waves from the Past o er my soul, 
 Where never again may the vexed billows roll, 
 Are wafting emotions so hallowed, yet wild, 
 That I leave the blesl land to beho d thee, my child ! 
 Thou hast called me with tears in the still, lonely 
 And I spoke to thy spirit, but not to thy sight : [night, 
 Thou hast dreamed of me oft by our own linden tree, 
 When my kiss on thy cheek was the zephyr to thee ! 
 Thy life since we parted has laid down its glow, 
 And year after year has but shed deeper snow; 
 Whilst thou, from the stern, worldly lore of thy head, 
 Hast turned with a heart-broken love to the dead : 
 I knew it, far off in my shadowless sphere, [near ; 
 And I thought it nn. ht soothe thee to know I was 
 But I would not onp fear o er thy tried spirit cast 
 For all the deep, measureless love of the past: 
 Farewell ! Thou wi.t see me no more, but the spell 
 Of affection shall guard thee, poor trembler, farewell ! 
 
 A DE.A.TH SCENE. 
 
 Tis evening s hush: the first faint shades are creep- 
 Thro the still room, and o er the curtained bed, [ing 
 
 Where lies a weary one, all calmly sleeping, 
 Touched with the twilight of the land of dread. 
 
 Death s cold gray shadow o er her features falling, 
 Marks her upon the threshold of the tomb; 
 
 Yot from within no siy;ht nor sound appalling, 
 Comes o er her spirit with a thought of gloom. 
 
 See on her pa lid lip bright smiles are wreathing, 
 While, from the tranquil gladness of her breast, 
 
 Sweet, holy words in gentlest tones are breathing: 
 " Come unto me, and I will give you rest." 
 
 Nicrht gathers round chill, moon ess, yet with ten- 
 Mild, radiant stars, like countless angel-eyes, [der, 
 
 Bending serenely, from tlieir homes of splendor, 
 Above the couch where that meek dreamer lies. 
 
 The hours wear on: the shaded lamp burns dimmer, 
 
 A.nd ebbs that sleeper s breath as wanes the night, 
 
 And still with looks of love those soft stars glimmer 
 Along their pathways of unchanging light. 
 
 She slumbers still and the pale, wasted fingers 
 Are gently raised, as if she dreamed of prayer; 
 
 And on that lip so wan the same smile lingers, 
 And still those trustful words are trembling there. 
 
 The night is done : the cold arid solemn dawning 
 With stately tread goes up the eastern sky ; 
 
 But vain its power, and vain the pomp of morning, 
 To lift the darkness from that dying eye. 
 
 Yet Heaven s full joy is on that spirit beaming- 
 The saul has found its higher, happier birth, 
 
 And brighter shapes flit thro its blessed dreaming 
 Than ever gather round the sleep of earth. 
 
 The sun is high, but from those pale lips parted, 
 No more those words float on the languid breath, 
 
 Yet still the expression of the happy-hearted 
 Has triumphed o er the mournful shades of death. 
 
 Thro the hushed room the midday ray has wended 
 Its glowing pinion to a pulseless breast : 
 
 The gentle sleeper s mortal dreams are ended 
 The soul has gone to Him who gives it rest. 
 
 DEATH LEADING AGE TO REPOSE. 
 
 LEAD him gently he is weary, 
 
 Spirit of the placid brow ! 
 Life is long and age is dreary, 
 
 And he seeks to slumber now. 
 Lead him gently he is weeping 
 
 For the friends he can not see ; 
 Gently for he shrinks from sleeping 
 
 On the couch he asks of thee ! 
 Thou, with mien of solemn gladness, 
 
 With the thought-illumined eye, 
 Pity thou the mortal s sadness 
 
 Teach him it is well to die. 
 Time has veiled his eye with blindness, 
 
 On thy face it may not dwell, 
 Or its sweet, majestic kindness 
 
 Would each mournful doubt dispel. 
 Passionless thine every feature, 
 
 Moveless is thy Being s calm, 
 While poor suffering human nature 
 
 Knows but few brief hours of balm : 
 Yet, when life s long strife is closing, 
 
 And the grave is drawing near, 
 How it shrinks from that reposing 
 
 Where there comes nor hope nor fear \ 
 Open thou the visioned portal, 
 
 That reveals the life sublime, 
 That within the land immortal 
 
 Waits the weary child of Time. 
 Open thou the land of beauty, 
 
 Where the Ideal is no dream, 
 And the child of patient Duty 
 
 Walks in joy s unclouded beam. 
 Thou, with brow that owns no sorrow, 
 
 With the eye that may not weep, 
 Point him to Heaven s coming morrow- 
 Show him it is well to sleep ! 
 
SARAH T. BO L TON. 
 
 (Born 1820). 
 
 MRS. BOLTON resides in Ohio, and has been 
 :i contributor to the Herald of Truth in Cin 
 cinnati, to the Home Journal in New York, 
 
 and to several other periodicals whose ftW< 
 thors are accustomed to have meaning in 
 their verses. 
 
 LINES, * 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A\ ANECDOTE OF PROFESSOR MORSE.* 
 
 DIDST thou desire to die and be at rest, 
 Thou of the noble soul and giant mind ? 
 
 Hadst thou grown weary in the hopeless quest 
 Of blessedness that mortals seldom find 1 
 Had care and toil and sorrow all combined 
 
 To bring that sickness of the soul that mars 
 The happiness that God for men designed, 
 
 Till thy sad spirit spurned its prison-bars, 
 
 And pined to soar away amidst the burning stars 1 
 
 Perchance an angel sought thee in that hour 
 A blessed angel from the world of light, 
 
 Teaching submission to Almighty power, 
 Whose dealings all are equal, just, and right : 
 Perchance Hope whispered of a future, bright 
 
 And glorious in its triumph. Soon it came : 
 A world, admiring, hailed thee with delight, 
 
 And learning joyed to trace thy deathless name 
 
 Upon her ponderous tomes in characters of flame. 
 
 Thou brightest meteor of a starry age, [wrought 
 What does the world not owe thee 1 thou hast 
 
 For scientific lore a glowing page: 
 Thy mighty energy of mind has brought 
 To man a wondrous agent : it has taught 
 
 The viewless lightning in its fight sublime, 
 To bear upon its wing embodied thought, 
 
 Warm from its birthplace to the farthest clime, 
 
 Annihilating space and vanquishing e en time. 
 
 Didst thou look down into the shadowy tomb, 
 And crave the privilege to slumber there, 
 
 * In a letter to General Morris, dated Trenton Falls, Au 
 gust 1 1, Mr. N. P. Willis relates the following curious an 
 ecdote : u Among our feUow-jMMengen up the Mohawk, 
 we had, i" two adjoining seats, a very impressive con 
 trast an insane youth, on his way to an asylum, and the 
 mind that has achieved the greatest triumph of intellect 
 in our time. Morse, 01 the electric telegraph, on an errand 
 connected with the conveyance of thought by lightning. 
 .....In the course of a brief argument on the expediency 
 of some provision for putting an end to a defeated anil 
 hopeless existence, Mr. Morse; said that, ten years ago, 
 under ill health and discouragement, he would gladly 
 have availed himself of any divine authorization for ter 
 minating a life of which the possessor was weary. The 
 sermon that lay in this chance remark the loss of price 
 less discovery to the worl I md the loss of fame and for- 
 tune to himself, which v\ u,d have followed a death thus 
 prematurely self-chosen is valuable enough, I think, to 
 Justify the invasion of the sacvedness of private conversa 
 tion which I commit by thus giving it to print. May some 
 one, a weary of the world, read it to his profit." 
 
 j Unhonored and forgotten ? thou, on whom 
 Kind Heaven bestowed endowments rich and rare ? 
 Was life a burden that thou couldst not bear] 
 A lewon this, to those whose souls have striven 
 
 With disappointment, sorrow, and despair, 
 Until they feed on poison, and are driven 
 To quench the vital spark that Deity hath given. 
 
 And it should teach our restless hearts how dim 
 And erring is our finite vision here 
 
 Should make us trust, through humble faith, in Him 
 Who sees alike the distant and the near. 
 The cloud that seems so sombre, cold, and drear, 
 May hide a prospect lovely, bright, and clear : 
 
 When lightning s flash and winds are wild and high, 
 No radiant beam of sunlight comes to cheer ; 
 
 But when the wrecking tempest has gone by, 
 
 God sets the blessed bow of promise in the sky 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF TRUTH. 
 
 I DREAMED that I saw, on the fair brow of heaven 
 The star-jewelled veil of a midsummer even ; 
 I looked, and, as quick as a meteor s birth, 
 A beautiful Spirit descended to earth. 
 
 Her brow wore a halo of light, and her eye 
 Was bright as the stars and as blue as the sky ; 
 Her low, silvery voice trembled soft as a spell, 
 To the innermost chords of the heart, as it fell. 
 
 One hand held a banner inscribed with "ACCORD," 
 The other, the glorious Word of the Lord : 
 Then, softly, the beautiful vision did glide 
 To the palace a rich man had reared in his pride. 
 
 Through curtains of crimson the sun s mellow beam 
 Fell, soft as the tremulous light of a dream, 
 On all that was gorgeous in nature and art 
 On all that could gladden the eye or the heart. 
 
 The rich man was clad in fine purple and gold, 
 The wealth in his coffers might never be told ; 
 The brows of the servants that waited around 
 Grew bright when he smiled, and grew pale when 
 he frowned. 
 
 Then did that proud nobleman tremble and start, 
 As the bright Spirit whispered these words to his 
 
 heart : 
 " If thou wouldst have wealth when life s journey 
 
 is o er, 
 
 Sell all that tho hast, and divide with the poor," 
 308 
 
SARAH T. BOLTON. 
 
 309 
 
 She stood in the cell, where the death-breathing air 
 Was rife with the groans of the prisoner s despair, 
 As sadly he looked, through the long lapse of time, 
 To days when his soul was unstained hy a crime. 
 
 She pointed away to his Father above - 
 She siothed him in accents of pity and love, 
 And said, as she severed the links of his chain, 
 " Thy sins are forgiven, transgress not again." 
 
 She came in her strength, and the gallows that stood 
 For ages, all reeking and blackened with blood, 
 Like a lightning-scared fiend, pointing up to the sky, 
 Feii prostrate to earth, at the glance of her eye. 
 
 She spoke ! old earth heard, and her pulses were still : 
 "God s holy commandment forbiddeth to kill." 
 That spirit of beauty, that spirit of might, [light. 
 Went forth, till the earth was illumined with her 
 
 The strong one relenting, was fain to restore [poor: 
 The spoil he had wrenched from the hand of the 
 Injustice, oppression, and wrong, fled away, 
 Before the pure light of millennial day. 
 
 The turbulent billows of faction grew calm ; 
 The lion laid down in the fold with the lamb ; 
 The ploughshare was forged from the sabre and 
 
 sword, 
 And the mighty bowed down to the sway of the Lord. 
 
 The heathen with joy cast his idols away, 
 And knelt neath his own vine and fig tree to pray. 
 By every kindred, and nation, and tongue, 
 Glad anthems of praise to Jehovah were sung. 
 
 KENTUCKY S DEAD.* 
 
 KENTUCKY, mother of the brave ! 
 
 Let solemn prayers be said, 
 And welcome to an honored grave 
 
 Thy loved and gallant dead. 
 Thy gallant dead they come, they come ! 
 
 What will thy greeting be 1 
 The bugle note, the martial drum. 
 
 And banners waving free 1 
 No : toll for them the solemn knell, 
 
 Let dirges sad be sung, 
 And be the flag they loved so well 
 
 A pall around them flung. 
 In other days, when freemen bled 
 
 In fearful border strife, 
 
 * The hones of the Kentnckians who diod under the 
 tomahawk ;it the river Raisin, in 1812. were conveyed to 
 the river shore, at Cincinnati, on the 29ih of September, 
 1848, hy an escort of Cincinnati firemen, and placed in 
 charge of the Kentucky committee, to whom their recep 
 tion WHS assigned. They were contained in a wooden 
 box, painted black, bearing the inscription : 
 "KKNTUCKY S GALLANT DKAD. 
 
 January 18, 181-2. River Raisin, Michigan." 
 The bones of these brave men were found in a com 
 mon grave, which was accidentally upturned while a 
 street in Monroe, Michigan, was being graded. The fact 
 of the skulls being all cloven with the tomahawk, induced 
 the workmen to make inquiry, and an aged Frenchman, 
 a survivor of the massacre, knew them as the bones of 
 the unfortunate Kentuckians remembering the spot 
 where they were buried. Information was sent to Ken 
 tucky, and that state promptly took means for their re- 
 noval. The charge was devolved upon Colonel Brooke, 
 participant in. and survivor of, that unfortunate battle. 
 
 When savage tomahawks were red 
 With unoffending life 
 
 With all the ardor youth imparts, 
 
 They sought the battle plain : 
 Those stalwart forms and noble hearts, 
 
 Came never back again. 
 
 Oh, they were missed where kindred met 
 
 In cottage homes of yore 
 Flowers bloomed and died, suns rose and set, 
 
 But they returned no more. 
 
 Young hopeful hearts in sorrow pined, 
 
 Young eyes were wet with tears, 
 And, fondly mourning, Memory shrined 
 
 Their names for weary years. 
 Theirs was no common battle field, 
 
 For savage hearts decreed ; 
 And savage vengeance there revealed 
 
 A most inhuman deed. 
 A grave to rest in was denied 
 
 The brave and gallant slain ; 
 And foemen left them where they died, 
 
 Upon the battle plain. 
 No voice to soothe, no hand to bless, 
 
 The suffering wounded came ; 
 But they, in all their helplessness, 
 
 Were given to the flame. 
 Where Raisin s sparkling waters glide 
 
 Through forest, grove, and glade, 
 Defending Freedom s soil, they died, 
 
 And there their graves were made 
 Yes, made beneath the ancient trees, 
 
 Deep in the tangled wilds : 
 Their only requiem was the breeze 
 
 Amidst the forest aisles. 
 The moonbeams came at midnight s hour 
 
 And softly trembled there, 
 And angels made that lonely bower 
 
 Their never sleeping care. 
 And fragrant flowers, of brilliant dyes, 
 
 Bloomed o er the silent sod, 
 And lifted up their tearful eyes 
 
 Like mourners to their God. 
 The world has changed ; for many years 
 
 Have come since then and gone, 
 With joys and woes, and hopes and fear, 
 
 And still they slumber on. 
 The pleasant homes in which they grew 
 
 Are now the stranger s care : 
 The gay, and beautiful, and true, 
 
 And loved they are not there. 
 The friends who knew their manly worth 
 
 Have passed from time away ; 
 The children left beside their hearth 
 
 Are growing old and gray. 
 Another generation bears 
 
 Their ashes, sad and slow 
 Another generation wears 
 
 For them the weeds of wo 
 Thy gallant dead ! oh, hoard thei- dust 
 
 Within thy holiest shrine 
 It is a proud, a sacred trust 
 
 Their deathless fame is thine ! 
 
HANNAH J. WOODMAN. 
 
 Miss WOODMAN is the authoress of The 
 Casket of Gems, and two or three other small 
 volumes, and she has been for several years 
 a eacher in the public schools of Boston, of 
 
 which city she is a native. Many of her pu 
 ems appeared in the miscellanies edited by 
 her friend Mrs. Edgarton Mayo. There is 
 no published collection of them. 
 
 THE ANNUNCIATION. 
 
 Luke i. -36-38. 
 
 SILENCE o er ancient Judah! Twas the hush 
 Of holy eve, and through the balmy air 
 
 There came a trembling and melodious gush 
 Of softest melody, as if the prayer 
 
 Of kneeling thousands had prevailed on high, 
 
 And angel choirs were bending to reply. 
 
 Man heard the sound of music, and arose, 
 And cast the mantle of despair away, 
 
 And said. " Deliverance comes, forget your woes, 
 There dawns on Judah her triumphant day." 
 
 But, with the so ernri strain of music, passed 
 
 The hopes too flattering and too fair to last. 
 
 Not so to one, the humblest of her race 
 For to her startled and astonished eye 
 
 There came a visitant of matchless grace, 
 Robed in a garment of celestial dye : 
 
 "Fear not, thou highly favored" thus he sang, 
 
 While Heaven s high arches with the echoes rang. 
 
 " Fear not, thy God is with thee, and hast poured 
 The richest of his blessings on thy bead ; 
 
 And thou wilt bear a son, on whom the Lord 
 The fulness of his grace and power will shed : 
 
 His name shall be Emmanuel, Mighty One, 
 
 Savior of men, and God s anointed Son." 
 
 Oh. who can paint the rushing tides of thought 
 Which swept like lightning through the startled 
 mind 
 
 Of that lone worshipper, whose faith was brought 
 I ll us suddenly its utmost verge to find : 
 
 It failed not. and the curtain was withdrawn 
 
 Which veiled futurity s effulgent dawn. 
 
 She rose with brow serene : her eyes fonrot 
 Their dreamy softness, and were upward cast, 
 
 Filled with celestial radiance. Earth had not 
 The power that glorious prophecy to blast : 
 
 "Behold the handmaid of the Lord, and teach 
 
 The trembling lip to frame submissive speech !" 
 
 Again there floated on the ambient air 
 That thrilling melody, while countless throngs, 
 
 Waving their jjolden censers, heard the prayer, 
 Which mingled with their own triumphant songs 
 
 The vision faded in a sea of light, 
 
 And left to earth the still and holy night. 
 
 WHEN WILT THOU LOVE ME? 
 
 LOVE me when the spring is here, 
 
 With its busy bird and bee ; 
 When the air is soft and clear, 
 
 And the heart is full of glee ; 
 When the leaves and buds are seen 
 
 Bursting frsm the naked bough, 
 Dearest, with a faint serene, 
 
 Wilt thou love me then as now 1 
 
 When the queenly June is dressed 
 
 In her robes so fair and bright ; 
 When the earth, most richly blessed, 
 
 Sleeps in soft and golden light ; 
 When the sweetest songs are heard 
 
 In the forest, on the hill 
 When thy soul by these is stirred, 
 
 Dearest, wilt thou love me still 1 
 
 When the harvest-moon looks out 
 
 On the fields of ripened grain ; 
 When the merry reapers shout 
 
 While they glean the burdened plain 
 When, their labors o er, they sit 
 
 Listening to the night-bird s lay, 
 May there o er thy memory flit 
 
 Thoughts of one far, far away ! 
 
 When the winter hunts the bird 
 
 From his leafy home and bower ; 
 When the bee, no longer heard, 
 
 Bides the cold, ungenial hour; 
 When the blossoms rise no more 
 
 From the garden, field, and glen i 
 When our forest joys are o er, 
 
 Dearest, wilt thou love me then 1 
 
 Love for ever ! tis the spring 
 
 Whence our choicest blessings flow ! 
 Angel harps its praises sing. 
 
 Angel hearts its secrets know. 
 When thy feet are turned away 
 
 From the busy haunts of men 
 When thy feet in Eden strav, 
 
 Dearest, wilt thou love me then ! 
 310 
 
SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. 
 
 SUSAN ARCHER TA*LLEY was born in Han 
 over county, Virginia, where the early years 
 of her childhood were passed. Her father 
 was descended from one of those Huguenots 
 who, escaping the massacre of St. Bartholo 
 mew, fled to America, and settled in Virginia. 
 He studied law under the late Judge Robert 
 Taylor of Norfolk, but on account of ill health 
 subsequently resigned the practice of his pro 
 fession, and retired to a place in the imme 
 diate vicinity of Richmond, where he recent 
 ly died, and where his family still resides. 
 Her mother was a daughter of Captain Ar 
 cher, of one of the oldest and most distin 
 guished families of Norfolk. 
 
 Miss Talley was remarkable for a preco 
 city of intellect and an early development of 
 character. Though of an exceedingly happy 
 temperament, she rarely mingled with other 
 children, but would spend most of her time 
 in reading, in an intense application to study, 
 or in wandering amid the beautiful woods 
 and meadows that surrounded her father s 
 residence. At nine years of age she sudden 
 ly and entirely lost her hearing, which had 
 evidently the effect of subduing the natural 
 joyousness of her disposition, and of produ 
 cing that dreamy and contemplative tone of 
 character which has since distinguished her. 
 It may be said that from this period till she 
 was sixteen her life was passed in the soli 
 tude of her chamber, where she seemed to 
 derive from books a constant and ever in 
 creasing enjoyment. In consequence of her 
 extreme diffidence it was not until she was 
 in her fifteenth year that the nature and force 
 of her talents were apprehended by her most 
 intimate associates. A manuscript volume 
 of her verses now fell under the observation 
 of her father, who saw in them illustrations 
 of unlooked-for powers, to the cultivation of 
 which he subsequently devoted himself with 
 intelligent and assiduous care while he lived. 
 When she was about seventeen years of age 
 some of her poems appeared in The South 
 ern Literary Messenger, and, yielding to the 
 wishes of her friends, she has since been a 
 
 frequent and popular contributor to that ex 
 cellent magazine. 
 
 What is most noticeable in the poems of 
 Miss Talley is their rhythmical harmony, 
 considered in connexion with her perfect in 
 sensibility to sound, for a period so long that 
 she could not have had before its commence 
 ment any ideas of musical expression or po 
 etical art. The only instance in literary his 
 tory in which so melodious a versification 
 has been attained under similar circumstan 
 ces is that of James Nack, the deaf and dumb 
 poet of New York, whose writings were sev 
 eral years ago given to the public by Mr. 
 Prosper M. Wetmore. There is not in Mr. 
 Nack s poems, however, any single compo 
 sition that can be compared with Ennerslie, 
 in grace, or variety of cadences, or in ideal 
 beauty. This poem, without being an imi 
 tation, will remind the reader of one of the 
 finest productions of Tennyson. 
 
 Miss Talley is remarkable not only for the 
 peculiar interest of her character, but fur the 
 variety of her abilities. She is a painter as 
 well as a poet, and some of the productions 
 of her pencil have been praised by the best 
 critics in the arts of design, both for striking 
 and original conception and for skilful exe 
 cution. Her friends therefore anticipate for 
 her a distinguished position among those wo 
 men who have cultivated painting, and they 
 find in her pictures the same characteristics 
 that maik her literary compositions. 
 
 Young, and gifted with such unusual pow 
 ers, she rarely mingles in society beyond the 
 select circle of friends by whom she is sur 
 rounded. She finds her happiness in the 
 quiet pleasures and affections of home. Her 
 life is essentially that of a poet. Ardent in 
 temperament, yet shrinkingly sensitive, Avith 
 a fine fancy which is often warmed into im 
 agination, and an instinctive apprehension 
 and love of the various forms of beauty, po 
 etry becomes the expression of her nature, 
 and the compensation for that infirmity by 
 which she is deprived of balf the pleasures 
 that minister to a fine intelligence. 
 
 311 
 
312 
 
 SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. 
 
 ENNKRSL1E. 
 
 A HOARY tower, grim and high, 
 All beneath a summer sky, 
 Where the river glideth by 
 
 Sullenly sullenly ; 
 Across the wave in slugglish gloom, 
 Heavy and black the shadows loom, 
 But the water-lilies brightly bloom 
 
 Round about grim Enncrslie. 
 
 All upon the bank below 
 Alders green and willows grow, 
 That ever sway them to and fro 
 
 Mournfully mournfully ; 
 Never a boat doth pass that way, 
 Never is heard a carol gay, 
 Nor doth a weary pilgrim stray 
 
 Down by haunted Enrierslie. 
 
 Yet in that tower is a room 
 From whose oaken-fretted dome 
 Weird faces peer athwart the gloom 
 
 Mockingly mockingly ; 
 And there beside the taper s gleam 
 That maketh darkness darker seem, 
 Like one that waketh in a dream, 
 
 Sits the lord of Ennerslie : 
 
 Sitteth in his carved chair 
 From his forehead pale and fair 
 Falleth down the raven hair 
 
 Heavily heavily ; 
 There is no color on his cheek, 
 His lip is pa!e he doth not speak, 
 And rarely doth his footstep break 
 
 The stillness of grim Ennerslie. 
 
 From the casement, mantled o er 
 With ivy-boughs and lichens hoar, 
 The shadows creep along the floor 
 
 Stealthily stealthily ; 
 They glide along, a spectral train, 
 And rest upon the crimson stain 
 W here of old a corpse was lain 
 
 Murdered at grim Ennerslie. 
 
 In a niche within the wall, 
 Where the shadows deepest fall, 
 Like a coffin and a pall, 
 
 Gloomily gloomily, 
 Sits an owlet, huge and gray, 
 That there hath sat for many a day, 
 And like a ghost doth gaze alway 
 
 Upon the lord fof Ennerslie ; 
 Gazeth with its mystic eyes 
 Ever in a weird surprise, 
 Like some demon in disguise, 
 
 Ceaselessly ceaselessly ; 
 And close beside that haunted nook, 
 Bendeth o er an open book, 
 With a strange and dreamy look, 
 
 The pale young lord of Ennerslie. 
 
 M r ith a measured step and slow, 
 At times he paces to and fro, 
 Muttering in whispers low, 
 Fitfully fitfully ; 
 
 Or resting in his ancient chair, 
 Gazing on the vacant air 
 Sure some phantom sees he there, 
 The haunted lord of Ennerslie ! 
 
 There is a picture on the wall, 
 A statue on a pedestal 
 Standing where the sunbeams fall 
 
 Goldenly goldenly ; 
 And in either form and face 
 The self-same beauty you may trace 
 Imaged with a wondrous grace, 
 That angel-form at Ennerslie ! 
 
 Once, t is said, upon a time, 
 Eve his manhood s golden prime, 
 Wandering in a southern clime 
 
 Restlessly restlessly, 
 There passed him by a lady fair, 
 With violet eyes and golden hair : 
 It is her form that gleameth there, 
 
 That angel-form at Ennerslie. 
 
 When the stars are in the west, 
 And the water-lilies rest, 
 Rocking on the river s breast 
 
 Sleepily sleepily 
 When the curfew, far remote, 
 Blendeth with the night-bird s note, 
 Down the river glides a boat 
 
 From the shades of Ennerslie. 
 
 Glideth on by Ellesmaire, 
 Where doth dwell a lady fair, 
 With violet eyes and golden hair, 
 
 Lonesomely lonesomelv ; 
 At the window s height alway 
 She weaves a scarf of colors gay, 
 And in the distance far away 
 
 She seeth haunted Ennerslie. 
 
 Sitting in her lonely room, 
 Ere the twilight s purple gloom, 
 Weaving at her fairy loom 
 
 Wearily wearily, 
 She heareth music sweet and low : 
 It is a song she well doth know ; 
 She used to sing it long ago 
 
 It cometh up from Ennerslie. 
 
 Back she threw the casement wide 
 She saw the river onward glide, 
 The lilies nodding on the tide 
 
 Sleepily sleepily ; 
 She saw a boat with snowy sail 
 Bearing onward with the gale ; 
 She saw the silken streamer pale 
 
 She saw the lord of Ennerslie ! 
 
 F.vmxrc are the summer leaves 
 The fields are rich with golden sheavea 
 Her silken web the lady weaves 
 
 Wearily wearily ; 
 Her cheek has lost its summer bloom, 
 Her lovely eyes are full of gloom, 
 She weaveth at her fairy loom, 
 
 And looketh down to Ennerslie. 
 
SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. 
 
 She doth not smile, she doth not sigh 
 Above her is the cold gray sky ; 
 Below, the river moaneth by 
 
 Drearily drearily ; 
 She sees the withered leaflets ride 
 Like fairy barks adown the tide : 
 She saith, " Right merrily they glide, 
 
 For they go down to Ennerslie." 
 
 Beside her on the hearth of stone, 
 There sits a bent and withered crone, 
 Who doth for ever rock and moan. 
 
 Drowsily drowsily ; 
 She crooneth songs of mystic rhyme, 
 And legends of the olden time; 
 She telleth tales of death and crime 
 
 She tells of haunted Ennerslie. 
 
 She telleth how, as she hath heard, 
 How dwelleth there a demon weird 
 In seeming of an owsel-bird, 
 
 Ceaselessly ceaselessly ; 
 And how that fiend must linger still, 
 And work the master wo and ill, 
 Till one shall dare with fearless will 
 
 Go down to haunted Ennerslie. 
 
 She telleth how that ancient crone 
 
 He loved a lady years agone, 
 
 The fairest that the earth has known, 
 
 Secretly secretly 
 But dare not woo her for his bride, 
 Because that death will sure betide 
 The first that in her beauty s pride 
 
 Shall go to haunted Ennerslie. 
 
 She listened but she nothing said; 
 
 Like a lily drooped her head, 
 
 Her white hand wound the silken thread 
 
 Carelessly carelessly ; 
 She rove the scarf from out the loom, 
 She slowly paced across the room, 
 And gleaming through the midnight gloom 
 
 She saw the light at Ennerslie. 
 
 The nurse she slumbered in her chair: 
 
 Then up arose that lady fair 
 
 And crept adown the winding stair 
 
 Silently silently ; 
 A boat was by the river-side, 
 The silken web as sail she tied, 
 And lovely in her beauty s pride, 
 
 Went sailing down to Ennerslie. 
 
 Back upon the sighing gale 
 
 Her tresses floated like a veil ; 
 
 Her brow was cold, her cheek was pale, 
 
 Fearfully fearfully ; 
 She heard strange whispers in her ear, 
 She saw a shadow hover near 
 Her very life-blood chilled with fear, 
 
 As down she went to Ennerslie. 
 
 As upward her blue eyes she cast, 
 A shadowy form there flitted past, 
 And settled on the quivering mast 
 
 Silently silently. 
 
 The lady gazed, yet spake no word : 
 She knew il was the evil bird, 
 
 The wicked demon, grim and weird, 
 That dwelt at haunted Ennerslie. 
 
 Fainter from the tower s height 
 Seems to her the beacon-light, 
 Gleaming on her darkening sight 
 
 Fitfully -fitfully ; 
 The river s voice is faint and low, 
 An icy calm is on her brow ; 
 She saith, " The curse is on me now, 
 
 But he is free at Ennerslie !" 
 
 Within that tower s solitude 
 He sitteth in a musing mood, 
 And gazeth down upon the flood 
 
 Dreamilv dreamily : 
 When lo ! he sees a fairy bark 
 Gliding amid the shadows dark, 
 And there a lady still and stark 
 
 A wondrous sight at Ennerslie. 
 
 He hurried to the bank below, 
 Upon the strand he drew the prow 
 He drew it in the moonlight s glow, 
 
 Eagerly eagerly ; 
 He parted back the golden hair 
 That veiled the cheek and forehead fair, 
 He started at her beauty rare, 
 
 The pale young lord of Ennerslie. 
 
 He called her name: she nothing said; 
 Upon his bosom drooped her head ; 
 The color from her wan cheek fled 
 
 Utterly utterly. 
 
 Slowly rolled the sluggish tide, , 
 
 The breeze amid the willows sighed ; 
 " This is too deep a curse !" he cried 
 
 The stricken lord of Ennerslie. 
 
 GENIUS. 
 
 SpiniT immortal and divine ! 
 
 Whose calm and searching eye 
 Looks forth upon the universe, 
 
 Its wonders to descry 
 Whose eagle-wing, resistless, proud, 
 Hath soared above each misty cloud 
 
 That o er us darkly spread 
 I bow before thee, as of old 
 The Grecian bowed to her who told 
 
 The oracles of dread. 
 
 For thou art Nature s prophet priest, 
 
 Anointed by her God, 
 And dwellest in her sacred courts, 
 
 By others all untrod : 
 To thee alone tis given to raise 
 The veil that shrouds from mortal gaze 
 
 Her mysteries sublime ; 
 To hear her sweet and solemn tone 
 Revealing wonders else unknown 
 
 In all the lapse of time. 
 
 And more the human heart is dee}., 
 And passionate, and strong, 
 
 But thou mayst read its sealed page. 
 And search its depths among ; 
 
 Mayst bow it with thy sptll of might 
 
J14 
 
 SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. 
 
 Or urge it to a prouder flight, 
 
 A loftier desire 
 Till, yielding to thy high control, 
 The newly-wakened, eager soul, 
 
 To purer things aspire. 
 
 Thou dwellest on this lowly earth, 
 
 Majestic and alone ; 
 Thy home is in a brighter clime, 
 
 Near the Eternal s throne ; 
 And evermore, in tameless might, 
 Still strivest thou to wing thy flight, 
 
 Its glory to attain ; 
 E en as the eagle turns his eye, 
 
 Though fettered, to his native sky, 
 And struggles with his chain. 
 
 Men gaze in strange and wondering awe 
 
 On thine inspired brow, 
 
 But reck not of the hidden things 
 
 That darkly sleep below ; 
 Nor how thou spurnest earth s control, 
 What voices haunt thy troubled soul 
 
 What shadows round thee play ; 
 Thy dreams are all of future bliss, 
 Of other worlds and e en in this 
 
 Thy name shall not decay ! 
 
 Sage ! musing in thy lonely cell 
 
 Aspiring, yet serene ; 
 Tracking afar the light of truth, 
 
 Through darkness dimly seen 
 A thousand minds thy truths have caught, 
 And pondered o er thy lofty thought, 
 
 In inspiration high : 
 
 A thousand minds have scanned the page 
 Made clearer by the lapse of age, 
 
 In which thy treasures lie. 
 
 Bard lo ! the thrilling strain that poured 
 
 Thy soul s deep melodies, 
 Have waked in many an echoing heart 
 
 A thousand sympathies ; 
 Have lived through years of dull decay 
 When princely names have passed away, 
 
 That were a glory then, 
 Till every word hath thus become 
 Like to a thrilling voice of home, 
 
 In the deep hearts of men ! 
 
 And ye o er whose inspired souls 
 
 Strange shapes of beauty gleamed, 
 Embodied to the gaze of men 
 
 in forms of heaven that seemed 
 The marble still in beauty lives, 
 The pictured canvass but receives 
 
 New value from decay ; 
 And both shall perish ere the name 
 Of him who gave them unto fame 
 
 Hath passed, like them, away. 
 
 And they, to whom were given the gift 
 
 Of Inspiration s tongue 
 Upon whose high, commanding words 
 
 Senates in rapture hung ; 
 And they, the dauntless chiefs and brave, 
 On battle-field and ocean-wave, 
 
 Who won a lofty fame 
 L<* ieathless, and defying Time, 
 
 A thousand monuments sublime 
 Commemorate each name ! 
 
 Thus Genius lives its spirit caught 
 
 From heaven s own height afar, 
 Shines tranquil mid the gloom of earth, 
 
 An ever-guiding star : 
 A shining mark that s given to show 
 To those who dark y tread below 
 
 The way our pathway tends ; 
 A beautv and a mystery, 
 A prophecy of things to be 
 
 W r hen earthly being ends ! 
 
 A prophecy of glorious things 
 Of holy things and bright, 
 
 Which we behold not through the mists 
 That dim our mortal sight ; 
 
 A voice that whispers from afar, 
 
 Telling of wondrous things that are 
 Where perfectness hath power ! 
 
 A light to guide the spirit on 
 
 Till that celestial state be won 
 Which was our primal dower. 
 
 Thou shalt go forth in prouder might 
 
 And firmer strength ere long, 
 And Truth shall guide thee on thy way 
 
 W T ith revelation strong ; 
 And thou shalt see with wondering eyes 
 The thousand mighty mysteries 
 
 That round our being cling ; 
 Unfolding truths whose shadows lie 
 Darkly before the doubting eye, 
 
 Our souls bewildering. 
 
 High souls have gazed on wondrous thing^ 
 
 And men have called them dreams 
 But they are such as shadowed stars 
 
 Upon the mirroring streams; 
 We gaze upon the phantom-glow - 
 Alas! we gaze too much below 
 
 And strive to grasp in vain ; 
 But Genius turns his gaze afar, 
 Where like a pure and shining star 
 
 The glorious truth is seen ! 
 
 Go forth, thou spirit proud and high, 
 
 Upon thy soaring flight ! 
 Thou art the messenger of God, 
 
 And he will guide thee right. 
 Go proudly forth and fearlessly, 
 For many a hidden mystery 
 
 Awaits thee to unseal : 
 And men shall gaze in rapt surprise 
 On wonders that to darkened eyes 
 
 Thy brightness shall reveal ! 
 
 MY SISTER. 
 
 I HAVE an only sister, 
 
 Fresh in her girlish glee, 
 For she is only seventeen, 
 
 And still is fancy free : 
 She has a fair and happy face, 
 
 Like cloudless skies in May 
 Or like a lake, where tranquilly 
 
 The silver moonbeams play. 
 
SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. 
 
 315 
 
 She is my only sister, 
 
 And we ve together grown, 
 Till childhood s thoughtless glee hath changed 
 
 To girlhood s gentle tone ; 
 And we have shared in varied scenes 
 
 Of sadness and of glee, 
 But never were two sisters 
 
 As different as we. 
 \Tet in our outward seeming, 
 
 In feature and in face, 
 They sav that e en a careless glance 
 
 May some resemblance trace ; 
 Save that a flood of sunny light 
 
 O er her seems softly shed, 
 While over me some darker shades 
 
 Like twilight shadows spread. 
 Her tresses, tinged with golden, 
 
 All gracefully entwine 
 Upon a calm and placid brow 
 
 Of fairer hue than mine ; 
 Her cheek is of a brighter glow, 
 
 Her eye a softer brown, 
 Where from the dark and drooping fringe 
 
 A dreamy shade is thrown. 
 My sister hath no sorrow 
 
 To check her spirit free ; 
 No mournful shadows o er her pass 
 
 As oft they pass o er me ; 
 Her smile is ever beaming forth 
 
 In one unchanging mood, 
 The gladness of a sunny heart 
 
 By sorrow unsubdued. 
 She s happy mid the revelry, 
 
 And in the mazy dance; 
 And in the drearest solitude 
 
 As brightly shines her glance ; 
 She calmly plucks the flowers of life 
 
 Around her pathway spread, 
 And careth not for those to bloom, 
 
 Nor dreams of others dead. 
 The deep, delirious dreamings, 
 
 Whose wild, bewildering strife 
 Beguiles the heart from sober truths 
 
 And wearies it of life 
 The sudden fits of mournfulness, 
 
 Of wild and fitful glee, 
 My sister s tranquil breast knows not, 
 
 As they are known to me. 
 There are many like my sister 
 
 They who serenely glide, 
 Secure in tranquil cheerfulness 
 
 Adown life s stormy tide. 
 Tis strange to think how tranquilly 
 
 They brave the tempest s frown, 
 And calmly breast the troubled waves, 
 
 When other barks go down ! 
 My fair and gentle sister ! 
 
 How calmly glides her life 
 No weariness to dim her brow, 
 
 No care or spirit-strife : 
 With happy heart she hears alone 
 
 The music of life s stream, 
 And all things seem to her as yet 
 
 A fair and fairy dream ! 
 
 THE SEA-SHELL. 
 
 SADLY the murmur, stealing 
 
 Through the dim windings of the mazy shell, 
 Seemeth some ocean-mystery concealing 
 
 Within its cell. 
 
 And ever sadly breathing, 
 
 As with the tone of far-off waves at play, [ing, 
 That dreamy murmur through the sea-shell wreath- 
 
 Ne er dies away. 
 
 It is no faint replying 
 
 Of far-off melodies of wind and wave, 
 No echo of the ocean-billow, sighing 
 
 Through gem-lit cave. 
 
 It is no dim retaining 
 
 Of sounds that through the dim sea-caverns swell, 
 But some lone ocean-spirit s sad complaining 
 
 Within that cell. 
 " Where are the waters flowing ?" 
 
 Thus breathes that ever-wailing spirit-tone ; 
 " W T here are the bright gems in their beauty glow- 
 In cavern lone 1 [ing, 
 " I languish for the ocean 
 
 I pine to view the billow s heaving crest 
 I miss the music of its dreamlike motion, 
 
 That lulled to rest. 
 " W here are the bright waves playing 1 
 
 Where sleeps the cavern s still and gem-lit gloom 1 
 For there I know sweet tones, yet sad, are straying, 
 
 That call me home !" 
 In vain thy plaintive sighing, 
 Lone ocean-sprite ! thy home is far away ; 
 No ocean-music giveth sweet replying 
 
 Unto thy lay. 
 Far off the waves are gleaming ; 
 
 Thy sisters deck with pearls their tresses fair, 
 And gem-light through the ocean-caves is stream- 
 
 Thou art not there ! [ing 
 
 How like art thou, sad spirit, 
 
 To many a one, the lone ones of the earth ! 
 Who in the beauty of their souls inherit 
 
 A purer birth ; 
 They who, for ever yearning, 
 
 Pine for the glory of their far-off home ; 
 Unto its half-veiled beauty sadly turning, 
 
 From earthly gloom. 
 Whose tones, for ever swelling, 
 
 Pour forth the melody of burning thought; 
 From the sweet music of that far-off dwelling 
 
 An echo caught ! 
 Like thine the restless sighing 
 Like thine the melody their spirits own , 
 No kindred music to their own replying, 
 No answering tone ! 
 They dream they dream for ever ! 
 
 They live in visions beautiful and vain ; 
 And vain the spirit s passionate endeavor 
 
 TJ break their chain. 
 Yec thou, lone child of ocean, 
 
 Mayst never more behold thine ocean-foam 
 While they shall rest from each wild, sad emotiou 
 
 And find their home ! 
 
REBECCA S. NICHOLS. 
 
 Miss REBECCA S. REED, now Mrs. NICHOLS, 
 is a nativ-e of the little town of Greenwich, 
 in New Jersey, where her fa her was a phy 
 sician. When she was seventeen years of 
 age, Dr. Reed removed to Kentucky, and a 
 few months afterward she was married, in 
 Louisville, to Mr. W. Nichols, of Homer, in 
 New York. Her first appearance as an au 
 thor was under the signature of "Ellen," in 
 the Louisville News Letter, in 1839. In the 
 same year Mr. Nichols removed to St. Louis, 
 where he established The Pennant, a daily 
 gazette, from which in a few months he 
 withdrew and went to Cincinnati, where he 
 has since resided. 
 
 In 1844, Mr. Nichols published a "volume 
 entitled Bernice, or the Curse of Minna, and 
 other Poems, and she has since been a fre 
 quent contributor to the periodicals, tinder 
 her proper signature and under that of "Kate 
 Cleveland." Bernice is a romantic story, in 
 three cantos. The scene is in Italy ; and the 
 poem contains some striking passages, but 
 none that should add to the good reputation 
 she has acquired by her minor pieces, many 
 of which are evidently the offspring of real 
 emotion, and bear to that the relation of expe 
 rience to the fictitious passion of the stage. 
 Some of her best pieces were first published ii) 
 The Guest, a journal of which she was editress 
 
 TO MY BOY IN HEAVEN. 
 
 I GAZKD upon thee ! Was it rigid Death 
 
 That sat enthroned upon thine icy brow 1 
 Ah no ! methought I saw the living breath 
 
 Of life expand thy heaving breast but now : 
 He sleeps ! tread softly wake him not ; how bright 
 
 These dreams of heaven upon his spirit fall ! 
 They fold it slumbering ne.ath their wings of light, 
 
 And bear it up to Heaven s high festival 
 The festival of dreams where spirits hold 
 
 Their deep cornmunings, when the seraph Sleep 
 Spreads his encircling wings, which softly fold 
 
 The earth to rest, and close the eyes that weep. 
 
 It was a fearful dream : methought ye said 
 
 That he my boy was of the earth no more ! 
 That all the sentinels of life had fled, 
 
 And that pale Death their portals guarded o er: 
 Ye deemed that I should weep but not a tear 
 
 Burst from the frozen founts where they were pent, 
 Though dark, foreboding thought and bitter fear 
 
 Rushed to my heart, and bade my soul lament. 
 He is not dead he sleeps : he could not die, 
 
 So loved, so beautiful ! If Death should bear 
 His spirit hence, e en to his native sky, 
 
 My voice would pierce the inner temples there ! 
 He is not dead ! Ah, how my spirit mocks 
 
 The \am delusion ! Can I look on this, [locks 1 
 And doubt whose hand each charmed vein now 
 
 I dare not claim what Death hath sealed as his: 
 And thus I gave thee, Arthur, to the tomb, 
 
 And saw the brow oft pillowed next my heart 
 Laid down amid the dust and darkling gloom, 
 
 To be, alas ! too soon of dust a part ! 
 I saw them heap the earth about thy form, 
 
 And press the light turf o er thy peaceful breast, 
 Then leave thee to the cold and brooding worm, 
 
 A.S some young d-.ve in a deserted nest. 
 
 I gazed : it was the autumn s golden light [home 
 
 That flung bright shadows o er thy new-made 
 While through the trees that waved in colors bright, 
 
 I heard the low sweet winds thy dirges moan ! 
 And there was one looked with me on that scene, 
 
 Who bade me know our bitter loss thy gain : 
 But ah ! his cheek was pale as mine, I ween, 
 
 And from his eyes the hot tears fell like rain. 
 That eve, while gazing on the midnight sky, 
 
 One bright new star looked out from its lone 
 
 sphere : 
 We knew no name to call the stranger by, 
 
 So gave it thine, and deemed that thou wert near. 
 
 The autumn passed : how desolate was earth ! 
 
 How froze the lucid veins upon her brow ! 
 While oft the spectre winds now wandered forth 
 
 Like unseen spirits, treading sad and slow : 
 Dark, hoary winter came, with piercing breath, 
 
 And gave to earth a passionless embrace 
 Ah me ! twas as the lip of white-browed Death 
 
 Had kissed with fondness some beloved face : 
 The dazzling snow-wreath garlanded thy tomb, 
 
 While each pale star, effulgent as the day, 
 Let forth its glittering beams amid the gloom, 
 
 And dimpled earth, where this white splendor lay. 
 
 I left thee : wooed to that rich southern clime 
 
 Where glows the orange and where blooms the 
 The land of passion, where the brow of time [rose; 
 
 Dims not, but with renewed splendor glows 
 The joyous Spring on her triumphal car 
 
 Rode through the land in beauty and in light, 
 And on the young south wind flung wide and far 
 
 The odor of her flowers her spirit s young delight. 
 I rested not, though all was bright and green, 
 
 For still I heard thy gentle voice s moan : 
 My spirit leaped the darkling space between, 
 
 And knelt, all breathless, by thy twilight home ! 
 316 
 
REBECCA S. NICHOLS. 
 
 317 
 
 One year hath flown one little circ ing year 
 
 A dim, faint shadow of the wing of Time ; 
 Nor hath mine eye forgot the secret tear, 
 
 Or heart to weave the sad and mournful rhyme : 
 I stand heside thee and I quickly trace 
 
 The loving hand that hath been busy here. 
 Who gave such beauty to thy dwelling-place, 
 
 And bade the fresh green grass wave lightly there ! 
 My heart is ful!, nor can I say farewell, 
 
 E en to thy gentle shade, oh spirit bright ! 
 W ithout one prayer for him who wove the spell 
 
 Of loveliness where all was rayless night. 
 
 Not unremembered, then, thy narrow home 
 
 Within the city of the voiceless dead; 
 For hither oft a kindred form would roam, 
 
 And place fresh turf above thy fair young head. 
 I stand beside thee ! and again the dreams 
 
 Of olden time rise up before my view, 
 While lulling sounds, like to the voice of streams 
 
 Float o er my soul, soft as the morning dew : 
 Could prayers or tears of mine but win thee now 
 
 From thy high walk around the starry thrones, 
 So selfish this, my tears would cease to flow 
 
 My voice refuse to falter forth the tones. 
 
 MY SISTER ELLEN. 
 
 SFSTER ET.LKX, I ve been dreaming 
 
 Of a fair and happy time ; 
 Gentle thoughts are round me gleaming, 
 
 Thoughts of sunny girlhood s prime : 
 Oh, the light, untutored fancies, 
 
 Images so quaint and bold 
 Dim out ines of old romances, 
 
 Forming childhood s age of gold ! 
 Eternal spring was then above us, 
 
 Sunshine cheered our every path ; 
 None then knew us but to love us 
 
 Winning ways sweet childhood hath. 
 Thou art little Ne ly, looking 
 
 Up into my anxious fane 
 I thy childish caprice brooking, 
 
 As thy merry thoughts I trace : 
 See thy dreamy blue eyes glancing 
 
 From thy founts of light and glee, 
 And thy little feet go dancing 
 
 Like the waves upon the sea ! 
 Tossing from thy snowy shoulder 
 
 Golden curls with witching grace, 
 Charming every new beholder 
 
 With thine arch, expressive face. 
 Sister Ellen ! I ve been dreaming 
 
 Of some lightsome summer eves, 
 When the harvest-moon was beaming 
 
 Softly through the dewy leaves 
 How among the flowers we wandered, 
 
 Treading light as summer air ; 
 Looking upward, how we pondered 
 
 On the dazzling glories there ! 
 We were children then together, 
 
 Though I older was in years, 
 And life s dark and stormy weather 
 
 Seemed like April s smiles and tears. 
 
 FAREWELL OF THE SOUL TO THE BODY 
 
 HAUK ! a solemn bell is pealing 
 
 From the far-off spirit clime ; 
 Angel forms, expectant, kneeling 
 
 On the outer shores sublime, 
 Hither turn their eyes of splendor 
 
 Piercing through the mists of time ! 
 Thou art faintly, sadly sighing, 
 
 Voyager through time with me; 
 Can it be, thou rt sinking dying ? 
 
 Can it be that I arn free 
 Free to drink in life immortal, 
 
 Unrestrained now by thee I 
 
 Yes ! thine earthly days are numbered, 
 Yet thou rt clinging round me still ; 
 
 Still my drooping wings are cumbered 
 By thy weak and fleshly will : 
 
 Gently thus I loose thy claspings, 
 Wishing thee no further ill. 
 
 Though I ve often bent upon thee 
 
 A rebuking spirit s gaze, 
 When thy spell was fully on me, 
 
 In our early, youthful days, 
 Sad and loath I am to leave thee, 
 
 Treading Death s bewildering maze ! 
 
 All of enmity is banished 
 
 As I hear thee moaning low, 
 Pride and beauty have so vanished, 
 
 Nothing can revive them now : 
 See the hand of death triumphing 
 
 In the dews upon thy brow ! 
 
 Ah ! thy hoart is faintly tolling, 
 
 Like a closely muffled bell, 
 And the purple rivers rolling 
 
 Neath thy bosom s gentle swell, 
 Flow like waters when receding 
 
 From a thirsty, springless well. 
 
 \Vhat a^veight is on thy bosom 
 What a palsy in thy hand ! 
 
 Thus Death chilled fair Eden s blossom- 
 Thus, at his august command, 
 
 All of human birth and mixture 
 Shuddering in his presence stand ! 
 
 Let me, through thine eyelids closing, 
 Look once more upon the earth ; 
 
 There thou soon wilt be reposing, 
 Borne away from home and hearth, 
 
 W 7 here thy footsteps once were greeted 
 With the noisy shout of mirth. 
 
 Hark ! what organ tones are swelling 
 Through the spirit-realm on high ; 
 
 Ransomed souls are sweetly telling 
 Of the joys beyond the sky : 
 
 Let rne here no longer linger, 
 When the heavens are so nigh ! 
 
 Life s companion ! thus we sever 
 Our short pilgrimage is done : 
 
 We shall reunite for ever, 
 
 Travel-stained and weary one, 
 
 W T hen the voice of God Eternal 
 Wakes the dead with trumpet lone 
 
318 
 
 REBECCA S. NICHOLS. 
 
 LAMKXT OF THE OLD YEAR. 
 
 "I M weary and oM," said the dying Year. 
 
 As the sceptre fell from his shrunken hand ; 
 One foot on the earth, and one on the bier, 
 f go, with a wail for the beautiful here, 
 
 To the phantom years in the ghostly land. 
 
 Thou ht, like a river swift, sweeps o er me now ; 
 
 Backward I m borne to the eve of my birth: 
 Smooth, then, rny wrinkled cheek, spotless my brow; 
 St >od I, with steady hand, held to the plough, 
 
 Ready to furrow the beautiful earth ! 
 
 Then, as I sped a ong, softly there came 
 
 One with a flowing robe, silken and green ; 
 Sweet was her siren voice Spring was her name : 
 Sun-hine or shade, she was ever the same 
 Dazzling in beauty, and graceful in mien. 
 
 Bride of my youthful days, gentle and fair, 
 
 Low lies thy grave at the portals of Time ! 
 Wrapt in t .iy shroud of long sunshiny hair, 
 The hours upborne by the wings of the air, 
 Entombed thee in love, singing dirges sublime. 
 
 There on thy bosom wan, pu se ess and cold, 
 
 Lay thy three doves at rest, which thou didst bear; 
 First-born of early love lambs of our fold, 
 How, on their scented breath, Death feasted bold ! 
 E en May, the youngest one, fairest, was there. 
 
 Then, as I turned aside, weeping for thee, 
 
 Swift came another maid, laughing and bright; 
 She on my bosom hung, joyous and free, 
 And in her dulcet tones warbled to me 
 Pouring her heart out in strains of delight. 
 
 Bride of my sober prime, faded and gone, 
 
 Thou wert to me as a beautiful dream ! 
 Love in thy spirit dwelt, free on his throne, 
 Held bv thy ravishing sweetness alone, 
 
 Till thou wert engulfed in oblivion s stream. 
 Sad, then, my spirit grew lonely I sighed ; 
 
 All that I loved on earth fled from my grasp: 
 Spring, in her beauty, first mournfully died 
 Summer I buried, too, close by her side, 
 
 Wrenching the links of affection s strong clasp. 
 Thin grew my whitened beard moistened my eye; 
 
 Faint was my voice s tone languished my heart: 
 Then, in my dreary age, Autumn drew nigh, 
 Like a sweet antjel of love from the sky, 
 
 Ready to act the Samaritan s part. 
 
 Oh, she with wisdom soothed ! cheerful her voice, 
 
 Riirjiii T at morn like a c ear matin-bell ; 
 Streams in my Summer s path seemed to rejoice; 
 Spring was my first and my earliest choice, 
 
 But Autumn I loved with a fervor as well. 
 Oft when the " lowing stars footprints of God 
 
 Lit up the earth with a holier li^ht, 
 We o er each p e;ts;mt place falt riim-ly trod, 
 Wailing the fate of the brown, fading sod, 
 
 That shrunk from our steps as if fearing a blight 
 Down by a Hashing rill, winding in shade, 
 
 Leaping t> sun uht in g adness and mirth, 
 We, in a softened mo; id, pleasantly made 
 A coach, where the streamlet a monodv played 
 
 A death song for one of the brightest of earth ! 
 
 Pale grew the berries red, close at our feet; 
 
 Wan looked the waning moon over our head ; 
 Then moaned the hollow winds, winged and fleet, 
 And Autumn unfolded her white winding-sheet, 
 
 While Winter approached and enshrouded the 
 
 dead ! 
 As I in voiceless grief over her hung, 
 
 Through her half-frozen lips broken words earner 
 Sweeter than all that the minstrel has sung, 
 The death-stricken accents that fell from her tongue, 
 
 For even in death she was lisping my name ! 
 
 Down by her yawning tomb, wrinkled with care, 
 
 Cheerless and lone I sat, stricken and old ; 
 While my shrill piping voice poured on the air 
 Tones like the voice of the spectre Despair, 
 Calling his flock to their desolate fold ! 
 
 Then did I journey on, leaning the while 
 Faintly on Winter s staff, goaded by him : 
 
 Ne er on my shrivelled lips glimmered a smile 
 
 Weari y traveled we many a mi e, 
 The sun growing dark, and the stars shining dim. 
 
 Through the old forests vast, leafless and brown, 
 
 Fled we the sick e keen, wielded by Time : 
 Thus ever reapeth he what hath been sown, 
 Plucking the fruits which another hath grown, 
 Golden sheaves binding in every clime. 
 
 Down by the blackened stream, flowing from Death, 
 
 Sit I, with folded hands, waiting my doom ; 
 Numb are my ag^d limbs frozen my breath ; 
 Soon shall the pearl-berried misletoe wreath 
 
 Twine its green arms round the parted Year s 
 
 tomb !" 
 Thus sighed the dying year, palsied and old ; 
 
 Feeble and few "grew the words that he spoke; 
 Twelve had the be 1 with its iron tongue told 
 When Time, in his office grown fearless and bold, 
 
 With sharp-whetted scythe cut him down at a 
 stroke ! 
 
 THE ISLE OF DREAMS. 
 
 I MET thee in the Isle of Dreams, 
 
 Beloved of my soul 
 I met thee on the silver sands, 
 
 Where Lethean rivers roll ; 
 And by the flashing water-falls, 
 
 That lulled the hours asleep, 
 Thy spirit, whispered unto mine 
 
 The vows it may not keep 
 
 I met thee in the Isle of Dreams 
 
 No fairer land may bloom 
 Amon? the island-stars that crest 
 
 The midnight s heavy gloom : 
 The lilies blossomed in our path, 
 
 Wild roses on the spray. 
 And YOUIVJ: birds from the wilderness 
 
 Sang each a dreamy lav. 
 
 Our steps fell lightly as we pressed 
 The green, enchanted ground, 
 
 For love was swelling in our hearts, 
 And in the air around : 
 
REBECCA S. NICHOLS. 
 
 319 
 
 All, all was sunshine, bliss, and light, 
 
 Beloved of my soul, 
 When in the Isle of Dreams we met, 
 
 Where Lethean rivers roll 
 
 Then tread again the sounding shores 
 
 That echo in my dreams, 
 And walk beneath the rosy sky 
 
 That through my vision gleams ; 
 Oh meet me, meet me yet once more, 
 
 Beloved of my soul, 
 Within the lovely Isle of Dreams, 
 
 Where Lethean rivers roll ! 
 
 THE SHADOW. 
 
 TWICE beside the crumbling well 
 
 Where the lichen clingeth fast 
 Twice, the shadow on them fell, 
 
 And the breeze went wailing past. 
 " Shines the moon this eve as brightly 
 
 As the harvest-moon may shine ; 
 Stands each star, that glimmers nightly, 
 
 Like a saint within its shrine : 
 Whence the shade then, whence the shadow 1 
 
 Cansi thou tell, sweet lady mine 1" 
 
 But the lady s cheek was pale, 
 
 And her lips were snovvv white, 
 As she clasped her silken veil, 
 
 Floating in the silver light : 
 Like an angel s wing it glistened 
 
 Like a sybil seemed the maid ; 
 But in vain the lover listened, 
 
 Silence on her lips was laid ! 
 Though they moved, no sound had broken 
 
 Through the stillness of the glade. 
 
 Brighter grew her burning eyes 
 
 Wan and thin the rounded cheek : 
 Was it terror, or surprise, 
 
 That forbade the lips to speak ? 
 To his heart, then, creeping slowly, 
 
 Came a strange and deadly fear; 
 Words and sounds profane, unholy, 
 
 Stole into his shrinking ear 
 And the moon sunk sudden downward, 
 
 Leaving earth and heaven drear ! 
 
 Slowly from the lady s lips 
 
 Burst a deep and heavy sigh > 
 As from some long, dark eclipse, 
 
 Rose the red moon in the sky : 
 Saw he then the ladv leaning 
 
 Cold and fainting by the well ; 
 Eyes once filled with tender meaning 
 
 Closed beneath some hidden spell : 
 \\ hat was heard he dared not whisper, 
 
 What he feared were death to tell ! 
 
 The little hand was wondrous fair 
 Which to him so wildly clung 
 
 Raven was the glossy hair 
 
 Then from off her forehead flung; 
 
 Much too fair that hand for staining 
 With a crime of darkest dye : 
 
 But the moon again is waning 
 In the pale and starless sky 
 
 Hark ! what words are slowly falling 
 On the breeze that swept them by 1 
 
 " Touch her not !" the voice it said 
 
 " Wrench thy mantle from her grasp f 
 Thus the disembodied dead 
 
 Warns from that polluting clasp. 
 Touch her not, but still look on her 
 
 All an angel seemeth she ; 
 Yet, the guilty stains upon her 
 
 Shame the Fiend s dark company ! 
 But, her hideous crime is nameless 
 
 Under heaven s canopy." 
 
 Twice, beside the crumbling well, 
 
 Where the lichen clingeth fast 
 Twice the shadow on them fell, 
 
 And the breeze went wailing past: 
 Twice the voice s hol ow warning 
 
 Pierced the haunted midnight air ! 
 Then the golden light of morning 
 
 Streamed upon the lady there : 
 They who found her, stark and lonely, 
 
 Said the corse was very fair. 
 
 LITTLE NELL. 
 
 SPHTXG, with breezes cool and airy, 
 Opened on a little fairy ; 
 Ever restless, making merry, 
 She, with pouting lips of cherry, 
 Lisped the words she could not master, 
 Vexed that she might speak no faster 
 Laughing, running, playing, dancing, 
 Mischief all her joys enhancing 
 Full of baby-mirth and glee, 
 It was a joyous sight to see 
 
 Sweet Little Nell ! 
 
 Summer came, the green earth s lover, 
 Ripening the tufted clover 
 Calling down the glittering showers, 
 Breathing on the buds and flowers 
 Rivalling young pleasant May 
 In a generous holvday ! 
 Smallest insects hummed a tune 
 Through the blessi -d nights of June : 
 And the maiden sang her song 
 Through the days so bright and long 
 Dear Little Nell ! 
 
 Autumn came ! the leaves were falling- 
 Death the little one was calling : 
 Pale and wan she grew, and weakly, 
 Bearing all her pains so meekly, 
 That to us she seemed still dearer 
 As the trial-hour drew nearer. 
 But she left us hopeless, lonely, 
 Watching by her semblance only : 
 And a little grave they made her. 
 In the churchyard cold they laid her 
 Laid her softly down to rest, 
 With a white rose on her breast 
 Poor Little Nell ! 
 
320 
 
 REBECCA S. NICHOLS. 
 
 THK LITTLE FLOCK. 
 
 " WE were not many" we who stood 
 
 In childhood round our mother s knee 
 \ laughing, wild, and wayward brood 
 Of many a changeful mind and mood, 
 And hearts as light as hearts could be. 
 
 " We were not many" we who played, 
 
 When breathless came the scorching noon, 
 Out in the leafy, grassy shade, 
 The old and fragrant orchard made, 
 As lengthened shadows fell in June. 
 
 How sweetly smelled the upturned mould 
 
 Beneath the green and bending bough, 
 
 For there, when days were moist and cold, 
 
 The grass was sown ere spring was old 
 
 I d give the world to see it now ! 
 
 " We were not many" we who drew 
 At evening round the blazing hearth, 
 To read, how from the harebells blue 
 The tiny elves would drink the dew, 
 Ere fairy forms forsook the earth. 
 
 " We were not many" we who heard, 
 From lips we loved at eve and morn, 
 
 The teachings of the holy word, 
 
 When youthful hearts to prayer were stirred, 
 And love of meek-eyed Faith was born. 
 
 " We were not many" death has spared 
 
 A larger flock to mother s tears, 
 And when his icy arm was bared, 
 We scarcely thought that he had dared 
 
 To touch the one so young in years. 
 
 " We were not many" we who wept 
 
 To see his star in swift decline : 
 Five golden autumns he has slept 
 Five budding springs the moss has crept 
 
 Around his couch beneath the pine. 
 
 " We are not many" when we stand 
 
 Where now he sleeps, at fall of dew ; 
 When loving May, with breezes bland, 
 Has smoothed the turf with angel hand, 
 And decked it round with violets blue. 
 
 We are not many" we who press 
 
 With trembling lips Life s brimming cup: 
 
 One craving draughts of happiness 
 
 Another, it may be, would bless 
 
 The wave that dashed death s waters up. 
 
 " We are not many" doubts and fears, 
 
 And faded hopes of earth s renown, 
 And broken faith, and toil and tears, 
 Have, iii the winepress of our years, 
 
 Been heaped, and crushed, and trodden down ! 
 We were not many" we who stood 
 
 lu childhood round our mother s knee : 
 But one from out the laughing brood 
 Has borne unto his solitude 
 
 The dreams he drcampt in infancy. 
 
 MUSINGS. 
 
 How like a conqueror the king of day 
 
 Folds back the curtains of his orient couch, 
 Bestrides the fleecy clouds, and speeds his way 
 
 Through skies made blighter by his burning 
 
 touch ; 
 For as a warrior from the tented field, 
 
 Victorious hastes his wearied limbs to rest, 
 So doth the sun his brazen sceptre yield, 
 
 And sink, fair night, upon thy gentle breast. 
 
 All hail, sad Vesper ! on thy girdled throne 
 
 Thou sitst a queen. Oh, twilight watcher-star, 
 With gliding step thou comest forth alone, 
 
 Pale, dreamy dweller of the realms afar ; 
 And when at eve s most holy, chastened hour, 
 
 I watch each lesser star within its shrine, 
 How do I miss the strange, mysterious power 
 
 That chains my spirit to thine orb divine. 
 
 Fair Vesper ! when thy golden tresses gleam 
 
 Amid the banners of the sunset sky, 
 Thy spirit floats on every radiant beam 
 
 That gilds with beauty thy sweet home on high : 
 Then hath my soul its hour of deepest bliss, 
 
 And gentle thoughts like angels round me 
 
 throng, 
 Breathing of worlds (oh, how unlike to this !) 
 
 Where dwells eternal melody and song. 
 
 Star of the twilight ! thou wert loved by one 
 
 Whose spirit late hath passed away from earth, 
 Who parted from us when the wailing tone 
 
 Of some lone winds hushed gentle summer s 
 
 mirth : 
 Yet, though we missed her at the eventide, 
 
 And eyes gazed sadly on the vacant chair, 
 Though from the hearth her music-tones have 
 died, 
 
 And gone glad laughter that resounded there 
 
 Still from her high and holy place above 
 
 None would recall her to this earthly sphere, 
 Or seek to win her from that home of love 
 
 To tread the paths of sin and sorrow here : 
 But clouds are gathering round fair Cynthia s 
 home, 
 
 And dark and heavy grows the sultry air, 
 While, one by one, the lights in yon vast dome 
 
 Fade and go out as Death were busy there. 
 
 And she, pale spirit of the midnight skies, 
 
 Whose tears of light were streaming o er the 
 
 heath, 
 Now seems, unto my wakeful, watching eyes, 
 
 Like some lone weeper in the house of death ! 
 The storm hath burst the lightning s angry eye 
 
 Glanceth around me, and the hoarse winds tell 
 The raging tempest s might and majesty. 
 
 Bright thoughts have vanished gentle star, faro- 
 well ! 
 
 - 
 
JULIA WARD HOWE. 
 
 (Born 1819). 
 
 MRS. JULIA HOWE is a daughter of the 
 late eminent banker Samuel Ward, and a sis 
 ter of Samuel Ward, junior, one of our most 
 accomplished scholars. In the spring of 
 1543 she was married to Dr. S. G. Howe, 
 of Boston, so well known to his countrymen, 
 and indeed to mankind, as one of the most 
 active and wise of living philanthropists. 
 Mrs. Howe was educated by the best mas 
 ters, and her native intelligence rewarded a 
 careful culture with fruits of grace and beau 
 ty which detain the admiration of society. 
 One of her teachers was the much-lamented 
 Schlesinger, of whom an elegant memoir 
 was published by Mr. Ward, at the close of 
 which he observes: "Returning to New York 
 from a visit to Boston, on the morning of the 
 twelfth of June, the writer of this memoir 
 was overpowered by the sad intelligence of 
 .he demise of Mr. Schlesinger whom he 
 loved as a brother, and of whose danger he 
 
 had no suspicion. He gradually gaihered 
 from a pupil of the deceased, that he had 
 died in the night of the eighth, and been bu 
 ried, the Sunday after, in the Marble Ceme 
 tery, whither his mortal remains were fol 
 lowed by his friends and his Brothers of the 
 Concordia, who sang a requiem over his 
 grave. When he asked her for further de 
 tails, turning away to hide her tears, she 
 handed him these lines." The pupil here 
 referred to is Mrs. Howe, and the lines are 
 the poem entitled The Burial of Schlesinger, 
 which may be ranked among the finest pro 
 ductions of feminine genius. 
 
 Mrs. JuliaWard, the mother of Mrs. Howe> 
 was a woman of taste and various acquire 
 ments, and her literary abilities are illustra 
 ted in many brilliant occasional poems, in 
 English and French, of which some speci- 
 
 I mens are furnished in an earlier part of the 
 
 i present volume. 
 
 THE BURIAL OF SCHLESINGER. 
 
 SAD music breathes upon the air, 
 
 And steps come mournfully and slow ; 
 
 Heavy is the load we bear, 
 
 Fellow-men our burthen share, 
 Death has laid our brother low. 
 
 Ye have heard our joyous strain, 
 Listen to our notes of wo ! 
 
 Do ye not remember him 
 Whose finger, from the thrilling wire, 
 Now drew forth tears, now tones of fire ] 
 Ah ! that hand is cold for ever : 
 Gone is now life s fitful fever 
 We sing his requiem. 
 
 We are singing .him to rest 
 He will rise a spirit blest. 
 
 Sing it softly, sing it slowly 
 Let each note our sorrow tell, 
 For it is our last farewell, 
 
 And his grave is lone and lowly. 
 
 We sorrow for thee, brother ! 
 
 We grieve that thou must lie 
 Far from the spot where thy fathers sleep ; 
 Thou earnest o er the briny deep 
 
 In a stranger land to die. 
 We bear thee gently, brother, 
 To thy last resting-place; 
 21 
 
 Soon shall the earth above thee close, 
 And the dark veil of night repose 
 For ever on thy face. 
 
 We placed the last flowers, brother, 
 
 Upon thy senseless brow ; 
 We kissed that brow before t was hid, 
 We wept upon thy coffin-lid, 
 
 But all unmoved wert thou. 
 
 We ve smoothed the green turf, brother, 
 
 Above thy lowly head ; 
 Earth in her breast receive thee : 
 Oh, it is sad to leave thee, 
 
 Alone in thy narrow bed ! 
 
 Thou art not with us, brother 
 Yet, in yon blissful land, 
 
 Perhaps, thou still canst hear us 
 
 Perhaps thou hoverest near us 
 And smilest as the choral band, 
 Which once obeyed thy master hand, 
 
 Now linger with their tears to leave 
 
 The sod that seals thy grave. 
 
 The sun is sinking, brother, 
 
 And with it our melody. 
 The dying cadence of our rite 
 Is mingled with the dying light. 
 Oh, brother ! by that fading ray, 
 And by this mournful parting laj 
 We will remember thee. 
 321 
 
JULIA WARD HOWE. 
 
 The sculptor, in his chiselled stone, 
 
 The painter, in his colors blent, 
 The hard, in nurnhers all his own, 
 
 Raises himself his monument: 
 But he, whose every touch could wake 
 
 A passion, and a thought control, 
 He who, to Ixess the ear, did make 
 
 Music of his very soul ; 
 Who bound for us, in golden chains, 
 
 The golden links of harmony 
 IS" aught is left us of his strains, 
 
 Naught but their fleeting memory : 
 Then, while a trace of him remains, 
 
 Shall we not cherish it tenderly ] 
 
 WOHDSWORTH. 
 
 BARK of the unseen haven, 
 
 Mind of unearth y mood, 
 Like to the prophet s raven, 
 
 Thou bringest me heavenly food ; 
 Or like some mild dove winging 
 
 Its way from cloudless skies, 
 Celestial odors bringing, 
 And in its glad soul singing 
 
 The songs of paradise. 
 
 Surely thou hast been nearer 
 
 The bounds of day and night 
 Thy vision has l>een clearer, 
 
 And loftier thy flight, 
 And thou to God art dearer 
 
 Than many men of mi^ht. 
 Speak ! for to thee we listen 
 
 As never to bard before, 
 And faded eyes shall glisten 
 
 That thought to be bright no more. 
 
 Oh, tell us of yonder heaven, 
 
 And the world that lies within ; 
 Tell us of the happy spirits 
 
 To whom we are near of kin ; 
 Tell of the songs of rapture, 
 
 Of the stars that never set; 
 Do the angels call us brothers 
 
 Does our Father love us yet 1 
 
 Speak, for our souls are thirsting 
 
 For the light of righteousness ; 
 Speak, for our bosoms are bursting 
 
 With a desolate loneliness ; 
 Our hearts are worn and weary, 
 
 Our robes are travel-soiled 
 For through a desert dreary 
 
 Our wandering feet have toiled. 
 
 Those to whom life looks brighter 
 
 May ask an earthHcr strain : 
 A gayer spell and a lighter 
 
 Shall hold them in its chain ; 
 But to those who have drunk deepest 
 
 Of the cup of joy and grief, 
 The tuneful tears thou weepest 
 
 Do minister relief. 
 
 Speak, for the earth is throbbing 
 
 With a wild sense of pain ; 
 The wintry winds ar.e sobbing 
 
 The requiem of the slain ; 
 Dimly our lamps are burning, 
 
 And gladly we list to thee, 
 With a strange and mystic yearning 
 
 Toward the home where we would be : 
 Turn from the rhyme of weary Time, 
 
 And sing of Eternity ! 
 Tell of the sacred mountains 
 
 Where prophets in prayer have kneeled ^ 
 Tell of the glorious fountains 
 
 That soon shall be unsealed ; 
 Tell of the quiet regions 
 
 Where those we love are fled ; 
 Tell of the angel legions 
 
 That guard the blessed dead ! 
 Tell us of the sea of glass, 
 
 And of the icy river ; 
 To those who its waves must pass 
 
 Thy message of love deliver. 
 Strike, strike thy harp of many lays, 
 And we will join the song of praise 
 To Him that sitteth upon the throne 
 
 Of life and love for ever ! 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 A VESTAL priestess, proudly pure, 
 
 But of a meek and quiet spirit ; 
 With soul all dauntless to endure, 
 
 And mood so calm that naught can stir it, 
 Save when a thought most deeply thrilling 
 Her eyes with gentlest tears is filling, 
 Which seem with her true words to start 
 From the deep fountain at her heart. 
 A mien that neither seeks nor shuns 
 
 The homage scattered in her way ; 
 A love that hath few favored ones, 
 
 And yet for a!l can work and pray , 
 A smile wherein each mortal reads 
 Tlie very sympathy he needs ; 
 An eye like to a mystic book 
 
 Of lays that bard or prophet sings. 
 Which keepeth for the holiest look 
 
 Of holiest love its deepest things 
 A form to which a king had bent, 
 The fireside s dearest ornament 
 Known in the dwellings of the poor 
 Better than at, the rich man s door ; 
 A life that ever onward goes, 
 Yet in itself has deep repose. 
 A vestal priestess, maid, or wife 
 
 Vestal, and vowed to offer up 
 The innocence of a ho y life 
 
 To Him who gives the mingled cup; 
 With man its bitter sweets to share, 
 To live and love, to do and dare ; 
 His prayer to breathe, his tears to shed, 
 Breaking to him the heavenly bread 
 Of hopes which, all too high for earth, 
 Tluve yet in her a mortal birth. 
 This is the woman I have dreamed, 
 And to my childish thought she seeuitd 
 The woman I myself should be : 
 Alas ! I would that I were she. 
 
JULIA WARD HOWE. 
 
 323 
 
 TO A BEAUTIFUL STATUE 
 
 [ \VOUM> there were a blush upon thy cheek, 
 
 That I might deem thee human, not divine ! 
 
 I would those sweet yet silent lips might speak, 
 
 Even to say, " I never can be thine !" 
 
 I would thine eye might shun my ardent gaze, 
 
 Then timidly return it ; neath the fold 
 
 Of the white vest thy heart beat to the praise 
 
 Responsive that thou heedest not. I hold 
 
 Tliy s enilcr hand in mine : oh, why is it so cold ? 
 Statue ! I call on thee ! I bid thee wake 
 To lite and love. The world is bright and fair ; 
 The flowers of spring blush in each verdant brake ; 
 The birds sweet song makes glad the perfumed air, 
 And thou alone feel st not its balmy breath. 
 Oh ! by what spell, once dear, still unforgot, 
 Shall I re ease thee from this seeming death? | pot? 
 Wnat prayer shall charm thee from yon haunted 
 
 Awake ! I summon thee ! In vain : she hears me not. 
 V\ hat power hath bound thee thus ? Devoid of 
 
 sense, 
 
 Buried in thine own beauty, speechless, pa!e 
 V\ hat stra.i>;e, stern destiny, what dire offence, 
 !i ;i ii ..Lawn around thy living charms this veil? 
 U... -l thou. like Niobe, beho.d the death 
 O, a.i tuy loved ones? Did so sad a si Jit 
 I rge iVo.n th v bosom forth the panting breath, 
 Stea from thy tearful eye its liquid light, 
 
 And wrap thy fainting spirit in eternal night? 
 
 Or wert thou false, and merciless as fair 
 And is it thus thy perfidy is wroken ? 
 Didst thou with smiles the trusting soul ensnare, 
 And smile again to see it crushed and broken ! 
 Oh. no ! Heaven wished to rescue from the tomb 
 A form so faultless; and its mandate high 
 Arrested thee in youth s transcendent bloom, 
 (- oiuealed in marb .e thy last parting sigh, [die. 
 Soothed thee to wakeless sleep, nor suffered thee to 
 
 For sure thou wert not, always thus! The rush 
 01 i. e s warm strea:n hath lit thy vacant glance, 
 Tinting t . .y pallid cheek with maiden blush; 
 Those i airv limits have sported in the dance, 
 Before t :iey settled thus in quiet rest; 
 Thine ear the lyre s numbers hath received, 
 And tod their import to the throbbing breast; 
 Th , heart hath hoped and feared, hath joyed and 
 
 grieved, 
 Hath loved and trusted, and hath been deceived. 
 
 Sleep on ! The memory of thy grief or wrongs 
 ^ ith the forgotten past have long since fled ; 
 And pitying Fate t .iy slumber still prolongs, 
 Lest thou i-hou dst wake, to sorrow for the dead. 
 Oli. should thine eyes unclose again on earth, 
 To find ihvse f uncared for, and alone 
 1 lip males of thy young days of laughing mirth, 
 And he, m re dear than all, for ever gone 
 V\ ith hitter tears thou dst ask again a heart of stone. 
 Sleep 0:1 in peace! thou sha t not sleep for ever : 
 S..f)n on thine cch ling ear the voice sha l thri l, 
 Whose well-known tone a one thy bonds inay 
 And bid thy spirit burst its cerements chill : [sever, 
 Thy frozen heart its pulses shall resume, 
 
 Thine, eye with glistening tears of rapture swell, 
 Thou shalt arise in never-fading bloom ! 
 The voice of deathless Love must break the spell : 
 Until that time shall come, sweet dreamer, fare thee 
 well ! _+__ 
 
 WANING. 
 
 THE Moon looks dimly from the skies, 
 Of half her queenlike beauty shorn ; 
 
 A sad and shrouded thing, she lies 
 
 Where she, scarce three weeks since, was born. 
 
 As from the darkness forth she sprang, 
 
 And it to her a cradle gave, 
 So on its bosom she must hang 
 
 Trembling, till it become her grave. 
 
 But while she sees the stars so bright, 
 The Moon can not her death deplore, 
 
 For all the heavens are sown with light, 
 Though from herself it come no more. 
 
 Pale Moon ! and I like thee am sinking 
 
 Into my natural nothingness ; 
 I who, like thee, from heaven was drinking 
 
 The godlike power to love and bless. 
 
 This shroud of night is dark and chill, 
 And yet I can not think to mourn ; 
 
 The skies I filled are radiant still, 
 And will be bright when I am gone! 
 
 LEES FROM THE CUP OF LIFE. 
 
 ONCE I was sad, and well could weep, 
 Now I am wild, and I will laugh ; 
 
 Pour out for me libations deep ! 
 
 The blood of trampled grapes I ll quaff, 
 
 And mock at all who idly mourn, 
 And smite the beggar with his staff. 
 
 Oh ! let us hold carousal dread 
 Over our early pleasures gone, 
 
 Youth is departed, love is dead ; 
 Oh wo is me that I was born ! 
 
 Yet fill the cup, pass round the jest 
 Methinks I could laugh grief to scorn. 
 
 Tis well to be a thing alone, 
 
 For whom no creature cares or grieves. 
 To bui d on desert sands a throne, 
 
 And spread a couch on wintry leaves, 
 Ruthless and hopeless, worn and wise 
 
 The fool, the imbecile, believes ! 
 
 Make me a song whose sturdy rhyme 
 Shall bid defiance bold to Wo. 
 
 Though caitiff wretch, come down to mv , 
 See, at thy gate my trump I blow, 
 
 And, armed with rude indifference, 
 To thee thy scornful glove I throw ! 
 
 Ah me ! unequal, bootless fii>ht ! 
 
 Ah, cuiras. that betrays my trust 
 Sorrow s stern angel bears a dart 
 
 Fatal to all of mortal dust; 
 He is a spirit, I of clay : 
 He can not die alas, I must 
 
324 
 
 JULIA WARD HOWE. 
 
 3PEAK, FOR THY SERVANT HEARETH. 
 
 SPEAK, for thy servant heareth ; 
 
 Alone, in my lowly bed, 
 Before I laid me down to rest. 
 
 My nightly prayer was said ; 
 And naught my spirit feareth, 
 
 In darkness or by day : 
 Speak, for thy servant heareth, 
 
 And heareth to obey. 
 
 I ve stood before thine altar, 
 
 A child before thy might ; 
 No breath within thy temple stirred 
 
 The dim and cloudy light ; 
 And still I knew that thou wert there, 
 
 Teaching my heart to say 
 Speak, for thy servant heareth, 
 
 And heareth to obey." 
 
 God, my flesh may tremble 
 When thou speakest to my soul ; 
 
 But it can riot shun thy presence blest, 
 
 Or shrink from thy control. 
 A joy my spirit cheereth 
 
 That can not pass away : 
 Speak, for thy servant heareth, 
 
 And heareth to obey. 
 
 Thou biddest me to utter 
 
 Words that I scarce may speak, 
 And mighty things are laid on me, 
 
 A helpless one and weak ; 
 Darkly thy truth declareth 
 
 Its purpose and its way : 
 Speak, for thy servant heareth, 
 
 And heareth to obey. 
 
 And shouldst thou be a stranger 
 
 To that which thou hast made ? 
 Oh ! ever be about my path, 
 
 And hover near my bed. 
 Lead me in every step I take, 
 
 Teach me each word I say : 
 Speak, for thv servant heareth, 
 
 And heareth to obey. 
 
 How hath thy glory lighted 
 
 My lonely place of rest ; 
 How sacred now shall be to me 
 
 The spot which thou hast blest ! 
 If aught of evil should draw nigh 
 
 To bring me shame and fear, 
 My steadfast soul shall make reply, 
 
 " Depart, for God is near !" 
 
 1 b/ess thee that thou speakest 
 
 Thus to an humble child ; 
 
 The God of Jacob calls to me 
 
 In gentle tones aid mild; 
 
 Thine enemies before thy face 
 
 Are scattered in dismay : 
 Speak, Lord, thy servant heareth, 
 
 And heareth to obey. 
 
 I ve stood before thee all my days 
 
 Have ministered to thee ; 
 But in the hour of darkness first 
 
 Thou speakest unto me. 
 And now, the night appeareth 
 
 More beautiful than day : 
 Speak, Lord, thy servant heareth, 
 
 And heareth to obey. 
 
 A MOTHER S FEARS. 
 
 I A>I one who holds a treasure, 
 A gem of wondrous cost ; 
 
 But I mar my heart s deep pleasure 
 With the fear it may be lost. 
 
 God gives not many mothers 
 
 So fair a child as thou, 
 And those he gives to others 
 
 In death are oft laid low. 
 
 I, too, might know that sorrow, 
 To stand by thy dying bed, 
 
 And wish each weary morrow 
 Only that I were dead. 
 
 Oh ! would that I could bear thee, 
 As I bore thee neath my heart, 
 
 And every sorrow spare thee, 
 And bid each pain depart ! 
 
 Tell me some act of merit 
 
 By which I may deserve 
 To hold the angel spirit, 
 
 And its sweet life preserve. 
 
 When I watch the little creature, 
 If tears of rapture flow 
 
 If I worship each fair feature 
 All mothers would do so. 
 
 And if I fain would shield her 
 From suffering, on my breast, 
 
 Strive every joy to yield her, 
 Tis thus that I am blest. 
 
 Oh ! for some heavenly token, 
 
 By which I may be sure 
 The vase shall not be broken 
 
 Dispersed the essence pure ! 
 
 Then spake the Angel of Mothers 
 
 To me, in gentle tone : 
 "Be kind to the children of others, 
 
 And thus deserve thine own." 
 
* : 
 
 

AMELIA B. WELBY. 
 
 (Born 1821-Died 1852) 
 
 AMELIA B. WELBY, whose maiden name 
 was COPPUCK, was born in the small town 
 of St. Michael s, in Maryland, in 1821. When 
 she was about fourteen years of age, her fa 
 ther removed to Lexington and afterward to 
 Louisville, in Kentucky, where, in 1838, she 
 was married to Mr. George B. Welby, a mer 
 chant of that city. 
 
 Mrs. Welby made herself known at a very 
 early age by numerous poetical pieces print 
 ed, under the signature of "Amelia," in the 
 Louisville Journr -hich is edited by Mr. 
 George D. Prenti a gentleman deserving 
 as much reputation for his literary abilities 
 as for his wit,) and has been a medium for 
 the original appearance of much of the best 
 poetry of the West. 
 
 In 1844 a collection of her poems appeared 
 in a small octavo volume at Boston, and their 
 popularity has been so great that it has since 
 passed through four or five large editions. 
 This success must have surprised as much 
 as it gratified th.e amiable and modest poet, 
 for, writing to me in the summer of 1843, 
 she observed in reference to a suggestion I 
 had made to her " My husband arid friends 
 here also desire greatly to have a collection 
 of my little poems published, but really I am 
 afraid they are not worth it. Many of them 
 
 were written when I was so verj young, that 
 at the sober age of twenty-two I can scarcely 
 read them without a blush." With the same 
 letter she sent me the manuscript of one of her 
 longest poems, entitled Pulpit Eloquence. It 
 is now before me, and though scarcely a be 
 liever in Mr Foe s ingenious speculations 
 upon " autograpny," I see in the elaborate 
 neatness and distinctness of her round and 
 regular handwriting an indication of the pe 
 culiar character of her genius, which delights 
 in grace and repose, in forms of delicacy and 
 finished elegance. 
 
 There are in the writings of Mrs. Welby 
 few indications of creative power ; she walks 
 the Temple of the Muses with no children of 
 the imagination ; but her fancy is lively, dis 
 criminating, and informed by a minute and 
 intelligent observation of nature, and she has 
 introduced into poetry some new and beau 
 tiful imagery. Her sentiment has the rela 
 tion to passion which her fancy sustains to 
 the imagination. No painful experience has 
 tried her heart s full energies ; but her feel 
 ings are natural and genuine ; and we arc 
 sure of the presence of a womanly spirit, 
 reverencing the sanctities and immunities of 
 life, and sympathizing with whatever ad 
 dresses the sense of beautv. 
 
 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 I S03IKTIME8 have thoughts, in my loneliest hours, 
 That lie on my heart like the dew on the flowers, 
 Of a ramble I took one bright afternoon 
 When my heart was as light as a blossom in June ; , 
 The green earth was moist with the late fallen showers, 
 The hreeze fluttered down and blew open the flowers, 
 While a single white cloud, to its haven of rest j 
 On the white wing of Peace, floated off in the west. 
 As I threw back my tresses to catch the < ool breeze, 
 That scattered the rain-drops and dimpled the seas, 
 Far up the blue sky a fair rainbow unrolled 
 Its soli-tinted pinions of purple and gold. 
 "r\v;is born in a moment, yet, quick as its birth, 
 It had stretched to the uttermost ends of the earth, 
 And, fair as an angel, it floated as free, 
 With a wing on the earth and a wing on the sea. 
 How calm was the ocean ! how gentle its swel 
 Like a woman s soft bosom it rose and it fell ; 
 
 While its light sparkling waves, stealing laughingly 
 
 o er, 
 When they saw the fair rainbow, knelt down on the 
 
 shore. 
 
 No sweet hymn ascended, no murmur of prayer, 
 Yet I felt that the spirit of worship was there, 
 And bent my young head, in devotion and love, 
 Neath the form of the angel that floated above. 
 
 How wide was the sweep of its beautiful wings ! 
 How boundless its circle, how radiant its rings ! 
 If I looked on the sky, twas suspended in air; 
 If I looked on the ocean, the rainbow was there; 
 Thus forming a girdle, as brilliant and whole 
 As the thoughts of the rainbow, that circled my souL 
 Like the wing of the Deity, calmly unfurled, 
 It bent from the cloud and encircled the world. 
 
 There are moments, I think, when the spirit receives 
 Whole volumes of thought on its unwritten leaves. 
 When the folds of the neart in a moment unclose 
 Like the innermost leaves from the heart of a /ose. 
 .325 
 
AMELIA B. WELBY. 
 
 And thus, when the rainbow had passed from the sky, 
 The thoughts it awoke were too deep to pass by ; 
 It left my full soul, like the wing of a dove, 
 All fluttering with pleasure and fluttering with love. 
 
 T know that each moment of rajtt.re or pain 
 But shortens the links in life s mystical chain; 
 I know that my form, like that bow from the wave, i 
 Must pass from the earth, and lie cold in the grave 
 Yet oh ! when Death s shadows my bosom encloud, 
 \VhenIshrinkatthethoughtofthecoffinandshroud, 
 May Hope, like the rainbow, my spirit enfold 
 In her beautiful pinions of purple and gold ! 
 
 PULPIT ELOQUENCE- 
 
 THE day was declining : the breeze in its g!ee 
 Had left the fair blossoms to sing on the sea, 
 As the sun in its gorgeousness, radiant and still, 
 Dropped down like a gem from the brow of the hill ; 
 One tremulous star, in the glory of June, 
 Came out with a smile and sat down by the Noon, 
 As she graced her blue throne with the pride of a queen, 
 The smiles of her loveliness gladdening the scene. 
 
 The scene was enchanting ! in distance away 
 Rolled the foam-crested waves of the Chesapeake bay, 
 While bathed in the moonlight the village was seen, 
 With the church in the distance that stood on the 
 
 green, 
 
 The soft-sloping meadows lay brightly unrolled 
 W T ith their mantles of verdure and blossoms of gold, 
 And the earth in her beauty, forgetting to grieve, 
 Lay asleep in her bloom on the bosom of eve. 
 
 A light-hearted child, I had wandered away [day ; 
 From the spot where my footsteps had gambolled all 
 And free as a bird s was the song of my soul, 
 As I heard the wild waters exultingly roll, 
 While, lightening my heart as I sported along 
 With bursts of low laughter and snatches of song, 
 I struck in the pathway half worn o er the sod 
 By the feet that went up to the worship of God. 
 
 As I traced its green windings, a murmur of prayer 
 With the hymn of the worshippers rose on the air, 
 And, drawn by the links of its sweetness along, 
 I stood unobserved in the midst of the throng : 
 For a while my young spirit still wandered about 
 With the birds and the winds that were singing 
 
 without, 
 
 But birds, waves, and zephyrs, were quickly forgot 
 In one angel-like being that brightened the spot. 
 
 In stature majestic, apart from the throng 
 He stood in his beauty, the theme of my song! 
 His cheek pale with fervor the blue orbs above 
 Lit up with the splendors of youth and of love ; 
 Yet the heart-glowing raptures, that beamed from 
 
 those eyes, 
 
 Seemed saddened by sorrows and chastened by sighs, 
 As if the young heart in its bloom had grown cold 
 With its loves unrequited, its sorrows untold. 
 
 Such language as his I may never recall, 
 But his theme was salvation salvation to all: 
 And the souls of a thousand in ecstasv hung [tongue. 
 On the manna-like sweetness that dropped from his 
 
 Not alone on the car his wild eloquence stole : 
 Enforced by each gesture it sank to the soul, 
 Till it seemed that an angel had brightened the sod 
 And brought to each bosom a message from God. 
 
 He spoke of the Savior : what pictures he drew . 
 The scene of his sufferings rose clear on my view, 
 The cross, the rude cross where he suffered and died, 
 The gush of bright crimson that flowed from his side, 
 The cup of his sorrows, the wormwood and gall, 
 The darknoss that rnant ed the earth as a pall, 
 The garland of thorns, and the demon-like crews, 
 Who knelt as they scoffed him " Hail, King of 
 the Jews !" 
 
 He spake, and it seemed that his statue-like form 
 Expanded and glowed as his spirit grew warm 
 His tone so impassioned, so melting his air, 
 As, touched with compassion, he ended in prayer, 
 His hands clasped above him, his blue orbsupthrown, 
 Still pleading for sins that were never his own, 
 While that mouth, where such sweetness ineffable 
 
 clung, 
 Still spoke, though expression had died on his tongue. 
 
 God ! what emotions the speaker awoke ! 
 A mortal he seemed yet a deity spoke ; 
 
 A man yet so far from humanity riven ! 
 On earth yet so closely connected with heaven ! 
 How oft in my fancy I ve pictured him there, 
 As he stood in that triumph of passion and prayer, 
 With his eyescloseii in rapture, their transientec ipse 
 Made bright by the smiles that illumined his lips. 
 
 There s a charm in delivery, a magical art, 
 That thrills, like a kiss, from the lip to the heart; 
 Tis the glance, the expression, the well-chosen word, 
 By whose magic the depths of the spirit are stirred ; 
 Thesmile, the mute gesture, the soul-start!ingpause, 
 The eye s sweet expression, that melts while it awes, 
 The lip s soft persuasion its musical tone 
 Oh such was the charm of that eloquent one ! 
 
 The time is long past, yet how clearly defined 
 That bay, church, and village, float up on my mind ! 
 
 1 see amid azure the moon in her pride, 
 
 With the sweet little trembler that sat by her side ; 
 I hear the blue waves, as she wanders along, 
 Leap up in their gladness and sing her a song, 
 And I tread in the pathway half worn o er the sod 
 By the feet that went up to the worship of God. 
 
 The time is long past, yet what visions I see ! 
 The past, the dim past, is the present to me ; [throng : 
 I am standing once more mid that heart-stricker. 
 A vision floats up tis the theme of my song 
 All glorious and bright as a spirit of air, 
 The light like a halo encircling his hair; 
 As I catch the same accents of sweetness and love, 
 He whispers of Jesus, and points us above. 
 
 How sweet to my heart is the picture I ve traced 
 Its chain of bright fancies seemed almost efface 
 Till Memory, the fond one, that sits in the soul, 
 Took up the frail links, and connected the whole : 
 As the dew to the blossom, the bud to the bee, 
 As the scent to the rose, are those memories to me ; 
 Round the chords of my heart they have tremblingly 
 And the echo it gives is the song I have sung, [clung, 
 
AMELIA B. WELBY. 
 
 327 
 
 ON ENTERING THE MAMMOTH CAVE. 
 
 H 
 
 ! for mv heart-b ood curdles as we enter 
 
 To glide in gloom these shadowy realms about ; 
 Oh ! what a scene the round globe to its centre, 
 
 To form this awful cave, seems hollowed out ! 
 Yet pause no mystic word hath yet been spoken 
 
 To win us entrance to this awful sphere 
 A whispered prayer must be our watchword token, 
 And peace like that around us peace unbroken 
 
 The passport here. 
 And now farewell, ye birds and b ossoms tender, 
 
 Ye glistening leaves by morning dews impearled, 
 And you, ye beams that light with softened splendor 
 
 The glimmering glories of yon outer world ! 
 While thus we pause these silent arches under, 
 
 To you and yours a wild farewell we wave, 
 For oh ! perhaps this awful spot may sunder 
 Our hearts from all we love this world of wonder 
 
 May be our grave. 
 And yet farewell! the faint y flickering torches 
 
 Light our lone footsteps o er the si ent sod; 
 And now all hail, ye ever asting arches, 
 
 Ye dark dominions of an unseen God ! 
 Who would not for this sight the bliss surrender 
 
 Of all the beauties of yon sunny sphere, 
 And break the sweetest ties, however tender, 
 To be the witness of the silent splendor 
 
 That greets us here ! 
 Ye glittering caves, ye high, o erhangmg arches, 
 
 A pilgrim-band we glide amid your gloom, 
 With breathless lips, and high, uplifted torches, 
 
 All fancifu.ly decked in cave-costume; 
 Far from theday sglad beams, and songs, and flowers, 
 
 We ve come with spell-touclied hearts, ye countless 
 To glide enchanted, for a few brief hours, [caves, 
 Through the calm beauty of your awful bowers 
 
 And o er your waves ! 
 Beautiful cave ! that all my soul entrances, 
 
 Known as the wonder of the West so long, 
 Oh twere a fate beyond my wildest fancies, 
 
 Could I but shrine you now as such in song ! 
 But tis in vain the untaught child of Nature, 
 
 I can not vent the thoughts that through me flow, 
 Yet none the less is graved thine every feature 
 Upon the wild, imaginative creature 
 
 That hails you now ! 
 Pa ace of Nature ! with a poet s fancies 
 
 I ? ve oftimes pictured thee in dreams of bliss, 
 And glorious scenes were given to my glances, 
 
 But never gazed I on a scene like this ! 
 Compared with thine, what are the awi ul wonders 
 
 Of the deep, fathomless, unbounded sea] 
 Or ih > storm-cloud whose lance of lightning sunders 
 The solid oak ? or even thine awful thunders, 
 
 Niagara ! 
 Hark ! hear ye not those echoes ringing after 
 
 Our gliding steps my spirit faints with fear 
 Those mocking tones, like subterranean laughter 
 
 Or does the brain grow wild with wandering here ? 
 There may be spectres wild and forms appalling 
 
 Our wandering eyes, where er we rove, to greet 
 Methinks I hear their low, sad voices calling 
 Upon us now, and far away the falling 
 Of phantom feet. 
 
 The glittering dome, the arch, the towering column, 
 Are sights that greet us now on every hand, 
 
 And all so wild, so strange, so sweetly solemn 
 So like one s fancies formed of fairy land ! 
 
 And these, then, are your works, mysterious powers ! 
 Your spells are o er, around us, and beneath, 
 
 These opening aisles, these crystal fruits and flowers, 
 
 And glittering grots, and high-arched, beauteous 
 As still as death ! [bowers, 
 
 But yet lead on ; perhaps than this fair vision, 
 Some lovelier yet in darkling distance lies 
 
 Some cave of beauty, like those realms Elysian 
 That ofttimes open on poetic eyes ; 
 
 Some spot, where led by Fancy s sweet assistance 
 Our wandering feet o er silvery sands may stray, 
 
 Where prattling waters urge with soft resistance 
 
 Their wavelets on, till lost in airy distance, 
 And far away. 
 
 Oft the lone Indian o er these low-toned waters 
 Has bent perhaps his swarthy brow to lave ! 
 
 It seems the requiem of their dark-eyed daughters, 
 Those sweet, wild notes that wander o er the wave. 
 
 Hast thou no relic of their ancient glory, 
 No legend, lonely cavern! linked with thine? 
 
 No tale of love no wild, romantic story 
 
 Of some warm heart whose dreams were transitory 
 And sweet as mine 1 
 
 It must be so : the thought your spell enhances ; 
 
 Yet why pursue this wild, romantic dream ] 
 The heart, afloat upon its fluttering fancies, 
 
 Would lose itself in the bewildering theme. 
 And yet, ye waters! still I list your surging, 
 
 And ever and anon I seem to view, 
 In Fancy s eye, some Indian maid emerging 
 Through the deep gloom, and o er your waters urging 
 Her light canoe. 
 
 Oh silent cave ! amid the elevation 
 Of lofty thought could I abide with thee, 
 
 My soul s sad shrine, my heart s lone habitation. 
 For ever and for ever thou shouldst be : 
 
 Here into song my every thought I d render, 
 And thou, and thou alone, shouldst be my theme, 
 
 Far from the weary world s delusive splendor, 
 
 Would not my lonely life be all one tender, 
 Delicious dream ] 
 
 Yes, though no other form save mine might hover 
 In these lone halls, no other whisper roll 
 
 Along those airy domes that arch me over 
 Save gentle Echo s, sister of my sou!, [me, 
 
 Yet neath these domes whose spell of beauty weighs 
 My heart would evermore in bliss abide 
 
 No sorrow to depress, no hojie to raise me, 
 
 Here would I ever dwell with none to praise me, 
 And none to chide. 
 
 Region of caves and streams ! and must I sever 
 My spirit from your spell 1 T were bliss to stray 
 
 The happy rover of your realms for ever, 
 And yet, farewell for ever and for aye ! 
 
 I leave you now, yet many a sparkling token 
 Within your cool recesses I have sought 
 
 To treasure up with fancies still unspoken, [broken 
 
 Till from these quivering heartstrings Death hath 
 The thread of thought. 
 
AMELIA B. WE LEY. 
 
 HOPELESS LOVE. 
 
 THK trembling wavesbeneath the moonbeamsquiver 
 
 Reflecting back the blue, unclouded skies; 
 The stars look down upon the sti 1, bright river, 
 
 And smile to see themselves in paradise; 
 Sweet songs are heard to gush in joyous bosoms, 
 
 That lightly throb beneath the greenwood tree. 
 And glossy plumes float in amid the blossoms, 
 
 And all around are happy all but me ! 
 
 And yet, I come beneath the light, that trembles 
 
 O er these dim paths, with listless steps to roam 
 For here my bursting heart no more dissembles, 
 
 My sad lips quiver, and the tear-drops come; 
 I come once more to list the low-voiced turtle, 
 
 To watch the dreamy waters as they flow, 
 And lay me down beneath the fragrant myrtle, 
 
 That drops its blossoms when the west winds blow. 
 
 Oh ! there is one, on whose sweet face I ponder, 
 
 One angel-being mid the beauteous band, 
 Who in the evening s hush comes out to wander 
 
 Amid the dark-eyed daughters of the land! 
 Her step is lightest where each light foot presses, 
 
 Her song is sweetest mid their songs of glee. 
 Smiles light her lips, and rosebuds, mid her tresses, 
 
 Look lightly up their dark redundancy. 
 
 Youth, wealth, and fame, are mine: al I, thaten trances 
 
 The youthful heart, on me their charms confer; 
 Sweet lips smile on me too, and melting glances 
 
 Flash up to mine but not a glance from her ! 
 Oh, I wou d give youth, beauty, fame, and splendor, 
 
 My all of bliss, my every hope resign, 
 To wake in that young heart one fee .ing tender 
 
 To clasp that little hand, and call it mine ! 
 
 In this sweet so itude the sunny weather 
 
 Hath called to life light shapes and fairy-elves, 
 The rosebuds lay their crimson lips together, 
 
 And the green leaves are whispering to themselves ; 
 The clear, faint starlight on the blue wave flushes, 
 
 And, filled with odors sweet, the south wind blows, 
 The purple clusters load the lilac-bushes, 
 
 And fragrant blossoms fringe the apple-boughs. 
 
 Yet, I am sick with love and melancholy, 
 
 My locks are heavy with the dropping dew, 
 Low murmurs haunt me murmurs soft and holy, 
 
 And oh, my lips keep murmuring, murmuring too ! 
 I hate the beauty of these calm, sweet bowers, 
 
 The bird s wild music, and the fountain s fall; 
 Oh, I am sick in this lone land of flowers, 
 
 My soul is weary weary of them all ! 
 
 Yet had I that sweet face, on which I ponder, 
 
 To bloom for me within this Eden-home, 
 That lip to sweetly murmur when I wander, 
 
 That cheek to softly dimple when I come 
 J low sweet would glide my days in these lone bowers, 
 
 Far from the world and all its heartless throngs, 
 Her fairy feet should only tread on flowers, 
 
 I d make her home melodious with my songs ! 
 
 Ah me ! such blissful hopes once filled my bosom, 
 And dreams of fame could then my heart enthrall, 
 
 And joy and bliss around me seemed to blossom ; 
 But oh. those blissful hopes are blighted all ! 
 
 No smiling angel decks these Eden-bowers, 
 No springing footstep echoes mine in glee 
 
 Oil, I am weary in this land of flowers! 
 I sigh I sigh amid them al! ah me ! 
 
 THE OLD MAID. 
 
 WHY sits she thus in solitude? her heart 
 
 Seems melting in her eye s delicious blue 
 And as it heaves, her ripe lips lie apart 
 
 As if to let its heavy throbbings through ; 
 In her dark eye a depth of softness swells, 
 
 Deeper than that her careless girlhood wore; 
 And her cheek crimsons with the hue that tells 
 
 The rich, fair fruit is ripened to the core. 
 
 It is her thirtieth birthday ! with a sigh 
 
 Her soul hath turn d from youth s luxuriant bowers, 
 And her heart taken up the last sweet tie 
 
 That measured out its links of golden hours ! 
 She feels her inmost soul within her stir 
 
 With thoughts too wild and passionate to speak ; 
 Yet her full heart its own interpreter 
 
 Translates itself in silence on her cheek. 
 Joy s opening buds, affection s glowing flowers, 
 
 Once lightly sprang within her beaming track ; 
 Oh, life was beautiful in those lost hours, 
 
 And yet she does not wish to wander back ! 
 No ! she but loves in loneliness to think 
 
 On pleasures past, though never more to be: 
 Hope links her to the future but the link 
 
 That binds her to the past, is memory ! 
 
 From her lone path she never turns aside, 
 
 Though passionate worshippers before her fall ; 
 Like some pure planet in her lonely pride, 
 
 She seems to soar and beam above them all ! 
 Not that her heart is cold ! emotions new 
 
 And fresh as flowers are with her heartstrings knit : 
 And sweetly mournful pleasures wander through 
 
 Her virgin soul, and softly ruffle it. 
 For she hath lived with heart and soul alive 
 
 To all that makes life beautiful and fair ; [hive 
 Sweet Thoughts, like honey-bees, have made their 
 
 Of her soft bosom-cell, and cluster there ; 
 Yet life is not to her what it hath been : 
 
 Her soul hath learned to look beyond its gloss 
 And now she hovers like a star between 
 
 Her deeds of love her Savior on the cross ! 
 Beneath the cares of earth she does not bow, 
 
 Though she hath ofttimes drained its bitter cup, 
 But ever wanders on with heavenward brow, 
 
 And eyes whose lovely lids are lifted up ! 
 She feels that in that lovelier, happier sphere, 
 
 Her bosom yet will, birdlike, find its mate, 
 And all the joys it found so blissful here 
 
 Within that spirit-realm perpetuate. 
 Yet, sometimes o er her trembling heartstrings thrill 
 
 Soft sighs, for raptures it hath ne er enjoyed 
 And then she. dreams of love, and stiives to fill 
 
 With wild and passionate thoughts the craving void. 
 And thus she wanders on half sad, half blest 
 
 Without a mate for the pure, lonely heart, 
 That, yearning, throbs within her viigin breast, 
 
 Never to find its lovely counterpart ! 
 
AMELIA B. WELBY. 
 
 321) 
 
 MEL GDI A. 
 
 f MKT, once in my girlish hours, 
 
 A creature, soft and warm ; 
 Her cottage bonnet, filled with flowers, 
 
 Hung swinging on her arm ; 
 Her voice was sweet as the voice of Love, 
 
 And her teeth were pure as pearls, 
 While her forehead lay, like a snow-white dove, 
 
 In a nest of nut-brown curls ; 
 She was a thing unknown to fame 
 Melodia was her strange, sweet name. 
 
 I never saw an eye so bright 
 
 And yet so soft as hers ; 
 It sometimes swam in liquid light, 
 
 And sometimes swam in tears; 
 It seemed a beauty, set apart 
 
 For softness and for sighs; 
 But oh ! Melodia s melting heart 
 
 Was softer than her eyes 
 For they were only formed to spread 
 The softness from her spirit shed. 
 
 I ve gazed on many a brighter face, 
 
 But ne er on one, for years, 
 Where beauty left so soft a trace 
 
 As it had left on hers. 
 But who can paint the. spell, that wove 
 
 A brightness round the whole? 
 T would take an angel from above 
 
 To paint the immortal soul 
 To trace the light, the inborn grace, 
 
 The spirit, sparkling o er her face. 
 
 Her bosom was a soft retreat 
 
 For love, and love alone, 
 And yet her heart had never beat 
 
 To Love s delicious tone. 
 It dwelt within its circle free 
 
 From tender thoughts like these, 
 Waiting the little deity, 
 
 As the blossom waits the breeze 
 Before it throws the leaves apart 
 And trembles, like the love-touched heart. 
 
 She was a creature, strange as fair, 
 
 First mournful and then wild 
 Now laughing on the clear, bright air 
 
 As merry as a child, 
 Then, melting down, as sort as even 
 
 Beneath some new control, 
 She d throw her hazel eyes to heaven 
 
 And sing with all her soul, 
 In tones as rich as some young bird s, 
 Warbling her own delightful words. 
 
 Melodia ! oh how soft thy darts, 
 
 How tender and how sweet ! 
 Thy song enchained a thousand hearts 
 
 And drew them to thy feet ; 
 And, as thy bright lips sang, they caught 
 
 So beautiful a ray, 
 That, as I gazed, I almost thought 
 
 The spirit of thy lay 
 Had left, while melting on the air, 
 Its sweet expression painted there. 
 
 Sweet vision of that starry evon ! 
 
 Thy virgin beauty yet, 
 Next to the blessed hope of heaven, 
 
 Is in my spirit set. 
 It is a something, shrined apart, 
 
 A light frorn memory shed, 
 To live until this tender heart, 
 
 On which it lives, is dead 
 Reminding me of brighter hours, 
 Of summer eves and summer flowers. 
 
 TO A SEA-SHELL. 
 
 SHELL of the bright sea-waves ! 
 What is it that we hear in thy sad moan ? 
 Is this unceasing music all thine own 1 
 
 Lute of the ocean-caves ! 
 
 Or does some spirit dwell 
 In the deep windings of thy chambers dim, 
 Breathing for ever, in its mournful hymn, 
 
 Of ocean s anthem-swell 1 
 
 Wert thou a murmurer long 
 In crystal palaces beneath the seas, 
 Ere from the blue sky thou hadst heard the breezt 
 
 Pour its full tide of song 1 
 
 Another thing with thee : 
 Are there not gorgeous cities in the deep, 
 Buried with flashing gems that brightly sleep, 
 
 Hid by the mighty sea ? 
 
 And say, oh lone sea-shell ! 
 Are there not cost!y things and sweet perfumes 
 Scattered in waste o er that sea-gulf of tombs 1 
 
 Hush thy low moan and tell. 
 
 But yet, and more than all 
 Has not each foaming wave in fury tossed 
 O er earth s most beautiful, the brave, the lost, 
 
 Like a dark funeral pall ? 
 
 Tis vain thou answerest not ! 
 Thou hast no voice to whisper of the dead ; 
 Tis ours alone, with sighs like odors shed, 
 
 To hold them unforgot ! 
 
 Thine is as sad a strain 
 As if the spirit in thy hidden cell 
 Pined to be with the many things that dwell 
 
 In the wild, restless main. 
 
 And yet there is no sound 
 Upon the waters, whispered by the waves, 
 But seemeth like a wail from many graves, 
 
 Thrilling the air around. 
 
 The earth, oh moaning shell! 
 The earth hath melodies more sweet than these- 
 The music-gush of rills, the hum of bees 
 
 Heard in each blossom s bell. 
 
 Are not these tones of earth, 
 The rustling forest, with its shivering leaves, 
 Sweeter than sounds that e en in moonlit eves 
 
 Upon the seas have birth ? 
 
 Alas ! thou still wilt moan 
 Thou rt like the heart that wastes itself in signs 
 E en when amid bewildering melodies, 
 
 If parted from its own. 
 
830 
 
 AMELIA B. WELBY. 
 
 THE LAST INTERVIEW. 
 
 HKHK, in this lonely bower where first T won thee, 
 I come, beloved, beneath the moon s pale ray, 
 
 To gaze once more through struggling tears upon 
 And then to bear my broken heart away, [thee, 
 
 I dare not linger near thee as a brother, 
 
 I feel my burning heart would still be thine ; 
 
 Ho w could I hope my passionate thoughts to smother, 
 
 While vieldirig all the sweetness to another, 
 That should be mine ! 
 
 But Fate hath willed it; the decree is spoken ; 
 
 Now life may lengthen out its weary chain ; 
 For, reft of thee, its loveliest links are broken , 
 
 May we but clasp them all in heaven again ! 
 Yes, thou wilt there be mine: in yon blue heaven 
 
 There are sweet meetings of the pure and fond ; 
 Oh ! joys unspeakable to such are given, 
 When the sweet ties of love, that here are riven, 
 Unite beyond. 
 
 A glorious charm from heaven thou dost inherit; 
 
 The gift of angels unto thee belongs ; 
 Then breathe thy love in music, that thy spirit 
 
 May whisper to me thro thine own sweet songs ; 
 And though my coming life may soon resemble 
 
 The desert spots through v. hich my steps will flee, 
 Though round thee then wild worshippers assemble, 
 My heart will triumph if thine own but tremble 
 Still true to me. 
 
 Yet, not when on our bower the light reposes 
 In golden glory, wilt thou sigh for me 
 
 Not when the young bee seeks the crimson roses, 
 And the far sunbeams tremble o er the sea ; 
 
 But when at eve the tender heart grows fonder, 
 And the full soul with pensive love is fraught, 
 
 Then with wet lids o er these sweet paths thou It 
 wander, 
 
 And, thrilled with love, upon my memory ponder 
 With tender thought. 
 
 And when at times thy birdlike voice entrances 
 The listening throng with some enchanting lay, 
 
 If I am near thee, let thy heavenly glances 
 One gentle message to my heart convey ; 
 
 I ask but this a happier one has taken 
 
 From my lone life the charm that made it dear ; 
 
 I ask but this, and promise thee unshaken 
 
 To meet that look of love : but oh, twill awaken 
 Such rapture^ here ! 
 
 And now farewell ! farevvell ! I dare not lengthen 
 These sweet, sad moments out; to gaze on thee 
 
 Is bliss indeed, yet it but serves to strengthen 
 The love that now amounts to agony ; 
 
 This is our last farewell, our last fond meeting; 
 The world is wide, and we must dwell apart ; 
 
 My spirit gives thee, now, its last wild greeting, 
 
 With lip to lip, while pulse to pulse is beating, 
 And heart to heart. 
 
 I ttrewell ! farewell ! our dream of bliss is over 
 
 All. sa-e the memory of our plighted love; 
 I now must yield thee to thy happier lover, 
 Yet, oh remember, thou art mine above ! 
 T i<; 3 sweet thought, and, when by distance parted, 
 
 Twill lie upon our hearts a holy spell ; 
 But the sad tears beneath thy lids have started, 
 Arid I alas ! we both are broken-hearted 
 Dearest, farewell! 
 
 MY SISTEHS. 
 
 LIKK flowers that soft!y bloom together, 
 
 Upon one fair and fragile stem, 
 Mingling their sweets in sunny weather 
 
 Ere strange, rude hands have parted them. 
 So were we linked unto each other, 
 
 Sweet sisters, in our childish hours, 
 For then one fond and gentle mother 
 
 To us was like the stem to flowers ; 
 She was the golden thread that bound us 
 
 In one bright chain together here, 
 Till Death unloosed the cord around us, 
 
 And we were severed far and near. 
 
 The floweret s stem, when broke or shattered, 
 
 Must cast its b.ossoms to the wind, 
 Yet, round the buds, though widely scattered. 
 
 The same soft perfume still we find; 
 And thus, a though the tie is broken 
 
 That linked us round our mother s knee, 
 The memory of words we ve spoken, 
 
 When we were children light and free, 
 Will, like the perfume of each blossom, 
 
 Live in our hearts where er we roam, 
 As when we s!ept on one fond bosom, 
 
 And dwelt within one happy home. 
 
 I know that changes have come o er us , 
 
 Sweet sisters ! we are not the same, 
 For different paths now lie before us, 
 
 And a l three have a different name; 
 And yet, if Sorrow s dimming fingers 
 
 Have shadowed o er each youthful brow, 
 So much of light around them lingers 
 
 I can not trace those shadows now. 
 Ye both have those who love ye only, 
 
 Whose dearest hopes are round you thrown, 
 While, like a stream that wanders wildly, 
 
 Am I, the youngest, wildest one. 
 
 My heart is like the wind, that beareth 
 
 Sweet scents upon its unseen wing 
 The wind ! that for no creature careth, 
 
 Yet stealeth sweets from everything; 
 It hath rich thoughts for ever leaping 
 
 Up, like the waves of flashing seas, 
 That with their music still are keeping 
 
 Soft time with every fitful breeze ; 
 Each leaf that in the bright air quivers, 
 
 The sounds from hidden solitudes, 
 And the deep flow of far-off rivers, 
 
 And the loud rush of many floods : 
 
 All these, and more, stir in my bosom 
 
 Feelings that make my spirit glad, 
 Like dewdrops shaken in a blossom ; 
 
 And yet there is a something sad 
 Mixed with those thought^, like clouds, that hover 
 
 Above us in the quieter, 
 Veiling the moon s pale beauty over, 
 
 Like a dark spirit brooding there. 
 
AMELIA B. WELBY. 
 
 sai 
 
 But, sisters ! those wild thoughts were never 
 
 Yours : ye would not love, like me, 
 To gaze upon the stars for ever, 
 
 To hear the wind s wild melody. 
 Ye d rather look on smiling faces, 
 
 And linger round a cheerful hearth, 
 Than mark the stars bright hiding-places 
 
 As they peep out upon the earth. 
 But, sisters ! as the stars of even 
 
 Shrink from Day s go den-flashing eye, 
 And, melting in the depths of heaven, 
 
 Veil their soft beams within the sky ; 
 So shall we pass, the joyous-hearted, 
 
 The fond, the young, like stars that wane, 
 Till every link of earth he parted, 
 
 To form in heaven one mystic chain. 
 
 MUSINGS. 
 
 I WANDERED out one summer night, 
 
 T was when my years were few, 
 The wind was singing in the light, 
 
 And I was singing too; 
 The sunshine lay upon the hill, 
 
 The shadow in the vale, 
 And here and there a leaping rill 
 
 Was laughing on the gale. 
 One fleecy cloud upon the air 
 
 Was all that met my eyes ; 
 It floated like an angel there 
 
 Between me and the skies; 
 I clapped my hands and warbled wild. 
 
 As here and there I flew, 
 For I was but a careless child, 
 
 And did as children do. 
 The waves came dancing o er the sea 
 
 In bright and glittering bands ; 
 Like little children, wild with glee, 
 
 They linked their dimpled hands 
 They linked their hands, but, ere I caught 
 
 Their sprinkled drops of dew, 
 They kissed my feet, and, quick as thought, 
 
 Away the ripples flew. 
 The twilight hours, like birds, flew by, 
 
 As lightly and as free ; 
 Ten thousand stars were in the sky, 
 
 Ten thousand on the sea ; 
 For every wave with dimpled face, 
 
 That leaped upon the air, 
 Had caught a star in its embrace, 
 
 And held it trembling there. 
 The young moon, too, with upturned sides 
 
 Her mirrored beauty gave, 
 And, as a bark at anchor rides, 
 
 She rode upon the wave ; 
 The sea was like the heaven above, 
 
 As perfect and as whole, 
 Save that it seemed to thrill with love 
 
 As thrills the immortal soul. 
 
 The leaves, by spirit-voices stirred, 
 
 Made murmurs on the air, 
 Low murmurs, that my spirit heard 
 
 And answered with a prayer ; 
 
 For twas upon that dewy sod, 
 
 Beside the moaning seas. 
 I learned at first to worship God 
 
 And sing such strains as these. 
 The flowers, all folded to their dreams, 
 
 Were bowed in slumber free 
 By breezy hills and murmuring streams, 
 
 Where er they chanced to be ; 
 No guilty tears had they to weep, 
 
 No sins to be forgiven ; 
 They closed their leaves and went to sleep 
 
 Neath the blue eye of heaven !" 
 No costly robes upon them shone, 
 
 No jewels from the seas, 
 Yet Solomon upon his throne 
 
 Was ne er arrayed like these ; 
 And just as free from guilt and art 
 
 Were lovely human flowers, 
 Ere Sorrow set her bleeding heart 
 
 On this fair world of ours. 
 
 I heard the laughing wind behind 
 
 A-playing with my hair ; 
 The breezy fingers of the wind 
 
 How cool and moist they were ! 
 I heard the night-bird warbling o er 
 
 Its soft, enchanting strain : 
 I never heard such sounds before, 
 
 And never shall again. 
 
 Then wherefore weave such strains as these, 
 
 And sing them day by day, 
 When every bird upon the breeze 
 
 Can sing a sweeter lay 1 
 I d give the world for their sweet art, 
 
 The simple, the divine 
 I d give the world to melt one heart 
 
 As they have melted mine ! 
 
 THE LITTLE STEP-SOX. 
 
 I HAVE a little step-son, 
 
 The loveliest thing alive: 
 A noble, sturdy bov is he, 
 
 And yet he s only five; 
 His smooth cheek hath a blooming glow, 
 
 His eyes are black as jet, 
 And his lips are like two rosebuds, 
 
 All tremulous and wet : 
 His days pass off in sunshine, 
 
 In laughter, and in song, 
 As care ess as a summer rill, 
 
 That sings itself along ; 
 For like a pretty fairy tale., 
 
 That s all too quickly told, 
 Is the young life of a little one 
 
 That s only five years old. 
 
 He s dreaming on his happy couch 
 
 Before the day grows dark, 
 He s up with morning s rosy ray 
 
 A-singing. with the lark; 
 Where er the flowers are freshest, 
 
 Where er the grass is green, 
 With light locks waving on the wind 
 
 His fairy form is seen, 
 
332 
 
 AMELIA B. WE LEY. 
 
 Amid the whistling March winds, 
 
 Amid the April showers; 
 He warbles with the singing birds 
 
 And blossoms with the flowers ; 
 He cares not for the summer heat, 
 
 He cares not for the cold 
 My sturdy litt e step-son, 
 
 That s only five years old. 
 
 How touching tis to see him clasp 
 
 His dimpled hands in prayer, 
 4 nd raise his little rosy face 
 
 With reverential air ! 
 How simple is his eloquence, 
 
 How soft his accents fall, 
 When pleading with the King of kings 
 
 To love and bless us all ! 
 And when from prayer he bounds away 
 
 In innocence and jov, 
 The blessing of a smiling God 
 
 Goes with the sinless boy ; 
 A little lambkin of the flock, 
 
 Within the Savior s fold, 
 Is he my lovely step-son, 
 
 That s only five years old. 
 
 I have not told you of our home, 
 
 That in the summer hours 
 Stands in its simple modesty 
 
 Half hid among the flowers ; 
 I have not said a single word 
 
 About our mines of wealth 
 Our treasures are this little boy, 
 
 Contentment, peace, and health ; 
 For even a lordly hall to us 
 
 Would be a voiceless place 
 Without the gush of his glad voice, 
 
 The gleams of his bright face : 
 And many a court y pair, I ween. 
 
 Would give their gems and gold 
 For a noble, happv boy, like ours, 
 
 Some four or five years old. 
 
 THE PRESENCE OF GOD. 
 
 THOIT, who flingst so fair a robe 
 
 Of clouds around the hills untrod 
 Those mountain-pillars of the globe, 
 
 Whose peaks sustain thy throne, God 
 All glittering round the sunset skies, 
 
 Their trembling folds are lightly furled, 
 As if to shade from mortal eyes 
 
 The glories of yon upper world ; 
 There, while the evening star upholds 
 In one bright spot their purple folds, 
 My spirit lifts its silent prayer, 
 For thou, the God of love, art there. 
 
 The summer flowers, the fair, the sweet, 
 
 Upspringing freely from the sod, 
 In whose soft looks we seem to meet 
 
 At every step thy smiles, O God ! 
 The humblest soul their sweetness shares. 
 
 They bloom in palace-hall, or cot ; 
 Give me, O Lord ! a heart like theirs, 
 
 Contented with my lowly lot! 
 Within their pure, ambrosial bells, 
 
 In odors sweet, thy Spirit dwells ; 
 
 Their breath may seem to scent the air 
 
 T is thine, O God ! for thou art there. 
 
 List ! from yon casement low and dim 
 
 What sounds are these that fili the Lreeze 1 
 It is the peasant s evening hymn 
 
 Arrests the fisher on the seas : 
 The old man leans his silver hairs 
 
 Upon his light-suspended oar, 
 Until those soft, delicious airs 
 
 Have died like ripples on the shore. 
 Why do his eyes in softness roll ? 
 What melts the manhood from his soul ? 
 His heart is filled with peace and prayer, 
 For thou, O God ! art with him there. 
 The birds among the summer blooms 
 
 Pour forth to thee their strains of love, 
 When, trembling on uplifted plumes, 
 
 They leave the earth and soar above ; 
 W T e hear their sweet, familiar airs 
 
 W here er a sunny spot is found ; 
 How lovely is a life like theirs, 
 
 Diffusing sweetness all around ! 
 From clime to clime, from pole to pole, 
 Their sweetest anthems softly roll, 
 Till, melting on the realms of air, 
 Thy still, small voice seems whispering there. 
 The stars, those floating isles of liffht, 
 
 Round which the clouds unfurl their sails. 
 Pure as a woman s robe of white 
 
 That trembles round the form it veils, 
 They touch the heart as with a spell, 
 
 Yet, set Ihe soaring fancy free, 
 And oh how sweet the tales they tell ! 
 
 They tell of peace, of love, and thee ! 
 Each raging storm that wildly blows, 
 Each balmy gale that lifts the rose, 
 Sublimely grand, or softly fair, 
 They speak of thee, for thou art there, 
 
 The spirit oft oppressed with doubt, 
 
 May strive to cast thee from its thought, 
 But who can shut thy presence out, 
 
 Thou mighty Guest that com st unsought ! 
 In spite of all our cold resolves, 
 
 Whate er our thoughts, where er we be, 
 Still magnet-like the heart revolves, 
 
 And points, all trembling, up to thee; 
 We can not shield a troubled breast 
 Beneath the confines of the blest, 
 Above, below, on earth, in air, 
 For thou the living God art there. 
 
 Yet, far beyond the clouds outspread, 
 
 Where soaring Fancy oft hath been, 
 There is a land where thou hast said 
 
 The pure of heart shall enter in ; 
 In those far realms so calmly bright 
 
 How many a loved and gentle one 
 Bathes its soft plumes in living light 
 
 That sparkles from thy radiant throne ! 
 There souls, once soft and sad as ours, 
 Look up and sing mid fadeless flowers ; 
 They dream nc more of grief and care, 
 For thou, the God of peace, art there. 
 
CATHERINE WARFIELD AND ELEANOR LEE. 
 
 CATHERINE ANN WARE and ELEANOR PER 
 CY WARE, daughters of the Hon. Nathaniel 
 Ware, of Mississippi, were born near the ci 
 ty of Natchez. After studying several years 
 in the best seminaVies of their native state, 
 they completed their education in one of the 
 most fashionable schools of Philadelphia, af 
 ter leaving which they passed some time in 
 travel, and became known in many brilliant 
 circles for the vivacious grace of their man 
 ners and their fine intelligence. Their home 
 beside the " Father of Waters" was exchang 
 ed for one in Cincinnati, and during the resi 
 dence of Judge Ware in that city they were 
 married : the eldest to Mr. Warfield, of Lex 
 ington, Kentucky, and the other to Mr. Lee, 
 then of Vicksburg, and now of a place called 
 Bachelor s Bend, about twelve miles from 
 the Mississippi river. 
 
 Their first appearance in the literary world 
 was in a volume entitled The Wife of Leon, 
 and other Poems, by Two Sisters of the West, 
 printed in New York in 1843. It consisted 
 principally of fruits of desultory repose from 
 the excitements of society short pieces, 
 written to wile away time, and gratify a taste 
 for composition without a thought that they 
 would ever meet the eyes of strangers; and 
 it was riot until urged to do so by several 
 friends distinguished for their abilities in lit 
 erature, that they consented to the wishes of 
 their father in giving them to the press. 
 
 The reception of these poems vindicated 
 their publication. They were reviewed with 
 many expressions of approval in the most 
 critical journals, and with especial praise in 
 The New York Evening Post and The New 
 Mirror, conducted by two poets, of very dif 
 ferent characters, but both destined to places 
 among the standard authors of the age and 
 country. A second edition of this volume 
 appeared, under the names of the authors, in 
 Cincinnati, in the autumn of 1848. 
 
 In 1846 Mrs. Warfield and Mrs. lee pub 
 lished a new collection of their writings, un 
 der the title of The Indian Chamber and other 
 Poems, in which there is evinced a very de 
 cided advancement in reflection, feeling and 
 
 art. They exhibit more readiness of epithet 
 and imagery, from the observation of nature 
 and the experience of life, and have more 
 meaning and earnestness. 
 
 We have in neither volume any intima 
 tion of the respective shares of the authors 
 in its production, but it would not have es 
 caped the detection of the most careless read 
 ers that the poems are by different hands, of 
 very different though perhaps not very une 
 qual powers. Among them are many speci 
 mens of ingenious and happy fancy, of bold 
 and distinct painting, and of tasteful, harmo 
 nious, and sometimes sparkling versification ; 
 but not a few of them would have been much 
 better if the authors had recollected that the 
 word " thing" can never be properly applied 
 to a human intelligence except in expression 
 of contempt, and that " redolent," " fraught," 
 "glee, "and some half dozen other pet phrases 
 of poetasters, convenient enough for rhyming 
 and filling out lines, have, from the manner 
 in which they are commonly applied, become 
 offensive, unless used sparingly and with the 
 most exact propriety. Illustrations of the 
 fault to which we refer a fault by no means 
 peculiar to the "Two Sisters of the West," 
 may be found in that line of The Bird of 
 Washington, in which the soul is styled 
 
 A proud, triumphant thing: 
 
 and in Remorse, where the word "adored," 
 which is as sacred to one purpose as the He 
 brew characters that syllabled the highest 
 name of the Creator, and which expresses no 
 possible extravagance of feeling toward a hu 
 man being, is used for loved, or though 
 this would be in very bad taste for to?r- 
 s hipped. 
 
 The two volumes that have been referred 
 to do not comprise all nor perhaps the best 
 of the compositions of their authors. They 
 are both experienced and successful writers 
 of prose, and Mrs. Warfield has written a 
 novel, that, if published under her real name, 
 would surprise those who have formed th 
 most favorable estimates of her powers, by 
 its fine description, genial wit, and criticism 
 of society and manners. 
 
 333 
 
334 
 
 CATHERINE WARFIELD AND ELEANOR LEE. 
 
 REMORSE. 
 
 THE clay had died in splendor royally, 
 Mid draperies of purple and of gold, 
 And crimson banners waving o er its bier; 
 And the last yellow tints were fading fast 
 From earth and sea, and paling in the west 
 Into that vague, gray shadow which comes down 
 Over the breast of Nature, as deep thought 
 Upon the human spirit. Strangely linked 
 With all the deeper yearnings of the soul 
 The secrets of the inner fane art thou, 
 Mysterious Twilight ! thou, who didst prevail 
 O er Chaos with a drear and brooding weight, 
 And hadst a name ere night and day began. 
 Still, in thine ancient guise, thou walkst the earth, 
 Thou shadow of the Almighty ! and ca 1st up 
 Conscience, and Thought, and Memory, that sleep 
 Through the glad, busy day and dreaming night, 
 In long and sad array. There lives not one 
 O er whom thine influence falls not mournfully ; 
 Thou art prophetic to the few who boast 
 A happy past, and with thy shadowy hand 
 Seemest to lift a corner of the veil 
 That shuts their present from futurity. 
 And to the mourning spirit thou revealest 
 Pale, haunting faces lost, yet loved not less 
 Than when they knew no better home than earth, 
 And wore a human guise. But in the soul 
 Where lies a hidden sting of pain and wrong, 
 Of vain regret, or, darker still, remorse 
 Thou bringst, O shadowy Twilight, brooding gloom, 
 And dearth, and restlessness, and agony ! 
 
 Within a southern garden, where the breath 
 Of flowers went up like incense, and the plash 
 Of falling fountains made a murmuring voice 
 Of music sweet, yet same, there paced a man 
 Restlessly to and fro : the lingering light 
 Fell on his features, pale and beautiful 
 As those of the old statues, and with much 
 Of the ideal tenderness that breathed 
 Around the marble, till it rivalled life 
 Yet with a latent sternness, lurking still 
 About the august, high forehead, and the lip, 
 And the fine, sweeping profile, that recalled 
 Yet more a statue s strong similitude. 
 But wild and stormy changes now o ercast 
 Those noble features- sick and wringing pain, 
 Then shuddering shame, anxiety, despair : 
 These, plainly as my hand hath traced the words, 
 Were written on his aspect ; and a prayer 
 Which, in its brief and utter desolateness, 
 Bears more of misery than any boon 
 A human heart may crave oft left his lip, 
 Unconscious of its utterance: " Oh, my God, 
 Let me forget or suffer me to die !" 
 
 A step was near him. Suddenly he turned, 
 And bent a long, sad gaze on one whose touch 
 Jfad broken the dark spell ; whose white hand lay 
 Yet on his arm in tenderness; whose eyes 
 Were raised with such intensity of love, [down, 
 They touched the springs of tears. Then he bowed 
 And veiling in his hand his quivering face, 
 Wept silently and long ; while mournfully 
 over him that ange minister, 
 
 Whose love alone poured balm into his wound, 
 And shone a star o er the dark waste of life. 
 
 Still in that southern garden lingered they, 
 The pa e and suffering man, and she who seemed 
 The genius of his fate. The stars were met 
 In starry conclave in their halls above, 
 And the moon, in the deep and quiet heaven, 
 Rose high amid a maze of fleecy clouds, 
 Toward the noon of night. Beneath a bower 
 Where breathed the odorous jessamine, they sat 
 Communing of the irrevocable past. 
 His voice was lifted in the solemn night 
 In passionate remorse : he, who had stood 
 At morn within the crowded council-hall, 
 Pouring abroad a gush of eloquence 
 That stirred the heart as with a trumpet-note, 
 That called up Feeling from its inmost cell, 
 And followed Motive to its hidden source, 
 And touched the electric chain of Memory, 
 Until the mighty mass became as one 
 Sentient and breathing soul beneath his spell , 
 He, the adored, the proud, the eloquent, 
 The stateliest amid men, now filled the hush 
 Of night with dark bewai lings, while each pause 
 Of that sad, thrilling voice, was filled by tones 
 Unutterably musical and soft, 
 Urging Love s fondest prayer : 
 
 " Be calm, mine own ! 
 
 The strife was not thy seeking : thou didst bear, 
 (Thou, who art fearless as an eagle plumed,) 
 With saintlike meekness, much of taunt and wrong, 
 Much scorn and injury, ere they could urge 
 Thy hand against the man thou lovest so well 
 Ay, with a brother s tenderness. Be firm ; 
 Turn from such memories." He arose, and paced 
 The moonlight bower with folded arms, and head 
 Bowed to his breast. " They haunt me yet," he said, 
 " That manly form, those large, dark, joyous eyes, 
 The stately step, the sweet, fresh, ringing laugh, 
 (Marion ! it was a sound that had no peer, 
 Save at a fountain, at its freshest source, 
 Gushing through mountain clefts,) these, these arise, 
 Darkly and terribly. These haunt me still. 
 
 "I would forgetfulness were mine! full oft 
 That old wild tale of oriental lands 
 Comes back with all its witchery to my brain, 
 Fresh as when o er its page I hung entranced 
 In my glad boyhood, neath the summer boughs. 
 The waters of oblivion ! where are they. 
 Those crystal waters in their marble font 1 
 For one deep draught I would surrender all 
 The eloquence, the power, the wealth, the fame, 
 That I have made mine own all, all, save thee, 
 And go with toiling hands and hopeful heart 
 Forth on the waste of life ! Forgetfulness 
 I ask but this !" He paused, and choking back 
 A tide of agony, went on once more 
 In calmer tones : " It is not oft, mine own 
 Believe me oh ! not often that my soul 
 Opens her prison chambers, and gives forth 
 Her captive anguish. Even in solitude 
 My habit is not this ; and thou hast known, 
 Hitherto, from some gloomy mood alone, 
 Some sad, fantastic humor, some wild dream, 
 Whose mutterings startled thee from midnight sleep 
 
CATHERINE WARFIELD .\ND ELEANOR LEE. 
 
 3fi 
 
 To. fearfu watches something of the spell 
 That binds me, as the serpent binds the bird 
 Help essly in its strong and poisonous coils. 
 But there are times when, armed with fearful 
 
 strength, 
 
 Burst from their stony cells those prisoners pale, 
 Those memories that may not, will not die, 
 Those agonies that keep a quenchless flame 
 Burning within their dungeons, as of old 
 J he virgins of the Sun fed, day and night, 
 T. cir fire for ages. These arise to daunt, 
 To taunt me wildly, and I leave the halls, 
 The haunts of men even from thy presence flee, 
 Often to the dark forest, or the brink 
 Of the deep-moaning and unresting sea, 
 To battle with the fiend !" 
 
 Again that voice, 
 
 Clear as a silver lute, and redolent 
 With love and hope, fi Ied the deep hush of pain : 
 "Thy virtues, thy profound humility, 
 Thy chanty for all, thy tenderness, 
 Thy genius, which on eagles wings ascends 
 Above the arrows of thine enemies, 
 A star for men, a light for after-times 
 Ay, more than these, thy deep and stern remorse : 
 Shall not these prove atonement at the shrine 
 Of God, for that one deed not all thine own, 
 But forced upon thee by fatality; 
 A sorrow, riot a crime !" 
 
 " It is in vain" 
 
 He spoke as one in utter hopelessness 
 Marion ! thy gentle sophistry is vain ; 
 I have essayed that specious reasoning 
 That would wipe out, from hands imbrued in blood, 
 The dark, the gory stain. Much have I striven 
 To call up all my wrongs, and these array 
 Against the moment when my hand unloosed 
 A spirit from its tenement of clay. 
 I have remembered all my injuries, 
 Lived o er again our feuds ; recalled his wild 
 And insolent insults nay, the very blow 
 That maddened me. 
 
 Yet have all these failed, 
 As mists before the red, uprising sun. 
 Compared to that brief instant. I wou d give 
 Life, that once more those lips were here to heap 
 Their bitterest imprecations on my head ; 
 J hat hand again, a portion of our mould, 
 That smote me, harshly, undeservedly ; 
 That haughty heart still beating high with wrath, 
 O er which the sod now presses heavily 
 Or that I lay beside him in the grave ! 
 I am not self-deluded. I am borne 
 By some invisible agency along 
 To power, to fame ; and inspiration hangs 
 About my lips that startles me at times, 
 Even as the crowd is startled; and I feel 
 That 1 am changed that with intensity 
 Of thought and passion, genius was aroused, 
 Born, like the wondrous bird of Araby, 
 From ashes, desolation, and from death. 
 A giant earthquake hath thrown up to light 
 The gems that sparkled in the secret mine, 
 But overwhelmed the blossoms that made fair 
 Earth s bosom. Never, never more 
 
 The earnestness, the loveliness of life, 
 Shall shine on me ! Its fitful glare alone 
 Illumines my ill-ordered destiny ; 
 And in the wild excitement of the crowd, 
 The clamor of the multitude, the voice 
 Of adulation, and the strife for fame, 
 I lose alone the memory of my doom. 
 The torchlight of existence still remains : 
 Its sunlight hath departed, and as flame 
 Consumes the a iment that feeds its life, 
 And self-destroyed expires so must my soul 
 Perish amid its ashes. 
 
 , Nay ! the time 
 
 Is near, my Marion, when this voice shall cease 
 To pour its bitter plainings on thine ear ; 
 A sickness and a weariness have crept 
 Of late across my spirit, and a vague 
 And dreamy craving for reality 
 For all things seem like shadows. Men move by 
 As forms we dimly see in midnight dreams; 
 And the vast crowd, with all its upcast heads, 
 Seems often a phantasma to mine eyes. 
 All but the sense of one great agony, 
 And that is like the sea, unslumbering 
 And that is like the stars, unchangeable 
 Ay, deep and constant as my love for thee, 
 Is that remorse !" 
 
 She clung to him, she bathed 
 His brow with tears. She did not speak, she knew 
 How vain the task to soothe such agony. 
 But mutely in her bleeding heart she prayed 
 The mood might pass, or that the oblivious grave 
 Might close o er both. 
 
 They rose at last, and traced 
 Through a dim, intricate path, where orange-boughs 
 Made sweet the earth beneath their feet, the way 
 To their majestic home ; and through its halls 
 Arid colonnades of marble, where up sprang 
 Many a low-voiced fountain, many a shaft 
 Of porphyry, and marble bearing up 
 Vases of antique splendor, filled with flowers, 
 They passed in silence and in gloom of soul, 
 Even as those shapes that move, a restless throng, 
 Within the halls of Eblis. Peace be theirs ! 
 
 DEATH ON THE PRAIRIE. 
 
 IT was a morn of autumn : wide, and vast, 
 And boundless, to the eyes of those who gazed 
 Upon its waste of verdure, as the sea, 
 The prairie stretched away ; and through its Ion,; 
 Luxuriant grass the breath of morning crept, 
 Swaying its flexile blades, until they rose 
 And fell in masses like the ocean-waves, 
 And rendered, like those billows of the deep, 
 The sunbeam s splendor back, for yet the dews 
 W T ere on their mobile surface. 
 
 In this wide 
 
 Monotony of beauty there appeared 
 One landmark only for the weary eye, 
 And that was but a wreathing cloud of smoke. 
 Uprising from the fires of those who made 
 A temporary sojourn on that waste 
 Of verdure. They had paused where burst a sprirg 
 
336 
 
 CATHERINE WARFIELD AND ELEANOR LEE. 
 
 Up from the very sod, and made its way 
 Quietly through the grass; a silver stream, 
 Narrow and winding, and almost unseen 
 At a few paces from its humble source. 
 Here had they sadly rested, for the sake 
 Of one whose weariness of heart and limb 
 Demanded such repose, and whose parched lips 
 Drank eagerly and gratefully their last 
 Refreshment from the waters of the wild. 
 She lay upon the rude and hasty couch 
 Which kindly hands had framed, that dying girl, 
 And gazed upon the blue, autumnal sky, 
 With something half ecstatic in her pale 
 And parted lips, and in her large blue eyes, 
 And in the folding of her wan, slight hands, 
 Clasped as in prayer. 
 
 She had besought them not 
 To raise between her and the firmament 
 Shelter or shade. It was her dying wish 
 To feel the breeze, the sunlight, on her brow ; 
 For she was one, though lowly of descent, 
 Imbued with fine perceptions, and the high 
 And spiritual love of Nature long 
 Had made its home and altar in her heart : 
 She seemed not of the mould of those who hung 
 In watchful love around her. 
 
 It may be 
 
 That Death, the.chastener, from her lineaments 
 Had banished all the dross of earthly thought, 
 And stamped the impress of the angel there. 
 The loveliness of that seraphic face 
 No marble might surpass nor in the halls 
 Of princely dwellings, where the beautiful 
 Wear the fine delicacy of the flower, 
 Hath eye beheld a brow more beautiful 
 Than hers, the daughter of the emigrant. 
 The deep solemnity of hopeless grief 
 Reigned o er the band of kindred wayfarers 
 A silence only broken by the low 
 And pleading voice of one who knelt beside 
 The perishing girl, and clasped her chilling hands, 
 And wiped the dews from her transparent brow 
 With the devoted tenderness of despair. 
 Silent and stern, with folded arms, and lips 
 Compressed in agony, the father stood, 
 And gazed upon the li!y of his race 
 Broken and crushed ; and the strong, swarthy lines 
 Of his embrowned and manly countenance 
 Seemed deeper ploughed by that short space of grief 
 Than all its years of toil, of change, of pain. 
 And silent, too, the brothers grouped around, 
 Yet shaken in their stillness, as the pines 
 That bow their stately crests before the winds; 
 Arid prone on earth her youthful sister lay, 
 With hidden face, and low, convulsive sobs. 
 But, to the last, the mother faltered not: 
 She who had cherished to idolatry 
 That young, frail creature, and divided her 
 With an impassible devotedness 
 From all things else on earth. She who had erred 
 In the injustice of her tenderness, 
 And poured the vials of maternal love 
 A thousand-fold on one she faltered not, 
 But with a bursting heart put back the tide 
 Of anguish and despair, and lifted up 
 
 Her soul with that already plumed for heaven, 
 And strove to smoothe the bitterness of death 
 With words of consolation, peace, and prayer, 
 And holy inspiration. 
 
 " Sing to me, 
 
 Kind mother; sing to me that old sweet hymn, 
 Which in our village church so solemnly 
 Welcomed each sabbath day : I well believe 
 That, even mid the harmonies of saints, 
 It will return to me/ 
 
 T was difficult 
 
 To take from agony a voice for song ; 
 Yet the devoted mother poured the strain 
 Of holy beauty on the dying ear, 
 That seemed to drink its melody with joy, 
 And stifled the deep groans that often strove 
 To pass her lips. Hers was heroic love. 
 Unheeded by the mourning band, a child 
 A bright-haired boy had wandered from their fires 
 To gather prairie-flowers, and now returned 
 With a rich store of fragrance and of bloom, 
 And with the impulse of a loving heart 
 Showered the rich blossoms on his sister s breast. 
 She turned her face to his, illumined with 
 A smile of most benignant tenderness, 
 And claspii% in her own his rosy hands, 
 She gave into his trust a solemn charge : 
 " Be true to man, to God : be staff and stay 
 To our beloved parents ; falter not 
 In the good path and we shall meet again !" 
 Simple those words, and few : yet shall they cling 
 Upon his brain while Memory holds her seat, 
 And with their serious tenderness and truth 
 Charm, like a talisman, his soul from wrong. 
 The hours wore on, and gradually the face 
 Of the departing maiden more and more 
 Revealed the hand of the victorious king. 
 The strife was almost over if, indeed, 
 Strife might be called that ebbing of the tide 
 Of pain, of consciousness, of life away. 
 Yet still there was a duty unfulfilled 
 A prayer unuttered and it was the last 
 That left the wan lips of the fainting girl, 
 Breathed on a mother s ear : 
 
 " W f hen I a in gone, 
 
 Take from my breast a curl of raven hair, 
 And mingle with it one long braid of mine 
 Then send them home to him ; and say I died 
 Peacefully trusting he would turn away 
 From his dark course of passion and of sin, 
 And meet me there !" 
 
 She raised her hand on high : 
 It fell a lifeless thing a tremor shook 
 Her delicate frame, as the breeze shakes the flower, 
 And life was gone ! 
 
 They broke the sod of flowers, 
 And made her virgin grave beside the spring 
 Which laved her dying brow, and went their way 
 Across the wilderness. 
 
 Nor is there aught 
 
 To mark her lone and distant resting-place; 
 The human eye might seek in vain to trace 
 The vestige of her last repose, amid 
 The long, rank grass that shadows all the eartl 
 But angels know the spot, and guard it well. 
 
CATHERINE WARFIELD AND ELEANOR LEE. 
 
 LEGEND OF THE INDIAN CHAMBER. 
 
 " BASIL ! set my house in order. 
 
 For, when I return to-day, 
 I shall bring with me a stranger, 
 
 Tarrying on his homeward way. 
 Open fling the Indian Chamber, 
 
 And the arras free from mould; 
 There array a goodly banquet, 
 
 Such as cheered my sires of old 
 When, from chase or war returning, 
 
 Dukes and princes of my line, 
 From the evening till the morning, 
 
 Filled the cup and drained the wine." 
 
 " Master, in thy lordly castle 
 
 There are many halls of pride, 
 Where no damps the walls encumber 
 
 Where no spells of gloom abide. 
 In the gallery of the Titans, 
 
 In the hall of Count Lothaire, 
 In the grand saloon of columns, 
 
 Better had ye banquet there. 
 But the dreary Indian Chamber, 
 
 Oh ! bethink you, master mine 
 There have slept, in mortal slumber, 
 
 All the princes of your line. 
 
 " There the mourners ever gather, 
 
 Forth to bear the noble dead 
 There you saw your stately father, 
 
 And your noble brother laid ; 
 There, save in these times of anguish, 
 
 Never, since my life began, 
 Entered in a ray of sunlight, 
 
 Or the step of mortal man. 
 And the sounds of mystic meaning 
 
 Master ! need I speak of these ] 
 Which from that lone eastern chamber 
 
 Meet the ear the spirit freeze !" 
 
 With a brow of haughty pallor, 
 
 Straight the baron turned away, 
 In a scornful accent saying, 
 
 " Tis my mandate, slave! obey." 
 Then in haste, with gloomy aspect, 
 
 Forth he went upon his steed, 
 Rushing headlong on his pathway, 
 
 Like an evil spirit freed. 
 And with sad and stricken spirit, 
 
 Basil watched his lord depart, 
 While a dark and evil omen, 
 
 Hearse-like, pressed upon his heart. 
 
 Long he lingered at the portal, 
 
 Bound as with a gloomy dream; 
 Long he looked upon the landscape, 
 
 Which before him ceased to seem ; 
 Then, with low and prayerful mutterings, 
 
 Shaking oft his tresses gray, 
 Clasping oft his withered fingers, 
 
 Basil went upon his way. 
 Passed he up the ancient stairway, 
 
 Groped he through the echoing aisle, 
 Where, to seek the olden chapel, 
 
 Oft had passed a kingly file. 
 22 
 
 Climbed he the remotest turret 
 
 Of that castle grand and vast, 
 And before the Indian Chamber 
 
 Wearily he paused at last : 
 Yes, a moment there he faltered, 
 
 He who oft had stood the shock 
 Of the hottest, fiercest battle, 
 
 Firm as a primeval rock. 
 On the bolt his fingers trembled, 
 
 Scarcely could their strength unclose 
 The immense and ponderous fastening, 
 
 Rusted by its long repose. 
 
 Yet a moment yet a moment, 
 
 Ere the door was open flung, 
 Paused the old and awe-struck Basil, 
 
 Fervent avcs on his tongue. 
 As if Heaven his prayer had answered, 
 
 Peace and comfort round him stole, 
 And a calm and lofty courage 
 
 Nerved his hand and filled his soul. 
 With a slight, yet sudden effort, 
 
 Back the oaken door he threw, 
 And upon the darkened threshold 
 
 Stood the fearful place to view. 
 
 Dark and dreary was that chamber, 
 
 Which in lengthened gloom appeared, 
 With its dark and mystic arras, 
 
 Wrought in symbols wild and weird. 
 Lifelike were the gorgeous figures, 
 
 Giantlike they seemed to loom 
 In the dim, imperfect twilight 
 
 Of that long-forsaken room. 
 Warily the old man entered : 
 
 With a solemn step he trod 
 Through the drear and dark apartment, 
 
 Trusting to his fathers God. 
 In the ample hearth he kindled 
 
 Brands that, in departed days, 
 Quenched and blackened, had been left there- 
 Strange and ghostly seemed their blaze. 
 And upon the marble table 
 
 Ranged the regal store of plate, 
 And arrayed the goodly banquet, 
 
 As became his master s state : 
 Urn, and vase, and chalice, brimming 
 
 With the floods of ruby wine, 
 As beseemed the dukes and princes 
 
 Of that mighty Norman line. 
 Then he silently betook him 
 
 To his first-appointed task 
 Wiping from the ancient arras 
 
 Many a spot of mould and mask. 
 But the dark and loathing horror, 
 
 It befits me not to speak, 
 Which, while still his task pursuing, 
 
 Shook his hand, and blanched his cheek 
 For he could not but remember 
 
 How, in long-departed years, 
 Woven was that wondrous fabric 
 
 By the spells of Indian seers. 
 Wrought with themes of Hindoo storj. 
 Lifelike, in their coloring bold, 
 Yemen s fall, and Vishnu s glory. 
 
 Was that arras quaint and old 
 
338 
 
 CATHERINE WARFIELD AND ELEANOR LEE. 
 
 Juggernaut s remorseless chariot, 
 
 Funeral pyre, and temp e proud, 
 Bungalow, and rajah s palace, 
 
 With their strange and motley crowd; 
 Jungle low, and flower-crowned river, 
 
 Dancing-girls, with anklets bright 
 These, like gorgeous dreams of fever, 
 
 Crowded on the gazer s sight. 
 
 And the long and twisting serpents, 
 
 And the tigers crouching grim, 
 Seemed the dark and fearful guardians 
 
 Of that Indian Chamber dim. 
 To the simple, earnest spirit 
 
 Of the old and faithful man. 
 For a Christian hand to touch them, 
 
 Was to merit Christian ban. 
 Saint and martyr inly calling, 
 
 Still he wrought his master s will, 
 When a terror more appalling 
 
 Caused his very veins to chill. 
 
 In that dreary Indian Chamber, 
 
 Strangely grand and desolate, 
 With its long and hearse-!ike hangings, 
 
 Stood a plumed bed of state. 
 Closed around with solemn mystery 
 
 As a kingly purple pall, 
 High it towered, a silent history 
 
 Of departed funeral. 
 And with eyes amazed distended 
 
 By their dread and spell-bound look 
 Basil gazed in stony horror : 
 
 Lo ! the trailing curtains shook. 
 
 And a groan of hollow anguish 
 
 From the close-drawn hangings broke, 
 As if one for ages sleeping 
 
 Suddenly to torture woke. 
 God of terror ! slowly parted 
 
 By a wan and spectral hand, 
 BacK were drawn the purple curtains 
 
 Back, as with a spirit wand : 
 And a face of ghostly beauty, 
 
 With its dark and streaming hair, 
 And its eyes of ghoul-like brightness, 
 
 Seemed upon his sense to glare. 
 
 How in that terrific moment 
 
 Basil s senses kept their throne, 
 Is alone to God and angels 
 
 In its wondrous mystery known. 
 How he gathered faith and firmness 
 
 To uplift his ag d hand, 
 And address the disembodied, 
 
 Man may never understand : 
 Save that in the ghostly features 
 
 Still a semblance he descried 
 To the high and lovely lady 
 
 \V r ho had been his master s bride. 
 
 " Tn the name of God the Father, 
 In the name of God the Son, 
 
 In the name of a l good angels, 
 Speak to me, unearthly one ! 
 
 Answer why, from wave returning, 
 Moanest thou in anguish here ; 
 
 Surely for some holy purpose 
 
 I Thou art suffered to appear. 
 
 If for evil I defy thee, 
 
 By the cross upon my breast, 
 By my faith in life eternal, 
 
 And my yearning hope for rest." 
 
 Then with moveless lips the phantom 
 
 Spake in low and hollow tones, 
 As if shaped to words and meaning 
 
 Were the night-wind s hollow moans. 
 " Basil ! darkly was I murdered 
 
 Sailing on the river Rhine, 
 By thy harsh and ruthless master, 
 
 Last of an illustrious line. 
 False the tale his lips have uttered, 
 
 Fa .sc the tears his eyes have shed 
 I was hurled upon the water 
 
 With the marks of murder red ! 
 
 " Basil ! thou art good and faithful : 
 
 Thee I charge, by hopes divine, 
 With a hundred chanted masses 
 
 Shrive my soul by Mary s shrine. 
 None shall stay thy holy fervor, 
 
 None forbid the sacred rite ; 
 For thy master s life is destined 
 
 To expire in crime to-night !" 
 Fixed in awe, the aged Basil 
 
 Gazing on the spectre stood ; 
 But not with the waning phantom 
 
 Passed away his icy mood. 
 
 Long in that drear Indian Chamber, 
 
 Like a form of sculptured stone, 
 Kept the old and awe-struck servant 
 
 Vigil terrible and lone ; 
 Till the sound of coining footsteps, 
 
 And of voices loud and clear, 
 And of ringing spur and sabre, 
 
 Smote upon his spell-bound ear: 
 And in haste the door was opened, 
 
 And with high and plumed crest 
 Entered in the noble baron, 
 
 Ushering in a foreign guest. 
 
 " Basil ! all is dark and sombre ; 
 
 Cast fresh fagots on the hearth, 
 And illume the silver sconces 
 
 To preside above our mirth. 
 Let the chamber glow like sunlight ; 
 
 111 this gloom befits our glee." 
 Then loud laughed the stately baron 
 
 Seldom, seldom so laughed he. 
 Twas a sound that chilled with terror 
 
 All that knew his nature well: 
 Twas the heaven s electric flashing 
 
 Ere the bolt of lightning fell. 
 
 Now the chamber glowed like sunl uht- 
 
 Strange and wondrous in that glare 
 Was the weird and ancient arras, 
 
 Were the figures woven there ; 
 Wavering with the flickering torches 
 
 Seemed the motley multitude ; 
 Twisting serpent, rolling chariot, 
 
 All with ghostly life imbued ; 
 
CATHERINE WARFIELD AND ELEANOR LEE. 
 
 Crouching tiger hideous idol 
 
 All that grand and splendid masque. 
 Mixture strange of truth and fable, 
 
 As in sunshine seemed to bask. 
 " Long have I sojourned in India," 
 
 Thus the lofty stranger said; 
 "There, for wealth and idle treasure, 
 
 Health, and youth, and blood, I shed. 
 And I feel like one who dreameth, 
 
 As I on these walls- survey 
 All those objects so familiar, 
 
 Year by year and day by day." 
 Ail in strange and blended splendor, 
 
 Like a vision of the night - 
 Never yet on earthly fabric 
 
 Glowed a scene so rich and bright 
 Fixed upon the spell-wrought arras 
 
 Was the eastern stranger s gaze ; 
 With his head and heart averted, 
 
 There he dreamed of other days : 
 When, with eyes of watchful terror, 
 
 Basil saw his master glide, 
 And within the golden chalice 
 
 Brimming with its purple tide, 
 With a stealthy, glancing motion, 
 
 As a conjuror works his spell, 
 Cast a drop of ruby liquid 
 
 From a tiny rose-lipped shell. 
 " Hither turn, thou eastern dreamer: 
 
 Pledge me in this golden cup ; 
 Tis our old and feudal custom 
 
 He who tastes must quaff it up. . 
 Why that brow of gloom and pallor 1 
 
 Answer, why that sudden start 1" 
 Low the eastern stranger muttered 
 
 Of the spells that chilled his heart : 
 "No ! my eves have not deceived me, 
 
 As I fondly dreamed erewhile ; 
 See the victim s bride descending 
 
 From the rajah s funeral pile. 
 " See, she cometh ! wildly streaming 
 
 Are her robes her raven hair : 
 See, she cometh ; darkly gleaming 
 
 From her eyes their fell despair ! 
 Now she stands beside the altar, 
 
 In the Brainin s sacred shrine ; 
 Now a jewelled cup she seizes 
 
 Flames within it seem to shine; 
 Now, O God ! she leaves the arras 
 
 Steps upon the chamber floor : 
 We are lost the prey of demons ; 
 
 Baron, I will gaze no more !" 
 Turned away the soul-sick stranger, 
 
 Traversed he the chamber high, 
 When the baron s awful aspect 
 
 Chained his step and fixed his eye. 
 Never from his memory perished 
 
 Through long years of after-life 
 In the camp, the court, the battle, 
 
 That remorseful face of strife. 
 Rooted as a senseless statue, 
 
 In his hand the cup of gold ; 
 Lips apart and eyes distended, 
 
 Stood the Norman baron bold ! 
 
 | High her cup the phantom lifted, 
 
 Flames within it seemed to roll ; 
 Then alone these words she uttered 
 
 " Pledge me in thy feudal bowl !" 
 Chained and speechless, guest and servant 
 
 Saw the baron drain the draught; 
 Saw him fall convulsed and blackened 
 
 As the deadly bowl he quaffed ; 
 Saw the phantom bending o er him, 
 
 As libation on his head 
 Slowly, and with mien exulting, 
 
 From the cup of flames she shed. 
 
 Then a shriek of smothered anguish 
 
 Rang the Indian Chamber through 
 W T hile a gust of icy bleakness 
 
 From the waving arras blew. 
 In its breath the watchers shuddered, 
 
 And the portals open rung, 
 And the ample hearth was darkened, 
 
 As if ice was on it flung; 
 And the lofty torches warring 
 
 For a moment in the blast, 
 In their sconces were extinguished, 
 
 Leaving darkness o er the past ! 
 
 SHE COMES TO ME. 
 
 SHE comes to me in robes of snow, 
 The friend of all my sinless years- - 
 
 Even as I saw her long ago, 
 
 Before she left this vale of tears. 
 
 She comes to me in robes of snow- 
 She walks the chambers of my rest, 
 
 With soundless footsteps, sad and slow, 
 That wake no echo in my breast. 
 
 I see her in my visions yet, 
 I see her in my waking hours ; 
 
 Upon her pale, pure brow is set 
 
 A crown of azure hyacinth flowers. 
 
 Her golden hair waves round her face, 
 And o er her shoulders gently falls : 
 
 Each ringlet hath the nameless grace 
 My spirit yet on earth recalls. 
 
 And, bending o er my lowly bed, 
 
 She murmurs " Oh, fear not to die ! 
 
 For thee an angel s tears are shed, 
 An angel s feast is spread on high. 
 
 t; Come, then, and meet the joy divim 
 That features of the spirits wear 
 
 A fleeting pleasure here is thine 
 An angel s crown awaits thee there. 
 
 " Listen ! it is a choral hymn" 
 And, gliding softly from my couch, 
 
 II-T spiru-face waxed faint and dim, 
 Her white robes vanished at my touch 
 
 She leaves me with her robes of snow 
 Hushed is the voice that used to thrill 
 
 Around the couch of pain and wo 
 She leaves me to my darkness still. 
 
340 
 
 CATHERINE WARFIELD AND ELEANOR LEE. 
 
 I WALK IN DREAMS OF POETRY. 
 
 I WALK in dreams of poetry ; 
 
 They compass me around ; 
 1 hear a low and startling voice 
 
 In every passing sound ; 
 I meet in every gleaming star, 
 
 On which at eve 1 gaze, 
 A deep and glorious eye, to fill 
 
 My soul with burning rays. 
 
 I walk in dreams of poetry ; 
 
 I he very air I breathe 
 Is filled with visions wild and free, 
 
 That round my spirit wreathe ; 
 A shade, a sigh, a floating cloud, 
 
 A low and whispered tone 
 These have a language to my brain, 
 
 A language deep and lone. 
 
 I walk in dreams of poetry, 
 
 And in my spirit bow 
 Unto a lone and distant shrine, 
 
 That none around me know. 
 From every heath and hill I bring 
 
 A garland rich and rare, 
 Of flowery thought and murmuring sigh, 
 
 To wreathe mine altar fair. 
 I walk in dreams of poetry : 
 
 Strange spells are on me shed ; 
 I have a world within my soul 
 
 Where no one else may tread 
 A deep and wide-spread universe, 
 
 Where spirit-sound and sight 
 Mine inward vision ever greet 
 
 With fair and radiant light. 
 My footsteps tread the earth below, 
 
 While soars my soul to heaven : 
 Small is my portion here yet there 
 
 Bright realms to me are given. 
 I clasp my kindred s greeting hands, 
 
 Walk calmly by their side, 
 And yet I feel between us stands 
 
 A barrier deep and wide. 
 I watch their deep and household joy 
 
 Around the evening hearth, 
 When the children stand beside each knee 
 
 With laugh and shout of mirth. 
 But oh ! I feel unto my soul 
 
 A deeper joy is brought 
 To rush, with eagle wings and strong, 
 
 Up in a heaven of thought. 
 I watch them in their sorrowing hours, 
 
 When, with their spirits tossed, 
 I hear them wail with bitter cries 
 
 Their earthly prospects crossed; 
 I feel that I have sorrows wild 
 
 In my heart buried deep 
 Immortal griefs, that none may shar ) 
 
 With me nor eyes can weep. 
 And strange it is : I can riot say 
 
 If it is wo or weal, 
 Thut thus unto my heart can flow 
 
 Fountains so few may feel ; 
 The gift thai can my spirit raise 
 
 The cold, dark earth above, 
 
 Has flung a bar between my soul 
 And many a heart I love. 
 
 Yet I walk in dreams of poetry, 
 
 And would not change that path, 
 Though on it from a darkened sky 
 
 W 7 ere poured a tempest s wrath. 
 Its flowers are mine, its deathless blooms, 
 
 I know not yet the thorn ; 
 I dream not of the evening glooms 
 
 In this my radiant morn. 
 
 Oh ! still in dreams of poetry 
 
 Let me for ever tread, 
 With earth a temple, where divine, 
 
 Bright oracles are shed : 
 They soften down the earthly ills 
 
 From which they can not save ; 
 They make a romance of our life ; 
 
 They glorify the grave. 
 
 REGRET. 
 
 No voice hath breathed upon mine ear 
 
 Thy name since last we met ; 
 No sound disturbed the silence drear, 
 Where sleep entombed from year to year 
 Thy memory, my regret. 
 
 It was not just, it was not meet, 
 
 Poi one so loved as I, 
 To coldly hear thy parting feet, 
 To lose for aye thine accents sweet, 
 
 Nor feel a wish to die. 
 
 Oh, no ! such heartless calm was not 
 
 The doom deserved by thee ; 
 Thou whose devotedness was bought 
 By years of gloom, an alien s lot, 
 
 .A grave beyond the sea. 
 
 I deemed not then that time at last 
 Should link with tears thy name ; 
 And from the ashes of the past, 
 That Sorrow, with its bitter blast, 
 Should wake the avenging flame. 
 
 I deemed not then that when the grave 
 
 Had made thee long its own, 
 My soul with yearnings deep should crave 
 The truth, the fervent love that gave 
 
 Thy heart iis passionate tone. 
 And yield to olden memories 
 
 The boon it once denied, 
 When, with calm brow and tearless eyes, 
 I saw thy faded energies, 
 
 I mocked thy broken pride. 
 All this is past ; thou art at rest, 
 
 And now the strife is mine : 
 In turn I bear the weary breast, 
 The restless heart, the brain oppressed, 
 
 That in those years were thine. 
 
 And all too late, the consciousness 
 
 Of thy perfections rare, 
 Thy deep, thy fervent tenderness, 
 Thy true, thy strong devotedness, 
 
 Have waked me to despair. 
 
CATHERINE WARFIELD AND ELEANOR LEE. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I XEVEK knew how dear thou wert, 
 
 Till I was on the silent sea ; 
 And then my lone and musing heart 
 
 Sent hack its passionate thoughts to thee. 
 When the wind slept on ocean s hreast, 
 
 And the moon smiled ahove the deep, 
 I longed thus o er thy spirit s rest 
 
 A vigil like yon moon to keep. 
 
 When the gales rose, and, tempest-tossed, 
 
 Our struggling ship was sore heset, 
 Our topsails rent, our bearing lost, 
 
 And fear in every spirit met 
 Oh ! then, amid the midnight storm, 
 
 Peace on my soul thy memory shed : 
 The floating image of thy form 
 
 Made strong my heart amid its dread. 
 
 Yes ! on the dark and troubled sea, 
 . I strove my spirit s depths to know, 
 And found its deep, deep love for thee, 
 
 Fathomless as the gulfs below. 
 The waters bore me on my way 
 
 Yet, oh ! more swift than rushing streams, 
 To thee flew back, from day to day, 
 
 My clinging love my burning dreams. 
 
 THE BIRD OF WASHINGTON. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY AN INCIDENT IN AUDUBON 
 
 ABOVE that dark, romantic stream, 
 Gray rocks and gloomy forests tower, 
 
 And o er its sullen floods the dream 
 Of Lethe seems to lower ; 
 
 Low, shadowed by its frowning steeps, 
 
 The deep and turbid river sweeps. 
 
 It sweeps along through many a cleft 
 
 And chasm in the mountains gray, 
 Which in forgotten years were reft 
 
 To give its waters way ; 
 And far above, in martial lines, 
 Like warriors, stand the plumed pines. 
 Erect and firm they lift on high 
 
 Their pointed tops and funeral spires, 
 And seem to pierce the sunset sky, 
 
 And bask amid its fires ; 
 Arid when the mountain-winds are loud, 
 Their branches swell the anthem proud. 
 
 Few steps have dared those rugged ways 
 
 The precipice is steep and stern ; 
 And those who on its ramparts gaze 
 
 From the drear aspect turn, 
 W T ith little heart to tempt the path 
 Bared by the storm and lightning s wrath. 
 But those who love the awful might 
 
 Of Nature s dreariest solitude, 
 May find on that repulsive height 
 
 A scene to match their mood ; 
 And from its summit look abroad 
 On the primeval works of God. 
 There, in that loneliness profound, 
 
 The soul puts forth a stronger wing, 
 
 And soars, from worldly chains unbound, 
 
 A proud, triumphant thing, 
 To claim its kindred with the sky, 
 And feel its latent deity. 
 
 T was there that, at the set of sun, 
 A traveller watched an eagle s flight 
 
 Now lost amid the vapors dun 
 That ushered in the night, 
 
 Now wheeling through the vault of space, 
 
 In wild intricacies of grace. 
 
 And as declined the crimson gleam 
 Behind the mountain s purple crest, 
 
 He saw him sink, with sudden scream, 
 Upon his rocky nest; 
 
 Then, clambering up the rugged way, 
 
 The traveller sought his kingly prey. 
 
 Through bush and brake, o er loosened rock, 
 That, sliding from his footsteps slow, 
 
 Went plunging with a sudden shock 
 Into the wave below ; 
 
 O er fallen tree, and serpents brood, 
 
 He sought the eagle s solitude. 
 
 Emerging from the coppice dark 
 
 That crowned the frowning precipice, 
 
 He stood in silent awe to mark 
 The fathomless abvss 
 
 Which yawned beneath him deep and stern, 
 
 And barred him from the eagle s cairn. 
 
 A deer, half maddened by the chase, 
 
 Had once in safety leaped across : 
 Such was the legend of the place 
 
 Yet difficult it was 
 For those who heard to comprehend 
 How fear itself such strength could lend. 
 And thus divided from his prey, 
 
 The traveller watched that mountain king, 
 As, gazing on the dying day, 
 
 He sat with folded wing, 
 And looked the fable of the Greek 
 The bird with thunder in his beak. 
 So calm, so full of quiet might 
 
 He seemed upon his craggy throne ; 
 In his dark eye so much of light, 
 
 Of mind, of meaning shone, 
 That for a moment hand and heart 
 Refused to do their deadly part. 
 
 Exulting creature ! thee no more 
 
 The sunlight summoned from thy rest 
 
 On wild and warring wing to soar, 
 With tempest on thy crest; 
 
 No more the glorious day s decline 
 
 Brought calm repose to heart of thine 
 
 Whelmed in the life-stream of thy breast, 
 Thine eaglets perished in their lair, 
 
 And thou, upon thy crag-perched nest, 
 In impotent despair, 
 
 In wild, in sick, in deadly strife, 
 
 Didst yield thy glorious mountain Jife ? 
 
 Then falling from thine eyry lone. 
 
 Where oft with proud, unquailing eyo 
 
 Thou didst survey the noonday sun, 
 
342 
 
 CATHERINE WARFIELD AND ELEANOR LEE. 
 
 To worship or defy ; 
 
 Where oil thy voice outshrieked the blast 
 The stream received his lord at last. 
 
 But. eagle ! no ungenerous foe 
 
 Was he who snatched thee from the wave, 
 And watched thv last, expiring throe 
 
 With sighs for one so Grave : 
 He gave thee, monarch of the river, 
 A name that bids thee live for ever ! 
 
 THE DESERTED HOUSE. 
 
 ROUND that house, deserted lying, 
 Wearily the winds are sighing 
 Evermore with sound undying 
 
 Through the empty window-pane ; 
 As if with its wails distressing 
 It could call each earthly blessing 
 From the sods above them pressing, 
 
 Back to live and breathe again. 
 
 There the cuckoo sits complaining; 
 All night long her voice is straining, 
 And the empoisoned oak-vine training, 
 
 Hangs its tendrils on the wall. 
 Once within those chambers dreaming, 
 Gentle looks of love were gleaming, 
 Gentle tones with deep love teeming 
 
 Did unto each other call. 
 
 Far above the roof-tree failing, 
 See the hoary vulture sailing; 
 MarketK she the serpent trailing 
 
 Underneath the threshold-stone. 
 Heaven s bright messengers resembling, 
 Ringdoves here of old were trembling, 
 As round some fair hand assembling, 
 
 They were fed by her alone. 
 
 Through the chamber-windows prying, 
 Softly on the dark floor lying, 
 See the ghostly moonlight, flying 
 
 Through the untrodden gloom. 
 Seems it not to thee sweet faces, 
 Shadowy forms of vanished graces, 
 Stealing, flitting to their places, 
 
 In that long-forsaken room 1 
 
 Where the darkened stairway windeth, 
 There her brood the eagle mindeth, 
 And with chains Arachne bindeth 
 
 Balustrade to balustrade. 
 Once so lightly upward bounding 
 Fairy steps were heard resounding, 
 While sweet laughter wild, astounding, 
 
 Echoes through the mansion made. 
 
 Round the oaken tables spreading, 
 Through the hall the guests were treading, 
 Where the festal lamps were shedding 
 
 Light upon the ruby wine: 
 Now swift through the doorway shrunken, 
 
 Creeping o er the threshold sunken, 
 With the dew and starlight drunken, 
 Reptile insects seem to twine. 
 
 fn the parlor, long forsaken, 
 
 Once the lute was wont to waken ; 
 
 And with locks all lightly shaken, 
 
 Maids and matrons joined in mirth. 
 Gentle accents here were swelling, 
 Hallowed voices often telling 
 Heaven alone was Virtue s dwelling : 
 
 All these beings rest in earth. 
 
 Mid these garden flowerets pining, 
 Neath the starlight dimly shining, 
 Where the deadly vine is twining, 
 
 Once were glorious bowers. 
 Once were gladsome children playing, 
 O er the grass plots lightly straying, 
 With their golden ringlets swaying 
 
 Neath their crowns of flowers. 
 
 By yon gnarled oak s curious twisting, 
 Here was once a lover s trysting, 
 Fondly to each other listing, 
 
 W r hile they told their plighting vows. 
 Often when the lightning streaketh, 
 And the wind its branches seeketh. 
 Then that olden oak-tree speaketh, 
 
 And sweet voices fill the boughs. 
 
 Could we bring again the glory 
 To this mansion gray and hoary, 
 Flinging light on every story, 
 
 Yet it would be desolate. 
 Yet (they say) tis doomed hereafter; 
 Forms shall gleam from wall and rafter 
 Full of silent tears and laughter, 
 
 Mingling with a human fate. 
 
 Some indeed have said that, creeping, 
 Nightly from the window peeping, 
 Lightly from the casement leaping, 
 
 They a ghostly maid have seen. 
 On the broken gate she swingeth, 
 And her wanlike hands she wringeth, 
 And with garments white she wingeth 
 
 O er the grassy plain so green. 
 
 To the dark oak-tree she cometh, 
 Round its trunk she wildly roameth, 
 Shuddering, as the dark stream foametli ; 
 
 There she roves till break of day. 
 Hers they say was love illicit, 
 Yet from out her murdered spirit 
 This sad mansion did inherit 
 
 A curse never done away ! 
 
 Therefore, in the balance weighing, 
 
 Underneath the rods decaying, 
 
 With their white hands clasped as praying. 
 
 Sleep the owners of the spot ; 
 While this home of the departed, 
 Making sad the lightest-hearted, 
 Standeth still, a house deserted 
 
 By the world, save me, forgot. 
 
SUSAN PINDAR. 
 
 THIS clever young poet was born at Pin 
 dar s Vale, an estate near Wolfert s Roost, 
 the seat of Mr. Irving, on the Hudson. Her 
 fa! her, who had been engaged in commerce, 
 failing in some important speculations, went 
 to New Orleans to retrieve his fortunes, and 
 died there ; and Miss Pindar was soon afier 
 deprived of all near kindred by the decease 
 of her brothers. Her poems have been pub 
 
 lished chiefly in The Knickerbocker Maga 
 zine. Some of them are distinguished fora 
 graceful play of fancy and womanly feeling, 
 and others for a happy vein of wit and hu 
 mor. She seems to write with much facil 
 ity, and the elegance of her compositions 
 indicates the careful mental discipline, with 
 out which no degree of genius has yet pnabled 
 I an. author to win a desirable reputation. 
 
 THE SPIRIT MOTHER. 
 
 ART thou near me, spirit mother, 
 
 When, in the twilight hour, 
 A holy hush pervades my heart 
 
 With a mysterious power : 
 While eyes of dreamy tenderness 
 
 Seem gazing into mine, 
 And stir the fountains of my soul 
 
 Sweet mother, are they thine ] 
 
 Is thine the blessed influence 
 
 That o er my being flings 
 A sense of rest, as though twere wrapped 
 
 Within an angel s wings 1 
 A deep, abiding trustfulness, 
 
 That seems an earnest given 
 Of future happiness and peace 
 
 To those who dwell in heaven ! 
 
 And ofttimes when my footsteps stray 
 
 In error s shining track, 
 There comes a soft, restraining voice, 
 
 That seems to call me back ; 
 I hear it not with outward ears, 
 
 But with a power divine 
 Its whisper thrills my inmost soul : 
 
 Sweet mother, is it thine 1 
 
 It well may be, for know we not 
 
 That beings all unseen 
 Are ever hovering o er our paths, 
 
 The earth and sky between 1 
 They re with us in our daily walks, 
 
 And tireless vigils keep, 
 To weave those happy fantasies 
 
 That bless our hours of sleep ! 
 
 Oh, could we feel that spirit-eyes 
 
 For ever on v?s gaze, 
 And watch each idle thought that threads 
 
 The heart s bewildering maze, 
 Would we not guard each careless word, 
 
 All sinful feelings quell, 
 Lest we should grieve the cherished ones 
 
 We loved on earth so well 1 
 
 Sweet spirit mother, bless thy child ! 
 
 And with a holy love 
 Inspire my feeble energies, 
 
 And lift my heart above ; 
 And when the long-imprisoned soul 
 
 These earthly bonds has riven, 
 Be thine the wing to bear it up 
 
 And waft it on to heaven. 
 
 THE LADY LEONORE. 
 
 OUT upon the waters foaming, 
 
 O er the deep, dark sea, 
 A maiden through the twilight gloaming 
 
 Gazeth earnestly : 
 Mighty waves, tempestuous dashing, 
 
 Burst upon the shore ; 
 Recks she not their angry lashing, 
 Heeds she not the tempest crashing, 
 
 Lady Leonore ! 
 
 She was Beauty s fairest daughter, 
 
 Glorious in her pride ; 
 Noble suitors oft had sought her, 
 
 Countless hearts had sighed ; 
 Vainly the impassioned lover 
 
 Burning words did pour : 
 Bright and cold as stars above her, 
 Failed all tearful sighs to move her, 
 
 Cruel Leonore ! 
 
 One there was, of noble bearing, 
 
 Lowly in his birthi 
 Worthy he of all comparing 
 
 With the great of earth ; 
 Dared he own Love s sacred feeling, 
 
 The humble troubadour 1 
 O er his harp-strings wildly stealing. 
 Every strain his soul revealing, 
 
 Worshipped Leonore. 
 
 Loved she him 1 what soft commotion 
 Stirred within her breast, 
 
 Wakening each fond emotion 
 With a sweet unrest 
 34.1 
 
344 
 
 SUSAN PINDAR. 
 
 Pride all tender ties doth sever 
 
 And they met no more. 
 Could she wed a minstrel ? never ! 
 Left he then his home for ever 
 
 Haughty Leonore ! 
 Now his image sadlv keeping 
 Shrined within her heart, 
 Dimmed her eyes with ceaseless weeping 
 
 Smiles for aye depart : 
 Love with fond resistless yearning 
 
 Bids her him restore ; 
 While the beacon-light is burning, 
 Waiteth she his glad returning, 
 
 Tender Leonore ! 
 Wildly now the tempest rushing 
 
 On its fearful path, 
 Every fated object crushing 
 
 In its furious wrath. 
 List ! that shriek of wo despairing, 
 
 Rising mid the roar; 
 To her heart what anguish bearing, 
 Where she stands the storm-king daring, 
 
 Faithful Leonore ! 
 Soon the early dawn is breaking, 
 
 Glorious and serene, 
 And the sun, in splendor waking, 
 
 Smiles upon the scene. 
 A maiden clasps her lifeless lover 
 
 On the wreck-strewn shore: 
 Moaning surges break above her 
 But for her all storms are over, 
 
 Hapless Leonore ! 
 
 BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQJJEROR 
 
 WITH slow and solemn tread, 
 Through aisles where warrior-figures grim 
 
 Stand forth in shadowy gloom, 
 While loudly pea s the funeral hymn, 
 And censors waft perfume, 
 Bring they the kingly dead. 
 They bear him to his rest, 
 Around whose lofty deeds is cast 
 
 The panoply of fame ; 
 Who gave his war-cry to the blast, 
 And left a conqueror s mighty name 
 His nation s proud bequest. 
 Around his royal bier 
 The chieftains stand, in reverence bowed, 
 
 Amid a hush profound ; 
 When from the vast assembled crowd 
 A solemn voice, with warning sound, 
 Rung on each startled ear. 
 " Forbear !" it cried, " forbear ! 
 This ground mine heritage I claim ; 
 
 Here bloomed our household vine, 
 Until this dread despoiler came, 
 
 And crushed its roots to raise this shrine 
 Fn mockery of prayer ! 
 
 " By all your hopes of earth, 
 As ye before the throne of Heaven 
 In judgment shall appear, 
 
 As ye would pray your sins forgiven, 
 Lay not the tyrant s ashes here 
 Upon my father s hearth !" 
 Mute stood those warriors bold, 
 Each swarthy cheek grew red with shame, 
 
 Tiiat ne er with fear had paled ; 
 And for his dust, before whose name 
 The bravest hearts in terror quailed, 
 They bought a grave with gold. 
 Oh, Victory, veil thy brow! 
 What are thy pageants of an hour 
 
 Thy wreath, when stained with crime 1 
 Oh, fame, ambition, haughty power ! 
 Ye bubbles on the stream of time, 
 W 7 here are your glories now 1 
 
 LAURALIE. 
 
 LIGHTEN than the sunbeam s ray, 
 
 Dawning on the sea, 
 Graceful as a moonlight fay, 
 W T as she who won all hearts away 
 
 Lauralie ! 
 Tresses bright of golden hair, 
 
 Flowing wild and free, 
 Down her cheek beyond compare, 
 Nestling in her bosom fair 
 
 Lauralie ! 
 By the heaven within her eyes, 
 
 Plainly might you see, 
 She had stolen their glorious dyes 
 From the laughing summer skies 
 
 Lauralie ! 
 Less beautiful than good and kind, 
 
 Pure as snow was she ; 
 All gentle thoughts dwelt in her mind, 
 By innocence and truth refined 
 
 Lauralie ! 
 A tall knight came, with bearing bold, 
 
 And tender vows breathed he ; 
 Alas ! a tale too often told, 
 He won her heart, his love waned cold 
 
 Lauralie ! 
 He brought a fair and haughty bride 
 
 From o er the sea ; 
 And as he feasted at her side, 
 A maiden sought his feet and died 
 
 Lauralie ! 
 Now doth the broken-hearted sleep 
 
 Beneath the linden tree ; 
 Above the sod the wild vines creep, 
 And maidens seek the spot to weep : 
 
 Lauralie ! 
 But he the false one ! knows not rest, 
 
 Dishonored now is he ; 
 His faithless bride has left his breast : 
 Oh, well are all thy wrongs redressed, 
 
 Lauralie ! 
 A maniac wild, he smiles no more, 
 
 But wanders by the sea, 
 And mutters, mid the tempest s roar, 
 The name he traces on the shore 
 
 Lauralie ! 
 
SUSAN PINDAR. 
 
 345 
 
 GREENWOOD. 
 
 THERE is a spot far in the green still wood, 
 Where Nature reigns in majesty alone, 
 Where the tall trees for countless years have stood, 
 And flowers have bloomed and faded all unknown; 
 Where fearless birds soar through the morning skies, 
 And fill the air with varied melodies, 
 While o er the water s breast dark shadows brood, 
 Flung by the clustering boughs, a glorious solitude ! 
 
 It is a holy place, so cairn and still, 
 So wrapped in shades of peaceful quietude : 
 A sense of awe the inmost soul doth thrill, 
 And tunes the spirit to a higher mood, 
 When in the precincts of that sacred spot 
 The busy cares of life are all forgot. 
 Let not a foot-fall, with irreverent sound, 
 Startle the echoes of the hallowed ground. 
 
 The dead are with us, where green branches wave, 
 And where the pine boughs cast a deeper gloom ; 
 Yonder a rose-tree marks an early grave, 
 And there proud manhood sleeps beneath the tomb ; 
 The young high heart with vague, bright dreamings 
 Too pure for earth, yet haply now fulfilled, [filled, 
 Lies mute, perchance by his who knew not rest, 
 Until the damp sod pressed his aching breast. 
 
 And doth it not seem meet, 
 That there earth s weary pilgrims should repose, 
 Far from the hurrying tread of eager feet, 
 W T here the last sunbeams at the daylight s close 
 Quiver like golden harpstrings mid the trees, 
 While with a spirit s touch the evening breeze 
 Wakens a requiem for the sleepers there, 
 And Nature s every breath seems fraught with 
 prayer ! 
 
 And when the twilight, in her robe of gray, 
 Flings o er the earth a veil of mystic light, 
 While as the glow of even melts away, 
 Thie stars above grow more intensely bright, 
 Even as the promise that our God has given, 
 As fade our hopes on earth, so grow they bright in 
 
 heaven : 
 
 Might we not deem them holy spirit-eyes, 
 Their vigils keeping in the silent skies 1 
 
 Oh, noiseless city of the mighty dead ! 
 Lonely and mute, yet are thy annals fraught 
 With solemn teachings, and thy broad page spread 
 W T ith the rich lore of soul-awakening thought ; 
 And when the wanderer on the future shores 
 Shall seek its hidden mysteries to explore. 
 Thy hallowed shades, with spirit-voices rife, 
 May lead him onward to the gates of life. 
 
 THOUGHTS IN SPRING-TIME. 
 
 FAR in some still, sequestered nook, 
 Removed from worldly strife, 
 
 How calmly, like a placid brook, 
 Would glide the stream of life ! 
 
 How sweet in temples God has made 
 To raise the voice of prayer, 
 
 While songsters from the leafy glade 
 With music fill the air ! 
 
 Does not the spirit seem to spurn 
 The fettered thoughts of earth, 
 
 And with a holier impulse turn 
 To things of higher birth ] 
 
 When in the forests vast arcade, 
 Where man has seldom trod, 
 
 Amid the works that he has made, 
 We stand alone with God 1 
 
 When gazing on fair Nature s face, 
 
 Untouched by hand of art, 
 In every leaf his love we trace, 
 
 What feelings thrill the heart ! 
 
 The diamond dew-drop on the spray, 
 
 Each early-fading flower, 
 The glittering insects of a day 
 
 All show God s wondrous power : 
 
 And teach us by their helplessness 
 
 Of his unwearied care, 
 Who gives the lily s vestal dress, 
 
 And bids us not despair. 
 
 When in the fading light of day 
 
 The forest trees grow dim, 
 And evening comes in sober gray, 
 
 How turn our souls to him ! 
 
 There is no sound upon the air, 
 
 All living things are still 
 A solemn hush as if of prayer, 
 
 Is brooding o er the hill : 
 While far above, like spirit-eyes, 
 
 The stars their vigils keep, 
 And smile on the fair stream that lies 
 
 Upon earth s breast, asleep. 
 
 There is a spell that binds the heart 
 At this most hallowed hour, 
 
 And bids all earth-born thoughts depart 
 Beneath its holy power. 
 
 And when to all created things 
 
 A voice of praise is given, 
 The spirit seems on angel wings 
 
 To soar aloft to Heaven. 
 
CAROLINE MAY. 
 
 Miss CAROLINE MAY, a daughter of the 
 Rev. Edward Harrison May, minister of one 
 of the Reformed Dutch churches in the city 
 of New York, is the author of many very 
 graceful and striking poems ; and during 
 
 the present year she has published, in Phila 
 delphia, a volume entitled Specimens of the 
 America;] Female Poets. Miss May hasgiven 
 few of her compositions to the public, and the 
 following, except one, are now first printed, 
 
 THE SABBATH OF THE YEAR 
 
 IT is the sabbath of the year ; 
 
 And if ye 11 walk abroad, 
 A holy sermon ye shall hear, 
 
 Full worthy of record. 
 Autumn the preacher is ; and look 
 
 As other preachers do, 
 He takes a text from the one Great Book, 
 
 A text both sad and true. 
 
 With a deep, earnest voice, he saith 
 
 A voice of gentle grief, 
 Fitting the minister of Death 
 
 "Ye all fade as a leaf; 
 And your iniquities, like the wind, 
 
 Have taken you away ; 
 Ye fading flutterers, weak and blind, 
 
 Repent, return, and pray." 
 
 And then the Wind ariseth slow, 
 
 And giveth out a psalm 
 And the organ-pipes begin to blow, 
 
 Within the forest calm ; 
 Then all the Trees lift up their hands, 
 
 And lift their voices higher, 
 And sing the notes of spirit bands 
 
 In full and glorious choir. 
 Yes! tis the sabbath of the year! 
 
 And it doth surely seem, 
 (But words of reverence and fear 
 
 Should speak of such a theme,) 
 That the corn is gathered for the bread, 
 
 And the berries for the wine, 
 And a sacramental feast is spread, 
 
 Like the Christian s pardon sign. 
 
 And the Year, with sighs of penitence, 
 
 The holy feast bends o er ; 
 For she must die, and go out hence 
 
 Die, and bo scon no more. 
 Then are the choir and organ still, 
 
 The psalm melts in the air, 
 The Wind bows down beside the hill, 
 
 And all are hushed in prayer. 
 Then comes the Sunset in the west, 
 
 Like a patriarch of old, 
 Or like a saint who hath won his rest, 
 
 His robes, and his crown of gold ; 
 And forth his arms he stretch eth wide ; 
 
 And with solemn tone and clear 
 He blesseth, in the eventide, 
 
 The sabbath of the Year. 
 
 TO A STUDENT. 
 
 GIVE thyself to the beauty 
 Of this September day ! 
 And let it be thy duty 
 
 To treasure every ray 
 Of the sweet light that streams abroad, 
 An emblem of its Maker, God ! 
 
 Oh ! put away the learning 
 
 Of science and of art; 
 And stifle not the yearning 
 
 That swells within thy heart, 
 To look upon, and love, and bless, 
 Departing Summer s loveliness ! 
 
 Go out into the garden, 
 
 And taste the sweetness there 
 (Thy books will surely pardon 
 
 A pause from studious care) 
 Of the still lavish mignonette, 
 And the few flowers that linger yet. 
 Go, feel the sweet caressing 
 
 Of the south wind on thy cheek 
 Kind as the breathed-out blessing 
 
 Of one too sad to speak ; 
 And mournful in its music low 
 As the dim thoughts of long ago. 
 Lift up thy face in gladness 
 
 To the sky so soft and warm, 
 And watch the frolic madness 
 
 Of the changeful clouds, that form 
 A mimic shape, in every change, 
 Of something beautiful and strange. 
 Or go, if thou wouldst rather, 
 
 To the distant woods, and see 
 How surely thou wilt gather 
 
 From forest harmony 
 Sweet themes for present songs of praise, 
 And hoards of thought for future lays. 
 Oh ! it will make thee better, 
 
 More wise, and glad, and kind, 
 To throw off every fetter, 
 
 And go with pliant mind 
 Like a free, open-hearted child, 
 To wander in the forests wild. 
 The love of Nature heightens 
 Our love to God and man; 
 And a spirit, Love enlightens, 
 
 Farther than others can, 
 Pierces with clear and steady eyes 
 Into the land where true thought lies 
 346 
 
CAROLINE MAY. 
 
 34? 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 T. OX A WARM NOVEMBER. PAY. 
 
 ts this November ] It must surely be 
 That some sweet May day, like a merry girl 
 With eye of laughing blue, and golden curl, 
 
 In the excess of her light-hearted glee, 
 Has run too far from home, and lost her way ; 
 
 And now she trembles, while upon the air 
 
 Flutter the rainbow ribands of her hair, 
 And her warm breath comes quick, for fear her play 
 
 Should into danger her wild footsteps bring ! 
 She sees herself upon the barren heath 
 Where, happily, November slumbereth: 
 
 What, should he wake, and find her trespassing ! 
 Yet, weep not, wanderer ! for I know ere night 
 Thou wilt be home again laughing with safe delight. 
 
 II. OX THE APPROACH OF W1XTER. 
 
 Now comes the herald of stern Winter. Hear 
 The blast of his loud trumpet through the air, 
 Bidding collected families prepare 
 
 For the fierce king, without delay or fear ; 
 
 Not seacoal fires alone, or cordial cheer 
 Of generous wine, or raiment thick and warm, 
 Though these may make the bleak and boisterous 
 
 A picture for the eye, and music for the ear ; [storm 
 
 But laws of kindness, simple and sincere, 
 Patient forbearance, and sweet cheerfulness, 
 And gentle charity that loves to bless 
 
 To hide all faults as soon as they appear. 
 Without such stores, bought by no golden price, 
 Winter may freeze the human blood to ice ! 
 
 III. THOUGHT. 
 
 So truly, faithfully, my heart is thine, 
 Dear Thought, that when I am debarred from thee 
 By the vain tumult of vain company ; 
 
 And when it seems to be the fixed design 
 
 Of heedless hearts, who never can incline 
 Themselves to seek thy rich though hidden charms, 
 To keep me daily from thy outstretched arms 
 
 My soul sinks faint within me, and I pine 
 As lover pines when from his love apart, 
 
 Who, after having been long loved, long sought, 
 At length has given to his persuasive art 
 
 Her generous soul with hope and fear full fraught : 
 For thou rt the honored mistress of my heart, 
 
 Pure, quiet, bountiful, beloved Thought! 
 
 IV. HOPE. 
 
 LIKE the glad skylark, who each early morn 
 Springs from his shady nest of weeds or flowers, 
 
 And whether stormy clouds, or bright, are born, 
 Pierces the realm of sunshine and of showers ; 
 
 And with untiring wing and steady eye, 
 And never ceasing song, (so loud and sweet, 
 So full of trusting love, that it is meet 
 
 It should be poured forth at heaven s portals high,) 
 Bears up his sacrifice of gratitude : 
 
 So Hope the one, the only Hope spreads out 
 Her wings from the heart s tearful solitude, 
 
 (Shadowed too oft with weeds,) quivers about 
 
 The cloudy caves of earth, till sudden strength is 
 
 given 
 To dart above them all, and soar with songs to 
 
 heaven. 
 
 V. MEMORY. 
 
 LIKE the full-hearted nightingale, 
 Who careth not to sing her sad, sweet strain 
 
 To open Daylight ; but when pale 
 And thoughtful Evening sheds o er plain, 
 
 And hill, and va e, a quiet sense 
 Of loneliness unbroken, then she gives 
 
 Her soul to the deep influence 
 Of silence and of shade, and lives 
 
 A life of mournful melody 
 
 In one short night : so Memory, 
 Shrinking from daylight s glare and noise, 
 Reserves her melancholy joys 
 
 For the dark stillness of the holy night, 
 
 And then she pours them forth till dawning light 
 
 LILIES. 
 
 EVERT flower is sweet to me 
 
 The rose and violet, 
 The pink, the daisy, and sweet pea, 
 
 Heart s-ease and mignonette, 
 And hyacinths and daffodillies: 
 But sweetest are the spotless lilies. 
 
 I know not what the lilies were 
 That grew in ancient times 
 
 When Jesus walked with children fair, 
 Through groves of eastern climes, 
 
 And made each flower, as he passed by it, 
 
 A type of faith, content, and quiet. 
 
 But they were not. more pure and bright 
 Than those our gardens show ; 
 
 Or those that shed their silver light, 
 Where the dark waters flow ; 
 
 Or those that hide in woodland alley, 
 
 The fragrant lilies of the valley. 
 
 And I, in each of them, would see 
 
 Some lesson for my youth : 
 The loveliness of purity, 
 
 The stateliness of truth, 
 Whene er I look upon the lustre 
 Of those that in the garden cluster. 
 
 Patience and hope, that keep the sou. 
 
 Unruffled and secure, 
 Though floods of grief beneath it roll, 
 
 I learn, when calm and pure 
 I see the floating water-lily, 
 Gleam amid shadows dark and chilly 
 
 And when the fragrance that ascend* 
 
 Shows where its lovely face 
 The lily of the valley bends, 
 
 I think of that sweet grace, 
 Which sheds within the spirit lowlv. 
 A rest, like heaven s, so safe and hob 
 
:M8 
 
 CAROLINE MAY. 
 
 TO NATURE. 
 
 ROCKS, and woods, and water, 
 
 1 am now with ye ! 
 What a grateful daughter 
 
 Ought I not to be ! 
 Alone with Nature oh, what bliss, 
 What a privilege is this ! 
 
 Give me now a blessing, 
 Help my tongue to speak 
 
 The feelings that are pressing 
 Till my heart grows weak 
 
 Faint with the strange influence 
 
 Of this wild magnificence. 
 
 I shut my eyes a minute, 
 
 Listening to the sound : 
 Music is there in it, 
 
 Stirring and profound ! 
 W r ild-voiced waters, babbling breeze, 
 Telling tales of aged trees : 
 
 And the echoes hearken ! 
 
 There they chiefly dwell, 
 Where those huge rocks darken 
 
 That green woody dell : 
 Hearken with what joy they spring, 
 W hen the village church bells ring ! 
 
 Up I look, and follow 
 
 With my eyes the sound, 
 
 Fading in the hollow 
 Of the hills around ; 
 
 Then I clasp my hands and sigh, 
 
 That so soon the echoes die. 
 
 And I think how fleetly 
 
 Pleasures that we prize, 
 Like the echoes, sweetly 
 
 Fade before our eyes : 
 But tis well, tis well for me, 
 Prone to earth idolatry. 
 
 Oh ! ye kingly mountains, 
 
 With your cedar woods; 
 Closing diamond fountains 
 
 In their solitudes : 
 In my very soul ye dwell 
 Can I love ye then too well 1 
 
 Oh ! ye clouds of glory, 
 
 That your crimson throw 
 On the old rocks hoary, 
 
 While the stream below 
 Sleeps in an unbroken shade: 
 Can too much of ye be made ? 
 
 Can I love to 1 tiger 
 
 In this quiet nook, 
 Tracing .Nature s linger 
 
 Heading .Nature s hook. 
 
 Til! such liiurrinir- !>, wrong 
 
 Ivfuliug, tracing there too long? 
 
 If *o, t .is no pity ; 
 For too soon, alas ! 
 
 To the imprisoning city 
 
 From these haunts I pass, 
 And this quiet nook will be 
 Seen alone in memory. 
 
 Rocks, and woods, and water, 
 
 Now I am with ye, 
 And a grateful daughter 
 
 Ever will I be 
 Loving ye, e en when ye are 
 From my loving heart afar. 
 
 THE SUN. 
 
 WHEN the bounteous summer-time 
 Threw the riches of its prime, 
 Corn arid grass, and fruit and flowers 
 Upon meadows, fields, and bowers; 
 When the teeming earth below 
 Seemed to quiver in the glow 
 Of the sky, intensely bright 
 W r ith luxuriant, melting light - 
 Then we ever tried to shun 
 The advances of the sun : 
 Flying from his burning glance, 
 If he looked at us by chance ; 
 Shutting out his beams, if they 
 Ever boldly dared to stray 
 To our dark and fragrant room. 
 Rendered cool by quiet gloom. 
 Now the summer time is gone, 
 And the winds begin to mourn ; 
 Now the yellow leaves fall down, 
 And the grass is turning brown, 
 And the flowers are dying fast ; 
 Now the chill, destroying blast, 
 Seems to whisper in the vine 
 A sad warning of decline 
 We invoke the sun s warm ray, 
 And we bless it all the day ; 
 Looking up, as to a friend, 
 When its beams on us descend ; 
 And we watch it down the west, 
 As it early sinks to rest: 
 Then, with sorrow at our hearts, 
 Sigh, " How soon the sun departs !" 
 So, in brightest summer tide 
 Of prosperity and pride, 
 When our friends are kind and warm, 
 And we dream not of the storm 
 Then we hide in our recess 
 From the Sun of Righteousness, 
 Closing up our soul and sight 
 To his strong and piercing light. 
 But when the autumn blast 
 Of desertion sweepeth past, 
 Then we cry by grief made bold 
 " We are deso ate and co d ! 
 Let thy beams descend, and heal 
 The sou -smartin r wounds we feel; 
 Shine upon us, Christ our Sun 
 Without taee we are undone ! r 
 
ALICE G. HAYEK 
 
 (Born 1828 Died 1863). 
 
 Miss EMILY BRADLEY, a native of the city 
 of Hudson, in New York, was married in 1846 
 to the late Joseph C. Neal, of Philadelphia, 
 an author and a man who will be regretted 
 while any of his acquaintances are living. 
 She was educated at a boarding-school in 
 New Hampshire, and was known as a wri 
 ter by many spirited compositions, chiefly it 
 prose, published under the signature of " Al 
 
 ice G. Lee." After the death of Mr. Neal, 
 in the summer of 1847, Mrs. Neal contin 
 ued, in Philadelphia, with much tact and 
 ability, the popular journal of which he was 
 the editor, called Neal s Saturday Evening 
 Gazette. She afterwards married Mr. Sam 
 uel L. Haven, of New York, and wrote a 
 number of children s books under the nom 
 de plume of " Cousin Alice," 
 
 THE BRIDE S CONFESSION. 
 
 A SUDDEN- thrill passed through my heart, 
 
 Wild and intense yet not of pain 
 I strove to quell quick-bounding throbs, 
 
 And scanned the sentence o er again. 
 It might have been full idly penned 
 
 By one whose thoughts from love were free 
 And yet, as if entranced. I read 
 
 " Thou art most beautiful to me." 
 
 Thou didst not whisper I was loved; 
 
 There were no gleams of tenderness, 
 Save those my trembling heart would hope 
 
 That careless sentence might express. 
 But while the blinding tears fell fast, 
 
 Until the words I scarce could see, 
 There shone, as through a wreathing mist 
 
 " Thou art most beautiful to me." 
 
 To thee 1 I cared not for all eyes, 
 
 So I was beautiful in thine ! 
 A timid star, my faint, sad beams 
 
 Upon thy path alone should shine. 
 Oh, what was praise, save from thy lips 1 
 
 And love should all unheeded be, 
 So T cou d hear thy bless -M! voice 
 
 Say, " Thou art beautiful to me." 
 
 And I have heard those very words 
 
 Blushing beneath thine earnest gaze 
 Though thou perchance hadst qtuite forgot 
 
 They had been said in bygone days: 
 While clasped hand and circling arm 
 
 Then drew me nearer still to thee, 
 Thy low voice breathed upon mine ear- - 
 
 " Thou, love, art beautiful to me." 
 
 And, dearest, though thine eyes alone 
 
 May see in me a single grace, 
 I care not, so thou e er canst find 
 
 A hidden sweetness in my face. 
 And if, as years and cares steal on, 
 
 Even that lingering light must flee, 
 What matter, if from thee I hear 
 
 " Thou art still beautiful to me !" 
 
 MIDNIGHT AND DAYBREAK. 
 
 I HAD been tossing through the restless night, 
 Sleep banished from my pillow, and my brain 
 Weary with sense of dull and stifling pain, 
 
 Yearning and praying for the blessed light. 
 
 My lips moaned thy dear name, beloved one! 
 Yet I have seen thee lying stiff and cold, 
 Thy form bound only by the shroud s pure fold, 
 
 For life with all its suffering was done. 
 
 Then agony of loneliness o ercame 
 My widowed heart ; night would fit emblem seem 
 For the evanishing of that bright dream : 
 
 The heavens were dark, my life henceforth the same: 
 No hope its pulse within my breast was dead. 
 
 Once more I sought the casement. JLo ! a ray, 
 Faint and uncertain, struggled through the gloom, 
 And shed a misty twilight on the room ; 
 
 Long watched-for herald of the coming day ! 
 
 It brought a thrill of gladness to my breast. 
 With clasped hands and streaming eyes I prayed, 
 Thanking my God for light, though long delayed ; 
 
 And gentle calm stole o er my wild unrest. 
 
 " Oh soul !" I said, " thy boding murmurs cease ; 
 Though sorrow bind thee as a funeral pall, 
 Thy Father s hand is guiding thee through all ; 
 
 His love will bring a true and perfect peace. 
 Look upward once again : though drear the night, 
 Earth may be darkness, Heav n will give thee light." 
 
 THE CHURCH. 
 
 CLAD in a robe of pure and spotless white, 
 The youthful bride with timid step comes forth 
 To greet the hand to which she plights her troth, 
 
 Her soft eyes radiant with a strange delight. 
 
 The snowy veil which circles her around 
 Shades the sweet face from every gazer s eye, 
 And thus enwrapped, she passes calmly by 
 
 Nor casts a look but on the unconscious ground 
 
 So should the Church, the bride elect of Heaven- 
 Remembering Whom she goeth forth f o meet 
 349 
 
350 
 
 ALICE G. HAVEN. 
 
 And with a truth that can not brook deceit 
 Holding the faith which unto her is given 
 Pass through this world.which claims her for awhile, 
 \or cast about her longing look, nor smile. 
 
 BLIND! 
 
 ;i moment she was blind for life." 
 
 BLIND, said you"? Blind for life! 
 Tis but a jest no, no, it can not be 
 That I no more the b ess. d light may see ! 
 
 Ob, what a fearful strife 
 Of horrid thought is raging in my mind ! 
 I did not hear aright " For ever blind !" 
 
 Mother, you would not speak 
 Auii ht but the truth to me, your stricken child: 
 Tell me I do but dream ; my brain is wild, 
 
 And yet my heart is weak. 
 Oh, mother ! fold me in a close embrace 
 Bend down to me that dear, that gentle face. 
 
 I can not hear your voice ! 
 Speak louder, mother. Speak to me, and say 
 Tins frightful dream will quickly pass away. 
 
 Have I no hope, no choice 1 
 
 Heaven ! with light has sound, too, from me fled 1 
 Call, shout aloud, as if to wake the dead ! 
 
 Thank God ! I hear you now : 
 
 1 hear the beating of your troubled heart ; 
 With every wo of mine it has a part. 
 
 Upon my upturned brow 
 
 The hot tears fall from those dear eyes for me : 
 Once more, oh is it true I may not see 7 
 
 This silence chills my blood. 
 Had you one word of comfort, all my fears 
 Were quickly banished : faster still the tears, 
 
 A bitter, burning flood, 
 
 Fall on my face, and now one trembling word 
 Confirms the dreadful truth my cars have heard ! 
 
 Why weep you 1 I am calm : 
 My wan .ip quivers not my heart is still. 
 My swollen temples see, they do not thrill ! 
 
 That word was as a charm ; 
 Tell me the worst: all, all I now can bear; 
 I have a fearful strength that of despair. 
 
 What is it to be blind 1 
 To be shut out for ever from the skies 
 To see no more the " light of loving eyes" 
 
 And, as years pass, to find 
 My lot unvaried by one passing gleam 
 Of the bright woodland or the flashing stream 1 
 
 To feel the breath of Spring, 
 Yet not to view one of the tiny flowers 
 That come from out the earth with her soft showers ; 
 
 To hear the bright birds sing, 
 And feel, while listening to their joyous .train, 
 My heart can ne er know happiness aga .n ! 
 
 Then in the solemn night 
 To lie alone, while all anear me sleep, 
 A.ml laney fearful forms about me creei; : 
 
 Starting in wild ajfri-ht. 
 
 To know, if true, T could not have the power 
 I To ward off danger in that lonely hour. 
 
 And as my breath came thick 
 To feel the hidoous darkness round me press, 
 Adding new terror to my loneliness; 
 
 While every pulse leaped quick 
 To clutch and grasp at the black, stifling air 
 Then sink in stupor from my wild despair. 
 
 It comes upon me now ! 
 
 I can not breathe ; my heart grows quick and chill ; 
 Oh, mother, are your arms about me still 
 
 Still o er me do you bow? 
 And yet I care not : better all alone 
 No one to heed my weakness should I moan. 
 
 Again ! I will not live. 
 Death is no worse than this eternal night 
 Those resting in the grave heed not the light ! 
 
 Small comfort can ye give. 
 Yes, Death is welcome as my only friend ; 
 In the calm grave my sorrows will have end. 
 
 Talk not to me of hope ! 
 Have you not told me it is all in vain 
 That while I live I may not see again 7 
 
 That earth, and the broad scope 
 Of the blue heaven that all things glad and free 
 Henceforth are hidden tell of hope to me ] 
 
 It is not hard to lie 
 
 Calmly and silently in that long sleep ; 
 No fear can wake me from that slumber deep. 
 
 So, mother, let me die : 
 I shall be happier in the gentle rest 
 Than living with this grief to fill my breast. 
 
 " God tempers tlie wind to the shorn lamb." Sterne. 
 
 THANK. God that yet I live ! 
 In tender mercy, heeding not the prayer 
 I boldly uttered in my first despair, 
 
 He would not rashly give 
 The punishment an erring spirit braved. 
 From sudden death in kindness I was saved. 
 
 It was a fearful thought 
 
 That this fair earth had not one p easure left! 
 I was at once of sight and hope bereft. 
 
 My soul was not yet taught 
 To bow submissive to the sudden stroke ; 
 Its crushing weight my heart had well-nigh broke. 
 
 W ords are not that can tell 
 The horrid thought that burned upon my brain, 
 That came and went with madness still the same 
 
 A black and icy spell 
 
 Thatfroze my life-blood. stopp d my flutteringbreath, 
 Was laid upon me even " life in death." 
 
 Long, weary months crept by, 
 And I refused all comfort; turned aside, 
 Wishing that in my weakness I had died. 
 
 I uttered no reply, 
 
 But without ceasing wept and moaned, and prayed 
 The hand of Death no longer might be stayed. 
 
 I shunned the gaze of all: 
 I knew that pity dwelt in every look ; 
 Pity e en then my proud heart could not brook ; 
 
ALICE G. HAVEN. 
 
 351 
 
 Though darkness as a pall 
 Circled me round, each mournful eye 1 felt 
 That for a moment on my features dwelt. 
 
 You, dearest mother, know 
 I shrank in sullenness from your caress; 
 Even your kisses added to distress, 
 
 For burning tears would flow 
 As you bent o er me, whispering, " Be calm, 
 He who hath wounded holds for thee a balm." 
 
 He did not seern a friend : 
 I deemed in wrath the sudden blow was sent 
 From a strong arm that never might relent; 
 
 That pain alone would end 
 With life for, mother, then it seem to me 
 That long arid dreamless would death s slumber be. 
 
 That blessed illness came : 
 
 My weakened pulse now bounded wild and strong. 
 While soon a raging fever burned along 
 
 My worn, exhausted frame ; 
 And for the time all knowledge passed away 
 It mattered not that hidden was the day. 
 
 The odor of sweet flowers 
 
 Came stealing through the casement when I wok;, 
 When the wild fever-spell at last was broke ; 
 
 And yet for many hours 
 I laid in dreamy stillness, till your tone 
 Called back the life that seemed for ever flown, 
 
 You, mother, knelt in prayer ; 
 While one dear hand was resting on my heac 1 , 
 With sobbing voice, how fervently you plead 
 
 For a strong heart, to bear 
 
 The parting which you feared " Or, if she live, 
 Comfort, O Father, to the stricken give ! 
 
 " Take from her wandering mind 
 The heavy load which it so long hath borne, 
 Which even unto death her frame hath worn : 
 
 Let her in mercy find, 
 
 That though the earth she may no longer see, 
 Her spirit still can look to Heaven and thee." 
 
 A low sob from me stole : 
 A moment more, your arms about me wound, 
 My head upon your breast a pillow found ; 
 
 And through my weary soul 
 A holy calm came stealing from on high : 
 Your prayer was answered I was not to die. 
 
 Then when the bell s faint chime 
 Came floating gently on the burdened air, 
 My heart went up to God in fervent prayer. 
 
 And, mother, from that time 
 My wild thoughts left rne, hope returned once more : 
 I felt that happiness was yet in store. 
 
 Daily new strength was given : 
 For the first time since darkness on me fell, 
 I passed with more of joy than words can tell 
 
 Under the free, blue heaven ; 
 
 I bathed my brow in the cool, gushing spring : 
 How much of life those bright drop seemed to bring ! 
 
 I crushed the dewy leaves 
 Of the pale violets, and drank their breath 
 Though I had heard that at each floweret s deatft 
 
 A sister blossom grieves. 
 I did not care to see their glorious hues, 
 Fearing the richer perfume I might lose. 
 
 Then in the dim old wood 
 I laid me down beneath i bending tree, 
 And dreamed, dear mother, waking dreams of Ihe j 
 
 I thought how just and good 
 The Power that had so gently sealed mine eyes, 
 Yet bade new pleasures and new hopes arise. 
 
 For now in truth I find 
 My Father all his promises hath kept : 
 He comforts those who here in sadness wept. 
 
 " Eyes to the blind" 
 
 Thou art, O God ! Earth I no longer see, 
 Yet trustfully my spirit looks to thee. 
 
 A MEMORY. 
 
 SLOWLY fades the misty twilight 
 
 O er the thronged and noisy town ; 
 Storms are gathered in the distance, 
 
 And the clouds above it frown. 
 Yet before me leaves sway lightly 
 
 In the hushed and drowsy air, 
 And the trees new-cloth ed in verdure 
 
 Have no summer of despair. 
 
 I have gazed into the darkness, 
 
 Seeking in the busy crowd 
 For a form once passing onward 
 
 With a step as firm and proud ; 
 For a face upturned in gladness 
 
 To the window where I leaned, 
 Smiling with an eager welcome, 
 
 Though a step but intervened. 
 
 Even now my cheek is flushing 
 
 With the rapture of that gaze, 
 And my heart as then beats wildly. 
 
 Oh, the memory of those days 
 As a dear, dear dream it cometh, 
 
 Swiftly as a dream it flies ! 
 No one springeth now unto me, 
 
 Smiling wim such earnest eyes 
 
 No one hastens home at twilight, 
 
 Watching for my hand to wave : 
 For the form I seek so vainly 
 
 Sleepeth in the silent grave ; 
 And the eyes have smiled in dying 
 
 Blessing rne with latest, life 
 Oh, my friend ! above the discord 
 
 Of the last, wild, earthlv strife. 
 
CAROLINE H. CHANDLER. 
 
 THE maiden name of this fine writer was 
 HIESKILL. She was married several years 
 ago to Mr. M. T. W. Chandler, a son of the 
 Hon. Joseph R. Chandler, of Philadelphia, 
 
 which is her native city. Her poems have 
 appeared from time to time in the United 
 States Gazette, and in the Philadelphia mag 
 azines. 
 
 TO MY BROTHER. 
 
 " Tlie love where Death hath =et his seal, 
 Nor age can dull, nor rival steal. 
 
 Nor falsehood disavow." Byron. 
 
 WELCOME, brother, to our household meeting, 
 
 Welcome again from o er the distant sea ; 
 Long have we looked for thy familiar greeting. 
 
 Long have we yearned to gaze once more on thee. 
 Daily and nightly for thy safe returning 
 
 Have prayers ascended from our watchful hearts, 
 When, as before a shrine, for ever burning, 
 
 The lamp of love its holy light imparts. 
 
 How have we missed thee in our joy and sorrow ! 
 
 How have we daily marked thy vacant place ! 
 How have we fondly sighed for the fair morrow, 
 
 That should restore to us thine own dear face ! 
 The chain of love hath lost a link without thee 
 
 And all too slowly runs the golden sand 
 Till that sweet time when, circled round about thee, 
 
 Safe in our midst, we may behold thee stand. 
 
 Yet with our welcome mingle strains of sadness 
 
 Unheard before amidst our household mirth ; 
 Hushed are the wonted tones of joy and gladness, 
 
 For ever quenched the light upon our hearth. 
 The star is hidden from our earnest gazing, 
 
 Silent the music in the troubled air, 
 Yet do we surely know, to heaven upraising 
 
 Our eyes all dim with tears, that she is there. 
 
 The Father hath received her into glory 
 
 The lamb hath refuge found within the fold; 
 And though her life be as an untold story, 
 
 Her death is writ in characters of gold. 
 Oh! litt e darling, with the tears fast raining, 
 
 And the sick heart a mother only knows 
 I think of thy most patient uncomplaining, 
 
 Submissive ever, till thy sweet life s close; 
 
 Of all the wealth of thy young heart s devotion 
 
 Of the last mortal sickness, faint unrest 
 And oh, dread thought, the little hand s last motion, 
 
 Which even in death would c asp me to thy breast ! 
 Each censure passed in chastening correction 
 
 Upon thy childish faults, so few and light 
 Each look, each hasty word, with vain reflection, 
 
 Comes pressing hard upon my heart to-night. 
 
 Once more, my solitary vigil keeping, 
 I watch beside thee in that silent room ; 
 
 Counting thy pulse, as the hot blood runs leaping 
 Through those young veins, soon quiet in the tomb. 
 
 Once more I mark the dimpled cheek s deep flushing, 
 Seen by the dim night-lamp ; once more thy cry 
 
 Of mortal pain sends with a mighty rushing 
 The awful thought that thou must surely die ! 
 
 These are most dread and fearful recollections, 
 
 Ne er to be blotted out till life hath fled ; 
 Yet are there holy, comforting reflections, 
 
 Which bloom like flowers around the early dead. 
 Oh ! to believe, with meekness uncomplaining, 
 
 In the dear mercy of God s loving sway 
 That our sore loss is her eternal gaining 
 
 That darkness leadeth but to perfect day. 
 
 Ye find us not the same as when we parted, 
 
 Oh, brother mine ! but weary and way-worn 
 Ye find us not the same as when we started 
 
 On the dark road of life, in youth s fair morn. 
 Then, with a holy and a meek confiding, 
 
 And a fond trust, too lovely to endure, 
 We dreamed not of the evil here abiding, 
 
 For to the heart of youth all things are pure. 
 
 The world no longer wears the same gay seeming 
 
 That shone around it once in life s first years, 
 And we have learned to mock its idle dreamings, 
 
 And bathe its brightest hopes with bitter tears. 
 Oh ! dreary is that first most sad awaking 
 
 From the sweet confidence of early truth, 
 To find Hope s rosy glass, in fragments breaking, 
 
 Reflects no more the visions of our youth ! 
 
 Ah ! many hearts have changed since we two parted, 
 
 And many grown apart, as time hath sped 
 Till we have almost deemed that the true-hearted 
 
 Abided only with the faithful dead. 
 And some we trusted with a fond believing, 
 
 Have turned and stung us to the bosom s core ; 
 And life hath seemed but as a vain deceiving, 
 
 From which we turn aside, heartsick and sore. 
 
 Oh, brother ! this is but a mournful greeting 
 
 With which to hail the wanderer s return ; 
 My lay, responsive to my heart s sad beating, 
 
 Tells but of death the ashes and the uin. 
 Yet must we wait, God s own good time abiding. 
 
 And faithful labor at the task below 
 Till his just hand, the good and ill dividing, 
 
 Shall change to future jov our present wo. 
 352 
 
ELIZA L. SPROAT. 
 
 Miss SPROAT is a native arid a resident of 
 Philadelphia. She is the author of many 
 fanciful and brilliant poems, of which a few 
 
 have recently been printed in literary miscel 
 lanies. She has wit, delicacy, and a pleas 
 ing vein of sentiment. 
 
 THE PRISONER S CHILD. 
 
 THE dull, chill prison building, 
 
 Oh, what a gloomy sight ! 
 It wears in boldest morning 
 
 The coward scowl of Night. 
 The warm, fresh Light approaches, 
 
 And shuddering turns away : 
 Within its shadow looming foul 
 
 No joysome thing will stay. 
 Yet there s a light within my cell, 
 
 A lovely light its walls enclose ; 
 My happy child my daughter pure 
 
 My wild, wild rose. 
 The prison sounds are dreary 
 
 To one who hears them long ; 
 The murderer talking to himself 
 
 The drunkard s crazy song. 
 My prison-door grates harshly, 
 
 It bodes the jailer s scowl ; 
 The jailer s dog sleeps all the day, 
 
 To wake at night and howl. 
 Yet there is music in my cell, 
 
 And Joy s own voice its walls enclose ; 
 My heaven-bird my gladsome girl 
 
 My wild, wild rose. 
 Her mellow, golden accents 
 
 O erflow the air around, 
 As if the joyous sunshine 
 
 Resolved itself to sound. 
 She carols clear at morning, 
 
 And prattles sweet at noon ; 
 She sings to rest the weary sun, 
 
 And ringeth up the moon ; 
 And when in sleep she visits home, 
 
 (My daughter knows the angels well,) 
 She Ml fearless rouse the awful night, 
 
 Her happy dreams to tell. 
 Oh, some have many treasures, 
 
 But other I have none ; 
 The dear Creator gave me 
 
 My blessings all in one. 
 The wealth of many jewels 
 
 Is garnered in her eyes ; 
 The worth of many loving hearts 
 
 Within her bosom lies ; 
 She s more to me than daily bread, 
 
 And more to me than night s repose : 
 My staff, my flower, my praise, my prayer 
 
 My wild, wild rose. 
 2 
 
 A FEW STRAY SUNBEAMS. 
 
 LITTLE dainty Sunbeams! 
 
 Listen when you please, 
 You Ml not hear their tiny feet 
 
 Dancing in the trees : 
 All so light and delicate 
 
 Is their golden tread, 
 Not a single flower-leaf 
 
 Such a step may dread. 
 
 Merry, laughing Sunbeams, 
 
 Playing here and there, 
 Passing through the rose-leaves, 
 
 Flashing everywhere ; 
 Through the cottage window, 
 
 In the cottage door, 
 Past the green, entangled vines, 
 
 On the cottage floor. 
 
 Lovely little Sunbeams, 
 
 Laughing as they played 
 Through the flying ringlets 
 
 Of the cottage maid ; 
 Staying but to flush her cheek, 
 
 Darting in their glee 
 Down the darkened forest-path, 
 
 O er the open lea, 
 Through the castle window 
 
 Where, in curtained gloom, 
 Sat its lovely mistress 
 
 In her splendid bloom ! 
 
 Oh ye saucy Sunbeams ! 
 
 Could ye dare to spy 
 Time s annoying footmarks 
 
 Near a lady s eye 1 
 Dare ye flash around her, 
 
 Every line to see, 
 Lighting each stray wrinkle up 
 
 In your cruel glee 1 
 
 See ! the witching Sunbeams 
 
 With the wand they hold, 
 Turn the earth to emerald, 
 
 And the skies to gold ; 
 All the streams are silver 
 
 Neath their magic rare , 
 All the black .ears Night hath shed, 
 
 Gems for kings to wear. 
 
 Beautiful is moonlight, 
 Like to Nature s mind, 
 353 
 
35 1 
 
 II \IIR1ET LISZT. 
 
 Purely white and bril iant, 
 
 Coldly, cfhnly kind : 
 Beautiful thy burning stars, 
 
 Like to Nature s soul, 
 Rapturous that ever gaze, 
 
 Heavenward as they roll. 
 But oh ! the human sunlight, 
 
 Flooding earth in glee, 
 Nature s living, laughing, loving, 
 
 Gladsome heart for me ! 
 
 QUO N ARE. 
 
 WHEHKTO shall I liken thee, 
 
 Holy Guonare ? 
 TV the waves that leap so free, 
 
 Or the flowers that smile so fair? 
 Fearless as the bounding wave, 
 
 Meek as any little flower, 
 God to woman never gave 
 
 More of love with more of power. 
 
 Thou art not a violet, 
 
 Feeble, shrinking, sweet, and frail ; 
 Wrongful scorn could never yet 
 
 Cause thy heart to quail. 
 Thou art not a sunbright rose, 
 
 Tossing bold her lovely form 
 With each breeze that comes and goes 
 
 Laughing, gaudy, flushed, and warm. 
 
 Thou art like a lily, standing 
 
 Near the rose s gaudy form : 
 Like a pure, cool lily, bending 
 
 Near the rose all flushed and warm. 
 Thou art like a great, bright star, 
 
 Shining clearly, calmly forth, 
 Through some chasm in a cloud 
 
 Darkly shrouding all the earth. 
 
 Thou art like a rainbow fair, 
 
 Gleaning brightness still from sorrow, 
 
 Turning tears to hope-gems rare, 
 Showing still a glad to-rnorrow. 
 
 Thou hast looked upon the stars 
 Till thine eyes are darkly bright, 
 
 Beaming forth in broadest day 
 Strange and holy light. 
 
 Thou art all a mystery, 
 
 Wondrous Guonare ! 
 I cou d almost fancy thee 
 
 (Looking on thine eys so rare) 
 Some mistaken spirit, landing 
 
 On this shore of care and cark 
 One of God s white angels, standing 
 
 In a world of dark. * 
 
 Maiden, dost thou never blush ? 
 
 Woman, dost thou never weep ] 
 Hold sad talks with Night and Care, 
 
 While God s happy sleep? 
 Dost thou never teach thy brow 
 
 A wreath of glowing smiles to wear. 
 To hide the crown of thorns below, 
 
 Calm-eyed Guonare 1 
 
 Passion hath no charm 
 
 To lure thy heavenward eye ; 
 Care and Sin but look on thee, 
 
 And pass in wonder by. 
 Thou hast surely brought to earth 
 
 Charms to keep thee passion-free 
 Memories of thy heaven-birth 
 
 And thine immortality. 
 
 Or, mayhap the angels fair, 
 
 Sporting in their raptured glee, 
 When thy soul to earth was lent, 
 
 Then forgot to proffer thee 
 Drink from that dim, awful river, 
 
 Alway since to mortals given, 
 Where the earth-doomed soul for ever 
 
 Loses sight of heaven. 
 
 HARRIET LTSZT. 
 
 (Born 1819). 
 
 Miss HARRIET WINSLOW, a native of Port 
 land, in Maine, was married in 1848 to Mr. 
 Charles Liszt, of Pennsylvania, and they have 
 
 since resided in Boston. Mrs. Liszt is the au 
 thor of a few beautiful poems, thegrea ter n um 
 ber of which have been printed in the annuals. 
 
 WHY THIS LONGING? 
 
 WHY this longing, thus for ever sighing 
 
 For the far off, unattained, and dim ; 
 While the beautiful, all round thee lying, 
 
 OflTers up its low, perpetual hymn ? 
 Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching, 
 
 All thy restless yearning it would still : 
 Leaf, and flower, and laden bee, are preaching 
 
 Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill. 
 Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee 
 
 Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw ; 
 If no silken cord of love hath bound thee 
 
 To some little world through weal or wo : 
 If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten 
 
 No fond voices answer to thine own ; 
 If no brother s sorrow thou canst lighten 
 
 By daily sympathy and gentle tone. 
 Not by deeds that win the crowd s applauses; 
 
 Not by works that give thee world-renown ; 
 Not by martyrdom, or vaunted crosses, 
 
 Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown 
 Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely, 
 
 Every day a rich reward will give ; 
 Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only, 
 
 And truly loving, thou canst truly live. 
 
JULIET H. L. CAMPBELL. 
 
 Miss JULIET H. LEWIS, now Mrs. CAMP 
 BELL, is a daughter of the Hon. Ellis Lewis, 
 president of me second judicial district of 
 Pennsylvania. At an early age she distin 
 guished herself as a writer of poetry ; and 
 since her marriage, to Mr. James H. Camp 
 bell, a member of the bar of Pottsville, on 
 the seventh of June, 1843, she has been a 
 frequent contributor, of both prose and verse, 
 to the magazines and annuals. During many 
 years of her maiden life she was an only 
 child, and, without companions of her own 
 age, was in constant association with her 
 parents. She frequently accompanied her 
 father on his professional and judicial jour 
 neys ; and I remember meeting her at West 
 
 Point, in her fourteenth or fifteenth year, 
 while Judge Lewis was discharging the 
 duties of an official visiter to the Military 
 Academy there. She had then a reputation 
 for genius, and a few exhibitions of her pre 
 cocious powers had caused her to be ranked 
 with the Davidsons, who were then subjects 
 of much conversation. Judge Lewis is a 
 student of 
 
 " The old and antique rhyme," 
 and a poet of no mean powers ; and to the 
 peculiar nature of her filial relations, and her 
 consequent intimacy with many persons of 
 eminent abilities and dignified character, she 
 owes the early development of her capacities 
 and her accurate knowledge of the world. 
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 MAXY, oh man ! are the wild dreams beguiling 
 Thy spirit of its restlessness, and ever 
 TIiou rushest onward, some new prize pursuing, 
 Like the mad waves of a relentless river. 
 First love, the morning sun of thy existence, 
 Enchants thy path with glories and with bliss : 
 Oh linger! for the shadowy hereafter 
 Hath naught to offer that can equal this. 
 
 Linger, and revel in thy first young dreaming, 
 The holiest that can thrill thy yearning heart 
 Husband the precious moments, the brief feeling 
 Of youthful ecstasy will soon depart. 
 Seek not to win too soon that which thou lovest, 
 "When winning will but hreak the magic spell : 
 Love on, but seek not, strive not the attainment 
 Will cloy thy fickle heart, thy dream dispel. 
 Vain is the warning ! Death as soon will listen 
 To the beseechings of his stricken prey; 
 Or Time will tarry when the cowering nations 
 Shrink from their desolating destiny ! 
 Thou art as fierce as F;ite in thy pursuing 
 Thou art impetuous as the flight of Time; 
 And didst thou love a star, thy mad presuming 
 Would seek to grasp it,tiiough thou thus shouldst 
 break th eternal chime. 
 
 And now Ambition, like a radiant angel, 
 Attracts thy vision and enchains thy thought : 
 Ambition is thy god, and thou art laying 
 Thy all before the insatiate Juggernaut; 
 The health, the strength, which crowned thy youth 
 with glory, 
 
 The friends who loved thee in thy early day, 
 The clinging love which once thy bosom cherished 
 All these are cast, like worthless weeds, away. 
 
 Take now the prize for which thou st madly bar 
 tered, 
 
 Thy first, best treasures ; and in lonely grief 
 Enjoy Fame s emptiness, and, broken hearted, 
 Feed on the poison of thy laurel leaf; 
 Then, sated, turn in bitter disppointment 
 From the applause of Flattery s fawning troop, 
 And curse, within thy cheated heart s recesses, 
 Ambition s demon, and thyself his dupe ! 
 
 These are the visions of thy youth and manhood : 
 With disappointment wilt thou grow more sage ] 
 Alas, more grovelling yet, and more degrading, 
 Is avarice, the sordid dream of age ! 
 When all the joys of summer have departed, 
 And life is stripped a ike of birds and bloom, 
 Tis sad to see Age, in his dotage, treasure 
 The withered leaves beside his yawning tomb ! 
 
 Yes, many are thy dreams, while gentle woman 
 Hath but one vision, and it is of thee ! 
 Faith, hope, and charity, (most Christian graces,) 
 In her meek bosom dwell, a trinity 
 Combined in unit; and an earthly godhead, 
 Whose name is Love, demands her worshipping: 
 And she, e en as the Hindoo to his idol, 
 The blind devotion of her heart doth bring ; 
 And when her god of clay hath disappointed, 
 Earth can enchant no more she looks above, 
 Laying her crushed heart on her Savior s bosom 
 Love was her heaven, now Heaven is her love. 
 
356 
 
 JULIET H. L. CAMPBELL. 
 
 NIGHT-BLOOMING FLOWERS. 
 
 FAIR buds ! I ve wandered day by day 
 
 To this sequestered spot, 
 That I might catch your earliest smiles, 
 
 And yet ye open not. 
 The morning mists are scattered now, 
 
 No cloud is in the sky ; 
 The sun, like a benignant king, 
 
 Smiles from his throne on high, 
 While birds, in gushing melody, 
 
 Are offering homage up ; 
 And sister flowers, beneath his gaze, 
 
 Ope wide each fragile cup : 
 Why shut ye then your incense in, 
 
 And hide your loveliness, 
 As though you may not share their joy 
 
 Beneath the sun s caress ] 
 
 Now wake ye ! tis the sunset hour, 
 
 The day king has gone down 
 Yet still upon the mountain s top 
 
 Is seen his brilliant crown 
 Awake ye ! if its gleaming gems, 
 
 Its bands of glittering gold, 
 Its glorious, lifelike radiance, 
 
 Departing, ye d behold. 
 The river s touched with glowing light, 
 
 And rolls a crimson flood, 
 While heaven s blush has lent its hues 
 
 Unto the leafy wood : 
 Still are you folded to your dreams 1 
 
 Bright must those visions be, 
 If they surpass the gorgeousness 
 
 Of heaven s pageantry ] 
 
 Good night ! the stars are gemming heaven, 
 
 And seem like angels eyes, 
 Resuming now their silent watch 
 
 Within the far-off skies ; 
 They nightly on their burning thrones, 
 
 Like guardian spirits keep 
 Familiar vigil o er the world, 
 
 Wrapt in its solemn sleep ; 
 And tenderly they gaze on us, 
 
 Those children of the air, 
 While every ray they send to you 
 
 Some message seems to bear, 
 That stirs you to the inmost core : 
 
 You thrill beneath their beams, 
 And start and tremble wildly, like 
 
 Ambition in his dreams. 
 
 Now, lo ! ye burst your emerald bonds, 
 
 And ope your languid eyes, 
 And spread your loveliness before 
 
 Those dwellers of the skies; 
 While incense from your grateful hearts 
 
 Like prayer ascends to heaven, 
 .\ml kindly dew and starry light 
 
 Are answering blessings given. 
 "Ask and ye shall receive," you seem 
 
 To whisper to my heart, 
 AnM move me in vour worshipping 
 
 To take an active part. 
 Sweet teachers ! tis an hour for prayer, 
 
 When hushed are sounds of mirth, 
 
 And slumber rests his balmy wing 
 
 Upon the weary earth ; 
 When all the ties that bind the soul 
 
 To worldliness are riven 
 Then heartfelt prayers, like loosened birds, 
 
 Will wing their way to heaven. 
 
 A STORY OF SUNRISE. 
 
 WHERK the old cathedral towers, 
 
 With its dimly lighted dome, 
 Underneath its morning shadow 
 
 Nestles my beloved home ; 
 When the summer morn is breaking 
 
 Glorious, with its golden beams, 
 Through my open latticed window 
 
 Matin music wildly streams. 
 Not the peal of deep-toned organ 
 
 Smites the air with ringing sound 
 Not the voice of singing maiden 
 
 Sighing softer music round ; 
 Long ere these have hailed the morning, 
 
 Is the mystic anthem heard, 
 Wildly, fervently, outpouring 
 
 From the bosom of a bird. 
 Every morn he takes his station 
 
 On the cross which crowns the spire, 
 And with heaven-born inspiration, 
 
 Vents in voice his bosom s fire ; 
 Every morn when light and shadow, 
 
 Struggling, blend their gold and gray, 
 From the cross, midway to heaven, 
 
 Streams his holy melody. 
 Like the summons from the turrets 
 
 Of an eastern mosque it seems: 
 " Come to prayer, to prayer, ye faithful !" 
 
 Echoes through my morning dreams. 
 Heedful of the invitation 
 
 Of the pious messenger, 
 Lo ! I join in meek devotion 
 
 With so lone a worshipper. 
 And a gushing, glad thanksgiving 
 
 From my inmost heart doth thrill, 
 To our Ever Friend in heaven, 
 
 As our blent glad voices trill. 
 Then the boy who rests beside me 
 
 Softly opes his starry eyes, 
 Tosses back his streaming ringlets, 
 
 Gazes round in sweet surprise. 
 He, though sleeping, felt the radiance 
 
 Struggling through the curtained gloom 
 Heard the wild, harmonious hymning 
 
 Break the stillness of my room : 
 These deliciously commingled 
 
 With the rapture of his dreams, 
 And the heaven of which I ve told him 
 
 On his childish vision gleams. 
 Guardian seraphs, viewless spirits, 
 
 Brooding o er the enchanted air, 
 Pause, with folded wings, to listen 
 
 To the lispings of his prayer ; 
 Up, to the recording angel, 
 
 When their ward on earth is done, 
 They will bear the guileless accents 
 
 Of my infant s orison ! 
 
ELISE JUSTINE BAYARD. 
 
 Miss BAYARD, a daughter of one of the 
 few old historical families of New York who 
 sail preserve fortune and position, has, by a 
 few brilliant lyrics published in the maga 
 zines, revived attention to a name which 
 figures 111 the early provincial annals of her 
 native state, and which in later times was 
 prominent among the commercial notabilities 
 cf the ciiy of her birth. A lady of leisure, 
 fortune, and general accomplishment, is not 
 likdy to bestow any very severe study upon 
 the art of poetry ; but the amateur votary in 
 this instance has shown a vigor of thought, 
 
 emotion, and expression, in some of her pro 
 ductions, which gives the highest promise oi 
 what she may accomplish, should she devote 
 her fine intelligence to literature. 
 
 The following poems were first printed 
 in the Literary World, and Miss Bayard has 
 published a few more in the Knickerbocker 
 Magazine and in other miscellanies. Among 
 her compositions that have been circulated 
 in manuscript are some, of a more ambitious 
 character, that would vindicate higher enco 
 miums than will here be adventured upon 
 her abilities. 
 
 A FUNERAL CHANT FOR THE 
 OLD YEAR. 
 
 Tis the death night of the solemn Old Year! 
 And it calleth from its shroud 
 With a hollow voice and loud, 
 
 But serene : 
 
 And it saith, " What have I given, 
 That hath brought thee nearer Heaven 1 
 Dost thou weep, as one forsaken, 
 For the treasures I have taken ] 
 Standest thou beside my hearse 
 With a blessing or a curse ? 
 s it well with thee, or worse, 
 That I have been 1" 
 
 Tis the death night of the solemn Old Year ! 
 The midnight shades that r all 
 They will serve it for a pall, 
 
 In their gloom : 
 
 And the misty vapors crowding 
 Are the withered corse enshrouding ; 
 And the black clouds looming olf in 
 The far sky, have p unied the coffin . 
 But the vaults of human souls, 
 Where the memory unrolls 
 All her tear-besprinkled scrolls, 
 Are its tomb ! 
 
 Tis the death night of the solemn Old Year ! 
 The moon hath gone to weep, 
 With a mourning still and deep, 
 
 For her loss : 
 
 The stars dare not assemble 
 Through the murky night to tremble ; 
 Tiie naked trees are groaning 
 With an awful, mystic moaning; 
 Wind s sweep upon the air, 
 Which a solemn message bear, 
 
 And hosts, whose banners wear 
 
 A crowned cross ! 
 
 Tis the death night of the solemn Old Year ! 
 Who make the funeral train, 
 When the queen hath ceased to reign ! 
 
 Who are here 
 
 With the golden crowns that follow, 
 All invested with a halo 1 
 With a splendor transitory 
 Shines the midnight from their glory ; 
 And the paean of their song 
 Rolls the aisles of space along 
 But the left hearts are less strong, 
 
 For they were dear ! 
 
 } Tis the death night of the solemn Old Year ! 
 With a dull and heavy tread, 
 Tramping forward with the dead, 
 
 Who come last ? 
 
 Lingering with their faces groundward, 
 Though their feet are marching onward, 
 They are shrieking they are calling 
 On the rocks in tones appalling : 
 
 But Earth waves them from her view, 
 And the God-light dazzles through 
 And they shiver, as spars do, 
 
 Before the blast ! 
 
 T is the death night of the solemn Old Year ! 
 We are parted from our place 
 In her motherly embrace, 
 
 And are alone ! 
 
 For the infant and the stranger, 
 It is sorrowful to change her : 
 She hath cheered the night of mourning 
 With a promise of the dawning ; 
 She hath shared in our delight 
 Wifh a gladness true and bright : 
 Oh ! we need her jov to-night 
 But she is jrone ! 
 357 
 
358 
 
 ELISE JUSTINE BAYARD. 
 
 ON FIXDJXG THE KEY OF AN OLD 
 PIANO. 
 
 Uvux K, unlock the shrines of memory, 
 And liid her many keys their voices send 
 
 I"| in the silent hour unto me. 
 Speak ! that the tones of other years may lend 
 
 Their vanished harmonies and lost romance 
 
 To days immersed in gloom and dissonance. 
 
 Thou, who the whi e unconscious played thy part, 
 And called fair music from her silent cell 
 
 To echo murmurs from the gushing heart, 
 Come ! wake once more the departed spell : 
 
 I fain would hear of things and thoughts again, 
 
 Which ming ed often with the stealing strain. 
 
 Hark ! it comes creeping on : it is an air 
 
 Full of strange wailing mournfully profound ; 
 Some music-spirit moaning in despair, 
 
 Prisoned in that sweet harrier of sound : 
 And yet, methinks " might I a captive be, 
 If thus environed in captivity !" 
 And shadowy forms around the instrument 
 
 Come close y pressing, whispering low words 
 I hat keep time with the music, redolent 
 
 Of deep vibrations in the hidden chords 
 That round the heart their hurried measure keep, 
 And sway its pulses with resistless sweep. 
 
 Voice of the voiceless ! Graves give up their dead, 
 
 And at thy word departed echoes ring, 
 Familiar caro s from the lips that fled 
 
 Long weary years ago, with fatal wing, 
 T nto t lc si ent regions of the tomb, 
 And died away there in its hollow gloom. 
 Hush ! other instruments are creeping in 
 
 To, perfect the concordance of the whole, 
 And well remembered voices now begin 
 
 To bear on wings invisible my soul. 
 My own ! amongst them I can hear my own 
 Alas ! tis almost a forgotten tone ! 
 Was it eve dark ning o er the pleasant room, 
 
 When the soft breezes of the summer night 
 Breathed through its atmosphere a faint perfume, 
 
 Or when the autumn s crimson fire-light 
 G owed upon every brow thou still wert there, 
 Wreck of departed days, with many an air. 
 Joyous or sorrowful profound or wild 
 
 Swiftly thy sweeping chords gave out their tones, 
 Li dit us the laughter of a sinless child 
 
 l)rc|i ;is tin- anguish told in captive moans 
 Smooth as the How of rivers to the sea 
 Irregular as dark insanity. 
 
 Their have been hands that are beneath the mould, 
 
 (I seem to feel their dullness in thy touch) 
 
 Eyes, wept the whi e they moved, that now are cold 
 
 As this impassive metal : yet are such 
 The things that bind us nearest, move us most, 
 And leave a hopeless voice when they are lost. 
 Now, stranger hands across those keys will run, 
 
 And other walls for other groups surround, 
 And stranger eyes look lovingly upon 
 
 The unconscious mover of the realm of sound : 
 
 That realm, once sacred, my sweet home, to thee, 
 And ever sacred to my memory. 
 
 But thou, impassive thing, thus severed wide 
 From thy sole wealth in those harmonious waves, 
 
 Another empire be thine own beside : 
 Be thou the pass-key to the spirit caves, 
 
 Thou the deliverer of their captive throng, 
 
 The portal spirit of the gater of song. 
 
 SPIRITUAL BEAUTY. 
 
 THAT pale and shadowy beauty, 
 
 It haunts my vision now : 
 The genius radiating 
 
 From the dazzling marble brow 
 The high and saintly fervor, 
 
 The meek and childlike faith, 
 The trusting glance, which sayeth 
 
 More than mortal accent saith : 
 They haunt me when the night-winds swell, 
 And daylight can not break their spell. 
 
 I see the blue eye shining 
 
 Through the lashes as they fall, 
 An inward glory speaking 
 
 To the inward life of all 
 A ray that was illumined 
 
 At the far celestial light, 
 And burns through mist and hadow, 
 
 A beacon ever bright, 
 Serene, seraphic, and sublime, 
 And changeless with the flight jf time. 
 
 A faint, transparent rose-light 
 
 Is trembling on the cheek, 
 And lingering on the pale lip 
 
 A glow that seems to speak : 
 It wavers like the taper 
 
 Dim lit at forest shrine, 
 When night-winds whisper to it : 
 
 It breathes of the Divine, 
 W 7 ith its ethereal mystery, 
 Too fragile of the earth to be. 
 
 Her grace is as a shadow 
 
 As undefinable ; 
 Wedded to every motion thus, 
 
 And rarely beautiful. 
 Untaught, and all unconscious, 
 
 It hath a voice to me 
 Which eloquently speaketh 
 
 Of inward harmony : 
 Of Soul and Sense together swayed 
 To the First Soul an offering made. 
 That pale and shadowy beauty, 
 
 It seemed an inward thing 
 A spiritual vision 
 
 A chaste imagining : 
 Not all in form or feature 
 
 The fairy phantom dwelt, 
 But, like the air of heaven, 
 
 Was yet less seen than felt 
 A presence the true heart to move 
 To praise, and prayer, and holy love. 
 
ELISE JUSTINE BAYARD. 
 
 359 
 
 THE SEA AND THE SOVEREIGN. 
 
 It is said that after the Heath of Piince William, eldest son of Henry I., 
 kin- of England, who was wrecked off the coast of Normandy, tlie 
 nionitrch was nevei seen to smile more. 
 
 OPKX, ye ruthless waves! 
 Open the mouths of your uncounted graves, 
 
 To swallow up a king ! 
 
 It is no common thing : 
 A kingdom in one man incarnated 
 Goes down to hold his court among your dead ! 
 
 Jewels lie fathoms down 
 To glisten, set in crystal, on his crown; 
 
 A coral carcanet 
 
 An insect realm may set 
 (A bauble that a king were proud to wear) 
 Upon his marble throat, all stiff and bare. 
 
 Build him an amber throne, 
 And deck it well with many a burning stone; 
 . And let his footstool be 
 
 The lapis lazuli ; 
 
 And hang his hall with stalactites, whose sheen 
 May make a daylight in the submarine. 
 
 An argosy of pearls 
 
 May glisten in his waving yellow curls : 
 I ween no wealthier prince 
 Hath swayed a kingdom, since 
 
 The silver was as dust in Judah s street, 
 
 Trodden by Solomon s imperial feet. 
 
 Out bursts the ancient Sea 
 With bitter merriment in mockery : 
 
 " Take thou," she saith, " the gem 
 
 To deck thy diadem 
 The hidden riches of my caves be thine ; 
 I have thy treasure pay thyself in mine ! 
 
 " The pomp is bootless now, 
 A gemmed tiara for that fleshless brow ! 
 
 There is no need of thrones 
 
 For those enamelled bones; 
 Of daylight for those hollow, sightless eyes ! 
 I rob not: take thou booty for my prize." 
 
 There is a broken groan, 
 A wail of sorrow from a kingly throne ; 
 
 There is a human heart 
 
 Of which he was a part 
 
 Whom thou hast swallowed, thou devouring Sea ! 
 A father s heart and cry of agony ! 
 
 For him thy gifts are brought 
 For him thine ores with cunning skill are wrought. 
 
 He only cries aloud : 
 
 " I crave but for a shroud ! 
 Oh Ocean, pitiless, relentless one ! 
 Thy riches keep : give back, give back my son ! 
 
 " Could I but see my child 
 In death, rny bitter anguish were more mild ; 
 
 His buried form unseen 
 
 Stands day and me between 
 My vision blinds, my soul, my reason warps ; 
 Ocean ! I would but once behold his corpse !" 
 
 Day laughs out on the sky 
 With the glad brightness of her waking eye ; 
 
 In the all-blessed Spring 
 
 Earth is a happy thing ; 
 
 Yea, on her face the false and murderous Sea 
 Wears smiles of peace : but never smileth HE ! 
 
 The altar shows the bride 
 Full of rneek gladness by her lover s side; 
 
 And childhood s sweet caress 
 
 Betokens happiness; 
 Nay, weary age in infant purity 
 Finds cause for smiles: but never smileth he I 
 
 Folly forgets her chime, 
 Awed by that sorrow reverend and sublime ; 
 
 Forgets Joy to be glad ; 
 
 Forgets Grief to be sad ; 
 
 Smiles tell him, " Gone !" and at his coming fleo. 
 What lip dare smile for never smileth he ! 
 
 The dead man all the while 
 Lies with the horrid semblance of a smile 
 
 Parting his hollow skull ; 
 
 And glad and beautiful 
 His angel in a new felicity 
 Smiles from the skies : but never smileth he ! 
 
 WORSHIP. 
 
 LOVE ! for the true heart s sacred love is its Crea 
 tor s will ! 
 
 His glorious law of sympathy it labors to 
 fulfil : 
 
 So work out in its smaller sphere, with faithful dili 
 gence, 
 
 The mighty, universal schemes of his omnipo 
 tence. 
 
 Love ! if ye can not learn to love your brother whom 
 ye see, 
 
 How shall ye grow in faith toward the unseen 
 Deity] 
 
 A true heart s love is worship. Indirectly it is 
 praise, 
 
 And prayer : for piety is not to cultivate one 
 phase 
 
 Of this anomalous being, with its wide capa 
 city 
 
 Its vast illimitable range of power and fan 
 tasy : 
 
 The length, the breadth, the height, the depth, of 
 this which we call man, 
 
 God hath made this to worship him, as nothing 
 narrow can : 
 
 Universality of gifts upon one creature shed, 
 
 And to the Benefactor s praise shall all save one 
 be dead? 
 
 Mind, soul, heart, strength, all else of good, of rich 
 and beautiful, 
 
 Lavished upon the human frame, yet every sense 
 be dull 
 
 Save one ! one only live to him of all this glorious 
 tower? 
 
 Forbid it, Honor, Truth ! No ! work is piety of 
 power ; 
 
 Genius is piety of mind ; Love piety of heart ; 
 
 Religion piety of soul. It will not serve to part 
 
 These elements of worship, and then blasphemous 
 ly give 
 
 The mutilated corpse to Him through whom the 
 whole must live. 
 
LUCY LARCOM. 
 
 (Born 1826). 
 
 Miss LARCOM is a native of Massachusetts, 
 and was for several years employed in one 
 of the factories at Lowell. She has been a 
 frequent contributor to the Lowell Offering, 
 fjr the early volumes of which she wrote a 
 series of parables that attracted much atten 
 tion. She is now a teacher in Illinois, but 
 
 continues to write for this interesting 
 
 peri 
 
 odical, which illustrates so beautifully the 
 character, taste, and abilities, of the New 
 England operatives. Mr. Whittier, in refer 
 ring to some of her poems, observes : " That 
 they were written by a young woman whose 
 life has been no long holyday of leisure, but 
 
 one of toil and privation, does not indeed en 
 hance their intrinsic merit, but it lends them 
 an interest in the eyes of those who, like our-, 
 selves, long to see the cords of caste broken, 
 and the poor niceties of aristocratic exclu- 
 siveness, irrational and unchristian every 
 where, but in addition ridiculous in a coun 
 try like ours, vanish before the true nobility 
 of mind the natural graces of a good heart 
 and a useful life the self-sustained dignity 
 of a spirit superior to the folly of accounting 
 labor degradation, and usefulness a calamity, 
 and which can not count as common and un 
 clean the duties which God has sanctified." 
 
 ELISHA AND THE ANGELS. 
 
 THE cheerful sunbeams hastened up the east, 
 Chasing the gray mists to the mountain-tops, 
 And morning burst upon Gilboa s hills. 
 The playful kids were leaping o er the crags; 
 The little happy birds, that all night long 
 In the dry clefts had found a nestling-place, 
 Were flying sunward, singing hyrnns of praise; 
 And from the green, awakening vales arose 
 The sound of bleating herds and lowing kine. 
 Eiisha s servant, issuing early forth 
 To the day s needful toil, with vigorous step 
 Trod a worn path that wound among the rocks. 
 Ho paused to gaze upon the enlivening scene, 
 And hear the harmony of Nature s joy, 
 And bless the God of morning. 
 
 Suddenly 
 
 A flash of light unusual struck his eye: 
 Half doubting, he beheld a line of spears 
 And burnished shields, that from a neighboring hill 
 In mocking splendor threw the sunlight back; 
 And saw, stretched far around, a circle wide 
 Of rich war-chariots, while horsemen armed 
 Crowded each mountain-pass and deep defile. 
 Too well he knew the terrible array 
 The Assyrian host, his master s foes and his ! 
 Fear, like an inward demon, blanched his cheek, 
 Stared from his eye, and shook his nerveless limbs. 
 Poor, feeble man ! why, e en the little birds, 
 That sung so blithely o er the frightful chasms, 
 Had taught him stronger confidence than this. 
 Yet, weak as he, how often we foruet 
 That in our great All-seeing Father s sight 
 "We are worth more than sparrows ! 
 
 Back he turned 
 I nto the prophet s dwelling, nor did rest 
 
 Till, faint with terror, at his feet he fell. 
 The man of God upon his threshold stood, 
 His forehead bared unto the streaming light, 
 And inspiration beaming from his eye. 
 Doth he not tremble ? Nay ; the cedar-tree, 
 That stands in unmoved grandeur at his side, 
 Is not more firm than he. Calmly he scans 
 The panoply of war before him spread, 
 As twere a flock reposing in the shade. 
 He hears his prostrate servant s stifled cry 
 "Alas, my master! how shall we escape?" 
 How foolish must such fright have seemed to him 
 Whose eyes the Lord had opened ! Should he deign 
 To speak a soothing word, and lull his fears? 
 If man might e er be proud, twas surely he, 
 Who had been singled out from common men 
 To be an oracle unto his kind. 
 His was the dignity sublime of one 
 Who feels divinity within him burn, [God 
 
 And thinks the thoughts and speaks the words of 
 But haughtiness belongs to narrow souls, 
 And wisdom is too godlike to be proud. 
 Elisha owned himself of kindred dust 
 With that frail trembler. , Mildly he replied : 
 " Fear thou no more ; for lo ! a mightier force 
 Than all yon heathen host, is on our side." 
 "But where?" the servant s doubtful glance in 
 quires. 
 
 The prophet answered not, but clasped his hands, 
 Looked up to heaven, and prayed in tones subdued, 
 " Lord, open thou his eyes, that he may see !" 
 
 How changed the scene ! these rocks, that lately 
 Opaque and dull beneath the azure sky, [lay 
 
 ! Are robed in glory that outshines the sun. 
 Embattled legions gird the prophet round 
 Withb azonedbannersand heaven-tempered spears, 
 Horses and chariots, in whose fiery sheen 
 360 
 
LUCY" LARCOM. 
 
 361 
 
 The pomp of Syria s army but appears 
 Like a dim candle in the noonday blaze: 
 The mount is full of angels ! 
 
 Blest were we, 
 
 When every earthly prospect is shut in, 
 And all our mortal helpers disappear, 
 If, with Faith s eye undimmed and opened wide, 
 We might behold the blessTd an^el-troop 
 Which God, our God, has promised shall encamp 
 Round those who fear his name. Our sickly doubts, 
 That flit like foul night-ravens o er our souls, 
 Wou d hush their screams and fly before the dawn ; 
 And we should learn to fear no evil thing, 
 And in Adversity s grim gaze could smile. 
 
 Sometimes, when wandering in a labyrinth 
 Whence we can find no clue, and all is dark, 
 We wonder why our spirits do not die. 
 Perhaps in secret bowed, some holy soul 
 Utters for u-; the prophet s kind lequest; 
 And we, though dimly, are allowed to see 
 The prints of angels feet along the road ; 
 And our hearts, beating lightly, follow on 
 After the step.-; that sound before, albeit 
 Uncertain whose they are, though we are sure 
 Of a safe outlet from the tangled way. 
 
 Father of Spirits ! Savior of our souls ! 
 Let heavenly guides go with us down life s way; 
 And when we come unto that river s brink 
 Upon whose other bank in light and love 
 We shall be as the angels then we know 
 Thou wilt be near us, though this earthborn clay, 
 Shrinking in mortal terror from the plunge 
 Which shall release its tenant unto bliss, 
 May with foreboding clouds obscure our faith 
 And hide thy presence. Oh! hear now one prayer 
 Which then our hearts may be too faint to breathe : 
 ** Lord, open thou our eyes, that we may see !" 
 
 THE BURNING PRAIRIE. 
 
 XG throws her dusky mantle 
 
 O er the boundless, grassy sea ; 
 Here and there, like ships at anchor, 
 
 In the moonlight stands a tree ; 
 While the stars that nightly travel 
 
 O er the highway of the skies, 
 Bend upon earth s weary pilgrims 
 
 Still and clear their earnest eyes. 
 
 Now the constellations brighten : 
 
 Like a stern and warlike lord, 
 Bright Orion leads the pageant 
 
 He of gleaming belt and sword. 
 In his wake glide forth the Pleiads ; 
 
 By the pole-star leaps the Bear ; 
 Down the star-paved road in silence 
 
 Rides the Lady in her Chair ! 
 
 But behold ! an earthly glimmer 
 
 Rises neath the starry beam ; 
 Far along the prairie s border 
 
 How the ruddy fringes stream ! 
 See the red flames darting forward, 
 
 Sparkling through the withered grass, 
 W T hile the lurid smoke uprolling 
 
 Stains the azure as they pass. 
 
 Who the distant blaze enkindled ? 
 
 Can it be some savage clan 
 Flinging out the wingt-d wildfire 
 
 To affright the pale-faced man? 
 Nay : for Mississippi s water 
 
 Speeds no sachem s light canoe. 
 And beside the dark Missouri 
 
 Are the Indians wigwams few. 
 
 T is the farmer s mighty besom : 
 
 Thus he sweeps the fertile plain 
 Lays it bare unto the baptism 
 
 Of the softening vernal rain. 
 Where the billowy flame is rolling, 
 
 Shall a warmer sun behold 
 Verdant pastures richly laden, 
 
 Harvests tinged with wavy gold. 
 
 Brighter visions burst upon me ; 
 
 For the dear enchantress, Hope, 
 Bids me look into the future 
 
 Through her magic telescope. 
 Lo ! a glorious blaze ascending 
 
 Purer, loftier doth it grow, 
 Every ridge and swell revealing, 
 
 Softened in the mellow glow. 
 
 T is the central fire of Freedom, 
 
 Lighted on the nation s heart : 
 Cynosure of happy millions, 
 
 Fadeless peace its rays impart ; 
 Truth and Love, their white wings waving. 
 
 Sit and fan it all day long, 
 And to meet its warmth and brightness 
 
 Ever pours a grateful throng. 
 Let it blaze ! The Pilgrim s watch-fire. 
 
 Kindled first on Plymouth rock, 
 Must not die upon the prairies, 
 
 Nor with fitful flickerings mock. 
 Every lowly cabin window 
 
 Shall reflect its steady light, 
 And beyond the red horizon 
 
 It shall make the country bright. 
 
 Then the gazers of the nations, 
 
 And the watchers of the skies, 
 Looking through the coming ages 
 
 Shall behold, with joyful eyes, 
 In the fiery track of Freedom 
 
 Fall the mild baptismal rain, 
 And the ashes of old Evil 
 
 Feed the Future s golden grain. 
 
EDITH MAY." 
 
 " EDITH MAY" is a name bestowed, I be 
 lieve, by Mr. N. P. Willis, upon one cf the 
 most brilliant of our younger poets. She is 
 a native and until recently was a resident of 
 Philadelphia ; but for three or four years her 
 home has been in " the most secluded part 
 of Pennsylvania, on the borders of a small 
 lake, in one of that state s most romantic 
 neighborhoods." The character cf her ge 
 nius will be seen in her Count Julio, which 
 was written when she was but seventeen 
 years of age ; and the critical reader will 
 feel as much hope as pleasure as he sees in 
 its splendid blossoming promise of future 
 fruits with which few of the productions of 
 female genius can be compared. 
 
 Her dramatic power, observation of .ife, 
 imagination, fancy, and the easy and naiural 
 flow of her verse, which is noAvhere marred 
 by any blemish of imperfect taste, entitle this 
 very youthful poet to a place in the common 
 es.imation inferior to none occupied by wri 
 ters of her years. And there are scattered 
 through her poems gleams of an intelligence 
 which they do not fully disclose, and felici 
 ties of expression betraying a latent power 
 greater than is exerted, so that we are not 
 authorized to receive what she has accom 
 plished, brilliant as it is, as a demonstration 
 of the entire character and force of her fac 
 ulties. 
 
 COUNT JULIO. 
 
 Mm piles beneath whose fretted cornices 
 Echo still babbles of a glorious past, 
 Dwelt Julio, the miser. Nobly born, 
 Reared amid palaces, and trained from youth 
 To the gay vices of a liberal age, 
 How came it now, that year on year sped on 
 To leave the proud count in his silent halls, 
 Hoarding the gold once lavished ] 
 
 Young and fair, 
 
 The haughtiest noble of the Roman court, 
 The stateliest of the highborn throng that graced 
 Its princely revels, he had left the feast, 
 Bidding the bright wine that he quaffed in parting, 
 Be to him thence accurs d. Nevermore 
 Checked he his courser by the Tiber s bank, 
 Nor struck the sweet chords of his lute, nor trod 
 Glad measures with the bright-lipped Roman dames; 
 And from the lintels of his banquet-hall 
 The spider balanced on its gossamer thread, 
 Dust heaped the silken couches, and where swept 
 Golden-fringed curtains to the chequered floor, 
 The rat <, r n;i\vnl silently, and gray moths fed 
 On the rich produce of the Asian loom. 
 Men shunned bis threshold, and his palace doors 
 Creaked on their rusty hinges. Prince and peasant 
 Alike turned coldly at his coming step; 
 The very bepcrar, that at noontide lay 
 Basking neath sunlight in the quiet street, 
 Stretched not his hand forth as the miser passed. 
 
 He cared not for their scorn. Man s breath to him 
 Was like the wind that sweeps the scath d oak. 
 And finds no leaf to flutter! Fate had left 
 
 Only two things on earth for him to love 
 
 The gold he heaped, and the fair, motherless child, 
 
 j Who by bis side grew up to womanhood : 
 ! And these he worshipped, loathing all things else. 
 His couch was ruder than a cloistered monk s 
 Bianca s head was pillowed upon down ; 
 His fare was scanty and his raiment coarse, 
 But she was clad like princes, and her board 
 i Heaped with the costliest viands. From the world 
 1 He shrank abhorrent, but Bianca shone 
 ! Proudest and fairest in a brilliant court, 
 i Her youth had been most lonely. By his side 
 To watch the piling of the golden heaps 
 He told so greedilv ; to play alone 
 ! In gardens where no hand had put aside 
 I The flowers and weeds, that in one tangled woof 
 Hung o er the fountain s dusty bed, and crept 
 Round the tall porticoes ; perchance to sit 
 | Hour after hour all silent at his feet, 
 
 Twining her small arms and her baby throat 
 | With the rare treasures that his caskets held 
 i Rubies, and pearls, and flashing carcanets, 
 j Her costly playthings a!l companionless, 
 These were her childish pastimes. Years wore on, 
 Till the close dawn of perfect womanhood 
 Fiushed in her cheek and brightened in her eye 
 And the girl learned to know bow fair the face 
 Those dingy walls had cloistered from the sun ; 
 To bear her head more proudly, and to step, 
 If not so lightly, with a gracelier tread. 
 Love-songs were framed for her ; her midnight rest 
 Was broken by the sound of silver lutes, 
 And the young gallants caracoled their steeds 
 Gayly at eve beneath her ba cony. 
 
 She went forth to the world, and careless lips 
 Told her the shame that was her heritage, 
 And scornful fingers poi;ited as she passed 
 To the rare jewels and the broidered robes 
 362 
 
EDITH MAY." 
 
 363 
 
 That decked the miser s daughter ; envious tongues 
 Gilded anew the half-forgotten tale, 
 And it became the marvel of a!l Rome: 
 Thus, till the diadem of gems and gold 
 Burned on her white brow like a circling flame, 
 And she went writhing home, to weep to loathe 
 The sordid parent who had brought this blight 
 Upon the joyous promise of her youth ! 
 
 It was the still noon of a summer night, 
 When the young countess from her father s roof 
 Fled with a noble of the Roman court. 
 Morn came, and through the empty corridors, 
 The balconies, the gardens, the wide halls, 
 In vain they sought her. Noon passed by, and then 
 The truth was guessed, not spoken ! Silently 
 Count Julio trod the marble staircases, 
 And pausing by the door that once was hers, 
 Stood a brief moment, and then, pressing on, 
 Stepped through the quiet chamber. All was still, 
 Bearing no traces of her recent flight. 
 Here lay a slipper, here a silken robe, 
 And here a lute thrown down, with a white glove 
 Flung carelessly beside it. Still the air 
 Breathed of the delicate perfumes she had loved. 
 
 He glanced but once around the empty room, 
 Then from the mirrored and silk-draperied walls 
 Cast his eye downward o er his shrunken form, 
 His meagre garments. Few the words he spake, 
 And muttered low : but in them came a curse, 
 So blasphemous, so hideous in its depth 
 Of impotent rage, that they who at his side 
 Yet stood in lingering pity, with blanched lips 
 Turned to the threshold, and crept shuddering forth. 
 
 He breathed his sorrow to no human ear, 
 But left it channelled in his heart, to breed 
 Corruption there. None knew how wearily 
 The hours passed on beneath those lonely walls ; 
 None saw him, when by midnight still a watcher 
 He brooded o er his anguish, pale and faint, 
 Starting and trembling, as inconstantly 
 The night winds swayed the curtains to and fro, 
 Fancying the rustle of her silken robe, 
 Her footfall on the staircase ! Time sped on 
 To strike the dulled bloom from his cheek, and sere 
 The soul that once had queened it on his brow. 
 A bent and wan old man, upon whose breast 
 Hung the neglected masses of his beard 
 With tremulous hands, habitually clinched 
 Till the sharp nails wore furrows in the palms 
 Thus stole he forth at even, and with eyes 
 Lost in the golden future of his dreams, [ing. 
 Passed through the busy crowds unmarked, unheed- 
 
 Once had he looked upon Bianca s face 
 Once had she knelt before him, with her child 
 Gasping upon her breast, and prayed for succor. 
 The unwept victim of a drunken brawl, 
 Her lord had fallen, and the palace walls 
 That owned her mistress were deserted now. 
 She had braved fear and hunger, till her babe 
 
 Wailed dying on her bosom, and so urged 
 
 Pride, shame, forgotten in a mother s love 
 Clung to his knees for pardon. But in vain : 
 lie cursed her as she knelt bade her go forth, 
 And mid the loathsome suppliants that unveil 
 Disease and suffering ;o the eye of wealth, 
 
 Bare, too, her anguish to the glance of Pity ; 
 Then, as she lingered, spurned her from his feet 
 With words that chilled her agony to dread, 
 And drove her thence in horror ! 
 
 From that day 
 
 His very blood seemed charged with bitterness. 
 Miser and usurer both, upon the wrecks 
 Of others happiness he built his own ; 
 His name became accursi d in the land, 
 And with his withering soul his body grew 
 Scarce human in its ghastly hideousness. 
 
 The bulb enshrouds the lily ; and within 
 The most unsightly form may folded lie 
 The white wings of an angel. But in him 
 Seemed all the sweet humanities of life 
 Coldly encharnelled ; and no hand divine 
 Rolled from his breast the weary weight of sin, 
 To bid them go forth unto suffering man 
 Like gracious ministers. 
 
 And she, alas ! 
 
 Whom he had madly driven forth to ruin 
 Earth hath no words to tell how dark the change 
 That clothed her fallen spirit. O er the waste 
 Of want and horror that engulfed her fortunes, 
 She had sent forth the white dove, Puritv, 
 And it returned no more. The Roman dames 
 Took net her name upon their scornful lips. 
 Her form became a model for the artist ; 
 And her rare face went down to future ages, 
 Limned on his canvass. Ye may mark it yet, 
 In the long galleries of the Vatican, 
 Varied but still the same : now robed in pride, 
 As monarchs in their garbs of Syrian purple ; 
 Now with a Magdalen s blue mantle drawn 
 Over the bending forehead. As the marble 
 Sleeps in unsullied whiteness on the tomb, 
 Taking no taint from the foul thing it covers, 
 Her beauty bore no blight from guilt, but lived 
 A monument that made her name immortal. 
 
 Night had uprisen, clothed with storms and gloom; 
 No taper lit the solitary hall, 
 And to and fro, with feeble steps, its lord [then, 
 Paced through the darkness. Midnight came, and 
 Pausing beside the groaning door, that weighed 
 Its rusty hinge, Count Julio, crouching, peered 
 Into the gloom without; for stea thy feet, 
 W T hose echo struck upon his wary ear, 
 Had passed the lower halls, and slowly now 
 Trod the great slaircase. 
 
 T was no robber s step : 
 Faint, s ow, and halting, ever and anon, 
 As though in weariness. His sharpened sense 
 Caught, mid the fitful pauses of the wind, 
 The headlong dashing of the driven rain, 
 A sound of painful breathing nay, of sobs 
 Bursting, and then as suddenly suppressed. 
 
 Shuddering he stood ; and as the storm s red bolt 
 Leaped through the windows, lighting as it passed, 
 A dusky shape, that cowered at the flash, 
 He shrank within the chamber, and once more 
 Listened in silence. 
 
 Nearer came the sound : 
 
 A tall form crossed the threshold, and threw back 
 What seemed a heavy mantle. Then again 
 Glanced the pale lightning, and Count Julio knew 
 
"EDITH MAY; 
 
 By the long hair that swept her garments hem, 
 Bianc.i ! 
 
 They who through that night of fear 
 Kept watc . with storm and terror till the dawn, 
 Bore its dark memories even to the tomb : 
 For shrieks and cries seemed mingled with the wind; 
 And voices, as of warring fiends, prevailed 
 O er its low muttering*. Morn awoke at last; 
 And with it* earliest gleam Count Julio crept 
 Out through his palace gardens. Swollen drops 
 Hung from the curved roofs of the porticoes; 
 His footsteps dashed them from the earth-bowed 
 And from the tangles of the matted grass ; [leaves, 
 But over-head the day broke gloriously. 
 
 V\ here once a fountain to the sunlight leaped, 
 A marble naiad, by its weedy bed, 
 Stood on her pedestal. With hand outstretched 
 She grasped a hollowed shell, now brimming o er; 
 While a green vine that round her arm had crept, 
 Hose, serpent-like, and in the chd ice dipped 
 Its cur.ing tendrils. Thither turned his eye 
 Just as the red uprising of the morn 
 Flushed the pale statue, and crept brightening down, 
 Even to its very base. Mantled and prone, 
 A heap that scarcely seemed a human form, 
 Crouched in the shadow, and with totteiirig feet 
 The old man hurried onward. Motionless, 
 It stirred not at his footsteps : nearer still [hands 
 He marked a white lace, upward turned, clinched 
 Locked in the luu r that swept its ghastly brow ! 
 Shading his weak eyes from the blinding sun, 
 Cowering in trembling horror to the earth, 
 Still on he crept ; then bending softly down, 
 Spake in a smothered voice " Hist, hist, Bianca !" 
 
 Oh, mockery ! Her ear that he had filled 
 With curses, woke not to the tones of love ; [not 
 The breast that he had spurned from him, heaved 
 At his wild anguish. Death had done its work: 
 The tempest had been merciless as the parent 
 That drove her forth to meet it ; and the flash 
 Of its red eye more withering than his scorn ! 
 Shunned, both in penitence and guilt; forsaken 
 By those who only prized her for the beauty 
 Time and perchance remorse had touch d with blight; 
 Drenched with the rain ; all breathless with the storm; 
 Homeless and hopeless she had crept to him 
 Once more a suppliant: spurned rudely forth, 
 Here had lain down despairing, and so perished. 
 
 STORM AT TWILIGHT 
 
 TIIK roar of a chafed lion, in his lair 
 Begirt by levelled spears. A sudden flash, 
 Intense, yet wavering, like a beast s fierce eye 
 Searching the darkness. The wild bay of winds 
 Sweeps the burnt plains of heaven, and from afar 
 Linked clouds are riding up like eager horsemen, 
 Javelin in hand. From the north wings of twilight 
 There fulls unwonted shadow, and strange gloom 
 Cloisters the unwilling stars. The sky is roofed 
 With tempest, and the moon s i.cant rays fall through 
 Like light let dimly through the fissured rock 
 Vaulting a cavern. To the horizon 
 The qreen sea of the forest hath rolled back 
 Its levelled billows, and where mastlike trees 
 
 Sway to its bosom, here and there a vine, [aloft 
 Braced to some pine s bare shaft, clings rocked 
 Like a bo d mariner. There is no bough 
 But lifteth its appealing arm to Heaven. 
 The scudding grass is shivering as it flies, 
 And herbs and flowers crouch to their mother earth 
 Like frightened children, "fis more terrible 
 When the hoar thunder speaks, and the fleet wind 
 Stops, like a steed that knows his rider s voice 
 For oh ! the rush that follows is the calm 
 Of a despairing heart ; and as a maniac 
 Loses his grief in raving, the mad storm, 
 Weeping hot tears, awakens with a sob 
 From its blank desolation, and shrieks on ! 
 
 JULIETTE. 
 
 WHERE the rough crags lift, and the sea mews call, 
 Yet stands Earl Hubert s castle tall : 
 Close at the base of its western wall 
 The chafed waves stand at bay ; 
 And the May-rose twined in its banquet hall 
 
 Dips to the circling spray. 
 For the May-rose springs, and the ivy clings, 
 
 And the wallflower flaunts in the ruined bower, 
 And the sea-bird foldeth her weary wings 
 
 Up in the stone-gray tower. 
 Scaling an arch of the postern rude, 
 
 A wild vine dips to the ocean s flow ; 
 Deep in the niches the blind owls brood, 
 
 And the fringing moss hangs low 
 Where stout Earl Hubert s banner stood 
 
 Five hundred years ago ! 
 Out from the castle s western wall 
 Jutteth a tower round and tall, 
 And leading up to the parapet 
 
 By a winding turret-stair: 
 Over the sea there looketh yet 
 
 A chamber small and square, 
 Where the faint daylight comes in alone 
 Through a narrow slit in the solid stone ; 
 
 And here, old records say, 
 Earl Hubert bore his wayward child 
 
 From courts and gallanis gay 
 That, guarded by the billows wild, 
 And cloistered from her lover s arms, 
 Here might she mourn her wasted charms, 
 
 Here weep her youth away. 
 "One two!" said the sentinel, 
 
 Pacing his rounds by the eastern tower. 
 Up in the turret a solemn knell 
 Tolled for the parting hour ; 
 Over the ocean its echo fell 
 " One ! two !" like a silver bell 
 
 Chiming afar in the sea-nymph s bower. 
 Shrill and loud was the sea-bird s cry, 
 The watch-dog bayed as the moon rose high, 
 
 The great waves swelled below ; 
 And the measured plash of a dipping oar 
 Broke softly through their constant roar, 
 
 And paused beneath the shade 
 Flung westward by that turret hoar 
 
 Where slept the prisoned maid. 
 The sentinel paced to and fro 
 
EDITH MAY." 
 
 3(55 
 
 Under the castle parapet, 
 But, in her chamber, Ju iette 
 Heard not the tramp of his clanging foot, 
 
 Nor the watchdog baying near 
 Only the sound of a low toned lute 
 
 Stole to her dreaming ear. 
 
 The moon rode up as the night wore on, 
 
 Looking down with a 1> hiding glare 
 Into that chamber still and lone, 
 Touching the rough-hewn cross of stone 
 
 And the prayer-beads glittering there 
 The loosened waves of the sleeper s hair, 
 And the curve of her shou der, white and bare ! 
 
 She dreamed! she dreamed! that dreary keep 
 
 Melted away in the calm moonbeams; 
 The deep bell s call and the wave s hoarse sweep 
 Changed for the lull of a forest deep, 
 
 And the pleasant voice of streams. 
 She seemed to sit by a mossy stone, 
 To watch the blood-red sun go down 
 And hang on the verge of the horizon 
 
 Like a ruby set in a golden ring; 
 
 To hear the wild birds sing 
 Up in the larch-boughs, loud and sweet, 
 Over a surf where the soft waves beat 
 With a sound like a naiad s dancing feet. 
 For here and there on its winding way 
 
 Down by dingle and shady nook, 
 Under the white thorn s dropping spray 
 
 Glittered the thread of a slender brook ; 
 And scarce a roebuck s leap beyond, 
 Close at the brink of its grassy bound, 
 She heard her lover s chiding hound, 
 
 His bugle s merry play. 
 Oh ! it was sweet again to be 
 
 Under the free blue skies ! 
 She turned on her pillow restless y, 
 
 And the tears to her sleeping eyes 
 Came welling up as the full drops start 
 With Spring s first smile from a fountain s heart. 
 
 Up rose the maid in her dreamy rest, 
 
 And flung a robe o er her shou ders bare, 
 And gathered the threads of her floating hair, 
 Ere with a foot on the turret stair 
 She paused, then onward pressed, 
 As the tones of a soft lute broke again 
 Through the deeper chords of the voiceful main. 
 Steep and rude was the perilous way ; 
 Through loopholes square and small 
 The night looked into the turret gray, 
 
 And over the massive wall 
 In blocks of light the moonbeams lay ; 
 But the changeful ghosts of the showering spray 
 And the mirrored play of the waters dim 
 Rippled and glanced on the ceiling grim. 
 
 The moon looked into her sleeping eyes, 
 
 The night wind stirred her hair, 
 And wandering blindly, Juliette, 
 Close on the verge of the parapet, 
 
 Stood without in the open air. 
 Under the blue arch of the skies, 
 
 Save for the pacing sentinel, 
 
 Save for the ocean s constant swell, 
 There seemed astir no earthly thing. 
 
 Below, the great waves rose and fell, 
 Scaling ever their craggy bound, 
 
 But scarce a zephyr s dipping wing 
 Broke the silver crust of the sea beyond : 
 
 And in her lifelike dream 
 The maiden now had wandered on 
 
 To the brink of the slender stream ; 
 Then pausing, stayed her eager foot, 
 For with the brook s sweet monotone 
 Mingled the soft voice of a lute ; 
 And, where the levelled moonbeams played 
 Over the lap of a turfy glade, 
 A hound lay sleeping in the shade. 
 Rocked bv the light waves to and fro, 
 
 Scarcely an arrow s flight from shore, 
 Her lover in his bark below 
 
 Paused, resting on the oar, 
 Watching the foam-wreaths bead and fall 
 Like shattered stars from the castle wall. 
 And higher yet he raised his eyes 
 
 Jesu ! he started with affright ! 
 For painted on the dusky skies 
 
 Seemed hovering in the tremulous light 
 
 A figure small and angel white ! 
 Against the last lay far and dim, 
 
 Touched by the moon s uncertain ray, 
 The airy form of the turret grim. 
 Doubtful he gazed a moment s space, 
 Then rowed toward the castle s base, 
 
 But checked his oar midway, 
 And gazing up at the parapet, 
 Shouted the one word, " Juliette !" 
 Lute, baying hound, and restless deep, 
 
 Each gave the clue bewildered Thought 
 Had followed through the maze of sleep, 
 
 And by her lulled ear faintly caught 
 
 Her lover s voice its echo wrought. 
 She heard him call, she saw him stand, 
 W T ith smiling lip and beckoning hand ; 
 And closer pressed, and dreaming yet, 
 
 From the green border of the stream 
 From the o erhanging parapet 
 
 Sprang forward with a scream ! 
 Then once again the deep bell tolled 
 Up in the turret gray and old, 
 And, mingled with its lingering knell, 
 
 The echoed cry, half won, half lost, 
 Startled the weary sentinel, 
 
 Now slumbering at his post : 
 Yet, wakened from his dreamful rest, 
 
 He deemed the sound some wandering ghost, 
 
 Haunting the caves of Sleep, 
 For like a bird upon its nest 
 
 The hushed air brooded o er the deep ; 
 And to his drowsy ear there crept 
 
 Only the voice of the choral waves 
 Only the drip of the spray that wept, 
 And the ripples that sang through the weedy caves 
 Nor marked he, ere again he slept, 
 The muffled stroke of a hasty oar, 
 A steed s quick tramp along the shore. 
 When morning came, a shallop s keel 
 
 Grated the edge of the pebbly strand 
 A maid s small foot and a knight s armed heel 
 
 Lay traced upon the sand ! 
 
13(56 
 
 EDITH MAY. 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 THE early Spring hath gone : I see her stand 
 Afar oil , on the hi. Is white clouds, like doves, 
 Yoked by the south wind to her opal car, 
 And at her feet a lion and a lamb 
 Couched side by side. Irresolute Spring hath gone, 
 And Summer conies, like Psyche, zephyr-borne 
 To her sweet land of pleasures. 
 
 She is here ! 
 
 Amid the distant vales she tarried long; 
 But she hath come, oh, joy ! for I have heard 
 Her many chorded harp the livelong day 
 Sounding from plains and meadows, where of late 
 Rattled the hail s sharp arrows, and where came 
 The wild north wind, careering like a steed 
 Unconscious of the rein. She hath gone forth 
 Into the forest, and its pois d leaves 
 Are [ latformed for the Zephyr s dancing feet. 
 Under its green pavi ions she hath reared 
 Most beautiful things. The Spring s pale orphans lie 
 She tered upon her breast; the bird s loved song 
 At morn outsoars his pinion, and when waves 
 Put on Night s silver harness, the still air 
 Is musical with soft tones. She hath baptized 
 Earth with her joyful weeping; she hath blessed 
 All that do rest beneath the wing of Heaven, 
 And all that hail its smile. Her ministry 
 Is typical of love ; she hath disdained 
 No gentle office, but doth bend to twine 
 The grape s light tendrils, and to pluck apart 
 The heart-leaves of the rose. She doth not pass 
 Unmindful the bruised vine, nor scorn to lift 
 The trodden weed; and when her lowlier children 
 Faint by the wayside, like worn passengers, 
 She is a gentle mother, all ni^ht long 
 Bathing their pale brows with her healing dews; 
 The hours are spendthrifts of her wealth ; the days 
 Are dowered with her beauty. 
 
 Priestess ! queen ! 
 
 Amid the ruined temples of the wood 
 She hath rebui.t her altars, and called back 
 The scattered choristers, and over aisles 
 Where the slant sunshine, like a curious stranger, 
 G Lie 1 through arches and bare chairs, hath spread 
 A roof magnificent. She hath awaked 
 Her orac e, that, dumb and para yzed, 
 Slept witi the torpid serpents of the lightning, 
 Bidding his dread voice Nature s mightiest 
 Speak mystically of all hidden things 
 To the attentive spirit. 
 
 There is laid 
 
 No knife upon her sacrificial altar, 
 And from her lips there comes no pealing triumph. 
 But to those crystal halls, where Silence sits 
 Enchanted, hath arisen a mingled strain 
 Of music, delicate as the breath of buds; 
 A nd on her shrine the virgin Hours lay 
 Odors and exquisite "dyes, like gifts that kings 
 Send from the spicy gardens of the East. 
 
 A FOREST SCENE. 
 
 I KXOW a forest vast and old 
 
 A shade so deep, so darkly green, 
 That Morning sends her shaft of gold 
 
 In vain to pierce \*s, leafy screen : 
 I know a brake where sleeps the fawn, 
 
 The soft-eyed fawn, through noon s repose, 
 For noon, with all the calm of dawn, 
 
 Lies hushed beneath those dewy boughs, 
 
 Oh ! proudly then the forest kings 
 
 Their banners lift o er vale and mount; 
 And cool arid fresh the wild grass springs, 
 
 By lonely path, by sylvan fount ; 
 There, o er the fair, leaf-laden rill 
 
 The laurel sheds her clustered bloom, 
 And throned upon the rock-wreathed hill 
 
 The rowan waves his scarlet plume. 
 
 No huntsman s call, no having hound, 
 
 Scares from his rest the light-limbed stag , 
 But following faint his airy bound, 
 
 Glad Echo leaps from crag to crag. 
 From morn till eve the wood-birds sing, 
 
 And, by the wi d wave s glittering play, 
 The pheasant plumes her glossy wing, 
 
 The doe lies couched at close of day. 
 
 From slippery ledge, from moss-grown rock, 
 
 Dash the swift waters at a bound ; 
 And from the foam that veils the shock, 
 
 Floats every wavelet sparkle-crowned ; 
 Through brake, and dell, and lawny glade, 
 
 O er gnarled root and mossy stone, 
 Beneath the forest s emerald shade 
 
 The stream winds murmuring, sparkling on 
 
 Far floating o er its limpid breast 
 
 The lily sends her petals fair 
 And, couched beneath her regal crest, 
 
 The balm-flower scents the drowsy air; 
 From spray and vine, o er rocky ledge, 
 
 Hang blossoms wild of crimson dye ; 
 And on the curved and sanded edge 
 
 The pink-lined shells, wave-polished, lie. 
 
 There wakes no tone of idle mirth 
 
 Amid those shadows vast and dim, 
 But from the gentle lips of Earth 
 
 How soft and low her forest hymn ! 
 How soft and low, where stirs the wind 
 
 Through the dark arches of the wood, 
 Where, gray with moss, the boughs entwined 
 
 Hang whispering o er the chiming flood ! 
 
 When twilight skies look faintly down, 
 
 When noon lies hushed on leaf and spray, 
 When midnight casts her silver crown 
 
 Before the throne of godlike day 
 There, still, to earth s perpetual choir, 
 
 The same sweet harmony is given : 
 For angels wake her sacred lyre, 
 
 And every chord is strung by Heaven. 
 
"EDITH MAY; 
 
 307 
 
 A POET S LOVE. 
 
 THK stag leaps free in the forest s heart, 
 But thy step is lighter, my love, my bride ! 
 
 Light as the quick-footed breezes that part 
 The plumy ferns on the mountain-side. 
 
 Swift as the zephyrs that come and pass 
 
 er the wave .ess lake and the billowy grass; 
 
 1 hear thy voice where the white spray gleams, 
 In the one-toned bells of the rippled streams, 
 In the shivering boughs of the aspen tree, 
 
 In the wind that stirreth the silvery pine, 
 In the shell that rnoans of the distant sea 
 
 Never was voice so sweet as thine ! 
 Never a sound through the even dim 
 Came half so soft as thy vesper hymn. 
 
 I have followed fast from the lark s low nest 
 Thy breezy step to the mountain crest ; 
 The livelong day I have wandered on, 
 Till the stars were up, the twilight gone; 
 Ever unwearied where thou hast roved, 
 Fairest, and purest, and best beloved ! 
 I have felt thy kiss in the leafy aisle, 
 
 And thy breath astir in my waving hair, 
 I have met the light of thy haunting smile 
 
 In the deep, still woods, and the sunny air, 
 For thou lookest down from the bending skies, 
 And the earth is glad with thy laughing eyes. 
 
 When my heart is sad and my pulse beats low, 
 Whose touch so light on my burning brow ] 
 Who cometh in dreams to my midnight sleep 1 
 
 Who bendeth over my noonday rest ] 
 Who singeth me songs in the forest deep, 
 
 Laying my head to her gentle breast] 
 When life grows dim to rny weary eye, 
 When joy departeth and sorrow is nigh, 
 W r ho, neath the track of the stars, save thee, 
 Speaketh or sirigeth of hope to me ? 
 
 There comes a time when the morn shall rise, 
 Yet charm no smile to thy film d eyes; 
 There comes a time when thou liest low, 
 With t .ie roses dead on thy frozen brow, 
 With a pall hung over thy trancvd rest, 
 And the pu se asleep in thy silent breast. 
 There shall come a dirge through the valleys drear, 
 And a white-robed priest to thine icy bier : 
 His lip is cold, but his dim eyes weep, [deep. 
 
 And he maketh thy grave where the snow falls 
 
 Wo is me when I watch and pray 
 
 For the lightest tread of thy coming foot, 
 
 F->r the softest note of thy summer lay, 
 
 For the faintest chord of thy vine-strung lute ! 
 
 \Vo is me when the storms sweep by, 
 
 And the mocking winds are my sole reply ! 
 
 A SONG FOR AUTUMN. 
 
 KH the bird from the tasselled pine, 
 Where he sings like a hope in a gloomy breast ; 
 Tread down the blossoms that cling to the vine, 
 
 Winnow the blooms from the mountain s crest; 
 Let the balm-flower sleep where the small brooks 
 
 twine, 
 And the golden-rod treasure the vellow sunshine. 
 
 Muffle the bells of the faint-lipped waves; 
 
 Let the red leaves fall ; let the brown fawn leap 
 Through the golden fern ; in the weedy caves 
 
 Let the snake coil up for his winter sleep. 
 Let the ringed snake coil where the earth is drear, 
 Like a grief that grows cold as the heart grows sere. 
 Pluck down the rainbow ; make steadfast the throne 
 
 Of the star that was faint in the summer night ; 
 Let the white daughters of wave and sun 
 
 Weep as they cloister the pale, pale light; [rills, 
 Let the mist-wreaths brood o ? cr the valley-bound 
 And the sky trail its mantle far over the hills. 
 Plunder the wrecks of the forest, and blind 
 
 The waters that picture its ruinous dome. 
 Wildly, oh wildly, most sorrowful wind ! 
 
 Chant, like a prophet of terror to come 
 Like a Niobe stricken with infinite dread, 
 Leave the spirit of Beauty alone with her dead. 
 Throne the white Naiad that filleth her urn 
 
 At the fount of the sun ; on the curtain of night 
 Paint wild Auroras like visions that burn, 
 
 Rosy Auroras, like dreams of delight. 
 Mantle the earth, fold the robe on her breast, 
 While the sky, like a seraph, hangs over her rest. 
 
 A TRUE STORY OF A FAWN. 
 
 Dowx from a mountain s craggy brow, 
 
 His homeward way the hunter took, 
 By a path that wound to the vales below, 
 
 At the side of a leaping brook. 
 
 Long and sore had his journey been, 
 By the dust that clung to his forest green, 
 By the stains on his broidered moccasin ; 
 And over his shoulder his rifle hung, 
 And an empty horn at his girdle swung. 
 The eve crept westward : soft and pale 
 
 The sunset poured its rosy flood 
 Slanting over the wooded vale ; 
 
 And the weary hunter stood, 
 
 Looking down on his cot below, 
 Watching his children there at play, 
 
 Watching the swing on the chestnut bough 
 Flit to and fro through the twilight gray, 
 Till the dove s nest rocked on its quivering spray. 
 
 Faint and far, through the forest wide, 
 
 Came a hunter s voice and a hound s deep cry; 
 Silence, that slept in the rocky dell, 
 Scarcely woke, as her sentinel 
 Cha lenged the sound from the mountain-side 
 Over the valleys the echo died; 
 And a doe sprang lightly by, 
 And cleared the path, and panting stood, 
 With her trembling fawn, by the leaping flood. 
 
 She spanned the torrent at a bound, 
 And swiftly onward, winged by fear, 
 
 Fled, as the bay of the deep-mouthed hound 
 Fell loudly on her ear ; 
 
 And pausing by the waters deep, 
 Too slight to stem their rapid flow, 
 
 Too weak to dare the perilous leap, 
 The fawn sprang wildly to and tro, 
 Watching the flight of her lithe-limbed doe. 
 
3K8 
 
 FRANCES A. AND METTA V. FULLER. 
 
 Now slie hung o er the torrent s edge, 
 
 Antl -sobbed and wept as the waves shot by ; 
 
 Now she paused on the rocky ledge, 
 With head erect, and steadfast eye, 
 Listening to the stag-hound s cry : 
 
 Close from the forest the deep bay rang, 
 Close in the forest the echoes died, 
 
 And over the pathway the brown fawn sprang, 
 And crouched by the hunter s side. 
 
 Deep in the thickets the boughs unclasped, 
 Leaped apart with a crashing sound ; 
 
 Under the lithe vines, sure and fast, 
 Came on the exulting hound 
 
 Yet, baffled, stopped to bay and glare, 
 Far from the torrent s bound : 
 
 For the weeping fawn, still crouching there, 
 Shrank not,*hor fled, but closer pressed, 
 And laid her head on the hunter s breast. 
 
 FRANCES A. AND MEUTA V. FULLER. 
 
 Miss FRANCES A. FULLER, and her sister, 
 Miss METTA VICTORIA FULLER, have recent 
 ly published many poems and prose compo 
 sitions, which have been commended by the 
 critical editors of the Home Journal, as evin 
 cing "unquestionable signs of true genius." 
 
 The latter has generally written under the 
 signature of "Singing Sybil. * The Misses 
 Fuller are both very young, the oldest having 
 been bom about the year 1826. They reside 
 in the pleasant village of Monroeville, in the 
 northern part of Ohio. 
 
 FRANCES A. FULLER. 
 
 A RE VERY. 
 
 NOT from Fancy s land of wonders 
 
 Come the dreams that haunt my brain ; 
 But from out the Past s dim chambers 
 
 Glide along the shadowy train. 
 On each pale and solemn visage 
 
 Is some old remembrance pressed, 
 Some dear memory that hath lingered 
 
 Ever fadeless in my breast. 
 
 And as troop on troop of visions 
 
 Through Thought s silent halls defile, 
 Like the ancient ghosts that wander 
 
 Through some lone cathedral aisle, 
 New-born fancies mix and mingle 
 
 With the old familiar throng, 
 And the Past and Present meeting, 
 
 Swell the river-tide of song. 
 
 Dreams of Present have no power 
 
 And no grandeur like the Past: 
 Glory borrows its enchantment 
 
 From the distance it is cast. 
 But the Present is the wizard 
 
 That can break Oblivion s seal, 
 And the "dead Past s dead," unburied, 
 
 By a magic word reveal. 
 
 Life has many hidden currents, 
 
 Like the cave-streams of the earth, 
 Flowing deep and strong in secret, 
 
 Ne er betraying bourne or birth. 
 And the flood in darkness wandering, 
 
 With no flower upon its way, 
 Has its course with richer treasures 
 
 Than have met the glare of day. 
 
 Light that sometimes shines upon it, 
 
 Finds it deep, and pure, and cold ; 
 And the starry gleam reflected 
 
 Leaves no bosom secret told. 
 In its deepest bed are hidden 
 
 Treasures gathered from all life ; 
 Pearls of thought and gold of feeling, 
 
 Moveless in the current s strife. 
 
 In life s lively panorama, 
 
 Looking for what is to be, 
 We forget to note the Present, 
 
 Ere its changing phantoms flee; 
 But as clouds by tempests driven 
 
 Scatter rain-drops as they fly, 
 Many golden sands have fallen 
 
 Where they must for ever lie. 
 
 Of the dreams that throng around me 
 
 " In the Spirit s pictured hall," 
 Know I none whose shadowy presence 
 
 I would choose not to recall. 
 Come they to me by the midnight, 
 
 Come they to me by the day, 
 Memory s thousand silver pennons 
 
 Float above their host alway. 
 
 In my heart the plaintive treble 
 
 Of the broken notes of song 
 Make no discord in the music, 
 
 As it flows in waves along : 
 For the spirit of my dreaming 
 
 Sings me all the missing notes; 
 And the strain, to you so broken, 
 
 Perfect to my hearing floats. 
 
FRANCES A. AND METTA V. FULLER. 
 
 369 
 
 THE OLD MAN S FAVORITE 
 
 Do you ask where she has fled 
 Fanny, with the laughing eyes ! 
 
 Should I tell you " She is dead," 
 You would mimic tears and sighs, 
 And affect a sad surprise. 
 
 Yester-week, when you were here, 
 She was sitting on your knee, 
 
 Whispering stories in your car 
 With an air of mystery, 
 And a roguish glance at me. 
 
 Fanny s heart was always light 
 Light and free as plumed bird ; 
 
 When she glanced within our sight, 
 Or her merry voice we heard, 
 Music in our hearts was stirred. 
 
 Do you ask where Fanny hides? 
 I will tell you by-and-by ; 
 
 Look you where the river glides, 
 In whose depths the shadows lie 
 Mingled of the earth and sky : 
 
 Fanny always loved that spot ; 
 There her favorite flowers grew 
 
 Violet, forget-me-not, 
 
 And the iris gold and blue, 
 With its pearly beads of dew. 
 
 Oft on the old rustic bridge, 
 
 Made of supple boughs entwined, 
 
 Hanging from each margin s ridge 
 Like a hammock in the wind, 
 Fanny fearlessly reclined. 
 
 And she s told me, while her eyes 
 Filled with tears of childish bliss, 
 
 That she could see paradise 
 
 From her rocking resting-place, 
 Mirrored in the river s face. 
 
 That she saw the tall trees wave, 
 
 Bright-winged birds among their bowers. 
 
 And a river that did lave 
 
 Banks o ergrown with fairest flowers, 
 And a sky more blue than ours. 
 
 Then she asked, with such a smile 
 As an angel-face might wear, 
 
 If she watched a long, long while, 
 She could see her mother there, 
 Walking in the groves so fair. 
 
 When, to soothe the child, I said 
 She should see mamma in heaven, 
 
 To that frail old bridge she sped 
 As if wings to her were given; 
 And but look! you see tis riven! 
 
 Ha ! you start your looks are wild 
 Calm yourself, old man, I pray ; 
 
 Fanny was an angel-child, 
 
 And tis well she s gone away 
 To her paradise so gay. 
 
 METTA VICTORIA FULLER. 
 
 THE POSTBOY S SONG. 
 
 THE night is dark and the way is long, 
 
 And the clouds are flying fast, 
 The night-wind sings a dreary song, 
 
 And the trees creak in the blast ; 
 The moon is down in the tossing sea, 
 
 And the stars shed not a ray ; 
 The lightning flashes frightfully, 
 
 But I must on my way. 
 
 Full many a hundred times have I 
 
 Gone o er it in the dark, 
 Till my faithful steeds can well descry 
 
 Each long familiar mark : 
 Withal, should peril come to-night, 
 
 God have us in his care ! 
 For without help and without light, 
 
 The boldest may beware. 
 
 Like a shuttle thrown by the hand of Fate, 
 
 Forward and back I go, 
 Bearing a thread to the desolate 
 
 To darken their web of wo ; 
 And a brighter thread to the glad of heart, 
 
 And a mingled one to all, 
 But the dark and the light I can not part, 
 
 Nor alter their hues at all. 
 
 On, on my steeds ! the lightning s flash 
 
 An instant gilds our way 
 But steady ! by that fearful crash 
 
 The heavens seemed rent away ! 
 Soho ! now comes the blast anew, 
 
 And a pelting flood of rain : 
 Steady a sea seems bursting through 
 
 A rift in some upper main ! 
 
 Tis a terrible night a dreary hour- 
 Yet who will remember to pray, 
 
 That the care of the storm-controlling Power 
 May be over the postboy s way ! 
 
 The wayward wanderer from his home, 
 The sailor upon the sea, 
 
 Have prayers to bless them where they roam 
 Who thinketh to pray for me ? 
 
 But the storm abates uprides the moon 
 
 Like a ship upon the sea : 
 Now on, my steeds ! this glorious moon 
 
 Of a night so dark shall be 
 A scene for us. Toss high your heads, 
 
 And cheerily speed away : 
 We shall startle the sleepers in their beds 
 
 Before the dawn of day ! 
 
 Like a shuttle thrown by the hand of Fate 
 
 Forward and back I go, 
 Bearing a thread to the desolate 
 
 To darken their web of wo 
 And a brighter thread to the glad of heart. 
 
 And a mingled one for all : 
 But the dark and the light I can not pait. 
 
 Nor alter their hues at all. 
 
FRANCES A. AND METTA 
 
 FULLER. 
 
 MIDNIGHT. 
 
 OXE by one, in slow succession, 
 The twelve hours have floated by, 
 
 Circling, in a still procession, 
 
 Round a glittering throne on nigh; 
 
 Handmaids to the solemn midnight, 
 As she walketh up the sky. 
 
 With a motion slow and peerless, 
 Up she glideth through the air, 
 
 Mutely perfect, smileless, tearless, 
 Hushed, and wonderfu ly fair 
 
 Pausing, in her quiet splendor, 
 Where her twelve attendants are. 
 
 All the stars their brows uncover, 
 
 All the breezes die away, 
 All the hours which round her hover, 
 
 Stand in dim and mute array ; 
 For the Midnight, pure and placid, 
 
 Knee eth on her throne to pray. 
 
 Grand, bevond the power of telling, 
 Is the Midnight in her prayer 
 
 All sublimity has dwelling 
 On her brow, serenely fair; 
 
 Brighter than the crown of jewels 
 Bound upon her raven hair. 
 
 She is asking for a b essing 
 
 On the earth that dreams below 
 
 And the leaves, their boughs caressing, 
 Cease their waving to and fro, 
 
 And the murmuring, trilling streamlet 
 Seems to sing more soft and slow. 
 
 Her pure eyes are upward beaming, 
 
 And her pale hands folded lie : 
 Oh, how beautiful this seeming 
 
 Of the queen of a 1 tbe sky, 
 Meekly asking, mid her glory, 
 
 From the greater power on hign. 
 In her dim and holy presence 
 
 The still world has grown more still, 
 And soft silence s subtle essence 
 
 Seems the breathless air to fill, 
 Till the hushed heart of creation 
 
 Scarcely dares with awe to thrill. 
 In serene, subduing sp endor, 
 
 When her time of prayer has flown, 
 Through the circle that attend her 
 
 She descendeth from her throne 
 Gliding westward from the zenith, 
 
 As they follow one by one. 
 
 All the stars their faces cover, 
 
 All the flowers droop with tears, 
 And the breezes round them hover, 
 
 With a whispered tale of fears, 
 As the Midnight queen retireth, 
 
 And the king of day appears. 
 Were I but a star in heaven, 
 
 Or a little flower, alone, 
 I would worship, every even, 
 
 The sweet Midnight on her throne; 
 l *it a worship yet more perfect 
 the living spirit known. 
 
 THE SILENT SHIP. 
 
 WE were sitting in the starlight, 
 
 By the gliding river s side 
 He, a spirit pure and earnest, 
 
 I, his sacred spirit-bride 
 Sitting in the ho y starlight 
 
 Fal ing from the jewelled sky, 
 O er the water just beneath us, 
 
 Flowing bright and silent by. 
 
 There was something dim and dreamy 
 
 And so so emn in the air, 
 And the earth was lying sweetly 
 
 In her slumber still and fair; 
 And her breath had grown so quiel, 
 
 That a fold it did not stir 
 Of the green luxurious curtains, 
 
 Drooping graceful over her. 
 
 Silent dew and silent starlight, 
 
 Silent earth and silent sky 
 All was hushed save one faint murmur 
 
 Of the river flowing by 
 And one low, dear tone of music, 
 
 Whispering in my thrilling ear 
 Words so dreamlike in their beauty, 
 
 That my soul could on y hear 
 
 Words so eloquent and gentle, 
 
 That I never may forget, 
 They are ringing in sweet melody. 
 
 Within my spirit yet ! 
 In the dim, delicious silence, 
 
 Even the water fell asleep, 
 Looking bright and pure and placid, 
 
 And immeasurably deep. 
 
 And subdued by this strange beauty, 
 
 The communer by my side 
 Hushed his spiritual revealings, 
 
 And sat voiceless by his bride. 
 How beautiful this stillness 
 
 This intense yet softened rest ! 
 A perfect sense of happiness 
 
 Thrilled deep within each breast. 
 
 When as we watched the trembling 
 
 Of the starlight on the stream, 
 From out the shadow of a curve, 
 
 All noiseless as a dream, 
 All slowly, softly, silently, 
 
 All spirit-like and clear, 
 Gliding through gently parting waves, 
 
 We saw a ship appear. 
 
 We hushed our breath, we hushed our hearts: 
 
 No echo of a sound 
 Came in, through the dim loveliness, 
 
 The solemn air around. 
 We gazed upon the silent ship 
 
 No sign of life was there 
 Yet on it glided gracefully, 
 
 All tall and straight and fair ! 
 
 We saw the ripples break away 
 
 And lose themselves in light, 
 As gently but unwaveringly 
 
 It stoie upon our sight ; 
 
FRANCES A. AND METTA V. FULLER. 
 
 371 
 
 We saw each slender spar and mast 
 
 Defined against the sky, 
 As slowly, softly, silently, 
 
 It phantom-like went by. 
 
 A feeling of sublimity, 
 
 Which could riot be expressed, 
 Sank heavy through the breathless hush 
 
 Upon each throbless breast 
 A sense of something beautiful, 
 
 Yet almost to be feared, 
 As slowly, softly, silently, 
 
 The strange ship disappeared. 
 
 " Sybil !" was breathed upon my ear, 
 
 In one low, thrilling tone, 
 As I felt the clasping of a hand 
 
 Grow tighter on my own : 
 It was enough within our souls 
 
 Each felt that ship to be 
 An emblem of our spirit-love, 
 
 Our mingled destiny. 
 
 It seemed so like a hallowed spell, 
 
 So like a lovely dream, 
 With lingering steps we turned away 
 
 From the star-lighted stream : 
 
 Its beauty was so strange and wild, 
 
 And inexpressible, 
 That after many days had passed 
 
 We found no words to tell 
 Our thoughts of dreamy loveliness, 
 
 And the certainty it gave 
 That thus our still, deep spirit-love 
 
 Should glide upon life s wave. 
 
 Clouds now are o er our silent ship, 
 
 And not one starry gleam 
 Falls softly through the shadows 
 
 That dim life s troubled stream ! 
 There are storms and clouds and darkness, 
 
 But I tremble not with fear, 
 For our ship will glide unshaken on 
 
 Till the stars again appear. 
 
 Such thoughts as these that silent ship 
 
 Within our souls awoke, 
 Are prophecies too sure and deep 
 
 To be by darkness broke ; 
 And whether there be storms or not, 
 
 Our spirits linked must be, 
 Till our bark is moored in safety 
 
 In the far Eternity. 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF MY SONG. 
 
 TELL me, have you ever met her 
 
 Met the spirit of my song 1 
 Have her wavelike footsteps glided 
 
 Through the city s worldly throng 1 
 You will know her by a wreath, 
 
 Woven all of starry light, 
 That is lying mid her hair 
 
 Braided hair as dark as night. 
 
 A short band of radiant summers 
 
 Is upon her forehead laid, 
 Twining half in golden sunlight, 
 
 Sleeping half in dreamy shade : 
 Five white fingers clasp a lyre, 
 
 Five its silvery strings awake, 
 And bewildering to the soul 
 
 Is the music that they make. 
 
 Though her glances sleep like shadows 
 
 Neath each falling, silken lash, 
 Yet, at aught that wakes resentment, 
 
 They magnificently flash. 
 Though you loved such dewy dream-light, 
 
 And such glance of sweet surprise, 
 You could never bear the scorn 
 
 Of those proud and brilliant eyes. 
 
 There s a sweet and winning cunning 
 
 In her bright lip s crimson hue, 
 And a flitting tint of roses 
 
 From her soft cheek gleaming through 
 Do you think that you have met her ? 
 
 She is young and pure and fair, 
 And she wears a wreath of starlight 
 
 In her braided, ebon hair. 
 
 Often at her feet I m sitting, 
 
 With my head upon her knee, 
 While she tells me dreams of beauty 
 
 In low words of melody ; 
 And, when my unskilful fingers 
 
 Strive her silvery lyre to wake, 
 She will smooth my tresses, smiling 
 
 At the discord which I make. 
 
 But of late days I have missed her-- 
 
 The bright being of my love 
 And perchance she s stolen pinions 
 
 And has floated up above. 
 Tell me, have you ever met her 
 
 Met the spirit of my song 
 Have her wavelike footsteps glided 
 
 Through the city s worldly throng ] 
 
ALICE AND PHCEBE CAREY. 
 
 AMONG the younger American poets there 
 are few whom we regard with more inter 
 est, or whose writings inspire us with more 
 hopeful anticipations, than these two sisters, 
 who were born in a quiet and pleasant dis 
 trict in the vicinity of Cincinnati, where they 
 have always resided, and most of the time 
 in portionless and unprotected orphanage. 
 Their education has been limited by the 
 meagre and infrequent advantages of an ob 
 scure country school, from which they were 
 removed altogether at a very early age ; and 
 with neither books nor literary friends to 
 guide or encourage them, and in circum 
 stances which would have chilled and with 
 ered common natures, they "have been and 
 still are, humble" but most acceptable " wor 
 shippers in the glorious lernple of song." 
 
 ALICE and PHCEBE CAREY have but very re 
 cently become known at all in the literary 
 world. It is but two or three years since I 
 first saw the name of either of them, in a 
 western newspaper, and of nearly a hundred 
 of the poems which are now before me, 
 probably not one has been written more than 
 that time. " We write," observes Alice Ca 
 rey, in a letter which I regret that I may not 
 copy here entire, that the reader s affection 
 might be kindled with his admiration, " we 
 write with much facility, often producing 
 two or three poems in a day, and never elab 
 orate. We have printed, exclusive of our 
 
 early productions, some three hundred and 
 fifty, which those in your possession fairly 
 represent." And these are the fruits of no 
 literary leisure, but the mere pastimes of 
 lives that are spent in prosaic duties, light 
 ened and made grateful only by the presence 
 of the muse. 
 
 In the west, song gushes and flows, like 
 the springs and rivers, more imperially than 
 elsewhere, as they will believe who study 
 her journals, or who read these effusions and 
 those of Amelia Welby, the authors of The 
 Wife of Leon, and other young poets, whose 
 minds seem to be elevated, by the glorious 
 nature there, into the atmosphere where all 
 thought takes a shape of beauty and harmo 
 ny. A delicious play of fancy distinguishes 
 much of the finest poetry of the sex ; but 
 Alice Carey evinces in many poems a genu 
 ine imagination and a creative energy that 
 challenges peculiar praise. We have per 
 haps no other author, so young, in whom the 
 poetical faculty is so largely deyeloped. Her 
 sister writes with vigor, and a hopeful and 
 genial spirit, and there are many felicities 
 of expression, particularly in her later pieces. 
 She refers more than Alice to the common 
 experience, and has perhaps a deeper sym 
 pathy with that philosophy and those move 
 ments of the day, which look for a nearer 
 approach to equality, in culture, fortune, and 
 social relations. 
 
 ALICE CAREY. 
 
 (Born 1820-Died 1871.) 
 
 THE HANDMAID. 
 
 WHY rests a shadow on her woman s heart ? 
 
 In life s more girlish hours it was not so ; 
 111 hath she learned to hide with harmless art 
 
 The soundings of the plummet-line of wo ! 
 Oh, what a world of tenderness looks through 
 
 The melting sapphire of her mournful eyes : 
 Less softly moist are violets full of dew, 
 
 And the delicious color of the skies. 
 Serenely amid worship doth she move, 
 
 Counting its passionate tenderness as dross; 
 And tempering the pleadings of earth s love, 
 
 In the still, solemn shadows of the cross. 
 It is not that her heart is cold or vain, 
 
 That thus she moves through many worshippers ; 
 
 No step is lighter by the couch of pain, 
 No hand on fever s brow lies soft as hers. 
 
 From the loose flowing of her amber hair 
 The summer flowers we long ago unknit, 
 
 As something between joyance and despair 
 Came in the chamber of her soul to sit. 
 
 In her white cheek the crimson burns as faint 
 As red doth in some cold star s chastened 
 beam ; 
 
 The tender meekness of the pitying saint 
 Lends all her life the beauty of a dream. 
 
 Thus doth she move among us day by day, 
 Loving and loved but passion can not move 
 
 The young heart that hath wrapped itself away 
 In the soft mantle of a Savior s love. 
 372 
 

 
ALICE AND PHCEBE CAREY. 
 
 . 373 
 
 HYMN OF THE TRUE MAN. 
 
 PKACK to the True Man s ashes ! Weep for those 
 Whose days in old delusions have grown dim ; 
 
 Such lives as his are triumphs, and their close 
 An immortality : weep not for him. 
 
 As feathers wafted from the eagle s wings 
 
 Lie bright among the rocks they can not warm, 
 
 So lie the flowery lays that Genius brings, 
 In the cold turf that wraps his honored form. 
 
 A practical rebuker of vain strife, 
 
 Bolder in deeds than words, from beardless youth 
 To the white hairs of age, he made his life 
 
 A beautiful consecration to the Truth. 
 
 Virtue, neglected long, and trampled down, 
 Grew stronger in the echo of his name ; 
 
 And, shrinking self-condemned beneath his frown, 
 1 he cheek of harlotry grew red with shame. 
 
 Serene with conscious peace, he strewed his way 
 With sweet humanities, the growth of love ; 
 
 Shaping to right his actions, day by day, 
 Fai.hful to this world and to that above. 
 
 The ghosts of blind belief and hideous crime. 
 
 Of spirit-broken loves, and hopes betrayed, 
 That flit among the broken walls of Time, 
 
 Are by the True Man s exorcisms laid. 
 
 Blest in his life, who to himself is true, 
 
 And blest his death for memory, when he dies, 
 
 Comes, with a lover s eloquence, to renew 
 Our faith in manhood s upward tendencies. 
 
 Weep for the self-abased, and for the slave, 
 
 And for God s children darkened with the smoke 
 
 Of the red altar not for him whose grave 
 Is greener than the misletoe of the oak. 
 
 PALESTINE. 
 
 inspiration ! shadowing my heart 
 Like a sweet thing of beauty could I see 
 Tabor and Carmel ere I hence depart, 
 And tread the quiet vales of Galilee, 
 And look from Herrnon with its dew and flowers, 
 Upon the broken walls and mossy towers, 
 O er which the Son of man in sadness wept, 
 The golden promise of my life were kept. 
 
 Alas ! the beauteous cities, crowned with flowers, 
 
 And robed with royalty ! no more in thee, 
 Fretted with go den pinnacles and towers, 
 
 They sit in haughty beauty by the sea : 
 Shadows of rocks, precipitate and dark, 
 
 Re*t stili and heavy where they found a grave ; 
 There glides no more the humble fisher s bark, 
 
 And the wild heron drinks not of the wave. 
 But still the silvery willows fringe the rills, 
 
 Judea s shepherd watches still his fold; 
 And round about Jerusalem the hills 
 
 Stand in their solemn grandeur as of old ; 
 And Sharon s roses still as sweetly bloom 
 
 As when the apostles, in the days gone by, 
 Rolled back the shadows from the dreary tomb, 
 
 And brought to light Life s Immortality. 
 
 | The East has lain down many a beauteous bride, 
 
 In the dim silence of the sepulchre, 
 Whose names are shrined in storv, but beside 
 
 Their lives no sign to tell they ever were. 
 The imperial fortresses of old renown [now 
 
 Rome, Carthage, Thebes alas ! where are they 
 In the dim distance lost and crumbled down ; 
 
 The glory that was of them, from her brow 
 Took of the wreath in centuries gone by, 
 And walked the Path of Shadows silently. 
 
 But Palestine ! what hopes are born of thee 
 
 I can not paint their beauty, hopes that rise, 
 Sinking this perishing mortality 
 
 To the bright, deathless glories of the skies : 
 Where the sweet Babe of Bethlehem was born 
 
 Love s mission finished there in Calvary s gloom 4 
 There blazed the glories of the rising morn, 
 
 And Death lay gasping there at Jesus tomb ! 
 
 OLD STORIES. 
 
 No beautiful star will twinkle 
 
 To-night through my window-pane, 
 
 As I list to the mournful falling 
 Of the leaves and the autumn rain. 
 
 High up in his leafy covert 
 
 The squirrel a shelter hath ; 
 And the tall grass hides the rabbit, 
 
 Asleep in the churchyard path. 
 
 On the hills is a voice of wailing 
 For the pale dead flowers again, 
 
 That sounds like the heavy trailing 
 Of robes in a funeral train. 
 
 Oh, if there were one who loved me 
 A kindly and gray-haired sire, 
 
 To sit and rehearse old stories 
 To-night by my cabin fire : 
 
 The winds as they would might rattle 
 The boughs of the ancient trees 
 
 In the tale of a stirring battle 
 My heart would forget all these. 
 
 Or if by the embers dying 
 
 We talked of the past, the while, 
 
 I should see bright spirits flying 
 From the pyramids and the Nile. 
 
 Echoes from harps long silent 
 
 Would troop through the aisles of time, 
 And rest on the soul like sunshine, 
 
 If we talked of the bards sublime. 
 
 But hark ! did a phantom call me, 
 Or was it the wind went by ? 
 
 Wild are mv thoughts and restless, 
 But they have no power to fly. 
 
 In place of the cricket humming, 
 And the moth by the candle s light, 
 
 I hear but the deathwatch drumming 
 I ve heard it the livelong night. 
 
 Oh for a friend who loved me 
 
 Oh for a gray-haired sire, 
 To sit with a quaint old story, 
 
 To-night by my cabin fire. 
 
3?4 
 
 ALICE AND PHCEBE CAREY. 
 
 PICTURES OF MEMORY. 
 
 AMONG the beautiful pictures 
 
 That hang (in Memory s wall, 
 Is one of a dim old forest, 
 
 That seemeth best of all : 
 Not for its gnarled oaks olden, 
 
 Dark with the mist etoe ; 
 Not for the violets golden 
 
 That sprinkle the vale be .ow ; 
 Not for the milk-white lilies, 
 
 That lead from the fragrant hedge, 
 Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, 
 
 And stealing their golden edge ; 
 Not for the vines on the up and 
 
 Where the bright red berries rest, 
 Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip, 
 
 It seemeth to me the best. 
 I once had a little brother, 
 
 With eyes that were dark and deep 
 In the lap of that old dim forest 
 
 He lieth in peace as eep: 
 Light as the down of the thistle, 
 
 Free as the winds that blow, 
 We roved there the beautiful summers, 
 
 The summers of long ago; 
 But his feet on the hills grew weary, 
 
 And, one of the autumn eves, 
 I made for my litt e brother 
 
 A bed of the yellow leaves. 
 Sweetly his pale arms folded 
 
 My neck in a meek embrace, 
 As the light of immortal beauty 
 
 Silently covered his face : 
 And when the arrows of sunset 
 
 Lodged in the tree-tops bright, 
 He fell, in his saint-like beauty, 
 
 Asleep by the gates of light. 
 Therefore, of all the pictures 
 
 That hang on Memory s wall, 
 The one of the dim old forest 
 
 Seemeth the best of all. 
 
 THE TWO MISSIONARIES. 
 
 Ix the pyramid s heavy shadows, 
 
 Aiitl by the Nile s deep flood, 
 They leaned on the arm of Jesus, 
 
 And preached to the multitude: 
 Where only the ostrich and parrot 
 
 Went by on the burning sands, 
 They bni ded to God an altar, 
 
 Lifting up holy hands. 
 But even while kneeling lowly 
 
 At the foot of the cross to pray, 
 Eternity s shadows slowly 
 
 Stole over their pilgrim way : 
 And one, with the journey weary, 
 
 And faint with the spirit s strife, 
 Fell sweetly asleep in Jesus, 
 
 Hard by the gates of life. 
 Oh, not in Gethsemane s garden, 
 
 And not by Genesareth s wave, 
 The light, like a golden mantle, 
 
 O erspreadeth his lowly grave ; 
 
 But the bird of the burning desert 
 
 Goes by with a noiseless tread, 
 And the tent of the rest . ess Arab 
 
 Is silently near him spread. 
 Oh, could we remember only, 
 
 Who shrink from the lightest ill, 
 His sorrows, who, bruised and lonely, 
 
 Wrought on in the vineyard still 
 Surely the tale of sorrow 
 
 Would fall on the mourner s breast, 
 Hushing, like oil on the waters, 
 
 The troubled wave to rest. 
 
 VISIONS OF LIGHT. 
 
 THE moon is rising in beauty, 
 
 The sky is solemn and bright, 
 And the waters are singing like lovers 
 
 That walk in the valleys at night. 
 Like the towers of an ancient city, 
 
 That darken against the sky, 
 Seems the blue mist of the river 
 
 O er the hill-tops far and high. 
 I see through the gathering darkness 
 
 The spire of the village church, 
 And the pale white tombs, half hidden 
 
 By the tasselled willow and birch. 
 Vain is the golden drifting 
 
 Of morning light on the hill ; 
 No white hands open the windows 
 
 Of those chambers low and still. 
 But their dwellers were all my kindred, 
 
 Whatever their lives might be, 
 And their sufferings and achievements 
 
 Have recorded lessons for me. 
 Not one of the countless voyagers 
 
 Of life s mysterious main, 
 Has laid down his burden of sorrows, 
 
 Who hath lived and loved in vain. 
 From the bards of the elder ages 
 
 Fragments of song float by, 
 Like flowers in the streams of summer, 
 
 Or stars in the midnight sky. 
 Some plumes in the dust are scattered, 
 
 Where the eagles of Persia flew, 
 And wisdom is reaped from the furrows 
 
 The plough of the Roman drew. 
 From the white tents of the crusaders 
 
 The phantoms of glory are gone, 
 But the zeal of the barefooted hermit 
 
 In humanity s heart lives on. 
 Oh, sweet as the bell of the sabbath 
 
 In the tower of the village church, 
 Or the fall of the yellow moonbeams 
 
 In the tasselled willow and birch 
 Comes a thought of the blessed issues 
 
 That shall follow our social strife, 
 When the spirit of love maketh perfect 
 
 The beautiful mission of life : 
 For visions of light are gathered 
 
 In the sunshine of flowery nooks, 
 Like the shades of the ghostly Fathers 
 
 In their twilight cells of books ! 
 
ALICE AND PHOEBE CAREY. 
 
 375 
 
 HELVA. 
 
 HKR white hands full of mountain flowers, 
 Down by the rough rocks and the sea, 
 
 Helva. the raven-tressed, for hours 
 Hath gazed forth earnestly. 
 
 Unconscious that the salt spray flecks 
 The ebon beauty of her hair 
 
 What vision is it she expects ] 
 So meekly lingering there. 
 
 Is it to see the sea fog lift 
 
 From the broad bases of the hills, 
 
 Or the red moonlight s golden drift, 
 That her soft bosom thrills ] 
 
 Or yet to see the starrv hours 
 
 Their silver network round her throw, 
 That neath the white hands, full of flowers, 
 
 Her heart heaves to and fro 1 
 Why strains so far the aching eye 1 
 
 Kind nature wears to-night no frown, 
 And the still beauty of the sky 
 
 Keeps the mad ocean down. 
 Why are those damp and heavy locks 
 
 Put back, the faintest sound to win 1 
 Ah ! where the beacon lights the rocks, 
 
 A ship is riding in ! 
 
 Who conies forth to the vessel s side, 
 
 Leaning upon the manly arm 
 Of one who wraps with tender pride 
 
 The mantle round her form ] 
 
 Oh Helva, watcher of lone hours, 
 May God in mercy give thee aid ! 
 
 Thy cheek is whiter than thy flowers 
 Thy woman s heart betrayed ! 
 
 THE TIME TO BE. 
 
 I SIT where the leaves of the maple, 
 
 And the gnarled and knotted gum, 
 Are circling and drifting around me, 
 
 And think of the time to come. 
 For the human heart is the mirror 
 
 Of the things that are near and far; 
 Like the wave that reflects in its bosom 
 
 The flower and the distant star. 
 And beautiful to my vision 
 
 Is the time it prophetically sees, 
 As was once to the monarch of Persia 
 
 The gem of the Cycladrs. 
 As change is the order of Nature, 
 
 And beauty springs from decay, 
 So in its destined season 
 
 The false for the true makes way. 
 The darkening power of evil, 
 
 And discordant jars and crime, 
 Are the cry preparing the wilderness 
 
 For the flower and the harvest-time. 
 
 Though doublings and weak misgivings 
 
 May rise to the soul s alarm, 
 Like the ghosts of the heretic burners, 
 
 In the province of bold Reform. 
 
 And now, as ihe summer is fading, 
 And the cold c ouds full of rain, 
 
 And the net in the fields of stubble 
 And the briars, is spread in vain 
 
 I catch, through the mists of life s river, 
 
 A glimpse of the time to be, 
 When the chain from the bondman rusted 
 
 Shall leave him erect and free 
 
 On the solid and broad foundation, 
 
 A common humanity s riglrt, 
 To cover his branded shoulder 
 
 With the garment of love from sight. 
 
 TO LUCY. 
 
 THE leaves are rustling mournfully, 
 
 The yellow leaves and sere ; 
 For Winter with his naked arms 
 
 And chilling breath is here: 
 The rills that all the autumn-time 
 
 Went singing to the sea, 
 Are waiting in their icy chains 
 
 For Spring to set them free ; 
 No bird is heard the live-long day 
 
 Upon its mates to call, 
 And coldly and capriciously 
 
 The slanting sunbeams fall. 
 
 There is a shadow on my heart 
 
 I can not fling aside 
 Sweet sister of my soul, with thee 
 
 Hope s brightest roses died ! 
 I m thinking of the pleasant hours 
 
 That vanished long ago, 
 When summer was the goldenest, 
 
 And all things caught its glow : 
 I m thinking where the violets 
 
 In fragrant beauty lay, 
 Of the buttercups and primroses 
 
 That blossomed in our way. 
 
 I see the willow, and the spring 
 
 O ergrown with purple sedge ; 
 The lilies and the scarlet pinks 
 
 That grew along the hedge ; 
 The meadow, where the elm tree threxv 
 
 Its shadows dark and wide, 
 And, sister, flowers in beauty grew 
 
 And perished side by side : 
 O er the accustomed vale arid hill 
 
 Now Winter s robe is spread, 
 The beetle and the moth are still, 
 
 And all the flowers are dead. 
 
 I mourn for thee, sweet sister, 
 
 When the wintry hours are here, 
 But when the days grow long and bright. 
 
 And skies are blue and clear 
 Oh, when the Summer s banquet 
 
 Among the flowers is spread, 
 My spirit is most sorrowful 
 
 That thou art with the dead : 
 We laid thee in thy narrow bed, 
 
 When autumn winds were high 
 Thy life had taught us how to live. 
 
 And then we learned to die. 
 
376 
 
 ALICE AND PHGEBE CAREY. 
 
 A LEGEND OF ST. MARY S. 
 
 ONE night, when bitterer winds than ours, 
 On hill-sides and in valleys low, 
 
 Built sepulchres for the dead flowers, 
 And buried them in sheets of snow 
 
 When over ledges, dark and cold, 
 
 The sweet moon, rising high and higher, 
 
 Tipped with a dimly burning god 
 St. Mary s old cathedral spire. 
 
 The lamp of the confessional, 
 
 (God grant it did not burn in vain,) 
 
 After the solemn midnight bell, 
 
 Streamed redly through the lattice-pane. 
 
 And kneeling at the father s feet, 
 Whose long and venerable hairs, 
 
 Now whiter than the mountain sleet, 
 
 Could not have numbered half his prayers, 
 
 Was one I can not picture true 
 The cherub beauty of his guise ; 
 
 Lilies, and waves of deepest blue, 
 
 W T ere something like his hands and eyes ! 
 
 Like yellow mosses on the rocks, 
 
 Dashed with the ocean s milk-white spray, 
 The softness of his golden looks 
 
 About his neck and forehead lay. 
 
 Father, thy tresses, silver-sleet. 
 Ne er swept above a form so fair ; 
 
 Surely the flowers beneath his feet 
 Have been a rosary of prayer ! 
 
 We know not, and we can not know, 
 Why swam those rneek b.ue eyes with tears ; 
 
 But surely guilt, or guiltless wo, 
 
 Had bowed him earthward more than years. 
 
 All the long summer that was gone, 
 A cottage maid, the village pride, 
 
 Fainter and fainter smiles had worn, 
 And on that very night she died ! 
 
 As soft the yellow moonbeams streamed 
 
 Across her bosom, snowy fair, 
 She said (the watchers thought she dreamed) 
 
 T is like the shadow of his hair ! 
 
 And they could hear, who nearest came, 
 The cross to sign and hope to lend, 
 
 The murmur of another name 
 
 Than that of mother, brother, friend. 
 
 An h/nir and St. Mary s spires, 
 
 Like spikes of flame, no longer glow 
 
 No longer the confessional fires 
 Shine redly on the drifted snow. 
 
 An hour and the saints had claimed 
 That cottage maid, the village pride ; 
 
 And he, whose name in death she named, 
 Was darkly weeping by her hide. 
 
 White as a spray-wreath lay her brow 
 Beneath the midnight of her hair, 
 
 But all those passionate kisses now 
 Wake not the faintest crimson there ! 
 
 Pride, honor, manhood, can not check 
 The vehemence of love s despair 
 
 JNo soft hand steals about his neck, 
 Or bathes its beauty in his hair ! 
 
 Almost upon the cabin walls, 
 
 Wherein the sweet young maiden died, 
 The shadow of a castle falls, 
 
 Where for her young lord waits a bride ! 
 
 With clear blue eyes, and fair brown curls, 
 In her high turret still she sits ; 
 
 But ah, whaf scorn her ripe lip curls 
 What shadow to her bosom flits ! 
 
 From that low cabin tapers flash, 
 
 And, by the shimmering light they spread, 
 She sees beneath its mountain ash, 
 
 Leafless, but all with berries red, 
 
 Impatient of the unclasped rein, 
 
 A courser that should not be there 
 
 The silver whiteness of his mane 
 
 Streaming like moonlight on the air ! 
 
 Oh, Love ! thou art avenged too well 
 The young heart, broken and betrayed, 
 
 Where thou didst meekly, sweetly dwell, 
 For all its sufferings is repaid. 
 
 Not the proud beauty, nor the frown 
 Of her who shares the living years, 
 
 From her the winding-sheet wraps down, 
 Can ever buy away the tears ! 
 
 WATCHING. 
 
 TUT smile is sad, Elella, 
 
 Too sad for thee to wear, 
 For scarcely have we yet untwined 
 
 The rosebuds from thy hair ! 
 So, dear one, hush thy sobbing, 
 
 And let thy tears be dried 
 Methinks thou shouldst be happier, 
 
 Three little months a bride ! 
 Hark ! how the winds are heaping 
 
 The snow-drifts cold and white 
 The clouds like spectres cross the sky 
 
 Oh, what a lonesome night ! 
 The hour grows late and later, 
 
 I hear the midnight chime : 
 Thy heart s fond keeper, where is he ] 
 
 W T hy comes he not ? tis time ! 
 Here make my heart thy pillow, 
 
 And, if the hours seem long, 
 I ll while them with a legend wild, 
 
 Or fragment of old song 
 Or read, if that will soothe thee, 
 
 Some poet s pleasant rhymes : 
 Oh, I have watched and waited thus, 
 
 I can not tell the times ! 
 Hush, hark ! across the neighboring hills 
 
 I hear the watchdog bay 
 Stir up the fire, and trim the lamp, 
 
 I m sure he s on the way ! 
 Could that have only been the winds, 
 
 So like a footstep near ] 
 No, smile Elella, smile again, 
 
 He s coming home he s here ! 
 
ALICE AND PHCEBE CAREY. 
 
 377 
 
 AN EVENING TALE. 
 
 COME, thou of the drooping eyelid, 
 
 And cheek that is meekly pale, 
 Give over thy pensive musing 
 
 And list to a lonesome tale : 
 For hearts that are torn and bleeding, 
 
 Or heavy as thine, and lone, 
 May find in another s sorrow 
 
 Forgetful ness of their own : 
 So heap on the blazing fagots 
 
 And trim the lamp anew, 
 And I ll tell you a mournful story 
 
 I would that it were not true ! 
 
 The bright red clouds of the sunset 
 
 On the tops of the mountains lay, 
 And many and goodly vessels 
 
 Were anchored below in the bay 
 We saw the walls of the city, 
 
 And could hear its vexing din, 
 As our mules, with their nostrils smoking, 
 
 Drew up at a wayside inn : 
 The hearth was ample and blazing, 
 
 For the night was something chill, 
 But my heart, though I knew not wherefore, 
 
 Sank down with a sense of ill. 
 
 That night I stood on the terrace 
 
 O erlooking a blossomy vale, 
 And the gray old walls of a convent 
 
 That loomed in the moonlight pale 
 Till the lamp of the sweet Madonna 
 
 Grew faint as if burning low, 
 And the midnight bell in the turret 
 
 Swung heavily to and fro 
 When just as its last sweet music 
 
 Came back from the echoing hill, 
 And the hymn of the ghostly friars 
 
 In the fretted aisle grew still 
 
 On a rude bench, hid among olives, 
 
 I noted a maiden fair, 
 Alone, with the night wind playing 
 
 In the locks of her raven hair : 
 Thrice came the sound of her sighing, 
 
 And thrice were her red lips pressed 
 With wild and passionate fervor 
 
 To the cross that hung on her breast : 
 But her bearing was not the bearing 
 
 That to saintly soul belongs, 
 Albeit she chanted the fragments 
 
 Of holy and beautiful songs. 
 
 T was the half hour after the midnight, 
 
 And, so like that it might be now, 
 The full moon was meekly climbing 
 
 Over the mountain s brow 
 When the step of the singing maiden 
 
 In the corridor lightly trod, 
 And I presently saw her kneeling 
 
 In prayer to the mother of God ! 
 On the leaves of her golden missal 
 
 Darkly her loose locks lay, 
 As she cried, " Forgive me, sweet Virgin, 
 
 And mother of Jesus, I pray !" 
 
 When the music was softly melting 
 From the eloquent lips of morn, 
 
 Within the walls of the convent 
 Those beautiful locks were shorn : 
 
 And wherefore the veil was taken 
 Was never revealed by time, 
 
 But Charity sweetly hopeth 
 For sorrow, and not for crime. 
 
 GEORGE BURROUGHS* 
 
 OH, dark as the creeping of shadows, 
 
 At night, o er the burial hill, 
 When the pulse in the stony artery 
 
 Of the bosom of earth is still 
 
 When the sky, through its frosty curtain, 
 Shows the glitter of many a lamp, 
 
 Burning in brightness and stillness, 
 Like the fire of a far-off camp 
 
 Must have been the thoughts of the martyr, 
 Of the jeers and the taunting scorn, 
 
 And the cunning trap of the gallows, 
 That waited his feet at morn 
 
 As down in his lonesome dungeon 
 The hours trooped silent and slow, 
 
 Like sentinels through the thick darkness, 
 Hard by the tents of the foe. 
 
 Could he hear the voices of music 
 
 That thrilled that deep heart of gloom ] 
 
 Or see the pale and still beauty 
 That sweetly leaned by the tomb "? 
 
 Could he note through the cold and thin shadow 
 That swept through his prison bars, 
 
 The white hand of the pure seraph 
 That beckoned him to the stars ! 
 
 As, roused to the stony rattle 
 
 Of the hangman s open cart, 
 He smothered, till only God heard it 
 
 The piercing cry of his heart. 
 
 Can Christ s mercy wash back to whiteness 
 
 The feet his raiment that trod, 
 Whose soul, from that dark persecution, 
 
 Went up to the bosom of God ] 
 
 Hath he forgiveness, who shouted, 
 
 " Righteously do ye, and well, 
 To quench in blood, hot and smoking, 
 
 This firebrand, which is of hell 1" 
 
 Over fields moistened thus darkly 
 Wave harvests of tolerance now ; 
 
 But the tombstones of the old martyrs 
 Sharpened the share of the plough ! 
 
 * No purer hearts or more heroic spirits ever perished 
 at the stake, than some crushed and broken on the wheel 
 of bigotry during the Puritan Reign of Terror. Among 
 thern^ I would instance the Rev. George Burroughs, who 
 prayed with and for his repentant accuser the day previ 
 ous to his execution, and whose conviction demonstrated 
 the righteousness of God to the Rev. Cotton Mather. Af 
 ter his execution, to which he was conveyed in an open 
 cart, Mr. Burroughs was stripped of his clothing, dragged 
 by the hangman s rope to a rocky excavation, in which, 
 beinir thrown and trampled on by the mob. he was 
 left partly uncovered. 
 
f78 
 
 ALICE AND PHCEBE CAREY. 
 
 LIGHTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 UPHEAVING pillars, on whose tops 
 
 The white stars rest like capitals, 
 Whence every living spark that drops 
 
 Kindles and blazes as it falls ! 
 And if the arch-fiend rise to pluck, 
 
 Or stoop to crush their beauty down, 
 A thousand other sparks are struck, 
 
 That Glory settles in her crown. 
 The huge ship, with its brassy share, 
 
 Ploughs the blue sea to speed their course, 
 And veins of iron cleave the air, 
 
 To waft them from their burning source ! 
 All, from the insect s tiny wings, 
 
 And the small drop of morning dew, 
 To the wide universe of things, 
 
 The light is shining, burning through. 
 Too deep for our poor thoughts to gauge 
 
 Lie their clear sources, bright as truth, 
 Whence flows upon the locks of age 
 
 The beauty of eternal youth. 
 Think, oh my faltering brother ! think, 
 
 If thou wilt try, if thou hast tried, 
 By all the lights thou hast, to sink 
 
 The shaft of an immortal tide ! 
 
 DEATH S FERRYMAN. 
 
 BOATMAX, thrice I ve called thee o er, 
 Waiting on life s solemn shore, 
 Tracing, in the silver sand, 
 Letters till thy boat should land. 
 Drifting out alone with thee, 
 Toward the clime I can not see, 
 Read to me the strange device 
 Graven on thy wand of ice. 
 Push the curls of golden hue 
 From thy eyes of starlit dew, 
 And behold me where I stand, 
 Beckoning thy boat to land. 
 Where the river mist, so pale, 
 Trembles like a bridal veil, 
 O er yon lowly drooping tree, 
 One that loves me waits for me. 
 Hear, sweet boatman, hear my call ! 
 Last year, with the leaflet s fall, 
 Resting her pale hand in mine, 
 Ci.ossed she in that boat of thine. 
 When the corn shall cease to grow, 
 And the ryefield s silver flow 
 At the reaper s feet is laid, 
 Crossing, spake the lovely maid : 
 Dearest love, another year 
 
 Thou shall meet this boatman here 
 
 The white fingers of despair 
 Playiig with his golden hair. 
 From this silver-sanded shore, 
 Beckon him to row thee o er ; 
 Where yon solemn shadows be, 
 I shall wait thee come and see ! 
 There ! the white sails float and flow, 
 One in heaven and one below ; 
 And I hear a low voice cry, 
 Ferryman of Death am I. 
 
 SAILOR S SONG. 
 
 HA ! the bird has fled my arrow 
 
 Though the sunshine of its plumes, 
 Like the summer dew is dropping, 
 
 On its native valley blooms; 
 In the shadow of its parting wing 
 
 Shall I sit down and pine, 
 That it pours its song of beauty 
 On another heart than mine ! 
 From thy neck, my trusty charger, 
 
 I will strip away the rein, 
 But to crop the flowery prairie 
 
 May it never bend again ! 
 With thy hoof of flinty silver, 
 
 And thy blue eye shining bright, 
 Through the red mists of the morning 
 
 Speed like a beam of light. 
 I m sick of the dull landsmen 
 
 Tis time, my lads, that we 
 Were crowding on the canvass, 
 
 And standing out to sea ! 
 Ever making from the headlands 
 
 Where the wrecker s beacons ride, 
 Red and deadly, like the shadow 
 
 Of the lion s brinded hide ; 
 And hugging close the islands, 
 
 That are belted with the blue, 
 Where a thousand birds are singing 
 
 In the dells of light and dew ; 
 Time unto our songs the billows 
 
 W 7 ith their dimpled hands shall keep, 
 As we re ploughing the white furrows 
 
 In the bosom of the deep! 
 In watching the light flashing 
 
 Like live sparks from our prow, 
 With but the bitter kisses 
 
 Of the cold surf on my brow, 
 May my voyage at last be ended, 
 
 And my sleep be in the tide, 
 With the sea-waves clasped around me, 
 Like the white arms of a bride ! 
 
 TO THE EVENING ZEPHYR. 
 
 I SIT where the wild-bee is humming, 
 
 And listen in vain for thy song; 
 I ve waited before for thy coming, 
 
 But never, oh, never so long! 
 How oft with the blue sky above us, 
 
 And waves breaking light on the shore, 
 Thou, knowing they wou d not reprove us, 
 
 Hast kissed me a thousand times o ei ! .... 
 Alone in the gathering shadows, 
 
 Still waiting, sweet Zephyr, for thee, 
 I look for the waves of the meadows, 
 
 And dimples to dot the blue sea. 
 The blossoms that waited to greet thee 
 
 With heat of the noontide oppressed, 
 Now flutter so light to meet thee, 
 
 Thou rt coming, I know, from the west 
 Alas! if thou findest me pouting, 
 
 Tis only my love that alarms; 
 Forgive, then, I pray thee, my doubting, 
 
 And take me once more to thine arms! 
 
ALICE AND PHOEBE CAREY. 
 
 MUSINGS BY THREE GRAVES. 
 
 THK dappled clouds are broken : bright and clear 
 Comes up the broad and glorious star of day ; 
 
 And night, the shadowy, like a hunted deer, 
 Flies from the close pursuer fast away. 
 
 Now on my ear a murmur faintly swells, 
 And now it gathers louder and more deep, 
 
 As the sweet music of the village bells 
 Rouses the drowsy rustic from his sleep. 
 
 Hark ! there s a footstep startling up the birds, 
 And now as softly steals the breeze along, 
 
 I hear the sound, and almost catch the words 
 Of the sweet fragment of a pensive song. 
 
 And yonder, in the clover-scented vale 
 Her bonnet in her hand, and simply clad 
 
 I see the milkmaid with her flowing pail : 
 Alas ! what is it makes her song so sad ! 
 
 In the seclusion of these lowly dells, 
 
 What mournful lesson has her bosom learned 1 
 Is it the memory of sad farewells, 
 
 Or faithless love, or friendship unreturned 1 
 
 Methinks yon sunburnt swain, with knotted thong, 
 And rye-straw hat slouched careless on his brow, 
 
 Whistled more loudly, passing her along, 
 To yoke his patient oxen to the plough. 
 
 Tis all in vain : she heeds not, if she hears, 
 And, sadly musing, separate ways they go : 
 
 Oh, who shall tell how many bitter tears 
 Are mingled in the brightest fount below ] 
 
 Poor, simple tenant of another s lands, 
 
 Vexed with no dream of heraldic renown ; 
 
 No more the earnings of his sinewy hands 
 Shall make his spirit like the thistle s down. 
 
 Smile not, recipient of a happier fate, 
 
 And haply better formed life s ills to bear, 
 
 If e er you pause to read the name and date 
 Of one who died the victim of despair. 
 
 Now morn is fully up ; and while the dew 
 From off her golden locks is brightly shed, 
 
 In the deep shadows of the solemn yew 
 I sit alone and muse above the dead. 
 
 Not with the blackbird whistling in the brake, 
 Nor when the rabbit lightly near them treads, 
 
 Shall they from their deep s! umbering awake, 
 Who lie beneath me in their narrow beds. 
 
 Oh, what is life ? at best a narrow bound, 
 
 Where each that lives some baffled hope survives : 
 
 A search for something, never to be found, 
 Records the history of the greatest lives ! 
 
 There is a haven for each weary bark, 
 
 A port where they who rest are free from sin ; 
 
 But we, like children trembling in the dark, 
 Drive on and on, afraid to entei in. 
 
 Here lies an aged patriarch at rest, 
 
 To whom the needy never vainly cried, 
 Till in this vale, with toil and years oppressed, 
 
 His long-sustaining staff was laid aside. 
 Oft for his country had he fought and bled, 
 
 And gladly, when the lamp of life grew dim, 
 He joined the silent army of the dead 
 
 Then why should tears of sorrow flow for him 
 We mourn not for the cornfield s deep ning gold, 
 
 Nor when the sickle on the hills is plied ; 
 And wherefore should we sorrow for the old 
 
 Who perish when life s paths have all been tried ! 
 How oft at noon, beneath the orchard trees, 
 
 With brow serene and venerably fair, 
 I ve seen a little prattler on his knees, 
 
 Smoothing with dimpled hand his silver hair. 
 When music floated on the sunny hills, [drest, 
 
 And trees and shrubs with opening flowers were 
 She meekly put aside life s cup of ills. 
 
 And kindly neighbors laid her here to rest. 
 And ye who loved her, would ye call her back, 
 
 Where its deep thirst the soul may never slake; 
 And sorrow, with her lean and hungry pack, 
 
 Pursues through every winding which we take? 
 W 7 here lengthened years but teach the bitter truth, 
 
 That transient preference does not make a friend ; 
 That manhood disavows the love of youth, 
 
 And riper years of manhood, to the end. 
 Beneath this narrow heap of mouldering earth, 
 
 Hard by the mansions of the old and young, 
 A wife and mother sleeps, whose humble worth 
 
 And quiet virtues poet never sung. 
 
 With yonder cabin, half with ivy veiled, 
 And children by the hand of mercy sent 
 
 And love s sweet star, that never, never paled, 
 Her bosom knew the fulness of content. 
 
 Mocking ambition never came to tear 
 The finest fibres from her heart away 
 
 The aim of her existence was to bear 
 
 The cross in patient meekness day by day. 
 
 No hopeless, blind idolater of chance, 
 
 The sport and plaything of each wind that blows, 
 But lilting still by faith a heavenward glance, 
 
 She saw the waves of death around her close. 
 And here her children come with pious tears, 
 
 And strew their simple offerings in the sod ; 
 And learn to tread like her the vale of years, 
 
 Beloved of man and reconciled to God. 
 
 Now from the village school .the urchins come, 
 
 And shout and laughter echo far and wide ; 
 The blue smoke curls from many a rustic home, 
 
 W T here all their simple wants are well supplied 
 The labored hedger, pausing by the way, 
 
 Picks the ripe berries from the gadding vine : 
 The axe is still, the cattle homeward stray, 
 
 And transient glories mark the day s decline. 
 
380 
 
 ALICE AND PHCEBE CAREY. 
 
 PHGEBE CAREY. 
 
 (Born 1825 Died 1871J 
 
 THE LOVERS. 
 
 THOU marve .est why so oft her eyes 
 
 Fill with the heavy dew of tears 
 Have I not to d thee that there lies 
 
 A shadow darkly on her years ] 
 Life was to her one sunny whole, 
 
 Made up of visions fancy wove, 
 Till that the waters of her soul 
 
 Were troubled by the touch of love. 
 I knew when first the sudden pause 
 
 Upon her spirit s sunshine fell 
 Alas ! I little guessed the cause, 
 
 T was hidden in her heart so well : 
 Our lives since early infancy 
 
 Had flowed as rills together flow, 
 And now to hide her thought from me 
 
 Was bitterer than to tell its wo. 
 
 One night, when clouds with anguish black 
 
 A tempest in her bosom woke, 
 She crushed the bitter tear-drops back, 
 
 And told me that her heart was broke ! 
 I learned it when the autumn hours 
 
 With wailing winds around us sighed 
 T was summer when her love s young flowers 
 
 Burst into glorious life, and died : 
 No now I can remember well, 
 
 ! Twas the soft month of sun and shower; 
 A thousand times I ve heard her tell 
 
 The season, and the very hour: 
 For now, whene er the tear-drops start, 
 
 As if to ease its throbbing pain, 
 She leans her head upon my heart 
 
 And tells the very tale again. 
 
 Tis something of a moon, that beamed 
 
 Upon her weak and trembling form, 
 And one beside, on whom she leaned, 
 
 That scarce had stronger heart or arm 
 Of souls united there until 
 
 Death the last ties of life shall part, 
 And a fond kiss whose rapturous thrill 
 
 Still vibrates softly in her he-art. 
 Tt is an era strange, yet sweet, 
 
 Which every woman s thought has known, 
 When first her young heart learns to beat 
 
 To the soft music of a tone - 
 That era when she first begins 
 
 To know, what love alone can teach, 
 That there are hidden depths within, 
 
 Which friendship never yet could reach : 
 And all earth has of bitter wo, 
 
 Is light beside her hopeless doom, 
 Who sees love s first sweet star below 
 
 Fade slowly till it sets in gloom : 
 There may be heavier grief to move 
 
 The heart that mourns an idol dead, 
 But one who weeps a living love 
 
 Has surely little left to dread. 
 I can not tell why love so true 
 
 As theirs, should only end in gloom 
 
 Some mystery that I never knew 
 
 Was woven darkly with their doom : 
 
 I only know their dream was vain, 
 
 And that they woke to find it past, 
 And when by chance they met again, 
 
 It was not as they parted last. 
 His was not faith that lightly dies, 
 
 For truth and love as c! early shone 
 In the blue heaven of his soft eves, 
 
 As the dark midnight of her own : 
 And therefore Heaven alone can tell 
 
 W hat are his living visions now ; 
 But hers the eye can read too well 
 
 The language written on her brow. 
 
 In the soft twilight, dim and sweet, 
 
 Once, watching by the lattice pane, 
 She listened for his coming feet, 
 
 For whom she never looked in vain : 
 Then hope shone brightly on her brow, 
 
 That had not learned its after fears 
 Alas ! she can not sit there now, 
 
 But that her dark eves fill with tears! 
 And every woodland pathway dim, 
 
 And bower of roses cool and sweet, 
 That speak of vanished days and him, 
 
 Are spots forbidden to her feet. 
 No thought within her bosom stirs, 
 
 But wakes some feeling dark and dread: 
 God keep thee from a doom like hers 
 
 Of living when the hopes are dead ! 
 
 BEARING LIFE S BURDENS. 
 
 On, there are moments for us here, when, seeing 
 Life s inequalities, and wo, and care, 
 
 The burdens laid upon our mortal being 
 Seem heavier than the human heart can bear. 
 
 For there are ills that come without foreboding, 
 Lightnings that fall before the thunders roll, 
 
 And there are festering cares, that, by corroding, 
 Eat silently their way into the soul. 
 
 And for the evils that our race inherit, 
 What strength is given us that we may endure ? 
 
 Surely the God and Father of our spirit 
 Sends not afflictions which he can not cure ! 
 
 No ! there is a Physician, there is healing, 
 And light that beams upon life s darkest day, 
 
 To him whose heart is right with God, revealing 
 The wisdom and the justice of his way. 
 
 Not him who never lifts his thought to Heaven, 
 
 Remembering whence his blessings have been sent; 
 Nor yet to him are strength and wisdom given, 
 
 Whose days with profitless scourge and fast are 
 
 spent : 
 But him whose heart is as a temple holy, 
 
 Whose prayer in every act of right is said 
 He shall be strong, whether life s ills wear slowly, 
 
 Or come like lightning down upon his head : 
 He who for his own good or for another 
 
 Ready to pray, and strive, and labor, stands 
 Who loves his God by loving well his brother, 
 
 And worships him by keeping his commands. 
 
ALICE AND PHCEBE CAREY. 
 
 381 
 
 RESOLVES. 
 
 I HAVE said I wou d not meet him 
 
 Have I said the words in vain 1 
 Sunset burns along the hill-tops, 
 
 And I m waiting here again: 
 But my promise is not hroken, 
 
 Though I stand where once we met ; 
 When I hear his coming footsteps, 
 
 I can fly him even yet. 
 
 We have stood here oft when evening 
 
 Deepened slowly o er the plain, 
 But I must not, dare not, meet him 
 
 In the shadows here again ; 
 For I could not turn away and 
 
 Leave that pleading look and tone, 
 And the sorrow of his parting 
 
 Would he bitter as my own. 
 
 In the dim and distant ether 
 
 The first star is shining through, 
 And another, and another ! 
 
 Trembles softly in the blue : 
 Should I linger but one moment 
 
 In the shadows where I stand, 
 I shall see the vine-leaves parted 
 
 With a quick, impatient hand. 
 But I will not wait his coming 
 
 He will surely come once more ; 
 Though I said I wou d not mee* him, 
 
 I have told him so before ; 
 And he knows the stars of evening 
 
 See me standing here again 
 Oh, he surely will not leave me 
 
 Now to watch and wait in vain ! 
 
 Tis the hour the time of meeting 
 
 In one moment twill be past; 
 And last night he stood beside me 
 
 Was that blessed time the last 1 
 I could better bear my sorrow, 
 
 Could I live that parting o er : 
 Oh, I wish I had not to!d him 
 
 That I wou d not come once more ! 
 Could that have been the night-wind 
 
 Moved the branches thus apart ? 
 Did I hear a coming footstep, 
 
 Or the beating of my heart ? 
 No I hear him, I can see him, 
 
 And my weak resolves are vain : 
 I will fly, but to his bosom, 
 
 And to leave it not again ! 
 
 LIGHT IN DARKNESS. 
 
 DID we think of the light and sunshine, 
 
 Of the blessings left us still, 
 When we sit and ponder darkly 
 
 And blindly o er life s ill, 
 How should we dispel the shadow? 
 
 Of stil and deep despair, 
 And lessen the weight of anguish 
 
 Which every heart must bear ] 
 
 The clouds may rest on the present. 
 
 And sorrow on days that are gone, 
 But no night is so utterly cheerless 
 
 That we may not look for the dawn ; 
 And there is no human being 
 
 With so who lv dark a lot, 
 But the heart, by turning the picture, 
 
 May find some sunny spot : 
 
 For, as in the lays of winter, 
 
 When the snowdrifts whiten the hill, 
 Some birds in the air will flutter, 
 
 And warble, to cheer us still : 
 So, if we would hark to the music, 
 
 Some hope with a starry wing, 
 In the days of our darkest sorrow, 
 
 Will sit in the heart and sing. 
 
 THE WIFE OF BESSIERES.* 
 
 THE pathway where the sun went down, 
 
 Shone faintly in the western arch, 
 As tranquil Eve was leading on 
 
 Her silent armies in their march : 
 Bright hosts of onward moving stars 
 
 Were in the orient climbing higher, 
 Where, first among his brethren, Mars 
 
 Burned redly as a beam of fire : 
 
 In the wide plain that lay below 
 
 The dark Bohemian mountain heights, 
 But lately, from the tents of snow, 
 
 Streamed ruddily the camp fire s lights. 
 But now the grass waves quietly, 
 
 The mountains watch that place alone, 
 And the cool night dews silently 
 
 To leaf and flower came stealing down. 
 
 Yet in that valley, lone and damp, 
 
 A form is gliding to and fro, 
 And, by the glimmer of her lamp, 
 
 I see a mourner s face of wo : 
 That beacon through the night burns on 
 
 The pale face lingering sweet y nigh, 
 And fades not when the feet of dawn 
 
 Shake out the diamonds from the sky. 
 
 Tis she, whose noble lover died 
 
 Ere the red morn of Lutzen shone 
 The duke of Istria s mournful bride 
 
 Still watching by his tomb alone. 
 Vain weeper, wherefore linger on 1 
 
 Thy locks with heavy dews are wet 
 The feet that to the dead go down, 
 
 Ne er came to meet the faithful yet. 
 
 Oh, woman s love hath fondly turned 
 
 To those in dungeons, deep and dark, 
 And beacon fires have steadily burned 
 
 To light a long-expected bark : 
 But what affection, true and tried, 
 
 Which death can shake not, nor remove, 
 Is hers, who feeds the lamp beside 
 
 The sepulchre of buried love. 
 
 * The king of Saxony erected a monument over Ben- 
 Sieres, where ht; fell, and over it his disconsolate wid!<vi 
 kept a lamp burning, ni^ht and day, for a year. 
 
382 
 
 ALICE AND PHCEBE CAREY. 
 
 THE FOLLOWERS OF CHRIST. 
 
 Wn AT were Thy teachings ? thou who hadst not 
 
 In all this weary earth to lay thy head ; [where 
 Thou who wert made the sins of men to bear, 
 
 And break with publicans thy daily bread ! 
 Turning from Nazareth, the despised, aside, 
 
 And dwelling in the cities by the sea, 
 What were thy words to those who sat and dried 
 
 Their nets upon the rocks of Galilee"? 
 Didst thou not teach thy followers here below, 
 
 Patience, long-sufferintr, charitv, and love ; 
 To be forgiving, and to anger s ow, 
 
 And perfect, like our blessed Lord above? 
 And who were they, the called and chosen then, 
 
 Through a l the world, teaching tliv truth, to go ? 
 Were they the ru ers, and the chiefest men, 
 
 The teachers in the synagogue? Not so! 
 Makers of tents, and fishers bv the sea, 
 These on y left their all to follow thee. 
 And even of the twelve whom thou didst name 
 
 Apostles of thy ho y word to be, 
 One was a devil; and the one who came 
 
 With loudest boasts of faith and constancy, 
 He was the first thy warning who forgot, 
 And said, with curses, that he knew thee not! 
 Yet were there some who in thy sorrows were 
 
 To thee even as a brother and a friend, 
 And women, seeking out the sepulchre, 
 
 Were true and faithful even to the end : 
 And some there were who kept the living faith 
 Through persecution even unto death 
 But, Savior, since that dark and awful day 
 
 When the dread temple s veil was rent in twain, 
 And while the noontide brightness fled away, 
 
 The aping earth gave up her dead again ; 
 Tracing the many generations down. 
 
 Who have professed to love thy holy ways, 
 Through the long centuries of the world s renown, 
 
 And through the terrors of her darker days 
 
 Where are thy followers, and what deeds of love 
 Their deep devotion to thy precepts prove ? 
 Turn to the time when o er the green hills came 
 
 Peter the Hermit, from the cloister s gloom, 
 Telling his followers in the Savior s name 
 
 To arm and battle for the sacred tomb ; 
 Not with the Christian armor perfect faith, 
 
 And love which purifies the soul from dross 
 
 But holding in one hand the sword of death, 
 
 And in the other lifting up the cross, 
 He roused the sleeping nations up to feel 
 All the blind ardor of unholy zeal! 
 With the bright banner of the cross unfurled, 
 
 And chanting sacred hymns, they marched, and 
 Pliey made a pandemonium of the world, ("yet 
 
 More dark than that whore fallen angels met: 
 The singing of their bugles could not drown 
 The bitter curses of the hunted down ! 
 Richard, the lion-hearted, bravo in war, 
 
 Tancred, and Godfrey, of the fearless band, 
 fhough oarth y fame had spread their names afar, 
 
 What were they but the scourges of the land ? 
 And worse than those, wore men whose touch would 
 I 1 Dilution, vowed to lives of sanctity ! n )e 
 
 And in thy name did men in other days 
 
 Construct the inquisition s gloomy cell, 
 And kindle persecution to a blaze, 
 
 Likost of all things to the fires of hell ! 
 Ridley and Latimer I hear their song 
 
 In calling up each martyr s glorious name, 
 And Cranmer, with the praises on his tongue 
 
 When his red hand dropped down amid the flame! 
 Merciful God ! and have these things been done, 
 And in the name of thy most holy Son ? 
 Turning from other lands grown old in crime, 
 
 To this, where Freedom s root is deeply set, 
 Surely no stain upon its folds sublime 
 
 Dims the escutcheon of our glory yet ! 
 Hush ! came there not. a sound upon the air 
 
 Like captives moaning from their native shore 
 Woman s deep wail of passionate despair 
 
 For home and kindred seen on earth no morr 
 Yes, standing in the market-place I see 
 
 Our weaker brethren coldly bought and sold, 
 To be in hopeless, dull captivity, 
 
 Driven forth to toil like cattle from the fold : 
 And hark! the lash, and the despairing cry 
 
 Of the strong man in perilous agony ! 
 And near me I can hear the heavy sound 
 
 Of the dull hammer borne upon the air: 
 Is a new city rising from the ground ? 
 
 What hath the artisan constructed there ? 
 Tis not a palace, nor an humble shed ; 
 
 Tis not a holy temple reared by hands 
 No ! lifting up its dark and bloody head 
 
 Right in the face of Heaven, the scaffold stands 
 And men, regardless of Thou shalt not kill," 
 
 That plainest lesson in the Book of Light, 
 Even from the very altars tell us still, 
 
 That evil sanctioned by the law is right ! 
 And preach, in tones of eloquence sublime, 
 To teach mankind that murder is not crime ! 
 And is there nothing to redeem mankind ? 
 
 No heart that keeps the love of God within ? 
 Is the whole world degraded, weak, and blind, 
 
 And darkened by the leprous scales of sin? 
 No, we will hope that some, in meekness sweet, 
 Still sit, with trusting Mary, at thy feet. 
 For there are men of God, who faithful stand 
 
 On the far ramparts of our Zion s wall, 
 Planting the cross of Jesus in some land 
 
 That never listened to salvation s call. 
 And there are some, led by philanthropy, 
 
 Men of the feeling heart and daring mind, 
 Who fain would set the hopeless free, 
 
 And raise the weak and fallen of mankind. 
 And there are many in life s humblest way, 
 
 Who tread like angels on a path of light, 
 Who warn the sinful when they go astray, 
 
 And point the erring to the way of right ; 
 And the meek beauty of such lives will teach 
 .More than the eloquence of man can preach. 
 And hVss-d Savior! by thy life of trial, 
 
 And by thy death, to free the world from sin, 
 And by the hope that man, though weak and vile, 
 
 Hath something of divinity within 
 Still will we trust, though sin and crime be met, 
 To see thy holy precepts triumph yet! 
 
ALICE AND PHCEBE CAREY. 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 IN T the same beaten channel still have run 
 The blessed streams of human sympathy ; 
 
 An 1 though I know this ever hath been done, 
 The why and wherefore I could never see : 
 
 Why some such sorrow for their griefs have won, 
 And some, unpitied, bear their misery, 
 
 Are mysteries, which, thinking o er and o er, 
 
 Has left me nothing wiser than before. 
 
 "What hitter tears of agony have flowed 
 O er the sad pages of some o d romance ! [glowed, 
 
 How Beauty s cheek beneath those drops has 
 That dimmed the sparkling lustre of her glance, 
 
 And on some lovesick maiden is bestowed, 
 Or some rejected, hapless knight, perchance, 
 
 All her deep sympathies, until her moans 
 
 Stifle the nearer sound of living groans ! 
 
 Oh, the deep sorrow for their sufferings felt, [prove 
 Where is found something " better days" to 
 
 What heart above their downfall will not melt, 
 Wiio in a " higher circle" once could move : 
 
 For such, mankind have ever freely dealt 
 Out the full measure of their pitying love, 
 
 Because they witnessed, in their wretchedness, 
 
 Their friends grow fewer, and their fortunes less. 
 
 But for some humb e peasant girl s distress, 
 Some real being left to stem the tide, 
 
 Who saw her young heart s wea th of tenderness 
 Betrayed, and trampled on, and flung aside 
 
 Who seeks her out, to make her sorrows less 1 
 What noble lady "o er her tale hath cried 1 
 
 None ! for the records of such humble grief 
 
 Obtain not human pity scarce belief. 
 
 And p.s for their distress, who from the first 
 
 Have had no fortune and no friends to fail 
 Tnose who in poverty were born and nursed : 
 
 For such, by men, are placed without the pale 
 Of sympathy since they are deemed the worst 
 
 Who are the humblest ; and if want assail 
 And bring them harder toil, tis only said 
 "They have been used to labor for their bread !" 
 Oh, the unknown, unpitied thousands found 
 
 Huddled together, hid from human sight 
 By fell disease or gnawing famine bound 
 
 To some dim, crowded garret, day and night, 
 Or in unwholesome cellars under ground, 
 
 With scarce a breath of air or ray of light 
 Hunger and ra-js, and labor ill repaid : 
 These are the things that ask our tears and aid. 
 And these ought not to be : it is not well, 
 
 Here in this land of Christian liberty, 
 That honest worth or hopeless want shouM dwell 
 
 Unaided by our care and sympathy : 
 And is it not a burning shame to tell 
 
 We have no means to check such misery, 
 When wealth from out our treasury free y flows, 
 To wage a deadly warfare with our foes ! 
 It is all wrong : yet men begin to deem 
 
 The days of darkest g oom are nearly done 
 A something, like the first daylight beam 
 
 That h^ra ds with the coming of the dawn, 
 
 Breaks on the sight. Oh, if it be no dream, 
 
 How shall we haste that blessed era on : 
 For there is need that on men s hearts should fall 
 A spirit that shall sympathize with all. 
 
 SONG OF THK HEART. 
 
 THEY may tell for ever of worlds of bloom, 
 Beyond the skies and beyond the tomb 
 Of the sweet repose and the rapture there, 
 That are not found in a world of care : 
 But not to me can the present seem 
 Like a foolish tale or an idle dream. 
 
 Oh, I know that the bowers of heaven are fair, 
 And I know that the waters of life are there ; 
 But I do not long for their happy flow, 
 While there burst such fountains of bliss below 
 And I would not leave, for the rest above, 
 The faithful bosom of trusting love ! 
 
 There are angels here : .they are seen the while, 
 In each love-lit brow and each gentle smile ; 
 There are seraph voices that meet the ear, 
 In the kindly tone and the word of cheer , 
 And light, such light as they have above, 
 Beams on us here from the eyes of love ! 
 
 Yet, when it cometh my time to die, 
 I would turn from this bright world willing!/ ; 
 Though, even then, would the thoughts of this 
 Tinge every dream of that land of bliss : 
 And I fain would lean on the loved for aid, 
 Nor walk alone through the vale and shade. 
 
 And if tis mine, till life s changes end, 
 To guard the heart of one faithful friend, 
 Whatever the trials of earth may be, 
 On the peaceful shore or the restless sea 
 In a palace home or the wilderness 
 There is heaven for me in a world like this. 
 
 THE PRISONER S LAST NIGHT. 
 
 THE last red gold had melted from the sky, 
 Where the sweet sunset lingered soft and warm, 
 
 And starry Night was gathering silently 
 The jewelled mantle round her regal form ; 
 
 While the invisible fingers of the breeze 
 
 Shook the young blossoms lightly from the trees. 
 
 Yet were their breaking hearts beneath the stars, 
 Though the hushed earth lay smiling in the light, 
 
 And the dull fetters and the prison bars 
 Saw bitter tears of agony that night, 
 
 And heard such burning words of love and truth 
 
 As wring the life-drops from the heart c: youth. 
 
 For he, whom men relentless doomed to die, 
 Parted with one who loved him tiii (ho iast; 
 
 With many a vow of faith and constancy 
 The long, long watches of the night were passed 
 
 Till heavi y and slow, the prison door 
 
 Swung back, and to!d them that their hour was O C T 
 
 T was his last night on earth ! and God alone 
 
 Can tell the anguish of that stricken, one, 
 Fpttered in darkness to the dungeon stone, 
 
384 
 
 ALICE AND PHCEBE CAREY. 
 
 And doomed to perish with the rising sun : 
 And she, whose faith through a 1 was vainly true, 
 Her heart was hroken and she perished too. 
 And will this win an erring brother hack 
 
 To the sweet paths of pleasantness and peace ? 
 " Whi e crimes are punished hut hy crimes more 
 black/ 
 
 Will ever wickedness and sorrow cease 1 
 No ! crime will never fail to scourge the land, 
 So long as blood is on her ruler s hand. 
 And oh, how long will hearts in sin and pride 
 
 Reject His blessed precepts, who of yore 
 Taught men forgiveness on the mountain side, 
 
 And spoke of love and mercy hy the shore 1 
 How long will power, with such despotic sway, 
 Trample unfriended weakness in its way ! 
 Hasten, Lord of light ! that glorious time 
 
 When man no more sha l spurn thy wise command, 
 Filling the earth with wretchedness and crime, 
 
 And making guilt a p ague-spot on the land : 
 Hasten the time, that blood no more shall cry 
 Unceasingly for vengeance to the sky ! 
 
 MEMOHTES. 
 
 " Slie loved me, but she : eft me." 
 
 MEMORIES on memories ! to my soul again 
 
 There come such dreams of vanished love and bliss 
 That my wrung heart, though long inured to pain, 
 
 Sinks with the fulness of its wretchedness : 
 Thou, dearer far than a l the world beside ! 
 
 Thou, who didst listen to my love s first vow 
 Once I had fondly hoped to call thee bride : 
 
 Is the dream over 1 comes the awakening now 1 
 And is this hour of wretchedness and tears 
 The only guerdon for my wasted years 1 
 
 And I did love thee when by stealth we met 
 
 In the sweet evenings of that summer time, 
 W T hose pleasant memory lingers with me yet, 
 
 As the remembrance of a better clime 
 Might haunt a fallen angel. And oh, thou 
 
 Thou who didst turn away and seek to bind 
 Thy heart from breaking thou hast felt ere now 
 
 A heart like thine o ermastereth the mind : 
 Ail ection s power is stronger than thy will 
 Ah, thou didst love me, and thou lovest me still. 
 
 My heart cou d never yet be taught to move 
 
 W r ith the calm even pulses that it should : 
 Turning away from those that it should love, 
 
 And loving whom it should not, it hath wooed 
 Beauty forbidden I may not forget ; 
 
 And thou, oh thou canst never cease to feel ; 
 Hut time, which hath not changed affection yet, 
 
 Hath taught at least one lesson to conceal ; 
 !So none but thou, who see my smiles, shall know 
 The silent bleeding of the heart below. 
 
 "EQUAL TO EITHER FORTUNE." 
 
 " ECIUAT, to either fortune !" This should bo 
 The motto of the perfect man and true 
 
 Striving to stem the billow fearlessly, 
 And keeping steadily the right in view, 
 
 Whether it he his lot in life to sail 
 Before an adverse or a prosperous gale. 
 
 Man fearlessly his voice for truth should raise, 
 When truth would force its way in deed or word ; 
 
 W hether for him the popular voice of praise, 
 Or the cold sneer of unbelief is heard : 
 
 Like the First Martyr, when his voice arose 
 
 Distinct above the hisses of hi? foes. 
 
 " Equal to either fortune," Heaven designs, 
 Whether his destiny be repose or toil 
 
 Whether the sun upon his palace shines, 
 Or calls him forth to plant the furrowed soil : 
 
 So shall he find life s blessings freely strewn 
 
 Around the peasant s cottage as the throne. 
 
 Man should dare all things which he knows are right, 
 And fear to do no act save what is wrong ; 
 
 But, guided safely by his inward light, 
 And with a permanent belief, and strong, 
 
 In Him who is our Father and our friend, 
 
 He should walk steadfastly unto the end. 
 
 Ready to live or die, even in that day 
 Which man from childhood has been taught to fear, 
 
 When, putting off its cumbrous weight of clay, 
 The spirit enters on a nobler sphere : 
 
 And he will be, whose life was rightly passed, 
 
 " Equal to either fortune" at the last. 
 
 COMING HOME. 
 
 How long it seems since first we heard 
 
 The cry of " land in sight !" 
 Our vessel surely never sailed 
 
 So slowly till to-night. 
 W r hen we discerned the distant hills, 
 
 The sun was scarcely set, 
 And, now the noon of night is passed, 
 
 They seem no nearer yet. 
 
 Where the blue Rhine reflected back 
 
 Each frowning castle wall. 
 Where, in the forest of the Hartz, 
 
 Eternal shadows fall 
 Or where the yellow Tiber flowed 
 
 By the old hills of Rome 
 I never felt such restlessness, 
 
 Such longing for our home. 
 Dost thou remember, oh, my friend, 
 
 W r hen we beheld it last, 
 How shadows from the setting sun 
 
 Upon our cot were cast 1 
 Three summer-times upon its walls 
 
 Have shone for us in vain ; 
 But oh, we re hastening homeward now, 
 
 To leave it not again. 
 There, as the. last star dropped away 
 
 From Night s imperial brow, 
 Did not our vessel " round the point" ? 
 
 The land looks nearer now ! 
 Yes, as the first faint beams of day 
 
 Fell on our native shore, 
 They re dropping anchor in the bay, 
 
 We re home, we re home once more ! 
 
ALICE AND PHCEBE CAREY. 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN WOMAN. 
 
 On, beautiful as morning in those hours, 
 When, as her pathway lies along the hills, 
 
 Her golden fingers wake the dewy flowers, 
 And softly touch the waters of the rills, 
 
 Was she who walked more faintly day by day, 
 
 Till silently she perisL.d iy the way. 
 
 It was not hers to know that perfect heaven 
 Of passionate love returned by love as deep ; 
 
 Not hers to sing the cradle-song at even, 
 Watching the beauty of her babe asleep ; 
 
 " Mother and brethren" these she had not known, 
 
 Save such as do the Father s will alone. 
 
 Yet found she something still for which to live 
 Hearths desolate, where angel-like she came, 
 
 And " little ones" to whom her hand could give 
 A cup of water in her Master s name; 
 
 And breaking heaits to bind away from death, 
 
 With the soft hand of pitying love and faith. 
 
 She never won the voice of popular praise, 
 But, counting earthly triumph as but dross, 
 
 Seeking to keep her Savior s perfect ways, 
 Bearing in the still path his blessed cross, 
 
 She made her life, while with us here she trod, 
 
 A consecration to the will of God ! 
 
 And she hath lived and labored not in vain : 
 Through the deep prison cells her accents thrill, 
 
 And the sad slave leans idly on his chain, 
 Am? hears the music of her singing still ; 
 
 While little children, with their innocent praise, 
 
 Keep freshly in men s hearts her Christian ways. 
 
 And what a beautiful lesson she made known 
 The whiteness of her soul sin could not dim ; 
 
 Ready to lay down on God s altar stone 
 The dearest treasure of her life for him. 
 
 Her flame of sacrifice never, never waned, 
 
 How could she live and die so self-sustained ] 
 
 For friends supported not her parting soul, 
 And whispered words of comfort, kind and sweet, 
 
 When treading onward to that final goal, 
 Where the still bridegroom waited for her feet ; 
 
 Alone she walked, yet with a fearless tread, 
 
 Down to Death s chamber, and his bridal bed ! 
 
 DEATH SCENE. 
 
 DYING, still slowly dying, 
 
 As the hours of night rode by, 
 She had lain since the light of sunset 
 
 Was red on the evening sky : 
 Till after the middle watches, 
 
 As we softly near her trod, 
 When her soul from its prison fetters 
 
 Was loosed by the hand of God. 
 
 One moment her pale lips trembled 
 With the triumph she might not tell, 
 
 As the sight of the life immortal 
 On her spirit s vision fell ; 
 
 Then the look of rapture faded, 
 25 
 
 And the beautiful smile was faint, 
 As that in some convent picture, 
 On the face of a dying saint. 
 
 And we felt in the lonesome midnight, 
 
 As we sat bv the silent dead, 
 What a light on the pnth going downward 
 
 The feet of the righteous shed ; 
 When we thought how with faith unshrinking 
 
 She came to the Jordan s tide, 
 And taking the hand of the Savior, 
 
 W 7 ent up on the heavenly side 
 
 LOVE AT THE GRAVE. 
 
 REMEMBRANCER of nature s prime, 
 And herald of her fading near, 
 
 The last month of the summer time 
 Of leaves and flowers is with us hero 
 
 More eloquent than lip can preach, 
 To every heart that hopes and fears, 
 
 What solemn lesson does it teach, 
 Of the quick passage of our years. 
 
 To me it brings sad thoughts of one, 
 Who in the summer s fading bloom 
 
 Bright from the arms of love went down 
 To the dim silence of the tomb. 
 
 How often since has spring s soft shower 
 Revived the life in nature s breast, 
 
 And the sweet herb and tender flower 
 Have been renewed above her rest ! 
 
 How many summer times have told 
 To mortal hearts their rapid flight, 
 
 Since first this heap of yellow mould 
 Shut out her beauty from my sight. 
 
 Since first, to love s sweet promise true, 
 
 My feet beside her pillow trod, 
 Till year by year the pathway grew 
 
 Deeper and deeper in the sod. 
 
 Now these neglected roses tell 
 
 Of no kind hand to tend them nigh 
 
 Oh God ! I have not kept so well 
 My faith as in the years gone by ! 
 
 But here to-day my step returns, 
 
 And kneeling where these willows wave, 
 
 As the soft flame of sunrise burns 
 
 Down through the dim leaves to thy gravo- 
 
 I cry, forgive, that I should prove 
 
 Forgetful of thy memory ; 
 Forgive me, that a living love 
 
 Once came between my soul and thee ! 
 
 For the weak heart that vainly yearned 
 For human love its life to cheer, 
 
 Baffled and bleeding, has returned 
 To stifle down its crying here. 
 
 For, steadfast still, thy faith to me 
 
 Was one which earth could not estrangrw " 
 
 And, lost one ! where the angels be, 
 I know affection may not change ! 
 
MARY LOCKHART LAWSON. 
 
 Miss LAWSON is a native of Philadelphia. 
 Her father, the late Alexander Lawson, of 
 that city, was a countryman, friend, and in 
 structor of Wilson, the ornithologist, and in 
 the life of that remarkable man is frequently 
 referred to for the most admirable traits of 
 diameter. He was an artist of such excel 
 lence that Lucien Bonaparte was accustomed 
 to speak of him as the master of all the en 
 gravers in natural history. 
 
 Miss Lawson s poems have appeared prin 
 cipally since 1842, in the Knickerbocker and 
 
 in Graham s Magazine. She has occasion 
 ally written with considerable felicity in the 
 Scottish dialect, but. I think her English po 
 ems best, notwithstanding her perfect and 
 loving familiarity with the language and the 
 literature of the fatherland cf her parents. 
 They are characterized by a pleasing fancy, 
 and frequently by tenderness of feeling, and 
 a minute and artistlike truthfulness of rural 
 description. Some of her religious pieces 
 are graceful and fervid expressions of trust 
 and devotion. 
 
 THE BANISHED LOVER. 
 
 Cliarpip ivj oui m eloignoit de vous, separoit mon corps de 
 in - i j que Je verruis. 
 
 THEY tell me of the prospect I survey, 
 
 They speak of streams, and skies of deepest blue, 
 
 That shine o er fertile vales and flowery meads ; 
 
 Of mountain clefts, with torrents dashing through: 
 
 It may IK- s ) ; for Nature to the gay 
 
 Ls ever beautiful it charms not me ! 
 
 I only feel my soul remains afar 
 
 My passion-clouded eyes see naught save thee. 
 
 The tender, blissful thoughts that fill my soul, 
 Bound by mine oath to thee, I fain would quell ; 
 For I have promised, dear one ! for thy sake, 
 To yield no more to love-enrapturing spell : 
 I would obey like other mortals seem; 
 Bear with my fate, and brave reality : 
 But shrii kiiM from the wretchedness it brings, 
 I cling to visions that are full of thee. 
 
 I know that we must part : but do not prove 
 
 Too pitilrss, beloved ! nor urge too far 
 
 Tin- KiiHei-ings of a grieved and tortured heart, 
 
 \Vhore love and honor hold perpetual war: 
 
 I go at thy command ; but can I join 
 
 A dreu.y world, where thou art naught to me 1 
 
 No 1 better far in so itude to dwell, 
 
 And cheer its lonely hours with dreams of thee. 
 
 Yet oft will memory paint one happy scene, 
 One moment fraught with ecstasy of bliss, 
 When, thrilling with the soft clasp of thy hand, 
 My lips met thine in one long glowing kiss: 
 Ah, fatal gift! that was our parting doom 
 How wert thou shadowed by Fate s stern decree ! 
 Alas! that clouds of sadness should have dimmed 
 The first, the only boon of love from thee ! 
 
 BELIEVE IT. 
 
 IF thy heart whispers that I love thee still, 
 
 Yet living on a memory of the past, 
 Or that mine eyes with tender tear-drops fill, 
 
 As o er Hope s ruined page my glance is cast 
 That oft thy name is blended with my prayer, 
 
 Thine image mingled with the morning s light, 
 That sleep, which drowns all waking dreams of care, 
 
 But wafts thy softened shadow to my sight 
 Believe it 
 
 If when thou dost recall that vine-clad grove, [ding-, 
 
 The moonbeamsfilled with checkered light and sha- 
 Where first we breathed our trembling vows of love, 
 
 And lingered till the stars soft rays were fading, 
 Thy fancy paints me wandering sad and slow 
 
 Through those dim paths that once thy footsten 
 With deep regrets and sighs of lonely wo, [pressed 
 
 That find no echo in thine altered breast 
 Believe it. 
 
 Though when we meet, I school my downcast eye 
 
 And faltering lip to speak a careless greeting, 
 Or rriid the crowd in silence pass thee by, 
 
 Lest I betray my heart s unquiet beating : 
 T is that no eye save thine shall ever see 
 
 My soul gush forth in yearning to thine own, 
 Or coldly trace the feelings felt for thee. 
 
 And read the love revealed in look and tone 
 Believe it. 
 
 Wronged by thine anger, prized perchance no more, 
 
 From me undying thought thou canst not sever, 
 Still may I trust to meet thee on that shore 
 
 Where pure affection lights the soul for ever: 
 Though earthly hope in meekness I resign, 
 
 E en while my heart s full tenderness revealing, 
 Remember, if one doubt arise in thine, 
 
 These words of truth in bitter tears I m sealing: 
 
 Believe it ! 
 386 
 
MARY L. LAWSON. 
 
 387 
 
 THE HAUNTED HEART. 
 
 T is true he ever lingers at her side, 
 
 But mark the wandering glances of his eye: 
 A lover near a fond and plighted bride, 
 
 With less of love than sorrow in his sigh ! 
 And well it is for her, that gentle maid, 
 
 Who loves too well, too fervently, for fears ; 
 She deems not her devotion is repaid 
 
 With deep repinings o er life s early years. 
 
 For oft another s image fills his breast, 
 
 E en when he breathes to her love s tender vow ; 
 While her soft hand within his own is prest, 
 
 And timid blushes mantle her young brow, 
 Fond memory whispers of the dreamy past, 
 
 Its hopes and joys, its agony and tears : 
 In vain from out his soul he strives to cast 
 
 One shadowy form the love of early years. 
 
 Ne er from his heart the vision fades away : 
 
 Amid the crowd, in silence, and alone, 
 The stars by night, the clear blue sky by day, 
 
 Bring to his mind the happiness now flown ; 
 A tone of song, the warbling of the birds, 
 
 The simplest thing that memory endears, 
 Can still recall the form, the voice, the words, 
 
 Of her, the best beloved of early years. 
 
 He dares not seek the spot where first they met, 
 
 Too dangerous for bis only hope of rest 
 His strong but fruitless effort to forget 
 
 Those scenes that wake deep sorrow in his breast; 
 And yet the quiet beauty of the grove 
 
 All plainly to his restless mind appears, 
 Where, as the sun declined, he loved to rove 
 
 With her, the first fond dream of early years. 
 
 He sees the stream beside whose brink they strayed, 
 
 Engrossed in converse sweet of coming hours, 
 And watched the rippling currents as they played, 
 
 In ebb and flow, upon the banks of flowers : 
 And the old willow, neath whose spreading shade 
 
 She owned her love again her voice he hears, 
 He starts alas ! the vision only fades 
 
 To leave regretful pangs for early years. 
 
 It was his idle vanity that changed 
 
 The pure, deep feelings of her trusting heart, 
 Whose faithful love riot even in thought had ranged, 
 
 But worshipped him, from all the world apart: 
 Now cold and altered is her beaming eye, 
 
 And no fond hope his aching bosom cheers, 
 That she wi 1 shed one tear, or breathe one sigh, 
 
 For him she loved so well in early years. 
 
 He feels she scorns him with a bitter scorn : 
 He questions not the justice of his fate, 
 
 For long had she his selfish caprice borne, 
 And wounded pride first taught her how to hale. 
 
 Oh, ye who cast away a heart s deep love, 
 
 Remember, ere affection disappears, 
 That keen reproachful throbs your soul may move 
 
 Like his who lives to mourn life s early years ! 
 
 EVENING THOUGHTS 
 
 THE evening star, with mild yet radiant light, 
 
 Shines clearly neath the young moon s pallid cres .. 
 The last faint gleam of crimson sunset fades 
 
 In mellowed hues of brightness from the west, 
 Soft shadows fall upon the mountain s brow, 
 
 And steal with gradual pace o er wood and stream 
 A balmy stillness floats upon the earth, 
 
 And life is peaceful as a tranquil dream. 
 
 O God, whose mantle shades this lovely world, 
 
 And leaves a ray of glorious beauty round ; 
 In that far home where angels spread their wings, 
 
 What infinite perfection must abound, 
 What visions of ecstatic, wondrous bliss, 
 
 In thy sublime, thy awful presence dwell, 
 When in this sphere, all dimmed by sin and pain, 
 
 Thy gifts of light and love words may not tell ! 
 
 Would that my soul each wayward pulse could still, 
 
 That I might know thee, Father, as thou art 
 That I within thy paths of peace might walk, 
 
 And take my place amid the "pure in heart;" 
 Then might I hope, as death s dark clouds drew near, 
 
 Amid the deepening gloom thy smile to see, 
 But oft my wandering footsteps guide me far 
 
 From out the way that leads alone to thec 
 
 What if we view upon the brink of wo, 
 
 A dazzling gleam steal through the gates of heaven, 
 And feel at once, while close its pearly doors, 
 
 How long its entrance to our steps was given, 
 Till, in the utter madness of our souls, 
 
 Our last taint lingering hope in silence died, 
 While at the moment of our dreadful doom, 
 
 Perchance, we basked in worldliness and pride. 
 
 And while in folly s gilded courts I stand, 
 
 Is this my fate ? Ah, no ! by these sad tears, 
 Plead for me, Jesus, meek and holy one, 
 
 For thou hast shared earth s agonies and fears ; 
 Thou seest the struggles of my changing soul 
 
 Oh, let its darker thoughts of grief depart, 
 And hear my prayer, when, kneeling low, I crave 
 
 Thy words of truth may reach my troubled heart 
 
 Devoid of merit, what have I to boast, 
 
 When man s best virtues are unworthy thee I 
 Yet in thy mercy will I place my trust, 
 
 And in the Cross my hope and promise see , 
 And though unresting conscience sternly telis 
 
 Of talents unemployed and wasted powers, 
 Lend me thine aid, and to thy service, Lord, 
 
 I ll dedicate the remnant of my hours 
 
MARIA LOWELL 
 
 (Born lS21-Died 1853). 
 
 MARIA WHITE, the daughter of an opulent 
 citizen of Watertown, Massachusetts, in 1844 
 was married to James Russell Lowell, and 
 for her genius, taste, and many admirable per 
 sonal qualities, she is worthy to be the wife 
 
 of that fine poet and true hearted man. She 
 has published several elegant translations 
 from the German, and a large number of or igi 
 nal poems of the imagination, some of which 
 illustrate questions of morals and humanity. 
 
 JESUS AND THE DOVE. 
 
 With patient hand Jesus in clay on. e wrought, 
 And made a -mow* ilove that upward Hew. 
 
 De-r child, from all things draw >,.n)e holy thought, 
 That, like his dove, they may fly upward too. 
 
 MARY, the mother good and mild, 
 
 Went forth one summer s day, 
 That Jesus and his comrades all 
 
 In meadows green might play. 
 To find the brightest, freshest flowers, 
 
 They search the meadows round, 
 They twined them all into a wreath 
 
 And little Jesus crowned. 
 Weary with play, they came at last 
 
 And sat at Mary s feet, 
 While Jesus asked his mother dear 
 
 A story to repeat. 
 " And we," said one, " from out this clay 
 
 Will make some little birds ; 
 So shall we all sit quietly, 
 
 And heed the mother s words." 
 Then Mary, in her gentle voice, 
 
 Told of "a little child 
 Who lost her way one dark, dark night, 
 
 Upon a dreary wild ; 
 And how an angel came to her, 
 
 And mai!e all bright around, 
 And took the trembling little one 
 
 From off the damp, hard ground ; 
 And how he bore her in his arms 
 
 Up to the blue so far, 
 And how he laid her last asleep, 
 
 Down in a silver star. 
 The children sit at Mary s feet, 
 
 But not a word they say. 
 So busily their finders work 
 
 To mould the birds of clay. 
 But now the clay that Jesus held, 
 
 And turned unto the light, 
 Aru\ moulded with a patient touch, 
 
 Changed to a perfect white. 
 And slowly grew within his hands 
 
 A fair and gentle dove. 
 Whose eyes unclose, whose wings unfold, 
 
 Beneath his look of love. 
 The children drop their birds of clay, 
 
 And by bis side they stand. 
 To look upon the wondrous dove 
 He holds within his hand. 
 
 And when he bends and softly breathes, 
 
 Wide are the wings outspread ; 
 And when he bends and breathes again, 
 
 It hovers round his head. 
 Slowly it rises in the air 
 
 Before their eager eyes. 
 And. with a white and steady wing, 
 
 Higher and higher flies. 
 The children all stretch forth their arms 
 
 As if to draw it down : 
 " Dear Jesus made the little dove 
 
 From out the clay so brown 
 " Canst thou not live with us below, 
 
 Thou little dove of clay, 
 And let us hold thee in our hands, 
 
 And feed thee every day ] 
 " The little dove it hears us not, 
 
 But higher still doth fly ; 
 It could not live with us below 
 
 Its home is in the sky." 
 Mary, who silently saw all 
 
 That mother true and mild 
 Folded her hands upon her breast, 
 
 And kneeled before her child. 
 
 THE MAIDEN S HARVEST. 
 
 THERE goeth with the early light 
 
 Across a barren plain, 
 One who, with face as morning bright, 
 
 Singeth, " I come again : 
 
 " And every grain I scatter free 
 
 A hundred fold shall yield, 
 Till waveth as a golden sea 
 
 This dark and barren field." 
 
 She casteth seed upon the ground, 
 From out her pure white hand, 
 
 And little winds steal up around 
 To bear it through the land. 
 
 She strikes her harp, she sings her song. 
 
 She sings so loud and clear 
 " Arise, arise, ye sleeping throng, 
 
 And bud and blossom here !" 
 
 When o er the hills she passed away, 
 The Spring remembered her, 
 
 And came, with sun and air of May, 
 The barren earth to stir. 
 
 388 
 
MARIA LOWELL. 
 
 389 
 
 And falling dew the spot did love, 
 
 And lingered there till noon ; 
 And winds and rains moved on above 
 
 In softly changing tune. 
 So when the Autumn cometh rour.d, 
 
 The golden heads bend low. 
 And near and nearer to the ground 
 
 Their royal beard doth flow. 
 The poor rejoice : in throngs they come 
 
 To reap the dropping grain ; 
 Their voices rise in busy hum 
 
 Who, who hath sowed the plain] 
 " And who hath wrought such bounteous cheer 
 
 Whore all before was dead !" 
 They bless the unseen giver dear 
 
 Who sent this daily bread. 
 With harp in hand, a maiden bright 
 
 Passed slowly by the throng; 
 With face as fair as sunset light 
 
 The maiden sang her song : 
 " In morning time I sowed this plain 
 
 Blessed the evening be, 
 Which gives back every little grain 
 
 A hundred fold to me !" 
 
 SONG. 
 
 OH, Bird, thou dartest to the sun 
 
 When morning beams first spring, 
 And I, like thee. would swiftly run, 
 
 As sweetly would I sing; 
 Thy burning heart doth draw thee up 
 
 Unto the source of fire 
 Thou drinkest from its glowing cup, 
 
 And quenchest thy desire. 
 
 Oh, Dew, thou droppest soft below 
 
 And plastest all the ground ; 
 Vet when the noontide comes, I know 
 
 Thou never canst be found. 
 I would like thine had been my birth ; 
 
 Then I, without a sigh, 
 Might sleep the night through on the earth, 
 
 To waken in the sky. 
 
 Oh, Clouds, ye little tender sheep, 
 
 Pastured in fields of blue, 
 While moon and stars your fold can keep 
 
 And gently shepherd you 
 Let me, too, follow in the (rain 
 
 That Hocks across the night, 
 Or lingers on the open plain 
 
 With new washed fleeces white. 
 
 Oh, singina Winds, that wander far, 
 
 Yet always seem at home, 
 And freely play twixt star and star 
 
 Along the bending dome 
 I often listen to your song, 
 
 Yet never hear you say 
 One word of a 1 the happy worlds 
 
 That shine. so far away. 
 For they are free, ye all are free 
 
 And Bird, and Dew, and Light, 
 Can dart upon the azure sea, 
 
 And leave me to my night. 
 
 Oh, would like theirs had been my birth : 
 
 Then I, without a sigh, 
 Might sleep this night through on the earth. 
 
 To waken in the sky. 
 
 Trip: MORNING-GLORY. 
 
 WE wreathed about our darling s head 
 
 The morning-glory bright ; 
 Her little, face looked out beneath, 
 
 So full of life and light, 
 So lit as with a sunrise, 
 
 That we could only say, 
 " She is the morning-glory true, 
 
 And her poor types are they. 
 
 So always from that happy time 
 
 We called her by their name 
 And very fitting did it seem 
 
 For, sure as morning came, 
 Behind her cradle bars she smiled 
 
 To catch the first faint ray, 
 As from the trellis smiles the flower 
 
 And opens to the day. 
 
 But not so beautiful they rear 
 
 Their airy cups of blue, 
 As turned her sweet eyes to the light, 
 
 Brimmed with sleep s tender dew ; 
 And not so close their tendrils fine 
 
 Round their supports are thrown, 
 As those dear arms whose outstretched plea 
 
 Clasped all hearts to her own. 
 
 We used to think how she had come, 
 
 Even as comes the flower, 
 The last and perfect added gift 
 
 To crown love s morning hour, 
 And how in her was imaged forth 
 
 The love we could not say, 
 As on the little dewdrops round 
 
 Shines back the heart of dov. 
 
 We never could have thought, God, 
 
 That she must wither up. 
 Almost before a day was flown, 
 
 Like the morning-glory s cup ; 
 We never thought to see her droop 
 
 Her fair and noble head, 
 Till she !ay stretched before our eyes, 
 
 Wilted, and cold, and dead ! 
 
 The mornintr-glory s blossoming 
 
 Will soon be coming round : 
 We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves 
 
 Upspringing from the ground ; 
 The tender things the winter killed 
 
 Renew again their birth, 
 But the glory of our morning 
 
 Has passed away from earth. 
 
 Oh, Earth ! in vain our aching eyes 
 
 Stretch over thy green plain ! 
 Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air. 
 
 Her spirit to sustain : 
 But up in groves of paradise 
 
 Full surely we shall see 
 Our morning-glory beautiful 
 
 Twine round our dear Lord s kneo. 
 
SAEA J. LIPPIXCOTT. 
 
 MRS. LrrrrxcoTT, known as "Grace 
 Of ><>n wood, 1 was born of New England pa 
 rentage, in Onundaga, an agricultural town 
 near the city of Syracuse, in New York. At 
 an early age she was taken to Rochester, 
 which is still the re.-idence of her brother and 
 my friend of many years, Mr. J. B. Clarke, 
 wiiose success in the law shows how erro 
 neous is i he common impression that literary 
 studies are incompatible wi.h the devotion to 
 business necessary to professional eminence. 
 It was probably the displays of his abilities, 
 in many graceful poems and prose writings, 
 that led Mrs. Lippincott to the cultivation 
 of her tastes and powers in the same field. 
 Certainly it was a great advantage to have 
 so accomplished a critic, bound by such 
 bonds, to watch over her earlier essays, and 
 guard her from the dangers to which youth 
 ful authorship is most exposed. In a recent 
 letter she says of Rochester : " It was for 
 some years my well-beloved home; here it 
 was that I spent my few school-days, and 
 received my trifle of book knowledge. It 
 was here that woman s life first opened up 
 on me, not as a romance, not as a fairy dream, 
 not as a golden heritage of beauty and of 
 pleasure, but as a sphere of labor, and care, 
 and suffering ; an existence of many efforts 
 and few successes, of eager and great aspira 
 tions and slow and partial realizations." 
 
 The parents of Mrs. Lippincott afterward 
 removed to New Brighton, on the Beaver 
 river, two miles from its junction with the 
 Ohio, and thirty miles below Pittsburg ; and 
 it was from this beautiful village, in a quiet 
 valley, surrounded by the most bold and pic 
 turesque scenery, that in 1844 she wrote the 
 first of those sprightly and brilliant letters 
 under the signature of " Grace Greenwood," 
 by which she was introduced to the literary 
 world. They were addressed to General Mor 
 ris and Mr. Willis, then editors of the New 
 Mirror, and being published in that miscel 
 lany, the question of their authorship was 
 discussed in the journals and in literary cir 
 cles ; they were attributed in turn to the most 
 piquant and elegant of our known writers 
 
 and curiosity was in no degree lessened by 
 intimations that they were by some Diana 
 oi the West, who, like the ancient goddess, 
 inspired the men who saw her with madness, 
 and in her chosen groves and by her streams 
 used the whip and rein with the boldness and 
 grace of Mercury. Such secrets are not ea 
 sily kept, and while the fair magazinist was 
 visiting the Atlantic cities, in 1846, the veil 
 was thrown aside and she became known by 
 her proper name. She has since been among 
 the most industrious and successful of our au 
 thors, and has written with perhaps equal 
 facility and felicity in every style 
 
 " From grave to gay, from lively to severe." 
 
 Her apprehensions are sudden and powerful. 
 The lessons of art and the secrets of experi 
 ence have no mists for her quick eyes. Ma 
 ny-sided as Proteus, she yet by an indomita 
 ble will bends all her strong and passionate 
 nature to the subject that is present, plucks 
 from it whatever it has of mystery, and 
 weaves it into the forms of her imagination, 
 or casts it aside as the dross of a fruitless 
 analysis. Educated in a simple condition 
 of society, where conventionalism had no 
 authority against truth and reason, and the 
 healthful activity of her mind preserved by 
 an admirable physical training and develop 
 ment all her thought is direct and honest, 
 and her sentiment vigorous and cheerful. 
 But the energy of her character and intelli 
 gence is not opposed to true delicacy. A fee 
 ble understanding, and a nature without the 
 elements of quick and permanent decision, 
 on the contrary, can not take in the noblest 
 forms of real or ideal beauty. It is the sham 
 delicacy that is shocked at things actual and 
 necessary, that fills the magazines with 
 rhymed commonplaces, that sacrifices to a 
 prudish nicety all individualism, and is the 
 chief bar to aesthetic cultivation and devel 
 opment. She looks with a poet s eye upon 
 Nature, and with a poet s soul dares and as 
 pires for the beautiful, as it is understood by 
 all the great intelligences whose wisdom 
 ta.ke> the form of genius. 
 It is as a prose writer that Mrs. Lippincoit 
 390 
 
SARA J. LIPPINCOTT. 
 
 391 
 
 is best known, and it may be that her prose 
 compositions have more individuality and il 
 lustrate a wider range of knowledge and re 
 
 flection than her poems, but the author of 
 Ariadne and some of the other pieces here 
 quoted has given a name to other ages. 
 
 ARIADNE.* 
 
 DAUGHTER of Crete how one brief hour, 
 E en in thy young love s early morn, 
 
 Sends storm and darkness o er thy bower 
 Oh doomed, oh desolate, oh lorn ! 
 
 The breast which pillowed thy fair head, 
 Rejects its burden and the eye 
 Wuich looked its love so earnestly, 
 
 Its last cold glance hath on thee shed ; 
 
 The arms which were thy living zone, 
 
 Around thee closely, warmly thrown, 
 
 Shall others clasp, deserted one ! 
 
 Yet, Ariadne, worthy thou 
 
 Of the dark fate which meets thee now, 
 
 For thou art grovelling in thy wo : 
 
 Arouse thee ! joy to bid him go ; 
 
 For god above, or man below, 
 
 Whose love s warm and impetuous tide 
 
 Cold interest or selfish pride 
 
 Can chill, or stay, or turn aside, 
 
 Is all too poor and mean a thing 
 
 One shade o er woman s brow to fling 
 
 Of grief, regret, or fear ; 
 To cloud one morning s go .den light 
 Disturb the sweet dreams of one night 
 To cause the soft flash of her eye 
 To droop one moment mournfully, 
 
 Or tremble with one tear ! 
 
 Tis thou shouldst triumph; thou art free 
 From chains which bound thee for a while ; 
 
 This, this the farewell meet for thee, 
 Proud princess on that lonely isle : 
 
 " Go to thine Athens bear thy faithless name ; 
 
 Go, base betrayer of a holy trust ! 
 Oh, I could bow me in my utter shame, 
 
 And lay my crimson forehead in the dust, 
 If I had ever loved thee as thou art, 
 Folding mean falsehood to my high, true heart ! 
 
 " But thus I loved thee riot : before me bowed 
 
 A being glorious in majestic pride, 
 And breathed his love, and passionately vowed 
 
 To worship only me, his peerless bride ; 
 And this was thou, but crowned, enrobed, entwined, 
 With treasures borrowed from my own rich mind ! 
 " I knew thee not a creature of my dreams, 
 
 And my rapt soul went floating into thine ; 
 My love around thee poured such halo-beams, 
 
 Hadst thou been true, had made thee all divine. 
 And I, too, seemed immortal in my bliss, 
 When my glad lip thrilled to thy burning kiss ! 
 
 * The demigod Theseus having won the love of Ariadne", 
 daughter of the king of Crete, deserted her OH the isle of 
 
 Naxos. In Miss Bremer s H Family, the blind girl 
 
 is described as singing "Ariadne a Naxos,"" in which Ari 
 adne is represented a- following Theseus, climbing a high 
 rock to watch his departing vessel, and calling upon him 
 iu her despairing anguish. 
 
 " Shrunken and shrivelled into Theseus now 
 
 Thou standst : behold, the gods have blown away 
 The airy crown that glittered on thy brow 
 
 The gorgeous robes which wrapped thee for a day; 
 Around thee scarce one fluttering fragment clings 
 A poor lean beggar in all glorious things ! 
 " Nor will I deign to cast on thee my hate 
 
 It were a ray to tinge with splendor still 
 The dull, dim twilight of thy after-fate 
 
 Thou shalt pass from me like a dream of ill 
 Thy name be but a thing that crouching stole 
 Like a poor thief, all noiseless from my soul ! 
 " Though thou hast dared to steal the sacred flame 
 
 From out that soul s high heaven, she sets thee free; 
 Or only chains thee with thy sounding shame: 
 
 Her memory is no Caucasus for thee ; 
 And e en her hovering hate would o er thee fling 
 Too much of glory from its shadowy wing ! 
 " Thou thinkst to leave my life a lonely night 
 
 Ha ! it is night ail glorious with its stars ! 
 Hopes yet unclouded beaming forth their light, 
 
 And free thoughts rolling in their silver cars ! 
 And queenly pride, serene, and cold, and high, 
 Moves the Diana of its calm, clear sky ! 
 " If poor and humbled thou believest me, 
 
 Mole of a demigod, how blind art thou ! 
 For I am rich in scorn to pour on thee : 
 
 And gods shall bend from high Olympus brow. 
 And gaze in wonder on my lofty pride ; 
 Naxos be hallowed, I be deified !" 
 
 On the tall cliff where cold and pale 
 
 Thou watchest his receding sail, 
 
 Where thou, the daughter of a king, 
 
 Wailst like a wind-harp s breaking string, 
 
 Bendst like a weak and wilted flower 
 
 Before a summer evening s shower 
 
 There shouldst thou rear thy royal form, 
 
 Like a young oak amid the storm, 
 Uncrushed, unbowed, unriven ! 
 
 Let thy last glance burn through the air, 
 
 And fall far down upon him there, 
 Like lightning stroke from heaven ! 
 
 There shouldst thou mark o er billowy crest 
 His white sail flutter and depart; 
 
 No wild fears surging at thy breast, 
 
 No vain hopes quivering round thy hearl 5 
 
 And this brief, burning prayer alone 
 
 Leap from thy lips to Jove s high throne : 
 
 "Just Jove! thy wratchful vengeance stay. 
 
 And speed the traitor on his way ; 
 
 Make vain the siren s silver song, 
 
 Let nereids smile the wave along 
 
 O er the wild waters send his bark 
 
 Like a swift arrow to its mark ! 
 
 Let whirlwinds gather at his back, 
 
 And diive him on his dastard track; 
 
 Let thy red bolts behind him burn, 
 
 And blabt him, should he dare to turn !" 
 
392 
 
 SARA J. LIPPINCOTT. 
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 TIIF.HK was a season when I loved 
 
 The calm and holy night, 
 When like yon silvery evening star, 
 
 Just trembling on our sight, 
 My spirit through its heaven of dreams 
 
 Went floating forth in light. 
 
 Night is the time when Nature seems 
 
 God s silent worshipper; 
 And ever with a chastened heart 
 
 In unison with her, 
 [ laid me on my peaceful couch, 
 
 The day s dull cares resigned, 
 And let my thoughts fold up like flowers, 
 
 In the twilight of the mind : 
 Fast round me closed the shades of sleep, 
 
 And then burst on my sight 
 Visions of glory arid of love, 
 
 The stars of slumber s night ! 
 Dreams, wondrous dreams, which far around 
 
 Did such rich radiance fling, 
 As the sudden, first unfurling 
 
 Of a young angel s wing. 
 
 Then sometimes blessed beings came, 
 
 Parting the midnight skies, 
 And bore me to their shining homes, 
 
 The bowers of paradise ; 
 I felt my worn, world-wearied soul 
 
 Bathed in divine repose 
 My earth-chilled heart in the airs of heaven 
 
 Unfolding as a rose. 
 
 Nor were my dreams celestial all, 
 
 For oft along my way 
 Clustered the scenes and joys of home, 
 
 The loves of every day : 
 Soft, alter angel-music, still 
 
 The voices round my hearth 
 Sweet, alter paradisean flowers, 
 
 The violets of earth. 
 
 But now I dread the night: it holds 
 
 Within its weary bounds 
 Strife, griefs, and fears, red battle-fields, 
 
 And spectre-haunted grounds ! 
 
 One night there sounded through my dreams 
 
 A trumpet s stirring peal, 
 And then methought I went forth armed, 
 
 And clad in glittering steel 
 And sprang upon a battle-steed, 
 
 And led a warrior band, 
 And we swept, a flood of fire and death, 
 
 Victorious through the land ! 
 
 (Mi, what wild rapture twas to mark 
 
 My serried ranks advance, 
 And see amid the foe go down 
 
 Banner, and plume, and lance ! 
 The living trampled o er the dead 
 
 The fallen, line on line, 
 Were crushed like grapes at vintage time, 
 
 And blood was poured like wine! 
 My sword was dripping to its hilt, 
 
 And this small, girlish hand 
 
 Planted the banner, lit the torch, 
 And waved the stern rommand. 
 
 How swelled and burned within rny heart 
 Fierce hate and fiery pride 
 
 My very soul rode like a bark 
 On the battle s stormy tide ! 
 
 Mi/ pitying and all-woman s soul 
 
 Oh no, it was not mine ! 
 Perchance mine slumbered, or had left 
 
 Awhile its carth y shrine ; 
 So the spirit of a Joan d Arc 
 
 Stole in my sleeping frame, 
 And wrote her history on my heart 
 
 la words of blood and flame. 
 
 My dead are with me in my dreams, 
 
 Rise from their still, lone home 
 But are they as I loved them here ] 
 
 O Heaven, tis thus they come ! 
 Silent and cold, the pulseless form 
 
 In burial garments dressed, 
 The pale hands holding burial-flowers 
 
 Close folded on their breast ! 
 
 My living they in whose tried hearts 
 
 My wild, impassioned love 
 Foldeth its wings contentedJy, 
 
 And nestles as a dove 
 They come, they hold me in their arms ; 
 
 My heart, with joy oppressed, 
 Seems panting neath its blessed weight, 
 
 And swooning in my breast ; 
 
 My eyes look up through tears of bliss, 
 
 Like flowers through dews of even, 
 There s a painful fulness in my lips, 
 
 Till the kiss of love is given : 
 When sudden their fresh, glowing lips 
 
 Are colorless and cold, 
 And an icy, shrouded corse is all 
 
 My shuddering arms enfold ! 
 
 Have I my guardian angels grieved, 
 
 That they have taken flight 1 
 Or frown st thou on me, oh my God ! 
 
 In the visions of the night ] 
 Yet with a child s fond faith I rest 
 
 Still on thy fatherhood ; 
 Speak peace unto my troubled dreams. 
 
 Thou merciful and good ! 
 
 And oh ! if cares and griefs must come, 
 
 And throng my humble w r ay, 
 Then let me, strengthened and refreshed, 
 
 Strive with them in the day ; 
 This glorious world which thou hast made, 
 
 Spread out in bloom before me, 
 Thy blessed sunshine on my path, 
 
 Thy radiant skies hung o er me. 
 
 But when, like ghosts of the sun s lost rays, 
 
 Come down the moonbeams pale, 
 And the dark earth lies like an eastern bride 
 
 Beneath her silvery veil 
 Then let the night, with its silence deep, 
 
 Its dews, and its starry gleams, 
 Be peace, and rest, and love O God, 
 
 Smile on me in my dreams ! 
 
SARA J. LIPPINCOTT. 
 
 393 
 
 ILLUMINATION, 
 
 FOR THE TRIUMPH OF OUR ARMS IN MEXICO. 
 
 LIGHT up thy homes, Columbia, 
 
 For those chivalric men 
 Who bear to scenes of warlike strife 
 
 Thy conquering arms again ; 
 Where glorious victories, flash on flash, 
 
 Reveal their stormy way 
 Resaca s, Palo Alto s fields, 
 
 The heights of Monterey ! 
 
 They pile with thousands of thy foes 
 
 Buena Vista s plain ; 
 With maids, and wives, a Vera Cruz, 
 
 Swell high the list of slain; 
 They paint upon the southern skies 
 
 The blaze of burning domes 
 Their laurels dew with blood of babes : 
 
 Light up, light up thy homes ! 
 
 Light up your homes, oh fathers ! 
 
 For those young hero bands 
 Whose march is still through vanquished towns 
 
 And over conquered lands ; 
 Whose valor wild, impetuous, 
 
 In all its fiery glow 
 Pours onward like a lava-tide, 
 
 And sweeps away the foe ! 
 
 For those whose dead brows Glory crowns, 
 
 On crimson couches sleeping ; 
 And for home faces wan with grief, 
 
 And fond eyes dim with weeping : 
 And for the soldier, poor, unknown, 
 
 Who battled madly brave, 
 Beneath a stranger-soil to share 
 
 A shallow, crowded grave. 
 
 Light up thy home, young mother ! 
 
 Then gaze in pride and joy 
 Upon those fair and gentle girls, 
 
 That eagle-eyed young boy ; 
 And clasp thy darling little one 
 
 Yet closer to thy breast, 
 And be thy kisses on its lips 
 
 In yearning love impressed. 
 In yon beleaguered city 
 
 Were homes as sweet as thine ; 
 There trembling mothers felt loved arms 
 
 In fear around them twine ; 
 The lad with brow of ciive hue, 
 
 The babe like lily fair, 
 The maiden with her midnight eyes 
 
 And wealth of raven hair. 
 The booming shot, the murderous shell, 
 
 Crashed through the crumbling walls, 
 And fi.led with agony and death 
 
 Those sacred household halls ; 
 Then, bleeding, crushed, and blackened, lay 
 
 The sister by the brother, 
 And the torn infant gasped and writhed 
 
 On the bosom of the mother ! 
 Oh. sisters, if you have no tears 
 
 For fearful scenes like these ; 
 If the banners of the victors veil 
 
 The victims agonies; 
 
 If ye lose the babe s ana mother s cry 
 
 In the noisy roll of drums ; 
 If your hearts with martial pride throb high 
 
 Light up, light up your homes ! 
 
 THE LAST GIFT. 
 
 I LEAVE thee, love : in vain hast thou 
 
 The God of life implored ; 
 My clinging soul is torn from thine, 
 
 My faithful, my adored \ 
 My last gift I have on it breathed 
 
 In blessing and in prayer ; 
 So lay it close, close to thy heart, 
 
 This little lock of hair ! 
 
 I know thou wilt think tenderly 
 
 And lovingly on me ; 
 Thou wilt forget my waywardness 
 
 When I am gone from thee ; 
 Thou wilt remember all my love, 
 
 Which made thee think me fair ; 
 Thou wilt with many tears begem 
 
 This little lock of hair ! 
 
 And yet at last, thy grief s wild storm 
 
 W T ill sigh itself to rest ; 
 And thou mayst choose another love, 
 
 And clasp her to thy breast : 
 But when she hides her glowing face 
 
 In tearful gladness there, 
 Oh, do not let ner hand displace 
 
 This little lock of hair ! 
 
 The dark, rich hue thou oft hast praised, 
 
 The ringlet still shall hold ; 
 Still, as the sunlight on it falls, 
 
 Give out quick gleams of gold : 
 Though years roll by, no trace of change 
 
 Its glossy rings shall wear 
 It never will grow gray, beloved, 
 
 This little lock of hair ! 
 
 And when the earth weighs chill and damp 
 
 Above my resting-place, 
 When fall moist tresses heavily 
 
 Around my cold, dead face 
 Tis sweet to know a part of me 
 
 Thine own life-glow may share 
 Thou It keep it warm, love, always warm, 
 
 This little lock of hair ! 
 
 Ah, dearest ! see how pale and cold 
 
 Has grown this hand of mine ! 
 No longer now it glows and thrills 
 
 Within the clasp of thine. 
 I go ! soon where my dying head 
 
 Is pillowed with fond care, 
 No trace of me shall linger, save 
 
 This little lock of hair ! 
 I see thee not ! I faintly fee! 
 
 The fast tears thou dost weep 5 
 Kiss down my quivering eyelids, lovd. 
 
 Thus, thus, and I will sleep. 
 I go where angels beckon me, 
 
 I go their heaven to share 
 Yet with a longing envy leave 
 
 This little lock of hair 
 
3 J4 
 
 SARA J. LIPPING OTT. 
 
 A LOVER TO HIS FAITHLESS MISTRESS. 
 
 THOU false ! thy voice is in mine ear; 
 
 The love-looks of thine eyes, 
 To meet my gaze most passionate, 
 
 In dreamy softness rise ; 
 I feel the beating of thy heart 
 
 I breathe thy perfumed sighs ! 
 
 Thou false ! thy thrilling fingers part 
 
 The locks from off my brow; 
 And on these lips, where live no more 
 
 Fond prayer and burning vow, 
 The wine and honey of thy kiss 
 
 Are lingering even now. 
 
 I mock myself with visions vain: 
 
 Another life than mine 
 Bathes in the rose-light of thv love ; 
 
 Blush, tone, and glance of thine, 
 Are pouring through another heart 
 
 A tide of life divine ! 
 
 At last I know thee and my soul, 
 
 From all thy spells set free, 
 Abjures the cold, consummate art 
 
 Shrined as a soul in thee, 
 Priestess of falsehood deeply learned 
 
 In all heart-treachery ! 
 
 Yet look thou on me, if thine eyes 
 
 May dare again to scan 
 A face where honor is not masked, 
 
 Nor truth put under ban 
 Wouldst know me for that poor, sad thing, 
 
 A spirit-broken man ] 
 
 Ay, look ! is not this head yet borne 
 
 Full haughtily and high] 
 Is this lip tremulous with sighs, 
 
 Or pale with agony ? 
 And wouldst thou feel a prouder fire 
 
 Outflashing from mine eye ] 
 
 Each lingering, murmuring thought of love, 
 
 The heart which thou hast riven 
 Crushes to silence each regret 
 
 For false joys thou hast given, 
 And flings thy very memory 
 
 To all the winds of heaven ! 
 Go, lavish on another now 
 
 Thy frothy love s excess ; 
 Go measure out thy practised words 
 
 Of lip-deep tenderness ; 
 Go dupe him with thy well-trained smiles, 
 
 Thy meaningless caress ! 
 
 Leave him in trusting folly blest 
 
 Enchant, enchain him still 
 Awake his most adoring thoughts, 
 
 Make every heartstring thrill, 
 Hold thou his life and very soul 
 
 The blind slaves of thy will ! 
 
 I give thee joy : thou hear st fond lips 
 
 A new love s tale repeating ; 
 Thine every glance wealth s pomp and glare 
 
 And glittering gauds are meeting, 
 And merrily to the ring of coin 
 
 Thy hollow heart is beating 
 
 Thou workest miracles, fair saint, 
 Not found in legends old : 
 
 Thy showers of silver tears return 
 To thee in showers of gold ; 
 
 Thy melting kisses change to gems, 
 Sweet lady bought and sold ! 
 
 HRRVEY TO NINA. 
 
 SUGGESTED I5Y A 1 ASSAGE IX FHEDERIKA BREMER 
 
 DIVIDED in our lives, and yet twin-hearted, 
 
 Our sad first parents shared a happier fate ; 
 When from Love s Eden, dearest, we departed, 
 
 T was ours to sever at the outer gate. 
 Ah, yet I know whatever path thou rt tracing, 
 
 Thy tearful eye is sometimes backward cast,; 
 Thou art not coldly from thy heart effacing 
 
 The thrilling story of our blissful past 
 
 When life was like a sunset s glories btended 
 
 With all the waking splendors of the morn ; [ed, 
 And when, dear love, if some light showers descend- 
 
 It seemed twas but that rainbows might be born. 
 Oh warm, oh beautiful, oh glorious season, 
 
 Like the first blushing time of Cashmere s roses! 
 My soul forgets cold truth and worldly reason, 
 
 And in thy lap of languid joy reposes. 
 In reveries delicious I revisit 
 
 Each spot where Love s impassioned tale was to d ; 
 Where moments passed of pleasure so exquisite, 
 
 Time should have marked their flight with sands of 
 gold. 
 
 Again upon my throbbing breast thon rt leaning, 
 
 Oh, fond y, wildly loved one oh, adored ! 
 Again come back thy words of tenderest meaning, 
 
 That once such raptures through my bosom poured. 
 Again I feel the wish, intense and burning, 
 
 To live within thy life, to drink thine air ; 
 That deep, mysterious, and mighty yearning 
 
 Would draw me down from heaven, wert thou not 
 there. 
 
 A fount there was within each bosom flowing, 
 
 That gushed not water, but love s purple wine ; 
 Sparkling with rapture and with passion glowing, 
 
 It maketh mortals for a space divine. 
 T was joy to know thee of that fountain drinking 
 
 Within my soul upspringing but for thee ; 
 And I of thine as deeply, all unthinking 
 
 There might be madness in that draught for me 
 When all of b iss the earth-born may inherit 
 
 Divinely lavish was around us thrown, 
 And when the mystic union of the spirit 
 
 Had twined our glowing beings into one 
 Then were we parted : Hope s ecstatic vision 
 
 Grewdim with tears, and Joy syoun^ pinion furled 
 Pillowed on flowers, we had a dream Elysian, 
 And we have wakened in a stormy world ! 
 Gone, gone, for ever ! we beheld it v.inish, 
 
 As a warm cloud melts in the b ue above; 
 Yet from our souls no power create can banish 
 
 The golden memory of that dream of love! 
 
SARA J. LIPPINCOTT. 
 
 395 
 
 CANST THOU FORGET? 
 
 CANST them forget, beloved, our first awaking 
 From out the .shadowy realm of doubts and dreams, 
 
 To know Love s perfect sunlight round us breaking, 
 Bathing our beings in its gorgeous gleams 
 Canst thou forget 1 
 
 A sky of rose and gold was o er us glowing, 
 Around us was the morning breath of May ; 
 
 Then met our soul-tides, thence together flowing, 
 Then kissed our thought-waves, mingling on their 
 way : Canst thou forget 1 
 
 Canst thou forget when first thy loving fingers 
 Laid gently back the locks upon my brow 1 
 
 Ah, to my woman s thought that touch still lingers 
 And softly glides along my forehead now ! 
 
 Canst thou forget? 
 
 Canst thou forget when every twilight tender, 
 Mid dews and sweets, beheld our slow steps rove. 
 
 And when the nights which came in starry splendor 
 Seemed dim and pallid to our heaven of love 1 
 Canst thou forget] 
 
 Canst thou forget the childlike heart-outpouring 
 Of her whose fond faith knew no faltering fears ! 
 
 The lashes drooped to veil her eyes adoring, 
 Her speaking silence, and her blissful tears 1 
 Canst thou forget 1 
 
 Canst thou forget the last most mournful meeting 1 , 
 The trembling form clasped to thine anguished 
 
 breast, 
 
 The heart against thine own, now wildly beating, 
 Now fluttering faint, grief-wrung, and fear-op 
 pressed Canst thou forget 1 
 
 Canst thou forget, though all Love s spells be broken, 
 The wild farewell which rent our souls apart! 
 
 And that last gift, Affection s holiest token, 
 The severed tress, which lay upon thy heart 
 Canst thou forget 1 
 
 Canst thou forget, beloved one comes there never 
 The angel of sweet visions to thy rest 1 
 
 Brings she not back the fond hopes fled for ever, 
 While one lost name thrills through thy sleeping 
 breast Canst thou forget 1 
 
 INVOCATION TO MOTHER EARTH. 
 
 On, Earth ! thy face hath not the grace 
 
 That smiling Heaven did bless, 
 When thou wert " good," and blushing stood 
 
 In thy young loveliness ; 
 And, mother dear, the smile and tear 
 
 In thee are strangely met ; 
 Thy joy and wo together flow 
 
 But ah ! we love thee yet. 
 
 Thou still art fair, when morn s fresh air 
 Thrills with the lark s sweet song ; 
 
 When Nature seems to wake from dreams, 
 And laugh and dance along ; 
 
 Thou rt fair at day, when clouds all gray 
 Fade into glorious blue ; 
 
 When sunny Hours fly o er the flowers, 
 And kiss away the dew. 
 
 Thou rt fair at eve, when skie receive 
 
 The last smiles of the sun ; 
 When through the shades that twilight spreads 
 
 The stars peep, one by one ; 
 Thou rt fair at night, when full starlight 
 
 Streams down upon the sod ; 
 When moonlight pale on hill and dale 
 
 Rests like the smile of God. 
 
 And thou art grand, where lakes expand, 
 
 And mighty rivers roll ; 
 W T here Ocean proud with threatenings loud 
 
 Mocketh at man s control ; 
 And grand thou art when lightnings dart 
 
 And gleam athwart the sky ; 
 When thunders peal, and forests reel, 
 
 And storms go sweeping by ! 
 
 We bless thee now, for gifts that thou 
 
 Hast freely on us shed ; 
 For dew and showers, and beauteous bowers. 
 
 And blue skies overhead ; 
 For morn s perfume, and midday s bloom, 
 
 And evening s hour of mirth ; 
 For glorious night, for all things bright, 
 
 We bless thee, Mother Earth ! 
 
 But when long years of care and tears 
 
 Have come and passed away, 
 The time may be, when sadly we 
 
 Shall turn to thee. and say : 
 " W T e are worn with life, its toils and strife, 
 
 We long, we pine for rest ; 
 We come, we come, all wearied home 
 
 Room, mother, in thy breast !" 
 
 "THERE WAS A ROSE." 
 
 THKIIT. was a rose, that blushing grew 
 
 Within my life s young bower ; 
 The angels sprinkled holy dew 
 
 Upon the blessed flower : 
 I glory to resign it, love, 
 
 Though it was dear to me ; 
 Amid thy laurels twine it, love, 
 
 It only blooms for thee. 
 
 There was a rich and radiant gem 
 
 I long kept hid from sight, 
 Lost from some seraph s diadem 
 
 It shone with Heaven s own light ! 
 The world could never tear it, love, 
 
 That gem of gems from me ; 
 Yet on thy fond breast wear it, love, 
 
 It only shines for thee. 
 
 There was a bird came to my breast, 
 
 When I was very young; 
 I only knew that sweet bird s nest, 
 
 To me she only sung ; 
 But, ah ! one summer day, love, 
 
 I saw that bird depart : 
 The truant flew thy way, love, 
 
 And nestled in thy heart 
 
396 
 
 SARA J. LIPPINCOTT. 
 
 THE SCULPTOR S LOVE. 
 
 THE sculptor paused before his finished work 
 A wondrous statue of divinest mould. 
 Jake Cytherea s were the rounded limbs, 
 The hands, in whose soft fulness, still and deep, 
 Like Bleeping Loves, the chiseled dimples lay, 
 The ha r s rich fall, the lip s exquisite curve ; 
 But most like Juno s were the brow of pride, 
 And loft, bearing of the matchless head. 
 While over all, a mystic holiness, 
 Like Di tn s purest smile, aroun 1 her hung, 
 And hushed the idle gazer, like the air 
 Which haunts at night the temples of the gods. 
 
 As stood the sculptor, with still folded arms, 
 And viewed this shape of rarest loveliness, 
 No Hush of triumph crimsoned o er his brow, 
 Nor grew his dark eye luminous with joy. 
 Heart-crushed wit i grief, worn with intense desires, 
 And wasting with a mal, consuming fla.ne, 
 He wildly gazed his cold cheek rivalling 
 The whiteness of the marble he had wrought. 
 The robe s loose folds which lay upon his breast 
 Tumultuous rJse and fell, like ocean-waves 
 Upheaved by storms beneath ; and on his brow, 
 In beaded drops, the dew of anguish lay. 
 And thus he flung himself upon the earth, 
 And poured in prayer his wi d and burning words : 
 
 " Great Jove, to thy high throne a mortal s prayer 
 In all the might of anguish struggles up ! 
 Thou see st this statue, chiseled by mv hand 
 Thou hast beheld, as day by day it grew 
 To more than earthly beauty, till it stood 
 The wjn ler of the glorious world of art. 
 The sculptor wrought not blindly : oft there came 
 Biest visions to his soul of forms divine; 
 Of white-armed Juno, in that hour of love, 
 "When fondling close the cu-koo, tempest-chilled, 
 She all unconscious in that form did press 
 The mighty sire of the eternal gods 
 To her soft bosom ! Aphrodite fair 
 As first she trod the g!ad, enamored earth 
 With small, white feet, spray-dripping from the sea ; 
 Of crested Dian, when her nightly kiss 
 Piessei down the eyelids of Endymion 
 Her silvery presence making all the air 
 Of dewy Latinos tremulous with love. 
 
 " And now (deem not thy suppliant impious, 
 Our being s source, thou Father of all life,) 
 A wild, o ermastering passion fires my soul ; 
 I madly love the work my hand hath wrought! 
 Intoxicate, I gaze through all the day, 
 And mocking visions haunt my conch at night; 
 My heart is faint and sick with longings vain, 
 A passionate thirst is parching up my life. 
 
 " I call upm her, and she answers not! 
 The fond love-na-nes I breathe into her ear 
 Are met with maddening silence ; when I clasp 
 Those slender fingers in my fevered bund, 
 Their coldness chills me like the touch of death 
 And when my heart s wild beatings shake my frame, 
 And pain my breast with love s sweet agony, 
 No faintest throb that marble bosom stirs ! 
 
 " Oh, I would have an eye to gaze in mine ; 
 A.n ear to listen for my coming step ; 
 
 A voice of love, with tones like Joy s own bells, 
 To ring their silver changes on mine ear ; 
 A yielding hand, to thrill within mine own, 
 And lips of me ting sweetness, full and warm ! 
 Would change this deathless stone to mortal flesh, 
 And barter immorta ity for love! 
 
 " If voice of earth, in wildest prayer, may reach 
 To godho:)d, throned amid the purple clouds, 
 To animate this cold and pulseless stone, 
 Grant thou one breath of that immortal air 
 W T hich feedeth human life from age to age, 
 And floats round high Olympus. Hear, O Jove ! 
 
 "And so this form mav shrine a soul of light, 
 Whose starry radiance sha l unseal these eyes, 
 Send down the sky s b .ue deeps, Sire divine 
 One faintest gleam of that benignant smile 
 Which glows upon the faces of the gods, 
 And lights all heaven. Hear, mighty Jove !" 
 
 He stayed his prayer, and on his statue gazed. 
 Behold, a gentle heaving stirred its breast ! 
 O er all the form a flush of rose-light passed ; 
 Along the limbs the azure arteries throbbed ; 
 A golden lustre settled on the head, 
 Arid gleamed amid the meshes of the hair; 
 The rounded cheek grew vivid with a blush ; 
 Ambrosial breathings cleft the curved lips, 
 And softly through the arched nostril stole; 
 The fringed lids quivered and uprose, and eyes 
 Like violets wet with dew drank in the light. 
 
 Moveless she stood, until her wandering glance 
 Upon the rapt face of the sculptor fell : 
 Bewildered and abashed, it sank beneath 
 The burning gaze of his adoring eyes. 
 And then there ran through all her trembling frame 
 A strange, sweet thrill of blissful consciousness: 
 Life s wildest joy, in one delicious tide, 
 Poured through the channels of her newborn heart, 
 And Love s first sigh rose quivering from her breast ! 
 
 She turned upon her pedestal, and smiled, 
 And toward the kneeling youth bent tenderly. 
 He rose, sprang forward with a passionate cry, 
 And joyously outstretched his thrilling arms ; 
 And lo ! the form he sculptured from the stone, 
 Instinct with life, and radiant with soul, 
 A breathing shape of beauty, soft and warm, 
 Of mortal womanhood, all smiles and tears, 
 In love s sweet trance upon his bosom lay. 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 LAST night, my love, I dreamed of thee 
 
 Yet t was no dream elysian ; 
 Draw closer to my breast, dear Blanche, 
 
 The while I tell the vision: 
 Methought that I had left thee long, 
 
 And, home in haste returning 
 My heart, lip, cheek, with love and joy 
 
 And wild impatience burning 
 
 I called thee through the silent house , 
 
 But here, at last, I found thee. 
 Where, deathly still and ghostly white, 
 
 The curtains fell around thee. 
 Dead dead thou wert ! cold lay that form. 
 
 In rarest beauty moulded 
 
SARA J. LIPPINCOTT. 
 
 397 
 
 And meekly o er thy still, white breast 
 
 The snowy hands were folded. 
 Methought thy couch was fitly strewn 
 
 With many a fragrant blossom ; 
 Fresh violets thy fingers clasped, 
 
 And rosebuds decked thy bosom : 
 But thine eyes, so like young violets, 
 Might smile upon me never, 
 And the rose.-bloom from thy cheek and lip 
 
 Had fled away for ever ! 
 I raised thee lovingly thy head 
 
 Against my bosom leaning, 
 And called thv name, and spoke to thee 
 
 In words of tenderest meaning. 
 I sought to warm thee at my breast 
 
 My arms close round thee flinging ; 
 To breathe my life into thy lips, 
 
 With kisses fond and clinging. 
 Oh, hour of fearful agony ! 
 
 In vain my phrensied pleading; 
 Thy dear voice hushed, thy kind eye closed, 
 
 My lonely grief unheeding! 
 Pale wert thou as the lily-buds 
 
 Twined mid thv raven tresses, 
 And cold thy lip and still thy heart 
 
 To all my wild caresses ! 
 
 I woke, amid the autumn night, 
 
 To hear the rain descending, 
 And roar of waves and howl of winds 
 
 In stormy concert blending. 
 But, oh ! my waking joy was morn, 
 
 From heaven s own portals flowing, 
 And the summer of thy living love 
 
 Was round about me glowing ! 
 I woke ah, blessedness ! to feel 
 
 Thy white arms round thee wreathing 
 To hear, amid the lonely night, 
 
 Thy calm and gentle breathing! 
 I bent above thy rest till morn, 
 
 With many a whispered blessing 
 Soft, timid kisses on thy lips 
 
 Arid blue-veined eyelids pressing. 
 While thus from Slumber s shadowy realm 
 
 Thy truant soul recalling, 
 Thou couidst not know whence sprang the tears 
 
 Upon thy forehead falling. 
 And oh, thine eye s sweet wonderment, 
 
 When thou didst ope them slowly, 
 To mark mine own bent on thy face 
 
 In rapture deep and holy ! 
 Thou couidst not know, till I had told 
 
 That dream of fearful warning, 
 How much of heaven was in my words 
 
 " God bless thee, love good-morning !" 
 
 DARKENED HOURS. 
 
 WITH folded arms and drooping head, 
 I stand, my heart s blest goal unwon; 
 
 My soul s high purpose unattained 
 But life but life goes hurrying on! 
 
 I pause and linger by the way, 
 
 With fainting heart and slumbering powers, 
 
 And still the grand, immortal height 
 
 Which I would climb, before me towers. 
 And still far up its rugged steep, 
 
 The poet-laurel mocks mine eyes; 
 While sweetly on its summit wave 
 
 The fadeless flowers of paradise. 
 My voice is silent, though I mark 
 
 The toil and wo of human lives, 
 The beauty of that human love 
 
 That meekly suffers, trusts, and strives. 
 My voice is silent, though I see 
 
 The captive pining in his cell, 
 And hear the exiled patriot breathe 
 
 O er the wild seas his sad farewell 
 No song of joy is on my lip 
 
 W T hile Freedom s banners are unfurled, 
 And Freedom s fearless battle-shouts 
 
 And triumph-lays ring round the world ! 
 
 No glow of rapturous feeling comes 
 
 To flush my cheek, or light mine eye, 
 W T hile golden splendors of the morn 
 
 Are kindling all the eastern sky. 
 Nor when, while dews weigh down the rose, 
 
 I read amid the shadowy even 
 That bright Evangel of our God, 
 
 Whose words are worlds, the starry heaven, 
 Yet was my nature formed to feel 
 
 The gladness and the grief of life 
 To thrill at Freedom s name, and joy 
 
 In all her brave and holy strife ; 
 To tremble with the perfect sense 
 
 Of all things lovely or sublime, 
 The glory of the midnight heaven, 
 
 The beauty of the morning time. 
 God-written thoughts are in my heart, 
 
 And deep within my being lie 
 Eternal truths and glorious hopes, 
 
 Which I must speak before I die 
 Who shall restore the early faith, 
 
 The fresh, strong heart, the utterance bold 1 
 Ah ! when may be this weary weight 
 
 From off my groaning spirit rolled ] 
 
 To Thee I turn, before whose throne 
 
 No earnest suppliant bows in vain : 
 My spirit s faint and lonely cry 
 
 Thou wilt not in thy might disdain. 
 Awake in me a truer life ! 
 
 A soul to labor and aspire ; 
 Touch thou my mortal lips, God, 
 
 With thine own truth s immortal fire ! 
 
 Be with me in my darkened hours 
 
 Bind up rny bruised heart once more ; 
 The grandeur of a lofty hope 
 
 About my lowly being pour ! 
 Give strength unto my spirit s wing, 
 
 Give light unto my spirit s eye, 
 And let the sunshine of thy smile 
 
 Upon my upward pathway lie ! 
 Thus, when my soul in thy pure faith 
 
 Hath grown serene, and free, and strong 
 Thy greatness may exalt my thought, 
 
 Thy love make beautiful my song. 
 
398 
 
 SARA J. LIPPIXCOTT. 
 
 LOVE AND DARING. 
 
 THOU darcst not love me ! thou canst only see 
 The great gulf set between us : hadst thou love, 
 T would hear thee o er it on a wing of fire ! 
 Wilt put from thy faint lip the mantling cup, 
 The draught thou st prayed for with divinest thirst, 
 For fear a poison in the chalice lurks ? 
 Wilt thou be barred from thy soul s heritage, 
 The power, the rapture, and the crown of life, 
 By the poor guard of danger set about it? 
 I tell thee that the richest flowers of heaven 
 Bloom on the brink of darkness. Thou hast marked 
 How sweet y o er the beetling precipice 
 Hangs the young June-rose with its crimson heart : 
 And woiildst not sooner peril life to win 
 That royal flower, that thou mightst proudly wear 
 The trophy on thy breast, than idly pluck 
 A thousand meek-fared daisies by the way? 
 How dost thou shudder at Love s gentle tones, 
 As though a serpent s hiss were in thine ear ! 
 Albe t thy heart throbs echo to each word, 
 Why wilt not rest, oh weary wanderer, 
 Upon the couch of flowers Love spreads for thee, 
 On banks of sunshine ? voices silver-toned 
 Shall lull thy soul with strange, wild harmonies, 
 Rock thee to sleep upon the waves of song ; 
 Hope shall watch o er thee with her breath of dreams, 
 Joy hover near, impatient for thy waking 
 Her quick wing glancing through the fragrant air. 
 
 Why dost thou pause hard by the rose-wreathed 
 Why turn thee from the^paradise of youth, [gate ! 
 Where Love s immortal summer blooms and glows, 
 And wrap thyself in coldness as a shroud] 
 Perchance tis well for thee yet does the flame 
 That glows with heat intense and mounts toward 
 As fitly emblem holiest purity [heaven, 
 
 As the still snow-wreath on the mountain s brow. 
 
 Thou darest not say, " I love," and yet thou lovest, 
 And think st to crush the mighty yearning down, 
 That in thy spirit shall upspring for ever ! 
 Twinned with thy soul, it lived in thy first thoughts, 
 It haunted with strange dreams thy boyish years, 
 And colored with its deep, empurpled hue, 
 The passionate aspirations of thy youth. 
 Go, take from June her roses ; from her streams 
 Tin- bubbling fountain-springs; from life take love, 
 Thou hast its all of sweetness, bloom, and strength. 
 
 T-iere is a grandeur in the soul that dares 
 To live out all the life God lit within ; 
 That battles with the passions hand to hand, 
 And wears no mail, and hides behind no shield; 
 That p ucks its joy in the shadow of Death s wing, 
 That drains with one deep draught the wine of life, 
 An, I that with fearless foot and heaven-turned eye 
 May stand upon a dizzy precipice, 
 High o er the abvss of ruin, and not fall! 
 
 A MORNING RIDE. 
 
 WHKV troubled in spirit, when weary of life, 
 When I faint neath its burdens, and shrink from 
 
 its strife 
 When its fruits turned to ashes are mocking my 
 
 taste, 
 
 And its fairest scene seems but a desolate waste; 
 Then come ye not near me my sad heart to cheer 
 With Friendship s soft accents or Sympathy s tear; 
 No counsel I ask, and no pity I need, 
 But bring me, oh, bring me my gallant young steed, 
 With his high-arched neck and his nostril spread 
 His eye full of fire, and his step fu 1 of pride ! [wide, 
 As I spring to his back, as I seize the strong rein, 
 The strength of my spirit returneth again : 
 The bonds are all broken which fettered my mind, 
 And my cares borne away on the wings of the wind ; 
 My pride lifts its head, for a season bowed down, 
 And the queen in my nature now puts on her crown. 
 Now we re off like the winds to the plains whence. 
 
 they came, 
 
 And the rapture of motion is thrilling my frame. 
 On. on speeds my courser, scarce printing the sod, 
 Scarce crushing a daisy to mark where he trod. 
 On, on, like a deer, when the hounds early bay 
 Awakes the wild echoes, away and away ! 
 Still faster, still farther he leaps at my cheer, 
 Till the rush of the startled air whirrs in my ear; 
 Now long a clear rivulet lieth his track 
 See his glancing hoof tossing the white pebbles back; 
 Now a glen dark as midnight what matter ] 
 
 we ll down, 
 Though shadows are round us, and rocks o er us 
 
 frown ; 
 
 The thick branches shake as we re hurry ins through, 
 And deck us with spangles of silvery dew. 
 Whata wild thought of triumph, that this girlish hand 
 Such a steed in the might of his strength may com 
 mand ! 
 
 What a glorious creature ! ah, g!ance at him now, 
 As I check him a while on this green hillock s brow ; 
 How he tosses his mane with a shrill, joyous neigh, 
 And paws the firm earth in his proud, stately play ! 
 Hurrah, off acrain dashing on. as in ire, 
 Till the long flinty pathway is flashing with fire ! 
 Ho, a ditch ! shall we pause 1 No, the bold leap 
 
 we dare 
 
 Like a swift-winged arrow we rush through the air. 
 Oh ! not all the pleasure that poets may praise 
 Not the wildering waltz in the ballroom s blaze, 
 Nor the chivalrous joust, nor the daring race, 
 Nor the swift regatta, nor merry chase, 
 Nor the sail high heaving waters o er, 
 Nor the rural dance on the moonlight shore 
 Can the wild and thrilling joy exceed 
 Of a fearless leap on a f.ery steed. 
 
ANNA H. PHILLIPS. 
 
 " HELEN IRVING" is the graceful nom de 
 plume of Miss ANNA H. PHILLIPS, of Lynn, 
 Massachusetts probably the youngest of 
 our young American poetesses. She is not 
 a professional authoress, having written but 
 little, and published less ; but, judging by the 
 quality rather than the quantity of her pro 
 ductions, she can not be denied the posses 
 sion of a fine poetical genius. Her first poem, 
 Love and Fame, which appeared in the Home 
 Journal, in the spring of 1847, Mr. Willis 
 
 thus introduced to the public ; " We might 
 , have called attention, very reasonably and 
 justly, to the beautiful versification of this 
 production to the melody, and the varied 
 succession of melody, in the flow of the slan- 
 zas. They prove the nicest possi ble ear, with 
 the happiest subjection to critical judgment, 
 True genius is in the conception, we think, 
 and an assurance of successful genius lies in 
 the twin excellence of giving so beautiful a 
 thought its fit embodiment." 
 
 LOVE AND FAME. 
 
 IT had passed in all its grandeur, that sounding 
 
 summer shower 
 Had paid its pearly tribute to each fair expectant 
 
 flower, 
 And while a thousand sparklers danced lightly on 
 
 the spray, 
 Close folded to a rosebud s heart one tiny rain-drop 
 
 lay- 
 Throughout each fevered petal had the heaven- 
 brought freshness gone, 
 They had mingled dew and fragrance till their very 
 
 souls were one ; 
 The bud its love in perfume breathed, till its pure 
 
 and starry guest 
 Grew glowing as the life-hue of the lips it fondly 
 
 pressed. 
 
 He dreamed away the hours with her, his gentle 
 
 bride and fair, 
 No thought filled his young spirit, but to dwell for 
 
 ever there, 
 While ever bending wakefully, the bud a fond 
 
 watch kept, 
 For fear the envious zephyrs might steal him as 
 
 he slept. 
 
 But forth from out his tent of clouds in burnished 
 
 armor bright, 
 The conquering sun came proudly in the glory of 
 
 his might, 
 And, like some grand enchanter, resumed his wand 
 
 of power, 
 And shed the splendor of his smile on lake, and 
 
 tree, and flower. 
 
 Then, peering through the shadowy leaves, the rain 
 drop marked on high, 
 
 A many-bued triumphal arch span all the eastern 
 sky 
 
 He saw his glittering comrades all wing their joyous 
 flight, 
 
 And stand a glorious brotherhood to form that 
 bow of light ! 
 
 Aspiring thoughts his spirit thrilled " Oh, let me 
 join them, love ! 
 
 I ll set thy beauty s impress on yon bright arch 
 above, 
 
 And, as a world s admiring gaze is raised to iris 
 fair, 
 
 T will deem my own dear rosebud s tint the love 
 liest color there !" 
 
 The gentle bud released her clasp swift as a 
 thought he flew, 
 
 And brightly mid that glorious band he soon was 
 glowing too 
 
 All quivering with delight to feel that she, his rose 
 bud bride, 
 
 Was gazing, with a swelling heart, on this, his hour 
 of pride ! 
 
 But the shadowy night came down at last the 
 
 glittering bow was gone, 
 One little hour of triumph was all the drop had 
 
 won : 
 He had lost the warm and tender glow, his distant 
 
 bud-love s hue, 
 And he sought her sadly sorrowing a tear-dimmed 
 
 star of dew. 
 
 NINA TO RIENZL* 
 
 LEAVE thee, Rienzi ! Speak not thus, 
 
 Why should I quit thy side 1 
 Say, shall I shrink with craven fear, 
 
 Thine own, and freedom s bride 1 
 Whence comes the sternness on thy lip 
 
 Needs Nina to be tried ? 
 
 * It is recorded, that when the "last of the tribunes" 
 saw. in the discontent of the people and the withdrawal 
 of the tavorof the church, approaching peril, he bade his 
 young wife seek shelter with tho~e who would cherish 
 and shield her, and leave him to meet danger alone. But 
 she nobly preferred suffering and death with him sho 
 loved, to life with separation from him. 
 39J 
 
100 
 
 ANNA H. PHILLIPS. 
 
 I leave thee ! didst thou win and wed 
 
 A fond, weak girl to twine 
 Her arms around thee in thy joy 
 
 To press her lips to thine, 
 And breathe a love born of the heart, 
 
 But not the soul divine ! 
 
 To thrill with childish awe, whene er 
 Thv brow grew dark with thought, 
 
 And when the threatening lightnings gleamed 
 Thv dark ning sky athwart, 
 
 Shrink from the crash, and leave thee lone, 
 Amid the wrecks it wrought ! 
 
 Am I not thine wedded to thee 
 In heart, and soul, and mind 
 
 Thou, and free Rome, within my breast 
 As on one altar shrined 
 
 My destiny, my very life, 
 
 Closely with thine entwined ! 
 
 Thou calledst me thine, when freemen flung 
 
 Fame s laurel on thy brow; 
 And am I less thine own my love 
 
 Less fondly cherished now, 
 When Rome dishonoring miscreants dare 
 That fame to disavow ! 
 
 Look in mine eyes ! thou know st thy love 
 
 Has been to me a heaven, 
 In which my soul has floated, like 
 
 The one pure star of even 
 Proud in the lofty consciousness 
 
 Of glory gained and given. 
 
 Nay, strive not to look coldly, love, 
 Thou reckst not of the power 
 
 With which my heart will cling to thine 
 In mad misfortune s hour 
 
 Glowing more bright its changeless truth, 
 As darker storms shall lower. 
 
 And oh, Rienzi ! should Heaven deem 
 
 Thy sacred mission done, 
 How glorious twere to die with thee, 
 
 My own, my worshipped one 
 As, bathed in living light, the day 
 
 Dies with the setting sun ! 
 
MRS. ELIZABETH AKEES ALLEX. 
 
 BABYHOOD. 
 
 0, BABY, witli your marvellous eyes, 
 
 Clear as the yet un fallen dew, 
 Methinks you are the only wise, 
 No change can touch you with surprise, 
 Nothing is strange or new to you. 
 
 You did not weep, when faint and weak 
 
 Grew Love s dear hand within your hold, 
 And, when I pressed your living cheek 
 Close down to lips which could not speak, 
 You did not start to find them cold. 
 
 You think it morning when you wake, 
 
 That night comes when your eyelids fall, 
 That the winds blow, and blossoms shake, 
 And the sun shines for your small sake ; 
 And, queen-like, you accept it all. 
 
 you are wise ! you comprehend 
 
 What my slow sense may not divine, 
 The sparrow is your fearless friend, 
 And even these pine-tassels bend 
 
 More fondly to your cheek than mine. 
 
 When in the summer woods we walk, 
 
 All ,-hy, sweet things commune with you : 
 
 You understand the robin s talk ; 
 
 And w,,-ii a flower bends its stalk, 
 i ou answer it with nod and coo. 
 
 Sometimes, with playful prank and wile, 
 
 4 As seeing what I cannot see, 
 You look into the air, and smile, 
 And murmur softly all the while 
 
 To one who speaks no word to me. 
 
 Is it because your sacred youth 
 
 Is free from touch of time or toil ? 
 
 1 cannot tell ; perhaps, in sooth, 
 
 Clean hands may grasp the fair white truth 
 Withheld from mine through fear of soil. 
 
 I guard you with a needless care, 
 
 O child, so sinlessly secure ! 
 I see that even now you wear 
 A dawning glory in your hair, 
 
 And fittingly, for you are pure: 
 
 Purs to the heart s unsullied core, 
 
 As, conscious of its spotless trust, 
 The lily s temple is, before 
 The bee profanes its marble floor, 
 L .living a track of golden dust. 
 
 0, shield me with your light caress, 
 
 Dear heart, so stainless and so new! 
 Unconscious of your loveliness, 
 Your beauty, fresh and shadowless, 
 As is a violet of its blue. 
 
 Perhaps through death our souls may gain 
 Your perfect peace, your holy rest. 
 
 Life has not vexed us all in vain, 
 
 If, after all this woe and pain, 
 
 We may be blessed babes again, 
 
 Cradled on Love s immortal breast ! 
 
 GOING TO SLEEP. 
 
 THE light is fading down the sky, 
 The shadows grow and multiply ; 
 I hear the thrushes evening song : 
 But I have borne with toil and wrong 
 
 So long, so long ! 
 
 Dim dreams my drowsy senses drown, 
 So, darling, kiss my eyelids down ! 
 
 My life s brief spring went wasted by, 
 My summer ended fruitlessly ; 
 
 I learned to hunger, strive, and wait: 
 I found you, love, O happy fate! 
 
 So late, so late ! 
 
 Now all my fields are turning brown, 
 So, darling, kiss my eyelids down ! 
 
 O blessed sleep ! O perfect rest ! 
 
 Thus pillowed on your faithful breast, 
 Nor life nor death is wholly drear, 
 O tender heart, since you are here, 
 So dear, so dear ! 
 
 Sweet love ! my soul s sufficient crown ! 
 
 Now, darling, kiss my eyelids down 1 
 
 LEFT BEHIND. 
 
 IT was the autumn of the year 
 The strawberry-leaves were red and sere, 
 October s airs were fresh and chill, 
 When, pausing on the windy hill, 
 The hill that overlooks the sea, 
 You talked confidingly to me, 
 Me, whom your keen artistic sight 
 lias not yet learned to read aright, * 
 Since I have veiled my heart from you, 
 And loved you better than you knew. 
 
 You told me of your toilsome past, 
 The tardy honors won at last, 
 The trials borne, the conquests gained, 
 The longed-for boon of Fame attained: 
 I knew that every victory 
 But lifted you away from me, 
 That every step of high emprise 
 But left me lowlier in your eyes: 
 I watched the distance as it grew, 
 And loved you better than you kiiew. 
 
402 
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN. 
 
 You did not see the bitter trace 
 Of angui.-h sweep across my face; 
 You did not hear my proud heart beat 
 Heavy and slow beneath your feet: 
 You thought of triumphs .still unwon, 
 Of glorious deeds as yet undone ; 
 And 1, the while you talked to me, 
 I watched the gulls float lonesomely 
 Till lost amid the hungry blue, 
 And loved you better than you knew. 
 
 You walked the sunny side of fate ; 
 The wise world smiles, and calls you great ; 
 The golden fruitage of success 
 Drops at your feet in plenteousness ; 
 And you have blessings manifold, 
 Renown and power, and friends and gold. 
 They build a wall between us twain 
 Which may not be thrown down again. 
 Alas! for I, the long years through, 
 Have loved you better than you knew. 
 
 Your life s proud aim, your art s high truth, 
 
 Have kept the promise of your youth ; 
 
 And while you won the crown which now 
 
 Breaks into bloom upon your brow, 
 
 ]\Iy soul cried strongly out to you 
 
 Across the ocean s yearning blue, 
 
 While, unremembered and afar, 
 
 I watched you, as I watch a star 
 
 Tin (High darkness struggling into view, 
 
 Ai.d loved you better than you knew. 
 
 I used to dream, in all these years 
 
 Of patient faith and silent tears, 
 
 Th.it Love s strong hand would put aside 
 
 The barriers of place and pride, 
 
 Would reach the pathless darkness through 
 
 And. draw me softly up to you. 
 
 Perchance the violets o er my dust 
 
 Will half betray their buried trust, 
 
 And say, their blue eyes full of dew, 
 
 " yiie loved you better than you knew." 
 
 ENDURANCE. 
 
 How much the heart may bear, and yet not 
 
 break ! 
 
 How much the flesh may suffer and not die! 
 I question much it" any pain or ache 
 
 Of soul or body brings our end more nigh : 
 Death chooses his own time ; till that is sworn, 
 All evils may be borne. 
 
 We shrink and shudder at the surgeon s 
 
 knife, 
 
 Each nerve recoiling from the cruel st.pcl 
 \\ hose edge seems searchiiiff ior the quiver 
 ing life, 
 
 Yet to our sense the bitter pangs reveal, 
 That still, although the trembling flesh be 
 torn, 
 
 This also can be borne. 
 
 We see a sorrow rising in our way, 
 
 And try to flee from the approaching ill ; 
 We seek some small escape ; we weep and 
 pray ; 
 
 But when the blow falls, then our hearts 
 
 are still ; 
 
 Not that the pain is of its sharpness shorn, 
 But that it can be borne. 
 
 We wind our life about another life ; 
 
 We hold it closer, dearer than our own : 
 Anon it faints and fails in deathly strife, 
 Leaving us stunned, and stricken, and 
 
 alone ; 
 
 But ah! we do not die with those we mourn, 
 This also can be borne. 
 
 Behold, we live through all things, fam 
 ine, thirst, 
 
 Bereavement, pain ; all grief and misery, 
 All woe and sorrow ; life inflicts its worst 
 On soul and body, but \ve cannot die. 
 Though we be sick, and tired, and faint, and 
 worn, 
 
 Lo, all things can be borne! 
 
 SINGING IN THE BAIN. 
 
 WHERE, the elm-tree branches by the rain 
 
 are stirred, 
 
 Careless of the shower, swings a little bird : 
 Clouds may frown and darken, drops may 
 
 fall in vain ; 
 Little heeds the warbler singing in the rain! 
 
 Silence soft, unbroken, reigneth every 
 where, 
 Save the rain s low heart-throbs pulsing on 
 
 the air, 
 Save the song, which, pausing, wins no 
 
 answering strain ; 
 Little cares the robin singing in the rain! 
 
 Not yet are the orchards rich with rosy snow, 
 Nor with dandelions are the fields aglow ; 
 Yet almost my fancy in his gong s sweet 
 
 flow 
 
 Hears the June leaves whisper, and the 
 roses blow ! 
 
 Dimmer fall the shadows, mistier grows the 
 
 air, 
 Still the thick clouds gather, darkening here 
 
 and there. 
 From their heavy fringes pour the drops 
 
 amain ; 
 
 Still the bird is swinging, singing in the 
 rain. 
 
 thou hopeful singer, whom my faith per 
 ceives 
 
 To a dove transfigured " bringing olive- 
 leaves, 
 Olive-leaves of promise, types of joy to 
 
 be; 
 
 How, in doubt and trial, learns my heart 
 of thee ! 
 
 Cheerful summer prophet ! listening to thy 
 
 song, 
 How my fainting spirit groweth glad and 
 
 strong. 
 
 Let the black clouds gather, let the sun 
 shine wane, 
 If I may but join thee singing in the rain ! 
 
MRS. ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN. 
 
 403 
 
 A SPRING LOVE-SONG. 
 
 THE earth is waking at the voice of May, 
 The new grass brightens by the trodden way, 
 The woods wave welcome to the sweet spring 
 day, 
 
 And the sea is growing summer bfue ; 
 But fairer, sweeter than the smiling sky, 
 Or bashful violet with tender eye, 
 Is she whose love for me will never die, 
 
 I love you, darling, only you ! 
 
 0, friendships falter when misfortunes frown, 
 
 The blossoms vanish when the leaves turn 
 brown, 
 
 The shells lie stranded when the tide goes 
 
 down, 
 But you, dear heart, are ever true. 
 
 The grass grows greenest when the rain 
 drops fall, 
 
 The vine clasps closest to the crumbling 
 wall, 
 
 So love blooms sweetest under sorrow s 
 
 thrall, 
 I love you, darling, only you ! 
 
 The early robin may forget to sing, 
 
 The loving mosses may refuse to cling, 
 
 Or the brook to tinkle at the call of spring, 
 
 But you, dear heart, are ever true. 
 Let the silver mingle with your curls of gold. 
 Let the years grow dreary and the world 
 
 wax old, 
 
 But the love I bear for you will ne er grow 
 cold, 
 
 I love you, darling, only you ! 
 
 THE AMBER ROSARY. 
 
 MY birthday ! I must keep it, as of old, 
 And wear some token of a holiday ; 
 
 For see the woods are gay with red and gold, 
 And autumn sings her merriest roundelay. 
 
 I have no heart for dainty robes to-day, 
 And flowers do not suit me any more ; 
 
 So, from the darkness where it "hides away, 
 I take this relic of the days of yore, 
 
 Only an antique amber rosary, 
 
 Whose beads still hold the mellow light 
 
 of Rome, 
 Clasped by a cross of blackest ebony, 
 
 Fashioned by loving fingers here at home. 
 
 And as I lift again the chain and cross, 
 The bright beads seem a wreath of golden 
 
 days, 
 
 Ended too soon by black and bitter loss, 
 Made, gloomier still by their contrasting 
 rays. 
 
 0, liquidly the sunlight, niters through 
 These shining spheres of warm translucent 
 gold, 
 
 Changing to drops of rich and wondrous hue, 
 Like precious wine of vintage rare and old. 
 
 Ah me ! this rosary, in other lands, 
 
 Has learned more prayers than I shall ever 
 know, 
 
 Its slow beads slipped and smoothed by pious 
 
 hands, 
 Whose pulses stopped a hundred years ago 
 
 It keeps an odor mystical and dim, 
 
 As of old churches, where the censer 
 
 swings, 
 
 Where, listening to the echo-chanted hymn, 
 The sculptured angels fold their marble 
 wings. 
 
 Where through the windows melts the un 
 willing light, 
 And in its passage learns their gorgeous 
 
 stain, 
 Then bars the gloom with rays all rainbow 
 
 bright, 
 
 As human souls grow beautiful through 
 pain. 
 
 One birthday, it might be a year ago, 
 Or fifty, or a thousand, one who smiled 
 
 Counted these beads, and praised their mar 
 vellous glow, 
 Saying, " I bring a gift to you, dear child, 
 
 " An amulet, not made of gems or gold, 
 But drops of light, imprisoned from above. 
 
 Gold were too heavy ; gems, too hard and 
 
 cold ; 
 And only amber suits the soul of love. 
 
 "What fitter birthday token could I give? 
 
 See how the clear orbs answer to the sun ? 
 I clasp them at your throat, and you shall live 
 
 A perfect golden year for every one ! " 
 
 " Then why the cross? " I asked. He sighed 
 
 and said, 
 "For possible sorrows." Ah, these useless 
 
 tears ! 
 The hand which placed it here, now cold and 
 
 dead, 
 Forgets to twine for me the golden years. 
 
 Forgets to bless her waiting head, who wears 
 For his dear sake these amber beads 
 to-day, 
 
 Forgets to make the cruel cross she bears 
 Grow lighter as the birthdays wear away. 
 
 Yet still the amber gleams, and unawares 
 
 Turns all to gold beneath its mellow ray ; 
 pure hearts, glowing with remembered 
 
 prayers, 
 
 Plead for her peace who has no heart to 
 pray! 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 THE door-yard trees put on their autumn 
 
 bloom, 
 Purple, and gold, and crimson rich and 
 
 strong, 
 That stain the light, and give my lonesome 
 
 room 
 An atmosphere of sunset all day long. 
 
 In giddy whirls the yellow elm-leaves fall, 
 The rifled cherry-boughs grow sere and 
 thinned, 
 
404 
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN. 
 
 Yet still the morning-glories on the wall 
 Fling out their purple trumpets to the 
 wind, 
 
 So full but now of summer s triumph-notes, 
 The moth s soft wing their powdery sta 
 mens stirred, 
 The bee s rich murmur filled their honeyed 
 
 throats, 
 
 And the quick thrilling of the humming 
 bird. 
 
 In the long dreary nights of storm I hear 
 The windy woodbine beat against the pane, 
 
 Tivmbling and shuddering with cold and 
 
 fear, 
 Like one who seeks a shelter all in vain. 
 
 The sobbing rain deplores the sad decline 
 Of all which erst was fair, and sweet, and 
 
 young, 
 
 The tender fingers of the clambering vine 
 Are bruised against the trellis where they 
 clung. 
 
 Thus is my world dismantled, cold and bare ; 
 The winter threatens, lowering and 
 
 drear ; 
 Where are the pattering feet, the shining 
 
 hair, 
 
 The eyes which made it always summer 
 here? 
 
 AT LAST. 
 
 AT last, when all the summer shine 
 
 That warmed life s early hours is past, 
 Your loving fingers seek for mine 
 
 And hold them close at last at last ! 
 Not oft the robin comes to build 
 
 Its nest upon the leafless bough 
 By autumn robbed, by winter chilled, 
 
 But you, dear heart, you love me now. 
 
 Though there are shadows on my brow 
 
 And furrows on my cheek, in truth, 
 The marks where Time s remorseless plough 
 
 Broke up the blooming sward of Youth, 
 Though fled is every girlish grace 
 
 Might win or hold a lover s vow, 
 Despite my sad and faded face, 
 
 And darkened heart, you love me now! 
 
 I count no more my wasted tears ; 
 
 They left no echo of their fall ; 
 I mourn no more my lonesome years ; 
 
 This blessed hour atones for all. 
 1 tVar not all that Time or Fate 
 
 -May bring to burden heart or brow, 
 Strong- in the love that came so late, 
 
 Our souls shall keep it always now f 
 
 LAST. 
 
 FRIEND, whose smile has come to be 
 
 V r ery precious unto me, 
 
 Though I know I drank not first 
 Of your love s bright fountain-burst, 
 
 Yet I grieve not for the past, 
 
 Bo you only love me last ! 
 
 Other souls may find their joy 
 In the blind love of a boy : 
 
 Give me tbat which years have tried, 
 
 Disciplined and purified, 
 Such as, braving sun and blast, 
 You will bring to me at last ! 
 
 There are brows more fair than mine, 
 
 Eyes of more bewitching shine, 
 Other hearts more fit, in truth, 
 For the passion of your youth ; 
 
 But, their transient empire past, 
 
 You will surely love me last ! 
 
 Wing away your summer-time, 
 
 Find a love in every clime, 
 
 Roam in liberty and light, 
 I shall never stay your flight ; 
 
 For I know, when all is past, 
 
 You will come to me at last ! 
 
 Change and flutter as you will, 
 
 I shall smile securely still ; 
 
 Patiently I trust, and wait, 
 Though you tarry long and late ; 
 
 Prize your spring till it be past, 
 
 Only, only love me last ! 
 
 FORGOTTEN. 
 
 Ix this dim shadow, where 
 She found the quiet which all tired hearts 
 
 crave, 
 
 Now, without grief or care, 
 The wild bees murmur, and the blossoms 
 
 wave, 
 
 And the forgetful air 
 Blows heedlessly across her grassy grave. 
 
 Yet when she lived on earth, 
 She loved this leafy dell, and knew by name 
 
 All things of sylvan birth ; 
 Squirrel and bird chirped welcome, when she 
 
 came ; 
 
 But now, in careless mirth, 
 They frisk, and build, and warble all the 
 same. 
 
 From the great city near, 
 Wherein she toiled through life s incessant 
 quest 
 
 For weary year on year, 
 Come the far voices of its deep unrest 
 
 To touch her dead, deaf ear, 
 And surge unechoedo er her pulseless breast. 
 
 The hearts which clung to her 
 Have sought out other shiines, as all hearts 
 
 must, 
 
 When Time, the comforter, 
 Has worn their grief out, and replaced their 
 
 trust ; 
 
 Not even neglect can stir 
 This little handful of forgotten dust. 
 
 Grass waves, and insects hum, 
 And then the snow blows bitterly across ; 
 
 Strange footsteps go and come, 
 Breaking the oew-drops on the starry moss 
 
 She lieth still and dumb, 
 Counting no longer either gain or loss. 
 
MRS. ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN. 
 
 405 
 
 Ah, well, tis better so ; 
 Let the dust deepen as the years increase ; 
 
 Of her who sleeps below 
 Let the name perish, and the memory cease, 
 
 Since she has come to know 
 That which through life she vainly prayed 
 for, Peace ! 
 
 IN AN ATTIC. 
 
 TflTS is my attic room. Sit down, my friend. 
 
 My swallow s nest is high and hard to gain ; 
 
 The stairs are long and steep ; but at the end 
 
 The rest repays the pain. 
 For here are peace and freedom ; room for 
 
 speech 
 
 Or silence, as may suit a changeful mood : 
 Society s hard by-laws do not reach 
 
 This lofty altitude. 
 
 You hapless dwellers in the lower rooms 
 See only bricks and sand and windowed 
 
 walls ; 
 But here, above the dust and smoky glooms, 
 
 Heaven s light unhindered falls. 
 So early in the street the shadows creep, 
 Your night begins while yet my eyes be 
 hold 
 The purpling hills, the w r ide horizon s sweep, 
 
 Flooded with sunset gold. 
 The day comes earlier here. At morn I see 
 Along the roofs the eldest sunbeam peep ; 
 I live in daylight, limitless and free, 
 While you are lost in sleep. 
 
 I catch the rustle of the maple-leaves, 
 
 I see the breathing branches rise and fall, 
 And hear, from their high perch along the 
 eaves. 
 
 The bright-necked pigeons call. 
 
 Far from the parlors with their garrulous 
 
 crowds 
 
 I dwell alone, with little need of words ; 
 I have mute friendships with the stars and 
 clouds, 
 
 And love-trysts with the birds. 
 So all who walk steep ways, in grief and 
 
 night, 
 
 Where every step is full of toil and pain, 
 May see, when they have gained the sharpest 
 height, 
 
 It has not been in vain, 
 
 Since they have left behind the noise and 
 
 heat ; 
 And, though their eyes drop tears, their 
 
 sight is clear : 
 
 The air is purer, aiv.l the br >eze is sweet, 
 And the blue heaven more near. 
 
 OCTOBER TO MAY. 
 
 TIIE day that brightens half the earth 
 
 Is night to half. Ah, sweet, 
 One s m mrning is another s mirth, 
 You wear your bright years like a crown, 
 While mine, dead garlands, tangle down 
 In chains about my feet. 
 
 The breeze which wakes the folded flower 
 
 Sweeps dead leaves from the tree ; 
 So partial Time, as hour by hour 
 He tells the rapid years, eheu ! 
 Brings bloom and beauty still to you, 
 But leaves his blight with me. 
 
 The sun which calls the violet up 
 Out of the moistened mould 
 
 Withers the wind-flower s fragile cup, 
 
 For even Nature has her pets, 
 
 And, favoring the new, forgets 
 To love and spare the old. 
 
 The shower that makes the bud a rose 
 
 Beats off the lilac bloom ; 
 I am a lilac ; so life goes ; 
 A lilac that has outlived May ; 
 You are a blush-rose : well-a-day ! 
 
 I pass, and give you room ! 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 II AUK ! hear the sleet against the pane, 
 And hear the wild winds blow ! 
 
 It chills me with a shuddering dread, 
 This heavy, heaping snow, 
 
 I cannot bear that all night long 
 The drifts should deepen so. 
 
 darling, that this storm should beat 
 Upon thy lonesome bed ! 
 
 darling-, that this drifting snow 
 Should heap above thy head, 
 
 And I not there to shelter tliee, 
 And bear the storm instead ! 
 
 I I trim anew the glowing fire, 
 The flames leap merrily ; 
 
 1 make the lamplight bright and clear, 
 
 Thou art not here to see. 
 
 Ah, since I sit here all alone 
 
 What are they all to me ? 
 
 dreary hearth ! lonesome life ! 
 O empty heart and home ! 
 
 It is not home to me, wherein 
 
 Thy dear feet never come, : 
 There is no meaning in the word 
 
 Since tjiy loved lips are dumb ! 
 
 So, all in vain the bright flames dance, 
 The ruddy embers glow : 
 
 1 shiver in the mellow light, 
 Because, alas, I know 
 
 The snow-drifts heap above thy sleep, 
 This heavy, heaping snow ! 
 
 PROPHECY. 
 
 THERE s a clasp upon my fingers, 
 There s a kiss upon my blow, 
 
 In my ear Love s breathing lingers, 
 But, alas, it is not thou ! 
 
 Since I walk no more with thee, 
 
 0, the days have come to be 
 
 Dreary, dreary unto me ; 
 
 Best beloved, where art thou ? 
 
406 
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN. 
 
 In these sweet, prophetic mornings, 
 
 \Vlien the brown buds load the bough, 
 
 And the air brings summer warnings, 
 
 All my heart cries, " Wlfereart tliou ? " 
 
 Still my heart, for evermore 
 
 Yearning toward ilie misty shore, 
 
 Kee]>s repeating o er and o er, 
 
 " Best beloved, where art tliou ? " 
 
 When my soul grows faint with pining, 
 
 And at death s behest I bow, 
 On some kindly breast reclining 
 
 1 shall sigh, " Would it were tliou ! 
 Vn forgot ten, dearest, best, 
 Would that thy most faithful breast 
 Could have pillowed my last rest, 
 
 O beloved, were it tliou ! " 
 
 Gentle voices breathe around me 
 
 Words with fondest meaning blent ; 
 
 Love s most tender care has crowned me 
 With all blessings but content ; 
 
 the blessed days of old ! 
 
 the love too long untold ! 
 
 the years so dark and cold, 
 
 And their burden, " Were it tliou ! " 
 
 "MY DEARLING." 
 
 MY Dearling ! thus, in days long fled, 
 In spite of creed and court and queen, 
 King Henry wrote to Anne Boleyn, 
 
 The dearest pet name ever said, 
 
 And dearly purchased, too, I ween ! 
 
 Poor child ! she played a losing game : 
 She won a heart, so Henry said, 
 But ah ! the price she gave instead ! 
 
 Men s hearts, at best, are but a name : 
 She paid for Henry s with her head ! 
 
 You count men s hearts as something worth? 
 Not I : were I a maid unwed, 
 I d rather have my own fair head 
 
 Than all the lovers on the earth, 
 
 Than all the hearts that ever bled! 
 
 " My Dearling ! " with a love most true, 
 Having no fear of creed or queen, 
 I breathe that name my prayers between ; 
 
 But it shall never bring to you 
 
 The hapless fate of Anne Bolevn ! 
 
 WHEN THE LEAVES ARE TURNING BROWN. 
 
 NEVKIJ is my heart so gay 
 
 In the budding month of May, 
 Never does it beat a tune 
 Halfsosweel in bloomy June, 
 
 Never knows such happiness 
 
 As on such a day as this, 
 
 When October dons her crown, 
 And the leaves are turning brown. 
 
 Breathe, sweet children, soft regrets 
 
 For the vanished violets ; 
 
 Sing, young lovers, the delights 
 Of the golden summer nights ; 
 
 Never in the summer hours 
 On my way such radiance showers 
 As from heaven falls softly down, 
 When the leaves are turning brown. 
 
 Braid your girdles, fresh and gay, 
 Children, in the bloom of May ; " 
 Twist your chaplets in young June, 
 Maidens, they will fade full soon; 
 Twine ripe roses, July-red, 
 Lovers, for the dear one s head ; 
 I will weave my richer crown 
 When the leaves are turning brown ! 
 
 CONSOLATION. 
 
 Now leave, O leave me ! I have stayed to 
 
 hear 
 All the vain comfortings your lips have 
 
 said, 
 
 W r ell meant, but yet they fall upon my ear 
 As yellow leaves might whirl about my 
 
 head ; 
 Now leave me with my dead. 
 
 I would not be ungrateful, friends ; but still 
 Your kind, condoling voices trouble me : 
 
 This aching need, which words can never fill, 
 Rejects your proffered comfort utterly, 
 As husks and vanity. 
 
 They are unwise physicians who would bind 
 
 A bleeding wound, and pour in wine and oil, 
 
 While yet the arrow-head remains behind ; 
 
 This stab, whence yet the ruddy life-diops 
 
 . boil, 
 Mocks your unskillful toil. 
 
 You tell me that to him I mourn is given 
 Such bliss as makes this world seem poor 
 
 and dim ; 
 
 Is there an angel in the whole of heaven, 
 In all the shining ranks of seraphim, 
 Can take my place to him ? 
 
 Can he be happy while I grieve and pine ? 
 
 Can he rejoice, and I in misery ? 
 Then he is changed, and is no longer mine ; 
 
 For he so loved me, that he could not be 
 Content away from me. 
 
 And yet you say he dwells in joy and peace, 
 
 Far from this dim and sorrowful estate, 
 And, when my earthly wanderings shall 
 
 cease, 
 
 Will come and meet me at life s outer gate : 
 Be strong," you say," and wait." 
 
 Would that I were like Stephen, and could 
 
 see, 
 What time the cruel stones bruise out my 
 
 soul, 
 
 The opening heavens, and angels waiting me! 
 Alas 1 I hear no homeward chariot-roll, 
 No welcome to the goal. 
 
 Ah me ! the red is yet upon my cheek, 
 
 And in my veins life s vigorous currents 
 
 play ; 
 Adown my hair there shines no warning 
 
 streak, 
 
MRS. ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN. 
 
 407 
 
 And the sweet meeting which you paint 
 
 to-day 
 Seems sadly far away. 
 
 Another tells me that he loves me still, 
 Sees, hears, and guides me through life s 
 
 hurrying throng, 
 
 While I, despite my yearning sense and will, 
 Am blind and deaf, and do his deep love 
 
 wrong, 
 By weeping all day long. 
 
 What does it comfort me, if still he walks 
 
 Beside me all the while, invisibly ? 
 What does it help me, that a dear ghost 
 
 mocks 
 Blind eyes with unseen smiles ? I fail to see 
 
 What comfort it may be. 
 There is no balm. Though he may dwell in 
 
 bliss, 
 
 I sit in grief. It is the loss, the lack, 
 The absence, and the utter emptiness 
 
 Which kill me. Comfort ? Find the grave- 
 ward track 
 And bring my darling back ! 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 BACK again, darling? O day of delight ! 
 How I have longed for you, morning and 
 
 night ! 
 Watched for you, pined for you, all the days 
 
 through, 
 
 Craving no boon and no blessing but you, 
 Prayed for you, plead for you, sought you in 
 
 vain, 
 
 Striving forever to find you again, 
 Counting all anguish as naught, if I might 
 Clasp you again as I clasp you to-night ! 
 
 0, I have sorrowed and suffered so much 
 Since I last answered your lip s loving 
 
 touch, 
 Through the night-watches, in daylight s 
 
 broad beams, 
 Anguished by visions and tortured by 
 
 dreams, 
 
 Dreams so replete with bewildering pain, 
 Still it is throbbing in heart and in brain : 
 0, for I dreamed, keep me close to your 
 
 side, 
 Darling, darling ! I dreamed you had died ! 
 
 Dreamed that I stood by your pillow, and 
 
 heard 
 From your pale lips love s last half-uttered 
 
 word ; 
 
 And by the light of the May-morning skies 
 Watched your face whiten, and saw your 
 
 dear eyes 
 
 Gazing far into the Wonderful Land ; 
 Felt your fond fingers grow cold in my 
 
 hand ; 
 "Darling," you whispered, "My darling!" 
 
 you said 
 Faintly, so faintly, and then you were dead ! 
 
 the dark hours when I knelt by your grave, 
 Calling upon you to love and to* save, 
 
 Pleading in vain for a sign or a word 
 Only to tell me you listened and heard, 
 Only to say you remembered and knew 
 How all my soul was in anguish for you ; 
 Bitter, despairing, the tears that I shed, 
 Darling, O darling, because you were dead ! 
 
 O the black days of your absence, my own ! 
 to be left in the wide world alone ! 
 Long, with our little one.clasped to my breast. 
 Wandered I, seeking for refuge and rest ; 
 Yet all the world was so careless and cold, 
 Vainly I sought for a sheltering fold ; 
 There was no roof and no home for my head, 
 Darling, darling, because you w r ere dead ! 
 
 Yet, in the midst of the darkness and pain, 
 Darling, I knew I should find you again ! 
 Knew, as the roses know, under the snow, 
 How the next summer will set them aglow ; 
 So did I always, the dreary days through, 
 Keep my* heart single and sacred to you 
 As on the beautiful day we were wed, 
 Darling, darling, although you were dead ! 
 
 the great joy of awaking, to know 
 
 1 did but dream all that torturing woe ! 
 
 the delight, that my searching can trace 
 Nothing of coldness or change in your face ! 
 Still is your forehead unfurrowed and fair ; 
 None of the gold is lost out of your hair, 
 None of the light from your dear eyes has 
 
 tied 
 Darling, how could I dream you were dead ? 
 
 Now you are here, you will always remain, 
 Never, O never to leave me again ! 
 How it has vanished, the anguish of years ! 
 Vanished ! nay, these are not sorio \vful 
 
 tears, 
 
 Happiness only my cheek has impearled, 
 There is no grieving for me in the world ; 
 Dark clouds may threaten, but I have no fear, 
 Darling, O darling, because you are here ! 
 
 ANSWER ME. 
 
 IF you love me, friend, to-night, 
 
 Much and tenderly, 
 Let me rest my wearied head 
 
 Here upon your knee ; 
 And the while I question you, 
 
 Prithee answer me, 
 Answer me ! 
 
 Is there not a gleam of peace 
 On this tiresome earth ? 
 
 Does not one oasis cheer 
 All this dreary dearth ? 
 
 And does all this toil and pain 
 Give no blessing birth ? 
 Answer me ! 
 
 Comes there never quiet, when 
 Once our hearts awake ? 
 
 Must they then for evermore 
 Labor, strive, and ache? 
 
 Have they no inheritance 
 But to bear and break ? 
 Answer me 1 
 
408 
 
 MRS ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN. 
 
 THE SPARROW AT SEA. 
 
 AGAINST the baffling winds, with slow ad 
 vance, 
 
 One drear December day, 
 Up the vexed Channel, toward the coast of 
 
 France, 
 Our vessel urged her way. 
 
 Around the dim horizon s misty slopes 
 
 The storm its banners hung ; 
 And, pulling bravely at the heavy ropes, 
 
 The dripping sailors sung. 
 
 A little land-bird, from its home-nest warm, 
 
 Bewildered, driven, and lost, 
 With wearied wings, came drifting on the 
 storm, 
 
 From the far English coast. 
 
 Blown blindly onward, with a headlong speed 
 
 It could not guide or check, 
 Seeking some shelter in its utter rieed, 
 
 It dropped upon the deck. 
 
 Forgetting all its dread of human foes, 
 
 Desiring only rest, 
 It folded its weak wings, and nestled close 
 
 And gladly to my breast. 
 
 Wherefore, I said, this little nickering life, 
 
 Which now all panting lies, 
 Shall yet forget its peril and its strife, 
 
 And soar in sunny skies. 
 
 To-morrow, gaining England s shore again, 
 
 Its wings shall find their rest ; 
 And soon, among the leaves of some green 
 lane, 
 
 Brood o er a summer.nest. 
 
 And when, amid my future wanderings, 
 My far and devious quest, 
 
 I hear a warbling bird, whose carol rings 
 More sweetly than the rest, 
 
 Then I shall say, with heart awake and 
 
 warm, 
 
 And sudden sympathy, 
 It is the bird I sheltered in the storm, 
 The life I saved at sea !" 
 
 But whrn the morning fell across the ship, 
 
 And storm and cloud were tied, 
 Tin- golden beak no longer sought my lip, 
 
 The wearied bird was dead. 
 
 The bitter cold, the driving wind and rain, 
 
 Were borne too many hours ; 
 My pity came too late and all in vain, 
 
 Sunshine on frozen flowers. 
 
 Thus many a heart which dwells in grief 
 and tears, 
 
 Braving and suffering much, 
 Bears patiently the wrong and pain of years, 
 
 But breaks at Love s first touch ! 
 
 ROCK ME TO SLEEP. 
 
 BACKWARD, turn backward, O Time, in your 
 
 flight, 
 
 Make me a child again just for to-night ! 
 Mother, come back from the echoless shore, 
 Take me again to your heart as of yore ; 
 Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
 Smooth the few silver threads out of my 
 
 hair ; 
 
 Over my slumbers your loving watch keep ; 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Backward, flow back ward, Otide of the years! 
 I am so weary of toil and of tears, 
 Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, 
 Take them, and give me my childhood again ! 
 I have grown weary of dust and decay, 
 Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away ; 
 Weary of sowing for others to reap ; 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, 
 Mother, mother, my heart calls for you ! 
 Many a summer the grass has grown green, 
 Blossomed and faded, our faces between : 
 Yet, with strong yearning and passionate 
 
 pain, 
 
 Long I to-night for your presence again. 
 Come from the silence so long and so deep ; 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Over my heart, in the .days that are flown, 
 No love like mother-love ever has shone ; 
 No other worship abides and endures. 
 Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours : 
 None like a mother can charm away pain 
 From the sick soul and the world-weary 
 
 brain. 
 Slumber s soft calms o er my heavy lids 
 
 creep ; 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with 
 
 gold, 
 
 Fall on your shoulders again as of old ; 
 Let it drop over my forehead to-niglit, 
 Shading my faint eyes away from the light ; 
 For with its sunny-edged shadows once more 
 Haply will throng the sweet vir-ions of yore ; 
 Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Mother, dear mother, the years have been 
 
 long 
 
 Since I last listened your JuFaby fong : 
 Sing, then, and unto my i-oul it i-hall s( t m 
 Womanhood s years have been only a die; in. 
 Clasped to your heait in a loving ( inbiace. 
 With your light lashes just sweeping my 
 
 face, 
 
 Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep 
 
MES. ROLLIN COOKE, 
 
 (ROSE TERRY.) 
 
 DONE FOR. 
 
 A WEEK ago to-day, when red-haired Sally 
 
 Down to the sugar-camp came to see me, 
 I saw her checked frock coming down the 
 valley, 
 
 Far as any body s eyes could see. 
 Now I sit before the camp-fire, 
 
 And I can t see the pine-knots blaze, 
 Nor Sally s pretty face a-shining, 
 
 Though I hear the good words she says. 
 
 A week ago to-night I was tired and lonely, 
 
 Sally was gone back to Mason s Fort, 
 And the boys by the sugar-kettles left me 
 only ; 
 
 They were hunting coons for sport. 
 By there snaked a painted Pawnee, 
 
 I was asleep before the fire ; 
 He creased my two eyes with his hatchet, 
 
 And scalped me to his heart s desire. 
 
 There they found me on the dry tussocks 
 
 Bloody and cold as a live man could be ; 
 A hoot-owl on the branches overhead was 
 
 crying, 
 
 Crying murder to the red Pawnee. 
 They brought me to the camp-fire, 
 
 They washed me in the sweet white 
 
 spring ; 
 
 But my eyes were full of flashes, 
 And all night my ears would sing. 
 
 I thought I was a hunter on the prairie, 
 
 But they saved me for an old blind dog ; 
 When the hunting-grounds are cool and 
 airy, 
 
 I shall lie here like a helpless log. 
 I can t ride the little wiry pony, 
 
 That scrambles over hills high and low ; 
 I can t set my traps for the cony, 
 
 Or bring down the black buffalo. 
 
 I m no better than a rusty, bursted rifle, 
 
 And I don t see signs of any other trail ; 
 Here by the camp-fire blaze I lie and stifle, 
 
 And hear Jim fill the kettles with his pail. 
 Its no use groaning. I like Sally, 
 
 But a Digger squaw wouldn t have me ! 
 I wish they hadn t found me in the valley, 
 
 It s twice dead not to see ! 
 
 AFTER THE CAMANCHES. 
 
 SADDLE, saddle, saddle ! 
 
 Mount and gallop away ! 
 Over the dim green prairie, 
 
 Straight on the track of day, 
 
 Spare not spur for mercy, 
 Hurry with shout and* thong, 
 
 Fiery and tough is the mustang, 
 The prairie is wide and long. 
 
 Saddle, saddle, saddle ! 
 
 Leap from the broken door 
 Where the brute Camanche entered 
 
 And the white -foot treads 110 more. 
 The hut is burned to ashes, 
 
 There are dead men stark outside, 
 But only a long dark ringlet 
 
 Left of the stolen bride. 
 
 Go, like the east-wind s howling ! 
 
 Ride with death behind. 
 Stay not for food or slumber, 
 
 Till the thieving wolves ye find ! 
 They came before the wedding, 
 
 Swifter than prayer or priest ; 
 The bridemen danced to bullets, 
 
 The wild dogs ate the feast. 
 
 Look to rifle and powder ! 
 
 Fasten the knife-belt sure ; 
 Loose the coil of the lasso, 
 
 Make the loop secure ; 
 Fold the flask in the poncho, 
 
 Fill the pouch with maize, 
 And ride as if to-morrow 
 
 Were the last of living days ! 
 
 Saddle, saddle, saddle ! 
 
 Redden spur and thong ; 
 Ride like the mad tornado, 
 
 The track is lonely and long. 
 Spare not horse nor rider ; 
 
 Fly for the stolen bride ; 
 Bring her home on the crupper, 
 
 A scalp on either side ! 
 
 DOUBT. 
 
 THE bee knows honey, 
 
 And the blossoms light, 
 Day the dawning, 
 
 Stars the night ; 
 The slow, glad river 
 
 Knows its sea : 
 Is it true, Love, 
 
 I know not thee *! 
 
 When the Summer 
 
 Brings snow-drifts piled, 
 When the planets 
 
 Go wandering wild, 
 When th-e old hill-tops 
 
 Valleys be, 
 Tell me true, Love, 
 
 Shall I know thee ? 
 
410 
 
 MRS. ROLLIN COOKE. 
 
 Where er I wander, 
 
 By sea or shore, 
 A dim, sweet vision 
 
 Flies fast before, 
 Its lingering shadow 
 
 Floats over rne ; 
 I know thy shade, Love, 
 
 Do I know thee ? 
 
 " Rest in thy dreaming, 
 
 Child divine ! 
 What grape-bloom knoweth 
 
 Its fiery wine ? 
 Only the sleeper 
 
 No sun can see ; 
 He that doubteth 
 
 Knows not me." 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 HERE it found me" Where is thy bro 
 ther?" 
 
 Out of the very heavens it fell, 
 Sharp as a peal of rattling thunder, 
 
 Then the echo leapt up from hell. 
 
 He Jehovah " Where is thy brother ? " 
 I knew, He knew the devil laughed. 
 
 He that gave me the staff to fell him. 
 So the archer reviled the shaft ! 
 
 Oh, my brother, my brother, my brother ! 
 
 Thy blood panted and throbbed in me. 
 We were children of one mother, 
 
 Little children upon her knee. 
 
 Oh, my brother, my brother, my brother ! 
 
 Sad-eyed, tender, good, and true. 
 Never more on hill or valley, 
 
 Never tracked through the morning dew. 
 
 I held up the staff before me, 
 
 Down it crashed on the gentle head. 
 
 One live look of wondering sorrow, 
 One sharp quiver that was dead. 
 
 Thou ! Thou gavest me a brother- 
 Gave me a life to cast away 
 
 Hast Thou in heaven such another ? 
 Hast Thou in heaven a sword to slay ? 
 
 Hasten Thou " Where is thy brother? " 
 Voice my curst lips dare not name. 
 
 Hasten ! write with thy fiery finger 
 On my forehead the murderer s shame. 
 
 I am doomed alone for ever. 
 
 Yet, so long as the slow years part, 
 Thou shalt brand new Cains with curses, 
 
 Not on the forehead, but in the heart ! 
 
 CHE SARA SARA." 
 
 E walked in the garden 
 
 And a rose hung on a tree, 
 Red as heart s blood, 
 
 Fair to see. 
 " Ah. kind south-wind, 
 
 Bend it to me ! " 
 But the wind laughed softly, 
 
 And blew to the sea. 
 
 High on the branches, 
 
 Far above her head, 
 Like a king s cup 
 
 Round, and red. 
 " I am comely," 
 
 The maiden said, 
 " I have gold like shore-sand, 
 
 I wish I were dead ! 
 
 " Blushes and rubies 
 
 Are not like a rose, 
 Through its deep heart 
 
 Love-life flow s. 
 Ah, what splendors 
 
 Can give me repose ! 
 What is all the world worth ? 
 
 I cannot reach my rose." 
 
 MIDNIGHT. 
 
 THE west -wind blows, the west- wind blew, 
 
 The snow hissed cruelly, 
 All night I heard the baffled cry 
 
 Of mariners on the sea. 
 
 I saw the icy shrouds and sail, 
 
 The slippery, reeling deck, 
 And white-caps dancing pale with flame, 
 
 The corpse-lights of the wreck. 
 
 The west- wind blows, the west- wind blew, 
 
 And on its snowy way, 
 That hissed and hushed like rushing sand, 
 
 My soul fled far away. 
 
 The snow went toward the morning hills 
 
 In curling drifts of white, 
 But I went up to the gates of God 
 
 Through all the howling night. 
 
 I went up to the gates of God ; 
 
 The angel waiting there, . 
 Who keeps the blood-red keys of Heaven, 
 
 Stooped down to hear my prayer. 
 
 " Dear keeper of the keys of Heaven, 
 
 A thousand souls to-night 
 Are torn from life on land and sea, 
 
 While life was yet delight. 
 
 " But I am tired of storms and pain ; 
 
 Sweet angel, let me in ! 
 And send tome strong heart back again, 
 
 To suffer and to r-in." 
 
 The angel answered stern and slow 
 
 " How da rest thou be dead, 
 While God seeks dust to make the street 
 
 Where happier men may tread? 
 
 "Go back, and eat earth s bitter herbs, 
 
 Go, hear its dead-hell? toll ; 
 Lie speechless underneath their feet, 
 
 Who tread across thy soul. 
 
 " Go, learn the patience of the Lord 
 Whose righteous judgments wait ; 
 
 Thy murdered cry may cleave the ground, 
 But not unbar His gate." 
 
MRS. ROLLIN COOKE. 
 
 411 
 
 Right backward, through the whirling 
 snow 
 
 Back, on the battling wind, 
 My soul crept slowly to its lair, 
 
 The body left behind. 
 
 The west-wind blows, the west-wind blew, 
 
 There are dead men on the sea, 
 And landsmen dead, in shrouding drifts 
 
 But there is life in me. 
 
 AT LAST. 
 
 THE old, old story o er again 
 Made up of passion, parting, pain. 
 He fought and fell, to live in fame, 
 But dying only breathed her name. 
 
 Some tears, most sad and innocent ; 
 Some rebel thoughts, but all unmeant ; 
 Then, with a silent, shrouded heart, 
 She turned to life and played her part. 
 
 Another man, who vowed and loved, 
 Her patient, pitying spirit moved, 
 Sweet hopes the dread of life beguiled, 
 The lost love sighed, the new love smiled. 
 
 So she was wed and children bore, 
 And then her widowed sables wore ; 
 Her eyes grew dim, her tresses gray, 
 And dawned at length her dying day. 
 
 Her children gather, some are gone, 
 Asleep beneath a lettered stone ; 
 The living, cold with grief and fear, 
 Stoop down her whispering speech to hear. 
 
 No child she calls, no husband needs. 
 
 At death s sharp touch the old wound bleeds : 
 
 " Call him ! " she cried, her first love s 
 
 name 
 Leapt from her heart with life s last flame. 
 
 DECEMBER XXXI. 
 
 THERE goes an old Gaffer over the hill, 
 
 Thieving, and old, and gray; 
 He walks the green world, his wallet to fill, 
 
 And carries good spoil away. 
 
 Into his bag he popped a king ; 
 
 After him went a friar, 
 Many a lady, with gay gold ring, 
 
 Many a knight and squire. 
 
 He carried my true love far away, 
 
 He stole the dog at my door ; 
 The wicked old Gaffer, thieving and gray, 
 
 He ll never come by any more. 
 
 My little darling, white and fair, 
 
 Sat in the door and spun ; 
 He caught her fast by her silken hair, 
 
 Before the child could run. 
 
 He stole the florins out of my purse, 
 The sunshine out of mine eyes ; 
 
 He stole my roses, and, what is worse, 
 The gray old Gaffer told lies. 
 
 He promised fair when he came by, 
 And laughed as he slipped away, 
 
 For every promise turned out a lie ; 
 But his tale is over to-day. 
 
 Good-by, old Gaffer ! you ll come no more, 
 You ve done your worst for me. 
 
 The next gray robber will pass my door, 
 There s nothing to steal or see. 
 
 NEW MOON. 
 
 ONCE, when the new moon glittered 
 
 So slender in the West, 
 I looked across my shoulder, 
 
 And a wild wish stirred my breast. 
 
 Over my white, right shoulder 
 I looked at the silver horn, 
 
 And wished a wish at even 
 To come to pass in the morn. 
 
 Whenever the new moon glittered, 
 
 So slender and so fine, 
 I looked across my shoulder, 
 
 And wished that wish of mine ! 
 
 Now, when the West is rosy, 
 
 And the snow-wreaths blush below, 
 
 And I see the light white crescent 
 Float downward, soft and slow ; 
 
 I never look over my shoulder, 
 
 As I used to look before ; 
 For my heart is older and colder, 
 
 And now I wish no more ! 
 
 INDOLENCE. 
 
 INDOLENT, indolent ! yes, I am indolent ; 
 
 So is the grass growing tenderly, slowly ; 
 
 So is the violet fragrant and lowly, 
 Drinking in quietness, peace, and content ; 
 
 So is the bird on the light branches swing 
 ing, 
 
 Idly his carol of gratitude singing, 
 Only on living and loving intent. 
 
 Indolent, indolent ! yes, I am indolent ; 
 
 So is the cloud overhanging the moun 
 tain ; 
 
 So is the tremulous wave of a fountain, 
 Uttering softly its silvery psalm. 
 
 Nerve and sensation, in quiet reposing, 
 
 Silent as blossoms the night-dew is cios- 
 
 m S > 
 
 But the full heart beating strongly and 
 calm. 
 
 Indolent, indolent ! yes, I am indolent, 
 If it be idle to gather my pleasure 
 Out of creation s iiucoveted treasure, 
 Midnight and morning, by forest and sea, 
 Wild with the tempest s sublime exulta 
 tion, 
 
 Lonely in Autumn s forlorn lamentation, 
 Hopeful and happy with Spring and the 
 bee. 
 
412 
 
 MRS. ROLL IN COOKE. 
 
 Indolent, indolent ! are ye not indolent ? 
 Thralls of the earth and its usages weary, 
 Toiling like gnomes where the darkness is 
 
 dreary, 
 
 Toiling- and sinning- to heap up your gold ! 
 Stirling the heavenward breath of devo 
 tion, 
 
 Crushing Ihe freshness of every emotion ; 
 Hearts like the dead which are pulseless and 
 cold! 
 
 Indolent, indolent ! art thou not indolent ? 
 
 Thou who art living unloving and lonely, 
 
 Wrapt in a pall that will cover thee only, 
 Shrouded in selfishness, piteous ghost ! 
 
 Sad eyes behold thee, and angels are 
 weeping 
 
 O er thy forsaken and desolate sleeping; 
 Art thou not indolent ? art thou not lost ? 
 
 NEMESIS. 
 
 WITH eager steps I go 
 
 Across the valleys low, 
 
 Where in deep brakes the writhing serpents 
 hiss. 
 
 Above, below, around, 
 
 I hear the dreadful sound 
 Of thy calm breath, eternal Nemesis. 
 
 Over the mountains high, 
 
 Where silent snow-drifts lie, 
 And greet the red morn with a pallid kiss, 
 
 There, in the awful night, 
 
 I see the solemn light 
 Of thy clear eyes, avenging Nemesis I 
 
 Far down in lonely caves, 
 
 Dark as the empty graves 
 That wait our dead hopes and our perished 
 bliss, 
 
 Though to their depths I flee, 
 
 Still do my fixed eyes see 
 Thy pendant, sword, unchanging Nemesis ! 
 
 Inevitable fate ! 
 
 Still must thy phantoms wait 
 And mock my shadow like its fearful twin ? 
 
 Is there no final rest 
 
 In this doom-haunted breast? 
 Does thy terrific patience wait therein ? 
 
 " Aye ! wander as thou wilt. 
 The blood thy hand hath spilt 
 Stamps on thy brow its black, eternal 
 
 sign ; 
 
 Thyself thou canst not flee. 
 Writhe in thine agony ! 
 
 Suffer! despair! thou art condemned and 
 mine." 
 
 TRUTHS. 
 
 I WEAK a rose in my hair, 
 
 Because I feel like a weed; 
 Who knows that the rose is thorny 
 
 And makes my temples bleed? 
 If one gets to his journey s end, what matter 
 how galled the steed? 
 
 I gloss my face with laughter, 
 
 Because I cannot be calm ; 
 When you listen to the organ, 
 
 Do you hear the words of the psalm ? 
 If they give you poison to drink, tis better 
 to call it balm. 
 
 If I sneer at youth s wild passion. 
 Who fancies I break my heart ? 
 Tis this world s righteous fashion, 
 
 With, a sneer to cover a smart. 
 Better to give up living than not to play 
 your part. 
 
 If I scatter gold like a goblin, 
 
 My life may yet be poor. 
 Does Love come in at the window 
 
 When Money stands at the door ? 
 I am what I seem to men. Need I be any 
 more? 
 
 God sees from the high blue heaven, 
 
 He sees the grape in the flower ; 
 He hears one s life-blood dripping- 
 Through the maddest, merriest hour ; 
 He knows what sackcloth and ashes hide in 
 the purple of power. 
 
 The broken wing of the swallow 
 
 He binds in the middle air ; 
 I shall be what I am in Paradise 
 
 So, heart, no more despair ! 
 Remember the blessed Jesus, and wipe his 
 feet with thy hair. 
 
 A CHILD S WISH. 
 
 " BE my fairy, mother, 
 
 Give me a wish a day ; 
 Something, as well in sunshine 
 As when the rain-drops play." 
 
 " And if I were a fairy, 
 
 With but one wish to spare, 
 What should I give thee, darling, 
 To quiet thine earnest prayer ? " 
 
 " I d like a little brook, mother, 
 
 All for my very own, 
 To laugh all day among the trees, 
 And shine on the mossy stone ; 
 
 " To run right under the window, 
 
 And sing me fast asleep, 
 With soft steps, and a tender sound 
 Over the grass to creep. 
 
 " Make it run down the hill, mother, 
 
 With a leap like a tinkling bell, 
 So fast I never can catch the leaf 
 That into its fountain fell. 
 
 " Make it as wild as a frightened bird, 
 
 As crazy as a bee, 
 And a noise like the baby s funny 
 
 laugh ; 
 That s the brook for me ! " 
 
MRS. ROLLIN COOKE. 
 
 413 
 
 THE TWO VILLAGES. 
 
 OVER the river, on the hill, 
 Lieth a village white and still ; 
 All around it the forest -trees 
 Shiver and whisper in the breeze ; 
 Over it sailing shadows go 
 Of soaring hawk and screaming crow, 
 And mountain grasses, low and sweet, 
 Grow in the middle of every street. 
 
 Over the river, under the hill, 
 Another village lieth still ; 
 There I see in the cloudy night 
 Twinkling stars of household light, 
 Fires that gleam from the smithy s door, 
 Mists that curl on the river shore ; 
 And in the roads no grasses grow, 
 For the wheels that hasten to and fro. 
 
 In that village on the hill 
 
 Never is sound of smithy or mill ; 
 
 The houses are thatched with grass and 
 
 flowers ; 
 
 Never a clock to toll the hours ; 
 The marble doors are always shut, 
 You cannot enter in hall or hut ; 
 All the villagers lie asleep ; 
 Never a grain to sow or reap ; 
 Never in dreams to moan or sigh ; 
 Silent and idle and low they lie. 
 
 In that village under the hill, 
 When the night is starry and still, 
 Many a weary soul in prayer- 
 Looks to the other village there, 
 And weeping and sighing, longs to go 
 Up to that home from this below ; 
 Longs to sleep in the forest wild, 
 Whither have vanished wife and child, 
 And heareth, praying, this answer fall : 
 " Patience ! that village shall hold ye 
 all ! " 
 
 BLUE-BEARD S CLOSET. 
 
 FASTEN the chamber ! 
 
 Hide the red key ; 
 Cover the portal, 
 
 That eyes may not see. 
 Get thee to market, 
 
 To wedding and prayer ; 
 Labor or revel, 
 
 The chamber is there! 
 
 In comes a stranger 
 
 " Thy pictures how fine. 
 Titian or Guido, 
 
 Whose is the sign ? " 
 Looks he behind them ? 
 
 Ah ! have a care ! 
 "Here is a finer." 
 
 The chamber is there ! 
 
 Fair spreads the banquet, 
 
 Rich the array ; 
 See the bright torches 
 
 Mimicking day ; 
 
 When harp and viol 
 Thrill the soft air, 
 
 Comes a light whisper : 
 The chamber is there! 
 
 Marble and painting, 
 
 Jasper and gold, 
 Purple from Tyrus, 
 
 Fold upon fold, 
 Blossoms and jewels, 
 
 Thy palace prepare : 
 Pale grows the monarch ; 
 
 The chamber is there! 
 
 Once it was open 
 
 As shore to the sea ; 
 White were the turrets, 
 
 Goodly to see ; 
 All through the casements 
 
 Flowed the sweet air ; 
 Now it is darkness ; 
 
 The chamber is there ! 
 
 Silence and horror 
 
 Brood on the walls ; 
 Through every crevice 
 
 A little voice calls : 
 " Quicken, mad footsteps, 
 
 On pavement and stair ; 
 Look not behind thee, 
 
 The chamber is there ! " 
 
 Out of the gateway, 
 
 Through the wide world 
 Into the tempest 
 
 Beaten and hurled, 
 Vain is thy wandering, 
 
 Sure thy detpair, 
 Flying or staying, 
 
 The chamber is there ! 
 
 THE ICONOCLAST. 
 
 A THOUSAND years shall come and go, 
 A thousand years of night and day, 
 
 And man, through all their changing show, 
 His tragic drama still shall play. 
 
 Ruled by some fond ideal s power, 
 
 Cheated by passion or despair, 
 Still shall he waste life s trembling hour, 
 
 In worship vain, and useless prayer. 
 
 Ah ! where are they who rose in might, 
 Who fired the temple and the shrine, 
 
 And hurled, through earth s chaotic night, 
 The helpless gods it deemed divine? 
 
 Cease, longing soul, thy vain desire ! 
 
 What idol, in its stainless prime, 
 But falls, untouched of axe or fire, 
 
 Before the steady eyes of Time ? 
 
 He looks, and lo! our altars fall, 
 The shrine reveals its gilded clay, 
 
 With decent hands we spread the pall 
 And, cold with wisdom, glide away. 
 
 Oh ! where were courage, faith, and truth. 
 If man went wandering all his day 
 
 In golden clouds of love and youth, 
 Nor knew that both his steps betray ? 
 
414 
 
 MHS. ROLLIN COOKE, 
 
 Come, Time, while here we sit and wait, 
 Be faithful, spoiler, to thy trust ! 
 
 No death can further desolate 
 
 The soul that knows its god was dust. 
 
 SEMELE. 
 
 " For thfre bee none of those paean fables in whiche there lyeth 
 not H n, ore suMIe meanynge than ihe extern expression thereof 
 should iitt once signit ye," Marr;a, j<: </ ye L c.adc. 
 
 SPIRIT of light divine ! 
 
 Quick breath of power, 
 Breathe on these lips of mine, 
 Persuade the bud to flower ; 
 Cleave thy dull swathe of cloud ! 110 longer 
 waits the hour. 
 
 Exulting, rapturous flame, 
 
 Dispel the night ! 
 I dare not breathe thy name, 
 
 I tremble at. thy light, 
 
 Yet come! in fatal strength, come, in all- 
 matchless might. 
 
 Burn, as the leaping fire 
 
 A martyr s shroud ; 
 Burn, like an Indian pyre, 
 
 With music fierce and loud. 
 Come, Power ! Love calls tliee, come, with 
 all the god endowed ! 
 
 Immortal life in death, 
 On these wrapt eyes, 
 On this quick, failing breath, 
 
 In dread and glory rise. 
 
 The altar waits thy torch, come, touch the 
 sacrifice ! 
 
 Come ! not with gifts of life, 
 
 Not for my good ; 
 My soul hath kept her strife 
 
 In fear and solitude; 
 
 More blest the inverted torch, the horror- 
 curdled blood. 
 
 Better in light to die 
 
 Thau silent live ; 
 Rend from these lips one cry, 
 
 One death-born utterance give, 
 Then, clay, in fire depart ! then, soul, in 
 heaven survive ! 
 
 DEPARTING. 
 
 WEEP not for the dead ! they lie 
 Safe from every changing sky ; 
 Over them thou shalt not cry 
 
 Any more. 
 
 Weep for him whose lessening sail, 
 Borne upon an outward gale, 
 Sees ilie beacon faint and fail 
 
 On the shore. 
 
 vVeep not> for the dead : they sleep 
 
 Where no evil visions creep ; 
 
 God hath sealed their slumber deep 
 
 Till his day. 
 
 Weep for him who fleeth fast 
 On a fierce and alien blast, 
 Torn from all the haunted past, 
 
 Far away. 
 
 He shall never see again 
 Home-lit valley, hill, or plain ; 
 He shall mourn and cry in vain 
 
 O er the dead. 
 
 Wandering in a stranger-land, 
 None shall grasp his listless hand, 
 No sweet sister-nurse shall stand 
 
 By his bed. 
 
 Weep for him, and weep for those 
 Who shall never more unclose 
 Home s dear portals, nor repose 
 
 In its rest. 
 
 Foreign where their kindred dwell, 
 Strange where they have loved too well, 
 Home-sick as no speech can tell, 
 
 All unblest. 
 
 For the dead thou shalt not mourn, 
 He hath reached a peaceful bourne ; 
 Weep for him, the travel- worn, 
 
 All alone ! 
 
 Life s long torture he must bear 
 Till his very soul despair, 
 Helpless both for cry or prayer ; 
 
 Make his moan ! 
 
 LA COQUETTE. 
 
 You look at me with tender eyes, 
 That, had you worn a month ago, 
 
 Had slain me with divine surprise : 
 But now I do not see them glow. 
 
 I laugh to hear your laughter take 
 A softer thrill, a doubtful tone, 
 
 I know you do it for my sake. 
 
 You rob the nest whose bird is flown. 
 
 Not twice a fool, if twice a child ! 
 
 I know you now, and care 110 more 
 For any lie you may have smiled, 
 
 Than that starved beggar at your door. 
 
 He has the remnants of your feast ; 
 
 You offer me your wasted heart ! 
 He may enact the welcome guest ; 
 
 I shake the dust off and depart. 
 
 If you had known a woman s grace 
 And pitied me who died for you, 
 
 I could not look you in the face, 
 
 When now you tell me you are " true." 
 
 True! If the fallen s.eraphs wear 
 A lovelier face of fa Is* 1 surprise 
 
 Than you at my unmoving air, 
 
 There is no truth this side the skies. 
 
 But this is true, that once I loved. 
 You scorned and laughed to see me die ; 
 
 And now you think the heart so proved 
 Beneath your feet again shall lie ! 
 
 I had the pain when you had power ; 
 
 Now mine the power, who reaps the pain? 
 You sowed the wind in that black hour; 
 
 Receive the whirlwind for vour gain ! 
 
MKS. ELIZABETH STODDAKD. 
 
 THE CHIMNEY-SWALLOW S IDYL. 
 
 FROM where I built the nest for my first 
 
 young 
 
 In the high chimney of this ancient house 
 I saw the household fires burn and go down, 
 And know what was and is forever gone. 
 My dusky, swift-winged fledegelings, flying 
 
 far 
 To seek their mates in clustered eaves or 
 
 towers, 
 Would linger not to learn what I have 
 
 learned, 
 
 Soaring through air or steering over sea. 
 These single, solitary walls must fade ; 
 But I return, inhabiting my nest 
 A little simple bird, which still survives 
 The noble souls now banished from this 
 
 hearth ; 
 And none are here besides but she who 
 
 shares 
 
 My life, and pensive vigil holds with me. 
 No longer does she mourn ; she lives serene; 
 I see her mother s beauty in her face, 
 I see her father s quiet pride and power, 
 The linked traits and traces of her race ; 
 Her brothers dying, like strong sapling trees 
 Hewn down by violent blows prone in dense 
 
 woods, 
 
 Covered with aged boughs, decaying slow. 
 She muses thus : " Beauty once more abides ; 
 The rude alarm of death, its wild amaze 
 Is over now. The chance of change has 
 
 passed ; 
 No doubtful hopes are mine, no restless 
 
 dread, 
 
 No last word to be spoken, kiss to give 
 And take in passion s agony and end. 
 Tlr. y cannot come to me, but in good time 
 I nil-ill rejoin my silent company, 
 And melt among them, as the sunset clouds 
 Melt in gray spaces of the coming night." 
 So she holds dear as I this tranquil spot, 
 And all the flowers that blow, and maze of 
 
 green. 
 
 The meadows da sy-full, or brown and sear; 
 The shore which bounds the waves I love to 
 
 skim, 
 
 And dash my purple wings against the breeze. 
 When breaks the day I twitter loud and long, 
 To make her rise and watch the vigorous sun 
 Come from his sea-bed in the weltering deep, 
 And smell the dewy grass, still rank with 
 
 sleep. 
 
 I hover through the twilight round her eaves, 
 And dart above, before her, in her path, 
 Till, with a smile, she gives me all her mind ; 
 And in the deep of night, lest she be sad 
 In sleepless thought, I gtir me in my nest, 
 
 And murmur as I murmur to my young ; 
 She makes no answer, but I know she hears ; 
 And all the cherished pictures in her thoughts 
 Grow bright because of me, her swallow 
 friend ! 
 
 BEFORE THE MIRROR. 
 
 Now, like the Lady of Shalott, 
 
 I dwell within an empty room, 
 And through the day, and through the night, 
 
 I sit before an ancient loom. 
 
 And like the Lady of Shalott, 
 
 I look into a mirror wide, 
 Where shadows come, and shadows go, 
 
 And ply my shuttle as they glide. 
 
 Not as she wove the yellow wool, 
 
 Ulysses wife, Penelope ; 
 By day a queen among her maids, 
 
 But in the night a woman, she, 
 
 Who, creeping from her lonely couch, 
 Unravelled all the slender woof ; 
 
 Or with a torch she climbed the towers, 
 To fire the fagots on the roof ! 
 
 But weaving with a steady hand 
 
 The shadows, whether false or true, 
 
 I put aside a doubt which asks, 
 
 "Among these phantoms what are you ?" 
 
 For not with altar, tomb, or urn, 
 
 Or long-haired Greek with hollow shield, 
 
 Or dark-prowod ship with banks of oars, 
 Or banquet in the tented field ; 
 
 Or Norman-knight in armor clad, 
 
 Waiting a foe where four roads meet ; 
 
 Or hawk and hound in bosky dell, 
 
 Where chime and page in secret greet ; 
 
 Or rose and lily, bud and flower, 
 
 My web is b roidered. Nothing bright, 
 
 Is woven here : the shadows grow 
 Still darker in the mirror s light ! 
 
 And as my web grows darker too, 
 Accursed seems this empty room ; 
 
 I know I must forever weave 
 
 These phantoms by this hateful loom. 
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 MUCH have I spoken of the faded leaf ; 
 
 Long have I listened to the wailing wind, 
 And watched it ploughing through the heavy 
 clouds ; 
 
 For autumn charms my melancholy mind. 
 
416 
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH STODDARD. 
 
 When autumn conies, the poets sing 1 a dirge : 
 The year must perish ; all the flowers are 
 
 dead ; 
 The sheaves are gathered ; and the mottled 
 
 quail 
 Runs in the stubble, but the lark has fled ! 
 
 Still, autumn ushers in the Christmas cheer, 
 The holly-berries and the ivy-tree : 
 
 Thev weave a chaplet for the Old Year s 
 
 heir; 
 These waiting mourners do not sing for me! 
 
 I find sweet peace in depths of autumn 
 
 woods, 
 
 Where grow the ragged ferns and rough 
 ened moss ; 
 
 The naked, silent trees have taught me this, 
 The loss of beauty is not always loss ! 
 
 "HALLO ! MY FANCY, WHITHER WILT THOU GO ? " 
 
 SWIFT as the tide in the river 
 The blood flows through my heart, 
 
 At the curious little fancy 
 
 That to-morrow we must part. 
 
 It seems to me all over, 
 
 The last words have been said ; 
 And I have the curious fancy 
 
 To-morrow will find me dead ! 
 
 ON MY BED OF A WINTER NIGHT. 
 
 ON my bed of a winter night, 
 
 Deep in a sleep, and deep in a dream, 
 
 What care I for the wild wind s scream? 
 What to me is its crooked flight ? 
 
 On the sea of a summer s day, 
 
 Wrapped in the folds of a snowy sail, 
 
 What care I for the fitful gale, 
 
 Now in earnest, and now in play ? 
 
 What care I for the fitful wind, 
 
 That, groans in a gorge, or sighs in a tree ? 
 Groaning and sighing are nothing to me ; 
 
 For I am a man of steadfast mind. 
 
 THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 
 
 TO-NIGHT I do the bidding of a ghost, 
 A ghost that knows my misery ; 
 
 In the lone dark I hear his wailing boast, 
 " Now shalt thou speak with me." 
 
 Must I go Iri.-k where all is desolate, 
 When- reigns the terror of a curse, 
 
 To knock, a beggar, at my father s gate, 
 That clo.sed upon a hearse ? 
 
 The old stone pier has crumbled in the sea ; 
 
 The tide flows through the garden wall ; 
 Wln-n- grew the lily, and where hummed 
 
 th;> bee, 
 Black sea- weeds rise and fall. 
 
 I see the empty nests beneath the eaves ; 
 
 No bird is near ; the vines have died ; 
 The orchard trees have lo-st the joy of leaves, 
 
 The oaks their lordly pride. 
 
 Of what avail to set ajar the door 
 
 Through which, when ruin fell, I fled ? 
 If on the threshold I should stand once more 
 
 Shall I behold the dead ? 
 Shall I behold, as on that fatal night, 
 
 My mother from the window start ? 
 When she was blasted by the evil sight 
 
 The shame that broke her heart I 
 
 The yellow grass grows on my sister s grave ; 
 
 Her room is dark she is not there ; 
 I feel the rain, and hear the wild wind 
 rave 
 
 My tears, and my despair. 
 
 A white-haired man is singing a sad song 
 Amid the ashes on the hearth 
 
 " Ashes to ashes, I have moaned so long 
 I am alone on earth." 
 
 No more ! no more ! I cannot bear this pain ; 
 
 Shut the foul annals of my race ; 
 Accursed the hand that opejis them again, 
 
 My dowry of disgrace. 
 
 And so, farewell, thou bitter, bitter ghost ! 
 When morning conies the shadows fly ; 
 Before we part, I give this merry toast, 
 The dead that do not die ! 
 
 YOU LEFT ME, 
 
 You left me, and the anguish passed, 
 And passed the day and passed the night- 
 
 A blank in which my senses failed ; 
 Then slowly came a mental sight. 
 
 So plain it reproduced the hours 
 
 We lived as one the books we read, 
 
 Our quiet walks and pleasant talks 
 Love, by your spirit was I led? 
 
 Oh, love, the vision grows too dear : 
 
 I live in visions I pursue 
 Them only ; come, your rival meet, 
 
 My future bring, it will be you. 
 
 THE POET S SECRET. 
 
 THE poet s secret I must know, 
 
 If that will calm my restless mind. 
 
 I hail the seasons as they go, 
 
 I woe the sunshine, brave the wind. 
 
 I scan the lily and the rose, 
 
 I nod to every nodding tree, 
 I follow every stream that flows, 
 
 And wait beside the rolling sea. 
 I question melancholy eyes, 
 
 I touch the lips of women fair ; 
 Their lips and eyes may make me wise, 
 
 But what I seek for is not there. 
 In vain I watch the day and night, 
 
 In vain the world through space may roll 
 I never see the mystic light, 
 
 Which fills the poet s happy soul. 
 
 To hear through life a rhythm flow, 
 And into song its meaning turn 
 
 The poet s secret I must know : 
 By pain and patience shall I learn ? 
 
MRS. ELIZABETH STODDARD. 
 
 41 
 
 A SUMMER NIGHT. 
 
 I FEEL the breath of the summer night, 
 
 Aromatic fire : 
 The trees, the vines, the flowers are astir 
 
 With tender desire. 
 
 The white moths flutter about the lamp, 
 
 Enamored with lig iit ; 
 And a thousand creatures softly sing 
 
 A song to the night ! 
 
 But I am alone, and how can I sing 
 
 Praises to thee ? 
 Come, Night ! unveil the beautiful soul 
 
 That waiteth for me. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF YOUTH. 
 
 THE rough north winds have left their icy 
 
 caves 
 
 To growl and group for prey 
 Upon the murky sea ; 
 
 The lonely sea-gull skims the sullen waves 
 All the gray winter day. 
 
 The mottled sand-bird runneth up and down, 
 Amongst the creaking sedge, 
 
 Along the crusted beach ; 
 The time-stained houses of the sea-walled 
 
 town 
 Are tottering on its edge. 
 
 An ancient dwelling, in this ancient place, 
 
 Stands in a garden drear, 
 
 A wreck with other wrecks ; 
 The Past is there, but no one sees a face 
 
 Within, from year to year. 
 
 The wiry rose-trees scratch the window-pane; 
 
 The window rattles loud ; 
 
 The wind beats at the door, 
 But never gets an answer back again, 
 
 The silence is so proud. 
 
 The last that lived there was an evil man ; 
 
 A child the last that died 
 
 Upon, the mother s breast. 
 It seemed to die by some mysterious ban ; 
 
 Its grave is by the side 
 
 Of an old tree, whose notched and 
 
 leaves 
 Repeat the tale of woe, 
 
 And quiver day and night, 
 Till the snow cometh, and a cold shroud 
 
 weaves, 
 Whiter than that below. 
 
 This time of year a woman wanders there 
 
 They say from distant lands : 
 
 She wears a foreign dress, 
 With jewels on her breast, and her fair hair 
 
 In braided coils and bands. 
 
 The ancient dwelling and the garden drear 
 At night^know something more : 
 Without her foreign dress 
 
 Or blazing gems, this woman stealeth near 
 The threshold of the door. 
 
 scanty 
 
 The shadow strikes against the window pane; 
 She thrusts the thorns away : 
 
 Her eyes peer through the glass, 
 And down the glass her great tears drip, like 
 
 rain, 
 In the gray winter day. 
 
 The moon shines down the dismal garden 
 
 track, 
 And lights the little mound ; 
 
 But when she ventures there, 
 The black and threatening branches wave 
 
 her back, 
 And guard the ghastly ground. 
 
 What is the story of this buried Past ? 
 
 Were all its doors flung wide, 
 
 For us to search its rooms, 
 And we to see the race, from first to last, 
 
 And how they lived and died : 
 
 Still would it baffle and perplex the brain, 
 
 But teach this bitter truth : 
 
 Man lives not in the past : 
 None but a woman ever comes again 
 
 Back to the house of Youth ! 
 
 THE SHADOWS ON THE WATER REACH. 
 
 THE shadows on the water reach 
 My shadow on the beach ; 
 I see the dark trees on the shore, 
 The fisher s oar. 
 
 I met her by the sea last night 
 A little maid in white. 
 I shall never meet her more 
 On the shore. 
 
 Ho ! fisher, hoist your idle sail 
 And whistle for a gale ; 
 My ship is waiting in the bay, 
 Row away 
 
 EXILE. 
 
 MY days of city life give me no hope ; 
 They pass along, unheeding city ways, 
 To find a happy place that once was mine, 
 And meet a love which has forsaken me. 
 Blind in these stony streets, dumb in their 
 
 crowds, 
 
 What can I do but dream of other days ? 
 Whose is the love I had, and have not now ? 
 If it be Nature s, let her answer me. 
 It wanders by the blue, monotonous sea, 
 Where rushes grow, or follows all the sweep 
 Of shallow summer brooks and umber pools. 
 Or does it linger in those hidden paths 
 Where star-like blossoms blow among dea.l 
 
 leaves, 
 
 And dark groves murmur over darker shrubs, 
 Birds with their fledgelings sleep, and pale 
 
 moths flit ? 
 
 With sunset s crimson flags perhaps it goes, 
 And re-appears with yellow Jupiter, 
 Riding the West beside the crescent moon. 
 Comes it with sunrise, when the sunrise 
 
 floats 
 
418 
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH STODDARD. 
 
 From Night s bold towers, vast in the East, 
 
 and gray 
 
 Till tower and wall flash into fiery elouds, 
 Moving along the verge, stately and slow, 
 Ordered by the old music of the spheres? 
 Perchance it trembles in October s oaks ; 
 Or, twining with the brilliant, berried vine, 
 Would hide the tender, melancholy elm. 
 Well might it rest within those solemn woods 
 Where sunlight never falls whose tops are 
 
 green 
 With airs from heaven, its balmy mists and 
 
 rains, 
 While underneath black, mossy, mammoth 
 
 rocks 
 Keep silence with the waste of blighted 
 
 boughs. 
 
 If winter riots with the wreathing snow, 
 And ocean, tossing all his threatening plumes, 
 And winds, that tear the hollow, murky sky, 
 Can this, my love, which dwells no more 
 
 with me, 
 Find dwelling there, like some storm-driven 
 
 bird 
 That knows not whence it flew, nor where to 
 
 %> 
 
 Between the world of sea, and world of 
 
 cloud, 
 A,t last drops dead in the remorseless deep ? 
 
 A SEA-SIDE IDYL. 
 
 I WANDERED to the shore, nor knew I then 
 What my desire, whether for wild lament, 
 Or sweet regret, to fill the idle pause 
 Of twilight, melancholy in my house, 
 And watch the flowing tide, the passing sails; 
 Or to implore the air, and sea, and sky, 
 For that etennl passion in their power 
 Which souls like mine who ponder on their 
 
 fate 
 
 May feel, and be as they gods to themselves. 
 Thither I went, whatever was my mood. 
 The sands,, the rocks, the beds of sedge, and 
 
 waves. 
 Impelled to leave soft foam, compelled 
 
 away, 
 
 I saw alone. Between the East and West, 
 Along the beach no creature moved besides. 
 High on the eastern point a lighthouse 
 
 shone ; 
 
 Steered by its lamp a ship stood out to sea, 
 And vanished from its rays towards the deep, 
 While in the West, above a W:M> !.>d He, 
 An island-cloud hung in the emeuM sky, 
 Hiding pale Venus in its sombre bLutie. 
 1 wandered up and down the sands, I loit 
 ered 
 Among the rocks, and trampled through the 
 
 sedge ; 
 
 Bui F grew weary of the stocks and stones. 
 " 1 will go hence," I thought ; " the Elements 
 Have lost their charm ; my soul is dead to 
 night. 
 
 Oh passive, creeping Sea, and stagnant Air, 
 Farewell ! dull sands, and rocks, and sedge, 
 farewell." 
 
 Homeward I turned my face, but stayed my 
 
 feet. 
 
 Should I go back but to revive again 
 The ancient pain ? Hark ! suddenly there 
 
 came, 
 
 From over sea, a sound like that of speech ; 
 And suddenly I felt my pulses leap 
 As though some Presence were approaching 
 
 me. 
 Loud as the voice of "Ocean s dark -haired 
 
 king " 
 A breeze came down the sea, the sea rose 
 
 high ; 
 The surging waves sang round me this their 
 
 song : 
 " Oh, yet your love will triumph ! He shall 
 
 come 
 In love s wild tumult ; he shall come once 
 
 more, 
 
 By tracks of ocean, or by paths of earth ; 
 The wanderer will reach you and remain." 
 The breakers dashed among the rocks, and 
 
 they 
 Seemed full of life ; the foam dissolved the 
 
 sands, 
 
 And the sedge trembled in the swelling tide. 
 Was this a promise of the vaunting Sea, 
 Or the illusion of a last despair? 
 Either, or both, still homeward I must go, 
 And that way turned, mine eyes, and thought 
 
 they met 
 
 A picture, surely so, or I w r as mad. 
 The crimson harvest moon was rising full 
 Above my roof, and glimmered on my walls. 
 Within the doorway stood a man I knew 
 No picture this. I saw r approaching me 
 Him I had hoped for, grieved for, and 
 
 despaired. 
 
 " My ship is wrecked," lie cried, " and I re 
 turn 
 
 Never to leave my love. You are my love V 
 " I too am wrecked," I sighed, "by lonely 
 
 years ; 
 
 Returning you but find another wreck." 
 He bent his face to search my own, an 1 
 
 spake : 
 
 " What 1 have traversed sea and land to find, 
 I find. For liberty I fought, and life, 
 On savage shores, and wastes of unknown 
 
 seas, 
 While waiting for this hour. Oh, think you 
 
 not 
 
 Immortal love mates with immortal love 
 Always? And now, at last, we learn this 
 
 love." 
 
 My soul was filling with a mighty joy 
 I could not show yet must 1 >how my love 
 " From you whose will divided broke our 
 
 hearts 
 
 I now demand a different kiss than that 
 Which then you said should be our parting 
 
 kiss. 
 
 Given, I vow the past shall be forgot. 
 The kiss and we are one! Give me the 
 
 kiss." 
 
 Like the dark rocks upon the sands he stood. 
 When on his breast I fell, and kissed his lips. 
 All the wild clangor of the sea was hushed; 
 The rapid silver waves ran each to each, 
 
MRS. ELIZABETH STODDARD. 
 
 419 
 
 Lapsed in the deep with joyous, murmured 
 
 sighs. 
 
 Years of repentence mine, forgiveness his, 
 To tell. Happy we paced the tranquil shores, 
 Till, between sea and sky we saw the sun, 
 And all our wiser, loving 1 days began. 
 
 UNRETURN1NG. 
 
 Now all the flowers that ornament the grass, 
 Wherever meadows are and placid brooks, 
 Muot fall the " glory of the grass" must 
 
 fall. 
 Year after year I see them sprout and 
 
 spread 
 
 The golden, glossy, tossing butter-cups, 
 The tall, straight daisies and red clover 
 
 globes, 
 The swinging bell-wort and the blue-eyed 
 
 blade, 
 With nameless plants as perfect in their 
 
 hues 
 
 Perfect in root and branch, their plan of life, 
 As if the intention of a soul were there: 
 I see them nourish as I see them fall ! 
 
 But he, who once was growing with the 
 
 grass, 
 
 And blooming with the flowers, my little son, 
 Fell, withered dead, nor has revived again ! 
 Perfect and lovely, needful to my sight, 
 Why comes he not to ornament my days ? 
 The* barren fields forget their barrenness, 
 The soulless earth mates with these soulless 
 
 thing,-, 
 
 Why fchould I not obtain my recompense ? 
 The budding spring should bring, or sum 
 mer s prime, 
 
 At least a vision of the vanished child, 
 And let his heart commune with mine again, 
 Though in a dream his life was but a dream ; 
 Then might 1 wait with patient cheerful 
 ness 
 That cheerfulness which keeps one s tears 
 
 unshed, 
 And blinds the eyes with pain the passage 
 
 slow 
 
 Of other seasons, and be still and cold 
 As the earth is when shrouded in the snow, 
 Or passive, like it, when the boughs are 
 
 stripped 
 
 In autumn, and the leaves roll everywhere. 
 And he should go again ; f or winter s snow, 
 And autumn s melancholy voice, in winds, 
 In waters, and in woods, belong to me 
 To m:. a faded soul ; for, as 1 said, 
 The sense of all his beauty sweetness comes 
 When blossoms are the sweetest ; when the 
 
 sea, 
 
 Sparkling and blue, cries to the tm in joy, 
 Or, silent, pale, and misty waits the night, 
 Till the moon, pushing through the veiling 
 
 cloud, 
 
 Hangs naked in its heaving solitude : 
 When feathery pines wave up and down the 
 
 shore, 
 
 And the vast deep above holds gentle stars, 
 And the vast world beneath hides him from 
 
 me! 
 
 THE COLONEL S SHIELD. 
 
 YOUR picture, slung about my neck, 
 
 The day we went a-field, 
 Swung out before the trench ; 
 It caught the eye of rank and file, 
 
 Who knew The Colonel s Shield." 
 
 I thrust it back, and with my men 
 
 (Our General rode ahead) 
 We stormed the great redoubt, 
 As if it were an easy thing, 
 
 But rows of us fell dead ! 
 
 Your picture hanging on my neck, 
 
 Up with my men 1 rushed, 
 We made an awful charge : 
 And then my horse, " The Lady Bess," 
 
 Dropped, and my leg was crushed ! 
 
 The blood of battle in my veins 
 (A blue-coat dragged me out) 
 
 But I remembered you ; 
 
 I kissed your picture did you know ? 
 And yelled, " For the redoubt ! " 
 
 The Twenty Fourth, my scarred old dogs, 
 Growled back, " He ll put us through; 
 We ll take him in our arms : 
 Our picture there the girl he loves, 
 Shall see what we can do." 
 
 The foe was silenced so were we. 
 
 I lay upon the field, 
 Among the Twenty-Fourth ; 
 Your picture, shattered on my breast, 
 
 Had proved " The Colonel s Shield." 
 
 MERCEDES. 
 
 UNDER a sultry, yellow sky, 
 
 On the yellow sand I lie ; 
 
 The crinkled vapors smite my brain, 
 
 I smoulder in a fiery pain. 
 
 Above the crags the condor flies ; 
 He knows where the red gold lies, 
 He knows where the diamonds shine ;- 
 If I knew, would she be mine ? 
 
 Mercedes in her hammock swings ; 
 In her court a palm-tree flings 
 Its slender shadow on the ground, 
 The fountain falls with silver sound. 
 
 Her lips are like this cactus cup ; 
 With my hand 1 crush it up ; 
 I tear its flaming leaves apart ; 
 Would that I could tear her heart ! 
 
 Last night a man was at her gate ; 
 In the hedge I lay in wait ; 
 I saw Mercedes meet him there, 
 By the fire-flies in her hair. 
 
 I waited till the break of day, 
 Then I rose and stole away; 
 But left my dagger in her gate; 
 Now she knows her lover s fate ! 
 
420 
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH STODDARD. 
 
 THE BULL FIGHT. 
 
 ELEVEN o clock : 
 
 Here are our cups of chocolate. 
 Montez will fig-lit the bulls to-day 
 
 All Madrid knows that : 
 Queen Christina is going in state ; 
 
 Dolores will go with her little fan ! 
 
 Lace up my shoe : 
 
 Put on my Basquina ; 
 Can you see my black eyes ? 
 
 I am Manuel s duchess. 
 
 In front of the box of the Queen and the 
 
 Duke 
 
 Dolores sits, flirting her fan ; 
 The church of St. Agnes stands on the right, 
 And its shadow falls on the picadors ; 
 On their old lean steads they prance in the 
 
 ring, 
 Hidalgo fashion, their hands on their hips. 
 
 "Ha-f Tor of Toro ! " 
 Good ! the horses are gored ; 
 Now for the men. 
 
 11 Ha! Toro! Torro ! " 
 Every man over the barrier ! 
 
 Not so ; for there, the bull- fighter stands ; 
 Some little applause from the royal box, 
 And "Montez! Montez! from a thousand 
 throats ! 
 
 The bull bows well, though snorting with 
 
 rage, 
 And his fore leg makes little holes in the 
 
 ground ; 
 But Montez stands still ; his ribbons don t 
 
 nutter ! 
 
 Saints what a leap ! 
 
 See his rosette on the bull s black horn ; 
 Montt-z is pale ; but his black eye shines, 
 When Dolores cries " Kisses for Montez! " 
 
 Fie ! Manuel s duchess ! 
 
 A minute longer the fight is done ; 
 The mule-bells tinkle, the bull rides off ; 
 Montez twirls a new diamond ring, 
 And the crowd go home for chocolate. 
 
 EL CAPITANO. 
 
 I FOUGHT wolves in the Pyrenees, 
 Now and then a man out of France ; 
 
 Sling your guitar, tap on the board, 
 Girls of the village, will you dance? 
 
 My heart snaps, chord after chord, 
 
 When you sweep the strings that way ; 
 
 Tie these roses around my gnn, 
 I ll be cock-of -the- walk to-day. 
 
 Surely I am a pious man, 
 
 Every day I go to mass. 
 There rides my lord I ll whet my knife, 
 
 To-night we ll meet in Pajes pass. 
 
 Ting-a-ling ! will you marry me, 
 Girl with the purple braided hair? 
 
 Hark ye, come and share my home, 
 Come to the wild guerilla s lair. 
 
 Tis leagues beyond these orange groves, 
 In the caves of the Pyrenees ; 
 
 You ll love to hear their torrents roar 
 And the moan of the twisted trees. 
 
 Slip your fingers under my sash ; 
 
 Do you feel my mad heart beat ? 
 I swear it never loved before, 
 
 Look in my eyes kiss me, sweet ! 
 
 Senoritas, I kiss your feet ; 
 
 We fight. Senores after to-day ! 
 My horse is here w r e ll ride like fiends, 
 
 Spring up behind me, away, away ! 
 
 ON THE CAMPAGNA. 
 
 STOP on the Appian Way, 
 In the Roman Campagna ; 
 
 Stop at my tomb, 
 The tomb of Cecilia Metella. 
 
 To-day as you see it, 
 Alaric saw it, ages ago, 
 When he, with his pale-visaged Goths, 
 Sat at the gates of Rome, 
 Reading his Runic shield. 
 Odin ! thy curse remains ! 
 
 Beneath these battlements 
 My bones were stirred with Roman pride, 
 Though centuries before my Romans died : 
 Now my bones are dust ; the Goths are dust. 
 The river-bed is dry where sleeps the king, 
 
 My tomb remains ! 
 When Rome commanded the earth 
 
 Great were the Metelli : 
 
 I was Metell^ s wife ; 
 
 I loved him and I died. 
 Then with slow patience built he this me 
 morial : 
 
 Each century marks his love. 
 
 Pass by on the Appian Way 
 The tomb of Cecilia Metella ; 
 
 W r ild shepherds alone seek its shelter, 
 
 Wild buffaloes tramp at its base. 
 Deep is its desolation, 
 Deep as the shadow of Rome ! 
 
 CHRISTMAS COMES AGAIN. 
 
 LET me be merry now, tis time, 
 
 The season is at hand 
 For Chrismas rhyme and Christmas chime 
 
 Close up, and form the band. 
 
 The winter fires still burn as bright, 
 
 The lamp-light is as clear, 
 And, since the dead are out of sight, 
 
 What hinders Christmas cheer ? 
 
 Why think or speak of that abyss 
 
 In which lies all my Past ? 
 High festival I need not miss, 
 
 While song and jest shall last. 
 
 We ll clink and drink on Christmas Eve, 
 Our ghosts .can feel no wrong ; 
 
 They revelled ere they took their leave 
 Hearken, my Soldier s Song : 
 
MRS. ELIZABETH STODDARD. 
 
 421 
 
 " The morning air doth coldly pass, 
 Comrades, to the saddle spring ; 
 The night more bitter cold will bring 
 Ere dying ere dying. 
 Sweetheart, come, the parting glass, 
 Glass and sabre, clash, clash, 
 Ere dying ere dying. 
 Stirrup-cup and stirrup-kiss 
 Do you hope the foe we ll miss, 
 Sweetheart, for this loving kiss, 
 Ere dying ere dying ! " 
 
 The feasts and revels of the year 
 
 Do ghosts remember long V 
 Even in memory come they here ? 
 
 Listen, my Sailor s Song : 
 
 " my hearties, yo, heave ho ! 
 
 Anchor s up in Jolly Ba^ 
 
 Hey ! 
 
 Pipes and swipes, hob and nob 
 
 Hey! 
 
 Mermaid Bess and Dolphin Megg, 
 
 Paddle over Jolly Bay 
 
 Hey! 
 
 Tars haul in for Christmas Day, 
 
 For round the Varsal deep we go ; 
 
 Never church, never bell, 
 
 For to tell 
 
 Of Christmas Day. 
 
 Yo, heave ho, my hearties ! 
 
 Haul in, mates, here we lay 
 
 Hey ! " 
 His sword is rustling in its sheath, 
 
 His flag furled on the wall ; 
 We ll twine them with a holly-wreath, 
 
 With green leaves cover all. 
 
 So clink and drink when falls the eve ; 
 
 But, comrades, hide from me 
 Their graves I would not see them heave 
 
 Beside me, like the sea. 
 
 Let not my brothers come again, 
 
 As men dead in their prime ; 
 Then hold my hands, forget my pain, 
 
 And strike the Christmas chime. 
 
 LAST DAYS. 
 
 As one who follows a departing friend, 
 Destined to cross the great, dividing sea, 
 I watcli and follow these departing days, 
 That go so grandly, lifting up their crowns 
 Still regal, though their victor Autumn 
 
 comes. 
 
 Gifts they bestow, which I accept, return, 
 As irifts exchanged between a loving pair, 
 Who may possess them as memorials 
 Of pleasures ended. by the shadow Death. 
 What matter which shall vanish hence, if 
 
 both 
 
 Arc transitory me, and these bright hours 
 And of the future ignorant alike V 
 From all our social thralls I would be free. 
 L ^t care go down the wind as hounds afar, 
 Within their kennels baying unseen foes, 
 Give to calm sleepers only calmer dreams. 
 
 Here will I rest alone : the morning mist 
 Conceals 110 form but mine ; the evening 
 
 dew 
 Freshens but faded flowers and my worn 
 
 face. 
 When the noon basks among the wooded 
 
 hills 
 
 I too will bask, as silent as the air 
 So thick with sun-motes, dyed like yellow 
 
 gold, 
 
 Or colored purple like an unplucked plum. 
 The Thrush, now lonesome for her young 
 
 have flown 
 May flutter her brown wings across my 
 
 path ; 
 
 And creatures of the sod witli brilliant eyes 
 May leap beside me, and familiar grow. 
 The moon shall rise among her floating 
 
 clouds 
 Black, vaporous fans, and crinkled globes of 
 
 pearl- 
 
 And her sweet silver light be given to me. 
 To watch and follow these departing days 
 Must be my choice ; and let me mated be 
 With Solitude ; and memory and hope 
 Unite to give me faith that nothing dies ; 
 To show me always, what I prav to know, 
 That man alone may speak the word Pare- 
 well. 
 
 MEMORY IS IMMOETAL. 
 
 TIME passed, as passes time with common 
 
 souls 
 Whose thoughts and wishes end with every 
 
 day ; 
 
 For whom no future is whose present hours 
 Reveal no looming shade of that which was. 
 
 But Memory is immortal, for she comes 
 To me, from heaven or hell, to me, once 
 
 more ! 
 
 As birds that migrate choose the ocean wind 
 That beats them helpless, while it steers 
 
 them home ; 
 
 So I was this way driven I chose this way 
 Of old my dwelling-place, where all my race 
 Are buried. At first I was enchanted here ; 
 Impassible appeared the pall, the shroud ; 
 And in my spell, I trod the grassy streets, 
 Wherein the summer days mild oxen drew 
 The bristling hay, and in the winter snows 
 The creaking masts and knees for mighty 
 
 ships, 
 
 Whose hulls were parted on the coral reefs, 
 Or foundered in the depths -of Arctic nights. 
 I wandered through the gardens rank and 
 
 waste, 
 
 Wonderful once, when I was like the flowers ; 
 Along the weedy paths grew roses still, 
 Surviving empire, but remaining queens. 
 
 My mood established by the slumbrous 
 
 town 
 (Slumber with slumber, dream with dream 
 
 should be) 
 
 I sought a mansion on the lonely shore, 
 From which, his feet made level with his 
 
 head, 
 
MRS. ELIZABETH STODDARD. 
 
 Its occupant was gone. I lived alone. 
 Whoso, beneath this roof, had played his part 
 In lifeVdeep tragedy, not here again 
 Could be rehearsed its scenes of love or hate. 
 Ui)on the ancient walls my pictures hung 
 Of men and women, strong and beautiful, 
 Whose shoulders pushed along the world s 
 
 great wheel : 
 Landscapes, where cloud and mountain rose 
 
 as one, 
 
 Where rivers crept in secret vales, or rolled 
 Past city walls, whose towers and palaces 
 By slaves were builded, and by princes fallen! 
 And books whose pages ever told one tale, 
 The tale of human love, in joy or pain, 
 The seed of our last hope Eternity. 
 Days glided by, this mirage cheated all ; 
 Morn came, eve went, and we were tranquil 
 
 still. 
 
 If form, and sound, and color fail to show, 
 Bv poet s, painter s, sculptor s noble touch, 
 The subtle truth of Nature, can I tell 
 How Nature poised my mind 111 light and 
 
 shade ? 
 
 But memory is immortal, and to me 
 She advanced, silent, slow, a mutHed shape. 
 One moonlight night, I walked through long 
 
 white lanes ; 
 
 The sky and sea were like a frosted web; 
 The air was heavy with familiar scents, 
 Which travelled down the wind, I knew 
 
 from where 
 
 The fragrance of grove of Northern pines. 
 Mv feet were hastening thither and my 
 
 heart ? 
 
 At last I stood before a funeral mound, 
 From which I tied when vanished love and 
 
 life- 
 Long years ago fled from my father s house ; 
 Banished myself, to banish him I loved 
 His broken history and his early grave. 
 And in the moonlight Memory floated on, 
 Immortal, with my now immortal Love ! 
 
 THE MESSAGE. 
 
 To you, my comrades, whether far or near, 
 1 send this message. Let our past revive; 
 Come, sound reveille to our hearts once more. 
 Expecting, I shall wait till at my door 
 1 see you enter, each and every one 
 Tumultuous, eager all, with clamorous 
 
 speech, 
 To hide my stammering welcome and my 
 
 tears. 
 
 I am no host carousing long and late, 
 Enticing guests with epicurean hints; 
 Nor am 1 Timon, sick of this sad world, 
 Who, jesting, cries, " The sky is overhead. 
 And underneaih that famous rest, the earth : 
 Show ine the man who can have more at last." 
 
 Without, the thunder of the city rolls ; 
 Withiu, the quiet of the student reigns. 
 There is a change. Time was a childish 
 
 voice, 
 Sweet as the lark s when from her nest she 
 
 soars, 
 
 Thrilled over all, and vanished into heaven. 
 Music once triumphed here : the skillful hand 
 Of him who rarely struck the keys, and woke 
 My soul in harmony grand as his own, 
 Is folded on his breast, my soldier love. 
 Here hangs his portrait, under it, his sword ; 
 He served his country, and his grave s afar. 
 Dread not this place as one to relics given, 
 His w*ho long wandering in foreign lands, 
 Though I have decked wtili amaranth my 
 
 wall, 
 
 The testimony of a later loss 
 Then dying, crossed the sea to die with me. 
 Behold the sunrise and the morning clouds 
 On yonder canvas, misty mountain-peaks 
 The simple grandeur of a perfect art ! 
 Behold these vivid woods, that gleam beside 
 The happy vision of an autumn eve, 
 When red leaves fall, and redder sunsets 
 
 fade ! 
 
 The world grows pensive sinking into night, 
 Whose melancholy space hides sighing 
 
 winds : 
 
 Can they reply to sadder human speech ? 
 What centuries are counted here my books ! 
 Shadows of mighty men ; the chorus, hark ! 
 The antique chant vibrates, and Fate 
 
 compels ! 
 
 Comrades, return ; the midnight lam]) shall 
 
 gleam 
 
 As in old nights ; the chaplets woven then 
 Withered, perhaps, by time may grace us 
 
 vet ; 
 
 The laurel faded is the laurel still, 
 And some of us are heroes to ourselves. 
 And amber wine shall ilow ; the blue smoke 
 
 wreathe 
 
 In droll disputes, with metaphysics mixed ; 
 Or float as lightly as the quick-spun verse, 
 Threading the circle round from thought to 
 
 thought, 
 
 Sparkling and fresh as is the airy web 
 Spread on the hedge at morn in silver dew. 
 The scent of roses you remember well ;" 
 In the green vases they shall bloom again. 
 And me do you remember? I remain 
 Unchanged, I think ; though one 1 saw like 
 
 me 
 
 Some years ago, with hair that was not white; 
 And she was with you then, as brave a soul 
 As souls can be whom Fate has not ap 
 proached. 
 But seek and find me now, unchanged or 
 
 changed, 
 Mirthful in tears, and in my laughter sad. 
 
MKS. JULIA C. E. DOER. 
 
 OVER THE WALL. 
 
 I KNOW a spot where the wild vines creep, 
 
 And the coral moss-cups grow, 
 And where, at the foot of the rocky steep; 
 
 The -sweet blue violets blow. 
 There all day long, in the summer time, 
 You may hear the river s dreamy rhyme ; 
 There all day long does the honey-bee 
 Murmur and hum in the hollow-tree. 
 
 And there the feathery hemlock makes 
 
 A shadow cool and sweet, 
 While from its emerald wing it shakes 
 
 Rare incense at your feet. 
 There do the silvery lichens cling, 
 There does the tremulous harebell swing ; 
 And many a scarlet berry shines 
 Deep in the green of the tangled vines. 
 
 Over the wall at dawn of day,, 
 
 Over the wall at noon, 
 Over the wall when the shadows say 
 
 That night is coming soon, 
 A little maiden with laughing eyes 
 Climbs in her ea<> er haste, and hies 
 Down to the spot where the wild vines 
 
 creep, 
 And violets bloom by the rocky steep. 
 
 All wild things love her. The murmuring 
 bee 
 
 Scarce stirs when she draws near, 
 And sings the bird in the hemlock -tree 
 
 Its sweetest for her ear. 
 The harebells nod as she passes by, 
 The violet lifts its calm blue eye, * 
 The ferns bend lowly her steps to greet, 
 And the mosses creep to her dancing feet. 
 
 Up in her pathway seems to spring- 
 All that is sweet or rare, 
 
 Chrysalis quaint, or the moth s bright wing, 
 Or flower-buds strangely fair. 
 
 She watches the tiniest bird s-nest hid 
 
 The thickly -clustering leaves amid ; 
 
 And the small brown tree-toad on her arm 
 
 Quietly hops, and fears no harm. 
 
 Ah, child of the laughing eyes, and heart 
 Attuned to Nature s voice ! 
 
 Thou hast found a bliss that will ne er de 
 part 
 While earth can say, " Rejoice ! " 
 
 The years must come, and the years must 
 go; 
 
 But the flowers will bloom, and the breezes 
 blow, 
 
 And birds and butterfly, moth and bee, 
 
 Bring on their swift wings joy to thee ! 
 
 "EARTH TO EARTH." 
 
 NOT within yon vaulted tomb, 
 With its darkness and its gloom, 
 With its murky, heavy air, 
 And the silence brooding there, 
 Lay me, love, when I must be 
 Hidden far away from thee. 
 
 Open not the iron door, 
 Oped so often in days of yore ; 
 Place me not beside the dead, 
 Whose companionship I dread, 
 Where the phantoms come and go, 
 Bending o er the coffins low. 
 
 But when one with icy breath 
 In my ear has whispered " death," 
 When the heart thy voice can thrill, 
 Has grown pulseless, cold, and still, 
 Kneel beside me, o er me bow, 
 Press thy last kiss on my brow. 
 
 Lay me then to dreamless rest, 
 With the sod above my breast, 
 In some quiet, sheltered spot, 
 Peaceful as has been our lot, 
 Since our solemn vows were said 
 On the day when we were wed ! 
 
 Let the sunlight round me play 
 Through the long, bright summer day ; 
 Let old trees their branches wave 
 O er my green and grassy grave, 
 While the changing shadows flit 
 In strange beauty over it. 
 
 Plant a white rose at my feet, 
 
 Or a lily fair and sweet, 
 
 With the humble mignonnette 
 
 And the blue-eyed violet. 
 
 So beside me, all day long, 
 
 Bird and bee shall weave their song. 
 
 Then methinks at eventide, 
 With our children by thy side, 
 Darling ! thou wilt love to come 
 To my calm and quiet home ; 
 Thou wilt feel my presence there, 
 Filling all the silent air. 
 
 Nearer will I seem to thee. 
 Sleeping in the sunlight free, 
 Than in yonder vaulted tomb. 
 With its darkness and its gloom. 
 " Earth to earth and dust to dust " 
 Yield thou, love, in solemn trust, 
 When our last farewell is said, 
 And thy wife is with the dead ! 
 
434 
 
 MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR. 
 
 YESTERDAY AND TO-DAY. 
 
 BUT yesterday among us here, 
 
 One with ourselves in hope and fear : 
 
 Joying like us in little things, 
 
 The sheen of gorgeous insect wings, 
 
 The song of bird, the hum of bee, 
 
 The white foam of the heaving sea. 
 
 Hut yesterday your simplest speech, 
 
 Your lightest breath, our hearts could reach ; 
 
 Your very thoughts were ours. Our eyes 
 
 Found in your own no mysteries. 
 
 Your griefs, your joys, your prayers, we 
 
 knew, 
 
 The hopes that with your girlhood grew, 
 lint yesterday we dared to say, 
 Twere better you should walk this way, 
 Or that, dear child ! Do thus, or so ; 
 Older and wiser we, you know." 
 We gave you flowers and curled your hair, 
 And brought new robes for you to wear. 
 To-day how far away thou art ! 
 In all thy life we have no part. 
 Hast thou a want ? We know it not ; 
 Utterly parted from our lot, 
 The veriest stranger is to thee 
 All those who loved thee best can be. 
 
 Deaf to our calls, our prayers, our cries, 
 Thou dost not lift thy heavy eyes ; 
 Nor heed the tender words that flow 
 From lips whose kisses thrilled thee so 
 But yesterday ! To-day in vain 
 We wait for kisses back again. 
 
 To-day no awful mystery hid 
 The dark and mazy past amid 
 Is half so great as*this that lies 
 Beneath the lids of thy shut eyes, 
 And in those frozen lips of stone, 
 Impassive lips, that smile nor moan. 
 
 But yesterday with loving care 
 
 We petted, praised thee, called thee fair; 
 
 To-day, oppressed with awe, we stand 
 
 Before that ring-unfettered hand, 
 
 And scarcely dare to lift one tress 
 
 In mute and reverent caress. 
 
 But yesterday with us. To-day, 
 
 Where thou art dwelling, who can say ? 
 
 In heaven? But where? Oh! for some 
 
 spell 
 
 To make thy tongue this secret tell ! 
 To break the silence strange and deep, 
 That thy sealed lips so closely keep ! 
 
 In vain in vain ! But yesterday 
 So quick to answer and obey ; 
 To-day, unmoved by word or tear, 
 A creature of another sphere, 
 Thou heedest us no more than they 
 Who passed before the Flood away ! 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 AGXES ! Agnes ! is it thus 
 Thou, at last, dost come to us ? 
 From the land of balm and bloom, 
 Blandest airs and sweet perfume, 
 
 Where the jasmine s golden stars 
 Glimmer soft through emerald bars. 
 And the fragrant orange flowers 
 Fall to earth in silver showers, 
 
 Agnes ! Agnes ! 
 
 With thy pale hands on thy breast, 
 Comest thou here to take thy rest V 
 
 Agnes ! Agnes ! o er thy grave 
 Loud the winter winds will rave, 
 And the snow fall fast around, 
 Heaping high thy burial mound ; 
 Yet, within its soft embrace, 
 Thy dear form and earnest face, 
 Wrapt away from burning pain, 
 Ne er shall know one pang again. 
 
 Agnes ! Agnes ! 
 
 Never more shall anguish vex thee, 
 Never more shall care perplex thee. 
 
 Agnes ! Agnes ! wait, ah ! wait 
 Just one moment at the gate, 
 Ere your poor feet enter in, 
 Where is neither pain nor sin. 
 Thou art blest, but how shall we 
 Bear the pang of losing thee ? 
 Thou art safe, but round us roll 
 Billows which o erwhelm the soul. 
 
 Agnes ! Agnes ! 
 
 What if we should lose our way 
 In the darkness where we stray ? 
 
 Agnes ! Agnes ! turn thine ear 
 From the anthems swelling clear ; 
 Passing sweet are they we know, 
 While our words are weak and low ; 
 But we love thee ! ah ! how well 
 Angel tongue could never tell ; 
 List ! ice love thee ! By that word 
 Once thy heart of hearts was stirred. 
 
 Agnes ! Agnes ! 
 By. that love we bid thee wait 
 Just one moment at the gate ! 
 
 Agnes ! Agnes ! No ! Pass on 
 To the heaven that thou hast won ! 
 By thy life of brave endeavor, 
 Up the heights aspiring ever, 
 Whence thy voice, like clarion clear, 
 Rang out words of lofty cheer, 
 By thy laboring not in vain, 
 By thy martyrdom of pain, 
 
 Our Saint Agnes 
 From our yearning sight pass on 
 To the Rest that thou hast won ! 
 
 UNDER THE PALM-TREES. 
 
 WE were children together, you and I, 
 AVe trod the same paths in davs of 
 
 old ; 
 Together we watched the sunset sky, 
 
 And counted its bars of massive gold. 
 And when from the dark horizon s brim 
 The moon stole up with its silver rim, 
 And slowly sailed through the fields of air, 
 We thought there was nothing on earth so 
 fair. 
 
MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR. 
 
 425 
 
 You walk to-night where the jasmines grow, 
 And the Cross looks down from, the tropic 
 skies ; 
 
 Where the spicy breezes softly "blow, 
 
 And the slender shafts of the palm-trees 
 rise. 
 
 You breathe the breath of the orange flow 
 ers, 
 
 And the perfumed air of the myrtle bowers ; 
 
 You pluck the acacia s golden balls, 
 
 And mark where the red pomegranate 
 falls. 
 
 I stand to-night on the breezy hill, 
 
 Where the pine-trees sing as they sang of 
 
 yore ; 
 The north star burneth clear and still, 
 
 And the moonbeams silver your father s 
 
 door. 
 
 I can see the hound as he lies asleep, 
 In the shadow close by the old well-sweep, 
 And hear the river s murmuring flow, 
 As we two heard it long ago. 
 
 Do you think of the firs on the mountain 
 side, 
 
 As you walk to-night where the palm- 
 trees grow ? 
 
 Of the brook where the trout in the dark 
 ness hide ? 
 Of the yellow willows waving slow ? 
 
 Do you long to drink of the crystal spring, 
 
 In the dell where the purple harebells 
 swing ? 
 
 Would your pulses leap could you hear once 
 more 
 
 The sound of the flail on the threshing- 
 floor ? 
 
 All ! the years are long, and the world is 
 wide, 
 
 And the salt sea rolls our hearts between ; 
 And never again at eventide 
 
 Shall we two gaze on the same fair scene. 
 But under the palm-trees wandering slow, 
 You think of the spreading elms I know ; 
 And you deem our daisies fairer far 
 Than the gorgeous blooms of the tropics 
 are ! 
 
 THE LAST OF SIX. 
 
 COME in ; you are welcome, neighbor ; all 
 
 day I ve been alone, 
 And heard the wailing, wintry wind sweep 
 
 by with bitter moan ; 
 And to-night beside my lonely fire, I mutely 
 
 wonder why 
 I, who once wept as others weep, sit here 
 
 with tearless eye. 
 
 To-day this letter came to me. At first I 
 could not brook, 
 
 Upon the unfamiliar lines by strangers pen 
 ned, to look ; 
 
 The dread of evil tidings shook my soul with 
 wild alarm, 
 
 But Harry s in the hospital, and has only 
 lost an arm. 
 
 He is the last the last of six brave boys as 
 
 e er were seen ! 
 How short, "to memory s vision, seem the 
 
 years that lie between 
 This hour and those most blessed ones, when 
 
 round this hearth s bright blaze 
 They charmed their mother s heart and eye 
 
 with all their pretty ways. 
 
 My William was the eldest son, and he was 
 
 first to go. 
 It did not at all surprise me, for I knew it 
 
 would be so, 
 From that fearful April Sunday when the 
 
 news from Sumter came, 
 And his lips grew white as ashes, while his 
 
 eyes were all aflame. 
 
 He sprang to join the three months men. I 
 
 could not say him nay, 
 Though my heart stood still within me when 
 
 I saw him march away ; 
 At the corner of the street he smiled, and 
 
 waved the flag he bore ; 
 I never saw him smile again he was slain 
 
 at Baltimore. 
 
 They sent his body back to me, and as we 
 stood around 
 
 His grave, beside his father s, in yonder 
 burial ground, 
 
 John laid his hand upon my arm and whis 
 pered, " Mother dear, 
 
 I have Willy s work and mine to do. I can 
 not loiter here." 
 
 I turned and looked at Paul, for he and 
 
 John were twins, you know, 
 Born on a happy Christmas, four-and-twenty 
 
 years ago ; 
 I looked upon them both, while my tears fell 
 
 down like rain, 
 For I knew what one had spoken, had been 
 
 spoken by the twain. 
 
 In a month or more they left me, the merry, 
 handsome boys, 
 
 Who had kept the old house ringing with 
 their laughter, fun, and noise. 
 
 Then James came homo to mind the farm ; 
 my younger sons were still 
 
 Mere children, at their lessons in the school- 
 house on the hill. 
 
 days of weary waiting ! days of doubt 
 
 and dread ! 
 
 1 feared to read the papers, or to see the lists 
 
 of dead ; 
 But when full many a battle storm had left 
 
 them both unharmed, 
 I taught my foolish heart to think the 
 
 double lives were charmed. 
 
 Their colonel since has told me that no 
 braver boys than they 
 
 Ever rallied round the colors, in the thick 
 est of the fray ; 
 
 Upon the wall behind you their swords are 
 hanging still, 
 
 For John was killed at Fair Oaks, and Paul 
 at Malveru Hill. 
 
MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR. 
 
 Then came the dark days, darker than any 
 known before ; 
 
 There was another call for men, " three 
 hundred thousand more ; " 
 
 I saw the cloud on Jamie s brow grow deep 
 er day by dav. 
 
 I shrank before the impending blow, and 
 scarce had strength to pray. 
 
 And yet at last I bade him go, while on my 
 
 cheek and brow 
 His loving tears and kisses fell ; I feel them 
 
 even now, 
 Though the eyes that shed the tears, and the 
 
 lips so warm on mine 
 Are hidden under southern sands, beneath a 
 
 blasted pine ! 
 
 He did not die mid battle-smoke, but for a 
 weary year 
 
 He languished in close prison walls, a prey 
 to hope and fear ; 
 
 I dare not trust myself to think of the fruit 
 less pangs he bore, 
 
 My brain grows wild when in my dreams I 
 count his sufferings o er. 
 
 Only two left ! I thought the worst was 
 
 surely over then ; 
 But lo ! at once my school-boy sons sprang 
 
 up before me men ! 
 They heard their brothers martyr blood call 
 
 from the hallowed ground ; 
 A loud, imperious summons that all other 
 
 voices drowned. 
 
 1 did not say a single word. My very heart 
 
 seemed dead. 
 What could I do but take the cup, and bow 
 
 my weary head 
 To drink the bitter draught again ? I dared 
 
 not hold them buck ;" 
 I would as soon have tried to check the 
 
 whirlwind on its track. 
 
 You know the rest. At Cedar Creek my 
 Frederick bravely fell ; 
 
 They say his young arm did its work right 
 nobly and right well ; 
 
 His comrades breathe the hero s name with 
 mingled love and pride ; 
 
 I miss the gentle blue-eyed boy, who frol 
 icked at my side. 
 
 For me, I ne er shall weep again. I think 
 
 my heart is dead. 
 I, who could weep for lighter griefs, have 
 
 now no tears to shed. 
 But read this letter, neighbor. There is 
 
 nothing to alarm. 
 For Harry s in the hospital, and has only 
 
 lost an arm ! 
 
 WAITING FOR LETTERS. 
 
 COUNTING the minutes all the day long, 
 Minutes that creep with the pace of a 
 snail ; 
 
 Deaf to the Bobolink s jubilant son-, 
 Deaf to the Whippowil s pitiful wail ! 
 
 Out in the garden red roses are blowing, 
 Down by the hedgerow are violets growing, 
 Daisies their dainty Avhite blossoms are 
 
 showing, 
 
 But the girl s heart bitter anguish is know 
 ing. 
 
 Striving to work, for there s work to be 
 
 done, 
 Hands must be busy, though hearts bleed 
 
 and break, 
 Lifting up tear-laden eyes to the sun, 
 
 Ah ! the long day will not speed for her 
 
 sake ; 
 How the clock ticks on, unresting, unhast- 
 
 i"g, 
 
 Never a single beat staying or wasting ; 
 | Steady as fate, though our souls may be 
 
 draining 
 Cups where the bitter alone is remaining ! 
 
 But the day wanes, as the longest day will ; 
 Slowly the golden light fades from the 
 
 west, 
 
 All the green valleys lie breathless and still, 
 Birds cease their trilling and winds are at 
 
 rest. 
 
 Hark ! A low sound as of far-away thunder ! 
 Tis the- rush of the train as it sweeps along 
 
 under 
 The crest of the mountains that, parting 
 
 asunder, 
 Seem to shrink back from this demon-eyed 
 
 wonder ! 
 
 Ah, how her pulses throb ! Silent and pale 
 Now stands she waiting the mail has 
 
 come in ! 
 Waiting for letters. But watching must 
 
 must fail, 
 And hope dream in vain of the bliss that 
 
 has been ; 
 Down where the southern pines sigh in the 
 
 gloaming, 
 
 Still lie her lover s feet, weary of roaming ; 
 Never again shall the heart of the maiden 
 Hail his white missives with love overladen ! 
 
 COMING HOME. 
 
 WHEN the winter winds were loud, 
 And Earth slept in snowy shroud, 
 Oft our darling wrote to us, 
 And the words ran ever thus, 
 " I am coining in the spring ! 
 With the Mayflower s blossoming, 
 With the young leaves on the tree, 
 O my dear ones, look for me ! " 
 
 And she came. One dreary day, 
 When the skies were dull and gray, 
 Softly through the open door 
 Our beloved came once more. 
 Came with folded hands that lay 
 Very quietly alway, 
 Came with heavy-lidded eyes, 
 Lifted not in glad surprise. 
 
 Not a single word she spoke ; 
 Laugh nor sigh her silence broke 
 
MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR. 
 
 427 
 
 As across the quiet room, 
 Darkening in the twilight gloom, 
 Oil she passed in stillest guise, 
 Calm as saint in Paradise, 
 To the spot where woe betide ! 
 Four years since she stood a bride. 
 
 Then, you think, we sprang to greet 
 
 her, 
 Sprang with outstretched hands to meet 
 
 her, 
 
 Clasped in our arms once more, 
 As in happy days of yore ; 
 Poured warm kisses on her cheek, 
 Passive lips, and forehead meek, 
 Till the barrier melted down 
 That had thus between us grown. 
 
 Ah, no ! Darling, did you know 
 When we bent above you so? 
 When our tears fell down like rain, 
 And our hearts were wild with pain ? 
 Did you pity us that day, 
 Even as holy angels may 
 Pity mortals here below, 
 While they wonder at their woe ? 
 
 Who can tell us ? Word nor sign 
 Came from those pale lips of thine ; 
 Loving heart and yearning breast 
 Lay in coldest, calmest rest. 
 Is thy Heaven so very fair 
 That thou dost forget us there? 
 Speak, beloved ! Woe is me 
 That in vain, I call on thee ! 
 
 Some time but not yet I know 
 Time will check the bitter flow 
 Of our tears. But never more 
 Will Earth wear the smile she wore, 
 Wear the golden glow that flung 
 Light the dreariest paths among, 
 Ere that one small grave was made 
 Underneath the elm-tree s shade. 
 
 HIDDEN AWAY. 
 
 HIDDEN away beneath the sod ! 
 
 my darling, can this be true? 
 In the pleasant paths your feet have trod 
 
 Must I look in vain, henceforth, for you ? 
 Will the summers come, and the summers 
 
 go? 
 
 Will Earth rejoice in her robes of green ? 
 Will roses blow, while thy cheek s young 
 
 glow 
 
 And thine eyes soft smiling ne er are 
 seen ? 
 
 Hidden away three months ago ! 
 
 Only three months ! but how long it seems 
 Since that dreary day when the clouds hung 
 low. 
 
 And the wild rains flooded the swollen 
 
 streams ! 
 It was meet that the sombre skies should 
 
 weep, 
 And the hills that you loved be black as 
 
 night, 
 When the dreamless sleap of the grave so 
 
 deep, 
 Wrapped you away from our yearning 
 
 sight ! 
 
 I know that Earth is as fair to-day, 
 
 As fresh and fair as she was last June, 
 When the wind in the maple-bows alway 
 
 Seemed to murmur a pleasant tune ; 
 The bending skies are as blue, I trow, 
 
 The young leaves dance in their merry 
 
 glee, 
 
 The stars still glow, and the bright streams 
 flow, 
 
 What have we lost then ? Only thee ! 
 
 Only our best and our fairest, laid 
 
 Out of our sight beneath the sod ! 
 Only a voice whose music made 
 
 Shorter the weary ways we trod ! 
 But with warmth and light and odorous 
 bloom, 
 
 The beautiful earth is glad and gay, 
 Though down in the gloom of the shadowy 
 tomb 
 
 Thy form, my beloved, lies hidden away ! 
 
 THEN AND NOW. 
 
 WTIEX last these trembling- blossoms swung, 
 
 Bright pendants on the bending spray, 
 Like tiny bells by fairies rung 
 In tinkling murmurs all the day ; 
 
 We bent above them, thou and I, 
 Entranced the lovely things to view, 
 
 That shamed the ruby s burning dye, 
 And mocked the oriole s brilliant hue. 
 
 How fair thou wert that happy morn ! 
 
 I turned to gaze upon thy face, 
 Where beauty, of the spiiit born, 
 
 Looked outward in serenest g race ; 
 
 Then broke a lovely crimson spray, 
 With waxen leaves of darkest green, 
 
 And soon, a glowing wreath, it lay 
 Thy folds of soft brown hair between. 
 
 And then I kissed thee. Ah, my love ! 
 
 Would that our past might live again ! 
 For thou hast flown to realms above, 
 
 While I am standing her. 1 , as then. 
 
 But now from these same f!o\veiv< I twine 
 A simple wreath to deck thy grave, 
 
 Woe that a form so dear as thine 
 
 Love had no power to shield or save ! 
 
MES. HAEEIET BEECHEE STOWE. 
 
 THE OLD PSALM TUNE. 
 
 You asked, dear friend, the other day, 
 
 Why still my charmed ear 
 Rejoiceth in uncultured tone 
 
 That old psalm tune to hear ? 
 
 I ve heard full oft, in foreign lands, 
 
 The grand orchestral strain, 
 Where music s ancient masters live, 
 
 Revealed on earth again, 
 
 Where breathing, solemn instruments, 
 
 In swaying clouds of sound, 
 Bore up the yearning, tranced soul, 
 
 Like silver wings around ; 
 
 I ve heard in old St. Peter s dome, 
 Where clouds of incense rise, 
 
 Most ravishing the choral swell 
 M Mint upwards to the skies. 
 
 And well I feel the magic power, 
 When skilled and cultured art 
 
 Its cunning webs of sweetness weaves 
 Around the captured heart. 
 
 But yet, dear friend, though rudely sung, 
 That old psalm tune hath still 
 
 A pulse of power beyond them all 
 My inmost soul to* thrill. 
 
 Those halting tones that sound to you, 
 
 Are not the tones I hear ; 
 But voices of the loved and lost 
 
 There meet my longing ear. 
 
 I hear my angel mother s voice, 
 Those were the words she sung ; 
 
 I hear my brother s ringing tones, 
 As once on earth they rung.; 
 
 And friends that walk in white above 
 
 Come round me like a cloud, 
 And far above those earthly notes 
 
 Their singing sounds aloud. 
 
 There maybe disrord. as you say ; 
 
 Those voices poorly ring ; 
 But there s no discord iu the strain 
 
 Those upper spirits sing. 
 
 For they who sing are of the blest, 
 
 The calm and glorified, 
 Whose hours are one eternal rest 
 
 On heaven s sweet floating tide. 
 
 Their life is music and accord ; 
 
 Their souls and hearts keep time 
 In one sweet concert with the Lord, 
 
 One concert vast, sublime. 
 
 And through the hymns they sang on earth 
 
 Sometimes a sweetness falls 
 On, those they loved and left below, 
 
 And softly homeward calls, 
 
 Bells from our own dear fatherland, 
 Borne trembling o er the sea, 
 
 The narrow sea that they have crossed, 
 The shores where we shall be. 
 
 sing, .sing on, beloved souls ! 
 
 Sing cares and griefs to rest ; 
 Sing, till entranced we arise 
 
 To join you mong the blest. 
 
 THE OTHER WORLD. 
 
 IT lies around us like a cloud, 
 
 A world we do not see ; 
 Yet the sweet closing of an eye 
 
 May bring "us there to be. 
 
 Its gentle breezes fan our cheek ; 
 
 Amid our w r orldly cares, 
 Its gentle voices whisper love, 
 
 And mingle with our prayers. 
 
 Sweet hearts around us throb and beat, 
 Sweet helping hands are stirred, 
 
 And palpitates the veil between 
 With breathings almost heard. 
 
 The silence, awful, sweet, and calm, 
 They have no power to break ; 
 
 For mortal words are not for them 
 To utter or partake. 
 
 So thin, so soft, so sweet, they glide, 
 So near to press they seem, 
 
 They lull us gently to our rest, 
 They melt into our dream. 
 
 And in the hush of rest they bring 
 
 Tis easy now to see 
 How lovelv and how sweet a pass 
 
 The hour of death may be ; 
 
 To close the eye, and close the ear, 
 Wrapped in a trance of bliss, 
 
 And, gently drawn in loving arms, 
 To swoon to that from this, 
 
 Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep, 
 Scarce asking where we are, 
 
 To feel all evil sink away, 
 All sorrow and all care. 
 
 Sweet souls around us ! watch us still ; 
 
 Press nearer to our side ; 
 Into our thoughts, into our prayers, 
 
 With gentle helpings glide. 
 
MRS. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 
 
 429 
 
 Let death between us be as naught, 
 A dried and vanished stream ; 
 
 Your joy be the reality, 
 
 Our suffering life the dream. 
 
 THE SECRET. 
 
 " Thou shalt. keep the 
 strife of tongues. 
 
 in the secret of thy presence from the 
 
 winds are raging o er the upper 
 wild contend with angry 
 
 WHEN 
 
 ocean, 
 And billows 
 
 roar, 
 
 Tis said, far down beneath the wild com 
 motion, 
 That peaceful stillness reigneth evermore. 
 
 Far, far beneath, the noise of tempest dieth, 
 And silver waves chime ever peacefully ; 
 
 And no rude storm, how fierce soe er he 
 
 flieth, 
 Disturbs the sabbath of that deeper sea. 
 
 So to the soul that knows thy love, Purest, 
 There is a temple peaceful evermore ! 
 
 And all the babble of life s angry voices 
 Die in hushed stillness at its sacred door. 
 
 Far, far away the noise of passion dieth, 
 
 And loving thoughts rise ever peacefully ; 
 And no rude storm, how fierce soe er he 
 
 flieth, 
 Disturbs that deeper rest, Lord, in thee. 
 
 rest of rests ! peace serene, eternal ! 
 
 Thou ever livest and thou changest never; 
 And in the secret of thy presence dwelleth 
 
 Fullness of joy, forever and forever. 
 
 THINK NOT ALL IS OVER. 
 
 THINK not, when the wailing winds of au 
 tumn 
 
 Drive the shivering leaflets from the tree, 
 Think not all is over : spring returneth, 
 Buds and leaves and blossoms thou shalt 
 see. 
 
 Think not, when the earth lies cold and 
 sealed, 
 
 And the weary birds above her mourn, 
 Think not all is over: God still liveth, 
 
 Songs and sunshine shall again return. 
 
 Think not, when thy heart is waste and 
 
 dreary, 
 When thy cherished hopes lie chill and 
 
 sere, 
 
 Think not all is over : God still loveth, 
 He will wipe away thy every tear. 
 
 Weeping for a night alone endureth, 
 God at lust shall bring a morning hour ; 
 
 In the frozen buds of every winter 
 Sleep the blossoms of a future flower. 
 
 THE CROCUS. 
 
 BENEATH the sunny autumn sky, 
 
 With gold leaves dropping round, 
 We sought, my little friend and I, 
 
 The consecrated ground, 
 Where, calm, beneath the holy cross, 
 
 O ershadowed by sweet skies, 
 Sleeps tranquilly that youthful form, 
 
 Those blue unclouded eyes. 
 
 Around the soft, green swelling mound 
 
 We scooped the earth away, 
 And buried deep the crocus bulbs 
 
 Against a coming day. 
 "These roots are dry, and brown, and 
 sere; 
 
 Why plant them here ? " he said, 
 " To leave them, all the winter long, 
 
 So desolate and dead." 
 
 " Dear child, within each sere dead form 
 
 There sleeps a living flower, 
 And angel-like it shall arise 
 
 In spring s returning hour." 
 Ah, deeper down cold, dark, and chill 
 
 We buried our heart s flower, 
 But angel-like shall he arise 
 
 In spring s immortal hour. 
 
 In blue and yellow from its grave 
 
 Springs up the crocus fair, 
 And God shall raise those bright blue eyes 
 
 Those sunny waves of hair. 
 Not for a fading summer s morn, 
 
 Not for a fleeting hour, 
 But for an endless age of bliss, 
 
 Shall rise our heart s dear flower. 
 
 " ONLY A YEAR. 1 
 
 ONE year ago, a ringing voice, 
 
 A clear blue eye, 
 And clustering curls of sunny hair, 
 
 Too fair to die. 
 
 Only a year, no voice, no smile, 
 
 No glance of eye, 
 No clustering curls of golden hair, 
 
 Fair but to die ! 
 
 One year ago what loves, what schemes 
 
 Far into life ! 
 What joyous hopes, what high resolves, 
 
 What generous strife ! 
 
 The silent picture on the wall, 
 
 The burial stone, 
 Of all that beauty, life, and joy 
 
 Remain alone ! 
 
 One year, one year, one little year, 
 
 And so much gone ! 
 And yet the even flow of life 
 
 Moves calmly on. 
 
 The grave grows green, the flowers bloom 
 fair, 
 
 Above that head ; 
 No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray 
 
 Says he is dead. 
 
430 
 
 MRS. HARRIET BEECIIER STOWE. 
 
 No pause or hush of merry birds, 
 
 That sing 1 above, 
 Tells us how coldly sleeps below 
 
 The form we love. 
 
 Where hast thou been this year, beloved? 
 
 What hast thou seen ? 
 What visions fair, what glorious life, 
 
 Where thou hast been >. 
 
 The veil ! the veil ! so thin, so strong ! 
 
 Twixt us and thee ; 
 The mystic veil ! when shall it fall, 
 
 That we may see ? 
 
 Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone, 
 
 But present still, 
 And waiting for the coming hour 
 
 Of God s sweet will. 
 
 Lord of the living and the dead, 
 
 Our Saviour dear ! 
 We lay in silence at thy feet 
 
 This sad, sad vear! 
 
 MIDNIGHT. 
 
 " Tie hath made me to dwell in dnrkne 
 Ion* (lead." 
 
 as those that have been 
 
 ALL dark ! no light, no ray ! 
 Sun, moon, and stars, all gone ! 
 Dimness of anguish ! utter void ! 
 Crushed, and alone ! 
 
 One waste of weary pain, 
 One dull, unmeaning ache, 
 A heart too weary, even to throb, 
 Too bruised too break. 
 
 No longer anxious thoughts, 
 No longer hopes and fears, 
 No strife, no effort, no desire, 
 No tears ? 
 
 Daylight and leaves and floAvers, 
 Summer and song of bird ! 
 All vanished ! dreams forever gone, 
 Unseen, unheard ! 
 
 Love, beauty, youth, all gone ! 
 
 The high, heroic vow, 
 
 The buoyant hope, the fond desire, 
 
 All ashes now ! 
 
 The wo I d s they speak to me 
 Far oil and distant seem, 
 As voices we have known and loved 
 Speak in a dream. 
 
 They bid me 1o submit ; 
 I do 1 cannot strive ; 
 1 do not question, I endure, 
 Kudu re and live. 
 
 1 do not struggle more, 
 Nor pray, for prayer is vain ; 
 I but lie still the weary hour, 
 And bear my pain. 
 
 A guiding (iod, a Friend, 
 A Father s gracious cheer, 
 Once seemed my own ; but now even faith 
 Lies buried here. 
 
 This darkened, deathly life 
 Is all remains of me, 
 And but one conscious wish, 
 To cease to be 1 
 
 SECOND HOUR. 
 
 "They laid hold upon one Simon a Cyrenian, and on him they 
 laid the crots, that he ruiuht bear it alter Jesus. 
 
 ALONG the dusty thoroughfare of life, 
 Upon his daily errands walking free, 
 
 Came a brave, honest man, untouched by 
 
 pain, 
 Unchilled by sight or thought of misery. 
 
 But lo ! a crowd : he stops, with curious 
 
 eye 
 A fainting form all pressed to earth he 
 
 sees ; 
 
 The hard, rough burden of the bitter cross 
 Hath bowed the drooping head and feeble 
 knees. 
 
 Ho ! lay the cross upon yon stranger there, 
 For he hath breadth of chest and strength 
 
 of limb. 
 
 Straight it is done ; and heavy laden thus, 
 With Jesus cross, he turns and follows 
 him. 
 
 Unmurmuring, patient, cheerful, pitiful, 
 Prompt with the holy sufferer to endure, 
 
 Forsaking all to follow the dear Lord, 
 Thus did he make his glorious calling- 
 sure. 
 
 O soul, whoe er thou art, walking life s way, 
 As yet from touch of deadly sorrow free, 
 
 Learn from this story to forecast the day 
 When Jesus and his cross shall come to 
 thee. 
 
 0, in that fearful, that decisive hour, 
 
 Rebel not, shrink not, seek not thence to 
 nee, 
 
 But, humbly bending, take thy heavy load, 
 And bear it after Jesus patiently. 
 
 His cross is thine. If thou and he be one, 
 Some portion of his J>ain must still be 
 
 thine ; 
 Thus only mayst thou share his glorious 
 
 crown, 
 And reign with him in majesty divine 
 
 Master in sorrow! I accept my share 
 In the great anguish of life s mystery. 
 
 No more, alone, I sink beneath my load, 
 But bear mv cross, Jesus, after thee. 
 
 A DAY IN THE F AMFILI DORIA. 
 
 THOUGH the hills are cold and snowy, 
 And the wind drives chill to-day, 
 
 My heart goes back to a spring-time, 
 Far, far in the past away. 
 
 And I see a quaint old city, 
 
 Weary and worn and brown, 
 Where the spring and the birds are so early 
 
 And the sun in such light goes down. 
 
MRS. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 
 
 431 
 
 I remember that old-time villa, 
 Where our afternoons went by, 
 
 Whevo the suns of March Hushed warmly, 
 And spring was in earth and sky. 
 
 Out of the mouldering city, 
 
 Mouldering, old, and gray, 
 We sped, with a lightsome heart-thrill, 
 
 For a sunny, gladsome day, 
 
 For a revel of fresh spring verdure, 
 For a race mid springing flowers, 
 
 For a vision of plashing fountains, 
 Of birds and blossoming bowers. 
 
 There were violet banks in the shadows, 
 
 Violets white and blue ; 
 And a world of bright anemones, 
 
 That over the terrace grew, 
 
 Blue and orange and purple, 
 
 Rosy and yellow and white, 
 Rising in rainbow bubbles, 
 
 Streaking the lawns with light. 
 
 And down from the old stone pine-trees, 
 
 Those far off islands of air, 
 The birds are flinging the tidings 
 
 Of a joyful revel up there. 
 
 And now for the grand old fountains, 
 
 Tossing their silvery spray, 
 Those fountains so quaint and so many, 
 
 That are leaping and singing all day. 
 
 Those fountains of strange weird sculpture, 
 With lichens and moss o ergrown, 
 
 Are they marble greening in moss-wreaths ? 
 Or moss-wreaths whitening to stone ? 
 
 Down many a wild, dim pathway 
 We ramble from morning till noon ; 
 
 We linger, unheeding the hours, 
 Till evening comes all too soon. 
 
 And from out the ilex alleys, 
 
 Where lengthening shadows play, 
 
 We look on the dreamy Campagna, 
 All glowing with setting day, 
 
 All melting in bands of purple, 
 In swathings and foldings of gold, 
 
 In ribands of azure and iilac, 
 
 Like a princely banner unrolled. 
 
 And the smoke of each distant cottage, 
 And the flash of each villa white, 
 
 Shines out with an opal glimmer, 
 Like gems in a casket of light. 
 
 And the dome of old St. Peter s 
 
 With a strange transl licence glows, 
 
 Like a mighty bubble of amethyst 
 Floating in waves of rose. 
 
 In a trance of dreamy vagueness 
 We, gazing and yearning, behold 
 
 That city beheld by the prophet, 
 
 Whose walls were transparent gold. 
 
 And, dropping all solemn and slowly, 
 
 To hallow the softening spell, 
 There falls on the dying twilight 
 
 The Ave Maria bell. 
 
 With a mournful motherly softness, 
 
 With a weird and weary care, 
 That strange and ancient city 
 
 Seems calling the nations to prayer. 
 And the words that of old the angel 
 
 To the mother of Jesus brought, 
 Ri ?e ] _k - a new ,-vangel, 
 
 To hollow the trance of our thought. 
 
 With the smoke of the evening incense 
 Our thoughts are ascending then 
 
 To Mary, the mother of Jesus, 
 To Jesus, the Master of men. 
 
 city of prophets and martyrs, 
 O shrines of the sainted dead, 
 
 When, when shall the living day-spring 
 Once more on your towers be spread ? 
 
 When He who is meek and lowly 
 Shall rule in those lordly halls, 
 
 And shall stand and feed as a shepherd 
 The flock which his mercy calls, 
 
 0, then to those noble churches, 
 To picture, and statue, and gem, 
 
 To the pageant of solemn worship, 
 Shall the meaning come back again. 
 
 And this strange and ancient city, 
 In that reign of His truth and love, 
 
 Shall be what it seems in the twilight/ 
 The type of that City above. 
 
 THE GARDENS OF THE VATICAN. 
 
 SWEET fountains, plashing with a dreamy 
 
 fall. 
 And mosses green, and tremulous veils of 
 
 fern, 
 
 And banks of blowing cyclamen, and stars, 
 Blue as the skies, of myrtle blossoming, 
 The twilight shade of ilex overhead 
 O erbubbling with sweet song of nightingale, 
 With walks of strange, weird stillness, lead 
 ing on 
 Mid sculptured fragments half to green 
 
 moss gone, 
 
 Or breaking forth amid the violet leaves 
 With some white gleam of an old world 
 
 g one by. 
 
 Ah ! strange, sweet quiet ! wilderness of calm, 
 Gardens of dreamy rest, I long to lay 
 Beneath your shade the last long sigh, and 
 
 say, 
 Here is my home, my Lord, thy home and 
 
 mine ; 
 And I, having searched the world with many 
 
 a tear, 
 At last have found thee and will stray no 
 
 more. 
 
 But vainly here I seek the Gardener 
 That. Mary sa\v. These lovely halls beyond, 
 That airy, sky-like dome, that lofty fane, 
 Is as a palace whence the king is gone 
 And taken all the sweetness with himself. 
 Turn again, Jesus, and possess thine o\vn I 
 Come to thy temple once more as of old ! 
 Drive forth the money-changers, let it be 
 A house of prayer for nations. Even so, 
 Amen ! Ameii ! 
 
MRS. MARY E. BRADLEY. 
 
 HEARTSEASE. 
 
 OF all the bonny buds that blow 
 
 In bright or cloudy weather, 
 Of all the flowers that come and go 
 
 The whole twelve moons together, 
 This little purple pansy brings 
 Thoughts of the sweetest, saddest things. 
 
 I had a little lover once, 
 
 Who used to give me posies : 
 His eyes were blue as hyacinths, 
 
 His lips were red as roses, 
 And everybody loved to praise 
 His pretty looks and winsome ways. 
 
 The girls that went to school with me 
 
 Made little jealous speeches, 
 Because he brought me royally 
 
 His biggest plums and peaches, 
 And always at the door would wait 
 To carry home my books and slate. 
 
 "They couldn t see" with pout and fling- 
 
 " The mighty fascination 
 About that little snub-nosed thing 
 
 To win such admiration ; 
 As if there wern t a dozen girls 
 With nicer eyes and longer curls ! " 
 
 And this I knew as well as they, 
 
 And never could see clearly 
 Why more than Marion or May 
 
 I should be loved so dearly. 
 So once I asked him, why was this? 
 He only answered with a kiss. 
 
 Until I teased him " Tell me why 
 
 I want to know the reason ;" 
 When from the garden-bed close by 
 
 (The panties were in season) 
 He plucked and gave a flower to me, 
 Wiih sweet and Dimple gravity. 
 
 " The garden is in bloom," he said, 
 " With lilies pule and slender, 
 
 With roses and verbenas red, 
 And fuchsias purple splendor; 
 
 But over and above the rest, 
 
 This little heartsease suits me best." 
 
 " Am I your little heartsease, then ? " 
 I asked with blushing pleasure : 
 
 He answnvd yes ! and yes again 
 
 Heartsease, and dearest treasure; 
 That the round world and all the sea 
 Held nothing half so sweet as me 1 
 
 I listened with a proud delight 
 ^Too rare for words to capture, 
 iSor ever dreamed what sudden blight 
 Would come to chill my rapture. 
 
 Could I foresee the tender bloom 
 Of pansies round a little tomb ? 
 
 Life holds some stern experience, 
 
 As most of us discover, 
 And I ve had other losses since 
 
 I lost my little lover ; 
 But still this purple pansy brings 
 Thoughts of the saddest, sweetest things. 
 
 MIGXOXNETTE. 
 
 " Your qualities surpass your charms," Language of Floicert, 
 
 I PASSED before her garden gate : 
 
 She stood among her roses, 
 And stooped a little from the state 
 
 In which her pride reposes, 
 To make her flowers a graceful plea 
 For luring and delaying me. 
 
 " When summer blossoms fade so soon," 
 She said with winning sweetness, 
 
 " Who does not wear the badge of June 
 Lacks something of completeness. 
 
 My garden welcomes you to-day, 
 
 Come in and gather, while you may." 
 
 I entered in : she led me through, 
 
 A maze of leafy arches, 
 Where velvet-purple pansies grew 
 
 Beneath the sighing larches, 
 A shadowy, still, and cool retreat 
 That gave excuse for lingering feet. 
 
 She paused, pulled down a trailing vine, 
 And twisted round her finger 
 
 Its starry sprays of jessamine, 
 As one who seeks to linger. 
 
 But I smiled lightly in her face, 
 
 And passed on to the open space 
 
 Passed many a flower-bed fitly set 
 
 In trim and blooming order, 
 And plucked at last some mignonnette 
 
 That strayed along the border ; 
 A simple thing that had no bloom, 
 And but a faint and far perfume. 
 
 She wondered why I would not choose 
 
 That dreamy amaryllis, 
 " And could I really, then, refuse 
 
 Those heavenly white lilies ! 
 And leave ungathered on the slope 
 This passion-breathing heliotrope ? " 
 
 She did not know what need to tell 
 So fair and fine a creature ? 
 
 That there was one who loved me well 
 Of widely different nature; 
 
MRS. MARY E. BRADLEY. 
 
 433 
 
 A little maid whose tender youth, 
 And innocence, and simple truth, 
 
 Had won my heart with qualities 
 That far surpassed her beauty, 
 
 And held me with unconscious ease 
 Enthralled of love and duty ; 
 
 Whose modest graces all were met 
 
 And symboled in my mignonnette. 
 
 I passed outside her garden-gate, 
 And left her proudly smiling : 
 Her roses bloomed too late, too late, 
 
 She saw, for my beguiling. 
 I wore instead and wear it yet 
 The single spray of mignonnette. 
 
 Its fragrance greets me unaware, 
 
 A vision clear recalling 
 Of shy, sweet eyes, and drooping hair 
 
 In girlish tresses falling, 
 And little hands so white and fine 
 That timidly creep into mine ; 
 
 ^.s she all ignorant of the arts 
 That wiser maids are plying 
 
 Has crept into my heart of hearts 
 Past doubting or denying : 
 
 Therein, while suns shall rise and set, 
 
 To bloom unchanged, my mignonnette ! 
 
 WINTER GREEN. 
 
 There are more tilings to be seen 
 
 In this sprig of winter-^reen 
 
 Trian its leaves, and (jerries red, 
 
 And tiir dew on which thry led. 
 
 1 will Ml you what s. ined.y, 
 
 Wlien i lie children are at ],l.iy, 
 
 Out 01 hearing, mil "1 sight: 
 
 Uut n, . wrdof it lo-niuhi, 
 
 For tis Christmas Kve, and we 
 
 Must go dress the Christmas Tree." ANON. 
 
 THE frost has melted from the pane, 
 
 For rime is not in reason 
 When flowers begin to bloom again, 
 And the clear shining after rain 
 
 Foretells an April season. 
 
 I know how white the snow-drifts lie 
 
 Against the hawthorn hedges ; 
 And do ii )t venture to deny 
 Tuat icicles hang high a.nd dry 
 
 Along the window-ledges. 
 
 But some have found the flower of life 
 
 A delicate May-comer ; 
 Some find the winter s storm and strife 
 Witn more of blooming sweetness rife 
 
 Than any hour of summer. 
 
 And let me tell you why to-day 
 The frost leaves no impression ; 
 
 And why when all the world is gray 
 
 I hold, so confidently gay, 
 The sunshine in possession. 
 
 An hour ago this very room, 
 
 That now you find so cheery, 
 Was dull and darksome as a tomb 
 Whereon the flowers have ceased to bloom, 
 
 And I was just as dreary. 
 
 But while, with secret sense of shame, 
 
 Yet secret sense of yearning, 
 I breathed a rarely-uttered name, 
 Behold ! a letter to me came 
 
 With news of his returning ! 
 
 Then all the wintry world grew bright 
 With summer warmth and shining, 
 
 And every cloud that day or night 
 
 Had darkened over my delight, 
 Revealed a silver lining. . 
 
 For long ago, long ago, 
 
 No need now to remember, 
 If April violets were in blow, 
 Or if the fields were wrapt in snow 
 
 Of dreary cold December, 
 
 My love was proud, my love and I 
 Were proud, and tender-hearted ; 
 
 We passed each other coldly by, 
 
 Nor ever told the reason why 
 So foolishly we parted. 
 
 We went our weary ways alone, 
 
 He sailed the wide seas over ; 
 I kept my secret for my own, 
 And saw the pinky blossoms grown 
 
 Ten times upon the clover. 
 
 Ten times I heard the honey-bees 
 
 Among them sweetly humming ; 
 But never summer bee nor breeze 
 Brought me such welcome words as these, 
 " Your love is coming, coming !" 
 
 Upon the bitter biting blast 
 
 Of January flying, 
 The happy message came at last ; 
 And so, you see, my winter s past, 
 
 For all the snow s denying. 
 
 You need not smile because the snow 
 
 Upon my hair is sprinkled ; 
 Hearts may keep spring-time still, although 
 The brow above, like mine, you know, 
 
 Is just a little wrinkled. 
 
 I would not change with you, my sweet, 
 
 For all your April beauty ; 
 Nor give, for all the hearts that meet 
 To oiler at your pretty feet 
 
 Their undivided duty, 
 
 The one that unforgetting went 
 
 For ten long years together, 
 The one whose crowning love has lent 
 " The winter of my discontent" 
 
 Its flush of summer weather. 
 
 BESIDE THE SEA. 
 
 TO E. D. B. 3. 
 
 THE sea rolls up against the beach, 
 
 The old house fronts the sea ; 
 Only the high road s level reach 
 
 Betwixt its waves and me. 
 Across the window-ledge I lean 
 
 And watch the waters play, 
 As you have watched their shade and sheen 
 
 On many an April day, 
 
434 
 
 MRS. MARY E. BRADLEY. 
 
 lake this, which brightens to its close 
 
 Till sky and sea below 
 With sunset tints of gold and rose 
 
 Lie Hushed in equal glow ; 
 And far across the shining bay 
 A rainbow faintly fades away. 
 
 How like a dream it seems to me, 
 
 A tender dream come true, 
 To watch, in silent sympathy, 
 
 This sunlit sea with you ! 
 I turn to look upon your face ; 
 
 It is not one, indeed 
 With all the frankness of your race 
 
 That he who runs may read : 
 But like a floAver that drops apart 
 
 When summer sunbeams shine, 
 The closest leaflets of your heart 
 
 Have opened unto mine, 
 With all your yearning thoughts that fly 
 Beyond the sea, beyond the sky. 
 
 I would that like the sunbeams, dear, 
 
 I held the happy power 
 To shed a radiant atmosphere 
 
 About the drooling flower 
 That as the cloud of April flies 
 
 Before their bright control, 
 So might the shadow from your eyes, 
 
 Its substance from your soul ! 
 Vain wishes unto us who know 
 
 How black such shadows fall 
 The face we love best hid below 
 
 A coffin-lid and pall- 
 Love has not any balm to cure 
 These griefs that silently endure. 
 
 And I who love you, friend of years, 
 
 Can give you only this 
 The mute companionship of tears, 
 
 The language of a kiss ; 
 Or quiet clasping of the hand 
 
 When memories overflow, 
 And shines upon the sea and land 
 
 The light of long ago. 
 Not much for giving, it is true, 
 
 To one in merrier mood, 
 But something, after all, to you 
 
 So 1<> be understood ; 
 And in this old house by the sea, 
 I comprehend you utterly. 
 
 Its ancient walls are eloquent 
 
 Of days that are no more ; 
 Fail- days, sen-lie with sweet content, 
 
 Dark days, that darkly bore 
 Tin- burden of a lierce despair, 
 
 A sharp, unequal strife 
 Wherein who struggles he shall wear 
 
 The bitter scars for life. 
 You wear them ah ! the cruel need, 
 
 God knows it ! Let it be. 
 Some day the riddle we shall read 
 
 And all the reason see. 
 The shadows darken on the bay ; 
 The color fades ; you turn away. 
 
 A RHYME OF THE EAIN. 
 
 OXCE I sang in April weather 
 
 (Oh, I sang it all in vain !) 
 Tome and welcome, April shower 1 
 
 Tap your message on the pane. 
 
 April rain ! 
 I can guess the merry meaning 
 
 Of your musical refrain. 
 
 " For he loves me, loves me truly ! 
 
 Summer shower and winter snow 
 Bring the happy message to me, 
 
 And the wildest winds that blow. 
 
 Oh, I know 
 What the birds mean by their singing, 
 
 What the brook says, laughing low! 
 
 " He is coming! April shower, 
 With the bonny buds of May, 
 
 Bid the lilacs and the lilies 
 Don their loveliest array. 
 Dance away ! 
 
 Let your kisses speed their blooming 
 For my merry marriage-day ! " 
 
 So I sang in April weather, 
 
 And my voice w r as wild with glee 
 
 As the streamlet s, rippling downward 
 To its marriage with the sea. 
 But, ah me ! 
 
 Never while the tides flow onward 
 Shall my merry marriage be. 
 
 For he did not love me truly : 
 Tis the way of honey bees, 
 
 Having sucked the flower s sweetness 
 Just to wander as they plea se : 
 Will the breeze 
 
 Hold the flower s incompleteness 
 Limitation unto these ? 
 
 Comes again the April weather, 
 And the sudden cloud hangs low, 
 
 And the rain-drops dance together 
 With a measured fall and flow. 
 But, I know, 
 
 They will bring the message never 
 That they brought me long ago. 
 
 IX THE NIGHT. 
 
 THE night wind rustles in the trees: 
 In my dim chamber, ill at ease, 
 I lie with feverish pain opprest, 
 And toss the covers from my breast, 
 And turn my face to meet the breeze. 
 
 Outside, upon the lamp-lit street 
 The ringing tramp of endless feet, 
 And rush of wheels, and jangling bells 
 Blend With a voice that sinks and swells 
 In a rude ballad, shrilly sweet. 
 
 I listen till the wandering song 
 Dies in the undistinguished throng 
 Of jarring noises. Sleep has fled, 
 And sad-eyed Thought has come instead 
 To drag the weary hours along. 
 
MRS. MARY E. BRADLEY. 
 
 435 
 
 I yield myself to her control, 
 And ponder, sick and sad of soul, 
 How many sufferers there be 
 That lie in sleepless pain, like me, 
 Nor any power can make them whole. 
 
 No right have I, the truth being shown, 
 Or such as I, to make a moan. 
 Sin brings perforce its punishment ; 
 Who breaks a law must be content 
 To make the penalty his own. 
 
 And I have sinned enough, my God, 
 To hold me still beneath Thy rod, 
 And own the chastening is meet ; 
 Knowing how wilfully my feet 
 By and forbidden paths have trod. 
 
 Bat under this wide, starlit sky 
 How many sinless creatures lie 
 Tortured and bound with nameless pain, 
 And stretch imploring hands in vain, 
 Nor ever know the reason why ! 
 
 The little children, innocent 
 
 Alike of good or ill intent, 
 
 Whose utter helplessness should be 
 
 As utter an immunity 
 
 What is their sin for punishment ? 
 
 Why should their span of life, so brief, 
 Be ignorantly full of grief ? 
 And the pathetic look that lies 
 Mutely appealing in their eyes 
 Be unavailing for relief ? 
 
 It wrings my heart with sudden woe 
 To know as I too surely know 
 How many feverish hands will burn, 
 What little heads shall toss and turn 
 This night, in anguish, to and fro. 
 
 And how the mother-hearts must ache 
 
 With equal anguish for their sake, 
 
 The while with passionate tears they plead 
 
 Before a Power that takes no heed 
 
 To hands that burn or hearts that break ! 
 
 My soul by reason of these things 
 Is tortured l>y vain questionings. 
 Is God a God of Love in truth ; 
 And can He coldly, with no ruth, 
 Observe such needless sufferings? 
 
 I am His creature, verily, 
 Mad:- in His image. Can it be 
 That the men; creature of His breath 
 Who holds in balance life and death 
 Is made more merciful than He ? 
 
 /would account it pure delight 
 To stretch above the world this night 
 Vast wings of healing, and to shed 
 Upon each aching heart and head 
 A blessed balm, if so I might. 
 
 ^ s Christ the sick and sore went by, 
 And made them whole, so too would I. 
 No little child should wake to weep ; 
 But, wrapt around with tender sleep, 
 The mother and the babe should lie. 
 
 How the mere fancy that my will 
 Could such a boundless good fulfil 
 Deadens the sense* of present pain, 
 Sends the quick blood through every vein, 
 And makes my languid pulses thrill ! 
 
 Yet God on His eternal throne 
 
 Hears all unmoved this endless moan, 
 
 That at the echo of His word 
 
 To sweet rejoicing could be stirred 
 
 In a far-reaching monotone. 
 
 Thou art the potter, we the clay, 
 My God ! and yet both night and day 
 I wonder why Thy ways should be 
 So past the finding out ; for me, 
 I wonder when I ought to pray. 
 
 For hearts that simply pray and trust, 
 They know Thee good, and great, and just, 
 And with a love that casts out fear 
 They wait to read Thy meaning clear 
 Even till dust returns to dust. 
 
 Let mine be like them in Thy sight, 
 O God of mercy, God of might ! 
 That I may trust Thee for Thy grace, 
 And find Thee in the darkest place 
 By an unerring inward light. 
 
 Dispel the haunting doubt and dread 
 Twin spectres that beset my bed ; 
 Nor mine alone. Thou knowest, Lord, 
 They keep their evil watch and ward 
 This night by many a fevered head. 
 
 Through the long hours, with pain possessed, 
 
 We lie and think, we cannot rest, 
 
 And on our apprehension grows 
 
 The sum of individual woes 
 
 A nightmare weight upon the breast. 
 
 But Thou canst lift the weary weight, 
 And Love and Faith can penetrate 
 With sweetest sense of certainty 
 The desolating doubts of Thee 
 That Unbelief and Fear create. 
 
 Therefore, let Faith and Love endure, 
 Our Father! till our hearts are sure 
 The bitterest. blossom that can blow 
 Its root of sweetness hath below, 
 And every ill shall find its cure. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 COOL wind, sweet wind, blowing oft the sea, 
 Have you brought from Adelaide the kiss 
 
 she sent to me ? 
 Adelaide u little maid, fair as summer 
 
 skies, 
 All the dew and all the blue of April in her 
 
 eyes. 
 Red her lips like strawberries, or cherries 
 
 cleft in two, 
 But never fruit from any root such heavenly 
 
 sweetness drew ; 
 I who stole a kiss from them, and not so 
 
 long ago 
 Cool wind, sweet wind, ought n t I to know ? 
 
436 
 
 MRS. MARY E. BRADLEY. 
 
 Cool wind, sweet wind, flutter faraway ! 
 
 1 would rather see the gale that sweeps 
 across the bay ; 
 
 Rather greet snow and sleet, and sullen win 
 ter rain, 
 
 Than all the bloom and perfume that follow 
 in your train. 
 
 For when the winds of winter blow over 
 land and sea, 
 
 Adelaide, the little maid, she will marry me ; 
 
 Merrily the marriage bells will sound across 
 the bay 
 
 Cool wind, sweet wind, flutter far away ! 
 
 THE FOUK-LEAYED CLOVER. 
 
 IF it be true, or no, 
 
 That luck s in a four-leaved clover 
 As the old stories go 
 
 Now I mean to discover. 
 
 Ankle-deep in the dew 
 
 (With hopes too dear to be spoken), 
 I searched the grass-plot through 
 
 Till I found the fairy token. 
 
 Shyly hiding from sight 
 The nodding grasses under, 
 
 I brought it forth to the light 
 Here is my four-leaved wonder ! 
 
 A small affair, if you scan 
 Its outward presence merely, 
 
 To wake in the heart of a man 
 The hope he holds most dearly. 
 
 But love has its mystic lore 
 You may call it superstition ! 
 
 And Hope is the open door 
 
 Sometimes to a sweet fruition. 
 
 One thing this night shall show 
 
 Or I am no true lover, 
 If it be faLse or no, 
 
 That luck s in a four-leaved clover ! 
 
 IRREVOCABLE. 
 
 NOT all I could have wished her : you are 
 
 right, 
 But blessings brighten as they take their 
 
 flight. 
 
 If I could see her yonder, in the chair 
 She sat in yesterday ; could touch her hair ; 
 Or clasp her living hand in mine once 
 
 more, 
 I should be happier than I ever was before. 
 
 She was not so responsive to my touch, 
 She aid not love me as you say so much, 
 That I should grieve with grief befitting 
 
 him 
 Whose cup of joy was emptied from the 
 
 brim. 
 
 But losing all, it does not help my need 
 To know the actual loss is very small In 
 deed. 
 
 We never should have married : that 
 
 ap. 
 
 pears 
 
 A clear deduction from the weary years 
 Of difference between us. She was young 
 And passionate ; not apt to rule her tongue : 
 And I, with riper power of self-control, 
 For ever failed to strike the key-note of her 
 
 soul. 
 
 And yet I loved her : at the last she knew, 
 Past doubting, that my love was fond and 
 
 true. 
 Could my desire have stayed her failing 
 
 breath, 
 And drawn her from the cruel clasp of 
 
 Death, 
 She might have learned I think she would 
 
 have learned 
 To give me all for which my hungry spirit 
 
 yearned. 
 
 That parting anguish to us both revealed, 
 Too late, alas ! the chance that Life con 
 cealed. 
 
 As if these embers, smoldering at my feet, 
 Should glow again with red and quivering 
 
 heat, 
 
 And leap alive in airy jets of flame, 
 Because a sudden breath across their dulness 
 
 It might have failed me in the trial ? Yes, 
 But I would risk the trial none the less. 
 God knows, there is no rough and bitter 
 
 track 
 I would not tread with joy, to bring her 
 
 back. 
 For blessings brighten as they take their 
 
 flight, 
 And life is very desolate to me to-n ght. 
 
 ASHES OF ROSES. 
 
 SOMEBODY promised " Or ever June closes 
 I will be with you to gather the roses : 
 Failing my share of the blossomy treasure 
 May lavished on you in bountiful measure, 
 Missing the dew and delight of the spring, 
 June, I affirm, shall atone for the thing. 
 When the sweet summer is blushing in 
 
 roses, 
 Watch for me, welcome me ere your June 
 
 closes." 
 
 Somebody else, by the casement leaf-shaded, 
 
 Watched till her roses had blossomed and 
 faded : 
 
 Counted the beautiful days a^ they vanished ; 
 
 Hoped until hope from her bosom was ban 
 ished. 
 
 When the fair queen of the summer was 
 dead, 
 
 Sighing, she turned from the window, r.nd 
 said 
 
 " June "will return for the rose and tl.e 
 clover, 
 
 But oh ! for the June of my heart that is 
 over 1 " 
 
KATE PUTNAM OSGOOP. 
 
 DRIVING HOME THE COWS. 
 
 OUT of the clover and blue-eyed grass 
 He turned tliem into the river lane ; 
 
 One after another he let them pass, 
 Then fastened the meadow bars again. 
 
 Under the willows, and over the hill, 
 He patiently followed their sober pace ; 
 
 The merry wliistlfi for once was still, 
 
 And something shadowed the sunny face. 
 
 Only a boy ! and his father had said 
 He never could let his youngest go : 
 
 Two already were lying dead 
 
 Under the feet of the trampling foe. 
 
 But after the evening work was done, 
 
 And the frogs were loud in the meadow- 
 swamp, 
 Over his shoulder he slung his gun, 
 
 And stealthily followed the foot-path 
 damp. 
 
 Across the clover, and through the wheat, 
 With resolute heart and purpose grim, 
 
 Though cold was the dew on his hurrying 
 
 feet, 
 And the blind bat s flitting startled him. 
 
 Thrice since then had the lanes been white, 
 And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom ; 
 
 And now, when the cows came back at 
 
 night, 
 The feeble father drove them home. 
 
 For news had come to the lonely farm 
 
 That three were lying where two had lain ; 
 
 And the old man s tremulous, palsied arm 
 Could never lean on a son s again. 
 
 The summer day grew cool and late : 
 
 He went for the cows when the work was 
 done ; 
 
 But down the lane, as he opened the gate, 
 He saw them coining, one by one : 
 
 Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 
 
 Shaking their horns in the evening wind ; 
 
 Cropping the butter-cups out of the grass 
 But who was it following close behind ? 
 
 Loosely swung in the idle air 
 The empty sleeve of army blue ; 
 
 And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, 
 Looked out a face that the father knew. 
 
 For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, 
 And yield their dead unto life again ; 
 
 And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn 
 In golden glory at last may wane. 
 
 The great tears sprang to their meeting 
 
 eyes ; 
 For the heart must speak when the lips 
 
 are dumb : 
 And under the silent evening skies 
 
 Together they followed the cattle home. 
 
 UNDER THE MAPLE. 
 
 THE start it gave me just now, to see 
 As I stood in the door-way looking out 
 
 Rob Greene at play by the maple-tree, 
 Throwing the scarlet leaves about ! 
 
 It carried me back a long, long way ; 
 
 Ten years ago how the time runs by ! 
 There was nobody left at home that day 
 
 But little Jimmy and father and I : 
 
 My husband s father, an old, old man, 
 Close on to eighty, but still so smart : 
 
 It was only of late that he began 
 To stay in the house and doze apart. 
 
 But the fancy took him that afternoon 
 To go to the meadow to watch the men ; 
 
 And as fast as I arg ued, just so soon 
 He went right over it all again ; 
 
 Till, seeing how set he seemed to be, 
 
 I thought, with the air so warm and still, 
 
 It could not hurt him to go with me, 
 And sit for a little under the hill. 
 
 So, lending my arm to his feeble tread, 
 Together slowly we crossed the road, 
 
 While Jim and his cart ran on ahead 
 With a heap of pillows for wagon load. 
 
 We made him a soft seat, cushioned about, 
 Of an old chair out of the barn close by ; 
 
 Then Jim went off with a caper and shout, 
 While we sat silent, father and I. 
 
 For me, I was watching the men at work, 
 And looking at Jack, my oldest son 
 
 So like his father ! he never Avould shirk, 
 But kept straight on till the stint was 
 done. 
 
 Seventeen was Jack that last July : 
 
 A great stout fellow, so tall and strong! 
 
 And I spoke to the old man by-and by, 
 To see how fast he was getting along. 
 
 But father had turned away his head, 
 A -folio wing Jimmy s busy game 
 
 With the maple leaves, whose,bloody red 
 Flared up in the sun like so much flaine. 
 
433 
 
 KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD. 
 
 His lips, as lie looked, began to move, 
 And I heard him mutter a word or two : 
 
 " Yes, Joe ! A fire in the Weston grove ? 
 Just wait one minute I ll go with you ! " 
 
 "Why, father," I cried, "what do you 
 mean ? " 
 
 For 1 knew he talked of his brother Joe, 
 The twin that was drowned at scarce fifteen, 
 
 Sixty summers and more ago. 
 
 " The sun has dazzled you : don t you see 
 That isn t a fire a-blazing there ? 
 
 It s only Jim, by the maple-tree, 
 
 Tossing the red leaves into the air." 
 
 But still he nodded, and looked, and smiled, 
 Whispering something I could not hear; 
 
 Till, fairly frightened, I called the child, 
 Who left his play and came frolicking 
 near. 
 
 The old man started out of his seat : 
 " Yes, Joe, yes ; I m coming/ said he. 
 
 A moment he kept his tottering feet, 
 And then his weight grew heavy on me. 
 
 " Father ! " I screamed ; but he did not mind, 
 Though they all came running about us 
 then : 
 
 The poor old body was left behind, 
 
 And the twins were young together again. 
 
 And I wonder sometimes, when I wake at 
 night, 
 
 "Was it his eyes or my own were dim? 
 Did something stand, beyond my sight, 
 
 Among the leaves, and beckon to him ? 
 
 Well! there comes Jim up the interval 
 road : 
 
 Ten summers ago ? yes, all of ten : 
 Th;,t s Baby Jack on the pumpkin load, 
 
 And Jim is as old as Jack was then. 
 
 THE SOUL S QUEST. 
 
 A RAD soul knocked, as the night came down, 
 
 At the gate where Time as Warder stands ; 
 
 Then- was dust in the folds of her pilgrim 
 
 gown, 
 
 And blood on the staff in her wounded 
 hands. 
 
 "Whence nrt thou come, witli a cheek as pale 
 As the lilies drooping above thy brow? 
 
 Thine eyes arc heavy, thy footsteps fail; 
 Thou sorrowful soul, what seekest thou? 
 
 Oh, T am worn with the rocky road 
 
 My faltering feet were forced to climb I 
 
 1 have come up from :l f ;) abode 
 To beg for a boon, O pitiful Time ! 
 
 And how hast thou reached these hidden 
 
 towers 
 
 JNo mortal vision before hath found? 
 I have followed the lingering scent of the 
 
 flowers 
 Borne out of my life s fair garden-ground : 
 
 Young buds of hope, and the lavish bloom 
 Of joys cut down in their splendid prime : 
 
 I am faint for lack of their rich perfume ; 
 Give back my roses, O cruel Time ! 
 
 I have taken thy flowers and planted them 
 Where the breath of an endless summer 
 blows ; 
 
 But left I not by their broken stem 
 A living lily for every rose ? 
 
 Behold, they are wreathed around thy 
 brow ; 
 
 Thy tresses scatter their dewy balm ; 
 More fair than the flowers of earth, I trow, 
 
 Are Memory s lilies, pure and calm. 
 
 Oh, fresh and sweet though my lilies be, 
 I thirst for those cups of spice again ! 
 
 Thou pleading soul, I will render thee 
 
 The boon thou hast sotight through toil 
 and pain. 
 
 Unloose my lilies from out thy hair, 
 And bind in their place thy roses red. 
 
 Nay, nay. but suffer me still to wear 
 
 This fragrant bloom of the days that are 
 dead. 
 
 Shall I rob for thy earth my garden wall 
 Of the lily leaf and the rich rose-vine ? 
 
 Thou shalt enter at last and gather all, 
 But choose thou to-day twixt thine and 
 mine. 
 
 Those roses the fullness of life had lent 
 The odor and flush of its fervid years ; 
 
 But they breathed not the rare and subtle 
 
 scent 
 Of the pure pale lilies bom of tears. 
 
 Slowly at length to the weary track, 
 
 From the flowers she had followed so far 
 
 astray, 
 Sweet Memory s chaplet bearing back, 
 
 The sad soul turned on her downward 
 way. 
 
 JIMMY. 
 
 JIMMY and I are fellows for play ! 
 
 Never tired of it, rain or shine. 
 Jimmy was six the last birthday, 
 
 While I was only sixty-nine ! 
 
 So little Master Commonsense 
 
 Gives himself superior airs, 
 Guiding my inexperience 
 
 By the wisdom under his own white hairs 
 
 Sometimes it happens the hoary sage 
 Over-anxious for Number One 
 
 Tunis to account my tender age, 
 And 1 am most atrociously "done." 
 
 No matter how it may chance to be, 
 Jimmy s argument never fails : 
 
 The copper is always wrong for me, 
 And Jimmy is winner, heads or tails. 
 
KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD, 
 
 439 
 
 Wt.ll, 1 have lived to be boy and man, 
 Dad and grandad, and yet, I vow, 
 
 Never was I in my threescore and ten 
 Half so sharp as Jimmy is now ! 
 
 And sadly the question bothers me, 
 As I stop in my play to look at him 
 
 What will the Twentieth Century be, 
 
 If the Nineteenth s youngsters are all like 
 Jim ? 
 
 BY THE APPLE-TREE. 
 
 IT was not anger that changed him of late ; 
 
 It was not diffidence made him shy ; 
 Yon branch that has blossomed above the 
 gate 
 
 Could guess the riddle and so can I. 
 
 What does it mean when the bold eyes fall, 
 And the ready tongue at its merriest trips ? 
 
 What potent influence holds in thrall 
 The eager heart and the burning lips ? 
 
 Ah me ! to falter before a girl 
 
 Whose shy lids never would let you know 
 (Save for the lashes wilful curl) 
 
 The pansy-purple asleep below. 
 
 Nothing to frighten a man away 
 Only a cheek like a strawberry-bed ; 
 
 Only a ringlet s gold astray, 
 
 And a mouth like a baby s, dewy-red. 
 
 Ah, baby-mouth, with your dimpled bloom ! 
 
 If but yon blossomy apple-bough 
 Could whisper a secret learned in the gloom, 
 
 That deepens its blushes even now. 
 
 No need, for the secret at last is known : 
 
 Yet so, I fancy, it might not be 
 Had he not met her, by chance, alone, 
 
 There in the lane, by the apple-tree. 
 
 MARGUERITE. 
 
 WHAT aileth pretty Marguerite ? 
 
 Such April moods about her meet ! 
 
 She sighs, and yet she is not sad ; 
 
 She smiles, with naught to make her glad. 
 
 A thousand flitting fancies chase 
 The sun and shadow on her face : 
 The wind is not more light than she, 
 Nor deeper the unsounded sea. 
 
 What aileth pretty Marguerite ? 
 Doth none discern her secret sweet ? 
 Yet earth and air have many a sign 
 The heart of maiden to divine. 
 
 In budding leaf and building nest 
 Lie kindred mysteries half confest ; 
 And whoso hath the gift of sight 
 May Nature s riddle read aright. 
 
 Not all at once the lily s heart 
 Is kissed by wooing waves apart : 
 Not in a day the lavish May 
 Flings all her choicest flowers away. 
 
 Fair child ! shall potent Love alone 
 Forget to send his heralds on? 
 Ah, happy lips, that dare repeat 
 What aileth pretty Marguerite ! 
 
 MOTHER MICHAUD. 
 
 IT was early morn when Mother Michaud 
 Passed by the guard at the city gate, 
 
 Drowsily measuring, to and fro, 
 
 The narrow length of the iron grate. 
 
 Still, far and faint in the twilight swoon, 
 Where dark and dawning at straggle meet, 
 
 Like her own pale shadow, the waning moon 
 Hung lonely over the lonely street. 
 
 By winding stairway and gable quaint 
 Carved over again in shade below 
 
 By arch and turret and pillared saint, 
 
 With lightsome step walked Mother Mi 
 chaud. 
 
 Pleasant it was in the smoky town 
 The rosy old country face to see ! 
 
 The high white cap and the peasant gown 
 Brought up a vision of Normandie 
 
 Normandie, with its fair green swells, 
 The sweep of its orchards flowery flood, 
 
 Ways that wind into woody dells, 
 
 Corn fields red with the poppy s blood. 
 
 There, in the corner, the wheel stood still 
 That used to whir like the bees on the 
 thatch ; 
 
 The cherries might tap on the window-sill, 
 And the vine, unloosened, lift the latch ; 
 
 But Mother Michaud had left behind 
 The sun and scent of her native plain, 
 
 Far over the darkling hills to find 
 The face of her youngest son again. 
 
 Nine long years had come and gone, 
 Nine long years, since the April day 
 
 When into the mists of the early dawn 
 He melted, a kindred mist, away. 
 
 And year after year the bright boy-face, 
 That never came back from that cloud- 
 land dim, 
 
 Beckoned her out of the empty space, 
 Till it drew her at last to follow him. 
 
 Lonely and dark in the dawning spread 
 The city s tangle of court and street ; 
 
 But the stones that answered her hurrying 
 
 tread 
 Had echoed before to his passing feet ! 
 
 Lonely and dark ? But a sound, a glare, 
 Strike on the sense like a sudden blow ! 
 
 Press closer up to the shadowy stair, 
 Out of the tumult, Mother Michaud ! 
 
 Clatters the street to the soldiers tram}), 
 File on h le, with a stately sheen, 
 
 Under the flare of the fitful lain]) 
 
 Held high in the cart that rolls between. 
 
 The heads carved over the doorway there 
 Grin into view fora moment plain, 
 
 Mocking the mute, bewildered stare 
 
 Of the mother who finds her son again. 
 
 Finds him, to lose him at last like this ! 
 Chained like a wolf, with those wolfish 
 eyes ! 
 
440 
 
 KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD. 
 
 Dead, with never a mother s kiss, 
 
 Ere yon low moon drops out of the skies ! 
 
 Forward she sprang, in the torch-light blaze 
 Full overhead as the cart went by 
 
 All her soul in that straining ga/e, 
 
 All her strength in that maddened cry. 
 
 He turned, as it smote through his dulling 
 ear* : 
 
 Their wild eyes met and the cart drove on. 
 So Mother Michaud, after nine long years, 
 
 Looked into the face of her youngest son. 
 
 IN THE SEED. 
 
 You have chosen coldly to cast away 
 
 The love they tell you is faithless found. 
 Pity or trust it is vain to pray 
 
 Your heart they have hardened, your 
 
 senses bound. 
 You have broken the wreaths that clasped 
 
 you round, 
 The strength of the vine and the opening 
 
 flower : 
 
 Love, torn and trampled on stony ground, 
 Is left to die in its blossom hour. 
 
 Well, go your ways ; but, wherever they 
 
 lead, 
 
 They cannot leave me wholly behind. 
 From the flower, as it falls, there falls a 
 
 seed 
 Whose roots round the root of life shall 
 
 wind. 
 
 So sure as the soul in the flesh is shrined, 
 So sure as the fire in the cloud is set, 
 
 Be \ou ever so cold or ever so blind, 
 You shall find and fathom and feel me yet. 
 
 As the germ of a tree in the close dark earth 
 
 Struggles for life in its breathless tomb, 
 Quickening painfully into birth, 
 
 Writhing its way up to light and room ; 
 
 As it spreads its growth till the great 
 
 boughs loom 
 A shade and a greenness wide and high, 
 
 And the birds sing under the "myriad 
 
 bloom, 
 And the top looks into the infinite sky ; 
 
 So si mil it he with the love to-day 
 
 Flung under your feet as a worthless 
 
 thing. 
 The hour and the spot I cannot sav 
 
 When- the seed, fate-sown, at last shall 
 
 spring: 
 
 Beyond, it may be, the narrow ring 
 Of our little world in swarming space, 
 
 After weary length of journeying, 
 It shall drop from the wind to its destined 
 place. 
 
 But somewhere, I know, it shall reach its 
 
 1 1 eight ! 
 Sometimes it shall conquer this cruel 
 
 wrong t 
 
 The sun by day, and the moon by night, 
 Shower and season, shall bear it along. 
 You will sleep and wake while it waxes 
 strong 
 
 And green beside the appointed ways, 
 
 Till, full of blossom and dew and song, 
 You shall find it there after many days. 
 
 Perchance it shall be amid long despair 
 
 Of toiling over the desert sand ; 
 When your eyes are burned by the level 
 
 glare, 
 And the staff is fire to your bleeding 
 
 hand. 
 Then the waving of boughs in a silent 
 
 land, 
 And a wonder of green afar shall spread, 
 
 And your feet as under a tent shall stand, 
 With shadow and sweetness about your 
 head. 
 
 And my soul, like the unseen scent of the 
 flower, 
 
 Shall circle the heights and the depths of 
 
 the tree : 
 Nothing of all in that consummate hour 
 
 That shall not come as a part of me ! 
 
 This world or that may my triumph see 
 But love and life can never be twain, 
 
 And time as a breath of the wind shall be, 
 When we meet and grow together again ! 
 
 UNDER THE MOON. 
 
 LIKE a lily-flower uplifted 
 
 Full blown on the blue tide-sway, 
 Into the heaven blossoms 
 
 The perfect moon of May. 
 
 White under her own white glory 
 She sees, on the green young ground, 
 
 The fallen bloom of the cherry 
 Drift over a double mound. 
 
 There, where the cottage chimneys 
 Peer dim through a mist of trees, 
 
 They sat by the hearth at evening, 
 With the child about their knees. 
 
 Three empty seats by the fireside, 
 Two graves neath the orchard bough 
 
 The dead are at rest together : 
 But where is the living now ! 
 
 Pale in the smoky circle 
 
 That fain would shadow her noon, 
 Over the lights of the city 
 
 Trembles the large May moon. 
 
 But blind to that searching splendor, 
 
 Deaf to the riotous street, 
 He lies in a drunken slumber 
 
 The child that played at their feet. 
 
 Were it not well, in the cradle, 
 Long since the babe had died? 
 
 Had the little headstone risen 
 Those two green mounds beside ? 
 
 Nay, this is not the ending, 
 
 O child of their love and prayer ! 
 
 (Jod s moon is one in the heavens, 
 His mercy everywhere. 
 
KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD. 
 
 441 
 
 A CHILDISH FANCY. 
 
 OH mother ! see how pale and wet 
 
 The flowers on father s grave are lying ! 
 
 It must be watching you has set 
 The little daisy-buds to crying ! 
 
 Poor child ! and do you think the earth 
 Sorrows because our hearts are aching? 
 
 Look, then, with what a careless mirth 
 That sunlight on his bed is breaking ! 
 
 Yes, but you called the great blue air 
 God s home, to all His angels given ; 
 
 And so perhaps the sunbeam there 
 Is father smiling up in heaven ! 
 
 SIXTEEN AND SIXTY. 
 
 SING with me, laugh with me, sister Spring ! 
 
 Oh ! we are happy, we two, to-day ! 
 Are we two, or the self -same thing ? 
 
 Thou and I, beautiful May ? 
 
 I thrill as a leaf to the circling air : 
 
 The blood in my veins is like sap in the 
 vine : 
 
 The wild bees follow my floating hair, 
 Made sweet with buds for this lover of 
 
 Frame me in lijrht for his eyes anew ! 
 
 Does the earth shrink under your gaze, 
 
 O sky ? 
 I am fair as a flower ; I am fresh as the dew : 
 
 We are young together, the year and I. 
 
 Heavens ! to think there can come a time 
 When the sense is dull and the pulse is 
 slow ! 
 
 To stand, in the spring-tide s golden prime, 
 The single blot on the whole great glow ! 
 
 Poor madame yonder, with all her gold, 
 She is pale and wrinkled, and old and 
 alone ; 
 
 She is less alive than the mossy mould 
 That clings to the top of that buried stone. 
 
 I never can be like that, I know, 
 
 We have years on years of our youth s 
 bright flower ; 
 
 And if ever my love must let him go, 
 
 I shall drop and die in the self-same hour. 
 
 Hark ! he is coming ! The faint winds sigh 
 Before his feet to bring him soon ! 
 
 While over us both, in the warm blue sky, 
 The sun goes quivering up to noon. 
 
 One may venture to trust the sun to-day : 
 There is warmth at last in that seeming 
 blaze. 
 
 At last ! already the midst of May ! 
 So backward the springs are nowadays ! 
 
 What do I see by the terrace there, 
 
 That dazzles so white on the slope of 
 green ? 
 
 It is little Laura, with flowers in her hair ? 
 Ah yes : to-day she is just sixteen. 
 
 Poor silly baby ! I understand 
 
 What keeps you loitering there alone : 
 
 Each bough in your path an outstretched 
 
 hand, 
 And every whisper a lover s tone. 
 
 You fancy, perhaps, in your giddy youth, 
 I can never have dreamed such dreams as 
 you ? 
 
 Eh, child ? I have had my May, forsooth ! 
 Fairer than yours while it lasted, too. 
 
 To think that the time has been when even 
 
 I, too, was a fool in Paradise ! 
 When the spring was the year, and the earth 
 a heaven, 
 
 And heaven itself was in two blue eyes ! 
 
 Only sixteen ! Such a weary round 
 
 Before she can find what the whole is 
 worth ! 
 
 Her Garden of Eden common ground, 
 
 And her idol himself but a lump of earth. 
 
 Ah, well ! like the rest she must live and 
 
 learn. 
 
 The flower of youth must wither and fall ; 
 The fire of love to its ashes burn ; 
 
 For me thank Heaven ! I have done with 
 it all. 
 
 AWAKENED. 
 
 MY heart was like a hidden lyre 
 
 In silence that so long hath lain 
 Not e en the cold, neglected wire 
 
 llemembereth its own sweet strain : 
 Till thou, a breeze from summer shore, 
 
 Breathed tenderly across the string, 
 That, waking into life once more, 
 
 Began the broken song to sing. 
 
 My soul was like a diamond spark 
 
 Imprisoned in the rocky mine, 
 Unconscious, in that eyeless dark, 
 
 What hidden fires within it shine : 
 Till thou, a gleam of noonday light, 
 
 Upon the buried jewel came, 
 That, breaking from its long, dull night, 
 
 Leaped up, a many-tinted flame. 
 
 My life was like a pallid flower 
 
 Within the shadow sprung, alone, 
 Forgotten of the sun and shower, 
 
 And withering ere it has blown : 
 Till thou, a drop of morning clew, 
 
 Stole softly downward through the gloom, 
 And straight the bud asunder flew 
 
 To fill the air with balm and bloom. 
 
 Then take, and fashion to thy will, 
 
 This heart and soul and life of mine ! 
 Shall not thine own free gifts fulfill 
 
 Their utmost hope in seeking thine ? 
 I claim no harvest from a field 
 
 My hands have tended not : the tone, 
 The fragrance, and the light revealed 
 
 By thee, belong to thee alone ! 
 
443 
 
 KATE P-UTNAM OSGOOD. 
 
 SAWDUST. 
 
 LAST night I happened, quite by chance 
 
 Intruding lute upon the scene, 
 To see ;i most delightful dance 
 
 My little sister s dolls between. 
 
 It was a party so select, 
 
 Conducted in the style approved, 
 I really hardly could detect 
 
 Twas not the circle where /moved ! 
 
 A manikin I marked, whom all 
 
 Seemed, as one doll, to hang about 
 
 (Except a cynic by the wall, 
 
 Whose grapes were sour enough, no doubt). 
 
 And as I saw the eager smile 
 
 Of such a very pretty ninny 
 Whose waist and hair and general style 
 
 Were not unlike my cousin Winny 
 
 And watched that other savage face, 
 A startling sort of likeness came 
 
 Between the poor doll-fellow s case 
 
 And some one s whom I need not name. 
 
 And still the question puzzles me, 
 Remembering the look lie wore 
 
 Am 1 a doll ? or can it be 
 
 That I have seen it all before ? 
 
 Though, save myself, no creature there 
 
 Had any claim upon a soul, 
 That court about the millionaire 
 
 Looked strangely natural, on the whole. 
 
 Who would have thought the same good 
 sense 
 
 Common to dolls and human brains, 
 Or such a trifling difference 
 
 T \vixt blood and sawdust in the veins ! 
 
 IN CLOVEK. 
 
 THE path drops down the hill -side, and 
 creeps through the clover a while, 
 
 To tangle itself in thistles, at last, the other 
 side of the stile. 
 
 Bill s meadow and mine together there, per 
 haps for the contrast s sake, 
 
 For Bill s is as rich a clover-field as ever 
 bothered a rake : 
 
 While mine! well, I bought it, weeds and 
 all, this summer, of Parson West : 
 
 lie s great in the pulpit Sundays but his 
 farming s none of the best ! 
 
 Xot that 1 mean to grumble, for I think my 
 self lucky enough 
 
 To get a piece of my own at last ; what odds 
 if it s ever so rough ? 
 
 But here, at my nooning, I catch a whiff of 
 
 the clover now and then, 
 Mixed with a laugh, and look over the wall, 
 
 to see her there again, 
 
 Talking with Bill. It s the queerest thing 
 if girls were not always so ! 
 
 What brings her so often, lately ? It isn t 
 for him, I know. 
 
 And Bill, he takes it so easy ! while she, 
 
 with a pretty art, 
 Mixes her smiles and blushes in a wuy I ve 
 
 learned by heart, 
 
 Looks up and down together, enough to be 
 wilder a man, 
 
 He pulls at that hard old cider, with barely 
 a glance from the can ! 
 
 Well, well, I grudge the time to laugh till 
 
 after my work is done ; 
 
 But only to see a fellow in clover more 
 
 ways than one 
 
 Turn coolly round to feeding, like an ox let 
 
 out from a stall, 
 Careless of summer sight or sound, and 
 
 something sweeter than all ! 
 
 You lump of bread and butter, Bill ! if 1 
 
 were there in your stead ! 
 There s more than hay in your clover-field, 
 
 and a meaning in lips so red ! 
 
 If only I stood there, close to her, with the 
 
 clover up to my knees, 
 Full of the dew and the sunlight, and the 
 
 whirl and hum of the bees, 
 
 I d envy neither your cider, nor the blossom- 
 wine they drink : 
 
 There s a sweeter honey than ever yet was 
 ripened for either, I think. 
 
 Well, it s easier wishing than working,. but 
 
 there isn t much of a doubt 
 A. man must raise his clover himself, or 
 
 manage to do without, 
 
 Bill s was his father s before him, it s true, 
 
 but Bill s no rule for me ; 
 I reckon he s no more like to win what both 
 
 of us want, you see. 
 
 So, Dobbin, nooning is over. What ! is she 
 
 going awav ! 
 Kat on, old horse, for a little ; she s sure to 
 
 have something to say. 
 
 It s always the same: a word or a look just 
 
 as she passes the gate, 
 With a Miiile that dazzles my wits away till 
 
 after it s all too late. 
 
 No matter : some day, when my clover is 
 
 growing tall and red. 
 I m bound to ask a question shall ,nake her 
 
 falter instead. 
 
 It s only waiting and working a little longer 
 
 still : 
 Get up to your work, old fellow ! she doesn t 
 
 c< t re for Bill ! 
 
MES. S. M. B. PI ATT. 
 
 THE FANCY BALL. 
 
 As Morning you d have me rise 
 On that shining world of art ; 
 
 You. forget : I have too much dark in my 
 
 .eyes 
 And too much dark in my heart. 
 
 " Then go as the Night in June : 
 Pass, dreamily, by the crowd, 
 With jewels to mock the stars and the 
 
 moon, 
 And shadowy robes like cloud. 
 
 Or as Spring, with a spray in your hair 
 
 Of blossoms as yet unblown ; 
 It will suit you well, for our youth should 
 
 wear 
 The bloom in the bud alone. 
 
 Or drift from the outer gloom 
 
 With the soft white silence of Snow :" 
 I should melt myself with the warm, close 
 
 room 
 Or my own life s burning. No. 
 
 " Then fly through the glitter and mirth 
 
 As a Bird of Paradise : " 
 Nay, the waters I drink have touch d the 
 
 earth : 
 I breathe no summer of spice. 
 
 " Then " Hush : if I go at all, 
 
 (It will make them stare and shrink, 
 It will look so strange at a Fancy Ball,) 
 I will go as Myself, I think ! 
 
 TWELVE HOURS A TART. 
 
 HE loved me. But he loved, likewise, 
 
 This morning s world in bloom and wings ; 
 Ah, does he love the world that lies 
 
 In dampness, whispering shadowy things, 
 Under this little band of moon? 
 
 He loves me ? Will he fail to see 
 
 A phantom hand has touch d my hair 
 
 (And waver d, withering, over me) 
 To leave a subtle grayness there, 
 Below the outer shine of June ? 
 
 He loves me ? Would he call it fair, 
 Theflush d half-flower lie left me, say? 
 
 For it has pass d beneath the glare 
 And from my bosom drops away, 
 Shaken into the grass with pain ? 
 
 He loves me ? Well, I do not know. 
 
 A song in plumage cross d the hill 
 At sunrise when I felt him go 
 
 And song and plumage now are still. 
 He could not praise the bird again. 
 
 He loves me ? Vail d in mist I stand, 
 My veins less high with life than when 
 
 To-day s thin dew was in the land, 
 Vaguely less beautiful than then 
 Myself a dimness with the dim. 
 
 He loves me ? I am faint with fear. 
 | He never saw me quite so old ; 
 I never met him quite so near 
 
 My grave, nor quite so pale and cold : 
 Nor quite so sweet, he says, to him ! 
 
 TO-DAY. 
 
 AH, real thing of bloom and breath, 
 I can not love you while you stay. 
 
 Put on the dim, still charm of death, 
 Fade to a phantom, float away, 
 And let me call you Yesterday ! 
 
 Let empty flower-dust at my feet 
 Remind me of the buds you wear ; 
 
 Let the bird s quiet show how sweet 
 The far-off singing made the air ; 
 And let your dew through frost look fair. 
 
 In mourning you I shall rejoice. 
 Go : for the bitter word may be 
 
 A music in the vanish d voice ; 
 And on the dead face I may see 
 How bright its frown has been to me. 
 
 Then in the haunted grass I ll sit, 
 Half careful in your wither d place, 
 
 And watch your lovely shadow flit 
 Across To-morrow s sunny face, 
 And vex her with your p,-rfect grace. 
 
 So, real thing of bloom nnd breath, 
 I weary of you while you stay. 
 
 Put on the dim, still charm of death, 
 Fade to a phantom, float away, 
 And let me call you Yesterday ! 
 
 MEETING A MIRROR. 
 
 BELOVED of beautiful and eager eyes, 
 
 It had its honors from the guests below; 
 But it went somewhat nearer to the skies 
 
 As it grew old, you know. 
 Still, from the gilded splendor of the day 
 
 That Vanity sees shining in its plsuv. 
 1 turned with yearning for the pleased, slow 
 way 
 
 It used to hold my face. 
 
444 
 
 MRS. S. M. B. PI ATT. 
 
 Far up the stair and sliunn d of faded eyes 
 I found the thing that I had loved before : 
 
 It took my face, grew dead- white with sur 
 prise, 
 Held it then saw no more ! 
 
 Suddenly blinded : for the Mirror shed 
 Tears for dim hair it praised to suns 
 gone by, 
 
 And One to whom once of it I gayly said, 
 " My rival dear as I ! " 
 
 Companions, in our time, of pleasant lights, 
 I thought, and music and rich foreign 
 
 blooms, 
 
 What shall we find for those fair evening- 
 sights 
 In lonesome upper rooms ? 
 
 The misty Mirror show d a calm reproof, 
 Receiving there a higher company, 
 
 In dust and empty silence near the roof, 
 Than we were wont to see. 
 
 Its pride in jewel d reverence was gone, 
 And quiet tenderness was in its place, 
 
 That took the sweet stars, as they gliin- 
 
 mer d on 
 In chill clouds, to its grace. 
 
 EARTH IN HEAVEN. 
 
 SOMEWHERE, my friend, in the beautiful 
 
 skies, 
 
 Awaiting us lovely and clear, 
 We shall find all beauty that leaves our 
 
 eyes 
 
 So vacant in vanishing here : 
 Not the human alone has died 
 To go up and be glorified. 
 
 I shall find my childhood playing there 
 In the grass where it used to play, 
 
 And see our red-birds brighten the air; 
 Again as a girl I shall stray 
 
 On the hills where the snow-drops grew, 
 
 And hear the wild doves in the dew. 
 
 I si i;ill feel the darkness dripping with rain 
 On the old home-roof ; I shall see 
 
 The white rose-bud in the yard again, 
 And the sweet -brier climbing the tree, 
 
 With its pretty young blooms that fell 
 
 Below to be drown d in the well. 
 
 And sometimes a night, with blossoming 
 hours 
 
 In a crescent s early gleam, 
 Will let a Dream flutter out of its flowers, 
 
 With no oilier name but a Dream, 
 To my breast, with a timid grace, 
 And wings o er its, blushing face. 
 
 Ah ! you smile in the dark ; you smile, and 
 
 refuse 
 
 My faith in these sweet faded things ; 
 But I tell you I know that my soul would 
 
 lose 
 
 One-half of the strength in its wings 
 If these were not keeping their light, 
 As the angels in Heaven, to-ui^ht. 
 
 LAST WORDS. 
 
 OVER A LITTLE BED AT NIGHT. 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT, pretty sleepers of mine 
 
 I never shall see you again : 
 Ah, never in shadow nor shine ; 
 
 Ah, never in dew nor in rain ! 
 
 In your small dreaming-dresses of white, 
 With the wild-bloom you gather d to-day 
 
 In your quiet shut hands, from the light 
 And the dark you will wander away. 
 
 Though no graves in the bee-haunted grass, 
 And no love in the beautiful sky, 
 
 Shall take you as yet, you will pass, 
 
 With this kiss, through these tear-drops, 
 Good- by ! 
 
 With less gold and more gloom in their 
 hair, 
 
 When the buds near have faded to flowers, 
 Three faces may wake here as fair 
 
 But older than yours are, by hours ! 
 
 Good-night, then, lost darlings of mine 
 
 I never shall see you again-. 
 Ah, never in shadow nor shine ; 
 
 Ali, never in dew nor in rain ! 
 
 THE END OF THE RAINBOW. 
 
 MAY you go to find it ? You must, I fear ; 
 Ah, lighted young eyes, could I show you 
 
 how 
 
 " Is it past those lilies that look so near ?" 
 It is past all flowers. Will you listen, 
 now ? 
 
 The pretty new moons faded out of the sky, 
 
 The bees and butterflies out of the air, 
 And sweet wild songs would flutter and 
 
 fly 
 
 Into wet dark leaves and the snow s 
 white glare. 
 
 There were winds and shells full of lone 
 some cries, 
 There were lightnings and mists along 
 
 the way, 
 And the deserts would glitter against my 
 
 eyes, 
 
 Where the beautiful phantom-fountains 
 play. 
 
 At last, in a place very dusty and bare, 
 Some little dead birds I had petted to 
 
 sing , 
 Some little dead flowers I had gather d to 
 
 wear, 
 Some wither d thorns and an empty ring, 
 
 Lay scatter d. My fairy story is told. 
 
 (It does not please her : she has not 
 
 smiled.) 
 
 What is it you say ? Did I find the gold ? 
 Why, I found the End of the Rainbow, 
 child ! 
 
MRS. S. M. B. PI ATT. 
 
 445 
 
 TWO BLUSH-ROSES. 
 
 A BLUSH-ROSE lay in the summer ; 
 
 There were golden lights in the sky, 
 And a woman saw the blossom 
 
 As she stood with her lover nigh. 
 
 A band in the flowering distance 
 
 Play d a dreamy Italian air, 
 Like a memory changed to music, 
 
 And it drifted everywhere. 
 
 T was an exiled love of its Southland, 
 
 That air, and its delicate wails 
 Were only the wandering echoes 
 
 Of, the songs of nightingales. 
 
 " I love you," he tenderly whisper d ; 
 
 " I love you," she answer d as low : 
 And the music grew sweeter and sweeter, 
 
 Because it had listen d, I know. 
 
 But she look d at the rose in the summer, 
 And said, with a tremulous tear, 
 
 " The love that now beat* in my bosom 
 Will bloom in a blush-rose next year." 
 
 A blush-rose lay in the summer ; 
 
 There were golden lights in the sky, 
 And a woman saw the blossom 
 
 As she stood with her lover nigh. 
 
 The band in the flowering distance 
 
 Play d the dreamy Italian air, 
 Like a memory changed to music, 
 
 And it drifted everywhere. 
 
 " I love you," he tenderly whisper d ; 
 
 " I love you," she timidly said : 
 And the music grew sadder and sadder, 
 
 And the blush-rose before them dropped 
 dead. 
 
 Then he knew that the music remember d, 
 And knew the love that had beat 
 
 Last year in her beautiful bosom 
 Lay dead in the rose at his feet. 
 
 OF A PARTING. 
 
 UNDER a calm of stars, my own, 
 Under a drooping crescent light, 
 
 You go, while fairy sounds are blown 
 
 Out of the dreams of winds, my ow r n 
 You go across the night ; 
 
 But on some far-off strand of sunrise 
 Our hearts meet in radiant bliss, 
 Not damp, like this ! 
 
 You go ; the calm of stars must go, 
 The crescent light, the fairy sounds ; 
 
 Billows of cloud will overflow 
 
 The golden skies : but you must, go. 
 And in its stormy rounds 
 
 The dark will hear low, fluttering voices 
 Cry in my heart, like lonesome birds, 
 For your sweet words. 
 
 lou go, and twilights made for love 
 
 Will gloom between us, dim with dew ; 
 The spring-loosed music of the dove 
 Will search the emerald woods for love, 
 
 And I will long for you, 
 Among the blue and pearly blossoms 
 Far on the mossy hills, alone, 
 My own, my own. 
 
 But you must loose my hands and go. 
 
 Haste with those tremulous words of pain, 
 For I, most loved of all, I know 
 (The thought is full of tears) some go 
 
 And never come again ; 
 So wait, and let me look forever 
 Into the* tenderness that lies 
 In those deep eyes. 
 
 Ah ! you are g one ; and I I hold 
 My vacant arms to all who part, 
 
 And weep for them, and long to fold 
 
 Those strangers close, and say : " I hold 
 Your sorrow in my heart ; " 
 
 But look the calm of stars is o er us, 
 And we go toward their lighted shore, 
 And part no more. 
 
 A DISENCHANTMENT. 
 
 AND thou wast but a breathing May 
 
 Embodied by delicious dreams, 
 And drifted o er my wandering way 
 
 On fancy s swift and shining streams. 
 Thine eyes were only violets, 
 
 Thy lips but buds of crimson bloom, 
 Thy hair, coiled sunshine vain regrets ! 
 
 Thy soul, a brief perfume. 
 
 And when the time of mists and chills 
 
 Fell where the sweet wild roses gre w, 
 And took them from the shadowy hills, 
 
 It took my lovely vision too ; 
 And when I came again to find 
 
 The charm which used to till the air, 
 A sorrow struck me mute and blind 
 
 Thou wast not anywhere ! 
 
 Yet something met me in thy place, 
 
 Something, they said, with looks like thine, 
 With tresses full of golden grace 
 
 And lips flush d red with beauty s wine ; 
 With voice of silvery swells and falls 
 
 And dreamy eyes still sweetly blue 
 But, then, the reptile s nature crawls 
 
 Beneath the rainbow s hue. 
 
 W r oman, all things below, above, 
 
 Look pale and drear and glimmering now, 
 For I have loved thee with a love 
 
 Whose passionate deeps such things as 
 
 thou 
 May never sound. And, with a moan, 
 
 The chill d tide of that love has rolled 
 Above my heart, and made it stone, 
 
 And oh, so cold, so cold ! 
 
 I saw thee by a magic lamp 
 
 W f hose warm and gorgeous blaze is gone 
 And o er me shivers, gray and damp, 
 
 The dimness of the real s dawn. 
 Oh, I am like to one who stands 
 
 Where late a vision smiled in air, 
 And murmurs, with, outstretching hands, 
 
 " Where is my Angel where ? " 
 
446 
 
 MRS. s. M. B. PIATT. 
 
 QUESTIONS OF THE HOUR. 
 
 "Do angels wear white dresses, say? 
 
 Always, or only in the summer? Do 
 Their l>irtlid:iv.s have to come like mine, in 
 May : 
 
 Do they have scarlet sashes then, or blue? 
 
 "When little Jessie died last night, 
 
 IIo\v could she walk to Heaven it is so 
 far ? 
 
 How did she find the way without a light? 
 There was n t even any moon or star. 
 
 " Will she have red or golden wings? 
 
 Then will she have to be a bird, and fly ? 
 Do tliev take men like presidents and king s 
 
 In hearses with black plumes clear to the 
 
 sky ! 
 
 " How old is God ? Has He gray hair ? 
 Can He see yet >. Where did He have to 
 
 stay 
 
 Before you know he had made Any 
 where Y 
 
 Who dot s He pray to when He has to 
 pray V 
 
 " How many drops are in the sea? 
 
 How many stars? \\ell, then, you 
 
 ought to know 
 
 How many flowers are on an apple-tree? 
 How does the wind look when it doesn t 
 blow >. 
 
 " Where does the rainbow end ? And why 
 Did Captain Kidd bury the gold there? 
 
 When will this world burn*? And will the 
 
 firemen try 
 To put the fire out with the engines then ? 
 
 " If you should ever die, may we 
 
 Have pumpkins growing in The garden, so 
 
 My fairy go.lmother can come for me, 
 
 When there s a prince s ball, and let me go? 
 
 " Read Cinderella just once more 
 
 W hat makes men s other wives so 
 
 mean ? " I know 
 
 That I was tired, it may be cross, before 
 I shut the painted book for her to go. 
 
 Hours later, from a child s white bed 
 
 I heard the timid, last queer question 
 
 start : 
 " Mamma, art- you my stepmother?" it 
 
 said. 
 The innocent reproof crept to my heart. 
 
 A WALK TO MY OWN GRAVE. 
 [WITH THREE CHILDREN.] 
 
 Tn I.KK ! do not stop to cry. 
 
 " The path is long? we walk so slow ? 
 
 But we shall get there by and by. 
 Kvery step that we go 
 Is one step nearer, you know: 
 
 And your mother s grave will be 
 
 Such a pretty place to see. 
 
 " Will there b^ marble there, 
 
 With doves, or lambs, or lilies ? " No. 
 Keep white yourselves. Why should you 
 care 
 
 If they are as white as snow, 
 
 When the lilies can not blow, 
 And the doves can never moan, 
 Nor the lambs bleat in the stone ? 
 
 You want some flowers f Oh ! 
 
 We shall not find them on the way. 
 Only a few brier-roses grow, 
 
 Here and there, in the sun, I say. 
 
 It is dusty and dry all day, 
 But at evening there is shade, 
 And you will not be afraid ? 
 
 Ah. the flowers f Surely, yes. 
 
 At the end there will be a few, 
 " Violets ? Violets ? " So I guess, 
 
 And a little grass and dew ; 
 
 And some birds you want them blue ? 
 And a spring, too, as I think, 
 Where we will rest and drink. 
 
 Now kiss me and be good, 
 
 For you can go back home and play. 
 This is my grave here in the wood, 
 
 Where I, for a while, must stay. 
 
 Wait will you always pray, 
 Though you are sleepy, at night ? 
 There ! do not forget me quite. 
 
 Keep the baby sweetly drest, 
 
 And give him milk and give him toys ; 
 Rock him, as I did, to his rest, 
 
 And never make any noise. 
 
 Brown-eyed girl and blue-eyed boys, 
 Until he wakes. Good -by, 
 And do not stop to cry ! 
 
 ON A WEDDING DAY. 
 
 I LOOK far-off across the blue, 
 
 Still distance vague with woods and Spring, 
 The Earth is sweet with buds and dew; 
 
 The birds their early carols sing. 
 
 I look, and somehow wish the hours 
 Held calm and sun and bloom alone : 
 
 No fallen leaves, no wither d flowers, 
 No storm, no wreck, no mist, no moan ; 
 
 No painted palms of air on sand, 
 
 No poisons where the spice-winds blow, 
 
 No dark shapes haunting sea and land 
 But wherefore am 1 dreaming so? 
 
 It is because this music swells 
 
 Across the lighted April day 
 Because I hear your bridal bells, 
 
 Fair girl, a thousand miles away. 
 
 Yes, lovely in a holy place, 
 
 Enchanted by my dream you rise : 
 
 The young blush-roses on your face, 
 The timid darkness in your eyes. 
 
 And, golden on vour hand, I see 
 
 The glitter of n sacred thing: 
 I wish some Fairy, friend, may be 
 
 Slave of the ring your wedding ring ! 
 
MKS. LOUISE CHANDLEK MOULTOX. 
 
 THE SONG OF A SUMMER. 
 
 I PLUCKED an apple from off a tree, 
 
 Golden and rosy, and fair to see 
 
 The sunshine had fed it with warmth and 
 
 light 
 
 The dews had freshened it night by. night, 
 And high on the topmost bough it grew, 
 Where the winds of heaven about it blew, 
 And while the mornings were soft and 
 
 young 
 The wild-birds circled, and soared, and 
 
 sung 
 
 There, in the storm, and calm, and shine, 
 It ripened and brightened, this apple of 
 
 mine, 
 
 Till the day I plucked it from off the tree, 
 Golden and rosy, and fair to see. 
 
 How could I guess, neatli that daintiest 
 
 rind, 
 
 That the core of sweetness I hoped to find, 
 The innermost hidden heart of the bliss 
 Which dews and winds and the sunshine s 
 
 kiss 
 Had tendered and fostered by day and 
 
 night, 
 Was black with mildew and bitter with 
 
 blight: 
 
 Golden and rosy, and fair of skin, 
 Nothing but ashes and ruin within ? 
 Ah ! never again with toil and pain 
 Will I strive the topmost bough to gain 
 Though its wind-swung apples are fair to 
 
 see, 
 On a lower branch is the fruit for me. 
 
 TO MY HEART. 
 
 Ix thy long, lonely times, poor aching 
 
 heart ! 
 When days are slow, and silent nights are 
 
 sad, 
 
 Take cheer, weak heart, remember and be 
 glad, 
 
 For some one loved thee. 
 
 Some one, indeed, who cared for fading 
 
 face, 
 For time-touched hair, and weary-falling 
 
 arm, 
 
 And in thy very sadness found a charm 
 To make him love thee. 
 
 God knc As thy days are desolate, poor 
 
 heart ! 
 
 As thou dost sit alone, and dumbly wait 
 For what comes not, or comes, alas ! too 
 late, 
 
 But some one loved thee. 
 
 Take cheer, poor heart, remembering what 
 
 he said, 
 And how of thy lost youth he missed no 
 
 grace, 
 
 But saw some subtler beauty in thy face, 
 So well he loved thee. 
 
 It may be, on Time s farther shore, the 
 
 dead 
 Love the sweet shades of those they missed 
 
 on this, 
 
 And dream, in heavenly rest, of earth s lost 
 bliss 
 
 So he shall love thee. 
 
 Till then take cheer, poor, silent, aching 
 
 heart ; 
 Content thee with the face he once found 
 
 fair, 
 
 Mourn not for fading bloom, or time-touched 
 hair, 
 
 Since he hath loved thee. 
 
 THE SPRING IS LATE. 
 
 SHE stood alone amidst the April fields 
 Brown, sodden fields, all desolate and 
 
 bare 
 
 The spring is late," she said " the faith 
 less spring, 
 
 That should have come to make the mea 
 dows fair. 
 
 "Their sweet South left too soon, among 
 
 the trees 
 
 The birds, bewildered, flutter, to and fro; 
 For them no green boughs wait their mem 
 ories 
 Of last year s April had deceived them so. 
 
 " Beneath a sheltering pine some tender 
 
 buds 
 Looked out, and saw the hollows filled 
 
 with snow ; 
 On such a frozen world they closed their 
 
 eyes ; 
 
 When spring is cold, how can the blossoms 
 blow ? " 
 
 She watched the homeless birds, the slow, 
 
 sad spring, 
 The barren fields, and shivering, naked 
 
 trees : 
 "Thus God has dealt with me, his child," 
 
 she said 
 
 " I wait my spring-time, and am cold 
 like these. 
 
448 
 
 M R S . L O U I S E C II A X D L E R M U L T X . 
 
 " To them will come the fulness of their 
 
 time ; 
 Their spring, though late, will make the 
 
 meadows fair; 
 Shall I, who wait like them, like them be 
 
 blessed? 
 I am His own doth not my Father care ? " 
 
 A WOMAN S WAITING. 
 
 the apple-tree blossoms, in May, 
 ANY sat and watched as the sun went 
 
 down ; 
 Behind us the road stretched back to the 
 
 cast, 
 
 On, through the meadows, to Danbury 
 town. 
 
 Silent we sat, for our hearts were full, 
 Silently Watched the reddening sky, 
 
 And saw the clouds across the west 
 
 Like the phantoms of ships sail silently. 
 
 Robert had come with a story to tell, 
 
 I knew it before he had said a word 
 It looked from his eye, and it shadowed his 
 
 face 
 
 He was going to march with the Twenty- 
 third. 
 
 We had been neighbors from childhood up 
 Gone to school by the self-same way, 
 
 Climbed the same steep woodland paths, 
 Knelt in the same old church to pray. 
 
 We had wandered together, boy and girl, 
 Where wild flowers grew and wild grapes 
 hung ; 
 
 Tasted the sweetness of summer days 
 When hearts are true and life is young. 
 
 But never a love- word had crossed his lips, 
 
 Never a hint of pledge or vow, 
 Until, as the pun went down that night, 
 
 His tremulous kisses touched my brow. 
 
 " Jenny," he said, " I ve a work to do 
 For God and my conntiy and the right 
 
 True hearts, strong arms, are needed now, 
 I dare not stay away from the fight. 
 
 "Will you give me a pledge to cheer me 
 
 on 
 
 A hope to look forward to by-and-by ? 
 Will you wait for me, Jennv, till i come 
 
 back?" 
 " I will wait," I answered, " until I die." 
 
 The May moon rose as we walked that 
 
 night 
 Back- through the meadows to Danbury 
 
 town, 
 
 And one stnr rose and shone by her side 
 Calmly and sweetly they* both looked 
 
 down. 
 
 The scent of blossoms was in the air, 
 
 Tin- sky was blue and the eve was bright, 
 
 And Robert said, as he walked by my side, 
 " Old Danbury town is fair to-night. 
 
 " I shall think of it, Jenny, when far away, 
 Placid and still neath the moon as now 
 
 I shall see it, darling, in many a dream, 
 And you with ihe moonlight on your 
 brow." 
 
 Xo matter what else were his parting 
 words 
 
 They are mine to treasure until I die, 
 With the clinging kisses and lingering looks, 
 
 The tender pain of that fond good-by. 
 
 I did not weep 1 tried to be brave 
 
 I watched him until he was out of sight 
 
 Then suddenly all the world grew dark, 
 And I was blind in the bright May night. 
 
 Blind and helpless I slid to the ground 
 
 And lay with the night -dews on my hair, 
 Till the moon was down, and the dawn was 
 
 up, 
 
 And the fresh May morn rose clear and 
 fair. 
 
 He was taken and I was left 
 
 Left to wait and to watch and pray 
 
 Till there came a message over the wires, 
 Chilling the air of the August day. 
 
 Killed in a skirmish eight or ten 
 
 Wounded and helpless as many more 
 
 All of them our Connecticut men 
 From the little town of Danbury, four. 
 
 But I only saw a single name 
 
 Of one who was all the w >rld tome 
 
 I promised to wait for him till I died 
 Oh God, O Heaven, how long will it be? 
 
 THE SINGER. 
 
 WITHIX the crimson gloom 
 Of that dim, shaded room 
 
 I heard a singer sing. 
 
 She sang of life and death, 
 Of joys that end with breath, 
 
 And joys the end doth brin^ ; 
 
 Of passion s bitter pain, 
 
 And memory s tears like rain, 
 
 Which will not ccate to flow ; 
 
 Of the deep grave s delights, 
 Where through long days and nights 
 
 They hear the green things grow, 
 
 Cool -rooted flowers, which come 
 So near to that still home, 
 
 Their ways the dead must know, 
 
 And shivers in the grass, 
 When winds of summer pass, 
 And whisper as they go, 
 
 Of the mad life above, 
 
 Where men like masquers move ; 
 
 Or are they ghosts who knows ?- 
 
 Sad ghosts who cannot die, 
 And watch slow years go by 
 
 Amid those painted show- 
 
MRS. LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 
 
 449 
 
 Who knows ? For on her tongue 
 What never may be sung 
 
 Seemed trembling, and we wait 
 
 To catch the strain complete, 
 More full, but not more sweet, 
 Beyond the golden gate. 
 
 A WEED. 
 
 How shall a little weed grow 
 
 That has no sun ? 
 Rains fall and north winds blow 
 
 What shall be clone ? 
 
 Out come some little pale leaves 
 
 At the spring s call, 
 But the harsh north winds blow, 
 
 And the sad rains fall. 
 
 Dost try to keep it warm 
 
 With fickle breath ? 
 He must, who would give life, 
 
 Be Lord of death. 
 
 Some day you forget the weed 
 Man s thoughts are brief 
 
 And your coldness steals like frost 
 Through each pale leaf, 
 
 Till the weed shrinks back to die 
 
 On kinder sod ; 
 Shall a life which found no sun, 
 
 In death find God ? 
 
 HOW LONG ? 
 
 IF on my grave the summer grass were 
 
 growing, 
 
 Or heedless winter winds across i blowing, 
 Through joyous June, or desolate December, 
 How long, sweetheart, how long \vould you 
 
 remember, 
 
 How long, dear love, how long ? 
 
 For brightest eyes would open to the sum 
 mer, 
 
 And sweetest smiles would greet the sweet 
 new-comer, 
 
 And on your lips grow kisses for the taking, 
 
 When all the summer buds to bloom are 
 breaking, 
 
 How long, dear love, how long ? 
 
 To the dim land where sad-eyed ghosts walk 
 
 only, 
 Where lips are cold, and waiting hearts are 
 
 lonely, 
 I would not call you from your youth s warm 
 
 blisses, 
 Fill up your glass and crown it with new 
 
 kisses, 
 
 How long, dear love, how long ? 
 
 Too gay, in June, you might be to regret me, 
 
 And living lip* might woo you to forget me ; 
 
 But ah, sweetheart, I think you would re 
 member 
 
 When winds were weary in your life s De 
 cember, 
 
 So long, dear love, so long. 
 
 A PROBLEM. 
 
 MY darling has a merry eye, 
 
 And voice like silver bells : 
 How shall I win her, prithee, say 
 
 By what magic spells ? 
 
 If I frown she shakes her head, 
 
 If I weep she smiles ; 
 Time would fail me to recount 
 
 All her wilful wiles. 
 
 She flouts me so she stings me so 
 
 Yet will not let me stir 
 In vain I try to pass her by, 
 
 My little chestnut bur. 
 
 When I yield to every whim 
 
 She strait begins to" pout. 
 Teach me how to read my love, 
 
 How to find her out ! 
 
 For flowers she gives me thistle blooms 
 
 Her turtle doves are crows 
 I am the groaning weather-vane, 
 
 And she the wind that blows. 
 
 My little love ! My teazing love ! 
 
 Was woman made for man 
 A rose that blossomed from his side ? 
 
 Believe it those who can. 
 
 /went to sleep I m sure of it 
 
 Some luckless summer morn ; 
 A rib was taken from my side, 
 
 And of it made a thorn. 
 
 But still I seek by some fond art 
 
 To link it to my life, 
 Come, solve my problem, married men : 
 
 Teach me to win my wife. 
 
 MAY-FLOWERS. 
 
 IF you catch a breath of sweetness, 
 
 And follow the odorous hint 
 Through woods where the dead leaves 
 rustle, 
 
 And the golden mosses glint, 
 
 Along the spicy sea-coast, 
 
 Over the desolate down, 
 You will find the dainty May-flowers 
 
 When you come to Plymouth town. 
 
 Where the shy Spring tends her darlings, 
 And hides them away from sight, 
 
 Pull oft the covering leaf-sprays, 
 And gather them pink and w r hite, 
 
 Tinted by mystical moonlight, 
 
 Freshened by frosty dew, 
 Till the fair, transparent blossoms 
 
 To their pure perfection grew. 
 
 Then carry them home to your lady, 
 For flower of the spring is she, 
 
 Pink and white, and dainty and slight, 
 And lovely as lovely can be. 
 
 Shall they die because she is fair, 
 
 Or live because she is sweet ? 
 They will know for which they were born, 
 
 But von must wait at her feet. 
 
MRS. CELIA TIIAXTEK. 
 
 EXPECTATION. 
 
 THROUGHOUT the lonely house the whole 
 
 day long 
 - The wind-harp s fitful music sinks and 
 
 swells, 
 
 A cry of pain, sometimes, or sad and strong, 
 Or faint, like broken peals of silver bells. 
 
 Across the little garden comes the breeze, 
 Bows all its cups of flame, and brings to 
 
 me 
 Its breath of mignonette and bright sweet 
 
 peas, 
 With drowsy murmurs from the encircling 
 
 sea. 
 In at the open door a crimson drift 
 
 Of fluttering, fading woodbine leaves is 
 
 blown, 
 
 And through the clambering vine the sun 
 beams sift, 
 
 And trembling shadows on the floor are 
 thrown. 
 
 I climb the stair, and from the window lean 
 Seeking thy sail, love, that still delays ; 
 
 Longing to catch its glimmer, searching keen 
 The jealous distance veiled in tender haze. 
 
 What care I if the pansies purple be, 
 
 Or sweet the wind-harp wails through the 
 
 slow hours ; 
 Or that the lulling music of the sea 
 
 Comes woven with the perfume of the 
 flowers? 
 
 Thou comest not ! I ponder o er the leaves, 
 The crimson drift behind the open door : 
 
 Soon shall we listen to a wind that grieves, 
 Mourning this glad year, dead forever- 
 more. 
 
 And, my love, shall we on some sad day 
 Find joVs and hopes low fallen like the 
 
 leaves, 
 
 Blown by life s chilly autumn w r ind away 
 In withered heaps God s eye alone per 
 ceives ? 
 
 Come thou, and save me from my dreary 
 
 thought ! 
 Who dares to question Time, what it may 
 
 bring . 
 Yet round us lies the radiant summer, 
 
 fraught 
 Wit h beauty : must we dream of suffering ? 
 
 Yea, even so. Through this enchanted land, 
 This morning-red of life, we go to meet 
 
 The tempest in the desert, hand in han;l, 
 Along (Joel s paths of pain, that seek His 
 feet. 
 
 But this one golden moment, hold it fast ! 
 
 The light grows long : low in the west the 
 
 sun, 
 Clear red and glorious, slowly sinks at last, 
 
 And while I muse, the tranquil day is done. 
 
 The land breeze freshens in thy gleaming 
 
 sail 1 
 Across the singing waves the shadows 
 
 creep : 
 
 Under the ne\v moon s thread of silver pale, 
 With the first star, thou comest o er the 
 deep ! 
 
 THE SANDPIPER. 
 
 ACROSS the narrow beach we flit, 
 
 One little sandpiper and I 
 And fast I gather, bit by bit, 
 
 The scattered driftwood bleached and dry. 
 The wild waves reach their hands for it, 
 
 The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, 
 As up and down the beach we flit, 
 
 One little sandpiper and I. 
 
 Above our heads the sullen clouds 
 
 Scud black and swift across the sky ; 
 Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds 
 
 Stand out the white light-houses high. 
 Almost as far as eye can reach 
 
 I see the close- reefed vessels fly, 
 As fast we flit along the beach, 
 
 One little sandpiper and I. 
 
 I watch him as he skims along 
 
 Lettering his sweet and mournful cry. 
 lie starts not at my fitful song, 
 
 Or flash of fluttering drapery. 
 He has no thought of any wrong ; 
 
 He scans me with a fearless eye. 
 Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, 
 
 The little sandpiper and I. 
 
 Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night 
 
 When the loosed storm breaks furiously ? 
 My driftwood fire will burn so bright ! 
 
 To what warm shelter canst thou Jiy ? 
 I do not fear for thee, though wroth 
 
 The tempest rushes through the sky : 
 For are we not God s children both, 
 
 Thou, little sandpiper, and 1 V 
 
 THE MINUTE-GUNS. 
 
 I STOOD within the little cove, 
 
 Full of the morning s life and hope, 
 
 While heavily the eager waves 
 
 Charged thundering up the rocky slope. 
 
MBS. CELIA THAXTER. 
 
 451 
 
 The splendid breakers ! How they rushed, 
 All emerald green and flashing white. 
 
 Tumultuous in the morning sun, 
 
 With cheer and sparkle and delight ! 
 
 And freshly blew the fragrant wind, 
 The wild sea wind, across their tops, 
 
 And caught the spray and flung it far 
 In sweeping showers of glittering drops. 
 
 Within the cove all flashed and foamed 
 With many a fleeting rainbow hue ; 
 
 Without, gleamed bright against the sky, 
 A tender wavering line of blue, 
 
 Where tossed the distant w r aves, and far 
 Shone silver-white a quiet sail ; 
 
 And overhead the soaring gulls 
 
 With graceful pinions stemmed the gale. 
 
 And all my pulses thrilled with joy, 
 
 Watching the winds and waters strife, 
 
 With sudden rapture, and I cried, 
 
 " O sweet is Life ! Thank God for life ! 
 
 Sailed any cloud across the sky, 
 Marring this glory of the sun s ? 
 
 Over the sea, from distant forts, 
 
 There came the boom of minute-guns ! 
 
 War-tidings ! Many a brave soul fled, 
 And many a heart the message stuns ! 
 
 I saw no more the joyous waves, 
 I only heard the minute-guns. 
 
 ROCK WEEDS. 
 
 So bleak these shores, wind-swept and all 
 
 the year 
 Washed by the wild Atlantic s restless 
 
 tide, 
 You would not dream that flowers the woods 
 
 hold dear 
 Amid such desolation dare abide. 
 
 Yet when the bitter winter breaks, some day, 
 With soft winds fluttering her garments 
 
 hem, 
 
 Up from the sweet South comes the linger 
 ing May, 
 
 Sets the first wind-flower trembling on its 
 stem ; 
 
 Scatters her violets with lavish hands, 
 White, blue, and amber ; calls the colum 
 bine, 
 Till like clear flame in lonely nooks, gay 
 
 bands 
 Swinging their scarlet bells, obey the sign ; 
 
 Makes buttercups and dandelions blaze, 
 And throws in glimmering patches here 
 and there 
 
 The little eyebright s pearls, and gently lays 
 The impress of her beauty everywhere. 
 
 Later, June bids the sweet wild rose to blow, 
 Wakes from its dream the drowsy pim 
 pernel ; 
 
 L^nfolds the bindweed s ivory buds that glow 
 As delicately blushing as a shell. 
 
 Then purple Iris smiles, and hour by hour, 
 The fair procession multiplies ; and soon, 
 
 In clusters creamy white, the elder-flower 
 Waves its broad disk against the rising 
 moon. 
 
 O er quiet beaches shelving to the sea 
 
 Tall mulleins sway, and thistles ; all day 
 long 
 
 Flows in the wooing water dreamily, 
 
 "With subtle music in its slumberous song. 
 
 Herb-robert hears, and princess - feather 
 
 bright, 
 And gold-thread clasps the little skull-cap 
 
 blue ; 
 
 And troops of swallows, gathering for their 
 
 flight, 
 O er golden-rod and asters hold review. 
 
 The barren island dreams in flowers, while 
 
 blow 
 The south winds, drawing haze o er sea 
 
 and land ; 
 
 Yet the great heart of ocean, throbbing slow, 
 Makes the frail blossoms vibrate where 
 they stand ; 
 
 And hints of heavier pulses soon to shake 
 Its mighty breast when summer is no more, 
 
 And devastating waves sweep on and break, 
 And clasp with girdle white the iron shore. 
 
 Close folded, safe within the sheltering seed, 
 Blossom and bell and leafy beauty hide ; 
 
 Nor icy blast, nor bitter spray they heed, 
 But patiently their wondrous change 
 abide. 
 
 The heart of God through his creation stirs, 
 We thrill to feel it, trembling as the flowers 
 
 That die to live again, his messengers, 
 To keep faith firm in these sad souls of 
 ours. 
 
 The waves of Time may devastate our lives, 
 The frosts of age may check our failing 
 
 breath, 
 
 They shall not touch the spirit that survives 
 Triumphant over doubt and pain and 
 death. 
 
 A SUMMER DAY. 
 
 AT day-break in the fresh light, joyfully 
 The fishermen drew in their laden net ; 
 
 The shore shone rosy purple and the sea 
 Was streaked with violet ; 
 
 And pink with sunrise, many a shadowy sail 
 Lay southward, lighting up the sleeping 
 
 bay ; 
 And in* the west the white moon, still and 
 
 pale, 
 Faded before the day. 
 
 Silence was everywhere. The rising tide 
 Slowly filled every cove and inlet small ; 
 
 A musical low whisper, multiplied, 
 You heard, and that was all. 
 
MRS. CELIA THAXTER. 
 
 No clouds at dawn, but as the sun climbed 
 
 higher, 
 White columns, thunderous, splendid, up 
 
 the sky 
 
 Floated and stood, heaped in his steady fire. 
 A stately company. 
 
 Stealing along the coast from cape to cape 
 The weird mirage crept tremulously on, 
 
 In many a magic change and wondrous shape, 
 Throbbing beneath the sun. 
 
 At noon the wind rose, swept the glassy sea 
 To sudden ripple, thrust against the clouds 
 A strenuous shoulder, gathering steadily 
 .Drove them before in crowds ; 
 
 Till all the west was dark, and inky black 
 
 The level-ruffled water underneath, 
 And up the wind cloud tossed, a ghostly 
 
 rack, 
 
 In many a ragged wreath. 
 Then sudden roared the thunder, a great 
 
 peal 
 
 Magnificent, that broke and rolled away ; 
 And down the wind plunged, like a furious 
 
 keel, 
 Cleaving the sea to spray ; 
 
 And brought the rain sweeping o er land 
 
 and sea. 
 And then was tumult ! Lightning sharp 
 
 and keen, 
 
 Thunder, wind, rain, a mighty jubilee 
 The heaven and earth between ! 
 
 Loud the roused ocean sang, a chorus grand ; 
 
 A solemn music rolled in undertone 
 Of waves that broke about on either hand 
 
 The little island lone ; 
 
 Where, joyful in His tempest as His calm, 
 Held in the hollow of that hand of His, 
 
 I joined with heart and soul in God s great 
 
 psalm, 
 Thrilled with a nameless bliss. 
 
 Soon lulled the wind, the summer storm soon 
 
 died ; 
 
 The shattered clouds went eastward, drift 
 ing slow ; 
 From the low sun the rain- fringe swept 
 
 aside, 
 Bright in his rosy glow, 
 
 And wide a splendor streamed through all 
 the sky; 
 
 O er sea and land one soft, delicious blush, 
 That touched the gray rocks lightly, tenderly; 
 
 A transitory flush. 
 
 Warm, odorous gusts blew off the distant 
 
 land. 
 With spice of pine-woods, breath of hay 
 
 new-mown, 
 O er miles of waves and sea, scents cool and 
 
 bland, 
 Full in our faces blown. 
 
 Slow faded the sweet light, and peacefully 
 The quiet stars came out, one after one : 
 
 The holy twilight fell upon the sea, 
 The summer day Avas done. 
 
 Such unalloyed delight its hours had given, 
 Musing, this thought, rose in my grateful 
 
 mind, 
 That God, who watches all things, up in 
 
 heaven, 
 With patient eyes and kind, 
 
 Saw and was pleased, perhaps, one child of 
 his 
 
 Dared to be happy like the little birds, 
 Because He gave his children days like this 
 
 Rejoicing beyond words ; 
 
 Dared, lifting up to Him untroubled eyes 
 In gratitude that worship is, and prayer, 
 
 Sing and be glad with ever new surprise, 
 He made his world so fair ! 
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 THERE is no wind at all to-night 
 To dash the drops against the pane ; 
 
 No sound abroad, nor any light, 
 And sadly falls the autumn rain ; 
 
 There is no color in the world, 
 No lovely tint on hill or plain ; 
 
 The summer s golden sails are furled, 
 And sadly falls the autumn rain. 
 
 The Earth lies tacitly beneath, 
 As it were dead to joy or pain : 
 
 It does not move, it does not breathe, 
 And sadly falls the autumn rain. 
 
 And all my heart is patient too, 
 I wait till it shall wake again ; 
 
 The songs of spring shall sound anw, 
 Though sadly falls the autumn rain. 
 
 YELLOW-BIRD. 
 
 YELLOW-BIRD, where did you learn that 
 
 song, 
 Perched on the trellis where grape-vines 
 
 clamber, 
 In and out fluttering, all day long, 
 
 With your golden breast bedropped with 
 amber ? 
 
 Where do you hide such a store of delight, 
 O delicate creature, tiny and slender, 
 
 Like a mellow morning sunbeam bright, 
 And overflowing with music tender ! 
 
 You never learned it at all, the song 
 
 Springs from your heart in rich complete 
 ness, 
 
 Beautiful, blissful, clear and strong, 
 
 Steeped in the summer s ripest sweet nes?. 
 
 To think we are neighbors of yours ! How 
 fine! 
 
 Oh what a pleasure to watch you together, 
 Bringing your fern-down and floss to re-line 
 
 The nest worn thin by the winter weather! 
 
 Send up your full notes like worshipful 
 
 prayers ; 
 
 Yellow-bird, sing while the summer s be 
 fore you ; 
 
 Little you dream that, in spite of their cares, 
 Here s a whole family, proud to adore you ! 
 
MKS. ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY. 
 
 PER TEXEBRAS, LUMINA. 
 
 I KNOW how, through the golden hours 
 When summer sunlight floods the deep, 
 
 The fairest stars of all the heaven 
 Climb up, unseen, the effulgent steep. 
 
 Orion girds him with a flame ; 
 
 And king-like, from the eastward seas 
 Comes Aldebaran, with his train 
 
 Of Evades and Pleiades. 
 
 In far meridian pride, the Twins 
 
 Build, side by side, their luminous thrones 
 
 And Sirius and Procyon pour 
 A splendor that the day disowns. 
 
 And stately Leo, undismayed, 
 
 With fiery footstep tracks the sun, 
 
 To plunge adown the western blaze, 
 Sublimely lost in glories won. 
 
 I know if I were called to keep 
 
 Pale morning-watch with grief and pain, 
 Mine eyes should see their gathering might 
 
 Rise grandly through the gloom again. 
 
 And when the winter Solstice holds 
 In his diminished path the sun ; 
 
 When hope and growth and joy are o er, 
 And all our harvesting is done ; 
 
 When, stricken like our mortal life, 
 
 Darkened and chill, the Year lays down 
 
 The summer beauty that she wore, 
 Her summer stars of harp and crown ; 
 
 Thick trooping with their golden tread, 
 They come as nightfall fills the sky, 
 
 Those stronger, grander sentinels, 
 And mo ant resplendent guard on high ! 
 
 Ah, who shall shrink from dark and cold, 
 Or dread the sad and shortening days, 
 
 When God doth only so unfold 
 A wider glory to our gaze ? 
 
 When loyal truth and holy trust, 
 And kingly strength, defying pain, 
 
 Stern courage, and sure brotherhood 
 Are born from out the depths again ? 
 
 Dear country of our love and pride ! 
 
 So is thy stormy winter given ! 
 So, through the terrors that betide, 
 
 Look up, and hail thy kindling heaven ! 
 
 BEHIND THE MASK. 
 
 IT was an old, distorted face, 
 ^ An uncouth visage, rough and wild, 
 Yet, from behind, with laughing grace, 
 Peeped the fresh beauty of a child. 
 
 And so, contrasting strange to-day, 
 My heart of youth doth inly ask 
 
 If half earth s wrinkled grimness may 
 Be but the baby in the mask. 
 
 Behind gray hairs and furrowed brow 
 And withered look that life puts on, 
 
 Each, as he wears It, comes to know 
 How the child hides, and is not gone. 
 
 For while the inexorable years 
 
 To saddened features fit their mould, 
 
 Beneath the work of time and tears 
 
 Waits something that will not grow old ! 
 
 The rifted pine upon the hill, 
 
 Scarred by the lightning and the wind, 
 Through bolt and blight doth nurture still 
 
 Young fibres underneath the rind ; 
 
 And many a storm-blast, fiercely sent, 
 And wasted hope, and sinful stain, 
 
 Roughen the strange integument 
 
 The struggling soul must wear in pain ; 
 
 Yet when she comes to claim her own, 
 Heaven s angels, haply, shall not ask 
 
 For that last look the world hath known, 
 But for the face behind the mask ! 
 
 LARVAE. 
 
 MY little maiden of four years old 
 No myth, but a genuine child is she, 
 
 With her bronze-brown eyes and her curls 
 
 of gold 
 Came, quite in disgust, one day, to me. 
 
 Rubbing her shoulder with rosy palm, 
 As the loathsome touch seemed yet to 
 thrill her, 
 
 She cried, " O mother ! I found on my arm 
 A horrible, crawling caterpillar ! " 
 
 And with mischievous smile she could 
 
 scarcely smother, 
 Yet a glance in its daring half awed and 
 
 shy, 
 She added, "While they were about it, 
 
 mother, 
 I wish they d just finished the butterfly ! " 
 
 They were words to the thought of the soul 
 
 that turns 
 
 From the coarser form of a partial growth, 
 Reproaching the infinite patience that yearns 
 With an unknown glory to crown them 
 both. 
 
 Ah, look thou largely, with lenient eyes, 
 On whatfo beside thee may creep and cling, 
 
MRS. ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY. 
 
 For the possible <j.lory that underlies 
 
 The passing phase of the meanest tiling! 
 
 What if God s great angels, whose \vsiit in^- 
 love 
 
 Beholdcth our pitiful life below, 
 From tlie holy height of their heaven above, 
 Could n t bear with the worm till the 
 wings should grow . 
 
 NORTHEAST. 
 
 WE had a week of rainy days ; 
 
 The heaven was gray, the earth was grim ; 
 And through a sea of hopeless haze 
 
 The dreamy daylight wandered dim. 
 
 The saddened trees, with weary boughs, 
 Drooped heavily, or sullen swayed 
 
 Slow answer to the sobs and soughs 
 
 The jaded east- wind, whimpering, made. 
 
 Faint as the dawn the noonday seemed, 
 With hardly more of stir or sound ; 
 
 The only noise or motion seemed 
 
 That dull, cold dropping on the ground. 
 
 Vainly the Soul her frame ignores ; 
 
 Deep answereth unto deep apart ; 
 And the great weeping out of doors 
 
 Touched the tear fountains in the heart. 
 
 So life looked drear, and heaven was dim ; 
 
 And though the Sun still strode the sky, 
 Through the thick gloom that shrouded him 
 
 Scarce trusted we the joy on high. 
 
 But, sudden, from the leafy dark, 
 The close green covert rain-bestirred, 
 
 Outburst mg tremulously, hark, 
 The carol of a little bird ! 
 
 Ali. long the storm ; yet none the less, 
 Hid from the utmost reach of ill, 
 
 And singing in the wilderness, 
 
 Some small, sweet hope waits blithely 
 still ! 
 
 RELEASED. 
 
 A LITTLE, low-ceiled room. Four walls 
 Whose blank >\\\\\ out all else of life, 
 
 And crowded close within their bound 
 A world of pain, and toil, and strife. 
 
 Her world. Scarce furthermore .she knew 
 
 Of God s great globe that woudrously 
 Outrolls a glory of green earth 
 
 And frames it with the rot less sea. 
 
 Four closer walls of common pine ; 
 
 And therein lying, cold and still, 
 The weary flesh that long hath borne 
 
 Its patient mystery of ill. 
 
 Regardless now of work to do, 
 
 No queen more careless in her slate, 
 
 Hands crossed in an unbroken calm; 
 For other hands the work may wait. 
 
 Put by her implements of toil ; 
 
 Put by each coarse, intrusive sign; 
 She made a Sabbath when she died, 
 
 And round her breatlu s a rest divine. 
 
 Put by, at last, beneath the lid, 
 
 The exempted hands, the tranquil face ; 
 
 Uplift her in her dreamless sleep, 
 And bear her gently from the place. 
 
 Oft she hath ga/ed, with wistful eyes, 
 Out from that threshold on .the night ; 
 
 The narrow bourn she crosseth now ; 
 She standeth in the eternal light. 
 
 Oft she hath pressed, with aching feet, 
 Those broken steps that reach the door ; 
 
 Henceforth, with angels, she shall trea d 
 Heaven s golden stair, forevermore ! 
 
 BEAUTY FOR ASHES. 
 
 WE have no glory of the woods this year ! 
 The Summer lieth dead upon her bier, 
 And parched and brown, with faint and tiut- 
 
 tering fall, 
 Gaunt arms drop down her melancholy pall. 
 
 Like some remorseful spirit she hath gone, 
 Finding no wedding garment to put on ; 
 From fever dropt to silence ; day by day, 
 Her green hope lost, so perishing away. 
 
 All passion-burned were her meridian hours, 
 Untouched by any tenderness of showers: 
 Too late the wild winds and the penitent rain 
 Vex the dead days that are not born again. 
 
 So said we in the early autumn-time, 
 Missing the red leaf and the golden prime ; 
 And still the raiii fell with sweet, patient 
 
 woe, 
 Like heart sin-broken, that can only so. 
 
 Then there befell a wonder. Scathed and 
 
 burned, 
 Great trees stood leafless ; but the earth-soul 
 
 yearned 
 
 Toward her salvation, and it came to pass,- - 
 Green resurrection of young, gentle grass. 
 
 Fair in October as it had been May ! 
 No matter for the season passed away, 
 For shortening suns, or useless little while : 
 Heaven s outright grace gave back that ver 
 nal smile. 
 
 We missed no more the golden and the red. 
 For joy that the deep heart was quick, no* 
 
 dead. 
 We saw as angels see ; through loss and sii, 
 
 nings : 
 All times are spring to God s dear new b^ 
 
 ginnings. 
 
 THE THREE LIGHTS. 
 
 MY window that looks down the west, 
 \Vhere the cloud-thrones and islands rest, 
 One evening, to my random sight, 
 Showed forth this picture of delight. 
 
 The shifting glories were all gone ; 
 The clear blue stillness coming on ; 
 And the soft shade, twixt day and night, 
 Held the old earth in tender light. 
 
MRS. ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY. 
 
 Up in the ether hung the horn 
 Of a young moon ; and, newly born 
 From out the shadows, trembled far 
 The shining of a single star. 
 
 Only a hand s breadth was between, 
 So close thev seemed, so sweet-serene, 
 As if in heaven some child and mother, 
 With peace untold, had found each other. 
 
 Then my glance fell from that fair sky 
 A little down, yet very nigh, 
 Just where the neighboring tree-tops made 
 A lifted line of billowy shade, 
 
 And from the earth-dark twinkled clear 
 One other spark, of human cheer ; 
 A home-smile, telling where there stood 
 A farmer s house beneath the wood. 
 
 Only these three in all the space ; 
 
 Far telegraphs of various place. 
 
 Which seeing, this glad thought was mine, 
 
 Be it but little candle-shine, 
 
 Or golden disk of moon that swings 
 Nearest- of all the heavenly things, 
 Or world in awful distance small, 
 One Light doth feed and link them all ! 
 
 SUNLIGHT AND STARLIGHT. 
 
 GOD sets some souls in shade, alone ; 
 They have no daylight of their own : 
 Only in lives of happier ones 
 They see the shine of distant suns. 
 
 God knows. Content thee with thy night, 
 Thy greater heaven hath grander light. 
 To-day is close ; the hours are small ; 
 Thou sitt st afar, and hast them all. 
 
 Lose the less joy that doth but blind ; 
 Reach forth a larger bliss to find. 
 To-day is brief : the inclusive spheres 
 Rain raptures of a thousand years. 
 
 HEARTH-GLOW. 
 
 IN the fireshine at the twilight, 
 
 The pictures that I see 
 Are less with mimic landscape bright 
 
 Than with life and mystery. 
 
 Where the embers flush and flicker 
 With their palpitating glow, 
 
 I see, fitfuller and quicker, 
 Heart-pulses come and go. 
 
 And here and there, with eager flame, 
 
 A little tongue of light 
 Upreaches earnestly to claim 
 
 A. somewhat out of sight. 
 
 I know, with instinct sure and high, 
 A somewhat must be there ; 
 
 Else should the fiery impulse die 
 In ashes of despair. 
 
 Through the red tracery I discern 
 
 A parable sublime ; 
 A solemn myth of souls that burn 
 
 In ordeals of time. 
 
 How the life-spark yearns and shivers 
 Till the whiteness o er it creep ! 
 
 Till the last, pale hope outquivers, 
 And quenches into sleep ! 
 
 Till mid the dust of what has been, 
 
 It lieth dim and cold ; 
 Yet holdeth secretly, within, 
 
 Heart-fervor, as of old ! 
 
 As from the darkening fireside 
 
 I slowly turn away, 
 I think how souls of men abide 
 
 The breaking of the day 
 
 When a morning touch shall stir again 
 
 Those ashes of the night 
 That gathered o er our hearts of pain 
 
 To keep their life alight ! 
 
 TWOFOLD. 
 
 A DOUBLE life is this of ours ; 
 
 A twofold form wherein we dwell : 
 And heaven itself is not so strange, 
 
 Nor half so far as teachers tell. 
 
 With weary feet we daily tread 
 The circle of a self-same round ; 
 
 Yet the strong soul may not be held 
 A prisoner in the petty bound. 
 
 The body walketh as in sleep, 
 
 A shadow among things that seem ; 
 
 While held in leash, yet faraway, 
 The spirit moveth in a dream. 
 
 A living dream of good or ill, 
 
 In caves of gloom or fields of light ; 
 
 Where purpose doth itself fulfill, 
 And longing love is instant sight. 
 
 Where time, nor space, nor blood, nor bond 
 May love and life divide in twain ; 
 
 But they whom truth hath inly joined 
 Meet inly on their common plane. 
 
 We* need not die to go to God ; 
 
 See how the daily prayer is given ! 
 T is not across a gulf we cry, 
 
 " Our Father, who dost dwell in heaven ! 
 
 And " Let thy will on earth be done, 
 As in thy heaven," by this, thy child ! 
 
 What is it but all prayers in one, 
 That soul and sense be reconciled ? 
 
 That inner sight and outer seem 
 
 No more in thwarting conflict strive ; 
 
 But doing blossom from the dream. 
 And the whole nature rise, alive? 
 
 There s beauty waiting to be born, 
 And harmony that makes no sound ; 
 
 And bear we ever, unaware, 
 
 A glory that hath not been crowned. 
 
 And so we yearn, and so we sigh, 
 And reach for more than we can see; 
 
 And, witless of our folded wings, 
 Walk Paradise unconsciously ; 
 
456 
 
 MRS. ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY. 
 
 And dimly feel the day divine 
 
 With vision half redeemed from night, 
 Till death shall fuse the double life 
 
 And God himself shall give us light ! 
 
 UP IN THE WILD. 
 
 UP in the wild, where no one comes to look, 
 There lives and sings a little lonely brook : 
 Liveth and singeth in the dreary pines, 
 Yet creepeth onto where the daylight shines. 
 
 Pure from their heaven, in mountain chalice 
 caught, 
 
 It drinks the rains, as drinks the soul her 
 
 thought ; 
 
 And down dim hollows where it winds along, 
 Pours its life-burden of unlistened song. 
 
 I catch the murmur of its undertone, 
 That sigheth ceaselessly, Alone ! alone 1 
 And hear afar the Rivers gloriously 
 Shout on their paths to ward the shining sea ! 
 
 The voiceful Rivers, chanting to the sun, 
 And wearing names of honor, every one : 
 Outreaching wide, and joining hand with 
 
 hand 
 To pour great gifts along the asking land. 
 
 Ah, lonely brook! Creep onward through 
 the pines ; 
 
 Press through the gloom to where the day 
 light shines ! 
 
 Sing on among the stones, and secretly 
 
 Feel how the floods are all akin to thee ! 
 
 Drink the sweet rain the gentle heaven 
 
 srndeth ; 
 Hold thine own path, howeverward it tend- 
 
 eth ; 
 
 For somewhere, underneath the eternal sky, 
 Thou, too, shalt find the Rivers, by and by ! 
 
 EQUINOCTIAL. 
 
 TIIK sun of life has crossed the line ; 
 
 The summer-shine of lengthened light 
 Faded and failed, till where I stand 
 
 T is equal day and equal night. 
 
 One after one, as dwindling hours, 
 
 Youth s glowing hopes have dropped away, 
 And soon may haivly leave the gleam 
 That coldly scores a winter s day. 
 
 I am not young ; I am not old ; 
 
 The (lush of morn, the sunset calm, 
 Paling and deepening, each to each, 
 
 Meet midway with a solemn charm. 
 
 One side 1 see the summer fields 
 
 Not yet disrobed of all their green ; 
 
 While westerly, along the hills, 
 
 Flame the first tints of frosty sheen. 
 
 Ah. middle point, where cloud and storm 
 Make battle-ground of this, my life ! 
 
 Where, even-matched, the nighr and day 
 Wage round me their September strife ! 
 
 I bow me to the threatening gale ; 
 
 I know when that is overpast, 
 Among the peaceful harvest days, 
 
 An Indian summer comes at last ! 
 
 THE SECOND MOTHERHOOD. 
 
 " He shi 11 gather the lambs in his arms, ana carry them In 
 bosom ; and shall gently lead those that are with young." 
 
 HEARTS that long ! hearts that wait, 
 Burdened with love and pain, 
 
 Till the dear life-dream, earth-conceived, 
 In heaven be born again ! 
 
 mother-souls, whose holy hope 
 
 Is sorrowful and blind, 
 Hear what He faith so tenderly 
 
 Who keepeth you in mind ! 
 
 Of all his flock He hath for you 
 
 A sweet, especial grace ; 
 And guides you with a separate care 
 
 To his prepared place. 
 
 For all our times are times of type, 
 
 Foretokened on the earth ; 
 And still the waiting and the tears 
 
 Must go before the birth. 
 
 Still the dear Lord, with whom abides 
 
 All life that is to be, 
 Keeps safe the joy but half fulfilled 
 
 In his eternity. 
 
 Our lambs He carries in his arms 
 The heavenly meads among; 
 
 And gently leadeth here the souls 
 Love -burdened with their young ! 
 
 THE LAST REALITY. 
 A CHILD S SATIRE. 
 
 CHILDREN want always the " truliest " 
 things, 
 
 The things that come nearest to life ; 
 Grown-up and real: for sweet little souls 
 
 They believe in the world and his wife ! 
 
 Grown-up is real : we stand in the light 
 Of their heaven with our pitiful shows, 
 
 Till the shams of our living become to their 
 
 sight 
 Most in earnest of all that it knows. 
 
 Kathie wanted a doll for her Christmas this 
 
 year, 
 
 A doll that could do something grand ; 
 " Not cry ; that s for babies ; " nor might it 
 
 suffice 
 That she simply could sit and could stand. 
 
 " And I don t care for eyes that will open 
 
 and shut." 
 
 " You did." " Well, the care is all gone. 
 I ve seen em enough, mamma ; / want a 
 
 doll 
 With hair that takes off and puts on! " 
 
MKS. HELEN HUNT. 
 
 SPINNING. 
 
 LIKE a blind spinner in the sun, 
 
 I tread my days ; 
 I know that all the threads will run 
 
 Appointed ways ; 
 
 I know each day will bring its task, 
 And, being blind, 110 more I ask. 
 
 I do not know the use or name 
 
 Of that I spin ; 
 I only know that some one came, 
 
 And laid within 
 
 My hand the thread, and said, " Since you 
 Are blind, but one thing you can do." 
 
 Sometimes the threads so rough and fast 
 
 And tangled fly, 
 I know wild storms are sweeping past, 
 
 And fear that I 
 
 Shall fall ; but dare not try to find 
 A safer place, since I am blind. 
 
 I know not why, but I am sure 
 
 That tint and place, 
 In some great fabric to endure 
 
 Past time and race, 
 
 My threads will have ; so from the first, 
 Though blind, I never felt accurst. 
 
 I think, perhaps, this trust has sprung 
 
 From one short word 
 Said over me when I was young, 
 
 So young, I heard 
 
 It, knowing not that God s name signed 
 My brow, and sealed me his, though blind. 
 
 But whether this be seal or sign 
 
 Within, without, 
 It matters not. The bond divine 
 
 I never doubt. 
 
 I know he set me here, and still, 
 And glad, and blind, I wait His will ; 
 
 But listen, listen, day by day, 
 
 To hear their tread 
 Who bear the finished web away, 
 
 And cut the thread, 
 And bring God s message in the sun, 
 " Thou pjor blind spinner, work is done." 
 
 THE PRINCE IS DEAD. 
 
 A EOOM in the palace is shut. The king 
 
 And the queen are sitting in black. 
 
 All day weeping servants will run and bring, 
 
 But the heart of the queen will lack 
 
 All things; and the eyes of the king will 
 
 swim 
 With tears which must not be shed, 
 
 But will make all the air float dark and 
 
 dim, 
 
 As he looks at each gold and silver toy, 
 And thinks how it gladdened the royal boy, 
 And dumbly writhes while the courtiers 
 
 read 
 
 How all the nations his sorrow heed. 
 The Prince is dead. 
 
 The hut has a door, but the hinge is weak, 
 
 And to-day the wind blows it back ; 
 
 There are two sitting there who do not 
 
 speak ; 
 
 They have begged a few rags of black. 
 They are hard at work, though their eyes 
 
 are wet 
 
 With tears which must not be shed ; 
 They dare not look where the cradle is set ; 
 They hate the sunbeam which plays on the 
 
 floor, 
 
 But will make the baby laugh out no more ; 
 They feel as if they were turning to stone, 
 They wish the neighbors would leave them 
 
 alone. 
 
 The Prince is dead. 
 
 SPOKEN. 
 
 COUNTING the hours by bells and lights 
 
 We rose and sank ; 
 The waves on royal banquet-heights 
 
 Tossed off and drank 
 Their jewels made of sun and moon, 
 White pearls at midnight, gold at noon. 
 
 Counting the hours by bells and lights, 
 
 We sailed and sailed ; 
 Six lonely days, six lonely nights, 
 
 No ship we hailed. 
 
 Till all the sea seemed bound in spell, 
 And silence sounded like a knell. 
 
 At last, just when by bells and lights 
 
 Of seventh day 
 The dawn grew clear, in sudden flights 
 
 White sails away 
 
 To east, like birds, went spreading slow 
 Their wings which reddened in the glow. 
 
 No more we count the bells and lights ; 
 
 We laugh for joy. 
 The trumpets with their brazen mights 
 
 Call " Ship ahoy ! " 
 
 We hold each other s hands ; our cheeks 
 Are wet with tears ; but no one speaks. 
 
 In instant comes the sun and lights 
 
 The ship with fire ; 
 Each mast creeps up to dizzy heights, 
 
 A blazing spire ; 
 
MRS. HELEN HUNT. 
 
 One faint " Ahoy," then all in vain 
 We look ; we are alone again. 
 
 I have forgotten bells and lights, 
 
 And waves which drank 
 Their jewels. up ; those days and nights 
 
 Which rose and sank 
 Have turned like other pasts, and fled, 
 And carried with them all their dead. 
 
 But every day that fire ship lights 
 
 My distant blue. 
 And every day glad wonder smites 
 
 My heart anew, 
 
 How in that instant each could heed 
 And hear the other s swift God-speed. 
 
 Counting by hours thy days and nights 
 In weariness, 
 
 patient soul, on godlike heights 
 
 Of loneliness, 
 
 1 passed thee by ; tears filled our eyes ; 
 The loud winds mocked and drowned our 
 
 cries. 
 
 The hours go by, with bells and lights ; 
 
 \Ve sail, we drift ; 
 Our souls in changing tasks and rites, 
 
 Find work and shrift. 
 But this I pray, and praying know 
 Till faith almost to joy can grow 
 
 That hour by hour the bells, the lights 
 
 Of sound of flame 
 Weave spell which ceaselessly recites 
 
 To thee a name, 
 
 And smiles which thou canst not forget 
 For thee are suns which never set. 
 
 AMREETA WINE. 
 
 SHE rose up from the golden feast, 
 And her voice rang like the sea ; 
 
 " Sir Knight, put down thy glass and come 
 To the battlement with me. 
 
 " That was a charmed wine thou drank st, 
 Signed white from heaven, signed black 
 from hell. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! for the bitter thing 
 
 The sign hath forced thy lips to tell ! " 
 
 " Ho here ! Ho, there ! Lift up and bear 
 
 My choice wine out," she said ; 
 " That which hath brand of a clasping- 
 Land, 
 
 And the seal blood-red. 
 
 "Ho here! IIo there! To the castle stair 
 
 Hear all that branded wine ; 
 And das.li it far where the breakers are 
 
 Whitest, of the brine ! 
 
 L;-t no man dare to shrink or spare, 
 
 Or one n-d drop to spill ; 
 Of the endless pain of that wine s hot stain 
 
 Let the salt sea bear its fill. 
 
 " woe of mine ! O woe of thine ! 
 
 O woe of endless thirst ! 
 O woe for the Annv.-ta wine, 
 
 By fate and thee accurst ! " 
 
 The knight spake words of sore dismay 
 But her face was white like stone ; 
 
 She saw him mount and ride away, 
 And made no moan. 
 
 The wind blew east, the wind blew west, 
 
 The airs from sepulchres ; 
 No royal heart in all of them 
 
 So dead as hers ! 
 
 CORONATION. 
 
 AT the king s gate the subtle noon 
 Wove filmy yellow nets of sun ; 
 
 Into the drowsy snare too soon 
 The guards fell one by one. 
 
 Through the king s gate, unquestioned then, 
 A beggar went, and laughed, " This 
 brings 
 
 Me chance, at last, to see if men 
 Fare better, being kings." 
 
 The king sat bowed beneath his crown, 
 Propping his face with listless hand ; 
 
 Watching the hour-glass sifting down 
 Too slow its shining sand. 
 
 " Poor man, what .wouldst thou have of 
 me ? " 
 
 The beggar turned, and, pitying, 
 Replied, like one in a dream, "" Of thee, 
 
 Nothing. I want the king." 
 
 Uprose the king, and from his head 
 Shook off the crown and threw it by. 
 
 " man, thou must have known," he said, 
 " A greater king than I!" 
 
 Through all the gates, unquestioned then, 
 Went king and beggar hand in hand. 
 
 Whispered the king, " Shall I know when 
 Before his throne I stand V " 
 
 The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste 
 
 ^ Wen- wipinjr from the king s hot brow 
 The crimson lines the crown had traced. 
 " This is his presence now. 
 
 At the king s gate, the crafty noon 
 Unwove its yellow nets of sun; 
 
 Out of their sleep in terror soon 
 The guards waked one by one. 
 
 " Ho here ! Ho there ! Has no man seen 
 The king . 1 " The cry ran to and fro; 
 
 Beggar and king, they laughed, I ween, 
 The laugh that free men know. 
 
 On the king s gate the moss grew gray ; 
 The king came not. They called him 
 dead ; 
 
 And made his eldest son one day 
 Slave in his father s stead. 
 
 TRYST. 
 
 SOMEWHERE thou awaitest. 
 
 And I, with lips unkissed, 
 Weep that thus to latest 
 Thou puttest off our tryst ! 
 
MRS. HELEN HUNT. 
 
 453 
 
 The golden bowls are broken, 
 The silver cords untwine ; 
 
 Almond flowers in token 
 
 Have bloomed, that I am thine ! 
 
 Others who would fly thee 
 
 In cowardly alarms, 
 Who hate thee and deny thee, 
 
 Thou foldest in thine arms ! 
 
 How shall I entreat thee 
 
 No longer to withhold ? 
 I dare not go to meet thee, 
 
 lover, far and cold ! 
 
 lover, whose lips chilling 
 So many lips have kissed, 
 
 Come, even if unwilling, 
 And keep thy solemn tryst ! 
 
 MY STRAWBERRY. 
 
 MARVEL, fruit of fruits, I pause 
 To reckon thee. I ask what cause 
 Set free so much of red from heats 
 
 At core of earth, and mixed such sweets 
 With sour and spice: what was that 
 
 strength 
 
 Which out of darkness, length by length, 
 Spun all thy shining thread of vine, 
 Netting the fields in bond as thine. 
 
 1 see thy tendrils drink by sips 
 From grass and clover s smiling lips ; 
 I heartily roots dig down for wells, 
 Tapping the meadow s hidden cells ; 
 
 Whole generations of green things, 
 Descended from long lines of springs, 
 I see make room for thee to bide 
 A quiet comrade by their side ; 
 I see the creeping peoples go 
 Mysterious journeys to and fro, 
 Treading to right and left of thee, 
 Doing thee homage wonderingiy. 
 I see the wild bees as they fare, 
 Thy cups of honey drink, but spare. 
 I mark thee bathe and bathe again 
 In sweet uncalendared spring rain. 
 1 watch how all May has of sun 
 Makes haste to have thy ripeness done, 
 While all her nights let dews escape 
 To set and cool thy perfect shape. 
 Ah, fruit of fruits, no more 1 pause 
 To dream and seek thy hidden laws ! 
 1 stretch my hand and dare to taste, 
 In instant of delicious waste 
 On single feast, all things that went 
 To make the empire thou hast spent. 
 
 " DOWN TO SLEEP. 1 
 
 NOVEMBER woods are .bare and still; 
 
 November days are clear and bright ; 
 Each noon burns up the morning s chill ; 
 
 The morning s snow is gone by night ; 
 
 Each day my steps grow slow, gr,ow light, 
 As through the woods I reverent creep, 
 Watching all things lie " down to sleep." 
 
 I never knew before what beds, 
 
 Fragrant to smell, and soft to touch, 
 
 The forest sifts and shapes and spreads ; 
 I never knew before how much 
 Of human sound there is in such 
 
 Low tones as through the forest sweep 
 
 When all wild things lie " down to sleep." 
 
 Each day I find new coverlids 
 
 Tucked in, and more sweet eyes shut 
 
 tight ; 
 Sometimes the viewless mother bids 
 
 Her ferns kneel down full in my sight ; 
 
 I hear their chorus of " good night ; " 
 And half I smile, and half I weep, 
 Listening while they lie " down to sleep." 
 
 November woods are bare and still ; 
 
 November days are bright and good ; 
 Life s noon burns up life s morning chill ; 
 
 Life s night rests feet which long have 
 stood ; 
 
 Some warm soft bed, in field or wood, 
 The mother will not fail to keep, 
 Where we can " lay us down to sleep." 
 
 VINTAGE. 
 
 BEFORE the time of grapes, 
 While they altered in the sun, 
 
 And out of the time of grapes, 
 When vintage songs were done, 
 
 From secret southern spot, 
 
 Whose warmth not a mortal knew ; 
 From shades which the sun forgot, 
 
 Or could not struggle through, 
 
 Wine sweeter than first wine, 
 She gave him by drop, by drop ; 
 
 Wine stronger than seal could sign, 
 She poured out and did not stop. 
 
 Soul of my soul, the shapes 
 Of the things of earth are one ; 
 
 Eemembeiest thou the grapes 
 I brought thee in the sun ? 
 
 And darest thou still drink 
 
 Wine stronger than seal can sign ? 
 
 And smilest thou to think 
 Eternal vintage thine ? 
 
 THOUGHT. 
 
 MESSENGER, art thou the king, or I ? 
 Thou dalliest out>ide the palace gate 
 Till on thine idle armor lie the late 
 
 And heavy dews : the morn s bright, r corn- 
 
 fill eye . 
 
 Reminds thee ; then, in subtle mockery, 
 Tliou smilest at the window where I wiit, 
 Who bade the ride for life. In empty state 
 My days go on, while false hours prophe.-y 
 Thy quick return ; at last, in sad despair, 
 
 1 cease to bid thee, leave thee free as air ; 
 When lo, thou stand st before me glad a.ul 
 
 fleet, 
 
 And lay st undreamed of treasures at m\- feet. 
 Ah! messenger, thy royal bloo 1 to buy, 
 I am too poor. Tliou art the king, not I. 
 
MRS. MARGARET J. PRESTOS. 
 
 SEBASTIANO AT KUPPER.* 
 
 HA ! ha ! How free and happy I am, 
 
 Here in my rollicking, careless culm, 
 With never a scowling monk to gibe, 
 
 Or hurry me for the crab-like way 
 They tell me I work. That beggarly tribe, 
 
 Priors ami abbesses, deem that a day 
 Must count in the life of a picture. Fools ! 
 They think that they grow like mushroom 
 
 stools. 
 
 " Ik-re s so many feet of bare, blank wall 
 Here s so many days to fresco all." 
 Bah! Through the Father s grace, that s 
 
 past, 
 And I m free do you hear, friends ? free 
 
 at last, 
 
 With only the Seals upon my mind ; 
 As idle a Frate as you ll find 
 In Rome or out of it. Here are we, 
 Gandolfo and Messer Marco three 
 Right merry old roysterers, faith, we be ; 
 The night is before us; with many a choras, 
 We ll set the rafters a-ringing () vi- us ; 
 For I vow I never could tell which art 
 The brush or the bow, mo.-t s waved my 
 
 heart. 
 
 Yes, yes his worship Ippolito 
 Once served me a sorry trick, 1 k;iow 
 
 The time he sent (he was love a-cr-izo, 
 
 And wanted the work quick done) vhiys 
 Of horses for speed, when I went to paint 
 The Donna (Juelma : *!,<> was the sa .nt 
 
 His prayers were said to, in these old days ! 
 Well would you believe it V Nathless, " tis 
 true ; 
 
 I left my pigments behind and brought 
 
 My viol, as uppermost in my thought: 
 And what did his Cardinal graceship do? 
 He smashed and he crashed the strings right 
 
 through. 
 
 And so, thereafter, I could not shirk, 
 For music, a single day of work. 
 Aye, aye be sure twas a brutal shame, 
 But it helped in a month to build mv fame, 
 For 1 need not tell you the picture s name. 
 Heigho ! with a sweet relief I sigh, 
 Aa I loungr so masterless here you by, 
 
 Dearest of comrades sigh to think " 
 How .Michelagnolo pinned me down, 
 
 Granting me scarcely leave to wink, 
 
 Micir.el Amrelo s most f.,,,,ous pupil w-is Sebastisino del 
 I, ombo-so tailed from his liein- ma.le Keeper ,,f the I apal 
 Se-.l,, through which appointment he was enabled to live 
 Without work. But tor Ins excessive indolence and sell-m- 
 dulxeuce, he might have disputed the palm with auv ,,i bis 
 cotemp.THries. All Art -pilgrims will remember his master 
 piece in tue I hurch of San (iian Gri.sostomo, Venice 
 
 Impaled all day on his frescoes brown 
 (Lout that I was to fear his frown !) 
 No toil can tire him out : he ll be 
 Still fresh you mark me at ninety-three, 
 With muscles like his own David s. Well 
 It was that we quarreled ; for who can tell, 
 If under his grand, resistless will, 
 I might not have been a captive still ? 
 I think the Maestro hates me though : 
 My debtor I made him long ago, 
 
 And it rankles his terrible pride. You see 
 I went to Ischia once to paint 
 The lovely Marchesa ; (What a saint 
 
 Of a wife Colonna had ! and he 
 But we ll tell no tales ; it s all forgiven, 
 Now that he s been so long in heaven ;) 
 And the picture I gave the master, who 
 Had learned to worship that face, as you 
 Worship Our Lady s ; nor would I touch 
 In b-)ot a l>i-t, "" , ; : tis so much 
 To Ir-ive him beholden ! And that is how 
 The liking of yore is hatred now. 
 
 Ah, we ! -i-day ! I have loved my art, 
 
 Beautiful mistress she ever was! 
 An 1 yet \\v are not unloth to part, 
 
 Though bound together for years because 
 I inw ud y groan to come and go, 
 At beck of the best ; and I leave her so. 
 Besides, I own, of the perilous stuff 
 The world calls fame I have had enough. 
 To (Jiulio, Perino, and such, tis best 
 I think, on the whole, to leave the rest. 
 
 - I m garrulous : why have you let me waste 
 
 My breath a-chattering ? Only taste 
 
 This vintage, and own it might cheat the 
 
 Fates, 
 And see you, my friends, the supper waits 
 
 ANDREA S MISTAKE." 
 1512. 
 
 Why, where have 
 
 "NOT heard the tale? 
 
 you been hidden 
 These seven days gone ? All Florence rings 
 
 it round ; 
 
 And you may see, along the Via Larga, 
 Madonna Maddalena and the rest 
 The fair court- ladies, who were wont to count 
 
 * The marriage of Amlrea del Sarto (the old Florentine 
 
 muster, whose pictures take rank, perhaps, next to Raphael s) 
 With i widow of the lower (.lass, a beautiful yet worthless 
 woman, .<rave jrreat disgust to his friends, and threatened 
 seriously to arrest his course as an artist. 
 
MRS. MARGARET J. PRESTON. 
 
 461 
 
 It honor if allowed to stand and watch 
 Over his shoulder as our Andrea worked, 
 May see these very same avert the face 
 And draw the robe aside when Andrea 
 
 passes, 
 As if from the contaminate touch of plague. 
 
 "What hath he done?" Ay, verily, done 
 
 enough 
 
 To topple him down from his high dignity 
 Among the Masters. Take your stroll to 
 night 
 
 Through Di San Gallo.and there ask the first 
 Bold wanton that you chance to meet, 
 
 " What news?" 
 And I will wager you ten oboli 
 You ll have the story, all the marrow in it, 
 iS eat as a nut with yet the shell of truth. 
 
 "^Rather from me? " Good ! you shall hear 
 
 it now. 
 
 Let s turn aside, and by the fountain-brink 
 In cool San Marco s gardens, talk of it. 
 
 "A woman ? " Certes ! Did you ever find 
 Mischief a-brewing, nor aforehand know 
 A woman s meddling finger there V Per 
 
 Bacco ! 
 
 To think how fortune, honor, reverence, all 
 Waited his plucking just as quick to drop 
 At his mere touch as yonder fig has tumbled 
 Ere the wind s coming ; then to see him leave 
 The vintage of his yet ungathered life, 
 To rake a vile squeez d orange fiom the muck 
 Because the rind was bright ! Why just 
 
 consider 
 
 How royal Francis lures him to his court, 
 Till the Venetian Masters grind their teeth, 
 And Veronese grows green ; and how the 
 
 duke 
 
 Counts Villa Campi richer for the forms 
 Our Andrea leaves there, than if Flemish 
 
 arras, 
 
 Copied from Albrecht s* rarest of cartoons, 
 Hung every wall. And jealous Florence 
 
 too 
 
 A right harsh mother to her children oft 
 Why, Florence flings her roses at his feet, 
 And sets him with her nobles, and throws 
 
 wide; 
 To him her proudest doors. And he poor 
 
 fool ! 
 
 For sake of lips that take a brighter red, 
 Or cheek whore oval chances perfecter, 
 Haply, than any to his insatiate eye, 
 Makes haste to scramble from his hard- won 
 
 seat 
 
 (Dropping his brushes in the sewer), to run 
 And snatch this woman of the people up, 
 And take her mind you ! as his wedded 
 
 wile. 
 
 "Commend his courage?" Hear you first 
 
 the story, 
 
 Nor, when I tell it you, as here we sit, 
 Will you once marvel that I sigh so, seeing 
 I hold our Andrea s life as lost to Art, 
 
 * Albrecht Dlirer. 
 
 "1 overstate tlie case? " Have you not marked 
 How a base woman, armed with leopard 
 
 strength 
 To match her leopard charms, can downward 
 
 drag 
 The man who loves her with the strangling 
 
 gripe 
 
 Of claws about his throat, and hold him EO, 
 Till all his rigid energies relax, 
 And the fine fibres of his nobler will 
 Beneath the brutish clutch part strand by 
 
 strand ? 
 
 "He lift her up ? " Alack ! who ever raw 
 The diamond, dropt within the festering 
 
 heap 
 
 Aglow with poison -flowers, prevail to make 
 The mud illuminate ? or beheld it even 
 Dredged up, belike, from the pestiferous 
 
 slime, 
 
 Again to flash on a pure forehead ? Art 
 This priesthood of all beauteousness is 
 
 weak 
 
 Against temptation, and it offers oft 
 Sweet incense to false gods, and kneels at 
 
 shrines 
 Where, in its solemn claim of Good and 
 
 True 
 And Beautiful, tis sacrilege to worship. 
 
 "Faith in our Andrea s genius" which you 
 
 say 
 
 Is not a diamond to be lost i the mire, 
 But a most lambent star that in the orbit 
 Of its own splendor shall go circling on, 
 To far-off ages visible ? Well, they ll see ! 
 
 "Pity him?" Yea, I m moved to think on 
 
 him ; 
 
 And so to Santa Trinita I ll go 
 To-morrow with gifts to please Our Lady : 
 
 she, 
 Mayhap, may grant some respite of the 
 
 " thrall, 
 
 Seeing through this Maestro s skill divine 
 Mortals are won to purer love of her, 
 By reason of his semblances. But yonder 
 Jacopo beckons, and my tale s not told. 
 
 DONNA MARGHERITA.* 
 
 (AN ART-PICTURE.) 
 
 HERE is the chamber: Messers, enter ye : 
 A Borgherini needs must courtesy yield 
 To whoso comes. Ye see upon the walls 
 My priceless pictures, .famed all Florence 
 
 through 
 
 Jacopo s work. Behold the Patriarch s sons, 
 Cruel, unpitying, grouped about the boy, 
 Whom, for a fardel of rough Midiau gold, 
 Thev barter, mindless of his frantic prayers. 
 
 * Dnrinj; one of tlie sieves of Florence, the artist Palla, with 
 
 the connivance of the venal SfcflOl /. sei/ert, u J ~ f 
 
 purch use for the King of France, iniinhers of t 
 of the city, thus enriching liiniself throng 
 ruin. The Donna Mrgh0ritn HorjHierini,, 
 masterpiece ofjucopo Puntormo 1 to Ht*t 
 hnu-ed the power of the State, and refused 
 pictures. 
 
 ler pretence of 
 
 e art-treasures 
 his rMimtry s 
 ho owned the 
 
 give up her 
 
462 
 
 MRS. MARGARET J. PRESTOX. 
 
 Ha ! Palla, stand where thou canst note 
 
 the chaffer, 
 
 Yea, so ! And now I say, this Simeon, 
 Who clutches from the Arab s sleeve the 
 
 prict 
 
 Vr which they higgle, is as a puling milk 
 
 sop 
 
 To that thou art ! lie bartered only blood ; 
 Thou, honor, faith, and Florence ! And 
 
 because 
 
 She lies, our Florence, weeping at the feet 
 Of her invaders, in her broideries wrapped, 
 (An Empress still, wanting, albeit, a crust, ) 
 Thy thief s hand twitches off thy Mother s 
 
 robe, 
 
 Leaving her in her nnded majesty 
 To perish. Out upon thy villainy ! 
 
 1 would this golden bodkin Avere a lance, 
 For other impalement than a woman s hair : 
 But being a woman, shorn of all defence, 
 Saving my shuddering hate, I dare defy 
 Thee and thy myrmidons, though ye be 
 
 armed 
 
 With license from the huckstering Signori ; 
 Ye loosen no pictures from these walls, ex 
 cept 
 Ye loosen them with my life ! 
 
 Why, cravens, yonder 
 Stands in that carven niche my bridal couch ; 
 And when I use from my Francesco s face 
 To turn, 1 ever met the moistened lift 
 Of Jacob s lids, see !) as with lips a-strain, 
 lie quaffs the maiden s foamy loveliness : 
 The earliest sight that filled the baby eyes 
 Of my youno- Florentine, was yon Hebrew 
 
 lad 
 
 Weeping before his brothers knees. Why I 
 Were lacking in such mere brute instincts 
 
 even 
 
 As teach the leaguered lioness to fight 
 For shielding of her cubs and lair, if less 
 I dare for these. \Yith the white heats of 
 
 scorn 
 
 I ll shrivel your purpose, till ye shun to see, 
 Each gazing on each, how dastards haste to 
 
 crawl 
 Out of the glare. 
 
 . . . Yet Palla hath loved Art ; 
 And he hath painted Mary-Mother s face 
 Divinely, as between heaven s rosy clouds 
 Herself had stooped to grant him seraph- 
 glimpse, 
 Else iinconceived 
 
 Palla, some wine? Meseems 
 Thy brow grows ashen: J\ <v ? Then sit 
 
 apart 
 ruder the arch here, where thou best canst 
 
 mark 
 
 Reuben the coward, who slinks away afeard 
 To brave the wrath of Judah and the rest. 
 
 - What ! tire ye of the masterpiece so soon 
 That ye turn backs on t . Ay, tis well ve 
 
 put 
 Your tools np ; they ll unfasten no frames 
 
 to-day 
 
 From Casa Borgherini s walls, I promise: 
 And to the ^ iytwri (brave, worshipful!) 
 
 Bear, with my duty, back the Iscariot bribe, 
 Owning that Donna Margherita haggled 
 Over the price, seeing she holds the pic 
 tures 
 At cost of her heart s blood. 
 
 DOROTHEA S ROSES. 
 
 (IN FLORENCE.) 
 
 YES, here is the old cathedral ; 
 
 Out of the glare and heat, 
 We ll plunge in these depths of coolness, 
 
 ( Take the prie-dieu for a seat :) 
 
 Bathe in this gloom your vision, 
 So wearied with frescoed shows, 
 
 And let the slow ripples of silence, 
 Tide-like, around you close. 
 
 Then at your ease, I ll show you 
 That picture of Carlo s,* the sight 
 
 Of whose so ineffable sweetness 
 Prismed my dreams last night. 
 
 Surely you ve heard the legend, 
 (Saint Cyprian hands it down,) 
 
 Of the beautiful Dorothea 
 
 Who was crowned with the fiery crown ? 
 
 No ? Then sit as you re sitting 
 
 There, in that open stall, 
 Just where the great rose-window 
 
 Splendors the eastern wall, 
 
 Just where the sunset shivers 
 
 Its darts on the altar-rail, 
 And while the blue smoke of the incense 
 
 Rises, I ll tell the tale. 
 
 There dwelt (while the old religion 
 
 For the golden East sufficed, 
 While the Grecian Zeus was worshipped 
 
 In the temples, instead of Christ 
 
 When flame and rack and dungeon 
 
 Awaited the neophyte 
 Who turned from an idol s statue, 
 
 Or shrank from a pagan rite) 
 
 In a fair Greek city, a maiden, 
 
 Whose fame went all abroad 
 Because of her wondrous beauty, 
 
 And they called her Tin yift "f God. 
 
 One day, as she passed, bestowing 
 
 Offerings at Hebe s shrine, 
 Strange words to her ear were wafted 
 
 New teachings that seemed divine. 
 
 She paused, and the hoary hermit 
 
 Placed in her hands a scroll, 
 Saint John-the-Divine s sweet Gospel 
 
 And she read and believed the whole. 
 
 Thereat, the fierce proconsul 
 
 Rose in his wrath : " Deny 
 This myth of the Galilean, 
 
 Or thou, by the gods, shalt die ! " 
 
 Carlo Duke s St. Dorothea. 
 
MRS. MARGARET J. PRESTON. 
 
 433 
 
 Meekly she bowed before him, 
 With a faith 110 threat could dim ; 
 
 He hath died for me, and I cannot, 
 
 I cannot do less for Him ! " 
 
 As out through the gates of the city, 
 They led her to meet her death, 
 
 From the midst of his gay companions, 
 Hilarion mocking saith 
 
 Ha ! goest thou, lovely maiden, 
 
 (Such joy on thy face I see,) 
 Afar to some fair Elysium, 
 
 Where thy bridegroom waits for thee ? 
 
 " If there an Hesperides garden 
 Blooms, that is brighter than ours, 
 
 Send me, beseech thee, in token, 
 A spray of celestial flowers ! " 
 
 She smiled with a smile seraphic ; 
 
 < Is that of thy faith the price ? 
 
 Then, verily, thou shalt have roses 
 
 Gathered in Paradise." 
 
 Onward she went exulting, 
 
 As though she were borne mid air ; 
 
 And lo ! as she neared the pyre, 
 A fair-haired boy stood there, 
 
 in his hand, three dewy roses, 
 Clustered about their stem : 
 "Ah, hasten," she said, " sweet an 
 gel ! 
 Hilarion waits for them ! " 
 
 Come now, and see Carlo s picture 
 Of the maiden, as she stands 
 
 With the golden nimbus around her, 
 And the roses within her hands. 
 
 IN AN EASTERN BAZAAR. 
 
 I AM tired ! Let us sit in the shadows 
 
 This mosque flings, (how drowsy they 
 are!) 
 
 And watch, a they come from the meadows, 
 Those carriers, each with his jar 
 And puff at a lazy cigar. 
 
 Confess now, tis something delicious 
 To leave the old life a.ll behind, 
 
 Its turbulence, worries and wishes, 
 Its loves and its longings, and find 
 A Nirvana at last to your mind. 
 
 What softness suffuses the picture ! 
 lio\v tranquil the poppied repose ! 
 
 See the child there, unbound by the 
 
 strict are 
 
 Of dress that encumbers : he knows 
 (Acquit of the gyves we impose) 
 
 What the meaning of freedom is, better 
 Than any young Frank of them all, 
 
 Whose civilized feet we must fetter 
 Whose fair Christian limbs we must gall 
 With garments that chafe and enthrall. 
 
 Just look at yon brown caryatid 
 Who poises the urn on her head ; 
 
 Don t tell me her long locks are matted, 
 But mark the Greek Naiad instead, 
 Such grace to such symmetry wed ! 
 
 Quick ! notice the droop of her shoulder, 
 And the exquisite curve of her arm ; 
 
 None ever will tell, or has told her 
 
 How perfect she is : There s the charm ! 
 Such knowledge brings nothing but harm. 
 
 Here s a group now ! The jealous Zenanas 
 Unveil in the twilight their bowers ; 
 
 And girls that look proud as Sultanas, 
 Bloom out as the night-blooming flowers, 
 That drowse with their odors the hours. 
 
 True wildlings of nature ! Each gesture 
 
 A study, by art undefiled : 
 They gather or loosen their vesture, 
 
 By no thought of observance beguiled, 
 
 Unconscious of aim as a child. 
 
 The traffic too, what now could ruffle 
 Yon white-turban d merchant s repose, 
 
 As placidly scorning the scuffle 
 
 And chaffer, he waits ? for he knows 
 Where the vantage will rest, at the close. 
 
 I miss (and how slumbrous the feeling !) 
 As I catch the low hum of these hives, 
 
 That Occident worry that s stealing 
 
 (Through schemes that our culture con 
 trives) 
 The calmness all out of our lives. 
 
 No exigence harries their pleasures ; 
 Unbeautiful haste does not fray 
 
 Their time of its margin of leisures ; 
 While ice, in our prodigal way, 
 Forestall our whole morrow, to-day. 
 
 Yes yes I concede we re their betters, 
 
 (Self-gratulant Goth that I am !) 
 
 We have science, religion and letters, 
 
 With the bane of the curse, we ve the 
 
 balm : 
 They keep their inviolate calm. 
 
 If only this land of the lotus 
 
 Would teach us the charm it knows best, 
 
 That could soothe the rasped nerve that 
 
 could float us 
 
 Far off to some Island of Rest, 
 What a boon from the East to the West ! 
 
 ST. GREGORY S SUPPER. 
 
 " SERVANT of sfrrmtt* ! That is the name 
 
 Falleth the fittest when they call; 
 Jesus my Master bore the same, 
 
 Though He be Sovereign Lord of all. 
 Shut in my crypt by night, by day, 
 
 Breathing Hie P<^<-e wi*h every breath, 
 I was content To wear away, 
 
 Tasting a calm as s\ve< t as death : 
 Yet they have bidden me forth to bear 
 
 Mitre and stole and sacred staff, 
 Burdens that stoop my heart with care 
 
 Heart that is weak as winnowed cnatt. 
 
404 
 
 MRS. MARGARET J. PRESTO X. 
 
 " Valens, abide with me, friend of friends, 
 
 Sluire, as we use, our joy our woe ; 
 Order my household, make amends 
 
 Steading me thus to poor and low, 
 Whom, in their hovels, I ll see no more : 
 
 Gather each night about my board 
 Twelve grav beggars to halve my store, 
 
 ( Am 1 not almoner for my Lord ? ) 
 Twelve of the outcasts. Even to such 
 
 Still I would Servant of servants be : 
 Small the abasement ! think how much 
 
 (ireater the Master s was for me." 
 
 Forth to his work the Pontiff passed, 
 
 Wrapt in his prayerful thoughts apart, 
 Fearful some clouding pride should cast 
 
 Shadows of bale above his heart. 
 Valens made haste against he caine, 
 
 Summoned as guests the twelve he bade, 
 Hungry and homeless, lost to shame, 
 
 Only in iilth and rags arrayed : 
 Just as They were, defiled, unsweet, 
 
 Grimed with the squalid crust of sin. 
 Pivs.-ing their hands, their host did greet 
 
 Each, as they wondering, entered in. 
 
 Lifting his voice, he prayed, then brake 
 
 Generous bread for their full repast : 
 " Welcome," he said, " for the Lord s 
 dear sake ;" 
 
 While o er the group his eyes lie cast. 
 " As it is written, He sat at meat 
 
 Tli us iritli the Twelve ; Ha, what may it 
 
 mean ? 
 Valens, 1 bade that but twelve should eat, 
 
 Yet there be verily here thirteen !" 
 Valens made answer : " Even so, 
 
 Heeded I, hearkening to thy hest : 
 One hath intruded, nor do I know 
 
 Wherefore he titteth among the rest." 
 
 " Whence art thou come, unbidden ? 
 Speak ! " 
 
 Straightway the stranger gave reply : 
 Once did a starving palmer seek 
 
 Alms of thee, passing thy cloister by. 
 Nothing thou saidst is mine to give, 
 
 Saving this silvern bowl, to me, 
 Gift of ruy mother ; yet take and live : 
 
 Know st thou the palmer? lam he!" 
 E en as he spake, his face waxed faint, 
 
 Brightened, then paled in a splendor dim, 
 Leaving them ma/ed, and then the Saint 
 
 Knew it was Christ who had supped with 
 him ! 
 
 THE OPEN GATE. 
 
 PAST and over ; Yet no frenzy 
 
 Marks my overladen brain ; 
 Grief can anodyne the spirit, 
 
 Wo:- can numb its pain. 
 Did you deem the blow would crush me, 
 
 Pitying comforters, that I 
 In despairing acquiescence 
 
 Could but moan and die ? 
 N:iy, one deadening shock hath palsied 
 
 So my sentient nature o er, 
 Well I knew no after sorrow 
 
 Now could craze me more. 
 
 Yet I grasped without abatement 
 
 Its full meaning when ye said, 
 Softly, lest the sound should stun me, 
 
 That the child was dead. 
 Keep that bitterer word, it gauges 
 
 Something of that other woe, 
 Different as the soundless ocean s 
 
 From the shallows flow. 
 Oh, not dead : that word has in it 
 
 Maddening terrors, wild alarms : 
 Rather, God has given the darling 
 
 To his father s arms ! 
 Months or is it years ? have vanished 
 
 Since for him the boy has smiled, 
 And if saints can long in heaven, 
 
 He must want the child. 
 
 ... I have seen the gates unfolding, 
 
 (Heavenly hath the vision been,) 
 Seen the little stranger venture 
 
 Through the radiance in : 
 Watched the timid, shrinking wonder 
 
 On the baby- face so fair, 
 And the kindling smile of rapture, 
 
 When he found him there : 
 Watched the soul-full recognition ; 
 
 Saw the finger pointing back 
 To the arms he knew were stretching 
 
 Toward that shining track : 
 Till I wondered at my sorrow, 
 
 But the vision would not stay ; 
 And it left the truth unsofteiied, 
 
 He is taken away. 
 What is left me ? Only patience, 
 
 Only heart to watch and wait, 
 Till that moment when as convoys 
 
 From the open gate, 
 Forth shall issue child and father, 
 
 Bend above me, name my name, 
 Sent upon a tenderer errand 
 
 Than they ever came : 
 If to nurse the thought can lighten 
 
 Even now the crush of woe, 
 Surely, surely twill be blissful 
 
 To arise and go ! 
 
 GOD S PATIENCE. 
 
 OF all the attributes whose starry rays 
 Converge and centre in one focal light 
 Of luminous glory such as angels sight 
 Can only look on with a blench d amaze, 
 None crowns the brow of God with purer 
 
 blaze, 
 Nor lifts His grandeur to more infinite 
 
 height 
 
 Than His exhaustless patience. Let us praise 
 With wondering hearts this strangest, ten- 
 
 derest grace, 
 
 Remembering awe-struck, that the aveng 
 ing rod 
 
 Of Justice must have fallen, and Mercy s plan 
 Been frustrate, had not Patience stood be 
 tween, 
 
 Divinely meek. And let us learn that man, 
 
 Toiling, enduring, pleading calm, serene, 
 
 For those who scorn and slight, is likest God. 
 
:N T OKA PERRY. 
 
 IN JUNE. 
 
 So sweet, so sweet the roses in their blow 
 ing, 
 
 So sweet the daffodils, so fair to see ; 
 So blithe and g-ay the humming-bird a-going 
 From flower to flower, a-hunting with the 
 bee. 
 
 So sweet, so sweet the calling of the thrushes, 
 
 The calling, cooing, wooing, everywhere ; 
 
 So sweet the water s song through reeds 
 
 and rushes, 
 
 The plover s piping note, now here, now 
 there. 
 
 So sweet, so sweet, from off the fields of 
 
 clover, 
 The west wind blowing, blowing up the 
 
 hill ; 
 So sweet, so sweet, with news of some one s 
 
 lover, 
 
 Fleet footsteps ringing nearer, nearer 
 still. 
 
 So near, so near, now listen, listen thrushes; 
 Now plover, blackbird, cease, and let me 
 
 hear ; 
 And water, hush your song through reeds 
 
 and rushes, 
 
 That I may know whose lover cometh 
 near. 
 
 So loud, so loud, the thrushes kept their 
 
 calling, 
 
 Plover or blackbird never heeding me ; 
 So loud the mill-stream too kept fretting, 
 
 falling, 
 
 O er bar and bank, in brawling, boisterous 
 glee. 
 
 So loud, so loud ; yet blackbird, thrush nor 
 
 plover, 
 
 Nor noisy mill-stream, in its fret and fall, 
 Could drown the voice, the low voice of my 
 
 lover, 
 
 My lover calling through the thrushes 
 call. 
 
 " Come down, come down ! " he called, and 
 
 straight the thrushes 
 From mate to mate sang all at once, 
 
 " Come down ! " 
 And while the water laughed through reeds 
 
 and rushes, 
 
 The blackbird chirped, the plover piped, 
 " Come down !" 
 
 Then down and off, and through the fields 
 
 of clover, 
 I followed, followed at my lover s call ; 
 
 Listening no more to blackbird, thrush, or 
 
 plover, 
 
 The water s laugh, the mill-stream s fret 
 and fall. 
 
 THAT WALTZ OF VON WEBER S. 
 
 GAYLY and gayly rang the gay music, 
 
 The blithe, merry music of harp and of 
 
 horn, 
 
 The mad, merry music, that set us a-dancing 
 Till over the midnight came stealing the 
 morn. 
 
 Down the great hall went waving the 
 
 banners, 
 Waving and waving their red, white and 
 
 blue, 
 As the sweet summer wind came blowing 
 
 and blowing 
 
 From the city s great gardens asleep in the 
 dew. 
 
 Under the flags, as they floated and floated, 
 Under the arches and arches of flowers, 
 
 We two and we two floated and floated 
 Into the mystical midnight hours. 
 
 And just as the dawn came stealing and 
 
 stealing, 
 The last of those wild Weber waltzes 
 
 began ; 
 I can hear the soft notes now appealing and 
 
 pleading, 
 
 And I catch the faint scent of the sandal- 
 wood fan 
 
 That lay in your hand, your hand on my 
 
 shoulder, 
 
 As down the great hall, away and away, 
 All under the flags and under the arc-lies, 
 We danced and we danced till the dawn of 
 the day. 
 
 But why should I dream o er this dreary old 
 
 ledger, 
 In this counting-room down in this dingy 
 
 old street, 
 Of that night or that morning, just there at 
 
 the dawning, 
 
 When our hearts beat in time to our fast- 
 flying feet ? 
 
 What is it that brings me that scent of 
 
 enchantment, 
 
 So fragrant and fresh from out the dead 
 years, 
 
403 
 
 NORA PERRY. 
 
 That just for a moment I d swear that the 
 
 music 
 
 Of Weber s wild waltzes was still in my 
 ears ? 
 
 What is it, indeed, in this dusty old alley, 
 That brings me that night or that morning 
 in June ? 
 
 What is it, indeed? I laugh to confess it 
 A hand organ grinding a creaking old tune ! 
 
 But somewhere or other I caught in the 
 
 measure 
 That waltz of Von Weber s, and back it all 
 
 came, 
 That night or that morning, just there at 
 
 the dawning, 
 
 When I danced the last dance with my first 
 and last flame. 
 
 My first and my last! but who would believe 
 
 me 
 
 If, down in this dusty old alley to-day, 
 Twixt the talk about cotton, the markets, 
 
 and money, 
 
 I should suddenly turn in some moment 
 and say 
 
 That one memory only had left me a lonely 
 And gray -bearded bachelor, dreaming of 
 
 Junes, 
 Where the nights and the mornings, from 
 
 the dusk to the dawnings, 
 Seemed set to the music of Weber s wild 
 tunes ! 
 
 RIDING DOWN. 
 
 OH did you see him riding down, 
 And riding down, while all the town 
 Came out to see, came out to see, 
 And all the bells rang mad with glee? 
 
 Oh did you hear those bells ring out, 
 The bells ring out, the people shout, 
 And did you hear that cheer on cheer, 
 That over all the bells rang clear ? 
 
 And did you see the waving flags, 
 The fluttering flags, and tattered flags, 
 Red, white and blue, shot through and 
 
 through, 
 Baptized with battle s deadly dew ? 
 
 And did you hear the drums gay beat, 
 The drums gay beat, the bugles sweet, 
 The cymbals clash, the cannons crash 
 That rent the sky with sound and flash? 
 
 And did you see me waiting there, 
 Just waiting there, and watching there, 
 One little lass amid the mass 
 That pressed to see the hero pass ? 
 
 And did you see him smiling down, 
 And smiling down, as riding down, 
 With slowest pace, with stately grace, 
 lie caught the vision of a face. 
 
 My face uplifted, red and white, 
 Turned red and white with sheer delight, 
 To meet the eyes, the smiling eyes, 
 Out flashing in their swift surprise. 
 
 Oh did you see how swift it came, 
 How swift it come like sudden flame, 
 That smile to me, to only me, 
 The little lass who blushed to see? 
 
 And at the windows all along, 
 Oh, all along, a lovely throng 
 Of faces fair, beyond compare, 
 Beamed out upon him riding there. 
 
 Each face was like a radiant gem, 
 A sparkling gem, and yet for them 
 No swift smile came, like sudden flame, 
 No arrowy glance took certain aim. 
 
 He turned away from all their grace, 
 From all that grace of perfect face, 
 He turned to me, to only me, 
 The little lass who blushed to see ! 
 
 MY LADY. 
 
 HERE she comes my lady so fair and so 
 
 fine 
 From the gold of her hair to the glitter and 
 
 shine 
 Of her Pompadour silk with its ruffles of 
 
 lace 
 A wonderful vision of fashion and grace. 
 
 Here she comes my lady drawing on the 
 
 pink gloves 
 Which I know, even here, have the scent 
 
 that she loves ; 
 
 And soft, as she moves her fingers of snow, 
 I catch in the movement the sparkle and 
 
 glow 
 
 Of the ring that I gave her the diamond 
 
 solitaire 
 
 That marks her " my lady," in Vanity Fair; 
 My lady my jewel to have and to hold 
 As her diamond is held in a setting of y old. 
 
 My lady my jewel would she sparkle and 
 
 glow 
 
 If into the light I should suddenly go, 
 And stand where her beautiful eyes would 
 
 discover 
 In the flash of a moment, the eyes of her 
 
 lover ? 
 
 Would she turn to my glance as the diamond 
 
 turns 
 To the light all its rays, till it blushes and 
 
 burns ? 
 Should I, standing thus, in that moment 
 
 her lover, 
 Be the light, all the light of her soul to 
 
 discover V 
 
 Ah, my lady my jewel so fair and so fine, 
 Of your soul 1 have had little token or sign; 
 When I put on your finger that diamond 
 
 solitaire, 
 / knew I was buying in Vanity Fair ! 
 
NORA PERRY. 
 
 467 
 
 ANOTHER YEAR. 
 
 " ANOTHER year," she said, "another year. 
 These roses I have watched with so much 
 
 care, 
 Have watched and tended without pain or 
 
 fear, 
 Shall bud and bloom for me exceeding 
 
 fair 
 Another year," she said, " another year." 
 
 " Another year," she said, "another year, 
 My life perhaps may bud and bloom again, 
 
 May bud and bloom like these red roses here, 
 Unlike them, tended with regret and 
 pain 
 
 Another year, perhaps, another year. 
 
 " Another year, ah, yes, another year, 
 When bloom my roses, all my life shall 
 
 bloom ; 
 When summer comes, my summer too 11 be 
 
 here, 
 
 And I shall cease to wander in this gloom 
 Another year, ah, yes, another year. 
 
 " For ah, another year, another year, 
 
 I ll i-et my life in richer, stronger soil, 
 And prune the weeds away that creep too 
 
 near, 
 And watch and tend with never-ceasing 
 
 toil 
 Another year, ah, yes, another year." 
 
 Another year, alas ! another year, 
 
 The roses all lay withering ere their prime, 
 Poor blighted buds, with scanty leaves and 
 
 sere, 
 Drooping and dying long before their 
 
 time 
 Another year, alas ! another year. 
 
 And ah, another year, another year, 
 
 Low, like the blighted dying buds, she lay, 
 
 Whose voice had prophesied without a fear, 
 Whose hand had trimmed the rose-tree 
 day by day, 
 
 To bloom another year, another year. 
 
 AFTER THE BALL. 
 
 TIITCY sat and combed their beautiful hair, 
 Their long, bright tresses, one by one, 
 
 As they laughed and talked in the chamber 
 
 there, 
 After the revel was done. 
 
 Idly they talked of waltz and quadrille, 
 Idly they laughed, like other girls, 
 
 Who over the fire, when all is still, 
 Comb out their braids and curls. 
 
 Kobe of satin and Brussels lace, 
 Knots of flowers and ribbons, too, 
 
 Scattered about in every place, 
 For the revel is through. 
 
 And Maud and Madge in robes of white, 
 The pivttiest night-gowns under the sun, 
 
 Btockingless, slipperless, sit in the night, 
 For the revel is done, 
 
 Sit and comb their beautiful hair, 
 
 Those wonderful waves of brown and 
 gold, 
 
 Till the fire is out in the chamber there, 
 And the little bare feet are cold. 
 
 Then out of the gathering winter chill, 
 All out of the bitter St. Agnes weather, 
 
 While the fire is out and the house is still, 
 Maud and Madge together, 
 
 Maud and Madge in robes of white, 
 
 The prettiest night-gowns under the sun, 
 
 Curtained away from the chilly night, 
 After the revel is done, 
 
 Float along in a splendid dream, 
 To a golden gittern s tinkling tune, 
 
 While a thousand lustres shimmering stream 
 In a palace s grand saloon. 
 
 Flashing of jewels and flutter of laces, 
 Tropical odors sweeter than musk, 
 
 Men and women with beautiful faces, 
 And eyes of tropical dusk, 
 
 And one face shining out like a star, 
 One face haunting the dreams of each, 
 
 And one voice, sweeter than others are, 
 Breaking into silvery speech, 
 
 Telling, through lips of bearded bloom, 
 
 An old, old story over again, 
 As down the royal bannered room, 
 
 To the golden gittern s strain, 
 
 Two and two, they dreamily walk, 
 While an unseen spirit walks beside, 
 
 And all unheard in the lovers talk, 
 He claimeth one for a bride. 
 
 0, Maud and Madge, dream on together, 
 With never a pang of jealous fear! 
 
 For, ere the bitter St. Agnes weather 
 Shall whiten another year, 
 
 Robed for the bridal, and robed for the tomb, 
 Braided brown hair and golden tress, 
 
 There ll be only one of you left for the bloom 
 Of the bearded lips to press, 
 
 Only one for the bridal pearls, 
 
 The robe of satin and Brussels lace, 
 
 Only one to blush through her curls 
 At the sight of a lover s face. 
 
 O beautiful Madge, in your bridal white, 
 For you the revel has just begun ; 
 
 But for her who sleeps in your arms to-night 
 The revel of Life is done ! 
 
 But robed and crowned with your saintly 
 bliss, 
 
 Queen of heaven and bride of the sun, 
 beautiful Maud, you ll never miss 
 
 The kisses another hath won ! 
 
LAUEA 0. REDDER. 
 
 DISARMED. 
 
 LOVE ! so sweet at first ! 
 So bitter in the end ! 
 
 1 name thee fiercest foe, 
 
 As well as falsest friend. 
 What shall I do with these 
 
 Poor withered flowers of May- 
 Thy tenderest promises 
 
 All worthless in a day ? 
 
 How art thou swift to slay, 
 
 Despite thy clinging clasp, 
 Thy long- caressing look, 
 
 Thy subtle, thrilling- grasp ! 
 Ay, swifter far to slay 
 
 Than thou art strong to save ; 
 Thou renderest but a blow 
 
 For all 1 ever gave. , 
 
 Oh, grasping as the grave ! 
 
 Go, go ! and come no more 
 But canst thou set my heart 
 
 Just where it was before ? 
 Too selfish in thy need ! 
 
 Go, leave me to my tears, 
 The only gifts of thine 
 
 That shall outlast the years. 
 
 Yet shall outlast the years 
 
 One other cherished thing, 
 Slight as the vagrant plume 
 
 Shed from some passing wing 
 The memory of thy first 
 
 Divine, half-timid kiss. 
 Go ! I forgive thee all 
 
 In weeping over this ! 
 
 BROKEN OFF. 
 
 MEX said unto a prince of story-tellers, 
 
 " Tell us another tale ! 
 And yet, beside the bells, stood phantom 
 knellers, 
 
 And his voice was fit to fail. 
 
 At first he faltered, saying, " I am weary, 
 And the words are slow to come. 
 
 Across my kin flit visions dim and eerie, 
 And tis sweet to keep at home ! " 
 
 But the clamor rose, by many voices strength 
 ened ; 
 
 And one voice in his heart 
 Grew T louder as the spring-tide shadows 
 
 lengthened : 
 " All ! tis dull to sit apart ! 
 
 "Be prouder than to wait with fingers 
 
 folded, 
 
 Scared, looking out for death ; 
 Drop not the habit which thy life hath 
 
 moulded 
 But with thy lease of breath ! " 
 
 He passed his hand across his heavy fore 
 head, 
 
 And then across his eyes ; 
 Before him rose a spectre, dim and horrid, 
 
 With terrible replies : 
 
 " The name by which men name me, while 
 they shiver, 
 
 It is Swiftly .Certain Death : 
 Leave all the latest arrows in their quiver, 
 
 Or gage to me thy breath ! " 
 
 Ah me ! this prince of worthy story-tellers 
 
 Stood sad beneath the sun ; 
 For he could see where stood the phantom 
 knellers 
 
 But the story was begun ! 
 
 Some said : " It is his story of all stories ; " 
 
 And others : " Lo ! he fails ! 
 His later can not match his earlier glories 
 
 He falters and he pales ! " 
 
 But men pressed round him, eagerly, to 
 
 listen ; 
 
 And all else was forgot. 
 He coaxed the smile to shine, the tear to 
 
 glisten ; 
 And then his voice was not ! 
 
 The tale was but begun the web half 
 
 woven 
 
 The colors scarcely mixed 
 The cunning of his hand was not yet 
 
 proven 
 His intent hardly fixed. 
 
 For the dark comrade who walked with his 
 
 walking 
 
 Laid lightly on his lip 
 A cold forefinger and he ceased from talk 
 
 ing 
 Suddenly without slip. 
 
 Ah ! still lips locked on the mysterious 
 
 story ! 
 
 Ah ! hand that can not hold 
 The pen by which he earned his meed of 
 
 glory 
 He s dead ! and tis not told 1 
 
LAURA C. REDDEN. 
 
 WORN OUT. 
 
 You say that the sun is shining, 
 That buds are upon the trees, 
 
 That you hear the laugh of the waters, 
 The humming of early bees : 
 I am pleasured by none of these 
 I am weary ! 
 
 Let me alone ! The silence 
 
 Is sweeter than song to me ! 
 Dearer than Light is Darkness 
 
 To the eyes that loathe to see ! 
 
 Tis better to let me be 
 I am weary ! 
 
 I have faltered and fallen 
 
 The race was but begun ; 
 I am ashamed, and I murmur, 
 
 " Oh ! that the day were done ! " 
 
 How can I love the sun, 
 Who am weary ? 
 
 What will you do for the flower 
 That is cut away at the root ? 
 
 If the wing of the bird be broken, 
 What wonder the bird is mute ? 
 Oh, peace ! and no more dispute 
 I am weary ! 
 
 I will give you a token 
 
 A token by which to know 
 When I have forgotten the trouble 
 
 The trouble that tires me so 
 
 That I can no further go, 
 Being weary. 
 
 When you shall come some morning 
 And stand beside my bed, 
 
 And see the wonderful pallor 
 That over my face is spread, 
 Shrink not. But remember I said 
 I was weary. 
 
 Then shall you search my features, 
 
 But a trace you shall not see 
 Of all these months of sadness 
 
 That have put their mark on me ; 
 
 Then know that I am free, 
 Who was weary. 
 
 For the Old must fall and crumble 
 
 Before we can try the New ; 
 We must taste that the False is bitter 
 
 Before we can crave the True. 
 
 This done, there s no more to do, 
 Being weary, 
 
 Only to droop the eyelids, 
 
 Only to bow the head, 
 And to pass from those who are singing, 
 
 " Alas ! for our friend is dead ! " 
 
 But remember how I said, 
 " I am weary ! " 
 
 A LOVE-SONG OF SORRENTO. 
 
 COME away to the shade of the citron grove, 
 
 Carina ! 
 To hear the voice of the brooding dove, 
 
 Carina ! 
 
 Her soft throat swells as she tells her love 
 To her tender mate in the myrtle above, 
 And her tremulous pinions responsive move, 
 Cara ! Carina ! 
 
 Ah ! love is sweet as the spring is sweet, 
 
 Carina ! 
 For me thou makest the spring complete, 
 
 Carina ! 
 
 The young wind bloweth unto thy feet 
 A drift of flowers thy steps to meet, 
 And the wounded blossoms perfume the 
 heat, 
 
 Cara ! Carina ! 
 
 They are tokens for only a bride to wear, 
 
 Carina ! 
 Yet I would crown thee if I might dare, 
 
 Carina ! 
 
 Ah ! shy and sweet and tender and rare, 
 Put away from thine eyes thy shining 
 
 hair 
 Nay, now, have I startled thee, unaware ? 
 
 Cara ! Carina ! 
 
 My heart is lying across thy way, 
 
 Carina ! 
 
 As thou crushest the flowers, wilt thou crush 
 it say, 
 
 Carina ? 
 
 Or, sadder yet, wilt thou let it stay 
 Where it is lying, well away, 
 All on this pleasant morning in May ? 
 
 Cara ! Carina ! 
 
 My beautiful flower of flowers ! No, 
 
 Carina ! 
 Thou wilt not scorn it nor crush it so, 
 
 Carina ! 
 
 One true little word before we go ; 
 Close nestle close and whisper low 
 Low while the faint south breezes blow, 
 
 Cara! Carina! 
 
 Thou lt wear nothing but white when we 
 are wed, 
 
 Carina ! 
 
 Thou lt have orange blossoms about thy 
 head, 
 
 Carina ! 
 The maidens shall string them on silver 
 
 thread ; 
 
 On a rose-leaf carpet thou shalt tread, 
 While the bride -blush maketh thy beauty 
 red, 
 
 Cara ! Carina ! 
 
 AN EMPTY NEST. 
 
 MINE is the soug of an empty nest : 
 Others will bring you braver songs ; 
 
 But mine must utter my heart s behest 
 Though I sing it to heedless throngs. 
 
 My steps were over the blanched leaves 
 That had taken the frost s untimely kiss 
 
 Not long ago we had carried the sheaves, 
 But the season was all amiss. 
 
 With hanging head and loitering feet 
 Toward the open land I went, 
 
470 
 
 LAURA C. REDDEN. 
 
 Through places that summer had made so 
 
 sweet 
 With a glamour but briefly lent. 
 
 I trod upon something soft and dry, 
 
 For my eyes were full on the flaming 
 
 we.st ; 
 And just where the grass was thick and 
 
 high 
 Was lying an empty nest. 
 
 Oh, what visions of faded spring ; 
 
 Oh, what memories of silenced song, 
 Of brooding breast, and of glancing wing, 
 
 To an empty nest belong ! 
 
 And the thought that suddenly came to me, 
 Close to the water, facing the west, 
 
 Was of some singing that used to be 
 In another forsaken nest. 
 
 There were two birds that began to sing 
 Low in the fields of yellow corn 
 
 Not for the heed their song should bring, 
 But for love of the dewy morn. 
 
 Birds of one feather and sister birds, 
 Crowded out of a roof-tree nest, 
 
 Hatched within sound of lowing herds, 
 But flying away from the west. 
 
 Birds of one feather fare best together : 
 Singing, they built them another nest, 
 
 Sat in it and sung in the worst of we&ther, 
 Each loving the other best. 
 
 But we who listened one morning knew 
 That only one bird was left to sing : 
 
 They never had sung apart, the two, 
 And we talked of a broken wing. 
 
 Now, should you chance to pass that way, 
 You would vainly listen for any song ; 
 
 But what regrets for the vanished lay 
 To this empty nest belong ! 
 
 THE FIELDS ARE GRAY WITH IMMORTELLES. 
 
 TIIK slice]) are sheltered in the fold, 
 The mists are marshalled on the hill, 
 
 The squirrel watches from his lair, 
 And every living thing is still : 
 
 The fields are gray with Immortelles ! 
 
 The river, like a sluggish snake, 
 
 Creeps o er the brown and bristly plain 
 
 I hear the swinging of the pines 
 Betwixt the pauses of the rain 
 
 Down-dripping on the Immortelles ! 
 
 And think of faces, slimy cold, 
 
 That flinch not under falling 1ears ; 
 
 Meek-mouthed and heavy-lidded, and 
 With sleek hair put behind the ears, 
 
 And crowned with scentless Immortelles ! 
 
 The partridge hath forgot her nest 
 Among the M ubhle by the rill ; 
 
 In vain the lances of the frost 
 
 Seek for some tender things to kill : 
 
 They can not hurt the Immortelles ! 
 
 Sad empress of the stony fell ! 
 
 Gray stoic of the blasted heath ! 
 Dullest of flowers that ever bloomed. 
 
 And yet triumphant over death, 
 0, weird and winged Immortelle ! 
 
 Lie lightly upon Nature s breast, 
 
 And cover up her altered face, 
 Lest we should shiver when we see 
 
 The brightness of its vernal grace 
 Grown grayer than the Immortelles ! 
 
 The wind cries in the reedy-marsh, 
 
 And wanders, sobbing, through the dell ; 
 
 Poor, broken-hearted lover, he 
 For violets finds the Immortelle ! 
 
 The Immortelle ! The Immortelle 
 
 ENTRE NOUS. 
 
 As we two slowly walked that night, 
 
 Silence fell on us as of fear ; 
 I was afraid to face the light, 
 
 Lest you should see that I loved you, dear. 
 
 You drew my arm against your heart, 
 So close I could feel it beating near ; 
 
 You were brave enough for a lover s part 
 You were so sure that I loved you, dear. 
 
 Then you murmured a word or two, 
 
 And tenderly stooped your listening ear ; 
 
 For you thought that all that you had to do 
 Was to hear me say that I loved you, 
 dear. 
 
 But, though your face was so close to mine 
 That you touched my cheek with your 
 chestnut hair, 
 
 I wouldn t my lips to yours resign : 
 
 And yet I loved you I loved you, dear. 
 
 And all at once you were cold and pale, 
 Because you thought that I did not care ; 
 
 I cried a little behind my veil 
 
 But that was because I loved you, dear. 
 
 And so you thought twas a drop of rain 
 That splashed your hand? But twas a 
 tear ; 
 
 For then you said you d never again 
 Ask me to say that I loved you, dear. 
 
 Well ! I will tell if you ll listen now : 
 I thought of the words you said hist year ; 
 
 How we girls weren t coy enough, and how 
 There were half a dozen that loved you, 
 dear. 
 
 And I was afraid that you held me light, 
 And an imp at my shoulder said, " Beware ! 
 
 He s just in a wooing mood to-night." 
 So I wouldn t say that I loved you, dear. 
 
 Not though I thought you the Man of men, 
 Chiefest of heroes, brave and rare ; 
 
 Not though I never shall love again 
 Any man as I loved you, dear. 
 
 I have suffered, and so have you ; 
 
 And to-night, if you were but standing 
 
 here, 
 I d make you an answer straight and true, 
 
 If you d ask again if I loved you, dear. 
 
HAKRIET MoEWEN KIMBALL. 
 
 YIA DOLOROSA. 
 
 In the world ye shall have tribulation." Si. JOHJ 
 
 MY Saviour said : " Take up thy cross 
 And follow me where I may lead ; 
 
 Count every earthly treasure dross, 
 And, losing, find thy life indeed." 
 
 I raised my burden ; it was light : 
 Alas ! how heavy it has grown ! 
 
 toilsome way ! O cruel height ! 
 Lord, can I bear my cross alone ? 
 
 My foes, unnumbered and unseen, 
 
 Press madly round me day and night ; 
 
 1 have no friend on whom to lean ; 
 
 I sink in sorrow and affright ! 
 
 blessed Voice ! . . . I hear Him say : 
 " Lo, 1 am with thee till the end ; 
 
 Thy strength shall fail not through thy day, 
 And I am thy Eternal Friend." 
 
 The burdens of the world He bore, 
 
 And shall I shrink from bearing mine ? 
 
 Alone He walked in anguish sore, 
 But me upholds with love divine. 
 
 His grace can smooth the roughest road ; 
 
 The way He hallowed I will take : 
 How heavy, yet how light the load 
 
 That I must bear for His dear sake ! 
 
 Through tribulation though He lead, 
 
 He maketh self-denial sweet ; 
 My life I lose each day indeed 
 
 To find it at my Saviour s feet ! 
 
 MY KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 Hid in Thy everlasting deeps, 
 The silent God His secret keeps. 
 
 The Way, the Truth, the Life Thou art ! 
 
 This, this I know ; to this I cleave ; 
 The sweet new language of my heart 
 
 " Lord, I believe : " 
 I have no doubt to bring to Thee ; 
 My doubt has fled, my faith is free ! 
 
 PRAYING IN SPIRIT. 
 
 THOUGH men confront the living God 
 With wisdom than His Word more wise, 
 
 And leaving paths apostles trod, 
 Their own devise ; 
 
 I would myself forsake and flee, 
 
 Christ, the living Way, to Thee ! 
 
 1 know not what the schools may teach, 
 
 Nor yet how far from truth depart ; 
 One lesson is within my reach 
 
 The Truth Thou art : 
 And learning this, I learn each day 
 To cast all other lore away. 
 
 I cannot solve mysterious things, 
 
 That fill the schoolmen s thoughts with 
 
 stiife ; 
 But oh ! what peace this knowledge brings, 
 
 Thou art the Life ; 
 
 "But th<ni, when tliou prayest, enter into t 
 lliou hast shut thy dour, pray to thy Father w 
 ST. MATT. vi. 6. 
 
 I NEED not leave the jostling world, 
 Or wait till daily tasks are o er, 
 
 To fold my palms in secret prayer 
 Within the close-shut closet door. 
 
 There is a viewless, cloistered room, 
 As high as heaven, as fair as day, 
 
 Where, though my feet may join the throng, 
 My soul can enter in and pray. 
 
 When I have banished wayward thoughts, 
 Of sinful works the fruitful seed, 
 
 When folly wins my ear no more, 
 The closet door is shut, indeed. 
 
 No human step approaching breaks 
 The blissful silence of the place ; 
 
 No shadow steals across the light 
 That falls from my Redeemer s face ! 
 
 And never through those crystal walls 
 The clash of life can pierce its way, 
 
 Nor ever can a human ear 
 
 Drink in the spirit-words I say. 
 
 One hearkening, even, cannot know 
 
 When I have crossed the threshold o er, 
 
 For He, alone, who hears my prayer 
 Has heard the shutting of the door! 
 
 HUMBLE SERVICE. 
 
 IT is an easy thing to say, 
 
 " Thou knowest that I love Thee, Lord ! " 
 And easy in the bitter fray 
 
 For His defence to draw the sword. 
 
 But when at His dear hands we seek 
 Some lofty tru>T for Him to keen, 
 
 To our ambition vain and weak 
 
 How strange His bidding, " Feed my 
 sheep." 
 
 " Too mean a task for love," we cry ; 
 Remembering not if, in our pride, 
 
HARRIET Me E WEN KIMBALL. 
 
 We pass Ills humbler service by, 
 Our vows are by our deeds denied. 
 
 O Father! help us to resign 
 
 Our hearts, our strength, our wills to Thee; 
 Then even lowliest work of Thine 
 
 Most noble, blest, and sweet will be ! 
 
 MY FRIEND. 
 
 not wrong thee, To-day, 
 With idle longing for To-morrow ; 
 But patient plough my field, and sow 
 The seed of faith in every furrow. 
 
 Enough for me the loving light 
 
 That melts the cloud s repellent edges ; 
 
 The still unfolding, bud by bud, 
 
 Of God s most sweet and holy pledges. 
 
 I breathe His breath ; my life is His ; 
 
 The hand lie nerves knows no defraud 
 
 ing, 
 The Lord will make this joyless waste 
 
 Wave with the wheat of His rewarding. 
 
 Of His rewarding ! Yes ; and yet 
 Not mine a single blade or kernel ; 
 
 The seed is His ; the quickening His ; 
 The care, unchanging and eternal. 
 
 His, too, the harvest song shall be, 
 
 When. He who blest the barren furrow 
 
 Shall thrust His shining sickle in, 
 And reap my little field To-morrow. 
 
 THE BELL IN THE TOWER. 
 
 the bell in the high church-tower, 
 Striking the hour ; 
 The hushed Night hearkens, like one who 
 
 stands 
 In sudden awe, with uplifted hands I 
 
 A Spirit up in the tower doth dwell, 
 
 And when the bell 
 
 Penis out the hours with a measured chime, 
 I hear him turning the sands of time ! 
 
 He says : " Life dieth with every breath ! " 
 
 Whispers of Death: 
 " It is the fall of the flower of Earth ; 
 The promise-seed of immortal birth! " 
 
 He speaks to the striving world below : 
 
 " Why do ye so? 
 
 Will all the treasure that hand can hold 
 Buy sweeter sleep in the church-yard mould ? 
 
 "Behold one (Jod, over great and small, 
 
 .Tiidgelli ye all ! 
 
 Ask Him for grace in the morning light, 
 And pray for pardon and peace at night ! " 
 
 O, while I listen my whole soul bows, 
 
 Paying her vo\vs ; 
 And folly tieeth with sinful fear, 
 As those clear bell-strokes fall on my ear ! 
 
 For not more solemn the holy chimes, 
 
 In other times, 
 
 That helped the faithful to pray aright, 
 And put the spirits of air to flight! 
 
 And ever ever would I be near, 
 
 Daily to hear 
 
 Daily and nightly, in work or rest, 
 The Voice that pierces and soothes 
 breast ! 
 
 ALL S WELL. 
 
 my 
 
 THE day is ended. Ere I sink to sleep 
 
 My weary spirit seeks repose in Thine : 
 Father ! forgive my trespasses, and keep 
 This little life of mine. 
 
 With loving kindness curtain Thou my 
 
 bed ; 
 
 And cool in rest my burning pilgrim-feet ; 
 Thy pardon be the pillow for my head 
 So shall my sleep be sweet. 
 
 At peace with all the world, dear Lord, and 
 
 Thee, 
 No fears my soul s unwavering faith can 
 
 shake ; 
 
 All s well ! whichever side the grave for 
 me 
 
 The morning light may break ! 
 
 THE GUEST. 
 
 "BehnH.Istand at the door, and knock : if any man hear my 
 vnic*-, tind u]>en thfi door. I will come in to him, and wil! sup with 
 him, and he with me." RKV. iii. 20. 
 
 SPEECHLESS Sorrow sat with me ; 
 I was sighing wearily ! 
 Lamp and fire were out : the rain 
 Wildly beat the window-pane. 
 In the dark w r e heard a knock ; 
 And a hand was on the lock ; 
 One in waiting spake to me, 
 
 Saying sweetlv, 
 "I am come to sup icith tlice ! " 
 
 All my room was dark and damp ; 
 " Sorrow ! " said I, " trim the lamp ; 
 Light the fire, and cheer thy face; 
 f-et the guest-chair in its place." 
 And again I heard the knock : 
 In the dark I found the lock : 
 " Enter! I have turned the key! 
 
 Enter, Stranger ! 
 Who art come to sup with me." 
 
 Opening wide the door, he came ; 
 But I could not speak his name : 
 In the guest-chair took his place ; 
 But I could not see his face ! 
 When my cheerful fire was beaming, 
 When my little lamp was gleaming, 
 And the feast was spread for three, 
 
 Lo ! my MASTER 
 Was the Guest that supped with me ! 
 
EMMA LAZAEUS. 
 
 IN THE JEWISH SYNAGOGUE AT NEWPORT. 
 
 HERE, where the noises of the busy town, 
 The ocean s plunge and roar can enter 
 not, 
 
 We stand and gaze around with tearful awe, 
 And muse upon the consecrated spot. 
 
 No signs of life are here : the very prayers 
 Inscribed around are in a language dead ; 
 
 The light of the " perpetual lamp " is spent 
 That an undying radiance was to shed. 
 
 What prayers were in this temple offered up, 
 Wrung from sad hearts that knew no joy 
 
 on earth, 
 
 By these lone exiles of a thousand years, 
 From the fair sunrise land that gave them 
 birth ! 
 
 Now as we gaze, in this new world of light, 
 Upon this relic of the days of old, 
 
 The present vanishes, and tropic bloom, 
 And Eastern towns and temples we behold. 
 
 Again we see the patriarch with his flocka. 
 
 The purple seas, the hot blue sky o erhead, 
 The slaves of Egypt, omens, mysteries, 
 
 Dark fleeing hosts by flaming angels led. 
 
 A wondrous light upon a sky -kissed mount, 
 A man who reads Jehovah s written law, 
 
 Midst blinding glory and effulgence rare, 
 Unto a people prone with reverent awe. 
 
 The pride of luxury s barbaric pomp, 
 
 In the rich court of royal Solomon- 
 Alas ! we wake : one scene alone remains, 
 The exiles by the streams of Babylon. 
 
 Our softened voices send us back again 
 But mournful echoes through the empty 
 hall ; 
 
 Our footsteps have a strange unnatural sound, 
 And with unwonted gentleness they fall. 
 
 The weary ones, the sad, the suffering, 
 All found their comfort in the holy place, 
 
 And children s gladness and men s gratitude 
 Took voice and mingled in the chant of 
 praise. 
 
 The funeral and the marriage, now, alas ! 
 
 We know not which is sadder to recall ; 
 For youth and happiness have followed age, 
 
 And green grass lieth gently over all. 
 
 Nathless the sacred shrine is holy yet, 
 
 With its lone floors where reverent feet 
 once trod. 
 
 Take off your shoes as by the burning bush, 
 Before the mystery of death and God. 
 
 ON A TUFT OF GRASS. 
 
 WEAK, slender blades of tender green, 
 With little fragrance, little sheen, 
 
 What makes ye so dear to all ? 
 Nor bud, nor flower, nor fruit have ye, 
 So tiny, it can only be 
 
 Mongst fairies ye are counted tall. 
 
 No beauty is in this, ah, yea, 
 E en as I gaze on you to-day, 
 
 Your hue and fragrance bear me back 
 Into the green, wide fields of old, 
 With clear, blue air, and manifold 
 
 Bright buds and flowers in blossoming 
 track. 
 
 All bent one way like flickering flame, 
 Each blade caught sunlight as it came, 
 
 Then rising, saddened into shade ; 
 A changeful, wavy, harmless sea, 
 Whose billows none could bitterly 
 
 Reproach, with wrecks that they had 
 made. 
 
 No gold ever was buried there 
 
 More rich, more precious, or more fair 
 
 Than buttercups with yellow gloss. 
 No ships of mighty forest trees 
 E er foundered in these guiltless seas 
 
 Of grassy waves and tender moss. 
 
 All, no ! ah. no ! not guiltless still, 
 Green waves on meadow and on hill, 
 
 Not wholly innocent are ye ; 
 For what dead hopes and loves, what graves, 
 Lie underneath your placid waves, 
 
 While breezes kiss them lovingly 1 
 
 Calm sleepers with sealed eyes lie there ; 
 They see not, neither feel nor care 
 
 If over them the grass be green. 
 And some sleep here who ne er knew rest, 
 Until the grass grew o er their bn-a-t, 
 
 And stilled the aching pain within. 
 
 Not all the sorrow man hath known, 
 Nor all the evil he hath done, 
 
 Have ever cast thereon a stain. 
 It groweth green and fresh and light, 
 As in the olden garden bright, 
 
 Beneath the feet of Eve and Cain. 
 
 It flutters, bows, and bends, and quivers, 
 And creeps through forests and by rivers, 
 
 Each blade with dewy brightness wet, 
 So soft, so quiet, and so fair, 
 Wo almost dream of sleeping there, 
 
 Without or sorrow or regret. 
 
474 
 
 EMMA LAZARUS. 
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 A DIIE.VM of lilies : all the blooming earth, 
 
 A garden full of fairies and of flowers; 
 Its only music the glad cry of mirth, 
 
 While the warm sun weaves golden-tissued 
 
 hours ; 
 Hope a bright angel, beautiful and true 
 
 As Truth herself, and life a lovely toy, 
 Which ne er will weary us, ne er break, a 
 new 
 
 Eternal source of pleasure and of joy. 
 
 A dream of roses: vision of Love s tree, 
 
 Of beauty and of madness, and as bright 
 As naught on earth save only dreams can be, 
 .Made fair and odorous with flower and 
 
 light ; 
 A dream that Love is strong to outlast 
 
 Time, 
 
 That hearts are stronger than forgetful- 
 ness, 
 The slippery sand than changeful waves 
 
 that climb, 
 
 The wind-blown foam than mighty waters 
 stress. 
 
 A dream of laurels : after much is gone, 
 Much buried, much lamented, much for 
 got, 
 
 With what remains to do and what is done, 
 With w.hat yet is, and what, alas ! is not, 
 Man dreams a dream of laurel and of bays, 
 A dream of crowns and guerdons and 
 
 rewards, 
 Wherein sounds sweet the hollow voice of 
 
 praise, 
 
 And bright appears the wreath that it 
 awards. 
 
 A dream of poppies, sad and true as Truth, 
 That all these dreams were dreams of 
 
 vanity ; 
 And full of bitter penitence and ruth, 
 
 In his last dream, man deems twere good 
 
 to die ; 
 And weeping o er the visions vain of yore. 
 
 In the sail vigils he doth nightly keep, 
 He dreams it may be good to dream no more, 
 And life has nothing like Death s dream 
 less sleep. 
 
 EXULTATION. 
 
 BEHOLD, I walked abroad at early morning, 
 The lie] ds of June were bathed in dew 
 
 and lustre, 
 The hills were clad with light as with a 
 
 garment. 
 
 The inexpressible auroral freshness, 
 The grave, immutable, aerial heavens, 
 The transient clouds above the quiet land 
 scape, 
 
 The heavy odor of the passionate lilacs, 
 That hedged the road with sober-colored- 
 clusters, 
 All these o ermastered me with subtle power, 
 
 And made my rural walk a royal progress, 
 Peopled my solitude with airy spirits, 
 Who hovered over me with joyous singing. 
 
 "Behold!" they sang, "the glory of the 
 
 morning. 
 Through every vein does not the summer 
 
 tingle, 
 With vague desire and flush of expectation ? 
 
 " To think how fair is life ! set round with 
 grandeur ; 
 
 The eloquent sea beneath the voiceless 
 heavens, 
 
 The shifting shows of every bounteous sea 
 son ; 
 
 " Rich skies, fantastic clouds, and herby 
 meadows, 
 
 Gray rivers, prairies spread with regal flow 
 ers, 
 
 Grasses and grains and herds of browsing 
 cattle : 
 
 " Great cities filled with breathing men and 
 
 women, 
 
 Of whom the basest have their aspirations, 
 High impulses of courage or affection. 
 
 " And on this brave earth still those finer 
 
 spirits, 
 
 Heroic Valor, admirable Friendship, 
 And Love itself, a very god among you. 
 
 "All these for thee, and thou evoked from 
 
 nothing, 
 Born from blank darkness to this blaze of 
 
 beauty, 
 Where is thy faith, and where are thy 
 
 thanksgivings? " 
 
 The world is his who can behold it rightly, 
 Who hears the harmonies of unseen angels 
 Above the senseless outcry of the hour." 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 STILL northward is the central mount of 
 
 Maine, 
 
 From whose high crown the rugged for 
 ests seem 
 
 Like sliaven lawns, and lakes with fre 
 quent gleam, 
 "Like broken mirrors," flash back light 
 
 again. 
 
 Eastward the sea, with its majestic plain, 
 landless, of radiant, re,-tless blue, superb 
 With miirht and music, whether storms per 
 turb" 
 Its reckless waves, or halcyon winds that 
 
 reign, 
 
 Make it serene as wisdom. Storied Spain 
 Is the next coast, and yet we may not 
 
 sigh 
 
 For lands beyond the inexorable main ; 
 Our noble scenes have yet no history. 
 All subtler charms than those that feed 
 
 the eye, 
 Our lives must give them ; tis an aim 
 
 austere, 
 But opes new vistas, and a pathway clear. 
 
MAKIA:N~ DOUGLAS. 
 
 MY WINTER FRIEND. 
 
 THE chickadee, the chickadee, 
 
 A chosen friend of mine is he. 
 
 His head and throat are glossy black ; 
 
 He wears a great coat on his back ; 
 
 His vest is light, tis almost white ; 
 
 His eyes are round and clear and bright. 
 
 He picks the seeds from withered weeds ; 
 
 Upon my table-crumbs he feeds ; 
 
 He comes and goes through falling snows ; 
 
 The freezing wind around him blows, 
 
 He heeds it not : his heart is gay 
 
 As if it were the breeze of May. 
 
 The whole day long he sings one song, 
 Though dark the sky may be ; 
 
 And better than all other birds 
 I love the chickadee ! 
 
 The bluebird coming in the spring, 
 The goldfinch with his yellow wing, 
 The humming-bird that feeds on pinks 
 And roses, and the bobolinks, 
 The robins gay, the sparrows gray, 
 They all delight me while they stay. 
 
 But when, ah me ! they chance to see 
 A red leaf on the maple-tree, 
 They all cry, " 0, we dread the snow ! " 
 And spread their wings in haste to go ; 
 And when they all have southward flown, 
 The chickadee remains alone. 
 
 A bird that stays in wintry days, 
 
 A friend indeed is he ; 
 And better than all other birds 
 
 I love the chickadee ! 
 
 POLITICS. 
 
 BILL MORE and I, in davs g-one by, 
 Were friends the long year through, 
 
 Save when, above the melting snow, 
 Wild March his trumpet blew. 
 
 Outspoken foes, we then arose ; 
 
 Each chose a different way ; 
 For March, to our Xew Hampshire hills, 
 
 Brings back town-meeting day. 
 
 Its gingerbread and oranges, 
 
 Alike, on Bill and me 
 That day bestowed, but only one 
 
 Could share its victory. 
 
 For what was victory ? We had 
 
 Opposing views of that, 
 For Billy was an old line Whig, 
 
 And 1 a Democrat. 
 
 The tide of politics ran high 
 
 Among the village boys, 
 And those were truest patriots 
 
 Who made the greatest noise. 
 
 And who could higher toss his cap, 
 
 Or louder shout than I ? 
 Till all the mountain echoes learnt 
 
 My party-battle-cry ! 
 
 One time it was election morn, 
 
 Beside the town-house door, 
 Among a troop of cheering boys, 
 
 I came on Billy More. 
 
 " Cheer on ! " I called ; " I would not give 
 
 For your hurrahs a fig ; 
 But say, what do the Whigs believe ? 
 
 Speak, Billy ! you re a Whig." 
 
 And Bill said : " I don t know nor care; 
 
 You needn t ask me that ; 
 You d better tell me, if you can, 
 
 Why you re a Democrat." 
 
 And T commenced, in bold disdain, 
 
 " What ? tell you if I can? 
 I ? Why my father s candidate 
 
 For second selectman. 
 
 " And he knows I know he knows lie 
 
 I think 1 feel I I 
 I I I am a Democrat, 
 
 And that s the reason why." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! " the mocking shout that rose, 
 
 I seem to hear it now, 
 And feel the hot, tumultuous blood 
 
 That crimsoned cheek and brow ! 
 
 I might have spared my blushes then, 
 
 I should have kept my shame 
 For men, grown men, who fight to-day, 
 
 For just a party name ! 
 
 This side or that, they cast their votes, 
 And pledge their faith, and why : 
 
 Go ask, and you will find them wise 
 As BiJly More and I ! 
 
 WAITING FOR THE MAY. 
 
 FROM out his hive there came a bee : 
 
 " Has spring-time come, or not ?" said he. 
 
 Alone, within a garden-bed, 
 
 A small, pale snowdrop raised its head. 
 " Tis March, this tells me," said the bee; 
 "The hive is still the place for me. 
 The day is chill, although tis sunny. 
 And icy cold this snowdrop s honey. 
 
47G 
 
 MARIAN DOUGLAS, 
 
 Again came humming forth the bee ; 
 
 " What month is with us now ?" said he. 
 
 (iniy crocus-blossoms, blue and white 
 
 And yellow, opened to the; light. 
 
 " It must be April," said the bee. 
 
 " And April s scarce the month for me. 
 
 I ll taste these flowers (the day is sunny), 
 
 But wait before 1 gather honey." 
 
 Once more came out the waiting bee : 
 " Tis come : I smell the spring ! " said he. 
 The violets were all in bloom ; 
 The lilac tossed a purple plume; 
 The datl dill wore a yellow-crown ; 
 The cherry-tree a snow-white gown ; 
 And by the brookside, wet with dew, 
 The early wild-wake robins grew. 
 " It is the May-time.! " said the bee, 
 " The queen of all the months for me! 
 The flowers are here, the sky is sunny: 
 Tis now my time to gather honey ! " 
 
 CHIMNEY-TOPS. 
 
 " An ! the morning is gray; 
 And what kind of a day 
 Is it likely to be?" 
 " You must look up, and see 
 What the chimney pots say. 
 
 "If the smoke from the mouth 
 Of the chimney goes south 
 Tis the north wind, that blows 
 From the country of snows : 
 
 Look out for rough weather ; 
 The cold and the north wind 
 
 Are always together. 
 
 " When the smoke pouring 1 forth 
 From the chimney u oes north, 
 A mild day it will be, 
 A warm time we shall see : 
 
 The south wind is blowing 
 From lands where the orange 
 
 And fig-trees are growing. 
 
 " But, if west goes the smoke, 
 (let your water-proof cloak 
 And umbrella about : 
 Tis the east wind that s out. 
 
 A wet day you will find it : 
 Tho east wind has always 
 
 A storm close behind it. 
 
 " It is east the smoke flies ! 
 "We may look for blue skies! 
 Soon the clouds will take flight, 
 Twill be sunny and bright; 
 
 The sweetest and best wind 
 Is, surely, that fair-weather 
 
 Bringer, the west wind." 
 
 THE YELLOW CLOUD. 
 
 "LOOK up! There s just one cloud in 
 
 sight, 
 
 A ydlow cloud as sunshine bright, 
 That, like a little golden boat, 
 Across the clear blue seems to float. 
 
 ! how I wish that cloud were ours, 
 The color of the cowslip-flowers, 
 And, sitting on it, you and I 
 Were gaily sailing round the sky ! 
 ! wouldn t it be pleasant ? 
 
 O ! should nt we be proud 
 If we could only own it, 
 
 That little ye llow cloud ? 
 
 " As free as birds we then could go 
 V\ hatever way the wind might blow, 
 Above the rivers gleaming bright, 
 Above the hills with snowdrifts white, 
 Upon the tree-tops looking down, 
 Upon the steeples of the town. 
 We should hear far below us 
 
 The great bells ringing loud. 
 ! don t you wish we owned it, 
 
 That little yellow cloud ? " 
 
 " Why wish for what will never be ? 
 
 That little cloud is not for me ; 
 
 But if it were, and you and I 
 
 Were on it sailing round the sky, 
 
 Who knows ? we might be wishing then, 
 
 0, if we could get down again ! 
 
 Tis better to be humble, 
 
 By far, than to be proud ; 
 And on the ground we re safer 
 
 Than sailing on a cloud." 
 
 THE ROPE DANCER. 
 
 WHEN I was seven 0, it seems 
 
 A thousand years ago ! 
 My sailor uncle took me out 
 
 To see a travelling show. 
 I -wore, I can remember still, 
 A white cape with a plaited frill ; 
 And, through the green fields, to the tent, 
 A proud and happy child, I went. 
 
 The usual dwarf, contrasted, stood, 
 
 Beside the giant, there, 
 And to a squeaking fiddle danced 
 
 A well-instructed bear ; 
 And yards of ribbon, pink and blue, 
 From out his throat, a juggler drew ; 
 But, when the last performance came, 
 It made these sights seem poor and tame. 
 
 For, lightlv as a spider runs 
 
 Along the glistening thread. 
 Upon a slender rope, that stretched 
 
 High, high above my head, 
 A little girl tripped, to and fro, 
 And did not cast one glance below ! 
 A girl? It rather seemed to me 
 That fresh from fairy-land was she ! 
 
 She had a poppy-colored skirt, 
 
 A gown of golden gauze, 
 And when she came back to the ground, 
 
 The tent rang with applause ; 
 Well pleased, she bowed and curt sied then, 
 And went through all her feats again ; 
 Along the rope I saw her rise, 
 With throbbing heart, but envious eyes. 
 
MARIAN DOUGLAS. 
 
 477 
 
 For, as I watched this elf, who seemed 
 
 Like Beauty s self, to me, 
 Of happy lots, the happiest, 
 
 I thought that hers must be ; 
 Since I, poor I, could never hope, 
 Like her, to walk upon a rope, 
 I felt, and felt that it was hard, 
 I was from life s best joy debarred ! 
 
 But as, thus murmuring in my heart, 
 
 And filled with discontent, 
 Beside my uncle, with the crowd 
 
 That left the show, I went, 
 He pulled my sleeve, and whispered, 
 
 " See!" 
 
 And, lo ! my fairy, close to me 
 Was standing, speaking with the dwarf. 
 1 looked, and wished her further off ! 
 
 For, nearer seen, the face I thought 
 So fair, looked pinched and brown ; 
 
 Begrimmed and frayed the scarlet skirt, 
 And stained the golden gown ; 
 
 How clean, I can remember still, 
 
 Beside it, seemed my cape s white frill ! 
 
 I felt my weakened conscience stir, 
 
 To think how I had envied her ! 
 
 And when, as we, together, home, 
 Walked down the field s green slope, 
 
 My uncle asked, " How would you like 
 To dance upon a rope, 
 
 And mount as high, and look as gay, 
 
 As did the girl we saw to-day ? " 
 
 I only shook my little head, 
 
 And not one word, in answer, said. 
 
 ANT-HILLS. 
 
 IN their small, queer houses, 
 Each one with a round, 
 
 Ever-open doorway, 
 Leading under ground, 
 
 Living in my flower-bed, 
 Near my balsam plants, 
 
 Are, at least, a dozen 
 Families of ants. 
 
 Very neat and quiet 
 
 Working folks are they, 
 
 Cleaning house all summer, 
 From the first of May. 
 
 In and out their doorways, 
 Up and down they go, 
 
 Bits of earth and gravel 
 Bringing from below ; 
 
 Carrying the sand grains 
 From their rooms away, 
 
 Cleaning, cleaning, cleaning, 
 Every sunny day. 
 
 Labor is a blessing ; 
 
 But I really can t 
 Think it would be pleasant 
 
 To grow up an ant, 
 
 And be always busy, 
 
 Cleaning house each day, 
 
 All the pleasant summer, 
 From the first of May ! 
 
 THE LOST FLOWERS. 
 
 ROSY red the summer sky ; 
 Rosy red the fields below, 
 By the blooming clover tinged, 
 Painted by the sunset s glow ; 
 Rosy red the river s breast, 
 Softly rippling towards the west, 
 While, beneath the willow s shade, 
 Happy, though alone, I played. 
 
 Brighter was my childish dream 
 
 Than the river or the sky ; 
 
 Floating wild-flowers down the stream, 
 
 What companion needed I ? 
 
 Sending forth a fairy fleet 
 
 Of midsummer blossoms sweet ! 
 
 Meadow lilies, brown and gold, 
 
 Trailing wreaths of virgin s bower, 
 
 The red mulberry s crimson bloom, 
 
 Jewel weed and elder flower ; 
 
 Down the river s murmuring flow, 
 
 One by one, I watched them go, 
 
 Slowly drifting, till the last 
 
 Lingering flower from sight had passed, 
 
 And the sky above grew gray, 
 
 Gray beneath the river grew, 
 
 While the damp, chill, evening mist 
 
 Hid the clover-fields from view. 
 
 Empty-handed, half afraid, 
 Hastening homewawl in the shade, 
 Sadly, vainly, wished I then, 
 " Would I had my flowers again ! " 
 
 ONE SATURDAY. 
 
 I NEYER had a happier time, 
 
 And I am forty-three, 
 Than one midsummer afternoon, 
 
 When it was May with me : 
 Life s fragrant May, 
 And Saturday, 
 
 And you came out with me to play ; 
 And up and down the garden walks, 
 
 Among the flowering beans, 
 We proudly walked and tossed our heads, 
 
 And played that we were queens. 
 
 Thrice prudent sovereigns, we made 
 
 The diadems we wore, 
 And fashioned for our royal hands, 
 
 The sceptres which they bore ; 
 But good Queen Bess 
 Had surely less 
 
 Than we, of proud self-consciousness, 
 While wreaths of honeysuckle hung 
 
 Around your rosy neck, 
 And tufts of marigold looped up 
 
 My gown, a " gingham check." 
 
 Our chosen land was parted out, 
 
 Like Israel s, by lot ; 
 My kingdom, from the garden wall 
 Reached to the strawberry plot ; 
 The onion-bed. 
 The beet-tops red, 
 The corn which \vaved above my head, 
 
478 
 
 MARIAN DOUGLAS. 
 
 The gooseberry bushes, hung with fruit, 
 
 The wandering melon-vine, 
 The carrots and the cabbages, 
 
 All, all of them, were mine ! 
 
 Beneath the cherry-tree was placed 
 
 Your tli rone, a broken chair ; 
 Your realm was narrower than mine, 
 
 But it was twice as fair: 
 Tall hollyhocks, 
 And purple phlox, 
 And time-observing four o clocks, 
 Blue lavender, and candytuft, 
 
 And pink and white sweet peas, 
 Your loyal subjects, waved their heads 
 
 In every passing breeze. 
 
 Oh ! gay and prosperous was our reign 
 
 Till we were called to tea ; 
 But years, since then, have come and gone, 
 
 And I am forty-three ! 
 Yet, journeying 
 On rapid wing, 
 
 Time has not brought, and cannot bring, 
 For you or me, a happier day . 
 
 Than when, among the beans, 
 We proudly walked and tossed our heads, 
 
 And fancied we were queens. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE BEE. 
 
 Buzz-z-z-z-z-z, buzz ! 
 
 This is the song of the bee. 
 His legs are of yellow ; 
 A jolly good fellow, 
 
 And yet a great worker, is he. 
 
 In days that are sunny, 
 He s getting his honey; 
 In days that are cloudy, 
 
 He s making his wax : 
 On pinks and on lilies, 
 And gay daffodillies, 
 And columbine blossoms, 
 
 He levies a tax ! 
 
 Buzz-z-z-z-z-z, buzz ! 
 The sweet-smelling clover, 
 He, humming, hangs over; 
 The scent of the roses 
 
 Makes fragrant his wings; 
 lie never gets lazy ; 
 From thistle and daisy, 
 And weeds of the meadow, 
 
 Some treasure he brings. 
 
 Buzz-z-z-z-z-z, buz/ ! 
 
 From morning s first gray light, 
 
 Till fading of day light. 
 
 He s singing and toiling 
 The summer day through. 
 
 Oh. we may get weary, 
 
 And think work is dreary: 
 
 Tis harder, by far, 
 
 To have nothing to do ! 
 
 THE YEAR S LAST FLOWER. 
 
 WITCH-HAZEL bough ! Witch-hazel bough ! 
 Strange time it seems to blossom now ! 
 The sky is gray, the birds have flown, 
 With rustling leaves the ground is strown ; 
 The May-time, with her cowslip crown, 
 Sweet Summer, showering rose-leaves down, 
 The Autumn days, a bannered train, 
 With colors like the flag of Spain, 
 Have come and gone, without the power 
 To win from thee a single flower ! 
 But now, when woods and fieldfc are bare, 
 And chill with coming snow the air, 
 All wreathed with spring-like bloom art 
 
 thou, 
 All decked with gold, Witch-hazel bough 
 
 Witch-hazel bough ! Witch-hazel bough ! 
 
 Could I believe old stories now, 
 
 Within my hand, were I a witch, 
 
 Thou had st the power to make me rich ; 
 
 To prove a true divining-rod, 
 
 And show where, under stone or sod, 
 
 Or growing tree, or running brook, 
 
 I should for hidden treasure look ! 
 
 A child, I sought thy charm to try, 
 
 But wo is me, no witch am I ; 
 
 For never gleam of elfin gold 
 
 Twas my good fortune to behold ; 
 
 Xo magic dwells in me, or thou 
 
 Hast lost thy spell, Witch-hazel bough } 
 
 Witch-hazel bough ! Witch-hazel bough ! 
 
 Though wizards arts are powerless now, 
 
 A high resolve, a steadfast will, 
 
 A fearless heart work wonders still. 
 
 To find and win a needful store 
 
 Of goods, and gold, and wisdom s lore, 
 
 The true divining-rods for me, 
 
 Henceforth must toil and patience be ! 
 
 Then welcome, honest Labor ! Thou 
 
 Shalt bloom unplucked, Witch-hazel bough ! 
 
 TWO PICTURES. 
 
 AN old farm-house, with meadows wide, 
 And sweet with clover on each side ; 
 A bright-eyed boy, who looks from out 
 The door, with woodbine wreathed about, 
 And wishes his one thought all day, 
 " Oh, if I could but fly away 
 
 From this dull spot, the world to see, 
 How happy, happy, happy. 
 
 How happy 1 should be ! " 
 
 Amid the city s constant din, 
 A man, who round the world has been, 
 Who, mid the tumult and the throng, 
 Is thinking, thinking, all day long, 
 " Oh, could I only tread once more . 
 The tield-path to the farm-house door, 
 
 The old green meadows could I see, 
 How happy, happy, happy, 
 
 How happy I should be ! " 
 
MES. LUCY HAMILTON HOOPEE. 
 
 REVELRY. 
 
 FILL the cup till o er the brim 
 
 Flows the bright champagne. 
 Here s forgetfulness of grief, 
 
 Balm for every pain. 
 Drink ! we watch the dying hours 
 
 Of. the dying year. 
 She I loved is dead and gone. 
 
 Dead and I am here ! 
 
 Change the flask, and fill the glass 
 
 With the red Lafitte. 
 If there s Lethe upon earth, 
 
 This this is it ! 
 Drink ! till o er the purple skies 
 
 Morning flushes clear. 
 You are dead, O love of mine ! 
 
 Dead and I am here ! 
 
 Pass the dusky Cognac here, 
 
 Fill a stronger draught, * 
 
 Richer with the vine s hot life 
 
 Than the last we quaffed. 
 Drink ! till Mem ry s phantoms pale 
 
 Fade and disappear. 
 Drink ! till I forget she s dead ! 
 
 Dead and 1 am here! 
 
 THE DUEL. 
 
 You need not turn so pale, love ; I m unhurt. 
 
 We quarreled at the opera last night 
 About some trine. Nay, I scarce know what. 
 
 We men will quarrel for the merest slight. 
 We settled time, place, weapon, on the spot; 
 
 Bois de Boulogne, this morning, pistols 
 
 well, 
 I fear that you are cold, you shudder so, 
 
 At the first shot my adversary fell, 
 
 Shot through the heart, stone-dead. Nay, 
 
 now, don t faint ! 
 I hate a fainting woman. Here s your 
 
 fan ; 
 
 A little water ? So, you re better now. 
 Pray, hear my story out, love, if you 
 
 can. 
 
 I think he uttered something as he fell : 
 A woman s name I scarcely caught the 
 
 sound : 
 
 . It passed so quickly that I am not sure, 
 For he was dead before he reached the 
 ground. 
 
 Ah, poor de Courcy ! Handsome, was he 
 
 not? 
 A favorite with the ladies, I believe. 
 
 They ll miss him sadly. More than one 
 
 fair dame 
 
 Will o er his sudden fate in secret grieve. 
 How well he looked this morning, as he 
 
 stood 
 
 Waiting my fire with such a careless grace, 
 The breezes playing with his raven curls, 
 The sunshine lighting up his gay bright 
 face ! 
 
 Suppose my hand had trembled ? If it had, 
 I would have fallen instead of him. 
 
 You re white 
 At the bare thought. Nay, here I am, quite 
 
 well, 
 
 And ready for the opera to-night. 
 Ronconi plays, and I would like to see 
 
 " Marie de Rohan" once or twice again. 
 His acting as De Chevreuse is sublime ; 
 How he portrays the jealous husband s 
 pain ! 
 
 All husbands have not such a wife as you ; 
 
 Fair as the sun, and chaste as winter s 
 
 moon ! 
 How very pale you still are, dearest wife ! 
 
 There is no danger of another swoon ? 
 How wrong I was to tell you I had fought ; 
 
 I think you ve scarce recovered from the 
 
 shock. 
 One kiss upon your brow, and then I ll go ; 
 
 And pray be readv, love, at eig ht o clock ! 
 
 RE-UNITED. 
 
 You are dead, and I am dying ; 
 
 We shall meet before the morrow ; 
 All our lonely years are ended ; 
 
 We have done with pain and sorrow. 
 I shall see you ere the setting 
 
 Of yon slowly rising moon. 
 Ay, we knew not when we parted 
 
 That we d meet again so soon. 
 
 All the long years we were severed 
 
 All their bitter sorrows, seem 
 Like the pale and fading phantoms 
 
 Of a scarce-remembered dream. 
 And my heart forgets its aching 
 
 In the joy that thrills it now ; 
 There are none to come between us 
 
 In the land to which I go. 
 
 Do you know that I am coming ? 
 
 Do you watch for me to-night ? 
 Do you wait above the stars, love, 
 
 As I wait beneath their light ? 
 
480 
 
 MRS. LUCY HAMILTON HOOPER. 
 
 Ah, I know that you are waiting 
 In your fair and distant home ! 
 
 We ve a tryst now, O beloved ! 
 Where no enemies can come. 
 
 You are dead, and I am dying, 
 
 Very slowly, but at last. 
 And I trust the death-veiled Future 
 
 To redeem the mournful Past. 
 Ne er was pillow pressed so gladly 
 
 As the one whereon I m lying ; 
 For I know you ll greet my waking. 
 
 You are dead, and I am dying ! 
 
 THE KING S RIDE. 
 
 ABOVE the city of Berlin 
 Shines soft the summer day, 
 
 And near the royal palace shout 
 The schoolboys at their play. 
 
 Sudden the mighty palace gates 
 
 Unclasp their portals wide, 
 And forth into the sunshine see 
 
 A single horseman ride. 
 
 A bent old man in plain attire ; 
 
 No glitt ring courtiers wait, 
 No armed guard attends the steps 
 
 Of Frederick the Great ! 
 
 The boys have spied him, and with shouts 
 
 The summer breezes ring. 
 The merry urchins haste to greet 
 
 Their well-beloved king. 
 
 Impeding e en his horse s tread, 
 
 Presses the joyous train ; 
 And Prussia s despot frowns his best, 
 
 And shakes his stick in vain. 
 
 The frowning look, the angry tone, 
 Are feigned, full well they know. 
 
 They do not fear his stick that hand 
 Ne er .struck a coward blow. 
 
 " Be off to school, you boys ! " he cries. 
 
 " Ho ! ho ! " the laughers i-ay, 
 "A pretty king you not to know 
 
 We ve holiday to-day !" 
 
 And so upon that summer day, 
 
 Those children at his side, 
 The symbol of his nation s love, 
 
 Did royal Frederick ride. 
 
 Kings ! your thrones are tott ring now ! 
 
 Dark frowns the brow of Fate ! 
 When did you ride as rode that day 
 
 King Frederick the Great V 
 
 AT THE BAL MABILLE. 
 
 1 WAITED near the Bal Mabille, 
 
 Beside the open door, 
 I fain would see the face that I 
 Shall living see no more. 
 
 Outside, the silent night and I ; 
 
 Inside, the joyous din : 
 Alas! that Love should weep without, 
 
 And ISin should laugh within. 
 
 You passed me in the lamp -lit street, 
 
 With flowers in your hair, 
 And diamonds upon your breast, 
 
 So beautiful so bare. 
 
 Your dress of rosy moire silk 
 Swept round me as you passed : 
 
 You ll find a stain upon its folds 
 It was a tear my last. 
 
 I scarcely knew the face I loved 
 
 A few brief mouths ago, 
 For there was paint upon your cheek, 
 
 A brand upon your brow. 
 
 Now I shall never seek you more, 
 
 Whate er your fate may be. 
 I go to wait, where soon, or late, 
 
 You ll surely come to me. 
 
 Though months and years may pass away 
 
 Before we meet again, 
 You will not fail to keep ids tryst 
 
 Beside the river Seine. 
 
 Dim then will be those shameless eyes, 
 Those mocking lips be dumb ; 
 
 For I am keeper of La Morgue : 
 I wait there till you come. 
 
 You will not come with painted cheeks, 
 
 In flowers, gems, and moire. 
 Good-night, woman that I loved ; 
 
 Good-night, and au revoir. 
 
 TOUCH NOT. 
 
 "SVo still u in Herz von Liebe gluht. 
 
 WHERE glows a heart with silent love 
 Lay not thy reckless hand thereon ; 
 
 Extinguish not the heavenly spark ; 
 Indeed, indeed, twere not well done ! 
 
 If e er a spot all unprofaned 
 
 Is found upon this world of ours, 
 
 It is a youthful human heart 
 
 When first it yields to pure Love s 
 pow rs. 
 
 Oh, grant thou still the dream that comes 
 Alid rosy blossoms of the May ! 
 
 Thou know st not what a paradise 
 Doth with that vision pass awav. 
 
 There broke full many a valiant heart 
 When love was reft away by fate, 
 
 And many, suff ring, wander forth, 
 Filled with all bitterness and hate ; 
 
 And many, bleeding, wounded sore, 
 Shriek loud for hopes forever fled, 
 
 And mid the world s dust fling them down, 
 For godlike Love to them was dead. 
 
 And weep, complain, e en as thou wilt, 
 
 Not all thy penitence and pain 
 Can cause a faded rose to bloom, 
 
 Or bid a dead heart live again. 
 
MBS. HAKEIET PKESCOTT SPOFFOKD. 
 
 A LOVER S GARDEN. 
 
 I THINK the white azaleas, dear, 
 Shaped out of air to match thyself, 
 
 Yet doubt if thou wilt find one here 
 Among this fragrant flowery pelf ; 
 
 For they must hide when thou art near 
 
 As fair as moonlight and as clear. 
 
 But any rose that here may blow 
 Is not one-half so sweet as thou, 
 
 Though petaled white with flakes of snow 
 Yet bind no spray about thy brow ; 
 
 Let the voluptuous roses go, 
 
 For roses have a thorn, we know. 
 
 But bend and do not pass thee by, 
 Where faintest odors hover low ; 
 
 Here the dark violets ensky 
 
 Meanings that should not scape thee so, 
 
 Since in their heaven-deepened dye 
 
 Pure dreams of perfect passion lie. 
 
 And here, like spirits of the blest, 
 
 The golden censer in the hand, 
 To worship and to praise addressed, 
 
 Rank after rank the lilies stand, 
 Long for a place upon thy breast, 
 Ask is thy smile or sunshine best ! 
 
 A nd flout not the fair fleur-de-lis 
 
 That lightly nods that purple plume 
 
 Flower of romantic chivalry, 
 
 All France bends to thee in its bloom ! 
 
 A royal banner s blazonry 
 
 Thy sceptre would it rather be ! 
 
 Where float the moths, the bluebirds sip, 
 Where breath is rapture to the core, 
 
 Where honeysuckles climb and slip 
 Linger, and say, Had Eden more ? 
 
 Tiptoe and let the glad things drip 
 
 Their golden honey on thy lip ! 
 
 But o er those beds of blasting blight, 
 Blue hoods of poison and the tomb 
 
 That blood-red blossom, a delight 
 
 To look at, but whose touch is doom 
 
 Ah, let thy foot make fleeting flight 
 
 Through foxglove and through aconite ! 
 
 Yet breathe thee where the winds outroll 
 From heliotropes an atmosphere 
 
 Of fullest joy and vaguest dole, 
 
 That makes each moment deep and dear, 
 
 While dim regrets shall fill thy soul, 
 
 And longings for some unknown goal. 
 
 So shall these buds forever bloom 
 Around thee in my memory s freak, 
 
 The strawberry-tree refuse thee room, 
 The sweet-brier spray brush by thy cheek 
 
 And thou be fresh mid their perfume, 
 And white mid their ensanguined gloom. 
 
 Then flit down yonder hawthorn coast, 
 The ancient lilac alleys thread, 
 
 And turn the labyrinth, and be lost 
 That one day, when all hope is dead, 
 
 And when the place is dreary most, 
 
 Haunt it, I may, with thy sweet ghost ! 
 
 AT TWILIGHT. 
 
 LIKE some bright mounting flame our life, 
 New-kindled, springs and sparkles, 
 
 Now soars defiance to the sun, 
 Now glooms and darkles ; 
 
 Here from the ruby-hearted glow 
 Sweet influence round it shedding 
 
 Here from a half-quenched sullen brand 
 Dull shadow spreading. 
 
 And gathered in its blither blaze 
 What gay friends haply cluster, 
 
 Warmed deeply with the rosy ray 
 And lightsome lustre ! 
 
 Full soon the cheerful guests are gone 
 In slow departing number, 
 
 Close-curtained from the murmuring world- 
 Each to his slumber. 
 
 And down on the deserted hearth, 
 
 In dying, fitful flashes, 
 The lonely fire has drooped and sunk 
 
 And fallen in ashes ; 
 
 Yet part of that immortal flame 
 
 Which, far in deeps of even, 
 Informs the white and sacred stars 
 
 And dazzles heaven ! 
 
 VANITY. 
 
 THE sun conies up and the sun goes down, 
 And day and night are the same as one ; 
 
 The year grows green and the year grows 
 
 brown, 
 And what is it all, when all is done V 
 
 Grains of sombre or shining sand, 
 
 Sliding into and out of the hand. 
 
 And men go down in ships to the seas, 
 
 And a hundred ships are the same as one ; 
 
 And backward and forward blows the breeze, 
 And what is it all, when all is done? 
 
 A tide with never a t-diore in sight 
 
 Setting steadily on to the night. 
 
482 
 
 MRS. HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. 
 
 The fisher droppeth his net in the stream, 
 And a hundred streams are the same as 
 one ; 
 
 And the maiden dreameth her love-lit dream, 
 And what is it all, when till is done ? 
 
 The net of the fisher the burden breaks, 
 
 And alway the dreaming the dreamer wakes. 
 
 FLOWER SONGS. 
 
 1. THE VIOLET. 
 
 SOAR, solemn heavens, your splendid 
 
 height, 
 
 And then in flashing darkness bend, 
 
 Wrap the sweet earth about with night, 
 
 Aird wide dim fields from end to end, 
 
 Lying far off and low, 
 Serenely with your brooding mystery 
 blend. 
 
 Slumber, sweet earth ! Thy lofty shade 
 
 Glows with the shining phantom dreams 
 That haunt thee nightly. Music made 
 By burdened boughs and rustling 
 streams, 
 
 Now falling hushed and slow, 
 Remotely lapped in dewy silence seems. 
 
 And ever blow between, faint air, 
 Blow with light, hesitating breath, 
 
 From melancholy places where 
 Perpetual fragrance wandereth. 
 O er grave and garden blow, 
 Over warm life, and over lonely death. 
 
 And while the murmur rang, the sudden stir 
 
 Of branches tost in a tumultuous gust 
 
 Of showers and sweetness, darkling, swept 
 
 the brow 
 
 And passed. And through the fluted melody 
 There breathed that sound that silence lis 
 tens to 
 
 The crickets chirping their unbroken strain 
 On th hill-side, in the black warm summer 
 
 night, 
 
 Thrill of ethereal tone, as if were heard 
 The rustle of the great orb s wings through 
 
 space 
 
 What time the brede of stars its lustre floats 
 In self-poised circles, and the dusk is deep. 
 
 And then, as when across one s rarest dream, 
 Just drawing off from the rich dregs of sleep, 
 A cheery cry comes, and a broken tune, 
 And in the covert of their odorous depths 
 The robins shake their wild wet wings and 
 
 flood 
 
 The shallow shores of dawn with music, till 
 The world is rosy so another voice 
 Stole toward me, and I saw the hyacinth 
 With its white helmet part the sun-soaked 
 
 sod. 
 And heard, as if from out the bells that 
 
 wreathe 
 Its spire of piercing perfume dropped the 
 
 tones 
 Like rain-drops tinkling in a way-side pool. 
 
 II. THE HYACINTH. 
 
 ON topmost twigs when morning burns 
 
 And lights his trembling fires, 
 When from his wing the glad bird spurns 
 The dew, and with his carol yearns 
 
 And to heaven s gate aspires 
 The Maker looks upon his world 
 
 That puts her beauty bare, 
 All freshly, fragrantly inipearled 
 
 Beneath the tender air, 
 Looks on his soft and gleaming world 
 And smiles to find her fair. 
 Then waken, waken, 
 The earth has taken 
 Into the sunshine her wondrous way ; 
 Then waken, waken, 
 The dews are shaken 
 Loose from the leaves and melt away, 
 Lost in the beautiful light of day ! 
 
 Here the clear singing of the joyous sprite 
 Startled the echoes of that underworld 
 Where buds lie sleeping straight the silent 
 
 bush 
 
 Beside me quivered in the happy light ; 
 The red sap mounted along stem and spray, 
 In countless hurried convolutions whirled 
 To break at once into the perfect flower 
 The perfect flower proud was the song she 
 
 sung. 
 
 III. THE ROSE. 
 
 I AM the one rich thing that morn 
 Leaves for the ardent noon to win ; 
 
 Grasp me not, I have a thorn, 
 
 But bend and take my fragrance in. 
 
 The dew-drop on my bosom gives 
 
 The whole of heaven to searching eyes, 
 
 Only he who sees it lives, 
 
 And only he who slights it dies. 
 
 Ah, what bewildering warmth and wealth 
 Gather within my central fold ! 
 
 Love-lorn airs of happy health 
 Hive with the honey that I hold. 
 
 This dazzling ruddiness divine 
 
 Shrouds spicy savors deep and dear, 
 
 Passion s sign and countersign, 
 The inmost meaning of the sphere 
 
 Petal on petal opening wide, 
 
 My being into beauty flows 
 Hundred-leaved and damask-dyed 
 
 Yet nothing, nothing but a rose ! 
 
 And shaking off a sudden passionate tear 
 The rose ceased warble, and in an ecstasy 
 Shed all her lovely leaves around my feet 
 And stood discrowned. 
 
 Then gently was I ware 
 Of a pure breath from that delicious hour 
 When day sweeps all her glory after her 
 To fresh horizons rapt and holy tone 
 Where lingered yet the note that haply fell 
 From seraphs leaning o er the battlements 
 Of shining tower and rampart far above, 
 And ever in their idlesse singing praise. 
 
MRS. HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. 
 
 483 
 
 IV. THE LILY. 
 
 Lift thine eyes, against the deepening skies 
 All the sacred hills like altars glow, 
 
 Waiting for the hastening sacrifice 
 Ere the evening winds begin to blow. 
 
 Lift thy heart, and let the prayer depart 
 To meet the heavenly flame upon the 
 
 height, 
 
 Till all thy shadows into splendor start, 
 And the calm brain grow clear with still 
 delight ! 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 OH that the bells in all these silent spires 
 Would clash their clangor on the sleeping 
 
 air, 
 Ring their wild music out with throbbing 
 
 choirs, 
 Ring peace in everywhere ! 
 
 Oh that this wave of sorrow surging o er 
 The red, red land would wash away its 
 
 stain 
 Drown out the angry fire from shore to 
 
 shore, 
 And give it peace again ! 
 
 On last year s blossoming graves, with sum 
 mer calm, 
 
 Loud in his happy tangle hums the bee ; 
 Nature forgets her hurt, and finds her balm 
 
 Alas ! and why not we ? 
 
 Spirit of God ! that moved upon the face 
 Of the waters, and bade ancient chaos 
 
 cease, 
 Shine, shine again o er this tumultuous 
 
 space, 
 Thou that art Prince of Peace ! 
 
 MUSIC IN THE NIGHT. 
 
 WHEN stars pursue their solemn flight, 
 
 Oft in the middle of the night, 
 
 A strain of music visits me, 
 
 Hushed in a moment silverly 
 
 Such rich and rapturous strains as make 
 
 The very soul of silence ache 
 
 With longing for the melody. 
 
 Or lovers in the distant dusk 
 Of summer gardens, sweet as musk, 
 Pouring the blissful burden out, 
 The breaking joy, the dying doubt ; 
 Or revelers all flown with wine, 
 And in a madness half divine, 
 Beating the broken tune about. 
 
 Or else the rude and rolling notes 
 
 That leave some strolling sailors throats, 
 
 Hoarse with the salt sprays, it may be, 
 
 Of many a mile of rushing sea ; 
 
 Or some high-minded dreamer strays 
 
 Late through the solitary ways, 
 
 Nor heeds the listening night, nor me. 
 
 Or how or whence those tones be heard, 
 Hearing, the slumbering soul is stirred, 
 
 As when a swiftly passing light 
 Startles the shadows into flight, 
 While one remembrance suddenly 
 Thrills through the melting melody 
 A strain of music in the night. 
 
 Out of the darkness bursts the song, 
 Into the darkness moves along ; 
 Only a chord of memory jars, 
 Only an old wound burns its scars, 
 As the wild sweetness of the strain 
 Smites the heart with passionate pain, 
 And vanishes among the stars. 
 
 HEREAFTER. 
 
 LOVE, when all these years are silent, van 
 
 ished quite and laid to rest, 
 When you and I are sleeping, folded into 
 
 one another s breast, 
 When no morrow is before us, and the 
 
 long grass tosses o er us, 
 And our grave remains forgotten, or by alien 
 
 footsteps pressed 
 
 Still that love of ours will linger, that great 
 love enrich the earth, 
 
 Sunshine in the heavenly azure, breezes 
 
 blowing joyous mirth ; 
 Fragrance fanning off from flowers, mel 
 ody of summer showers, 
 
 Sparkle of the spicy wood-fires round the 
 happy autumn hearth. 
 
 That s our love. But you and I, dear shall 
 
 we linger with it yet, 
 Mingled in one dew-drop, tangled in one 
 
 sunbeam s golden net, 
 On the violet s purple bosom, I the sheen, 
 
 but you the blossom 
 Stream on sunset winds and be the haze 
 
 with which some hill is wet ? 
 
 Or, beloved if ascending when we have 
 
 endowed the world 
 With the best bloom of our being, whither 
 
 will our way by whirled, 
 Through what vast and starry spaces, 
 
 toward what awful holy places, 
 With a white light on our faces, spirit over 
 
 spirit furled ? 
 
 Only this our yearning answers whereso er 
 that way defile. 
 
 Not a film shall part us through the aeons 
 
 of that mighty while, 
 
 In the fair eternal weather, even as phan 
 toms still together, 
 
 Floating, floating, one forever, in the light 
 of God s great smile ! 
 
 DAYBREAK. 
 
 THROUGH rosy dawns of June I go, 
 Again the deepening sweetness part, 
 
 While all their raptures round me flow 
 And bubble freshly in my heart. 
 
484 
 
 MRS. HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. 
 
 The broad blue mountains lift their brows 
 "Barely to bathe them in the blaze ; 
 
 The bobolinks from silence rouse 
 And Hash along melodious ways ; 
 
 And hid beneath the grasses, wet 
 With long carouse, a honeyed crew, 
 
 Anemone and violet, 
 
 Yet rollicking are drunk with dew. 
 
 How soft the wind that blows my hair 
 That steals the song off from my lip, 
 
 And mounts in gladder tumult where 
 The murmurous branches bend and dip! 
 
 How proudly smiling on his love 
 The sun rides up the central blue, 
 
 While like the wing of summer s dove 
 She changes to his changing view 
 
 All loveliness in every light, 
 
 Voluptuous beauty o er her strewn, 
 
 A thing to lap the soul s delight 
 While morning widens into noon ! 
 
 NOCTUKNE. 
 
 IN the soft, starless summer night 
 No murmur swims along the air, 
 
 Wrapped in her dim and dusky veil, 
 Earth seems to slumber everywhere. 
 
 All the still dews in hiding lie, 
 
 With unrobbed sweetness droops the rose, 
 Nor up nor down the garden walks 
 
 A slight or stealthy zephyr blows. 
 
 Darkness and hush, profoundest peace ; 
 
 The falling leaf forgets to float ; 
 When with one deep and mighty throb 
 
 Along the headland strikes the rote ! 
 
 Strikes with the awful undertone 
 
 Of some great storm s tremendous blast, 
 
 That far through white mid-seas ploughs on 
 To scream around a broken mast ! 
 
 But here the swell shall heave to shore 
 
 A muffled music, till it seems 
 The trouble of the sea become 
 
 Only the burden of a dream ! 
 
 MAGDALEN. 
 
 IF any woman of us all, 
 
 If any woman of the street, 
 Before the Lord should pause and fall, 
 
 And with her long hair wipe his feet 
 
 He whom with yc!irninr hearts we love, 
 And fain would ^<-e with human eyes 
 
 Around our living pathway move, 
 And underneath our daily skies 
 
 The Maker of the heavens and earth, 
 The Lord of life, the Lord of death, 
 
 In whom the universe had birth, 
 
 But breathing of our breath one breath, 
 
 If any woman of the street 
 
 Should kneel, and with the lifted mesh 
 Of her long tresses wipe his feet, 
 
 And with her kisses kiss their flesh 
 
 How round that woman would we throng, 
 How willingly would clasp her hands 
 
 Fresh from, that touch divine, and long 
 To gather up the twice-blest strands ! 
 
 How eagerly with her would change 
 
 Our idle innocence, nor heed 
 Her shameful memories and strange, 
 
 Could we but also claim that deed ! 
 
 A SIGH. 
 
 IT was nothing but a rose I gave her, 
 
 Nothing but a rose 
 Any wind might rob of half its savor, 
 
 Any wind that blows. 
 
 When she took it from my trembling fingers 
 
 With a hand as chill 
 Ah, the flying touch upon them lingers, 
 
 Stays, and thrills them still ! 
 
 Withered, faded, pressed between the pages, 
 
 Crumpled fold on fold 
 Once it lay upon her breast, and ages 
 
 Cannot make it old ! 
 
 ALIVE. 
 
 WHEN the wild- wake robin starts in the 
 
 wood 
 At the joy of the earth who escapes her 
 
 bars, 
 
 And the birches flutter in breezy mood, 
 And the quick brooks run and sing in the 
 
 sun 
 
 To some strain of the song of the morn 
 ing stars ; 
 
 When the gay rhodoras throng the swamp, 
 
 Like a settling cloud of winged things 
 All a-quiver in purple pomp, 
 And their green and gold the ferns unfold 
 To the far-heard murmur of hastening 
 springs ; 
 
 When trillums nod, and the columbines 
 Spread like flames through the forest 
 
 gloom ; 
 
 When in open field the white-weed shines, 
 And the birds and bees in the apple-trees 
 Dart through skies of blue and of 
 bloom ; 
 
 When the whole bright orb is flashing 
 
 along 
 With her cloudy gossamers round her 
 
 curled, 
 
 A thing of blossom and leaf and song 
 Still, I cry, is He far as the farthest star, 
 Or living and pulsing across His world ? 
 
MARY. N. PEESCOTT. 
 
 A LULLABY. 
 
 HUSH, liusli, my sweet ; 
 
 Rest, rest thy tired feet ; 
 Forget the storms and tears of thy brief 
 hours ; 
 
 There s naught shall thee distress, 
 
 Wrapt in sleep s blissfulness, 
 Crowned by a dream of flowers. 
 
 Hush, dearest, hush ; 
 
 May no intruder brush 
 From off thy bloomy cheek the downy kiss ; 
 
 May no unquiet fly 
 
 Go rudely buzzing by, 
 To snatch away thy bliss. 
 
 May dreams enchanted spread 
 
 A pillow for thy head, 
 And hang a curtain* twixt thee and the sun ; 
 
 While smiles shall overflow 
 
 Thy rosy lips, as though 
 The angels whispers were too sweet for 
 one. 
 
 Then sleep, my baby, dear ; 
 
 Yet, lest the traitor, Fear, 
 Should cry, " The child will waken never 
 more ! " 
 
 Stir in thy dreams anon, 
 
 Bidding the thought begone, 
 And lift thine eyes to bless me as before ! 
 
 ROCK, LITTLE NEST. 
 
 ROCK in the wind, little nest ; 
 When you are full, life is best ; 
 Soon enough wings will be grown, 
 Flutter, and leave you alone. 
 
 Rock in the wind, little nest ; 
 Say, what are storms to the blest ? 
 Though you should tremble and fall, 
 God cares for sparrows and all ! 
 
 Rock, little nest ; like a song 
 All the sweet days fleet along ; 
 Winter will presently come, 
 Making you vacant and dumb ! 
 
 A TEAR. 
 
 WHEN the long green grass waves o er me, 
 
 And no summers are before me ; 
 
 When the bitter wind s increase 
 
 In no wise disturbs my peace ; 
 
 When the spring s sweet thrill, as once, 
 
 Wakes in rue no quick response, 
 
 Will you, dear, in losing me, 
 Lose the bloom of sky and sea ? 
 
 When the brown bees busy hum 
 Does not reach me, cold and dumb ; 
 When the scent of the wild rose 
 Breathes the sadness of repose, 
 Where no tender voice is heard, 
 Heart-sick sigh or whispered word ; 
 When for me all seasons fail, 
 Will your love, sweet, still prevail? 
 
 Happier far the grave s seclusion, 
 Where your love may seek intrusion, 
 Than the summer s wasted sweetness, 
 Barren of that love s completeness. 
 Mouldering underneath the sod, 
 Waiting on the will of God, 
 Heaven itself would yet seem near, 
 Should you drop there, sweet, a tear ! 
 
 TO-DAY. 
 
 TO-DAY the sunshine freely showers 
 Its benediction where we stand ; 
 
 There s not a passing cloud that lowers 
 Above this pleasant summer-land : 
 
 Then let s not waste the sweet to-day 
 To-morrow, who can say ? 
 
 Perhaps to-morrow we may be 
 (Alas ! alas ! the thought is pain !) 
 
 As far apart as sky and sea, 
 
 Sundered, to meet no more again : 
 
 Then let us clasp thee, sweet to-day 
 To-morrow, who can say ? 
 
 The daylight fades ; a purple dream 
 Of twilight hovers overhead, 
 
 While all the trembling stars do seem 
 Like sad tears yet unshed : 
 
 Oh, sweet to-day, so soon away ! 
 
 To-morrow, who can say ? 
 
 SONG. 
 
 SLIPPING, drifting with the tide, 
 All the summer twilight through, 
 
 While in heaven the stars abide, 
 In my heart sweet dreams of you. 
 
 Echoes following from the shore 
 Seem the chorus of our song, 
 
 Summer odors blown before 
 Float the tune along. 
 
MARY N. PRESCOTT. 
 
 Shall we linger till the day 
 
 Paints the earth a thing divine ? 
 
 Spread the sail and haste away 
 
 Where the distant breakers shine ? 
 
 Held within their fearful grasp, 
 Would they crush us like a shell ? 
 
 Dying, dearest, in your clasp 
 All would yet be well ! 
 
 TWO MOODS. 
 
 I PLUCKED the harebells as I went 
 
 Singing along the river-side ; 
 
 The skies above were opulent 
 
 Of sunshine. " Ah ! whate er betide, 
 
 The world is sweet, is sweet," I cried, 
 
 That morning by the river-side. 
 
 The curlews called along the shore ; 
 The boats put out from sandy beach ; 
 Afar I heard the breakers roar, 
 Mellowed to silver-sounding speech ; 
 And still I sang it o er and o er, 
 " The world is sweet for evermore I " 
 
 Perhaps, to-day, some other one, 
 Loitering along the river-side, 
 Content beneath the gracious sun, 
 May sing, again, " Whate er betide, 
 The world is sweet." I shall not chide, 
 Although my song is done. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 Tis not the murmuring voice of Spring 
 That stirs my heart and makes me sing ; 
 Tis not the blue skies, bubbling 1 o er 
 With sunshine spilled along earth s floor ; 
 Nor yet the flush of bursting rose, 
 >><>! bloom of any flower that grows. 
 
 It is that long, long years ago, 
 When all the world was blushing so 
 It is that then my cheek blushed too, 
 My heart beat fast for love and you : 
 There was a music in the air 
 I fail to find now anywhere. 
 
 Ami so, when Spring comes wandering by, 
 I lose the thread of misery ; 
 Trusting the promise of her days, 
 I tune my voice to sing her praise, 
 And cheat myself with the sweet pain 
 That in the spring Love blooms again. 
 
 ASLEEP. 
 
 SOUND asleep : no sigh can reach 
 
 Him who dreams the heavenly dream 
 
 No to-morrow s silver speech 
 
 Wake him with an earthly theme. 
 
 Summer rains relentlessly 
 
 Patter where his head doth lie ; 
 
 There the wild fern and the brake 
 
 All their summer leisure take. 
 
 Violets blinded with the dew, 
 
 Perfume lend to the sad rue, 
 
 Till the day breaks, fair and clear, 
 
 And no shadow doth appear. 
 
 THE BROOK. 
 
 " O I am tired ! " said the brook, complain 
 
 ing, 
 
 " I fain would stop a little while to rest ; 
 The clouds would weary were they always 
 
 raining ; 
 The bird, if she forever built her nest ! 
 
 " The stars withdraw from heaven and cease 
 
 their shining, 
 
 The sun himself drops down into the west. 
 I fain would stop," the brook kept on repir 
 
 ing, 
 
 " And catch my breath, and be an instant 
 blessed. 
 
 " All day a voice calls, Follow, dearest, fol 
 low/ 
 
 And toiling on, I seek to reach the goal, 
 Nor pause to list to yonder happy swallow, 
 
 Telling in song the secret of his soul. 
 
 " O foolish brook ! " the wind blew in re 
 plying, 
 
 " Am 1 not always with you on the wing ? 
 Cease your fond mourning, cease your weary 
 
 sighing, 
 
 And thank your stars for such companion 
 ing ! " 
 
 The sun came up across the silver dawning, 
 And hung a golden flame against the sky ; 
 
 He dallied not to drink the dews of morning, 
 And when the night fell ; lo ! the brook was 
 
 dry! 
 
 At rest ! at rest ! no more of toil unceasing ; 
 
 No watering of the roots of shrub or tree ; 
 No hoarding from the rain, nor still increas 
 ing 1 , 
 
 To lose itself, at last, within the sea ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
INDEX OF 
 
 NAMES OF AUTHOKS. 
 
 I AGE 
 
 360 
 
 A 
 
 Allen Elizabeth Akers Mrs 
 
 PAGE 
 401 
 
 L 
 
 Larcom, Lucy, Miss 
 
 B 
 
 225 
 
 Lawson, Mary Lockhart, Miss 
 Lazarus, Emma, Miss 
 
 386 
 473 
 
 Lee, Eleanor, Mrs 
 
 333 
 
 Lee, Mary E., Miss 
 
 216 
 263 
 
 
 164 
 
 Lewis, Sarah Anna, Mrs 
 
 
 357 
 
 Lipplncott, Sara J.. Mrs 
 
 390 
 
 
 28 
 
 Liszt, Harriet Winslow, Mrs. 
 
 354 
 
 
 137 
 
 Little, Sophia L., Mrs 
 
 107 
 
 Bolt oil Sarah T Mrs 
 
 308 
 
 Loud, Margaret St. Leon, Mrs 
 
 HI 
 
 
 232 
 
 Lowell, Maria, Mrs 
 
 38d 
 
 Bradley, Mary E., Mrs 
 
 432 
 
 M 
 May, Caroline, Miss 
 
 346 
 
 Brad c treet Anne Mrs 
 
 17 
 
 
 69 
 
 Brooks Mary E Mrs 
 
 139 
 
 " Mav Edith," Miss 
 
 362 
 
 c 
 
 Campbell, Juliet H. L.,Mrs 
 
 .. 355 
 
 Mayo, Sarah Edgarton, Mrs. 
 
 298 
 
 McCartee. Jessie G., Mrs 
 
 131 
 
 Meigs, Mary Noel, Mrs. . 
 
 . 270 
 
 Moulton Louise Chandler Mrs 
 
 447 
 
 Canfield Francesca Pascalis Mrs . 
 
 135 
 
 N 
 Nichols. Rebecca S., Mrs 
 
 316 
 
 Cooke, Rollin, Mrs. (Rose Terry). 
 
 409 
 
 Cure) , .Alice Miss 
 
 372 
 
 
 372 
 
 Case, Luella J. B., Mrs. . . 
 
 306 
 
 
 
 Oakes-Smith, Elizabeth, Mrs 
 
 .. 177 
 
 Chandler, Caroline H Mrs 
 
 352 
 
 Chandler. Elizabeth Margaret, Miss .. . 
 
 149 
 
 Child, Lydia Maria, Mrs. 
 
 110 
 
 Oliver, Sophia Helen, Mrs 
 
 214 
 
 D 
 
 Davidson, Lucretia, Miss 
 
 152 
 
 Oso ood Frances Sargent Mrs. 
 
 272 
 
 Os^ood Kate Putnam Miss 
 
 437 
 
 P 
 
 Pierson, Lydia Jane, Mrs 
 Perry, Nora, Misa 
 
 256 
 465 
 
 Of) 
 
 Davidson. Margaret, Miss 
 Day, Martha, Miss 
 Dinnios. Anna Peyre. Mrs 
 
 .. 152 
 328 
 208 
 
 Docld, Mary Ann Hanmer, Miss 
 Dorr, Julia C. R., Mrs 
 D Ossoli, Marchioness, Margaret Fuller... 
 Douglas, Marian, Miss 
 
 E 
 
 Eames, Elizabeth Jessup, Mrs. 
 
 229 
 423 
 251 
 475 
 
 246 
 
 Phillips. Anne H., Miss 
 Piatt, S. M. B., Mrs 
 Pindar Sn- an Miss 
 
 399 
 
 443 
 . 343 
 
 Prescott, Mary N., Miss 
 Preston, Margaret J., Mrs 
 
 R 
 
 485 
 460 
 
 267 
 
 Ellet, Elizabeth J., Mrs 
 
 199 
 143 
 
 Embury. Emma C., Mrs 
 
 
 468 
 
 Esling, Catharine H., Mrs 
 
 217 
 
 
 33 
 
 F 
 
 Faugeres, Margaretta V., Mrs.. 
 Ferguson, Elizabeth Gneme, Mrs... 
 Follen, Eliza L., Mrs 
 
 35 
 24 
 121 
 
 S 
 Sawyer, Caroline M., Mrs 
 Scott, Julia H., Mrs 
 Sigou rney, Lydia Huntley, Mrs 
 
 218 
 206 
 H 
 
 Fuller, Frances A., Miss 
 Fuller, Metta V., Miss 
 
 G 
 
 Gray, Jane L. , Mrs 
 
 368 
 368 
 
 104 
 
 Sproat, Eliza L., Miss 
 Smith, Emeline S., Mrs 
 
 353 
 259 
 212 
 
 
 . 157 
 
 Stephens, Ann S., Mrs 
 
 210 
 
 Green, Frances H., Mrs 
 Gilman. Caroline, Mrs 
 
 123 
 52 
 
 St. John, A. R.. Mrs 
 Stoddard, Elizabeth. Mrs 
 
 ... 211 
 415 
 
 Gould, Hannah F.,Miss 
 
 H 
 
 Hale, Sarah Josepha, Mrs... 
 Hall, Louisa J., Mrs 
 Haven, Alice G., Mrs 
 
 45 
 
 75 
 Ill 
 349 
 
 Stoddard. Lavinia, Mrs 
 
 428 
 
 T 
 Taggart, Cynthia, Miss 
 Talley. Susan Archer, Miss 
 
 133 
 311 
 450 
 
 Hooper, Lucy, Miss 
 Hooper. Lucy Hamilton, Mrs 
 Howe, Julia Ward, Mrs 
 Hunt, Helen, Mrs.. . 
 
 288 
 479 
 321 
 457 
 
 Thurston, Laura M.. Mrs 
 Townsend, Eliza, Miss . 
 
 W 
 Ward Julia Ruh Mrs 
 
 2-27 
 38 
 
 . 90 
 
 J 
 
 Jacobs, Sarah S., Miss 
 James, Maria, Miss 
 
 303 
 66 
 
 
 102 
 
 WarfiVld, Catharine, Mrs 
 Warren, Mercy, Mrs 
 
 .. 333 
 21 
 
 Judson, Emily C., Mrs 
 
 K 
 
 Kimball. Harriet McEwen Miss 
 
 241 
 471 
 
 W< j lby. Amelia B., Mrs 
 Wells, Anna Mario, Mrs 
 
 325 
 63 
 1(16 
 
 Whitney Adeline D T. Mrs ... 
 
 453 
 
 Woodman Hannah J Miss 
 
 .. .. 310 
 
 Kinney, E. C., Mrs 
 
 195 
 
 
 ... 260 
 
 
 
 
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