Book Jm^-^ /^ 7t,<^^;^^-2^-<;:^if^^_^ THE FEMALE POETS AMEEICA. BY RUFUS WILMOT GRISWOLD 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 DESPITK 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 CHILI) ?- SO MONGST THE REST THEY PLACED THE ARTS DIVINE. The Fouk Elements: By Anne Bradstreet. Bustan, 1640. iHHEi illim. \ PHILADELPHIA: PARRY & McM I L L A N, SUCCESSORS TO A. HART. 18 5 9. fS^M Pi 8^1 ENTERED, ACCORDIVG TO ACT OF rONGRi::?S, IN THE YEAR 1848, BY C.1REV ^ H.iRT 'N " HEOFFICE OF THE CLERK OF THE DISTRICT COirRT OF THE EASTERN DISTRICT OF PENNSYLVANIA COLLINS, PKINTER THIS VOLUME IS INSCPJBED TO Mts. Satoh littlt, WHOSE KNOWLEDGE AND TASTE IN THE BEST LITERATURES, WILL GUIDE HER TO A JUST ESTIMATE OE ITS CONTENTS, AS ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE GENIUS, CULTURE, AND CHARACTER OE H^R COUNTRYWOMEN- NOTE TO THE SECOND EDITION. In the present edition, the preface is augmented, and a few typogra- phical errors are corrected. The suddenness with which it is called for prevented any other alterations. 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 aesthetic 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 poliiics 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 r 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, Channing, 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, thouo-b 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 ]0 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 1844, 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 jpublishcr 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 stating 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 " jMiriam" 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 MSS. without limitation. New York, December, 1848. CONTENTS. rRTB&DnoTIOIr..*«^gton 97 The Country Church 98 Solitude 98 Sunset on the Allegany 98 The Indian Girl's Burial 99 Indian Names 99 A Butterfy on a Child's Grave 99 Monody on the late Daniel Wadsivorlh 100 Advertisement of a Lost Day 100 Farewell to a Rural Residence 101 A Widow at her'Daughter's Bridal 101 MRS. KATHARINE A. WARE. Edits The Botverof Taste 102 Residence abroad, and Death, in Paris 102 Her Power of the Passions, and other Poems 102 Loss of the First-Bom 102 Madness y 103 A New Year's Wish c 103 Marks of Time — -103 MRS. JANE L. GRAY. Her Residence on the Forks of the Delaware 104 James Montgomery's Opinion of a PoenMy her 104 Tito Hundred Years Ago 104 Sabbath Reminiscences lO.'J Mom ' 106 MRS. SOPHIA L. LITTLE. A Daughter of the Jurist and Statesman Asliur Robbms......l07 Notices of her Works 107 ThtPoei 1"' Thanksgiving 108 HIRS. LYDIA MaRIA CHILD One of our most brilliant Prose Writers 110 Marjm amid the Ruins of Carthage 110 Unet «n hearing a Boy mock the Sound of a Clock 110 MRS. LOUISA J. HALL. Educated by Dr. Park, her Father..... paob 111 Her feeble Constitution Ill Circumstances under which Miriam was written...—. ... 111 Her Joanna of Naples, and other Works... -. III Review of Miriam, with Extracts 112 Character of the Work , 117 Justice and Mercy 117 A Dramatic Fragment ........•.....•....—....... ......118 MRS. ELIZA L. FOLLEN. Death of her Husband, Professor Charles FoIlen..„.. 131 Her Writings _..12: Sachem's Hill 121 Winter Scene in the Country 122 Evening 122 MRS. FRANCES H. GREEN. The Misfortunes of her Father - 123 She writes a Memoir of Eleanor Elbridge, &c 123 The Mechanic, by her, commended by Mr. Brownson ...123 Notice of Nanuntenoo 123 Her Songs of the Winds, mi other Poems 123 Opinions in Philosophy and Religion 123 New England Summer in the Ancient Time 124 A J^arragansett Sachem .. — 124 Sassacus — ............ .......... — — 125 Songofthe North Wind 127 Song of the East Wind 128 . Songof Winter 129 T>,e Chickadee's Song 130 The Honey-Bee's Song „ 130 MRS. JESSIE G. MoCARTEE. A Descendant oflsabella Graham. .. .. . ... . -. — 131 Character of her Poems - ........... .131 T>ie Indian Mother's Lament 131 The Eagle of the Falls 131 Death-Song of Moses 132 How Beautiful is Sleep 132 MISS CYNTHIA TAGGART. Her interesting History 133 Letter from Dr. John W. Francis respecting her. ...... -.--.-•133 Merit of her Writings , 133 Ode to the Poppy . ... — . 133 Invocation to Health 134 Autumn 134 On a Storm 134 MRS. FRANCESCA PASCALIS CANFIELD. The Scientific Labors of her Father 136 Dr. Mitchill's Valentineto her 135 Her Learning and Accomplishments -- 135 Unfortunate Marriage, and Death.... . — .... — - ............ 13*^ Verses To Dr. Mitchill 136 Edith " 136 MISS ELIZABETH BOGART. Writings under the Signature of " Estelle" 137 An Autumn View, from my Window 137 Retrospection . - 138 Forgetfulness .... .. — . — -.- • — •- — ..--.-138 He Came too Late 138 MRS. MARY E. BROOKS. Marriage with James G. Brooks 139 Publishes The Rivals of Este, and other Poems 139 Death of Mr. Brooks 139 T),e Closeoflhe Year 139 A Pledge to the Dying Year 140 " Weep not for the Dead" 140 Dream of Life "0 MRS. MARGARET ST. LEON LOUD. Her Residence in the South - 141 Mr. Poe's Opinion of her Writings ...141 A Dream of the Lonely Isle HI The Deserted Homestead .......142 Prayer for an .ibsent Husband 149 Restinthe Grave 1*» MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. Publishes Guido and other Poems 143 Character of her Tales HS Hex Nature's ficms, and other Worits 143 Ttvo Portraits, from Life K* Tlie Duke of Reichstadt 144 Sympathy ^** Autumn Evening 144 Peace "* The^olian Harp 146 Unrest The Old Man's Lament "5 The American River 146 The English River - ^*^ CONTENTS. 18 MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY, (oOKTmngD.) Ballad. paoe 147 Cheerfulness 147 The Widow's Wooer 147 tladame de Stael 148 Heart Questionings 148 Neiier Forget 148 MISS ELIZABETH MARGARET CHANDLER. A Member of the Society of Friends -. 149 Removal to Michigan, and Death there 149 Her Works 149 The Devoted. 149 The Battle-Pield. 150 J Re oolutionary Soldier's Prayer 160 The Brandywine 151 Summer Morning - 151 MISSES LUCRETIA AND MARGARET DAVIDSON. Their Genius and Interesting Character 152 The First Compositions of Lucretia Davidson 152 Verses on the Grave of Washington 153 Visits Canada 1.53 Lines to lier Infant Sister 153 Writes Amir Khun 1,53 Her Death 153 Memoirs of her by Mr. Morse and Miss Sedgwick 1.53 Her Poem addressed to Mrs. Townsend 153 To a Star .^ 153 J Prophecy 154 Auction Extraordinary 154 Address to her Mother 1.54 On tfie Fear of Madness 155 Effect of her Death upon Margaret Davidson 155 M.irgaret's Education ^ 155 Verses, ^^ 1 would Jly from the Cicy" 155 Changes of Residence 155 Her Death 156 Lenm-e to the Spirit of iMcretia 156 Stanzas to her Mother 156 The Writings of Mrs. Davidson 166 MRS. MARY E. HEWITT. Poems under the Signature of " lone" 157 Publishes Songs of our Land, and other Poems 157 Character of her Poems 157 Tlte Songs of our Land. 157 Tlie Two Voices 158 The AxeoJ the Settler 168 J Tluiught of the Pilgrims 169 The Citybythe Sea 169 Tlie Sunflower to tlte Sun 160 The Last Chanl of Corinne — 160 Green Places in the City 160 Cameos 160 A Yarn 161 Imitation of Sappho — 161 Love's Pleading 162 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 Imalee 164 The Army of the Cross 165 Penitence. : 165 MRS. SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. Descended from a Companion of Roger Williams 166 The Career and Death of her Husband 166 Her Acquirements, and Writings in Prose.-- 166 Her Fairy Tales 166 Remarkable Merits of her Poems.- - ...166 The Sleeping Beauty 167 LiJ^es written in November.,, ^^. --.169 A Still Day in Autumn 169 "A Green and Silvery Spot among the Hills" 179 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 Moshassuck 173 Summer's Invitation to the Orphan -- 173 Stanzas wiih a Bridal Ring.. - -.--.173 "She Blooms no more" .-■ . 174 The Maiden's Dream — - 174 Poem before the Rhode Island Hist. Soc, upon Roger Williams. .175 ^^ How softly comes the Summer Wind" .. - 175 A Song of Spring 176 On a Statue of David .' ...176 MRS. ELIZABETH OAKESSMITH. Her Descent from the Pilgrims -- paub 177 Her Marriage -..17T Circumstances under which she has written 177 Remarks on T/te Sinless Child, with Extracts 178 Her Dramas 179 Review of IJie Roman Tribute, vikh Extracts 180 Review of Jacoi Leisler, a Tragedy 182 Scene Crnm Jacob Leisler 183 Her Prose Works 18.3 Writings nnder the Name of "Ernest Helfenstein" 183 Her Rank among the Female Poets 1S3 Tlte Acorn 184 The Droivned Mariner 1S6 To the Hudson -.. - 186 Sonnets: ... _, -, 187 I. Poesy Is7 II. The Bard.... 187 III. An Incident .- , 187 IV. The Unattained.. 187 V. The Wife 187 VI. Religion 187 VII. Tlte Dream 187 VIII. Wayfarers 187 IX., X. Heloise to Abelard - 188 XI. Despondency - 188 XII. Love ." - 188 XIII. " Look not behind Thee" 188 XIV. Charity in Despair of Justice 188 XV. The Great Aim..... 188 XVI. Midnight 188 XVII. Jealousy i 189 Ecce Homo. - -.... .'.. 189 Ode to Sappho 189 Love Dead 190 Stanzas 190 Endurance - 190 Ministering Spirits _ 191 The Recall, or Soul Melody 191 The Water 191 The Brook. I9I The Cou^\:ry Maiden 193 The April Rain 19G Atheism '93 Let Me be a Fantasy 194 Strength from the Hills Iy4 Eros and Anteros ., 194 The Poet ?l 194 MRS. E. C. KINNEY. Account of her Writings 195 Characterized, by a Correspondent.-- 195 To the Eagle 195 Ode: To the Moon 196 The Spirit of Song 197 Extract from Tlie Quakeress Bride - 197 Sonnets: 198 I. Cultivation 198 II. Encourageyyiznt 198 III. Fading Autumn 198 IV. A Winter Night 198 V. To the Greek Slave 19? VI. To Arabella 198 The Woodman liW MRS. ELIZABETH F. ELLET. Her Domestic Connexions 199 Translates Euphemia of Messina 199 Production of her Teresa Contarini 199 Papers in the Reviews 199 Her Characters of Schiller, Joanna of Sicily, and other Works . . 199 Characteristics of her Poems 199 Susquehannah...... ... - - - 200 Lake Ontario 201 TheDelaware Water-Gap 201 . Insensibility 201 Love, in Youth and Age 201 Sodus Bay 202 "O'er the Wild Waste" 202 Song 202 The old Love 203 The Sea-Kings 203 Venice - 203 Sonnets: - 204 I. Mary Magdalen 204 II. The Good Shepherd 204 III. "Oh, Weai>y Heart" 2'it "Abide with Us" 204 Tlie Persecuted 201 A Dirge 206 Tlie Burial - M" id CONTENTS. HRS. JULIA H. SCOTT. Her Early Life and Beautiful Character p»ob 206 Her Marriage, and Death ^"8 Her Poems published by Miss Elgarton 206 The Two Graves 206 My Child ^"^ Jnvocationto Poetry '07 KRS. ANNA PEYRE DINNIES. Mrs. Hale's Account of her Marriage 20« She writes under the Signature of " Moina" 208 Publishes The Floral Year... 20s Wedded Love '■ .- 208 Tlie Wife 208 Emblems '- 209 T>ie True Ballad of a Wanderer 209 Lovers Messengers • — 209 MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS. The Spirit and Popularity of her Prose Writings 210 The Old Apple-Tree 210 MRS. A. R. ST. JOHN. Extent of her Productions 211 Meditsa,Jrom an .■Intirjiie Cameo 211 MRS. SARAH LOUISA P. SMITH. A Granddaughter of General Hull 212 Marriage with Samuel Jenka Smith 213 Changes of Re^lJence, and Literary Activity 212 Her Death, and the Character of her Poems 212 T/ie Himia 213 White Roses 213 Stanzas 213 TlieFalt of Warsaw... 213 MRS. SOPHIA HELEN OLIVER. Her Poems ^l* "Imark tlie Hours that Shine" 2U T!,e Cloud Ship 214 T/ie Shadows 21.'i Ministering Spirits - - - 215 KISS MARY E. LEE. Her Ballads and other Poems 216 The Poets 216 An Eastern Love-Song il6 The Last Place of Sleep " 216 MRS. CATHERINE H. ESLING. "Brother, Come Home" 217 "He was our Father's Darling"...... - 217 MRS. CAROLINE M. SAWYER. Her Early Education - 218 Acquaintance with Foreign Literatures 218 Disadvantageous Channels of Publicatior- 218 The Blind Girl 218 hijidelity and Religion 219 The Valley of Peace 219 The Boy and his Angel 230 TTie Lady of Lurlei 2il The Wi/e's Remonstrance 231 My Sleeping Children 223 Lake Mahopac - 23o The Warrior's Dirge 224 Reunion - ...224 ^Pebbles - 224 MRS. MARGARET L. BAILEY. Her Editorial Labors 235 Her Poems 225 Life's Changes 225 The Pauper Child's Burial. ;235 3Jemories .-.-.. .......2'.6 Endurance 236 Duly andRevjard 226 MRS. LAURA M. THURSTON. Becomes a Teacher in Indiana 237 Marriage, and Death ...227 Poems under the Signature of "Viola" 227 " The Green Hills of my Fatherland" 227 Crossing the Alleganies.. 227 MISS MARTHA DAY. Her Literary Remains, published by Professor Kingsley 228 Hymn - ^'^^ Lines an Psalm CD. 228 MISS MARY Al^N HANMER DODD. Her Literary Associations 229 rublicationof her Poems.:.™ 229 Lament ; • 239 The Mourner 229 To a Cricket 230 The Dreamer - -- 230 The Dove's Visit 231 Twiiight .-..231 MISS ANNE C. LYNCH. Het Father one of the United Irishmen wo» 232 Her Ediicalion 232 Literary Soirees .- 233 Characteristics of her Poems 232 Tlie Ideal 233 Tlie Ideal Found 23:1 The Image Broken S33 TIte Battle of Life 234 Thoughts in a Libiary 235 Hagar 235 To the Memory ofChanning 235 A Thought by the Seashore 236 The Dumb Creation 236 The Wounded Vulture 236 Eros 237 To ,m Obscurity 237 To , loith Flowers 237 On a Picture of Harvey Birch 237 Sonnets.- 233 I. Loi-e 238 II. The Lake and the Star 238 III. A Remembrance 238 IV. The Sun and Storm 2.38 V. To 238 VI. TheHoneyBee 238 VII. Aspiration 238 VIII. To the Savior 238 JX. Failh 2.39 Bones in the Desert S^S C/n-ist Betrayed 239 TIte Wasted Fountains 240 Paul Preaching at .Athens 240 MRS. EMILY JUDSON. Her Writings underthe Pseudonym of" Fanny Forester" 241 Publication oCAlderbrook 241 Marriage to the Missionary Judson 241 Goes to India 242 Her Asiaroga, the Maid of the Rock, in Four Cantoa 242 The Weaver 242 Ministering Angels 243 To my Mother 243 To Spring 244 Death 2« Lishls and Shades 244 Clinging to Earth 2-«5 Aspiring to Heaven ....245 The Buds of the Saranac 246 My Bird 246 MRS. ELIZABETH JESUP FAMES. Contributions to the Periodicals 246 Crowning nf Petrarch 246 TJie Death of Pan 247 Cleopatra 247 Mu Mother..: ■ 247 Sonnets: 248 I. Milton 248 II. Dryden 248 III. Addison 243 IV. Tasso 248 v., VI. The Author of " The Sinlest Child" 248 VII. The Past 24« VIII. Diem Perdidi 249 IX., X. Books ■ 249 On the Picture of a Departed Poetess 249 Charity 249 Flowers in a Sick-Room _ - ...WS MRS. EMELINE S. SMITH. Publication of Tlie Fairy's Search, and other Poemi 2.50 Hymn to the Deity i in the Contemplation of Nature 2.i0 "We've had our Share of Bliss, Beloved" 250 MISS S. MARGARET FULLER Her Rank among the Writers of her Sex 251 Governor Everett receiving the Indian Chiefs, &c ...251 The Sacred Marriage 2,'i3 Sonnets: 252 I. Orplteus 2,53 II. Instrumental Music - 253 III. Beethoven 253 IV. Mozart 2.53 V. To Washington AUslon's Picture," The Bridt" 2.53 To Edith, on her Birthday 253 Dines written in Illinois - .'...253 On Leaving the West 284 Ganymede to his Eagle 2.54 Life a Temple 2.55 Encouragement 2.55 Gunhilda '- ^°^ CONTENTS. 15 MRS. LYBIA JANE PEIRSON. Her Early History -^^— J"*"" 255 Anecdote of Mra. Peirson and Thaddeua Stevens .^ 256 Her Forest Minstrel ^ and Forest Leaves ,...256 7V/.V Song 256 Ml/ Muse Sfi^ To an /Eolian Harp _ 25i To the Wood-Robin 258 The Wildwood Home 258 Isabella 258 Sunset in the Forest • ...259 T/iela-st Pale Flowers 259 To the Woods 259 MRS. JANE TAYLOE WORTHINGTON. Her Connexions in Virginia 260 Marriage, Writings, Deatli 260 To the Peak of Otter - 260 Lines, to One who will understand Them..^^ -* 260 Moonlight on the Grave -^ ...... ....... ...... 261 T/ie Child's Grave - 261 The Poor 261 Sleep 262 To Twilight 262 Tlie Withered Leaves „.„_.....„„ 262 MRS. SARAH ANNA LEWIS. Publishes Records oj" the Heart 263 The Forsaken, by lier, compared with a Poem by Motherwell. .263 Review of her Child oj the Sea, with Extracts........ 264 Extract from Isabelle,or the Broken Heart 265 LamentoJLa Vega, in Captivity _ „...-..266 Urn Tlie Dead „ ..—.„ ....,^.266 MRS. ANNA CORA MOWATT. Notice of her Father ....267 Her Birth and Edacation,abroad..--.-.....—.. ...-.- .-..267 Early Predilection fur the Stage . 267 Story of her Marriage 267 Publishes Pelayo, or the Cavern ofCovadonga.,.^^,..^^. 267 Residence in Europe .„,... 267 Publishes Evelyn, Fashion, and other Works... .~....». 267 Her Theatrical Career „ 267 Visit to England • „. 268 The Raising of Jah^us' i)aM^/(Eer.— ....„.,.....-.....„„.. 268 My Life 269 Love ..„ 269 Time „ 269 Thy Will be done „. 269 On a Lock of my Mother's Hair --...,.......„. 269 MRS. MARY NOEL MEIGS, (MoDONALD.) Publishes Poems by M. N.3I. 270 June . ..» .....270 The Spells of Memory ..._ 271 Love's Aspirations . ^.. ........ .„.....««.«.„»«. 271 MRS. FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. Literary Abilities in her Family. _« ,..,_. _.. 272 Writings under the Signature of " Florence"^.. .... . 272 Marriage to Mr. Osgood the Painter.. 272 Residence in London.... 272 Publishes A Wreath of Wild Flowers from New England 272 Her later Works . . 272 Her Genius ...273 Farejvell to a Happy Day^^^^,^^, „.. ....273 ^'Hadwe but mc«". -—,..__. . .- ... 273 To the Spirit of Poetry .^ 274 Lenore ... ........ 274 The Cocoa-Nut Tree 276 A Mother's Prayer in Illness. ..^.^^^ ...._.. --..,..275 Little Children „.... 276 A Sermon -..-- ...,™ -- 276 2b a Child Playing with a Watch „... 276 Labor --.277 Garden Gossip „..- „-.,-..,. ---..- 277 To a Friend ..... . ...... ..». . . .. .......277 Eurydice . 278 Lady Jane . ..... ...... ...... 278 Ida's Farewell .........279 ■ To a Dear little Truant, who wouldn't come Home., ^.^ 279 The Unexpected Declaration.^,,^^ ..-.-..— .........279 Stanzas for Music 280 The Flower Love-Letter .^^mmm .~ «——.--.— — .280 A Weed... „ 281 To Sleep .............. . 281 Silent Love ...... .- — ......•.•».. ^. .....281 -Beauty's Prayer ....-......_....•..-.._.....„ 281 Dream-Music, or the Spirit Flute ..^m ..u.......^. .... - ....282 To my Pen „ 283 NewBngland's Mountain-Child—. .--„ .-.283 Ashes of Roses ™-- —--284 Song," yes, lower to the level" 285 MRS. FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD, (oontindbd.) The Soul's Lament for Home .. page 285 Bianca . .......... .... . , --... 285 Song, " She loves Him yet" 286 No! .286 Song, ^^ Should all who throng" ...--..... -..2S6 " Bois Tan Sang, Beaumanoir" ....286 Caprice ..--. 287 Song, " I loved an Ideal" „... ...287 Aspirations «... «.. .. 287 MISS LUCY HOOPER. Writings und*^r the Signature of "L. H.'* 288 Lines written ou visiting NewburyporC 288 Her Works in Prose.. 289 Letter upon her Death, from Dr. John W. Francis -..289 Poem on the same Subject, by J. G. Whittier 289 Sonnet to her Memory, by H. T. Tuckerman 290 Publication of her Literary Remains........... - 290 TIte Summons of Death.... „ 291 Time, Faith, Energy 291 Last Hours of a Young Poetess.. — . 293 The Turquoise Ring .„ 293 " Give me Armor of Proof " ,- --.293 The Cavalier's last Hours.............. 294 The Daughter of Herodias... » 294 Evening Thoughts 294 Lines .„ - 295 The Old Days tve Remember ...... 295 Lines suggested by a Scene in " Master Humphrey's Clock". ...2"^ Life and Death „ _ — .296 Legends of Flowers............. .-.-- ....297 Osceola' „...».„».»• — .297 MRS. SARAH EDGARTON MAYO. Her Life and Writings _......... 298 The Supremacy of God 298 The last Lay.. „. 299 The Beggar's Death-Scene 300 Types of Heaven „ 300 Tlie Shadow Child 300 Udollo „ 301 Crosn'nf I/ieJ/o0r... ............... uu.^^.... .„.302 MISS SARAH L. JACOBS. T)ie Changeless World „ 303 Benedetta 304 A Vesper 304 " Ubi Amor, Ibi Fides" 305 MRS. LUELLA J. B. CASE. The Indian Relic „....» _ 306 Energy in Adversity _. - 306 La Revenante .... ..... .....— ^. . . . ...... ..^.., 307 A Death-Scene 3C7 Death leading Age to Repose........ ....307 MRS. SARAH T. BOLTON. Lines suggested by an Anecdote of S. F. B. Morse 308 The Spirit of Truth . „ _ 306 Kentucky's Dead .^....309 MISS HANNAH J. WOODMAN. The Annunciation ............ .... — ....a.. ........310 " When wilt thou love Me?" _ ™.310 MISS SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. Compared with James Nack...— „.. »„.... 311 Variety of her Abilities......—. —...._. „...„.. .....311 T?ie Sea-Shell _ ™ 316 MRS. REBECCA S. NICHOLS. Publishes Bemice, and other Poems —.. 316 To my Boy in Heaven....... ...316 My Sister Ellen 317 Farewell of the Soul to the Body 317 Lament of the Old Year.... 318 ne Isle of Dreams 313 The Shadow _ 319 Little Nell _. - 319 The little Flock 320 Musings 320 MRS. JULIA WARD HOWE. Extract from the Life of Schlesinger, by her Brother, Sam. Ward . 321 The Beauty of her Poems — 321 The Burial of Schlesinger. _ 321 Wordsworth 322 Woman 322 To a Beautiful Statue — 323 Waning 323 Leesfromthe CupofLife 323 ^^ Speak, for thy Servant heareth" 324 A Mother's Fears « 3* 16 CONTENTS. MRS. AMELIA B. WELBT. Writings under the Signature of "Amelia".-.-- Publication of her Poems..-.....— *.—— — • •>- The Rainbow. ...^ .--.*.--....— .^. ^-- ...... . Puipit Eloquence..—- .---.--.---- --•- On Enuring the Mammoth Cave..— .. The Old Maid — Melodia - To a Sea-Shell 37ie Last Interview....^ —- — — The Little Step Son ™ The Presence of God ~. MRS. CATH. WARFIELD AND MRS. ELEANOR 1 The Wife of Leon, &c., by " Two Sisters of the West" The Indian Chamber, and other Poemi — These Works criticised - ----------- Remorse —-. ---^. .-.-.-. . .--—---—- — Death on the Prairie -—.-...—. ...---.. — ... Legend oj" the Indian Chamber --.— . " She coTTies to Me".. — — --_.,....——-—.-- '■ I walk in Dreams of Poetry" Regret Song, " 1 never knew how dear Thou wert" The Bird of Washington.. ~ The Deserted /fot^se. --«.•.-. — «— .— ---. MISS SUSAN PINDAR. Account of her Writings— .». ~. 'i%e Spirit-Mother — The Lady Leonore.. --......-«.-,-...—.-.-— Thoughts in .^m^-Kme ..—,—. — .— •- MISS CAROLINE :3AY. Her Poeras, &c.-— - ----------- ---- The Sabbath of the Year „ To a Student _..^..........—.— . ........... Sonnets: I. On a warm November Day II. On the Approach of Winter. ..„ III. Thought IV. flb;«r.. „._..- - • V. Memory — ~ Lilies........... ..mm... - -- — To Nature.. .mm. — MRS. EMILY NEAL. Writes under the Signature of "Alice G.Lee" Edits Neat's Saturday Gazette.... - The Bride's Confession — ..-—.....- Midnight and Daybreak _-....- — -.. — - The Church ~ ■ Blind A Memory — ..--..-...—..- MRS. CAROLINE H. CHANDLER. To my Brother..... «. — MRS. ELIZA L. SPROAT. "Hie Prisoner's Child „™. ■ A Few Stray Sunbeams... .....—.. Guonare -.. .... .--..- -.— -...---. MRS. HARRIET LISZT, (WINSLOW.) Why this Longing? . MRS. JULIET H. L. CAMPBELL. Her Early Culture..^...... ~. Dreams --... — -.. Night- Blooming Floioers .-—.---.. A Story of Sunrise — MISS ELISE JUSTINE BAYARD. Born of an Historical Family .„...„ Her Writings, and her Abilities...*...-.....-— ...--- A Funeral Chant for the Old Year On Jinding the Key of an Old Piano Spiritual Beauty ... ..—..—....—•-—.— —.....- The Sea and the Sovereign .._ ....-.-. Worship -.. ----,—--..—-—-.....-..-.-.- HISS LUCY LARCOM. A Factory Girl at Lotrell...... ..— — — — _—..— Extract from J. G. Whittier, respecting her.--— Elisha and the Angel — — .. The Burning Prairie -.— ...—-.. » EDITH MAY." She writes under a Nomme de Plume........ The Character of her Genius — - -...—.. Ccun4 lulio . ......... ......---. — - -*—.... 325 .325 .325 .325 .326 .327 .328 .328 .329 -329 .330 .339 .340 .340 .343 .343 .343 .344 .345 .345 -348 -346 -346 .347 .347 .347 .347 .355 .355 .356 .366 .357 .357 .367 .358 .359 .359 .360 .360 .360 "EDITH MAY," (oouTratriD.) A Storm at Turilight.... .«....— ^ _ Juliette ...—.—.... . ...— - ...... ............ Summer...,. ...................... ....——-...-.---- A Poet's Love ..«.-.—-—-—.-.— ••.».——.. A Song for Autumn.. .-.-.-—. — .--..-.-— — A True Story of a Fawn — MISSES FRANCES A. AND METTA V. FULLER. Their Writings for the " Home Journal".™ — - (L) A Revery .- — .......„ The Old Man's Favorite... _ (II.) The Postboy's Song - — Midnight — . The Silent Ship _ — The Spirit of my Song ...— MISSES ALICE AND PHOEBE CAREY. Circumstances unfavorable to their Development.—. . Extract from a Letter by Alice Carey Poems of Alice and Phcebe Carey contrasted (1.) The Handmaid Hymn of the New Man..... PateHine. ........ ....—- Old Stories Pictures of Memory — -... .... -.-.—... .... The Two Missionaries Visions of Ught The Time to be _. — .... Lucy — . ™ A Legend of St. Mary's.... ——.-.... Watching _.-.-.....- —.--..- An Evening Tale .,..— ~ - Gefrrge Burroughs..... .... - ....«.-......—. ------ Death's Ferryman ..- ....—....— •....---•....... To the Evening Zephyr —..--— _....._ Musings by Three Graven..--— — ...... -...»... ..-.- (II.) Tte Lovers — ...— Bearing Life's Burdens.... ....................... .. Light in Darkness...... .•.....--...........—.- The Wfe of Bessieres Tlie Follotvers of Christ Song of the Heart ...--.............—. The Prisoner's Last Night — Memories . — . .... .—-.•*.■.— —....— ->--.-—--. Equal to Either Fortune ..—.-. Coming Home ....-..—..—..—..— -- -.. 77ie Christian Woman .— .---— ..—.-- Death-Scene......... --....—.............. Love at the Grave..... MISS MARY LOCKHART LAWSON. Lucien Bonaparte's Opinion of her Father.-—.. — .... Her English and Scottish Poems The Banished Lover............ .. ...•-—.. .. Believe it ........... ..-.—.. .. . — ......... The Haunted Heart Evening Thoughts — .— MRS. MARIA LOWELL. Original and Translated Poems ..-.-... Jesus and the Dove -•- .— TIce Maiden's Harvest i Song, " Oh, Bird, thou dartest to the Sun".. The Moming-Glory — — MISS SARA JANE CLARKE. Early Residence in Rochester - — --.. Writings under the Signature of " Grace Greenwood". Her Genius... — —...— ..—... -- Ariadne .--. ................... — -.. — Dreams .......... — — ... .. — .... Illumination ........... — — ...... The Last Gft A Lover to his Faithless Mistress — .... Hervey to Nina ._. "Canst Thou Forget?" .". Invocation to Mother Earth — -.-. *' There was a Rose" — - — — - -. The Sculptor's Love — A Dream — -,...... — .-.--..•• — ......., Darkened Hours — — ..—..---.-..... Love and Daring — A Morning Ride --. — — .- — -.-. MISS ANNE H. PHILLIPS. Writes under the Name of" Helen Irving" Love and Fame -. NinatoRienzi ■ rAOl 364 364 3fib , 366 367 367 367 368 368 369 , 3B9 370 370 .372 .372 .372 .372 .373 .373 .374 .374 .374 .375 .375 .376 .376 .378 .378 .378 .379 .380 .330 .382 .3.S3 .38.'> .383 .384 .384 .384 .386 .386 .386 .386 .386 ..386 ,.386 .387 .389 .389 .389 .3«9 .390 .3>40 .390 .393 .394 .394 .395 .395 .395 .396 .396 .397 .399 .399 / ANNE BRADSTREET. 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- lege — subsequently 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 exactEpitomeof the Three First Monarchies, viz., the Assyrian, Persian, 3 and Grecian ; and the beginning of the Eoman 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 author, 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 whose ex 18 AJNNE liRADyTREET. pectation I have presumed 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. Bradstreet, that Spenser's Faery Queen was not unknown in Massachusetts, but the fashionable poet of that period was Du Bar- tas,* translations of whose works, in cum- brous quartos and folios, were read by every person in the country pretending to taste or piety, though they seem to have evinced little genius and still less religion. Among the verses prefixed to Mrs. Bradstreet's volume Are some by Nathaniel Ward, of Ipswich, the witty author of The Simple Cobbler of Agawam, who, puzzled by a comparison of hi? heroine with the recognised model of the age, declares that — Mercury sliowed ApoUo Bartas' book, Minerva this, and wished him well to look And tell uprightly which did which excel : He viewed ajid viewed, and vowed he could not tell. But Mrs. Bradstreet herself was more mod- est, and, in the prologue to one of her longer pieces, says — But when my wondering eyes and envious heart Great Bartas' sugared lines do but read o'er, Fool ! I do grudge the muses did not part 'Twixt liim 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- cating 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 Woodbridge, the first graduate of Harvard college, exclaims — Now I 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 : Not with her sable mantle muffling him. But her bright silver makes his gold look dim. * William de Salluste du Bartas, the most celebrated French poet of his age, was born in 1544, and died in 1590. He was the friend and companionin-arms of Hfnri IV., and wrote a canticle upon his victory of Yvri. His works were nearly all, by various hands, translated into English, anr" one of them, " Gulielmi Sallusti Bartas- eii, Hebdoraas,"etc., passed through more than thirty edi- tions in six years. The translation which was probably Iwst kuo^n in this country is that of Sylvester, published ill London, in a thick folio, in 1G32. 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., Tlie Hon. James Puts, TheKev. Edw'd Pembertor, D. D., The Hon. Harrison Grav, The Rev. Andrew Elliot, D. D., The Hon. James Bowdoio, Tlie Rev. Samuel Cooper, D. D., John Hancock, Esq., The Rev. Mr. Samuel Mather, Jo.-eph Green, Esq., The Rev. Mr. John Moorhead, Richard Carey, Esq., Mr. John Wheatley (her master)." In 1774 — the year after the return of Phil- lis to Boston — her mistress died; she soon lost her master, and her younger mistress, his daughter ; and the son having married and settled in England, she was left without a protector or a home. The events which immediately preceded the Ptevolution now engrossed the attention of those acquaintan- ces who in more peaceful and prosperous times would have been her friends ; and though she took an apartment and attempt- ed in some way to support herself, she saw with fears the approach of poverty, and at last, in despair, resorted to marriage as the only alternative of destitution. Gregoire, who derived his information from M. Giraud, the French consul at Bos- ton in 1805, states that her husband, in the * The words " followina; page" allude to the contents of the manuscript copy, whicli are wrote at the back of the above attestation. 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 biographerf 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 in wretched pov- erty, till the death of Phillis, on the 5th of December, 17Q4. 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: Yourfavor of the 26th of October did not reach my hands till the middle of Decembei*. Time enough, you will say, to have given an answer ere this. Granted. But a variety of important occur- rences, continually intei-posing to distract the mind * An Inquiry concerning the Intellectual and Moral Fac- ulties and Literature of Nefjroes, followed with an Account of the Lives and Works of Fifteen Negroes and Mulattoes, distinguished in Science, Literature, and the Arts : By H. Gregoire, formerly Bishop of Blois, Member of the Con- servative Senate, of the Institute of France, &c., &c. Trans- lated by D. B. Warden, Secretary of Legation, &c. Brook- lyn, 1810 t See memoir prefixed to the edition of her poems pub- lished by Light &, Hoiton, Boston, 1835. and withdraw the attention, I hope will apologise for the delay, and plead my excuse for the seeming but not real neglect. 1 thanli you most sincerely for your polite notice of me, in the elegant lines you enclosed ; and however undesei-ving I may be of such encomi- um and panegyric, the stjde and manner exhibit a stiiking proof of your poetical talents ; in honor of which, and as a tiibute justly due to you, I would have published the poem, had I not been apprehen- sive that, while I only meant to give the world this new instance of your genius, I might have incuired the unputation 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 mus.es, and to wiioni Nature has been so lib- eral and beneficent in her dispensations. I am, with great respect, your obedient, humble sei-vant, "George 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, wiiose 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 js represented as of a rathe' pretty and intelligent appearance. It is from a picture painted while she was in London 32 PHILLIS WHEATLEY PETERS. ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. MR. GEORGE WHITEFIELD.— 1770. Hail, happy saint! on thine immortal throne, Possessed of glory, life, and bliss unknown : We hear no more the music of thy 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, So 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 worlds unknown receive him from our sight. There Whitefield wings with rapid course his way. And sails to Zion through vast seas of day. Thy prayers, gi-eat saint, and thine incessant cries, Have pierced the bosom of thy native skies. Thou, moon, hast seen, and all the stars of light. How he has wrestled with his God by night. He prayed that grace in every heart might dwell ; He longed 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 oflfered 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 him, my dear Americans," he said, " Be your complaints on hie kind bosom laid : Take him, ye Africans, he longs for you ; Iiupartial Savior, is his title due : W ashed in the fountain of redeeming blood, You shall be sons, and kings, and priests to God." But though arrested by the hand of death, Whitefield no more exerts his lab'ring breath, Yet let us view him in the eternal skies. Let every heart to this bright -vision rise ; While the tomb safe retains its sacred trust, Till hfe divine reanimates his dust. 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 Fancy's flowing sea — Cease, then, my song, cease then the luiequuv lay FANCY. Ff.f'M A POEM ON THE IMAGINATION. FHorrrH Winter frowns, to Fancy's raptured The fiel'is may flourish, and gay scenes arise ; [eyes The frozen deeps may burst their iron bands, And Lid their waters murmur o'er the sands. Fail Flora may resume her fragrant reign, *Ar.a with her flowery riches deck the plain ; Showers may descend, and dews their gems disclose, And nectar sparkle on the blooining rose. . . . Fancy might now her silken pinions try To rise from earth, and sweep the expanse on high ; From Tithon's bed now might Aurora rise, Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dyes. While a pure stream of light o'crflows the skies. Tlie monarch of the day I misiht behold. And all the mouiitahis tipped with radiant gold, A FAREWELL TO AMERICA. TO MRS. S. W. Adieu, New England's smiling meads, Adieu, the flowery plain ; I leave thine opening charms, 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 crj'stal shower, Or mark the tender falling tear, 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 ! 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 misty vapors crowned, V/hich cloud Aurora's thousand dyes, And veil her charms around. Why, Phcebus, moves thy car so slow 1 So slow thy rising ray ? Give us the famous town to view. Thou glorious king of day ! For thee, Britannia, I resign New England's smiling fields ; To view again her charms divine, What joy the prospect yields ! But thou, Temptation, hence away. With all thy fatal train. Nor once seduce my soul away. By thine enchanting sti-ain. Thrice happy they, whose heavenly shield Secures their soul from harms. Ami fell Temiitation on the field Of all its power disarms! SUSANNAH ROWSON. Su?ANNAH Haswell, a daughter of Lieu- tenant William Haswell of the British navy, was about seven years 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 Eevolution, 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 sons, 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 Trial ss of the Heart, a novel ; Slaves in Algiers, an opera ; The Female Patriot, a comedy ; and 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. Whitlock, one of the most accomplished ac- tresses of the day, before all the uniformed companies of the city, in full dress. In 1796 she was 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 odes of Horace and the tenth Eclogue of Virgil, and she wrote many original songs and other short pieces, of which the most ambitniUa was an irregular poem On the Birth of Ge- nius, whicn was once much admired. Only a few of her songs are now remembered, and these less for any poetical qualities than for a certain social and patriotic spirit. Hei "America, Commerce, and Freedom," is one of our tew national songs. It would not dishonor a Dihdin, but it bears po marks o+ a feminine genius. 33 34 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 iriends we 've left behind us. Then, under snug sail, we laugh at the gale, And though landsmen look pale, never heed 'em ; Eut toss off 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 diink round, my boys, 't is 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. When Columbia's shores, receding. Lessen to the gazing eye, Cape nor island intervening Break Ih' 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 ; (razing on the moon's pale lustre, Fervent shall our prayers arise Tor thy peace, thy health, thy safety. Unto Him who formed the skies : 1 o Friendship oft we '11 fill the glass, F'hs 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 When, her richest fruits partaking, Thy unvitiated taste Oft shall sigh for dear Columbia, And her frugal, neat repast : Ah, then to Friendship fill the glais. 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 '11 fill the glass, Kiss the brim, and bid it pass. THANKSGIVING. AuTUMfT, 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 conio, 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. 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.PeterFaugeres, an adventurer who shone in drawing rooms in the flimsy and worn-out costume of French infidelity, and him, in op- position to the wishes of her father, 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 Paine, as well as from her admiration of Faugeres, that she had a deeper sympathy with the vulgar skep- ticism of the time than was possible for a woman who united much capacity with vir- tue ; but 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 " firsi dramat- ic performance," as if she contemplated the *Ante, p. 28. U: 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 thi3 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 Belisarius is no longer thine : Is he «ot 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 Belisarius there were probably printed only enough copies for subscribers, and it is now among the rarest of American books. While making a collection of nearly eight hundred volumes of poetry and verses viritten in this country, I never saw it ; and Dunlap, who was a very industrials collector of plays, alludes to it in his Histojy of the American Theatre, as a work which had eluded his research. It is not in any of our public libraries — which, indeed, are among the last places to be exainined for American literature — and the only copy I have seen — the one now before me — is from the curious collectoa of Henry A. Brady, Esq. 36 MARGARETTA V. FAUGERES. acter 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 : Gelimer, at daybreak, in a garden. — Enter Amala, his wife. Amala. 'T is yet too soon to labor, love ; come, sit. This air blows fresh, and these 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 morn 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, 'tis a lovely mom, 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 want.. ..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 !.... 'Tis 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 whenlthought It was Justinian that urged the blow. Casting my hopeless eyes to yon bright heaven. As 't were to take a lasting leave of light, I wrung my hands, and bathed me in my tears. The executioner, touched with my sorrows. Sank on the ground and cried, " You are undone ! Wretched old man, why does your heart not break, And give you a release from such a wo I" 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 of a man," is happily illustra- ted, though by incidents that would seem very extraordinary were the historians upon this point less explicit and particular. The ]Vince of Bulgaria epHeavors to enlist the blind old general against the Byzantines, and causes his proposals to be accompanied with a flourish of martial instruments, to renew in him — the memory of past scenes. When his proud steed, champing his golden bit. Bore 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 T 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 lone shepherd fills his simple pipe, Calling the echoes from their dewy beds. To chase mute sleep away. Ah ! blessed is he If his choice melody be ne'er disturbed By the death-breathing trumpet's woful tone. Frince. If thou wert ever thus averse to war. General, why didst thou fight 1 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 : Theodosia. Did you see Phaedrusl 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. Theo. V 11 go myself, this moment, and give orders For his removal to some cheerftil 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 the bright wit that jeered a woman's foibles Will light the dungeon where her friry dwells ! After the publication of Belisarius, Mrs. Faugeres 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 POEM PUBLISHED IN 1793. Nile's beauteous waves and Tiber's swelling tide Have been recorded by the hand of Fame, And 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, Ghde through these winding rocks with airy sweep. Beneath the cooling glooms of waving tre>;s. And sloping pastures specked with fleecy sheep. VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE MEMBERS OF THE CINCINNATI 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 natal 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, arid dare be free. Glad they burst their chains away : 'T was 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 vsTeath 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 !" Bend 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 know. Strengthen thou our rising youth. Teach them wisdom, virtue, truth — That when we are sunk in clay. They may keep this glorious day ! ELIZA TOWNSEND. Eliza Townsend, descended from a stock that for two centuries has 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 prize ode which Miss Townsend wrote for the Port Folio while he lymself 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 this 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 wete popular in New England, m 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 and power which remind us of the celebrated ode of Southey, written nearly five years afterward, during the negotiations of 1814. This poem was first printed in the seventh volume of the Monthly Anthology, and though it bears the marks of hasty com- position, in some minute defects, it is alto- gether a fine 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 mankmd his name was a word of division, and in this country those whose opinions were fruits of anything else than passion were commonly led by a conservative spirit to distrust the man and to credit the worst views of his actions. This was most true in Boston, where, at the begmning of Mr. Madison's administration. Miss Townsend's ode was probably deemed not 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 suff"er by com- parison with the most sublime pieces of WordsAvorth 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 century, 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, Avhich 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. 39 AN OCCASIONAL ODE. WRITTEN IN JUNE, 1809 FiKST of all created things, God's eldest bom, oh tell me, Time ! E'er since within that car of thine, Drawn by those steeds, whose speed divine, Through eveiy state and every chme, 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 feai-ful, as our own 1 If thus thou start'st in wild affright At what thyself hast brought to hght. Oh yet relent I 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 deUght 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 ; Whilg 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 combmed, 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 smik to drear and endless rest 1 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 Uving things. So, mid the herd of vulgar kings. The dauntless DalecarUan 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 crov?n he wore. That radiant crovsm, whose flood of light Illumined once a nation's sight — Spirit of Vasa ! this its doom 1 Gleams in a dungeon's hving tomb ! Where'er the firightened 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 1 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 valas Her peasant bands by thou^nds rise : Their altar is their native plains, Themselves the willing sacrifice. While HE, the " strangest birth of time," Red with gore, and grim with crime. Whose fate more prodigies attend. And in whose course mire terrors blena, And o'er whose birth more portents lowei, Than ever crowned. In lore renowned, * The Alpa. 4J ELIZA TOWNSEND. The Macedonian's natal hour ! Now here, now there, he takes his stand, The stabHshed earth his footsteps jar ; Goads to the fight his vassal band, While ebbs or flows, at his command, The torrent of the war ! Could the bard, whose powers sublime Scaled the heights of epic glory, \nd reiidered in immortal rhyme Of Rome's disgrace the blushing 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 Ungering 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 bard a filial flight had ta'en ; Forgot all else : The ancient past, Thick in Oblivion's mists o'ercast, Or past and present both combined Within the graspings of his mind ; La 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, And 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 Caesar's greatness, Caesar's crimes: Another Caesar waked the string, Alike usurper, traitor, king. Another Caesar ] rashly said ! Forgive the falsehood, mighty shade ! Mongst Juhus' treasons, still we know The faithful friend, the generous foe ; And even enmityf could see Some virtues of humanity. But thou ! by what accursed name Shall we denote thy features here 1 In records of infernal fame Where shall we find thy black compeer 1 Thou, whose perfidious might of mind Nor pity moves nor faith can bind, * The yoiuiger Cato. t " His enemifis confess TbR virtues of humanity are Caesar'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 fed. The midnight murderer of the guest With whom he shai-ed the morning's feast— This Arab wretch, compared witli 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, amd 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 ] Oh, for the kingly sword and shield That once the victor monarch sped, What time from Pavia's trophied field The royal Frank was captive led ! May Charles's laurels, gained for you. Ne'er, Spanieirds, 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, AccompUshed friend of human kind, Who 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 eveiy 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, Peruvia's red and ruined hour: Nor mangled Montezuma's head. Nor Guatamozin's burning bee!, Nor give the guiltless up to fate For Cortps' 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 TOWNSEND. 4i 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 hke 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 arnfs 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 glancfe 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 erecf their hydra head ; The pestilence forsakes his bed ; Intolerable light appears to wait. And far-off darkness stands in awful state ! For thee, Time ! If still thou speedst thy march of crime 'Gainst all that 's beauteous or subUme, 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. WRITTEN IN 1812. THOTT, whom we have known so long, so well. Thou who didst hymn the Maid of Arc, and framed Of Thalaha the wild and wondi'ous 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 cUmes, 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 Whence all those rays proceed ; the constant fount To feed those streams of mind ; th' informing soul Whose influence all are conscious of, but none Could e'er describe ; whose fine and subtle nature Seems Uke 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 ; 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 ti'iumph of Ucentious 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 lova, 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 subr Beauteous, or useful, e'er was charactered [lime, On Hermes' mystic pillars — Egypt's boast, And more, Pythagoras' lesson, when. the maie Of hieroglyphic meaning awed the world ! Could Music's potent charm, as some believr^d. Have warmth to animate the slumbering deail, 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 I What would they think of thee — thee, one of u.« u ELIZA TOWNSEND. Sprung from a later race, on whom the ends Of this our world have come, that thou shouldst pen What Varanasi'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 ; thereValmic hymn'd The conqu'ring arms of heaven-descended Rama ; And Calidasa and Vyasa there, At different 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 Abdallah ! He, II 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 (hke Tiresias, of prophetic fame) Talked with Futurity ! — that patriot poet, Poet of paradise, whose daring eye Explored " the living throne, the sapphire blaze," " But blasted with excess of light," retired, And left to thee to compass other heavens And other scenes of being ! — Bard beloved Of all who virtue love — revered by all That genius reverence — Southey ! if thou ai't " 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 winds 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 Munchausen 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 college of Benares \ Supposed the earliest i'ouiider of a philosophic school. ' Sftcred books of the Hindoos. 11 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 vsiried 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 lazy 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 With 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 commmrion 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 decp-brcathing 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, [Iheel So fondly tenanted with better things Than e'er experience owned — but both are mute : And Past and Future, vocal on all else, ELIZA TOWIMSEND. ^3 So full of memories and phantasies, Are deaf and speechless here ! Fatigued, I turn From all vain parley with the elements, [wai-d 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 ? 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. With 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 dispensation ; 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 MX, like Phidias, were it given To form fi-om 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. All human vhtue 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 bear ; 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 hke 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 pm-er air. They bloom in immortality ! AMERICAN SCENERY. FROM A POEM ON THE DEATH OF CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. Thottgh 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 seat, 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 failed, Which Mantuan Maro's muse had haiicd • Yet, midst this luxury of scene. These varied charms, this graceful mien Canst thou no hearts, no voices, raise. Those charms to feel, those charms to p- aise ! LAVINIA STODDARD. Lavinia Stone, a daughter of Mr. Elijah Stone, was bora 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- ijent 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 1818 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 1§20. 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. I SAID to Sorrow's awful storm, That beat against my b. east. Rage on — thou mayst 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 nie to the grave ; Yet still the spirit that endures Shall mock your force the while, And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours With bitter smile. I said to cold Neglect and Scorn, Pass on — I heed you not ; ife 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; Tliou 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 1 Thou wilt not find a fearful heart — ■ A weak, reluctant pre}' ; For still the spirit, firm and free. Unruffled by this last dismay, Wrapt in its own eternity. Shall pass away. SONG. Ask not fi-om me the sportive jest, The mirthful jibe, the gay reflection , These social baubles fiy the breast That owns the sway of pale Dejection. Ask not from me the changing smile, Hope's sunny glow, Joy's ghttering tokei:. 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. Miss Gould is a native of Lancaster, in the southern part of Vermont. Her father was one of the small company who fought in the first battle of the Revolution, and in the face of all the privations and discourage- ments of that long and often hopeless war 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 hefore his death, (for the touching poem entitled My Lost Father, in the last volume of her writings, we presume had reference to that *;vent,) 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 jeuac cfesprit 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 -32sop 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 ViePublique et Privee des AnimoMX. A NAME IN THE SAND. AioNE I walked the ocean strand ; A pearly shell was in my hand : I stooped and wrote upon the sand 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 , Of all this thinking soul has thought . And from these fleeting moments caught For glory or for shame. i5 46 HANNAH F. GOULD. CHANGES ON THE DEEP. A GALLANT ship ! and trim and tight Across the deep she speeds away, While mantled with the golden light The sun throws back at close of day. And who, that sees that stately ship Her haughty stem in ocean dip, Has ever seen a prouder one Illumined by a setting sun 1 The breath of summer, sweet and soft. Her canvass swells, while, wide and fair, And floating from her mast aloft. Her flag plays off on gentle 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 with 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 blesfed star That points them to their home afar. Their thoughts fly forth 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 babe, 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 the sky the darkness spreads ! The Tempest on the Ocean treads ; And yawning caverns are its track Amid the waters wild and black. Its \7oice — but who shall give the sounds Of that dread voice ! — The ship is dashed In roaring depths — and now she bounds On high, by foaminjr surges lashed. And how is she the storm to bide 1 Its sweeping wings 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 winds 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 riveji 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, Was 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, Will early teach their prattling son Upon his little heart to bear Tlie 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 youl" "My child, 'tis 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 unblighted 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 fiy 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]" 'Twas this a feathery Snowflake said. As down through measureless space it 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 firom 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 firom 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'll 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 morninij For, things of thyself, they will die with thee ; But those that are lent fi-om on high, like me, Must rise, and will live, firom thy dust set free, To the regions atove 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 dven!" 48 HANNAH F. GOULD. THE WINDS. We 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, W?ien the tower 's o'erthrown, and the oak is rent. As we waft 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 threatenings fill the soul with fear. Or our gentle whisperings woo the ear With music aerial, still 'tis we. And ye Hst and ye look ; but what do ye see 1 Can ye hush one sound of our voice to peace. Or waken one note when our numbers cease 1 Our 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 Uft 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 '11 take my way. I will not go on like that blustering train — The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain — Who make so much bustle and noise in vain ; But I '11 be as busy as they." Then he flew to the mountain and powder'd its crest; He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest In diamond beads ; and over the breast Of the quivering 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 each pane, like a fairy, crept ; Wherever he breathed, wherever he stept, By the light of the morn, were seen Most beaunfu'i things : there were flowers and trees ; Thc-re were 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 '11 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 drinkuig." THE WATERFALL. Ye mighty waters, that have joined your forces. Roaring and dasliing with this awful sound. Here are ye mingled ; but the distant sources Whence ye have issued — where shall they be found 1 Who may retrace the ways that ye have taken. Ye streams and drops 1 who separate you a.l. 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 oflfering 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. 49 THE MOON UPON THE SPIRE. The fdll orbed moon has reached no higher Than yon old church's mossy spire, And seems, as ghding up the air. She saw the fane ; and, pausing there, AVould 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, 'T is 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 1 — all passed away. Who 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 thejn 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 pledge , Friendship took a colder form : Creeping on its gilded edge, May the blaze 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 ; 'Twas a heart string breaking, toos 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, O 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 camt . Tis pain to savo Cold remains of sundered ties! Go together, all, and burn. Once the treasures of my heart ! Still, my breast shall be an urn To preserve your better part! 50 HANNAH F. GOULD. THE WINTER BURIAL. Tht! 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 hill. 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 ; I 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 children 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 gravelly 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 give reproof of a nobler sort Than the angry look, or the keen retort, At length she said, in a gentle tone, " Since it is happened that I am thrown From the lighter element where I grew, Down to another so hard and new. And beside 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 the 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 By tho jieering 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 folded 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 word 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 PHIP IS READY. Faiie thee well I 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 suppliant bending, Let thy thoughts, to Heaven ascending, Reach the mercy seat, to be Met by prayers that rise for thee ! HANNAH F. GOULD. 51 THE CHILD ON THE BEACH. Maht, 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 held by its sides, of their speai-s 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. Where thy soft, quick sigh, as we had to part, Was 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 sea 1 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 sop 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 rol! Their chill or heat, beyond control. Till morn shall bring relief — Father in heaven, whate'er may be The cup which thou hast sent for rat;, I know 'tis good, prepared by thee. Though filled with joy or gric-f ' CAROLINE OILMAN. Caroline Howard was born in Boston, in 179'!, and in 1819 was married to the Rev. Samuel Gilman, 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 Village Choir, and by numerous elegant pa- pers in the reviews. Soon after their mar- riage they removed to Charleston, South Car- olina, where Dr. Gilman has ever since been actively engaged in the duties of his pro- fession. Mrs. Gilman is best known as a writer of prose, and her works will long be valued for the spirit and fidelity with Avhich 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. Gilman 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. 'Tis fearful to watch by a dying friend. Though luxury glistens nigh ; 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 Preserve the snatched repose. Yes, even with these appliances, From wealth's unmeasured store, 'T is fearful to watch the spirit's flight To its dim and distant shore. But oh, when the form that we love is laid On Poverty's chilly bed, When roughly the blast to the shivering limbs Tiirough crevice and pane is sped — When the noonday sun comes streaming in On the dmi 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 wrests The soul from the spirit-land — When we know that sickness of soul and heart Which sensitive bosoms feel, When helpless, hopeless, we needs must gaze On 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 Eosalie, Once a maiden of joy and delight, A ray of love, from her girlish days, To her parents' devoted sight. 52 CAROLINE OILMAN. 5:s 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 abyss 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. 'Twas then in her lodging the night-wind came Through crevice and broken pane ; 'T was 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 — 't was a blessed thing ! 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 this dark,cold 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 eyes — 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 fore^st-home. And shelters his dove in his nest. o4 CAROLINE GILMAN. y THE PLANTATION. Farewell, awhile, the city's hum, Where busy footsteps fall. And welcome to my weary eye The planter's friendly hall. Here let me rise at early dawn. And list the mockbird's lay, That, warbling near our lowland home, Sits on the waving spray. Then treajj the shading avenue Beneath the cedar's gloom, Or gum tree, with its flickered shade, Or chinquapen'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 ihe 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 eyry 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 ; Tlie white pails glitter in the sun, In rustic pomp arrayed. And she stands smiling at the door. Who "minds" that milky 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 herd man 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 wmd 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 muteJy 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 Irfembling 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. 55 But soon advancing to its growth, Looks up with beauty too. And, as midsummer suns prevail, Upon its blossoms glow Commingling hues, hke 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 merry 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 will 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 n^o 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 BURYING-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 1 * And did mine eye o'erflow with sudden tears, Such as gush up mid memories of years, When humbler graves we meet ] 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 stoi ms 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 glovra Not where the worldly dwell. 56 CAROLINE OILMAN. TO THE URSULINES. 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 thfe 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 song : 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, Andyher 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. Sarah Josepha Buell, now Mrs. Hale, was born in 1795 at Newport in New Hamp- shire, Avhither her parents had removed soon after the close of the Revolution, from Say- brook in Connecticut. There Avere then few 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 educationof 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 ISO 9, and was a good classical and gen- eral scholar. But the completion of her ed- ucation was deferred until after 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 knoAvledge 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, hue without having yet secured even the basis of a fortune. Mrs. Hale was a widow 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 the support and education of her 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 octo-syllabic 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, however, 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. Ir. 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 small books for children. She remained in Boston until 1838, when she removed to Phihidef 58 SARAH J. HALE. phia, where she has since resided, as editor of the Lady's Book, one of the most popular 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 Vigil of Love, and other Poems, a collection in which Alice Ray is included, and upon which altogether must rest her best literary repu- ration. Three Hours, or th*e Vigil of Love, is very much in the style of some of the more fantastic stories of Winthrop Mackwortli Praed. The heroine has fled with her lover, an escaped state prisoner, from England to Boston, and the interest of the poem arises from the effective manner in which, while she is Avaiting 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. Sale'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 W"atching where the witches met ; Knowing well his dreadful doom. Should they drive him from the room. The candles three were burning bright, The sword was flashing 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 l)y 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 pravcd 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 still 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, t This was printed in 1838, but it has since been partly re-Avritten 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 elaborate 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 her intellectual and social character. Mrs. Hale has a ready command of pure and 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- ry. She has evidently been all her life a student, and there has been a perceptible and constant improvement in her Avritings ever since her first appearance as an author. Besides her works that have been pub- lished in separate volumes, she has written a very large number of tales, sketches, es- says, criticisms, poems, and other composi- tions, which are scattered through the vari- ous periodicals with which she has been con- nected. They are all indicative of sound principles, and of kindness, knowledge, and judgment. SARAH J. HALE. 5y THE MISSISSIPPI. MoTTAncH 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 those 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 guai-d, Whose splintered summits seize the warring clouds. And roll them, broken, like a host o'erthrovvn, 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 f3in 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 its 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 maygijverwhelm ; 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 the 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 sv/allow 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 onc;^ — 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 cai-eering sun. Are kindled from the efHuence 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. When tempests rage, is ever present here. Lean on " our Father's" breast in faith and prayer 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, With 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 hke a fi-ightened felon fled. While on the deep the Holy Spirit moved. And evermore the deep has worshipped God ; And bards and prophets time 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-h arp thrilled by wh ispering 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 fo-intains chant of heavenly hope The chorus of the nils is household love ; The rivers roll their song of social joy ; And ocean's organ voice is sounding forth The hymn of Universal Brotherhood ! 60 SARAH J. HALE. THE FOUR-LEAVED CLOVER. " There 's wisdom in the grass — its teachings would we heed,'* There knelt beneath the tulip tree A maiden fair and young ; The flowers o'erhead 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 tahsman 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, T'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 sweets To wooing honeybees ; The glad brook o'er a pebbly floor Goes daticing 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 tender 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, " 'T is that dear Alice Ray." And so she came, like sunbeams That bring the April green — As type of nature's royalty, I'hey 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 tljjit 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 lixxv. II. As, 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 prayei', 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 ti-uest, 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 crushed 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, Thjough a dungeon's chamel gloom ! " Iron ! iroii ! 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 fread 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 ! Stem 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 I 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 Ught was brought us, When the gospel mom 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 ; With its Atlas-shoulder sharing Loads of human toil and care ; On its wing of Ughtning 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 vnth anxious eye : How 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 reign. Her precious child, her only. Lay moaning in his pain ; b-z SARAH J. HALE. And death alone can free him — She feels that this must be : " But oh ! for mom 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. I sixG 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 gazing 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 kindUng skies ; The violet-bank, the moss-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 7 I 'II sing to him — for though in heaven, He surely heeds 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 hght 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. One came with light and laughing air. And cheek Uke opening blossom — Bright gems were twined amid her hair. And glittered on her bosom, And pearls and costly diamonds deck Her round, white arms and lovely neck. Like summer's sky, with stars bedight. 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, And angels bowed as she passed by. ANNA MARIA WELLS. Mrs. Wells, formerly Miss Foster, was born in 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. ThomasWells, 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. Kettell's Speci- mens of American Poetry. In 1830 Mrs. Wells published a small vol- ASCUTNEY. Tk 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 round 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 ; Frorr^ 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. Amid all other claims, Jhat mountain hath a part. 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. 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 fight 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 powe., And scorned his praise." 64 ANNA MARIA WELLS. "-1 THE OLD ELM TREE. Each morning, when my waking eyes first see, Through the wreathed lattice, golden day appear, .There sits a robin on the old elm tree. And with such stirring music fills my ear, I might forget that life had pain or fear, And feel 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, free 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 Lessons 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 steps like some glad creature of the air, As if she read her fate, and knew it fair — ■ In truth, for fate 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. A lid lately she hath pressed the couch of pain : Sickness hath dimmed her eye, And on her tender spirit lain, 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 mind 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, fheir 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, 'T is 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. 65 THE WHITE HARE. It was the sabbath eve — we went, My Geraldine and I, intent The twilight 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, While thus we wove our harmony : Lured by the mystic strain, A snow-white hare, that long had been Peering frdm 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-bird ! 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 "? Is the snowy foam-wreath fairer Than the apple's blossoming 1 Shady grove and sunny slope — Seek but these, and thou shalt meet' Birds not bom with storm to cope, Hermits of retirement sweet — ■ Where no winds too rudely swellj 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 I thus may I abide Cheerful the allotment given. And, rising o'er the ruffled tide. Escape at last, like thee, to heaven J MARIA JAxMES. 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 oiher 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 which she addressed to Mrs. Potter : " Toward the completion of my seventh year, I found myself on ship-board, surrounded by men, wo- men and children, whose faces were unknown to me. It was here, perhaps, that I first began to learn in a part icular manner from observation — soon discovering- that those children who were handsome or smartly dressed received much more attention than myself, wbo had neither of these recommendations: how- ever, instead of giving way to feelings of envy and jealousy, my imagination was revelling among the fruits and ilowers which I expected to find in the land to which we were bound. I also had an oppor- tunity to learn a little English during the voj-age, as ' Take care,' and ' Get out of the way,' seemed reit- erated from land's end to land's end. " After our family were settled in some measure, I was sent to school, my father having commenced teaching me at home some time previous. I think there was no particular aptness to learn about me. After I could read, I took much delight ill .John Rogers's last advice to his children, with all the excellent et caeteras to be found in the old English Primer. I was also fond of reading the common hymnbook. The New Testament was my only ichool-book. Thus accomplished, I happened one day to hear a young woman read Addison's inimita- ble paraphrases of the twenty-third psalm : 1 listened as to the voice of an angel. Those who ktiow the power of good reading or good speaking, need not he 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 overheard a good reader. " My parents again removing, I found myself in a school where the elder children used the American Preceptor. I listened in transport as they read D wight's Columbia, which must have been merely from 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, I entered the family in which I now reside, where, besides learning 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 good speak- ing; and' any child, with a natural ear for the beauti- ful in language, wiU notice these things, and though their conversation may not differ materially from that of others in their line of life, they will almost invaii- ably tkiitk 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, mj' 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; Jwo odd volumes of the Adven- turer ; Miss Hannah More's Cheap Repository ; and Pilgrirn's Progress. During a period of nearly seven years which I spent in this family, the newspapers were more or less filled with the v^ars and fightings of our European neighbors. My imagination took fire, and I lent an ear to the whispers of the muse. ' 'T was then that first she 'pruned the wing ; 'T was then she first essayed to sing.' But the wing was powerless, and the song without melody. As I advanced toward womanhood, T 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 dressmakinff. I sewed neatly, but too slow to insure success. My failure in this ^vas always a sub- ject of regret. After this, I lived some time in dif- ferent situations, my employment being 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 although nineteen years have nearly passed away since my return to the home of my early life, I 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 Ji MARIA JAMES. f)7 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 reti-Qspect 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 Bourri- enne's Life of Napoleon Bonaparte: I had 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 Alburn was begun and carried through without previous arrangement or design, laid aside when the mind was weaiy, 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 he seen that the poems of Maria James will bear a very favorable com- parison with the compositions of 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. I 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 ? But it 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 lart. Where bliss is complete and secure — Till its towers and spires arise from afar, (To the eye of faitli,^ as some radiant star. 08 MARIA JAMES. II We met as brethren meet, Who are cast on a foreign strand, Whose hearts are 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, ('T is 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 Fron* 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 tread 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 grave here spoken of was pointed ou^to the wri- tf.r as .tlie final restin;; place of a Erench officer — a single mound, without a stone to murk the spot, in Rutland coun- ty V'lrmont. How many a gallant ship Since then has crossed the sea. Deep freighted from the western world— But where is he 1 Oh, ne'er beside that hearth The unbroken ring shall meet. To tell th' adventurous tale, or join Li 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 a'ong. 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 oi 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 types and shadows flee. While 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. 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 to this period : " Our table had been hospitable, 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 were sought no longer by those who had come in our wealth. I looked earnestly around me ; the present was cheerless, the future dark 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. But 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 and 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, after favorable judgments of it had been ex- pressed by some literary friends,* she gave to the public a small volume entitled Judith, Esther, and 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 friends here alluded to was the late Dr. Kirkland, president of Harvard college. On a blank leaf of the first copy of the volume that she received, she wroto the following lines, which have not before been printed . Should e'er my half-fledged muse attain the height She trembling longs, yet fears to tempt no more, Still will she bless, though wounded in her flight, The generous hand that gave her strength to soar. But should resistless tempests fiercely meet. And cast her, struggling, to the whelming wave, Even then, one tender, grateful pulse shall beat la her torn heart, for him who strove to save. Writing to me in 1842, Mrs. Brooks enclosed these verses, and observed : " I recall them after an interval of twenty years. They have meaning and sincerity in them ; but having during that time extended my acquaintance with muses and angels, I can not now bear to see either of them represented with plumage on their wings. Some of the most celebrated painters have, however, set ibn example." 70 MARl.\ BROOKS. the maturity is illustrated by Zophiel. 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, Nor 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 few flowers 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 with bliss overflowing. 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, oh, 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 ii^sther a soul painfully alive to every tender emotion, and a noble elevation of mind strug- gling with constitutional softness and timid- ;v. 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 sprinklinfs 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 bare : And o'er his eyes the light lids gently 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 RUJTAWAT. LisTKN, Hsten, 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 "! MARIA BROOKS. 71 Bring him back, and thou shalt sip A kiss at least from A^enus' hp. '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 teiTor 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 Uke 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 Uttle 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 gifts, I pray,' Do not touch them — still disdain — All are fraught vdth venomed pain." In the summer of 1823 Mr. Brooks died, and a paternal uncle soon after invited the poetess to Cuba, for which island she sailed on the 20th of the following October. 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, and he had left lo ner his coffee plantation and other property, which aff'orded her a liberal income. She returned again 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 SOUTHET, 1:80.. Oh ! 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 1 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 nisst, 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 breast When summer light is almost gone I And yet, for thee why breathe a prayer T I deem thy fate is given in trust To seraphs, who by daily care Would prove that Heaven is not unjusi MARIA BROOKS. And treasured shall thine image be In Memory's purest, holiest shrii;ie, 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 every polished nation. In all the most beautiful oriental systems of religion, including our own, may be found such beings as its char- acters. The early fathers of Christianity not only believed in them, but wrote cumbrous folios upon their nature and attributes. It is a fact deserving of 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 without 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. The 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: from the blooming of roses at Ecbatana to the coming in of spices at Babylon. Of this time the greater part is supposed to elapse be- tween the second and third cantos, where Zopbiel thus speaks of Egla to Phraerion : iTet still she bloomed — uninjured, innocent — ' Though now for seven sweet moons by Zophiel watched and wooed. Hi»toire 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 Avho 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 1 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 wouidst 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 1 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 ; Forsook 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. Prone as thou wert, had I been mortal born, And owned as many lives as leaves there be. From 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 not have been." MARIA BROOKS. 7:i Phraerion, another fallen angel, but of a nature gentler than that of Zophiel, is thus introduced : Harmless Phraerion, 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 No soul creative in this being born, [scorn to love ; Its restless, daring, fond aspirings hid ; Within the vortex of rebeUion drawn, He joined the shining ranks as others did. Success but httle had advanced ; defeat He thought so httle, 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'erfrausht 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 Zophiel 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, bom 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 a", 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. His 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 young Narcissus, when to woo the light Of i^s first morn, that floweret open springs ; And neai- the maid he comes with timid gaze, , And gentlyfans 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 upoi he air. And laugh to see it vanish ; v c ^ so bright, More like — and even that were taint 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 his face Expression dear to her he wooed, he sought ; And in his hand he held a Uttle 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 suff"ered 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, in gold. 74 MARIA BROOKb. And, by a silken cincture, broad and blue, In shapely guise about the waist confined. Blent with the curls that, of a lighter hue. Half floated, waving in their length behind ; The other half, in braided tresses twined, Was decked with 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 profiase, 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 gazer stem and cool, Who sought but faults, nor fault or spot could spy ; In every Hmb, 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 mortahty. 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, butvsrill 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, A.nd sweetly thrilled the gilded roof along ; His warm, devoted soul no terror knows. And trutn and love lend fervor to his song. She hides her face upon her couch, that there Shf mi^ 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 harndess breath!" Still lives Altheetor ; still unguarded strays One hand o'er his fallen lyre ; 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 'twas 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. And 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 aff'ection 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 forgets 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 deprive him of her ; and he con- •sults with Phraerion on the best means of MARIA iJKOOKS. 75 saving her from the perils of human exist- ence. One evening, Round Phraerion, nearer drawn, One beauteous arm he flung : " First to my love ! — We'll 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 1 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 fi-om mortal beauty every stain. And smooth the unseemly lines of age and pain, With every wondrous elficacy 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, unknovsTi 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 ah- ! how cold the depths beneath ! The spirits hover o'er that surface smooth, Zophiel's white arm around Phraerion's twined, In fond caress, his tender cares to soothe, [hind. While cither'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 Zophiel, panting, hurries on. And (catching his mild brother's tears, with lip That whispered courage 'twixt each glowing kiss) Persuades to plunge : Umbs, wings, and locks, they dip; Whate'er the other's pains, the lover felt but bliss. Quickly 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 Ught 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 landbird's note, afar Heard through the azure arches of the sky, By the long baffied, storm worn mariner : " Hold, Zophiel ! rest thee now — our task is done, Tahathyam's realms alone can give this light ! Oh ! though 't is 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 here below. Soon spoke Phraerion : " Come, Tahathyam, come, Thou knowest me well — I saw thee once, to love, And bring a guest to view thy sparkling dome Who comes full fraught with tidings from above." Those gentle tones, angelically clear. Passed from his lips, in mazy 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 lait Tahathyam heard : where on a glittering throne he solitary sat. 76 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. Then, 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, 't was pleasure but With open mouths, as proud to show the bit, [eye They raise their heads and arch theh 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 Furl their swift wings, and tread with angel grace The smooth, fair pavement, checked their speed in And glided far aside as if to give them 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- erion 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 groves adorned it, green m 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 The vault 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 't were 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. These shapes once lived in suppleness and pride. And then, to decorate this wondrous court, Were stolen from the waves and petrified ; Or, moulded by some imitative gnome. And scaled all o'er with gems, they were but stone, Casting their showers and rainbows neath the dome, To mdi. or angel'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 folds, 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 Tahalhyam decked. Gifted 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 ol 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 fall many a year to adjust The limpid crystal tubes that neath upreared Their different lucid lengths ; and so complete Their wondrous '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 angel 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 faltering hand, 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 high, the rock was warm beneath their feet, (Yet heat in its intenseness hurtful never,) MAKIA BROOKS. 77 Even to the entrance of the long arcade Which led to that deep shrine, in the rock's breast As far as if the half-angel were afraid To know the secret he himself possessed. Tahathyam filled a slip of spar, with dread, As if stood by and frowned some power divine ; Then trembling, as he turned to Zophiel, said, " But for one service shalt thou call it thine ; Bring me a wife ; as I have named the way (I will not risk desti-uction save for love !) — Fair-haired and beauteous, like my mother; say — Plight me this pact ; so shalt thou bear above. For thine own purpose, what has here been kept Since bloomed 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 most 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. At 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 wildering shocks He bore. The calm, which favored their descent. And bade them look upon their task as o'er. Was 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 ope consummate pang, been borne, Known, and survived, it still would be in vain To try to paint the pains felt by these sprites fork 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 calm 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 Zophiel 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 leaves 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 whole 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 ses was capable. " Zophiel returns to Medea and the drama draws to a close, which is painted with con summate art. Egla wanders alone at tAvi light in th'^ shadoAvy vistas of a grove, won dering and sighing at the continued aosence of the enamored angel, who approaches un 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 and 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 trembling 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 almost fears to listen to the strain Himself 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 whole 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 That shamed the mellow vermeil of the vrreath Which in her jetty locks became her well, And mingled fragrance with her sweeter breath, The while 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 alone might hope for her embrace. Again she is discovered, sleeping, by the rocky margin of a river : Tallid 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 Wl\nse 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 Avith 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, pi-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 bafl[ied 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 own peculiar mate, to meet Its wandering half, when ripe to crown the whole Bright plan ofbliss, 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. 79 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 character 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 chastened 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 utterly depraved and abraded of their glory ; but Zophiel 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 consistent, 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 tliat 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 aff'ection 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 throngmg 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 * Maria clel Occidente is styled in "The Doctor," &c., "the most impassioned and most imaginative of all poet- esses." And without taliing into account qumdam ardentiora scattered here and there throughout her singular poem, there is undoubtedly ground for the first clause, and, with the more accurate substitution of " fanciful" for " imagina tive," for the whole of the eulogy. It is altogether an ex- traordinary performance, — London Quarterly Review. Which [Zophiel] he [Southey] says is by some Yankee woman, as if there ever had been a woman capable of anything so great ! — Charles Lamb. so MARIA BROOKS. relation 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- nity, 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 Avords of poor Spurzheim, (uttered to me a short time before his death, in Boston,) I sol- ace myself by saying, ' Stupidity ! stupidity ! the knowledge 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, Hermita, she renewed for awhile 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, the 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. 81 dearth 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 del Jw/ier?io, 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 later compositions. Mrs. Brooks died at Matanzas, in Cuba, on the eleventh of November, 1845. EXTRACTS FROM ZOPHIEL. MOHNING. How beauteous art thou, O thou morning sun ! — The old man, feebly tottering forth, admires As much thy 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 his silken hair ; And Luxury hangs her amber lamps, to match [fair. Thy 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 thee : 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 thee woo, The pleasured bard pours forth another song. And finds in thee, 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 thou bidst a deeper ardor glow. And higher, purer reveries completest ; 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 his hot brow, and sickens at thy light ; But Nature, ever 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 he 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 daggers at thy feet, and, from mere sloth. pursue. 6 CONFIDING 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 minj." 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 With 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! lANGTTAGE 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 see 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 thee The "arch chymic sun" in earth's dark bosom wrought To prison thus a ray, that when dull Night Frowns o'er her realms, and Nature's all seems naught, She whom he grieves to leave may still behold his light. 82 MARIA BROOKS. AMBITIOX. Wo to tliee, wild Ambition ! I employ Despair's low notes thy dread effects to tell ; Born in high heaven, her peace thou couldst destroy ; And, but for thee, 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, The 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 soulwhere peace oncedwelt. 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 mom'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 AND EGtA CONTR ASTET). 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 light 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 soft 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 1 — a secret sigh Told her it most required what there it could not trace. ESLA RECLIXITfe. Lone in the still retreat, Wounding the flowers to sweetness more intense, She sank. Thus kindly Nature lets our wo Swell till it bursts forth from th« o'erfraught breast ; Then draws an opiate from the bitter flow, And lays her sorrowing child soft in the lap of Rest. ^low all the mortal maid lies indolent — ^^ave 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 hej: neck By the dark, glossy, odorous shrubs relieved, That close inclining o'er her, seemed to reck What 'twas they canopied; and quickly heaved, Beneath her robe's white folds and azure zone. Her heart yet incomposed ; 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's 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 not 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 AN 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 1 Quickly from his shrilly string He let an arrow glance ; and to a tree Nailed fast 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 flower Drops honey when he speaks. His sandaled feet Are light as antelope's. He stands, a tower." EGLA S COUKAffE. 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. StfiHITCG FOR THE UXATTAINABLE. '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." tOVE 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. 83 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 smUe. My 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 faults 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 1 — 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 entones his voice ] Avarice, ambition, vanity, or oft Sensations such as wake BUnd 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 satisfaetion finds In mantle, as it binds His neck, when cold ; or in those daily meals Sufficing all the life, that 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 black hair Braided and glittering, with one lover's gold. Ere the quick flower has gi-own O'er where he sleeps alone, Already to some other lover sold. 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 heai" and tell what happ'd while sep- arate ! Beautiful isles ! beneath the sunset skies Tall silver 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. Palace 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 gi-andiflora 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, vifhy came I not 1 — why have I come too latel The cooling "leverage — 'Strengthening draught — as craved The needs of both, could but these hands ha^e given ; 84 MARIA BROOKS. Could I have watched the 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, 'Twas crime — how yearned my panting heart to When, by mere words delayed, 'Gainst the strong wish, I stayed, (Trifling with that which inly spoke to me,) And longed, and hoped, and feared, till all I feared was o'er ! Mild, pitying George, when maple leaves were red O'er Ladaiianna* in his much loved north, Breathed here his last farewell — And when the tears that fell From April, called Mohecan'st violets forth, Edgar, as following his, thy friendly spirit fled. Now, side by side, neath cross and tablet white Is laid, sweet brothers, all of you that's left; Yet, all the tropic dew Can damp, would seem not you : Your finer particles from earth are reft. Haply, (and so I '11 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 ail : 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, by glimpses, here. Receive divine commissions; follow — aid Those legions formed in heaven for many a guardian care. By evei7 sigh, and throb, and painful throe, Remembered but to heighten the delight That crowns the advancing state Of souls 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 Cuba— Cafetel Hermita, May 7, 1S40. * Ladauarina. the aboriainal name of the St. Lawrence. 1 MoheohJi, the aboriginal najue of the Hudson. ODE TO THE DEl'ARTED. " C'm X'istas del Ciclo." 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 ? (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 hke 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 unt — save a few ringlets fair — Still, if thou didst not live, how could I love thee so 1 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 ? Ah ! could I taste again — • Is there a mode of pain Which, for such guerdon, could be deemed severe ? Be ours the forms of heaven, and let rne bend and bleed ! MARIA BROOKS. 85 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 So 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 I '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 bear 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'll 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 mmd ! 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 me 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 intennediate 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 theur pain be- calms ; — On deep Mohecan'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 fair eyes, till mine for those of earth were not ; On precipice where the gray citadel Hangs over Ladauanna's biUows 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. When, 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 Unsevered while we 're blent, [dashed • We '11 bear in sweet content The shock of falling bolt or forest crashed, 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, or save from such dread fate, 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 bleed Or suflfer, 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' «»6 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 some 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. Htaven 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 heaveq, 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 given ! I have not sung of meeting those we 've loved. Or known, and listening to their 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 Wlio 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. Essence, light, heat, form, throbbing arteries — To deem each possible, enough I see ! Edgar, 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 please ! This song to thee alone ! though he who shares Thy bed of stone, shared well my love with thee ; Yet, in his noble heart Another bore a part, Whilst thou hadst never other love than me : Sprites, brothers, manes, shades, present my tears and prayers ! Po'-rici-, island of Cuba, July 24, 1844. HYMN. Sire, 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 tlie 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 lie. • Yet no oblivious veil is o'er them cast : Blent with my blood, the sympathetic glow Burns brighter now their mortal lives are 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 they 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, while 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 thee. Oh ! be not weary of the imperfect prayer Breathed from the fervor of a wi-etch like me ! THE MOON OP FLOWERS. Oh, 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 ? Oh, moon of flowers ! thou moon of flowers ! Would thou couldst give me back those hours Since which a dull, cold year has fled. Or show me those with whom they sped ! Oh, moon of flowers ! oh, moon of flowers ! In scenes afar were passed those hours. Which still with fond regret I see. And wish my heart coulil change like thee ! * The savages of the northern part of America some- times count by moons. May they call the moon of flowers MARIA BROOKS. 87 TO THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE. The first time I beheld thee, beauteous stream, Howpure,howsmooth,howbroadthybosoinheav'd! What feelings rushed upon my heart ! — a gleam As of another life ray 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 : 'twill never be effaced. Now o'er thy tranquil breast the moonbeams quiver : How calm the air, how still the hour — how bright ! Would thou wert 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 thee still ! — to stay and moan With thee, were better than my promised fate. Ladaiianna ! monarch of the north ! Father of streams unsung, bo 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, Where yet n*o mass bell tinkles 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, wildermg 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 kindly, calmly, 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 soldier, in his mountain pride Exulting, as he treads with statelier pace, Views his white limbs reflected in thy tide, While wave the sable plunies 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. Thou'st seen the trophies of that deathless day. Whose name bright glance from e v'ry B riton 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. Called 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 hght blood revels in her cheek So rosy warm, we listen for her sighing.f 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 Nature, 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 lovo 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 hath blest him once, though seas may roll between. But can a friendship, pure and rapture wrought. Endure without such bonds ] I '11 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 1 shall I once more — Ere close these eyes that looked to love — ah, f«ll Say, shall I tread again thy fertile shore 1 Else, how endure my weary lot — the strife To gain content when far — the burning sighs— The asking wish — the aching void 1 Oh, Ufe ! Thou art, and hast been, one long sacrifice ! * In allusion to West's celebrated picture, ''The PoucU of Wolfe." t Vanderlyn— see his picture of "Ariadne " 88 MARIA BROOKS. TO NIAGARA. Sptrit of Homer! thou whose song has rung From thine own Greece to this supreme abode Of Nature — this great fane of Nature's God — Breathe on my brain ! oh, touch the fervid tongue Of a fond votaress kneeUng on the sod ! SubUme and Beautiful! your chapel's here — Here, 'neath the azure 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, [kiss, 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- Beyond the curtain of this altar vast, [pause, A glad young swan ; the smiling beams that cast Ivight 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 ? 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 ^gean waves are swelling, Ere yet calm Reason came to earth. Warm Fancy's lovelier reign dispelling, The Sire of heaven, she had believed. To 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 Of nymphs and goddesses admiring : Altars, libations, harps of gold. And milkwhite hecatombs expiring. And oh ! perchance there had remained Some Phidian 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 ? nor pictiu-e show, Nor sculpture, what my lyre is telling, Too feeble lyre ! as morn'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 1 — 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 ow^n 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 again 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. SiHE 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. 89 SONG. Day, in melting purple dying, Blossoms, all around me sighing, Fragrance, from the lilies straying, Zephyr, with my ringlets playing, Ye but waken my distress ; I am sick of loneliness. Thou, to whom I love to tearken. Come, ere night ai'ound me darken ; Though thy softness but deceive me, S.ay thou 'rt true, and I '11 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 friendshig 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 cm: 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 d^l mio cor. Him let it view not, or it dies Like tender hues of morning skies, Or morn's sweet flower of purple glow. When sunny beams too ardent grow, < Fratello del mio cor. A charm o'er every object plays ; All looks so lovely, whUe 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 ! Fratello 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 whitj ! 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 I Say, seraphs, is my lot too blest, That thus a fitful, feverish heat Must rifle me of health and rest ? Alas ! I fear my native snows — A clime too cold, a heart too warm- Alternate chills, alternate glows — Too fiercely threat my flower Uke 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 coflfee 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 alqne 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. 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- lina, and her grandmother was the only sis- ter 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 Ml. Samuel Ward, of New York, whose name was long conspicuous for his relations with the commercial world, and who in private life 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 and most brilliant essays in litera- ture, and her 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 raild 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."* The tempest howls, the waves swell high, Upward I cast my anxious eye, And fix my gaze, amidst the storm, Upon thy bright and heavenly form. Angel of mercy ! beam to save ; See, tossing on the furious wave, My httle bark is sorely prest : Oh, guide me to some port of rest ; Shine on, and all my fears subdue, Si je te perds, je suis perdu. To catch the ray, my aching sight Shall pierce the gloomy mists of night ; But if, 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'erwhelmed, I sink to rise no more. Shine out to meet my troubled view, , Si je te perds, je suis pierdu. Then if I catch the faintest gleam. Onward I'll rush beneath the beam, And fast the winged waves shall bear My form upon the midnight air, .'\or know my breast one anxious fear — For I am safe .if thou art near. * Written on seeing the device on a seal, of a man guiding a small boat, with his eye fixed on a star, and dus motto : '' Si je te perds, je suis perdu." Lead onward, then, while I pursue, Si je te perds, je suis perdu. So 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 storm, Bright peers above its radiant form : Though seen by all, yet sought by few, Si 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 trembling bark shall hold her way. Still guided by its sacred ray, To whose bright beam is homage due. Si je te perds, je suis perdu. Soon to illume those threatening skies. The Sun of Righteousness shall rise, Anfl 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. Si je te perds, je suis perdu, 90 LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. Ltdia Huntley, now Mrs. Sigournet, 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 its contents are deserving of special com- mendation, but they are all respectable, and irhe volume procured her an accession of rep- tttation which was probably of much indirect advantage. In 1819 Miss Huntley was married to Mr. Charles Sigourney, a reputable merchant and banker of Hartford, and she did not appear * Mr. Wadsworth, to whose early perception and libe- eral encouragement of the abilities of Miss Huntley we are 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- enaeum and the Wadsworth Tower are pleasing memori- als to the people of Hartford of his taste and liberality. again as an author until 1822, Avhen 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 unconquered. 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 Vi^hose 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 headlong rushed Down the steep precipice to seize his prey ; Strong was his arm to bend the stubborn bow, And keen his arrow. This thte bison knew. The spotted panther, the rough, shaggy bear. The wolf dark prowling, the 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 cliffs, where everlasting snows Weave their dense robes ; or laid him down to sleej' 01 92 LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. Where 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, D:nintlcss 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 Strangely 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 Unsated 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 stem resolves and savage deeds Some gentle virtues ; as beneath the gloom Of overshadowing forests sweetly springs The unexpected flower Their uncultured hearts Gave 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 pious awe Their eyes uplifted sought the hidden path Of 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 effulgence of the purple morn. The gentle rain distilling, was his smile, Dispensing good to all In various forms arose Their superstitious homage. Some with blood Of human sacrifices sought to appease That anger which in pestilence, or dearth, Or famine, stalked ; and their astonished vales, Like Carthaginian altars, frequent drank The horrible 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 glimmering tradition seemed to bear, j^s in some broken vase, the smothered coals Scattered from Jewish altars. Of th& regions which first greeted the Scan- dinavian discoverer she says : There Winter frames The boldest architecture, rears strong towers Of rugged frostwork, and deep laboring throws A glassy pavement o'er rude tossijig floods. Long near this coas.t he lingered, half illumed By the red gleaming of those fitful flames Which wrathful Hcjpla through her veil of snows Darts on the ebon night. Oft he recalled. Pensive, his simple home, ere the New World, Enwrapped in polar 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 awfiil 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 1 what pilot's eye, Unglazed by death, direct their devious course (Tremendous navigation !) to allay The fervor of the tropics 1 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 ir#ructive 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 1 840 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 appe.ared 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\. 93 the best of the many poetical compositions of which the famous daughter of Powhatan has been the subject. Pocahontas 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 trembling 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 finn resolve which nerved the Roman soul. The simple sports thatcharm'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 afterward this was followed by a similar work under the title of Scenes in my Native Land ; and in 1S46, by Myrtis, with other Etchings and Sketchings. The most complete and elegant edition of her poems Avas 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 naturally so sensitive to harmony that it has 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 warmed 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, Ave 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 Ave 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 ennobling and 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 Avould be a female Milton or a Christian Pindar. But though she does not inherit * The force and ample pinion tbat the Theban 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 Avritteu 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." a4 LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. THE WESTERN EMIGRANT. An 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, Beguiled the toil. " Boy, thou hast never seen Such glorious trees. Hark, when their giant trunks Fall, how the firm earth groans ! Remeniberest thou The mighty river, on whose breast we sailed So many days, on toward the setting sun ] Our own Connecticut, compared to that. Was but a creeping stream." — " Father, the brook That by our door went singing, where I launched My tiny boat, with my young playmates round When school was o'er, is dearer far to me Than all these bold, broad waters. To my eye They are as strangers. And those little trees My mother nurtured in the garden bound Of our first home, from whence the fragrant peach Hung in its ripening gold, were faher, 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 smile. " See, dearest, see, That bi-ight 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 and 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 could find among these dells The same fresh violets." Slow night drew on, And round the rude hut of the emigrant The wi-athful spirit of the rising storm Spake bitter things. His weary children slept, And he, 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 1 'T was oven so. Thy heart was with the halls Of thy nativity. Their sparkling lights. Carpets, and sofas, and admiring guests, Befit thee better than these rugged walls Of shapeless logs, and this lone, hermit home." — " No, no. All was so still around, methought I'pon mine ear that echoed hymn did steal. Which mid the church, where erst we paid our vows, So tuneful pealed. But tenderly thy voice Dissolved the illusion." And the gentle smile Lighting her brow, the fond caress that soothed Her waking infant, reassured his soul Til at, wheresoe'er our best affections dwell. And strike a healthful root, is happiness. Content and placid, to his rest he sank ; But' dreams, those wild magicians, that do play Such pranks when reason slumbers, tireless wrought Their will with him. Up rose the thronging mart ')f his own native city — roof and spire. All glittering bright, in fancy's firostwork ray. The steed his boyhood nurtured proudly neighdd, 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 mind 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 toiling 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 Stem 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 imkindness, men of hoary hair. Maidens of fearless heart, and matrons grave, Who hush the wailing infant with a glance. Bleak Nature's desolatron 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 ■? 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 Should be as ocean's sands. But yon lone bark Hath spread her parting sail ; they crowd the strand, Those few, lone pilgrims. Can ye scan the wo That wrings their bosoms, as the last firail 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 eyo, They watch the lessening speck. Heard ye no shriek Of anguish, when that bitter loneliness 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 altar the warm blood Of slain affections, should they rise between The soul and Gon. O 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. Should 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 luilovely, though thou comest With a stem visage. To the tuneful bird, The blushing. floweret, the rejoicing stream, Thy discipline is harsh. But unto man Methinks thou hast a kindlier ministiy. 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 silence 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 health. As the tossed bark Doth seek the shelter of some quiet bay To trim its scattered cordage, and restore Its riven sails — 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 natxu-e 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 " bless the lad." The timid infant leams 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 bland. 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 thy forehead, and the cloud Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give Thy voice of thunder power to speak of him Eternally — 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 speai's, 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 Familiarly 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 clilTs ! With brows so pure, and incense breathing lips, Whence are ye ] 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 1 — — Tree nor shrub Dare that drear atmosphere ; no polar pine Uproars a veteran fi-ont ; 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 plungo Is to eternity, looks shuddering up. And marks ye in your placid loveliness — Fearless, yet frail — and, clasping his chill hands, 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 fi-ost winged galp And freer dreams of heaven. J 96 LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. NAPOLEON'S EPITAPH. ■ The moon of St. Helena shone out, and tliere we -law tWe face of Napoleon's sepulchre, cliaraclerlesii, uninscribed." Awn who shall write thine epitaph, thou man Of mystery and might ! Shall orphan hands Inscribe it with their father's broken swords 1 (•r the warm trickhng of the widow's tear C'hannel it slowly mid the rugged rock, A.S the keen torture of the water drop [ghosts Doth wear the sentenced brain "? Shall countless Arise from hades, and in lurid flame With shadowy finger trace thine effigy, Who sent them to their audit unannealed, .A.nd with but that brief space for shrift of prayer Given at the cannon's mouth ? Thou, who didst sit Like eagle on the apex of the globe. And hear the murmur of its conquered tribes. As chii-p 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 ? Thou, who didst hew A pathway for thy host above the cloud. Guiding their footsteps o'er the frostwork crown Of 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 Who 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 not 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 might deem A second time the puny pride of man Did creep by stealth upon its Babel stairs. To dwell 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 preyed. To pay the reckoning. France ! who gave so free Thy life stream to his cup of wine, and saw That purple vintage shed over half the earth. Write the first line, if thou hast blood to spare. Thou, too, whose pride did deck dead Caesar's tomb. And chant high requiem o'er the tyrant band Who had their birth with thee, lend us thine arts Of sculpture and of classic eloquence. To grace his obsequies at whose dark frown Thine ancient spirit quailed, and to the list Of mutilated kings, who gleaned their meat 'Neath Agag'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 " Austerlitz," and fiercely turn away. — As the reined war horse snuffs the trumpet blast, Roube Prussia fi ja\ her 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 di-eam, 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 T — 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 whichnonedistuib, Come, twine some trait of household tendernesis, Some tender leaflet, nursed with Nature's tears, Around this urn. — But Corsica, who rocked His cradle at Ajaccio, turned awuy ; And tiny Elba in the Tuscan wave Threw her slight annal with the haste of fear ; 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 crumbling throno, And to the echoed question, " Who shall write Napoleon'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 hds 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 silence. But there beamed a smile. So fixed, so holy, from that cherub brow. Death gazed, and left it there. He dared not sted The signet ring of Heaven. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 97 MONODY ON MRS. HEMANS. Nature doth mourn for thee. There comes a voice From her far solitudes, as though the winds Murmured low dirges, or the waves complained. Even the meek plant, that never sang before, Save one brief requiem, when its blossoms fell. Seems through its drooping leaves to sigh for thee, As for a florist dead. The ivy, vsTeatlied Round the gi-ay turrets of a buried race. And the proud palm ti'ees, 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 melody. The vales Of glorious Albion heard thy tuneful fame, [bards i\nd 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 slumber 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 cloud, Might listen mid the errands of the skies. And linger all unblamed. How tenderly Doth 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 waking, 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 1 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 stai-s. God taught it thee. So, from thy U\ing intercourse with man. Thou shalt 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 thee, since every unborn age Shall mix thee with its household charities 1 The hoary sire shall bow his deafened ear, And greet thy sweet words with his benison • 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 Sternly 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, Uke the ephemeron, away, B uilding 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 Pati-ise" — for the glorious deeds That make Mount Vernon's tomb a Mecca shrino 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 ! And show a race unborn who rests below. And say to mothers what a holy charge Is theirs — with what a kingly power their love Might rule the fountains of the newborn mind. Warn them to wake at early dawn, and sow Good seed before the World hath sown her taies ; Nor in their toil decline — that lingel bands May put the sickle in, and reap for God, And gather to his garner. Ye, who stand. With thrilling 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 gi-atitude — yet may you raise A monument above the stars — a soul Led by your teachings and your prayers to Go^l * On laying the comer stone of her monument at Fred ei'icksburg, Virginia. ■3S LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. THE COUNTRY CHURCH. . It stood among the chestnuts — its white spire And slender turrets pointing where man's heart Should oi'tener turn. Up went the wooded cliiTs, Ahruptly beautiful, above its head, Shutting with verdant screeo 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 melhought 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-hand From toil, from cumbrance, and from stiife 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, And 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 rayon 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, svvoln 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 1 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. Mcthinks 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 ou, And fro.-n 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. SIGOURNEY. 99 THE INDIAN GIRL'S BURIAL. But there's many a one whose funeral With nodding plumes may be, Whom Nature nor affection mourn A VOICE upon the prairies, As here they mourn for thee. A cry of woman's wo, That mingleth with the autumn blast All fitfully and low ; It is a mother's wailing : INDIAN NAMES. Hath earth another tone Like that with whicli a mother mourns Ye say they all have passed away. Her lost, her only one ! That noble race and brave ; That their light canoes have vanished Pale faces gather round her, From off the crested wave ; They marked the storm swell high That, mid the forests where they roamed, That rends and wrecks the tossing soul, There rings no hunter's shout : But their cold, blue eyes are dry. But their name is on your waters — " Pale faces gaze upon her. Ye may not wash it out. As the wild winds caught her moan, But she was an Indian mother, • 'T is where Ontario's billow So she wept her tears alone. Like Ocean's surge is curled ; Where strong Niagara's thunders wake Long o'er that wasted idol The echo of the world ; She watched, and toiled, and prayed, Though every dreary dawn revealed Where red Missouri bringeth Rich tribute from the west ; Some ravage death had made. Till the fleshless sinews started, And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps On green Virginia's breast. And hope no opiate gave, And hoarse and hollow grew her voice, Ye say their conelike cabins. An echo from the grave. That clustered o'er the vale, She was a gentle creature, Have disappeared, as withered leaves Of raven eye and tress ; Before the autumn's gale : And dovelike were the tones that breathed But their memory liveth on your hills. Her bosom's tenderness, Their baptism on your shore. Save when some quick emotion Your everlasting rivers speak The warm blood strongly sent, Their dialect of yore. To revel in her ohve cheek, Old Massachusetts wears it So richly eloquent. Within her lordly crown. i I said Consumption smote her. And broad Ohio bears it And the healer's art was vain, Amid her young renown ; ; But she was an Indian maiden, Connecticut has wreathed it ' So none deplored her pain ; Where her quiet foliage waves, i None, save that widowed mother, And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse Who now. by her open tomb, Through all her ancient caves. Is writhing, like the smitten wretch Wachusett hides its lingering voice Whom judgment marks for doom. Within its rocky heart, Alas ! that lowly cabin. And Allegany graves its tone That bed beside the wall, Throughout his lofty chart That seat beneath the mantling vine. Monadnock, on his forehead hoar. They're lone and empty all. Doth seal the sacred trust : What hand shall pluck the tall green com. Your mountains build their monument. That ripeneth on the plain ? Though ye destroy their dust. Since she for whom the board was spread Must ne'er retm-n again. Rest, rest, thou Indian maiden, A BUTTERFLY ON A CHILD'S GRAVE. Nor let thy murmuring shade Grieve that those pale browed ones with scorn Thy burial rite surveyed ; A BUTTERFLY baskcd on a baby's grave. Where a lUy had chanced to grow : There 's many a king whose funeral " Why art thou here, with thy gaudy dye. A black robed realm shall see, When she of the blue and sparkling eye For whom no tear of grief is shed Must sleep in the churchyard low ?" Like that which falls for thee. Then it lightly soared through the sunny air, Yea, rest thee, forest maiden. And spoke from its shining track : Beneath thy native tree ! « I was a worm till I won my wings, The proud may boast their Uttle day, And she whom thou mourn' st, like a seraph sings Then sink to dust like thee : Wouldst thou call the blest one back"*" ^ 100 LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. MONODY ON THE LATE DANIEL WADS- WORTH. Thou, 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 ; With 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'ercame. Even when, in sad array. From thy lone home, where summer roses twined. The funeral weepers held their way Thy sable 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. S( arce 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 OP 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 't was 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 judge th quick and dead. And when of scathe and loss That man can ne'er repair. The dread inquiry meets my soul, What shall it answer 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 where 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 unti-ained 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 yeai 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. Katherine Augusta Rhodes Avas born in 1797 at Quincy, in Massachusetts, where her father was 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 jn 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 PoAver 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 ajr. 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 the 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 destroyer's grasp the noble form. As if the spirit dwelt, still thrilling, warm, In every Hne 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 s\w a pale j'oung mother bending o'er Her first-born hope. Its soft blue eyes were closed, Not in the balmy dream of downy rest : In Death's embrace the shrouded babe reposed ; It slept the dreamless sleep that wakes no more. A low sigh struggled in her heaving breast, But yet she wept not: hers was the deep grief The .leart, 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-bom 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 'vE 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 : 'T is 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 e3^e 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. Deah 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 cheek 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 1 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 OP 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 wild 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 careless boy. Who frolicked onward with a bound of joy. [eye Then Youth came forward : his bright-glancing Seemed a reflection of the cloudless 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, Thrilled his warm heart, and with electric ray Illumed his eye ; yet still a shade of care, , Like a light 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, fi-om 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 snoWj Upon his cheek their genial influence cast. While musing o'er the bright or shadovpy past : Time, as he marked his noblest victim, shed The frost of years upon his honored head. Last came, with trembling limbs and bendinjk 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 vnld 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 hght alone illumes his eye, For Time is pointing to Eternity ! JANE L. GRAY. Mrs. J. L. Gray is a daughter of William Lewers, 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 Pveminiscen- 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 reviewer 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 ODE, Written for the bi-centennlal celebration of the illustrious Wesmin-ster Assembly of Divines, 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 ti-eacherous waves below. Yet ours is sound as she was built, two hundred years ago ! The wind that fdled her swelling sheet from many a point has blown. Still urging her unchanging course, through shoals and breakers, on — Hor fluttering pennant still the same, whatever breeze might blow — It pointed, as it does, to heaven, two hundred years ago ! \V hen first our gallant ship was launched, although her hands were few, VcX 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 ! ]n4 JANE L. GRAY. 105 Yet onward still our vessel pressed, and weathered out the gale ; She cleared the wi-eck, and spliced the mast, and mended every sail, And swifter, stancher, mightier far, upon her cruise did go — Sti-ong hands and gallant hearts had she, two hun- dred years ago ! And see her now — 'on her heam 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 gloiy given. But unto Him who watch and ward hath kept for her in heaven ; Who quelled the whirlwind in its vwath, 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 still 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 BEMEMBEK, I remember, when sabbath morning rose. We changed, for garments neat and clean, our soiled week-day clothes ; And yet no gaudy finery, nor brooch nor jewel rare. But hands and faces looking bright, and smoothly- parted hair, 'T was not the decking of the head, my father used to say, But careful clothing of the heart, that graced that holy day — 'T was not the bonnet nor the dress ; and I believed it true : Buf these were very simple times, and I was sim- ple too. I remember, I remember, the parlor where we met; Its papered wall, its polished floor, and mantle black as jet ; 'T was there we raised our morning hymn, melo- dious, sweet, and clear. And joined in prayer with that loved voice which we no more may hear. Our morning sacrifice thus made, then to the house of God How solemnly, and silently, and cheerfully, we trod ! — I see e'en now its low, thatched roof, its floor of trodden clay. And our old pastor's timeworn face, and wig of silver gray. I remember, I remember, how hushed and mute we were, While he led our spirits up to God in heartfelt, melting prayer ; To 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-gi'own men, and inilk 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 ti-ied 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 grace ; Though rudely rustic was the somrd, I 'm sure that God was praised When David's wordo to David's tune* five hun- dred voices raised ! , I remember, I remember, the morning sermon done. An hour of intermission came — we wandered in the sun ; How hoary farmers sat them down upon the daisy sod. And talked of bounteous Nature's stores, and INa- 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, within thw shady grove. And whispered 'neath its spreading bough:? per chance some tale of love ! * St. David's was one of the few tunes used by the cob gregation to which I have allusion. 106 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 hght, 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 hsp 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 liord, 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 : ^ome 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 come, 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 ! IN IMITATION OF MORN. 'NIGHT," BY JAMES MONTGOMERY. Morn is the time to wake — The eyelids to unclose — Spring from the arms of Sleep, and break The fetters of repose ; Walk at the devi^y dawn abroad, And hold sweet fellowship with God. Mom is the time to pray: How lovely and how meet To send our earliest thoughts away Up to the mercy seat ! Embassadors, for us to claim A blessing in our Master's name. Morn is the time to sing : How charming 'tis 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 afiections 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. Mom 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 m light more brilliant far I'han ever merged the morning star. Mom is the time to rise, The resurrection mom — Upspringing to the glorious skies. On new-found pinions bome, To meet a Savior's smile divine : Be such ecstatic rising mine ! SOPHIA L. LITTLE. 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 RowENA, 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 aifd 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 Giveth 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 leapeth 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, Passeth 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, TjCt graceful, sprightly youth be there 108 SOPHIA L. LITTLE. Beauty, with her jewelled zone And sparkling drapery 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 bird 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 bland witchery o'er his 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, shadovi^ eye hath given. These the poet's pleasures are ; These the dull world can not share ; These make fame so poor a prize In 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 sign to lofty spirits given. To show them they were born for heaven ; Light from above, quenched when it falls Where the gross earth with darkness palls The fallen soul content to be Wed to itS) sad degeneracy ; But when, like light on crystal streams. On a pure mind its eflluence beams, How brightly in such spirit lies 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 matron 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 j'ore 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 yulture 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 1 How thy soft mercy with the sinner pleads ! Behold ! thy harvest loads the ample plain ; And the same goodness lives in ah 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 wood 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 flies alertly to unclasp the cloak ; And she, the while, with meny 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 bosom fondly rest their head. Oh, happy sight, to see such blossoms shed Their sweet young fragrance o'er such aged tree ! How vain to say, that, when short youth has fled, Our dearest of enjoyments cease to be. When hoajy 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 one, 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 sight awoke his keenest gust, Has owned thee of all cates the choicest, best 1 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 vagrant 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 aged heart sublimes. But who is this, whose scarlet cloak has known Full oft the pelting of the winter storm 1 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. Who scarce the struggles in her heart can stand ; Affection's strength hath made her nature weak She of her lovely 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 sybil's mystic words to thee The happier fortunes of thy love impart. Thrilling thy 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. With 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 ? 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 hsten to your joyous din ; [qu.iff; 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 ! Entvdning 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 belonji. no L^DIA 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 breaks the sunshine with as genial heat As o'er the soft and sapphire skies of May, 'i'hough Nature then be young and exquisitely gay. On the white wings of peace their days have flown. Nor wholly were they thralled by earthly cares ; But 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 (hsplay. 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. 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 accoimt 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 VANBBHLYN, OF MA- HIUS SEATED AMONG THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE. Pillars are falling at thy feet. Fanes quiver in the air, A prostrate city is thy seat — ^nd 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 tame ; Bright suns may scorch, and dark clouds lower — Its flash is still the same The dreams we loved in early life May melt like mist away ; High 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 Heaped on a sleeping world. Yet there is something will not die, Where life hath once been fair : Rome towering thoughts still rear on high, Some Roman lingers there ! LINES, ON HEARING A BOY MOCK THE SOUND OF A CT.OCK IN A CHURCH-STEEPLE, AS IT RUNG AT MID-DAY. At, 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 : We often part in glee — And sometimes, too, are fragrant flowers Their farewell gifts to me. LOUISA J. HALL. Louisa Jane Par's, now Mrs. Hall, was born 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 exeiuting 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- cepiible constitution, and her experience, of a spirit ever prompting action, and a body incapable of fulfilling its commaads without suffering, has been perpetual. Her writings show that her mind was wise- ly as well as carefully disciplined, and prob- ably her habits 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. Sue saw its defects more distinctly than be- ture, when it appeared ia print, and resolved never again to attempt anything so long in the form of poetry. Her eyesight iailed for four or five years, during which time she was almost entirely deprived of the use of books, the pen, and 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 interests 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 wiih 111 ■-^ 112 LOUISA J. HALL. power and splendor in his masterly romance oi The Fall of Ptome ; 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 steadily progressive in interest and in action. Thiaseno, a Christian exile from Judea, dwells with his family in Rome. He has two children, Euphas, and a daughter of re- markable beaiity 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 spuits, and I feel The fountain of existence drying up, Shrinking I know not where, like waters lost Amid the desert sands. Nay ! grow not pale ! I Iiuve felt thus, and thought each secret spring Of life was failing fast within me. Then In saddest wiUingness I could have died. There have heen hours I would have quitted you, And all that hfe 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 1 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, Crushed, 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, deadher struggle still ! — Ye dear ones ! !.ooK 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 Avith 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 wh^re 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 Ri.sing fi-om 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, W^ho breathes in sohtude her humble prayer 1 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. 'Tis 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 Mir. 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 1 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 till I see yon clear and starry skies Raining down fire and peslilence 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 hfe. 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 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 oifer up a sacrifice Of life's best hopes to the One Living God ! Yes, firom this night, my Paulus, never more Mine eyes shall look upon thy form, mine ears Drink in the tones of thy beloved voice. Paul. Ye gods ! ye cruel gods ! let me awake And find this but a dream ! J/jV. Is it then said 1 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 darkness, 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 fathomless abyss yawn wide Between us two ; and o'er it gleamed alone One pale, dim twinkling star ! the lingering hope That grace descending from the Throne of Ijight Might fall in gentle dews upon that heart, And melt it into humble piety. Alas ! that hope hath faded ; and I see The fatal gulf 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 1 — ■so in my inmost soul, H Nurtured vdth midnight tears, with blighted hopes, With silent watchings and incessant prayers, A holy resolution hath ta'en root. And in its might at last springs proudly up. Wc part, my Paulus ! not in hate, but love, Yielding unto a stern necessity. a And I along my sad, short pilgrimage. Will bear the memory of our sinless love As tnothers 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 famtly with the echo of thy words ! Henceforth what man shall ever build his faith On woman's love, on woman's constancy 1 — Maiden, look up ! I would but gaze once more Upon that open brow and clear, dark eye. To read what aspect Peijury may wear. What garb of loveliness may Falsehood use, To lure the eye of guileless, manly love ! Cruel, cold blooded, fickle that thou art. Dost thou not quail beneath thy lover's eye ] How ! there is light within thy lofty glance, A flush upon thy cheek, a settled calm Upon thy lip and brow I 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 g^rass 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 mo with a loving brother's praise Than thus to stand with sad but angiy eve. 114 LOUISA J. HALL. Hurling thy hasty scorn upon a brow As sinless as thine own — breaking the reed But newly bruised — pouring coals of fire Upon my fresh and bleeding wounds ! Oh, tell me, What hath l)efallen my father 1 Say he lives. Or let me lay my head upon thy breast, And die at once ! Euphas answers harshly, and by the aid, of a body of Christians, armed for the emergency, he seizes Paulus as a hostage, and goes 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 yielded up A thousand Christian dogs from yonder dens To save one hair upon his head. But now — A Christian maid ! Were there none other ? Gods! Shame and a shameful death be his, and thine ! Euph. 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 affection 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 s(irceress 1 I fain would see The beauty that hath witched Rome's noblest youth. Euph. Hers is a face thou never wilt behold. Piso. 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 I saw thee last, my days have been Deep steeped in sin and blood ! What seekest thou 1 I have grovTO old in strife, and hast thou come. With thy dark eyes and their soul searching glance. To look me into peace 1 It can not be. flo back, fair spirit, to thine own dim realms ! He w'nose young love thou didst reject on eaith, May tremble at this visitation strange, hut ne^'er cas. know peace or viitue 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 blood ! Mir. Oh, say not so ! Piso. The voice that won me first! Oh, 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 ! The dark, dark 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 days When I beheld thee first ! But never yet Before my waking eyes liast thou appeared Distinct and visible as now. Fair spirit ! What wouldst thou have ] 3Iir. 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 blood doth clog My midnight dreams, than that hdlf pitying eye ! 3{ir. 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 fi'om 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 ] Thine own dark Vexing thy soul, have clad me in a form [sins, Thou darest not look upon — I know not why. But I must speak to thee, f^^id thy remorse. And the unwonted terrors of thy soul, I must be heard, for God hath sent me here. Pifo. \Mio, who bath sent thee here ] Mir. The Christian's God, The God thou knowest not. Piso. 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. He hath given me strength. And led nre 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. 115 Pale 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 He 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 deemed 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. Bat it is past. Earth holds not what I dread ; And what the gods did make me, am I now. What seekest thou 1 Euph. Miriam ! go thou hence. Why shouldst thoa diel Mir. 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 ! Name not, with tongue unhallowed, love like ours. Piio. 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 already 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 1 Give me the son thou hast seduced ! Mir. Hear, Piso ! Thy son hath seen me, loved me, and hath won A heart too prone to worship noble things, Although of earth ; and he, alas ! was earth's. I strove, I prayed in vain. In all things else I might have stirred his soul's best purposes ; But for the pure and cheering faith of Christ, There 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. Euph. Sister ! my tears — They choke my words — else — Mir. Euphas, thou wert wroth When there was little 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. Piso. Maid! Hath, then, my son withstood thy witchery, And on this ground ye parted ] Mir. It is so. Alas ! that I rejoice to tell it thee. Piso. Nay, Well thou mayst, for 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 aged eyes themselves Beheld thee m 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 bitter 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 ti-emble 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 — ■ Piso. Nay ; but I must detain ye till T ask — Mir. Detain us if thou wilt. But look — Piso. At what "? 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 pleadmg 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 1 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 thought so crushed and trodden down, E'en by the iron tread of passions wild — Ambition, pride, and, worst of all, revenge — Revenge, that hath shed seas of Christian blood ! To think this heart was once so waxen soft. And then congealed so hard, that naught of all Which hath been since could ever have the powei To wear away the image of that girl — That fair young Christian giri ! '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 ! Euph. Come, sister ! The hours wear on. Piso. Ye shall go forth in joy — And take with you yon prisoners. Send my son, Him whom she did not bear — home to these arms, And go ye out of Rome with all your train. 1 will shed blood no more ; for I have known What sort of peace deep glutted vengeance brings. My son is brave, but of a gentler nlind Than I have been. His eyes shall never more Be grieved with sight of sinless 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 you thful 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 Pauius this, To quicken his young steps. Mir. Now may the peace That follows just and worthy deeds, be 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 pass yon ^teelclad men, Keeping stern vigil round the dungeon gate ] 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 too well. — My brother, droop thou not. Piso. Your father, did ye say ] Was it his life Ye came to beg 1 Mir. His life ; but not alone The 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, Stem son of violence ! the name thou askest Is — is — Thraseno I 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 T Here is your list : and all, Ay, every one whose name is here set down. Will my good guards forthwith release you. Mir. Piso! 1 n mercy mock us not ! children of her AVhom thou didst love Piso. Ay, maid, but ye are his Whom I do hate ! That chord is broken now — Its music hushed. Is she not in her grave, And he within my grasp ] Mir. Where is tliy peace, Thy penitence 1 Piso. Fled all — a moonbeam brief Upon a stormy sea. That magic name Hath roused the wild, loud winds again. Begone ! Save whom ye may. Mir. Piso ! I go not hence Until my father's name be on this scroll. Piso. 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 ? Piso. No ! let him die, . So that I have my long deferred revenge. Thy lip grows pale ! Art thou not answered now 1 Mir. Deep hon-or 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, Tliis 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 ! But 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 paiiteth 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, oxte. 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 achings 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 dreamt thou seest him as in years gone bv LOUISA J. HALL. When in his bright and joyous ipfancy, 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, ^adly to miss the well known snowy plume. Whereon thine eyes were ever proudly fixed 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 anns And bright young hero face of him who once Had been most welcome there ! and worst of all — Piso. It is enough ! The gift of prophecy Is on thee, maid I A power that is not thine Looks out from that dilated, awful form — Those eyes deep flashing with unearthly hght — 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. The tyrant promises to restore Thraseno to his children, and the scene changes to Avhere 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 fo 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 With 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 if 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!" again, again rang out, As of those who felt the hour had come When earth-choked lips should no more be dumb. And 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 fi-ee, 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 clasped over their downcast eyes, For before the blaze they could not stand. And away had fallen tlieir robes of lies. Naked, affrighted, pierced with light, They knew themselves and their deeds at last , From their quivering lips to the throne of Eight 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 'ear i 118 LOUISA J. HALL. A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. CHARACTERS. KING HENRY THE SEVENTH. LADY CATHERINE, (/le Wife of PcrHn Warbeck. CLARA, lur Atte7idanl. SIR FLORIAN, a Friend of Perkin Warbeck. Scene. — A Cattle on Che Seacoast, in Cornwall. , Time. — The Autumn oj" the year 1499. LADY CATHERINE and CLARA. Lady C. Open 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 sh-ained. The dull day wanes, The sad November day — and yet there come No tidings from my lord ! Ay, that is well ! Sit thou where I have sat these many hours In patience sorrowful ; and summon me With a most joyous cry, if thy kind watch Be more successful. Sea ! for ever tossing, Thy very motion is so beautiful, So wild and spirit-stirring, as I turn From the bleak, changeless moor, all 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, whicii sent the snowy spray Up to yon o'erhanging 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. Lady 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 wild ocean-view and frowning sky 1 Oh, sorrow, fear, and dark suspense, what change Ye work in brief — brief space on careless hearts ! Methinlcs it was not many months ago Childhood was round me with its rainbow dreams ; Then came the glittering vision of a court, Dear Scotland's court, where on my bridal hour A gracious 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 Clings to the promise sweet: — " We meet again ;" But when, oh when ] Ye vain remembrances ! Depart. Let me survey the heath once more. The ocean breeze has 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 and hoarse; the mighty clouds Sweep endless o'er the heavens ; I am sad. And all things sadden me. They'll set him free, Tliey surely will, my Clara! thou hast said it Full twenty times this day, and yet again J faUN would hear such empty words of cheer. What is yon speck upon the dusky neatnl 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 solicitude 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 mist settles down and mocks It is a peasant, toiling through the furze, [thine eye. Lady C. Nay, 'tis a mounted knight I 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 Florian 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 ] I can not tell. Would bad news spur him thus 1 Clara. 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. Enter FLORIAN. Sir F. Where is the lady Catherine ! Oh, away ! Fly for your life ! Lady C. Fly 1 and from whom 1 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 3'our husband's bidding. Lady C. Oh, thank Heaven For those two words ! Am I to meet him, then ! Sir F. No, lady, 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 1 Sir F. London Tower held still The princely wanderer, when the rumor came That Henry's wrath burnt hot 'gainst thee, sweet And that the place of thy retreat was known, [lady, Fly ! 't is thy husband's word. Lady C. Imprisoned still ! Take me 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 ! Lady C. I have heard Such fearful tales of bloody murders done In the mysterious circuit of those walls ! What, didst thou leave him well 1 LOUISA J. HALL. 119 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 ! Sh' 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 hngered I ■? [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. Still motionless, sweet mistress ] Lady C. Was he worn And pale, saidst thou ] 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 Uves as yet, But vainly Lady C. Oh, God bless thee for that word ! He lives ! Monarch of England, come I Cla. Hark, hark ! That crash — the doors are burst ! Sir F. Her doom is sealed. £:nler KING HENRY and Attendants. K. Hen. We ai-e in time : the bird hath not 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 Sir F. Thou well mightst guess : 't was 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. IMxlt SIR FLORIAN iviih 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 ] 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 violence 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 thife 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 1 Now, ask aught But Hfe 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 1 Crowned monarch, speak ! what can thy mightiness Grant thee beyond the holy power to bless 1 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. Lady 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 mme 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 120- 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 myself I plead, not of my hfe, [my king ! My worthless life, would speak ; but, fame, his fame, Dearer than kingdoms to his noble heart. Claims of his wife one burst of warm defence. If royal blood 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. Wi!t thou not look on me ? t, [Casting herself cu hUfeet. Doth thy heart swell With an unwonted fulness T 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 fjir 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 Ruling my simple vassals with such power As a brave hand and gentle heart may use ; And never, never ask again, what blood I'^lows in his veins ; nor dream one idle dream Of courtiers, palaces, and sparkling crowns, Mlrile 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 nightl}' prayers The name of England's king ! He's free — he's pardoned ! That tearful smile all graciously declares I am not widowed in my wretched youth ! I shall behold his noble face again. God bless thee, generous prince, and give thee powei Through long, 1 ong years, to bind up bleeding hearts, And use thy sceptre as a wand of peace ! My tears — they flowed not when 1 prayed — but now The grateful gush declares, when language fails. The ecstasy of joy ! Enter a Messenger, who jyresents a packet to the King. He breaks A OjDen, atid, afur casting his et/e over it, tut^is away abruptly. Cla. The king is troubled. K. Hen. {After a pause.) My sweet petitioner look up ! Lady C. Alas! I dare not. K. Hen. Nay, why now such sudden fear 1 What sawcst thou mirrored in my face 1 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. Hen. Thou hast a noble spirit : rouse it now Daughter of Gordon. Lady C. King ! say on — say all. K. Hen. Art thou prepared 1 Lady C. What matters it ] speak, speak ! Prepared ? what, with this dizzy, whirling brain ? Comes fortitude amid such fierce suspense 1 Tell me the worst — and show thy pity so. K. Hen. Blanched, gasping, but angelic still I — What words Can sheathe the piercing news ] Thy suit Was all too late, true wife ! He is in heaven. [LADY CATHERINF.„Ai(itJ. " Pale rose of England !" — men have named thee well. What brought me hither? what? to murder thee ? Oh, purpose horrible ! I can not think This bosom ever harbored scheme so fierce. Dark, 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. The dead may njt 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 Will I consign the victim of harsh times, [rose ! Thou shouldst have blooped in sunshine, blighted And ne'er have been transplanted from thy bower To waste such fragrant virtues mid the storm. Note. — In the reign of Henry VII. of England, a pre- tender to the crown appeared, in the person of Perkin Warbeck, a youth who declared himself to be Richurd, Duke of Yoi-k, second eon of Edwai-d IV. He was .•?up- ported by Mariraret of Yoi-k, the Duke of Burgumly, and other powerful friends; and the young king of Scotland went so far as to bestow on him the hand of the lady Catherine Gordon, nearly allied to the royal family, and celebrated for her beauty. She remained fondly attached to him through his reverses, when all England had for- saken him ; and it is said that the cold heart of Heni-y was so softened by her loveliness, constancy, and sori'ow for her husband, that he relented in his bloody purpose, and instead of taking her life, as he had intended, placed her honorably in his queen's household. Warbeck had adopt- ed the title of the " Pale Rose of England ;" but the people transferred it to hei'. — See Mackintosh's History of iiug land, Philadelphia ed., p. 197. ELIZA L. FOLLEN. Eliza Lee Cabot, a native of Boston, was married on the fifteenth of September, 1828, to the amiable and learned Charles Follen, 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- itecl 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. Heue, 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 aired chieftain, Rejoicing in his glory : How deep the shade of sadness That rests upon his stoi-y ! 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 "? Where has the rainbow vanished 1 — 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 tbat gave him birth. Would not his altered nature Rejoice with rapture high. At the changed and glorious prospect That now would meet his eye 1 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. winteh scenes in the country. The short, dull, rainy day drew to a close ; No gleam burst forth upon the western hills, V/ith smiling promise of a brighter day, Dressing the leafless woods with golden light ; But the dense /og hung its dark curtain round. And the unceasing rain poured like a torrent on. The wearied inmates of the house draw near The cheerful fire; the shutters all are closed; A brightening look spi-eads round, that seems to say, ISow 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 ofl', 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 way. 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, Rojoicing in his strength, comes rushing forth : The rain is changed into a driving sleet. And when the fitful wind a moment lulls, Tlie feathery snow, almost inaudible, Falls on the window-panes as soft and still As the light brushings 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. Giving a language even to the stars — Unconscious of the throbbings 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 show forth God's holy image on the soul impressed — • They listen to the music of the storm, And hold high converse with the unseen world : They wake, and watch, and pray, while others sleep. The stormy night has passed ; the eastern clouds Glow with the morning's ray : but who shall tell 1'he peerless glories of this winter day 1 Nature has put her jewels on — one blaze Of sparkling light and ever-varying hues Bursts on the enraptured sight. The smallest twig with 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 tc spray, showers diamonds around, And moves in rainbow light where'er he goes The universe looks glad : but words are vain To paint the wonders of the splendid show. The heart exults with uncontrolled delight : The glorious pageant slowly moves away. As the sun sinks behind the western hills. So fancy, for a short and fleeting day, May shed upon 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 reality 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 hymns 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. While 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 safely 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 my tomb ! FRANCES H. GREEN, Frances Harriet Whipple, now Mrs. Green, was born in Sraithfield, Rhode Is- land, and is descended from two of 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 left 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 1S30 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 Ptight, 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," particularly The Nineteenth Century, a quarterly miscellany, and The Univercce- 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 U: are Yamoyden, by Sands and Eastburn, Mogg Megone, by Whittier, the Legend of the An- dirondach Mountains, by Hoffman, Yonondio, by Hosmer, Nemahrain, by 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 folloAving 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 forget the presence of the power and deli- cacy of the poetical faculty. Mrs. 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 felicity of illustration. A consid- eration of them would be more 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. 124 FRANCES H. GREEN. 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 polished leaves were turning back To tlieir own natural places, whence the wind Of the last hour had flung them. From afar Came the deep roar of waters, yet 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 stems 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 hlies 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 ; While 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 Agamst 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 rudimental music, breathing 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 ; While 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; Where now the anvils echo, hammers clank. The hum of voices in the stirring mart. And roar of dashing wheels, create a din That almostgrivals 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 haii Mingled with Indian tresses, dark and harsh. The wampum-belt, of various hues inwrought. Graced well his manly bosom ; and below, His taper limbs met the rich moccasin. FRANCES H. GREEN. 125 SA8SACUS* The orient sun was coming proudly 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 beautiful, 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 along Through 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 froni 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 sterile rock. And swamp, and wilderness, and desert ground. Were instinct with her glory. Moss and fern. And clinging vine, and all unnumbered trees, That make the woods a paradise, were stirred By whispering zepliyrs, 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 Hfe — 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 deptli of their morning slumbers made them an easy prey. " The resist- ance," says Thatcher, '-was nianly and desperate, but the. vi'ork of destruction was completed in little more than an hour." 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 baried 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 charms. 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, voiceful 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, foi>the gloom it gilds. But is there joy in that wildly piercing cry 1 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 126 FRANCES H. GREEN. Sleep in the arms of Ruin. There they lie. He knew that he was reverenced as a god — That on the roll of heroes, prouder name, Or clothed with mightier majesty, was not. Than Sassacus the Terrible. That name The hronzpd cheek of the warrior would blanch ; There was a magic in its very sound That made the bravest blood turn 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 cliif, And glory in his glory. Her response Echoed afar the thriUing 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 HE a weakness that could yield to grief, The strong — the mighty — the invincible 1 May he not rend affection from his heart, Or trifle with his passions 1 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 ? Remembereth not that shadowy maze of hair How dotingly he wreathed it yesterday 1 — Or that fair, ruby lip the tender kiss Tliat 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 dank 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 beseechingly, as when they sued For mercy from the murderer — in vain ! He looked upon her, as if life would burst In one long, agonizing, phrensied gaze ; The blasting sight was madness : then he laughed. In utter desperation, utter scorn ! He knew that Fate herself might never crush A ul that could endure such pangs, and live ! Why starts he, as some yet-untronhled 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 1 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 1 — They are fallen, or fled, or slaves. His land 1 — He has none. And his peaceful home 1 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 his brow, Like the rude cliff on the volcano's fiont. 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 It 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 1 — 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. Fnou the home of Thor, and the land of Hun, Where the vaHant frost-king defies the sun, Till he, Hke 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 irised mantle of roseate hue, With 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 Iiooks 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 whu'ling 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 blanch, As down the giant Ruin came. With a step of wrath and an eye of flame ; Hurling destruction, death, and wo. On all around and all below, T'ill 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 — we are free ! Full often we catch, as we hurry along, The clear-ringing notes of the Laplander's song. As, borne by his reindeer, he dashes away Through the night of the North, more refulgent than day ! We 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 shadowless crown. We have looked in the hut the Kamschatkan hath 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 Hke 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 dizzening 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 loud. To the taunting voice of the bursting clouii ; And we laugh with scorn at the ruin we see ■ Then away we hasten — for we are frep t 123 FRANCES H, GREEN. Old Neptune we call from his ocean-caves Whep for pastime we dance on the crested waves ; And we heap the struggling billows high Against the deep gloom of the sky ; ^^hen we plunge in the yawning depths beneath, 4nd there on the heaving surges breathe, Till they toss the proud ship like a feather, And Light and Hope expire together ; And the bravest cheek turns deadly pale At the cracking mast and the rending sail, As down, with headlong fury borne, Of all her strength and honors shorn. The good ship struggles to the last Willi the raging waters and howling blast. We hurry the waves to their final crash, And the foaming floods to phrensy 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 se*-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, W'ith his icebergs piled up mountain high, A wall of gems against the sky — v\''here 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. We have hastened to enrol us In thy royal train, ^olus ! 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 ! We. have traced the wall of China To the farthest orient sea ; Blessed the gi-ave 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, Wc 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, We have blessed the holy shade. Where 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 Haemian 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 lielicoji. 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 loveliest human flowers — And the victim of brute passion Languishes the fair Circassian. We have 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 ; Fanned the Nile ; and roused the tiger From his lair beyond the Niger. We 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-gate. 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, And the gentle hearts that loved him ; Of affections 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 sleeps 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 goy 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 health — 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 fiee and be happy, then, while ye may, And rejoice, in, the blessing of to-day. 130 FRANCES H. GREEN. THE CHICKADEE'S SONG. OiT its downy wing, the snow, Hovering, flyeth to and fro — And the merry schoolboy'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 \ve 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 from the sky ; And he knoweth where we be — And he heareth — Chickadee ! There we sit the whole night long. Dreaming that a spirit-soqg 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 far 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 'II make — Our own right-royal lady ! We'll gather rich stores from the 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 still be found To comfort the earnest seeker. Praise Him who giveth our daily food — And the Love that findeth all Uiings good ! • JESSIE G. McCARTEE. Jessie Gr. Bethune, a granddaughter of the who for many years has been minister of the celebrated Isabella Graham — a daughter of Reformed Dutch Church in Goshen, in the Di vie Bethune, a New York merchant, whose county of Orange, on the Hudson. She has life was a series of illustrations of the dignity published a few poems in the religious peri- and beauty of human nature — and a sister odicals, and has written many more, for the of the Eev. Dr. George W. Bethune, so well joy the heavenly art yields to thoSe who wor- known as one of our most eloquent preach- thily cultivate it. All her compositions that ers and accomplished authors — was married we have read breathe of beauty, piety, and at an early age to the Rev. Dr. McCartee, content. THE INDIAN MOTHER'S LAMENT. THE EAGLE OF THE FALLS. All sad amid the forest wild ^ Empress of the broad Missouri ! An Indian mother wept, Towering in thy storm-rocked nest. And fondly gazed upon her child Gazing on the wild waves' fury — In death who coldly slept. Wondrous is thy place of rest. She decked its limbs with trembling hand, Lofty trees thy throne embowering. And sang in accents low : Gloomy gulf around thine isle. "Alone, alone, to the spirit-land, Mists and spray above thee showering, My darling, thou must go ! Guard thee from the hunter's wile. " I would that I might be thy guide Walls of snow-white foam surround it. To that bright isle of rest — Crowned with rainbows pure and bright. To bear thee o'er the swelling tide. While the flinty rocks that bound it Clasped to my loving breast ! Guard thy mansion day and night. " I 've wrapped thee with the beaver's skin, No Alhambra's royal splendor, To shield thee from the storm, Palaces of Greece or Rome, And placed thy little feet within E'er could boast of hues so tender. Thy snow-shoes soft and warm. Or of walls of snow-white foam. " I 've given thee milk to cheer thy way, Yet this lofty scene of wonder Mixed with the tears I weep ; Ne'er disturbs thine eagle gaze, Thy cradle, too, where thou must lay Nor its mighty voice of thunder — Thy weary head to sleep. 'Tis the music of thy days. " I place the paddle near thy hand, * • Of its voice thou art not weary. To guide where waters flow ; Of its waters dost not tire ; , For alone, alone, to the spirit's land, Ancient as thine own loved eyry. My darling, thou must go.' 'T was the chorus of thy sire. " There bounding through the forests green, Songs of rapture loudly swelling Thy fathers chase the deer, Laud the monarch on his throne, Or on the crystal lakes are seen But the music of thy dwelHng The sleeping fish to spear. Chants the praise of God alone « And thou some chieftain's bride may be, Let sultanas boast their fountains. My loved departing one : Gardens decked with costly flowers Say, wilt thou never thhik of me, 'T was the Hand that built the mountains So desolate and lone 1 Formed for thee thy forest bowers. " I '11 keep one lock of raven hair Queens may boast their halls of lightness, Culled from thy still, cold brow — Blazing with the taper's rays — That when I, too, shall travel there, Crystal lamps of colored brightness, My daughter I may know. Dazzling to their feeble gaze : " But go ! — to join that happy band ; He who made the moon so lovely, Vain is my fruitless wo ; Called the stars forth every one. For alone, alone, to the spirit's land, Spread thine azure dome above thee. My darling, thou must go !" Radiant with its peerless sun ! 13] 132 JESSIE G. McCARTEE. Empress eagle ! spread thy pinions, Bathe thy breast 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 breathuigs 't is to hear ? Gentle babe, prolong thy slumbers. 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 blessf'd 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 1 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. The painfully interesting history of this unfortunate woman has been written 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 maybe 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 b'eing. 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 eflJbrts 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 sweei 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, iri:^ '34 CYNTHIA TAGGART. But closer pressed, an odorous breath Repels the rover gay ; And from her hand with 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 bow. 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. Where stern Disease's torturing chain Has every hmb 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, A.nd with thy footsteps firm and light Oh bear me to thy radiant height. Where, 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 With hollow bowlings 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 and 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, WHiile 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 serene. FRANCESCA CANFIELD. Fkancesca Anna Pascalis, a daughter of Dr. Felix 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 Avas a child her paren'ts 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 tongue was so 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 reverrai-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 oi her own fine and precocious powers. "While yet at school Miss Pascalis trans- lated for a friend a volume fromLavater, and soon afterward she made a beautiful English version of the Eoman Nights from L'e JSotti Romane al Se-polcro Dei Scipiuni 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 arrangea 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- ing, and when her husband established 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 for 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 weiv cen- tred in his daughter, abandoned his pu»->;ui;s>5 136 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 that purpose. TO DR. MITCHILL. 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, sunny, 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, shouldst 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. Could Genius' son have ever vowed His ductile heart to steel, 'Gainst all that leads the human breast. To turn to Indolence and rest ; From Science' haunts to steal. To beauty, wealth, and ease, and cheer — All that delight the senses here 1 And thus lie 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 wayfarer blows, And lives a summer morn. To climD me rocky mountain way, \nd 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. By 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 fknown, Beneath a lovelier heaven in kindher climates Whose beauty, both the moral and the mortal. Stood at perfection s portal And still doth hold a rank surpa.ssing 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, Or vanity misleads, or discontent Rages with wishes, vain and impotent. Then, while the tumults of my heart increase, I call upon thy image — then to rise In sweet and solemn beauty, like the moon. Resplendent in the firmament of June, Through the still hours of night to lonely eyes. I gaze and muse thereon, and tempests cease — And round me falls an atmosphere of peace. ELIZABETH BOGART. Miss Elizabeth Bogart, descended from a Hug-uenot family distinguished in the mer- cantile and social history of New York, and a daughter of ^e 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 them 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 solacfi 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 ] 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, the 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 come ? — Oh ! by breaking the ties Of afl^ection and kindred, and snatching away The beloved from around me, whose praise was the prize Which lured me in Poesy's pat^ =vay to strav ].?7 138 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 oflered up Till their ethereal essence fled, And Disappointment from the cup lis dark libations poured instead. Wc 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 sepaiaiing 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 mc 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 offerihg 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 Mart E. Aiken, a native of New- York, was for several years a contributor to the Mirror and other periodicals, under the signature of "Noma," 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 story of passion, and the principal characters are of the ducal house of Ferrara. Her Hebrew Melodies, and other shprt 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, Avhere 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 hath heeil Hath taught ua naught or little." Fhom 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, As it bears thy life along ; Soon another seal for thee Stamps the stem 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 firail 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 httle flower Wreathed about the blighted bower, Bright, when suns and stars have set. Will a flow'ret blossom yet. 3P 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, We 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. When Irem's own beauty in sb.adowless 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, 'T will gladden 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 par* 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 king named Sbedad, once seen by an Arabian, who wandei-ed very far into the desert in search of a lost camel : a gar- DREAM OF LIFE. I HEARD 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, Chains 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 bygone day — But oh, how changed was he ! He rose beside the festal board. Where 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 Icthe 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 '11 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 Hesperides by the Greeks. M. ST. LEON LOUD. Marguerite St. Leon Barstow was born 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. Theke 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 worth ; 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 all 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 my 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 buflfet 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 my 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 thiown Mid fadeless flowers and bright gems alone. 141 142 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-grovs^n is that ancient roof, Its walls are gray and bare. 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 old room. No furrow for the harvest Is drawn upon the plain, And in the pasture's 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 1 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 aged 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. Tliough 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 on 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 — Forever unattained — consum e like quenchless fires. 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. This graceful and popular authoress — the Mitford 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 pomt 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 tp 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.' Oh, 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 PROT;ii,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 s falsehood, wrong, and tyranny, Thou wilt be there with all thy strength di'?- played — Thy voice clear-ringing mid the conflict's roar. And on thy banner, writ in stars, "Excelsior!" 143 144 EMMA C. EMBURY. THE DUKE OF REICHSTADT. Heir 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 gave their crowns, as playthings, to thy hand — Thine heritage the spoils of many a land ! How were the schemes Of human foresight baffled in thy fate, Thou victim of a parent's lofty state ! What glorious visions fiileJ 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, Whose proudest title was Napoleon's wife 1 She who first gave, and should have watched thy Trebling a mother's tenderness for thee, [life, Despoiled heir of empire 1 On her breast Did thy young heart repose in its unrest 1 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 : *i'he 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, k\\i\ 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 cahn 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 — I'hey wither on through all life's later hours. AUTUMN EVENING. *' And Isaac went out iu 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, in heart to walk with God. EMMA C. EMBURY. UJ PEACE. On. seek her not in marble halls of pritle, V/here gushing fountains fling their silver tide, Their wealth of freshness toward the summer sky ; The echoes of a palace are too loud — Tlipy but give back the footsteps of the crowd That throng about some idol throned on high, Whose eimined robe and pomp of rich array But serve to hide the false one's feet of clay. Nor seek her form in poverty's low vale, [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 fi-om wealth's towering dome. And niiseiy 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 tell the restless hope of fame, The bitter yearnings for a deathless name, Thatround 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 gold ; 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 thei-e, List to the mingled 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 Thy 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 1 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 soul 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 1 [ing. Though earth may never quench thy life-longyearn- Yet give thyself like music to the wind : Thy wandering thought may teach thy love and And waken sympathy when thou art dust, [trust. UNREST. Heart, weary Heart ! what means thy wild unrest ? Hast thou not tasted of earth's every pleasure 1 With all that mortals seek thy lot is blest ; Yet dost thou ever chant in mournful measure — " Something beyond !" Heart, weary Heart ! canst thou not find repnsp In the sweet calm of friendship's pure devotion 1 Amid the peace which sympathy bestovs^s, Still dost thou murmur with repressed emotion, " Something beyond I" 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. Oh, 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, Andyielding up my soul toyouth's delicious trance ! Vain are such wishes : I no more may tread With hngering step and slow the green hil!-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 earthiiest things. Yet bear away no stain upon its snowy wings. What though some flowers have 'scaped the tem- pest's wrath 1 ^ 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 — tliese I seek Ah, who could e'er be sinless and yet sage 1 [page . Would that, I, might forget Time's dark and biotled EMMA C. EMBURY, THE AMERICAN RIVER. A HEM EM B RANGE. 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 I'he widespread prairie lone and vast, Without a sliadow on its tide, Suve the long grass that skirts its side ; Again its angry currents sweep Beneath some tall and rocky steep, V\ hich frowns above the darkened stream, Till doubly deep its waters seem. No rugged cliff may check its v/ay, J'io gentle mead invite its stay — fetiU 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 ; ]jong, 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 sliore — Though the soft limestone mass, imprest By naked footstep on its breast. Now hardened into rock appears. By work of indurating years. Yet 'tis by grander strength alone That Nature's age is ever known. Whde crumbling turrets tell the tale Of 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 Etern-ty, 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 I:i the calm stream with mimic frown. The waves a sweeter music make. As at its base they flash and break : It specdeth 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. When 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 ; Ha[)ly some squire, whose humble name Was yet unheralded by feme, Here wove ambition's earliest dreams : M'hile 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, Witli hearts iini)atient 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 traclv, 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 " Rcquiescat," wild and sweet. The river singeth oa. The vision fides, 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, Daunting 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 hei*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 sa}'^, " 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 GENTiE heritage is mine, A life of quiet pleasure : 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 : "^y joys are now of nobler birth. My sorrows too have holier birth And heavenly solace Don-ow ; 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 When time our hopes inureth 1 Come when it will grief comes too soon — Why dread the night at highest noon ] I would 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 hone3red 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 ton^ji, 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 as those lamps, if brought once mom 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. There 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 earth'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, Could 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 halls 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 thy spirit wrung, E'en in thy hour of pride, When all could list Love's wooing tongue - Save thee, bright Glory's bride. Corinna ! thine own hand has traced Thy melancholy fiitc. Though by earth's noblest triumphs graced, H''ss waits not on the great : 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 aUESTIONINGS. Whew Life's false oracles, no more replying To baflled 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 will ye think of me ? Perhaps the wayside flowers around ye springing, Wasting,unmarked,theirfragrance and their bloom. Or some fresh fountain, through the forest singing, Unheard, unheeded, may recall my 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 Will ye bring back, by Memoir'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 1 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 T 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 T Oh, gentle friends ! will ye thus think of me 1 NEVER FORGET. Neter 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 theboltwashurled That drove us, scathed in soul and broken hearted, Alone to wander through this desert world Never forget. ELIZABETH M. CHANDLER. Elizabeth Margaret Chandler was born near Wilmington, in Delaware, on the twen- ty-fourth of December, 1807. Her father, an 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 care of their maternal grandmo- ther, in Burlington, New Jersey. Elizabeth, the youngest of his children, was placed at one of the schools of the societ}^, 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 Avriting verses, and in her 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 acquaintance with Mr. Benjamin Lundy, then editor of The Genius of Universax 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 in the occasional indulgence of her taste for litersiry composition, until her death, on the second of November, 1834. The Poetical Works of Miss Chandler, with a Memoir of her Life and 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 v^rere the v?ords they spake, Of torture, stake, and fire : Yet 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 1" 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 glanca 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 forest 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 still hover, And dimly the pale beaming crescent discover, Though all the stem 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 deepl Ah no ! these are not like gay revellers sleeping. The nightwinds, unfelt, 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. Alas ! 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 glory. When Freedom has lighted thy torch at her shrine, And proudly thy deeds are emblazoned in story, W'e think not, we feel not, what horrors are thine. B ut oh,when the victors and vanquish'd have parted, When lonely we stand on the war ground deserted, And think of the dead, and of those broken hearted, Thy blood-sprinkled laurel wreath ceases to shine. A REVOLUTIONARY SOLDIER'S PRAYER. I CAKE 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 — 'T is 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 — ■ 'Tis ever in my dreams, With all the p'leasant 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 ! s di m m [K iRf ELIZABETH M. CHANDLER. 151 THE BRANDYWINB. Mt foot has climbed the rocky summit's height, And in mute rapture from its lofty brow Mine eye is gazing round me with dehght On all of beautiful, above, below : The fleecy smoke-wreath upward curling slow, The silvery waves half hid with bowering green, That far beneath in gentle murmurs flow. Or onward dash in foam or sparkling sheen : [scene. While rocks and forest-boughs hide half the distant In sooth, from this bright wilderness 'tis sweet 'I'o look through loopholes formed by forest boughs. And view the 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. The quiet cattle stretched in calm repose, The cot, half seen behind the sloping hill — All mingled in one scene with most enchanting skill. The very air that breathes around my cheek — The summer fragrance of my native hills — Seems with the voice of other times to speak, And, while it each unquiet feeling stills, My pensive soul with hallowed memories fills : My fathers' hall is there ; their feet have pressed The flower-gemmed margin of these gushing riils. When lightly on the water's dimpled breast [rest. Their own light bark beside the frail canoe would The rock was once your dwelling-place, my sires ! Or cavern scooped within the green hill's side ; The prowling wolf fled far your beacon fires. And the kind Indian half your wants supplied ; While round your necks the wampum-belt he tied, He bade you on his lands in peace abide. Nor dread the wakening of the midnight brand. Or aught 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 arid music-breathing air, And nature in her every varied dress Of peaceful beauty and wild loveliness. Can shed across the heart one sunshine ray, 'J hen others, too, sweet stream, with only less Than mine own joy, shall gaze, and bear away [day Some cherished thought of thee for many a coming But yet not utterly obscure thy banks, Nor all unknown to history's page thy name ; For there wild war hath poured his battle ranks, And stamped in characters of blood and flame, Thine annals in the chronicles of fame. The wave that ripples on, so calm and still. Hath trembled at the war-cry's loud acclaim. The 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 uncoflined they were laid Within the soldier's grave — e'en where they fell : At noon they proudly trod the field — the spade At night dug out their resting-place ; and well And calmly did they slumber, though no bell Pealed 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 shave, 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 be treasured ones — and, like the star That guides the sailor o'er the pathless sea. They shall lead back my thoughts, loved Brandy- wine, to thee ! SUMMER MORNING. 'Tis beautiful, when first the dewy light Breaks on the earth ! while yet the scented air Is breathing the cool ireshness 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 slight precipice — then with quick leap Bound lightly o'er the barrier, and sink In their own whirling eddy, and then sweep With rippUng 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 high. And mingled harmony and perfume throng On every whispering breeze that lightly floats along THE DAVIDSONS. The lives of Lucretia Maria and Mar- garet Miller Davidson, which il 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 the"m with any new interest would therefore be iu vain. It is doubtful 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, fiited them as well to shine in heaven, as their genius to win the applauses of the world. Those who are familiar with our literary history may remember that a remarkable precocity of mtellect has been frequently ex- hibited in this country. The cases of Lu- cretia and Margajet 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 not 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 these children, when they were from nine to fifteen 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 liigh 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 bora 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 lime Avas devoted to the little books that were given to her, and to composition. Her mother, at one lime, 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, and ink, sedulously shunning observation. At length, Avhen 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. 15? 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 Keligion, Heaven's own darling child. Teach thee 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 fini&hed 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 ; When 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 'twould spread its wings to theo. l.')4 THE DAVIDSONS. How ca'mly, brightly, dost thou shine, Like the pure lamp in Virtue's shrine : Sure the lair world which thou niay'st boast Was never ransoined, never lost. There, beings pure as heaven's own air, Their hopes, their joys, tcigether share ; W^hile hovering angels touch the string, And seraphs spread the sheltering wing. There, cloudless days and brilliant nights, Illumed by Heaven's refulgent liglits — 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 t soar to thee, When this imprisoned soul is free. In her sixteenth year she wrote Three Prophecies, of which the Lllowing 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 b(?am In life's gay morn, in hope's young dream ; But clouds shall darken that brow of snow. And sorrow blight 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, Sliall be drained to the dregs in agony. Ves, maiden, yes, I read in thine eye A dark and a doubtful prophecy : Thou shalt 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 ti-oubled 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 in such beautiful me*^^re> I ''11 Bure I ne'er saw any poetry sweeter: It seemed that a law had been recently mnde, 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 could well carry. The bachelors grumbled, and said 'twas no use — 'Twas horrid injustice, and horrid abuse. And declared that to save their own hearts' blooJ from spilling, Of such a vile 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 I forty old bachelors sold here to-day :" And presently all the old maids in the town. Each in her very best bonnet and gown. From thirty to sixty, 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 1 who wants to buy V In a twink, every maiden responded, " I, — I." In short, at a highly extravagant price. The bachelors all were sold oflT in a trice : And forty old maidens, some younger, some older, Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder. A few months before her death she Avrote this address to her mother : 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 spum my lay. Oh say, amid this wilderness of life, [me t What bosom would have throbbed like thine for Who would have smiled responsive 1 — who in grief Would e'er have felt,and,fceling, grieved like thee] Who would have guarded, with a falcon eye. Each trembling footstep or each sport of fearl Who would have marked my bosom bounding high. And clasped me to her lieart,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 1 None but a mother — none but one like thee, Whose bloom has faded in the midnight watch ; Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchei-y ; 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 ine. 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 force, 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 Avould 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 j^ears 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 toAvn 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 w;is 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, 'Twas there she first drew, and there yielded her A father I love is away fi-om 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 quickly 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, in the autumn of 1835, of Rure- mont, on the sound, or East river, about fuur miles from New York. Here they remained, except at short intervals, until the summer of 1837, when they returned to 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 .56 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 tendernessof feeling, to her bro- ther, a young officer in the army, stationed at a frontier post in the west, in which an allusion to the fading verdure, and falling leaf, and gathering melancholy, and lifeless quiet of the season, as typical of her own blighted youth and approaching dissolution, is pointed out by Mr. Irving as having in it something peculiarly solemn and affecting. " But when," she says : " But when, in the shade of the autumn wood, Thy wandering footsteps stray ; When yellow leaves and perishing buds Are scattered in thy way ; When all around thee breathes of rest, And sadness and decay — With the drooping flower, and the fallen tree, Oh, brother, blend thy thoughts of me !" Her later poems do not seem 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 of 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 touch 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 chddish 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 ! Long has thy voice been silent, and thy lyre H ung 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 of 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, and 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 birlh. Of sinners saved and sins forgiven : When mine are washed in tears away, Then shall 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 my heart. Then shall each word, each note I raise, Burst forth in pealing hymns of praise : And all not offered at his shrine, 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. MARY E. HEWITT. The maiden name of Mrs. Hewitt was Mary Elizabeth Moore, and she is a na- tive of Maiden, a country town about five miles from Boston, in which city she resided until her removal to New York, in 1829, about two years after her marriage with Mr. James L. Hewitt, now of that city. Mrs. Hewitt's earlier poems appeared in The Knickerbocker Magazine and other pe- riodicals, under the signature of " lone," and in 1845 she published in Boston a volume 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 at- tributed to her. Her compositions in this collection show that she has a fine and well- cultivated understanding, informed with avo- manly 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. Hewitt are some elegant translations, which illustrate her taste and learning and fine command of language. THE SONGS OE OUR LAND. Ye say we sing no household songs. To children round our hearths at play ; No minstrelsy to us belongs. No legend of a bygone day — No old tradition of the hills — 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 many 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 archives 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 lamraergeyer's flight, 1- The startled chamois bounding by ; He snuifs 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 gladsome burst By all 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 misietoe ; 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 burning memory of their wrongs Lit up their path to victory • 157 158 MARY E. HEWITT. 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 scofl' 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 thee groat and free — Did I not look to hear thee sung, To hear thy lyre yet proudly strung, Thou ne'er had waked my minstrelsy : And I shall hear thy song resound. Till from his shackles man shall bound, And shout, exultant, " Liberty !" 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 firelock, 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 TWO VOICES. A VOICE 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 ; And the hill-tops kindled, peak and height, With a hundred answering pyres. I'he quick youth snatched 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 ; 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 fathers from the wild A land wherein to rest : Hail, to the power that giveth The bounty of the soil, And fi-eedom, and an honored name. To the hardy sons of toil ! MARY, E. HEWITT. 159 A THOUGHT OF THE PILGRIMS. How beauteous in the morning light, Bright ghttering in her pride, Trimouiitain,* 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 •Vfcaters dark, ('areering on their way, Full many a gallant, home-bound bark Comes dashing up the bay : Their pennons float on morning's gale. The sunlight gilds each swelling sail. And flashes on the spray. Not thus toward fair New England's coast. With eager-hearted crew, The pilgrim-freighted, tempest-tost. And lonely May Flower drew : There was no hand outstretched to bless. No welcome 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, lliat seenred the billows' force to mock. Broke forth the sea-gull's cry. God's blessing on their memories ! Those sturdy men and bold, Who girt their hearts in righteousness. Like martyr saints of old ; 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 what 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 planted fields of yellow grain And built their dwellings there. The pilgrim sires ! — How from the night Of centuries dim and vast, It comes o'er every hill and height — That watchword from the past ! And old men's pulses quicker bound. And young hearts leap to hear the bound, As at the trumpet's blast. * Boston — built upon three hills — was originally named, the early settlerp, " 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. Crowneb 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 : With her hundred tall and tapering spires, 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 Aphrodite, 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 ! With thought of thy free ocean wind. And the clasping, fond old tide — With 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 hearts, Oh, city by the sea ! My heritage, and priceless dower. My beautiful, in thee ! ItiO MARY E. HEWITT. THE SUNFLOWER TO THE SUN. Htmettus' bees 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 the cloud 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, Thessalia's shepherd, on me smiled, And likened to thine own my amber hair. Thou art my life — sustainer 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 I 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 hke me, or give me life like thine ! THE LAST CHANT OF CORINNE. Br that mysterious sympathy which chaineth For evermore my spirit unto thine ; And by the memory, that alone remain eth. 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 hfe with her fond eyes : Hear me, adored one ! though the world divide us, Though never more my hand in thine be pressed, Though to commingle thought be here denied us. Till our high hearts shall beat themselves to rest ; Forget me not, forget me not ! oh, ever This one, one prayer, my spirit pours to thee ; Till 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 !"• * Clytia, daughter of O'chamus kins of Bab.vlon, was beloved by Apollo ; but the god deserting her, she pined away with continually gazing on the sun, and was changed to the .iower denominated from him, which turns as he moves, to 'ook at his light 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. When 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. HERCULES AND OIPHALE. 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 Cleonaean lion wore. Holds forth the goblet — while the Lydian queen, Rob'd lik e a nymph, her brow enwreath'd with vine. Lifts high the amphora, brimmed with rosy wine, And pours the draught the crowned cup within. And thus the soul, abased to sensual sway, Its worth forsakes — its might forgoes for aye. TITTOS CHAIJfED IN TAIITARUS. Oh, wondrous marvel of the sculptor's art ! What cunninghand hath cull'd thee from the mine, 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. HEWITT. 161 A YARN. " 'T IS Saturday night, and our watch below — What heed we, boys, how the breezes blow, W"hile our cans are brimmed with the sparkling 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 told 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. ' Our bark may never outride the gale — 'T is a pitiless night ! the pattering hail Hath coated each spar as 'twere 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 sleet 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. Uj) spake the mate, and his tone was gay — ' Shall we at this hour to fear give way 1 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 high over all, in tones of glee, The voice of the mate rang cheerily — ' Now, men, for your wives' and your sweethearts' sakes ! Cheer, messmates, cheer ! — quick ! man the brakes ! We '11 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.' 11 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 yam 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. While the dead around me bestrewed the deck. Yea, the dead were round me every whcie ! 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 abright,gladsmilo,. And praying, ' Be merciful, God !' the while. True to his trust, to his last chill gasp. The helm lay clutched in his stiff, cold grasps — 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 near Oh, if this be to love thee, I 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, sleeping — waking-.— Oh ! if this be to love thee. I'do love ' 162 MARY E. HEWITT. LOVE'S PLEADING. Speak tender words, mine own beloved, to me — Call me thy lily — thy imperial one, That, like the Persian, breathes adoringly Its fragrant 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. Folds 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 ; And like the plant that hath its root in air, I only live within thy atmosphere. Look 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 thrilling as thine own ! Say I am dearer to thee than renown. My praise more treasured than the world's acclaim : ('all me thy laurel — thy victorious crown. Wreathed in unfading glory 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 kindling glow Brightly o'er all its radiance throw, Back to the years my memories flow, When Rome sat on 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 : Yet still 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, W^ith 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 yesty 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. HEWITT. 163 THE ODE OF HAROLD THE VALIANT. I 3111) the hills was born, 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 I, 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, Out 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, Brimfull 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, &c. 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 1 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, A nd 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 X AT 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 — t 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 sunht 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 'II 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 firom 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. Ayer, 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 com- 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, miprofaned 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 splendor Jaurst. 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 Imalee, 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 Reason 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 ofl!ering 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 hved 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 her heart, but why, she dares not own : Her head is raised, her cheek like sunset glows ; Again it breathes, " Wilt thou restore the rose 1" 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 gods and 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 peculiar, breathing calm- Bright Imalee, 'tis thine once more to own, Abroad upon the wave — but not alone. 164 SUSAN R. A. BARNES. 1(J5 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 fi-ame were iron, A glorious destiny is thine, Undaunted CcEur 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 days 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 ! Unmoumed and unrepressed, behold Life's energies decline — Worn, wasted in unholy fires : / And what reward is thine 1 The world, once worshipped, spurns thee no^ Rejects thee — casts thee hence — And thou art nursing injured pride. And dreamst of penitence I 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 In-eparable 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 : This — this is penitence I SARAH HELEN WHITMAN, 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 PoAver 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 ills 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 Winslow, 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. Wms- 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 soon compelled him to abandon his profes- sion, and after a brief union his wife re- turned, a widow, to the house of her mother, in 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 (iermany, Italy, and France. Shehasgiv- Hn her most loving attention to the poets, critics! and philosophers, of the first of these countries, who have in a larger degree than 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- tled 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 as weal as new." Nothing can be finer in its Avay 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 rank 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 v/ide 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. SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 167 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY: ' A TALE OF FORESTS AND ENCHANTMENTS DREAR." £1 Ptiiscroso. Sister, 'tis tlie noon of niijlit ! — Lee usi, in the web of thou^ljt, We^ve tiie threads of ancient song, From the realms of Fairies brouglit. Thou slialt stain the dusky warp III nightsl»:ide wet with tv;ihj;ht dew: 1, with streaks of morning gold, Will strike the fabric tlir.iugli and through. * Where 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 showers^ The winds roared fiercely round the pile, And moaned along its mouldering towers. Within those wide and echoing halls. To guard her from 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 should sleep a hundred years. The wild waves beat the castle 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 solitary 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 castle 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, And 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 lier sis- ter, Jiliss Power, as 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. Who 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 spindle'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 snowa Shall beat against the castle walls. Nor wake thee fi-om thy long repose. A hundred times the golden grain Shall virave 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 all 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 liiiil' Then drew the curtain's dusky fold To make the entering daylight dim. 168 SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. PART II. And all around, on eA'ery side. Throughout the castle's precincts wide, In every bower and hall, All slept : the warder in the court, The figures on the arras wrought. The steed within his stall. No more the watchdog bayed 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 their branches flung, So close the covert grew. No foot its silence 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 ])assed. 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 chillness loads the lurid air, Where baleful swamp-fires gleam and glare. His pathway to illume. Well might the warrior's courage fail, Well might his lofty spirit quail. On that enchanted ground ; No o]/efi foeman meets him there, But, borne upon the murky air, Strange horror broods around ! At every turn liis 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 gloomy portal gained — He crossed the threshold's magic bound. 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 oflf, with faint and trembling beam, Athwart the midnight gloom: Then first he felt the touch of fear, As with slow footsteps drawing near. Ho 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 I 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 fi-om 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. Marking 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 all — 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 ti-ead 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 all 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, PdTuse 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 1 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 1 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 Culls 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 love the Borealis' 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 gloiy. And hke a dream of beauty glides away. How through each loved, familiar path she lingers, Serenely smiling through the golden mist. Tinting the wild gi-ape 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 fiom 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 de,wy 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 hillside 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." Jy the soft gloom of summer's balmy eve, When from the lingering glances of the sun The sad Earth turns away her blushing cheek, Mantling its glow in twilight's shadowy veil, Oft mid the falling dews I love to stray Onward and onward through the pleasant fields, Far up the lihed borders of the stream, To this " green, silent spot among the hills," 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 blossomed vines, dropped to the water's brim, Hang idly swaying in the summer wind. The birdsthatwanderthrough 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 thoughtsfrom 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 fi-inged 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 trembling 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 fi-equent clouds shut out the summer heaven, But still the calm Earth keeps her constant course. And whispershope through all herbrcathingflowers. Not all in vain the vision of our youth — The apocalypse of beauty and of love — The staglike 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 al' in vain. Meantime, in patient trust liest we on Nature's bosom — from her eye Serene and still, drinking in faith and love, To her calm pulse 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 patient harvest. Give me strength In generous abandonment of heart To follow wheresoe'er o'er the world's waste The cloudy pillar moveth, till at last It guide to pleasant vales and pastures green By the still waters of eternal life. THE WAKING OP THE HEART. * Pleasure sits in the flower cups. nd breathes itself out in ftaerHnce." Make I. As the fabled stone into music woke When the morning sun o'er the marble broke, So wakes the heart fi-om its stem 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 fi-om 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 firom 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 blossoms 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 flutelike 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 untold 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 fi-aught, 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 srnile, departing distant sun Ere o'er tlie frozen eartli tlie loud winds run And snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare." -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 delicate 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 refracing 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 u^ 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 tall 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 loveHest 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 frees 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 baik 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 calm 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 hill 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 all is o'er. Before to-morrow's sun Cold winds may rise and shrouding shadows dun Obscure the scene — yet shall these fading hues And fleeting forms their loveliness transfuse Into the mind — and memory shall burn The painting in on her enamelled urn In undecaying colors. When the blast Rages around and snows are gathering fast. When musing sadly by the twilight hearth Or lonely wandering through hfe's crowded path Its quiet beauty rising through the gloom Shall sooth the languid spirits and illume The drooping fancy — 'winning back the soul [trol. To cheerful thoughts through nature's sweet cotj 172 SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. THE LOST CHURCH. FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. In yonder dim and pathless wood Strange sounds are heard at twilight hour. And 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 hath 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, far off, that solemn bell : Still heavenward as my spirit soared. Wilder and 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 golden 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. Yet 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 In waves 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 fa -Goethe'e Helena, Thick darkness broodeth o'er the world: The raven pinions of the Night Close on her silent bosom furled, Reflect no gleam of orient light. E'en the wild 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 pale 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 day. 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 on the lotus flowers ; Shut out this false, bewildering gleam. The dreamlight of departed hours ! The Future can no chai-m confer, My heart's deep solitudes to break — No angel's foot aga^n shall stir The waters of that silent lake. SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 17H I wander in pale dreams away, And shun the morning's golden star, To follow still that failing 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 and lingering beam, One memory of departed hours ! A SEPTEMBER EVENING ON THE BANKS OF THE MOSHASSUCK. " Now to the sessions of sweet, silent thought, I summon up remembraace of things past." Skakspere^s Sonnets, Agaiw 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 ; While far aloft where pine trees throw Their shade athwart the sunset glow, Thin vapors cloud the illumined air And parting daylight lingers there. But ah, no longer thou 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 unwithered 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 sjjunds 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 royal palace stands. " I '11 fill thy 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 pebbles leap around Mm And frolic at his feet. At night no cruel hostess Receives him with a frown ; He sleeps where all the quiet stars Are calmly looking down. The Moon comes gliding through the tiees, 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 hira with a smile. STANZAS WITH A BRIDAL RING 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. l/'4 SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. SHE BLOOMS NO MORE. "Oh primavera, gioventu dell' anno, Bella madre di fiori Tu tnrui ben, ma teco Non tornani i sereni E fortunati di delle mi gioge." — Guarini. I DREAD 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. Shr 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 Hlac waves her plumes, And peeping through my lattice-bars The rose-acacia blooms. Bieathe but one word, ye starry flowers! One httle 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 violets 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 spi-ing, Nor roam the flowery braes among In the year's young blossoming ; Nor 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 Unfolding one by one. They speak of things that once have been, But never more can be : And earth all decked in smiles again Is still a waste to me. THE MAIDEN'S DREAM. ' Thrice hallowed be that beautiful dawn of love when the maiden's cheek still blushes at the consciuus sweetness of htv own innocent thoughts." — Jean Paul. 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 slumber 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. 17.5 ROGER WILLIAMS. Now, while the echoing cannon's roar Rocks our far frontal towers, And bugle blast and trumpet's blare Float o'er the " Land of Flowers ;" While our bold eagle 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 hnger still In the 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, amid 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 drearv change is wrought I 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 eflace ; 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 pahn Around their funeral urn ! HOW SOFTLY COMES THE SUMMI^R WIND. Ho-w 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-bau, A brooding glory streams Around me, like the golden shower That rained through Danae's guarded towej A low, bewildering melody Is murmuring in my ear — Tones such as in the twilight woo'3 liO SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. ' The aspen thrills to hear, When Faunus slumbers on the hill, And all the tranced 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. In 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 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 tliink 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. I linger till 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. Divinely beautiful and bright As on the hills of paradise. Lo ! like a dewdrop on its breast The morning star of youth and love, Meiting 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 Allure the wandering spirit home. DAVID. SUGGASTED 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 valiant 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 m 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 sohtary hills afar, And brings sweet tidings of the lingering mom ; Or weary at the day-god's loitering wane. Strikes on the harp of hght 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 lonely 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. And 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 challenge many a summer's day Rang through the border hills, while 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, devoutly 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 im mortal fight. * This fine statue, executed by Thomas F. Hoppin, of Providence, R. I., represents the youn;j cliampion of Is- rael as he stands prepared to attack the Philistine. ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 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-Shith 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 afiairs 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 ^2 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 rims 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 far above mere intellectu- ality ; that the higliest order of human in- telligence springs from the moral and not the reasoning faculties. One of her most popular poems is The Acorn, which, though 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, ol which she has writ- ten many, have not been as much admired asJThe 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 universal 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 is it that in every heart, unless thoroughlv cor* 178 ELIZABETH OAKES-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 discriminating 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 bold : I like not her forbiding air, And forehead high and cold. The orphans have no cause for grief, She dare not give it now, Tliough nothing but 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 Tielghs the steed from out the stall : What form is gliding near 1 No latch is raised, no step is heard, But a phantom fills the sjiH.e — 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 that 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 : GUARDIAIf 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 thei/ 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 OAKES-SMITH. 179 riELD ELVES. 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 petals 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 stately forest tree Till his robe was fresh and new. SUPERSTITIOTT. For oft her mother sought the child Amid the forest glade. And marvelled that in darksome glen So tranquilly she stayed. For every jagged 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 dbwn 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. COIfSCIEN'CE. " Dear mother ! in ourselves is hid The holy 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 Should 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 rm 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. INFAIfT 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 thai 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 Irivolous 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 hi- tent only upon the emancipation of *he em ISO 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 and 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 Anthemius to his mistress : The Hun strade up and down his tent, and swore The plan was worthy Attila himself^ — Then laid his finger to his brow, and, thus — Gods what a progeny might spring such veins con- joined ! But she, Uke Attila, loves pomp and power — She, with her finely 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 r.ound and spear and sound of bugle-horn ; In wantonness you march to Rome, or here: 'J'hy palace by the Danube bravely shows With reeking rafters, horns, and skins, and shields. Allila, (inten-upfing him^ And men, stout men, true, and a thousand strong. Ant. I do beUeve them true, and strong, and bold. B-^bold our blazoned walls — purple and gold ! Wine not from tusk of boar, or horn of deer, But blushing golden in the golden vase — Ait. (scornfully.') A fair picture, proud Roman — goodly walls. With hollow faith — men, curlud 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. Nor dies like a poor reptile in his hole. IDas/ies the ciipj'rom him and drmvs his svmrd. 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 — • K.UnOCl A filters, tmoliscrvcd, andpronrntnccs htr name S'fll;i Who called 1 — the slightest sound grows fearful to Ay, thus it is, that we in our poor pride [me ! 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, (softly.') 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. [EUDOCIA r«7r.;?. 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 shectctd 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: # Eud. 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 "? 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. Eud. Nay, mistake me not. [office. Ble. Thou needst not fear ; I do respect thine Eud. It is enough ; thy leech is unknown to thee. Ble. {starting and taking hold of her veil.) By the gods — that voice ! Eud. 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 Eud. 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 ! [To 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 why not Bleda, urged less by pride than love 1 I would become a Christian ; the meanest knight Who doth her service, should his ofRce 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 EuBociA.] -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. Eud. (aside.) I can not lift my knees, or I would \_To Bleda.] Thy tale — I must away. Ble. 'Tis told: I love Eudocia! and thou Eud. Thy words are madness ! [^Aside.J 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 Will 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 1 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 Frince. Such ills admit of no redemption — none ! Behold this circlet : hghtly worn as 't is. 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 suiferance 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 Theodosius, determined to revenge her wrongs : Eud. The stillness of this room is most terrible ! I wish that he would move. l^Ske lifts the dagger and approaches the coucJi Oh, the long, long, eternal sleep ! He stirs ! now— No, he sleeps. 'Tis pitiful: thejawadown; The loose brown flesh impending round the chh> The eyes, like sunken and encased balls, Shut in from speculation ; the thin locks. All wantoned by the wind, do mock at them ! Helpless and sleeping with his folded hands • [.SVte turns *in^ Oh, I am glad to mark there is no line 182 ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. To win on human love — nor any shows Nor prints of grand old worth to plead for him ; No imperial majesty is there — No lion-like rebuke, uncurbed by sleep, To shame me for the deed that I will do. [Jicein-tis mid hr.nde over him. A haggard, pallid, 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: Eoy, 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 the little ones To bleed and die within their mother's arms ! Child, (loeeping!) I will never be so vile ; I will And merciful as thou hast taught me. [be brave Eud. {fondly.) Wilt thou, pretty dear 1 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 1 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 1 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 ] [sued, Child, (.sobbing.) My poor, dear dove ! Eud. Ay, thine innocent dove ! Liisten, child ! Li 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 I'ears of unmingled pity — aching tears ! Empire has long since 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 rnverse of these painful scenes is the love of Manlius and Helena, in which sim- ple affections and every-day perceptions take the place of more profound emotions. The character of Petrus gives opportunity for (iiiaint humor as well as efficient advance- inrnt of the plot. Mrs. Oakes-Smith'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 lavv^ful aciion 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, Avhen — he meantime having become the people's governor — she hears that Sloughter 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 aiirf HANNAH. 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. H in. Oh, dearest madam ! you are so still — • Eliz. Leave me — it were best. [.BavY 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 cheer 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 3'et but see the ruby-girdled heart, How would ye shrink with dread, and bless the lot Of honest toil ! I do forget the secret of my grief. ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 183 Enter LEISI.ER, hurriedly. Leis. My sweet wife, thou art fit to wear a crown ! I '11 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. [Sees the letter. A letter 1 well, put it by — I '11 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 1 Eliz. The vase of life is rarely garland-crowned. Leis. Nay, dearest, thou dost think me ambitious, And tremblest lest the household altar dim. Eliz. Nay, fill thee with great thoughts, and me forget. Leh, Thou dost reproach me, love ; it can not be. Eliz, Dost love me, Leisler 1 Leis. Love thee, Bess ■? To doatingness, to mad- ness ! Eliz. Because that I am fair, and true, and good ] Leis. A very angel ; nay, better, an all, all wo- man l Eliz. Dost love me, Leisler ] 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 ? 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 ] I had not lived until I knew thee ! Love thee 1 Oh oh oh ! [ Tl,rou