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 life, [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! I 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

Wilt thou not look on me?

Doth thy heart swell

[Casting herself at his feet.

With an unwonted fulness? 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'lt hear me.
His trust in flattering tongues for ever cured,
His wild hopes mock'd,his young ambition quench'd,
His wisdom ripened by adversity,

Forth from his prison will my husband come
A subject true and faithful to thy sway.
And I will lead him far away from courts,
Into the heart of lonely Scottish hills;
There by some quiet lake his home shall be,
So still and happy, that his stormy youth,
With all its perilous follies, will but seem
As a dim memory of some former state,
In some forgotten world. He shall grow old
Ruling my simple vassals with such power
As a brave hand and gentle heart may use;
And never, never ask again, what blood
Flows in his veins; nor dream one idle dream
Of courtiers, palaces, and sparkling crowns,
While these fond lips can whisper winning words,
And woman's ever-busy love can weave
Ties strong but viewless round his manly heart.
Thou'lt hear it not, but in that blesséd home
How will I murmur in my nightly 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 power
Through long, long years, to bind up bleeding hearts,
And use thy sceptre as a wand of peace!
My tears they flowed not when I prayed--but now
The grateful gush declares, when language fails,
The ecstasy of joy!

Enter a Messenger, who presents a packet to the King. He breaks it open, and, after casting his eye over it, turns 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? What sawest thou mirrored in my face?

Lady C. A nameless terror robs me of all strength. That packet! oh, these quick and dread forebodings! Speak! it were mercy should thine accents kill. K. Hen. Thou hast a noble spirit: rouse it now Daughter of Gordon.

Lady C. King! say on-say all.

K. Hen. Art thou prepared?

Lady C. What matters it? speak, speak! Prepared? what, with this dizzy, whirling brain? Comes fortitude amid such fierce suspense? Tell me the worst-and show thy pity so.

K. Hen. Blanched, gasping, but angelic still!—
What words

Can sheathe the piercing news? Thy suit
Was all too late, true wife! He is in heaven.

[LADY CATHERINE faints.

"Pale rose of England!"-men have named thee well.

What brought me hither? 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 not return-but she may live!
Quit not the broken-hearted! weeping maid.
She hath been true till death. And I will give
Shelter to sorrow such as these stern eyes
Ne'er saw till now. To my own gentle queen
Will I consign the victim of harsh times, [rose!
Thou shouldst have bloomed 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 pretender to the crown appeared, in the person of Perkin Warbeck, a youth who declared himself to be Richard, Duke of York, second son of Edward IV. He was supported by Margaret of York, the Duke of Burgundy, 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 forsaken him; and it is said that the cold heart of Henry was so softened by her loveliness, constancy, and sorrow for her husband, that he relented in his bloody and purpose, instead of taking her life, as he had intended, placed her honorably in his queen's household. Warbeck had adopted the title of the Pale Rose of England;" but the people transferred it to her.-See Mackintosh's History of Eng land, Philadelphia ed., p. 197.

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 literature 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, published in Boston in 1844. She has also edited the works of her husband, in four volumes. The larger part of her poems are contained in a volume published in Boston,

in 1839.

SACHEM'S HILL.

HERE, from this little hillock,
In days long since gone by,
Glanced over hill and valley

The sachem's eagle eye:
His were the pathless forests,
And his the hills so blue,
And on the restless, ocean
Danced only his canoe.
Here stood the aged chieftain,
Rejoicing in his glory:

How deep the shade of sadness

That rests upon his story!

For the white man came with power,

Like brethren here they met-
But the Indian fires went out,
And the Indian sun has set.

And the chieftain has departed,
Gone is his hunting-ground,
And the twanging of his bowstring
Is a forgotten sound:
Where dwelleth yesterday—and
Where is echo's cell?

Where has the rainbow vanished?-
There does the Indian dwell.

But in the land of spirits

The Indian has a place,

And there, midst saints and angels,
He sees his Maker's face:
There from all earthly passions
His heart may be refined,

And the mists that once enshrouded
Be lifted from his mind.

And should his freeborn spirit
Descend again to earth,
And here, unseen, revisit

The spot that gave him birth,
Would not his altered nature

Rejoice with rapture high,

At the changed and glorious prospect
That now would meet his eye?

Where nodded pathless forests,
There now are stately domes;
Where hungry wolves were prowling,
Are quiet, happy homes;
Where rose the savage warwhoop,
Are heard sweet village bells,
And many a gleaming spire

Of faith in Jesus tells.

And he feels his soul is changed-
"Tis 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.

66

WINTER SCENES IN THE COUNTRY.

THE short, dull, rainy day drew to a close;
No gleam burst forth upon the western hills,
With smiling promise of a brighter day,
Dressing the leafless woods with golden light;
But the dense fog hung its dark curtain round,
And the unceasing rain poured like a torrent on.
The wearied inmates of the house draw near
The cheerful fire; the shutters all are closed;
A brightening look spreads round, that seems to say,
Now 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 off, 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,
The 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
The peerless glories of this winter day?
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 to 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 HARRIET WHIPPLE, now Mrs. GREEN, was born in Smithfield, Rhode Island, 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 cultivation of her fine understanding, of which some of the earliest fruits were poems printed in the gazettes from 1830 to 1835. Her first volume was Memoirs of Eleanor Elbridge, 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. Brownson's Boston Quarterly Review. In 1844 she gave to the public Might and Right, a history of the attempted revolution in Rhode Island, known as the Dorr Insurrection. During a part of the year 1842 she conducted The Wampanoag, a journal designed for the elevation of the laboring portion of the community, and she has since been a large contributor to what are called "reform periodicals," particularly The Nineteenth Century, a quarterly miscellany, and The Univercœlum and Spiritual Philosopher, a paper "devoted to philosophico-theology, and an exposition and inculcation of the principles of Nature, in their application to individual and social life." In the autumn of 1848 she became 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 poems is The Dwarf's Story, a gloomy but pas sionate and powerful composition, which appeared in The Rhode Island Book, in 1841. The longest and most carefully finished is Nanuntenoo, a Legend of the Narragansetts, in six cantos, of which the first, second and third were published in Philadelphia in 1848. This is a work of decided and various merit. We have few good poems upon aboriginal superstition, tradition, or history. The best

are Yamoyden, by Sands and Eastburn, Mogg Megone, by Whittier, the Legend of the Andirondach Mountains, by Hoffman, Yonondio, by Hosmer, Nemahmin, 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 descriptive powers scarcely inferior to those of Bryant and Carlos Wilcox, who have been most successful in painting the grand, beautiful, and peculiar scenery of New England. The rhythm is harmonious, and the style generally elegant and poetically ornate. In the delineations of Indian character and adventure, we see fruits of an intelligent study of the colonial annals, and a nice apprehension of the influences of external nature in psychological 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 numerous, and they are marked by idiosyncracies which prove them fruits of a genuine inspiration. Her Songs of the Winds, and sketches of Indian life, from both of which series specimens are given in the following pages, are frequently characterized by a mas-culine energy of expression, and a minute observation of nature. Though occasionally diffuse, 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 delicacy of the poetical faculty.

Mrs. Green has perhaps entered more largely than any of her country women into discussions of religion, philosophy, and politics. 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 consideration of them would be more appropriate in a reviewal of her prose-writings. Their peculiarities are not disclosed in her poems, of which the only law is the sense of beauty.

NEW ENGLAND SUMMER IN THE ANCIENT 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 their 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 lilies bloomed upon their breast,
Love-tokens from the naiads, when they came
To trifle with the deep, impassioned waves.

The wild bee, hovering on voluptuous wing,
Scarce murmured to the blossom, drawing thence
Slumber with honey; then in the purpling cup,
As if oppressed with sweetness, sank to sleep.
The wood-dove tenderly caressed his mate;
Each looked within the other's drowsy eyes,
Till outward objects melted into dreams.

The rich vermilion of the tanager,

Or summer red-bird, flashed amid the green,
Like rubies set in richest emerald.

On some tall maple sat the oriole,

In black and orange, by his pendent nest,

To cheer his brooding mate with whispered songs;
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
Against the soft air-current; then she crept,
With a light, velvet footfall, through the ferns.
The squirrel stayed his gambols; and the songs
Which late through all the forest arches rang,
Were graduated to a harmony

Of 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 almost rivals the old cataract-
As if its thunder had grown tired and hoarse
In striving to be heard above the din-
Two centuries gone, was one unbroken wild,
Where the fierce wolf, the panther, and the snake,
A forest aristocracy, scarce feared

The monarch man, and shared his common lot-
To hunger, plunder from the weak, and slay;
To wake a sudden terror; then lie down,
To be unnamed-unknown-for evermore.

A NARRAGANSETT SACHEM,

FROM THE SAME.

A FOOTFALL broke the silence, as along Pawtucket's bank an Indian warrior passed. Awed by the solemn stillness, he had paused In deep, reflecting mood. A nobler brow Ne'er won allegiance from Roman hosts, Than his black plume half shaded; nor a form Of kinglier bearing, moulded perfectly, E'er flashed on day-dreams of Praxiteles. The mantle that o'er one broad shoulder hung, Was broidered with such trophies as are worn By sachems only. Ghastly rows of teeth Glistened amid the wampum. On the edge A lace of woven scalp-locks was inwrought, Where the soft, glossy brown of white man's hair 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.