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FRANCESCA ANNA PASCALIS, a daughter of Dr. Felix Pascalis, an Italian physician and scholar, who had married a native of Philadelphia, and resided several years in that city, was born in August, 1803. While she was a child her parents removed to New York, where Dr. Pascalis was conspicuous not only for his professional abilities, but for his writings upon various curious and abstruse subjects 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 characteristic 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 of her own fine and precocious powers.

While yet at school Miss Pascalis translated for a friend a volume from Lavater, and soon afterward she made a beautiful English version of the Roman Nights from Le Notti Romane al Sepolcro Dei Scipioni of Alessandro Verri. She also translated The Solitary 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 various 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 purported to be from Le Brun.

A "marriage of convenience" was arranged for Miss Pascalis with Mr. Canfield, a broker, who after a few months became a bankrupt, and could never retrieve his fortunes. She bore her disappointments without complaining, and when her husband established a financial and commercial gazette, she labored industriously to make it attractive by literature; but there was a poor opportunity among tables of currency and trade for the display of her graceful abilities, and her writings probably attracted little attention. She was a good pianist, and she painted with such skill that some of her copies of old masters deceived 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 consumption, which can scarcely enter the home of a cheerful spirit, she died on the twentyeighth of May, 1823, before completing the twentieth year of her age.

Dr. Pascalis, whose chief hopes were centred in his daughter, abandoned his pursuits,

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?
And thus he earns a meed of praise
From nations yet unborn;
Still he, whom present pomp repays,
His arduous toil may scorn;
But wiser, sure, than hoard the rose,
Which low for each wayfarer blows,

And lives a summer morn,
To climb the rocky mountain way,
And gather the unfading bay.

Yet wo for him whose mental worth
Fame's thousand tongues resound!
While living, every worm of earth
Seems privileged to wound.
His victory not the less secure,
Let him the strife with nerve endure,
In death his triumph found;
Then worlds shall with each other vie,
To spread the name that can not die.

EDITH.

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

[known,

Beneath a lovelier heaven in kindlier climates Whose beauty, both the moral and the mortal, Stood at perfection's portal

And still doth hold a rank surpassing all compare; By the divinely meek and placid air

Which witnesseth so well that all the charms
It lights and warms,

Though but the finer fashion of the clay
Deserve to be adored, since they

Are emanations from a soul allowed
Thus radiantly to glorify its dwelling
That goodness like a visible thing avowed,
May awe and win, and temper and prevail :
And by all these combined!

I call upon thy form ideal,

So deeply in my memory shrined,

To rise before my vision, like the real,
Whenever passion's tides are swelling,

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 ceaseAnd round me falls an atmosphere of peace.

MISS ELIZABETH BOGART, descended from a Huguenot family distinguished in the mercantile and social history of New York, and a daughter of the late Rev. David S. Bogart, one of the most accomplished divines of the last generation, was born in the city of New York. Her father was shortly afterward settled 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 Hempstead, where he was installed in the Reformed Dutch Church, in which he had been educated. In 1826, he removed again to New York, where his family have since resided.

About the year 1825 Miss Bogart began to write, under the signature of "Estelle," for

the New York Mirror, then recently established; 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 constructive 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 almost everything she has given to the public has an impromptu air, which shows that literature has scarcely been cultivated by her as an art, while it has constantly been resorted 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, 't is true,
Hang from these mountain-sides to meet the view;
But fairer than the vineyards is the sight
Of our luxuriant forests, which, despite
The change of nations, hold their ancient place,
Lost to the Indian race.
Untiring I survey

The prospect from my window, day by day:
Something forgotten, though just seen before,
Something of novelty or beauty more
Than yet discovered, ever charms my eyes,
And wakes a fresh surprise.

And thus, when o'er my heart
A weary thought is stealing, while apart
From friends and the gay world I sit alone,
With life's dark veil upon the future thrown,
I look from out my window, and there find
A solace for the mind.

The Indian Summer's breath
Sighs gently o'er the fallen leaflet's death,

And bids the frost-king linger on his way
Till Autumn's tints have brightened o'er decay.
What other clime can such rich painting show?
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 affection and kindred, and snatching away
The beloved from around me, whose praise was the
prize

Which lured me in Poesy's pathway to stray.

FORGETFULNESS.

WE parted!-Friendship's dream had cast
Deep interest o'er the brief farewell,
And left upon the shadowy past

Full many a thought on which to dwell:
Such thoughts as come in early youth,
And live in fellowship with hope;
Robed in the brilliant hues of truth,
Unfitted with the world to cope.

We parted. He went o'er the sea,
And deeper solitude was mine;
Yet there remained in memory

For feeling still a sacred shrine:
And Thought and Hope were offered up
Till their ethereal essence fled,
And Disappointment from the cup
Its dark libations poured instead.
We parted. "T was an idle dream

That thus we e'er should meet again;

For who that knew man's heart, would deem That it could long unchanged remain ?— He sought a foreign clime, and learned

Another language, which expressed To strangers the rich thoughts that burned With unquenched power within his breast.

And soon he better loved to speak

In those new accents than his own; His native tongue seemed cold and weak To breathe the wakened passions' tone. He wandered far, and lingered long,

And drank so deep of Lethe's stream,
That each new feeling grew more strong,
And all the past was like a dream.

We met a few glad words were spoken,
A few kind glances were exchanged;
But friendship's first romance was broken-
His had been from me estranged.

I felt it all-we met no more

My heart was true, but it was proud;
Life's early confidence was o'er,

And hope had set beneath a cloud.
We met no more-for neither sought
To reunite the severed chain
Of social intercourse; for naught
Could join its parted links again.
Too much of the wide world had been
Between us for too long a time,
And he had looked on many a scene,
The beautiful and the sublime.

And he had themes on which to dwell,
And memories that were not mine,
Which formed a separating spell,

And drew a mystic boundary line.

His thoughts were wanderers-and the things Which brought back friendship's joys to me, To him were but the spirit's wings

Which bore him o'er the distant sea.

For he had seen the evening star

Glancing its rays o'er ocean's waves, And marked the moonbeams from afar, Lighting the Grecian heroes' graves; And he had gazed on trees and flowers Beneath Italia's sunny skies,

And listened, in fair ladies' bowers,

To Genius' words and Beauty's sighs.
His steps had echoed through the halls
Of grandeur, long left desolate;
And he had climbed the crumbling walls,
Or oped perforce the hingeless gate;
And mused o'er many an ancient pile,
In ruin still magnificent,

Whose histories could the hours beguile
With dreams, before to Fancy lent.

Such recollections come to him,

With moon, and stars, and summer flowers;
To me they bring the shadows dim
Of earlier and of happier hours.

I would those shadows darker fell--
For life, with its best powers to bless,
Has but few memories loved as well
Or welcome as forgetfulness!

HE CAME TOO LATE.

He came too late!-Neglect had tried
Her constancy too long;

Her love had yielded to her pride,

And the deep sense of wrong.
She scorned the offering of a heart
Which lingered on its way,
Till it could no delight impart,

Nor spread one cheering ray.
He came too late!-At once he felt
That all his power was o'er:
Indifference in her calm smile dwelt-
She thought of him no more.
Anger and grief had passed away,

Her heart and thoughts were free; She met him, and her words were gayNo 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.

MISS MARY E. AIKEN, a native of New York, was for several years a contributor to the Mirror and other periodicals, under the signature of "Norna," her sister, during the same period, writing under the pseudonyme of "Hinda." In 1828 she was married to Mr. James G. Brooks, a gentleman of fine abilities, who was well known as the author of many graceful pieces, in prose and verse, signed "Florio." In the following year appeared 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 short poems, in the same volume, are written with more care, and have much more merit.

Mr. Brooks was at this time connected with one of the New York journals; but in 1830 he removed to Winchester, in Virginia, where he was for several years editor of a political and literary gazette. In 1838 he returned to New York, and established himself 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 been
Hath taught us naught or little.'

FROM the deep and stirring tone,
Ever on the midnight breaking,
Came a whisper thrill and lone

O'er my silent vigil waking:
"Come to me! the dreamy hour
Fades before the spoiler's power!
Come! the passing tide is strong,
As it bears thy life along;
Soon another seal for thee
Stamps the stern Futurity.
Bow thee-bend thee to the light
Stealing on thy spirit sight,
From the bygone's faded bloom,
From the shadow and the gloom,
From each strange and changeful scene
Which amid thy path has been;
And oh, let it wake for thee,
Beacon of the days to be!"

Soft before my sight was spreading

Many a sweet and sunny flower; Pleasure bright, her promise shedding, Gilded o'er each fairy bower: Oh, it was a laughing glee, Hanging o'er Futurity; Blisses mid young beauties bloomingHopes, no sullen griefs entombingLoves that vowed to link for ever, Cold or blighted, never-never; Not a shadow on the dome Fancy reared for days to comeNot 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?
Idols once in sunlight glancing,

Ay, that claimed each starting sigh,
With the green-leafed promise dancing
Round the heart so merrily-
Where was now the waking blossom
Should be wreathing round the bosom?
Only lay a mist far spreading,
Dim and dimmer twilight shedding,
Like to fever's fitful gleam,

Like to sleeper's troubled dream;
In the cold and perished Past
Lay the mighty strife at last.
Oft that dim and visioned treading,
Where the frail and fair decay,
Comes upon my bosom, shedding

Light through many a rising day.
Phantoms now in beauty ranging,
Dreaming ne'er of chill or changing,
Bright and gay and flashing all,
How their voiceless shadows fall!
Go-the weeper's heart is weary;
Go-the widow's wail is dreary:
Thousand-toned the agony

On each night-breeze sweeping by : Go-and for each little flower Wreathed about the blighted bower, Bright, when suns and stars have set, Will a flow'ret blossom yet.