FRANCESCA CANFIELD. ww 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; But soon the icy mass shall melt, The plants from torpid sleep shall wake, Of foliage and of flowers. The feathered tribes shall flit along, Or make retirement sweet. To entertain my fair, 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, Ida, the heaven-crowned, feels the storm Yet pass thou proudly by! Or, shouldst thou dread the threats to brave Break thou the sceptre genius gave, And quench thy spirit's fire; 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 While ages past before, To him their future being trust, Could Genius' son have ever vowed 'Gainst all that leads the human breast, From Science' haunts to steal, To beauty, wealth, and ease, and cheer- And lives a summer morn, Yet wo for him whose mental worth EDITH. By those blue eyes that shine Yet with a lustre to their softness lent By the young smile on lips whose accents fall 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 Though but the finer fashion of the clay Are emanations from a soul allowed I call upon thy form ideal, So deeply in my memory shrined, To rise before my vision, like the real, Or vanity misleads, or discontent Through the still hours of night to lonely eyes. I gaze and muse thereon, and tempests ceaseAnd round me falls an atmosphere of peace. ELIZABETH BOGART. 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 Which look down on the vine. No clustering grapes, 't is true, The prospect from my window, day by day: And thus, when o'er my heart The Indian Summer's breath And bids the frost-king linger on his way RETROSPECTION. AN EXTRACT. I'm weary with thinking! with visions that pass 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, But how has it come ?-Oh! by breaking the ties Which lured me in Poesy's pathway to stray. FORGETFULNESS. WE parted!-Friendship's dream had cast Full many a thought on which to dwell: We parted. He went o'er the sea, For feeling still a sacred shrine: 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, We met a few glad words were spoken, I felt it all-we met no more My heart was true, but it was proud; And hope had set beneath a cloud. And he had themes on which to dwell, 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. Whose histories could the hours beguile Such recollections come to him, With moon, and stars, and summer flowers; I would those shadows darker fell-- HE CAME TOO LATE. He came too late!-Neglect had tried Her love had yielded to her pride, And the deep sense of wrong. Nor spread one cheering ray. Her heart and thoughts were free; She met him, and her words were gayNo spell had Memory. He came too late!-The subtle chords Not by offence of spoken words, But by the slights that wound. He came too late!-Her countless dreams No charms dwelt in his chosen themes, Nor in his whispered tone. And when, with word and smile, he tried Affection still to prove, She nerved her heart with woman's pride, And spurned his fickle love. MARY E. BROOKS. MISS MARY E. AIKEN, a native of New York, was for several years a contributor to the Mirror and other periodicals, under the signature of "Norna," her sister, during the same period, writing under the pseudonyme of "Hinda." In 1828 she was married to Mr. James G. Brooks, a gentleman of fine abilities, who was well known as the author of many graceful pieces, in prose and verse, signed "Florio." In the following year 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 FROM the deep and stirring tone, O'er my silent vigil waking: 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, Hope, fame, rapture-loved and gay— Ay, that claimed each starting sigh, Like to sleeper's troubled dream; Light through many a rising day. 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. |