A PLEDGE TO THE DYING YEAR. FILL to the brim! one pledge to the past, 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 day beams of promise upon us, Here's to the love-though it flitted away, Oh, frail as the vision, that witching and tender, When Irem's own beauty in shadowless splendor, Fill to the brim! one pledge to the glow Ere sorrow had sullied the fountain below, Fill to that life-tide! oh, warm was its rushing And yet like the wave in the wilderness gushing, "Twill gladden the wine cup to-night. Fill to the past! from its dim distant sphere The strains of the bygone, deep echoing here, And like the bright orb, that in sinking flings back "WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD." Он, weep not for the dead! But never be a tear-drop shed Oh, weep not for the dead! The thousand thorns we tread; Weep for the life-charm early flown, The spirit broken, bleeding, lone; Weep for the death pangs of the heart, Ere being from the bosom part; But never be a tear-drop given *Irem, one of the gardens described by Mohammedplanted, as the commentators of the Koran say, by a king named Shedad, once seen by an Arabian, who wandered very far into the desert in search of a lost camel: a gar DREAM OF LIFE. I HEARD the music of the wave, As light winds swept them o'er- That did the torrent span; The wave rushed on-the hues of heaven And deeper melodies were given As swift the changes flew : The golden bow was dim- I saw him not only a throng In the tempest's wild commotion : There was a rush upon my brain, Then in its mist, far, far away, A phantom seemed to be; But oh, how changed was he! 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, Bring poppies, bring forgetfulness! A lethé 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. 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 windings of the Susquehannah, in Bradford county, 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 United 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 proprieties which are in fashion, she yet ventures very frequently into a more ethereal region." A DREAM OF THE LONELY ISLE. . A thrilling tone through the still air rings, 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. Light as a sea-bird the vessel flew. And I stood on that beautiful isle alone. Long did my footsteps delighted range I watched for the bark, but in vain-in vain ; I stretched my arms o'er the heaving sea, That Love's pure spirit might with me dwell. THE DESERTED HOMESTEAD. THERE is a lonely homestead There are many mansions round it, In the low eaves hath flown; And all night long, the whip-poor-will Ties up the trailing vines; And through the broken casement-panes Seems starting from the gloom; Is drawn upon the plain, Thus standing bare and lone, While all the worshipped household gods And where are they whose voices And some beyond the sea; To meet no more, as once they met, 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, Of their childhood pure and free- Mid old familiar things, A hallowed influence flings. PRAYER FOR AN ABSENT HUSBAND. FATHER in heaven! Behold, he whom I love is daily treading Oh, thou most kind! break not the golden bowl. Thou who so oft hast healed the broken-hearted, Down to the deep abyss of dark despair. Father in heaven! Oh, grant to his most cherished hopes a blessingLet 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. Он, peaceful grave! how blest Are they who in thy quiet chambers rest, The wild, dark, turbulent career of life!..... There shall the throbbing brain, The heart with its wild hopes and longings vain, No more to struggle with its weight of woes. For some bright goal to which the soul aspires- Oh! for a dreamless sleep, A slumber calm and deep, A long and silent midnight in the tomb, Nor voices which the startled spirit hears, 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, There would I rest, O Grave! Till thy unstormy wave Hath overswept the whole of life's bleak shore; 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 reproach 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 married, 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 acquirements. 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 "Ianthe," she gave to the public numerous effusions, which were distinguished for vigor of language and genuine depth of feeling. A volume of these youthful but most promising compositions was selected and published, under the title of Guido and other Poems. Since her marriage, she has given to the public more prose than verse, but the former is characterized by the same romantic spirit which is the essential beauty of poetry. Many of her tales are founded upon a just observation of life, although not a few are equally remarkable for attractive invention. In point of style, they often possess the merit of graceful and pointed diction, and the lessons they inculcate are invariably of a pure moral tendency. Constance Latimer, or The Blind Girl, is perhaps better known than any other of her single productions; and this, as well as her Pictures of Early Life, has passed through a large number of editions. In 1845 she published, in a beautiful quarto volume, with pictorial illustrations, Nature's Gems, or American Wild Flowers, a work which contains some of the finest specimens of her writings, in both prose and verse. In 1846 she gave to the public a collection of graceful poems, under the title of Love's Token Flowers; and, in 1848, The Waldorf Family, or Grandfather's Legends, a little volume in which she has happily adapted the romantic and poetical legendary of Brittany to the tastes of our own country and the present age; and a work entitled Glimpses of Home Life, in which many of the beautiful fictions she had written 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. 1. On, what a timid watch young Love was keeping Blending with woman's softness manhood's pride, 11. PROUD,Self-sustained and fearless! dreading naught Thy voice clear-ringing mid the conflict's roar, Children of humbler, happier lineage twined: Child of Ambition's martyr! life had been Of doubt, and dread, and suffering at the best; For thou wert one whose path, in these dark times, Would lead to sorrows-it may be to crimes! Thou art at rest: The idle sword hath worn its sheath away; SYMPATHY. LIKE the sweet melody which faintly lingers AUTUMN EVENING. "And Isaac went out in 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 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 beauteous bud Go forth at eventide, When sounds of toil no more the soft air fill, And the bird's song on evening's breeze has died; Go forth at eventide, The eventide of summer, when the trees And woodland paths with autumn tints are dyed; Go forth at eventide, Commune with thine own bosom, and be stillCheck 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. |