PEACE.

Or, seek her not in marble halls of pride, Where gushing fountains fling their silver tide,

Their wealth of freshness toward the summer sky; The echoes of a palace are too loudThey but give back the footsteps of the crowd That throng about some idol throned on high, Whose ermined 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, 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.

[pale,

Not there, not there Peace builds her halcyon nest:
Wild revel scares her from wealth's towering dome,
And misery 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,
That round 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 there,
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 ?
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? [ing,
Though earth may never quench thy life-long yearn-
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?
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 repose
In the sweet calm of friendship's pure devotion?
Amid the peace which sympathy bestows,
Still dost thou murmur with repressed emotion,
"Something beyond!"

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!"

66

THE OLD MAN'S LAMENT.

Оn, 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, And yielding up my soul to youth's delicious trance! Vain are such wishes: I no more may tread

With lingering step and slow the green hill-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 earthliest things, Yet bear away no stain upon its snowy wings. What though some flowers have 'scaped the tempest's wrath?

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 flowersLet 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-these I seek: Ah, who could e'er be sinless and yet sage? [page! Would that I might forget Time's dark and blotted

THE AMERICAN RIVER.
A REMEMBRANCE.

Ir 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

The widespread prairie lone and vast,
Without a shadow on its tide,

Save the long grass that skirts its side;
Again its angry currents sweep
Beneath some tall and rocky steep,
Which frowns above the darkened stream,
Till doubly deep its waters seem.
No rugged cliff may check its way,
No gentle mead invite its stay--
Still 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;

Long, 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 trees that gird its shore-
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.
While 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 Eternity, is found-

The river rushing on.

THE ENGLISH RIVER.
A FANTASY.

Ir 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

In the calm stream with mimic frown,
The waves a sweeter music make,
As at its base they flash and break :
It speedeth 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;
Haply some squire, whose humble name
Was yet unheralded by fame,

Here wove ambition's earliest dreams :
While 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,
With hearts impatient 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 track,
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 "Requiescat," wild and sweet,
The river singeth on.
The vision fades, the phantoms flee,
And naught of all remaineth;
The river runneth fast and free,

The wind through ruins plaineth: The feudal lord and belted knight, And spurless squire and lady bright, Long since have shared the common lotAll, save their haughty name, forgot. The ivy wreathes the ruined shrine, Flaunting 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 her 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 say,

"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 GENTLE 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:
My joys are now of nobler birth,

My sorrows too have holier birth

And heavenly solace borrow;
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?
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 honeyed 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 tones,
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 founts
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 more

To upper air grow dim,

So my soul's love is cold and dead,

Unless it glow for him.

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 fate,

Though by earth's noblest triumphs graced, Bliss 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 QUESTIONINGS.

WHEN Life's false oracles, no more replying
To baffled 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, their fragrance and their bloom,
Or some fresh fountain, through the forest singing,
Unheard, unheeded, may recall my doom:
Will ye thus think of me?

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?
Will ye thus think of me?

Will ye bring back, by Memory'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?
Will ye thus think of me?
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?

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?

Oh, gentle friends! will ye thus think of me?

ELIZABETH MARGARET CHANDLER was born near Wilmington, in Delaware, on the twenty-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 agricultural pursuits until the death of his wife, when he removed to Philadelphia and resumed the practice of his profession. He died in 1816, leaving two sons and a daughter to the care of their maternal grandmother, in Burlington, New Jersey. Elizabeth, the youngest of his children, was placed at one of the schools of the society, in Philadelphia, where she remained until about thirteen years of age. She was remarkable, when very young, for a love of books, and for a habit of writing verses, and in her seventeenth year she began to send pieces to the journals. For a poem entitled The SlaveShip, written at eighteen, she received a prize offered by the publishers of The Casket, a monthly magazine, and this led to her acquaintance with Mr. Benjamin Lundy, then

THE DEVOTED.

STERN faces were around her bent,

And eyes of vengeful ire,

And fearful were the words 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?" they said;-
A half-formed smile of scorn,
That curled upon her haughty lip,

Was back for answer borne ;-
"Where is thy traitor spouse?" 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.

editor of The Genius of Universal Emancipation, 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 accompanied her brother to a rural town in Lenawee 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 literary 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 Abolition of Slavery, were published in Philadelphia 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 writings 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.

"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 glance,

They silent turned aside,

And left her all unharmed amidst

Her loveliness and pride!