THE late Mrs. Mayo describes the life of Mrs. ScoTT as having been "commenced in one of the quietest mountain valleys, and, with one or two brief episodes only, matured and finished not a dozen miles from where it was begun." In such a career there could have been little to interest the public, and her friend appropriately confined the memoir prefixed to her poems as much as possible to the growth and product of her mind. Mrs. Scott's maiden name was JULIA H. KINNEY, and she was born on the fourth of November, 1809, in the beautiful valley of Sheshequin, in northern Pennsylvania. Her parents were in humble circumstances, and as the eldest of a large family she seems to have lived the patient Griselda, beautifully fulfilling all the duties of her condition, while she availed herself of every opportunity to enlarge her knowledge and improve her tastes. She wrote verses with some point and harmony when but twelve years of age, and when sixteen or seventeen began to publish

in a village newspaper essays and poems that evinced a fine fancy and earnest feeling. She afterward wrote for The Casket, a monthly magazine published in Philadelphia, for The New-Yorker, and for the Universalist religious journals. In May, 1835, she was married to Dr. David L. Scott, of Towanda, the principal village of the county, which from this period became her home. In 1838 she visited Boston, and she made some other excursions for the improvement of her health, but consumption had wasted the singularly fine person and blanched the beautiful face which I remember to have seen in their meridian, and in the last year of her life she had no hope of restoration. She died at Towanda on the fifth of March, 1842.

The poems of Mrs. Scott, with a memoir by Miss S. C. Edgarton, (afterward Mrs. Mayo,) were published in Boston, in 1843. The volume contains an excellent portrait of her by S. A. Mount, and several commemorative poems by her friends.

THE TWO GRAVES. THEY Sweetly slumber, side by side, Upon the green and pleasant hill, Where the young morning's sunny tide

First wakes the shadows, dark and still, And where gray twilight's breeze goes by Laden with woodland melody,

And Heaven's own tireless watchmen keep
A vigil o'er their slumbers deep.
They sleep together-but their graves

Are marked by no sepulchral stone;
Above their heads no willow waves,
No cypress shade is o'er them thrown:
The only record of their deeds
Is that where silent Memory leads,
Their only monument of fame

Is found in each belovéd name.

Oh, theirs was not the course which seals
The favor of a fickle world,
They did not raise the warring steel,
Their hands no bloody flag unfurled;
They came not with a cup of wrath,
To drench with gall life's thorny path,
But, day and night, they strove to win,
By love, the palsied soul from sin.

Like two bright stars at eventide,
They shone with undiminished ray;
And though clouds gathered far and wide,
Still held they on their upward way,
And still unheeded swept them by
The threatenings of this lower sky-
For they had built upon the Rock,
Defying tide and tempest's shock.

To them the vanities of life

Were but as bubbles of the sea: They shunned the boisterous swell of strife; From Pride's low thrall their souls were

free.

They only sought by Christ to show
The Father's love for all below;
They only strove through Christ to raise
The wandering mind from error's maze.

But now they sleep-and oh, may ne'er
One careless footstep press the sod
Where moulder those we held so dear,
The friends of man, the friends of God!
And let alone warm feeling twine
An offering at their lowly shrine;
While all who knew them humbly try
Like them to live, like them to die.

MY CHILD.

"There is one who has loved me debarred from the day."

THE foot of Spring is on yon blue-topped mountain,
Leaving its green prints'neath each spreading tree;
Her voice is heard beside the swelling fountain,
Giving sweet tones to its wild melody.
From the warm south she brings unnumbered roses,
To greet with smiles the eye of grief and care:
Her balmy breath on the worn brow reposes,
And her rich gifts are scattered everywhere;—
I heed them not, my child.

In the low vale the snow-white daisy springeth,
The golden dandelion by its side;
The eglantine a dewy fragrance flingeth

To the soft breeze that wanders far and wide.
The hyacinth and polyanthus render,

From their deep hearts, an offering of love; And fresh May-pinks and half-blown lilacs tender Their grateful homage to the skies above;

I heed them not, my child.

In the clear brook are springing water-cresses, And pale green rushes, and fair, nameless flowers; While o'er them dip the willow's verdant tresses, Dimpling the surface with their mimic showers. The honeysuckle stealthily is creeping

Round the low porch and mossy cottage-eaves;
Oh! Spring hath fairy treasures in her keeping,
And lovely are the landscapes that she weaves;—
"Tis naught to me, my
child.
Down the green lane come peals of heartfelt laughter;
The school hath sent its eldest inmates forth;
And now a smaller band comes dancing after,
Filling the air with shouts of infant mirth.
At the rude gate the anxious dame is bending,
To clasp her rosy darlings to her breast;
Joy, pride, and hope, are in her bosom blending;
Ah! peace with her is no unusual guest;—
Not so with me, my child.

All the day long I listen to the singing
Of the gay birds and winds among the trees;
But a sad under-strain is ever ringing

A tale of death and its dread mysteries.
Nature to me the letter is, that killeth-
The spirit of her charms has passed away;
A fount of bliss no more my bosom filleth-
Slumbers its idol in unconscious clay ;---

Thou 'rt in the grave, my child. For thy glad voice my spirit inly pineth, I languish for thy blue eyes' holy light: Vainly for me the glorious sunbeam shineth; Vainly the blessed stars come forth at night. I walk in darkness, with the tomb before me, Longing to lay my dust beside thine own; Oh cast the mantle of thy presence o'er me! Beloved, leave me not so deeply lone ;Come back to me, my child! Upon that breast of pitying love thou leanest, Which oft on earth did pillow such as thou, Nor turned away petitioner the meanest :

Pray to Him, sinless-he will hear thee now.

Plead for thy weak and broken-hearted mother;
Pray that thy voice may whisper words of peace:
Her ear is deaf, and can discern no other;
Speak, and her bitter sorrowings shall cease;-
Come back to me, my child!

Come but in dreams-let me once more behold thee,
As in thy hours of buoyancy and glee,
And one brief moment in my arms enfold thee-
Beloved, I will not ask thy stay with me.
Leave but the impress of thy dovelike beauty,
Which Memory strives so vainly to recall,
And I will onward in the path of duty,
Restraining tears that ever fain would fall;-
Come but in dreams, my child!

INVOCATION TO POETRY.

"I said to the spirit of poesy, Come back; thou art my comforter.'"

COME back, come back, sweet spirit,
I miss thee in my dreams;

I miss thee in the laughing bowers
And by the gushing streams.
The sunshine hath no gladness,
The harp no joyous tone-
Oh, darkly glide the moments by
Since thy soft light has flown.
Come back, come back, sweet spirit,
As in the glorious past,
When the halo of a brighter world
Was round my being cast;
When midnight had no darkness,

When sorrow smiled through tears,
And life's blue sky seemed bowed in love,
To bless the coming years.

Come back, come back, sweet spirit,

Like the glowing flowers of spring, Ere Time hath snatched the last pure wreath From Fancy's glittering wing; Ere the heart's increasing shadows

Refuse to pass away,

And the silver cords wax thin which bind
To heaven the weary clay.

Come back, thou art my comforter:
What is the world to me?

Its cares that live, its hopes that die,
Its heartless revelry?

Mine, mine, oh blessed spirit!

The inspiring draught be mine, Though words may ne'er reveal how deep My worship at thy shrine.

Come back, thou holy spirit,

By the bliss thou mayst impart, Or by the pain thine absence gives A deeply stricken heart.

Come back, as comes the sunshine

Upon the sobbing sea,

And every roaming thought shall vow
Allegiance to thee.

MRS. DINNIES is a daughter of Mr. Justice Shackleford, of South Carolina, and was educated at a school in Charleston conducted by the daughters of Dr. Ramsay, the historian. In 1830 she was married to Mr. John C. Dinnies, then of St. Louis, where she resided until the recent removal of Mr. Dinnies to New Orleans. Mrs. Hale, in her Ladies' Wreath, states that she became engaged in a literary correspondence with Mr. Dinnies more than four years before their union, and that they never met until one week before their marriage. "The contract was made solely from sympathy and congeniality of

mind and taste; and that in their estimate of each other they were not disappointed, may be inferred from the tone of her songs." The greater part of the poems of Mrs. Dinnies appeared originally in various magazines under the signature of "Moina." In 1846 she published in a richly illustrated volume entitled The Floral Year, one hundred compositions, arranged in twelve groups, to illustrate that number of bouquets, gathered in the different months. Her pieces celebrating the domestic affections are marked by unusual grace and tenderness, and some of them are worthy of the most elegant poets.

WEDDED LOVE.

COME, rouse thee, dearest!-'tis not well
To let the spirit brood

Thus darkly o'er the cares that swell
Life's current to a flood.

As brooks, and torrents, rivers, all
Increase the gulf in which they fall,
Such thoughts, by gathering up the rills
Of lesser griefs, spread real ills,
And with their gloomy shades conceal
The landmarks Hope would else reveal.
Come, rouse thee, now: I know thy mind,
And would its strength awaken;

Proud, gifted, noble, ardent, kind—

Strange thou shouldst be thus shaken! But rouse afresh each energy, And be what Heaven intended thee; Throw from thy thoughts this wearying weight, And prove thy spirit firmly great:

I would not see thee bend below

The angry storms of earthly wo.
Full well I know the generous soul

Which warms thee into life-
Each spring which can its powers control,
Familiar to thy wife;

For deemst thou she had stooped to bind
Her fate unto a common mind?
The eagle-like ambition, nursed
From childhood in her heart, had first
Consumed, with its Promethean flame,
The shrine-then sunk her soul to shame.
Then rouse thee, dearest, from the dream

That fetters now thy powers:
Shake off this gloom-Hope sheds a beam
To gild each cloud which lowers;
And though at present seems so far
The wished-for goal-a guiding star,
With peaceful ray, would light thee on,

Until its utmost bounds be won:
That quenchless ray thou 'lt ever prove
In fond, undying wedded love.

THE WIFE.

I COULD have stemmed misfortune's tide,
And borne the rich one's sneer,
Have braved the haughty glance of pride,
Nor shed a single tear;

I could have smiled on every blow
From life's full quiver thrown,
While I might gaze on thee, and know
I should not be "alone."

I could-I think I could have brooked,
E'en for a time, that thou
Upon my fading face hadst looked

With less of love than now;
For then I should at least have felt
The sweet hope still my own
To win thee back, and, whilst I dwelt
On earth, not been "alone."

But thus to see, from day to day,

Thy brightening eye and cheek,
And watch thy life-sands waste away,
Unnumbered, slowly, meek;

To meet thy smiles of tenderness,
And catch the feeble tone

Of kindness, ever breathed to bless,
And feel, I'll be " alone;"

To mark thy strength each hour decay,
And yet thy hopes grow stronger,
As, filled with heavenward trust, they say
"Earth may not claim thee longer;"
Nay, dearest, 'tis too much-this heart
Must break when thou art gone;

It must not be; we may not part:
I could not live" alone!"

EMBLEMS.

FIRST take a feather, and lay it upon

The stream that is rippling by:

With the current, behold, in a moment 'tis gone, Unimpressive and light as a sigh;

Then take thee a clear and precious stone,

And on the same stream place it:

Oh! mark how the water on which it is thrown,
In its bosom will quickly encase it!
Or take a crystal, or stainless glass;

With a crayon upon it then trace

A sentence, or line, and watch how 'twill pass—
A breath will its beauty efface;

Then take a diamond, as pure as 'tis bright,
And write some modest token:

Mid heat or cold, in shade, in light,

"T will last till the crystal is broken. And thus with the tablet of woman's pure heart, When the vain and the idle may try To leave their impressions, they swiftly depart, Like the feather, the scroll, and the sigh; But once be inscribed on that tablet a name, And an image of genius and worth, Through the changes of life it will still be the same, Till that heart is removed from the earth.

THE TRUE BALLAD OF THE WANDERER. A MAIDEN in a southern bower

Of fragrant vines and citron-trees, To charm the pensive twilight hour,

Flung wild her thoughts upon the breeze;

To Cupid's ear unconscious telling
The fitful dream her bosom swelling,
Till Echo softly on it dwelling,
Revealed the urchin, bold and free,
Repeating thus her minstrelsy:
"Away, away! by brook and fountain,
Where the wild deer wanders free,
O'er sloping dale and swelling mountain,
Still my fancy follows thee;

Where the lake its bosom spreading,
Where the breeze its sweets is shedding,
Where thy buoyant steps are treading,
There-where'er the spot may be-
There my thoughts are following thee!

In the forest's dark recesses,
Where the fawn may fearless stray;
In the cave no sunbeam blesses

With its first or parting ray;
Where the birds are blithely singing,
Where the flowers are gayly springing,
Where the bee its course is winging,
There, if there thou now mayst be,
Anxious Thought is following thee!
"In the lowly peasant's cot,
Quiet refuge of content;

In the sheltered, grass-grown spot,
Resting, when with travel spent,

Where the vine its tendrils curling,
Where the trees their boughs are furling,
Where the streamlet clear is purling,
There, if there thou now mayst be,
There my spirit follows thee!

14

"In the city's busy mart,

Mingling with its restless crowd;
Mid the miracles of art,

Classic pile, and column proud;
O'er the ancient ruin sighing,
When the sun's last ray is dying,
Or to fashion's vortex flying,
Even there, if thou mayst be,
There my thoughts must follow thee!
"In the revel-in the dance-

With the firm, familiar friend-
Or where Thespian arts entrance,
Making mirth and sadness blend;
Where the living pageant glowing,
O'er thy heart its spell is throwing,
Mimic life in alto' showing,
'There, beloved, if thou mayst be,
There, still there, I follow thee!
"When the weary day is over,
And thine eyes in slumber close,
Still, oh! still, inconstant rover,
Do I charm thee to repose;

With the shades of night descending,
With thy guardian spirits blending,

To thy sleep sweet visions lending,
There, e'en there, true love may be,
There and thus am I with thee !"
Months and seasons rolled away,

And the maiden's cheek was pale; When, as bloomed the buds of May, Cupid thus resumed the tale :

"Over land and sea returning, Wealth, and power, and beauty spurning, Love within his true heart burning, Comes the wanderer wild and free, Faithful maiden, back to thee!"

LOVE'S MESSENGERS.
YE little Stars, that twinkle high
In the dark vault of heaven,
Like spangles on the deep blue sky,
Perhaps to you 'tis given

To shed your lucid radiance now
Upon my absent loved one's brow?
Ye fleecy Clouds, that swiftly glide
O'er Earth's oft-darkened way,
Floating along in grace and pride,
Perhaps your shadows stray

E'en now across the starry light
That guides my wanderer forth to-night?

Ye balmy Breezes sweeping by,

And shedding freshness round,

Ye, too, may haply as ye fly,

With health and fragrance crowned,
Linger a moment, soft and light,
To sport amid his tresses bright?
Then Stars, and Clouds, and Breezes, bear
My heart's best wish to him;
And say the feelings glowing there
Nor time nor change can dim;

That be success or grief his share,
My love still brightening shall appear.

MRS. STEPHENS is well known as one of the most spirited and popular of our magazinists. She was born in Derby, Connecticut, in 1811, and in 1831 was married to Mr. Edward Stephens, of Portland, who in 1835 commenced the publication of the Portland Magazine, of which she was two years the editress. In 1837 she removed to New York, and she has since been a writer for The La

THE OLD APPLE-TREE.

I AM thinking of the homestead,

With its low and sloping roof,

And the maple boughs that shadowed it
With a green and leafy woof;
I am thinking of the lilac-trees,

That shook their purple plumes,
And, when the sash was open,

Shed fragrance through the rooms.

I am thinking of the rivulet,

With its cool and silvery flow,

Of the old gray rock that shadowed it,
And the peppermint below.

I am not sad nor sorrowful,
But memories will come;
So leave me to my solitude,

And let me think of home.
There was not around my birthplace

A thicket or a flower,
But childish game or friendly face
Has given it a power
To haunt me in my after-life,
And be with me again-
A sweet and pleasant memory
Of mingled joy and pain.

But the old and knotted apple-tree,
That stood beneath the hill,
My heart can never turn to it
But with a pleasant thrill.
Oh, what a dreamy life I led

Beneath its old green shade,
Where the daisies and the butter-cups
A pleasant carpet made!

"T was a rough old tree in spring-time,
When, with a blustering sound,
The wind came hoarsely sweeping
Along the frosty ground.
But when there rose a rivalry

"Tween clouds and pleasant weather, Till the sunshine and the raindrops

Came laughing down together;

dies' Companion, Graham's Magazine, The Ladies' National Magazine, The Columbian Magazine, and other periodicals of the same character. Her tales and sketches would probably fill a dozen common duodecimo volumes. Her longest poem, entitled The Polish Boy, was first published in 1839. There has been no collection either of her poems or of her prose writings.

That patriarch old apple-tree
Enjoyed the lovely strife;

The sap sprang lightly through its veins,
And circled into life:

A cloud of pale and tender buds
Burst o'er each rugged bough;
And amid the starting verdure
The robins made their vow.

That tree was very beautiful

When all its leaves were green,

And rosy buds lay opening

Amid their tender sheen:
When the bright, translucent dewdrops
Shed blossoms as they fell,
And melted in their fragrance
Like music in a shell.

It was greenest in the summer-time,
When cheerful sunlight wove
Amid its thrifty leafiness

A warm and glowing love;
When swelling fruit blushed ruddily
To Summer's balmy breath,
And the laden boughs drooped heavily
To the greensward underneath.

'Twas brightest in a rainy day,

When all the purple west
Was piled with fleecy storm-clouds
That never seemed at rest;
When a cool and lulling melody
Fell from the dripping eaves,
And soft, warm drops came pattering
Upon the restless leaves.

But oh, the scene was glorious

When clouds were lightly riven,
And there above my valley home
Came out the bow of heaven--
And in its fitful brilliancy

Hung quivering on high,
Like a jewelled arch of paradise
Reflected through the sky.