I am thinking of the footpath My constant visits made, Between the dear old homestead And that leafy apple shade; Where the flow of distant waters Came with a tinkling sound, Like the revels of a fairy band, Beneath the fragrant ground. I haunted it at eventide, And dreamily would lie And watch the crimson twilight Come stealing o'er the sky; "Twas sweet to see its dying gold Wake up the dusky leavesTo hear the swallows twittering Beneath the distant eaves. I have listened to the music- That haunted that old tree Till my heart has swelled with feelings A thirsting after fame. I have gazed up through the foliage Dwelt on the changing skies, Till the burning stars were peopled A. R. ST. JOHN. MRS. ST. JOHN, formerly Miss MUNROE, | was born in the vicinity of Boston, and in 1826 was married to Mr. J. R. St. John. She has for several years resided in Brooklyn, New York. She is said to be a voluminous writer, and she has been a contributor, under her name, to the Democratic Review and other literary miscellanies. MEDUSA. FROM AN ANTIQUE GEM. FATED sister of the three! Fatal beauty, thou dost seem Formed to attract all eyes to thee, And yet their withering light to be, With some mysterious, powerful charm That can the sternest will disarm, For one with such a destiny. Oh couldst thou unto mortals give In vain we wonder what thou art- SARAH LOUISA P. SMITH. MISS HICKMAN, afterward Mrs. SMITH, was born in Detroit on the thirtieth of June, 1811, at which time her grandfather, Major-General Hull - whose patriotism and misfortunes are at length beginning to be justly appreciated by the people - was governor of Michigan. While a child she accompanied her mother to the home of her family, in Newton, Massachusetts, where she was carefully educated. She acquired knowledge with extraordinary facility, and when but thirteen years of age her compositions were compared to those of Kirke White and others whose carly maturity is the subject of some of the most interesting chapters in literary history. In her eighteenth year she was married to Mr. Samuel Jenks Smith, then editor of a periodical in Providence, where he soon after published a collection of her poems, in a volume of two hundred and fifty duodecimo pages, many of the pieces in which were written as it was passing through the press. In 1829 Mr. and Mrs. Smith removed to Cincinnati, where they resided nearly two years, and here she continued to write, with a sort of improvisatorial ease, but with increasing elegance and a constantly deepening tone of reflection, until her health was too much decayed, and then she returned to New York, where, on the twelfth of February, 1832, she died, in the twenty-first year of her age. Her husband was for several years connected with the press in this city, and died while on a voyage to Europe in 1842. The poems of Mrs. Smith are interesting chiefly as the productions of a very youthful author. She wrote with grace and sprightliness, and sometimes with feeling; but there is little in her writings that would survive its connexion with her history. THE HUMA.* FLY on! nor touch thy wing, bright bird, Fly on-nor seek a place of rest In the home of "care-worn things;" "Twould dim the light of thy shining crest And thy brightly burnished wings, To dip them where the waters glide That flow from a troubled earthly tide. The fields of upper air are thine, Thy place where stars shine free; I would thy home, bright one, were mine, I would never wander, bird, like thee, With wing and spirit once light and free They should wear no more the chain Our air is with them for ever stirred, And happiness, like thee, fair one, * A bird peculiar to the East. It is supposed to fly con. stantly in the air, and never touch the ground. Is ever hovering o'er, But rests in a land of brighter sun, WHITE ROSES. THEY were gathered for a bridal: To blossom and to die. They were gathered for a bridal, Than the heart that lay beneath; And the coral lip was fair, They were gathered for a bridal, Where a thousand torches glistened, When the holy words were spoken, And the false and faithless listened And answered to the vow Which another heart had taken : Yet he was present then The once loved, the forsaken! They were gathered for a bridal, And now, now they are dying, And young Love at the altar Of broken faith is sighing. Their summer life was stainless, And not like hers who wore them: They are faded, and the farewell STANZAS. I WOULD not have thee deem my heart Which earthly passion ne'er alloys. Within heaven's pure and blessed light, Nor feeling nor affection give To Him who makes my pathway bright. I would not chain to mystic creeds A spirit fetterless and free; I would not have that spirit rove I would not that my heart were cold Which by our waywardness grow dim. Of things within the world to comeThe thoughts, that when their joys are dust, The weary have a peaceful home. For I have left the dearly loved, The home, the hopes of other years, And early in its pathway proved Life's rainbow hues were formed of tears. I shall not meet them here again, Those loved, and lost, and cherished ones, But perfect in the world above, Which clouds and distance failed to sere: But I have lingered all too long, Thy kind remembrance to engage, And woven but a mournful song, Wherewith to dim thy page. THE FALL OF WARSAW. THROUGH Warsaw there is weeping, Float through the aisle, Where moonbeams smile; Sisters, let our solemn strain The mourning of the brave Unto his honored grave! Who now will face the foeman? Who break the tyrant's chain? Float through the aisle, Where moonbeams smile Sisters, let our dirge be said No notes of music swell; Float through the aisle, Where moonbeams smile; From the tomb of other years, It whispers not of glory, Nor fame's unfading youth, Float through the aisle, Where moonbeams smile; SOPHIA HELEN OLIVER. THIS author was born in Lexington, Kentucky, in 1811, and in 1837 was married to Dr. J. H. Oliver. The next year she removed to Louisville, whence after a short time she returned to Lexington, and in 1842 she went "I MARK THE HOURS THAT SHINE." IN fair Italia's lovely land, Deep in a garden bower, A dial marks with shadowy hand And on its fair, unsullied face Is carved this flowing line, (Some wandering bard has paused to trace :) "I mark the hours that shine." Oh ye who in a friend's fair face Mark the defects alone, Where many a sweet redeeming grace Go, from the speaking dial learn A lesson all divine- From faults that wound your fancy turn, Nor "mark the hours that shine?" Why sigh for joys still unpossessed, Nor "mark the hours that shine"? And "mark the hours that shine." Who sadly feel no second bloom Your blighted hearts can knowWhy will ye mourn o'er severed ties While friends around you twine? to reside permanently in Cincinnati, in one of the medical colleges of which city her husband is a professor. Her poems are spirited and fanciful, but are sometimes imperfect in rhythm and have other signs of carelessness. Go! yield your lost one to the skies, And often is its snowy chart and go, every shadow chase That dims its light divine, And write upon its gleaming face"I mark the hours that shine." THE CLOUD-SHIP. Lo! over Ether's glorious realm A cloud ship sails with favoring breeze; A bright form stands beside the helm, And guides it o'er the ethereal seas. Far streams on air its banner white, Its swanlike pinions kiss the gale, And now a beam of heaven's light With glory gems the snowy sail...... Perchance, bright bark, your snowy breast And silver-tissued pinions wide, Bear onward to some isle of rest Pure spirits in life's furnace tried. Oh! could we stay each swelling sail Of spotless radiance o'er thee hung, And lift the bright, mysterious veil O'er forms of seraph beauty flung— How would our spirits long to mount And float along the ethereal way, To drink of life's unfailing fount, And bathe in heaven's resplendent day! But lo! the gold-tiara'd West Unfolds her sapphire gates of light; While Day's proud monarch bows his crest, And bids the sighing world Good-night. And now the cloud ship flies along, Her wings with gorgeous colors dressed, And Fancy hears triumphant song Swell from her light-encircled breast— As to the wide unfolded gate, The brilliant portal of the skies, She bears her bright, immortal freight, The glorious soul that never dies! THE SHADOWS. THEY are gliding, they are gliding, O'er the meadows green and gay; Like a fairy troop they're riding Through the breezy woods away; On the mountain-tops they linger When the sun is sinking low, And they point with giant finger To the sleeping vale below. They are flitting, they are flitting, O'er the waving corn and rye, And now they're calmly sitting 'Neath the oak-tree's branches high. And where the tired reaper Hath sought the sheltering tree, They dance above the sleeper In light fantastic glee. They are creeping, they are creeping, With its stars and stripes of light; And where the glorious prairies Spread out like garden bowers, They fly along like fairies, Or sleep beneath the flowers. They are leaping, they are leaping, Where a cloud beneath the moon O'er the lake's soft breast is sleeping, Lulled by a pleasant tune; And where the fire is glancing At twilight through the hall, They are lying, they are lying, Will the shadow leave his side- Ye remind me, ye remind me, That friends to earth did bind me, The young, the loved, the cherished, In life's bright noontide perished I greet them with my tears; MINISTERING SPIRITS. THEY are winging, they are winging, Through the thin blue air their way; Unseen harps are softly ringing Round about us, night and day. Could we pierce the shadows o'er us, And behold that seraph band, Long-lost friends would bright before us In angelic beauty stand. Lo! the dim blue mist is sweeping Slowly from my longing eyes, And my heart is upward leaping With a deep and glad surprise. I behold them-close beside me, Dwellers of the spirit-land; Mists and shades alone divide me From that glorious seraph band. Though life never can restore me My sad bosom's nestling dove, Yet my blue-eyed babe bends o'er me With her own sweet smile of love; And the brother, long departed, Who in being's summer died— Warm, and true, and gentle-heartedFolds his pinions by my side. Last called from us, loved and dearest- Mother-I behold thee too! Round thy forehead pure and mild, And thine eyes with love are beaming On thy sad, heart-broken child! Gentle sisters there are bending, Blossoms culled from life's parterre; And my father's voice ascending, Floats along the charmed air. Hark! those thrilling tones Elysian Faint and fainter die away, And the bright seraphic vision Fades upon my sight for aye. But I know they hover round me In the morning's rosy light, And their unseen forms surround me All the deep and solemn night. Yes, they're winging-yes, they're winging Through the thin blue air their way; Spirit-harps are softly ringing Round about us night and day. |