MISS MARY E. LEE, a daughter of Mr. William Lee, and niece of the late Judge Thomas Lee, of Charleston, South Carolina, has been for many years a frequent contributor to the literary miscellanies, in both prose and verse. Among her best compositions are several poems, in the ballad style, found

ed on southern traditions, in which she has shown dramatic skill, and considerable ability in description. One of the best of these is the Indian's Revenge, a Legend of Toccoa, in Four Parts, printed in the Southern Literary Messenger for 1846. Miss Lee is also the author of some spirited translations.

THE POETS.

THE poets-the poets-
Those giants of the earth:

In mighty strength they tower above

The men of common birth.

A noble race-they mingle not

Among the motley throng,

But move, with slow and measured steps, Te music-notes along.

The poets-the poets

What conquests they can boast! Without one drop of life-blood spilt,

They rule a world's wide host; Their stainless banner floats unharmed

From age to lengthened age;

And history records their deeds
Upon her proudest page.

The poets-the poets-
How endless is their fame!

Death, like a thin mist, comes, yet leaves
No shadow on each name;

But as yon starry gems that gleam
In evening's crystal sky,

So have they won, in memory's depths,

An immortality.

The poets-the poets—
Who doth not linger o'er
The glorious volumes that contain

Their bright and spotless lore? They charm us in the saddest hours, Our richest joys they feed;

And love for them has grown to be
A universal creed.

The poets the poets-
Those kingly minstrels dead,
Well may we twine a votive wreath
Around each honored head:

No tribute is too high to give

Those crowned ones among men. The poets! the true poets!

Thanks be to God for them!

AN EASTERN LOVE-SONG.

AWAKE, my silver lute; String all thy plaintive wires, And as the fountain gushes free, So let thy memory chant for me The theme that never tires.

Awake, my liquid voice;
Like yonder timorous bird,
Why dost thou sing in trembling fear,
As if by some obtrusive ear
Thy secret should be heard?

Awake, my heart-yet no!
As Cedron's golden rill,

Whose changeless echo singeth o'er
Notes it had heard long years before,
So thou art never still.

My voice! my lute! my heart!
Spring joyously above

The feeble notes of lower earth,
And let thy richest tones have birth
Beneath the touch of love.

THE LAST PLACE OF SLEEP.

LAY me not in green wood lone,
Where the sad wind maketh moan,
Where the sun hath never shone,
Save as if in sadness;

Nor, I pray thee, let me be
Buried 'neath the chill, cold sea,
Where the waves, tumultuous, free,
Chafe themselves to madness.
But in yon enclosure small,
Near the churchyard's mossy wall,
Where the dew and sunlight fall,

I would have my dwelling; Sure there are some friends, I wot, Who would make that narrow spot Lovely as a garden plot,

With rich perfumes swelling.

Let no costly stone be brought,
Where a stranger's hand hath wrought
Vain inscription, speaking naught
To the true affections;

But, above the quiet bed,
Where I rest my weary head,
Plant those buds whose perfumes shed
Tenderest recollections.

Then, as every year the tide
Of strong death bears to my side
Those who were by love allied-
As the flowers of summer-
Sweet to think, that from the mould
Of my body, long since cold,
Plants of beauty shall enfold
Every dear new comer.

MISS CATHERINE H. WATERMAN was born in Philadelphia, in 1812; and under her maiden name she became known as an author by

BROTHER, COME HOME.

COME home

Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep,
Would I could wing it like a bird to thee,
To commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep
With these unwearying words of melody:
Brother, come home.

Come home

Come to the hearts that love thee, to the eyes

That beam in brightness but to gladden thine; Come where fond thoughts like holiest incense rise, Where cherished memory rears her altar's shrine. Brother, come home.

Come home

Come to the hearth-stone of thy earlier days, Come to the ark, like the o'erwearied dove; Come with the sunlight of thy heart's warm rays, Come to the fireside circle of thy love:

Brother, come home.

Come home

It is not home without thee: the lone seat

Is still unclaimed where thou were wont to be,

In every echo of returning feet,

In vain we list for what should herald thee:
Brother, come home.

Come home

We've nursed for thee the sunny buds of spring,
Watched every germ the full-blown flowers rear,
Seen o'er their bloom the chilly winter bring
Its icy garlands, and thou art not here:
Brother, come home.

Come home

Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep, Would I could wing it like a bird to theeTo commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep With these unwearying words of melody: Brother, come home!

many graceful and tender effusions in the periodicals. In 1840 she was married to Mr. Esling, a shipmaster of her native city.

HE WAS OUR FATHER'S DARLING.

He was our father's darling,

A bright and happy boy-
His life was like a summer's day
Of innocence and joy;
His voice, like singing waters,
Fell softly on the ear,
So sweet, that hurrying echo
Might linger long to hear.
He was our mother's cherub,

Her life's untarnished light-
Her blessed joy by morning,

Her visioned hope by night:
His eyes were like the day beams
That brighten all below;
His ringlets like the gathered gold
Of sunset's gorgeous glow.

He was our sister's plaything,
A very child of glee,

That frolicked on the parlor floor,
Scarce higher than our knee;
His joyous bursts of pleasure

Were wild as mountain wind;
His laugh, the free, unfettered laugh
Of childhood's chainless mind.
He was our brothers' treasure,
Their bosom's only pride-
A fair depending blossom

By their protecting side:

A thing to watch and cherish,

With varying hopes and fears— To make the slender, trembling reed Their staff for future years.

He is a blessed angel,

His home is in the sky;

He shines among those living lights,
Beneath his Maker's eye:

A freshly gathered lily,

A bud of early doom,

Hath been transplanted from the earth,

To bloom beyond the tomb.

CAROLINE M. FISHER, now Mrs. SAWYER, was born at the close of the year 1812, in Newton, Massachusetts, where she resided until her marriage with the Rev. T. J. Sawyer-one of the most eminent scholars and divines of the Universalist denomination-in September, 1832, when she removed to the city of New York. At the end of about fifteen years Mr. Sawyer was chosen president of the Universalist seminary at Clinton in Oneida county, and of this pleasant village he became a resident, upon his assumption of the office.

Mrs. Sawyer was very carefully and thoroughly educated at home, under the care of an invalid uncle whose life had been passed in pursuits of science and literature. With him she became a favorite, and to his early apprehension of her abilities and anxiety for their full development she is indebted for her fine taste and large knowledge, particularly in foreign languages and their most celebra

THE BLIND GIRL.

CROWN her with garlands! mid her sunny hair Twine the rich blossoms of the laughing May, The lily, snowdrop, and the violet fair,

And queenly rose, that blossoms for a day.
Haste, maidens, haste! the hour brooks no delay-
The bridal veil of soft transparence bring;
And as ye wreathe the gleaming locks away,
O'er their rich wealth its folds of beauty fling-
She seeth now!

Bring forth the lyre of sweet and solemn sound,
Let its rich music be no longer still;
Wake its full chords, till, sweetly floating round,
Its thrilling echoes all our spirits fill.
Joy for the lovely! that her lips no more

To notes of sorrow tune their trembling breath; Joy for the young, whose starless course is o'er; Iö! sing peans for the bride of Death!

She seeth now! She has been dark; through all the weary years, Since first her spirit into being woke, Through those dim orbs that ever swam in tears, No ray of sunlight ever yet hath broke. Silent and dark! herself the sweetest flower That ever blossomed in an earthly home, Unuttered yearnings ever were her dower, [come. And voiceless prayers that light at length might She seeth now!

ted authors. She commenced the composition of verse at an early age, but published little until after her marriage. Since then she has written much for various reviews and other miscellanies, besides several vol umes of tales, sketches, and essays, for children and youth, which would probably have been much more generally known if they had not come before the public through denominational channels of publication. She has also made numerous translations from the best German literature, in prose and verse, in which she has evinced a delicate appreciation of the originals and a fine command of her native language.

The poems of Mrs. Sawyer are numerous -sufficient for several volumes — though there has been published no collection of them. They are serious and of a fresh and vigorous cast of thought, occasionally embodied in forms of the imagination or illustrated by a chaste and elegant fancy.

A lonely lot! yet oftentimes a sad

And mournful pleasure filled her heart and brain, And beamed in smiles-e'er sweet, but never glad, As Sorrow smiles when mourning winds complain. Nature's great voice had ever for her soul A thrilling power the sightless only know; While deeper yearnings through her being stole, For light to gild that being's darkened flow. She seeth now! Strike the soft harp, then! for the cloud hath past, With all its darkness, from her sight away; Beauty hath met her waiting eyes at last, And light is hers within the land of day. 'Neath the cool shadows of the tree of life, Where bright the fount of youth immortal springs, Far from this earth; with all its weary strife, Her pale brow fanned by shining seraphs' wings, She seeth now!

Ah, yes, she seeth! through yon misty veil,

Methinks e'en now her angel-eyes look down, While round me falls a light all soft and paleThe moonlight lustre of her starry crown; And to my heart, as earthly sounds retire, Come the low echoes of celestial words, Like sudden music from some haunted lyre, That strangely swells when none awake its chords. But, hush! 'tis past; the light, the sound, are o'er: Joy for the maiden! she is dark no more! She seeth now!

But yearned for the hour of the spirit's release-
For a pillow of rest in the Valley of Peace!
Oh come, thou pale mourner, whose sorrowing gaze
Seems fixed on the shadows of long-vanished days,
Sad, sad is thy tale of bereavement and wo,
And thy spirit is weary of life's garish show!
Come here: I will show thee a haven of rest,
Where sorrow no longer invades the calm breast;
Where the spirit throws off its dull mantle of care,
And the robe is ne'er folded o'er secret despair!
Yet the dwelling is lonely, and silent, and cold,
And the soul may shrink back as its portals unfold;
But a bright Star has dawned through the shades
of the east,

That will light up with beauty the Valley of Peace!

Thou frail child of error! come hither and say, Has the world yet a charm that can lure thee to Ah, no! in thine aspect are anguish and wo, [stay? And deep shame has written its name on thy brow. Pool outcast! too long hast thou wandered forlorn, In a path where thy feet are all gored with the thorn; Where thy breast by the fang of the serpent is stung, And scorn on thy head by a cold world is flung! Come here, and find rest from thy guilt and thy tears, And a sleep sweet as that of thine innocent years; We will spread thee a couch where thy woes shall all cease:

Oh, come and lie down in the Valley of Peace! The grave, ah, the grave! 'tis a mighty stronghold, The weak, the oppressed, all are safe in its fold: There Penury's toil-wasted children may come, And the helpless, the houseless, at last find a home. What myriads unnumbered have sought its repose, Since the day when the sun on creation first rose; And there, till earth's latest, dread morning shall break,

Shall its wide generations their last dwelling make: But beyond is a world-how resplendently bright! And all that have lived shall be bathed in its light. We shall rise-we shall soar where earth's sorrows shall cease,

Though our mortal clay rests in the Valley of Peace!

THE BOY AND HIS ANGEL.

"Оn, mother, I've been with an angel to-day! I was out, all alone, in the forest at play, Chasing after the butterflies, watching the bees, And hearing the woodpecker tapping the trees; So I played, and I played, till, so weary I grew, I sat down to rest in the shade of a yew, While the birds sang so sweetly high up on its top, I held my breath, mother, for fear they would stop. Thus a long while I sat, looking up to the sky, And watching the clouds that went hurrying by, When I heard a voice calling just over my head, That sounded as if Come, oh brother!' it said; And there, right over the top of the tree,

O mother, an angel was beckoning to me!

And mother, oh, never was being so bright
As the one which then beamed on my wondering
His face was as fair as the delicate shell, [sight!
His hair down his shoulders in fair ringlets fell,
While his eyes resting on me, so melting with love,
Were as soft and as mild as the eyes of a dove.
And somehow, dear mother, I felt not afraid,
As his hand on my brow he caressingly laid,
And murmured so softly and gently to me,
Come, brother, the angels are waiting for thee!'
"And then on my forehead he tenderly pressed
Such kisses-oh, mother, they thrilled through my
breast,

'As swiftly as lightning leaps down from on high, When the chariot of God rolls along the black sky; While his breath, floating round me, was soft as the breeze

That played in my tresses, and rustled the trees;
At last on my head a deep blessing he poured,
Then plumed his bright pinions and upward he
soared-

And up, up he went, through the blue sky, so far,
He seemed to float there like a glittering star,
Yet still my eyes followed his radiant flight,
Till, lost in the azure, he passed from my sight.
Then, oh how I feared, as I caught the last gleam
Of his vanishing form, it was only a dream-
When soft voices murmured once more from the tree,

Come, brother, the angels are waiting for thee!'

Oh, pale grew that mother, and heavy her heart, For she knew her fair boy from this world must depart;

That his bright locks must fade in the dust of the tomb,

Ere the autumn winds withered the summer's rich bloom.

Oh, how his young footsteps she watched, day by day,

As his delicate form wasted slowly away,
Till the soft light of heaven seemed shed o'er his face,
And he crept up to die in her loving embrace!
"Oh, clasp me, dear mother, close, close to your
On that gentle pillow again let me rest; [breast;
Let me once more gaze up to that dear, loving eye,
And then, oh, methinks, I can willingly die.
Now kiss me, dear mother-oh, quickly--for see,
The bright, blessed angels are waiting for me!"
Oh, wild was the anguish that swept through her
breast,

As the long, frantic kiss on his pale lips she pressed,
And felt the vain search for his soft, pleading eye,
As it strove to meet hers ere the fair boy could die.
"I see you not, mother, for darkness and night
Are hiding your dear, loving face from my sight;
But I hear your low sobbings: dear mother, good
The angels are ready to bear me on high. [by!
I will wait for you there; but, oh, tarry not long,
Lest grief at your absence should sadden my song!"
He ceased, and his hands meekly clasped on his
breast,

While his sweet face sank down on its pillow of

rest;

Then closing his eyes, now all rayless and dim, Went up with the angels that waited for him.