--and then we put on the robe of immortali

ty, and meet to part never more. And we shall not be apart even on earth. There is an electric chain passing from heart to heart through the throne of the Eternal, and we may keep its links all brightly burnished by the breath of prayer. Still pray for me, mother, as in days gone by. Thou bidst me go. The smile comes again to thy lip, and the light to thine eye, for thou hast pleasure in the sacrifice. Thy blessing! Farewell, my mother, and ye loved ones of the same hearthstone!"

She was married to Dr. Judson, and in July sailed with him on his return to India, where she is now occupied with the duties of her mission. Soon after her arrival, the barbarians robbed her of all the gifts and souvenirs, all the dresses, and all the cherished books, that she carried from America; and

other trials of her faith came- but none will ever make her look back with regret from the task set before her: and her life yet to be lived, it is trusted, will sometime, many years from now, fill the brightest pages in our missionary history.

The longest of Mrs. Judson's poems is Astaroga, or the Maid of the Rock, in four cantos, containing altogether about one hundred and fifty verses of the Spenserian measure. This was written in 1844, and it is inferior to several of her later compositions, though there is spirit and grace in some of its descriptions of scenery and of Indian life. Her largest prose work, except Alderbrook, is a very beautiful memoir of Mrs. Sarah Judson, published in New York in 1848. Among the latest of her poems is the little piece entitled My Bird, of which the biographical significance is sufficiently apparent.

THE WEAVER.

A WEAVER sat by the side of his loom,
A-flinging his shuttle fast;

And a thread that would wear till the hour of doom
Was added at every cast.

His warp had been by the angels spun,

And his weft was bright and new,

Like threads which the morning unbraids from the

sun,

All jewelled over with dew.

And fresh-lipped, bright-eyed, beautiful flowers
In the rich, soft web were bedded;
And blithe to the weaver sped onward the hours:
Not yet were Time's feet leaded!

But something there came slow stealing by,
And a shade on the fabric fell;

And I saw that the shuttle less blithely did fly-
For thought hath a wearisome spell!

And a thread that next o'er the warp was lain,
Was of melancholy gray;

And anon I marked there a tear-drop's stain,
Where the flowers had fallen away.

But still the weaver kept weaving on,

Though the fabric all was gray;

And the flowers, and the buds, and the leaves, were gone,

And the gold threads cankered lay.

And dark-and still darker-and darker grew
Each newly-woven thread;

And some there were of a death-mocking hue,
And some of a bloody red.

And things all strange were woven in,

Sighs, and down-crushed hopes, and fears; And the web was broken, and poor, and thin, And it dripped with living tears.

And the weaver fain would have flung it aside,
But he knew it would be a sin;

So in light and in gloom the shuttle he plied,
A-weaving these life-cords in.

And as he wove, and, weeping, still wove,

A tempter stole him nigh;

And, with glozing words, he to win him strove But the weaver turned his eye.

He upward turned his eye to heaven,

And still wove on-on-on!

Till the last, last cord from his heart was riven,
And the tissue strange was done.

Then he threw it about his shoulders bowed,
And about his grizzled head;
And gathering close the folds of his shroud,
Lay him down among the dead.
And I after saw, in a robe of light,
The weaver in the sky:

The angels' wings were not more bright,
And the stars grew pale it nigh.

And I saw, mid the folds, all the iris-hued flowers
That beneath his touch had sprung;
More beautiful far than these stray ones of ours,
Which the angels have to us flung.

And wherever a tear had fallen down,
Gleamed out a diamond rare;
And jewels befitting a monarch's crown
Were the footprints left by Care.

And wherever had swept the breath of a sigh,
Was left a rich perfume;

And with light from the fountain of bliss in the sky
Shone the labor of Sorrow and Gloom.

And then I prayed, "When my last work is done,
And the silver life-cord riven,

Be the stain of Sorrow the deepest one
That I bear with me to heaven!"

MINISTERING ANGELS.

MOTHER, has the dove that nestled
Lovingly upon thy breast,
Folded up his little pinion,

And in darkness gone to rest?
Nay, the grave is dark and dreary,

But the lost one is not there;
Hear'st thou not its gentle whisper,
Floating on the ambient air?!
It is near thee, gentle mother,

Near thee at the evening hour;
Its soft kiss is in the zephyr,

It looks up from every flower.

And when, Night's dark shadows fleeing,
Low thou bendest thee in prayer,
And thy heart feels nearest heaven,
Then thy angel babe is there!
Maiden, has thy noble brother,

On whose manly form thine eye
Loved full oft in pride to linger,

On whose heart thou couldst rely, Though all other hearts deceived thee, All proved hollow, earth grew drear, Whose protection, ever o'er thee,

Hid thee from the cold world's sneerHas he left thee here to struggle,

All unaided on thy way?

Nay; he still can guide and guard thee,
Still thy faltering steps can stay:
Still, when danger hovers o'er thee,
He than danger is more near;
When in grief thou'st none to pity,
He, the sainted, marks each tear.
Lover, is the light extinguished

Of the gem that, in thy heart
Hidden deeply, to thy being

All its sunshine could impart?
Look above! 't is burning brighter
Than the very stars in heaven;
And to light thy dangerous pathway,
All its new-found glory's given.
With the sons of earth commingling,
Thou the loved one mayst forget;
Bright eyes flashing, tresses waving,
May have power to win thee yet;
But e'en then that guardian spirit
Oft will whisper in thine ear,
And in silence, and at midnight,

Thou wilt know she hovers near.
Orphan, thou most sorely stricken

Of the mourners thronging earth,
Clouds half veil thy brightest sunshine,
Sadness mingles with thy mirth.
Yet, although that gentle bosom,
Which has pillowed oft thy head,
Now is cold, thy mother's spirit

Can not rest among the dead.
Still her watchful eye is o'er thee

Through the day, and still at night Hers the eye that guards thy slumber, Making thy young dreams so bright.

Oh! the friends, the friends we've cherished, How we weep to see them die!

All unthinking they're the angels That will guide us to the sky!

TO MY MOTHER.

WRITTEN AFTER A SHORT ABSENCE.

GIVE me my old seat, mother,

With my head upon thy knee;

I've passed through many a changing scene,
Since thus I sat by thee.

Oh! let me look into thine eyes:
Their meek, soft, loving light
Falls like a gleam of holiness
Upon my heart to-night.

I've not been long away, mother;
Few suns have rose and set,
Since last the tear-drop on thy cheek
My lips in kisses met;

"Tis but a little time, I know,

But very long it seems,
Though every night I come to thee,
Dear mother, in my dreams.
The world has kindly dealt, mother,
By the child thou lovest so well;
Thy prayers have circled round her path,
And 'twas their holy spell

Which made that path so clearly bright,

Which strewed the roses there;
Which gave the light, and cast the balm
On every breath of air.

I bear a happy heart, mother-
A happier never beat;

And even now new buds of hope
Are bursting at my feet.
Ob, mother! life may be "a dream,"
But if such dreams are given,
While at the portal thus we stand,
What are the truths of heaven?

I bear a happy heart, mother;
Yet, when fond eyes I see,

And hear soft tones and winning words,
I ever think of thee.

And then, the tear my spirit weeps

Unbidden fills my eye;

And like a homeless dove, I long
Unto thy breast to fly.

Then, I am very sad, mother,

I'm very sad and lone;

Oh! there's no heart whose inmost fold
Opes to me like thine own!
Though sunny smiles wreathe blooming lips,
While love-tones meet my ear-
My mother, one fond glance of thine
Were thousand times more dear.
Then, with a closer clasp, mother,
Now hold me to thy heart;
I'd feel it beating 'gainst my own
Once more before we part.
And, mother, to this lovelit spot,
When I am far away,

Come oft-too oft thou canst not come !

TO SPRING.

A WELCOME, pretty maiden-
Dainty-footed Spring!
Thou, with the treasures laden

No other hand can bring.
While onward thou art tripping,
Children all around are skipping,
And the low brown eaves are dripping
With the gladsomest of tears.
From mossed old trees are bursting

The tiny specks of green;
Long have their pores been thirsting
For the gushing sap, I ween;
With scarce a shade molesting,
The laughing light is resting
On the slender group that's cresting
Yon fresh, green hillock's brow.
At the timid flower it glances,

Beneath the maple's shade;

And foiled, it lightly dances

With the bars the boughs have made; On the waters of the river,

Still in a winter's shiver,
Its golden streamers quiver,
O'er-brimmed with lusty life.

The folded buds are blushing

On the gnarled apple-tree; While, the small grass-blades a-crushing,

Children gather them to see; And the bee, thus early coming, All around the clusters humming, Upon the bland air thrumming,

Plunges to the nectared sweets. Life, life, the fields is flushing!

Joy springs up from the ground; And joyous strains are gushing

From the woodland all around;
From birds on wild wings wheeling,
Up from the cottage stealing,

From the full-voiced woodman pealing,
Ring out the tones of joy.
Thrice welcome, pretty maiden!
With thy kiss upon my cheek,
Howe'er with care o'erladen,

Of care I could not speak;
Now, I'll make a truce with sorrow,
And not one cloud will borrow
From the dark, unsunned morrow;
I will be a child with thee.

DEATH.

WHEN day is dying in the west,
Each flickering ray of crimson light,
The sky, in gold and purple dressed,
The cloud, with glory all bedight,
And every shade that ushers night,
And each cool breeze that comes to weave
Its dampness with my curls-all leave
A lesson sad!

Last night I plucked a half-shut flower,
Which blushed and nodded on its stem;

I've, in its dotage, seen the year,

Worn out and weary, struggling on,

Till falling prostrate on its bier,

Time marked another cycle gone; And, as I heard the dying moan, Upon my trembling heart there fell The awful words, as by a spell,

"Death, death to all!"

They come on every breath of air,
Which sighs its feeble life away;
They're whispered by each blossom fair,
Which folds a lid at close of day;
There's naught ef earth, or sad or gay,
There's naught below the starlit skies,
But leaves one lesson as it flies-

"Thou too must die!"
And numberless those silvery chords,
Dissevered by the spoiler's hand,
But each in breaking still affords

A tone to say we all are banned;
And on each brow by death-damps spanned,
The pall, the slowly moving hearse,
Is traced the burden of my verse-

66

Death, death to man!"

LIGHTS AND SHADES.

If there be light upon my being's cloud,
I'll cast o'er other hearts its cheering ray;
"T will add new brightness to my toilsome way.
But when my spirit's sadness doth enshroud

Hope's coruscations, Pleasure's meteor gleam,
And darkness settles down upon my heart,
And Care exerts her blighting, cankering art,
Then, then, what I am not I'll strive to seem;
Wo has no right her burden to divide,
To cast her shadows o'er a sunny soul:
So, though my bark rock on the troubled tide,
Or lie, half wrecked, upon the hidden shoal,
The flowers of Hope shall garland it the while,
Though plucked from out her urn in death to smile.

CLINGING TO EARTH.

On, do not let me die ! the earth is bright,
And I am earthly, so I love it well;
Though heaven is holier, and all full of light,
Yet I am frail, and with frail things would dwell.

I can not die! the flowers of earthly love

Shed their rich fragrance on a kindred heart; There may be purer, brighter flowers above, Yet with these ones 't would be too hard to part. I dream of heaven, and well I love these dreams, They scatter sunlight on my varying way; But mid the clouds of earth are priceless gleams Of brightness, and on earth oh let me stay. It is not that my lot is void of gloom,

That sadness never circles round my heart; Nor that I fear the darkness of the tomb, That I would never from the earth depart. "Tis that I love the world-its cares, its sorrows, Its bounding hopes, its feelings fresh and warm, Each cloud it wears, and every light it borrowsLoves, wishes, fears, the sunshine and the storm; I love them all: but closer still the loving

Twine with my being's cords and make my life; And while within this sunlight I am moving, I well can bide the storms of worldly strife. Then do not let me die! for earth is bright, And I am earthly, so I love it well; Heaven is a land of holiness and light, But I am frail, and with the frail would dwell.

ASPIRING TO HEAVEN.

YES, let me die! Am I of spirit-birth,
And shall I linger here where spirits fell,
Loving the stain they cast on all of earth?
Oh make me pure, with pure ones e'er to dwell!
"Tis sweet to die! The flowers of earthly love
(Fair, frail, spring blossoms) early droop and die;
But all their fragrance is exhaled above,
Upon our spirits evermore to lie.

Life is a dream, a bright but fleeting dream,
I can but love; but then my soul awakes,
And from the mist of earthliness a gleam
Of heavenly light, of truth immortal, breaks.
I shrink not from the shadows Sorrow flings
Aeross my pathway; nor from cares that rise
In every footprint; for each shadow brings

Sunshine and rainbow as it glooms and flies.
But heaven is dearer. There I have my treasure;
There angels fold in love their snowy wings;
There sainted lips chant in celestial measure,
And spirit fingers stray o'er heav'n-wrought strings.
There loving eyes are to the portals straying;
There arms extend, a wanderer to fold;
There waits a dearer, holier One, arraying
His own in spotless robes and crowns of gold.

Then let me die! My spirit longs for heaven,
In that pure bosom evermore to rest;
But, if to labor longer here be given,
"Father, thy will be done!" and I am blest.

THE BUDS OF THE SARANAC.*

AN angel breathed upon a budding flower,
And on that breath the bud went up to heaven,
Yet left a fragrance in the little bower
To which its first warm blushes had been given;
And, by that fragrance nursed, another grew,
And so they both had being in the last,
And on this one distilled heaven's choicest dew,
And rays of glorious light were on it cast,
Until the floweret claimed a higher birth,
And would not open on a scene so drear,
For it was more of paradise than earth,
And strains from thence came ever floating near;
And so it passed, and long ere noontide's hour,
The buds of earth had oped, a heaven-born flower.

MY BIRD.

ERE last year's moon had left the sky,
A birdling sought my Indian nest,

And folded, oh! so lovingly,

Its tiny wings upon my breast. From morn till evening's purple tinge, In winsome helplessness she lies; Two rose-leaves, with a silken fringe, Shut softly on her starry eyes. There's not in Ind a lovelier bird;

Broad earth owns not a happier nest; O God, thou hast a fountain stirred, Whose waters never more shall rest! This beautiful, mysterious thing, This seeming visitant from Heaven, This bird with the immortal wing, To meto me, thy hand has given. The pulse first caught its tiny stroke,

The blood its crimson hue, from mine: This life, which I have dared invoke, Henceforth is parallel with thine.

A silent awe is in my room

I tremble with delicious fear;
The future, with its light and gloom,
Time and eternity are here.

Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise;

Hear, oh my God! one earnest prayer: Room for my bird in paradise,

And give her angel plumage there!

Maulmain, (India,) January, 1848.

Lucretia and Margaret Davidson.

MRS. EAMES, whose maiden name was JESUP, is a native of the state of New York, and her early years were passed on the banks of the Hudson. In 1837 she was married to Mr. W. S. Eames, and removed to New Hartford, near Utica, where she has since resided. Mrs. Eames was for several years a contributor to Mr. Greeley's New Yorker, and she now writes frequently for The Tri

Whose sky was luminous-with fame and glory

And following his triumphal car,

Rome's youthful sons came singing

His passion kindled melodies,

With the silver clarion ringing

A prouder music-harp, and lute,

And lyre, all sweet sounds blendingAnd the orient sun-god on his way

In dazzling lustre bending:

And radiant flowers their gem-like splendor shed O'er the proud march that to the Eternal City led!

In all its ancient grandeur was

That sceptred city drest,

And pealing notes and plaudits rang

For him its sovereign guest:

The voice of the Seven Hills went up

From kingly hall and bower,

And throngs with laurel boughs poured forth
To grace that triumph hour;

While censers wafted rich perfume around,
And the glowing air with mirth and melody was

crowned!

On, onward to the Capitol,

Italia's children crowded

Over three hundred triumphs there

The sun had sat unclouded:

For crowned kings and couquerors haught'
Had trod that path to glory,

And poets won bright wreaths and names
To live in song and story!

But ne'er before, king, bard, or victor came,
Winning such honors for his name and poet-fame.

bune; but many of her more carefully finished poems have appeared in Graham's Magazine and the Southern Literary Messenger. She writes with feeling; but she regards poetry as an art, and to the cultivation of it she brings her best powers. While thoughtful and earnest, therefore, her pieces are for the most part distinguished for a tasteful elegance.

The glittering gates are passed, and he
Hath gained the imperial summit,
And deep rich strains of harmony

Are proudly floating from it:
Incense sunshine-and the swelling

Shout of a nation's heart beneath him, Go up to his glorious place of pride,

While the kingly Orsos wreathe him! Well may the bard's enraptured heart beat high, Filled with the exulting thought of his gift's bright victory.

Crowned one of Rome! from that lofty height

Thou wear'st a conqueror's seeming―

Thy dark, deep eye with the radiance

Of inspiration beaming;

Thou'st won the living wreath for which

Thy young ambition panted;

Thy aspiring dream is realized:

Hast thou one wish ungranted?

Kings bow to the might of thy genius-gifted mind: Hast thou one unattained hope, in the deep heart

enshrined?

Oh, wreathed lord of the lyre of song!

Even then thy heart was haunted
With one wild and passionate wish to lay
That crown, a gift enchanted,

Low at her feet, whose smile was more

Than glory, fame, or power-
For whose dear sake was won, and worn,
The glittering laurel flower!

Oh, little worth thy bright renown to thee,
Unshared by her, the star of thy idolatry!

Thanks to thy lyre! she liveth yet,
Oh poet, in thy numbers-

The peerless star of Avignon,

Who shone o'er all thy slumbers: Entire and sole idolatry

At Laura's shrine was given,

Yet was her life-lot severed far

From thine as earth and heaven! And thou,the crowned of Rome-gifted and greatStood in thy glory still alone and desolate !