THE LAST INTERVIEW.

HERE, in this lonely bower where first I won thee, I come, beloved, beneath the moon's pale ray, To gaze once more through struggling tears upon And then to bear my broken heart away. [thee, I dare not linger near thee as a brother,

I feel my burning heart would still be thine;
How could I hope my passionate thoughts to smother,
While yielding all the sweetness to another,
That should be mine!

But Fate hath willed it; the decree is spoken;
Now life may lengthen out its weary chain;
For, reft of thee, its loveliest links are broken;
May we but clasp them all in heaven again!
Yes, thou wilt there be mine: in yon blue heaven
There are sweet meetings of the pure and fond;
Oh! joys unspeakable to such are given,
When the sweet ties of love, that here are riven,
Unite beyond.

A glorious charm from heaven thou dost inherit;
The gift of angels unto thee belongs;
Then breathe thy love in music, that thy spirit
May whisper to me thro' thine own sweet songs;
And though my coming life may soon resemble

The desert spots through which my steps will flee, Though round thee then wild worshippers assemble, My heart will triumph if thine own but tremble Still true to me.

Yet, not when on our bower the light reposes
In golden glory, wilt thou sigh for me-
Not when the young bee seeks the crimson roses,
And the far sunbeams tremble o'er the sea;
But when at eve the tender heart grows fonder,
And the full soul with pensive love is fraught,
Then with wet lids o'er these sweet paths thou 'lt
wander,

And, thrilled with love, upon my memory ponder
With tender thought.

And when at times thy birdlike voice entrances The listening throng with some enchanting lay, If I am near thee, let thy heavenly glances

One gentle message to my heart convey;
I ask but this a happier one has taken
From my lone life the charm that made it dear;
I ask but this, and promise thee unshaken
To meet that look of love: but oh, 't will awaken
Such raptures here!

And now farewell! farewell! I dare not lengthen
These sweet, sad moments out; to gaze on thee
Is bliss indeed, yet it but serves to strengthen
The love that now amounts to agony;
This is our last farewell, our last fond meeting;
The world is wide, and we must dwell apart;
My spirit gives thee, now, its last wild greeting,
With lip to lip, while pulse to pulse is beating,
And heart to heart.

Farewell! farewell! our dream of bliss is over-
All, save the memory of our plighted love;
I now must yield thee to thy happier lover,
Yet, oh remember, thou art mine above!
Tis a sweet thought, and, when by distance parted,

"T will lie upon our hearts a holy spell; But the sad tears beneath thy lids have started, And I-alas! we both are broken-hearted— Dearest, farewell!

MY SISTERS.

LIKE flowers that softly bloom together,
Upon one fair and fragile stem,
Mingling their sweets in sunny weather

Ere strange, rude hands have parted them,
So were we linked unto each other,

Sweet sisters, in our childish hours, For then one fond and gentle mother To us was like the stem to flowers; She was the golden thread that bound us In one bright chain together here, Till Death unloosed the cord around us, And we were severed far and near. The floweret's stem, when broke or shattered, Must cast its blossoms to the wind, Yet, round the buds, though widely scattered, The same soft perfume still we find; And thus, although the tie is broken

That linked us round our mother's knee, The memory of words we've spoken,

When we were children light and free,
Will, like the perfume of each blossom,
Live in our hearts where'er we roam,
As when we slept on one fond bosom,
And dwelt within one happy home.

I know that changes have come o'er us;
Sweet sisters! we are not the same,
For different paths now lie before us,

And all three have a different name;
And yet, if Sorrow's dimming fingers

Have shadowed o'er each youthful brow, So much of light around them lingers I can not trace those shadows now. Ye both have those who love ye only, Whose dearest hopes are round you thrown, While, like a stream that wanders wildly, Am I, the youngest, wildest one. My heart is like the wind, that beareth

Sweet scents upon its unseen wingThe wind that for no creature careth,

Yet stealeth sweets from everything; It hath rich thoughts for ever leaping

Up, like the waves of flashing seas, That with their music still are keeping Soft time with every fitful breeze; Each leaf that in the bright air quivers, The sounds from hidden solitudes, And the deep flow of far-off rivers,

And the loud rush of many floods:
All these, and more, stir in my bosom
Feelings that make my spirit glad,
Like dewdrops shaken in a blossom;
And yet there is a something sad
Mixed with those thoughts, like clouds, that hover
Above us in the quiet air,

Veiling the moon's pale beauty over,
Like a dark spirit brooding there.

But, sisters! those wild thoughts were never Yours: ye would not love, like me,

To gaze upon the stars for ever,

To hear the wind's wild melody.
Ye'd rather look on smiling faces,

And linger round a cheerful hearth,
Than mark the stars' bright hiding-places
As they peep out upon the earth.
But, sisters! as the stars of even

Shrink from Day's golden-flashing eye,
And, melting in the depths of heaven,

Veil their soft beams within the sky; So shall we pass, the joyous-hearted, The fond, the young, like stars that wane, Till every link of earth be parted,

To form in heaven one mystic chain.

MUSINGS.

I WANDERED out one summer night,
"T was when my years were few,
The wind was singing in the light,

And I was singing too;
The sunshine lay upon the hill,
The shadow in the vale,
And here and there a leaping rill
Was laughing on the gale.
One fleecy cloud upon the air
Was all that met my eyes;
It floated like an angel there

Between me and the skies;

I clapped my hands and warbled wild,
As here and there I flew,
For I was but a careless child,
And did as children do.

The waves came dancing o'er the sea
In bright and glittering bands;
Like little children, wild with glee,

They linked their dimpled hands— They linked their hands, but, ere I caught Their sprinkled drops of dew,

They kissed my feet, and, quick as thought,
Away the ripples flew.

The twilight hours, like birds, flew by,
As lightly and as free;

Ten thousand stars were in the sky,

Ten thousand on the sea;

For every wave with dimpled face,
That leaped upon the air,
Had caught a star in its embrace,
And held it trembling there.

The young moon, too, with upturned sides
Her mirrored beauty gave,

And, as a bark at anchor rides,

She rode upon the wave;
The sea was like the heaven above,
As perfect and as whole,

Save that it seemed to thrill with love
As thrills the immortal soul.
The leaves, by spirit-voices stirred,
Made murmurs on the air,
Low murmurs, that my spirit heard
And answered with a prayer;

For 'twas upon that dewy sod,
Beside the moaning seas,

I learned at first to worship God

And sing such strains as these.

The flowers, all folded to their dreams,
Were bowed in slumber free
By breezy hills and murmuring streams,
Where'er they chanced to be;

No guilty tears had they to weep,

No sins to be forgiven;

They closed their leaves and went to sleep 'Neath the blue eye of heaven!"

No costly robes upon them shone,
No jewels from the seas,
Yet Solomon upon his throne

Was ne'er arrayed like these;
And just as free from guilt and art
Were lovely human flowers,
Ere Sorrow set her bleeding heart
On this fair world of ours.

I heard the laughing wind behind
A-playing with my hair;

The breezy fingers of the wind—

How cool and moist they were!

I heard the night-bird warbling o'er
Its soft, enchanting strain:

I never heard such sounds before,
And never shall again.

Then wherefore weave such strains as these,
And sing them day by day,
When every bird upon the breeze

Can sing a sweeter lay?

I'd give the world for their sweet art,
The simple, the divine-

I'd give the world to melt one heart
As they have melted mine!

THE LITTLE STEP-SON.

I HAVE a little step-son,

The loveliest thing alive:

A noble, sturdy boy is he,

And yet he's only five;

His smooth cheek hath a blooming glow,

His eyes are black as jet,

And his lips are like two rosebuds,

All tremulous and wet:

His days pass off in sunshine,
In laughter, and in song,
As careless as a summer rill,
That sings itself along;
For like a pretty fairy tale,

That's all too quickly told,
Is the young life of a little one
That's only five years old.
He's dreaming on his happy couch
Before the day grows dark,
He's up with morning's rosy ray
A-singing with the lark;
Where'er the flowers are freshest,

Where'er the grass is green,
With light locks waving on the wind
His fairy form is seen,

Amid the whistling March winds,
Amid the April showers;
He warbles with the singing birds
And blossoms with the flowers;
He cares not for the summer heat,
He cares not for the cold-
My sturdy little step-son,

That's only five years old.

How touching 'tis to see him clasp
His dimpled hands in prayer,
And raise his little rosy face
With reverential air!
How simple is his eloquence,
How soft his accents fall,
When pleading with the King of kings
To love and bless us all!

And when from prayer he bounds away
In innocence and joy,

The blessing of a smiling God
Goes with the sinless boy;
A little lambkin of the flock,
Within the Savior's fold,
Is he my lovely step-son,

That's only five years old.

I have not told you of our home,
That in the summer hours
Stands in its simple modesty
Half hid among the flowers;
I have not said a single word

About our mines of wealth--
Our treasures are this little boy,
Contentment, peace, and health;
For even a lordly hall to us

Would be a voiceless place Without the gush of his glad voice,

The gleams of his bright face: And many a courtly pair, I ween, Would give their gems and gold For a noble, happy boy, like ours, Some four or five years old.

THE PRESENCE OF GOD.

O THOU, who flingst so fair a robe

Of clouds around the hills untrodThose mountain-pillars of the globe, Whose peaks sustain thy throne, O God! All glittering round the sunset skies,

Their trembling folds are lightly furled, As if to shade from mortal eyes

The glories of yon upper world; There, while the evening star upholds In one bright spot their purple folds, My spirit lifts its silent prayer, For thou, the God of love, art there. The summer flowers, the fair, the sweet, Upspringing freely from the sod, In whose soft looks we seem to meet At every step thy smiles, O God! The humblest soul their sweetness shares, They bloom in palace-hall, or cot; Give me, O Lord! a heart like theirs,. Contented with my lowly lot! Within their pure, ambrosial bells,

In odors sweet, thy Spirit dwells;
Their breath may seem to scent the air-
"Tis thine, O God! for thou art there.
List! from yon casement low and dim
What sounds are these that fill the breeze?
It is the peasant's evening hymn
Arrests the fisher on the seas:
The old man leans his silver hairs
Upon his light-suspended oar,
Until those soft, delicious airs

Have died like ripples on the shore.
Why do his eyes in softness roll?
What melts the manhood from his soul?
His heart is filled with peace and prayer,
For thou, O God! art with him there.
The birds among the summer blooms

Pour forth to thee their strains of love,
When, trembling on uplifted plumes,

They leave the earth and soar above; We hear their sweet, familiar airs Where'er a sunny spot is found; How lovely is a life like theirs,

Diffusing sweetness all around! From clime to clime, from pole to pole, Their sweetest anthems softly roll,

Till, melting on the realms of air,

Thy still, small voice seems whispering there. The stars, those floating isles of light,

Round which the clouds unfurl their sails, Pure as a woman's robe of white

That trembles round the form it veils,
They touch the heart as with a spell,

Yet, set the soaring fancy free,
And oh how sweet the tales they tell!

They tell of peace, of love, and thee!
Each raging storm that wildly blows,
Each balmy gale that lifts the rose,
Sublimely grand, or softly fair,
They speak of thee, for thou art there,
The spirit oft oppressed with doubt,

May strive to cast thee from its thought,
But who can shut thy presence out,
Thou mighty Guest that com'st unsought!
In spite of all our cold resolves,

Whate'er our thoughts, where'er we be,
Still magnet-like the heart revolves,

And points, all trembling, up to thee;
We can not shield a troubled breast
Beneath the confines of the blest,
Above, below, on earth, in air,
For thou the living God art there.

Yet, far beyond the clouds outspread,
Where soaring Fancy oft hath been,
There is a land where thou hast said

The pure of heart shall enter in;
In those far realms so calmly bright
How many a loved and gentle one
Bathes its soft plumes in living light

That sparkles from thy radiant throne! There souls, once soft and sad as ours, Look up and sing mid fadeless flowers; They dream no more of grief and care, For thou, the God of peace, art there.

CATHERINE ANN WARE and ELEANOR PERCY WARE, daughters of the Hon. Nathaniel Ware, of Mississippi, were born near the city of Natchez. After studying several years in the best seminaries of their native state, they completed their education in one of the most fashionable schools of Philadelphia, after leaving which they passed some time in travel, and became known in many brilliant circles for the vivacious grace of their manners and their fine intelligence. Their home beside the "Father of Waters" was exchanged for one in Cincinnati, and during the residence of Judge Ware in that city they were married the eldest to Mr. Warfield, of Lexington, Kentucky, and the other to Mr. Lee, then of Vicksburg, and now of a place called Bachelor's Bend, about twelve miles from the Mississippi river.

Their first appearance in the literary world was in a volume entitled The Wife of Leon, and other Poems, by Two Sisters of the West, printed in New York in 1843. It consisted principally of fruits of desultory repose from the excitements of society-short pieces, written to wile away time, and gratify a taste for composition-without a thought that they would ever meet the eyes of strangers; and it was not until urged to do so by several friends distinguished for their abilities in literature, that they consented to the wishes of their father in giving them to the press.

The reception of these poems vindicated their publication. They were reviewed with many expressions of approval in the most critical journals, and with especial praise in The New York Evening Post and The New Mirror, conducted by two poets, of very different characters, but both destined to places among the standard authors of the age and country. A second edition of this volume appeared, under the names of the authors, in Cincinnati, in the autumn of 1848.

In 1846 Mrs. Warfield and Mrs. Lee published a new collection of their writings, under the title of The Indian Chamber and other Poems, in which there is evinced a very decided advancement in reflection, feeling and

art. They exhibit more readiness of epithet and imagery, from the observation of nature and the experience of life, and have more meaning and earnestness.

We have in neither volume any intimation of the respective shares of the authors in its production, but it would not have escaped the detection of the most careless readers that the poems are by different hands, of very different though perhaps not very unequal powers. Among them are many specimens of ingenious and happy fancy, of bold and distinct painting, and of tasteful, harmonious, and sometimes sparkling versification; but not a few of them would have been much better if the authors had recollected that the word "thing" can never be properly applied to a human intelligence except in expression of contempt, and that "redolent," "fraught," "glee," and some half dozen other pet phrases of poetasters, convenient enough for rhyming and filling out lines, have, from the manner in which they are commonly applied, become offensive, unless used sparingly and with the most exact propriety. Illustrations of the fault to which we refer - a fault by no means peculiar to the "Two Sisters of the West," - may be found in that line of The Bird of Washington, in which the soul is styled

A proud, triumphant thing: and in Remorse, where the word " adored," which is as sacred to one purpose as the Hebrew characters that syllabled the highest name of the Creator, and which expresses no possible extravagance of feeling toward a human being, is used for loved, or- though this would be in very bad taste-for wor shipped.

The two volumes that have been referred to do not comprise all nor perhaps the best of the compositions of their authors. They are both experienced and successful writers of prose, and Mrs. Warfield has written a novel, that, if published under her real name, would surprise those who have formed the most favorable estimates of her powers, by its fine description, genial wit, and criticism of society and manners.

REMORSE.

THE day had died in splendor royally, Mid draperies of purple and of gold, And crimson banners waving o'er its bier; And the last yellow tints were fading fast From earth and sea, and paling in the west Into that vague, gray shadow which comes down Over the breast of Nature, as deep thought Upon the human spirit. Strangely linked With all the deeper yearnings of the soulThe secrets of the inner fane-art thou, Mysterious Twilight! thou, who didst prevail O'er Chaos with a drear and brooding weight, And hadst a name ere night and day began. Still, in thine ancient guise, thou walkst the earth, Thou shadow of the Almighty! and callst up Conscience, and Thought, and Memory, that sleep Through the glad, busy day and dreaming night, In long and sad array. There lives not one O'er whom thine influence falls not mournfully; Thou art prophetic to the few who boast A happy past, and with thy shadowy hand Seemest to lift a corner of the veil That shuts their present from futurity. And to the mourning spirit thou revealest Pale, haunting faces-lost, yet loved not less Than when they knew no better home than earth, And wore a human guise. But in the soul Where lies a hidden sting of pain and wrong, Of vain regret, or, darker still, remorseThou bringst, O shadowy Twilight, brooding gloom, And dearth, and restlessness, and agony!

Within a southern garden, where the breath of flowers went up like incense, and the plash Of falling fountains made a murmuring voice Of music sweet, yet same, there paced a man Restlessly to and fro: the lingering light Fell on his features, pale and beautiful As those of the old statues, and with much Of the ideal tenderness that breathed Around the marble, till it rivalled lifeYet with a latent sternness, lurking still About the august, high forehead, and the lip, And the fine, sweeping profile, that recalled Yet more a statue's strong similitude. But wild and stormy changes now o'ercast Those noble features-sick and wringing pain, Then shuddering shame, anxiety, despair: These, plainly as my hand hath traced the words, Were written on his aspect; and a prayerWhich, in its brief and utter desolateness, Bears more of misery than any boon A human heart may crave-oft left his lip, Unconscious of its utterance: " Oh, my God, Let me forget-or suffer me to die!"

A step was near him. Suddenly he turned, And bent a long, sad gaze on one whose touch Had broken the dark spell; whose white hand lay Yet on his arm in tenderness; whose eyes Were raised with such intensity of love. [down, They touched the springs of tears. Then he bowed And veiling in his hand his quivering face, Wept silently and long; while mournfully Watched over him that angel minister,

Whose love alone poured balm into his wound,
And shone a star o'er the dark waste of life.
Still in that southern garden lingered they,
The pale and suffering man, and she who seemed
The genius of his fate. The stars were met
In starry conclave in their halls above,
And the moon, in the deep and quiet heaven,
Rose high amid a maze of fleecy clouds,
Toward the noon of night. Beneath a bower
Where breathed the odorous jessamine, they sat
Communing of the irrevocable past.

His voice was lifted in the solemn night
In passionate remorse: he, who had stood
At morn within the crowded council-hall,
Pouring abroad a gush of eloquence
That stirred the heart as with a trumpet-note,
That called up Feeling from its inmost cell,
And followed Motive to its hidden source,
And touched the electric chain of Memory,
Until the mighty mass became as one
Sentient and breathing soul beneath his spell;
He, the adored, the proud, the eloquent,
The stateliest amid men, now filled the hush
Of night with dark bewailings, while each pause
Of that sad, thrilling voice, was filled by tones
Unutterably musical and soft,
Urging Love's fondest prayer:

"Be calm, mine own!
The strife was not thy seeking: thou didst bear,
(Thou, who art fearless as an eagle plumed,)
With saintlike meekness, much of taunt and wrong,
Much scorn and injury, ere they could urge
Thy hand against the man thou lovest so well-
Ay, with a brother's tenderness. Be firm;
Turn from such memories." He arose, and paced
The moonlight bower with folded arms, and head
Bowed to his breast. "They haunt me yet," he said,
That manly form, those large, dark, joyous eyes,
The stately step, the sweet, fresh, ringing laugh,
(Marion! it was a sound that had no peer,
Save at a fountain, at its freshest source,
Gushing through mountain clefts,) these, these arise,
Darkly and terribly. These haunt me still.

"I would forgetfulness were mine! full oft That old wild tale of oriental lands Comes back with all its witchery to my brain, Fresh as when o'er its page I hung entranced In my glad boyhood, 'neath the summer boughs. The waters of oblivion! where are they, Those crystal waters in their marble font? For one deep draught I would surrender all The eloquence, the power, the wealth, the fame, That I have made mine own-all, all, save thee, And go with toiling hands and hopeful heart Forth on the waste of life! ForgetfulnessI ask but this!" He paused, and choking back A tide of agony, went on once more In calmer tones: "It is not oft, mine ownBelieve me-oh! not often that my soul Opens her prison chambers, and gives forth Her captive anguish. Even in solitude My habit is not this; and thou hast known, Hitherto, from some gloomy mood alone, Some sad, fantastic humor, some wild dream, Whose mutterings startled thee from midnight sleep