MISS JULIET H. LEWIS, now Mrs. CAMPBELL, is a daughter of the Hon. Ellis Lewis, president of the second judicial district of Pennsylvania. At an early age she distinguished herself as a writer of poetry; and since her marriage, to Mr. James H. Campbell, a member of the bar of Pottsville, on the seventh of June, 1843, she has been a frequent contributor, of both prose and verse, to the magazines and annuals. During many years of her maiden life she was an only child, and, without companions of her own age, was in constant association with her parents. She frequently accompanied her father on his professional and judicial journeys; and I remember meeting her at West

Point, in her fourteenth or fifteenth year, while Judge Lewis was discharging the duties of an official visiter to the Military Academy there. She had then a reputation for genius, and a few exhibitions of her precocious powers had caused her to be ranked with the Davidsons, who were then subjects of much conversation. Judge Lewis is a student of

"The old and antique rhyme,"

and a poet of no mean powers; and to the peculiar nature of her filial relations, and her consequent intimacy with many persons of eminent abilities and dignified character, she owes the early development of her capacities and her accurate knowledge of the world.

DREAMS.

MANY, oh man! are the wild dreams beguiling
Thy spirit of its restlessness, and ever
Thou rushest onward, some new prize pursuing,
Like the mad waves of a relentless river.
First love, the morning sun of thy existence,
Enchants thy path with glories and with bliss:
Oh linger! for the shadowy hereafter
Hath naught to offer that can equal this.
Linger, and revel in thy first young dreaming,
The holiest that can thrill thy yearning heart—
Husband the precious moments, the brief feeling.
Of youthful ecstasy will soon depart.

Seek not to win too soon that which thou lovest,
When winning will but break the magic spell:
Love on, but seek not, strive not-the attainment
Will cloy thy fickle heart, thy dream dispel.
Vain is the warning! Death as soon will listen
To the beseechings of his stricken prey;
Or Time will tarry when the cowering nations
Shrink from their desolating destiny!
Thou art as fierce as Fate in thy pursuing-
Thou art impetuous as the flight of Time;
And didst thou love a star, thy mad presuming
Would seek to grasp it, though thou thus shouldst
break th' eternal chime.

And now Ambition, like a radiant angel,
Attracts thy vision and enchains thy thought:
Ambition is thy god, and thou art laying
Thy all before the insatiate Juggernaut;
The health, the strength, which crowned thy youth
with glory,

The friends who loved thee in thy early day,
The clinging love which once thy bosom cherished—
All these are cast, like worthless weeds, away.
Take now the prize for which thou'st madly bar-
tered,

Thy first, best treasures; and in lonely grief
Enjoy Fame's emptiness, and, broken hearted,
Feed on the poison of thy laurel leaf;
Then, sated, turn in bitter disppointment
From the applause of Flattery's fawning troop,
And curse, within thy cheated heart's recesses,
Ambition's demon, and thyself his dupe!

These are the visions of thy youth and manhood:
With disappointment wilt thou grow more sage?
Alas, more grovelling yet, and more degrading,
Is avarice, the sordid dream of age!

When all the joys of summer have departed,
And life is stripped alike of birds and bloom,
'Tis sad to see Age, in his dotage, treasure
The withered leaves beside his yawning tomb!

Yes, many are thy dreams, while gentle woman
Hath but one vision, and it is of thee!
Faith, hope, and charity, (most Christian graces,)
In her meek bosom dwell, a trinity
Combined in unit; and an earthly godhead,
Whose name is Love, demands her worshipping:
And she, e'en as the Hindoo to his idol,
The blind devotion of her heart doth bring;
And when her god of clay hath disappointed,
Earth can enchant no more-she looks above,
Laying her crushed heart on her Savior's bosom:
Love was her heaven, now Heaven is her love.

NIGHT-BLOOMING FLOWERS.

FAIR buds! I've wandered day by day
To this sequestered spot,

That I might catch your earliest smiles,
And yet ye open not.
The morning mists are scattered now,
No cloud is in the sky;
The sun, like a benignant king,

Smiles from his throne on high,
While birds, in gushing melody,
Are offering homage up;

And sister flowers, beneath his gaze,
Ope wide each fragile cup:
Why shut ye then your incense in,
And hide your loveliness,

As though you may not share their joy
Beneath the sun's caress?

Now wake ye! 'tis the sunset hour,
The day king has gone down-
Yet still upon the mountain's top
Is seen his brilliant crown.
Awake ye! if its gleaming gems,
Its bands of glittering gold,
Its glorious, lifelike radiance,
Departing, ye'd behold.

The river's touched with glowing light,
And rolls a crimson flood,

While heaven's blush has lent its hues
Unto the leafy wood:

Still are you folded to your dreams?
Bright must those visions be,
If they surpass the gorgeousness
Of heaven's pageantry?

Good night! the stars are gemming heaven,
And seem like angels' eyes,

Resuming now their silent watch

Within the far-off skies;

They nightly on their burning thrones,
Like guardian spirits keep
Familiar vigil o'er the world,

Wrapt in its solemn sleep;
And tenderly they gaze on us,
Those children of the air,
While every ray they send to you

Some message seems to bear,
That stirs you to the inmost core:
You thrill beneath their beams,
And start and tremble wildly, like
Ambition in his dreams.

Now, lo! ye burst your emerald bonds,
And ope your languid eyes,
And spread your loveliness before
Those dwellers of the skies;
While incense from your grateful hearts
Like prayer ascends to heaven,
And kindly dew and starry light
Are answering blessings given.
"Ask and ye shall receive," you seem
To whisper to my heart,
And move me in your worshipping
To take an active part.

Sweet teachers! 't is an hour for prayer,
When hushed are sounds of mirth,

And slumber rests his balmy wing
Upon the weary earth;

When all the ties that bind the soul
To worldliness are riven-
Then heartfelt prayers, like loosened birds,
Will wing their way to heaven.

A STORY OF SUNRISE.
WHERE the old cathedral towers,
With its dimly lighted dome,
Underneath its morning shadow
Nestles my beloved home;
When the summer morn is breaking
Glorious, with its golden beams,
Through my open latticed window
Matin music wildly streams.

Not the peal of deep-toned organ

Smites the air with ringing soundNot the voice of singing maiden

Sighing softer music round;

Long ere these have hailed the morning,
Is the mystic anthem heard,
Wildly, fervently, outpouring

From the bosom of a bird.
Every morn he takes his station

On the cross which crowns the spire,
And with heaven-born inspiration,

Vents in voice his bosom's fire;
Every morn when light and shadow,
Struggling, blend their gold and gray,
From the cross, midway to heaven,

Streams his holy melody.

Like the summons from the turrets

Of an eastern mosque it seems:
"Come to prayer, to prayer, ye faithful!"
Echoes through my morning dreams.
Heedful of the invitation

Of the pious messenger,
Lo! I join in meek devotion
With so lone a worshipper.
And a gushing, glad thanksgiving
From my inmost heart doth thrill,
To our Ever Friend in heaven,

As our blent glad voices trill.
Then the boy who rests beside me
Softly opes his starry eyes,
Tosses back his streaming ringlets,

Gazes round in sweet surprise.
He, though sleeping, felt the radiance

Struggling through the curtained gloom;
Heard the wild, harmonious hymning
Break the stillness of my room:
These deliciously commingled

With the rapture of his dreams,
And the heaven of which I've told him
On his childish vision gleams.
Guardian seraphs, viewless spirits,
Brooding o'er the enchanted air,
Pause, with folded wings, to listen
To the lispings of his prayer;
Up, to the recording angel,

When their ward on earth is done,
They will bear the guileless accents
Of my infant's orison!

MISS BAYARD, a daughter of one of the few old historical families of New York who still preserve fortune and position, has, by a few brilliant lyrics published in the maga zines, revived attention to a name which figures in the early provincial annals of her native state, and which in later times was prominent among the commercial notabilities of the city of her birth. A lady of leisure, fortune, and general accomplishment, is not likely to bestow any very severe study upon the art of poetry; but the amateur votary in this instance has shown a vigor of thought,

emotion, and expression, in some of her productions, which gives the highest promise of what she may accomplish, should she devote her fine intelligence to literature.

The following poems were first printed in the Literary World, and Miss Bayard has published a few more in the Knickerbocker Magazine and in other miscellanies. Among her compositions that have been circulated in manuscript are some, of a more ambitious character, that would vindicate higher encomiums than will here be adventured upon her abilities.

"Tis the death night of the solemn Old Year!

The midnight shades that fall

They will serve it for a pall,
In their gloom:

And the misty vapors crowding
Are the withered corse enshrouding;
And the black clouds looming off in
The far sky, have plumed the coffin:
But the vaults of human souls,
Where the memory unrolls
All her tear-besprinkled scrolls,
Are its tomb!

"Tis the death night of the solemn Old Year!

The moon hath gone to weep,
With a mourning still and deep,

For her loss:

The stars dare not assemble

Through the murky night to tremble;
The naked trees are groaning
With an awful, mystic moaning;

Wings sweep upon the air,
Which a solemn message bear,

And hosts, whose banners wear

A crowned cross!

"Tis the death night of the solemn Old Year! Who make the funeral train,

When the queen hath ceased to reign?
Who are here

With the golden crowns that follow,
All invested with a halo?

With a splendor transitory

Shines the midnight from their glory;

And the pean of their song

Rolls the aisles of space along-
But the left hearts are less strong,

For they were dear!

"Tis the death night of the solemn Old Year! With a dull and heavy tread, Tramping forward with the dead,

Who come last?

Lingering with their faces groundward,
Though their feet are marching onward,
They are shrieking-they are calling
On the rocks in tones appalling:

But Earth waves them from her view,
And the God-light dazzles through-
And they shiver, as spars do,

Before the blast!

"Tis the death night of the solemn Old Year! We are parted from our place In her motherly embrace,

And are alone!

For the infant and the stranger,

It is sorrowful to change her:

She hath cheered the night of mourning
With a promise of the dawning;

She hath shared in our delight
With a gladness true and bright:
Oh! we need her joy to-night-
But she is gone!

ON FINDING THE KEY OF AN OLD
PIANO.

UNLOCK, unlock the shrines of memory,
And bid her many keys their voices send
Up in the silent hour unto me.

Speak! that the tones of other years may lend
Their vanished harmonies and lost romance
To days immersed in gloom and dissonance.
Thou, who the while unconscious played thy part,
And called fair music from her silent cell
To echo murmurs from the gushing heart,

Come! wake once more the departed spell: I fain would hear of things and thoughts again, Which mingled often with the stealing strain. Hark! it comes creeping on it is an air Full of strange wailing-mournfully profound; Some music-spirit moaning in despair, Prisoned in that sweet barrier of sound: And yet, methinks "might I a captive be, If thus environed in captivity!"

And shadowy forms around the instrument Come closely pressing, whispering low words That keep time with the music, redolent

Of deep vibrations in the hidden chords
That round the heart their hurried measure keep,
And sway its pulses with resistless sweep.
Voice of the voiceless! Graves give up their dead,
And at thy word departed echoes ring,
Familiar carols from the lips that fled
Long weary years ago, with fatal wing,
Unto the silent regions of the tomb,
And died away there in its hollow gloom.
Hush! other instruments are creeping in
To perfect the concordance of the whole,
And well remembered voices now begin
To bear on wings invisible my soul.
My own! amongst them I can hear my own-
Alas! 'tis almost a forgotten tone!

Was it eve dark'ning o'er the pleasant room,
When the soft breezes of the summer night
Breathed through its atmosphere a faint perfume,
Or when the autumn's crimson fire-light
Glowed upon every brow-thou still wert there,
Wreck of departed days, with many an air.
Joyous or sorrowful-profound or wild—

Swiftly thy sweeping chords gave out their tones, Light as the laughter of a sinless child

Deep as the anguish told in captive moans-
Smooth as the flow of rivers to the sea-
Irregular as dark insanity.

There have been hands that are beneath the mould,
(I seem to feel their chillness in thy touch)—
Eyes, wept the while they moved, that now are cold
As this impassive metal: yet are such
The things that bind us nearest, move us most,
And leave a hopeless voice when they are lost.
Now, stranger hands across those keys will run,
And other walls for other groups surround,
And stranger eyes look lovingly upon

The unconscious mover of the realm of sound:

That realm, once sacred, my sweet home, to thee, And ever sacred to my memory.

But thou, impassive thing, thus severed wide From thy sole wealth in those harmonious waves, Another empire be thine own beside:

Be thou the pass-key to the spirit caves, Thou the deliverer of their captive throng, The portal spirit of the gates of song.

SPIRITUAL BEAUTY.

THAT pale and shadowy beauty,
It haunts my vision now:
The genius radiating

From the dazzling marble brow-
The high and saintly fervor,

The meek and childlike faith,
The trusting glance, which sayeth

More than mortal accent saith:
They haunt me when the night-winds swell,
And daylight can not break their spell.

I see the blue eye shining
Through the lashes as they fall,
An inward glory speaking

To the inward life of all-
A ray that was illumined

At the far celestial light,
And burns through mist and shadow,
A beacon ever bright,

Serene, seraphic, and sublime,
And changeless with the flight of time.

A faint, transparent rose-light
Is trembling on the cheek,
And lingering on the pale lip-
A glow that seems to speak:
It wavers like the taper

Dim lit at forest shrine,
When night-winds whisper to it:
It breathes of the Divine,
With its ethereal mystery,
Too fragile of the earth to be.

Her grace is as a shadow

As undefinable;
Wedded to every motion thus,
And rarely beautiful.
Untaught, and all unconscious,
It hath a voice to me

Which eloquently speaketh

Of inward harmony:
Of Soul and Sense together swayed-
To the First Soul an offering made.

That pale and shadowy beauty,
It seemed an inward thing-
A spiritual vision-

A chaste imagining:
Not all in form or feature

The fairy phantom dwelt,
But, like the air of heaven,

Was yet less seen than felt-
A presence the true heart to move
To praise, and prayer, and holy love.

THE SEA AND THE SOVEREIGN.

It is said that after the death of Prince William, eldest son of Henry I., king of England, who was wrecked off the coast of Normandy, the monarch was never seen to smile more.

OPEN, ye ruthless waves!

Open the mouths of your uncounted graves,
To swallow up a king!

It is no common thing:

A kingdom in one man incarnated

Goes down to hold his court among your dead!

Jewels lie fathoms down

To glisten, set in crystal, on his crown;
A coral carcanet

An insect realm may set

(A bauble that a king were proud to wear)
Upon his marble throat, all stiff and bare.
Build him an amber throne,

And deck it well with many a burning stone;
And let his footstool be

The lapis lazuli;

And hang his hall with stalactites, whose sheen May make a daylight in the submarine.

An argosy of pearls

May glisten in his waving yellow curls:
I ween no wealthier prince
Hath swayed a kingdom, since
The silver was as dust in Judah's street,
Trodden by Solomon's imperial feet.

Out bursts the ancient Sea
With bitter merriment in mockery:

"Take thou," she saith, "the gem
To deck thy diadem-

The hidden riches of my caves be thine;
I have thy treasure-pay thyself in mine!

"The pomp is bootless now,

A gemmed tiara for that fleshless brow!

There is no need of thrones

For those enamelled bones;

Of daylight for those hollow, sightless eyes! I rob not take thou booty for my prize."

There is a broken groan,

A wail of sorrow from a kingly throne;
There is a human heart

Of which he was a part

Whom thou hast swallowed, thou devouring Sea! A father's heart and cry of agony!

For him thy gifts are brought

For him thine ores with cunning skill are wrought. He only cries aloud:

"I crave but for a shroud!

Oh Ocean, pitiless, relentless one!

Thy riches keep: give back, give back my son!

"Could I but see my child

In death, my bitter anguish were more mild;
His buried form unseen

Stands day and me between

My vision blinds, my soul, my reason warps;
Ocean! I would but once behold his corpse!"
Day laughs out on the sky

With the glad brightness of her waking eye;
In the all-blesséd Spring
Earth is a happy thing;

Universality of gifts upon one creature shed, And to the Benefactor's praise shall all save one be dead?

Mind, soul, heart, strength, all else of good, of rich and beautiful,

Lavished upon the human frame, yet every sense be dull

Save one! one only live to him of all this glorious tower?

Forbid it, Honor, Truth! No! work is piety of power;

Genius is piety of mind; Love piety of heart; Religion piety of soul. It will not serve to part These elements of worship, and then blasphemously give

The mutilated corpse to Him through whom the whole must live.