opportunities, can be appreciated by those only, who have the happiness to be intimately acquainted with the estimable qualities of her mind and heart," says the gentleman to whom we are indebted for the foregoing sketch, who has known its subject from her childhood- -"while those who are acquainted only with the beautiful emanations of her pen will join us in regretting that Mrs. Haight has not continued her reminiscences and observations." Her only published work— "Letters from the Old World: by a Lady of New York," was received with much favour when it appeared, in 1840. It is in two volumes, containing a great variety of interesting information, and at the time was considered one of the best descriptive books of travel modern tourists had furnished: it was highly creditable to the talents and acquirements of Mrs. Haight.

HEWITT, MARY E.,

Was born in Malden, Massachusetts; her maiden name was Moore. Her mother, left early a widow, removed to Boston, where Miss Moore continued to live until her marriage with Mr. James L. Hewitt, when she changed her place of residence to the city of New York. In 1845, Mrs. Hewitt published a small volume of poems, selected from her contributions to the various periodicals, entitled, "Songs of our Land, and other Poems.' Many of these had appeared and attracted much attention, under the signature of "Jane." These verses are evidently the utterance of a warm and impassioned heart, and strong imagination. The thoughts are expressed gracefully and harmomoniously, and bear the stamp of truth and originality. In 1850, Mrs. Hewitt edited a gift book, called "The Gem of the Western World;" and the "Memorial" a beautiful tribute to the memory of her friend, Mrs. Frances S. Osgood.

THE SPIRIT-BOND.

What is the spell that binds my soul,
As with a silver cord, to thee;
That brims with joy life's golden bowl,
And wakes each pulse to ecstasy?

Methinks, in some far distant sphere,

Some star in memory dimly set, That we, for years long sundered here, In high communion erst have met. And yet our souls to each were dark, As is the broad, mysterious sea; Till lighted by the electric spark, Struck from the chain of SYMPATHY

"T is sympathy that binds my soul,
As with a silver cord, to thee;
That brims with joy life's golden bowl,
And wakes each pulse to ecstasy.

THE BRIDE'S REVERIE. Lonely to-night, oh, loved one! is our dwelling, And lone and wearily hath gone the day; For thou, whose presence like a flood is swelling With joy my life-tide — thou art far away.

And wearily for me will go the morrow,
While for thy voice, thy smile, I vainly yearn;
Oh, from fond thought some comfort I will borrow
To while away the hours till thou return!

I will remember that first, sweet revealing

Wherewith thy love o'er my tranced being stole: I, like the Pythoness enraptured, feeling The god divine pervading all my soul.

I will remember each fond aspiration

In secret mingled with thy cherished name, Till from thy lips, in wildering modulation, Those words of ecstasy "I love thee !" came,

And I will think of all our blest communing, And all thy low-breathed words of tenderness; Thy voice to me its melody attuning

Till every tone seemed fraught with a caress.

And feel thee near me, while in thought repeating The treasured memories thou alone dost share Hark! with hushed breath and pulses wildly beating I hear thy footstep bounding o'er the stair!

And I no longer to my heart am telling

The weary weight of loneliness it bore;

For thou, whose love makes heaven within our dwelling, Thou art returned, and all is joy once more.

THE CHILD OF FAME.

"Je vivrai eternellement."- La vie de Sappho. Traduction da Madame Dacier.

Nay call me not thy rose-thine own sweet flower,
For, oh, my soul to thy wild words is mute!
Leave me my gift of song-my glorious dower-
My hand unchanged, and free to sweep the lute.

Thus, when within the tomb thy memory slumbers, Mine, mine will be of those immortal names Sung by the poet in undying numbers:

Call me not thine - I am the world's and fame's!

Were it not blissful, when from earth we sever,
To know that we shall leave, with bard and sage,
A name enrolled on fame's bright page for ever,
A wonder, and a theme to after age!

Talk not of love! I know how, wasted, broken, The trusting heart learns its sad lesson o'er Counting the roses Passion's lips have spoken, Amid the thorns that pierce it to the core.

Oh, heart of mine! that when life's summer hour
For thee with love's bright blossoms hung the bough
Too quickly found an asp beneath the flower-
And is naught left thee but ambition now?

Alas! alas! this brow its pride forsaking,
Would give the glory of its laurel crown
For one fond breast whereon to still its aching -
For one true heart that I might call mine own

HOPKINS, LOUISA PAYSON, DAUGHTER of the Rev. Dr. Payson, distinguished for his learning and piety, and wife of the Rev. Mr. Hopkins, professor in Williams College, Mass., has written a number of works for the young, which are greatly valued for their excellent mode of illustrating the Bible and its doctrines. Among her books published previously to her marriage, was "The Pastor's Daughter," which gave its author a high reputation for talents as well as religious zeal. Her latest work is, "The Guiding Star; or the Bible God's Message," a sequel to Henry Langdon, or what was I made for?" published in 1846. These two books contain, well arranged and clearly set forth, such evidences of the truth of God's revealed Word, as must make the Bible History interesting to the youngest child who can read it, and furnish to the mother a manual for the edification of her own mind, as well as a guide to aid in instructing her family. Mrs. Hopkins should hold a high rank among Christian writers.

Her

In

HORSFORD, MARY GARDINER, WAS born in the city of New York, 1824. father, Samuel S. Gardiner, soon after removed to the family mansion on Shelter Island, where her mother's ancestors had resided. Here, in this secluded and beautiful place, Miss Gardiner passed the greater portion of her youth, books and nature her chief companions. She soon became, from a reader of poetry, a writer; her father's library was her best means of education, although she had other good instructors. 1840 she was placed in the Albany Female Seminary, where she continued three years with great advantage. Soon afterwards she began her contributions, by request, to the Knickerbocker; and also wrote for the Lady's Book, and other periodicals. In 1847 Miss Gardiner was married to Eben Norton Horsford, Rumford Professor in Harvard University at Cambridge. Since her marriage Mrs. Horsford has written some of her most beautiful poetry. There is an exquisite delicacy of fancy, united with power of thought in her verses, that is rarely equalled by those who have established their fame. No collection of her writings has been made.

MY NATIVE ISLE.

My native isle! my native isle!

Forever round thy sunny steep

The low waves curl with sparkling foam
And solemn murmurs deep,

While o'er the surging waters blue
The ceaseless breezes throng,
And in the grand old woods awake
An everlasting song.

The sordid strife and petty cares
That crowd the city's street,

The rush, the race, the storm of Life
Upon thee never meet;

But quiet and contented hearts
Their daily tasks fulfil,

And meet with simple hope and trust
The coming good or ill.

The spireless church stands plain and browa
The winding road beside;

The green graves rise in silence near,
With moss-grown tablets wide;
And early on the Sabbath morn,
Along the flowery sod,
Unfettered souls, with humble prayer,
Go up to worship God.

And dearer far than sculptured fane
Is that gray church to me,
For in its shade my mother sleeps,
Beneath the willow-tree;

And often when my heart is raised,
By sermon and by song,
Her friendly smile appears to me
From the seraphic throng.

The sunset glow, the moon-lit stream
Part of my being are;

The fairy flowers that bloom and die,
The skies so clear and far,
The stars that circle Night's dark brow,
The winds and waters free,
Each with a lesson all its own
Are monitors to me.

The systems in their endless march
Eternal truth proclaim;

The flowers God's love from day to day
In gentlest accents name;
The skies for burdened hearts and faint
A code of Faith prepare;
What tempest ever left the heaven
Without a blue spot there?

My native isle! my native isle !

In sunnier climes I've strayed. But better love thy pebbled beach And lonely forest glade,

Where low winds stir with fragrant breath
The purple violet's head,

And the star-grass in the early spring
Peeps from the sear leaf's bed.

I would no more of tears and strife
Might on thee ever meet,

But when against the tide of years
This heart has ceased to beat,
Where the green weeping willows bend
I fain would go to rest,

Where waters lave, and winds may sweep Above my peaceful breast.

"A DREAM THAT WAS NOT ALL A DREAM."

Through the half-curtained window stole
An autumn sunset's glow,
As languid on my couch I lay
With pulses weak and low.

And then methought a presence stood

With shining feet and fair, Amid the waves of golden light That rippled through the air;

And laid upon my heaving breast With earnest glance and true,

A babe whose pure and gentle brow No shade of sorrow knew.

A solemn joy was in my heart-
Immortal life was given

To earth, upon her battle-field
To discipline for Heaven.

Strange music thrilled the quiet room
An unseen host were nigh,
Who left the infant pilgrim at
The threshold of our sky.

J.

JAMES, MARIA,

Is the daughter of a Welsh emigrant, who came to America in the early part of this century, when his daughter was about seven years old, and settled in the northern part of the state of New York. Maria James received a very slight educa. tion, but from her earliest youth evinced a poetical talent very remarkable in a person circumstanced as she was; occupying generally the position of a nursery-maid, or servant in families in the towns of that state. Her poems, with a preface by Alonzo Potter, D. D., now Bishop of Pennsylvania, were published in 1839.

JACOBS, SARAH S.,

Is a native of Rhode Island, but resides at Her present in Cambridgeport, Massachusetts. poems, by which she made herself known to the reading public, bear the stamp of originality and beauty in no ordinary degree. She possesses evidently powers which she has not yet fully unfolded to the world.

K.

KINNEY, E. C.,

WAS born and educated in the city of New York. Her maiden name was Dodge. She was married to Mr. William B. Kinney, editor of the Newark Daily Advertiser. Mrs. Kinney wrote almost from her childhood, and her productions were thrown off with the greatest ease; yet she always shrank from publicity, and her early efforts appeared under an assumed name. Her poems have been published principally in the Knickerbocker and Graham's Magazine; and have never yet been collected. All the qualities which mark a ready writer appear in her poems; ease, melody, and grace; if they are wanting in thought and strength, the glimpses of those powers that appear in her writings, give evidence that the author has higher capabilities than she has yet unfolded to the world.

CULTIVATION.

Weeds grow unasked, and even some sweet flowers
Spontaneous give their fragrance to the air,
And bloom on hills, in vales, and everywhere -
As shines the sun, or fall the summer showers -
But wither while our lips pronounce them fair!
Flowers of more worth repay alone the care,
The nurture, and the hopes, of watchful hours;
While plants most cultured have most lasting powers
So, flowers of genius that will longest live,
Spring not in Mind's uncultivated soil,
But are the birth of time, and mental toil,
And all the culture Learning's hand can give:
Fancies like wild flowers, in a night may grow;
But thoughts are plants whose stately growth is slow.

THE QUAKERESS BRIDE.

The building was humble, yet sacred to One
Who heeds the deep worship that utters no tone;
Whose presence is not to the temple confined,
But dwells with the contrite and lowly of mind.
'T was there all unveiled, save by modesty, stood
The Quakeress bride in her pure satin hood;
Her charms unadorned by the garland or gem,
Yet fair as the lily just plucked from its stem.
A tear glistened bright in her dark, shaded eye,
And her bosom half uttered a tremulous sigh,
As the hand she had pledged was confidingly given,
And the low-murmured accents recorded in heaven.

LOWELL, MARIA,

By birth Miss White, is a native of Watertown, Massachusetts. In 1844, she was married to the well-known poet, James Russell Lowell, and br her own writings has shown that she is truly his "sister spirit." There is great tenderness of feeling, and simplicity, in all the productions of her per; and her household lyrics are full of pathe and beauty. The poetical genius of women displayed its best powers when employed, as it usually is, to exalt religious hopes, hallow domestic feelings, and beautify the humble duties of life.

L.

LARCOM, LUCY,

WAS born in Massachusetts. While she was employed as an operative at Lowell, she first began to write, and her earliest effusions, both in prose and verse, appeared in "The Lowell Offering," and were received with particular favour. At present, Miss Larcom is employed as a teacher in Illinois.

LAWSON, MARY LOCKHART,

Is of Scotch extraction, but was born and resides in Philadelphia. She has written poems for the various periodicals that do honour both to her intellect and her heart.

LEE, ELEANOR PERCY,

DAUGHTER of Judge Ware, of Mississippi, and sister of Mrs. Catharine Warfield, married Mr. Lee, of Mississippi. She, together with her sister, has published two volumes of poetry, one entitled, "Wife of Leon, and other Poems;" and the other, "The Indian Chamber, and other Poems."

LITTLE, SOPHIA L.,

DAUGHTER of Hon. Asher Robbins, of Rhode Island, was born at Newport, in 1799. In 1824, she married Mr. William Little, of Boston, where Mrs. Little has since resided. She is a poetess of much merit. Her principal works are, "The Last days of Jesus;" "The Annunciation and Birth of Jesus, and the Resurrection;" "The Betrothed;" and "The Branded Hand," besides many fugitive poems. She has also written a prose work called "The Pilgrim's Progress in the Last Days."

LOCKE, JANE E.,

Is a native of Massachusetts. Her poems first appeared in the American Ladies' Magazine, about 1830. Since then she has written for several periodicals, and also published a volume of miscellaneous poems. The book met with much

favour from the many friends of the author, and her talents have availed to benefit herself and her family. Besides poetry, Mrs. Locke has written some interesting prose papers, and shows an earnest desire to do good in all her productions. She resides in Lowell.

THE MORNING-GLORY.

We wreathed about our darling's head
The morning-glory bright:

Her little face looked out beneath,
So full of life and light,
So lit as with a sunrise,

That we could only say,
"She is the morning-glory true,
And her poor types are they."

So always from that happy time
We called her by their name,
And very fitting did it seein —
For, sure as morning came,
Behind her cradle bars she smiled
To catch the first faint ray,
As from the trellis smiles the flower
And opens to the day.

But not so beautiful they rear
Their airy cups of blue,
As turned her sweet eyes to the light,
Brimmed with sleep's tender dew;
And not so close their tendrils fine

Round their supports are thrown,
As those dear arms whose outstretched pisa
Clasped all hearts to her own.

We used to think how she had come. Even as comes the flower,

The last and perfect added gift

To crown love's morning hour
And how in her was imaged forth
The love we could not say,
As on the little dewdrops round
Shines back the heart of day.

We never could have thought, O God,
That she must wither up.
Almost before a day was flown,

Like the morning-glory's cup;
We never thought to see her droop
Her fair and noble head,
Till she lay stretched before our eyes,
Wilted, and cold, and dead!

The morning-glory's blossoming
Will soon be coming round:
We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves
Upspringing from the ground;
The tender things the winter killed
Renew again their birth,
But the glory of our morning

Has passed away from earth.

Oh, Earth! in vain our aching eyes
Stretch over thy green plain!
Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air
Her spirit to sustain:

But up in groves of paradise
Full surely we shall see

Our morning-glory beautiful
Twine round our dear Lord's knee.

M.

MAY, CAROLINE,

Is daughter of the Rev. Edward Harrison May, of New York. For some time she published her poems anonymously, or under the signature of Caromaia. In 1848, she edited a work called, "Specimens of the American Female Poets," and evinced much taste anu true poetical feeling in the selections she made. In 1850, there appeared another volume of selections by the same author, entitled 66 Treasured Thoughts from Favourite Authors." This work is worthy its name; its perusal will convince the reader of the judgment and discrimination of the compiler. It is full of lofty and refined sentiments and noble truths, selected from the best English classics.

LILIES.

Every flower is sweet to me —

The rose and violet,

The pink, the daisy, and sweet pea, Heart's ease and mignonette,

And hyacinths and daffodillies: But sweetest are the spotless lilies

I know not what the lilies were
That grew in ancient times—
When Jesus walked with children fair,
Through groves of eastern climes,
And made each flower, as be passed by it,
A type of faith. content, and quiet.

But they were not more pure and bright
Than those our gardens show:

Or those that shed their silver light,
Where the dark waters flow;

Or those that hide in woodland alley,
The fragrant lilies of the valley.

And I, in each of them, would see
Some lesson for my youth:
The loveliness of purity,

The stateliness of truth,
Whene'er I look upon the lustre
Of those that in the garden cluster.

Patience and hope, that keep the soul
Unruffled and secure,
Though floods of grief beneath it roll,
I learn, when calm and pure
I see the floating water-lily,
Gleam amid shadows dark and chilly.

And when the fragrance that ascends,
Shows where its lovely face
The lily of the valley bends,

I think of that sweet grace,
Which sheds within the spirit lowly,
A rest, like heaven's, so safe and holy.

THOUGHT.

Bo truly, faithfully, my heart is thine,

Dear Thought, that when I am debarred from thee By the vain tumult of vain company; And when it seems to be the fixed design Of heedless hearts, who never can incline Themselves to seek thy rich though hidden charms, To keep me daily from thy outstretched arms --My soul sinks faint within me, and I pine As lover pines when from his love apart, Who, after having been long loved, long sought, At length has given to his persuasive art Hier generous soul with hope and fear full fraught: For thou'rt the honoured mistress of my heart, Pure, quiet, bountiful, beloved Thought!

"MAY, EDITH,"

Is the nomme de plume of one of the most youthful and most promising poets of America; she was born in Philadelphia, but for the last four years has resided at Montrose, a place in a secluded but most beautiful part of Pennsylvania. It is now about three or four years since her first poems appeared, and they displayed a degree of thought, finish and beauty so unusual in the first attempts of writers, that they immediately commanded attention, and "Edith May" is now one of the best known of the many young aspirants for fame in this country. Her writings are about to be collected and published in one volume.

PRAYER.

I have a thought of one who drawing close
Over her brow the sackcloth, in its folds
Crouched, shutting out from her refusing eyes
God's gift of sunshine. While the all-pitying skies
Wooed her with light she would not look upon;
While earth entreated her, and passing winds
Plucked at her garments, and around her flung
Invisible arms, light, urgent, clasping arms,
Her heart made answer-I have lain so long
On thy cold breast, Despair, did I arise

I should reel wildly, staggering with cramped limbs,
Through the white, glaring sunshine. Hide me, night!
Lest the full glories of the universe

Smite me with blindness, and exulting earth
Under the blue triumphal arch of Heaven
Victoriously passing, blast my sense
With her insulting gladness! Once I prayed.
Once, when dismay, want, guilt, pressed me so close
I faced them in mere madness, and beholding,
From mine appalled heart sent up a shriek
That must have pierced the hollow ear of space,
Startling the angels, holding in suspense,
Awhile, the eternal harmonies. Vain heart!
Could the mute prayer that on its fiery track
Followed in trembling haste, prevail so far?
Amid the roll of twice ten thousand harps
Struck by white-handed seraphim, the voice
Of that unfathomed sea of human woe,
Making perpetual moan about His throne,
And surging to His footstool, dost thou dream
That its weak cry rose audibly?

Did sleep

On her imploring senses lightly rest
His hand in benediction? The still air
To her astonished gaze grew all instinct,
Moted with airy forms forever drawn

Up by some genial influence. With bent heads,
With hands clasped mutely, and looks downward dropped
Else searching space, onward they pressed, and drew
Her wrapt soul with them. Tears and sighs fell thick,
Mixed with low, broken murmurs, and a sound,
Distinct, of music that flowed clearly on,

Like a bright singing stream that lifts its voice
Amid the mourning of sere autumn boughs

Bent with wet leaves and rain. The dense, dull air

As 'twere a vail they parted, and it lay
Above the earth like the dusk cloud that hangs
Over some populous mart. Yet upward still
Through that black space of which the hue of night
Is a pale mock; and she who fled with them
Whither she questioned not, from that great height
Back glancing, saw the universe as one
Who looking from a mountain top beholds
Faint, clustering lamps that twinkling through the gloom
Mark where a city stands. And upward still
"Till through the cloaking dark a sword of light
Flashed suddenly! Then over, and around
There shined a brightness of ten thousand suns
All concentrate, and her scared spirit stood
In its full courts of Heaven. She might not look.
On the great glory, but the seraphim

That leant upon their harps forever there