The sculptor, in his chiselled stone,
The painter, in his colors blent,
The bard, in numbers all his own,

Raises himself his monument:
But he, whose every touch could wake
A passion, and a thought control,
He who, to bless the ear, did make

Music of his very soul;
Who bound for us, in golden chains,
The golden links of harmony-
Naught is left us of his strains,

Naught but their fleeting memory:
Then, while a trace of him remains,
Shall we not cherish it tenderly?

WORDSWORTH.

BARK of the unseen haven,
Mind of unearthly mood,
Like to the prophet's raven,
Thou bringest me heavenly food;
Or like some mild dove winging

Its way from cloudless skies,
Celestial odors bringing,
And in its glad soul singing
The songs of paradise.

Surely thou hast been nearer
The bounds of day and night-
Thy vision has been clearer,
And loftier thy flight,
And thou to God art dearer

Than many men of might.
Speak! for to thee we listen
As never to bard before,
And faded eyes shall glisten

That thought to be bright no more.
Oh, tell us of yonder heaven,

And the world that lies within;
Tell us of the happy spirits
To whom we are near of kin ;
Tell of the songs of rapture,

Of the stars that never set;
Do the angels call us brothers-
Does our Father love us yet?

Speak, for our souls are thirsting

For the light of righteousness;
Speak, for our bosoms are bursting
With a desolate loneliness;
Our hearts are worn and weary,
Our robes are travel-soiled-
For through a desert dreary

Our wandering feet have toiled.
Those to whom life looks brighter
May ask an earthlier strain:
A gayer spell and a lighter

Shall hold them in its chain;

But to those who have drunk deepest
Of the cup of joy and grief,
The tuneful tears thou weepest
Do minister relief.

Speak, for the earth is throbbing
With a wild sense of pain;
The wintry winds are sobbing

The requiem of the slain;
Dimly our lamps are burning,
And gladly we list to thee,
With a strange and mystic yearning

Toward the home where we would be:
Turn from the rhyme of weary Time,
And sing of Eternity!
Tell of the sacred mountains
Where prophets in prayer have kneeled;
Tell of the glorious fountains
That soon shall be unsealed;
Tell of the quiet regions
Where those we love are fled;
Tell of the angel legions
That guard the blessed dead!
Tell us of the sea of glass,
And of the icy river;
To those who its waves must pass
Thy message of love deliver.
Strike, strike thy harp of many lays,
And we will join the song of praise
To Him that sitteth upon the throne
Of life and love for ever!

WOMAN.

A VESTAL priestess, proudly pure,
But of a meek and quiet spirit;
With soul all dauntless to endure,

And mood so calm that naught can stir it,
Save when a thought most deeply thrilling
Her eyes with gentlest tears is filling,
Which seem with her true words to start
From the deep fountain at her heart.
A mien that neither seeks nor shuns

The homage scattered in her way;
A love that hath few favored ones,

And yet for all can work and pray;
A smile wherein each mortal reads
The very sympathy he needs;
An eye like to a mystic book

Of lays that bard or prophet sings,
Which keepeth for the holiest look

Of holiest love its deepest things.
A form to which a king had bent,
The fireside's dearest ornament-
Known in the dwellings of the poor
Better than at the rich man's door;
A life that ever onward goes,
Yet in itself has deep repose.
A vestal priestess, maid, or wife-
Vestal, and vowed to offer up
The innocence of a holy life

To Him who gives the mingled cup;
With man its bitter sweets to share,
To live and love, to do and dare;
His prayer to breathe, his tears to shed,
Breaking to him the heavenly bread
Of hopes which, all too high for earth,
Have yet in her a mortal birth.
This is the woman I have dreamed,
And to my childish thought she seemed
The woman I myself should be:
Alas! I would that I were she.

TO A BEAUTIFUL STATUE.

I WOULD there were a blush upon thy cheek,
That I might deem thee human, not divine!
I would those sweet yet silent lips might speak,
Even to say, "I never can be thine!"

I would thine eye might shun my ardent gaze,
Then timidly return it; 'neath the fold

Of the white vest thy heart beat to the praise
Responsive that thou heedest not. I hold
Thy slender hand in mine: oh, why is it so cold?
Statue! I call on thee! I bid thee wake

To life and love. The world is bright and fair;
The flowers of spring blush in each verdant brake;
The birds' sweet song makes glad the perfumed air,
And thou alone feel'st not its balmy breath.
Oh! by what spell, once dear, still unforgot,
Shall I release thee from this seeming death? [spot?
What prayer shall charm thee from yon haunted
Awake! I summon thee! In vain: she hears me not.
What power hath bound thee thus? Devoid of

sense,

Buried in thine own beauty, speechless, pale— What strange, stern destiny, what dire offence, Hith drawn around thy living charms this veil? Didst thou, like Niobe, behold the death Of all thy loved ones? Did so sad a sight Urge from thy bosom forth the panting breath, Steal from thy tearful eye its liquid light, And wrap thy fainting spirit in eternal night? Or wert thou false, and merciless as fairAnd is it thus thy perfidy is wroken? Didst thou with smiles the trusting soul ensnare, And smile again to see it crushed and broken? Oh, no! Heaven wished to rescue from the tomb A form so faultless; and its mandate high Arrested thee in youth's transcendent bloom, Congealed in marble thy last parting sigh, [die. Soothed thee to wakeless sleep, nor suffered thee to For sure thou wert not always thus! The rush Of life's warm stream hath lit thy vacant glance, Tinting thy pallid cheek with maiden blush; Those fairy limbs have sported in the dance, Before they settled thus in quiet rest; Thine ear the lyre's numbers hath received, And to d their import to the throbbing breast; Thy heart hath hoped and feared, hath joyed and grieved,

Hath loved and trusted, and hath been deceived. Sleep on! The memory of thy grief or wrongs With the forgotten past have long since fled; And pitying Fate thy slumber still prolongs, Lest thou shou dst wake, to sorrow for the dead. Oh, should thine eyes unclose again on earth, To find thyself uncared for, and aloneThe mates of thy young days of laughing mirth, And he, more dear than all, for ever goneWith bitter tears thou'dst ask again a heart of stone. Sleep on in peace! thou shalt not sleep for ever: Soon on thine echoing ear the voice shall thrill, Whose well-known tone alone thy bonds may And bid thy spirit burst its cerements chill: [sever, Thy frozen heart its pulses shall resume,

Thine eye with glistening tears of rapture swell, Thou shalt arise in never-fading bloom! The voice of deathless Love must break the spell : Until that time shall come, sweet dreamer, fare thee well!

WANING.

THE Moon looks dimly from the skies,
Of half her queenlike beauty shorn;
A sad and shrouded thing, she lies

Where she, scarce three weeks since, was born.
As from the darkness forth she sprang,
And it to her a cradle gave,
So on its bosom she must hang

Trembling, till it become her grave. But while she sees the stars so bright,

The Moon can not her death deplore, For all the heavens are sown with light,

Though from herself it come no more.
Pale Moon! and I like thee am sinking
Into my natural nothingness;

I who, like thee, from heaven was drinking
The godlike power to love and bless.
This shroud of night is dark and chill,

And yet I can not think to mourn;
The skies I filled are radiant still,
And will be bright when I am gone!

LEES FROM THE CUP OF LIFE.

ONCE I was sad, and well could weep,
Now I am wild, and I will laugh;
Pour out for me libations deep!

The blood of trampled grapes I'll quaff, And mock at all who idly mourn,

And smite the beggar with his staff. Oh! let us hold carousal dread

Over our early pleasures gone,
Youth is departed, love is dead;

Oh wo is me that I was born!
Yet fill the cup, pass round the jest-
Methinks I could laugh grief to scorn.
"Tis well to be a thing alone,

For whom no creature cares or grieves, To build on desert sands a throne,

And spread a couch on wintry leaves,
Ruthless and hopeless, worn and wise-
The fool, the imbecile, believes!
Make me a song whose sturdy rhyme

Shall bid defiance bold to Wo.
Though caitiff wretch, come down to me,
See, at thy gate my trump I blow,
And, armed with rude indifference,
To thee thy scornful glove I throw !
Ah me! unequal, bootless fight!

Ah, cuiras, that betrays my trust!
Sorrow's stern angel hears a dart

Fatal to all of mortal dust;
He is a spirit, I of clay:
He can not die-alas, I must!

SPEAK, FOR THY SERVANT HEARETH.

SPEAK, for thy servant heareth;
Alone, in my lowly bed,
Before I laid me down to rest,
My nightly prayer was said;
And naught my spirit feareth,

In darkness or by day:
Speak, for thy servant heareth,
And heareth to obey.

I've stood before thine altar,

A child before thy might;
No breath within thy temple stirred
The dim and cloudy light;

And still I knew that thou wert there,
Teaching my heart to say-

"Speak, for thy servant heareth,
And heareth to obey."

O God, my flesh may tremble

When thou speakest to my soul;

But it can not shun thy presence blest,
Or shrink from thy control.

A joy my spirit cheereth

That can not pass away:

Speak, for thy servant heareth,
And heareth to obey.

Thou biddest me to utter

Words that I scarce may speak,
And mighty things are laid on me,
A helpless one and weak;

Darkly thy truth declareth
Its purpose and its way:
Speak, for thy servant heareth,
And heareth to obey.

And shouldst thou be a stranger
To that which thou hast made?
Oh! ever be about my path,

And hover near my bed.
Lead me in every step I take,

Teach me each word I sav: Speak, for thy servant heareth, And heareth to obey.

How hath thy glory lighted

My lonely place of rest;
How sacred now shall be to me

The spot which thou hast blest!
If aught of evil should draw nigh
To bring me shame and fear,
My steadfast soul shall make reply,
Depart, for God is near!"

1 bless thee that thou speakest Thus to an humble child; The God of Jacob calls to me In gentle tones and mild;

Thine enemies before thy face

Are scattered in dismay: Speak, Lord, thy servant heareth, And heareth to obey.

I've stood before thee all my days

Have ministered to thee;
But in the hour of darkness first

Thou speakest unto me.
And now, the night appeareth

More beautiful than day: Speak, Lord, thy servant heareth, And heareth to obey.

A MOTHER'S FEARS.

I AM One who holds a treasure,
A gem of wondrous cost;
But I mar my heart's deep pleasure

With the fear it may be lost.

God gives not many mothers

So fair a child as thou,
And those he gives to others
In death are oft laid low.

I, too, might know that sorrow,
To stand by thy dying bed,
And wish each weary morrow
Only that I were dead.

Oh! would that I could bear thee,

As I bore thee 'neath my heart,
And every sorrow spare thee,
And bid each pain depart!
Tell me some act of merit

By which I may deserve
To hold the angel spirit,

And its sweet life preserve.
When I watch the little creature,
If tears of rapture flow-
If I worship each fair feature-
All mothers would do so.
And if I fain would shield her
From suffering, on my breast,
Strive every joy to yield her,

"Tis thus that I am blest.

Oh! for some heavenly token,

By which I may be sure The vase shall not be brokenDispersed the essence pure!

Then spake the Angel of Mothers

To me, in gentle tone: "Be kind to the children of others, And thus deserve thine own."

AMELIA B. WELBY, whose maiden name was COPPUCK, was born in the small town of St. Michael's, in Maryland, in 1821. When she was about fourteen years of age, her father removed to Lexington and afterward to Louisville, in Kentucky, where, in 1838, she was married to Mr. George B. Welby, a merchant of that city.

Mrs. Welby made herself known at a very early age by numerous poetical pieces printed, under the signature of "Amelia," in the Louisville Journal, which is edited by Mr. George D. Prentice, (a gentleman deserving as much reputation for his literary abilities as for his wit,) and has been a medium for the original appearance of much of the best poetry of the West.

In 1844 a collection of her poems appeared in a small octavo volume at Boston, and their popularity has been so great that it has since passed through four or five large editions. This success must have surprised as much as it gratified the amiable and modest poet, for, writing to me in the summer of 1843, she observed in reference to a suggestion had made to her "My husband and friends here also desire greatly to have a collection of my little poems published, but really I am afraid they are not worth it. Many of them

THE RAINBOW.

I

I SOMETIMES have thoughts, in my loneliest hours,
That lie on my heart like the dew on the flowers,
Of a ramble I took one bright afternoon
When my heart was as light as a blossom in June;
The green earth was moist with the late fallen showers,
The breeze fluttered down and blew open the flowers,
While a single white cloud, to its haven of rest
On the white wing of Peace, floated off in the west.
As I threw back my tresses to catch the cool breeze,
That scattered the rain-drops and dimpled the seas,
the blue sky a fair rainbow unrolled

Far

up

Its soft-tinted pinions of purple and gold.
Twas born in a moment, yet, quick as its birth,

were written when I was so very young, that at the sober age of twenty-two I can scarcely read them without a blush." With the same letter she sent me the manuscript of one of her longest poems, entitled Pulpit Eloquence. It is now before me, and though scarcely a believer in Mr. Poe's ingenious speculations upon "autography," I see in the elaborate neatness and distinctness of her round and

regular handwriting an indication of the peculiar character of her genius, which delights in grace and repose, in forms of delicacy and finished elegance.

There are in the writings of Mrs. Welby few indications of creative power; she walks the Temple of the Muses with no children of the imagination; but her fancy is lively, discriminating, and informed by a minute and intelligent observation of nature, and she has introduced into poetry some new and beautiful imagery. Her sentiment has the relation to passion which her fancy sustains to the imagination. No painful experience has tried her heart's full energies; but her feelings are natural and genuine; and we are sure of the presence of a womanly spirit,

reverencing the sanctities and immunities of life, and sympathizing with whatever addresses the sense of beauty.

While its light sparkling waves, stealing laughingly o'er,

When they saw the fair rainbow. knelt down on the

shore.

And, fair as an angel, it floated as free,
With a wing on the earth and a wing on the sea.
How calm was the ocean! how gentle its swell!
Like a woman's soft bosom it rose and it fell;