But soon we are introduced to another personage,-an aged hermit, whose only abode is "a lonely cave, rock-ribb'd and damp,”—a man of dark and fearful character, one whose counsel as a prophet is sought by his brethren, when planning or ready to execute some deed of guilt.

Having learned the white man's success, this hater of mankind, supposed to possess power over demons, and of unknown years, in a spirit of deadly hostility vows revenge. Long he broods over his wrathful purpose, in his frenzied dreams seeming to act the murderer. "At length, strong hate wrought out its likeness in the savage breast of three grim warriors." By the direction of the master-spirit, they are sent forth on the direful errand. Zinzendorff is the doomed victim of assassination. With exulting heart, the sorcerer, at the dead hour of midnight, hears the sound of their returning footsteps. Their report, however, brings him no gladness. Zinzendorff still lives, spared by his delegated murderers. Their story is briefly this: He was alone in his tent, and on his bowed knee poured out his supplications for the Indians. "But still," say they, "we firmly grasp'd the murderous knife, for so we promis'd thee." While they continue watching, he proceeds to the work of translating the sacred scriptures :

'On the white page

He seem'd to press his soul, and pour it out,
As the bruis'd plant doth give its essence forth
From every leaf and fibre."

Perceiving a rattle-snake approaching the missionary thus occupied, the wily foe concludes, that by this messenger the Great Spirit means to punish the intruding white man, and wait the result. But instead of the reptile fixing upon him its fangs, "as if subdued by the meek magic of his beaning smile," it withdraws. The conclusion of the superstitious savages is, that against the heaven-protected man they cannot raise their hands:

'The might departing from our warrior-hearts,
That never blench'd in battle, or turn'd back
From mortal man, bear witness, he is a god.'

As might be supposed, the vindictive prophet is wholly dissatisfied with this result; he drives them forth, and we hear no more of him. Part of the story is fiction, and part, as it seems from a note, rests upon tradition or history. Such incidents are not improbable. The records of missionary life furnish more than one case of a christian missionary, in whose favor the deep-laid plot of the savage foe has been most providentially thwarted, and the event itself has become a means of promoting his success. Cruel as are the men of blood, who go forth to execute their dark purpose

of revenge or envy; crafty as may be the manner, or opportune the time of its execution, yet conscience will not sleep; and the boldest has often quailed in the presence of the unarmed and sleeping victim. The heart had not nerve enough,—the hand dropped powerless; and seized by a strange and unwonted dread, abashed, he has cowered and fled, leaving the object of his hatred unharmed. But to return to the poem. As "time sped his wing," Zinzendorff's labors are crowned with success, a colony is founded among the sheltered valleys,-the place now known by the name of Bethlehem, and celebrated for its Moravian schools.

'But now the hour

That took the shepherd from his simple flock,
Drew swiftly on.'

The recollections of home, of the amiable woman whom the missionary had left behind him, still dwelt within his heart, and prompted his return. His mission being accomplished,—a church planted in the wilderness, and converts brought within its folds, he bids them farewell, and embarks for "his own baronial shades." The Indians crowd together to witness the departure of their true friend, and watch the fast-receding vessel which bears him forever from their eyes. Here properly closes the action of the poem. The remaining lines are an eulogy upon the self-denying efforts and success of the sect to which Zinzendorff belonged, and of which he may be considered the founder.

From the description which we have given of the poem, it will be seen, that there is little opportunity afforded for a wide range of character or development of incident. Still, we think more might have been done in this way. Mrs. Sigourney's purpose, however, seems not to have been to write a lengthened poem, but to furnish a few pages designed as a tribute to the meek devotion and self-denying benevolence of the Moravians. Of course she has kept herself within narrow bounds. Perhaps, too, she might recollect that Montgomery had already celebrated the triumphs of the cross, achieved through their instrumentality, amid the snows of Greenland, and under the burning zone. She honors, and justly, the humble and unobtrusive virtues of that church, whose motto is "love," and rebukes, in a strain of proper indignation, the internal warfare of the great christian sects in our land. We quote the concluding lines, as an exhibition of that spirit which she longs to see cherished:

'All Christendom
Is one eternal burnishing of shields,
And girding on of armor. So the heat
Of border warfare checks Salvation's way.
The free complexion of another's thought
Doth militate against him, and those shades

Of varying opinion and belief,

Which sweetly blended with the skill of love,
Would make the picture beautiful, are blam'd
As features of deformity.

We toil

To controvert,-to argue,-to defend,
Camping amidst imaginary foes,

And vision'd heresies. Even brethren deem
A name of doctrine, or a form of words,
A dense partition-wall,-tho' Christ hath said,
"See that ye love each other."

So, come forth,

Ye, who have safest kept that Savior's law,
Green as a living germ within your souls,
Followers of Zinzendorff, stand meekly forth,
And with the gentle panoply of love,
Persuade the sister churches to recall
Their wasted energies, and concentrate

In one bright focal point, their quenchless zeal,

Till from each region of the darken'd globe,

The everlasting gospel's glorious wing

Shall wake the nations to Jehovah's praise,' p. 32.

Most of the smaller pieces in this volume have already been published in the various religious papers of the day. Embracing so many and yet so very dissimilar subjects it could hardly be expected, that they should possess equal merit. The judgment of readers will be different respecting them, according to the difference of their tastes. The lines on Niagara, and Napoleon's Epitaph, have been generally admired as among the best in the present collection. We might easily mention others. The allegorical piece called "The Friends of Man," "The Funeral at Sea," "The Departures of Hannah More from Barley Wood, at the age of eighty-three," "Nature's Beauty," "Child left in a Storm," all have struck us as containing many fine thoughts, and beautifully expressed. Of the lighter pieces the following, which we find placed in succession, are favorable specimens of Mrs. Sigourney's easy and graceful verse.

"THE FIRST MORNING OF SPRING.
Break from your chains, ye lingering streams,
Rise, blossoms from your wintry dreams,
Drear fields, your robes of verdure take,
Birds, from your trance of silence wake,
Glad trees resume your leafy crown,
Shrubs, o'er the mirror-brooks bend down,
Bland zephyrs, wheresoe'er ye stray,
The Spring doth call you,-come away.
-Thou too, my soul, with quicken'd force
Pursue thy brief, thy measur'd course,
With grateful zeal earh power employ,
Catch vigor from Creation's joy,
And deeply on thy shortening span,
Stamp love to God, and love to man.
-But Spring with tardy step appears,
Chill is her eye, and dim with tears,

Still are the founts in fetters bound,
The flower-germs shrink within the ground.
Where are the warblers of the sky?

I ask, and angry blasts reply,
-It is not thus in heavenly bowers,
Nor ice-bound rill, nor drooping flowers,
Nor silent harp, nor folded wing,
Invade that everlasting Spring,

Toward which we look with wishful tear,
While pilgrims in this wintry sphere.

THE SOAP BUBBLE.

Bright Globe! upon the sun-beam tost,
Pure, sparkling, then forever lost,
No crested wave that glittering breaks,
Nor pearl that Wealth admiring takes,
Nor diamond from Golconda's coast,
Can half thy changeful brilliance boast.
-Hast thou a voice, to bid us see
An emblem of our infancy,

Our reckless youth, our manhood's strife,
And all the painted gauds of life?

-Hope spreads her wing of plumage fair, `
Rebuilds her castle bas'd on air,

Its turrets crown'd with frost-work bright,
Its portals filled with rosy light,

A breath of Summer stirs the tree,

Where is that gorgeous dome ?-with thee.
Behold! array'd in robes of light,

Young Beauty charms the gazer's sight,
Fast in her steps the graces tread,
The roseate chaplet decks her head,
But the brief garland fades away,
The bubble bursts,—and she is clay.
-Dilate once more thy proudest size,
And deck thee in the rainbow's dies,
Thy boldest flight aspiring dare,
Then vanish to thy native air;
Love dazzles thus with borrow'd rays,
And thus the trusting heart betrays.
-Again it swells, that crystal round,

Soars, shines, expands, and seeks the ground,

Save, save that frail and tinted shell!

Where filed its fragments? who can tell?

Thus, when the soul from dust is free,

Thus shall it gaze, oh Earth! on thee.' pp. 169–171.

Much of the imagery in these smaller pieces, though drawn from objects common to poetry in general, and not unfrequently to be met with on the lyric page, yet in the hands of Mrs. Sigourney seem to have acquired an originality, and come upon us with a freshness and power, that is very pleasing. We give one specimen more, which seems to us peculiarly smooth and beautiful, and marked by a simple pathos that every heart must feel. It is entitled "On the death of a Lady at Havana, &c."

'ON THE DEATH OF A LADY AT HAVANA, WHITHER SHE WENT FOR HER HEALTH.

Ye say that with a smile she past

Forth from her hallow'd bower,

That her dark eye strange brilliance cast,

To gild the parting hour;

That on her cheek with radiance rare

A kindling flush did burn,

Ye view'd it as the promise fair

Of health and glad return.

In many a fond and friendly breast
Did parting sorrows stir,

And many a lip with trembling blest

That lovely voyager;

Light sped the white sail o'er the wave,

And gathering to her side,

True bearts that strove to shield and save,

Her every wish supplied.

And still upon that tossing sea,

Her idol boy was near,

And tunefully his caroll'd glee
Fell on a mother's ear;

And well his glance his joy exprest
To watch the sea-bird's flight,

Or trace amid the billow's crest
The phosphorescent light.

They sought that Isle, by beam and breeze,
In changeless beauty drest,

Where the "world-seeking Genoese"

Doth find a peaceful rest;

But there, where Winter's tempest gloom

Hath never dared to roll,

Where Nature's flowers profusely bloom,

Went down that flower of soul.

And far within her native west
Where glorious foliage waves,
And where in recent verdure drest,
Are seen her kindred graves,
The memory of her cradle-sleep,
Her childhood's glowing charms,
Her ripen'd virtues, rich and deep,
Affection's tear embalms.

Yet let not mourning Love despair,
Within these smitten shades,

The cypress wreath hath blossoms fair

Of hope that never fades;

"Twas her's to bless the haunts of pain,

To love the good and wise,

And lightly chasten'd, rise to gain

The bliss that never dies.' pp. 138, 139.

Mrs. Sigour

Many of these shorter pieces are in blank verse. ney's blank verse has an easy and polished flow. It is most wanting in force and energy; yet it is by no means destitute of these qualities. It would be unfair perhaps to judge of her capabilities by what she has written; since her poetry for the greatest part seems to have been thrown off without effort, and is evidently