land, in 1821. She removed with her father early to the West, and resided in Kentucky at Lexington and Louisville, where she was married to Mr. George Welby. She died in 1852.

The chief edition of Mrs. Welby's poems was published by Messrs. Appleton in 1850, with a series of tasteful illustrations by R. C. Weir. The frequent elegiac topics of the verses of this author may have assisted their popularity. They are mostly upon themes of domestic life and natural emotion; and, without profound poetical culture, are written with ease and animation.

THE OLD MAID.

Why sits she thus in solitude? her heart
Seems melting in her eyes' delicious blue;
And as it heaves, her ripe lips lie apart,

As if to let its heavy throbbings through;
In her dark eye a depth of softness swells,

Deeper than that her careless girlhood wore; And her cheek crimsons with the hue that tells The rich, fair fruit is ripened to the core.

It is her thirtieth birthday! With a sigh

Her soul hath turned from youth's luxuriant bowers,

And her heart taken up the last sweet tie

That measured out its links of golden hours! She feels her inmost soul within her stir

With thoughts too wild and passionate to speak; Yet her full heart-its own interpreter

Translates itself in silence on her cheek.
Joy's opening buds, affection's glowing flowers,
Once highly sprang within her beaning track;
Oh, life was beautiful in those lost hours!

And yet she does not wish to wander back!
No! she but loves in loneliness to think

On pleasures past, though never more to be; Hope links her to the future, but the link That binds her to the past is memory! From her lone path she never turns aside, Though passionate worshippers before her fall, Like some pure planet in her lonely pride,

She seems to soar and beam above them all! Not that her heart is cold! emotions new

And fresh as flowers are with her heart-strings knit;

And sweetly mournful pleasures wander through
Her virgin soul, and softly ruffle it,

For she hath lived with heart and soul alive
To all that makes life beautiful and fair;

Sweet thoughts, like honey-bees, have made their hive

Of her soft bosom-cell, and cluster there; Yet life is not to her what it hath been;

Her soul hath learned to look beyond its gloss, And now she hovers, like a star, between

Her deeds of love, her Saviour on the cross! Beneath the cares of earth she does not bow, Though she hath ofttimes drained its bitter cup, But ever wanders on with heavenward brow, And eyes whose lovely lids are lifted up! She feels that in that lovelier, happier sphere, Her bosom yet will, bird-like, find its mate, And all the joys it found so blissful here Within that spirit-realm perpetuate.

Yet sometimes o'er her trembling heart-strings thrill

Soft sighs, for raptures it hath ne'er enjoyed; And then she dreams of love, and strives to fill With wild and passionate thoughts the craving

void.

And thus she wanders on,-half sad, half blest,Without a mate for the pure, lonely heart, That, yearning, throbs within her virgin breast, Never to find its lovely counterpart!

JANE T. WORTHINGTON.

Tis lady, the wife of Dr. F. A. Worthington, a physician of Ohio, whose maiden name was Jane Tayloe Lomax, was a native of Virginia. Her writings in prose and verse appeared frequently in the Southern Literary Messenger. Her composi tions were in a vein of excellent sense and refinement.

MOONLIGHT ON THE GRAVE.

It shineth on the quiet graves
Where weary ones have gone,
It watcheth with angelic gaze
Where the dead are left alone;
And not a sound of busy life

To the still graveyard comes,
But peacefully the sleepers lie
Down in their silent homes.
All silently and solemnly

It throweth shadows round,
And every gravestone hath a trace
In darkness on the ground:
It looketh on the tiny mound
Where a little child is laid,
And it lighteth up the marble pile
Which human pride hath made.

It falleth with unaltered ray
On the simple and the stern,
And it showeth with a solemn light
The sorrows we must learn;
It telleth of divided ties

On which its beam hath shore,
It whispereth of heavy hearts
Which "brokenly live on."

It gleameth where devoted ones
Are sleeping side by side,
It looketh where a maiden rests
Who in her beauty died.
There is no grave in all the earth
That moonlight hath not seen;
It gazeth cold and passionless
Where agony Lath been.

Yet it is well: that changeless ray
A deeper thought should throw,
When mortal love pours forth the tide
Of unavailing woe;

It teacheth us no shade of grief
Can touch the starry sky,
That all our sorrow liveth here-
The glory is on high.

LUCY HOOPER,

MISS HOOPER was born in Newburyport, Massachusetts, February 4, 1816. She was carefully trained by her father, and was wont in after life to attribute her facility in composition to the exertions of this parent. At the age of fifteen she removed with her family to Brooklyn, where the remaining ten years of her life were passed.

Most of Miss Hooper's poems were contributed to the Long Island Star, a daily paper, where they appeared signed with her initials. She was also the author of a few prose sketches, collected in a volume in 1840, with the title Scenes from Real Life, and a prize essay on Domestic Happiness.

Lucy Hooper died on Sunday, August 1, 1841.

Even as a prophet by his people spoken

And that high brow, in death, bears seal and token Of one whose words were flame:

Oh! Holy Teacher! could'st thou rise and live, Would not these hushed lips whisper, "I forgive?"

Away with lute and harp,

With the glad heart for ever, and the dance,
Never again shall tabret sound for me;
Oh! fearful mother! I have brought to thee

The silent dead, with his rebuking glance,
And the crushed heart of one, to whom are given
Wild dreams of judgment and offended Heaven!

CATHARINE LUDERS.

A NUMBER of brief poems of a delicate and simple turn of expression and of a domestic pathetic interest have appeared from time to time in the

* 8vo. pp. 404.

magazines and the Literary World, by "Emily Hermann." The author is Mrs. Catharine Luders, lately a resident of the West, in Indiana.

THE BUILDING AND BIRDS.

We are building a pleasant dwelling,
And the orchard trees are set;
Yellow violets soon will open,
With tiny streaks of jet.

The wild-cherry buds are swelling,
And the brook runs full below;
Dim harebells in the garden,

And crocuses are in blow.
In the tops of the tulip-giants,
In the red-bud and the oak,
The spring-birds are all beginning
The pleasures of home to invoke.
They've built in our little parlour,
Where the floor was lately laid,
And it pleased us to give them shelter
In the nice new nest they made.
Those merry grey forest-rangers

To the green West now have come, Wayfarers, like us, and strangers, To build them a pleasant home. They've reared a domestic altar

To send up their hymns at even; Their songs and our own may mingle Sometimes at the gates of heaven!

PLANTING IN RAIN.

We planted them in the rain,

When the skeleton building rose, And here we sit, in the sultry day, Where grateful shadows close. We read in our pleasant books, Or help the children play, And weave long wreaths of dandelions When the down is blown away.

The murmuring bell we hear,

For lowing herds are nigh,

With softened twilight in our heart,
And memories gone by.

Wild doves and orioles

Build in the orchard trees,

And where, on earth, are people poor
Who greet such friends as these?

They at our porch peep in

And sing their roundelay, While bright-eyed rabbits near the steps, In their nimble, fearless way.

In autumn, with apron in hand,

Cornelia waits near yon tree,

To catch the fruit from the grateful root,
Here set by our brothers and me.
Thus, where dense thickets rose,
And mouldering trees have lain,
Much happiness dwells for human hearts,
Under vines that were planted in rain.

THE LITTLE FROCK.

A common light blue muslin frock
Is hanging on the wall,
But no one in the household now
Can wear a dress so small.

The sleeves are both turned inside out,
And tell of summer wear;
They seem to wait the owner's hands
Which last year hung them there.

Twas at the children's festival

Her Sunday dress was soiled-
You need not turn it from the light-
To me it is not spoiled!

A sad and yet a pleasant thought

Is to the spirit told

By this dear little rumpled thing,

With dust in every fold.

Why should men weep that to their home

An angel's love is given

Or that before them she is gone

To blessedness in heaven!

ESTELLE ANNA LEWIS.

MRS. LEWIS was born near Baltimore, Maryland, at the country-seat of her father, Mr. J. N. Robinson, who died while his daughter was in her infancy. He was a gentleman of large fortune, and of strongly marked qualities of character. His wife was a daughter of an officer of the Revolutionary war.

Our author was educated at the Female Seminary of Mrs Willard at Troy, where she added to the usual accomplishments of a polite education, a knowledge of Latin and even the study of law. During these school days, she published a series of stories in the Family Magazine, edited by Solomon Southwick at Albany. Leaving the seminary in 1841, she was married to Mr. S. D. Lewis, a lawyer of Brooklyn, N. Y., in which city she has since resided.

อ

Estelle inna Lewis.

Her first volume of poems, chiefly lyrical, The Records of the Heart, was published by the Appletons in 1844.

In 1846, Mrs. Lewis published a poem, The Broken Heart, a Tale of Hispaniola, in the Democratic Review. The Child of the Sea, and Other Poems, appeared from the press of Mr. George P. Putnam, in 1848.

In 1849, The Angel's Visit, The Orphan's Hymn, The Prisoner of Perote, etc., were printed in Graham's Magazine. In 1851, appeared in the

same magazine, The Cruise of Aureana, Melodiana's Dream, Adelina to Adhemer, a series of sonnets from the Italian, and during the same year, a series of sonnets entitled, My Study, in the Literary World. In 1852, the Appletons issued the Myths of the Minstrel. In 1854, Mrs. Lewis published in Graham's Magazine, Art and Artists in America, a series of critical and biographical essays.

The poems of Mrs. Lewis are marked by a certain passionate expression, united with the study of poetic art. Her chief production, The Child of the Sea, exhibits ability in the construction of the story-a tale of sea adventure, of love and revenge, and has force of imagination as a whole, and in its separate illustrations.

MY STUDY.

This is my world-my angel-guarded shrine,
Which I have made to suit my heart's great need,
When sorrow dooms it overmuch to bleed:
Or, when aweary and athirst I pine

For genial showers and sustenance divine;
When Love, or Hope, or Joy my heart deceive,
And I would sit me down alone to grieve-
My mind to sad or studious mood resign.
Here oft, upon the stream of thought I lie,
Floating whichever way the waves are flowing-
Sometimes along the banks of childhood going,
Where all is bud, and bloom, and melody,
Or, wafted by some stronger current, glide,
Where darker frown the steeps and deeper flows the
tide.

Yes, 'tis my Cáabá-a shrine below,

Where my Soul sits within its house of clay,
Listing the steps of angels come and go-

Sweet missioned Heralds from the realms of day.
One brings me rays from Regions of the sun,
One comes to warn me of some pending dart,
One brings a laurel leaf for work well done,
Another, whispers from a kindred Heart.-
Oh! this I would not change for all the gold
That lies beneath the Sacramento's waves,
For all the Jewels Indian coffers hold,
For all the Pearls in Oman's starry caves-
The lessons of all Pedagogues are naught
To those I learn within this holy Fane of thought.

Here blind old Homer teaches lofty song;
The Lesbian sings of Cupid's pinions furled,
And how the heart is withered up by wrong;
Dante depictures an infernal world,
Wide opening many a purgatorial aisle;
Torquato rings the woes of Palestine,
Alphonso's rage and Leonora's smile-
Love, Beauty, Genius, Glory all divine;
Milton depaints the bliss of Paradise,

Then flings apart the ponderous gates of Hell,
Where Satan on the fiery billow lies,
"With head uplift," above his army fell,--
And Avon's Bard, surpassing all in art,
Unlocks the portals of the human heart.

Low in sepulchral dust lies Pallas' shrine-
Low in sepulchral dust thy Fanes divine-
And all thy visible self; yet o'er thy clay,
Soul, beauty, lingers, hallowing decay.

Not all the ills that war entailed on thee,
Not all the blood that stained Thermopyla-
Not all the desolation traitors wrought-
Not all the woe and want invaders brought-
Not all the tears that slavery could wring
From out thy heart of patient suffering-
Not all that drapes thy loveliness in night,
Can quench thy spirit's never-dying light;
But hovering o'er the lust of gods enshrined,
It beams, a beacon to the march of mind-
An oasis to sage and bard forlorn-
A guiding star to centuries unborn.

For thee I mourn-thy blood is in my veins-
To thee by consanguinity's strong chains

I'm bound and fain would die to make thee free;
But oh! there is no Liberty for thee!
Not all the wisdom of thy greatest One-*
Not all the bravery of Thetis' Son-

Not all the weight of mighty Phoebus' ire-
Not all the magic of the Athenian's Lyre-
Can ever bid thy tears or mourning cease

Or rend one gyve that binds thee, lovely Greece.
Where Corinth weeps beside Lepanto's deep,
Her palaces in desolation sleep.

Seated till dawn on moonlit column, I
Have sought to probe eternal Destiny;

I've roamed, fair Hellas, o'er thy battle-plains.
And stood within Apollo's ruined fanes,
Invoked the spirits of the past to wake,
Assist with swords of fire thy chains to break;
But only from the hollow sepulchres,
Murmured, "Eternal slavery is hers!"
And on thy bosom I have laid my head
And poured my soul out-tears of lava shed;
Before thy desecrated altars knelt,

To calmer feelings felt my sorrows melt,

And gladly with thee would have made my home, But pride and hate impelled me o'er the foam,

To distant lands and seas unknown to roam.

KOCERTS SC

Julia Ward Howe

accession of Charles II., and who married a granddaughter of Roger Williams. Their son Richard became Governor of the State, and one of his sons, Samuel, was from 1774 to 1776 a member of the Old Continental Congress. This Samuel left a son Samuel, who served in the war of the Revolution, and was with Arnold in his expedition to Quebec. He was the grandfather of our author.

Her mother, a daughter of the late Mr. B. C. Cutler, of Boston, was a lady of poetic culture, a specimen of whose occasional verses is given in Griswold's Female Poets of America.

Miss Ward, after having received an education of unusual care and extent from the most accomplished teachers, was married in 1843 to the distinguished Philhellene and philanthropist of Boston, Dr. Samuel G. Howe, with whom she has resided in Europe, under peculiarly favorable opportunities for the study of foreign art and life. A volume of poems from her pen, Passion Flowers, published in 1854, is a striking expression of her culture, and of thoughts and experience covering a wide range of emotion, from sympathies with the "nationalities" of Europe, to "the fee griefs due to a single breast."

An appreciative critic in the Southern Quarterly Review* has thus characterized the varying features of the book.

"The art is subordinate to the feeling; the thought more prominent than the rhyme; there is far more earnestness of feeling than fastidiousness of taste: -instead of being the result of a dalliance with fancy, these effusions are instinct with the struggle of life; they are the offspring of experience more than of imagination. They are written by a woman who knows how to think as well as to feel; one who has made herself familiar with the higher walks of literature; who has deeply pondered Hegel, Comte, Swedenborg, Goethe, Dante, and all the masters of song, of philosophy, and of faith. Thus accomplished, she has travelled, enjoyed cultivated society, and gone through the usual phases of womanly development and duty. Her muse, therefore, is no casual impulse of juvenile emotion, no artificial expression, no spasmodic sentiment; but a creature born of wide and deep reflection; of study, of sorrow, yearning, love, care, delight, and all the elements of real, and thoughtful, and earnest life."

She rules the age by Beauty's power,
As once she ruled by arméd might;
The Southern sun doth treasure her
Deep in his golden heart of light.

Awe strikes the traveller when he sees
The vision of her distant dome,
And a strange spasm wrings his heart
As the guide whispers, "There is Rome!"
Rome of the Romans! where the Gods
Of Greek Olympus long held sway;
Rome of the Christians, Peter's tomb,
The Zion of our later day.

Rome, the mailed Virgin of the world,
Defiance on her brows and breast;

* July, 1854.

Rome, to voluptuous pleasure won,
Debauched, and locked in drunken rest.
Rome, in her intellectual day,
Europe's intriguing step-dame grown;
Rome, bowed to weakness and decay,
A canting, mass-frequenting crone.
Then th' unlettered man plods on,
Half chiding at the spell he feels,
The artist pauses at the gate,
And on the wonderous threshold kneels
The sick man lifts his languid head
For those soft skies and balmy airs;
The pilgrim tries a quicker pace,
And hugs remorse, and patters prayers.
For ev'n the grass that feeds the herds
Methinks some unknown virtue yields
The very hinds in reverence tread
The precincts of the ancient fields.
But wrapt in gloom of night and death,
I crept to thee, dear mother Rome;
And in thy hospitable heart,

Found rest and comfort, health and home.

And friendships, warm and living still,
Although their dearest joys are fled;
True sympathies that bring to life
The better self, so often dead.

For all the wonder that thou wert,
For all the dear delight thou art,
Accept an homage from my lips,
That warms again a wasted heart.
And, though it seem a childish prayer,
I've breathed it oft, that when I die,
As thy remembrance dear in it,
That heart in thee might buried lie.