Neal, the author of the Charcoal Sketches. Upon his death, a few months afterwards, she took charge of the literary department of Neal's Gazette, of which her husband had been a proprietor, and conducted it for several years with ability. Her articles, poems, tales, and sketches, appeared frequently during this time in the leading monthly magazines. A volume from her pen, The Go8sips of Rivertown, with Sketches in Prose and Verse, was published in 1850. The main story is an illustration of the old village propensity of scandal, along with which the traits and manners of country life are exhibited in a genial, humorous way. Mrs. Haven is also the author of a series of juvenile works, published under the name of "Cousin Alice." They are stories written to illustrate various proverbial moralities, and are in a happy vein of dialogue and description, pervaded by an unobtrusive religious feeling. They are entitled, Helen Morton's Trial; No Such Word as Fail; Contentment better than Wealth; Patient Waiting No Loss; All's not Gold that Glitters, or the Young Californian, etc. In 1853 Mrs. Neal was married to Mr. Samuel L. Haven, and has since resided at Mamaroneck, Westchester county, New York. TREES IN THE CITY. "Tis beautiful to see a forest stand, Brave with its moss-grown monarchs and the pride Of foliage dense, to which the south wind bland Comes with a kiss, as lover to his bride; To watch the light grow fainter, as it streams Through arching aisles, where branches interlace, Where sombre pines rise o'er the shadowy gleams Of silver birch, trembling with modest grace. But they who dwell beside the stream and hill, Prize little treasures there so kindly given; The song of birds, the babbling of the rill, The pure unclouded light and air of heaven. They walk as those who seeing cannot see, Blind to this beauty even from their birth, We value little blessings ever free, We covet most the rarest things of earth. These forest children gladden many hearts; Above the glare which stifling walls throw back, And childhood's fair but long-forgotten dreams! The gushing spring, with violets clustering roundThe dell where twin flowers trembled in the breeze The fairy visions wakened by the sound Of evening winds that sighed among the trees. There is a language given to the flowers To me, the trees "dumb oracles" have been; Amid the crowded haunts of sin and shame, Burdened with sounds of never-ceasing toil- THE CHURCH. I will show thee the bride, the Lamb's wife.-REV. xxi. 9. Clad in a robe of pure and spotless white, The youthful bride with timid step comes forth To greet the hand to which she plights her troth, Her soft eyes radiant with a strange delight. The snowy veil which circles her around Shades the sweet face from every gazer's eye, And thus enwrapt, she passes calmly byNor casts a look but on the unconscious ground. So should the Church, the bride elect of Heaven,Remembering Whom she goeth forth to meet, And with a truth that cannot brook deceit Holding the faith, which unto her is givenPass through this world, which claims her for a while, Nor cast about her longing look, nor smile. CATHERINE WARFIELD-ELEANOR LEE, "Two Sisters of the West," as they appeared on the title-page of a joint volume, The Wife of Leon and Other Poems, published in New York in 1843, are the daughters of the Hon. Nathaniel Ware, of Mississippi, and were born near the city of Natchez. Miss Catherine Ware was married to Mr. Warfield of Lexington, Kentucky; Miss Eleanor to Mr. Lee of Vicksburg. A second volume of their joint contribution, The Indian Chamber and Other Poems, appeared in 1846. The part taken by either author in the volumes is not distinguished. The poems in ballad, narrative, and reflection, exhibit a ready command of poetic language, and a prompt susceptibility to poetic impressions. They have had a wide popularity. I WALK IN DREAMS OF POETRY. I walk in dreams of poetry; I hear a low and startling voice I meet in every gleaming star, Is filled with visions wild and free, I walk in dreams of poetry, That none around me know, From every heath and hill I bring A garland rich and rare, Of flowery thought and murmuring sigh, I walk in dreams of poetry: A deep and wide-spread universe, With fair and radiant light. My footsteps tread the earth below, I watch their deep and household joy When the children stand beside each knee but oh! I feel unto my soul A deeper joy is brought To rush with eagle wings and strong, I watch them in their sorrowing hours, I hear them wail with bitter cries That thus unto my heart can flow And would not change that path, Its flowers are mine, its deathless blooms, I dream not of the evening glooms Oh! still in dreams of poetry, With earth a temple, where divine, SHE COMES TO ME. She comes to me in robes of snow, The friend of all my sinless years— Even as I saw her long ago, Before she left this vale of tears. She comes to me in robes of snowShe walks the chambers of my rest, With soundless footsteps sad and slow, That wake no echo in my breast. I see her in my visions yet, I see her in my waking hours; Upon her pale, pure brow is set A crown of azure hyacinth flowers. Her golden hair waves round her face, And o'er her shoulders gently falls: Each ringlet hath the nameless grace My spirit yet on earth recalls. And, bending o'er my lowly bed, An angel's feast is spread on high. And, gliding softly from my couch, Her spirit-face waxed faint and dim, Her white robes vanished at my touch. She leaves me with her robes of snowHushed is the voice that used to thrill Around the couch of pain and wo She leaves me to my darkness still. SARAH S. JACOBS, A LADY of Rhode Island, the daughter of a Baptist clergyman, the late Rev. Bela Jacobs, is remarkable for her learning and cultivation. She has of late resided at Cambridgeport, Mass. There has been no collection of her writings, except the few poems which have been brought together in Dr. Griswold's Female Poets of America. BENEDETTA. By an old fountain once at day's decline I a stern stranger-a sweet maiden she, At length she smiled; her smile the silence broke, And my heart finding language thus it spoke: Whenever Benedetta moves, Motion then all Nature loves, When Benedetta is at rest, Quietness appeareth best. She makes me dream of pleasant things, Of the young corn growing; Of butterflies' transparent wings Of the summer dawn Of the most impulsive trees; God's gracious rainbow sees; Of dew-silvered meadows; Of soft-floating shadows; Of the violet's breath To the moist wind given; Of early death And heaven." I ceased: the maiden did not stir, Nor speak, nor raise her bended head; And the green vines enfoliaged her, And the old fountain played. Then from the church beyond the trees Chimed the bells to evening prayer: Fervent the devotions were Of Benedetta on her knees; And when her prayer was over, A most spiritual air Her whole form invested, As if God did love her, And his smile still rested She smiled, and crossed herself, and smiled again It was the same on that sweet southern tongueAnd passed. I blessed the faultless face, All in composed gentleness arrayed; Then took farewell of the secluded place; And the tall lindens flung a glimmering shade And this was spring. In the autumnal weather, " I know a peasant girl serene What though her home doth lowly lie! "Her eyes, the deep, delicious blue The stars and I love to look through; She was not by the fountain--but a band Of Benedetta dead: And weeping too, O'er beauty perished, Awhile with her companions there I stood, Then turned and went back to my solitude; And the tall lindens flung a glimmering shade, And the old fountain played. ELIZABETH C. KINNEY. MRS. ELIZABETH C. KINNEY is a native of New York, the daughter of Mr. David L. Dodge, a mnerchant of the city. She is married to Mr. William B. Kinney, editor of the Newark Daily Advertiser, where, as well as in the magazines and literary journals of the day, many of her poetic compositions have appeared. In 1850, she accompanied her husband on his mission as Chargé d'Affaires to Sardinia. A fruit of her residence abroad has been a narrative poem entitled Felicita, a Metrical Romance; the story of a lady sold into Moorish captivity by her father, who is rescued by a slave; and after having passed through a sorrowful love adventure, dies in a convent. The numerous occasional poems of Mrs. Kinney have not been collected. THE SPIRIT OF SONG. Eternal Fame! thy great rewards, Throughout all time, shall be The right of those old master bards Of Greece and Italy; And of fair Albion's favored isle, Hath shone for ages, gilding bright Yet, though there be no path untrod Who walked with Nature as with God, An echo to their own! Or the soft, melancholy glide Of some deep stream through glen and glade, Because 'tis not the thunder made By ocean's heaving tide! The hallowed lilies of the field In glory are arrayed, And timid, blue-eyed violets yield And decked with heavenly dyes. And hide its thousand thorns: Has blessed the humble poet's name With cool, inviting sound- Across the sands of Life. Yet not for these alone he sings: The poet's breast is stirred He thinks not of a future name, As Joy itself delights in joy, age. Her early years were passed at Rochester, New York. Her father afterwards removed to New Brighton, a picturesquely situated village in Beaver Co., Western Pennsylvania, where she has since chiefly resided. In 1853 she was married to Mr. Lippincott, of Philadelphia. Grace Greenword Two series of Greenwood Leaves, portions of which were originally contributed as letters to the New Mirror of Messrs. Morris and Willis, have been published in Boston by Messrs. Ticknor and Co., who also issued a volume of the author's Poetical Works in 1851. Mrs. Lippincott has also published Haps and Mishaps of a Tour in Europe, including an enthusiastic account of numerous European friends of the author, and several juvenile books, History of My Pets, Recollections of My Childhood and Merrie England. The prose writings of "Grace Greenwood" are animated by a hearty spirit of out-of-door life and enjoyment, and a healthy, sprightly view of society. Her poems are the expressions of a prompt, generous nature. ARIADNE. [The demi-god, Theseus, having won the love of Ariadne, daughter of the king of Crete, deserted her on the isle of Naxos. In Miss Bremer's "H-Family," the blind girl is described as singing," Ariadne à Naxos," in which Ariadne is represented as following Thesens, climbing a high rock to watch his departing vessel, and calling on him in her despair. ing anguish.] Daughter of Crete, how one brief hour, Ere in thy young love's early morn, Yet, Ariadne, worthy thou Of the dark fate which meets thee now, Of grief, regret, or fear. To cloud one morning's rosy light, 'Tis thou should'st triumph-thou art free "Go, to thine Athens bear thy faithless name! I knew thee not a creature of my dreams, And my rapt soul went floating into thine; My love around thee poured such halo beams Had'st thou been true had made thee all divine And I, too, seemed immortal in my bliss, When my glad lip thrilled to thy burning kiss. "Shrunken and shrivelled into Theseus now Thou stand'st-the gods have blown away The airy crown which glittered on thy brow, The gorgeous robes which wrapt thee for a day. Around thee scarce one fluttering fragment clings, A poor, lean beggar in all glorious things! "Nor will I deign to cast on thee my hate It were a ray to tinge with splendour still The dull, dim twilight of thy after fate Thou shalt pass from me like a dream of ill, Thy name be but a thing that crouching stole, Like a poor thief, all noiseless from my soul! "Though thou hast dared to steal the sacred flame From out that soul's high heaven, she sets the free, Or only chains thee with thy sounding shame- Ha, it is night all glorious with its stars! And gods shall bend from high Olympus' brow, On the tall cliff, where cold and pale, Where thou, the daughter of a king, Uncrushed, unbowed, unriven! Let thy last glance burn through the air, Like lightning stroke from heaven! No vain hopes quivering round thy heart! And this brief, burning prayer alone, Leap from thy lips to Jove's high throne: "Just Jove, thy wrathful vengeance stay, And speed the traitor on his way! Make vain the siren's silver song, Let nereids smile the wave along! O'er the wild waters send his barque, Like a swift arrow to its mark! Let whirlwinds gather at his back, And drive him on his dastard track! Let thy red bolts behind him burn, And blast him should he dare to turn!" ALICE CAREY-PHEBE CAREY. ALICE CAREY was born in Mount Healthy, near Cincinnati, in 1822. She first attracted notice as a writer by a series of sketches of rural life in the National Era, with the signature of Patty Lee. In 1850 she published, with her younger sister Phebe, a volume of Poems at Philadelphia. A volume of prose sketches-Clovernook, or Recollections of Our Neighborhood in the Westfollowed in 1851. A second series of these pleasant papers appeared in 1853. A third gleaning from the same field, for the benefit of more youthful readers, was made in 1855 in Clover nook Children. Lyra, and Other Poems, was published in 1852; followed by Laar, a Story of To-day, in 1853. She has since published two other stories-Married, not Mated, and Hollywood-and a new collection of Poems in 1855. Miss Alice Carey has rapidly attained a deservedly high position. Her poems are thoughtful, forcible, and melodiously expressed. In common with her prose writings, they are drawn from her own observation of life and nature. PICTURES OF MEMORY. Among the beautiful pictures That seemeth best of all: Not for its gnarled oaks olden, Dark with the mistletoe; Not for the violets golden That sprinkle the vale below; That lean from the fragrant hedge, Where the bright red berries rest, Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip, It seemeth to me the best. I once had a little brother, With eyes that were dark and deep- Light as the down of the thistle, But his feet on the hills grew weary, My neck in a meek embrace, That hang on Memory's wall, MULBERRY HILL Oh, sweet was the eve when I came from the mill, I would tell you, but words cannot paint my delight, When she gave the red buds for a garland of white, When her cheek with soft blushes-but no, 'tis in vain! Enough that I loved, and she loved me again. Three summers have come and gone by with their charms, And a cherub of purity smiles in my arms, And the rivulet shining and blue as the sea, NOBILITY. Hilda is a lofty lady, Very proud is she I am but a simple herdsman Hilda hath a spacious palace, Broad, and white, and high; Twenty good dogs guard the portal→ Never house had I. Hilda hath a thousand meadows Boundless forest lands: She hath men and maids for service I have but my hands. The sweet summer's ripest rosca Queens have paled to see her beauty- Hilda from her palace windows Looketh down on me, Keeping with my dove-brown oxen |