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CAROLINE MAY; HARRIET WINSLOW SEWALL; ELIZABETH LLOYD.

CAROLINE MAY.

THIS lady is the daughter of a clergyman of the Dutch Reformed Church of the City of New York. The chief collection of her poems is included in a few pages of Mr. Griswold's Female Poets of America. She is the editor of a Collection of the Female Poets of America, which appeared at Philadelphia in 1848, and of a volume, Treasured Thoughts from Favorite Authors. In 1864, a volume of Poems was published.

THE SABBATH OF THE YEAR.

It is the sabbath of the year;
And if ye'll walk abroad,

A holy sermon ye shall hear,
Full worthy of record.

Autumn the preacher is; and look—

As other preachers do,

He takes a text from the one Great Book,
A text both sad and true.

With a deep, earnest voice, he saith-
A voice of gentle grief,

Fitting the minister of Death-
"Ye all fade as a leaf;

And your iniquities, like the wind,

Have taken you away;

Ye fading flutterers, weak and blind,
Repent, return, and pray."

And then the Wind ariseth slow,
And giveth out a psalm-
And the organ-pipes begin to blow,
Within the forest calm;

Then all the Trees lift up their hands,
And lift their voices higher,
And sing the notes of spirit bands
In full and glorious choir.
Yes! 'tis the sabbath of the year!
And it doth surely seem,

(But words of reverence and fear
Should speak of such a theme,)
That the corn is gathered for the bread,
And the berries for the wine,
And a sacramental feast is spread,
Like the Christian's pardon sign.
And the Year, with sighs of penitence,
The holy feast bends o'er;
For she must die, and go out hence-
Die, and be seen no more.
Then are the choir and organ still,
The psalm melts in the air,
The Wind bows down beside the hill,
And all are hushed in prayer.
Then comes the Sunset in the West,
Like a patriarch of old,

Or like a saint who hath won his rest,
His robes, and his crown of gold;
And forth his arms he stretcheth wide,
And with solemn tone and clear
He blesseth, in the eventide,
The sabbath of the year.

HARRIET WINSLOW SEWALL.

THE following poem was brought into notice a few years since by Mr. Longfellow, who included it in the choice collection of minor poems, The Waif. It was printed there anonymously with the omission of a few of its stanzas. The author was Miss Harriet Winslow, since married to Mr. Charles Liszt; and now Mrs. S. E. Sewall, of Melrose, Massachusetts.

TO THE UNSATISFIED.

Why thus longing, thus for ever sighing
For the far-off, unattained and dim;
While the beautiful all around thee lying,
Offers up its low, perpetual hymn?
Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching,
All thy restless yearning it would still,
Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching
Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill
Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee
Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw;
If no silken cord of love hath bound thee
To some little world through weal or woe;

If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten,-
No fond voices answer to thine own;
If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten
By daily sympathy and gentle tone.

Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses,
Not by works that give thee world-renown,
Not by martyrdom, or vaunted crosses,

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Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown: Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely, Every day a rich reward will give; Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only, And truly loving, thou canst truly live. Dost thou revel in the rosy morning,

When all nature hails the lord of light; And his smile, nor low, nor lofty scorning, Gladdens hall and hovel, vale and height. Other hands may grasp the field and forest; Proud proprietors in pomp may shine:

But with fervent love if thou adorest,

Thou art wealthier;-all the world is thine.
Yet, if through earth's wide domains thou rovest,
Sighing that they are not thine alone,
Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest,
And their beauty, and thy wealth are gone.
'Nature wears the colours of the spirit;'

Sweetly to her worshipper she sings;
All the glory, grace, she doth inherit
Round her trusting child she fondly flings.

ELIZABETH LLOYD.

MISS ELIZABETH LLOYD, a lady of Philadelphia, is the author of the following poem, which recently attracted_attention in "going the rounds of the press." It was stated in the newspapers to have been taken from an Oxford edition of Milton's Works. She is now the widow of Mr. Robert Howell, of Philadelphia.

MILTON ON HIS BLINDNESS.

I am old and blind!

Men point at me as smitten by God's frown: Afflicted and deserted of my kind,

Yet am I not cast down.

I am weak, yet strong:

I murmur not, that I no longer see;
Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong,
Father Supreme! to Thee.

O merciful One!

When men are farthest, then art Thou most near;
When friends pass by, my weakness to shun,
Thy chariot I hear.

Thy glorious face

Is leaning toward me, and its holy light Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-placeAnd there is no more night.

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MISS CHESEBRO' was born at Canandaigua, where she has always resided with her family. Her first literary articles, a series of tales and sketches, were written for Graham's Magazine and Holden's Dollar Magazine in 1848. Since that time contributions have appeared from her pen in The Knickerbocker, Putnam's, Harpers', and other magazines, and in the newspapers, to which on two occasions, in Philadelphia and New York, she contributed prize tales. In 1851 she published a collection of tales and sketches, Dream-Land by Daylight, a Panorama of Romance. The title is suggestive of the fanciful, reflective, and occasionally sombre character of the work, qualities which also mark Miss Chesebro's later and more elaborate productions, Isa, a Pilgrimage, The Children of Light, and The Little Cross-Bearers, tales, each occupying a separate volume, and written with energy and thoughtfulness. The scene of these writings is laid in America at the present day. They are grave in tone, and aim rather at the exhibition of mental emotion than the outward, salient points of character.

THE BLACK FROST.
Methinks

This word of love is fit for all the world,
And that for gentle hearts another rame

Would speak of gentler thoughts than the world owns.

It was a clear, calm night. Brightly shone the innumerable stars: the fixed orbs of giant magnitude, the little twinkling points of light, the glorious constellations-in their imperial beauty stood they, gazing upon the mysterious face of darkness-a clear, calm, terribly cold night.

Winter had not as yet fairly set in. There had been no snow, but it was very late in the autumn, and the grass, and the flowering shrubs and trees, looked as though they had each and all felt the cruel breath of the Destroyer, as he pronounced the doom upon them.

People rubbed their hands, and talked with quivering lips of the hard winter coming, as they hastened, in the increasing shadows of the night, to their homes. The children, warmed and gladdened by the bright fires that were kindled on the hearthstones, romped, and frolicked, and prophesied, with knowing looks, about snow-balling, sleigh-rides, skating, and all manner of fun. The young girls met together, and talked merrily of coming gaieties; the old man wondered whether he should see another spring-time; and the poor crept to their beds at nightfall, glad to forget everything-cold, hunger, and misery-in sleep.

Midnight came. More and more brightly shone the stars they glowed, they trembled, and smiled on one another. The cold became intense-in the deep silence how strangely looked the branches of the leafless trees! how desolate the gardens and the forest-how very still the night did seem!

Close beside an humble cottage, under a huge bush of flowering-currant, had flourished all the autumn a tiny violet-root. And still, during the increasing cold of the latter days, the leaves had continued green and vigorous, and the flowers opened.

There had been an arrival at the cottage that day. Late in the afternoon, a father and mother, with their child, had returned from long wandering in foreign lands.

A student had watched their coming. In the morning, he had gathered a flower from that little root in their garden, and now, as he sat in the long hours of night, poring over his books, he kept the violet still beside him, in a vase which held the treasures of a green-house, and his eyes rested often on the pale blue modest flower.

At nightfall, a youthful form had stood for a moment at the cottage-door, and the young invalid's eyes, which so eagerly sought all familiar things, at last rested on those still living flowers-flowers, where she had thought to find all dead, even as were those buds which once gave fair promise of glorious opening in her girl-heart! Unmindful of the cold and dampness, she stepped from the house, and passed to the violet-root, and, gathering all the flowers but one, she placed them in her hair, and then hastened with a shiver back to the cottage.

In the fast-increasing cold, the leaves that were left bowed down close to the earth, and the delicate flowers crowning the pale, slender stem, trembled under the influence of the frost.

The little chamber where Mary lay down to rest, was that which, from her childhood, had been set apart for her occupation; a pleasant room, endeared to her by a thousand joyful dreams dreamed within its shade-solemnized to her also by that terrible wakening to sorrow which she had known.

She reclined now on her bed in the silentness, the darkness; but she rested not, she slept not. The young girl's eyes, fixed on the far-off stars, on the glorious heavens, her thoughts wandered wild and free, but her body was circled by the arm of Death.

She had not yet slept at all that night; she had not slept for many nights. Winter was reigning in Mary's heart-it had long reigned there. She was remembering now, while others nestled in the arms of forgetfulness, those days that were gone, when she had looked with such trust and joy upon the years to be-how that she had longed for the slowlyunfolding future to develop itself fully, completely! how she had wholly given herself to the fancies and the hopes of the untried. Alas! she had reached, she had passed, too soon, that crisis of life which unfolds next to the expectant the season of wintershe had seen the gay flowers fading, the leaves withering, the glory of summer pass. And yet how young, how very young she was!

Gazing from her couch out upon the "steadfast skies"-thinking on the past, and the to-come-the to-come of the dying! Yet the thought of death and judgment terrified her not. Surely she would find mercy and heart's ease in the Heaven over which the merciful is king!

But suddenly, in the night's stillness, in the coldness and the darkness, she arose; and steadfastly gazed, for an instant, upward, far upward, where a star shot from the zenith, down, down, to the very horizon. She fell back at the sight, her spirit sped away with that swift glory flash-Mary was dead!

In that moment the student also stood beside his window. The fire in the grate had died away, the lamp was nearly exhausted; wearied with his longcontinued work, he had risen, and now, for an instant, stood looking upon the heavens. There was sadness and weariness in his heart. The little violet, and the travellers' return, had strangely affected him for once he found not in his books the satisfaction which he sought: he felt that another life

than that of a plodding book-worm might be led by

him. His dreams in the morning hour were not pleasant as he slept. They were solely of one whose love he had set at naught for the smiles of a sterner love; of one whom he now thought of, as in the spring-time of his life, when she was all the world to him. And now that she was come again, and he should see her once more! ah, he would bow before her as he once had, and she, who was ever so gentle, so loving, so good, would not spurn him: she would forget his forgetfulness, she would yet give to him that peace, that joy which he had never quaffed at the fountains of learning!

Yester

Up rose the sun, and people saw how the Black Frost was over the earth, binding all things in its hard, close, cold embrace. Later in the morning, a little child, passing by the cottage, paused and peeped through the bars upon the violet-root. night, when she went home from school, she saw the flowers bloo ning there, the pale, blue, fainthearted looking flowers-and now she remembered to look if they were there still. But though she looked long and steadfastly where the sunlight fell beneath the currant-bush, she could not see that she sought for; so passing quietly through the gate, she stooped down where the violets had been, and felt the leaves, and knew that they were frozen; and it was only by an effort that she kept back the fastgathering tears, when she looked on the one flower Mary had left, and saw how it was drooped and dead.

But a sadder sight, and one more full of meaning, was presented in the pleasant chamber, whose window opened on the yard where the blossoming bushes grew. For there a woman bent over the bed whereon another frost-killed flower lay, moaning in the bitterness of grief, the death of her one treasure!

Still later in the day another mourner stood in that silent place, thinking of the meteor and the violet. It was the student, he who in remorse and anguish came, bemoaning the frost-blighted. Too late, too late, he came to tell his love-too late to crave forgiveness, too late to soothe the brokenhearted! Now stood he himself in the valley of the shadow of woe.

And the snow and the storms abounded. Winter was come!

**Miss Chesebro' died at Piermont, her residence on the Hudson, February 16, 1873. Her later works, which show conscientious study and a continual growth in power, were: Victoria, or the World Overcome: A Novel, 1856; The Beautiful Gate, and Other Tales; Philly

and Kit; Amy Carr, 1863; Peter Carradine, 1863; The Foe in the Household, republished from the Atlantic Monthly, 1871.

EDWARD MATURIN,

THE author of several historical novels, and of a volume of poems of merit, is the son of the celebrated Irish novelist and dramatist, the Rev. Charles Robert Maturin. He has for a number of years been a resident of New York, and has married an American lady.

Mr. Maturin has published Montezuma, The Last of the Aztecs, a spirited prose romance, drawn from the brilliant and pathetic history of the Mexican chieftain, followed by Benjamin, the Jew of Granada, a story the scene of which is laid in the romantic era of the fall of the Moslem empire in Spain, and in 1848, Eva, or the Isles of Life and Death; a historical romance of the twelfth century in England, in which Dermod M'Murrough acts a leading part.

In 1850 he published Lyrics of Spain and Erin, a volume of genuine enthusiasm, and refined though irregular poetic expression. The author, who shows much of the poet in his prose writings, finds in the stirring historical ballad of Spain and the pathetic legend of Ireland his appropriate themes.

The latest productions of Mr. Maturin were Bianca, a passionate story of Italian and Irish incident; Melnoth, the Wanderer; Sejanus, and other Roman Tales.

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THE SEASONS-FROM A POEM THE WOODS."

What spirit moves within your holy shrine? 'Tis Spring-the year's young bride, that gladly pours

Above-around-an effluence Divine

Of light and life, falling in golden showers-
And with her come the sportive nymphs in dance
Like waves that gambol in the Summer's glance,
Untwining bowers from their Winter's sleep,
Unlocking rivers from their fountains deep,
Tinting the leaf with verdure, that had lain
Long-hid, like gold within the torpid grain,
Chaunting her choral song, as Nature's eyes
First greet the bridal of the earth and skies.
The Spring is past;-and blushing summer comes,
Music and sunshine throng her scented way;
The birds send gladly from their bowered homes,
Their pæan at the birth of flowery May!
From close to shut of Day; yes, far and near
The spell of mystic music chains the ear;
All Nature, from her bosom pouring forth
Sounds such as make a Temple of the earth
Returns in one full stream of harmony
The angel-echoes that she hears on high-
Beautiful Summer! fling thy crown of flowers
O'er this dull earth through winter's weary hours;
Let them not fade-oh! let not sere and blight
Darken thy prism'd couch with shade of Night;
Let not thy music ever break its spell,
Like heaven-bound pilgrim bidding earth "Fare

well!"

Oh! silence not thy music-let thy flowers
Be earth's bright stars responding to the skies;
Wreathing her graves with those immortal bowers
Thy rosy hand 'twined 'round the Dead in Paradise!
Oh! not a vision here but it must pass
Like our own image from Life's spectre-glass;

Summer is faded, and the Autumn sere
Gathers the fallen leaves upon her bier,
And, like the venomed breath of the Simoom
That turns Zahara's desert to a tomb,
Breathes on the buried Summer's shrined abode,
And leaves a spectre what she found-a God!
"Tis thus, ye woods! your melancholy tale
Hath more of truth than rose and lily pale,
When the bright glories of the summer vie
To make the earth a mirror of the sky.
In Autumn's time-worn volume do we read
The sacred moral-All things earthly fade;
And trace upon the page of every leaf
That first and latest human lesson-grief!

But hark! that dreary blast that rolls Like heart-wrung wailings of unburied souls, 'Tis winter's breath

That comes from the land of Death
Where the Arctic fetters the main;
Like the lightning it darts

When its meteor parts

And dissolves, like the cloud in rain;
And now pale Winter cometh frore

From the dark North's drear and lifeless shore;
And round his form, trembling and old,
Hangs his snow-robe in drifting fold,

As that ye see on the mountain-height,
Like Death asleep in the calm moonlight-
His diadem gleams with the icicle bright,
And his sceptre of ice to destroy and to smite;
Like a monarch he sweeps from the mount to the
vale,

In his chariot that glistens with hoar-frost and hail:
His palace the iceberg adorned with spars,
Like a wandering heaven all fretted with stars.

WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE

Is a native of Lexington, Kentucky. He received his education in Indiana, studied law and came to New York, where he has been since a resident. In 1848, he published Alban, a Poetical Composition, "a romance of New York, intended to illustrate the influence of certain prejudices of society and principles of law upon individual character and destiny. In 1851, he published Meditations in America, and other Poems. They are mostly marked by a certain grandeur of thought and eloquence of expression. He has written many poems for Harper's, the New York Ledger, etc. In 1862 he published: The Liberty Bell, a Poem;

illustrated.

*

OF THINE OWN COUNTRY SING.

I met the wild-eyed Genius of our Land
In Huron's forest vast and dim;

I saw her sweep a harp with stately hand;
I heard her solemn hymn.

She sang of Nations that had passed away
From her own broad imperial clime;

Of Nations new to whom she gave the sway:
She sang of God and Time.

I saw the PAST with all its rhythmic lore:
I saw the PRESENT clearly glow;

Shapes with veiled faces paced a far dim shore
And whispered "Joy" and "Wo!"

Her large verse pictured mountain, vale, and bay,
Our wide, calm rivers rolled along,

And many a mighty Lake and Prairie lay
In the shadow of her Song.

Griswold's Poets of America, Art. Wallace.

As in Missouri's mountain range, the vast
Wild Wind majestically flies.
From crag to crag till on the top at last
The wild Wind proudly dies.

So died the Hymn.-" O Genius! how can I
Crown me with Song as thou art crowned?"
She, smiling, pointed to the spotless sky
And the forest-tops around-

Then sang-"Not to the far-off Lands of Eld
Must thou for inspiration go:

There Milton's large imperial organ swelled,
There Avon's waters flow.

"No Alien-Bard where Tasso's troubled lyre
Made sorrow fair, unchallenged dwells-
Where deep-eyed Danté with the wreath of fire
Came chanting from his Hells.

"Yet sometimes sing the old majestic themes
Of Europe in her song enshrined:
These going wind-like o'er thy Sea of Dreams,
May liberalize the mind.

"Or learn from mournful ASIA, as she lies

Musing at noon beneath her stately palms, Her angel-lore, her wide-browed prophecies, Her solemn-sounding psalms:

"Or sit with AFRIC when her eyes of flame

Smoulder in dreams, beneath their swarthy lids, Of youthful Sphynx, and Kings at loud acclaim On new-built Pyramids.

"But know thy Highest dwells at Home: there

Art

And choral Inspirations spring;

If thou would'st touch the Universal Heart, OF THINE OWN COUNTRY SING.

CHARLES ASTOR BRISTED, Magdalen Bentzon, eldest daughter of the late THE only son of the late Rev. John Bristed and John Jacob Astor, was born in New York in the first Berkeleian prize for Latin composition 1820. He entered Yale College, where he took solus in the freshman and sophomore years, and divided the Berkeleian classical prize of the senior year with A. R. Macdonough, a son of Commodore Macdonough. He was a frequent contributor at this time to the Yale Literary Magazine. England, and passed five years at the University Having completed his studies at Yale, he went to of Cambridge, taking his B.A. degree at Trinity College in 1845. At Trinity he gained a classical prize the first year, the under-graduate and bachelor prizes for English essays, and the first prize-cup for an English oration. He was also elected foundation-scholar of the college in 1844. In the university he gained the under-graduate's Latin essay prize in 1843, and was placed eighth in the Classical Tripos of his year.

Having returned to America, he was married in 1847 to the daughter of the late Henry Brevoort, one of the earliest friends and collaborators of Washington Irving.

Brusted

Mr. Bristed was at this time and afterwards a frequent contributor of articles, poetical transla

tions, critical papers on the classics, and sketches of society, to the Literary World, Knickerbocker, the Whig Review, and other journals. Mr. Bristed edited in 1849 Selections from Catullus, a school edition, by G. G. Cookesley, one of the assistant-masters of Eton, which he revised, with

additional notes.

In 1850 he published A Letter to the Hon. Horace Mann, in reply to some reflections of the latter on Stephen Girard and John Jacob Astor, in a tract entitled "Thoughts for a Young Man."

In 1852 appeared The Upper Ten Thousand, a collection of sketches of New York society, contributed to Fraser's Magazine.

At the same time Mr. Bristed published two volumes of a graver character, Five Years in an English University, in which he described with spirit, in a knowing, collegiate style, the manners, customs, studies, and ideas of a complex organization and mode of life but little understood in America. In a rather extensive appendix to the first edition of this work the author added a series of his college orations and prize essays, and of the examination papers of the university. The work was an acceptable one to scholars, and those interested in the educational discipline on this side of the Atlantic, as weil as to the general reader.

Of late years Mr. Bristed nas passed much of his time in Paris, and in the summer at BadenBaden. In a frequent correspondence with the New York Spirit of the Times he has recorded the life of Europe passing under his eye, in matters of art, literature, the drama, and the social aspect of the times.

As a

The writings of Mr. Bristed exhibit the union of the man of the world and of books. His pictures of society are somewhat remarkable for a vein of freedom and candor of statement. critic of Greek and Latin classical topics he is diligent and acute, displaying some of the best qualities of the trained English university man. He has also published numerous occasional clever poetical translations of classical niceties from Theocritus, Ovid, and such moderns as Walter de Mapes.

** Mr. Bristed, who has resided at Washington, published in 1867 The Interference Theory of Government- a book denunciatory, on principle, of the tariff, and of prohibitory liquor laws. A volume.of fugitive articles was privately printed by him at Baden, in 1858, entitled Pieces of a Broken-down Critic. He died January 14, 1874.

He had of late been a frequent contributor to the Galaxy, both anonymously and under his signature of "Carl Benson." In 1872 he brought out a revised edition of his Five Years

in

an English University. A volume of Anacreontics was printed for private circulation.

HENRY R. JACKSON

Was born at Athens, Georgia, in 1820. He is the son of Dr. Henry Jackson, formerly professor of natural philosophy in Franklin college in that state. He was educated to the bar, and early held the office of United States district attorney for Georgia. At the commencement of the war with Mexico he raised at Savannah a company of one hundred men, called the Jasper Greens; marched to Columbus to form a regiment; was

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With his gnarled old arms, and his iron form,
Majestic in the wood,

From age to age, in the sun and storm,
The live-oak long hath stood;
With his stately air, that grave old tree,
He stands like a hooded monk,
With the grey moss waving solemnly
From his shaggy limbs and trunk.
And the generations come and go,
And still he stands upright,
And he sternly looks on the wood below,
As conscious of his might.
But a mourner sad is the hoary tree,
A mourner sad and lone,
And is clothed in funeral drapery

For the long since dead and gone.
For the Indian hunter beneath his shade
Has rested from the chase;

And he here has woo'd his dusky maid-
The dark-eyed of her race;

And the tree is red with the gushing gore
As the wild deer panting dies:

But the maid is gone, and the chase is o'er,
And the old oak hoarsely sighs.

In former days, when the battle's din
Was loud amid the land,

In his friendly shadow, few and thin,
Have gathered Freedom's band;
And the stern old oak, how proud was he
To shelter hearts so brave!

But they all are gone-the bold and free-
And he moans above their grave.

And the aged oak, with his locks of grey,
Is ripe for the sacrifice;

For the worm and decay, no lingering prey,
Shall he tower towards the skies!

He falls, he falls, to become our guard,
The bulwark of the free,

And his bosom of steel is proudly bared
To brave the raging sea!

When the battle comes, and the cannon's roar
Booms o'er the shuddering deep,
Then nobly he'll bear the bold hearts o'er
The waves, with bounding leap.
Oh! may those hearts be as firm and true,
When the war-clouds gather dun,
As the glorious oak that proudly grew
Beneath our southern sun.

HENRY W. PARKER.

THE REV. HENRY W. PARKER, of Brooklyn, New York, is the author of a volume of poems pub

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