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. Rob inson, 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 La tin and even the study of law. During these chool 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.

Estelle Anna 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 construetion 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 argel-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 thougi.t

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.

GREECE FROM THE CHILD OF THE SEA.
Shrine of the Gods! mine own eternal Greece!
When shall thy weeds be doffed-thy mourni: g
cease!

The gyves that bind thy beauty rent in twain,
And thou be living, breathing Greece again!
Grave of the mighty! Hero-Poet-Sage-
Whose deeds are guiding stars to every age!
Land unsurpassed in glory and despair,
Still in thy desolation thou art fair!

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 bi i 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.

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."

THE CITY OF MY LOVE.

She sits among the eternal hills,
Their crown, thrice glorious and dear,
Her voice is as a thousand tongues
Of silver fountains, gurgling clear.

Her breath is prayer, her life is love,
And worship of all lovely things;
Her children have a gracious port,
Her beggars show the blood of kings.
By old Tradition guarded close,
None doubt the grandeur she has seen;
Upon her venerable front

Is written: "I was born a Queen!"

She rules the age by Beauty's power,
As once she ruled by armed 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.

Neal, the author of the Charcoal Sketches. Upon his death, a few months afterwards, she took charge of the literary départment 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 Gossips 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. But rising from the dust of busy streets,

These forest children gladden many hearts; As some old friend their welcome presence greets The toil-worn soul, and fresher life imparts. Their shade is doubly grateful when it lies

Above the glare which stifling walls throw back, Through quivering leaves we see the soft blue skies, Then happier tread the dull, unvaried track. And when the first fresh foliage, emerald-hued, Is opening slowly to the sun's glad beams, How it recalleth scenes we once have viewed,

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;
As waving softly, fresh from summer showers,
Their whisper to the heart will entrance win.
Do they not teach us purity may live

Amid the crowded haunts of sin and shame,
And over all a soothing influence give-
Sad hearts from fear and sorrow oft reclaim?
And though transferred to uncongenial soil,
Perchance to breathe alone the dusty air,

Burdened with sounds of never-ceasing toil---
They rise as in the forest free and fair;
They do not droop and pine at adverse fate,
Or wonder why their lot should lonely prove,
But give fresh life to hearts left desolate,
Fit emblems of a pure, unselfish love.

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.

1 WALK IN DREAMS OF POETRY.

I walk in dreams of poetry;
They compass me around;

I hear a low and startling voice
In every passing sound;
I meet in every gleaming star,
On which at eve I gaze,
A deep and glorious eye, to fill
My soul with burning rays.
I walk in dreams of poetry;
The very air I breathe

Is filled with visions wild and free,
That round my spirit wreathe;
A shade, a sigh, a floating cloud,
A low and whispered tone-
These have a language to my brain,
A language deep and lone.

I walk in dreams of poetry,
And in my spirit bow
Unto a lone and distant shrine,

That none around me know,
From every heath and hill I bring

A garland rich and rare,

Of flowery thought and murmuring sigh,
To wreathe mine altar fair.

I walk in dreams of poetry:
Strange spells are on me shed;
I have a world within my soul
Where no one else may tread-

A deep and wide-spread universe,
Where spirit-sound and sight
Mine inward vision ever greet
With fair and radiant light.

My footsteps tread the earth below,
While soars my soul to heaven:
Small is my portion here-yet there
Bright realms to me are given.
I clasp my kindred's greeting hands,
Walk calmly by their side,
And yet I feel between us stands
A barrier deep and wide.

I watch their deep and household joy
Around he evening hearth,

When the children stand beside each knee
With laugh and shout of mirth.

But oh! I feel unto my soul

A deeper joy is brought

To rush with eagle wings and strong,
Up in a heaven of thought.

I watch them in their sorrowing hours,
When, with their spirits tossed,

I hear them wail with bitter cries
Their earthly prospects crossed;
I feel that I have sorrows wild
In my heart buried deep--
Immortal griefs that none may share
With me-nor eyes can weep.
And strange it is: I cannot say
If it is wo or weal,

That thus unto my heart can flow
Fountains so few may feel;
The gift that can my spirit raise
The cold, dark earth above,
Has flung a bar between my soul
And many a heart I love.
Yet I walk in dreams of poetry,

And would not change that path,
Though on it from a darkened sky
Were poured a tempest's wrath.

Its flowers are mine, its deathless blooms,
I know not yet the thorn;

I dream not of the evening glooms
In this my radiant morn.

Oh! still in dreams of poetry,
Let me for ever tread,

With earth a temple, where divine,
Bright oracles are shed:
They soften down the earthly ills
From which they cannot save;
They make a romance of our life;
They glorify the grave.

SHE COMES TO ME.

She comes to me in robes of snow, The friend of all my sinless yearsEven 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,
She murmurs" Oh, fear not to die!-'
For thee an angel's tears are shed,

An angel's feast is spread on high.
“Come, then, and meet the joy divine
That features of the spirits wear:
A fleeting pleasure here is thine-
An angel's crown awaits thee there.
"Listen! it is a choral hymn "-

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 re-ided 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
We stood. The winged breezes made
Short flights melodious through the lowering vine,
The lindens flung a golden, glimmering shade,
And the old fountain played.

I a stern strarger-a sweet maiden she,
And beautiful as her own Italy.

At length she smiled; her smile the silence broke,
And my heart finding language thus it spoke:
Whenever Benedetta moves,

66

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
In the sunbeams rowing;

Of the summer dawn
Into daylight sliding;
Of Dian's favorite fawn
Among laurels hiding;
Of a movement in the tops

Of the most impulsive trees;
Of cool, glittering drops

God's gracious rainbow sees;
Of pale moons; of saints
Chanting anthems holy;
Of a cloud that faints
In evening slowly;
Of a bird's song in a grove,
Of a rosebud's love;
Of a lily's stem and leaf,
Of dew-silvered meadows;
Of a child's first grief;

Cf 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 sperk, nor raise her bended head;
And the green vines enfoliaged her,
And the old fountain played.
Then from the church beyond the trees