NoT hers the charms which LAURA's lover drew, For round her mouth there play'd, at times, a smile, What though that smile might beam alike on all; power, Your homage but the pastime of the hour, Now beam'd her beauty in resistless light, MELODY. WHEN the flowers of Friendship or Love have decay'd, In the heart that has trusted and once been betray'd, No sunshine of kindness their bloom can restore; For the verdure of feeling will quicken no more! Hope, cheated too often, when life's in its spring, From the bosom that nursed it forever takes wing! And Memory comes, as its promises fade, To brood o'er the havoc that Passion has made. As 'tis said that the swallow the tenement leaves Where the ruin endangers her nest in the eaves, While the desolate owl takes her place on the wall, And builds in the mansion that nods to its fall. DREAM. YOUNG LESBIA slept. Her glowing cheek Of playing with his bow and arrows, And nestle with his mother's sparrows. Young LESBIA slept-and visions gay Before her dreaming soul were glancing, Like sights that in the moonbeams show, When fairies on the green are dancing. And, first, amid a joyous throng She seem'd to move in festive measure, With many a courtly worshipper, That waited on her queenly pleasure. And then, by one of those strange turns That witch the mind so when we 're dreaming, She was a planet in the sky, And they were stars around her beaming. Yet hardly had that lovely light (To which one cannot here help kneeling) Its radiance in the vault above Been for a few short hours revealing, When, like a blossom from the bough, By some remorseless whirlwind riven, Swiftly upon its lurid path, 'Twas back to earth like lightning driven. Yet, brightly still, though coldly, there Those other stars were calmly shining, As if they did not miss the rays That were but now with their own twining. To be from that gay chorus parting, INTERPRETATION. Had she but thought of those below, Who thus were left with breasts benighted, Till Heaven dismiss'd that star to earth, By which alone our hearts are lighted— Or, had she recollected, when Each virtue from the world departed, How Hope, the dearest came again, And stay'd to cheer the lonely-hearted: Sweet LESBIA could not thus have grieved, From that cold, dazzling throng to sever, And yield her warm, young heart again To those that prize its worth forever. MRS. SEBA SMITH. [Born about 1806.] THE subject of this notice was born in a rural village near the city of Portland. From her early years she has delighted in the study of philosophy, in abstruse speculations, and curious science, and she is probably more familiar with the best English literature than any American poet of her sex, except the author of "Zophiel." When but sixteen years old-a child in heart and in age-she was married to Mr. SEBA SMITH, a counsellor at law, then of Portland, and now of New York. She began to write for the literary periodicals at an early age; and all her compositions, in prose and verse, have been carefully finished. Her style is simple and elegant, her illustrations felicitously chosen, and her verses have meaning as well as melody. Her longest poem is The Sinless Child," published in the "Southern Literary Messenger" for March, 1842. Her heroine is a widow's fair-haired girl, of dove-like gentleness: 66 Where little EVA play'd; And it would seem its quietude The winding vine its tendrils wove And, by the flickering light, the leaves Here the daughter, as She turn'd the wheel, With buoyant heart was all abroad, And sang all day from joy of heart, For joy that in her dwelt, That unconfined the soul went forth Such blessedness she felt." As the widow and her child walk in the twilight, the first sees in the jagged limbs spreading above her Spectres and distorted shapes, That frown upon her path, And mock her with their hideous eyes: For when the soul is blind To freedom, truth, and inward light, Vague fears debase the mind. But EVA, like a dreamer waked, Look'd off upon the hill, And mutter'd words of strange, sweet sound, Ethereal forms with whom she talk'd, Unseen by all beside; And she, with earnest looks, besought She says to her mother E'en now I mark'd a radiant throng, To cheer with hope the trembling heart, In every face were blent. The meek-eyed violets smiling bowed- To scent the evening sky. A shower of pearly dust they brought, A host flew o'er the mowing field, Like diamonds o'er it thrown. And bathed the stately forest-tree, I saw a meek-eyed angel curve And bless with one soft kiss the urn, Another rock'd the young bird's nest, And the tinkling dew-drops rattled down Each and all, as its task is done, Bearing aloft some treasured gift An offering to GOD on high. They bear the breath of the odorous flower, The sound of the pearly shell; And thus they add to the holy joys Of the home where spirits dwell." At length the child fulfils her destiny. The widow, alarmed by her long absence one morning, seeks her, and finds her dead. Why raises she the small, pale hand, And holds it to the light? To meet her dizzy sight. The sinless child, with mission high, A while to earth was given, To show us that our world should be The vestibule of heaven. Did we but in the holy light Of truth and goodness rise, We might communion hold with GoD And spirits from the skies. The poem is in seven short cantos, and the verses I have quoted convey an idea of its style and character. THE ACORN. Ax acorn fell from an old oak tree, And lay on the frosty ground "O, what shall the fate of the acorn be?" Was whisper'd all around, By low-toned voices, chiming sweet, Like a floweret's bell when swungAnd grasshopper steeds were gathering fleet, And the beetle's hoofs up-rungFor the woodland Fays came sweeping past In the pale autumnal ray, Where the forest-leaves were falling fast, And the acorn quivering lay; They came to tell what its fate should be, Though life was unreveal'd; For life is holy mystery, Where'er it is conceal'd. They came with gifts that should life bestow: The bane that should work its deadly wo- In the gray moss-cup was the mildew brought, But it needed not; for a blessed fate Was the acorn's doom'd to be The spirits of earth should its birth-time wait, And watch o'er its destiny. To a little sprite was the task assign'd To bury the acorn deep, Away from the frost and searching wind, I laugh'd outright at the small thing's toil, A thimble's depth it was scarcely deep, In the hush of dropping dew. The spring-time came with its fresh, warm air, Then softly the black earth turn'd aside, And up, where the last year's leaf was dried, With coiled stem, and a pale green hue, Then deeply its roots abroad it threw, Its strength from the earth to bring. The young child pass'd with a careless tread, He little knew, as he started back, How the acorn's fate was hung On the very point in the spider's track Where the web on his cheek was flung. The autumn came, and it stood alone, And bow'd as the wind pass'd by- A schoolboy beheld the lithe young shoot, To peel the bark in curious rings, And many a notch and ray, To beat the air till it whizzing sings, His hand was stay'd; he knew not why: And up from the teeming ground. It told of the care that lavish'd had been Of the many things that had wrought a screen It told of the oak that once had bow'd, But now, when the storm was raging loud, There's a deeper thought on the schoolboy's brow, And he ponders much, as with footsteps slow He turns him to depart. Up grew the twig, with a vigour bold, In the shade of the parent tree, And the old oak knew that his doom was told, When the sapling sprang so free. Then the fierce winds came, and they raging tore The hollow limbs away; And the damp moss crept from the earthy floor Around the trunk, time-worn and gray. The young oak grew, and proudly grew, For its roots were deep and strong; And the wild bird came to its airy height, In acorn-time came the truant boy, With a wild and eager look, And he mark'd the tree with a wondering joy, As the wind the great limbs shook. He look'd where the moss on the north side grew, The solemn shadow the huge tree threw, |