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the same influences which guide his fellows. His pieces are various, presenting strong contrasts, and they are alike excellent;" but he has too generally employed his pen upon light and frivolous topics. His Scripture Sketches" and "Unwritten Philosophy" prove him capable of the loftiest and strongest efforts of genius. The following is an extract from his "Absalom :"

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"King David's limbs were weary. He had fled
From far Jerusalem, and now he stood
With his faint people for a little rest
Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow
To its refreshing breath; for he had worn
The mourner's covering, and he had not felt
That he could see his people until now.
They gather'd round him on the fresh green bank,
And spoke their kindly words; and as the sun
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
And bow'd his head upon his hands to pray.
Oh! when the heart is full, when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor common words of courtesy
Are such a very mockery, how much

The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
He pray'd for Israel; and his voice went up
Strongly and fervently; he pray'd for those
Whose love had been his shield; and his deep tone
Grew tremulous; but oh! for Absalom!
For his estranged, misguided Absalom-
'The proud, bright being who had burst away,
In all his princely beauty, to defy

The heart that cherish'd him-for him he pour'd,
In agony that would not be controll❜d,
Strong supplication, and forgave him there
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness."

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GIRL
""Tis difficult to feel that she is dead.
Her presence, like the shadow of a wing
That is just lessening in the upper sky,
Lingers upon us. We can hear her voice,
And for her step we listen, and the eye
Looks for her wonted coming with a strange,
Forgetful earnestness. We can not feel

That she will no more come-that from her cheek
The delicate flush has faded, *

*

and on her lip,

*

That was so exquisitely pure, the dew
Of the damp grave has fallen! Who, so loved,
Is left among the living? Who hath walk'd
The world with such a winning loveliness,
And on its bright brief journey, gather'd up
Such treasures of affection? She was loved
Only as idols are. She was the pride
Of her familiar sphere-the daily joy
Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze,
And in the light and music of her way,

Have a companion's portion. Who could feel,
While looking upon beauty such as hers,

That it would ever perish

It is like

The melting of a star into the sky

While you are gazing on it, or a dream

In its most ravishing sweetness rudely broken."

(2.) MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY, of Connecticut: born in 1797. Her poetical productions are very numerous. Her contributions to periodical works are very frequent, and, in general, excellent; always so in respect to their religious spirit and tendency. She deserves the gratitude of her age for her numerous writings, both in prose and poetry. Among the former stand high in public favor her "Letters to Young Ladies."

In her elegant work, "Pleasant Memoirs of Pleasant Lands," published since her recent visit to England, we find the following notice of the poet Southey, whom she declined going to see on account of his mental derangement :*

I thought to see thee in thy lake-girt home,

Thou of creative soul! I thought with thee
Amid thy mountain solitudes to roam,

And hear the voice whose echoes, wild and free,

Had strangely thrill'd me, when my life was new,
With old romantic tales of wondrous lore;
But ah! they told me that thy mind withdrew
Into tny mystic cell-nor evermore

Sat on the lip, in fond, familiar word,

Nor through the speaking eye her love repaid, Whose heart for thee with ceaseless care is stirr'd, Both night and day; upon her willow shade Her sweet harp hung. They told me, and I wept, As on my pilgrim way o'er England's vales I kept." A fine critic in the "North American Review" of

1835, bears the following just tribute to Mrs Sigour ney:

The excellence of all her poems is quiet and unassuming. They are full of the sweet images and bright associations of domestic life; its unobtrusive happiness, its unchanging affections, and its cares and sorrows; of the feelings naturally inspired by life's vicissitudes, from the cradle to the deathbed; of the hopes that burn, like the unquenched altar-fire, in that chosen dwelling-place of virtue and religion. The light of a pure and unostentatious faith shines around them, blending with her thoughts, and giving a tender coloring to her contemplations, like the melancholy beauty of our own autumnal scenery."

We only add the following beautiful lines on the

MARRIAGE OF THE DEAF AND DUMB.

No word! no sound! But yet a solemn rite
Proceedeth through the festive, lighted hall.
Hearts are in treaty, and the soul doth take
That oath, which, unabsolved, must stand till death,
With icy seal, doth stamp the scroll of life.
No word! no sound! But still yon holy man,
With strong and graceful gesture, doth impose
The irrevocable vow, and with meek prayer
Present it to be register'd in Heaven.

Methinks this silence heavily doth brood
Upon the spirit. Say, thou flower-crown'd bride,
What means the sigh which from that ruby lip
Doth 'scape, as if to seek some element

Which angels breathe?

Mute! mute! 'tis passing strange
Like necromancy all. And yet, 'tis well;
For the deep trust with which a maiden cast
Her all of earth, perchance her all of heaven,
Into a mortal's hand, the confidence

With which she turns in every thought to him,
Her more than brother, and her next to God,
Hath never yet been shadow'd out in word,
Or told in language.

So, ye voiceless pair,

Pass on in hope. For ye may build as firm

Your silent altar in each others' hearts,

And catch the sunshine through the clouds of time

As cheerily, as though the pomp of speech

Did herald forth the deed. And when ye dwell

BB

Where flower fades not, and death no treasured link
Hath power to sever more, ye need not mourn
The ear sequestrate, and the tuneless tongue,
For there the eternal dialect of love

Is the free breath of every happy soul.

SECTION VII.

(1.) HANNAH F. GOULD, of Vermont, has acquired .considerable reputation by her numerous contributions to newspapers of the day.

The critic last quoted speaks of Miss Gould, as a writer of poetry, in the following beautiful terms: "One of the principal attractions of her writings she comis their perfect freedom from pretension; poses without the slightest effort to do more than to express her own thoughts in the most unaffected language; in this way, however, she produces more effect than she could do by laborious effort.

"Miss Gould is uniformly faithful to nature. Like Mrs. Sigourney, she gathers the wild flowers of the rock and dell; and she does more; she collects those which many pass by unnoticed, as too common and familiar to be entitled to a place in an ornamental garland; but she looks upon them as the works of God, and fitted to convey a striking moral. This, doubtless, is the secret of her popularity.”

THE SILVER-BIRD'S NEST:

BY MISS H. F. GOULD.

We were shown a beautiful specimen of the ingenuity of birds, a few days since, by Dr. Cook of this borough. It was a bird's nest made entirely of silver wires, beautifully woven together. The nest was found on a sycamore-tree, by Dr. Francis Beard, of York County. It was the nest of a hanging-bird, and the material was probably obtained from a soldier's -epaulet which it had found.-Westchester Village Record, 1838.

A stranded soldier's epaulet,

The waters cast ashore,
A little winged rover met,
And eyed it o'er and o'er.

The silver bright so pleased her sight,

On that lone, idle vest,

She knew not why she should deny
Herself a silver nest,

The shining wire she peck'd and twirl'd;
Then bore it to her bough,

Where on a flowery twig 'twas curl'd,
The bird can show you how;

But when enough of that bright stuff
The cunning builder bore

Her house to make, she would not take,
Nor did she covet, more.

And when the little artisan,
While neither pride nor guilt
Had enter'd in her pretty plan,
Her resting-place had built;
With here and there a plume to spare
About her own light form,

Of these, inlaid with skill, she made
A lining soft and warm.

But, do you think the tender brood
She fondled there, and fed,
Were prouder when they understood
The sheen about their bed?
Do you suppose they ever rose,
Of higher powers possess'd,

Because they knew they peep'd and grew
Within a silver nest?

(2.) LUCRETIA and MARGARET DAVIDSON, New-York are remarkable for the early development of their poetic capacities. Both died before they had reached seventeen years of age. Their writings have been collected by Washington Irving, accompanied with an interesting memoir.

(3.) JAMES G. PERCIVAL, of Connecticut, born 1795. His first published volume contains many poems written in his seventeenth year. His early publications gave just offence by their sceptical sentiments, but his later writings are said to be free from these. It is stated that none of our poets surpass Dr. Percival in learning, scholarship, or universality of information. According to Mr. Kettell, "his poetry is more imaginative than sentimental, rather diffuse, and often negligent. But his language is well selected and picturesque, bold and idiomatic; his verse is harmonious, and contains many of those sweet and hallowed forms of expression which render poetry the repository of the most striking truths, as well as the vehicle of the

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