M. ST. LEON LOUD. MARGUERITE ST. LEON BARSTOW was born | monthly magazines. Mr. Edgar A. Poe, in in the rural town of Wysox, among the windings of the Susquehannah, in Bradford county, Pennsylvania. In 1824 she was married to Mr. Loud, of Philadelphia; and, except during a short period passed in the South, has since resided in that city. Her poems have for the most part appeared in the United States Gazette and in the Philadelphia his Autography, says of Mrs. Loud, that she "has imagination of no common order, and, unlike many of her sex, is not " Content to dwell in decencies forever."' While she can, upon occasion, compose the ordinary singsong with all the decorous proprieties which are in fashion, she yet ventures very frequently into a more ethereal region." A DREAM OF THE LONELY ISLE. In the deadly blight of the Upas' shade. Where no human voice, with its words of pain, Life seemed a desert waste to me, And I sought in slumber from care to flee. Light as a sea-bird the vessel flew. But swiftly onward, through foam and spray, And I stood on that beautiful isle alone. I should buffet the waves of the world no more! Long did my footsteps delighted range I watched for the bark, but in vain-in vain ; I stretched my arms o'er the heaving sea, That Love's pure spirit might with me dwell. M. ST. LEON LOUD. THE DESERTED HOMESTEAD. THERE is a lonely homestead To every passing gale; There are many mansions round it, In the low eaves hath flown; And all night long, the whip-poor-will Ties up the trailing vines; And through the broken casement-panes Seems starting from the gloom; Is drawn upon the plain, Thus standing bare and lone, While all the worshipped household gods And where are they whose voices Beneath the summer sun, And some beyond the sea; To meet no more, as once they met, Their sheltering native nest, The young to life's wild scenes went forth, Fame and ambition lured them From that green vale to roam, Of their childhood pure and free- A hallowed influence flings. Though reached fame's lofty domeThere are no joys like those which dwell Within our childhood's home. ·Он, peaceful grave! how blest The wild, dark, turbulent career of life!..... There shall the throbbing brain, The heart with its wild hopes and longings vain, No more to struggle with its weight of woes. For some bright goal to which the soul aspires- A slumber calm and deep, A long and silent midnight in the tomb, Oh grave! in thy lone cells. And yet not lone, for they Who've passed from earth away, People thy realms-the beautiful, the young, There would I rest, O Grave! Hath overswept the whole of life's bleak shore; EMMA C. EMBURY. THIS graceful and popular authoress the Mitford of our country-to whom we are in so large a degree indebted for redeeming the "ladies' magazines," so called, from the reproach of frivolity and sickly sentiment, is a daughter of Dr. James R. Manley, for many years one of the most eminent physicians of New York, from whom she inherits all the peculiar pride and prejudice that make up the genuine Knickerbocker. She was married, it appears from the New York Mirror of the following Saturday, on the tenth of May, 1828, to Mr. Daniel Embury, now of Brooklyn, a gentleman of liberal fortune, who is well known for his taste and scholarly acquirements. Mrs. Embury's native interest in literature was manifested by an early appreciation of the works of genius, and her poetical talents were soon recognised and admired. Under the signature of" Ianthe," she gave to the public numerous effusions, which were distinguished for vigor of language and genuine depth of feeling. A volume of these youthful but most promising compositions was selected and published, under the title of Guido and other Poems. Since her marriage, she has given to the public more prose than verse, but the former is characterized by the same romantic spirit which is the essential beauty of poetry. Many of her tales are founded upon a just observation of life, although not a few are equally remarkable for attractive invention. In point of style, they often possess the merit of graceful and pointed diction, and the lessons they inculcate are invariably of a pure moral tendency. Constance Latimer, or The Blind Girl, is perhaps better known than any other of her single productions; and this, as well as her Pictures of Early Life, has passed through a large number of editions. In 1845 she published, in a beautiful quarto volume, with pictorial illustrations, Nature's Gems, or American Wild Flowers, a work which contains some of the finest specimens of her writings, in both prose and verse. In 1846 she gave to the public a collection of graceful poems, under the title of Love's Token Flowers; and, in 1848, The Waldorf Family, or Grandfather's Legends, a little volume in which she has happily adapted the romantic and poetical legendary of Brittany to the tastes of our own country and the present age; and a work entitled Glimpses of Home Life, in which many of the beautiful fictions she had written for the magazines, having a unity and completeness of design, are reproduced, to run anew the career of popularity through which they passed on their first and separate publication. The tales and sketches by Mrs. Embury are very numerous, probably not less than one hundred and fifty; and several such delightful series, evincing throughout the same true cultivation and refinement of taste and feeling, might be made from them. TWO PORTRAITS FROM LIFE. 1. On, what a timid watch young Love was keeping Blending with woman's softness manhood's pride, PROUD,Self-sustained and fearless! dreading naught From the high dreams that cluster round thy head. Thy voice clear-ringing mid the conflict's roar, And on thy banner, writ in stars, "Excelsior !" EMMA C. EMBURY. The sword that flashed as with a meteor light, Far worse thy fate Than that which doomed him to the barren rock; But thou, poor boy! Hadst no such dreams to cheat the lagging hours; Thy chains still galled, though wreathed with fairest Thou hadst no images of bygone joy, [flowers; No visions of anticipated fame, To bear thee through a life of sloth and shame. And where was she, Whose proudest title was Napoleon's wife? [life, No! round her heart Child of Ambition's martyr! life had been Of doubt, and dread, and suffering at the best; For thou wert one whose path, in these dark times, Would lead to sorrows-it may be to crimes! Thou art at rest: The idle sword hath worn its sheath away; SYMPATHY. LIKE the sweet melody which faintly lingers Upon the windharp's strings at close of day, When gently touched by evening's dewy fingers It breathes a low and melancholy lay: So the calm voice of sympathy meseemeth; And while its magic spell is round me cast, My spirit in its cloistered silence dreameth, And vaguely blends the future with the past. But vain such dreams while pain my bosom thrilleth, And mournful memories around me move; E'en friendship's alchemy no balm distilleth, To soothe th' immedicable wound of love. Alas, alas! passion too soon exhaieth The dewy freshness of the heart's young flowers; We water them with tears, but naught availethThey wither on through all life's later hours. AUTUMN EVENING. "And Isaac went out in the field to meditate at eventide." Go forth at morning's birth, When the glad sun, exulting in his might. Comes from the dusky-curtained tents of night, Shedding his gifts of beauty o'er the earth; When sounds of busy life are on the air, And man awakes to labor and to care, Then hie thee forth: go out amid thy kind, Thy daily tasks to do, thy harvest-sheaves to bind. Go forth at noontide hour, Beneath the heat and burden of the day Nor murmur if thou miss life's morning flower; Thou may'st discern some spot of hallowed ground, Where'er the footsteps of mankind are found Where duty blossoms even as the rose, [enclose. Though sharp and stinging thorns the beauteous bud PEACE. O. seek her not in marble halls of pride, [pale, That throng about some idol throned on high, Not there, not there Peace builds her halcyon nest: UNREST. HEART, weary Heart! what means thy wild unrest? Go! hie thee to God's altar-kneeling there, THE EOLIAN HARP. 66 Heart, weary Heart! canst thou not find repose HARP of the winds! how vainly art thou swelling 66 THE OLD MAN'S LAMENT. Он, for one draught of those sweet waters now Oh heart of mine! canst thou not, here discerning Beneath the heat and burden of the day; Would that I could regain those shady haunts Where once, with Hope, I dreamed the hours Giving my thoughts to tales of old romance, [away, And yielding up my soul to youth's delicious trance! Vain are such wishes: I no more may tread With lingering step and slow the green hill-side; Before me now life's shortening path is spread, And I must onward, whatsoe'er betide: The pleasant nooks of youth are passed for aye, And sober scenes now meet the traveller on his way. Alas! the dust which clogs my weary feet Glitters with fragments of each ruined shrine, Where once my spirit worshipped, when,with sweet And passionless devotion, it could twine Its strong affections round earth's earthliest things, Yet bear away no stain upon its snowy wings. What though some flowers have 'scaped the tempest's wrath? Daily they droop by nature's swift decay : What though the setting sun still lights my path? Morn's dewy freshness long has passed away. Oh, give me back life's newly-budded flowers-Let me once more inhale the breath of morning's hours! My youth, my youth! oh, give me back my youth! Not the unfurrowed brow and blooming cheek, But childhood's sunny thoughts, its perfect truth, And youth's unworldly feelings-these I seek: Ah, who could e'er be sinless and yet sage? [page! Would that I might forget Time's dark and blotted |