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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.
THERE is an isle in the far South sea,
Sunny and bright as an isle can be;
Sweet is the sound of the ocean wave,
As its sparkling waters the green shores lave;
And from the shell that upon the strand
Lies half buried in golden sand-
A thrilling tone through the still air rings,
Like music trembling on fairy strings.
Flowers like those which the Peris find
In the bowers of their paradise, and bind
In the flowing tresses, are blooming there,
And gay birds glance through the scented air.
Gems and pearls are strewed on the earth
Untouched-there are known to know their worth;
And that fair island Death comes not nigh:
Why should he come ?-there are none to die.
My heart had grown, like the misanthrope's,
Cold and dead to all human hopes;
Fame and fortune alike had proved
Baseless dreams, and the friends I loved
Vanished away, like the flowers that fade

In the deadly blight of the Upas' shade.
I longed upon that green isle to be,
Far away o'er the sounding sea,

Where no human voice, with its words of pain,
Could ever fall on my ear again.

Life seemed a desert waste to me,

And I sought in slumber from care to flee.
Away, away, o'er the waters blue,

Light as a sea-bird the vessel flew.
Deep ocean-furrows her timbers plough,
As the waves are parted before her prow;
And the foaming billows close o'er her path,
Hissing and roaring, as if in wrath.

But swiftly onward, through foam and spray,
To the lonely island she steers her way:
The heavens above wore their brightest smile,
As the bark was moored by that fairy isle;
The sails were furled, the voyage was o'er;

And I stood on that beautiful isle alone.
My wish was granted, and I was blest;
My spirit revelled in perfect rest-
A Dead sea calm-even Thought reposed
Like a weary dove with its pinions closed.
Beauty was round me: bright roses hung
Their blushing wreaths o'er my head, and flung
Fragance abroad on the gale-to me
Sweeter than odors of Araby;
Wealth was mine, for the yellow gold
Lay before me in heaps untold.
Death to that island knew not the way,
But life was mine for ever and aye,
Till Love again made my heart its throne,
And I ceased to dwell on the isle alone.

I should buffet the waves of the world no more!
I looked to the ocean-the bark was gone,

Long did my footsteps delighted range
My peaceful home, but there came a change:
My heart grew sad, and I looked with pain
On all I had bartered life's ties to gain.
A chilling weight on my spirits fell,
As the low, soft wail of the ocean shell-
Or the bee's faint hum in the flowery wood,
Was all that broke on my solitude.
Oh! then I felt, in my loneliness,
That earth had no power the heart to bless,
Unwarmed by affection's holy ray;
And hope was withered, as day by day

I watched for the bark, but in vain-in vain ;
She never sought that green isle again!

I stretched my arms o'er the heaving sea,
And prayed aloud, in my agony,

That Love's pure spirit might with me dwell.
Then rose the waves with a murmuring swell,
Higher and higher, till naught was seen
Where slept in beauty that islet green.
The waters passed o'er me-the spell was broke;
From the dream of the lonely isle I woke,
With a heart redeemed from its selfish stain,
To mingle in scenes of the world again
With cheerful spirit-and rather share
The pains and sorrows which mortals bear,
Than dwell where no shade on my path is thrown,
Mid fadeless flowers and bright gems alone.

M. ST. LEON LOUD.

THE DESERTED HOMESTEAD.

THERE is a lonely homestead
In a green and quiet vale,
With its tall trees sighing mournfully

To every passing gale;

There are many mansions round it,
In the sunlight gleaming fair;
But moss-grown is that ancient roof,
Its walls are gray and bare.
Where once glad voices sounded
Of children in their mirth,
No whisper breaks the solitude
By that deserted hearth.
The swallow from her dwelling

In the low eaves hath flown;

And all night long, the whip-poor-will
Sings by the threshold stone.
No hand above the window

Ties up the trailing vines;

And through the broken casement-panes
The moon at midnight shines.
And many a solemn shadow

Seems starting from the gloom;
Like forms of long-departed ones
Peopling that dim old room.
No furrow for the harvest

Is drawn upon the plain,
And in the pastures green and fair
No herds or flocks remain.
Why is that beauteous homestead

Thus standing bare and lone,

While all the worshipped household gods
In dust lie overthrown.

And where are they whose voices
Rang out o'er hill and dale?
Gone-and their mournful history
Is but an oft-told tale.
There smiles no lovelier valley

Beneath the summer sun,
Yet they who dwelt together there,
Departed one by one.
Some to the quiet churchyard,

And some beyond the sea;

To meet no more, as once they met,
Beneath that old roof-tree.
Like forest-birds forsaking

Their sheltering native nest,

The young to life's wild scenes went forth,
The aged to their rest.

Fame and ambition lured them

From that green vale to roam,
But as their dazzling dreams depart,
Regretful memories come
Of the valley and the homestead-

Of their childhood pure and free-
Till each world-weary spirit pines
That spot once more to see.
Oh! blest are they who linger
Mid old familiar things,
Where every object o'er the heart

A hallowed influence flings.
Though won are wealth and honors-

Though reached fame's lofty domeThere are no joys like those which dwell Within our childhood's home.

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·Он, peaceful grave! how blest
Are they who in thy quiet chambers rest,
After the feverish strife-

The wild, dark, turbulent career of life!.....

There shall the throbbing brain,

The heart with its wild hopes and longings vain,
Find undisturbed repose-

No more to struggle with its weight of woes.
No passionate desires

For some bright goal to which the soul aspires-
Forever unattained-consume like quenchless fires.
Oh! for a dreamless sleep,

A slumber calm and deep,

A long and silent midnight in the tomb,
Where no dim visions of the past may come;
No haunting memories—no tears,
Nor voices which the startled spirit hears,
Whispering mysteriously of ill in coming years.
Peace-peace unbroken dwells,

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,
The kindred who around my pathway flung
All that earth had of brightness-and the tomb
Is robbed of all its gloom.

There would I rest, O Grave!
Till thy unstormy wave

Hath overswept the whole of life's bleak shore;
In thy deep stream of calm forgetfulness
My soul would sink-no more
To brave within a frail, unanchored bark,
Life's tossing billows and its tempests dark.

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
When thou wert fashioned in such gentle guise!
How was thy nature nursed with secret sighs!
What bitter tears thy mother's heart were steeping!
Within the crystal depths of thy blue eyes
A world of troubled tenderness lies sleeping,
And on thy full and glowing lip there lies
A shadow that portends thee future weeping.
Tender and self-distrustful-doubting still
Thyself, but trusting all the world beside,
Tremblingly sensitive to coming ill,

Blending with woman's softness manhood's pride,
How wilt thou all life's future conflicts bear,
And fearless suffer all that man must do and dare?

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PROUD,Self-sustained and fearless! dreading naught
Save falsehood-loving everything but sin~
How glorious is the light that from within
Illumes thy boyish face with lofty thought!
A child thou art-but thy deep eyes are fraught
With that mysterious light by genius shed,
And in thine aspect is a glory caught

From the high dreams that cluster round thy head.
I know not what thy future lot may be,
But, when men gather to a new crusade
Against earth s falsehood, wrong, and tyranny,
Thou wilt be there with all thy strength dis
played-

Thy voice clear-ringing mid the conflict's roar, And on thy banner, writ in stars, "Excelsior !"

EMMA C. EMBURY.

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The sword that flashed as with a meteor light,
And led on half the world to stirring fight,
Bidding whole seas of blood and carnage flow?
Alas! when foiled on his last battle-plain,
Its shattered fragments forged thy father's chain.

Far worse thy fate

Than that which doomed him to the barren rock;
Through half the universe was felt the shock,
When down he toppled from his high estate;
And the proud thought of still acknowledged power
Could cheer him e'en in that disastrous hour.

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?
She who first gave, and should have watched thy
Trebling a mother's tenderness for thee,
Despoiled heir of empire? On her breast
Did thy young heart repose in its unrest?

[life,

No! round her heart
Children of humbler, happier lineage twined:
Thou couldst but bring dark memories to mind
Of pageants where she bore a heartless part;
She who shared not her monarch-husband's doom
Cared little for her first-born's living tomb.
Thou art at rest:

Child of Ambition's martyr! life had been
To thee no blessing, but a dreary scene

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;
The spirit has consumed its bonds of clay;
And they, who with vain tyranny comprest
Thy soul's high yearnings, now forget their fear,
And fling ambition's purple o'er thy bier!

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
Pursue the labors of thine onward way,

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

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PEACE.

O. seek her not in marble halls of pride,
Where gushing fountains fling their silver tide,
Their wealth of freshness toward the summer sky;
The echoes of a palace are too loud-
They but give back the footsteps of the crowd

[pale,

That throng about some idol throned on high,
Whose ermined robe and pomp of rich array
But serve to hide the false one's feet of clay.
Nor seck her form in poverty's low vale,
Where, touched by want, the bright cheek waxes
And the heart faints, with sordid cares opprest,
Where pining discontent has left its trace
Deep and abiding in each haggard face.

Not there, not there Peace builds her halcyon nest:
Wild revel scares her from wealth's towering dome,
And misery frights her from the poor man's home.
Nor dwells she in the cloister, where the sage
Ponders the mystery of some time-stained page,
Delving, with feeble hand, the classic mine;
Oh, who can tell the restless hope of fame,
The bitter yearnings for a deathless name,
That round the student's heart like serpents twine!
Ambition's fever burns within his breast,
Can Peace, sweet Peace, abide with such a guest?
Search not within the city's crowded mart,
Where the low-whispered music of the heart
Is all unheard amid the clang of gold;
Oh, never yet did Peace her chaplet twine
To lay upon base mammon's sordid shrine, [sold;
Where earth's most precious things are bought and
Thrown on that pile, the pearl of price would be
Despised, because unfit for merchantry.

UNREST.

HEART, weary Heart! what means thy wild unrest?
Hast thou not tasted of earth's every pleasure?
With all that mortals seek thy lot is blest;
Yet dost thou ever chant in mournful measure-
"Something beyond!"

Go! hie thee to God's altar-kneeling there,
List to the mingled voice of fervent prayer
That swells around thee in the sacred fane;
Or catch the solemn organ's pealing note,
When grateful praises on the still air float,
And the freed soul forgets earth's heavy chain:
There learn that Peace, sweet Peace, is ever found
In her eternal home, on holy ground.

THE EOLIAN HARP.

66

Heart, weary Heart! canst thou not find repose
In the sweet calm of friendship's pure devotion?
Amid the peace which sympathy bestows,
Still dost thou murmur with repressed emotion,
"Something beyond!"
Heart, weary Heart! too idly hast thou poured
Thy music and thy perfume on the blast;
Now, beggared in affection's treasured hoard,
Thy cry is still-thy saddest and thy last-
"Something beyond!"
Heart, weary Heart! oh, cease thy wild unrest-
Earth can not satisfy thy bitter yearning:
Then onward, upward speed thy lonely quest,
And hope to find, where Heaven's pure stars are
burning,
Something beyond!"

HARP of the winds! how vainly art thou swelling
Thy diapason on the heedless blast;
How idly, too, thy gentler chords are telling
A tale of sorrow as the breeze sweeps past:
Why dost thou waste in loneliness the strain
Which were not heard by human ears in vain?
And the Harp answered, Though the winds are bear-
My soul of sweetness on their viewless wings, [ing
Yet one faint tone may reach some soul despairing,
And rouse its energies to happier things:
Oh, not in vain my song, if it but gives
One moment's joy to anything that lives.

66

THE OLD MAN'S LAMENT.

Он, for one draught of those sweet waters now
That shed such freshness o'er my early life!
Oh that I could but bathe my fevered brow
To wash away the dust of worldly strife,
And be a simple-hearted child once more,
As if I ne'er had known this world's pernicious lore!
My heart is weary, and my spirit pants

Oh heart of mine! canst thou not, here discerning
An emblem of thyself, some solace find? [ing,
Though earth may never quench thy life-long yearn-
Yet give thyself like music to the wind:
Thy wandering thought may teach thy love and
And waken sympathy when thou art dust. [trust.

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

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