SARAH LOUISA P. SMITH. MISS HICKMAN, afterward Mrs. SMITH, was born in Detroit on the thirtieth of June, 1811, at which time her grandfather, Major-General Hull - whose patriotism and misfortunes are at length beginning to be justly appreciated by the people — was governor of Michigan. While a child she accompanied her mother to the home of her family, in Newton, Massachusetts, where she was carefully educated. She acquired knowledge with extraordinary facility, and when but thirteen years of age her compositions were compared to those of Kirke White and others whose carly maturity is the subject of some of the most interesting chapters in literary history. In her eighteenth year she was married to Mr. Samuel Jenks Smith, then editor of a periodical in Providence, where he soon after published a collection of her poems, in a volume of two hundred and fifty duodecimo pages, many of the pieces in which were written as it was passing through the press. In 1829 Mr. and Mrs. Smith removed to Cincinnati, where they resided nearly two years, and here she continued to write, with a sort of improvisatorial ease, but with increasing elegance and a constantly deepening tone of reflection, until her health was too much decayed, and then she returned to New York, where, on the twelfth of February, 1832, she died, in the twenty-first year of her age. Her husband was for several years connected with the press in this city, and died while on a Voyage to Europe in 1842. The poems of Mrs. Smith are interesting chiefly as the productions of a very youthful author. She wrote with grace and spright liness, and sometimes with feeling; but there is little in her writings that would survive its connexion with her history. THE HUMA.* FLY on! nor touch thy wing, bright bird, Fly on-nor seek a place of rest In the home of "care-worn things;" "T would dim the light of thy shining crest The fields of upper air are thine, Thy place where stars shine free; I would thy home, bright one, were mine, I would never wander, bird, like thee, With wing and spirit once light and free They should wear no more the chain With which they are bound and fettered here, For ever struggling for skies more clear. There are many things like thee, bright bird, Hopes as thy plumage gay; Our air is with them for ever stirred, But still in air they stay. And happiness, like thee, fair one, * A bird peculiar to the East. It is supposed to fly conty in the air, and never touch the ground. Is ever hovering o'er, But rests in a land of brighter sun, On a waveless, peaceful shore, And stoops to lave her weary wings Where the fount of "living waters" springs. WHITE ROSES. THEY were gathered for a bridal: I knew it by their hueFair as the summer moonlight Upon the sleeping dew. From their fair and fairy sisters They were borne, without a sigh, For one remembered evening To blossom and to die. They were gathered for a bridal, Than the heart that lay beneath; And the coral lip was fair, And the gazer looked and asked not For the secret hidden there. They were gathered for a bridal, Where a thousand torches glistened, When the holy words were spoken, And the false and faithless listened And answered to the vow SARAH LOUISA P. SMITH. Which another heart had taken: Yet he was present then The once loved, the forsaken! They were gathered for a bridal, And now, now they are dying, And young Love at the altar Of broken faith is sighing. Their summer life was stainless, And not like hers who wore them: They are faded, and the farewell Of beauty lingers o'er them! STANZAS. I WOULD not have thee deem my heart Which earthly passion ne'er alloys. To Him who makes my pathway bright. I would not chain to mystic creeds I would not have that spirit rove I would not that my heart were cold Of things within the world to come- For I have left the dearly loved, The home, the hopes of other years, And early in its pathway proved Life's rainbow hues were formed of tears. I shall not meet them here again, Those loved, and lost, and cherished ones, But perfect in the world above, Which clouds and distance failed to sere: Thy kind remembrance to engage, THE FALL OF WARSAW. THROUGH Warsaw there is weeping, No more his martial tread, Float through the aisle, Where moonbeams smile; Sisters, let our solemn strain There's a voice of grief in Warsaw The mourning of the brave O'er the chieftain who is gathered Unto his honored grave! Who now will face the foeman ? Who break the tyrant's chain? Float through the aisle, Where moonbeams smile; No notes of music swell; Float through the aisle, Where moonbeams smile; And a voice of love undying, It whispers not of glory, Nor fame's unfading youth, Float through the aisle, Where moonbeams smile, Sisters, let our solemn strain SOPHIA HELEN OLIVER. THIS author was born in Lexington, Kentucky, in 1811, and in 1837 was married to Dr. J. H. Oliver. The next year she removed to Louisville, whence after a short time she returned to Lexington, and in 1842 she went "I MARK THE HOURS THAT SHINE." IN fair Italia's lovely land, Deep in a garden bower, A dial marks with shadowy hand And on its fair, unsullied face Is carved this flowing line, (Some wandering bard has paused to trace :) "I mark the hours that shine." Oh ye who in a friend's fair face Where many a sweet redeeming grace Go, from the speaking dial learn A lesson all divine- From faults that wound your fancy turn, Traced by a godlike mind, Nor "mark the hours that shine?" ye who bask in Fortune's light, Uugratefully repine, Why sigh for joys still unpossessed, Nor "mark the hours that shine"? To earn your scanty bread, And "mark the hours that shine." Who sadly feel no second bloom Your blighted hearts can knowWhy will ye mourn o'er severed ties While friends around you twine? to reside permanently in Cincinnati, in one of the medical colleges of which city her hus band is a professor. Her poems are spirited and fanciful, but are sometimes imperfect in rhythm and have other signs of carelessness. Go! yield your lost one to the skies, Dark with the clouds of care. That dims its light divine, And write upon its gleaming face"I mark the hours that shine." THE CLOUD-SHIP. Lo! over Ether's glorious realm A cloud ship sails with favoring breeze; And guides it o'er the ethereal seas. Its swanlike pinions kiss the gale, With glory gems the snowy sail...... And silver-tissued pinions wide, Bear onward to some isle of rest Pure spirits in life's furnace tried. Oh! could we stay each swelling sail Of spotless radiance o'er thee hung, And lift the bright, mysterious veil O'er forms of seraph beauty flung— How would our spirits long to mount And float along the ethereal way, To drink of life's unfailing fount, And bathe in heaven's resplendent day! But lo! the gold-tiara'd West Unfolds her sapphire gates of light; While Day's proud monarch bows his crest, And bids the sighing world. Good-night. And now the cloud ship flies along, Her wings with gorgeous colors dressed, And Fancy hears triumphant song Swell from her light-encircled breastAs to the wide unfolded gate, The brilliant portal of the skies, She bears her bright, immortal freight, The glorious soul that never dies! SOPHIA HELEN OLIVER. THE SHADOWS. THEY are gliding, they are gliding, Through the breezy woods away; Hath sought the sheltering tree, In light fantastic glee. They are creeping, they are creeping, With its stars and stripes of light; Or sleep beneath the flowers. Lulled by a pleasant tune; They are lying, they are lying, Where the solemn yew-tree waves, In the lonely place of graves; Lo, they follow!-lo, they follow, Will the shadow leave his side- The young, the loved, the cherished, I greet them with my tears; The friends of earlier years. MINISTERING SPIRITS. THEY are winging, they are winging, Round about us, night and day. Lo! the dim blue mist is sweeping Last called from us, loved and dearest- Mother-I behold thee too! Round thy forehead pure and mild, But I know they hover round me And their unseen forms surround me All the deep and solemn night. Yes, they're winging-yes, they're wingung Through the thin blue air their way: Spirit-harps are softly ringing Round about us night and day. 1 Hosе Kingly minstrels dead, Well may we twine a votive wreath Around each honored head: No tribute is too high to give Those crowned ones among men. The poets! the true poets! Thanks be to God for them! Near the churchyard's mossy wall, Where the dew and sunlight fall, I would have my dwelling; Sure there are some friends, I wot, Who would make that narrow spot Lovely as a garden plot, With rich perfumes swelling. |