I hail thee, Valley of the West, For what thou yet shalt be; I hail thee for the hopes that rest Here, from this mountain height, I see Thine emerald fields outspread; And feel that, in the book of fame, Proudly shall thy recorded name In later days be read. Yet, while I gaze upon thee now, All glorious as thou art, A cloud is resting on my brow, Of untold hopes and fears; I look on thee with tears. Oh! brightly, brightly glow thy skies Arrayed in summer flowers! Along the Atlantic shore! Can these their light restore? Upon the lofty bound I stand Here, Hope her wild enchantment flings, MARTHA DAY. MISS DAY was a daughter of the late eminent president of Yale College, and was born in New Haven on the thirteenth of February, 1813. She was educated at the best schools in Connecticut, and was particularly distinguished for her acquirements in mathematics and languages. She died suddenly, when but twenty years of age, on the second of December, 1833, and in the following year HYMN. FATHER Almighty! From thy high seat thou watchest and controllest Father All Holy! When thou shalt sit upon thy throne of glory, Father All Merciful! Still may the guilty come in peace before thee, Bathing thy feet with tears of love and wo; And while for pardon only we implore thee, Blessings divine, unnumbered, o'er us flow. www a collection of her Literary Remains, with Memorials of her Life and Character, was published at New Haven by her friend and relative, Prof. Kingsley. Her poems were buds of promise, which justified the anticipa tions that were entertained of her eminence in literature. The following hymn was designed to be inserted in an unwritten drama, suggested by an incident in the life of David. Father, her heart from all her idols tearing, Thine erring child again would turn to thee; To thee she bends, trembling, yet not despairing: From fear, remorse, and sin, O Father! set her free. LINES ON PSALM CII. THE boundless universe, All that it hath of splendor and of life, The living, moving worlds, in their bright robes Of blooming lands and heaving, glittering waters, Even the still and holy depths of heaven, Where the glad planets bathe in floods of light, For ever pouring from a thousand suns, All, all are but the garments of our Gon, Yea, the dark foldings of his outmost skirts! Mortal! who with a trembling, longing heart, Watchest in silence the few rays that steal, In their kind dimness, to thy feeble sight— Watch on, in silence, till within thy soul, Bearing away each taint of sin and death, Springs the hid fountain of immortal life! Then shall the mighty veil asunder rend, And o'er the spirit-living, strong, and pureShall the full glories of the Godhead flow! MARY ANN HANMER DODD. MISS DODD is a daughter of Mr. Elisha Dodd, of Hartford, Connecticut, and was born in 1813. Her first appearance as an author was in 1834, when she contributed a few poems to The Hermenethean, a miscellany conducted by the students of Washington (now Trinity) College. She has since written frequently for the Ladies' Repository, a monthly magazine, and The Rose of Sharon, an annual, edited for several years by her friend the late Mrs. Mayo. A collection of | her poems was published at Hartford in 1843. Miss Dodd writes with taste and feeling, and her writings would have been known more generally and perhaps more favorably if she had not confined herself so much to denominational channels of publication. Like Mrs. Scott, Mrs. Mayo, Mrs. Sawyer, Mrs. Case, the Careys, and some others who are quoted in this volume, she is of the Universalist church, though her religious compositions are all addressed to universal sympathies. LAMENT. SUMMER departs! the golden hours are dying! How can we welcome thee with smiles again? THE MOURNER. THOU weepest for a sister! In the bloom And vainly pray the shaft may be removed. Couldst thou not spare the treasure for a while? Bowed down with toil, and sighing for relief; Nor longer at the will of Heaven repine; "There is no sorrow in the world like mine." Its lava-tide around my pathway rolled; Sad as the heart they hid beneath their fold. Which but the shadow of the grave could see; There was no brightness in the earth or sky, There was no sunshine in the world for me. Oh! bitter was the draught from Sorrow's cup, And stern the anguish which my spirit wrung, And bend a mourner o'er the loved and young. 229 There is a spell around my spirit cast, A shadow where the sanbeam smiled before; "Tis grief, but all its bitterness is past; "T is sorrow, but its murmurings are o'er. Within my soul, which to the storm was bowed, Now the white wing of Peace is folded deep; And I have found, I trust, behind the cloud, The blessing promised to the eyes that weep. So thou wilt find relief. For deepest wo A fount of healing in our pathway springs; Like Lethe's stream, that silver fountain's flow A soothing draught unto the sufferer brings. A Father chastened thee! oh, look to Him, And his dear love in all thy trials see; Look with the eye of faith through shadows dim, And he will send the Comforter to thee. TO A CRICKET. CEASE, cricket! cease thy melancholy song! Its chiming cadence falls upon mine ear With such a saddening influence all day long, I can not bear those mournful notes to hear; Notes that will often start the unbidden tear, And wake the heart to memories of old days, When life knew not a sorrow or a fear: For ever basking in the sunny rays Which seem so passing bright to youth's all-trustful gaze. Once more my steps are stayed at eventide, Those emerald robes will change to russet brown, Will make the dark old woods a while look gay; But Death must come when the rare show is past: Then cease thy chant, dark prophet of decay! I can not bear to hear thy melancholy lay! THE DREAMER. "A dark, cold calm, which nothing now can break, Or warm, or brighten; like that Syrian lake, Upon whose surface Morn and Summer shed Their smiles in vain, for all beneath is dead!" HEART of mine, why art thou dreaming! Dreaming through the weary day, While life's precious hours are wasting, Fast and unimproved away? With a world of beauty round me, While the sky is bright above, Through the vale I wander now; Over all the gloom of night; In the grass-grown, silent churchyard, By the graves of those I love. Could I weep, the spell might vanish; Tears would bring my heart reliefHeart so sealed to all emotion, Dead alike to joy and grief. When the storm that shook my spirit Left its mission finished there, Then a calm more fearful followed Than the wildness of despair. Whence the spell that chills my being, Wake, oh spell-bound Soul! awaken- Life is thine, and "life is earnest," Toil and grief thou canst not shun; But be hopeful and believing, Till the prize of faith is won. Then the peace thou shalt inherit By the Savior promised free; Peace the world destroyeth never~ Father, give that peace to me! THE DOVE'S VISIT. WHY do thy pinions their motion cease? Art thou come with the olive-branch of peace! Thy breast is white as a snowy wreath, And thine eye is softly beaming; Dost thou bear a message thy wing beneath, Has thy flight been far? thy plumage gleams, Thou art mute, fair dove, but thy soft eye seems Oh, thou, thou hast been where I fain would be, Te'l me, thou bird with the snowy breast! Of the pleasant walks which my steps have pressed, With thee would I gladly hasten there, If wings to my wish were granted, [care, To the flowers that bloomed 'neath my mother's For dearer the simplest blossom there, Than the choicest flower that perfumes the air, Vainly I strive to restrain the tear, The grief like a spring-tide swelling, And while I turn me away to weep, Like the circle spreading upon the deep, Should fate, where affection clings so strong, I read reproach in that glance of thine, When my brow with the olive thou wouldst twine, Oh, how can a heart be still so weak, Though ever for strength beseeching, I will bid my heart's vain yearnings cease; Thy visit hath brought to my spirit peace, Thou dove to my window flying! TWILIGHT. THE sunset hues are fading fast All, save one streak that lingers there, Such fabrics for their robes would wear. But, like the dreams that Fancy weaves, Their beauty quickly passed away; And where their gorgeous tints were seen, Soft twilight reigns with shadows gray. One star, one bright and quiet star, Kindles its steady light above, Over the hushed and resting earth Still watching like the eye of Love. The birds that woke such joyous strains, With folded pinions seck repose; All, save the minstrel sad who sings His plaintive love-lay to the rose. The weary bees have reached the hive. Rejoicing over labor done; And blossoms close their fragrant cups, Which opened to the morning sun. The winds are hushed that music made The leafy-laden boughs between, And scarce the lightest zephyr's breath Now dallies with the foliage green This is the hour so loved by all Whose thoughts are lingering with the past, When scenes and forms to memory dear Gather around us dim and fast. Childhood's bright days, youth's short romance, So changed by time, yet still the same. That smiled upon us long ago. Which never coldly turn away; And wake to smiles or melt to tears, And golden noon is fair to see; ANNE C. LYNCH. MISS ANNE CHARLOTTE LYNCH is a native of Bennington, in Vermont. Her mother is descended from the Fays and Robinsons, conspicuous in the early history of that state, and is a daughter of Colonel Gray, of the Connecticut line in the Revolutionary army. Her father was one of the United Irishmen, and in that celebrated body there were few more heroic and constant. He was but sixteen when he joined in the rebellion of '98, and soon after his arrest, on account of his youth and chivalrous character, he was of fered liberty and a commission in the British army if he would take the oath of allegiance to the government. He refused, and after being four years a state prisoner, was, at the age of twenty, banished for life. With Emmet, McNeven, and others, he came to America, where he married; and while his daughter was a child, he died in Cuba, whither he had gone in search of health. Miss Lynch was educated at a popular female seminary in Albany, where her class compositions attracted much attention by a strength and earnestness unusual in performances of this description. She was a loving reader of Childe Harold, and caught the tone of this immortal poem, which is echoed in several of her earlier pieces, that still have sufficient individuality to justify the expectations then formed of her maturer abilities. She soon outgrew imitation, and her occasional contributions to literary journals became more and more the voices of her own life and nature. After leaving school, Miss Lynch passed some time in Providence; and her knowledge and taste in literature are illustrated in a volume which she published in that city, in 1841, under the title of The Rhode-Island a selection of prose and verse from the writers of that state, including several fine poems of her own. For five or six years she has resided in New York, where her house is known for the weekly assemblies there of persons connected with literature Book and the arts. I have sometimes attended these agreeable parties, and have met at them probably the larger number of the liv ing poets whose works are reviewed in this volume, with many distinguished men of letters, painters, sculptors, singers, and amateurs, among whom our author is held in as much esteem for her amiable social quali ties, as respect for her intellectual accomplishments. The poems of Miss Lynch are marked by depth of feeling and grace of expression. | They are the natural and generally unpre meditated effusions of a nature extremely sensitive, but made strong by experience and knowledge, and elevated into a divine repose by the ever active sense of beauty. Though for the most part very complete, they are short, and in many cases may be regarded as improvisations upon the occasions by which they were suggested. We have nothing in them that may be regarded as a fair illustration of her powers. The prose writings of Miss Lynch are graceful, elegant, and full of fine reflection. They evince a genial and hopeful but not joyous spirit—a waiting for the future rather than a satisfaction with the present. She has a large acquaintance with literature, and her criticisms, scattered through many desultory compositions, are discriminating, and illustrated, from a wide observation and a ready fancy, with uniform judgment and taste. The long chapter entitled Leaves from the Diary of a Recluse, in The Gift for MDCCCXLV, is characteristic of her manner, while for a brief period it admits us to the contemplation of her life. A collection of the Poems of Miss Lynch, with engravings after original designs by her friends Durand, Huntington, Cheney, Darley, Brown, Cushman, Rossiter, Rothermel, and Winner, has just appeared. It is a beautiful book of art, and so demonstrative of her poetical abilities that it will secure her a position she has not before occupied as an author. |