MARIA LOWELL. MARIA WHITE, the daughter of an opulent citizen of Watertown, Massachusetts, in 1844 was married to James Russell Lowell, and for her genius, taste, and many admirable personal qualities, she is worthy to be the wife JESUS AND THE DOVE. With patient hand Jesus in clay once wronghit, MARY, the mother good and mild, In meadows green might play. And little Jesus crowned. Weary with play, they came at last And sat at Mary's feet, While Jesus asked his mother dear A story to repeat. "And we," said one, "from out this clay Will make some little birds; So shall we all sit quietly, And heed the mother's words." Told of a little child Who lost her way one dark, dark night, And how an angel came to her, And made all bright around, From off the damp, hard ground; Down in a silver star. The children sit at Mary's feet, But not a word they say, So busily their fingers work To mould the birds of clay. And turned unto the light, Whose eyes unclose, whose wings unfold, The children drop their birds of clay, To look upon the wondrous dove of that fine poet and true hearted man. She has published several elegant translations from the German, and a large number of origi nal poems of the imagination, some of which illustrate questions of morals and humanity. And when he bends and softly breathes, And when he bends and breathes again, Slowly it rises in the air Before their eager eyes, And, with a white and steady wing, Higher and higher flies. The children all stretch forth their arms As if to draw it down: "Dear Jesus made the little dove From out the clay so brown- But higher still doth fly; That mother true and mild- THE MAIDEN'S HARVEST. Across a barren plain, One who, with face as morning bright, "And every grain I scatter free A hundred fold shall yield, Till waveth as a golden sea This dark and barren field." She casteth seed upon the ground, From out her pure white hand, And little winds steal up around To bear it through the land. She strikes her harp, she sings her song, And bud and blossom here!" OH, Bird, thou dartest to the sun Thy burning heart doth draw thee up Oh, Dew, thou droppest soft below And plastest all the ground; Yet when the noontide comes, I know Thou never canst be found. I would like thine had been my birth; Might sleep the night through on the earth, Oh, Clouds, ye little tender sheep, While moon and stars your fold can keep That flocks across the night, Oh, would like theirs had been my birth: Then I, without a sigh, Might sleep this night through on the earth, To waken in the sky. THE MORNING-GLORY. Her little face looked out beneath, That we could only say, So always from that happy time For, sure as morning came, As from the trellis smiles the flower But not so beautiful they rear As turned her sweet eyes to the light, Round their supports are thrown, We used to think how she had come, The last and perfect added gift To crown love's morning hour, We We never could have thought, O God, Almost before a day was flown, Like the morning-glory's cup; Till she lay stretched before our eyes, The morning-glory's blossoming Will soon be coming round: We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves Has passed away from earth. Oh, Earth! in vain our aching eyes Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air, But up in groves of paradise Full surely we shall see Our morning-glory beautiful Twine round our dear Lord's knee. L SARA J. CLARKE. MISS CLARKE, better known as "Grace Greenwood," was born of New England parentage, in Onondaga, an agricultural town near the city of Syracuse, in New York. At au early age she was taken to Rochester, which is still the residence of her brother and my friend of many years, Mr. J. B. Clarke, whose success in the law shows how erroneous is the common impression that literary studies are incompatible with the devotion to business necessary to professional eminence. It was probably the displays of his abilities, in many graceful poems and prose writings, that first led Miss Clarke to the cultivation of her tastes and powers in the same field. Certainly it was a great advantage to have so accomplished a critic, bound by such bonds, to watch over her earlier essays, and guard her from the dangers to which youthful authorship is most exposed. In a recent letter she says of Rochester: "It was for some years my well-beloved home; here it was that I spent my few school-days, and received my trifle of book knowledge. It was here that woman's life first opened upon me, not as a romance, not as a fairy dream, not as a golden heritage of beauty and of pleasure, but as a sphere of labor, and care, and suffering; an existence of many efforts and few successes, of eager and great aspirations and slow and partial realizations." The parents of Miss Clarke subsequently removed to New Brighton, on the Beaver river, two miles from its junction with the Ohio, and thirty miles below Pittsburg; and it was from this beautiful village, in a quiet valley, surrounded by the most bold and picturesque scenery, that in 1844 she wrote the first of those sprightly and brilliant letters under the signature of "Grace Greenwood," by which she was introduced to the literary world. They were addressed to General Morris and Mr. Willis, then editors of the New Mirror, and being published in that miscellany, the question of their authorship was discussed in the journals and in literary circles; they were attributed in turn to the most piquant and elegant of our known writers; and curiosity was in no degree lessened by intimations that they were by some Diana of the West, who, like the ancient goddess, inspired the men who saw her with madness, and in her chosen groves and by her streams used the whip and rein with the boldness and grace of Mercury. Such secrets are not easily kept, and while the fair magazinist was visiting the Atlantic cities, in 1846, the veil was thrown aside and she became known by her proper name. She has since been among the most industrious and successful of our authors, and has written with perhaps equal facility and felicity in every style "From grave to gay, from lively to severe." Her apprehensions are sudden and powerful. The lessons of art and the secrets of experi ence have no mists for her quick eyes. Many-sided as Proteus, she yet by an indomita ble will bends all her strong and passionate nature to the subject that is present, plucks from it whatever it has of mystery, and weaves it into the forms of her imagination, or casts it aside as the dross of a fruitless analysis. Educated in a simple condition of society, where conventionalism had no authority against truth and reason, and the │ healthful activity of her mind preserved by an admirable physical training and develop ment - all her thought is direct and honest, and her sentiment vigorous and cheerful. But the energy of her character and intelligence is not opposed to true delicacy. A feeble understanding, and a nature without the elements of quick and permanent decision, on the contrary, can not take in the noblest forms of real or ideal beauty. It is the sham delicacy that is shocked at things actual and necessary, that fills the magazines with rhymed commonplaces, that sacrifices to a prudish nicety all individualism, and is the chief bar to æsthetic cultivation and devel opment. She looks with a poet's eye upon Nature, and with a poet's soul dares and aspires for the beautiful, as it is understood by all the great intelligences whose wisdom takes the forms of genius. It is as a writer of prose that Miss Clarke SARA J. CLARKE. is best known, and it may be that her prose compositions have more individuality and illustrate a wider range of knowledge and re fiection than her poems, but the author of ARIADNE.* DAUGHTER of Crete-how one brief hour, Of the dark fate which meets thee now, Of grief, regret, or fear; To cloud one morning's golden light— 'Tis thou shouldst triumph; thou art free Proud princess on that lonely isle: *The demigod Theseus having won the love of Ariadné, "Shrunken and shrivelled into Theseus now The gorgeous robes which wrapped thee for a day; Thou shalt pass from me like a dream of ill- Ha! it is night all glorious with its stars! On the tall cliff where cold and pale Uncrushed, unbowed, unriven! Like lightning stroke from heaven! No vain hopes quivering round thy heart; DREAMS. THERE was a season when I loved My spirit through its heaven of dreams Night is the time when Nature seems God's silent worshipper; And ever with a chastened heart In unison with her, I laid me on my peaceful couch, The day's dull cares resigned, Fast round me closed the shades of sleep, And then burst on my sight Visions of glory and of love, The stars of slumber's night! Of a young angel's wing. I felt my worn, world-wearied soul My earth-chilled heart in the airs of heaven Nor were my dreams celestial all, For oft along my way Clustered the scenes and joys of home, Soft, after angel-music, still But now I dread the night: it holds One night there sounded through my dreams And led a warrior band, And we swept, a flood of fire and death, Oh, what wild rapture 'twas to mark And see amid the foe go down Were crushed like grapes at vintage time, My sword was dripping to its hilt, Planted the banner, lit the torch, And waved the stern command. How swelled and burned within Fierce hate and fiery prideMy very soul rode like a bark my heart On the battle's stormy tide! Stole in my sleeping frame, Rise from their still, lone home- O Heaven, 'tis thus they come! My living-they in whose tried hearts And nestles as a dove They come, they hold me in their arms; My eyes look up through tears of bliss, Till the kiss of love is given: Are colorless and cold, That they have taken flight? Still on thy fatherhood; And oh! if cares and griefs must come, Thy radiant skies hung o'er me. But when, like ghosts of the sun's lost rays, Beneath her silvery veil Then let the night, with its silence deep, Be peace, and rest, and love-O God, Smile on me in my dreams! |