THE OLD ELM TREE. [new. EACH morning, when my waking eyes first see, Through the wreathed lattice, golden day appear, There sits a robin on the old elm tree, And with such stirring music fills my ear, I might forget that life had pain or fear, And feel again as I was wont to do, When hope was young, and joy and life itself were No miser, o'er his heaps of hoarded gold, Nor monarch, in the plenitude of power, Nor lover, free the chaste maid to enfold Who ne'er hath owned her love till that blest hour, Nor poet, couched in rocky nook or bower, Knoweth more heartfelt happiness than he, That never tiring warbler of the old elm tree. From even the poorest of Heaven's creatures, such As know no rule but impulse, we may draw Lessons of sweet humility, and much Of apt instruction in the homely law Of nature and the time hath been, I saw And listening to his joy inspiring lay, ΑΝΝΑ. WITH the first ray of morning light Her face is close to mine-her face all smiles: She hovers round my pillow like a sprite Mingling with tenderness her playful wiles. All the long day She's at some busy play; She steps like some glad creature of the air, Will make her weep for sadness, -But straight she'll smile again. And lately she hath pressed the couch of pain: And on her tender spirit lain, But like the flower That droops at evening hour, Hushed was her childish lay: Like some sweet bird did sickness hold her in a net; And when she broke away, And shook her wings in the bright day, Her recent capture she did quite forget. What joy again to hear her blessed voice! My heart, lie still, but in thy quietness rejoice! Again, along the floor and on the stair, Coming and going, I hear her rapid feet; Again her little, simple, earnest prayer, Hear her, at bedtime, in low voice repeat. Again, at table, and the fire beside, Her dear head rises, smiling with the rest; Again her heart and mind are open wide To yield and to receive-bless and be blestPliant and teachable, and oft revealing Thoughts that must ripen into higher feeling. Oh, sweet maturity!-the gentle mood Raised to the intellectual and the good; The bright, affectionate, and happy childThe woman, pure, intelligent, and mild! It must be so: they can not waste on air A mother's labor and a mother's prayer. THE FUTURE. THE flowers, the many flowers, That all along the smiling valley grew, While the sun lay for hours, Kissing from off their drooping lids the dew; They, to the summer air No longer prodigal, their sweet breath yield: The breeze, the gentle breeze, Its whispered love is to the violet given; The brook, the limpid brook, That prattled of its coolness, as it went Its pleasant song is hushed: The mountain torrent drives its noisy way. The hours, the youthful hours, When in the cool shade we were wont to lie, Idling with fresh culled flowers, In dreams that ne'er could know reality: Fond hours, but half enjoyed, Like the sweet summer breeze they passed away, And dear hopes were destroyed, Like buds that die before the noon of day, Young life, young turbulent life, If, like the stream, it take a wayward course, "Tis lost mid folly's strife O'erwhelmed at length by passion's curbless force: For idle hopes or useless musings given- The reckless slumberer shall not wake to heaven. ANNA MARIA WELLS. The silent workings of thy heart Do almost seem to have a part With our humanity! THE WHITE HARE. It was the sabbath eve-we went, The twilight hour to pass, Where we might hear the water flow, In darker grandeur-as the day Our thoughts were free as air; Our songs of gladness there. The green wood waved its shade hard by, A snow-white hare, that long had been All motionless, with head inclined, Till the last note had died-and then Back to her greenwood bowers. Once more the magic sounds we tried— Again the hare was seen to glide From out her sylvan shade; Go, happy thing! disport at will- We know not, and we ne'er may know 5 THE SEA-BIRD. SEA-BIRD! haunter of the wave, In its shriek thou dost rejoice; Answer shriller than its voice. Is the purple seaweed rarer Than the violet of the spring? Is the snowy foam-wreath fairer Than the apple's blossoming? Shady grove and sunny slope Seek but these, and thou shalt meet Where no winds too rudely swell, Gone! where dark waves foam and dash, Far I see his white wing flash. All their destiny fulfil: On life's ever-changing sea, Cheerful the allotment given, Escape at last, like thee, to heaven! MARIA JAMES. IN 1933, Bishop Potter, then one of the professors in Union College, was shown by his wife, who had just returned from a visit to Rhinebeck on the Hudson, the Ode for the Fourth of July which is quoted on the next page, and informed that it was the production of a young woman at service in the family of a friend there, whom he had often noticed on account of her retiring and modest manners, and who had been in that capacity more than twenty years. When further advised that these lines had been thrown off with great rapidity and apparent ease, and that the writer had been accustomed almost from childhood to find pleasure in similar efforts, the information awakened a lively interest, and led him to examine other pieces from the same hand, and finally to introduce them to the public notice, in a preface over his signature to the volume entitled Wales and other Poems, by MARIA JAMES, published in 1839. MARIA JAMES is the daughter of poor but pious parents who emigrated to this country from Wales, near the beginning of the present century, and settled near the slate quarries in the northern part of New York. Her remaining history is told in an interesting manner in the following extracts from a letter which she addressed to Mrs. Potter: "Toward the completion of my seventh year, I found myself on ship board, surrounded by men, women and children, whose faces were unknown to me. It was here, perhaps, that I first began to learn in a part cular manner from observation--soon discovering that those children who were handsome or smartly dressed received much more attention than myself, who had neither of these recommendations: how. ever, instead of giving way to feelings of envy and jealousy, my imagination was revelling among the fruits and flowers which I expected to find in the land to which we were bound. I also had an opportunity to learn a little English during the voyage, as Take care, and 'Get out of the way,' seemed reiterated from land's end to land's end. "After our family were settled in some measure, I was sent to school, my father having commenced teaching me at home some time previous. I think there was no particular aptness to learn about me. After I could read, I took much delight in John Rogers's last advice to his children, with all the excellent et cæteras to be found in the old English Primer. I was also fond of reading the common hymubook. The New Testament was my only school-book. Thus accomplished, I happened one day to hear a young woman read Addison's inimita ble paraphrases of the twenty-third psalm: I listened as to the voice of an angel. Those who know the power of good reading or good speaking, need not be told that, where there is an ear for sound, the manner in which either is done will make every pos sible difference. This, probably, was the first time that I ever heard a good reader. My parents again removing, I found myself in a school where the elder children used the American" Preceptor. I listened in transport as they read Dwight's Columbia, which must have been merely from the smoothness of its sound, as I could have had but very little knowledge of its meaning. I was now ten years of age, and as an opportunity offered which my parents saw fit to embrace, I entered the family in which I now reside, where, besides learning many useful household occupations, that care and attention was paid to my words and actions as is seldom to be met with in such situations. I had before me some of the best models for good reading and good speaking; and any child, with a natural ear for the beautiful in language, will notice these things, and though their conversation may not differ materially from that of others in their line of life, they will almost invari ably think in the style of their admiration. "The Bible here, as in my father's house, was the book of books, the heads of the family constantly im pressing on all, that the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,' and that to 'depart from iniquity is understanding.' There is scarcely anything that can affect the mind of young persons like those lessons of wisdom which fall from lips they love and respect. Besides frequent opportunities of hearing instruc tive books read, my leisure hours were often devoted to one or the other of these works: first, the Female Mentor, comprising within itself a little epitome of elegant literature; two odd volumes of the Adventurer; Miss Hannah More's Cheap Repository; and Pilgrim's Progress. During a period of nearly seven years which I spent in this family, the newspapers were more or less filled with the wars and fightings of our European neighbors. My imagination took fire, and I lent an ear to the whispers of the muse. 'Twas then that first she pruned the wing; "T was then she first essayed to sing.' But the wing was powerless, and the song without melody. As I advanced toward womanhood, I shrunk from the nickname of poet, which had been awarded me: the very idea seemed the height of presumption. In my seventeenth year I left this situation to learn dressmaking. I sewed neatly, but too slow to insure success. My failure in this was always a subject of regret. After this, I lived some time in different situations, my employment being principally in the nursery. In each of these different families I had access to those who spoke the purest English, also frequent opportunities of hearing correct and elegant readers at least I believed them such by the effect produced on my feelings; and although nineteen years have nearly passed away since my return to the home of my early life, I have not ceased to remember with gratitude the kind treatment received from different persons at this period, while my attachment to their children has not been obliterated by time nor by absence, and is likely to continue till death...... "With respect to the few poems which you have |