been so kind as to overlook, I can hardly say myself how they came to be written. I recollect, many years ago, of trying something in this way for the amusement of a little boy who was very dear to me; except this, with a very few other pieces, long forgotten, no attempt of the kind was made until The who did not know me very well inquired of others, 'Do you suppose she ever wrote it?' Being answered in the affirmative, it was imagined 'she must have had help.' These remarks gave rise to the question, What is poetry? The Album was begun and carried through without previous arrangement or 4v av mat pant waving you Ay, waving proud and high— And the eagle spreads his pinions fair, Any uwen on we scenes which have pust, Of perils they still may endureThe haven of rest, where they anchor at last, Where bliss is complete and secureTill its towers and spires arise from afar, (To the eye of faith,) as some radiant star. been so kind as to overlook, I can hardly say myself how they came to be written. I recollect, many years ago, of trying something in this way for the amusement of a little boy who was very dear to me; except this, with a very few other pieces, long forgotten, no attempt of the kind was made until The Mother's Lament, and Elijah, with a number of epitaphs, which were written previous to those which have been produced within the last six years. The subject of the Hummingbird, (the oldest of these,) was taken captive by my own hand. The Adventure is described just as it happened. Wales is a kind of retrospect of the days of childhood....... Of Ambition, permit me, dear madam, to call your attention to the summer of 1832, when yourself, with the other ladies of this family, were reading Bourrienne's Life of Napoleon Bonaparte: I had opportu nities of hearing a little sometimes, which brought forcibly to my mind certain conversations which I heard in the early part of my life respecting this wonderful man. The poem was produced the following summer. In the year 1819, The American Flag appeared in the New York American, signed 'Croaker & Co.: this kindled up the poetic fires in my breast, which, however, did not find utterance until fourteen years afterward, in the Ode on the Fourth of July, 1833. This appearing in print, some who did not know me very well inquired of others, 'Do you suppose she ever wrote it? Being answered in the affirmative, it was imagined 'she must have had help. These remarks gave rise to the question, What is poetry? The Album was begun and carried through without previous arrangement or design, laid aside when the mind was weary, and taken up again just as the subject happened to present itself. Friendship was produced in the same way. Many of the pieces are written from impressions received in youth, particularly the Whip-poorwill, the Meadow Lark, the Firefly, &c." In the Introduction to her poems Bishop Potter vindicates in an admirable manner, against the sneers of Johnson, the propriety of recognising the abilities of the humblest classes. It will be seen that the poems of Maria James will bear a very favorable comparison with the compositions of any of the "uneducated poets" whose names are celebrated in Mr. Southey's fine essay upon this subject. ODE, WRITTEN FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1833. I SEE that banner proudly wave- Not a stripe is torn from the broad array, And the eagle, with unruffled plume, Not a leaf is plucked from the branch he bears; For he sees, with a glance over mountain and plain, Far southward, in that sunny clime, And the orange with the lime tree vies In shedding rich perfume, A sound was heard like the ocean's roar, Was it the voice of the tempest loud, Or a sudden flash from a passing storm But it died away, and the sound of doves The links are all united still That form the golden chain, How feeble is language, how cold is the lay, And the eagle spreads his pinions fair, THE PILGRIMS. TO A LADY. WE met as pilgrims meet, Who are bound to a distant shrine, Soul mingling with soul, as they tell of their fears Of pleasures or toils by the way, The winds of the desert that chill them by night, For one to the faithful is ever at hand, We met as soldiers meet, Ere yet the fight is won- Is laid their armor down: Each strengthens his fellow to do and to bear, And their foe his thousands o'ercome, Of safety, protection, and home: [conferred, Where they knew that their sovereign such favor "As eye hath not seen, as the ear hath not heard.” We met as seamen meet, On ocean's watery plain, Where billows rise and tempests beat, But tempests they baffle, and billows they brave, They dwell on the scenes which have past, Of perils they still may endure-The haven of rest, where they anchor at last, Where bliss is complete and secureTill its towers and spires arise from afar, (To the eye of faith,) as some radiant star. We met as brethren meet, Who are cast on a foreign strand, Whose hearts are cheered as they hasten to greet Of their Father's house in that world above, The city so fair to behold, The redeemed in their vestments of whiteIn those mansions of rest, where, mid pleasures unThey finally hope to unite : [told, Where ceaseless ascriptions of praise shall ascend To God and the Lamb in a world without end. How many a gallant ship Since then has crossed the sea, Deep freighted from the western worldBut where is he? Oh, ne'er beside that hearth The unbroken ring shall meet, To tell th' adventurous tale, or join In converse sweet! For in that stranger-land His lonely grave is seen, Where northern mountains lift their heads In fadeless green. THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE. IN Gallia's sunny fields, Where blooms the eglantine, And where luxuriant clusters bend The youth to manhood rose, (Tis fancy tells the tale :) His step was swift as mountain deer That skims the vale. And his eagle glance, Which told perception keen, "Of will to do and soul to dare," Deep fixed within. Perchance a mother's love, A father's tender care, With every kindly household bond, Perchance the darling one, The best beloved was he, Of all that gathered round the hearth From infancy. How fair life's morn to him! The world was blithe and gayHope, beckoning with an angel's smile, Led on the way. He left his native plain, He bade his home farewellAnd she, the idol of his heart, The fair Adele. Though sad the parting hour, What ardor fixed his breast, To view the streams, to tread the soil, Far in the West! From where the Huron's wave First greets the ruddy light, To where Superior, in its glow, Lies calm and bright Where rose the forest deep, Where stretched the giant shore, From Del Fuego's utmost bound To Labrador. The grave here spoken of was pointed out to the writer as the final resting place of a French officer-a single mound, without a stone to mark the spot, in Rutland county, Vermont. TO A SINGING BIRD. Husu, hush that lay of gladness, It fills my heart with pain, Of hopes for ever flown- The captive, bowed in sadness, Might call that lay of gladness Warm gushing, peals along, Would spend itself in song. Oft as I hear those tones of thine Will thoughts like these intrude"If once compared, thy lot with mine, How cold my gratitude; Though gloom or sunshine mark the hours, Will pour, as from its inmost fount, GOOD FRIDAY. THE scene is fresh before us, When Jesus drained the cup, As new the day comes o'er us When he was offered up The veil in sunder rending, The types and shadows flee, While heaven and earth are bending Their gaze on Calvary. Should mortal dare in numbers, Where rolls Salvation's wave, Who came the lost to save. MARIA BROOKS. IT may be doubted whether, in the long catalogue of those whose works illustrate and vindicate the intellectual character and position of woman, there are many names that will shine with a clearer, steadier, and more enduring lustre, than that of MARIA DEL OCCIDENTE. sought no longer by those who had come in our wealth. I looked earnestly around me; the present was cheerless, the future dark and fearful. My parents were dead, my few relatives in distant countries, where they thought perhaps but little of my happiness. Burleigh I had never loved other than as a father and protector; but he had been the benefactor to my fallen family, and to him I owed comfort, education, and every ray of pleasure that had glanced before me in this world. But the sun of his energies was setting, and the faults which had balanced his virtues increased as his fortune declined. Hę might live through many years of misery, and to be devoted to him was my duty while a spark of his life remained. I strove to nerve my heart for the worst. Still there were moments when fortitude became faint with endurance, and visions of happiness that might have been mine came smiling to my imagination. I wept and prayed in agony." MARIA GOWEN, afterward Mrs. BROOKS, upon whom this title was conferred originally, I believe, by the poet Southey, was descended from a Welsh family that settled in Charlestown, near Boston, sometime before the Revolution. A considerable portion of the liberal fortune of her grandfather was lost by the burning of that city in 1775, and he soon afterward removed to Medford, across the Mystic river, where Maria Gowen was born about the year 1795. Her father was a man of education, and among his intimate friends were several of the professors of Harvard college, whose occasional visits varied the pleasures of a rural life. From this society she derived, at an early period, a taste for letters and learning. Before the completion of her ninth year, she had committed to memory many passages from the best poets; and her conversation excited special wonder by its elegance, variety, and wisdom. She grew in beauty, too, as she grew in years, and when her father died, a bankrupt, before she had attained the age of fourteen, she was betrothed to a merchant of Boston, who undertook the completion of her education, and as soon as she quitted the school was married to her. Her early womanhood was passed in commercial affluence; but the loss of several vessels at sea in which her husband was interested was followed by other losses on land, and years were spent in comparative indigence. In that remarkable book, Idomen, or The Vale of Yumuri, she says, referring to this period: "Our table had been hospitable, our doors open to many; but to part with our wellgarnished dwelling had now become inevitable. We retired, with one servant, to a remote house of meaner dimensions, and were In this period, poetry was resorted to for amusement and consolation. At nineteen she wrote a metrical romance, in seven cantos, but it was never published. It was followed by many shorter lyrical pieces, which were printed anonymously; and in 1820, after favorable judgments of it had been expressed by some literary friends,* she gave to the public a small volume entitled Judith, Esther, and other Poems, by a Lover of the Fine Arts. It contained many fine passages, and gave promise of the powers of which * One of the friends here alluded to was the late Dr. Writing to me in 1842, Mrs. Brooks enclosed these verses, |