THE DOVE'S VISIT. WHY do thy pinions their motion cease? Art thou come with the olive-branch of peace! 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, Tell 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 And the trees my father planted. 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 Such fabrics for their robes would wear. Still watching like the eye of Love. The birds that woke such joyous strains, With folded pinions seek 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, So changed by time, yet still the same. 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. and the arts. I have sometimes attended these agreeable parties, and have met at them probably the larger number of the living 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 qualities, 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 unpremeditated 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. Miss Lynch was educated at a popular female seminary in Albany, where her class compositions attracted much attention by a The prose writings of Miss Lynch are strength and earnestness unusual in perform-graceful, elegant, and full of fine reflection. ances 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 Book-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 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. THE IDEAL. "La vie est un sommeil l'amour en est la reve." A SAD, Sweet dream! It fell upon my soul In the dark wanderings that await me here: Why comes thy gentle image then, to me, Wasting my night of life in one long dream of thee? The city's peopled solitude, the glare Of festal halls, moonlight, and music's tone, All breathe the sad refrain-thou are not there! And even with Nature I am still alone: With joy I see her summer bloom depart; I love drear winter's reign-'t is winter in my heart. And if I sigh upon my brow to see The deep'ning shadow of Time's restless wing, Tis for the youth I might not give to thee, The vanished brightness of my first sweet spring; That I might give thee not the joyous form Unworn by tears and cares, unblighted by the storm. And when the hearts I should be proud to win, Breathe, in those tones that woman holds so dear, Words of impassioned homage unto mine, Coldly and harsh they fall upon my ear; And as I listen to the fervent vow, My weary heart replies, "Alas! it is not thou." And when the thoughts within my spirit glow, That would outpour themselves in words of fire, If some kind influence bade the music flow, Like that which woke the notes of Memnon's lyre, Thou, sunlight of my life, wak'st not the lay, And song within my heart, unuttered, dies away. Depart, oh shadow ! fatal dream, depart ! Go! I conjure thee leave me this poor life, And I will meet with firm, heroic heart, Its threat'ning storms and its tumultuous strife, And with the poet-seer will see thee stand My "house of life" henceforth is desolate : That does not cower before the gathering storm; That face to face will meet its destiny, And undismayed confront its darkest form. Wild energies awaken in this strife, This conflict of the soul with the grim phantom Life. But ah! if thou hadst loved me-had I been All to thy dreams that to mine own thou artHad those dark eyes beamed eloquent on mine, Pressed for one moment to that noble heart In the full consciousness of faith unspoken, Life could have given no more-then had my proud heart broken! The Alpine glacier from its height may mock The clouds and lightnings of the winter sky, And from the tempest and the thunder's shock Gather new strength to lift its summit high; But kissed by sunbeams of the summer day, It bows its icy crest and weeps itself away. Thou know'st the fable of the Grecian maid Wooed by the veiled immortal from the skies, How in his full perfections, once she prayed, That he would stand before her longing eyes, And how that brightness, too intense to bless, [cess. Consumed her o'erwrought heart with its divine exTo me there is a meaning in the tale. I have not prayed to meet thee: I can brook That thou shouldst wear to me that icy veil; I can give back thy cold and careless look: Yet shrined within my heart, still thou shalt seem What there thou ever wert, a beautiful, bright dream! THE IMAGE BROKEN. 'Twas but a dream, a fond and foolish dream- To welcome my approach to thine own spirit-land. The echo of “ Eureka ! I have found ! THE IDEAL FOUND. I'VE met thee, whom I dared not hope to meet, Falls back upon my heart a vain and empty sound. Oh, disembodied being of my mind, So wildly loved, so fervently adored! That only in the vague, cold realm of Thought Now do I know that henceforth I shall find Thou whom I have not seen and shall not see Hope, youth, and all that woman prizes most- To Love's sweet tones my heart shall never thrill; Upon some lovelier star, too blest, we meet once more. That these aspirings mocked at last will be! Gleams of a higher life to me they seemA sacred pledge of immortality. Tell not the yearning heart it shall not find: [kind! O Love, thou art too strong! O God, thou art too THE BATTLE OF LIFE. THERE are countless fields the green earth o'er He must win or lose, he must conquer or yield. With a careless step and a thoughtless brow, Love and Friendship their charmed spells weave: And the serpent Slander, are on thy track. And watches his victim with rayless eyes; In war with these phantoms that gird him round, But the youthful form grows wasted and weak, The battle is over: the hero goes, He has won the day, he has conquered Doom, And his brow is crowned with the crown of life! THOUGHTS IN A LIBRARY. SPEAK low-tread softly through these halls; The monarchs of the mind. The gifted and the great. Oh, child of Earth! when round thy path And when thy brothers pass thee by With stern, unloving eyes- Their sweetest, loftiest lays; Come, with these God-anointed kings HAGAR. UNTRODDEN, drear, and lone, The scorching rays that beat Upon that herbless plain, The dazzling sands, with fiercer heat, Reflected back again. O'er that dry ocean strayed No wandering breath of air, No palm-trees cast their cooling shade, And thither, bowed with shame, The boy upon her hung, Who from his father's tent that morn Glazed was his flashing eye; But when, in wild despair, She left him to his lot, A voice that filled that breathless air Oft, when drear wastes surround And then, to light my path On through the evil land, Have the twin angels, Hope and Faith, TO THE MEMORY OF CHANNING. "The prophets, do they live for ever?"- Zech. i. 5. THOSE Spirits God ordained, To stand the watchmen on the outer wall, They who reveal the ideal, the unattained, When dust to dust returns, And the freed spirit seeks again its God- Are they then lost? No! still their spirit burns The landmarks of their age, High-priests, kings of the realm of mind, are they, A realm unbounded as posterity; The hopeful future is their heritage; Their words of truth, of love, and faith sublime, To a dark world of doubt, despair, and crime, Reecho through all time. Such kindling words are thine, Thou, o'er whose tomb the requiem soundeth still, Thy reverent eye could see, Though sinful, weak, and wedded to the clod, Heir of his love, born to high destiny: Great teachers formed thy youth, Nature and God spoke with thee, and the truth, |