Ah, no the spirit-love, that looked

From those dear eyes of thine, Was not of earth-it could not die! It still responds to mine!

And it may be-(how thrills the hope Through all my soul again!)— That I may tend my child in heaven, Since here my watch was vain!

"YES! LOWER TO THE LEVEL."

YES! "lower to the level"

Of those who laud thee now;

Go, join the joyous revel,

And pledge the heartless vow;
Go, dim the soulborn beauty

That lights that lofty brow;
Fill, fill the bowl: let burning wine
Drown, in thy soul, Love's dream divine.
Yet when the laugh is lightest,
When wildest goes the jest,
When gleams the goblet brightest,
And proudest heaves thy breast,
And thou art madly pledging

Each gay and jovial guest

A ghost shall glide amid the flowers-
The shade of Love's departed hours.
And thou shalt shrink in sadness
From all the splendor there,
And curse the revel's gladness,

And hate the banquet's glare,
And pine, mid Passion's madness,
For true Love's purer air,

And feel thou'dst give their wildest glee
For one unsullied sigh from me!

Yet deem not this my prayer, love:
Ah! no; if I could keep

Thy altered heart from care, love,
And charm its grief to sleep,
Mine only should despair, love,
I-I alone would weep!

I-I alone would mourn the flowers
That fade in Love's deserted bowers!

BIANCA.

A WHISPER Woke the air,
A soft, light tone, and low,
Yet barbed with shame and wo.
Ah! might it only perish there,

Nor farther go!

But no! a quick and eager ear

Caught up the little, meaning sound-
Another voice has breathed it clear-
And so it wandered round
From ear to lip, from lip to ear,
Until it reached a gentle heart
That throbbed from all the world apart,
And that-it broke!

It was the only heart it found-
The only heart 't was meant to find,
When first its accents woke.

It reached that gentle heart at last,
And that-it broke!

Low as it seemed to other ears,
It came a thunder-crash to hers-
That fragile girl, so fair and gay.
"Tis said, a lovely humming-bird,
That dreaming in a lily lay,

Was killed but by the gun's report
Some idle boy had fired in sport;
So exquisitely frail its frame,

The very sound a death-blow came:
And thus her heart, unused to shame,
Shrined in its lily, too-

(For who the maid that knew,
But owned the delicate, flower-like grace
Of her young form and face?)
Her light and happy heart, that beat
With love and hope so fast and sweet,
When first that cruel word it heard,
It fluttered like a frightened bird--
Then shut its wings and sighed,
And with a silent shudder died!

THE SOUL'S LAMENT FOR HOME.

As 'plains the homesick ocean-shell
Far from its own remembered sea,
Repeating, like a fairy spell

Of love, the charmed melody
It learned within that whispering wave,
Whose wondrous and mysterious tone
Still wildly haunts its winding cave

Of pearl, with softest music-moan— So asks my homesick soul below,

For something loved, yet undefined;
So mourns to mingle with the flow

Of music, from the Eternal Mind;
So murmurs, with its childlike sigh,
The melody it learned above,
To which no echo may reply,

Save from thy voice, Celestial Love!

MUSIC.

THE Father spake! In grand reverberations Through space rolled on the mighty music-tide, While to its low, majestic modulations,

The clouds of chaos slowly swept aside.

The Father spake-a dream, that had been lying
Hushed from eternity in silence there,
Heard the pure melody and low replying,
Grew to that music in the wondering air-
Grew to that music-slowly, grandly waking,
Till bathed in beauty-it became a world!
Led by his voice, its spheric pathway taking,
While glorious clouds their wings around it furled.
Nor yet has ceased that sound-his love revealing,
Though, in response, a universe moves by!
Throughout eternity, its echo pealing-
World after world awakes in glad reply!

And wheresoever, in his rich creation,

Sweet music breathes-in wave, or bird, or soul"Tis but the faint and far reverberation

Of that great tune to which the planets roll!

"SHE LOVES HIM YET."

SHE loves him yet!

I know by the blush that rises
Beneath the curls

That shadow her soul-lit cheek:

She loves him yet!

Through all Love's sweet disguises In timid girls,

A blush will be sure to speak.

But deeper signs

Than the radiant blush of beauty,
The maiden finds,

Whenever his name is heard:
Her young heart thrills,
Forgetting herself-her duty;
Her dark eye fills,

And her pulse with hope is stirred.

She loves him yet!

The flower the false one gave her,

When last he came,

Is still with her wild tears wet.

She'll ne'er forget, Howe'er his faith may waver, Through grief and shame, Believe it--she loves him yet!

His favorite songs

She will sing-she heeds no other:

With all her wrongs

Her life on his love is set.

Oh, doubt no more!

She never can wed another :

Till life be o'er,

Though upon her soul it play,
Must she coldly turn away,
And refuse the life it brings,
Burning in its golden wings-
Meekly lingering in the night,

To herself untrue?

Though the humming-bird have stole,
Floating on his plumes of glory,
Softly to her glowing soul,
Telling his impassioned story-
If the soaring lark she capture,
In diviner love and rapture,
Pouring music wild and clear,
Round her till she thrills to hear-
Shall she shut her spirit's ear?
Shall the lesson wasted be,
Of that heavenly harmony?
No! by all the inner bloom,
That the sunbeam may illume,

But that else the stealing chill
Of the early dawn might kill:
No! by all the leaves of beauty,
Leaves that, in their vestal duty,
Guard the shrined and rosy light
Hidden in her "heart of heart,"
Till that music bids them part:
No! by all the perfume rare,
Delicate as a fairy's sigh,

Shut within and wasting there,
That would else enchant the air-
Incense that must soar or die!
That divine, pure soul of flowers,
Captive held, that pines to fly,
Asking for unfading bowers,
Learning from the bird and ray
All the lore they bring away
From the skies in love and play,
Where they linger every morn,
Till to this sad world of ours
Day in golden pomp is borne-
By that soul, which else might glow
An immortal flower: No!

SONG.

SHOULD all who throng, with gift and song,
And for my favor bend the knee,
Forsake the shrine they deem divine,

I would not stoop my soul to thee!
The lips, that breathe the burning vow,

By falsehood base unstained must be; The heart, to which mine own shall bow, Must worship Honor more than me. The monarch of a world wert thou, And I a slave on bended knee, Though tyrant chains my form might bow, My soul should never stoop to thee! Until its hour shall come, my heart

I will possess, serene and free; Though snared to ruin by thine art, "Twould sooner break than bend to thee!

"BOIS TON SANG, BEAUMANOIR."

FIERCE raged the combat-the foemen pressed nigh,
When from young Beaumanoir rose the wild cry,
Beaumanoir, mid them all, bravest and first-
"Give me to drink, for I perish of thirst!"
Hark! at his side, in the deep tones of ire,
"Bois ton SANG, Beaumanoir!" shouted his sire.
Deep had it pierced him-the foemen's swift sword,
Deeper his soul felt the wound of that word:
Back to the battle, with forehead all flushed,
Stung to wild fury, the noble youth rushed!
Scorn in his dark eyes-his spirit on fire-
Deeds were his answer that day to his sire.
Still where triumphant the young hero came,
Glory's bright garland encircled his name:
But in her bower, to beauty a slave,
Dearer the guerdon his lady-love gave,
While on his shield, that no shame had defaced,
"Bois ton sang, Beaumanoir!" proudly she traced.

CAPRICE.

REPROVE me not that still I change
With every changing hour,
For glorious Nature gives me leave
In wave, and cloud, and flower.

And you and all the world would do-"
If all but dared-the same;
True to myself-if false to you,

Why should I reck your blame.
Then cease your carping, cousin mine,
Your vain reproaches cease;

I revel in my right divine-
I glory in caprice!

Yon soft, light cloud, at morning hour,
Looked dark and full of tears:
At noon it seemed a rosy flower-
Now, gorgeous gold appears.
So yield I to the deepening light
That dawns around my way:
Because you linger with the night,
Shall I my noon delay ?

No! cease your carping, cousin mine-
Your cold reproaches cease;
The chariot of the cloud be mine-
Take thou the reins, Caprice!

'Tis true you played on Feeling's lyre
A pleasant tune or two,

And oft beneath your minstrel fire
The hours in music flew;

But when a hand more skilled to sweep
The harp, its soul allures,
Shall it in sullen silence sleep

Because not touched by yours?
Oh, there are rapturous tones in mine
That mutely pray release;
They wait the master-hand divine-
So tune the chords, Caprice!
Go-strive the sea-wave to control;
Or, wouldst thou keep me thine,
Be thou all being to my soul,

And fill each want divine:

Play every string in Love's sweet lyre—
Set all its music flowing;

Be air, and dew, and light, and fire,
To keep the soul-flower growing:
Be less-thou art no love of mine,
So leave my love in peace;
"Tis helpless woman's right divine-
Her only right-caprice!
And I will mount her opal car,

And draw the rainbow reins,
And gayly go from star to star,
Till not a ray remains;

And we will find all fairy flowers
That are to mortals given,
And wreathe the radiant, changing hours,
With those "sweet hints" of heaven.
Her humming-birds are harnessed there-
Oh! leave their wings in peace;
Like "flying gems" they glance in air--
We'll chase the light, Caprice!

SONG.

I lovED an ideal-I sought it in thee;
I found it unreal as stars in the sea.

And shall I, disdaining an instinct divine-
By falsehood profaning that pure hope of mine-
Shall I stoop from my vision so lofty, so true-
From the light all Elysian that round me it threw?
Oh! guilt unforgiven, if false I could be
To myself and to Heaven, while constant to thee.
Ah no! though all lonely on earth be my lot,
I'll brave it, if only that trust fail me not-
The trust that, in keeping all pure from control
The love that lies sleeping and dreams in my soul,
It may wake in some better and holier sphere,
Unbound by the fetter Fate hung on it here.

ASPIRATIONS.

I WASTE no more in idle dreams
My life, my soul away;

I wake to know my better self-
I wake to watch and pray.
Thought, feeling, time, on idols vain,
I've lavished all too long:
Henceforth to holier purposes
I pledge myself, my song!
Oh! still within the inner veil,

Upon the spirit's shrine,
Still unprofaned by evil, burns
The one pure spark divine,
Which God has kindled in us all,
And be it mine to tend
Henceforth, with vestal thought and care,
The light that lamp may lend.

I shut mine eyes in grief and shame
Upon the dreary past-

My heart, my soul poured recklessly
On dreams that could not last:
My bark was drifted down the stream,
At will of wind or wave-
An idle, light, and fragile thing,
That few had cared to save.

Henceforth the tiller Truth shall hold,
And steer as Conscience tells,
And I will brave the storms of Fate,
Though wild the ocean swells.

I know my soul is strong and high,
If once I give it sway;

I feel a glorious power within,
Though light I seem and gay.

Oh, laggard Soul! unclose thine eyes-
No more in luxury soft
Of joy ideal waste thyself:
Awake, and soar aloft!
Unfurl this hour those falcon wings

Which thou dost fold too long;
Raise to the skies thy lightning gaze,
And sing thy loftiest song!

THERE have been in our literary history few more interesting characters than Lucy HOOPER. She died at an early age, but not until her acquaintances had seen developed in her a nature that was all truth and gentleness, nor until the world had recognised in her writings the signs of a rare and delicate genius, that wrought in modesty, but in repose, in the garden of the affections and in the light of religion.

She was born in Newburyport, in Massachusetts, on the fourth of February, 1816, and was the daughter of Mr. Joseph Hooper, a respectable merchant, who saw with anxious pride the unfolding of her abilities, and attended sedulously and judiciously to their cultivation. After his death, and when Miss Hooper was in her fifteenth year, the surviving members of the family removed to Brooklyn, on Long Island; and in this city she passed the remainder of her life. Her health, from childhood, was precarious, and it is possible that the ever-fatal disease of which she died had already affected her physical energies, while it quickened her intellectual faculties and made them accessaries to her decay. Her mind was delicately susceptible of impressions of beauty, and she delighted most in nature, particularly in flowers, the study and cultivation of which were among her dearest pleasures.

Her first poems that were published appeared in The Long Island Star, a Brooklyn journal, under the signature of her initials. Her youth would have protected her compositions from criticism, but they needed no such protection. Beyond the limited circle of her acquaintances, no one knew the meaning of "L. H. ;" but these letters were soon as familiar through all the country as the names of favorite poets. For several years she was a contributor to The New-Yorker, the editor of which, Mr. Greeley — one of the first justly to appreciate her merits-became an intimate personal as well as literary friend.

In midsummer, 1839, Miss Hooper revisited her native village, and upon leaving it, the last time, she wrote the following lines,

which have a biographical interest, though they are scarcely equal to the average of her productions in literary merit:

LINES WRITTEN AFTER VISITING NEWBURYPORT,
AUGUST 23, 1839.

SWEET were the airs of home, when first their breath
Came to the wanderer, as her gladdened eye
Met the rich verdure of her native hills,
And the clear, glancing waters brought again
A thousand dreams of childhood to the heart
That had so pined amid the city's hum
For the glad breath of home, the waving trees,
And the fair flowers that in the olden time
Blew freshly mid the rocky cliffs.

All these
Had seemed but Fancy's picture, and the hues
Of Memory's pencil, fainter day by day,
Gave back the tracery; in the crowded mart
There were no green paths where the buds of home
Might blow unchecked, and a forgotten thing
Were Spring's first violets to the wanderer's heart,
Till once again amid those welcome haunts
The faded lines grew vivid, and the flowers-
The fresh, pure flowers of youth, brought back again
The bloom of early thoughts.

Oh! brightly glanced Thy waters, river of my heart, and dreams Sweeter than childhood conneth came anew With my first sight of thee, bright memories linked With thy familiar music, sparkling tide! The rocks and hills all smiled a welcome back, And Memory's pencil hath a fadeless green For that one hour by thee.

Oh, gentle home! Comes with thy name fair visions, kindly tones, Warm greetings from the heart, and eyes whose light Hath smiled upon my dreams.

Yet golden links Were strangely parted, music tones had past, And ties unloosed, that unto many a heart Were bound with life; the musing child no more Might watch the glancing of the distant sails, And dream of one whose glad returning step Made ever the fair sunshine of her home; The sister's heart might no more thrill to meet One voice, that in the silence of the grave Is hushed for ever, and whose eye's soft light Come with its starry radiance, when her soul Pines in the silent hour, and there waves O'er the last resting place of one whose name Is music to the ear of love, the green And pensive willow, bending low its head As it would weep the loss of that fair flower Which, far removed from her own native clime, Drooped in a land of strangers.

Home, sweet home There are sad memories with thee; earth hath not

A place where change ne'er cometh, and where death
Doth cast no shadow! yet the moonlight lieth
Softly in all thy still and shaded streets,
And the deep stars of midnight purely shine,
Bringing a thought of that far world where Love
Bindeth again his lost and treasured gems,

And in whose "many mansions" there may be
A home where change ne'er cometh, and where death
May leave no trace upon the pure in heart,
Who bend before their Father's throne in heaven!

In 1840, Miss Hooper published an Essay on Domestic Happiness, and a volume entitled Scenes from Real Life; and in these, as well as in other prose writings, are shown the sensibility and natural grace which are the charm of her poetry. It was about the same time that she wrote The Last Hours of a Young Poetess, a poem which has sometimes been referred to as an illustration of her own history.

The excellent Dr. John W. Francis, of whom with a slight variation we may use the language of Coleridge respecting Sir Humphrey Davy, that had he not become one of the first physicians he would have been among the most eminent literary men of his age, is admirably fitted, as well by his intimate observation of the influence of mental action upon health, as by his general professional skill and genial sympathies, to watch over and protect so fragile and delicate a being, happily attended Miss Hooper in her illness; and in a letter which, soon after her death, he addressed to Mr. Keese, the editor of her works, we have an interesting account of the close of her life:

For a period of many years," he says, "the cultivation of her mind was little interrupted; and though her corporeal suffering was often an obstacle to continuous effort, she sustained with unabated ardor her studies in the ancient and modern languages, in polite literature, in botany, and in several of the other branches of natural science. Doubtless the extent of her reading and her acquisitions in varied knowledge contributed to cherish in her family the delusive expectation that her constitution was destined for a longer career of active exertion than fell to her lot. Mental effort may in some instances protract the duration of those energies which at length it consumes. But the hopes cherished by her too ardent friends never for a moment deceived herself. For the last four months of her existence, her physical powers were yielding to the combined influence

of disease and intellectual action; and after a few days of aggravated suffering, painful evidences were manifest of the fatality which was impending. Her disorder was pulmonary consumption; and the insidious peculiarities of that treacherous malady were conspicuous in her case in an eminent degree. Within three days of her dissolution she was occupied, with intervals of serious reflection, in her literary labors, and conversed freely on her projected plan of a series of moral tales, her book on flowers, and other works. Her life and habits of thought had long prepared her for the final event: severe examination and inquiry contributed to strengthen the consolation of religion. In her death, which was without pain and without a struggle, she bequeathed to her friends triumphant evidences of that hope which animates the expiring Christian."

She died in Brooklyn, on the first of August, 1841. I happened at this time to be in Boston, and a few days after, Mr. Whittier, who was one of her intimate friends, sent me from his place in Amesbury the following beautiful and touching tribute to her memory, which I had published in one of the papers of that city:

"ON THE DEATH OF LUCY HOOPER.

"They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead-
That all of thee we loved and cherished
Has with thy summer roses perished;
And left, as its young beauty fled,
An ashen memory in its stead!—
Cold twilight of a parted day.
That true and loving heart-that gift
Of a mind earnest, clear, profound,
Bestowing, with a glad unthrift,

Its sunny light on all around,
Affinities which only could
Cleave to the beautiful and good--

And sympathies which found no rest
Save with the loveliest and the best-
Of them, of thee, remains there naught
But sorrow in the mourner's breast-
A shadow in the land of Thought?
"No! Even my weak and trembling faith
Can lift for thee the veil which doubt
And human fear have drawn about
The all-awaiting scene of death.
Even as thou wast I see thee still;
And, save the absence of all ill,
And pain, and weariness, which here
Summoned the sigh or wrung the tear,
The same as when two summers back,
Beside our childhood's Merrimack,
I saw thy dark eye wander o'er
Stream, sunny upland, rocky shore,
And heard thy low, soft voice alone
Midst lapse of waters, and the tone