in Graham's Magazine. She has occasionally written with considerable felicity in the Scottish dialect, but I think her English poems best, notwithstanding her perfect and loving familiarity with the language and the literature of the fatherland of her parents.

lence that Lucien Bonaparte was accustomed to speak of him as the master of all the engravers in natural history.

Miss Lawson's poems have appeared principally since 1842, in the Knickerbocker and

and frequently by tenderness of feeling, and a minute and artistlike truthfulness of rural description. Some of her religious pieces are graceful and fervid expressions of trust and devotion.

THE BANISHED LOVER.

THEY tell me of the prospect I survey,
They speak of streams, and skies of deepest blue,
That shine o'er fertile vales and flowery meads;
Of mountain clefts, with torrents dashing through:
It may be so; for Nature to the gay
Is ever beautiful-it charms not me!
I only feel my soul remains afar-
My passion-clouded eyes see naught save thee.
The tender, blissful thoughts that fill my soul,
Bound by mine oath to thee, I fain would quell;
For I have promised, dear one! for thy sake,
To yield no more to love-enrapturing spell:
I would obey-like other mortals seem;
Bear with my fate, and brave reality:
But shrinking from the wretchedness it brings,
I cling to visions that are full of thee.

I know that we must part: but do not prove
Too pitiless, beloved! nor urge too far
The sufferings of a grieved and tortured heart,
Where love and honor hold perpetual war:
I go at thy command; but can I join
A dreary world, where thou art naught to me?
No! better far in solitude to dwell,

And cheer its lonely hours with dreams of thee.

Yet oft will memory paint one happy scene,
One moment fraught with ecstasy of bliss,
When, thrilling with the soft clasp of thy hand,
My lips met thine in one long glowing kiss:
Ah, fatal gift! that was our parting doom-
How wert thou shadowed by Fate's stern decree!
Alas! that clouds of sadness should have dimmed
The first, the only boon of love from thee!

BELIEVE IT.

If thy heart whispers that I love thee still,
Yet living on a memory of the past,
Or that mine eyes with tender tear-drops fill,
As o'er Hope's ruined page my glance is cast-
That oft thy name is blended with my prayer,
Thine image mingled with the morning's light,
That sleep, which drowns all waking dreams of care,
But wafts thy softened shadow to my sight-
Believe it.

If when thou dost recall that vine-clad grove, [ding,
The moonbeams filled with checkered light and sha-
Where first we breathed our trembling vows of love,
And lingered till the stars' soft rays were fading,
Thy fancy paints me wandering sad and slow
Through those dim paths that once thy footstep
With deep regrets and sighs of lonely wo, [pressed
That find no echo in thine altered breast-

Believe it.

Though when we meet, I school my downcast eye
And faltering lip to speak a careless greeting,
Or mid the crowd in silence pass thee by,
Lest I betray my heart's unquiet beating:
"Tis that no eye save thine shall ever see
My soul gush forth in yearning to thine own,
Or coldly trace the feelings felt for thee,
And read the love revealed in look and tone-
Believe it.
Wronged by thine anger, prized perchance no more,
From me undying thought thou canst not sever,
Still may I trust to meet thee on that shore

Where pure affection lights the soul for ever:
Though earthly hope in meekness I resign,
E'en while my heart's full tenderness revealing,
Remember, if one doubt arise in thine,
These words of truth in bitter tears I'm sealing:
Believe it!

THE HAUNTED HEART.

"Tis true he ever lingers at her side,

But mark the wandering glances of his eye:
A lover near a fond and plighted bride,
With less of love than sorrow in his sigh!
And well it is for her, that gentle maid,
Who loves too well, too fervently, for fears;
She deems not her devotion is repaid

With deep repinings o'er life's early years.

For of another's image fills his breast,

E'en when he breathes to her love's tender vow; While her soft hand within his own is prest, And timid blushes mantle her young brow, Fond memory whispers of the dreamy past, Its hopes and joys, its agony and tears: In vain from out his soul he strives to cast One shadowy form-the love of early years. Ne'er from his heart the vision fades away: Amid the crowd, in silence, and alone, The stars by night, the clear blue sky by day, Bring to his mind the happiness now flown; A tone of song, the warbling of the birds, The simplest thing that memory endears, Can still recall the form, the voice, the words, Of her, the best beloved of early years. He dares not seek the spot where first they met, Too dangerous for his only hope of rest— His strong but fruitless effort to forget Those scenes that wake deep sorrow in his breast; And yet the quiet beauty of the grove

All plainly to his restless mind appears, Where, as the sun declined, he loved to rove With her, the first fond dream of early years. He sees the stream beside whose brink they strayed, Engrossed in converse sweet of coming hours, And watched the rippling currents as they played, In ebb and flow, upon the banks of flowers: And the old willow, 'neath whose spreading shade She owned her love-again her voice he hears, He starts-alas! the vision only fades To leave regretful pangs for early years.

It was his idle vanity that changed

The pure, deep feelings of her trusting heart, Whose faithful love not even in thought had ranged, But worshipped him, from all the world apart : Now cold and altered is her beaming eye, And no fond hope his aching bosom cheers, That she will shed one tear, or breathe one sigh, For him she loved so well in early years. He feels she scorns him with a bitter scorn: He questions not the justice of his fate, For long had she his selfish caprice borne, And wounded pride first taught her how to hate.

Oh, ye who cast away a heart's deep love,
Remember, ere affection disappears,
That keen reproachful throbs your soul may move
Like his who lives to mourn life's early years!

EVENING THOUGHTS.

THE evening star, with mild yet radiant light,
Shines clearly 'neath the young moon's pallid crest,
The last faint gleam of crimson sunset fades
In mellowed hues of brightness from the west;
Soft shadows fall upon the mountain's brow,
And steal with gradual pace o'er wood and stream;
A balmy stillness floats upon the earth,
And life is peaceful as a tranquil dream.
O God, whose mantle shades this lovely world,
And leaves a ray of glorious beauty round;
In that far home where angels spread their wings,
What infinite perfection must abound,
What visions of ecstatic, wondrous bliss,
In thy sublime, thy awful presence dwell,
When in this sphere, all dimmed by sin and pain,
Thy gifts of light and love words may not tell!
Would that my soul each wayward pulse could still,
That I might know thee, Father, as thou art-
That I within thy paths of peace might walk,
And take my place amid the "pure in heart;"
Then might I hope, as death's dark clouds drew near,
Amid the deepening gloom thy smile to see,
But oft my wandering footsteps guide me far
From out the way that leads alone to thee.
What if we view upon the brink of wo,

A dazzling gleam steal through the gates of heaven,
And feel at once, while close its pearly doors,
Till, in the utter madness of our souls,
How long its entrance to our steps was given,

Our last faint lingering hope in silence died, While at the moment of our dreadful doom, Perchance, we basked in worldliness and pride. And while in folly's gilded courts I stand, Is this my fate? Ah, no! by these sad tears, Plead for me, Jesus, meek and holy one, For thou hast shared earth's agonies and fears; Thou seest the struggles of my changing soul— Oh, let its darker thoughts of grief depart, And hear my prayer, when, kneeling low, I crave Thy words of truth may reach my troubled heart. Devoid of merit, what have I to boast, When man's best virtues are unworthy thee? Yet in thy mercy will I place my trust, And in the Cross my hope and promise see; And though unresting conscience sternly tells Of talents unemployed and wasted powers, Lend me thine aid, and to thy service, Lord, I'll dedicate the remnant of my hours.

JESUS AND THE DOVE.

With patient hand Jesus in clay once wrought,
And made a snowy dove that upward flew.
Dear child, from all things draw some holy thought,
That, like his dove, they may fly upward too.

MARY, the mother good and mild,
Went forth one summer's day,
That Jesus and his comrades all

In meadows green might play.
To find the brightest, freshest flowers,
They search the meadows round,
They twined them all into a wreath

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."

Then Mary, in her gentle voice,

Told of a little child

Who lost her way one dark, dark night, Upon a dreary wild;

And how an angel came to her,

And made all bright around,
And took the trembling little one

From off the damp, hard ground;
And how he bore her in his arms
Up to the blue so far,
And how he laid her fast asleep,

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.
But now the clay that Jesus held,

And turned unto the light,
And moulded with a patient touch,
Changed to a perfect white.
And slowly grew within his hands
A fair and gentle dove,

Whose eyes unclose, whose wings unfold,
Beneath his look of love.

The children drop their birds of clay,
And by his side they stand,
To look upon the wondrous dove
He holds within his hand.

She has published several elegant translations from the German, and a large number of original poems of the imagination, some of which illustrate questions of morals and humanity.

And when he bends and softly breathes, Wide are the wings outspread;

And when he bends and breathes again, It hovers round his head.

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

66

As if to draw it down:

Dear Jesus made the little dove

From out the clay so brown"Canst thou not live with us below,

Thou little dove of clay,

And let us hold thee in our hands, And feed thee every day? "The little dove it hears us not,

But higher still doth fly;

It could not live with us below-
Its home is in the sky."

Mary, who silently saw all

That mother true and mild— Folded her hands upon her breast, And kneeled before her child.

THE MAIDEN'S HARVEST.

THERE goeth with the early light
Across a barren plain,

One who, with face as morning bright,
Singeth, "I come again :

"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, She sings so loud and clear"Arise, arise, ye sleeping throng,

And bud and blossom here!"
When o'er the hills she passed away,

The Spring remembered her,
And came, with sun and air of May,
The barren earth to stir.

And falling dew the spot did love,

And lingered there till noon;

And winds and rains moved on above
In softly changing tune.

So when the Autumn cometh round,
The golden heads bend low,
And near and nearer to the ground

Their royal beard doth flow.

The poor rejoice: in throngs they come
To reap the dropping grain;
Their voices rise in busy hum-

"Who, who hath sowed the plain?

"And who hath wrought such bounteous cheer
Where all before was dead?"
They bless the unseen giver dear

Who sent this daily bread.
With harp in hand, a maiden bright
Passed slowly by the throng;
With face as fair as sunset light
The maiden sang her song:

"In morning time I sowed this plain-
Blessed the evening be,

Which gives back every little grain
A hundred fold to me!"

SONG.

OH, Bird, thou dartest to the sun
When morning beams first spring,
And I, like thee, would swiftly run,
As sweetly would I sing;

Thy burning heart doth draw thee up
Unto the source of fire-
Thou drinkest from its glowing cup,
And quenchest thy desire.

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;
Then I, without a sigh,

Might sleep the night through on the earth,
To waken in the sky.

Oh, Clouds, ye little tender sheep,
Pastured in fields of blue,

While moon and stars your fold can keep
And gently shepherd you-

Let me, too, follow in the train

That flocks across the night,
Or lingers on the open plain

With new washed fleeces white.
Oh, singing Winds, that wander far,
Yet always seem at home,
And freely play 'twixt star and star
Along the bending dome-
I often listen to your song,
Yet never hear you say
One word of all the happy worlds
That shine so far away.

For they are free, ye all are free-
And Bird, and Dew, and Light,
Can dart upon the azure sea,
And leave me to my 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.
WE wreathed about our darling's head
The morning-glory bright;

Her little face looked out beneath,
So full of life and light,
So lit as with a sunrise,

That we could only say,
"She is the morning-glory true,
And her poor types are they."

So always from that happy time
We called her by their name,
And very fitting did it seem-

For, sure as morning came,
Behind her cradle bars she smiled
To catch the first faint ray,

As from the trellis smiles the flower
And opens to the day.

But not so beautiful they rear
Their airy cups of blue,

As turned her sweet eyes to the light,
Brimmed with sleep's tender dew;
And not so close their tendrils fine

Round their supports are thrown,
As those dear arms whose outstretched plea
Clasped all hearts to her own.

We used to think how she had come,
Even as comes the flower,
The last and perfect added gift

To crown love's morning hour,
And how in her was imaged forth
The love we could not say,
As on the little dewdrops round

Shines back the heart of day.
We never could have thought, O God,
That she must wither up,
Almost before a day was flown,

Like the morning-glory's cup;
We never thought to see her droop
Her fair and noble head,

Till she lay stretched before our eyes,
Wilted, and cold, and dead!

The morning-glory's blossoming

Will soon be coming round:
We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves
Upspringing from the ground;

The tender things the winter killed
Renew again their birth,
But the glory of our morning

Has passed away from earth.
Oh, Earth! in vain our aching eyes
Stretch over thy green plain!

Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air,
Her spirit to sustain :

But up in groves of paradise

Full surely we shall see

Our morning-glory beautiful

Twine round our dear Lord's knee.

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 an 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 experience have no mists for her quick eyes. Many-sided as Proteus, she yet by an indomitable 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 development—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 development. 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