M. ST. LEON LOUD. MARGUERITE ST. LEON BARSTOW was born in the rural town of Wysox, among the windings of the Susquehannah, in Bradford county, Pennsylvania. In 1824 she was married to Mr. Loud, of Philadelphia; and, except during a short period passed in the South, has since resided in that city. Her poems have for the most part appeared in the United States Gazette and in the Philadelphia | monthly magazines. Mr. Edgar A. Poe, ir his Autography, says of Mrs. Loud, that she "has imagination of no common order, and, unlike many of her sex, is not Content to dwell in decencies forever.' While she can, upon occasion, compose the ordinary singsong with all the decorous proprieties which are in fashion, she yet ventures very frequently into a more ethereal region." A DREAM OF THE LONELY ISLE. Cold and dead to all human hopes; Where no human voice, with its words of pain, And I sought in slumber from care to flee. Light as a sea-bird the vessel flew. And I stood on that beautiful isle alone. Long did my footsteps delighted range A chilling weight on my spirits fell, That carth had no power the heart to bless, And hope was withered, as day by day I watched for the bark, but in vain-in vain; I stretched my arms o'er the heaving sea, That Love's pure spirit might with me dwell. THE DESERTED HOMESTEAD. THERE is a lonely homestead In a green and quiet vale, There are many mansions round it, In the low eaves hath flown; And all night long, the whip-poor-will Sings by the threshold stone. No hand above the window Ties up the trailing vines; And through the broken casement-panes Seems starting from the gloom; Is drawn upon the plain, Thus standing bare and lone, While all the worshipped household gods And where are they whose voices Beneath the summer sun, And some beyond the sea; To meet no more, as once they met, Like forest-birds forsaking Their sheltering native nest, The young to life's wild scenes went forth, The aged to their rest. Fame and ambition lured them From that green vale to roam, But as their dazzling dreams depart, Regretful memories come Of the valley and the homestead — Of their childhood pure and freeTill each world-weary spirit pines That spot once more to see. Oh! blest are they who linger Mid old familiar things, Where every object o'er the heart A hallowed influence flings. Though won are wealth and honorsThough reached fame's lofty domeThere are no joys like those which dwell Within our childhood's home. PRAYER FOR AN ABSENT HUSBAND. FATHER in heaven! Behold, he whom I love is daily treading Oh, thou most kind! break not the golden bowl. Thou who so oft hast healed the broken-hearted Down to the deep abyss of dark despair. Father in heaven! Oh, grant to his most cherished hopes a blessingLet peace and rest descend upon his head, That his torn heart, thy holy love possessing, May not be riven Let guardian angels watch his lonely bed. Father in heaven! Oh, may his heart be stayed on thee! each feeling Still lifted up in gratitude and love; And may that faith the joys of heaven revealing To him be given, Till he shall praise thy name in realms above. REST IN THE GRAVE. Он, peaceful grave! how blest Are they who in thy quiet chambers rest, The wild, dark, turbulent career of life!..... There shall the throbbing brain, The heart with its wild hopes and longings vain, No more to struggle with its weight of woes. For some bright goal to which the soul aspires- Oh! for a dreamless sleep, A slumber calm and deep, A long and silent midnight in the tomb, Nor voices which the startled spirit hears, Oh grave! in thy lone cells. And yet not lone, for they Who've passed from earth away, People thy realms-the beautiful, the young, There would I rest, O Grave! Till thy unstormy wave Hath overswept the whole of life's bleak shore, EMMA C. EMBURY. (Born 1806-Died 1863). THIS graceful and popular authoress - the Mitford of our country-to whom we are in so large a degree indebted for redeeming the "ladies' magazines," so called, from the reproach of frivolity and sickly sentiment, is a daughter of Dr. James R. Manley, for many years one of the most eminent physicians of New York, from whom she inherits all the peculiar pride and prejudice that make up the genuine Knickerbocker. She was married, it appears from the New York Mirror of the following Saturday, on the tenth of May, 1828, to Mr. Daniel Embury, now of Brooklyn, a gentleman of liberal fortune, who is well known for his taste and scholarly acquirements. Mrs. Embury's native interest in literature was manifested by an early appreciation of the works of genius, and her poetical talents were soon recognised and admired. Under the signature of "Ianthe," she gave to the public numerous effusions, which were distinguished for vigor of language and genuine depth of feeling. A volume of these youthful but most promising compositions was selected and published, under the title of Guido and other Poems. Since her marriage, she has given to the public more prose than verse, but the former is characterized by the same romantic spirit which is the essential beauty of poetry. Many of her tales are founded upon a just observation of life, although not a few are equally remarkable for attractive invention. In point of style, they often pos sess the merit of graceful and pointed dic tion, and the lessons they inculcate are invariably of a pure moral tendency. Constance Latimer, or The Blind Girl, is perhaps better known than any other of her single produc tions; and this, as well as her Pictures of Early Life, has passed through a large number of editions. In 1845 she published, in a beautiful quarto volume, with pictorial illus trations, Nature's Gems, or American Wild Flowers, a work which contains some of the finest specimens of her writings, in both prose and verse. In 1846 she gave to the public a collection of graceful poems, under the title of Love's Token Flowers; and, in 1848, The Waldorf Family, or Grandfather's Legends, a little volume in which she has happily adapted the romantic and poetical legendary of Brittany to the tastes of our own country and the present age; and a work entitled Glimpses of Home Life, in which many of the beautiful fictions she had written for the magazines, having a unity and completeness of design, are reproduced, to run anew the career of popularity through which they passed on their first and separate publication. The tales and sketches by Mrs. Embury are very numerous, probably not less than one hundred and fifty; and several such delightful series, evincing throughout the same true cultivation and refinement of taste and feeling, might be made from them. TWO PORTRAITS FROM LIFE. 1. OH, what a timid watch young Love was keeping Blending with woman's softness manhood's pride, How wilt thou all life's future conflicts bear, And fearless suffer all that man must do and dare? II. PROUD,self-sustained and fearless! dreading naught Thy voice clear-ringing mid the conflict's roar, Children of humbler, happier lineage twined: Child of Ambition's martyr! life had been Of doubt, and dread, and suffering at the best; For thou wert one whose path, in these dark times, Would lead to sorrows-it may be to crimes! Thou art at rest: The idle sword hath worn its sheath away; SYMPATHY. LIKE the sweet melody which faintly lingers So the calm voice of sympathy meseemeth; AUTUMN EVENING. "And Isaac went out in the field to meditate at eventide." Go forth at morning's birth, When the glad sun, exulting in his might. Comes from the dusky-curtained tents of night, Shedding his gifts of beauty o'er the earth; When sounds of busy life are on the air, And man awakes to labor and to care, Then hie thee forth: go out amid thy kind, Thy daily tasks to do, thy harvest-sheaves to bind Go forth at noontide hour, Beneath the heat and burden of the day Nor murmur if thou miss life's morning flower; Where'er the footsteps of mankind are found Thou may'st discern some spot of hallowed ground, Where duty blossoms even as the rose, [enclose. Though sharp and stinging thorns the beauteous bud Go forth at eventide, When sounds of toil no more the soft air fill, And the bird's song on evening's breeze has died; Go forth at eventide, The eventide of summer, when the trees And woodland paths with autumn tints are dyed; Go forth at eventide, Commune with thine own bosom, and be stillCheck the wild impulses of wayward will, And learn the nothingness of human pride: Morn is the time to act, noon to endure; But, oh, if thou wouldst keep thy spirit pure, Turn from the beaten path by worldings trod, Go forth at eventide, in heart to walk with God PEACE. 01. seek her not in marble halls of pride, Not there, not there Peace builds her halcyon nest: Go! hie thee to God's altar-kneeling there, And the freed soul forgets earth's heavy chain: There learn that Peace, sweet Peace, is ever found In her eternal home, on holy ground. THE EOLIAN HARP. HARP of the winds! how vainly art thou swelling A tale of sorrow as the breeze sweeps past: [ing, UNREST. HEART, weary Heart! what means thy wild unrest? Heart, weary Heart! too idly hast thou poured THE OLD MAN'S LAMENT. Оn, for one draught of those sweet waters now pernicious lore! Beneath the heat and burden of the day; Would that I could regain those shady haunts Where once, with Hope, I dreamed the hours Giving my thoughts to tales of old romance, [away, And yielding up my soul to youth's delicious trance! Vain are such wishes: I no more may tread With lingering step and slow the green hill-side, Before me now life's shortening path is spread, And I must onward, whatsoe'er betide: The pleasant nooks of youth are passed for aye, And sober scenes now meet the traveller on his way. Alas! the dust which clogs my weary feet Glitters with fragments of each ruined shrine, Where once my spirit worshipped, when,with sweet And passionless devotion, it could twine Its strong affections round earth's earthliest things, Yet bear away no stain upon its snowy wings. What though some flowers have 'scaped the tempest's wrath? Daily they droop by nature's swift decay: What though the setting sun still lights my path? Morn's dewy freshness long has passed away. Oh, give me back life's newly-budded flowers-Let me once more inhale the breath of morning's hours! My youth, my youth! oh, give me back my youth! Not the unfurrowed brow and blooming cheek, But childhood's sunny thoughts, its perfect truth, And youth's unworldly feelings-these I seek Ah, who could e'er be sinless and yet sage? [page. Would that I might forget Time's dark and blotted |