MISS HICKMAN, afterward Mrs. SMITH, WAS born in Detroit on the thirtieth of June, 1811, at which time her grandfather, Major-General Hull-whose patriotism and misfortunes are at length beginning to be justly appreciated by the people—was governor of Michigan. While a child she accompanied her mother to the home of her family, in Newton, Massachusetts, where she was carefully educated. She acquired knowledge with extraordinary facility, and when but thirteen years of age her compositions were compared to those of Kirke White and others whose carly maturity is the subject of some of the most interesting chapters in literary history. In her eighteenth year she was married to Mr. Samuel Jenks Smith, then editor of a periodical in Providence, where he soon af ter published a collection of her poems, in a volume of two hundred and fifty duodecimo

pages, many of the pieces in which were written as it was passing through the press. In 1829 Mr. and Mrs. Smith removed to Cincinnati, where they resided nearly two years, and here she continued to write, with a sort of improvisatorial ease, but with increasing elegance and a constantly deepening tone of reflection, until her health was too much decayed, and then she returned to New York, where, on the twelfth of February, 1832, she died, in the twenty-first year of her age. Her husband was for several years connected with the press in this city, and died while on a Voyage to Europe in 1842.

The poems of Mrs. Smith are interesting chiefly as the productions of a very youthful author. She wrote with grace and sprightliness, and sometimes with feeling; but there is little in her writings that would survive its connexion with her history.

THE HUMA.*

FLY on! nor touch thy wing, bright bird,
Too near our shaded earth,
Or the warbling, now so sweetly heard,
May lose its note of mirth.

Fly on-nor seek a place of rest

In the home of "care-worn things;"

'T would dim the light of thy shining crest
And thy brightly burnished wings,
To dip them where the waters glide
That flow from a troubled earthly tide.
The fields of upper air are thine,

Thy place where stars shine free;

I would thy home, bright one, were mine,
Above life's stormy sea!

I would never wander, bird, like thee,
So near this place again,

With wing and spirit once light and free

They should wear no more the chain With which they are bound and fettered here, For ever struggling for skies more clear. There are many things like thee, bright bird, Hopes as thy plumage gay;

Our air is with them for ever stirred,
But still in air they stay.

And happiness, like thee, fair one,

* A bird peculiar to the East. It is supposed to fly con stantly in the air, and never touch the ground.

Is ever hovering o'er,

But rests in a land of brighter sun,
On a waveless, peaceful shore,
And stoops to lave her weary wings
Where the fount of "living waters" springs

WHITE ROSES.

THEY were gathered for a bridal:
I knew it by their hue-
Fair as the summer moonlight
Upon the sleeping dew.
From their fair and fairy sisters
They were borne, without a sigh,
For one remembered evening
To blossom and to die.

They were gathered for a bridal,
And fastened in a wreath;
But purer were the roses

Than the heart that lay beneath;
Yet the beaming eye was lovely,
And the coral lip was fair,
And the gazer looked and asked not
For the secret hidden there.

They were gathered for a bridal,

Where a thousand torches glistened, When the holy words were spoken, And the false and faithless listened

And answered to the vow

Which another heart had taken: Yet he was present then

The once loved, the forsaken! They were gathered for a bridal,

And now, now they are dying, And young Love at the altar

Of broken faith is sighing. Their summer life was stainless,

And not like hers who wore them: They are faded, and the farewell Of beauty lingers o'er them!

STANZAS.

I WOULD not have thee deem my heart
Unmindful of those higher joys,
Regardless of that better part

Which earthly passion ne'er alloys.
I would not have thee think I live
Within heaven's pure and blessed light,
Nor feeling nor affection give

To Him who makes my pathway bright.

I would not chain to mystic creeds
A spirit fetterless and free;
The beauteous path to heaven that leads
Is dimmed by earthly bigotry:
And yet, for all that earth can give,
And all it e'er can take away,

I would not have that spirit rove
One moment from its heavenward way.

I would not that my heart were cold
And void of gratitude to Him
Who makes those blessings to unfold
Which by our waywardness grow dim.
I would not lose the cherished trust

Of things within the world to come-
The thoughts, that when their joys are dust,
The weary have a peaceful home.

For I have left the dearly loved,

The home, the hopes of other years, And early in its pathway proved

Life's rainbow hues were formed of tears.

I shall not meet them here again,

Those loved, and lost, and cherished ones, Bright links in young Affection's chain, In Memory's sky unsetting suns.

But perfect in the world above,

Through suffering, wo, and trial here, Shall glow the undiminished love

Which clouds and distance failed to sere:

But I have lingered all too long,
Thy kind remeinbrance to engage
And woven but a mournful song,
Wherewith to dim thy page.

THE FALL OF WARSAW.

THROUGH Warsaw there is weeping,
And a voice of sorrow now,
For the hero who is sleeping
With death upon his brow;
The trumpet-tone will waken

No more his martial tread,
Nor the battle-ground be shaken
When his banner is outspread!
Now let our hymn

Float through the aisle,
Faintly and dim,

Where moonbeams smile;
Sisters, let our solemn strain
Breathe a blessing o'er the s'ain.
There's a voice of grief in Warsaw-

The mourning of the brave O'er the chieftain who is gathered

Unto his honored grave!

Who now will face the foeman?

Who break the tyrant's chain?
Their bravest one lies fallen,
And sleeping with the slain.
Now let our hymn

Float through the aisle,
Faintly and dim,

Where moonbeams smile

;

Sisters, let our dirge be said
Slowly o'er the sainted dead!
There's a voice of woman weeping,
In Warsaw heard to-night,
And eyes close not in sleeping,
That late with joy were bright;
No festal torch is lighted,

No notes of music swell;
Their country's hope was blighted
When that son of Freedom fell!
Now let our hymn

Float through the aisle,
Faintly and dim,

Where moonbeams smile;
Sisters, let our hymn arise
Sadly to the midnight skies!
And a voice of love undying,

From the tomb of other years,
Like the west wind's summer sighing,
It blends with manhood's tears:

It whispers not of glory,

Nor fame's unfading youth,
But lingers o'er a story
Of young affection's truth.
Now let our hymn
Float through the aisle,
Faintly and dim,

Where moonbeams smile,
Sisters, let our solemn strain
Breathe a blessing o'er the slain'

THIS author was born in Lexington, Kentucky, in 1811, and in 1837 was married to Dr. J. H. Oliver. The next year she removed to Louisville, whence after a short time she returned to Lexington, and in 1842 she went

"I MARK THE HOURS THAT SHINE."

Ix fair Italia's lovely land,

Deep in a garden bower,

A dial marks with shadowy hand
Each sun-illumined hour;

And on its fair, unsullied face

Is carved this flowing line,

(Some wandering bard has paused to trace :)
"I mark the hours that shine."
Oh ye who in a friend's fair face
Mark the defects alone,

Where many a sweet redeeming grace
Doth for each fault atone-

Go, from the speaking dial learn

A lesson all divine-

From faults that wound your fancy turn,
And "mark the hours that shine."
When bending o'er the glowing page
Traced by a godlike mind,
Whose burning thoughts from age to age
Shall light and bless mankind—
Why will ye seek mid gleaning gold
For dross in every line,
Dark spots upon the sun behold,

Nor "mark the hours that shine?"
Oh ye who bask in Fortune's light,
Whose cups are flowing o'er,
Yet through the weary day and night
Still pine and sigh for more-
Why will ye, when so richly blest,
Ungratefully repine,

Why sigh for joys still unpossessed,

Normark the hours that shine"?
And ye who toil from morn till night
To earn your scanty bread,
Are there no blessings rich and bright
Around your pathway spread?
The conscience clear, the cheerful heart,
The trust in love divine,

All bid desponding care depart,

And mark the hours that shine." And ye who bend o'er Friendship's tomb In deep and voiceless wo,

Who sadly feel no second bloom

Your bighted hearts can knowWhy will ye mourn o'er severed ties While friends around you twine?

to reside permanently in Cincinnati, in one of the medical colleges of which city her husband is a professor. Her poems are spirited and fanciful, but are sometimes imperfect in rhythm and have other signs of carelessness.

Go! yield your lost one to the skies,
And mark the hours that shine."
Deep in the garden of each heart
There stands a dial fair,
And often is its snowy chart

Dark with the clouds of care.
Then go, and every shadow chase

That dims its light divine,

And write upon its gleaming face"I mark the hours that shine."

THE CLOUD-SHIP.

Lo! over Ether's glorious realm

A cloud ship sails with favoring brecze; A bright form stands beside the helm,

And guides it o'er the ethereal seas. Far streams on air its banner white, Its swanlike pinions kiss the gale, And now a beam of heaven's light

With glory gems the snowy sail...... Perchance, bright bark, your snowy breast And silver-tissued pinions wide, Bear onward to some isle of rest

Pure spirits in life's furnace tried. Oh! could we stay each swelling sail Of spotless radiance o'er thee hung, And lift the bright, mysterious veil

O'er forms of seraph beauty flungHow would our spirits long to mount And float along the ethereal way, To drink of life's unfailing fount, And bathe in heaven's resplendent day! But lo! the gold-tiara'd West

Unfolds her sapphire gates of light; While Day's proud monarch bows his crest, And bids the sighing world Good-night. And now the cloud ship flies along,

Her wings with gorgeous colors dressed, And Fancy hears triumphant song Swell from her light-encircled breastAs to the wide unfolded gate,

The brilliant portal of the skies, She bears her bright, immortal freight, The glorious soul that never dies!

THE SHADOWS.

THEY are gliding, they are gliding, O'er the meadows green and gay; Like a fairy troop they're riding

Through the breezy woods away; On the mountain-tops they linger When the sun is sinking low, And they point with giant finger

To the sleeping vale below. They are flitting, they are flitting, O'er the waving corn and rye, And now they're calmly sitting 'Neath the oak-tree's branches high And where the tired reaper

Hath sought the sheltering tree, They dance above the sleeper

In light fantastic glee.

They are creeping, they are creeping,
Over valley, hill, and stream,
Like the thousand fancies sweeping
Through a youthful poet's dream.
Now they mount on noiseless pinions
With the eagle to the sky-
Soar along those broad dominions
Where the stars in beauty lie.
They are dancing, they are dancing,
Where our country's banner bright
In the morning beam is glancing

With its stars and stripes of light; And where the glorious prairies Spread out like garden bowers, They fly along like fairies,

Or sleep beneath the flowers. They are leaping, they are leaping, Where a cloud beneath the moon O'er the lake's soft breast is sleeping,

Lulled by a pleasant tune; And where the fire is glancing

At twilight through the hall,
Tall spectre forms are dancing
Upon the lofty wall.

They are lying, they are lying,
Where the solemn yew-tree waves,
And the evening winds are sighing
In the lonely place of graves;
And their noiseless feet are creeping
With slow and stealthy tread,
Where the ancient church is keeping
Its watch above the dead.

Lo, they follow-lo, they follow,
Or before flit to and fro
By mountain, stream, or hollow,
Wherever man may go!
And never for another

Will the shadow leave his side-
More faithful than a brother,
Or all the world beside.

Ye remind me, ye remind me,
O Shadows pale and cold!

That friends to earth did bind me,
Now sleeping in the mould;

The young, the loved, the cherished,
Whose mission early done,

In life's bright noontide perished
Like shadows in the sun.
The departed, the departed-

I greet them with my tears;
The true and gentle-hearted,

The friends of earlier years.
Their wings like shadows o'er me
Methinks are spread for ayc,
Around, behind, before me,
To guard the devious way.

MINISTERING SPIRITS. THEY are winging, they are winging, Through the thin blue air their way; Unseen harps are softly ringing

Round about us, night and day.
Could we pierce the shadows o'er us,
And behold that seraph band,
Long-lost friends would bright before us
In angelic beauty stand.

Lo! the dim blue mist is sweeping
Slowly from my longing eyes,
And my heart is upward leaping
With a deep and glad surprise.
I behold them-close beside me,
Dwellers of the spirit-land;
Mists and shades alone divide me
From that glorious seraph band.
Though life never can restore me
My sad bosom's nesting dove,
Yet my blue-eyed babe bends o'er me
With her own sweet smile of love;
And the brother, long departed,

Who in being's summer diedWarm, and true, and gentle-hearted— Folds his pinions by my side.

Last called from us, loved and dearest-
Thou the faultless, tried, and true,
Of all earthly friends sincerest,
Mother-I behold thee too!
Lo! celestial light is gleaming

Round thy forehead pure and mild,
And thine eyes with love are beaming
On thy sad, heart-broken child!
Gentle sisters there are bending,
Blossoms culled from life's parterre;
And my father's voice ascending,
Floats along the charmed air.
Hark! those thrilling tones Elysian
Faint and fainter die away,
And the bright seraphic vision

Fades upon my sight for aye.
But I know they hover round m
In the morning's rosy light,
And their unseen forms surround me

All the deep and solemn night. Yes, they're winging-yes, they're winging Through the thin blue air their way: Spirit-harps are softly ringing

Round about us night and day.

MISS MARY E. LEE, a daughter of Mr. William Lee, and niece of the late Judge Thomas Lee, of Charleston, South Carolina, has been for many years a frequent contributor to the literary miscellanies, in both prose and verse. Among her best compositions are several poems, in the ballad style, found

ed on southern traditions, in which she has shown dramatic skill, and considerable ability in description. One of the best of these is the Indian's Revenge, a Legend of Toccoa, in Four Parts, printed in the Southern Literary Messenger for 1846. Miss Lee is alsc the author of some spirited translations.

THE POETS.

THE poets-the poets-
Those giants of the earth:

In mighty strength they tower above
The men of common birth.

A noble race-they mingle not

Among the motley throng,

But move, with slow and measured steps, Te music-notes along.

The poets-the poets

What conquests they can boast! Without one drop of life-blood spilt,

They rule a world's wide host; Their stainless banner floats unharmed

From age to lengthened age; And history records their deeds

Upon her proudest page.

The poets-the poets-
How endless is their fame!

Death, like a thin mist, comes, yet leaves
No shadow on each name;

But as yon starry gems that gleam

In evening's crystal sky,

So have they won, in memory's depths,
An immortality.

The poets-the poets-
Who doth not linger o'er
The glorious volumes that contain

Their bright and spotless lore?
They charm us in the saddest hours,
Our richest joys they feed;

And love for them has grown to be
A universal creed.

The poets-the poets-
Those kingly minstre's dead,
Well may we twine a votive wreath
Around each honored head:

No tribute is too high to give

Those crowned ones among men. The poets! the true poets!

Thanks be to God for them!

AN EASTERN LOVE-SONG.

AWAKE, my silver lute; String all thy plaintive wires, And as the fountain gushes free, So let thy memory chant for me The theme that never tires.

Awake, my liquid voice; Like yonder timorous bird, Why dost thou sing in trembling fear, As if by some obtrusive ear

Thy secret should be heard?

Awake, my heart-yet no!
As Cedron's golden rill,

Whose changeless echo singeth o'er
Notes it had heard long years before,
So thou art never still.

My voice! my lute! my heart!
Spring joyously above

The feeble notes of lower earth,
And let thy richest tones have birth
Beneath the touch of love.

THE LAST PLACE OF SLEEP.

LAY me not in green wood lone,
Where the sad wind maketh moan,
Where the sun hath never shone,
Save as if in sadness;
Nor, I pray thee, let me be
Buried 'neath the chill, cold sea,
Where the waves, tumultuous, free,
Chafe themselves to madness.
But in yon enclosure small,
Near the churchyard's mossy wall,
Where the dew and sunlight fall,
I would have my dwelling;
Sure there are some friends, I wot,
Who would make that narrow spot
Lovely as a garden plot,

With rich perfumes swelling.