ANNE C. BOTTA. MRS. ANNE CHARLOTTE BOTTA 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 Mrs. Botta 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. The prose writings of Mrs. Botta are Mrs. Botta was educated at a popular female seminary in Albany, where her class compositions attracted much attention by a 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, Mrs. Botta 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 wekly 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 Mrs. Botta, with engravings after original designs by her friends Durand, Huntington,Cheney, Darley, Brown, Cushman, Rossiter, Rothermel, and Winner, appeared in 1848. It is a beautiful book of art, and so demonstrative of her po etical abilities that it will secure her a posi tion 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 When song and thought first woke their echoes Swaying my spirit to its wild control, [there, And with the shadow of a fond despair, Darkening the fountain of my young life's stream. It haunts me still, and yet I know 'tis but a dream. Whence art thou, shadowy presence, that canst hide From my charmed sight the glorious things of A mirage o'er life's desert dost thou glide? [earth? Or with those glimmerings of a former birth, A "trailing cloud of glory," hast thou come [home? From some bright world afar, our unremembered I know thou dwell'st not in this dull, cold Real, I know thy home is in some brighter sphere; I know I shall not meet thee, my Ideal, 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. The Alpine glacier from its height may mock 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 brock 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- The image that my glowing fancy wrought, To welcome my approach to thine own spirit-land. Falls back upon my heart a vain and empty sound THE IDEAL FOUND. I've met thec, whom I dared not hope to meet, Oh, disembodied being of my mind, So wildly loved, so fervently adored! In whom all high and glorious gifts I shrined, And my heart's incense on the altar pouredNow do I know that, clad in mortal guise, Ne'er on this earth wilt thou upon my vision rise That only in the vague, cold realm of Thought Shall I meet thee whom here I seek in vain And like Egyptian Isis, when she sought The scattered fragments of Osiris slain. 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 biest, we meet once more. That these aspirings mocked at last will be! G'eams 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 watches his victim with rayless eyes; In war with these phantoms that gird him round, The battle is over: the hero goes, Scarred and worn, to his last repose, He has won the day, he has conquered Doom, He has sunk unknown to his nameless tomb; For the victor's glory no voices plead; Fame has no echo and earth no meed; But the guardian angels are hovering near: They have watched unseen o'er the conflict here, And they bear him now on their wings away To a realm of peace, to a cloudless day. Ended now is the earthly strife, And his brow is crowned with the crown of life! THOUGHTS IN A LIBRARY. SPEAK low-tread softly through these halls; The gifted and the great. Oh, child of Earth! when round thy path And when thy brothers pass thee by Come, with these God-anointed kings And in the mighty realin of mind 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, No water murmured there. And thither, bowed with shame, Spurned from her master's side, The dark-browed child of Egypt came Her wo and shame to hide. Drooping and travel-worn, 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 My faltering footsteps here, I've thought I, too, heard that blest sound Of "Wanderer, do not fear." And then, to light my path On through the evil land, Have the twin angels, Hope and Faith, Walked with me, hand to hand. 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, Upon whose souls the beams of truth first fall, They who reveal the ideal, the unattained, And to their age, in stirring tones and high, Speak out for God, truth, man, and liberty— Such prophets, do they die? 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 Ages agone, like thee The famed Greek with kindling aspect stood, And thy great teachers spake not unto him. A THOUGHT BY THE SEASHORE. BURY me by the sea. When on my heart the hand of Death is prest, Then mid the forest shades I would not lie, For the green leaves like me would droop and die. Nor mid the homes of men, The haunts of busy life, would I be laid: The surging tide of life might overwhelm No sculptured marble pile To bear my name be reared upon my breast- The changeless stars look lovingly on me, Of the great Universe! here would the soul Here would she fit her for the high abode- Thou mightiest of his vassals, as I stand And as thy solemn chant swells through the air, Here then would I repose, majestic sea; Come o'er me on thy shore: My thoughts from thee to highest themes are given, As thy deep distant blue is lost in Heaven. THE DUMB CREATION. DEAL kindly with those speechless ones, Alone is nothing worth. What though with mournful memories With longings undefined; They live, they love, and they are blest, To this fair world our human hearts And o'er its beauty and its bloom Retreats the promised land. And though Love, Fame, and Wealth and Power, The something still beyond. Our spirits ask more room, That in some tearless, cloudless land, THE WOUNDED VULTURE. A KINGLY vulture sat alone, And his life-blood gushed warm and red No struggle marked the deadly wound, But calmly spread his giant wings, He wings his steady flight, Oh, wounded heart! oh, suffering soul! Take thou the path sublime, Beyond the wounds of Time. Mount upward! brave the clouds and storms Above life's desert plain There is a calmer, purer air, A heaven thou, too, may'st gain. |