IOLET FULLER" is the nom de plume of this lady. Her occa

sional poems have been widely copied. Mrs. Fullerton, whose maiden name was Hollins, is of English birth: her parents removed to the United States when she was quite young. She was educated in Baltimore, and has always resided there. Miss Hollins had every advantage wealth could command. She travelled in Europe while in the flush of youth, with her mind beginning to expand to all that was beautiful in nature and art. On her return home she commenced to write poetry, but did not publish for seven years. She was married in 1860.

Her poems and prose sketches have generally appeared in Baltimore journals.

Mrs. Fullerton has recently (May, 1871,) published a volume of her poems, through Sampson Low & Son, London.

The following verses give an idea of her graceful style:

TEXAS.

FANNY A. D. DARDEN.

HE subject of this brief article is a native of Texas. She belongs to a thoroughly Southern stock. Her father, General Mosely Baker, a native of the "Old Dominion State,"

was one of Texas's most distinguished soldiers during her struggle with Mexico for independence, and, after peace was declared, was her bright, particular star of legal acumen and forensic eloquence. Her mother was the only daughter of Colonel Pickett, of North Carolina, and sister of the historian of Alabama, in which State Fannie was educated.

As a lady of birth and culture, as a littérateur of taste and genius, as a native Southerner, and true, unswerving "daughter of the Confederacy," as the wife of a gallant officer - Captain William Darden, of Hood's Texas Brigade - Mrs. Darden's patent of nobility is clear and unmistakable, and therefore, with pride and pleasure, Texas presents her among "Southland Writers" as one of her representative

women.

THE OLD BRIGADE.

Hood's gallant old brigade!

Ah! how the heart thrills, and the pulses leap

When once again those well-known words are spoken,

Rending aside the clouds that darkly keep

The present from the past, and bring a token

From that weird, shadowy land, whose silence is unbroken!

Hood's gallant old brigade! what memories throng

With the swift rush as of a torrent leaping;

And far-off strains of high, heroic song

Come like a rolling wave majestic sweeping,

When that mute chord is struck which stirs our souls to weeping!

And was it not a dream, those glorious days
When hope her banner proudly waved before us;
When, in the genial light of freedom's blaze,

We lived and breathed with her bright heaven o'er us,
While every hill and vale rang out her lofty chorus?
When our loved State (whose one bright, glorious star
Her lonely vigil keeps o'er earth and ocean)
Poured forth her sons at the first cry of war,

Which thrilled each soul with patriot emotion,

And claimed from those brave hearts their loftiest devotion.

Nay, 't was no dream, those four long years, when war
With gloating triumph rode her bloody car,
Dragging, enchained, o'er fierce and stormy fields,
Her bleeding victims at her chariot wheels.

Nay, 't was no dream, though vanished are the days
When glory's splendid pageant moved before us,
Though now no more is seen the lurid blaze

Which from each gory field lit up the heaven o'er us —
Though fallen is that flag, once proudly floating

Above the battle's roar where heroes fought

With more than Spartan valor, there devoting

Those hearts, whose flame from freedom's shrine was caught, To that loved cause, the freedom which they sought.

Hood's gallant old brigade! where are they now?
Those souls of fire, who on the bloody plain
Of proud Manassas swept the usurping foe

Before them, as the rushing hurricane

Its fatal vengeance wreaks and spreads its mighty woe.
Oh! where are those whose blood baptized the soil
Of Sharpsburg and the sombre Wilderness,
Who, through long years of strife, and pain, and toil,
No want could sadden, and no power depress-
Who charged the foe on Malvern's fatal hill,

And where the mountain's brow frowns darkly down
On Boonsboro', and on the historic field

Where Richmond looked on deeds whose high renown
Amazed the world, and in the valley deep
Where Chickamauga's heroes gently sleep?

But few remain of those, who, side by side,
Together braved the storm; and far and wide

Hood's Texans sleep a dreamless sleep, nor mark
The times nor changes, nor the heavy cloud
That wraps their once-loved land in pall so dark.
The past has fled, but thickly memories crowd
Upon us, and the phantom years return
With distant echoes from its shadowy shore.
Our bosoms throb, our hearts within us burn;
We hear again the deep artillery's roar,

And see our banner in the light of day
Borne high aloft upon the buoyant air;

And columns deep of those who wore the gray

Are marshalled as of yore-the foe to dare.

The past comes once again, and memories throng With the swift rush as of a torrent leaping;

And far-off strains of high, heroic song

Come like a rolling wave majestic sweeping,

When that mute chord is struck which stirs our souls to weeping.
The past comes once again, but stays not long;
Its forms dissolve, its glorious splendors fade,

But still is heard the burden of its song:

And distant ages shall the strain prolong,

Which tells thy immortal deeds, Hood's gallant old brigade!

And chess was the game that they played; but oh,
Often a furtive glance he threw

At her rippling waves of hair.

And she, with looks bent on the game,

Seemed not to mark the roving glance;
But her cheek bore a blush of maiden shame,
And it told that treacherous "tell-tale" flame,
Her dream of soft romance.

Rippling waves of golden hair

Sparkled in the lamp-light's glow,
Around her forehead, without compare,
Over her shoulders, so snowy fair,
To her waist, in billowy flow.