No gloom or sadness from the outer world And bear them forth to sorrow and to sint The heart's proud fields-its harvests full and fair! One turns the leaves of the volume, and finds they would select almost each piece they read as sample of Miss Moore's poetic gifts. "The Departing Soul," in its dialogue with the body, has a depth of thought that would do credit to the maturer minds of the great poets. It depends not at all upon its special rhythm, for you read its blank verse as if following the thoughts of Bryant or Cowper, without seeing the words, only living and wrestling with the searching and thrilling conceptions. "Reaping the Whirlwind" is powerfully presented. The religious lesson is developed in an allegory as original as it is truthful and poetic. This spiritual trait, that is usually deemed a great beautifier of the female character, runs like a modest silver thread through the whole web of her poetic constructions. But the intellectual trait, that will at least rank second in the estimation of cultured minds, is the reflective. And in this class you might rank nearly every piece she writes. The original and independent manner in which our poetess weaves the reflective into her verses, even on the tritest themes, is fast asserting her claim to fame. She has no mentor, no model, no guide but her own perception of the lofty, the true, and the beautiful. She wrote before she knew there were models; and still she writes, with an untrammelled independence, the thoughts, the reflections, the fancies, just as they flow through the mind of this "our Texas Mocking-bird," our own "Mollie Moore." The patriotic is a large element in her earlier writings. It found ample promptings just as her mind was developing into the open world. It glows in many of her longer poems, and often creeps in by stealth as she writes upon other themes. The deep impressions made by the sufferings of her people, her friends and family, up to the close of the war, have tinged her mental character for life. Taking Miss Moore's poems all in all, they indicate a wide range of excellence, a lofty sweep of thought, a subtle gift in allegory and personification, and richness in exquisite fancies. FLORENCE D. WEST. An engraving of Miss Moore is the frontispiece to her volume of poems. It is an excellent likeness, having the fault of looking too stern, and much too old. "Looking at this engraving, we see a girl hardly out of her teens, with a face which evinces refinement and culture of the highest order: it is not beautiful, nor would we consider it pretty; but it is a face altogether remarkable-of the kind you love to look at, return to again and again; and having easily forgotten." seen it, it is not No great poem has yet been given to the public by Miss Moore; but we shall hope, from the promise given in many fugitive and a few more lengthy poems, that as years flow on, and her mental character ripens in its development, her spirit-fancies may find utterance in elaborate works of genius. 1869. COL. C. G. FORSHEY. MR FLORENCE D. WEST. RS. WEST, whose maiden name was Duval, was born in Tallashassee, Florida. Her grandfather was Governor of Florida. Her father moved to Texas when she was a child, and settled in Austin, where she has ever since resided. Her father now holds the position of Federal Judge. Mrs. West has written considerable verse, and what she has published has been favorably noticed. Poetry has been her recreation, and not her study. The following poem originally appeared in Gen. Hill's magazine: THE MARBLE LILY. Shaking the clouds of marble dust away, The magic light of true and happy love- All Nature whispers sweet and blissful things Ah, rarely happy is the song it sings! Ah, strangely tender is its witching charm! He wanders to the margin of a lake Whose placid waves lie hushed in sleeping calmSo faint the breeze, it may not bid them wake, Tho' breathing thro' their dreams its odorous balm. A regal lily stands upon the shore, Dropping her dew-pearls on the mosses green: Her stately forehead, and her bosom pure, Veiled in the moonlight's pale and silver sheen. The sculptor gazes on the queenly flower Until his white cheek burns with crimson flame, And his heart owns a sweet and subtile power, Breathing like music through his weary frame, The magic influence of his mighty art- His art, his love, are all the world to him: Before the stately flower behold him bow; Speaking the love that makes his dark eyes dim. "Thou art the emblem of my bosom's queen; And she, as thou, is formed with perfect graceStately she moves, with lofty air serene, And pure thoughts beaming from her angel face. While yet thy bosom holds this silver dew, And moonbeams pale with passion for thy sake, In fairest marble I'll thy life renew, Ere the young daylight bids my love awake." A wondrous flower shone upon the dark- Soared to the drifting clouds of ruddy gold. She beamed upon him from the casement's heightThe fairest thing that greeted the new day FLORENCE D. WEST. He held aloft the lily gleaming white, While tender smiles o'er her sweet features play. Presenting his fair gift on bended knee “Wilt thou, beloved, cherish this pure flower? "And when these blushing blossoms droop and pine, How like she seemed-clad in her churchyard dress- On those sealed eyes that never more will wake! In one long, hopeless, passionate embrace— Then that fair child, who knew no earthly guile, Hid 'neath the flowers her sad and wistful face. The world that once was fairy-land to him, Now seemed a dreary waste- of verdure bareHe only walked abroad in moonlight dim, And shunned the gaudy sun's unwelcome glare. Each night he sits beside a small green mound O'er which a marble lily lifts its head With trembling dews and pearly moonbeams crowned, Fit emblem of the calm and sinless dead. He never tires of this sad trysting-place, But waits and listens through the quiet night- And bids me hush these sad and longing sighs. Thus mused he, as the solemn nights passed by, And always peering in the tender sky With earnest longings for that distant goal. One radiant night, when summer ruled the land, He sought the darling's bed of dreamless rest The wooing breeze his pale cheek softly fanned With balmy sighs from gardens of the blest. A witching spell o'er that fair scene was cast, A nightingale flew from a neighboring tree, Of love and heaven he passionately sings. And trembles on his lips a tender kiss. His hope has bloomed! above the marble flower, The sculptor's weary, waiting soul is free! Onward glide the years through bloom and blight; Through summer's glow, through winter's snow, so white, THE END. X |