Each night shall ope a gulf of horrid dreams Piso. Maiden, be warn'd! All this I know. It moves me not. Miriam. Nay, one thing more Thou knowest not. There is on all this earth- Miriam. What boon? A boon of blood? To him, the good, old man, Piso. My PAULUS must not die! Let me revolve; Long years ere thou wert born, that, should the gods PRAYER. WITHIN these mighty walls of sceptred Rome MIRIAM TO PAULUS. EVER from that hour, when first And in its might at last springs proudly up. EMMA C. EMBURY. [Born about 1807.] THE history of a woman of genius, more than that of a man possessing the same intellectual qualities, is usually unmarked by events of the kind which interest the general readers of biography. Her life is but a succession of thoughts and emotions, and he who would understand these must study her writings. Miss MANLEY, now Mrs. EMBURY, is a native of the city of New York, where her father has been for many years an eminent physician. She was educated in the best schools of that city, and, at twenty, was married to Mr. EMBURY, now of Brooklyn, a gentleman of liberal fortune and high attainments. At an early age she began to contribute to the periodicals, under the signature of "IANTHE," and soon after her marriage appeared a collection of her writings, entitled "Guido, and other Poems." "Guido" is a story of passion, gracefully told, and some of the "Sketches from History," in the same volume, exhibit considerable dramatic and descriptive power. They are, however, much inferior to her later works, which are carefully finished and more original in their ideas and illustrations. She has a rich fancy, and much skill in the use of language, and her subjects are well chosen. She has written several admirable prose works, of which "Constance Latimer, the Blind Girl," is the most popular. Her contributions to the literary journals, in prose and verse, would form a number of volumes. They are all distinguished for delicate thought, pure sentiment, and elegant diction. AUTUMN EVENING. "And ISAAC went out in the field to meditate at eventide." Go forth at morning's birth, Go forth at noontide hour, Nor murmur if thou miss life's morning flower; 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, as did the patriarch of old, [told, And commune with thy heart's deep thoughts unFathom thy spirit's hidden depths, and learn The mysteries of life, the fires that inly burn. Go forth at eventide, The eventide of summer, when the trees Yield their frail honours to the passing breeze, And woodland paths with autumn tints are dyed; When the mild sun his paling lustre shrouds In gorgeous draperies of golden clouds, Then wander forth, mid beauty and decay, To meditate alone,-alone to watch and pray. Go forth at eventide, Commune with thine own bosom, and be still,Check the wild impulses of wayward will, And learn the nothingness of human pride; Morn is the time to act, noon to endure; But, O! if thou wouldst keep thy spirit pure, Turn from the beaten path by worldlings trod, Go forth at eventide, in heart to walk with GOD. THE OLD MAN'S LAMENT. O! FOR One draught of those sweet waters now That shed such freshness o'er my early life! O! that I could but bathe my fever'd brow To wash away the dust of worldly strife! And be a simple-hearted child once more, As if I ne'er had known this world's pernicious lore! My heart is weary, and my spirit pants Beneath the heat and burden of the day; Would that I could regain those shady haunts, Where once, with Hope, I dream'd the hours away, Giving my thoughts to tales of old romance, 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 pass'd 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 ruin'd shrine, Where once my spirit worshipp'd,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 pass'd away. O! give me back life's newly-budded flowers, Let me once more inhale the breath of morning's hours! My youth! my youth!-O,give me back my youth! Not the unfurrow'd 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? Would that I might forget Time's dark and blotted page! Not there, not there Peace builds her halcyon Is all unheard amid the clang of gold; Where earth's most precious things are bought Go! hie thee to God's altar,--kneeling there, That swells around thee in the sacred fane; 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. MADAME DE STAEL. THERE was no beauty on thy brow, No softness in thine eye; Thy cheek wore not the rose's glow, Thy lip the ruby's dye; The charms that make a woman's pride For Heaven to thee those gifts denied But higher, holier spells were thine, Where men might worship Heaven. The charm of eloquence,—the skill And from the bosom's chords, at will, Life's mournful music bring; The o'ermastering strength of mind, which sways Whose might earth's mightiest one obeys,― Thou hadst a prophet's eye to pierce The depths of man's dark soul, The lore of woman's heart, The thoughts in thine own breast that burn'd Taught thee that mournful part. Thine never was a woman's dower Of tenderness and love, Thou, who couldst chain the eagle's power, O! Love is not for such as thee: The gentle and the mild, But never Fame's proud child. Then was thy glory felt, and thou When men could turn from beauty's brow And yet a woman's heart was thine, No dream of fame could fill The bosom which must vainly pine And, O! what pangs thy spirit wrung When all could list Love's wooing tongue CORINNA! thine own hand has traced Thy melancholy fate, Though by earth's noblest triumphs graced, Bliss waits not on the great: Only in lowly places sleep Life's flowers of sweet perfume, And they who climb Fame's mountain-steep Must mourn their own high doom. BALLAD. THE maiden sat at her busy wheel, Her song was in mockery of Love, "The gather'd rose, and the stolen heart I look'd on the maiden's rosy cheek, And I sigh'd to think that the traitor, Love, But she thought not of future days of wo, A year pass'd on, and again I stood But her look was blithe no more; O! well I knew what had dimm'd her eye, The maid had forgotten her early song, While she listen'd to Love's soft tale. She had tasted the sweets of his poison'd cup, It had wasted her life away: And the stolen heart, like the gather'd rose, Had charm'd but for a day. SONNET. He who has travell'd through some weary day, And in his heart enjoys the quiet hour: And each new scene seem brighter than the last; Thus, wending on toward sunset, may ye find Life's lengthening shadows ever cast behind. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. [Born, 1808.] THE ancestors of WHITTIER settled at an early period in the town of Haverhill, on the banks of the Merrimack River, in Massachusetts. They were Quakers, and some of them suffered from the "sharp laws" which the fierce Independents enacted against these "devil-driven heretics," as they are styled in the "Magnalia" of COTTON MATHER. The poet was born in the year 1808, on the spot inhabited by his family for four or five generations; and until he was eighteen years of age, his time was principally passed in the district schools, and in aiding his father on the farm. His nineteenth year was spent at a Latin school, and in 1828 he went to Boston to conduct "The American Manufacturer," a gazette established to advocate a protective tariff. He had previously won some reputation as a writer by various contributions, in prose and verse, to the newspapers printed in his native town, and in Newburyport, and the ability with which he managed the "Manufacturer," now made his name familiar throughout the country. In 1830 he went to Hartford, in Connecticut, to take charge of the "New England Weekly Review." He remained here about two years, during which he was an ardent politician, of what was then called the National Republican school, and devoted but little attention to literature. He published, however, in this period his "Legends of New England," a collection of poems and prose sketches, founded on events in the early history of the country; wrote the memoir of his friend BRAINARD, prefixed to the collection of his writings printed in 1830; and several poems which appeared in the “ Weekly Review." In 1831, WHITTIER returned to Haverhill, where he was for five or six years engaged in agricultural pursuits. He represented that town in the legislature in the sessions of 1835 and 1836, and declined a reëlection in 1837. 66 Mogg Megone,” his longest poem, was first published in 1836. He regarded the story of the hero only as a framework for sketches of the scenery and of the primitive settlers of Massachusetts and the adjacent states. In portraying the Indian character, he followed as closely as was practicable the rough but natural delineations of CHURCH, MAYHEW, CHARLEVOIX, and ROGER WILLIAMS, and therefore discarded much of the romance which more modern writers have thrown around the red-man's life. In this, as well as in some of his minor poems, and in the "Legends of New England," he has depicted with honesty the intolerant spirit and the superstitions of the early colonists. That he would willingly do injustice to their memories, none who know him or his works will be easily persuaded. He is himself a son of New England, and in the following lines, from "Moll Pitcher," has well expressed his feelings toward her and her founders: "Land of the forest and the rock Of dark-blue lake and mighty river- Whose deeds have link'd with every glen, Whose soil with noble blood is red, Nor feel resentment, like a brand, Like life beneath the day-beam's glance, The green, luxuriant ivy climb; The palm may shake its leaves on high, Above the broad banana stray, Seem dearer than the land of palms ; More welcome than the banyan's shade; And sparkle with the wealth below!" In 1836 WHITTIER was elected one of the secretaries of the American Anti-Slavery Society, and much of his time since then has been passed in its service. Many of his best poems relate to slavery. His productions are all distinguished for manly vigour of thought and language, and they breathe the true spirit of liberty. |