MRS. DINNIES is a daughter of Mr. Justice SHACKLEFORD, of South Carolina. She was educated in Charleston, at a seminary kept by the daughters of Doctor RAMSAY, the historian of the Revolution. In 1830 she was married to Mr. JOHN C. DINNIES, of Saint Louis, and has since resided in that city. Mrs. HALE, in her "Ladies' Wreath," states that she became engaged in a literary correspondence with Mr. DINNIES more than four years before their union, and that they

never met until one week before the solemnization of their marriage. "The contract was made long before, solely from sympathy and congeniality of mind and taste; and that in their estimate of each other they were not disappointed, may be inferred from the tone of her songs; for the domestic happiness that these portray can exist only where both are happy." The poetical writings of Mrs. DINNIES were originally published in various literary miscellanies, under the signature of "Moina."

WEDDED LOVE.

COME, rouse thee, dearest!-'tis not well
To let the spirit brood

Thus darkly o'er the cares that swell
Life's current to a flood.

As brooks, and torrents, rivers, all
Increase the gulf in which they fall,
Such thoughts, by gathering up the rills
Of lesser griefs, spread real ills,
And with their gloomy shades conceal
The land-marks Hope would else reveal.
Come, rouse thee, now-I know thy mind,
And would its strength awaken;
Proud, gifted, noble, ardent, kind,-

Strange thou shouldst be thus shaken!
But rouse afresh each energy,
And be what Heaven intended thee;
Throw from thy thoughts this wearying weight,
And prove thy spirit firmly great:

I would not see thee bend below
The angry storms of earthly wo.

Full well I know the generous soul

Which warms thee into life,
Each spring which can its powers control,
Familiar to thy wife,-

For deem'st thou she had stoop'd to bind
Her fate unto a common mind?
The eagle-like ambition, nursed
From childhood in her heart, had first
Consumed, with its Promethean flame,
The shrine-than sunk her soul to shame.
Then rouse thee, dearest, from the dream

That fetters now thy powers:
Shake off this gloom-Hope sheds a beam
To gild each cloud which lowers;
And though at present seems so far
The wished-for goal-a guiding star,
With peaceful ray, would light thee on,
Until its utmost bounds be won:
That quenchless ray thou 'lt ever prove
In fond, undying Wedded Love.

TO A WHITE CRYSANTHEMUM.
WRITTEN IN DECEMBER.

FAIR gift of friendship! and her ever bright
And faultless image! welcome now thou art,
In thy pure loveliness-thy robes of white,
Speaking a moral to the feeling heart;
Unscathed by heats, by wintry blasts unmoved-
Thy strength thus tested, and thy charms improved.
Emblem of innocence, which fearless braves

Life's dreariest scenes, its rudest storm derides, And floats as calmly on o'er troubled waves,

As where the peaceful streamlet smoothly glides; Thou'rt blooming now as beautiful and clear As other blossoms bloom, when spring is here. Symbol of hope, still banishing the gloom

Hung o'er the mind by stern December's reign! Thou cheer'st the fancy by thy steady bloom

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With thoughts of summer and the fertile plain, Calling a thousand visions into play, Of beauty redolent-and bright as May! Type of a true and holy love; the same Through every scene that crowds life's varied Mid grief, mid gladness-spell of every dream, Tender in youth, and strong in feeble age! The peerless picture of a modest wife, Thou bloom'st the fairest midst the frosts of life.

THOUGHTS IN AUTUMN.

YES, thou art welcome, Autumn! all thy changes,
From fitful gloom, to sunny skies serene,
The starry vaults, o'er which the charm'd eye ranges,
And cold, clear moonlight, touching every scene
With a peculiar sadness, are sweet things,
To which my heart congenial fondly clings.
There is a moral in the wither'd wreaths

And faded garlands that adorn thy bowers; Each blighted shrub, chill'd flower, or sear'd leaf breathes

Of parted days, and brighter by-gone hours, Contrasting with the present dreary scene [been. Spring's budding beauties, pleasures which have

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THE WIFE.

I COULD have stemm'd misfortune's tide,
And borne the rich one's sneer,
Have braved the haughty glance of pride,
Nor shed a single tear.

I could have smiled on every blow

From life's full quiver thrown,
While I might gaze on thee, and know
I should not be "alone."

I could-I think I could have brook'd,
E'en for a time, that thou
Upon my fading face hadst look'd

With less of love than now;
For then I should at least have felt

The sweet hope still my own

To win thee back, and, whilst I dwelt
On earth, not been "alone."

But thus to see, from day to day,

Thy brightening eye and cheek,
And watch thy life-sands waste away,
Unnumber'd, slowly, meek;

To meet thy smiles of tenderness,
And catch the feeble tone

Of kindness, ever breathed to bless,
And feel, I'll be "alone;"

To mark thy strength each hour decay,

And yet thy hopes grow stronger, As, filled with heavenward trust, they say "Earth may not claim thee longer;" Nay, dearest, 'tis too much-this heart Must break when thou art gone; It must not be; we may not part: I could not live "alone!"

THE HEART.

THERE was a time when Fancy, uninvoked,
Cast her light spells where'er my spirit roved,
Each passing scene anew her smiles provoked,
And all seem'd lovely-for each one was loved.
But now I gaze, unheeding most I see

Of wild or fair, in Nature's boundless hoard; A change is over all—a change in me--

As Lethe's streams o'er fancy's source are pour'd.

This change I mourn, and seek again the dreams Which brighten'd, soothed, and gladden'd life of yore;

But shaded groves, fresh flowers, and purling

streams

Exert their influence o'er my mind no more. No more I dream--for Fancy has grown old,

And thought is busied now with sterner things: E'en feeling's self-yet, no! I am not cold;

But feeling now round other objects clings.

There are, in life, realities as dear,

Nay, dearer far than fancy can create, Though taste may vary, beauty disappear, That linger still, defying time and fate. The flush of youth soon passes from the face, The spells of fancy from the mind depart, The form may lose its symmetry and graceBut time can claim no victory o'er the heart.

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HAPPINESS.

THERE is a spell in every flower,
A sweetness in each spray,
And every simple bird has power
To please me with its lay!
And there is music on each breeze

That sports along the glade;
The crystal dew-drops on the trees
Are gems, by Fancy made.

There's gladness, too, in every thing,
And beauty over all:

For everywhere comes on, with spring,
A charm which cannot pall!
And I my heart is full of joy,

And gratitude is there,

That He, who might my life destroy, Has yet vouchsafed to spare.

The friends I once condemn'd are now Affectionate and true:

I wept a pledged one's broken vowBut he proves faithful too.

And now there is a happiness

In every thing I see,

Which bids my soul rise up and bless The GoD who blesses me.

THE family of Mr. Poɛ is one of the oldest and most respectable in Baltimore. DAVID POE, his paternal grandfather, was a quartermaster-general in the Maryland line during the Revolution, and the intimate friend of LAFAYETTE, who, during his last visit to the United States, called personally upon the general's widow, and tendered her his acknowledgments for the services rendered to him by her husband. His great-grandfather, JOHN PoE, married, in England, JANE, a daughter of Admiral JAMES MCBRIDE, noted in British naval history, and claiming kindred with some of the most illustrious English families. His father and mother died within a few weeks of each other, of consumption, leaving him an orphan, at two years of age. Mr. JOHN ALLAN, a wealthy gentleman of Richmond, Virginia, took a fancy to him, and persuaded General PoE, his grandfather, to suffer him to adopt him. He was brought up in Mr. ALLAN's family; and as that gentleman had no other children, he was regarded as his son and heir. In 1816 he accompanied Mr. and Mrs. ALLAN to Great Britain, visited every portion of it, and afterward passed four or five years in a school kept at Stoke Newington, near London, by the Reverend Doctor BRANSBY. He returned to America in 1822, and in 1825 went to the Jefferson University, at Charlottesville, in Virginia, where he led a very dissipated life, the manners of the college being at that time extremely dissolute. He took the first honours, however, and went home greatly in debt. Mr. ALLAN refused to pay some of his debts of honour, and he hastily quitted the country on a Quixotic expedition to join the Greeks,

then struggling for liberty. He did not reach his original destination, however, but made his way to St. Petersburg, in Russia, where he became involved in difficulties, from which he was extricated by Mr. MIDDLETON, the American consul at that place. He returned home in 1829, and immediately afterward entered the military academy at West Point. In about eighteen months from that time, Mr. ALLAN, who had lost his first wife while PoE was in Russia, married again. He was sixty-five years of age, and the lady was young; Poɛ quarrelled with her, and the veteran husband, taking the part of his wife, addressed him an angry letter, which was answered in the same spirit. He died soon after, leaving an infant son the heir to his vast property, and bequeathed Por nothing. The army, in the opinion of the young cadet, was not a place for a poor man, so he left West Point abruptly, and determined to maintain himself by authorship. The proprietor of a weekly literary gazette in Baltimore offered two premiums, one for the best prose story, and the other for the best poem. In due time PoE sent in two articles, and the examining committee, of whom Mr. KENNEDAY, the author of "HorseShoe Robinson," was one, awarded to him both the premiums, and took occasion to insert in the gazette a card under their signatures, in which he was very highly praised. Soon after this, he became associated with Mr. THOMAS W. WHITE in the conduct of the "Southern Literary Messenger," and he subsequently wrote for the "New York Review," and for several foreign periodicals. He is married, and now resides in Philadelphia, where he is connected with a popular monthly magazine.

COLISEUM.

TYPE of the antique Rome! rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation, left to Time
By buried centuries of pomp and power!
At length, at length-after so many days
Of weary pilgrimage, and burning thirst,
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
I kneel, an alter'd and an humble man,
Within thy shadows-and so drink, within
My very soul, thy grandeur, gloom, and glory.
Vastness, and age, and memories of eld!
Silence, and desolation, and dim night!
I feel ye now-I feel ye in your strength.
O, spells more sure than e'er Judæan king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane !
O, charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!
Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!

Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
Here, where on golden throne the CESAR sate,
On bed of moss lies gloating the foul adder!
Here, where on ivory couch the monarch loll'd,
Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
Lit by the wan light of the hornéd moon,
The swift and silent lizard of the stones!
But hold!-these dark, these perishing arcades,
These mouldering plinths, these sad and blacken'd
shafts,

These vague entablatures, this broken frieze,
These shatter'd cornices, this wreck, this ruin,
These stones-alas! these gray stones, are they all,
All of the proud and the colossal left
By the corrosive hours, to fate and me?

"Not all," the echoes answer me, "not all,
Prophetic sounds, and loud, arise forever
From us, and from all ruin, to the wise,
As melody from Memnon to the sun.

We rule the hearts of mightiest men; we rule,